After finishing his letter to Bismarck, Arthur Lionheart returned to the matter at hand.
Inside the frost-laden study of the Winter Palace, Arthur and Tsar Nicholas I had spent days locked in an unfiltered, increasingly tense exchange over the grand question of how to amicably partition the Ottoman Empire.
What began as cautious mutual probing had warmed into temporary camaraderie—only to collapse into uncompromising conflict once the division of concrete interests came to the table.
And when discussions reached the decisive issue of a Crimean International Free Port, the Tsar's native autocratic greed emerged with brutal clarity.
Nicholas slammed his finger onto the sprawling map of the Balkans.
"Arthur!" he declared, with the entitlement of someone who presumed geography was merely clay in his hands. "Croatia may be 'supervised' by Britain, but in return, your government must acknowledge Russia's natural right of protection over all Slavic peoples in the Balkans. And our army must have the privilege of freely marching through Constantinople."
Arthur allowed himself the faintest, surgical smile.
It was not a request.
It was a demand for a military corridor, a permanent artery leading straight into the Ottoman capital.
If granted, Russia would seize the Straits the moment it wished—and the idea of a neutral international port would become farce.
"Your Majesty," Arthur replied with courteous precision, "this demand… lies somewhat outside the scope of our earlier understanding of amicable cooperation. After all, Constantinople is still the official residence of our Ottoman host. It would hardly be gentlemanly to discuss how we intend to march through his drawing room while he is still seated in it."
Nicholas scoffed.
"Gentlemanly manners? Before absolute power, dignity is the cheapest currency. Lord Lionheart—surely you understand that better than I."
He expected debate.
He expected Arthur to argue, justify, retreat, counter—just as the French and Austrians had before him.
But Arthur Lionheart did none of that.
When negotiation becomes futile, Arthur does not fight for the table.
He simply waits for it to break on its own.
Just as the conversation reached deadlock, a servant knocked.
"Your Highness, a top-secret commercial dispatch has arrived from London by telegram and express courier."
Arthur gave a polite nod.
"Your Majesty, allow me a brief moment."
Nicholas waved him off, assuming—
wrongly—
that this was a mere stalling tactic.
Arthur unfolded the encrypted letter and began to "decipher" it slowly, letting subtle shifts in his expression play across his features: initial calm, a flicker of confusion, a trace of realization, then a quiet, almost amused smile.
Nicholas's curiosity ignited at once.
"What is it, Lord Lionheart? Another English invention?"
Arthur placed the letter gently on the table.
"Nothing so dramatic. It is merely a complaint from my friend in London—the Baron Rothschild."
The Tsar stiffened at the name.
Even he knew it carried weight.
"It appears," Arthur continued, carefully neutral, "that the European grain futures market has become… unusually volatile."
Nicholas frowned.
He clearly did not understand the term.
Arthur explained patiently:
"It is a mechanism by which traders speculate on future prices of foodstuffs. According to the Baron, a mysterious foreign fund—no one knows whose—has begun massively selling short wheat and rye, betting recklessly on a collapse in prices."
He paused, then added with a tone of considerate concern:
"Your Majesty, if I recall, wheat and rye are your Empire's most important exports, and a primary pillar of your national treasury… are they not?"
The color drained from Nicholas's face.
He did not understand the mechanics of futures or short-selling.
He did not need to.
He understood the consequences.
Someone—not Britain, not Arthur, but someone powerful, invisible, untraceable—
was attacking the Russian grain market.
From thousands of miles away.
Without a single cannon.
Without crossing a single border.
A financial strike, silent and devastating.
Nicholas felt the frost of true fear settle into his bones.
His million-man army meant nothing if the treasury collapsed.
If grain prices fell, if wages could not be paid, if famine threatened…
The empire could implode.
His economy—his pride—could be shattered by unseen hands he could not fight.
"And… Lord Lionheart… what are you implying?" he whispered, almost unconsciously.
Arthur's tone remained impeccably polite.
"Implying? Nothing at all, Your Majesty."
He lifted his palms with an expression of diplomatic innocence.
"I am merely sharing troubling news. However"—he added with understated weight—"if our two nations were to reach a firm and harmonious strategic understanding, I could perhaps ask Baron Rothschild to use his considerable influence to calm the markets. He is, after all, a friend of Britain. And friends do help friends."
Not a threat.
Not a demand.
A possibility—cold and immaculate.
Nicholas understood.
The world was changing, and Russia was not ready for the battlefield it now faced.
After a long silence, he collapsed onto a sofa, defeated not by diplomacy, but by forces he could neither see nor command.
With a trembling hand, he signed the Secret Treaty of St. Petersburg, the very document he had sworn he would never accept.
Aleksej Nikolaevich Romanov.
His signature was a surrender to a new era.