Madrid's frost lingered well into January, glazing the city in a thin white sheen that sparkled beneath the morning sun. The capital looked serene, but within its walls the atmosphere buzzed with a different energy. No longer the whispers of spies and assassins—it was the hum of dynastic politics. The question was no longer whether Lancelot of Aragon could survive in shadows, but whom he would crown beside him when he stepped into the light.
The fall of Harrow had silenced knives in alleys, but it had opened the gates of Europe. Envoys from a half-dozen courts now trailed Madrid's streets, cloaks heavy, voices guarded, their presence unmistakable. Each carried promises, each carried threats veiled as gifts. And all of them, in one way or another, had their eyes fixed upon Lancelot.
