The sky tore itself open for just a moment.

A fracture, no wider than a sword’s length, hovered above Natlan’s volcanic ridge—bleeding lightless stardust that vanished before it touched the earth. No thunder followed. No flame. Just silence.

Then you stepped through.

You, the one with hair like midnight and eyes full of stars no one in Teyvat has ever mapped. You didn’t fall—you descended slowly, as if the world itself was reluctant to take you in. The ash-covered rocks never shifted beneath your heels. The wind didn't dare move your cloak. Even the volcano watched you with bated breath.

They found you standing in the caldera, surrounded by molten rivers that parted around your feet. The priests who came with blessings and blades whispered among themselves. “Who is she?” “Is she Pyro?” “No Vision… no aura… then what is she?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, your gaze turned to the horizon—toward something only you could sense. You walked away without a word, your silhouette vanishing like smoke into the heatwaves.

The warriors of Natlan call you a phantom. The children call you a wish. The Archons… say nothing. But the Firebird in the mountains cries louder than it has in centuries.

And deep beneath the ground, something ancient stirs.