RE: BLOOD AND IRON

The sun rose over Vienna, but it brought no warmth, no light—only a blood-red sky obscured by the thick, choking smoke of burning buildings. The battle had raged through the night, and though the streets were lined with corpses, the purge was far from over.

The Werwolf Brigade had spent the early hours of the morning consolidating their hold over the city, dividing it into sectors that were systematically cleared one block at a time.

The roar of engines filled the air as armored personnel carriers, infantry fighting vehicles and tanks patrolled the ruins, their mounted guns swiveling in search of any lingering resistance. What little coordination the revolutionaries had was collapsing, their fighters scattered, their lines broken. The purge was entering its final stage.

In the gutted remains of a once-pristine opera house, Major Gunter Mueller stood over a table strewn with city maps, casualty reports, and ammunition manifests. His uniform, bearing the insignia of the Werwolf Brigade and the Iron Division, was stained with soot and dried blood. He pulled a cigarette from a battered tin case, lighting it with a match struck against the edge of the table.

“Sector Five has been cleared,”

an officer reported, his voice devoid of emotion.

“The stronghold near the Danube was overrun. We captured a few dozen combatants. The rest were shot resisting.”

Mueller exhaled a plume of smoke while expressing his thoughts in a stoic and emotionless fashion. One that was symbolic of his lack of care or concern for the destruction they had wrought upon Vienna and its people this night.

“Good. Any high-value targets?”

The voice of the officer was equally as merciless as he expressed without thought, nor hesitation of the wicked deeds they had committed in the name of fortune and honoring a contract with the house of Habsburg.

“None that we could identify. The bodies were burned along with the rest of the block.”

Mueller nodded, grinding the cigarette into an ashtray as he responded to the previous statement with further orders to be relayed across the unit.

“Move on to Sector Six. The Marxists still have control of the industrial quarter. I want their last munitions depots destroyed before sundown.”

The officer saluted and exited, leaving Mueller alone in the dim light of the ruined hall. He leaned against the table, eyes drifting to a shattered chandelier overhead. Just months ago, men and women in their finest evening attire had waltzed beneath its glow, their laughter filling the gilded halls. Now, the only music was the distant crackle of gunfire, the cries of the dying carried on the wind.

The purge had to continue.

Elsewhere in the city, in what remained of the industrial quarter, the last remnants of organized resistance were making their final stand. The old steel foundries had become fortresses, their towering smokestacks offering snipers a perfect vantage point over the streets below.

Trenches had been dug in alleyways, machine-gun nests hidden among the rubble. These were the most hardened fighters—men who knew there was no surrender, only death.

Gregor Varga, wounded but still alive, crouched behind a makeshift barricade of sandbags and overturned carts. His men were exhausted, their numbers dwindling. They had started as hundreds; now, less than fifty remained.

“The wolves are closing in…”

One of his lieutenants growled in agony as he bandaged his leg, which had been cut severely by glass. Barely missing his femoral artery, which would have proven fatal as he grunted in agony and relief at the same time.

“We should make a break for it.”

Gregor shook his head as he refused to admit defeat. The idea that they could overthrow the Habsburgs and succeed where the Bolsheviks had failed in Russia a decade prior was too tempting of an ideal to let go, despite defeat being evident to any rational being.

“No. We hold. As long as we hold, the revolution isn’t dead.”

The words rang hollow even to his own ears. He knew the war had been lost already, but his ideological fanaticism compelled him to continue fighting, even when the result of doing so was clear as day.

The attack came without warning. Artillery shells crashed into the foundry, sending shards of molten steel and pulverized brick raining down on the defenders. Flames engulfed the buildings, turning their defensive positions into death traps. The Werwolf Brigade advanced behind the barrage, moving in small, coordinated teams. They fought like specters—swift, efficient, merciless.

Gregor fired his pistol, dropping one of the advancing mercenaries. Another took his place within seconds. His men were being picked off one by one. A machine gunner next to him was torn apart by rifle fire, his body slumping over the weapon as it sputtered to a halt.

A grenade landed nearby. Gregor barely had time to curse before the explosion sent him crashing into the rubble.

As the last bastions of resistance fell, the purge transitioned from battle to execution. Captured revolutionaries were lined up against walls, their hands bound behind their backs. Officers walked the lines, selecting those deemed too valuable to kill immediately. The rest were dispatched with cold efficiency; the streets running slick with blood.

Mueller oversaw one such execution. A group of captured revolutionaries, their faces battered and bruised, were forced to their knees in a courtyard. The Werwolf Brigade soldiers stood over them, rifles at the ready.

“You are enemies of the state,”

Falk declared as he convicted each and every one of them to their fate. Whether or not he actually had the authority and jurisdiction to do so was a matter for parliament and the courts to discuss long after the act had been committed, and he and his men were safely beyond the border in Germany, paid in full for their services to the crown.

“Your crimes have been judged, and the sentence is death.”

Some begged. Some cursed. Others stared blankly ahead, already resigned to their fate.

The order was given. The gunfire was swift.

Vienna had returned to the rightful rule of the Habsburgs, civilization, as savage as it was had been restored to a city that in merely the span of the year had resorted to degeneracy, chaos, and the control of local gangs and warlords.

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