Reincarnated as the Crown Prince
Chapter 58: A Flame that Won’t Burn Out Part 2

Chapter 58: A Flame that Won’t Burn Out Part 2

The city council chamber of Granada was once a room of velvet and mirrors, frescoed ceilings, and portraits of dead men with powdered wigs. Now it bore the signs of occupation—not by an enemy army, but by purpose. Crates of survey equipment leaned against gilded walls. Blueprints covered mahogany tables. One chandelier had been removed entirely to install a mobile lantern array powered by a coil battery.

Juliette stood beside Lancelot at the head of the table.

Across from them sat the remnants of Granada’s traditional authority—merchant lords, clerics, one aging general, and three highborn women whose family crests adorned everything but their eyes, which stayed low. Their expressions were guarded, caught between humiliation and disbelief. What shook them wasn’t just the presence of Aragonese leadership—but the presence of their own people, engineers and laborers, now treated as equals, scribbling notes and adjusting charts.

"This city," Lancelot began, voice calm but firm, "no longer has the luxury of pretending the world has not changed."

No one responded.

He gestured to the large map beside him—Granada’s full layout, now layered with new infrastructure overlays.

"Water, power, health, trade—these are the arteries of a nation. You either protect them, or you choke on them."

The general finally spoke. "You call this protection, but it smells like occupation."

Juliette leaned forward. "Did we arrive with cannon? Did we fire a shot? Your own checkpoint officer let us through when we offered clean water. And this morning, four hundred Granadan citizens reported for Civic training. Not because we ordered them—but because we offered them dignity."

A merchant sneered. "Dignity doesn’t pave streets."

"No," she said. "But training masons does."

One of the noblewomen cleared her throat, soft but resolute. "If we agree... what happens to us? Do we keep our lands? Our titles?"

Lancelot didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he pulled a thin scroll from his coat and placed it in front of her.

She unrolled it with trembling fingers.

It was not a warrant.

It was a grant—offering joint ownership of a new textile and sanitation equipment plant to be constructed on her underused estate. In exchange, she would sponsor worker housing and schooling.

"We will not strip you of your dignity," he said. "We will repurpose it."

"And if we refuse?" the general asked.

Lancelot looked him in the eye. "Then you will become very familiar with the sound of irrelevance."

A silence passed.

Then the merchant leaned back, sighing. "You’re not here to break the old order..."

"We’re here," Juliette said, "to make it obsolete."

—

The council dissolved not with applause, but with silence.

But the next day, reconstruction officially began under Civic Brigade oversight—this time with Granadan laborers, nobles’ engineers, and church funds voluntarily pledged. The first pipes laid were under the cathedral plaza itself.

Juliette walked the site with a quiet pride.

Near one of the makeshift mess tents, she spotted a familiar face—Mateo, a boy no older than fourteen, one of the lantern carriers from Arcos del Sur. He had followed the Civic Brigades on their journey south, stowing away on the supply cart.

"Thought I’d be sent home," he admitted. "But they told me I could help."

Juliette smiled and handed him a wrench. "You already are."

—

That night, as the Iron Serpent rested along its newly secured siding, Lancelot sat in the operator’s cabin, reviewing yet another intelligence bundle from the east.

Juliette entered with a folded flyer.

"From the university district," she said, tossing it onto the desk.

It read:"THE BUILDER’S PLAGUE: HOW ARAGON DEFILES THE SACRED BALANCE"—Pamphlet, printed in Britannia, smuggled by clergy.

"Still think we can reason with them?" she asked.

Lancelot shook his head. "Not all of them. But we don’t need to."

He opened the map drawer, revealing a revised rail expansion plan—thin lines connecting Granada, Córdoba, Jaén, and Málaga.

"If we link the southern coast before summer," he continued, "we choke off feudal supply chains and turn port cities into modern hubs."

"And after that?"

He tapped the northeast.

"Barcelona. The crown jewel."

Juliette raised an eyebrow. "That’s... ambitious."

Lancelot looked her in the eye.

"It’s inevitable."

—

Three days later, as workers in Granada laid the foundation for the regional engineering school, the skies over Málaga turned black.

Not from storm clouds—but from smoke.

Saboteurs had struck the main grain silo, torching over a season’s worth of reserves. Dozens of buildings were engulfed. The rail switching station under Civic control was bombed. Dozens dead.

A single message arrived via pigeon from a surviving telegraph clerk:

"Fire not accidental. Code sigils traced to Britannian consulate."

Juliette read it aloud in the war car.

Silence followed.

Then Bellido broke it. "They’re no longer afraid of losing influence. They’re afraid of becoming irrelevant."

Lancelot exhaled.

"Then we remind them why they should be afraid."

He turned to Juliette.

"Prepare the civic units. We’re not just responding this time."

"What’s the plan?" _{f r\eew,eb novel.c(o)(m)}

"We do what they fear most."

He pointed to the map.

"We bring electricity to Barcelona."

Juliette’s eyes widened.

"That would mean crossing neutral territories. Religious strongholds. Former royalist cities."

"And showing the world that progress doesn’t knock anymore," he said. "It enters with tools."

—

Later that night, Juliette stood once more under the glowing windows of the cathedral, watching children sketch power grids in the dirt outside the schoolyard.

Bellido approached, coat draped over one arm.

"You look like someone who just picked a fight with a mountain."

She didn’t turn. "No. Just someone who realized the mountain has cracks."

He nodded.

Then paused.

"Do you ever wonder if we’re moving too fast?"

Juliette finally turned to face him.

"No," she said. "I wonder why we didn’t start sooner."

And behind them, in a city once ruled by whispers and relics, the lights burned on—bright, steady, unafraid.

Somewhere, deep within the cathedral’s stone heart, the old saints remained silent. But in the streets below, the new prayers were cast in copper, cable, and concrete. Not whispered—but built.

And they echoed.