HMS Vanguard was still rising in Dry Dock No. 4 when Phillip felt the shift.

Not in metal, not in calculations. In the workers.

They still labored. Rivets still clanged. But today, talk seemed restrained. Movements slower. Something had drained from the air.

Phillip noticed, but didn't stop to ask.

He returned to drawings, turbine layouts, exhaust length calculations. Henry spent the morning yelling at a foundry officer for sending the wrong steel mix. Malcolm cursed at apprentices for misaligning a piston rod. Barrett argued with naval officers about turret placement.

Normal chaos.

Until just after midday, footsteps echoed on the scaffold.

Not hurried. Purposeful.

Phillip turned.

The Duke of Wellington walked toward him. No entourage. No aide. Just him, coat buttoned, face unreadable.

Phillip straightened. "Father?"

The Duke didn't answer.

He reached into his coat.

He handed Phillip a folded newspaper.

Paper edges stiff. Ink still faintly smelled of press.

Phillip's eyes dropped to the headline.

RAIL TRAGEDY AT STAFFORDJORNE – DOZENS DEAD IN HEAD-ON COLLISION

TRAIN LINE OWNED AND OPERATED BY IMPERIAL DYNAMICS CANNOT ACCOUNT FOR SIGNAL FAILURE

He read it twice.

He did not blink.

The Duke spoke only once.

"Go."

He didn't offer sympathy. He didn't offer comfort. Only that one word—and Phillip understood.

He left immediately.

He did not change clothes. Didn't wash the oil smudges from his coat. He climbed onto a horse-drawn carriage. Henry climbed in after him without asking. Malcolm and Barrett remained behind, silent.

The road to Staffordjorne crossed through quiet fields—normally calm. But today, they saw smoke before they saw rails.

Dark. Thin. Twisting into the sky.

When they arrived, they did not step into a disaster scene.

They stepped into stillness.

A stretch of track near a small station lay mangled. Two locomotives lay crushed into each other—iron crumpled like paper, wheels twisted loose, steam still hissing. Carriage wood splintered across gravel and mud. Personal belongings scattered across the ground—hats, gloves, coats, a broken watch, a child's shoes.

Bodies covered, some still uncovered.

Families stood numb. Workers stood pale.

There was no shouting.

No frantic movement.

Only quiet—and grief.

Phillip stepped down from the carriage, boots sinking into mud and ash. He didn't speak. Henry didn't either.

They walked the track.

Railway inspectors approached.

"My lord—" one began.

Phillip didn't answer.

He stepped past them.

He crouched beside the rail junction point. The twisted steel still warm. A bloody handprint smeared across one of the control panels.

He checked the lever housing. Bent. Jammed. Blackened by impact.

He checked the signal post. The semaphore arm had not dropped. The signal should have stopped the second train.

It had not moved at all.

Behind him, Henry slowly read the investigating officer's notes.

"Initial report: manual signal failed. No telegraph. Trackman attempted flag warning—didn't make it in time. Two trains—one northbound, one southbound—believed they had right of way."

Phillip stood.

The inspector tried again. "My lord, we—"

Phillip turned.

He did not speak.

The inspector stopped.

Phillip looked past him.

Toward the bodies.

Railway workers had carried them to a makeshift row near the station wall. Cloth sheets covered most. Some were torn, too small to cover properly.

Phillip walked to the row.

Henry stayed back.

Phillip stopped at the first covered body.

He knelt.

He lifted the cloth.

A man. Middle-aged. Face bruised, arms burned. He wore a railway worker's vest. He had tried to pull the brake lever. The newspaper said so.

Phillip covered him.

At the next—an older woman, still holding fragments of a wicker basket. Eggs smashed across her apron, mixed with blood.

At the third—a pair.

Father.

Daughter.

The child's coat small. Blue ribbon in her hair, half torn. No visible wounds.

She had died instantly.

Phillip stopped moving.

He no longer looked like an engineer or a noble.

He looked like someone staring at a mirror showing something he didn't want to see.

Henry approached quietly.

"They're blaming signalmen," he said softly. "Some blame the brakemen. Some blame the railway company."

Phillip spoke for the first time.

"They blame whoever is alive."

Henry didn't answer.

"The tracks failed." Phillip's voice was low. "The signal failed." His eyes stayed on the bodies. "But failure never belongs to iron. Or gears. Or steam."

He pressed his hand against a broken steel rail.

"Failure belongs to the one who designed it."

He stood.

He turned to the inspectors.

"How many died?"

A man swallowed. "Thirty-seven on record, my lord. More injured. Some—their names aren't yet known."

Phillip nodded once.

He looked toward the wreckage.

Twisted iron. Collapsed carriages. Scattered baggage.

A railway built on innovation.

But not yet on safety.

Phillip walked toward the station telegraph building. The walls were cracked. The window shattered.

Inside, a telegraph key sat untouched on the table.

It had not been used.

There had been no alert.

No warning.

He stared at it for a long time.

Henry stood in the doorway, waiting.

Phillip turned.

"Bring the railway engineers."

Henry nodded.

"And the signal designers."

Henry nodded again.

"And the telegraph controllers."

"Phillip," Henry said carefully. "What are you—"

"Because this cannot happen twice."

Henry looked at the wreck again.

Phillip's jaw tightened.

"This cannot happen twice," he repeated.

Reporters arrived by afternoon.

They stood at a distance, unsure whether to approach.

The Duke arrived at dusk.

He didn't interrupt.

He did not console.

He stood beside Phillip, coat swept by wind, eyes on the ruins.

Only after a while did he speak.

"You cannot build the future," he said, "and forget that people must live in it."

Phillip didn't respond.

The Duke continued.

"Power without safety is negligence. Innovation without discipline is reckless. A man who builds machines must also build trust."

Phillip stared at the wreck.

"I know."

The Duke looked at him—not judging, not coddling. Just steady.

Phillip looked back at the ruined locomotives.

Steam still hissed from their shattered boilers.

Steel still held heat from the collision.

He stood there until dark.

Only when lanterns were lit across the site did he finally speak.

"We rebuild," he said quietly.

Henry nodded.

"The railway?"

Phillip turned toward the darkening tracks.

"No."

He looked back at the wreckage.

"We rebuild everything."

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