It was late in the day.
The sun had already slipped behind Berlin's rooftops, and light snow drifted down like ash—soft, quiet, relentless. The cold pressed in from every direction, the kind that made grown men walk faster and tuck their chins deeper into their collars.
But this was modern Germany, 1909—the Germany Oskar had been forcing into existence with iron, money, and stubborn will—so the city did not hibernate the way it once had.
Along the boulevards, the evening belonged to movement.
Men leaving factories mixed with men heading toward them, all working eight-hour shifts. Shop windows glowed with electric light instead of gas. Cafeterias steamed with coffee and sweet bread. Posters for theatres and music halls clung to wet stone walls. From certain streets came the dull thunder of gramophones playing music, the clinking of weights, and excited yells as people worked out at Pump World gyms—where Berliners, workers of every class alike, lifted iron in heated halls as if strength itself had become a civic duty.
And the traffic—
There were still horses, yes—breathing steam, hooves striking frozen slush, iron rims crunching over rutted streets—but the old world was being pushed aside. Near the center, especially around Potsdamer Platz and toward the Gate, Muscle Motor trucks carried crates beneath canvas covers. Private motorcars rolled past with clean, bright headlamps. A few reckless young men—already convinced the future belonged to them—rattled by on motorcycles, engines loud enough to make pedestrians flinch.
Berlin in winter smelled of smoke, wet wool, hot oil, and sugar.
And somewhere near the Brandenburg Gate, it also smelled like warm bread and safety.
---
Oskar had left his father's office with the taste of politics still in his mouth.
The theatre performance had ended. His family had gone ahead without him—Anna and Tanya, the children, the women—because life did not pause simply because generals and ministers wished to test his patience.
He learned where they had gone from a single sentence passed through palace staff.
Angel Cafeteria. Near the Brandenburg Gate.
It made sense.
The Angel Cafeteria stood close to Little Angel Works, the first and oldest storefront of the Angel Works brand—still selling hygiene goods, household essentials, and baby supplies, among other things—with that strange mixture of softness and efficiency that defined Oskar's new Germany. And only a short walk away stood the first Pump World gym, opened on the same day years ago like a paired declaration:
Clean living.
Strong bodies.
Order.
The entire district bore his fingerprints.
---
Outside the Brandenburg Gate, the air bit hard.
Breath turned visible at once. Horse steam drifted in pale clouds. Snow collected in the grooves of old stone and along the edges of modern metal. People moved in tight groups—mothers with children bundled like parcels, men in heavy coats, couples with linked arms—each drawn toward warmth and light like moths.
And then they saw it.
At the entrance of the Angel Cafeteria, perfectly still beneath falling snow, stood the Eternal Guard of the First Company.
Ash-black helmets bore white shields marked with the numeral I, painted cleanly on the side. The same insignia appeared on their left shoulder plates, indicating their company. On the right shoulder sat the Imperial German Cross, symbol of Prussian—and now German—military honor. Across their breastplates spread the Imperial Eagle, angular and severe, emblem of statehood, authority, and continuity.
They did not pace.
They did not chatter.
They did nothing unnecessary.
They simply stood guard—and searched everyone who wished to enter.
Their uniforms were cut in severe lines of ash-gray wool, tailored tightly enough to appear almost ceremonial, but overlaid with segmented armor in lighter ash-black: industrial plate thick at the chest, reinforced at the shoulders, ribbed along greaves and thighs.
It was practical. Necessary.
But in the world of 1909, it looked alien—something from a future that had arrived early and refused to apologize.
People stared. Many wanted to join their ranks.
Few ever did.
Their helmets were unmistakable: deep, rounded steel with extended brims, narrow eye slits, and dark masks beneath that erased the face entirely. Not skulls. Not gas masks.
Just anonymity—cold, purposeful, human-shaped.
Each carried an M1 rifle of the newer 1909-pattern, blued steel and oiled wood, with a fixed bayonet mounted permanently, turning the weapon into a spear as much as a firearm. The rifles were held low and relaxed, but never slung.
These men did not set weapons aside.
And because they were here, the building itself changed.
People did not argue at the door. They did not complain. They submitted to brief, efficient searches—coats checked, bags opened, pockets patted down—because Berlin had learned the same lesson over the past year:
The Eternal Guard did not play around.
They did not hesitate.
And their actions were protected by the state.
Unseen above, along rooflines and higher ledges—swallowed by winter camouflage and falling snow—Eternal Guard sniper teams watched the streets in silence, optics steady, rifles braced against cold stone. Below them, the city moved on, unaware of how precisely it was being measured.
---
Inside, the world softened.
The Angel Cafeteria glowed like a small temple raised against winter—white columns fluted in the Greek style, painted ceilings depicting warm skies and fruit-laden groves, and living greenery climbing trellises beneath the steady hum of Oskar's newest electric lights. The lamps did not flicker like gas. They shone steadily, almost kindly, as if they understood what they were meant to protect.
At the heart of the hall stood a statue of Hestia, goddess of hearth and home, her marble hands extended in quiet welcome. Fresh flowers rested at her feet—someone's insistence, almost certainly Anna's—renewed daily like a ritual.
Today, the cafeteria was full of mothers.
Mostly middle and upper class, yes—but not only. That, too, was new. Wages had risen. Hours had stabilized. Food had grown cheaper. Even those who once would never have entered such a place sometimes could now.
Coffee steamed. Plates of cake and sugared bread passed from hand to hand. Soft laughter rose and fell like birdsong—careful, subdued—not from fear, but from awareness.
For where Oskar's family went, the world tended to behave itself.
And along the walls, patient and silent, stood the First Company of the Eternal Guard—Household Guard—immovable as pillars.
And so, beneath warm electric light and the watchful marble gaze of Hestia, mothers drank their coffee in peace—
—while death, masked and disciplined, stood patiently at the door, waiting for a world that might one day need it again.
And today, children were everywhere.
In the corner of the hall, a wide indoor playground—padded floors, knee-high white fencing, bright wooden toys—buzzed like a hive. Little shoes thumped. Wooden blocks clacked. Someone shrieked laughter so sharp it made two women turn their heads with identical, tired smiles.
Stuffed animals lay scattered among fist-sized bricks, miniature carts, wooden mallets, painted arches. A toy horse had been decapitated and was currently being "healed" by a girl with the solemn intensity of a surgeon and the toolkit of a saint: stubbornness, spit, and optimism.
At the center of it all stood Imperiel.
Three years old and already built like a tiny officer—Silver-haired, straight-backed, too composed—he wore a little wool jacket far too neat for play and a face far too stern for anyone who still needed help with buttons.
He did not shout.
He did not run.
He managed.
"No—there," he said, pointing with a small hand sticky from cake. "The road goes between the houses. If you block it, the people cannot pass."
A boy who was bigger but not brighter stared at the blocks, frowning hard enough to crease his brow, then shifted a crooked stack as if he were defusing a bomb.
Imperiel watched the adjustment, then gave a slow, solemn nod—approval granted.
Around him, a miniature town grew: leaning towers, bridges that sagged, stuffed bears set upright like citizens attending a council meeting. A wooden duck had been assigned the role of "mayor" and was currently being ignored, which somehow felt accurate.
To Imperiel, it was not pretend.
It was order, and order mattered.
Nearby, chaos—of a gentler sort—reigned.
Durin had become the center of a siege.
Golden-haired and bright-eyed, barely younger than Imperiel, he sat cross-legged with the resigned expression of someone who had accepted his fate and decided to be polite about it.
Juniel had looped both arms around one of his like a small affectionate serpent. Lailael clung to his other arm with the stubborn intensity of a girl who had never lost an argument in her life and did not intend to start. Behind him, Mirael sat with quiet possession, one small hand pressed to his shoulder as if claiming him by law.
"You live in my house," Juniel announced, thrusting a tiny wooden cup into his hands. "You drink tea with me. That's the rule."
"No," Lailael snapped immediately, tugging Durin the other way. "He lives with me. I have the bigger house."
Durin blinked.
He looked down at his trapped arms.
Then he looked up at them with a tiny, patient smile that did not belong to any ordinary child and did not come from intellect so much as from experience.
He let them pull him back and forth like a tug toy, unbothered, mildly entertained.
"I can live in both," he said after a moment, thoughtful as a small old man. "On different days."
Juniel and Lailael froze.
A pause fell—brief, sacred—as their brains attempted to process compromise.
Mirael's eyes narrowed, calculating. "That is acceptable," she decided, and patted Durin's shoulder once like a judge stamping a document.
Juniel brightened immediately. "He will live with me on days with cake."
"Then I will make cake every day," Lailael declared, as if that settled the question permanently.
Durin made a small sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—like a boy realizing he had negotiated himself into endless obligations.
From behind a stack of blocks, Liorael watched the entire exchange with wide eyes and a grin that promised disaster.
Where Imperiel built order and Durin endured affection, Liorael existed for one purpose:
to see what happens if you touch things.
He crawled forward on his knees, slow and careful—an assassin in wool trousers. With deliberate stealth he slid a single block from the base of a tower Imperiel had just approved.
The structure shivered.
Wobbled.
A stuffed bear toppled with a soft, humiliating flop.
Imperiel turned, very slowly, like a commander receiving a report of treason.
Liorael looked up at him, smiled sweetly, and widened his eyes into perfect innocence.
"That tower," Liorael said, voice gentle, "was too tall."
The tower leaned.
Then collapsed with a clatter.
Two other children gasped as if a cathedral had fallen. One started laughing immediately and had to be shushed by nobody, because nobody had authority in the playground except whoever held the biggest block.
Imperiel stared at the ruin.
For a moment something unreadable flickered behind his eyes—not anger, not tears—
assessment.
Then he said, very calmly, "Then you will help rebuild it."
Liorael's grin widened.
"Okay!" he chirped, already scampering forward—helpful, enthusiastic, and absolutely planning to do it wrong again.
---
Across the low fence, the mothers watched over coffee.
Anna cradled Sereniel—barely months old—rocking gently as the baby slept, silver-pale lashes resting against her cheeks, mouth pursed in the serious pout of newborn dreams. Tanya held Aureliel, warm and heavy in her arms, the infant's fist locked around her thumb with surprising strength, as if he refused to be set down on principle.
Nearby, Heddy sat with Balin and Éowyn nestled close—twins too small to join the chaos yet, their breaths soft and even, cheeks pink from warmth. Bertha Krupp, immaculate as always, sipped her coffee with both hands, elegant as a portrait while Alfried and little Arnold slept in their pram—perfectly oblivious to politics and the fact that half Berlin had opinions about their faces.
The women spoke the way mothers always spoke when they finally had a moment.
Quietly—but not softly.
And because this was their cafeteria—Anna and Tanya's pride and stubborn proof turned into marble, paint, and warm bread—there was no stiffness in them now. No court-mask. They sat like women who had once scrubbed floors, carried trays, and swallowed words for wages…
…and now owned the room anyway.
Their eyes never truly left the play area.
They watched the children the way hawks watched fields—casual, constant, absolute.
"That one's going to bite someone," Heddy murmured, nodding toward a round-faced toddler who was currently gnawing a wooden spoon with murderous commitment.
Bertha took a sip, expression smooth. "He already has the look."
Tanya leaned slightly, gaze still on the child. "He's teething. If my boy had teeth like that, he'd be biting people too."
Anna's mouth twitched. "And you'd call it self-defense."
They shared small, familiar smiles—the kind women traded when they had survived the same world and knew the jokes were real.
At the next table, two mothers—strangers in respectable coats, careful hair—kept glancing toward the ash-black helmets along the wall.
One finally whispered, unable to contain it. "Is it true they never remove the masks?"
Her friend's eyes shone with scandal and fascination. "They say they sleep standing up. Like horses."
Heddy made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. "They remove them. Of course they do."
Bertha's gaze slid toward the nearest Guard. Even under armor he was unmistakably built like a wall. "Some of them," she said dryly, "might not want to."
She lifted her cup with an almost innocent elegance.
"After all, if they walked around unmasked, some of you ladies might develop inappropriate ideas. And their wives back home would not be pleased."
The two curious mothers pretended they hadn't heard—
then listened harder.
Anna adjusted Sereniel's blanket with practiced hands. "I still can't believe how many of them are here just because we're here," she said, tone casual, as if explaining the weather. "I understand Oskar worries… but surely this is too much."
Tanya's lips curved faintly. "I don't mind. At this point the First Company are basically our friends. We know them by name. It makes it easier, having them around."
Heddy lowered her voice anyway, because gossip was a sport. "I agree it's overkill. In the beginning Oskar had a handful of them. Now he has three companies."
Bertha arched a brow. "That's Oskar. Always building."
Heddy nodded, then glanced toward the glass—where another cluster of Eternal Guard stood in the periphery. Their markings were different: a clean II instead of I, painted on helmet and shoulder.
"The second company," Heddy murmured, half amused and half exhausted. "All for my Bergmann household because of Karl."
She shook her head slightly.
"Our home has guards everywhere. Dozens on duty at any hour. Some watch the mansion day and night; some follow me and Karl whenever we step outside."
She took a sip of coffee.
"It's… nice," she admitted. "But it's a lot."
Anna's eyes softened. "I like it," she said simply. "It makes me feel safe."
The others nodded, because even if it was excessive, it worked. The presence of armored, disciplined men changed a city the way a locked door changed a house.
"And the third company," Tanya murmured, a hint of amusement returning, "is for him."
Bertha's mouth twitched. "As if anything could touch him now. He's grown twice as hard since that assassination."
From the play area, Juniel shrieked—"MINE!"—followed by the unmistakable clack of a block being used as a weapon.
Tanya sighed and shifted Aureliel higher on her shoulder. "She's going to be terrifying."
"She's three," Anna said instantly, protective—then glanced back as Juniel wrestled a toy cart from Lailael like it was a war trophy. She exhaled. "But yes."
Bertha watched with the mild interest of someone observing an expensive animal. "She has good hands."
Heddy's eyes sparkled. "She has your hands."
Anna snorted quietly. "I am perfectly gentle."
Bertha didn't answer. She just watched as Alfried rushed in to break up the conflict like a tiny knight, and Durin joined him—both boys separating Juniel and Lailael with the earnest seriousness of people who believed diplomacy was possible.
"They're growing fast," Bertha murmured.
"Indeed," Anna said without hesitation. "That's the blessing of having many."
Tanya nodded, fully supportive. "You'd think more children means more chaos. But it becomes easier. They start taking care of each other."
She smiled to herself.
"Sometime soon, they'll barely need us."
They shared a laugh—soft, warm, unguarded.
Because they could.
Because safety stood near enough that it had become an ingredient—like sugar, like milk, like warmth.
Anna's gaze drifted back to the playground.
Imperiel was arguing—quietly, intensely—with another child about whether a bridge needed two supports or three. Durin had been handed a toy spoon and was being ordered to "feed" a stuffed rabbit by Juniel, while Lailael tried to steal the rabbit out of spite. Mirael watched the negotiation like an accountant, solemn and unblinking, while Alfried attempted to recruit her into play.
Off to one side, Liorael and Azarael had discovered a small table and a child-sized net—one of the new amusements Oskar had been quietly spreading through Berlin: ping-pong, or Tischtennis as people were starting to call it. The boys had found bats and a little ball and were striking it back and forth with fierce concentration, as if training for war.
A braided girl joined Liorael as his partner. Another child stepped to Azarael's side. Ordinary Berlin children—no titles, no destinies—just red cheeks and sticky fingers.
That was exactly what Anna and Tanya had wanted.
A warm public place.
Safe.
No velvet ropes.
No palace walls.
A place where their children could meet other children—and learn early that the world was not made only of princes.
"They're so energetic," Tanya murmured, half proud and half worried.
Anna's smile deepened, but her eyes stayed on the children. "They always are."
The marble eyes of Hestia gazed on in watchful silence.
Then suddenly when the door opened to the sound of a bell, and Oskar entered, the air changed.
Not because he demanded attention—he rarely did—
but because the room recognized weight when it arrived.
Conversation faltered. Cups paused halfway to lips. Even the children—at least the ones old enough to sense the shift—went still for a single breath, as if the building itself had inhaled and waited to see what would happen next.
Oskar's massive frame filled the doorway, snow caught in the folds of his coat, cold clinging to him like an aura. The Eternal Guard did not move—because they never needed to—but something in their stillness tightened, a fractional shift in posture that made the whole cafeteria feel subtly braced.
Then a small boy—someone else's child, bold with sugar and admiration—broke free of his mother's hand and sprinted toward him.
The boy skidded to a stop in front of Oskar, grinning up at the Crown Prince like he was greeting a favorite uncle.
"My man!" he shouted—loud enough that half the cafeteria flinched.
He thrust out his hand as if offering a treaty.
His mother made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a prayer. The color drained from her face as she imagined the worst—guards moving, etiquette violated, consequences falling like stones.
Oskar looked down at the outstretched hand.
Then he smiled—warm, easy, unmistakably human—and took it gently, as if the child were something fragile and valuable.
"Well met, my man," Oskar replied, solemn as a knight receiving a pledge. "Thank you for the warm welcome."
A heartbeat of silence—
then the mother's shoulders sagged with such visible relief it almost became comedy. Around her, other women exhaled too, laughter threatening at the edges of their throats.
The boy's eyes widened as if he had just been knighted.
He snapped into an exaggerated salute—right fist over heart, left hand stiff behind his back—nearly wobbling with the effort.
Oskar chuckled, patted his head once, and nodded gravely as if accepting an oath.
"Well done."
Then he lifted his gaze slightly, letting his voice carry just enough to loosen the room.
"At ease," he said—not a command, but permission. "I've only come to see my family."
And the cafeteria began breathing again.
As Oskar moved forward, a few members of his third company of Eternal Guard flowed in behind him and took positions at the edges of the hall—quiet, efficient, never blocking, never relaxing. The First and the Second Company's remained where they were, immovable pillars along the walls, while the third company formed the tighter ring that followed Oskar like shadow.
When he reached Tanya and Anna, they both rose slightly—smiling, relieved, and immediately reading his face the way only women close enough to a man could.
Two young café workers—one man, one woman—hurried up with a large armchair as if they had been waiting for this exact moment. They placed it carefully, almost reverently, then stepped back.
"Thank you," Oskar said, and sat.
The chair creaked faintly under him, then settled, as if even the furniture accepted that resistance was pointless.
Tanya leaned in. "You look like you've been dragged through a river."
"I did drag men through a river," Oskar said dryly.
Anna's eyes narrowed. "Oskar…"
He lifted a hand slightly, not to dismiss her, but to reassure.
"I'll tell you after," he murmured—and then, because there was no graceful way to soften it, he simply said it.
"I had a meeting with Father."
They both tensed.
Oskar's voice stayed calm.
"I made a wager."
Their faces shifted instantly—alarm rising like a wave.
"Oskar," Tanya whispered, already knowing it would be insane.
He met their eyes, and there was no humor in him now.
"I staked my right as Crown Prince on the East," he said quietly. "If the Eighth fails when war comes… I step aside."
For a moment, both women stared at him.
Anna's mouth opened, then closed again, as if words had failed her.
Tanya inhaled sharply, almost angry.
"That's—" she began.
"Reckless," Anna finished, voice tight.
Oskar's mouth twitched faintly—not smug, not proud. Just grim.
"I know."
They weren't surprised, not really. This was Oskar. When cornered, he didn't retreat—he built a bigger weapon.
Before either of them could speak again, small hands reached for him.
Sereniel—still barely more than a bundle of softness—extended her arms with the absolute demand only an infant could possess. Aureliel did the same, fist already curling as if to seize him by force.
Oskar's expression softened immediately.
He took them into his lap with practiced care, despite his enormous size, shifting them until both were settled and warm. The babies blinked up at him, calm and satisfied, as if the world was correct again now that their father was holding it together.
Then from Bertha's side, little Arnold stirred in his pram and made a small protesting sound—an insulted, offended noise that meant only one thing:
Me too.
Bertha arched a brow, amused.
Oskar sighed theatrically, then held out an arm.
"Alright," he murmured. "Come here, little warrior."
Soon enough, three small bundles sat on his lap, gazing up at him as if he were a mountain that had decided to be gentle.
Around the cafeteria, people watched.
Not with fear.
With warmth.
There was something deeply easing about it—seeing the Crown Prince handle infants with careful hands, seeing his household sit in peaceful harmony, seeing the Iron Prince not as a war-king, but as a father.
It soothed ordinary hearts in a way speeches never could.
Because if the most important man in the nation looked steady—
then perhaps the nation's future could be steady too.