Re: Blood and Iron

The Russian Army had pushed beyond the boundaries of Pyongyang. After liberating the city, they left behind reserve units to occupy and stabilize it.

Logistics flowed in like lifeblood; food, medicine, and water handed out to civilians as if in the throes of a fire sale.

The frontline units that had seized the city were rotated out, given a brief reprieve after a brutal campaign.

Meanwhile, the Russian Air Force surged forward, clashing in the skies above the port city of Ongjin.

Bf-109s ripped through waves of Japanese Ki-21 bombers and Ki-27 fighters. Airborne troops followed, parachuting down amid the shattered clouds of war.

Japanese soldiers on the ground fought with resolve and ferocity, but the Russian onslaught, like a steel tide under a sky of fire, proved overwhelming.

The Imperial Japanese Army and its Air Service simply could not match the combination of superior equipment and doctrine employed by the Russian war machine.

Back in Tokyo, it became increasingly clear: the Japanese had grossly overestimated the strength of their modern arsenal. And they were not alone in their miscalculation.

Around the globe, observers watched with growing unease as Germany and Russia executed perfectly synchronized theaters of war.

Germany annihilating Japanese forces in the Bismarck Sea, while Russia carved a path through the Korean Peninsula. It was not merely victory. It was a masterclass in joint warfare.

Suddenly, the balance of global power tilted. In London, in Washington, in what remained of independent France, the message was understood: adapt or die.

Thus, an emergency summit was called in Washington D.C., bringing together the President of the United States, the British Prime Minister, and a man thought by Pétain’s Fourth Republic to be a mere ghost.

France had never fully recovered from its collapse after the Great War. Crippled by civil war and stripped of a generation, it limped forward under Marshal Pétain; a figure propped up by Berlin, cloaked in sovereignty but ruled in truth by the Kaiserreich.

On paper, the Fourth Republic was a democratic nation. In reality, it was a military dictatorship under German supervision.

But across those long years of quiet oppression, one man had built a movement: Charles de Gaulle. His Réveil de France was ready to rise—if given the tools to strike.

All they needed was a moment. And that moment had come.

Seated in the Oval Office, de Gaulle lit a cigarette. He exhaled slowly, letting the silence hang, then spoke.

“My army is ready. We have a time and location where Pétain and his cronies will be gathered. We can take them out or force a surrender. Either way, France will no longer serve the Kaiser. What I require now is your assurance—that when we move, Germany will not retaliate. Do I have it?”

The President and the British Prime Minister exchanged glances, then nodded solemnly.

“If you succeed, you’ll have our full support,” the President replied. “If you fail, we will pretend we’ve never heard your name. I trust you understand.”

De Gaulle gave no answer. His silence was consent. The men shook hands in grim understanding; unaware that their entire conversation had been intercepted by German military intelligence.

—

Thousands of miles away, in the heart of Berlin, Bruno read the memo on his desk and smirked.

“So, they finally make their move. I was beginning to think they’d lost their nerve.”

He set the paper down, reached for his phone, and issued a command.

“Begin Operation Silver Crown immediately. And if that pompous old bastard tries to protest, remind him he’s still in my debt. That should silence him.”

He hung up, rising from his desk to gaze out across Berlin’s skyline. A thought stirred in his mind; a whisper, but sharp as steel:

“So the road to war reveals itself. I believe the time has come to curry favor with the House of Bourbon or what remains of it.”

—

A few days later, a letter arrived at the private residence of Henri d’Orléans, Count of Paris. By 1930, he was widely regarded as the most legitimate claimant to the long-defunct throne of France.

During the civil war, he had fled to Brazil to avoid the fate of his distant ancestor; whose head met the blade in another age of revolution.

He found refuge among the House of Orléans-Braganza, the former imperial line of Brazil, where he forged lasting ties with his kin across the Atlantic.

After the dust settled, Henri returned to France; wary, but watching.

He was currently enjoying a nice cup of coffee, brewed by one of the few servants he could still afford. Both a caretaker, and a companion, she handed a letter to him.

The look on her face was one of concern as she recognized the proud symbol on its wax seal. A crowned lion rampant regardant, stepping upon a skull with crossed bones.

It was a new coat of arms, one that defied traditional heraldic principles in subtle ways, but there were few in positions of power who did not understand what it meant, and who it belonged to.

The words caught in her throat, at first, causing a brief stutter as she informed her master of what had arrived.

S…Sir.. You have received a letter. It… It looks important.”

Henri thought nothing of it at first, though he knew his maid was acting strange. It didn’t seem to quite register the gravity of the situation.

That is until he snatched it from its hands and turned the envelope over to reveal its seal. Its sender? A name that caused his breath to catch in his throat: Bruno von Zehntner.

His hands trembled as he broke the way seal, and pulled the letter out, reading its opening lines with trepidation in his eyes. It was simple—yet incendiary.

“To the future King of France,”

Henri froze, glancing over his shoulder. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then he continued reading.

Within was an invitation to Tyrol; to meet the man whom diplomats whispered of in corridors and back rooms, the man known across Europe only as the Kingmaker.

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