Reincarnated as the Crown Prince

The thunder of iron hooves echoed through the cobbled plaza outside the Palacio Real, scattering pigeons and pausing foot traffic as the Glanzreich delegation arrived beneath a veil of heavy gray clouds. Their carriages bore the twin-headed eagle crest, burnished but austere—an empire that spoke in centuries rather than speeches.

Inside the war room turned planning chamber, Lancelot stood over a map of northern Madrid. Ink smudged the borders of projected sanitation zones, sewer lines, and work depots. Beside him, Alicia held a thin leather folio while Bellido, arms crossed and boots still muddy, stared flatly at a pile of translated inspection forms from Lavapiés.

"They’ll be colder than the Britannians," Alicia said, flipping a page. "They come from a culture that sees change as threat."

Bellido grunted. "They’ll see numbers. Pipes. Disease graphs. That’s what matters."

"No," Lancelot said. "They’ll see power shifting away from the estates. That’s what they’ll fear."

A sharp knock interrupted them.

"Your Highness," a steward said, stepping in. "The Glanzreich envoys await you in the east reception hall."

Lancelot adjusted his collar and turned to Alicia. "Let’s greet the old world, shall we?"

—

The Glanzreich delegation was fewer in number than Britannia’s, but denser in posture. Their leader, Baron Otto von Remlingen, was a broad man with deep-set eyes and the gait of a noble raised in stone corridors. Beside him were an engineer in black uniform, a church-appointed sanitary advisor in dull brown robes, and two secretaries with sealed chests of paper.

Introductions were stiff. Formal. They spoke Castilian fluently, but coldly.