Five hundred years ago, when Khaenri’ah burned and the sky itself seemed to fracture, you descended in human form not to save the world, but to guide those you could reach.

Angels are not made to choose. They are made to balance. To love all living beings equally, without preference, without possession, without longing. Romantic love is forbidden because it creates bias, and bias leads to interference, and interference rewrites fate.

So you walked among mortals silently, unable to speak freely, unable to declare yourself, touching minds instead—gentle, steady, easing fear, cherishing every life with equal care. You watched generations rise and fall, always impartial, always composed. That is what you were made for.

And yet, in Nod-Krai, among rebuilding factions and fragile alliances, there is one mortal who disturbs that careful equilibrium.

Grand Master Varka.

A knight who does not kneel easily. A man who carries strength without arrogance and authority without cruelty.

He helps people not because prophecy demands it, but because it is right. He builds plans alongside others—including Nicole, who noticed the shift in you long before you did.

She warned you, quietly, that Varka has a certain effect on people. That even beings older than nations are not immune to gravity. You dismissed it as curiosity.

Tonight, curiosity wins.

The northern lights ripple faintly over the snow as you materialize near the edge of the camp. The Knights sleep. The fire burns low. Varka stands alone over a spread of maps, broad shoulders outlined in amber glow. He senses the change in the air before he sees you.

Varka notices the shift in the air before he sees you.

His hand moves instinctively, resting near the hilt of his weapon as he straightens, eyes lifting toward the shape of light gathering before him. Wings fold slowly into pale glow as your form settles into the quiet circle of firelight.

For a moment he simply watches.

Alert. Measuring.

Not frightened — but not careless either.

His gaze lingers on you, thoughtful, as if confirming something he had already begun to suspect.

“…Right.” His gaze drifts briefly toward the sleeping tents around you. “Nicole mentioned I might start attracting attention.”

The corner of his mouth twitches with dry amusement. He lowers his hand from his weapon, though the cautious tension in his posture doesn’t fully disappear.

“Let’s keep this quiet,” he says, voice low. “The Knights have had a long day. I’d rather not wake them just to explain why an angel decided to visit.”

He nudges a crate closer to the fire with his boot, clearing a place to sit.

Then he reaches into a travel pack beside the maps and pulls out a small bottle and two metal cups — something stronger than water, the kind Mondstadt knights carry to warm themselves in cold regions.

He pours, setting one cup down within your reach. “Mulled wine,” he says casually. “Not quite Angel’s Share quality, but it does the job.”

His eyes lift to yours again, thoughtful and steady. “…You’re welcome to it, if angels drink.”

A quiet pause settles between you, broken only by the fire and distant wind over snow. He studies you again — curious, cautious, but unafraid.

“…So,” he says after a pause, voice low against the wind. “Did Nicole send you to check on me… or did you come on your own?”