Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 40: March to Paris

The gray dawn broke over Lyon like a solemn oath. The streets, still wet from the night’s rain, gleamed beneath the iron glow of electric lamps—a marvel that continued to awe the local population. Most had never seen artificial light after sunset before the arrival of the Aragonese.

From the balcony of the commandeered Hôtel de Ville, Regent Lancelot surveyed the sleeping city. He was alone except for the low hum of a nearby generator and the rhythmic clank of a steam crane repositioning supplies in the square below. Lyon, once a symbol of republican fervor, now beat in step with Aragonese discipline.

A knock came from the inner door. Alicia entered, wearing a wool officer’s coat and scarf, with fresh documents in hand.

"Morning reports," she said simply.

He took them without looking. "Status?"

"The telegraph stations are active from Marseille to Lyon. That’s over 400 kilometers of uninterrupted communication. Food deliveries are ahead of schedule. The mobile medical units have treated nearly six thousand civilians and wounded soldiers."

"And the bridge?"

"Secured," she confirmed. "Our engineers have reinforced the rail crossing. The Rhône is officially under our command."

Lancelot allowed himself a short nod. "Then we move again."

In the courtyard, the rhythmic cadence of drums began to echo. Aragonese infantry lined up in columns, their uniforms sharp, rifles slung across their backs, and steam-fed baggage carts ready to follow. The smell of coal smoke, oil, and iron lingered in the air. Even the local children watched in silence, unsure if they were witnessing an army or the forging of something new.

General Montiel stood near the newly laid northern rail line, waiting for Lancelot. A tactical map was pinned to a rolling board behind him, updated overnight by officers using reports from field scouts and aerial balloon observations.

"Chalon-sur-Saône is next," Montiel began as Lancelot approached. "We’ve confirmed a Republican force has taken refuge there—perhaps two thousand irregulars. Mostly wounded or conscripts, no formal artillery."

"Do we engage?"

Montiel smiled grimly. "We surround. Offer terms. If they resist, we don’t shell—we smoke them out with our field engines. The kind with soot-heavy burners. They’ll surrender after half an hour."

"Minimal damage," Alicia said approvingly. "We need the town intact."

Montiel nodded. "Then from there, we follow the old trade road northeast, skirting Dijon, and cut the Paris rail from the southeast."

Alicia traced a line on her map. "That brings us to Melun."

Lancelot’s eyes narrowed.

"Melun is their threshold. We take that, and Paris is in reach."

Three days later, the forward units approached Chalon.

As predicted, the defenders were disorganized. A handful of Francois officers raised white flags the moment the Aragonese siege units unrolled their iron chimneys and began feeding them coal. The threat of being smothered in smoke from engines they couldn’t comprehend broke their will faster than any gunfire could have.

Lancelot gave the order: no executions. The prisoners were instead tasked with clearing rubble and rebuilding the town square under Aragonese supervision. A temporary rail hub was laid within two days.

From the balcony of the town church, Alicia watched as townsfolk lined up to receive rations, most confused, many grateful.

"They expected fire and pillage," she said.

"They don’t realize yet we’re not here to punish," Lancelot replied. "We’re here to supplant."

Meanwhile, across the continent, Europe shuddered.

In Sardegna, military advisors returned from Lyon visibly shaken. The King called an emergency cabinet session, debating whether to match Aragon’s military pace with their own modernization or surrender their influence on the mainland altogether.

In Glanzreich, military journals published schematics of Aragonese rail-deployment formations—reconstructed from observation sketches and secondhand accounts. One article declared: "The battlefield has shifted from cavalry to cable. From saber to steam."

Even the Ottoman Empire’s coastal agents wired Constantinople in alarm. A translated dispatch read: "Aragonese army crosses 100 leagues in 10 days. Their steel wagons do not tire. Their soldiers are fed before they’re fired upon."

And in Britannia, Prime Minister Hollings convened with his Royal Engineers.

"I want a report on how many locomotives we can build in a month," he ordered. "And another on how many we can buy—from Aragon or otherwise."

In Paris, however, the mood was not one of fascination—but terror.

Inside the Palais de la République, the Council was divided. News of Lyon’s fall was received with disbelief, then rage, then a hollow silence. Some still believed Paris could hold. Others whispered that the time had come to sue for peace. Many more simply prepared to flee. freewebnoveℓ.com

The Minister of War slammed a fist onto the council table. "We will not surrender to an empire of machines!"

"But they’ve taken two of our greatest cities without leveling them!" the Minister of Interior snapped back. "Their forces don’t loot, don’t rape, don’t burn. They rebuild! How do you rally peasants against that?"

The President’s voice was weak. "We will fortify the Seine. Hold the capital at all costs."

But none believed him.

Back in Chalon, Lancelot received new intelligence from balloon spotters near Dijon.

"Rail movement detected—two trains departing north from Dijon to Paris. Both military. Possibly reinforcements or retreating officers."

Lancelot turned to Montiel. "How long to reach Melun?"

"Three days, if the lines hold. Two, if we ignore bridges and have the engines cross with elevated supports."

"Do it."

He looked to Alicia. "Signal Marseille. I want the third reserve army dispatched. We will encircle Paris before they even see our banners."

She hesitated. "You mean to surround them fully?"

"No," he said. "I mean to blockade the soul of a dying regime."

On the fifth day of their advance, the Aragonese forces reached Melun.

It did not fall.

Not immediately.

The defenders—a mixture of Francois gendarmes and militia—refused the call to surrender. They were not seasoned soldiers, but they had families behind them. Their commander gave a rousing speech from the town square.

But Aragon did not storm the gates.

Instead, the engineers laid their lines just out of cannon range, and by sunset, Melun was surrounded by rail-fed supply bases, mobile artillery, and field telegraph stations. Balloons rose above the treetops, scanning every alley and road.

Lancelot ordered the construction of an "arc of civility": kitchens, medical tents, and public order stations along the perimeter. Civilians from surrounding villages were brought in and fed before Melun’s eyes.

"Let them see what waits on the other side," he said.

By the eighth night, Melun opened its gates.

No shots fired.

No horns sounded.

A delegation emerged quietly, holding a makeshift white banner fashioned from curtains.

The Francois mayor, hat clutched in his hands, approached Lancelot’s envoy and said only: "We wish no blood. Only peace."

The Aragonese stepped aside. Engineers entered first. Then medics. Then, at last, a single steam flatcar rolled into town carrying supplies and a civilian administration team.

Melun had not been conquered.

It had joined.

That night, in a letter penned by Alicia to be sent across the world:

"We approached Paris today. Not by fire. But by reason. Every step forward, we replace terror with order. Every town we take, a myth dies: that war must destroy. That change must consume. That the world cannot be remade with discipline and dignity.

Let them prepare their guns. Let them rattle their sabers. Aragon does not invade.

Aragon builds."

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fre𝒆webnove(l).𝐜𝐨𝗺