The palace windows looked out over the gardens, but King Carol II saw none of the tulips or clipped hedges.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the faint ticking of the tall clock marking the silence in the room.
Ever since the ink had dried on the Tyrol accords, the peace with Hungary had been less a treaty and more a powder keg with a lid weighted down by Bruno von Zehntner's shadow.
For years, both kingdoms had minded their borders, wary of inviting the Reich's wrath.
But now?
Now Hungary was being seen in Berlin's parlors, speaking warmly with Wilhelm and worse, Bruno himself.
Every scrap of intelligence suggested they were angling for a seat at the table of the new Central Powers.
And if they got it, the balance would tip.
The next time Budapest wanted something from Bucharest, they wouldn't need to negotiate, they'd simply point north, and the Germans would do the rest.
