Reincarnated as the Crown Prince Chapter 45: Reporting Again to Father

The scent of pinewood and old paper lingered in the corridors of the Palacio Real. Evening sunlight poured in through the long stained-glass windows, casting golden patterns across the polished marble floor. It had been days since the parade that swept Madrid in a tide of celebration. Yet the true reckoning—of power, legacy, and future—was about to begin in the quiet heart of the palace.

Regent Lancelot paused before the high double doors of the royal chamber. Two palace guards stood to either side, their halberds resting at attention. They nodded once, then stepped aside.

The doors opened.

Inside, the royal chamber was warm and dim. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering light over the rich red carpet and shelves of aged tos lining the walls. In the far corner sat a high-backed chair, carved from oak and velvet-cushioned, where King Edric of Aragon rested. The old monarch looked smaller than Lancelot rembered—his once-broad shoulders draped in a heavy blanket, his cane resting at his side like a forgotten scepter.

"Enter," the King said, his voice hoarse but steady.

Lancelot stepped forward, his boots muffled on the carpet. Alicia remained outside, respecting the sanctity of blood and throne. Montiel had not accompanied him—this was not a military report. It was a hocoming.

"Father," Lancelot said as he bowed.

"Regent," the King replied, a faint smile touching his lips. "You left as my son. You return as sothing more."

Lancelot approached the chair and knelt beside it, not as a prince, but as a son before his father.

"The war is over," he said. "Paris has fallen. The treaty has been signed. The provinces are stable."

"And the price?" Edric asked, his hand gently resting on Lancelot’s shoulder.

Lancelot t his eyes. "High. But worth it."

The King chuckled softly. "They always say that."

A cough escaped him, and he leaned back into the chair. One of the palace attendants quietly placed a warm cloth in his hands, which he used to dab at his lips. When he withdrew it, faint traces of red marked the linen.

"You look like your mother," he said, shifting the subject. "When she spoke in court, it was with that sa voice. Clear. asured. Certain."

Lancelot smiled faintly. "She’d have scolded for marching without blessing."

"No doubt," Edric wheezed with amusent. "But she would’ve been proud. I am proud."

The words struck deeper than expected. Lancelot looked down for a mont before rising to his feet.

"I have brought reports," he said, reaching into the fold of his coat. He produced a leather dossier marked with the seal of the Regency and handed it to the King’s steward.

But Edric waved it away.

"Later," he said. "I’ve read enough reports for a lifeti. Tell in your own words."

Lancelot took a slow breath. "We began with Reims. Then Tours. We kept the rail lines intact. That was critical. I used the telegraph system to coordinate logistics, cut off rebel strongholds. By the ti we reached Paris, the city had collapsed under its own weight. Hunger, factional infighting, disillusionnt."

"And the surrender?"

"They resisted, as expected. But I gave them a narrative—one that preserved their dignity. A ceremonial signing. A sentence of peace. It cost us nothing, and bought obedience."

"Clever," the King said.

"We left no occupation banners," Lancelot continued. "Only engineers. Schools. Hospitals. The people have no love for us—but they follow the trains. They obey the bread."

A long silence followed. The fire cracked again. Edric stared into it, the flas dancing in his faded eyes.

"And now?" he asked.

"Now we rebuild Aragon."

Edric nodded. "It begins here."

Lancelot stepped forward again, lowering his voice. "How is your health?"

Edric didn’t answer directly. He only gestured to the cane at his side. "The crown weighs heavier with each breath. But I am not dead. Not yet."

Lancelot hesitated, then asked the question that had hung over them both for years.

"Then... will you take it back?"

Edric looked at him sharply—then softened.

"No. I will not reclaim what you have already proven worthy of. The Regency remains until the Cortes decides otherwise. But when that day cos... I trust their judgnt."

"I only ever served the kingdom," Lancelot said.

"As did I," Edric murmured. "But the difference, my son, is that you serve its future. I rely preserved its past."

There was no need for more words. Lancelot bowed once more, and Edric touched his shoulder again—a final seal of approval, silent and absolute.

A knock ca at the chamber door.

Alicia stepped in briefly. "Your Majesty. Princess Juliet awaits in the gardens."

"Go," Edric said, smiling. "She’s been rehearsing a poem for your return. Sothing about trains and knights, I think."

Lancelot chuckled. "Then I must hear it."

He turned and exited the royal chamber, his heart strangely light for the first ti in months.

***

The royal gardens behind the palace were still awash in the hues of spring. Rows of tulips lined the path like guards of color, and the trimd hedges whispered in the breeze. Beneath the shade of the whitewood arbor, where she used to play as a child, sat Princess Juliet.

She looked up at the sound of boots on gravel and offered a knowing smile.

"You kept waiting," she said, rising to her feet with asured grace.

Lancelot slowed his steps as he approached, eyes briefly searching hers. "You’re taller."

"You say that every year," she replied, then added softly, "Welco ho, brother."

He opened his arms, and she stepped into them—no longer a child rushing in with abandon, but a composed embrace that lingered with unspoken understanding. When they pulled apart, he saw sothing else in her expression: pride.

"They say Paris surrendered without a final shot."

"They say many things," Lancelot said. "Most of it noise. But yes, the war is over."

Juliet motioned for them to sit at the bench beneath the arbor. As they settled, she set the book aside and asked, "Was it as terrible as they say?"

"Worse in so places. Better in others. But it was necessary."

Juliet turned her gaze toward the garden. "I watched every dispatch posted on the palace board. Alicia made sure I saw the official ones first. But the servants whispered, you know. They always do."

"I’m sure they do," he said with a light chuckle. "Did you worry?"

"I worried," she admitted. "And I studied. History, politics, economics... I wanted to understand why you had to go. Why they wouldn’t let you stay."

Lancelot glanced sideways at her. "And what did you conclude?"

"That sotis you have to fix things before they break further. And sotis... people only listen when cities burn."

He nodded. "You’ll make a dangerous monarch soday."

She smiled. "Only if you insist on retiring."

There was a mont of silence between them, not awkward, but full. The kind only shared by people who didn’t need to fill space with words.

After a while, Juliet leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Do you know what they’re saying in the city?"

"I assu plenty. But go on."

"That you’ll be crowned before the year is done. That the Cortes has already decided, and the crown’s only waiting for a ceremony. That Father trusts you more than he trusts the throne itself."

Lancelot looked at the garden path ahead. "Do you believe them?"

"I don’t need to. I’ve watched you work. I’ve read your decrees. Your speeches. Even your critics quote you now."

He raised an eyebrow. "That’s almost disturbing."

"I think it’s progress," she said. Then her tone softened. "I wrote sothing again."

He turned toward her. "A story?"

She shook her head. "Not this ti. A letter. To Mother. I know she’s been gone for a while, but I still write to her. I told her what you’ve done."

Lancelot’s throat tightened, but he said nothing. Juliet continued, her voice steady.

"She would’ve cried, you know. Not out of sadness, but... out of relief. That we didn’t fall. That we beca more than survivors."

He reached out and took her hand. "You’ve grown into her eyes."

"She gave them to both of us," Juliet said. "We just use them differently."

They sat quietly, side by side. The scent of rosemary drifted in on the breeze. In the distance, the church bells of Madrid began to toll the hour.

"Will you have to leave again?" she asked, not with fear, but curiosity.

"Eventually," he said. "Peace isn’t sothing you sign and forget. It has to be guarded."

She nodded. "Then promise sothing."

"Anything."

"Next ti, let co with you."

He turned to her, surprised—but she wasn’t joking.

"I’ve studied. I’ve trained. I can speak three languages now. I’ve read every report you’ve had Alicia file, and I know half your ministers by na. I want to help—not just wave from balconies."

Lancelot looked at her for a long mont, then exhaled.

"When the ti cos," he said, "you’ll do more than that. You’ll take a seat at the table."

Juliet smiled, not with glee, but with the quiet triumph of soone who had waited, learned, and prepared.

"I’ll hold you to that."