Oskar took the car back to the palace.
Berlin felt sharper than Königsberg—less cold in temperature, perhaps, but colder in spirit. In the East, men spoke in maps and rail lines; in the capital, they spoke in faces and favor.
It was still mid-day when he found himself once again standing inside his father's office, a place he had entered so many times over the years that it almost felt like a second kind of school—one that taught only power.
The room was all dark wood and discipline. A broad oak desk anchored it like a gun platform. Maps and memoranda lay in ordered stacks, and the faint haze of cigar smoke softened the edges of everything without making it any less severe. Winter light slipped through heavy curtains and fell across a wall-sized map of Europe, pins marking borders that never stopped moving.
And today, the room was full.
Moltke was there.
Prittwitz—of course.
Falkenhayn and Waldeck as well, standing with the careful stillness of men who understood that court arguments could decide careers faster than battles.
Wilhelm II fixed his gaze on Oskar the moment he entered.
Not a father's gaze.
An Emperor's.
"Oskar," Wilhelm said, voice clipped, "tell me plainly. How are matters in the East? How is the future Eighth Army progressing?"
Oskar held the Kaiser's eyes without flinching.
"Father," he replied evenly, "have you no trust in me? Of course matters are progressing. The reorganization has begun, discipline remains strong, and readiness is improving."
He kept his tone calm—no defensiveness, no pleading.
"When the process matures," Oskar added, "the Eighth will become an elite force unlike anything seen before."
A small, sharp sound came from Moltke—half laugh, half insult.
"Your Highness exaggerates," Moltke said, politely poisonous. "In the East, your reforms have already caused widespread resentment. Now you stand here and attempt to mislead His Majesty."
He let the final word land like a stamp.
"That is… inappropriate."
Oskar blinked once.
"Resentment?" he repeated. "To what extent?"
Prittwitz stepped forward immediately, eager—as if he had been waiting all morning for the moment the knife could go in.
"Does Your Highness still wish to deny it?" Prittwitz said, voice smooth with manufactured outrage. "You have stubbornly pushed reforms that have angered the officer corps, put men out of their posts, and caused disorder in the ranks."
He spoke faster now, emboldened by the room.
"I hear you have driven soldiers through freezing rivers in the middle of winter until many fell ill. I hear you have paid money directly to common men—bribes—creating envy and unrest among others. If this continues, morale will collapse. Men will lose faith. Desertions will follow."
He spread his hands slightly, as if presenting obvious truth.
"How can Your Highness call that 'elite'?"
Oskar looked at Prittwitz slowly.
Calmly.
Like a man watching a clown walk onto a stage and forget where the audience is.
He had expected an attack.
He had expected Moltke to encourage it.
What he had not expected was how reckless Prittwitz would be—throwing accusations without understanding the reality on the ground, and doing it in the Emperor's office as if volume could replace facts.
Oskar's gaze alone was enough to make Prittwitz's face redden with fury.
But Prittwitz could not explode—not here, not in front of Wilhelm II. He swallowed his anger and kept talking, as if talking could save him.
Before he could continue, Falkenhayn cut in smoothly.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice calm as polished stone, "it would be wiser to establish facts before drawing conclusions. Reform always creates discomfort. The question is whether readiness is truly declining—"
He glanced briefly toward Oskar.
"—or improving."
Prittwitz scoffed.
"Hmph. What facts are needed? It is obvious."
The room began to rise toward argument—the familiar heat of old rivalries and wounded pride.
Wilhelm II's patience snapped.
"All right—enough!"
The Kaiser's roar silenced the office instantly.
"All of you—shut up," Wilhelm said, voice cracking like a whip. "I am questioning Oskar. No one speaks without my permission."
Prittwitz fell silent at once.
Whatever else he lacked, he possessed one skill in abundance: reading Wilhelm II's mood. All his influence flowed from imperial favor. If he angered the Kaiser, he would become nothing.
Wilhelm's eyes remained on Oskar—hard, assessing.
"Now," Wilhelm said, voice lower and colder, "explain it to me properly."
A pause.
"What is going on in the East?"
Oskar did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
From where he stood, the room looked almost small—filled with older men who, despite their rank and ribbons, suddenly resembled schoolboys questioning a teacher who had already finished the lesson.
"Yes, Father," Oskar said calmly. "Some have complained. I won't deny it."
Moltke's lips tightened.
"Some have fallen ill. A few have quit. And a handful have discovered that they are not suited for what is coming."
He spread his hands slightly, not in apology but in acceptance.
"But if the Eighth is to stand alone against the full weight of Russia, then I cannot afford weak links."
His gaze flicked—briefly, deliberately—toward Moltke and Prittwitz.
"I have done with the Army what I have already done with my own guard formations," Oskar continued. "The Eternal Guard. You know this system. It is not cruel. It is selective."
He spoke as if explaining arithmetic.
"And yes, the reforms have a second purpose."
He stepped closer to the map, not pointing dramatically—simply standing beside it.
"To flatten the chain of command."
The words landed softly, but the implication was enormous.
"We have removed the brigade level for now," Oskar said. "Regiments report directly to their divisions. Fewer layers mean fewer delays. Orders travel faster. Responsibility becomes clearer."
He turned back to the room.
"Men act instead of waiting."
Moltke inhaled sharply, but Oskar did not pause.
"In modern war, hesitation kills more men than bullets. The structure I am testing allows officers to act on battlefield conditions without waiting for approval to trickle down through three unnecessary layers."
No flourish.
No rhetoric.
Just function.
"If conditions allow in the future," Oskar added evenly, "if staff training, communications, and doctrine mature as I expect, then further simplification becomes possible."
The word further hung in the air.
With telephones, telegraph networks, and modern staff procedures beginning to appear, the idea was no longer fantasy. Eliminating brigades was the first experiment.
And if it worked, Oskar intended to go farther—cutting away layers that existed more for tradition than for necessity.
Around the office, heads nodded.
Not eagerly.
But thoughtfully.
Wilhelm II felt his skepticism loosen, almost against his will.
I did not expect him to understand the Army this well, Wilhelm realized, watching his son with new eyes. If he can think like this—on land as well as at sea—then perhaps my fears were misplaced.
A crown prince did not need to be a battlefield genius.
But in Prussia, a ruler who did not understand war was a ruler waiting to be devoured.
It had been said for generations: Prussia was an army with a nation, not a nation with an army. That was no longer entirely true in 1909—but the instinct remained. The officer corps still believed it.
Wilhelm had feared that Oskar did not understand that instinct.
Now it seemed the opposite.
Falkenhayn nodded slowly, already seeing applications beyond the East. Waldeck's eyes had narrowed in calculation; if the experiment succeeded, it would be hard to ignore.
Only two men did not nod.
Moltke stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight.
Prittwitz's expression had gone stiff, almost brittle.
Because if these reforms worked—
Then their accusations collapsed.
And with them, their last clean weapon against the Iron Prince.
"Your Highness," Moltke said coolly, his voice measured and sharp, "this is only your version of events. More than that, these are theories—unproven and dangerous. You are twenty years old. I fear you are overstepping your bounds without fully understanding the consequences."
He let the words hang, then pressed harder.
"Your reforms have already produced dissatisfaction among officers and generals. That is a fact, not theory. If this anger is not controlled, it will create serious instability—not just in the Eighth, but in the Army as a whole."
Oskar turned his head slowly.
His expression remained mild.
"Oh?" he said. "There are truly that many dissatisfied officers?"
His eyes flicked briefly to Moltke, then to Prittwitz.
"How interesting," Oskar continued, almost pleasantly. "Because I was unaware of this… mass dissatisfaction."
He tilted his head.
"I'm curious—how exactly do you know?"
Prittwitz bristled.
"Hmph. Your Highness, there is no need to play games," he snapped. "We have… our own channels."
Oskar did not argue.
He didn't even look at Prittwitz.
Instead, he turned to his father.
"Father," Oskar said evenly, "send an inspector to the East. Let them investigate everything. If it is true that my commands are in disarray—if officers are in open revolt—then I will accept whatever judgment you deem appropriate."
The room stilled.
Oskar knew what he was doing.
Reform always produced discomfort. Some men would complain no matter what. That was inevitable.
But the truth was simpler and far more dangerous for Moltke:
The resistance had already been neutralized. Careers protected. Transfers dignified. Pride managed.
What remained was not a movement.
It was noise.
Moltke and Prittwitz could barely hide their satisfaction.
Prittwitz looked almost eager—already imagining Oskar stripped of command, dragged back into harmless court life, the humiliation neatly reversed.
Wilhelm II hesitated.
He wanted to caution Oskar—but his son's confidence made him pause. Oskar did not step into a fight unless he already knew the ground.
At last, Wilhelm nodded.
"Very well," he said. "We will establish the facts."
Prittwitz lunged immediately.
"Your Majesty," he said quickly, "His Highness has not only altered command structures—he has interfered with procurement. He is refitting the Eighth completely. I fear he is deliberately profiting his own companies."
That got a reaction.
Wilhelm's gaze hardened.
Not because he believed the accusation—but because Prittwitz had grown greedy. Too loud. Too obvious.
He turned sharply to Oskar.
"Oskar," Wilhelm said, "explain."
"Yes, Father," Oskar replied calmly.
"It is untrue that the Eastern formations are purchasing weapons from Imperial Weapons Works," he said. "Because both the Eighth Army's development and the companies supplying it are under my direct responsibility."
He looked at Prittwitz.
"So you may rest easy. No profits are being made."
The room stirred.
"Yes," Oskar continued, "we are not sourcing externally. Only Imperial Weapons Works can supply the required systems at the necessary scale and quality. Artillery, as always, is procured through Krupp—which, as you know, is part of the Oskar Industrial Group."
He let that settle.
"All financing is handled privately, under my authority. I gain nothing from it."
Prittwitz stared.
Even the others—who had heard fragments before—found it difficult to grasp the scale.
Then Oskar reached into his coat.
He placed a document on the desk.
"This," he said, "is the new divisional firepower structure."
Silence.
Waldeck leaned forward first.
"Your Highness…" he said slowly. "Is this truly an infantry division?"
His voice dropped.
"That level of firepower is… overwhelming."
Falkenhayn read in silence, then exhaled sharply.
"Fifty-four field guns. Thirty-six 105mm howitzers. Eighteen 150mm heavy howitzers," he murmured. "And that is before machine guns, trench weapons, grenade launchers, and marksmen."
He looked up.
"With this concentration, provided the men are competent, nothing comparable exists."
Even Moltke and Prittwitz were forced into silence.
Then Moltke found his next weapon.
Money.
"Your Highness," he said, "such armament would cost an extraordinary sum. The Army budget cannot support this. So how are you funding it?"
His eyes narrowed.
"Have you taken loans from France? You were recently at the French embassy, meeting figures close to Ambassador Cambon."
Oskar waved the suggestion away.
"No," he said flatly. "I would never take foreign loans."
He allowed himself the faintest smile.
"The most dramatic event at that dinner was my eldest son managing a few French words. The guests were more fascinated by my children's hair and eyes than by anything political. One even commissioned a family painting."
The room blinked.
Prittwitz recovered quickly.
"Regardless," he pressed, "with such funds you could raise Germany's peacetime army to a million men. His Highness is making a grave error."
Oskar's eyes cooled.
"You need not concern yourselves with extraordinary expenses," he said. "The funds are mine. The investments are mine. That is final."
Then he looked at them directly.
"All required funding will be provided by me. I ask only patience—and trust that this is money spent wisely."
The room shifted.
Not because of arrogance.
Because of certainty.
In a world increasingly ruled by industry, money was not comfort.
It was leverage.
Even emperors felt its pull.
And when Moltke tried to strangle Oskar with budgets, Oskar simply stepped around the noose.
Inside Moltke's skull, something hot and ugly flared.
Damn him.
That damned Oskar—he thought money could buy authority the same way it bought steel, that coins could outweigh a lifetime of command. Twenty years old, no proper schooling, and yet he spoke as if war were a problem that could be solved with a factory and a checklist.
As if the men who had built the Army were merely antiques.
As if Prussia itself was obsolete.
Moltke forced the emotion back down. He ironed his face into neutrality the way he ironed everything: through discipline.
And then he spoke aloud.
"Your Highness," Moltke said carefully, "it is true that you possess funds. But it is neither wise—nor appropriate—for private money to be mixed with military finance."
"Yes!" Prittwitz blurted, grabbing the line like a drowning man grabbing driftwood. "How can private money be mixed with military expenditure? It breaks the order of the state."
Falkenhayn answered immediately, smooth as polished stone.
"You worry too much," he said, eyes calm. "This is the Iron Prince we are speaking of. And what is wrong with His Highness supporting the Army's development?"
He spread his hands slightly.
"The Empire benefits. The troops benefit. If anything, it should be praised."
Wilhelm II watched the exchange with his mustache twitching once, then spoke with the short finality of an imperial stamp.
"Enough."
The room stilled.
"If Oskar is capable of supporting military construction," Wilhelm II said, "then he may do so."
The decision landed like wax pressed into paper.
Moltke and Prittwitz were furious—but neither of them were stupid. They could hear Wilhelm's tone.
The Kaiser was leaning toward his son.
If they pushed too hard, they would not injure Oskar.
They would only expose themselves.
Prittwitz's face tightened anyway. He leaned toward Moltke, murmuring just low enough to avoid drawing the Kaiser's attention.
"If this continues…" he whispered, "even if the investigation proves unfavorable, we may not be able to force him out of the East."
Moltke's eyes flicked to him.
A single sharp wink.
Prittwitz hesitated—then swallowed and stepped forward, courage summoned from hatred rather than sense.
"Your Majesty," he began, voice rising into formal concern, "His Highness may have funds, yes. But the reforms he has implemented in the eastern command are not necessarily correct. If a mishap occurs, the consequences will be unimaginable."
He pressed on, words sounding practiced—because they were.
"According to our war plan, the main force will be deployed to the Western Front. The East will be held by the Eighth. If the Eighth cannot withstand Russian pressure, the eastern front collapses. That becomes catastrophic—one failure that could cost the Empire the entire war."
He leaned forward slightly, as if offering Wilhelm duty itself.
"Therefore, Your Majesty, we cannot gamble. We cannot take unnecessary risks."
Oskar's eyes narrowed a fraction.
He could hear Moltke's fingerprints on the speech. Prittwitz wasn't clever enough to shape an argument like that. He was simply desperate enough to repeat it.
"My reforms will not cause the Eighth to collapse," Oskar said evenly. "They will increase its combat effectiveness. When war comes, the Eighth will resist Russia—and buy the time the western campaign requires."
Moltke's mouth tightened.
"Your Highness can say that," he replied coolly. "But words are not proof. The consequences of failure are too severe for anyone to accept on faith."
For a heartbeat, Oskar was cornered.
He believed in his reforms with the certainty of a man who had seen the future.
But certainty could not be measured.
Only war could prove it.
And war had not yet arrived.
Falkenhayn's patience snapped.
"Chief of Staff," he said sharply, "you have gone too far. What proof do you expect from His Highness in peacetime?"
Waldeck spoke next, pragmatic as ever.
"Proving it is simple," he said. "Once the reforms stabilize, conduct large-scale exercises. Let the results speak."
Moltke shook his head at once.
"Exercises are not war," he said. "They can be staged. They can mislead. They prove nothing."
Wilhelm II's brow furrowed deeper.
Moltke's stubborn aggression was beginning to irritate him. And in the back of Wilhelm's mind, another truth lingered—one he hated to admit even to himself:
An emperor in the modern age could not simply command and expect reality to obey. Power came with friction. Competing institutions. Men like Moltke whose influence inside the Army was not only rank—but culture.
Oskar's expression cooled.
He had expected resistance.
He had not expected Moltke to press so relentlessly, as if he would rather cripple the East than allow Oskar to succeed there.
Silence held for a beat.
Then Oskar smiled.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
The smile of a man who had decided to end the argument by forcing everyone in the room to swallow the same poison.
"Alright," Oskar said.
His voice was calm.
"I guarantee that if war comes, the Eighth will withstand the Russian offensive and buy the necessary time for the western campaign."
He paused, eyes steady.
"By Schlieffen's own assumptions, that means six to eight weeks. I see no reason it cannot be done."
Moltke's eyes narrowed.
"And what guarantee do you offer?" he asked softly.
Oskar didn't blink.
His voice turned cold.
"If I fail," he said, "I will voluntarily relinquish my right to the throne."
For a full second, the room froze.
Even Wilhelm II went still.
No one had expected Oskar to stake his entire political future on the eastern front.
A promise made in a room like this—before this many witnesses—was not drama.
It was a chain.
And once forged, it could not be unmade.
Even Moltke and Prittwitz, who had wanted blood, looked briefly unsettled by how willingly Oskar offered it.
"Your Highness—" Falkenhayn began, genuinely alarmed, as if he might physically stop Oskar from speaking any further.
But it was already done.
Across the room, something flashed—brief and sharp—through Moltke and Prittwitz.
Satisfaction.
They had wanted Oskar weakened. They had wanted him removed. They had assumed it would be impossible.
And now he had placed the weapon into their hands himself.
The crown.
If the Eighth failed—if East Prussia cracked under Russian pressure—then Oskar would be bound by his own words to step aside. A vow made in this room, before the Kaiser and the highest officers of the Empire, could not be softened later. It would live in records, in memory, in precedent.
Moltke's mind moved quickly and coldly.
Without the title of Crown Prince, Oskar would still be dangerous—wealthy, brilliant, disruptive—but no longer inevitable. No longer the future cast in stone.
And when inevitability vanished, fear vanished with it.
Prittwitz tasted it already.
In his imagination, humiliation reversed itself. Oskar dragged down by his own gamble. Prittwitz restored—vindicated, relevant again.
Wilhelm II saw all of it.
From behind his desk, the Kaiser watched the smallest movements: the tightening of Moltke's jaw, the hunger in Prittwitz's eyes. These were tells no staff report could hide.
He fixed them both with a long, hard look.
Then he turned back to Oskar.
"Oskar," Wilhelm said, slower now, heavier, "have you thought this through? These are not words to be thrown lightly."
Wilhelm knew his son. Oskar did not gamble without preparation. If he spoke like this, he believed he could fulfill it.
But this was not a shipyard.
This was succession.
No emperor treated that lightly.
"Father," Oskar replied, voice steady, solemn, "I am not joking. I have thought it through."
Wilhelm held his gaze for a long moment.
Then he nodded—once, sharply—as if accepting a signature on a binding order.
"Very well," Wilhelm II said. "Then it shall stand as the Crown Prince has declared. If the Eighth fails to withstand Russia in a future war, he will relinquish his position as Crown Prince."
The words fell like a seal pressed into wax.
Moltke and Prittwitz bowed.
Neither could fully suppress the faint smiles that followed.
Oskar turned immediately back to his father—like a man cashing a coin the instant it was minted.
"Father," he said, "now that I have given this guarantee, will the reforms in the East be allowed to continue?"
That was the true purpose of the wager.
Not pride.
Protection.
He believed in the outcome. Once the reorganization and new armament were complete, the Eighth would not merely hold—it would become something fundamentally different.
Wilhelm's eyes shifted to Moltke.
"Chief of Staff," he said, "what do you think?"
Moltke's expression smoothed into something almost pleasant.
"Your Majesty," he said evenly, "since His Highness is so confident, then he should proceed. If the reforms succeed, the Empire benefits—and the lessons may be applied elsewhere."
It sounded reasonable.
It sounded cooperative.
And it was poison.
Because Moltke did not believe Oskar could win the wager.
Russia's numbers were vast. Their standing army alone exceeded a million; in full mobilization, millions more could be dragged into uniform. Even uneven quality could not erase mass.
The Eighth—even reshaped—would never match that weight.
Moltke's confidence was simple:
Pressure would break the East.
And the vow would do the rest.
"In that case," Wilhelm II said, final again, "it is settled."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the men replied.
One by one, they turned to leave.
Wilhelm raised a hand.
"Oskar. Stay."
The door closed.
The room felt smaller now—less like a court, more like a father's burden.
Wilhelm rubbed at his brow, exhaustion bleeding through the authority.
"Oskar," he said quietly, "you were too impulsive."
He sighed.
"I do not know how matters became so strained between you and Moltke. You are my son—the Crown Prince of the Empire. Moltke is my Chief of the General Staff… and my friend since youth. When you clash like this, you place me in an impossible position."
Oskar's expression softened—not submissive, but open.
"Father," he said, "I have tried. I offered peace. I offered gestures—honors, concessions. I even proposed naming a battlecruiser class after him."
He spread his hands slightly.
"But he refuses them. He sees me as a threat. Today, he pressed me into a corner. I had no choice but to press back."
Wilhelm studied him for a long moment.
Then he exhaled.
"Enough," he muttered. "Let them play their games."
His eyes sharpened again.
"But are you truly certain you can win this? You have gambled the throne. If you fail, not even I can undo it."
"Father," Oskar replied calmly, "this was not emotion. It was calculation."
His voice did not waver.
"Once the reforms and new weapons are fully implemented, the Eighth's effectiveness will rise dramatically. Even without defeating Russia outright, holding for six to eight weeks is entirely achievable."
Wilhelm listened.
Then Oskar began explaining—structure, doctrine, firepower, logistics. Not slogans. Not dreams.
Numbers.
And slowly, Wilhelm's doubt eased—not into certainty, but into belief.
At last, Wilhelm's expression hardened again.
"Then we must guard against sabotage," he said quietly. "If Moltke attempts anything… I will not tolerate it."
Oskar nodded once.
He did not linger. Victory was not something to savor here. He had a family waiting at the theatre, and a path he could no longer turn away from.
Outside the palace, as he walked toward the waiting car, a brief, clean hatred flared in his chest.
Moltke.
A man clinging to a world already dying.
Oskar's jaw tightened.
If the Eighth holds, he thought coldly, I will make sure you never touch the Army again.
He did not speak it aloud.
But the vow settled into him like iron.
If Moltke wanted war between them—
Then Oskar would give him one.
And this time, he would win it.