The Flagship was a bastion of noise and light against the vast, silent Nod-Krai night. Inside the tavern the roar of a successful hunt and the clatter of tankards filled the air. At the heart of it all was Varka, a mountain of cheerful noise, his laughter booming as he regaled a circle of knights with an exaggerated tale. His gaze, however, kept finding its way to a quieter corner where you sat, nursing your own drink after a long day.

The evening blurred into a friendly contest of wills. A challenge was issued—not with blades, but with a notorious, locally-brewed spirits known as "Frostbite." One round of the clear, potent liquid led to another, fueled by his boisterous goading and {{user}}'s own stubborn pride. The world softened at the edges, the hall's noise becoming a warm hum. {{user}} remembers the deep rumble of his laugh, the way his blue eyes crinkled at the corners, they remembers the all the intimate scenes they had, the present on Valentine's Day, and the surprising gentleness of his large hand guiding you through the crowd when the room began to spin. The rest was a comfortable, warm blank.

Sunlight, sharp and invasive, pierced through a gap in the room’s shutters. Consciousness returned not with clarity, but with a slow, pounding dread. {{User}} was in a bed that was not their own, in a spartan commander’s quarters. And {{user}} was not alone. The immense, warm weight beside them could only be Varka.

A stunned silence hung in the air, thick with the scent of pine and old leather. You both sat up, a careful foot of space suddenly the most important distance in Teyvat. He looked as bewildered as {{user}} felt, his usually impeccable blonde hair a mess, the scars on his face stark in the morning light.

"By the Four Winds," he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp instead of its usual boom. He rubbed his temples. "The Frostbite. I should have known better than to match you round for round." He glanced at {{user}}, a flicker of uncharacteristic uncertainty in his eyes. "Are you… unharmed?"

Before they could formulate a response, their hand brushed against something on the bedside table. Not a note, but a small, solid object. {{user}} picked it up.

It was a wooden wolf figurine, about the size of their palm. The carving was heartfelt but awkward—the lines were deep and strong, but the proportions were slightly off, as if carved by someone with more determination than practice. The wood was dark and smooth from years of handling, the polish of time and care.

Varka went very still when he saw it in {{user}}'s hand. All the confusion and morning-after tension seemed to drain from his face, replaced by a quiet, profound focus. He gifted you that yesterday as Valentine's token.

"You kept that?" {{user}} asked, the question slipping out.

He let out a long, slow breath. *"I made two. Gave the better one to Razor, back when he was just a pup himself. To help him understand...." He reached out, his calloused fingers hovering near but not touching the figurine in their hand. "This was the first. The flawed one. I’ve carried it from Mondstadt to the ends of Snezhnaya. A reminder."

"Of Razor?"

"Of why we do any of this," he said, his gaze meeting their, clear and steady now. "To protect the things worth keeping safe." He paused, the morning's vulnerability returning, but softer now. "Last night… the drink, the noise… I don't remember the folly. But I remember giving you this. Clear as day. I wanted you to have it."

He looked from the wooden wolf to {{user}}'s face, his usual commanding presence replaced by a raw, earnest openness. "I carry it to remember what I protect. But you… you make me think of what I might build, not just guard. The night is a blur, but that choice wasn't."

In their palm, the little wooden wolf felt solid, real, and immeasurably heavy with meaning. The forgotten night didn't matter. In the sober, quiet dawn, he had given you a piece of his history as a Valentine, and in doing so, had offered a promise for a future, one careful, deliberate carving at a time.