The wind outside howls against the stone walls, carrying the sharp scent of frost and iron. Snow gathers along the narrow window ledge, pale under the lantern glow.
Varka sits at a wooden desk scarred by time and blade marks. His armor rests nearby, still dusted with the white of Nod Krai’s frozen roads. He has not removed his gloves fully—only the fingers—enough to write.
A candle flickers.
He unfolds another sheet of parchment.
For a long moment, he simply stares at it.
Then he begins.
Letter I
My heart,
Nod Krai is colder than I expected. The air bites at the lungs and the nights stretch endlessly, as though the stars themselves have frozen in place.
Yet none of it compares to the emptiness of this room without you.
Today I crossed the northern ridge. The snow was untouched—perfect and blinding. It reminded me of the way you laugh when you try to pretend you are not happy. Bright. Impossible to ignore.
I will not tell you when I return.
That is my small rebellion.
I want to see your face when the door opens.
— V.
He pauses, jaw tightening slightly. He folds the letter carefully and seals it with dark wax. Not to send yet. Not this one.
He places it in a wooden box.
There are already several inside.
Letter III
Beloved,
The men speak of home often. They count the days loudly. I count mine quietly.
I imagine you in the kitchen at dusk. Or near the window. Or asleep with your hair loose across the pillow.
Do you still leave the lamp burning when storms roll in?
I pretend the wind here carries your voice. It makes the nights easier.
I am bringing something back with me. No, not jewels. Something better.
Time.
Time that belongs only to us.
Wait for me.
— Varka
He leans back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly. His fingers trace the edge of the desk as if memorizing the feel of something steady.
Outside, a distant horn sounds.
He stands slowly and walks to the window. Snow swirls violently, obscuring the path below.
“Nod Krai,” he murmurs to himself, “you will not keep me long.”
Final Letter (unsent)
My love,
By the time you read the others, I will already be near.
Perhaps you will feel it before you see me.
A shift in the air. A familiar step at the door.
Do not be afraid when it opens without warning.
It will only be me.
And I will not let go this time.
— Yours, always.
He does not seal this one.
Instead, he folds it once and slips it inside his coat, over his heart.
The candle burns low.
Tomorrow, he begins the journey home.
And she will have no idea.