His wound, barely healed, throbbed against the tailored coat—a reminder of the duel and the death that had brought Jonathan Miller’s soul into this body. He thought back to how, in his previous life, he had studied parliamentary procedure with distant fascination, never imagining he’d one day walk these corridors with genuine influence. The world he knew—marked by twentieth-century democracies and global media—was gone. In its place lay this patchwork of monarchies and estates, still breathing but vulnerable to upheaval.
Inside, the chamber was already alive with murmurs. Representatives filtered in: landowners in richly brocaded coats, merchants in sober black, and a scattering of newly elected civic leaders whose wide eyes betrayed their uncertainty. At the raised dais sat President von Manteuffel, presiding over the session with measured gravity.
Otto exchanged a brief nod with Oberst von Kleist, who had arranged his seat near the front. Across the room, a cluster of hardliners—men with hawkish features and folded arms—eyed him suspiciously. Their leader, Baron von Sternberg, was notorious for his calls to quell unrest with force.
President von Manteuffel rapped his gavel. “The floor is open to discussion on emergency measures in Pomerania. Herr von Bismarck.”
A hush fell. Otto rose, steadying himself on the table’s edge. He glanced at the folded dispatch in his coat pocket—a recommendation for grain subsidies, rail priority to the famine-stricken districts, and funding for local relief committees.
He spoke clearly, avoiding triumphal tones. “Esteemed colleagues, we face unrest born of real hardship. Our peasantry starves while our railways lie idle at critical junctures. We must act swiftly to provide relief—both to restore order and to preserve the bonds between crown and subject.” He unfurled the dispatch’s key figure verbally: “A modest subsidy, coupled with expedited transport of surplus grain from West Prussia, could reach those in need within days.”
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Von Sternberg rose, cloak swirling. “Subsidies invite dependency. Better to show strength—deploy troops, enforce order, and let discipline teach these people their place.”
Otto met his gaze evenly. “Discipline without compassion breeds deeper resentment. I speak not of leniency but of prudence.” He paused, recalling the factories and welfare programs he’d read about in his own timeline, marveling at how stripped-down this world’s social safety nets were. “Let us set a precedent: strength tempered by mercy.”
A few moderate voices voiced hesitant agreement. President von Manteuffel tapped his gavel. “Further debate will continue later this afternoon. The motion stands for preliminary vote.”
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As Otto resumed his seat, Friedrich at his shoulder offered a whispered grin. “You’ve rattled the cages.”
Otto allowed himself a faint smile. “We’ll see if they rattle back.”
Later that day, Otto found himself in Friedrich’s drawing room, where Baroness Elisabeth von Klettenberg hosted a small gathering of Berlin’s genteel elite. Crystal chandeliers cast prisms over polished hardwood floors, and servants flitted between guests bearing trays of delicate pastries.
Baroness von Klettenberg was a statuesque woman in her early forties, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. She approached Otto with graceful poise. “Herr von Bismarck, I heard your remarks. Bold of you to press the crown to open its coffers sooner than tradition allows.”
Otto inclined his head. “I believe a kingdom that feeds its people strengthens its legacy.”
She studied him. “Legacy. A dangerous word for one so newly risen.” Yet the slightest lift of her brow suggested genuine interest rather than disdain.
As they spoke, a tall man in a simple frock coat entered—Dr. Rudolf Virchow, a young physician whose reputation for social reform had spread from university halls into political salons. He carried a stack of medical pamphlets and looked every bit the passionate idealist.
“Herr von Bismarck,” Virchow greeted, extending a hand. His grip was firm. “I must commend your intervention in the Diet. The public health implications of starvation are often ignored by men of station.”
Otto shook his hand. “And yet every sick peasant delays our military mobilization and burdens our economy.” He let that hang, neither challenge nor concession.
Virc-how’s eyes brightened. “Precisely. We should study long-term reforms—sanitation, rural clinics, education. If you share my interest, perhaps we might collaborate.”
Otto paused, recalling the clash that would come between Bismarck and Virchow decades later in another timeline. He saw in Virchow’s earnest gaze both ally and ideological opponent. “Collaboration serves all, Doctor. Let us begin with today’s crisis.”
Their exchange rippled through the room. Friedrich rejoined Otto, murmuring, “You might have found a friend—or a rival.” Otto only nodded, aware that forging alliances required as much care as defusing conflicts.
That evening, as rain pattered against the windows, Otto returned home to find a sealed note slipped under his door. He recognized the heavy paper and Count von Arnim’s distinctive crest. Unfolding it, he read:
Well done today—and be mindful of the eyes that do not see.
He frowned. No signature. No flourish. A warning, or a tease. He thought back to the shadow he’d glimpsed beyond the café window—an indistinct silhouette that had vanished too swiftly. Perhaps it was mere courtly intrigue, or something more arcane.
He set the note aside and poured a cup of strong tea. On his desk lay the morning’s edition of the Kreuzzeitung, where Gerlach’s postscript praised “a promising voice rising in our turbulent age.” Otto skimmed letters to the editor—some praising his mercy, others decrying his impatience.
He caught himself remembering Jonathan Miller’s world, where public opinion shifted in hours and social networks swayed elections. Here, a printed column still carried weight, but a whisper in the right ear could be equally potent.
Otto opened his journal, pen poised. He wrote:
“Mercy is a blade with two edges. Tomorrow, we temper it with resolve.”
He closed the book and stood by the rain-streaked window, silhouette solemn against the city lights. Steps yet to take lay before him—policy failures to avert, alliances to craft, enemies to outwit. And through it all, the quiet sense that he was being watched, tested by forces beyond any king’s realm.
But he would not falter.
For Berlin, for Prussia, and for the chance to remake history, he would press onward.