Nova and Louis received Napoleon's letter at dawn, the pigeon's faint coo a harbinger in the frost-laced air of their camp. The parchment crackled as Nova unfolded it, his breath fogging as he read the Emperor's terms—war on Bavaria, hold until morning, a split throne under French dominion. Louis's eyes widened, but Nova's jaw set firm. They rallied their army—25,000 men, weary from border skirmishes—before the sun breached the horizon, the ground crunching under boots hardened by frost.
"Three days to Bavaria," Nova whispered to Louis as they rode at the column's head, the morning sun casting long, jagged shadows over the ranks. "Tell them war's at home—defend our land. Not a word about Otto."
Louis nodded, his face pale as the icy earth, his voice a faint tremor. "And if they find out?"
"They won't," Nova snapped, his tone sharp as a drawn blade, the clink of his spurs punctuating the silence. "Not until it's too late." The lie was a gamble—Otto's name carried weight, a battle-hardened legend against two princelings seen as spoiled dandies, their war stints mere posturing. If the men knew Otto held the throne, their loyalty could flip like a coin in the wind.
The march began in uneasy silence, the air thick with the musk of unwashed bodies and the faint tang of steel. Horses snorted, their breath steaming, as the column stretched into the distance, a serpent of men winding toward betrayal.
---
In Bavaria, the castle thrummed with purpose, its stone halls alive with the clatter of steel and the low hum of voices. Otto stood over a map-strewn table in the war room, his black cat coiled at his feet, its purr a soft rumble against the tension. Friedrich and Klaus flanked him, their faces grim, the air heavy with the scent of ink, leather, and the faint smoke of a dying hearth.
"Nova and Louis march with 25,000," Klaus said, tapping the map's western edge, his finger smudging a line of ink. "They'll hit the border in 1 and a half day—maybe less if they push hard."
Otto's eyes narrowed, his fingers tracing the cat's spine, its fur sleek under his touch. "And Napoleon?"
"No word yet," Friedrich replied, his voice steady, the lavender sprig in his pocket a silent tether to calm. "But if he moves, it'll be through Alsace—straight for the heart."
Otto nodded, his gaze fixed on the map's jagged contours. "He's out there, scheming with those pups. We hold the high ground. Let them come."
---
Otto's plan unfolded with meticulous precision, a fortress of strategy carved from his intimate knowledge of Bavaria's bones. He laid it out, his voice a blade cutting through the room's murmurs:
- **25,000 Elite Troops**: Stationed within Bavaria, battle-hardened men positioned at key choke points—narrow passes, steep ridges, river bends. These were his shield, left behind with him to guard the nation's core. Losing a kingdom for a battlefield was a fool's game, and Otto was no fool.
- **21,000 Less Experienced Men**: Led by Klaus and Friedrich, these troops weren't green—just less seasoned, their hands steady but untested in Otto's brutal crucible. Armed with 1,100 cannons, their rolling thunder would crush the princes' forces before racing back if Bavaria called.
- **500 Serpents**: Friedrich's elite guard, cloaked in black with crimson serpents coiling their sleeves, wielded smuggled Egyptian rifles—sleek, deadly, their hieroglyph-etched barrels a secret edge. They were Otto's fangs, poised for night strikes.
- **700 Cannons**: Positioned on castle walls and hilltops, their iron mouths gaped skyward, ready to rain fire on invaders. Warning shots would echo through the valleys, a prelude to annihilation.
"Every officer speaks," Otto declared, his voice ringing over the table, the cat's tail flicking at his feet. "From the highest general to the lowest lieutenant—I want no loopholes. We bleed less, we win more."
---
The officers gathered, a patchwork of grizzled veterans and eager youths, their uniforms a mix of faded braid and polished buttons. A young lieutenant stepped forward, his voice trembling but firm, pointing to a narrow valley on the map. "The northern pass—if we mine it, we trap their cavalry. Horses'll break legs before they break through."
Otto nodded, his eyes glinting. "Do it."
A grizzled veteran, his beard streaked with gray, spoke next, his voice rough as the stone walls. "The river crossings—burn the bridges. Force them to ford under fire, cannonballs tearing through the water."
"Agreed," Otto said, his fingers tapping the map.
Friedrich leaned in, his shadow falling across the parchment. "And the Serpents? We strike at night—cut their supply lines, slit throats in the dark. Sow chaos before they even reach the field."
Otto's smile was cold, a predator's gleam beneath his crown. "Perfect."
The room buzzed as ideas sharpened—vantage points fortified, ambushes planned, each voice weaving a tighter net. Otto listened, his mind a steel trap, hating the thought of lost men, determined to outsmart the tide rolling toward him.
---
As the meeting adjourned, Otto raised a goblet of wine, its ruby liquid catching the torchlight, the scent of grape and oak rising. "To Bavaria," he said, his voice ringing through the hall, bold and unyielding. "The smallest lion in Europe, but the fiercest."
The officers cheered, their laughter echoing off the stone walls, a defiant roar that shook the rafters. Goblets clinked, the sound sharp and bright, a fleeting moment of triumph before the storm. Friedrich joined in, his smirk masking the weight of Napoleon's blood in his veins—unknown, unclaimed, a secret ticking beneath the revelry. Klaus's eyes lingered on him, a flicker of something unreadable, but the laughter drowned it out.
Outside, the wind howled through the castle turrets, carrying the faint rumble of distant hooves—Nova and Louis's march, a shadow creeping closer, oblivious to the noose tightening around them.