Osthaven, Duchy of Ostalia, Hanseatic Empire - May, 1940
It had been five days since the Hanseatic delegation to China returned from their diplomatic journey. Instead of heading directly back to the Hanseatic Continent, the delegation had made a stop in Ravara—the ancient European exclave that served as the Empire's foothold in the Mediterranean world. Foreign Minister von Hausen required time to prepare for his upcoming diplomatic trip to Berlin, and the pause allowed the exhausted diplomatic party to recover from weeks of ceremonial obligations and the arduous journey home.
Kylian had been staying these past few days at one of the von Witzland family's many properties, a spacious villa that spoke eloquently to the wealth accumulated by Wolfgang's family over generations of service and careful stewardship of their ducal territories. He was genuinely happy to be back in Hansa, even if this particular corner of the Empire lay several thousand miles from the Hanseatic Continent itself, wedged between France and Spain in what had once been the independent Kingdom of Ravara.
The villa was a masterpiece of Mediterranean architecture, built in a style that had evolved over the four centuries since Ravara's integration into the Empire. It blended Gothic verticality with Byzantine ornamentation, creating a synthesis that was uniquely Hanseatic yet distinctly Mediterranean—arched colonnades that recalled Moorish palaces, frescoed ceilings that echoed Renaissance Italy, courtyards designed around fountains in the Islamic tradition. This architectural eclecticism contrasted sharply with the more uniformly Baroque sensibilities of the von Reichsgraf estates on the Hanseatic Continent, where tradition dictated stricter adherence to imperial aesthetic standards.
The morning found both officers taking their breakfast on the villa's back terrace, a broad stone platform that overlooked the azure expanse of the Mediterranean. Kylian leaned against the marble balustrade, his back to the sea, holding a cup of Hanseatic coffee—the Empire's most famous export, grown in the tropical highlands of the southern provinces of the Hanseatic Continent. Wolfgang had settled into one of the cushioned outdoor lounges, enjoying his breakfast.
The servants had laid out an impressive spread despite the informal nature of the meal. Sausages seasoned with local herbs, perfectly toasted bread still warm from the kitchen, eggs prepared three different ways to accommodate any preference, and an array of fresh fruits that represented the Mediterranean bounty—figs, grapes, oranges, and pomegranates. Crystal pitchers contained freshly pressed juices from the villa's own orchards, their colors ranging from deep purple to golden amber.
"What's on your mind? You've been quiet for quite a while."
Wolfgang's question came between bites of sausage, his fork and knife still in hand as he glanced up at his friend. He had noticed Kylian's unusual silence, normally his friend was more engaged during meals, more present. But this morning, Kylian seemed to be somewhere else entirely, his thoughts clearly occupied by matters he wasn't sharing.
Kylian slowly turned his head toward Wolfgang, as though the question had taken a moment to penetrate whatever private contemplation had absorbed him. "Hm? Nothing much, just that I've been wondering why my brother even wants me to go to Berlin."
The admission carried a note of puzzlement. Kylian took a sip of his coffee—proper Hanseatic coffee, with its distinctive notes of berries and subtle woody undertones, unmatched in its complexity. It was, by general consensus, among the finest coffee in the world, and one of the few luxuries Kylian loved.
Wolfgang looked up from his plate, pausing mid-cut through another piece of sausage. "Why would you even question that? You'll get to see one of Europe's great capitals. Most officers would consider Berlin a privilege, not a burden."
"Fair enough," Kylian conceded simply, taking another thoughtful sip before continuing. "But I'd very much rather go back to the Continent and spend my time serving in the Palace. Resume normal duties, normal routines. Something predictable for once."
The longing in his voice was genuine. After weeks of navigating foreign protocols, constant surveillance, and the emotional turmoil of his encounters with Princess Changning, the prospect of familiar surroundings and established routines held enormous appeal.
Wolfgang laughed a little, the sound carrying affectionate mockery. "I'm sorry, von Reichsgraf. Unfortunately, a life of peace and quiet simply isn't on the cards for you, especially not for someone of your family's standing. The Empire has plans for people like us, whether we want them or not."
Kylian sighed at this assessment, though his lips couldn't quite hide a slight smile. Wolfgang was right, of course—he had always been right about such things. "I'm not even complaining, really. I'm just saying I prefer the peace and quiet to another diplomatic trip, another round of ceremonies and careful words and watching every gesture for hidden meaning."
He bit his lower lip as he spoke, a gesture that betrayed more anxiety than his casual words suggested.
"Would you like to come with me today?"
Wolfgang's sudden question made Kylian pause, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. "Where to? I have nothing to do, so I might as well consider any alternative to sitting around the villa all day."
"You'll be going back to the Continent when you return from Berlin," Wolfgang explained, setting down his cutlery and leaning back in his lounge chair. "So why don't you come with me to the Headquarters of the Black Roses? There is an old friend from the Academy who'd love to see you. We trained together, after all. It would be good to reconnect before you disappear back to Theodosia for who knows how long."
The Black Roses, officially the Ravaran Imperial Guard Brigade, but universally known by their traditional designation—represented one of the Empire's most storied military units. Their headquarters in Osthaven served as the nerve center for Hanseatic military operations throughout Europe, a necessity given Ravara's strategic position and its vulnerability to French or Spanish aggression.
Kylian turned to face Wolfgang fully and nodded with genuine warmth. "Of course. How could I leave Ravara without seeing him? It's good that you actually reminded me, I should have thought of it myself. Hans will never let me hear the end of it if I visit Osthaven without stopping by."
"Let us finish our breakfast, then we'll go," Wolfgang replied, returning his attention to the food.
Kylian settled into a chair and picked at his own breakfast all the while listening to the peaceful sounds of the Mediterranean morning. Waves breaking against the cliffs below, seabirds crying overhead, the distant bells of fishing boats heading out for their daily catch. These were sounds of home, or at least one version of home, and he tried to let them soothe whatever nameless anxiety had been building in his chest since they'd left Beijing.
It was now late morning when both officers emerged from the villa in their formal uniforms—not the elaborate ceremonial dress they had worn in China, but the standard service uniform of the Hanseatic Imperial Guard. Black wool coats with silver piping, polished boots, caps bearing the imperial griffin. They looked every inch what they were: young officers from distinguished families, products of the Empire's finest military education.
Kylian sat in Wolfgang's luxurious sedan—a sleek, modern vehicle—next to his friend in the front seat. The drive to Headquarters proved scenic in ways that reminded Kylian why Ravara remained special despite four centuries of imperial rule.
The blue Mediterranean sky stretched overhead, essentially cloudless, the sun casting brilliant light on the lighter tones of the coastal architecture. The road from the villa wound through countryside that showed the accumulated agricultural wisdom of millennia. Roman aqueducts still functioning after two thousand years, medieval terracing that prevented erosion, modern vineyards using techniques refined through countless generations. Birds were out in full display, their spring plumage catching the light as they darted between groves of olive and citrus trees.
This was the Mediterranean world at its finest, Kylian thought. Ancient beyond measure yet perpetually renewed, carrying visible traces of every civilization that had passed through from Romans to the Goths and now Hanseatic.
Osthaven itself appeared gradually as they descended from the coastal hills. This city had been ancient when Rome was young, had borne a dozen different names through its long history as different empires claimed it, renamed it, rebuilt it according to their own visions. Yet it had never lost its essential Mediterranean character.
After approximately twenty minutes of driving through increasingly urban streets, the sedan arrived at its destination. The city center maintained its four original Roman gates, each still functional despite their age. The buildings surrounding the center formed a architectural museum—Baroque palaces stood beside Gothic government buildings, medieval guild halls had been converted to modern offices, Renaissance palaces now housed banks and trading companies. Yet somehow it all cohered, creating a distinctly Ravaran aesthetic that was unmistakably Mediterranean yet undeniably Hanseatic.
The Black Roses' headquarters stood at the city's heart, ringed by cypress trees and trimmed hedges that offered both beauty and discretion. In the entrance courtyard, a fountain centered on a marble statue of Heinrich, the legendary Hanseatic knight, child of the Sun God, shown cleansing the world of evil with his sword raised toward the dawn.
Imperial Guards in black uniforms moved with discipline across the grounds. On their chests shone the unit's emblem: a stylized black rose set within a golden sun. The rose was the personal sigil of Ravara's last king, Michael VII. Its preservation in imperial heraldry spoke of the Hanseatic tradition of integration, not erasure.
Soldiers snapped to attention and rendered salutes as the two officers made their way toward the main entrance, recognizing the silver piping that marked them as Imperial Guard officers of equivalent rank. The building itself was imposing—all marble and bronze, decorated with statues representing various Hanseatic military virtues and historical figures, flags mounted from sculptural brackets that showed the imperial griffin in various heroic poses.
Before they had even reached the entrance, a figure emerged who had clearly been watching for their arrival.
"Hello! Wolfgang.... and look who we have here. It's been a while, von Reichsgraf!"
Captain Hans Eisemann was instantly recognizable despite the three years since their Academy graduation. He possessed the same cheerful energy that had made him popular during their training, the same openness that contrasted so markedly with the more reserved temperaments of his aristocratic classmates. He had been one of their intake's genuinely likeable members—competent, friendly and someone who had earned his commission through merit rather than inheriting the right.
"Hans!" Kylian exclaimed with genuine pleasure, moving forward to embrace him immediately. The hug was returned with equal warmth, a breach of formal military protocol that all three understood was acceptable among Academy brothers when no superiors were observing.
"I didn't think I would see you in Europe," Hans said as they separated, his smile wide and unaffected. "What brings you to Ravara? Last I heard, you were on some diplomatic mission to China with Wolfgang here."
"Well, I just returned from China two days ago," Kylian explained, finding himself smiling despite the lingering anxiety that had shadowed him all morning. "And tomorrow I'm headed for Berlin with our dear Foreign Minister. So I'm taking advantage of this brief stopover to see an old friend while I can."
There was genuine warmth in his voice as he spoke. This was the uncomplicated camaraderie of military brotherhood, the easy relationships forged through shared hardship during training. No diplomatic complexities, no hidden meanings, no need to watch every word for potential offense. Just friends greeting each other after too long apart.
"So you were on the trip to China with Wolfgang? And now Berlin too?" Hans shook his head with good-natured envy. "Must be nice to travel the world like some kind of diplomatic courier. The rest of us are stuck here guarding walls that haven't been seriously threatened in two centuries."
Kylian let out a small laugh before responding. "You could say that, but I assure you, try standing absolutely still in the Forbidden City for four hours straight while trying to remember which bow is appropriate for which rank of official, and you'll have a completely different view on what constitutes discipline."
Wolfgang nodded in agreement, his expression suggesting painful memories of their various ceremonial ordeals. "The Chinese have elevated formal courtesy to a level of complexity that makes Hanseatic court etiquette look casual by comparison."
"Well then, it's a good thing I wasn't selected for that particular assignment," Hans admitted with a grin. "I probably would have caused three diplomatic incidents in the first week." He gestured toward the building's entrance. "Come, why don't we go inside? Standing at the entrance gossiping like servants isn't exactly to Legate Meyer's liking. He's very particular about maintaining proper military atmosphere, even for off-duty socializing."
The three officers entered together, their boots creating echoing sounds on the marble floors.
The main hall immediately impressed with its grandeur, a space designed to simultaneously intimidate dignitaries and inspire the troops. An enormous chandelier dominated the vaulted ceiling, its bronze chain as thick as a man's wrist. The walls served as a gallery for paintings depicting pivotal moments in Ravaran and Hanseatic history—the Battle of Nordküste, King Michael VII's transfer of sovereignty, centuries of defenses against French and Spanish incursions. These masterpieces formed a visual chronicle of four hundred years of shared history.
Potted ferns and flowering plants softened the martial formality. At the room's center stood a reception desk staffed by a middle-aged woman whose bearing spoke of decades managing military bureaucracy.
The three officers climbed the marble staircase to the second floor, where a long hallway stretched with doors lining both sides. These were the offices of the Imperial Guard Officer Corps—not the enlisted barracks or training facilities that occupied other buildings in the compound, but the administrative heart where officers planned operations, processed paperwork, and conducted the daily business of managing a Brigade.
"How is your brother?"
Hans's question came casually as they walked, but Kylian immediately detected something beneath the casual tone, a note of genuine curiosity.
"I heard there's been a lot on his hands lately. Apparently there was some kind of diplomatic fallout with the Japanese ambassador. Something serious enough that the Legate heard it too."
Kylian and Wolfgang both turned to face Hans simultaneously, their expressions reflecting surprise that was entirely genuine. They had been completely unaware of any diplomatic crisis beyond the usual friction that characterized great power relations.
"He's doing well, I suppose," Kylian replied carefully, his mind already racing through implications. "But really? A diplomatic fallout with the Japanese? What could that possibly be about?"
They had reached Hans's office now—a modest but well-appointed space that reflected his position as a mid-ranking captain in a prestigious but not particularly senior posting. He opened the door and gestured them inside.
The room was spacious and though it lacked elaborate decoration, it made up for any aesthetic shortcomings with meticulous organization. Every book stood in perfect alignment on the shelves, every document occupied its designated position on the desk, pen holders and office supplies arranged with geometric precision.
"I heard it from Legate Meyer himself," Hans explained as he moved to sit on the edge of his desk while Kylian and Wolfgang took the two vacant chairs positioned for visitors. "He doesn't seem to know the full details either. Theodosia is being characteristically vague about specifics, as they always are when something sensitive is involved. But it seems there was some kind of misunderstanding related to the imperial wedding you both attended. And apparently Japan is even threatening war over whatever happened."
His tone suggested he found the whole situation somewhat absurd, the idea that a wedding ceremony could generate threats of military action seemed to defy rational explanation.
"The wedding?"
Wolfgang's response carried genuine surprise, his voice low but layered with sudden confusion. His mind was clearly working through the ceremony's various moments, trying to identify what could possibly have offended Japanese sensibilities so profoundly.
"Yes," Hans confirmed, closing his eyes briefly and raising both his arms in a gesture of surrender that suggested he understood how implausible this sounded. "Since you were there, I was wondering if you witnessed anything unusual. Any incident, any breach of protocol, anything that might have caused offense. I'm just curious, of course, not conducting any kind of official inquiry."
Kylian felt his heart suddenly racing at this information. The stares of the Japanese delegation during the wedding ceremony came flooding back with clarity, their sustained scrutiny of his position next to Princess Changning, the whispered conversations he had observed but couldn't hear, the visible tension in their bearing. The memory made him profoundly uncomfortable.
Had he actually started an international crisis? Had his inability to maintain complete emotional discipline for three hours, his conversation with the Princess, his obvious attention to her had somehow ruined the carefully cultivated relationship between two peer powers? The sick feeling in his stomach suggested his instincts were correct. It had to be about the seating arrangement, about his proximity to her, about whatever the Japanese had observed or imagined they had observed.
Again, he thought bitterly to himself, shaking his head slightly. *Once again, I've created diplomatic complications.*
"Nothing particularly stood out to me," Wolfgang said with careful neutrality, standing and moving toward the whiskey decanter positioned on a side table—Hans kept it for informal meetings with fellow officers, a touch that made his office more convivial. "I don't remember any specific incident at the wedding ceremony itself. Everything proceeded according to protocol, as far as I could observe. The ceremony went smoothly."
Wolfgang's lie was smooth, practiced, designed to deflect further inquiry.
"That's essentially what the Legate said as well, to be fair," Hans admitted with a slight shrug. "We'll probably never know the full truth unless we ask the Chancellor himself, and he's hardly going to explain sensitive diplomatic matters to junior captains. I apologize for bringing it up, Kylian and Wolfgang. I just thought since you were both there, you might have some insight the rest of us lack."
He gestured toward the whiskey with an open hand. "Feel free. I keep it for exactly these kinds of informal visits."
Wolfgang accepted with an appreciative smile, selecting three crystal glasses and beginning to pour generous measures. He took a careful glance at Kylian as he worked, noting his friend's unusual stillness, the way his focus had turned entirely inward. Something was definitely troubling him, and Wolfgang suspected he knew exactly what.
"By the way, Eisemann," Kylian said suddenly, his voice cutting through the moment of relative calm. His focus was entirely on Hans now, his attention sharp and urgent. "When you say Japan is threatening war, threatening war with whom, specifically?"
Hans folded his arms across his chest, his expression suggesting he found the vagueness of official communications as frustrating as Kylian did. "That, I genuinely do not know. The Legate and some of the senior generals have been discussing it in closed sessions. But it's more than likely the Chinese they're threatening, isn't it? We have no territory anywhere in Asia that Japan could realistically target. No colonial possessions, no strategic interests that directly conflict with theirs. China is the obvious target of their grievances, regardless of whatever triggered it."
"Let's hope it's just rumors, or at least exaggerated reports," Wolfgang interjected, trying to inject some calm and optimism into what Hans was implying. He finished pouring the whiskey and gestured for the other two officers to come take their glasses. "The Japanese got what they wanted, a marriage alliance that gives them legitimacy and connections to one of the world's oldest imperial polities. It would be a diplomatic disaster of historic proportions to betray that pact so quickly. Even the most cynical power-maximizers in Tokyo must recognize that such treachery would destroy their credibility internationally."
"I hope you're right," Hans replied, standing and making his way toward the glasses. "Otherwise the sacrifice paid by the First Princess—her entire life, essentially, given to a foreign dynasty would be completely pointless. It would be quite a tragedy for everyone involved, but especially for her."
Kylian remained seated, his body language suggesting he was only partially present in the room. His mind was being pulled in multiple directions simultaneously, and he couldn't help but obsessively turn over the possibility that he had somehow caused this crisis. Every instinct screamed that this was connected to him, to that seating arrangement, to those hours of conversation with Princess Changning that had felt so natural in the moment but now seemed catastrophically inappropriate in retrospect.
He finally stood and approached the table where Wolfgang had arranged the whiskey glasses. He couldn't shake the uneasy churning in his stomach, the growing conviction that something was wrong.
As his fingers closed around the crystal glass, he felt the weight of accumulated anxiety pressing down on him. The cold smoothness of the glass provided a momentary anchor to physical reality, but it did nothing to quiet the racing thoughts.
He still remembered the wedding with painful vividness—not the ceremony itself, which had blurred into a sequence of formal gestures and incomprehensible Chinese proclamations, but the hours sitting beside Princess Changning. Every moment was etched in his memory with uncomfortable clarity: how close she had gotten to him under that moonlit tree during their forest walk, removing the leaf from his shoulder with casual intimacy that had seemed innocent then but now felt dangerously inappropriate. The conversations during the feast, her laugh when he struggled with chopsticks, the way her eyes had met his when she challenged his political philosophy.
Each memory made his heart feel heavier, made the anxiety in his chest tighten further. He desperately didn't want to know what he would feel like if he discovered he had caused a genuine diplomatic disaster, if his forbidden attraction had endangered not just himself but her. Princess Changning, who had shown him nothing but courtesy and who deserved none of the consequences that might now be falling upon her because of his inability to maintain proper emotional distance.
And worst of all—unthinkably, unforgivably—he may have also destroyed Princess Ankang's sacrifice. Her honor, her future, the peace she was meant to secure with her own life… all of it now hung in the balance, because he could not keep his heart in check.
Every passing second seemed to accelerate his heartbeat, made the churning in his stomach more pronounced. He took a deep, measured breath, trying to employ the composure techniques his training had instilled. He told himself this was a matter of discipline, that he would be back on the Hanseatic Continent within a week, that he would have access to his brother and could get real answers rather than secondhand rumors filtered through military gossip channels.
But even as he tried to rationalize and calm himself, a deeper part of his consciousness already knew the truth. This was about him. About her. About the impossibility they had both pretended didn't exist for those few stolen hours during the wedding feast.
And if Japan was threatening war because of it, then the consequences were far worse than anything he had imagined during those anxious nights in Chang'an, when the Consort's veiled threats had seemed like the worst that could happen.
Wolfgang raised his glass, and Hans followed suit, both clearly expecting Kylian to join them in whatever toast was about to be offered. Kylian slowly lifted his own glass, forcing himself to focus on the immediate social requirements of this moment rather than the catastrophic possibilities spiraling through his mind.
"To absent friends," Wolfgang said simply, the traditional Hanseatic military toast for Academy brothers who found themselves scattered across the Empire's vast territories.
"To absent friends," Hans and Kylian echoed together.
The whiskey burned going down—good Ravaran whiskey, aged in oak barrels that had previously held wine, giving it a complex sweetness that distinguished it from the harsher spirits produced elsewhere. Under normal circumstances, Kylian would have appreciated the quality, would have engaged in the ritual male bonding that accompanied sharing good alcohol.
Instead, he barely tasted it. His mind remained fixed on one terrible question:
What have I done?