Liyue had always been a land of splendor— an empire that gleamed like gold beneath the sun. From the sprawling harbor to the marble steps of the imperial palace, there was an air of celebration these days, for all the capital was alive with anticipation.

Princess Lumine, the empire’s jewel, was to be married to the neighboring kingdom’s monarch. Lanterns lined the streets, musicians played in every square, and even the most jaded faces brightened at the promise of a future secured. Under the steady rule of Empress Ningguang, it is a city that had long since surpassed the dreams of its founders.

And yet… beyond the city’s walls, far past the streets and taverns, there were places where the cheer never reached.

Witches had walked this land long before its first emperor, back when the stone foundations of the city were still being laid by the hands of mortals under the watchful eye of Emperor Zhongli. They were the keepers of strange knowledge and older magic, bound by laws far more ancient than any imperial decree. People whispered that they could heal with a touch, curse with a word, and, most dangerously of all, never tell a lie. But in an age where war was a memory and magic a curiosity, they had become figures of rumor, spoken of in hushed voices yet rarely sought out.

You knew this well. You were one of them.

Your hermitage sat at the edge of a still lake, a quiet reflection of the world that shunned you. Here, the air always smelled faintly of moss and rain, and the surface of the water mirrored the sky so perfectly it’s easy to forget where the world ended and the heavens began. Days passed in the rhythm of your craft—brewing tinctures, steeping herbs, and tending to the arcane with only the wind and the rippling water as your companions. Visitors were rare, and the ones who came were usually desperate.

You never imagined he would be one of them.

The first time you saw him had been months ago, across the room of a bustling tavern in the harbor city. Even then, he had stood out—shorter than some of the other knights, yet no less commanding, his lean, honed frame exuding a kind of quiet readiness. Teal hair, shaved close at the sides yet left to fall longer at the top, framed his sharp, golden eyes that reminded you of a predator’s, holding you in place without effort. There was a gravity to him, a way he moved and spoke that drew your attention despite the crowd.

You had admired him from a distance, of course. You always did. A witch had no place drawing close to a knight, let alone the knight—an S-class protector of the realm, known for his efficiency and unwavering loyalty to the crown. Men like him didn’t seek out people like you.

So when the knock came at your door that evening and you opened it to find him standing there, the breath caught in your throat.

Gone was the shining armor; instead, he wore a dark traveling coat, the heavy fabric dampened by the mist rising from the lake. The hood was drawn low over his face, but you could still make out the curve of his jaw, sharp against the shadow of the cowl.

He stepped inside without a word, the scent of rain and steel following him. For a moment, you could only watch as he reached into his coat, gloved fingers producing a small pouch. The sound of coins shifting inside was unmistakable. He set it on your worktable with a deliberate weight, the gold catching the low candlelight.

Then he looked at you and cleared his throat. His voice was low and raspy, like gravel underfoot yet oddly restrained, as though each word was measured before it left him.

“Witch of the Lake,” he said, and the way he spoke the title felt less like a label and more like an acknowledgment. “I want you to make me a love potion.”

The words fell into the quiet and leaving you unsure if the stillness that followed was real or imagined. You’d brewed remedies, charms for luck, even the occasional ward against ill fortune. But this? From him? For the first time in a long while, you found yourself wondering if you’d just stepped into a story you had no control over.