Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 615: The Fire Beneath the Frost

The winter palace outside Saint Petersburg was quiet, but not cold. Within the high-vaulted dining hall, the hearths burned with slow, steady fire.

The clink of silverware against porcelain was the only sound for a time, until the Tsar, tall and broad-shouldered in his officer’s jacket, set down his fork.

“I received word from the Admiralty,” said Tsar Alexei, his voice even, his gaze not leaving his plate. “The Imperator Pyotr Velikiy has entered final outfitting. She’ll join the fleet within the month.”

Across the table, his wife glanced up. Elsa. Elegant, reserved, with her pale blue eyes cool and unreadable, unless one knew what to look for. She sipped her tea before answering.

“Then the Baltic is no longer an isolated lake,” she said softly. “That makes three heavy surface groups, between Arkhangelsk, the Far East, and now Saint Petersburg.”

“Three,” he agreed. “Plus the Black Sea fleet. And we have access through the Bosporus, if it comes to that.”

Elsa allowed herself a nod. “King Andronikos gave his word.”

Alexei leaned back slightly, the candlelight catching the lines of his jaw. “The Greeks may hold Constantinople now, but the Turks won’t forget. If France pulls them into war, or if the British prod too hard—”

“Then we remind them who trained the Hellenic Marines,” Elsa replied without hesitation.

“And who built their drydocks.”

A small smirk tugged at the Tsar’s mouth.

“You’re more like your father than you admit.”

Elsa said nothing for a time, cutting a slice of roast duck with surgical precision. “My father does not tolerate weakness. But he prizes strength shown with restraint. I’ve learned both.”

The Tsar raised his glass of Crimean wine and gestured slightly with it. “And because of that, our joint programs have borne fruit. Your Reich has shared more than I thought they would. And we… have listened more than we used to.”

Elsa’s voice remained calm, but her gaze sharpened.

“You listened because I told you the world would not wait for Russia to catch up on its own.”

“And you were right.” His tone was not bitter. Only firm. “We were still bleeding from Bolshevism. We had steel, but no doctrine. Soldiers, but no vision. That’s changed.”

He set the wine down and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Our mechanized brigades have completed joint exercises with the Bavarians. Our pilots are flying simulators coded in Berlin. Our officers wear German-cut uniforms beneath Russian medals. We are not the Bear we once were, we are a different beast entirely.”

Elsa allowed herself the faintest smile. “Not a beast. A sword, long forged, finally sharpened.”

Outside, the snow tapped softly against the windows. The silence returned, but this time it was heavy. Full of purpose.

Alexei’s hand closed gently over Elsa’s.

“If war comes,” he said, “we will not follow. We will strike. Not as vassals. Not as proxies.”

She met his gaze without blinking. “But as equals.”

And for a long moment, neither Tsar nor Tsarina spoke. The fire cracked. Somewhere far off, a bell tolled the hour. The war had not yet begun.

But the board was set, and the Bear no longer slept.

—

The Villa del Quirinale glowed in the golden light of evening, its high ceilings and Romanesque columns echoing with polite laughter and the gentle clink of glasses.

In the great hall, diplomats from half a dozen nations reclined along polished tables beneath frescoes older than many of their countries.

But at the head of the room, beneath the great Savoy coat of arms, the true conversation took place.

Not in proclamations, but in glances, gestures, and carefully measured words.

Crown Prince Umberto II of Savoy, tall, with the effortless grace of a man bred for ceremony, raised a toast.

“To the friendship between nations,” he said. “To the unity of the old world, reforged.”

His gaze slid gently toward the woman at his side. Young, composed, with the same unmistakable eyes as her father.

Anna von Zehntner, Grand Princess of Tyrol by birth. Princess of Italy by marriage. And now, barely visible beneath her tailored dress, visibly with child.

When she smiled, the room quieted.

“To peace,” she added softly. “And the strength to keep it.”

Applause followed, but quiet, reverent, as if the court itself understood the weight of her words.

Later, after the nobles had retreated to music and wine, the true players gathered in the marble salon beyond the gardens.

Oil lamps flickered against the bronze busts of old Caesars.

King Victor Emmanuel III himself sat in a high-backed chair of Florentine wood, older now but sharp-eyed. Across from him stood his son, Anna at his side.

“The Germans have bled for the order we all now benefit from,” Umberto said, his voice low but clear. “And we… did little. In the Great War, we changed sides. Now history has returned the ledger.”

Vittorio spoke carefully. “Then let us balance it.”

Anna placed a hand on her abdomen almost unconsciously. “And let us raise children who do not need to inherit shame.”

The King looked at her then, the daughter of a man he had once distrusted, now made family.

“You speak like your father.”

“I speak as his student,” she said gently. “And as the mother of a future Savoy.”

A moment passed.

“The fleet is expanding,” Vittorio added. “Six new cruisers, German fire control systems, and our own shipyards humming night and day. We’ve invited Prussian observers to Naples for the next joint war game.”

“And our Alpine divisions?” Umberto asked.

“Drilling under Tyrolean advisors,” Vittorio replied. “Younger sons of the old guard. Professional. Quiet. Brutal when needed.”

Umberto turned to Anna again. “And you’re sure your father sees us as… equals?”

Anna tilted her head, a wry but knowing smile. “He sent me, didn’t he?”

The King chuckled softly. “Touché.”

He leaned back in his chair and looked toward the open doors, where music drifted faintly across the garden.

“The New Central Powers…” he mused. “Germany, Russia, Greece… and now Italy. Once, we failed to matter. This time, we will not.”

Anna stepped closer to the window, looking out at the starlit city beyond. “This time, the old world rises together.”

Behind her, Vittorio placed a hand gently over hers.

Outside, bells began to chime across the rooftops. Rome, ancient and unbowed, was ready.

—

It was night in Budapest, and the fires of the Danube shipyards flickered across the river like the coals of a dying empire.

King Arthur Arz von Straußenburg stood alone in the vaulted war room of Buda Castle.

The golden lions of Hungary gleamed on the ceiling above him, but he did not look up.

His eyes were on the map, an old one, stained and faded, the kind officers had bled over.

It still showed Greater Hungary, before the war, before Trianon, before betrayal.

Before Berlin.

The silence was broken only by the ticking of the wall clock and the low murmur of the storm building outside.

A knock.

“Enter.”

His Chief of Staff stepped in with a folded telegram.

“From Paris… de Gaulle seems to be getting desperate. He demands to know your position… To the great question that lingers still…

Arthur took the message but didn’t read it. Instead, he tossed it into the hearth. Not giving the parchment a second glance as it was quickly devoured by the flames.

He walked slowly to the tall window overlooking Castle Hill, one hand resting on the sill.

“Everyone sees it now,” he said. “The world is shifting. War isn’t coming. It’s already started. They just haven’t admitted it.”

His staff remained silent.

He turned.

“Germany will fight. So will France. The Balkans will burn… again. The Greeks control Constantinople. The Russians are reborn. Spain is currently healing from a gaping wound….”

He returned to the table, his gloved hand dragging across the Carpathians on the map.

“And we,” he growled, “are alone.”

No one spoke.

He stared at Transylvania. At Cluj, at Oradea. At Târgu Mureș, his birthplace.

“They took our land and gave it to shepherds,” he hissed. “And now I am asked to kneel and thank them for the favor.”

He clenched his fist over the region.

“But I am not a fool.”

A pause.

“If we wait, Romania will join Germany. They’ll promise neutrality. Maybe even lip service. But when the tanks roll east, they’ll be on the winning side, and they’ll take the rest of the east with them.”

He turned to his aide.

“Send a dispatch to Berlin.”

The aide hesitated.

“Shall I… frame it diplomatically?”

Arthur smiled grimly.

“Do. But make the message clear: Hungary joins the New Central Pact. We will honor our commitments. Our navy is nothing. But our steel flows. Our divisions are forged and tested in battle. And we’ve buried our Bolsheviks in the Danube years ago.”

The aide bowed and left.

Alone again, Arthur looked back at the window.

“They will not trust me,” he muttered. “But they will need me. And that is enough.”

He turned back to the map, and with a single, deliberate motion, drew a red grease pencil across the Romanian border.

“They’ll panic,” he said softly. “They’ll run to Paris or London. Let them.”

He smirked.

“And when they do, I’ll take back what should never have been given away.”

The wind howled against the glass. Somewhere across the continent, messages were already moving through encrypted wires, carried by black-coated couriers, and filed under headings marked Most Urgent.

The King of Hungary was choosing sides.

And this time, he would not be the junior partner.