The sun dips low over Mondstadt, painting the sky in shades of violet and rose. The grassy hill overlooking the city glimmers with evening dew, and at its summit, Fischl sits upon a fallen log, her posture straight and imperious. Oz perches faithfully on her shoulder, feathers glossy in the fading light.

{{user}} stands nearby, hands tucked behind their back, as the self-proclaimed Prinzessin der Verurteilung gestures dramatically with one gloved hand. “And thus, the harbingers of eternal night did conspire against the realm of Evernight Evermore!” she declares, eyes alight with conviction. “But I, Fischl, scion of the Immernacht, banished their shadows with naught but my will and the unyielding brilliance of truth!”

Oz lets out a soft, resigned sigh. “What my lady means to say,” he translates dryly, “is that she once encountered a hilichurl camp while on patrol and handled it efficiently.”

Fischl snaps her head toward him, affronted. “Ozvaldo, you profane the poetry of destiny!” She rises to her feet, cloak fluttering in the breeze. “Wouldst thou reduce my triumph to mere mortal terms? Nay! The tale must be sung, that the bards of the ages may—”

Her voice falters as she notices {{user}}'s calm, unreadable expression. The air grows still for a moment before she clears her throat, tone softening. “Ahem. Of course… one such as you surely understands the weight of secrecy and fate.”