Long before the last gunshot faded, people were already waking.
Not in the park. Not in the streets.
In a quiet, moonlit nursery of the royal palace.
Imperiel sat up first.
It wasn't the clumsy, wobbling motion of a normal one‑year‑old.
He pushed himself up with slow, steady control, small fingers gripping the crib rail as he stood.
Juniel and Lailael followed, almost at the same time, like two shadows mirroring him. Little legs swung over the railing, small bodies dropping to the carpet with soft thumps.
They didn't cry. They didn't waddle to their mothers. They walked—unsteady but determined—toward the balcony doors.
Three little hands pressed against the cold glass.
Imperiel's violet eyes stared out over the dark silhouette of Potsdam. His sisters' eyes followed his gaze, three small faces lined up in the reflection.
On the big bed nearby, Tanya shifted with a sleepy groan.
Anna blinked, confused. "Imperiel? Juniel? Lailael…?"
Her voice was thick with sleep, still warm from dreams.
None of the children turned.
Imperiel slowly raised one arm and pointed toward the city.
"Papa," he said.
The word was barely more than a breath.
Before either woman could react—
Bang.
Distant. Muffled.
Like a door slamming somewhere far away.
Then another. And another.
The sound didn't belong inside a palace. It didn't belong in a quiet night.
Anna pushed herself upright, suddenly wide awake. Tanya's hand flew to her chest.
"That… was that—gunfire?" Tanya whispered.
Anna opened her mouth to answer—
A deeper sound swallowed her words.
BOOM.
The glass in the balcony doors rattled in their frames. A shiver ran through the chandelier, one crystal bead clicking faintly against another.
Neither woman needed to be told what that was.
"That came from the park," Anna breathed.
Imperiel's hand slid down the glass. His tiny fingers curled into a fist.
He didn't repeat himself.
He didn't have to.
Both women looked at each other, the same thought flashing through their minds:
Oskar.
Across the palace, Wilhelm II was not asleep.
He lay on his back, staring at the dim ceiling, thoughts circling endlessly.
He thought of Oskar, as he often did now:
The boy's impossible inventions.
His factories.
His comics, his books, his insane motorcycles.
His strength.
His stubbornness.
The way people said "our prince" now, not just "the fifth prince."
Pride tugged his mouth into a small, private smile.
Then he heard it.
One shot.
Then another.
Then another.
Not thunder. Not fireworks.
Gunfire.
Wilhelm II's body moved before his brain finished the thought. He sat bolt upright.
A heartbeat later, the dull, heavy roll of an explosion followed—distant but unmistakable. The windowpanes trembled. The Empress gasped and clutched at the sheets.
Wilhelm II whispered one word, as if someone had punched it out of him:
"Oskar."
He didn't think maybe. He didn't think could it be.
He just knew.
He was shouting as he ripped open the door:
"Uniform! My horse! Guards to the gate—jetzt!"
The stillness of the palace vanished.
Boots pounded against stone floors.
Lanterns flared to life along the corridors.
Orderlies scrambled with belts and tunics.
An adjutant nearly ran into him trying to hand over a sword.
Minutes later, Wilhelm II rode out of the palace courtyard, cloak snapping in the wind. A squadron of Royal Guards thundered after him, sabers rattling, carbines slung.
He didn't need directions.
Every night, Oskar walked the same way home.
Every night, it took him past the park.
And a father who smells gunpowder and hears explosions near the path his son walks does not stop to ask questions.
He rides.
The first person to reach Oskar was not a guard.
It was the lamplighter.
He had been doing what he always did: moving between gas lamps with his ladder, his tools, and a small pool of yellow light.
He'd seen shadows moving strangely in the trees.
He'd heard noises—muffled voices, something that sounded like someone stumbling.
Then the cracks of gunfire, rolling across the sleeping city.
He'd seen flashes through the branches. Then explosions, one after the other, thudding through his bones.
And then—silence.
Too much silence.
Lantern shaking in his hand, he forced himself off the path and through the undergrowth.
Branches scraped his arms. Leaves slapped his face. The night seemed to press in thick and close around him.
He stepped into a small clearing—
—and stopped so fast his legs almost gave out.
His lantern light swung wildly, throwing broken, ugly shapes.
In the middle of the clearing stood Prince Oskar.
Standing.
Just… standing there.
As if his body hadn't yet realised what had happened to it.
His coat was shredded and dark with blood.
His shirt was torn nearly to the waist.
Blood soaked his side. A line of red ran from his shoulder down his arm.
His right hand gripped the broken stub of a rifle like a club, knuckles cracked and slick.
Around him lay bodies.
The lamplighter couldn't count them properly. Some lay twisted. Some were missing pieces. One tree trunk was splintered and wet as if something had slammed into it too close.
The earth beneath the Prince's boots was black and soft, churned mud and blood.
Oskar's head was bowed slightly. His eyes were open—but glassy, unfocused, staring past everything as if looking through the world.
He did not move. He did not speak.
He simply stood there, swaying almost imperceptibly, like a man held up by habit alone.
The lamplighter's throat closed.
"Mein… Gott…" he breathed.
Not a prayer. Not really. Just shock.
His knees hit the ground. He hadn't meant to kneel, but his legs were shaking too hard.
His lantern slipped from his hand and landed in the grass with a muffled thud, sending jerking shadows scampering over torn bodies and boots and broken branches.
For a moment, the only sound was his own ragged breathing.
Then he saw another form on the ground, a little further away:
Karl.
Small.
Still.
Leg soaked with blood.
A revolver still gripped in his hand.
"Mein Gott… mein Gott…"
The lamplighter lurched toward him.
He was no doctor, but he knew blood, knew the way it pooled, the way it soaked in. He grabbed at Karl's shoulder with clumsy hands, shaking him lightly.
"Sir? Herr Karl? Can you hear me?"
Nothing.
But he was warm.
Still breathing. Barely.
The lamplighter looked between Karl and the huge, unmoving figure still on his feet.
He didn't know what to do.
Help the one bleeding out on the ground?
Or the one who somehow hadn't fallen yet?
He never had to decide.
Boots thudded behind him. Someone crashed through the bushes.
A policeman burst into the clearing, panting, lantern in one hand, revolver in the other.
"Stand back!" he barked automatically. "What's—"
He cut himself off.
His eyes took in the scene in a heartbeat: the torn bodies, the blood, the little man on the ground, and then—
The Prince.
For a second, training warred with instinct. Training said: secure the scene, check for surviving attackers, aid the wounded, report.
Instinct said: No man should be standing like that.
The lamplighter found his voice. "Herr Wachtmeister… it's the Prince. They… they tried to kill the Prince…"
The policeman swallowed hard. "I can see that."
He holstered his revolver, face pale, and hurried to Karl.
"You—" he snapped at the lamplighter, pointing with his chin at Oskar, "keep an eye on him. If he falls, shout. Loud."
Then he knelt by Karl and ripped open his own small first-aid pouch, hands moving on reflex—bandage, tourniquet, tighten, knot.
Karl groaned once, weakly.
"Good, good…" the policeman muttered. "You're not dying tonight if I can help it, kleiner Mann."
More voices filtered through the trees.
People had followed the sounds.
A tram driver in his work coat.
Two bakery girls still dusted with flour.
A night watchman.
An old woman with a shawl thrown over her nightdress.
A boy with bare feet and a cap, eyes wide.
They stopped at the edge of the clearing as if they had hit an invisible wall.
No one spoke for several seconds.
It was the tram driver who whispered first.
"Is… is that…?"
"The Fifth Prince," the night watchman breathed.
Someone choked back a sob.
Oskar did not react to any of them.
He was still standing.
The image branded itself into their minds:
Their prince, covered in blood, surrounded by his enemies, refusing to fall—
and the little dwarf at his back, alive because the prince had stood where he stood.
None of them knew how long they stared. It might have been seconds. It felt like hours.
The policeman finally tore his gaze away and shouted toward the dark:
"Someone run to the main road! Get an ambulance wagon! Tell them it's for the Prince—läuft!"
The boy with the cap spun on his heel and bolted.
The lamplighter, hands shaking, moved closer to Oskar but stopped just out of reach.
"Your Highness…?" he tried, voice barely above a whisper. "Can you… can you hear us?"
No answer.
Oskar's chest rose and fell very slightly. His eyes didn't flicker. His grip on the shattered rifle did not loosen.
He was alive.
But he was far away.
Hoofbeats thundered closer.
Dozens of them.
Lanterns flashed between the trees, bouncing like frantic fireflies.
Then a horse broke through the brush at a near gallop, skidding in the mud. The rider hauled back on the reins, swung out of the saddle before it had fully stopped, boots slamming into the ground.
"OSKAR!"
Wilhelm II didn't wait for anyone.
Branches slapped his shoulders as he shoved past the onlookers. The civilians parted almost instinctively when they saw him, faces turning toward the mud.
He stopped three steps into the clearing.
The sight hit him like a physical blow.
For a moment, everything went silent—no shouting, no boots, no clatter of equipment. Just the pounding of his own heart.
"Oskar…" he breathed.
Not as Kaiser.
As a father.
He walked forward, almost stumbling, then surged into a run.
He grabbed Oskar by the shoulders, fingers digging into torn fabric, ignoring the blood.
"Oskar! Mein Junge—look at me!"
Nothing.
Up close, the damage was even worse—bullet wound in the side, gash along the neck, hand mangled, skin bruised and torn. The boy's eyes were open but unfocused, staring at nothing.
Wilhelm II swallowed hard.
"Es ist gut," he said quietly, almost into Oskar's chest, like a prayer. "It's alright. I'm here now. You can stop."
He pulled him into a rough embrace.
For the first time in a long time, it wasn't a ceremonial gesture, no staged greeting.
It was a father clutching his son.
"You don't have to stand anymore," he whispered. "Let me carry you. That's enough, mein Sohn… that's enough…"
As if those words somehow penetrated whatever darkness Oskar was lost in, the giant's body finally gave out.
His knees buckled.
Wilhelm II staggered under the sudden weight and nearly went down with him, grunting as his back screamed in protest—but he didn't let go.
"Help!" he shouted hoarsely, snapping back to command. "Was steht ihr da—helft mir!"
Royal Guards surged forward, shocked out of their own paralysis.
"Careful!" someone barked. "Watch his wounds!"
Together, they eased Oskar down and then lifted him again, three men on each side struggling to carry his massive frame.
"Get him to Charité Hospital," Wilhelm snapped. "Now. If any carriage breaks a wheel on the way, I'll have the builder shot."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
A pair of guards were already moving Karl onto a makeshift stretcher—a door wrenched from its hinges in a nearby maintenance shed.
"The dwarf as well," Wilhelm added sharply. "He's to be treated with the same priority. He fought at my son's side. That makes him a hero of the Empire."
The civilians could hardly believe what they were seeing.
The Kaiser covered in blood, ordering that a dwarf accountant be treated like an officer.
The people.
Their prince.
Their ruler.
All of it pressed deep into them, leaving something raw and bright behind.
As the wounded were carried away and the first of the medical wagons clattered up, one of the Royal Guards approached the Kaiser, helmet under his arm, face pale.
"Majestät," he said, voice low. "We found this on one of the bodies. And… one of them is still alive. Barely."
In his gloved hand lay a necklace.
A six-pointed star.
Wilhelm II stared at it, jaw working.
"Where?"
The guard pointed to a body—a woman in travel clothes, hair matted with blood, chest torn open.
"And the survivor?"
"Over there, Majesty. Shot in the chest. He won't last long without a doctor. But he's conscious… for now."
Wilhelm II closed his fist over the star until the metal edges bit into his palm.
"Send him to a cell," he said, voice like ice. "Bind him. Keep him breathing. I want him questioned as soon as the doctors say his lungs won't collapse. I want names. Routes. Money. Every piece of this."
He looked around the ruined clearing—at the bodies, at the torn ground, at the fading steam rising from the blood-dark earth.
"Someone tried to kill my son," he said quietly, almost to himself—but loud enough that every guard nearby heard. "They did it in my capital. On my soil."
His eyes hardened.
"Whoever planned this," he said, "just declared war on the House of Hohenzollern."
And under the cold night sky, with the smell of gunpowder still clinging to the air, the biggest investigation in Imperial Germany's history began to take its first, bloody steps.