The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the paneled study.
Outside, Berlin's streets were damp with spring rain, but inside, the air was heavy with history.
Bruno leaned against his cane, watching the man seated opposite him, Henri d'Orléans, Count of Paris.
Even in exile, even aged and worn, Henri still carried himself like a king.
He had visited Tyrol often, seen the power Bruno commanded firsthand.
He was not deluded.
He knew what was coming.
"You've read the reports," Bruno said. His voice was low, steady.
"French shells landing on our border posts. Patrols gunned down under the excuse of 'training accidents.' My men die, and Paris dismisses it as clumsiness."
Henri's jaw tightened. His reply was immediate, firm.
"De Gaulle bleeds France for his own pride. I have condemned his actions before, and I will do so again. What he does in the name of the Republic dishonors our nation and shames her ancestors."
