CHAPTER 28: SHADOWS OF THE CONTINENTAL RAIL

London, Winter 1783

Snow drifted in lazy spirals outside the tall windows of Imperial Dynamics’ London headquarters, softening the city’s sharp edges and muffling the endless clatter of carriages. But inside Phillip Wellington’s private office, the world was anything but quiet.

Stacks of ledgers, coded reports, and diplomatic memoranda filled every inch of the table. Engineers came and went through the halls below, shouting over the rumble of boilers and hammering of steel. In the yard outside, half-completed locomotives glinted under the dim winter sun.

And yet, amidst all this noise, Phillip sat perfectly still.

He stared at the parchment in his hands—the Fonseine contract stamped with the unmistakable crest of Crown Prince Adrien de Montclair. A personal seal. Not a bureaucrat’s. Not a clerk’s. A prince’s.

Henry Carter leaned against the doorway watching him, arms folded.

"You’ve had the same look for the past ten minutes," Henry remarked. "Either you’ve gone mad, or something about Adrien’s fancy little symbol has soured your stomach."

Phillip placed the document flat on the desk.

"Henry... no Crown Prince personally seals a foreign trade contract unless he intends something more than commerce."

Henry’s brow rose. "You think he’s planning theft?"

Phillip shook his head slowly. "Not theft. Acquisition. Study. Replication. If I were him, I’d do the same."

Henry snorted. "Good thing you’re on our side."

Phillip did not smile.

By afternoon, a messenger from Parliament arrived, boots soaked through, bearing a sealed letter marked "Urgent." Phillip broke it open and scanned the contents.

"Foreign technicians from Fonseine will be arriving within three weeks," he muttered.

Henry groaned. "Spies disguised as engineers."

Phillip continued reading.

"And Granzreich is sending observers to Manchester. Orosk has requested winter tests in Scotland. And the Iberian Union wants copies of our signaling diagrams."

Henry let out a long sigh. "Well, congratulations. You’ve started an industrial war."

Phillip placed the letter down.

"No, Henry. I’ve started industrial civilization. The war comes after."

The next morning, Phillip was summoned to Westminster.

The House of Commons was overflowing—MPs, aides, reporters, even foreign diplomats perched like vultures in the galleries. When Phillip entered the chamber, a wave of murmurs passed through the room.

Prime Minister Whitby stood at the center, papers in hand.

"Lord Wellington," he began, "you and Imperial Dynamics have brought prosperity to Britain unlike any in our lifetimes. But prosperity draws envy—and envy draws eyes. We must now protect what we have created."

Phillip bowed respectfully. "What does the government require?"

Whitby lifted a document for all to see.

"A new law: The Railway Safeguards Act. No foreign engineer may access Imperial Dynamics facilities without direct Crown supervision. No blueprints may be copied or exported. Every foreign contract must pass through a Royal Oversight Committee."

Several MPs nodded vigorously.

Others scowled.

One rose—an older man with harsh features. "Lord Wellington, is it true Fonseine’s Crown Prince signed his contract personally?"

Phillip hesitated only a moment. "Yes."

A ripple of concern went through the chamber.

"So, the Fonseinese intend to build their own engine," the MP said coldly. "And the Europeans are circling our innovations like wolves. Britain must not allow its industries to become prey."

Whitby struck his gavel. "Which is why this law must pass."

And pass it did—with overwhelming support.

Henry met Phillip outside afterward.

"They treat you like a hero," Henry murmured, "but mark my words—they’re tightening chains around you."

Phillip did not disagree.

That evening, a courier arrived at Imperial Dynamics, breathless, cheeks red from the cold.

"Message from the Birmingham Works—marked ’Eyes Only.’"

Phillip broke the seal. His expression shifted.

Henry leaned closer. "What is it?"

Phillip handed him the report.

Three foreign men were caught wandering outside the locomotive sheds in the dead of night.

They spoke little English. Carried measuring rods and notebooks. Claimed to be cartographers.

Henry exhaled sharply. "Cartographers my arse."

Phillip rubbed his forehead.

"It’s already begun," he murmured. "Fonseine, Granzreich, the Iberians... they’ve all sent agents ahead of their official delegations."

"And what do we do about it?" Henry asked.

Phillip’s eyes hardened.

"We tighten security. Double the guards. Triple the watchmen. Anyone caught trespassing will be brought directly to me."

Two days later, another letter arrived—this one bearing a beautifully engraved seal of lilies.

Fonseine.

Phillip opened it carefully.

**To Duke Phillip Wellington,

I congratulate you on your nation’s achievement.

Progress belongs not to one kingdom, but to mankind.

And thus, I hope you will allow Fonseine to partake in this new age.

I intend to visit London within the year.

I hope we may speak—not as rivals, but as stewards of the future.

—Adrien de Montclair**

Crown Prince of Fonseine

Henry nearly choked on his tea.

"The Crown Prince himself!? Here? In London?"

Phillip read the letter again slowly, eyes narrowed.

"Yes. Which means he does not simply want engines or rails." He folded the letter. "He wants something else."

"What?" Henry asked grimly.

Phillip looked out the frost-covered window at the smoking yards beyond.

"He wants to understand the man who built them."

Henry rubbed his face. "That’s... trouble, Phillip."

Phillip didn’t disagree.

Over the following week, Phillip barely slept.

Every morning brought new letters:

Granzreich now demanded a military-grade locomotive capable of hauling artillery.

Orosk insisted on cold-resistant alloys.

The Iberian Union wanted rights to build their own coachworks under "Imperial Dynamics license."

And worse—there were rumors.

Rumors of Fonseine building factories near Montfleur, ostensibly for textiles... but located suspiciously close to old iron mines and charcoal furnaces.

Rumors of Granzreich recruiting British machinists with promises of gold.

Rumors of Orosk buying maps of British rail routes at obscene prices.

The world was shifting faster than any monarch could react.

Henry barged into the office late one night.

"Phillip. You need sleep. You’ve been staring at the same blueprint for three hours."

Phillip didn’t look up. "We’re running out of time."

"For what?"

"Before they catch up." Phillip finally stood. "Britain must finish the Scotland line before Granzreich builds their first. We must reach Bristol before Fonseine lays a single rail. We must have factories in every county before Orosk even understands the pressure-cycling math."

Henry stared at him. "Phillip... you look like you’re preparing for war."

Phillip turned away, whispering:

"I am."

On Christmas Eve, as Phillip walked alone through the foundry yard, steam drifting around him, he stopped at the sight of one solitary locomotive—The Queen’s Arrow—gleaming under moonlight.

The first royal carriage.

The symbol of Britain’s new age.

His creation.

And yet... a cold thought lingered.

Whoever mastered this technology would dominate not just trade, but nations. Move armies. Shape the world.

And on the continent, a man just as young, just as brilliant, just as driven—Crown Prince Adrien—was staring back at him across the Channel.

Phillip clenched his fists.

"The race has begun."