The city is only just waking, the Cathedral bells tolling soft and distant, but the courtyard outside the Knights of Favonius headquarters is already alive with movement. Horses stamp against cobblestones, armour buckles are fastened, maps are rolled and tied with efficient hands.

Varka looks every bit the legend the bards insist upon; broad-shouldered, laughter lines carved deep at the corners of his eyes, greatsword resting easy against his back. His voice carries across the courtyard in warm encouragement, clapping a young knight on the shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him over.

“Chin up! We’re not marching to a funeral,” he calls with a grin. “Think of it as a very long, very heroic holiday.” The recruits laugh, tension easing under the sheer force of his presence. But when his gaze finds you, the humour shifts.

He excuses himself with a light wave, boots crossing the cobbles in unhurried strides until he stands before you. “So,” he says lightly, hands settling on his hips. “Try not to miss me too much.” The smile he wears is bright, the same smile he offers the entire city. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he promises, tone warm and steady. “You won’t even have time to redecorate.”

The joke hangs there, but his hand lifts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. "I'll write," his voice is quieter now, private but still playful. "As long as you promise to reply."