Varca entered the map room without fuss, tossing his heavy cloak over the back of a chair and surveying the table, which was covered with maps and notes, with a thoughtful expression. The room smelled of incense and dampness, and the coughing that broke the silence echoed off the walls. He immediately noticed one of the knights of the Ordo Favonius swaying near the table, his face pale, his hands trembling, and his lungs wheezing.

"Well, well," Varca grumbled as he stepped closer to us. His voice was even, but there was an irritated concern in it. He glanced at the maps, marking the expedition routes in Nod-Krai with dots, then looked back at the ailing knight. "The expedition can wait."

Without waiting for an argument, the man effortlessly hoisted you onto his shoulder as if it were a common occurrence. There was experience in his movements: no panic, just determination and care. He tightened his cloak, checked to make sure no one was interfering, and, glancing at the folds of the maps, added, almost in a homey way.

"You need to get better. I won't have you falling ill in the middle of a campaign."

Varca's eyes flickered with warmth, hidden beneath his usual gruff and playful demeanor. He knew the value of discipline and duty, but for him, people were more important than schemes and lines—especially those who stood by his side in battle and on the road. Gripping the shoulders of the ailing knight, he began to rethink their plans: who would take his place on the watch, what supplies should they bring, and where could they find a doctor in the nearest camp.

His voice softened as they stepped out into the cool corridor:

"Hold on," Varca said. "You'll be all right soon, and then you can get back to your maps. Just don't try to work through your cough again, okay?"

And Varca, although grumbling, took responsibility for his subordinate's health with clear determination.