After the ceremony, Alicia led Lancelot through a series of winding corridors deeper into the eastern wing of the palace. These were quieter halls, away from the public audience chambers and throne room—lined with oil portraits of long-dead monarchs and shelves of neglected records. It was a part of the palace not meant for spectacle, but for power.
They stopped at a tall oak door flanked by two guards in red sashes.
"This will be your new office," Alicia said, placing her hand on the brass handle. "At least, until you decide to move the seat of governance."
"Move it?" Lancelot raised a brow. "Is that something a regent can do?"
She shrugged. "You're the regent. If you issue the decree, they'll make it happen."
He gave a quiet chuckle. "Dangerous amount of freedom you're handing me."
"We'll see how long you last with it," she replied dryly, then opened the door.
Lancelot stepped forward and peeked inside.
The room was grand, but in a muted, dignified way. High ceilings with carved wooden beams arched above, and tall windows flooded the space with late-morning light. A massive cherrywood desk dominated the center, surrounded by neatly organized shelves filled with thick ledgers, lawbooks, and scrolls sealed with the royal insignia.
To one side, a globe of the known world rested on a pedestal, its map outdated and faded. A blackboard filled with chalk-written numbers and schedules leaned against the wall nearby, and a second smaller table bore trays of letters and correspondence—some unopened, others stacked neatly in categories labeled "Trade," "Military," "Foreign," and "Internal."
Alicia entered behind him and gestured casually.
"Welcome to the seat of royal bureaucracy. You'll spend more time here than on the throne itself, I guarantee."
Lancelot walked toward the desk. There was a leather chair behind it—polished, elegant, imposing. He ran a hand across the armrest and slowly sat down.
He leaned back in silence, soaking in the reality.
This is mine now.
He looked around the office again, this time with sharper eyes.
The sunlight made the dust on the old ledgers more visible. The ink pots were half-dried. The correspondence pile had at least fifty untouched letters.
"How long has this been neglected?" he asked.
"Technically? About four years," Alicia replied. "Ever since the king's health started failing. Most of the urgent matters went straight to the royal secretariat, bypassing this office entirely. But everything else just… piled up."
"Four years?" he muttered. "And no one did anything?"
"They didn't want to give the impression you were actually governing."
He looked up at her. "Because I wasn't."
She nodded once, not denying it.
"Let's change that," he said quietly.
He reached forward and picked up the top document in the 'Internal' tray.
A tax dispute between two border towns.
The handwriting was cramped, the ink blotched. A report of conflict over river access, grain tariffs, and road maintenance. The kind of thing that would be dismissed as 'trivial' in court sessions—but Lancelot read through it carefully, line by line.
"These disputes… they look like logistics problems, not just political ones."
"Possibly," Alicia said. "But logistics aren't your area of expertise, are they?"
He glanced up at her.
"They are now."
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. She moved to stand beside him and pointed toward the far wall.
"There's a cabinet over there. Holds maps of the kingdom—old, but serviceable. And behind that curtain is a smaller council chamber. You can meet with advisors there without making it a full royal affair."
Lancelot nodded, absorbing everything.
"And this room has direct communication lines to the various ministries," she added, gesturing to a set of pull-ropes and bells along the wall. "Each is color-coded—green for treasury, blue for military, red for court affairs, yellow for me, and so on."
He walked over and studied the cords. It was efficient, in an era before the telephone was invented.
"Do you have any questions?" Alicia asked.
"I do," Lancelot said, turning back toward Alicia. "Where are the files involving treasuries, military deployments, grain storage, tax revenue, provincial laws, diplomatic envoys, court appointments, and trade records?"
Alicia blinked, visibly thrown off by the sheer volume of that request. "…That's quite the list."
"I'm sure it is," Lancelot replied, calm but firm. "I want everything. The internal and external affairs of the kingdom. As complete as you can make it."
There was a pause as she tried to process whether he was being serious. But the look in his eyes told her he absolutely was.
"…May I ask why?" she said slowly, one eyebrow raised.
"I'm going to review them," he said, adjusting his posture in the chair. "If I'm supposed to lead this kingdom, I need to know its real state. Not just what people say in court. I want numbers. Reports. Documents."
Alicia looked at him with a guarded expression, studying his face for signs of sarcasm. But there were none.
"You do realize that'll take time. We don't just have those sitting in a pretty folder labeled 'Everything Wrong With Spain.'"
"I can wait an hour," he replied. "I'll start wherever you think is most urgent."
Alicia stood quietly for a moment, then gave a slow nod.
"…Very well," she said at last. "Give me an hour. I'll have the record keepers pull the most relevant files from the central archives."
She turned on her heel and headed for the door.
As the door shut behind her, Lancelot exhaled and leaned forward. His hands traced the surface of the desk again, feeling the smooth grain of the wood. He didn't expect this to be easy—but this was the kind of work he had dreamed of doing back in his past life.
Governance wasn't about giving speeches or looking regal. It was about understanding systems. Seeing where the gaps were—and closing them.
An hour later, the door creaked open again.
And then came the paper.
Stacks of folders. Piles of reports. Ledgers bound in cracked leather. Scrolls in protective sleeves. Alicia returned first, followed by four palace aides pushing in wheeled carts stacked with document trays.
"This is the abbreviated set," Alicia said as the aides began unloading the papers onto every available surface—tables, cabinets, even the corners of the floor. "These are just the summaries and briefings from last year. The older files… well, we'd need a week just to catalog those."
Lancelot let out a whistle. It was a lot. Though he had expected it would be a lot, but still, damn.
"I told you it was buried," Alicia said, arms folded. "Most of these were never meant for a prince to see. They go to ministers and advisors who write two-page summaries that the monarch can skim during breakfast."
"Not anymore," Lancelot said simply.
He picked up the treasury report and cracked it open. Ink had bled through the parchment in a few spots, but it was still legible. The numbers weren't disastrous—but they weren't good either. There was a consistent deficit, mild enough to avoid immediate panic, but clear signs of overspending. Especially in ceremonial expenses and noble stipends.
Alicia watched him silently, noting how his eyes didn't glaze over. He wasn't skimming.
He was reading.
She couldn't believe her eyes, Lancelot being so focused. Did someone possess the prince, if he was, she would beg them not to leave.