Arthur's "electric spectacle" spread through London's aristocratic and financial circles like wildfire.
In a single night, the membership threshold for the Royal Society for the Advancement of Science and Industry—his creation, his engine—was nearly overrun by bankers and noblemen waving their cheque books as though they were battle flags.
To them, Arthur was no longer merely the Queen's consort or a brilliant young statesman:
He was a living god of wealth.
A man who could turn ideas into gold.
His prestige, his influence, his magnetism—everything soared to unprecedented heights.
Yet, as fate often prefers, exaltation was followed swiftly by disruption.
Three days after the Winter Salon, a diplomatic storm erupted.
Baron Cornelis van der Waal, the Dutch Minister Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to Britain, submitted a formal, sharply worded diplomatic note to the Foreign Office.
Its message was blunt and unmistakable:
The Kingdom of the Netherlands expressed "grave concern" and "serious doubt" regarding the origins of His Royal Highness Prince Arthur, who had recently been recognized as Prince of a small sovereign entity in the far East—one whose legitimacy the Dutch openly questioned.
They insisted that the territory Britain now acknowledged as Arthur's hereditary domain was, in truth, part of their colonial sphere of influence.
And unless Britain clarified this "misunderstanding," the Dutch government would be forced to treat the matter as an unfriendly act—if not an outright provocation.
The note struck London's diplomatic world like thunder.
Prime Minister Melbourne, with his characteristic nervousness, hurried to Arthur carrying the document in both hands.
"Your Highness… it seems we've encountered trouble," Melbourne said gravely. "The Dutch are seizing upon your eastern principality. How much of this is true?"
Arthur took the note, glanced at it, and placed it on the table as though it were nothing more than a useless scrap of parchment.
He had expected this moment.
Reclaiming a dormant, obscure European claim in the East had been a convenient way to shape an identity—but such convenience came tied to certain historical frictions. And the Netherlands, with their sensitive colonial pride, were always the most likely to bark.
"Half true," Arthur said calmly.
Melbourne blinked.
"Then how on earth do we respond? With diplomacy? With caution? The Dutch aren't to be feared, of course, but a misstep here could still escalate…"
"Crisi?" Arthur interrupted with a quiet laugh.
"No, Prime Minister. This isn't a crisis."
He leaned back, eyes gleaming with controlled fire.
"This is an opportunity."
He tapped the abandoned Dutch note with a single finger.
"After all—why should we tremble because the Dutch protest? This is the perfect moment to remind them what power truly is."
Three days later, in the reception chamber of the Foreign Office, Arthur personally greeted the Dutch ambassador—now boldly accusatory.
"Sua Altezza Reale," Baron van der Waal began, his tone polite yet dripping with condescension, "concerning the legitimacy of your claimed principality, and its supposed sovereignty over lands the Netherlands has long governed… my King expects a clear and reasonable explanation."
Arthur reclined comfortably on the sofa, turning a small globe in his hands, a mild smile on his lips.
He did not answer the question directly.
Instead, he asked calmly:
"Tell me, Baron… is it true your country has not enjoyed much stability these past decades?"
The ambassador stiffened, taken aback.
Arthur's finger traced across the continents on the globe.
"Occupied by the French during the Napoleonic Wars, your king forced into exile here in Britain," he recited quietly.
"Belgium breaking away from your crown not long after—under our mediation, I might add."
"And now your once-proud East Indies Company collapsing under mismanagement and corruption, requiring full state takeover."
Each sentence was a blade.
The baron's face darkened to a furious red.
"You—! You dare insult the Kingdom of the Netherlands?!"
Arthur's smile vanished.
A cold, sovereign aura filled the room like a sudden winter gale.
"I do not insult your kingdom," Arthur said, rising. "I merely remind you of reality."
He guided the baron toward the tall window.
Outside, on the Thames, steamships bearing the Union Jack churned through the water—merchant fleets, warships, the living arteries of an empire.
"These," Arthur said softly, "are what determine the rules of the world."
"Not diplomats.
Not treaties.
Not paper."
He turned, eyes sharp as polished steel.
"You demand clarity about my state's legitimacy? Very well."
He raised one finger.
"First: My principality is now a strategic ally of the British Empire. Any challenge to its sovereignty will be treated as a challenge to the Crown itself."
A second finger.
"Second: I shall establish a National Guard Fleet—crewed by retired Royal Navy sailors and modern merchant ships—which will depart for the East to protect our maritime interests immediately."
A third.
"And third…"
Arthur leaned closer, voice lowering to a deadly whisper:
"As for territorial matters in the East… that island is vast. Vast enough to accommodate both our nations in perfect peace."
He paused.
"But if the Netherlands feels crowded… I will gladly have my fleet help you find more space."
The baron froze.
His mind reeled at the raw, unapologetic force of Arthur's diplomatic cannon-fire.
This was not negotiation.
This was domination.
The Dutch had come expecting explanations.
Instead, they were met by the full, unblinking weight of British naval supremacy—wielded by a prince who smiled as he promised to tear borders apart.
"I… understand," the baron finally whispered, deflated, defeated.
"I will relay your words to my King… precisely."
He bowed, trembling, and fled the chamber like a man escaping execution.
Arthur watched him leave, satisfaction glinting beneath his calm expression.
No nation would dare question his identity again.
Not after this demonstration.
Later that evening, alone in his private study, Arthur unlocked a hidden drawer in his desk.
Inside lay the schematics he had quietly obtained days before meeting Faraday:
the design for an electric heater—simple, elegant, powerful.
He had studied them, memorised them, and kept them sealed away until the night of the Winter Salon, when the demonstration changed the course of British industry.
Those devices were only the beginning.
Far from his final intent.
Arthur closed the drawer, extinguished the lamp, and stood before the window overlooking London.
The city glowed faintly under the gaslights.
Soon, he thought, light would come from a different source entirely—one of his own making.
And the world would follow.