The morning after his editorial appeared, Berlin felt subtly altered. Otto von Bismarck awoke to the distant clatter of horse-drawn carts and the faint toll of church bells. Light filtered through heavy drapes, casting the familiar study in muted gold. Beside him on the writing desk lay the fresh edition of the Kreuzzeitung, its pages still crisp, the headline emblazoned with his words. He read only a few lines before setting it aside, knowing that action, not reflection, would test the power of his arguments.

  He dressed swiftly, fastening each button with purpose. His duel wound, now a fading ridge beneath his shirt, reminded him that swift action carried risk. Friedrich, ever punctual, arrived at the door on the hour, coat and gloves in hand.

  "They’ve been speaking of your piece all morning," Friedrich said, ushering him into the corridor. "Officers at Spandau, merchants near Alexanderplatz—everyone has an opinion."

  Otto nodded. "Then it’s time we turned opinion into policy."

  They shared a brief glance of conviction before stepping into a waiting carriage. This time, the journey to the Foreign Ministry felt different. The streets seemed to pulse with expectation rather than routine bustle. As they rattled past guardhouses and diplomatic residences, Otto recalled the uneven ground of foreign intelligence he had first surveyed here—now ripe for transformation.

  The Ministry’s antechamber was quieter than Otto remembered, the attachés giving him respectful nods as he passed. In Herman von Kleist’s office, the stacks of reports were waiting, but this time Kleist offered a genuine smile when Otto entered.

  "The council has reviewed your suggestion on the rail expansions. They wish to hear more."

  Otto inclined his head. "Then I should not disappoint." He settled behind the oak desk, opening the logistics documents to propose a phased implementation: first reinforcing the line to Kraków, then extending across Pomerania to the Baltic. His voice was calm, but each point carried the precision of a practiced strategist rather than a young dilettante.

  Kleist listened in thoughtful silence, annotating margins with his fountain pen. When Otto finished, Kleist tapped the paper. "Your clarity is... refreshing. I will present this to the minister personally."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Relief and anticipation mingled in Otto’s chest. As he left, Friedrich intercepted him with a proud grin. "First victory, cousin?"

  "First," Otto corrected, already plotting the next move.

  They retraced their steps back toward Unter den Linden. The afternoon air was cool, and the cafés hummed with midday patrons. Otto slipped into the Kreuzzeitung offices just as Gerlach was gathering recent proofs.

  "Your piece on agricultural relief?" Gerlach asked, handing over a fresh journal. "Timely."

  Otto scanned the manuscript he had drafted that morning: measured appeals for equitable grain distribution, gentle reforms to estate practices, and an implicit warning against heavy-handed suppression. He handed it back. "Publish it on dawn. Let them taste both hope and caution."

  Gerlach nodded gravely. "It will be debated. That is enough."

  Outside, the sky had grown leaden. Otto paused to buy a cup of tea, listening to vendors hawk extra copies. The city was alive to his pen.

  That evening brought unsettling news: a minor noble in Pomerania had been arrested for leading grain riots. Friedrich burst in, eyes wide. "They moved troops at dawn. The countryside murmurs."

  Otto felt the sting of forewarning. If unrest spread unchecked, his careful reforms could be overshadowed by reactionary force. Yet, opportunity nestled in crisis.

  He sat down with Friedrich by candlelight and outlined his plan: an urgent column for the next edition, paired with discreet letters to sympathetic members of the Diet, urging a temporary suspension of martial measures and immediate relief efforts. "We show strength with mercy," he said. "That is how we win hearts—and stability."

  Friedrich nodded, gathering quills and paper. "At once."

  Days later, Otto stood in a small dining room in Mitte, invited by General von Falkenberg and former envoy Herr Berger. The men spoke in low tones over roast hare and fine red wine. Falkenberg described secret channels with Piedmont-Sardinia, Berger summarized muted French overtures. Otto steered the conversation toward a unified northern confederation, emphasizing speed and secrecy.

  When Falkenberg proposed a covert liaison office in Milan, Otto added the strategic advantage of Prussian engineers overseeing rail security. Berger, impressed, promised to whisper Otto’s name in Paris.

  Walking home under gaslight, Otto felt the threads of influence weaving together—military, press, diplomacy. He paused by the Spree, its dark surface reflecting the city’s glow.

  In his mind, the pieces of a new war and peace settled into place. He had awakened as the Iron Chancellor, but now he was forging the first sparks of a different future.

  Back in his study, Otto opened Gerlach’s journal and wrote: "Ideas are weapons. Sometimes sharper than steel. Tomorrow, we test their edge."

  He closed the book, listened to the soft rumble of distant carriage wheels, and let the weight of his pen rest in his hand. The game had begun in earnest, and Berlin’s lights shone brighter for it.