The Siberian sun was a pale, heatless coin in a sky the color of galvanized steel. Out here, beyond the perimeter of the humming yurts, the wind didn't just blow; it searched for any sliver of exposed skin to bite.
Andrea trudged through the knee-deep snow, her breath coming in ragged, crystalline plumes. She was layered in the high-tech thermal gear Viktor had provided—black leggings and a form-fitting jacket that felt like a second skin—but the cold still managed to find the gaps.
"Viktor, this is ridiculous," she called out, her voice muffled by the thick scarf wrapped around her neck. "I'm a healer. I'm the person who puts the stitches in. I don't need to learn how to break the bones I'm supposed to be fixing."
