March to Paris

The gray dawn broke over Lyon like a solemn oath. The streets, still wet from the night's rain, gleamed beneath the iron glow of electric lamps—a marvel that continued to awe the local population. Most had never seen artificial light after sunset before the arrival of the Aragonese.

From the balcony of the commandeered Hôtel de Ville, Regent Lancelot surveyed the sleeping city. He was alone except for the low hum of a nearby generator and the rhythmic clank of a steam crane repositioning supplies in the square below. Lyon, once a symbol of republican fervor, now beat in step with Aragonese discipline.

A knock came from the inner door. Alicia entered, wearing a wool officer's coat and scarf, with fresh documents in hand.

"Morning reports," she said simply.

He took them without looking. "Status?"