The carriage’s wheels clacked steadily against the cobbled road as it approached the city gates of Berlin. The drizzle had lessened, but the air remained cold and heavy, as if Berlin itself exhaled steam from the factories and cannon foundries lining its outskirts. Inside, Otto von Bismarck sat straight-backed, cloaked in a heavy wool coat, staring through the misted window at a world half-familiar and half-strange.

  His cousin, Friedrich von Bismarck, rode beside him, the corners of his mouth turning up in a knowing half-smile. “The capital is always hungry for new voices,” Friedrich remarked, glancing at Otto. “Just be certain yours speaks with purpose.”

  Otto offered a curt nod. The weight in his chest—both the old duel wound and the burden of his dual memories—pressed on him. Yet he felt a spark of resolve. He would not be the passive duke of old. He would forge his own legacy.

  They passed through the Brandenburg Gate into a city alive with purpose. Horse-drawn trams rattled by, and uniformed soldiers marched in disciplined lines. Carriage horns blared as diplomats and merchants jostled for space. The smell of wet wool and coal smoke filled the air.

  Within the hour, they reached the modest townhouse of Count Albrecht von Arnim. The Count, a man of quiet gravitas, received Otto in his study lined with leather-bound volumes and diplomatic correspondence. Over dark brandy, they discussed the precarious state of Europe—the Ottoman Empire’s steady hold in the Balkans, Habsburg unease over Hungarian unrest, and a belated American uprising in Philadelphia, ignited by harsh reprisals on colonial protests.

  Otto listened and offered carefully measured insights, drawing on his modern instincts without revealing too much. When Arnim pressed him on Prussia’s next move, Otto paused, then said, “If we truly wish to lead, we must act before complacency kills our chances. Preparation is every bit as vital as diplomacy.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Arnim’s eyes glittered. “I suspected you’d say something like that. Berlin respects boldness—provided it is well-grounded.” He pressed a sealed note into Otto’s hand. “This gains you entry to the Foreign Ministry. Use it wisely.”

  ---

  Days later, Otto roamed Berlin’s streets and salons, absorbing the city’s pulse. He dined quietly with Friedrich, where courtiers spoke of military drills in Spandau, debates in the Diet over railway expansion, and farmers’ protests near Pomerania. Everywhere, tensions simmered.

  At a private salon near Unter den Linden, Otto mingled with minor nobles and bureaucrats under crystal chandeliers. Conversation drifted to Ottoman maneuvers in Wallachia and the never-settled question of German unity. When one guest scoffed that Austria and Britain would crush Prussia at the first sign of ambition, Otto simply sipped his wine and observed.

  An evening later, he stepped into a riverside café to escape a sudden downpour. The lamplight reflected off puddles, and the sound of rain pelting the awnings was nearly soothing after the salon’s electric air. He ordered tea and settled at a small table with a copy of the Berliner Zeitung.

  “Otto von Bismarck?” a voice said quietly.

  Otto looked up to see Ernst Ludwig von Gerlach, editor of the Kreuzzeitung, standing in the doorway—tall, austere, and unmistakably influential in conservative circles.

  Gerlach inclined his head. “Your remarks at Count Arnim’s gathering caught my attention. You spoke of Prussia’s need to move decisively.”

  Otto gestured to the empty seat. “Mr. von Gerlach. I trust your paper wields ink as deftly as you wield influence?”

  Gerlach smiled once—thin, measured. “Indeed. And we could use a fresh perspective. Berlin’s salons grow stale, and the public thirsts for bold thought. Would you consider contributing?”

  Otto allowed a small smile. “I would be honored.”

  Gerlach nodded, sliding a leather journal across the table. “Begin when you’re ready. The Kreuzzeitung runs in the morning.”

  ---

  Back in his room that evening, Otto wrote a single line in the journal:

  Prussia must decide: will she seize her destiny, or merely wait for it to be forced upon her?

  He closed the book and stood, resolve steeled. The city’s lights danced on the river’s surface, and Otto von Bismarck—Jonathan Miller in an iron frame—felt the gears of history shift around him.

  His journey to power had truly begun.