Iron Will: The Rise of a Tyrant

The snow outside the Imperial Palace in Saint Petersburg fell silently, muffling the sounds of a tragedy that would ripple across the empire. Inside the gilded chambers, Queen Lucillia lay motionless, her crimson gown soaking the cold marble floor. The guards stood over her lifeless body, their faces masked with steel and indifference.

From the towering throne, Emperor Charles III's voice echoed through the hall, cold and unyielding. "Let this serve as a lesson. The crown tolerates no defiance."

In the shadows of the grand corridor, two boys watched. Aron, barely sixteen, clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. Beside him, Erwin, just a year older, stared with wide, unblinking eyes, his breath caught between terror and rage.

"She was our mother," Aron whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of grief and fury.

"And he's our father," Erwin replied, his tone like ice. "Remember this moment, Aron. Burn it into your soul."

When the guards found them later that night, their sentence was swift. Stripped of their titles, banished from the kingdom, and sent to the frozen wilderness with only their wits and hatred to sustain them. By the time they reached Berlin, they were no longer boys.

They were predators.

Shadows in Berlin

The snow outside the Imperial Palace at Saint Petersburg lay silently, like a blanket absorbing the sounds of a tragedy, which would shatter the peacefulness of this empire. Gilded chambers remained silent, just as Queen Lucillia. Her crimson-colored gown was becoming one with the cold marble. The guards sat over her cold body, covering their faces by steel and stone.

In that colossal chair, Emperor Charles III's cold, unforgiving voice sent the message clear through the chambers. "Take this as your lesson. This crown will bear no insolence."

Two shadows watched from beneath the archways of the chamber: Aron, not even sixteen years yet, had been clenched about fists so long his nails punctured his skin. Beside him, though a year Aron's senior, Erwin stood wide-eyed and frozen there, his breathing stuck between shock and fury.

"She was our mother," Aron whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of grief and fury.

"And he's our father," Erwin replied, his tone like ice. "Remember this moment, Aron. Burn it into your soul."

By the time the guards finally found them late that night, their sentence had already been rendered. Stripped of their titles, banished from the kingdom, and off to the frozen wilderness with little but their wits and their hatred to live off of, by the time they arrived in Berlin, they were no longer boys.

They were predators.

Shadows in Berlin

The city of Berlin loomed before them, its jagged skyline outlined against a slate-gray sky. Unlike the gilded opulence of Saint Petersburg, Berlin was a city of hard stone and harder people. Smoke billowed from chimneys, mingling with the cold, damp air. It was a city that had known war, famine, and betrayal—a fitting refuge for the exiled sons of an empire.

Aron and Erwin stood on a frost-covered hill overlooking the capital. Aron pulled his threadbare cloak tighter around his shoulders, his dark eyes scanning the city with predatory intensity.

"This is where we begin," Erwin said, his voice low and resolute.

Aron said nothing right away. His eyes lingered on the crowded streets, the chaos of markets, and the spires of the churches that pierced through the sky. Berlin was alive, chaos incarnate, and careless. It was not like Saint Petersburg at all.

"Do you think they'll come for us?" Aron asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and bitterness.

"They won't," Erwin replied. "To them, we are dead already. And that is their mistake."

As the first flakes of snow begin to fall of the season, the brothers began their descent down into the city. They sought a rundown tavern on the outer fringes of the city-where forgotten, forsaken folks gather-a haunt for mercenaries and thieves and men cast out into the darkness of the world.

Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of stale ale and unwashed bodies. Conversations hummed in a dozen languages, punctuated occasionally by laughter or shouted insult. Aron and Erwin were largely ignored as they slipped into the shadowy corner, their cloaks concealing the fine tailoring of lives past.

A grizzled man with a scar running across his face came over to their table. His eyes were sharp, his movements deliberate. "You're not from around here," he said in a voice as gravelly as the old cobblestone road outside.

"We're not," Erwin said. "And we're looking for men who aren't afraid of blood."

The man laughed and his scar twisted into a grotesque smile. "You've come to the right place. But blood doesn't flow for free."

Aron leaned forward, his voice low and steady. "We will pay. In silver, or in something precious."

The man raised an eyebrow, fascinated. "And what might that be?"

"That would be vengeance," said Aron with his eyes aglow, full of fire which seemed to devour everything around. "We're going to bring down the Emperor of Russia. Bit by bit. And we will make anyone who is on our side richer than their wildest imagination."

A heavy silence fell over the table. Then the man laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that turned heads across the room. "Ambitious, aren't you? All right, boys. I'll bite. Let's see if you've got the spine to back up your talk."

Erwin smiled faintly, a predator's grin. "You'll see soon enough."

Inside the dimly lit tavern, the crackling fire in the hearth was the only warmth to be found. Aron's eyes did not waver from the scarred man across the table. The tension was thick enough to cut with a blade as the man waited for an introduction.

"I am Aron." he began, but the words stuck in his throat. His birthright, once something of an honor and a privilege, was now a death sentence. The name vi Charles—son of the Emperor—was a chain he could no longer bear to carry.

He hesitated, thought for a moment, then spoke with purpose, "Aron Himmler. And he is my brother, Erwin Himmler."

Erwin's sharp glance had betrayed his surprise, but that was only for a moment. He recovered with a slight nod of agreement.

The scarred man leaned back, crossing his arms. "Himmler, huh? Never heard of you."

"We've been. away," Erwin said smoothly, picking up the thread. "But we're here now, and we've got plans."

"Big plans," Aron added, his voice calm but with an edge that dared anyone to question him.

The man raised an eyebrow. His interest was definitely piqued. "You've got nerve, I'll give you that. But Berlin doesn't care about big plans unless they come with big coin."

Aron reached into his cloak and pulled out a small pouch. He placed it on the table, and the unmistakable clink of gold rang out as he loosened the drawstring. The scarred man's eyes narrowed, greed and caution wrestling for dominance in his expression.

"This is just the start," Aron said. "There's more where that came from if you listen."

The man looked at them both, then nodded slowly. "You've purchased a seat at the table, Himmlers. But do not think for a moment that coin alone will keep it."

Aron leaned forward, his dark eyes unwavering. "We're not here to maintain a seat. We're here to take the table-and everything on it."

The man's laughter boomed through the tavern. "You've got fire, boy. I'll give you that. Alright, I'll hear you out. But tread carefully. Men like me don't follow kings. We follow power."

Aron's lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile. "Then you'll follow us soon enough."

The scarred man leaned back in his chair, looking at Aron with measured curiosity. "You've got the look of someone who's thinking five steps ahead. What are you after, boy?"

Aron met his gaze, unwavering. "Do you know a political office of the opposition party?"

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, the noise of the tavern seemed to fade. The scarred man frowned, his scarred brow creasing. "Opposition party? You're either mad or bold to bring that up here. The Emperor's spies have long arms, even in Berlin."

"I don't care about Emperor's spies," Aron said sharply, leaning forward. "I do care about finding someone who would stand to gain from bringing him down as we would."

Erwin crossed his arms over his chest and fell back in the chair. "And someone who has resources. This isn't just about revenge it's about alliances."

The scarred man's lips curved into a sneer. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But you're playing with fire. The opposition party doesn't trust outsiders, especially ones with no name or history in Berlin."

Aron pushed forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Then they'll trust gold. Or fear failure. Either way, they'll listen to us."

The man shook his head slowly. "You're walking into a viper's den, Himmler. But if you're determined, there's a place in the southern district. An old grain warehouse. They hold meetings there when the moon is full. If you're serious about this, you'll find what you're looking for."

Erwin shot Aron a sidelong glance, his lips curling into a faint smile. "A grain warehouse. Fitting, don't you think?"

"Very," Aron said, his voice glacial. He rose, smoothing his tattered cloak. "Let's see how eager these snakes are to strike."

The scarred man watched them go, a mixture of amusement and wariness on his face. "Good luck, boys," he muttered to himself. "You're going to need it."

As the brothers stepped out into the cold Berlin night, Aron turned to Erwin. "We'll give them what they want to hear. But if they get in our way…"

Erwin's smile grew darker. "We'll crush them, just like the rest."

As the cold wind nipped at their faces, the brothers walked through the dimly lit streets of Berlin. The city's shadows seemed alive, whispering secrets they were determined to uncover.

Aron broke the silence. "Brother, do you know the name of the Emperor of Germany?"

Erwin arched an eyebrow as he turned towards him. "Ludwig IV, if my memory is good. Why?"

Aron's face was taut; even his breathing visible in the chilly air told against him. "If we were going to construct alliances, it is not a matter of getting the best seats among the opposition, but real power- even in the heart of the empire."

Erwin smirked, adjusting his cloak. "Ludwig is a timid man, as far as I've learned. More interested in holding onto his throne than gaining ground. He's no Charles."

"No," Aron agreed, his voice laced with distaste. "But even a timid man is useful sometimes. If we understand his frailties, we can work with what he makes strong."

Erwin stopped, jerking Aron into the shadows of an alleyway with a snarl. "You're thinking too far ahead," he hissed. "We just barely have any footing here at all, and you are already plotting emperors' allegiance?"

Aron shrugged free of his brother's grip, his eyes glinting cold with determination. "This is not merely about survival, Erwin. This is strategy. The Emperor of Germany may be cautious, but he rules a powerful nation. If we can make him see the benefit of our cause—or the threat we pose—we'll have leverage against Father."

As he spoke, the intensity of Erwin's regard softened; a flicker of respect crossed his features. "You've always had a more expansive vision than me. Maybe that's why I come with you."

"Not follow," Aron corrected, his voice firm. "We're equal in this, Erwin. Partners."

Erwin laughed, breathing into the cold. "Partners, then. But let's look to get through tonight before we begin knocking over emperors."

Aron smiled faintly, his smile cold and unfriendly. "Fair enough. First, the grain warehouse. Then, we decide who lives and who doesn't."

The brothers marched on toward the southern district, their steps purposeful, their minds filled with visions of vengeance and conquest.