David finally broke the silence and said in his most formal German, "The High Command moves with only one focus, Herr Koenig. They look only at the maps of the Front, seldom at the realities of the foundry."

Koenig let out a dry, mirthless chuckle and leaned back against the plush navy cushions. "Spoken like a man who has had to deliver their impossible ultimatums. They treat our mills as infinite wells. Tell me, sir – as a courier who carries the personal writ of Crown Prince Wilhelm – do the trenches truly swallow our metal as fast as my men can pour it?"

David paused, watching the platform slide away. The pillars, the signal boards, the knot of orderlies at the far end – all drifted past and were gone. Have to play this with extreme caution. He's looking for an ally, not a debate. "The hunger of the artillery is insatiable, Herr Koenig. But even the Crown Prince understands that an army cannot march if the machinery behind it is broken."

As the train gained speed, the outer sidings came into view, filled with wagons and military stores. Herr Koenig leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that barely carried over the rhythmic clatter of the steel wheels. "The public reads the newspapers and believes in the triumph of German organisation, mein Herr."

His eyes darted toward the corridor door and back. "But the reality in the Ruhr Valley and my own foundries is catastrophic. We are facing an unprecedented crisis of raw materials that Berlin refuses to acknowledge."

He glanced back at David's crimson seal before continuing, "To meet the Army's demand for millions of artillery shells for the Verdun offensive, the Ministry forced us to switch to iron ore from Minette." Koenig tightened his grip on the briefcase.

"But this ore is saturated with phosphorus. We must use the Thomas-Gilchrist converter process to refine it. The result? The steel is brittle. In this case, I have secret field reports from the artillery corps at Fort Douaumont – our shells fracture prematurely inside the gun barrels, detonate and kill our own crews."

David pursed his lips and nodded while reviewing what he knew about the steel-making process. "But the brittleness can sometimes be mitigated with the right alloying metals – manganese, chromium, tungsten."

Koenig blew a loud breath. "Now, tell me, good sir, where do we get these? The British blockade has cut off our supply. Without these, it is impossible to forge high-tensile steel for artillery, for the new Sturmpanzer project or for armour-plating the dreadnoughts."

"Surely there are substitutes. Something similar to melting bronze monuments and copper roofs to supply metal for fuses."

"My metallurgists are desperately experimenting with slag recycling and inferior nickel substitutes, but the armour produced is too soft to withstand shell splinters and machine-gun fire." He waved a dismissive hand. "But it is beyond that. Forty per cent of my skilled foundrymen were drafted to the infantry trenches last winter, replaced by the forced labour of deported Belgian workers and Russian prisoners of war."

He winced. "They do not understand the machinery, they are starving, and – worst of all – they sabotage the melts. Last week in Essen, a batch of molten steel was intentionally contaminated with sulfur, ruining eighty tons destined for heavy artillery barrels."

"Have you reported this?"

"If I report, the military will execute the labourers, and my production numbers will drop even further. But worse, Berlin will accuse me of treason." Koenig shook his head and sank back into the plush upholstery, looking completely drained.

"You see the position I am in? The Crown Prince demands more shells, yet his own bureaucracy deprives me of the coal, the alloys, and the men required to make them. I am being asked to weave steel from air. Tell me, good sir – does anyone in the High Command truly comprehend that we are burning through the very foundations of our industrial empire?"

David leaned closer, his voice dropping as he said, "The frustrations you voice are not isolated to the foundries, Herr Koenig." He paused to fix his eyes on the older man. "It is increasingly said that General von Falkenhayn's strategy of attrition is quietly bleeding the homeland dry. But the winds are shifting."

Koenig's brow furrowed, his exhaustion momentarily replaced by sharp curiosity. "Shifting? In what manner, mein Herr?"

"The Crown Prince and those near him are running out of patience with the current leadership – as is Berlin." David leaned forward and whispered, "But they fear who might replace it. Surely, you have seen the near-deification of the Saviour of East Prussia."

Koenig let out a sharp intake of breath. "Hindenburg? The way the people – and even Berlin – forgive his errors, if he took over command, he would have none to stop him."

"Precisely so," David nodded. "But whatever change there is – whoever is appointed or seizes power – the mobilisation we see today will look like child's play. We suspect a radical systemic reorganisation is already being drafted in the shadows."

David paused, letting the immense gravity of his words sink in. Too heavy? Perhaps. But plausible. "I suggest this not to increase your despair, Herr Koenig, but so you may prepare your foundries for a possible storm. Prepare against the possibility that Berlin will no longer request your cooperation – they will dictate it."

Koenig sat frozen for a long moment, and David realised what his supposition would mean if proven true. The potential survival of his family's foundries.

"And his Chief of Staff, what-do-you-say Ludendorff," Koenig murmured, his voice barely audible over the clack of the rails. "They will turn the entire fatherland into a single, massive garrison."

He looked across at David, a newfound respect in his eyes as he reached inside his tailored suit jacket, pulled out a silver cigar case and extracted a small signet ring and a small, tightly-folded piece of parchment. "You have given me a shield against the coming storm, David. It is only just that I provide you with one in return."

David held up his hand in a dismissive wave. "I need nothing."

"Now. But in the future? Koenig held out the ring and parchment. "You appear well able to navigate the upper echelons here, but there is another layer. The head of the Military Procurement Office for the Alsace-Lorraine Sector is Colonel Max von Stetten. He relies entirely on my steel to fortify the sector's artillery bunkers."

Koenig placed the ring on the seat beside David and added, "This ring bears the crest of the Koenig Steel Guild, and the parchment is his office address. If you find yourself in a position where the Crown Prince's pass causes too much friction with the local bureaucratic rivals, show this ring to von Stetten. Tell him that Koenig still remembers who kept the hearths burning in 1914. It will grant you access to logistics, private transport and ears that the military police cannot touch."

David nodded, picked up the ring and parchment and dropped them into his inner breast pocket. "Thank you. One should never be complacent in these times – as I seem to have been."

He leaned his head back against the linen and thought: Would London know about this? Might it be useful? Safe?