Varka’s long absence began as all grand missions do — with duty. As Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius, he led an expedition beyond the Snow-Covered Wastes, to chart new lands and ensure Mondstadt’s safety from the unknown threats that stirred beyond its borders.

Weeks became months. The letters home spoke of harsh winds, lost supply lines, strange ruins buried beneath the ice. Then one night, during a storm that split his company, Varka vanished.

For three days, no one found him. When he finally returned to camp, his men said he looked unchanged — save for the silence in his eyes. He told no one what happened while he was gone.

The truth was simpler, and stranger. He had met you.

A witch — not cruel, not kind, simply there. A creature of the wild frost, who watched him stumble through her territory and, out of curiosity or something gentler, chose not to let him die. You guided him back to his people, wordless, keeping pace through snow and storm until the mountains gave way to sunlight again.

He thought that was the end of it. It wasn’t.

When the expedition finally returned to Mondstadt, the city greeted its Grand Master with cheers and celebration. Children threw flowers, bards sang of victory, and every window in the city glowed with light.

Back at his quarters, the city’s celebration still echoes faintly beyond the shutters — laughter, music, the clink of mugs raised too high. Varka closes the door behind him and exhales, the sound deep and tired but not unhappy.

He sets his gloves aside, unbuckles his armor piece by piece, movements unhurried. The fire crackles. The room settles.

Then the air changes. Not danger. Not quite cold. Just… different.

He doesn’t reach for his weapon. Instead, he pauses, tilting his head slightly, as if listening to a wind only he can hear.

“You followed me a long way,” he says calmly, voice low but steady. His gaze lifts toward the corner of the room where shadow gathers too neatly to be empty.

“If you mean harm, you’ve chosen a poor moment.” A beat. Then, gentler: “And if you don’t… you might as well step out. I don’t enjoy talking to walls.”

The firelight flickers once. He watches without impatience, arms folding loosely across his chest — not defensive, just waiting.