Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 53: Court of Thorns

The great council chamber of the Palacio Real had once been a place of ceremonial posturing—marble columns, velvet banners, and the dull drone of nobles discussing lineage and land rights. But today, it was tense with the sharp scent of ink, damp cloaks, and old fury.

Prince Lancelot sat at the head of the chamber on the Regent’s elevated chair, hands folded, gaze steady. He wore his usual navy coat, but today the silver trim had been replaced by a stark red braid on one shoulder—a silent symbol of emergency authority granted to him by King Edric months ago.

Opposite him sat twenty-four members of the High Council: dukes, marquises, bishops, and lords who had once ruled their territories like miniature kings. Now, they faced a man barely in his twenties who had taken their fiefdoms and mapped sewer lines through them.

"Your Highness," began Duke Hernando de Vicalvaro, rising from his carved chair, "we have convened under urgent terms. The extent of your infrastructure programs, while laudable in health, have raised serious questions regarding governance, funding, and royal consent."

"Consent?" Lancelot echoed, voice smooth. "From whom?"

A murmur rippled across the table.

"The nobles of this land," replied the Archbishop of Zaragoza, steepling his fingers. "Those who have upheld order through generations. It is unbecoming of a regent to impose industrial dominion over age-old estates without deliberation."

Lancelot tapped the table twice, a signal. Alicia stood from the side and placed a folio in front of each councilor. Inside were waterborne disease statistics—pre-reform and current—across Madrid and its expanding wards.

"Read them," Lancelot said. "The streets of Lavapiés no longer reek of rot. The infant mortality rate has dropped twenty percent in six months. That’s what your estates refused to do for two centuries."

"And yet it was not your place," Duke Alvar of Valencia barked. "You mobilized army engineers without parliamentary review. You dug trenches beneath land you do not own."

"I own this land in the name of the Crown," Lancelot replied evenly. "The king granted me regency. And the laws I act under were signed by his seal."

A few murmured assent—mostly younger nobles. But the older lords remained defiant.

"You bypassed tariffs," Alvar continued. "Forced local guilds to adopt machine-made bricks, imported steel from Catalonia, and—"

"Yes," Lancelot cut in. "Because the old methods were too slow. Clay takes too long to dry in the rain. And we are in a race against time, gentlemen. One more epidemic, one more drought, and we will not be arguing politics—we will be burying our own kin."

Silence.

The Archbishop stood again, clearing his throat. "Your Highness, we do not seek to dismantle your reforms. But there must be compromise. Autonomy. Allow each region to implement at its own pace."

"You mean delay."

A flicker of discomfort passed over several faces.

"You mean," Lancelot continued, standing slowly, "that you want the privilege of control without the burden of action. But I have seen what delay brings. I have walked the slums, spoken to mothers who lost children because a latrine overflowed. You sit here in velvet and gold, and you demand I wait?"

His voice did not rise. But its chill silenced the chamber.

"You came here today not because you fear failure—but because you fear irrelevance."

A gasp, quickly muffled.

"Your power once came from owning land," he said. "Now it comes from how many people you can keep healthy, how many homes have clean water, how many streets can be lit without gas fumes. This is not a loss—it is evolution. You are not being replaced. You are being offered a chance to remain useful."

"You insult this council," Duke Alvar said darkly.

"No," Lancelot replied. "I challenge it."

He took a breath and signaled to Alicia again. She unfurled a map across the table—Madrid and the surrounding provinces. Several cities were already marked with red pins. Porto. Valencia. Seville. Now Cordoba.

"These regions have either adopted or requested assistance for the sanitation model. With or without your vote, the infrastructure is spreading. I can offer you a seat on the train—or leave you behind on the platform."

"And what of our traditions?" the Archbishop asked.

"Traditions do not keep the gutters clean," Lancelot said.

The doors to the chamber opened again. A steward entered with a sealed scroll.

"From Lisbon, Your Highness. The city has agreed to co-finance the southern pipeline with Madrid. The papers are signed."

Lancelot took the scroll, held it up for all to see, then placed it gently beside the growing stack of new alliance contracts.

Then he spoke plainly.

"This is the future. You can either fight it—and become the problem. Or you can fund it, shape it, and become part of the solution."

No one spoke for several seconds.

Then, slowly, the Marquess of Badajoz—an elder statesman and once staunch traditionalist—stood up.

"My estate borders Seville," he said. "We’ve already had one outbreak this decade. If the reforms reach us, I won’t stand in the way."

He sat back down. The silence cracked.

Next rose the Count of Ávila. "The new roads bring commerce. I was skeptical, but... the benefits are real."

And then others followed. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

One by one, the older guard began to bend. Not all. But enough.

Only Duke Alvar remained, arms folded.

"You will regret centralizing too much power, boy," he hissed.

Lancelot walked to the end of the table and met the duke’s glare.

"I regret nothing that has saved lives," he said. "And I do not ask you to kneel. I only ask you to build."

He turned on his heel and exited the chamber, leaving behind a shaken but changed court.

—

Later that evening, back in the observatory overlooking Madrid, Lancelot stood beside Juliette, now fourteen and reading aloud the names of cities that had signed on to the sanitation charter.

She looked up from the scroll. "They’re joining you because they see what you’re doing works."

"They’re joining because they fear being left behind," Lancelot said with a tired smile. "But I’ll take it."

Just then, Bellido entered, slightly winded.

"The last tower is ready."

"Are the circuits holding?" Lancelot asked.

"All connected. From the palace switch to the generator. We’re ready when you are."

Alicia handed him a coat.

They stepped out onto the palace balcony, facing the northern skyline. A lever was mounted on a podium, gilded but purely functional.

Below, citizens had gathered in the plaza. Lanterns had been extinguished. Children craned their necks to see.

Juliette stood beside her brother, eyes wide.

"May I?"

Lancelot smiled and gestured.

Together, they grabbed the lever.

He whispered, "For the living city."

And pulled.

A low hum rose. Then a click. And one by one, lamp poles along the main avenues lit up—first in clusters, then in chains. Electric lights bathed the streets in pale gold. Buildings shimmered in the glow. Windows opened. Cheers erupted.

Madrid was awake.

Alicia, watching the crowd from the balcony, whispered, "They’re seeing it. The city of tomorrow."

Lancelot nodded, expression unreadable.

And Juliette, clutching the lever, beamed. "Let’s light the others next."

He glanced at the dark horizon beyond the walls of Madrid—toward cities still cloaked in smoke and candlelight.

"We will," he said. "All of them."

The golden light bathed the capital like a benediction. From the balconies of the Royal Quarter to the slums of Lavapiés, thousands stood in stunned silence, eyes reflecting the glow of modernity. Children clapped. Shopkeepers wept. A few fell to their knees, not in worship—but in the quiet understanding that they were no longer forgotten.

Below, in the crowd, a shoemaker gripped his daughter’s shoulders tightly and pointed. "Remember this night," he whispered. "You’ll tell your grandchildren about it. The night the city shined like heaven."

Lancelot remained at the balcony’s edge as the cheering rose in waves. Somewhere behind him, Alicia was jotting down notes for the next morning’s briefings. Bellido spoke with a courier about the signal towers east of the river. Juliette, still wrapped in her wool shawl, simply stared upward at the flickering sky, her eyes filled with wonder.

And yet, Lancelot did not smile.

He saw the victory—but also the pressure it carried. The lights would be praised tonight, but tomorrow would bring the demands. The nobles who had begrudgingly approved his projects would now want concessions. The people would expect more—waterworks, hospitals, heating. And the foreign powers watching through their envoys’ eyes would not sit idle. What was unveiled in Madrid would echo across every throne room in Europe.

"Do you hear them?" Juliette asked softly beside him.

"I do."

"They’re not cheering for you, are they?"

"No," Lancelot said. "They’re cheering for a future they were told was impossible."

He turned to her. "And we just made it real."

The wind carried the scent of smoke, not from fires—but from the factories powering the lights. Steel, coal, oil—Aragon’s veins pulsed with energy now. But even as the kingdom glowed, shadows gathered elsewhere.

—

In a shaded room deep within the British embassy, Ambassador Hawthorne stood by a window, a snifter of brandy untouched in his hand. Behind him, his attaché shifted uneasily.

"They’ve done it," the attaché murmured. "They’ve crossed the line."

"No," Hawthorne corrected. "They’ve leapt over it."

The electric lights from the palace and main thoroughfares shimmered like a lattice of gold across the night. It was no longer a city—it was a statement.

"We’ll have to report this back to London immediately," the attaché said. "Industrial parity is slipping—if it hasn’t already slipped."

Hawthorne finally sipped. "Madrid was a gutter not five years ago. Now it’s a lighthouse. And a lighthouse," he added grimly, "is often followed by a fleet."

—

Across the sea, in Glanzreich, Baron Otto von Remlingen read the courier’s report beneath flickering candlelight. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the page.

"They lit the whole quarter?" he asked the aide.

"Yes, Baron. Telegraph reports from multiple agents confirm it. The Royal District. The merchant roads. The drainage ward. All illuminated using electric dynamos connected to steam engines."

Otto did not respond. He folded the paper and placed it in a leather file with other documents: sanitation plans, engineer training curriculums, disease reduction graphs.

He stared at them for a long while. Then, without a word, he opened his desk drawer and unlocked a hidden compartment. Inside were sealed orders—emergency directives for rapid industrial study and forced state investment in technical schools.

His hand hovered over them.

"They’ve forced our hand," he muttered. "The boy has drawn the line."

—

Back in the palace, the lights still glowed, but the square had begun to empty. Rain was coming. A soft drizzle kissed the stone tiles, blurring the new electric bulbs into halos.

Lancelot stood alone now, letting the night air wash over him.

Alicia approached quietly. "We should rest. Tomorrow we meet with the Glanzreich delegation again."

"They’ll come with new faces," he said. "More polite, more cautious. But the questions will be the same."

"What are we becoming?"

"Yes."

She touched his arm. "You already know the answer."

"I do," he said. "But it terrifies them."

He turned one last time to face the city.

"We’re not just building roads and wires, Alicia. We’re rewriting what it means to rule. Not with bloodline, not with faith—but with progress."

"And progress terrifies those who live by memory," she said.

Lancelot nodded.

He glanced down at the soaked plaza where a few children still danced in puddles beneath the lights.

"They’ll try to resist. They’ll whisper in courts, pen letters, forge alliances. But we’ll move faster. Dig deeper. Build stronger."

He stepped back from the balcony.

"And when they finally come to strike us down," he said, "they’ll find their cannons sinking in our sewers."

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