Reincarnated as the Crown Prince

The Royal Edict spread across the Kingdom of Aragon like wildfire.

By the time the week was out, it had been read aloud in town squares, copied in city halls, and nailed to the doors of churches and guildhouses. "Abolishment of Feudal Privilege" and "Unified Civil Code" became the talk of the capital—then the countryside, then the ports.

But inside the gilded estates and cathedral halls, it sparked something colder than conversation.

It sparked resistance.

In the ducal palace of Valencia, Duke Luis Ronda slammed his cane against the marble floor as his advisers read the last paragraph of the edict.

"Dissolved," the young clerk muttered, hesitating as he looked up from the scroll. "All hereditary administrative rights over land… dissolved."

The silence that followed was thick.

The duke turned away from the long oak table, walking toward the fireplace. His eyes were locked on the dancing flames, but his mind raced with fury. A life of inherited dominance—titles, privileges, unquestioned command over thousands—wiped away by one man with a pen.

"I warned them," he growled. "I said the boy was dangerous."

Beside him, his son and heir, Rafael, spoke cautiously. "They say the peasants cheered when it was read out loud in Tarragona."

"Of course they did. They always cheer when they think they're free." He turned sharply. "But they're not free. They're just ownerless. Which makes them more dangerous."

In Zaragoza, Countess Elvira paced the length of her study, the hem of her gown brushing the floor like a pendulum.

"The Regent intends to destroy our place in history," she said coldly. "He doesn't want to share power. He wants to erase the idea of class altogether."

Her steward bowed slightly. "Shall I draft a letter to the other high lords, my lady?"

"Yes. And to the Archbishop of Segovia as well. This isn't just a noble matter anymore. The Church must see it too. He's crossing lines that were never meant to be crossed."

And in Segovia, the archbishop in question—Alvaro de Carranza—read the same edict with narrowed eyes behind his golden spectacles. As the head of the First Estate, he was no stranger to royal decrees. Kings came and went. Thrones changed. But never had a regent dared to strip both land and influence from the nobility and the Church in the same stroke.

The line Lancelot wrote haunted him.

"I taxed the Church's land. Not their prayers. If your God needs gold to bless the people, then he is no god I know."

Blasphemous. Arrogant. And dangerously popular.

A young priest entered, bowing low. "Your Grace. Another crowd gathered outside the seminary this morning. They were chanting the Regent's name."

Alvaro didn't speak for a moment. Then he said, "Summon the Synod. And dispatch riders to the northern bishoprics. We need to speak as one."

By the end of the second week, the First and Second Estates had begun to move—not publicly, but quietly. Letters passed through hidden couriers. Seals were pressed in wax. Family banners were folded into coded messages. A meeting was arranged in secrecy.

It would take place in the ancient fortress of El Real de Ocaña, far from the capital, in the heart of territory still loyal to the old ways.

Alicia walked into the Regent's office with a fresh report in hand.

"They're forming something," she said bluntly. "We've intercepted three letters. Two from Valencia, one from Burgos. They speak of a council—no names, but the tone is hostile."

Lancelot didn't look up from his writing. "Let them speak."

"This is different," she said. "They're coordinating. Nobles and clergy. The old guard. The ones who haven't challenged the throne for a hundred years."

He placed the quill down. "What else does the report say?"

"That Bishop Alvaro has summoned bishops from the north. And that Duke Ronda has armed his estate. Unofficially, but the purchases were traced through neutral merchants."

Lancelot leaned back in his chair. "So they're preparing for something more than words."

"Yes," Alicia replied. "They see your decree not as reform—but as war."

Lancelot exhaled slowly.

"They're not wrong."

At El Real de Ocaña, beneath the flickering torches of an ancient hall once used by monarchs of old, the meeting began.

Over twenty nobles and five senior clergy stood around a long stone table. Candles burned down to stubs. The mood was far from ceremonial.

"This is not a rebellion," Count Figueres said firmly. "Not yet."

"Then what is it?" asked the Duke of Burgos. "He's stripped our rights, taxed our lands, broken the council, and surrounded us with muskets. If this isn't tyranny, what is?"

"Strategy," Bishop Alvaro interrupted. "He has not declared war. But he has forced our hand. We must be united. That is what tonight is for."

Countess Elvira gestured at the scroll lying open on the table—the edict.

"This document does more than erase feudal law. It rewrites the very soul of Aragon. It removes God, blood, and tradition from governance. What is left after that?"

"A man," said Alvaro grimly. "One man, ruling by his will alone."

The chamber murmured with agreement.

"We must form a hard line," Duke Ronda said. "A coalition of Estates. The First and Second. Nobles and clergy. If we don't act now, we may never have the chance again."

"But what of the King?" someone asked. "What of His Majesty?"

"He is sick," Alvaro said with a tone of finality. "And the Regent hides behind that illness to push forward his agenda. This must end."

They all looked at one another, and slowly, the nods came.

Back in Madrid, Lancelot stood on the balcony of the Royal Library, overlooking the central courtyard. Rain had started to fall lightly, pattering on the stone below.

"They're organizing," he said quietly.

Alicia nodded beside him. "Yes. The ones who've lost the most always do."

He looked up at the dark sky. "I knew this would come. Every reformer is called a tyrant by those who profit from decay."

"What will you do?" she asked.

He looked at her, calm but resolute.

"We keep going. We don't blink. The people are watching. If I falter now, they'll think I never meant any of it. And if the nobles push back harder…"

He paused.

"Then we push back harder still." 

By month's end, the first whispers of a "Noble and Clerical Compact" began to spread through the cities and provinces. The hardliners had not yet declared themselves outright—but their shadow grew thicker with each passing day.

And the line between loyalty and treason grew thinner.

As for Regent Lancelot, he knew now: passing laws had only been the first battle.

The real war had just begun.