Vienna, Days After Geneva
The snow in Vienna had started to melt, revealing beneath it the fissures of a nation trying to rise too quickly from the ashes of collapse. The Parliament Hans had pushed for was seated, but it was not unified. The Reformists, mostly young commanders, merchants, and visionaries, rallied behind Hans' vision of a constitutional monarchy—order with liberty. But the Old Guard, a coalition of veteran officers and noble remnants, rejected the structure outright, demanding a return to stratified military rule or feudal dominance.
Colonel Engelhardt remained loyal, acting as Hans' liaison to the Reformists. But Albrecht had disappeared for days. Rumors swirled of secret meetings in Alpine villas.
At night, Hans sat alone in the Great Hall of the Iron Crown's palace, reading old dispatches and scanning troop reports. A letter from Mehmed remained unopened on his desk—he had not yet the strength to read it.
But it was a message from Geneva that snapped him from his stupor.
"Assassination attempt expected. Do not attend without elite guard. Surveillance detected. Coalition factions may not be united."
He gritted his teeth. His presence at the Third Geneva Banquet was not just political necessity—it was now personal risk.
Geneva – Second Night of the Banquet
The banquet hall was regal, yet thick with unease. Delegates from across Europe and the surviving Asian states filled the room—Japanese Emissaries in quiet robes, French Syndicalists in their new post-collapse uniforms, and members of the Coalition eyeing Hans like he was a loaded weapon with a faulty trigger.
Hans entered flanked by four elite guards in dress black. His uniform bore no medals—only the silver insignia of the Iron Crown over his heart.
It was there that he first saw her.
Across the hall, a woman stood surrounded by Slovak and Slovenian delegates. She wore a deep green coat embroidered with phoenixes and ivy. Her voice—clear, calm, unshaken—cut through the diplomatic murmur.
"Then perhaps the Iron Crown isn't your enemy. Perhaps it's your mirror."
Hans approached, not out of strategy, but something more instinctive.
"Eliska Vranova," she said, eyes flicking up to meet his. "Archon of the Danube Confederation. I was wondering when the ghost of Vienna would finally arrive."
"Hans Ehrenfeld Adler," he replied. "You sound disappointed."
"I expected taller."
"I expected colder."
They both smiled.
She motioned to the drink table. "Shall we discuss our relations over fermented Slovenian cherries?"
"I'd prefer to discuss your speech at Brno. 'Freedom is not a wound we cover with crowns.' That stuck with me."
Eliska's expression softened. "You read that?"
"I had it translated. Twice."
Hours Later – Gardens of Geneva
The air outside was crisp. Snow had not yet fallen here, but frost curled at the edges of the marble benches. Eliska and Hans stood by the reflecting pool, voices quiet.
She glanced at him. "You're different from what I expected."
"Different how?"
"More tired. Less imperial. But your eyes are… sharp. Like someone watching from a distant cliff."
"I've seen too many cliffs collapse," he murmured.
A sound. A branch. Too close.
Hans turned—too slow.
A cloaked figure leapt from the hedges with a silent blade.
Gunfire split the stillness. Hans ducked, drawing his sidearm. One of his guards shouted, another fell, wounded. The assailant was fast—inhumanly so.
But Eliska didn't flinch.
She pulled a knife from her sleeve and hurled it—straight into the attacker's thigh. The figure stumbled, and Hans fired three rounds into their chest.
The assassin fell. Blood painted the frost.
Hans staggered, chest heaving.
"You alright?" Eliska asked, already kneeling beside the downed guard.
"I think so."
She looked at the corpse. The insignia sewn into the cloak was faint, but visible: a red spiral surrounded by a black sun.
"Crimson Horizon," she said quietly.
Hans stared. "They've reached Geneva?"
Eliska nodded. "You're not the only one with enemies, Adler. Welcome to the new world."
Later That Night – A Private Room
Eliska sat by the fire. Hans, shirt partly torn and wrapped, sipped strong tea.
"You saved me."
She shrugged. "You owe me rakija."
"I owe you more than that."
"Then start by promising me one thing."
He looked up.
"Don't become what they fear. Become what they hoped."
Hans nodded slowly. "Then stay beside me. Help me become that."
Silence fell again, softer this time.
Eliska poured them both another glass.
And in the shadows beyond the fire, where death had nearly danced, something else flickered instead—trust, and perhaps something more.