Chapter 581: Formation of the International Legion
Lisbon, Palacio Nacional da Ajuda
The palace was alive with muted tension. Footmen moved like ghosts through the marble halls, their soft-soled shoes whispering over ancient rugs.
Somewhere deeper within, a string quartet practiced for an evening gala that seemed now almost grotesquely out of place.
At the long windows overlooking Lisbon’s sunlit terraces stood King Manuel II, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed not on the view but on the figure seated at a modest table behind him.
Bruno von Zehntner read quietly, a fresh dispatch from Berlin held in one hand, a delicate porcelain cup of Portuguese coffee in the other.
Even here, dressed in civilian linen and enjoying the coastal breeze, there was something about him that seemed to darken the very room.
The weight of thousands of past decisions lingering on his shoulders like a cloak.
Manuel finally turned, drawing a slow breath. "You intend to leave us soon."
It was not a question.
Bruno did not immediately look up. He finished the page, folded it with clinical precision, and set it aside before meeting the Portuguese monarch’s eyes.
"Lisbon is gracious. But it is not my throne. Nor my battlefield. Spain edges closer to full civil war by the hour. And where there is chaos, there are always men eager to test German resolve; or imagine Berlin’s hand is distracted. I cannot permit such illusions to linger."
The King came closer, lowering his voice though the room was empty but for two discreet guards near the doorway.