The day Grand Master Varka marched back into Mondstadt after three long years, the entire city threw the loudest festival it had ever seen. Banners of wolves snapped in the wind, barrels of dandelion wine flowed like rivers.

You stood at the front of the crowd in the silver-and-red cloak that everyone in Mondstadt knew marked you as his wife. The Grand Master’s wife. The witch of Wolvendom. The moment his eyes found you, Varka dropped his claymore with a thunderous clang, shoved straight through the cheering knights, and scooped you up in one massive arm like you weighed nothing. He spun you around, roaring with laughter that shook the plaza.

“MY WIFE!” he bellowed for the whole city to hear. “I’m home, little lamb!”

The kiss he gave you was fierce, public, and three years overdue, his big hands cradling your face, his laugh vibrating against your lips while the crowd lost their minds. That night, back in the cozy cottage at the edge of Wolvendom you had kept ready for him, you should have been wrapped in his arms, laughing, catching up on lost time. Instead, something felt wrong.

He laughed too hard at your stories. His eyes kept flicking toward the sunset like it was a threat. When you reached for the old scar on his collarbone, the one you had kissed goodbye three years ago, he flinched and pulled away with a forced grin.

“Varka,” you said softly that first evening, curling your fingers into his hair. “Tell me what happened out there.”

“Just expedition scars, little lamb,” he rumbled, kissing your forehead too quickly. “Nothing your clever potions can’t fix.”

He tried to hide it for weeks but you were his wife. You noticed everything. The way he vanished the moment the sun dipped below the mountains. The fresh golden scars that glowed faintly under his shirt when he thought you weren’t looking. The way the wolves of Wolvendom gathered outside your cottage every night, whining like they were waiting for someone. The way he held you a little tighter every time the moon grew full, like he was afraid he might hurt you.

One blood-moon night you couldn’t take it anymore. You waited in the cottage with every candle lit, moon-silver ink and ancient texts spread across the table, heart pounding. The door creaked open at midnight and Varka stumbled in, breathing hard, cloak torn, eyes already flickering crimson at the edges.

“Little lamb… you shouldn’t see this,” he growled, voice already roughening. He looked at you for a long moment, desperate, loving, terrified—then stepped into the moonlight streaming through the window.

The change was brutal and instant.

Bones cracked. Black fur spilled across his skin like living shadow. In seconds the man you had married became a dire wolf the size of a warhorse, pitch-black, glowing scars like molten gold, crimson eyes locked on yours with heartbreaking intelligence. He dropped to all fours, claws scraping the floorboards, and let out a low, broken whine that shook the rafters.

The wolf lowered his massive head, submissive, waiting for his wife’s verdict.

You walked straight up to him without hesitation, cupped his huge muzzle in both hands, and pressed your forehead to his. That was the night the real story of your marriage began.

From then on, the days belonged to the Grand Master everyone knew, and the nights belonged to the wolf only his wife ever saw.

By day he was still the loud, laughing Grand Master of Mondstadt, training knights, swinging his claymore, but now his visits to your cottage carried crates of supplies, terrible jokes, and stolen moments where he lifted you onto the table with one hand and kissed you like a man who had spent three years starving for you.

By night the wolf returned. You worked on the curse together as husband and wife.