Morning did not arrive all at once over the Imperial City.
It unfolded slowly, deliberately, as though the heavens themselves were in no hurry to disturb the delicate balance of power that rested beneath the fading veil of night. At first, the darkness softened, retreating in thin layers as pale light crept across the horizon. Then came the warmth—gentle and golden—spilling over distant mountain peaks before cascading downward toward the vast expanse of civilization below.
The city responded in kind.
Towering spires caught the light first, their polished surfaces gleaming like drawn blades under the rising sun. Palace domes shimmered faintly, reflecting hues of amber and gold. Market rooftops, still quiet from the night, began to glow as if awakening from slumber. Even the distant outer walls—massive and enduring—stood illuminated, their ancient stone bearing witness to yet another day.
To ordinary citizens, it was nothing more than a beautiful morning.
A promise of routine.
