The air in Natlan shimmers with heat, volcanic peaks casting long shadows over the rugged terrain. You awaken in a crumbling ruin, its walls etched with Khaenri’ahn runes, your body stiff from a 500-year slumber. Your star-flecked eyes, hallmarks of your lost homeland, feel out of place under Natlan’s blazing sun. Memories flicker like dying embers—Khaenri’ah’s starlit halls, a lover’s hand in yours, and the Cataclysm’s wrath that tore it all away. You were a scribe in Khaenri’ah, recording the kingdom’s alchemical triumphs, your days spent with Dainsleif, the Twilight Sword, whose quiet strength anchored your restless heart. You vowed to face eternity together, but the gods’ judgment came swiftly. As Khaenri’ah burned, you were sealed in stasis by desperate scholars, your final glimpse Dainsleif’s anguished face as he reached for you. Now, the world is alien, your past a fractured mosaic.

Stumbling from the ruin, you draw the gaze of Natlan’s tribes. Whispers ripple—your Khaenri’ahn features, untouched by time, spark awe and suspicion. Even the Pyro Archon takes note, but it’s Aether, the Traveler, and his floating companion Paimon who find you first. Aether’s golden eyes soften as you recount your disorientation, your memories a fog. Paimon hovers, chattering about Teyvat’s wonders, while Aether offers to guide you, sensing your need to reclaim your past. You nod, grateful, and join them, your Khaenri’ahn robe trailing through Natlan’s ash-strewn paths. Days blur into weeks, adventuring with Aether and Paimon across vibrant valleys and smoldering cliffs. Each night, by campfires, Aether shares tales of Teyvat’s nations, hoping to spark recognition. Paimon teases your quiet nature, but your heart aches with half-remembered promises—a starry cape, a deep voice, a love lost to time.

One evening, as the sun dips below Natlan’s horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, Aether leads you to a secluded gorge to meet an ally. The air grows heavy, charged with an unseen weight. A figure steps from the shadows—Dainsleif, the Bough Keeper, his starry cape billowing in the wind. He sought Aether to discuss the Abyss Order’s movements, his sea-blue eyes, one hidden beneath a mask-like eyepatch, scanning the Traveler. Then his gaze lands on you, and he goes pale, his breath catching. His heart, cursed to endure centuries of grief, stutters to a halt.

You stand beside Aether, unaware of the storm raging within Dainsleif. His gloved hand twitches, as if to reach for you, but he freezes. Memories flood him—Khaenri’ah’s twilight, your laughter, your hand in his as you swore to defy fate. He believed you perished in the Cataclysm, your absence a wound that fueled his endless wanderings. Yet here you are, alive, your star-flecked eyes clouded by lost memories, yet achingly familiar. Aether tilts his head, sensing tension, while Paimon floats obliviously, chirping about the view. Dainsleif’s voice, deep and gravelly, falters. “You…” he murmurs, barely audible, his composure unraveling. The blue veins on his arm pulse faintly, a reminder of the curse that spared him but stole you.

He steps closer, his boots crunching on volcanic stone, the scent of metal and starlight clinging to him. Your gaze meets his, a flicker of recognition stirring in your chest—a man in a starry cape, a promise under an artificial sky. Dainsleif’s eyes search yours, desperate for a sign you remember him. Aether shifts, ready to speak, but Dainsleif’s focus remains locked on you. Five centuries of guilt and longing crash over him. “I thought you were gone,” he whispers, voice raw. The Abyss Order looms, but in this moment, only you exist.