For three days, Christian barely left the study. He absorbed the dossiers Mr. Bjerre provided, transforming the dry facts of the parchments into a three-dimensional map of power within his mind. Each nobleman ceased to be a name and became a node in a network, defined by the flow of capital, the weight of his debts, and the strength of his allegiances.
He saw the hidden connections others missed: how a quiet loan from a shipping magnate to a count on the finance committee influenced a vote on naval policy; how a shared, failing investment in a textile mill bound two political rivals in a secret, mutual desperation. He was learning the true language of the kingdom's elite, a language spoken not in patriotic speeches, but in gold and leverage.
On the fourth day, he dressed in a simple, perfectly tailored black mourning coat, devoid of any ornament. He was to be formally sworn in and take his father's seat in the Landsting, the upper house of the Danish Parliament, housed within the grand walls of Christiansborg Palace.
The chamber was a cavern of dark wood paneling and heavy velvet draperies. The air was stale, thick with the scent of old paper and the quiet gravity of men accustomed to power. Dozens of gray-haired nobles and state-appointed dignitaries occupied the tiered seats, their faces grim, their conversations conducted in hushed, somber tones. They were the architects of a losing war, and the chamber felt less like a seat of government and more like a hall of impending judgment.
The President of the Landsting, a portly man with immense white sideburns, formally welcomed him. He offered solemn condolences, his words polished by years of political practice. Christian accepted them with a quiet, dignified nod. As he took his father's seat, he could feel the eyes of the other members upon him. They saw a boy, a tragic figure, the latest victim of the war with Prussia. They saw a placeholder, a name to fill a seat until he came of age or could be quietly managed by his father's old allies. They underestimated him completely. It was exactly what he wanted.
He sat through an hour of procedural drudgery before the main topic of the day was raised: a new emergency tax to fund the war effort. An old, highly respected nobleman, Count Ahlefeldt, a close friend of Christian's father, rose to speak in its favor. His speech was a masterpiece of patriotic rhetoric. He spoke of Danish honor, the courage of the soldiers at Dybbøl, and the sacred duty of every citizen to sacrifice for the motherland. It was moving, eloquent, and offered not a single practical solution.
When he finished, to polite, somber applause, Christian stood.
A ripple of surprise went through the chamber. A new member, particularly one in mourning, was expected to remain silent for weeks, if not months.
"Mr. President," Christian's voice was calm and clear, cutting through the stuffy air. "I request the floor."
The President hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. Christian walked to the speaker's podium, the eyes of every man in the room fixed on his youthful, severe figure.
"I thank the honorable Count Ahlefeldt for his words," he began. "And I, more than most in this room, understand the meaning of sacrifice. My father's name is now on the long list of Danish patriots who have given their lives at Dybbøl. Their courage is beyond question. Their honor is eternal."
He paused, letting the words hang, aligning himself with the sentiment of the room. Then, his tone shifted, losing its warmth and taking on the cold, sharp edge of a surgeon's scalpel.
"But courage is not a strategy. Honor is not a supply line. And patriotism will not stop a Krupp rifled cannon. We are discussing a new tax on our people, yet we have not discussed why the vast sums already spent have failed. We send our men to fight a modern industrial war with outdated muskets and cannons. We ask them to hold forts with insufficient ammunition and winter coats that do not keep out the cold. You speak of sacrifice, gentlemen, but you are not sacrificing for victory. You are sacrificing our sons on the altar of incompetence."
A collective, sharp intake of breath hissed through the chamber. This was not the speech of a grieving son.
"A tax on farmers will not forge a modern rifle," Christian pressed on, his voice rising with controlled intensity. "Hope will not build an ironclad ship. I support funding the war, but I will not support throwing more good money into a broken machine. Therefore, I propose an amendment. Instead of this broad, inefficient tax, I move that we form a National Armaments Committee. A committee with the authority to audit all military procurement, to seize patents for domestic production, and to issue targeted bonds for the creation of new, state-owned foundries and rifleworks. We must stop buying the weapons for the last war and start building the weapons for the next one. We must fight steel with steel, not with the brave chests of our farmers' sons."
He finished and stood in absolute silence. He had not merely disagreed with the proposal; he had condemned the entire foundation of their war effort. He had talked of audits, patents, and state-owned industry like a merchant or a radical, not a nobleman.
Christian walked back to his seat, his face impassive. He could feel the waves of shock, outrage, and dawning, grudging respect radiating from the men around him. He met the furious, betrayed eyes of Count Ahlefeldt across the chamber and gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. It was not an apology. It was a declaration.
He had fired his first shot in a new war, not on the fields of Schleswig, but in the heart of the Danish government. He had not come to mourn his father's world. He had come to dismantle it.