Published at 19th of December 2025 9:19 am

Chapter 788: When the Stars Fall

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Within the palace grounds of Bruno’s grand estate, he stood in the winter snow. His polished black jackboots left hard, decisive footprints in the fine white powder that laced the mountainsides.

His fur-lined greatcoat concealed the medals hidden beneath its warmth. The bright red embroidery and gold piping displayed the opulence of a bygone age, one when knights and lords had ruled the valleys below with sword and oath.

His visored officer’s cap, heavy with embellishment, marked his rank as clearly as the unique shoulder boards no other man in Europe could claim.

Standing beside him, however, was a different creature entirely.

A man of infamy, a man who had spent most of the last thirty years outside the borders of the Reich. A man who carried war in his posture like other men carried breath.

His uniform was subdued. No red piping of the General Staff. No gold thread.

The fur on his collar was brown, as were his gloves, boots, belt, and holster.

Even the beret on his head was black, not Prussian, not Tyrolean, but marked with the silver Totenkopf of the Werwolf Group.

A reminder of what he was, what he commanded, and why even in an empire of soldiers, he was an anomaly.

If the lines on his face, and the greying of his hair was anything to go by, he looked the same age as Bruno.

Except, he wasn’t. He was nearly a decade younger, but war carved men unevenly. And Bruno seemed to have a remarkable resistance to the effects of time.

A trait that Ernst Rohm didn’t seem to share. Ernst cleared his throat and spoke with a reverent tone Bruno rarely heard from him.

"For thirty years I have served as your right hand," Rohm said. "Led soldiers into battles on your behalf and into warzones where the Reich had no business being. I’m getting old, my Lord. Soon I won’t be able to carry a rifle. Let alone lead men to do the same."

He took a breath.

"When America fractures... let me go. Let me lead my men one last time. Let me choose the ending I deserve."

Bruno stood expressionless in front of his mad dog.

In truth, Rohm had been his second choice to lead Werwolf. The first choice, Erich, had long since been reduced to a ghost, a myth, and a cautionary tale.

That man’s loyalty had ended in a bullet, by his own will, not Bruno’s.

Bruno chuckled softly, a relatively unfamiliar sound, one that made the snow feel suddenly colder. It was perhaps the first time Rohm had truly seen a crack in the man’s steel facade.

But when Bruno’s eyes settled, a shiver crawled down Rohm’s spine.

"Let me guess..." Bruno said. "You think that when this war ends, I’ll find Werwolf unnecessary. And you’ll be... ’retired’ the same way your predecessor was?"

The word landed like a hammer.

Predecessor.

Only one man could claim that title: Erich von Humboldt. Infantry officer, founder and Director of the Ministry for State Security, personal assassin of Bruno, and the quiet butcher of the Revolution.

Whispers still circulated in the shadows of the Ministry, whispers that Erich was a kind of macabre saint, a martyr whose halo was cut from barbed wire.

Bruno continued speaking, though it sounded almost like he was addressing the dead.

"What’s the matter, Ernst? After all these years, you’ve suddenly lost your fire?"

He stepped closer.

"I didn’t kill Erich because he outlived his usefulness. He gave his life to win the Great War, and to silence the traitors who would have snatched that victory from us."

Bruno’s voice lowered.

"If you wish to die in battle, that is your prerogative. But don’t imagine the Reich won’t need men like you when this is over. And if the Reich no longer needs Werwolf... then Tyrol certainly will."

Rohm exhaled, breath rising in the cold mountain air like smoke.

"Do you really think there will be peace?" he asked quietly. "After this war?"

Bruno looked off into the valley below, at the lights of Innsbruck, at the people walking peacefully through the streets, at the faint hum of a city untouched by the horrors across the ocean.

He paused.

And when he turned back to Rohm, a rare smile curved his lips, not warm, not gentle, but honest.

"For a time, yes," Bruno said. "But peace never lasts. Sooner or later, there will be another war. I don’t know whom we will be fighting, or in what corner of the world we’ll be gutting them in. But war is the only certainty in this world besides death and taxes."

He shrugged faintly.

"And when that day comes, who better to lead the charge than men like you?"

Rohm couldn’t help but smirk, shaking his head as he stared up at the falling sky.

"You really are going to make me live forever, aren’t you?"

Bruno scoffed and began walking again through the snowy estate grounds. His words drifted over his shoulder like a command, like a prophecy.

"God no..." he said. "But I won’t permit you to die until I have first had my rest."

Rohm watched Bruno’s back as the Reichsmarschall strode down the path, boots crushing snow with the same certainty he crushed empires.

Rest.

The word lingered in the cold like an absurdity.

In thirty years of following that man, Ernst had never once seen Bruno rest. Not truly, not in body, mind, nor spirit.

Even sleep, on the rare nights Bruno bothered with it, looked more like a soldier lying in ambush than a man surrendering to dreams.

Ernst exhaled slowly, rubbing his gloved hands together as the snowfall thickened around him.

If there was an afterlife, Valhalla, Heaven, some celestial barracks for old warriors, he doubted Bruno would ever sit long enough to enjoy it.

The gods themselves would probably hand him a map, a sword, and a list of problems to fix.

And he would fix them.

Because that was what Bruno did. Not for honor, not for glory, not for fortune or a sense of of pride.

But because the world demanded order, and he was the only man stubborn enough to impose it.

Rohm shook his head with a rare, quiet laugh.

"Rest," he muttered. "You’ll get to it when the stars fall, old friend."

He followed after Bruno’s footprints, as he always had.

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