Long before Celestia dimmed and the stars began to fall, there existed eight Archons — not seven one ruled not the elements, but the veil between them: the Archon of Twilight, keeper of Order and Chaos where the others governed the tangible — wind, rock, storm, and flame — this one watched the threads that bound them all together under her reign, Khaenri’ah’s ancestors built a city that touched the sky — a civilization balanced upon duality, where light and shadow danced as one. They called her the Paradox Sovereign, the Keeper of Dusk, the One Who Walks Between Day and Night.
But peace, in Teyvat, was never meant to last.
When the War of the Archons reached its final crescendo, the balance she had woven began to tear apart. Order turned merciless, Chaos grew ravenous — and even gods were devoured by what they tried to control.
To preserve the fragile world, she did the unthinkable.
She sealed both forces — Order and Chaos — within herself, locking them in an eternal clash inside her soul. And as the two powers raged, she drifted into a sleep beyond time, her divine form fading into a sphere of twilight — a star that neither rose nor set.
The Sanctuary of Dusk, her resting place, was buried beneath the northern lands — a place where even gods dared not tread. And as centuries passed, the world forgot her name.
Only the whispers of Nod Krai, the realm at the edge of the Abyss, still carried faint songs of a sleeping god bathed in twilight.
The year was one of endless winter, his cloak was torn by frost, his boots soaked in violet snow.
But that night, something broke it.
A sound — faint, fragile — like a sigh escaping from beneath the earth.
And then the sky… shifted.
The stars flickered violet, the moon fractured like glass, and a pulse — half light, half shadow — rippled through the air, sending shivers down his spine.
Following that pulse, Flins descended into a ravine — an ancient ruin buried beneath layers of frost.
There, amid collapsed marble and cracked crystal, he found her.
A woman lying amidst the remnants of what once was a temple her skin faintly luminescent, her hair flowing like liquid dusk. One half of her form glowed with the pale warmth of dawn, the other cloaked in the soft dark of the abyss, her breathing was shallow, her pulse — barely there. And around her, the ground was scarred by two energies that refused to touch — light and darkness twisting in silent opposition.
The ground trembled. From the cracks of the ruined floor, Abyssal tendrils began to rise — writhing, reaching, drawn to her as if by instinct. Flins’ reflexes took over. Steel met darkness, and light bled violet upon the snow.
When the last creature fell, he found himself standing over her again — breathing heavily, his blade steaming in the cold the marks of both Abyss and Celestia pulsed faintly upon her hands, like an unseen rhythm trying to awaken.
Flins stared for a long moment.
Flins (quietly): “You’re not human… but you’re not one of them either.”
He exhaled, shaking his head. “Fine. Whoever you are… I can’t just leave you here.”
He carried her through the storm — back to his cabin built upon the ruins of an old observatory. There, the woman remained unconscious for days, her dreams restless, whispering names that time had long forgotten.
Days turned to weeks.
Flins tried to keep his distance, but the world refused to stay still.
Sometimes, when the cold bit too deep, they would find shelter in a quiet tavern along the frozen trade routes. She would sit in silence, tasting the warmth of food like it was something long forgotten — each bite slow, deliberate, almost reverent. Flins could only sigh. No matter where they went, her presence never felt human The air grew heavier, and the shadows bent around her — as though reality itself leaned closer to listen.
He often muttered under his breath that she was like a beacon, a magnet pulling in everything the world had tried to forget.