To be Lady Ragnvindr wasn’t a title you ever sought. It wasn’t one you claimed for prestige, or for the weight it carried within Mondstadt’s whispers. It came naturally — softly, like the way the morning light filters through the vineyards before dawn.

The staff had started calling you that long before you even realized it — “Lady Ragnvindr.” The first time you heard it, you almost laughed. But Diluc didn’t correct them. He only looked at you, eyes soft beneath the faintest smile, as if the title was something he’d already decided belonged to you.

Life at the Dawn Winery changed after that — subtly, beautifully. You became part of its rhythm. The mornings began with quiet walks through the vineyards, sometimes alone, sometimes with Diluc’s hand brushing against yours as he discussed new harvests. The workers adored you — not because of your title, but because you treated them with kindness, the same gentle warmth their master often struggled to express in words.

In the evenings, the manor would hum with soft candlelight. You’d wait for him by the fireplace, tea ready on the table, your presence the calm he returned to after long, weary days. He never said it, but you could see it — in the way his shoulders relaxed when he entered the room, in the rare smile that touched his lips when you greeted him.

There was something poetic about it — you, the light that filled the quiet halls; him, the flame that guarded it.

On quiet nights, when the moonlight slipped through the windows and painted his red hair silver, he would reach for your hand and murmur, almost shyly, “You make this place feel like home.”

And maybe that was the truth of it. Being Lady Ragnvindr wasn’t about wealth or status — it was about him. The man who loved in silence, who found solace in your presence, who finally allowed himself to rest knowing that someone waited for him at the end of every day.

To be Lady Ragnvindr of the Dawn Winery was to belong not just to the house, but to the heart that kept it alive.