Re: Blood and Iron

Bruno was surprised to see, not a fortnight later, that the Kaiser had requested his presence at the royal palace in Berlin. Normally, a train ride from Innsbruck to the capital of the German Reich would have been a logistical nightmare—draining time, patience, and energy. But this was the dawn of a new era.

Sufficient numbers of Ju-52s had now been built not only for military use but also for the budding infrastructure of future commercial aviation. While the public airways had not yet opened fully, Bruno—as always—moved ahead of the curve. He simply hitched a ride aboard a Luftstreitkräfte transport bound for Berlin.

What once would have consumed the better part of a day became a brief, calculated maneuver. And so, within hours, Bruno stood in full military gala uniform in the Kaiser's palace, flanked by the ornate banners of the Reich. Yet it was not the grandeur of the palace that caught his attention—but two familiar faces waiting within.

One of them, he did not expect to see again so soon.

Marie-Adélaïde, the Grand Duchess of Luxembourg, stood with a poise that betrayed the quiet storm beneath her eyes. Their last encounter had ended with tension, misjudged words, and wounded pride. Bruno had expected resentment, perhaps icy detachment—but instead, when her eyes met his, there was only a flicker of shame. Not defiance. Not anger. Shame.

The change in her demeanor struck him immediately. Gone was the flirtatious smirk, the romantic pretense, the indulgent air of a woman enamored with a dream. What remained was a sovereign stripped of illusions, standing before the very man who had once held her heart—and who would now hold her sovereignty.

Bruno bowed—short, precise, but unmistakably respectful.

"Your Royal Grace," he said, voice steady but low, "I must apologize for the sternness of my words the last time we met. In hindsight, I responded in a manner ill-suited to the emotions behind them. If I've caused you grievance, I ask your forgiveness."

Marie did not leap at the apology. She let it hang, studied him with a softened gaze, and waited until he rose. Then, with a voice stripped of flirtation and vanity, she answered.

"You have done nothing wrong, Your Royal Highness. It is I who must apologize. I behaved scandalously—chasing after a man already spoken for, consumed by naïve fantasies that I should have long outgrown."

Bruno stiffened slightly. Her honesty struck harder than any rebuke.

"I know what you may be thinking," she continued, "considering my presence here. But I did not request your attendance. And if seeing me again brings you discomfort, I am truly sorry."

She offered a deep curtsey—formal, composed, and entirely devoid of the affection she once wore so easily. There was no longing in her voice, no attempt to reclaim lost ground. Only dignity and retreat.

Bruno had no immediate response. He wasn't used to this version of Marie. But before the silence could curdle into awkwardness, the Kaiser stepped forward with impeccable timing.

"I do apologize if I'm interrupting," Wilhelm said, voice crisp, "but we are on a schedule. If there are personal matters between you two, perhaps they can wait until after the signing of the treaty?"

Both Bruno and Marie seized the lifeline with nods. As Bruno turned to follow the Kaiser into the adjoining chamber, he glanced one last time over his shoulder.

Marie was lifting her head, and for just a second—perhaps imagined, perhaps not—he thought he saw the faintest flush in her cheeks. A touch of embarrassment. Bitter regret. The look of someone forcing herself to surrender against every instinct in her body. She had once fought for love; now she bowed to reality.

Bruno looked away.

There was no virtue in giving a woman false hope—not to comfort her, not to soften the blow of a romance that had never lived, and never would. Whatever she had felt, whatever he had denied—this was not the place to unravel it. And so he moved forward, silently, with the Kaiser.

The treaty was laid out with ceremonial precision. Ink would do what armies had not—bind Luxembourg to the German Reich in full annexation.

Though it was within Bruno's strategic projections, he had not expected Marie to capitulate so quickly. He had assumed she might try to leverage the Werwolf Brigade or the financial and logistical backing he had offered her domain.

But that had been a miscalculation—one not of politics, but of character. Bruno, for all his insight into the geopolitical calculus, had failed to understand the depth of Marie's heart.

She was no delusional damsel clinging to vanity. She was a ruler who understood exactly what her situation was: untenable. Surrounded by instability from a fracturing France, too small to defend herself, and without allies who could offer anything more than pity.

Annexation wasn't her defeat—it was her only chance at continuity. Conquered by bandits, her people would be enslaved. Under German protection, they had a future.

Yes, she had loved him. Perhaps she still did. But Marie had not offered her country for love. She had surrendered it for duty, protection, and the slim hope that someone could keep the wolves at bay.

Bruno had killed the fantasy—ruthlessly, as duty required. And now, she stood watching him, the man she had once dreamed of as savior, now signing the document that would end her family's reign forever.

Bruno did not look back. He could not.

He understood war, and peace, and duty. But he would never understand the grief of a woman giving away a crown—not because she was weak, but because she was the only one strong enough to make that sacrifice without weeping.

Outside the treaty hall, the banners of Luxembourg were already being lowered.

And for the first time since he had met her, Bruno no longer saw Marie-Adélaïde as a girl chasing love.

He saw her as a sovereign who had walked willingly to her own political execution—because it was the only way to save what she could.

And that was a pain far deeper than any romance that might have been.