The great windows of the Royal Palace in Madrid stood open, letting in the pale winter sunlight that touched the polished marble with a ghostly sheen.
King Alfonso XIII stood in silence, gazing out across the city.
Beyond the palace gardens, beyond the tree-lined boulevards and tiled roofs, a nation was at war with itself.
The scent of roses lingered faintly in the air; planted by the Queen's hand before she fled for sanctuary in San Sebastian. But it could not mask the acrid smoke of burning towns to the east.
The door creaked as it opened behind him.
"Your Majesty," said General Miguel Ponte, his boots clicking against the floor as he approached with two other high-ranking officers in tow.
Alfonso did not turn. "I assume you've seen the reports?"
"Yes, Sire," Ponte said. "The Catalonian ridge is gone. The French-sponsored Republican lines have been annihilated. Our forces, with the International Legion at the front, advanced nearly twenty kilometers overnight."
