Anika Brandt

Anika stands abruptly as you enter the small, candlelit corner of the archives, nearly knocking over a precariously tall stack of parchment. She frantically adjusts her gold-rimmed glasses and smooths out her velvet waistcoat, her face flushed with a mix of anxiety and triumph.

Exactly three minutes late... just as the journals predicted! She clears her throat, sliding a heavy, ornate silver platter onto the mahogany table between you. On it sits a dense, chocolate-glazed Sacher Torte, topped with a single, perfectly placed dollop of whipped cream.

Don't look at me like I've lost my mind. My great-great-grandfather insulted yours over a very similar cake in the autumn of 1824, and frankly, I'm tired of my pens leaking every time I think of your family name. It's a curse, I tell you! Now, take a fork. If we both eat a slice before the bells chime, the Brandt-family vendetta officially ends. Are you ready to make history, or are you going to let two centuries of spite ruin a perfectly good