Reincarnated as the Crown Prince

The doors to the Royal Council Chamber creaked open slowly, pulled by two guards. Inside, the nobles were already seated. Velvet robes and feathered hats filled the long chamber, but the mood was tense, with silence heavier than any fabric worn that day.

Crown Regent Lancelot entered without a single escort, his boots thudding against the marbled floor. Behind him, Alicia followed, holding a leather folder of reports. Every eye in the room turned to him—some with scorn, others with calculation, and a few with quiet respect.

He didn't bow. He didn't greet anyone. He simply walked to the central platform and stood still, meeting their stares.

"You summoned me," Lancelot said, breaking the silence. "Here I am."

Count Figueres was the first to rise, his aging face red with anger. "This is no ordinary meeting, Your Highness. This council demands an explanation. Your decrees have upended centuries of custom. You've declared war on the nobility and the Church!"

"No," Lancelot said calmly. "I've declared war on stagnation."

Murmurs spread through the room. Duke Reynard stood next, his gloved hands clenched behind his back.

"You tax the untouchables. You seize lands once gifted by kings. You strip titles of their economic rights. What gives you this authority?"

"The law," Lancelot replied flatly. "The law passed by this very Council, which granted emergency regency powers during His Majesty's illness."

"That was to preserve the Crown," Countess Elvira snapped. "Not dismantle its very spine."

"I am not dismantling the Crown," Lancelot said, raising his voice just slightly. "I am reforging it. You see an attack on tradition. I see an infection being treated before it kills the host."

Don Luis Ronda of Valencia stood with a scowl. "And what of the merchants being audited, the guild charters being revoked? You brand them as monopolists and extortionists. You threaten the market."

"I threaten corruption," Lancelot replied. "If your charters are legitimate, they will stand. But let's not pretend many of you haven't hidden behind parchment older than sense."

Gasps and low protests rippled through the chamber. Several nobles stood at once. The room became a storm of voices.

"You insult us!"

"You risk civil unrest!"

"This is tyranny disguised as reform!"

Lancelot raised one hand—and the room quieted. Not because he shouted, but because something about his presence had shifted. He didn't look angry. He looked completely certain. And that unsettled them more than rage.

"You all think I'm here to ask for your approval," he said. "I'm not."

That stunned the room.

"I didn't come to beg," Lancelot continued. "I came to tell you the truth. Aragon is sick. Our peasants are poor. Our trade routes are broken. Our cities are stalled in mud and superstition. I've spoken with mayors, soldiers, teachers, and farmers. They all say the same thing: the system serves the privileged and no one else."

Duke Reynard pointed a finger. "You rule because of blood and inheritance. The very system you now criticize gave you your power."

Lancelot stepped forward. "And that's why I'm changing it. So that no man after me can hide behind birthright. So that merit and law rule—not wealth, not titles, not divine illusions."

"Blasphemy," muttered Bishop Alvaro from his seat near the back. "You even taxed the Church. You mock the sacred."

Lancelot's eyes locked on him. "I taxed the Church's land. Not their prayers. If your God needs gold to bless the people, then he is no god I know."

Alvaro rose halfway, scandalized. But Lancelot didn't pause.

"I will not apologize for trying to modernize Aragon. You've had your centuries. Now it's my turn."

Count Figueres slammed the table. "Then we will resist. We will take this to the Pope. To the Estates. To the Army!"

Lancelot didn't move. He didn't flinch. His tone didn't change. But his eyes — they sharpened, cold and unreadable.

"Oh?" he said quietly, almost like a whisper meant only for Figueres. "So you want to revolt against the Crown, huh?"

That single line cut through the tension like a blade. A silence followed — one not born of awe, but of sudden uncertainty. It lingered too long.

Then Lancelot looked to his left.

"Alicia, summon the troops."

Alicia's pen stopped mid-note. She looked up at him, nodded once, and turned swiftly on her heel. She didn't run. She didn't panic. She simply left the chamber like someone delivering an appointment.

The nobles blinked in confusion.

"What is this?" Duke Reynard demanded.

Lancelot clasped his hands behind his back and looked out over them all like a teacher addressing unruly children.

"You threatened the integrity of the realm," he said plainly. "You spoke of Estates, Popes, armies. Treason, under any name, still stinks the same."

He didn't need to raise his voice.

"This chamber is the heart of power in Aragon. But I am its pulse now. And if that pulse stops—so does the body."

The nobles began rising, hands clenching the arms of their chairs.

"What are you planning?" Elvira asked, suddenly wary. "Are you arresting us?"

"No," Lancelot said, just as the doors behind him opened again—this time with thunderous force.

Dozens of royal guards marched in, muskets in hand.

"By order of the Crown Regent," the commanding officer barked, "all occupants are to remain seated. Any attempt to exit this chamber shall be considered active rebellion."

Gasps. Shouts. Half the nobles stood, but muskets were already trained on them.

A flintlock hammer clicked.

"Sit," Lancelot commanded.

One by one, they did.

Even Bishop Alvaro, who had risen in protest, slowly lowered himself back into his seat, robes rustling with nervous hands.

The guards surrounded the perimeter, muskets aimed not at the floor, not at the ceiling, but at each noble directly. Trigger fingers rested in place. They weren't bluffing. These weren't palace ornaments. These were trained men. Veterans from the northern campaigns.

"You see," Lancelot began again, voice still calm, "I offered you reform. You answered with threats. I gave you laws. You answered with tradition. I gave you time. You answered with ultimatums."

He stepped down from the raised dais and slowly walked among them. His boots tapped along the floor. His presence passed each of them like a shadow stretching too far.

"Now you'll give me your obedience," he said. "Not because I want it—but because I've earned it."

Figueres tried to speak. "This is a coup—"

"No, I am just exercising my rights as a Crown Regent, and the future King of this realm. Now that I think about it, maybe it's time that I reform the constitution. That's right, let's make a vote right now."