Oskar's appointment as Acting Crown Prince of the German Empire sent a ripple through every Foreign Office in Europe.
Germany was already one of the strongest powers on the continent. Any change in the line of succession in Berlin was watched in London, Paris, and St. Petersburg the way a banker watches a rival's balance sheet.
This time, though, the reaction carried a different sharpness.
They had prepared themselves for Wilhelm.
They had not prepared themselves for Oskar.
For years, most foreign observers had regarded Oskar as a curious anomaly: an inventive, scandal‑tinted prince with too much money and too many ideas, but still safely buried in the line of succession. A useful subject for reports, not a man expected to wear the crown.
Now, with the "acting" title in his hand and his name on every German front page, they could no longer treat him as a footnote. Especially not after that speech beneath the Brandenburg Gate that had rallied the crowds and reassured the markets in one stroke.
In London, the light in Downing Street burned late into the last days of December.
In the Prime Minister's study, Henry Campbell‑Bannerman sat with his habitual air of weary courtesy, a cigar forgotten between his fingers. Across from him, Chancellor of the Exchequer H. H. Asquith and Foreign Secretary Sir Edward Grey leaned over the dispatches from Berlin.
"Well, gentlemen," Campbell‑Bannerman said at last, breaking the silence, "Germany has, for all practical purposes, changed its Crown Prince. 'Acting' is a technicality. That boy has just addressed the Empire as if it were already his. The question is—does this development serve us or harm us?"
Asquith's mouth twisted in something between amusement and distaste.
"Prime Minister, I confess I find the whole affair at once tragic and ridiculous," he said. "The official heir—the original Crown Prince—manages, at the decisive moment, to throw himself from his horse and render himself, if the latest reports are to be believed, quite incapacitated. Awake, perhaps, but… slow‑witted and unreliable."
He shook his head faintly.
"In his place, we now have Prince Oskar: a man whose talent for business we have already had occasion to respect. His concerns spread across steel, oil, chemicals, rail, and consumer goods. Even the ladies of our own court cannot seem to avoid his absurd lottery and those toy shops of his. If his political instincts prove half as sharp as his commercial ones, then we face, in time, not merely a strong Germany, but a Germany that leads the world economically."
"And not only Germany," Asquith added grimly. "His ventures are creeping into Austria‑Hungary as well. If he props up that crumbling Habsburg edifice, we may one day find a central block from Hamburg to Trieste stiffened by his factories."
Campbell‑Bannerman nodded slowly, lines deepening around his eyes.
Sir Edward Grey spoke next, voice quieter but colder.
"The balance is already shifting, Prime Minister," he said. "Our naval margin narrows. Our industry is challenged. The Germans are no longer content to be a continental power. They are building toward something larger."
He tapped the telegram with one long finger.
"Oskar is dangerous precisely because he is not a mere court ornament. The old Crown Prince had ambition but no real capacity. This one has both. If he continues at this pace, then in twenty years' time their population, industry, and organization may make them very nearly unassailable—even were we to count upon American sympathy."
Campbell‑Bannerman pressed his lips together.
"I do not dispute the danger," he said. "But I know this as well: a general war on the continent would ruin victor and vanquished alike. We might break Germany and yet exhaust ourselves in the process. Our hegemony would be preserved in name and lost in substance."
"No doubt," Grey replied calmly. "But we must ask the harsher question: if we do nothing, will there still be a British hegemony to preserve?"
He met the Prime Minister's gaze without flinching.
"To safeguard the Empire, we may be forced, sooner or later, to risk the very thing we dread. Whether Oskar himself wishes war is, in the end, immaterial. His existence—his reforms—may compel us to act before he has finished building."
Campbell‑Bannerman sighed.
"You speak as if there are no alternatives."
"Are there?" Grey countered softly.
The Prime Minister looked back to the fire, then to the maps.
"…Perhaps," he said after a moment, "perhaps we can still influence German policy. Oskar is new to high politics. He is ambitious, but he is not irrational. Might he be open to arrangement? Some colonial concession—Nigeria, or some other troublesome holding that costs us more than it yields—in exchange for a formal limitation of their fleet? Some understanding that leaves us our naval supremacy while allowing them their continental dreams?"
It was a generous thought.
Asquith and Grey exchanged a glance that was almost pitying.
"Prime Minister," Asquith said gently, "with respect, I believe that is unlikely. The Germans will not willingly hobble their military strength, not when they see themselves encircled. They have spent years preparing to challenge us. Their naval laws, their dockyards, their propaganda—none of it suggests a nation ready to be content with second place."
Grey inclined his head.
"We must face facts," he said. "They are preparing. So must we. We cannot appear the aggressor—history is harsh with those who light the first match—but if we wish to preserve our position, we must be ready to fight, and to win, when the opportunity—or the pretext—comes."
Campbell‑Bannerman's shoulders sagged.
"You propose," he said quietly, "that we abandon hope?"
"I propose," Grey answered, "that we abandon illusions. We may speak the language of peace—but we must plan as if war were inevitable. Only by defeating the Germans outright can we secure our colonial system and prolong the life of the British Empire. If we fail, then our grandchildren will read of this island in the past tense."
There was no drama in his tone. That made it worse.
For a while, only the crackle of the fire filled the room.
"At the very least," Campbell‑Bannerman said at last, "we must not hand Germany the moral high ground. If there is to be a war, we must be able to show the world, and posterity, that we were not the ones who wanted it."
"Precisely," Asquith agreed. "We must be seen to act in defence—of ourselves, of smaller nations, perhaps even of those minorities the Germans are now expelling. We must not be the first to declare. Let Berlin give us the excuse."
Grey nodded.
"In the meantime," he said, "we continue our work with Russia. Once Saint Petersburg is firmly committed, the encirclement of Germany and her allies will be complete. Then, should war come, the Germans will face pressure from east and west."
He allowed himself the faintest of smiles.
"And we have other tools. The Danes dream of reclaiming Schleswig. The Belgians eye German colonies as do the Japanese. There are levers everywhere, if we are prepared to pull them."
"Very well," Campbell‑Bannerman said. "Offer the Russians what is necessary. A little here, a promise there. The same for the Danes and Belgians, and some to those Japanese. Everything must be shaped toward the same end: if we fight Germany, we must not lose. And we must not be remembered as the ones who struck first."
"Understood, Prime Minister," Asquith and Grey replied almost in unison.
Grey hesitated, then added:
"There is… one more curious item from our intelligence people."
Campbell‑Bannerman raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Our man in Berlin reports that Oskar has lately instructed his agents to locate a particular schoolboy in Birmingham," Grey said. "A John Ronald Reuel Tolkien. Fourteen years old. Excellent at languages, by all accounts. Brilliant, perhaps. No political connections. The Prince appears unusually interested."
The Prime Minister frowned.
"A child?"
"So it seems," Grey said. "At present it is probably nothing. But when a German prince who builds empires out of patents and paper suddenly takes an interest in an obscure English schoolboy… I think it prudent that we, too, take note."
Asquith snorted softly.
"Very well," Campbell‑Bannerman said. "Put the boy's name on a quiet watch‑list. Nothing heavy‑handed. Just eyes. If Oskar wants him, let us be the first to know why."
Grey inclined his head.
"Already in motion, Prime Minister."
Outside, London's winter fog pressed against the windows.
Inside, the first lines of a new chapter in Europe's history were being written—not with ink on a treaty, but with cautious words and reluctant resolve.
Germany had gained an Acting Crown Prince.
The rest of the world had gained a new problem.
And as for Oskar himself. Well he was dealing with his own problems at the moment as usual.
After the speech, the cheers and a slow ride back through streets that still buzzed with his name—
Oskar had gone somewhere smaller, unseen.
Days slipped by behind closed doors. December was almost over; the new year was a day away. The law would soon bite, and his promise would come due.
If he couldn't buy land, people would say he'd lied.
And that, more than any foreign headline, was what he refused to allow.
So he buried himself in a room that had once been a guest study and was now claimed by necessity.
It sat close to his family's quarters—close enough that he could faintly hear children laughing down the corridor, close enough that Tanya's and Anna's presence felt like a constant pressure on the air. After the assassination, he refused to work far from them. His wounds had mostly healed; his paranoia had not.
Karl had taken the adjoining room and, without asking, turned it into his own office. The door between them was usually open.
Now both men sat together.
Oskar in a heavy wooden chair, uniform jacket off, sleeves rolled up.
Karl opposite him, perched on a cushion to reach the desk properly, glasses low on his nose, papers stacked in neat, truly terrifying piles.
Between them lay the consequences of the Brandenburg Gate speech.
Ledgers.
Maps.
Columns of numbers that did not care about ideals.
Oskar stared at the first page for a long moment.
"…One urban working‑class apartment in Berlin," he read aloud, "average sale value: twelve to eighteen hundred Marks."
He flipped the page.
"Hamburg—merchant townhouse: eight to fifteen thousand Marks."
Another page.
"Rural farmstead in Prussia proper… three to six thousand, depending on acreage and buildings."
He exhaled quietly.
"That's… not small money."
Karl did not look up.
"No, Your Highness. It is not."
Oskar continued reading.
"Alsace‑Lorraine… factory worker flats… seven to eleven hundred Marks."
He paused.
"That's cheaper than I expected."
Karl nodded. "Industrial housing. Dense, modest, often already mortgaged. Many families rent rather than own. That region will cost money—but not ruinous money."
Oskar leaned back slightly, rubbing his temples.
"One house is nothing," he murmured. "Ten houses is manageable. A hundred—noticeable."
He tapped the ledger with a knuckle.
"But this is not tens. Or hundreds."
Karl finally looked up, eyes tired but steady.
"No," he said. "It is hundreds of thousands."
Silence settled in the little room.
Oskar looked at the map now—pins and red markings across Berlin, Hamburg, Silesia, Poznań, Alsace‑Lorraine. Towns he'd visited. Streets he'd walked. Farm belts he'd flown over in his mind a hundred times while planning railways.
"Even at an average of… say… fifteen hundred Marks per property," he said slowly, "that's—"
Karl finished it for him.
"—over three hundred million Marks, if we bought every eligible property outright at a fair price."
Oskar closed his eyes for a second.
"That's… more than I wanted to admit."
Karl folded his hands together.
"And that," he said gently, "is why you do not say the number in public."
Oskar snorted once. "I promised anyway."
"Yes," Karl replied. "Which is why they believe you."
He slid another folder across the desk.
"But you can relax your face a little. I did not come here only to give you nightmares."
Oskar opened the folder.
The first page was not a debt.
It was income.
A projection table, carefully drawn.
Karl allowed himself a small, smug smile.
"First," he said, "your 'Battleship' board game."
Oskar blinked. "You actually ran the numbers on that already?"
"Of course," Karl said, offended that this needed to be asked. "Simple rules. Tactical thinking. Easy printing. Low unit cost. High replay value. Children will play it, their fathers will steal it, officers will pretend it is 'training.'"
He tapped the margin, where neat rows of figures climbed upward.
"More importantly… revenue."
He flipped to the next document.
"Muscle Motors."
Oskar straightened in his chair.
Karl's tone shifted into something cooler, more formal.
"The Russian Imperial Household has sent a personal request," he said. "Not an inquiry. A request."
Oskar raised an eyebrow. "The Tsar wants a bike?"
"He wants several," Karl corrected. "Men's models. Reinforced frames. Cold‑weather adjustments. Full safety kits: helmets, gloves, boots, elbow and knee protection. One for the Tsar, one for the Empress, a handful for Grand Dukes and Duchesses."
Oskar whistled softly.
"That won't be cheap."
"For them?" Karl said. "Roughly three thousand Marks per unit before transport. More, once we add customization, diplomatic packing, and a little something for the couriers."
"And they agreed to that?"
"They insisted," Karl said dryly. "If the Tsar rides German, everyone else must ride something more expensive to feel important."
He turned another page.
"And then there is Australia."
Oskar actually sat up at that. "Australia?"
Karl's lips twitched.
"Our first request from the Commonwealth. One men's model. Full safety package. Custom leather. Long‑distance sea transport."
"How much?" Oskar asked.
Karl checked his notes.
"About five thousand Marks, all told. They did not haggle."
Oskar stared at him.
"For one motorcycle."
Karl nodded. "Distance and vanity are very profitable, Your Highness."
Oskar leaned back, letting it sink in.
"So… we sell toys and luxury machines to fund land buyouts."
"In very crude terms, yes," Karl replied. "Board games, motorcycles, book royalties, dividends from Krupp and other partners, the Welfare Lottery margins… and do not forget—German emigrants returning with American savings are already buying some of this land themselves. You do not have to pay for everything."
He pointed to another page.
"Many ethnic Germans are coming back from the United States and South America. They bring dollars and gold. They are happy to buy farms and houses we help bring to market. In some cities, we merely act as matchmaker, not purchaser."
Oskar frowned at the ledger again.
"Every house I buy," he said quietly, "is someone leaving. Someone giving up a life they built here."
Karl's voice softened, losing some of its usual bite.
"And every house you buy," he replied, "is someone leaving with money in hand instead of being chased out with nothing."
He shrugged, uncomfortable with his own sentimentality.
"This isn't the future you wanted. I know. But such is life, your Highness."
Oskar was silent for a moment.
Then he nodded slowly and Karl continued by saying, "In any case, you have the means. Not endless means—but enough to keep your promise in principle. Especially if we stagger purchases, prioritize regions, and lean on existing German buyers. We do not have to buy three hundred million Marks' worth of property in one month. This will take years. Although, if the government helps as do the people, then maybe by next year's end all will be well."
Oskar sighed at the loss of it all, and closed the folder.
Outside, somewhere down the corridor, one of the toddlers shrieked with laughter. A nurse scolded someone in a stage whisper.
He stood.
"Then we do it," he said. "We buy what we must. We help who we can. And the rest…"
He spread his hands once, helpless and determined at the same time.
"…the rest, we fix later."
Karl nodded.
"I already instructed the clerks to begin," he said. "Applications, valuations, contracts. They are working in shifts. Most of them hate me."
Oskar shook his head, half amused.
"Of course they do."
Karl hopped down from his chair, straightening his jacket.
"You promised the people much," he said simply. "Now we make it real. And we make this new year worth celebrating for all."
And for the first time since the Brandenburg Gate, Oskar felt the future's weight shift on his shoulders—
not lighter, not gone—
but balanced.
This New Year there would, as usual, be almost nothing left in his personal accounts—or Karl's. But the people would be pleased.