The sails of La Belle Lys billowed as the ship glided toward Montfleur's harbor, cutting through waves painted in early summer gold. Crown Prince Adrien de Montclair stood at the bow, hands resting on polished railings, as the first familiar outlines of home sharpened into view—the clustered stone houses, cathedral spires, the River Lys winding like a silver ribbon through the heart of the capital.

Montfleur always looked serene from a distance.

But Adrien knew that serenity was a mask. Underneath was a kingdom wrestling with old structures, old trades, old fears.

And the Iron Road—his Iron Road, now secured from Britain—would either soothe those fears or ignite them.

Marquis Dufort approached behind him.

"Your Royal Highness," he said gently, "the harbor has prepared a full reception. Ministers, courtiers, even merchants. Word of our arrival traveled ahead."

Adrien didn't turn.

"Word tends to travel faster than ships."

"Especially news of success," Dufort added with a knowing smile.

Adrien exhaled slowly, watching Montfleur grow closer.

"Let us hope they see it as success."

The Palais de Lys — Council Chamber

The moment Adrien entered the palace, the guards straightened, the attendants bowed low, and ministers immediately converged like scholars awaiting a verdict. But the doors of the Grand Council Chamber silenced all noise; inside, a cold hush reigned under the vaulted ceilings and gilded beams.

King Louis-Philippe II—the aging monarch whose health had begun to wane—sat at the head of the table, wrapped in a velvet mantle despite the warm season. His gaze, sharp and pale, lifted as Adrien bowed deeply.

"Rise, Adrien," the king commanded, voice still carrying the weight of authority. "Tell us—did Britain refuse us?"

Adrien straightened.

"No, Father. Britain accepted."

The room stirred instantly.

One minister choked on his own breath. Another dropped his quill. A third muttered, "Blessed saints…"

The king squinted. "Explain."

Adrien stepped forward and placed the sealed treaty on the table.

"We have secured a controlled export:

One demonstration locomotive, Fifteen miles of rail manufactured in Britain, A full British technical team to supervise installation, And permission for Fonseine engineers to observe production within legal boundaries."

The king stared at the document, then at his son.

"You achieved all this… with Britain's Parliament watching your every move?"

Adrien inclined his head.

"Through cooperation, caution, and sincerity."

The ministers erupted into overlapping voices:

"This will transform our trade routes!"

"The nobility will panic—the canals will be worthless!"

"Our forges cannot handle the demand—"

"The Church will resist modernization—"

Adrien raised a hand. Silence fell.

"Gentlemen," he said firmly, "Britain has not offered us a weapon. They have offered us a tool. And we will use it to strengthen our kingdom—from the vineyards of the south to the ports of Saint-Lys."

Dufort stepped forward. "Your Majesty, our first task is to prepare the lands for survey. The British engineers will arrive within the week."

"How soon can construction begin?" a minister asked nervously.

Adrien answered without hesitation.

"Before the year ends."

A wave of astonished whispers rushed through the chamber.

Finally, the king leaned back, tired yet visibly proud.

"Then Fonseine enters a new age," he murmured. "You have done well, Adrien. Better than many would have dared hope."

Adrien bowed once more.

But inside, he felt the pressure tightening.

A new age… yes. But also a fragile one.

By evening, Montfleur was thrumming with news.

Messengers ran across bridges, criers shouted headlines in the market squares, and newspapers circulated faster than they could be printed:

"FONSEINE SECURES THE IRON ROAD!"

"BRITAIN AGREES TO LOCOMOTIVE EXPORT!"

"CROWN PRINCE RETURNS WITH INDUSTRIAL TRIUMPH!"

Merchants celebrated—visions of faster trade danced in their imagination.

Factory owners rejoiced—anticipating growth few had ever dared to dream.

But not everyone was pleased.

Aristocrats whispered in dim salons, their voices sharp with unease:

"Rails will disrupt the old order."

"Our estate routes will change."

"What of canal investments?"

"Will the people move too freely?"

"Will Montfleur fill with foreigners? Engineers? Labourers?"

Each whisper fueled the next.

Adrien expected this.

Change had always produced friction.

But he also believed friction could create progress—if guided wisely.

A Brief Respite

As the sun dipped behind the rooftops, Adrien finally stepped away from the palace and chose a quieter path toward the gardens. The warm evening breeze carried the scent of roses and river mist. For the first time since London, he allowed his rigid posture to ease.

Dufort followed at a respectful distance.

"You should rest, Your Royal Highness."

Adrien shook his head.

"There is one more place I must visit."

Dufort blinked. "Now? At this hour?"

"Yes." Adrien's tone softened. "News such as this must reach every corner of the kingdom—especially the places where progress matters most."

He turned toward the western district, where the white spires of the Royal François Hospital rose against the fading sky.

The Royal François Hospital

The hospital's marble corridor was awash in lamplight. Nurses carried trays, physicians murmured in consultation, and the faint herbal scent of cleansed instruments drifted through the halls.

Adrien's footsteps echoed as he made his way toward a familiar wing.

He visited often—more quietly than the public knew.

At the far end of the corridor, the door of the consultation room opened, and a young physician stepped out, adjusting her sleeves.

Lady Émilie de Orléans.

Daughter of the Duke of Orléans.

But more importantly—Fonseine's brightest medical mind, the healer who cured illnesses declared hopeless, who performed operations other doctors wouldn't dare attempt.

Her beauty was undeniable—soft curls pinned neatly, eyes the color of warm chestnut, posture poised yet kind—but what struck Adrien every time was the calm certainty she carried, as if illness itself hesitated before reaching her.

When she saw him, she halted in surprise.

Then she bowed gracefully.

"Your Royal Highness. I was not informed of your visit."

Adrien offered a faint smile.

"I arrived unannounced."

"Your visits usually are," she said, amusement flickering in her eyes. "But you would not be here unless something important had occurred."

He nodded.

"You are correct."

She gestured toward the consultation room. "Please, come inside."

Adrien followed her in. The room was small—lined with anatomy charts, carefully labeled jars of tinctures, and handwritten notes. The smell of herbs lingered in the air.

Émilie folded her hands. "What news do you bring, Your Royal Highness?"

Adrien spoke plainly.

"Fonseine has secured a treaty with Britain. We will receive a steam locomotive, rails, and British supervision to construct our first line."

Émilie's eyes brightened instantly.

"That is incredible news. This will revolutionize patient transport, medicine supply, rural care—Your Royal Highness, this could save thousands of lives!"

Adrien felt a warm satisfaction rise within him.

"I thought you might see the benefit."

"Benefit? It is a blessing," she said earnestly. "May I ask—what is the company's name? The one producing these machines? I have not kept abreast of London's industries."

Adrien answered casually:

"Imperial Dynamics System."

Émilie froze.

Her breath caught—not softly, not subtly, but sharply, as though the air had been ripped from her lungs.

The color drained slightly from her face.

Adrien frowned.

"Lady Émilie? What is it?"

For a moment, she didn't speak.

Her eyes widened, focused on nothing, as if pulling a memory from somewhere deep, somewhere she thought she had buried.

Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper—

"Imperial Dynamics…?"

She swallowed, her expression shifting to recognition.

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