When the applause finally faded and the hall emptied, a lingering quiet settled over the Royal Engineering Exchange. The treaty sat upon the oak table, the twin seals of Britain and Fonseine gleaming faintly in the lantern-light. For a moment, Phillip allowed himself to simply stand there, staring at the parchment.

Not with pride.

Not with relief.

But with the deep, weighty awareness that something irreversible had begun.

Henry approached with his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels.

"Well," he said, "it's done. Signed, sealed, and stamped by two entire governments. You should smile."

Phillip rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I am smiling. Internally."

Henry snorted. "If that's your smile, I pity whoever writes your biography."

Phillip didn't answer—because the chamber doors opened once more, and Crown Prince Adrien reappeared. Dufort trailed behind him, whispering to a British official, but Adrien ignored all of them and made for Phillip with long, purposeful strides.

"Lord Wellington," the prince greeted warmly. "Our work begins now."

Phillip nodded. "Indeed. There is much to prepare."

Adrien's expression softened. "We depart for Montfleur in three days. I would ask that you send a preliminary team to survey prospective routes. Our own engineers will accompany them."

Phillip clasped his hands behind his back. "They will leave by week's end. I have already chosen the best—men who understand both terrain and diplomacy."

Adrien raised a brow. "More diplomacy?"

Phillip offered a light shrug. "They may be asked to explain why British men are wandering across Fonseine farmland with measuring rods. Best they are charming."

For the first time that day, Adrien laughed—quiet but genuine.

"You surprise me, Lord Wellington. You speak like a statesman."

Phillip shook his head. "No. I speak like a businessman who does not want angry farmers chasing me off their vineyards."

Adrien grinned faintly in agreement.

The peace lasted all of five minutes.

A sudden burst of voices echoed through the corridor outside—the frantic shuffle of boots, the scraping of tripods, the rattle of ink presses being wheeled in. Henry's face fell immediately.

"Oh no. Journalists."

Before Phillip could react, the doors burst open and nearly a dozen reporters flooded in like a wave at high tide.

"Lord Wellington! Is this an alliance?"

"Your Highness, will Fonseine abandon its canal expansion?"

"Will Britain export military engines next?"

"Is this the foundation of a—"

Phillip raised a hand sharply, and the crowd immediately paused. Something about his calm steadiness carried weight.

"We will address your questions in order," Phillip said. "But understand this—the agreement signed today is commercial, not military. It is regulated by Parliament and reviewed by the Oversight Committee."

Adrien stepped forward beside him, posture princely and resolute.

"Fonseine seeks progress, not armament. Britain remains our respected neighbor, not our rival. This treaty binds our nations in trade, not in conflict."

The reporters scribbled frantically.

One of them—a woman from the London Register, quill poised with lethal precision—asked:

"Your Highness, does this make Britain the gatekeeper of Europe's future?"

Adrien smiled without hesitation.

"No. Britain has merely opened the gate first. The rest of us now choose how to walk through it."

The press murmured, impressed.

Henry whispered to Phillip, "He's annoyingly good at this."

Phillip agreed—but quietly.

By late afternoon, the reporters were ushered out, the officials dismissed, and only Phillip, Adrien, Henry, and Dufort remained, gathered around a polished table with fresh tea and a spread of small pastries.

Phillip poured tea for the prince. "Your Highness, I'd like to speak frankly. Fonseine will face opposition. Granzreich and Orosk will not appreciate being outpaced."

Adrien took the teacup with steady hands. "I am aware."

Dufort spoke next, voice low. "Since news of your design reached Montfleur, some members of our court have pressed for rapid imitation. Others urged secrecy. And some… fear rails will shift the balance of trade."

Phillip stirred his own cup, thoughtful. "It will. That is the nature of innovation."

Adrien nodded. "Which is precisely why Fonseine must adapt before others grow hostile. The safest path is cooperation."

Henry leaned forward. "But will they accept that?"

Adrien exhaled, gaze distant. "They will… if I show them results. If the first set of rails through Montfleur transforms commerce—if our merchants and farmers prosper—then resistance will crumble."

Phillip tapped a finger against the powdered-sugar crust of a pastry. "Then we must choose the route carefully."

Adrien's eyes sharpened. "You have suggestions?"

Phillip stood and pulled a map from a nearby shelf. He unfurled it across the table. The city of Montfleur sat at the center like a jeweled heart—the River Lys cutting through it, hills rising to the east, vineyards spreading to the south, and the coastal trade ports to the west.

Phillip pointed.

"Here. Begin from the river port at Saint-Lys. Move south through the fertile lands—wine, grains, timber. Goods move quickly, safely. Then curve east toward Montfleur itself. Link the city. Make it the hub."

Adrien leaned in, eyes gleaming with recognition. "You understand our geography almost as well as my own cartographers."

Phillip smiled faintly. "I have studied every map of Europe available."

"And the reason?" Adrien asked.

Phillip's voice was quiet, steady.

"Because the Iron Road does not end in Britain."

Adrien sat back, considering him anew—as if weighing not just his words, but the shape of his ambition.

As evening drew near, the Fonseine delegation prepared to depart. Rain began tapping softly at the windows again.

Phillip escorted Adrien to the grand staircase.

Just before descending, the prince paused.

"Lord Wellington," Adrien said, tone shifting—to something softer, heavier. "A word of caution."

Phillip stopped.

Adrien lowered his voice. "Granzreich will not sit idly. Their Kaiser is proud, and their marshals ambitious. If they feel Britain and Fonseine draw too close, they will respond."

Phillip's expression darkened. "With force?"

Adrien shook his head. "Not yet. But with pressure. Influence. Attempts to lure your machinists, your engineers. They will try to copy what they cannot buy."

Phillip was silent for a moment.

Then he nodded. "And Fonseine?"

Adrien's gray eyes steadied him. "We will abide by our treaty. I give you my word."

Phillip believed him.

Adrien finally descended the steps, coat catching the lantern light, Dufort following a pace behind.

At the bottom, the prince turned briefly.

"We will meet again soon, Lord Wellington. The future demands it."

Phillip offered a respectful bow.

"And I look forward to it."

The doors opened.

Rain glimmered in the gaslight.

The Fonseine carriage rolled away into the mist.

Henry appeared at Phillip's side.

"Well. That's that," Henry said. "Fonseine goes home, you get a week of peace, and the world keeps spinning."

Phillip watched the carriage vanish down the lamplit road.

"No, Henry."

His voice was soft—yet steady.

"This is where the true work begins."

Henry sighed. "Yes, well, before the true work begins, you should sleep."

Phillip finally allowed a tired smile.

"Perhaps."

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