Crown Prince Wilhelm's gaze toward Oskar was practically spitting fire.
This was not the outcome he had intended.
He had planned to humiliate Oskar—subtly of course—by implying the "stupid brother" cared more about money than his own family. A small provocation. A little poison pill slipped into polite conversation.
But instead of exploding or getting flustered, Oskar had responded with such incomprehensible idiocy that…
no one believed the insult anymore.
How can you hold a statement against a man who:
doesn't speak proper German,
barely understands what is being said,
and introduces himself with "my man, shall we eat?"
It was infuriating.
Wilhelm almost—almost—found himself impressed. Oskar had accidentally defused a situation that would have gotten any other prince scolded, disowned, or expelled from the table.
But mostly, Wilhelm was livid.
The "fell down the stairs, brain not fully right" excuse had become a shield everyone used on Oskar's behalf. A shield that made him untouchable. You couldn't shame a man who didn't understand. You couldn't verbally corner someone who simply stared at you with a blank expression.
It drove Wilhelm mad.
Across the table, Oskar sat quietly, eating pastries with absolutely no table manners, oblivious to the burning hatred radiating from his older brother.
The other princes weren't much better—several glared at Oskar with thinly veiled hostility. After all, the fifth prince, once mocked as useless, now owned the richest single company in the Empire. In just a few months he had surpassed all of them in wealth.
Only Joachim and Viktoria Luise, being younger, were more confused than jealous.
Crown Prince Wilhelm scoffed loudly, swirling his wine.
"Hmph! Some people become wealthy and immediately lose their sense of restraint. Throwing money away on jewelry and trinkets. Truly shameful behavior."
Oskar looked at him blankly.
He caught "money," "shameful," and "throwing"—which to him sounded like someone complaining about bad investments.
He didn't reply.
Partly because he didn't understand.
Partly because the Empress clearly didn't want more fighting.
And partly because he wanted to protect what little goodwill he'd gained with his mother.
Wilhelm took Oskar's silence as defiance.
He slammed his glass down.
"The German Empire stands on the edge of crisis!" he declared. "Britain and France encircle us. The Navy needs funds, the Army needs funds—yet certain princes enjoy the privileges of rank while contributing nothing to the Empire, wasting money like fools, ignoring their duties! It is disgraceful!"
He said it with all the energy of a man trying to win a rap battle without music.
Servants stiffened along the walls.
Even Oskar, who only understood maybe one-third of the words, felt the aggression.
Everyone's eyes turned to Oskar.
He shrugged.
Just a small shrug. Nothing dramatic.
But it was enough.
To Crown Prince Wilhelm, the shrug was the greatest insult he had ever received.
"You… you…" Wilhelm sputtered. His face flushed purple. His voice cracked with rage. "You dare ignore me?! When did you—YOU—become so insolent?!"
He looked almost ready to leap across the table.
The Empress intervened quickly.
"That is enough, Wilhelm."
Her tone left no room for argument.
Wilhelm bit down on his fury, jaw clenched.
Still, the atmosphere was broken. So much for harmony.
But then an unexpected savior arrived.
Princess Viktoria Luise—twelve years old, blond curls, lace dress, and a rebellious streak—suddenly stood up without warning.
Everyone stared.
The Empress stiffened. "Young lady, where are you going? Sit down immediately."
Instead, Viktoria Luise ducked under the tablecloth like a ferret disappearing into a burrow.
The princes blinked. Oskar froze. Servants held their breath.
Baffled whispers rippled across the room.
A moment later, she emerged from under the table—victorious—holding the teddy bear she had snatched from Oskar's suitcase.
The Empress paled.
Had her only daughter just crawled under the Christmas table in front of half the Hohenzollerns?
Viktoria Luise ignored her.
She plopped back into her seat and held up the toy.
"Fifth Brother," she asked loudly, "what kind of teddy bear is THIS? It's white. It looks nothing like the bears I've seen. Where did you get it?"
Oskar felt relief.
Finally—German he could understand.
He smiled.
"Ah yes, little woman," he said warmly. "Only one year ago these 'teddy bears' became popular. Made to honor United States President Theodore Roosevelt. Very famous man. People call him Teddy, so they call bears Teddy. Yes, little sister—precious little sister."
Viktoria Luise blushed despite herself, unsure if he was flattering her or simply speaking strangely again.
But she still wasn't satisfied.
"No, Oskar," she said slowly, as if talking to someone with a learning disability. "I mean—what species is this? Species. You know? Like a monkey and a gorilla are different species? Do you understand?"
The princes laughed. Wilhelm didn't.
But Oskar didn't mind. He liked genuine questions. He liked when people spoke simply.
He nodded.
"Ah yes, I understand now, little sister," he said. "It is a polar bear. Lives at the North Pole. Very cold place. Biggest and strongest bear in world, I believe."
He tapped the stuffed bear gently.
"I made it. I call him Mister Ice Bear, First of His Name."
Viktoria Luise stared at the bear, stunned.
She had heard of polar bears. She had seen sketches. But never a toy like this:
soft white fur,
shiny black eyes,
button nose,
little collar with the name "Mister Ice Bear."
It was adorable.
She hugged it to her chest before she realized she was doing it.
"Well…" she said, trying to hide her delight, "I… I like it. You don't mind if I keep it?"
Oskar grinned and gave a small thumbs up.
"Good small woman. Take bear. Be happy. Smile more. Very nice."
She sat down fully, the bear in her lap, cheeks rosy.
The entire table relaxed.
Even the Empress's anger softened—though she still looked one bad surprise away from fainting.
Oskar, meanwhile, took in the faces around the table.
Behind the laughter and the jewelry and the roast meats, he saw something else:
Hostility.
Not just from Crown Prince Wilhelm, but from several of the others as well.
This, he thought, is the tragedy of royalty.
As princes grew older, brotherhood turned into competition. Titles, money, marriages, influence—everything was a potential battlefield. Crown Prince Wilhelm's right to the throne was secure on paper, but he still spent energy crushing his brothers' reputations, making sure none of them ever looked like a rival.
Oskar realized it wasn't really a "royal" problem at all.
In his last life:
people team-killed each other in games over loot and ego,
online friends betrayed each other over drama,
in real life, farmers' families fought over land and inheritance.
Human nature didn't change just because you put a crown on it.
Give too many greedy, insecure personalities one house—and you get war, in miniature.
He drained another glass of wine in one go.
For him, the family dinner ended before it really began. He'd done what he needed to do:
survived the Crown Prince's traps,
earned a bit of favor from his mother and sister,
and not started a fistfight.
That counted as a win.
Later, as the night went on, the rest of the court's festivities rolled forward without him.
Wilhelm II, busy with paperwork and generals, had not attended the family meal, but he appeared for the formal banquet.
By 6:30 p.m., the main banquet hall of the Neues Palais was bright with chandeliers and full of bodies.
Army generals in spiked helmets and glittering medals. Naval officers in dark blue with gold braids. Ministers, industrial magnates, foreign ambassadors in their own national uniforms. Women in shimmering gowns in the colors of winter berries and deep wine.
Oskar entered with the royal party… more or less.
The Empress and the older princes walked ahead, composed and elegant.
Oskar came in behind them, slightly unsteady on his feet, with Viktoria Luise beside him trying to steer him away from collisions like a very determined tugboat guiding a drunk battleship.
He was probably the tallest man in the room, and with his broad shoulders and perfectly tailored uniform, he cut an impressive figure—right up until he staggered slightly and caught himself on a column.
To most of the guests, he was a half-familiar face:
vaguely remembered from newspaper photographs,
known as "the lottery prince" in some Berlin circles,
but not often seen at such events.
If he'd walked in sober and confident, he might have drawn considerable attention. As it was, many people thought:
> Ah. A young officer who's had a few too many already. One of those.
Germany was full of officers and rich men. Most of them at least pretended not to be drunk before speeches began.
Then Wilhelm II himself stepped into the hall.
He was in his mid-forties, still carrying himself like a younger man—back straight, chest out, his famous upcurled mustache neat and sharp. His uniform was covered in decorations. He held his cup-hand in such a way as to minimize the visibility of his left arm, slightly withered and shorter from birth.
Behind him, aides and courtiers moved like small planets around a sun.
The room hushed as he took his place and raised his glass.
Oskar and Viktoria Luise sank into chairs in a corner, letting the wall support them. She still hugged Mister Ice Bear under one arm.
"Gentlemen," Wilhelm II began, voice carrying easily even without the aid of microphones, "you are the elite of the German Empire, the pillars of the nation."
All eyes turned to him.
"You have labored hard this past year, and it is through your efforts that our Empire has grown more prosperous and more powerful. For this, I thank you."
Polite murmurs of "Heil!" followed.
"However," he continued, his voice deepening, "for all our growing strength, it cannot be denied that our rightful voice is still not fully heard abroad. Our legitimate interests are not always respected. Our external environment remains dangerous."
His gaze swept the room.
"Therefore, the German Empire must become stronger still. We must build our fleet, strengthen our army, and ensure that no power in the world dares again to ignore the German name."
The applause for Wilhelm II's speech rolled through the hall like distant thunder.
Around Oskar, the elites of the Empire stood straighter, eyes bright. Generals, admirals, ministers, industrialists—men whose decisions moved coal, steel, and flesh across continents.
Germany was strong, and getting stronger. Everyone here knew it. Everyone here wanted more.
On the other side of the hall, the foreign diplomats—British, French, Russian, and others—wore polite smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.
They know too, Oskar thought. And they're afraid.
He leaned against the wall, watching.
In his head, the picture was clearer than anyone here realized:
Britain clung to free trade, keeping tariffs low, expecting her industry to outcompete everyone as it always had.
Germany protected her own markets with tariffs, while still pushing exports into Britain's open door.
British manufacturers fumed as German goods flooded their shops.
The United States and Russia were rising like dark giants.
France still burned with resentment from 1870.
If Britain wanted to keep up, it would either have to:
change its politics,
or quietly squeeze its own people—more work, less pay—to claw back productivity.
Nobody wanted to be second.
Everybody wanted to be alpha.
"That's how you get war," Oskar thought bitterly. "Too many wolves on one planet."
If Germany gave up its ambitions, maybe peace could last longer.
If Britain accepted that it was no longer completely supreme, maybe tensions would ease.
But greed sat in London and Berlin and Paris and St. Petersburg all the same.
When enough men with medals decided their pride mattered more than blood, the cannons would speak. He knew that much from history.
He sighed.
After Wilhelm II finished speaking, the orchestra struck up a waltz. Couples flowed onto the dance floor in glittering pairs. Others broke off into little clusters—talking business, gossip, deals wrapped in laughter.
Banquets like this weren't about food. They were about connections.
And for many bored noblewomen, this was also the one night they could flirt with exciting men in uniform and pretend it was all very proper.
Oskar stayed in his corner, Viktoria Luise perched beside him, Mister Ice Bear on her lap.
He was still thinking about wolves and war when a voice said politely behind him:
"Your Highness, good evening."
He turned a little too quickly and almost spilled his drink.
Two older men stood there with wine glasses in hand, both dressed in immaculate navy uniforms trimmed with gold.
Oskar recognized them at once.
The first was Konteradmiral Ludwig von Birkenhagen, director of the Kiel Naval Academy—tall, lean, posture like a steel rod, every line of his face trained into seriousness.
The other was even more significant:
Alfred von Tirpitz—heavy beard, keen eyes, broad shoulders filling out a dark blue coat heavy with decorations. Staatssekretär of the Imperial Naval Office. The mastermind behind Germany's naval expansion. One of Wilhelm II's most trusted men.
Oskar straightened instinctively, then nearly tipped backward.
"Ah! Yes, my men—" he began, then realized, "No, wait. I mean: Your Excellency Marshal. Your Excellency Director. Hello there."
His titles were clumsy, but at least in roughly the right order.
Tirpitz's beard shifted in a small smile.
"Your Highness," Tirpitz said, voice smooth, "we wished to thank you personally for your support of the Imperial Navy. The fleet will not forget such generosity."
Birkenhagen gave a short nod of agreement.
Behind Oskar, Viktoria Luise, sensing danger, put her hands on his shoulders and started lightly massaging, as if she could physically push blood back into his brain and sobriety into his soul.
Oskar grinned.
"Yes, very nice," he said. "Big ships, happy people, boom-boom and all that."
There was a microscopic pause.
Tirpitz's eyes flicked—not in offense, more in calculation. Birkenhagen blinked twice, as if reminding himself this was, in fact, a prince.
Oskar, encouraged by the lack of immediate explosion, leaned closer conspiratorially.
"And do not worry, my men," he added, lowering his voice. "With my money and my new design, we make British Dreadnought look like little soup bowl, yes? Germany will have biggest boom-boom on the sea. I promise, my man."
He raised his glass to them, smiling like he'd just said something very clever.
For a heartbeat, neither Tirpitz nor Birkenhagen said anything.
The orchestra swelled. Couples spun past on the dance floor. Somewhere, a British diplomat's eye twitched without knowing why.
Oskar's smile wavered just a little.
…Did I just say that out loud?