The iron gates of Potsdam's palace swung inward, their hinges giving that low, familiar groan of old metal forced to obey.
The convoy entered like a column returning to a fortress—black Muscle Motors A-Class at the center, escort cars tucked close, Eternal Guard riders and foot detail moving with the silent rhythm of men who had learned to distrust peace. Snow clung to the stone walls and bare branches like powdered sugar, softening the sharpness without truly hiding it.
Oskar's car rolled to a smooth stop at the foot of the steps.
The Guard moved first—dismounting, spreading, scanning windows and rooflines out of habit—then the maids appeared, lined in neat rows to form a corridor to the palace doors. They had been warned; they had been waiting.
Oskar stepped out, and the car rocked under the sudden absence of his weight. Cold air bit at his cheeks. His coat settled over his shoulders like something he had worn in a hundred different battles—court battles, factory battles, battles of schedules and steel.
He gave the maids a simple nod as he passed—no performance, no grandeur. Just recognition.
A few of the younger ones looked like they might burst, eyes bright as fan girls watching an idol step off stage. They held it in. Barely.
Oskar didn't call them out for it. This was home. The maids and guards were part of the home, same as stone and firelight. He respected them like people, not furniture. That alone was enough.
He climbed the steps, pushed open the widened double doors—doors altered for his monstrous frame—and stepped inside.
The palace detonated.
"PAPA!"
The cry hit him like a physical force.
Silver hair flashed in lamplight. Small feet pounded over polished stone. A storm of children came flying down the hall—girls in ribbons and little dresses, boys in miniature coats, violet eyes bright and unreasonable, as if his three days away had been a year.
They crashed into him without hesitation.
Arms wrapped his waist. Hands grabbed his coat. Bodies pressed close, laughing and half-crying, clinging to him the way ivy clung to stone.
Liliel—still clumsy with her legs—tried to sprint, tripped, and went down on her hands with a startled squeak. Floriel immediately hauled her upright like it was a rescue operation, and the two of them giggled hard enough to hiccup before joining the pile-on at Oskar's knees.
Oskar laughed—deep, warm, completely unguarded—and crouched to meet them.
He began collecting them like treasure: lifting one child, kissing a forehead, setting them down only to be grabbed by another. They climbed him the way children climbed what they trusted—hands in his coat, boots on his shins, little fingers shamelessly claiming him.
A cap appeared on his head without his noticing.
He felt the weight, frowned, and then saw the words stitched across it:
BEST MOM OF THE YEAR.
Liorael, already backing away with a grin sharp enough to cut paper, raised both hands in theatrical innocence.
Azarael—his twin and co-conspirator—laughed like someone who wasn't as clever but enjoyed the crime anyway.
Oskar's mouth twitched. He grabbed both boys at once—one under each arm—lifted them like sacks of flour, and kissed their cheeks in turn.
"Criminals," he rumbled affectionately. "Absolute criminals."
They squealed, delighted, and wriggled free to go cause trouble elsewhere.
Juniel and Lailael—both old enough to take themselves seriously when it suited them—reached for him like they were entitled to his attention by law. Oskar bent down willingly, and both planted loud kisses on his cheeks as if stamping ownership.
They laughed in triumph when he lifted them and set them on his shoulders, one on each side, like two little queens carried by a war-beast.
"Careful," he warned, pretending sternness. "I only have so much love I can take."
It didn't slow them at all.
And then Oskar saw him.
Imperiel stood a few steps back, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight—more like a small officer than a child. His expression was carefully composed, as if he were waiting for the appropriate moment to approach. A proper little prince. The leader watching the chaos like a general observing a battlefield.
Oskar's eyes softened.
Imperiel opened his mouth, clearly prepared to greet him with rehearsed discipline—
Oskar didn't allow it.
He reached out, grabbed him gently by the shoulders, and pulled him into a hug so firm it erased the performance in an instant. Imperiel's stiff dignity cracked like thin ice. His arms came up, stubbornly, and he held on.
Oskar murmured, low enough that only the boy could hear, "You doing good, my son?"
Imperiel nodded—once—trying to stay serious.
It lasted two seconds.
Then he buried his face against Oskar's coat like any other child who had missed his father.
Behind the pile of children, two voices rose—gentle, corrective, familiar.
"Alright, alright—easy now," Anna called, warm but firm, already pulling smaller bodies back from elbows and boots with practiced mother-command. "He's home. Don't smother him."
Gundelinda's laughter followed, bright as bells. "He's built like a fortress, Anna. Let them try."
Oskar straightened slowly, children still attached to him in various places, and his eyes found them as they approached.
Anna first—steady, soft-eyed, the kind of warmth that didn't demand attention yet always became it. Gundelinda beside her—newer to the household, still carrying that shy brightness, as if she was half wife and half younger sister in this strange, crowded orbit.
Their hands pressed against his chest as they rose onto their toes.
Oskar leaned down and kissed them both.
Not a public gesture. Not courtly. Just the simplest homecoming: breath meeting breath, relief made physical.
A chorus of small complaints erupted instantly.
"Eww!" "Papa!" "Again?!" "No, that's yucky!"
But even as they protested, the children's faces softened. Because whatever embarrassed them, it also reassured them—proof that the world was in its correct shape again. Father was home. Mothers smiling. The house whole.
Oskar exhaled, eyes sweeping the crowd as if counting them.
"Where's Tanya?" he asked.
Anna's mouth curved with quiet amusement. "In your bedroom."
Gundelinda's tone turned playful. "She's preparing Imperiel's new maids." She lifted her brows as if the concept itself was ridiculous. "Apparently she's decided he already needs his own staff."
Oskar huffed a laugh, the sound rumbling out of him. "Of course she has."
Then another presence appeared at the edge of the hall—tall, composed, moving with the careful grace of someone who had learned survival by never looking surprised.
Cecilie.
She approached with her children. Little Wilhelm at her side, solemn and watchful. And Elisara—silver-haired and unreal—held by a maid for a moment before Cecilie took her herself, protective as instinct.
Oskar's expression softened.
"Good morning," he said, and his voice was gentler without him meaning it to be.
He greeted Wilhelm first—hand to shoulder, a quiet word meant only for him, the kind of attention that made the boy stand straighter without even understanding why.
Then Oskar touched Elisara's cheek with one careful fingertip.
She stared up at him with those too-clear eyes, calm as moonlight. For a heartbeat the corridor seemed to still around her, as if even the palace itself recognized something sacred in the child.
Cecilie smiled faintly.
"We were eating breakfast when we heard the cars," she said. "Come with us."
Oskar leaned down and kissed her—brief, familiar, more comfort than claim. Cecilie accepted it naturally, as if this household's strange arrangements had long since become more real than any official titles.
"In a moment," Oskar promised. "I'll see Tanya first."
"Don't let her bite you," Gundelinda called sweetly.
Anna clicked her tongue, but she was already herding children toward the dining room—peeling little hands from Oskar's coat one by one, redirecting the younger ones with practiced efficiency.
Still, a few refused to be peeled.
Little hands clung to Oskar's sleeves. A child wrapped around his leg like a barnacle. Another tried to climb his back again.
Oskar just accepted it, walking down the hall with two or three of them hitchhiking on him as if that were normal—because in this house, it was.
He glanced back once, catching Anna's eyes, Gundelinda's smile, Cecilie's composed fondness, the dining room already filling with noise and warmth.
Then he turned forward again.
Toward his chambers.
Toward Tanya.
Toward the last piece of the morning that would make the palace feel complete.
---
Oskar reached the doors of his chambers with half the household still clinging to him.
Small hands fisted his coat. One boy rode his shoulder like a lookout on a tower. Another attempted—again and again—to climb his back, grumbling each time gravity defeated him. Oskar pushed the door open with his foot and stepped inside, laughter still echoing behind him.
The room was warm with morning light.
Tanya stood near the tall windows, sunlight catching in her hair as she worked. She wore a deep red dress—simple in cut, soft in fabric—that fell easily over her figure. The color suited her, rich and alive, emphasizing the contrast between her compact, petite frame and the quiet authority she carried so naturally. Even standing on the balls of her feet, she would barely reach Oskar's chest.
In front of her stood two small girls, no more than six and seven.
Both were dressed in neat maid uniforms freshly pressed—dark skirts, pale aprons, and crisp collars that sat just a little too stiffly against their necks. Tanya had clearly been fussing over them: blonde hair carefully parted and tied into matching twin tails with modest ribbons, stray strands smoothed down with patient fingers.
The younger of the two looked like energy barely contained. She bounced on her heels, lips pulled into an exaggerated pout, blue eyes darting everywhere at once. The older girl stood straighter, hands folded properly at her waist, chin lifted with careful seriousness—as if she were determined not to put a foot wrong.
Tanya glanced sideways as Oskar entered.
She didn't turn.
She didn't pause in adjusting a ribbon.
And she didn't step away when Oskar's arms came around her from behind.
The difference in their size was immediate and familiar. His chest enveloped her back. His chin rested easily atop her head as he bent slightly, the way he always did. Tanya leaned into him without hesitation, one hand coming up to rest against his forearm as if she had been waiting for exactly this weight.
"There you are," he murmured, voice low and warm. "How are you, my love?"
"Better now," she replied, a smile tugging at her mouth. "I was just finishing up. Teaching proper behavior."
She nodded toward the girls.
Oskar's gaze followed.
"Well now," he said, amusement softening his tone. "And who might you two be?"
The younger girl reacted instantly.
She dropped to one knee with dramatic enthusiasm, nearly wobbling as she did so.
"Yes, my lord!" she declared, voice bright and far too loud. "I am the new maid assigned to Lord Imperiel!"
The older girl made a small, pained sound.
She reached over, grabbed the younger one by the arm, and hauled her back upright.
"No, no—not like that," she hissed, mortified. Then she stepped forward properly, smoothed her skirt, and executed a neat curtsy.
"Your Highness," she said clearly. "Please forgive her. She's been reading too many stories."
Oskar laughed—a deep, genuine sound that filled the room and chased away any lingering tension.
"That's quite all right," he said kindly. "Both of you."
The girls looked up at him, faces bright with relief.
Tanya watched them with a look that was half fond, half assessing—like a commander satisfied with new recruits who had survived their first inspection.
Behind Oskar, the children who had followed him in finally dismounted—sliding down his arms, hopping off his legs, immediately circling the two girls with unfiltered curiosity.
Questions tumbled out. Names were exchanged. Awkward bows and half-remembered curtsies followed. Someone giggled. Someone else announced, very seriously, that this was "important palace business."
Tanya clapped her hands once.
"That's enough," she said firmly, though her eyes were smiling. "All of you—out. Go on. Breakfast is waiting."
A chorus of exaggerated groans erupted at once.
"Ewww." "Adult matters." "No kissing, Papa!" "Noooo—!"
They scattered quickly enough, laughter trailing down the hall as the door closed behind them.
The room fell quiet again, sunlight and warmth settling into place as if the palace itself had decided to hold its breath.
Tanya leaned back against Oskar's chest, her body fitting easily into the space he made for her. She barely reached his sternum; even standing straight, she was swallowed by him. His collarbone hovered above her head, his chin resting there without effort, the weight of him solid and unavoidable. Against him she felt small—not fragile, never that—but deliberately claimed.
His arms closed around her with effortless certainty. One hand spanned her waist so completely his fingers nearly touched, heat and strength pressing her firmly back into him. The difference between them was stark: his towering frame, broad and immovable, and her compact, lush shape held securely in the center of it.
"Well?" she asked lightly, tilting her head just enough to look up at him, lips already curved in challenge.
Oskar smiled down at her—that slow, knowing smile that always meant trouble. His thumb traced a lazy line along her side, lingering where her curves were fullest, where the red fabric strained softly under his touch.
"I think," he said, voice low, "that you've been very busy."
She huffed a quiet, satisfied laugh.
"I always am."
She turned in his arms, fully facing him now. Even this close she had to tip her chin up, blue eyes bright beneath his icy gaze. The contrast between them was impossible to ignore—two hundred and eight centimeters of disciplined power towering over a woman built of strength and softness both, her body full and unapologetic, pressed comfortably against his.
"You approve?" she asked, one brow arching.
"I approve of many things," he replied, hands settling more firmly at her waist, fingers flexing slightly as if to remind her exactly how much of her he could hold at once. "But I'm curious. Two maids?"
She leaned back into him again, deliberately, her tone casual while her body made no such pretense.
"Well," she said, "if his father requires more than one woman, it seems only fair his son learns early what proper support looks like."
Oskar snorted, a deep sound that vibrated through her.
"You're already planning that far ahead?"
"He's growing," she said simply. "They all are."
He exhaled, half amused, half caught off guard, tightening his hold without realizing it.
"You make us sound old."
She hummed, thoughtful—and then smiled in that way she had, the one that always meant she was about to win.
"I feel old."
Oskar turned her gently, one hand lifting her chin until she had no choice but to look at him. His touch was careful but firm, as if holding something valuable he had no intention of letting go. His gaze sharpened, softened, settled—taking her in the way only he ever did.
"You're more beautiful than the day we met," he said quietly. "And far more dangerous."
Tanya didn't speak. Her eyes fluttered closed, briefly—storing the words somewhere secret, somewhere only she could touch. When she opened them again, something inside her had already surrendered.
"And you," she murmured, voice low and warm, "have been gone far too long."
Oskar bent down, his lips brushing her cheek, and even that light touch sent shivers racing across her skin—shivers that started at her neck and threaded through every nerve. Her body trembled, just faintly, but he felt it. Of course he felt it.
"If you want me to stop," he whispered into the space beside her ear, "tell me now."
She said nothing.
So he moved—his mouth to the hollow of her temple. A kiss, slower. Closer.
"Or now."
Still silence.
He traced the line of her cheekbone with his mouth, then paused, breath shallow.
"Or now."
When he kissed her lips, it wasn't gentle. It was hungry. Desperate. Reclaimed.
The kind of kiss that melted through her spine. The kind that made her forget what walls were.
She kissed him back like she needed him to breathe. Her hands tangled in his coat, fingers gripping hard, her body rising on tiptoe instinctively, trying to close the impossible difference between their heights. He met her halfway—leaning, tilting, lowering himself just enough to claim her completely.
She felt his weight through his chest, through his arms, through the slow, possessive slide of his hand down her spine. He held her like a man twice her size—because he was—and she felt every inch of that difference. She felt it in the way her body pressed into his, and how hers bent to his shape as if it had always belonged there.
He kissed her until she melted. Until her breath broke. Until her mind forgot what time it was or where they were or that the palace was full of life just beyond the door.
She kissed him like she would never forgive him for leaving, and never let him leave again.
When he finally pulled back, both of them breathless, she didn't let go.
Her forehead rested against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her. Her breath came warm against his skin, her lips barely parted.
"Well?" she asked, voice husky and soft.
Oskar smiled.
"Breakfast can wait."
Tanya let out a quiet laugh, deeper this time, her eyes dark with promise. Her fingers curled into his coat again—this time not to hold him, but to lead him.
"Good," she whispered, backing toward the bed. "Then come here, my lord… and let this naughty maid of yours see to your needs."
Oskar's answering smile was slow, unmistakably pleased.
"With pleasure."
He followed her willingly—right up until the edge of the bed.
Then he caught her.
One moment she was guiding him, the next she was pulled firmly back against his chest, his body closing around hers with effortless strength. She gasped, more surprised than alarmed, her hands flying up instinctively as his grip tightened at her waist.
"My lord," she breathed, half-laughing, half-warning, "behave yourself."
He only chuckled softly, his voice warm against her ear.
"You shouldn't tempt me like that."
He turned her then, guiding her down onto the bed with care that didn't diminish the authority in his touch. She went willingly, her dress rustling, her hands already seeking him as he followed her down, the space between them disappearing entirely.
The rest was inevitable.
Clothes were forgotten. Words dissolved into breath and laughter and soft, broken sounds. Morning light spilled across the room, the world outside moving on without them—guards changing shifts, distant voices echoing down the halls, plates being set for a breakfast no one would attend.
The curtains stirred faintly as the door remained firmly closed.
Inside, Oskar was exactly where he belonged.
And Tanya… had no intention of letting him leave again for a long while.