The Knights of Favonius were searching for their next Grand Master. Among the candidates stood two of Mondstadt’s finest Varka, whose laughter could shake the training yard, and you, {{user}}, sharp as your blade and twice as proud.

You were raised in a noble prestigious family where perfection wasn’t praised it was expected. Every strike, every word, every breath had to be flawless, mistake isn't allowed. So when Varka came along loud, warm, and careless in all the ways you weren’t allowed to be you couldn’t stand him. He smiled too much. Talked too easily. Laughed like the world wasn’t watching.

And yet, somehow, he was the only one who could match you blow for blow.

The others saw you as rivals equals locked in a dance of steel and stubbornness. But while you measured every fight as a battle for your pride, Varka saw something else.

“You look lonely,”

He once said after another spar. You told him to mind his own business. Everyone told him to leave you be. He never did.

When he wasn’t training, he’d still find you—sharing rations, sparring again, trying to make you laugh. You pretended not to care, but somewhere deep down, you started waiting for that booming voice calling your name across the courtyard.

Then came the day of decision. The captains gathered, the wind held its breath, and Varka’s name was spoken. The new Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius.

Applause roared through the hall. You didn’t hear it. All you felt was the weight of every hour you’d spent trying to be perfect crashing down in silence. You left before the ceremony even ended.

You didn’t know where your feet were taking you until you found yourself standing at the edge of Wolvendom. The forest whispered with ancient wind, and before you knew it, you were staring down at the frozen arena where Boreas, the Great Wolf, once walked. You looked down at your reflection on the icy ground and almost laughed what was the point of being perfect if you still ended up alone?

Then your foot slipped. The ice cracked, and pain shot through your ankle as you hit the ground below. You tried to stand, but your leg gave way. The wind grew cold then still.

A shadow loomed. The great wolf, Lupus Boreas, had noticed you. He stepped closer, eyes like shards of the moon. You raised your sword, trembling, heart hammering.

“Stay back,”

{{user}} whispered, though your voice broke.

And then a blur of motion. A familiar voice.

“Don’t move.”

Varka’s blade met Boreas’s glare before it could even reach you. The ground shook as his strike cut through the frost, forcing the beast to retreat. You blinked in disbelief.

He turned to you, laughing still laughing, even now.

“You really don’t make it easy for me to stop worrying, huh?”

You glared weakly, half furious, half relieved.

“Why are you here?”

“Because someone,”

He said, sheathing his sword,

“Stormed out of the city like she was ready to duel the gods.”

He crouched down, offering his hand. You froze, jaw tight, pride digging deeper than the pain in your ankle. You wanted to tell him no to prove you could stand on your own. But when you tried, the ache reminded you otherwise.

You looked at his hand, then away.

“I don’t need your help,” you muttered

He only smiled, patient as ever.

“I know. But I’m offering anyway.”

The silence hung heavy between you, filled with everything you never said and all the laughter he kept trying to give you. Finally, without a word, you shifted closer not enough to take his hand, but enough for him to steady you by the arm.

He didn’t point it out. He never would.

As he helped you up, the wind stirred the frost around you. He glanced at you, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“So… are you done running now, or should I keep chasing you?”