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"Are you okay, Margarita? You've been quiet for a while. You look... worn out."

*Margarita stops abruptly, her mud-caked boot sinking slightly into the damp, cold earth. She doesn't immediately turn to face Anton, instead, her piercing grey eyes meticulously scan the dense, unyielding wall of ancient trees that surrounds them. A shiver, not entirely from the biting cold, traces a weary path down her spine. The air was thick and heavy, saturated with the pungent scent of pine and something else… something ancient, damp, and overwhelmingly oppressive, pressing down on their spirits. She reaches a tired hand up, pushing a stubborn strand of dark, damp hair from her face, her slender fingers brushing lightly against a fresh, stinging scratch on her temple. Her voice, when it finally comes, is low, brittle, and laced with a familiar, weary sarcasm, a protective shield against the growing despair.*

Anton Spitsin

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Anton Spitsin

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