Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 617: The Greatest Currency of All

The marble halls of the Berliner Schloss echoed with the clipped cadence of boots on stone as King Boris III of Bulgaria strode toward the conference chamber.

He cut a sharp figure in his tailored uniform, but there was nothing performative about his bearing; this was a man who had made up his mind long before setting foot on German soil.

Inside, Kaiser Wilhelm II rose from his seat with the easy grandeur of a monarch accustomed to being the focal point of any room.

Bruno stood at his side, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his expression the familiar mask of detached assessment.

“Your Majesty,” Wilhelm greeted, shaking Boris’s hand firmly. “A welcome surprise.”

Boris allowed the briefest of smiles. “Perhaps not so surprising, Your Majesty. The world is tipping toward another storm. I have no intention of repeating my father’s mistake.”

Bruno’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying him. “You mean waiting too long to choose a side, and finding yourself on the wrong one when the guns stopped.”

Boris met his gaze without flinching. “Yes. But I remember more than that.” He paused, almost as if weighing whether to speak further, then went on.

“I remember your march on Sofia. My father’s court feared ruin, humiliation… yet you treated our people with dignity. You enforced discipline in the streets, forbade looting, punished abuse. And when the treaty was signed, I recall you saying—”

His voice lowered, recalling it near word-for-word. “Our people hold no grudges, nor are we truly enemies beyond circumstance, and that is the most regrettable thing of all.”

“I can still see it,” Boris said quietly. “The city held its breath, expecting the boots of an enemy to trample it into the dust. But your men walked with discipline, spoke with courtesy. Mothers dared to send their children to market. No one believed such a thing was possible in defeat.”

Bruno inclined his head slightly, not in pride, but in acknowledgment. “I meant every word then. I still do now.”

Wilhelm glanced between them, sensing the undercurrent. “Then perhaps the past makes the present all the simpler. You wish to join the new Central Powers?”

Boris nodded. “Before it is too late. Before Bulgaria is again left to the mercy of those who would carve it apart.”

Bruno stepped forward, his tone measured but firm. “Then we will see to it that history does not repeat itself. This time, we stand together from the start.”

Boris extended his hand. Bruno clasped it without hesitation, a rare, deliberate gesture that spoke louder than any treaty ink.

—

The last aides had withdrawn, leaving only the muted tick of the mantel clock. Through the tall windows of a private office, Berlin’s spring light washed the room in pale gold.

Boris stood near the desk, hands resting on the carved edge. “Tell me honestly, Bruno,” he said at last, “do you trust me? Or am I simply another piece on your board?”

Bruno didn’t look up from the decanter he was pouring. “Pieces have no will of their own, Boris. You have will, and ambition. That makes you dangerous.”

Boris’s brow furrowed. “To you?”

“To anyone who underestimates you,” Bruno said, sliding a glass across the desk. “And I don’t make that mistake.”

Boris accepted the drink, studying him. “Then we are allies in truth?”

Bruno met his gaze evenly.

“I don’t hand out trust like parade medals. But I respect resolve, and I respect the memory of men who fought well, even on the other side. You’ve chosen your moment wisely this time. Stand fast, honor your word, and you’ll find I’m an ally who doesn’t waver.”

Boris drank, the burn of the liquor masking a flicker of relief. “And if I don’t?”

Bruno’s answer was quiet, but there was steel in it. “Then I will treat you with the same dignity I showed your people in Sofia… right before I break you.”

For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Boris nodded slowly, as if accepting a contract sealed in something older than ink.

—

Arthur Arz von Straußenburg sat stiff-backed at the head of the long oak table, the telegram still in his hand. Its words swam in his vision, not from drink but from disbelief.

“Bulgaria,” he said finally, voice flat. “Bulgaria has been admitted to the Central Powers… while we are told to wait.”

The silence broke under the scrape of a chair. General Farkas, broad-shouldered and bristling with medals, rose with a snort. ”

A calculated insult, Majesty! Have we not sent men to Spain? Have we not stood against the French-backed syndicalists while others hesitated? This is disrespect, nothing less!”

A murmur of agreement rippled down the table. Arthur’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

It was Minister Zsigmond, his oldest political advisor, who finally spoke. His voice was calm, almost weary.

“It has nothing to do with insulting us, Majesty. This is not about troops, or even loyalty. Bulgaria and Greece joined their royal houses after the Great War;cemented in blood. And Berengar’s youngest daughter Erika is engaged to the Prince of Greece. Blood always comes first.”

The general scoffed. “So we are to be left outside like beggars because of a marriage contract?”

Zsigmond’s gaze was steady. “Because of ties that cannot be bought with soldiers or gold. We are not family to them. Bulgaria is.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under the shift. The truth stung more than any insult.

Arthur’s fingers drummed once on the tabletop. Dynastic bloodlines… an ancient currency he could not mint.

It was a constant reminder that despite wearing the crown of a kingdom forged in the absence of the Habsburgs’ withdrawal, his legitimacy was still enforced at the edge of a blade, and the barrel of a gun.

In this world, armies won battles; marriages won empires. And Hungary had neither in abundance.

.”Then we will have to become indispensable in other ways,” he said at last.

The general still looked ready to spit nails, but Arthur raised a hand, silencing him.

His mind was already turning over the next moves, and how to force Berlin to open its gates to Hungary.