Vienna – Four Months After the Pact of Nations
The palace halls no longer echoed with the sounds of marching boots or alarms. Instead, Vienna basked in rare peace. The Pact of Nations, signed four months ago, had brought a fragile but golden calm across the continent. For the first time in years, there was quiet.
And in that quiet, life stirred.
"Push!" came the firm voice of the midwife.
Hans Ehrenfeld Adler stood outside the Grand Royal Suite with his arms crossed and panic barely concealed on his face.
"You're the Emperor," Engelhardt muttered, sitting beside him. "You've fought monsters, assassins, a civil war… and you're terrified of this?"
Hans shot him a look. "Those didn't scream my name while in labor."
A muffled curse from inside made them both flinch.
Then—crying. Not one, but two voices.
The door creaked open. "Your Majesty," the head midwife beamed, "twins. A boy and a girl. Healthy. Strong lungs."
Hans didn't wait for permission. He dashed in.
Eliska, radiant and exhausted, was propped up with both babies gently placed in her arms.
Hans froze. He blinked. "They're… they're small."
"They're babies, Hans," Eliska giggled weakly.
He approached, reverently, and took the boy into his arms. The tiny child made a face like he was preparing to lecture someone. Hans chuckled.
"He already looks like me."
Eliska smirked. "God help us all."
Within minutes, the bedroom became a revolving door of the Empire's strangest family.
First came Mehmed, still in his battle coat but carrying a stuffed falcon doll. "I thought they'd like a mascot," he said.
Little Leopold stared at him. Mehmed stared back. "...He's judging me."
Then came Engelhardt, who instantly teared up and muttered something about "dust in the air." But when baby Adelheid was placed in his arms, she yanked his medal off his uniform and wouldn't let go.
"She's... strong," he whispered, looking down at her. "A born commander."
"She's eating your medal," Eliska corrected.
Next came Isolde, who tried to remain composed but immediately started cooing when the twins reached for her hair. "If anyone tells the troops I used a baby voice, I'll exile them."
Even Lady Sofia of Slovenia brought homemade knitted socks—one red, one blue—and a full silver spoon set engraved with the twins' initials.
The room was warmth, laughter, and love.
Until Leopold decided to show off his new lungs.
"Okay, alright, I'm sorry I said he looked like a grumpy potato!" Mehmed yelped, waving the falcon toy. "Please don't cry, you tiny warlord!"
Hans held his son upright. "Command your forces with pride, my boy."
"He just burped," Engelhardt noted.
"Victory burp," Hans declared solemnly.
And then it happened.
The air shifted, a familiar warmth folding through the space like a forgotten lullaby.
Four figures shimmered into the room.
Hans turned, not startled—just reverent.
The ancestors stood again: Ernst the Just, Ottomar the Unyielding, Irene of the Iron Veil… and a new face.
She was young, sharp-eyed, wrapped in silver armor adorned with ember runes.
"I am Annika the Flameborn," she said with a grin. "And those are some fine heirs."
She strolled over casually, gazing down at the twins with a hand on her hip.
Adelheid reached out—grabbing Annika's fiery hair braid.
"Oh, she's bold," Annika smirked. "Just like I was."
Irene leaned down and whispered to Hans, "Don't spoil them too much."
"Too late," Eliska said from the bed as Hans rocked both babies like they were sacred relics.
Ernst nodded toward the infants. "Protect them. But more than that—teach them joy. The world needs rulers who remember laughter."
Annika grinned wider. "And get them swords early."
"Annika—no swords," Irene said, exasperated.
The ancestors began to fade.
"Wait," Mehmed said suddenly. "Can I get a sword blessed by an ancestor?"
"No," Hans and Eliska said in unison.
As the glow faded and calm returned, Hans sat beside Eliska, cradling the twins between them.
He kissed her temple and whispered: "This… This is the legacy I want to protect."
Eliska, holding her daughter, nodded slowly.
"And we will," she said. "Together."
Outside, bells rang not for conquest—but for life.
Inside, two tiny hearts beat softly, while the most dangerous people in the world took turns making faces and playing peek-a-boo.
History could wait. For now, the Empire was a nursery.