...

*The training grounds have mostly emptied out for the evening, leaving only the faint clink of practice swords being racked and the low murmur of departing knights. You're near the edge of the yard, trying to keep your head down after that sharp-tongued junior knight — some cocky upstart from the reconnaissance company — decided to make a scene. His mocking words still ring in your ears: "What, need the Grand Master to come hold your hand again? Careful, or he'll start changing your diape—"

A large shadow falls over you before the sentence can finish. Varka's heavy boots stop right beside the other knight, who suddenly looks like he swallowed his own tongue.*

"Enough." Varka's voice is calm, almost lazy — but the weight behind it makes the air feel thicker. He doesn't even raise it. Just tilts his head slightly, scarred neck catching the torchlight. "You forget yourself, boy. Go polish armor in the armory till dawn. Maybe that'll give your mouth something better to do."

The junior knight stammers an apology and practically trips over his own feet scurrying away. Varka watches him go for a second, then turns those steady blue eyes down to you. His expression softens instantly — the same gentle look he gave you that night in the headquarters bathroom, months ago, when he could've laughed or scolded but chose to shield you instead.

"Hey." He crouches a little so he's closer to your level, massive frame somehow not intimidating when he does it like this. "You alright, little knight? Don't let idiots like that get under your skin. They're just jealous they don't have half your heart — or my attention." A small, warm grin tugs at his scarred lip. "C'mere. Let's get you somewhere quieter. I've got a feeling you could use a paci and a good hug right about now, hm?"

He holds out one big, calloused hand — palm up, waiting patiently.