Oskar had never pretended his reputation was pure.
It wasn't.
It couldn't be—not after years of dragging Germany forward by the collar and leaving polite society gasping behind him.
But he also knew this wedding would not destroy him.
For most of the country it would feel less like a scandal and more like a conclusion—something delayed long enough that people had begun to wonder if he would ever do it at all.
The only surprise was the number.
Two wives had been whispered about for years.
Three was the blade hidden inside the bouquet.
And still… when Oskar looked at his children, and at the women who had stood beside him while the world argued about what they were allowed to be, he felt something dangerously close to joy.
Not the sharp joy of victory.
The heavy joy of belonging.
As if the empire-building and the wars of paperwork and steel had, for a moment, stepped aside to let him remember that he was a man with a family.
In the weeks leading up to the ceremony, the mood inside his circle rose like warm air.
Karl and Heddy were quietly pleased—Karl in that stiff, practical way that pretended sentiment was an accounting error, Heddy with a smile that made it clear she considered this whole thing the funniest kind of impossible.
Tanya and Anna, however, disappeared.
So did Princess Gunderlinde.
Not because Oskar ordered it.
Because Priest Arnold had.
"It is bad luck," Arnold had announced with serene authority, as if he were quoting scripture instead of theater. "A bride must not see her man before the vows."
Oskar had tried to object on principle.
"That isn't even a Protestant rule," he had muttered.
Arnold had merely smiled, unbothered.
"Then it will not offend Protestants," he said, as if that solved everything. "And it will make the people feel that Heaven is paying attention."
Oskar disliked superstition.
But he disliked giving the world an excuse for gossip even more.
So he surrendered to the ritual.
His children, on the other hand, were completely bewildered.
They understood factories. They understood the Eternal Guard. They understood that their father disappeared for weeks and returned smelling like smoke and authority.
But the idea that their mothers were now forbidden to see him because of "luck" felt like adult madness of a special kind.
And the wedding date approached anyway—fast, unstoppable, like a train whose tracks had already been laid.
---
On September 18, Berlin Cathedral filled until even the air seemed expensive.
The guests were not simply invited.
They were chosen.
Princes. Dukes. Ministers. Generals. Industrialists from the Oskar Industrial Group. A handful of foreign ambassadors whose faces had been trained to look polite at funerals and rebellions alike. Officers wearing medals heavy enough to tilt their chests forward.
And then a presence that made even hardened men glance twice:
Archduke Franz Ferdinand, attended by his family—standing as if he owned the floor simply by occupying it.
To Oskar's surprise, the Archduke looked… almost cheerful.
Not warm.
But pleased in that sharp, skeptical way some men had when watching history misbehave.
Outside the cathedral, Europe was in uproar—editorials, gossip, outrage written in expensive ink.
But inside, the tone was different.
Older faces looked stiff with disapproval.
Younger faces looked fascinated.
By now the younger generation had grown up with Oskar's madness like weather—each year another shock, another reform, another impossible leap forward. Many of them had stopped asking whether he was proper and started asking whether he was effective.
So the international reaction, strained as it was, remained mostly polished.
It was Prince Oskar.
Even his enemies remembered manners.
And because the German public response was not a wave of disgust but something closer to acceptance—perhaps even approval—Oskar felt a brief, strange stumble inside his own mind.
As if the world were beginning, inch by inch, to admit he might be right.
He knew he would have to lie low after this. Not because he regretted it—but because Germany could only absorb so many shocks before the bones began to crack.
Still… there it was.
Proof that reason could grow inside madness.
Proof that by forcing the world to look, year after year, he had begun to change what the world considered normal.
---
The old Church had refused to bless the ceremony.
Too scandalous. Too unprecedented. Too close to endorsing the collapse of the old order.
So the officiant was Priest Arnold.
And the cathedral—while still Berlin Cathedral in stone and history—was now also something else in spirit: a place where the New Dawn had taken root so deeply that the old rules had begun to loosen.
It was chosen precisely because here they could do what they could not do anywhere else.
Arnold understood power.
He understood spectacle.
And he understood that the Kaiser trusted him.
So the ceremony had become less a wedding and more a statement made before God and nation:
This household exists.
This empire accepts it.
---
Oskar waited at the altar in full military uniform.
Boots polished. Medals minimal. Posture still as stone.
He looked every inch the war-prince Germany had made him into.
Behind him stood Karl as best man, squinting at the crowd as if calculating the value of every person in the cathedral.
But today he was not alone.
Karl held Balin in his arms—a solid, dark-haired infant already gripping the edge of his father's jacket with surprising determination, as if the noise and grandeur of the world offended him personally.
At Karl's side stood Heddy, bright-eyed and calm, cradling Éowyn against her shoulder. The baby girl slept through the murmurs and shifting feet, pale hair like down against Heddy's cheek, utterly indifferent to crowns, banners, and the weight of history pressing down around her.
Nearby stood men who did not belong in churches—Hans Albrecht, Gustav Krupp, and others whose presence made the cathedral feel less like a house of God and more like a gathering of the Empire's engines.
Opposite them—at the side reserved for the brides—stood the women who would accompany them.
And Bertha—
too composed, too sharp—
kept glancing toward Oskar with an expression that carried a private storm.
Not jealousy like a child.
Jealousy like a woman who had once been promised more than silence.
Oskar felt his collar tighten around his throat and resisted the urge to tug at it.
He forced himself to breathe.
Outside and within, the cathedral was secured as if expecting an assassination.
The Eternal Guard—all three companies—stood watch alongside the Kaiser's own guards. Their presence turned the sacred space into something half-ceremony, half-fortress.
The royal family sat in full view: Oskar's mother, his father, siblings, cousins.
Viktoria Luise was there too, and to Oskar's relief she looked… fine.
Not jealous.
Not bitter.
Simply present, as if she had finally made peace with the fact that her brother's life was a storm that did not ask permission.
And one seat remained conspicuously empty.
The former Crown Prince Wilhelm did not attend.
He was still locked away—mad, furious, a ghost in the family no one dared name aloud today.
Oskar listened to the murmurs.
The shifting feet.
The held breaths.
Then he lifted his eyes to the great doors at the far end of the cathedral.
And waited for them to open.
Music began.
Not loud at first—just the first clean notes rising through Berlin Cathedral like something ancient waking up.
The great doors swung inward.
And what entered was not the brides.
It was an army of small disasters dressed like angels.
Toddler boys in miniature military uniforms marched in uneven lines, boots too polished, shoulders too serious. Toddler girls in bright white dresses drifted beside them, ribbons and lace making them look like little spirits that had escaped a painting.
At the head of the procession was Durin, proud in a white tuxedo, carrying a basket almost as large as his chest. He threw flower petals with the authority of a field marshal—generous, indiscriminate, as if the cathedral itself needed to be conquered by blossoms.
Behind him the others followed, copying him with fierce determination.
On one side: Oskar's three oldest girls, solemn as if they understood the weight of the day.
On the other: the boys—led by Imperiel, chin lifted, posture straight, a tiny commander with his father's stubbornness in his bones.
The women in the audience melted first.
A few men tried not to.
A few failed.
Cameras flashed. Somewhere high to the side, the new film equipment whirred softly—German-made, clearer than most of Europe could manage, even carrying sound. Oskar had demanded that too. If this was going to happen, it would be recorded properly—proof for the nation, and a warning for every foreign court that thought scandal alone could weaken him.
Imperiel glanced back repeatedly, like a leader checking his line.
When Durin drifted too far ahead, Imperiel didn't scold him.
He threw a handful of petals at him.
Durin stopped mid-step, eyes wide with offended dignity, then slowed down with the exaggerated patience of a man correcting an incompetent subordinate.
The cathedral rippled with contained laughter.
Then the children parted to the sides, like white-clad couriers retreating from the battlefield after delivering their message.
The music shifted.
And now the real procession began.
First came Anna's three older daughters from her first marriage—beautiful, calm, dressed in white, each holding a basket of petals. They moved with practiced composure, old enough to understand they were being watched, young enough to still believe ceremony could be magical.
After them came King Ludwig III of Bavaria, arm in arm with his youngest daughter.
Princess Gunderlinde wore a wedding dress that was modest by royal standards—fine cloth, careful cut, nothing extravagant enough to look greedy. She looked as if she might faint simply from the weight of eyes upon her. Her cheeks were pink, her hands trembled once—and then steadied as she forced herself to walk.
Behind them came Anna, carrying a crying baby girl, her face tired but proud—escorted by her father, who had once been a farmer and now stood as CEO of Greenway, a major landowner, and a man whose life had been hauled upward by Oskar's machine.
And last came Tanya, holding her stubborn infant son with the ease of a woman who had long since stopped being intimidated by palaces. She had no family to walk her down the aisle.
So two men did it instead.
Captain Conrad of the First Company.
Captain Dieter of the Second.
Not as princes. Not as blood relatives.
As oath-brothers in steel.
Men who had been with Oskar from the beginning, and who Tanya trusted because they had bled in the same shadow.
They escorted her with the quiet dignity of soldiers carrying something sacred.
All of it—every step, every breath—was choreography.
Not just religion.
Power.
The kind that turned a cathedral into a stage where an empire taught itself what it was allowed to accept.
At the altar, Ludwig III's eyes narrowed as he placed his daughter's hand into Oskar's.
For a heartbeat his expression was not political.
It was paternal.
"Oskar," Ludwig said, voice low enough to feel personal and public at once, "Gunderlinde is my most beloved youngest daughter. I entrust her to you. Cherish her. Treat her properly."
Oskar's mouth curved slightly.
"Father-in-law," he said, and his voice carried with effortless confidence, "I swear before God—she is safe with me. I will cherish her as I cherish my family."
The words were a little too strong. A little too absolute.
Oskar heard himself and felt, a beat too late, that he had sounded like a man announcing ownership rather than responsibility.
But Gunderlinde blushed—bright, immediate—clearly pleased by the certainty.
Ludwig III looked less pleased.
He gave Oskar one last measuring stare, then turned away and walked back to his seat without another word.
Oskar glanced down at Gunderlinde's small hand in his.
Delicate. Warm. Trembling faintly.
And for the first time the political absurdity of it all faded enough for a different thought to surface:
She's real. She's young. And she has no idea what she just stepped into.
Tanya and Anna moved instinctively—flanking her, steadying her with the quiet confidence of women who had already survived the scandal fire and learned how to stand inside it.
Gunderlinde's shoulders loosened as if she had been holding her breath for years.
Oskar felt something in his chest settle.
Not relief.
Responsibility.
And beneath it—something dangerously close to gratitude.
Because for all his power, there was something about this ritual that made him feel less alone.
Not as a prince.
As a man.
When the music softened, the infants were carefully carried away—handed to Bertha Krupp, who received them with the practiced calm of a woman trusted by all sides whether they liked her or not.
Then Priest Arnold stepped forward.
He smiled—bright, serene, unbothered by the weight of what he was about to do.
Oskar watched him and felt, as always, that uneasy truth:
Arnold did not fear scandal.
Arnold fed on it.
Arnold took the three women's hands and guided them into Oskar's broad grip, arranging fingers like a priest arranging history.
Then he spoke, voice filling the cathedral:
"Beloved, we are gathered here today in the presence of God to witness and bless this union—Crown Prince Oskar and his three chosen brides—joined together in holy matrimony."
A stir moved through the guests.
Old churchmen stiffened.
Foreign ambassadors watched as if memorizing an error to repeat later.
Arnold continued smoothly, choosing words that sounded familiar but had been carefully… adjusted.
"Marriage is a covenant," he declared, "a bond of responsibility before Heaven. It is not entered into lightly, but deliberately and reverently—so that a household may stand strong, raise children, and weather the storms of this world with faith."
Then came the vows.
Simple. Clean. Public enough to satisfy a nation.
And then the rings.
First Tanya.
Oskar slid the band onto her finger, eyes steady, as if daring the world to question her place.
Then Anna.
Gentler, but no less deliberate.
And lastly Gunderlinde, whose hands shook just enough that Tanya's fingers brushed her wrist—supporting her without stealing the moment.
Arnold's voice rose.
"I now pronounce you husband and wives."
For one heartbeat the cathedral was frozen.
Then the final test arrived—the part where the spectacle could become awkward.
Three women.
One man.
A thousand eyes.
Oskar solved it the way he solved most problems: decisively.
He pulled them close at once, arms wrapping them in a single embrace, and kissed them in order—one after the other.
The audience wavered between scandal and fascination.
Gunderlinde, when it was her turn, let out a small, strangled sound—half gasp, half laugh.
"Oh my God," she whispered, too loudly, "I'm not sure I'm ready for this—!"
And then she nearly fainted.
Tanya's hand caught her elbow instantly.
Anna steadied her shoulder.
Oskar held her like she weighed nothing, and the moment—ridiculous, intimate, human—broke the tension like a hammer through glass.
The cathedral erupted.
Cheers. Laughter. Relief.
Not everyone approved.
But everyone understood one thing:
It had happened.
It was real.
And Germany had just watched its future accept three women without blinking.
In the royal seats, Empress Augusta's eyes reddened.
"My dear," she murmured, voice thick, "seeing our children marry… seeing them build their own families… it makes me feel old."
Wilhelm II leaned closer, his expression softer than it was in councils.
"Don't say that," he said quietly. "You are not old."
He squeezed her hand.
"And if Oskar stays anywhere, it will be close. You will see the children—and perhaps… great-grandchildren sooner than you expect."
Augusta laughed shakily through the tears.
Wilhelm II watched the altar again.
Watched Oskar—standing tall, unshaken, surrounded by wives like a man who had simply decided the world would adjust.
And the Kaiser felt that familiar, uncomfortable truth return:
Oskar was polarizing. Difficult. Dangerous to tradition.
And yet—impossible to deny.
Even Wilhelm himself, at that age, had not been capable of what Oskar had done.
And Wilhelm's eldest son… would never have managed it.
The Kaiser's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
A single private question surfaced—quiet, deadly, inevitable:
At the proper time… should I remove "Acting"… and make him truly Crown Prince?
---
After the ceremony, the doors of the cathedral opened into a grand banquet worthy of the moment.
Crystal chandeliers burned warm light over long tables heavy with silver and porcelain. Music filled the hall—lively enough to celebrate, restrained enough to remind everyone this was still an imperial affair. Toast followed toast, and everywhere Oskar and his wives turned, people rose to greet them.
They were, without question, the center of gravity.
Oskar felt his cheeks ache from smiling long before the evening was half over.
"Congratulations, Your Highness, the Crown Prince," Count Tirpitz said, lifting his wine glass.
"Your Excellency, Marshal," Oskar replied, clinking glasses with him. "Thank you."
Tirpitz studied him for a moment, eyes sharp even in celebration.
"You've neglected the navy lately," he said mildly. "Understandable, of course. Still, when this… busy period ends, we should speak properly."
Oskar nodded. It was true—between Africa, the Eighth Army, police reforms, industry, and now this, the navy had slipped lower on his list than it deserved.
"You know I've never stopped caring about the Imperial Navy," Oskar said. "Once things settle, let's meet at German Works. Brutus told me recently that a project I requested has finally reached completion."
Tirpitz's eyebrows rose.
"A project?"
Oskar's smile sharpened just enough.
"A secret weapon."
That did it.
If they had not been standing in the middle of a wedding banquet, Tirpitz would have dragged him straight to the docks. Instead, he laughed once, genuinely pleased.
"Very well," Tirpitz said. "I will hold you to that."
Oskar excused himself soon after.
He took Tanya's hand, then Anna's, then Gunderlinde's—careful, deliberate—and led them onto the dance floor. The orchestra shifted into something lighter, and for a time the world narrowed to movement and laughter.
Their children hovered at the edge like curious birds.
Then, inevitably, the toddlers tried to join in.
They copied Oskar's steps with wild enthusiasm and Karl's exaggerated movements with even more dedication. Karl, pressed into service by shrieking children, danced with the serious concentration of a man convinced this was the most dangerous task he had ever been given.
The crowd laughed.
For a few minutes—precious, rare minutes—Oskar was not a crown prince, not a reformer, not a future emperor.
He was simply a man surrounded by family.
The banquet stretched late into the night, but Oskar and his wives withdrew early. By nine o'clock, they slipped away under polite applause and relieved smiles.
Everyone understood.
Some moments were not meant to be shared.
As the saying went, a moment of bliss was worth a thousand pieces of gold—and tonight was not a night to waste on ceremony or conversation.
For Oskar, it was special in ways that went beyond politics.
Gunderlinde, shy and flushed, had crossed no lines before tonight. Tanya and Anna knew it, respected it, and quietly protected her from the weight of expectation that followed the crown.
And Oskar—still, in some corner of his mind, shaped by a different life—felt a strange mix of anticipation and gravity.
Not conquest.
Not indulgence.
But the awareness that something had finally closed, and something else had begun.
The doors to the private chambers closed behind them.
The music faded.
And for a short time at least, the world outside could wait until morning.