The third day of July broke bright as hammered bronze, the gates of dawn opening on a silence so tense every sparrow-call seemed sacrilege. Along the Hebrus two Roman armies watched one another like twin predators at a waterhole. On the northern bank Licinius's crimson standards crowned a long ridge, earthworks bristling with palisade and artillery; on the southern shore Constantine's host sprawled in orderly rows, shields stacked and cookfires doused, awaiting the signal that would decide the fate of an empire.
Inside the imperial pavilion Constantine bent over his campaign tablet, the stylus tapping a steady rhythm against wood as officers crowded close. He traced the blue ink of the river, then the dark smear of forest upstream.
