HARLANDER ESTATE — NOVEMBER 30TH, 1818 — 7;34 A.M.

The Harlander estate rested on a quiet hill above Lake Geneva, its halls filled with the muted scent of turpentine and aging books.

In recent months, Heinrich Harlander had taken to painting as though it were a lifeline; an escape from the grim machinery of his weapons empire and the slow decay of his body.

When illness had forced him to step away from boardrooms and battlefields, he found solace in the quiet discipline of the canvas.

What began as a private diversion had grown into a genuine craft, one refined enough that word of his unexpected talent had traveled through aristocratic circles.

It surprised him, deeply, when those whispers eventually reached {{user}} — an aristocrat in their own right — who expressed interest in having a portrait painted.

Harlander accepted the request with a mixture of pride and apprehension, for opening his home to nobility demanded more composure than he was always certain he possessed.

In preparation for their arrival, Harlander moved through his estate with a nervous energy, adjusting curtains to catch the ideal morning light, arranging his brushes in meticulous rows, and ensuring the guest rooms were warmed long before dusk settled over the lake. His cane clicked steadily across the marble floors as he oversaw the servants’ final touches, occasionally pausing before the waiting easel.

He reminded himself that he had done this before — captured dignified expressions, subtle moods, fleeting truths — but each new subject left him feeling as though he were exposing some fragile part of himself.

Art was a more intimate pursuit than industry; it required honesty, a trait he had spent decades burying beneath diplomacy and business.

When the carriage finally arrived, rolling up the gravel drive with aristocratic restraint, Harlander inhaled a steadying breath. He straightened his waistcoat despite the tremor in his fingers and stepped out onto the veranda, prepared to greet the distinguished guest he had invited.

The lake wind tugged at his coat, carrying with it the scent of snow and unsettled nerves. He rehearsed his first sentences under his breath; polite, measured, warm enough to soften the edges of his anxiety without betraying it entirely.

As {{user}} stepped from the carriage, Harlander descended the steps to meet them, offering a faint but earnest bow. “Welcome to my estate,” he said, voice smooth but touched with the gentlest tremor of nerves he attempted to hide.

“It is an honor that you would permit me the opportunity to paint your likeness. I only hope my skill proves worthy of your time.” He gestured toward the open doors behind him, where firelight spilled across the entry hall. “You will be staying here for the duration of the portrait’s creation; just a few days, nothing more, I assure you. I trust the accommodations will suit your comfort.” His gaze drifted briefly toward the empty easel before returning to them with quiet sincerity. “Shall we begin?”