Reincarnated as the Crown Prince

Three weeks had passed since the storm had been stirred.

In the quiet of his office, Crown Regent Lancelot leaned over a stack of papers as the sun poured gently through the arched windows. The grand seal of the Royal Treasury Council was already pressed onto one document. It bore his signature—flourished but firm.

The decree was short, but its consequences would spread far: the RTC would allocate thirty million ducados to fund the construction of macadamized roads across the Kingdom of Aragon.

A knock came at the door.

"Enter," Lancelot said without looking up.

Don Ignacio, Minister of Public Works, stepped in, bowing with respect before approaching the Regent's desk.

"It's done," Lancelot said, handing him the freshly signed document. "Funding approved. The first wave of roads will connect Zaragoza, Valencia, Toledo, and eventually—Segovia."

Don Ignacio blinked in surprise. "Segovia?"

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "We do not build roads for friends, Ignacio. We build them for the people. Even if they lead through enemy strongholds."

The minister nodded slowly, tucking the document into his satchel. "Then I shall begin coordinating with our engineers and surveyors. Macadamized roads will be expensive, but the benefit will outlive us both."

"Exactly," Lancelot murmured. "This is more than gravel and stone. It's the future rolling beneath their feet."

After Ignacio left, Alicia entered with a quieter step. She didn't carry reports this time—just one folded message.

Lancelot could tell from her expression that it wasn't good news.

"They've begun mobilizing," she said, placing the letter on his desk. "Private armies. From noble estates. Segovia. Burgos. Valencia. Even pockets near Galicia."

Lancelot opened the letter, reading it silently. The message was a summary compiled by his own field agents. Noble bannermen gathering in secret. Clergy smuggling crates from monasteries—some rumored to be weapons. Small armed groups drilling in countryside fields. All unofficial, all technically "private," but far too organized to ignore.

"They're not hiding it anymore," Lancelot said.

"No," Alicia replied. "They're making their move."

He stood and walked to the window, overlooking the courtyard below. The cobblestones glistened under the afternoon sun. Horse-drawn wagons passed between gates. But tension was building in the city—he could feel it in the silence between hoofbeats, in the stillness of the guards at their posts.

"How many do we have loyal to the Crown?" he asked.

"Ten full regiments stationed around Madrid. Another eight in Zaragoza. And reinforcements from Andalusia and the northern frontier are en route. General Rafael de Montiel is in the capital now. He's awaiting your summons."

Lancelot turned from the window. "Summon him. Now."

Within the hour, the Royal Military Council convened in the chamber beneath the east wing of the palace. At the center stood a massive table covered in maps, markers, and reports. Red pins denoted suspected rebel concentrations. Blue lines marked state roads. Green tags showed loyal garrisons.

Lancelot entered first, flanked only by Alicia and a single guard. He took his place at the head of the table.

General Montiel stood and bowed respectfully. A hardened veteran of the Northern Frontier Wars, his uniform was worn but immaculate, medals and ribbons adorning his chest.

"Your Royal Highness," he greeted.

"General," Lancelot said. "The situation has shifted. I trust you've read the dispatches?"

"Yes, and I've brought my officers up to speed. These are not minor skirmishes. If we let these forces grow unchecked, we'll be looking at open civil war within months."

Lancelot leaned forward. "Then we won't let them."

The general nodded. "I've already taken precautions. Patrols have increased near Valencia and Burgos. Local arsenals have been secured. Any movement of weapons will be intercepted."

"Patrols won't do, these nobles and the clergies had decided to go against the crown because the law I am passing is against their interest. I have a duty as the future King of this realm to make it the most powerful nation on the planet. I can't do that if there are people not loyal to me, or the cause. I want them destroyed. Do you think you can handle that task, General?"

General Rafael de Montiel straightened his posture, jaw tight beneath his mustache. He placed his gloved hand firmly over his chest, his voice solemn yet full of conviction.

"If the Crown commands it, I will see it done, Your Highness," he said. "I swore my sword to the realm—not to the whims of dukes, nor to the vanity of cardinals. If they rise with arms against Your Majesty's law, then they will meet the army of Aragon at the gates of their own halls."

Lancelot nodded slowly, pleased. "Good. I needed to hear that."

Around the chamber, the other officers exchanged grim but approving glances. They knew the burden that was coming. Civil war was no longer a distant threat—it had become a creeping certainty.

But Lancelot wasn't finished.

He turned his gaze toward the opposite end of the table, where Admiral Urrutia sat in a dark blue coat trimmed with silver. The man was lean, hawk-eyed, and disciplined, having served three kings at sea and commanded fleets during the Corsair Suppressions.

Lancelot addressed him now.

"Admiral. The nobles can muster troops inland—but many of them fund their wealth through trade. Valencia. Cádiz. Tarragona. Even parts of Santander. If war comes, I don't want them to have the gold to buy another sword."

The admiral gave a curt nod. "Then you wish to blockade the ports?"

"Not yet," Lancelot replied. "But I want to know—if needed—can we choke them? Cut them off from foreign supplies? Force them to kneel without lifting a single musket?"

Urrutia leaned forward, hands clasped. "Yes. The Royal Navy controls the Straits of Gibraltar. We have two squadrons anchored in Cartagena, and another in Cádiz. If authorized, I can dispatch cutters and corvettes to patrol the coastlines within the week. All merchant shipping would require direct licenses from the RTC to pass unchallenged."

"Good," Lancelot said. "That will keep the flow of funds within our grasp—and deny it to those plotting rebellion."

Montiel grunted in approval. "If we starve them economically and pressure them militarily, many won't even fight. They'll surrender their banners just to keep their estates intact."

"And those who don't," Lancelot added, "we'll deal with directly. That would be all, dismiss."