The Tsar's grandiose "display of strength" in the royal hunting grounds ended in a manner both bizarre and anticlimactic.
Nicholas I had indeed felled a colossal bear with a single, thunderous shot. Yet he felt, inwardly, like a boxer who had delivered his most ferocious blow only to strike air—as though his triumph had been robbed of substance.
What unsettled him was not the beast, but Arthur Lionheart, who had earlier demonstrated a disconcerting precision—seeing a distant hare through the forest's half-light as if the animal stood directly before him. It was a skill so alien, so unfamiliar, that it gnawed at the Tsar's pride like an unseen thorn.
That evening, after yet another opulent dinner, the guests drifted away to their respective quarters.
Nicholas I dropped all ceremony.
He dismissed his servants, guards, and attendants. Then he summoned Arthur alone to his private study—a secluded chamber deep within the Winter Palace, fortified and unquestionably secure.
The place resembled less a study and more a compact military museum. Turkish banners and Persian standards hung along the walls, trophies from past campaigns. Shelves groaned beneath the weight of thick tomes on artillery and military history rather than literature. The air smelled of aged parchment, gun oil, and heavily spiced vodka.
Above the mantelpiece glowered the portraits of Russia's greatest rulers, each framed in heavy gilded wood.
Arthur's gaze lingered on two in particular.
There was Peter the Great—tall, sharp-eyed, the man who had dragged a landlocked, backward nation into European modernity by sheer force of will.
And Catherine II, luminous and imposing, whose reign had expanded Russia to the height of its imperial might.
Arthur felt a quiet reverence for them—figures whose actions had shaped not merely Russia, but the entire balance of Europe.
Nicholas I did not sit behind his monumental desk—the physical emblem of autocratic authority. Instead, he gestured Arthur toward a pair of leather sofas arranged before the fire.
He poured brandy himself—Armenian, dark, fragrant—and handed one glass to his guest.
"Your Highness, Prince Arthur," he began with deliberate formal restraint. The shift in address—from casual familiarity to noble equality—was significant. The Tsar now recognised him as an opponent worthy of earnest conversation.
"I must confess," Nicholas continued, swirling his glass as the firelight danced within it, "you and your nation have surprised me."
"I had always imagined the English as a race of shrewd merchants and daring sailors… but it seems you have acquired a power of a different sort—one I do not yet understand."
Arthur inclined his head with a faint, courteous smile.
"Your Majesty overestimates us. We merely heard the wheels of time turning before others noticed the sound."
"The wheels of time?" The Tsar snorted. "Young man, no matter how the years advance, the laws of this world remain as they ever were."
He rose abruptly and strode to the enormous world map fixed upon the wall. His broad, heavy hand fell upon the region of the Balkans and the Ottoman Empire.
His eyes gleamed with unmasked ambition—predatory, hungry.
The pretense of polite inquiry vanished. Nicholas chose confrontation.
"Let us dispense with diplomatic niceties." His deep voice reverberated through the chamber. "The Ottoman Empire—the so-called 'Sick Man of Europe'—is dying. This is a fact we both recognise."
"The question before us is not how to save him… but how to distribute his estate."
He turned toward Arthur, blue eyes blazing.
"My terms are simple." He traced a sweeping line across the map. "The entire Balkan Peninsula, including Constantinople and the Dardanelles, must fall under the protection of the Russian Empire. This dream has driven the Romanov dynasty for three generations. It is non-negotiable."
"In return"—his finger drifted eastward—"Russia will support Britain in India, the Far East, even regarding the Qing Empire, provided your actions do not damage our own interests."
Then he pointed toward France.
"And together, we could strike Louis-Philippe, that feeble usurper. France could be divided between us, and neither nation would trouble the other again. Is that not a future worthy of agreement?"
It was an offer forged in pure realpolitik.
Territorial concessions in the Near East in exchange for Russian support abroad.
A joint dismantling of France.
Any traditional British statesman would have considered it seriously—if only out of tactical pragmatism.
Arthur, however, merely smiled.
A quiet, almost pitying smile—as though observing an artifact belonging to a bygone world.
The Tsar's jaw tightened.
"You disapprove of my proposal, Your Highness?"
Arthur rose, unhurried.
"On the contrary, Your Majesty—your proposal is very… candid."
He walked past the antique wall map to the large terrestrial globe occupying the center of the room—a beautifully crafted sphere of lacquered wood and brass.
He set it spinning with a gentle touch.
"Forgive my frankness." His tone was calm, but the scope of his vision made even the autocrat of Russia seem, for a moment, small. "You and I are not looking at the same thing."
His hand rested lightly on the turning globe.
"You see a map, Your Majesty."
He met the Tsar's unblinking gaze.
"While I see a different world."