Oskar's speech of July 7th was praised as a masterpiece by some, and condemned as a nightmare by others.
It was celebrated in Berlin as a moment of clarity—Germany finally speaking with a single voice. It was repeated in cafés, printed in bold type, carved into headlines. Men toasted it. Women argued about it. Priests of the New Dawn called it righteous.
And yet it unsettled as many as it inspired.
Because the speech was not merely a warning to Serbia.
It was a declaration that the old rules were dead.
It named Serbia not as a rival state, not as a stubborn neighbor, but as a criminal apparatus—an accomplice to murder, a government that sheltered and fed assassins. And by doing so, it put a blade to Russia's throat as well: if Russia intervened, it would no longer be "honoring guarantees" or "protecting Slavs." It would be crossing a line to defend what Germany now openly called a terror state—implicating itself as a patron of the crime.
The only shield Russia had was legality: no court had yet ruled, no tribunal had yet declared guilt.
But legality was already collapsing under the weight of events.
Austria-Hungary had captured men involved in the attack. They had interrogated them. Some had talked—confessions offered in exchange for mercy. Instead, they found a rope waiting, and crowds cheering as if the hangings were a festival.
Oskar called it justice.
Assassins were terrorists, he said. Terrorists did not get negotiations. Terrorists did not get deals.
Taken at face value, the argument was almost reasonable.
But the deeper meaning was unmistakable. If Germany and Austria-Hungary officially branded the Serbian government as terrorist—then the fate of the captured assassins was not merely the fate of a handful of young men.
It was the fate now hanging over Serbia's leadership itself.
And Serbia knew it.
The Serbian leadership had never had clean hands. Now it found itself with no legal room to breathe. If the world accepted Oskar's framing even for a moment, Belgrade would be placed outside the protections of "civilized states," and what came next would not be diplomacy.
It would be dismantling.
So panic spread through Serbia like fire. Panic moved into every street, every office, every barracks. And with panic came fear—fear not merely of defeat, but of erasure.
Russia felt that fear like a hand closing around its throat.
They were not ready for war. They knew it.
And yet the choice was being stripped from them.
In Saint Petersburg, at the Summer Palace, Nicholas II received the Serbian ambassador—pale, sweating, desperate—and after the meeting ended, the Tsar summoned his ministers and commanders at once.
They arrived quickly.
Foreign Minister Sazonov.
Minister of War Sukhomlinov.
Naval Minister Grigorovich.
Grand Duke Nicholas.
Generals and staff officers, some yawning from sleep lost, others bright-eyed with anticipation.
Nicholas II stood at the head of the room, hands clasped behind his back like a man trying to look taller than his own doubt.
"Gentlemen," he began, "Serbia has appealed to us for help."
His voice was controlled, but it carried an edge—an unwillingness that everyone in the room could hear.
"Germany has made its stance clear. Austria-Hungary is preparing to attack. As you know, I am not enthusiastic about this." A pause. "But I understand why we must act."
His eyes moved from face to face.
"We will not allow Austria-Hungary to destroy Serbia. Russia will mobilize."
For a heartbeat, the room was silent.
Then Sazonov spoke, eager, decisive, already tasting the shape of history.
"Yes, Your Majesty. Regardless of whether the accusations against Serbia are true or not—if Austria-Hungary and Germany are allowed to grow further, if they seize Serbia, there will be nothing we can do against them. We cannot allow their power to expand. We must stop them now."
Nicholas's jaw tightened. He turned to Sukhomlinov.
"When will our army complete mobilization?"
Sukhomlinov did not flinch.
"Your Majesty, to fully complete mobilization it will take approximately 4 to 6 week's."
The words hung in the air like a curse.
Six week's.
Nicholas frowned. Six week's was too long—absurdly too long—when history could collapse in three days.
But there was no escaping it. Russia was vast. Its rail lines were thin and imperfect. Its systems were heavy, slow, riddled with flaws. To drag men and equipment across the empire—from the west, from Siberia, from the far edges of the earth—took time that war did not respect.
Grand Duke Nicholas stepped forward, voice bright with confidence that bordered on arrogance.
"Your Majesty, even if mobilization is incomplete, we need not fear. Germany's main strength is in the west. Our standing forces are enough to invade East Prussia immediately."
He smiled—too easily.
"If fortune favors us, we may even reach Berlin."
Nicholas II did not like the sound of it. It tasted like the last war.
But he said nothing.
The Grand Duke continued, warming to his own vision.
"All that stands before us in East Prussia is the so-called Black Legion—Germany's former Eighth Army. I hear it is now merely a hundred thousand strong. Yes, their weapons may be strange, perhaps even alarming—but they are only a hundred thousand men."
He lifted a hand as if brushing aside an insect.
"They can be crushed under our numbers. And our Cossack cavalry will reign supreme on the flat plains of Eastern Europe. We will exploit gaps, raid supply lines, strike villages, shatter order. The Germans cannot defend an eastern border with such a small force."
Sazonov almost laughed, eyes glittering with triumph.
Nicholas II felt a cold unease settle deeper into his stomach. He did not want war with his cousin in Berlin. He did not want to be the man who lit the fuse of Europe.
But the room was already moving ahead of him.
"What about the navy?" Nicholas asked.
Grigorovich answered without shame.
"Your Majesty, our navy is no match for Germany's. But Saint Petersburg is safe. Our coastal fortifications are strong. The Germans will not dare challenge them."
Nicholas nodded slowly. The wounds of the Russo-Japanese War still lived inside the Russian state like a bruise that never healed. The navy had rebuilt, yes—but it was not Russia's sword. Russia's sword was its army. The navy's role was survival and deterrence, nothing more.
And besides—Germany's true naval enemy was not Russia.
It was Britain.
Nicholas drew breath, forcing confidence into his posture like armor.
"Gentlemen," he declared, "I have assured Serbia that if Austria-Hungary invades, we will attack Austria-Hungary in response. If Germany interferes, we will strike East Prussia."
His eyes hardened.
"And I expect discipline. The population must not be touched. Our quarrel is with the German military."
Men nodded around him.
But some faces did not nod with sincerity.
Some faces nodded while already dreaming of revenge.
Modest Romiszewski—born in Warsaw—had watched German policies drive ethnic Poles from land and opportunity, and the bitterness in him was old and deep. Wacław Iwaszkiewicz-Rudoszański, forced by exile and displacement, carried contempt like a second spine.
Mercy, to such men, was not policy.
It was weakness.
Nicholas either did not notice, or pretended not to.
Because the machine of war required belief. And belief was easier to maintain than doubt.
Outside the Summer Palace, the city remained beautiful. The Neva glittered. The air smelled of summer.
And inside, the foundations of Europe began to shift.
At the same time, across the continent, other nations moved—not always with marching armies, but with pens, telegrams, and decisions made behind curtains.
France had never truly forgiven 1871.
The Franco-Prussian War had ended decades ago, but the memory had never cooled. It lived in textbooks, in officer corps bitterness, in dinner-table humiliation. And just as there were men in France who dreamed of wiping away that shame, there were men in Germany who still believed France should be crushed again—finally, permanently—so the continent could be shaped into a single obedient order.
Oskar's speech did not create that hatred.
It simply poured gasoline on embers that had never gone out.
In Paris, President Raymond Poincaré felt the crisis in his bones. Not because Serbia was innocent—nobody serious believed that—but because Germany had just declared a moral framework that could be used to isolate any rival and justify anything.
So Poincaré authorized quiet preparation—mobilization measures that did not yet use the word "mobilization," orders that did not yet announce themselves to the public. He instructed France's ambassador in Russia to press hard: if Germany moved, France must not be left behind.
France and Russia had an alliance, written in iron. If Germany struck one, the other was meant to answer—not hesitating, not bargaining, not calculating its own comfort first.
And France knew the simple truth: alone, it could not match Germany.
Germany's industrial power had grown too fast. Its army had become too sharp. Its confidence too absolute. France needed weight beside it—Russia's mass on land, and ideally Britain's power at sea—if it intended to survive the next collision.
Across the Channel, Britain watched with a colder logic.
Britain understood Germany was catching up—ship by ship, factory by factory—and that delay favored the one growing faster. In private, many British strategists believed it was better to fight sooner rather than later, while naval superiority still felt secure.
But Britain also had a public.
And Britain's public, at least at first, did not see Germany as some pure villain. Serbia looked compromised, the assassination attempt looked criminal, and Oskar's demand—at face value—could be framed as reasonable: punish the machinery of assassination before Europe turned into a jungle.
So London hesitated.
A peace faction stirred loudly—especially among the Liberals and the working class. The streets of London filled with demonstrations demanding neutrality. Foreign Secretary Grey assured the German ambassador that Britain had no automatic obligation to Russia or France, and that Britain would "do everything possible to prevent war between the great powers."
The words sounded noble.
The reality was not.
On the evening of July 7th, even as Berlin cheered, telegraph wires were already humming across Europe. In Paris, President Poincaré and Prime Minister René Viviani drafted messages to Saint Petersburg—formal, courteous, wrapped in diplomatic restraint.
But their purpose was naked.
Lock the alliance.
Ensure that if Germany moved, France and Russia would move as one.
That same day in London, Sir Edward Grey proposed a conference—Germany, Britain, France, and Italy mediating between Austria-Hungary and Serbia. It was presented as reason. As wisdom. As civilization standing above chaos.
Berlin rejected it within hours.
Behind the polished language, Britain was already measuring angles. Already speaking to Paris and Saint Petersburg in quieter tones—encouraging firmness, hinting at backing, suggesting that Germany might be contained if confronted early.
On July 8th, the mask slipped further.
Grey met again with the German ambassador and delivered the message gently, almost kindly:
If the conflict remained "local"—Austria-Hungary and Russia alone—Britain might remain neutral.
But if Germany and France entered directly?
Then Britain would face an "emergency decision."
And Britain rarely hesitated long when its balance of power was threatened.
The subtext was unmistakable.
Let Austria-Hungary fight Russia alone.
Let Germany stand aside.
To Oskar, it was not advice.
It was an insult.
He had already drawn his line. Germany would not watch its ally bleed while pretending to be reasonable.
By July 9th, the first blood had already been drawn—not by grand armies, but by men who had once believed their posts were routine.
Border guards.
For years, Austrian and Serbian sentries had stood within sight of one another—watching, wary, but still restrained by the quiet rules of peacetime. Then the ultimatum expired.
Vienna declared the operation.
And before the sun had fully risen, rifles came off shoulders.
The first shots were scattered—nervous cracks in the dark. A flare. A burst of machine-gun fire. An outpost firing into tree lines simply because it no longer trusted silence. The reply came quickly.
Then the artillery spoke.
Not great rolling barrages—just sharp, deliberate strikes against blockhouses and trenches that yesterday had been border stations and today were enemy positions.
Small skirmishes flared along the frontier. Patrols collided in orchards and marshes. Men who had stamped passports the week before now dragged bleeding comrades back through reeds.
It was close. It was confused. It was real.
And while these small groups fought in mud and dawn-light, the true weight of war shifted behind them.
Train stations filled with men. Columns formed. Orders moved down chains of command.
In the background, the larger masses of both nations armies were already moving into position.
And that same day Oskar returned to Berlin just before dawn.
His father was preparing to address the nation from the balcony of the Stadtschloss, to formally announce the beginning of what would be called a "special military operation" against Serbia—and, inevitably, against Russia and France.
The highest officials of the Empire were already assembled. Generals. Ministers. Court figures.
The Kaiser adjusted his gloves.
And then, Oskar emerged from seemingly nowhere and moved without a word.
He did not ask permission.
He did not request time.
He simply stepped forward.
For a fleeting moment Wilhelm II was relieved to see his son—scarred, but alive and present.
Then confusion replaced relief.
"Oskar," the Kaiser demanded under his breath, "what do you think you are doing?"
Oskar did not slow.
"Giving the people the freedom to decide their own destiny," he answered quietly. "Forgive me, Father. I must do this—for the sake of history."
And before anyone could stop him, he stepped out onto the balcony.
The square below was already thick with bodies.
Men in work coats. Women clutching children. Officers in dress uniform. Clerks. Students. Street vendors frozen mid-sale. Drivers standing beside halted trams and motorcars.
Windows were filled. Rooftops crowded.
The city held its breath.
And when they saw him—when they realized it was not the Kaiser but the Iron Prince stepping forward—the noise did not rise.
It died.
Thousands of faces tilted upward.
Young and old.
Hopeful. Afraid. Hungry for certainty.
And Oskar stood before them—alone against the weight of Europe—while the Empire waited for his next words.