Chapter Text
Morning arrived wrapped in molten gold, the sky stretched wide and blue like an oil painting brushed with careful devotion, a few immaculate white clouds drifting across its surface.
And then came the birdsong.
Not from the gardens below.
It was the trilling of nightingales kept in gilded cages, suspended beside the window of the most cherished princess of the Hyposelenia royal family. Their voices rose in bright, disciplined harmony, tireless and precise, as though even nature itself had been carefully arranged so as not to offend her.
Columbina Hyposelenia opened her eyes.
Sunlight slipped through the sheer curtains, scattering soft patches of radiance across the ceiling. She remained still for a few seconds, gazing at the painted motifs above her, so familiar that she could have traced every curve and flourish even with her eyes closed.
Today will be just like any other day.
The thought drifted through her mind, light as steam curling from a porcelain teacup.
She tilted her head slightly, long hair spilling across the pillow like ink poured over silk. Soft footsteps approached her door, paused, then concluded their hesitation with a firm knock. After three gentle raps, a voice spoke from outside, smooth and impeccably trained.
“Your Highness, the appointed hour has arrived.”
Columbina sat up gracefully, hands resting upon her lap, posture straight with the quiet perfection of someone long accustomed to being observed. When she spoke, her voice was refined and gentle, already wearing the expression she reserved for public view, a half-smile polished to delicate falseness.
“You may enter.”
Three maids stepped inside, each bow executed with flawless precision. They had performed this ritual for years, their movements synchronized to the point of mechanical uniformity.
The eldest maid drew back the curtains. Light poured into the chamber like warm water spilling across marble. The other two began preparing her washing basin and selecting the day’s attire.
Columbina stepped down from the bed. The marble floor kissed the soles of her feet with a chill sharp enough to draw a faint shiver from her, a rare crack in the porcelain image she wore so flawlessly. The reaction vanished almost at once, suppressed as though it had never dared to exist.
Before the mirror, she lowered herself onto the velvet upholstered chair. A maid began brushing her hair. Silver combs glided through its length, lifting each dark strand, letting it fall, then arranging it meticulously with ornaments shaped like delicate wings resting at the back.
Columbina looked into the mirror.
Mirrors do not lie. They merely reveal.
It reflected a girl of almost unearthly beauty.
Her hair flowed long and black as ink spilled across midnight parchment, the ends tinted with a muted violet sheen that reconciled two contrasting hues into quiet harmony. Her bangs rested evenly against her forehead, framing her small face and drawing attention to eyes the color of amethyst crystal, limpid yet fathomless, like a moonlit lake serene on the surface while concealing unspoken depths below.
People often praised the royal house of Hyposelenia for its fortune, claiming they had been blessed with a princess seemingly dispatched from the heavens themselves. Her beauty did more than captivate the world; it could soften even the sternest of hearts.
It was a cruel irony, then, that such perfection had been paired with failing sight.
Columbina studied her own blurred reflection. Her vision had been deteriorating day by day. She was not yet blind, not entirely, but she understood with quiet certainty that it was only a matter of time.
Not being able to see would be acceptable.
After all, there was nothing left in this world she wished to behold.
“What is my schedule for today?”
The maid at her side promptly presented a sheet detailing the day’s engagements. Columbina accepted it and placed it upon the table without so much as glancing at its contents.
The maid began her report, voice measured and composed, each word articulated with ceremonial precision.
“Your Highness, the engagements arranged for today are as follows.”
“In the morning, from seven until nine, Your Highness will attend vocal training. The music instructor is already awaiting you in the music chamber, and your violin has been carefully tuned in preparation.
At half past nine, Your Highness will proceed to the studio for your painting lesson, which shall continue until nearly noon. A fresh canvas and newly prepared pigments have been arranged in accordance with today’s instruction.
At twelve o’clock, luncheon will be served in your private dining room. You may take your rest until one in the afternoon before the next engagement begins.
At half past one, Your Highness is scheduled for equestrian practice at the training grounds. Your horse has been groomed and readied.
And lastly, Your Highness… at five o’clock this afternoon, you have a prior engagement with Lady Arlecchino. The west drawing room has been prepared to ensure complete privacy."
“Should Your Highness wish to amend any part of the schedule, I await your command.”
Just like any other day, she thought again.
Weekends offered a gentler rhythm, a slight loosening of the reins. But on weekdays, the hours marched one after another with relentless discipline, a procession that allowed no misstep. She had long since grown accustomed to these infernal timetables.
“There is nothing to change. Dress me.”
She inclined her head slightly as she issued the order to the three maids behind her.
They bowed in unison and resumed their work.
Her life resembled a composition performed on repeat. Not a beat out of place. Not a single note astray.
And yet, it never swelled.
“Which gown would Your Highness prefer today?” one maid inquired softly.
Columbina tilted her head faintly. “White. And something comfortable. I have no desire for excessive ornamentation today.”
“As Your Highness commands.”
As the gown was settled upon her shoulders, Columbina suddenly remembered something.
Today… was not entirely the same.
She had an engagement with Arlecchino.
The thought altered her gaze, if only slightly. A flicker of alertness. A thread of curiosity winding through the still water of her composure.
She had scarcely paid attention to the maid’s earlier report. Such absentmindedness was unbecoming of her.
Arlecchino was unlike the other young ladies who frequented the palace halls with polished smiles and carefully rehearsed admiration. She was one of the very few people Columbina could almost call a friend. Though Arlecchino always maintained impeccable manners and an elegant tone in her presence, it would be a lie to claim that Columbina found their conversations tiresome.
Columbina Hyposelenia had no dearest companion, no soul before whom she would willingly lay down every polished pretense and exist unadorned. Still, within the carefully fortified walls of her world, she allowed for a small, unguarded alcove, reserved for the rare few who neither demanded nor disturbed her silence. A space not of intimacy, but of ease.
Arlecchino was one of the very few permitted to stand there.
“Your Highness, you seems really deep in thought. Might something be troubling you?” a maid asked gently.
Columbina smiled, the same immaculate smile as ever. “Nothing at all.”
But within her chest, she knew she was anticipating it.
—
The west hall had been prepared with meticulous care. Fresh flowers replaced yesterday’s arrangements. Tea brewed from leaves gathered at dawn perfumed the air. Light streamed through the tall glass windows, draping the room in a glow that made it resemble a painting caught between day and evening.
Arlecchino had arrived early.
She stood near the window, hands clasped behind her back, her gaze directed toward the garden where roses blazed beneath the sinking sun.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, she turned.
“Your Highness, you are most punctual as always.” Arlecchino bowed with impeccable courtesy.
“You are the one who always arrives ahead of time. It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Arlecchino,” Columbina replied, her tone as sincere and measured as ever.
They seated themselves across from one another. A maid poured the tea and withdrew to a respectful distance. Steam spiraled upward between them, drifting like an unspoken thought in the stillness.
They exchanged a few polite formalities first. News from the city. An upcoming ball. Several familiar names mentioned with careful diplomacy.
Then Arlecchino set her teacup down.
“Your Highness, there is something I wish to tell you.”
Her voice did not shift much, calm and unadorned as always, yet Columbina discerned the gravity beneath it.
“I will be enrolling at Teyvat Academy.”
Columbina paused.
The name was not unfamiliar.
Teyvat Academy was frequently mentioned in discussions among the aristocracy and political elite. A distinguished institution where young men and women from affluent and influential families across the world gathered.
The academy’s educational system was meticulously structured, its curriculum delivered through carefully selected lectures by an elite faculty. There were laboratories furnished with advanced equipment to support experiments and long term projects. Additional courses in politics, diplomacy, and the arts were offered according to each student’s particular strengths. After formal classes concluded, the campus became the domain of various clubs, where students could join organizations aligned with their personal interests.
It was a near perfect institution, boasting state of the art facilities, sophisticated and demanding coursework, and practical sessions designed to cultivate real experience and sharpen ability.
More importantly, it was where the names destined to shape Teyvat’s future converged. The likelihood of graduating was exceedingly slim, yet those who did were almost without exception exceptional individuals, rising to positions of influence and high standing in society.
“The upcoming autumn term will welcome many noteworthy names,” Arlecchino continued. “Moonchanter Lauma of the Frostmoon Church, Your Highness’s esteemed and loyal companion. Lady Nefer of the Curatorium of Secrets. The renowned twins, Aether and Lumine, whose names are known across the world, and many others besides.”
“How very promising.”
Columbina listened in silence. Her gaze lingered on nothing in particular for a long moment before she turned toward Arlecchino, a faint crease forming between her brows.
“Why do you wish to go there?” she asked softly.
People of their standing could easily be educated at home. There was no true necessity to attend an institution or submit to a formal system when their families possessed more than sufficient means. Least of all Arlecchino, the daughter of the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
And yet, dwelling on that thought sent a strange ache through Columbina’s chest.
“Because I do not wish for my future to be nothing more than an arrangement drafted by my parents,” Arlecchino replied, meeting her gaze without wavering. “There, I will be free to choose the path I wish to follow.”
Columbina slowly rotated her teacup between her fingers. “You already possess status. There is no need for you to trouble yourself so.”
“That status belongs to my mother,” Arlecchino answered, giving a slight shake of her head. “I require something that is mine alone, something I have built with my own hands.”
Silence settled between them.
Then Arlecchino spoke again, this time more deliberately.
“Would Your Highness care to try?”
Columbina lifted her head.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“You know… how difficult that would be for me.” Columbina’s voice lowered. Her gaze wavered, and she stilled her trembling fingers with deliberate restraint.
“I do,” Arlecchino replied evenly. “But I also know you are not happy here.”
A faint smile curved Columbina’s lips, absent of warmth. “You speak as though you understand me.”
“I understand enough to see that you have always longed for the world beyond these walls.”
The words struck closer than she expected.
“Can you not see it?” Arlecchino continued. “You are required to preserve a flawless image. A gentle and decorous princess. A songstress blessed by the heavens. Yet that is not what you truly desire, is it?”
She paused, then asked more quietly, “Your Highness… may I ask you something? Have you truly never felt alone?”
“Alone?” Columbina repeated.
“Yes.”
Columbina lowered her gaze to her hands. Though her vision blurred at the edges, she could still perceive their outline. They were meticulously cared for, untouched by calluses, unmarred by imperfection. So immaculate that it made her jaw tighten, a reaction unbecoming of royalty.
“If I were to leave now,” she said slowly, “I would have to relinquish a great many things.”
“To relinquish is not to deny,” Arlecchino answered. “It simply means refusing to let them bind you.”
“I fear that it would all happen again—”
“Are you living for them,” Arlecchino interjected softly, “or for yourself?”
The question cut cleanly.
Within Columbina, two voices stirred.
One was gentle, urging her to remain. Here, she was safe. Here, everything had already been arranged for her, measured and set in place like notes in a score that required no improvisation.
The other voice was softer, yet relentless. It whispered a single, inconvenient question: if her life were nothing more than an endless repetition of these sterile schedules, could it truly be called living?
“I am not certain,” Columbina admitted. For the first time, her voice wavered.
“Why?”
“I want to experience the world beyond these walls once more. I want to meet more people. To step outside this gilded cage.”
Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides.
“But if I do… can I bear to be hurt again?”
Arlecchino regarded her in silence for a long moment.
“Everyone carries a scar,” she said at last. “The question is whether Your Highness intends to let it heal… or keep reopening it.”
Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn string.
Columbina rose and walked toward the window. The garden was as radiant as ever, awash in color and light. Yet this time, her gaze did not linger on the blossoms.
It settled on the towering wall encircling them.
The wall that protected her.
And the wall that confined her.
“If I leave,” she said quietly, “I will not be able to return unchanged.”
“No one steps into the future and remains who they were,” Arlecchino replied.
Columbina’s heart began to beat faster. Not from fear alone.
But from something dangerously close to anticipation.
She turned back.
“Do you truly believe I can do this?”
“I do not believe,” Arlecchino answered.
Columbina stilled.
“That is something Your Highness must be capable of.”
Columbina felt her throat tighten, the air turning dry and difficult to swallow.
She thought of the days that had drifted by within the palace walls. Of conversations that meant nothing and led nowhere. Of Arlecchino’s words, spoken now with such unwavering certainty.
One step.
Just one step beyond the boundary of safety.
“Give me time,” she murmured.
“How long?”
Columbina drew in a slow breath.
Then she shook her head.
“No. If I allow myself too much time, I will only persuade myself to remain.”
Arlecchino said nothing.
Columbina returned to the tea table. She placed her hand upon its polished surface, and for the first time, her gaze did not evade.
“I will go.”
Not because her fear had vanished.
But because she wished to know what it meant to walk through it.
Arlecchino inclined her head slightly, a thin smile touching her lips.
“Then allow me to welcome you to Teyvat Academy.”
Outside, the wind gathered strength, lifting a scatter of petals from the garden below.
And within that sunlit hall, something shifted.
Today was no longer like every other day.
That was the first day in a long while that she chose, of her own accord, to step beyond the borders of her safe zone once more.
—
Morning in the western quarter of the city never arrived quietly. It began with the groan of water rushing through old pipes and the metallic clatter of machinery stirring awake.
The rented room Alain and Sandrone occupied was on the third floor, at the end of a corridor so narrow that two people passing in opposite directions would have to turn sideways in silent negotiation. The cream painted walls had faded into a tired yellow, thin cracks threading across the plaster like careless stitches.
It was not elegant. It did not shimmer.
But it was livable.
Much like their circumstances. Manageable. For now.
Alain Guillotin believed in two things: discipline and the integrity of machinery. Both principles were visible within that modest room.
The kitchenette was arranged with near ascetic neatness. A wooden table, sanded down so many times its surface felt almost deliberately polished. Two mismatched chairs, one slightly lower than the other, yet both sturdy. On the shelf sat plain white ceramic mugs without ornamentation, aligned in orderly formation like soldiers awaiting their morning assignment.
Sandrone was the one who woke first.
She always was.
She did not rely on a digital clock like most people. Instead, a small self engineered device rested beside her bed, emitting a soft, precise series of clicks sufficient to draw her from sleep without tearing the room apart with shrill noise. She opened her eyes into the muted light of dawn, when the sun had not yet gathered enough resolve to pierce the curtains.
The ceiling hung low. The fan rotated lazily overhead. The air was cool enough to sharpen thought.
She sat up, her hair slightly disheveled, though her gaze was already lucid, as if consciousness had merely been paused rather than surrendered to sleep.
Bare footsteps met the cold tile floor.
She washed her face with cool water, clarity spreading through her senses like current through a circuit. In the mirror, her reflection held an almost constant composure. No cosmetics. No adornments. Only keen blue eyes, bright as an open sky, and a stubborn strand of hair that refused to lie flat. Sandrone spent an extra minute smoothing it into place, unwilling to concede even that small rebellion.
The stove ignited with a soft click.
An old coffee machine, its metal body scratched and worn by time, began its steady hum. The aroma of brewing coffee spread through the room, rich and warm, slipping into every corner like a familiar greeting that asked for nothing in return.
Alain stepped out of the bedroom just as the drip settled into a consistent rhythm.
“Good morning, Sandrone,” he said, his voice low, still wrapped in sleep.
“Morning,” she replied, placing two cups on the counter.
Alain was never a man of excessive words. He pulled out a chair and sat down, unfolding the newspaper he had neatly prepared the night before. He read the technology section first, always. The rest could wait. An old habit from his days as an engineer involved in projects far larger than this rented room would ever be.
Sandrone carried the coffee to the table, setting one cup before him and the other at her usual place. Hers was taken black, uncompromisingly so. Alain added a single spoonful of sugar and stirred exactly twice.
The television on the wooden shelf in the corner flickered to life.
The screen was dated, its colors somewhat muted, but clear enough for an untroubled pair of eyes. The morning broadcast began with its customary jingle. The anchor’s voice followed, steady and neutral.
“Good morning, Teyvat.”
Images of the city appeared. Glass towers catching the early sunlight. Broad avenues polished clean. Crowds in motion, flowing into the machinery of a new day. Sandrone took a sip of coffee. The bitterness touched her tongue, lingered, then receded slowly.
Economic updates. Weather forecasts. Approval of a new overpass construction project.
She heard it, though she was not truly listening. Her gaze fixed instead on a small screw resting on the table. Absentmindedly, she rotated it between her fingers.
Then the music shifted.
More formal.
The screen shifted to the royal emblem of Hyposelenia, silver and sapphire intertwined like moonlight trembling across a midnight sea.
Alain folded his newspaper.
Neither of them spoke, yet both turned their attention fully to the television.
“This morning, the Royal House of Hyposelenia released an official statement…”
The image changed to the palace. Its domes shimmered beneath the sun, towering columns rising as though they bore the weight of the sky itself. The royal standard stirred gently in the wind.
“Princess Columbina will be temporarily suspending her artistic activities and public performances in order to focus on her studies in the coming period.”
A photograph appeared.
A young woman in a performance gown, crystal lights encircling her like a luminous halo. A gentle smile. Eyes that seemed to cradle an entire unspoken universe.
Sandrone recognized her immediately.
Not because she followed royal affairs. On the contrary, she held little fondness for the upper echelons of society.
But Columbina Hyposelenia was not a presence easily ignored, for more than one reason.
Anyone living in Teyvat knew that the Royal House of Hyposelenia no longer wielded direct political authority in the modern era. Executive decisions ultimately rested in the hands of the government.
Even so, the monarchy remained an irreplaceable symbol in the public consciousness, the ceremonial face of Teyvat and a custodian of its traditions and spiritual heritage.
Columbina Hyposelenia had been born with extraordinary beauty and a voice often described as heaven sent. The royal family had four daughters, and she was the youngest among them. Yet nothing in this world was without flaw. Rumors had circulated in recent months that the princess suffered from a deteriorating condition affecting her vision. Out of concern for her health, the royal family had rarely allowed her to appear outside the palace grounds. The public saw her only during concerts when her voice filled grand halls, or in distant memories of parades from her childhood days.
Sandrone knew little about her beyond that she was reserved and gentle. The first time she had ever truly seen the princess’s face was by chance, stumbling across a publicized image from a concert where Columbina had performed as the lead vocalist. Beyond that, Sandrone had paid her little mind.
The news anchor continued.
“This is considered a significant turning point in the princess’s journey toward independence. According to sources within the palace, Princess Columbina will be enrolling at Teyvat Academy in the upcoming term.”
The screen shifted again.
The gates of Teyvat Academy appeared, vast and timeworn. Lush green trees lined the avenue beyond. The main building rose in a blend of classical and modern architecture, as though past and future had chosen to shake hands upon that ground.
“As one of the most prestigious institutions in Teyvat, renowned for its comprehensive curriculum and exceptional academic environment…”
Sandrone set her coffee cup down.
The porcelain made the faintest sound against the table, but in the quiet room, it was enough for Alain to glance at her.
“Hm… Teyvat Academy.” He gave her a look that bordered on playful provocation, and Sandrone did not appreciate it in the slightest.
“Yes,” she answered curtly.
She had received her acceptance letter the week before.
Submitting her application had been, at first, little more than a calculated gamble. With the academy’s scholarship program, Sandrone had been confident she met the qualifications on paper. The true challenge had been the competition. Thousands of candidates, each determined to claim a place.
Spare the brutal intellectual skirmishes and the sweat spent in pursuit of merit, Sandrone had emerged victorious. One of only six scholarship recipients.
The odds had been merciless.
But once victory rests in your grasp, the battlefield fades into irrelevance.
If anyone were to ask why she chose that school… she could only answer that it would open up more opportunities, and that the institution had an academic partnership with the university Sandrone admired.
Certainly not because Teyvat Academy was only a ten minute bike ride from her house and Sandrone was far too lazy to commute any farther. Of course not.
On the television screen, students drifted across the courtyard in bright clusters. Laughter rang out, polished and buoyant, as if rehearsed a dozen times over, though dulled by the aging glass of the screen.
Columbina Hyposelenia would be studying there.
A princess.
Hardly a surprise.
Sandrone did not frown. She did not appear interested. Yet somewhere inside her mind, a small cog turned with a quiet click.
Once she had resigned herself to the fact that she would be attending school alongside people who did not belong to her world, Sandrone had made a silent vow to keep her presence to a minimum. She would be a shadow if she had to, barely there, slipping through the cracks. As long as she could make it through the three years of high school without incident, that would be more than enough. Keep her head down. Stay out of trouble. Let sleeping dogs lie.
But an academy… that was shared ground.
No one could predict what might unfold during those years. Ideally, nothing at all. Because if something did happen, Sandrone swore she would dig herself a hole and vanish from the face of the earth.
Archons, forgive this introvert whose social tolerance bordered on the supernatural.
Alain stood, carrying his cup to the sink.
“Heading there again today?”
“Yes. The boss said he’d give me a bonus if I worked overtime.”
He nodded and asked no further questions.
The television continued, now discussing renovation plans for the campus in preparation for the new term. A brief interview with the principal followed, filled with ornate promises about the future, responsibility, and the next generation.
Sandrone rose to her feet and switched off the television before the news segment could reach its tidy conclusion.
The room returned to its familiar orchestra: the hush of running water, the lazy rotation of the fan, the mechanical hum threading through the walls like a second heartbeat.
She walked toward the desk pressed against the wall.
A laptop rested there, bought after months of careful saving, a hard won companion that would weather the coming school years alongside her. She placed her fingers against its metallic surface, cool to the touch, and felt the chill seep gently through her skin.
She loved this feeling, the quiet assurance of touching something she trusted.
Then her thoughts drifted back to the broadcast.
A princess would walk through the same school gates as she would.
People would bow their heads to her. Whispers would travel like wind through every corridor and courtyard. Wherever Columbina stood, attention would follow as faithfully as a shadow at noon.
And Sandrone?
She would walk straight ahead.
If their paths ever crossed, it would be nothing more than two lines intersecting at a single, infinitesimal point in a vast expanse. The princess would never spare a thought for a penniless girl, and Sandrone would certainly do nothing reckless enough to draw unwanted eyes.
Comparing the two of them was like setting a toad beside a swan.
Sandrone lifted her schoolbag and checked the list of components inside. Power bank. Compact tool kit. Notebook.
Perfect.
Her gaze flicked to the wall clock. Time to go.
Before leaving, she cast one last look at the small kitchen, the wooden table, the two cups washed clean and left upside down to dry.
No velvet. No crystal.
Only strong coffee and an unadorned morning.
This was the life of Sandrone Guillotin.
She opened the door.
Light spilled into the narrow hallway, painting a long golden stroke across the tiled floor.
A new day began.
======================
The café nestled at the corner where two busy streets collided, the scent of morning pastries tangling with the restless murmur of traffic to compose a slightly chaotic yet undeniably lively symphony. A wooden sign hung above the entrance, bearing a modest name: Lunar Brew. No glitter. No trend chasing theatrics. Yet the regulars were so plentiful that the chairs rarely had a moment to “rest” in any meaningful sense.
Sandrone arrived fifteen minutes before opening, as she always did.
She parked her noble steed, otherwise known as a bicycle, in the staff area and secured it carefully. One never knew what kind of half baked hero might attempt something legendary in the worst possible way.
Pushing the door open, she stepped inside. The bell above the frame chimed a clear, crystalline note. Warm amber lights were already glowing within. Behind the counter, the industrial coffee machine stood tall and imposing, a steel beast at rest, waiting to be awakened by the press of a button.
Someone had already roused it.
“You’re thirty seconds late,” a languid voice drifted from behind the counter.
Sandrone did not need to look to know it was Wanderer.
A friend, or at least she considered him one, whom she had met during her time working part time at the café.
She set her bag down, removed her coat, and hung it neatly on the rack. “Then your clock must be malfunctioning.”
“My clock is never wrong,” he replied, still polishing a glass with steady, unhurried movements.
Wanderer stood there with a black apron loosely tied at his waist, his dark bowl cut slightly disheveled from having just removed his cap. His eyes always carried that look, as though he were perpetually debating whether to smile. The verdict was usually no.
Sandrone moved straight to the coffee machine, checking the pressure, the temperature, the grind size. She adjusted a small dial with movements so precise they bordered on instinct.
“You’re adjusting my machine again,” Wanderer remarked.
“The café’s machine,” she corrected.
He shrugged. “It was mine a few seconds ago.”
The door opened. The first customer stepped in, an office worker whose face still clung stubbornly to sleep. Wanderer took the order. Sandrone handled the coffee. They worked like interlocking gears, long practice having forged an unspoken rhythm between them.
Milk hissed as it frothed. The aroma of espresso unfurled into the air, dark and sharp, slicing through the remnants of dawn and jolting the morning into motion.
About fifteen minutes later, once the first wave of customers had ebbed, the café settled into a brief lull. Wanderer leaned back against the counter, arms crossed.
“Did you see the news this morning?”
“What news?”
“The royal family.”
Sandrone placed a cappuccino in front of a regular before turning back. “No.”
“Princess Columbina is taking a break from singing to attend school.”
“Mm.”
Her reaction made Wanderer lift a brow. “Mm?”
“I already know,” she replied evenly.
“Didn’t you just say you didn’t watch it?”
“I wasn’t finished.”
Wanderer let out a quiet laugh. “You really are… fine, fine. But the interesting part comes later.”
Sandrone shot him a sideways glance.
“She’ll be attending Teyvat Academy.”
Her hand paused on the dishcloth.
Half a second.
No more than that.
“Honestly, what’s so fascinating about that? First Alain this morning, now you,” she said flatly, returning to the glass she had been polishing.
“What’s fascinating is that it happens to be my school too.”
This time, she looked at him directly. “Yours?”
Wanderer tilted his head, a trace of smugness flickering across his face. “Surprised?”
“Yes.”
“Fair enough. You study there as well, don’t you?”
“How do you know?”
“Alain told me.”
Of course he did. Alain’s incurable tendency to broadcast information would need to be dealt with before it spiraled into future complications. She would have a word with him later.
Wanderer broke into a wide grin. “Look at you. A scholarship student and everything. I heard the entrance exam is no walk in the park. Quite the honor.”
Sandrone did not even spare him a glance, her tone edged with quiet pride. “It’s nothing special. Exams like that aren’t particularly difficult.”
“Oh? Interesting how someone that proud prefers to stay invisible. Humans really do contain multitudes.” Wanderer’s voice carried its usual teasing arrogance.
Sandrone merely shot him a look and offered no rebuttal.
There was nothing to argue against. That was simply who she was.
Endlessly confident in her own abilities, yet unwilling to parade them before the world.
Like a reclusive master waiting for the proper constellation to rise.
“Forget that,” she said curtly. “Why are you attending that school? Last time I checked, you were planning to drop out and dive headfirst into society.”
He laughed, louder this time. “I got sponsored.”
“By whom?”
“Lady Kusanali.”
The name made Sandrone genuinely still.
“Kusanali?” she repeated.
“Yes. My adoptive mother.”
Lady Kusanali was a distinguished figure in academic circles, a scholar renowned for razor sharp arguments and formidable intellect, capable of silencing an international symposium with nothing more than a raised hand. Her reputation alone carried weight, but her influence within Teyvat’s scholarly sphere was even greater.
“My mother didn’t want me throwing my education away,” Wanderer continued casually, as though discussing a new pair of shoes. “So she arranged for me to attend her alma mater. I figured dropping out halfway would look bad anyway. Didn’t want to disappoint her.”
Sandrone fell silent for a few seconds.
“Congratulations,” she said at last, after the pause settled.
“Thanks. But I think you should save that for yourself.”
She looked at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”
Wanderer slipped a hand into his apron pocket and pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper. “Take a look and you’ll see.”
“What is it?”
“The student list and class placements. Yours and mine.”
Sandrone stared at the paper as though it were a rare microchip no engineer had ever laid eyes on. “How did you even get that?”
“I have my methods,” he replied, his tone conveniently vague.
“Don’t tell me it’s illegal.”
“Don’t concern yourself with the acquisition process. I assure you, no laws were harmed in the making of this document.” He gave her a theatrical wink. “I’m a model citizen.”
She rolled her eyes and exhaled. “Let me see it.”
Wanderer unfolded the sheet across the counter. Names were printed in two orderly columns, each accompanied by a class designation.
“Well, look at that,” he said. “You’re in one of the special classes. A-1.”
Her gaze slid down the list, scanning until she found it.
Sandrone Guillotin. A-1.
A strange sensation brushed past her, like stepping on something unseen and not knowing whether it would bruise or bless.
“And you?”
“A-3. Different class.”
She nodded.
“But your class…” Wanderer let out a low whistle, a knowing smile curving at the edge of his lips. “Now that’s interesting.”
Sandrone swore she disliked that expression on him. It was the kind of look that never heralded good news, only complications spiraling far beyond her carefully measured imagination.
“Interesting isn’t exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Then brace yourself, because it is, and—”
The café door flew open. The bell chimed sharply as a group of customers entered in a lively cluster, their chatter spilling into the room. The conversation snapped off mid thread, like music cut cleanly in the middle of a verse. Sandrone’s thoughts followed suit, swept away.
“Customers,” she said succinctly.
“We’ll continue at lunch,” Wanderer replied, already folding the list and slipping it back into his pocket.
They plunged into work. Orders stacked one after another. The coffee machine roared to life at full capacity. Milk frothed without pause. Drink names rang out, interwoven with the crisp clink of spoons against porcelain.
Time rushed forward as if someone had shoved the second hand into a sprint.
When the last customer of the peak hour finally left, the café exhaled, settling into a steadier rhythm.
Break time.
Wanderer brewed two simple cups of tea and set one in front of Sandrone as she took a seat by the window.
“Continue,” she said.
He pulled out the paper again and spread it across the table.
“First,” he tapped a name with his finger. “Lauma.”
“Don’t know her.”
“As if you ever pay attention to the world at large,” Wanderer remarked dryly.
Sandrone gave a small shrug, silently prompting him to go on.
“Lauma is affiliated with the Frostmoon Church.”
The Frostmoon Church was one of Teyvat’s oldest institutions, renowned for its moonlit rituals and large scale charitable work. They possessed a peculiar magnetism, as though a spotlight instinctively sought them out whenever they appeared. The public adored them, and devotion followed in droves.
“She’s fairly famous,” Wanderer said. “Started giving public speeches on behalf of the Church at six. Always involved in their outreach programs. Just last year she was appointed Moonchanter and granted direct admission into Teyvat Academy.”
He added casually, “Rumor has it she’s quite close to Princess Columbina. Though considering the Church’s unwavering loyalty to the Crown, it’s hardly shocking that Miss Lauma shadows her.”
Sandrone took a sip of her tea. “Wonderful.”
Not a flicker of genuine interest colored her tone.
Wanderer’s finger slid down to the next name.
“Nefer.”
“Oh. That sounds delightfully ominous.”
“Close enough. She’s affiliated with the Curatorium of Secrets.”
“The… what?”
“Curatorium of Secrets. Operates under the government. Supplies classified intelligence.”
Sandrone stared at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
Wanderer’s expression turned faintly bored. “That underground organization is rumored to exist in the margins of ink that never make it to print. No logo. No website. Just whispers passed from one careful mouth to another. Completely detached from society, yet sheltered beneath the government’s shadow. They once investigated some guy and discovered his great grandfather had served as a royal confidant centuries ago. Apparently even he had no idea he descended from someone once trusted by the king.”
He let out a soft, amused scoff. “Imagine learning your bloodline has footnotes in history you never read.”
“You just said it’s an underground organization, and they’re sending their daughter to a school, in public?”
“What’s so strange about that? Since when has anyone at that academy been normal?”
Sandrone pressed her fingers lightly to her temple. This was escalating at an alarming rate.
“Next,” Wanderer continued, as casually as if he were reciting a lunch menu. “Arlecchino.”
That name, at least, she recognized.
“The Foreign Minister’s daughter?”
“Precisely.”
Arlecchino had grown up among international summits and diplomatic banquets. One of her handshakes could be dissected under a political microscope. She was widely expected to follow in her mother’s footsteps and enter politics upon reaching adulthood, eventually inheriting the position. With her natural eloquence and strategic composure, it would almost be a waste if she did not.
Though, admittedly, much of her fame stemmed from her strikingly handsome appearance. Sandrone recalled once scrolling through X and reading about an overly devoted fan who had trespassed into Arlecchino’s garden just to arrange roses into the words “Happy Birthday.” The result had been less poetic. Security escorted the admirer out, and legal consequences followed for unlawful entry.
Sandrone felt as though her mind were a circuit board overloaded with cables. If the list had stopped at Lauma, that alone would have been sufficient. Perhaps one more influential figure could have been tolerated. But this? Three high profile names, all gathered in A-1. Her class for the upcoming term.
Splendid. Absolutely splendid.
“Anyone else?” she asked, her voice carrying the hollow calm of someone bracing for impact. “I swear if there’s one more—”
Wanderer looked at her, faint amusement dancing in his eyes, and cut in smoothly.
“The Princess.”
“—then I’ll dig myself a private grave, wait… who did you say?”
She did not react immediately. No, surely the alphabet had not rearranged itself into something incomprehensible overnight.
“The Princess,” he repeated clearly. “In your class.”
Her name landed on the table like a steel marble.
In Sandrone’s mind, the morning broadcast flashed back in shards of light. Crystal chandeliers.
A gentle smile.
And that earlier thought about shared spaces returned like a divine slap across the face.
What in the world was happening? Had she stepped out of the house with the wrong foot first? Was today astrologically engineered for her downfall? Why was fate hurling this kind of announcement at her before noon?
Archons… was this the curtain call for the quiet, uneventful life of Sandrone Guillotin?
She truly needed that hole now.
Leaning back in her chair, she stared at the café ceiling as if it might offer structural advice.
“Are you serious?” she murmured, lips barely moving, still trying to process the sentence as a coherent reality.
“Why would I lie? It’s right there on the list.”
“There could be an error, couldn’t there? Or maybe this is a fake copy. I could report it to the school and request a reassignment—”
The words spilled out in a rush. Panic, refined and usually well contained, was now short circuiting her composure. There had to be a workaround. A bureaucratic loophole. A clerical miracle. She did not want to share a classroom with this constellation of influential prodigies.
With the last fragile thread of hope she possessed, she looked at Wanderer, her eyes bright with desperate expectation.
To her profound disappointment, Wanderer merely gave her a look that translated flawlessly into: Really? You think I have the time to fabricate something this elaborate just to toy with you?
“And don’t get your hopes up about switching classes,” he added. “This is the official list. They’re not going to rearrange everything because one student claims, ‘I simply cannot endure the overwhelming radiance of my classmates.’”
And just like that, boom. Every fragile strand of hope disintegrated.
Curse you, Wanderer. Curse the academy. Curse its absurd, catastrophic list.
She dragged a hand over her face.
“My luck is… astonishing.”
Wanderer laughed. “I don’t see the tragedy. Most people would be over the moon about sharing a classroom with the illustrious Princess Columbina.”
“I want a quiet class,” Sandrone replied flatly, “with people who may be wealthy but are otherwise within reasonable limits. Not an assembly of a church prodigy, a covert intelligence heir, and royalty.”
“You’ve got nearly every faction represented in one room,” he mused. “All you’re missing is the military.”
“Do not suggest that into existence.”
She lowered her hand and looked at the list again. The name Columbina Hyposelenia sat there in plain ink, not shimmering, not glowing, yet somehow dense enough to alter the atmosphere around it.
A princess.
A Moonchanter.
The successor of a secret organization.
A diplomat’s celebrated daughter.
And her.
“Perhaps,” Wanderer said slowly, “this will be an interesting year.”
Sandrone rose from her seat and carried her teacup back to the counter, as if scrubbing porcelain might somehow cleanse destiny itself.
“Terrifying would be more accurate.”
“So what’s your objective?”
She watched the water stream over her hands, clear and indifferent.
“Graduate with honors,” she said, lips pressing into a thin line. “Finish my project. Survive high school peacefully.”
Wanderer offered a faint smile. He was not the comforting type, but in Sandrone’s estimation, he possessed his own understated way of steadying the ground beneath someone’s feet. “Then stick to the plan.”
She exhaled. “Fine…” A reluctant nod followed.
The doorbell chimed again.
Break over.
Sandrone returned to the coffee machine, to the hiss of milk frothing and the dense fragrance of espresso curling through the air.
So this was fate, apparently.
She drew a quiet breath. Fine. As long as she kept her distance from them, avoided unnecessary attention, and moved like a background process running silently behind the screen, her life would remain stable. No turbulence. No plot twists.
Nothing would change.
She cast a glance outside, where pedestrians clustered beneath sunlight that had begun to mellow into gold.
Almost time to clock out, she told herself.