Edward VII was dead.
The newspapers argued over the cause—pneumonia, a lung infection, the heart finally surrendering under years of indulgence and strain. The truth hardly mattered. A king had fallen, and Europe had shifted a fraction of an inch.
Oskar had expected it. The timing matched what he half-remembered from his other life—history repeating itself with the same cruel punctuality.
What worried him was not Edward's death.
It was who came next.
George.
The relationship between Berlin and London had never been warm, but with George V on the throne, it would grow colder still. In private, the British court still remembered childhood slights and family jealousies. In public, it would be dressed as policy and patriotism, but the bitterness underneath would not change.
Oskar knew the pattern.
George V and Wilhelm II were cousins, bound by blood and separated by temperament. Wilhelm was loud, impulsive, hungry for display. George was reserved, stiff, and deeply sensitive to disrespect. Their personalities did not fit together. Their empires fit even worse.
And the more Germany rose, the more Britain would feel threatened.
There would be no easy repair.
Not while George lived.
On May 7, Wilhelm II convened an emergency royal council.
No parade. No ceremony. No speeches for the public.
Only the hard machinery of empire gathering behind closed doors.
The agenda was simple:
What changes might occur in Britain's foreign policy now that Edward was dead?
Who would represent Germany at Edward's funeral?
And who would attend the new king's coronation?
Wilhelm II stood at the head of the room, uniform immaculate, face set in stone.
"Gentlemen," he began, "King Edward VII has passed away. Prince George will succeed him. Tell me plainly—does this benefit the German Empire, or harm it?"
He did not look like a man mourning an uncle.
He looked like an emperor weighing a piece on a board.
Prime Minister Bernhard von Bülow spoke first, smooth as always.
"Your Majesty, George is likely to be a more formidable opponent than Edward VII." His voice remained polite, but the meaning was sharp. "He is younger, more disciplined, and his instinct will be to press Britain's advantage. He will view the Empire's growth as a threat to Britain's survival."
Bülow hesitated only long enough to let the next line land.
"We should expect Britain's attitude toward us to become more assertive."
Wilhelm's mouth tightened. He nodded once.
He had known George as a boy. He had intelligence reports now as a man. The shape had not changed.
Tirpitz took the opening like a man who had been waiting for it.
"Your Majesty," he said, confident and almost eager, "Britain has attempted to trap us on the continent. They have aligned themselves with France and Russia. This is aimed at us, whether they admit it or not." He lifted his chin slightly. "Therefore, we must prepare to defeat them in the war that will come."
A small pause.
"The Imperial Navy is preparing for exactly this. And I believe—when the decisive battle arrives—the Imperial Navy will be victorious."
His confidence was not only pride. It was steel laid down, hulls being built, guns being forged. The fleet was no longer a dream.
It was becoming an argument made of metal.
Moltke the Younger interjected, sharp and controlled, as if he refused to let the room tilt too far toward naval fantasies.
"Your Majesty," he said, "it must be remembered that Britain's understandings with France and Russia are not formal military alliances. The only true military alliance is between France and Russia. Britain may not necessarily enter a continental war."
The sentence sounded neutral.
The intention was not.
Moltke had grown increasingly hostile to Oskar's faction—hostile to Tirpitz, hostile to anyone who threatened the Army's primacy.
Wilhelm frowned. He knew the technical truth.
And he also knew the reality.
Britain was not going to watch Germany crush France and then politely applaud from across the Channel.
War Minister von Falkenhayn answered without delay, voice blunt, opinion certain.
"The British will not stand aside," he said. "If we fight France, Britain will intervene. They understand that without Britain, France cannot hold against us. If France falls, Russia becomes less threatening. Then the Empire dominates Europe."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And if the Empire dominates Europe, Britain is no longer safe—Channel or no Channel. Britain's world position would be fatally challenged. Therefore, Your Majesty, if war comes, Britain will join it. We must prepare accordingly."
Moltke's eyes narrowed.
Falkenhayn ignored him.
The conflict between the two giants of the Army had become an open wound by now—everyone in the room could smell it.
Wilhelm II's gaze moved across them—Bülow, Tirpitz, Moltke, Falkenhayn—then stopped.
He turned toward the one man who had been quietly reshaping Germany in ways even ministers struggled to measure.
"Oskar," Wilhelm II said, voice firm. "What is your opinion?"
Oskar didn't answer immediately.
He could feel the room leaning toward him—Tirpitz's hungry certainty, Moltke's stiff resistance, Falkenhayn's cold logic, Bülow's political caution. And above it all, his father's pride—like a great iron wheel that could not be turned without breaking teeth.
Oskar chose his words carefully.
"Father," he said at last, "as much as it pains me to admit it, I also believe George's accession is bad for the Empire."
Wilhelm's eyes narrowed.
Oskar continued, calm and steady.
"From this moment onward we should abandon any illusion that Britain can be our friend. Their hostility will harden, and if war comes, they will join it against us. Without doubt."
A few men shifted, not surprised, only grimly validated.
"There are ways to avoid war," Oskar went on. "The most certain is also the one you will not accept."
He lifted his gaze fully to Wilhelm II.
"Germany would have to stop building its navy. Stop challenging Britain's maritime hegemony. Stop reaching for overseas colonies."
The words were measured.
The effect was immediate.
Wilhelm II's face darkened as if a shadow had been poured over it. The Kaiser had spent his reign dreaming of a Germany that stood where Britain stood. How could he abandon that without abandoning himself?
Oskar held the gaze anyway.
"So the other path," Oskar said quietly, "is the one we are already walking."
He spread a hand slightly, indicating the room—industry, steel, plans, fleets, the slow transformation of an empire.
"We become so strong—economically, industrially, militarily—that no one dares challenge us."
He didn't pretend certainty.
"It is not guaranteed. But it is a chance."
Then his voice hardened—just a fraction.
"And whatever we do, we must not be the ones to start a war with Britain. We must not be seen as the aggressor. If nothing else, Father—do not give them the moral banner. The consequences would be severe."
Silence.
For a heartbeat the only sound was the faint crackle of a fire somewhere in the palace, as if the building itself were listening.
Wilhelm II's jaw tightened.
He stared at Oskar like a man being asked to cut off his own arm to avoid infection.
Then he spoke, voice sharp with decision.
"Since war between us and Britain grows closer each day," the Kaiser said, "then we prepare for war."
It wasn't a cry of desire.
It was the voice of a ruler refusing to be cornered.
He still did not want war with Britain—but he would not escape it by surrendering Germany's ambition. And deep in him, pride whispered that Germany might actually win.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the ministers replied in near unison.
War meant loss.
But it also meant prize—if you were the one left standing.
Wilhelm II leaned forward slightly, eyes sweeping the room.
"Edward VII has died," he said. "George will be crowned. Whom do we send to England to represent the Empire at the funeral and the coronation?"
Bülow answered smoothly, as if this were merely another diplomatic calendar entry.
"Your Majesty, the Foreign Minister—"
Wilhelm cut him off with a shake of the head.
"No," he said. "Not enough."
He turned toward Oskar again.
"Oskar," Wilhelm II said firmly, "you will go."
A slight stir ran around the table.
"You are the most… optimistic among us," the Kaiser added, as if the word tasted strange in his mouth. "If anyone can make a decent impression—on the British court, or at least on their public—it is you."
Oskar blinked once, surprised.
He hadn't expected to be sent.
But it was logical. As Acting Crown Prince, representing Germany abroad was part of his duty—and if the goal was to keep doors from slamming shut entirely, then his presence mattered.
He bowed his head.
"Yes, Father."
Inside, though, another thought rose—quieter, almost guilty in its curiosity.
Britain, in 1910.
He had read about it. Seen photographs. Watched documentaries in another life.
Now he would see it with his own eyes.
And perhaps, if fate allowed…
he would learn exactly how close the world truly was to burning.