Oskar clicked his tongue, "Damn, why now."
His jaw tightened slightly as he glanced down at Zofia. Her eyes were wet, lashes heavy with tears, her chest still rising unevenly beneath the tight maid uniform, the fabric strained and unsettled from how she had been held moments before. She wasn't struggling anymore. Not truly. She looked… shaken. Fragile in a way that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with what had broken inside her long before this room.
The anger in him faded.
Not gone.
But dulled.
He leaned back into his chair, the heavy frame creaking slightly under his weight, and waved his hand dismissively as if the entire moment had been nothing.
"Off with you, woman," he said, tone flat now, controlled again. "We will talk later."
Zofia hesitated.
For a second, she remained where she was, as if waiting—for punishment, for judgment, for something harsher than dismissal. But when it didn't come, something shifted in her expression, confusion replacing the tension.
Then she moved.
Not away.
Forward.
She pushed herself off the desk quickly, her movements clumsy in the heels she still hadn't mastered, nearly stumbling before catching herself. Her breathing was uneven as she reached for a handkerchief, dropping down in front of him without asking, without thinking, driven more by instinct than sense.
Oskar frowned immediately.
"Wait—what are you—"
But she was already there, crouched between his legs, her head lowered, her brown hair falling forward as she pressed the cloth against the stain on his trousers. Her hands trembled as she wiped at it, trying to clean the mess she herself had made.
"I'm sorry, Oskar… please don't mind me… I'll fix it… I'll fix it…"
Her voice broke slightly, softer now, stripped of defiance, replaced by something far more human—panic, embarrassment, the sudden realization of what she had done.
Oskar wanted to push her away, he had business to attend to after all.
But suddenly her hands brushed over his precious, and his body reacted to her touch.
Instantly.
Unavoidably.
And yet she kept at it, hands brushing against him as she worked, too close, too unaware of the effect she was having or where she was touching. The contact was light, accidental—but it was enough. His muscles tensed sharply, breath catching just slightly as the sensation traveled through him before he could suppress it.
Thankfully Zofia noticed quickly.
Her hands paused.
And a faint flush rose in her cheeks.
Her lips parted slightly, then pressed together again as if she were trying to steady herself—yet something in her expression betrayed that she wasn't entirely unaffected by it.
"Your Highness…" she whispered, voice lower now, uncertain, caught between apology and something she did not want to name, "I didn't mean to…"
But it was already too late, he didn't have time for this.
Oskar's expression hardened, control snapping back into place as he leaned forward and caught her by the arm, pushing—her further beneath the desk, into the shadowed space there where his legs rested, out of sight from the door.
Then he sat back again, straightening his coat, adjusting himself with controlled precision as if nothing had happened, as if there wasn't a maid on her knees between his powerful legs with a handkerchief.
Below the desk, Zofia remained where she had been placed.
On her knees now, completely still.
Her face burned red, the heat rising up her neck and into her cheeks as she forced herself to continue, her hands moving again, more carefully now, avoiding what she had touched before, focusing only on the stain.
Her breathing was uneven.
Her body tense.
And yet, she stayed there obediently.
Oskar cleared his throat once, grounding himself, his posture returning to its usual composed authority.
"Alright," he said flatly.
"Send him in."
The door opened.
Lieutenant General François stepped in with a fist to the heart salute, dressed entirely in black, like all the senior officers of the Black Legion. His presence was sharp, composed, and immediate, cutting through the air of the room without effort.
"Your Highness," he said, bowing slightly, "I have received word from Lieutenant General Hans von Seeckt, Commander of the XVII Corps. They have confirmed that the Russian General Rennenkampf—and several of his subordinates—are indeed willing to surrender to us."
He paused.
"They questioned the man's… adopted son. Thoroughly, with a towel and water as you instructed. But even after extended interigation, and other creative ideas, he repeated the same claims without change. It is possible he is telling the truth."
A brief silence followed.
"What do you think, Your Highness? Should we grant his request?"
Oskar did not answer immediately.
He had already heard of the letter. That much had reached him. But he had ordered confirmation. Such things could not be taken at face value—not now, not in a war that had already twisted expectation into something unreliable.
Rennenkampf…
In another life, the man had survived failure.
In this one—
things were different.
Or perhaps worse.
He considered it. Briefly thought of calling Hindenburg. Ludendorff. Weighing it properly.
But then—
he felt her again.
Zofia.
Still there.
Still close.
Her hands had not stopped.
Small. Soft. Careful.
They moved along his leg as though the world beyond the desk had ceased to exist. Attentive, almost reverent, as she continued her task—though by now it had clearly become something else. Not just cleaning, but something dangerously distracting.
Oskar's focus faltered for the briefest moment.
François continued.
"Your Highness, I have studied this Rennenkampf. He is of German descent. That alone makes him… potentially useful. If he is sincere, he could indeed bring others with him—men of similar background, similar position."
A pause.
"However," he added, voice tightening slightly, "his family has lived within Russia for generations. That cannot be ignored. Such roots… are not easily severed. Their loyalties may not be as clear as he claims."
Oskar nodded faintly.
"I see," he said, though his voice was slower now, less focused than before. "And it is true, then… that he and his family were treated poorly in Russia?"
Under the desk, Zofia shifted again.
Too close.
Her hands pressed against his trousers, and then—worse—her warm breath followed, as if she could somehow fix the stain that way.
Oskar felt it instantly.
His entire body tensed, but outwardly—nothing.
Not a movement.
Not a flicker.
Zofia kept going, completely unaware, focused, careful, making it worse with every second.
Oskar's jaw tightened slightly as he forced himself to remain still, one hand pressing a little too firmly against the desk.
François saw nothing.
Only his Iron Prince—calm, composed, listening.
While beneath the desk—
Zofia continued, her breath warm and dangerously close.
And Oskar thought only one thing:
She needs to stop.
Now.
"Yes, Your Highness. That is correct. In the Baltic regions, relations are often stable enough. But once men of that background seek advancement—education, rank, position—especially in Saint Petersburg… that is where tensions begin."
He stepped slightly forward.
"The Russian state does not trust minorities. Not fully. Even now, they attempt to keep such groups within strict limits in their army—below certain thresholds, controlled, watched. And beyond the army, the situation is worse, particularly for the Jews."
His tone remained measured.
"Rennenkampf, despite his ability, would have faced that. Quietly. Repeatedly. And in the current climate… it would only have intensified."
A pause.
"He is, by all accounts, one of the more capable generals they have left. And yet—because of his background—he remains vulnerable. Politically exposed. Distrusted."
François's gaze sharpened slightly.
"In truth, Your Highness, he was fortunate to reach his current rank at all. In another circumstance… he may not have survived it."
Oskar leaned forward slightly.
Trying to focus on anything but the woman thing under the desk.
Oskar nodded slowly. He knew well enough what Russia had become—fractured, restless, unstable. Small revolts flared again and again, and the empire answered with suspicion and repression. The Jews suffered worst of all, pushed aside, distrusted, denied. And so the Communists grew stronger, feeding on that resentment, promising equality to those who had never known it.
"So you believe we should accept Rennenkampf's surrender?" Oskar asked.
"Yes, Your Highness," François replied without hesitation. "The operation you have designed is sound. If we act on this, we may gain not only a general, but a rallying point—someone who can turn the Baltic peoples toward us in time."
Oskar leaned back slightly, rubbing his face as he thought. The First Russian Army was already under immense pressure. Break its command, and the rest might collapse with it. Land could be taken without the cost of another full assault. The risk, of course, was obvious—trusting a man who might yet betray them in the future.
He was about to answer—
when he stiffened.
From beneath the desk, Zofia moved.
Not by accident anymore.
Not clumsy.
Deliberate.
Oskar did not shift. Did not betray it. His posture remained composed, hands resting before him as though still deep in thought—but inside, every nerve sharpened.
Her touch had changed.
Slower now. Knowing.
Testing.
His belt shifted—just slightly. The leather strained, then eased as her fingers worked with quiet patience, loosening what held him in place. Each small adjustment carried intention, as though she had rehearsed this in her mind long before daring to act.
He drew a slow breath, forcing control into his voice.
"Alright… since we are agreed, and I have no objections… we will accept General Rennenkampf's surrender."
François nodded immediately.
"Yes, Your Highness. It will be done. And as you have requested beforehand, I will contact Grand Admiral Tirpitz at once. Submarines will be deployed, and under cover of night, Rennenkampf and his family will be extracted from the assigned location."
Oskar nodded, though his attention was no longer fully on the conversation before him. Beneath the desk, something had shifted—sudden, undeniable. His breath caught for the briefest moment as he felt himself come free, the movement abrupt, uncontrolled and enough to stun Zofia for the moment.
"Good. And ensure Marines are involved. Light cruisers as well—this will serve as both extraction and exercise for future naval landings. Have Seeckt press the XVII Corps forward, supported by air and armored divisions. Tirpitz can land forces in the rear—Ventspils will suffice for now as a forward anchor. Coordinate it all. And once Rennenkampf is secured…"
A pause.
"…I want to meet him."
François straightened, gave the salute, and answered firmly:
"Yes, Your Highness. Your will be done"
Then he turned and left.
The door closed.
And the moment it did—
the silence broke.
A low, restrained sound escaped Oskar at last, the kind dragged up from deep in his chest, held back for far too long. His hand came down sharply against the edge of the desk, steadying himself for a heartbeat before he reached beneath it.
"Enough of this," he muttered, voice rough.
Zofia let out a small, startled gasp as he pulled her up, her hair slightly disheveled, lips parted, breath uneven. There was a flicker of triumph in her eyes—she knew exactly what she had done.
He stood, towering over her, and in one motion turned her, pressing her down against the desk. The trays were pushed aside, papers shifted, the wood creaked beneath her weight as she caught herself, breath quickening.
"Oskar…" she whispered, but there was no protest in it.
"No talking now, it's punishment time for you woman," he said quietly, though the edge in his voice betrayed something deeper—something far less controlled.
His hands were already at her waist, gathering her dress, lifting it just enough to reveal his prize. The movement was deliberate, unhurried, as if savoring the moment. She bit her lip, her back arching instinctively, leaning into him.
Behind her, he paused—just for a second to align himself with her.
Then he pushed forward, closing the distance.
Zofia's breath hitched sharply, her fingers tightening against the desk as the tension snapped. The first contact stole the air from her lungs, her head dropping forward as a soft, broken sound escaped her.
"Oskar—"
He didn't answer.
There was no space left for words.
Only closeness.
Only heat.
The distance between them had vanished, replaced by something immediate and undeniable—breath against skin, the press of bodies, the slow, building rhythm of movement that neither of them stopped. What began as tension—sharp, restrained, dangerous—unwound into something deeper, something heavier, something neither command nor defiance could hold back any longer.
At first it was controlled.
Measured.
As if both of them still held onto the illusion that they could stop whenever they chose.
But that illusion did not last.
Not here.
Not like this.
Zofia moved against him with a kind of desperate certainty, her earlier anger, frustration, and defiance melting into something far more honest—something she had been holding back for too long. Her hands no longer hesitated. Her body no longer resisted. She leaned into him, into the warmth, into the presence that had unsettled her since the river, since the square, since everything had changed.
And Oskar—
for all his little control in regards to women to begin with, he quickly gave in.
The line between restraint, and surrender to something primal blurred, then vanished, leaving only sensation, tension, and the quiet intensity of two people who had stopped pretending they could ignore what stood between them.
Outside the door, death still waited.
The rivers carried bodies.
The roads carried the displaced.
The war had not stopped. It never truly had stopped in all of human history.
But inside that room, something older than war had taken hold.
Not love.
Not anything so clean.
For there has always been a cruel symmetry to war. When it tears life away, something in human nature answers—not with peace, but with need. Not with romance, but with hunger. Hunger for warmth, for safety, for something that feels like life in the face of constant death.
Destruction and creation do not cancel each other.
They follow one another.
Like shadow follows light.
Like night follows day.
War empties homes.
And something desperate tries to fill them.
In that office, it was not tenderness that ruled for a moment, but instinct. A quiet, desperate instinct that refuses to let death have the final word.
Elsewhere in the palace, the same truth unfolded in different forms.
The maids Oskar had once "rescued" now moved through corridors no longer defined by fear of Cossacks, but by something more complicated. The Eternal Guard—men of immense strength, discipline, and presence—were not monsters, but they were not saviors either. They were married men, many of them, bound by a new order, by a new Church that had already begun reshaping what was permitted, what was expected.
And so lines shifted.
Not cleanly.
Not willingly.
But inevitably.
Some of the women found themselves drawn toward these men—not simply by affection, but by proximity, by protection, by the simple gravity of survival. And the men, in turn, took what was now allowed to them, what had been written into new laws and justified by new beliefs.
Not cruelty.
Not kindness.
Something in between.
Beyond the palace walls, it was harsher still.
The city had been emptied of men. What remained were women, children, the old—and hunger.
Food did not grow from fear. Safety did not come from memory. And so many of the women who had stayed, had begun to move already, cautiously at first, toward the German soldiers who now occupied their streets.
They did not trust them.
They did not forgive them.
But they needed something.
Bread.
Warmth.
Protection.
And the soldiers—stripped of their armor, of their helmets, of the distance that had made them seem inhuman—suddenly didn't seem so cruel or unapproachable. Some gave food. Some gave shelter. Some spoke gently.
And in that small space where kindness met desperation, something fragile and uneasy took root.
Not love.
But an exchange.
A silent understanding.
The women knew what was expected, even if it was never spoken outright. And the soldiers of the Legion, all youthful and powerful, knew what was being offered, even if they told themselves it was something else.
And so, in the shadow of war, life continued.
Not in purity.
Not in romance.
But in compromise.
In need.
In the quiet, painful truth that when everything is taken from a person, even dignity becomes something that can be traded for one more day of survival.
War destroys.
But what follows it is not always rebuilding.
Sometimes—
it is simply people learning how to live inside what remains.
The next day, the 9th of August, General Rennenkampf received Oskar's reply through the adopted son, who had been released from captivity. Rennenkampf wasted no time. He began preparations at once—gathering those he trusted, assembling his family, and planning their escape toward the coast where German submarines would retrieve them under cover of night.
At the same time, Lieutenant General Hans von Seeckt, commanding the XVII Corps, began his offensive.
The attack opened as modern war demanded, first with artillery, and most significantly with the air.
German aircraft descended first, bombs falling in waves, tearing apart Russian forward positions. Machine-gun fire swept the trenches and tree lines, breaking cohesion, scattering defenders, shattering what little organization remained. Under that pressure, the ground offensive followed.
The Black Legion advanced.
With them came the 1st Armoured Division under Erwin Rommel, moving fast, exploiting gaps the moment they appeared. Once the river crossings were secured, the German advance became relentless—methodical, aggressive, coordinated with a precision the Russian forces could not match.
At sea, German warships and marine detachments moved toward Ventspils, preparing for the extraction of Rennenkampf and his allies.
And as news spread—
the shock followed.
Across the Entente, disbelief turned quickly into unease. Germany's Eighth Army, through speed, coordination, and the brutal efficiency of the Black Legion, had achieved what few had thought possible so early in the war. The balance in the east had shifted.
Russia still stood.
But it bled.
By August, the number of dead was already climbing toward half a million men—many of them among its best-trained and most experienced troops. The impact was severe. And as those losses mounted, the need for replacements grew more desperate. New men would be drawn in. More and more. Until even those not meant for war would find themselves pulled into it.
And as the Black Legion pushed east—
Austria-Hungary followed.
More slowly.
Less decisively.
Still focused on Serbia, where the next stage of the war waited, and where Bulgaria watched, not yet committed, waiting for Oskar's call.