Friedrich rode into the city at dawn on Monday, the cobblestones slick with morning mist, the air sharp with the scent of coal smoke and horse sweat. The capital buzzed with anticipation for Otto's coronation, banners of crimson and gold fluttering from every spire, the distant toll of cathedral bells reverberating through the streets. His horse's hooves clacked rhythmically, a steady beat against the murmur of merchants and the shouts of vendors hawking bread and ale. Elsa's lavender sprig, tucked into his coat, brushed his chest—a quiet anchor amidst the chaos.
*****
The cathedral loomed ahead, its gothic arches piercing the sky, stained glass glowing like embers in the rising sun. Inside, the air was thick with incense—myrrh and frankincense swirling in heady clouds—mingling with the musk of polished wood and the faint rustle of velvet robes. Friedrich took his place among the high-ranking officers, his boots echoing on the marble floor as he joined Klaus, whose sharp Greek features were taut with expectation. The pews brimmed with nobles, their furs and silks a kaleidoscope of wealth, while the common folk pressed against the outer walls, peering through arched windows.
At the altar stood Pope Pius IX —his crimson vestments shimmering under the chandelier's candlelight, the triple tiara atop his head glinting like a crown of stars. His presence was a rarity; German kings hadn't bowed to papal hands since Charles V in 1530, but Otto, ever the shrewd unifier, had summoned him to sanctify his reign, bridging Catholic south and Protestant north in a single, audacious stroke. The Pope raised a trembling hand, silencing the crowd, and began a reading unlike any Friedrich had heard—a litany steeped in ancient cadence, drawn not from the familiar Vulgate but from a tome that seemed older, its leather cover cracked and gilded with strange runes.
"Here beginneth the Ordo Cistercium Aeternum," the Pope intoned, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate the stone. "From the dust of kings rises the flame of dominion, anointed by the breath of the eternal. Let the scepter be forged in the shadow of the cross, and the crown tempered in the blood of the covenant. Rex Teutonicus, thou art called to stand as sentinel of the ages, thy blade sworn to the unseen throne." The Latin flowed with an odd cadence, punctuated by phrases Friedrich couldn't place—*"umbra crucis"* and *"sanguis pacti"*—hinting at rites buried in forgotten archives, perhaps unearthed from monastic vaults or whispered in Vatican crypts. The crowd shifted, awed and puzzled, as if peering into a past they couldn't grasp.
Otto knelt before the altar, his broad shoulders draped in a mantle of ermine and gold, the weight of it bowing his head slightly. The Pope lifted the crown—a circlet of iron and gold, studded with garnets that caught the light like drops of blood—and placed it on Otto's brow, reciting, "Accipe coronam regni, et scias te esse patrem patriae, defensorem fidei." The words echoed, and the cathedral erupted in cheers, the sound rolling like thunder through the vaulted ceiling. Otto rose, his face stern yet regal, and turned to face his people, the crown's weight lending him an aura of unyielding command.
After the ceremony, Friedrich followed Otto and Klaus into the royal hall, a cavernous chamber lined with tapestries depicting battles long past, the air heavy with the scent of wax from dripping candles. High-ranking officials—bearded generals in braided uniforms, advisors in stiff collars—gathered around a polished oak table, their murmurs a low drone. Otto, still crowned, stood at the head, his voice cutting through the din.
"My reign begins with loyalty rewarded," he declared, his gaze sweeping the room. "My former deputy commander, Heinrich von Stahl, I name Reichsmarschall—second only to me, steward of my armies and my will." Heinrich, a grizzled veteran with a scar across his cheek, bowed, his medals clinking. Friedrich's stomach tightened; he'd expected more.
"Klaus," Otto continued, "you are my commander, leader of the ranks. Your cunning secured our triumph." Klaus nodded, his lips curling into a faint, satisfied smirk.
"And Friedrich," Otto said, his tone softening, "you are first lieutenant, just beneath Klaus. Your valor toppled the old king's throne—none forget that." Friedrich forced a nod, the sting of being third biting deeper than he'd admit. Other titles followed—quartermaster, adjutant—each name a brick in Otto's new order.
Later, in the throne room, Otto summoned Klaus and Friedrich alone. The chamber gleamed with polished marble, the throne a hulking mass of dark wood and gold. "For your service," Otto said, producing two scrolls sealed with crimson wax, "land within the city—estates by the river, rich with vineyards and timber. A token of my gratitude for crushing the old regime and its threats."
Friedrich took his scroll, the parchment crisp under his fingers, but his mind churned. "Sire," he began, his voice steady despite the pulse in his throat, "those mercenaries last night—they sought my head, loyal to the dead king. They nearly succeeded and I fear a greater looming threat. I request private security—three hundred soldiers, loyal to me alone, answering to no one, not even you or God."
Otto's brow furrowed, his fingers drumming the throne's armrest, the sound a faint tap against the silence. "Three hundred? And no higher authority?" His laugh was short, dismissive. "You're bold, Friedrich. But you're my most loyal—I see no threat in you. Take them. Elite men, trained for war. They're yours."
Friedrich bowed, masking his triumph. Three hundred soldiers—crafty, fierce, bound only to him—shifted the game. Otto saw it as mundane, a loyal dog's whim, but Friedrich saw power, a shield against the shadows still hunting him.
That night, he lay in a guest chamber, the city's hum filtering through the window, Elsa's lavender sprig on the pillow beside him. Tomorrow, he'd claim his bride and his rank, but now, with Klaus above him and Otto's trust secured, he held a force no one could touch. Sleep came slow, the weight of iron and ambition pressing against his chest.