St. Petersburg — The Winter Palace
The baroque splendour of the Winter Palace, ordinarily radiant with the majesty of the Romanovs, lay that day beneath a glacial tension, as if a Siberian storm had settled upon the throne itself.
A dull thud shattered the stillness.
Tsar Nicholas I, the stern "gendarme of Europe," flung a sealed intelligence dossier from London onto the white bearskin carpet.
"Scoundrels! A pack of miserable scoundrels!"
His voice, sharp and metallic, reverberated through the cavernous hall.
"Louis-Philippe, that money-hungry opportunist! And Frederick William, that feeble Prussian weakling! Have they forgotten who saved their thrones from Napoleon's iron hoof?"
He paced, breath sharp, hands clenched.
"Now they grovel before the British—snivelling lapdogs wagging their tails!"
Before him stood the man he trusted above all others: Count Alexei Orlov, a seasoned diplomat whose cunning once caused mild annoyance to Arthur Lionheart during a state banquet in London. Even Orlov, a veteran of courts and intrigues, now wore a grave expression.
London—London had become a constant humiliation for the Tsar.
First came news of Britain's spectacular triumph in the Far East, achieved through a modern naval force and techniques no continental power had anticipated.
Then came the meteoric rise of the young Prince-Consort Arthur Lionheart, whose sweeping national reforms—economic, industrial, and administrative—had stunned Europe with their speed and precision.
And now, unforgivably, France and Prussia had both dispatched their highest-ranking envoys to London, seeking technical cooperation from the British. It looked, to Nicholas, like supplication.
Was the Russian Empire to be treated like an outdated barbarian relic?
Nicholas felt the Holy Alliance he had painstakingly maintained for years slipping from his grasp—not through armies, but through a new form of power: technology intertwined with capital, the very tools Lionheart wielded so effortlessly.
"Orlov!"
The Tsar's glare burned with a mixture of rage and unease.
"You told me—on your last visit—that Arthur Lionheart was merely a businessman with a taste for economics and no military acumen!"
"But now I hear he has crushed the Qing Dynasty, forged explosive shells and steel-clad ships, and—God help us—learned half the military craft of old Wellington himself!"
He leaned forward.
"Explain. What in God's name is happening?"
Orlov felt the floor drop beneath him. The Tsar's fury stemmed from Orlov's earlier misjudgment—and he knew it.
He immediately knelt.
"Your Majesty… I take full responsibility. I gravely underestimated him. I believed him ambitious—but I did not fathom the pace of his growth."
He hesitated, then spoke his true fear.
"He does not behave like an ordinary man. He is… almost like a devil who sees tomorrow before it arrives. Every move he makes is calculated, layered, and unfathomably precise."
"Devil?" Nicholas sneered. "In my St. Petersburg, even devils learn obedience."
He rose sharply, pacing with heavy steps. The very air felt carved by his tension.
Ordinary diplomats would no longer suffice. If Russia was to confront this British prince—this strategist wrapped in youthful charm—Nicholas needed his sharpest blade. The man who knew Britain best. The man who knew Arthur Lionheart best.
"Orlov!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
"You will return to London at once."
Orlov's eyes widened. "At once, Majesty?"
"This time," Nicholas continued, voice low and decisive,
"you will not investigate him. You will not intimidate him."
"You will place our cards on the table."
He stepped down from the dais, face hardening into the resolve of a gambler ready to overturn the board.
"On behalf of me, Nicholas Pavlovich, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias—
you shall deliver the most formal, the most solemn invitation to the British Crown."
Orlov blinked. "Invite them… to St. Petersburg?"
"Exactly."
A cold smile touched the Tsar's lips.
"Since Paris and Berlin crawl to London like supplicants—I shall do the opposite."
"If I summon the British Queen and her Prince-Consort to my Winter Palace, to my hunting grounds, let us see whether they remain so unshakable."
"I will show them the vastness of Russia—the armies, the land, the power they so conveniently underestimate."
"I shall make Arthur Lionheart look into the eyes of the sleeping polar bear—and understand that steel ships and clever shells are nothing before a continental empire."
"And then," the Tsar murmured, "we shall discuss the division of Europe—not in London, but at my table."
He slid a heavy ring marked with the double-headed eagle onto Orlov's finger.
"Your mission is weighty."
"And if they refuse?" Orlov whispered.
"They will not." The Tsar's voice held chilling confidence.
"I fear no refusal."
Half a Month Later — Buckingham Palace, London
When Count Orlov entered the palace again, Arthur Lionheart immediately sensed the change.
Gone was the calculating fox from before.
The man standing before him now carried the solemnity and weight of an imperial challenge.
During the formal reception, presided over by Queen Victoria, Orlov performed a deep, court-perfect bow.
Then he produced a silk-wrapped letter, sealed with the wax emblem of the Russian double-headed eagle—a personal missive from Tsar Nicholas I.
His voice rang across the hall.
"Your Most Gracious Majesty, Your Royal Highness."
"By command of my sovereign, Nicholas Pavlovich Romanov, Emperor of All the Russias, King of Poland, Grand Duke of Finland—I bring greetings."
"His Majesty has learned of Your Royal Highness the Prince-Consort's military achievements in the East, and of Your Majesty's noble reforms within the realm, and he is profoundly impressed."
"He believes that the two greatest powers of the age—the British Empire and the Russian Empire—should set aside suspicion and cultivate friendship and cooperation befitting their stature."
He paused, then delivered the heart of the message.
"Therefore—His Imperial Majesty invites
Her Majesty Queen Victoria
and
His Royal Highness Prince Arthur Lionheart
to undertake a full State Visit to the Russian Empire during the height of midsummer."
"His Majesty shall personally host a grand reception at the Winter Palace of St. Petersburg and escort you both to Tsarskoye Selo for the ancient Romanov tradition of the Summer Imperial Hunt."
"He hopes to discuss—in the warmest and most candid spirit—the future balance of peace and power across Europe."
Silence fell like snowfall.
The assembled British ministers stared in disbelief.
Nicholas I—the proud autocrat who styled himself Europe's patriarch—inviting the British monarch to his imperial seat? And with such lavish ceremony?
This was not diplomacy.
It was a summons to a decisive encounter.
A test that would determine whether Britain and Russia would march toward war or concord.
All eyes turned to the young Queen upon the throne—and to the Prince-Consort beside her, whose expression bore that enigmatic, ever-present smile.
They knew well:
The decision before them was monumental.