Two months earlier
London — Apsley House, private study of the Duke of Wellington
The chessboard lay in ruin.
The Duke of Wellington stared at it in silence, fingers clenched around the arm of his chair, while Arthur Lionheart calmly restored the captured pieces to their velvet-lined box.
"Checkmate again," Arthur said lightly, his tone courteous, almost indulgent. "I fear I am becoming repetitive."
"Hmph." The Duke snorted, refusing to meet his gaze. "Chess is a parlor trick. War does not unfold on sixty-four squares."
Arthur smiled — not arrogantly, but with the quiet certainty of a man who knew the future had already obeyed him.
"Is that so, Master?" he asked. "Then by now, Sir Harding should have sprung his ambush on the southern bank of the Sutlej, precisely as instructed."
The Duke's eyes sharpened.
"You speak as if it were inevitable. The Khalsa army is no rabble. Their French-trained artillery is formidable."
Arthur's expression did not change.
"Formidable only to those within reach," he replied. "Against a three-kilometer Armstrong breech-loader, courage and tradition are irrelevant. One cannot intimidate steel that never comes close enough to hear you scream."
Silence fell.
The Duke understood. Technology was no longer an advantage — it was destiny.
"After the victory," Wellington said slowly, "what then? Will Harding march on Lahore and end it in a single stroke?"
"No," Arthur answered at once.
"To seize a capital by force is crude. A city taken in blood breeds hatred. Hatred festers. Hatred demands occupation."
He leaned forward, eyes cold, calculating — the gaze of a hunter studying not prey, but ecosystems.
"I do not wish to conquer them," he said softly.
"I intend to let them rot."
The Duke stiffened.
"Last month," Arthur continued, "I dispatched instructions for a siege — one without assault."
He outlined it calmly, methodically.
A siege without attack.
Starvation without heroism.
Rumors seeded deliberately.
Factions encouraged, then inflamed.
Public opinion fractured.
And finally —
"An accidental fire," Arthur said, almost conversationally. "At the precise moment hope becomes brittle."
By the time Arthur finished, the Duke of Wellington — the Iron Duke, undefeated in conventional war — felt a chill crawl up his spine.
The tactics he had once taught Arthur — formations, logistics, discipline — had been refined into something far more terrifying.
This was not war as he knew it.
This was control.
After a long silence, Wellington asked, his voice hoarse:
"Arthur… what kind of army do you intend to make of Britain's?"
Arthur did not answer directly.
Instead, he took up a pen and wrote a letter — long, precise, mercilessly thorough. It contained negotiation protocols, fallback contingencies, and political leverage mapped months in advance.
"The purpose of war," Arthur said, sealing it, "is not slaughter."
"It is to ensure that when peace is discussed… the table already belongs to us."
The letter was handed to a Royal Mail captain bound for India.
"A peace package," Arthur remarked. "They will beg for it within two months."
As he turned away, his thoughts drifted — briefly, privately — to Queen Victoria.
He imagined her teasing smile when she learned the war had ended before it truly began, her sharp wit cloaked in innocence, her fingers tapping the arm of her throne as she pretended not to admire ruthlessness done well.
He smiled to himself.
Now
Outside Lahore — British Army Headquarters
Sir Henry Harding was euphoric.
Mudki had been decisive.
The siege — suffocating.
The fire — devastating.
Within days, Lahore would crack.
He imagined the Regent Queen, Jindan Kaur, kneeling before him, pride burned away with the city's granaries.
A conqueror's smile crossed his face.
Then a courier burst into the tent, breathless, clutching a letter sealed in royal wax.
"Governor-General! Dispatch from London — from His Royal Highness, Prince Arthur Lionheart!"
Harding frowned, then opened it.
His smile froze.
The letter was not a message.
It was a script.
Arthur had predicted every turn — the failed Sikh counteroffensives, the decision to hold Lahore, the inevitable internal divisions, the collapse of morale.
Even the negotiations were outlined in chilling detail.
Concessions permitted.
Red lines enforced.
Final objectives — immutable.
Harding felt cold.
For two months, he realized, he had not commanded the campaign.
He had merely performed it.
Another courier rushed in.
"Governor-General! Envoys from Lahore — white banners! Sent by Queen Regent Jindan Kaur herself!"
Harding folded the letter carefully and placed it inside his coat.
When he rose, the frivolity was gone.
"Have them wait," he said quietly.
"I will see them in thirty minutes."
After the tent emptied, General Hugh Gough exhaled.
"My God, Henry… what kind of mind does that prince possess? This borders on the supernatural."
Harding poured them both rum and drank deeply.
Finally, Gough grinned, leaning in.
"Tell me — that Sikh queen. Rumor says she's the most beautiful woman in Punjab. Planning to enjoy the spoils?"
Harding laughed — the crude laughter of soldiers.
"I would have," he admitted.
Then he tapped the letter on the table.
"But His Royal Highness thought of that too."
He read aloud:
'Queen Jindan Kaur must be treated with full dignity befitting a monarch. Respect wins obedience. Humiliation breeds rebellion.'
Harding sighed theatrically, then smirked.
"Well," he said, clapping Gough on the shoulder,
"Not today, my friend."