In the grand council chamber of the Palais de Lys, morning sunlight streamed through tall arched windows, spilling across polished marble floors and gilded walls. At the far end stood a long table of dark walnut, carved with lilies—the royal emblem of Fonseine. Maps, dispatches, and sealed letters lay strewn across its surface, while a cluster of ministers stood whispering anxiously, their powdered wigs gleaming in the light.
At the head of the table sat Crown Prince Adrien de Montclair—heir to the throne, second only to the aging King Louis-Philippe II.
He was young—no older than twenty-seven—but already regarded throughout Europe as one of the most capable statesmen of his generation. Tall and sharply built, his bearing was that of both a scholar and a soldier. His eyes—gray as tempered steel—were always calculating, and his expression, though polite, carried an unspoken authority that made older men hesitate before speaking. His brown hair was neatly tied back, and his coat—navy trimmed with silver—fit him with military precision.
He was a man born for the age of reason, yet he ruled in an era on the verge of something greater.
On the table before him lay a freshly delivered packet of reports—sealed with the red wax of the Fonseine embassy in London. Adrien broke the seal carefully and began to read.
As his eyes moved across the first page, his usually composed face grew still. The ministers, watching closely, exchanged uneasy glances.
When he finally looked up, the silence was thick.
"So," Adrien said softly, setting the paper down. "It's true, then. The British have done it."
He rose from his chair and turned toward the window. Beyond the palace gardens, the city of Montfleur spread out in pale morning haze—stone spires, smoke from the forges, the river gleaming faintly in the distance.
"The Imperial Dynamics System," he said, the name foreign yet sharp on his tongue. "They have built a machine that moves without horse or sail—by steam alone. And it pulls entire carriages… across rails of steel."
One of the ministers, the elderly Duc de Villars, cleared his throat. "Your Highness, it is a marvel, certainly. But the British have always indulged in mechanical spectacles. It may impress Parliament, but surely it will not change the balance of power."
Adrien turned, his eyes glinting. "Not change the balance of power? Villars, this machine can haul hundreds of men, or tons of goods, faster than any horse alive. If they lay these rails across the country—as the reports say—they will move armies in days, trade in hours, and ideas faster than any courier. Britain is not amusing itself. It is remaking the world."
A murmur spread among the gathered men.
Marquis Delatour, the Minister of Commerce, stepped forward, nervous but curious. "Your Highness, the reports from our envoy mention a public demonstration in London. Nobles and even royalty attended. They call it the Iron Road. The newspapers there proclaim a new age of transport. But… how could such a contraption function on such scale? Steam engines are heavy, dangerous—unreliable."
Adrien picked up another dispatch—a folded sketch from their agent. The charcoal lines depicted a locomotive: a steel cylinder, smokestack rising like a cannon, wheels thick as millstones. Beneath it, lines of parallel iron rails stretched into the horizon.
He handed the paper to Delatour. "Unreliable? Look at this. They've solved the problem of traction by putting the engine on rails. No road to tear, no mud to bog it down. The steam pressure drives pistons that turn the wheels directly. It is not just reliable—it is inevitable."
He began to pace slowly around the table, his voice firm, controlled.
"For a century, we've built our empire on rivers and canals. The British have just rendered them obsolete. They can move coal, iron, weapons, and soldiers without the mercy of wind or weather. Imagine—iron from Wales reaching London in half the time. Muskets from Birmingham delivered to the ports in a single day. Their industry will double. Their commerce will triple. And their armies…"
He paused, letting the implication sink in.
"...their armies will arrive before war is even declared."
A chill passed through the council chamber. Even the cynical Villars could not find words.
General Lefèvre, a broad-shouldered veteran scarred from the last border campaign, broke the silence. "If what you say is true, then the balance of Europe has shifted overnight. If Britain controls this technology, it will dominate the continent."
Adrien nodded slowly. "Precisely. Which is why we must not allow them to keep it."
That made the ministers glance at one another uneasily.
Delatour spoke carefully. "You mean to copy it?"
"Nope, we are to acquire it. Since it's a private company after all,"
"Imperial Dynamics is not the Crown of Britain—it is a company. A private enterprise run by engineers and merchants, not kings. And where there are merchants," he said, turning back to the table, "there is always room for negotiation. Men who build for profit can be persuaded."
A few of the ministers exchanged nervous looks. Marquis Delatour leaned forward.
"Your Highness… are you suggesting espionage?"
Adrien didn't answer immediately. He poured himself a glass of wine from the crystal decanter at his elbow, watching the light refract through the deep red liquid. Then, with calm precision, he said, "I am suggesting intelligence. The British would call it business."
He set the glass down and fixed them with his steely gaze. "We will send agents to London under diplomatic cover. They will approach the suppliers, the craftsmen, the men who build these engines. They will learn what they can—drawings, measurements, alloys, techniques. We need not copy every bolt and rivet, only understand the heart of it—the pressure, the cylinders, the mechanism that turns fire into motion."
General Lefèvre smirked faintly. "And if their government discovers this?"
Adrien's lips curved into a thin smile. "Then we will call it admiration for progress. And if they do not—then Fonseine will build its own railways before they finish their second line."
He rested both hands on the table and spoke with quiet finality. "The British have built the Iron Road. We shall build the Iron Empire."
The ministers said nothing more. Only the ticking of the clock filled the chamber as Adrien returned to his chair, mind already racing ahead to the blueprints and factories that did not yet exist.