Published at 13th of February 2026 7:17 am

Chapter 864: The Absence of Certainty

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The banners of Hungary flew proudly over the palace in Budapest while King Pal Esterhazy de Galantha walked side by side with his generals.

The Carpathian Kingdom had provided a rather sizable amount of support to the Central Powers during the Second World War. And their gains had not been small as a result of emerging on the winning side.

Spread across the table as the King approached was a map of Europe, up to date with the latest changes in borders following the end of the Second World War.

Greater Hungary had emerged from the chaos of the early twentieth century not as a minor player, but as a significant force of regional stability.

As the King traced his fingers over the map, and their latest gains in lands that had once been disputed between them and Romania. He could not help but exhale solemnly.

His face was not filled with pride or triumph, but with concern.

"Throughout my entire life, Reichsmarschall Bruno von Zehntner has been the anchor of stability and restraint in this world. By aligning with the Central Powers before the Romanians could, I have undone the failures of my predecessor. And yet... now that the Reichsmarschall no longer sits at the head of the Reichsheer, it could slip through our fingers at any moment...."

The King remained silent as his generals spoke around him, their confidence echoing against marble walls that had witnessed empires rise and fall long before any of them had drawn breath.

Their arguments were not foolish. Hungary’s armies had performed well. Their logistics had held. Their officers had adapted quickly to modern warfare. Romania had collapsed faster than even their most optimistic projections had predicted.

And yet.

King Pal Esterhazy de Galantha rested both hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward, his eyes fixed not on the brightly colored regions of the map, but on the thin red lines that marked borders old and new.

"We did not win those lands," he said quietly. "We were allowed to reclaim them."

The room stilled.

One of the younger generals frowned. "With respect, Your Majesty, our troops bled for every kilometer from the Tisza to the Carpathians. Romanian resistance was—"

"—irrelevant," the King interrupted, not raising his voice. "Resistance does not determine legitimacy. Endurance does."

He straightened slowly.

"For nearly two decades, the peace between Budapest and Bucharest existed not because we trusted one another, nor because treaties are sacred things." His gaze hardened. "It existed because both sides knew what would happen if that peace were broken."

No one needed clarification. Bruno von Zehntner’s name did not need to be spoken to dominate the room.

"He did not threaten us," the King continued. "He did not threaten Romania. He made it clear that if either of us turned Transylvania into a battlefield again, he would intervene; and neither crown would survive the correction intact."

A general shifted uncomfortably. "But he is no longer Reichsmarschall."

The words lingered like smoke.

The king exhaled through his nose. "So we are told."

Another voice joined in, this one cautious, belonging to Hungary’s intelligence minister.

"Our reports indicate that Berlin has not issued any objection to the current borders," the minister said. "Nor has Moscow. Italy remains silent. Greece is... distracted."

"And Romania?" the King asked.

The minister hesitated. "Romania protests nothing officially. But they have not ratified the annexation domestically. Their court speaks of ’temporary occupation’ in private correspondence."

"They are waiting," the King murmured.

"For what?" a general asked.

"For certainty."

The King walked slowly along the table, his fingers trailing over familiar names: Cluj, Oradea, Timisoara, places Hungarian children were now taught had always been Hungarian, despite history’s inconvenient memory.

"They are waiting to see whether Germany still enforces restraint," he said. "Or whether restraint died when Bruno von Zehntner laid down his baton."

One of the older generals finally spoke, his voice low and measured.

"Your Majesty... even if the Reich wished to intervene, their army has been reduced. Their forces are lean now. Professional. Elite, yes, but not omnipresent."

The King nodded. "Which is why they do not need to intervene openly."

The intelligence minister cleared his throat. "Werwolf Group activity in the Balkans has increased marginally since the armistice. Nothing overt. Asset movement. Financial pressure. Advisory roles."

No one missed the implication.

"So the wolves still roam," the King said softly.

"They do," the minister confirmed. "But without official sanction."

The King turned to face them all.

"Bruno von Zehntner built a world where violence did not vanish," he said. "It simply became... curated. Directed. Contained." His eyes narrowed. "Now he has stepped aside, and the world is asking whether the cage door was locked, or merely held shut by his hand."

Silence answered him.

Finally, the king returned to his seat.

"We will not provoke Romania," he declared. "Not openly. No troop movements beyond current garrisons. No forced cultural reforms. No arrests of Romanian nobles without cause."

A general opened his mouth to object.

The king raised a hand.

"We have regained our lands," he continued. "If we lose them again, it will not be to Romanian arms; but to German displeasure."

That sobered them.

"Begin diplomatic outreach," he ordered. "Quietly. Emphasize stability. Emphasize cooperation. Emphasize that Hungary does not seek further revisions."

"And if Romania refuses?" someone asked.

The king allowed himself a thin smile.

"Then they will continue to fear what might happen," he said. "Which is far safer than forcing them to see what will."

The meeting adjourned shortly thereafter.

That evening, as dusk settled over Budapest, the King stood alone on the palace balcony, watching the Danube reflect the fading light.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, Europe was adjusting to a new equilibrium, one shaped less by armies than by expectations.

The king clenched his jaw.

If Bruno truly meant to retire, then the world would test the boundaries he left behind.

Hungary would be one such test, Romania another, Greece, Italy, countless smaller states watching to see how far they could lean without tipping the balance.

And if Bruno was still watching?

The king did not know whether that thought comforted him, or terrified him more.

In years past, the Carpathians had acted as a base of operations for the Werwolf group. Now those bases were held by Hungarian soldiers. Yet the wolves ran freely through the mountains all the same.

He was beginning to wonder if Europe would become held together through the same moves Bruno had used in post-colonial Africa for the last three decades.

Mercenaries without rules of engagement, and without laws of war to bind them. Used to bribe, extort, blackmail, or assassinate anyone who dared to threaten Germany’s aims. Without ever being officially sanctioned, recognized, or tied to Berlin.

King Pal Esterhazy de Galantha stepped sighed and shook his head. His wife approached him from behind. Her voice carried over the balcony.

"Is it really that bad?"

Pal didn’t speak, at least not immediately. He thought for sometime about the position he had inherited. After the previous king left no heir to succeed him. And the crown had transferred into his hands through his wife.

"Your father was too prideful for his own good... After that business in Transylvania, he distanced himself from Germany and from Bruno. While Bruno’s daughters wed Emperors and Kings across all of Europe, we were left out of that dynastic alliance, not because Hungary was unworthy, but because your father refused to sit at the table of the man who had bested him...."

Pal’s words lingered longer than they should have. No matter how she tried, his wife could not find the words to defend her father’s actions. Because she knew deep down that her husband was right.

Her hand rested lightly against his sleeve. Not to stop him, not to correct him; only to remind him she was there.

"My father believed he was preserving Hungary’s dignity," she said, voice controlled. "He thought bending the knee would make us less... Hungarian."

Pal stared out at the river again, the lights of Budapest trembling in the water like fractured gold.

"And now we have more land," he replied, "and less certainty."

A long silence followed.

"Do you know what truly unsettles me?" Pal continued. "It isn’t Romania’s bitterness. Bitterness is predictable. It isn’t even Berlin’s silence, because silence can be read if you know the language."

He turned his head slightly, meeting his wife’s eyes.

"It is the absence of the Reichsmarschall’s shadow. When a man like Bruno holds a system together, everyone knows where the limit is. Kings behave because they can feel the line even when it is not written."

His wife swallowed; the chill finally catching up to her.

"And if he is truly gone?"

"Then the line becomes theory," Pal said softly. "And theory invites miscalculation."

He placed a hand over hers.

"So we will survive the way small kingdoms always survive between giants," he finished. "By being useful, by being obedient, and by never, ever forgetting that the wolves do not need permission to hunt."

He looked back toward the palace doors.

"Come. Tomorrow we will send letters to Berlin. No demands, nor pleas." His jaw tightened. "A reminder that Hungary still understands how the world works."

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