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 ti 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 ho had been charted, tid, and announced. Streets were swept. Brass polished. Flags of blue and silver fluttered on every spire.
As the train hissed to a stop, a full honor guard of the Royal chanized Corps stood at attention along the platform. They were not clad in flamboyant parade uniforms but in their warti gear: greatcoats, iron-polished boots, and the sigil of Aragon engraved into breastplates. These were the sa n who had crossed the Loire, breached the gates of Dijon, and held the Seine. Now, they stood in silence, saluting the man who had led them.
Lancelot stepped onto the platform dressed not as a warlord, but as a statesman. His regent’s cloak of slate gray caught the breeze, the silver clasp bearing the insignia of the crown-in-trust. At his side walked Alicia, ever composed, a simple black sash crossing her chest. Montiel followed, in ceremonial uniform, though the hilt of his saber bore still-fresh notches.
The crowd beyond the station gates erupted. Cheers. Applause. Cries of "Long live the Regent!" echoed down the boulevards.
But it was only the beginning.
By decree of the Crown Council, the day had been declared a national holiday—The Day of Restoration.
Every major road from the station to the Palacio Real had been cleared and secured. From balconies and rooftops, civilians gathered, so weeping, others waving handkerchiefs. Schoolchildren held up signs with hand-painted letters: "Gracias, Regente!" and "The North is Free!"
The military parade began an hour later.
At the head marched the 1st Iron Division, their boots synchronized with such precision it seed the very cobblestones obeyed them. Behind them rumbled the steelclad artillery carts—drawn not by oxen or horse, but by the new Aragonese steam tractors. They were primitive by modern dreams, but awe-inspiring nonetheless. Smokestacks chuffed, gears clicked in rhythm, and brass whistles blew sharp bursts as they rolled forward.
Next ca the sappers and engineers. Each held banners stitched with the nas of cities rebuilt: Tours. Le Mans. Reims. Paris.
Then the dical corps marched—nurses in blue, doctors in white, and a long line of mobile infirmary carts that had followed the army from Madrid to the English Channel. Civilians tossed flowers in their path.
The final contingent was perhaps the most powerful: not soldiers, but rail workers, telegraph operators, teachers, and clerks. They wore no uniform, only gray coats and identification tags. Yet their reception rivaled even the soldiers’. For it was they who had laid the tracks, wired the towns, and brought order where once there was only fire.
At noon, the great bell of Madrid rang twelve tis.
The regent stood atop the marble dais erected in the Plaza Mayor, where the heart of the kingdom had once beat only for kings and conquistadors. Today, it beat for steel, unity, and reform.
Thousands gathered.
The plaza was filled shoulder to shoulder, with rows of Aragonese citizens standing beside foreign emissaries, trade ministers, and even forr exiles who had returned from the colonies to see the future with their own eyes.
Lancelot stepped forward.
He raised a hand—not to silence, but to steady the storm of emotion.
"Citizens of Aragon," he began, his voice clear and unwavering, "and all those who stand today beneath the peace we have forged—look around you."
He gestured to the soldiers, to the workers, to the flags.
"This is not the end of a war. This is the beginning of a civilization."
The crowd hushed, listening.
"We did not march to France to plant banners. We did not cross rivers to gather tribute. We did not rebuild cities for glory. We did it because disorder is a plague—and we, its cure. We did it because broken bridges are not repaired by words, but by will."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"The war was not won by generals," he continued, "but by iron. By labor. By resolve. And now that war is over, we must beco more than victors. We must beco builders."
Alicia stood to the side, hands clasped. Even Montiel, whose usual scowl never softened, stood tall with pride.
Lancelot went on.
"There will be those beyond our borders who call us conquerors. Let them. A conqueror burns, but a builder preserves. Let the record show: in every city we entered, we rebuilt its schools. In every village, we restored its markets. In every province, we left behind not chains—but railways."
A murmur of agreent moved through the crowd.
"To the children of Aragon, I say this: your world will not be one of maps drawn by kings, but of tracks laid by n like your fathers—and mothers. You will not inherit crowns. You will inherit factories. You will inherit universities. You will inherit peace earned in sweat."
He raised both hands now.
"And to those who think this mont belongs to —I tell you: it belongs to you. To every blacksmith who forged bolts. To every nurse who stitched wounds. To every telegraph clerk who stayed awake so orders could be heard in the dark."
He stepped back slightly.
"In the years to co, they will ask how we did this. How we brought the continent to its knees and raised it again. And we will answer with one word."
He turned to the crowd and spoke it in unison with them:
"Together."
The final cheer was deafening. It rippled down every alley and avenue, echoed from windows and rooftops. Fireworks burst from the rooftops of the Palace Guard barracks. Church bells clanged with patriotic fervor. Sowhere in the plaza, a child wept into their mother’s coat—not out of sadness, but because they knew, sohow, they were part of sothing lasting.
That evening, the capital was bathed in celebration.
Bonfires blazed in every neighborhood. Musicians played long into the night. Military kitchens served hot als to civilians, and bakeries gave out bread free of charge. The streets glowed not with torches of rebellion, but with lanterns of rembrance.
And in the Palacio Real, Lancelot stood once more at the window of his private study, overlooking the plaza that now bore his na: Plaza del Regente.
Alicia entered without knocking.
"They’re saying it was the largest parade in history," she said quietly.
He did not turn to her.
"They won’t rember the size," he said. "Only the aning."
She approached and offered him a sealed letter. "From Sardegna. Again. They’re proposing trade terms now. Not demands."
He smiled faintly.
"Good. Let them build railways, not armies."
She hesitated. "And the Council?"
"There will be no council," he said. "We’ve done enough. Let them follow our example, not sit in rooms trying to edit it."
She nodded, satisfied.
Lancelot turned from the window at last.
"Tomorrow, we begin reforms at ho. France may be quiet, but Madrid still has voices waiting to be heard."
And with that, the regent of Aragon walked back into the heart of his palace—not as a warlord, but as a builder.
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