By the time Oskar and Karl finished training, the palace had long since fallen quiet.
Oskar had no desire to return upstairs and face three furious wives, one deeply disappointed Cecilie and an entire nursery of children who had learned to imitate their mothers' accusing expressions. Karl therefore offered him the most practical solution available.
A sofa.
More specifically, a sofa inside Karl's mansion across the road from the main gates of the Royal Palace.
The Jonarett residence stood within Potsdam's Royal District, a broad, carefully landscaped quarter enclosed by tall black iron fencing and guarded entrances. Tree-lined roads curved between guest houses, sporting grounds, administrative buildings and the private homes of officials trusted enough to live near the Imperial Family.
At the centre of the district rose the palace proper, protected since Oskar's assassination by a simple but imposing circuit of stone walls. Guard towers divided the perimeter into watch sectors, their interiors now fitted with electric lighting, telephones and heating so that the Royal Guards could remain alert throughout the year. There was only one proper entrance: a wide ceremonial arch closed by an ornate iron gate, beautiful enough for royal processions and strong enough to stop anything short of artillery.
Karl's mansion stood directly across the road from that gate.
It possessed three principal floors, with a large attic above and a basement below containing storerooms, wine racks and a reinforced panic room. Next to his house was a private garage containing Karl's automobiles—including his cherished Muscle Motors A-Class—while behind the house stretched formal gardens, where a separate three-storey barracks stood occupied by the Second Company of the Eternal Guard.
The company numbered two hundred men. At any given time, one hundred remained upon the property: fifty manning the gates, walls and patrol routes, while another fifty rested in the barracks, ready to replace them. The remainder were off rotation with their families or undergoing further training.
Oskar's Third Company possessed no permanent barracks of its own nearby. Most of its men were presently on leave or working at one of the Eternal Guard's training grounds, instructing recruits and maintaining their fitness while their prince remained safely within Potsdam.
Only Captain Carter remained at Oskar's side, accompanying him across the road to Karl's manor while the rest of the Third Company continued their leave and training rotations.
Once inside, Oskar bathed, ate several late-night snacks and brushed his teeth with his eyes barely open. By the time he reached the long sofa beside Karl's fireplace, exhaustion had completely overtaken him.
Carter retired to one of the guest rooms upstairs, while Oskar collapsed onto the cushions and fell asleep almost the moment his head touched them.
He slept undisturbed until morning, wholly unaware of the three pairs of tiny feet pattering down the corridor from the children's room—as though their owners had somehow sensed that an unguarded challenge was waiting in their home.
They approached with the eager certainty of hunters who had caught the scent of weakness.
Balin reached him first.
The dark-haired toddler scrambled onto the sofa, climbed laboriously across Oskar's stomach and planted his broad little feet upon the prince's chest. Clutched in both hands was a small wooden axe.
"Ah! Got you!"
The axe struck Oskar squarely in one pectoral.
Oskar's eyes opened slowly.
"What?"
Balin raised the weapon and struck him again.
"Bad Uncle Oskar!"
The accusation carried such conviction that Oskar could only blink up at him.
His chest still felt heavy with everything that had happened in Britain—Patricia, Elise, the lies, the money and the expressions upon his wives' faces when they banished him from they're shared room.
He released a weary sigh.
"Yes. I suppose I deserve this."
Balin took that as permission to continue.
"Bad! Bad! By my axe!"
The wooden weapon descended once more, only for another small figure to climb onto the sofa from the opposite side.
Éowyn arrived carrying her favourite wooden horse by one leg. Pale-blond hair hung messily around her determined little face as she raised the toy like a cavalry sabre.
"No! Stop hitting him, mean dwarf!"
Balin turned toward her with outrage.
"No! Mine!"
He swung the axe.
Oskar's hand moved instinctively, ready to catch it before it struck her, but Éowyn proved faster than expected. She lifted the wooden horse and blocked the blow with a sharp clack.
Then she charged.
"For Uncle Oskar!"
Éowyn tackled her brother across Oskar's chest. The two toddlers collapsed into a knot of flailing limbs, wrestling and shouting while Oskar lay beneath them like an unfortunate battlefield.
Balin tried to roll her aside.
Éowyn clung to him with both arms and refused to release her wooden horse.
"You do not command me!" Balin roared, struggling beneath his sister.
"I am a horse warrior!" Éowyn shouted back, clinging to him with fierce determination.
Their struggle carried them dangerously close to the edge of the sofa. Oskar caught both children before they could tumble to the floor and lowered them carefully onto the carpet.
They immediately resumed wrestling. Just as then a third figure appeared in the doorway.
Durin entered with the solemn stride of a tiny king arriving to restore order among mutinous subjects. At three years old, he already possessed Karl's compact dwarf build, dark-blond hair and the permanently serious expression of someone burdened by the incompetence of those around him.
"What is this?" he demanded. "Rebels!"
Neither twin stopped.
Durin marched forward and seized Éowyn beneath the arms, attempting to drag her away from Balin.
"You must not trouble Uncle Oskar," he lectured. "His women threw him away, and now he must sit quietly and think."
Oskar stared at him.
"Who told you that?"
Durin ignored the question.
Éowyn kicked indignantly as Durin pulled her upright.
"I saved him!" she protested.
"You are making too much noise," Durin replied sternly.
With Éowyn no longer holding him down, Balin rolled onto his stomach and made a swift tactical retreat beneath the sofa.
Durin lowered Éowyn and pointed toward the furniture.
"Get back over here. Mother says no tunnels and no treasure hunting under chairs."
From beneath the sofa came Balin's defiant reply.
"Treasure!"
Éowyn looked up at Oskar and smiled proudly.
"I saved you."
Oskar returned the smile.
"Yes. You certainly did."
The door opened before Durin could begin extracting his brother.
Heddy stood there in her morning dress, surveying the room with widening eyes. Oskar sat dishevelled upon the sofa. Éowyn held a wooden horse like a weapon. Durin pointed commandingly toward the floor, while Balin's legs protruded from beneath the furniture.
"What," Heddy asked slowly, "is happening here?"
All three children began accusing one another at once.
"He hit Uncle!"
"She horse me!"
"Rebels!"
Heddy listened for approximately two seconds before taking command.
"Enough."
The room fell silent.
She bent down, caught Balin by the ankles and pulled him gently from beneath the sofa. Then she gathered him under one arm and Éowyn under the other with the practised efficiency of a woman who had performed similar operations many times before.
"Breakfast. Now."
Durin immediately fell into step beside her, behaving as though he had personally restored order.
Heddy glanced back toward Oskar.
"You as well, Your Highness. There is porridge with berries, yoghurt and bananas."
Oskar rose at once.
"I am coming."
The promise of food succeeded where royal discipline often failed.
A few minutes later, the household gathered around the breakfast table. Heddy distributed bowls of warm porridge mixed with berries, yoghurt and sliced banana while Karl sat at the head of the table reading the morning newspaper.
Captain Carter joined them, eating quietly while maintaining the attentive posture of a man who never entirely ceased being on duty.
Durin sat beside his father with great seriousness. Balin devoured his porridge with the enthusiasm of a miner reaching the feast hall after months underground. Éowyn ate with nearly the same enthusiasm, though every clatter of hooves from the road outside made her turn eagerly toward the window.
Karl lowered one corner of his newspaper.
"I trust my children were not too troublesome this morning."
Oskar stirred his porridge.
"Balin attacked me with an axe. Éowyn rode to my rescue with a wooden horse, and Durin informed me that my women had thrown me away."
Karl considered this.
"So, an ordinary morning."
"They may have learned some of it from my children."
"That is entirely possible." Karl folded the paper slightly. "I love your household dearly, Oskar, but it is exceptionally large and rarely quiet. Your children have been a powerful influence upon mine."
Durin nodded proudly, as though this were praise.
Balin raised his spoon.
"By my axe!"
Heddy removed it from his hand before he could demonstrate.
The meal had only just begun settling into peace when the bell sounded at the front entrance.
A servant crossed the hall and returned carrying an envelope marked with the Imperial seal. He bowed toward Oskar.
"Your Imperial Highness. A message from His Majesty."
Oskar stared at the letter before accepting it.
The children sensed trouble immediately.
Durin stopped eating.
Balin watched the envelope suspiciously.
Éowyn leaned toward Oskar.
"You go palace?"
Oskar broke the seal and read the brief order.
"Apparently."
Her face brightened.
"I come! I ride horses!"
The palace stables fascinated her. Shadowmane's offspring were still far too young to carry riders, and Éowyn herself remained too small even for the gentlest pony, but neither fact had weakened her determination.
Heddy shook her head.
"No. You are staying here."
Éowyn sat up straighter, visibly offended.
"I am big girl. I defeated Balin."
"You did not defeat me!" Balin shouted.
"I threw you down!"
"You cheated with horse!"
Before the dispute could become another battle, Karl folded his newspaper and gathered the financial papers beside his chair.
"I believe in you, wife."
Heddy fixed him with a flat, unimpressed stare.
Karl glanced at the Imperial message, then toward Oskar.
"His Majesty will almost certainly want the latest financial estimates," he said. "I should probably accompany you."
Oskar shrugged.
"Probably."
Karl rose immediately.
Heddy's stare sharpened.
"So you are leaving me alone with them."
Karl glanced toward the twins, who were already arguing over whether a wooden horse counted as a legitimate weapon.
"I would not describe it quite that way."
"You just did."
Karl wisely kept walking.
Heddy released a long, weary breath and turned back toward the children.
"Both of you, finish your porridge."
Éowyn obeyed with remarkable enthusiasm, devouring the remainder with all the appetite of a young dwarf preparing for a march, despite lacking either of her brothers' compact build.
At the entrance, Oskar pulled on his coat while Karl arranged the documents inside his leather portfolio. Captain Carter joined them moments later, already dressed and prepared to follow.
Oskar looked toward the palace gates visible across the road and sighed.
"I suppose it is time for Father to scold me again."
Karl patted his arm.
"There, there. I shall be beside you."
"Thank you, Karl."
"But I am not holding your hand."
Oskar looked down at him.
"I did not ask you to."
"You were considering it."
"I was not."
"Good. Then we shall walk normally."
The faintest trace of amusement crossed Carter's otherwise disciplined expression.
Behind them, Éowyn demanded to know when she could visit the palace horses, Balin challenged her honour and Heddy ordered both of them to remain seated before breakfast became a battlefield.
Oskar, Karl and Carter escaped while they still could.
They crossed Karl's front lawn, passed through the manor gates and stepped onto the quiet road separating the property from the palace grounds. The Royal Guards stationed beneath the main arch recognised them immediately and offered sharp salutes as the three men passed through the open iron gates.
From there, they followed the long, tree-lined drive to the palace entrance.
Inside, they climbed the main staircase to the third floor and continued into the western wing, where the Kaiser kept his private office. By the time they reached the guarded doors, Oskar had prepared several explanations and trusted none of them.
He stopped outside and released a heavy breath.
Karl glanced up at him. "Ready?"
"No."
Oskar knocked anyway.
"Enter," Wilhelm II called from within.
One of the Royal Guards opened the door. Captain Carter remained in the corridor and took up position beside the entrance while Oskar stepped into the office with Karl following close behind.
The Kaiser stood behind his desk.
He made no attempt at pleasantries. His eyes burned with anger, and his moustache twitched as though even the hair upon his face had taken personal offence. When he spoke, the words came like artillery—thunderous at first, controlled only after they had already struck.
"So, Oskar—my boy—explain this to me."
Wilhelm leaned forward and planted both palms upon the desk.
"If you truly had nothing to do with Princess Patricia disappearing from England and reappearing in Switzerland with more money than a princess of her rank should ever possess, then why—why—have the British chosen this exact moment to strike at us?"
His jaw tightened as his unblinking gaze settled upon Oskar.
"Tell me whom I am supposed to be furious with. You or them?" His voice rose again. "And when, precisely, will your immaturity finally fade long enough for reason to enter your head?"
The accusation hung hot in the room.
Then, almost as quickly as the anger had come, Wilhelm released a harsh breath and lowered himself into his armchair. He rubbed both hands across his face as though physically forcing his fury down into something useful.
"Ah, forget it," he muttered. "I already know the answer."
When he looked up again, the heat had left his expression. What remained was colder and considerably more dangerous: calculation.
"Tell me the only thing that matters now. How much have we lost?"
He leaned forward slightly.
"How badly has the lottery been damaged, and what will the Crown lose from its share of the revenue?"
Oskar did not answer immediately.
His first thought was of the Navy.
For years, he had kept the naval programme moving through a low-interest loan of one hundred million marks annually. That quiet stream of money allowed shipyards to plan, expand, and continue building without waiting upon parliamentary arguments or shifting government budgets.
Much of it had come from the lottery.
The income had been steady, predictable, politically convenient, and easy to transfer without exposing the full scale of the naval programme. Oskar's other revenues from the Industrial Group were already committed elsewhere—to railways, factories, power stations, housing, agricultural development, Africa, the Eighth Army, and the slow modernisation of the Empire as a whole.
If the lottery continued bleeding, the Navy would feel the loss first.
That was the true danger.
"Father," Oskar said at last, "the losses are enormous."
He did not raise his voice or dramatise the answer. The figures required no assistance.
"According to Karl's calculations, our direct losses already exceed one hundred million marks. Every lottery office, account, and physical asset in Britain, France, and Russia has been seized."
He paused before continuing.
"With those markets gone, total annual profit will fall by more than one-third."
Wilhelm's fingers tightened around the arms of his chair.
"And the Crown?"
"Your twenty-percent share will fall accordingly," Oskar answered. "If we intend to maintain our present level of expenditure, we will have to replace that income from other sources."
His expression darkened.
Guilt weighed upon him, but beneath it lay a deeper concern over what the attack represented.
Until now, his rise had seemed almost effortless. One expansion had followed another. Factories had opened, reforms had succeeded, and industries had grown faster than his enemies could understand them. There had been difficulties, but few genuine defeats.
This was different.
Britain, France, and Russia had not attacked him with armies or fleets.
They had used paper.
Administrative orders. Legal decrees. Frozen accounts. National prohibitions against foreign lotteries.
It had been a coordinated strike, carried out without a single soldier crossing a border.
Wilhelm surged to his feet.
"Despicable!" he roared. "Utterly despicable!"
His fist struck the desk hard enough to rattle the papers arranged upon it.
"They call themselves civilised nations, yet this is how they conduct themselves—destroying markets, strangling free competition, and hiding behind bureaucracy like cowards!"
He paced away from the desk, his face flushed.
"After all the good your work has brought into the world! Your first-aid book alone has saved thousands—perhaps hundreds of thousands—and it will save countless more for generations. That achievement by itself should have purchased goodwill, to say nothing of your medicines, safety equipment, housing, and every other invention."
Wilhelm released a bitter laugh.
"But goodwill counts for nothing once envy and fear take its place."
Karl stood beside Oskar, too short to see the Kaiser clearly beyond the broad desk, but he could feel the fury rolling through the office like heat from an open furnace.
This was not truly about money.
It was about what the attack meant.
Oskar had not been publicly caught smuggling a British princess from Buckingham Palace. The People's Welfare Lottery had operated legally, openly, and even generously, directing a portion of its profits toward the poor while paying every required tax.
None of that mattered.
In Britain, France, and Russia, powerful men had opposed Germany on principle long before Patricia disappeared. They had spent years watching Oskar's rise, counting ships and factories, studying trade figures, and waiting patiently for a pretext.
Now they had found one.
No amount of charity could erase the fear created by rumours of German battleships years ahead of their time—ships whose armour, engines, and firepower threatened to overturn a balance the established powers had grown accustomed to enforcing.
Oskar remained silent.
There was little he could say.
No nation could strengthen itself indefinitely without pressing against the markets, influence, and ambitions of others. Prosperity did not grow inside a sealed chamber. It crossed borders, consumed resources, displaced competitors, and forced every neighbouring power to reconsider its own position.
Humanity had never learned to share power peacefully for very long.
Progress invited resistance.
Power invited fear.
And fear inevitably searched for a justification.
Wilhelm stopped pacing.
"Enough," he said, his voice abruptly cold.
He turned toward Karl.
"Open it."
Karl blinked, then moved immediately toward the heavy door and pulled it wide.
Outside waited Tirpitz, Kiderlen-Waechter, Bülow and several other senior figures—men with grey hair, decorated uniforms and the hard eyes of officials who had lived through one international crisis after another. The crises never truly ended. They merely changed names, moved borders and returned wearing different colours.
They entered already angry.
For a moment, the office felt overcrowded: too many uniforms, too many medals and too many powerful men forced into close quarters while struggling to keep their tempers beneath the surface.
Kiderlen-Waechter spoke first.
"We must lodge a formal protest immediately," the State Secretary declared. "Britain, France and Russia have openly interfered with a lawful German enterprise. If we allow such an act to pass without resistance, we invite them to repeat it."
He did not need to explain why the matter reached beyond the lottery itself.
The civil ministries had gradually tied themselves to Oskar's industrial system. His companies provided employment, housing, medicines, machinery, tax revenue and the private capital behind projects the state could not easily finance through Parliament. If foreign governments could cripple one of his greatest revenue streams with a few decrees, then every institution depending upon that revenue had reason to be afraid.
Bülow exhaled slowly through his nose.
"A protest will be delivered," the Chancellor said, "and then buried beneath polite excuses."
His voice lacked Wilhelm's explosive anger, but the calmness made his conclusion no less severe.
"They know exactly how Germany will respond. Britain will claim the lottery violated public morality. France will cite administrative necessity. Russia will invent whatever legal justification is convenient. Every answer will be delayed, revised and passed between ministries until the protest itself becomes meaningless."
Bülow rested one hand upon the back of a chair.
"Their willingness to act so openly tells us something important. They no longer fear offending Germany as they once might have. Either they believe war can still be avoided regardless of their behaviour—or they believe it is coming eventually and see no reason to preserve goodwill now."
Tirpitz's gaze moved between the Chancellor and the Kaiser.
"So we simply accept it?" he asked. "We swallow the loss and allow them to cut German revenue whenever they find it convenient?"
The question settled heavily over the room.
The truth was unpleasantly simple.
Britain, France and Russia had struck Germany in the safest manner available: through regulations, markets and bureaucratic authority. No army had crossed a frontier. No warship had fired a shell. Germany could not march troops into London or Paris because foreign ministries had revoked lottery licences.
Not without setting the whole of Europe ablaze.
Wilhelm's fingers tightened around the arm of his chair. Oskar could see the conflict upon his father's face. Every instinct in the Kaiser demanded a visible response—something immediate, decisive and painful enough to wash away the humiliation.
Yet Bülow's expression remained unchanged.
Not now, it said.
Germany was not prepared.
Oskar finally spoke, partly because he had to and partly because he could see Tirpitz's concern turning toward panic.
"Your Excellency," he said, addressing the admiral, "the naval programme will continue."
Tirpitz turned sharply toward him.
Oskar met his gaze.
"The loss is severe," he admitted. "But the annual naval loan remains a priority. Ship construction will not stop, and no approved class will be cancelled because Britain has discovered the power of paperwork."
"And where will the money come from?" Tirpitz asked.
"Elsewhere."
Oskar did not look toward Karl, though he felt his friend standing beside him like a living ledger already calculating the cost of every word.
"Karl and I have other sources of profit under development," Oskar continued. "Some are faster than the lottery and considerably harder for foreign governments to seize. We may have to delay less urgent projects and redirect capital, but Britain will not decide the future of the Imperial Navy."
The tension in Tirpitz's shoulders eased slightly, not much, but a little.
Then Karl cleared his throat.
"If I may."
Every gaze in the office shifted downward.
It had become one of the stranger rituals of the German Empire: generals, ministers and princes lowering their eyes to hear the quiet words of the smallest man in the room.
Karl stood with his portfolio beneath one arm, his expression composed.
"Germany currently possesses no clean method of obtaining justice," he said. "Not without beginning a conflict we are not yet prepared to finish."
Several men bristled at the admission, but Karl continued before they could object.
"So we will endure the insult."
His eyes hardened.
"But we will not forget it."
That silenced them.
Karl looked directly toward the Kaiser.
"If Britain, France and Russia intend to establish these rules, then we should preserve a precise record of every seized account, every confiscated office, every arrested employee and every mark taken from us."
His mouth curved faintly, though there was no warmth in it.
"And if war eventually comes—if they choose to make enemies of us and are later defeated—we should demand repayment many times over."
The room became completely still.
Oskar raised one eyebrow.
Karl had never believed in answering harm with forgiveness, but there was a difference between understanding that privately and hearing him recommend national revenge inside the Kaiser's office.
Wilhelm's anger began to change.
The heat left it.
What remained was colder, slower and more useful.
"That," the Kaiser said, "is at least an answer."
He straightened in his chair.
"We will remember everything. Every mark. Every decree. Every office stolen under the pretence of law."
His gaze passed across the room.
"If their actions have cost us more than one hundred million marks, then the eventual repayment will not be one hundred million."
Wilhelm struck the desk once with his palm.
"It will be a billion at the very least."
Agreement followed immediately.
"They must pay."
"Every mark returned."
"With interest."
The words came quickly, each man adding his anger to the next until the room felt less like an office than the opening session of a tribunal awaiting a war that had not yet begun.
Then Moltke stepped forward.
The Chief of the General Staff signalled to the attendants outside, and within moments several servants entered carrying a vast military map of Europe. They cleared the centre of the Kaiser's desk, spread the map across its polished surface and secured the corners beneath brass weights.
The meeting changed almost immediately.
What had begun as an argument over seized lottery revenue became a war council.
Moltke leaned over the map with open confidence.
"The Army is nearly ready," he declared. "The final reforms are being implemented, mobilisation schedules have been shortened, and the railways are prepared to move our forces west at unprecedented speed."
His finger traced the German frontier toward Belgium and northern France.
"The Schlieffen Plan remains our foundation. We strike France first, drive through the north, encircle Paris and destroy the French armies before Russia can complete its mobilisation."
He glanced toward Oskar.
"And unlike the army for which the original plan was devised, ours will possess weapons no enemy can match. Superior machine guns, improved artillery, motor transport, modern communications and armoured vehicles capable of breaking positions that would stop ordinary infantry."
His finger struck the map.
"The armoured trucks and tanks will lead the attack. Properly concentrated, they will tear open the enemy line, crush wire and fortifications, and allow the infantry to pour through before the French understand what has happened."
Moltke spoke as though victory had already become a matter of scheduling.
"France falls first. Then we transfer east and break Russia before it can fully organise its weight. Once the continental enemies are defeated, the Navy deals with Britain. Break the blockade, destroy their fleet, and the Army can cross the Channel."
Tirpitz's eyes brightened at that.
"And when Britain falls?" Wilhelm asked.
Moltke smiled.
"Then Europe is open to settlement."
The room gathered around the map.
Compensation quickly gave way to conquest. They debated which lands should be annexed outright, which nations might remain under friendly monarchs and which territories could be reduced to dependent allies tied to Germany through military treaties, customs unions and debt.
France could be disarmed.
Belgium might become a German-controlled gateway to the Atlantic.
Russia could be pushed far enough east that it would never again threaten Central Europe.
Britain's gold reserves, overseas bases and merchant network were discussed with particular hunger. Someone asked whether victory should carry Germany as far as India. Another wondered whether Australia could be detached from the British Empire and placed beneath a friendly government.
Tirpitz began naming ports that might become German naval stations.
Wilhelm imagined colonies, tribute and a continental order stretching beneath Hohenzollern influence.
Karl quietly opened his notebook and began turning their dreams into arithmetic.
As the discussion moved north, one of the ministers noticed the Russian territory beside Finland.
"Karelia," he read aloud.
His eyes moved toward Karl.
"Well, that seems obvious. If we win, we give it to him."
Karl looked up from his figures.
"Give what to me?"
"Karelia. Karl's land."
A few men laughed.
"We could rename it Karlland," someone added. "A suitable principality for the smallest great man in Germany."
Karl stared at the map.
"I would prefer compensation in cash."
That earned a broader laugh, even from Oskar.
Yet beneath the humour, the conversation remained deeply serious. Rivers were examined as defensible borders. Railway junctions were circled. Coalfields, ports and industrial cities were weighed against the cost of occupying their populations.
All of it rested upon one assumption:
Germany would win.
Without victory, the map was merely paper and ambition.
But ambition had always been most dangerous when drawn neatly in coloured pencil.
Oskar found himself drawn closer despite his better judgment.
Maps had always possessed that power over him. In his former life, he had spent years staring at digital borders, planning campaigns in strategy games and imagining how nations might be united, divided or transformed. On a map, conquest appeared clean. A line moved, a province changed colour and the state became richer.
No widows appeared.
No wounded men screamed.
Now the map before him represented real countries filled with living people, yet the old fascination remained. To his own discomfort, he felt excitement stirring beneath his caution.
He listened.
Occasionally, he even contributed.
When someone dismissed a poor-looking stretch of territory as useless, Oskar corrected him. He knew that much of the wealth beneath Europe, Africa and the Middle East had not yet been discovered or properly exploited. He knew where oil would later reshape kingdoms, where ores and fertilizer minerals lay beneath neglected soil and where dams, railways and electricity could turn provincial towns into industrial cities.
No one around the table understood the full potential of those regions as he did.
Most of all, his attention kept returning east, to Poland, Belarus, Ukraine, Russia.
He knew the coal of the Donbas, the iron around Kryvyi Rih, the manganese near Nikopol and the grain that could pour from Ukrainian black earth. He understood the vast forests, ores and energy reserves of Russia, as well as the rivers and railway corridors that bound the region together.
To the others, the East was a prize.
To Oskar, it was also memory.
He knew its people would not submit merely because a German officer drew a new border. Poles would resist. Cossacks would fight. Ukrainians, Belarusians and Russians would not abandon their languages, histories or loyalties because Berlin promised efficient administration.
Railways would be sabotaged.
Officials would be murdered.
Villages would conceal weapons.
Every punishment would create another grievance, and every grievance would produce another generation willing to resist.
Oskar had driven those roads in another life. He had eaten beside Russians, argued with Ukrainians and carried wounded men away from burning vehicles. He knew that a province which looked empty from Berlin could contain millions of people willing to die for it.
That knowledge should have ended the fantasy.
Instead, it merely complicated it.
A vision began forming in his mind—not simply of a greater Germany, but of a united European order. One legal system, one currency, one common language and one central authority powerful enough to prevent the continent from tearing itself apart every generation.
Germany would provide the industrial spine.
The East would provide food, land and resources.
Western Europe would contribute ports, finance and established industry.
Africa and the Middle East would supply minerals, energy and space for future development.
It was beautiful when viewed from above.
Railways connecting every major city. Common laws replacing rival tariffs. Armies merged beneath one command. Markets too deeply intertwined for war to remain profitable.
A Europe too strong to be threatened from outside and too united to slaughter itself from within.
The former gamer in Oskar found the thought intoxicating.
The former soldier understood what creating it would cost.
An empire could be painted in one colour upon a map. In reality, achieving that colour might require cities to be bombarded, families displaced and millions forced beneath a government they had never chosen.
People were not factories.
They could not be reorganised by moving a few machines and replacing an incompetent manager.
They possessed memory, pride, religion and hatred.
Oskar knew all of this.
Yet he did not interrupt the discussion with speeches about peace.
He allowed himself to listen. To imagine. To offer the occasional correction when a railway, resource deposit or industrial region was misunderstood.
Part of him was ashamed of how interested he had become.
Another part accepted the cold logic of the room.
States did not compete only because rulers were greedy. They competed because weakness invited domination. A nation that refused to grow did not remain peacefully untouched. It lost markets, influence and security until stronger powers began deciding its future for it.
Germany could not stand still while Britain controlled the seas, France dreamed of revenge and Russia continued gathering population, land and resources.
It had to build.
It had to seek markets and strategic depth.
It had to become strong enough that no combination of enemies could safely attack it.
Oskar still wanted peace.
But if peace failed—if Britain, France or Russia began the war—then he would not accept a settlement that merely postponed another conflict for twenty years.
He would finish it.
He would destroy the aggressor's ability to threaten Germany again and build a new order from the victory, however harsh that order needed to be.
The thought disturbed him.
It also felt honest.
He knew war well enough to hate it, but he also knew himself well enough to understand that once war began, hatred of violence would not prevent him from using every means necessary to win.
If Europe insisted upon one final struggle, he would make certain it was truly final.
Around the table, the debate continued. Annexation or dependent kingdoms. Defensible rivers or resource-rich provinces. Lands worth taking and lands likely to bleed Germany dry.
Moltke confidently described armies advancing across the continent. Tirpitz imagined fleets operating from conquered ports. Wilhelm envisioned an empire large enough to stand above every rival.
Karl continued writing numbers.
Oskar watched the lines spread across the map and felt the dangerous attraction of power mixed with the knowledge of its price.
This was how wars often began—not with madmen screaming for blood, but with intelligent men gathered around a table, drawing reasonable lines and briefly forgetting that millions of lives existed beneath the ink.
The following day, Germany lodged formal protests against the seizure of the People's Welfare Lottery in Britain, France and Russia.
As expected, nothing came of them.
The three governments delayed their replies, buried Berlin beneath legal language and passed responsibility from one ministry to another until every answer became meaningless.
At the same time, they moved quickly to secure what they had taken.
State-supported lotteries appeared almost immediately in all three countries, taking over the former German offices, distribution networks and customer lists with remarkable efficiency.
The speed made the truth obvious.
This had not been improvised.
They had prepared everything in advance and merely waited for a usable excuse.
The loss of Britain, France and Russia severely damaged the lottery's profits.
The attack did not stop there.
Within days, a message arrived from the American branch.
Washington had begun what officials called a "review of regulatory compliance."
The phrase was painfully familiar.
Behind its harmless language lay a clear threat.
Britain was encouraging political pressure across the Atlantic, feeding resentment among American businessmen and politicians who disliked seeing so much money leave the country through a foreign-owned lottery.
The United States had become the company's largest single market. Its profits already exceeded those produced by the lottery inside Germany itself.
Losing America after Britain, France and Russia would not simply weaken the People's Welfare Lottery.
It would cripple it.
Karl stood inside Oskar's office holding the latest reports, his expression darker than Oskar had ever seen it.
"Our people believe Britain is encouraging the campaign," Karl said. "They are speaking quietly to newspaper owners, moral reformers and American businessmen who resent our profits."
He placed the report upon the desk.
"The argument is simple: we are foreign parasites draining American money and sending it overseas to strengthen Germany."
Oskar read the page once.
"So they intend to make this global."
"Vicious," Karl said.
Oskar looked up.
"Efficient."
"Vicious and efficient," Karl corrected. "The most dangerous combination."
Oskar leaned back and considered the situation.
American politics did not operate upon loyalty to Britain, France or Germany.
It operated upon interest.
Margins.
Influence.
Who earned the money and who could promise to spread enough of it among the right people.
That meant the company could still survive.
But survival would be expensive.
"Karl, inform our American partners that the profit arrangement will change at the beginning of next month."
Karl's expression tightened immediately.
"How much are you offering?"
"The present agreement allows us to retain sixty percent."
Oskar tapped one finger against the desk.
"Reduce our share by twenty points."
Karl stared at him.
"We retain forty percent," Oskar continued. "Our American partners receive forty. The remaining twenty will be allocated directly to American welfare programmes."
"Controlled by whom?"
"By them."
Karl's frown deepened.
"Your Highness, that is not a concession. It is an invitation to theft. If we allow them to control the welfare allocation, they will divide it among political allies, private foundations and whatever associates have positioned themselves near the money."
"I know."
"They possess no bottom to their greed."
"I know that as well."
Karl placed both hands upon the desk.
"Then why reward them?"
"Because forty percent of something is worth more than one hundred percent of a company they have closed."
Oskar's voice remained calm.
"If we lose America, the lottery may not survive as an international enterprise. If we retain access to the American market, even under worse terms, we preserve the network, the customers and the flow of capital."
He held Karl's gaze.
"Survival buys time."
Karl understood the calculation.
He hated it, but he understood it.
For several seconds, he stood silently, jaw clenched and eyes fixed upon the figures.
At last, he nodded.
"Very well. I will send the new terms."
He gathered the papers, though his irritation remained visible in every movement.
Oskar leaned back, his thoughts already moving beyond the immediate crisis.
Let Britain encourage its campaign.
Let American politicians count their shares.
Let businessmen congratulate themselves upon forcing the German prince to retreat.
The People's Welfare Lottery would bend.
For now.
It would surrender profit to preserve its existence, and it would endure until Oskar found something stronger to replace it.
Then those who had pressed against him would discover the danger of leaning too heavily upon something that had never intended to remain bent.