Chapter 40: March to Paris
The gray dawn broke over Lyon like a solemn oath. The streets, still wet from the night’s rain, gleamed beneath the iron glow of electric lamps—a marvel that continued to awe the local population. Most had never seen artificial light after sunset before the arrival of the Aragonese.
From the balcony of the commandeered Hôtel de Ville, Regent Lancelot surveyed the sleeping city. He was alone except for the low hum of a nearby generator and the rhythmic clank of a steam crane repositioning supplies in the square below. Lyon, once a symbol of republican fervor, now beat in step with Aragonese discipline.
A knock came from the inner door. Alicia entered, wearing a wool officer’s coat and scarf, with fresh documents in hand.
"Morning reports," she said simply.
He took them without looking. "Status?"
"The telegraph stations are active from Marseille to Lyon. That’s over 400 kilometers of uninterrupted communication. Food deliveries are ahead of schedule. The mobile medical units have treated nearly six thousand civilians and wounded soldiers."
"And the bridge?"
"Secured," she confirmed. "Our engineers have reinforced the rail crossing. The Rhône is officially under our command."
Lancelot allowed himself a short nod. "Then we move again."
In the courtyard, the rhythmic cadence of drums began to echo. Aragonese infantry lined up in columns, their uniforms sharp, rifles slung across their backs, and steam-fed baggage carts ready to follow. The smell of coal smoke, oil, and iron lingered in the air. Even the local children watched in silence, unsure if they were witnessing an army or the forging of something new.
General Montiel stood near the newly laid northern rail line, waiting for Lancelot. A tactical map was pinned to a rolling board behind him, updated overnight by officers using reports from field scouts and aerial balloon observations.