Re: Blood and Iron-Chapter 566: To Protect and Serve

Bruno sat in his study long after dusk had settled over Tyrol, the lamps casting warm pools of light across towering shelves. The day’s turmoil had finally faded into a tense, uneasy quiet.

He had sent Erika home under escort. The girl’s composure, fragile as frost on glass, had been gently steadied by young Erich’s patient kindness throughout the afternoon.

A kindness Bruno had carefully observed from the shadows of doorways and balconies, saying nothing. Watching.

Now, the old Lion of Tyrol sat alone; save for his grandson standing near the fireplace within his office, hands folded behind his back in that precisely measured posture of an officer who had never actually seen war.

Erich’s expression was neutral, but the faint tension in his shoulders betrayed the thoughts churning beneath the uniform.

Bruno broke the silence with a low, tired question.

"Tell me plainly, Erich. What do you think of her?"

The young man blinked, perhaps surprised by the abrupt directness. Then he shifted his weight, looking into the flames rather than at his grandfather.

"She’s... spirited, beneath the grief. Intelligent. Well-bred, certainly. And—"

He paused, almost awkwardly. Then a faint smile ghosted across his lips.

"—beautiful, if you’ll forgive me for saying so."

Bruno leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. His pale blue eyes, colder now than any winter Tyrol could muster, studied his grandson for a long, silent moment.

"I did not ask about her pedigree or her face, boy. I asked what you think of her. In here."

He tapped a scarred finger to his chest.

Erich hesitated, then let out a slow breath.

"I think... I think she’s endured much. And still has a heart capable of tenderness. That’s rare, Grandfather. Especially among our circles."

Bruno nodded once, slowly. Then he steepled his hands before his mouth as though praying to God in heaven.

Inside, his mind churned with cold calculations and ancient grief.

If Erich was truly taken with Erika, if the children of his closest friend and his own line might, by some quiet miracle, choose each other out of genuine feeling, then he would not stand in their way. It would almost feel... just.

Like some fragment of restitution for what he had done to Erika’s father. For how Erich von Humboldt had died under Bruno’s hand, offering a final salute, calm even as the bullet struck home.

That image still visited him in restless hours, sometimes clearer than his own wife’s face.

At least your line would rise again, old friend. Not in shadow, but openly under my roof.

But another part of Bruno, older, colder, forged by decades of maneuver and war, remained keenly aware of dynastic consequence.

He had long intended for Erich to marry the crown princess of France, once France bled itself dry again and bent beneath Germany’s boot.

It was not merely ambition but necessity: a marriage to seal hegemony by blood as surely as by conquest.

If Erich tied himself to Erika first, if affection rooted into something permanent, how much would that unravel?

Decades of painstaking alliances, thousands of lives already gambled on the long game of German dominion... all cast into uncertainty.

Yet as he studied his grandson’s honest, open face, Bruno felt a peculiar ache ease into his chest. A weary softness he seldom allowed.

He did not wish to become the architect of another private tragedy. Not here. Not with the daughter of the man who had died to protect him and everything he built.

"I’ve twisted enough fates for one lifetime," he thought grimly. "If these two hearts choose each other, I will not be the one to tear them apart."

Bruno finally lowered his hands, his voice gravelly but calm.

"If your affections for Erika deepen... I will not stop you. Nor will I force you. This is your choice to make, Erich; though understand that every choice comes with its own burdens."

Erich’s head jerked up, startled. Then he dipped it in a slow, respectful nod, something almost like relief flickering through his eyes.

"Thank you, Grandfather."

Bruno only gazed back into the fireplace, his expression unreadable.

"Thank me when the cost is paid. And not before."

Because even if he yielded to sentiment here, he knew the world would not.

France would still need binding, Tyrol would still need heirs, and the empire he had built from rivers of blood would demand new sacrifices.

Whether from Erich, or Erika, or children yet unborn; someone would pay. Someone always did. That was the cruel arithmetic of dynasties.

And Bruno, more than anyone alive, understood its ledger could never truly be balanced.

Erich left the room not long after. Whatever he had come to see his grandfather for was no longer on his mind.

Instead, Bruno returned to his desk and pulled out an old bottle of port, one of the few that remained from the gift King Manuel of Portugal had once given him.

He poured himself a glass and swirled it slightly, taking a long sniff before sipping its contents.

"It’s a good thing that Erich has younger brothers. Lest this little curveball the Moirai have thrown me just now would have been far more difficult to deal with...."

And as Bruno enjoyed himself, he saw a bill on his desk waiting to be signed.

For many years, Bruno had thought he had dealt the death blow to the age of knights and chivalry.

Today, however, death would be cheated. As would the fates... Bruno put pen to paper, resurrecting the traditions of the past in a way that made them meaningful to the present and future.

From this day forward, Tyrol’s new nobility, built by merit, would serve as the backbone of the German Reich, and be emulated by all other states within the realm.

A new nobility to protect the realm, and to use their wealth, power, and position to serve the people. For what was the purpose of a knight who did not protect and serve?

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