Which was why, three days later, the Admiralty sent a messenger—not to London, not to Parliament, but directly to Shropshire Foundry.

Phillip was in the drafting hall, surrounded by apprentices sketching boiler schematics, when Henry burst in holding a sealed envelope.

He didn't knock.

He also didn't look calm.

"Phillip," he announced breathlessly, "they sent another one."

Phillip looked up from a cross-section drawing of a propeller shaft. "Another what?"

Henry held up the envelope, eyes wide. "From the Admiralty. Personally addressed. And this time— sealed with the Prime Minister's crest."

That made Phillip pause.

He wiped his stained hands with a cotton rag and took the letter. The red wax seal gleamed against the envelope—an unmistakable emblem of authority: crossed quills and laurel leaves.

He broke the seal carefully.

Inside:

Lord Phillip Wellington,

The Admiralty Board and the Cabinet desire a formal presentation regarding your proposed naval engine project.

Location: Portsmouth Royal Navy Dockyards.

Time: Seven days hence.

Bring any prototypes, schematics, materials, or demonstrative devices necessary.

A private vessel has been assigned to transport your team and equipment.

— Admiral Harrington Grant, First Sea Lord

— Lord Percival Hawthorne, Prime Minister

Phillip read it twice.

Henry stared. "They're… sending a ship. For you."

Phillip folded the paper and tucked it into his coat.

So. It had begun.

Portsmouth Royal Dockyards

Seven Days Later

The sea smelled of salt and coal.

Phillip stood at the bow of the small steam transport vessel assigned to him—one of the Admiralty's newest auxiliary ships, called HMS Resolute. Smoke lazily unfurled from its funnel as the coastline of Portsmouth came into view.

Beside him stood four apprentices, two engineers, and Henry—who currently looked like he deeply regretted not staying in Shropshire.

"This is the naval center of the British Empire," Phillip murmured.

And indeed, the sight was remarkable.

Across the harbor, dry docks stretched like scars into the land. Giant cranes creaked as they hoisted wooden beams. Tall masts pierced the skyline like a forest of spears. Dozens of ships lay anchored—frigates, corvettes, trade vessels, and the massive 74-gun ships-of-the-line that represented Britain's naval might.

All of them powered by wind.

Phillip whispered under his breath.

"For now."

Dockworkers watched curiously as Phillip stepped onto the pier—followed by crates of drawings, wooden models, small steam pumps, and coils of steel rods.

Waiting for him was a tall officer in navy uniform, gold epaulets glittering faintly in the sun.

"Lord Wellington?"

Phillip nodded.

The officer extended a gloved hand.

"Commander Edwin Vale. I will be your liaison during your evaluation."

"Evaluation," Henry muttered. "They make it sound like a school exam."

Commander Vale gave Henry a brief glance, then nodded to Phillip. "The Admiralty Board will convene tomorrow morning. Today, you will have access to our facilities. You may inspect dockyards, machine shops, and observe current ship assembly."

Phillip nodded once.

"Good," he said. "I'll need to see everything."

The Dockyard Tour

Walking through Portsmouth Naval Yards was like stepping into the living heart of British power.

Everything was a mix of chaos and precision.

Hundreds of laborers hauled timber, hammered iron rivets into hull frames, and shaped curved beams for ship ribs. The smell of tar, salt, and freshly forged iron clung to the air.

But Phillip was not here to look at sails.

He walked past them—straight toward the machinery.

In one corner, steam pumps operated dock cranes—still clunky, but effective.

Near Building Shed Three, machinists worked on naval cannons.

Henry whispered, "They still muzzle-load everything. They've never seen hydraulics. Or recoil systems."

Phillip studied the cannons quietly. "Not yet."

Through the afternoon, Royal Navy engineers guided them through boiler workshops—and that was where everything changed.

The naval machine chief, a burly Scotsman named Malcolm Barron, frowned at Phillip's sketches.

"This…" he tapped a diagram of the triple-expansion engine, "… uses steam three times in one cycle?"

Phillip nodded.

Barron stared.

"That—would save nearly half the coal."

Phillip corrected him gently.

"Closer to sixty percent, actually."

Barron blinked.

And for the first time in hours, Phillip saw something he had been waiting for.

Not confusion.

Not fear.

But recognition.

This was possible.

That Evening.

Commander Vale led Phillip and Henry to a quiet office in Admiralty House overlooking the harbor. A fire crackled in the hearth, and from the window Phillip could see ship masts rocking gently with the tide.

Vale turned to Phillip.

"Tomorrow, the Board will ask you one question above all," he said.

Phillip nodded. He already knew the question.

Vale continued.

"They will ask—How will this protect Britain? How will this change war?"

Henry, leaning against the window, muttered, "They won't ask if it's possible, then?"

Vale shook his head. "They already know it's possible. You may be ahead of your time, Lord Wellington—but time is catching up."

Phillip said nothing.

But his mind was already racing, refining his words.

Not about machinery.

Not about steel.

But about power.

And about time.

Late Night – Phillip's Quarters

Phillip sat at a Naval writing desk, candlelight flickering on parchment.

In front of him were two sets of schematics.

One labeled:

Screw-Driven Steel Warship (Prototype Design)

4000–5000 tons displacement

Steel hull and bulkheads

Triple-expansion engine

Twin shafts

Rotating turrets

The other:

Wooden Ship-of-the-Line, 74 Guns

Reliant on wind

Broadside firing only

Vulnerable to fire and weather

He reached for his quill and wrote the words that would form the foundation of tomorrow's presentation.

Sails were the past.

Steam is the present.

Steel will be the future.

Then he paused.

Below it, he wrote one more line.

And we will be the first to build it.

Henry entered, carrying two cups of tea. He stopped when he saw what Phillip had written.

He didn't speak for a while.

Then quietly—

"You really think tomorrow changes history?"

Phillip didn't look up.

"It already has."

Henry followed his gaze toward the window, where silhouettes of masted ships rocked against the dimming horizon—majestic, proud, and utterly obsolete.

Not yet, perhaps.

But soon.

And the Admiralty could already feel it.

Phillip sat back, folding the parchment carefully. The candlelight flickered along the ink as if the words themselves burned with purpose.

Not ambition.

Not vanity.

But inevitability.

He stood, placing the documents into his leather satchel—carefully, deliberately—like a man packing more than paper.

Like a man packing the future.

Henry exhaled softly.

"Tomorrow then."

Phillip nodded once.

"Tomorrow."

And outside, beyond the quiet room, beyond Admiralty House, beyond the tide and timber and sails—

The age of wind was already ending.

And the age of steam was beginning.

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