Re: Blood and Iron-Chapter 415: Beneath the Weight of History

The sun gazed through the sacred halls of the Hofburg Palace in Vienna. Tapestries, murals, frescoes, and portraits of a forgotten and almost mythical age of kings, knights, and emperors adorned the great hall built by the very men depicted within them.

A new generation, centuries later—forged from the same steel, cut from the same cloth, descended from the same lineage—stood beneath the visages of their ancestors. Their grand feats, etched into the marble and oil of imperial glory, had built an empire.

An empire that, today, officially came to an end. The Habsburgs, with all their titles as kaisers and emperors, would finally conclude their legacy here and now, in the spring of 1918.

Ironically enough, had this been Bruno's former life, the Central Powers would be launching a final, pyrrhic push into France—a campaign that achieved victory on the battlefield but collapse at home, betrayed by politicians, revolutionaries, and profiteers.

But this world was not that one. The three sisters who wove the golden tapestry of fate had seen their threads burned, twisted, and rewoven by Bruno's hand. Bitter though they may be, today was not their day. Today belonged to another force entirely.

It was a day of submission.

Dignitaries, nobles, generals, and ministers—along with their wives and children—had gathered to bear witness. This was no ordinary ceremony, but a funeral for an epoch, and the baptism of a new world order. The Kaisers of Germany and Russia, Wilhelm II and Nicholas II, stood beside their houses in solemn observation.

And at the center of it all, beneath the glimmering chandeliers and golden eagles of Habsburg majesty, stood the man who had brought about this transformation—not in his usual Prussian field uniform, but in a magnificent, decadent gala uniform.

His red trousers, gold-trimmed white tunic adorned with the Hungarian knotwork of nobility, bore the sash and chain of the Order of Saint Stephen, and medals gifted by Emperor Franz Joseph in years past—after Serbia had been brought to heel.

Bruno von Zehntner.

He smiled.

It was unusual—rare, even. The war had chiseled his face into something cold and calculating, something beyond charm. And yet here, in this imperial hall, he smiled—a simple thing, a human thing—and in that moment, it was devastating.

Heidi stood just behind him, having stepped aside. Even she, his wife—one of the few to see the warmth beneath the steel—recognized the moment for what it was. A glimpse of radiance. It wasn't mere handsomeness; it was alluring. He radiated something that drew people in: not lust, not admiration, but a desire to belong to whatever destiny he carried.

And as Bruno stepped toward the Archduke of Austria—no longer Emperor—Franz Joseph looked every bit the relic of a dying world. He had aged another decade in the weeks since privately accepting the terms Bruno had set. And now, with the world watching, he had no choice but to speak the words aloud.

There was resistance in the old man's eyes. Not pride—he had long since lost the strength for that—but sorrow. Regret. The last flicker of rebellion. He looked at Bruno pleadingly, quiet and desperate. Bruno leaned in.

Franz Joseph whispered, "Bruno... must you truly compel us to kneel before the Hohenzollerns? Can you not show the least mercy to my house? After everything we gave you?"

Bruno's expression didn't harden—it softened. Not with pity, but with incredulous disappointment. He tilted his head slightly, and whispered back, voice smooth as velvet, sharp as obsidian.

"Mercy? Compulsion? My dear Archduke, in what way have I compelled you? Think carefully. Have I ever lied to you? Concealed my ambitions, perhaps—but never lied.

Every time I offered you counsel, I warned you of the cost. Every decision you made—every pact signed, every brigade contracted, every coin spent—you chose freely. I gave you options. You selected the path. Now, we are here.

Here, in the grand hall of your ancestors, where you will cede your sovereignty—not because I forced you, but because you followed me, willingly. You knew it was a Faustian bargain. I told you as much. And yet you sold your soul to me all the same...."

Franz Joseph stood frozen, lips pressed tight, hands trembling at his sides. In the silence that followed, the echoes of truth rang louder than any anthem. He had not been deceived. Bruno had never broken a promise. Every consequence had been laid bare from the start. And still—he followed.

Even the Werwolf Brigade, that famed private army, had come at a known cost. He had agreed to a full year's deployment without reviewing the final bill, assuming he could afford it from a treasury that had been bleeding for decades. It was pride. It was hubris. It was history repeating itself.

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And now, it ended here.

The pen moved slowly across the parchment. With it, the sovereignty of Cisleithania passed into history. Exceptions were made for Dalmatia, Galicia and Lodomeria, and other borderlands granted autonomy via local referenda—but the core was lost.

The Greater German Reich was born from the ashes.

Bruno's family was elevated. The House von Zehntner-Tirol was forged anew. As for the temporary branch which preceded it, one which was forged in the name of legitimate control over Transylvania. It had already faded into the pages of history.

A brief, and forgotten era, but one of significance, where Bruno had used his title and wealth to the best of his ability, not for his own wellbeing, but that of the people who lived in a land he had no love, or loyalty to. But a duty nonetheless.

As for the Grand Princes of Tyrol: ruling over the union of Tyrol, Vorarlberg, and Liechtenstein. Liechtenstein itself had agreed to annexation under the promise of prosperity and dynastic intermarriage within two generations.

The wolf had claimed the mountains. And Bruno? He did not conquer them with armies, but with inevitability.

The Austrians chafed under this new reality, but resistance would fade. Joint Russo-German investment flooded into Vienna, Linz, and Graz. Railways, factories, academies, and power stations. Prosperity softened the sting.

Bohemia would fuel this new union of the German World, slowly in time rediscovering their German roots, not from coercion, or force, but through the voluntary will of the people.

The Archduchy of Austria became a federated monarchy within the Reich—greater than it had ever been on its own. Aligned with its German kin, its access to the Mediterranean and industrial prowess guaranteed it a new kind of power.

Few had believed such a transition was possible. But in the coming years, when the documents, correspondences, and private letters were declassified—when the world saw the webs Bruno had woven over a decade—historians would struggle to classify him.

Not a general. Not merely a statesman.

He was a kingmaker. Not the sort who demanded loyalty through terror, but one who offered choices so compelling, so brilliantly framed, that even monarchs walked themselves into his plans.

The Wolf of Prussia, they had called him. But here, now, they would learn— The Wolf of Tyrol was not a beast to be feared. He was a tactician to be revered. And behind his smile, behind his elegant words and measured voice, was the mind of a raven leading its murder. Patient. Intelligent. Precise.

Bruno von Zehntner did not break empires. He taught them how to fall. And while the Austro-Hungarian Empire may have held its last breath on this day, the Habsburgs would remain. Sure, Bruno had stripped them of their sovereignty and led them to the bindings of servitude, but his plans for them were not complete.

Such ancient and noble families were beyond the reproach of time and decay. No, Austria was never meant to be a major military power. That was Prussia's job, but they were the heart and soul of Germany's culture. And now, as a part of a German Union they could finally fulfill the role that destiny had always had in store for them.

The Habsburgs had a role to play in the future which Bruno was shaping, not as conquerors, not as emperors, but as the grace, civility, and duty that the new nobility of this world would come to embody.

There was no greater name, no greater lineage to spearhead the path towards chivalry, and noblesse oblige than one already so steeped in the high culture of the German world, and thus it was imperative to Bruno that his second oldest son marry a Habsburg archduchess, in time of course.

Everything was due in time... Such was the weight of history, and the new order Bruno was forging from the ashes of the old. Thus, Bruno did not rub salt into the wounds of the Habsburgs. He did not treat them as underlings, nor did he remind them that he was now their equal.

No... He bowed, with respect, and reverence, to the men and women who had shaped the history of Europe for the last five centuries, and would continue to craft its culture for the next thousand years.

Not as a sign of submission, but of admiration... An act that would cause many to wonder what exactly Bruno's intentions were. Something that only Heidi, who knew the true weight of Bruno's burden, could truly understand.

This was the sign of a man, recognizing the greatness of history passing before him, and paying his homage to its grandeur, even if he had played a role in its downfall. Something which caused a tear to run down the marbled sculpture that was Heidi's high cheekbones.