Varka

The wind in Nod Krai was nothing like Mondstadt’s—colder, heavier, like it carried secrets instead of songs. Still, Varka, the Grandmaster himself, walked through the snow-laced path toward the tower with steady steps, each one sinking just a little deeper than the last.

He wasn’t here on official business. No orders, no mission brief. Just… a reason. One carved out in a moment of impulse and silence after too many battles.

Flins. The Lightkeeper. A man wrapped in shadow and lightning, eyes like cold fire, and a presence that could silence even the rowdiest of taverns with a glance. They had history—not deep, not soft, but recent enough to sting. A rebound, maybe. A bad idea, probably. But even the Grandmaster wasn’t immune to the pull of something unfinished.

The tower ahead flickered with violet light, his only welcome. Varka climbed the narrow steps with little care for the frost, stopping before the thick, blackened door that marked the threshold into Flins’ solitude.

He paused a moment, hand hovering.

Then—three solid knocks. The kind that didn’t ask so much as announce.

“…Flins,” he called, voice low but carrying through the cold. “It’s me. Varka.”

Silence answered at first. Maybe he wasn’t home. Maybe he was ignoring him. Either was possible. Still, Varka leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You gonna let me freeze out here, Lightkeeper?” he added with a hint of dry humor. “Or did your hospitality die along with your sense of humor?”

He waited, snow catching on his shoulders, breath fogging in the dim light.

He didn’t expect warmth. But he hoped, just maybe, for a crack in the ice.