Geneva – Third Night of the Banquet
The chandeliers of the Grand Salle burned brighter on the third and final night, as though the light could chase away the shadows that had begun to creep into the corners of diplomacy. The assassination attempt the night prior had shaken the council, but not shattered it. If anything, it had exposed the fragile trust upon which the Coalition rested.
Hans Ehrenfeld Adler arrived in a tailored dark coat, his Iron Crown insignia stitched onto a crimson sash. Eliska Vranova walked beside him, her poise sharp as a blade. Whispers followed their entrance—not only because of the attack, but because of what Hans was expected to do.
Tonight, the banquet would close with declarations. Not just symbolic speeches, but promises.
Inside the Grand Hall
Glasses clinked. Notes passed. Mehmed sat flanked by Turkish reformists, exchanging glances with Japanese observers. France's Syndicalist representatives leaned toward the Hungarian delegation, murmuring calculations.
Hans stood slowly as the hall quieted. A spotlight followed.
"I do not stand here as a conqueror. I stand here as a survivor of a world you all helped burn—some through fire, others through inaction. And I stand now to propose not a new empire, but a new pact."
A ripple moved through the room. Even the American diplomat leaned forward.
"A Pact of Sovereigns and Parliaments. A union—not to dominate, but to defend. Against monsters, against terror, against Crimson Horizon and every dark force that still slinks in the ruins of our civilization."
He looked toward Eliska, who gave him the smallest of nods.
"We will not bind ourselves in the chains of the old world. But nor will we drift leaderless. Let the Iron Crown become not a symbol of fear—but of resolve."
A few delegates stood. Mehmed was first. Then the Slovenian chairwoman. The Lithuanian envoy. Applause, cautious but real, began to grow.
Of course, not all rose. The Spanish observers remained seated. The Scandinavian bloc whispered among themselves. But it was enough.
Hans bowed.
Later That Night – Tower Balcony Overlooking Geneva
Snowflakes fluttered like falling ashes. Hans leaned on the iron balcony rail, the city's lights reflecting in the lake below. Eliska joined him, offering a flask of warmed cherry liquor.
"Careful," she said. "Diplomats are watching us from those windows."
"Let them," Hans replied, taking a sip.
They stood in silence for a moment.
"I was prepared to go to war," Hans said. "To crush the old world with steel. But that would've made me another tyrant with a prettier banner."
"You didn't," she said. "You chose something harder."
He turned to her, eyes weary. "I'm tired of choosing alone."
Eliska stepped closer. "Then stop doing it alone."
Hans smiled faintly. "You're a stateswoman. You don't believe in fairy tales."
"I don't. But I believe in partnerships."
He took her hand. "Then let me offer more than alliances."
She didn't pull away.
Below, in the Halls of Diplomacy
The Reformist-aligned delegates met quietly in back rooms, sketching out the first drafts of what would be called the Danubian Compact. It would not be law—not yet—but a promise.
A promise that some nations would not fade quietly into darkness.
A promise that some crowns would not be worn to rule—but to shelter.
In Vienna, hours later, the Old Guard would burn another Reformist courthouse. The rebellion was far from over.
But in Geneva, for one night, the future had a voice.
And it sounded like hope.