Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 609: Fulfilling a Promise

Bruno stood alone in his study, the late afternoon sun casting sharp lines across the polished wood of his desk.

The folder before him bore no name, only the imperial seal and a long-faded clearance stamp. It was older than many of the officers who now served under his command.

The edges were yellowed, the binding brittle, but the contents within burned as vividly as the day they were sealed.

He had avoided this day for over twenty years.

He adjusted the stiff collar of his uniform. It was unusual for him to wear it at home, let alone the full dress grays.

But today was not a day for comfort. Today was a day for ceremony, not for the Reich, but for a man.

Erich.

The fire crackled in the hearth behind him, but he felt no warmth. His hand hovered above the folder, fingers flexing as if uncertain whether to draw a sword or a quill. Finally, he opened it.

Typed reports, blood-smeared memos, grainy surveillance photographs, signed kill orders.

Each one told a story history had been forbidden to speak. Officially, Erich von Humboldt had died a disgraced officer, killed resisting arrest after exceeding his authority during the last days of the Great War.

Unofficially, he had been Bruno’s dagger in the dark, a butcher of traitors, a purifier of rot.

There was a time when Bruno believed that burying the truth had been necessary.

The Reich was fragile… Victory in the Great War was within its reach, and the truth threatened rebellion at home.

Threatened the entire world he had built.

Erich had asked for anonymity, for infamy if needed, to protect the peace they’d fought for. To protect Louise.

But peace had bred apathy.

And now the vultures circled once more.

A marriage announcement, his grandson Erich, named in honor of that very man, was set to wed Erika von Humboldt, the daughter of the butchered ghost.

And certain aspects of the press, which had evaded Bruno’s control, ever the loyal whores of foreign interest, had leapt on it like wolves.

“Treason returns to the bloodline.”

“A match made in murder.”

“Will the Reich’s future be built on lies?”

Bruno had seen enough.

He closed the folder gently, then stood. His uniform was immaculate, the medals earned, not inherited.

He walked to the sideboard, poured a shallow glass of beer, not to celebrate, not to indulge, but to settle the nerves that even now, after a lifetime of war, trembled before this moment.

He drank half in one slow motion, wiped his lips with his sleeve, and left the study.

The sun dipped lower over the imperial lawn, casting gold across the marble steps.

A great stage had been raised outside the palace, its dark iron banners flanking the podium. Cameras buzzed.

The national networks were live.

Soldiers stood at rigid attention around the perimeter. Civilians and nobles alike packed the courtyard, murmuring with uncertain expectation.

And then he stepped forward.

Bruno von Zehntner. Marshal of the Realm. Hero of the Great War. But today, simply a man with a burden.

He approached the podium with slow, deliberate steps. The crowd fell silent.

He did not begin with pleasantries.

“Eighteen years ago,” he said, voice low but sharp, “a man died in silence so that you might live in peace.”

The wind carried his words across the square.

“His name was Erich von Humboldt. Many of you know him only as a traitor. A murderer. A scapegoat whose fall preserved the fragile order of our victory.”

A pause. He let the silence grow pregnant.

“Today, I tell you the truth.”

He held up the folder, the Reich’s seal glinting in the sun.

“This file contains the classified operations of a man who rooted out sedition in our hour approaching triumph. Who eliminated those who would have seen Germany fall even as we bled our last. Men and women, in league with foreign agents, in open conspiracy with socialist radicals, who would have burned the Reich from within had he not stopped them.”

He slammed the folder onto the podium.

“Erich did what I ordered him to do. What no man should be asked. What only a patriot would accept.”

Bruno’s jaw tightened.

“He killed not for power. Not for revenge. But for you. So that your homes would not burn. So that your sons would not die. So that our enemies would not feast on our ruin.”

He raised a finger to the horizon.

“And make no mistake. The enemies remain.”

His voice rose now, carried by anger not of rage, but of purpose.

“France, which still nurses a poisonous grudge from 1871. Britain, which cloaks its hypocrisy in velvet and crown. And America, that bloated empire of illusions, who preaches democracy while practicing dominion.”

Gasps. Murmurs. The crowd bristled.

“They dare shame my grandson for loving the daughter of a hero. They dare question the future of our Reich while plotting its death behind smiling teeth.”

He leaned forward.

“Let them know: We are not a nation of weak men and weaker wills. We are not the republics who trade their heritage for cheap peace.”

His hand clenched the podium.

“We are Germany. And if the world desires war once more, if they demand we prove again our right to exist, then let them come!”

The words fell like thunder.

“In the words of our Great Kaiser. As spoken in the declaration of the First Great War for Germany’s survival… We shall resist to the last breath of man and horse, and shall fight out the struggle even against a world of enemies! Never has Germany been subdued when it was united. Forward with God, who will be with us as He was with our ancestors!”

Applause erupted, but Bruno was not finished.

“This file,” he said, lifting it again, “will be made public. Redacted to protect only what must remain hidden for your safety. But the truth will be known. The record will be corrected. Erich von Humboldt will no longer be remembered as a traitor. He will be known as what he was: the man who paid our debt in blood.”

He stepped back from the podium.

No music played. No anthem swelled.

Only silence.

Then a single cheer.

Then hundreds.

Then thousands.

—

In the gilded halls of the Romanov Winter Palace, the television flickered off.

Tsar Alexei leaned back in his chair, the aged leather creaking beneath him. He said nothing for a moment, then nodded once.

“As expected of him,” he murmured.

His wife stood behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Elsa.

Second daughter of Bruno. Now Tsarina.

She said nothing, but the pride in her eyes was unmistakable. Her fingers tightened slightly, a silent gesture of unity.

But beneath that unity, tension stirred.

Alexei’s gaze lingered on the blank screen, as if searching for something beyond it, an answer, perhaps, or a reassurance that never came.

He had been only an adolescent boy during the Great War. A boy who watched his father stand beside Germany.

It had been barely two years since he inherited the throne. And he had done so midway through a war already won, against an enemy already cornered.

The court had praised his ascension, calling it seamless. But he had never tasted leadership under fire. Not like his father. Not like Bruno.

Now, the world stirred again.

He clenched his hands in his lap. “What if I’m not ready?” he said quietly. “What if they come, and I fail them?”

Elsa stepped around the chair and knelt beside him. “Then I will not let you.”

He looked at her.

“My father did not raise me to fear the world,” she said. “He raised me to understand it, and to shape it. As he shaped me. And I stand by you, Alexei. Not behind you. Beside you.”

Her voice steadied his hands more than any oath.

He turned to the map beside him. Europe. Asia, the Americas. Even Africa, for all its dysfunction. Divided not by borders, but by conviction.

“If they seek war,” he said, “they will find us ready. But not eager.”

She nodded, resting her hand on his again.

“Then let them come,” she whispered. “And let them learn.”

Alexei closed his eyes for a long moment. Then opened them, not as a son, not as a shadow of the past, but as Tsar.

“I will not let history collapse into blood again,” he said.

A vow, quiet and firm.

And in that silence, the world waited for the next move.

Bruno had condemned the Entente and the new Allied powers.

And he had done so in order to fulfill a promise. A promise to a man he knew was a monster. A monster he wielded for his own purposes.

And yet he was a monster that Bruno still saw as a friend, one that he owed everything.

He had provoked his enemies on the world stage, openly, and viscerally for the world to see.

And in doing so, mythicized a man who had butchered their collaborators and allies. Down to the last woman and child.

There would surely be a response. But for now, the world waited.