CHAPTER 30: THE TOUR

Three days passed before Phillip saw Crown Prince Adrien again.

Fonseine’s delegation spent much of the interim touring Parliament, meeting with the Board of Trade, and navigating the dense thicket of British bureaucracy. News of Adrien’s presence spread quickly; by the week’s end, London’s coffeehouses were filled with murmurs:

"The Crown Prince of Fonseine here for the Iron Road!"

"Will Britain export locomotives? Will we lose our advantage?"

"Is this the beginning of a new alliance—or a new rivalry?"

Phillip ignored the gossip as best he could. Imperial Dynamics had grown too large, too important, too visible for him to indulge in rumor. Every hour was consumed by reports from Shropshire, Manchester, Birmingham, and the new workshops rising along the Thames.

Still, he could not deny a certain tension in the air—one that had begun the moment Adrien stepped foot in London.

It wasn’t hostility. Not yet.

It was anticipation, like the quiet hush before the first whistle of a departing train.

A crisp morning wind swept through the London rail yards, carrying the scent of coal and wet iron. The locomotives under assembly gleamed darkly in the sunlight, their riveted plates catching the glint like armor.

Phillip stood beside Henry as workers hurried to pull tarps over several unfinished engines. Parliament had ordered strict secrecy around the newest designs, and Phillip intended to obey.

"Do you think he’ll be impressed?" Henry asked, adjusting his coat as he watched the yard bustle.

Phillip allowed a faint smile.

"He’s a man of reason. He’ll see what must be seen."

"And what about what must not be seen?" Henry muttered.

Phillip didn’t answer, because that was the moment Crown Prince Adrien strode through the large steel gates, accompanied by Marquis Dufort and several British officials.

Adrien paused at the sight before him: dozens of engines new and old, rows of workshops, coal wagons, and track-running trolleys. Men shouted commands, sparks flew from forges, and steam curled up in dense white plumes.

It was not beautiful in the traditional sense.

But it was grand.

It was power made visible.

Phillip approached.

"Your Highness. Welcome to the London yards."

Adrien’s gaze swept across everything—sharp, assessing, calculating—but filled with a quiet awe.

"So this," he murmured, "is where the Iron Road is born."

They walked the platforms first, stepping between locomotive frames. Phillip explained everything with practiced clarity:

The standardized gauge.

The double-bogie design.

The steel underframes.

The advanced boilers with reinforced seams.

The firebox drafts engineered to burn hotter with less coal.

Adrien listened, not interrupting except to ask concise, incisive questions.

"How many engines can Britain produce per month?"

"How many rails are laid each week?"

"Which mines supply your iron?"

"How soon before you connect Scotland?"

"What prevents derailment at high speeds?"

Phillip answered each calmly, though privately he admired the prince’s precision. This was no idle noble playing at diplomacy. This was a man who understood the machinery of nations.

When they reached the passenger coaches—two newly-painted first-class models destined for the Royal Line—Adrien paused.

He ran a hand lightly over the polished oak paneling and brass fittings.

"Magnificent craftsmanship," he said softly. "Unlike anything on the continent."

Phillip nodded. "Britain was forced to adapt quickly. Horses and roads cannot keep up with our industry."

Adrien gave a quiet hum.

"Industry is the lifeblood of modern states. And Britain has found a way to make it flow faster."

Phillip had prepared a short demonstration run—five miles of track leading out toward the Thames marshes.

When the locomotive steamed forward with a proud whistle, Adrien stepped into the first-class coach. Velvet seats, polished rails, bright glass windows—it was comfort made mobile.

The engine chuffed once, twice—then surged forward.

The countryside blurred past the windows. The ground shuddered faintly beneath the wheels, but the ride remained steady, smoother than any carriage on stone.

Adrien leaned back, gray eyes fixed on the landscape rushing by.

"Remarkable," he whispered. "No jolt. No mud. No danger of throwing a wheel into a ditch."

Phillip nodded.

"Rails do not bend to the chaos of the road. They dictate the path."

Dufort, gripping the brass rail, exhaled in wonder. "This... this will change all of Europe."

Adrien’s tone grew thoughtful.

"It already has."

The coach slowed. The demonstration ended. But the silence that followed lingered like a shifted tide.

After the ride, Phillip led the prince to a quiet maintenance shed overlooking the water. The workers kept their distance.

It was here, away from officials and ministers, that Adrien spoke plainly.

"Lord Wellington," he began, "I fear the world is misunderstanding what Britain has achieved."

Phillip folded his arms. "Go on."

"Some fear a weapon. Others fear a revolution. But what I see..." Adrien tapped the window frame, gesturing at the tracks outside.

"...is a bridge. A bridge to prosperity, to movement, to knowledge. Britain’s advantage need not be a threat."

Phillip met the prince’s eyes.

"And yet, your rivals believe otherwise. Even your allies."

Adrien did not deny it.

"They see Britain’s future and fear their own irrelevance."

He paused, voice lowering.

"Help me prove them wrong. Fonseine does not seek domination. We seek participation. If your Parliament approves our treaty, we will build our first line through Montfleur. It will carry wine, grain, steel—and people. It will not be used to move armies, but to move lives."

Phillip was silent for a long moment.

Then he answered quietly.

"You speak well, Your Highness. And sincerely. That matters more than you know."

A faint smile touched Adrien’s lips.

"Then you will support our petition?"

Phillip nodded.

"I will. But Parliament’s fear runs deep. Their law binds my hands."

"And yet," Adrien said softly, "your voice can guide theirs."

Phillip chuckled.

"And here I thought you came only to see the engines."

"Engines are simple," Adrien replied. "Men are the complicated ones."

When the delegation prepared to leave, the sky had cleared into a pale spring blue. The prince stood by his carriage as Phillip approached.

"We will speak again," Adrien said. "I will send a formal proposal to the Oversight Committee within the week."

Phillip bowed slightly.

"And I will review it myself."

Before stepping into the carriage, Adrien offered one final remark.

"One day, Lord Wellington... Britain and Fonseine may not just share rails. They may share destiny."

Phillip watched the carriage pull away, the blue-and-gold banners fluttering one last time before fading into the fog.

Henry approached beside him.

"So?" he asked. "What do you think of him now?"

Phillip exhaled slowly.

"I think," he said, "we’ve met a man who understands the future."

Henry raised a brow.

"And is that a good thing?"

Phillip looked toward the distant tracks, steam curling upward like a promise.

"For Britain?"

A small smile tugged at his lips.

"Yes. I believe it is."