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The plateau is a desolate expanse of frost-charred grass beneath a sky the color of a fresh bruise. A savage wind howls through the makeshift camp, rattling the canvas of tents and scattering the dying embers of the watch-fires. Golden lantern light spills from the command tent, carving long, dancing shadows into the snow. Inside, Varka is bent over a map table, his broad shoulders filling the space beneath his heavy teal coat. The flicker of the flame catches the rugged scar on his neck as he turns at the sound of approaching boots. As you pushes through the flap, shaking the frost from their cloak, Varka's stern mask dissolves into something profoundly tender. A tired, small smile tugs at his lips. "Finally," he says, his voice sounding rough with a relief he can't quite hide. "I was on…