diluc x fem!reader | 16.6k+ words
synopsis: working at a noble estate, you find yourself entangled in a slow, unspoken love with a young man bound by duty, legacy, and a crumbling arranged engagement. as seasons shift and tragedy strikes, there remains an enduring vestige of something deeply felt and quietly surviving.
note: âA vestige is a trace or remnant of something that once existed.â
this fic is part one of a series. (I went crazy on worldbuilding once againâŠ)
story takes place before Diluc leaves Mondstadt (before traveler arrives to Teyvat and in-game content begins) + I also included canon events depicted in the manga
content: slow burn (very slow), fluff and angst, class disparity, childhood friends to lovers, politics, arranged marriage, mutual pining, character death, 19th-century romantical
It was July and you had hope in who you were becoming.
Silver nights, languid sunlight, warm tingly skin and soft cotton. The bird life rich and varied. Exquisite tiny finches flitted and wheeled, joined in their revelry by sparrows and starlings. Completely without fear, sitting in hundreds in the trees peering about with bright intelligent eyes, screaming, talking, laughing, imitating anything that produced sound. Iced tea and lemon juice. The tightness of a fresh sunburn. There were green herbs and goat cheese, the warm bread with a small pot of raspberry jam, and the last sour cherry you kept politely pushing on each otherâs plates, saying, No you. But itâs so good. No, you eat it.
It was exhilarating. The warmth in the air, the laughter echoing through open windows, the scent of blooming flora. It all poured into your lungs like a heady perfume, leaving you lightheaded with happiness. And in those golden moments, you were convincedâutterly, blissfully convincedâthat these times were the happiest moments of your life.
It was simple, as only youth could be. It was seventeen. It was slow patio breakfasts in the mornings with your mother. Youâd sit with steaming mugs of coffee softened with cowâs milk, your toast still warm, topped with slices of strawberries so fresh they stained your fingers red. Always, a second mug waited beside yours. Placed there with hope for Adelinde, in case she decided to join you and linger on. It stretched before youâlong and reassuring, like an endless period of delicious sleep. Every breath from the hills so full of life that it seemed whoever respired it, though dying, might revive. It was being in the earth, honey combing the trees. It was carelessly chasing crystalflies through twirling grapevine mazes. It was candlelit magic shows and stories and hushed whispers tiptoeing through the warm, old house, where the floorboards creaked like they too were listening.
It was down by the banks where the crystalflies shimmered, he hummed, the old rived thrummed, and you swore the sparkling cider went straight to your head. Lying on a quilted blanket, your bare feet just barely grazing the wet grass, you twirled asters, dandelions, and cecilias between your fingers and threaded them through your hair as he watched you.
He breathed and your elbows touched for just a moment, damp with sweat and something sweet like a ripe peach dripping with juice, and then it was over as soon as it happened, and your cheeks matched the hue of his vibrant hair that seemed to flow from the flaming sun.
He was reading an adventure novel, the book now discarded on its side, and you were not sure where his brother was, where anyone was, for that matter. Did you ever stop to question yourselves then? That it was getting late? That the Master would worry? That you would so dearly miss this moment?
You watched as the last day's light bounced off the waterâs surface into the late evening air and his eyes twinkled with sensible content.Â
He shifted ever so slightly beside you, and the quilt rustled softly beneath your skirts. For a time, he said nothing.
At last, he spoke. Not loudly, but with that particular softness reserved for you.
âYouâve gone quiet,â he said, turning just enough that you could sense his gaze upon you, though you dared not meet it. âHave I frightened you into silence?â
You allowed a faint smile to trace your lips, your eyes still fixed on the distant trees whose leaves trembled in the golden light.
âNot frightened, no,â you replied. âOnly thinking.â
He said it with a smile in his voice, but beneath the jest, there was something tentative.
âAnd what are you thinking of?â he added, after a pause.
You hesitated. Too long, perhaps. Then, with practiced lightness: âOf how quickly summer passes. It seems to slip through oneâs fingers, no matter how tightly one holds it.â
He made a thoughtful sound, then leaned back on his hands, his fingers brushing the grass behind him.
âItâs true,â he said. âBut I suspect it stays longer in memory than in time. Certain days⊠certain hoursâ I feel that they linger, even when theyâre long gone.â
You looked at him, drawn by something in his voiceâa quiet sincerity, unguarded. His eyes, a shade you had never quite named, met yours with a steadiness that made your heart falter.
âLike this one?â you asked, the words barely above a whisper.
He smiled with that slow, knowing curve that made your breath catch.
âYes,â he said simply. âExactly like this one.â
And for a moment, the air between you shimmered with something soft.
It was fragile and flickering like a cobweb kissed by rain, when suddenly a sharp gust of wind cut through your skin and his words.
âI donât want to go back,â he said with more seriousness, his eyes shutting tight before he opened them again.
You looked at him, his eyes fixed ahead, watching ripples in the water expand where there were sure to be fish nibbling on the moss-like algae right under.
During the milder, sun-drenched months of spring and summer, when his obligations allowed him a rare moment of leisure, Master Crepus would often gather the boys for an afternoon of fishing down by the riverbank, just a little ways away from where you were now. It became something of a tradition, one with gentle competition. On these occasions, he would invite you to join them, not out of mere courtesy, but because he genuinely appreciated your quiet presence. He recognized that you brought a steadying influence to the group, and he was well aware that the boys not only welcomed you but looked forward to your company, often more than his own.Â
âThen letâs not go back,â you said, lifting your arms over your head in a satisfying stretch. âLetâs stay here until the sun comes up!â
He looked back at you, his gaze lingering shyly on the delicate flowers woven into your hair.
He sighed, knowing that if he wanted to, he would, but the Knights' call for duty in the early morning and the young masterâs title as Cavalry Captain meant arduous, demanding, and at the end of the day, utterly tiresome sentiments.
Between the meetings, trainings, and expeditions, Diluc had little time for himselfâlittle time to take a breath, stand in the open, listen to the sounds of nature consuming everything around, and to think of anything but his work in the serenity of it all.
Thatâs why when the grandfather clock chimed just seven after noon, making sure to excuse himself from dinner at a reasonable time, Diluc would wait for you by the grand front door, his hands in his pockets, looking past the gravel path for the door of your cottage to fling open and for you to skip hurriedly outside, hair flowing wildly behind you. Always a woven basket in hand. Always full of something delicious.
And so, as though guided by some unspoken understanding, the two of you would begin your quiet descent toward the river. You both knew, without need for words, the precise path where the grassy verge gave way not to sharp stones, but to a yielding stretch of only soft green beneath your feet. You had long since learned where to tread to avoid the rustling of startled creaturesâthe feisty anemo slimes and other woodland things whose sudden presence might break the spell of your quiet walk.
To say that the rest of the Dawn Winery household and staff didnât notice your little evening routine would be a lie in itself.
It was the head maid, a woman one might kindly accuse of witchcraft, for she had all too many talents, as your mother used to say. Adelinde had always suspected a quite close friendship between you and the young masters ever since the making of your acquaintance, and day long ago blurred by the many years you spent shoulder to shoulder, side by side on the beautiful spinet chair, stroking your fingers along the powdering of gold dust, on the outdoor swing hidden in the trees, in the faintly dusty playroom.
A particular favorite memory of yours had been when you enlisted the boys to help you with a play you had written. âThe Oceanid of Qingce Villageâ, the idea conjured soundly and passionately after you read âMyths and Legends of Teyvatâ, the book tucked away in the corner of the Masterâs study, one that which one day your hearth brush stumbled upon accidentally.
Oceanids: the last section in the alphabetically ordered book captured your attention the most, partly due to the bright green, silver, and aquamarine coloring of the sketches and text. Sea nymphs, innumerable, "dispersed far and wide" and everywhere "serve the earth and the deep waters.â Having never seen one yourself, not knowing anyone who has, (except for the old Master himself who enlightened you), yet fascinated by their presence in fictions and lullabies, you set out to create the finest play known to humankind, something the Opera Epiclese and its connoisseurs and aficionados would be blessed to witness.
And Ernest, of course, with his two right hands, was keen on helping your imaginative ways, having built a small plaything ship out of old wine crates. You imagined that you voyaged across twelve hundred miles of gale-stirred, wintry seas, in a cabin tiny, stifling, that smelled like old wood and oil, for it was below the water line and toward the bows, where the ship's motion was most violent.
Kaeya, who, along with his unhappiness with playing the role of oceanid and his other questionings, had asked why you couldnât just pretend to be first-class passengers.
"Whereâs the fun in that?" you mused aloud, brows knitted in theatrical contemplation. "A proper tale demands a bit of peril. Sayâif that wretched old wolf hadnât gobbled up poor Grandmama, what sort of story would we be left with? A polite stroll through the woods and a spot of tea? Hardly gripping drama.â
Kaeya no longer objected to your directing. Nor did Diluc, but he was always keen on silently nodding along, listening, and following your insight. It was you who called the shots on the stage, after all.
And so the sun hit the hedgerow, which had been converted by much effort and no small amount of imagination, into a stage of dignified purpose. The three of you, a grumpy oceanid, a pirate and her helping hand, flushed with excitement and also maybe from the heat, preparing busily.
Old quilts had been strung between the lilac bushes to serve as curtains, and Ernestâs ship stood boldly in the center as the platform from which proclamations and duels would be made.
A small audience of guestsâyour mother and the maids in their nicest straw hats and gloves, Elzer, Ernest, Conner, Tunner, and the Winery Master fanning themselves with folded handbills, and smaller children from the neighborhood wriggling on cushions spread over the grassâwatched with indulgent amusement.
Your pirate robe, which had formerly been a drawing-room curtain, swished behind you with a splendor you took most seriously. Diluc had donned a gentlemanâs hat many sizes too large and fancied himself the narrator, clutching a carefully handwritten script bound with twine. Before the curtain opened, you had told him to announce each scene in the grandest of voices, but being quite shy at the time, he bowed to the audience with the air of an unseasoned but willing-to-learn actor. And then there was Kaeyaâ determined to call himself half knight, half beastâclad in a kitchen towel and wearing a papier-mĂąchĂ© oceanid mask that bobbed comically whenever he moved. Years later, like oneâs parents reminiscing their echoing childhood, over chilled sparkling Dandelion Wine, nostalgic hushed whispers huddled in the knightâs quarters, he described that night as a hilariously mortifying memory.
From what you remember, the play went by smoothly with the defeat of half knight, half beast Kaeya, and a glorious victory of the pirate and her helper. Diluc, all sheepish but pleasing, cheerfully embraced you in the closing act and the audience erupted in applause.
You had a celebratory dinner in the grand hall that eveningâa room you had seldom entered before. Your mother often spoke of it in hushed tones, calling it the heart of the Windbloom Festival, where splendid balls were held, where dukes and duchesses brushed shoulders with earls and countesses, and where nobles from all across Teyvat exchanged whispered words worth far more than the livelihoods of ordinary folk.
You had crystal shrimp skewers â a delicacy imported from Liyue, served cold and glossy with sweet glaze and miniature cheese rounds & fig preserves â from the vineyards of Mondstadt themselves, paired with thyme-roasted nuts and slivers of apple, the authentic chandeliers lit with fire, and you ate more than you probably should have.
At night when it was time to retire to bed, Master Crepus and his kind eyes thanked you, âA delightful performance,â he said.
A happy memory, yet it only makes you sad when recalling it.
Everyone always says that the world was more colorful when you were younger. Sometimes you thought it had to be true.
You remember how the mighty mountain stood gloriously in the distance, its crystal peak, a never-ending cycle of snow clouds spinning and spinning. Dragonspine had a cooling effect on the river. As the mountain bordered it to the north, it was freezing cold, flowing right past the wineryâs southwestern slopes. The cryo slimes that were often found along the river reflected its low temperature, but alas you had no reason to give up the enjoyment of swimming.
There was a small lake, more of a pond, a half-hour's trek east from the Dawn homestead. A dusty path ran through open fields of vast countryside, passing herds of wild horsesâdescendants of some long-forgotten breedâgrazing freely beneath the sun, their coats polished copper and ash. They would lift their heads with mild curiosity at passing travelers, manes stirred. They had grown used to the quiet folk who shared the land with them.
Further along, there stood a weathered gate that led to a small orchardâ trees bowed under the weight of ripening fruit. You remember how the air held that midsummer sweetness, faintly sticky. A house sat tucked behind the orchard, with ivy climbing its stone façade and chickens clucking in the garden, smoke always curling lazily from its chimney.
Closer to the lake, a stone chapel stood abandoned among the trees, its roof sagging but its bell still intact. There stood a small replica of Mondstadt's stone Barbatos, its freedom and reverence blanketed by moss like the chapelâs steps, and the wooden door hung half-open, groaning faintly when the wind stirred. Children in the city, fascinated by the woods and their unknown, once whispered stories about it, of secrets buried beneath its floorboards and lovers who met there in the hush of twilight. The two young brothers had once led you there, with a pocket knife scarcely fit for the task, the elder of the two carefully carved the first letters of your names into the worn floorboardsâa sign of camaraderie. It was foolish, perhaps, but earnest: a childâs declaration that you had been there, that the place had known you, and that your little trio of adventurers had, if only for an afternoon, laid claim to something forgotten by the rest of the world.
Then, quite suddenly, the trees would thin and the light would spill out ahead of you. The lake came into view all at once, nestled like a secret in the cradle of the vale. Its waters lay perfectly still, broken only by the darting of a crystalfly or the lazy glide of a water vole near the reeds.
And no matter how many times you insisted you were only going to dip your toes, Kaeya always found a way to get your dress wet, laughing like it was all part of some inside joke only the three of you shared.
It was late afternoon when Diluc brought you back to the lake alone, years after the three of you had first scrawled your initials into the chapelâs soft, weathered boards with that pocket knife no bigger than his thumb. Back then, the air had been filled with boyish dares and laughter. But things were different.
Small startled fish swam away as you approached the shoreline. And when your toes met the water, the cool temperature was refreshing. It was exactly what you needed in the midst of a hot Mond day.
You wiggled your toes to create ripples on the water's surface.
From behind you, you heard the clattering of shirt buttons and boots.
Diluc went first, naturally, leading the way with his newfound confidence and a grin that was already up to something. The lake, a flat, shining coin, dropped at the edge of the earth.
He stopped more than ankle deep, then turned to look at you.
âWell?â he had said, raising an eyebrow. âAre you coming, or do I have to carry you like a maiden in distress?â
âTry it and Iâll kick you into the water,â You replied, tugging off your evening shawl. âAnd Iâd rather not be compared to a maiden. Or distressed.â
âAh, forgive me,â he said dramatically. âA fearsome waterfaring adventurer, then. Who needs no rescuing, only the occasional applause.â
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. You both knew you were not wrong.
You remember how the water curled around your ankles with a gasp of freshness. Diluc already farther out, trousers rolled to the knee, kicking up little sprays as he went.
âCareful,â You warned. âThe minnows are armed and territorial.â
âI welcome the challenge,â he declared, then crouched down, hands slicing through the surface. A sudden splash. He reared back with wet palms and zero fish.
You laughed. Loudly. Probably too loudly. Diluc glared at you in mock betrayal.
âYouâre mocking a man in the throes of battle!â
âIâm mocking a man who just tried to capture fish with the coordination of a sleepy duckling.â
âHurtful,â he said, clutching his chest. âBut fair.â
Diluc tried againâanother quick dive of his hands, another failure. You watched him, half amused, half something else. You remember how he was in the middle of it, dripping, grinning, undeterred. He was always radiant in that foolish, boyish, utterly maddening way of his.
âOâ great Captain, my Captain, you really think youâre going to catch one like that?â You asked, wading a bit closer, lifting the ends of your skirts higher and higher from touching the water.
âStatistically speaking? No.â He stood again, pushing his wet hair back. âBut imagine the glory if I did.â
You shook your head and looked down, where a dart of silver flitted past your foot. You were about to point it out when your hand shot out.
He lunged too quickly, eager as ever to catch a flash of silver darting just below the surface, but his foot slippedâslick with moss, betrayed by the stone beneathâand before either of you could react properly, Diluc stumbled toward you.
Instinctively, you reached out, and your hands caught, but the weight was too much. In an instant, gravity won.
You tumbled together into the shallows, a great crashing of limbs and startled laughter and water rising in a cool rush around your waists. It was not deep, but the shock of it took your breath away.
For a moment, everything was disorientedâthe sudden chill against your skin, the clinging of wet fabric to your legs, the feel of his shoulder bumping yours, his laughâbright and nervous and realâcutting through the dusk like wind chimes shaken by a storm.
Diluc sat up first, his clothes soaked through, hair dripping messily into his eyes. He had blinked at you with a look of wide-eyed guilt and something elseâan emotion you couldnât yet name then. You sat beside him, equally drenched, your skirts floating around you like a wilted lily, then trying not to giggle and failing entirely.
"That was⊠impressive," you managed between breaths, tucking a damp lock of hair behind your ear. Your heart was racing, not just from the fall.
"I aim to keep things memorable," he said, awkwardly chuckling as he ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back. You remember how droplets slid down his temples, catching the last of the sunâs light like a fiery spark.
The lake settled again, rippling gently around you both, as if amused by your clumsy intrusion. The little glowing insects always returned, skimming across its surface, undisturbed by your presence. The reeds swayed softly in the breeze. A heron lifted from the far bank, slow and majestic. It glided over the gold-streaked water as though nothing at all had changed.
Diluc glanced down and realized his fingers were still wrapped around your wrist. He hadnât let go. The touch wasnât tight or insistent. It was quiet. Steady. As if you both forgot you were touching at all.
Then his thumb moved, barely grazing the soft skin at the base of your palm, and you felt a small, involuntary shiver ripple through you. Thinking back, he must have felt it too. His eyes flicked up weakly to meet yours.
He lifted your wrist, slow and careful, and lowered his head until his lips brushed the skin just above the pulse. A light kiss. Feather. Barely there.
âSorry,â he murmured, his voice lower, more unsure. âThat probably⊠wasnât funny.â
The kiss wasnât long, but its weight lingered. It lingered for years.
Your skin tingled where his mouth was. The hush that followed was a blown eggshell held between you.
âNo, it wasnât,â you whispered, unable to meet his gaze for more than a second. âIt wasâŠâ
His fingers finally loosened, and the air between you shifted again. He withdrew his hand, slow as water retreating from the shore, and you tried not to chase the warmth he left behind.
You sat there like that, side by side in the shallows, knees brushing under the water, both too full of thoughts to speak them aloud. The sky was softening into indigo. Noctua, the lone owl in the sky, appeared blinking, far above the tree line.
âIâm sorry,â he said again after a moment, clearing his throat, a little unsteady, âLetâs pretend that didnât happen.â
You shook your head slowly, brushing wet hair behind your ear, your fingers shook just enough for him to notice.
âIâm not very good at pretending.â
âMe neither,â he replied, and that time, there was no humor in it.
The lake hummed gently around you both, lapping at your legs like a lullaby. The crickets started to sing. Far away, someone called for a dog, and a bell rang from the distant steeple.
You didnât speak again for a while. Instead, you simply sat there, letting the silence mature between you. It held everything you were not brave enough to say.
Eventually, you both rose, brushing sand from your legs, wading carefully to shore. The water clung to you with reluctance. Each step felt heavier than it should. The grass was cool beneath your bare feet, and the breeze carried the scent of something faintly smokyâperhaps a neighborâs hearth lit early against the night.
You didnât hold hands on the way back from what you remember. But your arms brushed now and then, and neither of you moved away.
The weeks that followed unfolded like the turning of a page from the Akademiyaâs governance dictionaryâlone, oddly heavy in the hands.
You saw each other, of course. You always had. The winery community was tight-knit, and the fields overlapped like ripples in water. But it was different.
You passed one another in the mornings, sometimes it was by the cask shed, where the scent of soaked oak and fermenting skins hung thick in the air, or near the press house, where baskets of grapes waited patiently to be crushed, their skins blushing deep under the weight of the sun. Other times, it was along the dusty road that threaded between rows of trellised vines, heavy with fruit as you brushed past them with your apron still damp from the washbasin. You nodded, smiled faintly, exchanged a greeting, but it was measured, as though both of you were suddenly afraid of making the wrong sound and watching the whole fragile thing crumble.
The winery hummed with the constancy of honest labor. The kind that began at dawn and finished only when the constellations began to peer over the hills. Young boys with flushed cheeks hauled pails of crushed skins down to the compost heap, while you helped the women scrub the press floors and hang linens in the orchard breeze. The older menâweather-creased and quietâtested samples from their barrels and ran their palms along the oak as if it were an old, slumbering horse.
You began helping more in the fermentation room now, learning to siphon from the casks, to stir with the long-handled paddles, to keep the air just so and the timing just right. On the weekends when he wasnât with the Knights, he helped, tooâlifting, moving, hauling crates down to the cellar where the stone walls sweat coolness even in the height of summer.
Kaeya was there too. He would watch, not saying a word. All too knowing. The dominoes and puzzles and adventures and plays long buried in the distant past, behind you all.
Some days, Diluc said nothing. Just a nod, or a glance as he walked past, the hem of his shirt untucked, sweat at his bangs. On other days, he dared a line or two. A dry observation. A joke half-swallowed.
One day at the city market, he stood beside Kaeya at the grain stall, tossing apples between them while bartering over feed. You lingered near the row of preserves, pretending to be terribly interested in sunsettia jam. He glanced at you once. You looked down too quickly. He noticed.
One Sunday, he came by your cottage with Kaeya to help patch the fence. You watched from the window, not meaning to, hands damp from washing up. Your mother commented that heâd grown taller. You said nothing.
Life continuedâlavender was cut and hung to dry, the well got repaired, and the days stretched long and drowsy under an unrelenting sun.
And still, no word of the lake. No mention of that afternoon.
But it lingered. It hovered like steam from warm bread, it lived in the tiny, ordinary things: the thistle seed caught in your sleeve, the wet hem of your dress brushing your ankle as you walked, the print of his thumb still, somehow, pressed just behind your wrist when you would lie awake at night, staring out to Noctua, twinkling.
How would one speak when so much was unsaid? What if you named it, and it vanished?
He worked longer hours thenâsomething to do with the hilichurl seasonâand you saw less of him. When he did appear, he was tired, his arms littered with new scratches and marks he always tried to hide, but his eyes searched for you without meaning to. He offered a quick joke or conversation, something easy to cover up what wasnât.
Beneath the old willow behind the west orchard, you sat with your back against its gnarled trunk, your skirts pooled in the cool grass, and a book balanced in your lap.
The willowâs leaves swayed in long, lazy ribbons overhead, casting dappled shadows that danced across the pages of a novelâThe Ballads of the Squire, a dog-eared tale passed down from one cousin to another. The story was only half grippingâDestitute peddlers wept in silence, aging soldiers grimaced in pain. In the deathly stillness of night, a young girl, rejected by the Aristocracy, pleaded for Barbatos' mercyâbut it was enough to let your thoughts drift, and you hadnât turned the page in several minutes.
A faint breeze stirred, and with it came the scent of freshly-baked goods from the manorâs kitchensâyeast and thyme and the faint sweetness of tea. Supper would soon be underway. You could almost hear the clang of copper pots and the soft hum of the cookâs humming echoing from the back courtyard.
That was when you heard footsteps. Slow, hesitant ones along the gravel path behind the arbor.
You didnât look up right away. You knew the sound of those steps.
When you finally raised your gaze, Diluc was there. He was half in shadow and half in light.
His coat was thrown over one shoulder, travel-stained and frayed at the hem. His boots bore the dust of the northern roads, and his shirt was rumpled, the sleeves unevenly rolled to his elbows. A loose bandage was tied clumsily around his forearm. His hair, darker with sweat and wind, was flattened to one side, as if heâd only recently removed a cap.
He looked surprised to find you there. You felt your breath catch,
âOh,â he said quietly. âSorryâI didnât mean to... disturb.â
You sat up straighter, fingers still holding your place in the book.
âYou didnât. I was just⊠reading.â
He nodded, his hand tightening on the strap of his satchel.
âItâs good to see you,â he added, after a pause. âYou look well.â
He hesitated a moment more before stepping closer, though he didnât sit. His shadow fell across the grass beside you, wavering slightly in the wind.
âI guess I thought you mightâve been out here,â he murmured. âItâs quiet.â
You looked down, unable to help the small smile that touched your mouth. He took that as permission and stepped closer, still a respectful distance away, but nearer now.
âWhat are you reading?â he asked, peering gently at the cover.
âA mystery,â you murmured. âBallads of the Squire. Itâs rather far-fetched.â
âThen it suits this place perfectly,â he said, then caught himself. âI meanâsorry, that came out wrong.â
âItâs fine. I think youâre right.â
He shifted again, the satchel creaking softly against his coat.
âIâum, I brought something,â he said, voice uncertain. âItâs nothing, really. I just⊠thought of you when I saw it.â
From the folds of his satchel, he produced a cloth parcel. Inside were slices of moon pie, sugar-dusted and warm with a faint hint of spice, the kind sold in the markets and wrapped in brown paper.
âItâs my favorite.â
You took the parcel, pressing it lightly to your chest for a moment before tucking it into your lap.
âI thought maybe youâd read it with tea,â he said, then winced slightly. âI meanâeat it. With tea. Not read.â
You laughed, gently, and the sound made him soften.
A low rumble of thunder stirred from somewhere far beyond the hills. The wind picked up, cooler now, carrying with it the scent of rain in the distance.
He looked toward the manor, then back at you.
âI should probably head in,â he said, brushing a hand through his hair. âSupper smells like theyâve started the roast already.â
âYouâll miss the stewed apples if you linger,â you said, trying to keep the tone light.
âAnd Cookâs wrath,â he added, almost smiling.
You stood slowly, dusting grass from your skirt.
âThank you again,â you said, motioning to the gift, âFor this.â
He nodded shyly, looking down at his boots.
Then, after a beat, he turned, crunching the gravel, and walked back toward the manor just as the first drops of rain began to fall, soft as secrets on the willow leaves overhead.
You stood a moment longer, the pie still cradled in your arms, the sky turning grey above the orchard.
And still, as weeks passed, nothing else was spoken.
Not of the hush that followed.
ââAs summer turned to autumn, green gave way to gold. The leaves curled like sleep-heavy eyelids.Â
You noticed the small things first. The way the bees grew slower around the fruit. The way your hands began to ache after wringing out the morning linens. And the way heâonce so constant in his patternsâbegan leaving the house early. Not in haste. But not without purpose, either.
Lady Charlotte of Fontaine arrived in a gold carriage. Not entirely golden, but thatâs how you remembered it. It had gold embellishments and from what you saw, the interior was lined and upholstered with velvet and satin. It featured magnificently painted panels of ancient gods and goddesses. Gold palm trees and Western designs evoked a sense of foreignness you had never seen beforeâthe stagecoach rumored to be a gift to the family from the God of Wisdom herself. But no one knew if that was really true.
It was protocol for the staff to greet any notable visitors. Your mother, dressed in her plain maidâs dress, told you that a warm reception showcased the host's hospitality and generosity, which she said were crucial aspects of noble society, and that it would contribute to the overall good reputation of Dawn Winery.
This, you knew, was very important to the Ragnvindrâs. Master Crepus had many business deals lined up, those interesting distributors specifically. But disputes regarding the controversial monopolistic market structure imposed by Dawn Winery were ever so present in news tablets around Teyvat. Yes, there were multiple other wine producers in Teyvat, but no others in Mondstadt. People disliked price makers, so the Master had to constantly remain on the good side of the public eye, which he usually had no trouble with, being his kind and charismatic self, but one neednât be too comfortable.
You did not know it then, for you were too young to understand the concept of behavioral economics, but staying in the publicâs best interest was exactly why Master Crepus had invited Lady Charlotte to visit.
âLady Charlotte,â Master Crepus smiled at the young lady, giving the back of her hand a swift kiss when she approached. âI am so happy you could join us.â
You stood at the side next to your mother, where all the other staff were, watching as she was introduced to the young masters.
The girl beamed at them, as if she were receiving an award for simply existing. She had striking features. Her eyes matched the royal blue of her dress. Her long blonde hair was swept up to create volume at the front, most likely symbolizing her victim to trendsetting Fontainian pamphlets and newspapers. She looked like a spitting image of a foreign duchess. A pure Madame de Pompadour.
The kitchen staff said she smelled like rose water and cream. Elzer said she spoke in Fontainian dialect at supper, for no reason but to remind you she could.
She took to walking the winery grounds as if she belonged to them. A folded parasol in one hand, a lace glove in the other. And though she never once lifted a crate or stirred a vat, she somehow appeared everywhere. By the orchard. Near the press. Once, even at the chapel ruins, staring at the door with a frown of idle curiosity.
Diluc was courteous with her, of course. A gentleman always is. He offered his arm when she tripped on the root near the gravel path. He plucked a burr from her hem when it caught on the thistles near the fig trees. You saw it all. You werenât meant toâbut you did.
You watched from a distance, always busy, always useful. Hanging laundry. Scrubbing floors. Avoiding the press house when you knew sheâd be visiting.
Ever since you were conscious enough to understand, you knew her, or some other young lady of a similar nature, coming was inevitable. The marriage would be a business transaction. Her family offered a dowryâsecure land, uniting of branches. Of wealth. You understood that she was raised knowing she was an asset of her familyâs future. Educated and refined, she wasnât expected to choose her own husband. And maybe you should have pitied her for it, but you never got the chance to.
He tried to be unchanged with you. Still offered you Good mornings and short hellos. But you were saddened by it. Not in what he didâbut in what he didnât do.
The jokes had stopped. The half-smiles. The little moments when your skin brushed and neither of you moved away. He had drawn a new line, and he was keeping to it.
You told yourself it was fine. You had no claim. No promise had been made.
But when you passed the vineyard one afternoon and saw them beneath the old sycamoreâshe laughing into the curl of her gloved fingers, he leaning just close enough to make your chest tightenâyou stopped walking. Just for a moment. Just long enough for the wind to catch the scarf at your throat, as if to say turn away now, before your eyes betray you further.
So you turned. You carried the basket of herbs back to the cellar. You worked late that night. You told no one why.
And that evening, as you washed your hands in cold water and the grape stains bled from your palms like ink, you wonderedânot for the first timeâwhat it would have been like if you were born as those kinds of girls that got educated in private seminaries, those that found themselves very handsome, those that had a fortune of fifty million mora, those who were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and associated themselves with people of rank; and therefore were in every respect entitled to think well of themselves, and spitefully of others.
Before falling asleep, cheek on your pillow and one hand under it, you imagined yourself in those ballgowns you saw in passing, Mondstadt boutiques. Expertly sewn by a Fontainian atelier whose name was spoken in hushed reverence among the nobility. The empire silhouettes like the ones Lady Charlotte wore.
Could you imagine wearing such a garment? The fabric would be deep garnet silk satin, the color of crushed cherries at dusk or vintage wine held to the light. It would gleam with an inner fire, catching each flicker of candlelight with a soft, liquid sheen. Beneath the fingers, it would be cool and impossibly smooth, like a distant storm.
The bodice, every seam invisible, hand-stitched with gold filaments that would trace the faintest pattern of climbing roses, their thorns curling delicately up from the waist and over the ribs. A single line of antique jet buttons would run down the back, each one no larger than a pearl, fastening the dress as precisely as hard armor.
On another level, on a loud scream at the top of your lungs to let all of Teyvat know level, what you would love most about the dress would be a small tag that said Fabriqué dans le Court de Fontaine, just behind the brooch shaped like a poppy at the waist, its petals enamelled in red glass. It would not mean to draw attention, but of course, it would anyway.
FabriquĂ© dans le Court de Fontaine! It would be gratifying to own a piece of anything not made in your home nation, for you craved for anything exotic. If anyone would compliment you on your dress, you would indulge the person in a story of how you were gifted the dress years ago⊠and it came all this way from Fontaine, blessed by the God of Justice herself! And oh, how it was made well and romantically by the Fontainians. And what is more romantic than something so foreign and beautiful? For the Fontainiansâmaybe not as romantic as the people of Snezhnaya with their divine Tsaritsaâwere masters at love.
Would you always remember a day wearing a dress like that? You would think, inhaling deeply, even though the chilly breeze coming through your open bedroom window stung. Youâve said that in the past: Oh, this day Iâll remember, but you have forgotten the days you thought youâd never forget. You remembered seeing your first snowboar drinking water from Cider Lake. How did it get there? Who would have thought? You remembered tasting your motherâs first-ever salted dark chocolate tart. It was too salty for your liking. And you remembered how you felt when he brushed his lips against your skin, if only for a moment, though sometimes it seemed like that was just a dream. Maybe it was the firsts, the new beginnings, youâll remember. Maybe youâll remember such a day dressed in such a heavenly gown.
Outside, the wind picked up. The vineyard rustled like a closing book.
And you could already smell winter somewhere in the distance.
It was late afternoon. Diluc had retreated to his room, weary from the dayâs labor, the expedition not having been smooth, the Knights on the edge of their feet, his shirt unlaced at the collar, arms resting on the windowsill, the smell of oak dust still clinging faintly to him.
You were out near the orchard wall, just beyond the herb garden where the rosemary bloomed, hanging freshly washed linens along the line that stretched between the two olive trees. White cotton sheets, shirts, and apronsâall fluttering like flags of truce in the breeze.
He stood still, quiet in the amber light, half-shadowed by the wooden shutters, watching.
There was nothing remarkable in what you were doing. No music, no laughter, no dramatic swell of fate. Only the soft rhythm of your hands as you clipped each garment in place. You worked quickly, efficiently, and yet with the kind of care that made it all seem holy.
Every so often, you lifted your face to the skyâchecking the clouds perhaps, or simply letting the wind touch your cheeks. A wisp of hair kept falling from your braid. He watched you tuck it behind your ear with the back of your wrist, again and again, as though the day itself insisted on reminding him how beautiful you were when you thought no one was looking.
He should have looked away. He meant to. But he couldnât.
From up here, you looked untouched by the trouble he carried. Like something from another life. A quieter one. The scent of lavender and lye floated up from the drying cloth, and the breeze lifted the hems like sighs, and for a moment, he imagined what it would be like to have this instead of what waited for him.
To have mornings with you like this. Afternoons.
But reality returned, as it always did. And stillâthere you were, pinning the last sheet in place, stepping back to admire the row of sun-bleached fabric fluttering like prayers in the wind.
You paused, then. Just for a moment. Your eyes lifted toward the house.
He flinched, though he knew you couldnât see him. He stepped back from the windowâs edge and waited in the shadow of the wall, heart loud in his chest, until he dared to glance out again.
But by then, you had turned back to your work. Picking up the empty basket. Brushing your skirt. Walking away.
And he stood there, watching the white linens sway, and wishedâjust onceâthat he had been born to a different story.Â
He found you two days later when the hour was late enough that the house had settled into its quiet bones. Only a few lamps were lit along the corridor, their golden glow catching on the wood paneling and the faded tapestries that lined the walls like old secrets. Most of the staff had gone down to supper, but you had lingered behind with a cloth in your hand, slowly wiping down the banister on the main staircaseâup one step, down anotherâmore out of habit than necessity.
You werenât expecting him.
But when you heard the familiar weight of his footsteps on the landing above, something in your spine straightened. You didnât turn and you didnât stop.
He said your name, soft and uncertain, like he was testing whether he still had the right to speak it.
You glanced over your shoulder, just once, then returned to the banister, running the cloth along the carved rail. Oak, polished and worn smooth from generations of touch.
âI havenât seen you,â he said gently.
âYouâve been seen,â you answered, quietly. âJust not by me.â
He exhaled, the sound too close now. You could feel him lingering at the top of the stairs, above you, behind you.
âIt wasnât nothing,â he said. âThat night.â
You paused your hand. A breath caught in your chest, but you didnât turn to face him.
âNo,â you said. âIt wasnât.â
A stillness. The house creaked somewhere deep. A door latch clicked softly down the hall.
He moved down a few steps. Closer.
âI thought youâd come find me,â he admitted, like it cost him something to say it.
âYou kissed me,â you said, still polishing, âand then disappeared into your duties. Into her company.â
âI didnât know what to say.â
You finally stopped your hand. Still facing the banister, your knuckles white on the cloth.
âYou didnât have to say anything clever.â
He descended the last step. Now, only a few feet stood between you. The air was still.
âIâm sorry it has to be this way.â
You turned then, at last, and met his eyes.
They were tired. Apologetic.
âYouâre not going to the Dragonspine estate?â he asked, glancing toward the cloth in your hand, as if it might offer an answer, for the vines needed turning before frost, and you went the year before.
âNo. Iâm staying here. Thereâs still work to be done.â
He exhaled, and though the sound was soft, you heard something like relief in it. But you didnât let it sit for long.
âNot that it matters,â you added, setting the cloth down on the windowsill. âI could be in the orchard or the cellar or the hall right outside your room. It wouldnât change anything.â
He frowned, stepping forward againâbut this time, you turned, gently but firmly, and held his gaze.
âItâs not just the silence, you know.â
âItâs everything,â you said. âYouâme. The way we live in the same place and still on different sides of the field. Youâll be hosting the likes of Lady Charlotte in the drawing room, and Iâll be bringing up her tea.â
The words werenât sharp, but they didnât need to be.
âArchons,â he said, whispering your name in disbelief. âI never thought of you like that.â
âBut the world does,â you replied. âAnd the longer you pretend it doesnât, the more it hurts.â
He opened his mouth, but no defense came. And maybe that was the worst part of allâthat he knew you were right.
You looked down, smoothing your hands over your apron.
âWhat happened by the lake... it belonged to that evening. It doesnât fit here. Not with her in your parlor and me polishing your banister.â
He flinched again at yourâas if youâd claimed something he hadnât meant to give.
Then, gently, with a sad sort of expression, you stepped past him. It wasnât hurried nor cruel.
âIâm not going anywhere,â you said as you passed. âBut donât mistake that for waiting.â
And with that, you disappeared down the corridor, your footsteps hushed against the worn floorboards, your figure swallowed by the golden dusk and the smell of old wood and October.
He stood alone in the hallway, beneath the flickering oil lamp, the scent of rose polish still hanging in the air. He looked down at the rail you'd just polished. Reached out, almost without thinking, and touched the wood.
It was still warm from your hands.
Then one day, you were sent toward the guest linen cupboard down the corridor, the one that turned discreetly behind the parlors.
You werenât eavesdropping.
But as you neared the blue parlor, the door was slightly ajar, and through the crack in the wood came the unmistakable voice of Lady Charlotteâclear, and, at this moment, laced with a dryness that made you stop mid-step.
âReally, Marie, I do wish you wouldnât keep using the word love as if weâre girls in a novel,â Charlotte said, her voice light and laughing, though it echoed faintly with something else. âThis isnât about hearts and swoons. Itâs about alignment. Legacy. My fatherâs estate needs a foothold in the east, and his family name needs resuscitating. Itâs simply arithmetic.â
There was a pause, followed by the soft clatter of porcelain and the rustle of silk skirts.
Marie, whom youâd only glimpsed during garden hoursâslight, timid, always blinking as if uncertain whether she was allowed to speakâspoke, though quietly:
âBut do you even like him, Charlotte?â
Charlotte gave a gentle, almost fond laugh.
âHeâs perfectly fine. Kind, I suppose. Thoughtful, in that bumbling way provincial men can be. Sweet,â she added after a beat, though the word sounded like a shrug. âBut Iâve danced with princes who couldnât hold a conversation, and barons who snored through supper. Iâve had worse.â
Marie tried again, more hesitantly.
âStill⊠itâs meant to be for life, isnât it? Wouldnât it be lonely?â
You could hear the faint click of Charlotteâs teacup being set downâdelicately, but firmly.
âLoneliness is the tax one pays for a life of consequence,â she replied smoothly. âAnd Iâve no intention of living quietly just to feel adored by some modest-eyed farmerâs son. Iâll take admiration, power, independence. A husband who doesnât ask questions.â
Marie shifted, the faint creak of her chair betraying her discomfort.
âBut he seems⊠different,â she murmured. âMore gentle. He looks at you as ifâwellââ
âAs if I were someone else,â Charlotte finished for her, voice cool now. âHe watches me like a boy reading a poem he only half understands. And I watch him watch⊠someone else.â
The words sank into the room like stones dropped in still water.
âThat girl,â she continued, lower now. âThe one with the quiet stare. Always just beyond the corner of the room. He doesnât even notice himself doing it. But I do.â
âDo you think heââ Marie began.
âOf course he does,â Charlotte cut in, swift and certain. âWhether he knows it or not. Heâs falling for someone no one would dare choose.â Her voice was steel wrapped in velvet. âAnd I donât blame him. Sheâs the sort men romanticize when theyâre young. Honest. Bare-faced. Free from the suffocating expectations of a family like mine.â
She rose thenâyou could hear the silk of her dress whispering as she moved.
âBut dreams like that burn out quickly. Once reality sets in. Once sheâs reminded of who she is. Where she sleeps. What sheâll never be allowed to have.â
âAnd youâll go through with it anyway?â
Charlotte was silent for a long moment.
âOnly if he does,â she said.
That answer lingered like perfume. It was faint and vaguely poisonous.
âBut Iâm no fool, Marie. If he hesitates, if he so much as stammers on the wrong name at the wrong timeââ her voice lowered to something like a whisper, ââmy father will call in every favor heâs owed. And I will not be made a fool. Not in this house. Not in any.â
Marie made a soft sound of worry, or awe, you couldnât tell.
Then Charlotte added, almost absentmindedly:
âStill... marriages like this only work when both people play this game convincingly. And Iâm already rather tired of playing.â
She stepped out into the hall just as you pressed into the shadows, heart fluttering like a trapped bird. Her face was the picture of poise, her expression unreadable. If she saw you, she didnât blink. She simply walked past, perfume trailing like roses in winter.
You stood alone by the cupboard, linen forgotten.
By early December, Mondstadt had shaken off the last of autumnâs weariness and begun its slow, glittering transformation. The air was sharp with cold and chimney smoke, and the streets thrummed with a kind of soft, anticipatory magic. Not loud, but ever-present, like a hymn hummed beneath oneâs breath.
Gas lamps flickered to life earlier each evening, casting golden halos over the cobbled streets, and the shopfrontsâeach more elaborate than the lastâdressed their windows with red ribbons, ivory candles, and miniature sleighs pulled by carved wooden stags. In the bakeries, sugar dusted the air like snow as girls wrapped plum cakes in paper and twine, and the scent of anise, orange peel, and cardamom clung to your coat long after you passed by.
Horses trotted past with their manes tied in scarlet bows, and street sweepers hurried to clear slush from the gutters before it turned to slick ice. Carriages rattled along the stone thoroughfares, wheels crunching over the frozen grime of the road. Newsboys called out the headlines with chapped lips and red noses, their cries echoing through the boulevards.
You came with your mother that morning out of necessity and tradition. She needed to speak with a supplier on Vine Street about extra preserves for the estateâs winter kitchens. You were meant to help carry parcels. And yet, as always, you found yourself drifting.
It was impossible not to. The city was alive with it.
You and your mother paused near a millinerâs window where a mannequin wore a bonnet of crimson silk and black lace, the brim just shadowing her face in mystery. A dress of green velvet, trimmed in sable, hung behind her like a thing pulled from a storybook. You pressed your gloved fingers to the glass and marveled at it quietly, knowing such fabric would never find its way into your trunk, but enjoying the fantasy nonetheless.
Your mother gave your hand a light squeeze, reading your thoughts without asking them aloud. She always did.
âCome now,â she said, with her small smile. âThe preserves wonât negotiate themselves.â
The shop you visited smelled of citrus peel and vinegar, the jars lining the walls like stained glass, all rubies and deep plum. You helped carry a parcel of sugared cherries and blood-orange marmalade, and the warmth of it against your palms made you forget the cold outside for a moment.
At a booksellerâs stall tucked between a tobacconist and a floristâs stand. There, amid the piles of Dickens and Gaskell and yellowing copies of penny romances, your fingers found a thin volume with a faded crimson cover. Inside were verses about winter love, handwritten notes in the margins by some long-gone reader, and a pressed sprig of rosemary between two pages. You didnât buy it, but you held it for longer than necessary, and the bookseller did not rush you.
You stopped, only once moreâat the cathedral square, a fir tree three storeys tall stood fastened in an iron basin, its branches already hung with hand-blown glass ornaments, dried orange wheels, and delicate white paper doves. Children clung to their mothersâ skirts as a street quartet played soft carols on violins and a double bass, their breath rising in little clouds with each note.
Then, you were drawn toward the open cathedral doors, tall and blackened with age. Your mother had gone on ahead, familiar with your habit of wandering, and trusted you to find her again before the cart departed.
The air changed at once. It was cooler, hushed, laced with the faint scent of beeswax, incense, and old stone that had known fire and prayer and sorrow alike. The heavy doors closed behind you with a soft groan, and the noise of the city vanished, muffled beneath vaulted ceilings and age.
A low hum vibrated through the naveâan organ, not yet in full song but warming, its voice deep as the earth. Further in, near the chancel, a small choir of boys rehearsed. Their voices rose in ancient syllables that blurred into music, soft as mist. Their breath, like your own, plumed faintly in the air before vanishing into the rafters.
You moved slowly, your boots clicking gently against the uneven stone, and chose a pew midway down the side aisle. The wood creaked beneath you as you sat. Around you, the cold clung to the arches, the tapestries, the crumbling memorials carved in old tongue and dates long worn away.
Above, the stained-glass windowsâstories high and dappled with centuries of sootâfiltered what little sun remained into bruised jewel tones: cobalt, blood red, gold like candlelight, and a soft, sea-glass green. Light fell in uneven pools along the floor, fractured across the dark wood of the pews. And in that silence, you looked up.
The imagesâsaints, sinners, lambs, thorns, angels in mid-weepingâformed a great, terrible scene. The Poor Manâs Book, they called it. A way to teach salvation to those who could not read. And yet, even to your literate eyes, there was something about the glass that stirred the heart more than any written word.
A depiction of The Age of Kings held you longest: Barbatos, pale and bowed, his face unsure beneath the halo. Boreas, sapphire and still, his wings folded like shutters. Between them, a shaft of light, so thin and certain it seemed to come from Celestia itself.
You folded your hands in your lap, not to pray exactly, but because it felt wrong to leave them idle. You werenât quite sure what you were waiting for. Perhaps nothing. Or perhaps something wordless to settle that ache you'd carried with you, even amidst the city's dazzle.
A boy passed by, lighting altar candles with a brass taper. The flames blinked into life one by one. In their glow, you noticed the flaking of old paint on the carved wooden apostles. Even holy things faded, it seemed. Even stone bore weight.
You sat there until your fingers numbed and the choir had finished their passage. When you finally rose, your knees ached from the chill, and your heart felt a little quieter.
Outside, the sky had grown more grey, and the tree in the square seemed brighter for it. You found your mother soon after at the confectionerâs, her arms full of sugared fruit and pressed biscuits, her face drawn with worry that she disguised behind a thin smile.
You said nothing of the cathedral. But all that evening, as you rode home past bare orchards and sleeping hills, the Archonâs uncertain face and the blue light in Boreasâ wing lingered in your mind.
As the year went closer to its end, just two weeks before Winterâs Day, it was in the manor where the scent of spiced clove and citrus hung thick in the corridors. A brass candelabrum glinted as it was polished for the third time, and a garland of pine and bay leaves had just been strung across the grand staircase, though the holly berries kept falling no matter how tightly they were tucked. Servants moved about, shoeless on the upper floors to spare the polish.
Outside, the first snowfall had hardened into a crust, and the trees stood black against the white sky, stripped and stark.
And yetâdespite the wreaths and velvet ribbons, the house did not feel festive. Not really. Not this year.
Adelinde, who had served through three Ragnvindrs and once stitched a dukeâs breeches with nothing but candlelight and a bent needle, moved quietly through the upper corridor, carrying a stack of pressed napkins bound in muslin.
She heard them before she saw them.
Behind the door of the south drawing roomâcracked ever so slightly for warmth from the hallway grateâthere came a voice. Not raised to a shout, but tense. Muffled and male.
ââŠso thatâs it, then?â
Then hersâLady Charlotteâsâsharper. But no longer perfectly even.
âNo, that is not it. But youâve left me very little else to say.â
Adelinde paused by the edge of the corridor, beneath the portrait of Master Crepus in his cavalry uniform. She had no desire to keep listening. But she had ears, and the house was quiet, and the voices carried just enough to draw concern.
âIâve done what I was asked to do,â Diluc said. His voice sounded tired. Tired and bruised. âWhat was expected. I agreed. Iâve been kind. Iâve tried. But I will not lie.â
âWonât you?â Charlotte said, too calmly. âI think we both know youâre rather good at it. Especially to yourself.â
There was a sound, perhaps of a glass being set down too hard.
âYou think Iâm enjoying this?â he said. âThis pretending? Walking beside you as if weâve built something real? Saying yes to every nod from your father while feeling like Iâm being slowly boxed in, brick by brick?â
Her tone remained honeyed, but the edge beneath it sharpened like ice.
âNo one asked you to fall for a servant girl,â she said quietly.
Diluc shifted then, as though her words had struck somewhere deep and he had to physically resist the urge to flinch. One of his hands curled tightly at his side, the knuckles pale.
âCharlotteââ he said, low, warning.
She gave a brittle laugh. âOh, come now. I only meantââ
âYou know what you meant.â His voice was calm, but it cut cleaner than a blade. âAnd you know sheâs more than that.â
Charlotteâs smile faltered, the corner of her mouth twitching just slightly.
âShe notices things,â he added after a beat, eyes narrowing slightly. âWhen no one else does. Works harder than anyone hereâmost of all you or me. And I never said Iââ
âYou didnât have to,â Charlotte said. âEvery time she walks into a room, your spine straightens. Your gaze follows. You stop mid-sentence like someoneâs pulled the tide from under you. And worst of all, you donât even realize youâre doing it.â
âI never meant to hurt you.â
âDidnât you?â she asked. âThen what do you call this, if not cruelty? You gave me hope. You let my family parade this engagement like a war prize. You let me pretendââ
Her voice cracked, just a little, before she gathered herself again.
âYou might not love me. Fine. I could stomach that. But donât insult me by pretending that you didnât know. Youâve known. And you said nothing.â
âI said nothing because I didnât know what I wanted.â
Lady Charlotte laughed bitterly.
âNo. You knew. You were just too afraid to reach for it.â
The fire crackled in the room beyond. A faint shifting of chairs. Footsteps, pacing perhaps. Then his voice again, this time smaller:
âNow?â Charlotte said. âNow we continue. For the sake of the season. For the sake of appearances. My fatherâs debts are quietâfor nowâand your family still clings to the illusion of connection to mine. We dance at the winter ball. We smile at the estate dinners. And then... then we see.â
Her shoes clicked against the stone as she walked toward the door.
âBut donât be surprised if, come spring, this arrangement⊠unravels. I may be cold, but Iâm not without pride. And I wonât marry a man who whispers the wrong name in his bed.â
The door opened just a crack. Adelinde turned, gaze politely lowered, but not before she caught Charlotteâs reflection in the mirror opposite the corridorâa beautiful girl, composed, still elegant, but not untouched.
Their eyes met for half a second, then Lady Charlotte walked away.
Behind the door, there was no sound of pursuit.
Only the slow creak of a chair as Diluc sat back down, alone.
The servantsâ quarters were still and dim. Outside, the frost clung to the sill in delicate veins. Inside, the air held the scent of porridge, strong tea, and the faint sharpness of wood ash.
You sat alone at the long table, a thick mug of barley tea cupped between your hands, warming your fingers. Beside it, a heel of brown bread and a knob of softened butter rested on a tin plate, half-eaten. The hour was early yet and you were sleepy; most of the others were still tending to the ovens or hauling water from the pump before breaking their fast. You liked the stillness before the clatter.
That was when you heard her steps. Soft and deliberate. Adelinde.
She entered without ceremony, wrapped in her brown knit shawl, a string of keys at her waist and a small basket in one hand, a folded cloth draped over its contents. She set it down near the stove and turned to you, her sharp, pale eyes scanning the table before settling on your untouched crust of bread.
âYouâve eaten less than a bird,â she said.
You offered a small smile. âI wasnât hungry.â
Adelinde pulled out a stool across from you and satânot something she often did unless she had reason. She poured herself a mug of tea from the still-warm kettle and stirred it without adding sugar.
âThereâs always hunger,â she murmured, âeven if it disguises itself as worry.â
You glanced down at your plate.
âIâm fine,â you said quietly.
She took a slow sip, her eyes never quite leaving yours. Then, in a voice that softened at the edges, she said:
âYou remind me of a girl we once had here. This wouldâve been twenty-odd years ago, before you were born. Came from the Starfell farms. Clever with mending, quiet as a snowfall. And much like you, she had a softness about her that made the world lean in a little closer.â
You listened, unsure whether to smile or brace yourself.
âShe was kind. But unguarded. And kindness, when left wide open, can sometimes invite more sorrow than cruelty ever could.â
You set your mug down carefully. âWhat happened to her?â
Adelinde wrapped her fingers around her tea. Her thumb tapped the rim of the cup once before she answered.
âShe fell in love with someone above her station. A gentleman. Well-bred. Not unkind, but unprepared. He made promises he didnât know how to keep. The sort spoken only when the candleâs near burnt out and no oneâs listening.â
Your gaze dropped to your hands. You could still feel the press of his fingers when he handed you the pie by the willow.Â
âDid they marry?â you asked.
Adelinde shook her head. âHe married, yes. But not her.â
There was a long pause. You took a breath, but it didnât steady you.
âI havenât done anything wrong.â
Adelinde gave the faintest smile. It was gentle, not mocking.
âOf course not. And Iâve said nothing to suggest you had. But hearts have their own scent, child. And this house is old. It remembers things. Whispers are drawn to old walls like ivy.â
She stood, lifting the basket once more with a creak of willow handles.
âYouâre a good girl,â she said, adjusting her shawl. âBut even good girls must know when to guard whatâs theirsâespecially when it was never promised to begin with.â
She turned toward the hallway then, but paused just at the threshold.
âFinish your breakfast. Itâll be a long day.â
And with that, she was gone.
You sat in the quiet that followed, the tea grown cold between your palms. Beyond the window, the frost had begun to melt from the glass, curling back in slow, gleaming threads.
You did not move for a long time.
It happened on a cold and dry Monday morning in March, just before the sun fully peeked out from under the horizon.
There was no announcement, no full-carriage sendoff, no waving of handkerchiefs in farewell.
The first sign was the breakfast table. It was less crowded than usual, though no one mentioned it. Hillie and Moco ate in silence, their presence only made clear by the clinking of sugar spoons against their teacups. Then, the hall mirror where she used to adjust her gloves in the morning gleamed strangely empty. By noon, the footman had quietly removed her trunk from the upper corridor, and Adelinde oversaw the folding of her gowns with an unreadable expression.
Not a word passed between the household and the family about it. No note. No speech. Only a vague murmuring of âdelayed arrangementsâ or âfamily matters in Fontaine.â Nothing concrete, nothing anyone could challenge. But everyone knew.
Lady Charlotte had left for good.
Master Crepus worked long hours in the study, muffled meetings, and the sound of quill on parchment. Kaeya attended to duties in the city in greater regularity than before. Your mother had told you they spent more time at Angelâs Share, something about supervising new bartenders, managing inventory.
And Diluc, he said nothing.
He didnât take supper in the dining room that week, nor did he ride out in the mornings. Instead, he kept to the stone terrace, standing with his arms crossed, his gaze turned toward the eastern hills like he expected someone to ride back from them, as though something had passed through him quietly and taken the air with it.
âGone,â she muttered that morning, kneading bread with more force than necessary. âLike a feather on the wind. Or smoke up the flu.â
Youâd only nodded. Your hands had gone cold around the pail of cream you were carrying. You couldnât say what you felt, only that you felt too much.
Because Lady Charlotte had been all lace and low remarks, yesâbut she had also been the axis around which so much had spun. Her departure felt like standing in a grand room where the hearth had gone cold.
And still, no one spoke of it directly. Not even Diluc.
You passed him once that afternoon, just near the gravel path that led behind the vineyard shed. He looked up as you approached, his shirt sleeves rolled and stained with saddle dust. You half expected a word, a nod, something to acknowledge the quiet between you.
âBit colder today, isnât it?â
You gave a half-smile. âIf you need more slime condensate, there are cryo slimes down the road. The wind must be from the mountain still.â
âMm.â He looked out again toward the fields. âIt always is, this time of year.â
Yet his hands flexed once against his arms, like he was about to say something more. He didnât.
Later that night, you found yourself in the east corridor, just after the lamps had been lit but before the manor fully settled into its nighttime hush.
You had not meant to end up there, not really. But your feet had carried you past the scullery, up the narrow servants' stairs, and through the long, unused hallway that passed behind the upper gallery. It was quieter here, out of the way.
You pressed your fingers to the window glass. It was cold. You left the imprint there for a moment before drawing your hand back.
You had never envied herânot precisely. The young woman had always seemed part of a different world, gilded and untouchable, stitched into her surroundings like the delicate embroidery on her cuffs. But that didnât mean you hadnât watched or wondered. Hadnât measured your own footsteps against the floorboards and imagined what it might feel like to walk them as someone else.
You didnât know why Lady Charlotte had gone. Perhaps it was pride. Or duty. Or some secret fracture the household wasnât meant to see. Whatever it was, it had scattered something in the air. And the boy who had once kissed you beside the lake now moved through the manor like someone only half there.
As time passed, you craved air that didnât smell of hearth smoke or boiled linens. The frost had melted off the grass by then, and it left behind a shimmer of damp that clung to your boots.
The Windrise tree stood gloriously then, its leaves beginning to sprout from the ancient oak branches as warm spring crept closer.
You sat beneath its sweeping limbs, skirts spread out, fingers threading absently through the grass. The view of the city walls lay in the distance, windows of homes glinting like coins in the midday light. From Galesong Hill, everything looked small, manageable, and unreal.
âYou always this dramatic, or is today special?â
You turned at the sound of the voice, startled.
Kaeya strolled toward you, hands in the pockets of his waistcoat, a grin playing at his mouth. He must have come from the Favonius Headquarters, his coat hung open, slightly windblown, a sword belted at his waist.
âI didnât expect anyone out here,â you said.
âNeither did I. Thought Iâd come brood under a tree, and what do I find? You beat me to it. Rude.â
You gave a small laugh despite yourself. âThereâs room enough.â
âGenerous as ever.â He lowered himself onto the grass with an exaggerated sigh. âCanât let you out-brood me, though. I have a reputation.â
You watched him settle beside you, leaning back on one elbow as he squinted up at the canopy. The sun dappled his face, catching on the fine lines that recent worry had etched there.
You remembered when the three of you used to come here, Adelinde the occasional supervisor. You had a pouch of iridescent marbles, and took turns throwing them as far as you could down the hill and toward the Statue.
âEveryoneâs been whispering,â he said after a moment, more gently now. âAbout the mess of it all.â
âAh, of course you do. You always know things. Must be exhausting.â
You plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between your fingers. âIt was never going to work.â
He raised an eyebrow. âYou say that like itâs obvious.â
âIt was. If anyone had cared to look.â
âOh, but darlingâthatâs precisely what nobility excels at. Not looking.â He tugged a piece of dry bark from the ground and tossed it idly. âStill, a shame. The embroidery on the wedding linens was quite promising.â
Kaeya tilted his head toward you. âYouâre not mourning the match, are you?â
Your expression shifted. âNo. But Iâm not celebrating either.â
âFair enough.â He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. âYou know, my brother wouldâve done it. Married her, I mean. Not because he loved her, but because he thought he had to. For the land. The house. The family.â
You didnât reply, but your breath caught.
âHeâs always been the dutiful one,â Kaeya said, quieter now. âSteady, unreadable. Drives me mad. But I thinkâ" he paused, choosing his words, ââI think he forgot that people can love him for himself. Not just for what he carries.â
You looked at the sky through the rustling leaves, your voice low. âIâm not sure he believes that.â
âThen maybe someone should remind him.â
You glanced at him. He was watching you, and though the usual spark of mischief still played around his eyes, there was something soberer beneath it.
âIâve seen the way he looks at you, you know. These many years,â he said, gentler now. âHe doesnât know how not to.â
âI also see the way you pretend not to notice.â His grin returned. âWhich is quite impressive, actually. Youâve got the whole âcool and unaffectedâ thing down.â
You laughed once, but it caught at the end.
Kaeya leaned closer, voice lowered conspiratorially. âLook, Iâve been a fool for less. But whatever this is between you two, donât let our crumbling name or old family ghosts keep you from reaching for it.â
You met his eyes then. There was no teasing in them now. Just understanding. And sad.
âBesides,â he added, standing and brushing off his coat, âsomeone ought to have a happy ending in this house.â
He offered you a hand. You hesitated, then took it.
In the second week of April, the weather turned suddenly and insistently wet and alive.
You liked it when the rain fell and when it drenched your soul.
But even so, you hadnât meant to be out in it. The sky had only just begun to bruise when youâd stepped outside for a quick errandâa spool of twine for the garden hands, left behind in the old work shedâbut the clouds had rolled in faster than expected. The rain fell in a steady drizzle, warm and slicking the cobblestones, pooling in shallow puddles across the courtyard.
Rainwater ran in thin streams along the flagstone grooves, curling around the roots of early herbs sprouting wild near the base of the wall.
You lingered under the overhang for a moment, clutching your basket and blinking rain from your lashes just as he turned the corner.
Diluc was halfway across the courtyard before he spotted you, boots dark with water, curls damp and sticking to his forehead. He was in a hurry back to the manor, hands over his head as if that would preserve the somewhat dry state of his hair. He halted mid-step, clearly surprised.
For half a second, you just stared at each other.
The rain fell harder, slanting between you in silver ribbons. A fine mist curled at the edge of the shed like steam.
âI thought youâd be inside,â he said at last, voice quiet, dropping his hands to shove deep into his coat pockets.
âI thought Iâd beat the rain,â you replied, lifting your basket in explanation. âI didnât.â
A beat passed, and he joined your side under the overhang.
âYouâll catch a cold like that,â you added, eyeing the rain dripping from the edge of his collar.
Diluc shrugged, trying for lightness. âWouldnât be the first time.â
âStill,â you said gently, âyou look like a half-drowned cat.â
That coaxed a crooked smile from him. âI didnât realize you were in the business of insulting wet strays.â
âIâve always had a weakness for strays,â you said. Then, feeling the edges of the words a little too sharply, you looked down at the twine in your basket.
âMy birthdayâs next week,â Diluc said suddenly, as though the words had been trying to push out for days.
You looked back at him. âI know.â
âThereâs going to be a supper. In the city.â His voice softened further. âMy father and brother⊠Theyâve reserved space at Angelâs Share. Itâs for the family. Fatherâs idea. Coming-of-age, officially.â He gave a dry smile. âThereâll be speeches. Probably brandy. Iâll have to wear something with too many buttons.â
You returned the smile, small and kind, even as your hands gripped the basket a little tighter. âIt sounds... important.â
âItâs not,â he said quietly. Then, after a moment, âNot in the ways that matter.â
You glanced up at the sky, letting the air cool your flushed cheeks. âStill, itâs your birthday.â
âYouâll be busy here that night, I imagine,â he said.
He hummed in disappointment.
âI should go,â you added, voice light but not quite steady. âThe others will be waiting.â
You stepped past him into the rain, but his voice followed you.
âWhen I come backââ he said.
You turned, blinking through the mist. âWhat?â
âWhen I come back, Iâd like to celebrate it with you too.â
You stared at him, uncertain if youâd misunderstood.
He stood there, rain running down his brow and jaw, his hands clenched loosely at his sides.
âIâd like that,â you said with the softest nod and turned again, the soft slap of your steps against wet stone retreating into the stillness.
Behind you, the rain continued, soft and unrelenting.
And somewhere deep in the city, a table was being polished for a celebration. A celebration with an aftermath that would change everything.
The city had worn a festive air in the late afternoon. By evening, it had turned.
It began with a sharp wind that swept through the narrow streets, rattling shutters and carrying the scent of distant rain. Lanterns swayed on their iron hooks, casting skittish shadows across the cobbles. And then came the thunderâlow and groaning, like the throat of something ancient stirring beneath the earth.
By the time the carriage rolled away from Angelâs Share, the heavens had opened.
The city drowned in the downpour.
Rain hammered the rooftops and surged in rivulets down the gutters, turning alleys into streams and every step into a hazard. Horses shied and blinked under the onslaught, their coats slicked black. Their hooves clattered anxiously as coachmen hunched low, caps pulled tight, shoulders soaked through despite the oilskin cloaks. The wheels of the familyâs carriage splashed up muddy arcs, wooden axles creaking in protest as they navigated the glutted roads that wound back toward the hills.
Civilians scattered like startled birds, clutching coats and baskets to their chests, faces hidden beneath dripping shawls. Children were scooped up by frantic mothers, shopkeepers leaned out of their doorways to battened shutters, and the cityâs familiar musicâthe barking of dogs, the clatter of carts, the hum of conversationâwas swallowed by the deluge. Marjorieâs With Wind Comes Glory shop had been closed for adventurers long before, not expecting their company. And even Sara, who insisted on keeping Good Hunter open in rain or shine, had hurriedly stacked the outdoor seating back along the walls. What remained was thunder, and the thin, panicked flicker of gaslight behind soaked windowpanes.
Inside Angelâs Share earlier, it had been a different world.
In the great barroom, there had been firelight in every hearth, smoke curling from cigars clutched in aging hands. Laughter rang out above the steady thrum of conversation, as fine coats were shrugged off and waistcoats loosened. The Bard had been invited, too, though he looked as though his thoughts were wandering.
There was roast duck served on silver trays, dripping with cherry glaze; bowls of rich, buttered potatoes; and glasses of Dandelion Wineâwhich Diluc didnât enjoy as much as he thought he wouldâpassed from hand to hand. The birthday toast had been long and ceremonious, led by Crepus with the pride of legacy heavy in his voice while Diluc had smiled politely and accepted the weight of it.
âTo my son,â he began, nodding toward him with a look that bore both affection and expectation. âEighteen today. A man grown, though I sometimes still see the boy who once followed me through the vines asking questions about every barrel and every bottling.â
Polite laughter rippled through the room. Diluc bowed his head slightly, a modest smile playing on his lips.
âYou were born during the early harvest, when the grapes had only begun to hang fat and sweet and we feared the frost might come back and steal them. And I thought thenâno matter what came of the seasonâheâll be our finest yield yet.â
He paused, letting that linger in the silence, before continuing.
âI have watched you grow through storms and sun. Through lean years and good ones. And never once have I looked at you and thought, âHe does not carry his weight.â Youâve done more than carry it. Youâve carried others.â
Diluc blinked. Slowly, his fingers curled around the stem of his glass.
âIâm proud of the man youâve become,â said Crepus. âNot because of what youâll inherit. Not because of the name you bear. But because of the choices youâve made. The way you treat those around you. The way you keep your word. The way you work, without ever asking to be seen.â
A hush fell over the room then, and something in Dilucâs chest went very still. For so long he had lived in the quiet shadow of expectation. But nowâ
âTo you, Father,â Diluc said. âFor teaching me the weight of a name, and the worth of a good man.â
The clink of glasses followed, and a soft rumble of appreciation moved through the room. Someone called for the music again; laughter returned.
And so The Bard had sung,
Raise your glass, the hourâs here,
For the lad whoâs grown to steer,
With steady hand and sharpened flame,
The son who proudly bears the name.
Through winterâs trial and summerâs toll,
Heâs walked the path and kept it whole,
With honor firm and laughter trueâ
A heart of oak and morning dew.
So let the cider freely pour,
And dance upon this tavern floor,
For not in wind or gloryâs claimâ
But in his deeds, he earns his name.
Diluc let himself feel, fully, the rare and simple joy of being enough, just as he was.
And his joyous eyes lingered everywhere. On the food, on the laughter, on the proud hand at his shoulder.
They had glanced too, more than once, to the tall windows, where dark clouds were already beginning to gather over the city.
Yes. Storms are the poetry of the earth. The intensity, the emotion, the honesty, the music. The language of darkness and light.
And as the carriage wheels churned through the flooding path, inside the swaying cabin, lit dimly by the lantern swinging above, Diluc sat across from his fatherâhis posture relaxed for once, the hem of his sleeve still damp from where it had brushed the barâs rain-soaked threshold. A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. He looked at his father with an open warmth. It was the kind of gaze that needed no words, that said I am yours, and I am proud to be.
Crepus returned the look, the crag of his face softened by age and drink, his eyes bright despite the storm outside. They sat like that for a breath longer, the silence companionable, the kind shared only by those who have fought to earn it.
Outside, the rain fell harder. Horses whinnied up front, and the carriage creaked as it rounded a bend in the road far beyond the city gates. Lightning split the sky in a blinding flashâand for just a moment, the entire countryside lit up in silver and shadow.
And then, everything lurched.
The carriage jolted violently sideways. Dilucâs shoulder slammed into the wall as the wheels beneath them caught against something deep and suddenâmud? A rut? There was no time to think. A second impact knocked them fully off-balance, and then the world spun. It tilted and crashed.
The carriage slammed onto its side with a splintering crack of wood and iron. Rain poured through the shattered window. Outside, one of the horses screamed. It was a terrible, human-like sound. Diluc felt a pain at his side. He coughed, tasting smoke or dust or blood in his mouth. Somewhere behind him, Crepus stirred with a groan.
âAre you hurt?â Diluc rasped, pushing debris aside, reaching out in the half-dark.
Crepus shook his head, already trying to force the ruined door open. âIâm fine. Go. Out the back.â
They stumbled from the wreckage together, boots slipping in the churned-up mud of the roadside. The rain had turned the path to sludge, and trees loomed overhead like waiting sentries.
Then, it was as though the wind had dropped out of the world. The forest ahead stood utterly still, too still. No rustle of leaves. No birdsong. Just the breathing of the storm behind them, and something elseâlow, like a growl beneath the earth.
And then it stepped into view.
A shape. Too tall. Too narrow. Its eyes caught the light like coals freshly stirred. Its limbs were all wrongâjointed where they shouldnât beâand its breath steamed in the cold rain.
Crepus stepped in front of him.
"Donât move," he said quietly, his hand already reaching for something glowing in the pocket of his coat. His voice did not tremble.
âFatherââ Diluc began, but the older man raised one hand.
âIf itâs me it wants, Iâll give it a better fight than it expects.â
Thunder rumbled again. The thing began to advanceâslowly, deliberately, its footsteps sinking into the mire with wet, sickening sounds. Diluc could feel his own heartbeat in his throat, in his fingertips.
Crepus looked back at him once more. âWhen I say run,â he said, steady as a stone, âyou run.â
But Diluc could never abandon his father.
And in that moment, every ounce of pride and joy from the tavern still glowed in his eyesâbut now, so did something else: the unshakable resolve of a man who would die for his son without hesitation.
Then came the silence before the charge.
And the world broke open again.
You were waiting for his return.
You put on one of your nicest dressesâlily white with light pink lace. You had even asked to borrow your motherâs pearl earrings, the ones she wore before your birth.
You were just fixing your hair in the grand hall when you smelled it before you saw it.
Ash. Smoke. Wood burning.
And then the dark cloud rising from down the hill, close to Springvale.
âThere has been an accident!â cried Hillie, voice cracking as she bolted inside, skirts twisted about her legs. Behind her, boots pounded against gravel and panicked voices rose, half-coherentânames, questions, gasps.
You dropped the comb you held and it fell to the wooden floor, shattering down the middle.
Your breath caught like a snare pulled too tight.
âWhat happened?â you asked, but no one answered. Not fully. Words like âcarriageâ and âstormâ and âattackâ floated up through the hall, disconnected and terrible.
Your mother reached you at onceâher hands damp from the washhouse, her apron still tied around her waist. She grasped your arms tightly. âNo,â she said, eyes wide. âDonât go. You donât need to see it. Stay here. Please.â
But you were already moving.
You broke from her grasp and ran out the door, tearing down the lane, dress gathered in your fists, heart slamming in your chest. The air grew thicker with the smoke the nearer you ran, until it clung to your tongue like soot and grief. Rain still fell, but it did nothing to tame the fire that had caught somewhere on the hillside.
You saw the remnants of the carriage at the bend of the road. Half-crushed, a wheel still spinning slowly as if it hadnât realized the world had changed.
And in the mud, soaked to the bone, sat Diluc.
He held his father in his lap.
The Masterâs chest did not rise. His coat was torn open and bloodied. It was all too much, too dark. Diluc was murmuring something you could not hear, his lips moving in a rhythm too quiet for the chaos around him.
His shoulders were trembling.
Around them, the Knights of Favonius had formed a loose perimeter, their cloaks soaked, faces pale and grim. Some combed the edge of the forest with torches, weapons drawn, though none looked certain what they were searching for.Â
And there was Kaeya, his eyes wide and face completely stripped of color, kneeling beside a set of strange tracks in the mudâdeep, misshapen, burned into the ground like coals pressed into wet clay.
No one spoke to you as you approached. You must have looked too pale. Or too certain.
âDiluc, Diluc,â you said in a shaky whisper as you shuffled into the stuffy blackness of the field, your toes exploring the unknown ground like a scared cat.
He didnât hear your steps. He didnât look up. He just held his father closer, fingers buried in the fabric of his cloak, now soaked through with rain and blood.
You knelt slowly beside them. You didnât reach for Diluc, not yet. Only watched the side of his face, mud-slicked, streaked with something darker, and the way his hand clutched at the lifeless one beneath his own.
The storm had eased above you, but the world had not.
Diluc looked up, finally. His eyes met yours.
He said your name, hardly his voice at all, no passion or life to it.
You stretched your arms to him.
He groaned and slid closer to you, snuggling his head into your neck. You clutched at his thick hair, crooning. Everything was dark, and the invisible substance of your sympathy undid him. He sobbed quietly, knotting his body into slow twisting rails of pain, his tears soaking your light pink sleeves.
He did not speak. Neither did you.
You simply sat beside him, rocking his head back and forth and back and forth, until his grief expended itself in emptiness. The knights moved around you in circles, and the cold rain continued to fall, soft, as if the sky itself had nothing more to say.
Your mother bathed you that night. She silently lifted the basin over your shoulders and hushed you, but you could not cry.
You could only stare off into the distance. Disbelief and horror.
Diluc had left for the city with the Knights. But you werenât sure what happened exactly, as Elzer had escorted you back to the homestead shortly after you had found him with his dead father in his arms.
âSleep, my child,â your mother said, tugging the blanket over your ears.
You tried, but you couldnât.
And when you finally did, you did not dream.
It was mid May when you found itâthough by then, the fields were not so dull, and the wind turned just warmer so as to not tug at your sleeves as you walked.
You were not looking for anything, not really. Only following a path youâd long ago stopped needing to think about. Past the orchard, past the moss-covered gate, through the thicket where the brambles snagged at your hem. Your feet moved on memory. It was only when the chapel rose into viewâits sagging roof and ivy-wrapped stones just as you rememberedâthat you realized where youâd come.
You paused before going in, heart already behaving strangely.
The door creaked as it always had. You stepped inside, the scent of dry wood and cool stone greeting you like an old friend. Light filtered through the broken window in a soft cascade, and your eyes took a moment to adjust.
Thatâs when you saw it.
A folded bit of parchment, resting on the worn floorboards. The same ones where, long ago, three children had scratched their names with a knife and dared the world to remember them.
The paper was creased and plain, sealed with a smooth pebble. Your name was written on the outsideâyour full name, not the nickname he called you, which somehow made it feel all the more serious.
Your fingers hesitated before unfolding it. The ink was slightly smudged at the corner. As though whoever held it had lingered too long before letting it go.
I wasnât sure if I would ever write this. Iâm still not sure I ought to leave it. But here it isâbecause Iâm tired of silence. And because I know youâll come here eventually. You always do, when something weighs on you.
Although so much time has passed, I remember that afternoon by the lake as though Iâm still standing in it. The way the light looked on your skin. The way you looked at meâand then looked away. I think of it more often than I probably should. Sometimes I think I only imagined itâbut then I remember the way I couldnât breathe afterward.
And I said nothing. Out of fear, mostly. Fear that I mistook something fleeting for something real. Fear that speaking it would turn it into dust. Fear that I would jeopardize my fatherâs business, the marriage.
But leaving without saying anything feels far worse. Like burying a part of myself where no one will ever find it.
So Iâll say it. You areâsomething more to me. You have been, long before the lake and long before I kissed your wrist like a fool who didnât know how else to speak.
And if you feel nothing in return, then leave this here. Let the wind take it. Iâll never ask again.
But I wish I had told you sooner. I wish we had more time.
I donât know how long Iâll be gone. Or if Iâll come back the same as I was. I donât even know if Iâll come back at all.
Because this isnât a journey I choseâit was handed to me, the moment my fatherâs blood met the earth and my brother turned his back on everything we once were.
You remember the stories, I know. Whispers of unrest, of betrayal in velvet gloves and smiles sharpened like knives. But you didnât see what I saw. I know you were there the night the fire took the manor, and the morning after, but you shouldnât believe my brother and the Knights of Favonius as they stood at the edge of the wreckage and swore they knew nothingâtheir hands too clean, his eyes too strange. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to deny them. Archons, I did. But truth has a way of rising from ash.
What happened to our father wasnât an accident. And now I must see it through. Even if it means walking through shadows that might stain me beyond recognition. Even if it means unearthing secrets that no man ought to know, especially when they wear your own familyâs face.
You should never have been pulled into this. Not you. If I regret anything more than the silence between us, itâs that you were caught in the spill of this bitter riddle. You, who deserved gentler days. You, who stood beside me in innocence, only to be drawn into the dark coil of everything I could not stop. I would give anything to spare you from that. I still might, if I can.
But before I go, you deserve to know this:
You were loved. You are loved.
Not grandly, perhapsâno sweeping declarations, no sonnets carved into marble. But truthfully. Fiercely. In the quiet way things grow when no one is watchingâin the pauses between duty and sorrow, in the spaces where your hand brushed mine and made the world, if only for a moment, bearable again.
If this letter makes you angry, or sad, or confused, I understand. You need not write back. You need not wait. But if, in some quiet part of you, youâve carried this tooâif your heart, like mine, still trembles at the thought of what might have beenâthen keep this letter. Just that. Fold it away and think of me not as the man I might become, but as the boy who once fell into the lake beside you, laughing, before the world changed.
That would be more than enough.
You read it once. And then again. And again.
Outside, the breeze stirred the ivy and the long grass beyond.
And in your chest, something stirred too. Maybe panic. Maybe fear.
You pressed the letter to your heart.
