The snow came gently that night, falling in quiet, sparkling sheets over the newly built stone streets. Lanterns dangled from black wires strung between buildings, casting golden halos over the gathering crowd below. A village once carved into fear and ruin now stood reborn—a city of light, noise, and rising hopes.
There were no walls, no iron gates. Only uniformed guards posted on the corners, rifles slung over their shoulders, watching not with suspicion, but a strange kind of pride. Children dashed between their boots without fear, bundled in wool coats stitched from recycled uniforms, giggling and throwing snow at each other.
Every street was alive.
Music poured from three separate bands—accordion players, fiddlers, and drummers keeping rhythm as voices raised in song. Men and women danced in wide circles. Boots stamped against stone, skirts twirled in gusts of cold wind, and arms wrapped around lovers and strangers alike. The smell of roasted grain bread and hot stew drifted from open-air kitchens, where volunteers ladled portions into clay bowls and laughed with hoarse voices.
"Ten months ago," a gray-bearded man shouted, holding his drink up, "I was feeding pigs in chains!"
The men around him roared with laughter, clanking their mugs.
"And now look at you, Reinhardt," another jeered. "Feeding pigs again—but this time with beer in your hand!"
Laughter again, deep and real. One of them clapped Reinhardt on the back and nearly spilled his drink.
Down the street, a cluster of women gathered near the old well, now reinforced with stone and crowned with brass. They stood in thick coats trimmed with fur, warming their hands around steaming cups and watching the officers as they passed through the crowd.
"That one—Brandt, the rifle commander?" whispered a young woman with red cheeks. "He's the one who held the flank last week, shot six beasts with a single rifle team."
"No, no," another woman leaned in. "That's Lenz. Brandt's the one who almost got crushed under rubble saving that woman and her baby. They say his coat caught fire and he just—walked through it."
The women shivered in unison—not from cold.
"They look so strong in those black jackets," one murmured. "With the silver armbands and that new Iron Star pinned above the heart…"
A younger girl giggled behind her hand. "You think the Führer would ever marry one of us?"
The group fell into sudden silence. Eyes glanced around. One brave woman leaned forward, voice low and daring.
"He's not married, is he?"
"No."
"Not yet."
"Do you think he would…?"
"If it was someone useful to the cause," one mother said, rocking her newborn against her chest. "A teacher maybe. Or a healer. Maybe even a writer of policy. Not a housewife."
The others nodded solemnly, then quickly broke into giggles again.
"You're just jealous you don't look as good in wool!" someone teased, making them all laugh louder.
The streets had no gaps. Bonfires were lit in iron barrels, and families stood around them—old fathers retelling the story of the revolt, children perched on crates to hear it again as if it were myth.
"I saw it with my own eyes," a man in a patched cap said, eyes wide. "He walked right into the town square. Blood still drying on his coat. Looked the baron in the eye and said, 'Your days of privilege end here.'"
"No!" a boy gasped.
"Yes!" the man grinned. "And then boom! Took his gun, shot the gate open, and the prisoners came pouring out like thunder!"
Nearby, an old woman spun in a slow dance with her husband, the both of them wrapped in matching scarves. They didn't speak, but their eyes glistened with tears.
From the rooftops above, guards and watchmen looked down and toasted from above. Bottles clinked against metal railings as the song below grew louder. The streets, once filled with fear and silence, now bloomed with life.
A brass bell rang from the northern tower—a signal from the town square.
The year had turned.
"Year 928!" someone shouted.
A cheer rose like a stormwave—thousands of voices shouting in joy, fists raised to the black sky, breath turning into clouds.
"928!"
Children jumped, mothers wept, men laughed and banged their fists against the ground.
And then—fire.
Crude, beautiful fireworks shot from the rooftops—metal tubes repurposed from old plumbing and mortar shells. They exploded in red and green flashes, lighting up the sky like a second rebellion. One cracked so loud it echoed against the mountains.
A young couple kissed beneath the lights. A father hugged all four of his children at once. A boy held up a tin cup of milk as if toasting the heavens.
A man shouted above it all:
"To the Führer!"
More voices joined. First ten. Then a hundred. Then a thousand.
"To the Führer!"
"To the one who gave us back our names!"
"To the man who gave us fire!"
"To the man who gave us freedom!"
"To the man who taught us to stand! Again!"
And the voices thundered together:
"Heil!"
Women raised their hands proudly. Children mimicked the salute with clumsy arms. The firelight made it all shimmer like a dream.
Near the central bar, a pair of engineers showed off a strange new contraption—something powered by coal and heat. A rotating wheel spun slowly, connected to a crank and glass tubes.
"It's a prototype!" one of them shouted. "The Führer's design—well, his vision. We added the brass fittings!"
"It can pump water without horses," another said proudly. "Next winter, we won't need wells!"
Others clapped them on the back, amazed, drunk with pride.
Not far off, musicians played a slower tune. People linked arms and swayed, the melody carrying over cobblestones. Boots scraped in rhythm. Couples leaned together under lamp-lit wires. Some cried. Some sang.
And everywhere—everywhere—was the quiet, unshakable sense of something sacred.
Not just survival.But victory.
Not just revenge.But rebirth.
The city had no name yet. But it didn't need one.
It had breath. It had rhythm. It had faith.
The snow had dulled to a faint mist—falling like ash, slow and silent.
Up high, overlooking the newly built city square, the Führer stood still as stone. Behind him, the roar of celebration had faded into distant music and echoing laughter. Lanterns stretched across the rooftops like strings of gold, and the smoke of warmth curled from chimneys into the night sky.
Beside him stood Otto Eisner, his breath fogging the cold air.
They said nothing for a while.
Below, citizens sang and drank, danced and wept in joy. But here—on the edge of the future—there was only silence and steel.
Finally, Otto spoke. Softly.
"You've built your dream, mein Führer."
Hitler didn't move.
"A dream?" he said at last, voice like ice scraping granite.
He turned to Otto slowly, one eyebrow raised.
"I never built a dream. I forged a vision. One that is far from complete."
Otto stiffened. "You... suggest we continue our advance?"
"A suggestion," Hitler said, "is for those who ask permission."
He turned back to the city, eyes scanning the glowing horizon beyond the far hills. Snow gathered on his shoulders. His voice deepened.
"We will liberate every last human on this continent—under one banner. The others, those mongrel regimes and fractured kingdoms, will fall before unity and purpose."
Otto stood in silence.
"Not even the so-called Constitutional Empire will stand in our way," Hitler continued. "They preach equality while their people beg in the gutters. They cling to treaties while demons eat their grain and elves walk their halls like royalty. Cowards. Parasites."
He raised a black-gloved hand and gestured outward toward the mountains in the distance.
"Imagine it, Otto. One race. One people. One government. Our technology increasing. Our population, bountiful. Our knowledge, endless. Even the stars will not remain untouched."
"I imagine," Otto said, now smiling faintly, "a world where humans are its sole rulers."
Hitler gave a slow nod.
Otto clapped his gloved hands once, stepping closer.
"Well then, mein Führer... after this little stepping stone"—he nodded down toward the celebrating city—"there is a human territory just beyond the eastern mountains. Poor, fractured, isolated. Bread basket for other nations. They live as slaves without chains."
"I know of them," Hitler said.
Otto blinked. "You do?"
"I've had my eyes on them since the second month of our uprising."
There was a cold certainty in his voice.
"They call it 'a kingdom,' but it has no king. No army. No industry. Only dust, grain, and silence."
"And a population?"
"seven hundred thousand. Perhaps more. Starving. Untouched."
Otto whistled low. "Then they'll welcome us as liberators."
Hitler gave a thin smile.
"No. They will resist. Not because they are brave. But because they have been told to fear change. They know not what we offer, only what they've been told to hate."
Otto folded his arms.
"Then we educate them. Through example. Through structure. Through law. As we've done here."
Hitler said nothing at first. Then nodded.
"Yes... first the hammer. Then the architect."
Snow fell harder now. But neither man flinched.
The night wind howled through the iron rails of the balcony. A faint cheer rose again from the city below, carried by the breeze.
Otto looked down and then back at Hitler.
"History will remember tonight, mein Führer."
Hitler didn't answer.
He just stood there—eyes locked on the eastern mountains—already watching the next city burn.