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epiphanymph · 1 month ago

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Of Flickering Flames and Wandering Winds

Once, your name was etched in Mondstadt’s history—a noble house that controlled its trade and thrived on its winds. Now, it’s a shadow of scandal and whispers, your past tied to secrets that refuse to stay buried. Called back by an Abyss Order threat, you must navigate a city that remembers your disgrace, a relic that questions your innocence, and a flame you thought had burned out long ago. In Mondstadt, the wind carries all whispers, but some secrets are too dangerous to be spoken aloud.

Chapter 4: In Her Absence

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You stood at the edge of Mondstadt’s lively Windblume Festival. The city square stretched before you, vibrant and full of life, as though no shadow had ever dared cross its bounds. Banners of green and gold fluttered in the breeze, their colors catching the sunlight in dazzling bursts. Townsfolk laughed and danced, their voices weaving into the music and filling the air with a warmth that seemed to settle into your very bones.

The scent of blooming flowers curled around you, sweet and heady, mingling with the faint tang of wine and the comforting aroma of freshly baked bread. The sound of a bard’s lute carried through the square, each note dancing on the breeze like a fleeting memory. You felt it all—the sunlight on your skin, the soft crush of grass beneath your shoes—and it was perfect.

Too perfect.

You shook the thought away, letting the scene draw you in. A familiar voice called your name, light and teasing, and your heart quickened before you even turned.

There, by the fountain, stood Diluc. His crimson hair glinted in the sunlight, catching the golden hue and turning it into fire. He was younger—his features softer, unburdened by the weight they would later carry. His jacket, formal but casual enough for the festival, was neatly buttoned, though a windwheel aster tucked haphazardly into the pocket betrayed a playful touch.

“You’re late,” he said, his tone laced with mock irritation, though the slight curve of his lips told another story.

“I didn’t realize there was a schedule,” you replied, crossing your arms as you approached.

“There’s always a schedule,” he countered, though he made no effort to explain what it was. Instead, he gestured to the small stone table beside him, where a chessboard sat waiting.

The world seemed to fade at the edges, blurring into something softer, yet your focus stayed sharp. The sun glinted off the polished chess pieces, the black and white contrasting sharply against the worn stone.

“Playing chess during a festival? Really?” you teased, though the faint smile tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement.

Diluc shrugged, pulling out the chair opposite him. “I didn’t pick the game. But if you’re so against it, feel free to forfeit.”

You laughed, the sound feeling both natural and strange in your ears. “Not a chance.”

As you settled into the chair, the rest of the festival seemed to hum in the background—a comforting presence, but secondary now to the moment before you. Diluc moved the first piece, his fingers steady and precise, and you followed suit, the game unfolding as though it had been played countless times before.

“Your move,” he said, his tone clipped but playful, though his gaze flicked to yours with a faint, familiar warmth.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “You always take the middle squares. It’s predictable.”

“And you always complain,” he countered smoothly, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. “Predictable.”

The laughter that escaped you was light, unburdened, the sound wrapping around the memory like a protective cocoon. The Diluc before you—the one who would later grow colder, more distant—was absent here. This boy was open, teasing, and entirely present.

As you watched, a gust of wind sent petals scattering across the table, brushing against your hand before disappearing into the vibrant crowd. Nearby, a younger Barbara twirled with Jean, their giggles weaving together as they tried—and failed—to balance flower crowns on their heads.

“You’re supposed to keep still,” Jean chided gently, her hands deftly adjusting the delicate blooms atop Barbara’s hair. “Otherwise, they’ll fall.”

“I’m not moving!” Barbara protested, though her laughter betrayed her as she spun in a playful circle, scattering petals in her wake.

“Hopeless,” Kaeya drawled from behind them, leaning against a nearby barrel with a flower tucked behind his ear. His grin was equal parts mischief and charm as he tossed another blossom toward Jean, who caught it with a sigh. “Why bother? It’s not like anyone’s looking for perfection today.”

“Maybe we should be,” Jean replied with a raised brow, though the soft smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement.

Kaeya turned his attention to you and Diluc, his grin widening. “And what about you two? Plotting world domination, or just bickering over pawns?”

“Both,” you replied dryly, not looking up from the board as you moved your knight into place. “Multitasking.”

Diluc chuckled softly, his hand hesitating over the next piece. “You’re getting better,” he admitted, though there was an edge of reluctance in his tone. “But not good enough.”

“Yet,” you corrected, your voice firm, though a smile lingered on your lips.

As the match unfolded, the world around you seemed to pulse with an otherworldly vibrancy. The younger version of yourself leaned closer to the board, her laughter weaving seamlessly with the melody of the festival, while Diluc’s faintly smug smile softened into something almost wistful.

The warmth of the scene wrapped around you like a protective shield, but a faint chill crept in at the edges. The banners seemed to flutter slower, the music fading into the background as the image began to distort. The carefree laughter of your younger self grew distant, overlaid by the faint echoes of whispers—sharper, colder.

The figure of your father loomed faintly in the periphery, his measured voice a thread of steel cutting through the golden memory. The faint scent of varnish and windblumes returned, and with it, the weight of what came after.

The laughter dimmed, the edges of the festival blurring into shadow. Diluc’s younger self looked up suddenly, his crimson eyes locking onto yours—not the you sitting across from him, but the you watching from the edges of this dream.

For a brief moment, it felt like he could see you.

The chessboard began to blur. At first, it was subtle—a softening of the lines, the pieces losing their sharp edges as though they were sinking into water. You blinked, confused, but the world around you shifted before you could focus.

The golden light faded, its warmth replaced by the flickering glow of chandeliers. The sounds of laughter and music warped, stretching into a low hum that pressed against your ears. The air grew heavier, thick with the cloying scent of perfume and the faint tang of something metallic.

When you looked up, the stone chess table was gone, replaced by the austere stone floor of a courtroom. Tall, imposing walls loomed overhead, their cold surfaces broken only by narrow windows that let in thin shafts of pale light. The intricate carvings along the walls—symbols of Mondstadt’s justice and order—seemed to glare down at you, sharp and unyielding.

The air was heavy, almost stifling, and carried the faint scent of ink and old parchment. The murmurs of voices swirled around you, fragmented whispers that overlapped like the distant roll of thunder.

At the far end of the room, a raised dais held a long, ornately carved bench where figures sat in judgment. Their faces were partially obscured by shadow, their features unreadable, but their presence was suffocating, the weight of their authority pressing down like a physical force.

You tried to move, but your feet felt weighted, as though the air itself resisted you. Shadows flickered at the edges of your vision, and then the figures emerged.

Your father stood at the far end of the room, positioned just below the raised dais where the judges sat in shadow. His hand gripped the edge of a wooden podium, his knuckles pale against the dark grain, though his face remained carefully composed. The slight tension in his jaw, the faint tremor in his shoulders—small cracks in the polished mask—betrayed the strain he was under.

Beside him, shrouded in dark, heavy fabric, stood a figure whose mere presence seemed to sap the warmth from the air. They remained still, their bearing unnervingly calm, as though they belonged in this place of judgment. The insignia pinned to their chest caught the dim light filtering through the narrow windows, its sharp, angular design gleaming with a cold, deliberate menace.

Fatui.

The word struck you like a physical blow, cold and sharp, though no one had spoken it aloud. It lingered in your mind, heavy as the silence that pressed down over the room.

The word brushed against your thoughts like a blade, sharp and unwelcome.

Your mother sat just behind your father, perched on the edge of a bench reserved for witnesses and families. Her hands rested delicately on a folded handkerchief, the lace edges crumpled where her fingers gripped too tightly. Her lips moved faintly, murmuring reassurances to no one in particular, but her gaze kept flickering toward your father and the cloaked figure beside him.

The unease in her eyes was subtle, carefully masked beneath the veneer of composure she had perfected over years of noble gatherings. But to you, it was unmistakable—a crack in the façade she worked so hard to maintain.

You took a step forward, but the world seemed to ripple with the motion, the distance between you and them stretching impossibly wide. The whispers grew louder, sharper, circling around you like a chorus of invisible accusers.

“They always knew.” “Traitors.” “All for profit.”

You turned toward the voices, searching for their source, but the crowd was faceless, their features blurred as though obscured by fog.

A sharp voice cut through the din: “How could you not have seen this?”

Jean.

Her figure emerged from the shadows, every line of her posture rigid, unyielding. Her expression was carved from stone, her blue eyes fixed on you with a piercing intensity that felt colder than any Cryo Vision’s chill. There was no hesitation in her movements, no trace of the warmth you once knew—only the relentless weight of judgment.

“You knew,” she said, her voice cutting through the din like the snap of a blade.

The accusation struck like a physical blow, stealing the breath from your chest. “I didn’t,” you stammered, though the words faltered, weak even as they left your lips.

Jean’s gaze narrowed, the faintest flicker of disbelief flashing across her face. “Don’t lie to me,” she said sharply, her voice rising. “You were there. You saw the deals, heard the whispers. You had to have known what was happening—what your family was doing.”

The words landed one after the other, like hammer strikes against a fragile foundation. You opened your mouth to protest, but her tone sharpened further, cutting you off before you could speak.

“Do you know how many people trusted you? How many people trusted them ?” Her voice cracked slightly, but it only made her anger more palpable. “And you let it happen. You let it happen while the rest of us—” She stopped herself, drawing in a shuddering breath, her fists clenching at her sides.

Barbara appeared beside Jean, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, the delicate lace of her gloves trembling as though even her fingers couldn’t hold still. Her wide blue eyes brimmed with something you couldn’t bear to name—hope, doubt, fear—all swirling together in a storm of uncertainty.

“You didn’t know?” she asked softly, her voice trembling like the fragile edge of a song. “You didn’t hear anything? Not even a little?”

The question hung in the air, so vulnerable it cut deeper than Jean’s sharp accusations. You felt the ground beneath you tilt, unsteady, as if the weight of her plea was pressing down on your very soul.

“I didn’t!” you said louder, the desperation creeping into your voice like a rising tide. “Barbara, I swear, I didn’t know—”

But before you could finish, Barbara took a tentative step forward, her hands reaching toward you as though she could bridge the widening gap between you with a single touch.

Her movement was intercepted by a sharp motion—a shadow of red cutting between you both.

Diluc stepped forward, his arm outstretched, blocking Barbara with a firmness that startled even her. “Don’t,” he said, his tone low and heavy, though the word carried enough weight to stop her in her tracks.

Barbara froze, her lips parting as if to argue, but no words came. Her gaze flicked between you and Diluc, her confusion deepening, the hope in her eyes dimming.

“She knew,” Diluc said coldly, his crimson gaze locking onto yours. “She always knew.”

Barbara shrank back at Diluc’s words, her hands falling to her sides as the weight of his tone settled over her. The room seemed to grow colder, the flickering light from the chandeliers casting long, unsteady shadows.

The crowd shifted then, their murmurs rising like the rustling of leaves in a gathering storm. Figures blurred as they moved, their faces indistinct, but their eyes—those piercing gazes—remained fixed on you, their judgment sharp and inescapable.

And from the shifting depths of the crowd, Diluc stepped forward.

His presence commanded the room, the space around him clearing as though even the faceless masses dared not stand in his way. His crimson eyes met yours, their fire no longer a source of warmth but a blaze of something else entirely—disappointment, betrayal, and the smoldering remains of a trust that had been irreparably burned.

“You’re just like them,” he said, his voice sharp and deliberate, each word cutting with the precision of a blade honed over years of pain.

“Diluc, I—” You stepped forward instinctively, your hand half-raised, but he stopped you with a look so cold it froze the breath in your lungs.

“You knew what this would cost,” he interrupted, his tone heavy with finality. The grief that lingered beneath his words was a wound he carried, raw and unhealed, his hatred for the Fatui a flame that only seemed to burn brighter with time. “You always knew.”

The mention of cost struck you harder than any blow, a reminder of what had been lost. Crepus. His death had been a turning point for Diluc—a shattering of the life you both once knew. And now, the memory of his father’s end loomed like a specter over this confrontation, casting long shadows over the space between you.

The whispers rose again, cruel and relentless, the words bleeding into one another as the crowd surged closer. Diluc stood firm, his expression as unyielding as stone, his presence the only solid thing in the swirling chaos.

The world tilted, the whispers rising into a deafening roar. The crowd pressed closer, their blurred faces twisting into cruel shapes, their words merging into a single, damning chant:

“Liar.” “Traitor.” “Disgrace.”

The chandelier above flickered wildly, its light casting erratic shadows that danced like flames along the walls. Then, with a final sputter, the light shattered, plunging the room into darkness.

The whispers didn’t stop. They grew louder, overlapping and distorting, until they became an unbearable cacophony.

In the void, a single voice broke through—a soft whisper, almost pleading: your name.

You turned toward it, but the darkness closed in, heavy and unyielding, swallowing the sound as the scene dissolved completely.

The crowd dissolved into shadows, their whispers fading like echoes in an empty hall. The world shifted again, pulling you to a place that was at once familiar and unrecognizable. The heavy stone walls of your family’s estate rose around you, their grandeur cold and hollow in the dim light of dusk.

You stood at the threshold of the main door, its carved wood still bearing the crest of your house, though it felt like it belonged to someone else now—someone who had left long before you. The air was colder here, the once-vibrant gardens reduced to silhouettes against the fading light. The faint scent of windblumes lingered, but it was overpowered by the damp, earthy chill of a home long neglected.

The house had been a mausoleum long before you stepped through its doors. When your mother disappeared, they’d called it a suicide, though no body had ever been found. The letter she left behind, written in her familiar, delicate hand, was enough to convince the Knights. It was short, only a few lines of carefully chosen words that gave no answers but carried the weight of her despair.

“To live under the shadow of such shame is not living at all. Forgive me.”

Those words haunted you, as did the emptiness that followed them. The search for her had been brief, perfunctory—just enough to confirm that she had likely thrown herself into the cliffs beyond the city. No one wanted to look deeper, to uncover the possibility that something more sinister had happened. It was easier for Mondstadt to write her off as another casualty of your family’s disgrace.

The funeral was no better. The church bells tolled, but their sound was hollow in the near-empty hall. None of the nobles came. Not Diluc, not Kaeya, not even the Gunnhildrs, who had once been your closest allies. Only the officiant and a scattering of household staff stood witness to the service, their faces carefully blank, their hands folded as if they, too, wished they were anywhere else.

You remembered the cold weight of the prayer beads in your hands that day, their smooth surface catching the faint light of the cathedral. Each bead bore the faint symbol of Anemo, a quiet reminder of the god you had once prayed to. The words of the hymn echoed in your mind, but they felt hollow, distant. How could they not, when even the winds of Barbatos had stilled, and his gaze seemed to turn elsewhere?

Now, as you stood at the door of the estate, that weight returned—a suffocating pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. The house loomed like a shadow, its walls holding the echoes of all that had been lost within them. Somewhere inside, you could almost hear the faint sound of her voice, soft and distant, calling your name.

You stepped forward, the door creaking open to reveal the darkened hall beyond. The scent of dust and disuse met you, heavy in the still air. Each step felt heavier than the last, the memories pressing in on you like ghosts as you moved through the space.

The grand staircase rose before you, its banisters still gleaming faintly in the dim light. You remembered your mother descending them, her hand brushing the railing, her smile warm and reassuring even as the world crumbled around her. But that warmth was gone now, leaving only the chill of the past behind.

Your satchel hung from your shoulder, the strap digging into your skin as you stared at the door one last time. You tried to summon a memory of warmth—laughter echoing through the halls, sunlight spilling through the tall windows—but the silence pressed down too heavily, suffocating those fleeting images.

When you stepped outside, the chill of the evening air struck you, sharper than you’d expected. The gardens stretched before you, their paths winding through overgrown hedges and wilted flowers. Beyond them lay the road, quiet and unbroken, leading away from everything you had ever known.

You hesitated, glancing back at the house. Its windows stared back at you, dark and empty, like unblinking eyes watching your departure. For a moment, you thought you saw movement—something fleeting, a flicker of crimson in the corner of your vision.

You turned sharply, your breath catching. But there was nothing.

The memory of Diluc’s hair, vivid and fiery, surfaced unbidden, and for a moment, you wondered if he had been there, watching from the shadows. But the stillness of the estate offered no answers, only the quiet certainty of abandonment.

Your fingers tightened on the strap of your satchel as you forced yourself forward, your steps steady but reluctant. The gate at the end of the garden creaked softly as you pushed it open, its rusted hinges groaning under the weight of years.

The road stretched ahead, its emptiness both daunting and liberating. Behind you, the house loomed like a ghost, its silhouette fading into the growing darkness as you walked on.

The wind stirred, carrying with it the faintest whisper of a name—yours, or perhaps one you had long buried. You didn’t look back.

The dream shifted again, pulling you far from the suffocating halls of Mondstadt. The air lightened, carrying with it the crisp, biting chill of high-altitude winds and the faint scent of distant pine. The bridges of Liyue passed beneath your feet first, their ancient stone worn smooth by the steps of countless travelers. You had lingered there only briefly, mesmerized by the sheer scale of the harbor city and the whispers of adventure it promised. The labyrinth of stalls and bustling voices felt endless, the energy of trade and barter electrifying. Yet something had called you onward, pulling you further east, deeper into the unknown.

It was at one such market—unassuming in its sprawl of colorful awnings and polished wares—that the call became a cry you couldn’t ignore.

The merchant’s stall caught your attention almost immediately, though you couldn’t say why. Trinkets and baubles lined the weathered table, glittering in the sunlight as the merchant—a man of middling height with a weather-beaten face—arranged them with practiced care. Your steps slowed, a quiet unease settling in your chest, like the whisper of something long buried trying to rise.

Then you saw it.

Nestled among the mundane was something achingly familiar. A necklace. The delicate design caught the light, the filigree surrounding its gemstone shimmering faintly against the backdrop of more garish pieces. You froze, your breath caught between disbelief and recognition. The crest etched into its surface was unmistakable—your family’s mark, carved into the metal with precision only your father could have commissioned.

Your hand moved of its own accord, fingers brushing the pendant’s cool surface as memories surged. Your mother fastening the clasp at her neck, the charm resting lightly against her collarbone as she moved through the estate with quiet grace. Her laughter as she caught you playing with it as a child, her voice warm with gentle admonition.

This was hers.

It couldn’t be.

“Fine craftsmanship,” the merchant said, his voice breaking through the haze. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes keen as they flicked between you and the necklace. “Caught your interest, eh? Real noble piece, this one. Came from Mondstadt originally.”

“Where did you get this?” you asked, your voice steady but low, masking the storm rising within.

He hesitated, the faintest flicker of discomfort crossing his face. “Traded in,” he said carefully. “Not too long ago. A woman brought it—a few months back, I think. Said she didn’t need it anymore.”

Your fingers curled around the pendant, the weight of it too real to be a figment of your imagination. “What did she look like?”

The merchant rubbed the back of his neck, clearly searching his memory. “Tall. Poised, like she wasn’t from around here. Hair… light, I think. Her eyes, though.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “Sharp. Like they’d seen more than she wanted to let on. Didn’t stay long. Came to trade, then left.”

Your grip on the necklace tightened, your pulse quickening as his words sank in. It couldn’t be. Your mother was dead. She had been gone for the better part of a year, her loss a wound so deep it had never fully healed. Yet this… this was hers. There was no mistaking it.

“Where did she go?” you asked, the urgency slipping through your carefully controlled tone.

“Didn’t say,” the merchant admitted. “But she asked about ships—about routes to the east.” He gestured vaguely toward the harbor. “Inazuma, maybe. Couldn’t say for sure.”

The world tilted slightly, the air around you thick with questions you couldn’t yet form. If she had been here, alive, then what had you believed all these years? Why had she left? And why would she abandon something so precious?

The merchant shifted uncomfortably under your silence. “You all right?”

You nodded stiffly, slipping the necklace into your satchel before the trembling in your hands could betray you. “How much?” you asked quickly, fumbling for the mora.

He waved dismissively. “Consider it yours. Doesn’t feel right keeping something that seems to mean so much to you.”

You didn’t thank him. The words caught in your throat as you turned away, your steps carrying you swiftly through the market. The noise of the harbor faded into the background as your thoughts churned.

The necklace weighed heavily in your satchel, an anchor tethering you to a truth you weren’t ready to face. If she had gone to Inazuma, then you had to follow. Whatever answers lay across the sea, you couldn’t walk away—not now.

Your first glimpse of the archipelago had taken your breath away. The stormy skies and jagged peaks seemed to hum with an energy that felt alive, as though the very land thrummed with purpose. The sakura trees lining the narrow paths of Narukami Island were in full bloom, their petals drifting lazily in the warm breeze. The scent of salt hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of sakura blossoms.

You had arrived with nothing but your satchel and a name to seek.

For months, Inazuma had felt like a place of new beginnings. The storms that raged in its skies were balanced by moments of quiet beauty: the lull of ocean waves against jagged shores, the glow of lanterns strung along winding village streets, the stillness of sakura petals carpeting the ground after a rain. The land was as contradictory as it was captivating, its serenity often pierced by sudden flashes of conflict, tension bubbling just beneath the surface.

You had arrived with little more than the necklace and a threadbare hope. The merchant’s vague recollection of your mother’s departure gave you a place to start, but it was a lead as fragile as the petals that clung to the air. Inazuma was vast, and its people guarded their secrets as fiercely as its skies guarded the sun.

At first, the search was aimless. You combed through the crowded ports, listening for hints of a traveler matching the merchant’s description. Your footsteps echoed through the busy streets of Ritou, your inquiries met with polite indifference or wary glances. The bustling market stalls offered little more than tantalizing whispers—rumors of travelers who had come and gone, their stories lost to the sea breeze.

You worked odd jobs to sustain yourself, picking up skills along the way. Repairing fishing nets in a seaside village taught you patience; delivering messages across treacherous mountain paths sharpened your endurance. Each task, no matter how small, brought you closer to the land and its people, though it did little to ease the ache of unanswered questions.

The countryside became your refuge, its quiet villages offering a respite from the oppressive tension that loomed over the ports. You wandered beneath the boughs of sakura trees, their petals falling like soft snow, their vibrant pinks a stark contrast to the storm-gray skies. The air carried a faint sweetness, mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil after the rains.

It was in one such village—a hamlet tucked away in the shadow of a great torii gate—that you found your first real clue. An elderly woman, seated by the village well, regarded you with sharp, knowing eyes as you approached. She had seen a woman fitting your mother’s description, she claimed—a traveler who had lingered briefly in the village before vanishing as quickly as she had come.

“She was quiet,” the woman said, her voice thin with age but steady. “Kept to herself, but there was something about her… like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.”

Your pulse quickened. “Did she say where she was going?”

The old woman shook her head. “She spoke little, but her eyes lingered on the eastern horizon, toward the sea.”

The eastern horizon. The islands scattered across Inazuma’s waters were labyrinthine, each one harboring its own secrets. Your journey took you further, crossing bridges of rope and wood, wading through marshlands where the air hung heavy with the tang of salt and seaweed. You climbed hills that overlooked villages clinging to cliffsides, their lights flickering like fireflies in the growing dusk.

But each trail led to more dead ends. The travelers you encountered knew little, their stories fragmented, too vague to piece together. A woman matching her description, they said, had been seen at a shrine on one island, or boarding a ship to another. Each thread unraveled before you could follow it to its source.

The search tested your resolve. Nights spent under open skies, the stars hidden by storm clouds, left you questioning the purpose of your journey. The necklace in your possession felt heavier with every passing day, a tether to a past you couldn’t escape and a present you couldn’t quite grasp.

But there had been a moment—a stormy afternoon, unlike any other—that changed everything.

You had come to the village chasing a lead—a whisper carried from one harbor to another, a name uttered too softly to be coincidence. A woman fitting your mother’s description had stayed here briefly, trading with the fishermen before vanishing once again. Her words, they said, had carried the weight of someone searching for something, though none had dared to ask what.

The trail was cold by the time you arrived. The village elder, an aged man whose hands shook with time, could only offer fragments. She had been here. That much was certain. But her destination? Lost to the tides of memory.

You should have left then, moved on to the next point on your map. But the storm had already been brewing, its dark clouds rolling in from the horizon like an advancing army. The villagers, humble and tight-knit, had begged for help preparing against the typhoon. It was a kindness you couldn’t refuse.

As the first sharp gusts of wind whipped through the narrow streets, you worked alongside the villagers, your hands raw from hauling ropes and tying down boats. The scent of salt and rain clung to the air, thick and electric, as though the storm itself were alive. You scaled rooftops, fastening tarps over their fragile thatched coverings, and braced against the surging winds that threatened to tear you from your perch.

The skies cracked open with a roar, and the storm descended in full force. The wind screamed, tearing through the village like an unrelenting beast. Waves surged against the docks, devouring smaller boats and splintering the piers into jagged shards. The world narrowed to chaos—children’s cries lost to the howling wind, the frantic shouts of villagers drowned beneath the roar of the storm.

You were everywhere at once, or so it felt. Your muscles burned as you hauled debris out of harm’s way, your breath came in ragged bursts as the storm showed no signs of relenting. You could taste the salt on your tongue, the acrid sting of seawater mixed with the damp chill of rain-soaked earth. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the wreckage in staccato bursts, and for a moment, the world seemed suspended in jagged, broken clarity.

And then the wave came.

A monstrous wall of water surged toward the village, its crest curling like the maw of some ancient sea beast. The villagers screamed, scattering in panic, their efforts to secure what little they had forgotten in the face of impending destruction. You froze, the enormity of it paralyzing, as though the storm itself had turned its wrath on you.

But then something shifted. Deep in your chest, a pull—no, a compulsion. The air around you changed, not merely battering but listening, as though waiting for your command. It wasn’t courage that made you step forward, but desperation, raw and unthinking. You raised your arms instinctively, and the wind moved with you.

The gale turned. It twisted and coiled like a living thing, forming an invisible barrier against the oncoming wave. The impact reverberated through your entire body, a force so immense it felt as though your bones might shatter. But the wind held. You held. For the first time, the storm bent—not in defeat, but in acknowledgment, as though recognizing you as part of it.

The energy coursing through you was both exhilarating and horrific. The storm wasn’t merely an external force; it was within you, its chaos and fury matching the wild rhythm of your heartbeat. The air tasted metallic, alive with power, and the pressure in your chest built until it felt as though you might burst.

And then, in the stillness that followed, it appeared.

A faint glow caught your eye, its teal light pulsing faintly against the rain-drenched ground. The Vision rested in the crook of your palm, its surface cool to the touch despite the heat of the storm. It thrummed softly, as though it had always been there, waiting for you to claim it.

The villagers had gathered, their eyes wide with awe and gratitude. They spoke of miracles, of a wind that had saved them, but their words barely registered. Your legs buckled, and you sank to your knees, clutching the Vision tightly as the weight of what had just happened settled over you.

It wasn’t just the storm that had changed—it was you. The air around you felt different, charged and alive, as though it were a part of you now. You stared down at the Vision, its glow steady against the trembling of your hands. The villagers’ thanks echoed dimly in your ears, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this gift—this power—had come at a cost you couldn’t yet understand.

The storm had passed, but its shadow lingered, pressing against the edges of your thoughts. You stared out at the sea, the necklace now tucked safely beneath your tunic, its weight a steady reminder of all that remained unanswered. The villagers’ thanks faded into the distance as your gaze followed the endless horizon, wondering if you had just stepped further from your mother—or closer to a truth you weren’t prepared to uncover.

Inazuma had given you its storm, its power, and its questions. But it offered no time for peace. Your time there was short-lived after that.

When the Vision Hunt Decree began, the land’s beauty turned to danger. The same skies that had once drawn you in now loomed with foreboding, and every step felt like walking on a blade’s edge. You watched as the once-vibrant streets emptied, Vision bearers forced into hiding or worse.

For you, it wasn’t a choice. The moment whispers of your Anemo Vision spread, you knew you had to leave. The winds that had once brought you freedom now carried you away, across treacherous waters, toward Sumeru.

The heat was the first thing you noticed—oppressive and damp, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and blooming flora. Overhead, the dense canopy of Sumeru’s jungles filtered sunlight into a mosaic of dappled greens, casting everything beneath in a shifting, otherworldly glow.

You remembered the awe that had filled you when you first stepped into the Akademiya’s shadow. The city was alive with an energy unlike anything you had felt before—intellectual, driven, and endlessly curious.

The scholars you encountered there were as varied as the jungle’s flora. Some wore their brilliance with pride, their robes pristine, their words sharp and deliberate. Others were scattered, their minds leaping ahead of their bodies, their ink-stained hands constantly flipping through pages of half-finished notes. They spoke of theories as though they were treasures, debating long into the night beneath the hanging lanterns of the city’s grand halls.

You didn’t belong there, not in the way they did, but they welcomed you nonetheless.

One of them—a young researcher with wide eyes and an infectious enthusiasm—had shared with you a weathered tome. Its pages were filled with intricate diagrams and poetic musings on the nature of wind and its role as both a force of freedom and change.

“Anemo energy,” they had said, their voice trembling with excitement, “isn’t just a reflection of movement. It’s about the spaces between—possibility, transition, the journey rather than the destination.”

The words stayed with you as you explored Sumeru’s vast landscapes.

The jungles were a labyrinth, their paths winding and treacherous, but they held secrets that few dared to uncover. You spent days—weeks, maybe—following trails of ancient carvings etched into trees and ruins, their meanings half-lost to time but still whispering stories of those who had come before.

One of your wanderings led you to a quiet village nestled deep within the jungle. It was there that you met a healer—a woman with a quiet wisdom etched into the lines of her weathered face. Her hands were calloused but gentle, steady as they guided yours through the delicate process of centering your energy. She spoke sparingly, her voice carrying the cadence of the jungle: calm, deliberate, and attuned to the rhythm of life around her. Under her watchful gaze, you began to channel the raw power of your Vision into something precise, something purposeful.

Wind scatters, but it also gathers,’ she had said once, her hands resting lightly over yours as she guided your stance. ‘It can destroy, but it can also protect. You need to understand both.’

Her lessons were grueling, each movement deliberate, each breath a reminder of the balance she demanded. In the humid stillness of the jungle clearing, she had you stretch your hands out, palms open to the world, feeling the air twist and respond to the faint call of your Vision.

‘No blade will help you find harmony,’ she had murmured, her voice steady as the leaves rustled faintly around you. ‘Start with yourself first.’

It was exhausting, learning to command the winds with nothing but your will. The air seemed to resist you at every turn, scattering when you needed it to gather, surging when you begged it to calm. But under her unyielding patience, you began to feel the rhythm of it—the way the currents moved with your heartbeat, the subtle shifts that answered your intent. Slowly, the untamed energy of your Vision became something you could hold, something you could shape.

Beyond the jungle, the deserts of Sumeru stretched endlessly, their golden sands shimmering under the unrelenting sun. It was there, among the dunes and ruins of ancient temples, that you felt the true scale of the world. The vast emptiness mirrored the quiet ache in your chest—a reminder of the past you could never quite outrun.

At night, the desert came alive with stars, their brilliance undiminished by the weight of the world below. You remembered standing on the edge of a towering dune, the cool wind brushing against your face as you looked out over the endless expanse.

Even here, so far from Mondstadt, the shadow of your family lingered. In the quiet moments, you could almost hear the whispers—the accusations, the betrayal, the name that carried both weight and ruin. But in the wind, you also found a strange solace. It reminded you that you were not bound by the walls of the past, that there was a freedom to be found in movement, in change.

The scholars had called it “catalysis,” the process by which one thing becomes another. And perhaps that was what Sumeru had taught you most: that you were not a fixed point but something in flux, a force of change in your own right.

The vibrant greens of Sumeru’s jungles began to dissolve, their dense canopies giving way to a cooler, quieter air. You hadn’t intended to leave so soon, but the unanswered questions weighed too heavily, tugging you back eastward. Each step away from Sumeru felt like retracing your journey, like following a thread you’d dropped long ago.

When the towering peaks of Liyue rose before you once more, their jagged edges crowned with mists that stretched endlessly into the sky, it was as if the land itself welcomed you back with open arms. The crisp mountain air filled your lungs, sharp and invigorating, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and distant snow. The harbor city had offered fleeting answers before, but the mountains held secrets of their own—whispered fragments that you hadn’t been ready to hear until now.

You had arrived at the bustling harbor first, its golden rooftops gleaming in the sunlight like coins scattered across the hills. The city brimmed with life and purpose, its streets filled with merchants calling out prices for silk, jade, and spices, their voices mingling with the melodic clang of blacksmiths at work.

But the crowds felt overwhelming, their energy too much after the stillness of Sumeru. It was the mountains that called to you, their quiet strength promising a different kind of clarity.

You made your way north, leaving behind the noise and color of the harbor for the solitude of the highlands. The journey was grueling—the narrow paths winding precariously along cliffs, the biting wind cutting through your clothes—but you pressed on, drawn by something you couldn’t name.

It was on one such path that you first saw her.

The exorcist stood in the clearing like a statue carved from the mountain itself. Her pale hair cascaded like frost over the vibrant red accents of her outfit, her every movement deliberate and controlled. She wielded a polearm with a precision that felt almost supernatural, its blade slicing through the air with an audible hum.

At first, she said nothing to you, her pale eyes flicking over your travel-worn figure before returning to her practice. The silence stretched, the only sound the whistle of the wind and the steady rhythm of her strikes.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but firm, each word carrying the weight of someone who had long since abandoned frivolities.

“You’ll freeze if you stay there,” she said without looking at you. “The mountains are not kind to the unprepared.”

You hesitated, then stepped into the clearing, your breath visible in the chill. “I want to learn,” you said, the words leaving your lips before you could second-guess them.

She paused, lowering her weapon. Her gaze met yours, unblinking and sharp, as though she were seeing through to something hidden beneath your skin.

“Why?” she asked simply.

You didn’t have an answer then, not one you could articulate. But something in your expression must have convinced her, because she nodded once and turned away.

“Tomorrow, at dawn,” she said, her voice carrying over the wind. “If you’re late, don’t bother coming.”

And so it began.

Her training was relentless. Mornings began with drills that left your body aching, your muscles trembling as you struggled to match her precision. The cold mountain air bit at your lungs with every breath, the sharp winds carrying echoes of her calm but commanding voice.

‘Again,’ she would say, her tone leaving no room for excuses. ‘If your body fails, the wind will scatter without purpose.’

For weeks, you worked with nothing but your hands and your Vision, coaxing the wild currents of air to flow with you instead of against you. The progress was slow, but every lesson brought you closer to understanding—the weightless push of a breeze against your fingertips, the steady pull of a gale at your back.

Then one day, she handed you a spear. Its design was simple but deliberate: a smooth, polished haft of dark wood, tipped with a gleaming blade that caught the sunlight like ice. ‘You’ve learned to listen,’ she said, placing it firmly in your hands. ‘Now, learn to speak.’

The spear felt foreign at first, its balance unfamiliar as you tested its weight. But under her instruction, the weapon became an extension of yourself. She guided you through strikes that carried the force of the wind, sweeps that turned the air into a shield. ‘Control doesn’t mean suppression,’ she had said, adjusting your grip. ‘It means understanding the flow.’

Each lesson pushed you further. The mornings blurred into afternoons, the clearing echoing with the sound of your movements and the whistle of the spear slicing through the air. But as the days passed, you began to feel the harmony she spoke of—the way the spear’s weight grounded you, the way the wind rose to meet your intent. Slowly, the wild energy of your Vision and the strength of the weapon wove together, becoming something more powerful than either alone.

At night, she would sit by the fire, her gaze distant as she stared into the flames. Sometimes, she would speak of the spirits that haunted the mountains, their cries carried on the wind, their presence felt but unseen. Her words were tinged with an understanding of isolation that resonated deeply within you.

“You carry something heavy,” she said one evening, her voice softer than usual. “The wind can help you let go. But only if you allow it.”

Under her guidance, your control over your Vision deepened. The raw, untamed energy you had wielded in Inazuma became something refined, deliberate. You learned to use the wind as both a shield and a blade, its currents bending to your will but always retaining a wildness that reminded you of its freedom.

The months passed, the harshness of the mountains shaping you in ways that went beyond physical strength. You found a strange peace in the rhythm of the training, the clarity that came with each strike, each breath of icy air.

But eventually, the road called to you again.

The exorcist stood at the edge of the cliff as you prepared to leave, her figure silhouetted against the rising sun. She said nothing at first, her powder blue eyes fixed on the horizon.

“You’ve grown,” she said finally, her voice steady. “But growth is not the end. It’s a beginning.”

Her words stayed with you as you descended the mountains, the path winding back toward the bustling harbor below.

The winding path back to the harbor was quiet, the sounds of the mountain—rustling leaves, the distant cry of birds—slowly giving way to the hum of life below. The air grew warmer, tinged with the scent of salt and spice that carried up from the port. Her words lingered, threading through your thoughts like the steady rhythm of your steps.

You didn’t know what the beginning would be. The path you’d taken was already littered with questions, each one heavier than the last. Answers had been scarce, but they always seemed to lead you back—to Mondstadt, to the shadows of your family’s name.

You couldn’t avoid it any longer. Whatever answers lay in Mondstadt, you would find them—even if it meant unraveling everything you thought you knew.

The road before you twisted into unfamiliar patterns, the golden fields fading into a soft gray haze. The world grew quieter, save for the sound of footsteps echoing faintly behind you. You turned instinctively, your pulse quickening.

A figure stood in the distance, cloaked in shadows. Their features were blurred, indistinct, yet their presence felt familiar. As they approached, the haze around them seemed to part, revealing a face you hadn’t seen in years—your mother.

“Why did you come back?” she asked, her voice quiet but carrying a weight that cut through the dream. Her necklace, the one you’d found in Liyue, glinted faintly at her throat, catching the nonexistent light.

The sight of it sent a jolt through you. “You—how—” The words tangled in your throat. “I thought you were—”

“Gone?” she finished, tilting her head slightly. Her expression was unreadable, her tone calm, almost detached. “You always thought you knew everything, didn’t you? Always so quick to assume, to run.”

The accusation in her words stung, cutting through the dream’s blurred edges like a blade. “I didn’t run,” you said, though the words rang hollow, even in the shifting unreality of the moment. “You left us. You left me.”

Her eyes softened, their sharpness fading to something gentler, almost sorrowful, before hardening again. “I didn’t leave,” she said simply, her voice echoing as though it came from somewhere far beyond the scene. “You stopped looking."

The dream shifted around you, the edges of the road rippling like water. The fields disappeared, replaced by a jagged landscape of sharp rocks and shadowed crevices. The figure of your mother blurred, her features twisting into something unrecognizable. The glint of the necklace remained, hovering in the air like a beacon.

“You should have stayed,” she said, her voice morphing, deepening. “You should—”

Her voice faltered, the timbre shifting again, and when she spoke next, it was no longer hers. It was his.

“Wake up.”

The words were sharp, deliberate, cutting through the haze like a blade. You froze, your chest tightening as the figure stepped closer, their presence becoming more distinct. The shadows peeled away, revealing not your mother, but Diluc. His crimson eyes burned with intensity, his expression unyielding as he stared at you.

“Wake up,” he repeated, his voice cold but edged with urgency.

“I don’t—” You stumbled back, the ground beneath you crumbling. “Diluc?”

“You’re wasting time,” he said, his voice rising above the cracks and tremors that began to tear through the dream. “You can’t stay here. Wake up.”

His figure blurred as the world around you fractured, shards of memory and light spiraling into chaos. You reached for him instinctively, but he didn’t move, his gaze locked onto yours.

“Wake. Up.”

You jolted upright—or tried to—but a sharp pain in your arm stopped you cold. The breath left you in a ragged gasp as your surroundings swam into focus: the low flicker of a fire, the scent of oak barrels and sweet grapes. The polished floor beneath you was cool, the woven rug soft under your legs.

Your arm was immobilized in a sling, the dull ache radiating through your shoulder a reminder of the fight you barely remembered. The carved wooden furniture and faint rustle of vines against the window told you everything before your thoughts could catch up.

Dawn Winery.

Your heart pounded as your gaze swept across the room—and stopped as your eyes met crimson.

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epiphanymph · 1 month ago

Text

Of Flickering Flames and Wandering Winds

Chapter 3: Roots of Remembrance, Branches of Betrayal

ao3 link

Chapter 4

The sunlight was muted, filtering through gauzy curtains half-tangled on their rods, casting the room in uneven patches of gold and shadow. The air carried a faint chill, sharp and clean, tinged with the scent of something cold and metallic—Cryo energy lingering like frost even in the warmth of the morning. It was a large room—too large for a single occupant—but cluttered enough to feel oddly intimate.

Books and documents sprawled across the polished surface of a desk in the corner, their edges curling slightly as though long neglected. A half-empty wine bottle perched precariously among the mess, its faint, spiced aroma mixing with the underlying bitterness of aged wood. Somewhere nearby, the faint traces of smoke lingered—a candle long extinguished or the remnants of Kaeya’s earlier indulgences.

A Cryo Vision hung loosely from a chair back, its faint, icy glow casting a bluish hue over the nearby shadows. The air around it felt cooler, as though the Vision itself refused to fully belong to the warm, sunlit world of the room. The contrast was stark, a tension that seemed to mirror the personality of the space’s owner—both inviting and distant, intimate and unknowable.

The headache arrived first, sharp and unwelcome, pulling you from the remnants of restless sleep. Every muscle protested as you stirred, your head throbbing in time with your pulse. The blanket draped over you slipped to the floor as you sat up, catching sight of the unfamiliar surroundings. A groan escaped your lips as the events of the previous night filtered back, piece by blurry piece.

“Ah, awake at last.”

Kaeya’s voice preceded him, smooth and laced with amusement. He leaned casually against the doorway, his silhouette framed by the light spilling from the hallway behind him. His tunic hung loosely, the usual sharp lines of his appearance softened, though the glint in his eye was as sharp as ever.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d slipped into a wine-induced coma,” he continued, stepping into the room with practiced ease. A glass of water balanced in one hand, a plate holding a piece of bread and fruit in the other.

You pressed a hand to your forehead, shielding your eyes from the light as you muttered, “How thoughtful of you.”

Kaeya’s grin widened as he set the plate and glass on a nearby table. “Think of it as repayment for last night’s entertainment. You really livened up the tavern, you know. I didn’t realize Mondstadt’s prodigal daughter could hold her liquor so well—or not hold it at all.”

“Spare me,” you muttered, reaching for the glass. The water was cool against your throat, though it did little to soothe the pounding in your head. “And don’t call me that.”

Kaeya tilted his head, his gaze narrowing with a feigned pout. “What should I call you, then? The scandalous shadow of Mondstadt’s past? The wayward noble returned to haunt us all?”

You shot him a glare, but the motion only made the ache worse. “How about nothing? Silence suits you.”

He laughed at that, rich and unrestrained, before easing into a nearby chair. “Ah, but silence would rob me of the pleasure of your company. So, tell me—what brings you back to Mondstadt after all these years? Nostalgia for the city’s charm, or something more… pressing?”

You set the glass down with a little too much force, the water sloshing dangerously close to the edge. “Let’s just say Mondstadt wasn’t exactly in my plans,” you replied evenly, your tone carrying just enough weight to dissuade further questions—or so you thought.

Kaeya arched a brow, his expression shifting into something caught between amusement and intrigue. “Not in your plans?” he echoed, tilting his head slightly. “You’ve always been full of surprises, but showing up here after all this time? I’d call that more than a coincidence.”

He leaned back in his chair, the movement casual, but his gaze stayed fixed on you, searching, dissecting, as though the silence between his words spoke louder than anything else.

Your fingers tightened briefly on the edge of the table, but you forced a neutral expression. “The Abyss Order’s movements aren’t my concern.”

“Really?” Kaeya’s tone was light, teasing even, but the weight beneath his words was unmistakable. “Because from what I hear, they’ve been targeting areas connected to trade routes—areas your family once oversaw with great… enthusiasm. Odd coincidence, don’t you think?”

The statement hung in the air, heavy and deliberate. You met his gaze, the faint flicker of amusement in his eye not entirely hiding the glint of curiosity—or something darker. “Coincidences happen,” you said carefully.

Kaeya smiled faintly, a lazy gesture that didn’t reach his eye. “Of course they do.” He rose from his chair with practiced elegance, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. “Well, whenever you decide to share the real reason you’re here, do let me know. I do enjoy a good story.”

As he reached the doorway, Kaeya paused, one hand resting lightly on the frame. He turned just enough for you to catch the faint glint in his eye, a half-smile playing on his lips. “You know,” he started, his tone softer now, “it’s funny being back in the same city with you again. It almost feels like old times.”

You frowned, unsure where he was going with this. “Old times?”

Kaeya chuckled, the sound low and tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. All those afternoons running wild in the fields outside the winery. You and Diluc always insisted on dragging me into whatever mischief you dreamed up. Remember the time you convinced us both to sneak into the cellars?”

The memory rose unbidden, pulling you briefly into the sun-drenched days of your youth. The three of you, smaller but no less spirited, had laughed until your sides ached, slipping through the winery’s shadowed corridors like conspirators in a grand heist. Diluc’s protests—always the dutiful one—had faltered into half-smothered grins as you dared each other to taste the forbidden vintage.

Kaeya’s voice drew you back, his gaze distant now, as though he too were sifting through the fragments of the past. “I think that was the last time Diluc laughed like that,” he said, his smile fading slightly. “Before everything… changed.”

You shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. The weight of those changes lingered between you, unspoken but palpable.

Kaeya snapped back to the present with a sharp tilt of his head, his expression smoothing into something more familiar—playful, teasing, yet hiding something deeper. “Of course, that was a long time ago,” he said lightly. “We’re not exactly carefree kids anymore, are we?”

He hesitated for just a moment, his gaze meeting yours, before adding, “Still, it’s nice to remember… even if those days feel a world away now.”

With that, he stepped into the hallway, his voice trailing behind him like the faintest echo. “Don’t let Mondstadt get to you too much, hmm? This place has a way of making ghosts out of memories.”

And then he was gone, leaving you with the quiet hum of the morning and the unshakable weight of nostalgia settling over your chest.

The streets of Mondstadt were alive with their usual buzz, but something about the city felt off. Merchants called out prices for fresh produce and shining trinkets, their voices blending into the din of clinking metal and shuffling boots. Travelers lingered by the fountain in the city square, exchanging stories as the scent of baked goods and roasted chestnuts curled through the air. But beneath the lively façade, a subtle unease lingered—a faint crack in Mondstadt’s carefully polished mask.

You moved through the crowd, keeping your steps deliberate, your gaze sharp. Snatches of conversation drifted past, mundane enough on the surface but tinged with something deeper. A merchant muttered to another about shipments delayed without reason. A passing knight spoke quietly of strange shadows sighted near the city’s outskirts. Whispers of unease curled through the air like smoke, faint but impossible to ignore.

At the edge of the square, you paused by the forge, the heat radiating from the smelter a stark contrast to the crisp air around it. The rhythmic clang of hammer against metal rang out, steady and deliberate, until it stopped abruptly. Wagner, the blacksmith whose skill was renowned across Mondstadt, looked up from his work, his sharp eyes narrowing briefly before softening with recognition.

“Well, look who’s come back to grace Mondstadt with their presence,” he said, his voice rough but not unkind. His hammer rested against the anvil as he crossed his arms, his imposing frame cutting a familiar silhouette. “Didn’t think I’d see you again after… well, you know.”

His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it, the unspoken weight of history hanging in the air. He reached for a cloth to wipe the soot from his hands, his movements as precise as the craft he’d mastered.

“Back to sharpen a blade? Or is this just a stroll down memory lane?” he asked, his brow lifting slightly as though challenging you to explain your presence.

You offered a faint shrug, keeping your tone casual. “Just passing through.”

“Mm.” His gaze flickered briefly to the satchel at your side before returning to his wares. “Funny timing, though. The city’s been restless lately. You’ve probably noticed.”

“I’ve heard whispers,” you said carefully. “Anything I should know about?”

Wagner hesitated, his fingers stilling on the edge of a glass vial. “Strange happenings,” he said finally, his tone quieter now. “Missing goods. Unusual sightings out near the windswept cliffs. And that attack on Springvale?” He shook his head. “That wasn’t random.”

Your chest tightened, but you kept your expression neutral. “What do you mean?”

Wagner set the hammer down with a practiced motion, leaning his weight against the edge of the forge. His gaze shifted briefly toward the gates in the distance, the faint hum of activity there just audible over the crackle of the smelter. “You know, being this close to the gate has its perks,” he said, his tone casual but his words deliberate. “Guards talk when they think no one’s listening. Wounded people come through, some barely on their feet, rambling about what they’ve seen. Strange things, scattered across the region.”

He paused, wiping his hands clean on a soot-streaked cloth. “Attacks, mostly—hilichurls in places they shouldn’t be, abyss mages showing up near trade routes and outposts. Always quick, always destructive, and always gone before anyone can get a clear sense of what they’re after.”

Wagner’s eyes flicked back to you, sharp and discerning. “It’s not random,” he continued, his voice lower now, as though the forge’s heat carried the weight of his words. “You start hearing about this many spots getting hit, this quickly? It’s not just bad luck.”

His posture stiffened slightly, his gaze flickering toward the crowd bustling in the square. “But careful who you ask about it,” he added, his tone hardening. “Plenty of eyes and ears in this city, and not all of them friendly.”

The weight of his words settled heavily as you hesitated, the crackle of the forge filling the silence between you. Reaching into your satchel, you pulled out a worn map of Mondstadt, the edges creased and smudged from years of use. You spread it across the counter of the forge, its surface quickly warming under Wagner’s steady gaze.

“Can you mark where you’ve heard about these attacks?” you asked, your voice low, careful.

Wagner glanced at the map, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, with a hand still stained faintly with soot, he reached for a piece of charcoal resting by the anvil. “Don’t take this as gospel,” he muttered, leaning closer to the map. “But here’s what I’ve picked up.”

With quick, precise strokes, he marked several points on the map. “This one,” he said, tapping near Springvale, “came from a guard who saw wounded merchants coming up from the south. Hilichurls, mostly, but they moved too quickly to be a random pack.”

He shifted slightly, pointing to a second spot near the mountains. “Another patrol mentioned Abyss Mages out here. Too far from the usual hunting grounds to make sense.”

Wagner added one last mark closer to the southern trade routes. “And here. More than one merchant’s talked about missing shipments—valuable ones. You’d think bandits, but no one’s ever seen who’s doing it.”

You stared at the map, the clusters of marks forming a pattern you didn’t quite understand but couldn’t ignore. “Thanks,” you murmured, folding the map carefully and tucking it back into your satchel.

“Don’t mention it,” Wagner replied gruffly, though his gaze lingered a moment longer. “Just… keep your head down. Whatever’s going on out there, it’s bigger than the usual trouble.”

You nodded your thanks, stepping back from the forge and blending into the crowd once more, but the unease followed, tightening with each step.

Even the air felt heavier, as if the city itself had turned its gaze on you. Knights patrolled in pairs, their watchful eyes scanning every corner. A group of young nobles passed by, their hushed whispers laced with barely concealed recognition as their gazes lingered a moment too long.

Turning a corner into a quieter alley, you paused briefly to adjust the strap of your satchel. The sensation of being watched prickled at the edge of your awareness, impossible to shake. Whether it was old acquaintances, the Knights, or something else entirely, you couldn’t be sure—but you knew better than to linger.

The sensation of being watched clung to you, a faint but persistent weight as you navigated Mondstadt’s quieter streets. The city gates stood open ahead, their iron bars framing the rolling countryside beyond. Behind you, the hum of life softened into a distant murmur, replaced by the open stillness of the road. Each step southward felt heavier, as though the city’s unease had managed to follow you despite the growing distance.

Ahead, the road wound gently through hills flecked with wildflowers, their bright colors muted by the fading light. Clusters of trees swayed faintly in the evening breeze, their leaves whispering secrets to no one in particular. Wagner’s words echoed in your thoughts, layering themselves over fragmented conversations you’d overheard earlier. Shadows in unexpected places. Mages far from their usual haunts. Shipments vanishing into thin air. The pieces didn’t yet fit, but the disquiet they left in their wake was impossible to ignore.

But even here, the lively charm was dulled, muted by the aftermath of the attack. The village square bore quiet scars: a collapsed fence, crates overturned and splintered, and a few villagers murmuring as they worked to mend what they could. A child hurried past with a basket of bread, their gaze darting nervously to the nearby woods.

You paused at the edge of the square, the weight of the scene pressing down on you. It wasn’t just the physical damage—it was the air itself, heavy with the unspoken fear that the next strike could come at any moment.

Your boots crunched softly against the dirt path as you moved on, your gaze lingering briefly on the remnants of scattered crates, the broken pieces already weathered by the elements. The attack had been swift and deliberate, leaving no clear answers in its wake—only questions that followed you southward.

As the path began to split, you paused. To the east, a shorter route skirted the edge of Cider Lake, its waters glinting faintly through the trees like a promise of expedience. It would take less time, keep you farther from the winery and its ghosts. You traced the line of the narrower trail with your eyes, the way it dipped through shaded groves before vanishing around the lake’s edge.

And yet, your feet refused to move in that direction.

The longer route lay ahead, winding gently past the rolling hills of Dawn Winery’s vineyards. The idea of stepping so close to that place again, where memories lay like dormant embers waiting to be stirred, filled you with an ache you couldn’t quite name. But something pulled at you—a yearning, perhaps, or a reluctance to let those memories fade entirely.

With a quiet exhale, you adjusted the strap of your satchel and started forward, the choice made before your mind had fully caught up.

The gentle hills gave way to the familiar sight of Dawn Winery’s vineyards, the sprawling rows of grapevines basking in the golden light of the setting sun. The air grew sweeter here, tinged with the earthy scent of tilled soil and the faint, fruity undertone of ripening grapes.

You slowed as the winery itself came into view, its stately silhouette standing proudly against the horizon. The house seemed unchanged, timeless, as though it had been plucked from your memories and placed here to taunt you.

The faint strains of music and laughter from the winery’s grand hall faded as the two of you slipped through the side door, your footsteps light against the cobblestones of the courtyard. The cool night air brushed against your skin, a welcome relief from the stifling warmth of the crowded event you’d just escaped.

“Come on,” Diluc whispered, his voice hushed but urgent as he glanced over his shoulder. His crimson hair caught the moonlight, making him seem more a flicker of flame than a boy.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you whispered back, stifling a laugh as you hurried after him.

The two of you darted through the vineyard, the orderly rows of grapevines casting long, shifting shadows under the moon’s pale glow. Diluc’s pace slowed as you reached the edge of the estate, where the vines gave way to a gentle slope dotted with wildflowers.

It wasn’t the first time you’d followed him here, to this quiet corner of the grounds where the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you.

“You know,” you said, catching your breath as you reached the top of the hill, “we’re going to get caught one of these days.”

Diluc turned, his expression a mix of mischief and determination. “Not if you keep up.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile as you followed him to the large oak tree that stood sentinel at the crest of the hill. Its gnarled branches reached out like a protective canopy, its roots tangled in the soft earth beneath.

Diluc sat first, leaning back against the sturdy trunk with a sigh. “They wouldn’t notice if we were gone all night,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the distant lights of the winery. “Too busy talking about business and alliances.”

You sank down beside him, your shoulder brushing his as you settled in. “That’s what these events are for, isn’t it? Networking, impressing people, pretending to care about wine pairings.”

His lips twitched into a faint smile, but the usual brightness in his eyes was dimmed by something heavier. “Sometimes I wish…” He trailed off, his fingers absently brushing the blades of grass by his side. “Sometimes I wish it could all just stop for a while. The expectations, the pressure. Just… quiet.”

The unguarded admission startled you. Diluc was always so composed, so sure of himself. Seeing him like this—vulnerable, raw—made you ache for him.

“You deserve more than that,” you said softly, your words carrying a weight you hadn’t intended. “You deserve to be happy.”

His gaze flicked to you, his eyes searching yours in the moonlight. For a moment, the weight of his responsibilities seemed to lift, and he looked more like the boy you’d known before his father’s lessons and the demands of the estate had settled so heavily on his shoulders.

“Sometimes I think you’re the only one who sees me,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You smiled, nudging his shoulder gently. “Of course I see you. You’re not exactly subtle, with all that red hair.”

His laugh broke the quiet, low and unrestrained, and it was a sound you knew you’d remember forever.

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence after that, the kind only years of trust could create. Above, the stars blinked against the dark canvas of the sky, and the distant hum of the winery seemed worlds away.

Under the shelter of the oak tree, time stretched, and for those fleeting moments, nothing else mattered—just the quiet and the company of someone who understood.

You caught yourself staring too long and forced your gaze forward, adjusting the strap of your satchel as the path veered away from the vineyard and into the untamed expanse of Wolvendom.

The transition was sharp and jarring. The neat, orderly rows of grapevines faded into dense undergrowth, where the air turned cooler, sharper, and carried the scent of pine and damp earth. The trees grew taller and closer together, their twisted branches forming a canopy that blocked out the last vestiges of sunlight.

Wolvendom had always carried an air of mystery, its wild beauty untouched by the structured freedoms of Mondstadt. But now, something darker lingered in its shadows. The forest seemed alive, shifting and watching, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of an owl.

You tightened your grip on your polearm as you stepped further into the woods, your eyes scanning for any signs of movement. A faint trail of disturbed earth caught your attention—shallow grooves where something heavy had been dragged. The edges of the marks were uneven but deliberate, as though care had been taken to mask the direction.

A low growl cut through the stillness, freezing you in place. Your heart quickened, your polearm shifting slightly in your grip as your eyes darted toward the source. The underbrush rustled faintly, shadows moving where they shouldn’t.

Then, from the dark, a figure emerged—at first glance, indistinguishable from the wild itself. His silver hair caught the faint glow of the rising moon, unruly strands falling over sharp, angular features. His red eyes gleamed in the low light, unblinking as they fixed on you with a predator’s focus.

Beside him, a wolf padded into view, its sleek coat bristling and its amber gaze narrowing as it watched your every move. The air around them felt alive, charged with something primal and untamed.

“Why are you here?” the boy asked, his voice a strange mix of boyishness and gravel, as though the forest itself had lent him its voice.

You tensed, keeping your stance steady as you studied him. He was young—no more than a teenager—but the way he moved, the way his body seemed to flow with the shadows, was anything but careless. The wolf at his side only added to the otherworldly quality of his presence, as though the two of them were parts of the same creature.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you said, your tone cautious but firm. “This is Abyss Order territory, isn’t it?”

The boy tilted his head, his expression unreadable, though his crimson eyes remained locked on yours. “They don’t belong here,” he said simply. His fingers flexed, brushing briefly against the wolf’s fur. “But you don’t, either.”

You tightened your grip on your weapon, the weight of his gaze pressing against you like a physical force. “I’m following their trail,” you replied, trying to gauge whether he was a threat. “Wolvendom isn’t exactly a safe place to linger.”

The wolf let out a soft huff, and the boy shifted slightly, his posture relaxing by a fraction. “Not safe,” he agreed. “But wolves make it safer. For those who don’t bring harm.”

He crouched, his hand pressing to the ground as his nose twitched faintly, as though catching a scent only he could detect. “They passed here,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then, louder: “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

His words carried no malice, but there was a sharpness to them, an unspoken authority that was difficult to ignore. He straightened, crimson eyes flicking briefly to the forest behind you. “Follow. You get lost alone,” he said simply, as though your choice was of little consequence to him.

You didn’t move immediately. The grip on your polearm tightened, your instincts warning against trusting a stranger—especially one who moved as naturally through the shadows as this boy. He was an enigma, his wild presence unsettling in a way you couldn’t fully define.

“Why should I trust you?” you asked, your tone guarded. “For all I know, you could be leading me into a trap.”

The boy tilted his head slightly, his silver hair catching the faint light. The wolf at his side let out a low huff, its amber gaze steady on you, as if weighing your worth.

“I don’t care,” he said bluntly. “But traps are here. You won’t see them. You get hurt.”

Your pulse quickened. The certainty in his tone carried no hint of deception, and the way his crimson eyes flicked to the forest spoke of an awareness you lacked. Still, it wasn’t enough to convince you.

“And what do you get out of helping me?” you pressed, unwilling to lower your guard.

His expression didn’t change, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then he crouched, his fingers brushing against the earth with practiced ease. “Nothing,” he said flatly, standing again and meeting your eyes. “Wolves don’t like strangers. You stay loud, they chase.”

He turned without waiting for a response, his movements fluid as he melted back into the shadows of the trees. The wolf followed without hesitation, its gait as confident as its master’s.

You hesitated, your instincts warring with your need for answers. This boy didn’t move like an enemy, and his warning about the Abyss Order’s traps struck too true to dismiss. The forest pressed in around you, the shadows deepening with each passing moment.

Finally, with a quiet curse under your breath, you adjusted your grip on your polearm and took a step forward, your movements cautious but deliberate.

“Lead the way,” you said reluctantly, your voice cutting through the stillness.

He didn’t glance back, but his voice drifted to you as he moved ahead. “Keep close. Don’t slow.”

You followed, maintaining a measured distance. The wilderness seemed to tighten its hold with every step, the forest alive with a quiet tension you couldn’t quite name.

The forest grew denser as you moved further, the light from the moon struggling to pierce the thick canopy above. Each step seemed to amplify the sounds around you—the rustle of leaves, the faint snap of a twig, the low hum of unseen creatures. Razor’s movements were almost soundless, a stark contrast to your own, and it only heightened the sense that you were an intruder here. You caught glimpses of his wolf moving ahead, its ears twitching at every subtle shift in the underbrush. Razor paused abruptly, his head turning slightly, as if catching a scent on the breeze.

Razor tilted his head, his sharp features catching the light as he studied you. After a moment, he crouched, his hand brushing against the ground. “They have been here,” he said simply. “Tracks lead deeper. Smell of fire and blood.”

He rose with fluid ease, motioning for you to follow. The wolf at his side turned, padding ahead as Razor took the lead, his movements blending effortlessly with the shadows.

As you trailed him deeper into Wolvendom, the weight of the past slipped further away, replaced by the growing certainty that whatever lay ahead would demand more than you were prepared to give.

The trees pressed closer as you followed Razor, their towering forms casting twisted shadows in the dim moonlight. The forest felt alive with its own secrets, the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant cry of an owl the only sounds breaking the oppressive quiet. Razor moved with practiced ease, his steps near-silent against the uneven ground, his crimson eyes flicking to the faint trails left behind by something neither of you could yet see.

He paused suddenly, crouching low. His wolf mirrored the motion, its ears twitching as it sniffed the air. Razor’s sharp gaze fixed on a cluster of broken branches and faint indentations in the dirt, his fingers brushing lightly over the ground.

“Here,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “They passed this way. Not long ago.” He glanced back at you, his red eyes gleaming faintly. “Ahead. Old place. You know it?”

You frowned, stepping closer to examine the ground yourself. The tracks were uneven but deliberate, as if something heavy had been carried through. “What do you mean, old place?”

“Smell,” Razor said simply, tilting his head toward the faint breeze that stirred the trees. “Metal. Fire. Bad people used it before. Wolves stayed away.”

The realization struck like a chill up your spine. An outpost. If Razor could sense it, there was no mistaking what it might be. You straightened, gripping your polearm tighter. “Fatui,” you said under your breath, the word bitter in your mouth.

Razor didn’t respond, but his tense posture and the wolf’s low growl were answer enough. He turned again, gesturing for you to follow, and you moved deeper into the woods, your mind racing.

The trail grew colder as the forest thickened, the air heavy with the mingled scents of damp earth and something faintly acrid. The trees parted abruptly, revealing the jagged silhouette of a structure hidden among the overgrowth. The outpost was little more than a crumbling husk, its walls scarred with time and abandonment, but the sharp, metallic tang in the air told you it had not been left untouched.

Razor stopped at the edge of the clearing, his wolf lowering its head as it let out a low, warning growl. “Careful,” Razor said, his voice quiet but firm. “Not safe. Smells wrong.”

You nodded, your gaze sweeping over the remnants of the outpost. The faint glint of something unnatural caught your eye—a small mechanism half-hidden among the debris. A trap.

Razor crouched beside it, his movements precise and deliberate as he pointed to a faint shimmer in the air nearby. “Magic,” he muttered, his tone grim. “Not strong, but tricky.”

The Abyss Order’s presence was clear now, layered over the echoes of the Fatui’s past occupation. Your chest tightened as you stepped forward, navigating the ruins with cautious precision. The walls, though crumbling, bore faint traces of the Fatui’s distinctive insignia, their cruel geometry burned into the stone like scars.

Inside, the air grew colder, and the faint remnants of magical traps shimmered in the corners of your vision. Razor moved ahead, his wolf staying close, while you scanned the space, your fingers brushing against the edges of overturned crates and broken shelves.

Your breath caught as your eyes landed on a dusty ledger, its cover cracked and brittle with age. You picked it up carefully, the faded ink on its surface flaking slightly as your fingers brushed over the edges. The weight of it in your hands felt heavier than it should, as though the past itself had taken form in its fragile pages.

Slowly, you opened it, the faint scent of aged parchment curling up as you flipped through the entries. The handwriting inside was sharp and deliberate, each line meticulously cataloging transactions—shipments of wine and rare metals, dates and destinations marked with chilling precision.

You scanned the contents, the familiar names of trade routes sending a prickle of unease down your spine. Coded notes filled the margins, their meanings unclear but their presence unmistakably Fatui. Words like priority and expedited request stood out, each one carrying the weight of something too deliberate to ignore.

One entry caught your eye, its ink darker than the rest:

“ High-value shipment received—materials prepared for Mondstadt routes. Verification requested by Von Reisthal estate. ”

Your breath hitched, the name stopping you cold. Von Reisthal.

There it was, as clear as the sun breaking through a storm. Your family’s name, scrawled among the Fatui’s records as though it belonged there, as though their shadow hadn’t left Mondstadt long ago.

The edges of the ledger blurred in your vision, your mind racing. Memories rushed to the surface unbidden—your father’s quiet conversations behind closed doors, the strangers whose visits to your home always carried a sense of unease. And now, here it was, written proof of your family’s role, not just whispered rumors but undeniable truth etched in ink.

The weight of it all pressed down on your chest, threatening to drown you.

The sight made your stomach twist. There it was, unmistakable among the records of deals and agreements. Your fingers trembled as you traced the faded ink, each word a cruel reminder of the past you thought you’d left behind.

“Find something?” Razor’s voice broke the silence, his tone curious but distant as he leaned against the doorway, watching you.

You swallowed hard, tucking the ledger into your satchel as you fought to steady your breath. “Enough,” you said shortly, your voice tight.

Near the far corner of the room, a half-burned map caught your attention. You knelt to pick it up, smoothing the charred edges carefully. The markings were faint but clear—several locations across Mondstadt, each marked with precision. One in particular stood out, circled with dark ink near the city’s outskirts.

The map felt heavy in your hands, the weight of its implications settling in your chest. Whatever the Abyss Order was after, they weren’t just chasing remnants of the Fatui’s influence. This was bigger, deliberate, and far from over.

You stood frozen, the ledger still clutched in your hands, its weight pressing against the hollow ache in your chest. The past you had fought so hard to bury had resurfaced with chilling clarity, its shadow looming larger than ever. Your grip tightened on the fragile pages as the room seemed to close in around you, the air too still, too quiet.

The wolf’s growl shattered the silence, low and guttural, reverberating through the ruins like a warning bell. Razor moved in an instant, stepping in front of you, his crimson eyes narrowing as he scanned the doorway.

“Something comes,” he said, his voice clipped. “Fast.”

Before you could ask what, a pulse of icy magic ripped through the air, slamming into the shattered wall with a deafening crack. Shards of frost exploded outward, the sharp, bitter cold biting into your skin as you threw yourself to the ground. A second blast followed, smashing into the beams above and sending splinters and debris raining down around you.

The Abyss Order.

Figures materialized from the shadows, their movements eerily synchronized. Hilichurls charged forward, their guttural cries blending with the crackle of elemental energy. At their center, an Abyss Mage floated just above the ground, its shimmering Cryo shield pulsating with a cold light that turned the edges of the room to frost.

“Move!” Razor’s voice cut through the chaos, raw and urgent. He was already surging forward, his claymore blazing with Electro energy as he swung it in a wide arc. The crackling electricity leapt from the blade, striking the first hilichurl and sending it crumpling to the ground. His wolf darted alongside him, snapping at another with swift, brutal precision.

You forced yourself to your feet, the adrenaline coursing through your veins sharpening your focus. The polearm in your hands hummed faintly as you drew on your Anemo Vision, the air around you whipping into a controlled gale. The Mage’s shield glowed brighter as it began to form another spell, tendrils of Cryo magic coiling in its hands. You lunged forward, your polearm slicing through the air in a swift, practiced motion, the wind spiraling around the blade like an unseen extension of your will.

The shield cracked under the pressure, the force sending shards of ice splintering outward. The impact threw you back, your shoulder slamming into the ground with a jarring thud. The cold of the Mage’s magic lingered on your skin, numbing the ache as you scrambled to rise again.

Razor’s claymore crashed against a hilichurl’s shield, the blow ringing out like thunder. Sparks of violet light danced along the blade as the weapon met resistance, the air around him thick with the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. A burst of Electro energy erupted from his Vision, arcing outward and striking another enemy mid-charge, the creature’s cry cut short as it crumpled to the ground.

But there were too many. The second Mage stepped forward, its dark robes billowing as it raised its hands. The frost in the air thickened, the temperature plummeting as a spiral of Cryo energy began to form. You pivoted, your polearm whistling through the air as you aimed to intercept, but you were too slow. The spell hurtled toward you with unrelenting force.

The impact struck your shoulder, the freezing energy searing through your body like a thousand shards of ice. Pain bloomed sharp and immediate, and the world tilted as the force sent you sprawling. The ground slammed into your back, the air driven from your lungs as the cold seeped into your bones. Your polearm slipped from your grasp, clattering out of reach.

“Get up!” Razor’s shout barely cut through the ringing in your ears. Through the haze, you saw him charge forward, his claymore trailing arcs of electricity that scorched the ground with every swing. His movements were relentless, his strikes calculated, but the sheer number of enemies overwhelmed even his precision.

A hilichurl’s crude weapon came down toward you, its shadow stretching long against the frost-coated ground. You barely raised your arm in time, the blow glancing off your forearm and sending fresh pain lancing up to your shoulder. The force left you gasping, your vision swimming as the battle raged on around you.

Razor’s figure blurred in your periphery, his wolf lunging at one of the mages, its snarls cutting through the chaos. A surge of Electro energy exploded outward from Razor’s claymore, illuminating the darkened ruins with a flash of violet light. The sharp scent of singed fur and ozone filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

But you couldn’t move. The cold was too deep, the pain too sharp. Your limbs felt like lead, the sounds of the fight growing distant, muffled. Razor turned, his crimson eyes meeting yours for the briefest of moments, his mouth forming a word you couldn’t hear.

Darkness crept at the edges of your vision, a cold, heavy veil that swallowed the light. The last thing you saw was Razor darting toward you, his claymore raised as he swung at the Mage. The wolf’s growl faded into silence, and then the forest vanished into nothingness.

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