Chapter 50: Price of Progress
The smell of damp stone lingered in the air long after Lancelot left the construction zone. Despite the efforts to scrub the muck from his boots, traces of clay and lime still clung to his soles—a reminder that even a prince couldn’t rise above the grime of his city’s transformation.
Madrid was changing.
That much no one could deny. In just six weeks, over a dozen filtration wells had been erected across the southern wards. Nearly four hundred men were working underground every day, extending the second-tier sewer lines beneath Lavapiés and El Rastro. Brick by brick, pipe by pipe, the city was shedding its medieval skin.
But with progress came pressure.
And it was mounting.
Inside the grand stone chamber of the Cortes Generales, beneath the frescoed ceilings and the golden lions flanking the speaker’s dais, that pressure was about to explode into the open.
Lancelot sat at the front bench, flanked by Alicia and Finance Minister Darias. He had arrived early, hoping to set the tone. Instead, he now watched as delegates from every province filed in—some in long coats soaked from morning rain, others in silk and furs, untouched by weather or labor.
At precisely the stroke of nine, the Marshal of the Cortes struck his staff against the floor. Silence fell. Then came the voice of Don Teodoro de Abanca, a Viscount from Valencia and known critic of the Regent’s sweeping reforms.
"The prince," Abanca began, standing, "would have us believe that mud and mortar can save Madrid. That latrines and bricks are the foundation of empire."
Murmurs rippled through the room.
Lancelot said nothing—yet.