CHAPTER 66: THE FORBIDDEN INVITATION

The brass bell in the Civic Trade Council’s chamber echoed thrice before silence took hold.

Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass dome above, casting fragmented hues of red, blue, and gold onto the hardwood table below. Around it sat the key architects of Aragon’s eastward momentum—engineers, diplomats, scholars, and merchants—all waiting for the Prince to speak.

Prince Lancelot stood at the head of the table, hands behind his back, eyes focused not on the council, but on the map laid out before him—an expanded parchment of East Asia, marked in recent ink with new trade routes, rail line proposals, and provincial annotations.

"We stand," he began, "at the edge of something more delicate than conquest."

His voice, as steady as the ticking of the Council clock, drew their full attention.

"We have laid seeds in Yunnan. Not garrisons. Not banners. Seeds. And they are growing. But seeds must be nurtured, not yanked from the soil before their time."

Councilor Ramirez, a merchant-turned-diplomat, leaned forward. "Yunnan is welcoming, but isolated. If we are to move beyond, we must prepare for resistance. The Qing court is ancient, and wary."

"They’ve seen what Europe can do when it wants territory," added Scholar Marina Bell, brushing a loose strand of hair from her brow. "We offer knowledge, yes—but who’s to say they won’t see a sword hidden behind our pen?"

Lancelot nodded. "Which is why we’ll send no soldiers."

He reached into his coat and placed a rolled document on the table.

"This," he said, unsealing it, "is the outline of our next delegation. A scientific and philosophical mission. No arms. No uniforms. Just thinkers, builders, translators, and teachers."

"An embassy of minds," Juliette murmured, admiring the layout.

Lancelot glanced at her, then back at the others. "We will request audience in Beijing—not to petition, but to propose. We offer not tutelage, but partnership. If they wish to match the world’s march, we can walk beside them."

A quiet pause.

Then Councilor Farouk, the oldest at the table and once an exile from the Ottoman court, gave a low, approving grunt. "A dangerous idea. Which means it’s the right one."

Lancelot allowed himself a rare smile. "Then let’s draft the invitation."

—

Thousands of miles east, in the Forbidden City, the Empress Dowager sat in her garden pavilion, sipping chrysanthemum tea.

Her robes were layered silk, white and pale gold. Her hair, bound in the high Manchu style, shimmered with jade ornaments. Though nearing her sixtieth year, her eyes missed nothing.

Before her knelt three of her court ministers, heads bowed, scrolls in hand.

"The Yunnan governor grows bold," Minister Zhao said. "He permits these Westerners to build... schools. Temples of foreign thought disguised as enlightenment."

Minister Liu added, "They preach science, yes. But with that comes rebellion. With logic comes disobedience."

The Empress raised an eyebrow. "And yet, who among you has built a new reservoir for Beijing this year? Who has invented a machine to carry rice to the north without rotting in the sun?"

Silence.

"Perhaps," she said, "we are merely envious."

She waved a servant forward. The young woman brought forth a folded letter—its seal foreign, the language carefully inked in both Castilian and Classical Chinese.

"I have read their Prince’s letter. He speaks not of rule, but of collaboration. And I find it... intriguing."

Minister Zhao scoffed. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but this Prince Lancelot is either naive or cunning. He sends builders now. Tomorrow, it may be battleships."

"And if we reject them?" the Empress asked calmly. "If we close our gates entirely? Will that stop the world from spinning?"

Minister Liu bit his tongue.

The Empress stood, pacing slowly across the pavilion floor.

"The world watched as the West tore into India, into Africa. The Aragonese built cities while the French burned them. Perhaps this Prince is sincere. Or perhaps he is dangerous precisely because he does not come bearing flags."

She turned to her ministers.

"I will test his sincerity. Issue an invitation. Let him come to Beijing."

—

When the message arrived in Firewell, the Council chamber erupted in restrained astonishment.

Juliette read it aloud, translating each formal passage with precision.

"...It is the will of the Heavenly Court that Prince Lancelot of Aragon, should he remain true in his intent of peace and mutual advancement, is welcome to present his vision before the Council of Scholars and Her Imperial Majesty within the bounds of the Forbidden City..."

Lancelot leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.

"They’re calling our bluff," Ramirez said. "They want to see if you’ll flinch."

"Then we won’t," Lancelot replied.

Juliette raised an eyebrow. "You realize this is a historic moment? A Western prince being welcomed to the Forbidden City? That hasn’t happened in centuries."

"I don’t intend to walk in like an invader," Lancelot said. "I’ll go as a guest. One with tools, ideas, and an offer."

—

The journey took twenty-nine days by rail, carriage, riverboat, and finally on foot through the ancient gate of Zhengyangmen.

The Aragonese delegation numbered only twenty—scientists, educators, translators, and a small health contingent. They wore modest dress, their crests hidden, their equipment wrapped in linen. But inside their crates were devices that would astonish even the court of dragons—solar compasses, wind-powered pumps, and portable electrification kits.

The Forbidden City was as grand as the stories foretold.

Red walls, golden roofs, the scent of sandalwood and snow in the air. Courtiers and eunuchs watched the foreigners with curiosity, suspicion, and quiet awe.

On the second day, Lancelot was brought before the Empress Dowager.

She sat not on a throne, but in a scholar’s chamber, surrounded by scrolls and mechanical models brought in from her private collection.

He bowed, as deeply as any noble ever had.

She inclined her head.

"Prince Lancelot," she said in Mandarin, "you do not dress like a ruler."

"I do not wish to rule your land, Your Majesty," he replied in fluent Mandarin. "Only to share what we’ve learned."

She gestured to a seat. "Then teach me."

—

The presentation lasted hours.

Lancelot showed her the workings of a windmill small enough to power a village school.

He unveiled a light that ran on saltwater.

He offered a translated copy of the Firewell Education Curriculum, including Chinese history, mathematics, and astronomy alongside Enlightenment thought.

The Empress listened, nodded, asked sharp questions.

When he finished, she stood, walked to the window, and said, "You are young."

Lancelot didn’t deny it.

"And dangerous," she added, glancing back. "But only to those who believe change is the same as collapse."

She turned fully. "Build your Civic Academy. In Beijing. Beside the Temple of the White Stag. Let us see what your future looks like, here in the heart of mine."

—

The weeks that followed became legend.

Aragonese builders collaborated with Qing engineers.

The Civic Academy rose slowly but surely—octagonal, multi-leveled, with towers styled like pagodas but wired for wind and light.

Juliette met with Chinese scholar-officials daily, establishing curricula that honored Confucian values while introducing empirical science.

She and a professor named Li Han grew especially close—debating whether truth came from the heavens or from experiment, whether harmony included questioning authority.

At night, children gathered in the half-completed courtyard, watching as foreign and native teachers taught them to spell words like "gravity" and "respect" in two languages.

—

Far away, in Europe, diplomats stirred.

France called it a "cultural invasion."

Britain grew uneasy—worried that its footholds in Asia might be eclipsed by this quiet empire of progress.

And yet, no armies moved. For how could one justify war against a school?

—

Six months later, Lancelot stood once more on the tower of Kareya, a letter in hand.

It was from the Empress.

Her words were few, but they struck deep:

"Your builders do not knock. They plant trees. One day, I shall sit in their shade. —Cixi."

Juliette came up behind him.

"Well?" she asked.

Lancelot looked eastward.

"We keep planting," he said.

And they did.

In the years that followed, the Civic Academy became more than just a school.

It became a symbol.

Chinese scholars returned to their provinces carrying notebooks filled with foreign equations and new perspectives. Aragonese instructors returned westward fluent in Mandarin, with reverence for the intricacies of Chinese poetry and medicine. Every semester brought new experiments, new debates, and new translations—bridging philosophies that once seemed oceans apart.

On the academy walls, a carved inscription was unveiled:

"Harmony is not silence. It is dialogue well spoken."

Lancelot, though never seated in any court of the East, came to be known in whispered tones across bureaucratic circles as the "Scholar Prince." Some admired him. Others feared him. But few denied the shift he had set into motion.

Not all provinces followed Yunnan’s example. Not all doors opened. But enough had cracked for light to spill through.

One afternoon, as cherry blossoms bloomed along the canal paths of Beijing, Juliette sat beside Li Han beneath the shade of a wind turbine. Children laughed in the distance, chasing paper kites shaped like steamships and dragons.

"They will write about this someday," she said.

"They already are," Li Han replied, smiling.

And in Firewell, Lancelot walked the edge of the reservoir alone, watching the mirrored sky ripple at his feet.

No horns. No conquests. No victory parades.

Just the slow, patient hum of progress.

And in his heart, he knew:

Empires crumble.

But ideas endure.