Kingdom of Aragon — Spring, 1795
City of Calvaria
The brass doors of the Calvaria Industrial Assembly groaned open as Prince Lancelot entered, flanked by guards in polished blue coats bearing the lightning insignia of the Crown Engineers. Inside, the hall buzzed with low voices, clinking glasses, and the rustle of paper. Delegates, factory owners, city magistrates, and scholars had gathered at long wooden tables arranged in a crescent facing a central podium.
A gas-electric chandelier hung above them, humming faintly. The entire room was now powered by the hydroelectric lines from the Upper Ebro Complex—this was the first building in the country lit without fire.
Lancelot moved to the podium and tapped the speaking crystal.
"Gentlen—and ladies," he began, nodding to a few seated nuns from the teaching orders and two industrialists’ wives. "We stand today not just in a hall, but in a furnace—where the future of Aragon is being forged, wire by wire, wheel by wheel."
A murmur of agreent rippled across the room.
"The turbines in Ebro turn still," he continued. "And already, they bring light to thousands. But light alone is not vision. Power alone is not prosperity. That must be shaped—by law, by will, and by you."
He gestured to the scrolls laid out before them.
"I am convening the first National Infrastructure Council. Your charge is simple: map, manage, and multiply. We will draft legislation to standardize electric use, ensure safety, and train the next generation of engineers."
A hand rose from the back—an older man in a fur-trimd robe.
"Your Highness," said the Duke of Lerida, "you speak of multiplication. But what of balance? These wires carry not just power—but influence. Shouldn’t Parliant be the one to regulate where they go?"
Lancelot’s eyes didn’t waver. "Parliant will be consulted. But let be clear: this light cannot be stopped by parchnt or hesitation. It must reach every mill, mine, and mind before others do."
A young rchant from Tarragona stood next. "And what of the coasts? The southern provinces haven’t seen a single spool of copper."
"You will," Lancelot said. "A second dam on the Júcar is underway. And a third—on the Ter—will follow by midsumr."
A murmur rose again—this ti one of surprise.
Three dams. Three rivers. A grid was forming.
But not everyone was pleased.
—
Later That Week – A Tavern in Tarragona
The tavern was dark and smoky, the air thick with sea brine and salt pork. In a corner booth, a man in a frayed green cloak leaned forward, whispering to two others.
"Electricity. Dams. Foundries. Schools," he muttered. "He’s chaining us to the capital one copper line at a ti."
One of the others scoffed. "It’s not chains—it’s progress."
"Progress for who?" the cloaked man hissed. "Nobles with factories? Priests with lit-up altars? What about sailors? What about the shipbuilders who now see their orders going to electric mills inland?"
The third man, quiet until now, set down his mug. "You have a plan?"
The cloaked man nodded.
"A shipnt of copper lines is coming down the Ter, bound for the next dam site. We burn the convoy. Just one. Enough to send a ssage."
Silence followed.
"Won’t stop the project," the skeptic said.
"No," the cloaked man agreed. "But it will prove one thing—they can be stopped."
—
Kingdom of Aragon — Ministry of Security, Calvaria
Marshal Enric Alvarez slamd the decoded ssage on Lancelot’s desk.
"We intercepted this three hours ago, Your Highness. The rebels plan to sabotage the Ter convoy near the Valdorria Gorge. We’ve dispatched a cavalry unit, but the terrain is treacherous."
Lancelot read the docunt once, twice. The ink was shaky, but clear.
He rose from his chair and looked out the window.
"The Kareya Doctrine promised power to all," he said quietly. "But power breeds fear. And fear breeds fire."
He turned back.
"Double the guards. Send an engineer with knowledge of the lines. If the rebels destroy them, it will delay electrification by months."
Alvarez nodded. "And if they’re caught?"
Lancelot’s voice was ice.
"Try them for sabotage under the new Industrial Act. Let them hang under the light they tried to kill."
—
Valdorria Gorge – Two Days Later
The copper convoy crawled along the cliffside road, guarded by twenty cavalryn and a wagon with a prototype spark-rifle turret. The air crackled from the damp mist and distant waterfalls. The crates—containing 120 kiloters of coiled copper—were worth more than gold in this new age.
Engineer Rosa Valls, one of the few won in the Corps of Technicians, rode in the front cart. Her hair was tied in a tight braid under her cap, her hands wrapped in thick gloves. Her eyes scanned the slopes.
Then she saw it.
Flash of movent. Too fast for wildlife.
"AMBUSH!"
Gunfire erupted from above. The rebels had waited in the cliffs, using matchlocks and stolen carbines. One shot hit a soldier’s shoulder. The convoy halted.
The cavalry responded quickly, forming a wedge and charging uphill. Rosa ducked down, then pulled open the crate beside her.
Inside—ergency arc bombs. She took one, twisted the coil, and hurled it toward the tree line.
A blinding flash—blue lightning arced, and the slope lit up like midday. Two rebels scread and fell.
The rest scattered.
Within minutes, the attackers were driven off—two captured, three dead. The rest fled into the woods.
Rosa climbed out, mud on her boots, and shouted to the officer.
"Keep moving! We’re hours from the transfer point!"
Bloodied but resolute, the convoy moved on.
—
Three Days Later – Calvaria Palace
Lancelot read the report at breakfast.
"Sparks defeated steel this ti," he muttered. "But next ti they’ll co with dynamite."
He turned to the aide. "Rosa Valls. Comnd her. Promote her to Lead Engineer of the Ter Line. And send a ssage to the other provinces—sabotage will be treated as treason."
The aide hesitated. "There is... one other matter, Your Highness."
"Yes?"
"One of the captured rebels... claims to be a forr factory foreman from Zaragoza. Says he lost his livelihood when the old foundry was shut down and replaced by an electric mill."
Lancelot set down his cup.
"Bring him to ."
***
Calvaria Palace — Lower Wing, Detention Hall
Four Hours Later
The cell was narrow, lined with stone, and slled faintly of damp straw. Iron bars frad the front, and a single arc lamp buzzed overhead, casting a ghostly light across the prisoner’s face. He was in his late thirties, unshaven, with ash in his hair and blood drying on his collar. His wrists were chained, but he sat upright on the bench as if he still carried the dignity of command.
Lancelot stood just outside the bars, arms crossed.
"You were a foreman," the prince said.
The man nodded. "Emilio Ortega. I oversaw seventy n at the Santa Cruz foundry. Until it shut down."
"It was replaced by an electric mill."
Ortega spat to the side. "Replaced by machines. Ten n now do what seventy used to. The rest? Beggars in the city. So went to sea. So turned to theft. I joined the hills."
"You led the ambush at Valdorria?"
"I planned it," Ortega said without flinching. "I don’t regret it."
Lancelot studied him. "Then you should understand what’s happening. These machines, these wires—they are not your enemy. They’re the future. You should have trained the seventy to repair turbines instead of pour iron."
Ortega’s voice was bitter. "And who would’ve trained us? Who pays for that? We had one schoolhouse in Santa Cruz, and it taught letters, not lightning."
Silence lingered.
Lancelot finally said, "The Kareya Doctrine calls for both industry and instruction. You were failed. But answer this: would you sabotage a water wheel because it replaced a horse?"
Ortega didn’t reply.
Lancelot stepped forward.
"You’ll be tried. Possibly hanged. But before that, I’ll grant you one thing: a visit to the Ebro Complex. You’ll see what your fire tried to drown."
Ortega laughed dryly. "Trying to convert ?"
"No," Lancelot said. "Trying to understand if n like you can still be saved."
—
Three Weeks Later – Port of Valencia
Early Morning
The sun peeked over the eastern waters, casting gold across the rchant ships docked along the quays. Among the unloading crates, a man in fine Italian clothing passed unnoticed. His na, to those who knew it, was Giovanni Bellante—an envoy of Naples. But in truth, he was no rchant.
Giovanni’s mission was simple: infiltrate the Aragonian electrification network and delay progress—by sabotage, misdirection, or diplomacy. The Kingdom of Naples, like many southern states, feared the ripple effects of Aragon’s transformation. Electricity ant influence. Rail lines ant reach. And most of all—it ant Aragon could leap centuries ahead in industry.
"Target is Ter," whispered the contact beside him, handing over a forged identity.
"You are now Angelo Marquez. Technical consultant from Marseille. Your employer: fictitious, but believable. Now go. You have a month."
—
Upper Ter River — Construction Site
A Week Later
The second dam had broken ground. Though smaller than Ebro, the terrain here was more cooperative—gentle slopes and fewer cliffs. Rows of scaffolding climbed the valley walls, and carts laden with copper, cent, and rivets clattered constantly along makeshift tracks.
Angelo Marquez—Giovanni—walked the site with a forged engineer’s badge. He studied the schematics, took note of the power conduits, and every night, wrote ciphered notes to his Neapolitan handler.
What he didn’t expect... was admiration.
The site manager was a twenty-one-year-old woman nad Catalina Rivas, barely five feet tall but commanding as a general. She spoke in clipped Aragonese, barked orders at twice-her-age laborers, and knew every inch of the transforr design.
"You again," she said, catching Giovanni snooping near the capacitor coils.
"Just... curious about the current load projections," he said with a fake smile.
Catalina raised an eyebrow. "You’re either a genius or a spy. And we’ve had enough of both."
He laughed nervously, but her words stuck with him. Over the next week, he saw how the team worked—engineers from Albacete, students from Zaragoza, even a priest helping carry stone on his day off.
They believed in the grid. Not because they were paid—but because they saw it as salvation.
Giovanni’s reports began to change.
Day 4: "Primary coil vulnerable to sabotage."
Day 8: "Lead engineer... inspiring. Dangerous. Must be monitored."
Day 12: "Delayed planned disruption. Too many civilians at site."
By Day 17, he stopped sending reports altogether.
—
Calvaria – Office of the Prince
"Your Highness," said Arturo, entering with a telegram, "we’ve lost track of the Neapolitan agent. Our scouts think he’s embedded at Ter."
Lancelot looked up from a map of future dam sites.
"Do nothing."
"Sir?"
"If he sees what we build, let him see. Let him try to destroy it. If it fails, we’ll know our system’s limits. And if he’s swayed... he may spread more than sabotage."
Arturo frowned but said nothing.
Lancelot added, "Every empire tries to halt the future. None succeed."
—
Zaragoza — The Spark Riots
Two Months Later
Despite all efforts, the first true resistance riot occurred not in the hills—but in the heart of a city.
Zaragoza’s older guilds had been sidelined. New electric looms produced more fabric in an hour than their workshops did in a day. Artisans, scribes, cobblers—all felt the pinch. And though the governnt subsidized many, resentnt boiled.
It began with a peaceful march. Hundreds gathered with signs reading:
"Tools Not Wires!"
"The Hand is Mightier Than the Gear!"
"Do Not Forget the Craftsn!"
But soone—no one knows who—threw a brick.
Within minutes, a storefront was afla. Electrical panels smashed. Substation gutted. Crown guards deployed arc shields—riot gear fused with low-voltage stunners. The crowd dispersed after three deaths and dozens of arrests.
The next day, Lancelot addressed the city.
—
Royal Auditorium – Zaragoza
"The Kareya Doctrine does not an your labor is forgotten," Lancelot’s voice echoed. "It ans your labor must evolve. We are opening two technical institutes here—one for electric chanics, the other for drafting and design. You will build, not just with your hands—but your minds."
He paused.
"But know this: sabotage is treason. Aragon will move forward—with or without those who cling to a dying age."
He left to silence.
—
Final Scene — Ebro Complex, Night
Rosa Valls stood alone in the generator room, watching the coils turn. She touched the glass panel, feeling its faint warmth. The turbines had never stopped—not once since their first spin.
Lancelot entered quietly behind her.
"They say Zaragoza may try again," she said.
"They will," he replied. "And others, too. The world is watching. So with envy. So with fear."
"And so with matches."
Lancelot stepped beside her, watching the arcs of blue light.
"We’ll beat them all," he said softly. "Not with fire or fists—but with current, wire, and will."
Outside, a new transforr humd to life, sending another pulse of electricity down into the sleeping city.
The Age of Power had begun.
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