The air in Napoleon's war room hung thick with the scent of ink, sweat, and unbridled ambition, a haze curling around the sprawled maps like a shroud. The table groaned under their weight, parchment edges curling like claws, Bavaria circled in a jagged slash of red—a scar on Europe's battered hide. Candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the oak, the wax dripping in slow, molten tears. Napoleon stood at the head, his silhouette sharp against the tent's canvas walls, his voice slicing through the murmurs. "Otto von Krapf," he said, the name a curse spat from his lips, "a serpent in a cat's crown."
His generals leaned in, their faces etched with war's toll— Moreau, grizzled and hawk-eyed; Desaix, lean and restless—each breath heavy with the musk of leather and tobacco. The room buzzed with the weight of their intent, a chess game played on a blood-stained board.
---
"Bavaria's strength lies in its terrain," General Moreau said, his finger tracing the Alpine foothills on the map, the parchment rustling like dry leaves. "Otto knows every pass, every choke point—those jagged ridges, those shadowed valleys. He's turned his home into a fortress." His voice carried the gravel of a man who'd seen too many winters, the candlelight glinting off the silver in his hair.
"And his alliances," General Desaix added, tapping Austria's border with a scarred knuckle, the sound a faint thud against the table. "The Austrians owe him deep. He pushed back the Russians and Ottomans when Vienna begged for aid—sent troops when their own king balked, striking mutual foes with a ruthlessness that won him their respect." His eyes narrowed, the map's ink reflecting in his gaze. "They'd bleed for him now."
Napoleon's lips curled into a sneer, his fingers drumming the table's edge, nails clicking like a metronome of menace. "Loyalty bought with blood," he mused, his voice low and edged with disdain. "But blood can be spilled. He outsmarts rivals on his homeground, minimizes his losses—clever, but not invincible. We corner him, and his fortress crumbles."
---
The generals bent over the map like chess masters, each move a calculated thrust to trap Otto's king in checkmate. Moreau outlined the first gambit: "Divide and conquer—send a decoy force to the Austrian border, draw their allies east. Let them chase phantoms while we strike." His finger slashed a line through Tyrol, the parchment crinkling under his touch.
Desaix nodded, his voice crisp. "The pincer—Belgium and Denmark hit from the north, their ships cutting through the Baltic mists; Italy and Corsica from the south, their boots pounding the Alpine trails. We squeeze him 'til he chokes." His hand swept across the map, a predator's arc, the air stirring with the faint scent of gunpowder from his sleeve.
Napoleon's eyes gleamed, fixed on Alsace and Lorraine—lands rich in iron veins and rolling vineyards, their strategic weight a glittering prize. "The prize," he said, his voice dropping to a growl. "Those territories fund my next war—wealth to drown Otto's arrogance and position to choke his allies." He leaned forward, the table creaking. "He expects a frontal assault, the fool. We'll give him a noose instead."
---
As the meeting wound down, the tent flap burst open, the damp chill of dawn rushing in with a messenger—his uniform sodden, his hands clutching a pigeon, its feathers matted with rain and grime. The bird cooed weakly, its tiny chest heaving, but the letter tied to its leg was pristine, the parchment taut with promise. Napoleon snatched it, breaking the seal with a flick of his thumb, and read aloud, his voice rising with each word, a crescendo of triumph:
> *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*
Napoleon's laughter erupted, a booming roar that shook the tent poles, the candle flames trembling in its wake. "The wolves come begging to the lion!" he crowed, slapping the letter onto the table, the parchment landing with a soft thud. "They've handed me the keys to their ruin—Alsace and Lorraine, delivered by their own desperation." His eyes burned with a predator's gleam, the irony thick as the ink on the page—Nova and Louis, once his foes at Waterloo, now groveling for his might.
Moreau's brow furrowed, his voice cautious. "They're desperate, sire. But Otto's no fool—he'll sniff this out."
"Let him," Napoleon shot back, his grin feral. "He'll see my shadow on every hill and choke on his own paranoia. We move fast—before Austria or Russia catch wind. The board is mine."
The war room settled into an uneasy hush after the pigeon's arrival, the candle flames steadying as Napoleon paced, his boots thudding against the packed earth floor. The map of Bavaria lay before him, its red circle a wound he meant to widen. He stopped, hands clasped behind his back, the faint clink of his saber against its sheath punctuating the silence. "Nova and Louis want my aid," he said, his voice a low rumble, laced with mockery. "They'll have it—and they'll bleed for it."
He motioned to General Moreau, who produced a fresh sheet of parchment, its surface smooth and pale under the flickering light. Napoleon dictated, his words sharp as a bayonet, the quill scratching furiously under Moreau's hand:
> *To Princes Nova and Louis von Krapf,*
>
> *Your plea is heard, your offer accepted. Alsace and Lorraine are mine, and Bavaria will fall. Wage war on Otto's forces—strike now, hold his army through the night until dawn. My legions will join with a frontal assault, shattering his lines. As you distract him, Denmark and Belgium will strike from the north, a blade in his back he'll never see coming. By day's end, his blood will soak the fields.*
>
> *Succeed, and I'll split Bavaria's throne—half to you, half to my empire—under my terms: loyalty to France, tribute in gold, and your swords at my call. Fail, and I'll leave your bones for the crows alongside Otto's.*
>
> *—Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the French*
The ink gleamed wet as Moreau finished, the air heavy with the sharp tang of it. Napoleon took the letter, folding it with a crisp snap, and pressed his seal into the wax—a rampant eagle, wings spread, its talons poised to strike. "Tie it to the fastest bird," he ordered, handing it to the messenger, who scurried out, the pigeon's wings fluttering like a heartbeat in the dusk.
---
Back at the table, Napoleon's generals shifted, their eyes darting between the map and their emperor. Desaix spoke first, his voice taut. "The princes are untested—can they hold Otto's army 'til morning?"
"They'll hold," Napoleon snapped, his gaze piercing the map as if he could see the battle unfolding. "They've no choice—desperation drives sharper than steel. Otto's men will be pinned, eyes forward, drunk on their homeground pride." He tapped the northern border, where Denmark and Belgium's forces waited. "The Danes and Belgians will sweep in at first light—silent, swift, a hammer to the spine. Otto's arrogance blinds him; he'll never expect a rear assault."
Moreau nodded, tracing the southern lines. "Italy and Corsica will bolster your frontal charge, sire. We'll hit like thunder—by noon, Bavaria's fields will be a graveyard."
Napoleon's lips twisted into a grim smile, his fingers brushing the map's edge, the parchment crinkling faintly. "And I'll split the spoils with those pups—half a throne, tethered to my leash. They'll kneel to France, pay in gold, and march when I whistle. Otto's blood will pave my road to Vienna."
———————————
The tent flap rustled as a cold wind slipped in, carrying the distant scent of rain and pine from the forests beyond Paris. Napoleon stood alone for a moment, the candlelight casting his shadow long and jagged across the maps. He pictured it—Nova and Louis hurling their ragged forces against Otto's lines, the night lit by fire and steel, holding the Bavarian army's attention as his trap closed. Dawn would bring his legions, a tidal wave from the south, while the northern jaws snapped shut. Otto's men would fall, slaughtered in their own stronghold, their bodies carpeting the earth.
He murmured to himself, a whisper lost to the wind: "Checkmate, cat-king." The irony wasn't lost on him—years ago, he'd faced Hellsing's sons on distant fields, and now they begged his aid, unknowingly aligning with a man whose blood ran in another's veins. Friedrich's face flickered in his mind—a fleeting thought, dismissed as quickly as it came. The bastard son was a secret for another day, a card yet to play.