The sun hung high as they entered the capital. New Berlin stretched before them like a sculpted monument — iron rails, black banners, and stone buildings crowned with crimson flags. The streets had been cleared in advance, riflemen lining the roads every two blocks. Not for parade. For security.
The carriage passed beneath the main eastern arch — a massive iron gate flanked by watchtowers and floodlights. Beyond it, the marble avenue widened. Dome spires shimmered in the noon light. Trolley lines sparked and hissed above the streets. Crowds stepped aside as the vehicle rolled toward the city's core.
And there it stood.
The Opernhaus des Reiches —A towering structure of white limestone and carved bronze, its roof shaped like a crescent wave. Statues lined the ledges: soldiers, workers, scholars — all gazing down with stone eyes. Massive crimson banners hung from the upper balconies, the Reich eagle stitched in gold thread.
Music drifted faintly from inside — violins, horns, a cello rising deep and slow.
The carriage pulled to a stop.
An aide in a pressed uniform opened the door.
"Welcome, my Führer. General Drossen."
Wilhelm stepped out first, adjusting his coat. The sun gleamed off his medals. He looked up at the opera house, then at the crowd gathering near the entrance — all wearing their best coats, gloves, monocles, and silk dresses. The city's elite had come.
Hitler followed, his posture tight but precise. His eyes scanned the steps — not in admiration, but calculation.
The red carpet extended all the way up the marble stairway.
They ascended together.
Inside —
The ballroom unfolded like a world made of music and smoke.
Gold-painted columns framed the hall. Chandeliers the size of carts hung above, glinting with a thousand candles. Waiters wove between guests with crystal trays. The air smelled of cigars, perfume, wine, and the faint trace of roasted almonds.
Hundreds moved beneath the music — men in dark coats and medals, women in glittering gowns of navy, emerald, and crimson. Their heels clicked against polished marble as they spun in graceful arcs, laughing softly between steps. Laughter, violins, clinking glasses — everything moved in rhythm.
On the far side, the Reich orchestra played beneath a raised balcony. Every movement was controlled. Measured. Mechanical perfection.
Top officials lined the periphery — Otto Eisner by the refreshments, Seris with two assistants reviewing documents mid-conversation. Virella von Weiss stood near the windows, glowing subtly beneath the chandelier light, her hair pinned elegantly with a black crystal comb.
Some were absent — Wilhelm noted that Bruno and Hartmann's aides weren't here. Likely deployed. Strategic placements.
"Wilhelm!" someone called out.
He turned — an old field commander, now a logistics head, drink in hand. "You survived the mountain winters after all! They said you'd turned to stone!"
Wilhelm grinned and shook his hand firmly. "Not yet. But it's close."
He moved through the crowd with ease — nods, handshakes, polite bows. He had grown used to gatherings like these during post-war campaigns, but here, now, he felt like a guest at his own funeral. Celebrated, but removed.
He looked to his side.
Hitler was still there — but slightly behind. He was speaking to a cluster of engineers and economists, nodding with his usual precision. But something was off.
His eyes didn't rest long. His body leaned slightly inward. His handshake lingered too short.
He was uncomfortable.
Wilhelm noticed — but said nothing.
Instead, he stepped closer to the bar, where a young officer offered him a glass of red.
"Thank you," Wilhelm said quietly.
"Sir," the young man replied, bowing his head.
Meanwhile, Hitler moved toward Virella. She bowed slightly, offering a brief smile. Their exchange was short — a gesture, a word — then he moved on. From one group to the next, a man out of place in his own court.
The music shifted — a more jubilant tune rising.
A woman in a violet dress laughed as her partner spun her beneath the chandeliers. A nearby ambassador lit a cigarette with a gold-plated lighter. Laughter echoed under the dome ceiling like clinking silver.
Wilhelm sipped his drink and watched.
This was not a war room.
This was something else.
And even here… the General stood like a soldier, watching the room — and the man beside him — with quiet understanding.