Governor's House, Erdoqān.
Once the seat of extravagant Anglo-Indian opulence, the Governor's residence had fallen into a colder stillness than a Siberian winter.
The Indian servants had been dismissed.
In their place stood Royal Marines—stern, armed, unblinking—posted every few yards, transforming the palace into a military bastion rather than a civil administration.
In the great conference hall, a grey haze of tobacco smoke hung over the room.
Every surviving senior officer and civil administrator of the East India Company in the Mengla region had been "invited"—a euphemism none dared question.
They sat stiffly, backs straight, scarcely breathing, their eyes fixed on the young man presiding at the head of the table.
Arthur Lionheart, held a cup of strong coffee in one hand while lazily spinning a small brass globe with the other.
He had not uttered a word for nearly half an hour.
And with every passing silent minute, fear coiled tighter around the assembled men—like the slow, deliberate study of a predator deciding which neck to tear out first.
No one believed this gathering was a "briefing."
This was a trial.
Finally Arthur spoke, cutting through the choking silence.
"Mr. Hansen," he said coolly, "have all the reports arrived?"
His chief accountant stepped forward, a thick crimson-bound dossier in hand.
"Yes, Your Highness." Hansen adjusted his spectacles and read in his usual calm, mechanical monotone.
"According to the latest dispatches from the Afghan front…
Our forces under General William Elfenstone—the 1st Mengla Brigade stationed in Kabul, numbering 4,500 combat troops, accompanied by more than 12,000 dependents and support personnel—are presently encircled by tribal militias."
"Their supply lines were entirely severed fifteen days ago. Surviving couriers report the garrison possesses food for no more than ten days."
Waves of dread rolled across the room.
"And worse still," Hansen continued, voice sinking, "due to a series of disastrous command decisions and the Afghans' terror of our new breech-loading rifles, the enemy has abandoned frontal assaults and returned to their most effective mountain guerrilla tactics. General Elfenstone attempted multiple breakouts; all failed catastrophically, with severe casualties and collapsing morale."
"Even the reinforcements dispatched from India were shattered en route—ambushed at Khyber Pass and nearly annihilated."
Hansen closed the file.
"The conclusion is harsh but unavoidable: the isolated force in Kabul cannot break out alone."
"Two fates await them:
"They will either be slaughtered once their ammunition and rations are exhausted—
—or they will starve before winter."
The officers paled visibly.
The Afghan campaign had long been a festering wound; now Arthur had exposed it before them with surgical cruelty.
Arthur set down his cup, his voice quiet but cutting.
"So. Nearly twenty thousand subjects of Her Majesty—soldiers, families, civilians—about to vanish into a mountain grave."
His eyes swept across the room, cold as drawn steel.
"A defeat more disgraceful than any since Napoleon froze before Moscow."
He let the accusation hang.
"Gentlemen… is this how you manage the Empire's vaunted 'jewel in the crown'?
Is this your loyalty to Her Majesty Queen Victoria?"
No one answered.
Heads bowed.
Hands shook.
They awaited condemnation—a purge, a public execution of careers, perhaps of lives.
Instead, Arthur smiled faintly.
"I am not here today to assign blame," he said, rising to his feet.
He strode to a massive map of Central Asia, took a piece of red chalk, and marked a large, decisive X over Kabul.
Then he drew a long retreat route—hundreds of perilous miles—from Kabul toward British India.
Turning to face them, Arthur delivered his command with a tone that brooked no dissent, a tone that felt almost divine in its certainty.
"You have one month."
He struck the table with the flat of his hand.
"One month. No more."
"I do not care what methods you employ.
I do not care what it costs."
His voice thundered.
"I expect every man, every officer, every wife and child trapped in Kabul to emerge alive from that damned mountain basin."
The room exploded.
"Impossible, Your Highness!" Major General Cotton sprang to his feet, face ashen. "You have no conception of Afghanistan's terrain! Our supply lines are gone! Reinforcing them now would be suicide!"
"Yes, Your Highness," another brigadier added miserably. "We have failed three rescue attempts already. We have no forces left to send! The only rational decision is to… to abandon them."
"Abandon?"
Arthur turned.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
He fixed the officer with a stare so cold, so predatory, that several men shuddered.
The brigadier nearly collapsed. Arthur Lionheart did not look like a pampered royal. He looked like something that had crawled out from beneath Waterloo—something forged in blood and smoke.
"Brigadier," Arthur said softly, each word a tightening noose, "I shall give you one more chance."
"Repeat. What. You. Said."
"I—I…" The man could scarcely speak.
Arthur's gaze swept the room.
"In my vocabulary," he declared, "the word abandon does not exist. Not when it concerns British soldiers."
"They are subjects of Her Majesty. Warriors of the Empire. They are not ledger entries to be discarded by bureaucrats who sip tea and embezzle funds."
"If we must retrieve them—then we shall retrieve them."
He returned to the map.
"As for how…"
His expression hardened into imperial resolve.
"That is my concern."
"You," he said, turning to Cotton and the other officers, "will obey."
"Major General Cotton," Arthur continued, "you are appointed Field Commander of the Kabul Relief Operation. I grant you full authority—and every resource I can muster."
"I ask only one thing."
His eyes gleamed with dangerous, exhilarating conviction.
"One month from today, I shall host in Calcutta the grandest welcome banquet the Empire has ever seen—"
"—for the safe return of our soldiers."
Cotton looked at the prince—mad, brilliant, terrifying—and felt duty, long dormant, ignite anew.
He sprang to attention, saluted sharply, and roared:
"Yes, Your Highness! I guarantee the mission will succeed!"