Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 32: The Map Room

The war room beneath the Royal Palace was once a wine cellar—now stripped of barrels and turned into a sanctum of maps, intelligence reports, and strategic theory. Electric lights buzzed faintly overhead, illuminating a vast central table, where a large map of Europe was pinned in place with brass weights. Red and blue lines cut across borders. Tiny wooden blocks marked divisions, fleets, and supply lines.

Prince Lancelot stood at the head of the table, his sleeves rolled, coat unbuttoned, revealing the black waistcoat beneath. A steaming cup of tea sat untouched beside him.

Around the table stood Aragon’s senior military leadership.

General Montiel was there, naturally—head of the army. Next to him was Admiral Rafael Aguero, a wiry man with sun-leathered skin and cold, sea-weathered eyes. Colonel Javiero Llorente, head of the Intelligence Office, held a sheaf of documents under one arm. And Alicia, of course, stood at the rear, quietly taking notes and monitoring the room like a hawk.

"Begin," Lancelot said, his eyes fixed on the red mass occupying the western third of the continent.

Montiel tapped the map near the Francois heartland. "Despite fighting three major powers, the Republic is not breaking. If anything, they’re accelerating."

"Glanzreich?" Lancelot asked.

"Bogged down at Alsace," Colonel Llorente answered. "Mountain passes slowed them. Francois forces have begun using interior rail lines to redeploy faster than the Glanzreich columns can advance. They strike, withdraw, and reappear thirty kilometers south within a day."

"Heck, even they can construct a rudimentary rail lines? How about Prussia?"

"Same story. Siege of Metz failed last week. The Francois deployed mobile batteries—hit-and-run tactics with massed artillery and skirmishers. We believe they’ve begun producing lightweight field howitzers en masse. Not as powerful as ours, but faster to field and effective in wooded terrain."

Lancelot nodded slowly. "And Britannia?"

Aguero stepped forward. "Holding the Channel. Minor gains in Toulon, where they’ve landed with Sardegnan support. But they’re stalled by stiff resistance inland. The Republic has raised an ’Army of the South’—entirely of conscripts."

Montiel spat lightly into a handkerchief. "Conscripts. Bah. Barely trained rabble."

"No," Llorente said grimly. "Not anymore. They’ve shifted tactics. Gone are the line formations. They fight in loose companies, favoring mobility over discipline. They’re adapting faster than any army we’ve seen. They fight like men with nothing to lose."

Lancelot walked around the table, one hand trailing the map’s edge. "The War Office estimated the Republic would collapse within six months of executing their king. It’s been nearly a year. Why are they still winning?"

"Because they turned their entire population into a weapon," Alicia said.

All eyes turned to her.

"The Levee en Masse. Every able-bodied man between sixteen and thirty-five is conscripted. Every woman is set to work forging shells or weaving uniforms. Their economy is war. Their society is war. The old ways are gone."

"Their generals?" Lancelot asked.

"Most of the experienced officer corps were guillotined or exiled," said Montiel. "But new ones have risen. Unorthodox, untrained—but clever. They exploit weaknesses. They’re not afraid to break rules."

"They also fight for an idea," Alicia added. "Not just land or pay. That makes them dangerous."

The room fell into silence again. The map looked far more threatening than it had minutes earlier.

Lancelot spoke. "Then we must open a new front. One they don’t expect."

Montiel stepped forward, pointing at Toulon. "Our allies are already pressing from the south. Britannia and Sardegna are there. We could land a division and reinforce their thrust—"

"No," Lancelot said sharply.

Montiel blinked. "Your Highness?"

"I will not march Aragonese troops into another man’s plan. If we join this war, we lead our own offensive. Our own banner. Our own theater."

Admiral Aguero raised an eyebrow. "That leaves us two options—crossing the Pyrenees or launching an amphibious invasion. Both come with risk."

Lancelot walked to the west edge of the map. His finger tapped a port city on the southern coast of the Francois Republic.

"Marseille," he said. "That’s our front."

A murmur rippled through the officers.

Montiel frowned. "We have no land access."

Alicia countered. "We don’t need land access. We have ships. And we have dynamite."

Admiral Aguero rubbed his jaw. "The Marseille Harbor is large—multiple quays, fortified coastal guns, but nothing our new dreadnoughts can’t suppress. If we strike fast, establish a beachhead, and push inward, we can fracture their supply lines heading east."

Llorente nodded slowly. "They won’t expect it. All major surveillance is concentrated on the Alps and Toulon. A surprise landing in Marseille would force them to divide forces."

Montiel looked unconvinced. "We’ll be on our own for weeks. The Republic can easily throw fifty thousand men into that region."

"Good," Lancelot said. "Then they won’t be sending those men elsewhere."

The Regent paced slowly, voice deliberate.

"This is not a war we join to follow. We lead. We show Europe that Aragon is no longer a regional power content with neutrality. We are the ones who turned iron into light. We will now turn steel into thunder."

He turned to Aguero. "Can the navy be ready in two months?"

"Easily. Our first steam-powered troop transports just finished sea trials. I’ll outfit them with gun escorts and new rotary cannons."

"Toledo Arsenal?" he asked.

Montiel replied, "Arming twenty thousand men as we speak. Field artillery will be ready. Mortars en route. Trains already prepared to move materiel to Valencia for embarkation."

Lancelot turned to Alicia. "Draft a declaration. Not to the people, but to the other kings. Let them know Aragon does not follow where others bleed—we strike where others hesitate."

"Yes, Regent," she said.

"And tell Britannia," he added, "that we will not be their rear guard in Toulon. If they want us in this war, it will be with a front of our choosing. They’ll see the Lion of Aragon march through Marseille by autumn."

A beat of silence followed.

Then Montiel grinned. "Permission to begin selecting the expeditionary generals, Your Highness?"

Lancelot nodded. "Granted. I want commanders with creativity, not titles. This war will not be won with parade-ground drills."

He paused, then looked to all of them.

"Gentlemen... prepare the thunder."

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