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Sometimes, you look at the leather-bound journal resting on the living room shelf, its pages worn at the edges from years of turning. It is the written record of your life, the story of a strict, visionless girl from the Lawrence Clan who fought the world just to prove she belonged. Every page chronicles a milestone: the brutal training days, the bitter rivalry that turned into something fierce and protective, the night you finally found freedom, and the day you watched a brilliant Pyro Vision manifest from your sheer will to keep Varka alive.
You can still vividly recall the exact feeling of your wedding day, standing beneath the colossal statue of the Anemo Archon in a stunning white gown, holding the hand of the Grand Master as the entire city cheered. Back then, you were glowing, newly married, and carrying your first child beneath your heart. You genuinely believed you had stepped into a lifetime of absolute peace.
You were wrong.
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The present day didn't feel like a peaceful retirement; it felt like a daily battle for survival against a horde of monsters, and you were currently running out of stamina.
You sat at the kitchen counter, your fingers pressed hard against your temples as you closed your eyes, desperately trying to squeeze out even just five minutes of absolute silence. Just five minutes. It shouldn't have been a monumental challenge, but in this household, silence was a myth.
A heavy, vibrating thud echoed from the second floor, followed by the familiar, high-pitched screech of wooden practice swords clashing against the hallway baseboards. That was Valerius and Arkin.
You opened your eyes and stared blankly at the kitchen wall, feeling a familiar wave of defeat wash over you as you thought about the sheer genetic robbery that had taken place in your own womb. Three boys. Not a single girl to give you a break or balance out the testosterone levels in the house.
Sometimes, you felt personally insulted by human biology. Every single one of your sons was a direct, aggressive, unapologetic carbon copy of their father. Your oldest, Valerius, had inherited Varka’s wild, untamable messy hair and that signature, towering growth spurt that made him look too big for his age. Your second boy, Arkin, had the exact same effortlessly smug grin, the kind that told you he knew he was causing trouble and simply did not care. Even the toddler, Karan, who was barely learning how to form proper sentences, already possessed that heavy, solid build that Varka carried so easily.
Your own genes hadn't even put up a fight. It was as if your DNA took one look at Varka’s dominant traits during conception, sighed, sat down in a corner, and said, "You know what? You handle the blueprint, I’m going to sleep."
The only saving grace, the single thread keeping your sanity intact, was that despite looking like a mini-army of the most formidable man you knew, they all shared one collective instinct: they were absolutely terrified of you. Varka could command legions and make grown men tremble with a single barked order, but inside these four walls, your quietest voice was law.
Right on cue, another ear-splitting crash rattled the ceiling, followed by a loud, boisterous laugh that definitely did not belong to a child.
"Watch the footwork, brat! You're swinging like a hilichurl!" Varka’s roaring voice boomed through the ceiling, followed by the sound of a heavy wooden wardrobe taking the brunt of a missed strike. "Do it again, Valerius! Arkin, keep your guard up! If your mother sees that scratch on the wall, we're all sleeping in the stables tonight!"
You slowly let your hands drop from your temples. The kitchen air grew noticeably warmer as your Pyro Vision sparkled on your hip, reacting to your spiking blood pressure.
You didn't yell. You didn't stomp. You simply stood up from the counter, smoothed down your clothes, and walked toward the base of the stairs.
"Varka," you called out. Your voice wasn't loud, it was dangerously calm, a low, even cadence that effortlessly cut through the chaos upstairs.
Instantly, the house went dead silent.
The clashing of wooden swords vanished. The heavy footsteps froze. Upstairs, you could practically hear the legendary Knight Boreas and his formidable sons collectively holding their breath.
A moment later, Varka’s massive, messy head peeked over the top of the banister, his signature rogue grin looking incredibly strained. Valerius and Arkin were hiding behind his massive frame, trying and failing to look innocent, while the toddler, Karan, sat on the floor clinging to his father's boot.
"Ah, sweetheart!" Varka said, his voice dropping an octave in a desperate attempt to sound casual. "We were just... conducting a highly training review. Completely controlled. No damage done."
"Get down here. All of you," you replied, crossing your arms.
Varka, a man feared by the Abyss and respected across Teyvat, didn't hesitate. He hurried down the stairs, ushering the boys ahead of him like a captain leading a guilty squad. As they lined up in front of the kitchen counter, looking completely defenseless under your gaze, a small, involuntary warmth tugged at your chest despite your irritation.
Varka cleared his throat, shifting his massive weight from one foot to the other as he stood at the head of the line, looking remarkably like a giant, guilty schoolboy.
"Now, sweetheart, before you say anything," Varka started, holding up his hands defensively while Valerius and Arkin nodded frantically behind him, "the wardrobe was already loose. I was just... testing its structural integrity."
"By having our oldest slam a heavy oak training blade directly into the molding?" You raised an eyebrow, your voice flat, unamused, and entirely in control.
Valerius instantly shot his father a betrayed look. "You told me to strike with the force of a falling meteor, Dad! You said Mom wouldn't hear it if I did it fast enough!"
"Valerius, loose lips sink ships!" Varka hissed back, though he kept his eyes locked on you, watching for any sign that your Pyro Vision was about to flaringly ignite.
Beside them, Arkin was trying to sneakily slide a splintered piece of wood under the rug with his foot, his effortlessly smug grin completely vanishing the moment your gaze snapped directly to him. He froze mid-motion, hovering his foot over the evidence like a statue.
"Drop it," you commanded quietly.
With a heavy sigh of defeat, Arkin let the piece of wood clatter onto the floor. "It was Val's fault anyway. His stance is terrible."
"Hey!" Valerius snapped, shoving his brother's shoulder. "At least I didn't break the hallway lamp yesterday!"
"Silence," you said.
The single word wasn't delivered as a shout, but the sheer authority behind it made both boys instantly lock their jaws and stand at attention, staring straight ahead. Even little Karan stopped chewing on Varka’s boot lace, blinking up at you with wide, solemn eyes.
You walked over to the line of identical, messy-haired culprits, stopping right in front of your husband. Despite the gray hairs beginning to show in his wild mane, Varka still looked like the untouchable, boisterous rogue who had dragged you out of Wolvendom all those years ago. But right now, in your kitchen, he was entirely at your mercy.
"Valerius. Arkin," you addressed the older two without breaking eye contact with their father. "Go to the courtyard. You are to polish every piece of spare armor in the shed until you can see your reflection clearly enough to fix your atrocious hair. If I see a single smudge, you're helping the cooks scrub the cauldrons in the headquarters tomorrow."
"Yes, Mom," they muttered in unison, entirely drained of their earlier chaotic energy as they scrambled past you and out the back door.
That left the biggest culprit of all. Karan looked up at his father, then at you, before wisely deciding to crawl toward his toy box in the corner, leaving Varka completely isolated.
"And you," you said, stepping closer to Varka until you had to tilt your head up to look into his eyes. "The Grand Master of Mondstadt. The legendary Knight Boreas. Leading a rebellion inside my own house?"
Varka’s rogue grin crawled back onto his face, though it was softer now, devoid of the bravado he used with his troops. He reached out, his massive, calloused hands gently catching your waist and pulling you against his chest, completely unbothered by the lingering heat radiating from your Vision.
"A rebellion? Never," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, rumbling tone reserved only for you. "Just trying to make sure they're strong enough to protect the city when we're old and gray. Though, clearly, they still have a long way to go before they can match their mother."
"Flattery won't fix the wardrobe, Varka."
"No," he chuckled, leaning down to press a warm, lingering kiss against your temple. "But a trip to the carpenter tomorrow morning will. Come on, let me make it up to you. I'll handle dinner tonight. No experiments, I promise."
"No experiments," you muttered, letting your head rest against his broad chest for a brief second, enjoying the sudden quiet. "The last time you said that, you almost burned down the kitchen trying to roast a Boar Princess-style ham."
Varka let out a loud, rumbling laugh that vibrated against your cheek, his arms tightening around you just a bit more. "A minor miscalculation with the pyro-slime condensate. It won't happen again, I swear it on my blade."
You sighed, rubbing the bridge of your nose as you looked past his shoulder at Karan, who was currently trying to fit a wooden shield over his entire head.
The truth was, you weren't just taking care of three children in this house. You were taking care of four. And right now, your stamina bar was completely depleted.
Carrying them into the world hadn't been an easy feat, either. Valerius, Arkin, and even little Karan hadn't been normal, fragile newborns; they were exceptionally big, heavy babies from the moment they drew their first breaths, as if their bones were already molded from Mondstadt’s rugged earth. Your back still remembered the agonizing ache of carrying each one of them to term. Human biology had truly shown you no mercy.
And now, they were growing at an alarming rate. Valerius was only seven years old, but he already had the height of a ten-year-old, his limbs shooting out in a massive growth spurt that left him clumsy but dangerously powerful with a training sword. Arkin, at five years old, was solid muscle and pure mischief, always heavy enough to leave bruises whenever he playfully tackled your waist. And Karan, barely turning two, already carried that dense, heavy frame that made lifting him feel like hoisting a small anvil.
Three giant boys, plus one giant husband. The sheer amount of testosterone, dirt, and broken furniture in this house was enough to drive a former Lawrence insane.
Someone had to keep this household from spinning into absolute ruin, and that heavy mantle fell entirely on your shoulders. You were the manager of chaos, the cleaner of messes, and the only force capable of grounding the wildest storm in Mondstadt.
Varka seemed to notice the heavy fatigue in your eyes. The playful, roaring Grand Master stepped back for a moment, his expression softening into that rare, gentle look that he only ever gave you and the boys. He might have been a chaotic mentor and a terrible cook, but he was an undeniably devoted father. He loved his sons with a fierce, protective intensity that rivaled his loyalty to the city. He never dismissed their endless energy; instead, he channeled it, spent hours letting them climb on his shoulders, and listened to their rambling stories with genuine patience.
That was exactly why he always lost the discipline battle. He was simply too soft on them.
"Go sit down on the porch," Varka said softly, his large hand gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. "Valerius and Arkin will be polishing armor for the next two hours, Karan is occupied, and I am officially on cleaning duty. I'll sweep up the splinters and fix the wardrobe myself."
He leaned down, pressing a firm, reassuring kiss to your forehead. "You've held down the fort all day. Let me take the brunt of the battle for the rest of the evening."
Turning around, Varka walked over to the corner and easily scooped up Karan with one arm, tossing the heavy two-year-old into the air until the toddler squealed with delight, before grabbing a broom with his free hand.
Watching him navigate the kitchen, a legendary warrior trying to sweep floors while a heavy toddler clung to his neck like a koala, you finally felt the tension leave your shoulders. You walked out toward the sun-drenched porch, ready to enjoy your hard-earned five minutes of absolute silence.
You barely even got to take a single deep breath before the short-lived illusion of peace shattered into pieces.
As you sat on the porch, you blinked, staring blankly ahead as the background world practically blurred into a hazy hum of raw disbelief. Out in the courtyard, Valerius and Arkin had actually taken your orders to heart, too much to heart. They had polished a heavy Mondstadt breastplate to such a blinding, mirror-like sheen that it was practically glowing. But instead of putting it away, the two geniuses had tilted the curved metal directly toward the afternoon sun, angling the concentrated beam of heat like a giant magnifying glass straight into a dry wooden supply crate.
Within seconds, a thin trail of smoke snaked upward, followed by a sudden, cheerful burst of actual flame.
You didn't even move. You just sat there, letting out a long, slow, soul-weary sigh as you watched your two eldest sons stare at the growing fire in absolute, wide-eyed stupidity before they began frantically stomping on it with their leather boots, only succeeded in spreading the embers.
"What in the name of the Archons is happening out here?!"
The biggest idiot of them all came tearing out of the house. Varka literally sprinted past your porch chair, still holding the heavy broom in one hand and the toddler under his other arm like a sack of flour. He didn't even use his Anemo powers to blow it out; he just began whacking the crate furiously with the straw end of the broom, which immediately caught fire too.
"Dad, you're making it worse! You're spreading the fire!" Valerius shrieked, jumping backward as his father accidentally waved a flaming broom near his face. "Arkin was the one who said we should see if we could melt iron with pure sunlight!"
"I did not! You're the one who angled the breastplate, you giant giraffe!" Arkin roared back, fiercely shoving his older brother's arm. "You told me we were creating a solar weapon!"
"A solar weapon?! You burned my favorite storage crate!" Varka barked, finally throwing the flaming broom to the ground and stomping it out with his massive boots, his wild hair flaring up in every direction. "Do you have any idea what your mother is going to do to us?! I just negotiated our way out of the kitchen, you absolute menaces!"
The courtyard was a catastrophic symphony of overlapping noise. Valerius and Arkin were screaming over each other, violently pointing fingers and trading insults, while Varka’s booming voice easily drowned them both out as he paced around the charred wood, heavily lecturing them on fire safety while his own boots were still smoking.
And the youngest? Karan was still safely tucked under his father’s arm, completely upside down at this point, just kicking his heavy little legs and giggling hysterically at the chaos, thoroughly enjoying the private family stunt show.
They were all yapping over each other, a loud, roaring, echoing mess of testosterone and sheer lack of survival instincts.
You leaned your head back against the porch pillar, staring up at the clear Mondstadt sky as the chaotic shouting washed over you.
Sigh... welp. This is my life. Surrounded by idiots forever.
The silence that followed the courtyard disaster was thick, heavy, and smelled distinctly of scorched pine and singed horsehair broom.
Slowly, you stood up from your wooden porch chair. Your movements were deliberate, almost rhythmic, as you smoothed out the wrinkles of your skirt. You didn't say a single word. You didn't need to. The sudden drop in your posture and the ominous, crackling crimson glow emanating from the Pyro Vision resting against your hip spoke volumes.
Instantly, the chaotic symphony in the courtyard dissolved into a terrifying stillness. Varka froze mid-stomp, his massive boot hovering inches above a smoking piece of straw. Valerius, who had been mid-shout with his finger aggressively pointed at his brother’s face, dropped his hand so fast he nearly dislocated his shoulder. Arkin immediately wiped the effortlessly smug grin off his face, shifting his posture into a rigid, trembling military stance that would have made the Knights of Favonius proud.
Even little Karan, sensing the sudden shift in the atmospheric pressure, stopped giggling. He blinked his large, round eyes, wisely choosing to bury his face directly into the crook of his father’s neck to hide from your gaze.
"Inside," you said.
Your voice wasn't loud. It wasn't a screech or a roar. It was a low, dangerously smooth cadence that vibrated through the wooden beams of the porch. It was the exact tone you used back in your captain days when an initiate had utterly botched a formation, and it carried the absolute weight of an executioner's gavel.
Without a single second of hesitation, the three giant boys and their equally giant father scrambled toward the back door. Varka led the march, moving with an awkward, hurried shuffle while trying to look completely natural while carrying a heavy two-year-old under his arm. Valerius and Arkin walked shoulder-to-shoulder, their heads bowed so low their chins practically touched their chests, their soot-covered boots leaving a trail of black smudges across your freshly scrubbed kitchen tiles.
You followed them inside, closing the heavy oak door behind you with a soft, definitive click that made all four of them visibly flinch.
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Standing by the kitchen counter, you folded your arms and watched the line of culprits form against the wall. The contrast was almost comical. Varka, a legendary knight who could command legions and make grown men tremble with a single barked order, was currently trying to use a wet dish rag to sneakily wipe a thick smudge of charcoal off Karan’s chubby cheek.
"Don't touch it," you commanded quietly, not breaking eye contact with your husband. "You're just smearing it further into his skin."
Varka’s hand froze mid-wipe. He pulled the rag away, offering you a thoroughly strained, sheepish smile that made the lines around his eyes crinkle. "Right. Apologies, sweetheart. Just... practicing field hygiene."
"Field hygiene," you repeated, your eyebrow twitching. "Is that what we're calling arson now? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like the Grand Master was actively encouraging his children to incinerate my storage crates with a highly reflective piece of armor."
"It was an accident, Mom!" Valerius blurted out, his seven-year-old bravado cracking under your silent judgment. "The sun was just really bright today, and the metal was so shiny—"
"Valerius," you cut him off, your gaze snapping to him. The boy instantly locked his jaw, his shoulders bracing. "Did I or did I not tell you to polish the armor, not weaponize it?"
"You said to make it reflection-ready," Arkin mumbled under his breath, his five-year-old stubbornness fighting a losing battle against his survival instincts. "Technically, if it can focus a beam of pure light to create a localized combustion event, it's very reflection-ready."
You turned your head slowly toward your second son. Arkin took a sharp step back, his heel hitting the baseboard.
"Varka," you said, your voice dropping an octave.
"Yes, captain—I mean, sweetheart?" Varka answered instantly, his booming voice dropping into a desperate, hushed rumble.
"Since you clearly have so much energy to supervise a solar warfare in my courtyard, you are officially in charge of dinner tonight," you announced, gesturing toward the pantry. "And because you allowed my broom to be reduced to ash, you will be prepping everything by hand. No Anemo assistance to cool the pots, no Pyro Vision tricks from me to start the stove. You will do it the traditional way. And if I smell even a hint of burning meat, all of you are sleeping in the Favonius barracks tonight."
Varka’s jaw dropped slightly, but he caught himself, quickly nodding. "Understood. A completely traditional culinary campaign. Valerius, Arkin, front and center. You are my kitchen squires. Move!"
What followed was twenty minutes of pure, unadulterated kitchen disaster. You sat on a stool in the corner, holding little Karan on your lap. The two-year-old was incredibly dense and heavy, his solid little body leaning back against your chest as he happily chewed on a wooden spoon, completely oblivious to the frantic war happening three feet away.
Varka was not built for a kitchen. His massive, calloused hands, which were perfectly suited for swinging a massive claymore, looked utterly ridiculous trying to handle a delicate paring knife. He tried to slice a thick head of Mondstadt cabbage, but his sheer downward force caused the blade to slam into the wooden cutting board with a deafening crack, nearly splitting the table in half.
"Careful, Dad!" Valerius hissed, trying to peel potatoes with a frantic, messy motion that resulted in more potato skin landing on the floor than in the bowl. "Mom is watching! Look at her eyes, she’s still radiating heat!"
"I am perfectly aware of the surveillance, Val," Varka muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, leaving another streak of charcoal across his brow. "Arkin, where is the salt? The recipe calls for a pinch of salt!"
"I got it!" Arkin shouted, dragging a heavy ceramic jar across the counter. But because he inherited his father’s dense, clumsy strength, he pulled it far too hard. The heavy jar tipped over, spilling a small mountain of white crystals directly into the bubbling pot of vegetable stew.
Valerius gasped, slamming his hands over his mouth. "You idiot! You just ruined the soup! Mom's going to banish us to Dragonspine!"
"It was a loose lid!" Arkin panicked, desperately trying to scoop the salt out of the pot with a wooden ladle, only to accidentally splash boiling broth directly onto Varka’s trousers.
"Ah! Son of a Hilichurl!" Varka yelled, hopping on one foot as the hot liquid singed his leg. In his panic, his foot caught the lace of his other boot, which little Karan had sneakily tied to the leg of the heavy kitchen stool earlier.
With a roaring exclamation, the Grand Master of Mondstadt lost his balance entirely. He tipped backward, his massive frame colliding heavily with the kitchen wall before he slid down onto the floor, surrounded by rolling potatoes, a spilled jar of salt, and a completely ruined pot of stew.
You looked down at Karan, who simply let out a high-pitched, delighted screech, clapping his chubby hands together at the spectacular sight of his father defeated by a kitchen stool.
You closed your eyes, letting out another long, exhausted sigh. Four boys. You were definitely taking care of four boys.
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By the time dinner was salvaged, which consisted of simple cold bread, thick cheese, and a hastily remade soup that Varka strictly supervised without letting the boys touch a single ingredient, the entire household was a greasy, soot-covered mess. The scent of charcoal and spilled broth clung to the boys' clothes, and their skin was practically gray from the courtyard ashes.
"Bath," you declared the moment the last wooden bowl hit the sink. "All three of you. Now."
Valerius and Arkin immediately groaned in unison, their faces twisting in pure misery. "But Mom! We just washed yesterday! The skin on my fingers is going to prune up!" Valerius complained, crossing his arms defiantly.
"You smell like a burnt hilichurl camp," you replied flatly, pointing toward the stone bathhouse at the end of the hall. "Varka, carry Karan. He's too heavy for me to hoist up the stairs after the day I've had."
"On it, love," Varka said, his spirits somehow still high despite his kitchen defeat. He scooped up the two-year-old, who was surprisingly dense for his age, lifting him effortlessly onto his broad shoulder. Karan grabbed a handful of his father's messy hair, using it like a handle as Varka marched toward the stone bathroom.
The bathhouse was a large, vaulted room with a massive sunken stone tub, designed specifically to accommodate Varka's massive frame when he returned from long weeks of scouting. But tonight, it was about to become a war zone.
You filled the stone tub with warm water, adding a few drops of calming wolfhook extract to help soothe the boys' endless energy. But the moment the water touched Arkin’s toes, the five-year-old transformed into a wild animal.
"It's too wet!" Arkin shrieked, kicking his legs furiously. Because he had inherited that solid, heavy build from Varka, his frantic kicking sent a massive wave of water splashing directly out of the tub, soaking the front of your dress entirely.
"Duh??? Obviously it's wet? It's water you idiot!" Valerius retorts.
Before you could even react, Arkin used his slippery, wet skin to wriggle straight out of Varka's grasp. He scrambled over the edge of the stone tub, his bare feet hitting the wet floor as he tore out of the bathroom completely naked, his effortlessly smug grin returning as he bolted down the hallway.
"Arkin! Get back here, you slippery little sea ganoderma!" Varka roared, turning around to give chase.
But Valerius saw his brother's escape as an absolute invitation for anarchy. The seven-year-old immediately stood up in the middle of the tub, grabbing a large wooden toy boat and slamming it into the water with all his might. "For the Knights of Favonius! Stand your ground!" he screamed, creating another massive splash that flooded the stone floor.
"Valerius, sit down!" you commanded, stepping forward to grab him, but your boot caught the slick, soapy water on the floor.
At that exact moment, Varka came lunging back into the bathroom, having successfully caught a giggling, wriggling Arkin by the ankle. But Varka didn't account for the sheer volume of water his oldest son had just splashed onto the tiles. His heavy boot hit the soap-slicked stone, and his giant frame went completely airborne.
With a deafening splash that sounded like a meteor hitting Cider Lake, Varka crashed directly into the sunken stone tub, sending a tidal wave of warm water over the edges, soaking the walls, the ceiling, and you from head to toe.
Silence fell over the room once more, broken only by the rhythmic dripping of water from the ceiling.
You stood there, your hair plastered to your face, water dripping steadily from the tip of your nose. You looked into the tub. Varka was sitting flat on his back in the shallow water, his clothes entirely ruined, with Arkin tucked under one arm and Valerius sitting directly on his stomach. Little Karan, who had been left safely on a dry towel in the corner, was currently crawling through the massive puddle on the floor, splashing his hands in the water and bubbling with pure amusement.
Varka slowly pushed his wet hair out of his eyes, looking up at you with a completely helpless, terrified expression. "The floor... was exceptionally slick, sweetheart. A structural hazard, really."
"I can see that."
You wiped the water from your eyes, staring down at your wet, chaotic family. Your stamina bar was officially at absolute zero.
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An hour later, the house was finally, mercifully dry. The boys were dressed in clean, oversized flannel pajamas, every single pair a direct carbon copy of the simple, rugged style Varka preferred. Their hair was still damp, but they were finally tucked into the massive, shared wooden bed in their bedroom.
You walked into the room, holding a book of Mondstadt fairy tales, fully intending to read them to sleep within five minutes. But the moment you stepped through the door, you realized the rebellion hadn't ended; it had merely shifted strategies.
The blankets and heavy down pillows had been completely stripped from the mattress. They were currently arranged in a massive, sprawling perimeter across the floor and the bedposts, forming a crude, highly detailed replica of a fortified military encampment.
Varka was kneeling in the center of the bed, his large hands gesturing wildly as he pointed at a crumpled pile of socks in the middle of the sheets.
"Now, pay attention, men," Varka whispered loudly, his voice filled with an intense excitement that was definitely not conducive to sleeping. "The Cryo Regisvine has established its nesting grounds right here in the center of the valley. Valerius, your squad will take the high ground on the pillow fort to the left. Arkin, you will lead the flank from the laundry basket. We strike at dawn!"
"What about the shields, Dad?!" Valerius asked, his eyes wide and shining with adrenaline as he stood on top of a pile of cushions, holding a rolled-up wooden poster like a spear. "Can we use the solar weapon we invented earlier?!"
"Absolutely not, your mother would court-martial us," Varka chuckled, throwing an arm around Arkin’s shoulders. "But we can use a synchronized pincer movement. Arkin, what's your primary objective?!"
"To smash it until it stops moving!" the five-year-old shouted, throwing a heavy punch into the air, his dense little knuckles nearly hitting the bedpost.
"For the Knights of Favonius!" Valerius cheered, leaping off the pillow fort and landing heavily on the mattress, making the entire wooden frame groan under his disproportionate weight.
Even Karan was standing up, holding a small plush bird and violently shaking it. "Attaaack!" the toddler yelled, his small voice echoing off the walls.
You stood in the doorway, your shadow stretching long and dark across the bedroom floor. You didn't say a word. You simply raised your hand, tapping your knuckles three times against the wooden door frame.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The effect was instantaneous. It was as if someone had cast a binding freeze spell over the entire room.
Valerius froze mid-leap, his body awkwardly collapsing onto a pile of blankets as he scrambled to pull a sheet over his head. Arkin immediately dropped his fists, rolling backward onto his pillow and shutting his eyes tightly, pretending to snore loudly and unconvincingly. Karan dropped his plush toy, plopped down onto his stomach, and buried his face directly into the mattress, motionless.
Varka slowly turned his head toward you, his hands still hovering over the sock-fortress. His rogue grin was incredibly tight as he gently, quietly began dismantling the tactical map, smoothing out the sheets with his palms.
"They were... just completing their evening prayers, sweetheart," Varka whispered smoothly, sliding off the mattress and landing silently on his feet. "Very devout. Very peaceful. They're practically asleep already."
"Out," you breathed, pointing a finger toward the hallway.
Varka didn't argue. He tiptoed out of the room with the grace of a massive cat, closing the door softly behind him. As you turned to follow him, you could hear the faint, muffled snickers of Valerius and Arkin from beneath their blankets, completely thrilled that they had survived another day of their mother’s wrath.
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The house was finally silent. The deep, heavy quiet of a Mondstadt midnight settled over the wooden frame, the only sound being the distant, comforting hum of the giant windmills turning in the breeze outside.
You walked out onto the back balcony, the cool night air instantly soothing your flushed, exhausted skin. You leaned your forearms against the wooden railing, staring out at the shadow of the colossal statue of the Anemo Archon in the distance. Your bones ached. Your muscles were sore from lifting heavy, dense toddlers and cleaning up spilled broth and wet footprints all day. Your life was no longer a grand adventure of knights, rivalry, and world-changing battles; it was an endless cycle of managing chaos.
A pair of heavy, familiar footsteps echoed softly behind you.
Before you could turn around, a massive, warm weight was draped over your shoulders. Varka’s heavy wool captain’s cloak wrapped around you, trapping your body heat against the chilly midnight wind. A second later, two large, calloused hands gently settled on your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad, solid chest.
"You look beautiful when you're plotting our collective demise," Varka murmured, his deep, rumbling voice vibrating directly against your spine as he rested his chin lightly on top of your head.
"Don't start, Varka," you muttered, though you didn't pull away. Instead, you leaned back into his warmth, letting your heavy eyelids close. "They are completely out of control. They have your hair, your build, your complete lack of discipline, and your absolute disregard for property damage."
"They do," Varka chuckled softly, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you into a protective, comfortable embrace. "But they also have your fire. Valerius wouldn't be swinging that sword with such fierce determination if he didn't inherit your stubborn drive to be the best. And Arkin’s stupid grin is only there because he’s trying to see if he can match your standards."
He leaned down, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against the side of your neck, his breath tickling your skin. "I know it's a nightmare, sweetheart. I know taking care of four of us is an Olympic-level feat of endurance. But look at what we built."
You opened your eyes, looking down at the quiet courtyard below. The charred storage crate was gone, neatly swept away by Varka while you were drying your hair. The armor was put away. The house was safe, warm, and entirely secure.
You remembered the lonely, cold childhood you had spent under the strict, loveless perfectionism of the Lawrence Clan. You remembered the constant pressure to be a weapon, to never show weakness, and to never know the comfort of a real home.
And then you looked at this messy, chaotic, loud life you had now. A husband who loved you with a fierce, unwavering devotion, and three giant, stupidly brave boys who were absolutely terrified of your quietest whisper because they respected you more than anyone else in Teyvat.
"You're still fixing that wardrobe tomorrow," you said softly, a small, genuine smile finally tugging at the corners of your lips in the darkness.
Varka let out a low, content laugh, burying his face into your hair. "First thing in the morning, love. I'll even buy a new broom. But tonight... just let me hold my wife."
You let out one last sigh, but this time, it wasn't out of exhaustion. It was the deep, peaceful sigh of a woman who knew that despite the absolute madness of her daily survival horror game, she had already won the ultimate battle. This was your life, your chaotic storm, and you wouldn't trade a single broken wardrobe for all the peace in the world.
────୨ৎ────
The next morning arrived with the sun barely peaking over the massive stone walls of Mondstadt, but the house was already entirely devoid of peace.
You stood by the front door, your arms crossed tightly as you stared down Varka and your seven-year-old son. Varka was wearing his casual tunic, a massive wicker grocery basket hooked over his forearm, looking entirely out of place for a man who usually carried a claymore into battle. Beside him, Valerius stood rigidly at attention, wearing a tiny canvas satchel across his chest and holding a rolled-up piece of parchment like a sacred relic.
"Review the operational parameters one more time, Valerius," you commanded, your eyes narrowing slightly.
Valerius snapped his head up, unrolling the parchment with dramatic seriousness. "Primary Objective: Retrieve three heads of fresh cabbage, a sack of Mondstadt potatoes, and four cuts of fresh boar meat from Springvale. Secondary Objective: Absolute surveillance of Dad. Zero stops at the Angel's Share. No buying wine. No 'just checking in' on Master Diluc. No 'sampling' the dandelions. If Dad even looks in the direction of the tavern, I am authorized to deploy a high-pitched siren scream to alert the local Knights."
"Excellent," you nodded, hiding the smirk tugging at your lips. You turned your gaze to your husband. "I mean it, Varka. If you come back smelling like a single drop of Death After Noon, you are sleeping in the courtyard."
"Sweetheart, you wound me!" Varka let out a booming laugh, throwing his free hand over his heart in mock betrayal. "Am I not a man of absolute discipline? A defender of the city? I am merely taking our eldest son out for a wholesome, educational morning of logistics!"
"You're an oversized child who will trade the grocery money for a vintage bottle of dandelion wine the second my back is turned," you countered smoothly, reaching up to adjust the collar of his tunic. Your voice softened just a fraction. "Just get the food and keep an eye on him. Don't let Valerius carry anything too heavy, his growth spurt is already making his knees ache."
"Understood, my love," Varka murmured, his rogue grin softening into that warm, melting expression he only ever saved for you. He leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to your lips before turning toward the door. "Alright, Val! Move out! Operation: Grocery Run is officially underway!"
The Mondstadt market square was bustling with early morning life. The scent of fresh-baked fisherman's toast and sweet flower perfume filled the air as vendors shouted their prices. Varka marched through the crowd like a giant among hills, his messy hair catching the sunlight while Valerius trotted aggressively right at his heels, his eyes darting back and forth like a trained guard dog.
"Dad," Valerius hissed suddenly, grabbing the edge of Varka’s tunic and pulling with all his might. "Your head turned three degrees to the left. The tavern is to the left. Correct your alignment."
"I was looking at the blacksmith's forge, Val!" Varka laughed, though he obediently steered his massive frame toward Blanche’s general store. "Give your old man some credit. I am a genius. I know better than to test your mother’s Pyro Vision when she’s running on three hours of sleep."
They successfully managed to acquire the potatoes and the cabbage, with Valerius aggressively checking each vegetable for quality just like he had seen you do a thousand times. The boy was so focused on his mission that he didn't even notice his father had suddenly stopped dead in his tracks right in the middle of the stone walkway.
Valerius slammed directly into Varka’s solid, heavy leg, bouncing off him like a stray pebble hitting a cliff.
"Oof! Dad, why did we halt? Are we under ambush?!" Valerius asked, rubbing his nose and looking around frantically.
But Varka didn't answer. Varka, the legendary Knight Boreas who had faced down the terrifying shadows of the Abyss without flinching, was completely frozen. His massive wicker basket was dangling loosely from his arm, his jaw slightly slack, and his wide eyes were locked onto a small bench right outside the flower shop.
Valerius frowned, following his father's intense gaze.
Sitting on the bench was one of the local mothers, gently rocking a small, woven bassinet. Wrapped inside a mountain of soft, pastel-pink blankets was a tiny, newborn baby girl. She couldn't have been more than a few months old, a delicate, fragile little thing with a tiny tuft of soft brown hair and enormous, glassy green eyes. As the morning sun hit her face, she let out a tiny, soft, high-pitched "coo," stretching her miniature, chubby fingers into the air, entirely devoid of the dense, heavy, bone-crushing strength that ran in the Varka bloodline.
Valerius stared at the baby, then looked up at his father.
Varka’s entire demeanor had fundamentally shifted. The roaring, boisterous warrior was gone. His shoulders dropped, his chest deflated, and his face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated, helpless awe. It was as if his brain had completely short-circuited.
"Val..." Varka whispered, his voice dropping into a shaky, breathy timber that Valerius had never heard in his entire seven years of life. "Val, look at that."
"It's a human larva, Dad. We need to get the boar meat," Valerius said plainly, tugging his arm.
"No, Val, you don't understand," Varka stammered, stepping forward like a man under a hypnotic spell, completely ignoring his son's pulling. He approached the bench, his towering, massive frame casting a giant shadow over the mother, who looked up with a startled but amused smile.
"Ah, Grand Master! Good morning," the woman greeted warmly.
"Good morning, Sarah," Varka breathed, his eyes never leaving the bassinet. He slowly knelt down on the hard stone street, bringing his massive, scarred, towering frame down to eye level with the pink blankets. He looked entirely ridiculous, a giant warrior kneeling in the dirt, completely captivated by a creature smaller than his own forearm. "Is she... is she yours?"
"Yes, little Elena," Sarah smiled, lifting the baby girl out of the blankets and holding her up. "She's quite peaceful today."
Elena let out another tiny, melodic squeak, blinking up at the giant, messy-haired man in front of her. Slowly, she reached out her tiny, feather-light hand and wrapped all five of her miniature fingers around Varka’s massive, calloused thumb. Her entire hand couldn't even cover half of his nail.
Varka gasped. A physical, audible gasp escaped his chest. His eyes widened to the size of Saucer stones, and Valerius could swear he saw a literal sparkle of tears forming in the corners of the Grand Master's eyes.
"She’s... she’s so small, Val," Varka whispered, his voice cracking with an intense, sudden wave of baby fever that was currently obliterating his entire warrior psyche. "She doesn't weigh anything. She’s like a dandelion puff. She’s not heavy. She didn't try to tackle my knees. She’s just... soft."
"Dad, you're acting weird. Let's go," Valerius muttered, feeling thoroughly uncomfortable as he watched his legendary father completely melt into a puddle of mush.
"Sarah," Varka said, his voice trembling with absolute desperation as he looked at the mother. "How do you get one of these? Does the Anemo Archon just drop them off? My house is full of boulders. I have three small stone anvils living in my walls. They don't wear pink. They just break things and smell like charcoal and sun."
Sarah burst into a rich laughter, gently rocking the baby. "I believe that's an conversation you need to have with your wife, Grand Master."
Varka stood up so fast the wicker basket rattled violently against his hip. The look in his eyes was no longer one of awe, it was a look of fierce, unyielding military determination. He had found a new objective. A higher calling.
"Valerius. The grocery mission is aborted," Varka declared, his voice booming with sudden, terrifying authority.
"What?! But Mom said—"
"We have everything we need!" Varka yelled, grabbing Valerius by the shoulder and spinning him around toward the direction of their house. "We have potatoes! We have cabbage! The boar meat can wait! We must return to headquarters immediately!"
Back at the house, you were sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying a rare moment of absolute, beautiful silence while Arkin and Karan were nap-trapped upstairs. You had a hot cup of tea in your hands, and for the first time in months, your stamina bar was completely full.
Suddenly, the front door didn't just open, it was practically thrown off its hinges as Varka burst into the kitchen, his face flushed, his hair flying wild, and his breathing heavy as if he had just marched across the entirety of Teyvat. Valerius ran in right behind him, looking completely exhausted and deeply traumatized.
"Mom!" Valerius panted, slamming his rolled-up parchment onto the table. "I failed the surveillance! He didn't go to the tavern, but he went crazy! He’s broken!"
You slowly set your tea cup down, your eyebrows knitting together in deep confusion as you looked at your husband. Varka slammed the grocery basket onto the counter, marched straight over to your chair, and dropped heavily onto both knees right in front of you. He caught your waist with his massive hands, burying his face directly into your lap like a giant, desperate hound dog.
"Varka?" you asked, your hand instinctively coming up to brush through his messy hair, your captain's instincts instantly flaring up. "What happened? Was there an Abyss raid? Did Mondstadt get attacked?"
"Sweetheart," Varka rumbled, his voice muffled against your skirt as he looked up at you with wide, shining, desperate eyes. "We need a girl."
You froze. Your hand stopped dead in his blonde hair. "What?"
"A girl, sweetheart! A tiny, soft, non-heavy, beautiful baby girl!" Varka begged, his hands tightening around your waist as he rattled off his words with manic speed. "I saw one in the market! Sarah's baby! She was pink! She cooed! She held my thumb, and she didn't try to use it as a leverage point to execute a pincer movement on my throat! She didn't smell like soot and sun! She didn't try to burn down a storage crate!"
You stared at him, your mind completely blank as you processed the sheer absurdity of the situation. The Grand Master was currently experiencing a terminal case of baby fever on your kitchen floor.
But as the words fully registered, your soft expression instantly dissolved. The warmth in your eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp wall of absolute, unwavering logic. You reached down, firmly grabbing his massive wrists and prying his hands off your waist with a strength that surprised even him.
"Absolutely not," you said, your voice flat, even, and completely devoid of emotion.
Varka’s rogue grin faltered, his jaw dropping slightly. "But sweetheart—"
"No, Varka," you cut him off, standing up from your chair and stepping around his kneeling frame, leaving him abandoned on the floor. "Look at this house. Look at the wardrobe upstairs that you still haven't fixed. We have three sons. Three incredibly heavy, dense, chaotic sons who already consume every single ounce of my sanity and stamina. Carrying just one of them nearly broke my back, and now you want to roll the dice again?"
"Exactly! The blueprint is broken! We need to override it!" Varka pleaded, quickly shuffling on his knees across the tiled floor to follow you like a giant toddler. "I promise I'll let your DNA take the lead this time! I'll tell my genes to sit in the corner and go to sleep! I want a little girl who looks exactly like you—"
"And what if it's another boy?" you asked, turning around to glare down at him, crossing your arms tightly. "What if it's a fourth boy, Varka? Another massive anvil of a child who smells like sun, loves claymores, and helps you incinerate my courtyard? I will literally pack my bags and move to Wolvendom. The answer is a definitive, absolute no."
Varka looked as if you had just physically struck him with a Wolf's Gravestone. His broad shoulders slumped, his eyes turning wide and glossy with a tragic, dramatic despair. "Sweetheart, please... just a consideration—"
"The war council has spoken, Varka," you replied nonchalantly, picking up your teacup and walking past him without a backward glance. "Go fix the wardrobe."
From the doorway, Valerius slowly covered his face with both hands, letting out a heavy, miserable sigh of relief. "Thank the Archons. I'm still moving into the Favonius barracks tomorrow, though."
If you thought the rejection would end the matter, you vastly underestimated the stubbornness of the Knight Boreas.
The next morning, it was your turn to handle the remaining errands. Since Varka had utterly botched the previous day’s grocery run, you decided to head into the Mondstadt market square yourself to ensure the household actually had food for the week. You wrapped a light shawl around your shoulders, grabbed a fresh wicker basket, and stepped out into the crisp morning air.
You didn't even make it past the front gate before you felt the heavy, undeniable presence behind you.
You didn't turn around. You just kept walking down the stone path, your expression perfectly serene and nonchalant. Behind you, the heavy, rhythmic thud of massive leather boots echoed against the cobblestones, keeping a steady, deliberate pace exactly three feet behind your heels.
You stopped at Blanche’s general store, reaching out to examine a sack of fresh Mondstadt potatoes.
Immediately, a giant, scarred hand reached past your shoulder, effortlessly lifting the entire heavy sack and placing it neatly into your basket. You blinked, slowly turning your head to look up.
Varka was standing there. He wasn't wearing his grand knightly armor; he was in a simple linen shirt, his wild hair completely uncombed, looking exactly like a giant, pouting puppy dog. He didn't say a word. He just stared down at you with those huge, pleading eyes, his lower lip tucked in just a fraction.
"I don't need a squire, Varka," you said, your voice cool and completely detached as you turned back to the counter.
"I am not a squire, sweetheart," Varka rumbled softly, leaning down so his voice was right next to your ear, entirely shameless. "I am a humble volunteer. A man dedicated to easing the physical burdens of his wife. Also... please? Just a tiny one? We can name her something beautiful."
"No," you said, paying Blanche for the potatoes.
You picked up your basket and marched toward the butcher’s stall. Varka didn't hesitate. He fell right back into formation, hovering behind you like a massive shadow. Every time you stopped, he stopped. Every time you reached for an item, he grabbed it first, carrying the weight effortlessly while silently begging with his eyes.
"Sweetheart," he whispered as you inspected a cut of boar meat. "Think about it. A little girl with your grace. She could wear those pretty high-fashion dresses from Fontaine. I’ll personally fund the entire wardrobe. I’ll build her a dollhouse the size of a Favonius tower."
"No, Varka. You can't even build a proper kitchen stool without splitting the wood," you replied nonchalantly, moving to the next vendor.
By mid-morning, the entire market square had noticed. It was impossible not to. Varka was easily the tallest, most imposing man in the city, a legendary figure of authority and raw power. And right now, he was actively whimpering, trailing behind his shorter, completely unbothered wife like a stray hound looking for scraps.
At the flower shop, Donna and Flora were hiding behind a display of Windwheel Asters, giggling uncontrollably as they watched the Grand Master fetch a bunch of sweet flowers just because you had glanced at them for half a second.
"Look at him," Donna whispered loudly to a passing Knight. "The legendary hero of Mondstadt is completely whipped."
Further down the street, Kaeya and Diluc were standing near the tavern entrance. Kaeya was leaning against a wooden post, a thoroughly amused, mischievous smirk plastered across his face as he watched Varka practically beg his wife for mercy in broad daylight.
"My, my," Kaeya chuckled, taking a slow sip from a small glass. "The Grand Master’s tactical positioning seems entirely compromised. He’s completely at her mercy."
Diluc merely crossed his arms, his crimson eyes tracking Varka's pathetic trailing form with a look of profound, silent judgment. "Sighs... He's making a spectacle of himself. He should be in his office reviewing reports, not begging for a demographic expansion in the middle of the market."
You could hear the whispers. You could see the local Knights of Favonius politely turning their heads away, trying and failing to hide their grins as their commanding officer continued his relentless campaign of public desperation.
"Sweetheart," Varka pleaded again, completely deaf to the mockery of his subordinates as he caught up to your side, gently grabbing the handle of your grocery basket to slow you down. "Just a small consideration? I'll do all the diapers. I'll stay awake for the midnight feedings. I'll carry her everywhere so your back never aches again."
You stopped walking right in the middle of the town square, right beneath the shadow of the great windmill. You turned around, looking up into his massive, desperate face. You remained perfectly nonchalant, your posture rigid and your expression completely unreadable.
"Varka," you said quietly.
"Yes, my love?" he answered instantly, his eyes practically sparkling with a sudden, desperate hope.
"Carry the basket," you commanded, tossing the heavy wicker handle into his hands. "And shut your mouth. We're going home."
Varka blinked, holding the grocery basket like a prized trophy. His broad shoulders didn't slump this time; instead, his rogue grin slowly crept back onto his face, completely undeterred by the public rejection. He fell right back into step behind you as you marched toward the residential district, entirely content to be whipped as long as he could keep following his wife.
────୨ৎ────
The moment the front door closed behind you, Varka didn't even bother putting the grocery basket down on the kitchen counter properly. He set it down with a heavy clunk, then immediately turned around to block your path into the living room, his massive chest heaving as if he had just survived a grueling expedition across the freezing peaks of Dragonspine.
"Sweetheart," he started again, his voice dropping into that deep, tragic, theatrical stage whisper. "Just think about the advantages of a daughter. She could—"
"Varka," you interrupted, not even looking up as you deftly unpinned your mantle and hung it on the wooden peg by the door. "If you say the word 'daughter' one more time before lunch, I am going to confiscate your favorite claymore and lock it in the Favonius vault."
Varka’s jaw instantly snapped shut. He looked like a giant hound that had just been swatted away from a plate of juicy Mondstadt hash browns.
From the dining table, Valerius and Arkin were staring at their father with expressions of pure, unadulterated judgment. Valerius, who was currently trying to stitch a ripped leather strap on his training greaves, paused mid-pull, his needle hovering in the air. He looked at his legendary father, the man feared by the Abyss Order, and then slowly looked at his brother.
"Dad has completely lost his mind," Valerius whispered loudly, not even caring if Varka heard him. "He’s been acting like a weirdo since yesterday. He looks like a hilichurl trying to beg for Sunsettias."
"Worse," Arkin mumbled back, his five-year-old face twisted into a deep, unimpressed scowl as he stacked wooden toy blocks on the floor. "He looks like he got hit by a Hydro Mage's bubble. He’s all... soft and mushy. It’s embarrassing. If the other kids at the plaza see him like this, they’re going to think the Knights of Favonius are weak."
"I can hear you both, you little monsters!" Varka barked over his shoulder, his signature roaring voice returning for a brief second before he instantly softened his posture the moment your cold, nonchalant gaze snapped back to him. He cleared his throat, leaning against the kitchen door frame to try and look casual, though the sheer desperation radiating off his massive body completely ruined the effect. "And for your information, a proper warrior is not afraid to express his profound, strategic desires to his commanding wife!"
"You're not a warrior right now, Dad," Valerius muttered, shaking his head in absolute disappointment as he went back to his leatherwork. "You're just whipped. Mom said no. When Mom says no, you drop the shield and retreat. That's basic survival."
The only male in the entire household who wasn't actively judging the Grand Master was little Karan. The two-year-old was currently sitting in a sunbeam right in the middle of the living room rug, completely naked except for his thick linen diaper. He was holding a heavy wooden mixing spoon in his chubby, grease-stained hands, happily banging it against a metal frying pan with an aggressive, rhythmic CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Karan didn't care about baby fever. He didn't care about a little sister. He was just living his best life, letting out a high-pitched, toothy giggle every time the metal rang out, thoroughly enjoying his status as the heaviest, most chaotic toddler in Mondstadt.
You walked past Varka, entirely ignoring his pathetic puppy-dog eyes, and scooped Karan up from the floor. The two-year-old was incredibly dense and solid, making your arms strain slightly as you hoisted his heavy little body onto your hip. He immediately wiped a streak of drool and charcoal directly onto the shoulder of your clean shirt, letting out a triumphant "Ma!" before trying to shove the wooden spoon into your mouth.
"See?" you said flatly, pulling the spoon out of Karan's sticky grip and pointing it directly at Varka’s face. "Look at this. He weighs as much as a fully packed supply crate, he’s currently trying to feed me a utensil he found under the stove, and he smells faintly of old cheese. This is your DNA, Varka. This is what you generate. If we try again, I am 100% certain another one of these heavy, destructive creatures will emerge from my womb."
Varka stared at Karan, then at you. The sheer visual representation of his chaotic genetics didn't even deter him. If anything, the terminal baby fever had completely rewritten his brain chemistry.
"But sweetheart!" Varka pleaded, taking a dramatic step forward and falling to one knee right next to the dining table, entirely shameless as his two older sons watched in sheer horror. "The law of averages states that after three consecutive heavy infantry units, a delicate reconnaissance unit must manifest! I will personally oversee the genetic compliance! I’ll talk to Lisa! I’ll ask Albedo if there’s an alchemy potion to suppress the Varka traits during conception!"
"Dad, stop, please, you're making it worse," Valerius groaned, dropping his head onto the table with a theatrical thud.
"If Mr. Albedo gives you a potion, Mom’s just going to use it to turn you into a stone statue," Arkin pointed out logically, knocking over his tower of blocks with a heavy sigh.
You simply let out a long, slow breath, bouncing the heavy two-year-old on your hip as you stared down at the legendary hero of Mondstadt kneeling on your rug, begging for a daughter like his life depended on it.
────୨ৎ────
The heavy oak door of your bedroom was finally locked, cutting off the distant, muffled sounds of your three heavy sons asleep across the hall. The room was bathed in the warm, ambient glow of a single candle flickering on the nightstand, casting long, intimate shadows across the large canopy bed.
You let out a deep, soul-weary sigh as you finally sank into the soft mattress, your exhausted muscles instantly melting into the pillows. Your stamina bar was practically flashing red, and all you wanted was to succumb to a deep, undisturbed slumber.
But, of course, the universe, and your husband, had other plans.
The mattress groaned heavily as Varka shifted his massive, towering frame beside you. Within seconds, you were completely engulfed by his overwhelming warmth. His thick, muscular arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad, solid chest. He buried his face deep into the crook of your neck, his wild hair tickling your skin as he let out a low, content rumble.
"Sweetheart..." Varka whispered, his breath hot and heavy against your sensitive skin. "Just think about it one more time. A little girl. She’d have your beautiful hair. I can already picture her running around the courtyard, making flower crowns instead of setting supply crates on fire."
You clicked your tongue sharply, a sound of pure, nonchalant irritation echoing in the quiet room. "Varka, I swear to the Archons, if you don't close your eyes and go to sleep this instant, I am going to move to the sofa."
"You wouldn't," he murmured, his deep voice dropping into a dangerously smooth, gravelly register that made a sudden, unbidden shiver run down your spine. "The sofa is far too small for you, and you know you prefer my warmth over any blanket."
You clicked your tongue again, trying to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat. "Shut up and sleep."
But the Grand Master of Mondstadt was done begging. He had shifted his strategy entirely from a desperate siege to a slow, deliberate infiltration.
"If I can't convince your mind, sweetheart..." Varka whispered, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of your ear, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. "...then I’ll just have to convince your body."
Before you could even utter another retort, his large, calloused hand slowly began to move. His rough palms slid up from your waist, the friction of his skin dragging against the silk of your nightgown. Your breath hitched in your throat as his fingers reached the hem of the fabric, slowly and deliberately sliding beneath the cool silk, making direct contact with your bare skin.
His hand was massive, hot, and heavy, the hand of a warrior, yet incredibly gentle as it traced a slow, agonizing path up your inner thigh. You tried to maintain your nonchalant facade, clamping your jaw shut, but your body was already betraying you, your core tightening with a sudden, pooling ache of desire.
"Varka..." you breathed out, your voice losing its icy edge, turning soft and breathless.
"I'm listening, love," he rumbled against your neck, his lips tracing a path down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of burning kisses that made your toes curl.
His hand traveled further up, completely unbothered by your half-hearted resistance, until his thick fingers finally reached their destination. His large, warm palm cupped the soft, aching mound between your thighs, his fingers instantly finding the damp heat blooming through your undergarments. He pressed his palm firmly against you, applying a slow, rhythmic pressure that made a soft, involuntary gasp escape your lips.
"You're already so warm for me, sweetheart," Varka murmured darkly, his thumb tracing a heavy, deliberate circle right over your sensitive center, sending a wave of intense pleasure straight up your spine. He didn't wait for your stubborn logic to return. With a smooth, practiced movement born of years of knowing every inch of your body, he coaxed you into turning around, pulling you flush against his chest in a tight, breathless spooning position.
The sudden shift made your back press directly into his rock-solid frame. His heat was suffocating in the best way possible. One of his massive hands slid upward, cupping your breast through the thin silk of your nightgown, his long fingers squeezing firmly, asserting his dominance over your senses.
But before a gasp could fully form in your throat, his other hand came up, his large, calloused palm mapping itself directly over your mouth, muffling your breath against his skin.
"Shh... remember who's sleeping just across the hall, my love," Varka whispered directly into your ear, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, gravelly rumble that made your knees feel weak. "Valerius has ears like a scout, and Arkin is a light sleeper. If you make a sound, they'll come knocking. So you have to be very, very quiet for me."
The reminder of your three sons in the next room sent a sudden, thrilling spike of adrenaline through your veins. The stakes were high, the air was thick, and Varka was entirely unbothered by the restriction. If anything, it only made him more feral.
Without breaking the agonizingly slow rhythm of his thumb between your thighs, he shifted his lower body, his thick, heavy thigh wedging between yours to force them open. You felt the rigid, burning length of him pressing directly against your lower back, a silent, heavy promise of what was to come. He didn't give you a chance to object. With a sudden, heavy lunge, he drove himself entirely inside you from behind.
A muffled, high-pitched cry was instantly swallowed by his palm. Your eyes widened in the dim candlelight, your fingers frantically clawing at the bedsheets as the sheer fullness of him stretched you open, a wave of liquid heat pooling between your thighs.
Varka let out a low, ragged groan into the crook of your neck, his chest heaving against your back. He didn't give you time to adjust. As he guides his length on your core and he immediately began to thrust, his movements rough, heavy, and unyielding, driven by the absolute madness of his baby fever. Every heavy impact sent a tremor straight to your core, his hips relentlessly hammering against yours with an overwhelming, desperate intensity.
"A girl..." he whispered raggedly against your damp skin, his lips biting down gently on the soft junction where your neck met your shoulder, leaving a mark that would definitely require a high collar tomorrow. "Give me a daughter, sweetheart. A little girl who looks exactly like you. Let me fill you up until your beautiful blueprint has no choice but to take over."
The dirty, heavy whispers in your ear, combined with the restriction of his hand over your mouth, made the pleasure rapidly spiral out of control. You were completely at his mercy, trapped between his massive frame and the mattress, unable to move, unable to scream, only able to take the bruising, heavy depth of his desire. He was going all out, pushing deeper and harder than usual, his entire body trembling with the raw, primal need to claim you entirely.
The friction, the heat, and the intense, quiet friction built up too fast. Within minutes, your body tightened into a coil of pure agony before shattering completely. You unraveled beneath him, your core pulsing violently around him as an intense, breathless climax hit you. Your muffled screams vibrated hard against his palm, your chest heaving as tears of pure pleasure pricked the corners of your eyes.
But Varka wasn't stopping.
Even as your body shuddered in the afterglow, his heavy, bruising thrusts continued without a single second of hesitation. He was relentless, but there was a deep, underlying romance to his madness, he didn't just want his own release; he wanted to consume you. He wanted to make sure you were completely intoxicated by him, so ruined by his touch that you couldn't possibly resent him in the morning.
He slowly pried his hand away from your mouth, immediately grabbing your hip to spin you around. Before you could even draw a clean breath, he pinned you beneath him in missionary, his massive frame completely eclipsing the candlelight.
You looked up at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes. His wild hair was damp with sweat, his eyes dark with an obsessive, burning devotion.
As another heavy, shuddering sob threatened to escape your lips from the sheer intensity of his continued thrusts, Varka leaned down, slamming his mouth tightly over yours. He ate your moans, his tongue tangling with yours in a deep, bruising, desperate kiss that muffled every single sound of your pleasure. It was a chaotic, beautiful dance, his lower body delivering a relentless, rough assault while his lips remained tender, thoroughly kissing you, planting sweet, hot remnants of his devotion across your lips, your cheeks, and your jaw.
He drove himself deeper, one last, agonizingly profound time, his entire body locking up as a low, rumbling groan was trapped between your shared lips. He released everything inside you, a heavy, warm flood that signaled the absolute end of the battle.
────୨ৎ────
The candle on the nightstand had finally burned out, leaving the bedroom in a cocoon of cool, silver moonlight.
You were lying on your side, your back firmly pressed against Varka's chest as he held you in a tight, protective embrace. His massive arms were wrapped securely around your waist, his chin resting comfortably on top of your messy hair. The room was perfectly silent once more, save for the deep, rhythmic sound of his breathing.
Your body was completely spent. Every single muscle ached with a deep, heavy exhaustion that had nothing to do with chores and everything to do with the stubborn husband currently snoring softly against your neck.
You rolled your eyes in the darkness, your face twisted into a deep, sulky, nonchalant pout. You reached down, your fingers lightly touching your stomach, knowing exactly what he had done. He had completely bypassed your defenses. He had used his overwhelming warmth, his shameless whispers, and his undeniable devotion to completely override your logic.
You clicked your tongue one last time, a quiet sound of defeat in the midnight air.
There was absolutely nothing you could do about him now. He was a stubborn, chaotic storm, and despite your best efforts to keep him disciplined, he always found a way to win that mattered most to his heart.
Turning your head slightly, you let your eyes close, begrudgingly shifting your weight to melt back into his suffocating, familiar warmth, silently praying to the Archons that if a child did manifest from tonight... it would finally, mercifully, be a girl.
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Nine months had flown by in a blur of escalating domestic panic.
Against all structural odds, the household was actually still standing. Once the news broke that you were officially pregnant again, a strange, unprecedented truce had settled over the three boys. They had tried, bless their heavy, clumsy souls, to behave. Valerius and Arkin had strictly banned the use of highly reflective chestplates in the courtyard, and they routinely tackled each other into the grass instead of the living room furniture to keep the noise levels down. Even little Karan, who was approaching three and getting heavier by the day, had learned to stop using your legs as a climbing frame, choosing instead to aggressively thump his wooden spoons against his father’s shins.
It was their best effort, but it was still poor at best. The house still smelled like singed wood occasionally, and someone was always yapping, but you appreciated the sentiment.
Now, you were at the nine-month mark. You were a walking, breathing fortress, sitting heavily on the living room armchair, your stamina bar completely depleted by the sheer weight of your protruding stomach. Any day now, the baby was due.
And Varka? The legendary Grand Master of Mondstadt was completely losing his mind.
"Sweetheart, breathe. Are you breathing? Do you need more water? I can get more water from Springvale. Or perhaps Lisa has a soothing tea?" Varka paced back and forth across the kitchen tiles, his massive frame practically vibrating with an absurd, frantic energy.
You slowly rolled your eyes, letting out a heavy, tired sigh. "Varka. Sit down. You are pacing so hard you're going to put a hole through the floorboards."
"I can't sit down, my love! The atmospheric pressure in this room is highly volatile!" Varka sprinted to the side of your chair, dropping to his knees with a speed that did not match his giant build. He gripped the armrests, staring up at you with wide, wide eyes.
This was his fourth time doing this. He had witnessed the births of Valerius, Arkin, and Karan. He should have been a seasoned veteran, a stoic general guiding his family through the final stretch. Yet, here he was, looking like a fresh recruit facing his first Hilichurl Chieftain.
The reason for his absolute terror? The impending genetic lottery.
"If it's another boy..." Varka whispered, his voice cracking with a sudden, comical dread as he stared at your round belly. "Sweetheart, if another mini-Varka walks through that door... you are going to banish me to the Abyss, aren't you?"
"Worse," you replied flatly, your voice completely nonchalant as you adjusted a pillow behind your aching back. "I will make you wear the pink Fontaine dresses you promised to buy, and you will be the one cleaning the charred storage crates for the next eighteen years."
Varka visibly swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. The thought of a fourth son, another dense, heavy, furniture-breaking anvil of a boy, was enough to strike absolute terror into the heart of the Knight Boreas. He quickly leaned forward, burying his face gently against the side of your stomach, his large hands carefully cupping the sides of your waist as if you were made of fragile glass.
"It's going to be a girl," Varka muttered frantically, his voice a muffled, desperate prayer against your maternity dress. "I promise you, sweetheart, it's a girl this time. I already talked to my ancestors. I told my traits to stand down. I commanded my genes to surrender entirely to yours. There is no way my DNA won the battle four times in a row. It defies all logic."
"Your logic is what got us into this mess in the first place," you pointed out, clicking your tongue as your hand instinctively came up to brush through his messy hair.
From the kitchen table, Valerius and Arkin were sharing a bowl of Sunsettias, watching their father’s frantic breakdown with a mixture of amusement and deep embarrassment.
"Dad is doing the weird whisper-talk again," Arkin mumbled, his mouth full of fruit. "He looks like he’s trying to negotiate with a slime."
"He’s just scared Mom’s going to use her Pyro Vision on him if it’s a boy," Valerius replied knowingly, crossing his arms. "Honestly, I hope it’s a girl too. If we get another brother, we’ll have enough players for a full Favonius cavalry squad, but we won't have enough bedrooms."
Before you could chime in to tell the boys to clear the table, a sudden, sharp, tightening sensation gripped your lower abdomen. It wasn't the usual dull ache of carrying a heavy child. It was a violent, definitive squeeze that made your breath hitch instantly in your throat.
Your fingers gripped Varka’s hair tightly.
"Varka," you said. Your voice was entirely calm, completely steady, but the sudden rigidity of your posture made the Grand Master instantly freeze.
"Yes, sweetheart?" he looked up, his eyes wide.
"Get the midwife," you commanded nonchalantly, taking a slow, measured breath. "My water just broke."
The living room instantly erupted into absolute, chaotic anarchy.
"IT'S HAPPENING!" Varka roared, springing to his feet so fast he accidentally knocked over the kitchen stool behind him with a deafening crash. "Valerius! Fetch the towels! Arkin! Get the hot water! Karan—where is Karan?!"
Little Karan, who had been hiding under the table, let out a delighted screech and began violently banging his wooden spoon against the frying pan, adding a festive, metallic rhythm to the sudden panic.
"Dad, you're the one who’s supposed to get the midwife! Move your legs!" Valerius screamed, running in a circle completely empty-handed.
"Right! The midwife! I am deploying immediately!" Varka yelled, sprinting toward the front door, his wild hair flying in every direction as he practically threw himself out into the Mondstadt streets, his booming voice echoing through the neighborhood before the door even slammed shut.
You leaned your head back against the armchair, listening to the chaotic yapping of your sons and the distant shouts of your frantic husband.
Sigh... welp. Here we go again.
The labor was remarkably, beautifully fast.
With the three boys, you had been in agonizing labor for hours on end, your body straining under the immense, dense weight of babies that felt like solid blocks of Mondstadt stone. But this time, it was entirely different. It was fast, almost effortless by comparison, because the tiny creature entering the world wasn't a massive anvil of a child.
It was a baby girl.
When the midwife finally placed her into your arms, the entire room seemed to fall into a breathless hush. She was so light, so incredibly delicate, with a soft tuft of hair and tiny fingers that wrapped effortlessly around your thumb without trying to snap it. Varka had burst into tears right then and there, his massive shoulders shaking as he knelt by the bed, completely undone by the sudden arrival of his daughter.
You named her Lyria. A name that felt soft, melodic, and entirely her own, fitting perfectly alongside her brothers while carrying a gentle Mondstadt grace.
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Two years flew by in a blur of soft pink blankets, protective brothers, and a Grand Master who had completely surrendered his dignity.
The household dynamics had shifted drastically. Valerius was now nine years old, his height shooting up even further as he began taking his knight training seriously. Arkin, at seven, was a lean, solid ball of endless energy, while Karan, now a sturdy four-year-old, had traded chewing on boots for running around the house like a miniature boar.
But right now, all three of them were standing in a strict line in the living room, hands on their hips, staring down their father with expressions of profound, unified disapproval.
"Dad, stop it! You're ruining her discipline!" Valerius scolded, his nine-year-old voice cracking with immense gravity. "Mom said she can only have one Mondstadt hash brown before lunch! You just gave her three!"
"And you bought her another stuffed bird!" Arkin chimed in, crossing his arms and huffing. "She already has five of them in her crib! She doesn't even play with the Mondstadt cavalry toy I made for her because you keep giving her Fontaine music boxes!"
"No more cookies!" four-year-old Karan barked, aggressively pointing a wooden spoon at Varka’s knee. "Lyria get tummy ache!"
The legendary Knight Boreas, the man who commanded legions, didn't look commanding at all. Varka was currently sitting flat on the rug, completely unbothered by his sons' collective lecturing. Sitting right in his lap was tiny, two-year-old Lyria. She was an absolute vision of your own traits, possessing your soft beautiful hair and those wide, completely calm, nonchalant eyes that could instantly silence a room.
She was currently wearing a pristine, lace-trimmed dress, her tiny hands happily shoving a piece of sweet hash brown into her mouth, completely oblivious to the brotherly war happening over her head.
"Now, hold on, squad," Varka rumbled defensively, his massive arms wrapped securely around Lyria as if protecting a precious treasure from an enemy raid. "Your sister is a delicate flower! A reconnaissance unit requires specialized, high-quality rations to maintain morale! Besides, look at her face. How can I say no to those eyes? They're exactly like your mother's. It's a psychological impossibility to deny her anything."
"You're just soft, Dad," Valerius muttered, rolling his eyes in absolute defeat. "If Mom sees that extra plate, we're all going to be scrubbing the headquarters' stables by sunset."
From the comfort of the kitchen counter, you leaned back, a hot cup of tea resting securely between your hands as you watched the scene unfold. Your stamina bar was full, and for the first time in your life, your face was entirely relaxed, a soft, serene smile gracing your lips as you took a slow sip.
They were still a loud, roaring, chaotic storm. The house still suffered from occasional property damage, the boys were still yapping over each other, and Varka was still an absolute stubborn of a husband who needed constant supervision.
But as you watched Varka gently wipe a crumb of potato from Lyria’s chubby cheek, his giant, scarred face softening into an expression of pure, unadulterated love, a deep wave of overwhelming warmth pooled in your chest.
You thought back to the cold, rigid, visionless girl you used to be, trapped under the suffocating, loveless legacy of the Lawrence Clan. You had spent the first part of your life believing you were nothing but a weapon, completely isolated from the very concept of warmth or belonging.
And now, you had this.
A home overflowing with life, four beautiful children who respected your quietest whisper, and a giant, ridiculous husband who had completely rewritten your destiny. He hadn't just saved you from the woods of Wolvendom all those years ago; he had torn down your icy walls, dragged you into his beautiful chaos, and given you exactly what a real family was always supposed to be.
It was loud. It was messy. It was a daily battle of wits.
But as Lyria let out a tiny, melodic laugh, reaching up to pat Varka’s nose while her three brothers continued to loudly debate fire-safety rules in the background, you leaned your head back against the wall, completely content.
This was your peace. And you wouldn't trade a single chaotic second of it for anything else in the world.
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