Dainsleif
She emerged from the Cathedral alone.
I watched from the shadow of a statue, my back pressed against the cold stone. The singing had faltered when she refused the blessing—just for a moment, a crack in the endless melody—and then resumed. But the crack had been there. I had felt it. A fracture in the Ideal's perfect performance, a hairline break in five hundred years of forced joy.
She descended the steps without looking back. Her footsteps were steady. Her hands, visible at her sides, did not shake. She had faced Barbara, faced the Cathedral, faced the wind itself, and she had said no. Not angry. Not afraid. Just certain.
I had seen many people enter that Cathedral. I had seen them walk out smiling, their eyes empty, their memories already dissolving. She had walked out the same person who had walked in. That was unprecedented in five hundred years.
I stepped out of the shadow and followed at a distance. My boots made no sound on the stone. I had learned to walk silently centuries ago, in the halls of Khaenri'ah, when silence was the difference between life and death. The skill had outlived its original purpose, but it served me still.
She walked through the plaza without stopping. She did not look at the flower seller, the baker, the children running their loop. She had seen them yesterday. She did not need to see them again. That was good. She was learning to see past the performance, to recognize the hollow repetition for what it was.
She turned down a side street, heading toward the tavern. I stayed behind her, close enough to observe, far enough to avoid detection. She knew I was there. I had not been subtle. I wanted her to know. I wanted to see how she reacted to being watched.
She did not turn around. She did not quicken her pace. She kept walking, steady and unbothered.
That was also good.
I thought about the last person I had followed like this. It had been a scholar from Sumeru, a woman who had come to Mondstadt seeking answers about the Cataclysm. She had lasted three days before the wind found her. She had gone to the Cathedral for a single blessing and walked out smiling. I had watched her forget her own name over the course of a week.
Elara had lasted longer than most. She had refused the blessing. She had walked out unchanged. I did not know if that meant she was stronger, or if she was simply more stubborn. Either way, she was still here. Still herself.
That was enough for now.
---
Elara
The tavern was dark when I pushed open the door. The chairs were still upside down on the tables, their legs pointing at the ceiling like frozen dancers. The floor was swept clean, not a speck of dust, not a crumb. The bar was wiped down, the wood gleaming dully in the dim light from the window.
Diluc was behind the bar, polishing a glass that was already clean. He looked up when I entered, his eyes flat, his hands still.
"Back already?"
"The Cathedral was enough for one day."
He nodded. Did not ask what happened. Did not need to. He could see it in my face—the tightness around my jaw, the way my fingers curled around the edge of the stool. I was shaken, but I was not broken. That was more than he could say for most people who walked out of that place.
I sat on the same stool as before. He poured the same colored water into the same clean glass. I did not drink it. I just held it, feeling the cold seep into my fingers, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
The door opened. Dainsleif slipped inside and took a seat at the table near the window, his back to the wall, his face toward the door. He did not speak. He did not look at me. He simply sat there, waiting.
Diluc glanced at him, then at me. "He's been following you all day."
"I know."
"He does that."
I looked at Dainsleif. His hood was low, but I could see the line of his jaw, the glint of his visible eye. He was watching me. Evaluating me. I did not know what he was looking for, but I knew I was being tested.
"Were you in the Cathedral?" I asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"You needed to face it alone." His voice was quiet, measured. "If you cannot stand before Barbara without me, you cannot stand before what comes next."
"What comes next?"
He did not answer. He simply sat there, still as the stone walls, waiting for something I could not see.
---
Kaeya
The window of the Knights of Favonius headquarters faced the plaza. Kaeya stood behind it, his arms crossed, his one visible eye fixed on the figure walking toward the tavern. The outsider. The one who was not in the records.
He had been watching her since she arrived. He had watched her enter the Cathedral. He had watched her leave, unchanged, while others left empty. That was interesting. That was dangerous.
He thought about Khaenri'ah. About his father's words, spoken in the dark of a winter night, before the man had walked out of his life forever. "You are a seed, planted in Mondstadt's soil. One day, you will bloom. One day, you will remember what you are."
He had remembered. He had remembered every day for thirty years. But he had not bloomed. He had not acted. He had watched, and waited, and served a city that would burn him if it knew the truth.
The outsider was not from Khaenri'ah. He was certain of that. But she was not from Teyvat either. She was a blank page. And blank pages could be written on.
He thought about Diluc. About the night he had called the deacons. About the look on Diluc's face when his father walked out the door. He had never forgiven himself for that. He did not expect Diluc to forgive him either.
But the outsider might be different. She might be the key to something he had been waiting for. He did not know what. He only knew that he could not ignore her.
He turned from the window. He needed to speak with her. Not yet. But soon.
---
Elara
The door opened again. A woman stepped inside. Pale hair, pale skin, amber eyes. A purple dress, a wide-brimmed hat, a book tucked under her arm. She smiled at Diluc, then at me.
"So this is the outsider," she said. Her voice was warm, amused, but there was something underneath it. Something sharp. Something watchful.
"Lisa," Diluc said. "Librarian. She runs the archive."
"The archive?" I asked.
"The place where the Cathedral's scraps end up." Lisa set her book on the bar and took the stool next to mine. "Every book they've drained, every diary they've emptied, every record they've tried to erase. I keep them. Someone has to remember."
Diluc poured her a glass of the colored water. She did not drink it either.
"She's been waiting for you to come back," Diluc said. "Ever since she heard you refused the blessing."
Lisa nodded. "Word travels fast in a city where nothing changes. A stranger who says no to Barbara? That's the most interesting thing to happen in years."
I looked at her. "What do you want from me?"
"I want to show you something." She studied me, her amber eyes sharp, probing. "The Cathedral took something from you today. Not your memories—you wouldn't let them. But they tried. And you felt it, didn't you? The wind pressing against you, looking for something to take."
I said nothing. But she was right. I had felt it. A pressure behind my eyes, a whisper at the edge of my thoughts, a soft insistence that I could just let go, just relax, just let the wind carry my burdens away.
"The wind is patient," Lisa continued. "It will keep trying. Every day, every night, every time you close your eyes. It will find the cracks. It will find the weight you're carrying. And it will take it, piece by piece, until you are light. Until you are empty. Until you are happy."
She stood up.
"I have spent years hiding things from the wind. Books, mostly. Diaries. Letters. Things that matter. Things that would break me if I lost them. I can show you how."
"Why would you help me?"
"Because you said no." She smiled, but it was not the same empty smile as the others. It was tired. Real. "No one says no anymore. Not to Barbara. Not to the Cathedral. Not to the wind. You did. That means you might be worth the risk."
She walked toward the door.
"Come. The library isn't far."
I looked at Dainsleif. He nodded once.
I followed her out.
---
Diluc
The door closed behind them. Diluc stood behind the bar, his hands flat on the wood, his head bowed. The tavern was silent except for the distant singing.
He thought about the painter. About her shaking hands. About the diary Lisa had shown Elara. About his father, sitting in the white room, smiling at nothing.
He had tried to save his father. He had tried to hold on. But the wind had taken him anyway. Piece by piece. Memory by memory. Until there was nothing left but a hollow shell that smiled and ate and slept and did not know his own son's name.
He looked at the glass of colored water on the bar. It was too still. Too clear. Too perfect.
He picked it up and poured it down the sink.
---
Elara
The library was three stories tall, with arched windows and a heavy wooden door. Unlike the rest of the city, this place looked worn. The stone steps were chipped. The door handle was scratched. Someone had tried to scrub graffiti off the wall and given up halfway.
Lisa unlocked the door and pushed it open. The inside was dim and smelled of old paper and dust. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with books of every size and color. The windows were covered with heavy curtains, blocking out the eternal sunlight. A few lamps burned on the tables, casting warm pools of light across the reading desks.
The room was empty.
"No one reads," Lisa said. "The wind takes their curiosity along with their grief. Why read when you can be happy?"
She led me past the main reading room, through a narrow corridor, and down a flight of stairs. The air grew colder, damper. The smell of old paper was replaced by the smell of old secrets—dust, mildew, and something else. Something metallic. Like blood, but older.
At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped in front of a heavy iron door.
"This is where I keep the things the Cathedral wanted to erase."
She produced a key from inside her dress and unlocked it.
The room beyond was vast. Larger than the main reading room. Larger than the Cathedral, maybe. Shelves stretched into darkness, lined with books that glowed faintly in the dim light. But these books were different. They were bandaged. Wrapped in cloth, tied with leather straps, sealed with wax. Some of them wept—clear fluid seeping through the bandages, pooling on the shelves.
"The archive," Lisa said. "Every book the Cathedral has tried to erase. Every memory they have tried to take. I save what I can."
She walked past the weeping shelves, trailing her fingers along the bandaged spines. The fluid stained her fingertips, but she did not wipe it off.
"The wind does not discriminate. It takes grief, but it also takes the memories attached to that grief. A woman loses her husband. The wind takes her tears—and then it takes her memory of his face. She wakes up feeling lighter. She cannot remember why she was sad. She cannot remember him at all."
She stopped in front of a small book bound in brown leather.
"This is the painter's grandmother's diary. She wrote down everything—the colors she mixed, the light at dawn, the way the cliffs looked in spring. But the wind took it anyway. Page by page. Word by word."
She opened the book. The first pages were filled with handwriting—small, precise, obsessive. Lists of colors. Diagrams of shadows. Sketches of trees. The paper was brittle, yellowed with age, but the ink was still dark.
As she flipped, the writing grew sparse. The words became shorter. The sentences became fragments. And then, nothing. Blank pages. Page after page of blank pages.
"The grandmother is still alive. She's in the Cathedral. She doesn't paint anymore. She doesn't write. She just sits in a white room and smiles. The wind took everything."
She closed the book and put it back on the shelf.
"I am saving these books because I hope that someday, someone will read them. Someone will remember. Someone will ask why."
She turned to face me.
"There is a place where the wind cannot reach. Where the memories go after they are taken. A dragon, sleeping beneath Old Mondstadt, dreaming of five hundred years of stolen grief. If you want to understand what is happening to this city, you must go there. You must see him."
"A dragon?"
She nodded. "The people here call him Dvalin. He was once a friend to the god of this city. Now he is a vessel. A container for everything the wind has stolen."
I looked back toward the door. Dainsleif was standing there, in the shadows, listening.
"Why didn't he tell me this?"
"Because he wanted you to hear it from someone who is not him." Lisa tucked her hands into her dress. "He tests you. Everyone tests you. But I am not testing. I am asking. Will you go?"
I thought about the painter. About her shaking hands. About the diary with blank pages. About the grandmother smiling in a white room. About the photograph in my pocket. About the blank space where my father used to be.
If I did nothing, that blank space would spread. First to the painter's name. Then to Diluc's face. Then to Dainsleif's voice. Then to my own.
"I don't know," I said. "I need to think."
Lisa nodded. "Take your time. But not too much. The dragon sleeps, but the wind does not."
---
Dainsleif
We walked back to the tavern in silence. Elara's face was drawn, her eyes fixed on the cobblestones. She was thinking. That was good.
"You knew about the dragon," she said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"You should have told me."
"Would you have believed me?"
She stopped. Looked at me. Her grey eyes were hard.
"I don't know."
"That is why I did not tell you. You needed to hear it from someone who has no stake in your journey. Lisa preserves memories. She does not manipulate them."
"You manipulate."
"I guide. There is a difference."
She started walking again. "The dragon holds the stolen memories. If I touch him, I will feel them. All of them."
"Yes."
"And that might destroy me."
"Yes."
She stopped again. "Then why do you want me to go?"
"Because if you do not, you will forget." I let the words settle. "The wind is patient. It will keep taking. From you, from me, from everyone. If you do nothing, you will forget. Slowly. One memory at a time. First the small things—the face of a stranger, the name of a street. Then the larger things—the sound of your mother's voice, the feel of her hand in yours. And then, eventually, yourself. You will wake up one morning and not know who you are. You will smile. You will be happy. You will be nothing."
She was quiet for a long time. The singing pressed against the silence, soft and insistent.
"The dragon is the only record of what has been lost. If you want to understand, you must go to him. If you want to fight, you must go to him. If you want to matter, you must go to him."
She looked at me. "You said the wind will keep taking. How long do I have?"
"I do not know. Days. Weeks. Months. It depends on how much you resist. But the Cathedral knows you now. Barbara knows you. She will not stop. She will keep inviting you back. She will keep trying to heal you. And one day, you may say yes."
I watched her face. The fear. The anger. The stubbornness.
"I'll go," she said.
"We leave at dawn."
---
Barbara
The Cathedral was empty at this hour. The pews were vacant. The singing was soft, almost a whisper. Barbara knelt before the altar, her hands clasped, her forehead pressed to the cold stone.
She had been praying for hours.
"Lord Barbatos," she whispered, "she refused. The blessing did not take. Why?"
The wind did not answer. It never answered.
But Barbara's faith did not waver. It could not waver. Doubt was a poison, and she had built her immunity to it years ago, brick by brick, prayer by prayer, blessing by blessing.
"She is not in the records. She is a blank space. She does not belong here."
She lifted her head. The candles flickered. The stained glass window bled colors across the floor—blue that felt like a held breath, gold that tasted like honey, red that pulsed like a heartbeat.
"Perhaps that is why she needs more love. More devotion. More of me."
She stood up. Brushed the dust from her habit. Smoothed her hair.
She would try again. She would invite the outsider back. She would sing louder, pray harder, love more fiercely. She would find the crack in the outsider's armor, the weight she was carrying, the sorrow she refused to release.
And then she would heal her. [Devotion] will make sure of it.
That was what Barbatos wanted.
She was sure of it.
---
Signora
From the balcony of a rented room overlooking the plaza, Signora watched the outsider walk back to the tavern.
She had been observing for three days. The outsider had refused the blessing. She had walked out of the Cathedral unchanged. She had met with the librarian. She was planning something.
Signora did not know what. She did not care. Her mission was to observe, to report, to wait for orders. The Tsaritsa was patient. The Tsaritsa was always patient.
But she could not help the small smile that crossed her lips.
Barbatos had failed. His city was a cage. His people were dolls. And now, a blank page had walked into his kingdom and refused to play along.
Perhaps this would be interesting after all.
She turned from the window and began writing her report. The paper was cold under her quill. She wrote in careful, precise strokes, documenting everything she had seen.
The outsider remains unmarked. No elemental resonance. No Vision. She refused the Cathedral's blessing. She is meeting with the city's dissidents. She may be planning to leave the city.
She paused. Added a final line.
Recommend continued observation. Do not engage unless ordered.
She sealed the letter with wax and pressed the Fatui insignia into it. A crow would take it to Snezhnaya by morning.
She looked out the window again. The outsider had disappeared into the tavern. The singing continued, soft and endless.
She wondered what would happen next.