While war waged on the borders of Belgium.
In Amsterdam, the air was no less charged.
The press hall was packed to suffocation, hot with the reek of sweat, and ink.
Dutch, German, Belgian, even a handful of Arican reporters pressed shoulder to shoulder, their coats rumpled, their eyes wide.
The scrape of chairs, the hiss of whispered speculation, the clatter of typewriter keys in the back row, all of it died when the doors opened.
Pri Minister Hendrikus Colijn stepped to the podium.
His suit was immaculate, his chin freshly shaven, but fatigue hung heavy in the set of his jaw.
When he spoke, it was not the voice of a politician but of a man who had carried the weight of silence too long.
"Years ago, King Albert of Belgium t with my predecessor here in Amsterdam. There, they pledged a mutual defense. Should either of our nations be struck, the other would co to its aid. That was our bond, sworn in trust, and in faith."
He paused. The room leaned forward, the only sound the clatter of cara shutters.
"Now, today, France has marched through Belgium without declaration, without provocation, just as they did in 1914. It is an act of criminal arrogance. It is a repeat of the very sin that set Europe afla before."
The words fell like stones into water, rippling outward.
So reporters nodded, pens flying; others froze, realizing history was being written in that mont.
Colijn’s voice sharpened. His fist struck the podium, and the hall jumped with the blow.
"To the so-called Republic of France and her liberal allies, there is no place in your vision for God, for King, or for Country. Only empire through deceit and aggression. But I tell you this now: you have forced our hand. The Netherlands will not be cowed. We will stand with the Central Powers. We will mobilize every regint, every factory, every port to this cause!"
The hall erupted in a storm of flashes, but Colijn’s voice only climbed higher, riding the wave.
"Let the world see it plain: Charles de Gaulle has condemned his own nation. He has trampled Belgian soil under French boots, and in doing so he has stripped away the mask of liberty! France is no guardian of peace, she is a predator in the cloak of freedom. And here in the Netherlands, we hunt predators!"
The last word cracked like a whip.
For a long mont, no one moved.
Then a roar of questions broke loose, reporters shouting over one another, hands waving, caras firing until the hall was a wall of white light.
But Colijn did not answer.
He turned, face pale but resolved, and walked from the stage. His silence was the final word.
By nightfall, the speech was already reprinted in Berlin and Brussels.
Radio broadcasts carried his declaration across the Atlantic.
In Geneva, diplomats murmured of a "second Rape of Belgium."
And in Monaco editorials raged that neutrality itself was dying before their eyes.
Amsterdam’s press hall emptied into the streets, but its echo did not fade.
It rolled outward, faster than any army could march, a new front opened not on the battlefield, but in the hearts and headlines of the world.
The Reich Chancellery was alive with telephones.
Lines buzzed, papers rustled, aides rushed with dispatches, and typewriters hamred like machine guns.
Bruno stood at the long map table, pale eyes scanning the latest communiqués.
One of his adjutants strode in, saluted, and laid down a fresh sheet.
"The Dutch Pri Minister has spoken. A formal declaration of war. The Netherlands pledges itself to the Central Powers."
Bruno lifted the paper, scanning the transcript of Colijn’s words.
His jaw tightened. Then, slowly, he set it down and reached for his glass of wine.
"I told you," he murmured, almost to himself,
"De Gaulle has given us more with his arrogance than any diplomat could bargain."
He turned to the Kaiser, who stood grimly at his side.
"Majesty, the ledger grows heavier by the day. First Belgium, now the Netherlands. Each ti France moves, another neutral turns against them. The world sees the truth."
The Kaiser’s lips thinned into a hard smile. "It reminds of ’70. Every insult they hurl only binds their enemies closer."
Bruno’s fingers tapped the edge of the map.
"Exactly. France has already overextended. With the Dutch ports at our disposal, we gain another artery of supply, another flank of pressure. Their ships will find no safe harbor. Their trade no safe passage. And when the British finally arrive on French soil it will already be too late."
A general cleared his throat, cautious. "Reichsmarschall... do you truly think the British will arrive too late to make a difference?"
Bruno’s gaze cut across the room, silencing the question.
"Of course I do. Despite already being in an alliance with France. The British Navy is timid from the thrashing we gave them during the last war. By the ti their politicians find their courage, the French will already be on their knees. And if London does muster its strength in force from the start..."
He let the thought hang, then flicked another marker across the North Sea.
"...then they will discover we have prepared for that as well."
The Kaiser looked at him, asuring the steel in his voice.
Bruno t his gaze evenly.
"Majesty, with each passing day, the world believes we are the patient party, the restrained party. When the reckoning cos, we will not rely defeat France. We will destroy her legitimacy, erase her allies’ credibility, and stand as the only power that can claim it acted with justice."
For a mont, the room was utterly silent.
Even the telephones seed to still.
Then the Kaiser placed his hand on Bruno’s shoulder, heavy, deliberate.
"Very well. Draft the orders. Let France bleed, and let the world know it was her hand that drew the blade first."
Bruno bowed his head slightly, but when he turned back to the map, his lips curved into that faint, rciless smile.
Already his hand moved to the next set of folders, marked not France, but Britain and Arica.
The war was still young, but his gaze was already set beyond the horizon.
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