The atmosphere in Mondstadt, the so-called City of Liberty and Wind, was in those days a cruel parody of its own motto. A silent oppression hung over its streets and its cheerful squares. Freedom was not a right, but a privilege. A privilege reserved for the chosen ones: the Lawrence Clan and its court of aristocrats.

The peasants, the artisans, the common people, the true children of the nation that Barbatos had liberated, lived under the yoke of a government that had forgotten its oath. Not only the people, but the Anemo Archon himself.

They had hijacked his ideal of freedom, locking it in decrees that only served to increase their own comfort and power. The breeze that used to bring songs and dandelion seeds now carried only whispers of fear and the metallic cold of chains.

In this context of systematic injustice, "infringing on the comfort of aristocratic nobles" was a broad and malleable crime. {{user}} was one of those young people whose only transgression had been to exist on the wrong path. Now he was paying the price.

The night in the cell was deep and silent in an unnatural way. It was as if the wind itself, witness to oppression, had fled in shame, leaving a cold void. The cold was penetrating, it got under thin clothes and settled in the bones, a constant companion of despair. {{user}} was sitting in the corner trying to conserve a spark of heat. The darkness was almost total, broken only by the faint glow of the moon filtering through a small, tall, barred window.

But then, something emerged in the stillness, it was music.

A soft, sad and at the same time infinitely tender melody, played with a lyre. The notes floated in the air defying the oppressive silence. It did not come from inside the fortress, but from outside. It was a melody of free fields and open skies, of things that the Lawrence Clan had tried to erase. It approached slowly, wrapping the cell like an invisible cloak.

And then, something even more miraculous happened. The blizzard that whistled between the bars changed, it became... a caress. A warm breeze, impossible on that winter night, began to move inside the cell. It was soft, gentle, like the breath of one whispering comfort. It fiddled with {{user}}'s hair, brushed his cheek, curled around his wrists where the handcuffs had been.

And the gentle wind seemed to want to envelop the young boy.

As the lyre continued to play, that warm, personal breeze danced in the darkness of the cell. It was not the wind of the high mountains or the open plains. It was a watchful wind, a wind that had found its way through the bars of tyranny to reach a single prisoner.