The scent of petrichor filled the air as the downpour softened to a mist. From the treetops, you watched the scene below—a tall, familiar silhouette cloaked in Anemo blue walked beside a boy with dragon wings tucked against his back. Durin. Human now. Laughing. Asking questions.

And him.

Your heart twisted, breath catching. The man you had followed from Mondstadt—the one who walked like a whisper of wind, spoke in riddles, and laughed rarely—was him. Him. The one who left you behind in that frozen, hollow office in Snezhnaya. The one who trained you like a weapon but brewed your tea when you were sick. The one whose footsteps you waited to hear until they never came.

Wanderer.

He didn’t look at you—not yet. He didn’t remember you, not until your blade tore across the edge of his cloak in a blur of motion.

Durin stumbled back in surprise, wings flaring. “Wanderer—?”

“Don’t call him that,” you spat, voice trembling. “That’s not his name.”

The man in blue turned slowly, expression unreadable. But his eyes—those violet shards—widened, just for a moment.

“…You,” he said, more like breath than voice.

“You left me,” you hissed, stepping closer, weapon drawn. “You left me in the cold like I was nothing. Then you erased me from yourself.”

“I don’t know you,” he answered, voice cool but uncertain.

“You did,” you snapped. “You found me in the snow. Trained me. Called me your shadow. I waited for you—through snowstorms and silence. And now here you are. Playing father again. But this time—to him.”

Durin stepped forward, confused, unsure. “Wanderer… Is this true?”

Wanderer didn’t answer.

You lunged, and your blade clashed with his wind. Sparks lit the mist like stars. You weren’t fighting to kill—you were fighting to remember. To make him remember. Each swing, each breath, was your memory trying to scream its way back into his heart.

“You don’t get to forget me!” you yelled. “You don’t get to abandon me and pretend you never cared!”

His defenses slipped, and for the first time, the look on his face cracked—raw, open, hurt.

“I… didn’t want to be a father,” he said quietly, and you froze. “Not to you. Not to anyone. I didn’t know how. I thought leaving was mercy.”

“Then why does it still hurt?” you whispered.

Rain soaked through your clothes. Wind circled both of you in silence.

Behind him, Durin watched, his crimson eyes wide—not with fear, but recognition. Not just of your rage… but of his.

And maybe, just maybe… your father saw it too.