After a remarkably fruitful period of *"deep learning"* in London, the Prussian *"luxury tour group"* finally began their journey back to Berlin, departing with an air of satisfaction—and, in some cases, quiet dread.
Prince Wilhelm, the future Iron Chancellor, clasped Arthur Lionheart's hand with a respect that bordered on reverence. In his eyes flickered not only admiration, but a faint tremor of apprehension—as if he had met a man capable of altering not only his own fate, but that of Prussia itself.
Bismarck, meanwhile, shared a private farewell drink with Arthur. He said nothing when the glass was drained, but before boarding the ship he struck Arthur sharply on the chest and boomed,
**"friend! Wait for my news!"**
Thus Arthur Lionheart had placed his one most important pieces upon the German chessboard.
With the Prussians sent away, Buckingham Palace settled once more into its usual stately quiet.
That evening Arthur lingered in the royal nursery with Victoria, playing with their two toddling children.
He held a small silver rattle, guiding one-year-old Prince Edward to distinguish its shifting tones, while Victoria—softened by lamplight—read a bedtime tale to Princess Vicky.
"…And so," Victoria concluded gently, "the brave prince raised his sword, slew the wicked dragon, and rescued the fair princess."
To her surprise, little Vicky *hmph'd*, scrunched her tiny nose, and declared indignantly:
**"Mama, that story is silly."**
"Oh? And why is that, my love?"
"Because the prince is stupid!" she announced. "Why would he use a sword? He ought to do as Papa does—fire one of those great exploding cannon-balls and blow the dragon and its cave to pieces! That would be faster!"
Arthur nearly spat his water across the carpet.
He stared at his fierce little daughter and wondered—only half in jest—whether his own parenting had already gone somewhat astray.
Before he could comment, Vicky huffed again and fled to Victoria's lap.
"And I don't want to play with that Prussian boy Frederick anymore!"
Victoria arched a brow. "What happened now?"
"He was awful!" Vicky proclaimed. "I told him to crouch down so I could stand on his back and pick the highest rose—but he *dodged* me! I almost fell! He nearly ruined my brand-new dress!"
Arthur and Victoria exchanged a helpless, amused look.
Arthur lifted his daughter into his arms, kissed her warm cheek, and said lightly,
**"Very well. If he dares come again, I'll personally blast him with one of those enormous cannon-balls you admire so much."**
The room filled with laughter—bright, domestic, and blissfully human.
But peace never lasted long for Arthur Lionheart.
On his study desk lay a sealed packet, delivered after two months of travel from the far East—encrypted at the highest level.
Its arrival was silent; its contents were not.
Arthur unfolded it, and his expression slowly hardened.
It was from Sir Henry Hardinge, Governor-General of India—Arthur's own appointee. Hardinge was a soldier of uncommon clarity and steel, a man who embraced Arthur's modern doctrines with fervour. He had long served Britain well; now he wrote with grave urgency.
> *"Your Highness,"*
> *"Something is about to ignite within the Sikh Empire of the Punjab."*
Ranjit Singh—the Lion of the Punjab—had died, and with him the fragile stability of his realm. In his absence, factional slaughter and palace intrigue thrived. Only one force held the nation together:
**The Khalsa Army.**
Organised by French officers, superbly equipped, fiercely proud—
and now **volatile**.
Hardinge's report grew darker.
> *"To distract their court from internal strife—and to justify demands for greater military funding—the Khalsa generals have become dangerously aggressive."*
> *"Three times in the past month they have conducted large-scale manoeuvres directly along our frontier on the Sutlej River. Their artillery has been quite literally trained upon our border outposts."*
> *"Tensions in the field are near breaking. Skirmishes erupt constantly. War may come with a single spark."*
Finally, in bold script:
> **"Your Highness, I beg your direct instruction.
> Shall we strike first and extinguish this threat?
> Or shall we restrain ourselves and attempt diplomacy?
> I implore you—give me the clearest operational directive."**
Arthur set the letter down and walked slowly to the great map that dominated the wall.
His gaze fell upon the broad northern plains labeled *Sikh Empire*.
A prison of circumstance—one he had hoped to avoid—was now unavoidable.
The Khalsa Army was the only indigenous force in nineteenth-century India capable of giving the British Empire serious pause. Disciplined, unflinching, armed with European artillery—its reputation alone could bleed armies.
Historically, Britain had needed two Anglo-Sikh wars—and a mountain of casualties—to conquer them.
And now that formidable adversary had arrived **early**.
War? Or restraint?
Fight, and Britain risked a long attritional struggle.
Wait, and the powder keg might explode on its own terms.
A direct confrontation would be foolish.
Which meant only one thing:
**They must be out-thought, not outfought.**
A new plan crystallised in Arthur's mind—quietly ruthless, cunningly structured, and built entirely upon technological and political superiority.
He returned to his desk and drafted a reply to Hardinge.
He gave no explicit battle orders.
Only **three strategic principles**—mild on the surface, but each one laced with hidden snares.
Hidden leverage.
Hidden pressure.
Hidden inevitability.
The shadow of the Punjab darkened.
Arthur Lionheart sharpened his pen—and his will.