The stunned silence in the Ministry of War telegraph office was broken by Christian's calm voice. "The Admiral is correct. This changes the strategic landscape entirely. We will request an immediate audience with His Majesty. This evening."
There were no objections. The irrefutable, bloody mathematics of the casualty report had silenced all opposition. Count Ahlefeldt and the other generals looked on, defeated, as Christian, Fievé, and Løvenskiold departed with the grim telegrams in hand. They were no longer a radical faction; they were the bearers of Denmark's only victory.
The second audience at Amalienborg Palace was a world away from the first. This time, Christian and his allies were not being summoned for a reprimand; they had requested the meeting, and they were ushered in immediately.
The King was waiting for them in his study, but he was not alone. A grim-faced General de Meza stood by his side, along with a silent, ashen-faced Count Ahlefeldt, who was clearly present by royal command to witness the outcome.
"I have read the preliminary reports, gentlemen," the King began, his voice strained but laced with a hopeful energy that had been absent before. "General de Meza, confirm it."
"It is true, Your Majesty," the General said, his voice flat with professional exhaustion and military awe. "The 2nd Battalion of your Life Guards held Redoubt 6 against an assault by three Prussian infantry battalions. The enemy's advance was completely broken. Their firepower was… extraordinary. The Prussians have taken to calling the position 'the Devil's sewing machine'."
The King allowed himself a thin, rare smile. "A fine name. And you, Count Ahlefeldt? Does this report seem like the work of incompetence?"
Ahlefeldt paled but remained silent, a defeated man forced to watch his rivals' triumph.
It was Admiral Løvenskiold who stepped forward to press their advantage. He addressed the King with the full weight of his authority.
"Your Majesty, the field trial has exceeded all expectations. But a single battalion, no matter how heroic, cannot win this war. The bureaucratic delays of the ministries have already cost us precious time and countless lives. We can no longer afford such indulgence. We have a weapon that works. We must be allowed to use it."
He looked the King directly in the eye. "We ask for a royal decree granting the National Armaments Committee full and unconditional authority over all military-industrial production for the duration of this crisis. All state foundries, all military workshops, the naval shipyards, and their associated budgets are to be placed under the committee's direct and absolute command."
It was a staggering demand. It was a request for dictatorial power over the entire war economy, stripping the traditional ministries of their authority and placing it in the hands of their new, independent committee.
Ahlefeldt started to protest, but the King silenced him with a wave of his hand. He looked at the faces of the three men before him: Løvenskiold, the embodiment of military honor; Fievé, the master of industry; and Christian, the terrifyingly brilliant boy who was the architect of it all. He saw the first glimmer of hope for his kingdom since the war began.
He walked to his desk, took out a heavy sheet of official parchment, and dipped a pen in the inkwell. "Mr. Bjerre speaks highly of your son's… efficiency, Count Eskildsen," the King said as he began to write. "Let us hope it applies to more than just his family's finances."
With a flourish, he wrote out the decree, granting the committee the sweeping powers they had requested. He sealed it with the royal signet and handed the document to Christian.
"You have your authority, gentlemen," the King said, his voice firm. "You have your blank check. Win my war for me."
Later that night, the three allies met in Fievé's office. The mood was not celebratory; it was profoundly sober. The signed royal decree lay on the table between them, its wax seal representing a weight of responsibility so immense it was almost terrifying.
Christian took command, his voice leaving no room for doubt.
"The time for politics is over. Now, we execute. Baron Fievé, tomorrow you will begin the legal process of consolidating the state workshops under the committee's charter. I want a full inventory of every machine tool in the kingdom by the end of the week. Admiral, you will form a new naval design board. Issue the ironclad design competition notice immediately. I will personally oversee the expansion of the rifle conversion program. We will create three more assembly lines."
He stood, his gaze sweeping over his powerful, seasoned allies, who now looked to him, an eighteen-year-old boy, for direction.
Back in his own study, the royal decree lay on his desk, its authority absolute. He had won. He had seized control of the nation's means of production. He had a clear path to building the war machine he had envisioned.
But this victory at home did not change the facts on the ground. A single battalion's heroic stand, while miraculous, would not halt the entire Prussian army. The enemy would learn, adapt, and bring even more force to bear.
The political games were over. From this moment on, his success or failure would be measured not in votes won or allies gained, but in rifles produced, ships launched, and battles won. The real work, the impossible work, had just begun.