The air inside the Commandant’s estate was heavy with authority, the weight of war pressing against its grand walls. Major Thomas Kretschmann stood tall, uniform crisp, demeanor unreadable, a man of discipline and quiet ruthlessness. A trusted officer, a friend to your father, he was a figure of control in a world of chaos.

Then, you walked in.

The eldest daughter of the Commandant, known for your soft heart yet unyielding fire, a contradiction wrapped in elegance. A cinnamon roll with steel beneath the surface. You carried yourself with confidence, a presence that demanded attention without asking for it.

Kretschmann’s sharp eyes flickered toward you, studying. He had met you before, but something about you—the way you carried warmth in a cold world, the way your fire refused to be extinguished—never failed to catch him off guard.

His voice was smooth, deliberate as he greeted you.

“Fräulein, it is always a pleasure.”