The sun rose over the Atlantic like a molten coin, casting long shadows across the crimson banners now fluttering above Nueva Cádiz's civic tower. It was the third month since the first Civic Brigade set foot on African soil, and already the shoreline resembled an industrial frontier. Not just tents and pylons—but cranes, workshops, trade depots, and transmission towers. Iron roots were pushing inland.
Prince Lancelot stood on a scaffold above the port, watching as a new steam dredger carved out a wider channel for Aragonese freighters. His coat smelled of engine oil and salt. Below him, dockworkers—some from Valencia, most now locals—shouted in two languages as crates of copper cable and prefabricated turbines were offloaded.
Juliette climbed the steps beside him, her sleeves rolled up, fingers still stained with graphite and sweat.
