Morning bled into the chamber through the tall windows of Buckingham Palace, pale and silver, strained through heavy curtains embroidered with royal arms. Oskar woke reluctantly, his body heavy, his thoughts sour and uncooperative, as though he had spent the night locked in argument rather than sleep.
He remained still, staring at the ceiling, aware of a deep, pervasive exhaustion—physical, yes, but more than that. A mental depletion. As if something had been taken from him without his consent.
He despised nights like this.
He despised conversation that went nowhere. Drama dressed up as etiquette. Politics wrapped in courtesy and sharpened underneath. He wanted to be home—where words meant what they said, where no one stalked intention like prey, where strength was not constantly tested by proximity and provocation. Where his wives waited, familiar and unrestrained, and he did not have to police his own restraint every waking hour.
Memory stirred, but refused to settle.
Fragments rose instead—disconnected impressions, sensations without shape or sequence. He shifted, irritation creasing his brow.
He was naked.
That, at least, was normal.
He was alone in the bed.
Good.
Then his eyes traveled.
The double doors to his chamber stood slightly ajar.
Oskar stilled.
The key—left deliberately on the desk the night before—was gone.
He sat up in a single motion.
Someone had been in his room.
The realization irritated him far more than it unsettled him. Annoyance came first, sharp and immediate. He took stock of himself by instinct—and then hissed softly through his teeth.
A familiar soreness between his legs announced itself.
Unmistakable. Unwelcome.
The kind that followed nights when rest had been denied, when strength had been drawn out deliberately and without mercy, leaving only dull aftermath behind.
His jaw clenched.
Princess Patricia.
The name surfaced without invitation, and with it came memory—uneven, unreliable. He remembered throwing her out. Remembered the door closing. Remembered sleep claiming him.
And yet—
Other impressions followed, half-dream, half-something else. The sense of hands where they should not have been. Softness. A lingering echo of contact that carried no clear beginning or end. The unmistakable feeling of being touched while only half-conscious—drained rather than woken.
Dream, perhaps.
Or something considerably worse.
Oskar rubbed a hand down his face.
"Damn it," he muttered. "Did that woman actually manage to sneak back in…?"
The irritation flared, then was forced down. Whatever had happened, it was done. There was no sense letting it gnaw at him now. He rose and crossed into the adjoining bathroom.
Steam already fogged the mirrors.
The great tub had been drawn and prepared—hot water, petals scattered across the surface in a deliberate, indulgent pattern. Someone had taken care with it.
Oskar stopped, stared, then exhaled through his nose.
Of course.
He stepped into the bath without ceremony. The heat sank into his muscles, loosening the tension that sleep had not touched. If servants saw him as he was, it hardly mattered. He had long since abandoned modesty. He was the Iron Prince. His body was not a thing to be hidden.
More to the point, he did not have the luxury of dwelling on last night.
This week in London would be relentless—funeral processions, formal dinners, speeches delivered beneath black drapes and heavier expectations. Rest would be scarce. Privacy even scarcer. He could not afford to let one reckless woman occupy his thoughts.
When the bath was done, he shaved and dressed. The young maid assigned to him—Elise—assisted with a confidence that felt newly learned rather than natural.
She barely reached his chest, a slight figure beside his massive frame. Pale blue-gray eyes, clear and earnest, watched her work with too much focus, as if concentration alone might steady her nerves. Her hair—honey-blonde and neatly braided—had slipped loose at the temple, catching the light when she moved. There was nothing extravagant about her, only a careful neatness and a face that held both diligence and curiosity.
She did not shy from her duties. Her hands were quick, precise, trained—straightening a cuff, smoothing a seam, fastening a clasp with practiced care. Yet a soft flush lingered on her cheeks, and now and then her gaze lingered a heartbeat too long before she remembered herself and looked away.
Oskar noticed. He always did.
He laughed once, low and brief—not unkind.
"Elise," he said lightly, using her name as he always did, "you're doing your work very well. But try not to stare so hard. I'm only a man, even if the uniform makes people forget that." He added, with a small smile, "And I am a Crown Prince."
The color rushed to her face.
"I—Your Highness—my apologies," she blurted, mortified, bowing her head as she hurried to correct herself. Her composure wavered, but she did not falter in her task.
Oskar said nothing more. He let the moment pass as he always did.
He treated his servants as people first—names remembered, effort acknowledged, dignity preserved. He knew how easily a word, a smile, or simple attention could be mistaken for invitation when he filled a room the way he did.
But he was married. He had children. And he had no intention of turning kindness into complication—least of all in a foreign palace where every glance already carried weight.
Elise finished her work quietly, steadier now, and stepped back with a proper bow.
Oskar nodded in thanks, already turning his thoughts to the day ahead.
Fully dressed in his Prussian uniform—severe lines, immaculate cut—he stepped out into the corridor.
And nearly collided with Princess Patricia.
She stood there with her head lowered, posture subdued, contrition written plainly across her face. Her dress, however, was as it always was—fashionably daring, cut just enough to demand attention even while she pretended humility.
Oskar sneered faintly.
She began to apologize, voice wavering, eyes shining as if tears might fall at any moment. He did not have the energy for this—not here, not now.
"It's fine," he said curtly.
The effect was immediate. Her expression brightened, contrition vanishing as if it had never existed.
She straightened and, with remarkable boldness, offered herself as his guide during his stay—London by day, history and art and diversions between obligations. She spoke quickly, eagerly, as if afraid the opportunity might vanish if she paused.
Oskar hesitated.
Then, against his better judgment—and perhaps because part of him was still a history nerd at heart—he agreed to go sightseeing. And well doing so with an undeniably beautiful woman, even if a bit odd, sounded Interesting.
The days that followed blurred together.
Between official ceremonies and formal appearances, Oskar moved through London at Patricia's side. Museums, galleries, old halls heavy with history. The theater, which he found more tolerable than expected. She surprised him there—less frivolous, more perceptive than her reputation suggested.
She preferred the outdoors, it turned out. Horses, animals, open spaces. Riding was impossible—no horse in England could reasonably carry him—so she suggested golf instead. Oskar had never played, but with Patricia, Franz Ferdinand, and Kiderlen-Waechter in attendance, he found himself laughing despite the persistent rain clouds that came and went without warning.
London, when carefully curated, could be beautiful.
Monumental. Ordered. Certain of its place in the world.
So long as one avoided the poorer districts—and the protests simmering at the city's edges—it was easy to believe in the image Britain sold.
Also, Patricia, when she was not provoking or pressing too close, was surprisingly easy company. Intelligent. Curious. Capable of conversation that didn't revolve around scandal or ambition.
And yet—
Back at the palace, something was wrong.
Eyes of the maids lingered too long. The laughter of The maids echoed in corridors where there should have been none. Other maids glanced away too late—or not at all. Once, Elise froze as he passed, lips parting as if she were remembering something she should not.
Oskar did not slow.
He did not acknowledge it.
At night, he took precautions.
Each evening, he locked his door. Then barricaded it—chair wedged beneath the handle, wardrobe shifted just enough to block the door. It was absurd for a man of his size, but Buckingham Palace was not his ground, and he trusted nothing here.
Sleep came in pieces.
And always, the sounds returned.
A faint scrape.
Metal whispering against metal.
The handle turning—never fully, never boldly—testing, withdrawing, testing again.
Sometimes there was a pause so long he nearly convinced himself it had been a dream.
Then pressure again.
Once, unmistakably, the soft click of a key meeting resistance where the barricade held. The door shuddered faintly… then stilled.
No footsteps retreated.
No voice followed.
Only the suggestion of breathing—perhaps imagined—lingering just beyond the wood.
Oskar lay awake, eyes open, counting seconds, listening to the palace breathe around him. He did not rise. He did not speak. He knew better than to acknowledge a presence that wanted acknowledgment.
By morning, the corridor would be empty.
By nightfall, the ritual would begin again.
And for the first time since arriving in England, Oskar found himself missing his Eternal Guard—not merely for protection, but for certainty.
Here, there was none.
Only locked doors, shifting shadows, and the knowledge that something wanted entry.
---
Then the twentieth of May, 1910, dawned cold and clear.
It was meant to be Oskar's final full day in Britain. Tomorrow, he would leave—back across the Channel, back to Germany, back to the life that felt increasingly distant the longer he stood on English soil.
And yet this day would not release him easily.
He had known it was coming. As a student of history—of timelines both lived and remembered—he understood the significance of this morning better than most.
In another world, it would be remembered as the gathering of the Nine Kings of Europe—a moment frozen in photographs and textbooks, the last time the crowned heads of the continent walked together before the world shattered.
But history had shifted.
Kaiser Wilhelm II was not here.
Instead, Oskar stood in his place.
And so it was not nine kings, but eight.
Eight monarchs and heirs, bound by blood, rivalry, marriage, and centuries of shared arrogance, gathered unknowingly at the edge of an abyss.
This was the last great procession of Europe's old order.
The last time crowns walked openly through cheering streets before artillery and trenches would make such pageantry obscene.
At precisely 9:45 a.m., the bells of London fell silent.
The coffin of King Edward VII was drawn from Westminster Hall, placed upon a gun carriage draped in regalia, the weight of empire carried on iron wheels.
Oskar stood among the crown princes of Europe, positioned directly behind the kings who walked before the dead monarch.
Because of his size, there was no pairing for him.
Where others walked two abreast, Oskar walked alone.
A giant among princes, towering even in mourning black, his presence impossible to ignore despite the solemnity of the hour. His uniform was severe, Prussian in its discipline, medals subdued, posture unyielding.
Then, after some waiting the procession began.
Red-coated guards marched in endless ranks, their boots striking stone in perfect rhythm. Military bands played funeral marches that rolled through the streets like slow thunder. The sound seemed to vibrate through Oskar's ribs, through the very bones of the city.
The crowds were vast.
Not rowdy. Not restless.
Devoted.
People stood shoulder to shoulder along the route, hats removed, heads bowed. Some wept openly. Others watched in rigid silence, faces pale with feeling. To them, the monarchy was not an abstraction—it was the living symbol of Britain itself.
In this age, the Empire was loved.
Parliament might be argued over, governments changed, ministers cursed—but the Crown stood above it all, unquestioned. The British people did not apologize for their empire. They wore it like armor, proud and unapologetic, certain of their place in the world.
Oskar saw it clearly.
This was not yet the Britain of doubt and self-examination.
This was Britain at the height of confidence—mourning, yes, but unbroken.
The procession wound through London toward Paddington Station, the streets lined with soldiers—tens of thousands of them—forming living walls of red and steel. Cameras flashed. Photographers climbed lampposts. History was being captured even as it moved.
At Paddington, the coffin was transferred to the Royal Train.
The journey to Windsor followed, the countryside slipping past in quiet contrast to the city's weight. Even here, crowds gathered along the tracks, hats raised as the train passed.
At St George's Chapel, the final rites were conducted.
The service followed the ancient form used for Queen Victoria herself. Prayers echoed beneath stone arches. The air smelled of incense and cold marble. The Dean of Windsor read the lesson. The Archbishop of Canterbury pronounced the benediction.
Then King George V stepped forward.
In silence, he placed the Company Colour of the King's Company of the Grenadier Guards upon his father's coffin.
And with that, the last gesture was made.
The coffin was lowered into the royal vault.
Edward VII—king, father, uncle, symbol—was gone.
Oskar stood motionless as the ceremony ended.
Around him, Europe's royalty turned inward, each measuring the world that would come next.
He alone felt the weight of knowing how close they all stood to disaster.
This was not just a funeral.
It was a farewell to an era.
And Oskar knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that no such gathering would ever happen again.
Not like this.
Never like this.
And yet, standing there, having witnessed it with his own eyes, he could not deny the beauty of it.
The precision.
The dignity.
The sheer weight of history moving in ordered steps.
He felt it settle in his chest—an unexpected swell of respect, even pride. Not as a German alone, but as a man looking upon what Britain had built: the architecture, the ceremony, the discipline of an empire that had once bent half the world to its will.
Edward VII might not have been close to him, but he had been family all the same. Blood crossed borders more easily than flags ever could.
And despite himself, a tear traced its way down Oskar's cheek.
Not only for the dead king.
But for the loss he still hoped—foolishly, perhaps—to prevent. For the future he wished might yet be spared from fire and trenches and mass graves.
Beside him, Archduke Franz Ferdinand noticed.
Without ceremony, he placed a broad hand against Oskar's back, tapping him once—steady, grounding.
"There, there my man," Ferdinand murmured quietly. "All things pass in time. That is life."
Oskar breathed out slowly.
The words helped.
This, as history remembered it, should have been the end.
The rites concluded. The burial complete. Photographers already repositioned themselves. Statements were being drafted. The day, heavy and solemn, was winding down.
And then—
History veered.
At George V's insistence, the gathered crowns and envoys were carried south to Portsmouth Naval Base, as if mourning alone was not enough—as if Britain needed the world to leave England with something heavier than grief lodged in its ribs.
No one protested.
Not openly.
Not when the new King gave an order and the Empire, by habit older than most nations, simply moved.
A stage had been raised on the waterfront—timber and canvas dressed up as ceremony. Flags cracked in the wind: Union Jacks, naval ensigns, regimental colors, and foreign banners brought like offerings. Officers and dignitaries assembled in ranks that looked neat only because disorder was not permitted to exist this close to the crown.
The crowd was large.
Not merely courtiers and uniforms, but thousands of civilians held behind barriers, perched on rooftops and wagons and railings, craning their necks for a glimpse. Pressmen fought for sightlines. Camera crews adjusted tripods and prayed their reels would catch whatever was coming.
At first it felt like another ritual.
Another speech.
Another performance of national unity.
Then the horizon began to darken.
Not with clouds.
With smoke.
Far out to sea, black columns rose and rolled—thick, oily, relentless. Not the soft haze of factories. Not London's everyday soot. This was something older and more violent: coal smoke from dozens upon dozens of great boilers, fed like furnaces, exhaled like anger.
The setting sun struggled against it.
Light broke through in fractured beams as if the sky itself were choking.
The air grew dense.
Oppressive.
Salt and soot mixed on the tongue.
And then the horns sounded.
Deep.
Massive.
Carrying across water and land alike, the notes so low they didn't feel like sound as much as pressure—vibrating through ribs, through teeth, through the thin skin behind the eyes. Conversation died. Even the restless crowd quieted, instinctively sensing that this was not for them to interrupt.
And there—cutting through the Channel in a long, serpentine formation—came the Royal Navy.
Not a handful of ships.
Not a ceremonial token force.
A fleet.
A moving city of steel.
First came the fast silhouettes—battlecruisers, long and predatory, their masts and funnels sharp against the smoke. Behind them steamed the dreadnoughts, broader and heavier, turrets like clenched fists resting on armored shoulders. And behind even those, stretching further than the eye wanted to believe, came older battleships and armored cruisers—sturdy veterans of a previous era, brought out today not because they were needed…
…but because Britain wanted the world to see how many it could bring.
Dozens of capital hulls.
Hundreds of guns.
Thousands of men.
A single intention.
The might of Britain—revealed in motion.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Murmurs rose. Even seasoned officers stared as if they were watching a myth climb out of the sea.
Oskar stood frozen.
He did not even notice when Princess Patricia slipped closer, her hand gripping his arm, her body pressing against his side as if the sight had awakened something primal—fear, awe, and the hungry thrill of proximity to power.
Then George V stepped onto the stage.
Silence fell.
Not the quiet of politeness.
The quiet of instinct—when prey notices the predator has decided to speak.
For a heartbeat, the new King's gaze swept the assembled ranks: soldiers, nobles, foreign princes, journalists.
And then it met Oskar's.
A brief moment.
A knowing smile.
Not warm.
Not friendly.
A look that said: Look. Remember. Measure yourself against this.
Then George turned away and began to speak.
"Today," he declared, voice carrying easily across the gathered thousands, "marks the end of the Edwardian era."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"An age of elegance, optimism, and invention. An age whose influence has touched millions—across continents and oceans alike."
Behind him the fleet continued its slow, thunderous passage, smoke blotting out the sky like a deliberate backdrop painted in soot.
"And now," George continued, voice rising, "this nation—this engine of industry and sea power—stands ready to begin anew."
He spread his arms slightly, as if embracing not only Portsmouth, but the entire Empire.
"A greater era."
"My era."
"The era of George the Fifth."
His voice hardened—steel beneath ceremony.
"Let all bear witness—today is the first day of a new age."
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath.
George turned slightly and gave a single, precise nod to the signal officer waiting at the platform's edge.
Flags dropped.
Out on the water, the fleet was already sliding into its next shape—no longer procession, but arrangement. A line, a curve, a geometry of dominance. The Channel had been cleared hours earlier, swept and signaled and held empty by patrol craft like a table cleared for a knife.
Battlecruisers first—long, lean shapes aligned like drawn blades.
Then the new dreadnoughts—broader, heavier, unmistakably modern, their silhouettes wide and dominant, turrets angled inward toward the open throat of the Channel.
And farther still, massed in depth, the older battleships—squat, stubborn veterans, present in numbers alone heavy enough to bend the horizon.
Steel pointed at water.
Silence pressed down so hard it felt imposed.
Then George roared, his voice cutting across the waiting air like a challenge hurled at the sea itself:
"For a new age—signal the fleet. Three volleys. Prepare… and fire!"
Nothing happened.
Not immediately.
Of course not. A command shouted on land did not leap into steel by magic. It had to become motion: signal flags snapping, repeaters relaying, horns and bells carrying the order down the line and out over the water—man to man, ship to ship, until the whole fleet held the same intent.
A pause long enough for the crowd to doubt their own hearing.
Long enough for a few nervous laughs to start and die in throats.
Then the horizon ignited.
Not one flash.
Hundreds.
A jagged wall of white-orange fire tore across the Channel—muzzle-blast and burning cordite stitched into a single continuous line, so long it looked less like ships firing and more like the sea itself had split open. For an instant the smoke was burned thin and the fleet was revealed in brutal clarity—turrets recoiling, decks swallowed by flame, funnels vomiting darker plumes as if the ships were exhaling violence.
The light hit first.
A hard, white glare that punched through fog and made eyes water—sunlight turned into a weapon for a heartbeat. People flinched on instinct, pupils shrinking, hands half-rising as if they could shield themselves from a thing that was already gone.
Then came the delay.
That sickening, unmistakable delay that reminded everyone how far away the guns truly were.
And then the sound arrived.
Not as a crack.
As pressure.
A crushing shove that slammed into chests and ribs and teeth. Windows screamed. Glass trembled in frames. Loose stones skittered. Horses reared against reins. Men staggered as if struck by an invisible hand.
Only after the pressure came the roar—layer upon layer of thunder folding over itself, echoing back from land and cloud and water until it stopped being "noise" and became an environment you had to endure.
And only after that came the last proof of distance:
The impacts.
Long seconds later, vast white columns of water erupted where the shells fell—geysers climbing and collapsing, leaving boiling scars across the surface. The sea didn't merely splash.
It wounded.
The echoes did not remain polite.
They rolled outward across England, across the Channel, until even the far coasts—Normandy, villages by the water—heard the distant, impossible thunder and looked up from fields and streets as if the sky itself had spoken.
Birds lifted in frantic black swarms from cliffs and marshes.
Even animals that had never seen a battleship understood the language of it.
Silence returned—but not cleanly.
It returned in ringing ears and pounding hearts, in people blinking hard as if forcing the world back into its proper shape.
And out on the water, the fleet did not move on.
It prepared again.
The horns sounded—longer this time, warning carried outward, telling the line to reload and align once more.
You could feel the reload cycle in the pause, even from shore: hoists working deep inside hulls, shells traveling up steel throats, breeches yawning open, the heavy clunk of closure, turrets correcting by degrees. A slow, mechanical patience—because big guns did not hurry. Big guns simply returned.
Then the horizon flashed again.
The second volley came as a separate event—distinct, deliberate—another wall of fire blooming across the Channel, bright enough to bleach the fog for an instant. The fleet appeared again as a mountain range of iron spitting flame, hulls shuddering in recoil, smoke punching upward in thick pillars.
Light first—blinding, sharp.
Then the delay.
Then the удар of sound—harder this time, as if the air itself had learned what was coming and still failed to brace. More glass shattered. A church bell rang once—accidentally—then fell silent, as if embarrassed to have spoken.
And after that long beat of distance, the sea erupted again.
More towering plumes. More boiling scars. The impacts threw waves outward—ugly, heavy swells that rolled toward shore and slapped against piers and seawalls, water heaving as if the Channel had been struck with a giant's fist.
Fear crept through the crowd then—not panic, but something colder.
Understanding.
This was not celebration.
This was instruction.
Smoke drifted inland carrying the bitter taste of powder. The sun, already low, bled through it in dull red fragments like an omen trying to shine.
The horns sounded for the third time.
Short.
Final.
Out on the water, the line corrected minutely—barrels elevating by small degrees, turrets settling, crews bracing for the last cycle. Charges were rammed home with mechanical precision so practiced it looked like ritual.
George stood motionless on the platform.
Oskar stood among the gathered princes and uniforms, Patricia's hand locked around his arm, Franz Ferdinand silent at his other side.
Then—after the final pause, after the last breath of preparation—
the third volley fired.
It did not feel like a repeat.
It felt like a verdict.
The horizon became fire—one brutal line of flashes, so bright it felt like the world had been photographed by lightning. For an instant, the Channel was lit as if by a second sun.
Then came the delay.
Then the sound arrived as an absolute thing—one overwhelming concussion that flattened breath and thought alike, a force so heavy people felt it in their stomachs, in their bones, in the roots of their teeth.
And after that final beat—
the sea vanished beneath towering walls of white and grey.
For moments the Channel was nothing but eruption and falling water, as if the surface had been torn open and was trying to close again.
When the last echoes finally began their long retreat, the smoke rolled back in and the fleet became shadows once more—
ending the third volley.
For a heartbeat, there was no applause.
No cheering.
Only the stunned quiet of thousands of lungs remembering to breathe.
Then the world returned in fragments.
A child began to cry—high and confused, more startled than afraid. Somewhere behind the barrier line, a woman hissed a prayer through clenched teeth. A man laughed once, too loudly, the sound sharp with shock, and immediately stopped when no one joined him. Officers spoke in low voices, not wanting to admit that their hands had trembled. A few royals blinked hard, faces composed by training even as their eyes gave them away.
"My God…" someone whispered—an English voice, ordinary and horrified.
Another answered, just as quietly, "That… and that wasn't even the whole British navy."
A nervous murmur spread like ripples, rolling through uniforms and black coats and mourning veils. Words failed people. They reached for comparisons—thunder, earthquake, the end of the world—and found none that fit cleanly.
Oskar stood motionless in the middle of it, the echoes still hammering through his bones.
For a long moment he could not quite convince himself that what he had felt was sound alone. It had been too physical—too heavy, too absolute. The volleys had not announced themselves so much as imposed themselves, a reminder that when power gathered in sufficient mass, it didn't need precision to be terrifying.
On the platform, George V turned.
Not fully. Not theatrically.
Just enough.
His gaze found Oskar's.
And he smiled.
It was not warm. Not friendly. Not triumphant.
It was precise.
A look that said: Look carefully. Measure this. Remember it.
A look that carried a message no speech ever could:
You may be clever. You may be modern. But this is what centuries of sea power look like when they move together.
Oskar did not dispute it.
Yes—Germany's ships were better than they had been in his old timeline. Better engines. Better layouts. Better doctrine. Quality pushed to the edge of what steel could tolerate.
But steel had limits.
No battleship, however advanced, could ignore a wall of guns.
No port, no coastline, no city could look at this and pretend it was merely "ships."
This was force on the scale of a natural disaster—something you didn't duel. You endured it, or you avoided it entirely.
He understood immediately what the display had been.
Not celebration.
Not mourning.
Instruction.
A reminder delivered in thunder.
And standing there, with smoke drifting inland and the Channel slowly calming beneath scars of white foam, Oskar felt no anger—only clarity.
If war came, it would not be neat.
It would not be clever.
It would not be won by innovation alone.
It would be slaughter, measured in ships, cities, and generations.
Britain's navy could kill anything it struck.
Germany's navy could do the same.
And if those two truths ever collided fully, the sea would drown the world long before either empire admitted fault.
Oskar exhaled slowly.
George V's warning had landed.
Not as fear.
As proof.
War was not an option to be taken lightly.
Not now.
Perhaps not ever.
And as the smoke closed in again and the fleet began to withdraw, Oskar accepted one final truth—quietly, without protest:
Britain's navy was formidable.
And for the first time since stepping onto English soil, he allowed himself to be genuinely, unwillingly impressed.