yawa piste giatay !

The first thing you learn working at Angel's Share is that people talk.

The second thing you learn is that people talk even more when Varka walks in.

It isn’t subtle, either. The shift moves through the tavern the way a gust of wind stirs tall grass. One moment the room is full of low conversation and clinking glassware, and the next there are heads turning toward the door, voices lifting in greeting, and chairs scraping as someone stands to clap the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius on the back like an old friend. Mondstadt adores its heroes, and Varka, loud and golden and larger than life, has always been one of the city’s favorites.

You, unfortunately, are not among his admirers.

Behind the bar, you continue polishing a glass with the patience of someone who refuses to acknowledge the storm gathering across the room. The lanternlight catches against the rim of the glass as you turn it in your hands, wiping away a nonexistent smudge while the noise of the tavern swells briefly in welcome.

Someone laughs near the door and you know, without looking, exactly who has just arrived.

Charles does look up, of course. Charles is polite.

“Evening, Grand Master,” he says as the man himself approaches the counter.

Varka’s boots come to a stop on the other side of the bar, and there is a brief, deliberate pause that’s heavy with expectation. When you finally lift your gaze, you find him watching you with open interest.

He looks exactly as irritating as usual—broad-shouldered, forearms slightly tanned from the sun, his blond hair falling in a careless sweep around his face. The lanternlight catches along the scar at his neck and glints faintly in his blue eyes, which are bright with the same irrepressible good humor that seems to follow him everywhere.

He smiles when you meet his gaze, as if the sight of you is the best part of his evening.

“Good evening.”

You set the glass down with a soft, decisive clink.

“What do you want to drink.”

“See?” The Grand Master glances at Charles as though seeking confirmation. “She always greets me so warmly.”

“If I greeted you the way I actually wanted to, I suspect I’d lose my job.”

Varka laughs.

It is a bright, unguarded sound that spills easily into the room, drawing the curious attention of the nearest tables. He seems entirely delighted by the exchange, leaning his arms comfortably against the bar as though he has settled in for the evening.

“You look lovely tonight,” he remarks after a moment, studying you with an ease that would be charming if it were directed literally anywhere else.

“You looked better when you were out of my sight,” you answer, already reaching for the bottle that holds his usual order without waiting for him to ask.

“How cruel,” Varka sighs, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest as though you’ve driven a lance clean through it. “The most beautiful woman in all of Mondstadt, wanting absolutely nothing to do with me.”

You slide the bottle back into place behind the counter.

“Drink your wine, Grand Master,” you tell him flatly. “Before someone notices the Knights of Favonius are being led by a man with a martyr complex.”

Varka lifts the mug, still smiling to himself, but before he can say anything else a voice calls from deeper in the tavern.

“Grand Master Varka! Over here!”

A long table near the hearth has erupted into motion—several knights waving him over with the loose enthusiasm of men already halfway through their evening. One of them raises a mug in salute, while another pounds the table loud enough to rattle the dishes.

Varka glances toward them, then back to you.

For a moment it looks as though he might say something else, some last comment meant solely to annoy you—but instead he sighs, pushes away from the bar, and picks up his drink.

“Duty calls,” he singsongs.

“You’re drinking with your men,” you deadpan. “Hardly duty.”

“Morale is just as tantamount as everything else,” Varka counters with solemn dignity, and with that he turns and makes his way across the tavern, the crowd parting easily around him as he goes.

The moment he is out of earshot, Charles chuckles quietly beside you.

You shoot him a look. “What?”

“Nothing,” he insists, still smiling as he stacks a row of clean glasses. “It’s just that not everyone has the courage to speak to the most powerful man in Mondstadt the way you do.”

You scowl.

“If we let people like Varka have their way around here,” you reply crisply, reaching for another bottle, “Master Diluc wouldn’t be very pleased with us.”

Charles hums in mild agreement, though the amusement remains firmly in his expression.

The night presses on regardless.

Angel’s Share settles back into its usual chaotic rhythm. You move easily through the noise, as well as the familiar motions of the evening: pouring drinks, sliding plates across the counter, accepting payments while Charles handles the orders piling in from the tables.

It’s work you take seriously. The pay is good. The hours are reliable. The owner of the establishment expects competence, and you pride yourself on providing it. Angel’s Share is the most reputable tavern in Mondstadt, and you intend to keep your position here for as long as possible.

Which means you know better than to indulge certain distractions.

Unfortunately, those distractions have a habit of staring at you.

You do not need to look to feel it—the faint, unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze lingering across the room. Every so often it settles against the back of your neck with enough persistence to be noticed. When you glance up by accident, it is always the same pair of bright blue eyes watching from somewhere among the tables.

The infuriating man seems to know everyone in the tavern tonight.

At one moment Varka is laughing with a cluster of knights near the hearth. At another he is leaning back in his chair beside a group of adventurers who appear thrilled by the attention. Someone claps him on the shoulder. Someone else pours him another drink. But every now and then, those crystalline blue eyes drift back toward the bar.

Toward you.

You promptly look away.

You have no intention of tossing scraps of attention to a wolf who already believes he has been invited to the feast.

“Well, this is quite interesting.”

The voice arrives beside you like a cat slipping silently onto the counter.

You don’t need to turn to recognize Kaeya, whose talent for locating entertainment in other people’s suffering is well documented across Mondstadt. He settles against the bar with the languid ease of a man who has come here for a very specific purpose, his visible eye flicking between you and Charles with undisguised delight.

Beside him stands Rosaria, her expression as unimpressed as ever. Without so much as asking, she reaches across the counter and lifts a glass, holding it up like she’s deciding whether the contents are strong enough to justify her attention.

They are regular fixtures at the bar by now—faces you see often enough that their habits are as familiar to you as the grain of the wood beneath your hands. Most people would call them an unlikely pair, but you know better. Especially on nights when Kaeya has selected a target for his amusement, and Rosaria has decided the evening might be improved by watching someone else suffer for it.

“What do you want?”

Kaeya gestures loosely toward the other side of the tavern, where Varka has just burst into another round of laughter with his companions. “The Grand Master seems… distracted tonight.”

You slide a mug toward another patron without missing a beat.

Rosaria leans on the counter beside Kaeya, her pale gaze drifting lazily toward the laughing table across the room. “He’s been watching you for the last twenty minutes.”

You frown. “Then he clearly needs a better hobby.”

Kaeya chuckles softly.

“My dear,” he begins, “I believe you are the hobby.”

You fix him with a flat stare. “Order a drink or leave.”

“Alright, alright.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “A glass of dandelion wine, and story about… Ah, what do the kids call it these days? Your… situationship with the Grand Master on the side, please?”

Rosaria snickers into the rim of her glass.

“A ‘situationship’ requires two willing participants,” you tell him flatly. “What you’re witnessing is a persistent pest and a woman trying to earn a living without committing regicide.”

Kaeya doesn’t even flinch. He just leans further onto the polished wood, his single eye dancing with a mirth that makes you want to dump a bucket of ice down his collar. “Regicide? My, we’re thinking big, aren’t we? I didn't realize the Grand Master had already ascended to royalty in your heart.”

“He’s a king-sized headache, if that’s what you mean,” you snap, turning your back to them to reorganize the shelf of colorful liquor bottles.

“Careful,” Rosaria mutters as she stares into the middle distance. “If you keep denying it that hard, you’re going to pull a muscle. The man is practically vibrating over there every time you look in his general direction.”

You ignore her, but your eyes involuntarily flicker toward the reflection in the dark, polished glass of a bottle Charles set on the counter sometime ago. In the distorted surface, you can see the golden blur of him.

Varka is currently gesturing broadly with a meat skewer in one hand and a mug in the other, telling a story while the younger knights are hang on to every word. Even from across the room, you can feel the sheer, gravitational pull of his presence. It isn’t just that he’s the strongest man in Mondstadt; it’s the way he wears that strength like a comfortable old cloak.

Throughout the night, you’ve caught glimpses of him between orders—the way he claps a nervous new recruit on the shoulder hard enough to make the poor boy nearly spill his drink, the way his laughter rolls across the room until even the hearthfire seems to crackle a little brighter for it. There is nothing distant about him. He is not some austere statue looming over the Church of Favonius, nor merely a heroic name preserved in the records of the Knights.

He is flesh and blood, smelling of pine needles and morning dew. And perhaps most dangerously of all, he possesses that terribly human ability to be completely, hopelessly ridiculous.

Then, the reflection shows him turning his head. Those blue eyes find yours—even through the distorted glass—and he offers a slow, knowing wink. Your blood pressure rises immediately.

“He’s doing it again,” Kaeya chirps, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “The ‘Look of Longing.’ Truly, it’s like a romance novel, only with significantly more sarcasm on the protagonist’s part.”

You would have volleyed back with yet another sharp retort, but something in your peripheral vision catches your attention.

“Charles.”

“Yes?” your coworker asks, his voice suspiciously high-pitched. You glance over to see him “polishing” the same spot on the counter for the last three minutes.

“If you don’t stop eavesdropping and go check the back for inventory, I will tell Master Diluc you’ve been giving the Cavalry Captain a ‘loyalty discount’ on his Death After Noon.”

Charles pales, offers a quick, apologetic shrug to your present company, and vanishes into the back room with impressive speed.

You turn back to Kaeya and Rosaria, slamming a fresh napkin down in front of them with enough force to make the wood rattle. “Both of you. Out of my face. Kaeya, your wine. Rosaria, whatever that sludge is you’re drinking. If I hear the word situationship out of either of your mouths again, I’m banning you from the Angel’s Share until the Grand Master actually manages to grow a brain cell. Which, by my calculations, should be somewhere around the next decade."

“So you’re saying there’s a timeline?” Kaeya teases, picking up his glass.

“Get. Out.”

They retreat to a corner table, chuckling like a pair of hyenas. You take a deep breath as you smooth out your apron, and try to regain your composure. You are a professional. You are the best bartender in the city. You do not let overgrown golden retrievers in armor distract you.

Naturally, that’s when a shadow falls over the bar. A very large, very familiar shadow.

“They seemed to be enjoying themselves,” Varka says, his voice a low rumble right in front of you. He’s leaned back against the bar, facing the room but tilting his head just enough to watch you. “What was the joke? I love a good laugh.”

“The joke,” you begin, leaning in until you’re mere inches from his face, relishing the way his pupils dilate just a fraction, “is currently standing right in front of me, asking for more attention than a toddler in a toy shop.”

Varka’s grin doesn't waver. If anything, it sharpens into something dangerously fond. “A toddler, eh? Well, I suppose I do have a certain... youthful energy.”

“You have the impulse control of a slime,” you counter, moving to the other end of the bar.

“But the heart of a lion!” he calls out after you, loud enough for half the tavern to hear. “And that lion is very thirsty for another round, my lady!”

You don’t look back, but you can feel the heat in your cheeks. Barbatos, give me strength, you think, grabbing a bottle with a little more violence than necessary. Or give him a very long expedition to go on.

It turns out that Barbatos has a sense of humor.

The announcement tore through Mondstadt like a gale-force wind. An expedition. A northern crusade into the heart of the Abyss. The city, never one to miss an excuse for a festival, turned the night before the departure into an absolute riot. Angel’s Share was the epicenter of the madness, the air thick with the smell of spilled ale, roasted meat, and the heavy, humid anxiety of a people seeing their strongest protectors march into the unknown.

You were exhausted. You spent the last twelve hours pouring pint after pint for weeping recruits and boisterous knights who were drinking to forget the fear of what lay ahead. But as the clock struck midnight and the tavern began to thin out, the relief you’d been nursing suddenly felt hollow.

Then, the floorboards groaned under a familiar, massive weight.

Varka doesn’t slide up to the bar with his usual swagger. He doesn't offer a witty remark about the quality of the wine or try to bait you into an argument. He just pulls himself onto a stool, his shoulders slumped, his face flushed not just from the drink, but from the weight of a thousand eyes waiting for him to be a hero.

He looks… human. And that is significantly more terrifying than him being an annoyance.

“One more,” the Knight of Boreas mutters, waving a hand vaguely at the tap. His voice is gravelly, stripped of its usual theatrical boom.

You set a mug down, not bothering to ask if he wants his usual. “You’ve had enough. If you fall off your horse tomorrow because you’re nursing a hangover, the entire city will be weeping in the streets.”

Varka lets out a short, dry laugh. He stares down into the golden liquid as if it holds the secrets to the North. “They think I’m going there to win, you know. They think I’ll march in, clear the Abyss, and come back with a victory feast already planned.”

“And won’t you?” you ask, your voice softening despite your best intentions.

He looks up at you then, and the blue in his eyes is muted, weary. “I don’t know what’s out there. I really don’t. We have intel, yes, but the Abyss… it’s not a battlefield you can just charge into. It’s an endless rot that eats at you from the inside-out.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it in a disarray that looks uncharacteristically fragile. “I’m taking the best of our men, and I’m not sure if I’m a leader, or just a man who’s going to get a lot of people killed.”

You freeze. Someone of his position, the pillar of Mondstadt and the Knights, never admits doubt. Certainly not to a cynical bartender. But the truth in his expression is naked, and for the first time, you don't feel the urge to bite back. You don't want to tell him to stop whining.

You lean over the counter, the distance between you shrinking until you can smell the pine and the sharp, fermented tang of the Dandelion Wine on his breath.

“You’re an idiot,” you say, but the sharpness is gone, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve. “You’re an arrogant, loud-mouthed, paperwork-hating idiot. But you’re our idiot. If you go up there and die, there’s nobody left in this city with enough ego to keep the Knights in line. Much less the Abyss.”

Varka blinks, caught off guard by your lack of a sting. He stares at you, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes, his expression shifting into something far more dangerous than his usual teasing flirtation.

“Is that so?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you press on, forcing your hands to stay steady on the bar. “So don’t you dare go getting yourself killed. Because if I hear that you’ve fallen, I’m going to track down every single barrel of wine we’re sending to your caravan, and I am going to poison the lot of them personally. I’ll make sure your last drink is your worst one.”

Varka laughs, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. It is the first genuine thing you’ve heard all night. He leans forward, closing the final inch of space between you. The air in the tavern seems to vanish, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming heat of him. He looks as if he is going to bridge the gap—as if he is going to press that brash, smiling mouth against yours right here in the middle of the tavern.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, a traitorous, frantic rhythm. You hold your breath, leaning in just a fraction—

Then, he stops.

Varka pulls back, his hand brushing against your knuckles as he pushes himself off the bar. The moment shatters.

“Poison, hmm?” he repeats huskily, his playful mask sliding back into place, though the wolfish grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be sure to come back, then. I wouldn’t want to suffer a bad vintage on my way out.”

The Grandmaster turns and walks toward the door, leaving you standing there clutching a clean rag with white-knuckled intensity, your face burning with a heat that has nothing to do with the hearth.

Come morning, the sun rises over Mondstadt with a clarity that feels almost insulting.

You stand at the very back of the crowd near the city gates, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Varka is mounted on a horse so large it looks like it was plucked from an old legend, his golden hair catching the light as he laughs and waves to the citizens. He is every bit the Knight of Boreas should be—charismatic, unwavering, and draped in bravery in a way that makes people feel they could survive a literal apocalypse just by standing in his shadow.

It’s jarring. You keep looking for the man who leaned over your bar and admitted his fear of leading his men to their doom, but he’s gone, replaced by the invincible Grand Master. You realize then that life in Mondstadt is built on this very illusion. He has to be the most reliable man in the world so that everyone else can sleep at night, even if he's the most annoying man in the world to you personally.

As the caravan disappears into the horizon, a strange, ringing silence settles over the city.

The months that follow are exactly what you spent years praying for: quiet. With eighty percent of the Knights gone, the nights of rowdy drinking songs and Varka’s booming laughter are replaced by the low hubbub of civilian regulars and the occasional group of weary squires-in-training.

Kaeya and Rosaria remain your most consistent—and most irritating—patrons. The Cavalry Captain spends most of his evenings draped over the bar, sighing dramatically about how he “lacks a cavalry to captain”. Rosaria just drinks in silence, though she occasionally shoots you a knowing look when you find yourself staring a second too long at Varka's favorite empty stool.

Even Master Diluc makes more frequent appearances, his presence a somber weight in the room when he isn’t busy playing Darknight Hero under the city’s nose. But despite his outwardly stoic demeanor, your boss is sharper than most people. You can tell he’s well aware of the shift in your mood, and maneuvers around it just as carefully as Charles would, much to your surprise and annoyance.

Because it doesn’t make sense.

This is the monotonous, peaceful life you wanted. No one pestering you. No one calling you “the most beautiful woman in Mondstadt” just to watch you scowl.

So why does it feel so dull?

Oftentimes, you find yourself cleaning the counter with a bit more aggression than necessary, your ears unintentionally straining for a boisterous, unguarded laugh that hasn’t echoed through the rafters in nearly half a year. The king-sized headache is gone, and in his place is a void that makes Angel’s Share feel much larger and colder than it ever has before.

“You've polished that spot three times already,” Kaeya’s voice cuts through your thoughts, smooth as silk and twice as sharp. He leans in, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were actually missing the sound of his voice.”

“I’m missing the revenue his knights brought in,” you snap back, though your hand hitches for a fraction of a second. “Nothing more.”

Yes… This is the truth.

You’ve been praying to be rid of the nuisance that was the Knight of Boreas for Archons know how long. So why is it that when you find a letter neatly tucked beneath the door of your apartment after running errands, your heart nearly skips a beat?

You flip the envelope over, your thumb catching on the rough grain of the parchment. There is no wax seal, and certainly no return address. It’s a plain, unassuming thing that has no business making your chest buzz with this much frantic anticipation.

Your rationality insists it can’t be from him. He never promised to write. Why would he? You spent every waking moment of his presence in Mondstadt pushing him away, meeting his boisterous affection with nothing but barbs and sighs of exasperation.

Still, you don't wait. You unlock your door with trembling fingers, slip inside, and kick the door shut. You don't even take off your cloak before you tear the envelope open.

The handwriting is exactly what you expected: bold, messy, and large enough that it practically marches off the page. It’s the handwriting of a man who is clearly used to handing off his administrative duties to the next poor soul down the hierarchy of the Knights of Favonius.

EXPEDITION REPORT: NORTHERN FRONT TO: The Most Dangerous Woman in the Angel’s Share FROM: Your King-Sized Headache

My Lady,

I trust this reaches you before you’ve successfully replaced me with a more manageable regular. If you have, don’t tell me. My heart is already fragile enough from the frost up here.

We’ve finally reached a settlement in a region called Nod-Krai. It sits just a few miles south of the Snezhnayan border. It’s a strange, haunting place—not quite as biting as Dragonspine, but it lacks the golden warmth of Mondstadt’s sun. I find myself looking at the horizon and missing the way the light glitters across Cider Lake.

The Knights are currently settling into our encampment. We’ve made contact with a local group called the Lightkeepers. Stalwart folk, though they don’t laugh nearly as much as we do. But I won't bore you with the logistical nightmares of setting up a garrison in the tundra.

Tell me, have you learned any new mixes while I’ve been away? I find myself inexplicably jealous of every man who gets to sit at your bar and watch you work. I’ve even caught myself staring at our traveling supply of Dawn Winery’s finest and thinking it tastes remarkably flat. It turns out that even the best vintage in Teyvat doesn't compare to a drink served by a sharp-tongued beauty who looks like she’s considering poisoning me.

I don’t expect a reply. A man of my reputation shouldn't be so needy, right? But, should you find yourself bored and holding a pen, I’ve made an... arrangement. If you leave a letter on shelf 12A on the first floor of the Favonius Library and tuck it inside the twelfth tome from the right on the third row, it will find its way to me via our next supply runner.

Take care of yourself. And keep that tongue sharp. I’d hate to come home to a polite bartender.

Yours, in exile,

Varka

You stare at the letter for a long minute, the ink blurring slightly as you read his specific, ridiculous instructions for the library. Shelf 12A? The twelfth tome on the third row?

“Idiot,” you mutter.

You toss the letter onto your coffee table with a decisive flick of your wrist. You have no intention of dignifying this with a response. You are not some lovelorn maiden waiting by the window for her knight. You are a professional, and you have a shift starting in four hours.

You leave the letter right where it is, stubbornly clinging to your pride as you move to the kitchen to make tea. You won't write back. You won't.

You stay stubborn for exactly three days.

By the fourth, the silence in your apartment feels loud, and the letter on the coffee table starts to look like a personal challenge that you are much too competitive to set aside.

That is how you find yourself in the Knights of Favonius library during the quiet morning hours when Lisa is busy elsewhere. Shelf 12A. Third row. Twelfth tome from the right. You pull the book—a dry, dusty record of Mondstadt’s civilian taxes from a century ago—and slip your folded parchment into the middle of it.

TO: The “King-Sized Headache” Currently Staining the North FROM: The Bartender Who Still Has Your Tab Open

Grand Master Varka,

Mondstadt is quiet. It is peaceful. It is, frankly, a relief to work a shift without having to listen to your voice drowning out the sound of the actual music. The only downside is that without your knights around to run up their tabs, the tips have been abysmal. So, for the sake of Angel’s Share’s bottom line, try not to get eaten by a lawachurl.

Nod-Krai sounds miserable. If there’s no sun, I assume you’re currently the color of a blanched radish. Is the food there even edible? I’ve heard rumors that the northerners live on nothing but dried fish and melted snow. If you’ve lost weight, don't expect me to pity you when you get back; you had plenty of “youthful energy” to spare.

And stop being ridiculous. The men in the bar are customers, and unlike some people, they actually know how to order a drink without making a theatrical production out of it. I haven't bothered with any new mixes. Why would I? There’s no one here with a refined enough palate to appreciate them—or a big enough ego to demand them.

Don’t get used to this. I am only writing because the silence in the tavern is making Charles go stir-crazy, and I needed something to occupy my mind while he reorganizes the cellar for the fifth time this week.

Stay warm. If you come back with even a single toe missing, I’m doubling the price of your wine for the next three years. I’m serious, Varka. One piece. Or don't come back at all.

Try not to be an idiot (I know it’s hard),

—The One Who Should Be Paid to Deal With You

The correspondence between you and the Grand Master isn’t what anyone would call “regular.”

It lacks the frantic pace of a romance and the rigid structure of a carefully penned report. Sometimes, his letters sit on your coffee table for weeks, while you go about your life in a city that feels increasingly like a toy box he left behind.

It isn’t always out of spite. Most of the time, it’s simply because life in Mondstadt is… well, Mondstadt. You tell him about the wine yields, the way the wind smells before a storm, and how Charles finally managed to drop a full crate of dandelion wine without breaking a single bottle. Then you read his latest letter. It was filled with accounts of Abyssal skirmishes, diplomatic dances with the Snezhnayan border guards, and the beautifully moonlit landscape of the north. Once you put it down, you feel a sudden, sharp sting of insignificance.

Your life is a quiet tavern; his is a map of the world.

Eventually, you find something worth reporting. You spent three pages detailing the arrival of a golden-haired Traveler and a floating guide who sounds like an over-caffeinated finch.

You write with uncharacteristic fervor about the Stormterror crisis, and how this stranger managed to soothe a dragon that had been part of Mondstadt’s soul since the beginning. You feel a strange sense of pride in delivering the scoop, imagining him reading it in some tent and finally realizing that Mondstadt can produce heroes even when he isn’t there to hog the spotlight.

His response arrives three weeks later.

My Lady, I was touched by your detailed account of our honorary Knight’s exploits. Truly, I was flattered that you went to such lengths to keep me informed. However, Jean’s official report reached me two days prior. Still, I prefer your version—you have a much better way of describing how 'insufferable' the Traveler’s companion is.

You don't reply to that one. In fact, you don't even put it on the coffee table. You shove it into a drawer and sulk for a month, refusing to even walk near the library. The nerve of the man, letting you write your heart out about a national crisis only to tell you he’d already read the “official” version.

But Varka has always been a man who thrives on the impossible—including reading your mood from across a continent.

The Windblume Festival arrives in a flurry of cecilias and dandelion fluff. The air in Mondstadt is sickeningly sweet with romance, and Angel’s Share is packed with couples sharing special Love and Aftermath cocktails. You are mid-pour, your jaw tense from a day of forced customer-service smiles, when the bell above the door chimes with a familiar rhythm,.

Kaeya Alberich doesn’t head for his usual stool. He leans over the counter, blocking your path to the tap, woth a small, elegantly wrapped parcel held between two fingers.

“Move, Kaeya. I have three orders waiting,” you grumble.

“My, my. Still as prickly as a Whopperflower,” Kaeya hums. “And here I am, acting as a royal messenger at great personal expense to my own social calendar.”

“If you're here to take over being the biggest annoyance in my life while your boss is away, you're doing a stellar job. Now move.”

Kaeya snorts, a genuine sound of amusement. “Oh, I would never dream of it. I know my limits; I’ll never be worthy of that particular title. No, this is a delivery from the Great North.”

Your hand freezes on the tap. You finally look at the parcel. It isn’t flashy—wrapped in sturdy, dark blue paper and tied with a simple leather cord.

“The Grand Master sends his regards,” Kaeya whispers, sliding the package across the wood. “He was quite insistent that it reach you today. Apparently, he's a stickler for tradition.”

“I don't want it,” you insist, even as your fingers twitch toward the cord that binds it.

“Of course you don’t. That's why your face is currently the color of a Jueyun Chili,” Kaeya teases, straightening up. “I'll leave you to your... professional duties.”

When Kaeya is out of sight, you snatch the gift from the counter and, without a word to Charles, retreat into the back room. You tell yourself you’re just checking the inventory. You tell yourself you’re going to throw it in the trash.

Instead, you tear the paper open.

Inside is a small, hand-carved wooden box. When you open it, the scent hits you first—the sharp, clean smell of northern pine. Resting on a bed of dried moss is a single, preserved flower you don’t recognize: a hardy specimen with three jagged leaves. Small, ice-blue crystalline shards cling to the tips like permanent droplets of frozen dew, shielding a central bud that glows with a warm, pale yellow heart. Beside it lies a small, heavy iron coin, its surface polished until it shines like silver.

A note is folded and tucked into the lid.

I’m told it’s Windblume back home. The knights are all busy making fools of themselves writing poetry to girls they haven’t seen in months. I thought about joining them, but I figured you’d find a poem from me even more offensive than my presence.

I found this winter icelea on a ridge overlooking the Abyss. It reminded me of you—stubborn enough to grow in a place where nothing else dares to, and far more beautiful than the pampered flowers in the city square. I also found this coin in an old ruin. It's useless as currency, but it’s heavy and hard to break. Keep it in your pocket; think of it as a weight to keep you grounded until I get back to annoy you in person.

I wish I could be the one dragging you out to the plaza tonight to watch the fireworks, even if you spent the whole time telling me how much of a spectacle I was making. Since I can’t be your date, consider the flower my proxy. Don't let it die out of spite.

Missing the sting of your tongue,

Varka

Your heart doesn’t just flutter; it does a full, traitorous somersault against your ribs. You stare at the tiny, resilient flower, feeling a lump form in your throat that no amount of dandelion wine can wash away. You are furious. You are flustered. You are…

You slam the box shut and march back out to the floor, your face burning.

“Everything alright?” Charles asks, retreating a step at the sheer intensity of your glare.

“Fine,” you bark, grabbing a shaker and snapping it into place with enough violence to startle a nearby table of tourists.

Master Diluc, who is reviewing the ledgers in the corner, looks up. He watches you for a long, silent moment, his red eyes tracking the frantic, slightly-too-fast way you are mixing drinks. He then looks at the corner where Kaeya is smirking into his glass.

Diluc lets out a short, dry exhale—the closest he ever gets to a laugh.

“I didn’t realize the Grand Master’s influence extended to the quality of our service,” Diluc remarks, his voice smooth and deadpan. “Try not to break the glassware. Varka’s ego is expensive enough to maintain; we don’t need to add a replacement fee for the bar equipment.”

“I am perfectly calm!” you hiss, nearly overfilling a glass.

“Clearly,” Diluc replies, returning to his ledger with a ghostly shadow of a smirk.

You spend the rest of the night refusing to look at the back room, even though the weight of the iron coin in your apron pocket feels like a warm hand resting against your hip.

The years have a cruel way of blurring together when the person who defined the noise of your life is replaced by a heavy, echoing silence.

What everyone initially assumed would be a standard display of Mondstadt’s strength has taken on a far more sobering gravity. The expedition into the heart of the Abyss isn't a skirmish; it's a war of attrition. The semi-steady flow of letters that once felt like a game of wits eventually slows, then halts entirely for months at a time. News from the north becomes a rare commodity.

During those long stretches of radio silence, you wonder if he’s cold. You wonder if he has finally met a problem he can't laugh his way out of. But every time your heart begins that traitorous train of thought, you snap out of it with a sharp scowl.

Yet, as Kaeya once noted, Varka is a stickler for tradition. Even when the official reports from the front lines run dry, he never misses the three days of the year that have become the secret pillars of your calendar: the Windblume Festival, Ludi Harpastum, and your birthday.

Each time, a gift arrives. A gem of glowing resin he once called pine amber; a ribbon of silk from a Snezhnayan merchant; a pressed leaf that smells of a forest you’ve never seen. And always, there are the words. He never runs out of them.

“The moon up here is a tempting mistress,” he writes in one particularly late-night scrawl. “She is constant and quiet, a far cry from the rowdy sun of Mondstadt. But don’t worry, my Lady. The sun will always be the hearth in my heart, and you… well, you’ll always be the one holding the poker to the coals. You’re still number one, even if you’re currently several thousand miles away and probably wishing I’d fall into a crevasse.”

By the fourth year of the expedition, the letters have changed you. You’ve developed a habit—one you keep strictly to yourself. On clear nights, after your shift ends and the city is asleep, you climb the long, stone steps leading to the Church of Favonius. You stand at the top of the plaza, beneath the shadow of the great statue of the Anemo Archon, and gaze up at the moon.

You find yourself wondering if it’s the same sky he’s looking at right now, and if the silver light feels as lonely on his skin as it does on yours.

Then comes the day that breaks your carefully maintained composure.

It is a Tuesday—not a festival, not a birthday, just a mundane afternoon at the Angel’s Share. One of the knights drops a letter off, and your heart thumps against your ribs at the oddly timed arrival. You tear it open right there at the bar, leaning over the wood as you always do.

You don't even get past the first line.

I’M THINKING ABOUT HAVING YOU SIT ON MY COCK.

SLAM.

The sound of the parchment hitting the bar top is like a gunshot.

Jean, Kaeya, and Diluc, an odd trio who had been sharing a rare, quiet drink together, all jump slightly at the noise. They look at you bizarrely as they take in your state. Your face isn't just red; it is a violent, incandescent shade of crimson that rivals Diluc’s hair.

“Everything alright?” Jean asks, her voice laced with concern.

“I... I need to...” You sputter, unable to form a coherent sentence. Your eyes are wide, and you feel as though you’ve been struck by a bolt of Electro.

“Is that a letter from the North?” Kaeya asks, his voice dripping with a delight that suggests he has already guessed the contents without seeing a single word.

You can't explain it. You can’t tell the Acting Grand Master that her mentor is currently writing smut from a war zone. You can’t tell your boss why you look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.

“Charles?” you call out, your voice cracking.

Your coworker pokes his head out from the back room door. “Yes?”

“Man the bar for me, please,” you choke out, grabbing the letter and clutching it to your chest as if it were a live grenade. “I need to... collect my thoughts. In the back. Now.”

Charles nods, takes your place at front, and you bolt for the storage room, the door swinging shut behind you with a decisive click. You lean against the wood, sliding down until you’re sitting on a crate of wine, and read the rest of the letter with hands that won't stop shaking.

You sink onto the crate, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you stare at that first, heart-stopping line. You force your eyes to move past the initial shock, your breath coming in shallow hitches as you read the rest of the messy, sprawling script.

The tone shifts abruptly. The handwriting, usually bold and steady, becomes a jagged crawl that speaks of exhaustion and something far more clinical.

Forgive the start of this, my Lady. If the ink is smudged, it’s because my hands aren’t quite my own today. We’ve just come through a siege that went sideways. I nearly didn’t make it back to the tent to write the first line. There was a hole in my chest large enough for the northern wind to whistle through, and for a moment, I actually thought Barbatos was finally calling in my tab.

A cold chill that has nothing to do with the storage room air washes over you. Your grip on the parchment tightens.

The only reason I’m still breathing is a woman named Lady Lauma. She’s the leader of the Frostmoon Scions, a group of healers up here whose blood is said to be able to pull any man back from the brink. I’ve spent the last few hours high on whatever concoctions her best healers forced down my throat to keep the pain at bay. That first line? That was the drug-addled honesty of a dying man. I thought about scrapping it once the haze started to lift, but then I realized it was that very thought—the sheer, ridiculous desire to have you exactly where I said—that kept me anchored to my consciousness while they stitched me back together.

You let out a shaky, indignant breath. Even at death's door, the man is an absolute menace.

I won’t be more explicit with the details, lest you decide to pray to Barbatos for a freak hurricane to finish what the Abyss started. But I’ll tell you this, since I’m still too light-headed to lie: I honestly thought the distance would make me less fond of you. I thought the years and the blood and the frost would dull the memory of your scowl. But I have this bad habit of writing to you, and an even worse one of looking forward to your replies. It’s become a fire that’s awfully difficult to kill, no matter how much snow they pile on top of it.

I don’t expect you to return the sentiment. (I know better than to ask for a miracle from a woman who specializes in serving reality on the rocks.) But I’m still looking forward to coming home and seeing that beautiful face of yours, even if it’s currently attached to the sharpest tongue in Mondstadt.

You stare at the page, the silence of the storage room suddenly deafening.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. You want to scream at him for being so reckless, and you want to weep because the thought of that hole in his chest makes your own lungs feel tight. Most of all, you realize that the “situationship” Kaeya joked about years ago has morphed into something you can no longer walk away from.

A soft knock sounds on the door.

“Are you... finished collecting your thoughts?” Charles’s voice is tentative. “Master Diluc is starting to look like he’s going to come back there himself.”

You jump, nearly dropping the letter. You shove it into your apron pocket, smoothing down your hair with trembling hands. You are a professional. You are the best bartender in Mondstadt. You do not let drug-addled confessions from dying giants rattle you.

“I'm coming,” you tell him shakily.

As you walk back out into the tavern, you catch Kaeya’s eye. He’s still smirking, his single eye tracking the way you won't look at anyone. You ignore him, grabbing a bottle of the strongest vintage on the shelf and focusing entirely on the grain of the wood beneath your fingers.

The fire in your chest matches the one Varka described, and for the first time in four years, the silence of the tavern doesn’t feel dull.

It feels like a countdown.

You find the last letter you’ll ever receive from the North tucked beneath your door. It is a plain, nondescript thing, identical to the very first one that started this five-year-long game of cat and mouse.

Inside, there is no sprawling report or drug-addled confession. There is only a single, heavy line of ink that looks as if it were written in a hurry:

We're coming home.

You stare at the four words until they start to lose their meaning. Your first instinct is to scoff—to assume he’s joking, or perhaps simply delusional. The last official word disseminated by the Knights of Favonius was grim; a crisis in Nod-Krai was reportedly reaching a breaking point, a surge of Abyssal activity that threatened to spill over and impact Teyvat as a whole if not contained.

The anxiety of that news had nearly driven you to madness.

You found yourself marching up to the Favonius Library every single day, slipping letter after frantic letter into the old tome on Shelf 12A. You still don’t understand the mechanics of it—Varka never explained how a dusty record of civilian taxes functioned as a trans-continental mailbox, and you never once saw another soul approach that forgotten corner of the library. Yet, without fail, every letter you tucked into those pages disappeared by the next morning. You knew with certainty that he was receiving them.

But now, he claims he and his men are returning.

You keep the scrap of parchment tucked beneath your pillow for a week, a secret weight that keeps you awake at night. You refuse to hold onto hope; five years is a long, agonizing time, and your pride simply cannot handle the crushing blow of a disappointment this large. Even if Varka isn’t “anything” to you, the thought of his favorite stool staying empty for another year feels like a physical ache.

Then, at the end of the week, the silence in Mondstadt finally breaks.

Acting Grand Master Jean stands before the Church, her voice carrying across the plaza with emotion she rarely allows the public to see. She officially announces that the expeditionary force has successfully contained the threat in the North and is currently marching back toward the city gates.

The city erupts. People are weeping in the streets, bells are ringing from the towers, and Angel’s Share is instantly swamped with patrons wanting to toast to a miracle.

But as you stand behind the bar that evening, a realization hits you like a cold splash of water.

Varka hadn't just sent that note as a courtesy. He had told you first. Before the official messengers reached the city, before the scouts signaled the towers, and before he deigned to inform his own subordinates, he had made sure a letter found its way to your door.

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” Charles remarks as he reaches for a clean towel.

“I’ve seen something much more annoying than a ghost,” you mutter, though you can't quite hide the way your hands are shaking as you reach for a bottle of his favorite vintage. “I've seen the return of a man who doesn't know how to follow a chain of command.”

Charles just grins like he’s in the know. Maybe he always has been.

“Well, at least the tips will improve, right?”

You don’t answer. Your eyes drift toward the door, your heart hammering a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like hope. He’s coming back. And this time, you have five years' worth of sharp-tongued retorts—and one very heavy iron coin you always keep in your pocket—waiting for him.

The day of the festival arrives in a riot of color and noise that Mondstadt hasn’t seen in half a decade.

You stand at the very edge of the plaza, arms crossed tightly over your chest. You’ve spent the morning practicing your “unimpressed” face in the mirror, telling yourself that a five-year absence doesn't excuse the sheer audacity of his letters. You are determined to be the only person in the city not currently sobbing with joy.

Then, the horns sound at the gates.

The crowd surges, a collective gasp rippling through the plaza as the first line of the expeditionary force crests the hill. They are not the shiny, pristine knights who left five years ago. They are rugged and battle-worn, their faces lined with the gravity of what they’ve endured.

But it is the man at the lead who makes your breath hitch.

Varka is mounted on a massive, battle-worn steed, looking every bit the legendary Knight of Boreas. His golden hair is much longer now, tied back in a messy, careless tail that grazes his broad shoulders. He looks older, worn thin by all he’s seen and all he’s survived.

He is scanning the crowd, his blue eyes sharp and searching, cutting through the thousands of faces with a singular focus that makes your heart hammer a frantic, traitorous rhythm.

When his gaze finally lands on you, the transformation is instantaneous.

The legendary commander vanishes, replaced in a heartbeat by the same irritating man who used to wink at you through the reflection of a wine bottle. A slow, lopsided smile spreads across his face—one that says he knows exactly how much you've missed him, even if you’d rather die than admit it.

Varka dismounts before his horse has even fully come to a stop, his heavy boots hitting the cobblestones with a decisive thud. He doesn't wait for the official greeting from Jean; he doesn't wait for the cheers of the citizens. He simply stops ten paces away and opens his arms wide, a silent, arrogant invitation.

The jury can find you guilty later.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, before your pride can gain its footing, you are moving. You break from the crowd, abandoned by your own common sense, and run.

You collide with him with enough force to make his armor clank, your hands fisted into the rough fabric of his cloak as his massive arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off the ground. He smells of pine needles, old parchment, and a warmth that feels like the first day of spring after a century of winter.

"Missed me that much, did you?" he rumbles against your ear.

“I missed having someone to threaten with poison,” you choke out into his shoulder, your voice thick and uncharacteristically fragile. “You're late, you idiot.”

Varka laughs—loud and boisterous and everything you’ve ever loved. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a tenderness that ruins you.

“I told you,” he whispers, his blue eyes burning with a fire no northern snow could kill. “I wouldn't want to suffer a bad vintage on my way out.”

In the background, tucked away near a fountain, Kaeya sighs dramatically as he drops a heavy bag of mora into Rosaria’s outstretched hand.

“I really thought she’d hold out for at least thirty seconds,” Kaeya mutters, looking genuinely disappointed in your lack of resolve.

Rosaria doesn't even look at him, her fingers expertly catching the bag. “Never bet on a woman who’s been staring at an empty stool for five years, Captain. It’s bad for the wallet.”

Diluc, standing a few paces away from the sniveling duo, watches the you and the Grand Master for a long moment. He lets out a short, dry exhale before shaking his head with a quiet sigh.

“Charles,” Diluc says to the man idling next to him, not taking his eyes off the scene. “Get the good bottles ready. It’s going to be a very long night.”

black void version