Word spread faster than steam itself.
The newspapers called it The Iron Parade, the day when Parliament, merchants, and even royalty would witness the triumph of Imperial Dynamics. The demonstration would take place on a specially prepared two-mile track outside London, near Finchley Common, where the company had laid parallel rails gleaming like liquid silver under the low autumn sun.
Phillip stood at the heart of the commotion, boots planted on the ballast as hundreds of workers made final preparations. Three locomotives waited, each coupled to a series of coaches—first, second, and third class—each a different vision of travel's future. Flags of the realm fluttered from poles, and the crowd swelled by the hour: gentlemen in coats, ladies with parasols, merchants with ledgers in hand, and officers in polished boots. This was no quiet test. It was a spectacle.
Henry Carter adjusted his vest beside him. "We've done it again, Phillip," he muttered, scanning the line of coaches. "And this time, the whole damned kingdom's watching."
Phillip nodded, his expression calm but his chest tight with pride. "Let them watch. They will not forget this day."
The first-class coach drew every eye. Its exterior was lacquered in deep royal blue, with gold trim running along the edges. The Wellington crest was emblazoned on the doors, flanked by polished brass handles. Inside, the coach resembled a palace drawing room—velvet-cushioned seats, oil lamps mounted on brass fixtures, and a central table of mahogany set with porcelain cups. The windows were fitted with silk curtains, and beneath the floor, a new suspension system of coiled steel springs made the ride smoother than any carriage ever built.
It was reserved for the nobility—among them the Duke of Wellington himself, several Lords of Parliament, and even Their Royal Highnesses, Prince George and Princess Charlotte, who had insisted on attending the demonstration after hearing reports of the "iron marvel."
The second-class coach was plainer but no less impressive. Upholstered benches lined each side, finished in dark green leather. The wood was polished but unpainted, showing the fine grain of the oak. It was intended for the wealthy merchant class—men of trade and ambition, who would one day depend on the rails to move their fortunes.
The third-class coach stood at the end. Its benches were wooden, the fittings plain, the windows fewer—but still enclosed, a mercy against the soot and wind. It was designed for workers, soldiers, and families—the heart of Britain itself.
Phillip had insisted on all three being present. Not just to impress, but to prove his belief: steam would unite the kingdom, not divide it.
By noon, the crowd's roar softened into an expectant hush as Parliament's Speaker himself stepped forward to address them.
"Gentlemen, ladies, and citizens of the realm—today marks an age of change! No longer will our carriages crawl through mud or our goods rot on the roads. Before you stands the achievement of British genius, born from steel, coal, and courage! Mr. Phillip Wellington of Imperial Dynamics shall now present—Britain's Iron Road!"
Thunderous applause erupted. Hats flew into the air.
Phillip bowed slightly, then raised his hand. "My Lords and Ladies—what you will see today is not merely speed. It is civilization made mobile. What roads once did for Rome, rails shall do for Britain. This is not a curiosity—it is the spine of a new age."
He signaled with a raised arm.
Steam hissed. Valves screamed.
The first locomotive roared to life, its pistons thundering as clouds of vapor billowed into the crisp air.
The royalty boarded first, attendants helping the Princess onto the velvet seat. The Duke followed with the Speaker of Parliament and several ministers. Phillip and Henry stood near the steps as the Prince passed by.
"You've built quite the contraption, Mr. Wellington," the Prince remarked with a smile. "I daresay it looks more comfortable than my carriage."
Phillip inclined his head. "It will be more than comfortable, Your Highness—it will be swift, safe, and worthy of your name."
The Prince chuckled and stepped inside. The door shut with a click of precision-made locks.
Behind them, merchants filed into the second-class coach, already remarking on how much cargo could be moved if such lines reached the ports. Laborers, engineers, and newspapermen filled the third.
The crowd parted as Phillip and Henry climbed aboard the observation platform behind the last coach. A young stoker waved from the locomotive ahead, black with soot, ready to begin.
Phillip raised his arm once more.
"Let her run!"
The engine screamed as the wheels bit the rails. Steam exploded from the stack, and the train began to move. The crowd gasped as the coaches rolled past, smooth and steady, picking up speed with every chuff of the pistons.
Inside the royal coach, silk curtains swayed gently but the ride remained serene. The Princess pressed her gloved hand against the window, laughing softly as the countryside began to blur.
"It feels as though we're flying," she exclaimed. "And yet I feel nothing—no bump, no rattle!"
The Duke smiled faintly, though his eyes betrayed wonder. "Wellington, your son has outdone us all. War may make empires, but this—this will keep them."
In the second coach, merchants leaned over the tables, voices raised in excitement. "Liverpool to London in a single day," one exclaimed. "A fortune's worth of goods moved without a single horse! Gentlemen, the shipping companies will have to keep up—or be left behind!"
In the third, workers cheered as the wind rushed past the small open vents. Some laughed, others simply stared in disbelief. One old miner wiped a tear from his soot-streaked cheek. "I never thought I'd live to see the day a poor man could ride like a lord," he said quietly.
At the observation platform, Henry gripped the railing as the speed increased. The air tore at his hair, the rhythmic thunder of steel on steel echoing across the field. "Thirty miles an hour!" he shouted above the roar. "We're faster than any mail coach alive!"
Phillip's coat snapped in the wind, his eyes fixed on the rails ahead. "And one day," he shouted back, "we'll go twice as fast. Three times! This is only the beginning."
For nearly ten minutes, the train roared across the field and back again, the smoke trailing behind like a banner of victory. When it slowed and hissed to a halt before the grandstand, the crowd erupted. Hats waved, handkerchiefs fluttered, and the cries of "Hurrah for Wellington! Hurrah for the Iron Road!" filled the air.
The royal couple stepped out first, cheeks flushed with exhilaration. The Prince took Phillip's hand firmly. "You've given us more than a machine, Mr. Wellington—you've given us motion itself. The Crown will see to it that your railways reach every corner of the realm."
Phillip bowed low. "Your Highness honors me. But it is the nation that will benefit. Every mile of rail we lay brings us closer together."
Henry whispered with a grin, "You realize what that means, don't you? Every noble here is now a client. Every merchant's a partner. And every worker in London will soon want a ticket."
Phillip looked toward the long, gleaming line of coaches, still steaming in the afternoon light. Crowds pressed close to touch the rails, to peer through the windows, to glimpse what the next century might look like.
He felt it then—that familiar spark, the quiet certainty that history had shifted.
"This is it, Henry," he said softly. "The dawn of the railway age."