After the events at the naval base at Wilhelmshaven, by the afternoon of that same day, the rest of Germany learned of the battle in the mid-Atlantic as newspapers began to print the story. It read almost like myth—an account so extraordinary that many at first refused to believe it. In two phases of combat, fought over several hours, nine German battlecruisers, supported by barely two dozen submarines, had shattered a British force of escorts, merchant ships, and capital vessels alike. Seven dreadnoughts and three battlecruisers were reported lost, with British casualties at sea rising to well over ten thousand souls.
And opposite that devastation stood the German losses.
Three submarines.
Fewer than a hundred dead.
Some wounded.
That was all.
The contrast was so stark, so improbable, that disbelief swept the nation before giving way to something far greater. By midday, Germany had erupted into celebration. In streets and public squares, strangers embraced one another without hesitation, sharing in the same astonishment, the same swelling pride. In parks and marketplaces, laughter and song replaced the usual rhythm of daily life, and as evening approached, the crowds flowed into taverns, beer halls, and cafés, raising their voices and their glasses in celebration of a victory that seemed to promise a brighter future.
Yet what stirred the people almost as much as the victory itself was what was to follow.
That same evening, a grand celebration had been announced at the royal palace in Potsdam—not merely for officers or nobles, but for the sailors themselves and their immediate families. It was a thing almost unheard of. The palace, long a symbol of distance and power, was to open its gates to the very people whose blood and labor had secured the victory. For many, it was an honor beyond imagination, a moment that would not come again.
By evening, the Royal Palace of Potsdam stood transformed.
The great gates were thrown wide, framed by towering outer walls that gave the entire complex an almost fortress-like presence. Guards stood along those walls and at every entrance, their posture rigid, their eyes sharp as they watched the steady and unending flow of arrivals. The numbers were immense. Nine battlecruisers, twenty-two submarines, and their crews, together with their families, meant tens of thousands of people drawn together by a single event.
Yet the palace held.
In recent years, under Oskar's direction and supported by his wealth, the grounds had been expanded and reshaped to accommodate gatherings of this scale, and now that foresight revealed its purpose. The sailors arrived in waves, many still in uniform, accompanied by wives, sweethearts, and children, some with parents in tow who had come simply to witness what they had never expected to see.
The nobility and upper classes had already arrived, stepping from sleek Muscle Motors A-class motorcars, their polished machines gleaming in the fading light. Behind them came the B- and C-class automobiles, simpler in form but no less carefully maintained. Further back came the rest—motorcycles roaring in with laughter, women holding tightly behind their riders, families arriving on foot in their best clothes, their steps measured as they approached the gates. Others came by bicycle, one man riding proudly with his young wife clinging to his back and their small daughter seated at the front, her oversized helmet slipping as she gazed around in wide-eyed wonder.
All were stopped, checked, and searched. No weapons were permitted, no baggage beyond what one carried upon their person. Only after inspection were they allowed through.
For many, it was the first time they had ever seen the palace up close. Although much of it remained restricted, guarded by the imposing presence of the Eternal Guard—three companies stationed throughout the interior of the palace, their armor dark, their discipline absolute. While much of the outside was guarded by the Royal Guards. Yet even with those restrictions, the sight alone was enough. For a moment, even the victory at sea seemed distant beside the wonder of it.
Inside the palace, the divide between society still existed—but for this night, it had been carefully reshaped.
The grand ballroom filled first. Beneath vast chandeliers and polished ceilings, the upper ranks of Germany gathered in measured elegance. Officers stood in decorated uniforms, their medals catching the light with every movement, while nobles in tailored dress spoke in low, controlled tones. Diplomats from neutral nations and from Germany's allies—Austria-Hungary and Bulgaria among them—mingled with ministers and industrial magnates, their conversations restrained yet alive with the knowledge that they were witnessing the turning of something greater than themselves. It did not feel like a court frozen in tradition, but rather the center of a nation in motion.
Above them, raised slightly and set apart, the royal table had been prepared.
At its head sat Wilhelm II and Empress Augusta, both still vigorous, still commanding, their presence anchoring the room with quiet authority. Along one side sat the princes of the imperial family, their wives beside them, while Princess Louise sat near her once-controversial but now accepted fiancé, Gustav Schwarzenegger—an outsider by birth, yet one who had risen by merit and circumstance into the highest circles of the empire.
Opposite them, at the far end of the table, sat Crown Prince Oskar.
It was around him, more than anyone else, that the energy of the room seemed to turn.
To his left, Anna leaned close, her body naturally pressing into Oskar's arm as she spoke in low, intimate tones, her smile open and unguarded in a way that would have been unthinkable in earlier years. The dress she wore followed the newer German fashion—fitted, daring, and unmistakably deliberate in its design. It clung to her form, accentuating the fullness of her figure, the softness shaped by motherhood yet carried with quiet confidence rather than restraint. The fabric dipped low enough at the front to draw the eye without apology, while the back fell open, revealing smooth milky white skin down to the small of her back. She seemed entirely at ease in it, as though the attention it commanded was not something she sought, but something she simply accepted. As she fed Oskar a pastry with a playful ease that bordered on defiance of etiquette, the act itself seemed to amuse her more than anything else in the room.
Beside her sat Gundelinde and Cecilie, both composed and outwardly elegant, their posture flawless, their expressions measured. Gundelinde's beauty carried a noble restraint, her figure more refined than Anna's, her movements controlled, her dress chosen with care to emphasize grace rather than boldness. Cecilie, taller and more statuesque, held herself with the quiet discipline of royalty, her presence calm but unmistakable. Yet for all their composure, neither could fully hide the occasional glance toward Oskar and Anna—a flicker of something unspoken passing between them before they returned to their conversation, their dignity intact but not entirely untouched.
To Oskar's right sat Tanya, and where Anna was warm and inviting, Tanya was something else entirely.
She wore red as she always did, a color that seemed less like a choice and more like a declaration. The gown clung tightly to her body, following every curve with deliberate precision, its cut both bold and controlled, revealing enough to command attention while leaving the rest to imagination. The back of the dress was open, exposing strong lines of muscle beneath pale skin, while the front drew the eye to her presence with a confidence that bordered on challenge. There was nothing hesitant about her. She sat relaxed, one arm resting lightly against the table, her posture loose yet controlled, her body language speaking of someone who did not need permission to exist within the space.
Her eyes were alive with mischief and intelligence, her smile sharp, knowing.
And for once, that attention was not directed at Oskar.
Instead, she leaned toward Karl, her voice low, teasing him with a deliberate ease that seemed to unsettle and amuse him in equal measure. Karl, dressed in a pristine white suit, appeared at first glance almost out of place among such company—small, understated, easily overlooked—but those who knew him understood better. Beside him sat Heddy, close and attentive, her presence protective, her eyes never straying far from him. She knew, perhaps better than anyone, the strength hidden beneath his appearance, just as others had begun to notice it in quieter places beyond the palace walls.
Not far from them, at a separate table set slightly aside, sat the children.
There, laughter rose more freely, less controlled, a contained chaos that no amount of etiquette could fully restrain. The heirs of the empire, along with the children of those close to power, spoke and moved with an energy that stood in contrast to the measured stillness of the adults, their world not yet burdened by the weight that rested upon those around them.
And beyond the ballroom, up a circular set of carpeted stairs and through the great doors and down another longer set of stairs that led into the gardens below, the atmosphere changed entirely.
There, the sailors and their families gathered in their thousands.
Long wooden tables stretched across the grounds, filled with food carried out in steady waves from field kitchens that worked without pause. Fires burned against the evening chill, their light flickering across faces flushed with warmth and celebration. Here, there was no restraint. Laughter came easily, voices rose without hesitation, and the formality of rank gave way, if only for a night, to something closer to shared triumph.
And moving among them, as if he belonged was Shadowmane.
The great black horse moved slowly through the crowd, vast and imposing, his size alone enough to command attention. Muscles shifted beneath his dark hide with every step, each movement controlled, deliberate, carrying a quiet strength that unsettled even those who admired him. He accepted food from cautious hands, lowering his head with surprising gentleness, while his offspring lingered nearby, smaller yet unmistakably of the same lineage, their presence echoing his own.
All the while between the ballroom and the gardens, servants moved constantly, carrying silver trays and wooden platters alike, bridging the gap between worlds that had rarely touched so closely.
Back in the ballroom, people suddenly noticed a particular sight as Bertha Krupp rose from her place among her family and the industrialists, and moved with surprising urgency across the floor. Without hesitation, she ascended the steps toward the royal table, her presence drawing glances as she took a seat beside Cecilie and Gundelinde, with Louise close by. Within moments, the four women were deep in conversation, their voices blending into a softer, more intimate tone that stood in contrast to the measured restraint of the hall below. While her children quickly hurried after her, and joined the royal families children leaving their father Gustav Krupp behind.
At the foot of the great staircase, just beneath the imperial table, the admirals watched.
They had not missed it.
There, seated together yet apart from the rest, were the men who had commanded fleets and shaped the battle that now defined the evening. Among them sat John Jellicoe, silent and composed, flanked on either side by Maximilian von Spee and Reinhard Scheer—the very men who had brought about his defeat.
Around him, the celebration continued.
There was food, laughter, conversation, and the steady hum of victory, yet none of it seemed to reach him in quite the same way. He should have been furious. He should have been humiliated, perhaps even drinking deeply to bury the weight of what had been lost. Yet there was no wine upon the tables, no spirits passed from hand to hand, no smoke curling upward from cigarettes.
He had noticed it immediately.
The rumors had been true.
This new Germany, even in victory, did not indulge as Britain did. There was restraint here, a discipline that extended beyond the battlefield and into the very fabric of its people. They celebrated, yes—but not through excess. Instead, they found their comfort in one another and in their shared beliefs.
Jellicoe's gaze drifted upward.
Toward the royal table.
He could not help but notice the difference there as well. The women, dressed in the newer German fashion, wore garments that revealed far more than would ever have been considered proper in Britain. The women's fair white skin caught the light, unhidden, unashamed, and yet no one seemed disturbed by it. There was no scandal, no discomfort—only ease. They spoke openly, smiled freely, compared dresses and laughed without restraint.
And at the center of it all was Oskar.
Jellicoe studied him quietly, his eyes lingering not only on the man, but on the women who surrounded him. Each carried herself with a distinct presence, each different, yet equally striking, as though drawn from some ideal beyond the ordinary.
For a fleeting moment, something unfamiliar stirred within him—not quite resentment, not quite admiration, but something between the two. He old enough to recognize it and old enough to dismiss it.
Fifty-four years after all.
And yet, he could not quite bring himself to look away.
From the table above, voices carried more clearly now, less restrained than those below. The tone there was lighter, almost playful, yet beneath it ran something sharper, something more personal.
Tanya leaned toward Karl without hesitation, her hand already in his hair, ruffling it as though he were a child she had every right to handle.
"Oh, just look at him," she said, her smile bright and merciless. "The great architect of German industry. Always issuing orders as if the rest of us exist purely to obey."
Her fingers lingered, deliberately slow, before she withdrew them.
"First, you have my Angelworks shut down its proper business—no more animal garments, no more fine pieces—nothing of beauty left untouched. Then you turn the whole of it toward the military." She tilted her head slightly, watching him. "One million gray uniforms, you said. Then ten million, plus backpacks, even those vests to hold your magazines and bulletproof plates, and helmet covers. Along with thousands of Ghillie suits, of all things."
A soft, mocking breath escaped her.
"And then, of course, the endless stream of undergarments and socks. My 'brave ladies,' as you so elegantly put it, working themselves to exhaustion so your soldiers may march in comfort, even though we do not even have ten million soldiers."
She leaned in closer, far too close for Karl's comfort, her breath on him and fingers poking his face.
"So tell me, Karl…" she murmured, her voice dropping just enough to turn it dangerous. "When exactly will it be enough? Or does your appetite simply grow with every demand?"
A pause, just long enough to enjoy the tension.
"And what are you and Oskar actually planning? All this secrecy… it's almost insulting."
Karl stiffened at once, his entire posture snapping tight.
"Don't touch my head, woman," he snapped, batting her hand away. "And stop asking questions that do not concern you. What I do is for the greater good."
He shot her a sharp look.
"And after last time, I trust you with secrets about as far as I can throw you."
Tanya didn't even pretend to be offended.
Instead, she tilted her head, smile widening, eyes gleaming with pure trouble.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, my little master," she said sweetly. "Truly. I suppose I should never have mentioned to the others how I made you massage my feet… and my back… more than once."
She sighed lightly, as if burdened by memory.
"I did try to keep it to myself, you know. But I enjoyed it far too much."
Karl went rigid.
Heddy's head snapped toward them.
Tanya continued, utterly unbothered.
"So yes alright, I apologize for questioning your grand designs… and for suggesting to the others that perhaps they, too, might request the services of your very capable dwarfish hands that hold such power."
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she reached forward and pinched his cheek.
"Though I do wonder," she added lightly, "how someone so small manages to be so stubborn… so good with their hands… and so full of energy."
Her eyes flicked, deliberately, toward Heddy.
"What exactly are you feeding him at home?"
Heddy reacted instantly, pulling Karl closer, one arm wrapping around him in a way that was not subtle in the slightest.
"That is not for you to know," she said calmly, though the edge beneath it was unmistakable, "And this is my husband you know, not your object of bullying."
Her gaze locked onto Tanya.
"And you know better than to question him."
Tanya laughed softly.
"Oh, I know enough," she replied. "I know you dote on him like he's something precious. I know you sit him on your lap whenever you think no one is watching…"
She paused, just long enough to let it land.
"And I know you don't stop there."
Heddy's composure cracked.
"…What?"
Tanya's smile sharpened into something almost predatory.
"If you'd rather I not explain it to the rest of the table," she said lazily, "then perhaps you should allow me the small pleasure of pinching his cheeks now and then."
Her fingers returned briefly—light, deliberate.
"He's far too cute to keep hidden away."
She leaned back, satisfied.
"Besides… we are friends, are we not?"
Heddy stared at her, somewhere between disbelief and fury.
"…Are you blackmailing me?" she asked slowly.
Karl, trapped firmly between them, looked to Oskar for salvation.
Oskar, however, only smiled faintly, his attention already shifting as Anna placed a glass in his hand.
He accepted it without hesitation, the ice within the glass clinking softly as he lifted it. The drink itself was pristine—clear, cool, and almost unnaturally pure. When he took a sip, the taste was rich, sweet, and refreshing in a way that lingered.
He let out a quiet breath of satisfaction as he lowered the glass.
Only then did he notice them.
Anna, Gundelinde, Bertha, Cecilie, and Tanya—all watching him.
Waiting.
Anna tilted her head slightly, her expression calm but expectant.
"Well?" she asked. "Did you like it, my love? Tell us honestly."
Oskar felt the weight of their attention settle on him all at once, he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "It's… very refreshing. An excellent glass of apple juice."
Anna's smile deepened, and the others followed, exchanging knowing glances.
"Good," she said softly. "I'm glad."
She leaned in just enough to make the moment linger.
"We picked the apples ourselves, you know. From the garden."
A brief pause.
"And pressed them. In the large wooden tub."
Her eyes didn't leave his.
"With our feet… and our bodies. In the heat, with sweat running down our skin."
The words hung in the air.
For a moment, Oskar didn't move.
There was something about it—something that should have felt off, something that was off—and yet it pulled in the opposite direction just as strongly.
He nodded again, more quickly this time, reaching for the large, ornate bottle shaped like a heart. The cork gave a soft pop as he pulled it free, and Anna, without asking, took it from him and poured another glass.
He drank again, slowly. While they watched and this time, they didn't even try to hide their satisfaction.
Below, John Jellicoe had not heard every word spoken at the royal table, yet what he saw proved far more unsettling than anything he might have missed.
At first, he could not name it.
It was not any single moment, nor any one person. It was the arrangement of it all—the structure of the evening itself. The proximity between those who, in his world, would never have stood so close. The absence of distance. The ease with which common sailors and their families moved within the same walls as princes, ministers, and commanders.
In Britain, such lines were not merely observed; they were enforced. Authority depended upon separation, upon the careful maintenance of hierarchy, upon a distance that reinforced the illusion of permanence. Power was sustained not only by strength, but by the ritual that surrounded it.
Here, that ritual had been altered.
And yet the authority remained.
Jellicoe's gaze lifted once more, settling upon Oskar. The man sat at ease, unguarded, surrounded by conversation and laughter, touched freely by those around him—yet the space still seemed to revolve around him. Even in stillness, even without command, his presence exerted a quiet dominance over the room.
Not through his title or the clothes on his back.
But through something far less tangible, and far more difficult to challenge.
Jellicoe realized then the same thing everyone else in Germany had already realised, that even stripped if rank, of uniform, of name, the man would still command attention. That if he walked alone among farmers or laborers, unannounced and unrecognized, something in him would still betray what he was. People would feel it. They would see it. And without quite knowing why, they would yield.
The thought came unbidden, and once formed, refused to leave.
It is not the crown that makes the king. It is the king that makes the crown.
He leaned back slightly, his expression tightening—not in anger this time, but in something far more complicated.
For the first time that evening, he felt something close to awe.
Although just then the moment passed as he saw Oskar shift, as if noticing something.
Not with his eyes, but with that same quiet awareness that had guided him through battle—an instinct for the shifting weight of a moment.
Others followed, heads turned and voices fell silent, as from among the gathered admirals below the royal platform, a single figure rose.
Konteradmiral Ludwig von Birkenhagen.
The director of the Kiel Naval Academy adjusted his coat with deliberate precision before stepping away from his place. Without hesitation, he crossed the floor and ascended the central stair, his movements measured, his posture exact, until he reached the raised balcony that overlooked both the grand ballroom and the gardens beyond.
From there, he stood between two worlds.
Before him lay the court—the officers, the nobility, the architects of command.
Behind him, through the open doors and descending terraces, stretched the gardens, filled with the sailors and their families, thousands of voices now falling into silence as they, too, turned toward him.
A microphone had been prepared.
He took it in hand and tapped it once.
The sound carried cleanly across the hall and out into the night beyond. Within moments, the ballroom fell quiet. A heartbeat later, the gardens followed.
"If I may have your attention."
His voice was calm, formal, and steady, carrying the quiet authority of a man long accustomed to being obeyed.
"I would ask that we pause the evening's celebration."
He allowed the silence to settle fully before continuing.
"For tonight, we gather not merely to feast, nor simply to rejoice, but to mark an achievement of rare significance."
His gaze moved slowly across the room.
"To honor the men of the Kaiserliche Marine—those who, through discipline, skill, and unwavering resolve, have secured a victory that will be remembered for generations."
A murmur of agreement moved through both hall and garden.
"And to recognize," he continued, "that such a victory is not born of courage alone."
His eyes lifted, briefly, toward the royal table.
"But of preparation. Of thought. Of design. Of those who ensure that when men go to war, they do so with the means to prevail."
Now the attention was complete.
"It is no exaggeration to say," Birkenhagen went on, "that through this victory, Germany stands not merely as a challenger upon the seas—but, by many accounts, as its master."
Applause followed at once—loud, proud, and unrestrained.
Jellicoe although did not join it.
Birkenhagen waited until the sound subsided before reaching into his coat and withdrawing a folded document.
"To begin this evening properly," he said, "I wish to address a matter long overdue."
He paused, then spoke clearly.
"Your Highness—Prince Oskar—and Herr Karl von Jonarett."
All eyes turned.
Oskar rose with an almost casual ease, a faint hint of amusement touching his expression as he placed a hand lightly against his chest. Karl followed, far less theatrically, offering only a small shrug before standing.
The applause returned, spreading outward once more as the sailors in the gardens recognized them and responded with open enthusiasm.
Together, they approached the stair.
Step by step, they ascended into the center of the moment.
Birkenhagen looked up at Oskar, and for a brief instant, allowed himself a faint, almost reluctant smile.
"My Prince," he said, "you have… grown."
A ripple of laughter passed through the room.
"I will admit openly," he continued, his tone shifting, "that when you first stood before me, in that rather memorable year of 1904, I believed you to be entirely and thoroughly insane."
This time, the laughter was stronger—though tempered with uncertainty.
"But," he went on, his voice steady, "it would appear that I, and the Naval Technical Committee were mistaken."
The hall quieted once more.
"For the designs you proposed, the doctrines you argued for, the ideas once dismissed as impractical… have now proven themselves in the most decisive manner possible."
Birkenhagen raised the document slightly, holding it where both the hall and the gathered crowd beyond could see.
"And it is therefore both my duty—and that of the Naval Technical Committee as a whole—to correct that mistake… here, and now, before all assembled."
His voice carried cleanly across the balcony and out into the gardens.
"This is not the judgment of one man, nor the concession of one institution. It is the united decision of the minds entrusted with the future of our Navy."
He stepped forward and extended the parchment.
"Your Highness, though you did not complete your formal education at the Naval Academy—and thus cannot claim the authority of command at sea—your mastery has, beyond doubt, surpassed the limits of that education. You have demonstrated a mind capable not of serving within the Navy… but of shaping it."
The hall stilled.
"And so, while we do not grant you rank among those who command ships—nor authority over the men who sail them—we do grant you recognition where it is due."
He spoke the title clearly.
"From this day forward, you are recognized as Imperial Naval Architect and Strategic Advisor to the High Command."
The applause came at once.
Stronger than before.
Certain.
Oskar accepted the document, his expression unreadable for a moment—then faintly amused, as if the irony of it all had not escaped him.
Birkenhagen did not linger. Instead, he reached into his coat once more.
"But no design becomes reality without the hand that guides it."
His gaze shifted.
"Karl von Jonarett."
Karl stepped forward.
For once, he did not look entirely composed.
"In an age of ambition," Birkenhagen continued, "you have demonstrated discipline. Where others saw impossibility, you found structure. Where there was chaos—you created order."
He lifted the medal.
"This—"
He turned it slightly so it caught the light.
"—is the Imperial Order of Merit for Strategic Administration."
The deep blue enamel gleamed beneath the chandeliers, the gold edges catching the light. At its center, the Imperial Eagle spread its wings, clutching both a gear and a scroll—industry and thought bound together.
"'Durch Geist wird Macht geformt,'" Birkenhagen read.
"Through intellect, power is shaped."
He stepped forward and fastened it to Karl's chest.
"For your service—not in battle, but in making victory possible."
Karl stood still.
Then the applause came.
Warmer now.
More personal.
Birkenhagen turned once more.
"And as for you, Your Highness—"
Oskar raised a hand.
"Ah—one moment."
The interruption did not feel improper.
It felt… expected.
"I appreciate the recognition," Oskar said, his voice carrying easily without the aid of the microphone. "Truly. But let us not make the opposite mistake now."
The room quieted again.
"My ideas are not sacred."
A murmur passed through the officers.
"They should be questioned. Tested. Challenged."
He nodded once.
"But fairly."
His gaze moved across the room.
"Not out of pride. Not out of habit. And certainly not out of dislike. But through reason."
He tilted his head slightly.
"If something better exists—use it. If I am wrong—prove it."
Silence.
Then—
agreement.
Real agreement.
Birkenhagen inclined his head.
"A fair condition, Your Highness. And one we shall honor."
He stepped forward and presented the final decoration.
"This is the Imperial Grand Cross of Naval Innovation."
The starburst caught the light as it was lifted—silver rays, gold core, the Imperial Eagle set against black iron, framed by lightning and anchor alike.
"'Dem, der die Zukunft erschafft.'
To the one who shapes the future."
Oskar accepted it.
And for a brief moment—
the room held its breath.
Then, the moment shattered.
Oskar turned, grabbed Karl, and pulled him into a crushing embrace.
"WE DID IT, MY LITTLE MAN!"
Laughter exploded across the hall and into the gardens beyond.
Before Karl could protest, he was lifted clean off the ground and set upon Oskar's shoulder, legs dangling as he instinctively adjusted his coat.
"You are entirely unreasonable," Karl muttered.
"And you are entirely successful," Oskar replied without hesitation.
His voice dropped slightly.
"I'm glad you stayed with me."
Karl's expression shifted.
"…And I with you, Your Highness."
Oskar smiled—then, without warning, pulled Birkenhagen into the embrace as well.
The cameras flashed.
The image was captured.
Oskar did not step down.
Instead, still holding Karl with one arm, he turned outward—toward both hall and gardens—and raised his free hand.
"My apologies," he called out, voice carrying without effort. "Since I am already here…"
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.
"…we might as well continue properly."
He glanced briefly toward the officers.
"I may have helped design the tools. Karl may have helped build them."
He gestured outward, his voice carrying across both the hall and the gardens beyond.
"But tools are only as good as the men who use them."
The words settled, then spread.
"And so—whatever credit is given here tonight, whatever praise is spoken…" he paused, letting the weight of it land, "…the true honor of this victory belongs to you."
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the gardens erupted.
Cheers rolled outward like a wave, rising from the sailors, their families, the thousands gathered under the open sky, and crashing back into the ballroom itself. The sound filled the palace, unrestrained, unpolished, alive.
Oskar allowed it.
Then, without ceremony, he lowered Karl from his shoulder, gave him a quick, firm clap on the back, and turned slightly, placing a heavy hand against Birkenhagen's shoulder.
"You've done enough for tonight," he said lightly. "You may return to your seat."
Birkenhagen inclined his head, but before stepping away, he extended his hand once more.
"Well done, Your Highness."
Oskar took it without hesitation.
"And I am proud of you."
For a brief moment, Oskar's expression shifted—something quieter, more genuine.
"And I am thankful to you," he replied.
Birkenhagen gave a final nod, then turned and descended from the balcony, returning to his place among the admirals as the focus of the evening settled fully upon Oskar.
Servants moved at once.
From either side, they approached carrying large velvet-lined cases—three in total—heavy with medals. Another brought forward a rolled document, far longer than seemed reasonable, and placed it into Oskar's hand.
Oskar unrolled it.
It kept going and going. Until the lower edge slipped free and fell to the polished floor below.
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
Oskar glanced down at it, then back out toward the crowd, a faint grin forming.
"…Right," he said.
"This may take a while."
More laughter, easier this time.
"So please—eat, drink, enjoy yourselves. I will do my part, you do yours."
He adjusted his grip on the list.
"And we begin."
Thus the ceremony unfolded, not as a rigid display—but as something lively.
Names were called.
First the admirals, then the officers, then the men.
Each one stepped forward, each one received recognition—not as part of a faceless mass, but as an individual whose actions had mattered.
Medals were given for command.
For courage.
For wounds endured.
For gunnery that had found its mark under fire.
For engineers who had kept ships alive when they should have died.
For sailors who had not broken.
And for all of them, each single one, the Cross of the Mid-Atlantic.
A newly struck medal, its design unmistakable even at a distance: a blackened iron cross edged in silver, at its center a relief of German warships driving forward through encirclement, the Atlantic beneath them carved in harsh lines, broken hulls marking the path behind.
Each man received one, each name was spoken, each act remembered and hand shaken by Oskar and Karl alike.
Around them, the evening did not stop.
Music began again, softly at first, then gathering strength. In the ballroom, some remained standing in quiet attention, others returned to conversation, glasses raised, voices low but energized. In the gardens, the reaction was far less restrained—laughter, dancing, embraces, the release of tension that only victory could bring.
Children ran between tables.
Families gathered close.
For many, the medals mattered.
For others, simply being there was enough.
And above it all, Oskar's voice continued, steady, unbroken, calling name after name into history and long into the night.
At the royal table, the mood was more measured.
While at the same time the representatives of Austria-Hungary and Bulgaria watched with open satisfaction, their expressions relaxed, their posture eased by the knowledge that the balance of the war had shifted in their favor.
The German ministers spoke quietly among themselves, already thinking ahead—to industry, to logistics, to what would come next.
But not all were at ease.
To one side, slightly removed from the central flow of conversation, the Italian delegation stood apart.
They spoke with the representatives of neutral states—Denmark, the Netherlands, Switzerland, Sweden, Norway—men who observed rather than committed, who watched the shifting tides of power with careful restraint.
However, most of all the Italian ambassador did not smile. His gaze moved between Oskar… and the Kaiser.
There was something in it—something restrained, but unmistakable. Something like frustration, or expectation, and something dangerously close to resentment.
At the royal table, Augusta Victoria noticed it first.
Her eyes lingered on the Italian delegation—their posture too stiff, their smiles too controlled, their glances drifting again and again toward the center of the room where Oskar stood. There was expectation there… and frustration.
She leaned slightly toward her husband, her voice low, measured.
"My love," she murmured, "Italy watches us closely… and I do not believe they are pleased."
Wilhelm II did not immediately respond. His gaze remained forward, fixed on the ceremony unfolding below, as though the matter barely warranted his attention.
"Let them watch," he said at last, his tone calm, almost dismissive. "That is precisely where they belong for now."
Augusta Victoria studied him carefully.
"Yes, but I do believe that they expected to be called," she said. "Thus far I do believe we have not once gone to them to ask for help. They wish to join—but not as supplicants."
Wilhelm's expression hardened, though only slightly.
"Then they misunderstand their position," he replied.
His voice remained quiet, but there was steel beneath it.
"If they wished to stand with us, they should have done so at the beginning—when it required conviction, not calculation."
He turned his head now, just enough to acknowledge the Italian ambassador at the edge of the gathering.
"They waited," he continued. "They watched. And now they would enter only once the outcome begins to favor us. I will not reward that."
Augusta Victoria did not look away from him.
"And if they will not come to us first?" she asked.
"Then they will not come at all," Wilhelm answered plainly. "And when peace is made, they will find themselves outside of it."
His tone sharpened further, the underlying arrogance no longer concealed.
"If they wish to share in the spoils of victory, then they will come—openly, clearly, and without demands."
He leaned back slightly.
"They will ask. And they will accept what is given to them."
A quiet pause followed.
"No negotiations. No conditions. Germany will decide what Italy receives—if anything at all."
Augusta Victoria let that settle before speaking again, more cautiously now.
"And if they seek to bargain regardless?"
Wilhelm's gaze flicked briefly toward the ambassador again.
"Then they will find that we have no need of them."
Another pause, then, more quietly, "As long as the oil continues to flow from Libya—through Italy and into our industry—there is no cause for concern, they get their share of profits and we get our oil, and that is all I need of them."
His voice lowered slightly.
"But if they choose to interfere with that… then they will discover how quickly necessity becomes… action."
The Empress understood.
This was not merely pride.
It was calculation wrapped in pride.
"And Bulgaria?" she asked, shifting the subject just slightly.
Wilhelm's expression eased—not softened, but steadied.
"They have already made their intentions clear," he said. "They prepare and wait. But they will not move until the moment is right."
His gaze lifted, briefly, toward the balcony where Oskar still stood, calling names, shaping the evening with effortless authority.
"Oskar has plans for them," Wilhelm said. "He has had them for some time."
A faint, almost reluctant acknowledgment entered his tone.
"And I will trust his judgment in this matter."
Augusta Victoria followed his gaze.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Below them, the ceremony continued, the voices of the sailors rising and falling with each name called, the sound of celebration blending with something larger—something more deliberate.
Above it, the two of them sat in silence, watching not only the night, but the shape of what was to come.
And at the edge of the room, the Italian ambassador remained where he was—smiling just enough to remain polite, yet unable to hide the tightening of his expression.
He would not ask.
Wilhelm would not offer.
And between those two positions, an alliance quietly drifted out of reach.