Chapter Text
Albedo kept one hand steady on the sketchbook resting against his lap, the graphite in his other moving almost without thought.
The page held only fragments: a line meant to capture the curve of the land, the faint suggestion of the jagged horizon where Liyue’s mountains speared the sky. And yet, already he could feel the dissatisfaction creeping in. The sunset shimmer was never only light, the rock face was never only shape. There was always something in-between, something he could not reduce to pigment or form.
He shut the book and stared out instead.
The caravan carrying him from Mondstadt had nearly reached its destination. The merchants around him bustled, speaking quickly about contracts, pigments, and rare stones. He let their chatter fade into background noise. His task was clear: secure certain minerals for experimental pigments, and gather field observations for both painting and alchemy.
And yet, even in the simple act of traveling, his thoughts turned inward.
What is the nature of beauty? Is it symmetry, balance, the elegance of a line that resolves itself? Or is it the breathless disorder that strikes one’s chest without warning, before the mind can categorize it?
His teal eyes dropped to his sketchbook again. Empty paper waited. His hand hesitated.
When he finally looked up, the peaks of Liyue greeted him. The mountains stood proud, crowned by clouds, their faces etched with veins of ore. Lanterns burned faintly against the dusk, and the harbor below shimmered like a constellation fallen into the sea.
It was… beautiful. Beautiful enough that, for once, Albedo did not try to capture it.
The days that followed blurred into quiet routine. Albedo was hosted in a simple guesthouse near the harbor, where he turned one room into a workspace. Papers soon littered the desk, vials stacked against the light, and sketches pinned haphazardly to the wall.
He took careful notes on local pigments: a red derived from crushed berries, a vivid green from mountain minerals, yellow clay traded from distant valleys. But for each formula he documented, a question loomed larger: how much of the world’s color is born of matter, and how much is born of perception?
The merchants who guided him through the markets spoke of trouble on the roads. Treasure Hoarders in unusually high numbers. Even reports of Abyss mages trailing caravans. Albedo listened politely, though a faint thread of unease curled in his chest. Fieldwork, after all, often revealed more than laboratories ever could.
So it was that, a week after arriving, he found himself traveling by caravan through Liyue’s ridges and rocky passes, his sketchbook balanced on his knees even as the wagon jolted across uneven ground.
His notes that day were not pigments or minerals, but faces. The weary lines of the caravan leader. The anxious eyes of a young guard. The subtle curve of a hand gripping a sword hilt too tightly.
Albedo drew them all, and yet—his pencil paused. He stared at the blank corner of the page, as though something were missing, something the landscape and its people had not yet shown him.
He shook the thought away. It was not uncommon for him to sense an absence he could not name. The truth, he often reminded himself, was a mosaic — one never complete.
And yet, he wondered.
Night fell heavy on the mountains.
They made camp beneath an outcrop, torches glowing against the dark stone. Albedo sat a little apart, where the light dimmed to amber. He sketched the campfire’s shape, the way it bent against the wind. A merchant, passing by, murmured, “Strange man, always drawing.” Albedo heard, but did not answer.
He set the pencil down. He watched the fire die lower.
Something tugged at the edge of his awareness — not sight, not sound, but a pressure, as if the air itself grew taut. He straightened, scanning the cliffs.
There, in the distance, a faint shimmer, violet against black sky. Too brief to be lightning. Too precise to be a trick of vision.
His hand tightened on his sketchbook. He closed it carefully, as though afraid the silence might shatter if he moved too quickly.
Somewhere out there, he thought, a different kind of storm walked the earth.
And though he did not know it yet, it was already closer than he imagined.
The strings hummed beneath her fingers, the notes blooming into the quiet of the practice hall like petals unfurling in spring. Y/n closed her eyes, letting the music ripple outward, the resonance of Electro sparking faintly around the lacquered wood of her instrument. It was not visible to the ordinary eye, but she felt it — the delicate pulse of her Vision lending weight to every phrase, as though the music itself carried lightning on its back.
When the final note trembled into silence, she exhaled and lowered her bow.
“Still playing with thunder hidden in your chords, I see.”
The voice, amused and elegant, drifted from the doorway. Y/n turned to find Kamisato Ayato leaning casually against the frame, his smile edged with the same playful sharpness that made every word of his seem layered.
“You’re late,” Y/n countered, arching a brow.
“I wasn’t aware this was a duel.” Ayato chuckled and entered the hall, his sandals whispering against polished wood. “Though, listening to you, one could almost believe you were sparring with the air itself.”
Y/n smirked, tucking the instrument carefully into its case. “Perhaps I was.”
Before Ayato could respond, another figure slipped gracefully inside. Ayaka, serene as moonlight, carried a folded paper fan, her pale gaze warm when it fell on Y/n.
“You’ll dazzle the audience tonight,” Ayaka said, her voice soft but certain. “Father would have been proud to see you in the royal orchestra.”
A flicker of warmth stirred in Y/n’s chest. She set aside her bow, meeting Ayaka’s eyes. “He would have scolded me for playing too fiercely.”
“That,” Ayato interrupted with a grin, “is precisely why the audience loves you. Unlike the rest of the ensemble, you never hide behind perfect form.”
Y/n let the teasing glance slide off her shoulders, though her lips curved faintly. It was true — even among the disciplined musicians of the Shogunate’s orchestra, she stood apart. Where others sought refinement, she sought resonance. Music, for her, was not about precision; it was about summoning storms in the hearts of those who listened.
And storms were never gentle.
Later, walking through the Kamisato estate gardens, Y/n allowed the evening air to cool the heat in her veins. Lanterns floated gently along the water, their reflections scattering like stars across the pond. Ayaka strolled beside her, the paper fan now open in delicate hands.
“You seemed distracted during rehearsal,” Ayaka said after a pause.
Y/n tilted her head. “Was I?”
“You kept looking beyond the hall, as though listening to something else.”
Y/n laughed softly. “Maybe I was. The world is full of noise — some of it sweeter than our instruments.”
Ayaka’s gaze lingered, searching her face with quiet empathy. Y/n looked away, watching a dragonfly skitter across the water’s surface. She didn’t explain that what tugged at her senses wasn’t noise, but something heavier — the call of storms far from Inazuma’s shores.
Her chance came sooner than she expected.
The Shogunate’s orchestra had been requested to send a representative abroad, accompanying merchants delivering lacquer, silk, and rare instruments to Liyue. It was a gesture of goodwill, a diplomatic note struck in music rather than words. Y/n, known for her artistry and fierce spirit, had been chosen.
When the messenger delivered the assignment, Ayato only smirked knowingly.
“Try not to set Liyue on fire,” he teased.
Ayaka, more earnest, touched Y/n’s arm. “Travel safely. And… write to us. Your presence here will be missed.”
Y/n inclined her head, a playful spark in her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you have time to miss me properly.”
But when she packed her instrument and her blade, her hands lingered longer than usual on the latter. Liyue was far, and storms rarely traveled without reason.
The voyage stretched in long days and restless nights. Y/n stood at the railing of the ship, letting sea spray curl against her cheeks, dark hair whipping in the salt wind. She hummed to herself, a fragment of a melody she’d never written down — too wild, too raw to tame on paper. The sailors called it haunting. She called it true.
Her Vision pulsed faintly at her side, reacting to the charged tension in the air. She felt it even before Liyue’s jagged peaks came into view: a storm waiting to break.
When they docked, the air was different — heavier with stone and commerce, brighter with lanterns and laughter. Y/n walked the streets briefly, marveling at the architecture, the food stalls, the merchant calls. Yet underneath it all, she sensed the tremor, the wrongness.
That night, while the caravan prepared to set out inland, Y/n lay awake. Her bow rested at her side, her sword within reach. She dreamed of lightning again — not her own, but something strange, fractured, echoing across the mountains.
She woke with her pulse racing, and the scent of rain, lingering in her lungs.
And though she didn’t know it yet, the storm she felt was already on the same path as hers, waiting just beyond the horizon.
The night in Liyue tasted of stone and river. Albedo sat on a high ledge overlooking the jagged ridges, his sketchbook balanced across his knees, the graphite already darkening with quick strokes. He worked by lanternlight, though the moon gave its own pale glow, illuminating the sharp relief of peaks cutting into the sky.
He paused often, letting his eyes roam the horizon, searching not only for form but for essence. What made the mountains eternal? Was it their weight, their silence, or the way they seemed to endure no matter how clouds or rivers shifted around them?
His pencil hovered uselessly. A faint sigh escaped his lips. For all his training, his lines could not hold the spirit he sought.
That was when the earth beneath him trembled.
A deep shudder rolled through the ground, too steady to be mere stonefall. He stood, tucking the sketchbook into his coat, and scanned the ravine below. Shadows rippled against the lanternlight. Something massive shifted among the rocks.
The Whopperflower emerged like a nightmare blooming — its petals slick with unnatural sheen, its roots clawing at the soil as though dragging itself upward. This one dwarfed the common breed, easily two stories tall, its body pulsing with Abyssal corruption.
Around it, pale figures unfurled: Abyssal Maidens, their forms veiled, faces hidden, movements too smooth to be human.
Albedo drew his blade in silence, mind already dissecting possibilities. He could fight, but against numbers and a creature of that size, strategy mattered more than strength. Construct walls, control the field, isolate the core.
He stepped forward.
But then—
A second voice split the night: a clear, electric hum that was neither word nor sound but energy itself. Violet light tore across the darkness, and into the ravine leapt a figure Albedo had never seen before.
Y/n’s steps barely touched the earth as she landed, her sword drawn in one hand, her other already crackling with lightning. She had only meant to take a walk, to breathe away the heaviness of travel — but storms never asked permission before they broke.
The Whopperflower turned its yawning maw toward her, roots surging. She answered with a slash, Electro screaming along the blade, sparks scattering against the stone.
Her eyes caught briefly on the other figure — pale hair, icy eyes reflecting lanternlight, a sword drawn but held with restraint. She had no time to wonder who he was.
“Move if you’re going to move,” she called, voice sharp against the roar of the creature.
The stranger’s lips barely moved. “Understood.”
And then the earth shifted again — not from the Whopperflower, but from him. Geo flower platforms erupted, jagged structures slicing upward to block the Maiden’s advance. The Abyss creatures slammed against the walls, pinned and trapped.
Y/n blinked once, impressed despite herself. Then the roots surged again, and she leapt back into the fray.
Albedo watched her. Her movements were not careful, not measured — they were fire in the shape of lightning. She struck with abandon, as though the only truth was forward. And yet, her recklessness had its own elegance: the way she spun her blade through sparks, the way her laughter — yes, laughter — escaped her throat when a root barely missed her shoulder.
He caught himself staring. He forced his mind back to calculation.
The Maidens pressed harder. He reinforced the walls, sculpted crystalline spikes to scatter their forms. Each construct bought her space, and she filled it with lightning. Together, unintentionally, they fought as if orchestrated.
Y/n felt the storm building in her chest. Each strike carried not only Electro but release — of days spent in silence, of music that never felt wild enough, of nights staring at lanterns and wondering if she belonged to duty or to herself.
Now, in the clash of root and blade, she felt free.
The stranger’s crystals shone gold beside her, a rhythm steady enough to carry her chaos. She darted between the barriers he raised, letting her blade find the openings he made. When the Whopperflower reared back for a strike, she surged forward and unleashed a storm directly into its core.
The explosion of light and sound shook the valley.
When the dust settled, the Whopperflower lay in ruin, its Abyssal corruption crumbling into ash. The Maidens dissolved into smoke, their whispers fading into nothing.
Silence fell. Only the faint crackle of Electro lingered in the air, sparks dancing along Y/n’s shoulders before fading into the night.
She lowered her blade, breathing hard, and finally turned toward him.
Albedo still stood where he had fought, calm even in victory, though his chest rose more quickly than usual. He regarded her with those golden eyes — steady, unreadable, but not indifferent.
“You fight differently,” he said, voice low, analytical. “Reckless. And yet… efficient.”
Y/n tilted her head, violet gaze locking onto his. A smirk tugged at her lips. “And you fight like a mathematician with a sword. Every move in place. Tell me, do you ever improvise?”
His lips quirked — barely a smile, but not nothing. “When necessary.”
The silence between them crackled almost as much as her Vision. For a heartbeat, she considered asking who he was, why he was out here alone. But the thought passed. She had learned long ago that not every storm should linger.
“My name is Y/n,” she said instead. “That’s all you’ll get.”
And before he could answer, before the calmness of his gaze could press deeper into her than she was ready for, she turned on her heel and vanished into the night.
Albedo stood in the quiet long after she had gone. He looked down at the ground, at the faint scorch marks where lightning had struck, at the petals of a corrupted flower now turned to ash.
Slowly, he retrieved his sketchbook.
On a fresh page, he began to draw: the arc of her blade, the wildness in her eyes, the storm that had been her very presence. His lines were quick, precise. And yet, when he stopped and stared at the finished work, he frowned.
It was wrong. Incomplete.
For the first time in a long time, he closed the book unsatisfied.
Some truths could not be captured in graphite.
Some truths had to be chased.
The carriage wheels rattled over cobbled streets, carrying Albedo back to Mondstadt. The air smelled of river and dust, of herbs dried in the sun, of merchants’ wares spilling into alleys. He held his sketchbook loosely in one hand, the graphite smudged from travel, pages curling at the edges.
He glanced at the drawings, at the jagged shadows of Liyue’s cliffs, the faint arc of lightning that had somehow carved itself into the margin. The battle felt distant now, like an echo of something that had never fully existed. He pressed the edge of the page with his thumb, attempting to flatten the memory.
Once home, Albedo returned to his laboratory. Crystals gleamed in small clusters on shelves, vials lined in careful gradient, pigments stacked by hue and mineral density. The quiet of the room welcomed him like a familiar formula — each object predictable, unyielding, comforting.
He sketched mountain ridges again, calculated proportions, noted chemical interactions between pigments and binding agents. Sometimes his pencil hovered, and he caught himself tracing an errant curve that reminded him, just faintly, of a violet flash in the night. He shook the thought off and returned to formulas.
Hours passed. Afternoon faded into evening, and the light in Mondstadt softened, brushing gold over his workbench.
A knock interrupted his focus.
“Albedo?”
The voice was crisp, familiar, carrying the efficiency and quiet authority of Mondstadt’s highest offices. Jean.
He rose, smoothing the sleeves of his coat. “Jean,” he replied.
Behind her, leaning casually against the doorway, stood Kaeya. His smirk was faint, almost apologetic. “You weren’t expecting me, were you?”
Jean’s lips pressed in a thin line. “We require your expertise, Albedo. There is a diplomatic matter concerning Inazuma, and Kaeya will accompany you to discuss certain international arrangements with the Kamisato Clan.”
Albedo nodded slowly. The request was logical — scientific observation. His excursions to distant lands were usually self-directed, but cooperation with the Knights presented opportunities for access and research otherwise unavailable.
Kaeya’s gaze swept the laboratory, lingering on the sketches and pigments. “Looks like you’ve been busy. I imagine we’ll be relying on more than just swordplay for this mission, hmm?”
“Yes,” Albedo replied softly. “Field research, observation, material collection. The pigments and mineral samples of Inazuma differ subtly from Mondstadt or Liyue. Chemical composition, crystalline structure — I intend to document them fully.”
Jean stepped forward, her tone softer but firm. “We trust you’ll handle this with care. Inazuma has its own… hazards. But this is a matter of diplomacy as well as science. Travel together, maintain discretion, and report all findings.”
Albedo inclined his head. “Understood.”
Kaeya’s smirk widened. “Then I suppose we leave in a couple days? Gives me time to make sure the ship has wine at least half as good as Mondstadt’s.”
Albedo gave no reply, leaving a soft laugh instead. His mind was already turning over formulas and sketches, mentally noting the adjustments needed for pigment sampling in humid climates, the potential interactions of local minerals with Mondstadt binders, the precise method to test for crystalline purity.
The faint flicker of lightning in the margin of his sketchbook caught his eye once more. He paused for a fraction of a heartbeat, the trace of it stirring something he could not name. Then he returned to his notes, ignoring it.
Even as he scribbled, organized, and measured, the storm of that night in Liyue lingered somewhere at the edge of perception. Not threatening, not immediate — but present, like a wind brushing against the corner of a door.
Albedo set down his pencil. The laboratory smelled of minerals and graphite, of solutions and the faint tang of metal. Outside, the city of Mondstadt settled into the slow rhythm of evening.
He turned back to his workbench, lining pigments, sketching the crystalline structure of minerals, annotating chemical reactions. The world was orderly again.
For now.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, just a flicker, lightning, passed unnoticed.