Re: Blood and Iron

Hungary was a kingdom that had not been the same since the Great War ended. And that was to be expected. Once united with Austria as a great power of the world, it had suddenly found itself alone—left to fight civil wars within its former territories.

Austria had faced the same collapse, but they had the power of the Werwolf Group backing them, allowing a swift return to law and order—and a seamless annexation into the German Reich, where its vast wealth was used to help rebuild the country and heal the scars that had nearly torn it apart.

Hungary was not so lucky. Suffering from all the same ills as Austria coming out of the Great War, it had no savior. No liberator. And its king? His solution to a growing number of problems was to utilize what remained of his army to suppress violence, crime, dissent, and illness…

Whether of the addiction variety, the mental kind, or perhaps even those who were spiritually ill—when one was drowning and the only branch to save themselves with was the barrel of a gun, it was an option better than simply giving up and accepting your end.

And so the Hungarian Army marched. Powerful? That was relative. Most of Austro-Hungary’s armored vehicles had ended up in the hands of the German Army after the Archduchy of Austria joined hands with their German brothers.

Hungary was left with a mixture of surplus rifles, primarily chambered in 8x57mm Mauser. Water-cooled machine guns. Field artillery dragged by horses. Armor? Trucks? These were relics—scarred, rusting things, used more as mobile shields and makeshift gun platforms against entrenched infantry than for any true doctrine of armored warfare.

Air support? Virtually nonexistent. The Austro-Hungarian wood-and-canvas planes were easily shot out of the sky by superior German flak guns—ironically left behind after their sale to the K.u.K. before the collapse of the Dual Monarchy.

No, these men needed help. Help maintaining order. Suppressing ethnic revolts. Advancing the goals of Greater Hungary. A new map sat on the Hungarian king’s desk—King Arz of Hungary, a general of the Great War who, during a time of anarchy, had crowned himself when no other option was available. And now, there was little more he could do but gaze upon the borders laid out before him.

His uniform was regal and tidy, the crystal glass in his hand filled with the finest port wine brought in through river channels from the shores of Portugal itself. He looked less like a general and more like a king masquerading as one—despite clearly having earned the medals pinned to his chest.

Even so, the map was new. The world had changed in the wake of the Great War, and so too were the lines on it redrawn. Germany was greater and more united than ever. Lost territories—or those who had simply refused to yield out of stubbornness to the Hohenzollerns—finally reclaimed.

But Hungary? It was smaller than ever. Feebler. Barely held together by the will of a sovereign, and the men who had called him king when all others had abandoned them in their hour of need.

Sure, it wasn’t as dire as the Treaty of Trianon had been in Bruno’s past life—brutally so—but in this world, here and now, it was a disgraceful thing for a man to look at.

Sacrifices had already been made by Arz and his people. In his attempt to secure his homeland in Transylvania, he had given up the very town he was born and raised in—part of the three-way partition Bruno imposed at the edge of a blade, or at the very least, a threat of its use.

But at the very least, he had secured part of the region—the Hungarian part—and that created a buffer, for the time being, against the Romanians and the threats that lay beyond. But now? Everything he had was already threatening to fall apart.

For every fire he put out, two more burned somewhere else. It was a never-ending effort of futility and blood. And he didn’t know if Hungary could continue to bear the cost.

By his side stood one of his generals—a man who had stood with him through the Great War, and was ready to do so still. The man seemed to know exactly what his king was thinking, and was quick to suggest a plan he knew was a long shot.

“You know… we could do what the Habsburgs did. Hire those mercenaries the Grand Prince of Tyrol claims aren’t his personal private army. It would certainly be an enormous aid in dealing with the rebels and brigands outside the safety of Budapest…”

King Arz seemed almost offended by the remark. Because he knew, all too well, what few others had come to understand: when Bruno offered you aid, it always came with a price—one almost unbearable to pay.

And when Arz thought of how Bruno had manipulated the Habsburgs into selling their souls to him, then claimed it in a way that left Germany stronger—but Hungary defenseless and abandoned—he couldn’t help but tense his grip around his glass, to the point that small cracks began to appear within its surface… but not deep enough to spill the red liquid within.

His voice sounded as if it were just barely passing through his pursed lips as he gave his reply in a forcefully restrained manner.

“Never in a million years would I call in such a favor. Don’t get me wrong—I will never march our forces to reclaim my hometown. The moment Bruno made it clear it was bound by Germany’s protection, I realized these borders with Romania were forever sealed.

But I will not request aid from him either. To do so would be to damn us all. Just as he has done to the Habsburgs. You weren’t there. Not in Sarajevo, when we were putting down those guerillas that popped up in the war.

The man has the brutality of the Devil—of Satan himself—but the charm of Lucifer. With a silver tongue, he will whisper sweet poison into your ear, so tempting you can’t help but take a sip… and before you know it, you’ve consumed the whole carton. And only he has the antidote.

And yet—he never calls in these favors for lust. Or drink. Or gold. Or power. Or prestige. Only for those he serves.

He’s an anomaly. An aberration. Something that should never have been—but who wields the power to bend kings and emperors before him like dogs currying favor with their master.

I have never met a man so forward-thinking… so visionary… yet still so rooted in tradition, and respect for what came before. And even so—more than willing to throw all of that away if it gets in the way of the world he’s trying to build.

When Wilhelm is gone… when Franz Joseph is dead… and Nicholas has kicked the bucket… who will truly wear the crown of crowns within Germany? Who will be the real Emperor?”

It was a jarring question. And an even more shocking revelation—that Bruno was the reason the Habsburgs, after centuries of political ties and brotherhood with Hungary, had abandoned it entirely.

Something the Hungarian nationalists—and maybe even the world—had not truly seen when Franz Joseph signed the document that saw Austria join Germany once and for all.

As for Bruno, he was not some mythical figure descending from the heavens, bathed in moonlight and whispering in your ear with the voice of a siren, tempting you into a Faustian bargain.

Oh, quite the contrary.

He was a man building what he believed was a better world—one with purpose and order.

And he was quite literally doing just that now—across the Danube, into the Alps.

Progress on his palace and its grounds had gone well in the time since he’d claimed a home in Tyrol. And even now, he was not simply directing the project—he was adding to it. Personally.

As the scaffolding was erected on a new wing of the palace—opulent, yet fortified—Bruno was riveting a galvanized steel beam in place alongside the work crew.

In fact, he had fetched his younger son Josef to help hold the beam steady.

Josef had grown enough over the years to assist his father with daily tasks like this. And despite being second in line to a dynastic title of Prince, he was dressed in work clothes, hands greasy, performing manual labor just like his father.

Josef had followed in Erwin’s steps, despite being half a decade younger. A childhood filled with discipline and humility. Sure, their home was grander than the one Erwin had grown up in, but from the day he was born, the boy knew no pampering.

His privilege—like Erwin’s—was the dirt beneath his feet. And he was expected to help around the house, just like his brothers and sisters. Servants weren’t to be bullied, mistreated, or disrespected like slaves.

If a moment came where one of Bruno’s children was in a position to help—especially in their youth—they were expected to do so.

And so, after Bruno used the pneumatic rivet gun in his hand to secure the beam, he offered his son a proud smile.

“I’m proud of you, son… you and I did a beautiful job on this one. Right to spec. Now just another hundred more before we call it quits for the day!”

Contrary to what one might expect from a boy born into the status of a second prince, Josef was not exhausted, dismissive, or frustrated.

He seemed almost excited to be helping his war-hero of a father build their new family home—beam by beam, bolt by bolt.

Even if it was a grand palace. Even if it was meant to house generations of princes.

“Sure! Let’s do it!”

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