The year 1907 was dying.
Not with drama—no cannon, no storm, no omen in the sky—just the slow, inevitable ticking of clocks in warm rooms while outside winter pressed its forehead against the windows of Potsdam.
Inside the palace, there was light.
It spilled from chandeliers like molten gold, struck marble and polished wood, flashed across medals and jewels and silk, and made the great hall feel less like a building and more like a living throat of the Empire—breathing music, perfume, and expectation.
The guests were already gathered in careful waves: nobility nearest the front, generals and admirals like a wall of dark-blue cloth and metal, ministers and diplomats in black, and behind them the newer power—industrialists, engineers, organizers, "useful men"—who had begun to appear at court more and more often in the wake of one inconvenient reality:
Germany was changing.
And everyone in the room knew whose name was stitched into that change.
Applause began as the doors opened.
Not polite applause. Not ceremonial applause.
This was the applause of people who believed the future had already chosen a side.
The Kaiser entered first—Wilhelm II in full uniform, shoulders squared, moustache sharp as a blade, his presence still capable of making the room remember what obedience felt like.
At his side came the Empress, Auguste Viktoria, calm and queenly, diamonds bright against pale fabric.
And just behind them—like the shadow of tomorrow—came Prince Oskar.
He escorted Crown Prince Wilhelm's young wife, Cecilie, who had no formal escort of her own in that moment, and with her was little Louis, drawn close like a small, solemn page in miniature. Oskar did it smoothly, without drawing attention—because that was what he had learned to do now. Carry things. Carry people. Carry the weight. Make it look effortless.
Behind them filed the rest of the Kaiser's sons. In December of 1907 only one of them—Eitel Friedrich—had a wife with him. The others came alone in their uniforms, handsome in the way princes were expected to be handsome, but still unmarried, still without children, still caught in that awkward space between youth and dynasty.
Only Oskar had already built something… different.
His eyes slid briefly through the hall as he stepped into the light, and he saw it at once.
His people.
Not "his" by blood, or well not all of them at least. Not "his" by law.
But the people who had grown around him like a second household—messy, ambitious, loyal in strange ways, stitched together by factories, money, scandals, babies, and the quiet conviction that following this one giant prince might actually lead somewhere worth going.
At one corner table sat Karl, half hidden behind women and children, trying unsuccessfully to look like a man who had not accidentally become famous.
Near him were Heddy, Tanya, Anna, and—yes—Bertha, with little Alfried bundled close.
And this year, Anna's older daughters were here too.
Greta Müller—ten years old now, already too steady-eyed for her age.
Lise—nine, a warm-blooded hurricane in small human form.
Klara—seven, fearless, curious, and forever reaching for whatever she wasn't supposed to touch.
Anna herself was only twenty-six, and already a mother of six girls—three from her first life, three from Oskar's. The older three were not noble, not "courtly," and therefore, to certain stiff-necked people, they had no right to be in the palace at all.
Oskar did not care.
The palace had always been full of blood. He preferred it when it was full of life.
Not far from them sat Hans Albrecht with his wife Lina—wider-eyed than any noblewoman, still half believing she might wake and find the villa and the warm beds and the safe future were only a dream.
Hans had his children with him too: Max and Emma, older now and dressed carefully, and three new babies bundled in wool like a precious thing that the old mine would never get its hands on.
Around them sat other faces Oskar knew: industrialists, engineers, scientists—men and women who had started as strangers and slowly become pillars of the Oskar Industrial Group. Even Gustav von Bohlen und Halbach was there, hovering near Bertha, trying to look comfortable among people who did not truly belong to him.
Oskar saw them all and felt something rare in a palace:
Not duty.
Not performance.
Belonging.
The Kaiser stepped to the front overlooking the crowd.
The room quieted—not instantly, but with the slow obedience of a hall trained by decades of monarchy. The last coughs were swallowed. The last whispers died. The orchestra softened into a held breath.
Wilhelm II lifted one hand.
"My friends," he began, voice bright and carrying, "my people—this year has been unlike any other in the history of our Empire."
A ripple of approval moved through the room.
"Progress," the Kaiser continued, "has not merely visited Germany—it has taken residence."
Laughter. Applause.
He gestured broadly, as if he could physically gather up railways and factories and engines and shipyards and lay them on the marble like trophies.
"Other nations may complain," Wilhelm said, tone sharpening just enough to make diplomats stiffen, "about our laws, our discipline, our certainty."
A pause.
"They may debate our actions."
Another pause.
"But they do not dare oppose us—because Germany is stronger now than she has ever been."
The applause swelled, louder, freer.
"Our army is unmatched. And in the coming years," he declared, "the world will learn that our navy shall be unmatched as well. None shall dare stand before the might of the German Empire!"
This time the room answered with something close to a roar.
Wilhelm smiled—not warmly, but with the satisfaction of a man who understood exactly what fear and pride looked like when they bowed together.
Then he raised his hand again and the sound lowered.
"And now," he said, "eat. Drink. Rejoice. You have earned this celebration."
The crowd relaxed into smiles.
But the Kaiser's gaze slid—briefly, deliberately—to Oskar.
"And before I end," Wilhelm said, voice rising slightly, "let us not forget that all of this is thanks to the tireless work of our people—and yes…"
He paused.
"…to the vision of my son."
There was a new kind of noise then.
Not just applause, but recognition. The kind that felt like a decision being made without being voted on.
Oskar did not bow deeply. He did not perform humility. He only inclined his head like a man acknowledging a report.
It was enough.
"Now," the Kaiser declared, "let us welcome the year 1908 with confidence. With unity. And with faith—in God, in Germany, and in the work of our own hands!"
Crystal chimed as glasses lifted.
The orchestra surged.
The hall erupted into motion again—
—and then the Kaiser did something unexpected.
He turned and made a clear gesture toward Karl's table.
"Karl!" Wilhelm called, loud enough that even the far wall heard it. "Come."
Karl froze.
He looked, for a heartbeat, like a man who had been told to walk onto a battlefield wearing only socks.
A murmur swept the room: curious nobles, confused generals, a few people already smiling as if they smelled entertainment.
Karl hesitated only long enough to realize there was no escape. Then he stood.
Oskar blinked, frowning.
What are you doing, Father?
But the Kaiser was already moving on, already smiling like a man about to enjoy himself.
As the royal family began shifting toward their formal seats, Oskar did what he always did now:
He did not go where tradition wanted him to go.
He went to his own table.
Cecilie and Louis—after a moment of confusion—followed him, because Cecilie had learned something in the past year:
if you wanted to be near the future, you sat near Oskar.
The hall, without anyone officially declaring it, arranged itself into three camps:
the Kaiser's table and the noble court around it,
Oskar's table and the industrial power clustered near it,
the foreign guests—especially Austrian—who hovered in the overlap.
Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his family sat close enough to Oskar's table to speak easily, close enough to watch, close enough to measure.
Karl mounted the small stage where the musicians waited.
A piano chord sounded—soft and odd in phrasing, like something from a dream.
Then Karl began to sing.
"And now… as the end is near… of this year…"
His voice was calm and steady—no theatrics, no courtly warbling, just a man singing as if the song belonged to him.
Oskar's stomach dropped.
Oh no.
Karl was singing one of those songs, that Oskar had taught him during their talk about American Jazz and music in general.
Karl didn't sing loudly. Not stupidly. But well—far better than Oskar had ever heard him sing. Like a small, serious dwarf had swallowed an American stage spirit and decided to release it in Potsdam.
The hall listened.
Generals leaned forward as if trying to understand why their hearts were reacting to something that did not involve artillery or horses.
And then Karl—God help him—began to move.
Not a dance any European court had ever seen. Not quite vulgar. Not quite proper. Something in between: hips, shoulders, confidence. The kind of movement that made older nobles blink as if the world had tilted slightly off its axis.
When the final note faded, the applause came slow at first…
Then strong.
Then overwhelming.
Karl bowed once and, like a man condemned to entertain his executioners, launched into the next song—
"Let's rock! Everybody, let's rock! Everybody in the whole Prison block—"
Oskar buried his face in his hand.
Some guests laughed.
Some looked scandalized.
Several diplomats stared as if trying to decide whether this was a German cultural revolution or a diplomatic incident.
The night went on anyway.
Oskar did what was required: greetings, handshakes, polite exchanges with admirals and ministers. The King of Bavaria clasped his arm with theatrical warmth. Franz Ferdinand complimented German engines with a smile that carried something like envy behind it.
And then—finally—Oskar was left with the part of the evening that mattered.
His table.
Which was not a table so much as an ongoing riot.
Anna sat at his left, his daughters with her nestled close—wide-eyed, drowsy, occasionally offended by noise.
And Anna's older daughters swarmed too: Greta trying to act composed, Lise feeding him sweets as if this were her divine calling, Klara giggling at the sight of a prince eating like a bear.
Tanya sat at his right, her three boys clustered like a storm around her. Imperiel—old enough now to have opinions and strength—kept attempting to climb onto the table and throw food, while Luise intervened like a cheerful commander, inventing games and distracting disasters.
Even little Wilhelm—Cecilie's baby—joined in with small, enthusiastic chaos. Bertha's baby Alfried gurgled, offended by everything, delighted by nothing.
It was loud. It was messy.
It was alive.
Oskar watched it all and for the first time that evening felt genuinely overwhelmed—not by politics, not by eyes, not by power, but by the simple fact that his private life had become… enormous.
Yet even then he wasn't truly alone.
Servants moved like practiced dancers. Guards kept the perimeter. Women who understood babies rotated in and out. Hands appeared to catch tumbling cups. Someone always had a cloth. Someone always knew what to do.
And so Oskar leaned back, smiling, and let the chaos be what it was:
the future refusing to sit quietly.
Outside, Potsdam's winter sky deepened toward midnight.
Inside, the hall roared with music and laughter, Karl still somehow alive on that stage, and the dynasty—old and new—ate and drank and pretended time could be held back by celebration.
At last the clocks turned.
Fireworks burst beyond the windows, light shattering across snow and night.
Cheers rolled through the palace.
1908 had arrived.
Oskar lifted a glass of apple juice—because he did not drink—and those nearest him lifted theirs too: not only to the new year, but to the fragile, foolish hope that this moment of warmth might last just a little longer before history came calling again.