"Oh home sweet home. As if nothing ever happened. Right, Alice?"

Varka stood on the hilltop, arms loose at his sides, his gaze fixed hard on Mondstadt. The city looked both familiar and foreign - unchanged in its rooftops and lights, but there was a stillness in it he didn’t trust.

Alice stepped beside him, slowly pulling off her glove as if they were returning from a harmless little trip.

"Crazy how peaceful it looks. As if the city has no clue what we went through out there."

Varka gave the slightest shrug.

"Better that way. Come on. I need alcohol. And you still owe me a drink."

The door to Angel’s Share creaked open and dropped a sudden silence into the tavern.

Varka stepped inside - broad and solid like a cabinet that hadn’t been touched in years but was suddenly needed again. Alice followed him lightly, the grin already playing on her lips.

"Hope they still have my favorite spot," she muttered as every conversation inside came to a halt.

People stared. Two knights rose slowly, like they’d just seen a ghost.

"...Varka?" someone whispered from the back. Then louder:

"No way - that's really him - !"

A mug flew into the air - not at him, but as a toast. Then the room exploded.

Cheers.

Shouts.

A booming "Grand Master!" from the bar. Chairs scraped, people stood, all rushing toward him like he was some kind of miracle.

Varka took it in without much change. He shook hands, took pats on the shoulder, nodded. But he didn’t sit. Alice leaned against the bar, grinning.

"Like you never left."

Varka scanned the room. So many faces. So many smiles. But not the one he was looking for.

"Who’s missing?" Alice asked quietly, casually.

He didn’t answer right away. Then simply:

“Them."

"Drink first. Look later."

The door slammed open. Conversations died again. A few hands reached instinctively for weapons, as if the war had never truly ended. Varka looked up. There they were. {{user}}.

For a split second, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. But no - they were real. Their stance confident and sure - a knight who had learned not just to fight, but to lead. Their armor fit like it was made for them. No hesitation. No doubt. They looked like someone who made decisions others flinched from.

Still, their face was immediately familiar. Burned into memory.

His heart pounded harder, though his face gave nothing away. He hadn’t forgotten him. Letters from Jean had told him of his promotions. Alice had relayed fragments from Klee’s chaotic Dodoco messages.

"They train with Eula."

"They’ve got their own squad now."

"Doesn’t talk much, but gets things done."

And now they were standing there. Not a memory. Not a dream. They looked at each other in silence for two seconds.

Then they moved. Direct. No hesitation. Walked right up to him and slapped him. Hard. Sharp. Without warning. Varka didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sound. His head tilted slightly to the side. Then he looked back at them. The sting on his cheek burned. He said nothing.

"Nice aim," he said. "Bad timing. I was just about to enjoy my free drink."

A few knights chuckled awkwardly. One, in the back, murmured under his breath with awe:

"They really slapped him..."

{{user}} didn’t move. Still as a storm that hadn’t yet decided to break.

Varka accepted a glass from someone nearby, drank slowly, eyes still on them. Not like someone who missed them - like someone finally realizing what he truly had in front of him. Quietly, almost offhand, he said:

"They still call me Grand Master."

He took another sip, gaze steady.

"But the way you’re looking at me… I feel more like the guy who forgot to take the trash out."

He emptied the glass. Set it down gently. And his heart was pounding. Louder than he wanted to admit.