Caelum stared at the wardrobe like it had personally insulted him.
Velvet. Lace. Gold embroidery. Polished white fabric that shimmered faintly when he moved. Layers so complicated they probably had their own instruction manual.
"Of course," he muttered, "I get isekai'd into a royal and the first boss fight is fashion."
Still, he dressed himself perfectly.
Buttons, cuffs, clasps, ribbons, the whole ordeal. An endless sequence that made Gunpla look like child's play. Each motion felt both absurdly precise and faintly humiliating, like the clothes were testing him for entry into the aristocratic hive mind.
"Even in another world, there's a dress code," he grumbled.
Normally, a prince would have half a dozen attendants to help him into this circus tent of fabric. But Caelum had once wrangled mayors, senators, and logistics teams through parades and ribbon-cuttings. He could handle a few yards of overpriced velvet. A few being an understatement.
He tugged at the collar, grimacing. "Do rich people even breathe in these things?"
Within minutes, he looked every inch the picture of nobility. The mirror reflected someone he barely recognized. The clothes fit too well. He looked born to them.
And he hated how natural it felt.
It wasn't his style. But he had to admit: he looked the part.
"Huh," he murmured, straightening his cravat with a flick that would've made his old PR manager weep with joy. "Guess all those campaign dinners weren't a total waste."
Pompous? Absolutely.
But appearances were half of politics. Always had. And right now, appearance was the only leverage he had in this unfamiliar world. If there was one thing bureaucracy had drilled into him, it was that image built momentum faster than competence ever could.
Smile for the cameras, shake hands with the idiots, fix the city after they leave.
Now he smiled at his own reflection: a look balanced somewhere between trust me and I'm definitely committing tax fraud.
Perfect. The people loved that balance.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three hesitant taps. Then the door creaked open.
A cluster of maids entered with arms full of basins, cloths, and medicinal herbs. Their eyes widened when they saw him standing there, very much alive, and far too composed for someone who'd supposedly been bedridden with fever.
"Oh! Your Highness—!"
"Y-you're awake!"
"And dressed— I mean—"
"Your Highness!" The oldest of the group dropped into a flustered curtsy. "You—you shouldn't be out of bed! We were told—"
"That I was dying?" Caelum offered helpfully. "Well, rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
They froze.
He smiled faintly. It wasn't the warmest expression, more like the reflexive PR smile.
"Relax. I'm fine. I promise I'm not about to drop dead on the carpet," he added. "It looks expensive."
The maids blinked. One tried to stifle a laugh; another looked scandalized. A third whispered something about divine miracles.
Right, wrong audience.
Caelum sighed inwardly.
Okay. Note to self: humor doesn't always translate across timelines.
He tried again, softer this time, modulating his tone like flipping through a mental Rolodex of political personas.
If there's one skill politics teaches you, he thought, it's code-switching: talk like a saint to priests, like a shark to senators, and like a concerned parent to voters.
He tested that here, kindly but authoritative.
"You've all worked hard. Thank you for checking on me," he said, voice calm, posture deliberate. "But as you can see, I'm well enough. Go rest. The palace doesn't run itself, and I'll need you all sharp."
That landed better. The tension in the room eased; the women glanced between each other, unsure but visibly relieved.
A few of them bowed, murmuring confused affirmations. The head maid hesitated. "If… if that is your will, Your Highness."
Now he added a new one: talk like a prince to terrified servants.
"It is," he said smoothly, adding just enough gravitas to make it sound princely. "And thank you, truly."
When the door finally closed, he let out a long, quiet breath. "God… or Arceus now? Either way, that was exhausting." He glanced at his reflection again. "Still. I'll take the win."
The hallway outside hummed with hurried whispers and the clatter of retreating footsteps. The maids walked fast, skirts rustling like startled birds.
"Did you see his eyes?" one whispered, half in awe. "They were… different."
"Golden," another added, tone hushed. "Not fever-bright. Alive-bright."
"I swear upon the Light, that wasn't him," one whispered.
"What do you mean?"
"Did you see him?" hissed the youngest, her face pink. "He looked completely different! Like—like one of those angels in the chapel murals!"
The middle maid shushed her sharply. "Quiet! The walls have ears."
"But he spoke! Properly! And politely! When was the last time he even looked anyone in the eye?"
Another maid nodded furiously. "He even thanked us! Last time I saw him, he threw a cup at the steward for bringing the wrong ink."
"He even made a joke. I think."
The youngest pressed a hand to her chest, dreamy. "He smiled at me," she said softly. "The Prince smiled."
"Careful," murmured the oldest without missing a step. "That's how saints make disciples and devils make fools."
The younger one blinked, halfway between blushing and scandalized. "I—I just meant he looked nice!"
The others snorted, their laughter barely contained as they swept down the corridor.
The head maid slowed near a tall window, sunlight spilling across her lined hands. "I've served here twenty years," she said quietly. "And that's the first time he ever looked at us. Before… he was always cold. Distant."
"Or asleep," one maid whispered, and they all stifled nervous laughter.
Beyond the glass, the city of Aurialis stretched below, a labyrinth of stone and smoke, distant thunderheads curling over the horizon.
"The King and Queen are still away on pilgrimage," one murmured, her expression uneasy. "If His Highness truly recovers… he'll have to rule in their stead."
The youngest maid glanced back toward the door, where faint light still glowed beneath the frame.
"…Then maybe this is a miracle," she whispered. "Maybe the gods really did send him back."
Their conversation faded as they rounded the corner, but the sentiment lingered:
Something about Prince Caelum had changed.
Caelum leaned against the desk, letting the silence settle like dust.
"So that's the reputation I inherited," he muttered. "Perfect. I'm the villain in my own HR report."
He glanced at the room, the ornate chaos of silk curtains, gilded chairs, and too many mirrors. Everything screamed importance and loneliness at once.
Hidden prince. Rumors. Isolation. The staff afraid of eye contact.
"Probably more skeletons in this castle than in my old city's budget," he said under his breath. "And that's saying something."
Still, information was leverage. And if this world worked anything like the one he came from, leverage was power.
"Step one," he said, pacing slowly. "Know the terrain."
He paused by the window. The view from the prince's chamber stretched across the entire capital Aurialis, glittering like a polished coin beneath the morning sun. White towers, curling streets, banners fluttering in gold and crimson.
He frowned. "There's always a catch."
From up here, it looked peaceful. Almost convincing.
"Right. No attendants, no allies, no clue how the economy works—feels just like my first month in office."
Caelum reached for a quill and paper, jotting down a rough plan. His handwriting looked suspiciously elegant, as if muscle memory belonged to the prince rather than him.
Castle layout: vast, defensible, too many blind corners.
Servants: loyal but terrified, good for rumors, not for truth.
Advisors: unseen, probably scheming.
Parents: conveniently on pilgrimage. Great. Instant job promotion.
He exhaled, straightening. "Right. Step two: find my people."
In politics, your people meant the ones who didn't flinch when you spoke. The ones who'd tell you the truth before you made a televised disaster. Here, it meant anyone who wouldn't stab him the moment he turned his back.
"Start small," he murmured. "Kitchen staff, quartermaster, maybe the captain of the guard. The ones who keep things running while the nobles argue."
He ran a hand through his hair, the silver strands catching faint light. "Step three… survive the day."
The thought brought a crooked grin to his face. "Can't run a kingdom if you get assassinated before lunch."
The mirror caught his reflection again, cravat sharp, posture perfect, eyes bright with a mixture of disbelief and resolve.
"Alright," he said, straightening. "Let's see what kind of kingdom I've inherited."
He pushed off the desk, the heavy boots clacking softly against the marble. Every movement carried that new, strange weight, like the world itself expected royalty from him.
He opened the door and the latch clicked.
A final glance at the silent room.
New world. New role. Same politics.
He smirked faintly. "Let's go to work."
And with that, Prince Caelum stepped out into the corridors of Aurialis.
===
Elsewhere in the castle grounds, peace didn't last.
"Hold formation! Don't let it through!"
Steel clashed against marble as shouts tore through the palace courtyard. Smoke curled from shattered flagstones where something massive had struck moments ago.
The Royal Guard scrambled into position, shields up, pikes braced. The air shimmered with heat, rippling like a mirage.
"What is that thing?!" one guard barked, trying and failing to sound brave.
A roar answered, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated in their chests. Not huge, but fierce, wild, and alive in a way no beast of this realm should have been.
It moved through the haze, a shape low to the ground, wreathed in flickering orange light. The ground beneath it glowed faintly, singed with each step.
"Flame-type magic creature!" another shouted. "Keep your distance!"
Arrows loosed, clattering against the courtyard stones. The creature snarled, tail whipping once, bright light flared, and half the front line stumbled back, shields smoking.
"Don't provoke it!" the captain yelled, but it was too late. The guards advanced, blades drawn, their fear making them reckless.
The creature reared back, eyes glinting with primal warning, its small frame haloed in smoke and ember.
For a heartbeat, the courtyard froze.
Then it roared again, a burst of fire lighting the sky.
The men screamed.
Flames licked upward as the figure in the smoke turned its small head, almost curious. A glimmer of bright light flared from its tail, cutting through the haze.
The soldiers stumbled, shouting, as the scene blurred in chaos and heat.
And high above, from a tower window, unseen, a figure turned toward the commotion, silver hair catching the light.
Whatever peace the morning had promised… was gone.