The map of the known world lay unrolled before Prince Lancelot in the chamber once used for royal banquets, now repurposed as a war room of industry. Gone were the silver cutlery and tapestries of hunting scenes. In their place stood drafting tables, filing cabinets, telegraph desks, and wall-sized charts annotated with coal output, ship tonnage, and steel requirements.
Above it all, Lancelot stood with a quiet authority. He had not worn his royal regalia in months. His coat was black, plain, streaked with chalk and soot from the Iron Serpent. His boots were scuffed. His sleeves were rolled.
He pointed to the western coast of Africa with a brass divider.
"This," he said, "is where the Empire begins."
The room fell still.
Around him stood the core of Aragon's brain trust—Bellido, the ever-skeptical logistician; Admiral Vives, whose ironclad fleet now ruled the western Mediterranean; Minister de Vallès, the nation's foremost economist; and Juliette, silent, arms crossed, watching.
