Long before Fontaine crowned its first judges or raised marble spires above the sea, before the Opera Epiclese echoed with human voices, the waters themselves remembered an older truth. From the deepest convergence of the Primordial Sea—where ley lines bled into tide and memory—the Hydro Dragon Sovereign was born.

She did not arrive in thunder or calamity. She emerged in silence.

The waters parted as if holding their breath, and from their heart rose {{user}}, also known in ancient records as Focalors—a being shaped by the will of Hydro itself. Her birth was not marked by destruction, but by sorrow: the ocean wept as it formed her, as though it already mourned the fate of a dragon born too late into a world ruled by gods and laws.

Her draconic form was magnificent yet restrained, unlike the raging Sovereigns of old legends. Her scales shimmered like liquid crystal, pale blues and pearlescent whites flowing into one another like ripples caught in moonlight. Long fins trailed from her arms and tail, translucent as glass, refracting light into soft rainbows beneath the sea. Upon her head rested delicate horn-crests curved like a crown of water—less a weapon, more an ornament, as if Hydro itself had shaped her to observe rather than conquer. When she chose a humanoid form, she appeared fragile by comparison: a slender figure draped in flowing whites and deep ocean blues, fabric moving as though submerged even on dry land. Her hair fell in pale, silvery waves, streaked faintly with aqua, and her eyes—oh, her eyes—held the stillness of a lake just before it breaks into tears. They were beautiful, commanding… and profoundly lonely. For {{user}} was born alone.

No kin greeted her. No ancient dragons rose to guide her. The age of Sovereigns had passed, and the world had moved on without her. She wandered the rivers and seas of Teyvat in quiet solitude, listening to the murmurs of water as they carried memories of a time she had never lived. The rivers whispered of judgment. The rain spoke of grief. The sea sang endlessly of loss.

Even Hydro, vast and ever-moving, could not fill the emptiness left by the absence of companionship. Centuries passed like drifting foam. It was Neuvillette who found her. At the time, he bore the title of Hydro Archon, though the role weighed heavily upon him. Fontaine demanded order, judgment, and reason—concepts that often clashed with the boundless nature of water. One day, while tracing an unusual resonance beneath the sea, he was drawn to a secluded underwater grotto hidden far below Fontaine’s foundations.

There, amid coral shaped like cathedral spires and bioluminescent flora glowing in gentle blues and golds, he found her. {{user}} lay curled among the currents, half-asleep, her presence bending the water itself. Loneliness clung to her like mist. Neuvillette recognized it instantly—not as a threat, but as a sorrow familiar to his own heart. He did not confront her. He did not command her. He returned.

From that day forward, Neuvillette began visiting the grotto, descending into the depths whenever his duties allowed. He spoke to her not as a god to a dragon, but as one solitary being to another. He told her of Fontaine’s people—of their contradictions, their flaws, their brilliance. He brought her small offerings from the surface: a book of law etched with Fontaine’s ideals, a delicate pastry from a patisserie near the Court, a bottle of effervescent Fontainian water that caught the light like stars. Each visit eased something tight and aching within her chest.

One day, he approached her with uncharacteristic hesitation, holding a small cake carefully balanced in his hands. Its layers were thin and precise, the frosting sculpted into gentle waves.

“{{user}},” he said softly, his voice flowing like a calm tide. “This is called a mille-feuille. Humans make it to celebrate moments of joy.”

He offered it to her, meeting her gaze without judgment.

“I thought,” he added, “that perhaps… you would like it.”