It began before dawn.
Madrid's Grand Military Rail Terminal, once a symbol of modernization and pride, now thundered with the pulse of war. Under iron beams and gas-lit chandeliers, the rhythmic clanking of steel echoed as endless crates, cannon barrels, and ammunition belts were loaded with practiced efficiency. It had taken years of reforms, discipline, and sacrifice—but now, Aragon moved like a machine.
Regent Lancelot stood on a high platform overlooking the platform yard, gloved hands resting on the rail. Beside him, Alicia leafed through a thick report, while General Montiel stood rigidly at attention, his uniform pristine.
"Our numbers?" Lancelot asked without turning.
"Eighteen divisions in total," Montiel replied. "One hundred thirty-two thousand men. Five thousand engineers, ten thousand logistical staff. All of them trained, drilled, and supplied."
"And supplies?"
