Chapter 8: The Charter
September 19, 1787 — Royal Palace of Madrid
It was real.
Lancelot had waited for sleep to undo the miracle. But each dawn only confirmed it—he was here. Regent of Aragon. Not just heir to a throne, but steward to a decaying empire in desperate need of rescue.
Now, it was time for work.
He summoned Alicia and two royal scribes into the council chamber. The long table had been cleared of velvet covers and ceremonial clutter. In its place: stacks of maps, legal documents, inkpots, and hastily scribbled drafts prepared the night before.
"Our empire bleeds gold," Lancelot began, gesturing to a large sheet pinned to the far wall. It depicted trade routes snaking from Manila, Havana, and Callao toward Cádiz, the crown’s primary port. "But not into our treasury. We are rich in goods, yet poor in revenue."
Alicia nodded slowly, already anticipating the firestorm he was about to unleash.
"Colonies act like sovereign kingdoms. Smugglers thrive with noble protection. And the merchants?" He gave a cold smile. "They pocket the difference while we count copper in Madrid."
He turned to the scribes.
"Write."
The Royal Charter