By the time Oskar's letter and Karl's check were on their way toward the Kaiser's desk, the author of all this chaos had finally dragged himself back to the Neues Palais.
His goal was simple: fix his "stinky situation" before anyone important noticed that the Fifth Prince of Prussia currently smelled less like royalty and more like something you scraped off a boot.
He did not make it.
Oskar had spent most of the past year dodging family dinners with a miraculous variety of illnesses—migraines, stomach cramps, a mysterious "nerve fatigue" he'd once overheard in a novel. If there was a banquet, he was coughing in bed. If there was a concert, he had chills. If there was a formal photograph, he had "light sensitivity."
The result was that he had become, in practice, the forgotten prince.
The "odd one."
The one people remembered when they needed a full list of names and then said, "Oh yes, him."
Which was why this was the very first time he and the Crown Prince had met properly, face to face, in a bright, empty corridor with nowhere to run.
Halfway down one of the long marble hallways, he turned a corner—and almost walked straight into Wilhelm.
Not Wilhelm II, Emperor and King of Prussia.
The other Wilhelm.
The heir.
The Crown Prince came striding toward him with the relaxed confidence of a man who had never once pretended to be sick to avoid his own father. His uniform looked like a recruiting poster: tunic perfectly pressed, boots polished to a mirror, sword belt sitting just so. His hair was neatly groomed, his mustache shaped, medals lined up on his chest like obedient little soldiers.
For a second, both brothers just stared.
In Wilhelm's memory, Oskar had always been the pale, slightly soft younger son—nervous, forgettable, sickly, always coughing at the edge of family photographs.
This… creature… in front of him was not that.
Oskar now stood almost a full head taller than the Crown Prince. Broad shoulders stretched the seams of his field-gray tunic. The fabric across his chest and upper arms was pulled so tight that buttons lived in constant fear. His neck looked like it had been carved from oak. Even under the rumpled wool, he had the unmistakable outline of a man who could pick up another man and carry him like luggage.
Wilhelm had spent his whole life in uniform, had fenced, ridden, drilled. He was in excellent shape for an aristocrat.
Standing in front of Oskar, he felt… small.
And the worst part?
The idiot looked like this completely by accident.
The moment Oskar's personal smell cloud hit him, Wilhelm's brief flicker of admiration died a quick and horrible death.
He actually recoiled, then stopped dead, pinched his nose between two fingers, and stared.
It was impressive, in a way.
Oskar's uniform had clearly started life as a fine, custom-tailored Prussian tunic. Now it looked like it had fought three campaigns and lost all of them.
There were dark sweat stains eaten into the cloth at the collar and under the arms, old coal-smudges from trains, something that might have been dried mud or food on one sleeve, and a small rip at the shoulder mended hastily with thread that didn't match.
The fabric clung to him in places like it had been glued to his skin and refused to let go.
His boots were caked with dried mud and something suspiciously green from Berlin's streets. His blond hair, which ought to have given him a noble, heroic look, had been pushed back with his fingers so many times it was now a greasy, chaotic wave, half stuck to his forehead, half trying to escape in every direction.
His face was handsome in a way that would have made painters sigh, but right now it carried a faint sheen of sweat and the weary look of a man who had slept in that same uniform more than once.
He looked, Wilhelm thought, like a homeless war veteran cosplaying as a prince.
Except he was sixteen, almost seventeen if he remember correctly.
"Um Himmels willen," Wilhelm said slowly, the words leaking out before he could stop them, "what sewage ditch have you been wallowing in? You smell like waste water, and you look even worse."
Oskar caught maybe three words: Heaven, water, smell.
The rest was fast, precise, 1904-court German, the kind of language his online courses had never prepared him for. To his ears it sounded like someone playing the German language on fast-forward with extra sarcasm.
He forced his face into the cold-prince mask he'd practiced in the mirror and tried not to look like a dog caught rolling in garbage.
His brain, meanwhile, was busy screaming:
He's shorter than me. I'm taller than the Crown Prince. When did that happen? Oh God, stand straight. Don't talk. No, you have to talk. Don't talk.
Wilhelm closed the remaining distance in three long strides and stepped directly in front of him, one polished boot planted like he was blocking a cavalry charge. The smell up close was even worse.
He jabbed a finger into Oskar's chest.
"You are an embarrassment to our house," the Crown Prince snapped. "Do you even understand that? Did you hit your head so hard that it knocked the sense out of you? What is wrong with you, Oskar? Answer me."
Oskar heard embarrassment, head, wrong, and answer.
That was enough.
He understood the tone perfectly.
Insult.
Humiliation prickled up the back of his neck. Not because Wilhelm was physically frightening—he wasn't. Oskar could feel, even now, how easy it would be to grab that accusing finger, twist, and—
No. Bad idea. Very bad idea.
What actually scared him was the social part. The words. The expectations. The invisible exam he was always failing.
Every instinct told him to drop his eyes and mutter apologies in mangled German until the danger passed.
But he was a prince now.
Princes didn't cower. Princes had cool, sharp, devastating lines in movies and anime. Princes had one sentence that silenced the room and made the camera zoom in.
He opened his mouth.
What he wanted to say was something like:
> "Careful, big trees catch more wind. Small men can grow."
A subtle warning: don't underestimate the low-ranked brother, or one day he might be standing where you stand.
What came out was… not that.
"Ah, yes, my man," Oskar said gravely, "but sometimes small mouse has fork in hand. So give mouse grass is good plan, yes, my man. Or no—my bro. Brother. Yes, my man. So… think very big and make small decisions. My man. Good day. Happy sunny day."
He nodded with all the dignity of a man who had just delivered a legendary proverb, turned his massive, filthy back on the heir to the throne, and strode off down the corridor.
Inside, he was dying.
What the hell did I just say? Mouse? Fork? Why fork? Why grass? There was no grass in that metaphor, brain, what are you doing?
But from the outside, with his new height, his broad shoulders, and his stiff, disciplined officer's walk, it probably looked… weirdly confident. Arrogant, even. Like a man too important to explain his own madness.
He didn't dare glance back.
He decided that meant he had won.
Behind him, the Crown Prince stood frozen, hand still half-raised, eyes wide.
He watched the filthy giant march away—muddy boots squeaking faintly on marble, sweat-glued uniform straining over a back that now looked much broader than Wilhelm's own.
Jealousy stabbed him in a place he did not care to name.
For a heartbeat he saw not an idiot, but a potential rival: taller, stronger, with the same blond hair and blue eyes the newspapers loved.
Then the stench hit him again and the moment passed.
By the time Oskar reached the end of the hallway, Wilhelm still hadn't moved.
He just stared after his gigantic, smelly little brother, face cycling between confusion, secondhand shame, and rising fury.
"Eine… Maus mit einer Gabel?" he muttered at last. "What is wrong with that idiot?"
The words echoed off marble and gilded moldings.
He turned on his heel with parade-ground precision and stalked off toward more important matters—anything that did not involve decoding the battlefield philosophy of a sewage-scented bodybuilder who had somehow grown taller than the Crown Prince while nobody was looking.
Oskar made it back to his suite without further human contact, slammed the door, and leaned against it.
His hands were still shaking.
"Mouse with fork," he muttered in Chinese. "Great job, Zhan Ge. Truly the tongue of a prince."
The rooms felt emptier than usual without Karl. His dwarf-attendant, translator, and damage-control expert was off handling "business" at the palace – which in practice meant smoothing over Oskar's latest insanity and delivering money.
Without Karl, Oskar felt exposed. Unguarded.
If anyone came to yell at him now, there was no one to stand politely between them and his catastrophic German.
So he did what he always did when his brain overheated: he sat at his desk, opened his diary, and started scribbling.
First he practiced German numbers, muttering them like battlefield commands.
"Eins… zwei… drei… vier… jawohl, my man…"
Then came simple phrases:
Guten Morgen.
Guten Tag.
Ich bin ein Prinz.
Ich bin sehr… äh… sauber?
(I am very… uh… clean?)
He tried to copy whole sentences from newspapers, his handwriting wobbling violently between Chinese stroke order and wounded Gothic script. Some letters looked like they were trying to escape the page.
And between every few tortured lines of grammar, the doodles began.
Chaos doodles. Ambition doodles. Oskar doodles.
A battleship… with lasers.
A computer the size of a piano with "SUPER MACHINE 3000" written on it.
A gym called PUMP WORLD with little stick figures doing curls under the slogan RAISE IRON, MY MAN!
A mech warrior waving a German flag and yelling something like "JA JAWOHL!" in a speech bubble.
A skyscraper with GERMAN WELFARE LOTTERY written vertically like a god-tier corporate empire.
Then came a full-page masterpiece:
The United Empires of Earth — Everyone Happy Edition
He drew Britain, France, Russia, America, and China as cheerful little cartoon men sitting in a giant conference hall. Germany stood at the front like a benevolent teacher, smiling and holding a big pointer stick that said PEACE, MY MANS.
Every country had a speech bubble saying wholesome things like:
"Let's all get along!"
"No more wars!"
"Who wants schnitzel?"
And at the bottom, in bold shaky handwriting:
WORLD PEACE BY 1910 — VERY GOOD PLAN
Below that, he drew the world's largest statue:
Karl the Dwarf, 300 meters tall, holding a glowing orb and pointing dramatically at the sky like he was saying:
"WE ARE GOING TO THE MOON, BABY!"
Oskar leaned back, admiring the vision.
"Ahh yes," he muttered proudly. "Very good inventions. Germany will be… extremely strong."
Then he paused, frowned at the German sentence he had tried to copy:
Die wirtschaftliche Lage des Deutschen Kaiserreichs—
He stared at the words like they personally offended him.
"…What the hell is a 'Lage,' my man?" he whispered.
He erased half the sentence, gave up, and drew himself riding a giant eagle into battle instead.
Peaceful battle, of course.
Very peaceful.
At some point, a servant had knocked timidly, placed a tray outside his door, and fled.
The usual pattern.
Tonight, though, even the guards posted near his suite had quietly drifted farther down the corridor, inventing other duties. Oskar's smell seeped through gaps and under the door like chemical warfare, slowly clearing a five-meter radius of human life.
Time slipped by. The afternoon dimmed; gas lamps in the corridor hissed to life.
Eventually his nose reminded him of reality.
He smelled… weaponized.
Even the food tray left outside the door had lost the battle. The aroma of roasted meat and good sauce never reached him; his own body odor was a stronger army.
He pushed the diary away and stood up.
Enough.
It wasn't that he liked being filthy. He knew he stank. Everybody knew he stank. Even the gardeners had started giving him wary looks, like they were afraid he'd fertilize the rose beds by standing too close.
The problem was the showers.
In his first life, the shower in his Shanghai apartment had been voice-controlled. Say "hot water" and the system did the rest. In Ukraine, during the war, you didn't have showers. You had rivers, melted snow, or a plastic bottle and a prayer.
Here?
Here there were taps and knobs and pipes that looked like they wanted a mechanical engineering degree and a Latin prayer before they produced anything.
The first time he'd tried to ask a servant how it worked, the words had jammed in his throat. What kind of prince asked his maid:
"Excuse me, my man, how to do water?"
So he'd chosen the easier humiliation:
At night, when it was dark and most eyes were elsewhere, he climbed out his window, crept through the park, and swam in the lake like a very large, very confused otter.
It wasn't perfect, but it was water, and it meant he didn't have to admit he didn't know how to work a faucet.
Tonight would be the same.
"Operation: Ninja Bath," he muttered.
He grabbed a fresh set of field-gray clothes from the chair by his bed – new uniform, new shirt, new underwear, all folded lovingly by some poor maid who had definitely gagged while doing it.
Then he dragged his blankets off the bed and started knotting them together, testing the strength of each knot with a soldier's practicality. The makeshift rope snaked across the floor toward the open window.
Cold air flowed in, bringing with it the scent of wet grass, distant chimneys, and a hint of river.
Below, the park spread out in shadow: gravel paths, clipped lawns, dark tree lines. Somewhere beyond them, the black sheen of water waited.
Oskar swung one leg over the sill, then the other, clinging to the stone frame with the casual confidence of a man who had fallen out of enough vehicles that heights no longer impressed him.
"Small mouse," he muttered, grinning to himself. "Big fork."
He was just reaching for the blanket rope when the door to his suite burst open without so much as a knock.
"Eure Hoheit, wo sind Ihre Wachen—?!"
The familiar sharp voice cut off in mid-syllable.
Oskar froze on the windowsill, half in, half out, like an oversized, badly dressed bird trying to escape its cage.
He turned his head.
The small blonde maid from the corridor stood in the doorway, blue eyes wide. Her gaze flicked from the empty guard post outside, to the untouched dinner tray on the floor, to the knotted bedsheets trailing out the window.
Her face went white.
"Your Highness!" she gasped, switching to slower, clearer German. "Where are your guards? Why is your food in the hall? And what are you doing on the window?"
Then the obvious conclusion hit her like artillery.
She dropped the towel bundle she was holding and ran at him.
"No, Your Highness, get away from there! You'll hurt yourself! Don't do it!"
Oskar sat there on the ledge, gripping the stone frame, blanket rope dangling out into the dark. He stared in disbelief as this small western woman sprinted toward him with genuine panic in her eyes, as if he were about to throw himself off a tower instead of go take a secret idiot-bath.
He was so stunned he could only manage one word.
"My man?"
She didn't slow down.
For someone so small, she hit like a torpedo. She grabbed the front of his ruined tunic with both hands and yanked. He hadn't expected the force, and his balance was already half-committed to the outside world.
He slid back into the room, boots scraping, and went down hard on his back, legs still half raised against the wall beneath the window.
The maid stumbled with him and ended up landing squarely on his chest.
For a second they stayed like that — him flat on the floor, legs propped up, her sprawled over him, palms braced against his shoulders, breath coming fast.
Up close, she smelled like soap and starch and a faint sweetness. He smelled like… whatever the opposite of that was.
She looked down at him with those huge, tear-bright blue eyes and said, slightly out of breath:
"No, Your Highness, I am not a man. I am a woman. And I am Tanya, alright?"
She jabbed a small finger lightly against his chest, almost mimicking the Crown Prince without realizing it.
"Please, Your Highness… we all know you hit your head a year ago, and something definitely changed. But if there is anything you need, just tell me. I am right here. The other servants and I — we've been talking. We are worried about you."
She swallowed, cheeks flushing a little at her own boldness.
"If you have lost your memories or something, then just say so. I, or the others, we will do our best to help you."
For a moment, Oskar's brain completely derailed.
Not because of the German. He actually understood most of that.
Because someone had just volunteered to help him.
Freely.
And that someone was:
– short
– blonde
– blue-eyed
– soft where she was pressed against him
– and clearly very, very concerned about a man who was currently lying on the floor with a blanket rope and a smell that could dissolve paint.
He felt his face heat.
He gently took her by the shoulders — careful, so careful, because he could move her like a child — and set her aside, then sat up.
He didn't want to lie. He also didn't want to confess, "I climbed out the window to bathe secretly because I can't use knobs."
Social shame and personal cowardice fought for a few seconds.
Honesty won by one point.
"I am alright, my… woman," he said slowly. "I am just… struggling to use the shower. You know."
Tanya blinked.
Then her expression went through several stages: confusion, horror, realization, and the kind of pity usually reserved for lost puppies.
"Wait," she said carefully, "so you don't know how to use the shower? That is why you don't bathe? No… you can't be serious…"
Oskar's ears burned.
He bowed his head.
"I have shamed my family," he muttered.
Tanya's eyes widened. She suddenly realized how her words must have sounded.
"No, no — Your Highness!" she said quickly, sliding closer and wrapping her arms around him from behind in an impulsive hug, cheek pressed briefly to his back through the filthy fabric. "I didn't mean it like that. It's alright. Really."
She hesitated, then kept going, her voice softer.
"Besides… I and the others, we actually like you like this. Not the smell," she added hurriedly, "but — the way you treat us. The old you would have been furious if I barged in without knocking. But now…"
She gestured around with one hand.
"Now you do not seem to mind. You speak to us. You… thank people. You are kinder. And you are…" Her cheeks reddened. "…very strong. Very hard-working. Very…"
She searched for the right word in her own head and found something between honest and shameless.
"…handsome," she finished quietly.
Oskar stared at the floorboards.
He wasn't sure what half of that meant in 1904 court-culture terms, but he understood kind, strong, handsome. It was… a good feeling. Warm and awkward and dangerous.
Having another person he could trust, even a little, would be good. Karl couldn't do everything.
So he nodded, still not looking at her.
"Alright," he said solemnly. "I accept your… challenge."
Tanya huffed a tiny laugh and shook her head.
"No, Your Highness. You accept my offer, not challenge. You accept my offer, and I accept you, alright? Just say 'alright.'"
He scratched his messy blond hair.
"Oh. Alright, my woman."
Tanya's face went bright pink. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, then decided she liked the sound of it more than she should.
"Yes," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I am… your woman. I mean — I am your maid. Your personal maid. Just me."
She cleared her throat and stood, smoothing her apron, switching back into practical mode with visible effort — though the tips of her ears stayed red.
"Come, Your Highness. Let me show you the bathroom properly. No windows involved."
For the first time in this life, Oskar let someone lead him somewhere.
Tanya guided him down the short hallway to the small private bathroom attached to his suite. The room looked as intimidating as ever — tiled floor, brass pipes twisting like mechanical snakes, a gleaming porcelain tub, a little shelf crowded with soaps, combs, and brushes whose purposes he still didn't fully understand.
Tanya closed the door gently behind them.
"Alright, Your Highness," she said softly, "let me show you everything properly."
She moved quickly but gracefully, stepping from one fixture to the next with the confidence of someone who had done this since childhood.
"This lever controls the boiler," she said, flipping it with a practiced motion. "It heats the water. And these two are the taps — hot, heiß, on the left… cold, kalt, on the right."
She turned them, and water began to thunder into the tub. Steam rose slowly, filling the room with warmth.
Oskar watched her.
Not the taps — her.
Her small hands, sure and steady.
Her golden hair shifting as she leaned forward.
Her soft voice as she explained everything with more enthusiasm than any servant had ever shown him.
Her cute face glowing pink from the steam.
Her whole body moving with purpose and care.
She wasn't helping because it was her job.
She wasn't helping because he was a prince.
She was helping because she genuinely wanted to.
That thought warmed him more than the rising steam.
"And here," she continued, smiling a little as she lifted a toothbrush from a porcelain cup, "this is how we clean our teeth, twice a day. Very important."
He nodded seriously, even though he still didn't fully understand the bristles.
"And we keep soap here, towels here, and…" She paused, noticing his gaze.
He had been watching her too long.
She froze, cheeks going pink.
Her voice caught in her throat.
"I—Your Highness, I—was just…"
Before she could finish, he stepped closer — gentle but confident.
He placed one hand lightly on her shoulder.
"No," he said quietly. "It's alright. I understand now."
Her breath hitched.
Then he lifted his other hand, touched her chin softly, and tilted her face up toward him.
"Beautiful woman," he said.
The words came out deep and simple, like a truth he had just discovered.
Tanya let out a tiny gasp.
Her whole face turned bright red.
She tried to say something — anything — but only managed a trembling:
"Y-your… Highness…"
Oskar couldn't help it — he laughed softly.
"Cute," he said warmly. "Very cute."
Her knees nearly gave out.
Then he turned toward the filling bath and reached for the buttons of his filthy uniform.
"My woman," he said calmly, "help me remove this… glued armor."
She blinked, mouth falling open a little, then snapped into professional mode — or tried to.
"Yes, Your Highness. Of course. Let me…"
She stepped behind him and began peeling off the uniform layer by layer.
It stuck in places.
It resisted.
It made wet, tearing sounds.
But underneath…
Oh.
Tanya swallowed hard.
As the fabric slid away, she saw the truth of him clearly for the first time.
The shape of his shoulders.
The long, sculpted back.
The powerful torso carved by a year of obsessive training.
Muscles that flexed and moved under clean skin.
Strength, not from nobility, but from effort.
She blushed so hard she felt light-headed.
He stepped into the hot bath, sinking down with a quiet exhale of pure bliss.
Tanya gathered his filthy clothes, set them neatly aside, then knelt by the tub.
Her voice was softer now — almost breathless.
"I'll… I'll wash your hair first."
He leaned back obediently.
Warm water.
Her fingers in his hair.
Soap, gentle scrubbing.
Her small hands running slowly across the back of his head and neck.
Then she washed his shoulders, his back — revealing new skin, fresh and clean, where the dirt and sweat had been.
To her eyes, he was transforming before her.
From a homeless giant…
to a warrior…
to a prince…
to something dangerously handsome.
Her breath quickened.
Her hands slowed.
She stared without meaning to.
And then, before she could stop herself, her heart pushed the words out:
"Your Highness… may I… wash your front as well?"
Her voice trembled.
The room went still.
It was only after she said it that she realized how it sounded — what it meant — what it offered.
Her face went scarlet.
"I—I didn't mean— I mean I did, but— not like— I— I just—"
Oskar turned his head, eyes steady, and gave her a slow, toothy grin — a grin that carried both confidence and invitation.
"Yes," he said, voice low and warm. "You can give me scrubbing… just take it off first."
Tanya froze.
For one heartbeat, everything in her world stopped — the steam, the water, her breath, her heartbeat.
He wasn't speaking to her as a maid.
He was speaking to her as a man speaks to a woman.
Her lips parted, stunned, and her cheeks flushed a deep pink as she realized exactly what he meant. Exactly what he wanted. Exactly what he was offering.
She swallowed, nerves fluttering in her stomach, but her decision was made the moment she ran into his room. She had always wanted him — admired him — cared for him — and this was her one chance to step out of the world of servants and into the world of something more.
She nodded.
Shyly. Bravely.
"All… alright," she whispered.
He turned his head aside, giving her privacy but staying close enough that she felt his presence like heat on her skin.
Her fingers rose to the first button of her blouse.
Slowly.
One by one, the buttons came undone.
Fabric loosened.
Steam curled around her like a veil.
She hesitated once, looking down at herself — small, delicate, unsure.
Her curves were soft but modest, her body petite and feminine.
She worried she wasn't enough.
But then she looked at him.
At the way he waited patiently, almost reverently.
At how he had called her beautiful earlier without hesitation.
At how his eyes softened whenever they met hers.
And all her doubt cracked apart.
She stepped forward — stubbornly, shyly, hopefully — and climbed into the bath with him.
Warm water embraced her.
So did he.
He smiled as if she were the final piece of a puzzle he'd been missing all his life, and his large, strong arms pulled her gently against his chest.
Her breath caught.
The steam wrapped around them, hiding details, softening edges, turning the little bathroom into their own private world.
Up close, now freshly cleaned, he looked breathtaking — all sharp lines, hard muscle, and gentle eyes.
She lifted her gaze to him.
He cupped her cheek — large hand, warm fingers — and whispered softly:
"Beautiful."
Her heart almost burst.
She didn't resist when he leaned in.
She closed her eyes.
She parted her lips.
And their breath mingled in the warm air.
What followed didn't need words.
The world outside faded.
The steam thickened.
Two silhouettes blurred into one.
Two lost young adults found each other in the quiet warmth of the water.
And for a long while — far longer than she expected, far longer than he understood —
they stayed together in that tub, learning each other's warmth,
letting instinct and emotion guide them into the oldest rhythm the world had ever known.
When the water finally cooled and the lamps outside flickered low,
Oskar stepped out a man who had found something gentle in a harsh world.
And Tanya — blushing, trembling, glowing — stepped out a woman claimed by the man she had chosen.
The palace slept on.
But in the quiet steam-filled bathroom,
a bond had been sealed —
softly, secretly,
and forever.
At the same time as Oskar was doing something very un-princely with a maid in a steam-filled bathroom, Kaiser Wilhelm II rubbed his aching eyes in his study.
It was already close to eleven at night, and the lamps had burned low, but he still hadn't finished with the paperwork of an empire.
The imperial council had only just adjourned. The ministers had filed out, leaving reports, memoranda, and the sour taste of bad news behind them.
Britain and France had signed their agreement.
France would not interfere in British actions in Egypt.
Britain, in turn, recognized Morocco as part of France's sphere of influence.
Officially, nothing in the document mentioned Germany.
In reality, it was a boot on German toes.
Another slice of the world carved up without a seat for the Reich at the table.
Another step in the British–French dance that edged closer to encirclement.
With France and Russia already allied, the ring around Germany was tightening.
This was extremely dangerous — and Wilhelm II knew it.
In the room with him now was his eldest son, the Crown Prince.
Wilhelm — the younger. Twenty-two. Handsome, elegant, almost as tall as Oskar but not quite. His posture was textbook Prussian: upright, controlled, rigid. He looked like the "ideal model officer" the army hoped for in its recruiting posters.
Lean muscle over a disciplined frame.
Neatly trimmed mustache.
Darker blond hair and darker blue eyes than Oskar's.
Outwardly, he radiated confidence.
Inwardly, a new, unwelcome emotion had begun to gnaw at him these last months.
Jealousy.
He had always been the tall, impressive one among his brothers. Then, without warning, the strange, quiet fifth son had shot up like a fertilized tree. Oskar was now a full head taller, broader in the shoulders, thicker in the arms. Compared to Oskar's hulking frame, the Crown Prince's elegant build felt… light.
At least, Wilhelm consoled himself, I have a proper mustache. Oskar still looked like an overgrown cadet who'd forgotten to grow one.
He cleared his throat, forcing himself back into the role of dutiful heir.
"Father," he said, stepping forward, voice firm, "we absolutely cannot compromise or back down on the Morocco question. If we yield now, it will seriously damage the interests and prestige of the German Empire."
Wilhelm II stared at the map-littered desk for a long moment, fingers drumming on a report.
"Yes," he said at last, "I understand. I will have to think further on this matter."
His tone was quieter than his son expected.
The Kaiser was furious at British and French arrogance, furious at seeing German interests brushed aside like crumbs. But he also knew the cold numbers. Germany was strong — perhaps the strongest army in Europe — but a war now against Britain, France, and Russia together…?
They were not ready.
Not yet.
Restraint for the sake of future power: that was the bitter medicine.
But Wilhelm II also knew that the public, intoxicated by pride and newspapers, might not understand restraint. A setback in Morocco could be a blow to the patriotic fever he himself had worked so hard to stoke.
The Crown Prince opened his mouth to press the point, then caught the look in his father's eyes and thought better of it.
He fell silent.
A soft knock at the door broke the tension.
"Herein," Wilhelm II called.
The royal butler, Essen von Jonarett, entered with his usual quiet precision.
"Essen, is there anything else?" the Kaiser asked.
"Your Majesty," Essen said, bowing slightly, "this is a check His Royal Highness Prince Oskar asked me to deliver to you."
He stepped forward and placed a folded slip of paper on the desk.
Wilhelm II picked it up, frowning faintly, and unfolded it.
A check.
Two million marks.
For a man who controlled the revenues of an empire, two million was not world-shaking. But as a personal gesture from a son he had begun to consider almost entirely useless…
"What is this?" Wilhelm II muttered. "Oskar is sending me money now? What nonsense is this boy up to?"
"Your Majesty," Essen said, "His Highness Prince Oskar and my son Karl have jointly established a lottery company — the German Welfare Lottery. His Highness has decided that twenty percent of the company's profits will be paid to the Royal Family, free of charge. Another twenty percent will be dedicated to social welfare projects."
There was unmistakable pride in the old butler's voice. Karl had a ten-percent share in the company. The meteoric growth of the lottery was, for the Jonaretts, nothing short of a miracle.
"Twenty percent of the profits…" Wilhelm II repeated slowly.
He had paid very little attention to Oskar lately — aside from the embarrassing reports of the "smelly prince" appearing in the newspapers and the Crown Prince's recent complaint about some insane conversation in a hallway involving a mouse and a fork.
The lottery craze sweeping Germany? Beneath his notice. He skimmed the numbers in reports, but his mind drifted to dreadnoughts and diplomacy, not tickets and peasants' dreams.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Essen continued. "The company is doing very well. These two million marks are only from less than half a month of operation. From now on, the Royal Family's share should be four to five million marks per month."
There was a brief, total silence.
"What?" Wilhelm II blurted.
He sat up straighter.
The Crown Prince turned his head sharply, surprise plain on his face.
If it had simply been a one-time gift of two million, neither man would have bothered to think about it twice. But four or five million marks every month added up quickly.
In a year, that became forty or fifty million.
Which was roughly the cost of a modern battleship.
"Essen von Jonarett," the Crown Prince asked, struggling to keep incredulity out of his tone, "are you sure you aren't mistaken? Oskar — and that lottery of his — are truly making such profits?"
At the same time, an uglier thought was twisting in his chest.
Oskar?
The brother who could barely speak coherently in a corridor?
The brother who smelled like a factory yard?
The brother whose German sometimes sounded like a foreigner pretending?
That Oskar?
Even as Crown Prince, Wilhelm did not command so much personal wealth. His estates and allowances were comfortable, but not limitless. The idea that his strange younger brother could suddenly swim in money while he himself had to calculate every political move carefully…
Jealousy sank its claws in deeper.
"In purely financial terms, Your Highness," Essen said, "there is no mistake. Even if profits stabilize at only four million marks a month, that is nearly fifty million a year to the Royal Family and public welfare combined. And that, as you note, is only forty percent of the total. According to the agreements I have seen, His Highness Prince Oskar's personal share should be around sixty percent."
Wilhelm II did some rough calculations in his head.
"Then Oskar's own profit," he said slowly, "would be… one hundred million marks a year or more. Perhaps closer to two hundred, if the business continues to grow."
He exhaled.
"That is… quite a sum."
Germany's total annual state revenue was only a bit over nine hundred million marks.
In that context, a private stream of one hundred to two hundred million marks a year was no longer a toy.
No wonder that boy had dared to stand in front of Konteradmiral von Birkenhagen and promise a battleship in four years.
If these numbers held, a battleship was not arrogance. It was a line item.
"Hmm," Wilhelm II murmured. "So I misjudged him."
He felt an odd mixture of irritation and reluctant pride.
He had assumed Oskar was trying to wriggle out of proper naval training by making wild promises. In truth, the boy had been negotiating from a position of real confidence.
"With such profits," the Kaiser continued, "donating a battleship to the Navy is entirely realistic. And very useful for us."
"Indeed, Your Majesty," Essen said. "I must admit, I completely underestimated His Highness as well. At only seventeen, to create such an enterprise… if he is given time, he may become the most successful businessman in Germany. Perhaps beyond."
Wilhelm II frowned slightly at the word businessman. Princes were meant to command armies and fleets, not run lotteries.
But then again — in this age, gold moved divisions as surely as orders did.
And in a capitalist empire, money was a weapon of its own.
"Father," the Crown Prince said suddenly, stepping forward, "if Oskar truly considers himself a loyal son of the House of Hohenzollern, why does he send only twenty percent of the profits to the Royal Family and keep sixty for himself? The empire is under enormous financial strain. If we are to face Britain, France, and Russia, we will need to expand the army and navy. That requires money. Surely, as a prince, Oskar's first duty is to strengthen the royal house, not his personal purse."
He spoke with righteous indignation, chin lifted.
Inside, another voice whispered:
If I controlled that money, my position would be unshakable.
If he could bring that flood of marks under his influence, it would not only reinforce the prestige of the dynasty — it would reinforce him.
Wilhelm II looked at his eldest son for a long moment.
On one side of his desk lay maps of Morocco and Europe's alliances.
On the other, a simple check from a son he had nearly given up on.
He found himself, for the first time, truly wondering:
Just what exactly was going on inside Oskar's strange, badly washed head?