CHAPTER 80: VEINS OF CAPITAL

The bells of the palace tower rang softly in the crisp morning air. The sun had yet to breach the eastern horizon, but Madrid was already stirring. In the avenues below, the silhouettes of tram lines stretched like silver threads over the cobblestone streets, their overhead cables catching the faint glow of gaslamps. It was the beginning of the capital’s new heartbeat.

Prince Lancelot stood at his window, coffee in hand, eyes fixed on the tram yard near Puerta de Atocha. Rows of gleaming electric trams sat in quiet readiness, their brass fittings polished, their painted crests of Aragon catching stray glints of light. Beyond them, in the distance, smoke curled lazily from the industrial quarter, where furnaces still burned from the night shift.

A knock broke the stillness.

"Enter," Lancelot said without turning.

Isandro stepped in, a sheaf of documents tucked under one arm. "Final security sweep of the tram lines is complete. No sign of sabotage. The engineers report that all junctions are sealed, and the new underground feeders are operational."

Lancelot nodded. "And the sewage system?"

"Three districts remain to connect, but the central filtration plant is already live. Waste channels have been rerouted through the main collectors. The water quality in the Manzanares is already improving."

The Prince finally turned, his expression unreadable. "Good. The unveiling is in four days. I want the people to see not just a tram, but a city transformed."

Isandro hesitated before adding, "And Lady Ellenshire?"

"She’s still circling the same intellectual bait," Lancelot said, placing his cup down. "Vargas?"

"Performing admirably. She’s begun challenging him more directly, but he deflects, always offering enough truth to keep her interested, never enough to confirm her suspicions."

"Good," Lancelot said. "The more she thinks she’s peeling away my mask, the tighter the mask becomes."

Madrid – Academy of Arts and Letters

Marguerite Ellenshire sat in the shaded portico, notebook closed, eyes tracking the passersby in the plaza below. Vargas was late for their arranged ’chance’ meeting after his lecture. Not that it mattered; she was preoccupied.

The city was changing faster than her dispatches could capture. Two weeks ago, the tramlines had been skeletal frameworks, incomplete tangles of copper wire and steel poles. Now, they were alive—cars gliding down avenues with smooth precision, the electric hum mingling with the sounds of street vendors hawking morning pastries.

It was more than transportation—it was order made visible. Every car arrived at exact intervals. Conductors in dark blue uniforms managed boarding with military discipline. The trams connected not just districts, but factories, markets, and the new residential blocks rising in once-neglected neighborhoods. The city felt... synchronized.

"You’re thinking again," Vargas’s voice came from behind her.

Marguerite glanced over her shoulder. "Observing."

"They’re not the same," he said, settling into the chair opposite hers. "Observation records the world. Thinking tries to change it."

She arched a brow. "And you? Which do you prefer?"

"I prefer to see how the two dance together." He gestured toward the passing trams. "A month ago, this was an idea. Now, it’s a fact. Soon, it will be a habit. And once it’s habit, it becomes identity."

Marguerite followed his gaze. She had to admit—it was effective. Public loyalty was being built not through speeches, but through the daily utility of progress.

But she forced herself to push the thought aside. Her mission was not to admire.

Royal Engineering Complex – Subterranean Command Gallery

Chief Engineer Estevez oversaw the final test runs from the gallery above the filtration control room. Below, rows of massive brass-and-steel pumps moved in perfect sequence, pushing thousands of gallons of waste water through newly built underground channels. The system spanned over forty kilometers beneath Madrid, a network of collectors, sluices, and treatment basins unlike anything on the continent.

A group of foreign observers—officially "technical guests" from allied states—watched in guarded silence. They were being shown the system’s civilian function, but Estevez knew that their real interest lay in the dual-use potential. In wartime, these tunnels could move troops, ammunition, even small artillery batteries, without ever being seen on the surface.

A voice came through the brass speaking tube at his side. "Estevez. The Prince is en route. Prepare for inspection."

Madrid – Calle de Alcalá

The streets were lined with banners in the royal colors, fluttering in the late morning breeze. Crowds gathered along the tram routes, eager for the day’s first public demonstration. Though the official unveiling was still days away, rumors had spread that the Prince himself would ride the inaugural circuit.

From the balcony of the Ministry of Works, Lancelot addressed the crowd with his characteristic brevity.

"We build not for tomorrow, but for the century ahead. These trams are not the gift of a government—they are the tools of a people who will not wait for permission to advance."

Cheers erupted as the first tram rolled into view, its polished sides gleaming in the sun. Children waved small flags, vendors sold roasted chestnuts, and the hum of electric current carried a strange new optimism through the air.

Marguerite watched from a side street, her view partially blocked by the brim of her hat. She could feel it—the shift in the city’s pulse. The people weren’t just spectators; they were participants in something larger. And that made her task harder.

Overseas – Glanzreich Naval Attaché Office

Admiral von Strahl read the report twice, jaw tightening.

"The trams are operational. The sewage system is complete ahead of schedule. And the public support is... total."

One of his aides shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, our last two infiltration attempts failed. The Prince’s counter-intelligence corps is using decoys and phantom couriers. We can’t get close."

Von Strahl tapped the paper. "Then we stop trying to wound the lion directly. We burn his prey so he starves."

The aide frowned. "Sabotage the colonies?"

"Not yet. First, we poison the perception. Spread rumors that the sewage system is failing. That the trams are unsafe. Fear is cheaper than bullets."

Royal Palace – Strategic Briefing Room

Maps, blueprints, and intelligence briefs covered the table. Lancelot leaned over them, flanked by Isandro and Estevez.

"They’ll attack perception next," Lancelot said. "That means rumors, forged documents, staged accidents."

Isandro nodded. "We’ve already seeded our own false rumors—plausible failures that lead nowhere. If they try to confirm them, they’ll waste weeks chasing shadows."

"Good," Lancelot said. "But perception isn’t just defense. It’s offense. If they want to play with fear, we’ll show them what happens when fear is theirs."

Three Days Later – Plaza Mayor

The plaza was packed for the formal opening of the sewage system’s central plant. The scale of the event was unlike any previous public works celebration—musicians played on raised stages, banners hung from every building, and the tram network had been temporarily rerouted to bring citizens directly to the site.

Lancelot stepped onto the dais, his voice carrying over the crowd.

"Madrid is no longer a city of stagnant water and rotting streets. Beneath your feet flows the lifeblood of a modern capital—clean water in, waste out, and the means to keep our children alive and our industry growing."

The roar of approval was deafening.

Marguerite, standing in the shadow of a pillar, felt a pang of something unfamiliar. Not defeat—yet—but the creeping awareness that the more she learned of Lancelot’s city, the more she understood its magnetic pull.

Nightfall – A Narrow Alley near Lavapiés

The courier never saw the shadow that fell across him. One moment he was carrying a sealed note from Marguerite to her embassy; the next, he was on the ground, gas hissing from a small brass capsule.

The message never arrived.

Instead, it was on Lancelot’s desk within the hour.

He read it once, expression unchanging, then folded it and locked it away.

"Isandro," he said quietly, "it’s time she saw the teeth beneath the smile."

Isandro stepped forward from the shadows, his face lit faintly by the desk lamp. "You mean to move on her now?"

Lancelot leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Not quite. I want her to believe the walls are closing in, but I don’t want her cornered. A cornered agent is unpredictable—sometimes suicidal. We’ll bleed her access, not her confidence."

"And Vargas?"

"He will be the friendly voice in the storm. She must feel that he is the only reliable bridge between her and me." Lancelot’s eyes narrowed. "Once she crosses that bridge too many times, she’ll forget she ever came here to burn it."

Outside, a distant tram bell chimed, its crisp note carrying through the quiet night. Madrid was settling into its new rhythm, the hum of progress audible even from the palace. Somewhere in the distance, the underground pumps of the new sewage system rumbled, carrying away the filth of an older age.

Lancelot rose, walking toward the balcony. Below, the lamplights painted the tramlines in bands of gold, the city appearing as though it were stitched together by threads of light.

"Espionage, Isandro, is not won by killing spies," he said softly. "It is won by turning them into something else entirely."

He glanced over his shoulder, a faint, cold smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"By the time she realizes she’s ours, she’ll be fighting our enemies harder than we do."