The soft hum of distant music echoed from the grand ballroom below, muffled by thick glass and velvet drapes.
On the stone balcony high above the illuminated Olympiastadion, the night air was crisp and cool, tinged with the scent of blooming summer flowers.
The lights of Berlin stretched like a sea of stars, flickering with pride, an empire aglow in the warmth of its own triumph.
Bruno stood still, wineglass in hand, silhouetted against the grandeur he had helped build.
Beside him, Erwin, no longer the eager boy who used to chase fencing instructors with a wooden sabre, but a man hardened by industry, responsibility, and now, a father's worry.
Erwin swirled the dark wine in his glass, his voice low.
"You know… sometimes I wish I hadn't quit the academy. That you hadn't let me. My son… he'll be fighting in the next war. Wasn't that the point of my not serving? So we could prevent the need for such a thing?"
Bruno took a long sip, letting the silence hang.
