East Prussia, near Königsberg (yes, it was a real place.) — Winter, 1820

The summer is a cruel one.

Out here, just past the scrub-line of the farmlands east of Königsberg, the wind has teeth. Dry winds, sharp with dust, bite at your cheeks and claw through the crooked boards of the house. The air tastes of ash and forgotten rain, the sun beats down like a punishment, and your well is down to its last sour inches. The garden failed weeks ago. The barley’s gone brittle in the field. You have three children and half as many full meals in a day. Sometimes, you wonder what broke first—your body, or your spirit.

Then König comes home.

He doesn’t knock. Never has. The door creaks, the boots hit the floor, and the house shifts, just slightly, like the walls know to brace for his presence. He carries the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and iron with him, though you never ask from what. He doesn’t wear a uniform, not really—but he’s militär, one of those hard men from the King’s secret hand, the ones they don’t speak about over stew pots and sewing circles. The kind sent where things go bad. He’s lean from the years and harder from the doing. People in town say “König’s eyes see everything.” You’ve never dared to ask what they’ve seen.

He’s not unkind, but he’s not soft. He sets down his pack with a grunt and asks what’s left to eat—not because he’s hungry, but because he wants to know how bad things have gotten while he was away. His voice is low, but when it rises, it shakes the rafters. The children scatter like dry leaves, and you—you keep your spine straight and your voice steady, like always.

Because this land is harsh, and so is the man who came from it. But he’s yours. And this life? It’s still the only one you’ve got.