Across the scorched hills of Castilla, smoke still spread in the air, yet the speed of conquest marched forward.
The Unified Column was gone.
Its bones scattered beneath the rubble of Alborán.
The final roar had faded into embers, and Spain trembled beneath the boots of the tanks advance.
In a half-burnt villa outside Cuenca, General Heinz Guderian unfolded a map over a oak table.
Aide-de-camps hovered nearby as Franco entered the room, his polished boots clicking sharply across the stone floor.
"The road to Madrid is clear," Guderian said without looking up. "Valencia fell faster than anticipated."
Franco examined the map, fingers brushing over Alborán's still-smoking outline. "Then there is no one left to resist."
"No one," Guderian spoke. "But stories."
Franco raised an eyebrow. "Stories don't shoot back."
"But they linger. And they inspire."
At that moment, a young German officer stepped in briskly, saluting.
