The bells of the palace tower rang softly in the crisp morning air. The sun had yet to breach the eastern horizon, but Madrid was already stirring. In the avenues below, the silhouettes of tram lines stretched like silver threads over the cobblestone streets, their overhead cables catching the faint glow of gaslamps. It was the beginning of the capital's new heartbeat.
Prince Lancelot stood at his window, coffee in hand, eyes fixed on the tram yard near Puerta de Atocha. Rows of gleaming electric trams sat in quiet readiness, their brass fittings polished, their painted crests of Aragon catching stray glints of light. Beyond them, in the distance, smoke curled lazily from the industrial quarter, where furnaces still burned from the night shift.
A knock broke the stillness.
"Enter," Lancelot said without turning.
