The echo of gunfire erupted across the grounds of the Tyrolean palace.
Automatic fire, precise, controlled bursts.
Sothing no other noble estate would expect to hear on a quiet Tuesday evening. But here, it was routine.
Bruno, having lived his entire life as a soldier, never let his edge dull.
He drilled constantly, in firearms, explosives, battlefield dicine, small unit tactics, even mock war gas.
He kept up his martial arts. Still sparred. Still practiced with the blade.
After how his last life ended, he never allowed complacency. Not again.
These days, he was always ard.
Even beneath his suits and uniforms, he wore body armor, 360-degree torso protection.
Sleek, slim-fitting. Cutting-edge tech, a blend of aramid fibers and ceramic composites, an innovation drawn from fragnts of mory, lessons from a world long gone.
The armor vanished beneath his combat fatigues. The new BDU cut. The modern Bluntarn camouflage, which had replaced the aging Splinter pattern among most German servicen.
Bruno adjusted his stance, sighted in, and put several accurate 8mm kurz rounds into the target’s chest.
Then, he hit the retrieval button. The silhouette wheeled back toward him, revealing tight shot placent across center mass. He smirked.
With practiced hands, he ejected the empty magazine, racked the charging handle back five tis to check for any malfunctions, and inspected the chamber.
Clear.
He set the weapon down on the table, removed his ear and eye protection, and exhaled.
Beside him stood his grandson, Erich, arms crossed, expression mildly disdainful.
"Beginner’s luck..."
Bruno chuckled, tossing the paper target to him.
"You think so? Sure, the furniture’s changed. The trigger’s crisper. Ergonomics are better. But the soul of this rifle is the sa I helped design decades ago."
He trailed off, staring toward the distant Alps.
"Hell... before this thing was even officially adopted, I carried the prototype. You should’ve seen the look on those French pieces of—"
He stopped.
Sothing shifted behind his eyes. A mory clicked into place.
Marie-Adélaïde.
He hadn’t thought of her in years.
She had co seeking security as France collapsed into civil war.
The Kaiser offered it, and in doing so, annexed a land that had once been part of Germany.
Bruno had been the blade that made it happen.
She had given him her heart. And he had broken it.
Her fate remained a quiet ache. The official story was clean: Bruno the liberator, savior of Luxembourg. The truth... only a few had known.
Erich noticed the shift. That look. He’d seen it too often in his own reflection.
"Sir... there’s more to the story, isn’t there? Did you lose soone during the siege?"
Bruno turned to him, half-smiling, half-bitter.
"I did. But not in the way you think. You wouldn’t understand."
He sighed, brushing the thought away with a wave of his hand, gaze lingering toward the northwest horizon.
"Now load that damn rifle. You’ve got two hours before sundown, and you still need to qualify on three weapons, Oberstleutnant."
Erich stiffened and saluted.
"Jawohl."
He picked up the rifle, slamd a fresh magazine ho, and began firing. First in semi-auto, controlled pairs. Then short bursts on full auto.
After the first mag, he sighed, muttering as he reloaded.
"You’re really going to make do all of this, aren’t you?"
Bruno smirked, clapped him on the back hard enough to knock his stance off.
"You’re damn right I am, boy. You’re a soldier of the Reich, and my grandson. That ans you’re held to the highest standard. And one day, that’ll save your life. So get shooting. Miss a single round and I’m dragging your ass into the pit tonight."
Erich didn’t argue. He slowed his breathing. Centered his focus. Every shot now hit either center mass or the head.
Bruno might be aging, but he was still fearso enough that Erich had no desire to find out how hard the old man could still punch.
By the ti they finished, Erich had passed all qualifications to maintain his status as an airborne officer.
That night, the kitchen staff prepared a massive al. His wife, mother, and grandmother helped with the cooking.
The dining hall was alive with soft chatter, the clinking of cutlery, and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off polished oak and silver.
The long table was filled end to end with plates of roast venison, seasonal vegetables, and fresh bread baked by the kitchen staff that morning.
Children laughed at the far end, his youngest grandsons daring each other to try the horseradish, and the older ones spoke quietly of school, of training, of the world beyond Tyrol.
Bruno sat at the head of the table, his plate modest, his appetite dulled not by age, but by thought.
Heidi sat to his right, elegantly carving a slice of at for their granddaughter with the sa quiet grace she had always possessed.
Their children and grandchildren filled the room like branches from a tree that had grown strong, against all odds.
The conversation drifted past him in waves, familiar voices speaking of fencing tournants, school essays, and Erich’s sore shoulder from training.
Bruno smiled faintly, offered the occasional quip or nod, but his thoughts wandered.
To a palace much smaller than this one.
To a woman with snow-pale skin and sorrowful eyes.
Marie-Adélaïde.
He had not thought of her in years, yet sothing in the gunpowder air of the range, or perhaps in Erich’s question, had stirred it loose.
He wondered, not for the first ti, if she had found peace in this tiline.
If her end had been gentler. If perhaps she had married soone who saw her heart, not just her crown.
Or if, like so many ghosts of that cruel era, her fate had been sealed the mont the Reich ca knocking.
He shook the thought away, forcing a smile as one of the children shouted his na.
"Grandpapa! You’re not eating!"
Bruno chuckled, reaching for his fork.
"Just lost in thought, little one. Nothing to worry about."
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