Reincarnated as the Crown Prince

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."

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