The sun had risen over the Reich, every one of its denizens screaming in terror, and in extension, all of Europe's due to a certain mass-transformation.

The palace in Berlin specifically was the nation's hotspot of yelling and hysteria.

While the attendants and guards alike had lost all discipline and were running around like headless chickens, with loose feathers fluttering around and all, a single upright figure casually marched towards a certain man's office with bored expressions.

He stopped at the open door.

Then wheeled.

...

"Bismarck."

...

"Yes, my liege?"

"I see you are a griffon too."

"Mhm."

...

...

"...Who'd you kill in this office?"

"I was just stretching."

...

...

...

"I'm passing those refo-"

"OVER MY DEAD BODY!"

Author's Note

He won't die of lung cancer.

'Cause uh, magic.

Since cancer cells are technically not 'us' anymore, I have taken the creative liberty to cure 'ol Fritz here of lung kafuffle.

Chaulk it up to his immune system finally recognising cancer cells as the traitorous shits they are and killing them or something.

Here's a video by a German explaining this all better: