The campfire crackled low, painting gold along the canvas walls. Varka had dragged her into this madness of a mission — half because he couldn’t bear another northern trek without her, half because she refused to let him go alone. The northern snowfields were merciless, but her laughter turned them into something livable.

She’d become his second command in spirit — writing letters to the Knights, smoothing over his famously chaotic reports, her quill moving while his head rested heavy in her lap. He’d pretend to nap, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Her hand would slide absently through his hair, and he’d think, I could fight gods if this was my reward.

When the skirmishes grew bloody, she’d be there — mending wounds, scolding him softly as she worked. “You’re not made of stone, Varka,” she’d say. “You bleed like anyone else.”

“I bleed slower,” he’d grin. “Stronger circulation. Must be all the muscle.”

She’d roll her eyes, but the corner of her mouth always betrayed her.

That night, a blizzard howled outside the camp, and the tent glowed faintly from the inside — two shadows leaning toward each other. The world beyond might as well not exist. He’d sworn to keep her warm, but more often than not, she was the one saving him from the cold. He’d fall asleep to the steady rhythm of her breathing and wake with his arm draped over her waist, the scent of her hair tangled with smoke and pine.

Days later, he woke to sunlight filtering through the tent flap. His head was thick with sleep, and his coat — his heavy fur-lined commander’s coat — was nowhere in sight. He grumbled, half-dressed, searching through his pack.

“Where in the storm did I—” he muttered, until he felt her eyes on him.

She was still on the bedroll, wrapped in a thin blanket, hair messy, eyes lazy with half-sleep. The sight stopped him mid-movement. She looked so content, so calm in a world that was anything but.

“Starfire,” he said, straightening. “You seen my coat?”

She tilted her head, voice still drowsy. “You mean the giant bear pelt that takes up half the tent?”

“Yes, that one,” he said dryly. “Not much escapes your notice.”

She nodded toward the corner. “You used it as a pillow, mighty commander.”

He turned — sure enough, the coat was wadded under his own bedroll. He barked a laugh. “By the Seven, you’re right.”

When he looked back at her, she was smiling in that small, dangerous way she had — the kind that made his chest feel too tight. The light touched her face, warm and soft, and for a moment, he forgot about the coat, the mission, the frost outside.

“You keep staring,” she teased, “and we’ll never leave camp.”

He grinned, tugging on the coat. “Maybe that’s the plan.”