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Chapter Text

The air in Nasha Town, usually crisp with the bite of the northern wind, shimmered with a warmth Columbina had never truly felt. It was Moon-Prayer Night, a celebration that, until now, had existed for her only as a distant, abstract concept, a fleeting pulse of lunar energy she might occasionally sense from her sanctuary.

Tonight, however, it was a living, breathing entity, a vibrant tapestry woven from the laughter of strangers, the scent of roasting spices, and the soft glow of countless lanterns. Her name, ‘Columbina Hyposelenia’, still felt new upon her tongue, a fragile, exquisite thing. It was a name chosen, not merely given, and with it had come an anchor, a tether to this world she had always observed from a distance.

She stood at the edge of the central square, a silent observer amidst the joyous chaos. The townsfolk, dressed like her., moved with an easy grace, their faces illuminated by the ethereal light of the Moon. Children chased each other with unbridled glee, their giggles echoing off the timber-framed houses. Small, whimsical Dodoco projections, courtesy of Alice's playful magic, flitted through the crowd like luminous fireflies, occasionally landing on a shoulder or darting past a nose, eliciting delighted squeals.

"Columbina!"

The familiar voice, bright and insistent, cut through the din. Paimon, a tiny comet of enthusiasm, zipped towards her, Aether a steady presence just behind. Arlecchino, ever watchful, stood a little further back, conversing with Lauma, whose antlers glowed softly, mirroring the rising moon. Sandrone, surprisingly, was also present, her mechanical contraptions whirring faintly as she adjusted a sensor on her elaborate puppet, though her gaze flickered towards Columbina with an unreadable intensity. Even the typically reclusive Nicole, manifested as a shimmering Dodoco projection, floated near a makeshift game stall, seemingly engrossed in tinkering with something.

"You look… well," Aether observed, a gentle smile gracing his lips. His golden eyes, so often filled with the weight of his journey, now held a soft, welcoming warmth that mirrored the night itself.

Columbina found herself returning the smile, a subtle curve of her lips that felt foreign yet entirely natural. "I am well, Traveler. More so than I have ever been." The words resonated with a truth she was still processing. Her existence, once a whisper on the edge of fading, was now a song, clear and resonant.

Paimon bounced impatiently. "Come on, Columbina! Nasha Town has gone all out! There's food, games, and Paimon heard there's even a special performance later!" She tugged lightly on Columbina's sleeve, an audacious gesture that, weeks ago, would have earned her a frigid stare. Tonight, it simply made Columbina’s chest feel a little lighter.

"Indeed," Arlecchino added, her voice a low murmur as she approached, Lauma’s gaze following her. "This festival is for you, Columbina. They call it a 'welcome home.' It would be… impolite to simply stand here and observe." A hint of amusement, rare for the Knave, touched her eyes. "Go, enjoy yourself. Experience what it means to be truly among them."

Columbina nodded, a quiet acknowledgment of the unprecedented freedom she was being offered. To simply *be*, without purpose or pretense. She turned to Aether, a silent question in her gaze.

"We'll be around," Aether assured her, understanding. "Explore at your own pace. There's no rush tonight."

With a small, almost imperceptible nod, Columbina drifted into the heart of the festival.

Her first stop was a candy stall, its wooden counter laden with an array of vibrant confections. She had tasted little beyond the practical sustenance offered during her time as a Harbinger, and certainly never anything purely for pleasure. A vendor, a kindly woman with flour dusting her apron, offered her a small, translucent sugar confection shaped like a crescent moon.

"For you, Moon Goddess," the woman said, her voice warm. "A gift. It's honey-lavender flavored."

Columbina accepted it, her fingers brushing the delicate surface. The scent was sweet, floral, and utterly unfamiliar. She took a small bite. The sugar dissolved on her tongue, an explosion of unexpected flavor—cloyingly sweet at first, then a gentle, herbaceous note of lavender that bloomed in its wake. Her eyes widened slightly. It was an entirely new experience. She tried another, this one a vibrant blue, tasting faintly of mint and some ethereal fruit she couldn’t place. Then a fiery red one, which brought a surprising, pleasant tingle to her tongue, like spiced berries. Each was a miniature adventure, a tiny revolution in her palate. This simple act of tasting, of experiencing pure, unadulterated sensation, felt profoundly significant. It was a communion with the mundane, a grounding force.

Moving on, she found herself drawn to a game stall. Columbina hesitated. Such trivialities had never been part of her existence. Yet, the memory of Paimon's playful tug, Arlecchino's rare amusement, and Aether's gentle encouragement spurred her forward. "I… suppose I could."

Dori handed her three small, weighted rings. The first she threw with precision, though it was an unfamiliar application of her innate power. It struck the ten fairy-tale characters dead center, sending them scattering. Dori clapped, delighted. "Amazing! A true goddess's aim!"

Columbina found herself laughing, a soft, melodic sound that surprised even herself. It was a genuine laugh, not a polite one, not a sardonic one, but one born of simple, shared amusement. She played a few more rounds, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, each interaction a gentle brush against the fabric of ordinary life.

A short distance away, she noticed Sandrone. Playing a game.
"You have a surprising aptitude for children's games, Sandrone," Columbina remarked, her voice carrying a hint of wry observation.

Sandrone stiffened, her movements becoming rigid. The harbinger paused, its articulated fingers frozen above a piece. She turned, her masked face giving nothing away, but Columbina sensed a flicker of something in her posture. "Columbina. What brings you to me?"

Sandrone’s gaze lingered on Columbina for a moment longer than necessary. Her voice was dismissive, yet the underlying current was tinged with a familiar melancholy that Columbina recognized from their shared past.

"Of course,"

Sandrone let out a huff, a sound of irritation. "Do not presume to understand my motivations, Damselette. You of all people should know better than to project sentiment onto the pragmatic."

Columbina smiled, a full, genuine smile that softened her entire countenance. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I have simply learned to recognize the heart beneath the steel, even when it resists recognition itself." She paused, her gaze meeting Sandrone's, a silent acknowledgment of their shared history. "It has been… interesting, Sandrone. Our time as Harbingers."

The other Harbinger’s head tilted infinitesimally. "Indeed. Though you rarely graced us with your presence, Columbina." Her tone was sharp, but the edge was dulled by something unsaid. "You are… leaving, then." It was not a question, but a statement of reluctant acceptance.

"Yes. To my true home."

"A home you never truly had, until now," Sandrone mused, the words spoken with a surprising lack of malice. "A fitting end to your curious tenure. The moon, I suppose, is a more suitable stage for a goddess."

"And you, Sandrone?”

"The Tsaritsa's will is paramount," Sandrone stated, the familiar shield back in place. But then, almost imperceptibly, she added, "Though even intricate machines require occasional maintenance. And perhaps… a new blueprint, from time to time." She looked at Columbina, her gaze surprisingly direct. "Farewell, Columbina Hyposelenia. May your chosen name grant you the stability you always sought."

"And you, Sandrone. May your mechanisms find purpose beyond mere function." Columbina offered a genuine, if fleeting, nod of respect. It was as close to an emotional farewell as she expected from the usually unfeeling Harbinger, a testament to a connection forged in the unique crucible of their shared Fatui service.

As she moved away, she saw Nicole, the Dodoco projection, waving enthusiastically from a stall. "Columbina! Over here! I finally got someone to test my new game!"

…

Nicole's projection zipped around her head. "That's it! That's exactly what I wanted it to do! You understood it perfectly!" She paused, then tilted her head, her voice softening. "Thank you, Columbina. Truly. It means a lot that you gave my little invention a try."

Columbina reached out, her fingers passing through the shimmering projection. "The gratitude is mine, Nicole. To be able to play your game, it is a gift." It was a simple, heartfelt exchange, a moment of pure, uncomplicated connection born of shared enthusiasm and genuine appreciation.

As she continued her wanderings, when A flash of red and black, a familiar figure launched a water balloon with surprising force. It was Arlecchino, her stern features softened by a mischievous grin, aiming squarely at a smaller, more agile figure — Nefer.

Columbina paused, observing the playful skirmish. Arlecchino, the feared Knave, was engaging in a spirited water balloon fight, her movements fluid and surprisingly light. Nefer, quick as a sprite, dodged and retaliated, giggling as she splashed Arlecchino's elegant coat.

"Care to join, Columbina?" Arlecchino called out, catching her eye, a challenging glint in her gaze. "It's a rather effective way to release… excess energy." She punctuated her statement by launching another balloon, which burst harmlessly against a nearby tree.

Columbina considered. Her previous existence had little room for such frivolous pursuits. Yet, the warmth of the night, the genuine joy radiating from her companions, beckoned. "I suppose… a little friendly competition could be invigorating."

Arlecchino's smile widened. Nefer, seeing Columbina's agreement, grabbed Jahoda to join her team. Soon, Columbina found herself armed with a handful of water balloons, their cool, taut surfaces a strange contrast to the warmth of her hand.

Laughter, clear and bright, escaped her lips as a perfectly aimed balloon from Nefer splattered against her cheek. She retaliated with a gentle splash that nonetheless startled Nefer into a fit of giggles. Even Arlecchino, for a brief, glorious moment, seemed to shed the weight of her responsibilities, her rare laughter echoing through the square.

Later, as dusk deepened into the indigo of true night, Columbina found herself drawn to a quiet corner of the festival, a small grove of shimmering trees where delicate paper wishes, illuminated by internal lights, swayed gently in the breeze. Aether was there, leaning against a tree trunk, gazing up at the rising moon, its silver disc now a brilliant presence in the sky.

He turned as she approached, his expression softening. "Enjoying yourself?"

"More than I ever thought possible," Columbina admitted, her voice a soft murmur. She stood beside him, their shoulders almost brushing. The air between them hummed with a quiet intimacy, a comfortable silence that needed no words. "These trivialities… they hold a profound beauty, Traveler. A beauty I was blind to for so long."

"They're not trivial when they mean something to you," Aether replied, his voice gentle. "And tonight, they mean everything." He looked at her, his golden eyes reflecting the moonlight. "You belong here, Columbina. Among them. Among us."

The words, simple and direct, struck a chord deep within her. She had always sought belonging, a place where her unstable existence could find an anchor. Now, she had it, not in a grand title or a seat of power, but in the genuine smiles of strangers, the playful challenges of friends, the quiet understanding of the Traveler.

"I had an interesting encounter with Flins earlier," Aether mentioned, breaking the comfortable quiet. "He was doing his spirit animal readings. Said my spirit animal was a… Star?, that’s not even an animal." He chuckled softly. "He seemed quite taken by your presence."
…

Later, as the Moon-Prayer Night deepened, the festivities reaching their joyous zenith, Columbina found Aether again. He was standing near the central bonfire, its flames licking high into the night, casting long, dancing shadows. Paimon was already asleep, nestled comfortably in his hood, her soft snores a gentle counterpoint to the lively music.

"Traveler," she began, her voice softer than usual.

Aether turned, his golden eyes immediately sensing the shift in her demeanor. "Columbina? Is something wrong?"

She hesitated, then took a deep breath. "No. Nothing is wrong. Everything is… wonderfully right. And that is precisely what frightens me." She met his gaze, a vulnerability in her usually composed features he had rarely seen. "I have never had this before. This warmth, this belonging, this… love. I fear that when I return to the moon, it will all simply fade away. That these connections, so newly forged, will unravel like moonlight in the dawn."

Aether reached out, his hand gently covering hers, his touch warm and steady. His fingers interlaced with hers, a simple, comforting gesture. "It won't, Columbina. I promise you, it won't. Do you remember what Nicole said? The emotional meaning behind a name is what grants it power. Your name, Columbina Hyposelenia, is a declaration of your belonging. And the connections you've made, the love you've found here tonight, those are anchors stronger than any spell."

He squeezed her hand gently. "We won't forget you. We can't forget you. And when you return to the moon, it won't be a farewell. It will be… a new phase."

Columbina looked at their joined hands, then up at his face, illuminated by the flickering firelight. His eyes held such unwavering sincerity, such profound care. A warmth, deeper than the bonfire's heat, spread through her chest. It was a feeling so potent, so overwhelming, that it brought a prickle to her eyes.

"I… I believe you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. The fear, a cold knot in her stomach, began to loosen, dissolving under the warmth of his gaze and his touch.

He smiled, a soft, tender curve of his lips. He leaned closer, his gaze dropping to her mouth, a silent question in his eyes. Columbina, her heart thrumming with a mixture of newfound joy and bittersweet longing, met his gaze, and then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she leaned in, closing the small distance between them.

Their lips met, a soft, hesitant brush at first, then deepening into a tender, profound kiss. His lips were soft, warm, tasting faintly of the festival's sweet spiced cider. Her own, usually cool and reserved, responded with a surprising eagerness, a blossoming warmth that spread through her veins. It was a kiss that sealed their bond, a silent vow that distance would not diminish the connection they had forged. In that moment, surrounded by the vibrant energy of the festival, with the moon as their silent witness, Columbina felt loved.

When they finally broke apart, a soft, contented sigh escaped her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brighter than the moon itself. "Thank you, Traveler," she murmured, her voice laced with a raw emotion she no longer tried to hide. "For everything."

He simply squeezed her hand again, a silent reassurance. "Always."

The lingering warmth of the kiss, a gentle afterglow, settled deep within her. It was a memory she would carry, a beacon against any future loneliness. She realized then, with a profound clarity, that she wanted to savor every single moment of this final night. Every sound, every scent, every smile, every shared glance. These were the treasures she would take with her.

…

"Columbina," Lauma greeted, her ancient eyes filled with a gentle wisdom. "The Moon-Prayer Blossoms are almost ready to bloom. Have you prepared your wish?"

Columbina nodded. She took a small, blank paper lantern from a nearby basket, its surface smooth and waiting. With a delicate hand, she carefully inscribed her wish: *May all who dwell under the moon find belonging. And may I see my friends again someday.* She infused the words with every ounce of her newfound hope and love, a silent prayer echoing in the cool night air. Gently, she hung the lantern on a low branch, watching it sway, its soft light mingling with the countless others.
…

As the final moments of Moon-Prayer Night approached, a hush fell over Nasha Town. The Moon-Prayer Blossoms, until now tightly furled, began to slowly, gracefully unfurl their luminous petals, releasing a sweet, ethereal fragrance that perfumed the entire valley. Their light, a soft, internal glow, bathed the town in an otherworldly luminescence, turning every face into an ethereal portrait.

Her friends gathered around her, a circle of warmth and affection. Paimon, now awake and buzzing with anticipation, held a small, beautifully adorned greeting card. "It's for you, Columbina!" she declared, presenting it with a flourish.

Columbina took the card, her fingers tracing the delicate artwork. Inside, a collage of drawings and handwritten messages awaited her. There was a whimsical sketch of herself with Aether and Paimon, laughing amidst a field of blooming flowers. A drawing by Nicole, a detailed blueprint of a device capable of "trans-lunar communication." A surprisingly intricate sketch from Sandrone, depicting a mechanical bird soaring towards a crescent moon, its sharp lines softened by an almost tender quality. A bold, confident illustration from Arlecchino, showing Columbina standing tall, wreathed in moonlight, a symbol of strength. Even a small, childlike drawing from Nefer, a stick figure holding hands with a larger, winged figure, underneath a smiling moon. Each message, each drawing, was a vivid memory, a testament to the bonds she had forged. Tears, unshed but close, pricked at her eyes. This was her home, her family.

"This… this is beautiful," she managed, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you. All of you."

She looked at each of them, her gaze lingering, committing their faces, their expressions, to memory. "I have a plan," she announced, her voice gaining strength, a hint of her former Harbinger authority blending with her newfound warmth. "When I return to the moon, I will not simply observe. I will… communicate."

She paused, allowing the anticipation to build. "I will use the moonlight, my innate kuuvahki, to write messages upon the moon's surface. Not with ink, but with light itself. Hidden messages, woven into the very fabric of the moon's glow. Only those who know my heart, only those who understand the unique currents of lunar energy, will be able to perceive them. It will be our secret language, a constant reassurance that I am there, and that our connection remains unbroken."

A ripple of delighted understanding passed through her friends. Paimon clapped her tiny hands. "Moon messages! Paimon will look at it every night!" Aether smiled, a deep, knowing warmth in his eyes.

Chapter Text

The vibrant pulse of Moon-Prayer Night, a symphony of light and laughter, stretched across Nasha Town, a comforting blanket against the crisp northern air. Yet, even amidst the joyous clamor, there existed pockets of quiet introspection, moments suspended in the amber glow of lanterns and the silver kiss of the rising moon.

One such pocket shimmered around a small, whimsical carousel, a contraption less about grand spectacle and more about gentle, looping joy. Instead of painted horses, this carousel featured an array of intricately carved Dodoco figures, their wide, innocent eyes reflecting the swirling lights of the festival. Each Dodoco bobbed with a rhythmic, almost hypnotic grace as the ancient, enchanting music box at its core spun out a melody both childlike and profound.

Perched precariously on the back of a particularly fluffy, vibrant red Dodoco, her small legs swinging freely, was Aino. Her face, usually a canvas of serious concentration as she observed the world with a philosopher’s eye, was now alight with unadulterated delight.

Giggles, bright as newly polished bells, spilled from her lips as the carousel carried her through its gentle rotations. Her fingers, still smudged with remnants of festival sweets, clutched the plush neck of the Dodoco, her entire being surrendered to the simple, dizzying pleasure of the ride.

The carousel music, a tinkling, repetitive tune, wound its way into the night, a lullaby for a fleeting moment of peace. Aino, utterly lost in her world of Dodoco adventure, pointed a sticky finger at a particularly bright lantern, her eyes wide with wonder.

The Wanderer, without thinking, allowed his gaze to follow hers, a small, involuntary smile playing on his lips before he quickly, almost defensively, wiped it away. Durin, however, saw it. He saw the flicker of light in the Wanderer’s shadowed eyes, the subtle easing of his posture, the quiet, almost imperceptible softening of his perpetually guarded demeanor. And in that moment, the ancient dragon felt a surge of warmth, a quiet, profound joy that resonated with the very heart of the festival.

Ineffa, her usually reserved expression etched with a newfound solemnity, carefully lifted a heavy, ornate wooden box onto the table beside the communication device Alice gave them. Next to the communication device, coiled with an almost regal grace, sat Nefer's cat.

…

Far from the shimmering rituals and childlike wonder, in a quieter, more secluded part of Nasha Town, two figures found a different kind of solace. Flins and Varka. The air here, though still infused with the festival's warmth, was less frantic, allowing for contemplation and camaraderie.

The clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversations, and the distant, joyful music of the festival formed a gentle backdrop to their quiet companionship.

“If I may, you seem to be drinking an unusually large amount, Varka”

“Ahh well why not. Occasions as joyous as today come by rarely, Flins”

“I suppose”

With those words, their glasses clinked once more as they continued to slip their beer and chat.

…

The path to the ancient Hyperborean ruins was not one of paved roads or well-trodden trails. It was a winding, barely discernible track, snaking through a stand of ancient, gnarled pines whose branches, heavy with snow, glittered with an ethereal beauty under the moonlight. The crisp air, usually biting, was softened tonight by the faint, sweet perfume of the Moon Blossoms carried on the gentle breeze. The sounds of the festival, once a lively din, had faded to a distant hum, replaced by the hushed whispers of the wind through the pines and the soft crunch of snow underfoot.

Aether led the way, his golden eyes scanning the path, his steps steady and resolute. Behind him, Columbina walked with a grace that was both ethereal and newly grounded. Lauma, her magnificent antlers radiating a soft, lunar glow that illuminated their path, moved with the quiet dignity of an ancient spirit. Arlecchino, ever watchful, brought up the rear, her movements silent, her presence a comforting, if stern, anchor. Paimon, unusually quiet, floated beside Aether, her small hand occasionally brushing his arm, a silent gesture of solidarity.

Columbina’s heart, a vessel now overflowing with the warmth of the festival, felt a bittersweet ache. The laughter, the shared moments, the genuine smiles – they were treasures she would carry with her, memories woven into the very fabric of her being. Yet, with each step towards the ancient ruins, the reality of her departure pressed in, a cold, undeniable truth. To finally find belonging, only to leave it behind. It was a paradox she was still learning to reconcile.

“Are you… ready, Columbina?” Aether asked, his voice soft, attuned to the subtle currents of her emotions. He glanced back at her, his golden eyes filled with a gentle concern that both comforted and intensified her inner turmoil.

She met his gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in her voice. “As ready as I can be, Traveler. The festival… it was everything I never knew I longed for. And leaving it, leaving you all…” She trailed off, the words catching in her throat. The thought of the vast, empty expanse of space, of the silent, waiting moon, now carried a new weight. It was no longer just a destination, but a separation.

Lauma, sensing her distress, placed a gentle hand on her arm. Her touch was warm, ancient, imbued with the wisdom of countless lunar cycles.

“Fear not, Columbina Hyposelenia. A home is not merely a place, but a feeling. And that feeling, once found, resides within you, no matter where your journey takes you. You carry Nod-Krai in your heart, and we, in turn, carry you.”

Arlecchino, surprisingly, offered a rare, almost tender gesture. She stepped forward, her gloved hand briefly touching Columbina’s shoulder.

“You are not unmoored, Damselette. You have chosen your name, chosen your path. This departure is not an abandonment, but an ascension. And we, your… companions, will ensure your anchor remains firm.”

Her words, though delivered with characteristic bluntness, carried an undeniable undercurrent of genuine affection. It was a testament to the profound shift in their dynamic, from wary colleagues to something akin to a chosen family.

Columbina watched as the 2 moon marrow got placed solemnly, knowing after this, she would have to wait a long time to see Aether again.

The portal, formed after the moon marrows got placed, a swirling vortex of silver, pulsed with increased intensity, beckoning. It was time.

She turned to her friends, a soft, genuine smile gracing her lips, a smile born of acceptance and newfound peace. “Farewell, for now,” she said, her voice clear and resonant, carrying a promise that echoed in the cold night air.

…

“The Moon really is closer than ever tonight…”

Chapter Text

The portal, a swirling vortex of silver light, had pulsed with an almost eager intensity, a beckoning promise of home. Columbina, her heart a fragile mosaic of newfound joy and bittersweet farewells, had stepped through, the lingering warmth of Aether’s kiss still a phantom presence on her lips.

She carried with her not just the wishes of Nod-Krai, but the very essence of belonging, a feeling so potent it had transformed her.

Instead of the cool, ethereal expanse of the Frost Moon, Columbina found herself plunging not into the familiar void, but into an abyss of cold, sterile light.

The air, which should have been thinning to the vacuum of space, instead grew strangely dense, a frigid, electric hum vibrating through her very being. The portal, her gateway, had twisted, warped by an unseen hand, redirecting her trajectory with a precision that spoke of meticulous, malevolent planning.

The destination was not the moon, but a construct of pure, shimmering energy, hovering impossibly above a vast, churning expanse of frigid, dark water. It was a platform, not of stone or metal, but of incandescent, light blue energy, humming with a low, menacing thrum.

The light it cast was harsh, unforgiving, stripping away the soft, welcoming glow of Moon-Prayer Night and replacing it with an almost surgical glare.

And at the heart of this luminous, geometric prison, stood a figure that had haunted the periphery of Aether’s memories for too long. Dottore.

He was a silhouette against the blinding platform, his form as sharp and unyielding as the intellect that surely drove him. His segmented mask, a grotesque parody of scientific detachment, seemed to absorb the light around him, creating an unsettling void in the vibrant blue.

He stood with an almost casual arrogance, his hands clasped behind his back, his head tilted slightly as if observing a particularly interesting specimen. His very presence was a desecration of the sacred promise of the night, a discordant note in the symphony of her departure. He had orchestrated this, this betrayal of the portal, this cruel redirection of her path. The realization struck Columbina with the force of a physical blow, she was not going home, she was walking into a trap.

Her consciousness, still reeling from the unexpected shift, tried to manifest fully, to brace for impact, to fight. But the energy of the platform was not merely a surface; it was a cage. As she plummeted, the light blue energy solidified around her, not with the crushing force of rock, but with the inescapable grip of pure, contained force. It formed a box, a luminous, shimmering prison that encased her completely, suspending her, utterly helpless, within its glowing confines. There was no impact, no struggle allowed. Only immediate, absolute containment.

Columbina, the newly named Hyposelenia, the Moon Maiden, found herself trapped. The warmth of Aether's hand, the laughter of the festival, the soft murmur of Lauma's wisdom – all of it seemed to recede, replaced by the chilling, electric hum of her new prison. Her elegant clothing, still carrying the faint scent of Moon Blossoms, felt like a cruel mockery in this sterile, mechanical light.

Outside her glowing cage, the two Moon Marrows, which had been placed to open the portal and were meant to guide her home, instead found themselves caught in the same insidious manipulation. They, too, were drawn by the platform’s perverse energy, swirling around her glowing box like confused, miniature galaxies, their soft, inner light now dwarfed by the harsh blue.

They pulsed with an agitated rhythm, their innate connection to the true moon struggling against this artificial pull. And then, with a subtle shift in the platform's hum, they began to ascend, slowly, majestically, still orbiting her glowing prison, until they reached Dottore himself. They hovered around him, two luminous orbs of primordial power, now entirely within his grasp.

Dottore raised a gloved hand, not to touch them, but to gesture with a theatrical flourish, as if conducting an unseen orchestra. His voice, modulated by his mask, was a low, resonant hum, laced with a chilling satisfaction that vibrated through the very air.

"All three moons in one place," he intoned, the words echoing with a perverse triumph. His gaze, even through the mask, seemed to bore into Columbina's imprisoned form, a predatory gleam of scientific hunger. He paused, “Time for one final experiment.”

…

Miles away, nestled in the ancient, hallowed halls of the Curatorium of Secrets, the sudden, seismic shift in ambient energy sent tremors through the very foundations of the building.

“Jahoda, go check what’s happening”

Hearing her boss's urgent tone, she dashed outside. “I- what is that?”

Nefer pushed past Jahoda, seeing the glowing blue platform. “Columbina… Jahoda, grab your stuff, we’re going.” Nefer rushed out, followed by Jahoda, after Jahoda grabbed her bow.

…

In Nasha Town, the joyous clamor of Moon-Prayer Night had reached its zenith, a vibrant tapestry of laughter, music, and the sweet perfume of Moon Blossoms.

Flins and Varka, having found a quiet, secluded spot on the outskirts of the town square, continued their companionable vigil, their mugs of crisp, local ale clinking softly. The distant hum of the festival was a soothing backdrop to their conversation, a comforting reminder of the peace they had come to cherish.

"And so," Varka mused, taking a long, contemplative draught from his mug, "the young Moon Goddess finds her footing. A remarkable thing, to witness such a transformation." He glanced at Flins, a rare, genuine smile gracing his usually stoic features. "It gives one hope, doesn't it? That even the most ancient sorrows can find their balm."

Flins, ever the enigmatic observer, nodded slowly, his bright, perceptive eyes reflecting the distant glow of the Moon-Prayer Blossoms. "Indeed, Grand Master. Her spirit sings with a newfound harmony. A tether to the earth, even as she prepares to embrace the sky." He took a delicate sip of his own brew, his gaze drifting towards the path that led to the Hyperborean ruins. “Tonight is a night of profound departures and hopeful beginnings.”

Just as he spoke, a flash of brilliant, unnatural blue light erupted on the distant horizon, far beyond the path to the ruins, far from the tranquil waters of the Silvermoon Hall. It was too bright to be a star, too steady to be lightning, and utterly alien to the gentle luminescence of the moon. It pulsed, a malevolent beacon, cutting through the soft, silver glow of the rising moon, overshadowing even the vibrant celebrations of Nasha Town.

Both men froze, their mugs halfway to their lips. The festive sounds around them seemed to dim, receding into an indistinct background hum. Their eyes, once filled with quiet contemplation, now widened with alarm.

"What in Teyvat…?" Varka whispered, his voice laced with a sudden, chilling dread. His hand, which had been relaxed around his mug, instinctively tightened, the knuckles whitening.

Flins, ever more attuned to the subtle currents of the world, felt a cold tendril of power unfurl across the land, a disruptive force that pulled at the very essence of the moon's gentle influence. His brow furrowed, his usual serene expression replaced by one of profound concern. "That is no natural phenomenon, Grand Master. That… that is a wound upon the night." He recognized the signature, the arrogance, the sheer, unbridled ambition radiating from that distant light. "Dottore."

The name hung in the air, a chilling pronouncement that shattered the last vestiges of their peaceful evening. It was a name synonymous with ruthless experimentation, with a disregard for life and the delicate balance of the world.

Without another word, Varka slammed his mug down onto the small, rickety table, the ceramic clinking sharply. His casual posture vanished, replaced by the coiled readiness of a seasoned warrior. "Columbina," he breathed, the name a silent prayer. He remembered the Traveler's earlier account of the Harbinger's machinations, the lingering threat. "He must have intercepted her."

Flins was already on his feet, his movements surprisingly swift for his age. His eyes, usually twinkling with ancient wisdom, now burned with a fierce, protective fire. “The portal. It was a conduit. He must have twisted its destination. A perversion of sacred passage.” He knew the profound implications of Dottore seizing a Moon Goddess, especially one so newly anchored, so vulnerable to manipulation.

“We need to move," Varka declared, his voice a low growl of determination. He didn't know the specifics, but the raw power emanating from the distant light, combined with Dottore's known ambition, spelled disaster.

…

Lauma, her ancient eyes fixed on the distant, searing blue, let out a low, guttural growl, a sound of primeval warning that seemed to vibrate through the very earth.

Her antlers, instead of their gentle lunar glow, now sparked with an agitated, crackling energy. "No," she breathed, her voice a raspy whisper of profound despair and anger. "He has corrupted the passage. He has… seized her." The weight of her ancient knowledge settled upon her, confirming their worst fears. The signature was unmistakable.

Arlecchino, ever the pragmatist, reacted with a swift, cold fury. Her hand immediately went to her weapon, her usually impassive face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. "Dottore," she spat, the name a venomous curse.

"The bastard. He always wanted her power. To intercept her at her moment of apotheosis… it is an act of unimaginable cruelty."

"We have to go!" Aether cried, his voice raw with a desperate urgency. The ache of longing for Columbina, for the warmth of her touch, the quiet strength of her presence, now twisted into a sharp, agonizing fear.

He had promised her safety, and promised her a home. And now, in this cruel twist of fate, she was stolen. He felt a surge of unadulterated protectiveness, a fierce, burning resolve to reclaim her.

Without hesitation, he turned and began to run, his steps pounding against the ground.

Lauma moved with surprising speed, her long strides covering ground quickly. Her gaze remained fixed on the distant blue light, her ancient heart burdened with a terrible knowledge. "Columbina…" she whispered again, the name a plea, a prayer carried on the biting wind. It was a lament for a daughter of the moon, caught in a snare woven by mortal ambition.

Arlecchino, her movements fluid and deadly, easily matched Aether's pace, her eyes blazing with a cold, terrifying fury. She was not just running to save a former colleague; she was running to exact vengeance. The lines of loyalty had shifted, the bonds forged in the crucible of this journey now stronger than any Fatui oath. Columbina was theirs now, a part of their fragile, chosen family, and Dottore had dared to lay hands on her.

They ran, a desperate dash against a looming, impossible threat, the joyous echoes of Moon-Prayer Night fading behind them, replaced by the pounding of their hearts and the chilling knowledge that Columbina, so recently found, was now in gravest peril.

…

Albedo was absorbed in a delicate experiment. The air was thick with the scent of alchemical reagents and the faint, earthy aroma of freshly unearthed crystals.

He was attempting to synthesize a unique type of kuuvahki-reactive alloy, a theoretical material that could potentially stabilize volatile elemental reactions. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his hands moving with the precise, almost surgical grace of a master craftsman, as he carefully balanced a small, glowing flask over a low, controlled flame.

The delicate glassware on his workbench rattled, a high-pitched protest against the encroaching chaos. A small, unstable elemental particle, usually contained within his experimental setup, began to flicker erratically, threatening to destabilize the entire reaction.

Albedo’s eyes, usually cool and detached, snapped open in alarm. The flask, momentarily forgotten in his hand, slipped. It crashed to the stone floor with a sharp, echoing with a shatter, sending shimmering shards of glass and iridescent liquid scattering across the floor.

He ignored the ruined experiment, his gaze immediately drawn to the large, reinforced window that overlooked the distant, snow-swept landscape. Through the swirling flakes and the deepening twilight, an impossible light pulsed on the horizon. A brilliant, malevolent blue, unlike any natural phenomenon he had ever witnessed.

"Dottore," Albedo murmured, the name, a hard stone in his throat. His scientific curiosity, usually piqued by such phenomena, was now overshadowed by a profound sense of dread. The sheer audacity, the scale of this interference, was staggering. It wasn’t just a simple experiment; it was an attempt to fundamentally alter the fabric of reality.

Without a moment's hesitation, Albedo moved. He pulled out his sword, its pristine blade glinting in the flickering light of his remaining experimental apparatus. It was not a weapon he often wielded, preferring the elegant precision of alchemy, but in moments of threat, it was a necessary extension of his will.

…

High above the waters, suspended in a prison of Dottore’s making, Columbina watched, utterly helpless, as the two Moon Marrows spiraled around the Harbinger. Their light, once a comforting connection to her true home, now seemed to fuel the chilling blue energy that radiated from the platform and, more disturbingly, from Dottore himself. He was absorbing it, channeling it, his form an unholy conduit for primordial lunar power.

His voice, amplified by his mask and the strange acoustics of his energy construct, boomed across the vast expanse of frozen water, a declaration of intent, a testament to his boundless, terrifying ambition.

"They clung to their petty laws, their fragile certainties. They saw limitations where I saw variables. Weakness where I saw opportunity."

His head tilted, his gaze, even through the mask, seemed to encompass the entire world, and beyond. "But I have observed. I have analyzed. I have, with the precision of a true genius, accounted for every single anomaly. Every unexpected deviation. Every… I suppose that is enough of my ramblings.”

As he spoke, the light blue energy pulsed with an even greater intensity, vibrating with a furious, almost sentient power. The very air around them crackled, charged with an impossible tension. The dark, frigid water below, a vast, still canvas reflecting the ominous blue, began to stir. Not with waves, but with an internal, terrifying upheaval.

"Reason, life, death, time, and space," he began, his voice laced with disdain, "they all believed I would fail."

And then, with Dottore’s final, triumphant words, the water in a hundred-meter radius around the platform exploded upwards. It wasn't a gentle spray, nor a violent tidal wave. It was an instantaneous, colossal geyser, a column of liquid energy that defied gravity, shattering the stillness of the night with a terrifying roar.

Thousands of tons of water surged skyward, forming a colossal, shimmering dome of spray and mist that enveloped the platform, Dottore, and Columbina’s glowing prison within its roiling, ephemeral walls.

The force of it was immense, a primordial scream of the elements. Yet, within the chaos, a profound stillness descended. The roaring water, frozen mid-air, became a crystalline sculpture. The distant sounds of Nasha Town, the frantic shouts of her friends, the very whisper of the wind – all ceased. Time, itself, had been arrested.
Columbina, suspended within her glowing box, felt the chilling grip of temporal stasis.

Her heart, which had been pounding with a desperate rhythm of fear and defiance, now felt trapped, its beats elongated, distorted, almost silent. The frantic, swirling Moon Marrows outside her cage froze in place, two ethereal satellites caught in an impossible moment. Dottore, too, stood perfectly still, a triumphant statue in the heart of his impossible creation. The surging water, the mist, the very particles of air – all were locked in an eternal present.

Everything had stopped.

Everything, that is, except for one.

Far below, amidst the frozen chaos, Aether continued to run. The world around him had become a tableau of impossible stillness. Arlecchino, mid-stride, her face contorted in a silent scream of rage, was a statue of fury. Lauma, her antlers frozen mid-sparkle, was a study in ancient dread. Paimon, her small hand outstretched, was a perfectly preserved miniature of fear.

The wind, the distant festival lights – all were motionless.
But Aether moved. His boots crunched on the ground, the sound echoing unnaturally in the profound silence. His breath plumed in the crystalline air, a solitary sign of life amidst the suspended reality. His golden eyes, filled with a desperate, burning love and a fierce, unyielding determination, were fixed on the shimmering, frozen construct high above the water, on the tiny, glowing box that held Columbina.

He was the only one left in motion, a lonely figure in a world held captive, tasked with an impossible rescue.

…

Durin, who had been enjoying a quiet moment of reflection, polishing his finely crafted sword by the soft glow of a nearby lantern, had felt the familiar, jarring pulse of Dottore’s energy signature.

"Hurry up, Durin!" the Wanderer had shouted, his voice sharp with urgency, a rare note of genuine alarm in his usually sarcastic tone. He was already moving, his own elemental powers stirring, sensing the impending catastrophe.

Durin had immediately sprung to his feet, his hand instinctively closing around the hilt of his sword, its familiar weight a comfort against the sudden, encroaching dread. He had looked up, his gaze drawn to the distant, impossible blue light that now flared like a malevolent star.

His hand, tightening around his sword, froze in place. His body, coiled for action, became rigid, unyielding. The Wanderer, mid-turn, was now a silent statue, his eyes wide with a frozen alarm. The very air around them, filled with the promise of movement, was now a solid, unyielding block. The distant blue light, the looming threat – all remained, perfectly preserved, in an eternal, horrifying moment. He could only watch, a silent, immobilized witness to the unfolding catastrophe.

Albedo burst out of his laboratory, his sword in hand, his mind racing, attempting to compute the precise nature of the energy signature. He had glimpsed the distant blue light, the colossal surge of water, his analytical mind already dissecting the phenomena. Albebo, noticing Dottore a bit late, was behind everyone. He started getting closer and closer to the platform, now being able to make out Dottore. “Varka! I’ll boost you”

Albedo used his flower to boost up Varka and while Varka was still mid-air, Timp stopped.

The world hung, crystalline and silent, a grotesque monument to Dottore’s temporal mastery. Every breath, every motion, every whispered fear was suspended, trapped in an eternal present that stretched like a broken string. Yet, even in this profound stillness, the undercurrent of unspoken terror resonated, a silent scream of reality held captive.

Far below the shimmering, frozen platform, amidst the chaos of Nasha Town’s arrested revelry, Sandrone had been in motion. Her mechanical puppet, Pulonia, usually a bastion of cool, calculating efficiency, had been caught mid-stride, its intricate gears frozen, its many limbs locked in a futile attempt to accelerate.

Sandrone herself, her face a pale mask of urgency beneath her bonnet, had been running. Not with the measured, scientific detachment she usually displayed, but with an almost frantic desperation that was utterly uncharacteristic.

Her sharp, perceptive eyes had been fixed on the distant, malevolent blue light, on the silhouette of Dottore, and most importantly, on the tiny, luminous box that held Columbina. A flicker of something akin to fear had crossed her features, a raw, protective instinct for the Moon Maiden, her former colleague, her unexpected friend. She had seen the portal warp, felt the sickening lurch of kuuvahki corrupted, and the cold dread had settled deep in her core. Dottore had always been too ambitious, too reckless, too dangerously brilliant. To intercept Columbina, to seize her at the cusp of her ascension, was an act of profound, unforgivable cruelty.

A sharp, almost imperceptible gasp had escaped her lips as she witnessed Aether's furious, Pyro-infused charge. The sheer audacity of his defiance, a single mortal against an archon-level Harbinger wielding stolen divine power, was breathtaking. But then, as Dottore had unleashed his temporal stasis, the world had snapped shut. Sandrone, Pulonia, the very air around them—all had ceased. Her outstretched hand, reaching towards the distant platform, was now a frozen tableau of desperate intent, a silent prayer suspended in an impossible moment.

…

Everything had ceased. The laughter of Nasha Town, the frantic rush of Varka and Flins, the urgent cries of Durin and the Wanderer, the very beating of time itself. All silenced. All frozen.

All… save for one.

Aether continued his desperate race towards the glowing prison, towards Columbina.

The world around him was a silent, unmoving monument to Dottore's terrifying power, a testament to his ambition to control not just life and death, but the very fabric of existence. He was utterly alone, an anomaly in a frozen world, his heart a burning ember of defiance in the face of absolute despair.

He looked around seeing everyone’s frozen faces, he would not fail them. He could not. Not now, not when Columbina had finally found her home, her name, her true self. He would not fail. Aether will win, no matter the consequences, if it meant killing that disgusting creature. Dottore deserved to die. And Aether would gladly be his executioner, the bane of Dottore’s existence.

Chapter Text

Aether’s vision narrowed, the world around him a frozen tableau of despair and impending doom. The chilling blue light of Dottore’s platform seared into his eyes, a stark, malevolent counterpoint to the gentle lunar glow that had so recently bathed Nasha Town. His friends, caught in their silent screams and frozen postures of alarm, were a constant, aching reminder of the stakes at play. Columbina, encased in her shimmering cage, was a beacon of his resolve, a fragile promise he would not allow to be broken.

A guttural roar, born of pure, unadulterated fury, tore from Aether’s throat. He channeled the raw, crackling power of Pyro, flames erupting around his body, turning him into a streaking comet of incandescent rage. His golden eyes, usually calm and thoughtful, now burned with an inferno of righteous indignation as he launched himself forward, a solitary, blazing figure in a world held captive.

The platform of light blue energy, shimmering with an oppressive, sterile brilliance, loomed large before him. Dottore, a silhouette of arrogance against the blinding glow, remained unmoving, his head tilted in that infuriating, detached posture of observation. The two Moon Marrows, luminous orbs of stolen power, continued their slow, hypnotic orbit around the Harbinger, their true purpose perverted by his insidious will.

Aether’s heart pounded, a frantic drum against the unnatural silence of the temporal stasis, each beat echoing the desperate urgency of his mission. He would tear down this construct, free Columbina, and extinguish the spark of Dottore’s vile ambition, no matter the cost.

Dottore, observing Aether’s blazing charge, finally stirred, a languid, almost dismissive movement of his gloved hand. With a subtle flex of his fingers, the air around him shivered, and then, from the depths of the shimmering blue platform, several dozen daggers materialized.

Each dagger, sharp and precise, hung suspended for a moment before launching themselves with lethal speed towards Aether, a silent, deadly swarm aimed to intercept and shred the blazing Traveler.

Aether, refusing to be deterred, moved with a sudden, almost desperate grace that defied the crushing weight of the frozen world. He veered sharply to the left, a blur of fiery motion, allowing the first wave of daggers to whiz past, their icy trails searing the air where he had been.

With an explosive burst of Pyro from his feet, he launched himself skyward, a flaming projectile defying gravity and the silent, suspended water that surrounded them. His eyes, keen and calculating, fixed on a single dagger from the next volley, a gleaming shard of malevolent energy slicing through the frozen air towards him.

Time, though technically stopped for all but him and Dottore, seemed to warp and stretch around Aether, granting him an impossible moment of clarity.

He twisted in mid-air, a whirlwind of golden hair and crimson flame, and landed with a surprising lightness upon the flat, crystalline surface of the approaching dagger. The energy blade hummed beneath his boots, a cold, alien vibration, but he paid it no mind. He used the momentum of its trajectory, the forced path of Dottore’s attack, to his advantage, coiling his powerful legs and then springing off with a powerful, Pyro-infused leap.

The force of his jump sent the dagger he had used as a springboard spinning wildly off course, destabilized and rendered harmless. Aether propelled himself directly into the heart of the remaining dagger swarm, a blazing comet tearing through a constellation of deadly stars. His sword, now wreathed in roaring crimson flames, became an extension of his furious will, a blur of incandescent steel. He slashed and parried, each movement precise and devastating, cutting through the energy daggers as if they were made of fragile glass.

Sparks of brilliant blue energy exploded with each impact, sizzling and dissipating into the unnatural silence. His Pyro-infused blade cleaved through one dagger, then another, the raw heat of his element overwhelming their sterile constructs. He moved with a brutal elegance, a dance of destruction, his fury translating into an unstoppable torrent of attacks.

The remaining daggers, those he could not directly cut, were simply knocked out of his path by the sheer force of his blazing charge, sent tumbling into the frozen water below, where they dissolved into harmless motes of light.

With the dagger mostly gone, Aether unleashed another potent burst of Pyro, a concentrated inferno from his hands that propelled him forward with incredible speed.

The intense heat created a momentary distortion in the frozen air, a shimmering wave that preceded his furious assault. He closed the distance to Dottore’s platform in an instant, his boots thudding onto the vibrant blue surface with a resounding impact that echoed through the unnatural stillness. His face, grim and determined, was set in a mask of absolute resolve.

He raised his Pyro-infused sword high, its crimson flames licking greedily at the sterile blue light, and brought it down with all the accumulated force of his rage and despair. The blade met Dottore’s barrier, an invisible shield of pure energy that shimmered into existence around the Harbinger, a protective shell against Aether’s furious assault.

There was no clang of metal, no shattering of rock, only a deafening, concussive boom that seemed to rip through the frozen fabric of time itself. The air exploded outwards, a violent shockwave of raw elemental power.

Aether was thrown backward by the sheer force of the rebound, his body tumbling end over end through the frigid, suspended air. He crashed hard onto the shimmering blue platform, the impact rattling his bones and sending a jolt of pain through his shoulder.

The dazzling blue energy of the platform seemed to absorb the concussive force, yet a faint tremor rippled across its surface, a testament to the power of Aether’s desperate strike. He landed with a heavy thud, his vision momentarily swimming, but his golden eyes remained fixed on Dottore, unwavering in their furious gaze.

Deep Down
You know that we are the same

What? Was that Lumine’s voice? No no no no. That must be Dottore playing tricks on him. Still wreathed in the flickering flames of Pyro, Aether scrambled back to his feet, his muscles protesting but his will unbending. He lunged once more, his sword a blazing arc, seeking to find a weakness in Dottore’s impassive defense.

The Harbinger, still unmoving, merely allowed his barrier to absorb the relentless onslaught, the invisible shield rippling and pulsing with each fiery impact. Aether’s attacks were a desperate symphony of furious slashes and searing thrusts, each one fueled by his unwavering determination to reach Columbina.

As he clashed with the barrier, the energy daggers Dottore had initially summoned reformed, rising from the depths of the frozen water. They launched themselves once more, a silent, deadly ballet of light blue death, forcing Aether to divide his attention between offense and defense. He twisted and turned, a fiery dervish, deflecting the incoming blades with precise parries of his sword and bursts of Pyro energy from his free hand. The sterile hum of the daggers grated against the roaring inferno of his element, a constant, jarring counterpoint to his focused fury.

His vision, however, began to fray at the edges, a subtle distortion that mirrored the escalating desperation within his heart. A new, unsettling energy began to stir within him, a dark, insidious current that thrummed beneath the surface of his elemental power. As Aether brought his Pyro-infused sword down for another powerful strike against Dottore’s barrier, subtle sparks of black and purple began to flicker within the crimson flames.

They were tiny, ephemeral things at first, like dying embers within a roaring fire, but their presence was undeniably chilling.
The black and purple sparks, though fleeting, carried a raw, untamed power that seemed to hum with a forgotten resonance. This final Pyro attack, imbued with this nascent, darker energy, struck Dottore’s barrier with an unprecedented force. The invisible shield, which had effortlessly absorbed Aether’s previous assaults, now visibly warped and buckled under the impact.

A sickening, high-pitched whine emanated from the barrier as a jagged crack, not large but undeniably present, spiderwebbed across its shimmering surface. Dottore, for the first time, showed a flicker of something akin to surprise behind his segmented mask, a minute shift in his posture that spoke volumes. The barrier, though damaged, still held, but a breach had been made, a silent testament to the Traveler's escalating power.

From within her shimmering prison, Columbina watched Aether’s furious assault, her heart a tangled knot of dread and desperate hope. The glowing confines of her box offered no escape, no means of intervention, only a clear, agonizing view of the battle unfolding before her.

She saw the subtle shift in Aether’s elemental power, the nascent flicker of darkness within his radiant flames, and a cold dread began to coil in her stomach. Aether, still wreathed in the fading embers of Pyro, took a deep, shuddering breath, his body tensing with renewed resolve.

There is no price we won’t pay

He heard it again. Lumine’s voice. What’s worse was that he could feel abyssal energy creeping around. This time, however, he didn’t let it stun him. He drew upon a different wellspring of power, a crackling, vibrant energy that surged through his veins, replacing the heat of Pyro with the sharp, invigorating bite of Electro. As he charged up his next attack, the black and purple sparks, which had been subtle whispers in his previous Pyro strikes, now grew more and more common. Afterall, Dottore was just playing his tricks on him… right?

They danced and crackled within the brilliant violet of his Electro energy, weaving an ominous tapestry of light and shadow, a disturbing sign of the abyss’s subtle, insidious influence. The air around him thrummed with a raw, untamed power, a dissonant chord struck between the purity of his elemental control and the encroaching darkness.

We both know what it takes to survive

With a primal shout, Aether launched himself forward, a bolt of dark lightning streaking across the sterile blue platform. He moved in a furious, unpredictable zig-zag pattern, his form a flickering afterimage against Dottore’s impassive silhouette. Each sudden change in direction was precisely timed, designed to confuse and overwhelm, to exploit the momentary disequilibrium of Dottore’s static defense. The energy daggers, attempting to intercept his chaotic path, found themselves outmaneuvered, their trajectories anticipated and avoided.

As he closed the final distance, Aether’s Electro-infused sword became a vibrant, crackling arc of violet and black. He swung with a ferocious cry, the blade screaming through the air, directly at the already damaged section of Dottore’s barrier. The impact was deafening, a sharp, violent *CRACK* that resonated through the entire platform, momentarily overwhelming the low hum of its energy. The barrier shuddered violently, and the jagged crack from before visibly lengthened and deepened, a gaping wound in Dottore’s impenetrable defense.

Within her glowing prison, Columbina felt a chilling tremor ripple through the very fabric of her being, a sensation that had nothing to do with the physical impact. Her heightened senses, honed by her lunar divinity, perceived a profound disturbance in the elemental flow around Aether. It was unmistakable, a cold, predatory hum that resonated with ancient, forbidden energies. She could now distinctly sense the abyssal energy within him, a dark, insidious current that had begun to intertwine with his pure elemental power, changing its very nature.

Aether, refusing to yield, pressed his advantage, his breathing ragged but his gaze unwavering. He swapped elements again, the vibrant crackle of Electro giving way to the fluid, surging power of Hydro. With a powerful surge, he launched a concentrated beam of hydro energy directly at the deepening cracks in Dottore’s barrier.

The water, usually a gentle and flowing element, was now a focused, piercing lance, propelled by the Traveler’s desperate will.
Dottore, his impassive posture finally shifting, responded with a swift, almost contemptuous gesture. He raised a hand, and from the two orbiting Moon Marrows, a searing beam of kuuvahki energy erupted, a concentrated blast of primordial lunar power.

The kuuvahki beam, pure and devastating, screamed towards Aether’s Hydro attack, a clash of fundamental forces that threatened to tear the very air apart. The two beams met mid-air, a violent collision that created a shimmering, incandescent sphere of raw energy.

Deep down, we only care for ourselves

For a moment, the two powers seemed to be at a stalemate, pushing against each other with immense force, neither gaining an inch. Then, with a sudden, horrifying surge, Aether’s Hydro beam flashed with an ominous black and purple luminescence, the abyssal energy within him erupting to the surface with startling intensity.

The pure blue of the water became tainted, swirling with dark, predatory hues, imbued with a destructive force that transcended its usual properties. With an explosive surge, the corrupted Hydro beam broke through Dottore’s kuuvahki attack, shattering the lunar energy into a thousand shimmering motes.

The abyssal-infused Hydro beam, now an unstoppable torrent of dark water, slammed into Dottore’s already fractured barrier, causing another crack.

Aether tensed, his body coiling with raw, adrenaline-fueled energy, the abyssal power within him thrumming with a dark, intoxicating vibrancy. He launched himself backward with a powerful leap, boosting himself skyward with a sudden, ferocious gust of Anemo. The wind, usually a clean, pure force, was now tainted with the faint, swirling residue of black and purple, the abyssal energy slowly dissipating from his form as he shifted his focus. He executed a breathtaking aerial maneuver, flipping himself over Dottore’s head with a grace that belied the brutality of his intent.

As he reached the apex of his flip, directly above the now exposed Harbinger, Aether unleashed a powerful, concentrated gust of Anemo. This was no ordinary wind; it was a swirling vortex of raw, untamed abyssal energy, a tempest born of his fury and the encroaching darkness within him.

Deep down, we’re lonely demons from hell

The dark wind howled, a spectral scream that tore through the sterile air, slamming down on Dottore with unimaginable force. The impact sent the Harbinger crashing to the shimmering blue platform, his form buckling under the sudden, unexpected assault.

A sickening thud echoed as Dottore hit the energy platform. From the point of impact, spiderweb cracks, stark and undeniable, spread rapidly across the pristine blue energy of his barrier, a testament to the raw, destructive power of Aether’s abyssal-infused Anemo.

The platform, once a symbol of Dottore’s control, now bore the scars of Aether’s defiance. The attack, however, was not without its cost; Aether felt a deeper chill settle in his bones, a quiet whisper from the abyss.

Aether landed back on the platform with a controlled roll, his body still humming with the residue of his Anemo attack. He did not pause, his golden eyes fixed on Dottore’s prone form. The time for caution was over, the moment for decisive action had arrived. He swapped back to Electro, the crackling violet energy surging through him with renewed intensity, the black sparks now a more prominent feature in its luminous display.

With a final, desperate burst of speed, Aether launched himself forward, his Electro-infused sword a searing blade of dark lightning. He plunged it downwards, to the very core of his vile ambition.

Hello

The impact was cataclysmic, a soundless scream of tearing energy that reverberated through the air. The entire barrier shattered, not with an explosion, but with a horrifying implosion, collapsing inward on itself as if consumed by a void. The remaining shards of the barrier dissolved into nothingness, leaving Dottore exposed, his form no longer shielded by his impenetrable defense. The Traveler’s desperate attack had finally succeeded, creating another, far more devastating crack in Dottore's composure.

However, even in his apparent defeat, Dottore revealed a cunning born of long years of ruthless manipulation. As Aether’s blade pierced his barrier, Dottore’s gloved hand, hidden beneath his robes, moved with a sudden, unexpected speed. A small, wickedly sharp dagger, concealed until this precise moment, flashed in his grasp. With a swift, brutal thrust, the concealed blade plunged deep into Aether’s left shoulder, eliciting a sharp gasp of pain from the Traveler.

From within her glowing prison, Columbina slammed against the confines of the energy box, a silent, desperate scream tearing at her throat. The walls, however, were unyielding, absorbing her futile attempts to break free, to reach Aether, to shield him from the Dottore attack. Her heart twisted with a profound, agonizing helplessness, watching the man she loved suffer, unable to offer even a whisper of comfort or aid. The fear for his safety was a cold, sharp blade twisting in her own heart.

Aether, reeling from the sudden, unexpected stab, gasped, his Electro power flickering violently. He switched to Anemo, summoning a powerful burst of wind that slammed into Dottore, pushing the Harbinger back with a raw, concussive force. Dottore, momentarily disoriented by the unexpected counter, stumbled backward, his form momentarily reeling from the impact. Aether, however, could not maintain his stance.

His legs buckled beneath him, and he crumpled to the shimmering platform, gripping his injured left shoulder tightly. A wave of excruciating pain lanced through him, a white-hot agony that threatened to overwhelm his senses. His vision swam, the sterile blue light of the platform blurring at the edges, but his hand remained clamped over the wound, a desperate attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The metallic tang of his own blood filled his mouth, a grim reminder of Dottore’s brutal efficiency.

Drown in your sorrows and fears

He felt like he was drowning. He failed them. Columbina, Lauma, Paimon, Lumine. All of them. Dottore was going to win. He started running out of breath.

A hand reached out, her hand, Lumine’s. He didn’t hesitant to grab on to it.

Columbina looked on at Aether in unadulterated dread, her eyes wide with horror as she watched his prone form. The raw, gaping wound in his shoulder, a dark stain against his golden attire, pulsed with an ominous, chilling energy.

Then, before her disbelieving eyes, a horrifying, yet undeniably miraculous thing occurred. A surge of abyssal energy, black and purple and utterly alien, erupted from within Aether’s body. It swirled around the wound, coalescing into a dark, pulsating aura that enveloped his entire left shoulder.

The grotesque energy pulsed, a malevolent heart beating within his flesh, and then, with an unnatural speed, the wound began to close. The torn skin knitted itself back together, the mangled muscle fibers rewove themselves, and the seeping blood retreated, absorbed back into his flesh as if it had never been spilled.

In mere seconds, the severe injury was gone, leaving behind only an unsettling, faint purple-black residue that slowly dissipated into the air. Columbina gasped, a silent, horrified realization dawning on her. This was not healing; it was something far more terrifying.

Aether shakily pushed himself up, his eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and a cold, internal dread. He felt the phantom ache of the wound, a memory of the pain, but his shoulder was undeniably whole, perfectly restored.

The abyssal energy, a strange, dark current that now thrummed beneath his skin, felt wrong, utterly alien, yet undeniably powerful.

Dottore, slowly regaining his bearings from Aether’s Anemo burst, watched the Traveler’s unnerving recovery with a predatory gleam in his masked eyes. The Harbinger’s posture straightened, his earlier surprise replaced by a chilling satisfaction. Aether, though still disoriented by the bizarre healing, quickly regained his mental clarity, his instincts reasserting themselves with a fierce urgency. He swiftly analyzed the situation, his gaze darting between the key elements of this impossible confrontation.

The two Moon Marrows still swirled ominously around Dottore, their stolen power clearly fueling his strange construct. His own left shoulder, now miraculously healed by the abyss’s dark grace, felt disturbingly foreign, a testament to the terrible cost of his escalating power.

And Columbina, his beloved, remained trapped within her shimmering prison, a silent, beautiful agony that fueled his every desperate breath. Dottore, his voice modulated by his mask, finally spoke, his tone dripping with a chilling, arrogant amusement. "All that effort, and I still stand before you unharmed."

Choke on your blood and tears

Aether’s jaw tightened, his golden eyes blazing with a renewed fury that momentarily pushed aside the unsettling awareness of the abyssal power within him. Dottore’s words, a casual dismissal of his desperate struggle, ignited a fresh wave of rage that pulsed through his veins, mingling with the dark energy that now subtly infused his elemental abilities.

The Harbinger, his posture one of supreme confidence, gestured with a languid sweep of his hand, and the shimmering blue platform beneath their feet pulsed with a renewed, vibrant intensity, its cracks from Aether’s previous attacks slowly beginning to mend themselves.

The two Moon Marrows, still orbiting Dottore, glowed with an unnerving brilliance, their stolen kuuvahki energy feeding into the Harbinger's every command. Aether could feel the raw power radiating from Dottore, a dense, oppressive weight that pressed down on him, making the air crackle with an unseen tension.

Aether lunged forward again, a desperate blur of motion, his sword now crackling with pure Electro, the black and purple sparks dancing more intensely around its violet glow than ever before. He would not yield, not while Columbina watched.

Dottore, however, moved with a surprising, almost fluid agility, his form blurring as he sidestepped Aether’s furious thrust. He was not merely evading; he was toying with him, a cat playing with a mouse, his movements precise and economical. Aether’s blade, meant to cleave through the Harbinger, instead sliced through empty air, the force of his attack carrying him slightly off balance. Dottore’s gloved hand, moving with deceptive speed, then lashed out.

Aether felt a sudden, sharp sting on his right arm as Dottore’s fingers, tipped with a barely visible energy blade, grazed his skin. It was a shallow cut, precise and clean, but it stung fiercely, a grim reminder of Dottore’s superior speed and control.

Blood welled up, a thin crimson line against his golden skin, but before it could even fully form a bead, the abyssal energy within Aether surged, pulsating with a dark, internal fire. The cut sealed itself instantly, leaving behind only a faint, discolored trace that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

Bleed ‘til you run out of years

Dottore merely observed Aether’s unnerving healing with a detached, clinical interest, his masked gaze conveying no surprise, only a deepening curiosity. He was not perturbed; rather, he seemed intrigued by the anomaly of Aether’s corrupted vitality. Aether grit his teeth, the unsettling sensation of the abyss knitting his flesh back together a cold counterpoint to his burning fury.

He launched another barrage of Electro-infused slashes, each one aimed with desperate precision, hoping to find a weakness, a chink in Dottore’s infuriating composure.

Dottore, however, continued to weave and dodge, his movements a blur of calculated evasion. He was always one step ahead, his body anticipating Aether’s every strike, his posture betraying no effort or strain.

The Harbinger seemed to flow like water, his form intangible, allowing Aether’s furious attacks to pass through the space he had just occupied. Aether found himself growing increasingly frustrated, his attacks landing on air, his powerful elemental surges dissipating without effect.

The constant exertion, the relentless pursuit of an untouchable foe, began to take its toll on Aether’s stamina, even with the abyssal energy subtly bolstering him.

He felt the burn in his muscles, the strain on his lungs, a growing weariness that Dottore, seemingly effortless in his evasions, did not share. Aether, in a desperate attempt to break the stalemate, channeled a powerful surge of Electro into the ground beneath him, hoping to electrify the platform and force Dottore to engage directly.

The shimmering blue energy of the platform pulsed, absorbing the Electro surge, but Dottore remained unaffected, his feet seemingly insulated by an unseen force.

He merely chuckled, a low, grating sound that vibrated through his mask, a sound of mocking amusement. This casual contempt only served to fuel Aether’s rage, but it also highlighted the vast disparity in their control over this bizarre environment. Dottore was not simply fighting; he was performing, demonstrating his mastery over this captured space.

Suddenly, with a swift, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist, Dottore launched a volley of energy needles from his fingertips, not the large daggers from earlier, but thin, almost invisible projectiles. These needles, imbued with the same cold kuuvahki energy as the Moon Marrows, moved with astonishing speed, too numerous and too small to parry effectively. Aether, forced onto the defensive, twisted violently, attempting to evade the deadly swarm.

Several needles, however, found their mark, piercing Aether’s left thigh and right forearm with sharp, agonizing stings. He grunted in pain, his movements momentarily faltering, but before he could even register the wounds, the abyssal energy within him flared. The tiny punctures, which would have been debilitating, instantly sealed themselves, leaving Aether with only the memory of the searing pain and a deeper sense of unease. He felt the abyss thrumming, a dark, hungry presence within his very core, its power a disturbing double-edged sword.

We must do what it takes to survive

And for once, he started to agree with Lumine’s voice. Dottore, seeing Aether’s momentary stagger, pressed his advantage, his movements no longer purely evasive but now incorporating swift, punishing counter-attacks. He flowed around Aether, a shadow dance, his gloved hand lashing out with precise, chopping strikes that targeted Aether’s joints and pressure points. Each blow, though not imbued with crushing elemental force, carried a jarring impact, designed to disrupt Aether’s balance and break his rhythm. Aether found himself constantly reacting, parrying, and deflecting, unable to mount a sustained offense.

One such strike, a sharp blow to Aether’s right knee, sent a jolt of raw pain through his leg, threatening to buckle him. He stumbled, his posture momentarily compromised, but the abyssal energy pulsed, invigorating his muscles, allowing him to regain his footing with a desperate lunge. Dottore’s attacks were relentless, a calculated flurry that kept Aether off balance, forcing him to expend precious energy on defense. The Harbinger moved with a chilling efficiency, his every action designed to wear Aether down, to expose his vulnerabilities.

Give up your honor and faith

Aether, desperate to create some distance, channeled Anemo, summoning a powerful vortex around himself. The swirling wind, now subtly tainted with purple-black streaks, pushed Dottore back for a moment, granting Aether a precious few seconds of respite. He used this brief window to channel Geo, slamming his fist into the platform and creating a jagged spire of shimmering blue rock. The Geo construct, however, seemed weaker than usual, the platform’s energy resisting its formation, a testament to Dottore’s pervasive control.

Dottore merely scoffed, a low, disdainful sound, as he effortlessly shattered the Geo spire with a single, precise energy blast from his hand. The fragments of blue rock dissolved into light, leaving Aether once again exposed. The Harbinger’s control over this domain was absolute, every attempt by Aether to manipulate the environment met with immediate, overwhelming resistance. Aether was fighting not just Dottore, but the very space around them, a battle he was slowly but surely losing.

Live out your life as a wraith

The fight continued in this agonizing pattern, a brutal, one-sided exchange where Dottore dictated the pace and terms of engagement. Aether would launch a furious assault, imbued with the raw power of his elements and the unsettling influence of the abyss, only for Dottore to effortlessly evade or parry.

The Harbinger’s movements were graceful, almost balletic, a macabre dance of superior intellect and calculated cruelty. He would allow Aether to exhaust himself, to burn through his reserves, before delivering a series of swift, targeted strikes.

Dottore’s attacks were never overtly flashy, devoid of the grand elemental displays Aether was accustomed to. Instead, they were subtle, precise, and insidious: small, sharp energy blades that materialized and vanished, swift kicks and punches that targeted vulnerable points, or bursts of concentrated kuuvahki energy that disrupted Aether’s balance.

Each hit, though quickly healed by the abyss, left a phantom ache, a lingering memory of pain that chipped away at Aether’s mental fortitude. The constant regeneration was a marvel, but it was also a horrifying reminder of the price he was paying.

Columbina, trapped and utterly helpless, watched Aether’s desperate struggle with growing despair. She saw the subtle shift in his movements, the growing weariness that even the abyssal energy could not entirely mask.

The black and purple streaks in his elemental attacks became more pronounced, more vibrant, a chilling visual representation of the abyss’s deepening hold. Her heart ached with a profound, suffocating helplessness, watching the man she loved slowly being consumed, both by the battle and by the encroaching darkness.

Dottore, for his part, seemed entirely unconcerned by Aether’s unsettling healing factor. In fact, he seemed to relish it, his masked head tilting in silent contemplation after each regenerated wound. He was observing, gathering data, treating Aether’s struggle as a fascinating experiment, a living, breathing subject under his microscopic scrutiny. This detached cruelty was perhaps more infuriating than any direct taunt, stripping Aether’s desperate fight of its inherent dignity.

With a sudden burst of speed, Aether channeled Pyro again, attempting a wide, sweeping arc of flame to force Dottore into a corner. The crimson inferno, however, was easily sidestepped, and Dottore appeared behind Aether with frightening speed.

A sharp, powerful kick landed squarely between Aether’s shoulder blades, sending him sprawling forward onto the cold, hard energy platform. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his spine, momentarily knocking the wind from his lungs.

Before he could even fully recover, Dottore was upon him, a swift, punishing series of blows raining down on Aether’s back and sides. Each strike was calculated, designed not to instantly kill, but to inflict maximum pain and disorientation, to break his spirit. Aether grunted, his body wracked with pain, but the abyssal energy surged, his muscles twitching as his body instantly repaired the damage, knitting bones and mending flesh with chilling speed. He rolled away, scrambling back to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The sheer exhaustion was beginning to set in, a heavy weight that clung to his limbs, making every movement a conscious effort. Yet, the abyssal energy, a constant, dark hum beneath his skin, stubbornly refused to let him falter completely. It was a parasitic lifeline, keeping him in the fight, but at a cost he was only beginning to understand. Dottore, observing Aether’s struggle, narrowed his masked gaze, a subtle shift in his posture betraying a flicker of growing impatience.

The Harbinger seemed to realize that brute force alone would not break Aether, not with his unsettling regenerative abilities. Dottore’s strategy shifted, becoming more insidious, more focused on psychological torment. He began to maneuver Aether closer to Columbina’s prison, forcing the Traveler to witness his beloved’s helplessness, to fight under her agonizing gaze. Aether’s resolve, though unbreakable, was being stretched thin, pulled taut between his fury and his despair.

He could feel Columbina’s unspoken plea, her desperate struggle within her confines, and it fueled his desperation, pushing him to fight harder, faster, even as his body screamed in protest. He unleashed a powerful Geo punch, a concentrated burst of earth energy aimed at Dottore’s head.

The attack was swift, but Dottore merely leaned back, his head tilting just enough for the blow to whistle harmlessly past his mask. The Harbinger then returned the favor with a swift, brutal backhand.

The blow landed squarely on Aether’s temple, sending a blinding flash of white light through his vision. He staggered, his ears ringing, momentarily disoriented by the concussive force. He felt himself falling, his senses spinning, but before he could hit the ground, the abyssal energy surged, clearing his head with a chilling efficiency. He found himself standing upright again, his temple throbbing, but otherwise unharmed, the abyssal power a cruel, constant guardian.

Dottore, a subtle grimace now visible through the segmented lines of his mask, finally showed a flicker of genuine irritation. Aether’s resilience, even with the abyssal tampering, was proving to be more stubborn than anticipated. The Harbinger began to channel more power from the Moon Marrows, their ethereal light intensifying, the sterile blue of the platform growing brighter, almost painfully so. The air around Dottore crackled with a new, oppressive energy, a palpable shift in the atmosphere.

Dottore, with a sigh that seemed almost bored, materialized an energy blade directly in his hand, a shimmering blue rapier that hummed with concentrated kuuvahki. This was a direct escalation, a sign that his patience was finally wearing thin. He lunged, his movements suddenly faster, more aggressive, no longer content to merely evade. He intended to end this, to break Aether once and for all.

Aether, seeing the new, deadly weapon, met the challenge with his Electro-infused sword, its violet glow now almost entirely consumed by the black and purple sparks. Their blades clashed, a shower of brilliant, clashing light and dark energy exploding outwards, illuminating the frozen world around them. The sound was a sharp, grating screech of metal and energy, a discordant symphony of destruction that echoed in the unnatural silence. Aether fought with desperate ferocity, parrying Dottore’s precise thrusts, each deflection sending jarring vibrations up his arm.
Dottore was faster, his attacks more relentless, pushing Aether back, step by agonizing step.

The Harbinger’s energy rapier moved with incredible speed and precision, finding openings that Aether, in his exhaustion, could not adequately cover. A sudden, swift thrust from Dottore’s blade pierced Aether’s right bicep, a clean, agonizing wound that forced a gasp from the Traveler. Blood welled, but before it could even drip, the abyssal energy pulsed, sealing the wound instantly, leaving Aether with only the phantom memory of the searing pain.

The continuous cycle of injury and instantaneous healing was a torment in itself, a constant reminder of his vulnerability and the insidious power that sustained him.

Aether grit his teeth, pushing past the pain, channeling Geo to create a defensive wall of shimmering blue rock. The Geo construct, however, was quickly shattered by a powerful, kuuvahki-infused thrust from Dottore’s rapier, dissolving into dust. Aether was left exposed once more, his desperate attempts at defense proving futile against Dottore’s overwhelming power.

Dottore continued his relentless assault, his energy rapier a blur of deadly light, constantly probing Aether’s defenses, searching for weaknesses. He was a master swordsman, his movements fluid and deadly, far surpassing Aether’s own increasingly desperate parries.

A series of swift, brutal thrusts landed on Aether’s chest, his stomach, and his left leg, each impact jarring, each wound instantly sealed by the abyssal energy. Aether was a puppet on strings, constantly broken and reassembled, forced to endure endless agony.

Columbina, her eyes wide with horror, could only watch as Aether’s form flickered with the omnipresent black and purple energy, a constant reminder of the abyss’s tightening grip. She saw the desperation in his golden eyes, the raw, unyielding will to fight, even as his body was systematically broken and remade. Her heart cried out, a silent, desperate scream that reverberated within the confines of her prison, a profound agony at his suffering.

Dottore, after a particularly brutal series of attacks, finally pulled back, a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor running through his form. He was breathing slightly heavier, the effortless grace of his earlier movements replaced by a faint, almost imperceptible stiffness. A small, thin cut, a hairline fracture in his segmented mask, was now visible, a testament to Aether’s desperate, if futile, counter-attacks. He was not unharmed, not entirely, but his healing was slower, more subtle, a testament to his own resilience rather than a parasitic power.

Aether, battered but still standing, his body a living testament to the abyss’s dark grace, glared at Dottore. He could feel the pervasive ache in his bones, the deep-seated exhaustion, but also the cold, insidious power of the abyss humming within him, urging him onward. He was still in this fight, against all odds, a lone ember of defiance against an encroaching storm. He would fight until his last breath, until his very soul was consumed, if it meant protecting Columbina.

“Persistent, aren’t we, Traveler?” Dottore’s voice, modulated by his mask, was a low, grating purr of amusement, utterly devoid of effort. He danced around Aether, his energy rapier a blur of shimmering blue kuuvahki, each thrust and parry a mockery of Aether’s increasingly desperate efforts.

There is no price we won’t pay

Another swift thrust, precise and brutal, pierced Aether’s left thigh. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, but before the pain could even register, the abyssal energy surged, a cold, dark wave washing over the wound. The torn flesh knitted itself back together with an unsettling speed, leaving behind only a faint, purple-black residue that dissipated almost immediately.

Aether staggered, the phantom ache a chilling reminder of the abyss’s parasitic gift. He grit his teeth, the metallic tang of blood—his own, or perhaps the abyss’s—filling his mouth.

“Worthwhile for you, perhaps,” Aether snarled, his voice raw, fueled by a desperation that bordered on madness. His Electro-infused sword, its violet glow now almost entirely consumed by the black and purple sparks of abyssal energy, met Dottore’s rapier in a cacophony of screeching energy.

“But you won’t break me. Not while she watches.” His gaze flickered to Columbina, still trapped within her shimmering cage, her face a mask of silent horror and impotent rage. Her suffering was a constant torment, but also the crucible of his resolve.

Dottore merely chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound that vibrated through Aether’s very bones. “Oh, she watches, indeed. A tragic tableau. The Moon Maiden, goddess of the Frost Moon, reduced to a helpless observer. And you, the valiant Traveler, slowly consumed by the very power you despise, all for a fleeting sentiment.”

He parried Aether’s wild slash with contemptuous ease, then spun, his rapier flashing, leaving a shallow, precise cut across Aether’s chest. The abyssal energy flared, sealing the wound, but the psychological toll was immense. “Tell me, Traveler, how long can a human body endure this constant cycle of destruction and forced renewal before the mind, the very soul, begins to unravel?”

Aether roared, ignoring the Harbinger’s taunts, his rage a blinding inferno. He lunged, a desperate, elemental maelstrom, throwing caution to the wind. Pyro, then Hydro, then Anemo, each elemental burst tainted with the sickening black and purple of the abyss, slammed against Dottore’s ever-present barrier, or simply sliced through empty air as the Harbinger evaded with chilling grace.

The sterile blue of the platform pulsed, absorbing the concussive force, mending its own cracks with a languid indifference. The two Moon Marrows, ethereal and terrifying, continued their slow, hypnotic orbit around Dottore, their stolen kuuvahki energy feeding the Harbinger’s every command, every defiant gesture.

A deep weariness settled into Aether’s bones, a profound exhaustion that even the abyssal energy struggled to overcome. His muscles screamed, his lungs burned, and his vision, despite the constant healing, blurred at the edges. He was fighting not just Dottore, but the very fabric of this twisted reality, the oppressive stillness of frozen time, the pervasive control Dottore wielded over this domain.

Every blow, every parry, every desperate lunge was met with Dottore’s infuriating calm, his calculated evasion, his precise, punishing counter-attacks. The Harbinger was a predator, toying with his prey, observing, documenting, enjoying the spectacle of Aether’s unraveling.

‘No. I can’t break. Not now.’ Aether’s internal monologue was a frantic, desperate current beneath the surface of his conscious thought. He forced himself to breathe, to focus, to push past the searing agony and the insidious whispers of the abyss. ‘There has to be a way. He’s not invincible. Nothing is.’

Aether’s mind, usually a swift torrent of tactical analysis, felt sluggish, weighed down by the cumulative strain of endless combat and the subtle, corrupting influence of the abyssal energy. Yet, the image of Columbina, frozen in her luminous cage, a silent scream etched on her face, cut through the haze. She was his anchor, his reason, his burning star in this frigid, captured world. He would not fail her. He could not.

Dottore, observing Aether’s momentary pause, saw not a lapse in concentration, but a new variable to exploit. His rapier, shimmering with an unnerving blue kuuvahki, blurred into a series of swift, brutal thrusts, targeting Aether’s midsection, his ribs, his solar plexus. Each strike was a precise surgical incision, meant to inflict maximum internal trauma, even if the exterior wounds would instantly mend.

Aether gasped, the internal shock of each blow reverberating through his core. He parried wildly, his Electro-infused sword a violet-black arc, deflecting the rapier’s deadly dance. The impact sent jarring vibrations up his arms, threatening to dislocate his shoulders. The abyssal energy surged, patching the damage, but the raw, phantom ache persisted, a chilling testament to the Harbinger’s insidious efficiency.

“Such remarkable resilience,” Dottore purred, his voice a low, mocking hum. “A fascinating subject, truly. Your… unique constitution, combined with the abyssal energy, presents a delightful paradox. A living experiment in accelerated decay and forced renewal.”

He parried Aether’s desperate counter-slash with contemptuous ease, then spun, his rapier flashing, leaving a shallow, precise cut across Aether’s cheek. The wound sealed instantly, but the cold touch of the blade lingered, a chilling phantom. “But tell me, Traveler, how much longer can your consciousness endure this? Your mind, your very self, is a delicate instrument. How many times can it be shattered and reassembled before it breaks irrevocably?”

The taunt, precise and cruel, struck a nerve. Aether roared, a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated fury. The abyss within him seemed to respond to his rage, pulsing with a dark, hungry vibrancy. His Electro attacks crackled with an increased intensity, the black and purple sparks now so prevalent they threatened to eclipse the violet glow entirely.

He lunged, a desperate, elemental maelstrom, throwing caution, and indeed, his very sanity, to the wind. Pyro, then Hydro, then Anemo, each elemental burst tainted with the sickening black and purple of the abyss, slammed against Dottore’s ever-present barrier, or simply sliced through empty air as the Harbinger evaded with chilling grace.

He was losing. He knew it with a cold, clear certainty that cut through the haze of battle. Dottore was playing with him, a cat with a mouse, prolonging the torment, savoring the spectacle of his unraveling. Every wound healed, yes, but the pain, the exhaustion, the fear for Columbina, accumulated. It was a war of attrition, not just of body, but of spirit. And Dottore, with his limitless stolen power and his detached, clinical cruelty, was winning.

His gaze, even through the haze of pain, swept across the environment. The shimmering blue platform. Columbina’s prison. The frozen world beyond, a silent testament to Dottore’s power. And then, the Moon Marrows, orbiting Dottore like captive moons around a malevolent sun. They were the key.

Aether said nothing, his internal monologue a frantic, desperate current. He needed a distraction, something so compelling, so seemingly devastating, that Dottore would be forced to focus entirely on defense, even if for a fleeting moment. He needed to make Dottore believe he was still fighting for a direct victory, for the illusion of shattering the Harbinger’s body, when his true target was the source of his power.

He feigned a desperate lunge, his Electro-infused sword a blur of black and purple, aimed not at Dottore’s head, but at the very center of the shimmering platform. The attack was designed to look like a final, suicidal burst of defiance, a desperate attempt to destroy the ground beneath Dottore’s feet.

Dottore, anticipating the move, merely scoffed. “A predictable gambit, Traveler. To shatter the stage rather than defeat the actor.” He met Aether’s strike with his rapier, the clash creating a cacophony of screeching energy. However, even as their blades met, Dottore subtly channeled a surge of kuuvahki into the platform, reinforcing its structure, ensuring Aether’s attack would be futile. He was confident, too confident, in his control. And that, Aether realized, was his weakness.

Aether retreated, feigning exhaustion, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He gripped his sword, his knuckles white, his body trembling with simulated fatigue. He needed Dottore to drop his guard, to believe Aether was finally at his breaking point.
“Fading already, Traveler?” Dottore’s voice dripped with condescension. “The abyss cannot sustain a spirit so utterly devoid of purpose. Your sentiment, your attachment to that… goddess, is a fatal flaw.” He gestured with his free hand, and a dozen energy daggers materialized from the frozen water, hovering menacingly. “Perhaps a more… stimulating form of persuasion is in order.”

Aether’s gaze, though seemingly unfocused with weariness, darted quickly to the Moon Marrows. They continued their slow, hypnotic orbit, just slightly further from Dottore’s body than his rapier, a thin, almost invisible gap. He needed to close that distance, to make the move so swiftly, so decisively, that Dottore wouldn’t even have time to react.

He launched himself forward again, but this time, he didn’t aim for Dottore directly. Instead, he slammed his Electro-infused sword into the blue platform at an angle, channeling a massive surge of Geo energy downwards. The intention was not to shatter the platform, but to create a sudden, localized tremor, a disruptive force that would momentarily throw Dottore off balance.

The platform groaned under the sudden, unexpected assault. The shimmering blue energy rippled violently, and a jagged fissure, radiating outwards from Aether’s sword, spiderwebbed across the surface. Dottore, caught off guard by the sheer, raw force of the Geo-infused Electro, actually stumbled, his composure momentarily breaking. The Moon Marrows, caught in the sudden instability, wobbled slightly in their orbit.

Aether ignored the taunt, his mind working at lightning speed. He needed to create a physical barrier, something that Dottore couldn’t simply dissipate with a wave of his hand. Something solid, unyielding, that would briefly pin the Harbinger in place.

He unleashed a powerful Geo burst, forming a shimmering boulder that erupted from the platform around Dottore. It was a rapid, constricting cage, designed to trap the Harbinger in place.

This was his chance.

Aether didn’t hesitate. He channeled the last reserves of his Geo energy, focusing it into two razor-sharp pikes of solid, abyssal-infused rock. With a guttural shout, he launched them forward, not at Dottore’s head, but with chilling precision, at his wrists.

The Geo pikes, shimmering with an ominous black and purple glow, struck Dottore’s outstretched arms with sickening thuds. They pierced through his gloves, through flesh and bone, pinning his wrists to the unyielding Geo construct behind him. Dottore let out a sharp, strangled cry, a sound of pure agony and shock that was entirely unmodulated, entirely human. His rapier, the symbol of his arrogance, clattered to the platform, its blue light flickering and dying.

The Moon Marrows, reacting to their wielder’s sudden incapacitation, faltered in their orbit, their ethereal glow dimming slightly, their connection to Dottore momentarily severed. They hovered in place, still just beyond arm’s reach, but no longer moving with their hypnotic rhythm.

Aether, his vision blurring from exertion, his entire body screaming in protest, ignored the searing pain from his own abyssal-healed wounds. His golden eyes, filled with a raw, desperate determination, locked onto the Moon Marrows. He had to be quick. Dottore, even pinned, was still Dottore. He would find a way to escape.

With a final, desperate surge of energy, Aether pushed past the abyssal whispers, forcing his body forward. He lunged, his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing against the cool, ethereal surface of the Eternal Moon’s Marrow, the one coalesced from Aria. Its light pulsed against his palm, a vibrant, ancient power resonating with his own unique constitution.

As his fingers closed around the Marrow, a searing, incandescent kuuvahki energy surged into Aether’s body, not with the cold, parasitic embrace of the abyss, but with a vibrant, warming power that resonated deep within his core.

It was pure, unadulterated lunar energy, a primordial force that hummed with life. The abyssal energy within him, which had been a dark, hungry presence, recoiled, shrinking back, its insidious hold momentarily weakened by the influx of pure, divine power.
A wave of profound clarity washed over Aether, dispelling the haze of pain and exhaustion.

His senses sharpened, his vision cleared, and the oppressive stillness of frozen time around him seemed to shimmer, to waver at the edges. The world, frozen in its silent scream, began to subtly vibrate, a faint, almost imperceptible hum that promised movement.

This was his chance.
Aether didn’t hesitate. He channeled the last reserves of his Geo energy, focusing it into two razor-sharp pikes of solid, abyssal-infused rock. With a guttural shout, he launched them forward, not at Dottore’s head, but with chilling precision, at his wrists.

The Geo pikes, shimmering with an ominous black and purple glow, struck Dottore’s outstretched arms with sickening thuds. They pierced through his gloves, through flesh and bone, pinning his wrists to the unyielding Geo construct behind him. Dottore let out a sharp, strangled cry, a sound of pure agony and shock that was entirely unmodulated, entirely human. His rapier, the symbol of his arrogance, clattered to the platform, its blue light flickering and dying.

The Moon Marrows, reacting to their wielder’s sudden incapacitation, faltered in their orbit, their ethereal glow dimming slightly, their connection to Dottore momentarily severed. They hovered in place, still just beyond arm’s reach, but no longer moving with their hypnotic rhythm.

Aether, his vision blurring from exertion, his entire body screaming in protest, ignored the searing pain from his own abyssal-healed wounds. His golden eyes, filled with a raw, desperate determination, locked onto the Moon Marrows. He had to be quick. Dottore, even pinned, was still Dottore. He would find a way to escape.

With a final, desperate surge of energy, Aether pushed past the abyssal whispers, forcing his body forward. He lunged, his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing against the cool, ethereal surface of the Eternal Moon’s Marrow, the one coalesced from Aria. Its light pulsed against his palm, a vibrant, ancient power resonating with his own unique constitution.

As his fingers closed around the Marrow, a searing, incandescent kuuvahki energy surged into Aether’s body, not with the cold, parasitic embrace of the abyss, but with a vibrant, warming power that resonated deep within his core. It was pure, unadulterated lunar energy, a primordial force that hummed with life.

The abyssal energy within him, which had been a dark, hungry presence, recoiled, shrinking back, its insidious hold momentarily weakened by the influx of pure, divine power.

A wave of profound clarity washed over Aether, dispelling the haze of pain and exhaustion. His senses sharpened, his vision cleared, and the oppressive stillness of frozen time around him seemed to shimmer, to waver at the edges. The world, frozen in its silent scream, began to subtly vibrate, a faint, almost imperceptible hum that promised movement.

Chapter Text

“Persistent, aren’t we, Traveler?” Dottore’s voice, modulated by his mask, was a low, grating purr of amusement, utterly devoid of effort. He danced around Aether, his energy rapier a blur of shimmering blue kuuvahki, each thrust and parry a mockery of Aether’s increasingly desperate efforts.

There is no price we won’t pay

Another swift thrust, precise and brutal, pierced Aether’s left thigh. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, but before the pain could even register, the abyssal energy surged, a cold, dark wave washing over the wound. The torn flesh knitted itself back together with an unsettling speed, leaving behind only a faint, purple-black residue that dissipated almost immediately.

Aether staggered, the phantom ache a chilling reminder of the abyss’s parasitic gift. He grit his teeth, the metallic tang of blood—his own, or perhaps the abyss’s—filling his mouth.

“Worthwhile for you, perhaps,” Aether snarled, his voice raw, fueled by a desperation that bordered on madness. His Electro-infused sword, its violet glow now almost entirely consumed by the black and purple sparks of abyssal energy, met Dottore’s rapier in a cacophony of screeching energy.

“But you won’t break me. Not while she watches.” His gaze flickered to Columbina, still trapped within her shimmering cage, her face a mask of silent horror and impotent rage. Her suffering was a constant torment, but also the crucible of his resolve.

Dottore merely chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound that vibrated through Aether’s very bones. “Oh, she watches, indeed. A tragic tableau. The Moon Maiden, goddess of the Frost Moon, reduced to a helpless observer. And you, the valiant Traveler, slowly consumed by the very power you despise, all for a fleeting sentiment.”

He parried Aether’s wild slash with contemptuous ease, then spun, his rapier flashing, leaving a shallow, precise cut across Aether’s chest. The abyssal energy flared, sealing the wound, but the psychological toll was immense. “Tell me, Traveler, how long can a human body endure this constant cycle of destruction and forced renewal before the mind, the very soul, begins to unravel?”

Aether roared, ignoring the Harbinger’s taunts, his rage a blinding inferno. He lunged, a desperate, elemental maelstrom, throwing caution to the wind. Pyro, then Hydro, then Anemo, each elemental burst tainted with the sickening black and purple of the abyss, slammed against Dottore’s ever-present barrier, or simply sliced through empty air as the Harbinger evaded with chilling grace.

The sterile blue of the platform pulsed, absorbing the concussive force, mending its own cracks with a languid indifference. The two Moon Marrows, ethereal and terrifying, continued their slow, hypnotic orbit around Dottore, their stolen kuuvahki energy feeding the Harbinger’s every command, every defiant gesture.

A deep weariness settled into Aether’s bones, a profound exhaustion that even the abyssal energy struggled to overcome. His muscles screamed, his lungs burned, and his vision, despite the constant healing, blurred at the edges. He was fighting not just Dottore, but the very fabric of this twisted reality, the oppressive stillness of frozen time, the pervasive control Dottore wielded over this domain.

Every blow, every parry, every desperate lunge was met with Dottore’s infuriating calm, his calculated evasion, his precise, punishing counter-attacks. The Harbinger was a predator, toying with his prey, observing, documenting, enjoying the spectacle of Aether’s unraveling.

‘No. I can’t break. Not now.’ Aether’s internal monologue was a frantic, desperate current beneath the surface of his conscious thought. He forced himself to breathe, to focus, to push past the searing agony and the insidious whispers of the abyss. ‘There has to be a way. He’s not invincible. Nothing is.’

Aether’s mind, usually a swift torrent of tactical analysis, felt sluggish, weighed down by the cumulative strain of endless combat and the subtle, corrupting influence of the abyssal energy. Yet, the image of Columbina, frozen in her luminous cage, a silent scream etched on her face, cut through the haze. She was his anchor, his reason, his burning star in this frigid, captured world. He would not fail her. He could not.

Dottore, observing Aether’s momentary pause, saw not a lapse in concentration, but a new variable to exploit. His rapier, shimmering with an unnerving blue kuuvahki, blurred into a series of swift, brutal thrusts, targeting Aether’s midsection, his ribs, his solar plexus. Each strike was a precise surgical incision, meant to inflict maximum internal trauma, even if the exterior wounds would instantly mend.

Aether gasped, the internal shock of each blow reverberating through his core. He parried wildly, his Electro-infused sword a violet-black arc, deflecting the rapier’s deadly dance. The impact sent jarring vibrations up his arms, threatening to dislocate his shoulders. The abyssal energy surged, patching the damage, but the raw, phantom ache persisted, a chilling testament to the Harbinger’s insidious efficiency.

“Such remarkable resilience,” Dottore purred, his voice a low, mocking hum. “A fascinating subject, truly. Your… unique constitution, combined with the abyssal energy, presents a delightful paradox. A living experiment in accelerated decay and forced renewal.”

He parried Aether’s desperate counter-slash with contemptuous ease, then spun, his rapier flashing, leaving a shallow, precise cut across Aether’s cheek. The wound sealed instantly, but the cold touch of the blade lingered, a chilling phantom. “But tell me, Traveler, how much longer can your consciousness endure this? Your mind, your very self, is a delicate instrument. How many times can it be shattered and reassembled before it breaks irrevocably?”

The taunt, precise and cruel, struck a nerve. Aether roared, a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated fury. The abyss within him seemed to respond to his rage, pulsing with a dark, hungry vibrancy. His Electro attacks crackled with an increased intensity, the black and purple sparks now so prevalent they threatened to eclipse the violet glow entirely.

He lunged, a desperate, elemental maelstrom, throwing caution, and indeed, his very sanity, to the wind. Pyro, then Hydro, then Anemo, each elemental burst tainted with the sickening black and purple of the abyss, slammed against Dottore’s ever-present barrier, or simply sliced through empty air as the Harbinger evaded with chilling grace.

He was losing. He knew it with a cold, clear certainty that cut through the haze of battle. Dottore was playing with him, a cat with a mouse, prolonging the torment, savoring the spectacle of his unraveling. Every wound healed, yes, but the pain, the exhaustion, the fear for Columbina, accumulated. It was a war of attrition, not just of body, but of spirit. And Dottore, with his limitless stolen power and his detached, clinical cruelty, was winning.

His gaze, even through the haze of pain, swept across the environment. The shimmering blue platform. Columbina’s prison. The frozen world beyond, a silent testament to Dottore’s power. And then, the Moon Marrows, orbiting Dottore like captive moons around a malevolent sun. They were the key.

Aether said nothing, his internal monologue a frantic, desperate current. He needed a distraction, something so compelling, so seemingly devastating, that Dottore would be forced to focus entirely on defense, even if for a fleeting moment. He needed to make Dottore believe he was still fighting for a direct victory, for the illusion of shattering the Harbinger’s body, when his true target was the source of his power.

He feigned a desperate lunge, his Electro-infused sword a blur of black and purple, aimed not at Dottore’s head, but at the very center of the shimmering platform. The attack was designed to look like a final, suicidal burst of defiance, a desperate attempt to destroy the ground beneath Dottore’s feet.

Dottore, anticipating the move, merely scoffed. “A predictable gambit, Traveler. To shatter the stage rather than defeat the actor.” He met Aether’s strike with his rapier, the clash creating a cacophony of screeching energy. However, even as their blades met, Dottore subtly channeled a surge of kuuvahki into the platform, reinforcing its structure, ensuring Aether’s attack would be futile. He was confident, too confident, in his control. And that, Aether realized, was his weakness.

Aether retreated, feigning exhaustion, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He gripped his sword, his knuckles white, his body trembling with simulated fatigue. He needed Dottore to drop his guard, to believe Aether was finally at his breaking point.
“Fading already, Traveler?” Dottore’s voice dripped with condescension. “The abyss cannot sustain a spirit so utterly devoid of purpose. Your sentiment, your attachment to that… goddess, is a fatal flaw.” He gestured with his free hand, and a dozen energy daggers materialized from the frozen water, hovering menacingly. “Perhaps a more… stimulating form of persuasion is in order.”

Aether’s gaze, though seemingly unfocused with weariness, darted quickly to the Moon Marrows. They continued their slow, hypnotic orbit, just slightly further from Dottore’s body than his rapier, a thin, almost invisible gap. He needed to close that distance, to make the move so swiftly, so decisively, that Dottore wouldn’t even have time to react.

He launched himself forward again, but this time, he didn’t aim for Dottore directly. Instead, he slammed his Electro-infused sword into the blue platform at an angle, channeling a massive surge of Geo energy downwards. The intention was not to shatter the platform, but to create a sudden, localized tremor, a disruptive force that would momentarily throw Dottore off balance.

The platform groaned under the sudden, unexpected assault. The shimmering blue energy rippled violently, and a jagged fissure, radiating outwards from Aether’s sword, spiderwebbed across the surface. Dottore, caught off guard by the sheer, raw force of the Geo-infused Electro, actually stumbled, his composure momentarily breaking. The Moon Marrows, caught in the sudden instability, wobbled slightly in their orbit.

Aether ignored the taunt, his mind working at lightning speed. He needed to create a physical barrier, something that Dottore couldn’t simply dissipate with a wave of his hand. Something solid, unyielding, that would briefly pin the Harbinger in place.

He unleashed a powerful Geo burst, forming a shimmering boulder that erupted from the platform around Dottore. It was a rapid, constricting cage, designed to trap the Harbinger in place.

This was his chance.

Aether didn’t hesitate. He channeled the last reserves of his Geo energy, focusing it into two razor-sharp pikes of solid, abyssal-infused rock. With a guttural shout, he launched them forward, not at Dottore’s head, but with chilling precision, at his wrists.

The Geo pikes, shimmering with an ominous black and purple glow, struck Dottore’s outstretched arms with sickening thuds. They pierced through his gloves, through flesh and bone, pinning his wrists to the unyielding Geo construct behind him. Dottore let out a sharp, strangled cry, a sound of pure agony and shock that was entirely unmodulated, entirely human. His rapier, the symbol of his arrogance, clattered to the platform, its blue light flickering and dying.

The Moon Marrows, reacting to their wielder’s sudden incapacitation, faltered in their orbit, their ethereal glow dimming slightly, their connection to Dottore momentarily severed. They hovered in place, still just beyond arm’s reach, but no longer moving with their hypnotic rhythm.

Aether, his vision blurring from exertion, his entire body screaming in protest, ignored the searing pain from his own abyssal-healed wounds. His golden eyes, filled with a raw, desperate determination, locked onto the Moon Marrows. He had to be quick. Dottore, even pinned, was still Dottore. He would find a way to escape.

With a final, desperate surge of energy, Aether pushed past the abyssal whispers, forcing his body forward. He lunged, his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing against the cool, ethereal surface of the Eternal Moon’s Marrow, the one coalesced from Aria. Its light pulsed against his palm, a vibrant, ancient power resonating with his own unique constitution.

As his fingers closed around the Marrow, a searing, incandescent kuuvahki energy surged into Aether’s body, not with the cold, parasitic embrace of the abyss, but with a vibrant, warming power that resonated deep within his core.

It was pure, unadulterated lunar energy, a primordial force that hummed with life. The abyssal energy within him, which had been a dark, hungry presence, recoiled, shrinking back, its insidious hold momentarily weakened by the influx of pure, divine power.
A wave of profound clarity washed over Aether, dispelling the haze of pain and exhaustion.

His senses sharpened, his vision cleared, and the oppressive stillness of frozen time around him seemed to shimmer, to waver at the edges. The world, frozen in its silent scream, began to subtly vibrate, a faint, almost imperceptible hum that promised movement.

This was his chance.
Aether didn’t hesitate. He channeled the last reserves of his Geo energy, focusing it into two razor-sharp pikes of solid, abyssal-infused rock. With a guttural shout, he launched them forward, not at Dottore’s head, but with chilling precision, at his wrists.

The Geo pikes, shimmering with an ominous black and purple glow, struck Dottore’s outstretched arms with sickening thuds. They pierced through his gloves, through flesh and bone, pinning his wrists to the unyielding Geo construct behind him. Dottore let out a sharp, strangled cry, a sound of pure agony and shock that was entirely unmodulated, entirely human. His rapier, the symbol of his arrogance, clattered to the platform, its blue light flickering and dying.

The Moon Marrows, reacting to their wielder’s sudden incapacitation, faltered in their orbit, their ethereal glow dimming slightly, their connection to Dottore momentarily severed. They hovered in place, still just beyond arm’s reach, but no longer moving with their hypnotic rhythm.

Aether, his vision blurring from exertion, his entire body screaming in protest, ignored the searing pain from his own abyssal-healed wounds. His golden eyes, filled with a raw, desperate determination, locked onto the Moon Marrows. He had to be quick. Dottore, even pinned, was still Dottore. He would find a way to escape.

With a final, desperate surge of energy, Aether pushed past the abyssal whispers, forcing his body forward. He lunged, his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing against the cool, ethereal surface of the Eternal Moon’s Marrow, the one coalesced from Aria. Its light pulsed against his palm, a vibrant, ancient power resonating with his own unique constitution.

As his fingers closed around the Marrow, a searing, incandescent kuuvahki energy surged into Aether’s body, not with the cold, parasitic embrace of the abyss, but with a vibrant, warming power that resonated deep within his core. It was pure, unadulterated lunar energy, a primordial force that hummed with life.

The abyssal energy within him, which had been a dark, hungry presence, recoiled, shrinking back, its insidious hold momentarily weakened by the influx of pure, divine power.

A wave of profound clarity washed over Aether, dispelling the haze of pain and exhaustion. His senses sharpened, his vision cleared, and the oppressive stillness of frozen time around him seemed to shimmer, to waver at the edges. The world, frozen in its silent scream, began to subtly vibrate, a faint, almost imperceptible hum that promised movement.

The world hung, crystalline and silent, a grotesque monument to Dottore’s temporal mastery. Every breath, every motion, every whispered fear was suspended, trapped in an eternal present that stretched like a broken string. Yet, even in this profound stillness, the undercurrent of unspoken terror resonated, a silent scream of reality held captive.

Far below the shimmering, frozen platform, amidst the chaos of Nasha Town’s arrested revelry, Sandrone had been in motion. Her mechanical puppet, Pulonia, usually a bastion of cool, calculating efficiency, had been caught mid-stride, its intricate gears frozen, its many limbs locked in a futile attempt to accelerate.

Sandrone herself, her face a pale mask of urgency beneath her bonnet, had been running. Not with the measured, scientific detachment she usually displayed, but with an almost frantic desperation that was utterly uncharacteristic.

Her sharp, perceptive eyes had been fixed on the distant, malevolent blue light, on the silhouette of Dottore, and most importantly, on the tiny, luminous box that held Columbina. A flicker of something akin to fear had crossed her features, a raw, protective instinct for the Moon Maiden, her former colleague, her unexpected friend. She had seen the portal warp, felt the sickening lurch of kuuvahki corrupted, and the cold dread had settled deep in her core. Dottore had always been too ambitious, too reckless, too dangerously brilliant. To intercept Columbina, to seize her at the cusp of her ascension, was an act of profound, unforgivable cruelty.

A sharp, almost imperceptible gasp had escaped her lips as she witnessed Aether's furious, Pyro-infused charge. The sheer audacity of his defiance, a single mortal against an archon-level Harbinger wielding stolen divine power, was breathtaking. But then, as Dottore had unleashed his temporal stasis, the world had snapped shut. Sandrone, Pulonia, the very air around them—all had ceased. Her outstretched hand, reaching towards the distant platform, was now a frozen tableau of desperate intent, a silent prayer suspended in an impossible moment.

…

Then, with a soundless, cataclysmic crack, time shattered.

The world lurched, not with a gentle resumption, but with a violent, jarring jolt that sent reverberations through every atom. The crystalline stillness exploded, collapsing inward on itself, releasing a tidal wave of suppressed sensory data. The roar of the frozen water, thousands of tons held in unnatural suspension, erupted with a deafening, primordial scream as it crashed back down, a thunderous symphony of chaos and destruction.

Sounds, colors, motion—all rushed back in a dizzying, overwhelming torrent. The frantic shouts of Varka, the urgent cries of Durin and the Wanderer, the agitated crackle of Lauma’s antlers, the terrified gasp of Paimon—a cacophony of fear and relief and unadulterated terror.

High above the now churning waters, Aether stood, a solitary, blazing figure. The air around him shimmered with residual power, a volatile cocktail of pure elemental energy and the lingering, ominous black and purple of the abyss. His Electro-infused sword, a searing blade of dark lightning, plunged deep into Dottore’s chest, its hilt almost touching the Harbinger’s form.

Dottore, his segmented mask now cracked and askew, let out a final, shuddering gasp. It was a sound stripped of his usual modulated arrogance, a raw, primal expulsion of life. His eyes, visible through the shattered visor, were wide with a chilling mixture of surprise, fear, and a desperate, fleeting comprehension. He had underestimated the Traveler.

With a final, violent twitch, Dottore’s body went limp. His hands, still pinned by Aether’s abyssal-infused Geo pikes, slid down the crumbling construct, leaving trails of crimson on the shimmering blue rock.

The light blue energy platform, once a bastion of his control, now pulsed erratically, its structural integrity failing, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface like shattered ice. The two Moon Marrows, no longer held in their perverse orbit, fell, spinning wildly, their ethereal glow flickering.

Aether, his breath coming in ragged, guttural gasps, yanked his sword free. A sickening squelch, a sound of tearing flesh and collapsing ambition, echoed in the sudden, eerie quiet that followed Dottore’s demise. The Harbinger’s lifeless body, a broken puppet, slumped to the platform, his once-imposing form now utterly devoid of purpose. The mask, his symbol of detached cruelty, shattered completely, revealing a pallid, almost boyish face twisted in a final rictus of agony.

The air, thick with the smell of ozone and burnt flesh, seemed to vibrate with the sheer finality of the act. Aether stood over Dottore’s corpse, his chest heaving, his golden eyes, still burning with a dangerous, abyssal-tinged glow, fixed on the man he had just executed. There was no triumph, no elation, only a profound, soul-deep weariness, and a chilling awareness of the darkness that now thrummed beneath his skin.

He turned, his gaze sweeping immediately to Columbina’s glowing prison. The light blue energy box, still humming with Dottore’s residual power, pulsed with a violent instability, threatening to collapse at any moment.

“Columbina!” Aether’s voice was hoarse, raw with relief and a desperate urgency. He plunged his sword into the luminous energy, not with the brutal force he had used against Dottore, but with a precise, controlled burst of Pyro-infused Electro. The shimmering cage fractured, overloaded, with a cascade of iridescent light, dissolving into a thousand glittering motes that vanished into the air.

Columbina, freed from her confinement, stumbled forward, her elegant form swaying. Her eyes, wide and filled with a mixture of horror and profound relief, met Aether’s. A silent cry, a desperate, choked sob, escaped her lips.

“Aether…” she whispered, her voice a fragile thing, barely audible above the distant sounds of crashing water and the frantic cries of their friends. She launched herself forward, propelled by a surge of pure, unadulterated emotion, clinging to him, burying her face in his shoulder. Her hands, usually cool and reserved, trembled as they clutched his form, seeking reassurance, an anchor in the storm of chaos.

Aether, in turn, wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, his head resting against her hair, inhaling the faint, sweet scent of Moon Blossoms that still clung to her. His body, still vibrating with the aftershocks of battle and the chilling presence of the abyss, found a momentary peace in her embrace. He closed his eyes, savoring the warmth, the tangible reality of her presence, a stark contrast to the sterile horrors he had just endured.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, his lips brushing her temple. “You’re safe, Columbina. I promised.”
She pulled back slightly, her hands still gripping his shoulders, her gaze searching his face.

Her fingers, feather-light, traced the faint lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes, the lingering tension in his jaw. “You… you did it, Aether,” she breathed, a fragile smile gracing her lips, tears finally spilling from her eyes, tracing paths through the dust and grime of battle. “You saved me.”

He returned her smile, a soft, tender curve of his lips that banished, for a fleeting moment, the dark shadows in his eyes. He leaned in, his gaze dropping to her mouth, a silent question in his eyes. Columbina, her heart overflowing with a mixture of newfound joy and profound relief, met his gaze, and then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she leaned in, closing the small distance between them.

Their lips met, a soft, tender kiss, a promise exchanged in the heart of chaos. It was a desperate, hopeful declaration, a fragile beacon of love amidst the wreckage of Dottore’s ambition. His lips were soft, warm, tasting of ozone and faint, residual power.

Her own, no longer cool and reserved, responded with a surprising eagerness, a blossoming warmth that spread through her veins, chasing away the lingering chill of her imprisonment. It was a kiss that sealed their bond, a silent vow that transcended the horrors they had just witnessed, a fleeting moment of pure, unadulterated happiness.

When they finally broke apart, a soft, contented sigh escaped her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brighter than the moon itself. “Thank you, Traveler,” she murmured, her voice laced with a raw emotion she no longer tried to hide. “For everything.”
He simply squeezed her hand, a silent reassurance. “Always.”

Die in the blood where you bathe

Lumine’s voice? It’s back? I thought Dottore stopped it when he saw it didn’t work? But… Dottore is dead no? The Eternal Moon's Marrow, still inside him, pulsed with a gentle, warming kuuvahki, its light a faint counterpoint to the growing darkness within him.

Leaving them feeling betrayed

Yet, his gaze, drawn by an unseen force, drifted to the other Moon Marrow, the Iridescent Moon’s Marrow, which had fallen from Dottore’s grasp and now lay on the cracked platform, pulsing with an ominous, crimson light. It was a red crescent wreathed in undying crimson flames, a symbol of corruption and ancient terror.

The abyssal energy, which had recoiled from the pure kuuvahki of Aria’s marrow, now surged back, a dark, hungry presence, drawn to the corrupted lunar relic. It was a siren song, a promise of ultimate strength, of the means to protect those he loved, to never again feel helpless. He felt a compulsion, a primal, undeniable urge to take it, to integrate its dark power into his own. The abyss, though not yet fully consuming him, was pressing its advantage, its tendrils wrapping around his weary mind, whispering promises of dominion.

Columbina, sensing the subtle shift in his demeanor, the sudden tension in his grip, looked at him with concern. “Aether? What is it?”

Breaking the bonds that you’ve made

His other hand, guided by an unseen force, reached out, not with the gentle reverence he had shown Aria’s relic, but with a predatory urgency. His fingers closed around the Iridescent Moon’s Marrow, the crimson flames licking at his skin, yet causing him no pain. Instead, they felt like an extension of the darkness already stirring within him.

As his hand fully encompassed the corrupted marrow, the crimson crescent pulsed violently, and then, with a horrifying, guttural shriek, it began to dissolve. It wasn’t a gentle absorption, but a violent, agonizing disintegration. The marrow, imbued with Balemoon Bloodfire and the remnants of a goddess consumed by fear and the abyss, melted into Aether’s flesh, its corrupted essence seeping into his very being.

Aether let out a raw, wordless scream, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore from his throat. His body convulsed violently, his muscles seizing, his back arching in a grotesque parody of pain. The crimson flames of the marrow erupted from his skin, not as a controlled elemental burst, but as wild, untamed tendrils of dark fire, lashing out at the air around him.

His golden eyes, once beacons of light and hope, were now completely consumed by the abyssal corruption. They glowed with an eerie, malevolent purple-black, devoid of warmth, devoid of recognition. His skin, usually tanned and healthy, gave way to veins of obsidian black pulsating beneath the surface.

The abyss had taken him. Completely.

Columbina watched in horrified silence, her heart shattering into a thousand pieces. The man she loved, the Traveler who had saved her, was gone, replaced by a terrifying, abyssal entity. A silent scream tore at her throat, but no sound escaped. Only a profound, soul-deep despair.

The world, no longer frozen, lurched into a new, terrifying reality. The sheer, overwhelming power emanating from Aether sent tremors through the land, a dark symphony of destruction that resonated with the very core of Teyvat.

…

Nefer and Jahoda had witnessed the catastrophic events unfold. Nefer, whose calculating mind could often predict the future, now found her precognitive abilities fractured, shattered by the sheer unpredictability of Aether’s transformation. Her eyes, usually sharp and analytical, were wide with a profound, terrifying comprehension.

The raw, untamed power radiating from Aether felt like a wound in the very fabric of existence, a variable so catastrophic it defied all logic, all prediction. Jahoda, her bow still clutched in her hand, had felt the abyssal energy wash over them, a cold, oppressive wave that sent shivers down her spine.

She recoiled, her face pale, her usual fierce determination replaced by wide-eyed terror. “What… what is that?” she stammered, her gaze fixed on the distant, now terrifyingly dark figure of Aether.

…

Lauma, her ancient eyes filled with a primal grief. Her magnificent antlers, which had been sparking with agitated energy, now dimmed, their lunar glow fading into a dull, despairing flicker. She had witnessed the subtle shifts in Aether’s power, the encroaching darkness, but to see him fully consumed, to see the light extinguished from his eyes… it was a profound agony, a loss that resonated with the ancient sorrow of the shattered moons. “The moon weeps,” she whispered, her voice raspy with anguish, her gaze fixed on the transformed Traveler, a being now utterly alien. “He is… no longer himself.”

Arlecchino, who had just been released from time’s cruel embrace, felt a surge of unadulterated rage, quickly replaced by a cold, numbing horror. Her usually impassive face was a mask of shock and disbelief. She had seen the raw power Aether wielded against Dottore, the darkness growing within him, but this… this was an absolute, terrifying transformation. Her hand instinctively went to her blade, then faltered. This was not an enemy she could simply cut down. This was Aether, but utterly lost. She looked at Paimon, her expression softening, a grim resolve hardening her features. “We will bring him back.”

Paimon’s tiny form trembled, her bright, innocent eyes wide with unspeakable horror. “Aether! No! Paimon’s Traveler! What happened?! Aether, come back!” She zipped frantically towards the abyssal figure, her small hands reaching out in a desperate, futile attempt to touch him, to pull him back from the encroaching darkness. Her cries were the sound of pure, unadulterated grief, a child’s world utterly shattered.

…

Varka, who had been mid-air, launched by Albedo’s Geo flower, crashed back to the earth with a heavy thud as time resumed. He scrambled to his feet, his gaze immediately drawn to the horrifying spectacle above the waters. The Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius, a man of immense strength and resolve, felt a cold dread seep into his very bones. “Aether…” he breathed, his voice a low growl of disbelief and growing anger. He saw the abyssal energy, recognized its signature, and the implications hit him with the force of a physical blow. This was not a mere possession; this was a fundamental corruption, a loss of self. His jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists. “We will not leave him to this fate.”

Flins, the enigmatic Lightkeeper, who had been frozen mid-step, stumbled forward as time resumed, his ancient eyes fixed on the transformed Traveler. A profound sadness settled over his features, a weariness that spoke of eons of witnessing sorrow. “The whispers of the void are seductive,” he murmured, his voice a soft, mournful sigh. “To grasp such power… it demands a price, a fragment of the soul.” He shook his head slowly, his gaze filled with a quiet despair.

The kuuhenki… consumed by shadow. A tragedy foretold, yet still unforeseen in its brutal manifestation.”

Albedo, who had been boosted towards the platform, landed gracefully, his sword still in hand. His analytical mind, however, was in overdrive, struggling to process the overwhelming, chaotic influx of data. He had witnessed Dottore’s death, the release of Columbina, and then… the unspeakable transformation. His cool, detached demeanor faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine shock and concern.

He saw the abyssal energy, its complex, corrupting patterns, and a chilling hypothesis began to form in his mind. “The Iridescent Moon’s Marrow,” he whispered, his voice tight with dawning horror. “It was corrupted by the abyss. Aether… he absorbed it.” He looked at the abyssal figure, his brow furrowed, a profound sadness in his eyes.

…

The Wanderer, released from his frozen state, staggered back, his eyes wide with a rare, raw emotion. His usual cynical detachment shattered, replaced by a profound, chilling sense of déjà vu. He had seen the corruption of power, the loss of self, the insidious tendrils of the abyss.

Durin had grown fond of Aether, respected his unwavering spirit, and to see him twisted into this… this abomination of power, was a torment. He lunged forward, not at Aether, but towards the source of the corruption, a desperate, futile attempt to intervene, to shatter the very air around the transformed Traveler. He saw the suffering, the loss, and his dragon heart ached with a profound, primal grief.

…

Sandrone, released from time's grip, stumbled, her mechanical puppet, Pulonia, wobbling precariously. Her masked face, usually a canvas of emotionless calculation, now betrayed a profound, almost human shock. She had seen Dottore’s fall, a moment that should have brought a grim satisfaction, but it was immediately overshadowed by the terrifying transformation of Aether. The abyssal energy radiating from him was a cold, oppressive weight, a perversion of the carefully controlled forces she understood. Her eyes, though hidden, widened as she processed the impossible.

“Aether... the Iridescent Marrow. He truly is a variable beyond all prediction." A flicker of something akin to fear, a rare vulnerability, crossed her features. But then, it was quickly replaced by a sharp, pragmatic resolve. This was a new threat, a new problem to solve, and despite the profound loss, her mind immediately began to calculate, to strategize. The well-being of Columbina, too, was a factor. This was no longer just about Dottore’s defeat; it was about the consequences.

…

Columbina, her heart a raw, bleeding wound, watched in utter despair as the abyssal energy consumed Aether. His golden eyes, now twin voids of purple-black, found hers, but there was no recognition, no warmth, only a chilling, predatory emptiness.

“Aether…” she whispered again, her voice cracking, reaching out a trembling hand, a desperate plea. She lunged forward, ignoring the danger, ignoring the screams of her friends, trying to grasp him, to pull him back from the precipice of oblivion.

ust before her fingers could brush his arm, before she could even utter his name one last time, Aether’s form shimmered. He vanished, teleporting away in a blur of black and purple light, leaving behind only a swirling, abyssal rift that slowly, inexorably, dissipated into the churning air.

Her hand, outstretched and empty, remained suspended in the space where he had been. A silent, gut-wrenching sob tore through her, a sound of pure, unadulterated grief that echoed in the sudden, desolate quiet. Tears, hot and bitter, streamed down her face, mingling with the spray of the turbulent waters. The platform, which had sustained Dottore’s twisted ambition, groaned. Cracks, fueled by the Harbinger’s complete demise and the residual chaos of the abyssal surge, spiderwebbed across its entire surface, widening with alarming speed.

With a final, shattering roar, Dottore’s lifeless body, still impaled by the Geo pikes, plunged into the frigid waters below as the platform gave way. The remnants of his twisted creation, the very stage of his defeat, collapsed into a maelstrom of light blue energy and churning water, leaving behind only the cold, dark expanse of the sea.

Columbina, caught in the collapsing wreckage, felt the ground beneath her vanish. She fell, a solitary, broken figure, into the freezing depths, her hand instinctively clutching the greeting card Aether had given her, the one adorned with everyone’s drawings. The precious card, a fragile testament to her newfound home and belonging, was now a lifeline in the icy grip of despair, its intricate artwork blurring with her tears as she sank beneath the waves.

…

The air, usually thick with the scent of old parchment and alchemical reagents, now carried the faint, lingering metallic tang of ozone and a pervasive sense of profound despair.

The team, fractured and reeling from the catastrophic events at the platform, had slowly regrouped. Each face was etched with exhaustion, grief, and a chilling sense of responsibility. Lauma, her antlers dull, sat with a heavy, ancient weariness, her gaze fixed on nothing. Arlecchino, her usual composed demeanor shattered, paced with a restless, frustrated energy, her hands clenching and unclenching. Paimon, her small form huddled against Columbina, sobbed silently, her tiny body trembling with inconsolable grief.

Columbina herself, wrapped in a thick, unfamiliar blanket, sat by a crackling fire, her eyes hollow, fixed on the card clutched tightly in her hands. The drawings, once vibrant symbols of hope, now felt like cruel mockeries, ghosts of a future stolen. She had been rescued from the water by Lauma and Sandrone, her body numb with cold, her heart colder still.

Albedo, his face grim, stepped forward, his analytical mind now working with a chilling clarity. “Aether, in his desperate fight against Dottore, was pushed to his limits. The abyss, which had already subtly corrupted him, sensed an opportunity. When he took the Iridescent Moon’s Marrow, which was itself corrupted by the fear of its dying goddess and the Abyss, it was too much. The pure kuuvahki of Aria’s marrow was a counter, but the Iridescent Marrow… it completed the corruption. It consumed him.”

A heavy silence descended, broken only by Paimon’s soft sniffles. The weight of their collective failure, the horrifying loss of Aether, settled heavily upon them all. Each felt a profound, agonizing responsibility.

Arlecchino, her jaw tight, finally stopped pacing. Her eyes, usually cold and unyielding, now burned with a fierce, personal vendetta. “I knew Dottore was dangerous. I knew his ambition. I should have acted sooner, been more decisive. This is… this is on all of us. But I will not let it stand. Aether is my friend. My… brother in arms. I will act in my individual capacity, outside of the Fatui’s mandate, to rescue him. Whatever the cost, whatever the means, I will bring him back.” Her voice, though low, carried an unshakeable conviction, a terrifying promise of vengeance and unwavering loyalty.

Paimon, her small voice choked with tears, lifted her head. “Paimon… Paimon should have been stronger. Paimon should have protected him. He always protected Paimon…” Her tiny hands clutched Columbina’s blanket, her grief palpable, raw.

Columbina finally looked up, her gaze distant, filled with an ancient, profound sorrow. “He… he was my anchor. My light in the dark. I watched him sacrifice himself, piece by piece, to save me. I watched the abyss take him. And I… I could do nothing.” Her voice was a fragile whisper, a broken melody of despair. Out of all of them, the raw agony radiating from Columbina and Paimon was the most profound, a shared grief that bound them in silent, agonizing suffering.

The air was thick with despair, a suffocating blanket that threatened to extinguish any remaining spark of hope. But then, Varka, the imposing Grand Master, stepped forward. His form, usually imposing, now radiated a quiet, unwavering strength. He looked at each of them, his gaze firm, resolute.

“Despair is a luxury we cannot afford,” Varka declared, his voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a sharpened blade. “Aether would not want us to surrender to this. He fought with every fiber of his being, even as the abyss consumed him, to save Columbina. To surrender now, to abandon him to this fate, would be to dishonor his sacrifice.”

He swept his gaze across the room, meeting each person’s eyes. “He is not truly gone. He is lost. Corrupted, yes, but not irrevocably. We have allies, resources, and above all, a shared will to reclaim what was stolen. The Traveler has saved countless lives, forged countless bonds. Now, it is our turn to save him.”

A spark, faint but undeniable, began to rekindle in the eyes of those present. Varka’s words, though simple, carried the weight of his conviction, the unwavering spirit of a warrior who refused to yield.
“We will rally every ally he has ever made,” Varka continued, his voice growing stronger, a rallying cry against the encroaching darkness. “Mondstadt will commit its full strength. The Knights of Favonius, the Adventurers’ Guild, every free spirit who values his legacy. We will dedicate ourselves to understanding and combating this corruption.”

Albedo, his scientific curiosity reignited by a grim new purpose, nodded, his eyes hardening with resolve. “The Hexenzirkel, through Alice, will be contacted. Their ancient knowledge of primordial energies, of the abyss itself, is unparalleled. I will personally dedicate myself to researching the nature of this abyssal corruption, to finding a way to reverse it, to separate the traveler’s essence from the Iridescent Marrow’s influence.”

Nefer, her precognitive abilities still fractured, but her strategic mind sharp as ever, spoke with renewed determination. “The Curatorium of Secrets will dedicate its vast archives to investigation. We will sift through every ancient text, every forgotten prophecy, every whisper of the abyss to uncover any potential counter. My guild, the Voynich Guild, will use its network across Teyvat to gather intelligence, to track any unusual abyssal activity that might hint at Aether’s movements.”

Flins, his ancient sadness giving way to a quiet, fierce determination, stepped forward. “The Lightkeepers of Nod-Krai will stand guard. We are guardians against the encroaching shadows. We will use our connection to the spiritual currents of this land, our knowledge of the unseen, to protect those who search and to guide them. Our people will dedicate themselves to creating wards, to maintaining safe havens for research and refuge.”

Lauma, her voice regaining a fraction of its ancient strength, raised her head. “The Frostmoon Scions will commit our kuuvahki, our ancient lore of the moons. We will search for any connection, any residual echo of Aria’s marrow within Aether, a faint thread of purity we might exploit. We will offer protection, our sacred lands and our strength, to all who join this quest.”

Even Sandrone, though she remained pragmatic, nodded, a subtle shift in her posture. “My resources, my automatons, and my research into kuuvahki experimental design will be… repurposed. This is a matter of profound scientific interest, and a threat that demands a unified front. I will contribute what I can, within… certain parameters.”

Her gaze, though still masked, held a flicker of something that could almost be called commitment.

The room, once heavy with despair, began to hum with a new energy. A collective resolve, a united front against an unimaginable enemy. Each person, taking on a specific role, a crucial piece of the puzzle, felt a renewed sense of purpose. Aether was lost, but he was not forgotten. He was not abandoned. They would find him. They would bring him home.

…

Later, as the first pale light of dawn painted the snow-swept landscape in hues of grey and rose, Sandrone found Columbina still by the dying embers of the fire, the crumpled greeting card clutched to her chest. The other team members had dispersed, some to gather resources, others to begin their respective investigations. Only the soft, rhythmic whir of Pulonia, Sandrone’s mechanical puppet, broke the oppressive silence.
Sandrone approached, her movements precise, almost delicate, a stark contrast to the usual brusqueness of her presence. She sat down on a nearby stool, her gaze, though masked, fixed on Columbina. Pulonia settled quietly beside her, its intricate mechanisms humming a low, almost comforting tune.

“He would not want you to break,” Sandrone stated, her voice surprisingly soft, devoid of her usual clinical detachment. It was not a judgment, but an observation, tinged with an unexpected empathy. “The Traveler… his will was unyielding. Even as the abyss took hold, he fought. For you.”

Columbina flinched, a fresh wave of tears spilling down her cheeks. “I know,” she whispered, her voice raw, broken. “And that is what makes it worse. He sacrificed himself, and I… I am still here. Untouched. While he is lost.”

Sandrone extended a gloved hand, not to touch, but to offer a small, intricately carved wooden bird. It was a simple, unadorned thing, yet crafted with a surprising tenderness. “This was… a project of mine. A small mechanism for… comfort.” Her voice was laced with a rare, almost awkward sincerity. “He valued sentiment. He valued you. Do not diminish his sacrifice by succumbing to despair, Columbina.”

Columbina looked at the small wooden bird, then back at Sandrone, her eyes wide with surprise. She had never expected such a gesture from the usually unfeeling Harbinger. She reached out, her fingers brushing the smooth, cool wood. “Sandrone…”
“You are a goddess, Columbina Hyposelenia,” Sandrone continued, her voice gaining a touch of its familiar authority, yet still laced with a surprising gentleness. “Your existence is now anchored. Your power, restored. He brought you home. You are not without recourse. You possess the ability to communicate, to perceive things others cannot. Use that. Honor his sacrifice by reclaiming him.”

Columbina clutched the wooden bird, its simple form a tangible link to an unexpected kindness. She looked into Sandrone’s masked face, sensing the genuine, if deeply buried, concern beneath the Harbinger’s stoic exterior. Sandrone, too, had witnessed Aether’s struggle, his sacrifice. She, too, had a complex relationship with the concept of loyalty and purpose.

“He… he changed things,” Columbina murmured, her voice still fragile, but a flicker of something akin to resolve began to stir in her hollow eyes. “He changed me. He changed us all.”

Sandrone nodded slowly, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement. “Indeed. A variable, as I predicted. But one that, even in its corrupted state, demands a solution. And you, Columbina, are central to that solution. Do not forget that.” She paused, then, in a gesture that was utterly unlike her, she reached out and gently placed a hand on Columbina’s shoulder, a firm, grounding pressure. “We will find him. And we will bring him back. Together.”

The warmth of Sandrone’s touch, unexpected and profoundly comforting, was a small, fragile beacon in the vast, cold ocean of Columbina’s despair. It was an unlikely solace, a testament to the strange, complex bonds forged in the crucible of their shared experiences. And in that moment, Columbina, the Moon Maiden, the newly named Hyposelenia, felt a tiny spark of hope ignite within her shattered heart. She had a purpose. She had to bring him home. For him. For all of them.

Chapter Text

The air in what remained of the Curatorium of Secrets hummed with a different kind of energy than the previous night’s festive exuberance. Gone were the lively echoes of Moon-Prayer Night, replaced by the hushed whispers of concern, the rustle of maps, and the scratch of quill on parchment.

The scent of ancient books and alchemical tinctures, usually comforting, now mingled with an acrid tang of ozone that stubbornly clung to the fabric of the building, a grim reminder of the recent cataclysm.

Varka, his imposing frame slightly stooped with a weariness that belied his immense strength, sat at a makeshift desk. His hands, usually accustomed to wielding a broadsword or guiding the reins of a vast organization, now carefully held a piece of fine parchment.

His gaze, though etched with a deep, unsettling concern, remained resolute as he dictated his words.

Beside him, perched on a stack of particularly dense tomes, Paimon’s tiny form was a study in focused, if tear-stained, determination. Her usual boundless energy was muted, replaced by a quiet diligence as she meticulously transcribed Varka’s words. Her small fingers, usually adept at zipping through the air, now carefully guided a quill, forming elegant script that belied her simple appearance.

A smudge of ink adorned her cheek, a testament to her focused efforts, and every now and then, a soft sniffle escaped her, betraying the raw grief that still clung to her.
“To the Acting Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius, Jean Gunnhildr,” Varka began, his voice a low, steady rumble, carefully chosen to convey both urgency and gravity. “This missive carries tidings of gravest import from the remote lands of Nod-Krai, precipitated by events of unforeseen and catastrophic scale. It is with a heavy heart, and an even heavier sense of responsibility, that I must convey the following…”

He paused, a sigh escaping his lips, his gaze drifting to the faint, lingering traces of abyssal energy that still permeated the air, invisible to most, but keenly felt by one such as him. The memory of Aether’s transformation, the terrifying surge of darkness, still sent a cold shiver down his spine.

Paimon, her brow furrowed in concentration, dipped her quill into the inkpot, her small, round eyes looking up at Varka. “Is Paimon writing too slow, Grand Master Varka? Paimon tries her best, but these fancy letters are hard!”

Varka offered a faint, reassuring smile, a flicker of warmth in the somber atmosphere. “No, Paimon, your hand is steady, and your dedication unwavering. Take your time. Precision is paramount in such communications.” He cleared his throat, continuing.

“The Harbinger known as Dottore initiated an unprovoked assault on our lands during the Moon-Prayer Night. His objective was the capture and manipulation of Columbina, the newly named Moon Maiden, through the corruption of the Moon Marrows.”
Paimon’s quill paused, a fresh tear welling in her eye. She sniffled, her small voice barely a whisper. “And… and Aether… he saved Columbina, didn’t he? Like he always saves everyone?”

Varka’s gaze softened, a deep sadness entering his eyes. He reached out, his large hand gently patting Paimon’s head. “He did, Paimon. He fought with unparalleled courage and resolve. He… he dismantled Dottore’s construct and freed Columbina from her prison.” He hesitated, the next words a bitter, painful truth.

“However, in doing so, he absorbed the Iridescent Moon’s Marrow, which had been deeply corrupted by abyssal influence. The Traveler… he was transformed. Consumed by a darkness that now, regrettably, defines him.”
Paimon’s shoulders shook, silent sobs wracking her small frame. The ink on the parchment smudged slightly beneath her tear-filled gaze. “Paimon still can’t believe it… He’s not himself, Grand Master Varka. Paimon saw his eyes… they were so… empty.”

“We believe he is not irrecoverably lost, Paimon,” Varka stated, his voice firm, a deliberate attempt to instill hope. “But he is now a vessel of the abyss, his former self obscured. He teleported from the scene, and his current whereabouts are unknown. We are gathering all available resources to track him, to understand the nature of this corruption, and to formulate a strategy for his reclamation.”

He resumed dictating, his tone regaining its official cadence. “The gravity of this situation cannot be overstated. The Traveller, now wielding an abyssal power of unprecedented scale, represents an existential threat to Teyvat if left unchecked, or a potential weapon if we can reclaim him. Our immediate concern is to understand the extent of his abilities and to find a means to sever the abyss’s hold.”

Paimon, though still visibly distraught, managed to continue writing, her quill moving with a renewed, if shaky, resolve. She had to do this for Aether.

“We are mobilizing all available assets here in Nod-Krai,” Varka continued. “The Frostmoon Scions, the Curatorium of Secrets, the Voynich Guild, and the Lightkeepers are committed to this undertaking. Albedo, the Chief Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius, who was present during the incident, is dedicating his unparalleled intellect to researching the abyssal corruption and its interaction with the Moon Marrows. And, of course, it goes without saying that The Honorary Knight is not himself right now and by proxy is not to be trusted.”

Paimon nodded, a small, determined frown on her face. “Paimon will write it all down! We’ll get Aether back, won’t we, Grand Master Varka? Paimon has to get Aether back!” Her voice, though still tinged with sadness, held a raw, fierce hope.

Varka placed his hand on her shoulder, a rare, comforting gesture. “We will, Paimon. We shall leave no stone unturned, no ally uncontacted. Aether has saved us all, time and again. Now, it is our turn to save him.” He then looked over Paimon’s shoulder, seeing the completed letter. “Conclude with a plea for Mondstadt’s immediate support and a request for a meeting to coordinate a response. The fate of the Traveler, and perhaps of Teyvat itself, hangs in the balance.”

“Oh! Paimon knows some other people too! She’s sure they’ll be able to help”

“That’s perfect, Paimon. Looks like we’ll have a lot more letters to write.”

“Nope! Paimon wrote the first letter. You’re next, then Jahoda”

Jahoda, sputtering, “I- I don’t have to do that! Umm… Ummm… I work for Nefer, only she can tell me what to do-”

“Write in my stead when it’s my turn too, Jahoda.”

“Wait wait whyyyyyy Boss?’

Nefer leaves, smiling lightly.

“No- nooooo. Don’t abandon me Boss.”

…

The brisk Mondstadtian wind, usually a playful companion, seemed to carry an unusual chill through the halls of the Knights of Favonius Headquarters.

It rustled through Jean Gunnhildr’s usually impeccable hair as she stood by her office window, gazing out at the familiar cityscape. The morning sun, though bright, offered little warmth against the weight of her responsibilities. Documents lay stacked high on her desk, each one a testament to the myriad duties of the Acting Grand Master.

A knock, light and familiar, broke her reverie. “Come in, Kaeya,” she called, a slight smile touching her lips even as a flicker of weariness remained in her eyes.

The Cavalry Captain entered, his usual relaxed demeanor a familiar comfort. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his singular eye glinting with a mischievous twinkle. “Good morning, Acting Grand Master. Or should I say, good day? I trust the mountains of paperwork haven’t yet consumed your soul.”
Jean sighed, turning from the window.

“Not yet, though they make a valiant effort. What brings you here, Kaeya? More reports of Hilichurl activity or perhaps a rogue shipment of dandelion wine?”

“Neither, thankfully,” Kaeya chuckled, pushing off the doorframe. He then, with a subtle shift in his expression, added, “Though I do have a rather delightful piece of news that might brighten your day.”

Before he could elaborate, a familiar golden light shimmered in the center of the room, coalescing with a soft, almost inaudible hum. Aether stood there, his usual adventurous attire slightly disheveled, but otherwise looking remarkably well. His golden eyes, however, held a depth that was new, a subtle, almost imperceptible darkness that swirled beneath the surface, hidden beneath a practiced, reassuring smile. The abyssal energy, a subtle, insidious hum, permeated his very being, a phantom undercurrent beneath his familiar presence.

“Traveller!” Jean exclaimed, a genuine smile of relief breaking through her usual composed façade. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until seeing him. “You’re back! We hadn’t heard from you in days after you left with the others for Nod-Krai. Is everything alright? How’s Varka? We were starting to worry.”
Aether’s smile widened, a touch too bright, a fraction too long. “Everything is perfectly fine, Jean. A small detour in the northern reaches, nothing more. A bit of trouble with… well, let’s just say some unsavory characters from Snezhnaya. But it’s all resolved now. And Varka is probably still drunk from the festival yesterday night.” His gaze flickered to Kaeya, a shared understanding passing between them, though a predatory glint, almost imperceptible, flashed in Aether’s eyes before he masked it.

Kaeya, ever perceptive, narrowed his eye for a fleeting moment. He noticed the subtle shift in Aether’s aura, a faint, almost metallic tang in the air that wasn’t quite right. It was like a perfectly tuned instrument suddenly striking a single, jarringly off-key note. But Aether’s smile was convincing, his presence reassuring. Kaeya, as always, kept his observations to himself, opting for playful banter.

“Ah, ‘unsavory characters from Snezhnaya,’ you say?” Kaeya mused, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “I do hope you’re not referring to our dear Doctor. I hear he’s quite the… academic.” The word was laced with irony.

Aether let out a low chuckle, a sound that held a fraction more edge than Jean would have expected. “Oh, he’s certainly an academic, Kaeya. An academic who couldn’t even finish his doctorate, if I recall correctly. All that bluster and grand ambition, and he still couldn’t secure a proper degree.” His voice was light, but there was a sharp, cutting venom beneath it, a dark satisfaction that made Jean blink.

Jean, though relieved by Aether’s presence, felt a slight tremor of unease. Aether rarely spoke with such… pointed malice. But then, Dottore was hardly a sympathetic figure.

“Indeed,” she said, trying to steer the conversation away from the unsettling undercurrent. “He is a dangerous individual, and I’m glad you managed to avoid any… protracted engagements with him.”

“Protracted is one word for it,” Aether murmured, a glint in his eye that Jean couldn’t quite decipher. “But rest assured, Jean, Mondstadt is safe from his… academic pursuits. He’s unlikely to trouble us, or anyone else, for quite some time.” There was a finality in his tone, a chilling certainty that made the hairs on Jean’s arms stand on end.

Kaeya, however, found himself grinning. “Well, that’s certainly a comforting thought, Traveler. Though I must admit, I rather enjoyed watching him squirm. The man has a face so ugly, he hides it behind a mask. Not to mention, he’s terrified of anyone seeing it. It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? The great Doctor, so proud of his intellect, yet so insecure about his visage.”

Aether’s smile, though still wide, seemed to stretch a fraction too far, revealing a flash of something cold and predatory. “Indeed, Kaeya. A fitting end for a coward who hides behind constructs and boasts of incomplete knowledge.” The abyssal whispers, a faint, dark current, seemed to echo his words, a subtle resonance that only he could truly hear.

Jean, deciding to change the subject before the conversation veered into even darker territory, interjected, “Speaking of happier news, Aether, I believe Klee has been quite eager for your return. She’s mentioned you almost every day since you left, asking when her ‘big brother’ would come back to play.” A soft, tender smile graced her lips at the thought of the little Spark Knight. “She really misses you.”

At the mention of Klee, the subtle darkness in Aether’s eyes seemed to recede, replaced by a more familiar, gentle warmth. It was a practiced, perfect façade, one he had honed with frightening precision. “

Klee?” he said, his voice softening, a genuine-sounding fondness entering his tone. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss spending time with her for anything. I owe her a proper adventure, don’t I?” He looked at Jean, his smile now entirely convincing. “I’ll head over to see her after I’ve had a moment to… settle in. Perhaps a quiet afternoon together?”

Jean nodded, relief washing over her. “That would be wonderful, Aether. She’s been in solitary confinement (Grounded) quite a bit lately, I’m afraid. She needs a good distraction, something… calming.” She gave him a pointed look, knowing Klee’s definition of ‘calming’ was usually explosive. “Perhaps no fish blasting today?”

Aether chuckled, a light, easy sound. “Of course, Jean. Just a quiet, calming afternoon. I promise.” The predatory glint, however, returned to his eyes for a fleeting second, a promise of a different kind, one that only the abyssal whispers within him understood.

Kaeya, ever the showman, raised an eyebrow. “A quiet afternoon with Klee? Now that’s a challenge I’d pay to see. But I trust the Traveler’s… unique talents. Do let me know if you need any assistance in keeping her from accidentally redecorating Starsnatch Cliff.”

Aether’s smile was unwavering. “I’ll manage, Kaeya. Rest assured.” With a final, reassuring nod to both Jean and Kaeya, he turned, a faint shimmer of golden light briefly obscuring him before he vanished, presumably heading towards the Knights’ Headquarters dormitory where Klee was usually confined.

Jean sighed, a mix of relief and lingering unease. “It’s good to have him back, but… something felt different, didn’t it, Kaeya?”
Kaeya’s smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown. He walked over to the spot where Aether had been, running a gloved hand through the air as if searching for a lingering trace.

“Indeed, Acting Grand Master. The Traveler has always been… unique. But there was a new note in his symphony, a dissonant chord. Like a familiar melody played by an unfamiliar hand.” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And his certainty regarding Dottore… it was unsettling. Almost… definitive.”

Jean nodded, a chill running down her spine. “I felt it too. I hope whatever he encountered in Nod-Krai didn’t… change him too much. He’s always been so pure of heart.” She looked out the window again, a new worry added to her already burgeoning list.

…

She sat at the edge of the lake, her small, elf-like ears twitching with barely contained excitement, a mischievous grin plastered across her face.

Her tiny hands, usually clutching Dodoco, now held a bright red bomb, its fuse already smoking faintly. Beside her, Aether sat, his golden eyes observing her with an unnerving intensity that was hidden beneath a calm, reassuring smile. The abyssal energy within him thrummed, a dark, hungry presence that reveled in the subtle chaos, the bending of rules.

“Big brother Aether! Look! Look!” Klee giggled, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Klee made a super-duper-fishy-blasting bomb! It’s even redder than Dodoco!”

Aether chuckled, a low, easy sound that seemed to hum with a strange, underlying current. “It certainly looks impressive, Klee. A masterpiece of incendiary artistry, I’d say.”

His voice was warm, encouraging, but there was a subtle, almost predatory gleam in his eyes as he looked at the bomb, then at the unsuspecting fish darting beneath the surface of the lake.

Klee, however, suddenly deflated, her shoulders slumping. Her mischievous grin faltered, replaced by a pout. “But… but Jean said fish blasting is bad! She said if Klee bombs fish, Klee gets put in ‘solithery confinement’! And Klee doesn’t like ‘solithery confinement’! It’s boring, and Klee can’t brainstorm new bombs there!” She looked up at Aether, her eyes wide and pleading. “Jean says it makes the fishies sad, and it’s not nice.”

Aether’s smile remained, but a flicker of something dark, something dismissive of such mundane concerns, passed through his eyes.

He reached out, his hand gently ruffling Klee’s soft, blonde hair. “Now, Klee, Jean means well. But sometimes… A little bit of fun, a little bit of harmless excitement, is perfectly fine. Especially when you’re with your big brother.”

His voice was laced with a smooth, almost hypnotic persuasion, a subtle manipulation that played on Klee’s trust and desire for adventure. “Besides,” he added, leaning in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a whisper, “Jean doesn’t need to know everything we do, does she? This can be our little secret. Just between you and me.”

Klee’s eyes widened, a fresh spark of excitement igniting within them. A secret? With big brother Aether? That sounded even more fun than just bombing fish! She loved Jean, but sometimes Jean was just too serious about rules. “A secret?” she whispered back, her voice filled with childlike glee. “Really, Aether? You won’t tell Jean?”

“Never,” Aether promised, his smile unwavering, though the abyssal hum within him resonated with a dark amusement. Promises are fluid. Especially when they serve a greater purpose. He gave her another reassuring pat. “And besides, Klee, those fish are probably just enjoying a good swim. A little splash won’t hurt them. Think of it as… giving them a surprise bath!”

Klee giggled, her earlier reservations vanishing like smoke. “A surprise bath! That’s so funny, big brother Aether! Okay! Klee trusts you!” She held up her bomb, her eyes shining with renewed enthusiasm. “Ready, Aether?”

“Ready, Klee,” Aether replied, a subtle, predatory gleam returning to his eyes. He leaned back, watching her with an almost detached interest, a scientist observing an experiment.

The sheer, unadulterated joy Klee radiated, the innocent thrill of controlled destruction, was a fascinating thing to behold. It mirrored a darker satisfaction within him, a hunger for chaos, albeit on a far grander scale.

With a triumphant shout, Klee launched her bomb. It arced gracefully through the air, a tiny red comet against the blue sky, before landing with a satisfying plop in the middle of the lake. A moment later, a colossal boom erupted, sending a geyser of water and stunned fish soaring skyward. Klee shrieked with delight, clapping her hands and jumping up and down.

“Klee did it! Look at all the fishies flying! It’s like a fishy fireworks show!”

They spent the next hour in a flurry of explosive activity. Klee, emboldened by Aether’s encouragement and the shared secret, produced an array of increasingly elaborate bombs. There were ‘Sparky Splasher’ bombs that created vibrant, multicolored explosions in the water, ‘Bouncy Barrel’ bombs that skipped across the surface before detonating, and even a ‘Mega Boom-Boom’ that sent a plume of water almost as high as the nearby trees. Each explosion was met with Klee’s infectious laughter and Aether’s quiet, approving nods.

He even offered a few suggestions, subtle tweaks to her bomb-making technique that, while seemingly innocent, enhanced their destructive potential, making them more effective at their (now corrupted) purpose. Klee, oblivious to the darker implications, soaked up his advice like a sponge, her admiration for her ‘big brother’ soaring.

As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Klee finally ran out of bombs. She flopped down beside Aether, flushed and breathless, her blonde hair a chaotic mess, but her eyes sparkling with unadulterated happiness.

“That was the bestest fish blasting ever, big brother Aether!” she declared, leaning against his side, her small hand clutching his arm. “Thank you for playing with Klee! You’re the bestest big brother in the whole wide world!”

Aether’s gaze softened, a flicker of something almost human passing through his eyes before the abyss reasserted its subtle dominance. He patted Klee’s head, a genuine-seeming gesture. “You’re very welcome, Klee. I always enjoy our adventures together.”

He paused, a subtle shift in his demeanor, his voice taking on a slightly more serious, yet still gentle, tone. “But Klee, I have something very important to tell you. Something your mother, Alice, asked me to do.”

Klee immediately perked up, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Mommy? Mommy sent you a message? Is she coming back? Klee misses Mommy a lot!” Her voice was tinged with the familiar longing for her adventurous mother.

Aether nodded, his smile now carefully neutral, designed to convey sincerity. “She did, Klee. She sent me a very special message. She’s in a place called Nod-Krai, very far north. And she asked me, personally, to bring you to her.” He watched Klee’s reaction carefully, gauging her response.

Klee gasped, her jaw dropping in disbelief, then quickly morphing into pure, unadulterated joy. “Mommy wants to see Klee? In Nod-Krai? Wowee! Klee gets to see Mommy! That’s the bestest news ever!” She bounced up and down, barely able to contain her excitement. “When do we go, big brother Aether? Can we go now? Right now? Klee wants to see Mommy!”

“Sadly, No. Alice asked me to take care of you while she went to do something really important.” He stood, offering Klee a hand. “Hold onto me tight, Klee. It’s a bit of a long journey, and we’ll have to travel very, very fast.”

Klee, her face alight with boundless enthusiasm, scrambled to her feet and grabbed Aether’s hand with both of hers, clutching him tightly. “Okay, big brother Aether! Klee is ready for the super-duper-fast journey to Mommy!”

Aether’s gaze swept across the familiar landscape of Mondstadt, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. The sun was setting, casting long, distorted shadows across the land, mirroring the growing darkness within him. He felt the familiar surge of abyssal energy, a dark, potent hum.

‘Aether’ smiled, a wide, chilling grin that twisted his features into something predatory and cruel. His voice, a low, guttural whisper, was imbued with the dark resonance of the abyss. “Perfect”, he says as an abyssal rift opened beneath Klee and ‘Aether’.

…

Days later, as the last vestiges of twilight bled into the deep indigo of night, Mika finally reached Jean's Office with the letter from Varka. Jean, exhausted but ever diligent, was still hunched over her desk, trying to make sense of the day’s endless reports.

She unfastened the scroll, her brow furrowing slightly at the unfamiliar seal, then widening in alarm as she recognized the official crest of the Knights of Favonius, albeit from a copy Varka had apparently stamped onto it. Her eyes scanned the elegant script, Paimon’s familiar, if slightly messy, handwriting filling her with a strange mix of relief and dread.

As she read, her face, usually a picture of serene composure, slowly drained of all color. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, then horror, then a cold, crushing dread, darted across the parchment. Dottore’s attack… Columbina’s rescue… Aether’s transformation… the abyss…

The letter slipped from her trembling fingers, fluttering to the polished wooden floor like a discarded leaf. It landed beside a small, hand-drawn picture Klee had given her earlier that day: a cheerful stick figure of herself, Aether, and Jean, holding hands under a bright, smiling sun.

Jean stared at the crumpled parchment, then at Klee’s drawing, a profound, gut-wrenching realization dawning on her with terrifying clarity. Aether had asked for Klee. He had promised a “calming afternoon.” He had vanished. And now, this letter.

“No,” Jean whispered, her voice a raw, desperate gasp that tore from her throat. The single word was imbued with unspeakable horror, with a mother’s primal fear, with the crushing weight of a tragedy she had not foreseen. “Klee… oh, Archons, Klee!”

Chapter Text

The Curatorium of Secrets, nestled amidst the ancient, whispering pines that guarded the northern slopes of Mondstadt, hummed with a quiet anticipation. A week had passed since the Moon-Prayer Night, a week since Columbina had embraced her new name and her new destiny. A week since Aether, the steadfast Traveler, had vanished beyond the veil of Teyvat, leaving behind a void that resonated in the hearts of those who had come to cherish him.

Inside the Curatorium, an expansive chamber of polished stone and intricate astronomical instruments, Varka, the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius, sighed, running a hand through his perpetually wind-swept hair. Beside him, Paimon, usually a whirlwind of ceaseless energy, floated with an uncharacteristic stillness, her tiny hands clasped in front of her. A mountainous pile of letters, neatly bound with ribbons and sealed with the wax sigils of various nations, lay stacked on a nearby table. They had done it. Every last one. Now, they simply waited.

"Paimon's little hand is tired," Paimon mumbled, a faint pout on her lips. "So many names, so many places! Who knew the world had so many important people who needed to know about Aether?"
Varka chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that briefly dispelled the solemnity of the room. "Indeed, Paimon. But every one of these letters, every carefully chosen word, carries a piece of our hope. And Aether, wherever he is, deserves every ounce of it." He glanced towards the entrance, a flicker of impatience in his usually calm eyes. "Jahoda should be here soon. She promised to handle the Adventurers' Guild dispatch."

Just as the words left his lips, the grand, oak doors of the Curatorium, carved with celestial maps and ancient script, swung inward with a soft, almost reverent whisper of polished wood against stone. Three figures entered, their presence casting long shadows across the polished floor.

First was Lauma, her movements fluid and silent as a phantom deer through an ancient forest. Her slender frame was adorned with robes the color of twilight, and her antlers, intricately branched and smooth as polished jade, seemed to absorb the ambient light, glowing with an inner luminescence that pulsed faintly, a testament to her connection to the moon.

Her ancient eyes, deep pools of silver and starlight, swept over the room, acknowledging Varka and Paimon with a subtle inclination of her head. She carried herself with an ethereal grace, a timeless serenity that suggested she moved to a rhythm far older than the mountains outside. She was a living legend, a keeper of lunar lore, and her wisdom was a quiet, profound force.

Beside her, Sandrone, the Sixth of the Fatui Harbingers, moved with an almost mechanical precision, her puppet following her, its whirring mechanisms barely audible in the quiet space. Her beige hair, braided into a severe bun, framed a face that, even without the mask she usually wore, betrayed little emotion. Her blue-grey eyes, keen and analytical, immediately began to assess the room, taking in every detail of the Curatorium's esoteric instruments and ancient texts.

Sandrone's presence was a study in controlled power, a mind relentlessly focused on the mechanics of the world. Her long white dress, adorned with crimson ruffles and a black corset, seemed a stark contrast to the utilitarian precision of her persona, a strange blend of antique elegance and cold, calculated intellect.

And between them, yet somehow distinctly separate, walked Columbina. The change in her was profound, palpable. No longer did she possess the translucent quality that had once threatened to dissolve her into moonlight.

Her form was solid, her skin possessing a delicate warmth, her features etched with a newfound vibrancy. The pale, luminous quality that had once been a symptom of her fading now seemed an intentional aura, a subtle glow that hinted at her lunar connection rather than her instability. Her movements, once ethereal and distant, now held a grounded elegance, a quiet confidence.

Dottore's reckless, world-altering experiment with the three moons, a catastrophic event that had threatened to unravel the very fabric of Teyvat, had, in a strange twist of fate, inadvertently stabilized her. The chaotic surge of lunar energy, the recalibration of celestial influences, had somehow anchored her existence, weaving her into the reality of Teyvat in a way she had never been before. It was as if the world, having been forced to acknowledge the moon's profound influence, had also been forced to accept its living embodiment.

Columbina’s eyes, usually distant and serene, held a deeper sparkle now, reflecting the warmth she had found on Moon-Prayer Night. She offered a small, gentle smile to Varka and Paimon, a gesture of quiet camaraderie that would have been unimaginable weeks prior.

"Good to see you, Columbina," Varka said, his voice genuinely warm. "You look... well." It was an understatement, but a sincere one.
Columbina inclined her head. "Grand Master. Paimon. Indeed, I am. More so than I ever thought possible. Teyvat has... embraced me." There was a quiet wonder in her tone, a soft echo of a miracle.

Paimon zipped over, hovering excitedly. "Wow, Columbina! You really sparkle now! Paimon knew you'd be okay!"

Sandrone, ever pragmatic, offered a clipped nod. "A physiological anomaly, certainly. The parameters of her existence have been irrevocably altered. Fascinating." Her gaze, however, lingered on Columbina with a hint of something beyond mere scientific curiosity—a faint echo of the amusement Columbina had often found in her during their Harbinger days, a grudging respect for the sheer audacity of her survival.

Lauma's eyes, however, held a deeper understanding. "The moon's song has changed, little sister," she murmured, her voice like wind chimes. "And so, too, has yours. It is a beautiful harmony." Lauma’s bond with Nefer was well-known to be a 'shaky' one, largely because Lauma possessed an unnerving ability to see through Nefer's carefully constructed facades. Yet, with Columbina, there was an immediate, gentle acceptance, a recognition of shared, ancient energies.

Before they could settle, the doors opened again, revealing the imposing figure of Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger. Her lean, almost predatory grace was evident in every movement. Dressed in her stark black and white attire, she exuded an aura of contained power, a sharp intelligence that missed nothing.

Her pale face, marked by the distinctive red diamond pattern around her eyes, was unreadable, yet her gaze, when it met Columbina's, held a flicker of something akin to approval, perhaps even pride. She, too, had been present on Moon-Prayer Night, a silent, watchful guardian, and the sight of Columbina's newfound stability seemed to resonate with her own complex sense of loyalty and purpose. She offered a curt nod to Varka and the others, then took her place beside Columbina, her proximity a silent statement of support.

Moments later, a flurry of hurried footsteps announced the arrival of Jahoda. She was a picture of efficiency and understated elegance, her movements precise and purposeful. In her hands, she carried a small, empty satchel, a testament to a task thoroughly completed. Her warm, intelligent eyes immediately sought out Varka and Paimon.

"Grand Master, Paimon," she announced, her voice clear and crisp. "The letters have all been dispatched. The Adventurers' Guild has assured me they will reach their destinations with utmost haste." She offered a small, triumphant smile. "Every nation, every contact. From Fontaine's meticulous postal service to Sumeru's swift couriers, and even the more... unconventional channels required for certain destinations in Snezhnaya." She glanced pointedly at Arlecchino and Sandrone, a shared understanding passing between them regarding the intricacies of Fatui communication.

"Excellent, Jahoda," Varka boomed, clapping her on the shoulder. "Splendid work, as always. Your efficiency is a godsend."
As Jahoda settled among the growing group, others began to filter in.

Albedo, the Chief Alchemist and the Kreideprinz, entered with his usual quiet intensity, his golden eyes immediately scanning the Curatorium's scientific apparatus as much as the faces of his companions. He carried a small, leather-bound journal, its pages filled with intricate diagrams and observations, a testament to his ceaseless pursuit of knowledge. He nodded politely to everyone, his gaze lingering briefly on Durin as if checking for any new developments in his unique existence.

Then came Durin, he offered a polite bow to Varka, then quickly sought the familiar presence of Albedo, settling beside him with a small, contented sigh. His desire to learn and grow, to shed the shadow of his monstrous past and embrace a new, gentle identity, was evident in every cautious yet determined step. He still remembered the joy of exploring and making friends, and that innocence, though now tempered with maturity, was still a core part of his being.

The Wanderer, drifted in with an air of detached contemplation, his wide-brimmed hat casting his face into shadow. His expression was as inscrutable as ever, but a keen observer might notice the way his eyes, sharp and intelligent, softened almost imperceptibly as they passed over Paimon and Albedo. He had long since shed the weight of his past as a Harbinger, yet the echoes of his experiences remained, shaping him into a being of profound introspection. He leaned against a tall bookshelf filled with ancient scrolls, his arms crossed, observing the gathering with a quiet, analytical gaze.

Nefer arrived next, her green bobbed hair swaying with her confident stride. Her bright green eyes, with their distinctive upside-down white triangular pupils, took in the entire scene with an almost predatory efficiency. She carried herself with an air of authority, her mind already cataloging data, assessing alliances, and calculating probabilities. She exchanged a knowing glance with Lauma, a subtle acknowledgment of their complex history, then found a spot where she could observe everyone without being too central.

Finally, Aino, her usually cheerful demeanor tempered by the gravity of the situation, entered with a sense of quiet determination. Her focus was always on finding solutions, on practical applications of her unique skills. She offered a small, reassuring smile to the group, her gaze sweeping over them, a silent promise of her unwavering commitment.

With everyone gathered, a palpable shift occurred in the room. Nefer, ever the one to seize control of a narrative, took a step forward, her voice cutting through the murmurs with a confident, authoritative tone.

"Thank you all for coming," Nefer began, her words carefully chosen, each one imbued with purpose. "Our presence here signifies not just our concern for the Traveler, but our collective resolve. The situation is unprecedented, and the stakes are immeasurable." Her green eyes, sharp and unwavering, met each person's gaze in turn. "We have assembled to pool our resources, our knowledge, and our unique abilities to pierce the veil that has taken Aether from us."

She gestured towards Varka and Paimon. "Grand Master Varka and Paimon have been diligently working on the initial phase of our response: informing key allies across Teyvat. Varka, Paimon, if you would."

Paimon chimed in, her voice a little softer than usual. "Paimon wrote about all the amazing things Aether did! And how important he is to everyone! Paimon hopes they all listen!"

Varka’s expression, however, clouded slightly. He ran a hand over his chin, his gaze distant. "The letter to Jean, the Acting Grand Master in Mondstadt, was given to Mika long before the other letters, who delivered a letter to me from Jean prior,. Given the urgency, and Jean's usual swiftness in such matters, I must admit… I find her silence concerning. It has been longer than usual for a message between our positions." A ripple of unease passed through the room. Jean was known for her dedication, her unwavering sense of duty. For her to be silent now, when Aether's fate hung in the balance, was indeed uncharacteristic.

…

Meanwhile, far away in the quiet, moonlit city of Mondstadt, a different kind of silence hung heavy in the air. The clock in Jean Gunnhildr's office, usually a reassuring tick-tock against the rhythm of her endless paperwork, seemed to hammer with oppressive weight. It was the deepest part of the night, the hour when even the city's usual night shift guards were at their quietest.

Jean sat hunched over her desk, illuminated by the single flickering flame of a desk lamp. Her usually pristine uniform was rumpled, her golden hair disheveled. Her hands, trembling slightly, sifted through a stack of documents—Knight of Favonius patrol logs, reports from the reconnaissance division, recent dispatches from Springvale and Dragonspine. Her eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, darted across the pages, searching, desperate.

Klee was gone. A small, hastily scribbled note, clutched in the hand of a maid, had simply said: "Gone exploring with Aether. Don't worry!" And after the letter from Varka…

"No," Jean whispered, her voice a raw, desperate gasp that tore from her throat. The single word was imbued with unspeakable horror, with a mother’s primal fear, with the crushing weight of a tragedy she had not foreseen. “Klee… oh, Archons, Klee!”

Her head dropped onto the desk, buried in her arms, her body wracked with silent, agonizing sobs. The weight of her failure, the crushing realization of what might have happened, was a physical pain, sharper than any blade. Klee, her precious, innocent Klee, lost to the same cosmic anomaly that had swallowed Aether. The thought was unbearable. It was a wound that would never heal, a nightmare from which she might never awaken.

"Fuck," she finally hissed, the word a venomous whisper in the desolate quiet of her office, a desperate curse against a fate she refused to accept. The sound was swallowed by the thick night, leaving only the sound of her own ragged breathing in its wake.

…

Back in the Curatorium of Secrets, a different kind of tension hung in the air. Varka's concern about Jean's silence had settled like a heavy cloak over the group. It was Albedo who, with his characteristic calm, provided a momentary reprieve.
He looked up from his journal, his golden eyes bright with a subdued excitement. "On a related note," he stated, his voice even, "I received a communication just moments ago through the long-range device. It appears Alice has been monitoring our situation."

A hush fell over the room, every eye turning to Albedo. Alice. The legendary, enigmatic mother of Klee, the "near-omnipotent sorceress." Her name alone conjured images of impossible feats and boundless curiosity.

"She stated," Albedo continued, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips, "that she will be joining us. To assist in the search for Aether."

A wave of relief, coupled with a surge of renewed hope, rippled through the gathered individuals. While none were truly surprised by Alice's decision – her adventurous spirit and profound care for those she considered friends were well-known – the sheer happiness that her involvement was palpable. Alice was a force of nature, a polymath whose skills spanned alchemy, astrology, engineering, and magic. If anyone could unravel the mysteries surrounding Aether's disappearance, it was her.

Before the murmurs of shared optimism could fully subside, a profound shift occurred in the very air of the Curatorium. The ancient oak doors, which had closed after Aino's entrance, now swung open with an almost theatrical flourish, propelled by an unseen force.

Framed in the doorway, bathed in the soft glow filtering through the Curatorium's high windows, stood Alice.

She was exactly as legends described her, and yet, somehow, more. Her presence was vibrant, almost incandescent, radiating an energy that was both playful and profoundly powerful. Her eyes, sparkling with an intelligent mischief, swept over the gathered figures, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She wore practical yet elegant adventurer's attire, imbued with subtle magical enhancements that shimmered faintly in the light. She had the air of someone who had just stepped out of a whirlwind adventure, yet was perfectly at ease in any setting. Her immense magical prowess, the very thing that made Albedo call her a "near-omnipotent sorceress," seemed to ripple around her, a tangible aura of limitless potential.

“Why one would have such a cheerful expression in these times is unbeknownst to me.”

And beside her, a stark contrast to Alice's effervescent vibrancy, stood Dainsleif. He was a figure of quiet gravitas, his presence as ancient and enduring as the bedrock of Teyvat itself. His dark, intricate attire, etched with the forgotten symbols of his lost nation, seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. He carried himself with a weary grace, a silent strength that commanded respect without demanding it.

The entire room fell silent. Alice simply beamed, her gaze settling on Paimon and Varka.

"My, what a distinguished gathering!" Alice's voice was melodious, imbued with a hint of playful magic that made the very air around her seem to tingle. "Apologies for the unannounced entrance, but I simply couldn't miss such an important strategic meeting. Especially when it concerns dear Aether."

Her gaze then moved to Dainsleif, a subtle curve of her lips suggesting a shared secret. “And I seem to have brought an extra guest. He insisted on tagging along, something about 'prior engagements' with our dear Traveler."

Paimon, zipped forward, her tiny hands wringing. "Dainsleif! Paimon didn't tell everyone! Paimon is so sorry!" She looked at Varka, then at the assembled group, her face a mask of earnest apology. "Immediately after what happened on Moon-Prayer Night, Paimon remembered that Dainsleif always helps Aether with Abyss stuff! So Paimon wrote a letter and asked the Adventurers' Guild to pass it to Dainsleif! But Paimon forgot to tell everyone because everything was so sad and confusing!"

She hovered anxiously, awaiting their judgment. Varka simply chuckled, shaking his head gently. "Paimon, your foresight is admirable, even if your communication skills could use some refining." He smiled warmly at Dainsleif. "Welcome, Dainsleif. Your expertise will be invaluable."

Before they could delve further into Dainsleif's unexpected appearance, Aino, ever practical, spoke up. "If anyone is asking Ineffa," she began, her voice clear and concise, "”She went out by herself. She's already familiar with them and felt a direct approach would be more effective than a letter. Said she had a few '’friends’ to catch up with anyways."

With everyone now present and accounted for, the meeting truly began. The initial awkwardness of unexpected arrivals faded, replaced by a focused determination. Nefer, with Alice's tacit approval, resumed her role as moderator, guiding the discussion with her usual blend of confidence and strategic thinking.

"Our objective is clear," Nefer stated, her green eyes scanning the faces around the table, "to locate Aether and bring him back. We must consider every possibility, every avenue of investigation. We are dealing with an unknown phenomenon, something that transcends conventional understanding of space and time."

The discussion that followed was intense, a vibrant clash and convergence of brilliant minds. Albedo, with his alchemical insights, proposed theories about dimensional resonance and elemental fluctuations. Sandrone offered complex schematics for inter-dimensional detection devices, her 'terrible personality' manifesting as sharp, precise critiques of any unscientific suggestion. Lauma, drawing upon ancient lunar lore and the whispers of the stars, spoke of the thin places between worlds, of the echoes of dreams and forgotten histories. Flins spoke of the currents of the leylines, the pathways of spirits, and the way faint echoes of existence could linger across planar boundaries.

Nefer, observing the flow of information, occasionally let her skin around her eyes darken slightly when someone's theory veered too far into conjecture without sufficient backing. Her face, usually composed, would show this subtle sign of annoyance. "Conjecture is a luxury we cannot afford," she'd state, her tone firm but not unkind. "We require actionable intelligence, verifiable phenomena. Let us focus on what we can observe, what we can measure, and what we can deduce from historical precedent."

Her past hardships in the desert had instilled in her a pragmatic, results-oriented mindset, leaving little room for idle speculation. She knew the value of hard-earned information.

Arlecchino, meanwhile, contributed with sharp, incisive questions, cutting straight to the core of each proposal, testing its logical robustness. Her presence was a constant reminder of the gravity of their mission, her every word imbued with a focused intensity. Varka, with his broad experience and leadership, ensured that all voices were heard, mediating between the various temperaments and disciplines.

Alice, with her seemingly boundless knowledge, offered insights that often bridged the gaps between scientific theory and ancient magic, her suggestions often accompanied by a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Her casual brilliance was both awe-inspiring and slightly disorienting.

As the hours passed, a comprehensive plan began to coalesce, drawing upon the unique strengths of each individual. The initial aimless despair had transformed into a focused, multi-pronged approach.

Finally, as the first rays of dawn painted the eastern sky in hues of rose and gold, the meeting concluded. Nefer, with a satisfied nod, summarized their agreed-upon strategy.
"Very well," she announced, her voice resonating with quiet authority. "Our efforts will be divided into specialized teams. This multi-faceted approach offers the greatest chance of success."
She began to list the assignments, her gaze sweeping across the room:

"Aino and Sandrone," Nefer began, "your combined expertise in engineering and automatons will be crucial. We need devices, machines that can extend our senses beyond the known parameters of Teyvat. Scrying apparatuses, resonance detectors, even potential inter-dimensional probes. Think outside the conventional framework. Sandrone, your work on Katherynes and other complex automatons demonstrates a mastery of intricate mechanics that could be pivotal. Aino, your knack for practical application and efficiency will be vital in bringing these concepts to fruition."

Sandrone's puppet whirred, its internal mechanisms already seeming to hum with renewed purpose. "A challenge worthy of my talents," she conceded, her voice devoid of its usual dismissiveness, a hint of genuine intellectual excitement in her tone. "The fabrication of a multi-planar resonance array presents intriguing theoretical and practical hurdles. Aino, I trust you are prepared for rigorous intellectual engagement?" She glanced at Aino, a rare flicker of something akin to a smirk on her face.

Aino returned the look with a determined smile. "I'm always ready for a challenge, Sandrone. Practicality will be key, but I'm certain we can push the boundaries of what's possible."

"Flins and Lauma," Nefer continued, "your understanding of ancient lore, spiritual energies, and the very fabric of Teyvat's history will be indispensable. You will delve into all available historic records, ancient texts, forgotten prophecies, and any whispered legends that might offer a clue. We need to find any precedents, any mentions of similar phenomena, or any methods that might lead to Aether's return. Lauma, your connection to the moon and its ancient cycles, and Flins, your unique perspective as a fae guardian of memories, will be paramount."

Flins nodded, his yellow eyes already seeming to drift inwards, as if sifting through unseen layers of history. "The echoes of the past are never truly silent," he murmured, his voice soft. "They whisper in the leylines, resonate in the stones. We will listen."

Lauma, her luminous antlers pulsing gently, offered a serene smile. "The moon remembers. And I, its humble chronicler, shall seek its forgotten verses." Her relationship with Nefer, though 'shaky' due to Lauma's unsettling ability to read her, was put aside for the greater good, a testament to the urgency of their shared goal.

“Paimon, Dainsleif, Jahoda, and myself," Nefer declared, her gaze firm. "We will form an investigative team. Our priority will be to locate and investigate any areas exhibiting traces of the Abyss, or any unusual elemental disturbances that align with the parameters of Aether's disappearance. Dainsleif, your unparalleled knowledge of the Abyss and its machinations will be our guiding light. Jahoda, your diplomatic skills and the Adventurers' Guild network will be crucial for intelligence gathering and logistical support. Paimon, your unique ability to perceive hidden details, and your proximity to the Traveler, makes you an invaluable sensor. And I will coordinate our efforts, ensuring efficiency and precision in our search."

Paimon puffed out her chest, a determined expression on her face. "Paimon will find every single clue! Aether will be so proud!"
Dainsleif merely nodded, a grim set to his jaw. "The Abyss leaves its scars. If Aether has passed through its influence, however briefly, we will find the echoes."

"Durin, the Wanderer, and Albedo," Nefer continued, turning to the alchemy team, "your collective mastery of elemental manipulation, forbidden knowledge, and synthetic life will be dedicated to alchemical solutions. Can alchemy forge a bridge between realities? Can it create a beacon to pierce the void? Can it unravel the unique energy signature left by Aether's passage? Durin, your unique origins and connection to elemental life might offer an unconventional insight. Wanderer, your understanding of advanced elemental matrices and perhaps even forbidden knowledge from your past as a puppet of the Electro Archon could be a key. Albedo, your unparalleled genius in alchemy is, of course, our foundation."

"And finally," Nefer concluded, her gaze settling on the most powerful members of the group, “Alice, Varka, Arlecchino, and Columbina. You will form a flexible, rapid-response team. Your combined power, experience, and unique abilities make you ideal for traversing Teyvat, offering support to any team that encounters significant obstacles, investigating unforeseen leads, or directly confronting any threats that may arise.

Alice, your 'near-omnipotent' magical prowess will be our shield and sword. Varka, your tactical genius and leadership. Arlecchino, your formidable combat abilities and strategic mind. And Columbina, your unique connection to the celestial, your ability to perceive the subtle shifts in reality, will be invaluable."

Alice clapped her hands together with a delighted, almost childlike enthusiasm. "Oh, a grand adventure! Just like old times, but with even higher stakes! I do love a good mystery, especially one that involves dear Aether!" Her excitement was infectious, a bright spark of optimism in the face of daunting odds. "I suppose this means I'll have to dust off some of my more... exotic spells."

Varka grinned, a flash of his old, boisterous self returning. "A rapid response team led by Alice? The Abyss won't know what hit it!"

Arlecchino's lips curled into a faint, predatory smile. "Let them come. We will be ready."

With the plan solidified, a sense of purposeful energy filled the Curatorium. The despair that had lingered after Aether's disappearance had been transmuted into a powerful, collective resolve. They were not merely searching; they were fighting, united by their shared affection for the Traveler.

Far away, in the heart of Mondstadt, a scream tore through the tranquil night.

Venti, the Anemo Archon Barbatos, usually a carefree spirit soaring above the world, felt it. A piercing shard of anguish, a raw cry of despair, ripped through the leylines that connected him to his beloved city. It was Jean. He knew her spirit, her song, intimately. This was not the quiet worry he often sensed, but a profound, soul-deep agony.

Without a second thought, Venti dissolved into a gust of wind, teleporting himself instantly to the source of the distress: Jean's office in the Knights of Favonius Headquarters.

He materialized silently, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a rare gravity. Jean was slumped over her desk, her body shaking with silent sobs. The discarded papers on the floor, the frantic energy in the room, told a story he didn't want to hear.

At the same time, the faint, muffled sound of Jean's earlier cry had reached the ears of those still awake in the Knights' quarters. Lisa Minci, the Librarian, her sharp intellect always attuned to the subtle shifts in the city's energy, was the first to stir. Kaeya Alberich, the Cavalry Captain, ever the night owl, had heard it too, a chilling sound that cut through the usual hum of the city. Amber, the Outrider, ever vigilant, sensed the shift in mood.

Even Eula Lawrence, the Spindrift Knight, despite her usual disdain for "favors," felt a prickle of unease that pulled her from her sleep.

They converged in front of Jean's office door, a silent, worried tableau. Lisa, her expression serious, gently pushed the door open, revealing the heartbreaking sight within.

"Jean?" Lisa's voice was soft, laced with concern.
Jean flinched, slowly raising her head. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen, a mask of utter devastation. "Lisa... Kaeya... Amber... Eula..." Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

Venti stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "My dear Dandelion Knight, what troubles your heart so?" His voice was unusually tender, devoid of its characteristic teasing.
Jean looked at them, her gaze desperate, then fell back into her chair, clutching a crumpled piece of paper. "It's Klee," she choked out, the words tearing from her throat. "She's gone. She left a note, saying she went 'exploring with Aether.' But Aether... Aether is gone, isn't he? He vanished on Moon-Prayer Night. And Klee... Klee went with him."

A collective gasp filled the small office. The implication struck them all like a physical blow. Klee, the innocent, the beloved Spark Knight, caught in the same impossible anomaly that had claimed the Traveler.

Kaeya's usual smirk vanished, replaced by a grim line. "Are you certain, Jean?" he asked, his voice low and serious. "Could she have simply... wandered off to Dragonspine again?"

…

A few days later, a palpable shift had occurred in Mondstadt. The news of Klee's disappearance, though kept from the general populace to prevent panic, had galvanized the Knights of Favonius. The air buzzed with suppressed activity, hushed conversations, and a grim sense of purpose. Venti, true to his word, had already departed.

Jean, though still bearing the heavy burden of her worry, had regained her composure, her strength as Acting Grand Master shining through. She had made the difficult decision to lead a direct search party, knowing that her presence, her resolve, and her magical abilities were essential.

She stood in her office, now organized and pristine once more, though the quiet hum of activity outside her door betrayed the underlying tension. Kaeya, his usual charm replaced by a focused intensity, stood by her side. Amber, her bow polished and quiver full, fidgeted with anticipation. Eula, her claymore gleaming, radiated a quiet, formidable determination. Even Diluc Ragnvindr, the Darknight Hero, whom Kaeya had personally reached out to for help, had agreed to join them. His presence, a rare collaboration between the Knights and the winery owner, underscored the gravity of the situation. Diluc, though stoic, held a deep respect for Jean and Aether.

"Everything is prepared," Kaeya stated, his voice devoid of its usual flippancy. "Our supplies are packed, the routes mapped. The Hexenzirkel has responded to your request, Jean. Mona Megistus confirmed their assistance."

Jean nodded, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes. "Yes. Alice had already reached out to them. The Hexenzirkel will lend their formidable magical protection to Mondstadt while we are gone. They will ensure the city remains safe, shrouded from any unforeseen dangers that might arise from this cosmic instability." It was a critical measure, ensuring that her beloved city would not be left vulnerable during their desperate quest. Alice, as a founder of the Hexenzirkel, had undoubtedly leveraged her influence to secure this vital aid.

"We depart for Nod-Krai tomorrow morning," Jean announced, her voice firm, resolute. "The fate of Aether, and more importantly, the fate of our precious Klee, rests upon us. We will not fail."

A collective nod, a shared vow of unwavering determination, hung in the air. The morning dew of apathy had long since burned away, replaced by the fiery resolve of Mondstadt's guardians. Their path was perilous, their destination unknown, but their purpose was clear: to bring their friends home.

Chapter Text

“Hmm... That's weird." Childe’s voice, typically laced with a boisterous enthusiasm, held a rare note of perplexed frustration. He stood in the familiar, shimmering expanse of Aether's Serenitea Pot, or rather, the shimmering non-expanse of it. For the past week, he and Skirk had been pushing the limits of his training, honing his abyssal techniques and elemental mastery to a razor’s edge.

Skirk had suggested that the final, crucial phase involved frequent, intense spars with Aether, a dynamic clash of styles that always left him invigorated and, more importantly, stronger. But today, the Realm Dispatch, that simple, elegant artifact that usually whisked him away to Aether's private domain, simply… wasn’t working. It glowed faintly, then sputtered, refusing to activate, leaving him standing in the desolate, windswept plains outside Liyue Harbor, the very air seeming to mock his thwarted ambition.

A sigh escaped him, a puff of white mist against the crisp morning air. Ahh, well. Such minor inconveniences were hardly insurmountable. He was supposed to meet with Zhongli after sparring with Aether anyway. Perhaps he could convince the Geo Archon to engage in a 'friendly' bout instead. Childe knew, with a certainty born of numerous failed attempts, that Zhongli would never accept.

The elegant Archon preferred his tea and philosophical musings to the clang of blades, a profound disappointment to Childe’s battle-hungry spirit. But it couldn't stop him from trying, could it? It was in his nature, after all, to seek out challenges, to test the limits of his own strength and that of others. Aether must just be busy, he reasoned, perhaps caught up in some obscure Traveler duty or another. He could always spar more with Aether next week, and—

His thoughts, a chaotic tumble of battle strategies and thwarted expectations, came to an abrupt halt. His keen, warrior’s eyes, ever scanning for movement, picked out two figures in the distance, silhouetted against the rising sun.

One was undeniably Zhongli, his familiar, stately posture radiating an almost palpable aura of ancient wisdom and refined elegance, even from afar. But the other… The other figure looked vaguely familiar, a strange echo in the recesses of Childe’s memory. He was sure he had never met that person before, not truly. Yet, the slender form, the almost ethereal grace, the way the light seemed to play off their hair…

The person looked distinctly female, at first glance. No, on closer inspection, as they moved, a certain breadth of shoulder, a subtle shift in gait, revealed him to be male.

That was it. He vaguely remembered La Signora, in one of her rare moments of gossipy indulgence amidst their tea parties, telling him about someone like that. A flamboyant, almost effeminate, yet undeniably powerful individual.

Man, he missed Signora. Her sharp wit, her cold elegance, her surprising capacity for genuine camaraderie when he first became a Harbinger. The tea parties he had with Signora, Sandrone, Arlecchino, and Columbina were strange, unexpected havens in the cutthroat world of the Fatui, moments of shared humanity that, in retrospect, he cherished.

He understood why she died, a casualty of the Archons’ games, and it didn't harm his relationships with anyone, not truly. Except maybe the Raiden Shogun, a childish "I don't like you" sentiment, but certainly not Aether. Though, he wondered if Aether could have, perhaps, enslaved Signora instead of allowing her to perish. A powerful tool, after all, was never truly wasted, is what he says to himself, knowing the only reason being that Childe missed her.

He shook his head, clearing the morbid thought with a grimace. He was getting distracted. What did Signora say about that… femboy? Wait a minute. Oh, Archons, he’s so stupid. The pieces clicked into place with a sudden, embarrassing clarity. The slender build, the almost feminine grace, the air of playful arrogance that still managed to exude raw, untamed power… It could only be one person. Barbatos. The Anemo Archon himself.

…

The air on the floating island of the Serenitea Pot, usually a bastion of tranquility and gentle breezes, now hummed with a different kind of energy: the innocent, volatile glee of a child and the subtle, chilling hum of abyssal corruption. 'Aether', watched Klee with an almost detached amusement as she devoured her dinner. The floating teapot, once a serene sanctuary, was now a subtly twisted playground, its pristine landscapes occasionally bearing the scars of Klee’s explosive exuberance.

“Hey, Mr. Honorary Knight! What kind of fish is that? It tastes really nice!" Klee chirped, her small face smeared with sauce, her eyes bright with innocent delight. 'Aether' smiled, a slow, languid curve of his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes, which, though appearing golden, held a deeper, unsettling void within their depths. "The fish you blew up, Klee."

Klee gasped, her eyes widening in wonder. "Oh! Now I wanna blow up more fishes!" Her voice was a mixture of unadulterated joy and burgeoning mischief. She loved fish blasting, and the thought of eating her own explosive catch made it even better.

'Aether' chuckled, a low, resonant sound that carried a subtle, predatory undertone. He watched her, his mind a nexus of calculations and dark desires. Should he make his first move? The thought had been a persistent whisper in his mind since taking Klee. As soon as he would, all of Aether's friends would finally have a lead, a direction to pursue.

It was a risk, revealing his hand, but the thrill of the chase, the opportunity to lure them into his game, was almost irresistible. Well, hmmmm. He’d make a decision after he gathered a bit more information, he supposed. No need to rush. The pieces were falling into place, after all.

He glanced casually towards Tubby, the avian adeptus who oversaw the Serenitea Pot, currently perched on a nearby rock, preening her feathers with serene dedication. He was glad that the bird was none the wiser to the abyssal corruption on this body, to the true nature of her 'Traveler'. Tubby was, well, useful. He didn't exactly know how to use Adeptal magic, the intricate, profound art of shaping a realm.

But he was learning. And Tubby, in her innocent devotion, was a willing, if unknowing, assistant. The Realm Dispatch, he mused, a chilling smirk playing on his lips, had almost been forgotten. Especially with someone almost entering with a realm dispatch just hours ago? A narrow escape. He couldn't afford such oversights. Not when the game was just beginning.

…

The workshop hummed with a symphony of whirs, clicks, and the faint, sweet smell of volatile magical reagents. Alice, her long, silver-blonde hair tied back with a casual, almost whimsical ribbon, levitated a complex motor assembly with a mere flick of her wrist, guiding it smoothly to Aino’s side.

"Hey Alice, could you hand me a moto—Oh! Thanks!" Aino exclaimed, catching the motor with practiced ease. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her hands already reaching for a specialized wrench. The task at hand was intricate, demanding her full attention, but the underlying current of worry for Aether was a constant, low thrum in her mind.

Alice, meanwhile, observed Aino with a fond, maternal gaze, though her usual boundless cheer was tinged with a subtle, almost imperceptible anxiety. She was worried for Aether, and more so than usual. Klee never had much of a father figure growing up, seeing as her biological father had died when she wasn't even one.

To Alice, Aether had stepped into that role with an effortless grace, always caring for Klee, especially with Alice constantly away doing... well, Alice things. He was patient, kind, and surprisingly adept at handling Klee’s explosive tendencies without resorting to solitary confinement. She’d have to thank him for everything later, when this was all over.

Wait. Where was Sandrone? She wasn’t with Aino, though Alice had given Aino unlimited access to the Experimental Bureau, knowing her knack for practical application would be invaluable. Hmmmm... come to think of it, Columbina wasn't around either. Alice paused, her bright, intelligent eyes narrowing slightly. She wondered what they were doing. They were both critical to this operation, and their absence, even for a short time, was unusual. A small seed of concern, quickly dismissed by her inherent optimism.

…

In a quieter corner of the makeshift command center, tucked away from the whirring of gears and the hushed discussions of strategy, Sandrone sat. Her posture was rigid, almost unyielding, yet her gloved hand rested with an unexpected, almost tender gentleness on Columbina’s shoulder. Columbina, usually a figure of serene composure, was trembling, her elegant form wracked with silent sobs.

The crumpled greeting card, a cherished relic from Moon-Prayer Night, was clutched tightly in her hands, its vibrant drawings blurring with her tears. She missed Aether. The ache in her chest was a raw, gaping wound, a constant reminder of the light that had been extinguished.

Sandrone, the Harbinger of cold intellect and mechanical precision, offered no platitudes, no empty words of comfort. Instead, she simply sat there, a silent, unwavering anchor in Columbina's storm of grief. Her presence, usually so distant and calculating, was now a testament to the strange, complex bonds forged in the crucible of their shared experiences.

She had witnessed Aether’s transformation, and had seen the profound despair that had gripped Columbina. And in this moment, the pragmatic scientist found herself offering the one thing her friend truly needed: a quiet, steadfast comfort, a silent promise that she was not alone in her sorrow. Her mask, usually a barrier, seemed to soften, almost imperceptibly, in the presence of such raw, unadulterated grief.

…

Starsand Shoal echoed with the rhythmic thwack of flesh against flesh, the sharp hiss of displaced air, and the grunts of exertion. Varka, his massive frame moving with surprising agility, sparred with Arlecchino, their movements a blur of practiced precision.

Both had agreed to fight elementless, relying solely on their raw physical prowess and honed combat skills, a grueling test of endurance and technique.

Varka feinted with a powerful left hook, forcing Arlecchino to duck beneath his arm. She retaliated with a swift, snapping kick to his midsection, which he absorbed with a grunt, barely stumbling.

His broadsword, usually a weapon of immense power, lay discarded near the edge of the training area, as did her sharp, almost ceremonial spear. This was a test of pure, unadulterated skill, a way to channel their frustration and fear into something productive. Their faces, usually composed, were now masks of fierce concentration, sweat beading on their brows as they pushed each other to their limits.

…

A low, grating chuckle, devoid of warmth, vibrated through the air of the Serenitea Pot’s floating island. 'Aether' sat on a makeshift throne of intricately carved wood (It was a normal chair, though ‘Aether’ refused to believe that), his golden eyes, now tinged with an ominous purple-black glow, fixed on an ethereal projection shimmering before him. The projection displayed a shadowy, indistinct figure, its voice a hushed, furtive whisper that only 'Aether' could hear.

“..is building something to try to remove your abyssal corruption, Varka and Arlecchino are sparring, and that's about it. You'll release her soon, right?" The traitor's voice, laced with a subtle undercurrent of desperation, filtered through the projection.

‘Aether' smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. "Yes, of course. I'll release Klee. And ahh. It's too easy." His voice was a soft purr, dripping with condescension. The ease with which he had manipulated Klee, lured her into his domain, was almost boring. The child's innocent trust was a fragile, delightful thing to exploit.

The traitor’s form on the projection seemed to waver, a faint tremor running through its indistinct outline. "They'll stop you, and Aether will be freed from you." The words were spoken with a desperate conviction, a sliver of hope clinging to a desperate plea.

'Aether' merely scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound. "I'd like to see them try." His eyes, dark pools of corrupted power, glittered with malicious amusement. "Oh, and don't worry. I'm taking very good care of Klee." A truth, shocking. He was indeed taking care of her and-

A loud, concussive boom suddenly shook the entire floating island, rattling the leaves on distant trees and sending a shower of pebbles cascading down a nearby cliff face. 'Aether' glanced up, his expression one of mild annoyance rather than alarm. A small, mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke bloomed innocently in the distance, near where a particularly ancient, sprawling tree had stood just moments before.

"Oh. I actually liked that tree." His voice was flat, a faint frown creasing his brow. Klee, in her boundless enthusiasm, had clearly found a new target for her ‘surprise baths’. He sighed, a theatrical gesture of long-suffering patience. The child was… energetic. But useful. Very useful.

…

Childe, having finally made his way to the outskirts of Liyue Harbor, approached the two figures with a confident, almost theatrical stride. His earlier irritation at the Serenitea Pot’s malfunction was replaced by a familiar excitement at the prospect of interacting with such formidable individuals.

"Two Archons in one place," Childe announced, his voice carrying easily on the morning breeze, a playful challenge in his tone. "What might the occasion be?" He grinned, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Zhongli, ever the picture of serene elegance, turned with a light smile, waving a hand in a gesture of welcome. “Ah, Childe. A pleasant surprise."

Venti, on the other hand, visibly stiffened. His usual carefree demeanor faltered, replaced by a momentary panic. "Ha... umm... I'm not Barbatos," he stammered, attempting a casual air that utterly failed to convince. He adjusted his cape nervously, his eyes darting between Childe and Zhongli.

Childe’s grin widened. "I never said you were Barbatos, just Archon." He chuckled, enjoying the bard’s flustered reaction. It was always amusing to catch the gods off guard.

Zhongli, sensing Venti’s discomfort, offered a reassuring smile. "Ahh, do not worry, Venti. Childe is a friend of mine, part of the Fatui, yes, but discerning. No common man would find out our identities that easily." His tone was smooth, subtly implying a trust that, for Childe, felt like a rare and valued compliment.

Venti, visibly relaxing, let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, Thank Barbatos-"

"You are Barbatos! Anyways, back to my original question. What are you two doing here, conspiring in the morning sun?"

Zhongli sighed, a long-suffering sound. "No idea, my friend. But Venti was planning to convince me to do something that I have no idea what it is about." He cast a long, sidelong glance at the Anemo Archon.

Venti, having fully recovered his composure, straightened up, a rare seriousness settling on his features. He then proceeded to explain everything, his voice losing its usual playful lilt as he recounted the harrowing events of Moon-Prayer Night: Aether’s desperate fight against Dottore, the absorption of the corrupted Moon Marrow, Klee’s subsequent disappearance, and the urgent, unified plan to rescue them both.

He spoke of the combined efforts of the Nod-Krai group, of the letters sent, of the deepening concern. He emphasized the dire need for speed, for immediate action, to prevent Aether from being irrevocably lost to the abyss, and to rescue Klee from his corrupted influence.

Zhongli listened, his expression growing increasingly grim, a deep frown etched on his usually placid features. The gravity of the situation was immense, and the implications of an abyssal-corrupted Traveler, especially one with Aether’s power, were terrifying.

Childe, too, listened intently, his earlier playful demeanor fading, replaced by a focused intensity. Aether, corrupted by the abyss? And Klee, the little Spark Knight, with him? This was a game of far greater stakes than any he had ever imagined.

"This is… concerning," Zhongli finally stated, his voice a low, resonant rumble. "To allow the Traveler to be consumed by such darkness… it is an oversight we cannot afford." He looked at Venti, then at Childe. "We must act."

Childe, though still reeling from the implications, felt a surge of adrenaline. Aether, corrupted? This was a challenge of cosmic proportions. “Count me in," he said, his voice firm, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "If there's a fight to be had, if there's a chance to bring Aether back to his senses, I won't be left out."

Zhongli and Childe both agreed that afternoon would be the time to depart. The urgency of the situation was paramount. Zhongli considered going to the Qixing to warn them, to mobilize Liyue’s forces, but from what Venti had said, Paimon and Varka would probably write them letters too. Besides, no one there knew he was the Geo Archon any more.

And well, there definitely wasn't any time to waste. Every moment counted. Besides, he still had another stop before departing, a brief, necessary errand before plunging into the heart of this new, terrifying crisis.

…

Nefer, her dark green hair swaying with her agile movements, had joined the elementless spar. Her bright green eyes, with their distinctive triangular pupils, darted between Varka and Arlecchino, her movements precise, calculated, each block and parry a testament to her honed reflexes. She was less about brute force and more about efficiency, finding the gaps in their defenses with a startling quickness.

"I feel bad for Alice," Varka grunted, deflecting a swift kick from Arlecchino while simultaneously blocking a chop from Nefer. Sweat beaded on his brow, his muscles straining. "Checking up on everyone while we just stay here sparring." He acknowledged the irony, pushing past his discomfort. Alice, with her boundless energy and concern, was probably a whirlwind of activity, offering comfort and support to the myriad allies now mobilized.

Arlecchino, her pale face impassive, sidestepped a powerful swing from Varka. "Especially with Columbina still too depressed to do much." Her voice was low, a rare note of genuine concern in her usually detached tone. She had seen the depth of Columbina’s despair, the profound agony of losing Aether.

Nefer, a bead of sweat tracing a path down her temple, ducked under Arlecchino’s arm, narrowly avoiding a retaliatory strike. "Me too. I feel bad for not doing anything, but with 'Aether' not making a move yet, well, me, Jahoda, Dainsleif, and Paimon have nothing much to do but wait for new information. Our information networks are spread, but without a clear target, we are largely stagnant." She acknowledged the tactical lull, the frustration of inaction. Her unique ability to deal in information felt useless without something concrete to track.

Suddenly, Varka straightened, his gaze fixed on the path leading back to the Curatorium. His eyes, usually discerning, now held a flicker of hope. "Speaking of them, they seem to be coming to us, along with Alice, with rather nice expressions." He gestured vaguely with his head. "You think they found something?"

Arlecchino, following his gaze, saw the approaching figures: Paimon, Dainsleif, Jahoda, and Alice, their faces indeed alight with a peculiar mix of urgency and optimism. "Well," she remarked, her lips curling into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, "it's probably better than what we found."

Nefer, with a wry twist of her lips, nodded in agreement. "We found nothing."

Varka, ever the one for a good pun, even in grim times, chuckled. "Well, it's better than nothing." He clapped his hands together, bringing the sparring session to an abrupt halt. "Come, let us see what news they bring." The three of them, still slightly breathless from their vigorous training, walked towards the approaching group, a renewed sense of anticipation stirring within them.

…

"You know, Aether was planning on giving you a Realm Dispatch when we met again, Dainsleif."

Paimon's voice, though still tinged with the lingering sadness of Aether's disappearance, held a new spark of recollection, a sudden, bright burst of insight. She hovered excitedly beside Dainsleif, who, with Jahoda, had just approached the sparring trio of Varka, Arlecchino, and Nefer. Alice, with her usual theatrical flair, materialized silently beside the group, her eyes sparkling with amusement at Varka's pun.

Dainsleif, his dark, ancient gaze fixed on Paimon, raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? What is that?" His knowledge was vast, spanning centuries, yet the peculiar mechanisms of Adeptal energy and Traveler-specific artifacts often fell outside his purview.
Paimon, delighted to share a piece of Aether's world, puffed out her tiny chest.

“Well, it allows you to enter Aether's private realm of sorts! Aether gives them out quite a lot! It's like his own little pocket dimension, full of friends and cute animals and even Tubby!" She animatedly described the Serenitea Pot, the realm's unique charm, and Aether's fondness for inviting his companions to reside there.

Jahoda, her sharp intellect immediately connecting the dots, gasped, her eyes widening. "Wait. Could that be where Aether is?" Her voice was filled with a sudden, desperate hope. The Serenitea Pot. A private, isolated realm, accessible only by specific means. It fit the profile of a place where a powerful, corrupted entity might hide.

Dainsleif, his grim expression tightening, nodded slowly, a dawning realization in his eyes. "That... that could be possible. A hidden dimension, cloaked from external detection, known only to a select few. It would explain why our scrying efforts have been fruitless." He turned to Paimon, his voice urgent. "Quick, Paimon, check it. Do you have one of these 'Realm Dispatches'?"

Paimon's excitement immediately deflated, replaced by a flush of embarrassment. She wrung her tiny hands, her gaze dropping to her feet. "Ummmmm.... well, Paimon doesn't have one." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Paimon is by Aether's side all the time, and well, Paimon never felt the need to have one. Paimon thought she'd always be by Aether's side so...." Her confession was laced with profound regret, a painful reminder of her unwavering loyalty and the agonizing separation she now endured.

Alice, who had just appeared beside them with a soft, almost inaudible shimmer of arcane energy, chuckled, a light, melodious sound. "Well, why not ask them?" She pointed vaguely in the direction of Varka, Nefer, and Arlecchino, who had ceased their sparring and were now approaching, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and dawning understanding.

Dainsleif, momentarily startled by Alice's sudden appearance, turned to her, his brow furrowed. "How did you suddenly appear here? I didn't sense your approach."

Alice merely winked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "That's not the point, dear Dainsleif. The point is, your little friend just gave you a brilliant idea. Now, go ask around! Time is of the essence, after all, and I do love a good treasure hunt." Her immense magical prowess allowed her to bypass many conventional laws of physics, making her sudden appearances a common, if disorienting, occurrence.

Paimon, now emboldened by Alice's encouragement, zipped towards the approaching group, her small voice ringing out with a renewed, desperate hope. "Hey! Does someone here
have a Realm Dispatch from Aether?"

The question hung in the air, echoing with the weight of their collective longing and burgeoning hope. Varka, Arlecchino, and Nefer exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from surprise to cautious optimism.

Paimon, sensing their confusion, quickly explained everything, her words tumbling out in a torrent of urgent detail. She recounted Dainsleif's imminent receipt of a dispatch, Jahoda's insightful deduction, and her own embarrassing lack of one. The idea, once a fleeting thought, now held the promise of a direct link to the lost Traveler.

Arlecchino, her expression unreadable, reached into an inner pocket of her stark black and white coat. She pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden charm, pulsating with a faint, golden light. It was a Realm Dispatch, one that Aether had given to her during their brief, complicated alliance, a symbol of his surprising trust. "I have one," she stated, her voice low, devoid of emotion, yet her fingers tightened around the charm, betraying a flicker of something deeply personal.

A collective gasp swept through the group. This was it. A direct path.

Arlecchino, with a grim determination, held out the charm. Paimon, trembling with anticipation, reached out her tiny hand, her fingers brushing the smooth wood. She channeled a small amount of her own inherent energy, a soft, ethereal glow surrounding her as she attempted to activate the Realm Dispatch.

The golden light of the charm pulsed once, twice, then shimmered. It flared, then dimmed, its soft glow flickering and dying completely. The charm remained inert, cold in Paimon's hand.

A heavy silence descended, a crushing weight of disappointment.

"It... it doesn't work," Paimon whispered, her voice barely audible, laced with a profound, agonizing realization. Her eyes, wide with unshed tears, looked up at the faces around her, searching for answers, for reassurance.

Dainsleif, his jaw tight, his eyes grim, nodded slowly. “Then it is as we feared. The Traveler has indeed sealed his realm." His voice was devoid of emotion, but the implications were clear. If the Realm Dispatch, a direct key, could not open the door, then Aether was deliberately isolating himself.

A new, chilling certainty settled over them. Aether was most likely there. In his own Serenitea Pot. Hidden away, protected by Adeptal magic, shielded by his own formidable power, and now, consumed by the abyss. The fight was not just to find him, but to breach his sanctuary, to reclaim him from the very heart of his stolen home. The true battle had yet to begin.

…

Zhongli, having parted ways with Childe, made his way to the secluded abode of the adeptus Xianyun. He knocked firmly on the intricately carved wooden door. After a moment, it opened, revealing Xianyun, her gaze sharp and intelligent.

"Rex Lapis," she greeted, a hint of surprise in her voice. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

Zhongli's expression was grave. "Xianyun, I bring news of grave concern. It involves the Traveler, Aether." He proceeded to recount the events Venti had shared, detailing Aether's corruption, Klee's abduction, and the unified effort to rescue them. “
The situation is dire," Zhongli concluded, his voice low and serious. "We believe Aether is currently under the influence of the Abyss, and Klee is with him. We need your wisdom, Xianyun. While the strength of the other Adepti would be invaluable, I fear there isn't enough time to gather them all. We depart this afternoon."

Xianyun's eyes narrowed, her usual composure replaced by a look of profound worry. "This is indeed troubling. To see the Traveler consumed by such darkness... However, rushing into a situation like this, especially one involving the Abyss, would be foolhardy. We must proceed with caution and thorough preparation."

Venti, teleporting to tell, “ Xianyun is right. Let’s go tomorrow morning. We need some good sleep before the journey anyway.”

“And who, pray tell, is this bard, Zhongli?”

Chapter Text

The morning sun, usually a comforting golden caress upon the tiered rooftops of Liyue Harbor, felt strangely muted to Ningguang. It filtered through the intricate lattice of the Jade Chamber's grand windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like forgotten spirits, yet failed to warm the deep-seated chill in her heart.

Varka’s letter, a stark testament to a brewing cosmic storm, lay open on her polished desk, its contents seared into her memory. Aether, the Traveler, a beacon of hope and an unwitting pivot of destiny, was gone. Consumed by the Abyss. And Klee, innocent, explosive Klee, was with him.

Ningguang sighed, a sound that carried the weight of a nation. Her fingers, usually adorned with glittering jade and accustomed to the precise calculations of commerce and governance, now merely traced the elegant script of the letter, a silent acknowledgement of the impossibility of the situation.

This was not a trade dispute to be settled with shrewd negotiation, nor a political impasse to be overcome with diplomatic finesse. This was a direct assault on the very fabric of Teyvat, a wound ripped open by a madman and then festered by an ancient, predatory darkness.

The Traveler, a paradox in his own right, had been a constant variable in Liyue’s equations, always arriving at the most opportune moments, always tilting the scales towards peace and prosperity. To imagine him as an agent of chaos, a puppet of the Abyss, was a concept that gnawed at the edges of her formidable composure. The implications were staggering, capable of unraveling the delicate balance of Liyue.

She pushed back from her desk, the soft scrape of her chair echoing in the vast, opulent chamber. Her mind, a whirlwind of strategies and contingencies, began to clear with a ruthless efficiency honed by decades of power. Sentiment was a luxury she could not afford, not now. Action, decisive and swift, was the only currency that mattered.

“Baishi,” Ningguang’s voice, usually a silken murmur of authority, cut through the stillness, carrying a new, urgent edge. One of her three devoted assistants, a young woman named Baishi, who typically managed the vast flow of documents and appointments for the Tianquan, appeared as if summoned by the very air. Her steps were silent, her expression one of polite, unwavering attentiveness.

“Clear my schedule for the next week,” Ningguang commanded, her gaze fixed on the panoramic view of Liyue Harbor below, seeing not just the bustling docks and winding streets, but the vulnerable tapestry of human life she was sworn to protect. “Every engagement, every meeting, every social obligation. Cancel them, postpone them, or delegate them. I am to be completely unburdened.”

Baishi, usually unflappable, blinked. A full week? The mere thought of Ningguang’s schedule being cleared for even a single day was an anomaly bordering on the impossible. The Tianquan’s calendar was a meticulously crafted masterpiece of political maneuvering, economic oversight, and social obligation, often booked months in advance. To dismantle it so completely suggested a crisis of unprecedented magnitude. Yet, Baishi, trained in absolute obedience, merely inclined her head. “Immediately, Tianquan. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Ningguang continued, turning to face her. Her eyes, usually a calm, calculating gold, now burned with a fierce, almost desperate resolve. “Inform Baiwen and Baixiao that Liyue is to be managed,along with you, in my absence. I am embarking on a… prolonged business trip. All critical decisions, all ongoing projects, are to proceed under their joint supervision. They are to exercise their full authority, making whatever executive choices are necessary to maintain stability and order.”

“And,” Ningguang added, her voice dropping to a low, imperative tone, “there is a second letter on my desk. It is addressed to Keqing and Ganyu. They, and only they, are to read it. Impress upon them the absolute necessity of discretion. This information is not for public consumption, nor for the broader Qixing. It requires their unique perspectives and immediate attention.”

Baishi, though still stunned by the sheer scope of the directives, simply nodded, committing every word to memory with the precision of a seasoned scribe. This was far beyond a simple ‘business trip.’ This was… an emergency. She swiftly turned, her silhouette disappearing through the grand doors, leaving Ningguang alone once more in the echoing vastness of her chamber, already preparing for the impossible.

…

The Adventurers’ Guild in Liyue Harbor was a familiar hive of activity, a constant ebb and flow of hopeful recruits, seasoned veterans, and the ever-present, ever-patient Katheryne. Today, however, a figure rarely seen in such mundane settings strode through its bustling entrance, her presence silencing the usual boisterous chatter like a sudden gust of wind.

Ningguang, stripped of the opulent robes of the Jade Chamber and dressed in practical, yet still elegantly tailored, traveling attire, approached the counter. Her usually elaborate updo was pulled back into a simpler, more severe style, but her aura of authority remained undiminished, if not intensified by an underlying urgency.

Katheryne, her smile as practiced and flawless as ever, straightened from arranging a stack of bounties. “Greetings, Tianquan Ningguang. To what does the Adventurers’ Guild owe the honor of your personal visit?” Her voice was smooth, betraying no surprise, but her internal processors surely registered the anomaly.

Ningguang did not return the pleasantries. Her golden eyes, sharp and unwavering, fixed on Katheryne with an intensity that brooked no prevarication. “Is there a letter, specifically written by Grand Master Varka of Mondstadt, addressed to someone in Inazuma?”

Katheryne’s internal mechanisms whirred, processing the query. Her head tilted slightly. “Why, yes, Tianquan. There is indeed one such dispatch. It arrived only this morning, having been routed through several… less conventional channels, given the recent travel restrictions to Inazuma.” She reached beneath the counter, her slender fingers retrieving a sealed scroll, heavier and more robust than the typical adventurer’s missive.

Ningguang’s gaze sharpened. “I’ll deliver the letter personally. Who is it addressed to?” Her voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

Katheryne, holding the scroll aloft, read the address with a slight, almost imperceptible hesitation. “It is addressed… To Her Excellency, the Almighty Narukami Ogosho, God of Thunder. To The Shogun.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Ningguang’s lips. “Great.” The single word was imbued with a chilling satisfaction. Before Katheryne could even fully process the implications, Ningguang’s hand shot out, a blur of elegant motion. She snatched the letter from Katheryne’s grasp with a swift, decisive movement, her fingers closing around the thick parchment. “I’ll deliver it, free of charge.”

“Wait, Tianquan! You can’t just—” Katheryne began, her usually placid demeanor finally cracking, a flicker of genuine alarm in her eyes. The Adventurers’ Guild had strict protocols for such high-level diplomatic dispatches. To simply take it… it was unheard of.

But Ningguang was already gone. Her figure, a fleeting silhouette of determination, had already swept out of the guild hall, leaving Katheryne standing alone at the counter, the stunned silence of the adventurers slowly giving way to bewildered murmurs. Katheryne sighed, a long, exasperated sound that seemed to vibrate through her very core. She rubbed her temples, a gesture of human weariness. This was going to be a very long day.

…

“Why is she so late?” Yelan mused aloud, her voice a low murmur in the quiet room. She hated waiting. Punctuality was a virtue, especially in her line of work. Weeks ago, she and Nefer had agreed to meet here.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, a soft, almost imperceptible knock sounded at the door. Yelan, her senses always heightened, hadn’t heard a single footstep in the corridor. She raised an eyebrow, a faint, wry smile touching her lips. Trust Nefer to be both late and stealthy.

The door swung inward, revealing Nefer. She was clad in practical, dark clothing, her signature green bobbed hair a vibrant splash of color against the muted tones of the hotel room. Her bright green eyes, with their distinctive upside-down white triangular pupils, swept over the room, instantly taking in every detail, every nuance of Yelan’s posture. A faint, almost imperceptible line of exhaustion marred the corner of her eyes, a subtle indication of the immense pressure she was under.

Yelan merely raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. “And what, pray tell, could be more pressing than our scheduled rendezvous?”

Nefer sighed, this was going to take a long time.

…

The deck of the Alcor was a symphony of creaking wood, snapping sails, and the rhythmic splash of waves against the hull. Beidou, her laughter booming across the salty air, expertly guided her ship through the choppy waters outside Liyue Harbor, her crew moving with the practiced efficiency of a well-oiled machine.

“So you want to go to Inazuma, now?” Beidou asked, her voice carrying a hint of incredulous amusement. She stood at the helm, her strong hands gripping the wheel, her single eye glinting with a mix of curiosity and weary resignation. Ningguang, impeccably dressed and radiating an aura of unwavering resolve, stood beside her, seemingly unfazed by the rolling deck.

“Yes, Beidou. As I stated, the matter is of the utmost urgency,” Ningguang replied, her voice calm and steady, despite the rising wind.

Beidou paused, her boisterous humor fading, replaced by a shrewd, calculating glint in her eye. She knew Ningguang. For the Tianquan to offer such carte blanche compensation, the matter had to be truly unprecedented. “Just tell me why?” she asked, her voice lower now, devoid of its usual playful banter. “What could be so urgent that the Tianquan herself abandons her post and demands an immediate voyage to Inazuma? This isn’t about trade routes or political posturing, is it?”

Ningguang met her gaze, her own eyes unwavering. “I have a letter that I wish to personally give to the Shogun. A matter of utmost importance that requires a direct, immediate delivery, bypassing all conventional channels.” She paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips. “And I will tell you the full details once you agree to bring me to Inazuma. After all, you’re about to go to Inazuma anyway, no? I heard the crew discussing it earlier.”

Beidou’s eyes widened slightly, a genuine surprise flickering across her features. She hadn’t realized Ningguang’s intelligence network extended even to the casual chatter of her crew. The Tianquan was always one step ahead. A hearty laugh burst from Beidou’s lips, a sound of genuine appreciation for Ningguang’s cunning.

“Hah! You always have a trick up your sleeve, don’t you, Tianquan? Fine, you win. My curiosity is piqued, and your compensation offer is… generous, to say the least.” She slapped her hand on the wheel with a resounding thwack. “Kazuha! Come here! Someone else will be joining us on our trip to Inazuma, and we need to speed things up!”

…

Back in the hushed elegance of the Jade Chamber, a different kind of urgency unfolded. Keqing, her violet eyes sharp and analytical, held the sealed letter in her hand. Beside her, Ganyu, her usual serene expression tinged with a delicate concern, watched her. The silence of the vast office, filled only with the soft rustle of silk and the distant murmur of the harbor, felt profound.

“So what do you think this letter is about?” Keqing asked, her voice crisp, cutting through the tense quiet. She turned the parchment over in her hands, examining Ningguang’s distinctive seal, then the unique, almost cryptic inscription that read: ‘Contents to remain confidential’

Ganyu sighed softly, a wisp of mist escaping her lips. “I don’t know, Keqing. Ningguang left in such a hurry, and her instructions were… unusually strict. Perhaps it’s related to the adepti leaving Liyue for a while?”

The mountain adepti, including herself, had been quietly preparing for a potential departure after Zhongli’s sudden, urgent request for assistance, though the details remained vague. This letter, combined with Ningguang’s unprecedented actions, felt connected.

…

In the Curatorium of Secrets, the air crackled with a different kind of energy, one born of fervent discussion and strategic planning. The large, central table was covered with maps, diagrams, and hastily scrawled notes, a testament to the combined intellect of the assembled group.

Varka, his impressive form radiating a quiet authority, listened intently. Nefer, ever confident and authoritative, gestured to a complex schematic. Arlecchino, grim and focused, leaned against a pillar, her arms crossed. Paimon, fluttering anxiously, zipped around the table. Dainsleif, his ancient eyes filled with a grim knowledge, offered quiet insights. Jahoda, diligent and precise, took notes. Alice, her eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and profound understanding, observed the proceedings.

Yelan, her voice cutting through the murmurs with a cool, decisive clarity, tapped a finger on a diagram depicting a shimmering, ethereal barrier. “I think the best way to enter the realm is to brute force it.”

Varka nodded slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. “A direct assault. Risky, but perhaps necessary. The Traveler, even corrupted, is a formidable foe within his own domain. And the Adeptal magic… it is not to be underestimated.”

“Subtlety has failed us,” Arlecchino stated, her voice devoid of emotion, yet her eyes burned with a cold, ruthless logic. “The longer we delay, the deeper the Abyss’s hold. A surgical strike, however brutal, is sometimes the only recourse.”

Dainsleif placed a reassuring hand on Paimon’s shoulder. “The Traveler’s realm is a construct of his will. A breach, however violent, will likely dissipate rather than cause lasting harm to those within, unless he actively chooses to defend it with lethal force. Our goal is to create an opening, not to lay siege.”

…

In a quiet corner of the expansive workshop, away from the whirring of gears and the hum of arcane energies, Columbina sat, a silent picture of lingering grief. Her head rested gently against Sandrone’s shoulder, a rare, intimate gesture that spoke volumes of the comfort she found in the other Harbinger’s stoic presence. The crumpled greeting card, a relic of Moon-Prayer Night, was still clutched in her hand, its vibrant drawings a poignant reminder of a happiness now shadowed by sorrow.

“Thank you, Sandrone,” Columbina murmured, her voice a soft, fragile whisper. The raw edge of her grief had dulled slightly, replaced by a profound weariness, but the ache in her heart remained. “For… everything. For simply being here.”
Sandrone, her posture still rigid, offered no verbal response. Her gloved hand, however, resting on Columbina’s back, gave a single, almost imperceptible squeeze.

Her blue-grey eyes, though masked, held a silent understanding, a grudging empathy that transcended her usual scientific detachment. She was not one for grand emotional displays, but in her quiet, unwavering presence, Columbina found a solace that words could not provide. Sandrone, the creator of automata, understood the complexities of a broken mechanism, and the delicate art of reassembly. She understood, too, the profound loss of purpose, and the agony of a stolen spark.

…

Aino, meanwhile, had been tirelessly at work, surrounded by a chaotic symphony of half-assembled automatons, intricate schematics, and the pungent scent of soldering fumes. She muttered to herself, a low, frustrated hum, her hands moving with frantic precision.

“Where is she? I swear, Sandrone is the only one who can make these things work without them spontaneously combusting.” Her frustration was palpable, a testament to the immense pressure she felt, and the uncharacteristic absence of Sandrone.

She picked up a partially assembled robot, its intricate limbs and gleaming sensors lying dormant. “Wait a minute,” she muttered, her eyes narrowing as she peered closer at a particular component. Her fingers, deft and skilled, traced a hairline crack in a small, crucial part. “The motor in this robot is broken. I hate my life. I want Ineffa back.”

She threw her hands up in exasperation, a wry, joking sigh escaping her lips, even as her mind immediately began to calculate a solution. The endless pursuit of perfection, the constant battle against mechanical imperfections – it was a familiar, if sometimes exasperating, dance.

Just then, a shimmer of light at the workshop entrance announced a new arrival. Aino looked up, her expression a mix of relief and exasperation. “Finally! What were you two doing?” she demanded, her gaze fixed on Sandrone, who entered with Columbina and Alice.

Alice, her eyes sparkling with amusement, offered a playful grin. “Finished your therapy session yet, dear Columbina? I told Sandrone a little emotional regulation would do wonders for your existential angst.”

Columbina, a faint blush rising to her cheeks, managed a small, embarrassed smile. “Oh, sorry, Aino. Sandrone was… very helpful. Her unique approach to comfort is surprisingly effective. And now we’re here to help you.”

Sandrone merely grumbled, a low, indistinct sound that could have meant anything from agreement to mild irritation. She, however, immediately moved towards Aino’s workbench, her keen eyes instantly spotting the broken motor.

Without a word, she began to dismantle the robot with swift, precise movements, her hands already moving to repair the damaged component. Alice, with a cheerful hum, began to levitate heavy tools and delicate circuits, guiding them with a flick of her wrist to where Sandrone needed them. Columbina, though less adept at mechanics, let her connection to kuuvahki subtly influence the energy flow of the devices, ensuring their stability. The workshop, once a place of Aino’s solo frustration, now hummed with a renewed, collaborative energy, a testament to their shared purpose.

…

Lauma, her magnificent antlers radiating a soft, inner luminescence that cast dancing shadows across the ancient texts, sat cross-legged amidst a sprawling pile of books. Her ancient eyes, deep pools of silver and starlight, scanned the faded script of a particularly dense tome, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was a living bridge to the primordial, a keeper of lunar lore, and her understanding of ancient energies was unparalleled.

Across from her, perched on a stack of equally imposing volumes, Flins looked almost impish, his pale skin and dark-blue hair a striking contrast to the warm, earthy tones of the archive. He was, as always, well-mannered, but a mischievous glint sparkled in his yellow, pupil-less eyes as he rapidly flipped through the pages of a brittle, leather-bound journal. He was a fae, attuned to the echoes of memories, and his curiosity for human knowledge was boundless.

“Aha!” Flins exclaimed, a triumphant, if soft, whisper. “Another reference! This scroll, detailing the lost rituals of the Moon-Sisters, mentions a ‘mirror-realm,’ a pocket dimension accessible only through sympathetic resonance. And it speaks of… a key. A unique, personal key, capable of unlocking the pathways between realms.” He glanced at Lauma, a subtle challenge in his gaze. “Are you still leading, Moonchanter?”

Lauma merely offered a serene, almost imperceptible smile, her gaze still fixed on her own text. “Patience, Lightkeeper. Quality over quantity, as the ancient sages would say. This particular text, a forgotten chronicle of the Abyss incursions in the early days of Khaenri’ah, details not merely realm travel, but the subtle corruption of such pathways by void energy. It mentions a ‘dissolving threshold,’ a point where the barrier between realms becomes dangerously thin, susceptible to both entry and… internal destabilization.” She looked up, her eyes glinting with newfound insight.

“Unsettling, but accurate, ” Flins replied, a proud, almost playful glint in his eyes. He returned to his scroll, his fingers flying through the pages, eager to uncover more, to win this quiet, intellectual competition. Lauma, too, bent her head back to her ancient texts, the soft glow of her antlers illuminating the faded script. The archives, once silent, now hummed with the quiet, determined energy of two beings, ancient and wise, racing against time to unravel the secrets that might lead them to Aether.

…

In the heart of Albedo’s private laboratory, a space that hummed with a delicate balance of alchemical precision and arcane energies, a complex array of instruments glowed with a soft, otherworldly light. Crystal retorts bubbled with iridescent liquids, intricate leyline conductors pulsed with faint elemental currents, and a central, crystalline scrying mirror shimmered with latent potential.

Albedo, his golden eyes fixed on the intricate rune array before him, moved with his usual calm, focused intensity. His hands, precise and steady, adjusted a delicate dial, fine-tuning the elemental resonance. Beside him, the Wanderer, his wide-brimmed hat casting his face into shadow, observed with a detached yet keen interest.

His own elemental matrix, usually a storm of untamed power, was now held in a state of carefully modulated control, contributing a specific, intricate frequency to the spell.

Durin, his humanoid form radiating a gentle warmth, stood a little further back, his brow furrowed in concentration. His unique connection to elemental life, his humble yet profound desire to understand the world, allowed him to perceive the subtle currents of the spell in a way others could not. He adjusted a small, intricately carved wooden totem, ensuring its sympathetic resonance with the overall array.

“The temporal displacement parameters are almost stable,” Albedo murmured, his voice low and even. “The spell requires a precise synchronization of Anemo, Electro, and Geo energies, amplified by a synthetic resonance matrix. The goal, to peer into the Traveler’s past, specifically from his own perspective, demands an unparalleled degree of elemental purity and focus.”

The Wanderer scoffed, a soft, dry sound. “Purity is a relative concept, Albedo. But precision, I can appreciate. This ‘seeing into the past’ is no mere scrying. It requires a temporary, sympathetic link to the target’s very consciousness, a dangerous undertaking even with a willing subject. With the Traveler’s current… abyssal entanglement, the risks are compounded.” His Electro energy pulsed faintly, a testament to the immense power he was channeling.

“Indeed,” Albedo conceded, a faint, almost imperceptible frown creasing his brow. “Which is why your contribution, Wanderer, is invaluable. Your unique origins and mastery of intricate elemental matrices allow us to stabilize the more volatile components of the spell, mitigating the potential feedback loops.” He glanced at Durin. “And Durin, your innate connection to elemental life, your ability to perceive the subtle shifts in kuuvahki, ensures the spell remains anchored, preventing it from spiraling out of control.”
Durin nodded, his expression serious.

“I am trying my best, Albedo. To understand the Traveler’s experiences, to see what he has seen… It feels important. Like learning a new language, or understanding a new friend.” His innocent, trusting nature, his desire to increase his knowledge about the world, fueled his concentration. He was humble, almost to a fault, but his dedication was absolute.

“We are quite close now,” Albedo stated, his gaze returning to the shimmering scrying mirror. “The resonance is almost complete. Once we activate the final sequence, we should be able to perceive some moments in Aether’s perspective. What he saw, what he felt, what… truly happened.” The air in the lab grew heavy with anticipation, the hum of the spell building to a silent crescendo. The truth, however unsettling, was almost within their grasp.

…

The sun beat down on the parched, ochre earth of Natlan, a relentless, unforgiving heat that shimmered in the air. Ineffa, her vibrant, fiery red hair matted with sweat, flipped the crumpled map of Natlan around for the third time, a frustrated sigh escaping her lips. The parchment, already brittle from constant handling, threatened to tear.

Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her bright, intelligent eyes scanning the confusing topography, trying to reconcile the stylized drawings of the map with the vast, undulating landscape of volcanic rock and shimmering heat haze before her. She was usually precise, efficient, but Natlan’s wild, untamed nature seemed to defy all logic, all navigation.

She pulled out a small, intricately carved compass, its needle spinning wildly, refusing to settle. The elemental currents of Natlan, so raw and potent, interfered with all her conventional instruments. “Right. Fine. I resign myself to walking around aimlessly then,” she declared to the empty, shimmering air, though a flicker of stubborn determination remained in her eyes.

It was a temporary surrender, a tactical retreat, but she would not be defeated. She would find Xilonen’s forge, even if she had to walk every single mile of this blistering, magnificent, frustrating land. The heat, the disorientation, the sheer scale of Natlan – it was a challenge, and Ineffa, despite her grumbling, was never one to back down from a challenge.

…

On the outskirts of Liyue Harbor, where the paved roads gave way to winding mountain paths, a formidable group had assembled. Zhongli, his customary serene elegance now imbued with a quiet, grim resolve, stood at the head of the party.

Beside him, Venti, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a rare seriousness, adjusted his lyre, though he carried no bow. Childe, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous excitement, gripped his Hydro blades, eager for the impending conflict. Xianyun, her elegant adeptus form radiating an aura of ancient wisdom and subtle power, surveyed the group with a hint of worry. And Xiao, ever the silent guardian, stood a little apart, his polearm glinting, his aura a swirling vortex of suppressed energy. Finally, Hu Tao, who after hearing about the reason for Zhongli's departure, didn't hesitant to join the group.

“Unfortunately, I did not have enough time to alert all the Adepti,” Xianyun stated, her voice carrying a note of regret, a sigh escaping her lips. “The urgency of the situation, combined with the sheer geographical dispersal of our brethren, made a full mobilization impossible. Only the Adepti dwelling in the mountains, those most immediately accessible, have been alerted and prepared for a potential response.”

Xiao, his usually impassive face now etched with a profound, almost bewildered shock, remained silent. His golden eyes, usually fixed on the shadows, flickered between Zhongli and Xianyun. The revelation that his beloved Rex Lapis, the very god he had sworn fealty to, was Zhongli, a mortal consultant, still sent tremors through his very being. And Xianyun, the Cloud Retainer, had known? Had kept this secret from him?

It was a betrayal, however unintentional, that stung deeply, adding another layer of turmoil to his already heavy heart. He had always prided himself on his unwavering loyalty, his clear perception of duty.

Venti, sensing the tension, offered a rare, genuine smile to Zhongli, a fleeting return to his usual irreverence. “Well, let’s go, old man,” he said, his voice light, attempting to inject a touch of levity into the somber atmosphere. “The sooner we depart, the sooner we find our friends. And the sooner we can determine if your newfound mortality has dulled your battle prowess.”

Zhongli merely offered a faint, knowing smile in return. “My dear Venti, my prowess, like the mountains of Liyue, remains steadfast, regardless of my current… form. Let us depart. The Traveler awaits.” With a shared nod, the formidable group began their journey, their steps purposeful, their determination unwavering, towards the unknown depths where Aether now resided.

…

In the eerie, beautiful expanse of the Serenitea Pot’s floating island, the usurper, cloaked in the stolen form of Aether, sat on his makeshift throne (which was still just a normal chair, much to his chagrin). His golden eyes, now twin voids of abyssal purple-black, glittered with a chilling, predatory intelligence. He knew.

He could feel the growing pressure on the realm’s outer defenses, the subtle, resonant frequencies of combined elemental power pushing against the Adeptal magic. Yelan’s method of brute-forcing, while crude, would indeed work eventually. The question was not if they would breach, but when. And what he would do in the interim.

He closed his eyes, delving into the vast, fragmented memories of the true Aether. He sifted through them, like a connoisseur examining a collection of rare artifacts – battles, friendships, moments of quiet joy, profound sorrow. He sought not emotion, but data. Weaknesses. Connections. Pain points.

A slow, chilling smile spread across ‘Aether’s’ lips, twisting his features into something predatory and cruel. Oh, yes, this. This would definitely do. This would break their carefully constructed resolve. This would be a masterpiece.

…

Back in the bustling, now efficiently humming workshop, Aino wiped a bead of sweat from her temple. Sandrone, her grumbles a constant, low accompaniment, worked with astonishing speed and precision, her pale fingers flying over delicate circuits.

Alice, with a cheerful hum, levitated tools and components, her immense magical prowess simplifying complex tasks. Columbina, her unique connection to kuuvahki, subtly stabilized the ethereal energies, ensuring the integrity of their inter-dimensional probes.

“Aino, could you pass me the micro-oscillator array?” Sandrone requested, her voice clipped and efficient, her previous irritation now entirely subsumed by the demands of her research. She was in her element, engrossed in the intricate dance of engineering and magic.

“Coming right up!” Aino replied, her earlier frustration replaced by a focused, collaborative energy. The workshop, once a place of solo struggle, now hummed with their combined efforts, a testament to their shared purpose.

…

Inazuma. The very name whispered of storms, of electro-charged air, of ancient traditions and swift, decisive justice. Ningguang stood on the deck of the Alcor, the wind whipping her silken robes around her, her gaze fixed on the distant, storm-wreathed islands. Beidou, a familiar grin on her face, navigated the treacherous currents with practiced ease, Kazuha a quiet, watchful presence beside her. The journey had been swift, efficient, a testament to Beidou’s unparalleled skill.

…

“Oh and Sara,” Raiden Shogun’s voice, imbued with the authority of a god, echoed across the shore, though she didn’t even glance at her general. “You’ll be the acting-shogun for the time being. Bye.” With a flash of iridescent lightning, Raiden Shogun vanished, reappearing moments later beside Ningguang. Her gaze, usually impassive, held a new, focused intensity. “The letter you delivered, Tianquan. Its contents are… disturbing. The Traveler, consumed by darkness. This cannot stand.”

Ningguang inclined her head. “Indeed, Your Excellency. The situation demands a unified front. I have taken the liberty of informing my most trusted advisors in Liyue. They have been briefed and will ensure Liyue’s continued stability in our absence. It seems our paths are now aligned.”

Ayaka, Thoma, Yoimiya, Kokomi, and Yae Miko, their expressions solemn, nodded in agreement. This was a crisis that transcended national borders, a threat that demanded the combined might of Teyvat’s most formidable protectors. With a shared glance of grim determination, the formidable group turned, their collective gaze fixed on the distant northern lands. Their destination: Nod-Krai. Their mission: to reclaim the Traveler

…

The air in the Serenitea Pot was usually a balm, a gentle breeze rustling through leaves, the soft gurgling of fountains providing a constant, soothing rhythm. But today, a subtle, ominous current permeated the realm, a chilling undercurrent beneath its serene beauty.

‘Aether’ stood at the edge of his floating island, watching Klee with an almost detached amusement as she meticulously set up a series of small, brightly colored bombs near a cluster of particularly fluffy shroom-boars. “Don’t blow up anything, Klee,” he called out, his voice a low, resonant purr, though a subtle, predatory gleam in his eyes betrayed the true nature of his words. It wasn’t a command, but a suggestion, a veiled encouragement for her innocent chaos.

Klee, her small form bouncing with unadulterated glee, giggled in response. “Klee promises! Just a little boom-boom, big brother Aether! Just a little one!”

‘Aether’ merely chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound that held a hint of dark satisfaction. He knew her definition of ‘little.’ He then turned, opening a rift, not the shimmering golden portal of the true Aether, but a swirling vortex of abyssal purple-black, a tear in the fabric of reality itself. He stepped through, his gaze lingering for a moment on the distant, shimmering outline of Liyue, where the formidable group of Archons and others had just coalesced. He watched them depart, a powerful, determined force heading north towards Nod-Krai, towards him.

He waited a few more hours, letting the anticipation build, allowing their plans to solidify, their hopes to rise. He savored the moment, the exquisite tension of a game about to escalate. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he hopped down from the floating island, the abyssal rift closing silently behind him. His destination: Yujing Terrace.

The Yujing Terrace, usually a haven of tranquil beauty in Liyue Harbor, was bathed in the soft, golden light of late afternoon. The air was sweet with the perfume of glaze lilies, their delicate petals swaying gently in the faint breeze. Madame Ping, her elderly form radiating a serene wisdom, moved with a quiet grace among her cherished flowers, her ancient hands tenderly tending to their vibrant blooms.

“Ahh, Madame Ping. How nice it is to see you again,” ‘Aether’ remarked, his voice smooth, perfectly mimicking the true Traveler’s warmth, though a subtle, chilling undertone vibrated beneath the surface. He approached her, his steps light and unhurried, his golden eyes fixed on her with an unnerving intensity.

Her words died in her throat, replaced by a choked gasp. ‘Aether’ moved with a terrifying, unnatural speed, a blur of motion that defied mortal perception. He was upon her in an instant, his hand, now glowing with abyssal purple-black energy, clamped around her neck with brutal force. He slammed her into the ornate stone floor with a sickening thud, the impact echoing through the serene terrace like a gunshot.

Abyssal energy, raw and malevolent, erupted from his form, coalescing into a dark, pulsating aura around him. Some of it writhed around both of his hands, materializing into wickedly sharp, obsidian claws that pulsed with an unholy light. Madame Ping, pinned beneath him, struggled, her ancient eyes wide with shock and fear, her hands weakly pushing against his unyielding grip.

“A-Aether… what are you doing?” she rasped, her voice choked, laced with disbelief and profound terror. This was not the Traveler she knew, the kind, gentle hero who had walked among them. This was something else, something monstrous.

‘Aether’ merely smiled, a wide, chilling grin that twisted his features into a mask of pure, unadulterated malice. His voice, a low, guttural whisper, was imbued with the dark resonance of the abyss. “They keep calling me Aether, but he’s gone, for good. Now you’re going to tell me exactly what I want.” He pressed one of his abyssal claws deeper into her neck, the sharp point threatening to pierce her skin.

Madame Ping, in a desperate, primal surge of self-preservation, let out a large, concussive explosion of Adeptal energy, a last-ditch effort to repel her attacker. The force of it momentarily disoriented ‘Aether’, but before he could fully react, her elderly form shimmered, dissolving into a brilliant flash of light. In her place, a figure of striking elegance and ancient power materialized – Streetward Rambler, her true Adeptus form, clad in flowing robes, her expression a mix of fierce defiance and pain.

But even in her true form, she was not fast enough. Two pikes of abyss-infused geo, shimmering with an ominous black and purple glow, erupted from the stone floor with sickening thuds. They pierced through Streetward Rambler’s wrists, pinning her to the ground, her cry of agony echoing through the shattered tranquility of the terrace.

‘Aether’ chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound. He slowly approached the pinned Adeptus, his abyssal claws still extended. “The real Aether did that to Dottore too, you know,” he purred, his voice laced with a dark, mocking amusement. “I feel like stealing his body wasn’t enough. Now where were we?” His golden eyes, devoid of warmth, fixed on her with a chilling, predatory intensity.

…

Shenhe heard a raw scream of Adeptal energy, followed by a surge of abyssal corruption, piercing the tranquil night. It was distinct, unlike anything she had ever felt, a clash of primordial forces. Her heart, usually a bastion of cool detachment, clenched with a sudden, unfamiliar dread. It was the middle of the night, and something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Reaching Yujing Terrace, she found it in shambles. The air crackled with residual abyssal energy, and the sweet scent of glaze lilies mingled sickeningly with the metallic tang of blood and ozone. She couldn't make out who was attacking Madame Ping, but the sheer, malevolent aura radiating from the assailant was unmistakable. An abyssal creature. An enemy.

Without thinking, out of a primal fear for her beloved auntie, and a desperate, uncharacteristic surge of protective rage, Shenhe let out a colossal burst of Cryo energy. A glacier of pure, unadulterated ice, fifty meters tall, erupted from the ground, engulfing the area, its crystalline walls shimmering with an ethereal, deadly beauty.

The air grew frigid, biting, and a profound silence descended, broken only by the faint crackle of ice. Shenhe, her chest heaving, her vision momentarily obscured by the sudden surge of her own power, waited, her polearm gripped tightly in her hand.

“Did you get him?”

A voice, chillingly familiar, sounded from behind her. ‘Aether’ stood there, unblemished, unharmed, a faint smirk playing on his lips. His golden eyes, now fully consumed by the abyssal purple-black, glittered with a dark amusement. He had evaded her attack with contemptuous ease, a silent, deadly shadow.

Shenhe immediately paled, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes, wide with horror, fixed on his face. “Aether? Is that you—?”

Her question was cut short. Before she could finish, ‘Aether’ moved. A swift, brutal chop to the back of her neck, imbued with abyssal energy, sent a blinding flash of white light through her vision. Shenhe crumpled backward, her body going limp, falling unconscious to the cold, shattered stone. ‘Aether’ stepped aside, allowing her to fall, a silent, unmoving testament to his insidious power.

He walked towards Streetward Rambler, who was still pinned, her face contorted in pain and fear. “Well, she tried,” ‘Aether’ purred, his voice laced with a chilling mockery. “Quite strong too. And thanks for the information.” He knelt, his abyssal claws still extended, his eyes fixed on her.

Streetward Rambler, her voice hoarse, desperate, looked up at him. “You’ll let both of us live now, right? You promised.”

‘Aether’ paused, a theatrical gesture, his head tilting slightly. “I… I will. Just let me think for a second.” He opened a rift, a swirling vortex of abyssal energy, beneath Shenhe’s unconscious body. With a flick of his wrist, he brought her limp form through the rift, depositing her beside Streetward Rambler. The Geo pikes pinning Streetward Rambler’s wrists dissolved, dissipating into motes of purple-black light.

Now, both of them lay prone on the shattered stone. Shenhe, a white-and-blue heap, remained deeply unconscious, her breathing shallow, her face pale. Streetward Rambler, having been released from the abyssal pikes, slowly, painfully pushed herself into a sitting position, her wrists throbbing with a dull ache, the phantom sensation of the abyssal energy still lingering in her veins. She watched the usurper ‘Aether’ with ancient eyes, her expression a complex tapestry of sorrow, weariness, and a profound, unyielding dignity.

‘Aether’ stood over them, his golden eyes, now twin pools of abyssal purple-black, glinting with a dark, satisfied amusement. He surveyed his work, a masterpiece of calculated terror and psychological torment, the shattered glaze lilies around them a grim frame to his triumph.

“There, now isn’t that better?” he purred, his voice a mocking imitation of gentle concern. He knelt beside Streetward Rambler, extending a clawed hand, not to help her, but to casually brush a stray strand of hair from her face. The mere touch of his abyssal energy sent a jolt of pure revulsion through her, a visceral warning of the corruption he embodied. “No more nasty pikes. And your… niece, is it? She’s right here with you. Just as promised. A family reunion, of sorts.”

Madame Ping, or rather, Streetward Rambler in her true form, flinched internally at the word ‘family’ from his lips. “You are not Aether,” she stated, her voice calm, though a tremor of pain still ran through it, a testament to the recent assault. “He would never inflict such cruelty. Not for any purpose, however twisted you might believe it to be.”

“...And you will share it with me.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, seductive whisper that made the hair on her arms prickle. “Or perhaps your dear niece here might find her dreams… less than restful. The Abyss has a way of turning even the fondest memories into nightmares, you understand? A little whisper here, a subtle twist there, and suddenly her past becomes her tormentor.”

Madame Ping’s composure, though formidable, wavered slightly at the veiled threat against Shenhe. She glanced at the unconscious Cryo Adeptus, her expression softening with a motherly concern. “You threaten an innocent. A child of Liyue, whose only crime is her loyalty.”

“Your friends, the Archons, the Harbingers, the various heroes of Teyvat… they are all converging. They think they can simply ‘rescue’ Aether, ‘purify’ him. How naïve. They do not understand the power I wield, the changes I have wrought. They do not understand that Aether is mine now. His will is intertwined with mine, his memories are my playthings. And anyone who tries to take him back will face… consequences.”

His gaze swept over the shattered terrace, then back to Madame Ping. “Your presence here, your knowledge, your very essence… It will be instrumental in teaching them this lesson. A painful, unforgettable lesson.”

He knelt again, his face inches from hers, his abyssal eyes boring into her. “And now, for your ‘therapy session.’ You asked if I would let you live. And I said I would. But living, Madame Ping, can take many forms. Some are far more… more educational than others.” He gestured to Shenhe’s prone form. “Your niece will experience the full spectrum of my… tutelage. Her raw emotions, her deep-seated fears, her newfound tranquility… all will be fertile ground for the Abyss. And you, with your vast wisdom, will be there to guide her through it. To witness her transformation. To feel her pain. A truly enlightening experience for an Adeptus of your caliber, wouldn’t you agree? To see the purity of a soul unravel, piece by agonizing piece.”

Madame Ping flinched, not for herself, but for Shenhe. The thought of her friend’s beloved disciple, which she treated as her niece so recently freed from her own emotional shackles, now subjected to the insidious torment of the Abyss, was a torment greater than any physical pain she could endure. The Abyssal corruption could twist memories, shatter convictions, and turn love into hate. Yet, she maintained her outward calm, her ancient wisdom telling her that any show of weakness would only fuel this entity’s sadistic glee. She would not give him that satisfaction.

She looked at the usurper, her gaze piercing, unwavering. “You believe you can control such power? The Abyss consumes all who seek to wield it for their own ends. You will be no different. You may think you are a god, but you are merely a vessel, a temporary host for a far greater hunger. You will be devoured, just as you seek to devour others.”

‘Aether’ tries, but fails to hold back his laughter.
“A fool, a fool you are Madame Ping. I… I am not a pawn for the abyss. I am the abyss, I was the one who corrupted The Second who came, Nibelung.”

He then grabbed a handful of Streetward Rambler’s hair, pulling her head up, her gaze locked with his terrifying eyes. “What—what are you doing?!” she gasped, her voice raw with renewed terror. Despite her calm, the raw, primal fear of the unknown began to creep in.

‘Aether’ merely smiled, a cold, predatory grin that stretched his lips into an unnatural shape. He slowly pumped abyssal energy into both their battered bodies, a dark, insidious current that coursed through their veins, causing them to convulse violently. Madame Ping’s body seized, a silent scream trapped in her throat as the malevolent energy twisted through her, corrupting her very essence.

Her ancient eyes, wide with pain, flickered with a desperate defiance, refusing to break. She felt her memories, ancient and sacred, flicker and warp under the insidious assault, her connection to the ley lines screaming in protest. It was a violation far deeper than any physical wound.

Shenhe, still unconscious, convulsed violently on the ground, her limbs thrashing uncontrollably, a faint, pained whimper escaping her lips. The abyssal energy probed her unconscious mind, seeking vulnerabilities, twisting her dreams into grotesque parodies, planting seeds of fear and despair where tranquility once resided. Her Cryo vision pulsed erratically, struggling against the encroaching darkness.

‘Aether’ watched them, his expression one of detached scientific curiosity, mingled with a cruel satisfaction. He knelt, observing the tremors wracking their bodies. “This is just the beginning, Madame Ping,” he purred, his voice a low, guttural whisper that seemed to vibrate with the power of the Abyss. “A taste of the ‘therapy’ I promised. We’ll delve into all those delightful memories, all those cherished connections. We’ll find out what truly makes an Adeptus tick. And then, we’ll break it.” He paused, leaning closer, his breath cold and stale against her ear. “Your wisdom, your patience, your devotion… they will all be turned into instruments of your own undoing. And you will watch, helpless, as it happens.”

Madame Ping, fighting against the agonizing corruption, forced herself to meet his gaze. Her body screamed in protest, every fiber of her being twisting under the abyssal influence, but her will remained unbroken. She knew this was a fate worse than death, a desecration of her very being. Yet, she would not give him the satisfaction of breaking her spirit. She would endure. For Liyue. For Aether. For the hope that remained, however faint, that somewhere, the true Traveler still fought. She would be a beacon of defiance, even if it was only in her own mind.

“You… you will fail,” she rasped, each word a monumental effort against the pain, against the darkness trying to consume her. “The light… will always find a way. And Liyue… Liyue will remember.”

‘Aether’ laughed, a harsh, grating sound that seemed to shatter the remaining tranquility of the terrace. “Such quaint notions, Adeptus. In the Abyss, there is only darkness. And you, my dear, are about to become intimately acquainted with its embrace.” He opened another abyssal rift, larger this time, its swirling vortex of purple-black energy humming with malevolent power.

He stepped into it, pulling both Shenhe and Streetward Rambler with him, their struggling, convulsing forms vanishing into the void. His voice, a low, mocking whisper, echoed through the shattered terrace as he vanished, leaving Yujing Terrace in utter shambles, a desecrated testament to his chilling, nascent reign. The rift snapped shut, leaving behind only the eerie silence and the lingering scent of destruction.

“What I pulled in Khaenri’Ah felt a bit too small, you know? The five sinners of Khaenri’Ah? Why only 5 and why only in Khaenri’Ah? Don’t worry, Streetward Rambler. Liyue will remember, they’ll remember the new Sinners for a new era, and of course, the destruction they’ll bring.”

Chapter Text

The sky within the Serenitea Pot was no longer the vibrant, ever-changing canvas of the Adepti’s creation. It was a fractured mirror, a porcelain bowl struck by a hammer, where the seams of the reality-distorting ward pulsed with a sickly, bruised violet. The air, which once smelled of silk flowers and the crisp mountain breeze of Jueyun Karst, now carried the heavy, cloying scent of ozone and something ancient—something that had never been meant to breathe within the confines of a pocket dimension.

Aether walked with a rhythmic, heavy tread across the floating islands of the Cool Isle layout, but the sand beneath his boots didn’t crunch with the warmth of the sun; it felt like powdered bone. Behind him, he dragged two figures across the ground as if they were nothing more than discarded sacks of grain. He held them by the collars of their garments, their limp bodies carving deep, jagged furrows into the pale earth.

Madame Ping, the Streetward Rambler, was being hauled like a broken doll, her form flickering between her elderly guise and the ethereal, youthful grace of her true Adeptus self. Her wrists were still stained with the residue of the abyssal pikes, a dark, necrotic energy that resisted even the legendary healing properties of the adepti. Beside her, Shenhe was dragged with equal indifference, her breathing shallow, her silver hair trailing behind her like a waterfall of frozen silk through the dust. She was deeply unconscious, her spirit battered by the sheer weight of the Abyssal energy ‘Aether’ had forced into her.

He dropped them near the center of the main estate, the grand Liyue-style mansion looking like a haunted mausoleum in the dim, purplish light. Madame Ping groaned, her eyes fluttering open as she sprawled on the cold stone. She looked up at the man who wore the face of the boy she had once taught the melodies of the Cleansing Bell.

"I guess... I’m yours now," she rasped, her voice a fragile reed in the wind. There was no anger in her tone, only a exhaustion—a resignation that tasted of dust and centuries.

Aether looked down at her, his golden eyes twin abysses where light went to die. A cruel, thin smile touched his lips, one that lacked any of the warmth the true Traveler had once possessed. "Glad you figured it out fast," he purred, his voice a low, guttural vibration that seemed to rattle the very foundations of the realm. "Because you'll be doing something for me very soon. Your knowledge of Adeptal architecture is... unique. And right now, my home is feeling a bit drafty."

He gestured vaguely toward the sky, where a long, jagged crack in the clouds bled a dark, viscous energy. "Can you feel the integrity of the ward I placed on this realm?"

Madame Ping closed her eyes, her senses extending outward, touching the invisible ley lines that governed this artificial space. She flinched, her entire body trembling. "Yes... it’s weakening. The barrier... it was never meant to hold such... such filth. The Adeptal arts are based on the harmony of the world. You are a discordance that the realm is trying to vomit out."

Aether’s grip tightened on Shenhe’s shoulder as he pulled her closer to the center of the courtyard, his obsidian claws digging slightly into the fabric of her suit. "Well, tell me how to fix it," he commanded. "The heroes of Teyvat are knocking on my door. I want to make sure that when they finally break it down, they find exactly what they deserve."

"Why is the door locked, Aether?"

The small, innocent voice drifted from the outside of the mansion. Klee stood there, clutching the straps of her bag, her face a mask of genuine confusion as she looked down at the scene.

Aether looked up, his predatory grin widening into something even more unsettling. "Because, Klee," he chuckled, the sound like dry leaves skittering over a grave. "Because the key got vaulted."

Klee giggled, not understanding the malice or the joke, while Madame Ping let out a strangled sob at the sight of the child trapped in this nightmare.

Madame Ping looked confused at that statement.

"Oh, it's a joke from one of the realities that Aether visited."

...

"So where is Durin, Albedo, and Hat Guy?" Aino asked, her voice echoing in the vaulted ceiling. She was leaning over a complex mechanical sensor, her fingers absentmindedly twiddling a wrench.

Varka stood at the head, his massive arms crossed, his presence a mountain of sheer physical will. Beside him, Paimon hovered, her tiny face etched with a seriousness that made her look years older, her usual sparkle replaced by a grim determination.

Flins stood in the shadows, his lantern glowing with a steady, pale blue flame, his yellow eyes tracking every movement in the room with the clinical detachment of a Lightkeeper. Jahoda and Nefer sat opposite each other, a pair of information brokers who had turned their vast networks toward a single, terrifying goal. Lauma, her antlers shimmering with a soft, lunar light, provided a calming influence, though her turquoise and pink eyes were sharp with the wisdom of the Moonchanter.

The Fatui presence was equally stark. Arlecchino stood like a blade of obsidian, her gaze fixed on the map. Sandrone was perched on a high stool, her puppet Pulonia standing guard behind her, its mechanical eyes glowing a dull red. Columbina, the Moon Maiden, sat in a chair near the fire, her form now stable but her expression one of haunting melancholy. And finally, Yelan, the secret thread of Liyue, stood leaning against the wall, her coat draped over her shoulders, her fingers playing with a die.

"Those three are not here as they are focusing on alchemy," Varka rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "Albedo believes that brute force won't be enough to separate the Traveler from the corruption. They are working on a catalyst—something that can pierce the Abyssal shell without shattering the soul inside. The Wanderer is providing the... elemental volatility required for the process, and Durin is acting as the anchor."

"Typical," Sandrone muttered, her voice a sharp, mechanical click. "Leave the most delicate work to Hat Guy and the dragon. At least they won't let sentimentality cloud their calculations."

Arlecchino smiled as a look of terror past though Sandrone's face. "Sentimentality is what brought us together, Sandrone. If we were purely pragmatic, we wouldn't even be together, fighting for the Traveler the moment he turned. Besides, your conversations with Columbina says something completely different. What was it again-"

"Sh-Shut up!"

Columbina, slightly giggling, looked up, her voice a soft, melodic chime that silenced the room. "The moon feels... heavy. Like a bough about to break under the weight of snow. Aether's realm is a pocket of stolen time, but it cannot last. He is pulling too much from the outside."

Varka nodded, his gaze returning to the map. "So from what I'm getting, Aether's realm should be breached by tomorrow?"

Columbina closed her eyes, her connection to the celestial currents thrumming. "Yup. The alignment is perfect. The veil is thinnest at dawn. After that..." she paused, a flicker of her old, terrifying power dancing in her eyes, "...we beat Aether until he comes back to us."

The room grew silent. It wasn't a threat; it was a promise. A promise of a battle that would shake the foundations of their world.

...

The lush greenery of the Sanctuary felt stifling to Dehya. She paced the length of the platform, her hand resting on the hilt of her claymore. Around her, the most influential figures of Sumeru were gathered, all summoned by a sudden, urgent call from the Lesser Lord Kusanali.

"Why am I here?" Dehya asked, her voice echoing off the crystalline walls.

"I have the same question too," Cyno added, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression as stoic as the desert sands. Beside him, Tighnari was fidgeting with his ears, his sensitive hearing picking up the frantic beating of his own heart. Nilou looked pale, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, while Alhaitham leaned against a pillar, his face a mask of bored indifference that deceived no one. Candace stood guard near the entrance, her shield strapped to her arm.

Nahida stepped forward, her small form radiating a profound, ancient wisdom. Her eyes, usually filled with the warmth of a thousand suns, were now shadowed with a deep, unsettling sorrow.

"I called you here to tell you to not trust Aether," she began, her voice small but carrying a weight that made the room feel as though the air had been sucked out. "The Traveler we knew... he is gone. Or rather, he is buried beneath a darkness that I cannot reach. He has taken the Spark Knight of Mondstadt, and he has struck at the heart of Liyue." She

Nilou gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Aether? But... he saved us."

"Even the brightest star can be eclipsed," Nahida said softly. "I have felt the shift in the Irminsul. The records are being blurred, tainted. He is not just a threat to the present; he is a threat to the very memory of our world. And because of this, I'll be leaving Sumeru for quite some time."

The reaction was instantaneous.

"Leaving?" Alhaitham’s voice was sharp. "The Dendro Archon cannot simply vacate her seat. The bureaucracy—"

"The bureaucracy will survive, Alhaitham," Nahida interrupted, her gaze firm. "The world might not. I must join the others in the North. My connection to the Irminsul may be the only way to track him if he retreats further into the void."

Cyno stepped forward, his eyes burning with a fierce loyalty. "If the Archon goes, the Mahamatra follows. I will not allow you to face such a darkness alone."

"Count me in," Dehya grinned, though there was no humor in it. "I owe that kid a few pointers on how to stay on the right path."

Tighnari sighed, looking at Nilou and Candace. "It seems my research in the Avidya Forest will have to wait. The forest will have to fend for itself."

Nahida looked at them, a small, grateful smile touching her lips. "I expected as much. We depart at sunset."

...

The heat in Xilonen’s forge was usually a comforting, rhythmic thrum, a heartbeat that pulsed through the very stone of the canyon. But today, the air felt like a fever, thick and heavy with a static charge that made the fine hairs on Xilonen’s arms stand on end. She was deep into the shaping of a ceremonial obsidian plate, her hammer falling with a precision that had earned her the title of Name-Bearer, when the heavy leather curtains of the entrance were thrown aside.

Ineffa stumbled in, looking like she had run from the very edges of the world without stopping for a single breath of clean air.

Ineffa her hands trembling so violently that she nearly knocked the basin over. "There’s... no time, Xilonen. The world is breaking. I just came from Nod-Krai."

Xilonen’s golden eyes narrowed. She knew of the gathering in the North—the whispers of a rift, of a corruption that was eating the sky. But to see the terror in Ineffa’s eyes, usually robotic, sent a chill through her that the forge's heat couldn't touch.

"The Traveler," Ineffa choked out, the name sounding like a curse. "He’s not the hero we sang about. He’s... he’s something else now. He’s a void. And Xilonen... the Harbingers are there. The Grand Master of the Knights. They’re all preparing for a war that might not have a winner. We need help."

Xilonen leaned back against her anvil, the hot metal biting into her skin, but she didn't move. Her mind was racing, connecting the dots of the strange tremors she’d felt in the Phlogiston lines over the past week. "So the golden boy turned into a monster?"

Ineffa nodded, "It’s worse. The way they spoke of him... it wasn’t just that he’d changed sides. It was like he was rewriting reality around himself. If Natlan doesn't act, if we don't send word to the other tribes... we'll be left behind in the ashes of whatever's left of Teyvat. The Night Kingdom is stirring because of him, Xilonen. I felt it on the way back. The shadows are hungrier."

Xilonen looked at her unfinished work, the obsidian reflecting the orange light of the coals. She had spent her life crafting things that lasted, things that carried the names and legacies of her people. To hear that the very foundation of those legacies was being threatened by the one person who was supposed to be their greatest ally was a bitter draught to swallow.

"Well, let's try to get the other tribes on our side too."
...

The morning sun in Natlan was a brutal, glorious gold, painting the ancient stones of the stadium in shades of fire and blood. It was a heat that felt alive, a physical presence that demanded respect. Aether walked slowly along the upper tier, his hand resting lightly on the sun-warmed stone railing. He moved with a practiced ease, his gait perfectly mimicking the light-footed grace of the hero who had traversed the seven nations.

Beside him, Mavuika, the Archon of Fire, walked with a grace that seemed at odds with the tension in her shoulders. Her long, fiery hair caught the light, shimmering like a living flame. To any observer, they looked like two legends sharing a quiet moment of reflection. But for Mavuika, the silence was heavy.

"Hey, Aether?" Mavuika asked, her voice soft. It was a rare moment of vulnerability from the woman who carried the weight of a nation’s destiny, who stood as the final bulwark against the encroachment of the Night Kingdom.

Aether turned to her, his expression softening into a mask of perfect, gentle warmth. He tilted his head slightly, the sunlight catching the golden strands of his hair, masking the hollow darkness that lurked just behind his pupils. To her, he still looked like the boy who had stood against the darkness of the Abyss, the golden traveler who smelled of sun-drenched glaze lilies and distant, clean stars.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice a perfect replica of the kind, steady tone she remembered.

"Thanks for spending the morning with me," she said, looking out over the vast arena where the Sacred Flame flickered, its light pale against the dominance of the sun. "The nights have been... heavy lately. The shadows of the Night Kingdom feel closer than ever, like they're pressing against the very glass of our world. I find myself waking up in the middle of the night, reaching for a sword that isn't there."

Aether reached out, his hand covering hers on the railing. His skin was warm, a deceptive heat that mimicked the vitality of life. But beneath that warmth, the Abyss coiled like a sleeping viper, cold and patient. "Don't worry, Mavuika," he said, his voice a silken thread of comfort. "It's a joy to be spending time with you. You carry so much for this nation—the weight of the fire, the expectations of every tribe. Let me be the one person you don't have to be strong for. Just for a little while."

Mavuika leaned her head against his shoulder, a small, weary sigh escaping her. "I appreciate that. More than you know. Sometimes, being the Archon feels like being a torch in a hurricane. You spend so much energy just trying to keep the flame from going out that you forget what it's like to just... be."

Aether smiled, a slow, predatory thing that she couldn't see as her eyes were fixed on the horizon. "I understand. More than anyone. The world asks a lot of us, doesn't it? It takes and takes, and expects us to keep giving until there's nothing left but ash."

He shifted his weight, his arm moving to wrap around her shoulders in a protective gesture. "But you don't have to worry about the shadows today. I'm here. And I promise you, I won't let anything happen to the light of Natlan."

Mavuika closed her eyes, letting the perceived warmth of her friend wash over her. "You've always been a good friend, Aether."

"And I always will be," Aether whispered, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward the grand spire of her private quarters. "I'll take all that fear from you, Mavuika. I'll take the burden of the flame. You've earned a rest. A long, deep rest."

Mavuika didn't notice the slight drop in temperature as they walked away from the railing, or the way the shadows beneath their feet seemed to stretch and twist, reaching toward her like hungry fingers. She only felt the comfort of a familiar presence, unaware that the man beside her was already calculating the exact moment her fire would become his.

...

The marketplace of Natlan was usually a riot of color and sound—the shouting of merchants, the squawking of Saurians, and the rhythmic beat of drums. But as Citlali moved through the square, the atmosphere felt brittle, like thin glass. She had just met with Ineffa, and the words the scout had whispered were still ringing in her ears like a discordant bell.

"Wait... I saw Aether with Mavuika earlier in the morning," Citlali said, her eyes wide with a dawning horror as she looked at the group gathered near the central fountain.

Ineffa had just finished informing the Natlan warriors—Xilonen, Varesa, Kinich, Mualani, Chasca, and Ororon—of the danger. The confusion was palpable, a thick, suffocating blanket that threatened to stifle their resolve.

"What?" Ineffa’s voice was a whip-crack, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "He’s *here*? In the city? I thought he was still in the North, or hiding in his rift!"

Xilonen stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade, her expression a mask of stony focus. "If he's here, and he's with Mavuika, then we've already lost the lead. He’s playing a game, and he’s using her as the prize."

"He’s with the Archon?" Kinich asked, his voice flat, but his hand was tightening on the hilt of his claymore until his knuckles were white. Beside him, Ajaw, the Saurian spirit, flickered into existence, his pixelated face twisted into a manic, glowing grin.

"Ooh! Ooh! The big bad wolf is playing dress-up with the fire lady!" Ajaw cackled, his voice a series of digital chirps and glitches. "This is going to be fun! I wonder if he'll let me watch when he starts pulling the feathers off the phoenix!"

"Shut up, Ajaw," Kinich hissed, his eyes scanning the rooftops.

"If he's with Mavuika, she’s in grave danger," Chasca said, her wings fluttering with a nervous agitation that mirrored the racing of her heart. "She’s vulnerable right now. The ritual of the Sacred Flame has taken a lot out of her this cycle. If he knows that..."

"He knows everything," Citlali whispered, her hands beginning to glow with a pale, icy light. "He was there for all of it. He knows her strengths, her weaknesses... he knows how much she trusts him."

"Where did they go, Citlali?" Mualani asked, her usual bubbly energy replaced by a sharp, predatory focus. She was already checking the straps on her gear, her eyes hard.

Citlali pointed toward the grand spire that overlooked the stadium, its peak lost in the golden haze of the sun. "Toward her private quarters. They were walking slowly... like they had all the time in the world."

"Then we move. Now!" Xilonen commanded, her voice booming with the authority of a Name-Bearer.

The group made a mad dash through the streets, a blur of color and steel against the ancient stones. They ignored the startled cries of the citizens, the confused looks of the guards. Every second felt like a year, every heartbeat a drumroll leading toward a confrontation they weren't sure they could win.

As they ran, the air began to change. The vibrant, life-giving heat of Natlan was being replaced by something oily and stagnant. The shadows in the alleyways seemed to pulse, growing longer and darker even as the sun climbed higher.

"Do you feel that?" Ororon asked, his voice a low rumble. "The spirits... they're screaming. The Wayob is silent, but the air is full of ghosts."

"Focus," Xilonen barked. "We don't stop until we reach her."

Xilonen didn't hesitate, her boots slamming against the ground as she prepared to breach the sanctum of their god.

...

The interior of the spire was a sanctuary of warmth and light. The air was filled with the soft, earthy scent of burning incense—cedar and copal—and the low, rhythmic hum of the embers in the grand hearth. It was a room designed for reflection, for the moments when the Archon of Fire needed to shed her mantle and simply exist.

Mavuika sat on the edge of her bed, her head bowed, her hands trembling in her lap. The fear of death, which she usually kept locked behind a vault of iron will, was a crushing weight in the silence of the room. The endless cycle of sacrifice that Natlan demanded—the knowledge that her life was a fuel meant to be consumed—was a burden that few could understand.

But here, in the quiet, she was just a woman named Mavuika, and she was terrified.

Aether sat behind her, his presence a deceptive anchor in the storm of her thoughts. He didn't speak at first, simply letting the silence stretch between them. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he placed his hands on her shoulders.

His touch was light, almost tentative, as he began to slowly caress her back. "It's alright, Mavuika," he whispered, his voice a silken thread of comfort that seemed to bypass her defenses and speak directly to her soul. "I know how it feels. To be the one everyone looks to. To be the one who has to burn so others can stay warm. It's a lonely path, isn't it?"

Mavuika leaned back into his touch, a jagged sob catching in her throat. "I’m scared, Aether. Not for me... I’ve faced death a thousand times in the arena. But I’m scared for what happens if I fail. If the flame goes out because I wasn't strong enough to hold it. If the Night Kingdom swallows everything I love because I was too tired to keep fighting."

"It won't," Aether promised, his fingers tracing the line of her spine with a hypnotic rhythm. "I won't let it. I've traveled across worlds, Mavuika. I've seen stars born and die. I know how to preserve what is precious."

He leaned closer, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. "I’ll take that fear from you. I’ll take the weight, the responsibility, the endless, grinding duty. I’ll take everything that hurts you, and I’ll bury it where it can never find you again."

Mavuika felt a strange lethargy beginning to creep through her limbs. The warmth of the room felt heavy, like a thick wool blanket. "Aether... you're so kind. But you have your own journey... your sister..."

"My sister is safe," Aether lied, his voice never wavering. "And my journey has led me here. To you. You need to rest, Mavuika. Your nerves are frayed, your spirit is exhausted. Let the world fade away for a while. Let the fire rest."

As he spoke, he channeled a minute, almost imperceptible amount of Abyssal energy through his fingertips. It wasn't the violent, tearing force he had used on Madame Ping; it was a subtle, sedative darkness, a corruption that mimicked the feeling of a deep, dreamless sleep.

Mavuika’s eyes began to glaze over, the vibrant orange of her irises turning dull and clouded. She snuggled closer into his chest, her breathing evening out as she surrendered to the unnatural calm he was forcing upon her. "Just... for a little while," she murmured, her voice trailing off into a sigh.

Aether smiled, a slow, predatory thing that stretched his features into a mask of pure malice. He looked down at the Archon of Fire, the woman who could incinerate a mountain with a thought, now reduced to a limp, trusting weight in his arms.

"That's right, dear," he crooned, his voice dropping into a lullaby that chilled the air. "Go to sleep. When you wake up, the world will be very, very different."

He could feel the power within her—the raw, primal energy of the Sacred Flame. It was a magnificent thing, a sun captured in a human vessel. And soon, it would be the fuel for his own ascension.

...

The Natlan group was breathless as they reached the final set of grand doors leading to Mavuika’s private chambers. The air here was almost solid with the scent of ozone and the heavy, metallic tang of the Abyss.

"We have to be careful," Mualani whispered, her usual bubbly energy replaced by a sharp, tactical focus. She held her shark-themed surfboard-blade tight, her knuckles white. "If we charge in blindly, we might provoke him into doing something drastic. We don't know what state she's in."

"If we don't charge in, we might be too late," Kinich countered, his eyes fixed on the door. "I can feel the corruption through the wood. It’s like a rot that’s eating the very structure."

Xilonen didn't wait for the debate to continue. She stepped forward, her golden eyes flashing with a fierce, protective light. She was a Name-Bearer, a shaper of the earth, and she would not stand idly by while her Archon was being desecrated.

"Stand back," she commanded. She took a deep breath, drawing on the Phlogiston that flowed through the veins of the mountain itself. Her muscles coiled like springs, and with a roar of pure, unadulterated rage, she kicked the door.

The impact was like a cannon blast. The reinforced stone and wood splintered under her strength, the doors flying inward with a concussive boom that rattled the very foundations of the ground

The dust from the shattered doors hadn't even settled before Citlali, Ineffa, Xilonen, Varesa, Kinich, Mualani, Chasca, and Ororon surged into the room, their weapons drawn and elemental powers flared. They were a whirlwind of fire, water, and steel, ready to face a god-slayer.

They stopped dead at the sight.

The room was quiet, almost peaceful. Aether was sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling Mavuika in a tender, protective hug. She looked small in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, her eyes half-closed. Her body was limp, her arms hanging uselessly at her sides. Aether was slowly patting her back, his expression one of serene, almost saintly love.

He didn't even look up as they entered, his gaze fixed on the flickering embers in the hearth.

"Don't you know it's rude to enter without knocking?" Aether asked, his voice calm, almost bored. It was the voice of a man interrupted during a private moment, not a villain caught in the act.

"What—what did you do to Mavuika?" Xilonen demanded, her voice shaking with a mixture of rage and a burgeoning, icy fear. She stepped forward, her claymore glowing with the heat of the forge.

Mavuika stirred at the sound of Xilonen’s voice, her head lolling slightly. "Xilonen? Wha—what's happening?" She looked at the intruders with glazed, uncomprehending eyes, her mind clearly clouded by whatever poison Aether had whispered into her soul. "Why are you... why are you being so loud?"

"Nothing, dear," Aether whispered, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly sweet lullaby. He tightened his grip on her, his fingers digging slightly into her skin. "They're just confused. They don't understand that you need to rest. Go back to sleep. I'll deal with them."

Mavuika snuggled closer into Aether’s chest, her breathing evening out once more as she surrendered to the unnatural sleep. The sight of their Archon, the fierce and unyielding Mavuika, reduced to this state sent a wave of horror through the group.

Aether looked up then, and the mask of the Traveler didn't just slip—it shattered. His golden eyes flared with a cold, Abyssal light, and his smile widened into a cruel, jagged thing that seemed to stretch too far across his face, revealing teeth that looked too sharp to be human.

"Let—let her go!" Citlali screamed, her hands glowing with a frantic, icy power. She launched a bolt of frost, but Aether didn't even move. A shield of shimmering violet energy erupted around him, the frost shattering against it like glass.

Aether stood up, still holding Mavuika with one arm as if she weighed nothing at all. He stepped toward the center of the room, his presence expanding until it filled the space with a suffocating, oily darkness that seemed to swallow the light from the hearth.

"You're all so... predictable," Aether sighed, his voice echoing with a hollow, metallic quality. "Always rushing in to save the day, always believing that a little bit of friendship and a lot of screaming can change the inevitable. It’s almost charming. Almost."

"Give her back, Aether!" Mualani cried, her voice cracking. "This isn't you! You're our friend!"

"Friendship is a heavy burden, Mualani," Aether said, his eyes locking onto hers. "You and Aether are friends. And I'm not Aether. So you'll always hold back while I do whatever I want."

He looked around the room, his gaze lingering on each of them with a clinical, detached cruelty. "So... I'll see you on the flip side," he said in a sing-song voice that chilled them to the bone.

"Nooooo!" Citlali cried, launching every ounce of her power into a desperate barrage of energy.

The group made a mad dash for them, weapons swinging, elemental powers erupting in a final, desperate attempt to stop him. Xilonen’s blade was inches from his throat, Kinich’s grapple was reaching for Mavuika’s arm, and Chasca’s arrows were mid-flight.

Aether didn't move a muscle to defend himself. He simply tapped his foot against the stone floor.

A rift, blacker than the deepest night and edged with jagged, pulsing violet light, opened beneath his feet. It wasn't a door or a portal; it was a wound in reality itself.

"Wait!" Xilonen screamed, her hand outstretched.

But it was too late. Aether and Mavuika fell into the rift, the darkness swallowing them instantly. The arrows passed through empty air, the blades struck the cold stone floor, and the elemental energy dissipated into the void.

The rift snapped shut a second later with a sound like a closing tomb, leaving the room silent and empty. The only trace of their presence was the lingering scent of ozone and the faint, purplish mark on the floor where the reality had been torn.

"No..." Chasca whispered, her bow drooping, her hands shaking. She looked at the scorched floor, her eyes filling with tears of frustration and failure. "He took her. He actually took her."

Xilonen stood in the center of the room, her chest heaving, her claymore still glowing with a dying heat. She looked at the empty space where her Archon had been, and a cold, hard resolve began to settle in her gut.

"Nod-Krai is it?" Xilonen asked, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "Citlali, get the maps. Ineffa, get the supplies. We're going on a trip."

"To the North?" Mualani asked, wiping her eyes.

"To the North," Xilonen confirmed. "And we're not coming back until we've brought Aether and Mavuika home."

...

The laboratory was a cathedral of glass, humming machinery, and the sharp, clean scent of alchemical reagents. In the center of the room, a large, ornate alembic pulsed with a soft, gold-and-silver light, the culmination of Albedo’s, Durin’s, and the Wanderer’s tireless work.

"It is finished," Albedo said, his voice level despite the deep lines of exhaustion etched into his face. He wiped his hands on a clean white cloth, looking at the glowing, iridescent liquid within the vessel. "The Alchemical Bridge. It is a bridge not of space, but of consciousness. It will allow us to glimpse a moment in time—specifically, Aether’s perspective, filtered through the resonance of his elemental trace."

Durin, now appearing as a tall, polite young man with a shy smile and eyes that held the wisdom of ages, stood beside the Wanderer. "Are you sure this is safe, Albedo? To look into a mind touched by the Abyss is to risk being pulled into the same darkness."

The Wanderer scoffed, his large hat tilted back, his arms crossed over his chest. "Safety is a luxury for those who aren't currently watching their world burn, little dragon. If we want to find him, we have to see what he sees. We have to know his moves before he makes them."

"We must choose a moment," Albedo said, his hand hovering over the delicate controls of the alembic. "A point of resonance where his focus was sharpest. A moment of connection."

Suddenly, a female voice, melodic and ancient, echoed through the room.

"The dawn of the seventh day after the moon fell. Look there."

"Wh-Who is that?" Durin asked

Albedo didn't hesitate. He set the coordinates, his fingers moving with a practiced grace, and activated the bridge. The liquid in the alembic flared, a blinding flash of silver light that projected a shimmering, three-dimensional image into the air above them.

They were looking through Aether’s eyes.

The scene was the interior of the Serenitea Pot estate, the grand mansion looking pristine and cold. Aether was sitting in a high-backed chair, his obsidian claws tapping a rhythmic, impatient beat against the armrest. In front of him, a shimmering projection showed a figure whose face was obscured by thick, swirling shadows.

"...is building something to try to remove your abyssal corruption," the traitor’s voice filtered through the projection, female, laced with a subtle, sickening undercurrent of desperation. "Varka and Arlecchino are sparring, and that's about it. You'll release her soon, right? Like we agreed?"

The image flickered, distorted by a surge of Abyssal energy, and then died, leaving the room in a heavy, suffocating silence.

Albedo’s eyes widened, his usual composure shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. Durin looked as though he had been struck, his face turning a ghostly, sickly pale. The Wanderer’s expression was a mask of cold, murderous fury.

The Wanderer hissed, the air around him beginning to swirl with the force of his agitation. "The snake was right in front of us the whole time."

Albedo looked at the empty space where the projection had been, the realization a cold, heavy stone in the pit of his gut. There was a traitor among them. Someone who had been feeding Aether information, someone who had been helping him stay one step ahead of their every move. Someone they had trusted with their lives and their secrets.

"We don't tell anyone," Albedo said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper that commanded attention. "Not yet. If the traitor knows we know, they'll vanish, and we'll lose our only link to Aether's internal movements. We need to be certain. We need to watch everyone."

He looked toward the window, where the first light of dawn was beginning to touch the snow-capped peaks of the North, turning the white slopes into a bruised, purplish gray. The breach was coming. The final confrontation was at hand. And now, they didn't even know who stood beside them in the dark.

Chapter Text

The waves of the northern sea were not like those of the Fontainian coast. They were heavy, iron-gray, and topped with jagged crests of white foam that looked more like shattered bone than sea spray. The boat cut through the water with a rhythmic, protesting groan of its timbers, the sound echoing the tension held within the hearts of those on board.

Neuvillette stood at the prow, his long, silver-blue hair whipping in the biting wind. In his hand, he held a letter, the paper damp from the mist but the words upon it burning into his mind with the heat of a branding iron. He had read it a dozen times, and each time, the weight in his chest grew. He paled, his usually inscrutable features tightening into a mask of grim realization.

He hadn't hesitated to alert Aether's friends once the contents were clear. But what truly alarmed him—what made the ancient, draconic blood in his veins run cold—was a specific detail buried in the frantic script. Arlecchino, the Knave, had strictly forbidden the House of the Hearth from coming to Nod-Krai.

Neuvillette looked out over the churning horizon, his eyes narrowing. He knew the Knave. She was a woman of calculated risks and absolute control over her "children." For her to issue such a decree meant she viewed the situation in Nod-Krai not merely as a mission, but as a slaughterhouse.

Re-reading the lines penned by Paimon and Varka, Neuvillette was certain of one thing: they were understating the threat. An Aether corrupted by the Abyss was not just a friend in trouble; it was a localized cataclysm. Varka and Paimon were likely trying to prevent a mass panic, a tactic to ensure that *someone* came to help without being paralyzed by fear.

But Neuvillette was the Iudex of Fontaine. He dealt in truths, and the truth here was terrifying.

He turned back to look at the others on the deck. Furina was there, her expression fragile, her hands clutching the railing so hard her knuckles were white. She looked worried—frightened, even—but there was a spark of something else in her eyes. A determination she had found during the trial of the prophecy, a refusal to let another person she cared for suffer alone.

Clorinde stood near her, her hand resting habitually on the hilt of her blade, her gaze fixed forward. Navia, Charlotte, Escoffier, and Chiori were scattered across the deck, each lost in their own silent vigil.

Neuvillette felt a profound sense of debt. Aether had been the one to stand by Fontaine when the world seemed ready to drown it. He had been the witness to their struggle, the hand that helped hold back the tide. Neuvillette would do whatever it took to save him. He would pay that debt in full, even if it meant facing the Abyss itself.

"Monsieur Neuvillette?" Furina’s voice was small, caught in the wind. "Do you think... do you think he's still in there? The Aether we know?"

Neuvillette looked at her, then at Clorinde, whose eyes were sharp and determined. He saw the same thought reflected in the eyes of everyone on the boat. They weren't just going to a battlefield; they were going to reclaim a piece of their world.

"I believe," Neuvillette said, his voice deep and resonant, carrying over the roar of the sea, "that as long as we are moving toward him, he is not truly lost. We are not alone in this thought."

..

Inside the Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau, the air was thick with the smell of cold metal and the faint, ozonic hum of ancient technology. Varka stood by a large, cluttered workbench, his face a mask of rare, unadulterated fury. The news of the traitor had hit him like a physical blow, a jagged blade twisted in the back of the Knights of Favonius.

Beside him, Flins, the fae Lightkeeper, stood with his lantern glowing a steady, pale blue. The dark circles under his yellow eyes seemed more pronounced than usual.

"Well, damn it," Flins said, his voice polite but edged with a dark, weary humor. "I don’t know what to do. My grave is starting to look quite comfortable compared to this mess. A traitor in our midst, and we’re sitting here like ducks in a frozen pond."

Varka slammed a fist onto the table, rattling a tray of alchemical vials. "We should just go on as usual," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "We don't know who the traitor is, and there’s no point in beating each other up over this. If we start a witch hunt now, we’ll tear ourselves apart before Aether even lifts a finger."

The Wanderer leaned against a nearby pillar, his arms crossed, his large hat casting his face into deep shadow. He let out a sharp, derisive snort. "How noble. Trusting the very people who might be stabbing you in the dark."

Varka ignored the jab. "It’s better that we keep the people who know about this small. Paimon, Albedo, us. If the traitor thinks we’re oblivious, they’ll get sloppy. It’s the first time we’ve had an advantage over Aether since he took the Marrow."

The Wanderer straightened up, his eyes flashing with a cold, predatory light. "And now we need to leverage it... If the puppet master wants to play games, we’ll make sure the strings get tangled."

...

Alice walked along the jagged cliffside, her boots crunching on the frost-covered stone. She moved with a lightness that belied the heavy turmoil in her heart. She reached the very edge of the north-east border, where the land fell away into a churning abyss of mist and jagged ice. She was waiting.

Her mind raced back to the last meeting at the Bureau. Sandrone and Nefer had been so insistent that everyone stay together, reinforcing the defenses, pooling their knowledge. It had been a logical decision, a tactical necessity. Varka and Flins had left early, their faces grim, and Alice had known then that the atmosphere was changing. The air in Nod-Krai was becoming stagnant with suspicion.

She looked out into the void, her hand clutching a small, red charm hidden in her pocket. She wasn't an evil woman. She was a mother. And for a mother of her race, five hundred years was a long time to learn that the laws of the world were often less important than the safety of one's own.

She could only hope he would keep up his part of the deal. She had given him the movements, the locations, the vulnerabilities. In exchange, she wanted her daughter back. The "Sustainer of the World's Borders" was currently willing to let those borders crumble if it meant Klee was safe.

"Come on," she whispered to the wind. "Don't make me regret this more than I already do."

...

Across the various sea-lanes and through the swirling currents of the upper atmosphere, the vision-bearers of Teyvat were converging. The distance was closing, the vastness of the world shrinking as their singular purpose drew them toward the borderlands.

...

The boat carrying the Mondstadt contingent was a sturdy vessel, built to withstand the northern gales. Jean stood at the helm, her eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep but her posture as straight as a spear. Kaeya stood beside her, his usual smirk replaced by a pensive frown as he toyed with a coin. Diluc was further aft, staring into the dark water, his claymore propped against the bulkhead. Eula and Amber were checking their gear, their movements synchronized and silent.

"There," Jean whispered, pointing.

In the distance, through the shroud of mist, the jagged, obsidian peaks of Nod-Krai began to pierce the horizon. It looked like a dark crown rising from the sea.

"So that's the place," Kaeya remarked, his voice devoid of its usual lilt. "Looks charming. I can see why the Abyss likes it."

"We're coming for them," Amber said, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and resolve. "Aether and Klee. We're not leaving without them."

On the Mondstadt boat, Jean was struggling with her own demons. She kept thinking of Klee. The little girl’s laughter was the heartbeat of the Knights of Favonius, and the thought of her in Aether's shadow was a terror that Jean couldn't voice. Diluc, sensing her distress, walked over. He didn't speak—he wasn't a man for words—but he stood beside her, a wall of silent, fiery strength.

Kaeya, meanwhile, was sharpening his blade, his eye fixed on the horizon. He knew about the traitor. He had always been good at sensing a rot in the room, and the air around Alice had been... off. He didn't know it was her yet, but he knew someone had tipped the scales.

"Eula," Kaeya called out over the wind. "If it comes down to it... if the Traveler can't be saved... what then?"

Eula didn't hesitate. "Then I'll take my vengeance on the Abyss that took him. But I won't give up on him until the last drop of my blood freezes."

...

High above them, Venti’s lyre sang a song of mourning. Zhongli watched the Mondstadt boat below, his amber eyes glowing with a faint, ancient light. He thought of the Guili Assembly, of the friends he had lost to the madness of war and time. He had seen this before—the corruption of a noble soul. He wouldn't let it happen again. Not to Aether.

They did not travel by boat. High above the waves, a massive, swirling gust of emerald wind carried them forward. Venti sat cross-legged at the center of the gale, his fingers plucking a somber tune on his lyre. Zhongli stood like a statue of living stone, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the distance. Childe was pacing the edge of the wind-platform, his Hydro blades flickering in and out of existence as he hummed a battle song. Xianyun and Xiao stood on either side, their sharp eyes scanning the clouds for any sign of Abyssal interference.

"The air is changing," Xiao muttered, his mask manifesting for a brief second before he suppressed it. "The karmic debt of this land... it's heavy. And it’s being stirred by something far worse."

Zhongli nodded slowly. "Nod-Krai. The land of the Three Moons. A place where the boundaries of reality have always been... fragile."

Childe let out a boisterous laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "I don't care about the history, old man! I just want to see if the Traveler has finally become a challenge worth my life!"

Childe was the only one who seemed to be enjoying the tension. He was a creature of the Abyss himself, in a way. He knew the allure of the dark, the way it whispered of strength and freedom. He wanted to see how much of Aether was left, and how much was the monster. He wanted to see if the Traveler’s blade still held the weight of the stars, and, of course, he wanted to save his friend too.

Venti looked at them, his expression uncharacteristically grave. "We're almost there. I can feel the wind dying down as it hits the border. Nod-Krai is ahead."

...

The boat from the East was a sleek, fast-moving craft. The Raiden Shogun stood at the bow, her presence so overwhelming that the crew barely dared to breathe. Ganyu, Keqing, and Ningguang were gathered around a map, discussing logistics, while Ayaka and Thoma stood with Yoimiya, Kokomi, and Yae Miko.

"The thunder is silent in these waters," the Shogun observed, her voice cold and imperial. "The sky here belongs to a different power."

"It's Nod-Krai," Yae Miko purred, though her tail flicked with agitation. "A place of old gods and even older shadows. Our golden friend certainly picked a dramatic place to lose himself."

Keqing looked up from the map, her eyes narrowing as the dark outline of the coast appeared. "I see land. Prepare yourselves. We don't know what kind of welcome we'll receive."

...

Their boat was laden with herbs and alchemical supplies. Nahida sat in a small chair, her eyes closed as she communicated with the Irminsul, her brow furrowed in concentration. Dehya and Cyno stood guard, their eyes scanning the horizon, while Tighnari, Nilou, and Alhaitham discussed the biological anomalies of the region.

Nahida was deep in a mental trance. She was trying to find a path through the fractured memories of Nod-Krai. The land was a graveyard of old dreams, and the Abyss was using those dreams as fuel. She saw the Frostmoon Scions, their antlers glowing in the dark, and she saw the shadow of the Three Moons.

"The forest is screaming," Tighnari whispered, his ears pinned back against his head. "Even from here, I can hear the corruption in the soil."

"Then we'll have to burn it out," Dehya said, her hand resting on her fiery blade.

Nahida opened her eyes, her green pupils glowing softly. "Nod-Krai is in sight. The memories of this place are... fractured. Be careful. The Abyss is not the only thing we have to fear there."

...

The journey through the icy waters of the North was a test of will for every soul on those ships. For Charlotte, the Fontaine journalist, it was a matter of recording the truth, even if that truth was a monster wearing the face of a hero. Her camera sat on the deck, protected from the spray, but her mind was already framing the shots—the dark peaks of Nod-Krai, the grim faces of the Iudex and the former Archon.

She watched Escoffier, the chef, who was stubbornly trying to brew a pot of tea that smelled of Fontainian summer, a futile attempt to bring warmth to a world that was rapidly turning to ice.

"It's too cold for tea," Furina muttered, though she accepted the cup Escoffier offered. Her hands were shaking. Not just from the cold, but from the realization that the man who had comforted her after the flood was now the very thing they were hunting. She remembered Aether’s smile, the way he had listened to her ramblings when no one else would. To think of him as a 'void' was a dissonance she couldn't resolve.

Navia stood near her, her golden umbrella closed and used as a walking stick against the pitch of the boat. "We'll bring him back, Furina. We have to. Teyvat doesn't make sense without him."

On their boat, the mood was somber. Charlotte was frantically checking her camera, Escoffier was preparing a meal that no one was eating, and Furina was trying to stay upright as the boat pitched. Navia and Chiori stood with Clorinde and Neuvillette.

"Look," Navia said, her voice hushed.

Through the fog, the silhouette of Nod-Krai loomed. It wasn't just land; it felt like a presence. A cold, unfeeling eye watching them approach.

Neuvillette felt the water beneath the boat ripple with an unnatural frequency. "We are here. The land of the Frostmoon Scions."

...

Their boat was a rugged, reinforced vessel. Xilonen stood at the front, her golden eyes flashing with the heat of her forge. Ineffa, Kinich, Citlali, Varesa, Mualani, Chasca, and Ororon were all armed and ready.

"The fire in my blood is roaring," Xilonen growled. "I can feel Mavuika's presence somewhere in that darkness."

"The Night Kingdom has a sister here," Ororon muttered, his gaze fixed on the dark peaks. "Nod-Krai. The border between the world and the void."

Kinich gripped his claymore. "Let's go. Aether’s had his fun. It's time to bring him down."

The groups, separated by miles of ocean and wind, all shared a single moment of silence as the dark, jagged coast of Nod-Krai finally fully materialized through the gloom. They were hours away from landfall, and the people currently in Nod-Krai—Varka, Arlecchino, Columbina, and the rest—had no idea that the full might of Teyvat was descending upon them.

...

Alice stood motionless. The wind howled around her, tugging at her hair, but she didn't blink. Suddenly, the space in front of her began to shiver. A jagged, purple-black rift tore through the air, bleeding Abyssal energy into the snowy landscape.

Aether stepped out.

He looked different. The golden armor was tarnished, his scarf tattered and stained with a dark, oily substance. His eyes were no longer the warm gold of a summer sun; they were cold, swirling pools of shadow. He looked at Alice, a slow, mocking grin spreading across his face.

"That desperate for Klee, are you?" Aether asked. His voice was a rasp, a sound that seemed to come from a deep, hollow place.

Alice’s expression didn't waver, but her fingers twitched. "I'm not here to joke, Aether. You promised me Klee. I've given you everything you asked for. Now give me my daughter."

Aether took a slow, languid step forward. "I promised to release her and only that."

"That's the same thing," Alice snapped, her voice cracking with a maternal fury she usually kept hidden behind layers of playfulness.

Aether’s grin grew wider, stretching unnaturally across his face. "Oh no... not at all. You see, Alice, words have power. Especially when they are whispered by the Abyss. I’ll release her, yes. I’ll release her into the hands of Ronova."

Alice froze. The name of the Shade of Death hit her like a physical blow. "You—you wouldn't."

"Oh, I would," Aether purred. "She’s such a vibrant little spark. Ronova hasn't seen a soul that bright in eons. I think they’ll get along famously."

"You can try," Alice hissed, her voice dropping into a register of pure, ancient power. The air around her began to hum with a terrifying frequency. "I, by all standards, am stronger than you, Traveler. I have lived through the rise and fall of nations. I have walked beyond the borders of this world. You are a corrupted boy playing with powers you don't understand."

Aether laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "You're right. In a fair fight, you’d probably turn me into stardust. But Aether's strong, Alice. Strong enough to teleport back to my realm in the blink of an eye... and uhhhh... do the deed before you even finish your first incantation."

He mimicked a throat-slitting motion with his thumb.

Alice’s patience snapped. It wasn't just the threat; it was the casual, cruel way he spoke of her child. She didn't scream. She didn't shout. She simply unleashed.

"You know, you were like a father to Klee, and you will be that, again, once I free you from the abyss."

A massive, concentrated explosion erupted from her palm. It wasn't a spark or a bomb; it was a localized collapse of thermal energy. The entire cliffside detonated. Thousands of tons of rock and ice were vaporized instantly, the sound of the blast echoing across Nod-Krai like the roar of a dying god.

When the dust and steam finally settled, the landscape was unrecognizable. A massive crater had been carved into the edge of the border.

Aether was still standing, but he was a ruin. His entire top left half was gone—his arm, his shoulder, and a significant portion of his chest had been obliterated by the fire. Half of his heart was visible, charred and black, pulsing with a sick, rhythmic throb in the center of the molten mess.

Alice breathed heavily, her eyes wide, preparing to cast another spell to finish him.

But Aether didn't fall. He didn't even scream. Instead, he began to laugh. It was a wet, gargling sound. He began pumping Abyssal energy into the void where his body had been. Black, oily tendrils erupted from his remaining flesh, weaving together like a nest of angry vipers. Bone, muscle, and skin began to knit back together with a sickening, wet squelch.

"Is that all?" Aether gargled, his voice reforming as his throat stitched itself back together.

Alice’s eyes narrowed. She raised both hands, her mana flaring like a supernova. She began to chant, the air around her distorting as she prepared a spell that would erase him from existence.

Suddenly, Alice’s form flickered.

Aether blinked. In front of her, there were now two Alices.

"What?" he whispered, looking at Alice's double.

Aether didn't give her time to think. He teleported, appearing instantly in front of Alice 1. He didn't use a sword. He used his raw, Abyssal-enhanced strength. He drove a fist into Alice 1’s stomach. The impact was concussive, the shockwave shattering the frozen ground beneath them. Alice 1 gasped, the air leaving her lungs as she was stunned, her magical focus breaking.

Alice 2 reacted instantly, her hands glowing with white-hot fire. She lunged at Aether, a strike meant to melt his skull.

Aether didn't even look at her. He weaved his head to the side, the fire grazing his cheek, and in the same motion, he delivered a quick, brutal punch directly into Alice 2’s face. The sound of breaking bone echoed in the crater.

Alice 1 tried to recover, her hands trembling as she began a counter-spell, but Aether was faster. He reached out and grabbed her by the collar of her dress, his grip like a vice.

Alice 2 attacked again, a barrage of magical bolts, but Aether used Alice 1 as a shield, weaving through the attacks while still holding her tight. He then spun with a roar of effort, throwing Alice 1 directly into Alice 2.

The two Alices collided with a sickening thud, their magical auras clashing and short-circuiting. Alice 2 was stunned, the impact of her double throwing her off balance.

Aether lunged. As Alice 2 struggled to regain her footing, he hit her with another punch—a massive, overhead blow to the face that drove her head into the stone.

Alice 1 tried to attack again, her eyes wild with desperation, but Aether counterattacked with a mean, surgical jab to the face. The blow was so precise and powerful that it cut through her magical defenses like they were parchment.

Both Alices fell back, hitting the ground with heavy thuds, their forms flickering and merging back into one as the illusion failed. Alice lay in the center of the crater, her breathing ragged, her face bruised and bloodied.

Aether stood over her, his body fully reformed, the Abyssal energy smoke-like and thick around him. He looked down at the legendary sorceress, his eyes cold and triumphant.

"You're strong, Alice," Aether whispered, leaning down. "But you're a mother. And in this world... that's just a weakness I can exploit."

Alice lay on the ground, the cold of Nod-Krai seeping into her bones, as the dark traveler looked toward the horizon, where the first of the boats were finally drawing near.

...

As the boats finally hit the shallow waters of the Nod-Krai coast, the silence of the land was broken by the sound of a thousand boots hitting the frozen shingle. They had arrived. The nations of Teyvat had landed on the shores of the borderlands, a colorful, defiant army against the monochrome darkness of the North.

Varka, at the Bureau, felt the shift in the air. He looked at Flins and the Wanderer.

"They're here," Varka said, a grin finally breaking through his fury. "The whole damn world just showed up."

The Wanderer adjusted his hat. "Then let's hope they brought more than just pretty speeches. The Traveler isn't in the mood for a reunion."

The battle for Nod-Krai had transitioned from a cold war into an all-out siege. The dawn was coming, and with it, the final confrontation. Aether tensed, sensing a trap set by Alice, he guess it would activate when he tried to open a rift, with Mavuika’s fire and the Abyss’s shadow swirling around him, he got ready to fight as Alice began to pick herself up.

Chapter Text

The air over the eastern reaches of Paha Island didn't just vibrate; it screamed. It was a sound born of the fundamental laws of Teyvat being ground into dust between two opposing forces of nature. On one side stood Alice, the "Sustainer of the World's Borders," a sorceress whose name was whispered in the same breath as ancient gods and cosmic anomalies. On the other, Aether—or the entity that inhabited his skin—a traveler from beyond the stars now wreathed in the suffocating, oily embrace of the Abyss.

Alice stood amidst the jagged ruins of a Kuuvahki watchtower, her breathing heavy, her eyes wide with a frantic, maternal terror. Her usual playful facade, the one that spoke of tea parties and whimsical explosions, had been stripped away, leaving behind the raw, bleeding heart of a mother.

"Give her back," Alice hissed, her voice a low, dangerous vibration.

Aether didn't answer. He didn't have to. The Abyssal energy swirling around him was an answer in itself—a silent, mocking void.

Alice didn't wait for a verbal response. She condensed a small, blinding orb of pure thermal energy between her palms. It wasn't a bomb; it was a star, compressed into the size of a marble. With a snap of her wrists, she fired the energy from her fingertips. It wasn't a slow-moving projectile, but a beam of concentrated white heat that moved with the speed of thought.

Aether, caught off guard by the sheer velocity of the strike, had no time to conjure a barrier. He could only react with the instinct of a seasoned warrior. He crossed his arms in front of his face in a desperate block, his body twisting to minimize the impact.

The beam struck his left arm, the one most forward, and passed through it as if it were parchment. There was no sound of breaking bone, only the sickening *hiss* of vaporized flesh. His left arm was cut clean off just below the shoulder, the limb falling into the dust and vanishing into a cloud of gray ash before it even hit the ground. The beam continued its trajectory, nearly shearing through his right forearm as well, the heat so intense it cauterized the wound instantly, leaving a glowing, molten edge where his limb had once been.

Before the beam could finish the job and take his right arm too, Aether threw his entire weight to the left, his body contorting in mid-air to escape the line of fire. He hit the ground hard, skidding across the frost-covered stone, a trail of dark, Abyssal blood marking his path.

Alice didn't give him a second to breathe. She was already casting again, her hands moving in a blur of motion, more energy forming between her palms. She was a whirlwind of light and heat, her desperation fueling a magical output that would have disintegrated any other opponent.

But Aether was not any other opponent.

He stayed low to the ground, moving like a predatory animal. Despite the loss of his arm, he rushed toward Alice with a terrifying haste, dodging a second beam that scorched the earth inches from his heels. The air behind him exploded as the beam hit a pile of Kuuvahki scrap metal, sending molten shards flying in every direction.

Before Alice could discharge her next spell, Aether was within her guard. He surged upward, a coiled spring of Abyssal fury, and delivered a brutal uppercut with his remaining injured arm. The blow was fueled by a surge of dark energy that made the air around his fist ripple.

Alice reacted with the speed of a long-lived race, crossing both her arms to block the hit. The impact was concussive. Aether hissed in pain as his burnt, mangled arm struck Alice’s reinforced magical defense, the charred flesh cracking and bleeding. But the force of the blow was enough to send Alice skidding backward, her heels carving deep furrows into the stone floor.

Aether stood in the center of the crater, panting heavily, the dark smoke of the Abyss pouring from his truncated shoulder. He looked at the stump of his arm, then back at Alice, his golden eyes twin voids of predatory light.

"Feisty, huh?" he rasped, his voice a wet, gargling sound.

He didn't wait for her to recover. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and the Abyssal energy within him roared. He pumped the dark, oily power into his left side, the shadows coiling and weaving like a nest of black vipers. With a sickening, wet squelch, the bone re-knitted, the muscle re-wove, and the skin grew back with an unnatural, obsidian sheen. In heartbeats, his arm was whole again, the new flesh pulsing with a dark, rhythmic throb.

Alice’s eyes narrowed. The sheer, blasphemous nature of his regeneration was a slap in the face to the laws of life and death she had spent five centuries observing. She felt a surge of something she hadn't felt in a very long time: a cold, hollow desperation.

Aether raised his hand, and the air behind him began to shiver. A jagged, purple-black rift tore through the fabric of reality, a wound leading directly to his private realm.

Seeing this, Alice let out a scream of pure, unadulterated rage. She couldn't let him go. If he vanished through that rift, she might never see Klee again. She let open a massive, omnidirectional explosion, the force of it so great that the atmosphere itself seemed to ignite. The shockwave expanded outward, a wall of white-hot fire that leveled the surrounding watchtowers and sent a cloud of dust and debris soaring into the sky.

The explosion caught Aether mid-stride. He was sent flying backward, his body a ragdoll in the storm. He smashed into the side of the Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau's outer wall, the impact leaving a massive, spiderwebbed crater in the reinforced steel walls. He hit the ground with a heavy thud, the air driven from his lungs.

Aether groaned, his vision swimming. His entire body was burnt, his golden clothes tattered and scorched, the smell of singed hair and ozone thick in the air. He blacked out for a heartbeat, the world turning a dull, static gray, before the Abyssal energy forced him back into clarity, the pain a sharp, jagged reminder of his existence.

He tried to raise his hand to open another rift, his fingers trembling, but Alice was already there.

She used a series of smaller, controlled explosions beneath her feet to propel herself through the air like a kinetic projectile. She was a blur of crimson and gold, a falling star aimed directly at his heart. Black and purple sparks began to form around her own palms—a sign that her desperation was drawing on the very energy she sought to destroy, though in her frenzy, she didn't even notice.

Aether saw her coming. He rolled to the side just as Alice’s foot slammed into the wall where his head had been a second before, the stone shattering into a thousand pieces.

Alice threw a right kick, a powerful, roundhouse strike that hummed with magical weight. Aether halted it by forming a small, hexagonal Abyssal barrier. The shield shattered instantly upon impact, but it gave him the fraction of a second he needed to counter. He summoned his sword, the blade now wreathed in a flickering, dark flame, and slashed upward at Alice’s neck.

It was a killing blow, precise and lethal. But as the blade reached her skin, Abyssal energy—Alice’s own desperation manifesting as a shield—gathered around her throat, absorbing the strike with a sound like a muffled bell.

Aether froze for a second, his eyes wide with a genuine, stunned confusion. He hadn't expected her to be able to tap into that power, not so quickly, and not so instinctively.

Alice was also startled by the sudden attack and the fact that it had somehow missed her skin, but she didn't let the confusion slow her down. She dodged outside to the right, her movements fluid and desperate, and counterattacked with a heavy left hook. Aether ducked under the punch, the wind of it whistling over his head, and avoided a follow-up right cross by a hair’s breadth.

He saw an opening and landed a powerful counterpunch to Alice’s ribs. He felt the bone give slightly under his knuckles, a dull *thud* that echoed in the quiet of the night. Alice took the blow with a sharp wince of pain, her breath hitching, but she didn't retreat. Instead, she used the momentum of his strike to spin around behind him.

She grabbed Aether's leg, her grip like iron, and while they were back-to-back, she summoned an explosion directly between them.

The detonation was focused, a concentrated burst of thermal energy that blew out the back of Aether’s tunic and sent him tumbling forward. He used a surge of Anemo energy to push himself off the Bureau’s wall, trying to regain his footing, but his energy reserves were flagging. The Anemo current suddenly failed, the wind dying in a pathetic hiss, and Aether crashed into the shattered ground below, rolling through the dust.

Alice, her own mana reserves dangerously low, propelled herself one last time with an explosion. She came crashing down like a meteor, her fists raised.

Aether, bloodied and battered, barely had enough energy to construct a final, flickering barrier. He hit the ground an instant before Alice struck the shield. The impact was cataclysmic. The barrier fractured into a thousand shards of light that evaporated before they even touched the stone.

They landed tangled together, their momentum carrying them into a rough, bone-jarring skid across the shattered floor of the courtyard. Dust bloomed upward in a thick, choking cloud, obscuring the world around them.

Alice ended up on top, her knees pinning Aether’s hips, her hands clutching his collar. For half a heartbeat, neither moved, the only sound the ragged, desperate panting of two predators at the end of their tether.

Then Alice struck.

Her forearm snapped down toward Aether’s throat with the intent to crush his windpipe. He twisted his head just enough that her arm slammed into the stone beside his neck, cracking the ancient floor. Aether hooked her wrist with one hand and shoved upward, trying to unbalance her, but she dropped her weight low, using her center of gravity to keep him pinned.

She headbutted him.

Aether’s vision flashed a brilliant, blinding white. The sound of their foreheads colliding was like a crack of thunder. He reacted on pure instinct, bringing his knee up hard between them. Alice shifted at the last moment; the blow glanced off her thigh instead of her core, but it was enough to make her hiss in pain. She answered with a brutal punch to his ribs, the impact driving the last of the air from his lungs.

Aether rolled, dragging her with him in a desperate struggle for dominance. They switched positions mid-roll, Alice catching herself with one hand and trying to hammer her elbow down into his chest. Aether caught her arm with both hands, his muscles straining as he locked it inches from his sternum. The two froze in a brutal stalemate, their faces inches apart, their breath hot and smelling of blood.

Alice twisted her wrist, letting the joint go limp for a split second to break his leverage, then snapped her free hand forward. Her fingers jabbed toward his eyes. Aether jerked his head aside, the tips of her fingers grazing his temple, but she used the opening to slam her forehead into his temple again.

His grip broke.

Alice mounted him fully now, her fist raised, her chest heaving as she struggled for air. She looked down at him, her face a mask of blood and dust, her hair a wild, silver-blonde tangle. She looked like a Valkyrie at the end of the world.

She hesitated. Her fist trembled in the air.

"Where's Klee?" she rasped, her voice breaking.

Aether didn't answer with words. He planted his foot against the ground and bucked upward with everything he had left, throwing his weight into her center of mass. The motion lifted her just enough. He rolled to the side, coming up to one knee as she stumbled forward, her hands scraping against the rough stone.

Alice spun immediately, her leg sweeping out in a low, powerful arc.

Aether dropped again, but this time he rolled with the sweep, catching her ankle as she stepped in to finish him. He yanks with a guttural roar. Alice fell backward, hitting the ground hard, but she used the recoil of the impact to kick upward, both of her heels slamming into Aether’s chest with the force of a battering ram.

Aether was thrown back, his body skidding twenty feet across the floor before coming to a rest against the base of a shattered statue.

They separated at last, both rising into low, ready stances—breathing hard, blood on their lips, their eyes locked in a gaze of mutual, exhausted hatred.

Alice raised her arms, pointing toward Aether, her desperation clear as day. She was at the end of her mana, at the end of her strength. Abyssal energy, dark and oily, began to course through her palms as she let out one final, massive explosion. She didn't feel the Abyss coursing through her; she didn't feel the corruption taking root in her soul. She only felt the need to destroy the man who had stolen her child.

Aether, bloodied and battered, tried to call upon his power to heal, to open a rift, to do anything. But his energy was gone. He had pushed himself too far. He looked at the wall of fire and shadow rushing toward him and felt a strange, detached sense of peace.

The explosion hit.

The entire east side of Paha Island was gone in an instant. The Bureau, the cliffs, the very earth itself vanished in a pillar of white and purple fire that could be seen from the shores of Snezhnaya. The sound was deafening, a roar that shook the foundations of the world.

Alice stood in the center of the devastation, her arms falling to her sides. She looked at the smoking crater where Aether had been and felt her vision begin to blur. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed into the ash, her world turning black.

...

Alice opened her eyes.

The fire was gone. The ruins of the Bureau were gone. The cold, biting wind of Nod-Krai was gone.

She was standing in a field of Cecilias, the white flowers swaying in a gentle, warm breeze that smelled of Mondstadtian spring. The sun was bright and kind, casting a golden glow over everything.

A few yards away, a man was crouched down in the grass, his back to her. He was wearing the simple, sturdy clothes of an adventurer. Beside him, a small girl with blonde pigtails and a red hat was giggling, her hands busy with something in the grass.

Alice’s heart stopped.

The man turned. He had a kind face, eyes that crinkled when he smiled—a face she hadn't seen in nearly five centuries. He stretched out his hands to her, a gentle, welcoming gesture.

"Don't you miss me?" he asked. His voice was a soft, melodic chime, the sound of home.

Alice felt tears trickle down her cheeks, slow and hot. She didn't question it. To her, the fight, the blood, the terror of the Abyss seemed so far away, like a bad dream she was finally waking from.

"I... I do," she whispered.

"Come play with me and our daughter," the man said, gesturing to the little girl, who was now waving a handful of flowers at Alice.

Alice took a step forward, her feet feeling light on the soft grass. But then, a sharp, stabbing pain flared in her temples. Her head hurt. She couldn't... she was doing something, wasn't she? Something very important. Something about...

"Don't worry, dear," the man said, his voice closer now. "I would take the suffering from you."

Alice’s head felt like it was splitting in two. The image of the field flickered, replaced for a split second by the gray ash and the smell of burnt flesh. She screamed, clutching her head, her knees hitting the grass.

"I can take the suffering from you," the voice said again.

But the voice had changed. It was no longer the soft, melodic tone of her husband. it was deeper, more resonant. It was Aether’s voice.

Alice looked up, her vision swimming. The field of Cecilias was gone. The man was gone.

Aether was there. He was kneeling in the ash in front of her, his face battered and bloodied, but his eyes were soft. He reached out and cupped her face with his hands. His touch was warm—not the searing heat of his fire, but a gentle, soothing warmth that seemed to seep into her very bones.

"Rest, Alice," he whispered. "Just rest. I can see your suffering."

Alice’s eyes started to droop. The pain in her head began to recede, replaced by a heavy, comfortable lethargy. The Abyss, she realized, didn't feel cold or oily anymore. It felt warm and fuzzy, like a thick blanket on a winter night.

"You can stop protecting, saving everyone," Aether crooned, his voice a hypnotic lullaby. "Just retire from it all and spend the rest of your days with Klee. I'll take care of her. I'll take care of you."

Alice leaned into his touch, her eyes half-closed. She heard people shouting in the distance—faint, muffled voices begging her to snap out of it, to fight, to remember who she was. They felt loud and demanding, a discordant noise that she wanted to shut out.

She didn't want the Knights. She didn't want the Harbingers. She just wanted Klee. She wanted the peace Aether was promising. She could trust him. He understood her pain. He was the only one who truly understood what it meant to carry the weight of the world.

Varka and Pulonia, the massive mechanical puppet holding a frantic Sandrone, rushed toward the edge of the crater, their voices lost in the wind. They were shouting for her, their faces masks of horror.

Alice didn't care. She snuggled into Aether's hands, a small, contented sigh escaping her lips. He felt safe. He could take her to Klee.

Paimon, Flins, Durin, Albedo, Scaramouche, Jahoda, Nefer, Lauma, Arlecchino, Dainsleif, and Yelan—they all rushed behind them, a desperate, colorful line of heroes against the gray ash. They were all shouting her name, their voices a symphony of desperation.

Aether—or the thing wearing his face—looked down at Alice in his arms. He didn't feel pride. He didn't feel triumph. He couldn't feel anything but the grinding, physical pain of his broken body and the crushing weight of magical exhaustion. The true Aether’s soul was fighting him from within, a silent, internal war that threatened to tear him apart. He felt Alice’s pain, too—the centuries of loneliness, the fear for her daughter, the exhaustion of being the "Sustainer."

He couldn't do it for much longer.

Alice looked into Aether's eyes. They looked exhausted, mirroring her own soul.

"You'll take care of me?" she whispered, her voice a tiny, childlike thing.

Aether smiled softly at her, a gesture of genuine, if twisted, compassion.

Alice looked into the smile and finally relented. She let the darkness take her, her consciousness slipping away into the warm, fuzzy embrace of the Abyss. But as her eyes closed, a final, fleeting thought crossed her mind—a cold, sharp realization that she was making a terrible decision.

...

Varka stopped at the edge of the crater, his massive broadsword falling from his hand and clattering against the stone. The others skidded to a halt beside him, their breath coming in ragged gasps.

They all watched in a stunned, horrified silence. The Abyss hadn't just defeated Alice; it had corrupted her. It had taken the most powerful sorceress in Teyvat and turned her into a sleeping thrall.

Varka felt a cold, hollow weight settle in his chest. He had led the Knights for decades, had faced dragons and gods, but he had never felt so weak. He had failed to save Aether, and now, he had failed to save Alice.

...

Dainsleif stood a few paces behind Varka, his hand clutching his chest as if to keep his own heart from failing. He felt a wave of pure, unadulterated fear wash over him.

He remembered his old friends in Khaenri’ah—the brilliant minds, the brave warriors, the people who had thought they could control the power of the void. He had failed to stop the Abyss from corrupting them, and now, five hundred years later, he was watching the same tragedy unfold. He remembered what Rerir had done after the corruption took hold—the cities leveled, the lives extinguished.

No. He couldn't lose hope. He looked at the slumped figure of Aether in the center of the crater and felt a spark of iron-willed resolve. There was still a chance. There had to be.

...

Aether watched as Alice finally fainted, her body going limp in his arms. He let her head rest against the ash, his own breathing ragged and wet.

He turned his head slowly. The others were there—all of them. Varka, Arlecchino, Albedo, the Wanderer... they were all rushing toward him now, their weapons drawn, their faces etched with a lethal, desperate intent.

Aether knew he couldn't fend them off. Not like this. His body was a ruin, his energy spent. But he had enough for one last act.

A jagged, Abyssal rift opened beside him, a swirling vortex of purple-black light. With a grunt of effort, he rolled Alice’s unconscious form into the rift, sending her into the depths of his realm.

He began to crawl toward the rift himself, his fingers clawing at the ash.

Suddenly, he felt a massive, invisible pull from behind.

Venti stood at the edge of the crater, his face devoid of its usual mirth. He held his lyre, but as he pulled the strings, they transformed into a bow of coalesced, howling winds. He fired a single arrow—a concentrated point of Anemo energy that expanded into a massive, roaring Stormeye the moment it reached the center of the crater.

The vacuum was absolute. Aether was sucked backward, away from the rift, his body tumbling through the air as the winds roared around him. He struggled, his claws digging into the stone, trying his best to reach the swirling purple light of the rift, but the Stormeye was too strong.

Aether lost his balance, his grip on the earth failing. He was sucked into the heart of the storm, his body suspended in the howling gale. He frantically looked around, his golden eyes wide with a rare, panicked realization.

He saw Venti. The Anemo Archon stood with his bow pointed directly at Aether’s heart, the wind whipping his hair into a green-and-white frenzy.

Chapter Text

The sky over Nod-Krai didn’t just darken; it bruised, a deep, sickly hematoma spreading across the celestial canvas. The Abyssal rift, which had once been a jagged, weeping wound in the atmosphere, began to draw inward with a slow, agonizing gravity. It sealed with a final, sickening hum—a frequency that didn't just strike the ears but vibrated in the very marrow of everyone standing on the salt-crusted earth of Paha Island. The air tasted of ozone, ancient, rotting things, and the metallic tang of a world being rewritten.

Alice was gone. The "Sustainer of the World’s Borders," a woman whose power had seemed untamable, a being who existed between the folds of reality, had been swatted aside like a troublesome moth. Her absence left a vacuum of hope, a physical pressure that made the lungs labor for breath. In her place remained the Traveler—or rather, the thing wearing his skin. He was suspended in the center of a screaming Stormeye, a localized hurricane of violet-black ink and fractured light that tore at the island's surface, grinding the salt into a fine, choking dust that sparkled with malevolent energy.

Aether hung in the air, his tattered scarf whipping like a dying wing against a gale. The golden light of his original essence, once as bright as the morning sun over Starfell Lake, was now a flickering, pathetic wick. It was being drowned, suffocated by a sea of Abyssal energy that pulsed in time with a heartbeat that wasn't human. He didn't look like a hero anymore. He didn't even look like a living being. He looked like a hole in the world, a silhouette of nothingness carved out of the reality of Teyvat, a shadow cast by a light that had long since gone out.

Before the silence of Alice’s disappearance could truly settle, the earth itself revolted. It was a visceral, tectonic reaction, as if the planet recognized a foreign pathogen within its biosphere and was attempting a desperate, violent purge.

Zhongli, the Consultant of Wangsheng, the God of Contracts, the Prime of Adepti, did not move a single muscle of his face. His composure was a terrifying mask of divine indifference, a stillness that had weathered the passing of millennia and the fall of civilizations. But his eyes—those burning amber orbs, glowing with the intensity of molten gold—flared with the brilliance of a dying star. He stood upon the salt flats, his long coat fluttering in the Abyssal wind like the banners of a forgotten army, and he stomped once.

The sound wasn't a thud. It was a tectonic shift. It was the sound of a continent settling into its final rest.

Beneath Aether, the Geo energy of Teyvat’s very bedrock—the ancient, primordial strength of the earth that had existed before the first Archon ever drew breath—coalesced into a single, lethal point of focus. Zhongli didn't just summon stone; he commanded the fundamental density of the world to rise and judge.

A stone pillar, jagged and glowing with ancient, pulsing seals of the Guizhong Ballista’s era, erupted from the ground with the speed of a lightning strike. It was a spear of the earth, a monument of divine wrath. It didn't just hit Aether; it impaled the space directly beneath his center of gravity. The impact was sickening—a wet, heavy *crack* echoed across the island as Aether’s spine snapped against the rising force. The Stormeye buckled, the violet winds scattering for a fraction of a second as the physical laws of the world reasserted themselves. Aether was lifted high into the air, a broken puppet whose strings had been cut by a god’s hand, before being slammed back down onto the flat, unforgiving top of the pillar.

He crashed onto the stone, his body limp, paralyzed by the sheer physical trauma of a god’s wrath. The Abyss within him surged erratically, losing its fine control, leaking out of his mouth and eyes like thick, greasy smoke from a guttering fire. Aether’s fingers twitched, scratching at the Geo construct, leaving dark, oily streaks on the sacred yellow stone. He forced one hand to move, claws made of shadow scraping against the glowing seals, pulling the Abyssal energy inward in a desperate, suffocating grasp. He was still in there. Conscious. Hurting. The screams of his nervous system were being relayed through the Abyssal link, a feedback loop of agony that would have driven a normal man insane in seconds.

"Musou No Hitotachi."

The world turned purple. It wasn't just a change in lighting; it was a total atmospheric conversion. The air itself became saturated with static, the scent of burning ozone drowning out the rot of the Abyss. Raiden Ei didn't walk across the distance; she simply existed in the next moment. She was a glitch in the fabric of time, a streak of violet lightning that cut through the atmospheric pressure like a hot wire through silk. Her blade, the Musou Isshin, emerged from the heart of the storm she carried within her, descending in a clean, executioner’s arc. It was a strike meant to sever the concept of existence itself, aimed straight for Aether’s neck.

Aether’s eyes snapped open. They weren't gold anymore. They were two infinite voids, swallowing the Electro light of the Shogun’s blade, hungry and hollow.

With a movement that defied the physics of his shattered spine, he summoned his sword—the dull, silver blade of the Traveler, now coated in a film of oily, shifting darkness that seemed to eat the light around it. He blocked.

The collision was catastrophic. The shockwave didn't just push air; it stripped the top layer of stone off the island, sending a spray of salt, gravel, and ancient fossils into the boiling sea. The impact was so monstrous that Aether’s grip, weakened by Zhongli's initial strike, finally failed. His sword flew backward, the hilt spinning out of his hand like a broken propeller. The blade sliced through the air, and in a cruel twist of momentum, it pierced his own flesh. It gave him a deep, diagonal slash from his waist to his shoulder, blood spraying in a hot, dark mist that sizzled and popped as it hit the Electro-charged air.

"Why the fuck are you three here?" Aether rasped.

His voice was a distorted nightmare, a melody of his own youthful tone layered over something ancient, tectonic, and fundamentally wrong. It sounded like grinding glass, like the shifting of tectonic plates deep beneath the ocean floor, or the groan of a sinking ship.

Venti landed softly on the edge of a nearby crag, his green cape fluttering in the dying winds. His lyre was already dissolving into currents of Anemo that tasted of cedar, ancient wine, and the cold, thin air of the high atmosphere. His expression was one the world hadn't seen in centuries—the face of Barbatos, the god who had carved the very shape of Mondstadt with his breath.

"Not just them, Aether," the bard said. His voice was devoid of its usual playfulness, its rhythmic lilt replaced by the hollow, echoing resonance of the god who had once leveled mountains to give his people a place to breathe. "All of Teyvat is coming. Now give us Aether back."

Raiden Ei was already moving again. She was a storm made manifest, her blade descending in a blur of Electro that seared the air into plasma. Aether twisted at the last possible moment, his body moving with a jerky, unnatural speed, as if the Abyss were yanking his limbs like a marionette. The blade missed his neck but carved through his shoulder, severing muscle and tendon down to the bone. A concentrated burst of Electro detonated through his nervous system, turning his veins into lines of white-hot fire.

Aether’s body convulsed. The Abyss inside him screamed—not a sound, but a psychic pressure, a wave of pure nihilism that made Paimon, hovering in the distance, clutch her head and wail in a high-pitched, heartbreaking tone.

Before Raiden could deliver the follow-through, the wind exploded. Venti skidded between them, his hands glowing with a fierce teal light. The air in front of him compressed violently, forming a wall of solid wind that deflected Raiden’s second strike upward. The redirected slash cleaved the clouds themselves, splitting the bruised sky for miles and revealing the cold, indifferent stars beyond. A roar of thunder shook the island’s very foundations, threatening to crack Paha Island in two.

Venti skidded back, his boots carving deep trenches into the salt-hardened stone. Zhongli stepped forward once more, his hand raised. He wasn't striking; he was anchoring. Golden Geo sigils flared beneath Aether’s feet, locking the terrain in place. The ground hardened impossibly, turning to a substance denser than diamond, suppressing the Abyssal seepage and preventing Aether from sinking into the shadows to escape.

Aether snarled, a sound that was entirely devoid of humanity. He ripped his embedded sword free from his own shoulder, blood slicking the stone in a dark, steaming pool. He spun, channeling the Abyss through the metal of his blade. The steel distorted, its edge flickering between physical metal and a jagged line of pure void. He slashed in a wide, horizontal arc.

The Abyssal wave tore across the field, a crescent of nothingness that ate the light and the air.

Raiden crossed her blade and absorbed the impact, her heels sliding backward meters at a time, lightning grounding through her boots and scorching the earth. Venti was thrown into the air, barely stabilizing himself with Anemo currents that groaned under the weight of the void. Zhongli didn't move—but the Geo barrier in front of him fractured, golden cracks flashing like lightning before shattering into fine, crystalline dust.

Aether staggered forward. Each step was wrong—too heavy, his momentum lagging behind his intent. He was bleeding out, his right leg almost buckling as blood slicked the stone beneath his boot. The Abyss tried to compensate, overcorrecting his movements and throwing his balance off. What should have been a lethal, graceful dash became a brutal, uneven advance, the movement of a wounded predator that refused to die.

Raiden met him head-on. Their blades collided again, but this time, there was no shockwave. Just a raw, bone-jarring impact that rattled up Aether’s arms. His wrists screamed under the pressure. His grip was failing.

Raiden pressed. One step. Then another. Her strikes were clean, efficient, the product of five hundred years of meditation and combat. She wasn't trying to overwhelm him with raw power; she was outlasting him. She was the storm that eroded the mountain, the tide that eventually wore down the cliffside.

Aether parried two blows, the sound of metal on metal ringing out like a funeral bell. The third strike clipped his ribs. Electro detonated inside his chest cavity, charring the tissue. He coughed violently, blood spraying across the ground as he was driven backward. The Abyss flared instinctively, trying to seal the damage, but it recoiled like burned flesh against the purity of the Archon’s lightning.

Zhongli moved his hand with a subtle, circular motion. The ground rose behind Aether—not as a spike, but as a curved, inescapable wall. He was cutting off the retreat, forcing Aether back into the engagement. There was no killing blow yet. This was control. This was containment. This was a cage built by the God of Stone.

Aether hit the Geo wall hard, his spine cracking again against the unyielding stone, and he slid down to one knee. He didn't get time to breathe. Venti’s wind slammed into him from the side—not a cutting gust, but a crushing one. Compressed air pinned him against the stone wall, stealing what little oxygen he had left in his lungs.

Aether forced his head up. His vision was a tunnel of red and black. One eye was swollen shut; blood ran into his mouth, thick and metallic. He spat it out, his teeth stained crimson, a feral grin splitting his face.

The Abyss answered his desperation—not with power, but with a chaotic, uneven flood. It erupted outward, rupturing the Anemo pressure like a bursting dam. Aether tore himself free, ripping his sword up and throwing it with a desperate, two-handed heave. It wasn't a strike; it was a distraction. Raiden deflected it instantly, the silver blade clattering away, but that was the point.

Aether lunged barehanded, slamming his shoulder into her midsection. The impact was sloppy, unrefined—reckless. They skidded several meters across the stone, sparks and lightning tearing free where they scraped against the Geo-hardened ground.

Raiden recovered first, her divine reflexes far superior to a dying human body. She drove her knee into his abdomen with enough force to shatter stone. Something inside Aether cracked. He collapsed sideways, gasping silently, his body finally refusing to obey the commands of the void.

Zhongli raised his hand again, a massive meteor of Geo energy forming in the sky above, the clouds swirling around the summoning point. But for the first time in millennia, the God of Contracts hesitated. He looked at the broken boy on the ground, the golden hair matted with blood and salt, and for a fleeting second, he saw the friend who had walked the streets of Liyue with him, the one who had shared osmanthus wine and stories of other worlds.

Aether dragged himself upright anyway, using the Geo wall as leverage. His sword lay several meters away, glinting in the dark light. He didn't reach for it. He straightened on shaking legs, every breath a rattling, wet sound in his lungs. Every step he took leaked a trail of blood that smoked against the stone, the Abyssal energy within it reacting violently to the natural world.

Jean’s voice rose above the wind, calling the opening cadence of the Knights of Favonius. They had arrived, and they weren't alone. From the ridges and the salt-flats, the heroes of Teyvat emerged like a tide.

Anemo pressure stabilized the field as Jean thrust her sword into the air, her healing light spreading in a soft, dandelion breeze that momentarily eased the psychic pressure of the Abyss. Kaeya and Ganyu opened with a coordinated cross-fire. Cryo lines intersected across the battlefield, freezing the ground beneath Aether’s feet and turning the salt into a slick, treacherous sheet of ice that defied his balance.

Diluc followed immediately, his claymore wreathed in a phoenix’s flame. He swung with a roar, the fire detonating the frozen terrain in a series of controlled Pyro bursts that sent shards of ice and stone flying like shrapnel. The heat was intense, a searing contrast to the cold void of the Abyss.

Aether tried to move, to dodge, but his body lagged half a beat behind. The damage was too great.

Eula closed the gap first. Her movements were a dance of ice and steel, her greatsword coming down in a brutal, diagonal cleave. Aether raised his arm to block—it was a futile gesture against the momentum of the Glacial Illumination. Steel screamed as it met bone. His left arm was severed at the shoulder, torn away by the sheer momentum of the follow-through and sent skidding across the stone in a spray of dark blood.

Aether didn’t scream. He didn't have the air for it. He stumbled back, crashing to one knee, the stump of his arm leaking violet smoke that curled like snakes. The Abyss surged to compensate, wrapping around his torso, weaving together shadows and calcified darkness to form a false, flickering limb of shadow.

Then the flat of Varka’s greatsword slammed into him from the opposite side. The Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius didn't hold back. The blow sent Aether skidding back like a stone skipped across a pond, his body tumbling over the jagged salt flats until he hit a Geo outcrop.

Amber and Yoimiya rained suppressive fire from the ridges. Explosions of Pyro and explosive arrows bracketed Aether’s position, herding him, denying him any stable footing. Thoma threw his shield forward, not to protect himself, but to create a physical barrier that blocked Aether’s line of sight, forcing him into narrower and narrower angles of escape.

Keqing and Clorinde flashed in and out of the shadows. They were streaks of purple and gold, their Electro strikes targeting his joints, his nerves, and his tendons. They were dismantling him with surgical precision, taking away his ability to fight back piece by piece. Cyno followed through the gaps, his spirit-claws raking through the air, meant to disrupt Aether’s concentration and shatter the Abyssal link, not to kill the boy beneath.

Aether was driven backward, bleeding out from a dozen wounds. Pulonia, Sandrone’s massive mechanical puppet, stepped forward from the Fatui ranks, its gears grinding with a heavy, industrial rhythm. It slammed its robotic fist into Aether’s abdomen, lifting him off the ground and holding him there for a heartbeat, the metal fingers crushing his ribs, before slamming him back into the stone.

Venti and Xianyun took to the air, their combined Anemo power creating a dome of high pressure that kept Aether grounded. Xiao dove repeatedly from the heights, his spear landing like a meteor, a green blur of Yaksha fury that never lingered long enough for Aether to counter. Every strike from the Bane of All Evil left a trail of karmic energy that sizzled against the Abyss.

Childe engaged directly, his hydro blades flashing with a manic intensity. He was in his Foul Legacy form, his movements a mirror of the Abyssal speed Aether was trying to use. He traded blows with Aether, forcing him to react, baiting counters, and ruthlessly exploiting the missing arm. Every parry Aether made with his remaining hand cost him twice the effort. Ayaka and Nilou synchronized their movements—water and ice spiraling together in a deadly, beautiful waltz, locking Aether’s feet in place for fractions of a second at a time, enough for the others to land their blows.

Ningguang and Navia bombarded from range. Jade chambers and explosive rounds collapsed the terrain around him, closing lanes of movement, reshaping the battlefield into a cage of gold, crystal, and smoke. The very geography of Paha Island was being rewritten to ensure his defeat.

Aether was on his feet—but barely. His vision tunneled until all he could see was the blur of his enemies. His breathing was a ragged, wet sound, like a bellows full of holes.

Nahida’s voice cut through the chaos, projected directly into his mind with the clarity of a bell. It was soft, scholarly, and absolute. “Your body is failing, Aether. Your mind is overcompensating. The balance between the vessel and the void is breaking. If you continue, there will be nothing left to save. You are erasing yourself.”

Aether laughed weakly, a sound of pure, crystalline exhaustion. “I know.”

Neuvillette stepped forward, his cane tapping the ground with a sound that echoed like a gavel. He let a beam of primordial water form—a pressurized torrent of pure Hydro energy that contained the weight of the entire ocean—and blasted it at Aether’s chest. Aether struggled against the torrent, his feet sliding, his skin peeling away under the pressure. Suddenly, a rift opened behind him. Skirk stepped out, her eyes cold as the void itself. She didn't speak. She simply lashed out with her cryo-infused blade in a horizontal sweep.

Aether’s torso was nearly cut in half. The wound was deep, exposing the rhythmic, frantic pulse of his internal organs, which were now blackened and stained by the Abyss, pulsing with a sickly violet light.

He collapsed. The world went silent for a heartbeat. The wind stopped. The fires died down.

Then, Aether compressed what little power remained in his core.

Aether’s severed shoulder began to seal. It wasn't a clean healing process; it was horrific. Ragged, dark scar tissue bubbled up like boiling tar, forming a functional but crude limb made of calcified shadow and muscle. The deep gashes across his torso knit together with a sound like wet leather being stitched by invisible needles. His ribs realigned with a series of wet, painful snaps that made the onlookers wince.

Aether straightened, shaking, his breath still uneven—but his eyes sharpened. The dullness was gone, replaced by a predatory focus that was far more dangerous than the raw power he had shown before. “This is all I get, I suppose,” he muttered to the void.

Then he moved.

He didn't just run; he vanished. He ducked under Keqing’s lightning-fast strike and headbutted her with enough force to send her spiraling back into the arms of the other vision holders. He rolled through a Pyro blast meant for his chest and shoulder-checked Diluc into a Geo pillar, the impact cracking the ancient stone. He used Zhongli’s own constructs as springboards, leaping unpredictably from pillar to wall, defying gravity. He threw his sword, forcing Raiden to deflect, and used that split second to close the distance.

He tackled Cyno mid-dash, both crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Cyno was only pulled free by Dehya’s timely intervention before Aether could follow through with a killing blow.

Furina moved among the heroes, her Hydro summons providing a constant stream of healing for the minor injuries Aether managed to inflict. Aether watched her for a moment, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face. She was the battery he couldn't drain, the hope he couldn't extinguish.

Yae Miko watched carefully from the sidelines, her fans folded, her eyes narrow. “Don’t let him pick his targets,” she warned, her voice amplified by Electro. “He’s no longer fighting like a man. He’s adapting like a virus. He is learning your patterns in real-time.”

Too late. Aether slammed his blade—which had somehow returned to his hand through a rift in space—into the ground and released everything left in a localized collapse. It wasn't an explosion that pushed outward; it was an implosion. Wind, water, Geo, and Electro were all sucked inward toward him, buckling the reality of the island.

Everyone was thrown back, stunned by the sudden shift in gravity, their elements momentarily neutralized by the vacuum.

Everyone... but Dainsleif.

Dain stepped forward, his boots scraping softly against the stone. His grip tightened around his sword—a blade that didn't glow, didn't hum with elemental power, but looked old, worn, and lethal. It was a weapon from a fallen kingdom, held by a man who had outlived time itself and carried the burden of a world's end on his shoulders.

“You shouldn’t still be standing, Aether,” Dain said. His voice was heavy with a weary sort of grief, the kind that only comes from watching everyone you love turn to dust.

Aether exhaled through his teeth, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. His stance was uneven. One arm hung uselessly, the shadow-flesh still knitting, the darkness dripping like ink. “Neither should you, Bough Keeper. We are both ghosts in a world that wants to forget us.”

No signal was given. They moved simultaneously.

It was a duel of pure martial skill, stripped of the gods' interference. Dain lunged with a straight thrust aimed at Aether’s heart. Aether twisted aside a fraction too late—the blade grazed his ribs, drawing a fresh line of dark blood. Aether countered with a wide, one-handed slash. Dain stepped inside the arc, his movement minimal and perfect, and smashed the pommel of his sword into Aether’s jaw.

Bone cracked. Aether’s head snapped back, a spray of crimson hitting the salt.

Steel clashed again. And again. There were no elemental effects here. No shockwaves. Just the rhythmic, high-pitched ring of metal on metal—each strike costing Aether more than he had left to give. His breathing grew louder, a desperate wheeze. His grip on his sword slipped as blood made the hilt slick and treacherous.

Dainsleif pressed harder. He unleashed a flurry—three cuts in rapid succession. Aether blocked the first two, the impact vibrating through his remaining arm, but the third carved a deep furrow across his thigh. Aether dropped to one knee, the salt of the island stinging the open wound like a thousand needles.

Dain raised his blade for the finishing thrust—and Aether did something unthinkable. He let go of his sword.

Dain’s blade plunged into the empty stone where Aether’s chest had been a second before. Aether had lunged forward instead, driving his full weight into Dain’s midsection. They crashed to the ground, rolling over the hard earth. Fists replaced steel.

Dain struck first—clean, controlled punches that would have killed a lesser man. Aether absorbed them poorly, his vision flashing white with every impact—but he grabbed Dain’s wrist and refused to let go. He headbutted him. Once. Twice. The third time, Dain blocked with his forearm and kneed Aether in the stomach so hard he vomited a mixture of blood and Abyssal bile.

Aether choked—and in the moment of Dain’s triumph, he drove his elbow into Dain’s ribs. Something cracked deep inside the Bough Keeper’s chest.

Dain grunted but used the momentum to throw Aether off. They both scrambled back to their feet, dragging their swords up from the ground like two dying soldiers in a war that had already been lost. They dashed at each other one last time.

Suddenly, Dainsleif wasn't in Nod-Krai anymore.

The world of salt and stone vanished, replaced by a vast, echoing void that stretched into infinity. He looked around, his breath hitching. Thousands of glowing, ethereal chains stretched into the darkness, all leading toward a central point. He walked forward, his footsteps silent, and found the true Aether—not the monster, but the boy. He was bound and shackled in a cage of Abyssal iron, his eyes wide with a terror that no god should ever feel.

“Aether? Is—is that you?” Dain asked, his voice trembling.

They talked. It felt like hours, but it was only seconds in the real world. Brief, desperate words between friends. Aether warned him. He told him the Abyss wasn't just using him; it was becoming him, eating his memories, his love, his very soul. He told Dain to run. Dainleif didn't understand. Or perhaps he refused to. He lashed out at the chains with his sword, but the metal just hummed and absorbed the strike, feeding on his effort.

"You don't get it, it's a tr-"

In the real world, Aether’s sword pierced Dainsleif’s gut.

The blade dissolved into Abyssal smoke the moment it entered the wound, spreading through Dain's body like a poison. Dain crumpled to the ground, his hands clutching his stomach as the void began to eat at his essence.

Aether stood over him, his chest heaving, his eyes cold. He muttered: “That was close.”

The stun from the implosion finally wore off. Xianyun, Zhongli, and Xiao rushed forward, their Adeptial energy swirling in a green and gold vortex that sought to overwhelm the darkness.

“Open,” Aether commanded.

Adeptial and Abyssal energy began to swirl around Paha Island, forming a tangible, shimmering barrier that rose like a wall of glass toward the bruised sky. It hummed with a frequency that made the very air vibrate.

“This isn’t a defense,” Xianyun said sharply, her eyes widening behind her spectacles. “He’s sealing us in. He’s turning the island into a closed circuit, a pocket dimension outside the flow of Teyvat!”

Zhongli felt the Geo beneath his feet resist him for the first time in his long life. The connection to the planet was being severed. Aether hovered just above the stone, his feet dangling. Blood ran freely from his wounds, but instead of falling to the ground, it streaked upward, drawn into the vortex of power he was creating.

The air collapsed again. A violent inward draw. Navia’s Geo constructs shattered into dust. Electro arced wildly between the heroes, grounding out in painful bursts that left them reeling.

Aether screamed—not in rage, not in triumph, but in raw, physical exertion as he forced the two conflicting powers to merge. Blood was literally torn from his reopened wounds as the Abyss fought him from the inside for control of the gate.

“Now that's more like it,” Aether’s voice whispered.

Raiden Ei dashed toward the barrier, her blade a streak of violet meant to shatter the cage. A chain of pure shadow lashed out from Aether’s shadow, splitting her shoulder and latching onto her collarbone. It pulled her in with a strength that rivaled her own divine power.

“Aether! Stop!” Jean shouted, her voice breaking with desperation.

Aether’s lips moved. For an instant, just one fleeting second, there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. A flash of gold amidst the black. A memory of a tea party, a shared meal, a quiet moment. “…Ei…”

Raiden’s eyes widened. She reached out a hand, her fingers inches from his. Then the chain yanked, dragging her toward the center of the storm.

Xiao moved, catching Raiden’s wrist, pinning himself to the ground with his spear. The chain snapped taut, the metal groaning under the strain. A second barb began to form from the air, angling toward Xiao’s unprotected arm.

Zhongli slammed his palm down. Geo pillars rose like teeth from the earth, trying to sever the shadow-line. The chain cut through the Geo like it was wet clay, ignoring the physical laws of Teyvat as it pulled the three of them toward the rift.

Venti lifted his hands, Anemo compressing into a cutting gust of incredible density. The chain shuddered—then it seemed to laugh. The gust was swallowed, the wind itself becoming fuel for the darkness.

“Good,” the thing in Aether’s body murmured. “Come closer. All of you. Let the world be whole again in the silence of the void.”

Columbina moved then. She didn't use the elegant, terrifying grace she usually displayed. She used her hands.

She lunged, crossing the distance in a single, ragged step that defied the gravity of the rift. Her knuckles aimed for Aether’s jaw. She shifted as he parried, her motion small, precise, and devastatingly fast. She drove her palm into his sternum, the impact echoing like a drum across the silent island.

Aether staggered, the wind knocked out of him. He snarled and came in again, a low sweep meant to break her legs. Columbina lifted her foot and brought her heel down on his ankle.

Bone cracked with a sound that made everyone on the island go cold.

Aether dropped to one knee, but his hand snapped out, closing around her wrist with a grip that bruised the skin instantly. Columbina didn't pull away. She twisted her arm with the grip, wrenching Aether’s shoulder further out of its socket. Her knee drove up into his jaw, sending a spray of blood and teeth into the air.

Blood sprayed across her white dress, blooming like roses in the snow. Columbina didn't press the advantage. She waited, her breath shallow. Aether swung wild, a desperate, swinging punch. She caught his forearm and slammed her elbow into it. Once. Twice. The limb went slack, the nerves deadened by her touch.

Aether roared, a sound of pure frustration, and tackled her. They drove into the ground together, shattering the stone beneath them. He pinned her, his hand closing around her throat, his eyes burning with a hateful, violet light.

Columbina’s fingers brushed his wrist. Just a light, feather-soft contact.

Aether’s grip failed. It was as if her touch had drained the malice from his muscles, replacing it with a hollow ache. Columbina rolled, reversing their positions with a fluid, terrifying ease. She struck with her fingertips—targeting the throat, the collarbone, the solar plexus, each strike a precise disruption of his energy flow.

Aether convulsed. Blood frothed at his lips. He tried to rise, his shadow-arm clawing at the air, and failed.

Columbina stood and waited. Aether lunged one last time. He didn't use a technique. He didn't use the Abyss. He just threw himself at her, a broken boy trying to hurt the only thing he had left in a world that had taken everything else.

Columbina met him head-on.

Aether caught her mid-step and slammed her back into the shimmering barrier he had created. His hand snapped up around her throat, pinning her against the wall of energy. He leaned into it, his face inches from hers, his breath smelling of copper and shadow.

The barrier screamed at the contact, the Adeptial and Abyssal energies warring. Columbina’s back pressed against the wall of void and light.

“Aether,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper, a plea to a ghost.

His grip tightened. His knees trembled from the strain of holding himself up. Blood ran down his arm, dripping over her wrist and staining her sleeve.

Columbina’s hands clawed at his wrist, her nails digging into the skin. Her breath came in sharp, broken gasps. Her eyes widened—not in fear of her own death, but in a profound, soul-deep fear of what he was becoming, of the light she saw dying in his eyes.

“Please,” she choked out. “Come back… come back to me. Don't let them win. Don't let the silence take you.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks, washing away the blood.

“You promised,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You said you wouldn’t leave me alone again. You said we were the same. Two halves of a broken star.”

Aether leaned in. He was close enough to see the reflections in her eyes—the image of a monster. His own eyes were sharp. Focused. Cruel.

His lips curled into a smile. It was a slow, deliberate movement, devoid of any warmth, any humanity.

“That won’t work,” he said softly, his voice a perfect, terrifying mimicry of his old self, the one she had loved. “You should’ve learned that by now, Damselette. Promises are just contracts written in sand before the tide comes in.”

Columbina’s hands went slack. Her head tipped back against the barrier. The chains around the field quivered as if reacting to her despair.

Aether watched her fade, watched the light leave her eyes. He looked satisfied, a predator who had finally cornered its prey.

Suddenly, Aether’s body glowed with a blinding, golden light. For a second, the real Aether returned. He looked stunned. He looked around at the devastation, at the broken bodies of his friends, at the girl he was strangling. He looked tired. More tired than any living being should be.

Then the darkness returned, flooding back in like a tide. “Damn it,” he muttered, his voice shifting back to the Abyssal rasp.

He let go of Columbina, but as she fell, he summoned chains that wrapped around her, pinning her to the stone like a butterfly in a display case. He flipped around in mid-air and backhanded Arlecchino, who had been creeping up behind him with her claws extended, sending the Knave flying across the island until she hit the barrier.

Dainleif looks up at 'Aether', what did the True Aether say? It was a tr- trap.

The adeptial and abyssal energy fused together as they reached their peak.

The sound of a bell rang.

Zhongli's eyes widen, he remembers that sound, it was of the bell he gave to Madame Ping.

The bell tolls.

Music starts playing.

It reminds Xianyun of Streetward Rambler's music

Time seems to freeze.

"Close"

The barrier around Paha Island hardened. It turned from a translucent wall into an opaque shell of shifting geometry, blacker than any night. The entire island shifted, the space-time coordinates twisting until it was no longer part of Teyvat. It had become an Adeptial realm, a pocket dimension, sealing everyone—Archons, Knights, and Fatui alike—inside permanently.

Aether didn't celebrate his victory. The glow around him guttered like a candle in a storm.

Varka met him head-on again, his greatsword whistling through the air. Steel crashed into Aether’s guard. Varka followed with a series of brutal, heavy arcs that sought to break his spirit. Aether dropped low, rolled through the dust, and slammed his elbow into Varka’s ribs. Varka didn't flinch; he headbutted Aether, splitting the boy’s brow and sending blood into his good eye.

Paimon screamed and dove toward him, her tiny fists pounding against his chest. Aether swatted her aside like a fly, her small form tumbling through the air until she hit a Geo pillar. She didn't get up.

Flins struck from the shadows, his blade cutting a long, shallow line across Aether’s thigh. Aether didn't even look at him; he simply kneed the man in the chest, sending him sprawling into the salt.

Then the ground shook with a weight that dwarfed even the Archons. Durin, the shadow dragon, descended from the heights of the pocket dimension. His massive claws tore through the space where Aether had been standing a millisecond before. Aether leapt, his shadow-chains anchoring into Durin’s obsidian scales. He hauled himself up the dragon’s back and slammed his fist down into the base of the skull, channeling the Abyss.

A massive wing swatted him away, smashing him through a Geo outcrop.

Albedo was there the moment he landed. A flash of alchemical light blinded the field. A solar isotoma detonated upward, sending Aether spiraling into the path of Scaramouche.

The Wanderer didn't use his hat or his wind. They clashed fist to face, a raw, ugly brawl in mid-air.

Scaramouche laughed, a high, manic sound. “You really are broken, aren't you? You’re just a puppet with the strings pulled too tight! Look at you! You're falling apart!”

Aether ripped a chain free from his own shadow and hurled it, the metal links wrapping around Scaramouche’s throat. He turned mid-air to face Nefer and Lauma. One struck high, one low. Aether took the blow to the ribs, feeling the bone snap, and used the momentum to slam Lauma into the hard ground.

Sandrone’s constructs wrapped around his legs, mechanical hands pulling him down. Aether expanded the Abyss from his core, a pulse of pure nothingness that shredded the machines from the inside out, turning them into scrap metal and oil.

Aino rushed in, her blade aimed for his heart. Aether drove his forehead into her face, the sound of her nose breaking lost in the roar of the wind.

Arlecchino was back, her claws and Aether’s chains colliding in a blur of motion that was too fast for the human eye to follow.

“You’re slowing,” she whispered, her voice a cold hiss in his ear.

Aether didn't answer. He grabbed her by the throat and threw her into one of Albedo’s rising constructs, the stone shattering on impact.

Ineffa struck last. She was silent, a ghost in the machine. Her blade pierced Aether’s back, the tip emerging through the center of his chest, coated in his dark, smoking blood.

Aether screamed—a sound that finally broke the silence of the island, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. Chains exploded outward from his body in every direction, a supernova of Abyssal metal that flung Ineffa and everyone else across the field.

He staggered, coughing up a thick, black clot of blood that hissed against the stone.

Everyone was still standing. Barely. Zhongli was leaning on his spear, his breathing heavy. Raiden’s armor was cracked, her lightning flickering. Venti’s bow was snapped in half. But they were all still there, refusing to let him go.

Aether straightened his back, the blade still stuck through his chest. He reached around, grabbed the hilt, and pulled it out with a wet, sucking sound. He dropped the sword, the metal clattering on the salt.

“You want Aether back?” he rasped, looking at the assembled gods and heroes with a look of terrifying clarity. “Come and get him. If you can find what's left.”

He raised his hand toward the sky of the pocket dimension. A rift opened—not to the Abyss, not to Teyvat, but to the silver, silent, and dead surface of the moon.

Everyone rushed forward in a desperate, final surge of color and light. They reached out their hands, their elements, their hopes, a final prayer to a boy who had once saved them all.

Aether stepped back into the cold. The portal closed with the finality of a tombstone, leaving Paha Island in a terrifying, silent seal.

They were trapped in a world of his making, a prison of salt and shadow. He was gone. The moon hung above the barrier in the sky of Teyvat, a pale, unfeeling witness to the end of the world, and the beginning of something much, much worse. On the island, the heroes looked up at the black ceiling of their cage, to see no sky.

Chapter Text

The sea does not remember. It is a vast, unblinking eye of sapphire and salt, indifferent to the tragedies that unfold upon its surface or the civilizations that sink beneath its weight. To the ocean, the cataclysm at Paha Island was but a momentary disturbance, a pebble dropped into a well of infinite depth. Where the island once stood—a jagged crown of obsidian, ancient Kuuvahki secrets, and the architectural scars of the Bureau—there was now only the endless, rhythmic heave of the blue.

The island had not merely been destroyed; it had been excised from the geography of Teyvat as if by a cosmic scalpel. The salt flats that had once crunched under the boots of soldiers, the Geo pillars that stood as monuments to the Archons’ desperate wrath, the scorched, twisted remains of the Bureau’s laboratories, and the broken bodies of the world's greatest heroes were gone. They had been swallowed by a silence that was louder than any explosion, a void that refused to offer up even a single piece of driftwood as a memorial. The Great Northern Sea had reclaimed its territory, and in its cold, dark depths, it held the secrets of the fallen.

The ripples from the island’s disappearance had long since smoothed over, leaving the surface of the water flat and mirror-like, reflecting a sky that had forgotten how to be bright. A singular wooden boat, small and weathered by the brine, bobbed atop the swells. It was a humble vessel. The wood creaked in protest against the current, the only sound in a world that felt as though it had held its breath and forgotten to let it out.

As the boat drifted away from the borders of Nod-Krai, the sun should have been a rising gold against the horizon, a beacon of hope for a new day. Instead, the sky remained a bruised, stagnant purple. The horizon was a blurred line of charcoal and violet, the light struggling to pierce a shroud that felt less like clouds and more like a mourning veil draped over the world. The stars had not faded; they had simply been extinguished, leaving behind a hollow, hungry darkness.

On the deck, a stack of freshly printed newspapers rustled in the cold wind, the edges fraying against the salt air.

The headlines, printed in the stark, uncompromising ink of the Steambird’s northern affiliates, screamed the unthinkable in letters that seemed to bleed off the page: "Many Vision-Bearers gone missing: from The Tianquan, The Harbingers to even the beloved Traveler"

The boat moved onward, a lone messenger of doom, destined to carry the news to every harbor and city-state. Soon, the bells of Mondstadt would toll in confusion, their iron tongues striking against a cold, unresponsive morning. The Millelith would stand in silent, terrified formation upon the walls of Liyue Harbor, staring out at a sea that brought no ships and no answers.

The people of Teyvat, from the scholars of the Sumeru Akademiya to the street performers of Inazuma, would look to a sky that refused to wake up, feeling the first true touch of an era without gods.

...

Lyney woke with a start.

His internal clock, honed by years of timed performances and the rhythmic, split-second demands of the stage, told him it was dawn. He expected the soft, rose-tinted light of the Fontainian morning to be filtering through the heavy curtains, illuminating the dust motes and the colorful props scattered across the room—the discarded capes, the decks of cards, the mechanical doves waiting for their next cue. He expected to hear the distant, cheerful whistle of the Clementine Line and the rhythmic bustle of the morning markets below, the sound of a city coming to life.

Instead, there was only a thick, cloying darkness that seemed to swallow the very air in the room.

Lyney sat up, his silken sheets rustling with a sound like dry leaves. He rubbed his eyes, the phantom ache of a long night’s rehearsal still lingering in his joints, but his mind was instantly sharp, alerted by the wrongness of the atmosphere. The silence was not the peaceful quiet of sleep; it was the heavy, pressurized silence of a tomb.

He reached for the lamp on his bedside table, his fingers trembling slightly as he struck the match. The small flame flickered to life, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls—shadows that seemed to stretch and reach toward him like skeletal fingers.

"Lynette?" he whispered, his voice sounding small and brittle in the oppressive quiet.

A soft stir came from the opposite bed. Lynette sat up, her movements fluid and feline even in her half-awake state. Her cat-like ears twitched beneath her sleep cap, swiveling toward the window. Her expression, usually a mask of stoic, practiced indifference, was marred by a subtle, creeping unease that made her eyes seem wider, more vulnerable. She didn't speak; she simply pointed toward the window with a pale, steady hand.

Lyney crossed the room, his bare feet cold against the polished floorboards. He pulled the heavy velvet curtains aside, expecting to see a storm or perhaps a thick fog rolling in from the sea. Below, the streets of Fontaine were illuminated only by the soft, mechanical glow of the clockwork lamps, their orange light reflecting off the damp cobblestones.

But above the rooftops, the sky was a starless, ink-black void. There was no hint of the sun, no gradient of blue or orange, no sign of the approaching day. It looked as though the world had simply stopped turning, or as if the sun had been snuffed out like a candle.

"It’s seven-thirty," Lynette said, her voice a flat, robotic monotone that betrayed her nerves. She was looking at her pocket watch, the ticking of the gears the only rhythmic thing left in the world.

"Maybe it’s just a storm," Lyney suggested, though the lack of wind or rain made the words ring hollow and foolish. "A very... very dark storm."

From the corner of the room, a smaller form shifted. Freminet, huddled beneath a pile of blankets with his diving helmet resting nearby like a silent companion, looked out at the dark sky.

Lyney felt a cold prickle of dread at the base of his spine, a sensation he hadn't felt since their days on the streets before "Father" had found them. He was the eldest, the one who had to keep the magic alive, the one who had to ensure his siblings felt safe even when the stage lights failed and the audience turned hostile. He walked over to Freminet and placed a hand on his shoulder, offering a firm squeeze of reassurance.

"Don't worry," Lyney said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, his performer's mask snapping into place. "I’m sure Father or the Iudex will have an explanation soon. Maybe it’s just a spectacular magic trick—the grandest illusion Teyvat has ever seen. A celebration we weren't invited to yet."

But as he looked back out at the eternal night, Lyney realized that for the first time in his life, he was looking at a trick he didn't know the secret to. There were no hidden wires here, no trapdoors, no clever use of mirrors. The darkness was real, and the dawn was still very, very dark. He thought of Arlecchino, of her cold, calculating strength, and for the first time, he wondered if even she was enough to bring the light back.

...

The massive, brass-bound elevator of the Fortress of Meropide groaned as it ascended, the rhythmic clanking of its gears echoing through the submerged silence of the underwater prison. Usually, the sound was a comfort—a sign of the mechanical heart of the Fortress beating steadily. Today, it sounded like a funeral dirge.

Sigewinne stood at the center of the platform, her small, gloved hands clasped neatly in front of her. Her nurse’s uniform was pristine, her pink hair tied back in its usual twin tails, and her vision glowed faintly at her hip. But her eyes—those bright, inquisitive Melusine eyes that saw the world in colors of health and sickness—were fixed upward with an uncharacteristic intensity. She was searching for a symptom, a reason for the heaviness in the air.

Every week, Sigewinne made this trip. It was her secret rebellion, her way of staying connected to the world above that she loved so dearly. She would break out of the Fortress, using the labyrinthine ventilation shafts and her intimate knowledge of the guards' shifting patterns, just to see her Melusine friends in Merusea Village or to share a cup of tea with the surface world. She loved the way the sun felt on her skin, a sensation so different from the artificial warmth of the Fortress’s pipes.

She knew it was against the law. She knew she had been jailed once before for the "crime" of appearing too human, of wanting to save a child at the cost of the strict, cold regulations of Fontaine. She hated those laws—the ones that prioritized the "rules" of justice over the "warmth" of a beating heart. To her, justice was a bandage; it was supposed to help people heal, not keep them bleeding in the dark.

The elevator reached the surface level with a final, echoing *thud* that vibrated through her boots. Sigewinne stepped out into the transition chamber, expecting the familiar, blinding glare of the sun reflecting off the vast expanse of the Great Lake. She had even brought her favorite parasol, the one with the little lace trim.

She paused. The clock on the wall, a masterpiece of Fontainian engineering, clearly stated 7:30 AM.

"Huh," she chirped, her voice a small, curious trill that died quickly in the empty room. "That’s funny. Did the clock break?"

She walked to the observation port, her nose pressing against the cool glass. The sky was pitch black. The Palais Mermonia, usually a beacon of white stone and blue banners that could be seen for miles, was a dark, jagged silhouette against a darker horizon. The water of the lake was still, lacking the usual morning choppiness. It looked like a sheet of black glass, ready to shatter.

"Maybe it’s just a very, very long night," she reasoned, tapping a finger against her chin. "You know, I wish Aether was here. It was always more fun and easier to escape with him. He had that special golden pass, and he always knew the best places to find those little sea-salt candies. He never made me feel like a prisoner."

She waited by the elevator for an hour, sitting on her small medical case, half-expecting the golden Traveler to come strolling through the doors with that gentle, tired smile of his—the one that said he’d seen everything but still found her interesting. She wanted to tell him about the new bandages she’d designed, the ones that smelled like Menthe, or how Wriothesley was still drinking too much tea and not getting enough sleep, despite her best efforts to prescribe him "nap-time."

But the doors remained closed. The silence of the Fortress felt heavier than usual, a physical weight that pressed against her chest, making it hard to take a full breath. The air felt stale, as if the oxygen itself was giving up.

"And Monsieur Neuvillette is away too," she sighed, her ears drooping sadly. "On some very important business trip, the guards said. Everyone is so busy lately. Even the stars are too busy to shine."

She looked back at the dark sky, a tiny, worried frown creasing her brow. Sigewinne was a nurse; she knew when something was sick. She could smell the sourness of a fever, the metallic tang of a wound. And looking at the world outside, she felt as though Teyvat itself had caught a fever—a cold, dark fever that refused to break, a sickness of the soul that no medicine in her kit could cure.

...

Inside the sealed realm—the pocket dimension that had once been the serene, floating islands of the Serenitea Pot—the air was stagnant. There was no wind here, no passage of time, only the rhythmic, haunting chime of a bell that no one was ringing. The mountains of this realm, usually vibrant with the colors of Liyue’s peaks, were now draped in a permanent, sickly twilight.

Madame Ping, the Streetward Rambler, sat on the stone steps of the grand Liyue-style mansion. Her elderly form looked frail, her shoulders hunched under the weight of a guilt that was older than the mountains she had once protected. Her hands, those ancient, skilled hands that had once tended to the Glaze Lilies of the Guili Assembly and played melodies that could soothe the raging tides, were trembling.

She looked down at her palms, the faint, violet residue of the Abyssal spell still staining her skin like a bruise that wouldn't heal. Aether had forced her. He hadn't used physical strength—he hadn't needed to. He had used the corruption within him, the raw, primordial power of the Abyss, to bend the Adeptal arts to his will. He had reached into the very essence of her contract with the world and twisted it, forcing her to cast the final, binding seal that had trapped everyone—Archons, Knights, and Harbingers alike—within this gilded cage.

She turned her head slightly, looking toward the shaded porch where Alice lay. The legendary sorceress, the woman who had walked between worlds and laughed at the face of gods, was fast asleep. It was not a natural sleep; it was a magical coma, a forced rest to keep her immense power from shattering the teapot from the inside. Even in sleep, Alice looked formidable, her brow furrowed as if she were fighting a war in her dreams. But the bruises on her face and the tattered state of her clothes—the red fabric scorched and torn—were a testament to the brutality of the fight on Paha Island.

Madame Ping felt a pang of profound sorrow. She had seen the rise and fall of gods, had mourned Guizhong for over fifty years, and had witnessed the slow, painful transition of Liyue from a land of contracts to a land of humans. She had believed that the era of humans was finally, safely, underway. To be the instrument of its possible end, to be the one who locked the protectors away when the world needed them most, was a torment she hadn't anticipated.

"I should have fought harder," she murmured, her gaze drifting toward the dark, swirling clouds that served as the "sky" of this realm. "I should have let him kill me before I cast that spell. But he was so fast... his eyes... they weren't the eyes of the boy who helped me clean the terraces."

She thought of the Cleansing Bell, of the melodies she had played to mourn the dead and honor the living. Now, the music was gone. There was only the silence of the cage, and the distant, muffled sounds of the others trapped within the mansion—the Archons, stripped of their connection to the gnoses and the land, wandering the halls like ghosts of their own divinity.

"I can only hope," Ping whispered, her eyes closing as a single tear traced a path through her wrinkles. "I can only hope that they find a way. That the Traveler’s own soul is fighting him from the inside. That the golden light we all saw in him hasn't been entirely consumed. Long enough for them to break the barrier. Long enough for the sun to find us again."

But as she sat in the eternal twilight of the teapot, she knew that the dawn she hoped for was still very, very far away. The teapot was a world of her own making, and she knew its strength. It would take more than hope to break these walls.

...

Far beyond the borders of Teyvat, in a place where the stars were cold and the ground was made of forgotten memories and the calcified remains of dead dreams, Lumine sat upon her throne.

The Abyss was not a place of darkness to her; it was a kingdom of truth, a realm where the lies of the Heavenly Principles were stripped away to reveal the raw, bleeding core of the world. The purple glow of the Abyssal energy bathed her in a ghostly light, turning her white dress into a shroud of violet silk. She sat with her chin resting on her hand, her golden hair glowing with a faint, ethereal light that seemed to repel the shadows, making her look like a star that had fallen into a pit.

In front of her, a series of scrying pools—liquid mirrors of Abyssal fluid—shimmered and shifted, displaying the chaos unfolding in the world above. She saw the empty, churning sea where Paha Island had been, the water still tasting of the salt of the Archons' tears. She saw the dark, terrified streets of Fontaine and the silent windmills of Mondstadt. She saw the trapped heroes within the Adeptal realm, their powers flickering like dying embers in a hearth.

And she saw Aether.

She watched him through the ripples, seeing the way the darkness moved beneath his skin like a living thing. She saw the coldness in his eyes, the way he looked at the world he had once tried to save with a detached, clinical hunger.

Lumine began to hum. It was a soft, haunting tune—the one Aether used to sing to her when they were children, long before they knew the names of the gods, traveling between worlds that had long since turned to dust and been forgotten by the cosmos. He would sing it when she was scared of the void between stars, or when the light of a new sun felt too bright and harsh for her tired eyes. It was a song of home, a home that no longer existed.

"Don't worry, dear brother," Lumine said, her voice a silken thread of affection that resonated through the empty, echoing halls of her palace. "I’ll be sure to help you out. You've carried the burden of their 'hope' for far too long. It’s a heavy thing, isn't it? To be everyone's savior while your own heart is hollow."

A slow, beautiful smile spread across her face. It was a smile of genuine love, a sister’s pride, but it held a terrifying edge of absolute, unwavering certainty. Aether was smart—maybe even smarter than her, though she’d never admit it out loud. He had managed to do in a single week what she had been planning and calculating for centuries: he had decapitated the leadership of Teyvat in one fell swoop. He had taken the pieces off the board before the game had even truly begun.

"You've played your part perfectly," she whispered, her eyes fixed on the image of her brother’s corrupted form as he stood on the shores of a world he had broken. "You’ve cleared the stage. You’ve removed the actors before the play began. Now, it’s time for the final act. The one we were always meant to perform."

Around her, the very fabric of the Abyss began to churn and boil. Rifts, jagged and glowing with a malevolent violet light, began to tear open across the landscape like wounds in reality. Her armies—the Abyss Mages with their chattering tongues, the Lectors with their forbidden scriptures, the dark, misshapen things that lived in the cracks of reality and fed on the discarded memories of the world—began to stir. Their eyes, hundreds of glowing pinpricks of light, fixed on the gateways to the surface. They could smell the fear of Teyvat, and it smelled like a feast.

Lumine stood, her white dress flowing around her like a shroud, her movements graceful and predatory. She looked toward the distant, shimmering pillars of Celestia, which still hung in the dark sky like a mocking reminder of a power that was failing. Her smile widened, showing a flash of teeth.

"I can't wait," she murmured, her voice filled with a cold, joyful anticipation that made the shadows around her dance. "I can't wait to burn down what the Heavenly Principles created. To tear down the false sky and show them the beauty of the void. And we’ll do it together, Aether. Just like we always planned, before this world tried to tear us apart. We will be the only stars left in the sky."

The Princess of the Abyss stepped toward the nearest rift, her humming echoing into the dark, a melody that promised an end to all things. The dawn was still dark, but for Lumine, the night was just beginning to get interesting. She stepped through the rift, and as she did, the last remaining light in the Abyss seemed to follow her, leaving the underworld in a darkness that was finally, perfectly, complete.

Chapter Text

The world had become a bruised thing, a celestial body trapped in a permanent state of twilight that refused to yield to the dawn. It had been seven days since the sky over Teyvat had fractured, seven days since the sun had been replaced by a heavy, suffocating shroud of violet-black ink. The "Paha Seal," as the Steambird had dubbed it, had not just swallowed an island; it had swallowed the light of the world.

In the northern reaches, where the wind usually carried the scent of pine and salt, there was now only the smell of ozone and old, rotting dreams. Illuga, a young Ratnik of the Lightkeepers, stood at a weathered oak table in a makeshift command center. His fingers, calloused from years of polearm drills, traced the jagged lines on a map of Nod-Krai. The parchment was littered with red ink—each mark a sighting of the Wild Hunt, each stroke a testament to a village lost or a patrol that had never returned.

He looked down at the reports, his eyes stinging from the dim lantern light. The sightings were increasing. Rerir’s shadows were no longer content to skulk in the fringes of the borderlands. They were emboldened, fueled by the same darkness that had draped Teyvat in a funeral shroud.

"Sir Flins is still out there," Illuga whispered to the empty room. He worried about the fae Lightkeeper, the man who lived in the lighthouse far from the safety of human knowledge. Flins was decisive, tactically adept, but even a warrior with a refined air and centuries of stories could be overwhelmed by a night that never ended.

Illuga sighed, a heavy, rattling sound that seemed to echo the groan of the building’s timbers. He grabbed his polearm, the cold metal a familiar weight against his palm. He was a Ratnik, a warrior of the Lightkeepers, and if the sun wouldn't rise, he would have to be the spark that held the darkness at bay.

He stepped out into the night, the freezing air biting at his lungs, and looked toward the horizon where the Great Paha Seal pulsed like a sick, violet heart.

...

Far to the south, the Liyue hills were alive with the sound of steel and the roar of a fire that refused to be extinguished.

Hu Tao didn't sing today. There were no rhymes about silkworms or tea, no playful pranks played on the unsuspecting. The 77th Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor was a blur of crimson and black, her silhouette a jagged line against the purple sky.

She lunged forward, her Staff of Homa a streak of white-hot Pyro that tore through the stagnant air. An Abyssal Herald, its form a shifting mass of dark water and jagged blades, shrieked as the spear pierced its chest. Hu Tao didn't pause. With a guttural roar of effort, she yanked the weapon free, blood and Abyssal ichor spraying across the dry grass.

She spun, her twin pigtails whipping through the air, and positioned her spear to her left just as a heavy blade slammed against the shaft. The impact vibrated through her bones, but she didn't buckle. The creature before her was a nightmare made flesh—a humanoid entity from the deepest strata of the void, its armor a calcified obsidian, its eyes two burning pits of nihilism.

"You're late for your appointment," Hu Tao hissed, her voice low and dangerous. She shoved the creature back with a burst of Pyro, the flames licking hungrily at its dark armor. She wasn't just fighting for her life; she was fighting for the balance she was sworn to protect. The border between life and death had become a jagged, weeping wound, and she was the only one left to stitch it shut.

...

In the Avidya Forest, the greenery had turned a sickly, ashen gray.

Layla’s sword descended in a shivering arc of Cryo, the blade biting into the shoulder of an Abyssal Husk. The creature, a hollowed-out shell of an ancient warrior, didn't flinch. It blocked with its lance, the impact sending a shower of ice crystals into the air.

Layla stumbled back, her breathing ragged. She was exhausted, the kind of soul-deep weariness that even her "sleepwalking" self couldn't fully compensate for. The world was a nightmare, and she was the one awake in it.

Two arrows, glowing with a vibrant Dendro light, whistled through the air, piercing the Husk through the chinks in its rusted armor. The creature hissed, its form dissolving into motes of dark smoke.

Layla glanced to her left. Collei stood there, her bow raised, her expression a mask of grim determination. The young Ranger trainee looked older, her innocent optimism replaced by the hard-won resilience of a soldier.

"Thanks," Layla managed, her voice a fragile whisper.

"Don't stop!" Collei shouted, pointing toward another cluster of shadows emerging from the undergrowth.

Layla didn't stop. She dashed toward another Husk, her sword glowing with a desperate, pale blue light. She stabbed it in the arm, before disengaging as the creature generated a swirling vortex of Hydro on its lance.

...

She leapt backward, her movements fluid and ethereal. A Tenebrous Mimiflora, a twisted parody of Fontainian flora, lunged forward, shooting a trail of jagged Abyssal spikes through the air. Mona didn't panic. With a flick of her wrist, she created an illusory Phantom of Hydro directly in the creature's path.

The Mimiflora, blinded by its own predatory hunger, transformed into a Anemo Hilichurl Rogue, using a burst of Anemo to dash toward the Phantom.

The Phantom exploded in a violent surge of Hydro, the force of the blast tearing the Mimiflora apart. But there was no time for triumph. A Ruin Hunter, its mechanical eyes glowing a malevolent red, swung its massive metal blade at Mona's head.

The air above her shattered.

Nicole, of the Hexenzirkel, swooped down from the sky. Her wings, made of pure, incandescent light, illuminated the dark waters for miles. She didn't use a weapon; she used herself. She crashed into the Ruin Hunter with the force of a falling star, the mechanical construct buckling and exploding under the sheer weight of her divine radiance.

...

Slamming into the side of a Golden Wolflord, the beast, a rift-hound of titanic proportions, howled as its golden scales were shattered. Kachina jumped out of her mount just as it detonated, the explosion sending the Wolflord spiraling into the abyss.

An Abyssal Serpent Windcutter Knight cut through the space she had occupied a heartbeat earlier, its blade a whisper of lethal intent.

A concentrated bolt of Anemo energy took the Knight in the chest, staggering it. Ifa stood on a nearby ridge, his eyes sharp, his movements precise. He aimed his weapon again, the wind swirling around him like a protective cloak.

In the heart of Natlan, the heat of the earth was the only thing that felt real.

...

In the shadow of Tenshukaku, the lightning was the only law.

Kujou Sara jumped, her wings flaring as an Electro Abyss Lector summoned a barrage of dark bolts at her previous position. She retreated with the predatory speed of a tengu, the Crowfeather protection shimmering around her like a second skin.

She aimed her bow, the Electro energy crackling along the shaft of her arrow. She let it fly—a streak of violet lightning that pierced the Lector’s chest, the creature dissolving into a scream of static.

Sara dropped to the floor, her breath hitching as an Abyssal Annihilation Specialist Mek swept its arm-sword through the air. She swept her bow across the ground, catching the Mek's legs and knocking it flat.

A series of Bloomwater Blades—blade-like Hydro projectiles—descended from above, finishing the Mek before it could rise. Sara looked up. Ayato stood there, his sword sheathed, his expression a mask of cool, aristocratic boredom. He offered her a hand.

Sara grabbed his arm, allowing him to pull her up. She looked down at the corpses of the Lector and the Mek, her jaw tightening.

"You dare challenge the will of the almighty Shogun?" she spat, her voice a whip-crack of indignation. "How imper..."

..

"...tinent fool... begone!" Agafya, the Mirror Maiden, raised her hand, her voice a low, dignified murmur.

A massive, explosive splash of Hydro erupted from her palm, slamming into a Large Shatterstone. Beside her, a Cryo Cicin Mage sent a shard of ice into the water, the two elements reacting instantly. The Shatterstone was frozen solid, a crystalline statue of its own aggression.

Agafya trapped the creature in a Hydro prison as it tried to break free, the ice cracking under the pressure. An Electro Cicin Mage summoned a bolt of lightning from the dark sky, the Superconduct reaction shattering the stone armor and allowing Agafya to deliver the final, lethal blow.

The Cicin Mages moved with a practiced, sisterly efficiency, their eyes hidden behind their masks, their loyalty to the Tsaritsa—and to the memory of the Harbingers—unwavering. They were the stark opposite of the dignity their titles suggested; they were hunters, and the night was their season.

...

It had been one week.

One week since the "Paha Seal Incident," as the news-reels called it. One week since the sun had last touched the leaves of the Irminsul or the waters of the Cider Lake. A week since the whole of Teyvat had fallen under an invasion from the Abyss so total, so absolute, that the world felt as though it were being digested by a colossal, unfeeling beast.

As the remaining vision-bearers struggled in the trenches of this new, eternal night, the common folk could only hide in the cellars of their homes, praying to gods who seemed to have vanished into the same silence that had claimed the stars. They prayed for the nightmare to end.

They didn't know that for some, the nightmare was only just beginning.

...

The Sumeru Akademiya was quiet in the way only routine could make it.

Even in the darkness, knowledge believed itself untouchable. Scholars crossed the central plaza with scrolls tucked under their arms, their voices low, their conversations half-formed thoughts about the nature of the "Seal." The Akasha terminals hummed steadily, projecting a soft, artificial light across the marble that had not seen the blood of battle in generations.

Matra patrols moved in pairs, their polearms held at the ready, alert but unhurried. They believed in the walls of the Akademiya. They believed in the wisdom of the Sages. They believed the darkness would stop at their gates.

A breeze passed through the plaza. It was cold, smelling of mountain flowers and something metallic—like a sword being drawn from a scabbard.

Then the light folded inward.

Lumine stood where there had been empty air a heartbeat earlier. She didn't arrive with a crash or a roar. She simply manifested. A pale radiance, like the ghost of a star, bled away from her form like mist.

The Akasha terminals died all at once. Not flickered—died. The sudden silence was so complete, so sudden, that it stole the very breath from the plaza. The scholars stopped mid-sentence, the light of their terminals vanishing from their eyes.

Alarms detonated a second later—sharp, panicked screams of mechanical distress. Matra surged from the arches, their polearms snapping into formation, suppression talismans flaring to life with a desperate, orange light.

Lumine did not wait for them to finish forming their ranks. She stepped forward.

The first Matra died before his shout could even leave his throat. Lumine’s blade passed through him in a clean, horizontal arc. It was so fast the air didn't even have time to whistle. Blood sprayed across the white marble in a violent, steaming arc as his body collapsed in two pieces, his armor offering no more resistance than wet paper.

Lumine did not slow.

The formation broke instantly. A Matra captain, his face a mask of terrified duty, thrust his spear toward her chest. Lumine caught the shaft with her bare hand, the wood splintering under her grip. She yanked him forward with a strength that defied her slender frame and drove her blade up through his jaw, the tip emerging from the crown of his helmet.

She kicked the corpse aside and spun, a whirlwind of gold and white. Her blade severed another Matra at the waist, his upper body sliding from his lower in a sickening, wet slide.

Screams echoed now—not the disciplined shouts of soldiers, but the raw, animal panic of the dying. Scholars scattered, their scrolls forgotten, their robes stained red as they slipped on the gore-slicked marble.

A suppression field snapped shut around her, a dome of shimmering gold meant to drain the elemental energy from any intruder.

Lumine laughed. It was a soft, melodic sound, devoid of any warmth. It was the sound of a predator amused by a trap made of straw.

The field didn't just break; it imploded.

The pressure of the collapse crushed three Matra where they stood, their armor buckling inward with the sound of a tin can being stepped on. Bones shattered, the wet *crunch* audible even over the alarms. Lumine moved through the collapsing barrier as if it were nothing more than a cobweb, her blade flashing again and again.

Throats were opened. Limbs were torn free. Bodies fell faster than the survivors could register what was happening.

An invisible force, a pulse of pure Abyssal gravity, slammed five guards straight into the nearby wall. Their impact was so great the stone cracked, their forms becoming nothing more than red smears against the masonry.

Lumine leapt, her form a blur of lethal grace. She drove her sword through a guardian construct’s core, the mechanical beast roaring in a high-pitched whine of failing gears. She ripped the core free—a sparking, violet mass of energy—and hurled it into a cluster of Matra trying to rally near the Great Hall.

The explosion painted the plaza red.

Another construct, a massive thing of brass and stone, grabbed her from behind, its claws digging into her shoulders. Lumine didn't flinch. She grabbed the construct’s arm, her fingers sinking into the metal, and tore it off. She beat the machine into the ground with its own limb until the gears stopped turning and the light in its eyes died.

Inside the Akademiya halls, the panic turned lethal. Scholars fled screaming, only for emergency barriers to slam down indiscriminately, trapping them in the corridors with the monster. Lumine carved through the hallways, her footsteps steady, unhurried. The floor was slick with blood, the air thick with the copper tang of it.

A senior Matra tried to rally a defense, his voice cracking as he shouted orders, lightning flaring around his blade. "Hold the line! For the Sages! For—"

Lumine cut him in half mid-sentence.

The Electro energy crackled uselessly in the air as his upper body slid from his lower. Lumine stepped over the corpse, her boots leaving red prints on the marble, and kept walking.

More Matra charged her—too many to count, their faces a blur of desperation and terror. She met them head-on, a tide of gold against a sea of gray. The floor ran red. Bodies piled against the shattered columns of the library. She took hits—a spear to the shoulder, a blade to the thigh—and ignored them, the wounds sealing almost as fast as they were made, the Abyssal ichor within her acting as a dark, regenerative balm.

Every swing of her blade ended a life. Every step forward erased another line of resistance.

A final guardian construct rose near the outer platform—a massive, roaring thing, its core blazing with a blinding light as it charged. Lumine sprinted straight at it, vaulted upward, and drove her blade down through its chest.

The construct collapsed beneath her, its massive frame shaking the Akademiya to its very foundations.

When the noise finally stopped, the silence was worse than the screams.

Lumine did not leave after the massacre.

She walked through the corridors slick with blood, past shattered terminals and bodies that no longer twitched. Her footsteps were the only sound in the hollowed-out shell of the institution. The Akademiya was still screaming in places—distant, muffled cries echoing through the marble halls—but the structure itself had begun to quiet, as if it finally understood that resistance was finished.

The control nexus lay beneath the central spire, sealed behind layered authorization doors meant to answer only to the Sages.

The doors opened for her anyway.

She entered a circular chamber of light and geometry, where holographic arrays hovered in midair, each representing a wing of the Akademiya. Doors. Gates. Elevators. Emergency exits. Ley-line vents. Every artery of the institution was laid bare before her.

For a moment, Lumine simply looked at it all. She saw the tiny, flickering dots representing the survivors—the scholars hiding in the vents, the Matra wounded in the infirmaries.

Then she raised her hand.

The system reacted too late.

She seized the controls—not physically, but fundamentally. The light of the holograms fractured as her presence overwrote permissions that had existed for centuries. One by one, the Akademiya’s doors began to move.

Heavy gates slammed shut across every entrance and exit. Bridges retracted with a thunderous roar of grinding metal. Elevators locked mid-shaft, trapping those inside in the dark. Archive vaults sealed with a finality that sounded like a funeral bell. Emergency passages collapsed inward, stone grinding against stone until there was no way out.

The sound rolled through the complex, a deep, unavoidable thrum of finality.

Scholars ran for doors that were no longer doors. They pounded their fists against barriers that did not acknowledge their existence.

Lumine swept her hand across the final array.

External access severed.

No one could enter. No one could leave.

The Akademiya had become a closed system—its vast halls of knowledge transformed into a cage of marble and light, sealed tight beneath a sky that would not brighten.

Lumine turned away from the controls as the last locks engaged, the hum of the system settling into a low, permanent vibration. The silence of the cage was absolute.

She began to walk again.

The first corridor she entered was crowded—scholars pressed together, Matra survivors trying to form something resembling order. Someone shouted for calm, their voice cracking with a hope that was already dead.

Lumine stepped forward, her blade appearing in her hand like a thought made solid. The front line fell in a single, fluid motion. Those behind them froze, their disbelief turning into a paralyzed horror as the bodies of their friends collapsed at their feet.

Panic detonated.

People ran in every direction, only to slam into the doors that would not open. Lumine advanced steadily, cutting down anyone who came within reach. There was no flourish to her movements, no hesitation—each strike was final. Matra tried to fight her in ones and twos, their desperation replacing their discipline. It didn’t matter. She passed through them as if they were already ghosts, leaving the floor littered with still forms.

She moved deeper into the Akademiya, methodical, clearing hall after hall.

In the lecture chambers, she found scholars huddling beneath shattered desks, their eyes wide with a terror they couldn't name. In the archives, they hid among the fallen shelves and burning terminals, clutching books as if knowledge could protect them from the void.

Lumine found them all. The echoes of her footsteps became the only warning she ever gave.

A group of senior scholars attempted to barricade themselves inside a research wing, pushing overturned tables against the heavy doors, their hands shaking as they worked. The barrier held for less than a second. Lumine tore through the wood and metal with a single strike and walked through the splintered remains.

No one inside survived.

The Akademiya’s lights flickered as the systems failed under the strain of the destruction. Corridors dimmed. Holograms shattered into a thousand useless shards of empty light. Knowledge—centuries of it, the pride of Sumeru—burned and died alongside the people who had once protected it.

Lumine did not stop. She did not slow. She did not look back at the ruin she left in her wake.

By the time she reached the upper halls, there was no resistance left. There were only the sounds of distant movement and the soft, useless hum of the sealed systems continuing their work for a dead population.

She ended the last of them without ceremony. A Matra trainee, no older than twenty, his polearm trembling in his hands. She didn't even look at his face as her blade found his throat.

When it was over, the Akademiya was truly silent.

No footsteps. No voices. No alarms. Only the smell of copper and the cold, unmoving light of the holograms.

Lumine stood in the center of the Grand Hall, apathic, her golden hair stained with the blood of the wise. She looked at the piles of bodies, at the shattered dreams of Sumeru, her expression unchanged.

"Pathetic"

Chapter Text

Varka's massive frame, usually a beacon of unshakeable vitality and the literal personification of Mondstadt’s resilience, was hunched. His heavy coat, lined with the fur of northern wolves, was stained with the dried, iridescent ichor of a dozen different Abyssal entities, a grim map of the battle they had lost.

He looked like a mountain that had weathered a thousand-year storm only to wake up and find the sea had vanished around it, leaving it stranded in a desert of glass.

Beside him, Paimon hovered. She was unusually, unnervingly quiet, her tiny hands twisting the hem of her starry cape until the fabric was frayed.

The sparkle that usually defined her—the trail of stardust and the high-pitched, indignant chatter—was muted, replaced by a hollow, wide-eyed exhaustion that made her look smaller than she ever had.

She was the one who had seen Aether’s face last—the real Aether, or the shadow of him that remained—and the memory seemed to be eating her from the inside out, a slow poison of grief and confusion.

“Alright,” Varka said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and into the marrow of those present.

“Let’s start before someone passes out from the sheer weight of the air. We need a headcount, a status report on the supplies, and a realistic assessment of our defenses."

Jean stood near the center of the table, her posture rigid and professional despite the blood-soaked sling supporting her left arm. Her face was pale, her lips set in a thin, determined line that spoke of a woman holding back a landslide of despair.

She looked toward Kaeya, who was lounging against a nearby pillar. His usual smirk was absent, his single eye fixed on the map of a world they could no longer reach—a map that was now effectively a historical document.

Diluc remained standing behind her, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. His presence was a cold, simmering fire, a furnace of silent rage that kept the creeping chill of the room at bay.

“Mondstadt’s contingent is largely accounted for,” Jean said, her voice steady but thin, like a wire stretched to its breaking point.

“Amber is assisting with the perimeter watch, though there is little to see but the violet haze. Eula is… resting. Her injuries were significant, and her pride even more so. Our elemental reserves are dangerously low. The air here… it doesn't replenish the Visions like the world outside. It’s as if the atmosphere is an insulator, preventing the flow of elemental energy from the ley lines.”

Venti sat on the back of a chair nearby, his lyre resting across his knees. He didn’t look like a god; he looked like a boy who had lost his way in a dark forest and realized the path home had been erased.

He didn't play a single note. The wind in this place was dead, a stagnant, artificial thing that didn't carry songs, only the faint, metallic hum of the seal.

Zhongli stood beside him, hands folded behind his back in a gesture of eternal patience. He was the picture of stasis, an ancient statue witnessing the end of an era he had helped build.

“The Geo here is stable, but unresponsive,” he observed quietly, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. “Aether has written the laws of this space with a heavy, uncompromising hand. We are guests in a realm that does not wish to be explored, governed by a physics that prioritizes containment over life.”

Across the room, the leadership of the other nations clustered in their respective groups, a fragmented tapestry of Teyvat’s former power.

Ningguang remained seated at a smaller side table, her fingers steepled, her gaze calculating even now as she mentally cataloged their remaining assets.

Keqing paced in short, sharp steps, her fingers twitching near the hilt of her blade, her mind clearly racing through a thousand impossible escape plans.

Ganyu sat with her hands folded in her lap, her horns wrapped carefully in silk to protect them from the abrasive air, her eyes closed as she tried to find a rhythm to the oppressive silence.

Inazuma’s representatives were equally somber. Ayaka knelt formally beside Thoma, her fan held tight against her chest, while Yoimiya crouched nearby, cleaning her bow with unnecessary focus.

Her usual chatter, the bright sparks of her personality, had been silenced by the atmosphere, which seemed to dampen any sound of joy.

Sumeru’s group occupied the far side, near a cluster of bioluminescent plants that Nahida had managed to coax from the sterile soil. Nahida stood atop a crate so she could see everyone, her small hands clasped tightly.

Dehya leaned heavily on her claymore, her eyes scanning the exits as if she expected the walls to melt at any moment.

Tighnari’s ears flicked at every shift in weight, every stifled cough, his senses overwhelmed by the lack of natural noise. Nilou sat close to Nahida, her expression pale, her fingers tracing the intricate embroidery on her skirt as if searching for a familiar thread to lead her back to the Grand Bazaar.

The Fontaine survivors stood together like a cornered pride. Charlotte was scribbling furiously in a notebook that was nearly full, her hands shaking as she documented the end of the world for an audience that might never exist.

Clorinde remained upright but stiff, her armor dented and cracked, her hand never straying far from her rapier.

Navia stood beside Furina, who sat on a crate, staring at the floor with an intensity that suggested she was trying to disappear into the very stone.

Neuvillette stood apart from them all, tall and unmoving, rainwater slowly dripping from his coat despite the lack of clouds—a physical manifestation of a grief he couldn't voice, a quiet storm trapped in a human vessel.

“And the missing?” Keqing asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the low murmur of the room like a blade.

The silence that followed was heavy, a physical weight that pressed down on their shoulders.

“Sandrone is not here,” Varka said, ticking the names off on his scarred, calloused fingers. “Neither is Columbina. They’re in the medical wing. Columbina… she hasn't woken up since the collapse. Sandrone refuses to leave her side.”

“Neither have Raiden, Arlecchino, or Lauma,” Nahida added softly, her voice echoing with a wisdom that felt far too old for her small frame. “Their conditions are… complicated. The Abyssal residue from the final clash is resisting traditional healing. It’s like a parasite, feeding on their elemental essence.”

“And Dainsleif?” Yelan asked, leaning against a pillar in the back, her eyes constantly scanning the shadows for threats that hadn't manifested yet.

“Awake, but restrained,” Varka replied, his expression darkening. “The corruption in his system is volatile. He’s more Abyss than man right now, and until we can stabilize him, we can't risk him destabilizing the entire ward.”

“What about Skirk?” Childe asked from his position on the floor. His arm was bound tightly at the shoulder, his face devoid of its usual battle-hunger. He looked hollowed out, a warrior without a war. “She wouldn't just vanish. She survives. That’s what she does.”

“Missing,” Neuvillette said, his voice absolute and cold as a mountain lake. “Last confirmed sighting was during the initial collapse of the island’s core. After that… nothing. No trace of her energy remains within the detectable limits of this seal.”

The meeting continued for hours, but it was a conversation of shadows. They spoke of rations, of the failing light, of the way the walls seemed to hum with a low, mocking frequency whenever Aether’s name was mentioned.

They were the people who had once held the world together, the architects of nations and the slayers of dragons, and now, they were learning the bitter lesson of what it meant to be removed from the board entirely.

“The seal isn’t just a prison,” Nahida said, her voice echoing in the sudden quiet. “It’s a pause. Aether didn’t kill us because he didn't want to deal with the messy aftermath of our deaths. He simply moved us. He took the pieces he couldn't control and put them in a box.”

“How considerate,” Yae Miko murmured from the shadows, her smile thin and dangerous, like a razor hidden in silk. “A golden cage for the fallen elite.”

“We endure,” Neuvillette said, stepping forward, the tap of his cane echoing like a gavel. “Waiting implies the hope of rescue. We must assume there will be none. We must assume that Teyvat, as we knew it, is gone, and we are all that remains.”

...

The medical wing was a sanctuary of sterile, artificial light and the rhythmic, mechanical hum of Sandrone’s life-support machinery. It was tucked away in the deepest part of the complex, where the violet twilight of the exterior couldn't reach, creating a pocket of forced normalcy.

Sandrone sat beside a reinforced medical bed, her posture rigid, her bonnet slightly askew. She didn't look like a Fatui Harbinger, a master of puppets and death; she looked like a terrified girl trying to fix a doll that wouldn't stop breaking in her hands.

Her tools were scattered across a nearby tray, stained with oils and medicinal fluids.

On the bed lay Columbina.

The Moon Maiden was unnaturally still, her presence usually so ethereal and overwhelming now reduced to a faint, flickering candle. Her wings, once vibrant and shimmering with the light of a forgotten era, were bound in heavy, silver-etched bandages.

The feathers were matted with dried blood and a lingering, violet ichor that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Her face was pale, almost translucent, her lashes casting long, tragic shadows against her cheeks.

One side of her jaw was bruised, a deep, sickly plum color that stood out sharply against her porcelain skin.

Sandrone adjusted a dial on a nearby machine with trembling fingers, her eyes bloodshot from days without sleep. “I’m sorry, Columbina,” she whispered, her voice a fragile thing that threatened to shatter in the quiet. “I’m so sorry I wasn't faster. I’m sorry I let him touch you.”

A single tear rolled down Sandrone’s cheek, splashing onto the cold metal casing of the apparatus. She didn't wipe it away.

She was haunted by the flashback of Winter Icelea—the biting cold, the smell of wet dirt, the feeling of being discarded like trash by a world that had no use for her. She couldn't let it happen again. Not to her. Not to the one person who had looked past the gears and the steel and seen the heart that still beat underneath.

She reached out, her gloved hand hesitating in the air before gently, reverently brushing a stray lock of pink hair from Columbina’s forehead. The air in the room smelled of harsh antiseptic and the faint, metallic scent of Abyssal residue—a smell Sandrone had come to loathe.

“This should suppress the spread of the corruption,” Sandrone murmured, injecting a shimmering, experimental fluid into the medical tubing.

It was a cocktail of stolen Fontaine tech, Sumeru herbology, and her own desperate theories—a gamble she was willing to take because the alternative was unthinkable.

Columbina’s hand twitched—a minute, almost imperceptible movement of her fingers—before falling still again.

Sandrone closed her eyes, the memory of her own screams for help in the frozen wastes of her youth echoing in her mind. She missed Columbina’s singing. The silence of the room was a physical weight, a constant reminder of the melody that had been stolen from the world.

“You will wake up,” Sandrone said, her voice regaining a fraction of its mechanical, iron edge.

...

In a separate, circular chamber nearby, Raiden Ei lay submerged in a field of crackling, violet Electro. The glow was uneven, pulsing with a low, resentful hum that mirrored the state of the Shogun puppet standing dormant in the corner.

The puppet’s eyes were dark, its joints locked in a position of eternal readiness.

Yae Miko sat nearby on a low stool, her tails twitching restlessly as she watched the field flicker. She looked tired, the usual spark of mischief and ancient wisdom in her eyes replaced by a weary, protective fire. Her robes were dusty, and her hair was uncharacteristically messy.

“So,” Yae murmured, reaching out to touch the very edge of the Electro field, feeling the bite of the current. “This is what happens when eternity loses a fight. You look quite small like this, Ei. Almost human.”

Ei didn't respond. The wound across her torso was a jagged, ugly line of Abyssal corruption that glowed with a dull, internal light, resisting the healing properties of her own divine energy.

It was a stalemate between the lightning of the Narukami and the void of the Abyss, a battle being fought in the silence of her own mind.

She withdrew her hand just as a sharp spark of Electro bit at her fingers, drawing a tiny bead of blood.

She looked at the dormant Shogun puppet, its face a blank, uncaring mask of lacquer and wood. “At least you’re quiet for once,” she whispered to the machine. “No talk of eternity. No talk of duty. Just… this beautiful, terrible silence.”

...

Dainsleif was awake, which was perhaps the greatest tragedy of all.

He sat restrained against a reinforced wall in the high-security containment sector, his body bound by heavy chains etched with ancient, glowing symbols of binding.

One arm hung uselessly at his side, his shoulder shattered and held together by an external metallic brace that hummed with a low, stabilizing frequency. The Abyssal corruption beneath the skin of his right arm looked like black frost under glass, crawling slowly, inexorably toward his heart.

Kaeya stood on the other side of the translucent barrier, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at the man who shared his blood, his history, and the weight of a five-hundred-year-old curse.

“You always did have a talent for surviving things that should have killed you, Dainsleif,” Kaeya said, his voice light but entirely devoid of its usual humor. “Shame about the cost this time. You look like you’ve been dragged through the Cataclysm all over again.”

Dainsleif lifted his head, his eyes sharp and furious despite the pain. “The cost was paid long ago, Kaeya. This is merely the interest on a debt that can never be settled.”

“Aether did this to you,” Kaeya said, his gaze narrowing as he studied the corruption on Dainsleif’s skin. “Your ‘friend.’ Your ‘traveler.’ The one you swore was the key to everything.”

“The Abyss did this,” Dainsleif rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stone. “Aether is… he is the vessel. The boy you knew, the one who picked flowers and helped the helpless, is buried under centuries of rot and resentment. He isn't a person anymore. He’s a force of nature.”

“Varka thinks we can bring him back,” Kaeya said, leaning closer to the glass.

"Maybe"

Kaeya turned away, his hand lingering on the hilt of his sword. “We’ll see. We’re trapped in a box with the smartest minds and the most powerful beings in Teyvat. If there’s a way out, they’ll find it. They have to.”

“And if there isn’t?” Dainsleif asked, his voice trailing him into the hallway.

"..."

...

In the botanical wing, which had been converted into a makeshift sanctuary, Lauma knelt at the center of a circular stone dais.

She wasn't on a bed; she couldn't be. Her connection to the ley lines of Nod-Krai was so profound that she had anchored herself directly into the stone of the complex, roots bursting through the floorboards like skeletal fingers to stabilize her failing form.

Her antlers were cracked, the bark-like surface split and oozing a pale, sweet-smelling sap that carried the conflicting scents of spring rain and stagnant rot. Leaves fell constantly from her hair, wilting and turning to gray ash the moment they touched the ground.

Tighnari crouched nearby, his hands stained green with various poultices and herbal extracts. He looked up, his expression weary, as Nahida entered the room.

“She’s stabilizing, in a sense,” Tighnari said, his voice hushed to avoid disturbing the delicate balance. “But she’s… she’s tied to the land. Or what’s left of it. If she stands, if she tries to move, the anchor will break, and her spirit will scatter like seeds in a gale. She is literally holding herself together by sheer will.”

Nahida walked over and gently took Lauma’s hand. It was cold, the skin feeling more like polished, dead wood than living flesh. “Lauma? Can you hear me? It’s Nahida.”

Lauma’s eyes opened briefly—they were swirling pools of turquoise and pink, filled with a chaotic, internal storm of memories and pain. “The forest…” she whispered, her voice a rustle of dry leaves in an autumn wind. “It’s screaming, Nahida. The Three Moons… they are crying in the dark. I can hear them through the roots.”

“I know,” Nahida said, her own eyes filling with tears she refused to let fall. “But we are here. We are the forest now. We will carry the memory of the green until the sun returns.”

Lauma’s grip tightened on Nahida’s hand for a fleeting moment before she drifted back into a fitful, dreaming state. “The Traveler… he has the seeds,” she murmured, her voice fading. “Tell him… the winter is too long. The trees cannot wait forever.”

...

In the engineering bay, a place filled with the smell of grease and hot metal, Aino sat on a workbench, her legs swinging restlessly.

She was surrounded by a sea of scrap metal, gears, and half-finished automatons that looked like skeletal birds. Beside her, Ineffa was methodically cleaning a pile of clockwork components, her robotic eyes flickering with a steady, rhythmic blue light.

“I want a krumkake,” Aino said suddenly, her bottom lip trembling with the force of her burgeoning tantrum. “A big one. With extra cream and the little sugar pearls on top.”

In the corner of the room, Jahoda and Nefer sat together, whispering in low tones. Nefer looked sharp, her green eyes scanning the room for information even here, at the supposed end of the world.

Jahoda was braiding a piece of twine, her yellow star-shaped pupils fixed on her work with an intensity that suggested she was trying to weave her way out of the prison.

...

Childe stood alone in a narrow, dimly lit corridor near the outer barrier of the complex.

His shoulder ached with a dull, throbbing heat, the bandages tight and restricting, but he ignored the physical pain. He pressed his forehead against the cold, vibrating metal of the seal, feeling the hum of Aether’s power through his skull.

“Skirk,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Where are you? You wouldn't let a little thing like a collapsing dimension take you out.”

The barrier didn't answer. Beyond the reinforced glass, the world was a swirling vortex of violet nothingness, a sea of static that defied logic.

He remembered her lessons in the Abyss—the bone-chilling cold, the absolute silence, the necessity of becoming a predator to avoid being the prey. She had taught him that the world was a hungry thing, and that the only way to endure was to be the sharpest tooth in the jaw.

“You wouldn't just die,” Childe said, his voice hardening into the tone he used when he was about to kill. “You’re the one who taught me how to breathe when the air is gone. You’re out there. Somewhere in that mess.”

He punched the wall, the impact echoing through the empty corridor and bruising his knuckles. He felt a surge of rage, of absolute helplessness—a feeling he hadn't experienced since he was a terrified boy falling into the cracks of the world for the first time.

...

Albedo sat in a small, makeshift laboratory, his desk covered in vials of shimmering fluid and notes written in a cramped, frantic hand.

Durin sat on the floor beside him, his wings folded tight against his back, his humanoid form looking fragile in the dim light.

“I’m not as ‘mini’ as I used to be, Albedo,” Durin said, looking at his hands, which were stained with ink and soil. “I want to help. I want to fight the darkness instead of just sitting here.”

Albedo looked at him, his gaze softening with a rare display of emotion.

“You are helping, Durin. You are the anchor. Your heart—the heart of the dragon—is the only thing keeping the ley lines in this complex from collapsing entirely. You are the reason we still have air to breathe and water to drink. You are our life support.”

Durin looked down, his cheeks flushing. “Varka says I should learn to accept compliments without looking like I’ve been caught stealing. But it feels… strange. I just want to move forward. I don't want to be the disaster anymore.”

“You aren't the disaster,” Albedo said, reaching out to pat Durin’s shoulder. “You are the sunrise we’re waiting for. The catalyst for our return.”

Scaramouche sat in the far corner of the lab, his knees pulled up to his chest, his hat discarded on the floor. He hadn't spoken since the seal closed.

He looked at Albedo and Durin with a mixture of envy and pure, unadulterated disdain.

“How touching,” Scaramouche finally said, his voice sharp and broken, like glass grinding together. “The dragon and the alchemist, playing house while the world rots outside. You really think a few vials of glowing water and some sentimental speeches are going to stop Aether?”

“It’s more than you’re doing, Scaramouche,” Albedo said calmly, not looking up from his work.

Scaramouche let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “I’m waiting for the moment the walls start to crumble. Because when they do, I’m going to be the first one through the gap. I don't care about ‘endurance’ or ‘hope.’ I care about retribution. I want to see the look on his face when I tear his world down.”

...

In her mind, she was back in Nasha Town. The air was warm and thick, smelling of honey, lavender, and the coming summer.

She could hear the distant laughter of the festival, the sound of Paimon’s indignant voice, and the steady, grounding presence of Aether beside her. He was smiling—a real smile, one that reached his eyes.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered in the dream, reaching out for him.

“I’m right here,” a voice replied. But it wasn't Aether’s voice. It was a chorus of a thousand whispers, a cold, Abyssal harmony that chilled her to the bone.

The dream shifted. The sun turned into a black hole, and the lavender fields withered into ash.

She saw Aether standing at the edge of a shattered world, his eyes twin voids of violet light, his golden hair turned to silver by the static of the Abyss. He was reaching out to her, his hand stained with the ichor of the gods he had slain.

Columbina’s hand twitched violently on the medical bed. Sandrone, who had fallen asleep in the chair beside her, woke instantly, her hand flying to her concealed weapon.

“Columbina?” Sandrone leaned forward, her heart racing against her ribs.

Columbina’s lips moved, a faint, rhythmic sound escaping them. She wasn't speaking; she was singing.

A low, haunting melody that vibrated through the medical machinery, causing the lights to flicker and the glass vials on the table to hum.

It was a song of the Abyss. A song of the end of all things.

Sandrone’s eyes widened in horror. She grabbed Columbina’s hand, her fingers tightening until the knuckles were white. “No. Don’t listen to him. Stay here. Stay with me, Columbina. Please.”