Wilhelm II stared into the fire as if it could answer him.
Essen von Jonarett entered quietly, waiting at the edge of the room like a man approaching a storm. The Kaiser didn't look up.
"Essen," he said at last, voice low and flat, "investigate Babelsberg. I want the truth."
Essen straightened. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Find out if anyone with ulterior motives was involved in the Crown Prince's fall," Wilhelm continued. "If it was premeditated, I will not let them escape—no matter who they are."
His moustache twitched.
"My son is mad," he added coldly, "but he has ridden since childhood. Men who have lived in the saddle do not simply fall unless something helps them."
Essen swallowed. He suspected it was exactly what the reports suggested—drunken recklessness in snow—but he knew better than to offer a simple answer when the Emperor was burning.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he repeated.
The Kaiser finally turned his head a fraction, eyes reflecting firelight.
"And notify the Royal Military Hospital in Berlin," he said. "They are to do everything possible to save him. Everything. If there is even the slightest chance—take it."
His voice tightened, betraying something human beneath the iron.
"May God preserve my son."
Essen bowed. "They will do their utmost."
When the door closed behind him, the room felt larger—and emptier.
Wilhelm II exhaled slowly and let his gaze drop back into the flames.
He was furious at Wilhelm.
He was disgusted by his decline.
And yet… he could not summon hatred.
A father did not so easily abandon his firstborn—no matter how badly that son disappointed him.
Worse, self-reproach slid in like a knife.
If he had allowed Augusta Victoria's request—if he had let the Crown Prince come to the Christmas reception, if he had given him a single hour of normality—would this have happened?
Perhaps.
Or perhaps the boy would have found another way to destroy himself.
Wilhelm rubbed his temple, then forced his thoughts where they always went in crisis: forward.
He could pray.
He could hope.
But as Emperor, hope was never enough.
If Wilhelm lived and recovered, the Empire avoided a succession earthquake.
If Wilhelm lived but woke… damaged—incapable—then the Empire faced an even uglier problem.
And if Wilhelm died…
Wilhelm II's jaw clenched.
Then the question he had spent years refusing to entertain would become unavoidable.
Replacement.
He thought of Oskar—young, brilliant, beloved, dangerous in a way his son did not fully understand. Too soft-hearted, perhaps. Too idealistic. And far too capable of attracting loyalty that should belong only to the throne.
If Oskar became Crown Prince, the country might begin listening to him over the Emperor himself.
And Wilhelm II, for all his love of family, was still a ruler.
Power was his identity. His oxygen.
He had no intention of surrendering it early to anyone—son or not.
Most of all, he could not allow his sons to tear each other apart.
He had seen enough blood in European dynasties to know where that road led.
Wilhelm II stared into the fire until it hissed and shifted, throwing sparks upward like tiny falling stars.
Then he whispered, not to God, not to Essen, not to anyone—
"To lose one son is tragedy," he murmured. "To lose the Empire… is unforgivable."
And with that, the Kaiser began to plan for the worst—while still praying for the best.
Back at the hospital, Karl had barely left with the Eternal Guard when Grand Admiral von Tirpitz arrived.
He walked in as if hospitals were simply another kind of war room—coat immaculate, posture straight, eyes alert. And he looked, absurdly, almost cheerful.
Oskar was sitting up in bed, shirt off, bandages visible, sweat still on his skin from an interrupted set of push-ups. He didn't return the cheer.
"Marshal," Oskar said, forcing a half-smile, "I welcome guests as always, but your presence here—today of all days—could be… misread."
Tirpitz waved a hand as if brushing away smoke.
"Your Highness worries too much," he said mildly. "If we start avoiding each other to 'avoid suspicion,' we create suspicion. The relationship between you and the Navy is known to the entire Empire. Pretending otherwise would be the only foolish thing."
Oskar's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And yet," he said, "caution costs less than regret."
Tirpitz's mouth twitched—almost approval.
"Very well," he conceded. "Then let us be cautious with facts."
He leaned closer, voice dropping into that calm, dangerous register he used in cabinet meetings.
"The Crown Prince's treatment is ongoing. The doctors have shaved his scalp to clean and monitor the injury. He may live. He may not. If he lives, he may wake himself… or wake as something else. Head wounds are treacherous."
Oskar's expression tightened.
Tirpitz continued smoothly:
"In short: the situation is uncertain. And that uncertainty creates an opportunity—rare, perhaps once-in-a-generation."
Oskar exhaled slowly.
"Marshal," he said, "I understand your meaning. But I have already angered my father enough. Whatever happens next is his decision. If I act eager, I may poison the outcome."
Tirpitz listened with hands folded behind his back, the patient stillness of a man who had spent decades watching ministers ruin themselves by speaking one sentence too many.
When Oskar finished, Tirpitz nodded once.
"Again," he said, "you worry too much."
Oskar's brow furrowed.
Tirpitz's gaze moved briefly to the window, then back.
"Before you began your work," he said, "Germany bled people. Hundreds of thousands leaving every year. Over decades, millions crossed the Atlantic—to America, to colonies, to anywhere that promised land, wages, or dignity."
He paused to let the old truth sink in.
"Then you came."
Tirpitz did not flatter. He simply stated it like a naval fact.
"You raised wages. You improved safety. You built companies that function. You made people believe tomorrow might be better than today."
Oskar said nothing.
"And do you know what happened?" Tirpitz asked quietly.
Oskar's jaw tightened. "They stayed."
"They stopped leaving," Tirpitz corrected. "Some even returned."
That landed harder than praise.
"Now yes," Tirpitz continued, "the Kaiser's new law has caused panic. Any law that redraws 'belonging' will do that. Some will leave—especially those already half-packed, the young unattached, the ones who never wanted Germany at all."
He shrugged.
"Many of them would have left eventually. Now they are merely leaving with a reason."
Oskar frowned. "And the others?"
"The others stay," Tirpitz said simply. "The families. The skilled. The ambitious. The parents who want their children safe, educated, fed. The men who want stable work. The women who want a future."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And they adapt. They learn German more seriously. They attend night classes. They apply to your companies. Some even convert to Christianity."
Oskar's mouth tightened. "That part—"
"—sounds harsher than it is," Tirpitz finished smoothly. "Some convert sincerely. Many do so formally. On paper."
He tapped the arm of Oskar's bedframe like he was tapping a map.
"What matters to the state is not what a man whispers to God in his bedroom. What matters is order, cohesion, and the absence of open hostility."
Oskar watched him, disturbed—but unable to deny the logic.
"People are practical," Tirpitz said. "If staying in Germany means speaking German, respecting German law, and being listed as Christian—many accept that bargain gladly if the alternative is uncertainty, poverty, or exile."
He straightened, voice sharpening.
"They stay because this Germany is worth staying in. Because it is becoming cleaner, safer, richer. Because your factories pay more and kill fewer. Because your projects make life easier."
Then Tirpitz looked directly into Oskar's eyes.
"And because they believe that one day, a ruler like you may stand at the head of it."
That line struck differently than the rest.
Oskar's breath caught—just slightly.
"You have become a symbol," Tirpitz said. "Not by decree. By results. People obey your rules because they work. They endure the present because they believe in the future you represent."
He let that sit in the air, heavy as steel.
"The law looks harsh on parchment," he said. "In practice, it is being softened every day by prosperity, opportunity, and hope."
Oskar's eyes lowered.
"And my father?" he asked quietly.
Tirpitz smiled faintly.
"His Majesty is a realist," he said. "But he is not blind. He sees who stays, who leaves, and why. He sees the stability you create."
His voice dropped.
"And whether he admits it yet or not… he sees that you are shaping Germany more than any law ever could."
He stepped back, giving Oskar space to breathe again.
"I trust His Majesty will make the correct decision," Tirpitz said. "When the time comes."
He did not say Crown Prince.
He did not need to.
The word hovered anyway—unspoken, heavy, like thunder behind the glass.
Tirpitz stood by the bed a moment longer, hands clasped behind his back. For the Navy—and for Tirpitz personally—there could be no better outcome than Oskar rising higher. Oskar had already fed the fleet with steel, guns, engines, and momentum. If the boy ever held the keys to the Empire… the sea would belong to Germany.
And yet Tirpitz was not naive.
He knew the obstacles.
The succession laws were not decorative. Old men clung to them like scripture.
And the Kaiser's will mattered more than any admiral's preference.
If Wilhelm II refused absolutely, the only way around him would be… a path so ugly and destabilizing that even Tirpitz did not dare speak it aloud.
Oskar would never stage a coup.
Not unless he'd lost his mind.
Tirpitz's eyes sharpened with rare sincerity.
"Your Highness," he said quietly, "whatever happens next… remember this: the Navy is your staunchest supporter. To the end. No matter what."
There was something almost fanatical in the way he said it—not madness, but conviction. The kind of conviction built over years of watching politicians talk and ships sink.
Oskar nodded slowly.
"Your Excellency," he said carefully, "thank you. Truly. If I ever do have the opportunity to lead this Empire… I will do my utmost to give Germany victory in war, and prosperity in peace."
It was exactly the answer Tirpitz wanted.
He nodded once, satisfied.
Oskar, meanwhile, had a second voice in his head screaming something far less princely:
I'm sitting in a hospital bed being endorsed by Tirpitz. Tirpitz.
If I had a phone I'd take a selfie so hard it would break history.
He kept his face neutral with heroic effort.
Tirpitz, unaware he was being mentally meme'd by a transmigrated Chinese nerd, moved on as if discussing the weather.
"Now," he said, "tell me about your shipyard. Your slipways. Your launch schedule. And…" his eyes narrowed slightly, "your thoughts on how the British will actually fight once dreadnoughts become common."
And just like that, the hospital room became a war room.
They talked of:
How to defend the colonies,
How to cut supply lines without having their own ships sunk,
gunnery arcs and firing solutions,
armor schemes and citadel protection,
the importance of speed and the sustainability of that speed,
the tyranny of blockade,
and the brutal math of tonnage and Submarines.
Oskar, half-weak and bandaged, forgot pain for a while. He leaned forward, eyes bright, sketching diagrams on scrap paper like a boy explaining a game.
At some point, he grinned and said, almost innocently:
"Marshal… have you ever played Battleship?"
Tirpitz blinked.
"…Battleship?"
Oskar froze, then glanced toward the door.
He called in a guard.
Then a doctor.
Then, for good measure, a nurse—because nurses knew everything.
None of them had ever heard of it.
Oskar slowly turned back to Tirpitz.
Then he said slowly, "It's… a game. You place ships secretly on a grid and—"
Tirpitz raised an eyebrow. "On paper?"
Oskar opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then, very carefully, he asked:
"…Isn't this already a thing? Surely someone here knows what I'm talking about?"
At the door a guard shrugged. The doctor shrugged. The nurse bowed apologetically. Tirpitz shrugged—an admiralty shrug, dignified and confused.
And in that moment, Oskar felt the universe hand him yet another absurd business opportunity with a straight face.
He sat back against his pillow, eyes widening in realization.
"…Oh. Oh my God."
Tirpitz frowned. "Your Highness?"
Oskar smiled—slow, wicked, delighted.
"Nothing," he said sweetly.
Then under his breath, to himself:
"New easy money project: The Battleship Boardgame."
Time passed, and by the evening of December 24th, the news had escaped Germany.
At first there was disbelief.
Then shock.
Then the inevitable hunger for gossip.
Across Berlin, across Europe, and—by the next wave of telegrams—across the Atlantic, the same story spread in different languages:
> The Crown Prince of Germany has fallen.
Thrown from his horse in winter.
Head struck stone.
Unconscious. Possibly dying.
By midnight, editors sharpened their pens.
By dawn, every capital had an opinion.
Some spoke in hushed tones of tragedy.
Some with morbid fascination.
And in Paris, few bothered to hide their laughter.
To many outside Germany, it sounded less like a catastrophe and more like farce—a violent, unstable prince riding recklessly through snow, undone at last by his own recklessness. Dramatic, yes. But hardly unprecedented.
A story to fill columns.
Then be forgotten.
Until Christmas morning.
A second story arrived in the newspapers.
At first it seemed smaller, especially to any royals or diplomats. It was just a provincial, american story.
Then people, especially the common people read past the headline.
Then they read it again.
THE WRIGHT BROTHERS ARE FOUND DEAD.
Not from illness or age, or some ordinary accident.
They were found beneath a cliff in Ohio—broken, crushed, impaled by branches—dead after leaping from a height in crude winged suits. Their workshop had burned. Their research destroyed. Their bodies buried beneath snow and stone by unknown hands.
Farmers spoke of something dark seen many weeks earlier—
a child-sized figure gliding across the winter sky like a oversized bat.
Editors scoffed.
Then printed it anyway.
Recovered sketches from the brothers homes that weren't burned showed impossible designs:
bat-winged silhouettes, a small costume of what people could only describe as some bat-devil-man thing, eagle-shaped flying contraptions, silk frames stretched to madness. Not experiments—final real attempts.
This was no simple tragedy, it was a possible murder mystery, or possibly even an act of madness from two brothers. Nobody knew for sure.
And just like that, the Crown Prince's cracked skull became an afterthought.
A Crown Prince falling from a horse was understandable.
While on the other hand, two brilliant well known inventors dying due to leaping off of a cliff together, a fire burning their lives work mysteriously and graves found only weeks after the fire and ash. Now that was a story that people were curious to find answers to.
By December 26th, the world had moved on.
Germany still worried about its heir.
But the world asked a different question entirely:
> Who destroyed the research of the Wright Brothers? And why did they foolishly jump together?
Meanwhile, inside the palace, Wilhelm II stood rigid as Essen delivered his report.
"Your Majesty," Essen said carefully, "our investigation at the moment undoubtedly confirms, that the incident at Babelsberg was an accident."
Wilhelm's eyes did not leave the window.
"Explain."
"His Highness rode while intoxicated. The horse's forelegs entered a deep snowdrift concealing a rut and stone. The animal stumbled. The Crown Prince was thrown and struck a wall. Also, multiple witnesses saw it all. Multiple trusted servants and guards that is, they all observed the event."
Essen hesitated—then added firmly:
"If this were staged, it would have required perfection bordering on the impossible."
The Kaiser exhaled slowly.
"So… it was not attempted murder."
"No, Your Majesty."
A weight lifted—if only slightly.
"And the doctors?"
Essen swallowed. "His Highness is alive. He is right now being treated at the Royal Military Hospital in Berlin. We have the countries top medical professionals there. And at the moment his Highness is out of immediate danger. But unconscious still."
Wilhelm frowned, as he then asked, "When will he wake?"
Essen answered quickly in response, "That cannot be predicted." A pause followed. "From what the doctors could at such a short notice say is, that there is pressure on the brain. Something like a possible blood clot. The doctors do not dare operate. They judge surgery to bee too risky."
Wilhelm turned, color draining from his face.
"You're saying—"
"There is a chance of recovery," Essen said quickly. "But it is small. He may never wake. Or wake… altered."
"A vegetable?" Wilhelm snapped. "You are telling me my son may live as a vegetable?"
Essen bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty. Although I must say this, with the level of medical technology now, I fear that the doctor's cannot keep the Crown Prince alive for long unless he awakens soon."
For a long moment, the Kaiser said nothing.
Then:
"Enough. So let it be. God will decide his fate then."
He straightened, the Emperor reclaiming command from the father.
"Summon the Chancellor. The General Staff. The Navy and Army Secretaries. An Imperial Council—tonight."
Essen understood immediately.
With the Crown Prince unconscious, the Empire could not drift.
A successor—even a symbolic one—was required.
When Essen left, Wilhelm II remained alone.
Sadness flickered—briefly.
Then calculation.
"Oskar…" he murmured.
Among his sons, there was no real contest.
Yet tradition would resist.
The Reichstag would argue.
And God help him if Wilhelm ever woke again.
The Kaiser pressed his fingers to his temple.
The Empire stood at a crossroads.
And time—cruel, merciless time—would not wait for certainty.