Dawn bled across the Hellespont like molten bronze, exposing the true harvest of yesterday's violence. Charred masts bobbed among the swells, gulls shrieked as they tore strips from the corpses caught in the lee of shattered hulls. The scent of pitch, blood, and brine hung thick, carried into every open port and seam. Above this tableau of wreckage, the imperial flagship Aquila stood quiet at anchor, her decks streaked with the stains of battle.
Crispus stood on the quarterdeck, face turned east into the rising glare. Before him, his officers assembled-twenty captains bearing cuts, bruises, new scars, uniforms patched with rough thread or hastily knotted linen. For a moment he simply studied them, reading the lines etched by exhaustion and determination. The next move would need to burn away fatigue, fear, and doubt, leaving only the hard certainty that won empires.