General Mikhail Dragomirov, a man whose face seemed to be carved from the same granite as the fortresses he defended, read the report from the unknown baron with a deepening scowl. He was a soldier of the old school, a man who believed in discipline, morale, and the bayonet. But he was no fool. The boy's analysis of artillery shell casings was not the work of a courtier; it was the work of an engineer. The cold, hard numbers pointed to a weakness in his beloved artillery that was not just a flaw, but a fatal vulnerability.
Miles away, at the Admiralty, Vice-Admiral Stepan Makarov—a man of restless energy and a burning desire for naval reform—traced the diagrams of the German cannons with a grim intensity. The baron's report on the structural failings of their current naval plate was a technical nightmare come to life. It confirmed his deepest fears: in a modern naval engagement, his ships would not just be defeated; they would shatter.
Within a week, the Volkov proposal was no longer a matter for mid-level bureaucrats. It was being discussed with urgency in the private offices of the General Staff and the Naval Ministry. The military, Russia's most powerful and conservative institution, began to exert its immense, silent pressure.
The matter was forced at a meeting of the Special Council, an assembly of key ministers and advisors. Sergei Witte, now flanked by the implicit support of the military, once again presented the case for the Northern Industrial Syndicate. When Konovalov, representing Plehve, began to speak of the "security risks" of foreign investment, he was cut short by the gravelly voice of the Minister of War.
"The greatest security risk, councilors," the Minister stated flatly, "is sending our soldiers into battle with cannons that might burst and our sailors to sea in ships that will crack. The Army and the Navy require a reliable domestic source of high-quality steel. This proposal provides one. It must proceed."
The argument was no longer about economics or political theory. It was about national survival. Plehve, a master of the political arena, knew when a position was untenable. To continue blocking the project would be to position himself as an enemy of the military, a suicidal move for any man in St. Petersburg. But he would not concede defeat. He would merely change the terms of the engagement.
The final decision came days later, a decree bearing the Tsar's own authority, though its words were pure political calculus. The charter for the Northern Industrial Syndicate was approved. However, it was approved as a "strategic state enterprise." This meant two things. First, the state would claim a twenty percent share in the syndicate, its dividends flowing directly to the Treasury. Second, a Special Government Supervisor would be appointed to the company's board to "oversee the state's interests." The supervisor, the decree noted, would be appointed by the Ministry of Internal Affairs.
It was a brilliant, vicious compromise. Witte and the military would get their steel, but Plehve would get his spy.
Witte summoned Mikhail to his residence to deliver the news. "Congratulations, Baron. You have your foundry," the financier said, pouring them both a glass of brandy. "But you have also been given a jailer. This supervisor will be Plehve's man. He will watch your every move, read your every report, and look for any pretext to declare you a threat and have the state seize your assets."
Mikhail listened, his expression unreadable. He took a slow sip of the brandy. Alistair's mind was already running through the possibilities, the angles, the ways this new obstacle could be turned into an advantage.
"A single spy is manageable," Mikhail said, his voice betraying no concern. "It is better to have your enemy's eyes at your own table, where you can control what they see, than to have them guessing in the dark. I will give the supervisor a great deal to report. He will be very busy."
Witte stared at him, a slow smile spreading across his face. He had backed the boy for his technical genius, but he was beginning to appreciate the cold, serpentine cunning of his political mind.
Before leaving the capital, Mikhail had one final meeting with Princess Sofia. They walked along the Neva embankment, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows from the Peter and Paul Fortress across the river.
"You have won, Mikhail," she said, using his given name for the first time. "But you have also painted a target on your back so large it can be seen from the Winter Palace."
"A stationary target is easy to hit," he replied. "I do not intend to remain stationary. Your help was invaluable, Sofia. I am in your debt."
"Consider it an investment in a more interesting future for Russia," she said, her smile enigmatic. "But be careful. The men you have angered do not forgive. And the men you have impressed will soon demand results."
He left St. Petersburg the next morning, the official charter for the Northern Industrial Syndicate secured in an iron box. He was returning to Volkovo a different man than the one who had left. He was no longer a simple landowner or a provincial upstart. He was the Director of a state-sanctioned industrial powerhouse, a man with powerful allies, even more powerful enemies, and a government watchdog set to follow his every step.
He had won his foundry. The victory felt less like a celebration and more like the loading of a cannon. The first shot had been fired in a war he had no choice but to see through to its conclusion. The prize was no longer just a company or a fortune, but the chance to reforge the nation itself. And the price of failure was no longer bankruptcy, but utter annihilation.