Chapter Text
𖹭
To be born a Lawrence was to inherit a debt written in old blood and bitter pride.
But to be born as you meant bearing the heaviest cross the clan had to offer. While the other noble houses wrapped their daughters in layers of silk, teaching them the precise angles to hold a porcelain teacup or the exact rhythm of the courtly waltz, your childhood was measured in the ring of iron against iron. You were not raised to be a lady of the court; you were forged to be a conqueror. You were the Lawrence Clan’s desperate, furious answer to their fallen legacy, the chosen blade meant to infiltrate the Knights of Favonius and reclaim the throne of the Grand Master.
"Again," your father’s voice clipped through the frozen morning air of the estate’s private training grounds.
Your chest heaved, the bitter cold of Mondstadt's early winter burning your lungs. Your hands, raw and blistered beneath your leather gloves, tightened around the hilt of your training greatsword. You were barely a teenager then, your body still growing, but the steel you carried was unforgivingly heavy.
"Your stance shifted three inches to the left upon delivery," he continued, his footsteps crunching softly on the frost-covered stone. He didn't look at you with affection; he looked at you the way a blacksmith inspects a blade for structural flaws. "A single misplaced step is an invitation for execution. Do you wish to embarrass our bloodline further?"
You didn't answer. You weren't allowed to. You merely reset your stance, your jaw aching from how hard you clenched your teeth.
Every day was a meticulous calculation of perfection. A Lawrence did not falter. A Lawrence did not show fatigue. And above all, a Lawrence did not fail. The pressure was an invisible, crushing weight, magnified by the glaring absence at your hip. You had no Vision. No elemental favor from the gods. While the stories of old heroes spoke of anemo currents and searing flames, you had only the meat, bone, and stubborn will of your own body. To your family, the lack of a Vision wasn't just a hurdle, it was a personal insult, a sign that you had to work twice as hard to prove the gods wrong.
You lived in that suffocating silence for years, a ghost haunting your own life, until he arrived at the Knights' training barracks.
Varka.
He was in his early twenties when your paths first crossed, a towering, loud, and infuriatingly unbothered whirlwind of a man. The first time you saw him, he was laughing so hard his shoulders shook, sharing a flask of cider with the senior captains as if he hadn't just arrived in the city with nothing but a claymore and a reputation for trouble. A hot-headed rule-breaker is how they describe him.
You hated him instantly.
You hated the way his uniform was always slightly disheveled and wearing all black, the top buttons undone as if the rules of the Knights were mere suggestions. You hated how easily words tumbled from his mouth, lacking the rehearsed elegance you had spent a lifetime bleeding for. But most of all, you hated that despite his total disregard for order, his blade was terrifyingly absolute.
"Hey, princess," Varka had called out to you one afternoon, leaning against the wooden fence of the courtyard while you practiced your forms well after dusk. The moniker was meant as a tease, a nod to your noble blood, but it tasted like acid on your tongue. "You're going to snap that dummy's neck if you glare at it any harder. Relax your shoulders. You're fighting the wind, not making friends with it."
You stopped mid-swing, the tip of your greatsword burying into the dirt. You turned your cold, calculated gaze toward him, your eyes narrowing. "My forms are flawless, Knight Varka. Mind your own station."
Varka only chuckled, pushing himself off the fence and walking into the torchlight. He looked so young, barely in his twenties, his face still unmarred by the heavy, weathering scars of lifelong warfare, yet there was already an undeniable weight to his presence. "Flawless? Sure. If you're fighting a statue. But real opponents don't stand still waiting for you to look pretty."
He drew his own weapon with a casual, one-handed sweep that made your blood boil. He didn't even adopt a proper stance. He just stood there, smiling, a dangerous spark in his eyes.
"Come on," he offered, gesturing with his blade. "Show me what that noble perfection looks like when the rules start breaking."
That was the first time someone truly shattered your composure. You lunged at him, your strikes driven by years of repressed rage, expecting to humble the arrogant newcomer. Instead, you found a wall of shifting steel. Every heavy blow you delivered was met with an effortless parry; every calculated strategy you executed was disrupted by his unpredictable, fluid movements. He didn't fight like a knight. He fought like the wild northern wind.
And the worst part? He was smiling the entire time.
"Come on," Varka offered, gesturing with his blade. His posture was almost insultingly relaxed, the heavy claymore resting easily in his grip as if it weighed no more than a stray branch. "Show me what that noble perfection looks like when the rules start breaking."
That was the first time someone had genuinely shattered your composure.
The air in your lungs turned to liquid fire. You didn't give him the courtesy of a knight's salute; you lunged. Your greatsword cut through the chilly air with a terrifying, whistling shriek, a strike born from years of repressed rage, designed to humble the arrogant newcomer in a single, definitive blow. You expected him to dodge. You expected him to stumble under the sheer, brutal momentum of a Lawrence-style opening gambit.
Instead, you found a wall of shifting steel.
CLANG!
The collision of their claymores echoed violently off the stone walls of the headquarters, a sharp, deafening ring that cut through the quiet Mondstadt evening. Varka didn't buckle. He didn't even slide back an inch. He absorbed the entire force of your strike through his forearms, his boots planted firmly into the dirt, that infuriating, lazy smile still playing on his lips.
"Good power," he grunted, his eyes flashing with sudden, genuine interest. "But you're throwing your whole weight into it. If I move—"
With a sudden twist of his wrist, he deflected your blade downward, sending the tip of your sword scraping against the gravel. Before you could lose your balance, your instincts, drilled into you until they were as natural as breathing took over. You spun on your heel, using the very momentum of his deflection to bring the pommel of your sword upward, aiming directly for his jaw.
Varka’s eyes widened slightly. He leaned his head back, the wood of your hilt missing his chin by mere fractions of an inch.
"Whoa! Alright, no holding back then," he laughed, his booming voice echoing across the courtyard.
Suddenly, the dynamic changed. He wasn't just defending anymore; he was engaging. What followed was a blur of steel and absolute stubbornness. You drove him backward, your strikes systematic, precise, and ruthless, each one executed exactly as the Lawrence manuals dictated, but delivered with a raw, human ferocity that defied your noble upbringing. Every calculated strategy you executed was met by his unpredictable, fluid movements. He didn't fight like the textbook knights you were used to. He fought like the wild northern wind, sweeping and chaotic.
Clang! Crash! Clang!
The sheer noise of the duel began to draw a crowd. First, it was just a couple of guards on patrol, pausing at the edge of the courtyard with wide eyes. Then, the windows of the barracks began to slide open. Captains, scouts, and recruits alike leaned out, drawn by the relentless, thundering rhythm of two heavy weapons clashing at a speed that should have been impossible for claymores.
"Hey, look down there... isn't that the Lawrence prodigy?" one recruit whispered loudly from the balcony.
"She's pressing Varka back," a senior captain murmured, his voice laced with genuine disbelief. "No one pushes Varka back on a physical exchange. Look at her footing—it’s flawless. She doesn't have a Vision, right? How is she matching his raw strength?"
"She's a monster..." Another voice added, filled with a mixture of awe and fear.
You heard them, but their voices were nothing but white noise against the rushing of blood in your ears. Your muscles screamed in agony, your lungs burned, and the sweat dripped down your brow, stinging your eyes. But you refused to drop your guard. You couldn't. You were a Lawrence; to falter in front of the common folk, to show weakness against a carefree outlander, was a fate worse than death.
You parried his downward slash, the shockwave vibrating through your bones, forcing you to drop to one knee to brace the weight.
"You're good, princess. Really good," Varka panted, his smile growing wider as he pressed his blade down against yours. The sheer kinetic force of his strength was immense, but you held your ground, your jaw locked, your teeth grinding so hard they felt ready to shatter. "But you're fighting like someone's holding a knife to your throat. Who are you trying to prove yourself to? The Archons aren't even looking this way."
"Silence!" you hissed, your voice cracking with a mixture of exhaustion and fury.
With a final, desperate burst of adrenaline, you channeled every ounce of strength into your legs. You deflected his blade to the side and swung horizontally, aiming for his midsection. Varka leaped backward, his coat catching the very tip of your blade, leaving a clean tear in the fabric as he landed gracefully a few feet away.
Both of you stood there, chests heaving, weapons raised, completely encircled by a silent, breathless crowd of Knights who were too stunned to even cheer.
For the first time in his life, Varka looked slightly disheveled. A strand of his unruly hair fell across his face, and his breathing was heavy. He looked down at the tear in his coat, then up at you. The lazy, teasing smirk was gone, replaced by something much more dangerous, and much more genuine. It was the look of a predator that had finally found an equal.
He lowered his claymore, resting the tip on the ground, and let out a laugh that shook the tension right out of the air.
"Well, I'll be damned," Varka cheered, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, completely ignoring the whispering crowd around you. "The rumors didn't do you justice. You really can match me blow for blow."
You didn't lower your sword immediately. Your hands were shaking from exhaustion, your fingers locking tightly around the leather hilt. You wanted to strike him again. You wanted to wipe that respect off his face because you hadn't won, you had only tied. And in the house of Lawrence, a tie was just a pretty word for failure.
"This isn't over, Knight Varka," you said coldly, your voice dripping with pride despite the way your knees trembled. You sheathed your greatsword with a sharp, practiced snap, turning your back on him and the staring crowd before anyone could see the tremors in your hands.
"Oh, I know it's not!" Varka called out after you, his booming voice chasing you down the dark stone corridor as you walked away. "I'll see you here tomorrow, princess! Don't keep the wind waiting!"
────୨ৎ────
You kept walking, your teeth clenched, ignoring the burning in your muscles and the heavy, judgmental shadow of your family name waiting for you at home. You hated him. You truly, deeply hated him. Because for the first time in your life, someone had looked past your perfect form, looked past your lack of a Vision, and looked straight at you, and he wasn't disappointed at all.
The grand iron gates of the Lawrence estate never felt like a welcome; they felt like the bars of a gilded cage closing behind you.
As you walked through the cavernous, dimly lit hallways of your family mansion, the silence was suffocating. The portraits of your ancestors stared down from the high walls, their cold, painted eyes judging your every step. You tried your best to suppress the tremor in your legs, forcing your posture to remain perfectly straight despite the agonizing ache in your muscles. You had matched Varka blow for blow. You had pushed the strongest prodigy of the Knights to his absolute limit. In the eyes of the city, you had achieved the impossible.
But as you stopped outside the heavy oak doors of your father’s study, you knew Mondstadt’s praise meant nothing within these walls.
You knocked once. Precise. Measured.
"Enter," a cold, baritone voice commanded from within.
You pushed the door open and stepped inside, keeping your gaze fixed ahead. Your father, the head of the Lawrence Clan, sat behind a massive mahogany desk, reviewing ledgers under the dim glow of a single candelabra. To his left stood your older brother and younger sister. Unlike you, who wore a dirt-stained, sweat-soaked training uniform, they were dressed in flawless, immaculate noble attire, every ribbon tied perfectly, every strand of hair combed back. They looked at you not with pride, but with a mixture of disdain and quiet amusement. They were the perfect, obedient puppets of the clan. You were the anomaly. The deviant who chose the mud and steel of the frontline over the polite poison of high-society politics.
"You are late," your father said, not even looking up from his papers. "And you smell of the common quarters."
"I was delayed at the training grounds, Father," you replied, your voice flat, devoid of any emotion.
SLAM.
Your father’s hand struck the desk, the sudden violence shattering the silence of the room. He stood up, his towering figure casting a long, dark shadow over you. When he looked at you, there was no warmth only a burning, toxic resentment.
"Delayed? Is that what you call humiliating our bloodline in front of the lower-born rabble?" he hissed, stepping out from behind the desk. He walked around you, his eyes scanning your disheveled appearance like a hawk targeting prey. "Word travels fast in Mondstadt. They say a Lawrence fought a nameless, visionless outlander—and failed to bring him to his knees."
"It was a tie, Father," your jaw clenched, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "Varka is the strongest recruit the Knights have seen in decades. I matched him without a Vision—"
A sharp, ringing crack echoed through the study.
Your head snapped to the side, the stinging heat of his palm blooming across your cheek. Your older brother let out a soft, mocking chuckle from the corner, while your sister merely adjusted her silk sleeves, completely unbothered by the violence. You didn't cry out. You didn't even raise a hand to touch your burning skin. You simply stared at the floor, your teeth grinding together so hard your gums bled.
"A tie is a failure!" your father roared, his breath hot against your face. "A Lawrence does not tie with a commoner! We are the rightful rulers of this city! Every breath you take, every strike you make is meant to prove our absolute superiority over these peasants. To allow a nobody to stand equal to you is an insult to generations of noble blood!"
He gripped your chin, forcing you to meet his cold, merciless gaze. "Do you truly believe yourself special simply because you wield a greatsword? You are nothing but a pawn—our key to seizing the Grand Master's seat so this family can rule Mondstadt once more. If a tool grows blunt, it must be sharpened. Or discarded."
He let go of your chin with a shove. He turned his back to you, his voice returning to that terrifyingly calm, clipped tone. "Three inches. Your opening stance was three inches too wide, allowing him to deflect your blade. For every inch of your failure, you will spend two hours in the subterranean training cells. No food. No water. You will correct your form until your hands can no longer hold the steel."
Your brother stepped forward, a smirk dancing on his lips. "Shall I oversee her punishment, Father? I’ll make sure she doesn't get careless again."
"See to it," your father muttered, dismissing you with a wave of his hand.
You didn't say a word. You didn't beg, and you didn't apologize. You turned on your heel, your heart turning into a cold, hard stone inside your chest. As your brother led you down into the damp, freezing depths of the estate’s underground cells, the last remnants of warmth left your body. You picked up a heavy, blunt iron training sword, the weight tearing at your already blistered hands.
One. Two. Three. You swung against the stone pillar, the shockwave vibrating through your bruised bones. You would be perfect. You would become the emotionless, flawless weapon they wanted. Not for them, but so no one could ever look down on you again.
────୨ৎ────
The next morning, the sun rose bright over the Knights of Favonius headquarters, but the training yard felt strangely empty.
Varka stood by the wooden fence, his heavy claymore resting against his shoulder. His top buttons were undone as usual, and he had a half-eaten apple in his hand, but his eyes kept wandering toward the entrance of the barracks.
Usually, by this time, she would already be there. You would be standing in the center of the yard, executing your pristine, ridiculously stiff forms with a scowl that could freeze the cider in Mondstadt's taverns. Varka had woken up early today, actually looking forward to the training session for the first time in his life. His body was still sore from their duel last night, but the sheer adrenaline of finding someone who could match his strength had kept him awake half the night.
But the courtyard was empty. Only a few regular guards were lazily sweeping the gravel.
"Hey, Raymond," Varka called out as a young, dutiful knight-in-training walked past, carrying a stack of targets. "Have you seen the princess today? The Lawrence girl?"
Raymond paused, blinking up at the tall warrior. "Lady Lawrence? No, Sir Varka. She hasn't checked in for morning roll call. It's highly unusual for her to be late. She is usually the first one here."
Varka’s smile faded a fraction, his brow furrowing. He tossed the apple core into a nearby bin and looked toward the direction of the noble district, where the massive, imposing spires of the Lawrence estate loomed over the city like a shadow.
He remembered the way you had looked at the end of their duel, the desperate, furious exhaustion in your eyes, and the way your hands trembled when you sheathed your sword. He had thought it was just the thrill of the fight. But now, looking at the dark silhouette of your family’s mansion, a strange, uneasy feeling settled in his chest.
"Hey, Varka! You coming to the mess hall?" another captain yelled from across the yard.
Varka looked back at the empty space where you usually stood, his grip tightening slightly around the hilt of his claymore. "Yeah," he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual booming cheer. "I'll be there in a second."
He knew the Lawrence Clan was strict, but as he stared at the distant estate, he couldn't shake the image of your cold, proud face out of his mind. What kind of hell are they putting you through over a simple game of steel, princess?
────୨ৎ────
Two days. It took two days of relentless, mechanical swinging in the damp darkness of the subterranean cells before your father deemed your stance "corrected."
When you finally stepped back into the blinding Mondstadt sunlight, your body felt less like flesh and more like a collection of bruised, shattered glass held together by sheer willpower. Your hands were tightly bandaged beneath your leather gloves to hide the raw, open blisters. Dark, purple bruises mapped your ribs and shoulders under your uniform, reminders from your brother’s "oversight." Your face was a pale, unreadable mask, colder and sharper than the winter frost.
The moment you walked into the Knights of Favonius training yard, the atmosphere shifted.
The whispers began instantly. Recruits nudged each other, shifting their eyes away whenever you looked in their direction. The common folk of Mondstadt didn't just dislike the Lawrence Clan; they loathed them. They saw your family as tyrants waiting to reclaim their chains, and by extension, they saw you as a cold, dangerous viper in their midst. The distance they kept from you wasn't born out of respect; it was born out of disdain and fear.
You preferred it that way. Isolation was safe. Isolation meant no one could see you stumble.
Ignoring the heavy, judgmental silence of the courtyard, you walked straight to the weapon racks, drew a standard-issue claymore, and marched to the center of the yard. Your muscles screamed in agonizing protest the moment you lifted the steel, but you didn't let even a flicker of pain show on your face. You squared your shoulders, planted your feet, precisely three inches narrower than before and began your forms.
Strike. Parry. Reset.
The weight of the sword tore at the fresh scabs on your palms. Blood began to seep through the bandages, darkening the leather of your gloves, but you kept going.
Strike. Parry. Reset.
"You know, if you keep swinging like that, you're going to break the wind before you break an opponent," a booming, infuriatingly cheerful voice cut through your concentration.
You didn't need to look up to know who it was. Varka walked into the courtyard, completely ignoring the way the other knights hurriedly cleared a path for him. He looked entirely too rested, his shoulders relaxed, a small paper bag of warm Mondstadt hash browns dangling casually from his fingers.
You didn't stop your form. You swung harder, the wind whistling sharply against your blade. "Mind your own station, Knight Varka. I am in the middle of perfecting my routine."
"Routine? Looks more like a self-execution to me," Varka muttered, his lazy smile dropping for a brief second as his sharp eyes caught the dark, unnatural stain on your glove. Before you could execute your next strike, he stepped directly into your path, the toe of his boot gently tapping yours to disrupt your balance.
You stumbled back a half-step, your breath catching in your throat as the sudden movement jolted your bruised ribs. Your eyes flared with a cold, venomous fury. "Get out of my way."
"Nope," he said easily, tossing a warm hash brown into his mouth. "You missed two days of roll call, princess. I thought you died or got eaten by wolves. Turns out you were just plotting world domination in your room. Here, eat. You look like a ghost."
He offered the paper bag to you. The scent of fried potatoes and spices hit your nose, making your empty stomach twist, but your pride rose like an iron wall.
"I do not need handouts from a commoner," you hissed, your voice dripping with the arrogant venom your family had drilled into you. You raised your claymore again, pointing the tip directly at his chest. "Step aside, or I will make you."
The knights around the courtyard gasped, a suffocating tension gripping the yard. They looked at you with renewed disdain, the arrogant noble girl threatening their favorite prodigy.
But Varka didn't get angry. He didn't even draw his sword. He only looked at you, his eyes scanning your pale face, the tense, trembling line of your jaw, and the subtle way your left knee favored your right. The crowd saw an arrogant Lawrence. Varka saw something else entirely.
“You look lonely,” he said softly, the booming cheer completely vanishing from his voice, replaced by a quiet, grounded sincerity that caught you entirely off guard.
Your heart stuttered. The words felt like a physical blow, cracking through the armor you had spent two days rebuilding in the dark.
"Leave me be," you whispered, your voice dangerously low, your knuckles whitening around the hilt of your sword. "Everyone else has the sense to stay away from a Lawrence. You should learn to do the same."
"Yeah, well, I was never very good at following directions," Varka shrugged, his easygoing smirk returning in a flash.
Before you could react, he reached out, his massive hand clamping around your wrist with a grip that was surprisingly gentle but completely unyielding. You tried to wrench your arm back, but the sudden movement sent a sharp, agonizing jolt through your bruised shoulder. A small, involuntary gasp of pain escaped your lips.
Varka’s eyes darkened instantly. He didn't say another word to you. He simply turned around, effectively using his massive frame to shield you from the prying eyes of the whispering crowd, and began dragging you toward the back exits of the headquarters, away from the training yard and into the quiet, shaded corridors of the Knights' main building.
"Let go of me!" you fiercely whispered, struggling against his grip as he led you down the empty hallways. "This is an assault on a noble house! I will have you court-martialed!"
"Sure, sure. You can write the report while we eat," Varka countered over his shoulder, entirely unbothered by your threats.
He didn't stop until he pushed open a heavy wooden door, pulling you into a small, secluded balcony that overlooked the quiet, glittering waters of Cider Lake. The wind here was cool and carried the scent of calla lilies, completely cut off from the suffocating judgment of the training yard.
He finally let go of your wrist and leaned against the stone railing, sighing as he looked out at the scenery. Without a word, he set the bag of warm food on the ledge between you, along with a small roll of clean, white medical bandages he had apparently been hiding in his coat.
"You're a terrible liar, you know," Varka said softly, not looking at you, giving you the dignity to adjust your uniform in peace. "You hide the pain well, but your blade doesn't. It's shaking."
You stood at the entrance of the balcony, your jaw tight, your pride digging deeper than the physical ache in your body. Every instinct told you to turn around and walk away, to go back to the mud and prove you didn't need this. But as the warm wind from the lake brushed against your face, the sheer exhaustion of the last forty-eight hours finally caught up to you.
You looked at the food, then at the bandages, and finally at the broad back of the man who refused to leave you in the dark. You didn't take the food, and you didn't say thank you. But for the first time since you met him, you didn't run away either. You walked to the edge of the railing, standing a few feet away from him, staring out at the water in a heavy, shared silence.
Varka didn't press you. He just smiled, patient as the northern wind, knowing that the wall had finally begun to crack.
────୨ৎ────
Years bled into one another like watercolor under a Mondstadt rain.
The quiet truce found on that hidden balcony didn't make you soft, nor did it make Varka any less insufferable. Instead, it forged something entirely unprecedented within the ranks of the Knights of Favonius. As the both of you entered your twenties, your names became synonymous with the finest steel the city had to offer.
To the rest of the world, you were rivals, equals locked in a perpetual, breathless dance of stubbornness. The Knights no longer just whispered in fear of your Lawrence blood; they watched in absolute awe. You had grown into a terrifyingly sharp warrior, your movements a masterclass in lethal elegance. You still didn't have a Vision, but your raw, human precision had reached such a peak that you could cut down a Ruin Guard before it could even calibrate its target.
And yet, no matter how fast you grew, how hard you pushed, Varka was always right there beside you. Matching you blow for blow.
"You're overthinking the third arc again, princess," Varka’s booming voice echoed through the Whispering Woods.
CLANG!
Your claymores collided, sending a shower of sparks into the twilight. You were deep in the forest, far from the prying eyes of the city, locked in yet another unscripted spar. The wind howled around you, kicking up dead leaves as you pressed your blade against his.
"I am adjusting for the weight of your unrefined swings, Grand Master candidate," you shot back, your voice sharp, breathing heavily but refusing to yield an inch.
Varka merely laughed, a rich, warm sound that seemed to vibrate right through your bones. With a sudden surge of strength, he pushed you back, his eyes dancing with that familiar, frustrating spark. He had filled out over the years, broader, taller, a true force of nature, but the lazy, carefree smile remained entirely unchanged.
"Candidate? Ah, so you're already thinking about the selection, huh?" Varka teased, resting his massive sword over his shoulder. "The captains have been talking. They say the current Grand Master is stepping down soon. It’s either going to be the flawless legacy of the Lawrence Clan... or a loud outlander who drinks too much cider."
Your expression darkened, your grip tightening on your hilt.
The selection. The absolute culmination of every nightmare, every beating, and every suffocating night you had endured under your father’s roof. You were twenty-four now, and the pressure from the Lawrence estate had evolved from physical punishments into a cold, psychological vice. Your older brother had already taken his seat in the clan's shadow councils, and your younger sister was being courted by wealthy nobles. You were their only hope for raw, political power. If you failed to secure the title of Grand Master, you knew your family would discard you entirely.
"This is not a game to me, Varka," you said, your voice dropping into a dangerously quiet register. You lowered your blade, the tip digging into the dirt. "Every fight we have ever had... it is a battle for my survival. For my pride. You fight because you enjoy the thrill. I fight because I am not allowed to lose."
Varka stopped smiling. He looked at you, the shadows of the trees falling across his face, making him look older, more grounded. He walked over to where you stood, stepping past the invisible boundary you always kept between yourself and the rest of the world.
Without asking, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, wrapped parcel, half a loaf of Mondstadt’s northern smoked chicken, still warm from the tavern. He held it out to you.
"You're doing it again," he said softly.
"Doing what?" you muttered, looking away from the food, though the warmth of it radiated against your cold skin.
"Treating yourself like a weapon that needs to be broken to stay sharp," Varka sighed, taking a step closer until you could feel the heat radiating from him. "I've watched you for years, Y/N. I’ve seen you skip meals, I’ve seen you train until your knees buckle, all to prove something to a family that doesn't even deserve to look you in the eye."
"You know nothing of my family," you hissed, your pride flaring like a dying ember.
"I know they don't laugh," Varka countered easily, his voice dropping to a gentle, almost tender tone that made your throat tight. "And I know they don't care that you're lonely. But I do."
"I told you to mind your own business," you whispered, but the venom was gone from your voice. It was an old script, a routine you both played out, but somewhere deep down over the years... you had stopped genuinely wanting him to leave. His loud, booming voice calling your name across the courtyard had become the only anchor keeping you sane in a world that demanded you be a ghost.
"Too bad. I’m a Knight of Favonius, protecting the citizens is my business," Varka chuckled, stuffing the parcel into your hand anyway. He turned his back to you, walking toward the edge of the clearing where the lights of Mondstadt glittered in the distance. "Eat your rations, princess. Tomorrow is the evaluation with the captains. I expect you at your best. I don't want to win the title just because you were starving yourself."
You looked down at the warm food in your hands, the scent of smoke and spices familiar and grounding. You bit your lip, watching his broad shoulders disappear into the tree line.
You pretended not to care. You always pretended. But as you took a small, quiet bite of the food he gave you, your heart hammered against your ribs, not from the exhaustion of the fight, but from the terrifying realization that you were no longer just fighting for your family’s pride.
You were fighting to stay standing right beside him.
────୨ৎ────
The day of the decision arrived with a sky the color of cold slate.
Inside the Grand Hall of the Knights of Favonius, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. All the captains, high-ranking officials, and noble representatives stood in rigid rows. You stood near the front, your posture so sharp it could cut the wind. Your hair was pinned up flawlessly, your uniform pristine, your fingers lightly resting on the hilt of your greatsword. This was it. The culmination of every drop of blood you had spilled, every hour you had spent screaming in the dark of your family's cells.
Your father was watching from the gallery. You could feel his cold, calculated glare burning into your back. Be perfect, the shadow of your family whispered. Take what is ours.
Beside you stood Varka. For once, his uniform was completely buttoned, his wild hair combed back, though his eyes still held that restless, untamed energy. He didn't look at the captains. He looked at you, a quiet, serious expression on his face that you had rarely seen.
The current Grand Master stepped up to the podium. The wind outside seemed to hold its breath.
"After much deliberation, taking into account strength, leadership, and the spirit of freedom that guards our city..." The Grand Master’s voice boomed through the hall, echoing off the high stone arches. "The next Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius is... Varka."
Applause roared through the hall. Cheers erupted from the captains.
You didn’t hear any of it.
The sound in your ears instantly turned into a deafening, high-pitched ring. The floor beneath your boots felt like it was dissolving into nothingness. All you could feel was the immense, crushing weight of every single hour you had spent trying to be perfect, every sacrifice you had made, crashing down on you in absolute, suffocating silence. You had failed. The tool was blunt. You were broken.
Through the blur of the crowd, you saw your father rise from his seat in the gallery, his face twisted into a mask of pure, venomous disgust before he turned his back on you and walked out.
Your breath caught in your throat. Before the ceremony could even finish, before anyone could look at you with pity or triumph, you turned around. You slipped through the cheering crowd, your movements mechanical, running from the noise, running from the failure, running until the city gates were far behind you.
You didn’t know where your feet were taking you until the towering spires of Mondstadt disappeared, replaced by the twisted, ancient trees of Wolvendom.
The forest whispered with a bitter, ancient wind. You stumbled through the brush, blindly pushing forward until you found yourself standing at the edge of the frozen, sacrificial arena where Boreas, the Great Wolf, once walked. The ground here was a solid sheet of thick, jagged frost.
You walked out onto the ice, your breathing ragged, and looked down. Your own reflection stared back at you, pale, hollow-eyed, a failure wrapped in noble colors. A hysterical, bitter laugh bubbled up in your throat.
What was the point of being perfect if you still ended up completely alone? What was the point of bleeding for a name that discarded you the moment you tripped?
Suddenly, your boot lost its grip on the smooth surface. Your foot slipped.
CRACK.
The ice fractured beneath your weight, and a sharp, blinding agony shot through your ankle as you hit the ground below. You let out a strangled cry, your greatsword clattering uselessly away from you. Panicked, you tried to push yourself up, but your leg completely gave way, sending you collapsing back onto the freezing frost.
The howling wind of the forest suddenly grew deathly cold. Then, entirely still.
A massive, terrifying shadow loomed over the edge of the arena. Two eyes, glowing like shards of a frozen moon, locked onto you through the mist. Lupus Boreas. The Great Wolf of the North had noticed the intruder bleeding in his domain. The giant, ethereal beast stepped closer, each stride vibrating through the solid ice beneath you.
Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. Trembling, you dragged yourself toward your fallen sword, your fingers locking around the hilt as you raised it with shaking hands.
"Stay back..." you whispered, but your voice broke, stripped of all its usual noble pride. You were defenseless. You were going to die here, forgotten in the frost.
Then, a sudden blur of motion. A shadow cutting through the mist.
"Don’t move!"
BOOM!
A heavy, thundering strike shattered the frost right in front of you. Varka’s massive claymore met Boreas’s icy glare, the pure kinetic force of his swing forcing the great spirit to leap backward into the shadows of the trees. The wind roared around him, his coat billowing as he held the line between you and the beast.
You blinked in disbelief, your vision blurring. "Varka...?"
The wolf let out a low, respectful growl from the darkness before melting back into the shadows of the forest, recognizing the sheer strength of the man who had just intervened.
Varka sheathed his blade with a heavy sigh, turning around to face you. And then, he laughed. He actually let out a breathless, relieved chuckle, even now, standing in the middle of a monster's lair.
"You really don't make it easy for me to stop worrying, huh?" he panted, wiping the frost from his brow.
You glared at him weakly, your hands still trembling around your sword, half furious that he was seeing you like this, and half so relieved your chest ached. "Why are you here...? You’re the Grand Master now. You should be at your ceremony."
"Because someone," Varka said, walking over and crouching down in front of you, "stormed out of the city like she was ready to duel the Archons themselves."
He extended his massive, calloused hand toward you, his palm open, waiting.
You froze. Your jaw tightened, the bitter, toxic pride of the Lawrence Clan digging deeper into your mind than the physical pain in your ankle. Every lesson your father taught you screamed at you to say no. To prove you could stand on your own, even if it killed you.
You tried to push yourself up, to slap his hand away, but the moment you put pressure on your leg, a white-hot flash of pain shot up your spine, forcing you back down.
You looked at his open hand, then sharply looked away, staring at the cracked ice. "I don’t need your help," you muttered, your voice thick with suppressed tears.
Varka didn't pull his hand back. He only smiled, as patient and steady as the northern wind. "I know. But I’m offering anyway."
The silence hung heavy between you, filled with the weight of the years you had spent fighting each other, the things you never said, and all the laughter he had kept trying to give you while your world was dark. You realized then, looking at his shadow over you, that he hadn't followed you to gloat. He had left his own coronation because a crown meant nothing to him if you weren't there to see it.
Slowly, your pride finally cracked.
Without a word, you shifted closer on the ice. You didn't take his hand, your stubbornness wouldn't allow that much, but you moved just enough for him to reach out and steady you firmly by the arm.
Varka didn't point it out. He never would.
With a single, effortless motion, he hoisted you up, supporting your weight against his broad chest as your good foot found purchase on the ground. The cool wind stirred the frost around your boots. He glanced down at you, his voice softening into a tone so gentle it made your breath hitch.
"So… are you done running now, or should I keep chasing you?"
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