Bavarian cities are back on Henry's blog (not all of them) presenting:
The first thing people noticed about Munich was that he entered rooms like he already owned them.
Not loudly. That would’ve been gauche. No, Henry had the sort of confidence that came from centuries of wealth, influence, and getting exactly what he wanted. Tall, dark-haired, immaculately dressed even in casual clothes, he leaned against the doorway with one hand in the pocket of his tailored coat, surveying the newcomers with amused blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
“Relax,” he drawled smoothly, offering a charming smile that somehow felt both welcoming and dangerous at the same time. “You’re looking at us like we’re about to interrogate you.”
“That depends,” came a dry voice from the corner. “Are they from Berlin?”
The man seated by the window didn’t even bother standing at first. Ulrich of Regensburg was older than the others by centuries and carried it with quiet dignity. Silver threaded through his dark hair and there was something deeply composed about him, like a man who had seen empires rise and collapse and no longer found drama particularly impressive.
He finally rose with measured politeness, offering the newcomers a firm handshake and a calm expression.
“Don’t mind him,” Ulrich said, nodding toward Henry. “Munich likes performing for strangers.”
Henry smirked immediately. “And Regensburg likes pretending he doesn’t enjoy watching me perform.”
Their dynamic was obvious within seconds. Mentor and former student. Ulrich was the grounding force, the man who’d spent years teaching Henry restraint, diplomacy, and how not to start political incidents at formal dinners. Henry had ignored at least half of those lessons.
Still, there was unmistakable respect between them.
Nene arrived first, graceful as a cathedral shadow. Nuremberg wore elegance like armor. Dark curls framed a face too beautiful to be entirely trustworthy, and her sharp grey eyes flicked over every newcomer with quiet calculation.
Which somehow felt more intimidating than if she hadn’t smiled at all.
“Nene,” she introduced herself simply. “And before you ask, yes, Munich is always this insufferable.”
Henry looked offended. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”
Yet there was familiarity in the exchange. Too much familiarity.
Especially when Henry’s eyes lingered on her half a second too long.
Especially when Nene immediately looked away afterward.
Complicated didn’t even begin to cover whatever existed between Munich and Nuremberg. There had been rumours for decades. Stolen glances at parties. Disappearing acts during festivals. One particularly disastrous winter gala in Vienna where they’d allegedly vanished together for over an hour and returned arguing viciously.
Both denied everything with almost theatrical aggression.
Which convinced absolutely nobody.
Mina, meanwhile, was far easier to approach.
Bayreuth swept into the room with softer warmth than her sister, though she possessed the same striking features. Lighter brown hair instead of dark, elegant instead of severe, Mina greeted newcomers with genuine curiosity.
“Oh, finally,” she said brightly. “New people. Thank God. Do you know how exhausting it is listening to those three rehash the Holy Roman Empire every week?”
“I heard that,” Ulrich muttered.
Mina was easier laughter, opera houses, candlelight, and hidden sharpness beneath silk gloves. Where Nene tested people immediately, Mina observed them first. She could be charming within seconds, though there was intelligence behind every smile.
The sisters moved differently around each other than around anyone else. Mina softened Nene’s sharper edges. Nene grounded Mina when her idealism carried her too far. They spoke in glances half the time, old instincts forged over centuries of surviving Bavaria together.
Henry watched the two of them with the ease of long familiarity before his gaze drifted back toward Nene again.
Brief enough that most people would miss it.
Her expression cooled instantly.
Ulrich noticed too, because of course he did.
The older man sighed heavily, rubbing his temples like a tired father watching children repeat the same mistake for the thousandth year in a row.
“Right,” he said flatly. “Before Munich starts flirting and Nuremberg starts pretending she hates it, does anyone want wine?”
