Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 630: Ten More Years

Chapter 630: Ten More Years

The engines hummed like a lullaby beneath him, deep, even, and unfaltering.

At 30,000 feet, the world below ceased to matter. Deserts, oceans, borders, all of them disappeared beneath a blanket of clouds, as if the world itself were trying to forget its divisions.

Bruno sat reclined in the rear cabin of his personal aircraft, legs crossed, fingers gently curled around a crystal tumbler of finely aged cognac.

A record player built into the cabin wall whispered Wagner’s Siegfried Idyll through the luxury speakers. No aides. No war council. No crises. Just him and the sky.

He let his head rest against the polished leather headrest, eyes half-lidded, and sighed.

Sixty.

Almost sixty.

He would be sixty in no less than four years.

It hadn’t hit him until this trip, the creeping, cloying awareness that the years were now sprinting.

Where once he felt like a juggernaut forged in youth, now he felt the subtle erosion in his bones. Not weakness, no, not yet.

But a warning. Like hairline cracks in the armor of a great statue.

How quickly it all had changed.

He thought of the men he had buried, not just soldiers, but friends, comrades, and even enemies whose deaths had carved out entire Chapters of his soul.

For every treaty signed, there had been a battle not shown on maps. For every line redrawn on a continent, a thousand lives had been erased to ink it in blood.

And for every throne stabilized, he had pulled the pin from another grenade, somewhere else, far away, out of sight. Such was the price of order. The weight of a crown made of iron and ash.

He never lied to himself about the cost. Only others did that.

The world was changing, yes. But it had bled to do so. He had bled to make it so.

As he stared out the window, sipping a glass of wine, he reflected on the life he had lived before this one.

The one where he had died at roughly the same age he is now.

Bitter, alone, and murdered in the streets of a city that no longer resembled its own heritage.

A nation that no longer resembled the people who had built it.

In this life, he had endeavored to prevent this reality from occurring.

To prevent the wrath and folly of bygone generations who had plunged the world into chaos.

And in doing so, the world had reshaped itself at his fingertips. Faster than he could have ever imagined. Railroads crossed deserts.

Empires that had stood for centuries had been broken apart like porcelain. Old kings were now his peers. And nations that once mocked him now groveled for alliances.

And still…

Still, he wondered how long he had left to shape its course.

He sipped his cognac slowly; the warmth bloomed in his chest like fire in a hearth.

The thought of death didn’t frighten him anymore. It hadn’t in a long time. Not since Hamburg. Not since he had awakened in a younger body in a colder world.

No, death was not the fear.

Obsolescence was.

He watched the clouds scroll beneath him, a white tapestry unrolling toward Europe. The sun had begun to set behind them, casting molten rays across the edge of the wing.

This would be his last war. He could feel that certainty in his blood.

Not because the world would find peace, no, there would always be struggle, but because he would have given the last of his strength to win it.

This next collapse would be final, for the liberal world, and for the man who had outlived both his enemies and his dreams.

His gaze drifted to the empty seat across from him. Heidi would have loved this view.

She always preferred watching the world from above. She said it made the pettiness of politicians seem like ants fighting over crumbs. He smiled faintly at the memory.

He missed her.

Missed his children too, though they were growing up into their own legends now.

He had done his duty, raised them to survive a world not made for softness. But what kind of world would they inherit after this next firestorm?

Bruno exhaled, the breath fogging the edge of the chilled glass. He swirled the cognac gently.

“Ten more years,” he murmured to himself. “That’s all I ask.”

Ten more years to finish the world he was building. Ten more years to cement the peace, or the order, that would follow the chaos.

Ten more years to make sure that when he finally laid down his sword, there would be no need for another to pick it up.

The intercom buzzed. His pilot’s voice came through, calm and composed.

“Herr von Zehntner, we’re approaching Italian airspace. Estimated time to Tyrol is just over two hours.”

Bruno pressed the intercom button with a thumb.

“Very good. Maintain altitude. And inform the tower I won’t be disembarking immediately… I may stay aboard to rest once we land.”

“Understood, sir.”

He leaned back again, eyes closing briefly. Outside the windows, the dusk darkened.

Somewhere below, the Alps were beginning to catch the last of the sun, their snow-covered peaks glowing like the spines of sleeping giants.

He wondered if they’d still be there in another century.

Nations rose and fell like tides. Flags changed. Cities burned and were rebuilt with new names. But mountains endured. They had no loyalty. No flag.

One day, even Berlin might be dust. Tyrol, too.

And all he had built, the alliances, the victories, the philosophy of iron will and disciplined order, might be replaced by something softer, something weak.

Would that be progress? Or collapse disguised as peace?

He wasn’t sure anymore.

Would anyone remember his name?

Would they remember the wars he fought, the kings he broke, the empires he raised?

Or would he become like so many who had come before him? A title, a ghost, a lesson?

He drained the last of his drink and set the glass down on the silver tray beside him.

The cabin dimmed automatically, transitioning into a cool evening hue. Silence returned.

Not peace, Bruno was not foolish enough to pretend he had found peace, but silence was enough.

For now.