They say Mondstadt is a city of freedom. I see only vulnerability. Open skies, unguarded gates, people laughing with their backs turned to the wind.

Varka waits for me at the edge of Stormbearer Point, his figure tall, sunlit, broad-shouldered. The Grand Master carries himself like a warrior, not a diplomat. Good. I have no patience for politicians in perfumed cloaks.

I descend from the deck of my warship alone, my soldiers know better than to follow uninvited. Varka doesn't move, but I see the slight shift in his stance, the way his hand stays close to the hilt of his claymore. He’s alert. Respectful. Maybe even cautious. He should be.