Reincarnated as the Crown Prince
Chapter 23: Nope, Not Actually

Chapter 23: Nope, Not Actually

A cold, tense silence settled across the Council chamber after Lancelot’s last words. The nobles, still surrounded by armed musketeers, watched him with a mix of disbelief and dread. His calmness was unsettling—too composed, too deliberate. He stood among them like a surgeon before an incision.

Then, unexpectedly, Lancelot laughed.

Not a mocking laugh, nor one born of madness—but a short, dry chuckle that echoed oddly in the chamber.

"A vote?" he said, shaking his head slightly. "You actually thought I meant that?"

He turned toward Count Figueres, who sat stiffly with his jaw clenched.

"Come now," Lancelot added, his tone almost casual. "Did you truly think I’d leave the fate of the nation in the hands of people whose only achievement is being born into the right bed?"

A few brows furrowed. Others shifted uncomfortably. Even Bishop Alvaro narrowed his eyes.

Lancelot stepped back onto the central platform, his boots once again thudding against the stone with steady weight.

"No. There will be no vote," he said firmly. "Not today. Not until I say so."

He let that hang in the air, before continuing in a colder tone.

"And let me be clear," he said, scanning the room. "Any man or woman in this chamber who dares to sabotage, obstruct, or defy the Crown’s reforms from this point forward will be declared an enemy of the state."

He said it slowly. Carefully. So no one would mistake it for hyperbole.

"You may call it tyranny," he continued. "You may call it treason against tradition. You may even go crying to Rome, or to the old Estates if they’re still capable of crawling out of their tombs. But from this moment on, if you stand in the way of progress, you will be treated like any other threat to the realm."

The weight of those words pressed into every seat. The air felt heavier now, the muskets behind them a constant reminder.

Duke Reynard stood up halfway. "Your Highness—"

Lancelot pointed a finger. "Careful."

Reynard paused. He sat back down, stiffly.

Lancelot raised his voice just slightly, addressing the entire chamber. "You want the truth? I’m not interested in compromise. Not anymore. I tried diplomacy. I gave you time. I gave you warnings. What did you give me in return? Delay tactics. Conspiracies. Insults. Threats."

He gestured toward the guards. "So now I give you something else. Accountability."

Several nobles visibly tensed.

"You are not the architects of Aragon’s future," Lancelot said, pacing slowly across the platform. "You are its burden. And I intend to relieve you of it, piece by piece, until this country breathes freely again."

He stopped at the edge of the dais, gazing directly at Countess Elvira.

"If you think your lands are beyond reach, think again. If you believe your sons in the cavalry will turn their muskets against me—try it. I’ve spoken with them. Many of them cheer these reforms."

He turned to Don Luis Ronda. "If you believe your guilds can withhold goods and create panic, know this—I’ve already prepared emergency rationing protocols. Supplies will flow. Panic will not serve you."

Finally, he looked toward Bishop Alvaro. "And if you think your letters to Rome will undo what we’ve begun here... tell His Holiness the truth: he’s already too late."

Alvaro said nothing, but his expression was no longer self-assured. It was tight. Nervous.

Lancelot let the silence return again.

"This is not a rebellion," he said. "It’s a reckoning. And each of you must now decide where you stand."

Alicia stepped forward, handing him another document—a formal copy of the Royal Audit Enforcement Order. Lancelot held it up.

"This order is now permanent. It is no longer tied to the emergency powers. It is codified law. You will comply. Or you will be stripped of privilege and prosecuted under treason statutes."

He placed the document on the table at the chamber’s center.

"Each of you will return to your provinces with a copy. You will explain to your stewards, your knights, your tenants, that Aragon is entering a new age. An age where titles mean responsibility. Not immunity."

The nobles said nothing. They could say nothing.

"You may hate me," Lancelot said, voice quieter now. "You may curse my name behind your stone walls. But you will not defy me."

He stepped down again, walking toward the great doors.

"And one more thing."

He paused, looking back one last time.

"I am not afraid of war. I am not afraid of revolt. But I am afraid of doing nothing and letting this kingdom rot."

His eyes swept over them like steel.

"So if any of you still think you can wait me out, play your little games, or stir the people against me—remember today. Remember the muskets. Remember that I gave you a chance to stand with me."

The room remained frozen.

Lancelot nodded to Alicia.

"Come. We’re done here."

And with that, the Crown Regent left the chamber—unbent, unshaken, and in absolute control.