Chapter 595: Lessons of War
The great windows of the Royal Palace in Madrid stood open, letting in the pale winter sunlight that touched the polished marble with a ghostly sheen.
King Alfonso XIII stood in silence, gazing out across the city.
Beyond the palace gardens, beyond the tree-lined boulevards and tiled roofs, a nation was at war with itself.
The scent of roses lingered faintly in the air; planted by the Queen’s hand before she fled for sanctuary in San Sebastian. But it could not mask the acrid smoke of burning towns to the east.
The door creaked as it opened behind him.
"Your Majesty," said General Miguel Ponte, his boots clicking against the floor as he approached with two other high-ranking officers in tow.
Alfonso did not turn. "I assume you’ve seen the reports?"
"Yes, Sire," Ponte said. "The Catalonian ridge is gone. The French-sponsored Republican lines have been annihilated. Our forces, with the International Legion at the front, advanced nearly twenty kilometers overnight."
Alfonso turned now. His expression was unreadable; half triumph, half unease.
"And it was... the Germans?" he asked, more to confirm than question.
General Rojo, older, graver, nodded. "Thermobaric bombardment. Delivered either by missiles or aircraft. The British confirm it. The French are scrambling for answers. Whatever it was; it is not something we have the means to contend against."
Alfonso walked slowly toward the table where a map of Spain had been laid out, pins and waxed-thread markers indicating current front lines.