Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 653: The Year of Waiting

The year passed, not in silence, but in slow and deliberate breath.

Spring thawed the last bloodstains of conflict in Mittelafrika.

Summer brought parades through Rome and Berlin, while autumn saw fresh steel laid across the Balkans like bones reforged.

And then came winter.

Winter cloaked the world in stillness, but not peace.

It covered the trenches being dug anew in Finland.

It masked the silhouettes of merchant vessels sailing north to Greenland under false flags.

It softened the bootfalls of soldiers training in mountain forts from Carpathia to the Caucasus.

Even the diplomats had grown quiet, exhausted from a year of whispers, threats, and carefully choreographed neutrality.

Borders remained, but belief in their permanence did not.

All knew what was coming.

Fresh snow crunched beneath their boots, clean, undisturbed save for the meandering trail they’d carved through the frozen gardens.

Bruno wore a long black greatcoat lined with Tyrolean wolf fur, his gloved hands clasped behind his back.

His breath left him in calm plumes, every step deliberate, every word slow.

Beside him, shorter in both stature and gait, walked Victor Emmanuel III, King of Italy.

His military overcoat hung stiff on his frame, tailored perfectly but clearly ceremonial.

The monarch looked out at the white-capped peaks ringing the valley like ancient guardians.

“You still have snow in your soul, Bruno,” the King said with a half-smile. “I see now why your people endure so well in winter.”

Bruno gave a quiet chuckle.

“Surely you jest? Has the world forgotten already that my house originates in Prussia?.”

They paused at a marble overlook, where the mountains broke into a distant mist. Below, faint lights from the lower village flickered like candles in fog.

Far beyond that, the spires of Innsbruck pierced the gloom.

Victor Emmanuel exhaled slowly, folding his gloved hands over the railing.

“I came here to say thank you. Not as a sovereign, but as a man. Italy was floundering. Divided, faithless, adrift. It was your support that gave us steel again, your rail lines, your engineers, your quiet advice.”

Bruno turned slightly, offering only a thin smile.

“I did not give Italy anything it did not already have, Your Majesty. I merely reminded her of what she was.”

The Italian king bowed his head briefly.

“Destiny,” he murmured. “You gave us back our sense of destiny.”

There was a beat of stillness. A hawk’s cry echoed from the cliffs.

Bruno’s eyes didn’t leave the horizon.

“The Allies will call it militarism. But they mistake pride for aggression. They forget what humiliation breeds in men.”

“And they forget it still,” Victor Emmanuel said, his voice firmer now.

Bruno nodded.

“Let them. The longer they posture and hesitate, the stronger we grow. Industry thrives in silence. Alliances deepen in the cold.”

He tapped the snow-dusted railing once with his glove, as if to emphasize a point.

“Let them keep watching the Rhine. Their next war will not begin there.”

The king tilted his head. “Then where?”

Bruno smiled, but said nothing.

Only the wind answered.

—

It was a few months later when the day arrived.

The sea was black glass under the low Arctic sun, broken only by the slow churn of ice floes and the distant silhouettes of fishing trawlers hugging the coastline.

From the bridge of the Freyja, a German-flagged civilian icebreaker, the radio operator looked up as the transmission light blinked red.

Again, he didn’t need to ask. The same transmission had played twice already.

“Unidentified vessel operating in disputed Arctic waters,” the message crackled in flat Canadian English.

“You are ordered to divert course and prepare for boarding inspection under North Atlantic Treaty enforcement protocols.”

Captain Meissner lowered the binoculars, his jaw tightening.

The Canadian destroyer looming a kilometer off his starboard bow made no pretense of subtlety now.

It cut through the icy water with purpose, gray hull glinting with frost, its guns angled just enough to not be aimed, yet not aimed away, either.

“Log it,” he muttered. “Third harassment this week.”

The young ensign beside him shifted uncomfortably. “Orders, captain?”

Meissner gave a humorless smile. “Orders are to carry aluminum ore from Nuuk to Bergen. Orders are not to let some colonial war canoe dictate my route.”

He keyed the transmitter with a calm hand.

“This is Freyja, a civilian transport vessel operating under Danish registry and Reich maritime protections. We are within legally defined Danish shipping corridors under bilateral treaty. If you fire on us, you are committing an act of war.”

Silence.

Then:

“That’s a mighty bold claim, Freyja. For a ship so far from Kiel.”

Captain Meissner turned off the receiver. “asshole.”

Behind them, the crew shifted uneasily as the Canadian ship slowly adjusted course, cutting across Freyja’s path.

—

In the cold steel confines of the German coastal operations bunker, A German Oberleutnant snapped the final photo into place on the corkboard.

Four photographs, four separate encounters. All the same pattern: Canadian vessels near Danish waters, intercepting unarmed German transports. None had fired yet.

But the last image showed something new: a Canadian boarding skiff in the water, approaching a Danish patrol vessel.

Generalleutnant Kessler, the Reich’s Arctic commandant, leaned on his cane and stared at the board for a long moment. Finally:

“They’re testing us.”

“And Denmark,” Richter added. “Trying to see if Copenhagen will flinch. Or if Berlin will.”

Kessler exhaled through his nose. “They think that because it’s Greenland, no one will care. That the world will call it a misunderstanding.”

He looked down at the encrypted report on his desk, one that had arrived just that morning from Tyrol, bearing Bruno’s seal. The message was short. A single sentence:

“Let them think that.”

Kessler smiled grimly.

“Signal the fleet. No engagements… but send U-121 to shadow the next boarding team. If they board another vessel, sink the skiff.”

“And if they retaliate?”

Kessler’s voice was flat. “Then we stop pretending this is peace.”

The Canadians had made their bluff, and the Germans had played their hand.