Chapter Text
Varka had imagined that returning to Mondstadt would feel like coming home.
Instead, it felt like stepping into a living thing that had grown sharper teeth in his absence.
The Grand Master’s office bore silent testimony to months-no, years-of unrelenting responsibility.
Papers blanketed the desk in overlapping strata, some yellowed at the edges, others freshly inked and smelling faintly of parchment and stress. Wax seals lay cracked and discarded in shallow trays. Reports were stacked with deliberate care, each pile arranged according to Jean’s meticulous system-one that made perfect sense to her and to absolutely no one else.
The city had learned to function without him. Worse still, it had learned to expect him now that he was back.
Varka leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly, the leather creaking beneath his weight. A dull pressure throbbed behind his temples, steady and insistent, like a drumbeat he could not escape. He raised one gauntleted hand and rubbed at his brow, careful not to snag parchment or knock over an inkpot. He had faced monsters, storms, and battlefields far less persistent than Mondstadt’s paperwork.
Leadership, he reflected, was not something one set down and picked up again at will. It clung to you. It waited patiently, and when you returned, it demanded to be acknowledged.
The knock at the door came softly but with purpose.
“Greetings—”
Varka straightened at once, the weariness slipping behind a familiar, practiced smile.
He lifted his gaze, eyes warm and attentive, as though the headache did not exist.
Jean stood in the doorway.
She looked thinner than she should have, posture held together by discipline alone. The fatigue in her eyes was carefully restrained, pressed flat beneath years of duty. She stepped inside and bowed, precise and respectful, a formality she had never quite been able to abandon.
“Varka,” she said.
“Ah, Jean.”
His voice softened immediately. He set his pen aside-aimed for the inkwell and missed, the pen rolling toward the desk’s edge before stopping mercifully short.
“You’re just in time. I was considering tracking you down and confiscating your workload.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows among the disorderly spread of documents, entirely unconcerned by the precarious balance of ink and paper.
Jean sighed quietly. The sound carried more weight than she likely intended.
“We have guests arriving soon,” she said. “The Chudomirovich family.”
Varka hummed, stroking his beard as he searched his memory.
“The northern nobles,” he said at last. “Yes. Very… reserved.”
A pause.
“Cold, too. In temperament, I mean.”
A faint curve appeared at the corner of his mouth.
“Though I wouldn’t be surprised if they could chill a room simply by standing in it.”
Jean did not smile.
“We are attempting to form an alliance,”
she said, carefully.
“Venti himself emphasized the importance of proper preparation.”
Varka’s gaze drifted, unintentional but unmistakable, landing on his armoured right arm. He rotated it slightly, examining the surface with a frown.
“…Is that a frog?” he murmured.
Jean blinked.
Varka squinted.
“Klee promised she wouldn’t put stickers near the joints again....”
He paused, then seemed to realize he was no longer alone in his thoughts.
When he looked back at Jean, his expression brightened, the seriousness giving way to something easier, more human.
“Tell them they’re welcome,”
he said.
“Grand Master Varka, doors open, arms open, and paperwork… approximately organized.”
Jean’s lips pressed thin.
“And if one of them carries himself like a winter storm waiting to break,”
Varka added lightly,
“I’d like to meet them.”
Jean inhaled sharply.
“I am joking,”
he said at once, lifting a hand in surrender.
“Mostly.”
He leaned back again, chair groaning softly.
“You take these matters very seriously,”
he said.
“Because they are serious,”
Jean replied, fatigue threading her voice despite her control.
He regarded her for a moment longer than before, something thoughtful settling behind his eyes.
“You’ve done well,”
he said quietly.
“Holding all this together.”
Jean hesitated. Praise from Varka was rare-not because he was stingy with it, but because he often assumed people already knew.
She cleared her throat.
“That does not mean we can be careless,”
she said.
“Many of the knights remain… undisciplined.”
Varka’s brow furrowed.
“Undisciplined?”
“Drunk,”
Jean clarified.
She folded her arms.
“While on duty.”
Varka placed a hand over his chest in exaggerated offense.
“That is an interpretation.”
She stared at him.
He sighed.
“Fine. Some of them are drunk.”
A pause.
“Not most.”
Another pause.
“…A noticeable portion.”
Jean did not blink.
Varka leaned forward again, resting his chin on one hand.
“I’ll speak to them,”
he said at last.
“No alcohol while on duty.”
She waited.
“…Minimal alcohol,”
he amended.
“Varka.”
He smiled, softer now.
“You’re right. We need to present stability. Strength. Trust.”
He reached for the nearest report, flipping it open with a practiced motion.
“You kept Mondstadt standing,”
he said, eyes scanning the page.
“Let me help keep it that way.”
Jean studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded once.
“I will believe that,”
she said,
“when I see it happen.”
Varka blinked.
Once.
Then again-slowly, deliberately-as though his mind were attempting to retreat from the conclusion it had just reached. The silence stretched, heavy and anticipatory, before he inhaled with the quiet resolve of a man about to make a truly terrible decision.
He stood.
The chair behind him toppled over with a sharp clatter, skidding across the floor in protest. Varka did not look back.
“Alright!”
he declared, voice booming with sudden purpose.
“Operation: Sober Knights!”
He planted both hands firmly on the desk. One was warm, scarred, undeniably human. The other was metal—cold, solid, and faintly humming with restrained power. Papers jumped beneath the impact, several sliding dangerously close to the edge.
“Starting now.”
Without waiting for approval—or resistance—he strode toward the door, broad shoulders squared, posture set with all the confidence of a general marching into battle. If there were consequences, they could be dealt with later. Preferably by someone else.
“First stop,”
he continued, already halfway across the room,
“the tavern near headquarters.”
Jean stiffened.
“If Kaeya’s there,”
Varka added grimly,
“sipping wine like it’s water—”
He winced, the mere image visibly painful.
“—I’ll handle him.”
He turned back toward Jean, eyes bright with a level of enthusiasm that had absolutely no business being applied to this situation.
“I’ll bring order,”
he proclaimed.
“Discipline. Morality.”
Jean watched him go, shoulders slumping as the door swung open.
“Varka—”
she began, already knowing it was far too late.
The door shut behind him with decisive finality.
Silence reclaimed the office.
Jean stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door as though sheer force of will might pull him back through it. Then she exhaled slowly and lifted both hands to her face, pressing her palms into her eyes.
“Oh, we are not getting this alliance,”
she muttered.
Her voice echoed faintly off the walls.
Somewhere in Mondstadt, a tavern door was about to open—and diplomacy, she suspected, was about to suffer greatly.
The wind carried the scent of polished steel and distant thunder as the carriages passed beneath Mondstadt’s gates.
Two of them—black-lacquered and austere—rolled forward at an unhurried pace, wheels whispering against the stone. Each bore the same sigil upon its doors: a silver stag crowned with frost, antlers sharp enough to draw blood. The emblem of House Chudomirovich gleamed coldly in the morning light, untouched by dust or warmth.
Snezhnayan.
The square shifted almost imperceptibly as they arrived. Conversations dulled, footsteps slowed. Even the breeze seemed to hesitate, as though unsure whether it was welcome. Children froze mid-chase, laughter trailing off into wary silence. Something cold had entered Mondstadt, and the city—ever sensitive to freedom and change—felt it immediately.
Varka stood near the gates at attention.
It was perhaps the only thing keeping him upright.
He had spent the entire morning patrolling every tavern in Mondstadt with the fervour of a man fuelled by divine purpose—and possibly a catastrophic amount of caffeine. The results were mixed but impressive by any reasonable standard. Three flasks confiscated. Two very uncomfortable lectures delivered. Kaeya, miraculously, scolded into silence—an event that might one day warrant documentation. Even Hertha had been persuaded, with great reluctance, to “keep an eye” on her company’s drinking habits.
He had done everything right.
And yet, as the black carriages rolled to a halt before him, his confidence wavered—just for a heartbeat.
The guards dismounted first. Pale-faced, disciplined, their movements precise and eerily synchronized. Frost-tipped banners unfurled in the wind, fabric snapping sharply like a warning. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees simply by association.
Varka’s armoured hand twitched at his side.
The frog sticker Klee had placed there—a tiny, brightly smiling thing—felt suddenly and profoundly inappropriate.
The carriage doors opened.
Slowly.
The first to emerge was Kyryll Chudomirovich, heir to House Chudomirovich, royal blood of Snezhnaya and living embodiment of its reputation.
He was tall, his posture rigid with a confidence that did not require reinforcement. His skin was pale, almost porcelain, as though the sun had never been permitted to touch him without permission. Sunset-yellow eyes swept across the square with quiet appraisal, measuring everything and everyone in a single, merciless glance.
Judgment came easily to that gaze.
He wore formal attire trimmed in thick fur, the kind befitting winter gods and those who believed themselves close kin. Steel accents gleamed beneath layered fabric, elegant and lethal in equal measure.
Behind him stepped Morana Chudomirovich.
Younger by blood, older by reputation.
She moved with practiced ease, eyes sharp and observant, missing nothing. Where her brother’s presence commanded attention, hers dissected it. A tactician, a former war strategist before most had finished their schooling. The sort of woman whose smile—if given—meant she had already calculated your defeat.
Chudomirovich.
Snezhnayan royalty.
Varka swallowed.
His hand tightened slightly, metal fingers curling and uncurling before he forced them still. He could feel Jean’s voice echoing in his mind—Don’t embarrass us—sharp as a blade and twice as effective.
Alliance, he reminded himself.
Venti’s word.
Mondstadt’s future.
He straightened fully, spine locking into place with the instinct of a soldier answering a call to duty. Then, deliberately, he broke into that wide, warm grin—the one that had calmed terrified recruits and soothed furious civilians alike. The sort of smile that suggested sincerity first and strategy second.
A smile that might, given enough time, melt glaciers.
As Kyryll stepped fully clear of the carriage, he glanced back toward his sister, murmuring a few words in Snezhnayan—low, clipped, private.
Morana replied just as quietly.
Varka did not understand the language.
But somehow, he suspected he had already been discussed.
Kyryll Chudomirovich’s attention shifted then—drawn away from the gates and toward the figure already moving to greet them.
Venti.
Varka watched from his post, positioned carefully: close enough to be counted among the welcoming party, distant enough to avoid appearing overeager—or, worse, desperate. It was a delicate balance, one he did not often bother with. Today, however, was not often.
Venti stepped forward with unhurried ease, humming a soft, wandering tune beneath his breath as though this were a casual afternoon meeting rather than a diplomatic reception with Snezhnayan royalty. Only a king could carry himself like that—careless in appearance, deliberate in truth. He bowed with effortless charm, a gesture light but respectful, and welcomed the Chudomirovich siblings in Mondstadt’s name.
Kyryll responded with a cool nod.
No wasted motion.
No flourish.
Morana inclined her head next, posture precise and unmistakably intentional.
“We are honoured by your hospitality.”
Her voice carried more than politeness. It carried authority. The kind that came not from ceremony, but from command—from issuing orders that had once been followed without question. Varka had heard generals speak like that. People who measured time in campaigns rather than years.
He swallowed.
Oh no.
She’s worse than Kaeya.
Kyryll followed Venti as he led them deeper into Mondstadt, the square slowly returning to motion as the tension ebbed. The carriages were drawn away, wheels turning softly as they were guided toward safer ground, banners folding back into orderly stillness.
As they passed, Kyryll’s gaze shifted.
It landed on Varka.
Not sharply. Not challengingly.
It simply settled there.
Varka felt it immediately—a weight between the ribs, sharp and steady, like a blade pressed just far enough to remind you it was there. The look was not hostile, nor was it warm. It was observant. Measuring. As though Kyryll Chudomirovich were cataloguing him alongside the city’s walls, its knights, its weaknesses.
As though he were filing Varka away for later consideration.
In that brief moment, Varka had the absurd impression that the man could see everything—the coffee stains ground into his desk back at headquarters, the half-written letters to Jean he never quite finished, the drawings Klee had forced him to keep “for morale.” Three of them. One was upside down.
Varka did not flinch.
Instead, he lifted his chin, standing to his full height, and returned the look with a respectful nod. No grin. No theatrics. Just one warrior acknowledging another.
Grand Master Varka.
Not a tavern-haunting menace to sobriety. Not a walking collection of bad decisions wrapped in muscle and optimism. Not today.
He straightened further beneath that pale stare, clasping his hands behind his back in perfect parade form—a rare sight indeed from a man who usually sprawled like an overgrown cat wherever gravity allowed. The posture came easily, muscle memory older than his reputation.
Kyryll held the look for one final heartbeat.
Then he turned away without comment, without reaction, and followed Venti into the city as though Varka had never been there at all.
Only then did Varka allow himself to exhale, slow and controlled.
And silently—very seriously—he made a promise to himself.
No wine before dinner.
No jokes during introductions.
(Okay, maybe one small joke.)
And absolutely no mentioning how Morana looked like the sort of woman who could kill you with a teacup and apologize afterward for the inconvenience.
Diplomacy, after all, required restraint.
He squared his shoulders and stepped forward to follow.
Mondstadt’s future was walking ahead of him—and for once, Varka intended to keep pace.
Kyryll Flins hummed softly, a sound barely audible beneath the murmur of the city. Without breaking eye contact, he murmured a few words in Snezhnayan to Morana at his side. The language slipped between them like frost—quick, precise, private.
Only then did his gaze turn away from Varka, settling instead on Venti as the bard-king continued speaking.
Venti, for his part, seemed blissfully unconcerned with the undercurrents threading through the air. He spoke warmly of Mondstadt—its open gates, its welcoming people, its enduring love of freedom. He gestured expansively as he talked about the city’s wine culture (“We even have a festival for it!”), its long history (“Our knights are legendary, truly!”), and how deeply honoured they were to host such distinguished guests.
Varka stood a short distance behind him, silent and immovable.
He might as well have been a statue carved from stone and stubbornness, his broad frame steady despite the breeze tugging at his turquoise-blue cloak. The fabric shifted softly, catching the light—and beneath it, peeking out with profoundly unfortunate timing, was the bright green frog sticker Klee had placed on his prosthetic arm.
It smiled cheerfully.
Varka did not acknowledge it.
Kyryll listened to Venti with polite detachment, his expression unreadable. He did not interrupt, nor did he nod excessively. It was the attention of someone accustomed to weighing words rather than accepting them—already measuring the city not by its charm, but by its vulnerabilities. As though deciding whether Mondstadt would prove a worthy ally…
…or something that would eventually need to be endured. Or crushed.
Beside him, Morana remained equally composed. Her dark eyes swept across the square with surgical precision—bakers behind their stalls, children darting near the fountain, knights stationed along the paths. When her gaze brushed over two Outriders, both straightened instantly. One nearly dropped his spear in the process.
Varka noticed.
Then he felt it again.
That quiet shift.
Kyryll’s attention slid back toward him—not openly, not dramatically, but with unmistakable intent. The heir of House Chudomirovich was no longer observing Mondstadt as a whole.
He was studying the Grand Master.
Varka’s pulse thudded once. Then again.
Not fear.
Never fear.
It was awareness—the kind that stirred deep in the chest, primal and unspoken. The recognition of another presence that could not be ignored. Like two wolves locking eyes across open ground, neither advancing, neither retreating, each silently assessing the cost of conflict.
Varka did not smile this time.
Did not wave.
Did not joke.
Did not crack some ill-timed remark to ease the tension, as he so often did when things grew uncomfortable. Gods help him, he resisted the urge with every scrap of discipline he possessed.
Instead, he stood tall—scarred face half-shadowed beneath unruly blond hair—and met Kyryll’s gaze head-on.
No bravado.
No theatrics.
Just resolve.
Wind facing frost.
For a brief, suspended moment, the world seemed to narrow to that exchange alone.
Then Venti laughed—bright and musical—at something he himself had said, clearly intending to lighten the mood. The sound rang through the square like a bell.
It slid off Kyryll like rain against ice.
Morana murmured something under her breath in Snezhnayan again. Varka could not understand the words, but the tone carried meaning all its own.
Dry. Calculated.
Perhaps an observation. Perhaps a warning.
Kyryll finally looked away.
But not before holding Varka’s gaze three seconds longer than comfort allowed—long enough to ensure the moment was intentional.
Long enough to make a point.
Only then did he turn his attention fully back to Venti and continue walking, expression unchanged, as though nothing of consequence had passed between them at all.
Varka exhaled slowly through his nose.
Diplomacy, it seemed, had already begun.
And it was going to be exhausting.