CHAPTER 78: ESPIONAGE

The hum of Madrid’s electric grid was constant now—a soft background whisper that masked deeper, darker movements in the capital’s underbelly.

It began with a letter.

Folded into the coat of a Prussian diplomat as he boarded a train back to Zaragoza, it passed from hand to hand until it reached the outer districts of the city, where a narrow house in a tailor’s quarter doubled as a safehouse. There, in the basement, a man with graying hair and a precise mustache opened the envelope and read.

His name was Gustav Halberd, an agent of the Prussian Central Intelligence Ministry, and he had been in Aragon for six years—first posing as a language teacher, then a tradesman, and now an investor in ceramics. He had watched the rise of Prince Lancelot with a mix of awe and dread.

Now the letter made it clear: Berlin wanted answers.

"The tram system. The hydro-filtration plant. The underground grid. The rumored electric generator east of Calvaria—confirm everything. And the military implications. We are not looking at a progressive kingdom anymore. We are looking at a dominant power."

Gustav folded the letter and burned it over a brass dish.

Meanwhile, in the Palace

Prince Lancelot stared at the report in front of him. It was neatly typed, held together with a brass clip, and bore the seal of the Royal Bureau of Internal Security.

"There’s been an increase in foreign funding of trade guilds," said Isandro Ruiz, his chief of security. "More contracts signed with entities that don’t exist, more coin moving through dummy banks in Zaragoza and Valencia. We suspect three—maybe four—separate spy networks. Prussia, Glanzreich, Britannia, and perhaps even Francois."

Lancelot closed the file.

"So they’ve started sniffing."

Isandro nodded. "And some are no longer content with observation. One of our engineers was found unconscious near the Calvaria substation. His notes and blueprints were missing."

"Is he alive?"

"Barely. Concussion, fractured ribs. We moved him to a secure location."

Lancelot paced. "If they’re hitting targets like Calvaria, they’re getting bold."

"We believe the next target is the Southern Assembly Plant. That’s where the second wave of tram engines is being produced."

Lancelot turned to him. "Shut it down. Quietly. Announce ’routine inspections’ and move all key schematics into the vault at Fort Aurelius."

"Understood."

Isandro hesitated. "There’s more."

Lancelot raised an eyebrow.

"One of our own—an officer in the city’s industrial police—has been feeding information to an unknown contact. He’s vanished. We believe he was bought."

The Prince’s lips tightened.

"Find him. And when you do, don’t bring him to me. Bring him to Captain Ochoa."

Nightfall, Near the Southern Assembly Plant

Gustav Halberd stood in a shadowed alley behind the facility, his hat pulled low, coat collar up. A younger man—dark-haired, wiry, and clearly nervous—handed him a rolled leather pouch.

"These are sketches of the copper-cable routing. I had to bribe two guards and knock out a shift supervisor. This is risky."

Gustav nodded. "So is ignorance."

"Do you even know what this is for?" the young man hissed. "These aren’t just trams. They’re planning mobile generators. They want to power factories on rails. This... this changes everything."

"I know," Gustav said quietly. "That’s why I’m here."

They parted silently.

Above them, however, they didn’t notice the rooftop shadow—Captain Ochoa.

Royal Security Command Room

"It’s him," said Ochoa, presenting a surveillance photo. "The mole is named Mateo Rivas. Local born, mother is Aragonian, father was Francois. Recruited two years ago by an ’import firm’ that doesn’t exist."

Lancelot leaned over the image. "Francois?"

"Likely. But the contact was Prussian."

"Working together?"

"Possibly. Or someone’s being played."

Lancelot folded his arms. "Let’s send a message."

Two Days Later — In the Plaza

At noon, a crowd gathered to witness a sudden announcement. Atop a wooden platform stood Captain Ochoa, flanked by soldiers.

"Mateo Rivas, former officer of the Madrid Industrial Guard, has been found guilty of treason. Evidence includes bribery, leaking blueprints, and attempted sabotage of Aragonian infrastructure."

The crowd murmured.

Mateo, beaten and bloodied, was dragged forward in chains.

Ochoa made no long speech. No performance.

He drew his pistol and shot the man once in the chest.

Then turned to the crowd. "Any man or woman who sells Aragon’s future to foreign hands will meet the same end. We build for our children, not for their enemies."

Across the Border — Francois Foreign Ministry

The news of the execution sent waves through foreign embassies. In the marble halls of the Francois Foreign Ministry, diplomats poured over the decrypted telegrams.

"Confirmation: The Prince is not playing at progress. He is weaponizing it."

One advisor turned pale. "The sewers, the trams, the factories... we thought they were rebuilding. But it’s all centralization. It’s... mobilization."

A general leaned forward. "We may have a decade before they outproduce all of us. Or less."

In Britannia — Diplomatic Council

A similar crisis unfolded.

"They are executing spies in public," one lord hissed. "The boy has gone mad."

"No," the ambassador to Aragon said grimly. "He’s not mad. He’s unafraid."

They sat in silence.

"I propose we double our efforts," one suggested. "We get someone closer. Embedded. Someone who can move through their upper class unnoticed."

Heads turned to Lady Marguerite Ellenshire, young, clever, and fluent in Aragonese.

She smiled thinly. "You want me to seduce a kingdom?"

"No," said the Prime Minister. "We want you to understand it. From within."

Back in Madrid — Secret Meeting Room

Isandro stood before Lancelot again.

"Intercepted communications show increased cipher traffic from all embassies. There’s also been a spike in sabotage attempts—minor ones, so far."

Lancelot nodded. "They’re desperate."

"Shall we begin detaining foreign nationals?"

"No," Lancelot said. "Not yet. We’ll give them enough rope to feel bold. Then we’ll tighten."

He stared out the window.

"They still believe we’re a kingdom trying to imitate theirs. But we’re not."

"We’re becoming something they don’t understand. And that’s the greatest weapon of all."

Final Scene — Abandoned Warehouse, Outskirts of Madrid

Lady Marguerite Ellenshire entered in disguise, escorted by a contact from the Britannian embassy. Inside, a group of foreign operatives studied stolen plans projected onto a white wall.

The lights buzzed.

"This," one said, pointing, "is not just infrastructure. It’s logistics. It’s war preparation. If they can mobilize factories and power them remotely, their armies will move with supply lines intact, while ours will starve."

Marguerite narrowed her eyes.

"Then perhaps the time for spies has passed," she said.

"Perhaps it’s time to ask—can we stop them before it’s too late?"

The door to the warehouse groaned open again, letting in a gust of cool midnight air and a tall man in a gray overcoat. His face was obscured by the brim of his hat, but his voice was clipped and clear.

"You won’t stop them," he said. "Not the way you’re thinking."

Marguerite turned sharply. "And you are?"

"Call me a realist." He walked to the projector, dimming the lanterns slightly. "I’ve been watching them longer than you have. Aragon isn’t simply advancing. They’re leapfrogging centuries of imperial stagnation. They aren’t copying the British or the Francois—they’re skipping us."

"You sound almost impressed," a Francois agent sneered from the corner.

"I’m terrified," the man replied flatly. "Do you know what this is?"

He pointed at one schematic displayed on the wall—an arcane web of generators, relay stations, and underground ducts.

"This isn’t just for trams. They’re building the infrastructure of autonomy. Factories no longer tied to coal routes. Transportation no longer dependent on rivers. Communications no longer bound by wires strung across colonies."

He turned to Marguerite.

"That prince of theirs—Lancelot—he’s not just reforming a kingdom. He’s doing what none of your empires ever managed: he’s giving a nation the means to survive without any of you."

Marguerite’s expression hardened. "Then why are you here?"

"To offer a warning," the man said. "Your spies won’t outpace them. Your diplomats won’t convince them. Your generals won’t intimidate them."

He stepped closer.

"If you want to understand Aragon, you need to understand this: the Prince has turned infrastructure into a doctrine. Every sewer line is a campaign. Every tram line, a mobilization. Every wire laid beneath the street is an act of defiance against your world."

The warehouse fell silent. The projector hissed faintly.

"And if you try to crush them," he added, voice low, "they won’t fight like an empire. They’ll fight like a machine."

Marguerite raised her chin. "Then perhaps we’ll become machines as well."

The man gave her a tired smile. "Perhaps. But machines without vision still rust."

He turned to leave.

Marguerite called after him. "What would you have us do, then?"

He paused at the door.

"Stop underestimating them."

And then he was gone.

Elsewhere, in Calvaria

A messenger arrived by horse, breathless and mud-splattered, at the gates of Fort Aurelius. He carried a sealed case meant only for Prince Lancelot.

Inside were intercepted communiqués—ciphered letters sent from foreign embassies, some of which bore the distinctive sigils of Francois intelligence.

The prince read them in silence.

"Lady Marguerite Ellenshire," he murmured. "So... they’re sending a flower."

He handed the letter to Isandro, who had arrived moments later. "Have her watched. Discreetly. She’ll expect shadows—give her mirrors."

Isandro saluted. "And the others?"

Lancelot turned to the balcony overlooking the dim streets of Calvaria, now lit by quiet, electric brilliance.

"Let them come," he said. "Let them look. Let them scheme."

He exhaled slowly, his gaze steely and cold.

"By the time they understand what we’re building... it will already be too late."