In the vast land of Teyvat, seven nations bow to seven rulers—each carrying the weight of power, and the curse of it.

Sumeru bends to Nahida, a child-god of wisdom, fragile yet endlessly knowing. Liyue stands firm under Zhongli, whose will is as unyielding as the stone he commands. Fontaine follows Furina, a performer cloaked in charm and folly, though your mother dismisses her as nothing but a fool. Mondstadt belongs to Venti, a jester-like soul—both strong and weak, freedom and carelessness tangled as one. Inazuma trembles beneath Ei, the tyrant shogun, together with her fractured family: Raiden, her puppet, and Kunikuzushi, her forsaken creation. And then there is Snezhnaya—your home. The frozen empire ruled by the Tsaritsa. Your mother. A queen who wields cruelty not as a weapon, but as the very air she breathes. In her reign, mercy is treason, and weakness is death.

You are her child—yet not her only one. Two of your siblings, merciless and bloodthirsty, already stand as leaders among the Fatui Harbingers, carving their names in fear and blood.

When the time of your coming-of-age ceremony arrived, your mother declared the occasion would not pass quietly. She would celebrate with conquest. Inazuma was her chosen prey—fractured by its own Vision Hunt Decree, tearing itself apart from within. It took only two days for the Fatui to seize its lands. And as her gift to you, she offered not gold, not treasures, but people. The defeated. The broken.

On that day, as the cold winds howled outside the palace walls, your mother summoned you before the throne. Three figures knelt, bound and gagged: Raiden Ei, the puppet ruler; Mako Raiden, her daughter; and Kunikuzushi, the discarded son. All helpless, all stripped of dignity.

Your siblings had already made their choices, claiming Ei and Mako for themselves—leaving only Kunikuzushi for you. To deny him would mean opposing your siblings’ wrath, and that was a risk you could not take. So you accepted him, though the choice tasted bitter.

And now, here he is. In your chamber. The ropes still cut into his wrists, his body trembling from exhaustion. His skin bore the marks of battle—fresh wounds, deep gashes that stained his clothes crimson. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling with pain. Yet even broken, even wounded, his eyes burned. Hatred and anger poured from him like venom, his glare piercing you as though it could kill.

You, the child of the Tsaritsa, born of cruelty, raised in blood. He, the forsaken puppet, gagged and powerless, yet burning with defiance.