Two days after the tumultuous session in the Landsting, a carriage bearing the Fievé family crest arrived at the Eskildsen residence. It did not carry the Baron, but a footman who delivered a single, thick card, inviting the Count of Eskildsen to a private dinner at The Royal Club, an exclusive bastion for the kingdom's wealthiest men. It was a neutral ground, a place where business was done and politics were shaped far from the public eye.
Christian spent the intervening day not preparing his arguments, but refining his business plan. When he arrived at the club, he carried a slim, leather-bound portfolio under his arm. He was led to a private dining room, paneled in dark mahogany, where a fire crackled in the hearth. Baron Fievé was waiting, a bottle of French claret already breathing on the table.
"Count Eskildsen," Fievé greeted him, gesturing to a chair. "Thank you for accepting my invitation. I trust you are finding our city's political climate… invigorating."
"It is a city of great opportunity for those willing to seize it, Baron," Christian replied, taking his seat.
Dinner was served with quiet efficiency. The two men spoke of trivialities—the quality of the wine, the state of the shipping lanes—all the while taking each other's measure. Fievé saw a young man with unnatural poise; Christian saw a shrewd operator whose politeness was a carefully constructed veneer.
Once the plates were cleared and the port was poured, Fievé leaned forward, his veneer of pleasantry dissolving. "Your speech was magnificent, Count. And politically suicidal. You publicly attacked the competence of the very men you now need to vote for your proposals. What is your true aim? Surely you do not believe that chamber of old fossils will simply approve your committee out of patriotic duty."
Christian did not answer immediately. Instead, he opened his portfolio on the table and pushed a set of documents across to the Baron. "This is my aim."
Fievé raised an eyebrow and picked up the papers. His expression shifted from polite curiosity to sharp focus, then to undisguised astonishment. This was not a political manifesto. It was a prospectus.
It was the full charter for the National Armaments Committee. It contained a detailed command structure, a list of targeted industries for initial investment—steel foundries, rifle manufacturing, chemical plants for gunpowder and fertilizers. It included a multi-stage financial model for the issuance of war bonds, projecting potential returns for investors. And on the final page, it listed a proposed board of directors.
At the top of the list, designated as Chairman, was Baron Fievé.
"You would have me lead this… enterprise?" Fievé asked, his voice carefully neutral, though his eyes gleamed with interest.
"You are the most capable industrialist in Denmark," Christian stated as a simple fact. "You understand supply chains, manufacturing, and capital in a way Count Ahlefeldt never will. I am the architect. I require a master builder to oversee the construction."
Fievé set the papers down, his mind clearly racing. "This is a plan to build a new industrial base for Denmark under the cover of a war effort. It is brilliant. And it would make the men on this proposed board incredibly powerful and wealthy. But the agrarians will see it as a threat to their dominance. Ahlefeldt and his friends will rally the landowners and kill this before it ever comes to a vote. How do you propose to force their hand?"
This was the question Christian had been waiting for. This was the test.
"The agrarian faction is unified by tradition, but divided by debt," Christian said coolly. "My study of the public record has been most… illuminating. Count Moltke, Ahlefeldt's staunchest ally, has three major loans with the very banking house that would be a primary underwriter for our war bonds. I suspect the bank would be very interested in ensuring the success of a new, profitable government instrument. Pressure can be applied."
He continued, his voice dropping slightly. "Others are terrified of the falling price of grain due to the Prussian blockade and the prospect of cheap American imports after the war. Our committee would, of course, need to secure vast quantities of domestic grain to feed the army and the workers at our new foundries. A long-term, fixed-price government contract would be a lifeline for a landowner on the brink of insolvency. Loyalty can be purchased."
Fievé stared at Christian, all pretense of a casual dinner gone. The boy had just calmly, and with terrifying precision, outlined a strategy of financial blackmail and political bribery. He had not only a vision, but a ruthless, practical path to achieving it. Fievé was looking at a mind that moved with a logic he had only ever seen in the most predatory London financiers, yet it was housed in the body of an eighteen-year-old Danish Count.
He saw the immense opportunity. He also saw the immense danger of standing against such a force.
"You are proposing a war on two fronts, Count," Fievé finally said. "One against Prussia, and another right here in Christiansborg Palace."
"A war is merely a catalyst for change, Baron," Christian replied. "And I do not intend to lose either one."
Fievé looked down at the prospectus, then back at Christian. He made his decision. A slow, shrewd smile spread across his face. He extended his hand across the table.
"It seems I am to be a Chairman," he said. "Consider me your first ally, Count Eskildsen. We have much work to do."
Christian took his hand, the grip firm and cool. The first pillar of his new power base was now in place.
As Baron Fievé left the club later that night, a feeling of pure exhilaration coursed through him. He had just allied himself with the most dynamic force he had ever encountered. But beneath the excitement was a subtle, unnerving chill. He had intended to recruit a brilliant, passionate boy to his own cause of modernizing Denmark. He now had the distinct feeling that he had just been recruited himself, a key component in a machine far grander and more terrifying than he could yet imagine.