Oskar very nearly dropped his glass of apple juice when he saw them.
He recovered instantly—because that was what the court required—but the surprise was real enough that he felt it ripple through his shoulders before he smoothed it away. He set the glass down, adjusted his posture, and began moving through the banquet hall with the unhurried calm of a man who owned half the room even when he said nothing.
The music, the laughter, the glitter of chandeliers—none of it softened the quiet pressure that followed him. Every step he took felt measured, observed, judged. In this room, movement itself was a statement.
His destination lay in a corner of softer light.
Two young women sat there at a table laden with untouched food, speaking in low voices, as if hoping the current of attention might flow around them rather than through them. Both wore white—formal, ceremonial, unmistakably chosen with intention.
One was older.
She sat straight-backed and composed, her beauty polished by confidence and expectation. She watched the hall with alert eyes, aware of glances, aware of hierarchy, aware that this night mattered. She looked like someone prepared to step forward if called.
The other was younger.
Shorter, slighter—no more than 158 centimeters—with a gentler presence that made her seem almost out of place amid velvet and jewels. Her beauty was quieter, untouched by artifice. Not shy exactly, but cautious, as though the room itself were too loud for her nature.
Oskar felt the pull immediately.
Not attraction—at least not in the crude sense.
Recognition.
She reminded him, uncannily, of the women he loved most: the softness of Anna, the brightness of Tanya—but without the weight of conflict or ambition. Someone who would not threaten, not compete, not seek to dominate a household already held together by fragile equilibrium.
A safe choice, if fate ever demanded one.
And fate often did.
He moved toward them like a ship cutting through water, the guests parting almost unconsciously. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Whispers ran ahead of him faster than servants.
"Why is His Highness going there?"
"Who are those girls?"
"Bavarian," someone hissed with sudden certainty.
"Wittelsbach."
"They're princesses."
"They are," another voice confirmed sharply. "Princess Helmtrud and Princess Gundelinda. Daughters of Prince Ludwig of Bavaria."
A murmur followed.
Bavaria was old. Proud. Still a kingdom in all but name. Under Prince Regent Luitpold, its traditions carried weight that even Prussia treated carefully.
This was not a casual approach.
Even those who disliked Oskar's reforms—his commoners at court, his modern projects, his refusal to behave like a properly contained prince—felt their pulse quicken. If Oskar truly was the future, then standing close to him meant safety, legitimacy, power.
Oskar ignored the chorus.
His attention stayed on the younger sister.
Princess Helmtrud noticed first.
She looked up—and there he was.
Oskar von Hohenzollern.
Two meters of quiet gravity.
Moving toward her table without haste.
Her breath caught despite herself.
Could it be me?
She had always known she was beautiful. She was confident in it, trained for it. But she also knew the arithmetic of dynasties, and she was older than him by several years. That mattered to men. To families. To history.
Still, hope flared anyway.
She touched her sister's sleeve, sharp and urgent.
"Gundelinda," she whispered, forcing calm into her voice, "sit properly. Please."
Gundelinda startled, color rushing to her cheeks. She set down her fork and straightened quickly, eyes widening as she realized who was approaching. At sixteen, she was old enough to understand what attention meant—and young enough to feel it like heat against her skin.
Oskar stopped before their table.
The contrast up close was striking.
Helmtrud—164 centimeters, elegant, perfectly schooled—still had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Gundelinda looked even smaller beside her, as if someone had placed a figure from a different scale into the same painting.
Helmtrud rose first and curtsied with precision.
"Your Highness," she said smoothly.
Gundelinda followed a heartbeat later, her curtsy softer, more tentative.
Oskar returned the greeting with formal correctness. His gaze moved from one sister to the other, assessing without apology—but without hunger.
When he spoke again, his voice gentled.
"May I ask your name?" he said.
Helmtrud's lips parted.
"My name is—"
She stopped.
Because Oskar was not looking at her.
He was looking at her sister.
Helmtrud's face went still.
For a fraction of a second her expression cracked—not enough for anyone to call it scandal, not enough for gossip to safely seize and repeat… but enough for her to feel it like a slap.
She recovered instantly. A smile returned to her mouth as etiquette demanded.
But something colder slipped into her eyes.
Beside her, Gundelinda blinked, startled, then glanced at Helmtrud as if asking permission to exist in the same air as the moment.
Helmtrud gave her a look—sharp, controlled, sisterly in the way a knife was sisterly.
Go on, it said. Don't embarrass us.
"Your Highness…" Gundelinda said softly. "My name is Gundelinda."
Oskar nodded once.
"Princess Gundelinda of Bavaria," he said, recognition quick and exact. "Daughter of Prince Ludwig."
"Yes," she whispered—and color rose to her cheeks again, betraying her more than words ever could.
The hall watched.
Not openly. Not rudely.
But with that practiced attention only courts possessed: a room full of people pretending not to stare, and failing together.
Helmtrud stared too—still smiling, still perfect—while something inside her sank heavy and sour.
Oskar did not prolong the greeting. He could see the strain in the younger girl's shoulders, the way her breath had gone shallow. She was being examined by a thousand eyes at once.
So he offered her a lifeline in the only language the court truly respected.
Ritual.
"Princess Gundelinda," he said, inclining his head with solemn courtesy, "may I invite you to dance?"
The pause was brief, but in that briefness the whole hall felt the world balance.
Gundelinda hesitated—then placed her hand in his.
Oskar's fingers closed around her small hand with effortless care. Not crushing. Not possessive. Simply… steady, like a railing in a storm.
She looked up at him as if he were a mountain that had decided to move.
The orchestra began again, timid at first, then stronger as the room realized it was allowed to breathe.
They stepped onto the floor.
Oskar led with calm certainty, guiding her into motion without forcing it. Gundelinda was graceful—trained, clearly—but slightly stiff, not from lack of skill, but from the sheer absurdity of dancing with a man who made every other man in the hall look smaller.
She struggled for words, and so she stayed quiet.
Oskar didn't punish the silence.
He didn't fill it with speeches or jokes.
He simply let the dance speak for him: gentle turns, measured steps, a pace slow enough to steady her nerves without making it look like he was indulging her.
To onlookers, the sight was almost unfair in how perfectly it fit the room's hunger for symbols.
A giant prince guiding a delicate princess in white.
North and South.
Iron and silk.
Modern power and old legitimacy.
The noblewomen watching looked as if they had been stabbed.
If looks could kill, Gundelinda would have turned to ash before the second turn.
"My God," someone hissed behind a fan. "Why her?"
"Because she's Bavarian," another whispered bitterly. "Because it's politics."
"Or because she looks harmless," a third murmured, sour with envy, "which is the same thing."
A sharper voice cut in.
"Stop speaking nonsense. He is twenty. She is sixteen. In royal terms, that is perfectly ordinary."
"Hmph," another voice snapped, brittle. "I'm prettier."
Jealousy, as always, believed itself objective.
Across the hall, officers and ministers watched with different eyes.
Tirpitz—who rarely let emotion reach his face—murmured to the man beside him, almost pleased despite himself.
"A union between Prussia and Bavaria," he said quietly. "It steadies the empire."
Prince Heinrich gave the faintest nod.
"North and South bound by blood," he murmured. "Harder to fracture."
In the center of the floor, Oskar guided Gundelinda through another turn.
She had begun to breathe more normally now. Her shoulders loosened a fraction. Her gaze rose from panic to something closer to concentration—then, very briefly, to wonder.
And the court, intoxicated by its own imagination, began to whisper the dangerous thought that always followed a royal dance:
This isn't just music.
It's a message.