Married life unfolded like a quiet, precious miracle.
Victoria and Arthur drifted through their first days together as if the world had softened around them, giving them permission to exist only in each other's light.
At dawn they rode across the Palace grounds, the mist curling around their horses' hooves.
In the afternoons, they read side by side in the sunlit library, their shoulders brushing from time to time like a secret.
And at night—when the servants withdrew and the corridors grew still—Victoria would fall asleep with her cheek against Arthur's chest, lulled by the calm rhythm of his breathing.
There were moments Arthur woke before her, watching the early gold spill across the room while she slept curled against him.
He still struggled to believe this was real.
In another life he had been an ordinary man, with ordinary days and ordinary dreams.
Now he woke in a palace, married to the Queen of a vast empire.
He touched her hair gently, almost reverently, wondering how fate had moved so boldly.
Victoria felt just as enchanted.
For the first time, she felt protected, understood, loved with a warmth that made the burdens of the Crown seem lighter than they had ever been.
But such fragile bliss could not last forever.
On the fifth morning after their wedding, Lord Melbourne arrived at Buckingham Palace with an expression of polite urgency. He entered Victoria's study carrying a tower of documents so high it seemed to lean with its own weight. Arthur followed Victoria into the room naturally, as if he belonged at her side—and in her heart, he did.
"Your Majesty," Melbourne began, clearing his throat, "the Admiralty requires your review of the proposed budget for the new steam-and-sail warship."
He set down one bundle of papers.
"The Colonial Office seeks your approval for a new governor in Canada."
Another bundle.
"The Treasury has prepared the preliminary figures for next year's revenue projections…"
With each stack he laid upon the desk, Victoria felt her breath shorten.
It was as though Melbourne were building a wall of paper between her and her happiness—between her and Arthur.
She glanced toward her husband instinctively.
He gave her a small, reassuring touch at her hand, a silent I'm here.
But Melbourne, with a smile sharpened by long habit, turned toward Arthur.
"Your Royal Highness," he said smoothly, "the devotion between you and the Queen is admirable. But according to the customs of our realm, these matters are not meant to trouble you. I imagine you would prefer to enjoy these lovely spring mornings with Her Majesty—perhaps a walk in the gardens?"
His tone was courteous.
Expertly courteous.
But the message beneath it was unmistakable:
You are not wanted here.
Victoria stiffened.
"Lord Melbourne," she said, "the Prince Consort is my husband and my most trusted confidant. Why should I not hear his counsel?"
Melbourne inclined his head with impeccable grace.
"In private, Ma'am, you may of course discuss anything you wish. But in formal matters… with ministers present… tradition is absolute."
He inhaled as though the weight of history itself were upon him.
And then he delivered the final blow, carefully, impeccably:
"The Prince Consort does not interfere in politics."
Victoria felt a flare of helpless anger.
It was an unwritten law, older than her reign:
The monarch symbolic.
The government powerful.
The consort… decorative.
Arthur heard all of it, and more—everything that tradition intended to deny him.
He rose without a flicker of resentment.
"I understand, my lord. I will not hinder your work with Her Majesty."
He offered Victoria a gentle smile meant to comfort her.
Then he withdrew silently from the room.
She watched him go, torn between duty and the urge to chase after him.
Melbourne, as if nothing significant had occurred, resumed his explanations with practiced calm.
Arthur did not walk toward the gardens as Melbourne had suggested.
Instead, he stopped before one of the tall windows overlooking London.
The sky outside was pale, almost colorless, and his reflection in the glass looked thoughtful, controlled—yet alight with something fierce beneath the surface.
"So the Prince Consort must not interfere," he murmured.
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips.
"If I cannot enter through the door… then I will find a window. Or tear down the roof entirely."
His thoughts turned to the project he had acquired in secret days before the wedding: the schematics for the telegraph.
An impossibility for this era, a revolution disguised as wires and sparks.
He had hoped Victoria could endorse it openly with a royal decree.
But Melbourne had closed that path.
Which meant only one thing.
Power would not be given to him.
He would build it.
Not in Parliament.
Not in the courts.
But in the world itself.
Through technology—real technology—that could reshape armies, commerce, communications, finance.
An idea that, once born, no minister could stop.
He imagined assembling a small circle of brilliant minds, men capable of thinking beyond the limits of their age.
A workshop of geniuses.
A forge for the future.
His own silent empire of invention.
He would not beg for influence.
He would make himself indispensable.
Outside, the roses in the Palace gardens swayed gently in the wind, unaware of the quiet storm forming inside the man who watched them.
Arthur turned from the window, determination bright in his blue eyes—a resolve no court custom, no minister, no tradition could suppress.
The fairytale days were over.
The world, and the empire, were about to change.