Within the palace grounds of Bruno's grand estate, he stood in the winter snow. His polished black jackboots left hard, decisive footprints in the fine white powder that laced the mountainsides.
His fur-lined greatcoat concealed the medals hidden beneath its warmth. The bright red embroidery and gold piping displayed the opulence of a bygone age, one when knights and lords had ruled the valleys below with sword and oath.
His visored officer's cap, heavy with embellishment, marked his rank as clearly as the unique shoulder boards no other man in Europe could claim.
Standing beside him, however, was a different creature entirely.
A man of infamy, a man who had spent most of the last thirty years outside the borders of the Reich. A man who carried war in his posture like other men carried breath.
His uniform was subdued. No red piping of the General Staff. No gold thread.
The fur on his collar was brown, as were his gloves, boots, belt, and holster.
