Re: Blood and Iron

Contrasting with the battles being waged in France, Austria was calm and quiet. Nearly half a year of violence had scarred its landscape, spearheaded by the Werwolf Brigade. The rot had been systematically cut out from the nation and burned away in the fire of war.

Austria now stood strong. Its military assets had been reorganized under the crown of the Habsburgs, its soldiers given proper treatment for the horrors that plagued their minds and the drugs that had ravaged their bodies. The banners of the Archduchy now flowed proudly through the streets of Vienna as tanks and armored vehicles rolled through like conquering heroes returning from a decade-long campaign in the ancient East.

But the infamous Werwolf Brigade and its dreaded banners were nowhere to be seen.

They remained at the borders—baring their fangs at the lands of Saint Stephen. Hungary and the Balkans could feel the weight of a true apex predator watching from the hills, waiting for the moment to strike.

Fear was a powerful motivator, especially for those who had watched their betters in the wealthiest and most developed parts of the Dual Monarchy fall to blood and iron at the hands of wolves disguised as men. And now those same wolves sat mere kilometers away, their leash slipping with each passing day.

Such monsters could not be allowed to enter the Balkans. Militias and national armies began to gather at Austria’s borders, hoping to drive the wolves back into their den.

And yet, amid the buildup, a voice of reason pierced through the madness—a voice far more dangerous than war drums. Bruno von Zehntner, in a move that shocked diplomats across Europe, announced that if the peoples of the Balkans could hold peaceful referendums within the next three months to determine their own fates and future borders, he would relinquish his and his family’s claim over the Grand Principality of Transylvania in perpetuity. The people, he said, would be the first to determine who would rule them.

Few understood that this had been Bruno’s goal all along. The gesture of “selfless” diplomacy was a calculated maneuver—an elegant trap. In offering peace and liberty, Bruno compelled the Habsburgs to take the bait.

Transylvania had been a gift from the dynasty to the man who had avenged their honor, who had led the coalition army that dismantled Serbia and answered the murder of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife with fire and steel. Now, to see it relinquished—given back—was a symbolic rebuke of their failures. It was a gesture that said: “This is how you fix your mess.”

And in return for such a noble act, Bruno would demand something else.

If he could release the East to stabilize it, he could now push for what he truly desired: the Alps. Greater Tyrol. Vorarlberg. And Liechtenstein. All under his House—detached from Habsburg rule and elevated to the Grand Principality of Tyrol under the federal German monarchy. A monarch in his own right, but subordinate to the Hohenzollerns. A king in the mountains, crowned not by birthright, but by deed.

The result was swift. Transylvania agreed to the referendums. Bruno had ruled justly in his brief tenure—overhauling law, stabilizing the economy, restoring military defenses—but it was clear to the people he had no intention to stay. He had no love for their soil. No allegiance to their blood. He had come as a soldier. He left as a statesman.

And so, law, order, and a fragile human decency returned to the corpse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. First in fire and gunpowder, then in ink and ballots. All of it—every act of war and peace—borne from the will of a single man.

Though history, of course, would forget this truth.

Bruno returned to Vienna not long after. The city had changed completely. The mire of degeneracy, hedonism, and spiritual decay that once oozed through its cafes and concert halls had been stripped away. Austria had been reborn as the cultural heart of the German world. The economy still bore the scars of collapse, but businesses were rebuilding. Families no longer sold themselves—or their children—for bread.

Stability had returned, in no small part due to Bruno’s silent investment and behind-the-scenes reconstruction. And now, in the palace once fortified against him, Franz Joseph—ancient and wizened, a monarch who had outlived centuries—stood waiting without guards or fanfare.

He had survived what should have been death, thanks to antibiotics Bruno had introduced years ago. But the years weighed heavily on him now, and he knew why Bruno had come.

The debt was due.

The aging emperor sighed as he led Bruno into his office. He poured two drinks with a trembling hand, then looked his guest dead in the eye.

“Spare me the niceties. Just tell me—how bad is it?”

Bruno didn’t speak. He simply reached into his coat, pulled out an envelope, and slid it across the desk. The motion was slow. Deliberate. Like a blade being unsheathed.

Franz Joseph’s fingers twitched as he opened it. His eyes scanned the document. The blood drained from his face. The number was staggering—impossible. No nation could afford such a sum. Not after a world war. Not after collapse. Not without losing everything.

And yet the receipt was perfectly itemized. No bloat. No corruption. No extortion. Just fair compensation for blood spilled, contracts fulfilled, and a nation saved.

He looked up, trembling.

“This… this can’t be right…”

Bruno’s voice was soft. Seductive. Unforgiving.

“I warned you. War is a very expensive business. You chose payment upon completion. Now the bill is due. You’re welcome to dispute it in court, of course—but that wouldn’t reflect well on your house. Not after everything that has happened….”

The emperor swallowed dryly.

“There… there’s no way I can pay this. Not even if I gave you the Habsburg treasury.”

Bruno smiled politely. Like a devil offering warmth in the cold.

“Well. There may be another way you can settle your debt.”

And there it was—the honeyed poison. The trap sprung. The devil did not roar or scream. He merely offered. And what he offered was irresistible.

If Franz Joseph had been a younger man—foolish, prideful—he might have fought. But wisdom had shown him that some demons wear suits and smiles. And some empires are bought, not broken.

And so, quietly, the Habsburgs began to loosen their grip on the mountains. And just like that, the keys of the Kingdom had entered the hands of Lucifer. Without resistance, and without retort.