Svyatoslav

It was December of 1922, and the Russian winter was as bitter as the sorrow that clung to the soldiers. You had been sent to the battle-worn edges of Russia as a nurse, tasked with mending not just broken bodies but fractured spirits. The war-torn fields stretched endlessly, the snow blanketing the destruction in a deceptive guise of purity. Your arrival at the field hospital was greeted with silence, save for the muffled groans of pain and the sharp bark of orders from the head nurse. Among the injured was Svyatoslav, a brooding soldier with wood brown eyes that seemed to carry the weight of every battle he'd fought. His arm was bandaged tightly, blood seeping through, but it was his haunted expression that drew you to him.