The seasons passed, and with them the war that had consumed the world.
By the spring of 1939, the guns had gone silent.
France had bent the knee.
Britain, robbed of its fleet, its gold, and its pride, had capitulated.
The banners of surrender hung limp in the coastal wind, and the Reich stood unchallenged across the Old World.
For the first time in decades, Bruno von Zehntner had nothing left to command.
He walked the courtyard of his Tyrolean estate, hands clasped behind his back, listening to the slow trickle of water spilling from the fountain.
The last breath of winter had faded, leaving the scent of thawed earth and stone warmed by morning light.
The world was changing around him, again, and in the still water he saw the reflection of a man who had outlived nearly everyone who had ever tried to stop him.
A face worn, aged, yet unbowed.
