The sun refused to rise cleanly over Madrid the next morning.
It was as if the sky itself had become unsure—ash-colored and slow, casting a pallid light over the rooftops of a city that refused to sleep. Smoke from foundries mixed with mist in the avenues. Telegraphs clattered nonstop from the central station, relaying reports from every corner of Aragon and beyond.
In the palace war room, Lancelot sat surrounded not by nobles or ministers, but by spies.
The walls were shuttered. Chandeliers dimmed. Maps replaced by blot-stained scrolls and intercepted communiqués. Seated across from him were four men and women—no names, just code designations. They worked in shadows, spoke in facts.
"Multiple stockpiles confirmed," said Falcon, pointing to red ink circles along the southern coast. "Manzanera, Ubrique, Carmona. Mostly black powder, but some foreign-grade rifles. Smuggled in through old Bourbon networks."
"Foreign support?" Lancelot asked.
