By the time Prince Lancelot emerged from the eastern shaft of the sewerworks, the sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the city skyline. The once-smoggy afternoon sky now held the soft pastels of evening—an Aragonese blue tinged with gold, as if the heavens themselves watched and waited for what would come next.
A steam carriage waited at the entrance of the worksite, hissing and clanking softly, its driver snapping to salute as Lancelot approached.
"Back to the palace, Your Highness?"
Lancelot shook his head. "No. Take me to the Chamber of Ministers."
The driver blinked. "Shall I—notify them?"
"They'll already be there," the prince said quietly, climbing aboard.
