Bruno spent the next few days basking in the wealth and timeless dignity of Arabia.
His journey had taken him through cities older than Christendom, kingdoms built when Germania was still forest and fire.
Ancient Damascus hummed with life, its stone streets layered with the blood and prayers of countless civilizations.
Byblos offered him cedar-scented sea air and the crumbling bones of forgotten empires.
Acre's rebuilt walls stood proud again, a scar made beautiful. And Luxor, Luxor was eternal.
A city of ghosts and grandeur, where the desert sun poured gold over fallen temples and rusted cartouches.
All of it was more accessible now, thanks to the railroads built in the wake of the Great War.
Not by colonial contractors, but by Arab engineers, with German locomotives and investment.
Bruno had watched the world shift, had pulled its levers himself, and this place, more than most, bore the fingerprints of the peace he had forged with iron and honesty.
