Chapter 44: Homecoming of the Regent
The morning sun broke across the Castilian plains with gold and quiet promise. Smoke no longer rose from distant cities. No urgent telegrams clicked their warnings across cables. For the first time in months, the skies above Aragon were calm—unbroken by war pigeons, couriers, or columns of soot.
Madrid awaited.
The royal train thundered into the central station just after eight bells. It was no ordinary arrival. Lancelot’s journey home had been charted, timed, and announced. Streets were swept. Brass polished. Flags of blue and silver fluttered on every spire.
As the train hissed to a stop, a full honor guard of the Royal Mechanized Corps stood at attention along the platform. They were not clad in flamboyant parade uniforms but in their wartime gear: greatcoats, iron-polished boots, and the sigil of Aragon engraved into breastplates. These were the same men who had crossed the Loire, breached the gates of Dijon, and held the Seine. Now, they stood in silence, saluting the man who had led them.
Lancelot stepped onto the platform dressed not as a warlord, but as a statesman. His regent’s cloak of slate gray caught the breeze, the silver clasp bearing the insignia of the crown-in-trust. At his side walked Alicia, ever composed, a simple black sash crossing her chest. Montiel followed, in ceremonial uniform, though the hilt of his saber bore still-fresh notches.
The crowd beyond the station gates erupted. Cheers. Applause. Cries of "Long live the Regent!" echoed down the boulevards.
But it was only the beginning.
By decree of the Crown Council, the day had been declared a national holiday—The Day of Restoration.
Every major road from the station to the Palacio Real had been cleared and secured. From balconies and rooftops, civilians gathered, some weeping, others waving handkerchiefs. Schoolchildren held up signs with hand-painted letters: "Gracias, Regente!" and "The North is Free!"
The military parade began an hour later.
At the head marched the 1st Iron Division, their boots synchronized with such precision it seemed the very cobblestones obeyed them. Behind them rumbled the steelclad artillery carts—drawn not by oxen or horse, but by the new Aragonese steam tractors. They were primitive by modern dreams, but awe-inspiring nonetheless. Smokestacks chuffed, gears clicked in rhythm, and brass whistles blew sharp bursts as they rolled forward.