The air in Madrid's lower quarters was heavy with damp smoke and the faint copper tang of rain-soaked stone. Dawn had yet to break, but the city was already awake in its own quiet, feverish way. In back alleys, nightwalkers drifted into shadows; in the plazas, the Guardia lit their last lanterns before changing shifts.
For most, the coming day was just another step in survival. For a handful of others—the watchers, the infiltrators, and the hunted—it was the fulcrum on which the balance of the city rested.
Inside the rented safehouse on Calle del Sombrerete, Lancelot and Isandro stood over a crude map pinned to the wall. It was layered with charcoal lines, pins, and thin paper notes in both Spanish and Britannian shorthand. Every mark was a lie meant to be read by someone else. Every absence was the truth buried beneath.
