The morning sun broke across the Castilian plains with gold and quiet promise. Smoke no longer rose from distant cities. No urgent telegrams clicked their warnings across cables. For the first time in months, the skies above Aragon were calm—unbroken by war pigeons, couriers, or columns of soot.
Madrid awaited.
The royal train thundered into the central station just after eight bells. It was no ordinary arrival. Lancelot's journey home had been charted, timed, and announced. Streets were swept. Brass polished. Flags of blue and silver fluttered on every spire.