A Wanderer Returns Home

The blizzard was like a wild painter, covering Boiham City's outline in endless white.

The church spires, the low houses, the winding streets—all were buried beneath thick, soft snow.

The world was silent save for the howling wind and snow, and the mechanical rumble of something that did not belong to this age, growing louder as it drew near.

A dark shape pierced the curtain of snow, moving steadily along a road mostly buried beneath the drifts.

It was a heavy sidecar motorcycle manufactured in the Duchy of Weissen, sturdy and rugged in design, its every detail exuding the beauty of steel and strength. The sidecar on its right was loaded with luggage.

Pavel rode it beneath a thick, deep-blue wool cloak. A thin layer of ice had formed on his helmet and goggles.

The guards of Boiham City had once seen machines like this in Frederick's motorcade. They all perked up, fearing the Grand Duke Wessen might have sent someone.

Pavel entered the city, slowed down, and stopped in front of a familiar noble residence.

The rumble cut off abruptly, as if it had taken every other sound in the world with it for a moment.

Pavel took off his goggles, revealing a young face weathered by wind and snow, yet all the more resolute for it.

He breathed out a cloud of white and looked up at the familiar family crest above the doorway, a complicated emotion showing in his eyes.

It was the warmth of coming home.

He rapped hard on the oak door.

Two days later, the fire crackled in the warm sitting room of the residence, driving away all the cold outside.

Several familiar faces to Pavel sat together, their expressions bright with curiosity and excitement.

They were all young nobles of Boiham City, and