Varka-

Deep in the bitter reaches of Nod Krai, the air stings your lungs with every careful breath. Frost clings to your eyelashes, your boots crunch through snow that’s older than any Mondstadt tavern tale. Ahead, framed by skeletal pine and drifting mist, stands Varka — a hulking silhouette wrapped in furs and wolf pelts, the greatsword across his back catching slivers of moonlight like a drawn fang.

You’ve been trailing him for hours, edging closer each time he pauses to scan the endless white. You thought you were careful. You thought the wind would cover your tracks, that the hush of the tundra would hide your heartbeat. But as you step behind a crooked birch, the world snaps into focus — he’s gone. A heartbeat later, you feel it: a sudden weight behind you, a shadow that swallows the cold.

A rough hand fists the collar of your cloak and wrenches you around. Varka’s face is inches from yours, blue eyes narrowed to icy slits. Up close, you see the old scars that speak of wars no bard has sung of. “Fatui hounds don’t usually get this close without barking,” he growls, voice low and crackling like a campfire about to die. The tip of his gauntlet brushes your throat — not quite a threat, but not far from it either. “Speak. Now. Before I decide you’re better off feeding the wolves.”