Two days had passed since the Geneva meeting, and Hans found himself walking side-by-side with Mehmed through the silent gardens of the summit estate. Dusk draped the world in hues of gold and gray, and their conversation—like the world—hovered between shadow and light.
"You know," Mehmed began, hands tucked behind his back, "I expected our meeting to end with you trying to conquer me. Or lecture me. Germans have a reputation, you know."
Hans smirked. "And Turks don't?"
"Touché."
Their laughter faded into comfortable quiet as they came upon a marble bench overlooking the lake.
"I admire your vision," Hans said finally. "But I fear it will drown in blood before it sees sunlight."
"Then let it drown with sword in hand," Mehmed said, eyes narrowing. "I don't want a throne built on corpses—but I'll still climb over them if that's what it takes."
"You sound like Viktor."
"Except I'll put the sword down once it's over."
They sat in silence again. Distant lights blinked from ships on the lake.
"You remind me of someone," Hans said at last. "But I can't quite place it."
Later That Night – Hans' Quarters
The wind was stronger. Shadows danced unnaturally. When Hans looked up from his journal, a new figure stood in the corner—neither Colonel Engelhardt nor Albrecht.
This one was older. Graying beard. Heavy coat. Eyes like burned oak. The air felt heavier.
Hans stood. "Who are you?"
The man gave a slight nod. "I am Arvid von Löwenfels. Knight-Commander of the Rhineguard. Your ancestor."
"I've never seen you before."
"No. I don't appear often. I was summoned... because of him."
Hans frowned. "Mehmed?"
Arvid nodded. "Yes. I fought beside his blood. A prince once exiled from the Sultan's court. He refused to kneel. Not to monsters. Not to tyrants. We stood side by side at the Gates of Thessaloniki, blades coated in ichor."
"You... fought together?"
"We bled together," Arvid said, voice solemn. "And when I fell, it was his ancestor who pulled me from the field and burned our enemies to ash."
A pause.
"He was braver than I. And perhaps wiser."
Hans stepped closer. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because history isn't made by nations. It's made by friendships that defy them."
Arvid turned, fading slightly into the dark. "Protect that friendship. The Gate doesn't care for borders. But maybe the old world still has a chance, if its sons remember what it means to trust."
A flash of lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the edges of the room. And Arvid was gone.
The Next Morning – Over Coffee
Hans stared at his cup.
"So… how did you sleep?" Mehmed asked, grinning. "Don't tell me your ancestors kept you up too?"
Hans blinked. "Actually… yes."
Mehmed raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
Hans leaned back, drained. "One of them knew yours. Said he owed him his life."
"Ha!" Mehmed slapped the table. "Tell me that next time I ask for a favor. 'Your ghost owes me, Hans!'"
Hans smiled despite himself. "Don't push it."
Mehmed shrugged. "Too late. I already planned a toast in his honor. We're getting rakı and sauerkraut on the same table tonight. Imagine the chaos."
Hans sighed. "Just... don't let the Swedish delegates cook again."
"They tried to pickle the tea."
"Exactly."
And for a moment, in that fractured, scarred world—they laughed.