I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

Port-Luthair.

The sun dipped low over Port-Luthair, casting golden streaks across the hangars and runways. The salty air had begun to cool, and the shriek of gulls gave way to laughter, music, and the gentle clink of glasses. For once, Hangar Three wasn't ringing with the sound of hammers and tools. Tonight, it rang with something rarer: celebration.

A long trestle table had been dragged out onto the tarmac, surrounded by mismatched chairs and crates pulled from every corner of the base. Lanterns swayed gently in the wind, their warm glow flickering against the silvery fuselage of the Hawkfire parked just beyond. Her engines had cooled, her glass canopy left open to the night air like a satisfied yawn after a long run.

Bruno stood at one end of the table, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled. A half-filled goblet of plum wine rested in his hand, untouched. He looked across the gathering—engineers, airmen, smiths, scribes, tacticians, and cooks. All of them smiling. All of them talking over one another. All of them alive with the knowledge that they had done something no other nation had dared dream.

Hartwell raised a mug across the table, shouting over the din, "To gears that didn't grind, and a bird that didn't bite!"

Laughter rippled.

"To Hawkfire!" another voice yelled—a mechanic with oil-stained sleeves and a ribbon of black powder across her cheek.

"To the sky!" someone added.

Bruno let the chorus lift on its own. He wasn't much for speeches at dinners. That was what the war room was for. Out here, it was better to let everyone talk, drink, and forget for a moment the burden of being first.

Amalia walked over, boots crunching lightly over the gravel as she approached with two filled mugs. She handed one to Bruno, her eyes tired but bright.

"You've barely touched that," she said.

Bruno smiled faintly. "Too busy watching."

She followed his gaze—out past the lanterns, the crowd, and to the Hawkfire beyond.

"Hard to believe she flew like that," Amalia murmured.

"Not for me."

"Oh, come on. Not even a little surprise?"

Bruno took the mug from her and sipped. "Maybe just the part where you didn't pass out from the G-force."

She laughed, leaning her shoulder lightly against his. "My ribs still feel like they're stuck to my spine. But gods, Bruno… I've never felt anything like it. We weren't flying. We were falling forward into the future."

He turned to look at her. The firelight made the lines beneath her eyes more visible, but so was the pride.

"And how's the future treating you now?"

"Drinks better," she said, lifting her mug.

They toasted quietly, a clink between old friends. No fanfare.

Across the table, Hartwell stood on an overturned barrel, waving one arm for attention. "All right, all right, shut your yaps! I got something to say before I fall off this damned thing."

A hush fell—partly out of respect, partly because Hartwell had a way of speaking that made people think he might throw something if ignored.

He cleared his throat. "When we started this project, I thought the whole lot of you had gone mad. Syncing guns to fire through propeller arcs? Flying at speeds that would turn most birds into soup? It sounded like suicide with extra steps."

A few chuckles bubbled out, but everyone listened.

"But then you made it real. You stayed up for days, you ran drills till your bones ached, and you made something that works—not just on paper, not just once, but for the kind of skies we've never flown before."

He raised his mug high.

"To the ones who built the impossible—and flew it."

The cheer that followed rolled out over the cliffs like thunder.

Bruno stepped aside to let Amalia take the seat beside him. A tray of food was passed down—grilled fish, buttered rolls, roasted carrots and mushrooms. Nothing fancy, but tonight, it tasted better than any palace fare.

At the far end of the table, a young assistant engineer named Rena tugged on Hartwell's coat.

"Sir, is it true the Hawkfire topped 340?"

Hartwell grunted. "341.2 on the last pass. That's if you count what the scorched telemetry box said before it went up in smoke."

Rena whistled. "Could we push it further?"

Amalia chimed in. "With clean air, maybe. But not until I stop feeling like I've swallowed a blacksmith's anvil."

The table chuckled.

Bruno leaned forward. "We're not chasing numbers for the sake of it. The goal isn't just speed. It's mastery. Precision. A fighter that hits and vanishes before the enemy knows what happened."

Hartwell wiped his mouth with a sleeve. "That's philosophy, not engineering."

Bruno shrugged. "Both have their place."

Another round of drinks made its way down the table. Someone had set up a violin, and a fiddler began to play. A few others clapped along. Lanterns danced in the wind.

The sky above was dark now, scattered with stars. Clear. Watching.

Amalia eventually rose and disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a small wooden box. She sat it on the table before Bruno and nudged it forward.

He looked at her, puzzled.

"Go on," she said.

Inside, nestled in cloth, was a silver pin. Shaped like a bird with swept wings and a ring of fire around it.

Bruno lifted it slowly. "This is…"

"A thank you," Amalia said. "From the team. Not just for the vision, or the design, but for being with us in the grease, the grind, and the sleepless nights."

Hartwell added, "You might wear a crown, but in that hangar, you were just another set of hands. That matters."

For once, Bruno was quiet. Then he stood, nodding to all of them.

"Thank you. I'll wear it. Not for me—but for what we did together."

He pinned it to his chest.

Rena raised her glass again. "To Foundry One!"

"To Hawkfire!"

"To the future!"

And the voices joined once more.

The night stretched on with song, with quiet toasts, and with stories. Some made up, others too real. And when the last mug was emptied and the stars faded into the pale blue of morning, only one figure remained near the Hawkfire.

Bruno stood alone beneath her wing, hand pressed to the cool metal. The camp had fallen asleep, but his mind hadn't.

He turned his gaze upward, toward the horizon.

The world would change.

And Elysea would not wait for permission.

Bruno lingered beneath the Hawkfire, letting the silence settle. Behind him, the fire pits had burned low to coals. Only a few scattered embers danced in the dark, flickering like fading memories. The sea wind had quieted too, no longer roaring but whispering—soft and cool.

A voice stirred him from his thoughts.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

It was Amalia again, now wrapped in her flight jacket, a thick scarf pulled around her neck. Her hair was tied back loosely, strands catching the light of the lantern behind her.

Bruno didn't turn around, but his tone held a tired smile. "Didn't try."

She walked up beside him and rested her hand on the wing. "Feels like we pulled something out of the stars and brought it to earth."

Bruno exhaled slowly. "And now that we've touched it, we have to decide what to do with it."

Amalia tilted her head. "Meaning?"

"This," he said, gesturing to the Hawkfire, "this is power. Not like swords or muskets or cavalry. This is the kind of power that changes how kingdoms think. How they act. What they fear."

"And what they covet," she added softly.

Bruno finally looked at her. "They'll want it, Amalia. They'll send spies. Saboteurs. They'll try to build their own or steal ours. And if they can't… they'll try to stop us from using it."

"I know," she said. "But we'll be ready. Won't we?"

He nodded, though the movement was slow and heavy. "That's the part that keeps me awake."

They stood in silence for a while, two shadows against a marvel of metal and invention.

Then Amalia nudged him with her elbow. "You know, for all your brooding, you're still the one who dreamed it up. So if the weight feels heavy, that's just gravity trying to catch up."

Bruno gave a quiet laugh, then looked back up at the stars.

A few moments passed before he spoke again.

"I saw something else in the telemetry," he murmured. "Right before the final climb."

"What was it?"

"A spike in engine thrust. Unexplained. It wasn't just velocity, it was acceleration—like the Hawkfire responded before your hand even hit the throttle."

Amalia raised a brow. "You think she's alive?"

He chuckled. "No. But I think we've built something that's starting to exceed the rules we thought existed."

She looked toward the wing, thoughtful. "Then maybe the next design isn't about pushing the edge."

Bruno turned to her. "What, then?"

"Crossing it."

They shared a glance. And in that moment, neither one of them was royalty or a soldier. They were just two people staring into the unknown, knowing they had just taken the first step through a door that no one else even saw.

The next morning arrived quiet and golden. The base awoke with slow rustlings—hangar doors creaking open, boots shuffling on stone, the hiss of kettles and coffee being boiled. But the mood was different now.

Lighter.

Something had shifted.

Messengers had already begun organizing crates of documents and schematics to be sealed and sent to the capital. Special stamps were affixed with the crest of the Royal Aeromechanical Division—brand new, drafted overnight by Hartwell and Rena in a drunken creative frenzy. It depicted a hawk with wings outstretched, flanked by a stylized gear and lightning bolt.

Hartwell stood bleary-eyed beside a cart, mumbling instructions to the couriers.

"Don't stack them sideways. That's version five of the intake schematic. The intake, not the outtake, gods help you."

Nearby, Rena was arguing with another junior mechanic about the new hangar layout. She had a roll of fresh paper tucked under her arm and ink stains on her fingers.

Amalia joined them briefly, her voice clipped but cheerful. She gave pointers, offered a few jokes, then disappeared to check the weather instruments.

Bruno, meanwhile, made his way up to the tower.

He took one last look at the Hawkfire—her silver frame catching the morning sun, the quartz canopy glinting like a gemstone.

Then he stepped into the tower office, where two military scribes and a courier waited.

He set down a single sealed letter.

"To the Royal College of Elysee," he said. "Mark it: classified. Eyes only for the Prime Engineering Council."

The courier saluted. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"And have it delivered to the Minister of the Treasury as well," Bruno added. "They're going to need to start budgeting for a runway expansion."

He turned to leave, but then paused in the doorway.

"Oh," he said over his shoulder. "And ask them to prepare a briefing for the foreign ministry. We're about to start receiving a lot of questions."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Out on the runway, the wind had picked up again.

And somewhere, far across the sea, in kingdoms where the sky was still considered empty and unclaimed—someone would look up soon.

And realize it no longer was.