Oskar moved.
His body shifted forward, muscles tightening, water breaking around him as he leaned into the current.
No hesitation.
No thought.
Only motion.
He stepped once—twice—
and then drove himself forward.
The river split around him.
He did not swim like other men.
He cut through the water like a projectile—straight, direct, unstoppable. The current meant nothing. The distance collapsed in seconds beneath raw strength alone.
He reached her.
And immediately—
he took control.
One arm slid beneath her arms and locked across her chest, gripping her firmly just under her breasts, pulling her back against him—tight, secure, inescapable.
From behind.
Always from behind.
So she could not turn.
Could not claw.
Could not drag him under with blind panic.
Not that she could.
But instinct guided him anyway.
Even now—he did it right.
And she didn't even realize he was there. She just kept clinging to the corpse while kicking frantically at the water and trying to catch her breath.
Oskar shifted his weight, his free arm cutting once, twice through the water—then his feet struck the riverbed.
Solid.
He stopped swimming.
And began walking.
Each step drove deep into the mud below, immovable, unstoppable, dragging both her and the body with him as if the current itself had no authority over him.
Water surged around his waist.
His thighs.
His hips.
But he moved forward anyway.
Relentless.
Until the pull weakened.
Until the ground rose beneath them.
Until the river gave up.
He brought her close enough to the shore that her feet touched the bottom—close enough that she could stand, but still deep enough that his lower body remained hidden beneath the waterline.
But even now she didn't let go of the body, even as she was coughing and half choking on water.
Her fingers merely stayed locked into the corpse like iron.
Oskar steadied her with one hand at her side, keeping her upright.
"You alright?" he asked, voice low, calm, steady. "Can you stand on your own and get to the shore? Because, well you know. I'm sort of exposed, and so I think it's best if I don't move any further than this."
She coughed hard, her body jerking as water left her lungs in violent bursts.
Then—
she heard him.
Really heard him.
Her body stiffened.
And strangely the children's expressions had suddenly changed.
Recognition mixing in with fear.
The boy's face twisted—rage mixing with it, raw and uncontrolled.
Then the woman looked at him.
And for a moment—
everything stopped.
Her eyes dropped first.
Instinct.
Reflex.
From the waterline upward.
She saw him.
The sheer scale of him.
The wet, carved muscle of his body rising from the river like something unreal. The hard lines of his abs. The breadth of his chest. The water running down him in slow streams.
Her face flushed.
A flicker—
something she didn't expect.
Something she didn't want.
Her eyes snapped higher—
to his face.
And everything changed.
Recognition hit.
Hard.
For a single heartbeat—
shock.
Then it vanished almost instantly as her face twisted in rage.
"It's you!"
The words tore out of her like something breaking.
She lashed out—kicking wildly at him in the water—but she was too short, too unstable, too weak against the current. The kick never reached him.
Oskar released her at once, lifting both hands in a half-casual, half-exasperated gesture.
"Whoa—hey, easy," he said, blinking at her. "Calm down, lady. I just saved you, alright? I'm not here for your money—or your body, even if you are quite charming looking."
That only made it worse.
"You bastard!"
Her hands slipped from the corpse, and in the same motion she tore at the rifle clutched in the dead man's grip.
It didn't come free easily.
The fingers were stiffly locked in place.
Death as it appeared held sometimes tighter than life.
She ripped at it anyway, desperate, shaking, almost feral in the effort.
And in that moment as he looked at this crazy lady, Oskar understood something important.
His eyes flicked from her youthful, but mature figure.
To the corpse of the middle aged man, whom was maybe ten years older than she was.
And then to the children whom besides this crazy lady could have honestly looked like her siblings, but no, they were not the same age as she was.
Then he looked back again and realisation finally hit him.
Ah.
Husband.
Mother.
Children.
…Right.
He exhaled slowly, one hand coming up to his face for a brief second.
"…Well," he muttered under his breath, "…that explains a lot."
She tore the rifle free at last with a ragged cry, stumbling back a half-step as the weapon came loose.
"I'll kill you!"
Oskar stared at her.
"…What?"
There was genuine confusion in it.
"Hey—don't say that. Violence is really not the right option here," he added, almost reflexively. "Come on, don't be stupid."
She raised the rifle.
Or tried to.
Her arms trembled so badly it barely pointed anywhere.
He glanced down at it, then back at her, then let out a short breath through his nose.
"…Is this how you people in Poland say thank you?"
"You did this!" she spat, tears streaming freely now. "You killed him! You killed all of them! You beast!"
Oskar's expression flattened slightly.
"…Yes," he said. "That tends to happen in war. People die. I'm not sure what you expected."
That only fed the fire.
She fumbled with the rifle, trying to work the action—hands slipping, fingers failing, panic overwhelming whatever memory she had of how the weapon worked.
The metal clicked uselessly.
Wet.
Dead.
The gun had been in the river too long.
Even if she managed it—
it likely wouldn't fire.
Oskar knew it.
She didn't.
The bayonet, however, gleamed faintly at the end.
Still sharp.
Still usable, even if it was completely useless against him.
Behind her the corpse drifted slowly in quiet silence away.
The current taking it inch by inch away from her grasp until it was no longer touching her at all.
No one noticed.
Not her.
Not the children.
Only Oskar's eyes flicked to it for a fraction of a second and then back.
Because this—
this mattered more.
He spread his arms slightly.
Relaxed.
Open.
Unthreatened.
"You know," he said, voice low and almost amused, "I really wasn't expecting to get shot again today."
A small pause.
Then, with a faint tilt of his head—
"But if you must… go on. Shoot me."
His icy eyes stayed on hers.
"Let's see how that works out for you."
The children stood frozen behind her.
The girl was trembling, with her hands pressed tight to her chest, breath caught somewhere between fear and disbelief.
The boy was rigid—
jaw clenched, eyes burning with hatred, with helplessness—
but he did not move.
Because they both understood it instinctively. That there was absolutely nothing they could do against the mass of him.
Nothing.
Still—
the woman tried.
God, she tried.
Her hands shook violently as she fumbled with the old stubborn rifle that was clearly too heavy for her.
Her fingers slipped along the bolt handle as she tried to force it up.
It didn't move.
She tried again.
Harder this time—gritting her teeth, putting what little strength she had left into it.
The metal gave a faint click—
then stopped.
Half-stuck.
Waterlogged.
Unforgiving.
"Come on…!" she hissed under her breath, desperation cracking through her voice as she tried to wrench the bolt back.
The metal wouldn't give.
Her grip slipped.
She tried again—harder this time—dragging at it with both hands, shoulders tightening, arms trembling with effort.
Nothing.
The rifle wavered in her grasp, rising, falling, never steady.
Her breath came in broken bursts, chest heaving, the soaked fabric of her blouse clinging to her body like a second skin. Every movement pulled it tighter, outlining the full shape of her—her breasts lifting and falling with each breath, the faint curve beneath them leading down to a flat, firm stomach earned not in comfort, but in years of work. Her hips shifted as she struggled for balance in the water, the wet skirt pressed against her, revealing the strength in her legs—the kind built from carrying, lifting, enduring.
There was nothing delicate about her body, even if she seemed to be slightly suffering from malnutrition.
But there was something undeniably… real.
Alive.
And Oskar noticed.
Of course he did.
He wasn't blind.
The way she moved, the way she breathed, the way the water shaped itself around her—it all registered in the same instant his mind dismissed it.
Because it wasn't what mattered in that moment.
What held him—
was her face.
Those eyes.
Burning.
Alive with hatred and grief so raw it almost seemed to tear through her from the inside.
Her lips trembled as she fought the rifle, her voice breaking between curses, softer than it should have been for the words she spoke. There was something almost painfully feminine in it—something that didn't belong to rage, didn't belong to hatred. A voice meant for something gentler, something warmer.
And for a moment, just a moment, something pressed back against Oskar from deep within.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Something like guilt.
Because the grief of this woman, this fury, this broken edge she stood on, was indeed partially his fault.
And the sight of it struck him harder than any bullet ever had.
Deeper than pain.
Deeper than wounds.
There was something in it that no battlefield could prepare a man for.
He hated this.
Hated seeing a woman reduced to this—shaking, grieving, breaking apart in front of him.
Because in his mind, it was wrong.
Fundamentally wrong.
Women were not meant for this kind of suffering.
Not meant to stand in rivers with death in their arms and hatred in their eyes.
Not meant to carry grief like a weapon and swing it until they shattered.
In the world he believed in—
they should have been protected from it.
Shielded from it.
Allowed to live, to breathe, to exist without being dragged into the mud and blood of men's wars.
To see one forced into it anyway—
to see her like this—
felt like a failure greater than any wound he could take upon himself.
And he could not stand it.
Her hands trembled harder.
The bolt gave a useless rattle.
The rifle shook.
And still—
she couldn't fire.
Oskar stood there, unmoving.
Watching her.
Watching the way her strength failed her—not in spirit, but in body.
Watching the way she refused to stop trying anyway.
And in that—
he understood her far better than he wanted to.
Two thoughts settled in his mind at once.
First—
he probably wasn't talking his way out of this.
Second—
he really did not have time for this.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the mid-day sun.
Time was slipping.
Always slipping.
A quiet breath left him.
"…Ah, shit," he muttered under his breath. "I really should go."
And yet—
he didn't move away.
Because walking away now would only leave this unfinished.
And because, for reasons he refused to examine too closely, he wasn't willing to leave her like this.
Not yet.
His expression tightened slightly.
Not anger or frustration, but controlled and measured.
Decisive.
"Tell me something," he said.
She blinked at him.
"What happens if you shoot me?"
The question settled between them.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Real.
She didn't answer.
Because she couldn't.
Because she didn't know.
Oskar held her gaze.
"You think I don't understand?" he said, quieter now, but harder. "Fine. Hate me. Curse me. I'm standing right here. But think."
His voice lowered further.
"What happens to you… when they find out you raised a weapon against a prince?"
A beat.
"And what happens to them?"
His eyes flicked—just once—toward the children.
Then back to her.
"Don't be stupid," he continued, more firmly. "Your husband didn't pick up that rifle so you could follow him into the grave like this."
Her jaw tightened.
"He died trying to protect you. To protect them."
Each word landed heavier than the last.
"He didn't go out there so you could throw your life away in the river five minutes later. He would've wanted you to live. To keep breathing. To carry him forward through them."
His gaze didn't leave hers.
"To keep his blood alive. Not end it."
Her grip faltered.
Just slightly.
The rifle dipped—
for a heartbeat.
Then she snapped.
"What do you know!?" she shouted, stepping toward him now, lowering the weapon but not letting go of it. "Who are you to speak for him?!"
Her voice cracked under the weight of it.
"What do you know about what he wanted?!"
She stood right in front of him now—
close.
Too close.
Breathing like she was drowning on dry land.
Oskar watched her.
Really watched her.
Saw the rage.
The grief.
The desperation tearing through her.
And in that moment, he understood that this wasn't working.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"…Right," he muttered under his breath.
A brief shake of his head—half irritation, half resignation.
"You're not listening."
She stiffened instantly.
"What—"
He moved without warning.
Just speed.
One small step—and the space between them ceased to exist.
His hand snapped forward, catching the rifle before her fingers could even think about forcing it into action. The barrel twisted violently sideways in his grip.
"Hey—!"
She fought him.
Of course she did.
Pulled, twisted, clawed at the weapon like it was the last thing holding her together, but it didn't matter.
It was like trying to tear steel from the earth.
Oskar didn't even strain.
"…I gave you a chance," he said quietly.
Then he took it from her.
Not a struggle.
Not a contest.
Just gone.
The rifle tore free from her hands as if it had never belonged to her at all. It spun once through the air and vanished into the river.
Same as the body.
Same as everything else she had left.
She staggered off balance, shock hitting her all at once and that was when he stepped in.
No hesitation now.
No more talking.
He caught her.
Pulled her in.
Arms closing around her before she could stumble away.
She froze instantly and went totally rigid. Every one of her muscles locking, already waiting for the pain, for the violence.
For him to become exactly what she believed he was.
But instead he just held her.
Firm.
Unmoving.
Solid.
Her body pressed against his body, soaked fabric clinging to her curves, her chest rising hard against his bare torso, her breath breaking in sharp, uneven bursts.
"Enough," he said, low and steady.
"I'm done arguing with you woman."
She shoved against him immediately.
Weak.
Uncoordinated.
Furious.
"Let—go—!"
He didn't.
Didn't even shift his footing.
Instead, his grip changed.
Lower.
Stronger.
Hands locking around her hips—then her butt—firm, unyielding—
and in one smooth motion he lifted her.
Completely.
Her feet left the riverbed.
She gasped.
A sharp, startled sound tearing out of her as the world shifted beneath her.
Instinct took over.
Her legs wrapped around him before she could stop them.
Her hands grabbed at him—shoulders, chest—anything solid.
And there was too much of it.
Too much strength. Too much heat. Too much presence.
He was real.
Overwhelmingly real.
Her breath caught.
And for a moment, just a small, fragile moment, everything inside her faltered.
The rage.
The grief.
The hatred.
All of it seemed to crack.
And something else took it's place. Something she didn't want to accept, but couldn't stop.
Heat.
Her face flushed hard.
Her eyes dropped—just for a fraction of a second—taking him in. The sheer size of him. The strength in every line. The impossible, undeniable reality of the man holding her.
Then her gaze snapped back up.
To his face.
To his eyes.
And that—
that made it worse.
Because there was no cruelty there.
No mockery.
No malice.
Only control.
Only focus.
There was only her in the reflection of his icy blue eyes.
The Crown Prince of Germany was looking at her like she mattered.
And that—
that broke something deeper than anger ever could.
"Look at me," he said quietly.
She already was.
She couldn't look away.
"You're not thinking," he continued, voice low, steady, impossible to ignore at this distance. "You're reacting."
Her lips parted—
but no words came.
"Your husband is dead."
Blunt.
Direct.
Unforgiving.
The words struck her like a blow. Her face twisted, pain tearing through her—but he did not let her collapse into it.
"And if you keep going like this," he continued, steady, controlled, "your children will follow him. This doesn't end unless someone chooses to stop it."
She barely heard the rest.
Because of how close he was.
Because of how he held her.
Her body was still wrapped around him—legs locked instinctively around his waist, arms clinging without thought. One of his hands supported her fully, firm and unyielding, holding her weight as if it were nothing. The other steadied her, keeping her from slipping back into the river.
She could feel him.
The heat of him.
Solid.
Unmoving.
Her chest pressed tightly against his, her breath uneven as she felt the hard rise and fall beneath her. The contact was inescapable—her softness against something unbreakable—and her body reacted before her mind could catch up.
It confused her.
Everything did.
Her small nose nearly brushed his. His breath touched her lips—warm, steady—and she felt it far more than she should have. Her grip tightened around him without her realizing it, her body pulling closer as though drawn by something deeper than thought.
Her eyes searched his face.
Confused.
Trying to understand.
Why he wasn't hurting her.
Why he hadn't thrown her aside.
Why he wasn't taking from her what war so often took.
The thought came unbidden—raw, instinctive.
If he wanted to… she couldn't stop him.
And what frightened her most—
was that part of her didn't even try.
Because in his arms, in that moment, held so completely, so effortlessly—
she felt… safe.
The realization unsettled her.
She was no one.
An orphan.
A poor man's wife.
A woman who had lived her life being used more than valued.
And yet here—
this man—
this prince—
this living legend whispered about in fear and awe—
held her as if she mattered.
As if she weighed something more than nothing.
Oskar didn't see it.
Not fully.
He was too focused on her eyes—those sharp grey eyes, bright even through tears, framed by long lashes that caught the light. He was trying to reach her, to steady her, to pull her back from the edge she was slipping over.
He leaned in slightly—
and rested his forehead gently against hers.
"I can see you," he said, quieter now. "You're not this. You're not hate. You're someone who's been pushed too far."
His voice softened.
"Don't let it change you."
"Stay… what you are."
Something warm.
Something human.
Something worth protecting.
She shook her head weakly, turning her gaze away, trying to hold onto anger, onto sense, onto anything that kept her from breaking completely.
But she didn't pull away.
"I'm not your enemy," he said.
A pause.
Then, lower—
more real.
"But I won't lie to you either. I will do what I must. There will be things you won't agree with. Things you'll hate me for."
His eyes held hers again.
"But I don't hate you. Not you. Not your people."
He exhaled slowly.
"Just trust me… and survive long enough to see what comes next. The future I have planned—whether you believe me or not—is something worth living to see."
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes flickered toward the shore—first to her daughter, nearly grown now, already carrying her shape and face. Then to her son, trying to stand like a man, just like his father.
Then back to him.
And something broke.
The memory came rushing in—her husband, his presence, his weight, the life he had carved around her—and with it, clarity.
This man—
this Prince—
was the enemy.
And with that clarity came everything else.
The whispers.
The stories.
The things women said when they thought no one was listening.
The Iron Prince.
The people's prince.
The savior.
And—
the scandal.
She had heard them all.
Every version.
Every rumor.
That he had wives—more than one, openly, shamelessly.
That he kept women not as wives, but as something else—something softer, something taken, something owned.
That he had charmed a British princess, bent her to him, and taken her maid as well—that both had followed him willingly, that both had borne his children.
That he had more children than any man should.
Ten.
Twenty.
Thirty.
No—more.
Some said dozens.
Some said hundreds.
That somewhere, hidden away in estates and houses, there were children of his blood growing in numbers like soldiers in formation, his own army.
His own legion of babies.
Born not of love, but of his undisciplined ever growing hunger for more.
And she felt it.
Here.
Now.
That same pull.
That same force.
The way he held her—like she weighed nothing, like she belonged exactly where she was.
The way his body felt against hers—solid, immovable, overwhelming.
The way his voice cut through her thoughts.
The way her own body betrayed her—
leaning into him,
clinging,
responding.
No.
No.
No.
She was not like them.
She would not be another woman in his stories.
Another whisper.
Another name.
Another body.
"I won't…" she breathed, shaking her head weakly, trying to push herself back into something solid, something righteous. "I won't be like them…"
She forced herself to meet his eyes again, anger clawing its way back through the confusion.
"I know what you are," she said, voice trembling but defiant. "A deceiver, a womanizer. A—"
Her voice broke, but she pushed through it anyway.
"A man without discipline! Without shame!"
Oskar blinked.
"…What?"
He genuinely didn't understand.
Not the accusation.
Not the direction her thoughts had taken.
But he felt the shift.
That fragile moment slipping away again.
So he tightened his hold—not harsh, not punishing, but firm. Grounding.
His hand pressed more solidly against her, fingers tightening just enough to remind her of where she was—
of who held her.
"Hey."
Low.
Steady.
"Look at me."
A small, deliberate squeeze—just enough to pull her attention back, to interrupt the spiral in her head.
She gasped softly.
Not from fear.
From the suddenness of it.
From the way it snapped her back into the moment.
Into him.
Her eyes locked onto his again.
And for a second—
everything else fell away.
"Submit," he said.
Not harsh.
Not cruel.
But immovable.
"Not to me."
A pause.
"To reality."
His gaze didn't waver.
"Live. For them."
For a heartbeat—
it almost held.
Her breathing slowed.
Her grip shifted.
Her body softened again, caught between resistance and something deeper, something instinctive, something she didn't want to name.
And then almost instantly after, it shattered.
The truth slammed back into her.
And rage followed.
"Never!" she screamed, voice breaking apart. "I'll never submit to someone like you!"
Her fists slammed into him.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Wild.
Desperate.
Useless.
She hit his chest, his shoulders—clawed at him, pushed against him, trying to force something out of him, trying to make him feel even a fraction of what she felt.
He didn't move.
Didn't resist.
Didn't stop her.
He just held her there.
Unshaken.
Unbreakable.
Then slowly—deliberately—he lowered his head beneath her chin, pressing it against her soft chest, against the warmth of her body, against the place where her breath was breaking apart, where he could hear her frantic heart beats.
He let his head be an offering.
A release.
"Fine, go on then," he murmured. "Get it out."
She froze—
only for a moment.
Then she broke.
Her hands came down on him again—striking, clawing, pulling at him like something wild and wounded. Words spilled from her—curses, accusations, grief twisted into sound—but it didn't last.
It couldn't.
The strength bled out of her just as quickly as it came.
Her hands tangled in his hair, not striking anymore—
holding.
Clinging.
Her voice collapsed into sobbing as she bent forward against him, shaking.
And in that moment—
something shifted.
He lifted his head.
Looked at her.
Close.
Too close.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes flickered, unfocused, lost between anger and something else she did not want to name.
And before she could decide—
he moved.
It was sudden.
Decisive.
He took her lips.
Not gently.
Not softly.
But not cruel either.
A firm, undeniable claim of presence—of control—of forcing her out of the spiral she was drowning in. She stiffened at once, hands pushing against him in instinctive resistance, her breath caught, her mind thrown into chaos.
For a moment, she fought it.
Then she didn't.
Not fully.
Something in her faltered—something tired, something overwhelmed—and her resistance weakened just enough that the moment held.
Then he pulled back, not abruptly, but slowly.
She stared at him, breathing unevenly, eyes wide, tears still clinging to her lashes.
"…Why…?" she managed.
He didn't look away.
Their foreheads almost touched.
"Because I want you to live."
That was all.
No softness.
No apology.
Just truth.
And it broke her.
Not cleanly.
Not gently.
But completely.
She turned her face, biting back the sound that tried to escape her, but it came anyway—raw, uneven, unstoppable—as she collapsed into him, her hands clutching at him not in anger anymore, but because she had nothing else left to hold onto.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her there, safe, in his firm embrace.
And she did not fight it.
Behind them, on the shore—
the daughter stood frozen, face flushed, one hand over her mouth, the other half-raised as if unsure whether to cover her eyes or not. She looked away—
then looked back—
unable not to.
Confused.
Overwhelmed.
The boy was different.
The fear was gone.
Something harder had taken its place.
He stood rigid, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, staring at Oskar with raw, burning hatred. He didn't move. Didn't speak.
But it was there.
Clear.
Alive.
Oskar saw it.
Understood it instantly.
And did nothing.
He did not look away.
Did not explain.
Instead, he hugged the woman now. Holding her body that was pressed against him, soft against his unyielding frame, her grip tightening as her tears soaked into him.
"It's alright…" he said quietly.
She bit at his collar in frustration—grief—something she could not control, and then clung to him again.
And cried with everything she had.
Oskar held her through it.
Silent.
Steady.
He could see it all at once—
the husband drifting away down the river, turning slowly as if already leaving the world behind.
The daughter—lost between shame and something she didn't yet understand.
The boy stood there—
hatred taking root.
Oskar knew that look.
He knew exactly what it would become.
And still—
he said nothing.
He only adjusted his hold on the woman, securing her as her strength finally gave out completely, then stepped out of the river and lowered himself onto the bank, settling with her still in his arms.
She didn't resist anymore.
Not truly.
Her body trembled against him, grief and exhaustion draining whatever fight remained.
Oskar leaned closer, his voice lowering—not soft, but controlled, deliberate.
"You're still here," he murmured near her ear. "Do you understand what that means?"
His hand moved slowly along her back, steady, grounding, holding her in place as if the world itself had narrowed down to that one point of contact.
"You're alive. Your children are alive."
A pause.
"Don't throw that away."
She shuddered in his arms, breath breaking unevenly, fingers tightening in his coat.
Her mind was chaos.
Grief.
Rage.
Confusion.
And something else she didn't want to name.
She pressed closer to him without realizing it, her face turned into his neck, clinging—not because she trusted him, but because there was nothing else left to hold onto.
And he held her.
Firm.
Certain.
Unyielding.
Not asking.
Not offering.
Simply there.
After a moment, his voice shifted—quieter now, but no less commanding.
"What's your name?"
She hesitated.
For a second it seemed like she wouldn't answer.
Then, broken—
"…Zofia."
Her voice cracked.
"…Zofia Nowak."
Oskar nodded once.
"Zofia."
He repeated it like it mattered.
Like it was something worth remembering.
"And them?"
Her grip tightened slightly.
"My daughter… Maria…"
A breath.
"My son… Tomasz…"
Oskar glanced toward the shore.
The girl—Maria—stood there trembling, tears streaking her face, trying to hold herself together and failing. The boy—Tomasz—stood rigid, unmoving, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white.
Oskar looked back at Zofia.
"And your husband?"
Her entire body flinched.
A long pause.
"…Piotr."
The name barely left her lips.
Oskar gave a small nod.
"…You have strong names," he said quietly. "All of you."
His hand moved once through her hair, brushing it back from her face—not tender, not soft, but deliberate.
"They suit you."
Zofia broke again.
Not violently this time.
Just quietly.
She buried herself against him, shaking, her breath uneven as she clung to him with what little strength remained.
Oskar exhaled slowly.
"…Prince Oskar von Hohenzollern," he said after a moment, almost dryly. "Prince of Prussia. Crown Prince."
A faint pause.
"Nice to meet you, Zofia."
She didn't respond.
Just held onto him.
Like that was the only thing she could do.
Oskar lifted his gaze slightly, looking toward the daughter.
"Maria," he said.
She flinched at hearing her name.
"…You alright?"
She nodded quickly, wiping at her face, though the tears didn't stop. Her voice didn't come, but the answer was there.
Oskar gave a small nod.
"It's a lot," he said simply. "But you'll be fine."
Then—
his eyes shifted.
To the boy.
Tomasz.
The boy wasn't looking at him.
Not yet.
He was looking at the river.
At the place where the body had been—
now already drifting farther away.
Smaller.
Pulled by the current.
Carried off.
As if it meant nothing.
His father.
Gone.
The boy's jaw tightened.
Then his gaze moved.
First to his sister—kneeling, crying, breaking.
Then—
to his mother.
Clinging.
Held.
Not fighting.
Not screaming.
Not chasing the body anymore.
Held.
By him.
And in that moment—
something in the boy snapped.
Because to him—
it looked like they had already forgotten.
Like the man who had been his father—
who had worked, who had lived, who had mattered—
was already gone from them.
Replaced.
The boy's breathing grew sharp.
His hands curled into fists.
And now—
now he looked at Oskar.
All of it—
the grief, the confusion, the betrayal—
focused.
Sharpened.
Turned into hatred.
Oskar saw it.
And misunderstood it.
So he tried—
tried to soften it.
Tried to reassure him.
He gave him a smile.
But it came out wrong.
Too relaxed.
Too sharp.
Too… detached.
Not warmth.
Not comfort.
A smirk.
And in that exact moment—
Oskar realized it.
Oh—shit.
Because from where the boy stood—
it looked like something else entirely.
Like he was pleased.
Like he was mocking him.
Like he was sitting there—
holding his mother—
smiling—
as if none of it mattered.
As if he had already taken what was his.
The boy's face twisted.
Not just anger now.
Something deeper.
Disgust.
The kind that burns.
For a split second, it looked like he might move.
Like he might throw himself forward anyway—
stupid, suicidal—
but real.
Then he didn't.
Because he couldn't.
Because he knew.
So instead—
he turned.
And ran.
Fast.
Silent.
Tears streaming down his face, jaw clenched so hard it shook, shoulders tight with rage as he fled in the direction the river had taken his father.
Oskar stared after him.
"…Ah, fuck."
The words came out low.
Immediate.
Regret hitting just as fast.
I didn't mean—
But it was already too late.
He shifted slightly—
instinctively tightening his hold on Zofia as she clung to him, her body still trembling, her face buried against his neck.
He pressed his lips briefly to the top of her head.
Grounding.
Steady.
"It's alright," he murmured quietly. "It's alright…"
But even as he said it—
he knew.
It wasn't.
He glanced once toward the treeline.
The boy was already gone.
Then back to the woman in his arms.
To the daughter—who had dropped to her knees now, crying openly, lost between shock and something she didn't yet understand.
Oskar exhaled slowly.
Because this—
this was absurd.
He had torn through buildings.
Crushed men.
Cleared entire strongpoints by himself.
Kicked in doors, shattered walls, dragged soldiers out of cover and broken them against stone. He had thrown bodies through windows, used one man to strike down another, reduced rooms full of armed resistance into silence in seconds.
That—
that was easy.
Simple.
Clean.
Fast.
Men were simple.
Men he understood.
Men he could break, redirect, control, contain.
Men were a problem with a solution.
Violence.
Applied correctly.
Applied hard enough.
And they fell into line—or they died.
He had no hesitation there.
No doubt.
No guilt.
That part of him worked.
Perfectly.
But this?
This—woman in his arms, shaking, clinging, broken—
this was something else entirely.
His grip tightened slightly.
Not to dominate.
To hold her together.
Because she needed something to hold onto—
and right now, besides her daughter—
he was it.
And that sat wrong in him.
Because he knew—
this wasn't just her.
This was one.
One out of tens of thousands.
Families torn apart.
Women grieving.
Children confused, angry, afraid.
All across the territory he had just taken.
All looking at him—whether they understood it yet or not.
Waiting for answers.
Waiting for order.
Waiting for something to make sense of what had just happened to them.
And he didn't know how to deal with that.
Not properly.
Because this—
this wasn't a battlefield.
This wasn't something he could crush and move past.
Women…
His jaw tightened slightly.
That was his weakness.
He knew it.
He could break a man's face without blinking.
But he didn't want to see a woman cry.
Didn't want to see this—
this raw, helpless grief.
Didn't want to be the one causing it.
And that made this—
far worse.
Because he already knew what came next.
His gaze drifted toward the city.
The movement had already begun.
Black Legion units sweeping through the streets.
Doors opened.
Cellars emptied.
Attics cleared.
People brought out—not in chaos, not in cruelty—
but with quiet, inevitable force.
Directed.
Controlled.
Herded.
Toward the center.
Toward the square.
Toward him.
Toward the moment where he would stand before all of them, and make his decision.
The order.
The judgment.
The thing that would break families like this—on purpose.
Not hundreds. Not thousands.
The more his armies pushed forward, the more people came under him—and by the end, it wouldn't be thousands broken like this… but millions.
Men, he could deal with.
Men would understand.
Or they would be forced to.
But the women?
The mothers?
The ones like her?
He didn't know how they would take it.
Didn't know how to make them accept it.
Didn't know how to stop them from looking at him like this.
Like he was the thing that had destroyed their lives.
He looked down at Zofia.
At the way she clung to him.
At how she had nothing left—
and was holding onto the very man who was about to take even more.
A quiet breath left him.
God…
The thought sat heavy.
This better work.
Because if it didn't, then all of this, every death, every decision, was just more of the same.
More bodies.
More rivers of death.
More endless wars.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Then opened them again.
Still holding her.
Still steady.
Still the Iron Prince.
Elsewhere, further up the riverbank, well away from the scene of Oskar's naked body sitting with a woman in his arms, Shadowmane lay sprawled in the grass.
Massive.
Unbothered.
Sun-warmed.
One ear flicked lazily.
A slow breath.
A shift of weight.
He hadn't moved for quite a while now.
Hadn't even looked once, or cared about anything that had occurred.
The screaming.
The struggle.
The grief.
All of it meant nothing to him.
He had slept through it.
As if none of it mattered at all.
Oskar glanced at him.
"…Yeah," he muttered.
"Must be nice."
And beyond that—
hidden in the trees, in the brush, in the broken lines of shadow—
the Eternal Guard watched.
They had been there the entire time.
Unseen.
Silent.
Camouflaged into the land itself.
Low in the brush.
Set along firing lines.
Up in the trees.
Every angle covered.
Every approach locked down.
Close enough to act in an instant.
Far enough to remain invisible.
A perfect perimeter.
Captain Carter lay among them, watching it all unfold.
He exhaled lightly.
Shook his head.
"…Typical."
A few of the men allowed themselves quiet amusement.
They had seen this before.
Their prince who could walk through fire and steel without hesitation, who could tear apart entire companies of armed men, and yet somehow always ended up here.
With women.
With emotion.
With problems strength alone couldn't solve.
Carter shifted slightly.
"…Well," he murmured, "suppose that's just our prince."
A few quiet breaths of agreement passed through the line.
Then stillness again.
And beyond all of it—
Warsaw moved.
Columns marching.
Engines turning.
Orders spreading.
Civilians flowing through the streets like a slow, controlled tide.
Drawn toward the center.
Toward judgment.
Toward whatever came next.
The machine moved forward.
Unstoppable.
Oskar looked down once more at the woman in his arms.
At what remained of a family.
At what he was about to break further.
And let out a slow breath.
"…Yeah," he muttered quietly.
"Definitely harder."
Because killing men—
that part was easy.
This—
this was the part he didn't know how to win.
And still—
he held her.