After the balcony, Berlin did not disperse. It ignited.
The roar rising from the square did not fade when Oskar disappeared behind the stone balustrade. It rolled outward through streets and alleyways, factories and churches, taverns, kitchens and railway yards until much of the capital seemed to vibrate with it. Nationalism had become tangled with faith and fear, urgency with righteousness. This was no longer some distant war discussed over maps and newspapers. It had become personal.
Men were not preparing to fight merely for territory or treaties. They believed they were defending Germany itself—one people, one organism, one future. Workers leaving factories, mothers raising children, clerks behind desks and farmers far beyond Berlin suddenly found something sacred in the ordinary labour that kept the Empire alive.
Oskar felt none of that certainty.
As he left the balcony, the crowd remained audible even through stone walls, heavy doors and long palace corridors. The cheering followed him inward like pressure against his back, joined by another presence he could feel without turning.
His father's stare.
"Oskar—" Wilhelm began.
Oskar kept walking.
The war chamber waited deeper inside the palace, a broad, high-ceilinged room of dark wood, brass fittings and tall curtained windows, transformed from an imperial council chamber into the nerve centre of a modern war. A long oak campaign table dominated its centre. Across it lay a vast map of Europe crowded with wooden army blocks, naval markers, railway lines, pencilled arrows, telegrams and mobilization schedules. Smaller maps and dispatch tables occupied the walls and corners, while aides and staff officers stood behind the principal commanders with notebooks already open.
Wilhelm took the head of the table. Oskar sat close beside him, with Moltke and Falkenhayn among the senior military leadership nearby. The commanders of Germany's seven western field armies occupied the long sides, their staffs gathered behind them, while Tirpitz, Prince Heinrich and the naval officers formed their own group farther along the table. Behind Oskar waited Hindenburg, Ludendorff and the senior officers of his own Eighth Army—the newly formed Black Legion.
Oskar lowered himself into his chair as though nothing were wrong.
Then the weight of everything he had just done settled upon him.
Four fresh bullet wounds still burned beneath his clean uniform. Older scars seemed to ache in sympathy, particularly the ruined flesh through his right palm. Sweat gathered beneath his collar, and somewhere beyond the thick double doors he could still hear the distant pulse of Berlin.
For one uncomfortable moment, he thought he might faint. Not from his wounds, but from responsibility.
He had not merely given a speech. He had shifted the axis of Europe.
Without formally declaring war, he had announced something colder: a special military operation, backed by a justification broad enough that Germany could strike Serbia and potentially anyone who placed themselves between Germany and its declared purpose.
And the people had cheered.
That frightened him more than anger ever could. They trusted him. They would follow where he led.
Perhaps even into ruin.
Across the table sat von Kluck, von Bülow, Hausen, Albrecht of Württemberg, Rupprecht of Bavaria and Heeringen. Among them was Oskar's own brother, Prince Eitel Friedrich, commander of the Fifth Army, broad-shouldered and immaculately moustached, looking less like an imperial prince than a man one might hire to throw troublesome drunks out of a modern bar.
Moltke was there. Tirpitz as well. Ministers, officers and aides filled the remaining space around them.
All watching him.
All measuring him.
He was no longer merely the businessman who built factories, the reformer who preached cooperation, or even the truck driver who had once tried desperately to drag a dying soldier from the mud.
Now he was one of the men responsible for setting this in motion.
History would decide what to make of him—madman, saviour, perhaps something worse. As always, the answer would depend largely upon who survived to write it.
And who won.
Then, without warning, his mind betrayed him.
For a moment the men around the table ceased to be men. Flesh seemed to fall from their faces until generals, princes and admirals sat before him as skeletons, mouths still moving while dead hands pointed across maps.
Then the room disappeared.
Oskar saw mud beneath a black sky. Trenches carved through fields stripped of trees, rain hammering down upon bodies scattered so thickly they seemed to grow from the earth—burned men, rotting uniforms, pale hands and faces protruding from the soil while artillery thundered somewhere beyond the horizon.
And all of them were alive right now.
Across Europe those same men were marching toward railway stations with flowers in their rifles and smiles upon their faces. Mothers waved. Wives kissed husbands goodbye. Boys laughed beside friends, believing they were leaving for an adventure.
Oskar knew where the trains were taking them.
And this time the weapons waiting at the end of those tracks were not merely those of 1914.
They were his.
Aircraft, artillery, machine weapons, radios, engines, armour—the things he had spent years sketching inside his little red notebook were about to truly leave the pages and meet human flesh.
It would not simply be slaughter.
It could become annihilation.
Millions would die. Tens of millions, perhaps more, unless someone found reason before Europe drowned itself in blood.
The thought pressed down upon him until another sensation pushed through it.
Warmth.
Something deep beneath his sternum seemed to pulse with his heartbeat. For an instant he could almost perceive it: something red wrapped around his heart, threaded with faint strands of gold and white, as though some broken ornament had been crushed into his chest.
Something old, something that did not belong there.
"Oskar!"
Wilhelm's fist struck the oak table hard enough to rattle glasses, markers and maps.
The vision vanished.
Oskar blinked and found every man in the room staring at him.
"Wake up! Have you heard a single word I just said?"
Oskar drew a slow breath. He already knew what his father had been demanding.
"Yes, Father," he answered evenly. "I know precisely what I have done."
The room became quieter.
"I have gambled the fate of the Empire. I have declared our enemies unworthy of being treated as ordinary nations, and if we lose this war, there will be very little mercy waiting for us."
Wilhelm stared at him, then leaned back and rubbed one hand across his temple.
"Then why, Oskar?" he snapped. "You have overstepped your bounds. You have gambled everything we have built upon this single war. You have even given our people the option to ignore the draft." His voice rose again. "Do you understand what you may have done? Do you understand that you may have doomed us all?"
Nobody interrupted.
Oskar sat beneath their scrutiny without moving. He understood, perhaps better than any of them.
But if the world was truly to change, someone eventually had to step beyond what everyone else considered reasonable. Someone had to take responsibility for the decision that no committee, parliament or cautious statesman would willingly make.
And perhaps selfishly, Oskar had known that he could not make that decision without the consent of the people expected to bleed for it.
Now he had their answer.
They had roared for him. They had chosen. They could not possibly understand the full price—perhaps nobody could—but they had chosen nevertheless. Without that public commitment, without millions of ordinary Germans willingly stepping toward the same uncertain road, Oskar did not know whether he could have crossed the line himself.
Had they booed him, remained silent or simply refused, perhaps everything would have ended differently. But the dice had been cast, the machine was moving, and if Oskar intended to drag humanity through the fire toward something better, he suspected he would have to become something he still did not dare name.
None of that appeared upon his face.
To the men around the table, he remained the Iron Prince: calm, measured and seemingly untouched by doubt.
"Father," Oskar said, "you underestimate the power of free men."
Wilhelm's fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
Oskar folded his arms.
"One man who fights with his whole heart—who believes in what he is doing—is worth ten men dragged forward hollow. A free man does not break easily, and he does not surrender easily. When truly tested, he becomes more dangerous than any mass of unwilling men you can shove toward a line with threats."
Wilhelm studied him for several seconds.
"You believe that so completely," he asked more quietly, "that you would gamble the fate of the Empire upon it?"
Oskar nodded once.
"Yes. It is all or nothing now. No hesitation. No half-measures. If we do this, then we do it with our whole hearts."
Wilhelm released a long breath through his nose and rubbed his face, looking like a man attempting to erase an hour that stubbornly refused to disappear.
"Fine," he muttered at last. "I understand. But the next time you intend to wager the nation, kindly tell me beforehand. I do not appreciate such surprises."
At the naval side of the table, Tirpitz's mouth twitched—not quite a smile. He raised one fist briefly toward his chest in Oskar's direction.
A private acknowledgment.
Wilhelm noticed it, chose not to comment and straightened in his chair.
"Very well. There is little point in giving the public another speech after Oskar's performance."
A few expressions around the table shifted.
The Kaiser looked down at the sprawling map of Europe, then slowly across the commanders surrounding it.
"So let us put speeches aside and deal with what matters now."
His hand settled upon the table.
"My generals," Wilhelm asked, "are we prepared?"
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then Prince Eitel Friedrich pushed back his chair and rose.
Oskar's brother stood broad and straight beside the table before pressing one fist firmly against his heart.
"We are ready, Your Majesty."
The officers attached to the Fifth Army rose with him almost immediately.
Then the movement spread.
Von Kluck stood for the First Army. Von Bülow for the Second. Hausen for the Third. Albrecht of Württemberg for the Fourth. Rupprecht of Bavaria for the Sixth. Around them, chiefs of staff and senior officers rose in turn, chairs scraping across the floor as fists came against uniforms.
Falkenhayn rose as well. As Prussian Minister of War, he stood among the handful of men at the summit of Germany's military establishment, just below the authority from which Moltke directed the Army's operational planning.
Behind Oskar, Hindenburg and Ludendorff rose with the officers of the Eighth Army. Their fists came firmly against their hearts, and both men looked first toward their commander before returning their attention to the Kaiser.
Oskar rose with them.
Years of preparation stood behind the gesture. Germany had trained for this possibility, armed for it and reorganized itself around the knowledge that sooner or later the great test might come.
Now it had.
Many of the men looked first toward Wilhelm.
But not all.
Eitel's eyes moved briefly toward his brother before returning to the Kaiser. Falkenhayn did much the same. Hindenburg and Ludendorff held Oskar's gaze for a moment longer, and several others followed their example.
It was subtle enough that Wilhelm appeared not to notice.
Oskar did.
This remained an oath to Emperor and Fatherland, yet something of the moment outside had followed them into the chamber. For some of these men, the fist against the heart acknowledged not only Wilhelm, but the prince who had spent eleven years helping build much of the Germany they were now preparing to defend.
At the far end of the table, Heeringen remained seated.
The commander of the Seventh Army watched the others for several uncomfortable seconds. His senior officers hesitated with him, glancing between Wilhelm, Oskar and the growing wall of standing men around them.
At last Heeringen rose, slowly, and his fist came against his heart.
"The Seventh Army will do its duty," he said, looking directly toward Wilhelm. "For Your Majesty and the Fatherland."
His officers followed. The hesitation had been visible, but the oath had been given.
Wilhelm surveyed the Army with growing satisfaction before turning toward the naval group.
"And the Navy?"
Tirpitz rose at once.
Prince Heinrich stood beside him, followed by the senior officers gathered around them. Their fists came against their hearts almost as one.
Tirpitz looked first toward Oskar. There was nothing accidental about it.
Then he turned toward Wilhelm.
"The Imperial Navy is ready, Your Majesty. The High Seas Fleet, the Baltic Fleet—every ship and every sailor available to us. We will give everything Germany asks of us."
Prince Heinrich bowed his head in agreement.
For one brief moment, the chamber appeared completely united.
Army and Navy stood around the enormous campaign table, princes, generals and admirals beneath the high ceiling with fists against their hearts. Some looked toward their Emperor. Others toward the Crown Prince standing beside him. Most acknowledged both.
Only one man remained seated.
Moltke.
Wilhelm, pleased by the wall of officers before him, seemed not to notice the Chief of the General Staff watching the display with growing disappointment.
Oskar noticed.
Moltke's eyes travelled slowly across the chamber—from Eitel to Falkenhayn, from Hindenburg and Ludendorff to Tirpitz and the officers who had risen so readily. For a moment he seemed to regard them almost as traitors, men who should have belonged first to the Army now allowing themselves to be swept into Oskar's orbit.
His gaze lingered longest upon Heeringen.
The commander of the Seventh Army stood with his fist against his heart, but the hesitation had never quite left his face. Several officers around him looked much the same—committed because everyone else had committed, yet wearing the uneasy expressions of men who still wanted to object and lacked the courage to be first.
Behind them, half-lost among the secondary senior officers, stood Prittwitz.
Moltke noticed him immediately.
Prittwitz had once been willing to challenge Oskar. Moltke himself had encouraged that defiance, only to watch the Crown Prince push him out of the eastern command and have him quietly reassigned.
Now even Prittwitz was standing.
His fist rested reluctantly against his chest, and there was no enthusiasm in his expression. His eyes moved uneasily between Oskar, Wilhelm and the officers surrounding him, as though every instinct told him that he should have remained seated.
But he had stood anyway.
To Moltke, that almost made it worse.
His jaw tightened.
There were doubters in the chamber. He could see them. Heeringen. Prittwitz. Others whose expressions betrayed questions their mouths refused to ask. Yet none seemed willing to say what they were thinking.
Moltke finally pushed back his chair and rose. Unlike every other senior commander around the table, his fist never touched his heart.
He looked across the men still standing around him, then settled his gaze upon Oskar.
"This is madness."
The words came firmly enough, but the strain beneath them was difficult to miss. Moltke's fingers tightened against the edge of the table, and a slight tremor passed through his hand before he forced it still.
He was not a coward. Few men in that room could reasonably be called one. Yet challenging Oskar from across the campaign table had become an uncomfortable thing. Moltke had to tilt his head slightly upward to meet the enormous prince's eyes, and for a moment the difference between them seemed almost absurd—a stubborn wolf baring its teeth at something considerably larger, a bear.
Still, Moltke held his ground.
"Are we truly going to ignore what the Crown Prince has done?"
His attention remained fixed upon Oskar.
"You took the moment from His Majesty, and more importantly, you have struck directly at the foundation of our reserve system. Mobilization depends upon obligation. Upon certainty." His voice tightened. "You have made service voluntary."
The chamber went quiet.
Several officers exchanged uneasy looks. Heeringen's expression hardened. Prittwitz seemed to discover something particularly interesting upon the map.
Oskar merely looked down at Moltke.
There was no anger in his face. No irritation. If anything, the almost casual dismissal in his expression made the confrontation worse.
"You worry too much," Oskar said.
He lifted one hand in a small, unconcerned gesture.
"Watch. You will see what words can accomplish when men believe them."
Moltke's jaw tightened.
For several seconds he seemed ready to answer. The tremor returned briefly to his hand as he forced himself to keep Oskar's gaze, but whatever argument remained behind his teeth never escaped.
Wilhelm intervened before either man could push the matter farther.
His fist struck the table once.
"Enough."
Every head turned toward the Kaiser.
"What is done is done," Wilhelm continued. "I have concerns of my own, but after what we witnessed outside, I have little doubt that the necessary numbers will come. If enthusiasm proves insufficient, contracts can bind what speeches cannot."
His gaze settled upon Moltke.
"Proceed."
That ended it.
Chairs scraped across the floor as the commanders and officers began settling back into their places. Oskar gave Moltke the slightest inclination of his head, almost gentlemanly, then lowered himself into his chair beside Wilhelm with maddening calm.
Moltke remained standing.
A hard frown crossed his face as he watched Oskar sit as though the confrontation had barely been worth remembering. Then discipline reclaimed him. His irritation did not disappear; it simply found somewhere more useful to go.
He turned toward the great campaign map, picked up the long wooden pointer resting beside it and pulled several sheets closer.
"Very well."
The pointer came down upon Germany's western frontier.
"Seven armies in the west."
The room changed immediately.
The argument was over. Now the real war council began.
Aides stepped forward and started moving the wooden army markers across the broad map of Europe while Moltke spoke. Railway schedules were unfolded beside them, mobilization tables opened and pencils began marking routes and expected arrival times.
The First Army moved toward Belgium, forming the outer edge of the great northern wing. The Second followed behind and slightly inward. The Third was positioned to advance through Luxembourg in support, while the Fourth through Seventh Armies stretched farther south opposite France, fixing the French armies in place while the great right wing drove around them.
Moltke moved the pieces with practiced precision, occasionally stopping an aide with the end of his pointer and shifting a marker by a few centimetres himself.
"The decisive weight remains here," he said, tapping Belgium. "The northern armies must move quickly. We break through before the French can properly reorganize, bypass the strongest frontier defenses and turn upon them from the north."
His pointer traced the route through Belgium and Luxembourg before sweeping down into France.
Liège stood among the first great obstacles along that road. Its fortress ring would have to be reduced quickly, and Germany's heavy artillery and new aircraft had already been prepared for exactly that purpose. Delay there meant delay everywhere behind it.
The arrows continued south and west.
It was the familiar great sweep—an attempt to turn around the French armies, crush their northern flank and end the western war before France could settle into a prolonged defense.
While Moltke worked across the land, Tirpitz stepped forward from the naval side of the table.
His attention moved toward the seas bordering Germany.
"The fleet has already been concentrated," he said.
Naval aides began adjusting their own markers.
"The High Seas Fleet remains our principal striking force. Our strongest battleships, battlecruisers and supporting vessels are gathered in the North Sea, prepared to move the moment circumstances require it. We will not waste that strength by scattering it across distant stations."
Several larger naval pieces were drawn together along Germany's northern approaches.
Tirpitz then shifted his attention eastward.
"Prince Heinrich holds the Baltic. The older battleships and supporting forces there are more than sufficient to contain the Russian fleet and protect our own coast and shipping."
Prince Heinrich gave a small nod from his place nearby.
"The Russians need only be kept inside their sea," Tirpitz continued. "There is no reason to offer them a battle they are unlikely to seek."
Then came the smaller markers: submarines, more advanced and far more numerous than those possessed by any other navy in the world in 1914.
Tirpitz began spreading them outward.
"Our boats leave for their patrol stations immediately. The North Sea approaches, the Atlantic routes and the principal shipping lanes will be watched before the diplomatic situation has finished deciding itself."
His finger moved toward Britain.
"If Britain remains outside the war, they are not to be touched."
Then toward France and the wider Atlantic.
"But if London enters, our submarines will already be waiting. British shipping will not be given weeks to adjust. The campaign begins from the first day."
More markers moved outward across the water. Russian and French shipping would face the same danger wherever German submarines could reach it.
Moltke barely glanced away from the land map.
For the next several minutes the two men worked almost in parallel. Moltke shifted armies, corps and railway schedules across the continent while Tirpitz arranged fleets, patrol zones and submarine routes around it. Aides leaned over the table, officers corrected figures, telegraph reports appeared and disappeared, and the immense machinery Germany had spent years constructing slowly took visible form across paper and wood.
Oskar said nothing.
He sat beside Wilhelm and watched, as armies became little blocks, railways became lines, ports became symbols. Hundreds of thousands of men disappeared beneath arrows thick enough to cover entire provinces.
He recognized the shape of the plan. He also knew how quickly such certainty disappeared once men began dying upon the ground represented by those neat patches of ink.
No plan survived first contact. And this was no longer the war he remembered.
Germany was different. Austria-Hungary was different. Bulgaria now stood where Italy once had. Weapons had advanced years ahead of schedule, communications were faster, armies more mobile and the political map had been twisted into unfamiliar shapes by Oskar's own hands.
His memories of the future were no longer prophecy.
At best, they were a half-burned map through fog.
Moltke continued speaking somewhere beyond those thoughts, moving from France back across Germany toward the east.
Only when several markers stopped around East Prussia did Oskar begin paying attention again.
"Now," Moltke said, resting the pointer against the eastern frontier, "the opening burden against Russia falls upon the Eighth Army."
Oskar's eyes lifted at the mention of his Eighth Army.
Moltke glanced toward him before returning to the map.
"The Russians are mobilizing more rapidly than anticipated. Their forward formations are already concentrating near the frontier, and we should assume that an invasion of East Prussia may begin almost immediately."
Several Russian markers were pushed closer to Germany.
"In light of that, I recommend reinforcing the Eighth Army before the western offensive is fully committed. Eight additional infantry divisions—approximately two hundred thousand men. Combined with Austro-Hungarian pressure farther south, that should provide sufficient strength to prevent any serious Russian penetration."
The wooden pointer remained against East Prussia.
Oskar stared at the map for several seconds before answering.
"No."
Heads turned.
"The Eighth Army does not require reinforcement," he said evenly. "Its current strength is sufficient."
Moltke stiffened.
Oskar continued, calm but unyielding.
"My army's strength does not lie in numbers alone. Its men are elite, well trained and mechanized wherever possible. They possess the finest communications equipment in the world and can coordinate faster and more effectively than any force Russia can put against them."
He looked back toward the eastern frontier.
"The Russians are mobilizing quickly, yes, and they are not inexperienced after their war with Japan. But their doctrine and command structure have not kept pace with ours."
Then Oskar moved his hand westward across the map.
"Instead, I suggest we use those eight divisions here."
He tapped Belgium.
"The Western Front is decisive. If we fail to break France quickly, we condemn ourselves to a war of attrition."
His gaze swept across the table.
"Compared with that, the East is secondary."
A murmur of unease moved through the generals.
Moltke's jaw tightened.
"Your Highness, this is not the time for romanticism," he snapped. "If the Eastern Front collapses, we lose East Prussia. Russian forces could advance toward Berlin. All our efforts—everything—would be endangered."
Oskar did not raise his voice.
"This is not romance," he said quietly. "It is mathematics."
He leaned slightly over the map.
"If we divide our strength evenly, we lose everywhere slowly. If we concentrate, we win somewhere decisively."
He pointed again to the West.
"France must fall quickly. If the West stagnates, this becomes a war of industry and blockade. In that case, the Navy becomes our last hope."
He glanced toward Tirpitz.
"And that is a position we must avoid."
Moltke's frustration flared.
"You are gambling East Prussia," he said sharply.
Oskar's eyes hardened.
"I am gambling nothing."
He tapped the marker representing the Eighth Army.
"I have ten infantry divisions there. Elite, mobile, well coordinated. And one armoured division."
That drew several looks around the table.
Rupprecht of Bavaria leaned forward slightly. He had remained quieter than most throughout the argument, but now his attention settled upon the lone armoured marker.
"One division," he said, more thoughtfully than skeptically. "You truly believe that is enough to compensate for eight infantry divisions?"
"Yes."
Oskar answered without hesitation.
"And I have prepared the police and internal security forces for precisely this possibility. If Russian formations slip through the frontier, they will not find undefended railway junctions, open roads and frightened civilians waiting for them."
Behind him, Ludendorff gave a small nod. Hindenburg remained silent, but there was nothing uncertain in his expression.
Oskar straightened.
"The Eighth Army will hold."
There was no boast in the words.
Only certainty.
Moltke opened his mouth again, but Wilhelm raised a hand.
"Oskar," the Kaiser said, studying his son carefully. "Are you certain?"
Oskar met his gaze.
"Yes."
"You can truly hold the East with so few men?"
"There will be no collapse in East Prussia. We will break the first Russian thrust and buy the western armies the time they need. A month is entirely achievable."
Wilhelm considered him for several seconds before slowly nodding.
"Very well."
He looked around the table.
"We trust the Crown Prince. The Eighth Army will hold the East."
The declaration settled the matter.
For a moment nobody spoke. Then Kluck, commander of the First Army, leaned over the map with the impatient confidence of a man already thinking about the road ahead.
"Then give us the eight divisions," he said. "If the Crown Prince wants the Russians, I certainly have uses for them in Belgium."
A few smiles appeared.
Eitel Friedrich's was the broadest.
"The Russians will discover soon enough what my brother means by sufficient."
That drew a brief laugh from several officers.
Bülow remained more restrained, studying the eastern markers with a colder expression.
"Russia has numbers," he said. "But numbers that cannot move or communicate quickly are less useful than they appear."
"Precisely," Oskar replied.
Heeringen said nothing. His eyes remained upon East Prussia, the same trace of unease still visible beneath his expression.
Moltke did not join the laughter.
His face remained tight as he returned to his chair. To continue objecting now would mean challenging not merely Oskar, but a decision openly endorsed by the Kaiser.
The East was settled.
Moltke shifted the pointer west.
Immediately, the mood around the table changed.
Kluck leaned closer. Bülow's attention sharpened. The other western commanders followed as Moltke began laying out the deployment in greater detail—army strengths, marching corridors, railway timetables and the sequence by which the great northern wing would move through Belgium and Luxembourg into France.
The arrows spread across the map in thick strokes.
But as Moltke spoke, Oskar's brow slowly darkened.
He could see it.
Even here, in this altered world, Moltke had changed Schlieffen's design.
The original concept had rested upon one brutal principle: the right wing must carry overwhelming weight. It would drive through Belgium, turn around the French armies from the north and wheel toward Paris while the left held the frontier.
The right would decide the war.
Yet Moltke had redistributed the strength. More men in the centre, more upon the left. A thinner right wing. A safe distribution of forces, a more balanced front line.
And therefore, in Oskar's eyes, weaker.
To most of the men around the table, it looked sensible. France could attack in Alsace-Lorraine. Russia remained dangerous in the east. Why place everything upon a single enormous sweep?
Oskar knew where that caution could lead.
In the history he remembered, the German advance had come frighteningly close to Paris before faltering. The armies had been exhausted, stretched and short of the final weight required to finish what they had begun.
Then France survived, the front hardened, and an entire generation disappeared into mud.
Perhaps the extra strength would have changed nothing. Perhaps France would simply have fought on from somewhere else. But Oskar had no intention of deliberately repeating the mistake.
For a moment he considered the other possibility.
Could Germany leave Belgium alone entirely?
The thought died almost immediately.
An untouched Belgium would remain an open flank beside the German advance. Britain could use its ports, railways and territory the moment London entered the war. Neutrality meant little once the great powers decided their survival required violating it.
Small countries might wish to remain spectators. But the giants surrounding them would always be the ones to decide whether they were allowed to.
Yet even if Belgium was unavoidable, weakening the right wing was not.
Oskar leaned forward.
"Your Excellency, Chief of the General Staff."
Moltke stopped.
Oskar kept his eyes upon the map.
"This differs from General Schlieffen's directive."
The room quieted.
"When Schlieffen spoke of the coming war, he was rather clear about one point." Oskar tapped the thick northern arrow with one finger. "The right wing must not be weakened."
Moltke's expression darkened.
Oskar had challenged him before, but this was different. Before the Kaiser, the army commanders and much of Germany's senior military leadership, the Crown Prince was invoking Schlieffen against the man who had inherited his plan.
Moltke considered his revisions more prudent, more adaptable to the realities Germany actually faced.
Oskar was effectively calling them hesitation.
His jaw tightened.
The room seemed to grow heavier around them.