Oskar suppressed his anger and smiled anyway.
He shook hands with each of the generals waiting for him—men who commanded the eastern formations that would one day be welded into the Eighth Army when mobilization came. Their grips were firm, their eyes cautious, their faces disciplined in the Prussian way.
He could feel what they were measuring.
Not only his rank.
His reality.
A twenty-year-old crown prince—appointed over them, over tradition, over the quiet assumptions of the officer corps—walking into Königsberg with the weight of the East already in his hands.
Oskar understood something simple: if he wanted to own the Eighth Army someday, he needed more than decrees.
He needed their acceptance.
And men like Prittwitz—men stupid enough to provoke him openly—were rare.
Oskar was not only the new commander of this eastern structure.
He was not only the Crown Prince, but also the Iron Prince of the Empire.
Very few people in Germany, no matter how proud, would willingly seek their own destruction.
Unless they were mad.
Or backed by someone who thought he could protect them.
After greetings, the group moved inside the headquarters of I Army Corps.
The building was pure Prussian administration: heavy walls, clean corridors, the smell of ink and wool, warmth held in by discipline as much as by heating. François had ordered food prepared in advance—no grand banquet, but a proper officers' dinner, served with efficiency and quiet respect.
Even with one corps commander conspicuously absent, the evening did not collapse into awkwardness.
If anything, it sharpened.
Because the men present understood: this was not just a meal.
It was the beginning of a new hierarchy.
Oskar made sure they enjoyed themselves.
Not with cheap jokes or drunken looseness, but with something rarer:
He was approachable.
He listened.
He asked questions.
He let men speak without interrupting them.
Slowly, the tension eased from shoulders. Conversation began to flow. Doubt weakened.
Then, at the right moment—when plates had been cleared, when the room had warmed, when eyes were on him without hostility—Oskar laid his first stone.
"Gentlemen," he said calmly, "I intend to strengthen the East."
Several officers stilled, attention sharpening.
"You have been treated as the 'holding force' for too long," Oskar continued. "You are expected to face the first удар—first strike—of Russia with fewer resources, less prestige, and fewer upgrades than the western formations."
A few brows lifted at the casual use of a Russian word. A prince with strange habits.
"I will change that," Oskar said.
He didn't say how. Not fully. Not publicly.
But he let just enough slip to hook ambition.
Equipment improvements.
Training cycles.
Logistics upgrades.
And, quietly—very quietly—he implied that service performed well would be noticed.
Not only with medals.
With comfort.
With security for families.
With rewards that made the future feel… worth it.
No one laughed when he spoke of estates and homes in the far distance. Officers were practical men; they did not mind dreaming as long as the dream came with paperwork.
Then Oskar set down his fork, and his tone changed.
"Now listen carefully," he said.
The room quieted so completely that even the lamps seemed to hum louder.
"The international situation is becoming increasingly dangerous."
He let that sentence breathe.
"I will do everything in my power to ensure that war does not come," Oskar said, voice steady. "You have my word on that. But if war comes—" his gaze moved across the table, "—it will not be short. It will not be glorious like the wars of the past, this I can assure you."
He paused.
"And it may last five years… or more."
That earned him their full attention.
"And yes I know, the world has been unstable before," Oskar continued, resting his gloved hands lightly on the table. "But something shifted recently. The annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina in 1908 did not merely anger Serbia."
His eyes narrowed.
"It radicalized it."
Several officers exchanged looks.
Oskar went on.
"Since the Serbian royal family was murdered in 1903, something colder has been growing in the Balkans. Not nationalism as we understand it—politics, speeches, flags."
He spoke the next words with quiet disgust.
"A belief that murder is a legitimate political tool."
No one interrupted him.
"Assassinations of nobility and royalty are increasing across Europe," Oskar said. "And within a few years, an organization will emerge in Serbia dedicated not to politics… but to death."
A few brows furrowed.
"They will call themselves Unification or Death," Oskar said. "Others will know them as the Black Hand."
One of the older generals inhaled sharply.
"They will seek to create a Greater Serbia," Oskar continued, "and they will use terror to do it."
His finger traced the Balkans on the map spread nearby—where lines and borders always looked cleaner than reality.
"They will be protected," Oskar said, "not openly, but effectively, by elements of the Serbian state. And Serbia is protected by Russia. Russia cannot allow its influence in the Balkans to slip."
Silence.
"Vienna will not tolerate open humiliation forever," Oskar said. "When Austrian officials are killed, when Austrian authority is challenged, Austria-Hungary will respond."
He lifted his eyes.
"And the moment Austria-Hungary acts, Russia will move."
The room was absolutely still now.
"That," Oskar said quietly, "is how a regional crisis becomes a continental war."
He straightened.
"I do not believe France or Britain wish to declare war on Germany directly," he said. "But war does not always arrive directly."
He let that sit.
"Sometimes it arrives through obligations. Through allies. Through promises made decades earlier."
He leaned forward a fraction.
"So I repeat: I will do everything in my power to prevent that future."
Then his voice hardened—not loud, but unmistakable.
"But hope is not a strategy."
"If war comes through the Balkans—and it may, within five years—Germany must be ready before the first shot is fired."
He looked around the table, meeting eyes one by one.
"And that," Oskar said, "is why I am here."
For a moment, nothing moved.
Not because the officers were stunned into worship, but because Prussian men were trained from youth not to fill silence with noise. They absorbed words the way they absorbed orders: with stillness, with control, with faces that refused to betray uncertainty.
If any other man had spoken in such a manner—predicting alliances, naming future conspiracies, describing a war as if he had already watched it—there would have been questions. Skeptical coughs. The polite challenge of staff officers who lived for contradiction.
But this was not any other man.
This was the Crown Prince who owned half the new century.
The Iron Prince who arrived with factories behind him, rail schedules in his head, and enough money to make "impossible" merely a question of paperwork.
And—most importantly to the men at this table—he was the first man in Berlin's orbit who had spoken of the East not as a "holding force," but as a blade to be sharpened.
The oldest general cleared his throat.
Not as a protest.
As a formality.
"Your Highness," he said evenly, "your assessment is… grave."
Then he placed his hand flat on the table—an officer's quiet pledge, not a theatrical gesture.
"But it is understood."
Others followed in small, controlled movements—straightening in their chairs, setting down glasses, turning their full bodies toward Oskar as if aligning themselves to a new axis.
One of them—hard-faced, with a cavalryman's bluntness—spoke next.
"If war comes, we will meet it," he said. "And if the East is to be strengthened, then we welcome it. We have waited long enough."
A murmur of agreement—low, disciplined, not loud enough to become enthusiasm.
Hindenburg, who had said little throughout the meal, inclined his head with the measured calm of a man who did not waste words.
"Your Highness," he said, "give us the standards you want. The East will reach them."
Ludendorff's voice was sharper, younger, and more hungry.
"Provide the means," he added. "And we will provide the result."
That was how Prussian devotion sounded.
Not praise.
Not poetry.
A simple, ruthless bargain:
Give us the tools, and we will give you victory.
Ambition lived in the room like a second fire.
Promotions. Higher commands. Decorations. A name that outlived them.
And merit—true merit—was still easiest to earn in war.
Yes, facing Russia with only the eastern forces would be brutal.
But brutal did not mean hopeless.
Russia was enormous and often clumsy—slow to react, unevenly equipped, dragged forward by its own mass.
And for officers who believed in training, discipline, rail timetables, and decisive maneuver, the thought of defeating Russia—even against odds—was not only frightening.
It was intoxicating.
If Austria-Hungary absorbed part of the burden, if Germany fought smart, if the East held long enough…
Then glory was possible.
Their gazes toward Oskar shifted again.
Not adoration.
Not worship.
But something far more useful:
Acceptance.
A silent calculation settling into certainty—
Following this prince might not only be honorable.
It might be the winning side of history.
After dinner, the corps commanders departed one by one, returning to their units and their routines.
Only Hindenburg and Ludendorff remained behind.
The door closed.
The room felt smaller.
More honest.
"Your Highness," Hindenburg said carefully, "General von Prittwitz's behavior today was not merely discourteous. It was a provocation—and a blow to your prestige."
Ludendorff nodded. "If it is not answered, others will learn the wrong lesson."
"If possible," Ludendorff added, voice clipped, "he should be transferred out of the eastern structure entirely."
Oskar nodded once, expression hard.
"Of course I want him out," he said. "But it won't be easy."
He set his cup down with a soft click.
"He is one of His Majesty's favourites. And he has a good relationship with Moltke."
Hindenburg and Ludendorff exchanged a glance—brief, controlled, the kind of look officers used when they were troubled but refused to dramatize it.
Hindenburg spoke first, careful and respectful.
"Then this will not be a simple personnel matter, Your Highness. It will become… a test."
Ludendorff's mouth tightened.
"If you allow him to remain, others will interpret it as permission," he said.
Oskar lifted a hand slightly.
"I understand," he replied. "Leave it to me."
That was all he needed to say. Both men rose, saluted, and withdrew. They trusted him not because he was gentle, but because he was effective—and because in the East, a prince who acted was rarer than gold.
When they were gone, Oskar finished his coffee without hurry, then moved to his desk.
He wrote at once.
Not wildly—never wildly.
He was not a man who lost his temper easily.
But he also understood something that every court and every army understood:
A prince could not afford to look as if he tolerated disrespect.
Even a man who was calm had to display firmness at times, the way artillery displayed power: not to be used constantly, but so everyone remembered it existed.
The message he produced was short, direct, and cold enough to be undeniable.
When it was done, he did not shout. He did not need to.
"Carter," he said, holding the telegram between two gloved fingers, "send this to Berlin immediately. And have your father place it directly into His Majesty's hands."
Captain Carter von Jonalright straightened as if the words had struck his spine.
"Yes, Your Highness."
He accepted the paper carefully—like a document that could start a fire—and turned to go.
Oskar watched him for a moment longer than necessary.
Carter's life had once been tied to Oskar's eldest brother Wilhelm—since boyhood. He had served as the Crown Prince's chief bodyguard, a man trained to be invisible, part of the old order of royal guards who were treated like expensive furniture: present, useful, and never spoken of.
Then the riding accident had turned Babelsberg into a prison for a mad prince—and everyone attached to Babelsberg into something far less glamorous: guards watching a man who could not be trusted with freedom.
Carter's future had collapsed with his master's.
But the Jonalright family did not vanish.
Essen von Jonalright—Wilhelm II's long-serving steward and trusted friend—had quietly shifted where he stood. And Oskar, who never wasted a loyal man, had pulled Carter out of the wreckage and given him a new post.
Not under Wilhelm.
Under him.
The Eternal Guard had grown into three companies now—each built for a different kind of protection, each commanded by a captain Oskar trusted.
Two of those captains were assigned to the people Oskar valued more than his own comfort: one company guarding Tanya, Anna, and the children; another guarding Karl and his family.
The third company—Carter's company—was the one tasked with Oskar himself.
Oskar privately considered it the least important assignment.
If something came for him, he intended to handle it.
But the Guard did not argue with Oskar's choices. They simply obeyed them.
And Carter… Carter cherished this new role like a man pulled from deep water and handed air again.
Here he was not furniture.
Here he had a future.
And his future was tied to Oskar.
That alone would have ensured loyalty.
There was also Priest Arnold's final test—quiet, severe, and strangely effective. Every Eternal Guard passed through it before being accepted. Arnold did not ask whether a man was brave.
He asked whether a man would die for Oskar without hesitation.
That was the core of the New Dawn movement: a new strain of Protestant devotion that proclaimed a messenger had come again—Prince Oskar, sent to lead mankind into a new dawn. They believed Oskar's will was destiny, and their duty was to serve it without question.
Oskar did not truly care what Arnold preached, so long as the result remained the same:
Absolute loyalty.
No betrayal.
No chance.
Oskar's own private beliefs were… broader. He held them quietly, and he had no interest in policing other people's faith. So long as it did not harm his household, and so long as it did not threaten the innocent, he would tolerate whatever made men steadier and more devoted.
If anything, he considered it useful.
Carter disappeared down the corridor with the telegram.
Oskar remained still for several seconds, eyes fixed on nothing.
Then his mouth moved—barely.
"Prittwitz," he murmured.
The name tasted like arrogance.
"I'm sorry," he said softly, with no real apology in it. "But you chose the wrong Prince to fuck with."
He exhaled once.
"To establish true authority," he added quietly, "you need an example."
A lesson needed to be made.
And Prittwitz had volunteered.
Oskar could not do anything legally extreme—not yet. But a transfer was possible, and transferring one of the Emperor's favourites out of the eastern structure would be a slap loud enough to echo through every mess hall and staff office in East Prussia.
Men learned quickly when a slap came from the throne.
Still…
Oskar's eyes hardened slightly.
This depended on one thing.
His father.
If Wilhelm II refused—if Moltke resisted hard enough—then the transfer could become a public humiliation instead of a warning.
So Oskar did what he always did when brute force met politics:
He prepared a second lever.
A message had already been sent to Falkenhayn as well.
Support me.
Or Moltke wins.
And Falkenhayn—hungry for Moltke's fall—would understand that language perfectly.