The King's Office
Candlelight flickered in the dim chamber, casting jagged shadows across the maps sprawled over the king's oak table. The king, tall and broad-shouldered despite his age, leaned over the parchment with a grave expression. His fingers traced the jagged coastline of the Basque lands, his jaw tightening.
Commander Inigo stood at attention, his armor still gleaming faintly from the training grounds.
"Castile is pressing into Biscay," the king said, his voice low and sharp. "Alfonso seeks fertile land before death claims him. He thinks the Basque coast will feed his people. Old wolf… still biting before the grave."
Inigo frowned. "When do you want me to depart, my lord?"
"You leave now". You must march swiftly, reach Biscay before their foothold grows."
"Yes, sire." Inigo bowed, but hesitation flickered across his face. "And… the prince's lessons? Who shall oversee his swordsmanship?"
The king exhaled, rubbing his temple. "The vice-commander will handle it. Lance is disciplined enough."
He straightened, eyes hard. "But listen well, Inigo. I think Alfonso is testing us. Biscay may be a decoy. His true strike could fall upon La Rioja, the southern frontier. If he moves there, I will ride personally to meet him."
Inigo bowed deeper. "Then I shall hurry back from Biscay if such treachery unfolds."
The king's eyes softened for the briefest moment. "Tell me, Inigo. How fares my boy in swordsmanship?"
Inigo hesitated. "…He is weak, sire. But… his eyes. They were different today. Sharper. Like a completely different person ."
Sancho leaned back, lips curling in a faint, weary smile. "I've spoiled the boy more than I should have. Perhaps this time he has finally discovered his own ambition . Only time will tell how he turns out."
Inigo bowed once more. "Then I'll take my leave."
The king dismissed him with a wave, his gaze already drawn back to the map—Biscay and La Rioja both marked with pins.
⸻
Lope's Chamber
After the bath, after the stench, after the queen's strange farewell, Lope paced in his chamber. His body felt lighter, more his own.
Still, he couldn't shake the unease. Trust Ochoa? Not yet. He's sharp. Loyal. Probably reports everything I do.
His mind sharpened. If I want to know the truth of this place, I need to sneak out. Tonight.
The decision hardened in his chest. He waited until the castle grew quiet, servants' footsteps fading, the torches dimming in the halls.
⸻
The Sneak
The heavy wooden door creaked softly as he pushed it open, slipping into the corridor. Every step was calculated, his breath shallow. The shadows cloaked him, but the silence carried every movement.
He turned a corner—
—and bumped into Rosa.
Her eyes widened, the candle she carried flickering against her pale face. She said nothing, merely tilting her head as if asking why he was out.
Lope studied her. She barely spoke. Quiet. Overlooked. The kind of person no one listened to, even if she did talk.
Perfect.
"Tell me something," he whispered. "Where… am I? What land is this?"
Rosa blinked slowly, then answered in a soft voice: "Navarre. Ruled by King Sancho… the seventh of his name."
The words sank into him like stones.
Navarre. Sancho VII. The year must be the 1190s. He had read this in history books.
"And the boy—the one who follows me. What's his name?"
"Ochoa," she whispered.
He nodded slowly. "…And this city?"
"Pamplona."
The weight of it nearly staggered him. Navarre. Sancho VII. Pamplona. But I don't remember any mention of a prince like me in the history books… So why am I here? Why Lope?
The question gnawed at him. Did that messenger… change the past for me?
The stench of the chamber pots wafted faintly even here, disrupting his spiral of thoughts. He grimaced. Enough. Tomorrow, I'll fix this shithole of a cesspool system.
He slipped back to his room before anyone else could notice.
⸻
Morning came
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of Lope's chamber, warming the stone floors. After the bath and a quick breakfast, his thoughts turned to logistics. If I'm going to do anything tomorrow, I need to know what I have to work with.
"Ochoa," Lope called, leaning against the edge of his desk, "how much money do i have?"
The boy straightened, attentive. "My lord, you have around 20,000 maravedís(800000$) at your disposal. From rents on your lands—villages, farms, estates. From tolls on trade and the markets of Pamplona. From feudal dues collected from peasants and lesser nobles. Occasionally, the Church offers gifts or loans, and there is war booty and tribute when campaigns succeed."
He paused respectfully, then added carefully, "May I ask why you inquire, my
lord?"
Lope smirked faintly, shaking his head. "I'm planning something," he said, letting the words hang. "You'll see soon enough."
Ochoa inclined his head, bowing slightly.
⸻
Cesspool Plans
The chamber pots in the corner emitted a pungent reminder of medieval reality. Lope wrinkled his nose. Tomorrow, I fix this. Make it better.
His mind raced with ideas:
Castle Outlet – Build stone or wooden chutes from the palace latrines and kitchens to guide waste outside the walls.
Waste Channel – Dig a channel leading downhill, away from the village and drinking water sources.
Settling Pond / Reed Bed – Construct a marshy ditch where waste can settle and be naturally filtered.
Downstream Discharge – Connect the pond to the Arga River downstream, far past the clean water intake.
Safety Buffer – Keep the outlet far from houses and fields to prevent contamination.
Only for the castle, not the villages… not yet.
Then, another idea struck him. Soap. If I can make soap, that alone could change lives here.
He smirked to himself. Prince Lope, savior of asses everywhere.
⸻
Sword Practice with Lance
The clatter of steel rang through the courtyard once again. This time, a new figure awaited him: the vice-commander.
"I am Lance," the man introduced, tall and broad with a neatly trimmed beard. "Commander Inigo has left for Biscay. From today, I will oversee your training."
Lope nodded, palms tingling with anticipation.
They began sparring. Lance pressed him hard, strikes heavy but controlled. Lope struggled at first—but then, something strange happened. His body moved smoother than yesterday. Parrying felt natural. Footwork sharper.
Lance raised an eyebrow. "You say you've only been training three days? Your sword moves like a proper apprentice."
Lope masked his grin. The system… it's boosting me. Faster than natural growth.
An hour passed. During a break, Lope flicked his wrist and opened the panel.
Swordsmanship – Beginner, Level 10
His eyes widened. Level 10? Already? What happens when it hits 100…?
He noticed something else.
Stamina +1
He smirked. Running in the mornings, then. Push this further.
When the session resumed, he threw himself back into training, more determined than ever.
⸻
Afternoon: Cesspool Designs
After training, sweat-soaked and sore, he returned to his chamber. Parchment and charcoal waited. Sketches of channels, settling ponds, and chutes sprawled across the desk.
Tomorrow, we dig. Tomorrow, we change this place, little by little.
The faint stench of waste lingered, reminding him of why he was doing it.
Prince Lope, savior of castle asses everywhere. He muttered under his breath, smirking.
⸻
Battle in Biscay
Far from the castle walls, at the edge of Biscay, steel clashed and men screamed. Commander Inigo rode at the vanguard, blade flashing as Castilian troops surged.
Blood soaked the rocky coastline, and the cries of war drowned the waves.
The fight for Biscay had begun.