Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 41: The Last Gate

The wind over the Seine was cold and biting, slicing through coats and scarves as though to remind all present that this land—this capital—still belonged to a dying republic. But it was only a matter of time.

From a command platform erected atop a reinforced rail junction just outside Fontainebleau, Regent Lancelot looked northward toward Paris. Beyond the wooded horizon, behind layers of farms and crumbling outer villages, the final prize awaited. Alicia stood beside him, gloved hands steady despite the chill, her notebook folded against her chest. General Montiel, stern and sleepless, reviewed troop movements with a pocket compass and pencil-drawn maps.

"We’ve completed the encirclement," Montiel reported. "East bank to west, from Évry to Meaux. No rail leaves Paris. No carts. No couriers. Nothing but river barges, and even those are under watch."

"And inside?" Lancelot asked.

"Our agents report confusion. Rations low. Soldiers digging trenches within the arrondissements. Conscripts mostly. Few veterans remain."

Alicia added, "Balloon scouts have mapped three inner barricades. But no unified command structure. The National Guard refuses to cooperate with the military, and the President hasn’t spoken publicly in two days."

Lancelot stared northward, eyes narrowing beneath his cap. "Then the city is ours already. They just don’t know it yet."

Below them, columns of Aragonese soldiers moved like clockwork—rails steaming, freight cars arriving every hour with supplies, telegraph cables being extended street by street toward the capital’s outskirts. Mobile hospitals, civilian administration teams, and postal services followed close behind.

At the forward observation point near Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, a balloon crew began to rise. Attached by cable and flanked by six guards, the basket carried a special payload: a brass loudspeaker assembly wired to the ground via long coils of copper.

It was the voice of the new order.

At 1300 hours, the broadcast began.

"To the citizens of Paris," a calm, deliberate voice spoke, echoing across the streets, transmitted from one balloon to the next, "this is Regent Lancelot of the Kingdom of Aragon. Your government has failed to protect you. It has failed to preserve your homes, your bread, your dignity. But we do not come as destroyers. We come as builders. Lay down your arms, and your city will not burn. Resist, and the consequences are yours to choose."

The message repeated every two hours.

In the cafés and ruined salons of Paris, people listened in silence. Some wept. Some cursed. Many simply closed their shutters and hoped the storm would pass them by.

Back in the Aragonese command car—now parked in a rail loop at Montgeron—Alicia received a communique from Marseille.

"It’s done," she told Lancelot. "The University of Marseille has begun reprinting books from the old Lycée collections. Our education officers are deploying reading primers. Local presses are translating Aragonese civil codes."

He gave a rare smile. "Then the fire is spreading."

Outside, a delegation arrived.

Two men in republican blue, their jackets ragged and boots caked with mud, stepped down from a white-painted carriage bearing no flag. They were escorted by six neutral medics and a priest.

Montiel looked to Lancelot.

"Envoys?"

Lancelot nodded. "Bring them."

Inside the command car, the envoys bowed stiffly. One, clearly a former officer, spoke first.

"The President sends his regards," he said dryly. "He... wishes to negotiate terms."

"There are no terms," Lancelot replied. "Only choices."

The second envoy, younger and clearly exhausted, asked, "Then what do you demand?"

"Total surrender of the city. Disbanding of all armed forces. Transfer of civic administration to our delegation."

The older envoy scowled. "You expect us to hand you Paris?"

"I don’t expect," Lancelot said coldly. "I offer. Surrender now, and your civilians live. Your monuments stand. Your schools remain open. Refuse, and we reduce your rail hubs, your munitions depots, your parliament, all to rubble."

There was silence.

"Return with that message," Alicia said softly. "And know this: We have not burned a single town. But we will if forced."

The envoys departed. No reply was given that day.

That night, the Aragonese signal towers activated new lines across the southern belt of the capital. Lights blinked over Orly. Gas lamps replaced by electric poles. Along the Seine, field kitchens fed locals fleeing the city, offering bread and warm broth. Refugees were not turned away. They were documented, assigned housing, and handed leaflets detailing Aragonese law.

On the third morning, Paris responded.

A white flag flew atop the dome of Les Invalides. A second rose above the roof of the Palais de Justice. The old symbols of republican strength—the eagle and the tricolor—remained nowhere in sight.

By noon, Paris surrendered.

The Aragonese didn’t march with fanfare. They entered in silence.

Engineers came first, then medics, then administrators. No looting. No pillaging. Lancelot himself entered at dusk via the Porte de Vincennes, flanked only by Alicia and Montiel, passing streets where children peered through curtains and old women blessed themselves as they knelt beside broken fountains.

In the shadow of the Eiffel Tower—still incomplete after decades of delay—Lancelot delivered his final proclamation.

"Today, Paris is not conquered. It is claimed by history. Not by fire, but by steam. Not by tyranny, but by order."

That evening, atop Montmartre, the Aragonese flag was raised beside the banner of the city itself.

Across Europe, the news traveled with impossible speed.

In Glanzreich, newspapers published front-page portraits of Lancelot, calling him "The Iron Regent."

In Britannia, Parliament convened in emergency session. One MP shouted: "If Aragon claims Paris without a single siege, then who among us is safe from their will?"

In Sardegna, the king issued a speech: "We will match Aragon’s peace with peace—or else prepare for war." freeweɓnovel~cѳm

And in Constantinople, the Grand Vizier simply muttered, "It has begun."

Back in Paris, Alicia handed Lancelot a dispatch from Lyon.

"It’s from the Ministry of Reformation. The schools are open again. Rail mail began arriving today. And the factory at Marseille has completed its third prototype of the modular locomotive."

Lancelot folded the message.

He looked out over the rooftops of the greatest city on the continent—now under his rule.

And he whispered:

"Now we begin."

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