The days that followed the departure of the first shipment were a unique form of torment for Christian. He, a man whose entire existence was predicated on knowledge and control, had launched his most critical variable into the fog of war, and now could do nothing but wait. The telegraph wires that connected Copenhagen to the front were a thin, fragile thread, and silence was a constant, gnawing anxiety.
He threw himself into the work of the committee with a ferocious intensity. He could not control the battle, but he could control the preparations for the next one. In the boardroom, Admiral Løvenskiold unrolled the first submitted designs for the new ironclad.
"This one, from a Scottish firm," the Admiral said, pointing, "is conventional. Well-armored, but slow. A floating fortress."
"Her armor is thickest on her broadsides," Christian observed, leaning over the table. "But her deck is vulnerable. In a close-range engagement with a coastal fortress, plunging fire would cripple her. The engine specifications are also inefficient. We can do better."
The Admiral looked at him with surprise and respect. The young Count was not just a rifle designer; he understood naval architecture. The discussion continued, the long-term project of building a fleet providing a welcome distraction from the short-term agony of waiting.
That evening, seeking to solidify their personal alliance, the Admiral invited Christian to a private dinner at his home. Christian accepted, and once more found himself greeted at the door by Amalie Løvenskiold. This time, she did not immediately lead him to her grandfather, but met his gaze in the entryway.
"My grandfather believes you may be Denmark's salvation, Count," she said, her voice direct, without any of the coyness he was used to from the ladies of the court. "Others in the city, the ones whose families have lost influence since your arrival, believe you are a dangerous predator."
Christian was momentarily taken aback by her frankness. He found it… refreshing.
"And what do you believe, Miss Løvenskiold?" he asked.
"I believe you are whatever you need to be to achieve your goals," she replied, her eyes searching his. "Which is what makes you so fascinating, and so frightening."
"Perhaps Denmark needs a predator to chase away the wolves at the door," he said quietly.
A flicker of understanding passed between them. It was a brief, intense connection between two sharp minds, an acknowledgment of the complex game being played. The dinner with her grandfather was a pleasant affair, filled with talk of naval history, but Christian found his thoughts drifting back to the conversation in the entryway. Amalie was an intelligent, perceptive variable he had not accounted for.
He was returning to his residence late that night, his mind a mix of ironclad designs and Amalie's challenging gaze, when he saw the messenger. The man was waiting by the door to his home, his uniform marking him as a courier from the Royal Telegraph Office. He was holding a single, sealed envelope.
The city suddenly felt deathly quiet. Christian's heart, which had remained steady through political battles and royal audiences, began to hammer against his ribs.
He took the envelope from the courier, his fingers steady despite the turmoil inside him. He dismissed the man, walked into the hall of his silent house, and stood under the single gas lamp in the entryway. His hand was perfectly steady as he slid his thumb under the wax seal, breaking it with a clean, deliberate crack.
The telegram was from the Army Command Headquarters in Jutland, addressed to the National Armaments Committee. The ink was stark against the flimsy paper. He read the first line.
Prussian grand assault on Redoubt 6 at Dybbøl began at 0400 hours. The position was held by the 2nd Battalion, Royal Life Guards…