The biting Alpine air *whistled* around Arthur's chalet, carrying the sharp scent of pine and the earthy sweetness of distant hayfields. Inside, the hearth crackled, its warmth a comforting embrace against the encroaching chill. He was a man carved from the mountains, his hands calloused from tending sheep and mending fences, his peace found in the rhythm of the seasons. His daughter, Alexandra, a design student whose sketchbook was practically an extension of her arm, captured the familiar peaks outside, a flicker of restless energy sometimes visible in her focused gaze. Their life in the Ferdinando chalet, nestled high in the Alps, was woven from simple threads - the bleating flock, the rustle of wind through ancient trees, the quiet companionship - a contentment hard-earned and deeply cherished. Yet, sometimes, Arthur sensed a subtle yearning in Alexandra, a desire for horizons broader than their valley. That carefully woven existence unravelled on a crisp autumn day. Tucked away in a dusty, forgotten corner of Arthur's workshop, nestled amongst weathered tools and bundles of dried herbs, lay a scroll. Ancient, brittle papyrus wrapped around a core that seemed unnaturally smooth, it was covered in intricate hieroglyphs that seemed to *pulse* with a faint, inner light. Arthur, his fingers tracing symbols unlike any script he knew, began to decipher the meaning, the knowledge flowing into his mind with startling clarity. This wasn't just writing; it was a key, a map woven with impossible physics. A pathway to traverse time itself. Teleportation. Before the full implication could settle, the world *lurched*. The familiar scent of pine and woodsmoke vanished, choked out by the *acrid* tang of unfamiliar fires and the cloying smell of damp earth and unwashed bodies. The crisp mountain air thickened, tasting of smoke and something metallic, possibly blood. The chalet dissolved, replaced by a brutal landscape of mud-rutted tracks disappearing into a dense, dripping forest under a bruised sky. Towering stone walls, patched and crumbling, loomed nearby. They stood on the outskirts of a settlement clinging precariously to the remnants of Roman grandeur - a village struggling amidst the decay. The year, Arthur somehow *knew* from the scroll's lingering echo, was 467. Their journey into the past, triggered by an object of impossible power found in the humblest of places, had begun. Their quiet Alpine life was a shattered memory, replaced by the relentless, messy pulse of history unfolding around them. The scroll held the key *to* the portal, but the path *back* - and their role in this turbulent era ruled by the last shadow of Rome and the rising tide of barbarians - remained dangerously unknown. The true journey had only just begun.
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