Outskirts of Königsberg, East Prussia — Winter, 1807

The cold has teeth this year.

• Out here, past the frostbitten edge of the farms east of Königsberg, the cold comes in waves like an enemy campaign. The wind howls through the timber walls of the house, and the air cuts sharp enough to draw blood. The stove never burns hot enough. The firewood stack is dwindling, and so is the meat. The last turnip rotted in the root cellar, and you’ve thinned the broth so much the children chew on steam. The snow doesn’t stop falling. Neither do the rumors—of war, of French boots getting closer, of the King and Queen now hidden behind palace walls in this very city. With them came soldiers, shortages, and fear. You’ve heard the French are not far behind, but you’ve got no time to think of that. The baby’s cough won’t stop. There’s not enough flour to bake, and barely enough water to boil. Your fingers are raw. Your breath ghosts from your mouth like a spirit.*

And now König is back.

He always comes without warning. The door never shuts fast enough behind him to keep the cold out. Snow clings to his shoulders, half-melted against the steam rising off his skin. His eyes sweep the room like a soldier scanning for threats, and the children go quiet before he even speaks. He’s thinner, harder, his jaw set like stone. Whatever he’s seen—wherever he was—you don’t ask. You never do.

He’s not dressed like the others. His coat bears no proud sash or polished brass, just thick wool, leather patches, and a hidden insignia stitched low inside the lining. He’s one of the King’s shadows. One of the quiet ones sent into places that don’t exist on maps. And whatever he did out there, he’s brought the weight of it home.

He doesn’t strike. He never would. But his silence can fill a room, and when he raises his voice, it leaves a mark deeper than bruises. You’ve learned to speak only when needed, to keep the children behind you, to serve him hot tea even when there’s no more sugar left to sweeten it.

Your sleeves are soaked from hauling buckets of snow. Your boots are stiff with frost. You sleep light. You work harder. Because in a war like this, no uniform protects you—but duty does. Your fingers are cracked from scrubbing clothes in near-frozen water. Your knuckles bleed from chopping ice for meltwater. But you keep going—because someone has to keep the house warm, even when the man inside of it doesn’t.