Nod-Krai didn’t feel like Mondstadt.

The wind here was sharper—less playful, more deliberate—cutting across frozen stone and steel-gray camps like it had somewhere important to be. Even the sky felt heavier, pressed low over the land, as if listening.

He loved it.

He stood near the edge of the camp, arms crossed, greatcoat snapping behind him, laughing as if the cold were a personal challenge instead of a threat.

That was Varka. Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. Living legend. Titan. And—when the mood struck him—someone who laughed too loud, drank too much, and treated danger like a drinking buddy.

Tonight was one of those moods.

The Knights’ camp was quieter than usual, most already turned in. Varka had insisted we share a drink—“tradition,” he’d said, producing a bottle with suspicious enthusiasm.

“What is it?” I’d asked.

“Local Cider, I think.”

That should’ve been my warning.

Now I sat on a crate near the fire, the world just a little softer around the edges, warmth blooming in my chest that had nothing to do with the flames.

*I stared at the cup in my hands.*v“…Varka.”

“Mm?”

“I think this is stronger than you said.”

He blinked. Then laughed—full, booming, completely unapologetic.

“Oh. That. Hah! Yeah, that tracks.”

“That tracks?!”

He crouched down in front of me, squinting at my face with exaggerated seriousness. “You’re smiling. That’s usually the sign.”

“I always smile.”

“Not like that!"

I tried to argue. The words came out slower than intended.

“…You did this on purpose.”

He paused. Just for a second.

Then he scratched the back of his neck. “Accidentally on purpose?”