Lancelot made a promise not only to his new father, but to himself. This is what he wanted, to rule a country under his terms, a chance that was robbed away by his previous family.
He was confident that would turn this Kingdom upside down, and brought upon changes that would make this nation the most powerful in the world.
"You should wear a uniform that fits the ceremony, my son," the king said.
"Alicia," Lancelot called without turning his head to Alicia.
"Yes Your Majesty?" Alicia replied with a decisive tone, awaiting orders.
"Prepare my uniform. Something fit for a regent—nothing too extravagant, but make sure it sends a message."
Alicia nodded. "Understood, Your Majesty. I'll have the attendants ready it right away."
She turned and left the chamber swiftly, her footsteps echoing faintly across the stone floor. Lancelot remained where he stood, taking in the weight of what had just happened. He had come to this world less than an hour ago, still unsure of what was real, and now he was about to be named the acting ruler of an entire kingdom.
He let out a slow breath and turned back toward the bedridden king. Edric had fallen into a shallow doze again, his breathing still ragged.
Lancelot stepped back and quietly exited the room, the two guards at the door giving him respectful nods. Outside, Alicia was already speaking with two palace attendants, giving precise instructions about his wardrobe and grooming. She spotted Lancelot approaching and fell into step beside him.
"It'll be ready in fifteen minutes," she said. "Do you want a royal barber to trim your hair?"
Lancelot touched his fringe instinctively. "No need. I don't think anyone cares about the length of my hair right now."
"You'd be surprised," Alicia muttered. "Nobles love to pick at anything they can spin into a rumor. A messy appearance could be seen as a messy reign."
He glanced at her. "You're full of helpful warnings today."
"It's part of the job," she replied. "Cleaning up after you is something I've had years of practice with."
He gave her a small smirk. "Then I'll try not to make a mess this time."
They reached his chambers again. Inside, a tailor was already waiting with a selection of ceremonial garments—deep navy and crimson, with the crest of the royal lion stitched in fine gold thread on the chest. Beside it lay a polished belt, gloves, and a pair of leather boots.
Alicia crossed her arms. "No jewelry. Just the sash. Anything more and you'll look like you're compensating."
Lancelot raised a brow. "You really don't hold back."
"I'm your assistant, not your fan," she replied plainly.
He stepped into the dressing area with the help of the attendants. It didn't take long. Everything fit well—it should have, given it was tailored for his body. When he emerged, his posture straighter and his expression composed, Alicia gave him a quick once-over at the mirror.
"You look the part," she said.
"I just hope I can act it too," Lancelot muttered, half to himself.
Then, as Lancelot gazed at the mirror, he noticed something in the reflection.
A small face. Half-hidden behind the door.
Blonde curls. A golden tiara, slightly askew. Flushed cheeks. Wide blue eyes peeking in with hesitation. The girl clutched the edge of the doorframe, nervously rocking back and forth on her heels, as if unsure whether she should come inside or turn and run.
Lancelot's breath hitched softly.
The memory returned in an instant—sharp and bright, like a candle suddenly lit in a dark corridor.
"…Juliette," he murmured under his breath.
His little sister.
The moment he said her name aloud, it was as though all the vague fragments from earlier came rushing into place—her laughter during lessons, the way she always clung to his arm when guests came over, how she cried the first time he left the palace for a week, even though he promised to bring her back sweets.
She had been his shadow. His bright-eyed little sister. Always trailing behind him with a smile, a ribbon in her hair, and a thousand questions.
And now, here she was. Peeking at him from behind the door like she'd just seen a ghost.
Which, in a way, she had.
Lancelot turned away from the mirror and took a small step toward the door.
Her eyes widened, and she shrank back with a small squeak.
He blinked. "Juliette?"
She peeked again. Her little fingers gripped the edge of the door like a kitten's claws.
"…Big brother?" she asked timidly, her voice barely above a whisper.
His chest tightened.
It wasn't just the memory of her that hit him—it was the weight of how much she had cared for the old Lancelot. Despite all his faults. Even when everyone else gave up on him.
"Come in," he said gently, kneeling a little to meet her height. "Don't be shy."
Juliette hesitated, fidgeting with the frilly ribbon of her dress. But after a second, she tiptoed in, holding the hem of her skirt as she moved. Her tiara wobbled a bit with every step.
When she reached him, she stopped and stared at him—eyes full of curiosity and uncertainty.
"You're dressed different," she said softly.
"It's for something important," Lancelot replied, smiling. "But you're the more important guest right now."
Juliette blinked. Then pouted. "You never say nice things like that."
He chuckled. "Maybe I'm trying to change."
"Really?" she tilted her head, blue eyes narrowing. "Are you pretending again?"
That one stung a bit—but he took it with a smile. "No. I mean it."
Her tiny arms suddenly reached out and grabbed the hem of his coat.
"I was scared," she said quietly, looking down. "You didn't come see me for days. And the maids said you were sick, and then I heard the grown-ups talking about the king and… and I didn't know if you were going to disappear too."
Lancelot knelt fully and gently took her hand.
"I'm sorry, Juliette," he said sincerely. "I wasn't being a good big brother. But I'm here now. And I promise, I'm not going anywhere."
Juliette sniffled and looked at him with those wide eyes again. "Pinkie swear?"
He blinked, surprised. Then he smiled.
"Pinkie swear."
They hooked fingers.
"Forever," she whispered.
"Forever."
From behind them, Alicia had been watching silently, arms crossed. For the first time, her expression softened into something almost fond.
"You've got quite the approval rating with the young nobility," she said dryly.
Juliette turned and beamed. "Sister Alicia! He pinkie swore!"
Alicia smiled faintly. "Then he's trapped for life."
Lancelot stood, gently ruffling Juliette's hair as he did. "I can live with that. Okay, let's get ready."
Forty-five minutes later, the throne hall of the Royal Palace of Madrid stood in a tense, polished silence. The ornate chamber—vaulted high above with sweeping arches and flanked by white marble columns—gleamed with ceremonial splendor. Sunlight streamed in from stained glass windows, casting soft patterns of crimson and gold across the red-carpeted floor.
At the far end stood the dais, and upon it, King Edric IV, supported by two aides, sat propped upright on the gilded throne. He wore heavy robes embroidered with the sigil of Spain, though the weight of them made his frame look all the more frail.
In front of him, gathered in rows, were the kingdom's highest ministers, dukes, generals, and foreign envoys—each of them in formal dress, faces schooled into polite stoicism.
And in the center of it all, standing with perfect posture in his tailored regent's uniform, was Lancelot.
He wore a crimson sash across his chest and a black coat lined with gold braid. He bore no crown, no medals, and no ceremonial sword. Just the sash, as he'd instructed Alicia. It was enough.
Alicia stood behind him, hands folded, her expression composed but watchful. Juliette wasn't far either—sitting in a special guest seat near the front, her little gloved hands fidgeting excitedly as she peeked over the edge.
Lancelot glanced briefly at the sea of unfamiliar faces in the hall.
Ministers.
Councilors.
Lords he couldn't name.
He didn't trust any of them.
Not yet.
The old Lancelot—this body's former self—had barely spoken with them, much less learned their agendas. And now, they would have to address him as Regent.
He kept his expression unreadable, masking the flicker of distaste he felt. The court was a viper's nest, and he had no allies among them—except one.
Alicia.
He would rely on her, for now. No one else.
A royal herald stepped forward and unrolled a golden scroll.
"By decree of His Majesty Edric IV of Spain," the man began in a crisp, clear voice, "let it be known that Crown Prince Lancelot is hereby named Regent of the Realm."
The court rustled. A few quiet murmurs. A flicker of confusion in the eyes of a few nobles.
"To act in the sovereign's name. To command the legions, oversee matters of treasury and trade, and hold authority in all affairs of governance, foreign and domestic, until such time as the crown is reclaimed by the sovereign or his chosen successor."
The herald stepped back.
King Edric slowly pushed himself to his feet with the help of his aides, his voice dry but firm.
"I name my son," he said, "Lancelot of House Spain. Regent of the Kingdom. May his judgment be strong where mine falters, and may the realm find its path under his hand."
A formal gesture. Final.
It was done.
The court bowed their heads.
Lancelot took a breath and stepped forward.
He hadn't planned to speak—not originally. But something stirred in him. The weight of what this moment meant. The irony that, in another life, he had died trying to change a broken nation—and now, he was being handed the reins of another one.
He lifted his head and raised his voice just enough to carry through the great hall.
"Let me be clear," he began. "I know what you all expect of me."
Silence. Heads lifted. Eyes fixed on him.
"You expect the same foolish prince you've known for years. The one who skipped council meetings and ducked responsibility. The boy who inherited his rank without earning it."
No one dared nod—but no one denied it either.
Lancelot smiled faintly. It was cold. Sharp.
"I won't insult you by pretending that man never existed. He did. And if I were you, I wouldn't trust him either."
A few brows furrowed. One duke whispered something to the man beside him.
"But," Lancelot continued, his voice getting steadier, "you will find that I am not that man anymore."
More whispers. Murmurs rippled across the hall.
"From this moment on, the Kingdom of Spain will not be ruled by indulgence, by old blood, or by the inertia of tradition. We will not pretend strength while rotting from within."
A hush fell over the chamber.
"I have seen what happens when a nation forgets to look ahead. I have lived through collapse. And I will not let this kingdom suffer the same fate."
Gasps. Shock. This was not the Lancelot they knew.
"I will reform this realm. I will strengthen our armies, modernize our systems, and breathe new life into our industries. There will be resistance. There will be pain. But change will come. Whether you welcome it or not."
A stunned pause.
Then—
Lancelot turned to his father, bowed low, then looked back at the room.
"I am not here to ask for your approval. I am here to earn it."
The silence was absolute.
Even the most seasoned of ministers looked bewildered.
The spoiled prince who once skipped etiquette classes had just declared war on complacency itself.
Alicia, behind him, blinked. Then slowly—just barely—smiled.
Juliette clapped.