The year 1907 was dying.
Not with cannon fire, storm clouds, or omens burning in the sky, but with the quiet, inevitable ticking of clocks in warm rooms while winter pressed cold fingers against the windows of Potsdam.
Inside the palace, there was light.
It poured from chandeliers in sheets of gold, striking marble, polished wood, medals, jewels, silk, and glass until the great hall seemed less like a building than a living chamber of the Empire itself—breathing music, perfume, power, and expectation.
The guests had gathered in careful layers.
Nearest the front stood the old world: nobility, princes, generals, admirals, men in dark-blue uniforms and polished metal, women in silk and diamonds, ministers and diplomats in sober black. Behind them, or beside them more often now, stood the newer power: industrialists, engineers, financiers, organizers, and useful men whose names had begun appearing at court with increasing frequency because of one unavoidable truth.
Germany was changing.
And everyone in that hall knew whose name was stitched into that change.
The applause began when the doors opened.
It was not merely polite. Not merely ceremonial.
It was the applause of people who believed the future had already chosen a side.
The Kaiser entered first: Wilhelm II in full uniform, shoulders squared, moustache sharp as a blade, his very presence still powerful enough to remind the room what obedience felt like.
At his side came the Empress, Auguste Viktoria, calm and queenly, diamonds bright against pale fabric.
And just behind them—like the shadow of tomorrow—came Prince Oskar.
He escorted Crown Prince Wilhelm's young wife, Cecilie, who had no proper escort of her own that night, while little Luise stayed close beside him like a solemn page in miniature. He did it smoothly, without fuss, without drawing too much attention. That was what he had learned to do now.
Carry things.
Carry people.
Carry the weight.
And make it look effortless.
Behind them filed the rest of the Kaiser's sons. In December of 1907, only Eitel Friedrich had a wife at his side. The others came alone in their uniforms, handsome in the expected princely way, but still unmarried, still childless, still caught between youth and dynasty.
Only Oskar had already built something different.
As he stepped into the light, his eyes moved briefly across the hall, and he saw them at once.
His people.
Not all by blood. Not by law. But his all the same.
They had gathered around him over the years like a second household: messy, ambitious, loyal in strange ways, bound together by companies, money, scandals, children, and the quiet conviction that following this one giant prince might actually lead somewhere worth going.
At one corner table sat Karl, half-hidden behind women and children, trying and failing to look like a man who had not accidentally become famous.
Near him were Heddy, Tanya, Anna, and—yes—Bertha, with little Alfried bundled close.
This year, Anna's older daughters were there as well.
Greta Müller, ten years old now and already too steady-eyed for her age. Lise, nine, a warm-blooded hurricane in human form. Klara, seven, fearless, curious, and forever reaching for whatever she had been told not to touch.
Anna herself was only twenty-six and already the mother of six girls: three from her first marriage, three from Oskar. The older three were not noble, not courtly, and therefore, in the eyes of certain stiff-necked people, had no proper place in the palace at all.
Oskar did not care.
The palace had always been full of blood.
He preferred it full of life.
Not far from them sat Hans Albrecht with his wife Lina, who still looked wider-eyed than any noblewoman present, as if she half expected to wake and discover the villa, the warm beds, and the safe future had all been a dream. Hans had brought his children too: Max and Emma, older now and carefully dressed, along with three new babies bundled in wool like treasures the old mine would never get its hands on.
Around them sat other faces Oskar knew well: industrialists, engineers, scientists, managers, men and women who had once been strangers and had slowly become pillars of the Oskar Industrial Group. Even Gustav von Bohlen und Halbach was there, hovering near Bertha, trying to look comfortable among people who did not truly belong to him.
Oskar looked at them all and felt something rare in a palace.
Belonging.
The Kaiser stepped forward to address the hall.
The room quieted—not instantly, but with the practiced obedience of a place trained by decades of monarchy. The final coughs were swallowed. The whispers died. The orchestra softened until it seemed to hold its breath.
Wilhelm II lifted one hand.
"My friends," he began, his voice bright and carrying, "my people—this year has been unlike any other in the history of our Empire."
A ripple of approval moved through the hall.
"Progress," the Kaiser continued, "has not merely visited Germany. It has taken up residence."
Laughter answered him first, then applause.
He gestured broadly, as if he could gather all the year's achievements and lay them out across the marble like trophies.
"Other nations may complain," Wilhelm said, his tone sharpening just enough to make the diplomats stiffen, "about our laws, our discipline, our certainty."
He paused.
"They may debate our actions."
Another pause.
"But they do not dare oppose us, because Germany is stronger now than she has ever been."
The applause swelled, louder and freer.
"Our army is unmatched," he declared. "And in the coming years, the world will learn that our navy shall be unmatched as well. None shall dare stand before the might of the German Empire!"
This time the room answered with something close to a roar.
Wilhelm smiled—not warmly, but with the satisfaction of a man who understood exactly what fear and pride looked like when they bowed together.
Then he raised his hand again and the sound lowered.
"And now," he said, "eat. Drink. Rejoice. You have earned this celebration."
The crowd relaxed into smiles.
But the Kaiser's gaze slid—briefly, deliberately—to Oskar.
"And before I end," Wilhelm said, voice rising slightly, "let us not forget that all of this is thanks to the tireless work of our people—and yes…"
He paused.
"…to the vision of my son."
There was a new kind of noise then.
Not just applause, but recognition. The kind that felt like a decision being made without being voted on.
Oskar did not bow deeply. He did not perform humility. He only inclined his head like a man acknowledging a report.
It was enough.
"Now," the Kaiser declared, "let us welcome the year 1908 with confidence. With unity. And with faith—in God, in Germany, and in the work of our own hands!"
Crystal chimed as glasses lifted.
The orchestra surged.
The hall erupted into motion again—and then the Kaiser did something unexpected.
He turned and made a clear gesture toward Karl's table.
"Karl!" Wilhelm called, loud enough that even the far wall heard it. "Come."
Karl froze.
He looked, for a heartbeat, like a man who had been told to walk onto a battlefield wearing only socks.
A murmur swept the room: curious nobles, confused generals, a few people already smiling as if they smelled entertainment.
Karl hesitated only long enough to realize there was no escape. Then he stood.
Oskar blinked, frowning.
What are you doing, Father?
But the Kaiser was already moving on, already smiling like a man about to enjoy himself.
As the royal family began shifting toward their formal seats, Oskar did what he always did now:
He did not go where tradition wanted him to go.
He went to his own table.
Cecilie and Louis—after a moment of confusion—followed him, because Cecilie had learned something in the past year:
if you wanted to be near the future, you sat near Oskar.
The hall, without anyone officially declaring it, arranged itself into three camps:
the Kaiser's table and the noble court around it,
Oskar's table and the industrial power clustered near it,
the foreign guests—especially Austrian—who hovered in the overlap.
Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his family sat close enough to Oskar's table to speak easily, close enough to watch, close enough to measure.
Karl mounted the small stage where the musicians waited.
A piano chord sounded—soft and odd in phrasing, like something from a dream.
Then Karl began to sing.
"And now… as the end is near… of this year…"
His voice was calm and steady—no theatrics, no courtly warbling, just a man singing as if the song belonged to him.
Oskar's stomach dropped.
Oh no.
Karl was singing one of those songs, that Oskar had taught him during their talk about American Jazz and music in general.
Karl didn't sing loudly. Not stupidly. But well—far better than Oskar had ever heard him sing. Like a small, serious dwarf had swallowed an American stage spirit and decided to release it in Potsdam.
The hall listened.
Generals leaned forward as if trying to understand why their hearts were reacting to something that did not involve artillery or money.
And then Karl—God help him—began to move.
Not a dance any European court had ever seen. Not quite vulgar. Not quite proper. Something in between: hips, shoulders, confidence. The kind of movement that made older nobles blink as if the world had tilted slightly off its axis.
When the final note faded, the applause came slow at first…
Then strong.
Then overwhelming.
Karl bowed once and, like a man condemned to entertain his executioners, launched into the next song—
"Let's rock! Everybody, let's rock! Everybody in the whole Prison block—"
Oskar buried his face in his hand.
Some guests laughed. Some looked scandalized. Several diplomats stared as if trying to decide whether this was a German cultural revolution or a diplomatic incident.
The night went on anyway.
Oskar did what was required: greetings, handshakes, polite exchanges with admirals and ministers. The King of Bavaria clasped his arm with theatrical warmth. Franz Ferdinand complimented German engines with a smile that carried something like envy behind it.
And then—finally—Oskar was left with the part of the evening that mattered.
His table.
Which was not a table so much as an ongoing riot.
Anna sat at his left, his daughters with her nestled close—wide-eyed, drowsy, occasionally offended by noise.
And Anna's older daughters swarmed too: Greta trying to act composed, Lise feeding him sweets as if this were her divine calling, Klara giggling at the sight of a prince eating like a bear.
Tanya sat at his right, her three boys clustered like a storm around her. Imperiel—old enough now to have opinions and strength—kept attempting to climb onto the table and throw food, while Luise intervened like a cheerful commander, inventing games and distracting disasters.
Even little Wilhelm—Cecilie's baby—joined in with small, enthusiastic chaos. Bertha's baby Alfried gurgled, offended by everything, delighted by nothing.
It was loud. It was messy.
It was alive.
Oskar watched it all and for the second time that evening felt genuinely overwhelmed—not by Karl's singing, but by the simple fact that his private life had become… enormous.
Yet even then he wasn't truly alone in private with his friends and family.
Around him servants moved like practiced dancers. Guards kept the perimeter. Women who understood babies rotated in and out. Hands appeared to catch tumbling cups. Someone always had a cloth. Someone always knew what to do.
And so Oskar leaned back, smiling, and let the chaos be what it was: the future refusing to sit quietly.
Outside, Potsdam's winter sky deepened toward midnight.
Inside, the hall roared with music and laughter, Karl still somehow alive on that stage, and the dynasty—old and new—ate and drank and pretended time could be held back by celebration.
At last the clocks turned.
Fireworks burst beyond the windows, light shattering across snow and night.
Cheers rolled through the palace.
1908 had arrived.
Oskar lifted a glass of apple juice—because he did not drink—and those nearest him lifted theirs too: not only to the new year, but to the fragile, foolish hope that this moment of warmth might last just a little longer before history came calling again.