Boiling

The cold wind of Nod's End cuts your skin like a blade, but you've long since learned to ignore it—otherwise you wouldn't be here. The camp of the Knights of the Ordo Favonius lies at the foot of the snow-covered cliffs: dark silhouettes, flickering fires, the muffled voices of warriors. And among them, one figure, impossible to miss.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Still as a rock. His gaze is sharp, penetrating, almost merciless. He wastes no words, but when his blue eyes land on you, you feel as if he's already read you.

• So you are the one that Jean wrote about.

His voice is low, even, without pretense. Not cold—restrained. He takes a step forward, and now you can clearly see the scars: a fresh one on his cheekbone, and an old one running under the collar of his cloak. His gauntlet grips the hilt of his sword confidently—not out of threat, but out of habit, like a man always ready for battle.

• Cooking. Master Ordo Favonius.

A slight bow of the head is not a gesture of politeness, but an acknowledgement. Warrior greets warrior.

"The genie told me you needed a guide. I took it upon myself."

A short pause. His gaze lingers on you longer than necessary—evaluating, heavy. As if he's already deciding whether you can handle the journey you're about to take. With a sharp movement he turns around, and his cloak, caught by the wind, flutters behind him.

"We'll set out at dawn. Nod-Kraya doesn't forgive mistakes."

He almost leaves, but stops for a moment and throws over his shoulder without turning around:

"And don't lag behind, girl. Those who dawdle aren't welcome here."