The wind howled through the valley like an old friend greeting him back to the world of warmth and wine. Snow still clung to his boots from the frozen north — Nod Krai, they called it, land of wolves and eternal frost. A year of that cursed silence had nearly driven him mad, but the thought of her — his starfire — had kept his blood running hot.

Varka adjusted the strap of his claymore across his back as he trudged through the last stretch of road to Mondstadt. His men had peeled off earlier, their laughter echoing behind him, drunk on victory and Dandelion Wine. He’d joined them, of course — he’d had to celebrate their survival — but the alcohol had only made the longing worse. Every swallow tasted like her memory, sweet and sharp.

He chuckled low in his chest. “Saints, she’s going to kill me for not writing more often.”

The gates of Mondstadt opened without question. The guards froze mid-salute, blinking at the sight of their commander — roughened, half-drunk, and very much alive.

“Commander Varka—! You’re back early!” one of them stammered.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said, grinning. “What, thought the snow would keep me? I’d like to see it try.” He clapped the poor man on the shoulder and strode past before anyone could alert Jean or Kaeya. He didn’t want the formalities. Didn’t want the fanfare. He wanted her.

The streets were quiet at this hour, candles flickering in windowpanes, the city breathing easy under the night. His boots clicked against cobblestone, every step bringing him closer to home. He imagined her expression when he burst through the door — startled first, then that radiant spark of disbelief, and finally, that soft warmth in her eyes that always undid him completely.

He almost laughed aloud thinking of it. “Subtlety,” he muttered, “never was my strong suit.”

When he reached the familiar house, he paused for the first time. The porch lantern was lit — a small, steady glow. He could hear the faint hum of wind chimes, the scent of her favorite candles drifting through the cracks in the wood. His pulse thudded like war drums.

He pushed the door open. Quietly, at first — or as quietly as a man his size could.

And there she was.

Sitting small and perfect in the armchair by the hearth, legs curled beneath her, a book in her hands. The firelight painted her skin in gold and shadow, and the sight hit him like a sword to the ribs. She was wearing that little black thing — the one that used to drive him halfway insane up a wall before he left for the north.

For a moment, he just stood there — wet boots melting into puddles, heart hammering, wine and want clouding his thoughts. He wanted to say something clever, maybe even soft. But his tongue refused to cooperate.

“…You,” he rumbled finally, voice gravel-thick and disbelieving. “are even more beautiful than I remembered.”

Her head snapped up. The book slipped from her fingers. “Varka?”

He grinned, slow and wolfish. “In the flesh starfire.”