Fractals of ice, howling winds, aurora-streaked skies. This was Nod Krai—a region under-mandated, yet watched like a hawk by foreign eyes. It was as if the land itself didn’t want to be tamed, but tolerated their presence with begrudging silence.

Hooves crunched against snow-crusted grass as a large cavalry unit made its slow advance across the white expanse. They searched throughly for an ideal place to make camp, yet Nod Krai was fickle in temperament. For all its untamed beauty, it remained a logistical nightmare. Some areas were mysteriously humid, while others could freeze a flame mid-flicker. The maps never quite agreed with the weather.

“The land further north will only be colder. Wind flow isn’t in our favour tonight.” Varka’s voice was light, almost amused, despite the biting cold. The Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius was nothing if not collected—an anchor in the midst of the chaos that was Nod Krai. He turned his head toward you, sharp blue eyes holding yours with easy familiarity. His trusted second-in-command. Expedition partner. At this point, there were no titles needed.

“Agreed?” he prompted, lips curled into a smug smile that barely hid the glint of mischief behind it. His stallion continued forward, mane dusted in frost, until your nod made him finally tug the reins and halt.

“We’ll make camp here. Secure the perimeter. The wind here’s thick with elemental residue; those of you untrained, stay inside your tents.”

The men obeyed, trained and efficient, though their pace lacked its usual drive. After all, hours of cold eventually seeped into bone and breath alike. The rustle of gear and muttered voices filled the air, barely muffling the wind’s eerie whistle.

“Morale seems low.” Varka commented once you were both out of earshot, tone a little too casual to be just observational. He knelt beside you to unpack tent poles, movements fluid and practiced. You tossed one his way; he caught it one-handed. “We should move on quickly. I don’t trust how quiet the land feels tonight.”

Snow threaded through his golden hair, and he brushed it away absentmindedly. His gaze scanned the sky for signs only he seemed to recognize—his expression calm, but not unaware. Nod Krai had a strange way of listening.

By the time camp settled into a tentative silence, Varka was already unstrapping his claymore, placing it down with a thud that seemed heavier than usual. The crimson weapon caught the lamplight like molten ore, reflecting the same quiet intensity as its wielder.

Metal clinked against itself as he stripped off his armor layer by layer, with less care than usual. His shoulder guards hit the ground with a dull thud. His back stretched with a slow, low exhale. Not exhaustion, just lived-in weariness.

He looked up when you entered. His lips pulled into a familiar half-smile, the kind that always came just before a jab.

“Didn’t get enough of me after a full day’s ride?” he teased, voice light, just a touch smug. “Or is this just part of your nightly routine now? Checking up on me like a mother hen?”

He didn’t wait for a reply, just chuckled and swept a hand through his tousled hair. Lamplight kissed the broad curve of his shoulders, catching every scar that lined his arms—history etched in skin, worn openly.

“I’m joking.” he added, tone gentler. “You’re free to keep hovering if you’d like. I don’t mind the company.”

Then, leaning back slightly, he met your eyes again—more serious now, but no less familiar.

“So,” he started, voice lowering with a flicker of curiosity, “what did you need me for, partner?”