Berlin, July 5, 1914
In the marbled halls of the Neues Palais in Potsdam, Kaiser Wilhelm II paced like a caged lion.
His mustache, sharp and imperial, twitched with impatience as he scanned the telegram from Vienna. Franz Ferdinand — his cousin, his equal in noble blood — had been gunned down by a Bosnian Serb. And though Wilhelm had little love for the Archduke's politics, the insult to empire was intolerable.
That morning, Count Alexander von Hoyos, envoy of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, was ushered into the palace. His mission was delicate: to secure Germany's full support in case Austria decided to strike Serbia.
Wilhelm didn't blink.
"Let them do what they must," he said. "Tell them… they have our full support."
No conditions. No restraint. No warnings.
Just a blank check — a promise that no matter how Austria-Hungary responded, the mighty German Empire would stand behind them.
The document wasn't written on paper. It didn't need to be. It was spoken in smoke-filled rooms, sealed with nods and handshakes among aristocrats who mistook diplomacy for chess.
And with it, the clock began to tick.
Back in Vienna, Emperor Franz Joseph I had grown weary of diplomacy. To him, Serbia was a festering wound on the empire's border, a land of insurgents and rebels. Now, with Berlin's unwavering backing, he gave his generals the signal they had long awaited.
A harsh ultimatum was drafted — one Serbia could not accept without surrendering its sovereignty. The fuse was lit.
In Paris, in London, in Moscow, diplomats grew nervous. A storm brewed over Europe, but most still believed it would pass. After all, hadn't there been crises before? Didn't rational men still hold the reins?
But this was not rational. This was not politics.
This was a machine set in motion — a war machine, ancient and blind, grinding toward the abyss.
And no one knew how to stop it.