Re: Blood and Iron

The Archduchess Hedwig von Habsburg of Austria stared out the window of her family’s palace, lying in her bed beneath a cascade of silk and moonlight. Her nightgown shimmered faintly in the dark, but her eyes were fixed on the glowing lights of Vienna—a city that, in the past year, had become the soul of the German Reich.

She had no idea what was happening this very night across the continent in Lisbon. All she knew was what her father had told her earlier that day: she was to marry the exiled King of Portugal, Manuel II, who now lived in England.

He was only seven years her senior—a remarkably small age gap, by dynastic standards. She had never met him, only seen photographs and heard whispers.

But it wasn’t the suddenness of the betrothal that kept her awake, that kept her chest heavy and her sleep elusive. It was the shadow in her heart. A man she once admired. A man she had once imagined herself marrying: Bruno. The man who had stabbed her family in the back—and twisted the knife.

She had not been present for the final exchange between her grandfather, Emperor Franz Joseph I, and Bruno. But she had seen the aftermath. She had overheard the old man’s drunken words—”I was hoodwinked by the devil.” The stories told in quiet corners of court were worse still.

Bruno had offered them mercenaries to quell rebellion. But he warned them: “You won’t be able to bear the cost up front. Are you sure you want to offer me such a thing?” Franz Joseph—too proud, too certain of the Habsburg treasury—had waved it off. “I can afford an elite private army. We’re not some Balkan principality.”

Bruno had smiled. Not cruelly, not eagerly. Just inevitably. He had tallied every bullet, every medkit, every milliliter of fuel, every breath of morphine administered to the Vienna poor—until the bill came due.

And then, with the smirk of Lucifer himself, he laid the ledger down.

“I did warn you, didn’t I?”

But Hedwig hadn’t seen that part. She’d only seen him—years before—in his Austro-Hungarian Field Marshal’s uniform. Regal, cold, impossibly beautiful. Back then, she had confused admiration for love.

And later, when he returned to Vienna not as her empire’s servant, but as its collector—wearing the uniform of the German Reich, the chain of office around his throat, and the sash of the Royal Hungarian Order of Saint Stephen upon his chest…

She realized who he truly was. Not Michael the Archangel. But Lucifer—cast not down from heaven, but invited in. That night, she knew.

Bruno wasn’t who she had dreamed of. He was a soldier, not a prince. A conqueror, not a partner. A force of history. Not a man one could walk beside. But Manuel? From what she’d learned, he had the charm without the manipulation, the honor without the ruthlessness, the nobility without the battlefield sins.

Truly, what haunted the Archduchess most was not what Bruno had done to her family—it was that she had once wished to stand beside him. Not the man. Not the soldier. But the myth she had sewn into his silhouette. A prince, radiant in valor, sword in hand, halo blazing gold.

But now she saw the truth:That what she had mistaken for a halo was a wreath of blood. That his wings were not white and feathered, but blackened with ash and sin. A soldier’s wings—torn, scorched, earned in war and dipped in fire.

Bruno had not fallen. He had descended. Not cast out—but welcomed by men too desperate to deny him. Manuel, by contrast, had never touched the fire. He bore no scars. No blood on his palms. He was not forged, but born into light.

Where Bruno’s halo dripped like a crown of thorns, Manuel’s shone pure and untouched—golden, simple, real. Bruno stood alone in a kingdom of shadows. But Manuel? He waited with an outstretched hand. No fire. No fury. Only faith.

If Bruno was a prince made by war, Manuel was a king born of peace. And maybe—just maybe—that was what she had been searching for all along. She didn’t weep as she let the last ember of longing for Bruno die. She simply lay there, eyes open to the moon, and let the dream go.

And on this night, as the banners of the Portuguese Republic burned and Lisbon screamed out its rebirth, Hedwig let go of the devil. She released the last ember of her childish dream, and in its place rose something warmer. Not passion. Not worship. But resolve.

She would walk beside Manuel—not as a girl chasing fire, but as a woman stepping into dawn. Bruno was the Prince of Darkness. And shadows? They obeyed him. But Manuel would be her King of Light. And where he walked, nothing burned.

And though she had not yet met Manuel, she knew this already: He was not a legend. Not a force. Not a towering storm cloud shaping the age. He was simply a man—a good one, by all accounts—and in that simplicity, she found more comfort than a thousand thrones could offer.

For the first time in her life, she was not being swept along by history. She was choosing. Choosing peace over fire. Light over shadow. A quiet path walked hand in hand, rather than alone through smoke and ruin.

Some would say she was marrying beneath her station. That a man in exile had nothing to offer an Archduchess of imperial blood. But they did not know how much weight she had carried on her back for that bloodline, how many nights she had spent staring at uniforms and medals and asking herself if love was ever hers to have.

Now, perhaps, it was.

She closed her eyes as the moonlight softened, letting her last thought drift with it: Let the Devil keep his kingdom. I have no more to give him. I will build something of my own—And it will not be made of ash.

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