The scent of wet earth and masonry clung to the morning air as Prince Lancelot descended the final rungs of the reinforced iron ladder. Behind him, the pale glow of a newly installed electric lantern cast long shadows down the tunnel wall, illuminating the glistening concrete arches of Madrid's newest arteries.
The tunnel was vast—nearly twelve feet high and wide enough for three men to walk abreast. The floor had been carefully graded to a slight angle, designed to allow runoff to flow naturally toward the pumping stations at the riverbanks. Above, hundreds of lanterns lined the corridor at fixed intervals, their light barely enough to chase away the gloom, but a sign of progress nonetheless.
Waiting below was Engineer-Captain Tomas Garza, clipboard in hand, boots covered in grime, and spectacles fogged at the edges from the moist air.
"Your Highness," he said, bowing slightly before offering a gloved hand to steady Lancelot's landing. "You're early."
