I gazed at the map of Europe for a long while.
The world had become a jagged, convoluted knot, far removed from the history I once knew—a complex and turbulent landscape.
Ireland had secured its independence, while in England, London was only just beginning to rise from the ashes of its ruin. France, having weathered a series of civil wars, had successfully transcended the bounds of an absolute monarchy to establish a nearly despotic grip on power. And as for the Empire… it defied simple description.
The war had entered a stalemate far earlier than in my original timeline. Propelled by my support and a burgeoning German awakening, new ideologies had taken root. The Emperor had seized upon this nationalist fervor to forge an innovative, radical army.
But can it truly last?
The Jewish population across all of Europe likely numbered little more than a million; those within the German territories were a mere fraction of that. No matter how much wealth such a minority might amass, it was a finite well. Even if Ferdinand ruthlessly plundered them, the resources would inevitably run dry.
There is a reason why large-scale armies fueled by nationalistic zeal did not truly emerge until the dawn of the modern era. Such forces required the bedrock of mass-produced weaponry, systematic education, and the birth of the nation-state to be sustainable. Without those foundations, the sheer consumption of resources is astronomical—and the meager spoils taken from a fleeing minority could never hope to fill that void. Especially when that same minority was currently staging a mass exodus with significant outside assistance.
By now, the Emperor must be…
***
“Dammit! How can you still tell me the supplies are insufficient!”
Anxiety clawed at Emperor Ferdinand. Every decision he had made felt rational in the moment, yet their cumulative weight now testified to a singular, catastrophic error. The riches plundered from the Jews had been devoured in a heartbeat by the hundreds of thousands of mouths within his National Savior Army.
Worse still, in his haste to prepare for the ‘final struggle,’ he had conscripted dregs of the lowest quality—thugs who did not hesitate to rob fellow Christians, rapidly eroding the Emperor’s public support. The momentum he had meticulously built through propaganda was hemorrhaging away.
“B-be at peace, Sire! Denmark and Sweden have expressed their desire for separate peace treaties… and has not the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth also declared its withdrawal?”
Ferdinand was not the only one exhausted. Nations from both camps were deserting the conflict one by one. In a sense, he had achieved one of his goals. He had made the ‘foreigner’ vanish, fulfilling the very slogan he had weaponized.
Foreigners.
The thought sparked a sudden, nervous twitch in the Emperor’s fingers. He muttered to himself, his voice a sharp, erratic rasp. “There is still a move left. A way to seize the public’s heart once more.”
“…We shall withdraw the Spanish forces.”
“Sire? But—”
“Indeed. The Spanish will never accept it; they cannot abandon the Netherlands. But what does their acceptance matter? If I refuse them, what can they possibly do on this land?”
The enemy was currently at their weakest. If the Emperor could wield his sword just once more with the full weight of the Empire’s sentiment behind him, victory would be absolute. Just one victory. That was all he needed.
Ferdinand still held the vivid memory of the moment just before his ‘Great Deception’ had begun to crumble—the moment when the National Savior Army had been on the verge of sweeping across the Empire and delivering him total triumph. For any man, the experience of success standing just within reach is impossible to forget. For Ferdinand, it was an obsession.
He summoned the Spanish ambassador and demanded the withdrawal of all Spanish troops from Imperial territory, arguing that their presence was a mere five thousand men.
“We cannot! How are we to defend the Southern Netherlands under our rule?”
“I am not touching the lands Spain originally governed,” Ferdinand countered. “I am simply telling you to stay within them.”
“That is absurd! The attacks will come from all sides, and you expect us to simply sit there?”
“That will not happen,” the Emperor declared with iron certainty. “My National Savior Army will drive every enemy from our soil.”
Thousands of Spanish troops retreated, splitting between the southern provinces—the land that would one day be called Belgium—and the Spanish mainland. They left with heavy sighs, convinced the Emperor had finally lost his mind.
Yet, to the shock of his critics, Ferdinand’s desperate gambit worked. Through his agonizing efforts, public opinion pivoted once again. Nationalist fervor reignited, and a surge of voluntary donations and enlistments flooded the National Savior Army. The Emperor’s momentum returned, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed he might truly sprint toward the finish line.
Just a little longer…
“Y-Your Majesty.”
“Elector Frederick of the Palatinate is marching south with an army of thirty thousand. Mercenaries from across the regions are joining him by the hour; their numbers are expected to swell to fifty or sixty thousand momentarily.”
If only he had been given just a little more time.
“This… this was not in the calculations,” the Emperor whispered, struggling to steady his trembling hands. “Contact every unit of the National Savior Army immediately. Tell them to defend Vienna. Now!”
He looked at his ministers, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Where did Frederick get the coin to hire so many mercenaries?”
***
“My father-in-law… he sent them.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Tell me again exactly what he said.”
“…Win. Go and win. Tear the glory of the Habsburgs into bloodied tatters and present the scraps at my feet. And, if possible…“
The envoy sent by King James paused, his mind racing as he delivered his master’s grim command. At eighty years of age, James had chosen to stir himself and intervene in the Empire’s war for a very specific reason. His own treasury was insufficient to guarantee Frederick’s total victory; additional support was mandatory. And there was only one power capable of providing it.
There was only one entity that had remained untouched by the ‘Great Deception.’ While every other nation was consumed by war and internal strife, this power had grown into a behemoth, watching the European continent with a detached, cold gaze from across the sea.
James had petitioned the Continental Covenant for aid. He wanted this war to end.
Everyone agreed that the time was ripe for a conclusion. James had merely provided a subtle nudge to ‘Him’—the Nameless One—who had been uncertain about which faction to support.
Acting as both the Lord Chancellor to King James and a faithful member of the Nameless Church, Francis Bacon had presented the argument to his Lord. The result was immediate: a flood of mercenaries within the Empire deserted their posts to flock to Frederick’s banner.
Switching employers in the middle of a campaign was usually branded as treason, but since the Emperor had already discarded the mercenaries in favor of his ‘National Savior Army,’ the soldiers felt no remorse. With every passing day, Frederick’s forces grew. The value of money is dictated by its scarcity, and in a poverty-stricken Empire, Frederick was the only man who was truly wealthy.
He had everything required to be a victor.
Having suddenly acquired tens of thousands of veteran soldiers, Frederick dismissed Bacon with a confident air. He stepped out of his tent, mounted his horse, and looked toward the horizon where the so-called National Savior Army awaited.
On the surface, an army of fifty thousand looked magnificent. But a closer inspection revealed the rot: they lacked proper supplies, training, and discipline. Frederick tilted his head in confusion. Even if Ferdinand was broke, surely he had squeezed something from the Jews.
He didn’t know that the sutlers and merchants controlled by the Continental Covenant had subtly sabotaged the supplies destined for the National Savior Army. That hidden hand would remain a secret to Frederick long after the war was over.
Regardless, the situation was perfect. The enemy was crippled, and his own strength was at its peak. Frederick laughed, his eyes fixed on the distance.
Vienna lay just beyond.
There, the self-proclaimed Emperor Ferdinand was likely huddled in prayer, hoping his pathetic army would somehow deliver Frederick to him in chains. It was a fool’s hope.
“The time is now. The Spanish have withdrawn, and the Savior Army is in disarray. This window will not open again.”
Frederick pulled his collar tight against a sudden gust of wind. “Prepare for battle.”
The command rippled through the ranks. Drums thundered, banners snapped in the breeze, and the massive host began to lurch forward. The enemy moved to meet them—musketeers, pikemen, and cavalry taking their positions in a desperate scramble.
Then, the two tides collided.
In 1642, the National Savior Army collapsed. The Protestants charged toward Vienna with the force of a tidal wave. Fortresses crumbled like sandcastles, and heavily barred gates swung open like the Red Sea parting. Wherever the victors trod, the defeated scattered to the four winds.
The seventeen-year war was over.
The populace whispered as news spread that Ferdinand, the man who had called himself the ‘German Emperor,’ had been captured. Intellectuals fretted, wondering if the new era that had just begun to bloom would be buried in the ash of defeat. What would become of the Germans? What of the cry to expel foreign power?
They soon received their answer.
***
Who was the Emperor of the Empire?
The question had become agonizingly complex since the last election. Traditionally, the Emperor was chosen by the Electors in Frankfurt or another qualified location. Seven Electors would choose the ‘King of the Romans,’ and once the elect was crowned by the Archbishop of Mainz at Frankfurt Cathedral, he was recognized as the new Emperor.
But the last election had been a disaster. Ferdinand of Inner Austria and Frederick V of the Palatinate had both claimed the crown of Bohemia—and thus the right to vote. With Catholic and Protestant Electors split between Ferdinand and Duke Carlo Emanuele of Savoy, the vote had deadlocked at four-to-four.
Ferdinand had proceeded to declare himself Ferdinand II and wage war, while the Protestants acknowledged the Duke of Savoy and branded Ferdinand a pretender.
Now, in 1642, the Duke of Savoy was dead. Similarly, ‘Ferdinand II’ had been detained the moment Vienna fell to the Protestant forces. The time had come to end the long, convoluted debate.
“No one in this room can deny it! For twelve years since the passing of His Majesty ‘Charles VI,’ the Duke of Savoy, this Empire has been without an Emperor! The pretender, Archduke Ferdinand, merely occupied the court in Vienna and played at being a ruler!”
Frederick V stood at the pulpit of Frankfurt Cathedral, his voice echoing with a fierce, triumphant energy. “I have not summoned you to ‘depose’ Ferdinand and install a new Emperor. I have summoned you to drive out a pretender and fill a throne that has long sat vacant!”
The Catholic Electors hung their heads in silence. They, or their predecessors, had been the ones to elect that ‘pretender’ fifteen years ago. Outside the cathedral, Frederick’s army stood in silent, overwhelming force; inside, watchful eyes followed their every move. They were prisoners in all but name.
Frederick raised his hand, ignoring the traditional order of the vote. The conclusion was a foregone conclusion. “I cast my vote for myself—Frederick, Elector of the Palatinate.”
One by one, the other Electors raised their hands under the cold gaze of the guards and spoke his name. Finally, the Archbishop of Mainz, the highest-ranking Elector, spoke through a choked voice. “I… I also… support Frederick, Elector of the Palatinate, as the next Emperor.”
It was unanimous.
For the first time in the eight-hundred-year history of the Empire since Charlemagne, a non-Catholic had been officially elected to the throne.
The Archbishop of Mainz moved to rise, his movements hesitant. By tradition, it was his duty to place the Imperial crown upon the head of the King of the Romans. But the idea of a Catholic Archbishop blessing a Protestant was unthinkable. As the old man trembled, Frederick reached out and pushed him back into his seat with a triumphant smirk.
“There is no need to rise. I will not be holding a coronation.”
“There is… no longer a Holy Roman Empire.”
The Archbishops blinked in confusion, looking toward the secular Electors for clarification. But those men remained silent, as if they had already been briefed on ‘something’ yet to come. Frederick threw his shoulders back and bellowed, “I am no longer the Emperor of the Romans!”
The Archbishops shrank back at the volume of his voice. The hierarchy was clear: the master of the Empire had arrived.
“I… no, We… shall rule a new Empire.”
At Frederick’s gesture, attendants hurried to prepare the altar. The princes of the Empire, their deputies, and the citizens of Frankfurt flooded into the cathedral. The Imperial crown was brought forward. Amidst the gathered throng, everyone sensed that history was being forged in that singular moment.
Frederick reached out, took the crown with his own hands, and placed it upon his head.
It was heavy and cold, yet his face was flushed with a burning ecstasy. He recalled the words his father-in-law had sent him. ‘Win. Tear the glory of the Habsburgs into bloodied tatters. And, if possible… burn every last vestige of the Habsburgs to the ground.’
To shatter the old authority, one had to embrace a new one. Following James’s meticulous guidance to the letter, Frederick roared, “Long live the German people!”
A deathly silence fell over the cathedral. Then, like Lazarus rising from the grave, a thunderous roar erupted to shatter the quiet.
The meaning behind the Emperor’s words was unmistakable. While the princes and deputies cleared their throats awkwardly, the citizens of Frankfurt threw their arms into the air, screaming, “Long live Germany!” and “Long live the German people!”
Amidst the cacophony, Frederick shouted once more. “Long live the German people! Long live victory! We hereby declare the birth of the first Emperor of the German Empire!”
His voice reached the very rafters of the cathedral, echoing in the hearts of everyone present.
German things to the Germans.
The Holy Roman Empire had fallen.
It died amidst a roar like thunder.