**Date: Year 931 — Month 2 — Day 24
Location: Unknown Facility — Private Chamber of the Führer**
The room was warm.
A soft current drifted from the vents carved low into the brown-painted concrete walls, carrying with it the faint scent of polished stone and old parchment. The temperature never changed—always the same precise degree of comfortable warmth. The Führer preferred it that way.
Beethoven filled the chamber, slow and deliberate, echoing through hidden brass pipes. A musician had been ordered—weeks ago—to play a specific sequence until the Führer declared it complete. The melody now carried a weight that felt ancient, as if it had been born in this very room.
Paintings lined the walls.
On the right hung a portrait of a half‑clothed woman, her white linen robe draped loosely over her shoulders. The lower half of her body vanished into a swirl of dark paint, but her bare chest was bathed in soft light. Her left hand rested gently upon her collarbone, while her right caressed the coiling body of a green serpent winding upward toward her breast.
Across from her, dominating nearly an entire wall, hung the infamous piece known only as The Battle of Hell. The artist remained unknown despite years of searching—its origins traced only to an abandoned house in a ruined village deep in Larrak.
The painting showed a burning cityscape drenched in crimson light. In the foreground, a lone soldier lay curled inside a crater, rifle slung across his frail body. He clutched a wrinkled letter to his chest with trembling fingers, as though the parchment was the last thread binding him to life, humanity, or hope.
Between these two worlds—seduction and despair—sat Adolf Hitler.
He wore a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, and long black trousers. His shoes were polished leather, though they lacked the height and authority of boots. His attire was minimalist—almost civilian.
In his ink‑stained hands rested a fountain pen—an old-styled instrument of metal and lacquer, its nib worn from days of relentless use.
For nearly a week, he had written without pause.
No one knew what he was writing.Not Otto.Not Wilhelm.Not even Virella, who sensed his mind like a storm through a wall.
The only soul permitted to enter this chamber had been Silv, delivering meals, bathing water, and the occasional bundle of parchment. Even she had dared not peek.
The Führer needed nothing else.He had a bath.A bed.A mountain of books.And a silent toilet tucked behind a partition of polished wood.
But still—he wrote.
His icy blue eyes flicked across the paper, reading each line as if searching for an invisible flaw. The pen scratched. Paused. Scratched again. His gaze rose and fell, rising to replay a sentence in his mind, then dropping back to carve another line into the page.
He looked haunted and brilliant in equal measure.
A knock interrupted him.
Firm. Respectful. Muffled by the thick wooden door.
"Mein Führer?"A woman's voice. Soft, but urgent.
Hitler's pen froze mid‑stroke.His eyes lifted, staring at the door with a slow, deliberate turn of the head.
Silence stretched.
Then he spoke, his voice low and rough, as though unused for days.
"What is it, Silv?"
Her answer was faint through the door.
"I bring news, my Führer. From the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They say it is urgent."
Hitler leaned back in his chair, and the wood creaked under his weight. His fingers tapped the pen against the desk—three slow, rhythmic strikes.
He exhaled once.
"Enter."
The door opened with a quiet, respectful click.
Silv entered.
She wore a simple red dress adorned with a scattered pattern of small white dots, the fabric swaying softly as she walked. Her white socks peeked just above red sandals that clacked lightly against the polished stone floor. Her silver hair—long and untouched by frizz—cascaded down her back in soft waves, and her head was bowed low, her ears lying flat in the presence of the man before her.
"Mein Führer," she said, stopping three paces from the desk.
Without another word, she stepped forward and laid a folded slip of white paper on the surface beside his ink-stained hand.
Hitler looked at the envelope with mild curiosity, brushing his fingers across the wax seal. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
"What is this?"
"I do not know the exact contents, mein Führer," Silv replied quietly. "But I was instructed to inform you—it is from the Empire."
His eyes sharpened.
Without hesitation, he opened the letter and began to read.
Line by line, his pupils moved like a machine etching memory into stone. His free hand rose to his chin, brushing across skin where a beard might have grown, had he permitted one.
"Interesting…" he murmured.
He read the last line twice.
Then leaned back in his chair, holding the letter lightly between two fingers.
"So," he said aloud, mostly to himself, "they are inviting me to the continental summit… for all nations."
He smiled faintly.
"I suppose they've finally decided to recognize us."
He looked up at Silv, still standing calmly at attention.
"Anything else?"
Silv nodded once.
"Yes, mein Führer. Commander Bruno left a gift for you. He said it came directly from the forest. He also said… not to be alarmed. It is still a baby, but… it shows intelligence."
Hitler raised a brow. "A gift? From the forest?"
He leaned forward slightly, intrigued.
"Hm. Bring it in. I would like to see it."
Silv bowed and quickly turned on her heel. The soft sound of her sandals echoed briefly, and then the door clicked shut once more.
The room waited in silence.
The music continued—Beethoven's notes drifting calmly through the air like dust caught in light.
A moment later, the door opened again.
Silv entered, holding something carefully against her chest, wrapped in a soft cloth the color of ash. It shifted slightly in her arms.
"Here we are, mein Führer."
Hitler's eyes widened—not with fear, but unmistakable delight. His posture straightened, the dullness in his face flickering to life.
"…A dog?" he asked, standing from the chair.
Silv gave a small smile.
"They said it is a type of wolf, mein Führer. Still young—no more than a few weeks. But the scouts said it followed them for over a mile. Showed no fear. Watched them like it understood their speech. They caught it in silence. Not a single growl."
Hitler stepped around the desk slowly, eyes focused on the cloth bundle. The creature inside shifted again, its black snout peeking from beneath the folds, two golden-yellow eyes staring up.
"Would you like to hold him, mein Führer?" Silv asked softly.
"Why wouldn't I?" he replied, almost incredulous.
Without delay, Silv stepped forward and handed over the small beast.
Hitler took it in both arms, the warm weight of it surprising. The young wolf's paws dangled slightly, tail twitching once before it relaxed into his hold.
Its golden eyes locked with his.
Blue met yellow.
And for a long breath, neither blinked.
Then Hitler smiled.
He leaned forward and kissed the pup softly on the side of its muzzle.
The wolf blinked once.Then sneezed.And licked his collar.
Hitler gave a short chuckle.
Silv waited silently.
He turned to her again, expression now clear, sharp, and filled with intent.
"Get out," he ordered quietly. "Bring me steak. Rare. No seasoning. And make sure the chef doesn't overcook it—half-raw if he must."
He paused.
"…Also bring a water bowl. And something soft to sleep on. A cushion. Or a folded blanket. Something clean."
Silv nodded immediately. "Yes, mein Führer."
She turned and left without another word.
As the door closed, Hitler walked slowly back to the desk, cradling the wolf pup against his chest.
He sat.Set the animal on his lap.It curled up instantly.
The soft black fur warmed beneath his palm.
"You're tired from the trip, little one?"
The pup gave a quiet whimper and buried its snout under its own body, tail curling against Hitler's arm.
He ran his fingers through the thick fur, feeling the rhythm of the small chest as it slowed into sleep.
Hitler smiled.
"I think I have a name for you."
He leaned closer, whispering the name like a prayer.
"Kaiser."
The pup shifted.
"Yes… Kaiser. Not a king. Not an emperor of old. But a new one. A Kaiser after my own will."