It was now the final hours of the 26th of December 1906. The Christmas candles were still burning in corridors that suddenly felt colder than winter itself.
In the Kaiser's office, the air was thick with smoke, wet wool, and the kind of silence that meant the Empire was holding its breath.
Wilhelm II stood at the window for a moment, watching snow drift over Berlin like ash, then turned back to the table.
"Gentlemen," he said quietly, "the doctors have spoken. The Crown Prince cannot perform his duties."
He did not say coma again. He did not say vegetable. Everyone in the room already carried those words in their heads like stones.
Chancellor von Bülow's face tightened with practiced sympathy.
"God preserve him," he murmured, and several men nodded as if they were at a funeral and not a war council.
Wilhelm II set both hands on the back of his chair.
"But an Empire cannot be left without an heir," he continued. "So we will speak plainly, and we will speak now."
A faint scrape of boots. The men leaned in.
"By law," the Kaiser said, "the next in line is Prince Eitel Friedrich."
Silence answered him—not defiance, not agreement, but calculation.
Tirpitz was the first to break it.
"Your Majesty," the Grand Admiral said, voice steady as steel, "with respect to law—Prince Eitel Friedrich is not fit for what approaches. The Empire does not need a placeholder. It needs a successor capable of war."
He didn't say Oskar's name at first.
He didn't need to. Everyone felt it coming.
Then he said it anyway:
"Prince Oskar is the only acceptable choice."
Several ministers shifted. A few nodded before they could stop themselves.
Moltke the Younger's eyes narrowed.
"Your Excellency," he said coolly, "Prince Oskar is indeed exceptional. No one disputes that. But he is fifth in the succession. Above him stand Eitel Friedrich, Adalbert, and August Wilhelm. If we trample succession law now, what remains of law when the Kaiser is gone?"
His words landed hard because they were clean—and because they were true.
Germany loved order—especially the kind stamped in ink and wax.
Tirpitz's moustache twitched.
"And what remains," he shot back, "if we obey the law and choose an heir who cannot steer the Empire through the storm? We are not selecting a museum exhibit. We are selecting the future."
Moltke didn't blink.
"Then strengthen the Empire without breaking its spine," he said. "Prince Oskar can still support the state without being made heir. He is eighteen. His future is untested. His… personal life is controversial. We do not need to create a constitutional crisis while France and Britain watch for weakness."
Tirpitz's eyes sharpened like drawn blades.
"You are not concerned with France," he said. "You are concerned with yourself."
A few men inhaled. Even Bülow's pen paused.
Moltke's cheeks colored.
"That is an insult."
"It is arithmetic," Tirpitz replied coldly. "You fear that if Oskar rises, your position becomes uncertain."
Moltke bristled.
"I have served the Empire my entire life."
"And I built the Navy from nothing," Tirpitz snapped. "Spare me speeches. We are deciding the survival of Germany."
The Kaiser's hand struck the table—not a slam, but a sharp command.
"Enough."
Both men fell silent instantly, like officers caught speaking out of turn.
Wilhelm II's gaze moved across them all.
"You will not turn my office into a tavern brawl," he said, voice low. "This is not a matter for personal grudges."
He paused.
But everyone could feel it: the room had already split.
Not into Navy and Army—
but into Old Order and Oskar's Future.
Wilhelm II drew a slow breath.
"Very well," he said. "We will continue—calmly. I want every opinion on record."
The Kaiser let the room settle after Tirpitz and Moltke's clash.
Smoke drifted in lazy ribbons under the chandelier. Somewhere outside, a door shut in the corridor—soft, distant, like a judge closing a file.
Wilhelm II's gaze moved from the soldiers to the civilians.
"Chancellor," he said, voice controlled, "I have heard the Navy. I have heard the General Staff. Now I want the state."
Bernhard von Bülow's face took on that smooth, polite mask he wore for crises. The kind that could agree with anyone while promising nothing.
"Your Majesty," he began carefully, "Prince Oskar is… exceptionally capable. There is no serious man in the Empire who doubts that."
A few heads dipped in reluctant agreement.
"But," Bülow continued, "the question is not capability alone. It is acceptability. The law of succession is a pillar. Break it openly, and the conservative parties will howl. The courts will mutter. The press will split. The Reichstag will turn the matter into a theatre."
He paused, then added with gentle emphasis:
"However… if Your Majesty decides, the state will follow. Opposition will be loud—but it will not be decisive."
In other words: If you want it, we can sell it.
Wilhelm II's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Foreign Office."
Von Kiderlen-Waechter cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty," he said, "our environment is already hostile. Britain, France, Russia—they watch our internal stability the way wolves watch a limping stag. If the succession becomes a public brawl, they will use it."
"Use it how?" the Kaiser snapped.
"Diplomatically," the Foreign Minister replied. "They will frame Germany as unstable. They will call us reckless. They will encourage our enemies and weaken our friends. They will—"
"Hmph," Wilhelm II cut in, contemptuous. "The succession of the German throne is not the business of foreigners."
"It becomes their business," Kiderlen-Waechter said quietly, "when they can make it useful."
A silence followed. Not because anyone liked his tone—but because they knew he wasn't wrong.
The Kaiser's fingers drummed once on the table, then stopped.
"Then we return," he said, "to the same choice."
Law.
Or survival.
Tirpitz leaned forward as if he'd been waiting for that exact sentence.
"Your Majesty," he said, "we are not choosing a man to sit politely at dinners. We are choosing the man who must carry Germany through what comes next."
Moltke the Younger's cane tapped once against the floor.
"And we are not choosing a man to satisfy one branch of the military," he replied coolly. "We are choosing a lawful successor. If we break that law today, we teach every faction in Germany that laws bend when pressure is applied."
Tirpitz's eyes sharpened.
"And if we follow it blindly," he answered, "we teach the world Germany is led by paper and tradition instead of reality."
Moltke's jaw tightened.
The Kaiser raised a hand.
"Enough. I have heard you both."
Moltke inhaled as if to speak again—
—and someone else spoke first.
"Your Majesty," said a calm voice.
All heads turned.
Erich von Falkenhayn.
The War Minister had been quiet until now, watching Moltke and Tirpitz like a man watching two dogs fight over a bone.
Now he stood.
"I also believe Prince Oskar is the best candidate," Falkenhayn said evenly. "These are extraordinary times. We cannot pretend otherwise."
Moltke's head snapped toward him, eyes flashing.
"You—"
Falkenhayn ignored the look.
"The Empire will soon face enormous strain," he continued. "Possible mobilization, diplomacy, internal security, public stability. Your Majesty will need a Crown Prince who can act—not merely exist."
Tirpitz's moustache twitched in satisfaction.
Falkenhayn went on, voice hardening:
"Prince Oskar already commands real loyalty. The workers trust him. The Navy trusts him. Even parts of the Army respect him, whether we admit it or not. If the Empire must project strength, then the heir must be someone the nation believes in."
That was the knife.
Not aimed at Tirpitz.
Aimed at Moltke.
Because Falkenhayn wasn't really talking about Oskar.
He was talking about power.
If Oskar rises, Moltke falls.
Moltke stared at him with open hostility.
"You would trample succession law," Moltke said, voice clipped, "because you think it benefits you."
Falkenhayn smiled faintly.
"No," he replied, "I would do it because it benefits Germany."
The lie landed beautifully. Even Bülow's lips tightened, amused despite himself.
The Kaiser did not speak immediately.
He watched them—watched the Army fracture in real time.
That changed everything.
Moltke could no longer claim to speak for the entire land force.
Tirpitz leaned back slightly, as if the scales in the room had finally shifted the way he wanted.
Wilhelm II's gaze moved from Moltke to Falkenhayn… then to Tirpitz.
The Emperor's expression hardened—not with anger, but with finality.
"Very well," Wilhelm II said.
It was not the announcement. Not yet.
But something in his voice stilled the room all the same.
"I have heard enough," he continued. "I understand your positions. I will weigh them carefully. Tomorrow, you and the Empire will be informed of my decision."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the ministers replied as one.
Chairs scraped softly. Papers were gathered. No one lingered.
The council dissolved in near silence—men departing not in agreement, but in the uneasy knowledge that the matter had already passed beyond debate.
Moltke saw it then—the subtle shift in Wilhelm II's posture, the way the argument had already ended before the final words were spoken.
The decision had been made.
He did not like it. But he said nothing.
Moltke the Younger understood the Kaiser better than most men alive. Wilhelm II was not a man who tolerated resistance once his mind was settled. To challenge him now would not change the outcome—it would only brand the challenger as disloyal. And Moltke knew, with the cold clarity of a career soldier, that his position existed solely because the Emperor trusted him.
Without that trust, he was nothing.
So Moltke swallowed his objections, straightened his coat, and bowed with the others—obedient, silent, and already calculating how to survive what came next.
When the last minister departed, the heavy doors of Wilhelm II's office closed with a deep, echoing thud.
Silence fell.
The Kaiser remained seated, hands clasped over his cane, eyes shut as if the weight of the Empire pressed directly against his skull.
"The navy," he murmured at last. "And now part of the army."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Oskar already stands at the center of the state, whether the law admits it or not."
Essen von Jonarrett, standing near the wall, did not respond. He knew better.
"The people believe in him," Wilhelm continued. "Industry listens to him. Soldiers admire him. Even my ministers look to him before they look to me."
His jaw tightened.
"That is power — real power. Not titles."
He opened his eyes.
"Send for Prince Oskar."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Oskar arrived quickly from the hospital despite the late hour. Two Eternal guards from the reinforced hospital detail accompanied him to the palace gate.
He had already heard enough rumors to be able to guess what had transpired. Tirpitz's open support. Falkenhayn's intervention. Moltke's resistance. The fracture lines were obvious.
When he entered, Wilhelm II did not rise.
"Oskar," the Kaiser said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Sit."
Oskar obeyed, posture straight, hands folded. He did not speak first.
"Your brother remains unconscious," Wilhelm said flatly. "The physicians believe recovery is… unlikely."
Oskar lowered his gaze.
"I continue to pray for him, Father."
Wilhelm studied him carefully.
"You always choose the correct words," he said. "That is one of your strengths."
Then he leaned forward.
"The Empire cannot remain without an heir."
Oskar felt his chest tighten, but he did not interrupt.
"The ministers," Wilhelm continued, "believe you are the most capable of my sons. I do not dispute that. In truth, neither does anyone who matters."
A pause.
"But ability alone does not make a ruler."
Oskar met his father's eyes.
"Nor does birth alone," he said quietly.
Wilhelm's mouth twitched — irritation, or approval, it was hard to tell.
"You have changed," the Kaiser said. "Two years ago, you were withdrawn. Sharp-tongued. Disengaged. Now you are… this."
He gestured vaguely, encompassing factories, armies, reforms, unrest.
"It unsettles me."
Oskar answered calmly. "Men change when they accept responsibility."
Wilhelm studied him for several long seconds.
Finally, he nodded once.
"Perhaps."
He stood.
"Very well. I have made my decision."
The words hit like a gavel.
"Oskar of Prussia," Wilhelm II said, voice formal now, "I appoint you Acting Crown Prince of the German Empire."
Oskar's breath caught — just barely.
"Acting," Wilhelm repeated. "By decree, not by law — an emergency measure until the succession question could be settled."
Oskar did not smile.
"You will assume the duties," the Kaiser continued. "You will represent the Empire when required. You will coordinate with the military, the ministries, and the Reichstag when necessary."
Then his voice hardened.
"But understand this clearly."
He stepped closer.
"The title remains your brother's — in name, if not in function. Should he awaken… you will relinquish it."
Oskar nodded slowly.
"If that day comes," he said, "I will obey."
Wilhelm searched his face for hesitation.
He found none.
"That answer," the Kaiser said quietly, "is why I chose you. And know that your skills have never been in question here. It is merely your maturity. I have argued this before, and now the decision has been made."
He turned away.
"Do not disappoint me, Oskar. The Empire now balances on decisions you will help shape. Mercy, strength, restraint — you must learn when each is required."
Oskar didn't show his displeasure at the comments, he merely rose and bowed deeply.
"I will serve Germany," he said. "In war or peace."
Wilhelm II waved him off.
"Go. There will be announcements tomorrow."
As Oskar turned to leave, the Kaiser spoke once more — softer this time.
"Remember this," he said. "Power is not granted to the kindest man — but to the one who can bear its consequences."
Oskar paused.
"Yes, Father."
And then he was gone.