Re: Blood and Iron

The snow fell against the tall windows of their Berlin residence, tapping softly against the glass.

A fire burned low in the grate, its warmth unable to soften the chill that seemed to seep into Eva's bones as she sat alone in the drawing room.

The door opened quietly.

Prince Wilhelm entered, his uniform immaculate as always, but his expression somber.

He closed the door behind him, crossing the room with deliberate steps.

Eva looked up at him, and in his eyes she saw the answer before he spoke.

"It's happened," he said simply. His voice was steady, but low. "Your grandfather has passed."

For a moment she said nothing.

The words pressed upon her chest like a weight, yet she did not let them break her.

Her pale features remained composed, though her hands curled tightly against the armrest of her chair.

She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, and nodded once.

"I will have to take a flight to Tyrol," she said at last, her voice calm, measured. "My family will need me there. And I expect you and the children to come as well."

Wilhelm gave a faint, understanding nod. "I know. I had the preparations made the moment the message reached me. The flight will be ready within the hour."

Eva's lips parted slightly, as if to protest or insist further, but she saw the certainty in his eyes. Instead, she allowed herself the smallest exhale, her poise unbroken.

Wilhelm stepped closer, his tone gentler now.

"My grandfather is arranging a state funeral. A rather grand one. He would not deny the honor your grandfather deserves. Colonel in the Franco-Prussian War, decorated beyond count… Bruno von Zehntner Sr. will not be buried quietly. The Reich will stand for him one last time."

Princess Eva of Prussia's gaze drifted to the fire, watching the embers crackle.

She remembered family gatherings, the way her grandfather's presence filled every hall, the way his hand had rested upon her shoulder the day she married Wilhelm.

The thought threatened to crack her composure, but she swallowed it down.

She turned back to her husband, eyes steady, voice clear. "Then let us not delay. My family will be waiting."

Wilhelm inclined his head, and for a moment, the silence between them said more than words.

She stood, smoothing her dress, her movements precise and deliberate.

Princess Eva did not weep, not yet. She would not show weakness before the hour demanded it.

Instead, she straightened her shoulders, took her husband's arm, and together they left the room to prepare for the journey ahead.

---

The Winter Palace was hushed, its vast corridors dim beneath the glow of crystal chandeliers.

Beyond the tall windows, Saint Petersburg lay under snow, the city muffled into silence as though the world itself were in mourning.

Tsar Alexei walked with unhurried steps, weary from the day's councils, until he paused outside a side chamber.

The door stood ajar, and from within he heard a sound that froze him in place. Not words. Not laughter.

But the faint, broken rhythm of someone sobbing.

He pushed the door open gently.

There, framed against the window's pale light, stood Elsa.

Her back was to him, her hand pressed against the glass as snow drifted outside. Her shoulders trembled.

For as long as he had known her, she had been composed, cold, untouchable, the ice queen of his court, who let no mask slip except in rare moments of joy with him, with their children, or with her family.

But never had he seen her like this. Never weeping.

"Elsa…" His voice faltered, quieter than he intended.

He had faced generals, ministers, monarchs without flinching, yet the sight of his wife undone struck deeper than any battlefield wound.

He crossed the chamber swiftly, his hand hovering before it settled on her shoulder. "Tell me what has happened."

She turned toward him.

Her face was pale, her eyes red, her composure shattered in a way he had never witnessed.

Her lips parted, but at first no sound came. Then, with a trembling breath, she forced the words:

"My grandfather… he is gone."

Alexei's heart clenched. Bruno von Zehntner, the elder, the patriarch of her house, the man whose shadow stretched over her childhood.

He had met the old Junker more than once, a figure of iron still sharp even in advanced age.

His death was no small matter to her family, nor to the Reich.

Elsa swallowed hard, fighting to steady herself. "I am needed in Tyrol. My family will gather, and I must be there."

Alexei cupped her face, brushing away the wetness on her cheek with his thumb. "Then we will go. At once. Russia can spare me. But your family cannot spare you now."

Her composure cracked further, and she pressed her forehead into his chest, her hands clutching his coat as though afraid to let go.

For once, the icy mask melted completely, leaving only a granddaughter mourning the loss of the man who had anchored her lineage.

Alexei held her tightly, staring past her into the snow-veiled night beyond the windows.

In that moment, he understood: Bruno Sr.'s death marked the passing of an era, and for Elsa it was the first time she had been forced to confront it in tears.

"Come," he whispered, stroking her hair. "We will go together. You will not face this alone."

And for the first time in years, Elsa let herself be led, not as Tsarina, nor as the woman of ice the world knew, but as a granddaughter, leaning on her husband's strength as the storm raged outside.

---

The Grand Estate of Tyrol had never held so many under its roof.

Sleek motorcars rolled to a stop beneath the portico.

From every corner of the Reich and beyond they came, brothers, uncles and aunts, cousins long estranged, children and grandchildren spilling from every hall.

Bruno's eight brothers stood together again, gray with age, their wives beside them, their children and children's children filling the galleries.

His own sons and daughters had come as well, their spouses, their little ones tugging at hems and peering curiously at portraits.

Even those distant relations who once scorned him in youth now bowed their heads in the same house, the same line, the same name.

Dozens, perhaps hundreds, gathered in the great hall, their black attire a sea of mourning beneath the vaulted ceiling.

The air was thick with silence, not the silence of solitude, but of legacy, of a dynasty come to mourn the man who had fathered it, shaped it, and raised it from obscurity into a house princes now called their own.

The patriarch was gone, and the family had come to remember him.