Building an empire which the sun never set

Arthur awoke before dawn. The first pale rays of morning light slipped through the heavy brocade curtains, casting delicate streaks of gold across the stone walls of his stately chamber. The palace was silent, save for the soft creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet. He slipped into a light vest and quietly left the room, descending the grand staircase with the quiet confidence of habit.

Outside, the brisk morning air was sharp against his skin. The path leading around the palace grounds was still damp with dew, and the world felt untouched. Arthur began his morning run with a steady rhythm, his breath controlled, his strides measured. Every morning, this ritual gave him clarity—an essential reprieve from the weight of politics, war, and responsibility.

After several laps, he returned to his chamber, his brow lightly dampened with sweat. A servant stood silently at the door, awaiting instruction.

"Bring my breakfast in ten minutes," Arthur said, his tone clipped but calm.

He entered the bathroom and stepped under a warm stream of water. The heat seeped into his muscles, relaxing his limbs, if only momentarily. But Arthur had no time to indulge in comfort. After drying off, he dressed meticulously—crisp white shirt, navy waistcoat, and a tailored matching coat. He placed his ornate gold pocket watch into the inner breast pocket of his coat, the chain glinting softly as it draped across his chest. With practiced care, he adjusted his cravat, ran a comb through his hair, and checked his reflection. His expression was composed, his posture firm—he looked every inch the royal statesman he was.

Just as he finished dressing, the servant returned with a breakfast tray. The meal was simple yet proper: two perfectly boiled eggs, warm slices of freshly baked buttered bread, thin cuts of smoked ham, a dish of tart berry jam, and a steaming cup of black tea. Arthur sat at his small writing table and unfolded the day's newspaper as he began eating.

The headline dominated the front page in bold lettering:

"Syvatoslav Navy Crushes Usman Fleet in Black Sea – Pendralis Weapons Captured!"

The article reported a devastating naval defeat for the Usman Empire. The fleet had been ambushed and destroyed by Syvatoslav forces, and the military supplies—arms, ammunition, medical crates, and support materials—sent from Pendralis had been intercepted and seized. Arthur's eyes narrowed as he read.

This was no minor skirmish. Control of the Black Sea had shifted decisively. With no opposition at sea, Syvatoslav could now transport reinforcements and supplies to both eastern and western fronts without fear. The geopolitical implications were dire. It was clear: the war was escalating.

Arthur set the paper down slowly, lost in thought. Without Usman naval resistance, Pendralis had effectively lost its ability to support the conflict through maritime routes. Everything sent eastward could now fall into enemy hands. Perhaps the time had come—perhaps Pendralis could no longer afford to remain neutral.

He finished his meal with deliberate speed, glancing at his pocket watch once more. The council meeting was near. With purpose in his step, he made his way through the palace's long, echoing corridors to the council chamber.

He entered precisely on time. The room, adorned with banners and heavy oak furnishings, was filled with ministers and senior military officials. At the head of the long table sat King Cedric, his sharp eyes scanning the assembled men.

"Let us begin," the King said, his voice steady. "What is the latest report? Is the Usman fleet truly lost?"

The Naval Commander rose, a grim expression on his face. "Your Majesty, the Usman presence in the Black Sea has been obliterated. All remaining vessels have either been sunk or captured. Our final shipment of arms—rifles, powder, artillery shells—was taken by Syvatoslav forces. There are no survivors."

The room fell silent. King Cedric closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them with renewed resolve.

"This is no longer just a foreign war," he said. "If Syvatoslav continues unchecked, Pendralis will soon face a threat at its own shores. We can no longer delay. Pendralis must prepare to intervene."

Defense Minister Daniele rose immediately. "Your Majesty, I request authorization to begin immediate war preparations. Troop mobilizations, naval assembly, and reinforcement of our eastern coastal defenses can begin within the week."

"You have my approval," the King replied. Then, turning to Finance Minister Henry, he added, "Expand the economic embargo. No Syvatoslavian merchant vessel is to enter the White Sea. Any ship attempting to reach our ports must be seized or sunk. Triple our coastal surveillance and instruct our dockmasters accordingly."

The Foreign Minister cleared his throat. "Majesty, such aggressive action may provoke resistance from neutral powers. There are whispers of diplomatic pressure already forming."

Cedric gave a nod of acknowledgment. "Let them whisper. We will respond with strength and clarity. Pendralis does not bow to foreign threats. This is a matter of survival."

As the discussion continued, Arthur finally stood. The room quieted to hear him.

"Majesty, gentlemen—steel will win this war as much as soldiers. Our factories must begin shifting to wartime production. Guns, ammunition, locomotives, field engines—these must be made in quantity and quality. I recommend immediate coordination between the War Ministry and our industrial councils."

The King nodded approvingly. "Your proposal is sound. Begin preparations immediately."

The meeting adjourned with a clear, unified direction: while no formal declaration had been issued, Pendralis would soon enter the war. The machinery of state was now in motion.

Arthur left the palace shortly after. His carriage awaited, ready to take him to the industrial district. There, a new steel plant was to be inaugurated—one he had personally funded and helped design. The Siemens-Martin facility was not only a symbol of industrial progress but also a strategic cornerstone of Pendralis's future war effort.

At the gates, William stood waiting.

"Your Highness," he said with a respectful bow. "It is an honor to welcome you. The facility is fully operational."

"Thank you, William," Arthur replied. "You've done well. But our real work begins now."

They entered the factory together. The air inside was thick with the heat of molten metal and the rhythmic roar of furnaces. Massive crucibles bubbled with glowing steel. Workers, clad in protective gear, moved with precision and purpose.

This facility operated using the Siemens-Martin open-hearth method—superior to the older Bessemer process in both control and consistency. Though slower, it allowed precise regulation of heat and alloy content, resulting in steel with far fewer impurities. This made it ideal for gun barrels, steam engines, and high-stress mechanical components.

Arthur had worked closely with engineers and chemists during its design. He had personally reviewed furnace schematics, advised on optimal fuel mixes, and tested early production batches for tensile strength. This was not merely a royal venture—it was a technological vision he had helped shape.

As they toured the site, William explained production capacities, safety protocols, and alloying procedures. At the heart of the foundry stood the immense Siemens-Martin open-hearth furnaces, their brick-lined domes glowing orange from the infernal heat within. The furnaces were lined with specialized refractory materials—composites of silica, alumina, and magnesite—designed to withstand prolonged exposure to temperatures exceeding 1,600 degrees Celsius. These refractory linings were essential for maintaining thermal integrity during extended melting cycles and for ensuring that impurities within the raw iron were slowly oxidized and removed.

The air in the furnace hall shimmered with heat distortion. Gouts of flame burst periodically as fresh charge was added, a carefully measured mix of scrap steel, pig iron, and fluxes such as limestone. Overhead cranes maneuvered ladles of molten metal with delicate precision, transferring the glowing contents into massive molds. The whole process was slow, deliberate, and exacting—qualities that distinguished the Siemens-Martin method from the faster but cruder Bessemer process.

In adjacent bays, the refined steel was being cast and shaped for military and industrial applications. Plates destined for locomotive frames, steam engine crankshafts, flywheels, structural beams, and gear assemblies cooled in long lines of sand molds. Each piece would undergo rigorous inspection and further machining before being shipped to assembly yards or front-line supply centers. The steel produced here, Arthur knew, would form the backbone of Pendralis's war effort—its locomotives, factories, and weapons all relying on this quiet yet ferocious furnace to keep their momentum burning.

"We're currently producing thirty tons of high-grade steel per day," William reported. "With an expanded workforce and night shifts, we could push that to fifty. Just say the word, Your Highness."

Arthur nodded, pausing near a massive vat of glowing metal.

"Pendralis is preparing to enter the war," he said, his voice low but firm. "The decision is not yet official, but it will be soon. We need to ramp up weapons production immediately. Begin organizing the supply chains. Increase labor recruitment. Secure more coal and limestone. I want these furnaces running day and night."

William straightened. "It will be done, Prince Arthur. I'll begin coordination at once."

Arthur placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Good. The future may be forged here."

By the time Arthur returned to the palace, night had fallen. The city glowed with gaslight, and a cool breeze rustled the flags above the palace towers. He was tired, but resolute.

That evening, he dined alone in his chambers. A bowl of hearty beef stew, seasoned vegetables, and a modest pear tart made up his simple meal. He read a few briefings, then set aside his documents.

With a final glance at his pocket watch—its steady ticking echoing in the stillness—Arthur lay back on his bed. The weight of the day pressed against his chest, not from fatigue alone, but from the thought of war looming ever closer. The day's decisions would ripple into the future—through battlefield cries, steel rain, and smoking horizons. In his mind's eye, he saw columns of Pendralian infantry marching eastward, naval squadrons departing under the moonlit sky, and the grim silence of supply trains hauling the tools of destruction across distant provinces. He thought not of glory or triumph, but of mud, blood, and the cold calculations that war demanded. He knew that each shell produced, each rifle assembled, would shape a young man's fate. The burden was immense—but so too was the necessity. War was no longer a question of if, but when. And Arthur, with steel in his veins and shadows in his gaze, braced himself for what was to come.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep came quickly.