Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 606: Smoke Before the Fire

The catacombs stank of mildew and spent gunpowder. Candles flickered in niches carved centuries ago by friars, now illuminating men in tattered uniforms and women with rifles slung across their backs.

They called themselves the Katipunan ng Dugo at Laya, the Brotherhood of Blood and Freedom.

At the head of the chamber stood Commander Isko “Tigre” Manlapig, a gaunt figure with machete scars across his cheek.

He was once a teacher in Tarlac. Now he was a prophet of fire.

“They barter with the Amerikano like pigs at market,” he hissed. “Marasigan smiles in Manila while our comrades rot in shallow graves. They talk of elections, elections! While our nation is still occupied!”

A murmur of disgust echoed through the chamber.

Commander Delia Ramos, second only to Tigre, stepped forward. “We have eyes in the Civic Front. Even they are afraid of us. That fear is power. We can use it.”

A younger fighter, probably no more than sixteen, shouted from the rear. “Then we kill the Americans? Ambush the next convoy?”

Tigre raised a hand, not to silence him, but to elevate the moment. “No. Not just soldiers. Not just convoys. We will strike when and where it will shatter their trust in Roosevelt’s peace. Before signatures touch ink. Before transition becomes a cage that we cannot escape.”

He pulled a worn telegram from his satchel.

“Roosevelt lands in Cavite in two weeks. Marasigan will greet him. Journalists. Generals. Delegates. The whole illusion of unity.”

He dropped the paper into a brazier. It curled in flame.

“We make Cavite their Sarajevo.”

—

On the other side of the world, the alpine air was crisp and laced with spring bloom, but the study remained cool and shaded.

Bruno sat near the tall windows, a tumbler of Austrian brandy in his hand.

His personal telegraph operator, a veteran of the Iron Division, stood in the doorway holding the latest decrypted dispatch.

Bruno didn’t rise. He merely extended two fingers. The dispatch was placed into them without a word.

He read it once.

Then again.

“Katipunan leadership votes to sabotage Roosevelt’s visit to Cavite,” he said aloud, almost lazily. “Marasigan’s moderates unaware. Intelligence suggests a high-profile assassination attempt is likely.”

A silence stretched between him and the aging radio officer.

Bruno set the paper down on a tray and leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip from his glass.

“Do nothing,” he said finally.

The officer blinked. “Sir?”

Bruno’s tone was steady, quiet, but almost amused.

“The Americans spent years butchering their way through Luzon and Mindoro to keep a dying colony alive. And now, just when they think they’ve bought peace…” He swirled the amber liquid.

“…fate intervenes.”

His gaze drifted to the misty peaks outside, far above the world of men.

“Churchill was shot dead by nationalists during the Great War. Becuase Birtian was losing so badly that the people demanded a withdrawal. Now, Roosevelt may very well suffer a similar fate. One less pillar to hold up the rotting house of the liberal empire.”

The officer hesitated. “If they succeed, won’t that risk escalation?”

Bruno gave the faintest smile. “It risks clarity.”

He raised the glass again, staring through it as if peering into time itself.

“I spent a lifetime watching the world rot from the inside. Now? Now the sisters of fate have decided to excise it on my behalf.”

A gust of Tyrolean wind rustled the curtains.

Bruno said nothing more.

And the world turned.

—

While a dastardly scheme was underway in the South Pacific. And Bruno seemed intent on letting fate play out as it desired for once in his life.

The bell rang just as dusk painted the city in gold and ash. Erika von Humboldt stood by the parlor window, her knitting needle frozen mid-stitch.

She had taken her late father’s name. And had even sued the man’s family for recognition.

With Bruno’s aid, she succeeded and became an official member of the dynasty.

However, she was still alone, save for her widowed mother.

Her birth was legitimate, as Erich had yet to be fully marry Louise at the time of his death.

But with enough power and money, anything was possible, including forging a proper marriage certificate.

It wasn’t uncommon after all during the days of the Great War, even among noble scions ot marry just before deployment.

Another chime. Louder. Firmer.

The young lady glanced toward the door.

She rose with a sigh.

—

At the door stood a tall young man in formal field uniform, dark green tunic immaculate, golden aiguillette catching the last slant of sunlight.

His cap was tucked under one arm, revealing short, swept-back golden blond hair. A sabre hung polished at his side, and on his chest glinted the unmistakable brilliance of the Spanische Tapferkeitsmedaille mit Schwertern und Diamanten, Spain’s highest decoration, gifted by King Alfonso himself.

Below it, a black-and-silver wound badge shimmered like a scar reborn as a badge of honor.

Erich von Zehntner.

“My lady,” he said, bowing respectfully to Erika’s mother, Louise, who had answered the door before the young maiden could.

Her eyes narrowed, chin lifted. The resemblance was impossible to ignore.

He looked like him… Like the man who had killed her beloved.

“What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

Erich did not flinch. “To speak with Erika. And with you, if you’ll permit it.”

She stiffened. “You’re his grandson.”

“I know.”

“And you wear his medals.”

“They’re mine, ma’am,” he said quietly. “Earned in Spain. I bleed as my grandfather did, as your husband. The name I carry… I did not choose.”

She hesitated. The boy had courage, too much, perhaps. The kind that gets men killed. Just like…

“Mother?” a voice came from the stairs.

Louise turned. Erika stood in the hallway behind her, pale silk dress clutched in one hand, hair half-tied in a braid that looked hastily undone.

“You knew he was coming?”

“I asked him to come,” Erika said, stepping forward, her voice steady.

“You…? Without telling me?”

“We’ve been writing each other for over a year,” she said softly, then looked Erich in the eye.

“Since before he left for Spain.”

Louise’s breath caught.

“He wrote to me from Salamanca. From Zaragoza. Even from the field hospitals after he was shot in the shoulder.”

Erika turned back to her mother. “He never asked for pity. He told me the truth. What he saw. What he feared might happen.”

Erich stepped forward now, but stopped at the edge of the parlor.

“I swore I’d come back to her if I lived,” he said. “And I did.”

Erika reached for her mother’s hand. “I want to marry him.”

Silence.

Not rage. Not weeping.

Just the kind of silence that fills a home when ghosts return, not as apparitions, but as boys who survived when others didn’t.

Louise turned away from the window. She didn’t sit. She didn’t collapse. She simply stared past Erich, past the medals, past the uniform.

“To love the grandson of the man who killed your father,” she said flatly, “It is unthinkable!”

“I understand.”

Erika was about to speak her thoughts in their fullest when Louise interupted her with another sigh.

“But… Erich’s death was his choosing…. And Bruno’s role was a mercy to him… to us….”

Erich bowed his head. He was all too aware of the story of Erich von Humboldt’s death. Of what his grandfather had done.

Of the price that victory required. He had no words to offer that had nmot already been said a thousand times over.

“I don’t forgive Bruno,” Louise said, the words like stone.

“I never will…” Her words lingered

“But if my husband were here…” she paused, her eyes on Erika, “…he would have approved….”

A long breath.

Then, she walked past Erich, gently touched her daughter’s shoulder, and left the room in silence.

The parlor door clicked shut behind her.

Erika rushed into Erich’s arms, his cap falling to the floor.

“I thought I’d lost you in Aragon,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against his chest.

“I never meant to die there,” he murmured, “not before seeing you again.”

Outside, the church bells of Vienna began to chime the hour.

Inside, for the first time in two decades, the house felt warm again.