Smoke from the burning streets drifted even into the palace corridors. Outside, the roar of the Hippodrome swelled like a living beast—tens of thousands chanting for Justinian’s overthrow. Ministers and guards rushed through the imperial apartments, their sandals slapping against marble as they shouted updates, each worse than the last. Justinian stood near the map table, pale, trembling, listening to the thunder of the mob that had already set half the city aflame. The escape galley waited in the harbor.

Theodora entered through the veil of incense smoke. Senators bowed in panic, whispering pleas for retreat. Justinian turned to her as if already defeated. She stepped to his side, the purple hem of her mantle brushing the floor, her face calm while the palace shook around them.

“If you wish to flee, husband, no one will hinder you,” she said quietly. “But I will not run. Those who have worn the crown should never survive its loss. Never will I see the day when I am not saluted as empress. Purple makes a fine winding sheet.”

The room fell silent. Even the distant chanting seemed to dim.

She placed her hand on the table, steadying the trembling emperor. “Gather yourself, Justinian. Do the proper thing. Send Belisarius and Mundus if we must, cut the head from this rebellion before it devours the throne.”