Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 614: Molding the World

The imperial breakfast table was, by design, a modest affair by royal standards.

White linens, porcelain dishes, freshly baked rolls, soft-boiled eggs in silver holders, everything just understated enough to suggest tradition, not excess.

The great windows of Bellevue Palace bathed the dining room in a pale spring light.

Outside, the Tiergarten glistened with dew, and a light breeze stirred the hedges with the promise of an early summer.

Eva sat beside her husband, Prince Wilhelm, his uniform coat draped over the chair beside him.

Across the table sat the Kaiser himself, Wilhelm II, older now, white of mustache and somewhat slower in movement, but no less sharp in wit.

And next to Eva, their eldest son, young Bruno, sat swinging his legs beneath the chair, eyes darting between his buttered toast and the morning paper that the Kaiser had just dramatically unfolded with a rustling snap.

“Well then!” Wilhelm II barked with theatrical glee, adjusting his reading spectacles. “It appears the Americans are packing their bags in Manila! And the French, still bickering over whether to blame De Gaulle or their own stupidity!” He gave a low, amused chuckle. “One begins to wonder if these republics have any stomach left at all.”

Prince Wilhelm offered a half-smile as he passed a coffee pot toward his grandfather. “Perhaps they’re merely suffering from indigestion. They’ve swallowed too many lies lately.”

“Ha!” the Kaiser slapped the armrest lightly. “Lies indeed. And who, I wonder, keeps feeding them so consistently?”

Eva said nothing at first. She reached for her tea, took a sip, then leaned slightly toward her husband and whispered with a smirk:

“Gee… I wonder who could be behind all of this.”

Wilhelm glanced sideways at her, brow raised, catching the glint in her eye.

“Oh?” he murmured innocently.

She tilted her head slightly, still smirking. “The scandalous documents, the global editorial shifts, the erosion of trust in democratic institutions… It’s almost as if someone had a long game in mind since the war with Japan… Or perhaps even longer. Someone with an entire media syndicate quietly stitched into every capital from Buenos Aires to Stockholm.”

Wilhelm’s smile grew, lips pressed tight to contain his amusement. “You think too highly of your father, dear.”

She leaned back and whispered behind her teacup. “No. I think I understand him exactly as much as he wants me to.”

Across the table, the Kaiser set down the paper and tapped it with a knuckle.

“I’ll say this much, your father’s little redemption drama for Erich von Humboldt may have been timed like a cathedral bell. The world was already angry. All he had to do was give it a reason to look west.”

Young Bruno raised his head. “Is Grandfather, Great Grandfather’s boss?”

Everyone paused. Eva blinked.

“Why would you ask that, darling?”

The boy shrugged. “Because everyone listens to him. Even you. Even Uncle Erwin. Isn’t that what people do to their bosses?”

Wilhelm chuckled, ruffling his son’s hair. “No, little one. Your great grandfather doesn’t have bosses. He has burdens.”

Wilhelm II nodded solemnly. “A good emperor knows that difference.”

Eva reached across the table and touched her son’s hand gently. “One day, you’ll understand. Being powerful doesn’t mean being free.”

The boy looked confused but nodded as though he understood anyway.

The Kaiser leaned back, reaching for the cream.

“I’ll give Bruno this,” he said, referring to Eva’s father now. “He turned the age of propaganda into a weapon of statecraft. We all thought the next war would be fought with tanks. He’s already halfway won it with whispers.”

Wilhelm added dryly, “And signed editorials.”

“Editorials, blackmail, private letters, carefully timed scandals…” Eva swirled her spoon. “He always said Bullets win battles, but ideas win wars.”

The Kaiser squinted at her. “Did he now?”

She smiled gently. “When I was twelve. He told me that the pen wasn’t mightier than the sword… it was just quieter, and harder to trace. I believe he phrased the term psychological operations. To break your enemies’ will without fighting.”

Wilhelm II gave a bark of laughter. “Good God… what a thing to say to a child.”

Eva just sipped her tea again, face serene.

Then she glanced at the paper again. The headlines weren’t just about Spain or the Philippines. They were about the riots in Paris. Congressional hearings in Washington. Press leaks in London. One storm after another, none directly connected, yet all leading back to a slow unraveling of trust.

No one had seen Bruno’s hand. That was the point.

The Kaiser leaned over to young Bruno once more. “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

The boy thought for a moment, then said simply:

“A builder.”

Wilhelm raised an eyebrow. “A builder of what?”

The boy looked up.

“Of things that last.”

The table went silent for a long moment.

Eva smiled slowly and looked at her son.

“Just like your grandfather.”

And across the table, the Kaiser nodded once, folding the newspaper and setting it aside with uncharacteristic reverence.

“Then may you build wisely, boy. For the world your grandfather made will need walls to weather the storm that’s coming.”

—

The fire had faded to embers.

Eva stood before the mirror, unpinning the last of her braids, her silk night robe brushing against her ankles.

Wilhelm was already in bed, shirt unbuttoned, glasses set beside the lamp. His eyes followed her through the haze of warm lamplight.

“You think he’ll survive it?” he asked softly.

She didn’t answer at first. Just folded the last pin into the drawer and stared at her reflection.

“Father always survives, besides… He’s the Reichsmarschall now, do you really think your grandfather is going to be sending him to the front lines?” She said at last.

Wilhelm sat up, elbows on knees. “He’s preparing for it like a man who doesn’t plan to come home. I almost think he wants to find a way to go to the front lines. To meet his end in battle like the legends of old.”

Eva turned to him, crossing the room slowly, slipping beneath the covers beside him.

“He’s tired,” she murmured, resting her head against his shoulder. “But tired doesn’t mean finished.”

He brushed a hand over her arm. “You really think the world’s ready for what comes after him?”

“No,” she said. “But we are. You and I. We have to be.”

They lay in silence for a while, with only the soft ticking of the travel clock between them.

She spoke again, barely above a whisper.

“Mother once told me: the greatest gift a parent can give is a world their children can live in. Papa’s trying to give us that… even if it kills him.”

Wilhelm nodded once.

“Then we carry the torch.”

He kissed her temple.

And for a moment, as sleep crept in, the war outside faded, and only legacy remained.