While Oskar stood motionless in the dark, with Karl bleeding on the ground nearby, the assassination attempt had not gone unnoticed.
In fact, before the first shot had even been fired, three small figures inside the palace at Potsdam had already known something was wrong.
The bedroom had been quiet until then, moonlit and warm, part nursery and part sanctuary. Tanya and Anna slept in the great bed nearby, heavy with pregnancy and exhaustion, while the three children lay in their cribs beneath soft blankets.
Imperiel woke first.
He did not cry. He did not fuss. He simply opened his violet eyes in the darkness and sat up.
For a child barely past his first year, the motion was strange: too calm, too deliberate. Small fingers closed around the crib rail, and he pulled himself upright with silent determination.
A moment later, Juniel and Lailael stirred as well.
The twin girls rose almost together, as if called by the same invisible sound. Tiny hands gripped the rails. Little legs swung awkwardly over the side. One after another, the three children dropped to the carpet with soft, muted thumps.
Still they did not cry.
Still they did not go to their mothers.
Instead, they walked—unsteady, barefoot, and solemn—toward the balcony doors.
Three little hands pressed against the cold glass.
Beyond it, Potsdam lay dark beneath the October sky, its rooftops black against the moonlight, its gardens and streets swallowed in shadow. Imperiel stared into that darkness with an expression no child his age should have worn. Juniel and Lailael stood beside him, their pale hair catching the moonlight, their violet eyes fixed in the same direction.
On the bed, Tanya shifted with a sleepy groan.
Anna blinked awake, confused.
"Imperiel?" she murmured, voice thick with sleep. "Juniel? Lailael…?"
None of the children turned.
Imperiel slowly raised one arm and pointed into the night.
"Papa," he said.
The word was barely more than breath.
Before either woman could move—
Bang.
Distant. Muffled. Almost swallowed by the city.
Then another.
And another.
Anna pushed herself upright at once, sleep vanishing from her face. Tanya's hand flew to her chest.
"That…" Tanya whispered. "Was that gunfire?"
Anna opened her mouth to answer.
A deeper sound swallowed her words.
BOOM.
The balcony glass rattled in its frame. The chandelier shivered overhead, one crystal bead clicking faintly against another.
Neither woman needed to ask what that had been.
"That came from the park," Anna breathed.
Imperiel's hand slid slowly down the glass. His tiny fingers curled into a fist.
He did not repeat himself.
He did not have to.
Tanya and Anna looked at one another, and the same thought passed between them like lightning, "Oskar."
Across the palace, Kaiser Wilhelm II had not been asleep either.
He had lain on his back beside the Empress, staring up at the dim ceiling while the room breathed around him in darkness. Sleep had refused to come. His thoughts had circled, as they often did now, around his fifth son, "Oskar."
His impossible, ridiculous, genius, monstrous, naïve, infuriating, beloved son.
The boy who had once seemed like a quiet disappointment, then had returned from death wrong, strange, almost broken—and somehow become one of the most important men in the Empire before turning eighteen.
Wilhelm thought of the factories, the books, the engines, the ships, the motorcycles, the strange slang, the absurd confidence, the kindness toward commoners that made ministers sweat and workers cheer.
He thought of Oskar's size, his strength, his impossible body, his foolish smiles, his stubborn desire to fix everything at once.
He was still immature in ways. Still careless. Still too trusting.
But Wilhelm loved him now.
Far more than he had ever expected to.
That realization had been sitting in his chest for months, heavy and uncomfortable and undeniable.
Then he heard the shots, followed by the explosion's.
Wilhelm sat bolt upright before thought had finished forming. The Empress stirred beside him, blinking in alarm.
Wilhelm whispered one word, and it came out as if struck from him, "Oskar."
There was no uncertainty in it.
He knew, and thus he threw the blankets aside and was already at the door before the Empress could speak.
"Uniform!" he roared into the corridor. "My horse! Guards to the gate—hurry!"
The stillness of the palace shattered.
Boots hammered across stone floors. Doors opened. Lanterns flared to life one after another. Orderlies stumbled half-dressed into the corridor with belts, tunics, gloves, and weapons. An adjutant nearly collided with the Kaiser while trying to hand him a sword.
Wilhelm dressed with the savage efficiency of a soldier going to war.
The Empress stood behind him, pale and silent, one hand pressed to her mouth.
Neither of them said what they both feared.
They did not need to.
Oskar had enemies. Of course he had enemies. They had known it for months, perhaps longer. A man could not overturn industries, shame ministers, enrich workers, scandalize churches, frighten old nobles, threaten foreign interests, and call it all "helping" without gathering hatred in the cracks.
Oskar did not mean evil.
That was almost the problem.
He did too much good too quickly, and good done too quickly trampled as many toes as wickedness.
Within minutes, Wilhelm II was in the courtyard.
A horse was brought forward, stamping and snorting in the cold. The Kaiser swung into the saddle, cloak snapping behind him, face hard beneath the lanternlight.
A squadron of Royal Guards formed around him, sabers rattling, carbines slung, boots and hooves striking sparks from the stones.
He did not wait for perfect order.
He did not need directions.
Every night, that foolish boy walked nearly the same route home. Every night, that route passed near the park or through it.
And a father who hears gunfire and explosions near the path his son walks does not stop to ask questions.
He rides.
But the first person to reach Oskar was not a guard or the Kaiser.
It was the lamplighter.
He had been doing what he did every evening, moving from lamp to lamp with his ladder, his tools, and his small trembling island of yellow light. He had seen strange movement in the trees, there had even been more people in the park than usual, though at first he had told himself it was nothing.
Then came the gunfire. Sharp cracks rolling through the silent park.
Flashes in the dark.
Then explosions under the bridge, one after another, heavy enough to thud in his bones.
After that the fighting had moved off the paths, into the trees, and soon silence had come.
An eerie, uneasy silence.
The lamplighter had stood frozen beside his ladder for several seconds, lantern shaking in his hand.
A wiser man might have run for help immediately.
A more cowardly man certainly would have.
But he had read First Aid for Dummies. Everyone had. And one of the first lessons in that ridiculous, famous book was simple, "If you can help, then go help, if you cannot help, then go get help."
So, trembling, whispering prayers under his breath, he left the path and pushed into the undergrowth.
Branches scratched at his sleeves. Wet leaves slapped his face. The darkness between the trees seemed too thick, as if the park had become a different country after sunset.
He followed the smell of gunpowder, smoke and blood first.
Then he stepped into a small clearing and stopped so suddenly his knees nearly failed.
The lantern swung wildly in his hand, dragging light across broken branches, torn earth, bodies, weapons, and dark splashes on the ground.
In the middle of it all stood Prince Oskar.
Standing still as a statue.
As if his body had not yet received permission to fall.
His coat was shredded and soaked black with blood. His shirt hung torn from his shoulders, ripped across the back and side. Blood ran from his neck, down one arm, across his ribs. His right hand gripped the broken remains of a rifle like a club, the knuckles split and slick.
Around him lay bodies.
The lamplighter could not count them properly. His mind refused the task. Some were twisted. Some lay too still. Some were in such a shape that he could not even say if they were even men. Some of the ground was torn by what seemed like explosions.
While the earth beneath the prince's boots was churned black with mud and blood.
Oskar's head was bowed slightly. His eyes were open, but glassy and unfocused, staring past the lamplighter, past the bodies, past the park, as though he were looking through the world itself.
He did not move.
He did not speak.
He only stood there, swaying almost imperceptibly, a giant held upright by something stronger than consciousness.
The lamplighter's throat closed.
"Mein Gott…" he breathed as if muttering a prayer.
His knees struck the ground before he realized he had fallen. The lantern slipped from his hand and landed in the grass with a soft thud, throwing twitching shadows across torn coats, broken weapons, dead faces, and the prince who still stood among them.
For a moment, the lamplighter could only stare.
Then he saw the smaller shape on the ground a little farther away. It was Karl with one leg soaked with blood, a revolver still gripped in his hand.
The lamplighter lurched toward him.
"Mein Gott… Herr Karl…"
He was no doctor. He was barely a man who could read a comic book. But he had read the book. He knew blood was not supposed to pour like that. He knew legs could empty a man if the wrong vessel was torn.
He dropped beside Karl and shook his shoulder gently.
"Herr Karl? Can you hear me? Sir?"
There was no answer, nothing. But Karl was warm and still breathing by the looks of him, although just barely.
The lamplighter fumbled at his own scarf, hands clumsy with fear, and tried to remember the pictures from the book. Pressure first. Stop the bleeding. If the blood did not stop, bind above the wound. Tight, but not mindless. Do not panic, never panic.
He pressed the scarf hard against Karl's thigh.
Karl gave a weak, broken sound.
"Good," the lamplighter whispered, though he had no idea whether it was good or not, as it wasn't like he had any experience with these sort things. "Good, stay alive, little sir…"
Then he looked back at Oskar.
The prince still stood.
The lamplighter did not dare touch him.
It was not reason. Reason said the prince was wounded. Reason said he needed help as much as Karl did, perhaps more. But the sight of him—upright, unconscious, drenched in blood, surrounded by the men who had tried to kill him—froze the lamplighter in place.
It felt wrong to lay hands on him.
Not because he was royal.
Because he looked, in that terrible moment, like something holy and ruined. Like a statue in a battlefield chapel. Like a saint carved out of violence by a mad God.
The lamplighter turned back to Karl because Karl was human-sized, bleeding, and possible.
Behind him, branches cracked.
Boots crashed through the brush.
A policeman burst into the clearing, panting hard, lantern in one hand and revolver in the other.
"Stand back!" he barked automatically. "Hands where I can—"
He stopped.
His eyes took in the clearing all at once: the bodies, the torn ground, the broken weapons, the lamplighter kneeling over Karl.
Then he saw Oskar.
For a second, training and instinct fought across his face.
Training said: secure the scene, check for surviving attackers, aid the wounded, call for reinforcements.
Instinct said: No man should be standing like that.
The lamplighter found his voice.
"Herr Wachtmeister…" he whispered. "It's the prince. They tried to kill the prince."
The policeman swallowed.
"I can see that."
He holstered his revolver with stiff fingers and crossed quickly to Karl. Whatever awe he felt, Karl's bleeding leg gave him something real to do.
"You," he snapped at the lamplighter, nodding toward Oskar without looking directly at him, "keep your eyes on His Highness. If he falls, shout. Loudly."
Then he dropped to one knee beside Karl and tore open his own small first-aid pouch, that held a small bandage, and a tourniquet.
His hands moved faster than his thoughts. He had read Oskar's book too. Every policeman in Potsdam had, after the department made it recommended reading. He had laughed at the cover once—the huge prince pointing at children with that ridiculous command to shut up and learn.
He was not laughing now.
Karl groaned weakly.
The policeman tightened the bandage until Karl's leg jerked.
"Good," he muttered. "Good. You are not dying tonight if I can help it, kleiner Mann."
The lamplighter looked from Karl to Oskar and back again.
"Should we… should we help the prince?"
The policeman glanced up at Oskar, at a man whom seemed to be beyond the help of Mortal means, and he said, very quietly, "Not yet."
It sounded absurd even as he said it. Not help a wounded prince? Not touch a man bleeding on his feet?
But the words came anyway.
They were not refusing him aid.
They were afraid to break whatever impossible thing was keeping him upright.
Afraid that if they touched him wrong, the miracle would end and the giant would finally fall.
So the policeman focused on Karl.
Then more voices began to filter through the trees.
People had followed the noise.
A tram driver in his work coat. Two bakery girls still dusted with flour. A night watchman with a lantern. An old woman with a shawl thrown over her nightdress. A barefoot boy in a cap, eyes wide and shining with terror.
One by one, they reached the edge of the clearing.
And stopped.
It was as if they had struck an invisible wall.
No one spoke for several long seconds.
The tram driver was the first to find his voice.
"Is… is that…?"
"The Fifth Prince," the night watchman whispered.
Someone choked back a sob.
Oskar did not react.
He remained standing in the center of the ruin, blood-soaked, half-conscious, surrounded by bodies and torn earth, his broken rifle hanging from one hand like the club of some ancient warrior.
The sight burned itself into every soul present.
Their prince, covered in blood, surrounded by the men and women who had come to kill him, refusing even now to fall.
And behind him, small and bleeding in the grass, Karl still lived because Oskar had stood between him and death.
No one knew how long they stared.
It might have been seconds, but it felt like hours.
The policeman finally tore his eyes away and barked into the dark.
"You! Run to the main road! Get an ambulance wagon! Tell them it's for the Prince—lauf!"
The barefoot boy spun on his heel and vanished into the trees.
The lamplighter, still pale and trembling, moved one careful step closer to Oskar.
Then stopped.
"Your Highness…?" he whispered. "Can you hear us?"
There was no answer.
Oskar's chest rose and fell, barely. His eyes remained open but empty, fixed on something no one else could see. His grip on the shattered rifle did not loosen.
He was alive, but he was far away.
Then came the sound of hoofbeats. Many of them, approaching fast.
Lanterns flashed between the trees, bobbing like frantic fireflies. Branches cracked. Men shouted. Horses snorted and plunged through the dark.
A black horse burst into the clearing at near gallop, mud flying from its hooves. The rider hauled hard on the reins, and before the animal had fully stopped, Kaiser Wilhelm II was already out of the saddle.
"OSKAR!"
He did not wait for anyone.
Branches slapped against his shoulders as he shoved past the onlookers. The civilians parted before him instinctively, heads lowering, faces pale, but the Kaiser did not look at them.
He stopped three steps into the clearing.
The sight struck him like a shell.
For a moment, all the world seemed to fall silent. No shouting. No hoofbeats. No clatter of guards rushing behind him.
Only the brutal pounding of his own heart.
"Oskar…" he breathed, not as an emperor, but as a father.
Then he moved.
He crossed the clearing in a few stumbling strides, then broke into a run. He reached his son and seized him by the shoulders, fingers digging into torn cloth, ignoring the blood soaking instantly through his gloves.
"Oskar! My boy—look at me!"
Nothing.
Up close, the damage was worse than distance had allowed him to imagine. Torn flesh. Blood down the neck. A ruined hand. Bullet wounds. Burned and shredded cloth. Bruises already darkening beneath the skin. Oskar's eyes continued to be open, but they did not see him.
Wilhelm swallowed hard.
"Calm yourself my son," he said, voice breaking low in his throat. "It's all right. I'm here now."
He leaned closer, almost speaking into Oskar's chest.
"You can stop."
Then he pulled him into a rough embrace.
There was nothing ceremonial in it. No courtly dignity. No emperor greeting a prince before witnesses'.
It was only a father clutching his son in a clearing full of blood.
"You don't have to stand anymore," Wilhelm whispered. "Let me carry you. You have done enough, my son. Enough…"
As if those words reached some final, buried part of him, Oskar's body finally gave way.
His knees buckled.
Wilhelm staggered under the sudden weight, almost dragged down with him. Pain shot through his back and shoulders, but he did not let go.
"Help!" he roared, voice cracking back into command. "What are you standing there for—help me!!"
The Royal Guards surged forward, shocked out of their own paralysis.
"Careful!" one shouted. "Watch his side!"
"His hand is bleeding—God, his hand—"
"Shut up and just lift!"
They eased Oskar down just enough to shift their grip, then lifted him again, three men to each side struggling beneath the sheer mass of him. Even wounded, even unconscious, he seemed too heavy for the world to accept.
"Take him to the hospital," Wilhelm snapped. "Now. If any carriage breaks a wheel on the way, I will have the builder shot."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Already, another group of guards had reached Karl. They had ripped a door from a nearby maintenance shed and were turning it into a makeshift stretcher.
"The dwarf as well," Wilhelm barked, pointing. "Same priority. He fought at my son's side. That makes him a hero of the Empire."
The civilians stared, stunned.
The Kaiser stood in the mud, his gloves and sleeves smeared with his son's blood, giving orders to save a dwarf accountant as if he were a wounded field marshal.
And although they didn't know it yet, no one there would ever forget the night.
Something raw and bright had already settled into the witnesses hearts.
As Oskar and Karl were carried toward the road and the first medical wagons clattered closer through the park, one of the Royal Guards approached Wilhelm with his ceremonial helmet under one arm. His face was pale.
"Your Majesty," he said quietly. "We found this on one of the bodies. And… one attacker is still alive. Barely."
In his gloved palm lay a necklace of a six-pointed star.
Wilhelm stared at it with rage, his jaw tightening, as he asked, "Who does this necklace belong to?"
The guard pointed toward a body near the trees: a woman in travel clothes, her hair matted with blood, her coat torn and soaked dark.
"And the survivor?" Wilhelm asked.
"Over there, Majesty. Shot in the chest. He will not last long without a doctor, but he is conscious for now."
Wilhelm closed his fist around the star until its edges bit into his palm.
"Send him to a cell," he said, voice going cold. "Bind him. Keep him breathing. I want him questioned the moment the doctors say his lungs will not collapse. I want names, motives, information. Every hand that touched this must be found."
He looked around the clearing: the corpses, the broken weapons, the torn ground, the blood-dark mud still steaming faintly in the October cold.
Someone had tried to murder his son, and not in some distant province or on a foreign road, but here in his capital.
On his soil.
"Someone tried to kill my son," Wilhelm said softly.
Every guard nearby went still.
His eyes hardened.
"Whoever planned this," he said, "has just declared war on the House of Hohenzollern."
And beneath the cold night sky, with gunpowder still hanging in the air and blood soaking into the roots of the park, the largest investigation in Imperial Germany's history took its first bloody step.