London seethed.
The city hummed with a nervous energy that clung to its fog-laden streets like industrial grime. In the coffeehouses of Cornhill and Fleet Street — where the walls were yellowed by gas lamps and arguments — the air vibrated with speculation. Pipes smoldered, spoons clinked against porcelain, and pocket watches tapped incessantly against wooden tables.
"Have you heard? Future Industries dropped another five points!"
"That's nothing — the entire network of companies connected to them is collapsing. It's a bloody avalanche!"
"That short-selling syndicate… it's unnatural. As if they foresaw every weakness. And every blow lands right where it wounds Prince Consort Arthur Lionheart the most."
The stock exchange district, usually a carnival of ambition and greed, had transformed into a battlefield fought in whispers and glances. For brokers and speculators alike, this was no ordinary turbulence — it felt like a once-in-a-generation clash, a storm no one had seen coming.
And Londoners, ever hungry for drama, devoured it whole.
Newspapers sharpened their pens with the eagerness of men whetting knives. Headlines grew more venomous by the day.
One paper declared with smug confidence:
"Arthur Lionheart — the so-called prodigy — appears to have been inflated by aristocratic myth rather than merit. His 'industrial genius' evaporates at the first sign of true adversity."
Another, more malicious, claimed:
"Rumor whispers that the Prince Consort funneled his last coin into that monstrous ironclad he flaunts. His commercial empire? A hollow shell. A grand illusion. The 'Lionheart Collapse' may be imminent."
The public panicked.
Small investors — the same ones who once treated Arthur as a messiah of modern industry — now scrambled to sell their shares for whatever they could fetch. Fear moves faster than reason, and within days, the sell-off turned into a stampede. Prices plummeted. Future Industries Group began to sink toward its original IPO valuation.
And with every drop, Henry Blythe withered.
Henry, the corpulent, sweat-glazed chief financial officer, had not slept in a week.
Each morning he burst into Arthur's office clutching fresh reports that looked more like death warrants. Every number screamed catastrophe.
"Chief, we can't hold on!" he gasped one morning, half collapsing onto a chair. "You must intervene! If we don't act — now — the entire group will fall apart like a rotted barn!"
But Arthur Lionheart — the man at the epicenter of the crisis — seemed utterly unshaken.
While his empire burned at the edges, he moved with his usual, maddening composure: discussions with Faraday and the Royal Promotion Association, inspections of factories, strategic conversations with the Duke of Wellington. Then, each evening, he returned to Buckingham Palace, where he read quietly beside his pregnant wife as if the rest of London had slipped into another dimension.
Henry watched him sip tea with elegant calm, and at last his patience snapped.
"Chief… what exactly are you thinking?" Henry cried. "Our stock has fallen nearly thirty percent! Our market value is evaporating. That's not abstract — that's money. Our money!"
Arthur set his teacup aside, dabbed the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin, and smiled — not reassuringly, but knowingly.
"Yes, Henry. I know it's money. And I know where it's flowing — directly into the pockets of our opponent."
"Then why aren't we retaliating?" Henry demanded. "We have reserves! You said Her Majesty's treasury holds additional funds. We could drive the price back up — crush those parasites!"
Arthur exhaled a soft laugh.
"Henry, battles aren't won by the loudest roar or by charging in blindly. They're won by choosing the perfect moment. By patience. By striking when the enemy's guard is weakest."
"We are the ones exposed!" Henry insisted, half hysterical. "Our weaknesses are on display for the whole world!"
Arthur's expression sharpened — a flash of cold determination beneath the charm.
"No, Henry. At this moment… they are exposed."
Henry stared, lost.
Arthur rose and walked to the window. Beyond Buckingham Palace, the city sprawled — all chimneys, railways, and the distant thrum of machinery. The shipyard loomed on the horizon, a forest of scaffolding and steel. Sparks cascaded from iron plates like falling stars. The Ironclad Project continued without pause.
"Think," Arthur said quietly. "Why strike now?"
"Because we poured a fortune into the ironclad," Henry ventured, voice small. "Because they believe we're running out of capital."
"A reasonable assumption," Arthur agreed. "But wrong. The truth is simpler. They attacked because they're afraid."
"A-afraid?" Henry choked.
Arthur turned, and in that moment, he seemed every bit the man whom newspapers once crowned a revolutionary.
"Yes. Terrified. My ironclad threatens the naval balance of Europe. My telegraph threatens the world's command of information. And the new industrial power I represent threatens the old aristocratic order. If I succeed… their world ends."
He stepped closer, voice low and edged with steel.
"They fear me, Henry. And fear is the most exploitable weakness of all."
Henry felt the floor tilt beneath him.
Arthur's calm was no longer infuriating — it was menacing. Purposeful.
Like a predator conserving energy before the kill.
"They believe this is a feast for short sellers," Arthur continued, glancing at the latest stock chart. "They imagine they can starve us, halt our progress, force us to our knees."
He lifted a single finger.
"But they made one critical mistake."
Henry leaned in despite himself.
"They don't know how much money we actually have."
Arthur smiled — a slow, devastating smile with the promise of storm behind it.
"And they have no idea that this 'feast'…"
he paused, savoring the words,
"…was prepared by us from the very beginning."
Henry didn't understand. Not fully. But the quiet certainty in Arthur's voice eased a weight in his chest he hadn't realized he was carrying.
Meanwhile, London's elite celebrated too soon.
In private clubs furnished with velvet armchairs and arrogance, bankers toasted to Arthur's downfall. In counting houses along Threadneedle Street, men whispered with smug certainty:
"Lionheart is finished."
Funds mobilized.
Short positions expanded.
The final blow was prepared.
None of them expected salvation — or disruption — to come disguised as a casual remark.
During a routine interview for The Times health column, the Royal Physician, Sir James Clark, made an offhand comment:
"Her Majesty has been slightly fatigued — nothing unusual during pregnancy. But for her well-being, I advised the Prince Consort to suspend his most demanding projects. Particularly that colossal ironclad. At this time, nothing is more important than the Queen's health and the safety of the future heir."
A line.
Barely a paragraph.
Almost invisible on the page.
But for those orchestrating the attack, it landed like a cannon blast.
A signal.
A confirmation.
A trigger.
The moment they had been waiting for.
And also — though they did not yet know it —
the opening note
of their undoing.