March 10, 1788 — Royal Palace of Aragon, Madrid
The royal seal hissed as it met hot wax. Lancelot pressed it down with deliberate force, imprinting the lion-and-anchor crest into the parchment as if branding the future itself. The scroll before him bore the title: Edicto del Tesoro Sagrado—the Sacred Investment Act.
Four more decrees lay unfurled across the table. Each was penned in exquisite calligraphy by the finest scribes in the palace's chancery, their borders lined in gold leaf and finished with velvet ribbons for immediate distribution.
In the Grand Hall of Ministers, light poured through cathedral-like windows, illuminating Lancelot's silhouette as he stood before the assembled secretariat. Bureaucrats, recorders, and heralds lined the room like silent statues, waiting.
"Begin dispatch," Lancelot said.
A nod from Alicia set the machine of empire into motion. Runners moved like clockwork, bearing sealed orders to waiting messengers bound for the provinces. By day's end, every diocese, noble estate, trade guild, and port authority would receive their share of royal command.
Lancelot stepped forward and addressed the gathering.
"Today, we do not merely govern. We reshape the bones of the realm."
He lifted the Sacred Investment Act and held it up to the morning light.
"The Church," he said, voice clear, "shall now partner with the Crown. Its vaults and tithes shall serve not only the heavens, but the realm it resides in. The Crown Trust Bank is hereby established. Bishops are to deposit ten percent of their tithe collections and leasehold incomes by summer's end, in exchange for long-term sovereign bonds."
Several scribes paused mid-stroke.
"Failure to comply," Lancelot added, "will result in audit and revocation of ecclesiastical privileges in royal parishes."
The next decree rose into his hand—the Reforma de la Orden Real, the Knight's Order Reform.
"To the noble class," he declared, "we bestow new honor. The Order of the Enlightened Crown shall recognize those who contribute directly to the Crown's endeavors—be it via land, coin, or fleet. Membership will grant precedence in court, privileged seating in royal ceremonies, and annual appearance in the Registro de Honor. Let it be known—true nobility lies in sacrifice for nation."
A third decree followed—the Royal Lottery.
"Effective immediately," Lancelot said, "the Royal Lottery is sanctioned. Weekly drawings will be held in all provincial capitals, and grand prizes shall be drawn monthly under Crown supervision. Proceeds will support orphanages, hospitals, schools, and veterans."
He paused, letting silence work its magic.
"Ticket vendors must register with the Treasury. All winnings will be taxed at 12 percent. We encourage public participation. And belief."
A murmur of excitement rippled through the back rows. Alicia, standing by the pillar, suppressed a knowing smile.
The final decree was the heftiest—La Marca del Reino, the national branding act.
"As of this decree," Lancelot said, "only salt, wine, and oil bearing the Royal Crown Seal may be exported beyond our borders. All foreign contracts must pass through the Ministry of Trade, and producers must license their harvests under certified trademarks: Aragon's Wine, Royal Oil, and Flower of Salt of Cadiz. We elevate our exports to luxury, and in doing so, elevate our economy."
He turned to the chief herald.
"Let these laws be proclaimed across every square, cathedral, and harbor."
Three days later, from Pamplona to Seville, church bells rang—not for mass, but for royal edict.
At the Cathedral of Zaragoza, Bishop Esteban Ortega raised the scroll of the Sacred Investment Act and read it aloud before a stunned congregation. Many clerics looked to one another in confusion—others, with envy at the prospect of secure investment and royal favor.
By sundown, five dioceses had already dispatched riders to the capital to request Crown Trust Bank appointments.
In Salamanca, a minor noble named Don Luis de Aranda commissioned a new silver-plated rapier and ordered his servants to polish the family crest. His donation of 15,000 Ducados and a grain estate outside Toledo was already en route to Madrid, seeking induction into the Order of the Enlightened Crown.
On the docks of Cádiz, posters were nailed to tavern doors and warehouse posts. Lotería del Príncipe—First Drawing: March 28! Crowds gathered, peasants argued over numbers, and even retired soldiers scrounged their savings to buy tickets.
"Three Ducados and I could be living in Burgos with a pension!" one man cried.
In Aragon's central valley, vineyard owners cursed—but lined up at magistrate offices to apply for licenses to sell under the new royal wine brand. "If they're buying in Paris," one merchant grumbled, "then I'll play along. But that stamp better be worth the wax."
That evening, in a grand estate outside Toledo, four noblemen gathered around a crackling fireplace. Velvet coats and powdered wigs adorned their frames—but their expressions were bitter.
"It's extortion," Don Rafael muttered. "Masked as prestige."
Don Ignacio de Montalvo poured another round of wine. "It's a choice. Either your name appears in the Register of Honor, or it fades into the archives of irrelevance."
"Donating land for a sash?" the youngest scoffed. "Next he'll have us naming pigs after his ministers."
"Then do nothing," Ignacio said flatly. "But when your tenant farmers leave to join Crown projects, and your grain no longer fetches a premium without the royal seal—remember who adapted, and who resisted."
They drank in silence.
Back in the palace, Lancelot stood on the eastern balcony, watching the lights of Madrid flicker like stars caught in stone.
"You've unsettled a continent," Alicia murmured, joining him with a wool cloak pulled close.
"Not yet," he replied. "But the ripples are reaching their shores."
He handed her a letter.
"What's this?"
"A dispatch from Barcelona. The Merchants' Syndicate wants exclusive rights to distribute Royal Wine in Marseille. They're offering 60,000 Ducados and a fleet of six fast schooners."
Alicia whistled. "That's not a ripple. That's a wave."
"They see what we've built—and they want a piece of it."
They turned to watch the night unfold, stars shimmering above the red-tile rooftops. Below them, the city buzzed with quiet frenzy. In the plazas, ticket vendors shouted winning numbers from yesterday's drawing. In cathedral halls, priests debated ethics and percentages. In noble salons, lords whispered of sashes, orders, and the sudden rediscovery of patriotism.
Later that night, Alicia entered the Council Chamber bearing updated treasury ledgers.
"Crown Trust deposits now total 920,000 Ducados," she reported. "Wine licensing brought in 43,000 in two days. Lottery tickets?" She grinned. "Already 180,000 sold. And that's only in the capital. It's working."
"Yeah, it should work. Those things I introduced shouldn't anger the nobles, the church, or even the people. Nothing was lost except their money."