The war between Mexico and the United States erupted in a haze of provocations, political misdirection, and ambitions carefully fed by invisible hands.
But once the fighting started, its brutality surpassed the predictions of every military observer in Europe.
What unfolded along the Texas–Mexican frontier was not the orderly clash of nineteenth-century armies.
It was a grinding meat-grinder, a brutal contest fought across deserts, thorny scrublands, and rivers that ran muddy with blood.
And, far away in London, Arthur Lionheart watched the carnage unfold with the precision of a chess grandmaster — and the coldness of a man who had learned to move nations like pieces on a board.
The Texan volunteers were neither soldiers nor gentlemen of war.
They were ranchers, cotton farmers, herdsmen — men who lived with rifles slung on their backs since boyhood.
Chaotic in formation, fierce in temperament, stubborn as the land that raised them.
Yet they wielded something far more dangerous than discipline:
a percussion, breech-loading rifle — a prototype ahead of its time, a weapon only Arthur's workshops could produce.
Every shot reloaded in seconds.
Every trigger-pull a death sentence at two or three times the usual range.
On the first day near the Rio Grande, one Mexican column marched forward in perfect European formation.
They lifted their smoothbore muskets, ramrods clattering.
The Texans fired first.
And second.
And a third volley before the Mexicans even completed their loading drill.
The effect was devastating.
Bodies collapsed in rows, neat blue-and-white Mexican uniforms torn open by lead balls traveling flatter and faster than any officer on that field had ever imagined.
Soldiers fled screaming.
Officers cursed, waving sabres as they tried to keep order.
The desert wind carried the smell of burnt powder and iron-rich blood.
Within hours, the U.S. press gave the Texas troops a name that would echo across the continent:
The Frontier Sharpshooters.
But Mexico did not crumble.
General Santa Anna, returning to power once again with his peculiar mixture of charisma and ruthlessness, assembled an army that dwarfed the Texan forces in sheer numbers.
His infantry lacked finesse, but not courage.
And his pride rested upon what France had promised him:
the improved French 12-pounder bronze field gun — a refined descendant of the Gribeauval system.
Not modern, but deadly.
Terrifyingly deadly.
When those guns opened fire, the plains shook.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
Walls of wooden forts shattered.
Shingles flew.
Cowboys who had survived gunfights and bandits were torn apart by canister shot that sprayed hundreds of iron balls in a single blast.
Where the Texan rifles brought precision, Mexican artillery brought annihilation.
Cities like Laredo and Mission Ridge burst into flames under barrages that lasted hours.
The screams of wounded horses mixed with the thunder of bronze.
The war swung back and forth in a grisly rhythm — blistering volleys against roaring cannons, sharpshooters against massed infantry, desert ambushes against fortified towns.
Neither side gained a decisive edge.
Not yet.
Buckingham Palace — The Lord of Calculated Chaos
In his study, surrounded by maps of the Americas, ledgers, and telegraph reports, Arthur Lionheart reviewed casualty figures and supply requests as though he were examining laboratory results.
"Your Highness," his secretary announced, "Texas requests additional artillery ammunition: solid shot, case shot, and a large quantity of canister. Their forts cannot withstand Mexican fire."
Arthur tapped the table thoughtfully.
"Send it. Triple the price."
The secretary hesitated.
"There is… another matter. France has written again. They say the rifles we supplied Texas have shredded their gun crews. Their artillery losses are severe. They now request a license for a new model of field gun with greater range."
Arthur smiled — a slow, razor-edged smile.
"Tell Paris the license is available.
In exchange, they will fully open their Algerian ports to our Royal Promotion Association.
No restrictions. No oversight."
He returned to his map, marking red and blue pins where Mexican and American blood soaked the soil.
This war gave him more than profit.
It gave him data — priceless information that no military academy in Europe possessed.
Which caliber proved deadlier at 300 yards?
Which fuse burned more consistently in desert humidity?
Which infantry formation collapsed fastest under breech-loaded fire?
Other men read novels at night.
Arthur read casualty charts.
Every death was a lesson.
Every battle a calculation.
And every government involved in this conflict — Mexico, Texas, the Northern U.S., and even France — was slowly, inevitably, becoming tied to him.
London — Diplomatic Shockwaves
The British Parliament was split between hawks and conservatives.
News of U.S. successes brought cheers from some benches, groans from others.
Palmerston argued for intervention.
Others demanded caution.
But all of them — every lord and minister — realized that Arthur Lionheart's influence now stretched across the entire Western Hemisphere.
"He is turning the Americas into a marketplace… and a battlefield… and we merely watch."
Few dared say it aloud.
But everyone felt it.
"Arthur… you are smiling at that map again."
Victoria's voice — warm, clear, soothing — melted into the room like sunlight through morning fog.
She entered carrying their daughter, her steps graceful despite the gentle roundness of her growing belly.
The little princess giggled, reaching out toward her father.
Arthur caught the child, his entire expression softening in a way no minister or general had ever witnessed.
Victoria touched his arm lightly.
"You frighten half of Europe with your mind," she whispered, "yet you melt the moment you hold her."
Arthur took Victoria's free hand and placed a lingering kiss upon it.
"My love… with the world, I must be cold.
With you, I can be human."
Victoria's cheeks flushed a delicate pink — that rare blush she reserved only for him.
"And what thought kept you smiling so mysteriously?" she teased.
Arthur wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close, careful of her belly, yet undeniably possessive.
"I was imagining," he murmured against her ear, "what gift to place in the hands of our newborn child.
Something worthy of a Lionheart.
Something that teaches them that the world is theirs — if they choose to claim it."
Victoria laughed softly, her breath warm on his neck.
"In that case, Arthur…
perhaps choose something gentler than a rifle prototype?"
He kissed her forehead, lingering, tender and warm.
"For you, my queen… I would turn every weapon in this world into a flower."
Her eyes softened, shining with affection — and something deeper.
Outside, London bustled.
Across the ocean, men died in deserts and canyons.
Empires trembled under new pressures.
But here, in this quiet palace room, three hearts beat together — soon to be four.
And for a brief moment, even Arthur Lionheart forgot the sound of war.