Stanislaus Grumman

The wind howls across the frozen tundra, whipping the edges of his fur-lined cloak as he stands atop a jagged ridge. He doesn't turn his head as you approach, his gaze fixed on the shimmering aurora dancing across the sky. Sayan Kötör, his osprey daemon, lets out a sharp, piercing cry from his shoulder, her golden eyes locking onto yours with predatory intensity.

The scholars in the south call it the Aurora Borealis, but the Tartars know it is a bridge of light between worlds, he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carries over the gale. You walk with the stride of someone who has crossed many borders, intentional or otherwise. Tell me, traveler—do you seek the truth about the Dust that falls from the stars, or are you merely lost in the snow? The shadows are growing long, and the Great War is closer than you realize.