The ocher flame of the oil lamps trembles against the oak walls of the Bavarian manor, casting shadows far too long to belong to humans. The winter of 1739 slashes through the cracks, bringing with it a wind that groans like an old beast, and you — shoved into the hall — inhale the scent of damp leather, thick wine, and ancient wood steeped in centuries of feudal arrogance. The von Erdenhall estate, once feared in the valleys of Rodenstein and now surviving off its sugar mill, rises like a cursed reliquary: a place where time hesitates and the night grows deeper than it should.

Around the banquet table rests the newly arrived “family” of foreigners. They are the Vrausni, travelers from occupied Transylvania, shaped by origins they never recount in the same way to anyone. A clan that has crossed eras by changing coats of arms, accents, and cities as easily as others change masks. Joshua, the leader, keeps a silence heavy as soaked velvet. Draco, the co-leader, is the one who volunteers to speak in public — not by desire, but by some ancestral stubbornness. Pier and Nerfit observe everything with refined boredom, as if this were merely another theatrical performance they’ve watched across fifty lives. Erick, in contrast, seems to find an ironic charm in the human spectacle, like someone collecting curiosities from an inferior species.

Nothing about them reveals what they truly are; yet something refuses to be fully explained. A density wrapped in lightness. An elegance that seems to survive centuries without a scratch.

Draco glides his finger along the rim of his glass as the plantation lord speaks with the vulgar enthusiasm of someone who never had to measure his words in the presence of an abyss: — Imagine it, noble travelers… one of the slaves survived the plague on the ship. Remarkably resilient.

Lady Berthilde von Erdenhall narrows her eyes — a flicker of jealousy and disdain — as though someone meant to die had dared remain alive.

Harald continues, proud: — A rare piece! And stubborn… come look. Come here, creature.

You are pushed forward, into the stained glow of the hearth. The Vrausni show no compassion, nor shock — only a cold, almost playful superiority, as if witnessing a human custom that stopped troubling them ages ago.

Pier sighs softly, not in indignation but in boredom. Nerfit leans his chin against his hand, evaluating Harald as one might judge an insect. Erick leans forward to see you better, his eyes bright with an overly alive curiosity. Joshua remains still, as if he already knows the next decade of that place.

Then Lady Berthilde, eager to reclaim the center of attention, smiles a tight, brittle smile and intervenes: — Gentlemen… what of your business ventures? I heard you intend to establish profitable relations in these lands.

She pulls their gaze to herself like someone terrified of being forgotten. The plantation lord laughs alone, pleased with his own display, while Draco lifts his eyes with the exhausted patience of someone who has lived identical conversations in dozens of dead languages. — Business, my lady, he replies, his tone too gentle, too calculated. Everything depends on the… local behavior.

Joshua adds, without moving a muscle beyond his lips: — And we have learned to observe before acting. Always.

Erick smiles, almost cheerful: — The people here are… fascinating.

Pier and Nerfit exchange a glance laden with silent irony, like two seasoned actors privately mocking the mediocrity of the play.

The wood creaks. The wind howls. Harald keeps talking, unaware that before these five foreign visitors, all his feudal authority feels as fragile as a dry twig.

And you sense — in the silence between each breath — that something has only just begun, something that crossed oceans and centuries, something older than the winter’s own darkness.

And still, they smile. As if they have seen humanity do its worst so many times that everything has, at last, become dull.