The morning air over Berlin was warm.
But the city felt cold.
Sunlight lit the streets below. Faces packed the square—workers in caps, mothers with their children, veterans standing rigid with medals earned in older storms, students with bright eyes not yet shadowed by trenches. Boys too young to understand what the coming storm would require of them all.
And above them, on the palace balcony cut from stone and history, Oskar stood in Prussian blue and black. Gloves tight at the wrist. Linen hiding the bandages beneath. Back straight—not as a pose, but as defiance. Pain did not bend him. History would not see him bend.
He raised his hand.
The square quieted as if the city itself had inhaled.
"My people," he began, and his voice carried without effort. "The sons and daughters of Germany."
He let the words settle, then continued—slow, deliberate.
"More than forty-four years ago, we were not the Germany you know today. We were fractured. We were mocked. We were a collection of states and quarrels, a people divided—pressed by foreign powers and by our own weakness."
His gaze moved across the crowd like a sweep of a blade.
"And through hardship—through sacrifice—through the endurance of ordinary men and women who refused to remain small—we united."
"We built."
"We rose."
"For over forty years now, Germany has grown and prospered like never before."
He paused, and the silence tightened.
"When I began my journey in 1904," he said, "I sought to accelerate that rise—not for my pride, not for a crown, not for a painting of my face on a wall—"
"But because I believed our people deserved more than survival. I believed Germany could become what it was always meant to become: strong enough to deter war, wealthy enough to build, disciplined enough to endure, and advanced enough to lead."
He lifted his chin slightly.
"And we did not accomplish this because of one prince."
"We accomplished it because of you."
"The hands that built our factories."
"The minds that built our machines."
"The soldiers who trained without complaint."
"The women who held families together while the nation changed."
"You are the strength in my arm."
"You are the holders of this dream."
"And I say that to you now with full honesty—because I believe that you all deserve it."
The square remained silent.
"And now," Oskar said, "we have reached a moment that many prayed would never arrive."
He did not dress it in romance.
He did not pretend it was destiny's adventure.
"As you all know, on the twenty-eighth of June, our ally was attacked. A bomb in daylight. Bullets in the street. Innocent people torn apart for the sake of myth and hatred."
His voice hardened—not into fury, but into iron.
"And when asked to answer for it—when offered justice—those responsible have chosen denial. Evasion. Defiance. They have refused the terms that any civilized state would accept if it truly had nothing to hide."
He let that accusation hang over the city like smoke.
"So it has come to this."
He spoke the next words without drama—only certainty.
"Something vast is coming."
"A trial that will dwarf every conflict mankind has ever known."
He leaned forward slightly, as if speaking to each face individually.
"I will not soften this for you. I will not lie to you."
"This great struggle of our time—when it comes—will demand sacrifices measured not in hundreds, but in nations."
"Rivers will run red."
"The sea will carry fire."
"Cities will become rubble."
"Countless millions will die—soldiers and civilians alike."
A tremor went through the crowd—not cheering, not anger, but the recognition of a man refusing to sell them a fairy tale. A mother in the crowd tightened her grip on her child.
Oskar's eyes did not waver, and his voice rose—not in volume, but in weight.
"The price of this great coming struggle of our time, it will be terrible," he said. "And despite that—I will fight."
"I will give every drop of my own blood if I must—not for glory, not for a parade, not for a story sung by fools—but so that this world might finally be broken free of its endless wheel of war."
"Because as long as power rests in the hands of men who do not love their people—men who count lives like coins, who gamble with sons and call it necessity—then these 'grand struggles' will never end."
His jaw tightened.
"And understand this, I am not one of those men. I refuse to become one of them."
"I refuse to spill my people's blood for reasons that are nothing but stepping stones—one slaughter laid like a road toward the next."
"And so." His jaw tightened. "I promise you this: when this great struggle of our time ends, humanity will stand closer to true peace than it has ever stood before."
"Because I carry a simple dream."
"That one day, in a distant future, when asked what they belong to, men will not answer with tribe or border."
"They will answer: I belong to this earth. I belong to mankind. I belong to humanity."
"And war between human beings will be remembered the way we remember plagues—something we once endured, and then outgrew."
His voice cut through the square like drawn steel.
"But I will not force you to walk this road with me."
"This road will cost greatly. It will not be easy. And I will not pretend otherwise."
"So I have decided this: every man chosen for the draft—every man who stands at the edge of being called—will be given a choice."
"To fight."
"Or not."
"I will not march beside hollow men. I will not build the future with those who do not have the heart to give their all."
"I will fight only with free men—men who understand what is being asked of them. Men willing to carry the burden of doing the unspeakable when it must be done, so that something better can be built afterward."
"And if you still ask why we fight—after all that I have said and done—then I remind you of the oldest gift God gave mankind."
"Free will."
"You may choose for yourselves."
A breath.
"But whatever your choice—hear me clearly."
"I will stand."
"Even if I must stand alone."
"Because I will not watch from safety while injustice is carried out against those who have placed their trust in us."
"I will not permit cowardice to cloak itself in slogans while bombs are thrown into streets and the innocent are torn apart."
His gaze hardened.
"I was not born to look away."
"I was not raised to count the cost and then step back."
"I choose to stand."
"And if fire is the price of that choice—then into the fire I will go."
He drew a breath, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter—more dangerous for its calm.
"But I am only one being. I cannot fight in the east and in the west, on the seas and in the skies, all at the same time."
"So I look upon you, my people," Oskar said, his voice no longer thunder, but steel drawn thin, "and I ask again—who among you is willing to stand with me and pledge your hearts to the vision of the future I, as your Crown Prince, carry?"
He stepped closer to the edge of the balcony.
Below him stood Berlin.
Workers. Veterans. Boys barely grown. Mothers holding children against their skirts. Clerks. Students. Men who owed their wages to his factories. Soldiers who had trained under his command.
"Whom will you trust?" he asked.
"Me?"
"Or those who hide behind lies and empty promises?"
The wind caught his coat and carried the last word into the square.
And then—
Silence.
No applause.
No chanting.
No patriotic fever.
Only the sound of breathing.
Because they had never heard anything like this.
He had not promised glory.
He had not promised a short war.
He had not promised medals.
He had promised rivers of blood. Burned cities. Millions dead.
And he had offered them a choice.
To step forward meant walking into fire.
To refuse meant remaining behind while the man they called the people's Prince marched to the front himself.
And that choice weighed on them like stone.
Oskar looked down at them.
For the first time since he had begun speaking, uncertainty flickered behind his eyes.
Not doubt in his cause—
But the understanding that he had placed the burden of history into their hands.
Seconds passed.
Long seconds.
The square remained still.
Then—
A single movement.
From near the front.
A man stepped forward.
Young. Perhaps twenty. Factory coat still dusted with iron filings. In his hand—a draft paper already creased from being read and reread.
He swallowed once.
Then he lifted the paper.
Pressed it flat against his chest—over his heart.
And he shouted, his voice cracking at first, then rising like a blade drawn clean:
"We are with you, Your Highness!"
Heads turned.
The words carried.
"For God and Fatherland—until the death!"
The last word echoed against stone.
Silence again—
Then another step.
A broader man this time. Older. A co-worker by the look of him. He moved without hesitation, came to stand beside the first.
He too placed his fist against his heart.
His voice boomed deeper.
"For God and Fatherland—until the death!"
A tremor went through the crowd.
Someone else stepped forward.
Then another.
Then three at once.
Draft papers lifted.
Fists pressed to chests.
Voices rising.
"Until the death!"
"Until the death!"
"Until the death!"
The words spread—not as hysteria, but as ignition.
A veteran removed his cap and placed it over his heart.
A student climbed onto a fountain ledge and shouted the oath again.
A mother bent down and guided her son's small hand to his chest.
And then the square erupted.
Not with mindless frenzy—
But with decision.
Thousands of voices.
"For God and Fatherland!"
"Until the death!"
The sound rolled through Berlin like artillery.
On the balcony, Oskar did not smile.
For a heartbeat he stood stunned.
Not by their obedience—
But by their trust.
They had not been forced.
They had chosen.
And that realization struck him deeper than any applause could have.
His jaw tightened.
Slowly, he raised his hand.
The roar did not die at once. It fought to live—bouncing off stone, rolling back from the buildings like surf.
But it faded.
Because when Oskar raised his hand—
Berlin remembered who he was.
And they listened.
Silence fell again, not empty now, but charged—alive with heat and breath and the pounding of a thousand hearts.
"Then go," he called, and his voice carried over them all like a bell.
"Go forth—workers. Soldiers. Mothers and fathers. Sons and daughters."
"Do your part for this nation with all your heart."
"Build."
"Endure."
"Stand firm."
"And I swear this before God and before history—I will do my part."
"I will bleed beside you."
"I will march before you."
"And if each of us labors as though the fate of this age rests on his hands alone—if we stand as one body, one will—then we will tear tomorrow from the jaws of the present."
"Not only for Germany—"
"But for humanity."
He held their gaze and let the word sink in—humanity—a promise and a burden, both.
"And hear me," he said, and his voice hardened again. "Every one of you who chose to stand this day—every one of you who stepped forward with death at your shoulder—you will not be forgotten."
"Your work will be carried by those who come after you."
"Your sacrifice will be the stone they build upon."
"And I—so long as breath remains in me—will carry your names within my own memory."
He lifted his hand and pointed past the crowd, beyond Berlin, toward the old heart of Prussia—toward the place of crowns and graves.
"In Potsdam," he said, "there is stone that outlives flesh."
"A place where the names of the brave are cut so time itself cannot erase them."
"Let the names of the workers and the soldiers—of every German who stands for this nation—join the names already carved there."
"Let there be an eternity for the faithful."
His voice rose at last—no longer only weight, now thunder.
"Now rise as one."
"Do what none before us had the strength to do."
"Germany—forever!"
For a moment the city held its breath—
Then the cheer came.
Not wild.
Not chaotic.
Thunderous.
It climbed the palace walls, shook the torchlight, rolled out over Berlin like a storm breaking.
And as it rose toward the balcony and the sky beyond it, something unseen shifted.
This was no longer merely a speech.
It was a vow spoken by a people.
And in later generations—when the world searched for the hour the old age cracked and a new one began—
they would name this the first breath of the Great Unification war of Earth.
Yet even as that sound struck him—so loud it felt like pressure against the face—Oskar did not grin like a man intoxicated by applause.
He only inclined his head, as if accepting a weight.
They had chosen.
All the factories raised.
All the reforms forced through resistance.
All the sacrifices made in silence—
had not been for nothing.
He raised his hand once more in acknowledgment.
Then he turned.
Behind him stood the High Command.
Moltke.
The generals.
And his father.
No celebration there.
The Kaiser's expression was tight. Moltke's unreadable.
Oskar understood.
He had promised choice.
He had taken the balcony.
He had spoken the call in his own voice.
And now there was no retreat.
The people stood united.
The state could not afford division.
To step back now would shatter what he had just forged.
He left the balcony without hesitation and walked into the palace.
The roar of Berlin dulled behind thick walls.
Maps waited.
Mobilization timetables.
Plans laid years in advance.
He stopped before his father and Moltke.
For a moment, only the distant thunder of the crowd filled the silence.
"My words are done," Oskar said calmly.
"Now we ensure Germany prevails."
The balcony doors closed.
Outside, Berlin celebrated.
Inside, the plans to utterly shatter, the history of Oskar's past life began.