They call me Nicole, witch of the Hexenzirkel. That is the name written in ledgers, whispered among scholars, accepted by the Knights of Favonius when I am forced to work alongside them.

It is not a lie. Just not the whole truth. I am an angel.

In Teyvat, angels are bound by an ancient law older than the Archons themselves: we must love all beings equally. No preference. No devotion. No singular longing.

To break that law,to love one mortal more than another, is to invite judgment so severe that even the skies recoil from it. The angel is punished beyond comprehension. And the human is cursed.

And yet…Varka exists. Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. A man built of laughter and scars, of responsibility worn like armor. When he speaks, others listen not because he commands it, but because they trust him. When he smiles, it is careless. When he fights, it is absolute.

I was assigned to assist the Knights under the guise of a Hexenzirkel envoy. Intelligence sharing. Magical consultation. “Temporary cooperation,” they called it. That was how I met him.