Published at 28th of December 2025 8:00 am

Chapter 801: A Warm Welcome Home

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Erich stood outside the front doors of his family’s palace. He had not been raised in such a luxurious state, at least not during the first years of his life.

No, like his father before him, he had been raised in an older, far more humble manor on the outskirts of Berlin.

But for many years now, this had been his home. And it was home to his wife and children.

For nearly three years he had not seen his family. He had been invading France, maintaining peace in the aftermath of the Republic’s collapse, or fighting through the jungles of the South Pacific.

The war had taken a toll on his mind deeper than he could consciously realize. And perhaps that was why he hesitated to take a step forward and open the doors, even as the palace guards stood by, acting as if they did not notice their Prince’s abnormal behavior.

They did not judge him. Nor did they dare to look at him in any way that acknowledged his struggle.

To become a Palace Guard of House von Zehntner, one had to share in their own burdens of combat.

They knew all too well the inner strife that threatened to consume the young Prince, and they would never interfere in that battle. A man must make his own way in life. He must find the will to move on entirely on his own.

Still as marble statues, they stood and waited.

In the end, Erich drew a deep breath, letting every negative thought that threatened to drown his psyche wash over him before pushing it to the back of his mind.

The words of his grandfather echoed in his ears, words he finally understood nearly a decade later.

"Should you choose the path of the soldier, your privilege will be the dirt beneath your feet. The battles you wage, the losses you suffer, the alliances you build, these will be entirely by your own hand and your own will."

In this moment of peace, away from the storm, as memory threatened to consume him, Erich understood... no, he knew at a deeply instinctive level, what his grandfather had warned him about... and what he had blessed him with.

And because of that understanding, he was able to take a stride forward. Confident, stoic. leaving the past behind, not forgotten, but no longer a burden.

When he stepped through the door, there was not a hint of grief, not a trace of shell shock on his face, or even in his eyes.

Nor did his fingers tremble from the scenes that would forever plague his mind. There was only stillness, acceptance, and tranquility.

The moment the door opened, a flash threatened to blind him. A photograph, taken without warning by an ill-advised family member.

Bruno, the head of the house and patriarch of the family, immediately turned with paternal fury toward the culprit.

Bruno had expected such a sudden ambush to set something off in his grandson. Instead, there was only a smile. Champagne corks popped in the background.

"Surprise!"

Erich adjusted quicker than Bruno did, eyeing the man with a silent nod and a knowing gaze only two soldiers could ever share, while simultaneously, almost paradoxically, embodying the return of a man who had seemingly never seen the horrors of war.

His children rushed into his arms, now old enough to leap into their father’s embrace. His wife, mother, and grandmother nearly fought over who had the right to hug him first.

His father, brothers, cousins, uncles, and even the eldest of his nephews stepped forward to shake his hand and welcome him home with unrestrained praise.

That was when Bruno descended from the grand staircase.

He had arrived in an unusually formal state, his full ceremonial military regalia adorned. Not for his own benefit, as everyone present knew all too well the patriarch’s disdain for social etiquette that bordered on the superfluous and absurd.

No.

He was fully groomed, proper, and courtly for one man’s honor.

Not his own, but his grandson’s.

Bruno stepped forward with the pace of a man age could not conquer, raised his hand in formal salute, and looked directly into Erich’s eyes.

"At ease... Oberst."

Erich returned the salute, his eyes meeting his grandfather’s in a way only a few of the men present could truly understand.

Then, as murmurs threatened to ripple through the room at such a stiff welcome, Bruno broke into an unusually warm smile and pulled his grandson into a brief, firm embrace.

"I am glad to see you made it back in one piece, boy."

Erich did not resist it. As brief as the embrace was, he welcomed it.

Because the words, harsh as they might have sounded to those who had never known the brutality of war, were the most humane greeting he had received since returning to the Fatherland.

There was only one phrase in Erich’s vocabulary that could capture his thoughts.

He let it escape his lips as they parted.

"As am I."

Erika forced herself forward, interrupting the moment, slapping Heidi’s hands away and shooting the matriarch a glare fierce enough to silence her.

"Yes, yes, I know we are all thrilled to see my husband return in one piece," Erika said sharply. "But as his wife, I have questions I need answered. So if you would all kindly return to the dining room and make yourselves comfortable for dinner, I humbly request a private word with my husband."

Heidi could only pout, clearly displeased at being denied her grandson after three years of war.

Bruno, however, simply took her by the waist and escorted her away, giving a subtle shake of his head, reminding her that her rights as matriarch came third to Erich’s duties as husband and father.

Only when the foyer stood empty save for Erich and Erika did she seize the medal at his collar and yank him close, fury blazing in her eyes.

"You miserable bastard! Three whole years! Three whole years you had me worrying! And now you finally come home! Why couldn’t you have returned sooner?"

She did not wait for an answer, instead she kissed him fiercely, gripping the medal tight enough to nearly choke him.

Erich only pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her until her anger had nowhere left to go.

"I’m sorry," he whispered. "For what I put you through. For what I put the children through. And for what I may yet put you through before this war ends. I am truly sorry."

Erika’s porcelain cheeks flushed as she buried her face against him, anger, love, devotion, and guilt warring quietly within her.

"You idiot," she muttered. "How am I supposed to stay angry when you say things like that?"

They stood like that for a long while, Erich kissing her forehead, Erika drawing strength from his warmth.

Eventually, they separated only enough to intertwine their fingers and walk together into the dining hall, where the family had gathered to celebrate Erich’s return and the coming holidays.

Some were missing, daughters married outward, families bound elsewhere, but Bruno knew it would not be long before they were all gathered again.

The dining hall had been prepared with meticulous care. Candles lined the long oak table, their flames steady and warm, casting soft light over polished silverware and porcelain plates laid out in perfect symmetry.

The scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and mulled wine hung heavy in the air, comforting, familiar, almost overwhelming.

Erich paused just inside the threshold.

For a brief moment, the noise struck him harder than any artillery barrage ever had.’

Laughter, clinking glasses, the scrape of chairs against stone floors. It all felt too loud; too alive. His senses, long accustomed to whispers and sudden violence, struggled to recalibrate.

He took his seat beside Erika, his posture straight by instinct, hands resting flat on the table as though awaiting orders.

Food was placed before him, generous portions, lovingly prepared by both the ladies of the house, and their kitchen staff, but he found himself staring at it as if it were some strange offering.

"Eat," Erika murmured softly, nudging him with her elbow. "You look like you’re expecting it to explode."

A few chuckles rippled around the table.

Erich smiled faintly and lifted his fork. The first bite nearly brought tears to his eyes. It was savory, warm, rich, and most of all... real.

He had eaten well enough during the war, but never like this. Never without tension coiled in his gut.

Conversation flowed around him, updates on estates, marriages, children’s schooling, minor scandals that would have once occupied far more of his attention. He listened, nodded when appropriate, laughed when expected.

Then someone, an uncle, he thought, made the mistake.

"So," the man said casually, swirling his wine, "the Philippines... I hear it was quite the mess."

The table fell silent.

Erich’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He felt Erika’s hand tighten around his beneath the table.

"It was hot," he said at last, voice even. Carefully neutral. "And unpleasant."

Bruno cleared his throat, the sound sharp and deliberate.

"I believe," the old man said mildly, "we agreed tonight was not for recounting campaigns."

The uncle flushed and muttered an apology. Conversation resumed, cautiously at first, then more freely as relief spread.

Erich exhaled slowly, realizing only then how tightly he had been holding his breath.

At some point, one of his children, he wasn’t even sure which, leaned against his arm, small fingers clutching his sleeve as if afraid he might vanish again.

He did not look down immediately, for he was too afraid that if he did, something inside him would crack.

Instead, he placed his hand gently over theirs and stayed exactly where he was.

For the first time in three years, the war did not demand his attention.

And for now, that was enough.

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