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.
