I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

Caldre Strait — Dawn Patrol

The sea stretched endless and gray beneath the wings of the Ravenspear flight. Mist curled from the surface in lazy spirals, hiding reefs and rocks, but above it, the air was clear, sharp enough to cut.

Amalia tightened her gloved hand on the control stick as she led the formation. Above her, Rena's modified Hawkfire maintained a wide circling arc, its engine purring faintly. Below and slightly behind, Hartwell flew the first Ravenspear prototype, still bearing the rough patchwork from its test days.

Three altitudes. Three vessels. One message.

"Formation steady," crackled Rena's voice through the primitive radio link, distorted slightly by static. "Eastern horizon showing traffic. Civilian masts only."

Amalia squinted. Far in the distance, tall shapes bobbed at the edge of vision—merchant ships, likely bound for neutral ports. She adjusted her bearing slightly, keeping the formation loose, confident.

They weren't here to confront. They were here to remind.

"Hold pattern," Amalia said calmly. "And watch the sky."

Port-Luthair — Air Corps Command Tent

Bruno stood hunched over the field radio, one hand resting on the receiver, the other tracing faint lines across a fresh reconnaissance map.

Beside him, Leclerc sipped bitter coffee from a tin mug.

"No reaction yet," the communications officer said. "No intercepts. No scrambles."

Bruno nodded absently. "They're waiting for a mistake."

"And if we don't give them one?" Leclerc asked.

"Then they'll make one," Bruno said softly.

Outside, the base buzzed with activity—runners carrying new orders, mechanics shouting over engine whines, squad leaders checking sidearms even though this was an air war now. Yet, in the heart of it all, a strange quiet lingered, as if the whole world was holding its breath.

Velmir — Veles Hangar

Beneath the heavy stone of the Oroskan mountains, the Veles loomed in its cradle. Black, brutish, ugly by any standard of flightcraft—but ready.

Orlov stood with arms crossed, watching as crews tightened the last bolts into its reinforced airframe. Thick cables snaked across the hangar floor, feeding crude electrical power into its systems for final checks.

A junior officer approached, saluting stiffly. "Sire, Veles is ready for operational deployment."

The Tsar entered moments later, his breath misting in the cold underground air.

"No bombs," Mikhail said.

The officer blinked. "Sire?"

"No strikes. No wreckage. Not yet." The Tsar stepped closer to the viewing glass. "Send Veles high. Let them see it. Let them wonder what it carries."

Orlov nodded grimly. It was the same dance Bruno had begun—but with heavier steps.

"They want to rule the skies," Mikhail murmured. "Let us teach them that the sky can turn."

Berlinhof — Intelligence Briefing Hall

Eliska Weiss tapped her gloved fingers against the polished oak table as the latest aerial reports were laid before her.

"Merchant lanes quiet. No escalation," one analyst said.

"No visible armament changes at Port-Luthair," added another.

She listened, disinterested.

Then Fischer, the young analyst, spoke hesitantly. "But, ma'am... Elysea's endurance flights are getting longer. Measured fuel loads suggest new logistical systems—likely auxiliary tankers hidden at sea."

Weiss's eyes sharpened.

"Meaning?"

"They can stay aloft. Days, maybe."

Silence rippled through the room.

Weiss smiled thinly.

"Then we starve them from below."

She reached for a dispatch slip marked for neutral nations—whisper campaigns, trade route tensions, supply chain disruptions.

"If the hawk won't fall," she said, "then we make sure it cannot feed."

Caldre Strait — Midday

Amalia's flight continued, steady as the tide. The hours stretched long, broken only by the occasional crackle of radio reports or the quiet hum of the engines.

She was beginning to think the day would pass quietly when a flicker caught her eye—high and eastward, above even Rena's arc.

"New contact," she said sharply. "Altitude unknown. Visual silhouette... large. Black."

There was a pause as the others adjusted to her callout.

"Control, this is Spear-2," she said into the mic. "Possible Veles contact. Observing only."

From the ground, Bruno's voice came through, crisp despite the distance: "Maintain altitude. Record all movement. Do not engage."

Amalia exhaled slowly and tightened her grip on the controls.

The shape in the sky was monstrous. Broad-winged, brutish, and flying unnervingly straight.

Veles.

She knew it without needing confirmation.

But it didn't turn. Didn't dive. It flew like a knife slicing through silk—steady, inevitable.

Rena's voice, pitched slightly higher, came through: "Telemetry matching. That's no merchant patrol."

Hartwell: "Big bastard, isn't it?"

Amalia allowed herself a tight smile. "Bigger they are..."

She left the thought unfinished.

Above, Veles passed, a dark scar against the pale sky.

Velmir — Veles Control Room

Orlov watched the navigation instruments carefully.

"No deviation," a technician confirmed. "Flight path as planned. High visibility."

Orlov glanced at the Tsar, who stood motionless behind the thick glass partition.

"They see us," he said.

Mikhail nodded.

"Then the lesson begins."

Elysee — War Ministry Hall

Reports flooded in by nightfall.

"Veles spotted over neutral waters."

"Merchant fleets rerouting to southern passages."

"Rumors of a new Oroskan superweapon circulating among Pan-Am newspapers."

Bruno read the reports in silence.

Leclerc placed a fresh dispatch onto his desk. "Public fear is rising."

Amalia, seated across from him, looked tired but resolute. "They're not hiding anymore."

"No," Bruno said quietly. "They're daring us."

He rose from his chair and walked to the window.

Outside, Elysee glittered beneath the stars, unaware of the invisible daggers trading glances above them.

"It's a game of mirrors," Bruno said. "They show the blade. We show the shield."

"And the people?" Amalia asked.

He looked back at her, his expression steel.

"We show them the sky is still ours."

Port-Luthair — Ravenspear Hangar, Two Days Later

The third Ravenspear, now refined and sleeker than ever, sat ready on the tarmac. New fuel cells. Reinforced canopy. A second-generation modular pod system fitted to its underbelly.

Amalia inspected the checklist while Hartwell adjusted the wing flaps.

"You know they'll scramble next time," Hartwell said.

"I hope they do," Amalia replied.

At the edge of the field, Bruno arrived in a staff car. He stepped out slowly, arms crossed behind his back.

"Today, we don't fly near them," he said. "Today, we fly above them."

The plan was simple: a high-altitude overpass of neutral shipping routes, maintaining visible, documented presence without crossing any national lines.

The execution would be anything but simple.

Rena joined them, tightening her gloves. "And if they launch intercepts?"

"Maintain course," Bruno said. "No weapons. No evasions unless threatened."

"And if threatened?" Hartwell asked grimly.

Bruno met their eyes.

"Then show them we came prepared."

Ravenspear III taxied into position.

The engines rumbled to life.

The future roared toward the sky once more.

Ravenspear III roared down the runway, gathering speed until it lifted cleanly into the cool morning air. The ground fell away in a smooth rush. Behind her, two more silhouettes followed—Rena's Hawkfire and Hartwell's older Ravenspear, forming the same three-layered flight pattern as before.

Inside the cockpit, Amalia's breathing slowed, steadying into rhythm with the thrum of the engines. The air outside grew thinner as she climbed, chasing the cold blue line of the upper sky.

"Altitude twenty-three thousand," she reported over the crackling link. "Holding course due east. Visibility good. No contacts."

"Copy," came Bruno's voice from the control tower. Calm, measured. "Maintain climb. Shift formation to extended triangle. Show presence without compression."

Amalia nudged the controls, widening her distance from the others. Together, the three aircraft formed a spread visible from the ground—an unmistakable sign to any watching that Elysea ruled this corner of the sky.

Minutes passed. Then an hour.

Below them, the merchant lanes stretched calm and undisturbed. A pair of fishing vessels floated like toys on the endless silver sheet of sea. No warships. No threats.

Yet.

Rena's voice crackled in, distorted but urgent: "Contact. Northwest bearing. High altitude. Single silhouette."

Amalia's eyes narrowed, scanning the faint shimmer beyond the clouds.

And there it was.

The Veles.

Again.

Dark as obsidian, massive even at a distance, cruising slow and deliberate across the strait—daring them.

"This is Spear-2," Amalia said into the radio. "Visual confirmation. Veles class. Altitude matching ours."

For a moment, neither side moved.

The two predators circled each other from miles apart—too distant to clash, too close to ignore.

At Port-Luthair, Bruno stood over the signal maps, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"Hold course," he ordered. "We are the sky. They are the storm that passes."

The three Elysean aircraft continued their patrol, steady and proud, even as the Veles kept pace at a mirror distance.

Long minutes stretched.

Then, slowly, the Veles began to climb—higher, retreating into the veil of upper clouds until it vanished from sight.

No engagement. No words. Just a silent, heavy warning carried on the thin air.

Amalia exhaled, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease only slightly.

"Contact retreating," she confirmed.

Bruno's voice came through, softer now: "Return home."

Elysee — Palace Balcony, That Evening

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the capital. Bruno stood alone on the palace balcony, a half-finished report forgotten at his side.

The bells from the old city chimed the hour.

Behind him, footsteps approached—Amalia, still in her flight jacket, her hair damp from a quick wash, her eyes weary but clear.

"They blinked first," she said simply.

Bruno gave a slight nod. "Today."

She stepped closer, their shoulders brushing.

"And tomorrow?" she asked.

He looked to the horizon, where the last streaks of gold faded into violet.

"Tomorrow," Bruno said quietly, "we build higher."

Below them, Elysee's lanterns flickered to life one by one, like stars rising to meet the night.

Above, in the deepening sky, the hawks still flew.

And the world—watching, waiting, fearing—could only wonder what would come next.