Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 588: The Fourth Pillar

The bells of Santa Maria del Fiore rang out with imperial clarity.

Florence had not known such grandeur in generations. At least not since the twilight days of the kingdom, when the banners of Savoy still carried unbroken pride.

But today, those banners hung beside others; black eagles of Prussia, twin-headed eagles of Russia, and the unmistakable sigil of the House of Zehntner: the red lion standing upon the black death’s head.

The Duomo overflowed with nobility. Cardinals in crimson robes stood side by side with Orthodox patriarchs and Protestant princes.

Generals sat shoulder to shoulder with bishops, and industrial magnates pressed shoulder to shoulder with the scions of fading republics. But none dared speak above a whisper.

Not in the presence of so much power.

At the altar stood Prince Umberto of Savoy, the Crown Prince of Italy, in a perfectly tailored white uniform, gold trim catching every beam of light beneath the dome.

His posture was unshakable; chiseled from the same granite as every ruler who had ever marched from the Alps to the Tyrrhenian Sea.

And beside him, in a flowing bridal gown woven with Tyrolean lace and Russian pearls, stood Anna von Zehntner.

Daughter of Bruno. Princess of Tyrol. The second youngest rose of his line.

Eighteen now; and radiant.

Her face held none of the nervous smiles of girls uncertain of their fate. Instead, she held her chin high, every movement dignified and regal, the way she’d been taught since she could first curtsy.

Her hand did not tremble as she reached for her groom’s. She was no lamb. No porcelain doll. She was her father’s daughter; and the crown upon her brow had weight.

Seated in the front pew, Bruno von Zehntner watched with unreadable eyes. His uniform feldgrau, crimson and gilded, bore the full weight of the Reichsmarschall’s station.

A litany of honors adorned his chest; earned, never bought.

To his right, the King of Italy sat still, fingers steepled beneath his chin, face tight as stone.

To his left, Kaiser Wilhelm III and Tsar Alexei Romanov shared quiet nods, both flanked by their guards and retinues.

The entire world, at least the world that still mattered, had gathered beneath that dome.

And as the vows were spoken, and the priest declared the union sealed by heaven and earth alike, Bruno felt the quiet shift in history’s weight.

With this union, Italy was no longer a question mark on the continent.

With this union, the Axis of Order was complete.

House Hohenzollern, House Romanov, House Savoy, and finally House Zehntner…

The glue. The shadow throne. The fourth pillar that kept the new world order standing proud and defiant.

As the ceremonial kiss was sealed and the organ roared to life, the congregation rose in thunderous applause. The trumpets outside blared for the crowds. Doves took flight over the Arno.

And Bruno, still seated, still unmoving, exhaled slowly.

Not from fatigue. Not from pride.

But from inevitability.

Heidi leaned in gently, whispering through the sea of cheers, “You should smile. She’s happy.”

“I am smiling,” Bruno murmured without turning.

And perhaps in his way he was.

For beneath the façade of ceremony, beneath the silken gloves and golden braid, he knew what this truly was.

This was not just a wedding.

It was a treaty. A pact. A consolidation of future emperors and empires.

And it had been done without a single shot fired.

As the procession began to exit the cathedral, the banners of the four great houses were carried aloft side by side:

Together, they flapped in the wind like omens. Like warnings. Like the heraldry of a new world taking form.

And the world, watching from afar, trembled; because it knew:

War was coming.

And this time, the heirs of empire would not stand divided.

—

The grand reception hall of Palazzo Pitti shimmered with candlelight and laughter.

Waltz music echoed beneath frescoed ceilings, and the marble floors gleamed with the reflections of silk dresses and polished boots.

Italian nobles mingled with German aristocrats, Russian dignitaries, and a handful of foreign ambassadors careful not to speak out of turn.

Outside, Florence was alive with celebration. Fireworks burst above the Arno. Bells rang long into the evening.

The wedding of Anna von Zehntner to Crown Prince Umberto had become more than a dynastic formality.

It was the final stroke in a portrait of continental alignment.

Bruno stood apart from the dance floor, near a tall set of windows that overlooked the city. A glass of plum brandy rested in his hand.

Tyrolean, aged twenty years. He nursed it slowly, his gaze distant.

Across the room, his children danced.

Eva, bold and laughing, twirled beneath a chandelier with her husband, Wilhelm von Hohenzollern.

While Erwin, ever the heir, stood politely engaged in conversation alongside his wife, Alya, with a variety of guests from smaller realms.

Even Elsa, quiet and observant, had joined a small cluster near the musicians, sipping wine and watching with that same calculating gaze she inherited from her father.

“They’re too happy,” Bruno murmured.

Tsar Alexei Romanov appeared beside him with the grace of a man who’d learned to move without making noise.

His uniform was a deeper blue than most Russian officers wore, the gold braid across his shoulders thick with rank.

He said nothing at first, merely lifted a glass of clear vodka and took a small sip.

Bruno nodded faintly, answering his own thoughts aloud. “This generation has seen peace for too long. At least, peace among the strong. They have no memory of trenches. Of chemical gas. Of blood that pools beneath snow because it has nowhere else to go.”

Alexei didn’t respond right away.

When he did, it was soft. “They will learn.”

Bruno turned to him, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“You believe Spain will be enough?”

Alexei exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the upper rim of the glass. “Spain is a forest fire in dry grass. We send our best to extinguish it, and instead they come back… changed. You’ve read the reports. You saw what happened in Manila. You saw what Erich wrote. I’m not the foolish boy I was a year ago when I scolded you for what you did in Japan… I’ve learned a lot since then….”

Bruno nodded grimly. His grandson’s words had been brave, but haunted.

Across the room, King Victor Emmanuel III approached with a satisfied expression and a cigar clamped between his fingers.

He gestured broadly to the dance floor where Anna now danced with her new husband, the golden couple of the night surrounded by applause.

“A fine match,” the King said, beaming. “And a finer future. I daresay Europe may finally know stability.”

Bruno offered a polite incline of the head, while Alexei masked his expression behind another sip of vodka.

“And besides,” the Italian monarch continued, grinning, “whatever comes… it can’t be worse than the Great War, now can it?”

The silence that followed was not hostile, but it was heavy.

Alexei and Bruno had a rough start working together after the death of the preceding Tsar Nicholas.

They had known each other for many years, but Alexei had stumbled into the position ill-suited to the reality of warfare, while one raged on his borders in the eastern world.

His naivety nearly caused a permanent rift in their alliance. But in the time since he had come to reflect on his choices.

A single year had passed, and yet, now? Now he was practically a different man entirely.

Bruno’s expression remained unreadable, but a coldness crept into his eyes. Alexei’s mouth tightened faintly, as if holding back a truth too bitter to swallow in company.

The King, sensing a shift in the air, looked between them, chuckling awkwardly.

“Gentlemen?”

Bruno finally spoke.

“In the Great War, the old world died,” he said quietly. “What comes next… will decide what kind of world replaces it.”

Alexei nodded once. “And who survives long enough to shape it.”

Victor Emmanuel blinked, his smile faltering just slightly.

Bruno finished his drink and set the empty glass aside, gaze drifting once more to the dance floor.

Anna laughed, radiant, her hand in Umberto’s. They had no idea. None of them did.

And yet… it was better this way.

Let them laugh tonight. Let them dance and believe in peace.

Because when the drums of war returned, and they would, it would fall to men like Bruno and Alexei to decide how much of the world survived the fire.

“Let them have tonight,” Bruno murmured, almost to himself.

And beside him, the Tsar raised his glass in silent agreement.

The three monarchs would drink together throughout the night, and later Wilhelm II would join them. Old, but not defeated.

He himself wished to enjoy the last few years he had left. After all, Bruno had only recently begun to see the man as more than a historical figure, and instead embrace him as a friend.

And considering that had been a goal of Wilhelm’s since Bruno had first proven his worth, he was going to take every chance he got to revel in it.