Chapter 34: They Are Afraid of us Now
The morning sky over the Gulf of Valencia was clear—almost painfully so. A mild breeze rustled the Aragonese flags lining the observation deck of the coastal command tower, and the sea glistened like polished glass beneath the rising sun. Small patrol boats bobbed near the docks, their signal flags fluttering, while farther out in the distance, the massive silhouette of the INS Resolución cut an imposing figure on the horizon.
It was the day of the naval demonstration.
On the rocky terraces of the command post, foreign observers gathered in tight knots. Military attachés, naval officers, ambassadors, and even a few civilian dignitaries stood behind the brass railing, peering through binoculars and exchanging hushed remarks in a cacophony of accents. The islet slated for bombardment—Isla Negra—lay twelve kilometers offshore, barren and jagged, its rocky spires like broken teeth waiting to be obliterated.
Prince Lancelot stood front and center, flanked by Admiral de Castro and Alicia. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp and calculating. He watched not just the sea, but the observers.
He was here to measure reactions.
The first to approach was Sir William Hargrove, Britannia’s ambassador, dressed in a formal naval coat and monocle. He gave Lancelot a curt bow.
"I see your monster has stirred, Regent."
"She’s not a monster," Lancelot said. "She’s a mirror. What you see in her depends on what you bring to the reflection."
"Philosophical," Hargrove replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "But I do admit—I’ve never seen a dreadnought in the flesh. None of our ships can match her by sheer tonnage."
"No one’s can," Admiral de Castro muttered proudly.
Farther down the deck, the delegate from Glanzreich, Colonel von Rheingold, kept a stiff expression as he scribbled notes on a small leather-bound pad. His uniform was spotless, his mustache waxed to perfection, but a faint sheen of sweat glistened at his temple.