Outside, the moon moved across the sky as it always had—silent, indifferent and eternal.
Its pale light washed across the rooftops and courtyards of Potsdam, over stone, river and sleeping gardens that had watched emperors rise and fall and would, long after Oskar was gone, watch others follow.
Inside the palace, his children slept.
They lay scattered across the great shared chamber beneath tall windows and heavy curtains, tucked among cushions and blankets like some small living constellation. Their breathing had settled into a slow, peaceful rhythm, their dreams still carrying pieces of the stories he had read to them only hours before—tales of courage without cruelty, of rulers who protected rather than conquered, of strength that never needed humiliation to prove itself.
Even in sleep, some small part of his voice remained with them.
Oskar hoped, fiercely and almost desperately, that they would grow into the kind of rulers he wanted this Empire to produce: gentle wherever gentleness remained possible, and unbreakable wherever it did not.
Elsewhere within the palace, however, sleep had not yet come.
Steam rose in slow, heavy spirals around Oskar and his five women. The Roman bath glowed beneath the lamplight, water shimmering against stone carved by deliberate hands, and within it, for a fleeting span of hours, Oskar allowed himself to surrender to something older than war—to creation, to heat and breath and skin.
His body stirred with that deep, primal surge that no discipline could entirely suppress, the ancient command to make life even while preparing to take it. The strange warmth beneath his ribs—the red, white, and gold pulse he could not fully name—flared again as though answering that instinct.
He gave himself to it. To Tanya's fierce urgency, Anna's desperate tenderness, Gunderlinde's quiet devotion, Cecilie's controlled hunger, and Bertha's unyielding strength.
In the water, flesh moved against flesh, hands claiming, lips pressing, breath mingling in the humid air. Oskar's massive frame rested against the rim of the bath, his shoulders finally loosening as the tension of command dissolved for a moment beneath their touch. Scars caught the light across him, old wounds layered over fresh sutures, muscle shaped by iron, discipline, and relentless will.
His women knew every mark upon him, and still, after all these years, the sight of him—the broad chest, thick arms, powerful thighs, his manhood heavy and alive between them—unsettled and inflamed them all at once. They did not approach him gently. They claimed him.
Lips traced the paths of bullets long since healed. Fingers pressed against the ridges of old injuries as though trying to memorize them. Their breasts brushed his chest and arms, their thighs wrapped around his hips, their bodies rising and falling against him in shared rhythm. Moans softened into whispers, whispers into breathless sighs, until the heat surrounding them had very little to do with the bathwater.
Earlier, as always, Tanya had been the first to claim him.
She pressed herself against him slowly and deliberately, as though staking territory, her body moving with controlled defiance as her lips grazed his collarbone before her teeth caught hard enough to sting. She did it on purpose—a warning, a reminder, a punishment for the wounds he had brought back with him. She bit hard enough to mark him, though never to injure, fierce and furious and blazing with a love that had little patience for restraint.
Small against him, yes. Compact. Almost fragile in appearance. But when she clung to him, she felt like fire wrapped in silk.
He loved that about her: the way she could look so slight and still try to conquer him.
Anna saw her moment and took it.
Where Tanya burned, Anna flowed. She slipped between them without asking, fingers curling against Oskar's jaw and turning his face toward her with quiet authority. There was nothing timid about her. If Tanya was storm and lightning, Anna was tide and undertow.
Her mouth claimed his with warmth and hunger, her kiss deep and unapologetic, her breath heavy against his lips. She did not rush in the way Tanya burned. She pressed against him slowly and confidently, her body fitting to his with the certainty of a woman who knew exactly what she offered.
Her buxom frame molded against his chest, breasts full and generous, soft yet insistent as they rose and fell against his skin. She was the oldest woman in the room, the mother of ten daughters, and yet motherhood had not diminished her. It had refined her.
Her skin remained flawless, pale and luminous beneath the steam, untouched by time in a way that felt almost unfair. The softness around her hips and stomach was not weakness but richness, the quiet fullness of a woman who had lived, nurtured, and endured. Where younger bodies sharpened beneath discipline, Anna glowed with warmth.
Her brown hair fell loose over her shoulders, damp strands clinging to the curve of her neck, while her brown eyes—deep, steady, knowing—had never lost their spark. Age had not dulled her appetite. It had given that appetite patience, confidence, and control.
If anything, the years had made her more dangerous.
She did not compete through fire or force. She overwhelmed, and Oskar felt it every time she pressed close: the gravity of her softness, the certainty of her devotion, and the way tenderness and hunger existed within her in the same breath.
Mother of ten, and still, when she kissed him, she did so like a woman determined to remind him exactly why he had chosen her in the first place.
For a moment there was tenderness—a brush of lips, a murmur against his mouth—but then it blurred into something darker. Anna laughed beneath her breath, low and wicked, pressing her breasts against his face while whispering things that would have scandalized a royal court. She called him her oversized brute, her stubborn man, her boy who needed feeding.
In the steam, she drew him closer, her voice thick with want as she nursed him without shame, fingers sliding into his hair to hold him there. It was possessive, playful, deeply intimate.
Oskar endured it with a grin he could not suppress. He liked the roles she always invented. He liked how she lost control in the heat of it, how softness became hunger and devotion turned feral. Nor did he deny himself the sweetness she offered—warm, human, alive—tasting life in the steam while war waited beyond the palace walls.
Bertha, however, would not tolerate it for long.
Jealousy flashed sharply through her eyes. She reached forward, fingers hooking around Anna's arm and pulling her back with a grip that was not entirely playful.
Bertha's body was different—not soft like Anna's, nor delicate like Gunderlinde's. Her curves were strong and disciplined, sculpted by long hours in the gym and longer hours waiting. Her breasts were not quite as full, but beneath them her stomach was firm and defined, tension carried through every line of her frame.
She did not coexist.
She competed, and she made that known.
Their clash quickly became a breathless rivalry, accusations about cows and milk whispered between them before laughter broke through the tension. They pressed against one another with a heat that had less to do with affection than with territory and possession.
Oskar watched only briefly.
Bertha was dangerous. She always had been. She did not share easily, did not desire balance, and wanted him for herself wholly and obsessively. Her husband had long ago become irrelevant in that particular matter.
But Oskar's attention soon drifted elsewhere.
Cecilie and Gunderlinde moved behind him, their smaller frames molding against his back and sides. True princesses in bearing, perhaps, but certainly not in restraint. Their hands slid lower, fingers exploring him with growing boldness, their breath hitching as his own hands moved across their breasts and down their bodies in return.
They trembled when he touched them—not innocent, not anymore—their moans low and needy as his fingers drew shivers and tight little gasps from them again and again.
And then there was Tanya.
His first.
The woman who had taken his first time, and the woman whose first time he had taken in return. The beginning of everything.
Years had passed. Titles had multiplied. Children had come. Yet she remained as beautiful as she had ever been—no, more so. Like Anna, time had not taken from her; it had refined her. Motherhood had only deepened her glow, giving her curves a fullness that made her softness more dangerous and her strength more intoxicating.
Tanya never waited. She did not ask permission from the others. Like a true princess—chosen first, standing first—she always claimed her place without shame.
She moved onto his lap as though it were a throne she had earned, her thighs bracketing his hips, pale skin slick and luminous against his darker bronze. Her breasts rose and fell in a steady rhythm as she moved slowly against him, testing and provoking him, reminding him that she knew exactly how to draw him in.
He was already hard against her, thick and ready, responding to her heat before she had even fully settled.
She felt it.
Her breath caught, only slightly, and her blue eyes lifted to his—not shy, never shy, but challenging, daring him to pretend he was unaffected.
She lowered herself with maddening patience, inch by inch, her body adjusting around him and claiming him as a small sound escaped her throat, half gasp and half stubborn growl. Her hands steadied against his chest, nails scraping hard across skin like leather, barely marking him but making their intention clear.
Oskar smiled.
It was the same room. The same time of night. And for a moment he saw her as she had once been: a maid with uncertain footing, risking scandal and ruin for the chance at something more. She had looked at him then as though he were both salvation and disaster.
And she had chosen him anyway.
She had stayed through whispers, scandal, births, blood, and fear. She had given him joy, children, and a loyalty that had never faltered.
She was not merely his wife.
She was a reminder of what he was fighting for, of what he was protecting, and of why he could not afford to fail.
He had to succeed, no matter what the coming war demanded.
"You're cute as always," he murmured, his voice low with amusement. "Even now you move like it's your first time."
Tanya smirked and brushed her lips slowly along his jaw.
"I can't help it," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. "You're oversized. That's not fair."
Oskar laughed, deep and satisfied.
"You love oversized."
She did not deny it.
None of them did.
Their lips collided again, biting and pushing and competing, until Oskar took control of the kiss in the same manner he took control of everything else. Tanya gasped into his mouth as he reminded her exactly where she belonged.
The bathwater rocked around them as she settled into motion, confident now, claiming him fully. His hands tightened around her hips and guided her pace. His thumb brushed across her hard, tender nipple, and her body jerked at once, heat flaring visibly across her skin.
He moved with her—deep, controlled, relentless—until he gave her what she desired. Her composure finally shattered, and she collapsed against him in a rush of breath and sound.
Around them, the steam thickened and bodies shifted. The bath became almost a living organism of jealousy, devotion, hunger, and laughter, all tangled together in the humid air.
Bertha's low laugh cut across the chamber when Oskar teased her about her husband.
"He's found religion," she replied dryly. "I've found something better."
Anna's breath broke when Bertha's teasing hand lingered too long, the playful crack of skin against skin echoing faintly through the steam. Anna arched despite herself, her breasts pressing against cool marble as she surrendered to the sensation she pretended to resist.
Oskar eased Tanya aside gently, her body still trembling, and before he could fully breathe, Cecilie was already there—too eager, too fast—climbing onto his lap with hunger that outran sense.
She mounted him too quickly, and the sudden size of him stole the air from her lungs. Her body shuddered almost at once, overwhelmed by the force of him as she collapsed forward against his chest with a cry that carried through the chamber.
Oskar steadied her easily. His hands, massive and sure, guided her movements and tempered her urgency, slowing the pace until she could breathe again. When she finally sagged against him, trembling and undone, he held her there until the storm passed.
One by one, he drew the fire from them.
Bertha's mockery faded when he turned his attention fully upon her, her strength meeting his until it simply could not. Her defiance softened beneath his weight and command, her breath turning ragged as laughter dissolved into something far less controlled. When she finally yielded, her head fell back and her eyes lost focus, pride momentarily forgotten.
Anna followed more gently and more slowly, her softness rising to meet his strength in a rhythm that felt less like battle and more like surrender. Even her milk-warm scent mingled with steam and salt as she clung to him, her voice dissolving into breath.
Gunderlinde was last.
Shy and delicate, her courage had never been built for drawn-out contests. When Oskar loomed over her, the mere closeness of him was enough to make her tremble. A single deep thrust of pressure shattered what remained of her composure, and her whispered pleas—soft, breathy, almost musical—were sounds he alone seemed able to hear clearly through everything else.
Laughter eventually rose between them again, scandalous and breathless, mingling with gasps and teasing insults. Water splashed against the stone in uneven waves as limbs tangled and shifted.
The night blurred.
Heat became haze, and eventually even hunger grew tired.
The sharp edges of rivalry faded into quiet breathing and heavy limbs. One by one, they softened.
Tanya lay draped against Oskar's side, stubborn even in satisfaction, one leg thrown possessively across his thigh as though claiming something she had no intention of surrendering. Anna rested against his chest, half-asleep already, her fingers tracing idle circles across old scars and fresh sutures as though memorizing the terrain of him once again.
Behind her, Bertha remained close, one arm heavy around his waist, still guarding him even in exhaustion. Cecilie and Gunderlinde curled inward, their smaller bodies folding toward his warmth, seeking reassurance without needing words.
Five women against one colossal frame.
Oskar wrapped his arms around them as best he could, his broad hands spanning backs and shoulders as he pulled them inward. There was barely enough room for all of them once they eventually reached the bed.
Tanya's voice broke the quiet first, low now and stripped of teasing.
"Come back to us in one piece," she murmured. "Promise."
Her fingers tightened faintly against his side.
"I will," Oskar answered quietly. "I will not allow any enemy or obstacle to stand between me and victory. And when this is over—when victory comes—we will be together like this again. I promise."
He shifted slightly so all of them could hear him.
"In the meantime, you must stay safe. Keep things steady here. Give me the peace of knowing that what waits behind me is secure."
The words were not dramatic. They were practical, and that made them heavier.
"You've got silver in your hair," Tanya muttered sleepily. "Almost platinum. Like the children."
Oskar huffed a tired laugh.
"I'm not old," he said under his breath. "Just too many bullets and too little sleep. Perhaps I should consider getting shot less often."
A faint smile passed among them.
Then Gunderlinde's voice rose, hesitant but curious.
"You said in your speech you would bring about a better world," she asked softly. "But what then? What will you do if you reach that goal?"
All of them looked toward him now.
Waiting.
Oskar leaned back slightly and stared at the ceiling above them, steam still clinging faintly to the stone.
"Honestly," he said after a long moment, "I'm not sure."
The answer was not heroic.
It was honest.
Outside, the moon shifted. The ninth of July had already become the tenth.
Later, they moved fully to bed, limbs tangling around him, their bodies pressing him flat as though determined to anchor him there through sheer warmth. He could barely breathe beneath them, and yet, for the first time since Sarajevo, sleep came without resistance.
He even snored softly.
His women drifted into deep rest around him, drooling slightly against his skin, foolish smiles lingering across their beautiful faces as though, for once, none of them were afraid.
And in Oskar's dreams, the red light threaded with gold and white stirred once again within his chest.
It pulsed and spread like embers drifting into waiting soil.
He felt it faintly—echoes within the hearts and wombs of the women sleeping beside him, and somewhere else, in another room, within the sleeping hearts of his children.
Outside, the night remained still.
Inside, the future multiplied quietly.