For over a week since Warsaw's fall, the lands south of it had been slowly, steadily emptying.
By the 8th of August, most villages stood silent.
Fields lay abandoned—some burned black, others left to grow wild and untended. A few stubborn souls had tried to remain, clinging to their land, working in quiet defiance despite the fear creeping ever closer. But even they had broken in the end. When the German aircraft—the so-called thunder birds—began circling overhead, the last of them packed what they could and fled.
Now the roads told the story.
Deep wagon ruts carved into the earth.
Broken wheels left behind.
Discarded bundles.
Small graves by the roadside, marked with crude crosses, where those too weak to continue had been laid to rest and abandoned.
What remained no longer felt like a country.
It felt hollowed out.
An ashen land where silence had replaced the sounds of life.
And it waited.
Empty.
Waiting to be claimed.
And so, when the Black Legion saw the land laid bare before them—
they advanced into it.
First came the scouts.
Motorcycles cutting across the empty roads, engines tearing through the unnatural quiet. Then came the armored trucks—heavy, deliberate—carrying men who waited only for resistance that never came.
There were no enemies.
No defenders.
Only absence.
Oskar had ordered caution.
Absolute caution.
Every street watched. Every building suspected. Every movement controlled.
And yet—even he had not fully grasped what he had done.
The terror he had unleashed.
The Russians feared him.
But it was the civilians who had truly broken.
Rumors had spread faster than any army could march. That the Germans brought death. That to fall into their hands meant annihilation. That mercy did not exist.
And though it was mostly not true, especially in regards to the fates that had been dealt to the women—
fear did not need truth to grow.
It only needed belief.
And belief had taken root.
So when the forward elements reached Łódź—a city that had once held over half a million souls—they found it hollow.
Smoke still drifted into the sky.
Entire districts had been stripped bare or burned, though not with order. The evacuation had been rushed. Too rushed. Enough had been taken—but not everything.
The city still held the shape of life.
Historically significant buildings stood.
Churches remained untouched.
Some warehouses still held forgotten goods—silver, food, tools—left behind in panic.
But the people were gone.
And the Black Legion moved through it like shadows.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Men hugging walls.
Weapons raised.
Expecting fire from every window, every tower, every alley.
They cleared the city building by building.
Doors were kicked in.
Rooms searched.
Streets secured.
Churches, schools, public halls—entered one by one.
And there, they found them. The ones who had not fled.
Huddled together.
Waiting.
And what came to them was not negotiation.
But law.
Black-clad officers stepped forward, unfolded documents, and read aloud.
The same words.
Everywhere.
Men—leave.
Women—choose.
Obey—or die.
And so, in town after town, village after village, Warsaw repeated itself.
Smaller.
Quieter.
But no less absolute.
Wherever the Black Legion passed, the Imperial banner followed. Flags raised over empty towns, marking ownership in silence.
By the evening of August 8th, near the outskirts of Kielce, the German forward elements finally met the Austro-Hungarian 1st Army.
The Austrians were surprised.
Not by resistance, but by its absence.
The land before them was empty with no sign of battle, or even defences having been built.
Just abandonment.
When they asked, the Germans answered simply:
The civilians had been evacuated east.
Not only to prevent resistance—but for their safety. To prevent reprisals. To maintain order.
All of it done under the Imperial Citizenship and Security Act of 1907.
On paper it was clean.
Logical.
Even humane.
No prisoners.
No occupied populations.
No hostages.
Russia was vast.
Surely it could absorb them.
Surely it could feed them.
But those who understood war better knew the truth.
Russia's weakness was not land.
Nor food.
It was movement.
It did not matter how much a nation possessed if it could not deliver it where it was needed.
And so the seed of disaster had already been planted.
Oskar knew it.
He accepted it.
Such was the price, he told himself, of building something greater—something ordered, something enduring. A world brought under one will. One system. One future.
The vision still lingered in his mind like a fever dream as he sat alone in his office within the royal palace of Warsaw.
Warm.
Quiet.
Lit by low, flickering candlelight that cast long shadows across polished wood and dark walls.
He sat there in his chair, dressed in his new tailored black, Black Legion officer's uniform—sharp, fitted, immaculate. It suited him. Too well. The dark fabric seemed to absorb the light around him, making his pale features and cold blue eyes stand out all the more. It gave him a presence that felt deliberate. Controlled. Almost theatrical in its authority.
He liked it.
But tonight, even that was not enough to still his irritation.
His fingers tapped slowly against the desk.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
There was no coffee and it had already been over thirty minutes, but just then came the knock.
Light.
Measured.
And a voice followed, soft, almost sweet, and far too playful for the words it carried.
"Oh great and mighty Iron Prince… may I come in? I have your coffee… and snacks."
Oskar's brow twitched.
She was doing it again—mocking him, testing him, pushing at a line she knew she should leave alone.
But for now, he wanted the coffee.
He exhaled slowly. "Enter."
The door opened at once, and she came in pushing the golden cart—polished, layered with care, the metal catching the candlelight in soft gleams. Steam rose from the coffee at the top, food arranged neatly beneath, drinks set below.
And then—her.
Zofia.
Dressed not as she had been before, but as something entirely different.
The maid uniform did not belong to her. That was the first thing he noticed. It had been chosen—placed on her—most likely by Patricia and Elise. Of course. The two of them ruled the palace now in all but name, managing daily affairs, and it seemed they had decided to reshape her into something more fitting to their world.
But the dress did not fit her cleanly.
It clung.
The corset pulled her waist tight, too tight, forcing her posture upright and lifting her chest high. Her breasts pressed against the fabric, full and heavy, the cloth straining just enough to betray their weight, rising and falling with each breath. Not delicate. Not trained. Real. Every movement made them shift, restrained but not fully contained, as if the dress was struggling to keep them in place.
The white stockings caught the candlelight.
The heels—new to her—made her careful.
Each step clicked softly against the wooden floor.
Click.
Click.
Unsteady, controlled, her hips swaying naturally as she tried to balance, not practiced, not refined—just the honest movement of a body unused to such things. The dress moved with her, her chest reacting to each step, her balance forcing her into a rhythm she could not quite hide.
She tried to appear composed.
She wasn't.
That made it better.
Oskar watched.
Closely.
The way her shoulders held tension.
The way her gaze flickered, avoiding him but never fully escaping.
The way she knew she was being seen.
And far sooner than he would have liked, she reached the desk. The walk ended too quickly for his liking, the soft click of her unfamiliar heels fading into stillness as she came to stand beside him.
Carefully, she began her task, lifting the food tray from the cart and setting it down first. The desk was too high for her, forcing her to lean forward, and in that motion the fabric pulled tight across her, the corset drawing her waist in while pushing everything else outward, her chest pressing forward in a way that was impossible to ignore. She felt it at once—the strain of the dress, the exposure of the posture—and for a brief second she hesitated.
Oskar didn't.
His eyes followed the line of her body from the side, slow, deliberate, taking in what the uniform had done to her.
Her cheeks flushed under his gaze, heat rising quickly as she cast him a short, sharp glance, embarrassed and defensive all at once, before turning away again as if that might undo what he had already seen.
Then as she reached down for the coffee tray, turning her back just enough, his hand moved before he thought about it. It landed against her backside, firm, deliberate, fingers pressing in and gripping with a playful certainty that made her body jolt in surprise. The softness of her there contrasted sharply with the strength in his hand, and for a brief second she froze completely, a small sound escaping her—half protest, half something else she didn't quite control.
He felt the way she reacted.
The tension.
The hesitation.
And beneath it—something that didn't pull away fast enough.
Oskar smirked slightly.
"Tonight," he said quietly, voice low, controlled, "you look exceptionally nice, Zofia."
A pause followed, brief but noticeable.
"Consider me impressed."
She flinched. Not at the touch—but at the words.
Because to her, strangely, it wasn't enough.
That was clear immediately.
Her body moved again, but something in her had shifted, the warmth replaced by something sharper, colder. She said nothing, continuing her task, but the air in the room changed all the same. As she lifted the tray of coffee, she let out a short breath—tight, controlled—a sound closer to restrained frustration than acceptance.
And when she turned back toward him, he saw it fully.
The effort.
The intention.
Her hair had been done with care, not loosely but shaped to frame her face. Her lips were colored, a deliberate red that stood out against her skin. Her eyes, sharper now, more defined, carried a weight they hadn't before. She had prepared herself—not casually, not by accident, but with purpose.
And his words—
had barely touched it.
"So…" she murmured, her voice low, controlled, but edged with something sharper underneath, "after all that… I look nice?"
Her gaze flicked toward him, quick, dangerous, testing.
"Was I something else before?"
There it was, a woman's frustration. Not loud, not dramatic—but real, sharp, and cutting deeper than anger.
Oskar understood it instantly. He had misjudged the moment. For a brief second, he considered correcting himself, saying something more—something worthy of the effort she had clearly put into herself—but she did not give him the time.
Before he could speak, she moved to pour the coffee. She leaned forward again, forced by the height of the desk, and this time he saw her properly—her chest pressing against the tight fabric, the corset holding her in while everything else strained against it, the curve and weight of her body shifting as she steadied herself. It was not subtle and it drew his attention whether he allowed it or not.
"Well," he said, voice low, almost amused, "don't misunderstand me, woman. What I meant was not nice… but exceptionally nice. There is a difference."
Her face twitched from the words, as it wasn't enough.
Not nearly enough.
Her lips tightened as she continued pouring, but her control slipped just slightly—the cup filling too fast, the dark liquid rising too high, spilling over the edge.
She didn't stop it.
Didn't correct it.
Instead, she set the kettle down, her expression shifting, that small, deliberate smile forming as if something had just been decided.
Then her hand moved.
A quick motion.
Too quick to be accidental.
She struck the side of the overflowing cup.
The coffee spilled.
Hot.
A wave of dark liquid surged across the tray, over the edge, and down—straight onto his lap, soaking into his uniform, seeping into the fabric, spreading heat across him.
Oskar jerked back sharply, breath cutting out as the heat hit.
"—Ah—"
"Oops," she said lightly, her voice far too smooth, far too calm.
"My mistake."
And then—
she giggled.
Not softly.
Not nervously.
But deliberately.
The sound hung in the air, sharp and provoking, and Oskar's expression darkened instantly. The irritation came fast, cutting through everything else. He had spared the women of this land to avoid chaos, to avoid resistance, to maintain control—but clearly, they were not without their own weapons.
And she was using hers.
Oskar rose at once, the chair scraping back hard against the floor.
"You bitch."
The word came out sharp, controlled, dangerous.
Her eyes widened, and she moved instantly, trying to turn away, to step back—but she didn't make it far. His hand snapped forward and caught her by the hair, stopping her before she could take more than a single step. She yelped, her body pulled back into him as his grip held firm—not wild, not violent—but absolute.
She froze.
Not because she couldn't struggle—
but because something in her chose not to.
And he felt it.
He pushed her forward, bending her over the desk, her chest pressed down against the wood, her legs lifting slightly off the ground as he pinned her there. Not brutally. Not carelessly.
But completely.
"How dare you," he said, his voice low now, tight with restrained anger, "play games with me."
Her breath hitched, sharp, uneven.
Not entirely from fear.
"Have you no sense?" he growled near her ear.
He stood close behind her, his presence overwhelming, his body pressing in just enough to remind her exactly how little space she had to resist. She turned her head, eyes wet now, but still burning, still defiant.
"Fuck you… I hate you… I'll never forgive you… you vile, arrogant man…"
She tried to push herself up, but his hand held her down effortlessly. Her legs kicked slightly, useless, trapped by his position, and he smiled faintly at the attempt.
"Yes," he murmured, almost lightly despite the tension, "I've heard that before. Many times. Now what is your point? Why do you insist on acting like this?"
He leaned closer, his voice dropping further as he brushed his lips near her ear, his tone quieter, more controlled.
"You say you hate me… and yet you're still here."
A pause.
"Why?"
His breath touched her skin.
"Why not leave? Take up arms. Join the others. Come find me on the battlefield like all the rest."
She didn't answer at first. Her breathing broke unevenly, her eyes shifting, caught between anger and something deeper, something she could not fully explain.
Then, quietly—
"It's not like that."
He frowned slightly.
"Then what is it, woman?" he pressed, irritation creeping back in. "I gave you and your daughter rooms meant for royalty. I feed you. I clothe you. I teach you my language. I gave you respectable work. I haven't even touched you properly—not once—even though I could have taken you whenever I wished."
His voice hardened.
"So what else do you want?"
He couldn't understand it. He had given her more than most would. More than any conqueror would. And still she pushed him, resisted him, tested him at every turn.
So he did what he always did when his women got mad at him.
He leaned forward and kissed the back of her neck.
Soft, tenderness.
And it broke her.
A small sound escaped her—unintended, soft, betraying—as her body reacted instantly, the tension in her shifting, her resistance faltering in a way words never managed to achieve.
Oskar watched it happen.
Watched her there against the desk, her body pressed forward, her form strained against the uniform, her hair falling loose, her breath uneven, her composure slipping.
Then his hand came down.
A sharp, controlled smack against her backside.
She cried out, her body tensing hard, and he let out a quiet breath of amusement as he caught her by the waist, holding her steady.
"So," he said calmly, "do you wish to tell me what is on your mind… or should I punish you further?"
She glanced back at him, breath shaking, anger still there—but mixed now with something far more complicated.
"You talk big, Iron Prince…" she said, forcing the words out, defiance still clinging to her voice. "But can you actually back any of it up?"
Oskar's brow twitched slightly, irritation returning.
She didn't stop.
"As far as I can see, your plans aren't going as well as you think. You've given the Russians millions of angry Poles. Japan just declared war on you. China is sanctioning you. And you…" she huffed slightly, breath uneven, "…you can't even bring yourself to do more than this."
A pause.
"Is this truly the best you can do?"
That struck.
Properly.
Oskar's expression tightened, irritation finally settling in for real. He knew things were escalating—but he also knew he had control of the situation. People simply lacked the patience to see it.
Then, he heard an knock.
Sharp.
Cutting through everything.
Oskar froze, his hand still firm at her waist, the tension lingering for just a second longer before reality snapped back into place.
"Yes," he said, voice edged with irritation. "What is it? I'm in the middle of something important."
Captain Carter's voice came through the door.
"Your Highness, Lieutenant General François is here with an urgent report regarding the 1st Russian Army."
Oskar clicked his tongue, "Damn, why now."