The Prussian king's second reply arrived at dawn, its wax seal cracked like a shattered vow, the parchment edges curling from the damp ride. Nova stood in the war tent, the air thick with the scent of tallow and damp canvas, and read aloud, his voice tight with barely contained fury: *"Circumstances prevent intervention. May God guide your cause."* The words hung heavy, a death knell in the silence.
Louis slumped in his chair, his face paling to the hue of the ash-streaked table. "We're alone," he whispered, his breath trembling.
Nova crumpled the letter in his fist, the paper crackling like dry leaves. "Not yet," he growled, his eyes burning with a fire that defied the dawn's chill.
---
In the war tent, Nova unrolled a map of Europe across a scarred oak table, its edges frayed from years of campaign. His finger traced the Rhine's winding path to Paris, the parchment rustling under his touch, the ink faded but sharp. "Napoleon," he said, the name heavy with irony, rolling off his tongue like a bitter curse. "The man we drove back to France now holds our fate."
Louis blanched, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the chair's arms. "You'd give him *Bavaria*?" His voice cracked, disbelief sharpening the edges.
"A sliver," Nova snapped, slamming his hand on the map, the thud echoing in the tent. "Alsace and Lorraine—for an army. Would you rather Otto take it all?"
They penned the letter by candlelight, the flame flickering against the tent walls, casting shadows that danced like specters. The parchment was thin as hope, its surface rough under Nova's quill as he scratched out their plea:
> *To His Imperial Majesty Napoleon Bonaparte,*
>
> *We, Princes Nova and Louis of Bavaria, humbly request your aid in reclaiming our throne from the usurper Otto von Krapf. In exchange, we offer the territories of Alsace and Lorraine, rich in resources and strategic value.*
>
> *Your enemies are ours. Together, we can reshape Europe.*
>
> *—Nova von Krapf, Heir to Bavaria*
The ink dried swiftly, its sheen catching the light as Louis tied it to a pigeon's leg with trembling fingers. The bird's wings fluttered, a soft rustle in the stillness, before it soared into the dawn, a speck vanishing against the gray sky.
---
The messenger arrived at dusk, his horse lathered and wild-eyed, its flanks heaving with foam, the scent of sweat and fear thick in the air. He bore Otto's seal—a cat coiled around a sword, pressed into crimson wax that gleamed like fresh blood. Louis took the letter first, his hands shaking as he broke the seal, the parchment crackling ominously.
> *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*
Louis looked up, his voice a fragile whisper. "We should surrender. Otto bears no grudge—"
Nova snatched the letter, his fingers crumpling its edges. "No grudge?" he roared, his voice shaking the tent. "He butchered our spies! Carved their heads like trophies! This isn't mercy—it's a noose." The parchment trembled in his grip, the cat seal glaring up at him like a taunt.
---
Nova's men scoured the woods, their torches slicing through the dark, flames spitting embers into the night air. They found the messenger at the river's edge, his horse dipping its muzzle into the icy water, the sound of lapping a quiet counterpoint to the crackle of fire. His cloak was mud-streaked, his face pale under the torchlight.
"Bring him back," Nova ordered, his voice a blade unsheathed.
The camp buzzed with tension as the man was dragged before the princes, his wrists bound with coarse rope that bit into his skin. Nova's dagger gleamed in the firelight, its edge catching the orange glow. "Tell Otto this," he said, pressing the blade to the man's back. He carved the words with slow, deliberate strokes—*"Bring it on, Otto. We're coming for you."*—the steel parting flesh, blood welling in sticky rivulets. The messenger screamed, a raw, guttural sound that pierced the night, pooling at his feet in a dark stain.
"Tie him to his horse," Nova said, wiping the blade on his sleeve, the coppery tang clinging to his fingers. The man was lashed to the saddle, his cries muffled as they spurred the horse back toward the city, its hooves thundering into the void.
As the horseman galloped into the night, Nova watched the sky. Somewhere, their pigeon soared toward Paris, carrying a plea to the man they'd once defeated.
"Will he come?" Louis asked, his voice small.
Nova's jaw tightened. "He'll come. For Alsace and Lorraine, he'd march through hell."
---
Days later, the castle gates creaked open under a bruised evening sky, the air heavy with the promise of rain. A lone rider staggered in, his horse stumbling, its flanks slick with sweat and blood. A hood cloaked his face, the fabric tattered and damp, and Friedrich's Serpents flanked him, their crimson sigils glinting as they escorted him to Otto's throne room.
The hall was a cavern of shadows and torchlight, the air thick with incense and the musk of Otto's black cat, which arched its back on the throne's armrest. Otto sat forward, his crown glinting, his fingers drumming a restless beat. "Who dares limp into my court?" he barked, his voice a whip-crack.
The messenger shuffled to the center, his boots scraping the stone, and turned his back to the king. With a trembling hand, he gripped the hood, ripping it free. The fabric tore from his wounds with a wet, agonizing peel, blood sticky and congealed across the carved words: *"Bring it on, Otto. We're coming for you."* The letters stood raw and red against his torn flesh, a grotesque banner of defiance.
Otto surged to his feet, the cat hissing as it leapt aside. "Pups!" he roared, his voice shaking the rafters, spit flecking his beard. "Those cursed whelps of Hellsing dare taunt me? I'll skin them alive and feed their hides to my cats!" His fist slammed the throne, the thud reverberating, his face flushed with rage. "Klaus! Friedrich! Every man—mobilize! Every blade, every horse—ready them for war! Those pups will choke on their own blood!"
Klaus stepped forward, his jaw tight, eyes gleaming with cold resolve. "The army stands ready, sire. Cats and Serpents alike."
Friedrich bowed, his mind racing, the lavender in his pocket a faint whisper against the storm brewing. "Five hundred Serpents, armed and trained. We'll crush them." His voice was steady, but the weight of 300 elite soldiers loyal only to him—and now 200 more under Otto's banner—shifted like a blade in his grasp.
Otto's glare burned through the haze. "Good. Let the wolves come. I'll bury them beside their father."