Chapter 281: Opportunity in Danger

As they walked arm in arm, Catalina drew slightly closer to Francisco. Her grip tightened almost without thought, her eyes moving restlessly toward the long lines of carts and the makeshift shelters pressed against the city’s stone walls.

Francisco followed her gaze and sighed.

“War is truly an awful thing.”

Catalina nodded, though she said nothing at first.

The road ahead was crowded with the human cost of the French advance. A Dutch clockmaker sat upon a crate, staring blankly at a scattered pile of brass gears—the remnants of a craft that had survived the journey, though perhaps not the man himself. Further along, a group of Flemish weavers argued in low, strained voices over the rising price of bread in the city markets.

There was no anger in them—only fatigue, sharpened by necessity.

“Look at their hands, Francisco,” Catalina said quietly, inclining her head toward a small group of men gathered around a weak fire. “Those are craftsmen. Skilled men. They are not merely mouths to feed… they are the industry the Republic has driven away.”

Francisco studied them for a moment, then nodded.

“Exactly,” he said. “And the University cannot sustain the cost of housing them indefinitely. If this continues, they will require a solution—one that transforms this burden into something… useful.”

His tone remained measured, but his mind was already moving ahead.

“If they fail,” he added, “the Elector may use financial aid as a means to reassert control over Göttingen.”

For a moment, he fell silent.

Then his expression shifted.

A shadow passed across his face—subtle, but unmistakable.

Catalina noticed at once. She reached up, touching his cheek lightly.

“Is something wrong?”

Francisco exhaled slowly.

“I was thinking of New Granada,” he said. “The last reports I received spoke of a new viceroy—ruthless, by all accounts. The fanatics may be quiet for now, but that will not last.”

He paused briefly.

“My father is still involved in the struggle for independence. With so many tensions rising…” He shook his head faintly. “I cannot help but wonder how many there suffer as these people do—how many are being displaced, even now.”

Catalina grew quiet.

The thought had not been foreign to her. Her own family carried its memory. Her grandmother had lost her parents in conflict—caught between Spanish forces and the Pijao. Now, that violence had grown beyond local disputes. It had expanded, become something larger… something less contained.

How many more would lose their homes?

Their families?

Their lives?

All for ambition.

Francisco allowed himself a brief, strained smile.

His own family stood among those ambitions.

Catalina seemed to understand the thought before he spoke it. Her voice softened.

“But you act to survive,” she said. “It is not the same.”

Francisco said nothing at first.

He knew it was not entirely true.

With his abilities, he could leave. He could settle elsewhere—perhaps even be welcomed, rewarded, elevated. There were countries that would grant him comfort, perhaps even status.

But to abandon one’s home…

To live under the will of others…

Few would choose it, if another path remained.

Even if that path demanded sacrifice.

Even if it demanded suffering.

The fanatics alone would never threaten the Spanish Empire. Nor would his father, by himself. If only one rose, the system—bloated though it was—would eventually suppress it, restoring order.

But when ambition multiplied…

When several men pursued power at once…

Then the empire strained.

Even with loyalists—Spanish or indigenous—the machinery faltered.

Francisco lowered his gaze slightly.

That, he thought, was the nature of ambition.

To pursue a vision—whether noble or not—often required the quiet acceptance that others would bear its cost.

“Forget it,” Francisco said at last, as if cutting through his own thoughts. “We will do what we can… when the time comes. Once we hold the colonies, we will make their lives better.”

It was a fragile consolation—but one he returned to often. Enough, at least, to quiet his conscience in the early hours of the day.

Catalina did not answer. She only held his arm a little more firmly as they continued.

—

By the time they reached the director’s office, the tension of the city seemed to follow them inside.

At the sight of Francisco—and Catalina beside him—the director let out a visible sigh of relief.

“Were you able to convince her?” he asked at once.

Francisco inclined his head.

“She understands the risk now. Traveling to any empire carries danger—more so to one as powerful as Russia. She had not accepted the invitation; the matter was exaggerated… perhaps intentionally.”

He allowed the implication to settle.

“I believe those rumors were permitted to spread.”

Christian nodded slowly, already grasping the meaning behind it.

“If there is nothing further,” he said, weary but direct, “you may return to your experiments. I confess, I have little time at present.”

Francisco frowned slightly.

“I have heard something of the situation,” he replied. “The French advance into the Netherlands—it is only a matter of time before the region falls.”

Christian gave a short, humorless nod.

“You have seen the refugees, then.”

He reached for his tobacco without waiting for an answer.

Christian Gottlob Heyne leaned back in his heavy oak chair, the wood creaking beneath him. His movements carried the weight of fatigue. He packed the bowl of a long-stemmed porcelain pipe with steady, practiced motions, though his fingers betrayed a slight tremor.

With a small ember taken from a nearby candle, he lit it.

A thick cloud of smoke rose, curling slowly around his powdered wig.

“It is a nightmare, Francisco,” he said at last, his voice rough as he turned toward the tall window overlooking the square.

From that height, the scene below was unmistakable.

Wagons clustered tightly together. Fires burning low against the cold. Figures moving in slow, uncertain patterns.

“Göttingen holds ten thousand souls,” Christian continued. “Now we have nearly five thousand more at our gates. They bring skill, yes—but they bring hunger as well.”

He drew deeply from the pipe, the bowl glowing faintly.

“The townspeople grow restless. There have already been fights in the market—over bread, of all things. The locals see the Dutch and the Flemish not as guests, but as rivals.”

A pause.

“My deans,” he added with quiet irritation, “spend more time separating brawls than teaching Latin.”

He turned back from the window, the candlelight sharpening the lines of his expression.

“Our ventures—the ones that have sustained this university—are failing.”

He gestured loosely, the pipe in his hand trailing smoke.

“The aguardiente distillery stands nearly idle. In times such as these, no man wishes to see grain turned into spirits. A farmer would sooner hide his stores beneath his floorboards than sell them for drink. And the currency…”—he exhaled slowly—”gold is hoarded. Silver is not spent on indulgence.”

His hand moved toward a ledger resting upon the desk, its pages stained with ink and ash.

“The cement works alone remain profitable. Every man wishes to strengthen his walls, his cellar, his defenses. It is the only industry still moving—but it will not sustain fifteen thousand mouths through winter.”

He tapped the stem of his pipe lightly against his teeth, studying Francisco with a more intense, searching look.

“The British now see us as little more than a buffer. Since we secured a measure of autonomy, their interest has shifted—toward Hannover. Toward larger concerns.”

A brief pause followed.

“And Russia…” he added quietly, “sees opportunity.”

His gaze hardened.

“They attempt to draw away our scholars. Most remain—for now. They believe the war will not reach this far.”

Another pause.

“But some have already accepted.”

Francisco remained silent for a moment, his thoughts moving steadily through the implications of all he had heard.

At length, he spoke.

“We may have a way,” he said, measured and deliberate, “to make Göttingen indispensable—and, in doing so, compel Britain to defend it… whether they wish to or not.”

Heyne raised an eyebrow, studying him.

He considered the idea briefly, then asked:

“That prototype of yours… is it truly working?”

Francisco drew slowly from his pipe, the smoke gathering around his face before dissipating into the dim air of the room. His gaze shifted to the map spread across the desk, then returned to the director.

There was something different in his expression now.

Less hesitation. More resolve.

“No,” Francisco said quietly. “Not yet as it must. But it is close.”

His voice lowered, gaining intensity.

“If we build the mill, Göttingen ceases to be merely a target. It becomes a necessity.”

He leaned forward, placing the stem of his pipe upon the map, tracing a line from the Rhine toward their position.

“London guards its metallurgical knowledge in Sheffield as though it were the Crown’s own treasure. But the French advance through the Low Countries is already breaking the old supply lines.”

He paused, then continued:

“If we produce high-grade steel here—at scale—we create a paradox.”

Heyne did not interrupt.

“The British cannot allow Göttingen to fall,” Francisco went on. “If the French seize such a factory, they gain not only steel, but the means to rival British naval strength. To preserve their advantage, the Crown would have no choice but to intervene.”

He straightened slightly.

“They would not be defending us,” he added. “They would be defending the secret itself.”

Heyne frowned, though not dismissively.

“And what prevents them,” he asked, “from simply taking it? Your furnace is not so large as to be immovable. If they understand its principles, they may replicate it elsewhere—perhaps within the year.”

Francisco nodded, as if expecting the objection.

“They may try,” he said. “But the prototype is only that—a demonstration of principles, not a complete system.”

He took another measured breath.

“If we present the construction as a commercial venture—under the pretext of supplying the Netherlands—they may accept its existence without immediate interference. We can further obscure its purpose by integrating it within an armory. That alone should introduce doubt.”

He gestured lightly toward the map again.

“And once the full facility is constructed… it cannot be relocated without our cooperation. The knowledge may be imitated, yes—but that risk exists regardless. If France were to seize it, the same outcome would follow.”

A brief silence settled between them.

Heyne’s gaze lingered on the map, then shifted back to Francisco. The weight of the decision was evident—not merely academic, but political… and dangerous.

At last, he leaned back in his chair.

He said nothing immediately.

But the hesitation, this time, was not doubt.

It was calculation.

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