Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 54: Storm after the Light

The morning after the illumination of Madrid dawned gray, veiled in a mist that clung to rooftops and curled along the alleys like smoke. But the city did not sleep in. It buzzed—quieter than the celebrations the night before, but no less alive. Merchants opened their shops early. Children begged their parents to walk the boulevards once more, to see the electric lights flicker out in the dawn. And up in the Palacio Real, the mood had shifted like the weather.

Prince Lancelot stood in the hall of correspondence, reading through a stack of fresh dispatches laid out on the mahogany table. Each was sealed with the crests of foreign powers—Napoli, Britannia, Glanzreich, Algiers, even one from far-off Scandinavia. Some were congratulatory. Others—thinly veiled warnings wrapped in diplomatic pleasantries.

Alicia entered, pulling off her gloves, her cheeks flushed from the wind outside. "More letters arrived while you were at morning prayers. The courier from Bordeaux brought this."

She handed him a parchment stamped with the golden sun of the Gaulic Confederacy.

Lancelot broke the seal and scanned it quickly.

"They want a delegation to observe the steam-dynamo systems and the labor contracts in the southern factories. They’re offering trade routes through the Pyrenees in exchange for exclusivity."

"Exclusivity?" Alicia frowned. "They’re trying to bottleneck you."

"Of course they are." Lancelot set the letter aside and looked out the tall window, where the city shimmered under soft rain. "They’ve mistaken this for a race of patents. They think the lights were the finish line. But we’re only just past the first mile."

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Bellido entered, brushing moisture from his coat. "We’ve received requests for private audiences with four different foreign legates. They all want to meet today. And..." he hesitated, "the Archbishop has summoned you for a private luncheon." freeweɓnøvel~com

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "Does he usually host luncheons?"

"No. But the kitchen says he sent ahead three barrels of Madeira wine. That’s a bribe if I ever heard one."

Alicia gave a half-smile. "You’ve shaken the world awake, Lancelot. Now they’ll try to sway you with flattery before they use threats."

"They’ll try both," Bellido said grimly. "Sometimes in the same breath."

—

The first visitor was the envoy from Britannia, Lord Reginald Greystone. He arrived without his usual entourage, dressed in muted gray and carrying only a single briefcase. The man looked tired—bags under his eyes, fingers twitching with restrained agitation.

"I won’t waste your time, Your Highness," he said, once seated in the small council chamber. "London has taken great interest in your... advancements. But questions arise."

"Do they?" Lancelot replied, leaning back. "Or are you here to answer the questions I have for them?"

Greystone cleared his throat. "You must understand the implications. Lighting your capital with dynamos, constructing underground sewerage systems, erecting public schools—these are revolutionary actions. But revolutions unsettle alliances."

Lancelot’s gaze sharpened. "If Britannia fears a school more than a sword, perhaps your empire is built on paper."

Greystone’s eyes narrowed. "What happens in Aragon affects the balance across Europe. Your kingdom was considered stable because it was slow. Predictable. Now, we see industry, conscription of labor, mobilization of engineers, and a restructuring of noble authority. Tell me, Prince... when do you build the airfields?"

Lancelot smiled coldly. "I already have the land selected."

The silence between them was a negotiation in itself.

Finally, Greystone reached into his briefcase and placed a folder on the table.

"A trade deal," he said. "Steel, copper, and coal. British merchants want access to your new factories. In exchange, we ask for exclusivity in certain military-grade applications."

Lancelot didn’t open the folder.

"I will not give you control over our lifeblood," he said. "But you may invest—under fair terms, with local employment quotas, and oversight by my ministry. That is the only deal you’ll get."

Greystone exhaled slowly. "Then I hope, for your sake, the other nations are as generous as we."

—

By afternoon, the sun had broken through the clouds—but the mood in the council remained heavy.

The Archbishop’s luncheon turned into a four-hour session of whispered compromises, spiritual appeals, and veiled political scripture. He urged Lancelot to slow the pace of reform, to allow the Church to moderate the schooling efforts, to restore Sunday privileges to noble estates whose workers had joined the sanitation corps.

"They are overworked," the Archbishop said over lamb and rosemary. "They no longer attend mass."

"They no longer bury children in gutters," Lancelot answered.

"And yet they have lost their souls."

"No," Lancelot said, rising. "They have found their future. The Church should walk with them—or be left praying in the ruins."

—

That evening, the war chamber buzzed with activity. Juliette leaned over a large chalk map with Alicia, sorting red and blue pins by region. Bellido read aloud from the growing stack of regional reports.

"Saragossa’s central ward has already started digging latrine trenches per the new plan. Granada is requesting additional instructors from the Madrid sanitation school. And Cordoba has appointed a woman—yes, a woman—as overseer of the southern pipeline."

Lancelot nodded approvingly. "Write back. Send her ten more engineers and full access to the technical manuals."

Alicia looked up. "That will anger the guildmasters. They’ll see it as undermining their traditions."

"They can either modernize or retire," he said.

Just then, a messenger burst in, flushed and panting. "Urgent dispatch, Your Highness. From the Eastern Gate."

Lancelot opened the letter, skimmed it, then frowned.

"The Glanzreich delegation has returned," he said slowly. "But this time, they’ve brought someone new. A prince."

Juliette tilted her head. "Another royal?"

"No," Alicia murmured. "A test."

—

They met the next morning in the eastern salon. The man who entered wore a uniform stitched in black and silver, with the golden eagle crest over his heart. His boots shined like obsidian. But his face—young, perhaps only a few years older than Lancelot—betrayed calculation behind practiced smiles.

"Prince Kaspar von Arnsberg," he introduced himself with a bow. "Nephew to Emperor Sigismund, delegate plenipotentiary."

Lancelot returned the nod. "Prince Lancelot of Aragon, acting regent. Architect of sewers, apparently."

Kaspar chuckled. "You are... popular in Glanzreich these days. Half the court wants to emulate you. The other half wants to destroy you."

"Which half are you from?"

"The curious half."

They walked through the newly electrified corridors. Kaspar examined the lights, the schematics pinned to walls, the young officers moving with blueprints tucked under their arms.

"You’ve transformed the palace into a factory," he said.

"No," Lancelot replied. "Into a nerve center."

"Then you’re building a brain, not a throne."

Lancelot stopped.

"Is that what your uncle fears?"

Kaspar met his gaze. "He fears what cannot be ignored."

At the exit, Lancelot turned to him fully. "Then I invite him. Let him see our gutters and our lights. Let him witness what a kingdom of the people looks like."

"And if he sends armies instead?"

Lancelot didn’t flinch. "They will march on paved roads, trip over wires, and starve before they find a city still running on memory."

Kaspar’s smile faded.

"This is not the old world anymore," Lancelot said. "It’s a living one."

—

That night, as rain fell once more, Lancelot stood again at the balcony with Juliette beside him.

"You’ve made them come to you," she said.

"No," he replied. "I’ve made them choose. Follow, or fall."

He looked down at the electric veins glowing across Madrid.

"And now, the real war begins—not of steel, but of ideas."

Juliette nodded solemnly. "Then we’d better keep building."

Lancelot rested a hand on her shoulder.

"We will," he said. "And they’ll follow our light—whether they like it or not."

A moment of silence stretched between them as the wind swept in from the dark horizon. From this high perch, the entire capital lay beneath them like a living organism. Roads pulsed with lantern carts and tram bell chimes, newly cleaned gutters funneled rainwater smoothly into underground cisterns, and chimneys exhaled the clean smoke of regulated coal furnaces. The city was transforming.

"Do you think they’ll try to stop you?" Juliette asked softly.

"They already are," he said. "With smiles. With treaties. Soon with spies. And if those fail, with war."

She didn’t flinch. Not anymore.

"I want to help," she said.

He turned to her. "You are helping."

"No," Juliette said, stepping forward. "Not just letters and ledgers. I want to do more. I want to see the factories, meet the engineers, the workers. If this future is for everyone, I want to walk with them."

He studied her for a moment, then gave a slow, proud nod. "Then we begin tomorrow."

Below them, a cheer erupted from the plaza. Word had spread of the Glanzreich prince’s visit. The people sensed what it meant: their city was no longer a backwater monarchy.

It was the heart of something new.

Lancelot breathed in deeply, the scent of rain and smoke mingling in the air.

"Let them come," he murmured. "Let them all come."

And beside him, Juliette smiled.

Because now, the world had no choice but to see.