Lahore – The Palace of Mirrors
When the peace delegation returned with the finalized draft of the Treaty of Lahore—personally amended by Sir Henry Hardinge—Queen Regent Jindan Kaur was alone in her private chamber, restless as a hunted creature.
She had discarded her magnificent sari and now wore a simple white dress, threadbare at the edges. All jewelry had been removed. Her bare face, unadorned and pale, appeared almost fragile.
In her right hand, she clutched a small Persian dagger.
She understood well the fate awaiting a queen of a defeated nation—especially one renowned for her beauty.
History was mercilessly consistent.
She would be treated as spoils of war. Claimed, humiliated, passed between conquerors—perhaps the coarse Governor Hardinge himself, or some decorated general drunk on victory. And when her novelty faded, she would be exiled, imprisoned, forgotten… to die quietly in obscurity.
Her thoughts turned to her son.
Young Duleep Singh, soon to be monarch of a fallen kingdom.
Her heart felt flayed.
"No…" Her grip tightened around the dagger, steel resolve flashing in her eyes. "I am Jindan Kaur, consort of the Lion of Punjab. If I must die—then I shall die with dignity."
At that moment, the voice of Prime Minister Devan Singh, strangely buoyant—almost joyful—rang out from beyond the chamber doors.
"Your Majesty! Extraordinary news! Astonishing news!"
He rushed in, breathless, wearing the manic smile of a man who had survived execution by inches. He raised the treaty as if it were a sacred decree.
"The British— they have accepted peace! They have agreed to preserve the status of the Sikh royal house! They recognize the Maharaja's legitimacy! And— and they recognize you, Your Majesty, as Regent!"
"What…?"
Jindan Kaur froze.
This did not sound like terms of surrender.
It sounded like fantasy.
She seized the treaty and read the clause concerning the recognition and protection of the Sikh royal family. The tension in her chest finally loosened.
The emotional reversal—from abyss to reprieve—robbed her strength. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the carpet.
She had not been defiled.
Her son retained the throne.
Even if the price was that the Sikh Empire would henceforth exist as a British protectorate—its wealth milked, its sovereignty hollowed.
They were alive.
And dignity—however nominal—remained.
"It was… Prince Arthur Lionheart," Devan Singh added in a reverent whisper, as though invoking a distant god. "Governor Hardinge said this mercy was arranged two months ago, by His Highness himself, from London. He wished to prevent Punjab from collapsing into chaos… and hoped Your Majesty would govern it stably."
Arthur Lionheart…
She repeated the name silently.
She stared at the treaty and recalled the legends surrounding the man she had never met—the conqueror who had shattered her world yet spared her crown.
Fear. Humiliation.
And, absurdly…
Gratitude.
This devil-prince had offered her a choice:
Live as a dignified puppet—
—or perish with pride.
She chose life.
Berlin – Sanssouci Palace
Thousands of miles away, King Frederick William IV of Prussia, the eternal romantic, stood before a vast railway planning map, locked in heated—but polite—argument with his younger brother, Prince Wilhelm.
Nearby stood Otto von Bismarck, silently observing.
"No! Absolutely not!" the King protested, pointing sharply at the proposed railway to the Ruhr. "This route is hideous! It scars the countryside! If we must build, then first we build the Royal Panoramic Railway to Potsdam Forest—Gothic stations, forests, lakes—that is true art!"
"Brother!" Prince Wilhelm wiped sweat from his brow. "We need coal and steel, not poetry! Ruhr is the industrial artery of Prussia!"
"But it is ugly!" the King insisted.
At last, Bismarck spoke.
He did not debate art versus industry.
Instead, he calmly produced an illustrated Times report of Britain's Crystal Palace.
"Your Majesty," he said gently, "it is rumored that Prince Arthur Lionheart plans to construct the world's greatest Royal Botanical Conservatory at Buckingham Palace—steel and glass, eternal spring, filled with exotic plants from across the Empire."
The King leaned in.
"And," Bismarck continued, eyes glinting, "a private gold-plated garden railway for the royal family—pulled by the most luxurious miniature steam locomotive ever built."
"…A golden miniature train?"
The King's eyes sparkled.
"Otto! Can we build such a marvel in Prussia?"
"Certainly, Majesty," Bismarck smiled. "But steel and coal will be required. And the finest supplies lie… in the Ruhr."
Silence.
At last, Frederick William signed the railway bill.
"Very well. Ruhr first. But afterward—you will build me my golden train."
Bismarck and Wilhelm exchanged a satisfied glance.
Thus, through aesthetic indulgence, Prussia's iron path quietly began.
London
Arthur Lionheart received confirmation from India: the Treaty of Lahore had been signed.
Precisely as planned.
A century-long threat had been neutralized. Punjab had become a protectorate—fertile, compliant, profitable.
An excellent return on war.
In high spirits, he carried the news to Queen Victoria, who sat in the garden, gently rocking on a swing while children laughed nearby.
"My dear," he said warmly, handing her the report, "Sir Hardinge performed admirably. I believe we've added a rather handsome sapphire to your crown—Kashmir."
Victoria read the dispatch, pride glowing softly in her eyes.
"You're dreadful," she said lightly. "And brilliant."
Arthur smiled.
Then another envelope arrived—black-sealed.
He opened it.
His expression hardened instantly.
"What is it?" Victoria asked, concern flickering.
"Nothing serious," he replied calmly. "Merely… an inconvenience."
The report came from Panama.
The canal excavation had progressed smoothly—until recently.
Construction sites were under attack.
British engineers—dead.
The assailants: indigenous tribes aided by armed militants of unknown origin.
Weapons traced to Springfield rifles, American manufacture.
Funding traced to a Boston-based entity:
The American Freedom and Independence Foundation.
Arthur stared at the page.
"United States of America…"
Cold intent settled in his eyes.
This was retaliation.
Unable to confront British-armed forces directly, Washington had chosen sabotage—guerrilla war, terrorism in the shadows.
They sought to delay—or destroy—the Panama Canal.
Arthur stepped toward the great world map.
His gaze fixed on the Caribbean.
"If you prefer asymmetrical war," he murmured, "then I shall oblige."
"I will turn your Monroe Doctrine into a bonfire."
"And then," he smiled thinly,
"we shall see who is still smiling."