RE: BLOOD AND IRON

Having escaped the festivities and celebratory ambience, Bruno and the Tsar of Russia found themselves secluded in the former’s office. The Tsar was surprised by the minimalistic decorations, a stark contrast to the grandeur of Bruno’s baroque estate—a villa so vast and opulent it could be mistaken for a palace, were it not for the fact that in Germany, his home nation, he held the title of a mere count.

Regardless, the room was precisely as Bruno intended—no esteemed portraits of past ancestors, no self-aggrandizing paintings of his own exploits. Instead, only photographs from his time in war adorned the walls, framed in well-crafted but restrained trappings.

The earliest among them depicted the Boxer Rebellion, where a barely eighteen-year-old Bruno had begun his military career. Next were images from Manchuria, where he had fought against the forces of the Tsar as a military advisor dispatched by the Kaiser to aid the Imperial Japanese Army. One particular photograph caught Nicholas’s gaze, and for a moment, a grim and solemn memory surfaced—one he had tried to forget.

Then came the photos from the Russian Civil War, where Bruno had redeemed himself, clad in the distinctive black, silver, and red uniform of the infamous volunteer unit, the “Iron Division.” The trenches of Tsaritsyn, Saint Petersburg, Belgorod, and the regions beyond bore witness to their ferocity.

One image stood out—a grim testament to history. In it, Bruno stood over the kneeling figure of Leon Trotsky, the infamous founder of the Red Army, who cowered in a pool of his own urine and tears. Bruno’s sidearm was aimed at the man’s head, a cigarette hanging from his lips, his expression one of sheer disdain—as if he were putting down a rabid dog rather than executing a man.

Following these were images from the Great War, nearly a decade later. It was the longest interval between battles in Bruno’s military career, but also the bloodiest conflict of them all. From Serbia to Albania, Bosnia to the Ottoman Empire, through the Italian Alps, and finally, the victorious march through Paris—each moment captured alongside the men who had fought and bled beside him.

Yet, it was not just the images that told the story of Bruno’s warpath. Displayed in the room were the grand accolades he had earned from three of the world’s mightiest empires, each accompanied by the ceremonial uniforms they adorned. First was the uniform of a Russian Field Marshal, bedecked with the highest honors of the Empire—personally awarded by the Tsar himself for Bruno’s strategic contributions during the Russian Civil War.

Beside it hung the gala uniform of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, modified with Hungarian embellishments and adorned with its most prestigious orders and decorations. And finally, the uniform Bruno wore when not on the battlefield—the Generalfeldmarschall of the German Reich, his true rank, granting him absolute command over Germany’s military forces. It, too, was stacked with grand decorations bestowed upon him by the Kaiser.

Each uniform, each medal, each insignia told the tale of wars waged, battles fought in the trenches alongside his men, and honors earned not through birthright or social connections, but through blood, sweat, and tears—his own, his soldiers’, and most of all, those who had dared to oppose him.

Many monarchs and their heirs wore such regalia merely as a formality of their station. But in Bruno’s case, each decoration was a grim testament to the millions who had fallen by his command.

The realization sent an involuntary shiver down the Tsar’s spine. And then Bruno’s cold, callous words reached his ears.

“Please… sit… I have a proposal to make to you. One that I believe will change our destinies—and that of the world—forever.”

Tsar Nicholas II had matured greatly as both a man and a ruler since the failures of the Russian Civil War—failures that, in this timeline, had been hastened by Bruno’s interference.

Yet, even now, in this moment, a sense of unease lingered. Though Bruno was offering friendship, there was an unmistakable weight in his words, as though some unspoken cost was yet to be revealed—one that might be far too steep.

Even so, Nicholas took a seat, momentarily forgetting his own imperial stature in the presence of a man who, by rank, was still a lower noble. Bruno, ever the host, poured them both glasses of the finest vodka he could procure—so smooth it was like drinking water. He raised his glass in an untraditional Russian toast.

“Prochnost.”

The two men drank under this word, and without wasting a moment, Bruno cut straight to the point.

“My eldest daughter has been engaged to the Kaiser’s grandson. No one knows this aside from the two of us. And I am telling you this because I want my second daughter to marry your son and heir. You understand what this means, don’t you?”

Nicholas was stunned. That Bruno held honorary titles of high nobility in multiple empires was one thing, but in Germany, he remained merely a count. Marrying his daughter to an imperial prince—one who would inherit the German Reich—was well above his station.

It was not that Nicholas opposed such a marriage. In truth, for years, he had sought a way to forge closer, more permanent ties with Bruno. But the prior revelation complicated things. If Bruno had secured a match between his daughter and the Kaiser’s grandson, it meant something was brewing beyond what the nobility could see.

What sorcery had Bruno conjured to gain the Kaiser’s approval? The old nobility of Germany had always been his primary obstacle. Surely, this would rattle their ancient slumber. As if reading his mind, Bruno chuckled, a knowing smirk crossing his lips before he answered.

“Austro-Hungary won’t survive the decade at this rate. Nationalism is festering in the Balkans, and for a multicultural empire like that which the Habsburgs rule this is a death sentence.

I will leverage the title they grant me and the alliances I have forged to persuade them to cede the Archduchy of Austria and its strategically vital lands to the German Reich. In exchange, I will relinquish my claims to Transylvania and trade them for new titles in Tyrol—an independent Grand Principality within Germany.

That will make me a monarch in my own right. And with that, I can serve as the binding force that permanently cements the alliance between our empires. The question I must ask is this: Are you willing to undertake this venture with Wilhelm and me? A venture that will shake the foundations of the world itself?”

The Tsar was stunned into silence. This was no simple marriage proposal—this was a realignment of history itself. And in that moment, he could say nothing. Nothing at all.

With this proposal made, the two men sat there, drinking in absolute silence, a vacuum where only the weight of Bruno’s words remained.

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