Arthur Lionheart's order to alter the fleet's course sent a ripple of alarm through the upper command.
"What? We are leaving the route for homeand turning toward India?"
General Yili stared at the repositioned arrow on the chart as though it were a personal insult.
"Your Highness," he began cautiously, "our supply lines and return route were all planned for Europe. A sudden diversion to India disrupts everything. Furthermore, India is under the administration of the East India Company. Without instructions from London, sending the entire expeditionary fleet there may trigger… unfortunate misunderstandings."
"Misunderstanding?" Arthur Lionheart gave a thin, contemptuous smile and tossed the intelligence report onto the table in front of him. "Read that, General, and tell me if this is still a misunderstanding."
Yili picked up the report. His face drained of colour before he reached the second paragraph.
"Good Lord… Auckland! The fool actually invaded Afghanistan—and lost?!" His voice quivered with disbelief.
To any veteran of the Empire, Afghanistan was a name spoken with caution: the graveyard of empires. For the Governor-General to charge into it unprovoked—and fail—was not merely folly. It was a scandal fit to shake the Empire itself if London ever learned the truth.
Lionheart's gaze sharpened.
"Now tell me, General—are we still 'uninvited guests'?"
"No, Your Highness!" Yili straightened instantly, saluting with rigid discipline. "We are going to correct a disaster for the Empire."
He understood at last.
This was not a detour.
It was a disciplinary expedition.
Arthur Lionheart intended to use his authority as Royal Chief Military Advisor—and as the Empire's newly anointed hero—to bring the East India Company back under the Crown's discipline.
"Transmit my orders," Arthur said coldly.
"All ships to full speed. Course set for the Hooghly estuary."
"Aye, Your Highness!"
Two Weeks Later — Calcutta, India
The city once called the "City of Palaces"—the proud heart of Company rule—had sunk into a heavy, anxious silence.
The Governor-General of India, Earl Auckland, paced his residence like a caged animal.
He had attempted to smother every rumour of the Afghan disaster, praying none would reach the halls of London.
Then came the message that nearly stopped his heart:
Arthur Lionheart—the man whose campaign had forced the Qing Dynasty to its knees—was sailing directly for Calcutta with his undefeated fleet, including the steel giant Revenge Queen herself.
Auckland, a corpulent and complacent relic of the old colonial aristocracy, had always treated India as his personal kingdom. The Crown, in his mind, was a distant ornament—useful only when he sent his annual tribute to London.
Now the Queen's husband—her terrifyingly competent, impossibly popular husband—was coming. And not quietly.
"Why is he here?" Auckland snarled at the trembling directors of the Company. "Has he discovered something? Does he know?!"
The directors exchanged pale, miserable glances. They knew perfectly well that Arthur Lionheart and the Company had clashed before—especially over opium. And now the Prince Consort arrived crowned with glory, commanding an invincible fleet.
Whatever he intended was unlikely to be pleasant.
"Your Excellency," stammered one director, "no matter his purpose, we must greet him with the highest honours. He is the Empire's hero. If he so much as whispers a complaint into Her Majesty's ear…"
The implication needed no finishing.
"Compose yourselves!" Auckland barked, masking fear with bluster. "He is but a royal consort! According to the Company Charter, he has no authority here."
A flash of calculation passed through his eyes.
"Prepare the grandest reception Calcutta has ever seen. Gather the finest Indian dancers and the most charming British hostesses. If he can be dazzled with wealth and beauty, so be it."
When the colossal form of the Revenge Queen appeared at the mouth of the Hooghly, the entire port fell silent.
Dockworkers, traders, sailors—Indians and Britons alike—paused, awestruck by the sight of the steel behemoth drifting like a floating cathedral.
Auckland himself led the Company's directors and high officials to the docks, desperate to project dignity.
Arthur Lionheart descended the gangway in full uniform, flanked by Royal Marines—an image of disciplined authority that made the Company's ceremonial guards look like toy soldiers.
Auckland stepped forward with exaggerated warmth.
"My esteemed Prince!" he exclaimed, arms wide as if greeting an old friend. "Welcome to India—the brightest jewel of Her Majesty's dominions! Calcutta shines all the more for your presence!"
Arthur shifted slightly, letting Auckland's attempted embrace fall into empty air.
He didn't offer a hand.
He didn't offer a smile.
Instead, he fixed his gaze beyond Auckland, studying the row of Company officials with cold, clinical interest.
Then, without haste and without warmth, he spoke his first words on Indian soil:
"Earl Auckland," he said, "I hear you have fought a most remarkable battle of late."
The words were polite.
The tone was a blade.
Auckland blanched.
In an instant, he realised the truth:
Arthur Lionheart knew everything.
He hadn't come to visit
He had come to pass judgment.