Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 42: Terms of Surrender Part 1

The Hôtel de Ville of Paris, once the seat of republican pageantry, had been transformed. The tattered tricolor no longer flew over its roof. In its place, the banner of Aragon hung beneath a cold, gray sky—blue and gold catching little sunlight through the mist that lingered over the Seine.

Inside the main hall, chandeliers flickered with gaslight. The Aragonese had repaired the ruined lines within a day. Long tables lined with velvet were rolled into place. Soldiers stood at every archway, flintlocks fixed and sabers drawn. And in the center of the great hall, two rows of chairs faced each other.

It was the day after Paris surrendered.

And now came the terms.

Regent Lancelot arrived not in royal garb, but in a steel-gray coat, high leather boots, and a starched cravat. His gloves were unbuttoned, but polished. Alicia followed behind him, holding a case of sealed documents. General Montiel came next, dressed in full field uniform, the medals on his chest dulled by soot and ash from the long campaign.

Across the hall, the Francois delegation waited.

There were only four of them. The so-called Minister of Interior, a former mayor named Jules Tremblay, sat at the center, pale and thin. Beside him, a military commander in a tattered blue coat—General Roux—hid a trembling hand beneath the table. A bishop sat silent, fingers interlaced. And the final man, Jean Delorme, the head of what remained of the National Assembly, stared at the Aragonese with hollow eyes.

The silence was long.

Finally, Tremblay stood with difficulty.

"On behalf of the Provisional Republic of France," he began, his voice cracking, "we have come to discuss the cessation of hostilities... and the preservation of civil order."

"You came to surrender," Montiel said coldly.

Alicia placed a single page on the table, weighted by a silver inkstand. It was headed with the seal of Aragon: twin lions flanking a tree of knowledge and steel.

"This is not a treaty of equals," Lancelot said. "Let us be clear from the beginning. You have not negotiated a truce. You have been spared."

Tremblay sat back down, saying nothing.

The room shifted with tension.

Lancelot remained standing.

"These are our provisional demands," he began, voice firm but calm. "Number one: the Republic is dissolved. All claims to governance are null. France shall operate under a temporary civil authority directed by Aragon until such time as a formal restructuring can be debated."

No response.

"Two: all standing military units are to be disarmed. Officers will report to our marshals and surrender rank. They may be reassigned to civil duties, if they are found to be untainted by political extremism."

General Roux’s lips parted, but he said nothing. His fists clenched under the table.

"Three: reparations. France will provide Aragon with industrial material, rail steel, and agricultural surplus. Payment will be structured over seven years, under supervision of our Ministry of Reconstruction."

Tremblay blinked.

"And if the harvest fails?" he asked.

"Then your people starve," Montiel said simply. "As they would have anyway—had we not brought railcars of grain into Lyon and Chalon."

Lancelot continued.

"Four: censorship. No republican propaganda is to be published, circulated, or taught. Schools will follow the Aragonese syllabus. Histories will be rewritten by joint commissions."

The bishop cleared his throat. "And what of the Church?"

"We will not meddle in your altar," Lancelot said. "But your priests will report to local administrators. Any sermon deemed seditious will result in expulsion from office and revocation of land grants."

The bishop said no more.

Lancelot placed a final parchment on the table.

"These are the opening terms. You have until nightfall to offer a counterproposal. If none is made, we consider silence acceptance."

Jean Delorme finally spoke.

"This is no treaty. It is a noose."

Lancelot did not blink. "Then you should not have placed your neck into it."

Alicia turned to Tremblay. "If you have grievances, voice them. But understand this: Paris was taken without a battle. We could have broken your gates. We chose not to. That mercy will not be repeated."

A long silence followed.

Then the Francois rose.

"We will return with our reply," Tremblay said quietly.

They were escorted out under guard.

As the doors closed, Montiel let out a sharp breath.

"They’ll balk," he said. "They’ll come back tomorrow, beg for softer terms."

"They may," Lancelot said, folding his gloves. "But they have no cards left to play."

"They still control the countryside," Montiel added. "And the coast."

"Not for long," Alicia replied. "Reports from Nantes say their western ports are in chaos. Our reserve fleet is in position. The countryside follows the cities. Once Paris fell, so did their momentum."

Lancelot stood by the tall windows overlooking the square. Crowds moved below—families lining up for bread, children watching Aragonese engineers wire streetlamps, and a mounted patrol guiding refugees to temporary housing.

"We will not be seen as tyrants," he said softly. "That’s why this must be signed. They must admit their failure. Publicly. So that what follows cannot be called an occupation."

"And if they refuse to sign?" Montiel asked.

Lancelot looked out at the city once more.

"Then we rebuild without them. And history forgets their names."

Alicia made a note.

Outside, the wind carried the echo of hammer and anvil, of printing presses running again, of life being reorganized—not by decree, but by design.

As dusk settled over Paris, the Aragonese command staff gathered once more in the main hall. The Francois delegation was due to return within the hour.

Lancelot adjusted his collar and looked to Alicia.

"Make sure every lamp is lit," he said. "They must see that we are not waiting in darkness."

At that, the bells of Notre-Dame rang—no longer a symbol of rebellion, but of renewal.

And beyond the city’s edge, in every direction, rail lines glowed in the fading light.

Aragon had come not to conquer, but to claim.

And tomorrow, the pen would finish what the guns had spared.

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