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my kofi | read this story on my wattpad !!
morning in adlivun did not begin with the sun anymore. it began with the lines.
they stretched through the streets before dawn, quiet at first. by the time the sky turned the pale grey of watered milk, the city had already gathered itself into long, uneven rows outside ration houses and grain halls.
people stood wrapped in worn cloaks and patched coats, clutching bowls, sacks, baskets, anything that might carry food home if the supply lasted long enough.
most did not speak.
voices had grown softer over the past months, as if the city itself might overhear complaints and punish them by withholding what little remained.
you joined the line the way everyone else did: wordlessly, slipping into the narrow space behind an elderly woman whose shawl smelled faintly of smoke and old wool. ahead of her stood a boy no older than twelve holding a cracked clay pot with both hands, staring at the closed doors of the ration hall as if willing them to open faster.
the line shifted forward by inches every few minutes.
across the street, soldiers leaned against a stone wall beneath the city banner. the cloth had once been crimson, bright enough to see from the harbour towers, but time and weather had leeched the colour away. now it hung above them in a tired shade of rust, edges fraying where the wind had worried it too long.
the soldiers themselves looked worse.
their armour no longer matched. one man wore a breastplate bearing the old crest of the southern provinces, another had leather plates tied over a faded uniform, and a third had no armour at all, only a spear and a dented helmet that sat crooked on his head.
they watched the ration line without much interest.
not guarding it, exactly. just existing near it.
one of them yawned.
further down the street, the morning market had begun to stir. once it had been the loudest place in the city at this hour, full of shouting merchants and the bright smells of fresh bread and fruit. now the stalls opened quietly, their wooden tables holding strange offerings.
a silver comb.
a pair of embroidered gloves.
a chipped porcelain teacup painted with tiny blue cranes.
not food. not anymore.
a merchant carefully arranged a set of polished brass candlesticks across a cloth, though there was no shine left in them worth admiring. beside him, a woman laid out a velvet necklace case and opened it slowly, revealing a thin chain and a small emerald pendant that caught the weak morning light.
“two loaves,” she said to the man across from her.
he didn’t even pretend to consider it.
“one loaf,” he replied, not looking up from the knife he was using to trim a splinter from his stall.
her mouth tightened.
“that stone is worth more than your entire cart.”
“not today.”
she closed the case again with a quiet snap.
you looked away before the argument could continue.
everyone knew how these negotiations ended. eventually the jewellery would trade for a loaf, or half of one, and tomorrow someone else would bring another family heirloom to the same table, hoping the price had somehow improved overnight.
it never did.
the line crept forward again.
somewhere behind you, someone muttered something about grain shipments from the western fields. the rumour passed along the line like a spark through dry grass.
“three wagons,” a man said.
“no, five.”
“they were seen at the southern road yesterday.”
“they’ll arrive by evening.”
“they were taken by bandits.”
“they burned the villages past the river.”
every voice had its own version. every listener chose the one that hurt the least.
near the front doors of the ration hall, a city clerk appeared briefly with a bundle of papers clutched to his chest. his ink-stained fingers fumbled with the lock before disappearing inside again.
a woman in the line ahead of you leaned sideways and whispered to the boy with the clay pot.
“they’re measuring smaller today.”
the boy frowned. “smaller than yesterday?”
she nodded once.
“half cups,” she said. “my sister came before dawn. that’s what she heard.”
the boy stared at his pot.
his hands tightened slightly around the rim.
no one argued with her. no one said she was wrong.
across the street, the soldiers had begun speaking among themselves in low voices. one pointed toward the northern gate towers barely visible between rooftops. another shook his head slowly.
you couldn’t hear the words, but you had heard enough fragments of the same conversation throughout the city these past weeks to guess their subject.
the rumours.
they moved through adlivun faster than any official proclamation.
some said entire towns had surrendered without fighting.
others said cities vanished overnight, their banners torn down before anyone even saw an enemy army.
and always, at the centre of every story, there was the same name spoken carefully, like a curse people hoped not to attract.
the king who never negotiated.
the one whose armies did not bargain or siege or starve cities into surrender. they simply arrived, and the world rearranged itself afterward.
no one agreed on what that meant.
some said the lands he conquered became peaceful.
others claimed the people there disappeared entirely.
no one in adlivun knew which was true.
the line lurched forward again as the ration hall doors creaked open.
guards stepped aside.
the first handful of citizens shuffled inside, clutching their containers tightly.
a murmur rippled through the crowd.
behind you, someone spoke a different rumour entirely, one that had begun spreading only yesterday.
“they’ve seen them near the borders,” the man said quietly.
you turned slightly. “seen what?”
he hesitated before answering, as if saying it aloud might make it more real. “the machines.”
several people nearby stiffened.
“i heard they move like animals,” someone else added. “but they aren’t alive.”
“they don’t bleed.”
“they don’t stop.”
“they don’t need food.”
the soldiers across the street had stopped talking.
all of them were looking north now.
far above the rooftops, beyond the fading banner and the cracked city walls, a dull sound rolled across the horizon like distant thunder.
the ration line fell silent.
and for the first time that morning, no one moved forward.
⌗⌗⌗
by the time the ration line finally thinned and the city began its slow, reluctant movement into morning, the palace had already opened its gates.
not because there was anything urgent to attend to.
simply because routine still existed there, even when the rest of adlivun seemed to be forgetting how.
you passed through the servants’ entrance the way you always did, slipping between two stone pillars worn smooth by generations of footsteps. the guards posted there barely glanced up as you approached. one of them was leaning on his spear, his helmet pushed back far enough that you could see the dark circles beneath his eyes.
he recognized you after a moment.
“scribe,” he muttered, shifting aside.
you nodded once in acknowledgement and stepped inside.
the palace courtyard looked almost unchanged from the outside world, which was perhaps the strangest thing about it. the stone pathways were still swept clean. the fountain in the centre still trickled water from the mouths of carved lions, though the flow had weakened enough that it sounded less like a steady stream and more like a tired drip.
servants moved quietly along the walkways carrying baskets of laundry or stacks of folded linens. a pair of kitchen boys hurried past with a wooden crate between them, whispering urgently about something you couldn’t quite catch.
at first glance, nothing here appeared desperate.
but if you looked longer, the cracks showed.
the fountain basin held more coins than usual. offerings left by people hoping for luck, or mercy, or perhaps just enough food to last another week.
the banners hanging from the palace balconies had not been replaced in months. their once-bright threads had dulled to the same tired rust colour as the one over the city gates.
even the guards stationed along the inner walls stood a little too loosely in their armour.
adlivun was failing everywhere.
the palace simply took longer to admit it.
you crossed the courtyard toward the eastern wing, where the administrative chambers occupied a long stretch of narrow rooms that smelled permanently of ink and dust. the moment you stepped inside, the noise of the city faded behind thick stone walls, replaced by the familiar quiet scratching of quills and the soft rustle of parchment.
three other scribes already sat at the long wooden table that ran down the centre of the room.
stacks of documents lay between them in uneven piles. some tied with ribbon, others loose and curling at the edges.
one of them glanced up when you entered.
“you’re late,” he said without much accusation.
“the ration line,” you replied.
he grunted in understanding and returned to his work.
you moved to your place at the end of the table and sat down, setting the small bundle of parchment you’d been carrying beside an ink bottle that had already been diluted so many times the liquid inside looked more grey than black.
a clerk from the council chambers appeared moments later, carrying a new stack of decrees tucked under his arm.
he dropped them in front of you with a sigh.
“copy these,” he said. “four duplicates of each.”
you untied the ribbon and spread the documents out carefully.
most of them looked the same as yesterday’s.
you dipped your quill into the ink and began copying.
the process required attention but not thought. years of practice had trained your hand to move smoothly across the page, forming neat rows of letters while your mind drifted elsewhere.
the first decree ordered increased taxes from the southern farming districts to compensate for lost harvests in the north.
you knew, as you copied the words, that the southern districts had already stopped sending grain weeks ago.
the second decree demanded the city watch arrest anyone caught hoarding food supplies. the city watch barely had enough men left to patrol the streets.
the third decree instructed provincial lords to prepare additional soldiers for border defense.
you had seen the soldiers outside the ration hall. they looked as though a strong wind might knock them over.
your quill paused briefly before continuing.
none of this was new.
the council issued orders every day. the scribes copied them faithfully. messengers carried them out to the rest of the kingdom.
and somewhere between the palace gates and the city walls, those orders dissolved into the same quiet helplessness that had settled over everything else.
across the table, one of the other scribes leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face.
“what’s the point of this?” he muttered.
no one answered him.
the scratching of quills continued.
after a moment he sighed and leaned forward again, dipping his own quill into the shared ink pot.
“four copies?” he asked you.
you nodded.
he shook his head slowly. “four copies of lies.”
you finished the first document and set it aside to dry.
through the narrow window beside your desk, you could see the palace courtyard again. servants moved back and forth across the stone paths, carrying baskets, folding linens, pretending that routine still mattered.
somewhere deeper in the palace, a bell rang once.
council meeting.
meetings had grown briefer in recent months. not because the problems were smaller, but because there were fewer solutions left to argue about. when there was nothing left to promise, the council preferred silence.
the door to the scribe chamber opened abruptly, and one of the council clerks stepped inside, his sleeves rolled and ink already smudged along the edges of his fingers.
“new revisions,” he said breathlessly, dropping another bundle of parchment onto the table.
the ribbon tying them together had been knotted so quickly that it took you a moment to undo it.
you spread the pages out in front of you.
grain distribution adjustments.
again.
but the numbers were different this time.
you frowned slightly.
the first document listed the expected delivery from the western storehouses. according to the decree, four wagons of grain had arrived at the city gates the previous evening.
you had been standing in the ration line this morning.
if four wagons had arrived, the line would have looked very different.
you copied the decree anyway. your quill moved carefully over the parchment, replicating each word exactly as written.
across the table, one of the other scribes leaned over to glance at the document.
“four wagons?” he murmured.
you nodded.
he let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“strange,” he said.
he did not elaborate.
neither of you needed him to.
a few minutes later, the chamber door opened again, and another clerk hurried inside, this one pale and slightly out of breath.
“there’s trouble near the lower granaries,” he said.
the scribes looked up.
“what kind of trouble?” someone asked.
the clerk hesitated. then he said, “the line got too long.”
for a moment, no one spoke.
then the man at the far end of the table muttered something under his breath and stood up.
you followed him to the window that faced the southern district.
from there, you couldn’t see the granaries themselves, but you could see the main street that led toward them. a crowd had gathered there, dense enough that individual figures blended into a restless mass of movement.
even from this distance, the noise carried.
shouting.
the crowd surged forward suddenly, spilling into the open square in front of the storehouses.
someone must have opened the gates.
or forced them open.
you saw people pushing toward the building’s entrance, arms raised, bowls and sacks clutched in their hands. a few climbed onto the stone steps, pounding on the heavy wooden doors.
guards stood nearby.
there were perhaps a dozen of them in total.
too few.
they had formed a loose line between the crowd and the storehouse entrance, but none of them moved forward.
one lifted his spear uncertainly.
another shifted his weight, glancing toward the others as if waiting for someone else to act first.
“they should break it up,” one of the scribes said quietly behind you.
but the guards did not move.
even from this distance, you could see the hesitation in the way they held themselves.
one man removed his helmet and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. another leaned closer to his companion, speaking urgently.
then the line broke.
two guards stepped backward.
the crowd surged forward in response, spilling across the square and up the storehouse steps like water rushing through a gap in a dam.
someone forced the doors open.
the sound reached you a moment later, a heavy crack followed by a roar of voices.
inside the chamber, the scribes watched in silence. after a few seconds, the clerk who had brought the revised decrees cleared his throat.
“we should return to work,” he said weakly.
no one moved immediately.
outside, the crowd continued pressing forward.
the guards had stepped completely aside.
one of them was arguing with a man in the crowd, gesturing angrily toward the open doors. the man shouted back, shaking a small sack of grain in his fist.
you couldn’t hear the words.
but the meaning was clear enough.
eventually the scribes drifted back to their seats.
you returned to your desk and picked up the decree again. four wagons of grain delivered from the western fields.
you dipped your quill into the ink and continued copying.
the chamber door opened quietly a few minutes later.
two council officials entered, their robes marked with the silver thread that indicated administrative rank. one carried a ledger tucked under his arm.
they spoke to each other in low voices as they crossed the room.
“update the records,” the older man said.
the other nodded, opening the ledger on the nearest table.
you watched from the corner of your eye as he turned several pages and began making adjustments.
the numbers changed quickly beneath his pen.
when he finished, the ledger no longer reflected the chaos happening outside the granaries.
it showed stability.
the older official glanced toward the window where the distant noise of the riot still carried faintly through the glass.
then he closed the ledger.
“there,” he said.
his voice held a quiet satisfaction.
“as far as the record shows, everything is proceeding normally.”
he turned and left the chamber.
you stared at the parchment in front of you.
four wagons of grain delivered.
⌗⌗⌗
by midafternoon, the palace corridors were louder than usual.
messengers moved quickly between chambers carrying sealed scrolls. council attendants whispered instructions to one another near doorways. guards shifted positions along the walls as if the act of standing straighter might somehow restore the dignity the kingdom had begun to lose.
you had just finished copying the last of the morning’s decrees when another summons came.
“all scribes,” the clerk announced from the doorway. “council proclamation.”
the word proclamation meant something different than a decree. decrees were administrative orders meant to be obeyed. proclamations were written for people who might need convincing.
you gathered your parchment and followed the others down the corridor toward the council chamber.
the room itself was designed for authority.
tall windows lined one wall, letting pale daylight fall across a long semicircular table where the council members sat in carved wooden chairs. above them hung the great banner of adlivun, its faded red fabric draped heavily between two iron poles.
the councillors were already assembled.
they looked tired.
several had removed the heavy rings that marked their offices and set them on the table as if the weight had become irritating. one man rubbed his temple with two fingers while another stared down at a map spread across the wood before him.
at the far end of the room stood the high chancellor, reading from a parchment scroll.
“…in light of recent supply interruptions,” he said, his voice steady and formal, “the council assures the citizens of adlivun that relief caravans have been dispatched from the eastern provinces.”
you lowered your eyes to your own parchment and began copying.
the high chancellor continued.
“these caravans will arrive within the week bearing sufficient grain to restore stability to the capital and its surrounding districts.”
someone at the table shifted in their chair.
another councillor leaned toward his neighbour and murmured something under his breath.
the chancellor paused briefly, then went on.
“citizens are therefore instructed to remain calm and trust in the continued strength of the kingdom.”
strength.
another word your quill copied without hesitation.
when he finished reading, the chancellor rolled the scroll and handed it to one of the clerks.
“copies will be distributed throughout the city,” he said.
the clerk nodded and turned toward the scribes.
you knew the routine by now.
within the hour, dozens of identical proclamations would be posted on walls and gatehouses across adlivun, their carefully chosen words promising relief that everyone in this room understood would never arrive.
because the eastern provinces had stopped sending caravans three months ago.
the council meeting dissolved quickly afterward.
the scribes returned to their chamber carrying the fresh proclamation text, and you resumed your place at the table.
your quill scratched steadily across the parchment as you copied the chancellor’s promises again and again.
outside the narrow window, the afternoon sun had begun its slow descent toward the western hills. the light painted the palace courtyard in pale gold, illuminating the fountain and the scattered coins resting at its bottom.
somewhere beyond the walls, the food riot near the granaries had finally begun to fade. the distant shouting had softened into occasional bursts of noise carried faintly on the wind.
but the rumours had not faded.
if anything, they seemed to grow louder.
a young messenger burst into the chamber halfway through the copying process, breathless from running.
“they’ve closed the western gate,” he said.
one of the scribes looked up. “closed it?”
“refusing entry,” the messenger clarified. “travelers from the border roads.”
“bandits?”
the messenger shook his head. “refugees.”
no one spoke for a moment.
then the messenger added quietly, “they say the neighbouring kingdoms are sealing their roads too.”
your quill slowed slightly.
the man continued speaking as if the words had been trapped in his chest all morning.
“envoys returned from talvar yesterday,” he said. “they refused the alliance proposal outright.”
another scribe frowned.
“talvar always refuses alliances.”
“this time they closed their trade route as well.”
the chamber grew quieter.
you finished the line of text in front of you and dipped your quill into the ink again.
across the room, someone muttered, “what about the northern states?”
the messenger shook his head again. “they sent their reply this morning.”
“and?”
“refusal.”
the word hung in the air like a dropped stone.
adlivun had been sending diplomatic requests for months. offers of mutual defence. shared supply routes. trade agreements designed to keep the kingdom afloat long enough to recover.
every neighbouring ruler had answered the same way.
no.
the scribes returned to their copying, though the scratching of quills sounded slower now.
⌗⌗⌗
the proclamations were posted before evening.
you watched it happen from the palace steps while a pair of attendants carried wooden boards down toward the lower districts. each board held fresh sheets of parchment nailed carefully into place, the ink still dark and wet where the council’s promises had been copied.
relief caravans from the eastern provinces.
citizens were instructed to remain calm.
aid would arrive within the week.
the words looked convincing from a distance.
up close, the parchment trembled slightly in the breeze.
by the time the sun had lowered behind the western towers, copies of the proclamation hung across half the city. one was nailed beside the fountain in the palace courtyard. another appeared at the entrance to the market square. several more were posted near the gates and along the long stone wall beside the grain storehouses where the riot had taken place earlier.
people gathered around them quickly.
some read the announcements silently.
others read them aloud for those who couldn’t.
a few laughed.
you passed one of the notices on your way down the palace hill, pausing briefly as a small crowd argued in front of it.
“they say caravans are coming,” a man said, tapping the parchment with one finger.
a woman beside him snorted. “they’ve been saying that for months.”
“but this time it’s official.”
“official means nothing when the roads are empty.”
someone else leaned closer to read the smaller lines at the bottom of the decree.
“eastern provinces,” he murmured. “that’s two weeks’ travel even with good weather.”
another voice cut in. “if the caravans exist.”
the small crowd shifted restlessly.
then, as often happened when people ran out of useful arguments, the conversation drifted toward rumours.
it always did.
you continued walking toward the lower streets, passing clusters of citizens gathered in doorways and near the fading heat of cookfires. the city had grown quieter since the riot ended, but the quiet was uneasy, filled with low conversations and the occasional bark of laughter that sounded more bitter than amused.
near the market square, two merchants sat beside their nearly empty stalls, sharing a jug of watered wine.
you recognized one of them.
he had been selling polished brass candlesticks that morning.
now the table in front of him was bare.
“…i’m telling you,” he said, leaning forward as he spoke. “talvar surrendered without a single battle.”
his companion shook his head. “that’s impossible.”
“that’s what the traders from the northern road said.”
“they always exaggerate.”
“no,” the first man insisted. “they said the city opened its gates the moment the army appeared.”
you slowed slightly as you passed.
the second merchant frowned. “why would anyone surrender without fighting?”
the first man hesitated, lowering his voice. “because of the king.”
even in the noise of the market square, the word carried a certain weight.
several people nearby turned their heads.
“what king?” someone asked.
the merchant glanced around before answering. “the one from the west.”
you kept walking, though your pace slowed.
the stories had been circulating for weeks now, growing stranger with every retelling.
some said he ruled lands beyond the desert mountains where the sky burned red in the evenings.
others claimed he had appeared from nowhere, conquering cities faster than news of his arrival could spread.
but every version shared the same detail.
he never negotiated.
the second merchant leaned back on his stool.
“i’ve heard that story too,” he admitted. “but i also heard something else.”
“what?”
“that the cities he conquers… don’t fall apart afterward.”
the first man blinked. “what do you mean?”
“i mean they become quiet.” he gestured vaguely with the neck of the wine jug. “orderly. no riots. no starving crowds.”
“that’s nonsense.”
“maybe,” the second man said. “but that’s what the travellers claim.”
a woman arranging crates of dried herbs nearby joined the conversation without looking up from her work.
“my cousin passed through one of those places last winter,” she said.
both merchants turned toward her.
“well?” the first one asked.
she shrugged slightly. “he said the streets were clean.”
“that’s it?”
“he said there were soldiers everywhere,” she added. “but no one was starving.”
the first merchant frowned deeply. “that doesn’t make sense.”
“no,” she agreed.
another voice spoke from the edge of the gathering crowd. “they say he destroys the cities first.”
the group turned.
a man stood there with a traveller’s cloak draped around his shoulders, dust still clinging to the hem.
“what do you mean?” someone asked.
the traveller spoke calmly.
“they say his armies arrive and burn everything that refuses to submit.”
a few people shifted uneasily.
“and after that?” the herb seller asked.
the traveller shrugged. “after that… things become quiet.”
silence settled over the small group.
then the first merchant scoffed. “so which is it?”
the traveller tilted his head slightly. “what do you mean?”
“is he a tyrant or a saviour?”
the traveller considered the question for a moment. “depends on who you ask.”
another man standing nearby crossed his arms. “i heard he executes entire councils.”
someone else shook their head. “i heard he rebuilds the cities he conquers.”
“i heard he doesn’t even speak.”
“that’s ridiculous.”
“no,” the traveller said quietly. “that part might be true.”
several people leaned closer. “what do you mean?”
“they say he gives orders with only a few words,” the traveller explained. “sometimes only one.”
“that’s absurd.”
“is it?”
the traveler glanced toward the darkening western horizon. “the stories all agree on one thing.”
“and what’s that?” the herb seller asked.
he met her eyes briefly.
“when his banners appear on the horizon,” he said, “cities stop arguing about whether to fight.”
a faint wind moved through the square, stirring the edges of the proclamation still nailed to the nearby wall.
aid will arrive within the week.
remain calm.
someone in the crowd folded their arms.
“well,” the first merchant said after a moment, forcing a laugh. “good thing he’s nowhere near adlivun.”
a few people chuckled weakly.
the traveller didn’t laugh.
instead, he took a slow drink from the jug and said quietly,
varka claims the distance was supposed to make him less fond of you, but after half a decade of secret letters tucked into tax tomes, the knight of boreas is finally marching home to collect on a five-year-old tab.
✦ word count. 8.8k words
✦ content. varka x f!reader. attempt at humor. idiots to lovers. reader is a snarky tsundere n varka is wayyy too into that. exchanging letters through the years. fluff. getting together. varka kinda does the medieval ish equivalent of sexting in one of the letters but there's no smut (sorry, folks). capital Y for yearning.
✦ foreword. this wip has been collecting cobwebs in my drafts for a little over six months now and i couldn't quite figure out what to do with it until recently LMAO please enjoy the fruit of half a year of trying to figure out how i want to write one of, if not THE most anticipated character(s) in genshin impact history <3
READ ON AO3
The first thing you learn working at Angel's Share is that people talk.
The second thing you learn is that people talk even more when Varka walks in.
It isn’t subtle, either. The shift moves through the tavern the way a gust of wind stirs tall grass. One moment the room is full of low conversation and clinking glassware, and the next there are heads turning toward the door, voices lifting in greeting, and chairs scraping as someone stands to clap the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius on the back like an old friend. Mondstadt adores its heroes, and Varka, loud and golden and larger than life, has always been one of the city’s favorites.
You, unfortunately, are not among his admirers.
Behind the bar, you continue polishing a glass with the patience of someone who refuses to acknowledge the storm gathering across the room. The lanternlight catches against the rim of the glass as you turn it in your hands, wiping away a nonexistent smudge while the noise of the tavern swells briefly in welcome.
Someone laughs near the door and you know, without looking, exactly who has just arrived.
Charles does look up, of course. Charles is polite.
“Evening, Grand Master,” he says as the man himself approaches the counter.
Varka’s boots come to a stop on the other side of the bar, and there is a brief, deliberate pause that’s heavy with expectation. When you finally lift your gaze, you find him watching you with open interest.
He looks exactly as irritating as usual—broad-shouldered, forearms slightly tanned from the sun, his blond hair falling in a careless sweep around his face. The lanternlight catches along the scar at his neck and glints faintly in his blue eyes, which are bright with the same irrepressible good humor that seems to follow him everywhere.
He smiles when you meet his gaze, as if the sight of you is the best part of his evening.
“Good evening.”
You set the glass down with a soft, decisive clink.
“What do you want to drink.”
“See?” The Grand Master glances at Charles as though seeking confirmation. “She always greets me so warmly.”
“If I greeted you the way I actually wanted to, I suspect I’d lose my job.”
Varka laughs.
It is a bright, unguarded sound that spills easily into the room, drawing the curious attention of the nearest tables. He seems entirely delighted by the exchange, leaning his arms comfortably against the bar as though he has settled in for the evening.
“You look lovely tonight,” he remarks after a moment, studying you with an ease that would be charming if it were directed literally anywhere else.
“You looked better when you were out of my sight,” you answer, already reaching for the bottle that holds his usual order without waiting for him to ask.
“How cruel,” Varka sighs, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest as though you’ve driven a lance clean through it. “The most beautiful woman in all of Mondstadt, wanting absolutely nothing to do with me.”
You slide the bottle back into place behind the counter.
“Drink your wine, Grand Master,” you tell him flatly. “Before someone notices the Knights of Favonius are being led by a man with a martyr complex.”
Varka lifts the mug, still smiling to himself, but before he can say anything else a voice calls from deeper in the tavern.
“Grand Master Varka! Over here!”
A long table near the hearth has erupted into motion—several knights waving him over with the loose enthusiasm of men already halfway through their evening. One of them raises a mug in salute, while another pounds the table loud enough to rattle the dishes.
Varka glances toward them, then back to you.
For a moment it looks as though he might say something else, some last comment meant solely to annoy you—but instead he sighs, pushes away from the bar, and picks up his drink.
“Duty calls,” he singsongs.
“You’re drinking with your men,” you deadpan. “Hardly duty.”
“Morale is just as tantamount as everything else,” Varka counters with solemn dignity, and with that he turns and makes his way across the tavern, the crowd parting easily around him as he goes.
The moment he is out of earshot, Charles chuckles quietly beside you.
You shoot him a look. “What?”
“Nothing,” he insists, still smiling as he stacks a row of clean glasses. “It’s just that not everyone has the courage to speak to the most powerful man in Mondstadt the way you do.”
You scowl.
“If we let people like Varka have their way around here,” you reply crisply, reaching for another bottle, “Master Diluc wouldn’t be very pleased with us.”
Charles hums in mild agreement, though the amusement remains firmly in his expression.
The night presses on regardless.
Angel’s Share settles back into its usual chaotic rhythm. You move easily through the noise, as well as the familiar motions of the evening: pouring drinks, sliding plates across the counter, accepting payments while Charles handles the orders piling in from the tables.
It’s work you take seriously. The pay is good. The hours are reliable. The owner of the establishment expects competence, and you pride yourself on providing it. Angel’s Share is the most reputable tavern in Mondstadt, and you intend to keep your position here for as long as possible.
Which means you know better than to indulge certain distractions.
Unfortunately, those distractions have a habit of staring at you.
You do not need to look to feel it—the faint, unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze lingering across the room. Every so often it settles against the back of your neck with enough persistence to be noticed. When you glance up by accident, it is always the same pair of bright blue eyes watching from somewhere among the tables.
The infuriating man seems to know everyone in the tavern tonight.
At one moment Varka is laughing with a cluster of knights near the hearth. At another he is leaning back in his chair beside a group of adventurers who appear thrilled by the attention. Someone claps him on the shoulder. Someone else pours him another drink. But every now and then, those crystalline blue eyes drift back toward the bar.
Toward you.
You promptly look away.
You have no intention of tossing scraps of attention to a wolf who already believes he has been invited to the feast.
“Well, this is quite interesting.”
The voice arrives beside you like a cat slipping silently onto the counter.
You don’t need to turn to recognize Kaeya, whose talent for locating entertainment in other people’s suffering is well documented across Mondstadt. He settles against the bar with the languid ease of a man who has come here for a very specific purpose, his visible eye flicking between you and Charles with undisguised delight.
Beside him stands Rosaria, her expression as unimpressed as ever. Without so much as asking, she reaches across the counter and lifts a glass, holding it up like she’s deciding whether the contents are strong enough to justify her attention.
They are regular fixtures at the bar by now—faces you see often enough that their habits are as familiar to you as the grain of the wood beneath your hands. Most people would call them an unlikely pair, but you know better. Especially on nights when Kaeya has selected a target for his amusement, and Rosaria has decided the evening might be improved by watching someone else suffer for it.
“What do you want?”
Kaeya gestures loosely toward the other side of the tavern, where Varka has just burst into another round of laughter with his companions. “The Grand Master seems… distracted tonight.”
You slide a mug toward another patron without missing a beat.
Rosaria leans on the counter beside Kaeya, her pale gaze drifting lazily toward the laughing table across the room. “He’s been watching you for the last twenty minutes.”
You frown. “Then he clearly needs a better hobby.”
Kaeya chuckles softly.
“My dear,” he begins, “I believe you are the hobby.”
You fix him with a flat stare. “Order a drink or leave.”
“Alright, alright.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “A glass of dandelion wine, and story about… Ah, what do the kids call it these days? Your… situationship with the Grand Master on the side, please?”
Rosaria snickers into the rim of her glass.
“A ‘situationship’ requires two willing participants,” you tell him flatly. “What you’re witnessing is a persistent pest and a woman trying to earn a living without committing regicide.”
Kaeya doesn’t even flinch. He just leans further onto the polished wood, his single eye dancing with a mirth that makes you want to dump a bucket of ice down his collar. “Regicide? My, we’re thinking big, aren’t we? I didn't realize the Grand Master had already ascended to royalty in your heart.”
“He’s a king-sized headache, if that’s what you mean,” you snap, turning your back to them to reorganize the shelf of colorful liquor bottles.
“Careful,” Rosaria mutters as she stares into the middle distance. “If you keep denying it that hard, you’re going to pull a muscle. The man is practically vibrating over there every time you look in his general direction.”
You ignore her, but your eyes involuntarily flicker toward the reflection in the dark, polished glass of a bottle Charles set on the counter sometime ago. In the distorted surface, you can see the golden blur of him.
Varka is currently gesturing broadly with a meat skewer in one hand and a mug in the other, telling a story while the younger knights are hang on to every word. Even from across the room, you can feel the sheer, gravitational pull of his presence. It isn’t just that he’s the strongest man in Mondstadt; it’s the way he wears that strength like a comfortable old cloak.
Throughout the night, you’ve caught glimpses of him between orders—the way he claps a nervous new recruit on the shoulder hard enough to make the poor boy nearly spill his drink, the way his laughter rolls across the room until even the hearthfire seems to crackle a little brighter for it. There is nothing distant about him. He is not some austere statue looming over the Church of Favonius, nor merely a heroic name preserved in the records of the Knights.
He is flesh and blood, smelling of pine needles and morning dew. And perhaps most dangerously of all, he possesses that terribly human ability to be completely, hopelessly ridiculous.
Then, the reflection shows him turning his head. Those blue eyes find yours—even through the distorted glass—and he offers a slow, knowing wink. Your blood pressure rises immediately.
“He’s doing it again,” Kaeya chirps, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “The ‘Look of Longing.’ Truly, it’s like a romance novel, only with significantly more sarcasm on the protagonist’s part.”
You would have volleyed back with yet another sharp retort, but something in your peripheral vision catches your attention.
“Charles.”
“Yes?” your coworker asks, his voice suspiciously high-pitched. You glance over to see him “polishing” the same spot on the counter for the last three minutes.
“If you don’t stop eavesdropping and go check the back for inventory, I will tell Master Diluc you’ve been giving the Cavalry Captain a ‘loyalty discount’ on his Death After Noon.”
Charles pales, offers a quick, apologetic shrug to your present company, and vanishes into the back room with impressive speed.
You turn back to Kaeya and Rosaria, slamming a fresh napkin down in front of them with enough force to make the wood rattle. “Both of you. Out of my face. Kaeya, your wine. Rosaria, whatever that sludge is you’re drinking. If I hear the word situationship out of either of your mouths again, I’m banning you from the Angel’s Share until the Grand Master actually manages to grow a brain cell. Which, by my calculations, should be somewhere around the next decade."
“So you’re saying there’s a timeline?” Kaeya teases, picking up his glass.
“Get. Out.”
They retreat to a corner table, chuckling like a pair of hyenas. You take a deep breath as you smooth out your apron, and try to regain your composure. You are a professional. You are the best bartender in the city. You do not let overgrown golden retrievers in armor distract you.
Naturally, that’s when a shadow falls over the bar. A very large, very familiar shadow.
“They seemed to be enjoying themselves,” Varka says, his voice a low rumble right in front of you. He’s leaned back against the bar, facing the room but tilting his head just enough to watch you. “What was the joke? I love a good laugh.”
“The joke,” you begin, leaning in until you’re mere inches from his face, relishing the way his pupils dilate just a fraction, “is currently standing right in front of me, asking for more attention than a toddler in a toy shop.”
Varka’s grin doesn't waver. If anything, it sharpens into something dangerously fond. “A toddler, eh? Well, I suppose I do have a certain... youthful energy.”
“You have the impulse control of a slime,” you counter, moving to the other end of the bar.
“But the heart of a lion!” he calls out after you, loud enough for half the tavern to hear. “And that lion is very thirsty for another round, my lady!”
You don’t look back, but you can feel the heat in your cheeks. Barbatos, give me strength, you think, grabbing a bottle with a little more violence than necessary. Or give him a very long expedition to go on.
It turns out that Barbatos has a sense of humor.
The announcement tore through Mondstadt like a gale-force wind. An expedition. A northern crusade into the heart of the Abyss. The city, never one to miss an excuse for a festival, turned the night before the departure into an absolute riot. Angel’s Share was the epicenter of the madness, the air thick with the smell of spilled ale, roasted meat, and the heavy, humid anxiety of a people seeing their strongest protectors march into the unknown.
You were exhausted. You spent the last twelve hours pouring pint after pint for weeping recruits and boisterous knights who were drinking to forget the fear of what lay ahead. But as the clock struck midnight and the tavern began to thin out, the relief you’d been nursing suddenly felt hollow.
Then, the floorboards groaned under a familiar, massive weight.
Varka doesn’t slide up to the bar with his usual swagger. He doesn't offer a witty remark about the quality of the wine or try to bait you into an argument. He just pulls himself onto a stool, his shoulders slumped, his face flushed not just from the drink, but from the weight of a thousand eyes waiting for him to be a hero.
He looks… human. And that is significantly more terrifying than him being an annoyance.
“One more,” the Knight of Boreas mutters, waving a hand vaguely at the tap. His voice is gravelly, stripped of its usual theatrical boom.
You set a mug down, not bothering to ask if he wants his usual. “You’ve had enough. If you fall off your horse tomorrow because you’re nursing a hangover, the entire city will be weeping in the streets.”
Varka lets out a short, dry laugh. He stares down into the golden liquid as if it holds the secrets to the North. “They think I’m going there to win, you know. They think I’ll march in, clear the Abyss, and come back with a victory feast already planned.”
“And won’t you?” you ask, your voice softening despite your best intentions.
He looks up at you then, and the blue in his eyes is muted, weary. “I don’t know what’s out there. I really don’t. We have intel, yes, but the Abyss… it’s not a battlefield you can just charge into. It’s an endless rot that eats at you from the inside-out.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it in a disarray that looks uncharacteristically fragile. “I’m taking the best of our men, and I’m not sure if I’m a leader, or just a man who’s going to get a lot of people killed.”
You freeze. Someone of his position, the pillar of Mondstadt and the Knights, never admits doubt. Certainly not to a cynical bartender. But the truth in his expression is naked, and for the first time, you don't feel the urge to bite back. You don't want to tell him to stop whining.
You lean over the counter, the distance between you shrinking until you can smell the pine and the sharp, fermented tang of the Dandelion Wine on his breath.
“You’re an idiot,” you say, but the sharpness is gone, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve. “You’re an arrogant, loud-mouthed, paperwork-hating idiot. But you’re our idiot. If you go up there and die, there’s nobody left in this city with enough ego to keep the Knights in line. Much less the Abyss.”
Varka blinks, caught off guard by your lack of a sting. He stares at you, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes, his expression shifting into something far more dangerous than his usual teasing flirtation.
“Is that so?” he murmurs.
“Yes,” you press on, forcing your hands to stay steady on the bar. “So don’t you dare go getting yourself killed. Because if I hear that you’ve fallen, I’m going to track down every single barrel of wine we’re sending to your caravan, and I am going to poison the lot of them personally. I’ll make sure your last drink is your worst one.”
Varka laughs, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. It is the first genuine thing you’ve heard all night. He leans forward, closing the final inch of space between you. The air in the tavern seems to vanish, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming heat of him. He looks as if he is going to bridge the gap—as if he is going to press that brash, smiling mouth against yours right here in the middle of the tavern.
Your heart hammers against your ribs, a traitorous, frantic rhythm. You hold your breath, leaning in just a fraction—
Then, he stops.
Varka pulls back, his hand brushing against your knuckles as he pushes himself off the bar. The moment shatters.
“Poison, hmm?” he repeats huskily, his playful mask sliding back into place, though the wolfish grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be sure to come back, then. I wouldn’t want to suffer a bad vintage on my way out.”
The Grandmaster turns and walks toward the door, leaving you standing there clutching a clean rag with white-knuckled intensity, your face burning with a heat that has nothing to do with the hearth.
Come morning, the sun rises over Mondstadt with a clarity that feels almost insulting.
You stand at the very back of the crowd near the city gates, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Varka is mounted on a horse so large it looks like it was plucked from an old legend, his golden hair catching the light as he laughs and waves to the citizens. He is every bit the Knight of Boreas should be—charismatic, unwavering, and draped in bravery in a way that makes people feel they could survive a literal apocalypse just by standing in his shadow.
It’s jarring. You keep looking for the man who leaned over your bar and admitted his fear of leading his men to their doom, but he’s gone, replaced by the invincible Grand Master. You realize then that life in Mondstadt is built on this very illusion. He has to be the most reliable man in the world so that everyone else can sleep at night, even if he's the most annoying man in the world to you personally.
As the caravan disappears into the horizon, a strange, ringing silence settles over the city.
The months that follow are exactly what you spent years praying for: quiet. With eighty percent of the Knights gone, the nights of rowdy drinking songs and Varka’s booming laughter are replaced by the low hubbub of civilian regulars and the occasional group of weary squires-in-training.
Kaeya and Rosaria remain your most consistent—and most irritating—patrons. The Cavalry Captain spends most of his evenings draped over the bar, sighing dramatically about how he “lacks a cavalry to captain”. Rosaria just drinks in silence, though she occasionally shoots you a knowing look when you find yourself staring a second too long at Varka's favorite empty stool.
Even Master Diluc makes more frequent appearances, his presence a somber weight in the room when he isn’t busy playing Darknight Hero under the city’s nose. But despite his outwardly stoic demeanor, your boss is sharper than most people. You can tell he’s well aware of the shift in your mood, and maneuvers around it just as carefully as Charles would, much to your surprise and annoyance.
Because it doesn’t make sense.
This is the monotonous, peaceful life you wanted. No one pestering you. No one calling you “the most beautiful woman in Mondstadt” just to watch you scowl.
So why does it feel so dull?
Oftentimes, you find yourself cleaning the counter with a bit more aggression than necessary, your ears unintentionally straining for a boisterous, unguarded laugh that hasn’t echoed through the rafters in nearly half a year. The king-sized headache is gone, and in his place is a void that makes Angel’s Share feel much larger and colder than it ever has before.
“You've polished that spot three times already,” Kaeya’s voice cuts through your thoughts, smooth as silk and twice as sharp. He leans in, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were actually missing the sound of his voice.”
“I’m missing the revenue his knights brought in,” you snap back, though your hand hitches for a fraction of a second. “Nothing more.”
Yes… This is the truth.
You’ve been praying to be rid of the nuisance that was the Knight of Boreas for Archons know how long. So why is it that when you find a letter neatly tucked beneath the door of your apartment after running errands, your heart nearly skips a beat?
You flip the envelope over, your thumb catching on the rough grain of the parchment. There is no wax seal, and certainly no return address. It’s a plain, unassuming thing that has no business making your chest buzz with this much frantic anticipation.
Your rationality insists it can’t be from him. He never promised to write. Why would he? You spent every waking moment of his presence in Mondstadt pushing him away, meeting his boisterous affection with nothing but barbs and sighs of exasperation.
Still, you don't wait. You unlock your door with trembling fingers, slip inside, and kick the door shut. You don't even take off your cloak before you tear the envelope open.
The handwriting is exactly what you expected: bold, messy, and large enough that it practically marches off the page. It’s the handwriting of a man who is clearly used to handing off his administrative duties to the next poor soul down the hierarchy of the Knights of Favonius.
EXPEDITION REPORT: NORTHERN FRONT
TO: The Most Dangerous Woman in the Angel’s Share
FROM: Your King-Sized Headache
My Lady,
I trust this reaches you before you’ve successfully replaced me with a more manageable regular. If you have, don’t tell me. My heart is already fragile enough from the frost up here.
We’ve finally reached a settlement in a region called Nod-Krai. It sits just a few miles south of the Snezhnayan border. It’s a strange, haunting place—not quite as biting as Dragonspine, but it lacks the golden warmth of Mondstadt’s sun. I find myself looking at the horizon and missing the way the light glitters across Cider Lake.
The Knights are currently settling into our encampment. We’ve made contact with a local group called the Lightkeepers. Stalwart folk, though they don’t laugh nearly as much as we do. But I won't bore you with the logistical nightmares of setting up a garrison in the tundra.
Tell me, have you learned any new mixes while I’ve been away? I find myself inexplicably jealous of every man who gets to sit at your bar and watch you work. I’ve even caught myself staring at our traveling supply of Dawn Winery’s finest and thinking it tastes remarkably flat. It turns out that even the best vintage in Teyvat doesn't compare to a drink served by a sharp-tongued beauty who looks like she’s considering poisoning me.
I don’t expect a reply. A man of my reputation shouldn't be so needy, right? But, should you find yourself bored and holding a pen, I’ve made an... arrangement. If you leave a letter on shelf 12A on the first floor of the Favonius Library and tuck it inside the twelfth tome from the right on the third row, it will find its way to me.
Take care of yourself. And keep that tongue sharp. I’d hate to come home to a polite bartender.
Yours, in exile,
Varka
You stare at the letter for a long minute, the ink blurring slightly as you read his specific, ridiculous instructions for the library. Shelf 12A? The twelfth tome on the third row?
“Idiot,” you mutter.
You toss the letter onto your coffee table with a decisive flick of your wrist. You have no intention of dignifying this with a response. You are not some lovelorn maiden waiting by the window for her knight. You are a professional, and you have a shift starting in four hours.
You leave the letter right where it is, stubbornly clinging to your pride as you move to the kitchen to make tea. You won't write back. You won't.
You stay stubborn for exactly three days.
By the fourth, the silence in your apartment feels loud, and the letter on the coffee table starts to look like a personal challenge that you are much too competitive to set aside.
That is how you find yourself in the Knights of Favonius library during the quiet morning hours when Lisa is busy elsewhere. Shelf 12A. Third row. Twelfth tome from the right. You pull the book—a dry, dusty record of Mondstadt’s civilian taxes from a century ago—and slip your folded parchment into the middle of it.
TO: The “King-Sized Headache” Currently Staining the North
FROM: The Bartender Who Still Has Your Tab Open
Grand Master Varka,
Mondstadt is quiet. It is peaceful. It is, frankly, a relief to work a shift without having to listen to your voice drowning out the sound of the actual music. The only downside is that without your knights around to run up their tabs, the tips have been abysmal. So, for the sake of Angel’s Share’s bottom line, try not to get eaten by a lawachurl.
Nod-Krai sounds miserable. If there’s no sun, I assume you’re currently the color of a blanched radish. Is the food there even edible? I’ve heard rumors that the northerners live on nothing but dried fish and melted snow. If you’ve lost weight, don't expect me to pity you when you get back; you had plenty of “youthful energy” to spare.
And stop being ridiculous. The men in the bar are customers, and unlike some people, they actually know how to order a drink without making a theatrical production out of it. I haven't bothered with any new mixes. Why would I? There’s no one here with a refined enough palate to appreciate them—or a big enough ego to demand them.
Don’t get used to this. I am only writing because the silence in the tavern is making Charles go stir-crazy, and I needed something to occupy my mind while he reorganizes the cellar for the fifth time this week.
Stay warm. If you come back with even a single toe missing, I’m doubling the price of your wine for the next three years. I’m serious, Varka. One piece. Or don't come back at all.
Try not to be an idiot (I know it’s hard),
—The One Who Should Be Paid to Deal With You
The correspondence between you and the Grand Master isn’t what anyone would call “regular.”
It lacks the frantic pace of a romance and the rigid structure of a carefully penned report. Sometimes, his letters sit on your coffee table for weeks, while you go about your life in a city that feels increasingly like a toy box he left behind.
It isn’t always out of spite. Most of the time, it’s simply because life in Mondstadt is… well, Mondstadt. You tell him about the wine yields, the way the wind smells before a storm, and how Charles finally managed to drop a full crate of dandelion wine without breaking a single bottle. Then you read his latest letter. It was filled with accounts of Abyssal skirmishes, diplomatic dances with the Snezhnayan border guards, and the beautifully moonlit landscape of the north. Once you put it down, you feel a sudden, sharp sting of insignificance.
Your life is a quiet tavern; his is a map of the world.
Eventually, you find something worth reporting. You spent three pages detailing the arrival of a golden-haired Traveler and a floating guide who sounds like an over-caffeinated finch.
You write with uncharacteristic fervor about the Stormterror crisis, and how this stranger managed to soothe a dragon that had been part of Mondstadt’s soul since the beginning. You feel a strange sense of pride in delivering the scoop, imagining him reading it in some tent and finally realizing that Mondstadt can produce heroes even when he isn’t there to hog the spotlight.
His response arrives three weeks later.
My Lady, I was touched by your detailed account of our honorary Knight’s exploits. Truly, I was flattered that you went to such lengths to keep me informed. However, Jean’s official report reached me two days prior. Still, I prefer your version—you have a much better way of describing how 'insufferable' the Traveler’s companion is.
You don't reply to that one. In fact, you don't even put it on the coffee table. You shove it into a drawer and sulk for a month, refusing to even walk near the library. The nerve of the man, letting you write your heart out about a national crisis only to tell you he’d already read the “official” version.
But Varka has always been a man who thrives on the impossible—including reading your mood from across a continent.
The Windblume Festival arrives in a flurry of cecilias and dandelion fluff. The air in Mondstadt is sickeningly sweet with romance, and Angel’s Share is packed with couples sharing special Love and Aftermath cocktails. You are mid-pour, your jaw tense from a day of forced customer-service smiles, when the bell above the door chimes with a familiar rhythm.
Kaeya Alberich doesn’t head for his usual stool. He leans over the counter, blocking your path to the tap, with a small, elegantly wrapped parcel held between two fingers.
“Move, Kaeya. I have three orders waiting,” you grumble.
“My, my. Still as prickly as a Whopperflower,” Kaeya hums. “And here I am, acting as a royal messenger at great personal expense to my own social calendar.”
“If you're here to take over being the biggest annoyance in my life while your boss is away, you're doing a stellar job. Now move.”
Kaeya snorts, a genuine sound of amusement. “Oh, I would never dream of it. I know my limits; I’ll never be worthy of that particular title. No, this is a delivery from the Great North.”
Your hand freezes on the tap. You finally look at the parcel. It isn’t flashy—wrapped in sturdy, dark blue paper and tied with a simple leather cord.
“The Grand Master sends his regards,” Kaeya whispers, sliding the package across the wood. “He was quite insistent that it reach you today. Apparently, he’s a stickler for tradition.”
“I don’t want it,” you insist, even as your fingers twitch toward the cord that binds it.
“Of course you don’t. That's why your face is currently the color of a Jueyun Chili,” Kaeya teases, straightening up. “I’ll leave you to your... professional duties.”
When Kaeya is out of sight, you snatch the gift from the counter and, without a word to Charles, retreat into the back room. You tell yourself you’re just checking the inventory. You tell yourself you’re going to throw it in the trash.
Instead, you tear the paper open.
Inside is a small, hand-carved wooden box. When you open it, the scent hits you first—the sharp, clean smell of northern pine. Resting on a bed of dried moss is a single, preserved flower you don’t recognize: a hardy specimen with three jagged leaves. Small, ice-blue crystalline shards cling to the tips like permanent droplets of frozen dew, shielding a central bud that glows with a warm, pale yellow heart. Beside it lies a small, heavy iron coin, its surface polished until it shines like silver.
A note is folded and tucked into the lid.
I’m told it’s Windblume back home. The knights are all busy making fools of themselves writing poetry to girls they haven’t seen in months. I thought about joining them, but I figured you’d find a poem from me even more offensive than my presence.
I found this winter icelea on a ridge overlooking the Abyss. It reminded me of you—stubborn enough to grow in a place where nothing else dares to, and far more beautiful than the pampered flowers in the city square. I also found this coin in an old ruin. It's useless as currency, but it’s heavy and hard to break. Keep it in your pocket; think of it as a weight to keep you grounded until I get back to annoy you in person.
I wish I could be the one dragging you out to the plaza tonight to watch the fireworks, even if you spent the whole time telling me how much of a spectacle I was making. Since I can’t be your date, consider the flower my proxy. Don't let it die out of spite.
Missing the sting of your tongue,
Varka
Your heart doesn’t just flutter; it does a full, traitorous somersault against your ribs. You stare at the tiny, resilient flower, feeling a lump form in your throat that no amount of dandelion wine can wash away. You are furious. You are flustered. You are…
You slam the box shut and march back out to the floor, your face burning.
“Everything alright?” Charles asks, retreating a step at the sheer intensity of your glare.
“Fine,” you bark, grabbing a shaker and snapping it into place with enough violence to startle a nearby table of tourists.
Master Diluc, who is reviewing the ledgers in the corner, looks up. He watches you for a long, silent moment, his red eyes tracking the frantic, slightly-too-fast way you are mixing drinks. He then looks at the corner where Kaeya is smirking into his glass.
Diluc lets out a short, dry exhale—the closest he ever gets to a laugh.
“I didn’t realize the Grand Master’s influence extended to the quality of our service,” Diluc remarks, his voice smooth and deadpan. “Try not to break the glassware. Varka’s ego is expensive enough to maintain; we don’t need to add a replacement fee for the bar equipment.”
“I am perfectly calm!” you hiss, nearly overfilling a glass.
“Clearly,” Diluc replies, returning to his ledger with a ghostly shadow of a smirk.
You spend the rest of the night refusing to look at the back room, even though the weight of the iron coin in your apron pocket feels like a warm hand resting against your hip.
The years have a cruel way of blurring together when the person who defined the noise of your life is replaced by a heavy, echoing silence.
What everyone initially assumed would be a standard display of Mondstadt’s strength has taken on a far more sobering gravity. The expedition into the heart of the Abyss isn't a skirmish; it's a war of attrition. The semi-steady flow of letters that once felt like a game of wits eventually slows, then halts entirely for months at a time. News from the north becomes a rare commodity.
During those long stretches of radio silence, you wonder if he’s cold. You wonder if he has finally met a problem he can't laugh his way out of. But every time your heart begins that traitorous train of thought, you snap out of it with a sharp scowl.
Yet, as Kaeya once noted, Varka is a stickler for tradition. Even when the official reports from the front lines run dry, he never misses the three days of the year that have become the secret pillars of your calendar: the Windblume Festival, Ludi Harpastum, and your birthday.
Each time, a gift arrives. A gem of glowing resin he once called pine amber; a ribbon of silk from a Snezhnayan merchant; a pressed leaf that smells of a forest you’ve never seen. And always, there are the words. He never runs out of them.
“The moon up here is a tempting mistress,” he writes in one particularly late-night scrawl. “She is constant and quiet, a far cry from the rowdy sun of Mondstadt. But don’t worry, my Lady. The sun will always be the hearth in my heart, and you… well, you’ll always be the one holding the poker to the coals. You’re still number one, even if you’re currently several thousand miles away and probably wishing I’d fall into a crevasse.”
By the fourth year of the expedition, the letters have changed you. You’ve developed a habit—one you keep strictly to yourself. On clear nights, after your shift ends and the city is asleep, you climb the long, stone steps leading to the Church of Favonius. You stand at the top of the plaza, beneath the shadow of the great statue of the Anemo Archon, and gaze up at the moon.
You find yourself wondering if it’s the same sky he’s looking at right now, and if the silver light feels as lonely on his skin as it does on yours.
Then comes the day that breaks your carefully maintained composure.
It is a Tuesday—not a festival, not a birthday, just a mundane afternoon at Angel’s Share. One of the knights drops a letter off, and your heart thumps against your ribs at the oddly timed arrival. You tear it open right there at the bar, leaning over the wood as you always do.
You don't even get past the first line.
I’M THINKING ABOUT HAVING YOU SIT ON MY COCK.
SLAM.
The sound of the parchment hitting the bar top is like a gunshot.
Jean, Kaeya, and Diluc, an odd trio who had been sharing a rare, quiet drink together, all jump slightly at the noise. They look at you bizarrely as they take in your state. Your face isn't just red; it is a violent, incandescent shade of crimson that rivals Diluc’s hair.
“Everything alright?” Jean asks, her voice laced with concern.
“I... I need to...” You sputter, unable to form a coherent sentence. Your eyes are wide, and you feel as though you’ve been struck by a bolt of Electro.
“Is that a letter from the North?” Kaeya asks, his voice dripping with a delight that suggests he has already guessed the contents without seeing a single word.
You can't explain it. You can’t tell the Acting Grand Master that her mentor is currently writing smut from a war zone. You can’t tell your boss why you look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.
“Charles?” you call out, your voice cracking.
Your coworker pokes his head out from the back room door. “Yes?”
“Man the bar for me, please,” you choke out, grabbing the letter and clutching it to your chest as if it were a live grenade. “I need to... collect my thoughts. In the back. Now.”
Charles nods, takes your place at front, and you bolt for the storage room, the door swinging shut behind you with a decisive click. You lean against the wood, sliding down until you’re sitting on a crate of wine, and read the rest of the letter with hands that won't stop shaking.
You sink onto the crate, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you stare at that first, heart-stopping line. You force your eyes to move past the initial shock, your breath coming in shallow hitches as you read the rest of the messy, sprawling script.
The tone shifts abruptly. The handwriting, usually bold and steady, becomes a jagged crawl that speaks of exhaustion and something far more clinical.
Forgive the start of this, my Lady. If the ink is smudged, it’s because my hands aren’t quite my own today. We’ve just come through a siege that went sideways. I nearly didn’t make it back to the tent to write the first line. There was a hole in my chest large enough for the northern wind to whistle through, and for a moment, I actually thought Barbatos was finally calling in my tab.
A cold chill that has nothing to do with the storage room air washes over you. Your grip on the parchment tightens.
The only reason I’m still breathing is a woman named Lady Lauma. She’s the leader of the Frostmoon Scions, a group of healers up here whose blood is said to be able to pull any man back from the brink. I’ve spent the last few hours high on whatever concoctions her best healers forced down my throat to keep the pain at bay. That first line? That was the drug-addled honesty of a dying man. I thought about scrapping it once the haze started to lift, but then I realized it was that very thought—the sheer, ridiculous desire to have you exactly where I said—that kept me anchored to my consciousness while they stitched me back together.
You let out a shaky, indignant breath. Even at death's door, the man is an absolute menace.
I won’t be more explicit with the details, lest you decide to pray to Barbatos for a freak hurricane to finish what the Abyss started. But I’ll tell you this, since I’m still too light-headed to lie: I honestly thought the distance would make me less fond of you. I thought the years and the blood and the frost would dull the memory of your scowl. But I have this bad habit of writing to you, and an even worse one of looking forward to your replies. It’s become a fire that’s awfully difficult to kill, no matter how much snow they pile on top of it.
I don’t expect you to return the sentiment. (I know better than to ask for a miracle from a woman who specializes in serving reality on the rocks.) But I’m still looking forward to coming home and seeing that beautiful face of yours, even if it’s currently attached to the sharpest tongue in Mondstadt.
You stare at the page, the silence of the storage room suddenly deafening.
You don’t know what to do with yourself. You want to scream at him for being so reckless, and you want to weep because the thought of that hole in his chest makes your own lungs feel tight. Most of all, you realize that the “situationship” Kaeya joked about years ago has morphed into something you can no longer walk away from.
A soft knock sounds on the door.
“Are you... finished collecting your thoughts?” Charles’s voice is tentative. “Master Diluc is starting to look like he’s going to come back there himself.”
You jump, nearly dropping the letter. You shove it into your apron pocket, smoothing down your hair with trembling hands. You are a professional. You are the best bartender in Mondstadt. You do not let drug-addled confessions from dying giants rattle you.
“I'm coming,” you tell him shakily.
As you walk back out into the tavern, you catch Kaeya’s eye. He’s still smirking, his single eye tracking the way you won't look at anyone. You ignore him, grabbing a bottle of the strongest vintage on the shelf and focusing entirely on the grain of the wood beneath your fingers.
The fire in your chest matches the one Varka described, and for the first time in four years, the silence of the tavern doesn’t feel dull.
It feels like a countdown.
You find the last letter you’ll ever receive from the North tucked beneath your door. It is a plain, nondescript thing, identical to the very first one that started this five-year-long game of cat and mouse.
Inside, there is no sprawling report or drug-addled confession. There is only a single, heavy line of ink that looks as if it were written in a hurry:
We're coming home.
You stare at the four words until they start to lose their meaning. Your first instinct is to scoff—to assume he’s joking, or perhaps simply delusional. The last official word disseminated by the Knights of Favonius was grim; a crisis in Nod-Krai was reportedly reaching a breaking point, a surge of Abyssal activity that threatened to spill over and impact Teyvat as a whole if not contained.
The anxiety of that news had nearly driven you to madness.
You found yourself marching up to the Favonius Library every single day, slipping letter after frantic letter into the old tome on Shelf 12A. You still don’t understand the mechanics of it—Varka never explained how a dusty record of civilian taxes functioned as a trans-continental mailbox, and you never once saw another soul approach that forgotten corner of the library. Yet, without fail, every letter you tucked into those pages disappeared by the next morning. You knew with certainty that he was receiving them.
But now, he claims he and his men are returning.
You keep the scrap of parchment tucked beneath your pillow for a week, a secret weight that keeps you awake at night. You refuse to hold onto hope; five years is a long, agonizing time, and your pride simply cannot handle the crushing blow of a disappointment this large. Even if Varka isn’t
“anything” to you, the thought of his favorite stool staying empty for another year feels like a physical ache.
Then, at the end of the week, the silence in Mondstadt finally breaks.
Acting Grand Master Jean stands before the Church, her voice carrying across the plaza with emotion she rarely allows the public to see. She officially announces that the expeditionary force has successfully contained the threat in the North and is currently marching back toward the city gates.
The city erupts. People are weeping in the streets, bells are ringing from the towers, and Angel’s Share is instantly swamped with patrons wanting to toast to a miracle.
But as you stand behind the bar that evening, a realization hits you like a cold splash of water.
Varka hadn't just sent that note as a courtesy. He had told you first. Before the official messengers reached the city, before the scouts signaled the towers, and before he deigned to inform his own subordinates, he had made sure a letter found its way to your door.
“You look like you've seen a ghost,” Charles remarks as he reaches for a clean towel.
“I’ve seen something much more annoying than a ghost,” you mutter, though you can't quite hide the way your hands are shaking as you reach for a bottle of his favorite vintage. “I've seen the return of a man who doesn't know how to follow a chain of command.”
Charles just grins like he’s in the know. Maybe he always has been.
“Well, at least the tips will improve, right?”
You don’t answer. Your eyes drift toward the door, your heart hammering a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like hope. He’s coming back. And this time, you have five years' worth of sharp-tongued retorts—and one very heavy iron coin you always keep in your pocket—waiting for him.
The day of the festival arrives in a riot of color and noise that Mondstadt hasn’t seen in half a decade.
You stand at the very edge of the plaza, arms crossed tightly over your chest. You’ve spent the morning practicing your “unimpressed” face in the mirror, telling yourself that a five-year absence doesn't excuse the sheer audacity of his letters. You are determined to be the only person in the city not currently sobbing with joy.
Then, the horns sound at the gates.
The crowd surges, a collective gasp rippling through the plaza as the first line of the expeditionary force crests the hill. They are not the shiny, pristine knights who left five years ago. They are rugged and battle-worn, their faces lined with the gravity of what they’ve endured.
But it is the man at the lead who makes your breath hitch.
Varka is mounted on a massive, battle-worn steed, looking every bit the legendary Knight of Boreas. His golden hair is much longer now, tied back in a messy, careless tail that grazes his broad shoulders. He looks older, worn thin by all he’s seen and all he’s survived.
He is scanning the crowd, his blue eyes sharp and searching, cutting through the thousands of faces with a singular focus that makes your heart hammer a frantic, traitorous rhythm.
When his gaze finally lands on you, the transformation is instantaneous.
The legendary commander vanishes, replaced in a heartbeat by the same irritating man who used to wink at you through the reflection of a wine bottle. A slow, lopsided smile spreads across his face—one that says he knows exactly how much you've missed him, even if you’d rather die than admit it.
Varka dismounts before his horse has even fully come to a stop, his heavy boots hitting the cobblestones with a decisive thud. He doesn't wait for the official greeting from Jean; he doesn't wait for the cheers of the citizens. He simply stops ten paces away and opens his arms wide, a silent, arrogant invitation.
The jury can find you guilty later.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, before your pride can gain its footing, you are moving. You break from the crowd, abandoned by your own common sense, and run.
You collide with him with enough force to make his armor clank, your hands fisted into the rough fabric of his cloak as his massive arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off the ground. He smells of pine needles, old parchment, and a warmth that feels like the first day of spring after a century of winter.
"Missed me that much, did you?" he rumbles against your ear.
“I missed having someone to threaten with poison,” you choke out into his shoulder, your voice thick and uncharacteristically fragile. “You're late, you idiot.”
Varka laughs—loud and boisterous and everything you’ve ever loved. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a tenderness that ruins you.
“I told you,” he whispers, his blue eyes burning with a fire no northern snow could kill. “I wouldn't want to suffer a bad vintage on my way out.”
In the background, tucked away near a fountain, Kaeya sighs dramatically as he drops a heavy bag of mora into Rosaria’s outstretched hand.
“I really thought she’d hold out for at least thirty seconds,” Kaeya mutters, looking genuinely disappointed in your lack of resolve.
Rosaria doesn't even look at him, her fingers expertly catching the bag. “Never bet on a woman who’s been staring at an empty stool for five years, Captain. It’s bad for the wallet.”
Diluc, standing a few paces away from the sniveling duo, watches the you and the Grand Master for a long moment. He lets out a short, dry exhale before shaking his head with a quiet sigh.
“Charles,” Diluc says to the man idling next to him, not taking his eyes off the scene. “Get the good bottles ready. It’s going to be a very long night.”
✦ afterword. you made it til the end! congratulations <3 just a psa that i haven't played through varka's quest yet + this is not proofread, so if there are any inconsistencies and mistakes, i apologize LOL it has also been a while since i've written a story for shits and giggles and fortunately mr grand master himself is the perfect muse for a piece like this. thank you so much for reading, i hope you liked it!
Hiii! May I request Male!Rover saving non-Resonator S/O from an ambush by Tacet Discords? Or maybe making sure his S/O is okay after saving them?
Thank you and I hope you're having a good day! ✌️
M!Rover x reader
Warnings: small injuries
Summary: You had an expedition to complete, but there was no one to help you, so you took everything into your hands.
A/N: hope you like it <3
The day was not going your way. Times like these always made you feel useless. But still, you didn’t let those thoughts get the better of you. As a researcher at the Huaxu Academy, you were sometimes sent out to collect materials for upcoming research—but the assignments were never too far from the academy, since you were a non-Resonator.
You often wished you had the same powers your colleagues possessed. They never struggled with fieldwork like you did. And today, it seemed like fate had made up its mind to make your life harder than ever. You needed the materials by tomorrow morning, and it was already 5 PM. The trip would take at least six hours if you were lucky.
You had tried asking around, hoping someone could take the task off your hands. But no one was available. Half the researchers had been sent to the site of a massive Tacet Discord attack, and the other half were stuck inside the academy, drowning in leftover assignments.
You were out of options. But then, you remembered.
There was still one person you could ask.
Rover.
You felt your stomach twist with embarrassment just thinking about it. Still, you couldn’t afford to get fired or yelled at by your superiors again. Swallowing your pride, you made your way home.
As you stepped into your shared apartment, you were met with the sight of a clearly exhausted Rover. He looked like he was about to head out.
“Are you leaving?” you asked, trying not to sound too disappointed.
Rover didn’t even raise his head. He was focused on tying his shoes faster. “Yeah. There was another Tacet Discord attack. The general asked me to assist them and who am I to disagree?”
“Oh…”
You were absolutely cooked. This was your last shot and it was gone.
After finishing up, Rover finally looked at you. “If everything goes as planned, I should be back by midnight. Maybe a bit later.” He reached for the door handle.
You panicked slightly. “I… I’ll also be back by then. There’s a research project I need to finish.”
He paused for a moment, looking at you with a small smile. “Don’t stay out too long,” he said gently before slipping out the door.
“You too…” you mumbled, though he was already gone.
Now there were truly no options left.
It was just you, yourself and you alone.
Perfect.
Time felt like it was flying faster than ever, as it always did when you were racing against it. You scrambled to grab everything you needed for the expedition and practically jumped into your shoes. There was no time to waste, you had to get back before Rover returned. If he found out, you’d be in for a long, exhausting lecture.
Just the thought made your back shiver.
Finally, you stepped out of the house. The sunset painted the sky in brilliant hues, golden hour, as people liked to call it. You paused just long enough to check the time.
Five hours left.
Definitely not enough. But somehow, you had to make it work.
“Stop right there!”
A guard’s shout snapped you out of your thoughts.
“Do you have permission to leave? It’s dangerous out there!”
With a heavy sigh, you handed over your clearance card, official permission to leave the city. But even with that, the guard kept trying to convince you to stay inside. The Tacet Discord threat had everyone on edge.
What a waste of time. You didn’t even want to know how many precious minutes had been lost arguing with him.
Eventually, you made it past the gates and into the wild. After about an hour of walking, you were finally halfway to your destination. But today was tougher than usual, Tacet Discords were more active, more alert. Sneaking around them took twice the effort.
By the time you had gathered everything you needed, you were drenched in sweat and utterly drained. You checked the time again.
One hour left.
You were going to be late. No doubt about it.
Picking up your pace, you carefully made your way back, trying to stay hidden in the shadows. The darkness around you made everything feel more threatening. You could hear the Tacet Discords, but couldn’t see them.
You didn’t stop.
Your eyes stayed locked ahead. Just keep moving.
Then it happened.
A sudden gust of wind brushed past your head.
Thunk.
You froze.
That was no wind. That was an arrow.
Slowly, you turned around, dread sinking in your stomach like a stone.
There they were.
Two massive Tacet Discords, looming in the darkness.
Rover’s POV:
A tired smile lingered on his face. The mission was finally over.
Now, standing with the general and going over the final report, Rover’s mind had already wandered elsewhere. He could barely focus. All he could think about was getting home to you. The image played in his head like a comforting dream: the two of you collapsing onto the couch after a long day of work, maybe sharing a hot meal, saying nothing but enjoying each other’s presence. That thought alone gave him the motivation to wrap everything up as quickly as possible.
After finishing his debrief, he left without wasting a second, walking back toward the city gates. As he approached, he noticed a small group of guards gathered near the entrance, whispering urgently to each other. Their faces looked tense, concerned.
They barely noticed him at first. It wasn’t until he passed by them that one of the guards finally called out.
“Mister! Wait!”
Curious, Rover turned around to face them. “What is it?”
One of the guards jogged up to him, out of breath. “Did you, by any chance, come across a female researcher on your way back? She left about six hours ago and still hasn’t returned.”
Rover went completely still.
Six hours ago?
His heart sank. A cold, uneasy feeling spread through his chest.
You had mentioned earlier that you had research to finish, but you hadn’t said where. And you’d also said you'd be back around midnight.
His voice dropped low. “Do you know where she went?”
The guard hesitated. Rover stepped closer and grabbed him by the shoulder, locking eyes with an intensity that made the guard flinch. “Where did she go?”
“N-near the Central Plains,” the guard stammered. “A little past that - close to the Desorock Highlands. That’s what was written on her assignment board. But-“
The guard didn’t get to finish his sentence.
Rover was already gone.
His feet moved on instinct, muscles moving him forward fast. His mind was racing just as quickly.
‘Why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Why would she go that far alone?’
‘What was she thinking?’
His breath grew louder, harsher. He didn’t even notice. The only thing he noticed now was the forest blurring past him, the distant cries of Tacet Discords, and the mounting pressure in his chest.
Anything that dared to stand in his way didn’t last long. Tacet Discords that wandered too close were dealt with swiftly, almost automatically. He wasn’t paying attention to the fight. Only to the path.
Time blurred. He couldn’t tell how long was he running. He didn’t care.
He was going to find you.
No matter what.
Your pov:
Your heart pounded in your chest, wild and unsteady. You could barely think straight, breathing ragged, limbs running on instinct.
But every step you took seemed to only make things worse. The Tacet Discords were multiplying. More and more had caught on to your presence, and now it wasn’t just two chasing you, it was a whole group. You didn’t dare look back to count how many.
Your knees were scraped and bruised, your clothes dirtied, your entire body slick with sweat. Exhaustion weighed down every move, and every breath burned your lungs. There was no way, absolutely no way you could lead these monsters back toward the city.
Your vision blurred. You wished this would end. You couldn’t keep running. Everything ached. Your legs felt like jelly, and you were sure they’d be swollen by morning.
Just as you reached a corner of a crumbling old building, hoping to lose them with a sharp turn, a flash of steel nearly grazed your face. A sword, so close you could hear the sharp whistle of air it sliced through, it almost cut your head off. You barely managed to dodge, but the movement made you lose your balance.
You slipped and crashed hard onto your back.
Dazed, you lifted your head and froze.
Bright golden eyes stared down at you.
There was a pause, a tense silence that lasted just long enough for your shame to creep in. Then, finally, he spoke and he did not sound happy.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
Rover stormed toward you, voice sharp with anger. Before you could even answer, he reached down and yanked you back to your feet.
“Do you have a death wi—”
He didn’t get to finish. The same Tacet Discords that had been hunting you down had finally caught up.
Rover immediately pulled you behind him, positioning himself between you and the oncoming threat. His body tensed, sword already drawn. He didn’t need words to make it clear - he was furious.
And he wasn’t going to let this one slide.
You stood in silence, barely able to breathe as you watched him move. His strikes were clean, fast, and brutal. The creatures didn’t stand a chance.
You were already trying to think of excuses.
When the last Discord finally fell, Rover slowly turned back to you, placing his blade in its place.
“Are you injured?” he asked, voice calmer now but still edged with frustration.
You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “No…”
It was humiliating. You hated feeling weak and standing in front of someone like him, someone so capable and strong, only made it worse. He was respected, admired by those in high positions. And you? You’d just caused more trouble than you were worth.
You felt a warm hand rest gently on your shoulder.
“Let’s go home.”
You still didn’t look up. You knew the moment your eyes met his, you’d see disappointment and that would hurt more than any scolding.
As the city gates came into view, you finally whispered, “I’m sorry…”
Rover let out a slow sigh, his gaze softening.
“I still don’t get it,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Or at least ask someone else to go with you? No… what I really want to know is why today of all days?”
He glanced at you again, eyes catching the exhaustion on your face, the slight limp in your steps. You were trying to hide it, but he noticed.
And just like that, you were off the ground.
Your eyes widened in shock as he effortlessly lifted you into his arms. “H-Hey!”
Now forced to look up at him, your eyes met his for the first time. His golden gaze burned into yours, but not with anger. Not anymore. His frown had softened into a smirk.
“You don’t have to carry me. I can walk,” you mumbled, flustered.
“Sure,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “The only thing you can do when I’m not around is run straight into trouble. So, sorry, but tonight, I’m not letting you go.”
The rest of the night passed quietly.
Well, after the inevitable scolding and the careful patching up of your injuries, of course.
But once that was done, it was just the two of you again lost in your own little world. Sharing soft words, quiet glances, and the comfort of each other’s presence.
The next morning?
Let’s just say Rover had quite a thorough conversation with your superiors.
Can I request something similar to the Little Mermaid where Brant is the mermaid in question and the reader is the human 😭🫶🏻
Thank you so much for giving us the opportunity to request btw!!
Brant x reader
Warnings: mentions of alcohol, reader is in danger
Summary: You stole from pirates to survive, but unfortunately you get caught. This event leads you to the mermaid that will save you twice. What else is the mysterious mermaid hiding?
A/N: I will be honest, i had no idea what to write about for this request, the only thing that I knew is to make Brant a mermaid 😭 I’m sorry, I didn’t make the story how you wanted, but I hope this one is atleast a bit interesting to read.
It was a cold, angry evening. The wind howled through the empty sky—no birds, no sun, just darkness creeping over the restless ocean. On any other night, you might have admired the eerie beauty of it. But not now. Not while you were being dragged across the rough ground, struggling against the iron grip of three men.
You kicked and thrashed, desperate to break free. You had messed with the wrong people, and now you were fighting for your life, teetering on the edge of a cliff, staring down at the crashing waves below.
"Let me go!" Your voice cracked with panic. Regret twisted in your gut. Stealing had been your only way to survive—just a little food, just enough to keep going. But now? Now it had led you here.
A sharp yank forced you to your feet, the men keeping a firm grip on your arms as they shoved you forward. The ocean roared beneath you, hungry and unforgiving.
"You should’ve known better than to steal from pirates," one of them sneered. "Look where it got you."
Another shove. Your heels scraped the edge.
"I gave it back!" you pleaded, turning to face them with wide, desperate eyes. "It was a mistake—I was desperate! Please..."
Your words barely had time to sink in before a boot slammed into your chest.
The world tilted.
Then, cold.
The ocean swallowed you whole.
The impact knocked the air from your lungs, the icy water shocking your body. You fought against the pull of the waves, kicking, clawing your way to the surface.
Breaking through, you gasped for air, your eyes stinging from salt and panic. The sea churned around you, dragging you up and down with the towering swells. You tried to spot land, a rock—anything—but there was nothing. Just sheer cliffs too slick to climb and endless, merciless water.
Hopelessness crept in.
Your limbs ached. The cold seeped deep into your bones. Tears blurred your vision, mixing with the saltwater. You couldn't fight anymore.
A single tear slipped down your cheek as the waves pulled you under.
And then—darkness.
You felt heat on your face. Your throat was dry, and your entire body ached. Faint sounds reached your ears—birds? That couldn’t be right. You were sure you were dead.
You tried to open your eyes, but the harsh sunlight made it nearly impossible. Something was bothering you—an odd sensation—but it was hard to focus. A second later, awareness flooded your body. That’s when you realized someone was poking you.
Annoyed, you slowly pushed yourself up into a sitting position. Your head throbbed, your heart pounded, and your eyes stayed clenched shut against the brightness.
“Wakey wakey! The world says hello. Time to start an adventurous day and do something useful!”
Your eyes snapped open, despite the sun’s glare. You turned your head—and froze.
There was a man next to you. Shirtless. You couldn’t help but glance downward, only to be hit with a sight that made your blood run cold.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” you yelled, scrambling back, though your sore body protested every movement.
“Now, now, no need to scream, my dear friend,” he said calmly, smiling like none of this was weird. “What’s gotten you so surprised?”
“The tail…” you muttered, your eyes locked onto it. “It’s either a dream or I’m actually dead.”
It shimmered in the sunlight, every scale reflecting a glint of color. It was beautiful—too beautiful. But also completely impossible. Mermaids weren’t real.
“You wound me,” he said with a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his heart. “And here I thought I might at least get a little ‘thank you.’ You would’ve drowned if it weren’t for my kind and heroic gesture.”
His hands moved wildly as he spoke—he was clearly theatrical by nature.
“You saved me?” you asked, relief flooding your chest. “So I’m not dead?”
“Nope. Alive and breathing.” He grinned. “You were out cold all night. I got bored of waiting, so I started poking you. You really are a deep sleeper.”
He launched into a rambling explanation, but you could barely concentrate. Your eyes were still glued to the tail. It was mesmerizing.
How many people even know mermaids exist? you wondered.
“Are you even listening?” he interrupted, snapping you out of your thoughts.
“What?”
“I was asking your name. Mine’s Brant.” He extended a hand toward you.
“Y/N,” you said quietly, shaking it.
He held your hand a moment too long, as if wanting to ask something but hesitating. Eventually, your hands parted.
After a brief pause, he picked the conversation back up. “So… how exactly did you end up in a situation like this? Not that I’m complaining, of course—I did get to rescue a damsel in distress!”
Despite yourself, you laughed. The tension between you began to ease. You ended up talking for hours. You told him everything, even the parts that embarrassed you. There was something comforting about him—something easy.
Brant shared bits about himself too, though he kept things vague. Still, it was enough to keep you curious.
Eventually, the sky turned dark. Silence settled in for a moment before you finally asked, “Where are we, anyway?”
“We’re still on the same land,” he replied, stretching. “Just the other side of it. Are you planning to go back?”
You looked out at the darkening ocean. “I can’t stay here forever. And yeah… it’s getting late.” You paused. “Thanks again for saving me.”
“No problem at all, my lady,” he said with a smile, but something flickered in his eyes—hope, maybe? “Though I do hope we meet again, under better circumstances.”
You giggled and shook your head. “Of course. Thank you once again.” You smiled at him. “Until we meet again.”
You gave him a small wave and turned to leave, the memory of his voice and that shimmering tail lingering in your mind.
You returned to your small, cheap apartment and collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion finally taking hold. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the memory of your new, unexpected friend. It was still hard to process the fact that mermaids—mermaids—were real. If you weren’t so drained, you doubted you’d have been able to sleep at all.
The next day arrived, but it was already afternoon by the time you stirred. You remained motionless in bed, the heat growing unbearable as sunlight poured in through the window. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open.
You stared at the wall, yesterday’s events replaying in your mind. Was it a dream? you wondered. You sat up, your muscles stiff and sore. Maybe it was real after all…
You dragged yourself to the bathroom and stood under a long, much-needed shower. The hot water helped a little, but your stomach soon reminded you of another problem—you needed food.
You rummaged through the kitchen, only managing to find scraps. You needed a job. Fast. After everything that had happened, the last thing you could afford was getting caught again. Next time, you might not be so lucky.
You waited until the sun dipped lower in the sky and the heat became more bearable before stepping outside. You wandered around town, aimlessly at first, then more deliberately, scanning for any opportunity.
As you passed a noisy tavern, something caught your eye—posters stuck to the wall near the entrance. Curious, you stepped closer.
“Looking for a bartender,” you read aloud. Perfect, you thought and pushed open the tavern door.
As you stepped inside, every pair of eyes turned to you. You kept your head high and walked toward the bar, suddenly hyper-aware of every step. One man sat with a wide grin on his face, though his eyes were hidden beneath a colorful hat. Several empty beer glasses littered the table in front of him, his legs lazily crossed and propped up. He could’ve been mistaken for asleep—if not for that smile.
You reached the bar and tried to speak to the bartender, but a slurred voice cut you off.
“Well, well, well… I knew I’d seen you somewhere before,” the voice said mockingly. “Little thief.”
Your head snapped in the direction of the sound, and your heart dropped.
In the corner, half-hidden by shadows, sat the pirates—the same ones who tried to kill you.
Your breath caught. This wasn’t just terrifying—it was humiliating. You weren’t sure what would be worse: being killed again, or being killed here, in front of everyone, like some pathetic spectacle.
One of them stood and began staggering toward you.
“I thought we had you for real,” he said with a laugh. “How did you manage to survive? Let me guess—a prince with a tail saved the day?” He turned to his companions, pointing at you. “Ain’t that funny, fellas?!”
They roared with laughter as the drunken one stepped closer, barely able to keep his balance.
“Well, ‘damsel in distress,’ I hate to break it to you, but thieves usually don’t get off easy. Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood. How would you like to choose your punishment?”
You stood frozen, glaring into his bloodshot eyes, your teeth clenched. No one would help you. No one defended thieves.
Suddenly, before you could move, a blade slid up to your neck.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Tears welled in your eyes. This was beyond humiliating—everyone staring, laughing, while you stood there, helpless.
“I made a mistake,” you said quietly, your voice trembling. “But I gave everything back. You already had your revenge. I was lucky to survive. And now you’re humiliating me all over again—in public.”
For a second, he was silent, surprised. Then he burst out laughing.
“Are you begging for mercy?!” His friends howled again.
You narrowed your eyes. “Honestly, it’s probably more embarrassing to beg for your forgiveness than to die in front of everyone.”
That struck a nerve.
His smile vanished. “What did you just say?” He leaned in close, hand reaching for your hair—but someone grabbed his wrist before he could touch you.
“Now, now,” a calm voice said. “No need for violence, dear sir. I’m sure you’ve already done enough to make her feel ashamed. Why don’t—”
He didn’t get to finish. A sword came flying at him—but he blocked it just in time.
He let out a low whistle. “Not bad. Pretty strong… but a bit slow.”
The pirate’s face twisted in fury. “Do you have a death wish?”
And then the man turned to you.
No way. No freaking way.
It was Brant.
Standing. On legs.
You didn’t even have time to process it before metal clashed in front of your face. Brant had blocked the next attack.
The pirate stepped back, reaching for a second sword.
Brant used the pause to lean close to you. “Sorry, my lady. But you’ll want to take a few steps back.”
He gently moved you aside by the waist as the pirate lunged again.
“Come on then, pirate. Let’s give these fine people a proper show!”
He was enjoying this.
The fight began in earnest. But Brant didn’t just fight—he danced. Dodging with flair, parrying with dramatic spins. He wasn’t just trying to win—he was trying to humiliate.
The older pirate was quickly out of breath, panting hard.
“What? Is that all you’ve got?”
“I’LL KILL YOU!” the pirate roared, charging.
But he was too slow now. Brant slipped behind him and knocked him out with the back of his sword. The tavern went dead silent.
Brant turned to the other two pirates.
“Anyone else want a turn?”
They stared at their unconscious captain for a long moment, then slowly stood, grabbed him, and dragged him out without a word.
You remained frozen, stunned. Not only was Brant a mermaid—he could turn human. And apparently, he was also a ridiculously skilled fighter.
Brant strolled over to you, grinning.
“Did you enjoy the show, my dear lady?” he said with a dramatic bow.
You stared at him for a second, then grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the tavern, ignoring the stunned crowd.
“What was that?!” you hissed once outside. “Why didn’t you tell me you could turn into a human?!”
“Don’t be mad, my dear,” he said, pouting theatrically. “I would have told you—eventually. But aren’t you glad I showed up? I saved you again! What an honor!” He shut his eyes and struck a pose. “Don’t I deserve a kiss for this dramatic entrance?”
You groaned. “What are you even doing here?!”
“Can’t a man go out, grab a drink or two, and just happen to rescue a beautiful woman?” He smirked. “Sounds like a perfect evening to me.”
You looked at him, exasperated. “Is there anything else I don’t know about you that could shock me?”
He only smirked wider. “That, my princess, is a surprise… reserved for another dramatic rescue.”
Then he took your hand and kissed it with a flourish.
Summary: You are a loner living a boring, peaceful life. Your best friend is different and you always were a tiny bit jealous. New school, new city changed your life. Meeting wrong people, getting bad influence and finally getting what you wanted. How will that effect your relationship with parents, friends and most of all - Phainon?
A/N: There will be more parts.
Some people might cringe reading this, some might enjoy, the opinions will be different, but the main topic is how a person can change. Please leave a note, and express your opinion of the story so far :)
Also yes there will be a lot of oc’s for side characters , because I don’t like shipping characters.
At school, you weren’t the best student, but you weren’t the worst either. Your grades were decent—not the highest, but not low. To put it simply, your life was peaceful. You had a few close friends, one of them being Phainon. Your mothers were best friends, which naturally led to the two of you becoming close from birth.
Phainon was different from you. He was an extrovert, effortlessly getting along with everyone. He knew how to keep a conversation going, and with his good looks and athletic physique, he attracted plenty of admirers. Girls swooned at the sight of him, and Valentine's Day brought a flood of love letters. His popularity opened doors to parties, late-night meetups, after-school plans, and more. Yet despite his eventful life, he never neglected his schoolwork. His grades were slightly better than yours, but he never teased you about it. Yes, he was well-liked, but that didn’t change who he was—he cared for his friends, never mocked others, and always offered help when needed.
Still, you couldn’t deny feeling at least a little jealous. You only went out with friends on Fridays and Saturdays, and sometimes, you spent an entire weekend at home because your small circle of friends was too busy to meet up. You were a teenager, and of course, you wanted to experience the kind of life you saw others posting about on social media—girls dressing up for Friday nights, dancing, having fun with their friends. Meanwhile, you sat at home, scrolling through your phone out of boredom.
You talked with Phainon about this once, and he told you there was nothing to be jealous of. He even said he’d rather you stay at home than be where he was. You weren’t sure what he meant by that—he was probably just trying to make you feel better.
The two of you were close, having spent your childhood together. Your mothers often joked about you getting married one day, which only made you both stick out your tongues in mock disgust. Family dinners on Fridays became a tradition, one that continued to this day.
But a few days ago, at one of those dinners, your parents dropped a bomb of information —you were moving to a bigger city. You and Phainon were far from thrilled. The evening was ruined for both of you, but you didn’t complain. The city wasn’t too far away; a 40-minute bus ride would bring you back to visit your friends. And, of course, if anything went wrong, you had Phainon.
If only you knew how much your life was about to change…
Walking around your new school felt like being in a prison. At first, you sat with Phainon everywhere, but of course, it didn’t take him long to make new friends. After a few days, he asked if he could sometimes sit with them. He introduced you to his new friends, but you just didn’t click with them. That left you alone most of the time whenever Phainon was with others.
The school was much bigger than your old one. The students were stylish, moving in tight-knit friend groups. The hallways were loud—there was always some troublemaker getting yelled at by the principal, while others hid in their secret spots, sneaking cigarettes. And the girls… well, it was clear this school had its own version of the classic "mean girl" trio.
They were gorgeous, always making sure they looked their best. They carried themselves with confidence—not outright mean, but their glances spoke volumes. They were never alone, always surrounded by their own exclusive group.
The worst part? The blonde one had her eyes on you.
One day in history class, she stared at you—not in a rude way, but with amusement, as if she was plotting something . Unsettled, you quickly broke eye contact and turned to Phainon, starting a conversation as if nothing had happened.
“Were you even listening?”
The question snapped you out of your thoughts, making you look up at Phainon with a sheepish smile.
“As I was saying, there’s this girl—a friend of mine. She wants me to introduce you to her. I really hope you two get along.”
I smiled at him. He was worried. He knew you hadn’t adjusted to this school yet—at least, not in the sense of finding your people or your place. He had tried introducing you to some of his other friends, but you always ended up feeling left out.
“We’ll see,” you said with a shrug. “But I’m not going to force anything. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t given up on me yet.”
Phainon chuckled. “No, but seriously—sometimes I feel like you’re doing this on purpose. How are you still not used to this place? Don’t tell me you’re trying to convince your parents to move back. That’s impossible.”
“I know, I’m not an idiot. But you are,” you teased, pulling your things out to prepare for class. “Your dumbness attracts people because you make them laugh. That’s why it’s so easy for you.”
“There’s no way you just said that.” Phainon gasped dramatically, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’m actually smarter than your brain-rotted self.” He leaned in closer, grinning. “I think people see you as a zombie that—”
You smacked him with your pencil case before he could finish.
The rest of the break passed with you and Phainon making fun of each other, bickering over something dumb. But every now and then, you could feel the blonde girl glancing at you. You tried to ignore it.
Soon, the lesson started, and you focused on making it through. Only one more class to go after this, and then you’d be free. When the bell rang, you sighed in relief—just one more hour and you could leave this place.
Outside, in the school parking lot, the sound of revving engines filled the air. Upperclassmen showed off their cars and motorcycles, while others were simply trying to get home. You glanced out the window and spotted Phainon already outside, nodding at his friends as they showed off their cars. With a quiet sigh, you grabbed your bag and headed to your next class.
Phainon was skipping the last lesson—his football coach had scheduled practice earlier today. Which meant you were alone again. You sat by the window, daydreaming to make time pass faster.
Then, you felt a presence beside you.
Turning your head, you saw two people smiling at you—a girl and a boy.
The girl had dark brunette hair, cut into a messy wolf cut. She didn’t wear makeup to conceal her skin, but her waterlines were darkened with black eyeliner. She wore a brown tank top, a black jacket, and slightly baggy blue jeans.
The boy, on the other hand, was clearly not straight. He had a softer look, his clothes light and coordinated—matching jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black jacket.
“Heyyy,” the guy grinned, extending a hand toward you. “You’re new here, right? We thought it’d be nice to get to know each other. I’m Ryder, and she’s Luna.”
Luna smiled. “I hope you’re sitting alone.”
Dumbfounded, you nodded slowly. “Yeah.” You met her gaze, and for a moment, there was silence.
“Ohh! Y/N, by the way,” you blurted, finally shaking Ryder’s hand, which had been hanging in the air for a bit too long.
“Sooo, Y/N, where are you from? Have you made any friends yet? What do you think about this school?”
Ryder was definitely a yapper.
The break flew by as he chattered away. Eventually, he had to leave—he didn’t have this class—so you were left with Luna. She liked to talk too, though not as much as Ryder. By the end of the lesson, you had exchanged numbers, and for the first time, you could say you had made your first friends.
After school, you said goodbye to Luna and headed outside. Phainon had asked you to meet him at the football field so you could go home together. You were lucky—he had turned eighteen last month and gotten his first car, which meant no more walking home.
When you arrived at the field, you found a bench in a quiet spot where you wouldn’t be noticed right away. Looking around, you saw a few people waiting—some for their friends, others for their partners. And then you saw her.
The blonde girl.
She sat with her two friends, giggling. Behind them were two guys, probably friends too.
You must have stared too hard because she turned to you—and smiled.
Her smile was… nice. Maybe you had been wrong about calling her a mean girl.
Panic set in when she stood up and started walking toward you.
“Hello,” she said, looking you straight in the eyes. Confidence radiated off her. Behind her, the other two girls were watching closely, analyzing the interaction. The guys were whispering to each other, grinning like idiots, clearly entertained by whatever their friend was planning.
“Uh—yes?” you stammered.
She tilted her head. “Are you waiting for someone?”
Embarrassed, you nodded. “Yes, Friend. I mean—I’m waiting for a friend.” Keeping eye contact with her was harder than it should have been. Something about her made you nervous, like you didn’t want her to know how much of a loner you really were. Like you wanted to seem more interesting.
“Aaa, a friend.” She looked amused. “Who’s your friend?”
“Phainon.”
Her smile widened slightly, her interest piqued.
“Ah, Phainon,” she said, as if the name meant something to her. “Yeah, I’ve seen you two sitting together. Are you close?”
She didn’t seem like a mean girl at all, so you answered honestly.
“Well, yeah. We’re childhood friends.” You smiled nervously.
“Aww, that’s cute,” she said, sounding genuinely excited. “Why don’t you come sit with us? It must be lonely sitting here by yourself.”
And just like that, an opportunity presented itself.
Not just any opportunity—an invitation from the popular crowd.
You didn’t know what made her come talk to you, but you weren’t about to miss this chance.
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