Friedrich's 300 flowed through the moonlit forest like ink through water, their serpent-trimmed cloaks rustling faintly against the undergrowth, blending with the shadows of gnarled oaks and pine. The air was sharp with frost and the earthy tang of moss, their breaths shallow wisps in the dark. Their first target: General Viktor, Nova's artillery lieutenant, holed up in a fortified estate on Bavaria's edge—a squat, stone sprawl ringed by walls that had once echoed with the screams of razed villages. Viktor's hands were stained with Hellsing's legacy—fields salted to ruin, children left to starve. Tonight, Friedrich would collect that debt.
He raised a gloved fist, leather creaking, halting his men at the treeline. The estate loomed ahead, its torchlit walls patrolled by 100 guards—Hellsing loyalists, their laughter slurred with stolen wine, their arrogance a stench in the night. "Burn the gates," Friedrich whispered, his voice a blade's edge.
A fire arrow streaked from the shadows, its hiss cutting the silence. Flames erupted with a roar, licking up the wooden gates, painting the night in a hellish red glow that danced across the men's hooded faces. The crackle of burning timber mingled with the guards' startled shouts, and the hunt was on.
---
Chaos swallowed the estate. Friedrich's elites scaled the walls like specters, their boots gripping moss-slick stone, daggers flashing in the firelight to silence sentries—throats slit with wet gurgles before screams could rise. Viktor's men stumbled into the courtyard, half-armored, swords fumbling in drunken hands, their breaths reeking of sour grape and fear.
Friedrich crashed through the study door, the splintered wood crunching underfoot, and found Viktor hunched over a desk strewn with artillery blueprints—parchment maps curling at the edges, stained with ink and sweat. The general's jowls quivered, his gray mustache twitching as he clutched a pistol, its barrel trembling. "Swear loyalty to Otto," Friedrich said, his voice cold as winter steel, the flintlock in his hand steady as death.
Viktor spat, a glob of saliva striking the floorboards. "I'd sooner kiss a *serpent*."
Friedrich's eyes flicked to his lieutenant—a wiry man with a notched blade. A nod, and the steel fell, swift and sure. Viktor's head thudded onto his own maps, blood seeping into parchment rivers, pooling in the creases like a conquered kingdom's veins. The room stank of iron and spilled brandy, the firelight flickering through the shattered window.
---
Dawn bled into the horizon, a thin streak of pink against the gray, as Friedrich's men looted the estate—gold coins clinking into sacks, deeds crisp with wax seals, a chest of rubies stamped with Hellsing's crest glinting like fresh wounds. They rode hard for Bavaria, wagons creaking under the weight, the forest alive with the groan of axles and the rustle of leaves.
A twig snapped—sharp, deliberate. Friedrich raised a fist, and his elites melted into the trees, their cloaks whispering against bark. Ahead, 50 men crept through the brush, their armor clinking faintly, moonlight catching the wolf seals on their sword hilts—Nova and Louis's mark, not Otto's sleek cat. Friedrich's gut tightened. *Not Otto's cats*, he thought, recalling the king's feline seal, a nod to the stealth and arrogance that had won him wars, his pride as unyielding as a tomcat's strut.
"Take them alive," Friedrich ordered, his voice a low growl.
The ambush was a blur of steel and sinew. Blades clashed, sparks flaring in the gloom, but the spies were outmatched—Friedrich's elites moved with brutal precision, disarming them with twists of wrists and knees to guts. Iron chains rattled as wrists were bound, the captives' breaths heaving with sweat and defiance. One spy lunged at Friedrich, dagger flashing, but a serpent-guard's arrow sang through the air, piercing his throat with a wet crunch. He dropped, gurgling, blood pooling in the dirt.
"Deliver them to Otto," Friedrich said, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek with his sleeve, the coppery tang sharp on his tongue. "He'll want to send a message."
---
Otto's throne room reeked of incense and ambition, the air heavy with myrrh and the faint musk of fur. The spies knelt in chains before the throne, wolf seals glaring under the torchlight's dance. Otto lounged in his seat, a black cat coiled in his lap, its purr a soft rumble as he stroked its sleek fur. "You've outdone yourself," he said, his voice smooth as velvet, eyes glinting with approval. "Klaus?"
The army commander stepped forward, his Greek features taut, his gaze grudging beneath the weight of his new rank. "The men are yours to train. All of them. Teach my cats the way of the seal," Klaus said, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Otto flicked a hand, rings flashing. "Expand your Serpents to 500. Let Bavaria see what loyalty earns."
Friedrich bowed, hiding a smirk that tugged at his lips. *Loyalty? Or fear?* The thought coiled in his mind like the serpents on his men's sleeves, a quiet power growing beneath Otto's nose.
---
At noon, the spies were dragged into the city square, their chains clanking against the cobblestones, slick with morning dew. Crowds gathered, a silent, tense sea of faces—merchants clutching baskets, children peering from behind skirts. Otto's decree boomed from the platform, his voice rolling like thunder: "These wolves thought to slink into my kingdom. To *bite*." He nodded to Friedrich, his cat-like grin sharp. "Show them the price of teeth."
Friedrich's blade arced, a silver blur in the sunlight. Five heads rolled, one by one, thudding onto the stone, blood spraying in crimson arcs that pooled and glistened. The rest followed, swift and methodical, the cobblestones darkening with a wet sheen, the air thick with the iron stink of death and the crowd's hushed awe.
---
That night, Friedrich penned Otto's warning in the flickering light of a single candle, the wax dripping like tears onto the desk. The parchment bore the king's seal—a cat poised to strike, its claws etched in gold. His quill scratched the words with deliberate force:
> *To the Princes Nova and Louis,*
>
> *Your wolves came slavering at my gates. Now their heads adorn my walls. Your father's cruelty rotted this kingdom; I cleanse it with fire.*
>
> *Surrender within a fortnight. Kneel, and I may let you keep your tongues. Resist, and I will carve your defiance into your bones. Bavaria's throne is mine. Its shadows are yours.*
>
> *—Otto von Krapf, King of Bavaria*
> *Bearer of the Cat's Crown*
He handed the letter to a rider, a lean man with eyes like flint. "Ensure it's nailed to their camp gates," Friedrich said, the parchment's weight a promise of blood yet to spill.
---
In the barracks, Friedrich faced his expanded guard—500 strong now, their serpent sigils glinting in the torchlight, the air alive with the rustle of tunics and the low hum of anticipation. "Tomorrow, we train harder," he said, lifting a stolen Hellsing ruby, its facets catching the flame like a captured sunset. "Tonight, we feast on the wolf's spoils."
The men roared, a guttural cheer that shook the rafters. Somewhere beyond the forest, Nova and Louis's campfires burned, pinpricks of defiance in the night, their reckoning drawing near.