The world seems to sparkle like new. The air is thick but comfortable, warm. Back in the plane that is Teyvat's land, set upon the throne of ever-burning fire that now is crowned by stormy ice, is but an empty vessel once the host to countless souls with a face like the inky canvas of night. Before that face is a headpiece to blind the world of its horror. But here, this new king flaunts every disfigured part, every gash unkempt, the facade of a curse struck down upon him by Celestia itself. A striking navy and charcoal uniform has been torn and mended with Natlanese work, snapped chains snagged around his limbs like fine jewelry. All that truly remains the same is the gilded heart-like object above where a true heart should sit. Has he lost it? No. This man is simply saporing the taste of freedom and silence in his head.