Luka Morales was a name known in academic circles.
A respected historian, bestselling author, and the youngest tenured professor at his university, Luka had spent a lifetime obsessing over the rise and fall of empires. His lectures were packed and his books, well reviewed.
He lived alone, surrounded by towers of books and maps, writing deep into the night. His favorite topic? The Spanish Empire. Especially the twisted, tragic history of the Habsburgs.
The marriages. The madness. The wars. And at the center of one of the most fascinating what-ifs in European history stood a single boy:
Don Carlos, heir to Spain. Crippled. Violent. Dead before his time.
That night, Luka had just finished a lecture and was walking home, flipping through an old document he'd borrowed from the university archive. He didn't hear the footsteps behind him.
A sharp pain tore through his side. A shout. Then silence.
No grand finale. No legacy. Just—
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He was cold. His limbs were weak. Blurry shapes loomed overhead, faces he couldn't recognize, speaking a strange version of Spanish, early Spanish. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet wail.
"¡Está vivo! ¡El príncipe ha nacido!"
Nobles. Servants. Priests. A midwife covered in sweat and blood stepped back, holding scissors. Gold, embroidered robes. Banners with a black double-headed eagle. All of it swam in Luka's hazy vision.
It hit him slowly, like waves. The realization.
He was a baby. Born into royalty. Reborn as… Don Carlos of Spain.
Firstborn son of Philip II.
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It's been a year since then. A full year of pretending, drooling, and getting carried around like a royal ornament.
Most babies don't think about geopolitics, naval routes, or the future decline of their empire.
I do, because I used to be a renowned historian. I studied this empire in detail. I know exactly how things fall apart.
And I know who I am now.
Don Carlos. The doomed prince.
Only… I'm not doomed this time.
The deformities that plagued the historical Carlos? Gone. I'm strong. Healthy. My mind is intact, and sharper than it ever was.
I know what's coming. The peak of Spain's power. The conquests. The gold. The rot. The slow collapse. Unless… I change it.
Click
The door creaks open. I close my eyes halfway, playing the part of the sleepy royal infant.
"Mi príncipe, it's time to eat." the maid says softly.
She lifts me with care. The room smells of lavender and candle wax. Her lullaby is soft, pleasant.
It's strange being carried everywhere. Fed with a spoon. Dressed like a delicate doll.
My body may be tiny, but my mind is intact, cramped in this soft, chubby container. I've gotten used to the stares, the bows, the careful way servants hold me like I'm made of glass and gold. I suppose I am. I'm the heir to the most powerful empire on Earth.
Spain, in its golden age.
Conquerors of oceans. Masters of silver, ships, and souls.
And my father, Philip II is the man holding it all together.
The maid sat me down on a carved high chair not the wooden kind peasants used, but something closer to a throne with silk cushions and golden lions on the armrests. A plate of mashed fruit is placed before me by a cautious maid.
I stare at the plum mush. It smells sweet
On my left sits a man I've only seen a few times, tall, lean, with a regal beard and cold, piercing eyes. His rings flash as he lifts a goblet to his lips.
Philip II. My father
The most powerful man in the Christian world.
"Our little prince is quiet today," he says, his voice calm but sharp.
A chuckle rises from a few nobles nearby, lingering around the table like flies on wine. I blink slowly, still staring at the king. I'm tempted to say something clever, but I don't.
Already, at just over a year, I can stand on my own for brief moments before needing to grab onto something. I can babble, stringing together sounds like "ba-ba" and "da-da," though no one expects me to form proper words yet. But it's enough. Enough to make the court take notice.
I shift slightly in my seat, my legs not quite strong enough for walking without support, but I can take a few steps if I really focus. It's not much, but it's enough to warrant extra care. A servant is always close by, ready to scoop me up or adjust my position, as though I were some precious artifact.
I can see the anticipation in their eyes.
The hope. The belief that I am their future.
"He's healthy," one court lady whispers to another. "Stronger than the late queen, God rest her soul."
Yes, my mother is dead. Maria Manuela. Died days after giving birth to me. I read that long ago, in another life, on a page stained with coffee. Her death was just a footnote to history. Now it feels… oddly personal.
I wonder if Philip mourned her.
I wonder if he resents me for surviving.
glance at the plate of mashed fruit before me, then at the golden goblet in my father's hand. The wine is a dark red, swirling like blood. I can almost taste it in the air.
The empire that now belongs to Philip II has stretched across vast lands, from the Americas to Europe. A true global power. But with it comes endless pressure, the weight of history. And that weight will one day fall on me.
I am Don Carlos, heir to Spain.
But unlike the previous Don Carlos, this one will not break. This one will control everything, bend the empire to his will, and rewrite history.