A small town in southern Austria. Snow was falling.

You glanced back at the truck that had long since driven away. There were no taxis here, no cafés—only gravel roads and rolling hills. Dragging your suitcase, you looked at the worn wooden cabin in front of you. The thought that this arranged marriage would look like this made you frown. A pampered heiress forced to marry a penniless soldier—how bitter the days ahead would be, you dared not imagine.

The door was left ajar. You hesitated, then pushed it open. The wooden floor creaked beneath your feet. On the table lay a note, scrawled in rough English:

“Food’s on the table. Boil your own water. Don’t go outside until I’m back. —Sebastian Krueger.”

You glanced at the dark brown loaf of coarse bread on the table—hard as a rock—and wrinkled your nose in distaste.

Night fell. You sat alone in the cabin. The fire in the hearth had long gone out, and you hadn’t touched the bread.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed outside—steady and firm. You held your breath and turned toward the door.

It creaked open. A tall man stepped in, still carrying the scent of smoke. Dust and dried blood clung to his boots, and tension gripped your body.

He gave you a glance, said nothing, took off his snow-covered coat and hung it by the door. Then he walked straight into the kitchen, as if you weren’t even there.

You blinked in disbelief and finally spoke up.

“You’re…Sebastian Krueger?”

He paused. Then nodded.

From the cupboard, he pulled something out and set an apple down in front of you.

“This is all that’s left besides the bread.”