The cold sea wind carried with it the scent of brine and iron as Josef von Zehntner stood at the prow of the cruiser SMS Sigurd, watching the spires of Copenhagen emerge on the horizon.
Behind him, the Imperial Standard of the Greater German Reich flapped with slow, unhurried confidence.
The Danish colors, red and white, flew beside it, not as conquered spoils, but as a diplomatic courtesy.
Symbolism mattered. His father had drilled that into all his children.
Josef adjusted the cuffs of his long overcoat.
Black wool, civilian cut, and tailored into a fine three-piece suit. A uniform not of war, but of presence.
He wasn't here to conquer. He wasn't even here to negotiate in the traditional sense.
He was here to remind Denmark that history still had teeth, and that not all futures ended in blood.
He glanced at the deck, where his attaches reviewed the protocol folders. They were efficient men, quiet, loyal.
None of them bore his family name, and that was by design.
