The skies above Madrid were steel-gray the next morning, as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath. The world was watching Aragon now. No longer a forgotten kingdom tucked between mountains and rivers—Madrid was a beacon, a provocation, a promise. And all promises had to be tested.
Prince Lancelot rose early, before the bells, before even the bakers had stoked their ovens. He stood alone in the observatory tower, looking over the grid of lamplight and mist that was his capital. Behind him, the floor was scattered with drafts of new railway maps, powerline expansion charts, and school construction plans. The room smelled of ink, charcoal, and sleepless nights.
The door creaked open.
"You should sleep more," Alicia said, setting a tray on the window ledge. Tea. Bread. Letters.
"I'll sleep when we've built the airfields," Lancelot muttered.
She said nothing, only placed a fresh stack of reports in his hand.
