Around them, the city roared.
Men dragged assassins from windows. Police fired into smoke, more panic than aim. Women screamed for doctors. Horses reared and thrashed against reins slick with sweat and blood. The street had become a living thing—shuddering, shouting, spreading chaos outward in every direction.
For a few heartbeats, Oskar remained kneeling in it, still caught in that stunned space where the mind refuses to accept what the eyes have already seen.
Then he moved.
Shadowmane dipped his massive head, lowering just enough for Oskar to grip his mane and haul himself upright. Pain tore through his shoulder and ribs like hot wire. His right side burned with every breath. He pressed a hand against his torso—tight, hard—trying to hold himself together.
He turned.
The car had come to rest against the wall of a building, hood crushed, radiator hissing steam like a dying animal. Glass glittered inside the cabin. Smoke drifted through the open side like a curtain.
Inside—
Franz Ferdinand held Sophie.
Alive.
Both of them.
For a second Oskar simply stared, disbelieving.
A miracle.
Then he saw the red spreading across Sophie's dress, dark and fast, and the miracle snapped back into urgency.
"Sophie—Sophie—" The Archduke's voice broke. Not imperial now. Not composed. Just a man choking on terror. "Stay with me… please—"
He laid her down across the seat as gently as his shaking hands allowed, then looked up.
Their eyes met.
Franz Ferdinand's face was gray. His lips trembled. And when he spoke, the words came out rough, desperate—full of shame.
"Oskar… I should have listened. Your letters—I—" He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to the bodies slumped inside his car, then back to Sophie. "This is my fault. God help me, it's my fault."
Oskar didn't let him fall into it.
"Later," he said, voice flat with effort. "Blame later. Move now."
The Archduke blinked, as if he needed permission to be practical again.
Oskar pointed with a blood-smeared hand. "Get her to a hospital. Immediately. Don't stop for anything."
Franz Ferdinand's eyes finally took Oskar in properly—really saw him.
The shredded white shirt.
The blood that wasn't all his.
The holes in his torso.
The way he held himself upright by stubbornness alone.
"Jesus…" Ferdinand breathed. His eyes flicked over Oskar—blood, holes in cloth, the way he held himself together by will alone. "Oskar, you're hit. Get in. The car still—"
"No," Oskar said.
Ferdinand stared at him like he'd misheard, like the word itself didn't fit the situation.
Oskar's jaw tightened. He looked past the wrecked car, past the steam and the shattered glass, toward the doorway where the woman had burst out—toward the thin, relentless cry still coming from inside the house.
"I have other matters," he said, voice low. "A child needs me."
For a flicker of a second frustration flashed across the Archduke's face—sharp and helpless—then it drowned under something stronger.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For Sophie.
He swallowed hard and nodded once. "Alright. But be quick. You're bleeding like a slaughtered ox." His voice cracked into something that tried to be humor and failed. "I'll be at the hospital. Don't you dare die on me."
Oskar managed the ghost of a nod. "Don't worry," he said, forcing a rough breath through pain. "Shadowmane will get me there faster than any car. After all, cars can't jump."
Ferdinand's mouth twitched—an involuntary flicker of relief, as if the joke proved Oskar was still Oskar.
Then the moment passed.
Ferdinand turned back to the car and the reality inside it.
To drive, he needed the driver's seat.
The driver's seat was occupied.
By the dead.
Oskar moved behind the vehicle, bracing both hands against the rear and the wall, wedging himself into the narrow space. Pain flared hot and bright as he shoved, shoulder trembling, boots sliding on slick stone.
"Come on…" he muttered through his teeth.
Metal scraped against the building with a long, ugly sound. The car shifted—a few inches, then more.
Inside, Ferdinand stared at the bodies as if they were strangers he'd never met, as if looking too long would make it real.
Leopold lay slumped over the wheel, still warm, head at a wrong angle.
Franz Ferdinand reached in and grabbed him by the coat, trying to pull him free. The corpse didn't come easily. Arms snagged on the wheel. Legs caught under pedals. Something scraped against broken wood. For a moment Ferdinand's face twisted in horror—not fear of death, but revulsion at what necessity was forcing him to do.
"Forgive me," he whispered—not to the man, not even to God—just to the universe.
Then he hauled harder.
Leopold slid loose with a sick weight and collapsed across the seat. Ferdinand shoved him aside with brutal carelessness, because Sophie's breathing had turned thin and he could not spare a second for reverence.
General Potiorek was crumpled forward, unmoving. Harrach—friend, loyal shield—was slumped and bloodied, reduced to dead weight and silence.
Ferdinand shoved and shifted and cleared just enough space to climb in.
His hands trembled as they found the wheel. His fingers slipped once. Twice. He swore under his breath, a raw, ugly sound that didn't belong in a royal mouth.
The engine coughed.
Caught.
Outside, Oskar heaved again. The car lurched free of the wall, tires skidding on blood-wet cobblestones.
"There—!" Oskar rasped, slapping the trunk with a bloody palm. "She's loose. Now go. Pedal to the metal."
Ferdinand jammed the gear, nearly stalled, swore again, and forced the car forward.
Before he drove off, he looked once at Oskar.
Not a farewell.
A plea.
Stay alive.
Oskar gave him a single hard nod.
Go.
The car surged down the street and vanished around the curve, swallowed by smoke and shouting.
Franz Ferdinand did not look back.
His world had narrowed to one objective:
Get her to safety.
Rage could come later. Understanding could come later. Blame could come later.
Now there was only survival.
Oskar watched the car disappear.
For a moment, stunned relief washed through him—thin and shaking.
They were alive.
Then the baby cried again, sharp and lonely from behind the door.
Oskar turned toward it.
There, in the darkened frame of the house, stood a small girl.
Barefoot. A ragged dress hanging loose. Blonde hair clinging to tear-streaked cheeks. Blue eyes wide, searching the street for faces that would never answer.
In her arms she clutched a small teddy bear so tightly its fabric strained under her fingers.
"Mama…" she sobbed.
The word cut through Oskar worse than any bullet.
Oskar stepped toward the doorway.
The little girl stood there barefoot, framed by smoke and splintered wood, clutching her teddy bear so tightly the seams strained.
She looked at him — properly looked at him — and her small brow furrowed.
"Hey," she said in clear German. "German man. Have you seen my mama? Or my papa? Or my big brother?"
The words struck him harder than the bullets had.
German.
Fluent.
He had just watched them die.
She had not.
She had only heard the blast. She had seen smoke. She had seen him — blood-soaked and torn — standing where her family had been.
He swallowed.
For a moment he couldn't speak at all.
She tilted her head. "They were just here."
Oskar stepped closer.
She immediately backed up against the doorframe.
"Stop, you're big and scary," she announced. "And you're all red and your clothes are dirty. I don't like dirty things."
He almost laughed, but it caught in his throat.
He lowered himself slowly onto one knee despite the tearing pain in his side.
"I'm sorry," he said gently.
"For what?" she asked.
He glanced down at the cobblestones — black scorch marks, blood soaking into cracks, fragments scattered where there had been bodies moments ago.
"The truth is that, they're… gone," he managed.
She frowned.
"What does that mean?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
He was a father.
He knew what stubbornness looked like in small bodies. He knew that three-year-olds did not understand "gone."
He looked around. Smoke still drifted. Shouting echoed in the distance. Gunshots cracked somewhere far down the street.
"Well anyway, It's dangerous here," he said instead, patting his own stomach where blood still seeped through cloth. "And I'm bleeding rather badly. I think I need to go to the hospital, so do you wanna come with me."
She shook her head fiercely and held her teddy up between them like a shield.
"No. I want Mama."
Her foot stomped once.
"I want Mama!"
"I know," he said softly.
She glared at him, lip trembling.
"I don't like you. You're weird."
Then Shadowmane stepped forward.
The great black stallion lowered his head, one flank dark with blood, breath heavy.
The girl blinked.
"Oh."
Her eyes widened.
"He's big as well."
Oskar nodded. "Yes, of course he's big, his my horse after all."
She took a cautious step toward the horse.
"What's his name?"
"Shadowmane."
"Shadow… what?" she said suspiciously.
"It means he's very fast."
She studied the horse for another long moment.
"He's hurt," she whispered.
"Yes," Oskar said quietly. "He is. We're going to the hospital to fix that."
She looked back at the doorway behind her. The silence there felt heavier than the shouting in the street.
He stood slowly.
"Well," he said carefully, as if it didn't matter, "you can stay here alone if you prefer."
He turned slightly, as if preparing to mount.
She looked around.
The smoke. The broken street. The empty doorway.
Her shoulders shrank.
"…Alright," she muttered. "I'll come."
He allowed himself the smallest breath of relief.
He held out his hand.
She stepped forward and placed her small fingers in his.
He gently brushed her hair from her face.
"Don't touch me!" she protested immediately. "You're all bloody!"
"I am trying not to be," he replied gravely. "It's very inconsiderate of me."
She huffed.
He lifted her carefully and settled her on Shadowmane's back.
"There are no reins," she observed.
"Correct."
"How do we hold on?"
"You hold his mane," Oskar said.
She grabbed a fistful of dark hair.
He pulled himself up behind her, one arm around her small body to steady her.
"Ready?"
She squeaked as the horse shifted beneath her. "Not good, I'm too high! I don't like being this high!"
"I've got you," he said quietly.
He pressed his heels gently against Shadowmane's sides.
The stallion moved.
She shrieked once — then began to giggle nervously.
As they rode through the smoke-choked street, following the path the Archduke's car had taken, she twisted slightly to look up at him.
"What's your name?"
"Oskar."
Her eyes widened.
"Oskar? Like the Crown Prince of Germany?"
He blinked. "Yes."
She gasped. "The big one?"
"…Yes."
"You're the one who makes the German books!"
He frowned. "What books do you mean?"
"The bright ones! With Princess Tanya! And the sleeping princess Anna!" she declared proudly. "I made Mama teach me German so I could read them. I can read very well."
"You can?"
"Yes. I'm very smart," she said confidently. "Oh and I'm Anica, and I'm three."
He laughed despite himself — a sharp, tired sound.
"I believe you."
A moment later she wrinkled her nose.
"Ew. You're bleeding on me again."
"I apologize."
"You should stop."
"I will attempt to."
As he said this, shadowmane limped slightly but kept moving, powerful even when wounded.
Behind them, the city still kept roaring. And ahead of them, the hospital waited.
But for Oskar his condition quickly worsened, the pain of his wounds coming in waves now.
At first it had been sharp and distant — almost clinical. Manageable. Now it was thick. Heavy. Each heartbeat pushed warmth down his side, and with every pulse the world tilted a little more.
Anica on the other hand kept talking non-stop.
Like a tiny clockwork machine wound too tight and afraid to stop ticking.
"And in the German Man book when the moles came up from the ground I didn't like that part because they were ugly and I don't like ugly things and Mama said they're not real but what if they are real and what if they come here and do you think they build armies underground and ride those big monsters and make factories and steal people to turn them into blind moles too and—"
Her voice blurred into noise.
Oskar answered when he could.
"No… they don't exist."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"But they look very real in the pictures."
He swallowed.
"They're only stories. I made them up."
"Good," she said, relieved. "Because they are very scary. But then again if you came up with them, then are you perhaps afraid of moles or something? How do you think of such things?"
He almost smiled.
If only you knew.
The city shifted behind them.
Boots thundered.
Orders barked.
The Third Company of the Eternal Guard flooded into the streets like a machine coming to life — disciplined, precise, terrifyingly efficient. Doors were kicked in. Windows shattered. Men were dragged out, pinned, disarmed. Austrian-Hungarian troops followed in waves, uniforms flashing through smoke as they locked down the city block by block.
Oskar barely registered any of it—the movement in the city, the shouting, the way order was snapping back into place like a steel trap closing.
Captain Carter appeared beside them on a motorcycle, engine snarling, another pair of Eternal Guard riders behind him. Carter's helmet steel visor was up; his eyes flicked once over Oskar's torn shirt and the blood darkening it.
Then he was already talking into his radio, voice calm and clipped, issuing directions Oskar couldn't hold in his head.
Oskar wasn't really there anymore.
He was riding on instinct now.
Breathing because the body demanded it.
Holding the girl steady because his arm refused to let go.
Anica had turned in her saddle to stare at Carter with intense curiosity, as if the gunfire and smoke in the far distance were an inconvenience.
"Hey you, you smaller German man on the motorcycle, have you perhaps read Princess Anna and the Silver Comet Sleep?" she asked him, loud enough to cut straight through the chaos. "The Sleeping Beauty one—where she sleeps because of the curse and she dreams about wars and fire and then she wakes up when the kingdom is ready. Mama says it's not just a love story, it's… important."
She didn't stop for breath.
"And the Adventures of Princess Tanya—like Tanya and the Tomb of the Black Sun and The Scarlet Sands of Alexandria. German Man likes Tanya more," she said matter-of-factly, as if discussing a serious political issue, "but I think Anna is nicer. Tanya is brave though. She has the tight suit and the pistols and she climbs the walls and she always saves herself."
Her small face tightened with sudden worry.
"Do you think the moles are real? The ones from Emergence Day? The ones that come up from underground and take people and make them like… blind mole soldiers? Tanya would punch them, right? German Man punches them, but Tanya is scarier."
Carter blinked once, like his mind had to switch languages and centuries at the same time.
Then, incredibly, he answered without missing stride, voice as calm as his driving.
"I haven't read them," he said. "But I've heard they're… popular."
"They are!" Anica declared, satisfied, as if this settled the matter completely. "Mama said Tanya is scandalous."
Carter made a sound that might have been a cough.
Oskar tried to smile.
His vision smeared at the edges instead.
Shadowmane kept moving without complaint, limping more now, each step heavier than the last. The hospital finally came into view ahead—white walls, bright windows, a doorway like a mouth waiting to swallow them.
Oskar felt the world tilt.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
His hearing dulled, replaced by that deep buzzing that had been building behind his eyes for minutes—like a hive waking up inside his skull.
Anica's voice became far away.
Carter's engine became far away.
The city became far away.
Then Oskar was falling.
Not off the horse—someone grabbed him, hands hard and practiced—but inward, into darkness, as if the world simply slid out from under him.
And when he returned—
he was inside.
White walls.
Light too bright.
Noise everywhere.
Hands grabbing him.
Silver instruments glinting under gaslight.
"Four entry wounds—"
"Careful—"
"Damn his skin is like leather—"
"He's losing too much—"
The world narrowed to sensation.
Cold metal digging into flesh.
Pressure.
Hands forcing him down as something was pulled free from inside him.
A hot needle bit into his arm.
The buzzing in his ears grew louder — like a hive building behind his eyes.
Through it all he caught a fragment of Anica's voice from somewhere near the doorway.
"I'm sorry, but have you perhaps seen my mama?"
A doctor snapped sharply, "Why is she here? Get her out of this room—this is not a place for—"
Another voice cut clean through the chaos.
Calm. Controlled.
"Doctor. I am Captain Carter of the Third Eternal Guard Company. His Highness chose her to accompany him. She will remain unless we locate her family. That is not open for debate."
A pause.
Then Anica's small, triumphant voice:
"That's right, now tell me have you seen my mama."
And then the light folded in on itself.
Darkness rolled over him like deep water.
When Oskar surfaced again, it wasn't like waking.
It was like crawling up through thick mud.
His mouth tasted of metal and medicine. His tongue felt too big for his teeth. Sound arrived late—distant, warped, as if the world had been wrapped in wool. Somewhere behind his eyes a steady buzzing lived, the kind that made thoughts slide away before they could be held.
He blinked.
Shapes resolved.
A white ceiling. A lamp. Curtains stirring faintly.
And then—faces.
Ferdinand stood there. Close. Real.
Anica too, small in the chair, legs dangling, busy with something in her hands—flowers, weaving them together with the stubborn seriousness of a child who believes this matters more than death.
Ferdinand saw Oskar's eyes open and his whole body loosened like a man who had been holding his breath for hours.
"Oskar."
He dragged a stool closer, sat down hard, and immediately took Oskar's hand in both of his as if he could anchor him to the world by sheer force.
"My friend," Ferdinand said, voice low and urgent. "Are you with me? Can you speak? Are you—are you alright?"
Oskar tried to answer and discovered his lips didn't quite obey. He managed a crooked smile anyway.
"Yeah," he murmured. The words came out slow, thick. "I think… I'm alright. For now."
Ferdinand exhaled sharply, relief flashing across his face—then vanishing just as quickly.
He leaned in. The calm mask slipped, and what was underneath was raw.
"Oskar," he said, almost pleading. "I need to know. For certain. Who did this? Is all that you have said… true? We had evidence, yes. We heard whispers. But would they truly dare something like this? Would they truly try to—"
Oskar's smile didn't reach his eyes.
He looked at Ferdinand as if the question itself was absurd.
"Oh, come on," he rasped. "Why are you asking? Haven't I already made it quite clear?"
Ferdinand's grip tightened.
Oskar stared at the ceiling for a second, gathering words that kept drifting away.
"I wrote you," he said. "Many times. I even told you in person too." His gaze slid back to Ferdinand. "It's the same chain. Young Bosnia. The Black Hand. Same goal. Different uniforms."
Ferdinand didn't blink.
Oskar continued, voice hoarse, oddly calm—like a drunk man reciting a truth he'd repeated so often it no longer felt emotional.
"They want the same dream," Oskar said. "Young Bosnia say's they want Yugoslav unity, the Black Hand talks about Serb unification—but the road they're walking leads to the same place: Bosnia pulled out of your empire and into Belgrade's orbit."
Ferdinand's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping.
"And you know how it works," Oskar murmured. "Serbia 'tolerates' them. Looks away. Pretends it's not happening." He gave a faint, bitter laugh. "But who do you think gives them explosives? Rifles? Money? It doesn't fall from the sky."
Ferdinand's eyes sharpened. "You're saying—"
"I'm saying your evidence already points there," Oskar said, cutting gently through him. "You just don't want to say it out loud."
He swallowed. His throat burned.
"And if you follow the suppliers," he went on, slower now, "you start seeing foreign fingerprints. Loans. Cheap money. Weapons purchased abroad. Serbia doesn't maintain an army that size in peacetime because they are rich." His eyes half-lidded, heavy with drugs. "They're being propped up. Fed. Someone wants them sharp, and we all know who that someone is."
Ferdinand went very still.
Rage flickered behind his eyes—controlled, contained, but no longer distant.
Oskar noticed it through the blur.
And something cold moved in his stomach.
He tried to refocus, dragging his thoughts back toward the center of it—the problem he and Ferdinand had circled for years without ever naming too bluntly.
"The thing is…" Oskar murmured, voice slow, slightly slurred by whatever they had pushed into his veins, "their ambitions wouldn't matter nearly as much if your nation were… tighter. Like Germany. But it isn't. You have crack's, and apparently big ones at that."
He blinked hard. The ceiling swayed gently above him.
"In Bosnia alone… you can see it. In cities for example, there are crack's already showing everywhere. Streets are being divided by language. By faith. By tribe. People living beside one another but not together." He frowned faintly, reaching for thoughts that drifted like smoke. "They hire their own. Marry their own. Protect their own. Loyalty flows sideways… not upward to the shared state."
He swallowed.
"And in those gaps—resentment grows. And resentment… is cheap to weaponize." A faint, crooked smile flickered. "All it takes is a little money. A few guns. Some clever pamphlets. A promise of glory. Groups like the Black Hand don't create anger. They harvest it."
Ferdinand's jaw tightened, but he did not interrupt.
"That's precisely why we pushed unity," Oskar continued, almost conversationally now, as if they were debating trade policy instead of blood. "One civic identity. One language of the state. One law that every man can read and understand. Something larger than a country fractured into a hundred smaller loyalties."
He shifted slightly, wincing.
"When people identify first with clan, parish, or province, the nation becomes secondary. And when the nation is secondary, it becomes negotiable, and people lacking loyalty to the nation become easily radicalised."
He waved a weak hand, dismissive.
"I'm of course not saying the solution is to erase anyone… don't be dramatic. I merely hope to bind them. So when a man says he belongs to this empire, it means something stronger than parish or province."
His eyelids drooped further.
"It takes time," he murmured. "At our current pace here in Austria-Hungary, it will take maybe ten years. Twenty. Maybe more. But once everyone speaks the same language… at least they can argue properly. At least they understand one another. That alone is… a victory."
He exhaled, the words drifting.
"Hatred doesn't vanish instantly. But language helps."
A faint chuckle escaped him, humorless.
"And honestly… once it settles… once the schools do their work… these kinds of things won't happen again. It'll stabilize. You'll see."
He blinked, forcing himself to remain upright in thought.
"Still… this was more extreme than I expected. The Black Hand and whoever's whispering in their ears must be desperate. They wouldn't gamble like this unless they felt cornered."
Silence hung in the room.
Ferdinand did not look reassured.
If anything, something inside him had sharpened.
The grief was still there. The fear for Sophie was still there. But beneath it, something harder was settling—something cold and precise.
"I understand," Ferdinand said slowly.
It did not sound like comfort.
It sounded like calculation.
Oskar smiled weakly, unaware of the shift.
"Good," he breathed. "Then handle it. Clean it up properly. Fix the seams. And maybe… one day… you'll walk your streets without guards. It's… a very nice feeling."
His eyes drifted half closed.
"Just give it time," he murmured. "It'll work. We've already started."
But when Oskar glanced at Ferdinand and he came back into view, Oskar noticed it at once.
Something had changed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't visible in movement. It was in the stillness.
The set of the jaw. The way the muscles in his face held firm, as if carved from stone. The eyes—no longer merely shaken or grieving, but lit from within by something sharper. Controlled.
Too controlled.
It was the look of a man holding something molten behind his teeth, refusing to let it spill.
Oskar, heavy with drugs and the relentless buzzing in his ears, misread it completely.
His mind went to the one place it feared most.
Sophie.
Something had gone wrong.
Something terrible had happened while he drifted.
And that fire in Ferdinand's eyes—surely that was grief. Not fury.
Surely it was loss, not vengeance.
He forced himself to focus, heart stumbling in his chest.
"Sophie…" he murmured, voice thick. "Ferdinand… is Sophie alright?"
Ferdinand blinked, the anger cracking just enough for grief to show through.
"She's alive," he said quickly. "For now. But she lost a great deal of blood. The doctors say she's still critical."
Oskar exhaled, a shaky breath that almost turned into relief.
Then Ferdinand hesitated, as if weighing whether he even had the right to ask.
"They tested us," he said quietly. "Your blood… it matches closely enough. And they say yours is… unusual. Strong." His throat worked. "Would you allow a transfusion? If she worsens… it could save her."
Oskar let out a sound that was half laugh, half breath.
"Yeah," he slurred. "Sure. Take it."
Ferdinand stared, stunned by how easily he said it.
"Oskar—"
"That's why I perfected the whole idea," Oskar mumbled, eyes half-lidded. "More blood types. Transfusion. So people wouldn't die stupidly."
For a moment Ferdinand's face softened. Something like gratitude broke through the hard mask.
"Thank you," he said. "My friend… I won't forget it."
He squeezed Oskar's hand once more, then slowly rose to his feet, smoothing his coat as if he could smooth the entire world with the same motion.
"You've given me much to think about," Ferdinand said, voice quiet and controlled. "But don't worry. Rest now. I will try to handle it from here."
Oskar managed a weak smile.
"I trust you," he murmured. "Go handle it."
Then, because the drugs had loosened his tongue and because part of him was still absurdly himself, he added, almost dreamily:
"Oh—and tell the nurses to bring me cookies and milk."
Ferdinand paused.
Oskar's eyes drifted toward the ceiling.
"Or… something sweet," he mumbled. "Sugar. Mmm. Sugar sounds good."
For the first time since the shooting, Ferdinand's mouth twitched into a small, helpless smile.
"I will see what I can do," he said softly.
Then he turned and left.
The door clicked shut.
Silence settled for half a heartbeat—
—and Anica exploded with relief.
"Yes!" she whispered fiercely, as if she'd been holding that in for hours. "Finally. He's gone."
She snatched the stool Ferdinand had been sitting on and dragged it across the floor with great effort, boots scraping, determination written into every tiny movement. She climbed up like a conqueror, flower crown clutched in both hands.
Oskar watched, amused despite the pain.
Anica rose on her toes and set the crown carefully on his head.
It immediately slid sideways.
Her face fell.
"No," she groaned. "No, no, no… I did it wrong."
Oskar lifted a weak hand and patted her shoulder.
"It's beautiful," he murmured. "Don't beat yourself up."
She scowled at the crown, personally offended by physics.
"It's not big enough," she declared. "It's no good."
"Well," Oskar said, trying to be helpful, "I could wear it as a bracelet."
"No."
The word came out like a royal decree.
She stamped her foot.
"No! I will make it bigger. Then it will fit your fat, stupid head."
Oskar gave a faint laugh. "I'm sorry. I'll try to make my head smaller."
"No," she said again, already climbing down. "Don't make it smaller. I'll get more flowers."
Then her mood flipped instantly, like a switch.
"Besides," she added brightly, "I like picking flowers."
"What kind?" Oskar asked, half curious, half drifting.
She paused at the doorway and considered like a scholar.
"The red ones," she said. "No. The pink ones. No—blue ones. The ones that look like the sky. Those are best."
Oskar blinked slowly.
"Prussian blue," he murmured. "That is the right color."
She wrinkled her nose.
"No," she said with absolute confidence. "Prussian blue is too… blue. I like the lighter blue."
Oskar's lips twitched.
"Of course you do."
She pointed at him as if warning him.
"And don't think you can change my mind regarding that," she added. "I won't allow it. I'm a strong independent girl, like Tanya! And besides boys are weird."
Then she skipped out of the room with her head held high as if she had won something.
Oskar lay back against the pillow, smiling faintly.
The buzzing softened.
The ceiling steadied.
And in the quiet that followed, a thought rose up inside him—warm, dangerous, intoxicating.
Did I do it?
People had died, yes. Important men. The governor. Guards. Blood on the street.
But Ferdinand lived.
Sophie lived.
The heir of the empire still breathed.
And Ferdinand—Ferdinand was a reformer. A pacifist. A man who hated war.
Now that Ferdinand lived, then the war—the great war, the one that had eaten his old world—might never be born. Ferdinand would make sure of that.
Oskar felt his eyelids droop.
A tired, triumphant certainty tried to settle into his bones.
I did it.
His mind, already half-dreaming, began to sprint ahead to the next horizon.
Rockets.
A space center.
Germany's flag on the Moon—captured on camera, beamed across the world, proof that mankind could lift its eyes upward instead of burying them in trenches.
Africa. The colonies turned into real productive states. More wealth. More people. More brains. More steel. More fuel for the future.
A new age.
A clean age.
He smiled to himself, drifting deeper.
And somewhere, far beneath that relief, a tiny splinter of doubt tried to rise:
But what if Ferdinand…?
Oskar's mouth tightened faintly.
No.
No, Ferdinand wouldn't.
He was good. He was careful. He was a man of peace.
Oskar let the doubt slip away.
The room dimmed.
And he fell asleep believing the storm had passed.