The sky over Vienna was a cold steel sheet, heavy with the weight of internal decay. Hans Ehrenfeld Adler stood on the balcony of the restored Hofburg Palace, hands clasped behind his back. Below him, the city moved with purpose, unaware that the Iron Crown—his dream and burden—was beginning to fracture.
Engelhardt approached with a grim expression.
"They fought again. This time, in the Inner Court itself. Swords drawn, tempers unchecked. One of Albrecht's men nearly killed a Reformist officer."
Hans turned slowly. "What of Albrecht?"
"Denies giving orders. Claims he's still loyal. But the banners in their barracks tell another story. The Old Guard is no longer hiding its disdain."
Hans sighed, the weight pressing deeper into his bones. He had fought monsters, outlaws, rival guilds, and ideological divides. But this? A civil war born of conflicting visions under his very roof?
He descended the marble stairs to the council chamber, where tension was thicker than the fog outside. On one side sat Engelhardt and the Reformists—officers, scholars, city leaders who supported a modern, constitutional monarchy with an elected parliamentary body. On the other, Albrecht's faction—the Old Guard, loyalists to the dream of a strong central ruler backed by iron and fire, willing to return to feudalism in all but name.
"I did not return to Austria," Hans said quietly, "to become a tyrant in gilded armor. Nor will I watch us rip each other apart to satisfy old warlords."
"Then abdicate," one of the Old Guard snapped. "Let a warrior lead, not a philosopher."
Hans stepped forward, calm and steady. "I will not abdicate. But I will also not rule over ashes."
He unfurled a parchment and pinned it to the table. "This is the draft charter of the Crown Parliament. We will have elections—two chambers: one for the officer class and guild leaders, and one for civilian representatives. The Iron Crown will remain a monarchy, but it will be bound by law, not whim."
Murmurs spread. One of the Reformists leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You're serious… You'd share power?"
"I never wanted absolute power," Hans said. "Only the means to keep humanity alive."
Albrecht stood, silent. Then, without a word, he left.
Geneva – Third Banquet of Nations
The domed crystal hall of the Geneva Summit Center was ablaze with chandeliers and banners. Delegates from twenty-eight countries and powers, large and small, had gathered for what many called the final diplomatic chance to avoid a continental war.
The Iron Crown had sent Hans himself, escorted by Engelhardt and two new Reformist envoys. The air was thick with suspicion.
The Japanese ambassador spoke first.
"We've observed the Iron Crown's militarization with unease. And now this internal division… How can we trust stability in your realm?"
Hans answered, cool and unwavering. "Instability is the symptom of transition. And transition is inevitable if we are to survive this new world."
The U.S. delegate leaned forward. "And yet, you've placed officers in parliament? That's not democracy."
Hans smirked slightly. "You misunderstand. We are not importing foreign systems. We are adapting. Soldiers bled for this land—they have a stake. But so do the farmers and engineers who built Oberfeld when no one else would."
There was silence.
The next speaker, however, shattered it—a poised young woman with frost-blonde hair, clad in the soft blues and silvers of the Slovenian League. Her voice was clear, regal, and utterly calm.
"I am Eliska Vranova, Archon of the Free Cities of Slovenia. We have remained neutral, watching the empires rise and crumble. But neutrality is no longer sustainable. We are prepared to ally ourselves—with a sovereign who respects freedom and is not afraid to reform."
Hans stared, surprised. He had read her name before, in border dossiers and minor trade agreements. But she stood now like a queen among wolves.
"You would choose sides?" asked the Dutch delegate.
"I would choose the future," she replied. "And it seems the Iron Crown is not as rusted as we feared."
Hans approached her later, during the banquet.
"I didn't expect your support."
Eliska smiled. "I didn't expect to give it."
"Then why?"
"Because in that hall, you didn't threaten. You invited. That takes more courage than most can imagine."
They spoke long into the evening—about governance, war, old folklore from the mountains, her dreams of a Balkan Confederation, his visions of a united, post-Gate Europe. When the orchestra played its final notes and the wine had run dry, something unspoken lingered between them.
Aftermath – Midnight Letters
Later, Hans sat in his quarters in Geneva, writing to Mehmed.
Brother,
"The Old Guard has chosen defiance. We've built a parliament, but their war drums grow louder. Yet here, in Geneva, something else happened. Eliska—Slovenia's Archon—stood beside us. Others watched. Some rethinking. Some still hostile. But I see now that unity will not come from dominance. It must be invited."
"Still, we may bleed before they understand."
"Hold your line in Anatolia. I will hold mine in the Alps."
He paused. Then added:
"And… I may have met someone."