I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

Caldre Strait — Early Morning Mist

The air was thicker today.

The usual pale mist that clung to the strait had deepened into a rolling fog, swallowing the horizon in shifting curtains of gray. Ravenspear Flight Four held their course, engines purring steadily as they carved unseen paths above the waves.

Amalia adjusted her oxygen mask slightly, glancing at her altimeter. Holding at twelve thousand feet. Enough to stay above the worst turbulence—but low enough to keep the merchant convoys within distant view.

"Formation holding," Rena's voice crackled over the headset. "No visual on any new Veles sightings."

"Understood," Amalia replied. She glanced left through the curved glass of her canopy.

Somewhere out there, the serpent watched.

And it was waiting.

They all were.

Port-Luthair — Air Corps Strategic Tent

Bruno stood over the latest aerial photos, freshly developed and still curling at the edges from the chemical baths.

Merchant convoys, warships flying neutral flags, bloated cargo vessels—each frozen in black and white.

He tapped a photo with his gloved finger.

"The Seraphine Dawn," he muttered.

Still afloat. Still sailing after the staged 'attack' that had sparked so much political wildfire. But its shadow loomed larger than any battleship.

"They'll try another," Leclerc said from across the table. "Different bait. Different staging."

Bruno nodded.

"The question is where," he said. "And when."

He turned to the communications officer.

"Double our aerial reconnaissance along the southern trade routes. I want every cargo manifest cross-referenced before ships clear neutral harbors."

The officer saluted and hurried out.

Leclerc leaned in.

"And if they escalate beyond tricks?"

Bruno met his gaze, unblinking.

"Then we show them why hawks rule the skies."

Velmir — Strategy Bunker

Tsar Mikhail circled the war map like a stalking wolf.

"Our false flag stirred the waters," Orlov said cautiously. "But Elysea stands firm. Public opinion splits by nation. Some believe them. Some don't."

Mikhail tapped the map near the Aurenne straits.

"And Germania?"

Orlov hesitated.

"They urge caution—publicly. But privately... they are moving ships."

Mikhail smiled darkly.

"Good."

He straightened and addressed the assembled generals.

"Prepare Operation Harrowmark."

A ripple passed through the room. Harrowmark had been theorized only in the most secret councils—an intentional, limited naval engagement. One they could disavow if needed.

A spark.

Mikhail's voice was cold.

"We light the match. Let others fan the flames."

Caldre Strait — Two Days Later

The trap was set again.

Amalia, in Ravenspear Four, skimmed just above the clouds, her squadron fanned out around her like the spokes of a slow-moving wheel.

Below, a convoy crept along the strait—a mixture of Elysean and neutral ships.

Nothing unusual on the surface.

Until she spotted it.

A small cutter, low in the water, flying neutral colors—but turning aggressively across the convoy's path.

"Contact, bearing three-zero-five," Amalia snapped over the radio. "Small craft. Maneuvering erratically."

Rena's voice: "Visual confirmed."

Hartwell: "Could be civilian panic."

Or something worse.

Amalia banked slightly to keep the cutter in view. Through her glass, she caught sight of figures scrambling across the deck—men hauling something to the gunwale.

Not fishing nets.

Weapons.

She tightened her grip on the stick.

"Control, this is Spear-4. Possible hostile action in progress."

Bruno's voice came back at once, calm and sharp.

"Observe only. No engagement unless attacked."

Amalia circled, heart hammering.

Down below, the cutter fired.

A single flash.

Smoke and flame blossomed briefly from the cutter's deck—a cannon shot, crude but clear—aimed not at Elyseans, but at the merchant convoy.

A staged assault.

Trying to make it look like an attack between convoys.

An excuse.

A spark.

"Gunfire confirmed!" Hartwell barked.

"Maintain altitude!" Amalia ordered. "Record everything!"

Her camera pod whirred into action.

They would have proof.

Proof they hadn't fired first.

Proof the stage was rigged.

But would the world care?

Port-Luthair — Command Tent

The reports came thick and fast.

"Small-scale skirmish between merchant crews—no Elysean involvement."

"Neutral ships scattering."

"Pan-Am reporters aboard nearby vessels—likely planned."

Bruno issued orders in rapid succession.

"Send peace signals to all merchant frequencies. Broadcast our non-engagement records. Deploy rescue cutters to assist any neutral ships."

He slammed a fist against the table.

"They want chaos," he said. "We answer with order."

Leclerc leaned over.

"And the Veles?"

Bruno's eyes narrowed.

"Still out there," he said. "Still waiting for blood."

Velmir — Veles Control Center

Tsar Mikhail received the reports with a sardonic tilt of his head.

"Merchant conflict escalating. Elysean presence verified."

"But no shots fired by them," Orlov added dryly.

The Tsar said nothing for a moment.

Then he smiled—thin, cruel.

"The facts do not matter. Only the fear."

He turned to the communications staff.

"Spread the word: Elysea brings violence wherever its shadow falls."

"And Veles?" Orlov asked.

The Tsar's eyes gleamed.

"Tell it to circle wider. Let them wonder where the hammer will fall."

Caldre Strait — Nightfall

The sea boiled with uncertainty.

Ships steamed faster now, ignoring official orders. Patrol boats from neutral nations zipped back and forth, flashing signals in desperate attempts to establish control.

Above it all, Ravenspear Flight Four held their lonely vigil.

Amalia watched the chaos below, jaw tight.

"They think we caused this," Rena said over the radio, sadness creeping into her voice.

"No," Amalia replied. "They think we could have stopped it. And that's enough."

She adjusted her trim slightly, keeping her arc.

"Stay steady," she ordered. "The hawk doesn't dive for bait."

Elysee — Royal War Council

The storm of politics was fiercer than the one in the strait.

Ministers shouted again.

Foreign emissaries filed protests.

Newspapers screamed headlines in every city.

And yet, amid it all, Bruno remained still.

"They cannot accuse us," he said.

"But they can fear us," Amalie added from beside him.

Bruno nodded slowly.

"And fear," he said, "is a blade that cuts both ways."

He stood.

And the room fell silent.

"Our answer is not retreat," he said. "It is vigilance."

He turned toward the tall windows where the early stars were beginning to pierce the darkness.

"And readiness."

The Skies — Midnight

Far above the slumbering earth, in the thin, frozen air where only steel and will could survive, three Ravenspears flew still.

Their lights were faint.

Their engines steady.

Their wings unbroken.

The storm of lies roared below them—but the sky was theirs.

For now.

But as Amalia gazed ahead into the endless dark, she knew the game had changed.

The first crack had been struck.

The hawk still flew.

But now—it would have to fight to soar.

And the serpent?

It had only begun to coil.

Far Over the Strait — Pre-Dawn Hours

The mist thickened again, blurring the world into a swirling cauldron of half-shapes and half-lights.

Above it, the Ravenspears flew on — tireless, watchful.

Amalia shifted slightly in her seat. Her back ached from hours in the cramped cockpit, but she refused to let it dull her edge. Discipline. Focus. That's what the enemy sought to erode, more than their steel.

Below her, faint flashes winked through the fog: signal lamps, naval flares, panicked Morse codes bouncing uselessly between ships that no longer trusted each other.

She caught Rena's voice through the low crackle of the comms.

"Spears, this is Raven-Lead. Weather closing in tighter. Recommend phased return to Echo-5."

Hartwell seconded it a moment later.

Amalia hesitated, scanning the dim void ahead.

Still no sign of the Veles.

Still no sign of the next strike.

Yet the air felt heavier somehow, like a breath held too long.

She keyed her mic.

"Raven-Lead, this is Spear-2. Copy recommendation. Setting staggered RTB sequence. Hartwell first, Rena second. I'll stay until last pass."

"Understood," came Rena's reply, tight but professional.

One by one, the formation peeled off into the mist, engines throttling for home.

Amalia circled one last time over the stormy sea, the stars fading in the growing light.

She didn't know what lay beneath the fog now.

Only that the next clash would not be of cameras and accusations.

It would be steel. And fire.

She turned the Ravenspear toward home.

Port-Luthair — Pre-Dawn Landing Strips

The ground crews worked quickly despite the cold, guiding the battered aircraft into their covered bays. Mechanics in heavy coats swarmed the fuselages even before the engines finished winding down.

Amalia climbed stiffly from the cockpit and was immediately met by Hartwell.

"Anything?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"No move. Not tonight."

"But soon," he said grimly.

They walked side-by-side toward the debriefing tent, their boots crunching frost from the still-sleeping earth.

Inside, Bruno was already waiting.

He stood behind a simple map table, his uniform slightly rumpled from long hours awake, his hands behind his back.

He didn't waste time with greetings.

"What did you see?"

Amalia gave her report swiftly, cleanly.

Bruno listened without interruption.

Only when she finished did he speak.

"They're finished testing our patience," he said.

He tapped the map with two fingers.

"The next move will be open."

Amalia exchanged a glance with Hartwell.

"You think they'll attack openly?" she asked.

Bruno nodded once.

"They've tried smoke and mirrors. Now they'll try fire."

He looked up at them, his gaze steel.

"And when they do... we don't flinch. We answer."

Velmir — Veles Hangar

In the icy gloom of the hidden hangars, final preparations were underway.

Technicians armed the Veles with live payloads — heavy, ugly, untraceable.

There would be no warning next time.

No smoke for show.

No staged provocations.

Only ruin.

Tsar Mikhail stood high on the observation platform, watching the serpent he had built.

Soon, it would fly.

And it would not fly for show.

"Make ready," he said, his voice echoing across the chamber.

"The sky is theirs tonight."