Liverpool, on the banks of the River Mersey.
The vast shipyard owned by Future Industries—a conglomerate raised by the Prince Consort—glowed like a second sunrise even in the depth of night. Day after day, the clang of steel, the roar of furnaces, and the rhythmic thunder of hammers had transformed it into the beating heart of Britain's industrial ambitions.
Rumour had long preceded this day.
Within those heavily guarded walls, surrounded by riveted gates and sentries who spoke to no one, a "monster" was taking shape—something said to threaten every established doctrine of naval warfare.
A vessel forged entirely of iron.
A folly, chorused the Admiralty. A lunacy. A ruinous waste of public money.
A coffin.
A joke waiting to happen.
Some newspapers went even further, insisting that once this iron leviathan touched water, it would plunge straight to the riverbed, dragging the Prince Consort's reputation with it.
And yet, curiosity—political, industrial, and military—burned hotter than scorn.
That morning, Liverpool's streets emptied as though the entire city had stepped outside at once. Statesmen, ministers, admirals, foreign delegates, bankers from London and Manchester, journalists from Paris, Vienna, and Washington—they crowded the observation stands until they overflowed.
Faces reflected every colour of human expectation: anticipation, mockery, unease… and that thin, sharp delight one feels when waiting for another man's downfall.
At the front row stood the First Lord of the Admiralty, the Earl of Minto, flanked by senior admirals in immaculate uniforms. Their expressions were smug, almost triumphant.
"Hmph. Let us see how His Royal Highness intends to salvage his pride today," an admiral muttered to another.
"Iron ships! Absurd. The moment it slides down that ramp, it will sink like a cannonball."
"Imagine—hundreds of thousands of pounds! Enough to build another fine Britannia-class ship-of-the-line. Criminal extravagance."
Their whispering ceased instantly when a wave of murmurs swept the crowd.
Prince Consort Arthur had arrived—arm in arm with Queen Victoria herself.
Her presence stunned the assembly. For the sovereign to attend meant endorsement, trust, and something deeper still: political will.
Arthur ignored the startled looks and escorted Victoria to the highest viewing platform. The Queen's brown hair shimmered in the pale winter sunlight, stirred by the cold breeze blowing in from the river.
"Arthur… are you entirely certain?" she whispered, her fingers tightening around his. "All of this—everything—you risk so much."
He answered with a gentle squeeze, his voice steady, his confidence absolute.
"My love, today you will witness the dawn of a new era."
The signal was given.
Chains clattered. Ropes were pulled.
The enormous canvas shroud collapsed in a sweeping curtain of dust and fluttering fabric.
A gasp rolled through the stands like a shockwave.
Before them stood an ironclad unlike anything Europe had yet seen—angular, severe, but undeniably majestic. The hull tapered like a spindle, built of overlapping iron plates that glinted blue-black beneath the winter light. No masts towered above her deck—only two stout funnels and a central armoured conning tower, a squat iron citadel meant to shield officers from incoming fire.
Her armament was even more bewildering.
Gone were the endless rows of traditional broadside guns. Instead, several immense, rotating turrets crowned the deck—each holding a single heavy naval cannon capable of aiming independently, a concept so new it bordered on heresy.
"What on earth…" someone whispered hoarsely.
The Earl of Minto's monocle slipped from his eye and shattered at his feet.
It was not a ship.
It was a declaration.
"What… what is her name?" a Member of Parliament stammered.
The Prince Consort lifted a speaking-trumpet, his voice echoing over the river.
"I name her HMS Queen's Revenge—in honour of Her Majesty's unwavering resolve to defend the glory of the Empire."
A flush rose to Victoria's cheeks—part pride, part emotion.
"Release it!"
Massive gates groaned open.
The iron giant slid down the greased slipway, hissing like a dragon awakened, the sound echoing across the shipyard.
Every breath caught.
Every doubt reached its sharpest point.
"SPLASH—!"
Water exploded skyward.
For a suspended moment, silence reigned over the Mersey.
Then—
"She's afloat!"
"She floats—by God, she floats!"
Cheers erupted like cannon fire.
But Arthur was not done.
He raised a flag toward the conning tower.
A moment later—
A piercing whistle split the air as black smoke surged from the funnels. At the stern, the great screw propeller churned violently, roiling the river.
The ironclad began to move.
Without wind.
Without sails.
By the sheer strength of steam and steel.
Faster—
and faster—
until she surged across the water like a predator, slicing the river in a foaming white wake.
"Impossible! She's twice the speed of our swiftest clippers!" the Duke of Wellington exclaimed, grasping the railing with both hands. "And without a breath of wind!"
The Admiralty officers paled.
The rules of naval war had just changed.
Yet the greatest shock came moments later.
The main turrets began to rotate.
"Good God…" someone whispered.
Arthur signalled again.
"Fire!"
Thunder cracked across the sky.A shell crossed the river, leaving a trail of sparks, and struck a barren stretch of shoreline several miles away.
A roar.
A plume of earth and flame.
A billowing column rising like a dark omen.
Veterans of the Napoleonic Wars—men who had weathered cannon fire and smoke—found their knees trembling.
Never had such destructive power been unleashed from a single ship.
Silence returned, vast and suffocating.
All pride, mockery, and arrogance had evaporated.
Arthur lowered his telescope and turned to the First Lord of the Admiralty. The Earl, stunned into stillness, looked as though the world beneath him had shifted.
The Prince Consort smiled—polite, warm, but edged with unmistakable triumph.
"My dear Earl," he said quietly, "about those twenty contracts… don't you think it would be wise for us to sit down and renegotiate?"