Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     The bells of Mondstadt rang bright and clear, scattering sunlight across the cobbled streets. The city pulsed with life: children darted between market stalls, merchants shouted cheerful bargains, banners flapped like wings in the wind, and sightings of the Acting Grandmaster chasing a child with a bomb filled the gossip forums of the day.

Inside the Cathedral, Dahlia, deacon of the Church, stood at the altar. His robes catching the sun through the stained glass molded into the appearance of the anemo archon. He lifted his voice, rich and dramatic, carrying over the congregation:

“Great Barbatos, god of freedom, who fills our sails and lifts our hearts, bless this city with joy, laughter, and safety. Let no chain bind us, and no shadow dampen our spirit!”

The people responded with a chorus of “Amen!”—laughter slipping between their words as they got up to leave for the day. Children skipping over to one another, their parents already getting lost in conversation, and the knights of Favonius already chatting amongst themselves about what the day may bring. Dahlia’s chest swelled with pride. Yes. This is what it should feel like—lightness, music, freedom!

Yet, even in the midst of this joy, a sour twitch of irritation curled in his stomach. The upper clergy murmured behind him, whispering about “careless devotion” and “improper celebration.” Dahlia flung his hands to the air, unable to contain a theatrical sigh.

“Oh, the chains of decorum! The weight of pious heads pressed upon me!” The deacon muttered under his breath, loud enough to make a few of the Sisters snicker. How can they breathe in joy and call it disorder? It’s Barbatos we worship, he’s not exactly known for being uptight!! Have they not seen his attire??

A ripple of laughter carried from the square outside. Dahlia strode toward it, flourishing his robes as if in a stage play. At the fountain below Barbatos’s statue, a crowd had gathered around a bard with a lyre. His voice rang teasing and bright:

“Oh, the Lawrences strut in their velvet and lace,
But stumble and tumble all over the place!
With noses so high, they cannot see the street,
So mind where you step, or you’ll trip on their feet!”

The crowd around him roared with delight. Dahlia smiled as he sauntered over, clutching his chest and swaying dramatically. “Oh, sweet chaos! A bard mocking nobles in broad daylight! If only the Church could see their folly!” He twirled on the cobblestones, drawing a few amused glances from passersby. He couldn’t condone the bards actions per se, but oh it amused him so much to catch the angered glances of the nobles of the Lawrence Clan. And the church was so…stifling, he couldn’t help but mock the clergy!! 

Then, of course, the fun couldn’t last. High Priest Corvin appeared, robes stiff, expression as sharp as a blade, and rigid with a rage only a sour old man like him could produce.

“You!” Corvin barked, pointing at the bard. “This insolence will not be tolerated in the shadow of the cathedral! Move along, or face the consequences of your arrogance!” He hissed.

Dahlia gasped, clutching his chest like a wounded actor. “Alas! The tyranny of propriety! The tyranny of… order!” he moaned, throwing his hands to the sky, leading to the amused giggling of the crowd behind him. “Oh how you wound me, dear Corvin! This is the city of freedom, is it not? At least I’m not singing about you today~” the bard cooed as the crowd giggled and agreed. The church, try as they might to keep a tight reign in Mondstadt, always failed. The people did not fear them, and the Grandmaster Varka always kept them in check. Even with him being gone, his daughter had stepped up to the mantle to keep the clergy in line.

Dahlia stepped back, sighing in contentment. Corvin was by far the most up right member of the clergy. Dahlia and some of the sisters even had a bet on when the stick in his ass would fall out, and he’d loosen up a little. 

“Think of the consequences, bard.” Corvin hissed. The bard laughed, twirling away. “Consequences? I merely sing what everyone sees. If your noses are too high to notice, that’s not my fault!”

Dahlia stepped forward, voice ringing with mock indignation: “Corvin, you wound us!! Are we not allowed to have a little fun? It’s not like you have the authority to ban it~”

And then the bard’s gaze met his—teal eyes flashing with something Dahlia could not name. A shiver ran through him. “You look like a man who could use a song instead of a sermon,” the bard said, voice teasing yet gentle.

Dahlia smiled in response  “Is that an invitation to your next show, dear bard?”

”Maayyyyybeeeeee~”

The crowd laughed as the bard vanished, leaving coins and applause in his wake. Dahlia adjusted his robes with a dramatic flip, rolling his eyes at the High Priest Corvin. “Really, you should try smiling sometime,” he muttered, voice dripping with sass. “It does wonders for the complexion.”

Corvin’s lips thinned. “Deacon Dahlia.” His glare could have cut glass. “This city is not a theater for your mockery.”

Dahlia grinned. “Oh, but it is—the whole city sings and dances, doesn’t it? Maybe I’m just keeping pace.” He flounced toward the fountain, following the retreating crowd, giving one exaggerated shrug to the merchants who were trying not to laugh.

Amid the chatter, Dahlia caught snippets of conversation from a small cluster of cloaked figures hovering near the cathedral steps—familiar, sharp-faced members of the upper clergy.

“…the bard again,” one whispered.
“…mocking the Lawrences in broad daylight,” another said, voice low, bitter.
“…he cannot be allowed to undermine their influence.”

Dahlia’s eyebrows shot up. The Lawrences? Already? Even now, centuries after Barbatos had undone their family, they were whispering, scheming, watching. No wonder the upper clergy fumed so often.

He strolled closer to the fountain, scanning the crowd, half-expecting the bard to appear again. A group of children ran past him, giggling as they sung the bards tune from earlier. 

Dahlia’s lips twitched into a smile. He really does get under their skin. He could almost hear the Lawrences huffing behind their curtains.

Then, without warning, a gust of wind carried a playful chord, high and teasing, straight to his ears. Dahlia spun, following the sound like a fox on the trail, and caught the bard once more, perched on a low fountain ledge, strumming casually as if the world belonged to him alone.

“Caught you,” Dahlia said, snapping his fingers, sass in every movement. “You owe me a bow—or at least a warning before you steal all the city’s attention again.”

The bard laughed, tilting his head, teal eyes gleaming. “And risk boring everyone? Never. Besides…” He strummed a soft, rising chord, and the leaves around the fountain danced in the wind. “…the city likes a little chaos now and then, don’t they?”

“They do,” Dahlia admitted, leaning against the stone edge, smirking. “But the clergy hates it.”

The bard’s grin widened. “Ah, then I’m doing my job properly.”

“Alright, enough banter,” Dahlia said, hands on his hips, brow quirked. “Who are you, and why does the city adore you more than they do the sermons?”

The bard leaned forward, tilting his head with a grin. “Adore me? I think that’s your imagination running wild.” He plucked a high note, and the leaves around them swirled in a playful eddy. “But if you mean, who am I…I’m Venti. Bard, occasional mischief-maker, and sometimes—well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Dahlia raised an eyebrow. “Venti, huh? Fitting for someone who seems determined to blow through every bit of order in this city.”

The bard chuckled, hopping down from the fountain with a light, graceful step. “Oh? And you are?”

“Dahlia,” he said, curt but with a hint of a smirk. “Deacon of the Church. I follow rules…loyal follower of Barbatos~ And right now, I’m following you.”

Venti’s grin widened, eyes alight. “Ahh, a deacon who doesn’t clutch his chest at every breeze. Delightful! I thought all the Church types were rigid, proper… and dreadfully dull.”

Dahlia smirked, leaning casually against the fountain. “Dreadfully dull? You’d know, wouldn’t you, if you’d been chased off the square by the upper clergy yet?”

“Oh, don’t tempt me,” Venti said, letting the wind lift his cloak in a dramatic swirl. “I live for their outrage. But you,” he tapped Dahlia lightly on the shoulder, “you’re… different. You actually seem to enjoy the city. Maybe even like a bit of chaos yourself.”

Dahlia raised his chin, lips quirking in a playful half-smile. “I won’t lie—I do enjoy it. I admit…I like a bit of drama now and then, and your little stunt at the church was certainly entertaining~ though it doesn’t suit the High Priest, apparently. Or the Lawrence-leaning types sneaking in their whispers over there,” he added, nodding subtly toward a cluster of cloaked figures watching from a distance.

Venti’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ah, whispers of the mighty! How very boring. But you, Dahlia—you might just be the first person in Mondstadt who doesn’t look at the wind and see only trouble.”

Dahlia’s cheeks warmed slightly, though he tried to hide it behind a dramatic toss of his hand. “First person? That’s quite a claim, bard. You better be ready to prove it.”

Venti laughed, tilting his head to the sky. “Oh, I think I can manage. But first… shall we give this city another song?”

  For the next hour, Dahlia trailed Venti through the streets. They laughed at children chasing the wind, helped a street performer untangle his puppet strings, and tossed small coins to beggars who smiled in gratitude. Each interaction revealed the city’s vibrant heartbeat and Barbatos’s touch in every corner.

Even so, Dahlia caught glimpses of shadowed eyes in the cathedral steps and the upper floors of nearby homes—members of the Church muttering, cloaked figures whispering, and a few sharp glances from familiar faces hinting at the Lawrence Clan. Not yet trouble, but a subtle reminder: chaos is sweet, but it has enemies.

The sun leaned toward evening, golden and warm, though still high enough to chase shadows from the streets. Dahlia walked beside Venti, careful not to trip over the bustling city folk or his own overly dramatic robes.

“You really do enjoy this, don’t you?” Dahlia asked, half-scolding, half-smiling, as Venti helped a little girl untangle her kite string from a fountain post.

Venti grinned, tossing the kite into the wind. “Of course! What’s life without a little laughter, some chaos, and a touch of mischief?” He winked. “Though I think you secretly enjoy it too, Deacon Dahlia.”

Dahlia snorted, flipping his hair back. “Secretly? I may enjoy it, but the upper clergy would have my head if they caught me openly laughing with a bard.” He glared at a distant group of stiff-robed priests glaring at them from the cathedral steps. “And judging by their expressions… it’s best I keep my enjoyment subtle.” He grunted, turning away from the group in a sort of pouting motion.

Venti’s laughter tinkled like wind chimes. “Afraid of a few stiff old bats?” Eugh, I swear anytime I get near them I feel like they’re sucking out my youth like a bunch of vampires!” The bard whined. “I hope I’m not the same~?” Dahlia hummed. “No, no not at all!! You still have a personality.” Venti giggled, flashing a wide toothed smile to the glaring priests. 

Dahlia gave a half-bow, one hand over his heart. “Flattery will get you far, bard. But don’t think it excuses you from avoiding the Church’s notice.”

Venti twirled a strand of his cloak around his finger, eyes mischievous. “Notice? They’re always noticing. Better I be noticed for my songs than their sermons, don’t you think?”

Dahlia chuckled, shaking his head. Even as he played the dramatic part of the worried deacon, he felt lighter than he had in years. “Perhaps. But don’t forget—there are whispers in the upper floors of the cathedral. And in some quiet rooms, a Lawrence ear or two is always listening.”

Venti’s grin faltered just a fraction, then returned with even more sparkle. “Whispers, shadows, plots… sounds boring. Let’s stick to the fun part, shall we? Besides…” He leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially, “…I like that you don’t look at the world as though it’s all rules and judgment. You’re… rare.”

Dahlia felt his cheeks warm. He waved a hand flippantly, though a small smile lingered. “What am I, a steak?” He snorted. “Maybe I just appreciate a good song more than I should.!”

Venti’s laugh floated on the wind, and Dahlia found himself following it as they parted ways at the city’s edge. “Tomorrow,” Venti called over his shoulder, “we’ll see what other mischief the city holds. You’d better be ready.”

“I’ll be ready,” Dahlia replied, smirking despite himself. “And I’ll be watching for trouble, of course.”

As Dahlia walked back toward the cathedral, the whispers and sharp glances he had noticed earlier tugged at his mind. The Lawrence Clan… the upper clergy… they were quiet now, but patience was not their virtue. The bard may have vanished from sight, but the city would not forget him.

And Dahlia… well, Dahlia felt a thrill in the knowledge that he had found someone who made even the careful world of faith feel like wind in his hair.

Chapter Text

     The sun rose over Mondstadt, gilding the streets and spilling warm light onto banners that fluttered like birds in the wind. The city was alive with laughter and song—none louder, nor more joyous, than that which followed the most famous bard in all the world.

Venti strolled through the square, lyre slung casually over his shoulder, hair catching sunlight as children dashed around him, singing fragments of his latest ballad. Merchants and townsfolk alike stopped to cheer, toss coins, or mimic his melodies.

Dahlia leaned against a fountain, arms crossed, a wide smirk tugging at his lips. The audacity of this one, he thought, watching Venti wink at a group of giggling children. He pretends to be a god, steals the churches most sacred item, and the city crowns him hero. I can’t decide if it’s brilliant or maddening.

News had spread fast over the past few days in Mondstadt. Storm Terror, the terrifying dragon that the church had wanted dead, was in reality, Dvalin. Barbatos’s dear friend. Storm Terror wasn’t evil, he was in pain from Abyssal corruption. 

And Venti. The bard who had carelessly strolled into the church, claimed to be Barbatos, and then stolen the Holy Lyre!!! Only to use it to save Dvalin, and then return it to the church in broad daylight!!

Dahlia giggled at the whole ordeal. Venti had made an utter mockery of the church. The church who had demanded Storm Terror’s death, only to find out wit was the sacred Dvalin who they wanted dead. And for Dvalin to be saved only because Venti and a wandering traveller stepped up…It was the most delicious bit of drama Dahlia had seen in a long time. 

He snorted, shaking his head. “Honestly, you’re lucky I find this hilarious. The Holy Lyre? Stolen in broad daylight? If I were anyone else, you’d be in trouble.”

Venti caught sight of him and grinned, striding over with that effortless charm that made every step seem like a song. “Ah, Dahlia! Ever the observer. And yet, you seem to enjoy the chaos more than you should.”

Dahlia raised a brow, tapping a finger to his chin. “Enjoy? I’d call it professional appreciation. Not everyone gets to mock the Church and save the city in one day.”

The bard laughed, spinning the lyre in his hands before strumming a teasing chord. “Mock? Perhaps. Save? Absolutely. And you, my sassy friend, are smiling too wide to deny it~”

From a distance, Dahlia noticed the sharp eyes of upper clergy members, whispering furiously among themselves, their gaze fixed on Venti. Some of the sisters who had doubted his godly claims now muttered in outrage, while a few younger priests gaped at the crowd’s adoration.

Dahlia leaned closer to Venti, smirking. “I’d say the Church is delighted with you, but that would be a lie.”

Venti’s grin widened, teasing and triumphant. “Ah, but the city loves me all the same. And truly…” He plucked a soft, playful chord that made the breeze dance around them. “…I prefer applause to frowns, anyway.”

Dahlia laughed, heart light despite the storm of whispers he could see gathering behind the cathedral walls. “You’re reckless, you know that?”

“Reckless?” Venti’s eyes sparkled. “You flatter me, deacon~”

“Are you excited for tomorrow?”

”Tomorrow?” Venti blinked before a wide smiles spread over his face. “Ahhh, Windblume!!! Yes I can’t wait!! Especially for the annual Best Bard competition~ I can’t wait for Priest Corvin to have to crown me winner after all that just happened~ He’ll be so mad I fear his head might pop like a balloon!!”

”I’d pay to see it..” Dahlia murmured as Venti giggled and turned away. 

“Tomorrow, perhaps we start with a proper duet?” Venti had called over his shoulder.

“Are you inviting me to spend Windblume with you, bard?”

”Maayyyybeeee~”

“Well then I suppose I must accept. I’ll be ready,” Dahlia had replied, smirking despite himself. “And I’ll be watching for trouble, of course.”

  The morning sun spilled over Mondstadt, gilding rooftops and banners as the scent of fresh baked cakes and bread wafted through the air. Cecilia garlands hung from lamppost, small flags were strung up across the space between houses, and all of Mondstadt’s regional plants were nestled in decorative pots that now lined city streets. Vendors had set up all across the city. Some sold festival food, toys, souvenirs, while others were purely games to win prizes.

Dahlia found himself walking the square as the sun began to poke through to dawn, helping the Sisters and the knights with last minute preparations. He had just finished helping Sister Barbara hang a garland when he spotted Venti perched atop the fountain ledge like some mischievous gargoyle in green silks. 

“Dahlia!” the bard sang out, plucking a bright chord as though he’d been waiting just for him. “Right on time. My favorite audience member.”

Dahlia folded his arms, eyebrow raised. “Audience member? You nearly got yourself excommunicated the other day, and I cheered for it. That makes me an accomplice, not an audience.”

“Accomplice,” Venti echoed in delight, strumming a trill that made the wind catch the square’s ribbons. “Oh, I like the sound of that. You’ll be my partner in mischief, then!”

“I’m no partner,” Dahlia said with mock severity. “I merely find your chaos entertaining. The faces of the clergy—” He stifled a laugh. “I might replay them in my head whenever I’m sad.”

”Honestly, I was beginning to wonder if you would start avoiding me after that little scandal.” Venti grunted, forcing his face into a mock pout as he played with one of his braids. 

“Scandal?” Dahlia raised a brow. “You nearly got yourself dragged off in chains, and Priest Corvin nearly popped a blood vessel. I call that a disaster.”

“Disaster, scandal, divine comedy,” Venti waved the words away, grinning. “All the same in the end, don’t you think?”

I think you enjoy tempting fate.” Dahlia folded his arms, trying not to laugh. “And I enjoy watching you get away with it. The look on the Sisters faces—” He shook his head. “Priceless.”

Venti’s grin widened. “So you were entertained. I knew it. You’re hooked already.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve seen plenty of fools in Mondstadt.” Dahlia leaned against the fountain, lowering his voice just enough for only Venti to hear. “The difference is, you make the crowd cheer while the fools usually get rotten fruit.”

“An upgrade, then.” Venti plucked a bright trill, sending a ripple of laughter through the children nearby. “I’ll take it.”

From the cathedral steps, Dahlia caught the sharp eyes of several priests lingering too long. Their whispers slithered, but the crowd around Venti only laughed and clapped. Dahlia’s jaw tightened. The city’s siding with him… no matter how much the clergy hates it.

Venti hopped down with a flourish. “Come on then, deacon. Let’s see how many more pigeons we can ruffle before noon.”

Dahlia sighed, following despite himself. “Fine. But if we end up on wanted posters, I’m telling everyone it was your idea.”

“Perfect!” Venti laughed, skipping ahead. “They always draw my hair wrong anyway.”

Venti skipped ahead toward the marketplace, his shoes clicking against the cobblestones like a drumbeat only he could hear. Dahlia trailed behind, scanning the crowds. The bard had a way of making himself a beacon—half the square seemed to swivel toward him without effort.

“Watch closely,” Venti whispered over his shoulder, “this is how you charm a crowd.”

Before Dahlia could protest, Venti leaned over a fruit stall, plucked an apple without paying, and tossed it high into the air. The vendor opened his mouth to shout, but Venti strummed a jaunty riff, catching the apple on the final note. The sound drew cheers from a handful of passing children, who clapped as though they’d witnessed a miracle.

“Now that,” Venti said, taking a bite, “is performance.”

Dahlia pinched the bridge of his nose. “And theft.” He fished a few mora from his pocket, dropping them into the vendor’s palm before the man could complain. “If you’re going to drag me into trouble, at least let me minimize the damage.”

Venti winked. “That’s what makes you the perfect partner. You tidy the mess, I make the mess. Balance!”

“Balance?” Dahlia muttered, following as Venti danced backward through the street, strumming lazy chords that seemed to pull laughter from anyone near.

Children darted alongside him now, mimicking his skips and pretending to strum invisible instruments. One boy, Timmy, puffed his cheeks, stumbling through a tune that didn’t exist. Venti bent low, playing a silly sour note, and Timmy burst into a triumphant laugh before running off, muttering about a “tune worthy for his pigeons war cry” or something to that effect. To be honest, Timmy frightened Dahlia. 

“You’re encouraging chaos,” Dahlia said, though there was no real heat in his voice.

“I’m encouraging joy,” Venti corrected, spinning once before bowing to the delighted crowd. “The city needs more of that.”

From the cathedral steps, Dahlia caught another flicker of black robes—clergy, watching again, whispers curling like smoke. He frowned, but when he glanced back, Venti had already swept into another song, louder now, daring the church bells themselves to drown him out.

Dahlia sighed. “If this ends with you getting arrested, don’t expect me to sing you out of it.”

Venti grinned, eyes bright as he prepared for his next performance, the kids of Mondstadt gathering around. “Good thing I’ve already written your part~”

  Venti’s song wound down into a lighthearted trill that left the crowd clapping, some tossing coins into the overturned hat he’d dropped at his feet. Dahlia crossed his arms, fighting the tug of a smile as the children scrambled to fetch their parents, bragging they’d been part of the “great bard’s” performance.

“Not bad,” Dahlia admitted quietly once the clapping began to thin.

“Not bad?” Venti pressed a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “That was brilliance!”

Dahlia rolled his eyes. “It was noise with rhythm. Pleasant enough, I’ll grant you that.”

Before Venti could reply, a sharp voice cut through the chatter.

“—Deacon Dahlia?”

Dahlia stiffened, every instinct urging him to blend into the crowd, but the voice was too close. Slowly, he turned.

Three figures in the black-and-gold trim of the upper clergy had descended the cathedral steps. Their presence alone was enough to draw wary glances from the crowd. The one at the center, a woman with eyes like a hawk’s, stared directly at him.

“You dare show yourself here?” she said, her voice rising just enough to carry. “After all your… sins?”

Murmurs rippled through the onlookers.

Venti’s smile slipped into something sharper, more cautious. He strummed a low, grounding note—just loud enough to catch Dahlia’s ear. “Don’t let them see you flinch,” he murmured.

Dahlia’s jaw clenched. He didn’t.

The woman stepped forward. “You will come with us. At once.”

The tension in the square thickened, the earlier joy curdling into unease. Venti’s hand hovered near his lyre, but he didn’t play. Not yet.

“Funny,” Dahlia said evenly, his voice calm despite the heat crawling up his spine, “last I checked, this was Mondstadt—a city of freedom. You’ve no authority to drag me anywhere.”

The woman’s lips pressed thin, but she did not back down.

Venti glanced between them, a spark of mischief glinting behind his steady expression. “Careful now,” he sang softly, almost under his breath, “the people are listening.”

And they were—eyes wide, whispering, watching how this would unfold.

The murmurs swelled, a tide of whispers lapping against the steps of the cathedral. Some craned their necks to get a better look, others frowned at the sight of clergy pointing fingers in a public square.

Venti’s eyes gleamed. He plucked a bright, playful chord, the sound scattering the tension like dandelion fluff caught in a breeze.

“Ahh, forgive me, sisters,” he said, his voice carrying easily. “But surely you wouldn’t dare disturb a festival square? People came for laughter, music, and freedom—not… angry scolding.”

A few chuckles rolled through the crowd.

The hawk-eyed woman’s mouth tightened. “This is not your affair, bard.”

“Not my affair?” Venti’s tone lifted, lilting, carrying him effortlessly into another short verse:

🎵
“Oh, freedom sings in Mondstadt’s square,
No chains, no fear, the sky is fair.
So why would priests in shadow’s guise,
Seek to bind with watchful eyes?”
🎵

The crowd clapped to the beat, some whistling in encouragement. The shift was immediate—where moments ago Dahlia had stood alone under the weight of the clergy’s glare, now the tide of public opinion pressed against them.

Dahlia’s lips twitched, just barely, at the audacity of it.

“Enough,” the woman snapped, though the steel in her voice now wavered under the weight of the onlookers’ disapproval. “This man is—”

But she stopped short, realizing the danger of saying too much in public. A scandal in the middle of a festival square would not just humiliate Dahlia—it would stain the church itself.

Venti gave her a sly smile, as if daring her to continue.

She didn’t.

Instead, she fixed Dahlia with a cold, searing look, her meaning unmistakable: this isn’t over. Then she turned on her heel, the other two following like shadows back into the cathedral’s looming gates.

The crowd’s unease broke into relief, voices rising again in chatter and laughter. Venti bowed with a flourish, accepting the moment as if it had all been another performance.

“See?” he whispered to Dahlia with a grin. “Sometimes the right song is sharper than any blade~ Who was that girl anyways? She seemed…pleasant.”

”Sister Damaris…” Dahlia sighed, rolling his eyes. “Shes a real bitch.”

”Dahlia!!” Venti giggled. 

“What? It’s true.”

The pair slipped into the crowd, Venti weaving through clusters of townsfolk with practiced ease, Dahlia sweeping into a playful bow that drew scattered applause. Cheers followed them, but not every gaze was warm.

From the edge of the square, Sister Damaris stood rigid, her eyes locked on the bard. “He dares mock Barbatos’ name, steals from the Cathedral, and still they cheer him as if he were some savior,” she said, her voice tight with contempt.

Priest Corvin’s jaw set hard. “The people are blind. They see only a smiling face and hear a sweet song. They don’t care that he spat in the face of the church to do it.”

Damaris’ frown deepened. “It isn’t just the theft. He claimed to be Barbatos. He turned our god into a jest for the streets. And now every festival, every song, is another reminder that they trust the bard more than they trust their priests.”

“The lyre,” Corvin muttered, his eyes narrowing. “He returned it. But who’s to say what he did with it before? Or if it’s even the same?”

Damaris inclined her head slightly, her tone low and edged. “Venti’s fame shields him. To move against him now would turn the whole city against us. But fame is fickle. One day, it will sour.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Dahlia as he disappeared into the throng, the faintest curl of distaste crossing her lips. “And as for his companion… Dahlia’s antics always did draw chaos. He’ll only fan the flames.”

Corvin clasped his hands behind his back. “Then we wait. Let the bard play his songs. When the tune falters, we’ll be there to silence it.”

The bells of Mondstadt rang out across the square, bright and merry, but the look Damaris and Corvin shared was cold, patient, and sharp with intent.

  The sun dipped low behind Mondstadt’s rooftops, painting the city in gold and rose. Crowds still lingered in the square, but Venti tugged Dahlia by the sleeve, weaving through festival-goers with a grin that promised trouble.

“Come on, deacon,” he said, voice full of mischief. “Daylight’s over. Night is for song, wine, and a little booze~”

Dahlia rolled his eyes but followed, knowing that when Venti wanted to lead, resistance was pointless. The two ducked into the warm glow of the Angel’s Share, the familiar scent of oak, candle wax, and aged wine greeting them like an old friend. The bar was busier than usual—festival night brought patrons from across Mondstadt—and Diluc moved behind the counter with his usual calm precision.

“Ah, Venti,” Diluc said, raising an eyebrow. “The festival already tired you out?”

“Nonsense,” Venti replied, dropping onto a stool with a flourish. “I’ve merely been warming up. And speaking of warming—one glass of your finest red, if you please. Or three. Make them bold, Diluc. Let them sing.”

Dahlia snorted quietly, sliding onto the stool beside him. “Bold, huh? That’s your specialty, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Venti said, eyes sparkling. He plucked a quick note on his lyre and raised his glass to the crowd. “To freedom, folly, and a night worth remembering!”

By the second glass, Venti was leaning back, voice rising over the chatter and music, teasing, playful, irreverent. And inevitably… the Lawrence Clan.

A small group sat in a shadowed corner, their expressions rigid, teeth clenched in silent disgust.

Venti’s grin widened.

🎵
“Oh, Lawrence Clan, so stern and cold,
Your tales of grandeur all grown old.
You rule in titles, but not in heart,
And from your pomp, the laughter won’t depart!”
🎵

The bar erupted in laughter, some patrons clapping along, but the Lawrence members stiffened, glaring at the audacious bard.

Venti spun to the nearest table, eyes twinkling, strumming another playful chord:

🎵
“You swagger, preen, and judge the day,
While children and fools dance and play.
Your crowns are heavy, your pride is grand,
But none can follow the song of wind and hand!”
🎵

And then… a soft, amused voice joined in.

“Bravo,” said a young woman with silver-blue hair, stepping lightly to the edge of the circle of laughter. Eula Lawrence. She clapped in time with Venti’s melody, her grin mischievous and genuine.

Venti’s grin turned sly. “Ah, Eula! Finally, someone with taste!” He strummed a playful, bowing chord. “Do join in, dear lady, and let your voice add to the mockery of the stiff and pompous!”

Eula laughed and sang along, her voice clear, ringing, and teasing in perfect harmony with Venti’s song. The members of the Lawrence Clan in the corner stiffened further, but she didn’t care—her amusement was too strong.

Dahlia leaned closer to Venti, whispering with a smirk, “Careful, bard. I think your audience just got… more dangerous.”

Venti tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Dangerous? Pfft. A little fun never hurt anyone. Besides,” he said, strumming another playful flourish, “I like the challenge.”

”Ah I’d be careful…” Dahlia warned. “They lost power hundreds of years ago and they’re still not over it. I imagine their grudge with you would last even longer..”

”Well I can’t stand the way they’ve been treating the citizens of Mondstadt lately!! They tried to pop Klee’s volleyball th either day!! Ehm. Granted. It ended up being a bomb. Again. But they didn’t know that! And they keep starting fights with people they deem ‘below them’.” Venti snorted, plucking up another tune on his lyre. 

  Venti’s laughter echoed over the last notes of his song, and the bar roared in response. Patrons clapped, whistled, and even a few of the festival musicians jumped in, banging on stools and mugs to join the rhythm. Dahlia leaned back, arms folded, grinning despite himself.

“You really know how to turn a crowd,” he said dryly.

Venti tossed a wink over his shoulder. “I do enjoy my work. But now, for the pièce de résistance…” He plucked a mischievous trill, eyes scanning the room like a general surveying his battlefield.

The Lawrence Clan in the shadowed corner had gone rigid, muttering among themselves. Their whispers were sharp, laced with disgust and fury. One of them—older, stout, clearly used to command—pushed back his chair and waved a hand.

“Quiet yourselves,” he hissed, though his voice barely carried over the din. “Do not encourage this… charlatan.”

Eula, still smiling, leaned toward the table. “Oh, come now. You all look like you’ve just swallowed a storm. Enjoy it. Laugh a little.”

The older Lawrence glared at her, but she didn’t flinch. Her amusement was clear, infectious even, and it drew a few curious glances from other patrons.

Venti’s grin widened. “Ah, Eula, a heart as bold as the wind! I think we’ll get along famously.” He strummed a final playful chord, sending a ripple of cheer across the bar. “And for the rest of you,” he said, gesturing toward the Lawrence group, “feel free to clap if you can bear it. Or, you know, stew in silence—it’s equally entertaining.”

Corvin or Damaris would have been proud, Dahlia thought wryly. Chaos, yes—but clever chaos. Venti knew the line between fun and disaster, and he danced along it perfectly.

A few patrons began to hum along with Venti’s tune, and soon several joined in with their own voices. The Lawrence members, red-faced, remained silent, their fury tightly coiled. Venti’s playful mockery was no longer just a song—it was a statement.

Dahlia shook his head, grinning. “You really do love provoking them, don’t you?”

“I call it seasoning,” Venti replied, raising his glass. “No meal is complete without a little spice.”

Meanwhile, in the corner, the Lawrence clan’s whispering turned from irritation to planning. Eyes narrowed, fists tightened—clearly, this wouldn’t end quietly.

Dahlia leaned back, taking in the scene with a mix of amusement and wariness. “Well,” he said, “I think tonight’s festival just became a little more… interesting than expected.”

Venti strummed a soft, playful cadence on his lyre, as if punctuating Dahlia’s words. “Interesting? My dear deacon, this is just the overture.”

”…You wouldn’t happen to have any more on you, would you deacon?”

”Venti I swear to fucking Barbatos.”

Chapter Text

     The carriage rattled over cobblestones, night wind tugging at the cloaks of the Lawrence siblings. Tension buzzed in the enclosed space, sharp enough to taste. Each sibling’s mind churned with fury—not just at a foolish bard, but at the memory of their family’s centuries-old humiliation.

“That Venti—he mocks us openly, in the Angel’s Share, and the people cheer him!” Leopold hissed, knuckles white against his cloak. “After all we endured… after Barbatos himself humiliated our line, how dare this impotent drunkard make a fool of us anew?”

“Exactly!” snapped another sibling, eyes narrowed with venom. “Eula even joined him! Laughing, singing along! How could she side with him? With… with that bard?”

The carriage wheels ground to a halt, and the siblings filed into the manor, the door’s heavy oak slamming behind them. Inside, the hall gleamed with candlelight, the fire roaring in the hearth, yet no warmth could reach the frost in their hearts.

At the head of the hall, Schubert Lawrence regarded them with a steady, cold gaze. Age had lined his face, but the aura of command remained intact. “Explain,” he said, voice calm but cutting, “and do not waste my patience with theatrics.”

A younger sibling rushed forward, voice sharp and accusing. “Father… Venti! That bard! He had the audacity to perform in the Angel’s Share, mocking the Lawrence name—our name—while the people cheered! And cousin Eula… she sang along! Encouraged him!”

Schubert’s eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. “He dares?” he muttered. “He dares to make a mockery of the Lawrence line, the same line Barbatos humiliated so many years ago… and now this boy—this charlatan—dresses himself as a hero before the city?”

Schubert paused, nostrils fuming as he rubbed the nose beneath his too-small glasses. Hundreds of years ago, the Lawrence Clan had seized Mondstadt and reigned supreme. Barbatos was all but forgotten during those times, and the Lawrence’s were treated as kings to be hailed, gods to be worshipped. Anything that so much as shimmered in the city was as good as theirs!!!

And then Barbatos came along with some slave woman Vanessa, and humiliated the entire Clan, and broke their hold over Mondstadt. 
…And now. Now the Lawrence Clan, once so powerful, was a bit a shadow of its former glory. Shivery hissed at the thought. Even lowly bards were making a mockery of them!! It was…unacceptable. Horrid. 

This fucking bard. Schubert seethed. A criminal. Thief of the Holy Lyre, a drunkard meant for the streets!!! Now being praised by the idiotic corsets of Mondstadt as a hero?? For singing a lullaby to a dragon??? Pathetic!!!

“Father, perhaps…” another sibling began hesitantly, pulling Schubert from his thoughts. “perhaps we could uncover something. Any secret, any misstep—anything to reveal him for the fraud he is. If the city knew, they would not follow him. They would see what he really is.”

Leopold’s eyes gleamed. “Yes! After Barbatos humiliated our family, after he stripped us of power, to have some upstart bard—no matter how famed—mock us in our own city? He will pay, and the people will see our true dignity restored.”

Schubert’s fingers tapped against his chair impatiently. This drunkard was going to pay. No matter what he has to do, Schubert would make sure of that. “Cleverness and charm may shield him now, but the truth has power that songs cannot match. This bard will learn—whether by accident or design—that the Lawrence name cannot be mocked with impunity. And as for Eula… she may be naive, but she will learn her place soon enough.”

A tense silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire, before a precise, deliberate knock sounded at the door.

All heads turned. Schubert’s hand twitched toward the handle, but the commanding voice that followed stopped him:

“Schubert Lawrence. Open this door.”

The doors opened to reveal Priest Corvin and Sister Damaris, robes brushing the floor, eyes sharp with authority. Corvin’s expression was tight with controlled fire, lips pursed together in a thin line, his hands clutched together so tightly that Schubert briefly wondered if the brittle bones beneath would snap. Sister Damaris on the other hand, looked…disgusted. Her nostrils were flares and her mouth a taught grimace, as if she smelled something unpleasant. Possibly herself. 

“..Alcohol.” Was the only thing she muttered in response to Schubert’s angry stare. 

Damaris stepped forward, voice low and somewhat hostile. “We heard about the Angel’s Share tonight. Your family has once again been made the subject of the bard’s…recent performances.”

Corvin followed, hands clasped behind him. “He is more than a nuisance. He mocks tradition and the Archon himself. He is a threat to order, to respect. Together, we can ensure he is…dealt with.”

  The fire crackled between them, shadows dancing over the stern faces of the Lawrence siblings and the two clergy members. The air in the manor hall was thick with tension, mingled with the sharp scent of candle wax.

“He dares,” hissed Leopold, pacing like a caged lion. “The audacity! The insolence! Mocking the Lawrence name in every tavern, making the children sing his… his ridiculous tunes. Every child in Mondstadt knows them by heart now. And they laugh while he mocks us!”

A younger sibling banged a fist against the table. “It’s disgusting! He makes us into a joke! And worse, he enjoys it! He thrives on the humiliation he brings.”

Schubert Lawrence, seated rigidly at the head of the table, pressed his lips together. “Venti… that common, carefree bard thinks he can belittle centuries of our family’s dignity with a lute and a song? We allowed Barbatos to shame us once, and now he sends this fool to do it again!”

”The great Barbatos would never have contact with such a fool.” Corvin hissed. 

Damaris, standing stiffly beside Corvin, spoke in her calm, cutting tone. “You are not the only ones troubled by him. That bard is a danger to order. The people love him, follow him, even above the authority of the Church. And the Windblume Festival only makes it worse—he thrives in public display, turning the city’s attention toward himself and away from the proper rituals. He mocks the Archon openly and flouts our authority. And the lyre… he stole the Holy Lyre. Returned it, yes, but what audacity.”

Corvin leaned forward, voice low but sharp. “He undermines everything the Church has carefully built. The Knights of Favonius may act as protectors, but the Church is the spiritual backbone. And this… this bard dares to challenge that respect? To make the citizens laugh at those meant to guide them? We cannot allow it to continue.”

One of the Lawrence siblings, fuming, leaned across the table. “And he openly humiliates us, the rightful nobility. He dares to turn our history into a joke, and the people cheer him! Even the children sing his foolish tunes. I would spit on the ground if it weren’t beneath me to do so publicly!”

Eula’s name came up again, whispered in disdain. “And Eula,” another sibling sneered, “joining him. Supporting him. Laughing at our shame. Our family—and she encourages this clown!”

Schubert slammed a hand on the table. “Enough! He is a petty, lowly fool, a common bard with more luck than sense. Yet here he sits, defying the laws of respect, of propriety, and of reverence for the Archon. We will teach him that there is a price for mocking the Lawrence name—and the Church will ensure it is paid.”

Schubert’s gaze swept over the gathered clergy and his own family, his voice low and cold. “He is not merely an annoyance to be scolded or laughed at. This bard… this Venti… has defied the Lawrence name and the Church alike. He must not only be humiliated—he must be removed.”

Leopold’s eyes gleamed with dark excitement. “Yes! Expose him, shame him before the city! Make the people see him for the lowly fool he truly is—and then, when he is weakened by the public’s scorn, we finish the work. The city will not even notice when he disappears.”

A younger sibling leaned forward, voice trembling with barely contained eagerness. “We could… trap him. Make sure he cannot escape. Perhaps a staged accident, or an ‘arrest’ by the Knights. Something decisive.”

Damaris’ sharp gaze swept the room. “Patience. The people love him too much for any direct attack right now. To strike too soon would risk turning the city against us. First, he must be undermined, made vulnerable. Every taunt, every misstep he shows, we will turn against him.”

Corvin nodded. “Yes. And when the moment is right, the Church and the Lawrence family together will ensure that his fall is complete. Public humiliation, followed by decisive action. The people will only see what we allow them to see, and he will not recover. He cannot be allowed to continue as a figure of adoration.”

Schubert’s lips curved into a thin, cruel smile. “Every laugh he has earned, every cheer, will be turned into contempt. Every song, every display of charm, will be stripped from him. And when he stands naked before the city’s judgment—he will learn the cost of defying us.”

Leopold’s fists clenched. “And Eula,” he spat the name with venom, “must learn that loyalty to the Lawrence name comes before foolish admiration for a street performer. She will not escape our scrutiny either.”

Damaris inclined her head slightly. “We proceed with strategy. Observation first. Watch his companions, his routines. Learn his weaknesses. And then… we strike, making sure the city sees him humiliated before he disappears from their eyes forever.”

Corvin’s gaze hardened. “A fool who mocks the Archon, who flouts the Church’s authority, who brazenly steals from the Church itself, cannot be allowed to roam free. He will fall—completely, irrevocably.”

A tense silence followed Schubert’s declaration, broken only by the crackle of the fire. The siblings shifted in their seats, fingers drumming, eyes darting at one another as the gears of plotting began to turn.

Leopold leaned forward, voice low but fervent. “We know he thrives in public. The city adores him. If we wish to humiliate him properly, it must be where everyone sees it—a performance, a festival, a celebration. He cannot escape scrutiny there.”

Schubert nodded slowly, eyes narrowed. “Yes. A stage, a crowd… that is where he is most dangerous, but also most exposed. Make him stumble, make him falter, and the city will no longer see him as the darling bard. Once the ridicule begins, we finish him.”

Damaris stepped closer to the table, robes swishing. “We must know his habits. Where he performs, who he trusts, where he rests. Observation first. Strike only when the moment is perfectly calculated. Any rash move will alert him, and he is clever enough to evade capture.”

Corvin added, voice precise, each word a weighty hammer: “He stole from the Church itself. That audacity will not go unpunished. The Holy Lyre incident provides leverage. If he believes he is untouchable, a carefully crafted exposure of that theft—combined with public ridicule—will weaken him. And once his defenses falter, we can move in decisively.”

A younger Lawrence sibling, excitement flickering in their eyes, whispered, “We could… lure him somewhere. Pretend there’s a performance or a festival event… and then—”

“Exactly,” Schubert interjected, his voice sharp. “The trap must seem natural, unavoidable. He trusts the city, he trusts the people. We turn that against him.”

Leopold smirked, leaning back in his chair. “And we ensure that Eula witnesses it. She will see for herself where loyalty truly lies—and learn that supporting a fool comes with consequences.”

Damaris’ gaze flicked toward the fire, thoughtful. “And the Church will guide the public perception. We control the narrative. He may be adored now, but once the exposure begins, the people will doubt him. They will question him. They will see the insolence of a bard who mocks the Archon and the Church.”

Corvin nodded. “Once the city’s trust falters, the Lawrence family may act as needed. Kidnapping, containment, or another… permanent solution. But it must be precise, clean, undeniable. He cannot survive the combined weight of public humiliation and a decisive strike.”

Schubert’s fingers drummed on the table, deliberate and cold. “We move carefully, but with certainty. Venti may think himself clever, a charmer, untouchable, but he is neither clever enough nor protected enough to escape the judgment that now awaits him.”

Schubert’s eyes narrowed, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. “Observation will be absolute,” he said, voice cold and deliberate. “We will follow him wherever he goes. Every street, every tavern, every stage. The moment he steps into Mondstadt, we will be there—watching, noting, recording. There will be no reprieve for this fool.”

Damaris’ gaze was unwavering, steel in her eyes. “I will shadow him day and night. From the Angel’s Share to the wind-swept squares, from festival stages to hidden alleyways. We will know his movements as well as he does, and when he believes himself alone, we will be there. No corner of this city will be out of our reach.”

Leopold leaned forward, practically vibrating with anticipation. “We will follow him to his performances, to his private rehearsals, even to the places he believes are safe. His charm and freedom will be meaningless when every step is observed, every word recorded.”

Schubert turned to Corvin. “You will guide us, plan the timing of exposure, and control the Church’s narrative—but understand this: nothing we do in the field escapes our attention. Damaris and I will ensure he is tracked without pause. He will have nowhere to hide, not from us, not from the city, and certainly not from the consequences he has earned.”

Corvin, though unable to keep pace physically, nodded firmly. “I will coordinate the strategy, predict his routes, and ensure that each observation strengthens our position. Every performance, every public appearance, every casual stroll—he will leave traces, and we will follow them. He cannot evade scrutiny. Not now, not ever.”

Damaris’ lips curled in a thin, controlled smile. “We will shadow him relentlessly. Every alley, every bridge, every tavern—Mondstadt is ours to watch. And when the time comes, every weakness we uncover will be used against him. He will stumble, he will falter, and he will pay for every insult, every mockery, every laugh he has drawn at the expense of the Lawrence name and the Church’s authority.”

Schubert’s voice was ice. “Venti may believe himself clever, that he is free to flit about the city unobserved. But cleverness is nothing against patience and vigilance. From the moment he steps outside, he will be watched. From morning to night, festival to quiet street, he will leave no secret unexamined, no step unrecorded. We will stalk him everywhere. And when he falters, he will fall.”

“We must divide the work,” Schubert declared, his tone sharp and commanding. “I will shadow him myself. He is my prey, my enemy. No one else shall interfere.”

Damaris’ eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a thin smile. “With respect, Lord Lawrence, you will be far too conspicuous. Your face is known—your name, infamous. The bard would spot you in an instant. It should be me. A sister of the Church is invisible, trusted. I can walk beside him in the street, stand in the crowds during his songs, and he will never suspect he is being hunted.”

“You?” Leopold barked, slamming a fist on the table. “No, no, this is our legacy at stake! I will follow him. I’ll lurk outside taverns, shadow him through alleys, even sneak into his lodgings if I must. It will be my hand that uncovers his weaknesses.”

“You are too rash,” Damaris snapped back. “One false step from you and he’ll vanish, slipping through your fingers like the wind he adores.”

“And you think you’re better?” Leopold growled, leaning forward. “You’d choke on your prayers before you could catch him.”

Corvin coughed sharply, the sound cutting through the rising tension. “Children, children. Do not forget yourselves. We are allies here.” He tried to sound calm, but his voice trembled with the same feverish obsession. “I cannot follow him with my legs, true—but it is my mind that will predict his path. I will not be dismissed as useless.”

“Bah!” Schubert snarled. “Your plans are nothing without execution. We need feet on the ground. Eyes in every corner of Mondstadt.”

“I will not be sidelined!” Damaris shot back, slamming her hand flat on the table. “If anyone deserves the honor of dismantling this bard, it is I. I will stalk him day and night if I must, through festival squares and the darkened streets alike.”

Leopold leaned across the table, face red with rage. “You will not steal this from me. Every insult, every song the fool made about our name burns in my veins. He is mine to shadow!”

“Enough!” Schubert’s voice roared, cracking like a whip. The room fell into silence, save for the echo of the fire snapping in its hearth. He glared at them all, his eyes alight with fury. “We will not destroy each other over who follows him. We will all stalk him. Every one of us. Wherever he goes, there will be eyes. Every tavern will have a Lawrence at its corner, every street a shadow, every square a silent watcher.”

Damaris’ face smoothed into an eerie calm, but her eyes still gleamed with fervor. “So be it. He will never walk alone again.”

Leopold leaned back with a savage grin. “Yes… let him sing his foolish little songs. The audience will smile, the children will laugh… all the while, our eyes will be upon him. He will choke on his own fame.”

Corvin folded his hands and nodded grimly. “And when he is weary, when he falters from the weight of unseen eyes, that will be the moment we strike. Until then—let the stalking begin.”

The room fell into a calculated silence, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. Outside, Mondstadt shimmered under festival lights, blissfully unaware that its most beloved bard would soon find himself under constant, unblinking eyes—followed, monitored, and poised for the first moment of his undoing.

The plan began that very night.

  Outside the Angel’s Share, the streets buzzed with the warmth of laughter and clinking glasses. A lilting melody floated out into the air — Venti’s voice, sweet and careless, each note wrapping around the hearts of passersby. Children clapped their hands in rhythm, merchants hummed along, drunkards stumbled out the tavern door still singing his tune.

But in the shadows, the Lawrences watched.

Schubert lingered just beyond the lamplight, arms folded tight across his chest. His jaw was set, his glare fixed on the bard’s silhouette through the open tavern window. “Look at him,” he muttered, venom in every word. “Basking like a king in rags. Every cheer is an insult to our name.”

“Quiet,” hissed Damaris from her place across the street, a prayer book open in her hands to mask her gaze. “He thrives on attention. Do not give him more. Watch. Record. Remember.”

Leopold crouched nearer, half-hidden in an alley, practically salivating as he pressed against the wall. “Sooner or later, he’ll stumble home drunk. That will be my chance. He won’t hear me coming over his own hiccups.”

Corvin sat further back, hunched in a carriage where no one would notice him, the window just cracked. His hands gripped his cane with white knuckles. “Patience, boy,” he whispered hoarsely. “Every step he takes is another piece of the pattern. Let him walk, let him sing. We will know him better than he knows himself.”

Inside, Venti strummed his lyre, eyes closed, as if mocking fate itself with every playful pluck of the strings. His laughter drifted outward, light and infuriating, until even the Lawrences — their hearts hardened as stone — could feel how easily the city adored him.

And so they stalked.

When Venti wandered into the square, Damaris followed, her holy robes granting her cover as she drifted among the faithful. When he leaned against the fountain to share a jest, Leopold was there in the shadow of a stall, teeth bared in a hungry grin. When Venti slipped into an alley with a bottle under his arm, Schubert trailed after, eyes sharp, each footstep heavy with vengeance. And always, Corvin was behind them all, watching from a carriage or window, orchestrating silently, every detail committed to memory.

The bard was never alone. Not in the tavern, not in the streets, not even when the moon rose high and Mondstadt’s laughter dimmed into sleep.

Wherever he went, eyes followed.

They would know his routes, his habits, his weaknesses. And when the time came, they would strike, ensuring the carefree bard never mocked them — or anyone — again.

The Lawrences’ nightly stalking soon became ritual.

Every evening, they gathered — Schubert with his clenched fists, Damaris with her hidden sneers, Leopold practically trembling with manic energy, and Corvin in the shadows, directing them all with wheezing breaths. Venti was always the center of their world, every movement cataloged, every laugh loathed.

And yet… something was wrong.

The bard never behaved like a mortal should.

They watched him down flagon after flagon of dandelion wine — enough to drop three men to the floor — yet he never slurred, never stumbled. His steps were as light as when he first walked in. His cheeks flushed, but his eyes stayed sharp, even sharper than before, as though the wine only fueled him. “How?” Leopold hissed one night, as Venti laughed atop a tavern table, glass raised high. “No man drinks like that and stays standing. No man!”

They tried to tail him after midnight, hoping to catch him staggering home. But he never staggered. He vanished. One moment he was leaning on a windowsill, playing soft notes to lull the city to sleep; the next, gone — dissolved into the moonlight, as though the night itself had claimed him.

“Where does he go?” Schubert growled, pacing in the dark alley. “He has no home, no bed, no roof! He must sleep somewhere!” But every attempt to corner him ended the same: emptiness, silence, and their own furious exhaustion.

Even when they planned carefully, when they knew exactly where he would be, the city itself seemed to betray them. Venti would stop mid-song to greet a guard who hadn’t been there a moment ago, or a group of townsfolk would spill into the street laughing and singing with him, forming a shield of bodies between him and his hunters. “Convenient,” Damaris muttered more than once, her lips thin with suspicion. “Too convenient.”

It was as though the world bent around him, always keeping him just out of reach.

But instead of discouraging them, these strange impossibilities only deepened their obsession. If he wasn’t normal, then surely he was dangerous. If he could slip through their fingers so easily, then surely he deserved their hatred even more. They doubled their efforts — each vowing that they would be the one to unravel his secrets, they would be the one to humiliate him before the people, and finally, they would be the one to destroy him.

Venti strummed his lyre in the square the next morning, laughing freely as children danced to his tune. His voice carried far, bright and unbothered. But from every corner of Mondstadt — an alley, a church shadow, a market stall, a carriage window — the Lawrences watched with eyes sharp and unblinking.

They would not rest until they had him.

And still, the bard seemed to dance just beyond their grasp, as if mocking them not only with his songs, but with every impossible step he took.

The Lawrence manor had become a shrine to madness.
Schubert, Damaris, Corvin, and now Leopold—each spoke of nothing but the bard. Meals went uneaten, duties neglected; their thoughts bent always toward where Venti was, what he was doing, what they might do if only they could corner him.

Every hour of every day was a hunt.
Not a stroll in the city streets, but a feverish circling, their eyes darting to every archway and tavern corner, every flutter of teal that might be his hair.

Each of them was convinced they were the one who should stalk him.

“You walk too loudly,” Damaris hissed when Schubert followed Venti into the market.
“And you glare too openly,” Schubert snapped.
“I was the one who saw through him first,” Corvin wheezed, his chest heaving as he tried to keep pace. “Without me, none of you would even suspect the danger.”

But it was Leopold who unsettled them most.

He did not merely want to follow the bard. He wanted to lay hands on him.

Where Damaris imagined twisting Venti’s delicate fingers until his music stopped, Leopold imagined breaking his arms outright. Where Schubert dreamed of shackles, Leopold dreamed of knives. He would watch the bard’s slim throat move with every mocking song and feel his teeth grind, picturing how easily a single strike could silence it.

“Enough of this trailing like dogs,” Leopold muttered, voice thick with obsession. “If I catch him in an alley, I’ll put him in the dirt before he knows I’m there.”

The others hissed at him, scandalized—but none truly disagreed. The thought had crossed each of their minds.

And yet, always, Venti slipped away.

He drank more than any mortal should, yet never faltered. He laughed and sang until the tavern walls shook, but no matter how many nights they kept watch, they could never find where he slept. By day he vanished like mist, and by night, when they thought to corner him, somehow the square filled with children, merchants, guards—faces that turned sharp if the Lawrence eyes lingered too long.

It was as if Mondstadt itself conspired to keep him out of reach.

And so their obsession festered.

Damaris’ prayers twisted into mutterings about the bard’s lips—how she wanted to bruise them shut.
Schubert paced the manor like a caged animal, snapping at servants that he should be the one to seize him.
Corvin, frail though he was, trembled with images of dragging Venti into the cathedral’s depths and watching the light leave his face before Barbatos’ very altar.
And Leopold… Leopold sharpened his knife each night, whispering Venti’s name into the whetstone as if it were a hymn.

The bard had become more than a nuisance.
He was a phantom that haunted them, laughed at them, slipped their grasp at every turn.

The more he evaded them, the more they burned.
And the more they burned, the more they wanted to touch him, hurt him, destroy him.

Madness was not approaching.

It was already here.

Chapter Text

     The streets of Mondstadt had never been quieter—or more watchful.

Schubert Lawrence’s eyes burned into every corner, every alleyway, every shadow. Every time Venti’s braided hair—or the faint flicker of his lyre’s movement—appeared, Schubert’s hands itched to grab him. He imagined the bard’s flippant laughter stifled beneath his palm, imagined dragging him through the streets as the city’s adoration crumbled to dust.

Damaris, ever precise, moved like a shadow among the faithful, her gaze never straying from the bard. She had begun charting his movements: the streets he favored, the taverns he visited, the subtle signals of when he would perform or vanish. She calculated the wind and the moon phases, the patterns of his laughter in the squares. Every tiny detail became an obsession.

Leopold, the most dangerous of them, lurked behind corners and inside abandoned stalls, hands twitching constantly. His mind traced Venti’s body like a map of points he could seize. He envisioned grabbing the bard’s arm, binding him, silencing that teasing, mocking voice once and for all. Every time the bard slipped past him, his teeth ground in frustrated hunger.

Corvin, old but cunning, shadowed them all from the shadows, hoarse whispers of predictions spilling from his lips. “He always appears where he is least expected,” he muttered as the others cursed at the empty streets. “He is no ordinary man. His freedom—his wind—cannot be restrained. But do not be fooled. Every step he takes leaves a trace. And we will follow it.”

Yet Venti was always just out of reach. He drank far too much, but his steps remained light, unshakable. No matter the traps they imagined, the corners they blocked, the streets they pounded, he evaded them. He disappeared into alleyways as if he dissolved into the air itself, and when they thought to corner him in the festival squares, townsfolk—guards, children, merchants—suddenly appeared to shield him with innocent laughter and unthinking attention.

The obsession in their eyes grew wilder by the day. They did not merely want to humiliate him—they wanted to seize him, to take control of the wind itself that seemed to carry him beyond all reach. And yet every attempt ended in madness, as though the city itself conspired against them.

  Unseen by the obsessive hunters, Diluc Ragnvindr (I think that’s how you spell his name?) had begun spending every evening behind the Angel’s Share bar. The wine flowed freely, but his sharp eyes were fixed on the door and windows, watching for familiar faces lurking in the shadows. He noticed the Lawrence clan’s increasingly aggressive behavior—the way they lingered in the streets, their eyes darting to the bard whenever he appeared.

He poured wine with precision, moving between barrels and glasses, offering the illusion of casual service while monitoring every suspicious shadow. Every time Leopold or Schubert passed nearby, he subtly altered Venti’s path: a stray remark, a glass toppled just so, or a sudden cheer from a customer—enough to scatter the stalkers and allow the bard a chance to slip away.

“You’re working too hard,” Kaeya said one evening, leaning lazily on the bar. “Do you really need to be this paranoid?”

Diluc didn’t respond, eyes narrowed as he tracked a particularly brazen Lawrence cousin lurking across the street. “Paranoia keeps him alive,” he murmured.

  Meanwhile, Jean, acting Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius, had begun spending more time in Mondstadt’s bustling squares, walking casually beside Venti when possible. Even the Cavalry Captain Kaeya and a few trusted guards were instructed to shadow the bard subtly, to keep him safe under the Lawrence’s angry watch.

“Are the Lawrence’s really that…touchy?” Kaeya hummed one evening, watching a Lawrence cousin silently seethe at Venti from a corner stall at the market. Said bard was bargaining the shop owner over an apple.

”Of course they are. Don’t know what they’re up to, but they’re plotting something.” Swan, one of the city guards, grunted.

Jean maintained a polite, neutral demeanor in public, but her eyes rarely left Venti’s back. “If anything happens,” she murmured to Kaeya one afternoon, “he must have someone close to intervene immediately. I do not care how subtle it must be. He cannot be harmed.”

Venti, of course, noticed none of this—at least, not overtly. He continued to charm the city, laugh with the people, and play his tunes that seemed to float beyond any human ability to predict.

  Even Sister Barbara had begun to notice something unsettling as well. She had seen the Lawrence clan’s frustration during festivals and tavern visits, and she couldn’t shake the unease that settled in her chest. One evening, she approached Venti under the guise of casual conversation, offering a small prayer and friendly words, staying close whenever he performed or wandered the streets.

“I… I just don’t want anyone to be hurt,” she admitted quietly to herself, watching him hum a soft melody to a group of children. “He is far too gentle for them to lash out at…” she reassured herself. 

And then there was Dahlia.

  The deacon had begun accompanying Venti more often, ostensibly to keep an eye on the city’s worshippers—but really, he followed the bard because he delighted in chaos. Whenever Corvin, Damaris, Schubert, or Leopold crept too near, Dahlia would call out innocently across a plaza:

“Ah! I see someone enjoying the festival as much as I am!”

Or, “Over there, by the fountain—so many eager listeners!”

The Lawrence and clergy members stiffened instantly, scanning the streets in alarm, but by the time they realized Dahlia’s teasing, Venti was already slipping into another alley, grinning and playing a note that danced on the wind.

He seemed to exist on his own terms—elusive, untouchable, untethered.

And so the stalking continued.

  Schubert could barely breathe without imagining seizing Venti’s wrists, forcing him to kneel. Leopold’s fantasies grew darker with every failed approach, imagining the bard pinned to the ground, silenced beneath the fury of his hands. Damaris meticulously charted every alley, every street corner, every potential escape, her mind twisting with each observation into something beyond mere patience.

Corvin, old and wheezing, could see the madness blooming in the others, yet he pressed on, tracing Venti’s routes and predicting his movements, convinced that sooner or later, they would catch him.

And still, the bard danced through Mondstadt, laughing, playing, and seemingly gathering allies in every corner—Diluc, Jean, Kaeya, Barbara, Dahlia—all unwittingly forming a protective web around him.

The hunters were obsessed, burning with desire to grasp him, to control him, to destroy him. But for all their scheming, all their watching, all their plotting… Venti remained free.

As the wind stirred through the city, carrying the soft echo of a lyre and the faint trill of laughter, Mondstadt itself seemed to sigh.

  Schubert crouched behind a market stall, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a corner where Venti had vanished just moments before. He had followed the bard from the Angel’s Share, from the square where the festival crowds still hummed in his wake, and yet here he was, gone like the wind itself. “How does he do it?” Schubert muttered, voice low, almost a hiss. “Every turn, every alley… and yet he eludes me.”

Leopold leaned against a crate not far away, hands drumming impatiently. His dark eyes gleamed with a dangerous hunger. “It’s maddening,” he spat. “I can feel him just beyond reach. I can smell his arrogance in the air… I want to grab him, crush him, make him scream—” He paused, catching himself, but his fists clenched all the tighter.

Damaris moved silently along the rooftops, tracing the path she’d calculated for hours, a bead of sweat slipping down her temple. She had expected precision, predictability—but the bard defied every charted route, every timing, every pattern she had recorded. “Impossible,” she breathed. “No one moves like that… no mortal.”

Corvin’s carriage lurked in the shadows of the street below, the old priest’s cane tapping nervously against the wood. His mind raced as he scribbled notes in a small, tattered journal. “Every move he makes,” he muttered hoarsely, “every smile, every song—he is testing us… mocking us. And yet he leaves a trail. I must—no, we must—catch him.”

But they could not.

Even when Venti appeared just steps away, leaning casually against the fountain as he plucked at his lyre, he was untouchable. Children circled him, laughing, holding out their hands for coins he had no need for. Merchants and guards alike drifted nearby, unplanned, forming an unintentional barrier between him and the hunters. Every approach the Lawrences tried ended in frustration, leaving them shouting into empty streets or glaring at thin air.

  The city slept fitfully under a moonlit sky, but for the Lawrence clan, rest had long since abandoned them. Each stalker prowled alone, obsessively retracing Venti’s steps, imagining every possible way to seize him, each frustrated attempt burning hotter in their minds.

Schubert wandered the cobblestone streets, pacing in endless loops, muttering names of alleys, rooftops, and fountains. He memorized each corner where Venti had vanished before, marking every shadow and every flicker of movement as potential opportunity. His hands itched—not for words, but for action. The bard had humiliated his house countless times, turning their proud name into the laughter of children. Every mocking song replayed in Schubert’s mind like a dagger twisting. He wanted to strike, yet each approach ended in nothing but frustration, his prey dancing just out of reach, leaving him trembling with impotent rage.

Leopold’s obsession was far darker. He roamed the outskirts of the city, slipping through alleyways, imagining the day he could finally corner the bard. He pictured hands gripping the bard’s shoulders, teeth bared, a single, perfect strike to silence the mockery once and for all. Each imagined confrontation made his pulse race, his breath quicken. And yet, every time he thought he’d finally trapped Venti, he would vanish into a crowd, into the wind, leaving only empty streets and Leopold’s mounting fury.

Damaris prowled the rooftops, eyes scanning every square, lantern, and window. She had memorized patterns of movement, tracked the timing of every performance and festival, and yet the bard remained elusive. She scribbled maps and notes in her mind, obsessively recalculating his likely paths, but every prediction proved wrong. Venti moved with the unpredictable grace of the wind, slipping past her as though he could sense her very gaze. Each failure sharpened her obsession, her desire to control him twisting with the same precision she used in her calculations.

And yet the bard moved as he always had—untethered, free, uncatchable.

Even as the stalkers’ frustration reached a fever pitch, the faintest hints of his true nature leaked through: a glass untouched despite the hours of drinking, a note struck that seemed impossibly clear, a sudden shift in wind that carried him silently across rooftops. Each subtle hint teased them, hinting at a power far beyond their comprehension, feeding their obsession with both fear and desire.

The wind carried his laughter, his song, and the promise of chaos just beyond reach. And as the Lawrence clan continued their fevered hunt, their need to capture him—control him—grew, unchecked and wild.

The hunt for the bard was no longer a simple pursuit. It had become a need, a hunger, a madness that consumed their every thought.

  The Lawrence manor, normally a place of calculated decorum and cold, polished halls, was alive with fury.

In the grand sitting room, the clan had gathered, voices echoing off the high ceilings as frustration and obsession collided. Maps, sketches of streets and alleys, scribbled notes of times and routes were scattered across the massive oak table, all evidence of their failed hunt.

“This is impossible!” Leopold bellowed, slamming a fist down on the table, rattling goblets. “Every time we think we’ve cornered him, he disappears! Every. Single. Time! I want him—need him—but he is untouchable! We’ve been at this for days!!! The week of Windblume is nearly over!!!”

“He is not a plaything for your violent whims, Leopold,” Damaris snapped, her voice cutting like a knife. She leaned forward, eyes cold and precise, scanning the floor plans of Mondstadt. “You fail to see the elegance of it. Control him, predict him, bend him to your will—that is the true power. To corner him physically is petty. I want him… under my control.”

Schubert paced at the far end of the room, jaw clenched, hands wringing. “You all speak of whims, control, and violence,” he growled. “I am the head of this family. I will have him. Not for petty games or whims—but as a prisoner. He will kneel before me, and I will decide his fate.”

Corvin, seated stiffly in a carved chair near the fireplace, his cane tapping nervously against the floor, hissed, “Prison? Control? No… this is weak. We humiliate him, and we dispose of him. Strip him of the city’s adoration, the people’s affection, and watch him crumble. Then, and only then, can he be truly dealt with.”

Leopold’s eyes narrowed, dark and dangerous. “Disposed of? No… I want him dead, or captured alive for what I will do to him. The dungeons of this manor will know his screams. He will pay for mocking us for centuries!”

Damaris barked, slamming her hand onto the table. “Enough of this foolishness! You speak of death and torture, yet you fail to see the simplest truth: he is untouchable. If we act rashly, he will escape again. I will not be thwarted by your impulsive cruelty, Leopold.”

Schubert’s face reddened, veins standing out on his temple. “Do not speak to my family members as if they are children, Damaris! I am the head of this family, and he will be my prisoner, not yours, nor yours, Corvin! You dare speak of disposal and humiliation while I plot to have him kneel before me? Ridiculous!”

Corvin’s chair scraped back harshly as he stood, voice rising to match the chaos. “Ridiculous? You all are fools! He must be broken. He is a threat, an idol the people adore, a mocker of our dignity! You speak of control and whims, but he must be crushed, not coddled!”

The shouting grew louder, echoing through the empty halls of the manor. Each obsessed mind was consumed with desire—not just to humiliate, but to possess, to bend, to destroy. And yet, no solution could reach him. Venti had danced past them all again and again, untouchable as the wind.

Leopold slammed his fists into the table, shaking it so violently that papers scattered across the floor. “Enough talk! We must strike! Tonight, tomorrow, whenever—he will be ours!”

Damaris’ voice cut through like steel. “If you act recklessly, Leopold, you will ruin all of our efforts! Patience, precision, calculation—that is how we take him. And when I do, he will belong to me, utterly.”

Schubert growled, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Belong to you? Never! He will kneel before me, and all the city will know it. He will obey me alone.”

Corvin, his face pale but eyes burning with determination, muttered under his breath, “You all are blinded by lust and fury. The only way to truly defeat him is to humiliate him before the world… and then dispose of him completely. Nothing less will satisfy the threat he poses.”

For a moment, silence fell across the room, broken only by the ragged breathing of the obsessed. Each of them knew the others’ plans were as dangerous as their own. Each wanted Venti for themselves, in their own way—control, humiliation, captivity, or death—but none could reach him.

And all of them were maddened by it.

Outside, the wind picked up, whistling softly through the cracked windows. Somewhere, far above the cobblestones, the faint echo of a lyre carried on the breeze.

”..Let’s drug the bastard.”

  The Lawrence clan spilled into the streets under the cover of evening, moonlight glinting off their determined eyes. Each of them carried their obsession like armor, and Schubert clutched a small vial hidden in the folds of his coat. Inside it was a potent concoction, crafted to render even the strongest mortal unconscious. Tonight, he would use it—and finally, the bard would be at their mercy.

The Angel’s Share glowed warmly in the night, a beacon in the quiet streets. Venti leaned casually at the bar, plucking notes from his lyre as children gathered near, laughing and humming along to the soft melodies. Diluc moved behind the bar, pouring wine with practiced ease, eyes constantly flicking to the shadows beyond the windows.

Schubert entered quietly, moving toward the bard with a practiced air of confidence. He slipped the vial into a glass of rich red wine and placed it before Venti, imagining the smug look on the bard’s face as he toppled over, helpless.

Venti glanced at the glass, eyebrows rising. “Why so serious tonight?” he asked, voice light, teasing, as he lifted the drink in a single graceful motion.

Schubert’s heart pounded. Just one sip, he thought. And he will be mine.

The glass emptied in a single swallow.

For a heartbeat, Schubert held his breath. Then, just as he expected the bard to falter, Venti’s body merely swayed slightly, a faint hiccup, and he straightened, grinning mischievously. “Hmm… unusual bouquet. Still, delightful,” he said, setting the glass down. The supposed knockout potion had no effect.

Schubert’s jaw went slack. “Impossible…” he muttered under his breath.

Diluc, noticing the approaching danger, smoothly intervened. He stepped forward, arms crossing as he addressed Venti casually. “I see the crowd is eager for a new song tonight. Care to play something in the square?”

Venti’s grin widened. “Ah, an invitation I cannot refuse,” he said, strumming a quick tune on his lyre. He drifted toward the open street, laughing as children and merchants fell in step with him, the crowd instinctively forming a protective circle.

Schubert fumed, attempting to follow, only to be subtly blocked at every turn. Every corner he tried to cut through, Diluc was there, a silent sentinel, keeping him at bay. Hours passed with the bard slipping through the streets, singing and laughing, and Schubert growing increasingly desperate.

Finally, Venti paused near a quiet alley, the last notes of his melody lingering on the wind. Schubert seized the moment, lunging forward to grab him. But before his hands could touch the bard, a voice rang out behind him:

“Oh? Looking for someone?”

Dahlia stepped from the shadows, arms crossed, a teasing smirk on his face. “You’re far too eager, Schubert. Maybe take a breath before trying to manhandle my friend.”

Schubert’s eyes flared with rage. “This is none of your concern!” he hissed.

Dahlia shrugged, taking a step closer. “Oh, but it is. You see, I like my chaos to stay… contained. Can’t have you ruining the night for everyone, now, can we?”

Before Schubert could react further, Venti, ever unruffled, twirled his lyre and launched a playful, teasing melody that seemed to swirl the wind itself around him. He danced past Dahlia, disappearing down the alley as the young deacon blocked Schubert’s path. The older man lunged again, but Dahlia sidestepped with ease, hands gesturing as if conducting an unseen orchestra, keeping Schubert from closing the gap.

By the time Schubert recovered, Venti was gone—vanished as easily as he always did.

Dahlia stood still for a moment, glancing after the retreating figure with a quiet laugh. “Next time,” he said softly, shaking his head, “you’ll need a better plan than that.”

Schubert’s fists clenched, knuckles white. The obsession had grown hotter, fiercer, and yet again, the bard had slipped through their grasp. And Dahlia—ever mischievous, ever clever—had proven to be a barrier Schubert had not anticipated.

With a hiss of hatred between his clenched teeth, Schubert retreated back to his manor. The plan had failed, he would have to let the rest know. 

The Lawrence manor was thick with tension when Schubert returned, his coat dusted from the streets and his fists still trembling with frustration. The others were already gathered in the grand sitting room, pacing, gesturing, and shouting in overlapping waves of obsession.

“He drank the whole glass!” Schubert growled, throwing his empty vial onto the table. “I tried, I planned! And he—he just—” He broke off, fists clenched, rage consuming him.

Damaris snapped, voice cutting through his frustration. “You all fail to see the point! You think brute force will work? Patience, planning, control—that is how we win! Yet you can barely stand upright without losing your composure.”

Corvin tapped his cane against the floor sharply. “We are obsessed with shadows and whims! You all want him for yourselves, each in your own foolish way. This city adores him, the streets obey him, and you can’t even reach him!”

Schubert slammed a hand on the table. “I am the head of this family! My plans are the only ones that matter! And yet—he eludes me, again and again!”

Leopold, who had been quiet, leaning against a window frame, arms folded, finally spoke, voice calm but dark, cutting through the heated argument like a blade.

“And perhaps that’s the problem.”

Every head turned to him.

“What do you mean?” Damaris hissed, irritation curling her tone.

Leopold’s eyes glittered, sharp and calculating. “We keep focusing on Venti. Always Venti. But we can’t reach him. Not through strength, not through stealth. The city conspires around him, his friends shield him… the world itself conspires. He is untouchable. Too clever. Too protected.”

Corvin’s eyes narrowed. “So what is your point, Leopold?”

Leopold stepped forward, voice low, deliberate. “If we cannot reach Venti… we reach someone he cares about.”

Schubert frowned. “Care about? Who? You mean one of the children he sings to, or—”

“No,” Leopold said, cutting him off. “Someone he trusts. Someone unguarded. Someone whose safety matters to him, and whose capture will force him out of hiding.”

Damaris tilted her head, confusion and curiosity battling in her gaze. “Who are you suggesting?”

Leopold’s lips curled into a small, wicked smile. “Dahlia.”

A hush fell over the room.

Schubert’s eyes widened. “The deacon? That… that boy?”

Leopold nodded slowly, dark ambition in his eyes. “Think about it. Jean is too powerful, too protected, impossible to corner. She’s the Acting Grandmaster…Any attempt to grab her would alert every knight in this damn city.
  Diluc controls the entire wine industry; even a misstep against him will cost us everything. We do much as touch him wrong, and we lose out on thousands of mora!!! Kaeya is unpredictable, too skilled, and would turn every attempt against us for the sheer fucking fun of it. Barbara—too beloved, too fragile—any attempt would only bring ruin upon ourselves. But Dahlia…” He let the word hang in the air like a knife.

“…Dahlia has no true sway outside the church, aside from being a deacon. He is unguarded, impulsive, and easy to manipulate. And most importantly,” Leopold’s gaze sharpened, “Venti would do anything to get him back.”

Corvin frowned. “Kidnap a deacon? He is part of the church—”

Leopold waved dismissively. “He is exactly why it will work. No one expects it. He is exposed. And Venti? He will cometo him. And when he does…” His voice trailed off, darkly suggestive, leaving the threat hanging.

Damaris’ eyes narrowed, a mixture of anger and intrigue in her expression. “You’re suggesting we use Dahlia as bait… to finally force the bard into our hands.”

Leopold’s grin widened. “Precisely. If we cannot touch him directly, we touch what he values. And once he appears, no one will escape.”

Schubert’s jaw tightened, and a cold fire burned in his eyes. “Fine,” he growled. “If we cannot take him, we take his friend. And the moment the bard shows himself…”

“…then we strike,” Damaris finished in a voice that matched her own obsession.

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of their new plan sinking in. Every shadow in the manor seemed to hum with anticipation, obsession, and rage.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying a faint melody from the city. Venti’s laughter—light, untouchable—danced across the night air.

And in the Lawrence manor, the hunters’ obsession shifted, dark and sharp: they no longer chased a song, a bard, or a shadow. Now, they hunted Dahlia, the key to finally capturing the untouchable wind.

Chapter Text

     Another night had settled over Mondstadt, but for the Lawrence clan and the clergy, darkness was only another opportunity to obsess. The group had divided, each faction pursuing their own target while pretending to the others that their focus remained solely on the bard.

In the Angel’s Share, Schubert and Leopold nursed glasses of wine, pretending to watch the crowd casually. Their eyes, however, never left Venti. Every twitch of the bard’s fingers on the lyre, every laugh, every casual swirl of his cloak set their blood on fire. They had perfected their stalking façade, letting the city think they were simply admirers—or perhaps critics—of the bard, while their true intent burned beneath the surface.

Leopold leaned across the table, voice low and dangerous. “He doesn’t even touch the ground like other men. How does he vanish so easily?”

Schubert slammed a fist against the table, rattling the glasses. “He mocks us at every turn. Every plan, every trap, every careful step—gone to nothing. We are fools for letting him slip through our hands again and again!”

Leopold’s grin was dark, predatory. “Fools? No… we are patient. Calculating. We wait. We learn. And one day, the wind itself will be trapped.”

Across the city, Damaris and Corvin were closing in on a different prey entirely. The deacon, Dahlia, had become their focus. They trailed him through narrow streets, across the plazas, and even lingered at church services, pretending concern while quietly noting every habit. Every pause, every familiar street corner, every evening stroll—nothing escaped their obsessive attention.

Damaris whispered as she crouched near a shadowed alley, notebook in hand. “He is predictable in ways the bard never will be. We can learn his routines, anticipate his movements. Soon, he will be as accessible as any mortal should be.”

Corvin, leaning on his cane but still agile in his determination, nodded. “Yes. We observe, we wait, and we choose the moment carefully. He is unguarded, easily influenced… and he matters to Venti. If we control Dahlia, the bard will reveal himself.”

Back in the tavern, Venti laughed, spinning his lyre, unbothered by the presence of the two older men. He had the crowd, the city, and the night itself weaving protection around him. Schubert’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the table. “We are so close, yet he eludes us,” he muttered.

Leopold’s eyes glimmered. “Close enough to watch. Close enough to wait. Soon, everything will fall into place.”

Meanwhile, Damaris and Corvin moved silently through the darkened streets, trailing Dahlia as he finished his evening duties at the church. They noted the way he paused to help a stray child, the way he lingered in quiet reflection, unaware of their gaze. Each small act fed their obsession—this mortal, so easily overlooked by the world, had become the key to finally reaching the untouchable wind.

The city slept, oblivious, while the Lawrence clan and clergy plotted, stalked, and waited. Two obsessions, two paths, one common goal: to bend the bard—or force him to reveal himself—through the very people and bonds he cherished most.

The hunt had grown more dangerous, more precise, and more unrelenting. And no one—not Venti, not Dahlia, not even his circle of guardians—yet realized just how close the trap was quietly tightening around them.

  Dahlia had always prided himself on his calm composure, even in the face of church politics or minor conflicts with unruly townsfolk. But lately, there was a new tension tightening his chest—a subtle awareness that eyes lingered longer than they should, that shadows seemed to follow his steps more carefully than mere coincidence would allow.

At first, he brushed it off. Perhaps it was paranoia, or perhaps the weight of his duties at the church, combined with his growing fondness for Venti, had made him jumpy. But as nights passed, he began noticing patterns. A figure too steady in the darkness outside the church. A shadow that lingered near alleyways he passed through on errands. The feeling that he was being watched became undeniable.

Dahlia tried to evade them subtly. He changed routes after evening prayers, lingered less at certain streets, and varied his pacing. Yet each night, he caught a glimpse—a familiar silhouette disappearing around a corner, a glint of eyes in the moonlight—that confirmed his unease.

It wasn’t long before he made the decision. If someone was watching, he would stay close to Venti. The bard, with his effortless charm and near-magical elusiveness, was untouchable. If Dahlia remained near him, he could at least feel safer, and perhaps the shadows trailing him would hesitate before striking.

That night, Dahlia arrived at the Angel’s Share slightly earlier than usual, finding Venti already perched atop the bar, tuning his lyre. The crowd had yet to swell, and the bard looked up, grinning.

“Ah, my favorite deacon arrives early! I was wondering when you’d notice the music tonight,” Venti teased, his tone light, unaware of the silent reason behind Dahlia’s appearance.

Dahlia hesitated, taking a seat near the bar. “I… thought I’d stay close tonight,” he said quietly. “For… protection.”

Venti tilted his head, amusement lighting his teal eyes. “Protection, hm? Well, I can’t promise the wind is always gentle, but I do like your company.”

Dahlia’s relief was palpable, though he tried to mask it with a casual shrug. Staying near Venti gave him a measure of comfort—and yet, unbeknownst to him, it also confirmed the suspicions of those watching. The Lawrence clan and clergy, hiding in corners and shadows across the city, now saw clearly that Venti and Dahlia were indeed close, their bond strengthening in plain sight.

Leopold, watching from a darkened street, clenched his fists. “So the bard values him,” he muttered, teeth gritted. “Good. That will make him come to Dahlia, and when he does…”

Schubert’s jaw tightened beside him. “Patience, Leopold. Soon, we will have our opportunity. And this… closeness… it will be our leverage.”

Damaris and Corvin, following Dahlia from a discreet distance, whispered under the cover of night, cataloging his movements and noting every pattern. “He’s cautious,” Damaris said, voice sharp. “But predictable in ways Venti never is. He will lead us to him eventually.”

“And when that happens,” Corvin murmured, cane tapping against the cobblestones, “we will strike. No hesitation.”

  The tavern’s warmth was a sharp contrast to the chill creeping in from the streets outside. Dahlia remained unusually close to Venti, lingering near his side as the bard strummed his lyre and teased the audience with playful melodies. Each laugh from the crowd felt like a shield, a thin barrier between them and the shadows outside.

But Dahlia could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. Every subtle shift in the tavern, every flicker of movement beyond the window, sent his heart racing. He leaned closer to Venti, instinctively letting his hand brush against the bard’s arm. A moment later, he found himself gripping the edge of Venti’s cloak, unconsciously pressing his body near the bard.

Venti noticed immediately. His eyes, bright with mischief, softened when he saw the tension in Dahlia’s posture. “Hmm… you’re unusually clingy tonight,” he said quietly, strumming a gentle chord. His tone was teasing, but there was a sharp undertone of awareness.

Dahlia’s face flushed, but he could not feign calm. “I—I just… it’s a crowded night,” he stammered, though the truth lay deeper. He felt unease gnawing at him, a premonition he could not fully name.

Venti tilted his head, sensing the fear in the way Dahlia’s fingers gripped the cloak. He let the music continue, soft and steady, a grounding rhythm amidst the tension. “You’re frightened,” he murmured. Not accusatory, not alarmed—just quietly observant. “That’s… new.”

Dahlia swallowed, keeping his grip. “I—I just… want to stay close, in case…”

“In case what?” Venti asked lightly, though his eyes flicked to the windows, noting the faint shadows lingering outside.

Dahlia could not finish. He only pressed closer, the warmth of Venti’s presence a small comfort against the cold fear settling in his chest.

Outside, Leopold and Schubert moved like predators in the night. Their eyes tracked every motion through the tavern’s windows, calculating, obsessive. They noted Dahlia’s proximity to the bard, their plans forming like blades behind their teeth.

Damaris and Corvin, in the shadows along the side streets, followed Dahlia closely, studying his patterns and noting every subtle indication of his fear. They whispered, their voices soft but sharp with intent.

“He’s afraid,” Damaris hissed, eyes narrowing. “Perfect. His fear will lead him… and lead the bard.”

Corvin’s cane tapped against the stones, each sound deliberate. “Yes. Keep observing. Wait for the moment we can strike without error.”

Inside the tavern, Venti’s gaze softened as he glanced at Dahlia. He didn’t fully know what the threat was yet, but something in the tension, the quiet unease, set his instincts on alert. The bard’s hand brushed lightly against Dahlia’s, almost as if grounding him, almost as if reassuring himself as much as the deacon.

  The following day was a blur of subtle maneuvers and whispered plotting. The Lawrence clan and clergy did not rest. Every glance, every footstep of Venti and Dahlia was scrutinized, cataloged, and analyzed. Schubert and Leopold maintained their predatory watch over the bard, always careful to appear casual, but their minds raced with violent imaginings of finally cornering him. Meanwhile, Damaris and Corvin trailed Dahlia, observing his every habit, noting the times he was most vulnerable, the quiet streets he traveled, the moments he lingered too long in prayer or contemplation.

Inside the Angel’s Share, Venti carried on with his effortless charm, playing for the crowd, teasing the patrons, and laughing at the world. Dahlia remained close, ever cautious, the grip on Venti’s cloak a subtle but constant reminder of the unease that lingered beneath the bard’s carefree surface. Venti’s eyes flicked toward him frequently, reading the quiet tension, storing it away like a warning bell he could not yet fully sound.

That evening, as the tavern bustled with festival revelers, Schubert’s frustration reached a dangerous peak. He leaned close to Leopold, whispering with a hiss of fury. “Every attempt we make… every trap, every shadow, every plan—he slips through. And that boy of his… that deacon… keeps him close, keeps him safe. We cannot touch him, and it maddens me!”

Leopold’s dark smile widened. “That is why we change the plan. Direct strikes will fail. Subtlety, manipulation… and patience. Soon, one misstep, one slip… and everything will fall into place.”

Across the city, Damaris and Corvin were pacing outside the church, having followed Dahlia through his evening rounds. They exchanged a glance, the silent understanding clear: the deacon was more exposed than they had realized, his protective proximity to Venti an opportunity.

“He is careful,” Damaris murmured, “but he does not suspect how closely we watch. One wrong turn… one unguarded moment…” Her voice trailed, dark with anticipation.

Corvin tapped his cane against the stone. “We only need patience. We wait for the right time, and then we strike. His trust will be our weapon.”

Back in the tavern, Venti played a soft melody, the notes flowing like a gentle wind over the crowd. Dahlia’s grip on his cloak tightened slightly as he scanned the edges of the room, unease prickling along his spine. The bard noticed immediately, his gaze flicking toward the shadows, the corners, the streets beyond the windows.

“You’re worried,” Venti said quietly, voice low enough for only Dahlia to hear. “I can feel it. Stay close, yes… but do not let fear guide your every step.”

Dahlia nodded, swallowing hard. “I just… I don’t want to be caught off guard.”

Venti’s smile was soft, almost protective. “Nor do I.”

Outside, the watchers adjusted their positions, each plotting, each obsessed, each imagining the moment they would finally seize control. They did not yet know how to reach Venti directly. But they had found Dahlia, vulnerable and unguarded, and the seed of their plan had taken root.

  The streets outside Angel’s Share had quieted as the tavern goers departed for the night, but the shadows were far from empty. Schubert and Leopold lingered on nearby corners, their eyes sharp, their patience thinning. Damaris and Corvin followed at a distance, watching Dahlia as he left the tavern with Venti, his unease palpable.

Dahlia stayed unnervingly close to the bard as they moved through the dimly lit streets. One hand gripped Venti’s arm tightly, the other brushing along the edge of his cloak whenever a shadow or sudden movement startled him. The warmth and steady rhythm of Venti’s stride was his only anchor against the creeping fear pressing in from all sides.

“I… I don’t like walking out here alone,” Dahlia murmured, his voice low, almost swallowed by the quiet night. “It… it feels like something’s following us.”

Venti’s eyes flicked sharply toward him, noticing the tension coiled in the young deacon’s posture. “I can feel it,” he said softly, strumming a gentle chord on his lyre. “You’re scared… that’s… important.” He didn’t pry, but he subtly adjusted his pace, ensuring Dahlia could keep up without stumbling.

From the shadows, the watchers moved like predators, each step calculated. Schubert’s frustration was evident as he whispered to Leopold, “we almost have him. The Deacon’s proximity… it only makes it easier to reach the bard eventually.”

Leopold’s grin was cold. “Yes. Patience, Schubert. One misstep, and it all falls into place.”

Damaris and Corvin, trailing Dahlia along the quiet streets, exchanged sharp whispers. “He’s cautious,” Damaris said, voice low and cold. “But he trusts too easily. That trust will lead us straight to him… to the bard.”

Dahlia’s grip on Venti tightened again, his face tense as a distant noise made him flinch. Venti glanced down, catching the subtle signs of fear. Something’s off tonight… he thought, the warning buzzing in the back of his mind. His hand brushed lightly against Dahlia’s, grounding him, and signaling that he had noticed—the first faint recognition that danger lurked closer than either of them realized.

”Let’s…Get to a crowded area. The festival week has yet to end.” Venti hummed, the season beside him giving a slight squeeze of his arm in response. 

The festival’s nighttime lights twinkled like scattered stars, casting colorful reflections over the cobblestone streets. Music, laughter, and the scent of baked treats filled the air, but Dahlia’s grip on Venti never loosened. He clutched at the bard’s arm and pressed close, fingers brushing along the edge of Venti’s cloak whenever the crowd parted or a shadow seemed too near.

Venti, aware of the tension, leaned into his usual charm, teasing Dahlia with games and little challenges between festival booths. “Catch me if you can!” he called, darting a few steps ahead, then stopping just long enough for Dahlia to catch up. Each playful moment was punctuated with small prizes—a ribbon from a ring toss, a brightly colored flower from a game stand—gifts he pressed into Dahlia’s hands.

The bard’s eyes always flicked to the crowd, subtly drawing festival-goers around them whenever the pair felt too isolated. Groups of laughing villagers swarmed past them, inadvertently keeping prying eyes at a distance. But Dahlia never released his hold. The warmth of the bard was the only thing grounding him, even as excitement and unease tangled in his chest.

Venti noticed another problem, though. Dahlia’s constant grip prevented him from vanishing or weaving away as he usually did. He couldn’t slip into the shadows or glide over rooftops without the young deacon still in tow. For the first time in many nights, Venti felt the pull of constraint—his freedom limited by his care for Dahlia’s safety. Yet leaving him behind was never an option.

The crowd moved and shifted around them, a living barrier that Venti could manipulate to keep the watchers at bay, but the more they wove through the festival, the easier it was for Schubert, Leopold, Damaris, and Corvin to tail them. Shadows stuck to their periphery, keeping a careful distance, but always present.

Dahlia’s wide eyes followed every movement, still clutching Venti’s arm and waist, a subtle tremor in his hands. The bard’s smile never faltered, though he kept a watchful, almost imperceptible alertness in the corners of his eyes. He knew something was approaching—some danger waiting—but he relied on Dahlia’s instinctive grip as both a warning and a reminder to tread carefully.

Venti’s laughter rang through the festival, teasing the deacon as he spun through a game of ring toss. “You’re too tense, Dahlia! Here, take this one—no, that’s yours!” He pressed a small prize into Dahlia’s hand again, the gesture playful, protective, and grounding. Each shared moment anchored them in the crowd, hiding them from those who lingered unseen.

But with every step, every twist through the throngs of festival-goers, Venti knew he was trapped just a little more. Dahlia’s grip kept him tethered, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been in years. The shadows behind them lengthened as the night went on, the stalkers patiently following, biding their time. And though the festival carried on in celebration, the two of them moved like a pair of lights through the dark, laughter masking the tension coiling just beyond the edges of the crowd.

The festival was at its peak. Lanterns bobbed in the night air, music swelled from every corner, and the crowd’s laughter mingled with the scent of sweet pastries and the warm tang of spiced cider. Venti wove through it all with his usual flair, a playful melody on his lips, a prize in each hand, always keeping Dahlia close.

The deacon didn’t loosen his grip once, pressing close as they rounded corners or paused at a game stand. His fingers brushed along Venti’s arm and cloak, small but firm reminders that he was there—and that he trusted the bard to keep him safe.

It was exactly this tether that allowed the watchers to move closer than ever before. Schubert and Leopold lingered at the edges of the crowd, scanning every table, every shadowed alleyway. Damaris and Corvin kept Dahlia in sight from a distance, eyes sharp, tracking his subtle reactions, every twitch of fear or hesitation.

Venti noticed the unusual tension pressing at the edges of the festival’s revelry. He could feel the hidden eyes, the calculated patience lurking in the shadows. The bard’s fingers brushed Dahlia’s briefly, a grounding touch, as he whispered softly, “Stay close. Don’t let go, and don’t panic. I can feel it too.”

Dahlia’s hold tightened instinctively, fingers clutching his arm, waist, and the edge of his cloak. “I… I’m not letting go,” he whispered, the words barely audible over the music.

The stalkers’ opportunity came in the brief moments when the crowd parted, drawn by a sudden display—a playful trick of Venti’s music, a spinning lantern, a shower of flower petals that sent villagers laughing in every direction. Schubert saw the gap and made his move, stepping forward with careful stealth, a small vial concealed in his hand, intending to knock Venti unconscious.

But Venti’s eyes flicked toward him instantly. Even with Dahlia clinging tightly, Venti spun lightly, positioning himself to shield the deacon. The crowd surged naturally, drawn by the bard’s playful performance, cutting off Schubert’s approach.

Venti’s fingers grazed Dahlia’s hand, a small, reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. We’re fine,” he murmured, though his senses were sharper than ever, every nerve alert. The tension between protection and tethering weighed on him—Dahlia’s presence both shielded and limited him, but he could not abandon the deacon for even a moment.

Schubert’s frustrated growl cut through the air, restrained by the swarm of festival-goers. He could not reach the bard—not yet. Outside, Leopold’s eyes glinted with dark patience, knowing this attempt had failed but calculating the next move. Damaris and Corvin watched Dahlia, their own plans coiling silently like a spring, waiting for the chance to strike.

Venti laughed lightly, the sound carrying through the crowd, masking his wariness. “See?” he said softly to Dahlia, “Nothing to fear. We’re still moving.” He twirled through the festival, still a performer, still a carefree bard to the outside eye. Yet beneath that playful mask, his awareness was razor-sharp, noting the pattern of shadows, the lingering attention, the obsession creeping ever closer.

And Dahlia clung just a little tighter, unaware that his grip had not only protected him tonight—it had also marked him as the pivot point for everything the stalkers planned next.

Chapter Text

     The festival had ended, leaving Mondstadt’s streets damp with the echo of laughter and scattered lantern light. The city seemed quiet, but shadows had lengthened, and the obsession following Venti and Dahlia had not faded.

Dahlia’s grip on Venti remained tight, clutching his arm and brushing along the edge of his cloak as they navigated the winding streets toward the young deacon’s home. His unease was obvious, each step accompanied by soft, nervous breaths whenever a shadow moved just so.

Unseen, the stalkers moved with careful precision. Schubert and Leopold had taken positions along side streets and narrow alleys, preparing for a sudden strike. Damaris and Corvin followed at a distance, eyes fixed on Dahlia, memorizing his route, noting every slight hesitation or quickened step.

Venti hummed a soft, playful tune, intended to keep Dahlia calm and draw festival-goers’ eyes whenever they passed any stragglers. But Dahlia’s grip on him prevented Venti from vanishing as he normally could, keeping the pair slower and more predictable.

The first opportunity for an attack came near a dimly lit corner. Schubert stepped from the shadows, a small vial glinting in his hand—an instant knock-out meant for Venti.

Venti’s instincts flared. He placed a protective hand on Dahlia’s, grounding him, and twisted lightly to shield the deacon. The vial slipped from Schubert’s hand, shattering harmlessly against the cobblestones.

Diluc, who had followed discreetly from a distance, emerged just in time, positioning himself between the stalker and the two friends. Schubert was forced to retreat, eyes burning with frustration.

Venti gave a soft, reassuring glance at Dahlia, who remained clutching his arm and the edge of his cloak. “Stay close. Don’t let go. If they try again… I’ll know immediately.”

Dahlia pressed closer instinctively, and Venti felt the tension radiating from him. For the first time, the bard realized how Dahlia’s presence, while protective, also tethered him—making it easier for the stalkers to track them, and limiting his usual freedom to slip away unseen.

The streets grew narrower, quieter, the festival’s laughter fading behind them. Lanterns swayed in the evening breeze, casting elongated shadows that seemed to creep along the walls of the buildings. Dahlia’s grip on Venti had tightened, his small frame pressing closer onto Venti’s, to be honest quite smaller, figure. His fingers clutching the bard’s arm and the edge of his cloak as they rounded a corner.

Venti’s eyes flicked to the shadows before them. He sensed it—a subtle shift in the air, a calculated patience that could only belong to those who had been stalking them. “Keep moving, keep close,” he murmured under his breath, his tone light but edged with caution.

From the darkness, a figure lunged—Corvin, eyes blazing, hands reaching for Dahlia. But Venti was quicker. With a fluid motion, almost akin to a dance, he twisted, placing himself between the stalker and Dahlia, his hand pressing firmly against the deacon’s back to guide him along. “Not today,” he whispered.

Dahlia’s fingers dug into Venti’s corset and waist instinctively, fear sharpening his grip. “Venti!” he hissed, voice tight with panic.

Corvin stumbled slightly, thrown off by Venti’s sudden movement and the subtle crowd of onlookers who had wandered into the street. Damaris’s shadow appeared beside Corvin, but the momentary confusion allowed Venti to slide around the pair, carrying Dahlia just far enough to prevent immediate contact.

Leopold and Schubert, lurking in the distance, flinched with frustration. Every move was blocked or delayed by the crowd, by Venti’s skill, and by the tether of Dahlia’s grip. The deacon’s presence, while protective, anchored Venti, preventing him from slipping away completely, yet giving him immediate warning of any approach.

“Hold on tight,” Venti murmured again, his hand brushing Dahlia’s briefly to steady him. The tension radiating from the deacon was sharp, but the bard’s calm, playful energy acted as a shield of sorts, masking their escape from the prying eyes that had followed them from the festival.

Finally, they reached a safer, better-lit street. Dahlia’s grip didn’t loosen, though he was trembling slightly, pressed against Venti as if his very touch could keep them safe. “You… you knew,” he said, voice small. “You… you knew they’d try something.”

Venti’s smile was soft, almost wistful. “I always know, Dahlia. That’s why I keep you close.” His fingers brushed Dahlia’s hand, just enough to reassure him. “We’re safe—for now. But this? This is only the beginning. They won’t stop.”

The shadows in the distance shifted, the stalkers’ patience unbroken, their obsession intensifying. They had failed tonight, but the night had taught them one thing: Dahlia was the key. And when they finally acted, nothing—not even Venti’s speed or wit—would stop them from trying to take what they desired most.

  Dahlia’s small house was still as midnight, candlelight having burned low. His breaths were soft, even, at last free of the tension that had gripped him all day. He hadn’t noticed how he’d fallen asleep still clutching the faintest trace of Venti’s scent clinging to his cloak, nor how his fingers twitched as though searching for something to hold.

Above, perched lightly on a rooftop beam, Venti kept watch. His harp lay quiet across his knees, pastel-gold eyes tracing every shadow along the street. The bard’s usual mirth was subdued, weighed down by the sharp awareness that he could not vanish into the wind tonight. Dahlia had anchored him—fragile, stubborn, and utterly trusting—and Venti could no longer slip free.

The night passed without incident. But it was not safety. It was silence before the strike.

  Morning brought the cool echo of bells from Mondstadt’s cathedral. Dahlia, freshly robed, entered the grand halls with his usual soft smile. His nerves from the night before seemed almost a dream. Surely, he told himself, nothing could happen here, where the light of Barbatos poured through stained glass and the air thrummed with hymn and prayer.

Damaris was waiting. She greeted Dahlia with a warm clasp of the shoulder, her voice gentle.
“Brother Dahlia. You look tired. Did the festival exhaust you?”

Dahlia shook his head. “I… did not stay late.”

“Mm. Still, it weighs on you,” Damaris said, lowering her voice. Her eyes flicked briefly toward the pews, where the clergy bustled about. “Come. A quiet word, just you and I. It won’t take long.”

It felt harmless. Even kind. Dahlia let himself be steered, his hands folded in front of him.

But Corvin was already waiting at the corridor’s end. The bishop’s smile was smooth, his posture relaxed, his tone drenched in benevolence.
“Ah, Brother Dahlia. I hoped we could talk. The others are so busy—best to step away, don’t you think?”

Dahlia faltered. “Talk? About what?”

“About you.” Corvin’s gaze was steady, his hands clasped lightly behind his back as though he were merely an old friend seeking counsel. “We’ve noticed your devotion. Your closeness. And yet…” He let the words trail, leaving them heavy, suggestive.

Damaris’s hand brushed Dahlia’s elbow, guiding him onward. Their footsteps hushed as they turned from the crowded nave, into a narrow passage, toward a small unlit chamber. Each motion was careful, practiced—not rushed, not forced. Anyone watching would think only that a young deacon had been called for private guidance.

Inside the chamber, the door clicked softly shut. Shadows swallowed the room, leaving Dahlia blinking, unsettled.

“Wh-why here?” he asked, his voice low.

“Because truth is best spoken where it won’t be misunderstood,” Corvin replied smoothly. His eyes gleamed in the dimness, hunger disguised as piety. “You have become… too entwined, Brother. Too close to the bard. We must correct this. For your soul’s sake.”

Dahlia’s breath caught, fear stirring in his chest. His hand instinctively reached for the door, but Damaris’s palm landed over his own, firm yet not violent. Just enough to hold. Just enough to trap.

He froze in the small chamber, breath shallow. The dim light caught on Corvin’s silver insignia, painting his face with a holy gleam that did nothing to ease the dread in Dahlia’s chest.

“I don’t…” Dahlia began, but his throat tightened. “I don’t understand.”

“You do,” Corvin said softly. His tone was still kind, but his eyes burned with the heat of a candle left too close to paper. “You feel it, don’t you? How he’s wrapped himself around your heart? You think it’s chance? Think it’s harmless?”

Damaris’s hand slid from Dahlia’s over the door to his shoulder, firming its weight. “Brother, we’ve seen this before. Mortals drawn too far into the bard’s… winds. They forget themselves. They drift.” Her voice was calm, sympathetic—almost sorrowful. “We can’t let you drift away.”

Dahlia tried to step back, but the wall met his spine. “I—I haven’t drifted. He’s just—”

“‘Just’?” Corvin’s smile thinned. “Your eyes follow him. Your every step bends toward him. You can’t hide it. Not from us.” His voice dropped lower, intimate and suffocating. “We’ve been watching you longer than you realize.”

The words hit like cold water. Dahlia’s pulse leapt, panic sparking. “Then… you’ve been following me?”

“Protecting you,” Damaris corrected smoothly. “We wouldn’t leave you to his whims. We care more deeply than that.” Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly, as though claiming Dahlia for herself. 

Corvin moved closer, cutting off the last of the light from the door. His presence was overwhelming—calm, controlled, but far too close. “You belong with us, Brother Dahlia. Not with a wandering wind that leaves and leaves and leaves. With us, you’ll never be abandoned.”

Dahlia shook his head, breath sharp. “No. Please, I don’t—”

Corvin’s hand rose, not striking, but settling against Dahlia’s jaw with a gentleness that made it worse. His thumb brushed his cheek, a mockery of tenderness. “Hush. No one will question if you’re gone for a while. You’re with your brothers. With your church.”

Dahlia’s stomach dropped.

The latch clicked. Damaris had slid the bolt across the door.

For the first time, their obsession slipped through the polite facade. Corvin’s voice stayed soft, but the heat of it was undeniable. “We’ll keep you safe from him. From yourself. Until you remember where you truly belong.”

And with that, both members of the clergy closed in—not striking, not dragging, but enfolding him. One hand at his wrist, the other guiding his shoulder, their grip was steady, suffocating, final. Dahlia struggled, but his protest was swallowed in the shadows.

Outside the chamber, the cathedral rang with hymn and prayer, the faithful unaware that one of their own was quietly being taken.

  Morning came in Mondstadt with a soft haze of dew and songbirds, but Venti didn’t sing with them. He perched on the edge of the cathedral’s roof, lyre balanced on his knee, gaze tracking the familiar rose pink hair he’d watched all night through Dahlia’s window. Every rise and fall of breath had anchored him. He’d told himself that as long as Dahlia rested, he could too.

But when Dahlia finally stirred and dressed for morning duties, Venti stayed hidden. He told himself he wouldn’t hover, wouldn’t follow Dahlia into the busy heart of the church where suspicion ran thick. Dahlia could handle routine.

Or so he thought.

Hours later, when Dahlia should have emerged for the usual errands—greeting parishioners in the square, tending the steps with the other deacons—he didn’t.

Venti waited. An hour. Two. Still no Dahlia.

By noon, unease had curdled into dread. He slipped through the marketplace crowd, calling a cheerful song to mask how his eyes scanned every corner. No pink hair. No warm, hesitant smile. Only whispers of hymns carried from within the cathedral walls.

He tested the air, weaving his wind like a searching hound. But inside the church, the currents felt strangled, locked down by stone and incense and too many watchful eyes. He could not simply waltz inside. Not without every priest and guard seeing him for what he was.

Venti circled the cathedral once, then twice, then three times, his motions growing tighter, more desperate. His path drew him toward a side cloister where Barbara hummed to herself, carrying baskets of fresh flowers into the nave.

“Barbara!” Venti called, dropping down gracefully from the low roof. His face, usually so effortlessly calm, was stiff with worry. “Have you seen Dahlia? He should’ve been here this morning.”

Barbara blinked, startled by the urgency in his tone. “Dahlia? He was supposed to assist with morning prayers. He hasn’t arrived.”

Something sharp flashed in Venti’s eyes. He seized her hand with sudden insistence. “Go. Look in the vestry rooms, the side halls—everywhere. Now. Please.”

Barbara, unsettled by the bard’s uncharacteristic edge, nodded and hurried inside. Venti, meanwhile, remained behind, jaw set, gaze flicking sharply across the cobbled streets as though expecting to catch sight of shadows fleeing just out of reach.

  Elsewhere, beneath the cathedral’s spires, Leopold stalked in silence through the Knights’ of Favonius’s quarters. His boots barely brushed the ground as he slipped into the librarian’s chamber.

Lisa’s study smelled of ink and ozone, spines of tomes stacked like watchful eyes. Shelves leaned under the weight of records, alchemical notes, fragments of magical theory. Leopold had but one goal, however.
The drug his father had prepped for the bard…one sip should have knocked any man out cold within minutes. But Venti only stumbled from its intoxication. It was…impossible, frankly. Either Venti was somehow, by some stroke of luck, immune to being drugged…or there was sprinting else at play. Surely, of all people, Lisa would have some sort of magical concoction to subdue the bard. She was the best scholar the Akademi of Sumeru had ever seen, and room was, she had once considering joining the Hexenzirkel Witches. (Idk how to spell that)

In a desperate haze, Leopold began shifting through the room. Ripping open drawers, pouring over notes and sniffing magical potions and remedies. But it wasn’t until he opened Lisa’s desk drawer, that Leopold’s focus fixed instantly on the small, leather-bound journal that lay open in its contents. 

His gloved hands trembled faintly as he flipped through it, then stilled when his gaze caught upon scrawled words:

The Holy Lyre still sings false. There is a veil upon it—a glamour. I sense it. I will strip the falsehood when I find the time. Though, I worry. Before it was stolen, the Lyre never had so much as a spell whispered upon it. Why is there one on it now? What truth is it hiding?

Beneath, a carefully penned incantation spiraled across the page.

Sacra vis Caelestiae, mendacia subterranea ablue, et mihi verum statum artefactorum eorum revela.

Leopold’s lips curled upward. “So the bard hides tricks, does he~?”

  Moments later, Leopold swept into the cathedral’s lower halls with the journal in hand. Corvin was waiting there, pacing, his expression carved from stone.

“Look,” Leopold urged, thrusting the book forward. “Lisa knew. She felt it. The Lyre is cloaked—Venti’s doing. Here. The spell to unravel it.”

Corvin took the journal, scanning the words, his brow furrowing deeper with each line. At last he shut it with a snap, his eyes cold with fury. “Then he has deceived us. Lied to the church. Lied to the people. Lied to the Archons themselves.”

His fist struck the nearest wall, the echo rolling like thunder down the corridors.

“Let us be sure,” Leopold pressed eagerly, his voice slick with satisfaction. “Let us see his crime for ourselves.”

Together, they descended the spiral steps into the cathedral’s guarded vaults. At Corvin’s order, the wardens let them pass. The Holy Lyre rested on its pedestal, serene, its polished frame glimmering faintly in the dim lantern light.

Leopold moved forward, reverent as if before an altar, and began to chant. The spell unfurled like a thread of fire, winding around the strings, creeping through the air.

The glamour peeled back—thin at first, like a trick of the eyes, then collapsing all at once. The glimmer faded. The wood cracked. The strings curled and snapped with a brittle cry. Polished handles splintered as the Holy Lyre, Barbatos’s divine instrument, collapsed inward on itself in an instant. 

The Holy Lyre stood revealed: fractured, broken, and unplayable.

For a breath, silence reigned.

Then the horror erupted. The wardens gasped, recoiling as though they had witnessed sacrilege itself. One clutched the symbol at her breast; another staggered back, muttering prayers.

Corvin stared at the ruin before him, his face twisting into rage so profound it seemed to hollow him out. “He destroyedit,” he spat. “The sacred gift. He dared to profane it.”

Leopold’s eyes gleamed with vicious glee. “Now we hold proof. No more whisperings or suspicions. The bard is guilty. The godless liar revealed.”

He stepped closer to the broken instrument, savoring the sight. “And when the people learn what he has done, they will turn on him themselves. He will not escape us this time.”

Corvin’s hand closed on the hilt of his blade, though no foe stood before him. His voice was low, seething: “He will pay. By my hand, he will pay.”

The Lyre’s snapped strings trembled faintly, the sound thin and pitiful—like the last note of a song unfinished.

Above them, the cathedral bells tolled for noon.

And Mondstadt’s god was about to be accused of destroying its holiest treasure.

Chapter Text

     Venti crouched in the shadows of the cathedral steps, one hand pressed lightly against the stone. The winds curled through the high arches and narrow windows, carrying voices to him like leaves tumbling down a river. He let his eyes fall shut and listened.

Inside, the church was chaos.

Gasps rose into whispers, whispers broke into angry cries. The broken Lyre sat in full view beneath the vaulted ceiling, its strings snapped, its polished body scarred and hollow. The holy relic they had prayed to for generations—laid bare as ruined.

Barbara’s voice, thin with disbelief, cut through the storm: “No… this can’t be. Venti brought the Lyre back. He swore to protect it!”

But her protests were drowned in the feverish clamor.

Corvin’s words came smooth, practiced, his tone almost mournful though every syllable dripped with satisfaction.
“It is true. See for yourselves. The bard deceived you all—he dared to hand our sacred relic back in lies and trickery. He thought himself clever enough to mock the very church that gave him shelter.”

Murmurs surged, some crying in horror, others muttering prayers for forgiveness.

Then Gottelinde’s voice, sharp as a blade:
“I knew it. From the first moment I saw that slouching drunkard, claiming divinity as if we would bow to his arrogance. A criminal bastard, through and through. Now you all see what kind of creature you welcomed!”

A ripple of agreement spread. Her words fed the embers already kindled by fear.

Leopold stepped forward, louder than all, his voice carrying the pomp of a knight before battle:
“Have no fear, people of Mondstadt. I, Leopold, have uncovered this treachery, and I will personally see this bard’s justice carried out. He will never trick or humiliate our city again.”

Cheers and shouts rose—some in agreement, some in anger, all tangled into a frenzy.

Venti’s jaw tightened. The winds carried every venomous syllable to him, but they carried no path forward. His hand lingered on the stone, feeling the anger gathering behind it. They were poisoning Dahlia’s absence, twisting it into proof of his guilt. And he couldn’t even enter.

Venti clenched his fists against the stone, his nails digging into the mortar. Every instinct screamed at him to throw the doors open, to let the wind howl through the cathedral and strip the lies from their lips. He could. A single command to the air and all their words would be scattered, their rage silenced beneath the weight of truth.

But… what truth could he show them?

The Lyre lay in splinters before their eyes. Dahlia was missing. And he, Venti, had been the one to place the enchantment on the relic to begin with. To step inside now would only tighten the noose Corvin had so carefully placed around his neck.

If he were to expose his identity, he would not be able to interact with Mondstadt the same way. He would have to leave. After all, the utter chaos his identity would bring…Could very well lead to a revolution. An opportunity he knew the Lawrence’s would receive. 

The wind whispered uneasily around him, tugging at his braid, rustling his sleeves. He almost heard it as a voice: Patience… wait… listen…

Inside, Barbara was still trying. Her voice broke as she pleaded over the uproar:
“Venti isn’t like that! He—he gave us music when we had none! He healed people’s hearts when no prayer could! Please, you have to believe—”

But Corvin’s reply thundered over hers, righteous and sharp:
“Sister Barbara, your kindness blinds you. That bard has made a fool of all of us—of you most of all. Would you defend the man who dared to trample on your faith? Would you excuse his lies, when the truth is shattered before your very eyes?”

The crowd erupted again, Barbara’s voice swallowed whole.

Venti’s chest ached. He wanted to run to her side, to steady her as he had so many times in small, quiet ways. But he couldn’t—not while Dahlia’s fate remained unknown. He couldn’t risk leading the same mob to the boy’s doorstep.

A gust of wind spiraled around him, restless, urging him upward. He stood, retreating to the shadows of a side street, and let the breeze lift him toward the rooftops. From there he crouched, surveying the cathedral’s stained windows glowing with torchlight, the voices still roaring within.

  The night bled into dawn. Venti perched on a rooftop, the winds around him restless with whispers. He had spent the hours listening, searching, praying for any sign of Dahlia. But with each bell that tolled from the Cathedral tower, the knot around his chest grew tighter.

Then the morning sun broke over Mondstadt, and so did the peace.

Below, a tide of voices gathered. The Lawrence banners—deep indigo and gold—fluttered as members of the old clan strode into the square with heavy steps. Corvin’s voice carried like a judge pronouncing a sentence:
“Knights of Favonius! It is time to cleanse our city of the deceiver. The bard who desecrated the Holy Lyre must face justice!”

The crowd murmured, anger swelling like a storm.

From the steps of headquarters, Jean stood with squared shoulders, her arms crossed tightly. She did not speak, but her silence was telling. A Knight at her side whispered urgently. Venti’s keen ears caught the words carried by the wind:

“Act, Master Jean. If you do nothing, they’ll tear the city apart.”

Jean’s jaw clenched. She closed her eyes for a breath, then opened them, her voice calm but heavy. She had no choice.

“Knights. Bring him here. Alive.”

Venti froze. He had known this moment might come—but still, the command struck him like a blade.

The crowd erupted, half in approval, half in impatient rage. Children peered from behind their parents, wide-eyed, unable to grasp the venom spilling from grown mouths.

The wind stirred around Venti, offering escape, urging flight. He could be gone before the Knights even reached the rooftops. Yet he stayed. The sight of Barbara in the crowd, her face pale and pleading, chained his feet to the ground. The memory of Dahlia’s small smile bound him tighter still.

The square seethed. Where once Venti’s songs had lifted spirits, now his name tasted of ash on their tongues.

As the Knights closed in, voices began to rise:

“Fraud!”

“Blasphemer!”

“He toyed with our faith!”

An old woman hurled a stone at his feet, her voice ragged with fury.
“You made us sing, you made us believe! How dare you?”

A merchant spat on the ground as Venti was marched past.
“I gave coin for your songs, and all along you mocked us.”

A man shoved through the press of bodies, red-faced with rage.
“You shattered the Lyre! The symbol of Barbatos himself! May the gods curse you!”

Every shout pressed like a blade into Venti’s chest.

But it was the children that stilled his step. They stood at the edges of the crowd, their faces pale with bewilderment. Little hands clutched skirts and sleeves as they watched mothers and fathers scream with hate at the very bard who had once lulled them to sleep with lullabies.

“But he played us songs…” whispered one boy, clutching a wooden flute.

“He made me laugh…” said a girl, eyes round with tears.

Their voices were drowned beneath the storm.

The mob surged with a kind of righteous hunger, eager to see him dragged low. Each insult struck harder than the shackles themselves. The air grew heavy with betrayal—so heavy even the winds recoiled, unable to carry a song through the suffocating roar.

Venti lowered his head and let the Knights bind his wrists.

The square had turned into a storm of fists and shouts. Where Venti’s songs had once lifted hearts, now every note of memory seemed to mock the people themselves.

Stones skittered across the cobblestones, some striking near his feet, others bouncing off the Knights’ armor. Mothers yanked their children close, eyes wild, but even so, they shouted:

“Fraud! Blasphemer!”

Merchants leaned over stalls, hurling crates and coins at his passing, voices raw:
“You stole our faith! You made us laugh while you mocked us!”

A man shoved through the press of bodies, hand raised as if to strike, eyes burning.
“The Lyre! You shattered the Lyre! How dare you—!”

Some of the crowd reached for him, clutching at his sleeves and coat as the Knights pushed them back with firm, impatient hands.

He lowered his head and allowed the Knights to bind his wrists. Every shout, every stone, every curse felt like the city itself turning against him, and it cut sharper than any blade.

When they reached the Cathedral steps, the clergy poured out like a tide of vultures. Corvin’s voice split the air:
“The Knights have done their duty. Now hand the criminal over to the Church. This is our matter—our holy relic, our sacred ground, our justice.”

Jean’s lips parted as if to object, but Damaris, tall and grim-eyed, stepped forward beside Corvin. Her tone was cool, inexorable:
“Refuse, and you defy the people’s faith. Do you wish the city to turn against the Knights as well, Acting Grand Master?”

Jean hesitated—just long enough to make the weight of her silence unbearable. Then she gave the smallest nod.

The chains passed from Knight to cleric. Venti felt the cold shift of hands on his arms. The crowd cheered at the transfer, their anger solidified into triumph.

Corvin smirked like a man who had orchestrated every note of this grim performance. Damaris’s eyes, by contrast, were steel—no triumph, only severity.

Together, they led Venti away, the Lawrence manor looming like a shadowed maw waiting to swallow him whole.

The winds keened, tugging helplessly at the barred windows as the gates closed behind him.

  The gates of the Lawrence manor slammed shut behind him, echoing like the death knell of his freedom. Venti stumbled, the Knights’ rough hands shoving him down the cold, narrow stairwell, until they reached the dungeon.

Before he could react, Corvin, Leopold, and Schubert surrounded him. In a violent flurry, they ripped at his cloak and tunic, tearing his sleeves, collar, and chest bare. The stone floor scraped against his skin as he was shoved forward, bruised and exposed. His wind-stirred hair clung damp to his forehead, and the chill of the dungeon stone bit at him like knives.

Leopold’s eyes glittered with a hungry, feral intensity, tracing Venti’s form with a violent fascination that made the bard’s stomach twist. Schubert’s lips curled in a smirk of cruel delight, while Corvin and Damaris lingered, watching with a mixture of satisfaction and obsession. Their laughter echoed off the walls, a low, unnerving chorus, as if the dungeon itself had absorbed their twisted pleasure.

“So this is the freedom you flaunt,” Schubert hissed, stepping close.

“Stripped bare, vulnerable… finally,” Leopold added, voice low and dripping with menace.

Corvin leaned forward, eyes dark with rage. “You mocked the city, you mocked the Church, and you shattered our relics. Now, the bard who thought himself untouchable is ours.”

Damaris’s gaze held a cold, meticulous fascination. “Every breath you take, every move… we will watch. And we will savor it.”

Venti’s hands itched for his lyre, for the wind at his command, for any thread of escape—but the oppressive weight of their obsession, coupled with the cold stone and the chains that were already beginning to be fastened around his wrists, left him powerless.

The door slammed shut behind them, sealing him in darkness and shadow. Their laughter lingered, a cruel, obsessive anthem bouncing off every wall.

  The dungeon walls echoed with the sound of heavy boots and the clink of chains. Venti’s body ached from the rough handling, but he stayed chained, eyes alert, measuring every movement. Leopold entered, his presence dominating the small space, a predator closing in on prey.
“You think yourself untouchable, don’t you?” Leopold hissed. “Time to feel the weight of reality.”

Without warning, Leopold slammed his fist into the stone wall beside Venti, the shock vibrating through the bard’s bones. Another strike followed, sharp and punishing, forcing Venti to flinch. Leopold’s hands gripped Venti’s shoulders roughly, yanking him to kneel against the floor.

Each blow was deliberate, each movement measured to inflict pain without killing. Leopold prodded, struck, and jabbed with the blunt end of a tool he had grabbed from the dungeon wall. Venti’s muscles tensed, bruises forming, the sting of the strikes spreading through his arms and back.
“Do you feel it?” Leopold whispered, circling him. “This is the consequence of your arrogance. Every mock, every defiance… it will break you.”

He struck again, this time forcing Venti’s chest to collide with the wall. Pain shot through his ribs, and he gasped sharply, but he refused to cry out. Leopold’s obsession grew, his eyes alight with a dangerous fascination as he tested Venti’s limits, prodding at his defenses, watching for every reaction.

”Theres no point in choking back your screams, little song bird..~ I’ll knock them out of you anyway.” Leopold smiled, lunging forward and pressing his body down against the bard, twisting the edge of a knife against Venti’s stomach, delighting in the bards sudden yell of pain. 
“See? No use acting like your tough..”

Leopold continued his assault, eyes wide and shaking with psychotic glee at every wound. He hit and struck and pulled the bard in every direction, ripping off the remainder of his clothes and choking the bard out with it. Venti only seldom cried out, but other wise glared up at Leopold. Whenever the bard went to say something, the Lawrence would shut him up with a quick punch to the mouth, or pressure on the wind pipe. 

“You’ve done a real good job..” he teased as he yanked on the bards chin, forcing him to look up. The bards face was bruised and bloody, a visible knot on the left of his forehead, and blood leaking from his mouth as he glared up at the Lawrence defiantly. “A real good job of making us obsessed over you these past few days..” he murmured, rising to his feet and sending a swift kick against Venti’s pelvis, sending the bars crumpling to the ground with a pained groan. 
“You have NO idea..” Leopold breathed, every word shaking with delight. “how I have itched to have you here. You are mine little songbird, no matter what the others say..” He picked up a whip from the dungeon hallway as Venti choked out a bit of blood. 
“You are mine and I will make you sing for me~” Leopold cooed before bringing the whip down, lashing it so hard across the bards back that the whip snapped up against the wall in the process. 
Such a noise was overshadowed by the bard’s scream, however. A scream of agony as blood rushed from his back. Leopold stepping back to survey the large slash that now coated Venti’s spine. 
 
Every pat rod Venti urged him to retaliate. To take on the form of the seven, to spread his wings and let the winds take their course. He had wiped Mare Jivari from the very timelines, blown open the Spiral Abyss and reshaped the very climate of Mondstadt. Killing the Lawrence clan would be nothing.

But no. No he knew better. Archon powers…usurped from the dragon sovereigns were not easy to control. If he were to summon them here…He feared that the Lawrence’s wouldn’t be the only ones to get hurt. Even the slightest breezes he summoned were risks. To go as far, to use enough power to kill a man…The shockwave alone would be a bough to wipe Mondstadt off the map.

And Barbatos…He hadn’t used a large extent of his power I hundreds of years. Could he even still wield the massive amount needed to not only deliver karma to the Lawrence’s, but to also locate Dahlia and assure his safety? What if Dahlia was in the manor, and Barbatos killed him on accident in the fight?

Venti gasped and swallowed back another scream as the whip snapped against his back again, blood splattering around him. 

He would endure. Pain was nothing to a god. Or so he told himself. He could endure moments of pain, and sooner or later their tongues would let loose. Sooner or later one of them would gloat Dahlia’s whereabouts, and then Venti could act. 

“Stop spacing out!!” Leopold seethed, slamming the bard down onto his back, chaining his hands behind him. Venti only grunted as his head slammed against the floor, stars dancing along his vision. 
“You want to play the silent game, huh?” Leopold snarled, pulling off his shirt. “Let’s see how silent you can be..”

He pulled off his trousers and underwear then, tossing aside the whip and pulling apart the bards legs. 

Venti froze. He felt his heart stop in his chest as the reality of what Leopold was about to do slowly dawned on him.

”Sing for me, songbird..”

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  

     While Leopold continued to test Venti’s endurance in the dungeon, Schubert and Damaris convened in a shadowed corner of the Lawrence manor. The flickering torchlight cast long, sinister shadows across their faces as they whispered furiously.
“Leopold’s too focused on breaking him to see the bigger picture,” Schubert hissed, fingers drumming against the table. “I will ensure he kneels. He will know humiliation, and when he does… he will be ours to control entirely.”

Damaris leaned forward, eyes sharp, hands tightening into fists. “I will be the one to end him. To make him feel every ounce of fear before the final strike. If we synchronize our actions carefully, there will be no escape—he won’t even have a chance to react.”

Their obsession burned brightly, each imagining the final moments of their control, their dominance. Plans were laid with precision: when Leopold drove Venti to his physical limits, Schubert would force submission, and Damaris would hold the final, irreversible power.

Venti’s shouts from the dungeon echoed faintly through the halls, a grim soundtrack to their plotting. Leopold was consumed entirely by his violent focus, striking, dragging, and testing Venti, unaware that his partners were preparing to escalate the torment in their own way.

Every detail mattered. Every shift in Venti’s body, every flinch, every sharp inhale—they cataloged, memorized, and twisted it to feed their obsession. Outside, the wind stirred faintly, brushing through cracks in the stone, a whisper of freedom that none of them could yet perceive.

  Days blurred together in the dungeon, marked only by the relentless cruelty Leopold inflicted. Each morning, he returned to the cell with the same precision, striking, dragging, and testing Venti’s endurance. Venti’s shouts and groans of pain echoed through the stone corridors, bouncing off the walls, and carrying to every ear within the manor.

Schubert paced impatiently outside, watching through the small barred window, fingers drumming against the cold iron.
“He should break by now,” Schubert muttered, eyes narrowing at the figure of the chained bard. “Why does he still resist?”

Corvin lingered near the cell, expression grim but satisfied, muttering prayers to Barbatos between observing the scene. “Feel the weight of your arrogance,” he whispered. “May you understand the justice of your deeds.”

Damaris, ever delighted in the suffering, allowed herself small smiles with each scream, her eyes sparkling with twisted satisfaction. She leaned close to the bars at times, studying the bruised, battered figure within, memorizing every flinch, every gasp, every fearful glance.

The three of them would often convene just outside the cell, comparing notes, arguing about who would have ultimate claim over Venti’s fate. Then they would come inside, peering down at him, circling him like predators inspecting prey. The bard’s body, battered and sore, did not break, but each moment reinforced their obsession, their hunger to dominate and control him completely.

And Venti—though bruised and in pain—remained alert, mind sharp, silently observing the patterns of his captors, cataloging every misstep, every obsessive tic. Even in the darkness of the dungeon, with his body failing him, he began to see the threads of their obsession, and in them, the first fragile outlines of a way to turn the storm to his advantage.

Night draped itself over the Lawrence manor, and the dungeon became a chamber of shadows and whispered cruelty. Leopold returned to Venti’s cell as always, striking with precise force, dragging him against the stone walls, forcing him to kneel, testing his limits. Venti’s gasps and the scrape of chains reverberated off the walls, a grim symphony that seemed to fuel the obsessions of everyone involved.

Outside the cell, Schubert leaned against the stone, hands clenched, watching each movement with near-palpable impatience.

“Patience, patience,” he muttered under his breath, pacing. “Soon he will kneel, and I will savor every moment of his humiliation.”

Corvin, standing close by, nodded grimly, whispering prayers between glances at the bard’s battered form.

“Justice will be served,” he murmured, voice sharp with conviction. “He will understand the weight of his arrogance.”

Damaris lingered in the shadows, eyes alight with morbid fascination. Every grunt, every shudder, every flinch that Venti gave brought a flicker of cruel satisfaction. She leaned toward the bars at intervals, silently tracing the lines of pain across his body, savoring the fear that pulsed in the air like a tangible thing.

The four obsessions converged in a careful choreography. Leopold drove the physical torment, relentless and methodical. Schubert paced, counting the moments until submission, ready to seize his chance to enforce humiliation. Corvin’s presence added the weight of moral vengeance, ensuring the scene carried the illusion of righteous justice. Damaris hovered, anticipating the final moment when fear would peak and ultimate control could be claimed.

The dungeon was alive with tension, every footstep, every grunt, every scrape magnified. Venti, though battered and aching, kept his mind sharp. He cataloged each pattern—the timing of Leopold’s strikes, the obsessive gazes of Schubert and Damaris, the calculating glances of Corvin. Each movement, each small misstep, was a thread he could weave into his escape.

Even as the night stretched long and unbearable, Venti’s focus never wavered. He could feel the strands of their obsessions tightening around him, but within those strands lay opportunity. Every act of cruelty, every obsessive glance, every shout and groan was a clue—and the bard was already planning how to turn those obsessions against them.

Chapter Text

     The dungeon smelled of damp stone and sweat. Venti sat against the cold walls, body aching from relentless blows, bruises blossoming across his skin. The chains bit into his wrists, leaving angry welts. Naked and exposed, he was a portrait of vulnerability, yet his sharp eyes missed nothing.

Leopold prowled the cell like a predator, running a hand across the bruises and welts he had inflicted, his face twisted with satisfaction. Schubert and Damaris lingered nearby, exchanging cruel whispers and sneers, each taking delight in the bard’s weakness and humiliation. Even Corvin’s solemn presence carried a weight of mock justice, as though Venti’s suffering were a moral lesson for the world.

Every glance, every step, every movement from his tormentors reminded him of the relentless obsession that surrounded him. He could not escape, and the dungeon became a world of pain, humiliation, and constant scrutiny.

Venti kept his composure, but on the inside he was screaming. Evident by the growing winds outside. He swallowed back his emotions, trying his best to stay in control, but he was mad. 

The people of Mondstadt had so quickly turned against him. He tried not to be mad at them. After all, he had broken something dear to them…But for such a severe reaction…It broke his heart. 

He tried to remind himself that the Lawrence’s, the clergy, as corrupt as they were, were still citizens of Mondstadt. Still the people he swore to protect. He swore he would never hurt one of his children…But he hadn’t expected them to hurt him instead. 

Venti yelled as Leopold dug his nail into a bruise, the bard trying to jerk away, only for the Lawrence to slap him across the face for daring to try. “..He’ll be ready to go before my father soon.” He hummed, watching the tears well up in the bards eyes. 
“Good. We’ll handle him alongside Eula.” Damaris scoffed as Leopold dropped the bards arms, backing up to survey his work.

Venti bit back the bitter hatred that threatened to consume him. Here he was, Barbatos, the great anemo archon, laying naked and bruised in a cell, with his tormentors staring at every private inch of his body as if it were a prize. 
He hated how their eyes roamed over every bruise, every welt. Hated how their eyes wandered between his legs, as if they enjoyed the way he squirmed whenever he felt their eyes linger there for too long. 

It was humiliating. But. He could handle it. For the safety of Mondstadt he could bite back his power and bare it. 

He just needed to learn Dahlia’s location. 

  Meanwhile, in another wing of the Lawrence manor, the library remained silent, save for the faint rustle of paper. Eula Lawrence sat on the floor, bruises marking her skin from her uncle’s punishment, her hands trembling slightly as she turned the pages of an ancient tome. Schubert had locked her away for her disobedience—her desire to show mercy toward Venti deemed unacceptable.

Hours passed as she pored over the dusty books, letting the musty scent of paper pass the time. Then, tucked away in a dark corner beneath a stack of brittle manuscripts, she found it—a small, unassuming file. Curiosity and a flicker of defiance urged her fingers to pry it open. Inside were records older than any she had seen, chronicling the fall of the Lawrence Clan centuries ago, the end of their tyranny… and the hand behind it: Barbatos.

Her pulse quickened. She skimmed further and froze on a yellowed wanted poster:

“Venti, Bard of Mischief – Wanted for Humiliation of Barca Lawrence”

Her breath caught. The face in the portrait—grinning, mischievous, bold—was identical to the bard currently locked away in the Lawrence manor.

Eula’s mind raced. No. That wasn’t possible. She had been taught to despise Barbatos, to view him as a meddler who humiliated her family. And yet… the bard she had seen, the one imprisoned and tortured by her own kin, carried the same sharp eyes, the same playful smirk, the same presence that had toppled her ancestors.

It was said that Barbatos had disguised himself as a bard during the whole affair…And this wanted poster…

Her hands shook as the pieces clicked into place. The songs, the laughter, the way he had defied her family, the cunning behind every playful act—it all pointed to the impossible truth. Venti was Barbatos made flesh. He the drunkard bard that stole the Holy Lyre…was in reality the very god that had created it in the first place.  

Her heart pounded, a maelstrom of disbelief, awe, and fear. She had been raised to hate this god, to uphold her family’s vendetta… yet here he was, human, vulnerable, and yet impossibly powerful, trapped within the very walls that should have protected him.

Eula pressed the poster to her chest, her mind reeling. How could this be? Why was he here, broken and humiliated, when she knew—she knew—he was more than mortal? Her pulse quickened with both dread and determination. If her family’s obsession continued unchecked, if Leopold, Schubert, Corvin, and Damaris succeeded… Venti, Barbatos, would suffer at their hands. And she… she could not allow that.

A quiet, fiery resolve settled in her chest. She would find a way to stop them. She had to.

  Eula’s boots scraped softly against the polished wood of the library floor as she paced in silent shock, her mind spinning. Barbatos… Venti… all this time… The weight of the revelation pressed down on her like a physical force. Her eyes darted to the handle of the library door—the only barrier between her and the rest of the manor, and ultimately the dungeons below where Venti was likely held.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she drew her Cryo Vision from her belt. The faint blue glow pulsed like a heartbeat in her palm. Eula pressed it carefully against the cold metal handle. Frost began to creep along the edges, spreading in delicate, glimmering veins. The ice thickened, seeping into every joint and crack. A sharp crack echoed softly through the room as the handle snapped off cleanly in her hand.

The door swung open with a quiet groan. Eula didn’t hesitate—she slipped into the corridor beyond, pressing herself against the walls as she moved. Every polished floorboard and flickering candle was a potential alarm. Shadows pooled in the corners, giving her brief sanctuary, but she had to time each step perfectly.

Ahead, she could hear muffled voices—the Lawrence family, likely patrolling the manor. The two clergy members, Corvin and Damaris, passed down a nearby hallway, robes rustling in a way that could betray her presence. Eula froze, crouching low and drawing Venti’s name quietly to her thoughts. I won’t let them know I’m here… She pressed herself into a shadow, letting them move past before continuing.

Her path took her through narrow hallways and past tall, ornate doors. Every corner was a gamble, every flicker of light a potential exposure. The manor seemed to hum with the presence of its occupants, and Eula felt the tension coil tight in her chest.

Finally, she reached a staircase leading down, a rough stone shaft that hinted at the dungeons below. She crouched at the top, listening intently. The torches lining the walls flickered, casting dancing shadows that made it easy to stay unseen. Her heart thumped in her chest as she imagined Venti’s fate, knowing that even if she reached the dungeons, the situation might already be beyond her control.

Eula crept down the stone staircase, keeping low and letting the shadows swallow her movements. Each step echoed faintly against the walls, but her senses were sharp—every shuffle of a guard, every flicker of torchlight was recorded in her mind. She reached the heavy iron door that marked the dungeon, the cold metal sending a shiver through her as she pulled her Cryo Vision from her belt.

Pressing the glowing blue crystal against the lock, frost quickly spread over the mechanism, seeping into every crevice. With a satisfying snap, the lock fractured, and the cell door rattled open. Relief surged through her—she could almost see Venti inside, waiting, fragile but alive.

But before she could step inside, a heavy hand slammed into her shoulder. She stumbled forward, barely catching herself, and looked up into the cold, cruel gaze of Leopold Lawrence.

“Thought you could sneak in here, cousin?” he sneered. Without warning, he swung a hard fist, striking her across the face. Pain flared sharply, and Eula fell to the stone floor with a grunt, tasting blood.

The guards behind him quickly moved, securing her hands and dragging her toward a nearby cell. The metal bars clanged shut around her, the cold stone walls pressing in. Eula struggled, but it was futile—the Lawrence family had planned every contingency.

Leopold stepped forward, his chest puffed with pride. He leaned against the bars, staring smugly toward Venti’s cell. “Venti,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction, “I’ve always believed you were… broken. And now, finally, you will kneel before Lord Schubert Lawrence. You’ll see your power meant nothing against those who truly understand control.”

He turned slightly, his eyes narrowing as he fixed them on Eula. “And you, dear cousin…will do the same. You’ll bow, and you’ll learn your place. Perhaps it will teach you that even the strongest mortals are nothing before us.”

A sharp, furious cry erupted from Venti, echoing off the dungeon walls. The thought of such cruelty toward Eula, of forcing her to kneel before Leopold and his twisted authority, ignited a wildfire of rage. His normally calm demeanor fractured, replaced by a fury that shook the very air.

“NO!” Venti’s voice rang out, laced with power and unrestrained emotion. “You will never touch her! You hear me?! She will not suffer at your hands!”

Leopold’s smirk faltered for just a moment as the wind stirred inside the dungeon, Venti’s anger palpable even from behind the bars. But then, with a cruel chuckle, Leopold straightened. “Temper yourself, bitch. The world is not kind to those who resist, and even gods must kneel when faced with true authority. And you~? You are no god. Just…A little rat who thought they could get away with their incessant squeaking.”

Eula, pressing herself against the cell walls, glaring back at Leopold’s retreating form, her lips tight, her hands trembling with anger and frustration. She hadn’t expected her mission to succeed—but she hadn’t expected it to end like this, either.

Venti’s voice softened slightly, carrying a fierce promise across the stone walls. “If they think I will ever let them break you… they are fools. And they will pay for it.”

The last echoes of boots faded up the stairwell, leaving only silence and the cold flicker of torchlight.

Venti was still trembling with anger, his fingers curled tightly around the bars of his cell. The air itself seemed restless, a faint stirring of wind that shouldn’t have been possible in the damp, stagnant dungeon. His usual teasing smile was nowhere to be found—his face was pale, eyes burning with outrage.

Eula pressed her bruised cheek against the cold iron of her own cell. “Venti,” she called softly. “You need to stop before they come back.”

He didn’t answer right away. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the iron tighter. “The way he looked at you,” he said finally, voice low and trembling with fury. “The way he spoke to you—as if you were a thing he could own.” His whole body shook as though he couldn’t contain the fury clawing at his chest.

Eula’s heart ached. She knew what he really was—who he really was. And she knew this storm wasn’t just anger; it was the outrage of a god forced to endure cruelty without lifting a hand in retaliation. But he couldn’t reveal himself here.

“Venti,” she said again, this time sharper, pressing her palm against the bars to make him look at her. When his gaze finally met hers, she held it, unwavering. “If you lose control now, you’ll only give them reason to tighten their chains. Don’t let them see your strength. Don’t let them know what you’re capable of.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly, every breath a battle. “Eula, they mean to make you kneel. I… I can’t—”

“You don’t have to,” she cut him off firmly, though her voice softened after. “Because I won’t. You know me. I would sooner die than kneel to Leopold, or to any Lawrence.”

For a long moment, Venti just stared at her, his fury breaking against the shore of her defiance. The restless wind in the cell stilled, settling into silence. Slowly, his hands released the bars, leaving behind faint grooves where his grip had been.

A shaky laugh escaped him—bitter, raw, but unmistakably Venti. “You’re right. You’ve always been stubborn. Maybe even more stubborn than me.”

Eula smirked faintly despite her aching jaw. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He slumped against the wall of his cell, finally letting the tension drain from his shoulders, though his eyes still burned. Quietly, almost to himself, he whispered: “They’ll never break you. I won’t let them.”

”Barbatos..”

Venti paused at the name, throwing Eula a surprise glance before taking a deep breath.  

“If I let my power loose here…” His voice was low, strained. “…innocent people could get caught in it. Guards, servants—people who don’t even understand what they’re part of. I can’t risk it, not yet.”

Eula, cradling her bruised jaw, leaned closer, studying him. His anger had cooled, but what remained was worse—anguish.

“I need to endure until I know where they’re keeping Dahlia,” Venti went on. His hand clenched the bar so tightly the metal groaned. “That’s the only thing that matters right now.”

He hesitated then, eyes flickering toward her cell. “But you…” His voice broke, and he shook his head, almost in shame. “Them bringing you into this makes everything harder.”

Eula’s breath caught, but she kept her tone steady. “Why?”

“Because you are a child of Mondstadt.” His eyes lifted to hers, full of storm and sorrow. “You’re Eula. You’re beautiful inside and out. You are an innocent, kind person. You’re everything they despise and everything I swore to protect. I can’t—” His voice cracked, heavy with emotion. “I can’t let them hurt you. Not you.”

Eula’s throat tightened. The usually flippant bard was gone, stripped bare to something achingly sincere.

“I’ve endured humiliation, chains, even their delusions of power,” Venti continued, his voice trembling with conviction. “But watching them lay hands on you… watching them try to break you—that’s more than I can bear.”

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint hiss of the torches.

Finally, Eula exhaled slowly. She moved closer to the bars, her hand resting lightly against the cold iron. “You don’t need to protect me, Venti. I’ve survived the Lawrence name all my life. I won’t kneel for them now, and I don’t need you to suffer for my sake.”

Venti shook his head fiercely, his voice a whisper but carrying the weight of a vow. “No. If they touch you again, I don’t care what happens—I’ll tear this place apart stone by stone. Dahlia matters… but you do too.”

Eula’s heart hammered, though her expression stayed calm. She swallowed and answered softly, “Then we endure together. For Dahlia. For Mondstadt. And for each other.”

The storm in Venti’s eyes softened, though it didn’t vanish. His shoulders slumped against the bars, and a faint, weary smile tugged at his lips. “Together, then.”

The dungeon stayed hushed after their vow, the only sound the faint lick of torchlight against stone.

Venti leaned his head back against the wall, exhaling a slow breath that carried more weight than air. “We can’t brute force our way out of this,” he murmured. “Not without putting innocents in danger. Dahlia… and even the servants above. They don’t deserve to pay for the Lawrences’ cruelty.”

Eula shifted, sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor of her cell. “So we wait.” Her eyes narrowed, focused. “We wait, and we endure. But waiting without a plan is just surrender. What do you suggest?”

Venti tilted his head toward her, his expression soft but edged with thought. “I need to find out exactly where Dahlia is being held. They’ll keep him separate from us—too valuable as leverage to risk putting him in the same dungeon. He’s a deacon, and he’ll be guarded differently.” He frowned. “But to get that information… we’ll have to listen. Watch. Let them think we’re beaten.”

Eula grimaced but nodded. “Play the game until they slip.”

“Exactly,” Venti said quietly, a flicker of his old playfulness tugging at his lips. “I’ll act the harmless bard they believe me to be. Broken. Weak. A pitiful little pawn they can push around. They’ll loosen their grip if they think I’m no threat.”

Eula leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. “And me?”

Venti hesitated, his gaze darkening. “They’ll try to break you. To parade you as proof of their power. But you can’t let them. You’ve resisted them your whole life, Eula… I know you can endure it now.”

Her jaw tightened, though not from the bruise Leopold had left. “They won’t see me kneel.”

His eyes softened, the storm in them giving way to something gentler. “I know. And that’s what terrifies them most.”

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was shared, like the quiet before a storm where two people stand shoulder to shoulder, knowing the thunder will fall but refusing to flinch.

“Then it’s settled,” Eula said at last. “We wait. We endure. And we strike when the chance comes.”

Venti gave her a small, almost conspiratorial smile, one that reminded her of the bard she’d first known. “And when it does… the wind will be on our side.”

  The next morning brought no sunlight to the dungeon, only the sour stink of damp stone and burned-out torches. The heavy door groaned open, and the sound of armored boots clattered down the stairwell.

Three guards entered first, torches in hand, followed by a pair of Lawrence attendants dressed in severe finery. They carried themselves with the smug poise of men certain of their superiority.

One of them sneered as his eyes swept over the cells. “So. The traitor and the bard.” His tone dripped with disdain. “Lord Schubert is curious to see how quickly you’ll break. He believes the wolf has already been tamed.” His gaze fixed sharply on Eula.

Eula didn’t move, sitting straight-backed on the stone floor of her cell. Her expression was impassive, cold as ice, even though every instinct screamed to leap at him.

The other attendant stepped closer to Venti’s cell. “And you. The little minstrel. You’ll sing for us today. A song of obedience, of loyalty to the Lawrence line. You’ll kneel in spirit, if not in body.” He slid a boot against the bars, his lip curling in a cruel half-smile. “If you do, perhaps we’ll let the girl eat.”

Venti’s fingers twitched at his side. His gaze dropped, his face slack with weariness. For a moment, the guards chuckled, believing the bard had nothing left to give. But then his lips curled into a faint smile—thin, sharp, and mocking.

“Ah… but if I sang of loyalty to the Lawrences, I’m afraid the tune would be far too tragic to stomach. My voice might break from the sorrow of it.” His tone was airy, but the glimmer in his eyes betrayed his disdain.

The attendant scowled and slammed his boot against the bars, making the cell rattle. Venti didn’t flinch.

“Enough.” The first attendant turned to Eula, his voice colder now. “Your silence is not strength, girl. It’s arrogance. You’ll kneel before us today.”

He signaled to the guards, who opened her cell door with a harsh screech of iron. Two men stepped in, their armored hands seizing her arms, forcing her down. They shoved her hard to her knees on the stone floor.

Pain lanced up her legs, but Eula’s spine stayed rigid, her chin lifted proudly. She did not lower her head.

“You see?” one guard mocked, forcing her shoulder down further. “Even the wolf kneels when pressed.”

Venti lurched to his feet, slamming both hands against his cell bars. The faint stir of wind picked up again, rattling the torches in their brackets. His voice, sharp and cutting, rang through the dungeon:

“Release her. Now.”

The guards hesitated, unnerved by the sudden force behind his words, though the attendants scoffed. “The bard barks louder than he sings. Nothing more.”

But Eula, still pinned on the ground, managed to twist her head just enough to meet Venti’s eyes. A faint smirk ghosted over her lips. “Don’t waste your strength,” she murmured. “I’m not kneeling. Not really.”

Venti’s hands trembled against the bars, fury quaking through him, but her words anchored him. The storm abated just enough for him to hold back.

The attendants, disappointed that neither prisoner had cracked, gave a sharp gesture for the guards to release Eula. They shoved her back into her cell, slamming the bars shut.

“Stubbornness will fade with hunger and time,” one attendant muttered, brushing dust from his sleeve. “We’ll return tomorrow. And then, we’ll see how high the wolf still holds her head.”

The door clanged shut behind them, leaving only the echo of their scorn in the dark.

On the second day, the guards dragged in a tray, the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread filling the dungeon. But only one portion was set down — and it was placed deliberately in front of Eula’s cell.

“You want him to suffer?” one guard smirked. “Make her eat while he watches. Let him see she has no choice but to survive without him.”

Eula’s stomach twisted at the smell. She hadn’t eaten in two days. She looked at the food, then at Venti across the hall. His lips curved faintly, though his eyes were shadowed with guilt.

“Eat it,” he whispered, soft but firm. “Don’t let them starve you for my sake.”

Eula clenched her fists until her knuckles went white. “If I eat, it’s on my own terms. Not theirs.” She shoved the tray back out through the bars with her boot, glaring at the guards.

The guards cursed, hauled the food away, and left both of them hungry.

The third day, the Lawrences came with an audience — lesser nobles, sneering and laughing. Eula was dragged from her cell, shackled, and forced to kneel in the middle of the room while the nobles jeered.

“Show us the wolf’s pride now!” one sneered. “Make her bow lower!”

They pressed her head toward the ground. She refused, straining every muscle, her neck trembling with the effort of resistance.

In his cell, Venti’s fists bled where he beat them against the iron bars, his voice hoarse as he shouted: “Enough! She’s worth more than all of you combined!”

The nobles laughed harder at his desperation, until one leaned close to Venti’s cell with a cruel grin. “Sing us a song, bard. Sing for her freedom.”

Venti’s gaze fell to the floor. His lips parted, and a soft, shaky note emerged. Quiet, almost fragile—so delicate that the nobles leaned in, sneering at the weakness they assumed they detected.

He sang, barely above a whisper, a trembling melody of sorrow and defeat. Every note was careful, wavering, yet measured; even as it seemed like a broken bard, the rhythm, the breath, the subtle cadence revealed mastery only someone with true skill could manage.

Eula knelt, watching him, heart clenched. She knew the song wasn’t despair—it was control. He was singing to make them believe he was broken. Every crack in the voice, every trembling note, was deliberate, meant to draw the cruelty from their eyes without letting it touch him.

The nobles jeered, mocking his weakness, some even clapping slowly. “Pathetic,” one whispered. “He has no pride left. Broken, finally.”

But Venti’s green eyes flicked briefly toward Eula, steady and fierce despite the performance. A silent promise passed between them: I endure this for you. I protect you, even if they think I am defeated.

When the song ended, his chest rose and fell with visible effort. He bowed his head just slightly, letting the nobles believe the act was complete. The room erupted in cruel laughter, and the guards hauled Eula back to her cell.

Once inside, she sank to the floor, shaking from the tension. Her voice whispered through the bars, barely audible.
“You—did it. You tricked them.”

Venti leaned against the bars, breathing heavily. His voice was soft, still measured, as if speaking only to her.
“They think I’m broken. They don’t know what I can do… not yet. They only see what I allow them to see.”

Eula’s lips pressed into a thin line. Relief was tangled with frustration and awe. “And I’m supposed to pretend this is just luck, huh?”

Venti’s lips quirked into a faint, tired smile. “No. I’m teaching you patience. And them humility—just enough to keep you safe.”

The hall remained quiet after their departure, leaving the prisoners alone in the dungeon—still battered, still controlled, but neither truly broken.

  The fourth day was the worst. The dungeon was colder that day, the air sharp enough to sting Eula’s skin. She barely had time to brace herself when the guards wrenched open her cell, dragging her by the arms and forcing her down onto the stone floor outside Venti’s bars. Her knees slammed against the cold stone, but she didn’t cry out.

Leopold leaned on his cane with casual cruelty, his voice carrying easily through the dark chamber.
“Today, we test your devotion. We give you a choice, Bard. She kneels before us already. Will you join her? Or will you watch her bleed?”

One of the guards pressed a blade against Eula’s shoulder, tilting it just enough for the edge to bite into her skin. A thin line of blood welled, trailing warm against her pale skin.

Venti gripped the bars of his cell so hard his fingers turned white. His chest heaved as the wind around him began to churn, rattling chains and lifting dust in restless spirals. His eyes glowed faintly, that emerald hue flickering like a dying flame struggling not to roar into a wildfire.

Eula met his gaze, steady, defiant.
“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but firm.

The sword pressed harder, breaking flesh. Eula’s breath hitched, but she clenched her jaw.

Venti’s entire body trembled. His knuckles bled where his nails had dug too deep. Every instinct screamed to let go, to unleash the storm and drown this place in wind and wrath. But Eula’s words tethered him—don’t give them what they want.

And yet… to watch her bleed for him? To let them carve into her flesh, just to prove his resolve?

Venti’s knees buckled. The chains on his wrists clattered as he sank down, slowly, painfully, his forehead nearly touching the stone floor. His voice cracked, soft but carrying through the silence.
“…stop. Please. I’ll kneel.”

The sword lifted from Eula’s shoulder the moment Venti’s knees hit the cold stone.

“There we are,” Leopold sneered, tapping his cane in smug rhythm. “The little minstrel finally remembers his place. A Lawrence’s shadow falls long—even on the proud.”

The guards laughed and jeered, some kicking at the stone near Venti’s bowed head. To them, he was nothing more than a defiant prisoner finally broken. They saw no god, no legend—only a bard who had resisted for too long.

Eula pressed her hand against the bars, watching him tremble, and her heart twisted. She could feel the tension coiled inside him, the godlike restraint he wielded to keep from letting the winds fly. But to everyone else, it was just weakness, and their mockery stung all the worse because it was undeserved.

Softly, just for her, Venti whispered, voice raw and tight, “I… I had no choice. I couldn’t let them harm you.”

Eula’s jaw clenched, half in anger, half in worry. “Venti, you shouldn’t have… you could’ve held your ground. I can endure it. You didn’t have to kneel.”

He kept his head bowed, a bitter smile brushing his lips. “Better that they mock me than spill your blood.”

The guards dragged her back into her cell, slamming the door behind her. The chains rattled as Eula sank to her knees, staring at the bars that separated them. Venti remained kneeling on the stone floor, silent, still trembling from the effort of holding himself back.

Once the dungeon fell silent again, Eula whispered, “You’re stronger than they’ll ever know… and you’re far stronger than I can show them.”

Venti let out a low hum, a tune laced with exhaustion and quiet defiance—one that only she could truly read.

 
 
     The office smelled faintly of parchment and wax, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the walls. Leopold sat at his desk, hunched over the anemo vision that had been recovered from Venti’s belongings. He turned it in his hands again and again, inspecting the delicate engravings, the tiny spiral of trapped air frozen within the crystal.

One of his guards, a young man with sweat beading on his brow, cleared his throat nervously. “My lord… we’ve reported this before, but… the wind…” He hesitated, unsure how to explain. “Even without the vision, the bard—he’s… it’s like the air itself bends to him. Small gusts, shifting torches, even dust… it moves when he wills it. But there’s no vision on him.”

Leopold’s lips curled into a thin, sharp line. “What do you mean, ‘moves when he wills it’? Explain yourself clearly.”

The guard swallowed hard, glancing at the others. “We’ve seen it multiple times, sir. During his… interrogations, his punishments. When Eula was at risk, the wind… it stirred. Just enough to unsettle chains, scatter papers, ruffle clothes. But there’s no vision on him. It’s—” He stopped, realizing the impossibility of it. “We don’t understand how.”

Leopold’s eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. He briefly recalled the way the wind had swirled in the dungeons when he had threatened harm upon Eula. He thought it a mere dampened gust. But if this had been happening more than once…He placed the vision down on the desk, tapping it lightly with a finger. “So, the boy can still manipulate the air without his gift? Interesting. Insulting, even. He thinks he can toy with me and hide his tricks.”

Another guard, older and more cautious, spoke up. “Sir… we shouldn’t underestimate him. The… the wind seems to favor him. If he’s clever, he might still find a way to escape, or worse, influence others in the dungeon.”

Leopold leaned back in his chair, the candlelight casting a thin shadow across his face. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “No, my dear fools. He is not clever enough to escape the Lawrence grasp. But he does have secrets, doesn’t he? And a secret that defies understanding… that cannot be contained in a mere vision.”

His fingers drummed against the desk. “I will discover what it is. And I will make him pay for every moment he dared defy me.”

The younger guard swallowed nervously. “And… what of the girl, my lord?”

Leopold’s gaze sharpened, cold as steel. “Ah… Eula. That, my boy, is the key. He only faltered when she was threatened. The bard’s weakness is not his pride, nor his body, but this… attachment. We will use it.”

The older guard exchanged a wary glance. “You mean… to put her in danger?”

Leopold’s smile widened, cruel and patient. “Exactly. And when he is forced to act, we shall see exactly what tricks he truly hides. No visions, no excuses, no shields—just the wind… and him.”

He leaned forward, eyes glinting with obsession. “Prepare the arrangements. I want her to kneel… or see what happens when she does not. And the little minstrel will watch.”

Chapter Text

     Venti’s eyes fluttered open to the cold stone beneath him. His body ached in every joint, his skin still marked from yesterday’s torment. For a moment, he let himself gather the fragments of consciousness, only to freeze at the sight before him.

Eula. She was being dragged down the hallway, her arms bound, her head held high despite the guards’ efforts. His stomach twisted.

Leopold leaned against the doorway, smirking, the flicker of candlelight catching the cruel angles of his face. “Ah… awake at last,” he drawled, eyes sweeping over Venti’s naked form. “Perfect. Today will be the day the little minstrel finally bows before Schubert Lawrence. Utterly broken. And Schubert will decide your fate… as well as hers.”

Venti’s wrists and ankles were shackled in cold, unforgiving iron. Leopold’s laughter echoed down the hall as the guards pushed him to his knees.

“Crawl,” Leopold commanded. “Crawl like the dog you’ve become.”

Venti hesitated for only a moment. Then, under the weight of the chains and the gaze of every guard lining the corridor, he began to move. Each movement was slow, agonizingly deliberate. The rough stone floor bit at his hands and knees, leaving scrapes and bruises. His naked skin burned under the torchlight, every eye in the hall tracing his progress.

Some guards leaned in, whispering and laughing, others shook their heads in disbelief that someone could resist them so long yet still be forced into this submission. Even the younger guards, usually fearless, seemed unsettled by the sight of his humiliation—the proud bard reduced to dragging himself on hands and knees.

Every step forced him to confront his vulnerability. He could feel the weight of every gaze on him: judgmental, mocking, predatory, perverted. He shuddered in disgust at their gazes. The way he could almost feel the way their eyes would linger on the curb of his ass or crotch. The way they surveyed him like a piece of meat made Venti want to vomit right there. He hated the way his whole body was exposed to their greedy eyes. The hallway seemed impossibly long, echoing with laughter and taunts as Leopold’s voice rang out like a whip.

“You see? Even the mighty can be brought low.”

Venti’s jaw clenched. Every inch forward was a battle of will against shame, a test of patience and endurance. Sweat ran down his face, his muscles screamed in protest, and yet he persisted, each movement a silent defiance beneath the humiliation forced upon him.

Finally, the throne room doors loomed ahead. He could see Eula at the center, her head secured under a massive guillotine. His chest tightened with fear and fury, the chains rattling as he paused for a moment, gathering the last of his strength. The corridor of eyes, the torchlight, the weight of ridicule—all faded for an instant as he focused on her.

Even in this state, crawling, exposed, humiliated, Venti’s mind was sharp. He knew that what happened next could change everything—if he moved too soon, or too late, he could lose her.

”Look bard~ Scream for me as her head hits the floor.”

Venti’s hands pressed to the cold stone floor, eyes wide, chains rattling around his wrists. His gaze locked on Eula’s, her head poised under the guillotine, and the moment snapped. Every instinct, every ounce of restraint shattered.

A surge of power erupted from him, the air bending violently, the chains straining against the sudden force. His mortal form seemed to blur and dissolve, replaced in an instant by the towering, radiant figure of Barbatos—the Anemo Archon. His hair billowed like clouds caught in a tempest, his eyes gleaming with a pastel cyan that burned brighter than any torch in the room. Divine wings burst from the whip scars upon his back, feathers glowing with dominion over the wind itself. 

The guillotine trembled violently, then shattered into splinters with a deafening crack as a cyclone of wind surged around Eula, lifting her free. She collapsed to the floor, trembling, but safe. The air was thick with dust and the hiss of raw elemental power.

…

The room fell into a stunned silence, eyes frozen to the god of freedoms face as if glued there. 

Corvin and Damaris froze where they stood, eyes locked on the towering figure that had once been the mischievous bard. Venti’s mortal body was gone, replaced by the radiant form of Barbatos—the Anemo Archon—hair billowing like clouds caught in a storm, eyes burning pastel gold, and the very air trembling with his presence.

Corvin’s hands shook uncontrollably, his knuckles white as he pressed them to his mouth. His mind scrambled, fumbling for comprehension. The bard… the one I hated… the one I plotted against… he is the god we worship? The thought tore through him like lightning, striking every nerve with disbelief and shame. Every mocking joke, every petty insult, every day he had loathed that carefree bard now twisted into unbearable guilt.

Damaris mirrored him, a hand pressed to her chest as if trying to hold herself together. Her legs quaked, knees threatening to buckle. Her mind raced, images flashing: the songs she had scorned, the tricks she had resented, the endless schemes she had celebrated against him. And all of it—they had done willingly, against a god. A god who had only ever sought freedom, joy, and care for his people.

Their breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps. Silence wrapped around them like a vise, broken only by the soft, rising hum of wind that surrounded Barbatos. Words failed them. Their brains refused to form coherent sentences; the enormity of the truth was paralyzing.

Corvin’s voice finally escaped, a whisper so faint it seemed swallowed by the elemental storm:
“I… we… we’ve been…”

Damaris pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head, eyes wide with horror. “We… we’ve been torturing him. Enjoying it. All this time… and he… he is…” Her words broke into silence as the realization hit her fully.

The knowledge was unbearable. Hatred collided with reverence, guilt with awe. They had spent countless hours plotting against someone they despised, and now that despised figure was revealed as the divine being they had worshiped day and night. The stark contradiction shredded their sense of self, leaving them frozen, horrified, unable to move, unable to speak.

Even the Lawrence family, watching the display, reacted differently. Shock gave way to a dark, cruel delight. The god they had despised, humiliated, and sought revenge upon was here, restrained by their chains. Their envy and malice ignited, burning through the awe that filled the rest of the room.

Meanwhile, Barbatos’ gaze swept across the chamber, his eyes briefly settling on Corvin and Damaris. Calm yet piercing, he let them feel the weight of their actions without mercy. They trembled, trapped between terror and guilt, witnessing the power they had mocked, the freedom they had scorned, and the god they had betrayed—now real, radiant, and utterly unconquerable, even in chains.

Leopold’s lips curled into a smile that was all sharp teeth and venom. The heavy chains clinked and rattled as he seized them with both hands, yanking with sudden, merciless force. The metal dug into Barbatos’ wrists and ankles, and with a hollow clang the god of freedom was dragged down, forced to his knees before the Lawrences.

The room erupted with a sharp gasp. To see an Archon kneeling was unthinkable; to see the Archon of freedom kneeling was blasphemy.

Leopold tilted his head back and laughed, the sound vile and triumphant. “Look at him!” he crowed, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. “The so-called god of freedom, kneeling at my feet like a chained dog! Where is your laughter now, bard? Where is your insolence?”

The other Lawrences joined in, their mockery like a chorus of poison. Their faces twisted with unholy glee, eyes glittering with hatred fulfilled. Fingers pointed at the bruises and welts they themselves had left upon his skin, evidence of the tortures they had so gleefully inflicted upon the “bard” who had mocked them. But now, those bruises marred divine flesh. That thought thrilled them. To leave their mark upon a god. To see him lower than dirt.

“Do you see it?” one of them sneered. “The Anemo Archon, Mondstadt’s precious protector, made to kneel to us. His songs silenced. His pride shattered. His very body branded with our victory!”

And Barbatos… did not resist. His body trembled with the effort of holding back the storm within him, the gales that howled to be unleashed. But in his Archon form, his power was too vast, too wild; every flicker of emotion could tear the hall to pieces. So he bowed his head. He let them mock. He let them force him down. His submission was quiet, agonizing, deliberate.

Corvin stumbled forward, shaking, his voice raw. “My lord! Why… why would you bow to them? You are the god of freedom! How—how can you let yourself be shackled?!”

Damaris choked on her sobs, reaching out as though she could pull him free with her bare hands. “Barbatos, no! Not like this! Not to them! You don’t have to… you don’t have to bear this humiliation…” Her words broke into tears, every syllable dripping with guilt and despair.

Barbatos lifted his gaze just enough to meet theirs. His golden eyes, dim with weariness, held a quiet strength—a sorrow that spoke louder than any words. He offered them the smallest smile, faint but tender, a silent reassurance.

That was worse than if he had spat at them. That smile said he had already accepted his suffering. That smile said he would rather kneel than let his tempest destroy them all.

Corvin’s heart shattered. He dropped to his knees, his hands pulling at his hair. “What have we done?” he whispered, horror strangling him. “We thought you were a wretch, a fool, a mockery… and we helped them break you. We laughed as they struck you. And now—” His voice cracked, choked. “—we see who you are, and you kneel before them anyway. We’ve broken our god…”

Damaris pressed her palms together, as though in prayer, tears streaming freely down her face. “Please… stand, Barbatos. Please, don’t bow to them… don’t—don’t let us believe we helped make you kneel.” Her voice quivered, torn between devotion and despair.

The Lawrences only laughed harder. Their god was kneeling. Their revenge was complete. And Barbatos bore it all, silent and still, the chains rattling against bruised skin as the storm inside him begged for release.

Leopold tugged the chains tighter, savoring the sound of links grinding against bone. His grin widened, cruel and mocking. “On your knees, little bard. No songs, no freedom, no laughter—only obedience.”

With a violent yank, he pulled Barbatos closer until the Archon’s face hovered inches from the Lawrence crest embroidered into Schubert’s robe. The family sigil, stitched in cold silver thread, glimmered like a brand. Schubert grinned in utter glee as he watched his son force the gods face closer.

“Now kiss it,” Leopold hissed, voice trembling with delight. “Let all see you worship at the feet of your betters.”

Barbatos hesitated—but only for a heartbeat. He bowed his head, lips brushing against the emblem with the smallest, most reluctant touch. The chains rattled with his movement, echoing in the stunned silence of the hall.

A roar of laughter followed. “The Anemo Archon, kissing the Lawrence crest!” Schubert cried in astonishment. “Our family has finally claimed a god!”

Leopold wasn’t finished. His boot rose slowly, deliberately, until it pressed against Barbatos’ bowed head. “Lower,” he commanded. “Stay where you belong.” And with a push, he forced the god’s forehead to the stone floor. The bruises on Barbatos’ skin darkened as the weight bore down.

Corvin’s breath left him in a broken sob. His knees gave way, and he buried his face in his hands, shaking as tears spilled freely. “Stop… stop! He is our Archon! He is Mondstadt itself—how can you do this?!”

Damaris’ sobs wracked her whole body. “He kneels for us, not for you! Can’t you see? He kneels so his winds won’t destroy us all!” She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, muffling her cries, but her eyes never left Barbatos—her god, crushed beneath a boot like a dog.

The Lawrences were too busy reveling in their triumph to notice. Their eyes glittered with the sick joy of vengeance fulfilled, their voices echoing in the hall like the jeers of demons. None of them cared to glance at Corvin or Damaris—too entranced by the sight of divinity debased.

But others noticed.

The guards along the walls stiffened, their hands tightening on their spears. The servants, who had endured cruelty in silence for years, exchanged horrified looks. Torturing a bard was one thing—barbaric, but expected of the Lawrence line. But to force Mondstadt’s beloved god to kneel and kiss their crest? To press him into the dirt like a slave? This went too far. Too far for even them to stomach.

As Leopold laughed, drunk on his victory, Damaris moved. She wiped her tears with shaking hands and, when no Lawrence eye turned her way, she slipped toward the bound knight in the corner. Eula’s shackles glimmered faintly in the torchlight, the chains biting into her skin.

Damaris knelt at her side, fumbling with the locks, her tears falling onto the metal. Her whisper trembled, just loud enough for Eula to hear: “Go. Please… go. For him.”

The nearest guards saw. The servants saw. Every Non-Lawrence eye in the chamber saw. But none spoke. None moved to stop her. They stood in mute witness, hearts burning with disgust, watching silently as Damaris undid the shackles.

With one final click, the chains fell away. Eula flexed her wrists, staring at Damaris in shock. Then, with quiet understanding, she rose and slipped into the shadows, her escape unchallenged.

  The night air was sharp with frost when Eula slipped into the shadows beyond the manor gates. Her wrists still bore the angry marks of iron shackles, but she ignored the sting. A soft crunch of gravel warned her she wasn’t alone. Her hand darted to her sword—only to freeze when a trembling voice whispered her name.

“Eula—wait, it’s me.”

Damaris emerged from the darkness, cloak drawn tightly about her, face pale and streaked with tears. Her eyes flicked back to the glowing windows of the Lawrence estate, where laughter and mocking cheers still carried faintly into the night.

“I—I can’t follow you out,” Damaris said quickly, breath misting in the cold. “Corvin and I… we have to stay. We’ll pretend we’re pleased—that we want control over him, just like the rest of them. That’s the only way we can stay near him.” Her hands shook as she clasped them together, her whole body quivering with desperate resolve. “Please understand. We can’t leave him alone in there.”

Eula’s grip on her blade softened, but her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “So you mean to serve them still?”

“No.” Damaris’s voice broke into a hiss, urgent and low. “We serve him. Always him. But if the Lawrences see our disgust—our sorrow—they’ll throw us out, or worse. We’d never get close again. This way, at least… we can watch over him.”

She took a shaky step closer, lowering her voice further until it was barely audible. “Listen carefully. Dahlia—he’s not in the Church anymore. They… they gave him to the Fatui.”

Eula’s breath caught, horror flashing in her eyes.

Damaris nodded miserably, pressing a hand over her mouth to keep her voice steady. “The Lawrences hired them, to… dispose of him. To put him beyond Mondstadt’s reach. You must understand, Eula—this cannot stay private. Even if he hides again as that little bard, the truth will eat him alive. Mondstadt views Venti as an abhorrent liar, a defiler holy objects. Not even the church can change the people’s minds now. Mondstadt must know their god. They must see him for who he is. Barbatos cannot use his power without putting us at risk. And therefore, he won’t.” Her breath shuddered as she spoke. “He’s too benevolent, cares too much about his children…You have to spread the word. And you have to save Dahlia.”

Her fingers clutched at Eula’s sleeve in a trembling plea. “Please. We can’t do this alone.”

For once, Eula did not recoil from the Lawrence name on another’s lips. She squeezed Damaris’s hand once, firm and certain. “Then I’ll gather the only ones I can trust.”

Her mind was already racing. Jean. Diluc. Barbara. Kaeya. Those who had stood before monsters and would stand again now.

“I swear to you, Damaris,” Eula murmured. “We’ll bring him back. And we’ll bring the truth with us.”

The frost-bitten silence between them stretched until Damaris finally fumbled inside her cloak. Her fingers trembled as she drew something out and pressed it into Eula’s palm.

A feather.

It glowed faintly, white and soft as breath. Not the kind of feather one found on any bird in Mondstadt. Its edges shimmered with lingering Anemo light, a trace of divinity clinging stubbornly to its barbs.

Eula’s eyes widened. “This…”

“He dropped it,” Damaris whispered, her voice raw. “Almost as if—almost as if he wanted me to find it. He was forced to his knees, humiliated before us all, but he let this fall. Like a cry no one else could hear.”

Her voice broke, but she caught herself and forced it lower. “Take it. Show Jean. Show Diluc, Barbara, Kaeya—anyone you trust. Proof that Barbatos is here. Proof that he is suffering.”

Eula closed her hand around the feather, feeling its warmth against her chilled skin. The weight of it was both fragile and heavy—a token of pain, but also of defiance.

Damaris’s eyes shone with tears as she clutched Eula’s sleeve once more. “Don’t let them think this is just another cruel game. The people must know their god is bleeding.”

Eula nodded, her throat tight. She tucked the feather carefully against her chest. “This will be enough. It has to be.”

And with that, she slipped into the night—while Damaris lingered in the frost, staring at the glowing windows of the Lawrence estate, as though watching over her archon from afar.

  The road to Dawn Winery had never felt so long. Eula barely noticed the pain in her calves or the sting of cold night air burning her lungs; she clutched the feather to her chest like a talisman, as though the divine glow would vanish if she dared to loosen her grip. Every step echoed in her ears, louder than her frantic heartbeat. She sprinted through the Callie’s and over large rocks, barely even noticing the hilichurls she slaughtered along the way. Her vision had been taken, but she hardly needed it. (She’s a physical dps anyways lmao)

  She swung her greatsword in a large arch as she sprinted though hilichurl camps, slashing the life from their eyes without a word as they crumbled around her. But she didn’t stop. The Dawn Winery gleamed in the distance of the night, rest in a valley of grape and apple orchards. The lights inside were off and the air around the winery smelled faintly of their goods. Sweet honeyed wines and meads…

By the time she crossed into its property, her breath was ragged, and her cloak snagged with burrs from the underbrush, but she didn’t care. She stumbled up the steps and hammered both fists against the great doors, the sound ringing across the silent vineyard. She pounded against the heavy wood with her fists, loud enough to wake the entire household.

“Open the door!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “Please!”

After an agonizing moment, the door creaked, and a servant appeared, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She frowned when she saw who it was. “Lady Lawrence?” she asked warily. “It is nearly midnight. The master does not receive guests at this—”

Eula pushed forward, desperation spilling past her restraint. “There’s no time for protocol. Barbatos is in danger—do you understand me? Mondstadt’s god is suffering even as we stand here, and if you refuse me entry you’ll damn us all!”

The maid recoiled at the outburst, lips parting to scold, but Eula wasn’t finished. She tore the feather from her cloak, its glow piercing the gloom like a shard of moonlight, and thrust it toward the woman’s face. “LOOK! Do you see this? Proof! You’d bar me from your master’s door when I bring him this?”

The feather…There was no mistaking it. Even for a maid who had never seen it, there was no mistaking its faint traces of divinity. The feather glowed like a star in the night before her, casting white light along the manor halls. The wind curled around it. The authority of anemo laced between every small barb that whistled and glowed with a gentle authority only their archon could command. 

The maid’s breath caught. Her eyes fixed on the feather, stunned, as though her mind couldn’t quite decide whether to fear it or fall to her knees before it. The divine glow brushed over her face, painting it pale and awestruck.

Her silence was broken by a calm, steady voice from within. “What is the meaning of this?”

The sound of boots on polished wood filled the hall. Diluc Ragnvindr descended the staircase, his crimson cloak trailing behind him, his expression unreadable. His presence stilled the maid instantly, and she stepped aside, bowing her head.

Diluc’s eyes, however, fixed on Eula. Then they lowered to the feather still glowing between her trembling fingers. He strode over in three quick steps, the maid gasping and held her lantern for more light.

Diluc’s eyes lingered on the feather, but the shadow that crossed his face wasn’t surprise. It was something heavier. Older.

His hand hovered above it for a long moment before finally brushing its edge, the divine light sparking faintly beneath his fingertips. He closed his eyes briefly, as though steadying himself, then let out a slow breath.

“…So they’ve taken him.” His voice was quiet, but laced with iron.

Eula blinked. “You—you already knew?”

“I knew who he was,” Diluc said, his crimson eyes opening again, hard as tempered glass. “He never hid it from me. Not truly. He trusted me enough to know—and I trusted him enough never to speak it.” He clenched his fist around the feather. “But this…”

For the first time, his composure cracked. His jaw tightened, his other hand curling into a fist at his side. “To think those cowards would dare chain him. To treat him as if he were some prisoner instead of the wind itself…” He took in an almost shaken breath. “I had heard a bard was arrested, but I was side tracked by my duties…To think they would learn his identity and dare to…”

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the faint hum of the feather’s light. The maid shifted nervously, but Diluc’s presence held her frozen in place.

Eula’s chest ached with relief and sorrow all at once. “Then you believe me.”

Diluc’s eyes snapped to hers, steady and unwavering. “I didn’t need the feather to believe you, Eula. I already knew.”

Chapter Text

     The first light of dawn crept across Mondstadt, but the streets felt heavier than night. Eula ran, boots striking the cobblestones, the feather pressed to her chest. Each step echoed with the memory of Barbatos kneeling, bruised, chains rattling at his wrists and ankles.

She paused atop a hill overlooking the city, breath heaving, and let her eyes sweep across Mondstadt’s sleeping spires. The city seemed untouched by the horrors of the night—but she knew better. One god was suffering, and one child was in mortal danger.

Diluc walked beside her, silent as ever, the weight of knowledge pressing down on him. He had known Venti’s secret, had always carried it quietly. But now, seeing the feather, the proof, he could no longer pretend ignorance.

Eula swallowed hard. “We don’t have time. If the Fatui have Dahlia…” Her voice faltered. “…he could be gone before anyone knows what’s happening.”

Diluc’s hand tightened on the edge of his coat. “Then we move. Quietly. Carefully. But we move.”

Eula and Diluc moved through the silent streets of Mondstadt, shadows among shadows. The feather glowed faintly beneath Eula’s cloak, a constant reminder of the urgency pressing against their chests. They reached the Knights of Favonius quarters, its windows dark except for a single pane of light in the upper tower.

Eula’s hand rapped sharply against the door, echoing in the still night. A moment later, the door opened slightly, revealing a tired-looking maid.

“Who—?” she began.

“We need to see Miss Jean,” Eula interrupted, breathless. “She needs to see this. She needs to know what’s happening now.” She thrust the glowing feather forward.

The maid’s eyes widened, but before she could react, Diluc’s presence at her side silenced any objection. He gave only a curt nod. “She must speak to the Grandmaster. Now.”

The door opened fully, and Eula stepped inside, immediately spotting the Knight Grand Master pacing in her office. Jean’s brow was furrowed, her hands clasped behind her back. The room smelled faintly of parchment and candle wax, the glow of one lamp casting long shadows.

I… I didn’t want this,” Jean said, her voice trembling. “I never wanted to arrest him. Venti… we’ve been friends. I knew who he was, and I knew he trusted me. But the Lawrence Clan… if I refused, if I hesitated even for a moment, they could have revolted. Mondstadt could have burned.”

Her pacing faltered, and she sank into a chair, resting her forehead against her palm. “I did what I had to do. But I can’t stop thinking… thinking about him suffering. About what they might have done while I—”

Eula stepped forward, her own voice shaking with urgency. “It’s worse than you know. They forced him to his knees. They’ve forced him to crawl nude like a dog!! And the bruises…” Eula trialed off for a moment, shaking her head. “They’re breaking him, Jean. They’re breaking our bard. Our god.”

Jean froze, eyes widening as though the words themselves were a physical blow. Her hands flew to her mouth. She stumbled back, legs trembling, heart hammering against her ribs. “No… no!” Her voice cracked, brittle as glass. “Not him…not Venti…By the seven…”

Diluc, standing silent at her side, felt the blood drain from his face. He had known Venti was Barbatos, had long suspected the stakes, but nothing had prepared him for this. He gritted his teeth, fists clenching, nails biting into his palms. His eyes, dark as the wine-dark night, burned with disbelief and guilt. “Eula… you’re saying… they’ve—how far?”

Eula held out the feather, its glow illuminating Jean’s haunted face. “This is proof. He’s suffering. He’s still alive, but if we don’t act… he could die. He won’t attack them while in Mondstadt. He’s afraid his power would hurt innocents in the crossfire, so there’s no way he’ll defend himself outright..”

Jean’s hands trembled violently as they hovered over the feather, the realization crashing over her. “I… I sent him into their hands. I let them… I let my friend—no—my archon—suffer because I thought I was protecting the city. But I didn’t… I didn’t see… the full extent…” She sank into a chair, shivering, chest heaving as guilt and horror consumed her.

Diluc’s jaw tightened further, his usual composure faltering. He had always carried the secret carefully, the knowledge of Barbatos’ dual identity heavy on his conscience. But now, faced with the vivid proof of the god’s torment, he felt powerless, enraged, and sick with grief all at once. His eyes never left the feather. “This… this is monstrous,” he said through clenched teeth. “They’ve… how could they?”

Jean lifted her head slowly, blue eyes shining with both tears and determination. “We can’t waste time. He trusted us. He believes in Mondstadt. If we fail him now…” She pressed her hands to the edge of her desk, gripping it as though she could anchor herself against the tidal wave of guilt and despair. “…I couldn’t live with it.”

Eula nodded, voice tight with resolve. “Then we move. We gather allies. We save him.”

Diluc stepped closer, closing his hand over the feather, and finally exhaled, a low, almost dangerous sound. “Then let’s go. We won’t let them break him—not while we still breathe.”

”…We must get sister Barbara. If we are to get Mondstadt’s support, she will help. The citizens love her almost as much as they loved Venti.

Barbara knelt on the Cathedral steps, fingers locked so tightly in prayer that they ached. Her voice quivered as she whispered into the night.

“Please, Barbatos… forgive him. Forgive Venti, for whatever sins others see in him. He only brings joy. He only brings song. Please… do not turn away from him now.”

Footsteps stirred behind her. Barbara rose, startled, to find Eula, Diluc, and Jean approaching, their faces grave. A faint glow pulsed in Eula’s hand: a feather, light and impossibly radiant.

Barbara blinked at them. “Captain Eula? Diluc? Grand Master Jean? What are you doing here at this hour?”

Eula stepped forward, her voice low, heavy with urgency. “Barbara. There’s something you must know. Venti… he isn’t just a bard. He’s Barbatos.”

Barbara’s lips parted, but no sound came. She blinked rapidly, a weak laugh of disbelief escaping her. “That… that can’t be. Not him. He’s—he’s just a drunkard, a troublemaker with a lyre—”

The feather shimmered brighter, silencing her words. Jean said nothing, but the sorrow etched into her face told Barbara everything.

Her breath hitched. The ground seemed to tilt beneath her. “No…” she whispered, her hand rising to her mouth. “All this time… the songs, the laughter… the Lyre he placed in my arms…” Her voice faltered, trembling with awe and grief all at once. “That was him? That was… my archon? No…No!” She laughed in disbelief to stop from crying. “No, no I…that’s..”

She shook her head. “That simply can’t be.” 
“Barbara..” Jean sighed and stepped forward, shaking her sisters shoulders. “It’s true. Venti, the drunkard bard of Mondstadt…He is the god of freedom. He is our archon. I know it’s tough to accept, but please you must believe us.”

“I…O-Oh gods..” Barbara’s eyes filled with tears, her entire world unraveling before her. She turned to Jean, searching desperately for denial. “You knew?”

Jean’s gaze wavered, shame pulling her shoulders low. “I did. And I failed him. I failed all of you.”

Barbara’s lips parted in shock, her entire body trembling. “That means… when he sang, when he gave me the Lyre, when he smiled and laughed with us… that was my archon? Barbatos has been here, all this time…?”

She stumbled back, dizzy, pressing a hand to her chest. “Why didn’t he say anything? Why would he… hide?”

Jean lowered her gaze, ashamed. “Because he wanted to be free with us. And because we failed him.”

Diluc’s jaw tightened. His voice was like iron. “You need to understand the whole of it. He isn’t merely imprisoned. The Lawrence clan has been using him—humiliating him, breaking him piece by piece. They are parading Mondstadt’s god as a slave for their power games.”

The words hit like a spear. Barbara’s eyes widened, filling with tears as she staggered. “No…” Her voice broke, horrified. “Not him. Not Barbatos. That can’t—”

Eula stepped closer, her voice trembling. “It’s true. I saw it. He’s suffering in ways I can barely even describe. He’s still alive…But they want him broken… not dead. They want to crush his freedom. The very thing he stands for..”

Barbara’s breath came in short, panicked gasps. The image of the cheerful bard, now reduced to torment, crushed her completely. “I prayed to him—while he was… while he was suffering like that?”

Her world shattered. A choked sob ripped out of her as her knees gave way. Jean caught her just before she hit the stones, her sister limp in her arms, tears streaking her pale cheeks.

“Barbara!” Jean’s voice cracked with fear.

Diluc knelt beside them, his face a storm of fury and grief. “The Lawrence clan has gone too far. They’ve not only desecrated Mondstadt’s god—they’ve desecrated its faith.”

Jean clutched Barbara close, her own tears slipping free. Her whisper carried like an oath: “Then we end this. We will not let him suffer another moment more.”

“Then there’s one more person we need to gather before we go.” Eula sighed, casting Diluc a wary glance. 

“No.” Diluc said flatly. 
“We need him, Diluc. Put aside your differences for once. For Venti.”

”…Dammit.”

  The night was quiet as the group descended from the Cathedral. Jean carried Barbara carefully in her arms, the Sister awake but trembling, unable to stand on her own. Her head rested against Jean’s shoulder, silent tears still sliding down her cheeks. Eula walked close beside them, guarding Jean’s steps. Diluc led, silent and grim, the hard line of his back betraying his anger.

Angel’s Share glowed like a lantern at the plaza’s edge, its wooden doors shut but not barred. Inside, the tavern was hushed, the scent of wine and old oak heavy in the air. Only a handful of patrons lingered, most slumped in their cups.

And at a table near the window, Kaeya sat with one boot kicked lazily over the other, swirling a glass of pale dandelion wine. His sharp eye flicked up as the door creaked open, and he smiled at the sight of the company that entered.

“Well, isn’t this a rare sight?” Kaeya drawled, leaning back in his chair. “Master Diluc, choosing to step foot into his own tavern at this hour. Accompanied by our noble Spindrift Knight, the Acting Grand Master, and—” his smile faltered as his gaze dropped to Jean’s arms, “Barbara?”

Jean adjusted her sister’s weight, her expression tight. “She’s safe, but… shaken. We need answers, Kaeya.”

Kaeya’s glass paused mid-swing. His eye lingered on Barbara’s pale face, then shifted to Eula’s hand. The faint glow of the feather caught his attention, and the smile slipped a little further from his lips.

Barbara stirred weakly, her voice little more than a whisper. “Kaeya… they’re hurting him. They’re hurting Barbatos…”

The words cut sharper than any blade. Kaeya’s posture stiffened, though he quickly covered it with a low chuckle. “Now that,” he murmured, “is a revelation.”

Diluc’s voice came like iron. “Drop the act. You’ve heard things, Kaeya. About the Lawrence clan. About what they’re doing. Tell us.”

Kaeya set his glass down carefully, the sound of it meeting the wood louder than it should have been in the silence. His gaze flicked between them all — Jean, Eula, Diluc, Barbara — then back to the feather.

“Desperate times, hmm? I never thought I’d see the day my dear brother begged me for help.” His smirk returned, thin and sharp. “But you’re right. I have heard things. Whispers. And none of them are pleasant.”

Jean’s voice trembled despite her attempt at composure. “Please, Kaeya. No more riddles. Every moment wasted is another moment he suffers.”

For a beat, Kaeya said nothing. Then he leaned forward, the playful mask dimming just enough for his words to carry weight.

“Then you’d best prepare yourselves. Because what I know… makes torture sound merciful.”

Kaeya swirled the amber liquid in his glass, though his usual half-smile was nowhere to be found. His tone was stripped bare of mockery when he spoke, each word heavy enough to drag the air down with it.

“The Lawrences aren’t just torturing him for revenge. That’s only the surface.” His gaze lingered on Diluc, then Jean. “Their true plan runs deeper. They want to break him — to the point where he isn’t Barbatos anymore. To reduce him to a shattered remnant of what he once was.”

Jean’s face drained of all color as Barbara let out a choked, horrified gasp. “That’s… monstrous.”

Kaeya’s eye darkened, shadows catching in the glass as he leaned forward. “And once he’s nothing but a husk, they’ll sell him. To the Abyss Order.”

The words hit the table like a blade. Barbara gasped, choking on a sob, clutching Jean as if her sister’s uniform were the only thing keeping her upright. Jean’s lips parted in pure horror, the weight of guilt crashing back down on her all at once.

Eula’s hand flew to her sword hilt, eyes blazing with cold fury. “The Abyss— They would—” She cut herself off, trembling too violently to finish.

“They would consume him,” Kaeya finished quietly. “The Lawrences know it. That’s why they’re doing this. If Barbatos falls into the Abyss, if Mondstadt’s own god is devoured, the people’s faith will collapse along with him. No more songs of freedom. No more wind. Just silence.”

Diluc’s fists curled so tightly his knuckles went bone white. His voice was flat, a cold burn beneath the surface. “And you’ve been sitting on this knowledge?”

Kaeya’s eye flicked up to meet his brother’s, sharp as glass. “I’ve been confirming it. And now I’m telling you — because it’s too late to pretend otherwise.”

The room seemed to close in on them all. Jean felt her knees nearly give, Barbara clung to her like a drowning child, and Eula’s rage was barely leashed. Diluc stood rigid, a storm barely contained, while Kaeya finally leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.

“If you’re going to stop them,” Kaeya murmured, voice edged with grim finality, “you’ll need to do it before the Abyss makes their move. Because once they have him… there won’t be a Mondstadt left worth saving.”

The silence after Kaeya’s revelation pressed heavy against the wooden beams of Angel’s Share. Even the low murmur of late-night patrons seemed to fade, as though the very tavern strained to hear.

Jean clutched Barbara closer, her knuckles white. “Sold… to the Abyss Order. That cannot—must not—be allowed to happen.” Her voice wavered, uncharacteristically fragile.

Eula’s eyes blazed like frost in moonlight. “They mean to weaponize the very symbol of Mondstadt. If the Abyss consumes him…” Her lips pressed into a grim line. “Our people would be crushed before a single blade was raised.”

Diluc’s jaw was locked tight, fury radiating off him in waves. “Then we don’t waste time. Where is he being kept?”

Kaeya sipped his wine — infuriatingly casual in the face of Diluc’s seething. “Patience, dear brother. The Lawrences have a habit of hiding their filth in plain sight. I know where Dahlia is being held, but storming in like a blind Rifthound will get us all killed.”

Diluc slammed his hand against the table, rattling glasses. “This isn’t a game, Kaeya!”

Kaeya’s smile turned sharp, but his tone stayed smooth. “And yet you always pout when I play along. Tell me, is this your grand heroic plan? Brood until the walls fall?”

Diluc’s glare could have burned through stone. “If you weren’t the only one with the information, I’d leave you here to drown in your glass.”

Kaeya tilted his head, feigning thought. “Ah, but then you’d miss my charming company.” He set the wine down and leaned forward, his voice suddenly harder. “Whether you like it or not, we’ll have to do this together. You want Dahlia back alive, and I want the Lawrences to choke on their arrogance. Our goals align.”

Jean finally broke the tension, straightening despite Barbara clinging to her. “Enough. This isn’t the time for rivalry. We need a plan — now.”

Eula crossed her arms, voice steady. “I’ll keep watch from the outer walls. If the Abyss makes their move, someone must be there to intercept them. The Lawrences will not get away with this under my eyes.”

Jean nodded. “Good. Barbara and I will take the feather. We’ll alert the citizens, quietly at first. The people must know their god is suffering — and that the Lawrences are responsible. At the same time, I’ll order the Knights to ensure the Lawrences don’t hear a whisper of this plan. If they discover what we know, they’ll accelerate their scheme.”

Barbara stirred weakly, her voice trembling. “I’ll… I’ll scream it if I must. I’ll tell even the birds... If Mondstadt knows Barbatos is hurting, they’ll rise to defend him…” she whispered, looking as though she were about to be sick.  

Jean squeezed her sister’s hand with quiet pride.

Diluc exhaled sharply, eyes still fixed on Kaeya. “Fine. Then you and I will retrieve Dahlia. But mark my words—if you falter, if your tricks cost us even a moment—”

Kaeya raised his glass in mock salute. “Oh, relax, Master Diluc. You’ll have me all to yourself on this little rescue mission. Try not to scowl the entire way, hm?”

Diluc muttered under his breath, clearly regretting every choice that had led him here.

Jean, already weary, pinched the bridge of her nose. “If you two kill each other before we reach Dahlia, I swear—”

Eula smirked faintly despite the gravity. “Then I’ll be left to save Mondstadt alone. Again.”

The grim atmosphere broke for a heartbeat, just enough for the group to draw strength. Then Jean’s voice cut sharp and clear.

“Good. We have our roles. We move before dawn. Barbatos will not fall. Not to the Lawrences. And not to the Abyss.”

The unspoken weight of her words lingered over them: if they failed, Mondstadt’s god — and Mondstadt itself — would be lost forever.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  

     The cobblestone streets near Lawrence Manor were nearly silent, save for the clipped footsteps of the Fatui diplomats and their Abyssal escorts ahead. Their muffled voices carried faintly on the wind, speaking in tongues of trade and power, never realizing the two shadows tailing them.

Kaeya glided along the rooftops like water, boots whispering against the shingles. “You know, dear brother, sneaking is an art. A delicate brushstroke.” He glanced down, smirking. “And you’re stomping around like you’re trying to wake the whole city.”

Diluc scowled, pressed against the wall below. His claymore was already half drawn. “Or I could just kill them now and save us the trouble.”

“Ah, yes,” Kaeya purred, crouching to peer at the procession. “But then how would we find poor little Dahlia? Or are you planning to interrogate corpses? I didn’t know necromancy was your thing.”

Diluc’s glare could have set the rooftops on fire. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable,” Kaeya quipped, vaulting silently across to the next roof. “You brood, you stomp, you threaten. Really, you need more variety. Perhaps a smile now and then?”

“I’ll smile when the Fatui are burning,” Diluc muttered darkly, following with far less grace. His boots clanked against a loose tile, which skittered down the roof and shattered in the alley.

The diplomats paused, glancing behind.

Kaeya dropped to a crouch, tugging Diluc down with him. “Elegant,” he whispered with a grin. “Truly elegant. Were you trained by a herd of boars?”

Diluc shoved him off. “Shut. Up.”

The diplomats moved on, muttering.

  Hours later, the trail curved toward the crumbling arches of Stormterror’s Lair. Abyssal sigils glowed faintly on stone, and in the distance, lit by eerie blue torches, a metal cage hung suspended over the ruin. Inside, a boy lifted his head, pink hair falling into his eyes, his face pale but determined. Even in chains, there was something stubborn in his expression — the refusal to break completely.

Diluc’s hand clenched his claymore. “There.” His voice was sharp with rage. “We end this now.”

Kaeya rested an elbow on his brother’s shoulder — just to annoy him. “Patience. Let’s count our playmates first.” He gestured to the camp below, where Abyss Mages, Fatui Skirmishers, and diplomats mingled, trading papers and coin like it was any other business deal. “If you go charging in, you’ll just get swarmed.”

Diluc pushed his arm off. “Good. More to kill.”

Kaeya’s laugh was soft and sharp as broken glass. “Oh, I almost forgot how much you enjoy setting them on fire.”

“I don’t enjoy it,” Diluc said stiffly. His eyes, however, gleamed with anticipation. “I perfect it.”

Kaeya leaned back with a grin. “Well, then. Care to prove it? I’ll handle the subtle touches — you be the blunt instrument.”

Before Diluc could respond, Kaeya vaulted silently from the ledge, vanishing into shadow. Diluc swore under his breath, then followed less elegantly, his boots crunching on gravel.

The first Abyss Mage turned at the sound — just in time for Kaeya’s blade to slip between its ribs, freezing the cryo glyph in its hands. From the other side, a wave of flame engulfed two startled Skirmishers as Diluc cleaved through them, fire roaring brighter with every strike.

Kaeya sighed dramatically over the chaos. “So much for subtlety.”

“Dead is subtle enough,” Diluc barked, spinning through another Fatui agent.

The camp erupted, mages and soldiers shouting, weapons clashing. Kaeya darted through them like ice in moonlight, blades flashing, always a step behind Diluc’s carnage. And every time Diluc struck, Kaeya couldn’t resist a jab.

“You missed one~”

“Too slow. I got there first.”

“Careful, brother, you’re starting to smile.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You’re grinning.”

“I SAID I’M NOT.”

By the time the last mage fell, the air stank of ash and ozone. Diluc stood panting, flames still curling from his blade. Dahlia stirred weakly in the cage, hope flickering in his eyes.

Kaeya wiped his sword on a Fatui cloak, smirking. “Well, that was noisy.”

Diluc slammed his blade into the earth and glared. “It worked.”

Kaeya tilted his head, voice teasing but his eyes suddenly serious as they landed on Dahlia. “Yes… it did. Now let’s get him out before more come sniffing.”

Diluc’s fire dimmed at once, his expression hard but steady. “Dahlia.”

The boy blinked at the voice, then let out a shaky laugh as the two strode over. “Took you long enough.” His words cracked with exhaustion, but his spirit wasn’t gone.

Kaeya tilted his head, lips quirking. “Pink hair, chains, and sarcasm even while half-dead. I think I like him already.”

Dahlia arched a brow, voice dry. “You’re not my type.”

Diluc cut through the cage’s lock with a heated slash, metal hissing as it split apart. He ignored both of them, stepping in to catch Dahlia before he collapsed. “Save your strength. You’re safe now.”

“Safe?” Dahlia gave a hollow laugh. “You just set half of Mondstadt’s air on fire. The Abyss will smell that from here to Snezhnaya.”

“Which is why we’re leaving,” Diluc said firmly, steadying him.

Kaeya leaned against the cage, smirking at his brother’s seriousness. “Oh, don’t scowl so hard. You’ll frighten him. Or me. Or both.”

Dahlia groaned. “Do you two always bicker like an old married couple?”

Diluc stiffened. “We’re brothers.”

Kaeya’s grin widened. “Exactly. Which makes it even worse.”

Dahlia snorted despite his weakness, slumping against Diluc’s shoulder. “Great. Rescued by the most dysfunctional pair of heroes Mondstadt has to offer. Just my luck.”

“Careful,” Kaeya teased, brushing a strand of pink hair from Dahlia’s face as he checked his restraints. “With that mouth, you might end up back in the cage.”

Dahlia shot him a tired glare. “Try me, pirate.”

Diluc sighed, half carrying the boy as he stepped out of the ruined camp. “Enough. We’re getting him home. Now.”

“Fine, fine,” Kaeya drawled, falling into step beside them, ice already whispering in his hand in case reinforcements came. “But just so you know… when Jean asks who set the place ablaze, I’m blaming you.”

“You always do.”

“And you always make it too easy.”

Dahlia groaned again. “Ugh. Just kill me and spare me the sibling comedy routine.”

Kaeya smirked. “Sorry, pinky. You’re stuck with us.”

The three of them had barely reached the edge of the valley when the Fatui reinforcements poured in like ants, weapons gleaming in the twilight.

Diluc groaned, already unsheathing his claymore.
“Of course. Reinforcements. Can’t a man go five minutes without—”

“—without brooding?” Kaeya cut in smoothly, his voice dripping with amusement as he drew his rapier. He twirled it once before letting frost spiral outward, coating the ground in elegant arcs of ice. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll keep the mess stylish.”

Diluc shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass.
“I don’t care about style. I care about making sure they don’t get back up.”

Kaeya smirked, already weaving between the Fatui with dancer’s grace, freezing their boots to the earth. Diluc followed like a storm, claymore igniting with a roar of flame, cutting through the frozen soldiers with brutal efficiency.

Meanwhile, Dahlia had been standing behind them, nervously wringing his hands. His soft pink hair caught the firelight like a halo, making him seem almost out of place amid the chaos. The Fatui seemed to think the same, circling toward him with mocking grins.

“Leave the kid to us,” one sneered.

Dahlia blinked at them, then smiled a little too sweetly.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He clapped his hands together, and suddenly a massive, shimmering pad of water burst to life beneath the soldiers’ feet. Their eyes widened as they bounced helplessly into the air, flailing and screaming in undignified terror.

“—SURPRISE BAPTISM MOTHER FUCKER!!!” Dahlia hollered, his voice cracking with excitement.

The shrieks echoed across the valley as Fatui soldiers rained back down only to bounce up again, sent flying in a slapstick arc.

Diluc froze mid-swing, staring in outright disbelief.
“…what… the hell was that.”

Kaeya leaned casually on his rapier, grinning so hard his teeth practically sparkled.
“Oh, brother. I think I’ve found my new favorite person!!!”

Another Fatui lunged straight for Dahlia, spear raised. Dahlia squeaked and threw up his hands — a sphere of rippling water flashed into existence around him, the spear bouncing off with a dull thunk before the soldier went sliding on Kaeya’s ice patch.

“Hydro shield,” Dahlia explained quickly, as though either brother had asked. His smile grew a little proud. “The Church trained me in it. Mostly for… defensive sermons.”

Kaeya nearly choked on his laughter.
“D-Defensive sermons?! Oh, this is delightful..~” He flicked his rapier, skewering another Fatui’s coat to the ground with a spike of ice. “Dahlia, darling, you’re a revelation.”

Dahlia beamed at the praise. Then, spotting another squad rushing them, he stomped one foot down. A second hydro trampoline erupted under their boots, launching a wave of armored soldiers into the air like terrified fireworks.

“SURPRISE BAPTISM!!” he shouted again, voice cracking adorably.

A Fatui Pyro Agent pinwheeled into the sky with an undignified scream.

Diluc actually stopped fighting, lowering his flaming claymore just long enough to glare at Dahlia like the boy had committed heresy on the battlefield.
“…You can’t just—” he gestured at the trampoline, then at the flailing soldiers above them, “—call that baptism.”

“Why not?” Dahlia said innocently, ducking back behind his hydro shield as another arrow pinged off. “I’m technically ordained.”

Kaeya was doubled over, wiping tears from his eye.
“Brother, don’t be so harsh!!! I think this is the most fun I’ve had in a fight in years!!”

Another Fatui arced overhead, landing face-first into the mud with a wet splork.

Diluc groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Archons. Just kill them and be done with it.”

Kaeya spun gracefully, freezing two more in place before leaning closer to Dahlia, voice warm with mischief.
“No, no. Please keep baptizing them. I want to see how long it takes before he combusts..~”

Dahlia puffed up with pride, readying another hydro trampoline.
“Yes, Captain Kaeya!”

“Don’t encourage him,” Diluc muttered, cleaving down another Fatui with a fiery slash. But there was no denying it—the tide of reinforcements was thinning fast, mostly thanks to a certain pink-haired deacon bouncing enemies around like dolls.

The Fatui were scrambling now, slipping on ice and bouncing sky-high from Dahlia’s trampolines. But a few stubborn soldiers pressed through the chaos, closing in on the pink-haired boy with blades drawn.

Dahlia’s eyes went wide. He raised his catalyst—an ornate, church-issue tome glowing faintly with hydro sigils. For a moment, it looked like he was preparing some grand, divine spell.

Then he just—
WHACK!

The spine of the book cracked across the soldier’s helmet with a resounding thunk. The man crumpled like a sack of potatoes.

“…D-Did you just hit him with the scripture~!?” Kaeya gasped, looking like he might collapse from laughter.

“Uh—yes?” Dahlia admitted, gripping the book like a club. Another soldier lunged, and Dahlia smacked him upside the head so hard the pages fluttered open, spraying a few drops of hydro across the air. The Fatui staggered backward, dazed.

Diluc actually froze mid-swing.
“…You’re supposed to cast with that.”

“It works better like this!” Dahlia protested, slamming the tome into another soldier’s stomach and sending him sprawling. Then, remembering himself, he pointed dramatically at the stunned Fatui and shouted, “Consider yourself… baptized!”

Kaeya was wheezing now, doubled over with tears streaming down his face. “Brother—please—you have to admit this is art. Look at him! A pink-haired terror of the Church!”

“SURPRISE BAPTISM!” Dahlia yelled again, bouncing a soldier into the air with his hydro trampoline before swatting another across the face with the book on the way down.

The Fatui began retreating in disarray, some bouncing away unwillingly, others scrambling to avoid the book-wielding menace.

By the time the last of them fled, the battlefield was littered with groaning soldiers and wet, muddy craters. Dahlia stood in the center, flushed and panting, holding his book like a holy warhammer.

Diluc pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a prayer for patience.
Kaeya slung an arm around Dahlia’s shoulders, still laughing breathlessly.
“Oh, little deacon, you’ve absolutely baptized my soul tonight.”

Dahlia blinked, then smiled shyly.
“…Was I helpful?”

Diluc exhaled slowly, glaring at the mess around them.
“…Yes. Too helpful.”

Chapter Text

     The streets of Mondstadt were quiet under the night sky, the last few Fatui stragglers fleeing behind them. Dahlia trailed between Kaeya and Diluc, still holding his hydro-splattered book, occasionally poking at the dents in its spine with a frown.

“You really can hit people with it?” Kaeya teased, strolling beside him.
“Yes. Technically I can also… cast spells.” Dahlia’s tone was defensive but faintly proud. “But hitting is faster.”

Diluc just shook his head, muttering something about the “unholy combination of brute force and holy scripture.”

Kaeya glanced at him, smirking. “You know, little dragon, now that the streets are safe, we should probably fill you in on… everything.”

Dahlia froze. “Everything?”

Kaeya’s grin widened like a cat with a canary. “Yes. The whole messy, tragic, utterly chaotic truth. Right after you showed the Fatui how terrifying hydro trampolines can be.”

Dahlia’s eyes widened. “Wait—what do you mean?”

Kaeya grinned. “Everything. Strap in, little deacon. It’s a messy tale.”

Diluc scowled, already dreading the explanation. “Start with the important part. Venti.”

Dahlia froze. “Venti? The bard? Wait… the one I’ve been… thinking about?” His voice faltered. “…The one I’ve been—well, never mind that—he’s actually…”

“Barbatos,” Diluc finished flatly.

Dahlia blinked. “…Barbatos? The Anemo Archon?!” His brain seemed to short-circuit as he stumbled to a halt. “HE’S THE—Oh… oh no. That… that explains… everything. No, no, stop thinking about that part. Stop.” Dhalia grabbed his head, blushing. “I’ve been wanting to FUCK MY ARCHON???” 

Diluc blinked. “I—You—Okay.” He sputtered, not entirely sure how to respond to that revelation.

Kaeya’s laughter nearly made him stumble. “Oh, this is exquisite. I did not expect you to blush over divine matters. You’re a treasure, Dahlia.”

Dahlia pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am horrified. Horrified.” He muttered under his breath, muttering another, dryly, “All this time, thinking I… never mind.” His hands fluttered helplessly over his face. “…The Church would never forgive me if they knew I’ve been… contemplating the Archon… wrongfully.”

”How wrongfully~?”

”..I’d never be allowed near a holy place again if they knew. Oh gods.”

Diluc groaned. “Focus on the mission.”

“Fine.” Dahlia huffed, trying to shake the increasingly perverted thoughts of Venti/Barbatos out of his head. “Also… wow. That’s a lot for someone to just drop casually. You’re terrible at easing people into information.”

Kaeya chuckled, giving him a playful nudge. “You’ll get used to it. Now for the part that’s a bit… less fun.”

Dahlia’s frown deepened. “Less fun? How—”

“The Lawrence’s ,” Diluc said, his voice heavy now, “captured him. They’re torturing him in prison.”

Dahlia froze. His pink hair seemed to almost bristle. “Torturing… Barbatos?” His voice was quiet, almost disbelieving. “The Anemo Archon? Why… how could they—”

Kaeya laid a hand on Dahlia’s shoulder, softer now. “It’s… complicated. You saw the Fatui today. They don’t play by any rules. Especially when Lawrence Clan mora is involved.”

Dahlia swallowed and took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes flitting between the brothers. “…And now you’re telling me that he’s not only an archon but… tortured by the Lawrence clan? That’s… that’s just… wow. Horrifying. And somehow infuriating.”

Kaeya leaned casually on his rapier, still smirking, but softer now. “Infuriating is right. The Lawrence clan doesn’t play fair. You saw the Fatui today—imagine that level of sadistic organization, but… worse.”

Dahlia’s mouth twitched into a humorless smirk. “…So, let me get this straight. I’ve been… well, misbehaving in my thoughts about Barbatos, thinking him this carefree bard, and meanwhile he’s trapped, tortured, and broken, and we’re… just walking back…calmly?!”

Diluc’s expression darkened. “It’s serious. You need to process it fast. He’s in danger. The Lawrence clan doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings—least of all his. Or ours.”

”How did…How did Venti—Er—Barbatos even get captured?!” Dahlia huffed, not at all oblivious to the awkward glances the taller men exchanged. “He, ehm, got arrested.”

”ARRESTED? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED WHILE I WAS GONE?!” Dahlia screeched, a few tired Mondstadtians(??) slamming their shutters in response.

”Well, Ehm, remember the Holy Lyre?” Kaeya scratched his head. 

“Yeah. Obviously. I’m a deacon.”

”Our little drunkard bard broke it, and his that fact from everyone.” Diluc grumbled. “The Lawrence clan found out, and used it as leverage to imprison him. Likely in their manor.”

”I- How did we even find out Venti was a GOD???”

”Eula. She brought us his feather, and explained everything.”

Dahlia’s jaw clenched. A small, dry sound escaped him. “…So the entire city, the bard, the broken lyre… all of it? And you didn’t tell me any of this before we went running into Fatui squads?”

Diluc’s voice was low and firm. “Because you needed to see the world as it is first. And because… frankly, some truths are a bit heavy to drop on someone mid-rescue.”

Dahlia rubbed the back of his neck, giving a faint, humorless laugh. “Well. Great. I feel… surprisingly underprepared. My god…In chains..” he clenched a fistful of his own hair at the thought. “I’m going to baptize those Lawrence’s through their own roof.”

“…And now what?” His voice was quieter, more serious. “Do we… do we just go and save him?”

Diluc’s eyes darkened. “We do. But we need a plan. And we need to be ready for… whatever the Fatui have done to him. Torture changes things. It changes people.”

Dahlia swallowed hard, gripping his book like a shield. He tried to joke again, but it fell flat. “…Well. I suppose hydro trampolines might not be enough for this one.”

Kaeya gave him a half-smile, his usual teasing glint subdued. “No, little deacon. This one… will require everything.”

Dahlia’s hands tightened on his book. “…I need a moment. Preferably two. Maybe three.” Then, in a dry, muttering tone: “…Also, I may never look at a lyre the same way again.”

Kaeya chuckled, giving him a light pat on the shoulder. “Take your time, little dragon. But not too long—the Lawrence clan isn’t known for polite hospitality.”

Dahlia exhaled, shaking his head. “…I’m horrified, I’m scandalized, and apparently, I’m going to need a new perspective on holiness.” He chuckled, but his tone fell flat as he just stopped to take it all in. 

“..The god I’ve been praying to all my life…Is the drunkard bard that I’ve found myself helplessly attracted too. And now my friend, my lord…Is hurting.” He took a breath, his hand itching over his catalyst as he looked at the roof of the Lawrence Manor in the distance, clearly resisting the urge to charge in there and kill every last Lawrence himself. “..May Barbatos forgive them because I sure fucking won’t.”

The streets of Mondstadt were unusually quiet that morning. From every home, citizens carried the blue-ribboned summons to the Knights of Favonius library, whispering in anxious, angry tones about Venti, the bard. He had been locked away for the broken Holy Lyre, and many had felt justice finally served. Many still wanted him punished, kept behind bars until the city’s anger cooled.

Dahlia trailed behind Kaeya and Diluc as they entered the library, hydro-splattered book clutched tightly in his hands. “I almost don’t want to see their faces when they find out,” he muttered, dryly. “Mostly because it will be… catastrophic.”

Kaeya’s grin was faint, sharp-eyed. “Oh, little deacon. Catastrophic barely scratches it. You’ll see soon enough.”

Inside, the library was packed. Citizens pressed together, whispering their outrage: “Venti should stay imprisoned!” “He’s a traitor!” “We cannot trust him with anything!” Children clung to parents’ sleeves. Merchants shuffled nervously. Even the older knights looked uneasy, aware that the city’s anger was about to collide with truth.

Barbara stood near the front, hands clasped in front of her, trying to maintain a calm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Jean, composed as ever, arranged the papers on the podium beside her, her expression precise but grim.

Kaeya leaned against a bookshelf, whispering to Dahlia, “Ah, the calm before the storm. Doesn’t it feel… delightful?”

Dahlia’s frown deepened. “Delightful is not the word I’d use.”

From the back, Diluc’s sharp gaze scanned the gathered crowd. “Everyone’s here,” he murmured. “Good. No one left behind. And no Lawrence’s, save for Eula. Now we hear it straight from them.”

The library was packed. Citizens of Mondstadt pressed together, eyes fixed on Jean and Barbara, voices low with anger and suspicion. Venti had been locked away for the broken Holy Lyre, and many still hated him. He was a traitor in their eyes, a source of chaos—they had demanded justice, and now they were here, bristling with righteous indignation.

Barbara cleared her throat, and the room fell silent. The weight of what was coming pressed in on everyone—an urgency that no cheerful greeting could dispel.

Jean raised her hand, commanding silence. “I must speak the truth about Venti…” she began, but a chorus of murmurs and sharp exclamations cut her off.

“Venti? That troublemaker? He should stay locked away!”
“Don’t tell us more lies!”
“The Lyre—he destroyed it! He deserves punishment!”

Dahlia muttered under his breath, dry and tense. “…Ah. This is going to be fun. In a horrifying sort of way.”

Jean’s gaze swept the angry faces. She drew a deep breath. “Listen to me carefully—Venti is Barbatos, our Anemo Archon.”

A woman in the back shouted, “He’s a criminal, nothing more!”
A man slammed his fists on a table. “We saw him! We demanded his imprisonment! Don’t dare twist this!”
”LIAR!!” Another woman screamed, the crowd bustling in pure anger and hatred for the bard. 

The murmurs rose immediately, sharp and hostile.
“Venti? That troublemaker? He should stay locked away!”
“Don’t tell us lies!”
“The Lyre—he destroyed it! Lock him up for good!”

“That’s a lie!”
“We’ve been betrayed!”

Some pressed hands to their faces in disgust at the very idea. Some whispered to neighbors, shaking their heads in disappointment that their Acting Grandmaster would say such a thing. Their brains refused to reconcile the image of the beloved god they worshiped with the mischievous bard they had scorned.

Jean sighed and lifted a single, brilliant feather—the divine sign of Barbatos—catching the light across the library. The glow illuminated every face, demanding attention. As the crowd looked at it, a hush fell over the room. The wind itself seemed to circle around the singular feather, blowing through its bristles and barbs, scattering its divine glow through out the room. A holy power radiated from it. A power no person in Mondstadt could ignore. 

Barbara stepped forward, voice steady. “I am a member of the church. I confirm this truth. Venti is Barbatos, our Archon.”

Dahlia raised his book, showing the mark of the church. “And I can corroborate this. For anyone who doubts, the Church itself confirms it.”

The library fell into stunned silence. Citizens froze, some sinking to their knees, mouths agape, trembling. Barbatos—the god they had adored without ever seeing—was the same bard they had vilified, abandoned, and demanded be imprisoned. Their disbelief clung to them, heavy as stone.

The silence stretched, heavy, oppressive. People stared at one another, wide-eyed, some trembling. Some sank to their knees, hands over mouths. Others froze, clutching their robes. Some whispered barely audible prayers, as if saying them aloud might make the truth disappear.

Dahlia muttered, dry and tense: “…Well. That is one hell of a revelation. And I have front-row seats.”

Jean’s voice cut through the silence, grim and commanding. “Your anger, your hatred, your demands for Venti’s imprisonment have consequences…Barbatos is in the hands of the Lawrence clan.” She continued, voice shaking.

“Everyone. Our…Our god. Venti. Barbatos…our lord of freedom…has been taken by the Lawrence Clan…And they have been torturing him.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Screams, sobs, and cries of horror filled the library. Parents clutched their children. Merchants dropped baskets. Knights pressed fists to their foreheads. The city’s shock, guilt, and terror were absolute.

Eula stepped forward then, her armor catching the light, her face pale and tight with heartbreak. Her voice trembled, carrying through the stunned library. “Barbatos is being tortured… stripped nude, humiliated, forced to crawl like a dog. He bears bruises and blood across his body. And yet…” Her voice caught. “And yet, he refuses to use his power to strike back. Every moment of suffering he endures is because he will not harm innocent lives. He knows his winds are too wild. H-He won’t risk hurting us…So he endures the pain.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. Some covered their mouths. Some shook violently. A few fell to their knees, sobbing.

“He is our god,” Eula continued, voice breaking. “And they—the Lawrence clan—have turned him into a plaything. They mock him, humiliate him, and all because of…their ego. But…we…we haven’t helped. Every shout, every accusation, every angry order for imprisonment has led him here. Has led him to that…that hell.”

Dahlia’s lips twitched, his hands wringing around his catalyst as if it were a Lawrence’s neck. His eyes burned with the intense desire to murder.

Kaeya’s voice cut through next, calm but ice-sharp. “And if you think this cruelty ends there, hear this. The Lawrence clan plans to sell Barbatos. They plan to sell our archon. They intend to treat him like an object, a commodity, and send him into the Abyss for profit. Your god—the very being who guards this city—is a bargaining chip to them. A bargaining chip they plan…To turn into an Abyssal slave.”

The library erupted.

Screams of horror, disbelief, and guilt tore through the crowd. People pressed children to their chests. Some tried to run to openly challenge the Lawrence’s, but were shoved aside by panicked neighbors. Others dropped to the floor, trembling, some praying, some shaking, some staring blankly at nothing. Merchants overturned baskets in frantic panic. Knights shouted in disbelief, some slamming fists to their chests.

Women wailed openly. Men’s faces twisted in horror. Some stumbled backward, others collapsed entirely, unable to process what they had done. Their god—the being they had adored and worshiped—was being tortured, humiliated, and treated as property, and it was their fault.

Dahlia gripped his book until his knuckles ached. His dry, sarcastic commentary had disappeared entirely, replaced with raw, hollow dread. “…Oh no… oh no no no no… this is… this is worse than I imagined.”

Kaeya leaned against a shelf, eyes cold, voice low. “This is not just a crisis. This is absolute nightmare made real. And if we hesitate…”

Diluc’s jaw tightened. “No time for hesitation. Barbatos’ life depends on action.”

The citizens of Mondstadt writhed in chaos. Some cursed themselves aloud. Some cried silently. Some whispered prayers to a god now known to be both present and suffering. Every face bore terror, guilt, and disbelief. Every heart pounded with the realization that their god, their protector, had endured this torment because of them.

Eula sank to one knee, head bowed, voice barely a whisper now. “This… this is what we have done. This is what our fear and anger have caused.”

The room was a cacophony of grief, horror, and shattered faith. And in the center of it all, Dahlia, Kaeya, and Diluc stood, witnessing the unraveling of an entire city’s world in the shadow of Barbatos’ suffering.

  The chaos in the library continued, a storm of grief, horror, and guilt. Citizens cried, wailed, shook, whispered prayers, and cursed themselves for their past actions. But slowly, a spark began to flicker amidst the terror—a raw, unyielding determination.

A baker, hands still trembling, slammed his fists on a table. “We can’t… we can’t just let him suffer!”
“We must save him!” cried a mother, holding her children close.
“Every order we gave… every shout, every demand for his imprisonment…” another whispered, voice cracking. “We must make it right!”

Kaeya leaned against a shelf, voice calm but sharp. “They’re finally realizing what real courage looks like. Or desperation. Hard to tell.”

Eula stood, voice strong now, though her face still bore the scars of heartbreak. “Listen to me! We cannot wait! The Lawrence clan will not hesitate. Barbatos is in danger. If we do not act… he will suffer further. We must strike now!”

A wave of agreement rippled through the citizens. Some shouted, some nodded furiously, some wept but held their fists in the air. “We will tear that manor down if we must!”
“We will risk everything to save him!”
“We will apologize, protect him, and bring him home!”

Jean, standing at the podium, raised her hand to calm the rising roar. “We cannot act recklessly. Barbatos’ life depends on strategy. But your courage… your devotion… will be the key to saving him.”

Barbara added, her voice steady, unwavering. “We will lead you, guide you. But understand—the Lawrence clan is dangerous. This is not a simple rescue.”

The citizens nodded, faces pale but determined. Their horror had transformed into resolve. They would do whatever it took—tear down the manor, risk their lives, face the abyss itself—if it meant bringing their god back.

Kaeya’s smirk returned faintly, though his eyes were serious. “Well. Little deacon, it seems your audience has finally realized the stakes. I hope you’re ready—this city is about to move heaven and earth.”

Dahlia swallowed, gripping his book tighter, a shiver running down his spine. “…I’m ready. As ready as I’ll ever be. And I swear, if the Lawrence clan thinks this will be easy…”

Diluc’s voice cut in, low and sharp. “Focus. Barbatos comes first. Everything else follows.”

  The library had transformed from a place of shock into a command center. Citizens of Mondstadt hustled about, gathering weapons, ropes, and supplies. Knights helped organize squads, merchants offered provisions, and artisans hastily fashioned crude siege tools. Every face bore determination, a fierce and fiery resolve to save their god.

Jean moved among them like a general, giving orders, coordinating efforts, and keeping panic from overtaking strategy. Barbara flitted from group to group, offering encouragement and guiding citizens in small but critical ways. Eula stood tall beside her, directing those with combat experience, her gaze sharp and unyielding.

Dahlia trailed behind Kaeya and Diluc, hydro book in hand, eyes flicking from one panicked but resolute citizen to another. He muttered under his breath, dry as ever, though his grip on the book betrayed his tension. “…Well, this is either the bravest or the most insane thing I’ve ever witnessed. And I’m not sure which yet.”

Kaeya moved with fluid grace among the crowd, effortlessly weaving through clusters of citizens to calm and coordinate. His voice was calm but cutting, precise: “If we’re going to storm the manor, everyone must understand the plan. Barbatos is alive. He is being tortured. Hesitation will cost him everything. Stay sharp.”

Diluc, standing apart, watched the preparations with a tense, measured gaze. “Everyone must know the Lawrence clan will be prepared. Every entrance, every guard, every trap—they expect resistance. Barbatos’ life depends on precision and speed. Disorder could seal his fate.”

Despite Dahlia’s dry commentary, even he began helping to organize the less experienced citizens. He conjured small hydro shields to protect civilians from falling debris as ladders and makeshift barricades were carried into place. Every so often, he added his trademark, faintly sarcastic commentary. “…If anyone trips over a cart, please try to land in the hydro. At least make it memorable.”

Jean called everyone together for the final briefing. “Listen closely. The Lawrence clan’s manor is fortified, but not impenetrable. We will enter quietly, strike swiftly, and extract Barbatos before they have a chance to harm him further. Eula, you will lead the strike team. Kaeya, Diluc, Dahlia, and I will coordinate support and cover. Barbara will assist the citizens, ensuring no one is left behind or harmed unnecessarily.”

A murmur of readiness passed through the assembled citizens. Their eyes burned with determination. They had once turned their backs on Barbatos, but now, they would move mountains for him.

Dahlia, shaking his head slightly, muttered dryly, “…I swear, if I survive this, I may never trust a calm city again. Or any city, really.”

Kaeya’s eyes sparkled with grim amusement. “Don’t worry, little deacon. Surviving is optional. Style is mandatory.”

Diluc’s jaw tightened. “Focus. Barbatos’ life is not a game. The Lawrence clan will not hesitate to hurt him if we falter.”

The citizens straightened, gripping weapons, ropes, and shields, prepared to risk everything to save the archon they had let be imprisoned. Mothers, fathers, knights, merchants, artisans—none of them would stop. None of them would hesitate.

Jean looked over the assembled crowd, voice steady but heavy with urgency. “This is our only chance. Every second counts. Barbatos suffers with every heartbeat. We move now.”

Chapter Text

Barbatos lay on the cold stone floor, muscles aching and bruises blooming across his chest and back. The chill of the cell bit into him, and he could feel the raw sting of humiliation in every movement. For so long, he had been nothing but a plaything for the Lawrence clan, stripped of dignity and mocked by those who had once been sworn to obey him.

But now… things were changing.

The moment the word spread—that he was not merely a bard, but Barbatos, the Anemo Archon himself—the energy of the cell shifted.

The maids who once ignored his cries now slipped quietly inside, hands gentle, tending to his wounds with soft cloths and healing salves. Their faces were careful, fearful, but respectful. Blankets appeared at his side, laid over him with whispered apologies and downcast eyes. Meals, small but nourishing, were brought by cooks who dared not meet his gaze but moved with quiet reverence.

Even the guards—the ones who had laughed, jeered, and jeered again as he had been forced to crawl or endure beatings—stood differently now. When he looked up, their faces were tight with shame. They bowed subtly, lowered their heads, and stared at him with a mix of sorrow and awe. Their weapons no longer felt like instruments of ridicule, but like tokens of the weight of the power they now recognized and feared.

Leopold’s cruelty had not ended—his blows still came, measured and precise—but the echoes of the city’s revelation followed each strike, like a shadow reminding him that the world beyond these walls knew the truth.

Barbatos’ eyes, weary yet unbroken, traced the gestures of care. Every blanket laid across him, every wounded spot tended, every careful bow—it was not merely pity. It was recognition. Respect. Reverence.

And for the first time since the Lawrence clan had taken him, he felt the faintest thread of hope that perhaps he was not as alone as he had thought.

The cell was still cold, still harsh, still a prison. But the walls no longer enclosed him in pure mockery and torment. Now, even in suffering, he was being seen—not as a prisoner, not as a plaything—but as Barbatos, the god who had endured, and who would endure again.

  Night had fallen in the manor, and the chill of the stone cell pressed against Barbatos’ bruised skin. Exhaustion had pulled him into sleep, though not a peaceful rest—more a fragile suspension from pain and torment.

He stirred, though he did not open his eyes. A faint bustling drifted through the shadows of the cell. Whispered murmurs, careful footsteps, the soft clink of tools and jars. Nearly all the maids, servants, guards, and even the chefs of the manor had gathered quietly around him.

Barbatos remained still, feigning sleep, as hands began to move over his body. Fingers traced gently along tense muscles, massaging and coaxing them to release. Healing salves were spread carefully across each slash and bruise. Soft, broken sobs met each mark, as if the women were silently mourning for the god they had once treated as nothing.

Blankets followed. They draped him tenderly, covering his form as though acknowledging that no god deserved such indignity. Every fold, every crease, was handled with reverence, with sorrow, with apology.

For a long while, Barbatos simply felt. The warmth of human care. The gentle attentiveness. The shame and grief of those who had been complicit in his humiliation.

Then a soft voice broke the quiet, coaxing him gently. “Please… awaken, my lord,” whispered one maid, her tone hesitant, trembling with awe and guilt.

He opened his eyes slowly, letting the candlelight illuminate the faces before him. Their gazes were wide, trembling, full of heartbreak and awe. Every servant, maid, and cook who had been in the room stood frozen, unable to speak, terrified to break the fragile silence.

A maid stepped forward, a lyre cradled in her hands. Her eyes did not meet his, afraid he would see her shame. “Please… play, my lord,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “We… we all came to hear you. Not just the melody of a god, but… to—” She faltered. “To cheer you… if you will allow it.”

Barbatos’ gaze softened, and though his body ached and his soul still carried the scars of humiliation, he lifted the lyre carefully. His fingers brushed the strings, coaxing a tentative note that trembled in the candlelit cell.

And then another.

The notes spread like light through shadow, filling the cell, wrapping around each trembling servant, each guilt-laden cook, each awed maid. They closed their eyes, letting the music soothe their hearts and, in turn, honor the god before them.

Barbatos let the melody flow, slow at first, delicate, then stronger, firmer, yet always gentle. And for a moment, the cell was no longer a prison of stone and torment. It was a sanctuary, fragile and fleeting, of care, remorse, and awe—a reminder that even a god could be tended to, respected, and loved in his most vulnerable moments.

Days passed in the stone-walled prison, each one blending into the next with pain, exhaustion, and the slow, subtle rise of defiance. Barbatos noticed the changes first in the way the servants moved about the cell, always careful, always watching, always seeking to protect him without speaking of it.

When Leopold approached to mock or strike, minor distractions—puddles mysteriously left on the floor, objects seemingly slipping from careless hands—interrupted his assaults. Lord Schubert’s indignation became punctuated with slips and stumbles, forced smiles masking the embarrassment of a carefully orchestrated interference. He noticed how the servants, maids and chefs seemed to conspire with the guards. Schubert was contracting food poisoning a lot more often…maids were suddenly much more apt to lead puddles of slippery chemicals along the floors, and servants would constantly find various ways to embarrass the Lawrence’s. “Apologies, sir Schubert, but I cannot find the cream for your Athlete’s foot anywhere..”

”Sir Leopold, your fungal infection cream appears to not be working…shall I order a new one?”

Small jabs, to be sure. But always cloaked with enough genuine servitude that, while the Lawrence’s were left appalled and embarrassed, couldn’t actually say anything.
Barbatos’ keen eyes noted each of these small acts, the ingenuity, the quiet defiance, and a faint sense of approval stirred within him.

Even when he was beat, things seemed to change. The maids and servants seemed to cry whenever he was struck, though he had long learned to mask any reaction. Their grief was silent, muffled behind careful gestures, but it was there. Their sorrow bled through every action, every look of awe and fear whenever they passed by his cell. Eyes turned away whenever he was forced to crawl, no one would allow Leopold the enjoyment of their reactions. 

He began to notice other acts as well: soft hands massaging the tension from his wings, fingers gently smoothing braids in his hair, blankets carefully folded over him even when he lay in feigned sleep. Soups and small refreshments would be brought to his lips while he rested, quiet nudges of comfort delivered in whispers, without ever waking him.

The servants had brought a mattress for him, a small but profound gesture of dignity, and occasionally, when the Lawrence clan’s attention waned, glasses of wine or delicate gifts—Cecilia flowers, small tokens of the world beyond the walls—appeared at his side. Always with reverence, always with the tacit understanding that even looking upon him was a privilege.

Barbatos saw how their eyes darkened whenever he caught them glancing toward the Lawrence clan. There was a quiet, simmering hatred there, a shared indignation that pierced even through the fear of punishment. How dare the Lawrence clan defile their god in this way? How dare they reduce him to humiliation and torment? 

Even as he endured beatings and mockery, the awareness of their care—their grief, their subtle courage, their steadfast reverence—became a shield of sorts. Not a physical one, but a bulwark for his spirit. He was not entirely alone. And for the first time since his capture, he allowed himself a fragile thought: perhaps, when the city realized the truth, their combined devotion and courage would be enough to save him.

And in those moments, as hands massaged away pain, blankets draped him with care, and tears were shed quietly for his suffering, Barbatos could feel the stirrings of something rare and precious: hope. But it wouldn’t last for long. 

The heavy, musty air of the cell shifted as Leopold Lawrence stepped inside, his boots echoing against the stone floor. Barbatos, lying quietly on his mattress, stiffened at the sound. Every instinct told him to shrink into himself, to pretend sleep, to avoid drawing attention—but Leopold’s eyes already pinned him, cold and calculating.

The presence of the Lawrence heir was like a shadow over the room, a dark weight pressing down, suffocating. Barbatos’ muscles tensed. Every nerve screamed at him that danger was near.

Leopold leaned closer, a cruel smirk on his face. “You thought the last time would teach you submission,” he hissed, circling. “You thought you could endure…” 

Barbatos froze, feeling a cold hand shift under the blankets, making its way up his thigh…

No.

Barbatos gasped as he was yanked up, chains clinking against his bruised wrists as the cloth that covered him was pulled away, and his legs were spread up over the Lawrence Heirs shoulders.

”You know, breaking you was…fun~ But once started to miss your screaming..~” he hummed, sliding his hands towards the gods privates, seeming to take amusement in the panicked breathing of the archon.

”You can’t fight back~ Not really. Too concerned about everyone else? Or too pathetic to summon so much as a wind current?” Leopold cackled as the bard beneath him shook.

”You are no god. Just a weak little songbird that Celestia took pity on. Now scream for me you-“

A small, determined noise interrupted him—a sharp thwack.

Leopold staggered backward, clutching his head. One of the maids, her face set with fear and courage, had swung a frying pan with perfect precision. The metallic clang echoed through the cell as he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Barbatos blinked, stunned, barely daring to breathe. The maid’s hands shook as she straightened, her eyes darting toward him. “Y-you… you stay down,” she whispered fiercely, her voice a mixture of fear, anger, and determination. “No one touches you—not while I’m here.”

He sat up slowly, unable to ignore the shaking of his own body. 

“Why…Why am I shaking?” He muttered, allowing the cloth to cover him once more as he closed his legs much faster than he had meant to. He stared down at his hands in bewilderment. He was shaking. All of him. Even his eyes felt unfocused, his breathing felt hurried and panicked and the world before him seemed to swim. “Wh-Why am I..?”

”..H-He has…he has touched you before…He has…he has violated you before, hasn’t he..?”

Barbatos didn’t answer. 

The maid trembled slightly, resisting the urge to continue whacking with her frying pan until there was nothing left of the Lawrence but a bloodied heap. Instead, she cleared her throat. “He won’t.” She decided aloud. “He won’t. Not again.”

Slowly, others began to emerge from the shadows of the cell—maids, servants, even a few of the quieter cooks who had lingered outside. Each moved with reverence, careful not to disturb him, yet their presence was a reassurance. Blankets were tucked more snugly around his shoulders. Healing salves were reapplied to tender areas, gentle hands massaging away stiffness and pain.

“They thought they could break you again,” whispered one maid, her voice trembling, but full of awe and determination. “Not while we’re here. Never again.”

Barbatos’ eyes softened, watching them work with silent acknowledgment. He could feel the weight of their fear, their sorrow, and their fierce loyalty. Each careful touch, each hushed word of encouragement, was a quiet defiance against the cruelty of the Lawrence clan.

A cook approached, bearing a small tray with warm soup, which he carefully spooned toward Barbatos’ lips. The gesture was tentative, almost shy, but filled with respect. “Eat… please,” the cook murmured, bowing low. “We cannot undo what they have done, but you must regain your strength.”

Barbatos took a small sip, letting the warmth seep into him. The cell, once a chamber of torment, now felt more like a sanctuary, fragile but alive with devotion.

Another maid knelt beside him, gently smoothing the braids of his hair, whispering apologies for every moment of suffering he had endured. “We failed to protect you,” she said softly. “But we will not fail again.”

Even the guards, who had once mocked him, now lingered quietly at the edges of the room. Their heads were lowered in shame, eyes flicking toward the fallen Leopold, their previous laughter replaced by a newfound respect and, in some, barely suppressed fury.

Barbatos lifted his gaze, observing the room of humble, devoted mortals who had risked everything for him. Their fear had not diminished their courage; it had sharpened it, made it tangible in every careful gesture.

He allowed himself the tiniest smile, a flicker of warmth amid the lingering pain. “You have all been… very brave,” he murmured, voice low but steady. “And very kind. I see you. I know what you have done for me.”

The servants exchanged glances, quiet tears forming in the corners of their eyes. It was enough—his acknowledgment, his presence, the faintest thread of trust returned.

Outside the cell, the echo of Leopold’s groans reminded them of the danger that still lingered. But within these walls, the bond had shifted. Barbatos was no longer utterly alone. They were watching. They were protecting. And their loyalty, grief, and reverence created a shield no cruelty could entirely pierce.

  That night, Barbatos found himself alone. Unable to sleep. 

Barbatos sat on the edge of his mattress, the blankets draped around his shoulders like a fragile shield. The echoes of Leopold’s steps still resonated in his mind, twisting like a cold wind through his chest. He had survived worse before—but this time, something had shifted.

The first assault had been horrifying, yes, but he had learned to steel himself, to hold his emotions in check. He had curled into himself, pretending sleep, masking every flinch, every shiver, keeping a calm facade for the eyes of his captors. But the recent attempt… it had shaken him in ways he could not deny.

His wings trembled slightly as he shifted, not from pain but from the lingering edge of terror. The knowledge that someone could violate him again, even after everything, weighed heavily in his chest. He thought that maybe, just maybe, his archon form would protect him. That there would be enough respect to stop the Lawrence from going that far again. He was wrong. He could feel the memory of helplessness, humiliation, and violation press against his very bones.

Even now, the presence of the maids and servants, though protective and reverent, sent a wave of complex emotion through him: gratitude, yes, but also shame. How much of his body had been marred by cruelty? How much of his spirit had been stretched to its limits? And now, they tended to him with such care, with such awe… it was almost unbearable.

He let himself notice it, just a flicker at first: the softness of a hand massaging tension from his wings, the careful way a blanket was drawn up over his shoulders, the quiet sobs stifled behind their hands. He did not recoil. He did not demand privacy. But the tremor in his chest was real, his usual composure faltering.

Barbatos realized he had been holding back more than he had known. Not just pain, but the crushing weight of fear, humiliation, and the gnawing dread of repetition. The first assault he had endured with a stoic resolve; the second had cracked that resolve, and now, sitting amid the quiet devotion of those who served him, he felt the sting of vulnerability he had long buried.

Yet… he also felt something he had not expected. A fragile thread of warmth, of hope, that perhaps he was not as alone as the Lawrence clan had intended. That even in his most violated, most broken state, there were those willing to honor him, to shield him, to mourn him.

  Barbatos lay on the mattress, blankets pulled around him like a fragile armor, and realized how utterly silent he had become. For so long, he had endured—beatings, humiliation, assault—without a single word, without so much as a shiver of complaint. He had worn his stoicism like a shield, pretending that endurance alone could save him, pretending he was unbroken even as his body and soul ached.

And now, in the quiet of the night, surrounded by those who served him with reverence and care, he felt the weight of that silence pressing down. He had become small, fragile, and afraid. He had allowed himself to be seen only as a victim, only as a prisoner. In trying to appear broken, he feared he might have truly become broken.

He thought of Dahlia. He had refused to fight back, refused to summon his power, because he had needed to find the young deacon and ensure his safety. But weeks had passed. No news. No sign. And now, even that resolve felt hollow.

The wind—his most familiar companion—had always answered his call, bending and rushing at his whim. But it had been hundreds of years since he had truly unleashed it. And now, as he flexed his wings and traced the air with tentative fingers, he wondered if he even possessed the strength to summon it again. If he even had the courage to risk the world in a way he had once wielded so effortlessly.

He had become so accustomed to enduring, to hiding, to suffering in silence, that the very idea of reclaiming his power felt distant, almost foreign. The thought terrified him: if he could not summon the wind, if he could not rise again, what had he become?

Can I…even still control the winds from which I was born?

…Have I let them break me?

He soon fell to sleep with that thought.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  

     The cell was quiet, but no longer oppressive. Barbatos lay on the mattress, wings folded tightly against his back, staring at the ceiling. The bruises and aches had not faded, but the room no longer felt like a place meant only for suffering.

A soft shuffle of footsteps drew his attention. One of the maids—Hannelore, who had been quietly watching him for days—knelt near the edge of his mattress. Her eyes, wide and serious, held a question: would he speak, or would he retreat into silence again?

“I… brought a story,” she said softly, holding a small leather-bound book. “If you’d like to hear it.”

Barbatos did not answer immediately. The silence stretched, almost unbearable in its tension. He had spent so long enduring, so long pretending, that speaking felt foreign. The first assault had taught him to retreat into stoicism; the second had cracked some of that resolve, leaving a trembling uncertainty.

Finally, he whispered, “Go on.”

Hannelore’s lips curved faintly as she opened the book and began to read. The words were simple, tales of children and heroes, of small acts of kindness and bravery. Barbatos listened, letting the cadence wash over him, though he said nothing.

After a few minutes, she paused and looked at him. “Do you remember the city before… everything changed?” she asked, voice trembling. “Before the attacks, before the… imprisonment?”

Barbatos’ chest tightened. He had kept his thoughts so tightly sealed, but the question pierced the wall he had built. “Yes,” he murmured, his voice low, almost choked. “I remember… the music. The wind through the city. The songs of the people…”

Hannelore nodded, smiling faintly, though tears pricked her eyes. “We can share it again,” she said. “Even here. If you allow it.”

Barbatos turned his gaze to the small group of servants who had gathered quietly around the cell—maids, cooks, a few guards. They were careful, respectful, waiting for him to decide if he would join them in the fragile connection they offered. For a moment, he considered retreating, as he had for weeks. But something in their careful attentiveness, their unspoken devotion, pressed on his heart.

“I… I will listen,” he whispered. The words felt heavy and foreign, but they were the first he had spoken that weren’t in response to threat or pain.

The servants moved closer, each taking turns speaking softly to him. They asked him about the winds, about his past travels, about the music that flowed from him. He responded in small increments, cautious, but growing more engaged with each word. Their presence, their curiosity, and their care drew him out of the fog of fear and silence.

For the first time in days, perhaps weeks, he allowed himself a faint flicker of warmth. He was still bruised, still haunted by what had been done to him, still wary of the Lawrence clan—but he was no longer alone. The quiet devotion of those around him began to chip at the armor of stoicism he had so tightly worn.

And though he did not yet smile fully, though laughter had not returned, he spoke. He remembered the sound of his own voice, the sensation of being heard, and for the first time, he allowed himself to wonder if he could survive this—not just endure, but survive—and perhaps, one day, reclaim what had been stolen from him.

 
  The next morning, the quiet of the cell was broken by the soft rustle of paper and the delicate scent of ink. Hannelore knelt at his side again, a second book cradled in her hands. This time, she did not speak immediately—she simply opened it and let the words breathe into the air.

Barbatos lay propped on his elbows, wings trembling slightly from nerves and fatigue, but he did not move away. He had begun to anticipate these moments, though he would never admit it aloud. The stories were simple: poems, tales of distant lands, and legends of heroes who had endured suffering to bring hope to others.

“Would you like me to read aloud?” Hannelore asked softly, her eyes meeting his.

Barbatos hesitated. Words had been heavy on his tongue in these days of captivity, but there was a strange comfort in her presence—respectful, careful, yet unafraid. “Yes,” he whispered, voice still faint, almost a shadow of its former musical lilt.

As she read, he felt a flicker of something long dormant—a connection to the world beyond the cell, to the city, to the people who had once sung to the wind. He began to respond, softly at first, commenting on a hero’s courage, or the oddities of a tale. Each word felt foreign, but the act of speaking warmed the frost of isolation around him.

After a while, another servant brought forward his lyre, placing it gently on the mattress beside him. “If you would… perhaps play?” she asked, eyes lowered in deference. “It may help… both of us.”

Barbatos picked it up hesitantly, fingers brushing the strings with trepidation. The music that emerged was hesitant, raw, and fragile. He paused after a few tentative notes, aware of the silence that followed, and felt the weight of the room’s reverent eyes upon him.

“Again,” whispered a maid, a faint tremor of hope in her voice. “Please… play again.”

He did. And with each note, he began to relax slightly, letting the music fill the space between them. His fingers remembered the strings, the melodies he had sung to the winds, the songs he had once woven through the city. The room seemed to breathe with him, the hushed admiration and care of the servants wrapping around the rawness of his performance.

When he finally set the lyre down, he realized he had spoken more in the past hour than he had in days. His chest ached—not from pain, but from the fragile joy of connection, from being witnessed without judgment or cruelty.

The servants, eyes glimmering with quiet awe and relief, gathered closer. “Your music…” one whispered, “it… it brings light to even the darkest walls.”

Barbatos’ lips quirked faintly, almost a smile. “It is… not yet whole,” he murmured. “But it will be.”

The lyre still hummed faintly in the air as Barbatos set it down, fingers lingering on the strings. The warmth of the room, the gentle presence of the servants, and the soft attention to his music had loosened a thread of his fear. He felt a strange restlessness, a pull in his chest that reminded him of what he once could do.

One of the guards, a quiet man who had seldom spoken before, stepped forward, bowing low. “My lord… if you would, perhaps you could… try again,” he said softly, voice careful, reverent. “Just a small movement… the wind, perhaps… a whisper.”

Barbatos’ chest tightened. Fear licked at the edges of his mind—the memory of Leopold, the helplessness he had endured—but he glanced at the circle of servants around him. Their eyes were steady, full of hope and respect, and none of them dared pressure him. They simply waited.

He flexed his wings tentatively, summoning a small current. A feather from the blanket lifted gently, dancing in a tiny swirl above his lap. His heart jumped at the sensation—the wind remembered him. It had been so long, and yet… it had not forgotten.

A maid clapped her hands softly, nearly whispering her joy. “It moves! My lord… you did it!”

Encouraged, Barbatos tried again, a small rush of wind stirring the blankets and causing a candle flame to flicker. The servants held their collective breath, watching in awe. One of the cooks even let out a tiny gasp, hiding it quickly behind her hand.

Barbatos’ chest ached—not from exertion, but from the delicate, fragile joy blooming in his heart. He could feel the power respond to him, the wind circling, playful, eager, as if it had been waiting all this time for him to reach out.

“Again… if you would,” whispered Hannelore, kneeling near him, eyes wide with reverence. “A little more. But only as you are able.”

He let the current grow, swirling in gentle arcs around the room. The blankets lifted, papers fluttered, and even the faint scent of the outside wind seemed to drift in. Barbatos felt it, the memory of control returning, the faint thrill of connection. But soon, Barbatos let the motion die down, settling back onto the mattress, wings trembling slightly from the effort—but not from fear. Not entirely.

A cook approached, tray in hand, placing a small bowl of warm broth beside him. “My lord… please,” she said softly, bowing low. “Eat… just a little. It will help.”

Barbatos hesitated, then nodded faintly. He had long been accustomed to going without, to letting hunger and weakness press upon him without complaint. But now… the quiet devotion in her eyes made refusal impossible. He sipped the broth, letting its warmth seep into him. 

Hannelore knelt beside him, adjusting the blankets around his shoulders and draping another over his wings. “You do not deserve to suffer like this,” she murmured, voice trembling. “We cannot undo what they have done, but we can… keep you safe, at least while you are here.”

He allowed himself to shiver, leaning slightly into the warmth of the blanket, and for the first time let a faint tear slip, unnoticed amid the reverence of the servants. Their presence did not demand bravery, only that he accept care. And he did, slowly, cautiously, savoring the human warmth.

Another maid knelt near his hands, brushing tangles from his hair and gently massaging the tight muscles of his wings. “We have tended to every mark we can see,” she whispered, tears glinting in her eyes. “But if there is pain… tell us. Let us help.”

Barbatos’ chest ached at the simple devotion. He had endured humiliation, assault, and cruelty beyond measure—and now, here were these mortals, treating him with reverence, honoring him in ways he had not dared to hope for. Slowly, he let his wings relax, allowing her hands to work without flinching, allowing himself to be seen without shame.

Even the guards lingered nearby, standing respectfully, their heads lowered, their eyes soft with guilt and awe. They had once jeered, but now they watched him as if he were fragile glass, worthy of protection.

A cook approached again, slipping a small glass of wine toward him. “For strength… and comfort,” she said quietly. Barbatos accepted it, savoring the gesture not for the wine, but for the thought, the care, the reverence.

Small flowers, Cecilia blossoms, were laid on the edge of his mattress. Every action was deliberate, gentle, meant to soothe a body and a spirit that had known nothing but cruelty for too long.

The room had softened into a rhythm of care. Warm blankets draped over his shoulders, Cecilia flowers at the edge of his mattress, small bowls of broth and glasses of wine within reach. Barbatos sat up, feeling the tremor of life returning to his body and wings. The gentle currents of wind he had coaxed earlier lingered in his memory, teasing him with the promise of more.

Hannelore knelt beside him, eyes bright with quiet hope. “My lord… perhaps you could try again,” she said softly. “A little more… just enough for the breeze to dance around the room.”

Barbatos’ chest tightened, fear still whispering at the edges of his mind. Memories of Leopold, of helplessness, of violation, rose unbidden. But now, he saw the faces of the servants, the maids, the cooks, the guards—all waiting with careful patience. He had been broken, yes. He realized that. But they believed in him.

He flexed his wings and reached inward, drawing on the wind. At first, it was small, a gentle gust that lifted the blankets slightly, causing the edges to flutter. The servants smiled softly, murmuring quiet encouragements, careful not to startle him.

“Again, my lord,” whispered a maid, eyes glistening. “A little stronger… we can feel it. We know you can.”

He let the power rise, summoning the wind more deliberately. It swirled around the room, lifting papers, teasing his hair, brushing against the faces of the servants with delicate playfulness. The breeze was alive, joyful, as if it had been waiting all along for him to return.

Barbatos allowed himself a small, genuine laugh, the sound catching him by surprise. The wind responded, coiling and spiraling around him, lifting blankets and feathers in jubilant arcs. Fear was still present, yes, but mingled now with relief, awe, and wonder.

One of the guards, bowing deeply, whispered, “It remembers you, my lord… it has always remembered you.”

Encouraged, Barbatos drew in a deeper breath. He sent the currents around the room in careful loops, lifting objects gently, teasing them in playful swirls. The servants’ eyes widened, their whispers and soft gasps filled the space—not with fear, but with admiration, with awe, with hope renewed.

Barbatos’ heart swelled with tentative joy. The wind danced, the blankets fluttered, the Cecilia flowers shivered in delight. The power had returned, yes—but more importantly, so had his sense of agency, of hope, of life.

The wind, joyful and obedient, wrapped around him like an old friend returned. And Barbatos, bruised but unbroken, let himself finally feel it.

Chapter Text

     The first thing that reached him was the smell.
Not the cool breath of morning, not the scent of dust in the old stones of the dungeon, but something darker—choking. Blood. Ash. Smoke. They clung to his throat like Leopold’s fingers, wringing his neck, and when he stirred from uneasy sleep, his body tensed as if he had awoken back inside a nightmare.

Above him, the ceiling shuddered. Tumbling, thundering—like a giant stamping over the manor’s bones. Screams echoed faintly, both furious and triumphant, punctuated by crashes of glass and the hollow clang of metal.

Barbatos’s heart kicked hard against his chest. He pulled himself upright, his wrists trembling in their chains. What now? What new cruelty?

Then he noticed them—the servants. Scurrying like frightened mice, their faces pale, their hands darting into hidden cracks in the dungeon walls. One pressed a rusted sword into the shadows behind a barrel. Another slid a dagger beneath loose floorboards. They moved fast, panicked, whispering harshly at each other, their fear sharp and wild.

He blinked, dazed, before his voice cracked out of him. “W-What’s… happening? What are you doing?”

The closest maid froze. Her hands shook so badly that the kitchen knife she held nearly slipped from her grip. Her wide eyes darted to him, then to the stairwell above where the thunder of footsteps grew louder. She seemed ready to bolt—but something in his voice stopped her.

She clutched the knife to her chest, her lips trembling. “Th-they’re here. The people. The whole city—” her voice broke, choked on smoke and fear, “—the people of Mondstadt have stormed the manor! They’re— they’re raiding it! And w-we…” Her eyes darted back to the other servants, who were shoving weapons into hiding places with frantic devotion. “…We’re keeping blades from the Lawrence hounds. Hiding them so they can’t fight back.”

Barbatos’s breath caught. His first instinct was disbelief. The people of Mondstadt? Farmers, bakers, tailors, children of the wind—they were here? In the Lawrence manor, storming its blackened halls? For him?

His chains rattled as his fingers dug into the damp floor. Memories pressed in: the jeering laughter when he was dragged through the streets, the stones that bruised his skin, the contempt in every passing glare. They had spit on the bard—spit on him. And now… now their cries filled the manor like a storm breaking loose.

The maid’s voice faltered, half to herself, half to him. “They’re… desperate. Looking for you. For the bard. For—” she swallowed, as if speaking it aloud might burn her tongue. “…For Lord Barbatos.”

Her words hit him like a blade sliding into his chest. He trembled, unsure whether to laugh or weep. Lord Barbatos. When had they started to speak his name? What happened to their distancing for his bard persona? When had the world tilted so far that his people, who had abandoned him at the snapping of a lyre’s strings, were now rising in fire and fury to set him free?

Above them, the shouts grew louder. The clash of rebellion drew nearer, like the very heartbeat of the city breaking through the walls.

The maid gripped her knife tighter, glancing back at him with eyes bright and wet. “Hold on,” she whispered, voice quivering. “They’re coming.”

The thunder of boots on stone grew sharper—closer. Torchlight spilled down the stairwell in frantic, jagged movements. The raiders’ voices echoed harshly against the dungeon walls.

“Check every cell!”
“Don’t let the servants escape—kill them if you must!”
“Find him. Find the bard.”

The maid flinched and stumbled back against the wall, clutching her knife with both hands. The other servants froze where they were, terror written in every line of their bodies.

Barbatos’s chest tightened. They’re not here for me alone… they mean to kill them. The servants. My people.

A ragged band of raiders came surging into the dungeon, faces streaked with soot and rage, weapons raised. Their eyes swept across the servants, narrowing with cruel intent. One lunged forward, blade already swinging—

Barbatos’s breath caught in his throat. The chains on his wrists bit deep, but instinct surged stronger than steel.

“ENOUGH!”

His voice cracked like thunder in the smoke-choked air. From deep in his chest, from the very marrow of his broken body, the wind answered.

A torrent erupted around him—wild, sharp, alive. It spun outward in a sudden gale, rattling chains and snuffing torches, tearing through the dungeon like a storm unbound. The raiders staggered back, their footing stolen, their blades wrenched aside. Dust and ash swirled into a roaring cyclone, rising between them and the cowering servants.

A wall of wind—impenetrable, unyielding.

The servants gasped, eyes wide and shining, their fear dissolving into something radiant. Awe. Relief. Joy.

“He—he called the winds again…” one whispered, tears streaking down her soot-stained cheeks.
“Our god,” another breathed, voice trembling with reverence.

On the other side, the raiders froze. Their rage curdled into something else as they beheld the sight: the frail figure of the bard, shackled and gaunt, yet commanding the very air to obey him.

It was him.

“Barbatos…” one raider whispered, voice breaking as if the name itself carried weight. Another dropped his weapon outright, staring at the wall of wind that shimmered like glass, humming with divine power.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Both sides stood in stunned silence, the only sound the rush of the gale that held them apart.

And at the center of it all knelt Barbatos, chains rattling against his bruised wrists, hair whipping in the storm. His chest heaved with the effort, his body trembling with both exhaustion and old strength slowly returning. 

The silence shattered.

One of the raiders—an older man with soot across his brow—let his weapon clatter to the floor. He dropped to his knees, bowing his head to the dirt.

“Forgive us,” he whispered hoarsely. “We… we nearly raised our hands against our own god.”

The words spread like a spark through dry grass. One by one, the raiders lowered their blades, shame and reverence mingling on their faces. Some knelt. Others pressed trembling hands to their hearts. A few wept openly, eyes locked on the thin figure within the cell.

Barbatos shook his head weakly, his storm easing into a gentler current. His voice, though faint, carried through the dungeon.

”Don’t…don’t kneel to me, please.”

The voice of the Lawrence’s could be heard above them, drawing closer by the second. The group froze. 

A servant sobbed, clutching her apron, then with shaking hands rushed to the bars. “Unlock it! Hurry, someone—!”

Keys jingled, fumbling in the lock. The maids worked desperately, tears streaking their faces as the heavy door creaked open. The raiders surged forward—not with blades this time, but with raw, frantic urgency.

“Break his chains!” one barked. “Don’t let him suffer a moment longer!”

A hammer came down hard, sparks flying as iron links cracked. Another raider wedged a blade into the shackles and twisted with all his strength until the metal groaned and snapped.

Barbatos slumped forward, his body suddenly freed of its cruel bindings. The servants caught him before he could fall, steadying him with shaking but determined arms.

“Stay with us, Lord Barbatos,” a maid whispered, stroking his hair back from his face. “We’ll not fail you again.”

The older raider who had first knelt turned sharply to one of his companions.
“Go. Find the healer—the young Sister of the Church. Barbara. Tell her we’ve found him, and tell her to bring everything she has.”

The man didn’t hesitate; he bolted up the stairs two at a time, his shouts echoing through the manor above.

The dungeon was alive with motion now—servants and raiders, once enemies, working as one. Some steadied Barbatos, others scoured for clean cloths or water. Weapons were forgotten. Old hatreds dissolved like smoke in the wind.

And at the center of it all, their god lay in their arms, his frail chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His storm had passed, but the proof of it lingered—the taste of freedom still sharp on the air, undeniable.

Bootsteps thundered down the stone stairwell. Someone shouted over the noise of clanging chains and shouted orders:

“She’s here! Sister Barbara—make way!”

A lantern’s glow spilled into the dungeon, and Barbara came running. Her robe was muddied from the streets, pigtails unraveling, cheeks flushed from sprinting. She stopped short at the bottom of the steps, chest heaving, eyes darting frantically through the chaos.

And then she saw him.

Her breath hitched so sharply it was nearly a scream.
Her satchel slipped from her shoulder and thudded to the floor, spilling herbs and bandages across the stone.

“No—no, this… this can’t…” Her hand flew to her chest, clutching her rosary. “It’s—you? They really…they really told the truth?”

The world seemed to fall away. The dungeon, the raiders, the servants—all blurred into silence. Only he remained, slumped in chains, the wind itself curled protectively around him.

Her knees buckled and she staggered forward, both hands shaking violently. “My arhcon—my lord Barbatos—no, this isn’t real, I must be dreaming, this can’t—” Her voice broke into a sob. She stumbled closer, half-blind with tears, collapsing to her knees beside him.

Up close, the truth was undeniable. The battered figure before her was the very being she had sung to since childhood, the unseen hand she had trusted with every prayer. His face, bruised but unmistakable, was the face painted in cathedral windows. His breath, shallow but present, was the wind she had always sworn she could feel in her songs.

Her hands trembled violently as she reached for him, then pulled back as if she dared not touch. “I… I’m not worthy,” she whispered, trembling all over. “To see you with my own eyes—after all the years, all the hymns, all the prayers—” She let out a hysterical laugh, half-sob, half-prayer. “And here you are. Here you are.”

At last, her shaking fingers brushed his bruised cheek. Her breath caught as though the contact had struck her like lightning. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, weeping openly. For a moment, she pressed both hands over her mouth. Overcome with awe, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Then, swallowing her sobs, she dragged her satchel close, fumbling through it with clumsy urgency. “I-I need to heal you..!” She gasped, suddenly realizing that the bruises, of course, hurt. 

Her healing glow spread over the bruises marring his skin, but her trembling never stopped. At first it was awe, pure and radiant — the light of seeing her god with her own eyes. But as she dabbed away dried blood and dirt, her breath caught again, this time with a different kind of shock.

She knew this face.

Her hands froze, hovering inches from his skin. Memory crashed into her like a wave: a laughing bard in green, wine bottle in hand, strumming the lyre she had once believed sacred. The same unruly hair. The same sharp little grin, now buried beneath exhaustion.

“…no.” Her voice broke. “Oh archons above—you’re him. E-Eula…Jean…They really…they were really telling the truth.”

Her heart plummeted. Tears welled anew, not from awe this time, but from despair. “Venti. The bard who sang in the plaza, who joked with me, who broke the holy lyre—” She covered her mouth with both hands, staring at him in horror. “It was you all along. And I… I…”

Her voice cracked into a sob. “I let them take you away.”

The memory clawed at her chest — the guards dragging the bard in chains, while she stood by, helpless, watching. She had prayed for strength, prayed for a miracle, but done nothing. Nothing but watch.

“I should have fought. I should have done something.” She shook her head violently, clutching at her temples. “You were right there, and I didn’t see, I didn’t help—what kind of devotee am I, what kind of sister—”

Her words collapsed into frantic apologies as her tears spilled freely. “Forgive me, please forgive me, my lord, my archon… I wasn’t worthy to sing your name then, and I’m not worthy now…”

Barbatos, weakened but listening, stirred faintly. His lips curved into the ghost of a smile, even through pain.

“You sang because you loved Mondstadt,” he rasped. “Not because you knew who held the lyre. That is all I ever asked…I never expected you to save me, Barbara. It was not your responsibility to save a bard being convicted for a crime.”

Her tears fell faster, her hands shaking as she returned to her work. “You’re merciful even now…” she whispered, voice breaking. “And I don’t deserve it.”

Still, she pressed her glowing hands more firmly over his wounds, as though her devotion could pour through them. Every gesture was an apology. To Barbatos, to Venti.

“If I failed you before,” she murmured, voice trembling but fierce, “I’ll never fail you again.

  The manor was chaos. Smoke and fire tangled in the halls like dueling serpents, the clamor of steel striking steel ringing through every corridor. Shouts of the people of Mondstadt mixed with the indignant cries of the Lawrence clan, their once-proud home now reduced to a battlefield.

Kaeya strolled through the madness as though it were a ballroom, sidestepping a falling chandelier with nothing more than a flick of his cloak. “Such enthusiasm,” he mused, his voice smooth and smug, “one would think we were storming the gates of Celestia itself.”

Beside him, Diluc shoved a Lawrence guard back with a brutal strike of his claymore, his glare sharp enough to cut through the smoke. “Save the poetry, Kaeya,” he snapped. “We’re here to fight, not flirt with death.”

Kaeya smirked. “Oh, but the two are practically synonymous, dear brother.”

Before Diluc could retort, Dahlia bounded past them with an energy that made even Kaeya blink. The boy’s wide eyes shone like a child let loose in a toy shop. In his hands was a longsword—gripped upside down by the blade, the hilt swinging like a hammer.

“Surprise smite!” Dahlia yelled gleefully, bashing a Lawrence knight square in the helmet with the pommel. The man went cross-eyed and toppled like a felled tree.

Kaeya covered his mouth, laughing into his glove. “I have to admit, it’s… inventive.”

“It's idiotic,” Diluc growled, though his lips twitched dangerously close to betraying a smile. He swung his claymore in a wide arc, scattering three more guards.

Dahlia skipped along the hall, humming a jaunty tune, batting armored shins and helms with the flat of his blade as if whacking weeds. “Outta the way! Outta the way! Important mission! Need to find Venti!”

Kaeya arched a brow. “Venti?”

“Barbatos, Venti, little bard man—I don’t care what he’s called,” Dahlia chirped. He whirled the sword like a windmill and accidentally sent it flying into a wall tapestry. “I just know he’s here. And I’m gonna find him!”

Diluc pinched the bridge of his nose. “For the love of—keep your grip on the sword, boy, or it’ll be your head rolling next.”

Unbothered, Dahlia yanked the sword free, leaving a gaping tear in the tapestry. He waved it proudly like a banner. “See? Perfectly fine! Now, where’s our god hiding…?”

Kaeya’s laughter came low and lilting. “Well, Diluc, I daresay he’s more effective than we thought. The Lawrence clan looks positively terrified.”

And indeed, the guards who still stood wavered at the sight of Dahlia’s unpredictable chaos, uncertain if they faced a madman, a genius, or some divine trick.

Diluc only muttered, “He’s going to get us killed.”

Dahlia, however, had already darted deeper into the manor, calling out Venti’s name with reckless abandon.

Kaeya glanced at Diluc, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Shall we follow him, or let him continue his… unique strategy?”

Diluc exhaled sharply through his nose, hefted his claymore, and began striding after the boy. “If we lose him, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Kaeya chuckled. “And besides—admit it. You’re curious where he’ll end up..~”

The deeper they went into the manor, the thicker the air grew—hot with smoke, sharp with the metallic tang of blood. Shattered vases, torn tapestries, and fallen chandeliers marked Dahlia’s trail like breadcrumbs of destruction.

“Venti!” he sang as he bounded down the stairs two at a time, sword flailing in every direction. “Ven-tiiiiii, oh mighty wine-god, answer meee!”

Kaeya leaned lazily against the banister, watching the boy vanish down the next hall. “If subtlety were a crime, he’d already be executed.”

Diluc, wiping blood off his blade, muttered, “If he doesn’t stop shouting, he will be.”

Then came the crash.

A sharp BAM rattled the hall as Dahlia, in his blind sprint, slammed face-first into something—no, someone—hard enough to knock them both to the floor. Dahlia flopped back with a dazed groan, sword clattering away.

“Ughhh… floor… hurts…”

The figure he had collided with straightened slowly, aided by Barbara’s steadying hand. White silks hung loose across his frame, the garments hastily wrapped by trembling maids to cover bruises and wounds that had now been healed off his body. The fabric glowed faintly in the torchlight, too fine, too weightless to belong to any mortal cloth. The hair of his undone braids spilled down his shoulders like threads of anemo itself, and though exhaustion weighed his features, his presence carried a gravity that pulled every eye toward him.

Barbatos.

Not the carefree bard who played in taverns, not the trickster who sang to drunks for coin, but the god himself, newly unchained.

Dahlia blinked up at him from the floor, utterly starstruck. His mouth fell open, and then, with a dazed laugh, he whispered, “...I found you.”

Barbara clutched her robes tighter, still pale from the shock of it all. She looked ready to collapse again, only holding firm because her archon’s weight leaned partly against her.

Kaeya, for once, faltered. His lips curled in their usual smirk, but his voice carried a reverence uncharacteristic of him. “Well… seems our storm has blown us into the eye itself.”

Diluc’s hand tightened on his claymore. He did not sheath it this time. Instead, his fiery gaze fixed on the Archon. The defeated look on his face, the way his figure had skimmed down to an unhealthy degree…Diluc wanted to murder the Lawrence’s even more. 

And Dahlia—still sitting on the stone floor, grinning through a bruise blossoming on his forehead—lifted a hand as though to touch the silks. He stopped short, awe softening his voice. “So… it’s really you.”

The raiders fanned out, clapping Barbatos on the shoulder before charging down other corridors to free more prisoners, shouting war cries for Mondstadt. The servants dipped their heads respectfully, already slipping away to stash weapons and supplies where the Lawrence family’s hands could never touch them again.

Barbara lingered, close at Barbatos’s side, her healer’s light glowing faintly at her palms. She looked up at him every few seconds as though to confirm he was real, her lips moving silently in prayer even as she steadied his arm.

Dahlia remained planted in front of him, wide-eyed, hands fidgeting like he couldn’t decide whether to reach out or not. His sword still lay abandoned across the stone floor, forgotten.

Barbatos met his gaze. His features softened, exhaustion melting away just enough to let warmth show through. He reached out, fingertips brushing lightly against Dahlia’s hand.

“I may look different now,” Barbatos said gently, voice carrying the quiet lilt of the winds themselves, “but I’m still the same. Still your Venti.”

Dahlia’s breath caught. He laughed softly, shaky but bright. “You’re… you’re my Venti and Mondstadt’s god. Both at once. That’s not fair.”

Barbatos tilted his head, silks whispering against the stone as he leaned a little closer. The faintest smile touched his lips. “Life rarely is. But if I am both… does that mean you’ll still sing with me when the fighting’s done?”

Dahlia blinked rapidly, flustered in a way his usual chaotic antics had never betrayed. His cheeks flushed. “Only if you promise not to let me crash into you again. I don’t think my head can take it.”

Barbatos chuckled—soft, tired, but real. “Then I’ll catch you next time.”

The moment between Barbatos and Dahlia was cut short by a thunderous boom that shook dust from the rafters. Both of them turned their heads toward the main hall, where the sounds of rebellion reached a fever pitch.

Kaeya appeared in the doorway, leaning lazily on his blade as though strolling through a garden instead of a battlefield. “As touching as that little reunion is, you two might want to rejoin the present. Mondstadt’s finest are tearing the manor apart, and I’d hate for you to miss the show.”

Diluc shoved past him with all the subtlety of a charging boar, sword already burning with Pyro. “Kaeya, stop wasting time.” He cast a glance at Barbatos, his expression unreadable, but there was something softer there before he stalked away toward the sound of fighting.

Barbara remained close to Barbatos, urging him forward, while Dahlia scrambled to grab his sword—nearly stabbing himself in the process—and hurried after them.

The great hall was a storm.

  Jean, steadfast as a mountain, raised her arm, her Anemo Vision glowing as she hurled half a dozen armored Lawrences into the air, slamming them against a marble pillar like dolls. Her calm voice cut through the chaos, issuing precise orders that kept the rebels coordinated.

Beside her, tiny Klee darted between legs and furniture, giggling as she lobbed glowing bombs the size of cabbages. Each detonation rocked the hall, scattering enemies like leaves in the wind. “Boom-boom time!” she cheered, as flames licked across the tapestries.

Eula moved like a phantom of ice, her greatsword arcing in sweeping, elegant strikes. Every step was a dancer’s, every swing a flourish, leaving frozen shards in her wake. Her enemies fell one by one, bewildered by the strange mix of beauty and brutality.

And then—

“Behold!” cried a shrill voice from atop a shattered table. A girl in a frilly black dress and eyepatch posed dramatically, her raven familiar flapping beside her. Purple lightning cracked around her as she thrust out a hand.

“I, Prinzessin der Verurteilung,(???) have descended upon this benighted realm to mete out judgment upon the unworthy! Kneel before eternal night, ye pitiful mortals, and despair!”

Her enemies froze, staring at her with wide, baffled eyes.

“…What?” muttered one of the raiders.

Unperturbed, Fischl twirled her hand theatrically, summoning another bolt of Electro that zapped a Lawrence soldier straight off his feet. The raven cawed triumphantly.

Kaeya smirked, sauntering into the hall. “Well, she certainly has flair.”

Diluc grunted, igniting his blade with a flare of fire. “She has a death wish.”

Dahlia bounded in after them, sword clutched backward like a giant butter knife. He nearly tripped over a fallen shield, then caught himself and shouted, “Venti—no—Barbatos! Did you see that? She’s sparklier than you!”

Barbatos only sighed softly, though the corner of his mouth lifted.

The battle only grew stranger as more voices joined the fray.

From the far side of the hall came a panicked shout: “Waaah—!”

Bennett shot across the room like a firework, his Pyro Vision sparking uncontrollably. He crashed into a cluster of Lawrence soldiers, bowling them over like pins before landing flat on his face. “I-I’m okay!” he croaked, though his hair was smoking and his boots were on fire.

Seconds later, a blast of fire erupted under him and sent him soaring straight into a chandelier, which promptly came crashing down onto three more enemies. Somehow, he managed to raise a thumb from the wreckage. “See? Luck’s turning around already!”

Meanwhile, Fischl leapt dramatically onto another fallen bannister, voice echoing across the hall like a prophet of doom.

“Bear witness, ye curs of twilight, as my loyal familiar Oz and I draw upon the unfathomable power of the Umbral Crown! Sink beneath the tide of lightning and repent, for the threads of destiny entwine only to unravel beneath my gaze!”

Nobody had the faintest idea what she meant—least of all the Lawrences, who hesitated just long enough for a spear of violet lightning to blast one straight into the ceiling. Oz gave a smug caw.

Kaeya clapped sarcastically. “Marvelous speech. I understood exactly three words.”

Diluc, cutting another enemy down, didn’t even glance over. “That many?”

Then came the patter of light feet and a growl low to the ground.

“Outta my way, idiots!”

Diona charged into the chaos, tail lashing, small hands already glowing with Cryo energy. A jagged wall of ice sprouted from the marble floor, cutting off a squad of Lawrences before they could flank Jean. She muttered under her breath as she ran, “Stupid drunkards, stupid Archon, stupid city of wine… When I’m done, you’re all getting watered-down grape juice!”

“Ah—ahchoo!”

The sneeze ripped through the air. Barbatos staggered, his shoulders hunching as his nose wrinkled violently. He barely managed to lift a sleeve to his face before another sneezing fit struck.

Dahlia looked over in alarm. “Barbatos? You okay?”

Barbara flustered beside him, already pulling out a cloth. “It’s—it’s the cat—he’s allergic!”

Diona skidded to a halt, ears flicking upright. She pointed accusingly. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh? You got a problem with me?!”

“Achoo! No—problem—” Barbatos tried, tears welling in his eyes as his silks fluttered from the force of his sneezes. “Just—ahhh—my curse!”

Dahlia blinked rapidly, then blurted, “You’re an Archon and cats are your weakness?!”

Kaeya laughed outright, deflecting a blade with his rapier. “Now that’s divine irony.”

The chaos only grew more absurd.

“Dodoco, go!”

Klee tossed a round, bouncing bomb straight into the fray. It skipped across the marble like a child’s toy before detonating with a cheerfully loud BOOM, showering the hall with smoke, sparks, and rubble. The blast sent three Lawrence knights screaming into a tapestry. One unfortunate soldier ran in circles with his cape on fire until Barbara doused him with a splash of Hydro.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to—oh, wait, yes I did!” Klee giggled, already pulling another bomb from her pack.

Meanwhile, Bennett attempted to push himself off the shattered remains of the chandelier. “Alright, round two!”

The moment he stood, his Vision flared and a stray fireball shot sideways, blowing a hole in the wall and showering him with plaster. “Agh! No, no, that’s not—whoops!” Another spark went off and launched him tumbling into Fischl’s lightning zone.

“Unhand me, cruel fate!” Fischl declared as Bennett landed square on his back. “The Darkwings of Night Ravenson are not a trampoline!”

“I said I’m okay!” Bennett wheezed, face down in the floor.

Oz flapped his wings. “Mein Fräulein, perhaps he is cursed?”

“Of course he’s cursed,” Kaeya muttered, sidestepping another bomb with infuriating grace. “That’s his specialty.”

Diona, for her part, had resorted to leaping directly onto soldiers’ faces, claws and ice flying everywhere. “Outta the way, you bunch of drunkards! You don’t deserve the good stuff anyway!” She landed on another knight’s helmet, whacking it so hard with her icy paw that the visor snapped shut on his nose. He staggered off blindly, crashing into his fellows.

“Ahhh-choo!” Barbatos sneezed again, silks fluttering as his nose turned red. He clutched Dahlia’s sleeve desperately. “The—cats—they’re everywhere!”

“Not everywhere,” Dahlia groaned, trying to keep him steady, “just the one.”

Diona hissed back at them, tail bristling. “Stop blaming me! Maybe you’re just weak!”

“Achoo! Probably!” Barbatos admitted miserably, his voice nearly lost under the din.

The fighting thundered on until, suddenly, the great double doors slammed open. The sound was sharp enough to cut through bomb-blasts and sneezes alike.

Every head turned.

There he was—dressed in layered finery, cape draped perfectly, hair slicked back within an inch of its life: Lord Schubert Lawrence. He held his nose in the air, sneering at the rubble, the smoke, the charred curtains, and the way Jean’s hair had come loose from her braid in the struggle.

“Barbarians!” he barked, voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. “Uncouth, unsightly, unsanctioned vermin, laying your peasant filth upon the noble halls of Lawrence!” He pointed a trembling finger at them all. “Do you fools realize whose presence you disgrace with this pathetic display?”

A pause. Then Fischl, balanced atop a broken chair, raised her arm theatrically.

“Verily, we know! For the fetid winds whisper your title, O Pathetic Duke of Meaningless Posturing, O False Sovereign of a Forgotten Name!”

Schubert froze. “Wh–what?!”

Kaeya snorted, shoulders shaking. “She’s not wrong.”

Before Schubert could gather himself, a BOOM rattled the floorboards behind him—Klee had dropped another Dodoco bomb a little too close to the entryway. The noble yelped, cape catching in the blast wind, and stumbled forward into the hall of chaos, coughing on the smoke.

His grand entrance, already ruined.

Chapter Text

     The hall trembled with the sounds of battle. Blades clashed, arrows whistled, and sparks from Pyro bursts lit the wreckage of the once-proud Lawrence manor. Knights, raiders, and even servants fought shoulder to shoulder, pressing back the traitors that barred their path to freedom.

For a heartbeat, it seemed as though Mondstadt’s rebellion might hold.

Lord Schubert Lawrence strode further into the carnage, cloak brushing the debris-strewn floor, his every step radiating disdain. His voice carried effortlessly above the screams and clash of steel.

“Pitiful,” he sneered, wiping the soot from Klee’s bomb off his face. “So this is the rabble who dares to rise against noble blood? You disgrace these halls with your filth. Mondstadt has always bowed to its betters—and tonight, you will bow again.”

He raised one gloved hand.

From beyond the shattered entryway came the thunder of boots—rows upon rows of Fatui soldiers storming into the manor, their masked faces gleaming in the flickering firelight. Shields locked, halberds lowered, they surged forward in perfect formation.

The defenders staggered.

Jean lifted her blade, her voice steady despite the sudden dread pressing down on her soldiers. “Hold the line! Mondstadt does not bow!”

The chamber erupted once more into chaos.

Fischl loosed a volley of lightning arrows, her voice ringing in lofty declarations no one fully understood. Bennett rushed ahead with a cry, only for his Pyro surge to misfire and fling him sideways into a row of Fatui shields, knocking them down. Diona darted underfoot, muttering curses about drunkards as she froze the ground beneath enemy boots.

Still, the defenders faltered.

And then the floor itself rippled.

A shimmer like starlight raced across the tiles, bending torchlight as though the ground had turned to liquid glass. The Fatui line faltered—too late. The ripple surged into a rolling tide, sweeping beneath their boots before reforming into the shape of a woman.

“Honestly,” Mona’s voice rang clear, cool as moonlight, “if you insist on trampling through the stars’ design, you might at least check where you’re standing.”

She rose from the water in a graceful sweep, her cape trailing like a comet’s tail. A Fatui skirmisher lunged toward her—and found only a puddle where she had been. Mona slid like liquid across the floor, reappearing behind him with her catalyst glowing like a fragment of the night sky. With a gesture, constellations flared above her, spheres of shimmering Hydro raining down on the enemy ranks.

“An astrologist?” one knight gasped, half in awe, half in disbelief.

Mona smirked, her eyes fixed on Schubert. “One who foresaw this idiocy long before tonight.”

The Fatui staggered as her water surged in sudden torrents, dragging several soldiers off their feet. In the chaos, knights rallied to her side, emboldened by her strange and dazzling art.

Schubert sneered, even as his forces reeled. “Another parlor trickster. Mondstadt collects vermin like flies.”

Jean answered for her, steel raised: “This ‘vermin’ just turned your tide.”

But even as the defenders found their footing again, the torches guttered out, and the unnatural chill began to seep into the hall.

The defenders surged on Mona’s tide. Knights cheered as they pressed forward, Jean driving enemies back with a hurricane burst, Klee’s bombs scattering the Fatui ranks in fire and smoke.

Mona flowed through the melee like quicksilver—one moment a streaking puddle across the tiles, the next rising to cast a constellation-shaped blast of Hydro into a cluster of soldiers. Wherever she struck, allies found breathing room, but she never lingered, slipping out of sight as though the floor itself carried her.

“Your stars burn bright tonight, madam!” Fischl crowed, loosing another bolt of lightning. “But heed not the envy of lesser mortals, for Mein Prinzessin walks among you!”

No one had time to interpret her babble. A Fatui agent staggered backward from one of Mona’s waves, only for Bennett to trip headlong into him, the resulting Pyro burst setting both ablaze.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Bennett scrambled up, smoke trailing from his hair.

Diona zipped past him, muttering, “Useless drunkards, the lot of you,” before knocking a hammering Fatui bruiser flat with a frosty punch.

For a heartbeat, it seemed as though Mondstadt’s misfit defenders could hold against any tide.

And then a deeper shadow fell across the hall.

The clash of steel and the roar of Visions filled the hall—until the doors at the far end shuddered open once more.

Schubert turned with a triumphant sneer, expecting reinforcements. What entered instead froze the blood of even the boldest knights.

Leopold.

His stride was calm, deliberate, as though this blood-soaked chaos was a stage set for his amusement. And trailing behind him, shrouded in warped violet flame, were the Abyssal horrors—tall, faceless figures cloaked in corruption, their mere presence warping the air.

“Father,” Leopold said smoothly, his voice cutting like a knife through the hall. “How predictably… incompetent. You’ve managed to squander centuries of Lawrence pride in a single night. How impressive.”

Schubert bristled, but his son did not pause to hear him. His gaze slid past the Fatui, past the knights, and landed squarely on Barbatos.

The god of Mondstadt stood among his people, breath stilling in his chest as Leopold’s lips curled into a smile.

“And there you are,” Leopold murmured. “The great Barbatos. The free spirit, the beloved bard, the god who raised this city.” He spread his arms mockingly. “Tell me, does Mondstadt still sing when it remembers how easily I broke you? How their divine protector whimpered when I took what I pleased?”

Gasps rippled through the defenders. Barbara went white as snow, trembling at his words. Jean’s jaw clenched, eyes burning with fury.

Leopold stepped closer, savoring the outrage. “You see, people of Mondstadt, your god is no untouchable savior. He bled. He begged. He was mine to torment, and I did so gladly. And you—” his smile sharpened, “—you worship him still. Pathetic.”

The hall erupted—not with fear, but with rage. Knights and common folk alike howled their defiance, hurling themselves at the Fatui and Abyss alike, fury making them reckless.

Leopold only laughed, the sound low and cruel. “Yes… fight harder. Let’s see how long your precious freedom lasts against the Abyss.”

And as if on cue, the warped figures behind him raised their weapons, their distorted voices hissing like a nightmare given form.

The defenders pressed on, fueled by Leopold’s venom and their own fury, but the weight of the Fatui and the Abyss began to press back with terrifying force. The walls shook with the clash. Blood smeared the floor.

At the center of it all, Barbatos stood still, wind beginning to coil faintly around him like ribbons stirred by an unseen storm. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from restraint.

“Enough…” His voice was soft, but the air itself seemed to carry it, weaving it through every ear in the hall.

The gust swelled, tossing back cloaks and rattling weapons. Fatui soldiers staggered, eyes widening as dust lifted from the stone. The Abyss itself seemed to hiss, recoiling against the sudden purity in the air.

Leopold’s grin faltered. Just slightly.

“I said…” Barbatos raised his head, emerald eyes blazing, “ENOUGH!”

The hall exploded with wind. A blast of Anemo burst outward from the bard, flinging enemies into the walls, snapping torches from their sconces, and carrying with it the undeniable weight of divinity. Every knight, every citizen, every Fatui felt it in their bones—this was not a bard, not a mere spirit in silk. This was truly and undeniably Mondstadt’s Archon.

For a heartbeat, silence fell.

And far, far above, the pulse of power reached the open skies.

The wind carried, swift as thought, to the drifting form of a dragon circling the mountains. Dvalin’s head snapped up, his wings beating harder. The resonance of his friends power shivered through his scales, calling him, urging him.

With a roar that shook the heaven, Dvalin banked and dove.

Inside the manor, the gale slowly settled, leaving feathers of dust and shards of stone drifting in the air. The people of Mondstadt—knights, townsfolk, even the wounded—stared in wide-eyed silence.

Not because they hadn’t known he was there. They had stood beside him, fought alongside him, sung with him even minutes ago. But now… now they witnessed the true strength of the Anemo Archon.

The winds he commanded were not gentle breezes or playful gusts—they were a force that tore stone from walls, ripped Fatui from their footing, and shook the manor itself. The sheer weight of his power pressed down like a storm given flesh.

“My gods…” one knight breathed, eyes wide. “So this is what he held back all this time…”

“He’s… terrifying,” whispered a villager, clutching his child close, and yet their voice held no fear—only awe.

The air itself seemed alive, answering his every breath, curling around his fingers as though desperate to be unleashed.

Then Dvalin’s roar split the sky, followed by a violent crash that rattled through the manor as the dragon’s massive body broke through stone and timber. Fatui scattered, screaming, as the dragon’s talons crushed marble underfoot. The impact alone wiped out swathes of soldiers in a single instant.

But not a single knight of Mondstadt was harmed. Not a single citizen crushed. The dragon moved with precision, devastating the enemy while sparing the innocent.

Leopold, however, only laughed. Standing amid dust and ruin, his grin widened.
“So this is your Archon’s strength? A tempest that rattles windows? A dragon that smashes through walls?” He spread his arms mockingly. “I’ve seen storms greater than this. I’ve broken storms greater than this. Do you remember, Barbatos? Do you recall how you whimpered when I tore into you? When I claimed your godhood in my own hands?”

The words slithered like venom across the battlefield. Knights clenched their blades tighter. Villagers, their awe boiling into rage, cried out in defiance.

“For Mondstadt!”

“For Barbatos!”

And so the battle flared again, the defenders of Mondstadt surging forward with new fire.

At the heart of it all, Barbatos stood, Dvalin looming at his back, winds screaming around his body. He did not yet unleash all that he was—but already his power alone shifted the tide.

  The battle raged, steel clashing against steel, magic tearing the air. Barbatos and Dvalin moved almost as one—winds surging with each beat of the dragon’s wings, bursts of Anemo funneling through the battlefield in perfect harmony. Fatui squads were lifted and scattered like leaves, Abyssal forces were pressed back by walls of spiraling gales, yet still Leopold stood unshaken in the storm’s heart.

He laughed. Always laughing.

Then, swift as lightning, his blade flashed. Before anyone could stop him, Leopold surged past the frontline and struck.

Barbara’s voice, soft and clear even amid chaos, had been rising in song—healing, soothing, a beacon for the injured knights around her. She didn’t even raise her staff when he descended on her. The strike carved into her side, and she gasped, stumbling back as blood darkened her robes.

The song faltered.

“Barbara!” Knights cried out, rushing toward her.

Her knees hit the ground, hands shaking as she pressed against the wound. Yet even in pain, she tried to summon her hymn again, her voice breaking into a whisper.

Leopold’s grin widened. “Pathetic. This is your precious healer? A lamb bleeding in the wolf’s den?” He turned his gaze to Barbatos, mocking and cruel. “And you—watching her suffer, helpless as ever. What kind of god can’t even shield his flock?”

The effect was immediate.

Barbatos’s expression, which until now had been grim resolve, broke. The winds around him twisted violently, no longer rhythmic but wild, furious.

Dvalin sensed it first, his massive body lowering to shield the knights and townsfolk, his wings creating a barrier of scale and storm. The dragon roared, anchoring himself as the ground trembled beneath his claws.

And then Barbatos broke.

The manor shuddered as gales surged outward, ripping stone from its foundations. Screams filled the air as the very building began to lift, plucked from the earth by sheer force of Anemo. Fatui soldiers were hurled skyward, Abyss creatures scattered like ashes in a hurricane. Leopold himself was driven back, his laughter drowned in the howl of the wind as Barbatos descended upon him.

“ENOUGH!” Barbatos’s voice rang with thunder, with fury, with the full divinity of the Anemo Archon. His hand thrust forward, and the storm obeyed. The full force of the wind—no longer tempered, no longer gentle—crashed down on Leopold, the Abyss, the Fatui alike.

Even Leopold, for all his taunting, staggered beneath the weight of it, his grin faltering at last as the storm devoured him.

Meanwhile, amid the chaos, two shadows slipped through. Corvin and Damaris, the quiet clergy, kept low as the gale roared overhead. Reaching Barbara’s side, they pressed close to shield her from the flying debris.

“Stay with us, Sister,” Corvin urged, already weaving healing prayers with trembling hands.

Between them, warmth spread, stanching the bleeding, bolstering her fading strength even as the storm howled around them.

And at the center of it all—Barbatos, wrath unbound, the storm incarnate, striking like divine judgment upon Leopold and all who followed him.

Leopold staggered through the gale, his grin split wide, but now trembling at the edges. He raised his blade to cut through the storm—yet every stroke was swallowed, every ounce of abyssal flame smothered by winds too vast, too furious to resist.

“Is this what you call godhood?” Leopold spat, his voice breaking as the air itself ripped from his lungs. “A tantrum dressed in—”

He gagged.

Barbatos’s hand clenched, and the storm clenched with it. The air around Leopold buckled and collapsed, drawn tight, crushing in on him. His words died in his throat as his chest heaved soundlessly, no breath left to claim. His eyes bulged, his body arching against invisible binds.

“You mocked my people,” Barbatos thundered, voice shaking the very bones of the manor. “You defiled me, scarred me, desecrated Mondstadt’s skies. No more.”

The gale howled to its peak, and Leopold was lifted from the ground, flung against the storm wall like a doll. He clawed, gasping in silence, eyes wide with something far colder than arrogance at last—fear.

Around him, abyssal spawn writhed and shattered, bodies crushed flat as if the very weight of the wind obliterated them into nothingness. The Fatui scrambled for cover, but even their plated armor could not shield them. Marble columns wrenched free from the floor, splintered tables and sundered walls became weapons hurled back at them. Each crashing piece of debris forced them back, staggered and broken, as the storm purged the manor of their presence.

“GO!” Barbatos roared, a god’s command layered in every syllable. The Fatui stumbled toward the exits, some dragged screaming into the gale, others fleeing with no thought but escape.

And then there was only Leopold.

The noble writhed in midair, lips pulled back in a silent snarl, his blade slipping from numb fingers. The last of his strength went not into defiance but into the twitching of a hand that could not grasp breath.

Barbatos’s eyes narrowed, burning like twin stars in the storm. His fingers curled into a fist.

The winds collapsed inward.

Leopold’s body convulsed—then broke, crushed in the invisible vice of the Archon’s fury. The storm ripped the last vestiges of the abyss from his form, tearing them to motes of nothing, scouring him from Mondstadt’s sky.

At last, there was silence.

The manor settled in ruin, groaning on broken foundations. Dvalin lowered his wings, his vast frame shielding the huddled survivors. The Fatui were gone, the abyss annihilated. And at the center stood Barbatos, shoulders heaving, his hand still clenched as the final remnants of Leopold were carried away into nothingness.

The storm died in ragged breaths. The air grew heavy, but no longer howled. Dust and fragments of marble drifted down like ash, the manor nothing more than a skeleton of pillars and shattered glass.

Barbatos’s chest rose and fell with shallow gasps, his body trembling from the torrent he had unleashed. His hand still hovered midair, curled tight into a fist as though he feared releasing it would summon the storm again. His eyes, bright with divine fury moments ago, were wide now—haunted, staring not at Leopold’s absence but at the people huddled behind Dvalin’s wings.

He had protected them. Yes. He had saved them.

But he had almost consumed them, too.

Barbatos felt their silence like knives. He had saved them, yes—but he had almost buried them along with their enemies. The memory of his fury, of Leopold’s face crushed beneath his wind, replayed in his mind like a stain.

I lost control.

For a heartbeat, he feared to look at them. He feared to see only terror reflected back.

Then, through the rubble, a figure moved with purpose.

“Venti!!”

Deacon Dahlia stepped forward, brushing past dust and broken marble. His robes were torn, his hair matted with ash, yet his expression carried no hesitation. He ignored the whispered protests of others and approached until he stood directly before the Archon.

Barbatos turned, startled, as Dahlia’s arms wrapped around him with sudden force. The deacon buried his face against the Archon’s chest, trembling—not from fear, but from desperate determination to hold him there, to remind him he was not alone.

“You’re still here,” Dahlia said, voice muffled against his torn tunic. “You’re still you. Don’t… don’t look at us like we’ll hate you.”

Barbatos froze, breath caught in his throat. Slowly, almost timidly, his arms lowered and curled around his deacon in return. He rested his forehead against Dahlia’s hair, eyes squeezing shut.

“Venti,” he said again, softer this time. “That’s enough. You don’t have to keep standing like the world’s about to judge you.”

Barbatos finally looked at him, startled—like a child caught in a crime. Dahlia just shook his head and, without hesitation, reached up to grab the bard’s wrist, lowering his shaking hand.

“You saved us,” Dahlia said firmly. “Yeah, it got messy. You scared the hell out of everyone. But look around—you saved us. Don’t twist it into something it wasn’t.”

Barbatos’s breath hitched, his throat tightening as if words couldn’t make it past the weight in his chest.

Dahlia gave a crooked grin, trying to pierce through the storm still raging behind the bards eyes. “Archon or not, you’re still the idiot who sneaks wine into choir practice. You’re still you. And we’re not running from you. Not now, not ever.”

Barbatos blinked hard, tears stinging as the pressure in his chest broke. His shoulders sagged, and he let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. Dahlia clapped a hand against his shoulder and held it there, steady, unflinching as his archon squeezed him tighter. 

Barbatos’s eyes flicked up, wet with guilt, but before he could speak Dahlia pulled him close, holding him tight. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

The storm that had hung heavy over the room seemed to ease at those words. The winds softened, settling into still air.

Only then did the others stir. Corvin and Damaris were already bent over Barbara, whispering prayers of healing. Soldiers and civilians alike looked at Dahlia’s embrace, and something in them shifted. One by one, people began to move toward their shaken god. A knight dropped his sword to kneel. A child slipped from her mother’s arms to press a flower into Barbatos’s hand. Murmurs spread—not of fear, but of relief, of gratitude.

Kaeya slinked forward with that effortless grin, brushing ash from his coat. “Well, look at you, Venti. Really went full hurricane on them, didn’t you? I half expected to see a rainbow form in the chaos.”

Barbatos managed a weak, almost laugh-like breath, the tension loosening just a fraction.

Diluc grunted from behind, arms crossed. “You could have warned us first. People nearly fainted.” He paused, then muttered under his breath, “Though… I suppose it was impressive.”

Fischl stepped forward, summoning a small spark of electro energy that danced over her fingertips. “The twilight princess has observed the divine vortex… and thus the arcane winds align with their mysteries of the inky void,” she said, bowing stiffly, her words utterly confusing. Barbatos’s brow furrowed slightly, but a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Bennett bounced up, eyes wide, practically vibrating with excitement. “That! That was amazing! You—like, blew up everything! And it was so cool!”

Mona’s gaze drifted upward as if scanning the sky itself. “I… I finally understand. That’s why I could never read your fortune in the stars. You aren’t just lucky or clever—you’re… a god. No wonder the constellations hide their truth.”

Diona, ears twitching, sighed and muttered, “Even if you’re a drunkard half the time, I… I think you’re amazing. Don’t make a habit of nearly crushing everyone again, though.”

Barbatos blinked, swallowing hard. The collective warmth, the laughter, the strange mix of awe and humor—it was dizzying, but comforting.

Diluc grunted again, leaning closer. “When this is over, you’re coming back to the Angels Share. I’ll pour you a few drinks myself. Don’t think you’re getting off easy.”

As Barbatos finally allowed himself a small, shaky laugh, the rubble of the shattered manor groaned behind them. A faint, scraping sound grew louder—a slow, deliberate clamber.

From a heap of fallen stone and splintered wood, a battered figure began to crawl: Lord Schubert Lawrence. His coat torn, wig askew, and a look of pure indignation plastered across his face, he squinted at the group.

“I—I will not—” he began, his voice cracking as he tried to muster authority.

Jean stepped forward, hands on her hips, her Anemo Vision glowing faintly. “Oh, you will,” she said evenly, her tone carrying that unmistakable mix of exasperation and command.

One by one, the Knights of Favonius appeared behind her, swords drawn, boots clicking on the rubble with precise synchronicity. Among them was Eula, her greatsword resting lightly on her shoulder, eyes sharp and unimpressed. Schubert froze, looking from the glowing eyes of the knights to Jean’s calm, unyielding stare.

Kaeya, leaning lazily against a broken beam, gave a dramatic bow. “Ah, Schubert, my dear boy. Crawling out of rubble never looked so… pitiable.”

Diluc grunted. “You’ve got ten seconds to explain yourself before we all start giving you the ‘floor treatment.’”

Schubert’s jaw dropped. He opened his mouth to argue, but even as he tried, Bennett tripped over a chunk of marble and tumbled into his legs, sending Schubert sprawling back into the rubble with a loud oof.

Eula bent down, grabbing Schubert by the collar with one hand and pinning him to the ground effortlessly. “You’re done here,” she said, her tone quiet but lethal. “You don’t get to crawl back out of your mess and act like nothing happened.”

The once-proud lord of the manor was now nothing more than a squirming, disheveled mess at their feet. Jean exhaled slowly, shaking her head as if disappointed this all had to happen in such a pedestrian fashion.

“Try not to ruin the next few centuries of your life while you’re down there,” she said, gesturing for the knights to escort him. “And Schubert… don’t make me repeat myself.”

Schubert groaned, too overwhelmed to protest, as the Knights—including Eula, standing tall with an air of sharp authority—firmly, and with surprising efficiency, hauled him away.

Kaeya leaned toward Diluc with a smirk. “Well, that’s one way to end a manor siege.”

Diluc only muttered, “I’m glad someone’s having fun.”

Barbatos, still catching his breath, let out a soft laugh. Even in the chaos, a little lightness had returned.

Chapter Text

     The streets of Mondstadt had never looked so alive. Morning sunlight spilled across the cobblestones, illuminating banners and ribbons that fluttered from every post, every window. Flower petals, freshly gathered from stalls overflowing with blossoms, drifted on the wind, twirling in delicate spirals before landing softly on rooftops and the shoulders of townsfolk. The air smelled sweet with spring: roasted nuts from vendor carts mingled with the faint perfume of hyacinths, tulips, and lilies.

Children darted through the streets, squealing in delight as they chased one another and butterflies, their laughter carrying above the hum of the crowd. Merchants called cheerfully from their stalls, offering spun sugar, honeyed pastries, and crystal-clear glasses of lemonade. Music poured from every corner: lutes and flutes, tambourines and hand drums, all interweaving into a symphony of celebration. Acrobats tumbled and flipped along the plazas, earning delighted applause from passersby. Even the wind seemed to dance along with them, tugging ribbons, lifting petals, and carrying laughter through the city.

At the very center of the square, the statue of Barbatos glimmered in the morning sun, its stone wings catching the light as if they could lift from the pedestal at any moment. People paused before it, bowing or murmuring prayers of thanks—not fear, not awe alone, but gratitude. For days, they had glimpsed the god who had walked among them, shared bread with them, and lifted their spirits through trials. Now, as they celebrated, they did so in full knowledge of his kindness and charm.

Vendors laughed as they handed out festival treats to children who approached with wide eyes. One little girl, her hair tied in two uneven braids, shyly held out a hand to receive a flower petal. A gentle breeze swept it into her hair, and she squealed in delight. An older man, hunched with age but bright-eyed, tossed flower petals into the air as he danced in place, laughing with the carefree abandon of a child. Couples strolled between stalls, their arms brushing lightly, whispering to one another amidst the music and chatter.

From a distance, a group of jugglers tossed flaming torches high into the sky, twisting and catching them in perfect rhythm. The flames left streaks of light as they spun, and nearby children pointed and gasped in awe. Even merchants paused, applauding with hearty laughs before returning to their sales.

In the corners of the city square, small pockets of festival games had been set up. A ring toss challenged even the most nimble fingers, while a sack race drew boisterous cheers from the gathered spectators. Music and laughter intertwined with the natural rhythm of the wind, which carried the scent of spring and the murmur of countless voices.

And somewhere above it all, the winds whispered with approval, stirring the banners and ribbons into spirals that seemed almost sentient. It was as if the city itself had taken a deep, joyful breath. Mondstadt was alive, vibrant, and utterly free.

Even amid the hustle, there was space for quiet moments. In a shaded corner near a small fountain, a mother held her baby, letting the infant’s tiny hands brush petals that landed on its cheeks. Nearby, an elderly woman rested on a bench, a basket of flowers at her feet, smiling softly as she watched the energy of the city swirl around her. Everywhere, the festival gave voice to gratitude, freedom, and joy—a tapestry woven from countless small lives, each thread shimmering under the morning sun.

And from somewhere high above, the faintest strains of a melody drifted on the wind—a tune carried from the Bard himself, teasing in its charm and lively in its motion. The citizens of Mondstadt paused, sensing the familiar playfulness of their god’s hand in it, even if they could not see him. Smiles widened, laughter grew, and the city seemed to sing in unison with the gentle, playful wind.

  The streets of Mondstadt were alive with color and sound, yet Venti and Dahlia slipped into the quiet warmth of Angels’ Share as naturally as stepping into a shaded glen. The door swung closed behind them with a soft creak, muffling the laughter and music outside and replacing it with the familiar hum of the tavern’s hearth. The smell of roasted meats, fresh bread, and a hint of spiced wine welcomed them, mixing with the soft strumming of Venti’s own lyre somewhere in the corner, where he had already begun a playful tune.

“Ah, sanctuary at last,” Venti said with a theatrical sigh, leaning against the polished bar. His fingers danced over the counter as he conjured a small breeze, causing napkins and flower petals to pirouette gently in the air. Dahlia laughed softly at the display, his hand brushing against Venti’s as they moved to a corner table.

Kaeya lounged near the hearth, one eyebrow arched, his ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Diluc, sitting stiffly across from him, cast a glare that bordered on murderous yet somehow failed to hide a twitch of amusement.

“Well, well,” Venti said, his tone sing-song, “if it isn’t the great Diluc and the ever-dramatic Kaeya. Tell me, brothers of business and mischief, are you here to sing, or merely to grumble at my genius?”

Kaeya laughed, tilting his head. “I think you might be confusing grumbling with concern for the city’s last remaining Fatui. But please, continue your—ah—genius.”

Venti grinned, leaning closer to the bar. “Concern? My dear Kaeya, your tone is ever so serious, but I see it—Diluc, you’re hiding a smirk, aren’t you? Come now, you can’t hide it from me. The world is too bright, the wind too playful, and your scowl too weak.”

Diluc’s jaw tightened, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “You are insufferable,” he muttered.

“Insufferable, perhaps,” Venti conceded with a mock bow, “but entertaining! And thankfully, this establishment—my little haven—is entirely free for my deacon and I~” Venti hummed, casting an amused glance and Diluc, who huffed as he recalled his earlier agreement to give the bard free drinks. “We couldn’t possibly pass up such a kind offer, Master Diluc~” he added, sliding a sparkling drink toward Dahlia. The boy blinked, eyes widening slightly, and then grinned as Venti winked.

Dahlia accepted it with a nod, a laugh escaping him. “I see even free drinks come with performance art these days.”

Venti clapped his hands together, feigning offense. “Performance art? My dear Dahlia, I assure you, it is purely casual charm—no performance required.” He twirled a strand of his hair around his finger, tilting his head toward the window where the festival’s bustle could be seen. “Though the sight outside does make me wish to perform just a little, doesn’t it?”

Kaeya leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Ah, yes, the Archon’s charm in full effect. Tell me, Venti, have you perhaps missed the chaos just enough to tempt fate once more?”

Venti’s teal eyes sparkled. “Chaos? Me? Never. I prefer… subtle mischief.” He shot a playful glance at Diluc, who only scowled harder. “Though I might, on rare occasion, conspire to gently tease my brooding friend here.”

Diluc groaned. “You’ve ruined my morning already.”

“And yet,” Kaeya said with a chuckle, “I’d say your morning is brighter for it, Diluc. Admit it. Admit it!”

Dahlia laughed softly, shaking his head. “You two are hopeless.”

“Hopeless?” Venti echoed, turning toward Dahlia with a grin. “Why, my dear deacon, you flatter us! But perhaps you’ve seen enough of our charm to approve, hmm?” He leaned closer, lowering his voice, and let the softest of breezes curl around Dahlia’s hand. Their fingers brushed, and Dahlia’s laugh became a quiet, delighted sound.

The playful conversation ebbed, giving way to a comfortable pause. Venti rested his chin on his hand, eyes on Dahlia. “Soon, my friend, the city calls to us again. The last of the Fatui lurk, but after that… ah, the festival awaits. Shall we go charm the world a little more?”

Dahlia nodded, linking his arm through Venti’s. “Lead the way, Archon.”

Venti’s grin widened. “With pleasure, my deacon.” And with that, they left the tavern together, stepping back into the festival’s embrace. The warm glow of lanterns, the swirl of petals, and the laughter of Mondstadt’s citizens welcomed them like an old friend.

Venti twirled Dahlia gently as they moved, laughing softly. “Watch out for puddles, my dear deacon. I would hate to see such a noble title stained by mud.”

Dahlia snorted, shaking his head, but the warmth of Venti’s hand in his stayed with him as they ran lightly through the city, ready to meet the day’s adventures—playful, mischievous, and entirely theirs.

  The festival thrummed with life around them, petals tumbling through the streets and lanterns bobbing above as Kaeya and Diluc moved swiftly through the crowds. Neither was in a hurry—well, at least one of them wasn’t.

Kaeya strolled lazily, one hand in his pocket, the other flicking a stray ribbon from a vendor’s stall into the air like a juggler’s flourish. “You know, Diluc, I do admire your dedication,” he said, sidestepping a dancing child. “So serious, so focused… it’s almost tragic..~”

Diluc’s eyes narrowed, his hands tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Tragic? We’re catching dangerous criminals in the middle of a festival. There’s nothing tragic about being efficient.”

Kaeya’s smirk widened. “Efficient, yes, but allow me to add style. Observe~” With a dramatic spin, Kaeya vaulted onto a low fountain ledge and dropped into a narrow alley, intercepting a Fatui operative who had been slipping through the festival. He twirled his sword in a flourish, snagging the surprised man by the collar and pinning him against the wall. “Surprise! You didn’t think Mondstadt’s charmers would let you wander free, did you?”

Diluc rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. “You’re turning every encounter into a performance,” he muttered, dragging another operative away from a group of laughing children.

“Ah, but a performance is what keeps life interesting!” Kaeya quipped. He nudged the captured operative with the tip of his boot. “Besides, you looked positively terrified. Very photogenic, if you ask me.”

Diluc groaned. “Focus on the task.”

Kaeya tilted his head, feigning deep thought. “Task… yes. The task of having fun while being slightly heroic. I like it.” He spun again, sending a stray festival ribbon floating into the air like a banner of victory. “Now, come on, brother! Let’s see if we can catch the one wearing the ridiculous hat—he’s been trying to blend in near the food stalls.”

Diluc’s patience wore thin, but he followed, spotting the Fatui operative ducking behind a crate. “There,” he said tersely, moving to intercept.

Kaeya, however, was already in motion. He leapt from a stall counter, landing elegantly in front of the operative and blocking escape. “Not so fast! You’ll have to go through me first~”

Diluc, exasperated, muttered, “You could have just…” He shook his head, knowing Kaeya’s method would always be… flamboyant.

The operative panicked, swinging wildly. Kaeya rolled aside with a wink and jabbed lightly with his sword, guiding the man into Diluc’s path. With minimal effort, Diluc pinned the operative, securing the ropes. “Perfectly done,” Diluc said flatly, though a rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Kaeya clapped, bowing dramatically. “See? Flawless teamwork! I provide the art, you provide the precision. A masterpiece in motion.”

Diluc raised an eyebrow. “Masterpiece? More like chaos with results.”

“Details, details,” Kaeya said airily, tossing a small pouch of coins into the air. “Now, on to the next! I see one trying to escape through that side street—wearing the most unfortunate festival mask. Truly, he thought no one would notice!”

Diluc groaned again, following, but couldn’t help the faint amusement that tickled his lips as Kaeya darted and twirled, bounding across crates and fences to cut off their target. “Sometimes I wonder how you weren’t born to be a performer,” Diluc muttered.

Kaeya shot a mischievous glance back, flipping over a low wall. “Because then someone else would have to keep you entertained while I was on stage, dear brother. And look at you! You’re thrilled.”

Diluc rolled his eyes—but there was no denying the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Together, they moved as a unit, their personalities clashing and harmonizing in equal measure, sweeping through the festival streets and systematically capturing the last of the Fatui.

By the time the sun had dipped low, casting a warm glow over Mondstadt’s cobblestones, every operative had been rounded up. Kaeya landed lightly beside a captured man, spinning his sword in the air before sheathing it with flair. “Bravo! Another day, another dramatic capture.”

Diluc crossed his arms, looking at the street full of cheering citizens and captured operatives alike. “Yes. Another day. Efficient and… oddly entertaining.”

Kaeya grinned, offering a mock bow. “Entertaining is my specialty. But you, dear brother, provide the backbone. What would Mondstadt do without you?”

Diluc sighed, shaking his head but finally allowing a faint smile. “Probably survive, somehow.”

Kaeya laughed, slinging an arm around Diluc’s shoulders as they walked back toward the festival center. “Perhaps, but certainly not in style.”

  Even amid the lively festival streets, the quiet hum of construction echoed from the edge of Mondstadt where Eula’s new home was taking shape. The Lawrence manor had been refashioned—not back into its old grandeur, but into a modest, sturdy house, perfectly suited for her. Scaffolding framed the structure, wooden beams glinting in the afternoon sunlight, while carpenters hammered and sawed, their rhythmic work blending strangely well with the distant music of the festival.

Eula stood near the entrance, arms crossed, surveying the progress. Her gaze softened at the sight of the partially finished walls and the carefully laid stones of the foundation. Despite the lingering traces of her family’s past misdeeds, she felt a quiet satisfaction. This home would be hers alone—not a symbol of a dark lineage, but a place of her own making.

“Miss Eula,” one of the carpenters called, setting down a hammer. “The frame for the window seat is almost finished. Do you want us to start on the shelving next?”

Eula’s lips curved in a small smile. “Yes. And make sure the shelves are deep enough to hold my books… and anything else I might collect along the way.” Her tone was light, but precise; she was used to attention to detail.

A young apprentice nodded eagerly and scribbled notes on a small tablet. “I can also carve some hooks for armor and weapons,” he offered.

“Good,” Eula said, her voice softening. “I want everything functional. But… a little room for comfort, too.” Her eyes drifted toward the small garden plot they had cleared in front of the house. She envisioned flowers along the edges, perhaps a climbing vine near the entrance, and a space to enjoy quiet moments away from the city’s chaos.

As the hammering continued, Eula walked along the perimeter, inspecting the woodwork. She tested the door, noting its weight and sound as it swung on its hinges. It felt solid. Protective. Home.

Nearby, a few festival-goers wandered past, curious about the construction. Children peered through gaps in the scaffolding, whispering excitedly to one another. Eula crouched to smile at them. “It’ll be finished soon,” she said gently. “And then you can visit. I promise.”

The city’s music drifted faintly on the wind, mingling with the rhythmic hammering and the smell of fresh wood and stone. Even here, on the quieter edge of Mondstadt, the festival’s energy was tangible. Eula paused to watch a pair of jugglers tumble down the street below, petals swirling around them. She allowed herself the smallest laugh—a soft, almost surprised sound—as a breeze carried a stray petal into her hair.

A carpenter approached with a tray of fresh water and a small pastry. “For you, Miss Eula,” he said politely. “It’s been a busy morning.”

“Thank you,” she replied, accepting both. She took a small bite, appreciating the simple sweetness, and then sipped from the cup. Her eyes softened as she watched the workers moving efficiently, each one contributing to the creation of something new. It reminded her that life could be rebuilt—not just houses, but trust, purpose, and moments of quiet happiness.

She leaned against a beam, allowing herself a brief moment of reflection. Her past, though heavy, did not define her future. This house, sturdy and modest, symbolized something more: independence, a chance to shape her life on her own terms, and perhaps, in time, a place to welcome friends who had become family.

The sun began to dip lower, casting long shadows across the half-finished walls. Eula’s gaze shifted toward Mondstadt, where the festival’s colors and sounds still swirled. She allowed herself a small, private smile. The city was alive, its people celebrating, and she was part of it—not as a Lawrence of old, but as Eula, a guardian of her own life.

One of the carpenters called, “Miss Eula, we’ve finished the frame for the back porch. Do you want us to add the railing now?”

“Yes,” she said, straightening. “And let’s make it strong. I want to see the festival from there when it’s finished. I want to hear the wind and see the petals and… maybe just feel at peace for a while.”

As the workers returned to their tasks, Eula stepped back to observe. The house was still unfinished, but it already felt like a home. And in that moment, surrounded by wood, stone, and the faint music of the festival drifting from the city below, she allowed herself to feel hope—quiet, steady, and entirely hers.

  Damaris and Corvin approached the steps of the cathedral together, their heads bowed and expressions heavy with the weight of their decision. The city’s celebrations hummed faintly in the distance, but for them, every cheer felt distant, muted.

A few guards noticed them approaching, and whispers rippled through the small crowd that had gathered near the entrance. The two clergy members halted at the foot of the steps.

“We… wish to surrender ourselves,” Damaris said softly, voice steady despite the trembling of her hands. “Though we were misguided, we must answer for our actions. We sought to harm… to harm the Archon, before we knew… before we truly understood.”

Corvin’s voice joined hers, firm yet contrite. “We cannot undo what we tried to do, but we can face the consequences. Arrest us, if you must.”

The guards exchanged a glance, then stepped forward to take them into custody. Damaris and Corvin offered no resistance, their resolve quiet but absolute. As they were led away, the citizens watching felt a mixture of relief and sorrow. They had changed, sure…But they still conspired to kill a bard. Still relished in his pain, only stopping when they realized it was their archon they hurt.

  The grand doors of Mondstadt’s cathedral swung open to a flood of spring sunlight, petals drifting in through the windows as though carried by a playful breeze. The central nave was alive with the soft murmur of townsfolk, yet it carried a reverent hush. At the very center, the Holy Lyre—broken, its strings askew and its frame fractured—stood on a simple pedestal.

But the atmosphere was far from somber. A curious blend of amusement and admiration filled the air. Children pressed their noses to the railing, whispering excitedly to their parents. “The Archon broke it?” one asked, eyes wide.

“Yes,” a baker replied with a grin, “but it was in the most delightful way. I bet you could almost see him laughing while he did it!”

Venti drifted in from the doorway, his lyre tucked under one arm, a playful grin dancing across his features. The broken instrument, rather than being a symbol of calamity, had become a monument to his charm and whimsy. He twirled in the sunlight, letting a few petals tumble around him, and the gathered citizens couldn’t help but chuckle.

“My dear friends!” he called, voice ringing like wind through the cathedral. “Behold! The mighty Lyre! Slightly battered, yes, but full of music, joy, and… character!” He ran his fingers over the cracked wood gently, producing a soft, discordant chord. A few notes floated through the hall like sparks of wind, eliciting delighted giggles from the children.

“Music is meant to lift hearts, not merely to sound perfect. See how even a broken instrument can sing?” He plucked a few more strings, each note imperfect yet oddly charming. The congregation laughed and clapped, swept up in the playful spirit of their Archon.

Nearby, Sister Barbara was visiting the church for a quiet moment, recovering from her recent ordeal. Jean stood by her side, offering gentle support, her hands brushing Barbara’s arm. A soft breeze stirred through the nave, swirling around Barbara, lifting stray hair from her face and carrying a faint whisper of wind’s blessing. She breathed deeply, feeling the calm wash over her and the warmth of Jean’s presence.

“You’re doing well,” Jean said softly, a reassuring smile on her face. “The winds favor you today.”

Barbara managed a small smile, her shoulders relaxing. “I… feel it,” she whispered. The broken Lyre, the children’s laughter, Venti’s presence, and the festival outside all seemed to merge, giving her a sense of hope she hadn’t felt in weeks.

Venti noticed the two sisters near the side aisle and floated over, still spinning lightly above the ground. “Ah! Sister Barbara, Jean! The festival is in full swing outside, but here we have…My masterpiece~” He gestured toward the Lyre with a flourish, then hovered just low enough to give Barbara a playful wink. “See? Even the winds approve.”

Barbara laughed softly, the sound mingling with the soft rustle of the petals. Jean smiled, watching the Archon’s antics with gentle amusement. The cathedral, once solemn and imposing, now felt like a haven of light, laughter, and gentle playfulness.

Venti stepped back, letting a small flurry of petals and soft wind scatter through the hall. “I must bid you all farewell, I have a season to catch up with~!!” And with that, the bard was gone as quick as he came. 

He stepped lightly out of the cathedral, the sunlight spilling across Mondstadt’s cobblestones and carrying the faint rustle of petals from the festival streets. Dahlia followed, his boots clicking softly as they moved past citizens still marveling at the broken Holy Lyre inside, its whimsical charm lingering in the air. The sounds of music, laughter, and wind-blown ribbons greeted them, a warm contrast to the hushed reverence of the church.

“Ah, freedom!” Venti declared, spinning on one heel as a soft gust lifted Dahlia’s hair. “The city celebrates, the petals dance, and I—your humble Archon—may now indulge in a bit of eh…festival mischief~”

Dahlia laughed softly, shaking his head. “You really can’t resist turning everything into a performance, can you?”

“Why would I?” Venti said, bowing dramatically. “The world is far too delightful not to enjoy every note of it!” He tugged gently on Dahlia’s hand, guiding him toward the plaza where festival-goers twirled among lanterns and ribbons. “Come now, my friend. There’s music, laughter, and perhaps a little chaos just waiting for us.”
“You had me at chaos.”

”…That’s the last thing I said!!” The bard huffed. 

Dahlia only smiled and hummed in response, glad that his archon seemed to be doing better. But he frowned slightly at the faint sight of scars that remained along his hands and neck. Likely other places too, but not that the deacon could see them with Venti’s clothing. 

The plaza was alive with color: petals swirled through the air, children darted between stalls, and musicians strummed lutes and flutes with a lightness that matched the wind’s playful rhythm. Venti weaved between the crowd, twirling Dahlia gently, letting the breeze lift their laughter. “You see?” he said, spinning them in a loose circle. “Even the wind conspires to make the day joyous!”

Dahlia laughed, letting himself be caught in the motion, a warmth spreading through him he hadn’t felt in weeks. “It’s… difficult not to get caught up in it,” he admitted.

“Exactly!” Venti replied, spinning a stray petal into the air and catching it with a grin. “We shall let the festival sweep us away—if only for a while. No responsibilities, no scheming, just… wind, laughter, and perhaps a bit of reckless fun.”

He led Dahlia past a row of stalls, where children squealed in delight at tossed lanterns and acrobats flipped through the air with effortless grace. Venti’s hands brushed Dahlia’s as they weaved through the crowd, each touch light and teasing. “I hope you’re ready, my friend,” Venti murmured, voice low, “for a festival adventure like no other.”

Dahlia’s grin widened, a blush creeping across his cheeks. “Lead the way, Archon.”

And so they ran—leaping lightly over flower stalls, spinning past laughing children, and chasing the swirl of petals that seemed to follow them. Venti’s laughter rang above the music, melodic and free, and Dahlia found himself laughing in return, the city fading around them until it was just the two of them, the wind, and the soft swirl of petals.

At last, they reached a quiet rise overlooking the festival plaza. Venti paused, letting the breeze settle, and Dahlia caught his breath, smiling at the sight of the festival alive below them. The warm glow of lanterns and sunset painted the city in golds and pinks.

Venti tilted his head toward Dahlia, his expression softening. He brushed a stray strand of hair from Dahlia’s face, his fingers lingering in the breeze. “I think… a small celebration of our own is in order.”

Dahlia met his gaze. “I couldn’t agree more.”

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them, petals drifting around like tiny notes in a song. Laughter and music mingled with the wind, and the festival below became a distant hum. In that quiet, fleeting moment, Venti and Dahlia shared the first, light brush of intimacy, the playful Archon and his friend swept together by the wind’s gentle embrace.

The plaza below shimmered with golden light, lanterns bobbing and petals twirling in the evening breeze. Venti parted his lips from Dahlia’s, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “Shall we make this night truly memorable?”

Dahlia’s brow rose, trying to ignore the blush that had swept across his face. “Memorable how?”

Dahlia’s brow rose. “Memorable how?”

“Ah,” Venti said, a glint in his eyes, “by turning the city into our own personal stage!” With a sudden burst of speed, he dashed past the plaza’s edge, laughing as Dahlia scrambled to keep up.

“Wait, what are you—” Dahlia called, but Venti only glanced back, eyes sparkling. “You never tell me anything!”

“That’s the fun of it!” Venti shouted, vaulting over a low wall with the grace of a wind spirit. Petals followed in his wake like confetti, teasing the crowd below. Dahlia laughed, chasing after him, his boots striking sparks from the cobblestones.

They wove through the festival streets, darting between vendors and leaping over stalls, their laughter ringing above the music of the city. Children paused mid-dance to watch the pair streak past, eyes wide, while lanterns wobbled in the gusts of wind stirred by Venti’s playful leaps.

At last, they reached the edge of the city, where Dvalin’s massive form rested, wings partially spread, basking in the soft twilight. Venti’s grin widened. “Ah, my dearest Dvalin is waiting to carry us into the sky. Ready, my deacon?”

Dahlia blinked at the enormous creature, then back at Venti. “You mean… you want to climb him?”

“Of course!” Venti said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What’s a festival without a little flight?” He spun on his heel, tugging Dahlia’s hand. “Come now, don’t be shy!”

With careful, yet playful coordination, they approached Dvalin. Venti bounded lightly onto one massive wing, landing with a dancer’s grace, and held out a hand. Dahlia took it, letting Venti pull him up. The dragon’s scales gleamed in the sunset, and as Dahlia settled beside Venti, he couldn’t help but grin, a mixture of awe and exhilaration lifting his chest.

”Shit..!!” Dahlia gasped, clutching onto Venti’s waist as Dvalin suddenly lifted up into the air, wings creating a wind that scent the grass below scattering about as they soared up above Mondstadt. 

Dahlia’s hands rested lightly on the dragon’s wing, heart racing. “It’s incredible… I didn’t think I’d ever—”

“Ever fly on a dragon?” Venti interrupted with a playful laugh. “Well, now you have. And, of course, you’re in the very best company.”

The two of them settled along the broad, warm surface of Dvalin’s wings. The dragon’s gentle breathing and the faint hum of festival music below created a perfect harmony.

Dahlia leaned slightly against Venti, the last remnants of tension from the day melting away. Petals swirled around them, the wind teasing their hair, the city glowing below like a sea of gold.

The wind carried a soft, cool touch across Dvalin’s wings as the twilight deepened, painting the city below in hues of gold and rose. Venti leaned slightly toward Dahlia, the dragon beneath them shifting gently, its enormous wings lifting and lowering with measured grace. Petals still swirled around them, caught in currents of wind that seemed to dance for their eyes alone.

Venti reached for Dahlia’s hand, lacing his fingers with his usual playful ease, though his gaze was quieter now, softer. “You’ve been remarkable the past few days,” he murmured, the words drifting over the hum of the festival below.

Dahlia’s cheeks warmed, though he tried to hide it behind a small smile. “You flatter me.”

Venti’s thumb brushed lightly over the back of his hand, and his grin returned, but gentler this time. “No, it’s true. You’ve seen this city through eyes most mortals could not, and yet… you’ve stood beside me.”

For a moment, Dahlia said nothing, letting the wind carry his thoughts as much as the petals. Then, Venti leaned just enough to produce a small, simple ribbon—a soft green, touched with gold thread, shimmering faintly in the twilight. He took Dahlia’s free hand and tied it loosely around his wrist, letting the ribbon flutter in the breeze.

“This,” Venti said softly, a playful sparkle still in his eyes, “is yours now. A token… a bond.”

Dahlia blinked, the warmth spreading through his chest. “A bond?”

Venti nodded, gently holding his gaze. “A promise, in a way. Not just of friendship, but of… something more. Something lasting.” His voice softened further, but there was no grand speech, only the quiet intimacy of the moment. “From this day forward, you are my Herald.”

Dahlia’s breath caught slightly. The weight of the gesture was clear, subtle yet immense. Being the Herald was not merely a title—it was the Archon’s trust, a step into a destiny that would stretch far beyond the fleeting limits of a single lifetime. And yet, in Venti’s hand, in the warmth of his gaze, it felt tender, safe, and utterly personal.

“I… I accept,” Dahlia whispered, letting the ribbon fall between them, a symbol now fluttering with the wind.

Venti’s grin returned, brighter and more mischievous, and he nudged Dahlia lightly. “Good. I rather hoped you would. Now, come along… we still have a festival to enjoy.”

Dahlia laughed softly, the tension of the day finally lifting, and they leaned together against Dvalin’s wings. The dragon shifted again, a quiet reassurance beneath them, as though approving of their closeness. Twilight wrapped them in gold and rose, the city below alive with music, laughter, and the swirl of petals. The ribbon glinted faintly in the soft light, a delicate token of a bond that would last far longer than any mortal lifetime could measure.

Above the city, the wind whispered in their ears, carrying soft laughter, the faint scent of flowers, and the promise of adventures yet to come. And as the festival raged on below, the two of them remained perched on Dvalin’s wings, hearts light, a quiet intimacy shared between god and Herald under the last rays of twilight.

  The ribbon still fluttered lightly in the wind, a soft emblem of the bond between them. Venti stretched, letting his arms rest on the dragon’s warm, scaled back, and Dahlia leaned against him, the gentle rise and fall of Dvalin’s wings beneath them soothing and steady.

“You really make it difficult to be serious,” Dahlia murmured, a teasing lilt in his voice despite the exhaustion of the day.

Venti laughed softly, nudging him with a shoulder. “And you make it delightful.”

Twilight deepened, petals drifting lazily in spirals around them. The festival’s music and laughter below became a distant murmur, carried by the wind, as if the city itself wished to give them this quiet moment.

Without another word, they settled against one another, the dragon beneath a gentle, comforting presence. Dahlia’s head found its place against Venti’s shoulder, and Venti rested his chin lightly atop Dahlia’s hair.

The breeze wrapped around them like a soft blanket, carrying the scent of flowers and the fading warmth of sunlight. Petals landed on Dvalin’s wings, catching the last glimmer of twilight.

And there, side by side, hearts light and laughter lingering in the air, Venti and Dahlia let the day’s excitement slip away. The gentle rocking of Dvalin’s wings, the whisper of wind, and the quiet joy of the festival lulled them into sleep, a peaceful, shared moment above the city they had fought to protect and celebrated in together.

The festival continued below, alive with music, petals, and the chatter of Mondstadt’s citizens, but above it all, on the dragon’s wings, the Archon and his Herald rested, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s presence and the soft, steady wind.

The End.