Chapter 711: The Death of an Empire
Lucerne, Switzerland, December 1938.
The lake was still.
So still that it mirrored the pale morning sky without distortion, as if refusing to ripple in respect for the moment.
Across the water, the snow-dusted peaks of the Alps loomed like ancient sentinels, impassive and eternal.
The mountains which once hosted Hannibal’s march to Rome stood proudly beneath the glint of the sun that was otherwise drowned by its spires.
The Grand Hotel National had been cleared of guests for the occasion.
Snipers lined the rooftops. Black cars with curtained windows waited silently in the snow-lined courtyard.
Every movement, every breath, was measured.
Inside the gilded ballroom, beneath a vaulted ceiling of faded frescoes and chandeliers dimmed out of deference to wartime austerity, the final threads of a world were being severed.
King Edward VIII stood beneath a banner not of his own making.
Behind him hung the Union Flag, now defaced by a central black stripe representing "continental partnership."
The German Reichsadler loomed beside it. The double-headed eagle of the Russian Empire flanked the other end.
The banners of Italy, Spain, Hungary, and even Greece, now all aligned in cautious, coordinated detente under the Central Pact, lined the walls like an honor guard at a funeral.
The King looked older than his years.
The tailored uniform of the restored British Crown authority clung to his frame like a borrowed identity.
No sword. No sash.
Only a golden pin of Saint George on his lapel and the knowledge that history watched from behind every lens in the room.
The cameras were present but silent, no whirring reels, no reporters shouting questions.
This was not a press event.
This was an autopsy.
The German Kaiser, seated first among equals at the long marble table, adjusted his gloves.
His uniform immaculate despite age having stripped his youth from him.
He stood a titan of a past era, one in this instant reborn as a matter of imperial pride.
And despite being in the twilight of his years, his final moments counting down with each passing day.
Wilhelm II stood no less gracefully than he would have had he been a younger man.
By his side stood the Architect of his dynasty’s victory, Bruno von Zehntner, Grand Prince of Tyrol, and Reichmarschall of the German Riech. No less glorious in triumph.
And beside him, the Chancellor of the German Reich, a relic of a past era where the Empire relied more on the will of parliament than its natural born leaders.
Even so, he did not appear dismayed by his role having been stripped of much of its power.
Instead he seemed content with his position, so long as the fatherland thirved.
Next to him, Tsar Alexei Romanov, flanked by Cossack guards and silent ministers, sat poised like a porcelain doll painted in blood and velvet.
He had barely spoken since arriving, but his cold smile never left him.
Across from them sat Marshal Italo Balbo of Italy, General Mannerheim of Finland representing Hungary’s proxy, and Prime Minister Francisco Franco representing Spain’s
"neutral alignment."
Greece’s royal delegation remained aloof but firm, clinging to its maritime privileges under the new order.
None of them stood when the King entered.
Only the Swiss host offered a bow.
A hush fell.
Edward approached the center podium.
No teleprompters. No pages.
Only a small sheet of parchment, cream-colored, stamped with the Seal of the Crown.
He cleared his throat.
When he spoke, his voice carried with the practiced tenor of a man trained since youth to sound regal, even while surrendering.
"Esteemed delegates of the Central Coalition.
Today, on behalf of the Crown, the Parliament in recess, and what remains of the Imperial governance of Great Britain, I come not to resist, nor to deny the reality that has unfolded, but to ensure that what passes for peace may yet retain the dignity of a people who once shaped the world."
He paused, allowing the silence to stretch.
"We recognize the military, economic, and political realities which make continued resistance impossible.
The Isles are fractured.
The Dominions no longer heed the call.
Our merchant navy is crippled, our army scattered, and our skies no longer our own.
Therefore, in accordance with the negotiated terms of armistice, we hereby proclaim the unconditional surrender of all British Imperial claims beyond the Channel.
We renounce all protectorates, mandates, and foreign military entitlements.
We cede to the Central Powers full administrative authority over the Straits of Gibraltar, and all previously contested colonial holdings in Africa, and the Pacific.
Effective immediately, the British Empire, as it was known, ceases to function as a global sovereign entity."
There were no gasps. No cries of protest.
Only the soft scratching of pens recording the moment.
"In return, we request the continued sovereignty of the Home Isles under the restored authority of the monarchy, supervised until stabilization by your observers.
And we request that no punitive landings or retributions be carried out against the civilian population of the British Isles, who have suffered enough under the delusions of their leaders."
He paused again. This time longer.
"May this not be remembered as a day of shame, but a day in which peace, even at cost, was chosen over annihilation."
The King stepped back.
The German Chancellor was the first to stand.
He walked to the podium, the echo of his boots hollow on the marble.
"Your Majesty," he said, without mockery, "history will decide if today was mercy, or victory.
We accept your terms. The Reich will oversee the stabilization of the British Isles in cooperation with our partners.
Let this be the final page of the war. The new century begins now."
Each delegate stepped forward in turn.
Alexei, inscrutable offered no words, only an imperial nod, as if approving a chess move already decided.
Victor Emmanuel spoke of commerce.
Alfonso praised order.
The Greek prince expressed hope for a rebirth of civilization.
And then the papers were signed.
Not with ceremony, but with bureaucracy.
As the cameras flashed, silent ghosts of a new world order, the King of England shook hands with the architects of his nation’s humiliation.
Later, in private, he would sit alone in the hotel’s chapel, staring at the stained glass of Saint George slaying the dragon.
And he would wonder, not for the first time, if the rot had begun long before the first bombs fell.