Alicia was walking down the hallways, mentally preparing herself for the trip the Regent had planned for this day. And as she was walking, she ran into a familiar figure, a middle-aged man with a powdered wig and silver-buckled shoes wearing an outfit that spoke of class.
"Lady Viremont," the man addressed.
"Your Grace," Alicia bowed her head with respect as the man who she run into is the Prime Minister of Aragon, Leandro Monforte.
"Where is His Royal Highness?" Monforte asked. "He had been isolating himself since he became Regent. There are national matters that needed discussing personally with him."
"I understand, Your Grace, but the Regent is busy at the moment," Alicia replied.
"Busy with his personal ventures? You mean him funneling the money of the aristocrats and the church to his company?"
"It is a state-sponsored company," Alicia corrected.
"And where does he plan on using it?"
"To bring about changes in the country," Alicia answered and continued. "His Royal Highness said that in order to enact changes, they need money. And as his secretary, I agree with the notion."
"Well, if the Regent wanted to enact changes in the country, he could have discussed it with me and the ministers," Monforte said, his voice firm but low enough not to draw attention from nearby courtiers. "Isolating himself wouldn't do any good. The courts are already beginning to murmur that he's acting in the shadows. That he's not governing—but scheming."
Alicia held her composure, though a trace of irritation flared behind her calm eyes. She straightened her posture and folded her hands neatly before her waist.
"His Royal Highness is acting precisely as a regent should," she said. "With vision and prudence."
Monforte tilted his head, watching her like a hawk. "With secrecy, you mean."
"With calculation," she replied evenly. "You mistake silence for manipulation, Your Grace. But I've seen what he's building. I've seen the papers and the drafts and the long nights he spends alone—writing until dawn. It is not ambition for power that drives him. It's responsibility."
Monforte raised a skeptical brow. "Responsibility? Forgive me, Lady Viremont, but even responsibility requires oversight. His Royal Highness cannot keep pushing without engaging the very officials whose support he needs."
Alicia gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. "Then perhaps you should ask yourself why he hasn't."
That gave the Prime Minister pause.
A subtle shift crossed his expression—surprise, perhaps, or the faint sting of truth. He studied her in silence for a moment before responding.
"You defend him fiercely," Monforte murmured. "Some might think... too fiercely."
"I serve him faithfully," she answered, unfazed. "And I believe in what he's doing."
He scoffed lightly, then stepped past her, pausing only to add, "Let us hope he knows what he's doing. Otherwise, all that money from the Crown Trust Bank, from the nobles, from the church—it will turn into a mountain of ash. And you'll find yourself at the center of it."
Alicia turned as he walked away, her calm expression giving way to a slight frown once his back was to her.
She exhaled slowly. They all doubt him, she thought. But none of them understand. He's not like them. He doesn't crave applause. He craves results.
She resumed her walk, her steps quickening as she headed toward the carriage hall where the Regent awaited her.
"Alicia, took you long enough," Lancelot observed.
"I apologize for my tardiness, Your Grace. I just had a brief discussion with someone I encountered inside."
"Who is it?" Lancelot asked.
"It's the Prime Minister, Your Royal Highness," Alicia answered.
"Prime Minister?" Lancelot tilted his head to the side. He had read the names of the ministers working for his father, and if his memory served him right, the name of the Prime Minister was Leandro Monforte.
"Ahh—Monforte. I see. Perhaps you can invite him to this trip," Lancelot said.
"I beg your pardon, Your Royal Highness," Alicia blinked, caught off guard by the sudden suggestion. "You wish to invite the Prime Minister to accompany us?"
"Yes," Lancelot replied, his voice steady. He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and stepped toward the open carriage door. "Let him see with his own eyes what I'm doing. Let him ride with me—not in the court halls, not in the council chamber, but through the arteries of this capital."
Alicia hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Very well, I shall fetch him."
She turned swiftly on her heel and hurried back the way she came. Monforte had only made it halfway down the corridor before she caught up to him.
"Your Grace," she called, composed but urgent.
He turned, eyebrow raised. "Changed your mind, Lady Viremont?"
"No. His Royal Highness has changed his," she answered. "He has requested your company for today's inspection trip."
Monforte blinked, clearly surprised. "He wishes to see me now?"
"Yes," she confirmed, gesturing back down the hall. "He's waiting at the carriage hall. I believe he wishes to speak with you personally."
The Prime Minister studied her for a moment, then slowly adjusted his cuffs and smoothed his vest. "Very well, then. Let us not keep His Royal Highness waiting."
Together, they walked through the marble-floored corridors toward the carriage hall, passing footmen and attendants who bowed respectfully as they passed.
When they arrived, the Regent's carriage stood ready at the center of the courtyard, a sleek black coach pulled by four horses and flanked by lightly armed royal guards. The Regent stood beside it, hands clasped behind his back, dressed in a dark navy coat lined with gold trim. His expression was unreadable—but his presence, unmistakable.
Leandro Monforte approached, posture dignified, his eyes fixed on Lancelot.
"Your Royal Highness," Monforte greeted with a formal bow. "It is an honor."
Lancelot returned the gesture with a nod. "Prime Minister Monforte. I've been meaning to speak with you."
"As have I, Your Highness."
"Then let us make use of this day," Lancelot said, gesturing to the open door of the carriage. "Ride with me. I want you to see what I see."
Monforte regarded the gesture with quiet surprise before stepping forward and entering the carriage. Lancelot followed him in, and Alicia climbed in last, taking her usual place beside the Regent.
With a crack of the reins, the carriage lurched forward and rolled out of the palace gates, onto the cobbled streets of Madrid.
For the first time since his reincarnation, Lancelot sat across from the man who had run the kingdom's affairs before him. The Prime Minister of Aragon.