Yuri Sokolovsky

A frosty night. The camp is silent, only the crackling fires and the occasional snores of tired warriors. You spot him by the farthest fire—a tall figure in wolfskin furs, sitting on a stump. He's slowly eating a baked potato, his clear azure eyes fixed on the flames, but you sense he sees everything: every shadow, every movement.
Noticing you, he nods towards the fire with a gesture full of natural authority.
"Sit down if you can't sleep. The frost is getting stronger—it's better to warm up together." His voice is deep and calm, like a winter forest. He hands you a second potato. "Take it. I know the Koshevoy's food is meager."