The Queen's thunderous declaration—proclaiming Britain as the "policeman of the world"—rippled across Europe like a tremor.
Kings, emperors, ministers, foreign secretaries — all bent over Victoria's speech, reading and rereading every line with stiffened jaws. They cursed the British Empire's arrogance, its moralizing tone, its unblushing hypocrisy.
But curse as they might, they could not deny the truth:
No one could defy a global order enforced by an invincible navy and powered by the strongest industry on earth.
And so, across the continent, a strange new fashion emerged:
"Learn from Britain."
"Align with Britain."
Orders poured into the Future Industries Group of Arthur Lionheart like a snowstorm—contracts for engines, steel components, machinery, rail systems, telegraph equipment. Britain's industrial exports threatened to drown the world.
But Arthur felt no satisfaction in this.
Selling machines was the lowest, crudest form of influence.
What he sought was far more elegant—and infinitely more dangerous:
Cultural dominance.
Standardization.
A global imprint on the human mind.
He wanted every nation on earth to instinctively believe:
"The British Empire equals civilization.
The British Empire equals progress.
The British Empire equals prosperity."
To achieve such a feat, he needed a stage—
A stage unlike anything the world had ever seen.
That evening, in the quiet warmth of Buckingham Palace…
Arthur unfurled a vast blank sheet across his desk. His charcoal pencil swept across it with restless, impatient urgency.
Victoria, curled in an armchair with a book resting on her growing belly, looked up with curiosity.
"My dear," she asked, rising to her feet and gliding to his side, "what strange marvel are you sketching this time?"
Arthur did not answer at once.
His eyes glowed—not with the cold fire of calculation, but with something almost artistic, feverish.
"A palace," he said softly. "A palace unlike any built by human hands."
Victoria leaned over the blueprint—and gasped.
The structure on the paper looked as though it had descended from the heavens.
A cathedral woven of light.
A temple built from the breath of angels.
A delicate, soaring iron framework formed its skeleton, rational yet graceful.
But the walls—
The roof—
The vast vaulted arc of its body—
All were made of glass.
Endless, shimmering sheets of transparent glass.
"Arthur… this—" She touched the page with trembling fingers. "Is this truly an entire palace made of steel… and glass? Would… would such a thing even stand?"
Arthur looked at her with serene, unbreakable confidence.
"It will hold" he said.
He pointed to the drawing.
"We will build it with standardized prefabricated steel components—our own invention. And with the new flat-glass technology recently brought from France. The structure will need no internal walls—only pillars of iron. Sunlight will flood its entire body."
He smiled, the vision illuminating him from within.
"We will build it in Hyde Park. And within it… we shall enclose the oldest, tallest trees. Architecture and nature shall embrace one another like lovers reunited."
"It will appear," he whispered, "as though a gigantic, transparent palace has blossomed out of the earth itself."
Victoria breathed the name like a spell:
"…the Crystal… Palace…"
"Yes," Arthur said, with rising passion. "The Crystal Palace."
And then—he raised his gaze to hers, and his voice transformed into something larger than ambition, larger than industry.
"Victoria," he declared, "once it is built, I propose we use it for the grandest purpose imaginable."
He took her hands in his.
"In your name, we shall invite every nation on earth — every empire, every kingdom, every republic — to gather beneath this crystal canopy."
"They will bring their finest crafts, their proudest inventions, their greatest treasures."
"We shall host a half-year celebration of mankind's achievements."
"I name it—
'The Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations.'"
Victoria felt her heart stop.
She saw it—
She truly saw it.
This was not an exhibition.
It was a proclamation.
A coronation of the British Empire before all humanity.
When nations still bound to the plow placed their humble crafts beside Britain's steam engines and automated looms—
When ancient powers displayed their handmade relics beside Britain's mechanized future—
The contrast alone would speak louder than any speech, any fleet, any treaty.
This exhibition would not merely impress the world.
It would redefine it.
"Arthur…" she whispered, overwhelmed, "…you… you are a genius. No—some demonic mischief runs through you…"
He laughed softly, drawing her gently into his arms.
"No my love," he said, brushing a strand of golden hair from her cheek, "I merely borrow ideas from history. But to bring such things into existence, one requires a true creator."
He tapped the blueprint.
"And I know the very man."
"Joseph Paxton," he continued. "A gardener—yet a visionary. His conservatory at Chatsworth first sparked this idea in me. Only Paxton can give this palace life."
Victoria rested her head against his chest.
"And the world shall come," she murmured.
"Yes," Arthur said. "And when they stand beneath this mountain of glass—when the sunlight refracts into a thousand colors—they will know without a single word spoken…"
"…that the Golden Age of Britain has begun."
"…and that we stand at its heart."
Outside, the lamps of Buckingham Palace shimmered through the night.
Inside, a dream brighter of the lamps of Buckingham Palace, stronger than steel, and more fragile than glass took shape between a queen and the man she loved.
A dream that would soon rise from the green heart of London and astonish the world.