A storm hung heavy over Madrid, rain streaking the ornate windows of the royal council chamber and drumming on the slate roofs of the capital beyond.
Inside, beneath the high coffered ceiling, Spain's king stood braced at the edge of a vast table cluttered with dispatches, intelligence folders, and a sprawling map of Iberia pinned with colored flags.
Alfonso XIII's hand rested on the table's edge, knuckles pale. His eyes dark, sharp, increasingly haunted these days, swept over the map again and again as if by sheer force of will he could rearrange the loyalties of provinces and regiments.
To his right hovered General Barrera, a thick mustache twitching whenever a fresh report arrived. To his left, the Minister of the Interior shuffled through communiqués that smelled of damp ink and sweat.
Across the map, the Chief of Intelligence cleared his throat, tapping a trembling finger on a cluster of pins south of Zaragoza.
