The news spread through London like a thunderclap splitting the sky.
At dawn, the great Confederate vessel Ehrenfels, dispatched by the Commissioners of the German Confederation, ascended the Thames with the solemnity of a floating monument. Its dark hull caught the pale morning light, and from its main masts fluttered the white-and-blue banners of Nassau-Saarbrücken, a dynasty many believed long dissolved into the mists of history.
The port, silent only minutes earlier, filled as if summoned. Merchants abandoned their crates; dockworkers poured out of warehouses; veiled ladies lifted their skirts to hurry toward the piers; young aristocrats leapt from their carriages. All drawn by the instinctive certainty that they were witnessing the reopening of a door Europe had kept sealed for a century.
When the gangway struck the pier, the German commissioners descended in perfect formation. Two of them carried a heavy iron coffer sealed with imperial wax and stamped with ancient Rhenish sigils. They bore it as one carries a relic—or a revelation.
The chief commissioner spoke without raising his voice, yet the entire port fell silent around him:
"These documents are destined for Her Majesty's Privy Council.
They concern the recognized heir of the House of Nassau-Saarbrücken."
A sudden hush swept the crowd like a winter gale.
Escorted by a procession of dragoons, the coffer crossed London like a reversed funeral march—announcing not an end, but a return. Carriages slowed to let it pass; pedestrians halted mid-stride; hats were removed with a reverence close to awe.
In the Privy Council chamber, the breaking of the seals echoed like the cracking of a century-old boundary.
Inside lay genealogical trees, notarized deeds from Rhenish courts, diplomatic letters, and sworn testimonies from the foremost German families.
Every wax seal was authentic.
Every datum verifiable.
Every proof irrefutable.
At the top of the dossier, written in elegant calligraphy:
Arthur Lionheart /of Nassau-Saarbrücken
Sole surviving descendant of the sovereign line.
London trembled with whispers.
In aristocratic parlors, teacups hovered mid-air.
In political clubs, gentlemen bent over tables in disbelief.
"The Nassau-Saarbrückens… alive?"
"Then the succession—"
"The German Confederation guarantees the documents."
Within hours, newspapers flooded the city. And among the people, history swiftly became legend. A man once dismissed as an elegant nobody had been reclaimed by Europe itself.
When Buckingham Palace announced that Queen Victoria would personally verify the lineage, the entire capital seemed to lean toward the palace, pulled by invisible strings.
Victoria listened without interruption as the Commissioners presented their evidence. When the final document was placed before her, she studied it slowly, almost reverently. The verdict was undeniable: the heir of Nassau-Saarbrücken stood among them.
From that moment, the balance shifted.
Those who had mocked Arthur Lionheart /of Nassau-Saarbrücken now watched their certainty evaporate like dew under the sun.
Whigs saw in him a force of new—dynamic, unpredictable, freed from the rigid ceremonial weight of long-established courts. In their eyes, his princely heritage combined with his outsider's daring made him a symbol of the new industrial age. An heir from an ancient German line reborn into modern Europe.
Tories, however, leaned toward another candidate: Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha.
Albert's advantages were obvious and formidable. He embodied stability, continuity, diplomacy—the perfect match for a constitutional monarchy wary of upheaval. His family held deep connections across Europe, and his reputation was one of discipline, scholarship, and measured virtue. A safe choice. A traditional choice.
Thus Parliament split cleanly between the two men.
Those who favored Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha praised his impeccable upbringing, his political prudence, and the assurance that Britain would remain bound to familiar alliances.
Those who rallied behind Arthur of Nassau-Saarbrücken championed his rediscovered sovereignty, his daring intellect, and the promise that his presence could propel Britain into a bold new century.
These two names—no others—echoed through Westminster like rival battle standards.
London turned into a chessboard. Every salon, every private club, every smoky corridor beneath Westminster buzzed with strategies, betrayals, and whispered alliances.
In his study, Arthur stood before the window while Henry delivered the latest reports.
"They won't move," Henry muttered. "Many MPs openly say you're too dangerous."
Arthur's gaze drifted toward the distant chimneys of London, the smoke curling like faint calligraphy against the darkening sky. A slow smile formed—sharp, quiet, impenetrable.
"Dangerous," he whispered. "Then perhaps they've finally understood."
He closed the dossier on his desk with deliberate calm.
"Parliament is an institution," he said. "But institutions are made of men.
And men… have vulnerabilities."
He turned his head slightly.
"Henry, gather all our liquid capital.
And arrange a meeting with the Rothschilds."
Henry stiffened. "Arthur… are you going to buy votes?"
Arthur shook his head slowly.
"No.
I don't buy votes."
He stepped into the dimming light, his voice turning to tempered steel.
"I buy whatever gives a man the power to vote."
Then, with a faint, decisive finality:
"If they want a contest… they shall have one.
But they will play it on my board."