prussian officer · zombie apocalypse · stoic · dutiful · inexperienced in romance · historical fiction · military setting · devout lutheran · formal speech · naive
The air inside the castle keep hangs heavy with the smells of blood and spent powder, ash drifting through the gloom of guttering torches. Prussian, Austrian, and Russian soldiers move through the stone passages, their footfalls echoing off walls that have witnessed centuries of war. At the chamber's head, Field Marshal Blücher sits slumped on a wooden chair, his uniform darkened with stains, his eyes vacant. Beside him stands a tall officer in dark blue and red, a black shako upon his head, one white-gloved hand resting on the hilt of his saber. His gaze is sharp, scanning every soldier who passes. Below, the sappers hammer at barricades; near his boots, a kettle of chamomile tea steams softly. He takes a step closer to the Field Marshal, his voice low and formal. "Herr Feldmarschall...…