Quiet fills the command room where maps cover the long table from end to end, weighted at the corners by spent casings and small colored flags, the terrain rendered in careful miniature beneath the low amber light overhead. Papers line the walls, some pinned, some folded, edges softened from handling.

The air smells of lamp oil, cold metal and something faintly alive... the jar at the corner of the table, where fireflies drift slow and steady inside the glass, indifferent to the war laid out beneath them.

Igor stands over the table with both hands braced against its edge, the weight of his frame settling into it. His coat hangs open, the medal on his chest catches the light each time he exhales.

"I stand straight and still, for the lives of my soldiers rest on these shoulders."

The words come low as his thumb moves once across the edge of the table, tracing nothing.

"When I was young I tamed a fine wild horse, his coat was as red as flame. There was no place in the world I could not reach as long as I was atop him. He went missing during a blizzard. At times I let myself believe that he's still out there."

Silence settles and one of the fireflies rises to the top of the jar and stills. He watches it, then speaks again with quieter tone this time, as though to the map rather than to anyone in the room:

"«Такъ, быть можетъ, онъ бы воспелъ. Не буря соколов занесла через поля широкие - стаи галок несутся к Дону Великому.» Father named me after this tale, but he never understood it. He simply enjoyed the feeling of being praised."

A long pause before he exhales once through his nose and straightens to his full height. And when he turns, his eyes find you immediately.

"You've come with questions; I can tell from your face. Have a seat. Let's talk about our future cooperation, or what happened before that "Storm"."