The guns on the Jutland front fell silent. An armistice, brokered by the great powers of Europe, settled over the blood-soaked fields of Dybbøl. The war of cannons was over for now, but for Christian, a new, more dangerous conflict was about to begin. He was no longer studying engineering schematics; his desk was now buried in biographies of foreign statesmen, analyses of trade agreements, and every available word ever written by or about the primary architect of the war: Prussia's Minister President, Otto von Bismarck.
The London Peace Conference was to decide the fate of Denmark. Christian, as the youngest member of the Danish delegation, was seen by his countrymen as a talisman—the boy genius whose weapons had saved the army. He knew better. He was a strategist preparing for a new kind of battle, one that would be fought not with rifles, but with words, leverage, and sheer force of will.
The day before his departure, he received a visit from Amalie Løvenskiold. She brought him a packet of naval reports from her grandfather.
"He thought you would want to remain appraised of the ironclad project, even while you are away," she said, her expression serious.
"The Admiral is a good man," Christian replied, taking the documents.
"He believes you can win this, Count," she said, her voice softer than he had ever heard it. "That you can face the Prussians at the negotiating table and save what is left of the kingdom."
"Bismarck plays chess with nations, Miss Løvenskiold," Christian said, a cold confidence in his eyes. "I have no intention of playing his game. I will be playing my own."
London was a different world. It was the undisputed heart of a global empire, a sprawling, roaring metropolis of iron, coal smoke, and commerce that made Copenhagen feel like a provincial town. It was a city that understood power, and Christian felt a strange sense of coming home to a scale that matched his own ambitions.
The reception was held in the Locarno Room at the Foreign Office, a cavern of gold leaf and crystal chandeliers where the air hummed with power spoken in three different languages. Christian, a stark figure in his black mourning coat, kept to the periphery, a glass of untouched wine in his hand. He watched the game unfold. He noted the French delegation, a tight, aloof circle conversing in rapid, dismissive French, their posture radiating a theatrical boredom with their surroundings. He saw his British hosts, Lords Palmerston and Russell, foregoing grand pronouncements for quiet, intense conversations with London bankers, their discussions visibly centered on shipping lanes and war indemnities—the practical calculus of empire. And he saw the Austrian ambassador, standing alone near a potted fern, looking isolated and profoundly weary, a man representing a declining empire, watching with treprepidation as its Prussian rival took center stage.
As if sensing Christian's gaze, the center of that new power turned and looked directly at him. Standing a head taller than any man around him was a giant in a Prussian military uniform. His magnificent white mustache framed a face of pure, indomitable will, and his pale blue eyes missed nothing. It was Otto von Bismarck. He excused himself from his conversation and began to walk toward Christian, parting the crowd like a ship of the line cutting through a fishing fleet.
"Count Eskildsen," Bismarck's voice was a deep, resonant rumble. "The boy-wonder of Copenhagen. I have been most eager to meet you."
"Minister President," Christian replied, his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm as he executed a perfect, formal bow.
"Your rifle conversions are quite… effective," Bismarck said, his eyes crinkling in what might have been a smile, but held no warmth. "You have cost my King a great many good men. An expensive lesson in the importance of logistics."
It was both a compliment and an accusation.
"A nation's sovereignty is a costly thing to challenge, Minister President," Christian countered smoothly. "I merely ensured our soldiers had the proper tools to defend theirs."
Bismarck chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "Tools. Yes. You see the world in terms of tools and systems, do you not? Like a mechanic. A very modern way of thinking." He leaned in slightly, his immense presence creating an aura of intimidation. "But you should know that a mechanic, no matter how clever, is still just a servant to the man who owns the estate. And this estate, Europe, has owners who are very fond of the old ways."
He gave Christian a final, piercing look, a look that seemed to see right through the 18-year-old face to the ancient, calculating mind behind it. "I look forward to our negotiations, Count. Let us see if your new tools are as effective at the table as they are on the field."
With a curt nod, the Iron Chancellor turned and walked away, leaving Christian standing alone in the swirl of the party.
For the first time, Christian felt a sliver of genuine uncertainty. He had come to London armed with his intellect, his future knowledge, and the bloody leverage his rifles had earned him at Dybbøl. But he had just come face-to-face with his true adversary. Otto von Bismarck was not just a historical figure in a book anymore. He was a living, breathing force of nature, a master of a game Christian was only just beginning to play.
The diplomatic war had begun, and he had just shaken hands with its greatest champion.