The three aircraft completed their circuit over the hidden airfield and came home one by one.
Wheels kissed the runway. Canvas wings shivered. Propellers slowed from a roar to a steady chop, then to silence.
No fire. No broken struts. No sudden lurch into the earth.
For early aviation, that alone felt like a miracle.
As the pilots climbed down—faces flushed, hair damp beneath their caps—Oskar was already waiting.
He greeted them personally, as he did with every man who risked his life to drag Germany's future forward. He admired courage in the trenches, yes—but courage in the sky was something else entirely. There was no cover in the air. No wall to press against when fear hit. Only wind, height, and a machine that would kill you the moment you forgot to respect it.
The pilots were not aristocrats.
They were men who had once been ordinary—picked from obscurity, from hunger, from bad luck and empty pockets—offered a choice between a slow, dull life and a violent, glorious one.
Now they stood in front of the Crown Prince of the German Empire.
And the sheer unreality of it broke something in them.
They snapped into salute—the Eternal Guard salute, fist to heart—and swore, with shaking voices and bright eyes, their devotion to God, Fatherland…
…and Oskar.
Oskar, used to loyalty bordering on worship by now, only smiled.
His children tried to mimic the salute too—small hands thumping small chests with terrible coordination. The sight drew laughter out of the adults despite themselves. Tanya clapped, amused and proud. Anna praised them softly, as if they had just performed a correct drill rather than a sacred oath. Gunderlinde joined in with a shy smile, still not entirely sure how this strange household could be both imperial and absurd at the same time.
Karl filmed it all, lens steady, recording the moment for a future he was helping to build.
Oskar watched the aircraft in the background and felt a faint sting of longing.
He wanted to fly.
He wanted it the way he wanted to test guns himself, the way he wanted to stand on the deck of a ship and feel the engines under his feet.
But he held his tongue.
Even if the court allowed it—which they never would—there was the simple physical truth: he was too large. Too heavy. He'd be a curse on lift and balance. The cockpit would swallow other men like a snug coat; it would fight him like a cage.
So he did what Oskar always did when desire threatened to turn into recklessness.
He turned it into work.
They moved into the main administration building—conference rooms warmed by stoves, tables covered in papers and diagrams, mugs of hot coffee and tea arriving quickly from a kitchen that ran like a military unit.
The engineers sat stiffly at first, as if afraid to breathe wrong in front of a prince.
Oskar let them.
Then he spoke.
"Gentlemen," he began, voice even, "first—congratulations."
A ripple went through the room.
"To build an aircraft that meets my requirements in such a short period of time is not a small achievement. You have worked hard. You have worked intelligently. And on behalf of the Empire, I thank you."
He paused, and his eyes moved across the faces—men with ink-stained fingers, soot in the creases of their nails, sleeplessness sitting behind their eyes like a second shadow.
"It is because of work like this," Oskar continued, "that Germany remains at the forefront of the world in aviation…"
He allowed a brief smile.
"…even if we must remain at the forefront quietly."
Some of the engineers looked as if they might actually cry. Not because of money—though they knew Karl's bonuses would be generous—but because praise from Oskar carried weight. It meant their labor mattered to Germany's survival, not merely to a factory ledger.
Gustav Lilienthal bowed his head.
"Your Imperial Highness," he said, voice earnest, "we do not deserve such praise. This is what we must do—naturally—for the Fatherland."
"Good," Oskar said simply.
Then his tone sharpened—only slightly, but enough to change the room's temperature.
"Now the unpleasant part."
The engineers straightened instinctively.
"You have achieved initial success," Oskar said. "But there is still a gap between what we have… and what we will need for real war."
He didn't have to explain why.
Everyone in that room had seen rifles.
They understood what bullets did to wood and cloth.
"Therefore," Oskar continued, "you will keep improving, and you will do it quickly."
"Yes, Your Highness," came the immediate chorus.
Oskar leaned forward, fingertips resting on the table.
"Right now, nearly every nation builds biplanes," he said. "Biplanes have stability and maneuverability, but speed is their weakness. The future will demand speed."
He lifted his eyes.
"I want research on monoplanes. I want prototypes that aim for two hundred kilometers per hour. I want ranges exceeding five hundred kilometers. And I want you thinking about aluminium frames and protective plating the moment our power infrastructure can support mass aluminium production."
A few men exchanged glances—half disbelief, half hunger.
Oskar didn't blink.
"I am aware it sounds difficult," he said. "I am also aware it is possible."
Silence.
Then Gustav Lilienthal spoke carefully, as a man addressing a storm.
"Your Imperial Highness… your requirements are severe," he admitted. "But we will do our utmost. Give us three years."
Oskar nodded once.
Three years was long.
But it was also time bought in advance—time he could spend elsewhere while this machine matured.
"Good," he said. "And it won't be only fighters."
A few pens paused.
"Bombers," Oskar said. "Land-based bombers and—eventually—carrier-based aircraft."
That produced a stir. Even the calmest engineers looked up at that.
Oskar watched their faces and kept going.
"Land bombers require payload and endurance. Carrier aircraft require strength, short takeoff, and controlled landing. You will begin thinking about both now, even if the second is still ahead of us."
He let the last part hang.
Ahead of us.
At sea.
"Achieve success," Oskar said quietly, "and you will be rewarded."
"Yes, Your Imperial Highness," the room answered, unified.
Many of his demands sounded absurd to them.
And yet… they also sounded strangely inevitable coming from him.
Somewhere in the back of the room, a few men glanced at Oskar with the same expression soldiers sometimes wore after battle—part fear, part awe—like they were not entirely certain they were working for a prince anymore.
Like they were working for a force.
Oskar ignored that.
He had no time for worship.
He needed wings.
And Germany would either grow them first…
…or bleed for it later.
---
After leaving Oranienburg, Oskar's thoughts never fully came back down from the sky.
Aircraft alone were not enough.
Machines could be built. Engines refined. Wings strengthened. But none of it mattered without men willing—and trained—to fly them.
The current aircraft were still crude, still dangerous, still far from true combat tools. But they were perfect for one thing:
training.
Pilots had to be created long before the machines that would carry them into war. Once better aircraft arrived, Germany would need men who already understood height, wind, fear, and failure.
In Oskar's mind, pilots were the future's knights.
Not armored horsemen charging across fields—
—but solitary figures climbing into the sky, trusting nothing but discipline, machinery, and nerve. Dangerous work. Respected work. Work that deserved pay, honor, and survival.
An independent air force, however, was premature.
Too visible. Too political. Too easy to infiltrate.
Secrets bled fastest when too many hands touched them.
So Oskar made a decision that felt inevitable the longer he considered it.
The air arm would be born inside the Eighth Army.
Carefully. Quietly.
Selected soldiers—disciplined, loyal, already vetted—would be trained as pilots. An "army aviation detachment," on paper. Something unremarkable. Something boring enough that no one outside the room would look twice.
Later—when the time was right—it would grow.
First into an Imperial Army Air Service.
And one day, into something that would no longer need to hide its name.
The Imperial Air Force.
For now, secrecy mattered more than titles.
---
The A-Class Muscle Motor rolled smoothly along the road back toward Potsdam.
Inside the car, Oskar sat with his notebook balanced on one knee, jotting diagrams and half-sentences in his colorful diary—arrows, notes, power requirements, training timelines. Thoughts moved faster than the wheels.
Around him, life continued.
The children slept, leaned against one another, or stared out the windows with the exhausted fascination only a long day could produce.
Anna and Gunderlinde tended to them quietly, exchanging glances and soft words.
Tanya, never subtle, leaned against Oskar's side, fingers hooking into his sleeve as if anchoring herself there. When he looked down, she smiled up at him—hungry, playful, demanding attention without saying a word.
He closed the diary.
For a moment, the empire could wait.
He bent his head, met her halfway, and kissed her—deep enough to promise more later, gentle enough to remind her the world still existed outside the car.
Tanya laughed softly against his mouth, satisfied for now.
Anna watched with the faintest edge of envy, and Gunderlinde with curiosity still wrapped in nerves—but neither spoke. This was their balance. Their order.
Oskar exhaled, resting his head briefly against the seat.
Planes. Power stations. Rivers. Aluminium. Training cadres. Secrecy.
And now… family.
The night ahead would not be restful.
But it would be grounding.
And for once, as the palace gates came back into view, Oskar allowed himself the rare luxury of thinking that perhaps the future could wait until morning.