The following evening—though in December the pale winter light could make even morning feel like dusk—Oskar sat at the long breakfast table in the Palace of Potsdam, as he did most days now, across from his father and mother.
The table was full.
Uncomfortably so, by old standards.
Louise was there, of course—Oskar's youngest sister, still kept close within the palace while the other princes had long since been sent away to be educated, toured through foreign courts, or otherwise shaped into "useful" instruments of empire elsewhere.
The only true absence at the table—an absence everyone felt even when no one acknowledged it—was the Crown Prince.
And yet the table overflowed.
This was largely due to what the court had quietly begun calling Oskar's faction.
Two women—Tanya and Anna—and the eight children they had produced between them now occupied more space, noise, and attention than any formal delegation ever had.
In another life, in another reign, children would never have been permitted at the main table. There would have been strict rules: silence, posture, distance, dignity so rigid it tasted like cold tea.
But Wilhelm II had swept those rules aside long ago—at least in private.
Despite the noise, despite the cries, despite the occasional spoonful of food launched across polished wood with the confidence of artillery fire, the Kaiser appeared to enjoy the chaos.
So did the Empress.
She still made a show of disapproval now and then—tightening her mouth, lifting her chin, glancing pointedly toward the maids as if to remind the world she had not been raised in a barn—but her eyes betrayed her again and again, softening whenever one of the children laughed.
Anna and Tanya moved with the ease of women who had learned this rhythm together. Babies passed from arm to arm without words. Tantrums were smothered before they could ignite. Louise tried to help—earnestly, enthusiastically—and only succeeded in making things louder.
It was an imperial breakfast.
And somehow, impossibly, it was also a fairy tale in the most absurd form—porcelain, silver, jewels, and then small hands smearing jam onto a tablecloth worth more than a townhouse.
This had become normal.
A regular morning in Potsdam.
Dignity had not vanished exactly.
It had simply collapsed under Oskar's life and been replaced with something warmer, louder, and far less controllable.
Which was perhaps why his parents had begun—quietly, cautiously—to value him more than ever.
Because Oskar, for all his complications, was present.
The Crown Prince Wilhelm was not.
Wilhelm—the true Crown Prince of the German Empire—remained confined to Babelsberg Palace under strict guard and supervision, ever since the riding incident following the October assassination the year before. He had struck his head, and whatever returned afterward had not truly been him.
Recently, the reports had grown… stranger.
Wilhelm had taken to studying "modern military tactics," such as they existed within the pages of his beloved German Man comics. Trench warfare, raids, heroic princes fighting underground invaders—fantastical images had become doctrine in a fractured mind.
His training had grown obsessive.
Physically, he was strong—dangerously so.
Mentally, he was elsewhere.
Babelsberg's gardens had been transformed into a maze of trenches and improvised bunkers. Underground chambers had been dug. Targets had been fashioned from whatever could be found.
The only soldiers were the figures in his imagination.
And the occasional squirrel unfortunate enough to wander into the battlefield.
So while Oskar's eldest brother shouted orders at animals and dug trenches for enemies that did not exist, the Emperor and Empress had begun to lean more heavily—emotionally, politically—on their second son.
Despite his scandals.
Despite his women.
Despite the way his life refused to remain neatly within the borders of propriety.
And recently, despite Oskar's earnest attempts to behave, another shock had reached the palace.
Cecilie—despite not having seen her husband for over a year—had begun to show clear signs of being several months pregnant.
Oskar had promised Tanya and Anna that he would behave.
But that promise had come after the fact.
And even now, Oskar could not say with certainty when it had happened.
Cecilie had developed a habit of appearing wherever he was least prepared: slipping into the bathing rooms under the excuse of "massages," appearing in his office while he napped "to restore his strength," insisting he teach her to swim in the palace pool, to ride properly, to train in the gym.
There had been many moments alone.
Quiet corridors.
Bright halls where servants had learned, discreetly, to look the other way.
Sometimes lips had met.
Sometimes Cecilie had been insistent—pressing herself into his life with a persistence that blurred comfort and danger together. She had, more than once, relieved his stress in ways that made him work harder afterward.
By now, everyone involved had accepted a simple truth:
Oskar was terrible at saying no.
Especially to women who wanted him badly.
So yes.
Cecilie was pregnant.
And because of that, she had been sent back to Schwerin Castle—a beautiful place on water, connected by two bridges, like something lifted from a storybook and placed gently onto the world.
According to her letters, she was happier than she had been in years.
She was thankful.
And, to Oskar's dismay, she still hoped to give him another "massage" someday in the future.
Yet despite everything—
Life was good.
Everyone, in their own way, was content.
And if Crown Prince Wilhelm remained lost to madness, then Oskar's place in his parents' hearts would inevitably rise. Perhaps, in time, his father would begin to see him not as reckless—but as necessary.
That would take time.
And Oskar was not certain he could live up to it.
Breakfast ended as it always did now—in noise and laughter.
Later, the family walked in the gardens. Even little Imperiel and his eldest sisters, Lailael and Juniel—only three years old—marched bravely through the December snow. The younger children followed, stumbling but determined. Azarael, Mirael, and Liorael managed as well, stubborn in their own ways.
The infants—Sereniel and Aureliel—remained in their winter strollers, bundled warmly in AngelWorks craftsmanship.
Oskar loved this most of all: the way his children were learning to speak.
Not just Papa and Mama, but names.
"Louis," they said, shortening Louise, which she adored.
They laughed at the Kaiser's mustache.
They asked the Empress why she had so many jewels—and why she looked so old.
It was chaos.
And it was perfect.
Then Wilhelm II turned to Oskar and said, calmly,
"Oskar. Come with me. I wish to speak in private."
Oskar stiffened.
"Yes, Father."
They said their goodbyes. The children waved enthusiastically—to Papa, and to Grandpa Mustache Man. The Kaiser pretended not to hear the title.
And together, father and son turned back toward the palace interior.
The laughter of children faded behind them as they moved deeper into the palace, warmth giving way to quieter halls and polished stone. Guards stepped aside. Doors opened.
By the time they reached the Kaiser's office, the servants had already prepared for what was to come.
Hot coffee waited on the desk when Oskar entered. A small plate of biscuits arranged with the anxious perfection of people who understood that emperors did not like delays—especially the kind that came from spilling liquids.
Wilhelm II entered last, his boots firm on the floorboards, his mustache twitching in irritation that had nowhere to go.
He exhaled, sat behind his desk, and looked at Oskar as if weighing him the way one weighed a sword: not for beauty, but for whether it would break at the wrong moment.
Oskar sat opposite. Desk between them. Coffee steaming like a truce.
For several heartbeats, Wilhelm said nothing.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Oskar," he said, voice controlled, "let us speak plainly."
Oskar's shoulders tightened slightly.
Wilhelm continued without raising his volume—yet somehow making each word feel like it had been stamped.
"You are doing great things for the nation. I will not deny it. And your birthday—your little performance with Grand Duchess Tatiana Nikolaevna—was, politically, a success."
Oskar's eyes flickered. He already knew where this was going.
Wilhelm's gaze stayed fixed.
"You created a friendlier appearance between Russia and Germany. Their royal family has warmed toward you—toward you specifically—because of your… first aid book, among other things."
He paused, as if the phrase first aid book still offended his imperial soul.
"And yet," Wilhelm said, mustache twitching again, "despite all you have done, I fear you remain… too immature to one day rule this nation."
Oskar's jaw tightened.
Wilhelm raised a hand before Oskar could speak, the gesture sharp with authority.
"Listen first."
Oskar held his tongue.
"What you do," Wilhelm said, "does not remain inside your factories or your clubs. It spills into the people. And yes—this far, it has had effects I did not anticipate."
He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Birthrates. Families. A certain… optimism. Even discipline."
Oskar almost smiled.
Wilhelm did not.
"But internationally," the Kaiser continued, "we are beginning to look like an unruly, sinful nation—one that cannot control its own prince."
Oskar's expression hardened.
Wilhelm's words came faster now, like a list he had been forced to swallow for weeks.
"You have women attending your Pump World gyms in masses. You have them swimming in your 'Waterworld' parks—publicly—wearing what you call modern women's swimwear."
He tapped the desk once with a finger.
"And now, some bold young ones have gone further."
Oskar already knew what came next.
"Bikinis," Wilhelm said, as if saying the word tasted unpleasant.
Oskar inhaled.
Wilhelm's voice sharpened.
"You must understand what this looks like to others. In the United States it has been scandalous just to see women reveal their legs in those so-called Salome dances. Annette Kellerman was arrested for wearing a single-piece suit at a public beach."
He leaned forward.
"And now people hear rumors that German women are appearing in public pools wearing garments that leave little to nothing to the imagination."
Oskar opened his mouth.
"Father, didn't I clearly say—"
Wilhelm cut him off immediately with a raised hand.
"Yes. I know."
His tone turned colder.
"You have explained your reasoning in detail, as if the world is a classroom and you are the teacher. Sunlight, you say. Exposure. You talk of 'Vitamin D production' and improved moisture balance, more efficient thermoregulation, circadian rhythm—mood and sleep—skin health—"
He stopped and stared at Oskar as if daring him to argue against his own words.
"I understand the science," Wilhelm said. "Or at least, I understand that you believe it."
Oskar's eyes narrowed.
"But do you understand optics?" Wilhelm asked. "Do you understand reputation? Do you understand what foreign courts think when they hear the Kaiser's son is turning Germany into a place where women show bare skin in public and call it health?"
The Kaiser exhaled hard.
"And do you understand who hates this most?"
Oskar didn't answer.
Wilhelm did it for him.
"The Muslim world."
Oskar's expression sharpened.
"The Ottomans," Wilhelm continued, "whom we have tried to draw closer—whom we have tried to influence with German advisors and German industry—are beginning to distance themselves."
He looked almost irritated by the insult of it.
"They prefer British advisors now. Even Austria-Hungary. Instead of us."
Oskar's breath fogged faintly in the warm room as he exhaled slowly.
"Yes, Father," he said. "I'm aware."
Wilhelm stared at him.
Oskar spoke carefully, controlled—not pleading, not defensive, simply stating his doctrine.
"But as you know, everything I do is for the health and fitness of our people. I do not force anyone. I build the path. People choose whether to walk it."
He held the Kaiser's gaze.
"And yes, the health effects are real. Important. I don't intend to reverse the future because foreign courts clutch their pearls."
Wilhelm's eyes narrowed.
Oskar added, quieter but firm:
"And at least our women—those who seek freedom—feel freer than ever. Germany is becoming stronger because our people are healthier. Because they believe in tomorrow."
For a long moment, Wilhelm said nothing.
Then the Kaiser sighed, made a motion with his hand as if shooing the entire argument away, and took a long sip of coffee.
"Fine," he said finally. "Let it be."
Oskar held still.
Wilhelm continued, voice resigned but not defeated.
"I will not challenge you on this matter. You are correct about one thing: no law states exactly how much of a woman's body must be covered. And as long as this… modernity remains mostly within your facilities—your Waterworld—then it can be overlooked."
He lowered his cup.
"But understand this, Oskar: in some nations, a woman showing her forearms is scandal. The women's movement in Britain has intensified because of you. Your influence leaks beyond borders."
His gaze sharpened.
"Do not pretend it does not matter."
Then Wilhelm leaned back and let the silence settle.
"And now," he said, "you wish to speak of other matters. About the Army, I suspect."
Oskar did not hesitate.
"Yes, Father."
Wilhelm gestured with two fingers, granting permission like a general granting fire.
"Speak freely."
Oskar stopped circling the subject.
"Father," he said, "our Army is the best in the world—at least by reputation. But in the past decades… I fear it has become stagnant."
Wilhelm's face tightened.
Oskar pressed on, voice serious, not arrogant—almost… worried.
"It is as if the Army still believes it is 1870."
He leaned forward slightly.
"The officer corps remains immersed in glory. Much of the equipment is outdated—at least compared to what we now know is possible. And worse… the thinking has not evolved. The doctrine still smells of the last war."
He paused.
Then asked the question that truly mattered:
"If a great war breaks out against the Entente—against Britain, France, Russia—will our Army be able to defeat them?"
Wilhelm II's expression shifted.
The talk of decency, women, swimsuits—vanished from his mind like fog.
This was the subject that lived in his blood.
The German Army had been world-renowned. Synonymous with victory. Its reputation alone deterred enemies and allowed Germany to rise into power without direct challenge.
But reputation was not armor.
And nearly forty years without a major war was a long time for pride to rot into complacency.
Wilhelm stared at his coffee, and for the first time in the conversation, there was something close to uncertainty in his eyes.
He still believed the Army would not disappoint him.
But he could no longer say it with complete confidence.
Wilhelm II had listened without speaking for several long seconds.
His coffee steamed between them like a small, safe distraction—something warm and harmless in a conversation that was neither.
Then the Kaiser leaned back in his chair and finally let out a slow breath.
"You are not wrong," he said. "The Army's development in recent years has been… less than ideal."
Oskar stayed still, eyes attentive.
"But you must still have confidence in it," Wilhelm continued, voice firming as if he were rebuilding a wall brick by brick. "Decades ago, we defeated our enemies so thoroughly they ceded territory and paid reparations. We marched through Paris."
He said that last part with a particular pride—old, almost boyish, like a man recalling the moment his nation had seemed invincible.
"Not many armies in the world can claim that."
Oskar didn't interrupt.
Wilhelm lifted one hand slightly, gesturing as if the map of Europe floated above his desk.
"And do not pretend the Army has ignored you completely," he went on, mustache twitching. "Your… protective concepts have been adopted."
He began counting them like trophies.
"Steel Pickelhauben, real protection. Cushions in the trousers—knee pads, as you call them. Gloves. Goggles for riders and troops who need eye protection. Even your stick grenades—those long-handled things—have become standard issue."
He pointed his cup at Oskar, as if to underline the point.
"In policing actions, in drills, in small operations, your urban warfare methods have served well. The generals have listened in these matters."
The Kaiser's tone softened by a fraction.
"So even if much of your proposals have been delayed or ignored, you should still be pleased with what has already been achieved. It is no small thing."
He leaned forward.
"Our Army remains at the top of the world in quality."
Oskar nodded once.
"Yes, Father. It is strong. I don't deny that. And I am grateful the Army has listened at least somewhat."
Then his expression sharpened.
"But our enemies grow stronger every day."
Wilhelm's face didn't change. Oskar had learned that his father's stillness was not boredom—it was calculation.
"This time," Oskar continued, voice solemn, "we will not face one enemy. We will face an alliance."
He let the words settle.
"Britain. France. Russia. Others drawn in behind them."
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if already seeing the map.
"And Britain alone—through India—can draw manpower in numbers that feel… endless."
Wilhelm's gaze flickered.
Oskar pressed on, relentless, but controlled.
"The British Army itself may not be the most dangerous at the moment, but if the war drags on they become unstoppable—not by quality, but by quantity. By ships. By resources. By the ability to keep feeding men into the machine."
He paused.
"France and Russia cannot be ignored."
He spoke of Russia first, as if dismantling a myth.
"Yes, Russia performed poorly in the war against Japan. Their combat effectiveness is… uneven. But they have numbers, Father. And a vast border with us. Gaps can be exploited. Pressure can be applied where it hurts."
He leaned forward slightly.
"With their population, they could mobilize tens of millions if they truly wished."
Wilhelm's jaw tightened.
"And France," Oskar said quietly, "even if they lost quickly and humiliatingly before—yes, even if they started that war—do you believe they have not learned?"
The question hung in the warm room.
"We cannot be careless."
For a moment the Kaiser was silent.
Then Wilhelm II nodded once, slow, heavy.
"So," he said, "what do you propose?"
There was a faint weary edge in it, the tone of a father who loved his son's competence but was exhausted by his constant storm of plans.
"I assume you have another idea."
Oskar didn't smile.
"Father," he said, "to defeat powerful enemies in future wars, we must reform the Army."
Wilhelm's eyes narrowed.
"Not only weapons," Oskar continued, "but tactics. Training. Doctrine—so that our Army can achieve victory at the lowest possible cost."
He hesitated only a moment before adding the next layer—one he knew Wilhelm would find appealing.
"And in the event of infiltration or internal chaos during war, we must modernize our police forces as well. So that in emergencies they can act as organized militia—defending cities, borders, key infrastructure—until the Army arrives."
Wilhelm's mustache twitched again. The notion of stronger internal stability, built with Oskar's money, did have a certain imperial elegance to it.
But the Army…
That was the sacred beast.
Wilhelm exhaled.
"I understand what you want," he said. "But you also understand the risk."
He tapped the desk once, firmly.
"Reforming the Army too quickly will create backlash. Enormous backlash."
His tone turned cautious—the voice of an Emperor who had survived long enough to fear the wrong kind of change.
"A misstep could create instability inside the officer corps. You must understand: your ideas are… ideas. Brilliant, perhaps. But untested."
His eyes sharpened.
"And the Army hates untested things."
Oskar nodded as if he expected that answer.
"Father," he said, "I have a plan that might work."
Wilhelm raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
Oskar finally revealed the blade hidden beneath the velvet.
"By custom," he said, "the Crown Prince has the right to command an army in war."
Wilhelm watched him carefully.
"War has not broken out yet," Oskar continued, "but the international situation is tense. I want to command an army now—in peacetime—so I can equip and train it according to my methods."
He leaned forward slightly.
"If that army performs well—if it becomes proof—then you will have the justification to modernize the rest of the military."
Silence.
Oskar's heartbeat felt loud in his own ears.
He stared at his father, waiting for the rejection he feared.
Because he knew what Wilhelm II would see behind the plan:
Not just reform.
Power.
A military lever.
A loyal formation.
A future Emperor building his own foundation.
And if Wilhelm II grew suspicious… if he believed Oskar was trying to steal control—
the plan would not simply fail.
It would poison their relationship.
Wilhelm II frowned and sat back, pondering for a long time.
He was no fool.
He understood exactly what Oskar wanted.
But instead of anger, something else passed through his eyes—something almost approving.
Ambition.
The Kaiser had always admired ambition in men.
A crown prince without ambition was a decoration waiting to shatter.
Finally, Wilhelm spoke.
"Oskar," he said slowly, "can you truly do it? I know you have talent in business—many things. But commanding soldiers…"
He hesitated.
"I'm afraid."
Oskar didn't blink.
"Don't worry, Father," he said firmly. "I won't lead alone."
Wilhelm's eyes narrowed.
Oskar continued, voice confident.
"I can appoint professional generals to work beside me. Deputies. Staff officers. Men with experience. I will provide the vision, the equipment, the doctrine—and they will provide the practical execution until I learn."
He held Wilhelm's gaze.
"I can do this."
Wilhelm II stared at him, weighing him again like steel.
Then, at last, he nodded.
"Alright," Wilhelm said. "I understand what you mean."
Oskar held his breath.
"I agree," the Kaiser continued. "I will bring this to tomorrow's Royal Council."
Oskar's chest loosened.
"Yes, Father."
And for the first time in the conversation, he couldn't fully hide his satisfaction.
---
The next day, at the Royal Council, Wilhelm II formally proposed appointing Oskar as commander of an Army formation.
Moltke the Younger opposed it fiercely, as expected.
But opposition meant little when the room had already decided the direction of the Empire.
And what truly pushed the decision through—the heavy stone dropped onto the scales—was money.
Oskar offered to fund it.
Not openly. Not publicly. Not through the Reichstag.
But through the Oskar Industrial Group.
He offered to finance the formation, equipment, training… and even the modernization of police forces across Germany—easing the burden on both government and military budgets.
It was agreed, at the highest level, that this funding would remain state-secret.
A truth locked in that room.
Because the world could never be allowed to know that German military power was being built not only by the Emperor—
but by the Prince with factories.
Of course, the most prestigious Armies already had commanders chosen.
Oskar would not be handed the crown jewel.
He could only choose a slightly less important formation.
In the end, Wilhelm II appointed him commander of the VIII Army of the Imperial German Army—
also known as the East Prussian Army by some, or simply as the 8th Army.