The clerk's voice droned on, a dispassionate metronome marking the pulse of the nation's changing fortunes. Christian remained motionless, his hands resting on his knees, his face betraying nothing. He tracked the tally in his head, a running calculation of his political capital.
"Count von Scholten."
"Nay." (An Ahlefeldt loyalist. Expected.)
"Baron Juel-Brockdorff."
"...Yea." (A landowner with shipping interests. Fievé's influence, or his own pragmatism?)
"Viscount Rosenkrantz."
"Nay."
"Count Bille-Brahe."
"Yea." (Another man known to be in quiet financial distress. The veiled threats and promises had found their mark.)
The votes fell, one after another, a cascade of dominoes. Ahlefeldt's core faction held firm, their "nays" booming with defiant anger. But the periphery was crumbling. Those who were in debt, those with fledgling industrial interests, those who were simply pragmatic enough to see the shifting tides—they sided with the new coalition. It was a coalition built of fear, ambition, and a sliver of genuine hope, and Christian was its architect.
Finally, the last name was called. The clerk paused, his quill scratching as he made the final tally. He stood, cleared his throat, and addressed the silent, waiting chamber.
"On the motion to form a National Armaments Committee… the vote is twenty-nine in favor, and twenty-five opposed."
He looked to the President.
"The motion," the President announced, his voice heavy with resignation, "carries."
Christian watched the result land. The silence that followed was not empty, but filled with a thousand unvoiced calculations. Then Ahlefeldt's roar of 'Betrayal!' ripped the quiet to shreds. The room fractured. The old Count's allies seemed to shrink in their seats, while others, suddenly bold, began to gravitate toward Fievé's position. Christian observed it as a physicist might observe a magnetic field re-aligning in real time. Men were not crossing the floor; the center of power itself was moving, and they were simply trying not to be left behind.
Baron Fievé accepted the sudden attention with a calm, predatory smile, while Admiral Løvenskiold sat ramrod straight, his expression one of grim satisfaction.
Christian did nothing. He did not smile. He did not celebrate. He simply met Fievé's gaze, then the Admiral's, and gave each a single, slow nod. The gesture was clear: This was the expected outcome. Now the work begins. This display of unnerving calm was more powerful than any cheer of victory. It projected an aura of absolute certainty, of inevitability.
As they filed out of the chamber, they were no longer outcasts. They were the center of gravity. Men who had scorned Christian days ago now bowed their heads in respect.
That evening, the three of them met once more in the private room at The Royal Club. The mood was electric, but business-like.
"A narrow victory," Løvenskiold observed, sipping a glass of water. "We have a battle on our hands."
"A victory is a victory, Admiral," Fievé countered, pouring three glasses of the finest claret. "And it is a foundation we can build upon. The opposition is loud, but it is fractured. Our coalition is unified and, now, officially sanctioned."
Christian took the glass Fievé offered but did not drink. "The Landsting has given us authority. It is a weapon. Now we must wield it. Baron Fievé, I ask that you formally accept the Chairmanship of the committee."
"I accept," Fievé said without hesitation.
"Admiral Løvenskiold," Christian continued, "I ask that you accept the seat of Naval Oversight."
"On the condition that our first project is a design competition for a steam-powered ironclad," the Admiral replied instantly.
"Agreed," Christian said. "Tomorrow morning, we will issue a public notice in the papers announcing the committee's formation and its board. Baron, you will begin immediate negotiations with the National Bank to underwrite the first issue of Armaments Bonds. Admiral, you will draft a report on the most critical deficiencies in the fleet's readiness. We will hold our first official meeting in three days' time. We have no time to waste."
His allies, both men decades his senior, found themselves taking orders from the young Count, his strategic clarity sweeping aside any thoughts of celebration.
Later that night, Christian stood alone in his study. The thrill of the political victory had already faded, leaving behind the cold, immense weight of the task ahead. He had won the battle in Copenhagen. He had been granted the power to try and reshape the nation's destiny.
On his desk lay the latest report from the front. The Prussian bombardment of the Dybbøl redoubts was intensifying. The Danish lines were holding, but the casualty lists grew longer each day. He read the cold, hard numbers, a grim tally of the real war that lay outside his political machinations.
He had won the right to build his machine. Now, he was in a race against time to make it run, before the nation it was meant to save bled to death. The political victory felt like a distant, hollow echo against the sound of the Prussian guns.