The morning haze clung low over Elysee, rising slowly as the sun peeked over the eastern hills. The capital city, still healing, had begun to breathe again. Street vendors were back in the alleys. Children laughed as they chased each other down cobbled roads. The bells of Saint Lisette's Chapel rang clear at sunrise, a sound that had once been drowned out by wails and funeral tolls.
In the Southern Quarter, the air buzzed with something different—labor.
Pickaxes struck earth. Foremen shouted instructions. Wagons filled with stone and clay clattered along hastily built paths. Amidst the noise, scaffolding creaked, bricks were passed hand to hand, and teams of engineers scribbled notes on damp parchments as they observed the work.
And standing in the middle of it all, boots caked in mud, was King Bruno.
