Ashes Of the Führer

The room I awoke in was silent, touched only by the faint warmth of early morning light slipping through a single large window. White cloth draped loosely over it, softening the rays into a pale glow that bathed the space in stillness. Beneath the window sat a low coffee table flanked by two simple chairs — their wooden frames aged but polished, resting atop a crimson-red carpet that bled color into the otherwise neutral floor.

My bed was massive, far larger than necessary — lined with white sheets tucked neatly around thick cushions. Nightstands stood on either side, both bare save for a small candle and an empty glass. The rest of the room was sparse. No paintings. No clutter. Just a tall glass mirror standing directly across from the bed, catching the light and reflecting the stillness back at me.

Then came the noise.

"Knock. Knock. Knock."

A thud on the door stirred me from my thoughts.

"My Führer," came the voice of one of the guards from outside — low, respectful, but clear enough to pierce through the thick wooden door.

"Your personal maid, Silv, is here with your clothing. Shall she enter?"

I paused for a moment, stretching my arms before sitting up.

"She may," I answered plainly.

The door creaked open slowly.

Silv stepped inside, her movements careful, deliberate. She still limped — a subtle, favoring step on her right leg, the wound I had engraved into her flesh refusing to let her forget. Her arm remained bandaged, a constant reminder of pain… and obedience.

She bowed slightly as she entered, eyes cast downward, not out of shyness, but caution.

She had become my personal maid.

I watched her approach, white cloth in hand — my uniform, freshly pressed, neatly folded, carried like an offering.

How amusing.

A race that once held whips and chains over my people, now reduced to this — serving a human.

A quiet satisfaction stirred within me.

The room held no tension, only the shifting of roles.

And she? She knew her place.

"Your white button-up shirt, pants, and coat — all cleaned to perfection, my Führer," Silv said softly, approaching the foot of the bed with the folded garments cradled in her arms. "I also repaired any tears… and stitched every hole I found."

She placed them gently on the red-carpeted edge, smoothing the fabric with delicate hands, careful not to meet my eyes.

"I… ensured the buttons were polished as well," she added quickly, almost as if hoping the attention to detail would spare her further pain.

I didn't speak — not immediately. I simply stared at her.

Her ears twitched under the weight of silence.

"You may step out," I said simply, my voice even.

"Yes, my Führer," Silv replied quickly, her tone plain and measured — careful not to spark any anger.

She bowed once and turned without another word, the door closing softly behind her.

The room fell silent again.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the cold air brushing against my skin as I stood. The polished wood creaked beneath my weight — not from weakness, but age. I stepped onto the red carpet and moved to the neatly folded clothes at the foot of the bed.

First the shirt — white, stiff, perfectly pressed. Then the dark trousers, snug and sharp. Finally, the long black coat — still heavy with presence. I slid it over my shoulders with practiced ease. The medals followed next — one by one, fastened to my chest like memories forged in fire and steel. Their weight wasn't physical — it was historical.

I turned to the nightstand.

With a swift motion, I lifted the pillow.

Beneath it lay my Walther — my true companion. Sleek, black, loaded. I held it for a moment, letting its familiar weight settle into my hand before sliding it into the holster beneath my coat.

Next, I opened the drawer.

Six bullets, wrapped in a cloth.

I unrolled it carefully and began loading them into a spare magazine, each click echoing in the stillness of the room.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Soon, I was dressed — armed, adorned, and ready.

The day would not wait.

Neither would I.

Without waiting any longer, I left my quarters, the door clicking shut behind me.

My boots struck the polished stone floor with purpose as I made my way down the hallway. Behind me, two guards fell into step — clad in iron armor, the plates clinking with each stride. Their swords, sheathed at their sides, gleamed faintly under the hallway torches. Silent, disciplined, they followed close — my shadow of steel.

The scent of morning still lingered faintly in the air — smoke from burnt wood, faint oil from torches, and the distant trace of baked bread. I turned the corner, the hall gradually opening into a wider passage that led toward the kitchen wing.

Even the servants who passed by halted at the sight of us, stepping aside without a word, heads lowered.

Here in this place — I was not a visitor.

I was the law.

Looking around, the kitchen hall — or perhaps more fittingly, the dining chamber — exuded a level of opulence unexpected in a village recently drenched in blood and rebellion.

The long table dominated the room's center, carved from polished dark oak, its surface glinting under the soft flicker of candlelight. It could easily seat fifteen, perhaps twenty guests in a single sitting, with ample room on either side. A snow-white linen cloth stretched across its length, perfectly pressed and unstained — almost too pristine, as though no meal had ever dared to touch it.

Placed at even intervals, no more than two feet apart, stood elegant brass candleholders, each cradling a single tall candle. Their flames danced gently, casting golden hues across the table and walls. Between them sat gold-rimmed plates arranged in perfect symmetry, paired with ornate cutlery — forks, knives, and spoons — all of the same golden make, polished until they gleamed like relics from a forgotten empire.

The chairs that lined the table were tall-backed and regal in design, upholstered in deep crimson fabric with faded lion motifs stitched into the cushions — likely a symbol of demi-human pride once. Now, they were merely seats for the new order.

Without hesitation, I made my way to the furthest seat at the end — the head of the table.

A throne among chairs.

There, I pulled it back with a steady hand and sat, the faint creak of aged wood beneath me the only sound in the room.

Without delay, a woman of short stature — yet with a body clearly softened by excess — waddled toward the table, balancing a silver tray in both hands. Her apron was stained, her breathing faintly labored, but her eyes avoided mine. She moved with purpose, though not grace.

The moment she reached my seat, she bent over, placing the tray gently before me. The aroma hit instantly — rich, savory, and refined. Whoever prepared this meal knew their craft. It wasn't the slop of prison cells or the scraps of war. No… this was food worthy of command.

She straightened herself, hands clasped over her rounded stomach, head slightly bowed.

"Eggs, bread, and steak, my Führer," she said, voice flat but careful. "As per your orders."

"Thank you," I said with a smile — not of warmth, but of warning.

I stared at the food. Eggs, steak, and bread. Still warm. Seasoned perfectly. The kind of meal meant to impress — or deceive.

I do not trust anyone. Especially not those with power over what I eat.

My eyes slowly rose from the plate to the chef. She stood awkwardly, hands folded, waiting for praise or dismissal.

"Would you care for a bite, chef?" I asked, casually — though my voice carried a weight that made her blink.

Her face twitched — surprise, confusion. She hadn't expected that.

"I— I've already eaten, my Führer," she stammered.

I picked up my knife and fork. Slowly. Deliberately.

Cutting clean, precise slices — one from the steak, one from the eggs, a piece of bread.

"Then one more bite won't hurt," I said, placing the portions near the edge of the plate.

She hesitated for a second. But only a second.

Without protest, she reached for a fork from the side of the table, her fingers slightly trembling.

She leaned down.

And ate.

First the steak. Then the eggs. Lastly, the bread.

I said nothing — just watched. Watched her face, her throat, her eyes.

Looking for a wince. A pause. A sign of hesitation.

There was none.

She swallowed. Stood straight.

No poison. No tricks. Not today.

Still, I kept watching.

Because trust… is earned slowly.

And lost in one bite.

"You are dismissed," I said plainly, voice flat and unwavering.

As if a weight had been lifted, her shoulders sagged with visible relief. She didn't speak — didn't risk it. Instead, she bowed quickly, her eyes lowered, and turned on her heel without hesitation.

Her footsteps echoed softly as she exited the hall.

I watched her go, unmoving.

Not because I feared her.

Without delay, I picked up my fork and knife, slicing into the warm steak before me. The scent of seared meat and fresh bread filled my nose as I brought the first bite to my mouth. It was savory — rich with seasoning, tender enough to tear apart with little effort.

"Each bite screamed of a professional's touch — expertly seasoned, perfectly cooked, and prepared with precision."

When I finished eating, I rose from my seat without delay and made my way toward the meeting room. The guards trailed behind me, their iron boots clanking softly against the wooden floor, eyes sharp and scanning — watching for even the slightest movement.

Once I entered the meeting room, I was greeted by familiar faces from yesterday's council — and several new ones. This time, the chamber was full.

Guards stood firmly in each corner, eyes sharp, hands resting near the hilts of their swords. Around the long oak table sat a mixture of men and women. Some were dressed in clean black suits, others in modest skirts and blouses — all formal, all presentable. The remaining seats were occupied by new figures, likely community leaders or selected representatives.

At the far end of the table sat Otto, already prepared with documents and notes. To his left was Wilhelm, his posture stiff with age but his presence no less commanding. Virella sat to his right, arms crossed and eyes watchful.

Standing beside the only empty chair — mine — was Seris. Her hair was neatly tied into a bun, a fresh stack of papers in her hands. She looked as if she'd been standing there for hours, awaiting my arrival with practiced stillness.

As soon as I stepped into the room, every man and woman rose to their feet.

I didn't want ceremony. Not now. Not ever.

With a swift gesture of my hand, I dismissed the formalities.

"Sit," I commanded plainly.

Without hesitation, they obeyed.

I made my way to the head of the table and took my seat. Seris, ever attentive, stepped forward and gently placed a stack of papers before me, her hands steady despite the tension in the room.

I didn't bother looking at them just yet.

"What is the news today?" I asked, voice calm but absolute. "And who are the men and women seated here?"

Otto responded without pause, his tone sharp and rehearsed.

"These are our commanders, my Führer — the strongest fighters we have. Each one has proven themselves in the revolt and earned recognition through action, not rank."

I glanced slowly down the line, letting my gaze settle on a few of them. Some nodded in return, others stiffened under the weight of my stare.

"Is that so…" I muttered, voice low.

I leaned back slightly, folding my hands together.

"Then tell me… do we have a general to lead these commanders? A mind among the muscle?"

Otto nodded.

"Yes, my Führer. In fact… you've already met him."

He turned his head.

"Wilhelm is our sole general. Thirty-two years of command experience — spanning wars both internal and foreign. He was Kaela Thorn's military backbone before her death. And now, he serves under your flag."

Wilhelm didn't speak. He didn't need to.

He simply nodded once — slow, deliberate — a quiet acknowledgment that didn't ask for praise… only trust.

I stared at Wilhelm.

His eyes didn't flinch.

Not from pressure. Not from pride. Not even from the weight of my gaze. He was still. Like stone. The kind of stillness that only came from surviving too much for too long.

Good.

"I'll expect results from you," I said finally. "Not excuses. I don't care how many wars you've seen. This one will be unlike any you've fought before."

He gave a single nod, no emotion on his face. No need for words. That was enough.

I turned back to the others. Some fidgeted. Others avoided my gaze.

Weakness.

My eyes narrowed.

"Let me make one thing clear to all of you," I said, voice smooth but coiled with steel. "You sit at this table not because I trust you… but because I tolerate you."

A few shoulders stiffened.

"You were brave enough to raise your weapons. That much is commendable. But bravery without discipline is a dead man's virtue."

No one dared reply.

"Otto," I said suddenly, voice breaking the silence like a snapped wire.

He straightened.

"Yes, my Führer?"

"Of the commanders here… how many are ready to lead? Truly lead?"

He hesitated for just a second — then answered.

"Perhaps four. Five, if given the right guidance. The rest are strong fighters, but… not thinkers."

"Then they will follow," I said flatly. "Train them to be loyal. Teach them to be useful. And remove any who are neither."

Otto nodded slowly, not in fear — but in agreement.

Virella shifted in her seat, speaking next for the first time.

"If I may, my Führer — while the nobles remain ignorant, the surrounding farmlands and outer settlements have started to notice… silence."

I turned to her.

"Explain."

"Merchants that once traveled through the region — messengers, foragers, even drifters — have ceased movement. Trade routes are cold. And those few who still roam the wilds… they speak in hushed tones. Rumors of something stirring. They don't approach, but they're watching."

"And have any dared cross our perimeter?"

"A few," she said simply. "Hunters. Scavengers. One pair of cloaked riders who didn't speak our tongue."

"And their fate?"

"None returned."

I paused — letting the weight of silence settle over the room.

"Good," I said at last. "But next time… let their corpses be found. Rotting at the border. A message."

She nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her mouth — not of amusement, but of grim satisfaction.

"As you command."

The room grew still after that. The tension didn't rise… it settled. Hardened. Like cooled iron.

Obedience.

Purpose.

The birth of something irreversible.

I reached for the stack of papers Seris had placed before me — diagrams, reports, training rosters, supply inventories.

I leafed through them in silence, flipping each sheet with a deliberate hand before setting them neatly back down.

"Begin preparations for our next move," I ordered, my voice low but final.

Everyone leaned in.

"I want two plans drawn."

They waited, breath held.

"One… for expansion."

I let the pause linger.

"And the other… for extermination."

I let my gaze sweep the length of the table once more.

"This assignment," I said, tapping the stack of plans with a single finger, "falls not just to Wilhelm. It falls to every so-called commander in this room. Any one of you who delivers a plan that meets my satisfaction will be promoted to general. Earn your rank."

A ripple passed through the commanders — equal parts ambition and dread.

I turned to Wilhelm next.

"I will be expecting your report as well," I said. "Do not disappoint me."

He answered with one slow nod, unflinching.

My attention moved back to Otto.

"Status on the weapon project?"

He straightened, confidence replacing caution. "Materials have been easier to acquire than first feared, my Führer. The hills to the east bear heavy sulfur deposits — remnants of volcanic vents from thousands of years ago. Saltpeter leaches from old bat caves, and charcoal is plentiful from the southern forest. Our blacksmiths work day and night. With your blueprints and the pistol you disassembled, we estimate the first functional pistol prototypes in two weeks and the bolt-action rifle within a month."

I leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

"Unacceptable. Half those times."

Otto hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded. "One week for a working pistol, a fortnight for the rifle. It will be done."

"Good," I said, voice low. "Because I will test the first of each myself."

Silence followed — not of fear this time, but of undeniable momentum.

"And remember," I added, letting my gaze pin every commander in place, "failure is a luxury we cannot afford."

No one spoke. No one dared.

A new order had been given.

And the clock had begun.

I turned to Virella, curiosity overtaking me."Now, what is it you do?" I asked.

She did not hesitate — pride taking root in her posture.

"I practice magic," she said, the words steady, laced with quiet defiance. "I am one in ten million humans who can."

A few heads turned. Even among the hardened commanders, that revelation stirred something — surprise, disbelief, maybe even a sliver of awe. But Virella wasn't looking for their approval. Her eyes never left mine.

She stepped away from her chair with measured grace, letting the weight of her next words settle.

"Magic, my Führer, is not common. In this world, it is believed to belong only to the old bloodlines — to the long-lived elves with their enchanted forests, and to the dwarves who carve spells into stone. They were the first to shape it — to twist its nature into rules and rites. And they hoarded it, claiming it as theirs alone."

Her tone sharpened, the very air in the room seeming to still.

"The demi-humans — beast-kin, scaled freaks, horned mutts — they cannot use true magic. They lack the connection. What they wield is brute strength and instinct. Steel and sinew. Not spellcraft."

She raised her hand, fingers curled in concentration.

A soft shimmer bloomed — pale violet light swirling gently around her wrist like fog hugging a flame. It didn't crackle. It pulsed — controlled, refined, quiet power.

"I was born with nothing," she continued. "No elven ancestry. No dwarven blood. No tomes. No tutors. Just agony. Just instinct."

She took a step forward, the magic still alive in her palm.

"For years, I thought I was cursed. The voices in my sleep. The heat in my spine. I was shunned by humans, hunted by elves, dismissed by dwarves. They said humans couldn't wield magic. That we weren't born for it. But I heard it. I felt it. And one day… I made it listen."

The glow vanished with a flick of her wrist.

"I have no noble title. No sacred name. No divine blessing. What I do have — is will. The kind they cannot comprehend."

She turned to face me fully.

"They told us to kneel. Because they feared what would happen if one of us stood."

A pause.

"And now I stand."

Clap. Clap. Clap.

I began slowly, deliberately.

Then the others followed — one by one at first, unsure, then all at once. The entire room broke into applause, a wave of hands crashing together in perfect rhythm.

Not out of celebration.

But recognition.

A weapon had just revealed itself.

And they knew it.

And so did I.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the clapping ceased — not by command, but by instinct. As if the room collectively realized this was not a moment for celebration, but for acknowledgment. For duty.

Silence returned like a curtain falling, and all eyes turned back to me — waiting.

Order had been restored.

"You all will accompany me this evening while I speak to the masses," I said, rising from my seat. "They need to see my commanders… my generals. Don't you think?"

I turned slightly.

"Otto — you will not show yourself."

He blinked, confused for only a moment.

"While your name is known," I continued, "I don't want you becoming too visible. You're not just a face — you're an asset. And assets are protected."

Otto gave a firm nod, no protest in his eyes.

"As you command, my Führer."

I looked down at the papers spread before me, scanning the lines of ink without truly reading them.

"Everyone is dismissed," I said, my voice steady. "Except Otto."

I let the words hang for a beat, then added without looking up—

"Guards as well."

My eyes lifted to Seris.

"You too."

There was no protest. No questions. Only silence as chairs slid back and boots tapped against the stone floor. One by one, they filed out — commanders, guards, Seris — not a word spoken.

And then, it was quiet.

Just Otto and I.

"Otto," I said, my tone even. "You said you were a man of numbers and logistics. Tell me—do you understand science?"

He straightened. "Yes, my Führer."

"What do you know?" I asked, voice commanding.

Otto took a measured breath, then began.

"Science, in its simplest form, is ordered curiosity. First, observation: we watch the world and record what we see. Second, hypothesis: we propose an explanation for those observations. Third, experimentation: we test that explanation under controlled conditions. Fourth, analysis: we measure the results. Finally, conclusion: we refine what is true and discard what is false. Repetition confirms reliability. Without evidence, there is only superstition."

He paused, gauging my reaction, then added, "Whether it is the budding of a seed, the forging of steel, or the force that drives a bullet, the method is the same: question, test, and prove."

A satisfactory answer.

I leaned back. "Good. When this war is won, you will oversee an entirely new office— the Department of Science and Development. All research, all engineering, all arcane study from Virella's circle—everything—will pass through you. You will gather the sharpest minds, break the boundaries they fear, and forge weapons and wonders this world has never imagined."

Otto's eyes lit not with enthusiasm, but with purpose. "I will begin outlining the structure at once, my Führer."

"Do so," I said. "And remember: progress is measured in results, not theories. I will tolerate nothing less."

He bowed his head. "Understood."

The future had just found its architect.

"It's about time I get ready for the speech," I said.

"Do you have a speech written, my Führer?" Otto asked.

"Of course not," I replied, my voice firm. "I do not need such a thing. I speak from the mind—no guidance required."

Otto nodded, impressed. "I look forward to hearing it, my Führer."

And just like that, Otto became part of my inner circle.

But I will test his allegiance. People change. Power corrupts. Loyalty? It wavers when comfort enters the picture.

Let's see how long his devotion truly lasts.