Published at 1st of March 2026 6:45 am

Chapter 885: Werewolves in Armenia

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After the end of the Great War, the Ottoman Empire collapsed under the weight of military defeat and diplomatic dismemberment.

Its European holdings were ceded to Greece and other successor administrations, while its remaining Anatolian core was left diminished, severed from the imperial arteries that had once sustained it.

In the decades that followed, the eastern Mediterranean entered one of the most stable periods in its modern history. Stability, however, had not come through reconciliation, but through rearrangement.

The treaties that concluded the war did not merely redraw borders; they redefined demographic realities.

Territories long contested between Athens and Constantinople were formally integrated into a Greater Greece, consolidating Hellenic control over the Aegean littoral and the approaches to the Straits.

The Turkish state that emerged from the Ottoman collapse found itself geographically confined and strategically isolated.

Deprived of sovereign control over the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles, and cut off from meaningful maritime leverage, Ankara was reduced to a continental power without access to the levers that had once made it indispensable.

For a generation, this smaller Turkish republic endured; economically constrained, diplomatically peripheral, and politically resentful.

It was the Second World War that finally unsettled the balance. Border disputes along the Anatolian frontier, long simmering beneath the surface, escalated into open confrontation.

Greece, citing security guarantees and treaty ambiguities, launched a decisive campaign that severed Turkey’s remaining access to the Black Sea.

What followed was not a prolonged struggle, but a rapid collapse. Anatolia, once the imperial heartland of the Ottomans, was reorganized under Hellenic administration in stages.

The policy that had initially governed the Ionian settlements, demographic separation along religious lines, was extended inland.

Muslim populations were relocated southward under prior agreements with the Hashemite Kingdom of Arabia, while Christian minorities throughout the Near East were resettled north and west into territories now firmly within the Greek sphere.

To the northeast, Armenia had already been restored as a kingdom under Russian protection in the immediate aftermath of the Great War, forestalling what many feared would have been a catastrophic purge.

Its borders were expanded and fortified, serving as a buffer between Russian influence and Arabian consolidation.

By the mid–20th century, the Near East no longer resembled the Ottoman mosaic that had endured for centuries.

The porous civilizational frontier between Europe and the Islamic world had been replaced with a deliberate and enforced boundary; one stretching from the Armenian highlands to the Aegean coast.

Whether this boundary represented a durable peace or merely a frozen settlement remained a question for the generations that followed.

There were no final battles, no last crusade, no climactic reckoning. Yet the frontier fell silent all the same.

From the Arabian Peninsula, oil flowed into the West. Whether through maritime shipping, intercontinental pipelines, or rail transit. Much of Europe saw the new black gold pumping through its nation’s cities.

Germany, however, seemed almost indifferent to buying oil. Their grid no longer relied on fossil fuels for sustenance. It was largely relegated to a strategic reserve for their armed forces.

Even so, the oil found its way into German stockpiles all the same. Not because the Germans were purchasing crude oil with gold or papiermarks, but because the foundation of the Arabian oil industry was funded by German capital, and Berlin always gained a return on its investments.

And who did they send when they needed to secure that return?

Werwolf Group.

The sigil of the wolf flew proudly within the Caucasus Mountains, its black standard snapping against the highland wind as Ernst Rohm watched the exercises unfold below with measured curiosity.

The Armenian soldiers advanced in disciplined formation, following an armored spearhead largely composed of retrofitted German vehicles from the Second World War. The machines were old, but not obsolete. Modernized optics. Reinforced plating. Updated engines. German engineering did not age; it adapted.

An E-50 rolled forward through a blasted mock defensive line, its gun depression adjusting with mechanical patience before firing a thunderous round into a simulated bunker. Infantry followed close behind, assault rifles shouldered, clearing trenches with mechanical efficiency.

Next to Ernst stood the General of the Royal Armenian Army. He too gazed through a set of binoculars, nodding faintly before lowering them.

"The equipment and training your men have provided our armed forces has been a great deterrent toward our southern neighbors," the General said evenly. "While the Arabs have done their best to maintain the peace over the last few years, I’m afraid many of the displaced Turks within their borders have been launching raids on our frontier towns."

Ernst did not respond immediately.

He adjusted his gloves instead. The leather creaked. His fingers no longer closed as easily as they once had. The cold settled into his joints more deeply these days.

But the sound of artillery drills below?

That still felt like home.

He raised his binoculars again, studying the armor.

"There," he said at last, lowering them and pressing them into the General’s hands. "You see that ridge? That’s where your weakness is. If I were leading a southern column, I’d probe there first."

The Armenian General shifted his focus.

"And that," Ernst continued, "is an E-50. The Reich sold you several hundred. There is nothing the Arabs possess that can meaningfully challenge that steel unless they intend to escalate beyond plausible deniability."

He finally turned his head, pale eyes steady.

"So I suggest," he added, almost conversationally, "that you make them remember that when you demand they bring you the heads of those Turks on a silver platter."

The Armenian General did not smile.

Nor did he nod.

He handed the binoculars back slowly.

"Isn’t that why we pay you?" he asked.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by distant engine noise and the snapping of the Werwolf banner overhead.

For a moment, the General could have sworn the aging mercenary commander’s expression shifted, not into something feral, but into something sharper. Purpose fit him better than peace ever had.

"I suppose you do," Ernst replied quietly. "Very well. We’ll handle your border problem."

His tone never rose. It never needed to.

"And as always," he added, "the Arabs will never know you gave the order."

---

The exercises concluded shortly thereafter.

Columns of Armenian mechanized infantry withdrew in orderly sequence, engines rumbling down mountain passes carved centuries before the Ottoman conquests. Werwolf advisors dispersed in pairs and trios, clipboards in hand, offering quiet corrections.

There were no grand speeches, no flags planted in triumph; just brutal efficiency.

Below the ridge line, Armenian officers reviewed casualty simulations with German contractors who did not wear insignia but carried authority all the same. Ammunition usage. Fuel expenditure. Mechanical wear. Everything was accounted for.

War, in this region, had become arithmetic.

Ernst descended the observation ridge with slow, deliberate steps. His knees protested the incline. He ignored them.

Retirement had been suggested more than once. Berlin had respectfully sent inquiries couched in concern. His answer had always been the same.

"I am still useful."

Usefulness was the only currency he respected.

At the motor pool, a Werwolf logistics officer approached and offered a sealed briefing envelope.

"Interceptions confirm the raid elements are operating roughly twenty kilometers south of the border," the officer said. "Light arms, no heavy armor, irregular command structure."

"Discipline?" Ernst asked.

"Minimal."

Ernst nodded once.

"Then this won’t take long."

He opened the envelope, scanning terrain photographs and supply route projections.

"The Hashemite government will deny involvement," the logistics officer continued carefully.

"They always do."

"And if Riyadh protests?"

Ernst folded the papers neatly.

"They won’t."

The officer hesitated.

"They won’t?" he pressed.

Ernst met his eyes.

"They understand the arrangement."

The arrangement did not need explaining.

German capital had modernized Arabian oil extraction fields. German engineers had laid pipelines. German firms insured the transit networks. Security contracts; discreet, renewable, lucrative, ensured stability.

Berlin did not demand loyalty, it demanded predictability.

And Riyadh, pragmatic and well advised, understood that predictable neighbors were preferable to unpredictable refugees launching border raids.

"Prepare three mobile detachments," Ernst ordered. "Night movement, no insignia. And remember take no prisoners."

The officer saluted lightly and withdrew.

Ernst remained by the armored column, resting a hand against cold steel.

Some men feared death, but Ernst feared irrelevance.

He had survived the Great War, the Second, and countless campaigns in between. He had seen empires fall and be replaced by systems more efficient.

There had been a time when he commanded divisions beneath banners that inspired nations, now he commanded contracts.

And yet the work felt purer. There were no speeches, no parades, no useless medals. Just results.

A young Armenian captain approached cautiously.

"Commander Rohm," he said. "Your presence here... it is reassuring."

Ernst looked at him.

"Is it?"

"Yes," the captain replied honestly. "My father fought beside German officers in the last war. He says discipline is contagious."

Ernst allowed the faintest hint of amusement.

"Your father exaggerates."

"No," the captain insisted. "He says German officers did not panic."

Ernst’s gaze drifted briefly toward the horizon.

"He might have been right about that...."

As far as Ernst knew, the only German assets deployed to the Caucusus during the Second World War were Jagdkommandos.

Their operations were classified in a way that even he couldn’t get his hands on. But wherever they went, nations fell, and new ones took their place.

The captain did not know how to respond.

Ernst spared him the discomfort.

"See to your men," he said. "Confidence is quieter than you think."

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