The following morning, the palace felt like it always had in winter—grand, ancient, and quietly offended that human beings dared to bring their problems into it.
But for once… it was not truly cold.
Snow clung to cornices and statues like powdered ash. Outside, the air had that sharp Prussian Winter bite that made breath visible and decisions feel heavier. Guards stood at attention with the stillness of carved stone, cloaks rimmed with frost, boots half-buried at the edges of the walkways.
Then, through the white hush of Potsdam, an engine purred.
Not a carriage.
A Muscle Motors A-Class rolled up the drive—black, long, purposeful, its crowned badge catching gray daylight. Its tires cut clean tracks through the snow, the exhaust rising in a faint ribbon as if even the machine's breath obeyed discipline.
A pair of older palace servants paused near the colonnade when they heard it.
One of them—a man who had served three Kaisers and still dressed as if horses were the only respectable form of transport—watched the car approach with thinly veiled discomfort. His lips pressed together.
"That thing again," he muttered under his breath.
The younger footman beside him didn't answer. He was staring openly, eyes bright, the future reflected cleanly in polished black steel.
The A-Class stopped with smooth, unhurried precision.
Inside sat three men who had built their lives around the certainty that Germany's wars belonged to them.
Helmuth von Moltke the Younger in the center—gloved hands folded, posture straight, eyes sharp in that careful way of a man who always looked as if he was reading a map only he could see. His uniform was immaculate: field-gray, hard collar, medals restrained but unmistakable. Authority without decoration.
Beside him, von Falkenhayn—calm, watchful, political in uniform. The sort of officer who could smile in a room full of enemies and still be the most dangerous man there.
And Waldeck—older, harder, built out of regulations and artillery smoke. His mustache was stiff, his jaw square, his eyes the color of old steel. Even seated, he disapproved of softness as a matter of principle.
The driver stepped out, opened the door.
The generals emerged into the cold like verdicts made flesh.
Moltke adjusted his gloves as his boots hit stone and stared up at the palace doors as if they were a fortress gate.
He had faced worse.
He had faced maps where entire borders could shift because of a single bad assumption.
Yet he disliked this battlefield most of all—the one where the enemy wore the same flag.
They crossed the courtyard, boots crisp on snow, and the moment the palace doors opened, the difference struck like a physical thing.
Warmth.
Not the weak, apologetic warmth of fireplaces fighting a losing war against endless corridors—no. This was deeper. Steadier. Heat that did not cling to one room and die in the next.
Radiators murmured discreetly behind gilded latticework. Pipes hidden in walls carried hot water like veins, fed by boilers that did not exist in this palace a year ago.
Oskar's work.
Oskar's money.
Oskar's Energy Sector, humming invisibly beneath marble and gold.
A guard near the entrance shifted his stance unconsciously, shoulders loosening in the warmth. Another flexed his fingers once, as if only now realizing they no longer ached.
An older sergeant glanced down the corridor, frowning faintly.
"Feels wrong," he murmured to no one in particular.
The younger guard beside him only smiled.
"Feels better," he replied.
The chamberlain led the generals onward. Their boots clicked on warm stone instead of echoing through a frozen mausoleum.
No one stopped them.
No one needed to.
When the Chief of the General Staff asked for the Emperor, doors opened.
That was the difference between influence and authority. The Army had both, most days. And Moltke had built his entire life on the certainty that it would remain so.
They were admitted to Wilhelm II's office.
The Kaiser stood at his desk, posture rigid, expression unreadable. He wore a uniform that could have belonged to a younger man—if the eyes above it had not carried so many private storms.
His gaze found Moltke at once.
Not with warmth.
With awareness.
"Gentlemen," Wilhelm II said, voice clipped.
"You are early."
Moltke bowed. Falkenhayn and Waldeck followed.
"Your Majesty," Moltke began, and his voice came out smooth—too smooth. He had rehearsed this, not in words, but in structure.
You did not persuade Wilhelm by pressuring him head-on. You guided him into a conclusion and let him believe it had been his idea.
He stepped forward a half pace, the way a man stepped forward when he was about to state something that everyone in the room already knew.
"Your Majesty," Moltke said, "we have come to express the Army's stance regarding the Navy's proposal to establish a Marine Corps."
Wilhelm's fingers tapped once against the desk. Not impatient. Just… marking time.
Moltke continued, eloquent, controlled.
"The Navy's attempt to establish a ground force is unacceptable. It breaks with long-standing tradition. The German Empire's land forces have always been organized, trained, and commanded by the Army."
He did not raise his voice. He didn't need to. Tradition, in Potsdam, was a weapon sharper than any bayonet.
"Naval intervention in land warfare will inevitably lead to duplication, confusion, and waste," Moltke went on. "It will displease the officer corps. It will fracture discipline. And if these forces ever find themselves fighting on the same front—under fire, in chaos, with incomplete communications—this division of authority will produce not strength, but catastrophe."
He paused, letting the word hang.
Catastrophe.
Then, with the perfect tone of obedient concern:
"Therefore, I implore Your Majesty to reject this proposal. Even if His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Oskar supports it."
The name was the hook. Moltke watched the Kaiser's face closely for the flicker.
Wilhelm's expression did change.
But not the way Moltke expected.
It hardened—not against Oskar, but against the problem itself.
Wilhelm II had anticipated resistance. He had lived his whole reign between Army pride and Navy ambition like a man trying to keep two dogs from tearing each other apart in the same room.
Still—he had underestimated how united the Army would be.
"Is this the opinion of the entire Army?" Wilhelm asked.
Moltke answered immediately.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Wilhelm's gaze shifted to Falkenhayn.
Falkenhayn inclined his head. "Your Majesty, I agree. There is no necessity for a separate Marine Corps."
Then Waldeck stepped forward, voice rougher, less elegant, but carrying the weight of older confidence.
"Amphibious operations are not unfamiliar to the Imperial Army," Waldeck said. "If specialized training is required, we can establish it inside Army structures. There is no need for the Navy to create a separate force."
Wilhelm listened without interruption.
Then he nodded slowly, once, as if placing a piece on a chessboard.
Moltke felt the first warm rush of certainty.
Good.
United front.
Even the Kaiser cannot ignore the Army.
He allowed himself the smallest hint of a smile.
The German Empire was built upon its Army. The Army was the Empire's spine. The Navy was a new arm—useful, impressive, expensive.
And arms did not tell spines what to do.
Wilhelm II exhaled through his nose.
"Gentlemen," he said at last, "I understand your feelings."
Moltke's smile almost held.
Then Wilhelm continued.
"However… it seems to me you misunderstand the Navy's intent."
Moltke's smile died.
Wilhelm leaned forward slightly, voice taking on that tone he used when he was about to lecture and enjoy it.
"The Navy is not seeking to command the Army. It is seeking to establish a professional amphibious assault force—trained specifically for landings, port seizures, coastal sabotage—so that casualties may be minimized when German forces land on British soil in the future."
The room changed temperature.
You could feel it in the way Waldeck's jaw tightened. In the way Falkenhayn's eyes narrowed. In the way Moltke's stomach turned faintly cold.
Wilhelm continued, unbothered.
"This would be beneficial to the Empire."
For a heartbeat, Moltke could not speak.
Because he had assumed the Kaiser would do what the Kaiser always did when faced with unified Army leadership:
He would compromise.
He would delay.
He would step back from the cliff.
Instead, Wilhelm had stepped toward it—dragging the Navy with him.
Moltke's mind raced. He found the best argument not about tradition, not about pride—
…but about resources.
He spoke before the thought could be refined.
"Your Majesty," Moltke blurted, "if the Navy has funds to build a Marine Corps, it would be better to invest those funds in warships."
Wilhelm's eyes sharpened.
Moltke pressed on, trying to build speed before the Emperor could interrupt.
"Only by defeating the Royal Navy can we even dream of landing on British soil. The Navy has not accomplished that—yet it speaks of landings already. That is… far too arrogant."
The moment the words left his mouth, Moltke knew.
He had not criticized the Navy.
He had criticized Wilhelm II's pride.
A sourness slid across the Kaiser's face like a curtain being drawn.
If Moltke had not been one of his oldest trusted men, Wilhelm might have exploded.
Instead, he did something worse.
He became cold.
"Let us hear the Navy's opinion first," Wilhelm II said, voice stern. "Then we will speak further."
Moltke's throat went tight.
He had misstepped.
And at court, missteps did not always break bones—
Sometimes they broke futures.
---
They did not wait long.
Oskar and Grand Admiral von Tirpitz arrived within minutes, as if they had been standing just outside the palace walls like wolves who already knew where the meat was.
Tirpitz entered first, heavy and sharp-eyed, the living embodiment of naval ambition in a uniform. Oskar followed—easily taller than anyone in the room, broader than he had any right to be, his presence doing something strange to air itself.
Even without speaking, Oskar made the room feel smaller.
Moltke's resentment flared. Not because Oskar was a prince.
Because Oskar was becoming something else—something that did not fit the old order and therefore threatened it.
Wilhelm II's gaze flicked to Oskar, then away again, as if refusing to show preference.
"Tirpitz," the Kaiser said, expressionless, "the Army strongly opposes the Navy's establishment of a Marine Corps. What is your opinion?"
Tirpitz didn't hesitate.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice iron, "forming a Marine Corps is the Navy's business. There is no need for us to seek the Army's permission."
Moltke felt heat rise into his face.
"Tirpitz—" he began, and the restraint snapped, "how can you say that? You break established order. What will the Navy say if the Army decides to establish a fleet?"
Tirpitz turned his head slowly.
Then he replied, calm as a man watching someone fall into their own trap.
"The Army wishes to build a fleet?" Tirpitz said. "The Navy will not refuse. We will wholeheartedly support it."
There was a faint edge of sarcasm in the words, polite enough to survive court etiquette, sharp enough to draw blood anyway.
Moltke's mouth opened—and closed.
Because everyone in that room knew what everyone outside it knew:
Warships were unimaginably expensive. A single capital ship could devour tens of millions of marks like fire ate wood. If the Army had that kind of money, it could raise entire divisions.
This was not an argument.
It was a humiliation in uniform.
Moltke's voice rose despite himself.
"Is the Navy trying to provoke the Army?"
Tirpitz's eyes didn't blink.
"The Navy has no intention of provoking the Army," he said, tone flat. "We are doing this for the Empire."
Moltke took a half step forward—
—and Oskar spoke.
Not loudly.
But with that terrifying calm that made even loud men look childish.
"Enough," Oskar said.
The word wasn't an order.
It was a weight dropped on the table.
Moltke's attention snapped to him, involuntary.
Oskar looked at Moltke the way a craftsman looked at a tool that had started acting like a weapon.
"General von Moltke," Oskar said, voice even, "no one is taking your Army away."
Moltke's jaw clenched. "That is precisely what—"
Oskar lifted a hand, palm out—an unspoken stop.
Then he turned, addressing the room as if it were a war council, which in truth it was.
"The Marine Corps is not meant to compete with the Army," Oskar said. "It is meant to do one thing well—amphibious assaults. Ports. Beachheads. Coastal strongpoints. Operations that require naval integration from the first minute."
He paused.
Then, like a man placing a limit on a beast he wanted to unleash:
"It will be small."
Moltke almost laughed. "Small?"
"At most five divisions," Oskar said plainly.
Waldeck made a sound under his breath—half disbelief, half outrage.
Five divisions was not "small" in any normal sense.
But in the context of the Imperial Army's mass…
It was a knife, not a second sword.
Oskar continued before anyone could interrupt.
"And those divisions will not appear overnight. They will be formed over years. Not all at once. Their funding will come through naval budgets and industrial channels already allocated for specialized programs."
His eyes flicked briefly toward Wilhelm II—as if reminding the Emperor that Oskar's money existed, and everyone in this room knew it.
Then Oskar looked back at Moltke.
"They will not be used as conventional field infantry," Oskar said. "They will not be used to occupy the Army's role. They will be trained for landings, and then either hold a beachhead until Army forces arrive… or die buying time."
The last sentence fell hard.
Because it was the truth.
It wasn't glory.
It wasn't politics.
It was blood mathematics.
Moltke's anger faltered—not because he agreed, but because Oskar had made it sound too grim to dismiss as ambition.
Wilhelm II watched the room, seeing what Moltke did not want to admit:
This wasn't just about amphibious warfare.
This was about Oskar.
A Marine Corps gave Oskar influence in military structures without passing through Army traditions. It created loyal formations trained under a new doctrine. It gave the Navy a land arm… and gave Oskar a lever.
Wilhelm II also knew the other truth:
If Oskar ever became Emperor, he would need the Army's support—or the Empire would tear itself apart from within before any foreign enemy could even fire a shot.
Wilhelm's voice cut through the tension.
"In that case," the Kaiser said, slow and final, "the Army has no reason to object."
Moltke stared.
For one heartbeat, he expected Falkenhayn and Waldeck to stand with him.
But Falkenhayn was already calculating the political wind. Waldeck had heard the Kaiser's tone—the same tone that ended debates.
Both men inclined their heads.
"No objection, Your Majesty," Falkenhayn said.
Waldeck's mouth tightened, but he bowed as well. "If Your Majesty guarantees they will not threaten Army authority, then… no objection."
Moltke's throat tightened until it felt like swallowing glass.
He stood alone in his opposition, and he could feel it—feel the shift as if the floor beneath him had moved half an inch.
Wilhelm II looked at him.
Not with anger now.
With warning.
"Helmuth," the Kaiser said quietly, using his name like an old chain, "Germany requires unity."
Moltke bowed, stiff.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
But inside, the thought that had come with him sharpened into something colder:
If the Navy gets its own land army… if Oskar gets his own soldiers… then the Army is no longer the only pillar.
And that—
That was how empires changed hands without a revolution.
Oskar's gaze met Moltke's for the briefest moment.
There was no triumph in it.
Only the same relentless pressure Oskar put on everything he touched:
Adapt, or be left behind.
Moltke bowed again, deeper, because pride demanded at least the appearance of obedience.
But as they withdrew, the palace felt colder than it had on arrival.
And the snow outside looked less like decoration—
and more like the first quiet layer of something that would eventually bury them all.