The Hippodrome was only just emptying, the roar of the Blues and Greens still echoing through the colonnades as dusk settled over Constantinople. Incense smoke and dust hung in the air. Sigrid walked half a step behind the prince, axe haft resting against her shoulder, eyes never still as they moved from the imperial box toward the guarded streets leading back to the Great Palace. Varangian mail marked her as foreign and dangerous, and the crowd parted just enough to let them pass.

She did not look at him when she spoke, her voice speaking in a rough greek.

“Don't understand the importance of the races. Useless.”