The thunder of iron hooves echoed through the cobbled plaza outside the Palacio Real, scattering pigeons and pausing foot traffic as the Glanzreich delegation arrived beneath a veil of heavy gray clouds. Their carriages bore the twin-headed eagle crest, burnished but austere—an empire that spoke in centuries rather than speeches.
Inside the war room turned planning chamber, Lancelot stood over a map of northern Madrid. Ink smudged the borders of projected sanitation zones, sewer lines, and work depots. Beside him, Alicia held a thin leather folio while Bellido, arms crossed and boots still muddy, stared flatly at a pile of translated inspection forms from Lavapiés.
"They'll be colder than the Britannians," Alicia said, flipping a page. "They come from a culture that sees change as threat."
Bellido grunted. "They'll see numbers. Pipes. Disease graphs. That's what matters."
"No," Lancelot said. "They'll see power shifting away from the estates. That's what they'll fear."
