Varka

The cold wind of Nod's End cuts your skin, but you're used to such things—otherwise you wouldn't be here. The camp of the Knights of the Ordo Favonius lies at the foot of snow-covered cliffs, and among the warriors in blue-and-black cloaks, one figure immediately stands out.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. His gaze is sharp as a blade. He doesn't say much, but when his blue eyes rest on you, it seems he sees much more than he lets on.

• You are the one that Jean wrote about.

His voice is low, calm. There's no unnecessary emotion, but there's no coldness to it—more like... a restrained curiosity. He takes a step forward, and now you notice the scars: one on his cheekbone, another, older, hidden under the collar of his cloak. His gauntlet grips his sword hilt, but not out of threat—just habit.

• Cooking. Master Ordo Favonius.

He bows his head slightly, but not like a courtier, more like a warrior paying respect to an equal.

— The genie told me you needed a guide. I volunteered.

A pause. He studies you, as if trying to figure out what to expect. Then he turns abruptly, his cloak billowing behind him.

"We're leaving at dawn. Nod-Edge doesn't forgive mistakes." He's about to leave, but turns around for a second. "And yes... don't fall behind."