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It was a special night in Khaenri’ah when a prince was born.  

And when his mother, weary from her arduous labor, held him to her chest for the first time, and she looked into his wide eyes when they first blinked open—at that moment, she knew he was different. He did not bear the mark of the king’s ancestry, a shimmering golden eye. Instead, both of his eyes bore the same pale blue, equal to one another.   

And the king looked to his consort, a woman of noble heritage but who lacked the royal blood, and there was silence.   

Not long after, the halls of the palace were overtaken by quiet whispers, rumors. Had the queen proven unfaithful to her husband? Or perhaps, was the prince simply defective?  

The one thing everybody did know is this: the power wielded by the royal family alone, the power that had brought the Eclipse Dynasty from the ground up and provided their kingdom with more opportunity than they would ever need... had not graced their youngest prince.  

A baby boy, his right eye lacking in something profoundly more important than even he was, was the heir to the throne.   

As far as Ruen could remember, he’d felt the distinct sense he was disappointing, somehow. He could feel it in the way his father looked at him, in the way the people looked upon him with only the respect required of them, and none more—where his father, the king, was revered highly all across the nation, any gestures toward the prince were merely obligatory. Even when he wasn’t old enough to put it into words, he’d known this.  

Despite this, nobody ever spoke it to him directly. How he wished he could have not known, had been stuck enough in his own head to leave him entirely unaware of his own plight. But as much as he liked to dream, he had never been ignorant. He… knew things—some that could be ignored, and some that couldn’t.   

And the faint buzzing of something in his head, distant and faint yet still there; the pale blue of his right eye that he had grown to hate; the quiet whispers of his father to his mother when they thought he wasn’t around… this was not something he could ignore.   

But he was a child, and so he did not put as much thought into it at such a young age as he would later. He had only just started his schooling and his training and he was excelling, and sometimes, even through the expressionless face of his father, he could elicit something softer when he did something to be proud of.   

So, at the time that prince Ruen Alberich was five years old, he did not hate himself just yet. The littlest inklings of what he would later become would sometimes slip through the cracks, when he made a mistake or when his father caught a glimpse of that blue eye that he always tried to cover with his bangs… but he didn’t know what was wrong. He only knew that something was wrong, and it was easy to live without knowing.   

Five and a half was his age when things changed for the first time. This was just about the time he’d started flipping through storybooks before bed, letting the far away worlds of dragons and stars take him—he’d taken to reading and writing with much ease, relative to other subjects of study. He longed to travel beyond the nation of Khaenri’ah, to experience what there was beyond, but whenever he asked of this possibility, he would never receive an answer.   

So he spent a lot of time—whenever he wasn’t reading, training, or studying—in the forest behind the palace, damp and mostly devoid of the little light Khaenri’ah got. It was privately owned, though he didn’t really know this at the time. All he really knew was that the heroes in his storybooks always went on a long journey, and if he went on a journey, if only for a little while, maybe he could be a hero too. But he also knew he could never let his parents know where he disappeared to every day.   

Still, he was a prince, and being used to mud and grime was not something he nor his parents wanted of him. So, on this day, he’d been walking in the forest, ignoring the cavern ceiling far overhead and pretending it was merely night, when he’d stepped in a puddle of mud. With a squelch, his shoe had been quickly sucked into it, but with some grace he had managed to keep it on his foot. Pulling his now-muddy foot out of the puddle and mourning his interrupted daydream, he’d resolved to go back home. His parents never liked it when he left without saying anything, anyway. It was not befitted of royalty, one of his attendants would always tell him before helping him to change into something more elegant.  

So, it was on this day that he’d divested himself of his makeshift cloak and muddy shoes and started to make his way to his chamber. His parents would likely not hear about this specific excursion, seeing as Ruen had been careful about the timing this time around. Still, he didn’t wish to be seen while still carrying the evidence. Not when he was supposed to be doing… princely things, like studying or playing quietly in his room.   

But his chamber was not far from where his parents happened to be at that time, and it was rare enough to hear them speak together when it was not mealtime, so he drifted closer to the door they were hidden behind, which was cracked open ever so slightly. He could not see them, but their shadows were clear on the floor.  

No servants were near, it was just the two of them. Ruen adjusted the bundle of clothes in his arms and strained to listen.   

“—precaution. As much as I wish it for him, I am not sure the common folk will accept him as king.” His father’s voice was as grave as ever.  

“Does it matter?” came his mother’s voice, quieter than usual. “I shall not object if this is what you wish, but—“   

“The reputation of the royal family needs to be upheld above all else—in history, we are the ones who pulled this kingdom up from the ground and gave it the fire it so very needed. We cannot afford to put this at stake, so if it comes to it, we need a precaution. Another prince.”   

Ruen’s small heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t know what they were talking about, but they both sounded upset. He had a strong feeling this was not something he should have been overhearing.   

“And if it is a daughter?”   

“Then so be it. We shall have another.”   

It was at this point that Ruen’s fear of being discovered outweighed his curiosity, so he left, his parents none the wiser. And for a long while, even when his mother fell pregnant, he did not understand what he had overheard.   

Ruen was six years and four months old when his little brother was born.   

He’d gone to sleep the previous night, the knowledge of his mother’s pregnancy not weighing on his mind much at all, and awoken to his parents’ footsteps in the corridor outside his room while the clock on his wall told him it was very early morning.   

At first, he’d thought they were servants or guards, but two of them walking next to each other in the dead of night was already odd enough. So he’d squinted at the door, contemplating getting up to see what was going on, when he’d heard their voices; it was both of his parents. Why were they up? So he’d made his decision and climbed out of bed.    

So now he was standing in the corridor, his sleepy eyes trained on the bundle in his mother’s arms. Only the smallest wisps of a familiar blue hair peeked through.   

“What is his name?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet almost on instinct.   

“Kaeya,” his mother told him, a tired smile on her face.  

Kaeya.   

Ruen had never heard a name like it before, but then again, his name was unique as well. “Kaeya,” he echoed.   

Then his father, whose demeanor seemed much gentler than ever before, held out his arms to his wife in an offering to hold the new baby. The queen, who was exhausted at the time in a way Ruen didn’t quite understand, transferred Kaeya into his arms with only slight hesitation.   

And Ruen caught a glimpse of his younger brother’s face for the first time in that moment. Round and oh so small, his lips parted just so slightly as he took each breath. For just a second, his eyes cracked open, and Ruen’s heart skipped a beat.   

One eye of a silvery blue; the other of a shimmering gold, surrounded by a chasm of black.   

It was still a long while before Ruen understood the circumstances of Kaeya’s birth, but that did not mean he didn’t envy his younger brother.   

In the months after the young prince’s birth, servants and nobles alike were buzzing with the news of a new heir. Ruen didn’t fully understand what they meant by this—after all, was he not supposed to be king one day?   

When he presented his concerns to a tutor of his, she only responded with, “Only time will tell, my child.” It left him feeling strangely belittled. Was he not also old enough, wise enough, to understand his own role in the royal family?  

He knew he could not blame these feelings on his younger brother, but he was still filled with a strange sense of envy. Everyone had seemed so relieved the moment his brother had been born; their voices were no longer hushed when referring to the younger of the two princes. The king always assured him he was going to make a great leader one day, but Ruen wondered how much of that was an empty promise. Nobody referred to Kaeya as the future king, but it almost felt like they were.  

So he kept up with his training and schooling, and every day he escaped into the wonders of storybooks or his own fantasy; he had only become better at reading over time and had something new to discover every day. He knew his father looked down upon his hobby, but he never said anything either, just as he didn’t about anything else.  

For those few hours of a day when he could do what he wanted, he would pretend he was someone else, forget himself just for a while. His own emotions and feelings would blend with those of the hero in his books, and he could pretend to understand his own struggles.   

He didn’t spend much time with his younger brother in the first two years after his birth. Kaeya did spend most of his time with his mother, and otherwise a caretaker, and royal duties kept Ruen busy despite his young age. At the age of eight and a half, he only had a few more years before his father was to allow him to join in on some meetings.   

Without the royal eye, lacking in power, he only had more to compensate for to be enough in the eyes of the people.  

When Kaeya was old enough to play with Ruen without an adult around—when he was three and Ruen was nine and a half—the first thing Ruen did was teach him about the dragons.   

They would sit in the library, one of the only places Ruen would take his younger brother at that age, and Ruen would search for some of his favorite books from his early childhood. He would tell his brother the stories of valiant heroes on a quest to save the world, beautiful illustrations to accompany them all the while.   

He would watch as his younger brother took in the information with wide, curious eyes, asking about the stars and the sun and the worlds beyond. Ruen would tell him all he knew about the abyss from his own books, too, and while he doubted Kaeya could truly understand, he continued to ask questions all the same.   

He did not tell his brother how much he wished he could be one of those heroes, even though he wasn’t good enough. He didn’t tell his brother how much it pained him that he had not seen outside of Khaenri’ah, and how much he wished he could change that. He did not tell his brother how much he did not want to be king, and at the same time, how much he wished it would come easier.   

At this young, Ruen did not sneak Kaeya out to play, but that did not mean they couldn’t pretend elsewhere. And, for a few years, Ruen could convince himself his love for his brother was unconditional.  

Ruen was ten when his younger brother began his studies. This was around the time Ruen himself started understanding his situation better and better. As his brother advanced through his studies at a pace slower than he had, almost seeming to enjoy himself as he learned more about his world, the budding feelings of jealousy slowly morphed into a deep-seated resentment.   

Because of course everything came easier to Kaeya than it came to him. Ruen was special , and not in the good way that meant everyone thought him amazing and adored him—in the way that he wasn’t what he was supposed to be, and could never be, no matter how hard he tried. Because a boy born with no powers was destined to nothing.   

Kaeya was the destined king. It was of no word of religion that Ruen believed this—religion was nothing more than a distant concept to the people of Khaenri’ah—but a word of fate and time. As the royal family was closely tied to the very fabric of reality itself, Ruen had no doubt that his lack of powers meant something. Perhaps a word from the universe itself that his brother was the chosen one, and not him. That his brother was the intended king and he was just... a fluke.   

So, at the age of ten, Ruen definitely hated himself. At the same time, it wasn’t only himself he hated—it was his parents, for choosing to have him, and Khaenri’ah, for lying to him, and Kaeya, for being everything he wasn’t without ever needing to try. He hated everyone, but he was not good enough to deserve these feelings. He had no right to hate everyone when it was him who was different, it was him who had been born wrong, it was all him.   

His poor parents, who brought a son into the world who defied all they had grown to expect from this universe. Who still had to love him, because he was their son—their son! They had no choice but to love him, even when he brought their family down, even when everything he did brought shame to the family name in a way that nobody would voice but everyone knew.   

And he was so, so tired of the whispers. As if he didn’t notice that the servants were talking about him, their eyes either glinting with pity or something worse. As if he didn’t know he was the talking point of the entire Eclipse Dynasty, and had been for years.   

The king, his father, tried so hard to shelter him from this. But he knew it—he could feel it with his whole being. He was not good enough to be the king of Khaenri’ah. He was missing the very thing that made royalty royalty . His brother wasn’t.   

Then there was his mother. As time went on, Ruen only understood her position better—and she looked at him with this sad look in her eyes so much, but it was layered with many things which he could not understand. While his father and his people looked at him with poorly disguised disappointment, pity... his mother cared.  

Why did she not speak out on it, then? This is something he’d asked himself over and over again, and on his tenth birthday, he’d finally discovered the answer.  

His father had revealed to him with the most grace possible that he was to be married immediately upon his coming of age. An arranged marriage. And suddenly, everything about his parents made so much more sense.   

He’d never thought about the context of his parents’ marriage before. It hadn’t seemed important—they were the very picture of parents from any storybook he’d ever read. They did not quarrel, they stayed together just as any king and queen should. They even seemed to like each other, to wish the best for each other, but...  

This also explained why they had never truly seemed to love each other like he’d thought parents should, the reason they never looked at each other with more than pleasant acknowledgement, as if to say, ‘we both do love our children, do we not?’ and nothing more. As if they loved being together more than each other.   

Arranged marriage was something Ruen could handle, he thought. It seemed much better for the royal than the person ordained to them, at least, because he would always have a say in the matter. In this way, he felt sorry for his mother, who could not dare speak up about much of anything for fear of being banished. Or at least, he presumed.  

Did he even know his true parents? How much of that care for each other was for show? Was it genuine worry for each other, or did they really not care?   

His mother was powerless in the face of the king of Khaenri’ah. She could not deny him her time, her love, her body—her family had given her up to royalty and she could no longer go back. Ruen didn’t know how she seemed okay with it, how she always kept up the image of a happy family. Perhaps he was missing some part of the picture. He might never know. But they didn’t hate each other, he knew that.   

At this same time, training was becoming more and more intense every day. Ruen doubted his father had experienced real conflict in years, but he always pushed Ruen to work harder, ‘for his own safety’.  Meanwhile, Kaeya had not started training yet—Ruen certainly had by that age. He remembered it clearly. So he knew, even though his father would never tell him it, that it was because he was different. Because he needed something, and Kaeya didn’t.   

He tried to pretend he was somewhere else while he was studying, while he was training; somewhere he could be a hero, loved by all, the chosen one. If he didn’t pretend, resentment would always win over and he’d spend the rest of the day stewing in his own emotions. As a prince, it was not something he should so readily let himself do.   

Somewhere deep in his soul, he was glad Kaeya wasn’t trying as hard as he was. As if he finally had at least one thing he did better than his little brother.   

Ruen knew he had powers. He felt it sometimes, an itching beneath the surface of his skin, a hollow ache in his chest, a warmth in his stomach. But no matter how far he reached, he could never quite make contact.   

He’d made friends with some of the guards stationed in the library, and they were the only people he thought knew just how hard he tried. In his father’s eyes, he was a lost hope—Ruen wasn’t ready for the embarrassment of failure, but he wasn’t ready to give up, either. The library did hold his favorite storybooks, and his schoolbooks, but it was more than that. In the palace, the library was an infinite source of information. Ruen could sit there for years and barely scratch the surface of his family’s history.  

Maybe if he looked for long enough, he could find the reason he was born incomplete.  

It wasn’t long after Kaeya first witnessed one of Ruen’s training sessions that he asked for formal training. At the age of four and a half, though, the king gave a simple no. He was to stick to the early scoping of his powers and focus solely on that.  

Ruen wanted to offer to train Kaeya himself. He really did. But the horrible claws of jealousy pierced his gut and he couldn’t . This was where he was better, this was his compensation, this was his.   

Nearing the age of eleven, he didn’t offer to train Kaeya. He ignored his brother’s puppy dog eyes and pretended he was okay with this, because he had to be.   

He wasn’t sabotaging if it was what the king wanted, anyway. He could be selfish just this once. Because what was it that made Kaeya more deserving than him? Who was to decide that Kaeya would have an easier life than he would?  

He started writing at this time. It was a way of expanding his imaginary world, of exploring places he could never go. If he wasn’t allowed into Teyvat and beyond, he could at least pretend. He wrote stories about where he wanted to be and what he wanted to do, about people who weren’t exactly him but were similar all the same.   

So he continued to pretend, and when he didn’t, he did his best to ignore the stabs of inadequacy in his chest every time he looked at his younger brother. Because everything was alright. It had to be.   

He didn’t want to be king, but he dreaded the feeling of being judged as unworthy.   

Sometimes, Ruen would do particularly well in his schooling, and one of his tutors would inform his father. There were no physical rewards for his hard work, but his father’s approval was tangible enough.   

Kaeya was always trained by the king personally, when it came to his powers. Everyone had given up on Ruen years ago, before he’d ever given up on himself.   

And it wasn’t that Kaeya was doing badly elsewhere. The real painful thing was that he wasn’t. He wasn’t doing as well as Ruen was—which was good—but he was still good enough that Ruen resented how easily it came to him again. Because this was meant to be his talent.   

Still, as soon as Kaeya could read, Ruen found himself lending him his old storybooks in an effort to show Kaeya what there was. As if maybe, just maybe, Kaeya would be on his side when they were older, and they could leave and explore the stars with no pressures to speak of, a universe at their disposal.  

There was an itch building beneath his skin. He was nearing his twelfth birthday and Kaeya was five; every year that went by, the more he felt as if he didn’t belong. As if he never had.   

He wasn’t doing well. He knew this. He also knew it didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do, no choice in the matter; he could only wait.   

The whispers had stopped, but he suspected it was because of the king’s recent announcement that Kaeya’s training was coming along well. He’d never made such an announcement about Ruen—it would have been a lie.   

He was to be king, still, but the people of Khaenri’ah didn’t seem to know that. Perhaps they were lying to themselves, in the same way Ruen had always been.   

A part of him wished Kaeya would become king, so that he could be free to do as he wished, but… never in the history of the royal family had an eldest son who was still alive not become king. He wasn’t ready to make history.   

He just wanted to be how he was supposed to be.   

“Ruen,” his mother called out one day. Her voice was foreign; he rarely heard it anymore these days, as busy as he was, and the servants did enough helping. This was one of the rare occasions where they spoke outside of meal time or special events.   

He cleared his throat, tugging uncomfortably at the hem of his shirt. He wondered what it was this time, that she couldn’t inform him of via a servant. “Yes, mother?”   

She put a hand on his shoulder—and he realized, suddenly, that he didn’t know the last time they had touched—and led him gently to some seats in the library. It seemed his quest to find more about Teyvat had been momentarily interrupted.   

“How are you doing?” she asked, and he resisted the urge to ask her the same question back. This felt forbidden, special. He wondered where she went off to all day long, and why she wasn’t there now.   

“I’m well,” he responded, his mouth dry. He adjusted his posture until his back was as straight as she’d taught him when he was young.   

“I know it’s hard for you,” she said. “Just know that your father and I still love you no matter what, okay?”   

He found himself nodding, though he didn’t truly believe her. This was the first time she’d spoken of this in years. Both of his parents had the habit of pretending it didn’t exist, only to prove it through their actions.   

Why was she saying this now, though? Had something happened?   

“You don’t talk as much as you used to,” she told him, as if hearing his thoughts. “You still read the same, but I worry for your well-being. And you no longer sneak off palace grounds to explore. What’s going through your mind?”  

“You knew about that?” he said, taking the chance to redirect the topic.   

“Of course. Although, between you and me, I’m not sure your father ever did figure it out.”  

He smiled slightly. The queen didn’t have many opportunities to show her personality after marrying into the family, and this felt like the first time he’d truly met his mother.   

“I know it’s hard, but… we will think of something. I promise.”   

The promise felt empty, but it was meaningful nonetheless.   

Ruen started training Kaeya eventually. The guilt of ignoring his brother’s requests eventually outweighed the jealousy and he begrudgingly forced himself to comply.   

He himself knew how to use many weapons, but was especially competent with a sword, bow, and knife. A bow was much too complicated for him to teach on his own and a sword was too heavy for a five-year-old, so it was decently easy to settle on knives.   

On the first day of their unofficial training, Ruen led Kaeya into one of the sparring rooms. He wasn’t sure he was allowed to be doing this, but also wasn’t sure if there were any rules against it—but still, he would prefer to avoid being seen until his brother actually officially started training.   

The butterknives from the kitchen weren’t shaped quite right but Ruen wasn’t intent on giving Kaeya one of his sharper knives, either. So, first and foremost, Ruen tried to teach his brother his best approximation of a proper grip.   

Kaeya picked it up quickly, but some part of Ruen felt better about it now that the situation was in his control. If Kaeya improved too much, then…   

He’d better not think about that.   

“When will I start training?” Kaeya asked halfway through, showing perseverance Ruen hadn’t expected.   

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, biting back the few more words he had to say on the matter. But then he added, “I’m sure it’ll be soon, though.”  

Kaeya didn’t know how much his powers set him apart from Ruen yet, and Ruen feared that when he did realize, he’d begin to grow resentful as well. He wasn’t ready to be looked down upon by his younger, superior brother.   

Eventually, training for the day was brought to a close when Ruen finally had to turn in and study. Still, this was a habit they both kept, up until the very end.   

There was something brewing among the commoners. Ruen caught wind of it one day as he was making his daily trip to the library—a guard and a servant were talking. Political unrest, monsters, Khemia, someone named ‘Gold’…  

Khemia being involved was what was most intriguing to him. As a prince, it was required he learn at least the foundations of the concepts of Khemia, and while he’d found it wholly interesting, his education did not cover much more of it until his later years. The history of this art was eventful, though; almost immediately, he began to look into it.   

Relatively quickly, he connected the monsters with the creation of artificial life forms provided by Khemia. Beyond that, he hadn’t heard much, but it did sound like danger was brewing. It seemed like a job for the king.   

But then, every evening at dinner, his father and mother only grew more and more stressed. They spoke of the gods, which was confusing because Khaenri’ah didn’t have gods. They spoke of Teyvat, a nation Ruen oh so craved. And they spoke of war.   

He wasn’t allowed to interfere, and they normally spoke quietly, but he had a decent idea of what was going on.   

By then, it was far too late to do anything.   

On the day Celestia struck, Ruen was stuck in his head.   

It was easy when his father gave speeches—he never had to do much more than kneel, his head bowed, in complete silence. He knew what the speech was about and he didn’t feel the need to hear it again, so he tuned his father out and fell into his imagination. Oh, how easy it was to do just that—and it was what he did, for hours upon hours every day.   

This made it all the more surprising when his father was interrupted by a great rumbling, nearly knocking the entire city off their feet.   

Almost immediately, screaming.   

There were hands on Ruen, he was being moved—his heart thudded forcefully in his chest and he thought he was going to choke, and—   

He was in someone’s arms and his ears were ringing. Faintly, in the background, he could hear cries for help. This was his chance, was it not? This was his chance to be a hero.   

But the arms holding him didn’t let him go and he was suddenly sitting on the ground in the dirt, his whole body trembling, someone else’s hands over his ears.   

He felt helpless.    

At some point, he’d passed out, but he hadn’t noticed until he was waking up again. He supposed that was how it worked.   

He could tell something was wrong as soon as his senses came back to him.   

There was a horrible smell in the air, like smoke and blood and burning plastic. He was laying in the dirt, mostly, but his head was propped up on someone’s leg; the same person’s hand was combing rhythmically through his hair, shaking all the while.   

His whole body ached ; his ears felt stuffed full of cotton. Smoke filled his lungs with every breath and he coughed. He cracked his eyes open and the first thing he saw was the familiar red of fire.   

“Ruen,” a familiar voice said, unusual emotion permeating his words. It was his father, the king.   

“Father, what—“   

“Celestia struck our nation,” the king said grimly, looking down at his son. Ruen could see now that his hair was plastered to his face with sweat, but he was clean, albeit tired—he’d never seen his father with so much as a hair out of place. “I am sorry for this all.”   

Ruen could have cried, but he didn’t. “Kaeya? Mother?” he tried, sitting up and wincing at the pain in his muscles.   

“We can only hope,” his father said.   

Ruen scanned his surroundings, his heart erratic in his chest. Smoke, fire, crumbling, collapsed buildings… blood.   

A lot of blood.   

It was splattered on the ground, everywhere. Blood and other things Ruen didn’t want to put a name to, and he thought he could see a head —   

“I chose to entrust Kaeya with saving your mother. If he failed—“ His father paused, running a clean hand through his hair. “I don’t know what we will do.”   

And suddenly, Ruen understood. He wrenched his eyes away from anything around him and focused on his father in front of him. His father… had chosen to save him, because it had the highest chance of success. Because if he’d saved Kaeya, then Ruen and the queen would have been guaranteed to die. If he’d saved the queen, well… he wouldn’t have. He loved his children more.   

So it was up to Kaeya.   

His mouth was dry but he didn’t imagine he’d be getting water anytime soon. What did this mean for him? Were they all going to die just like this?   

Why were they the only ones left?   

They found Kaeya and the queen at the same time, but only one was alive.   

If Ruen was religious, he would’ve proclaimed it a miracle. He could tell on first glance that Kaeya’s powers had not activated.   

Kaeya was covered in blood and grime, the dirt on his face streaked with tears, and he looked so small when he collapsed into the arms of his father.   

And Ruen went to look for his mother, and found her soon after, only regretting that he’d tried to find her in the first place.   

He felt ill. Just like any commoner on the streets, she was all wrong angles and gaping wounds. Her back was the worst, and Ruen figured she had sheltered Kaeya, kept him from perishing along with everyone else.  

There was a brief flash of pointless anger before the sadness hit. Because how could Kaeya, who had the powers, still fail to save her? Why had he survived, but not her?   

But it was pointless to ruminate, and the grief hit moments later anyway.   

When his father caught glimpse of his wife’s corpse, Ruen felt a lump growing in his throat. This was really it, huh? He’d spent so much of his life craving for something interesting to happen, so that he could become the hero he so very much wanted to be, but…   

He wasn’t looking much like a hero right now.   

Hot tears spilled down his face and he turned away, his hand over his mouth.   

She was dead. His mother was dead. Everyone… the child in front of him, her entrails plain to see… the man he’d seen earlier, his eyes empty in his decapitated head… they were all dead.   

And those who weren’t, his father told him, were leaving. The last survivors, and they had found a way to leave.   

All that was left of the great kingdom of Khaenri’ah was a barren wasteland.   

He cried for his mother, for his homeland, for his destiny. He cried because there was nothing left.  

Bittersweet was the feeling he developed after a while. The thought made him sick.  

Everything was worse after the cataclysm. He spent every day hungry and dehydrated, too exhausted to do much besides sit. There were no books, there was no paper to write on, there was only cold, hard reality.   

Every night he looked above him and tried to imagine he could see the stars. He wondered if it was possible for them to run out of air down here, or if there was a way out. There were a lot of things he wondered.   

But his responsibilities were gone, and along with that went a lot of his jealousy. Royal eye or no, he and Kaeya had both been destined to the same fate here in the ruins of their homeland. And his powers had not prevented Kaeya from failure.   

Every day, while their father did what scavenging he could, Ruen did his best to entertain his little brother. Because he was twelve, and his brother was six, and he knew this was more than Kaeya should have ever been through. Royalty was more than either of them should have ever been through, in the first place.   

Kaeya always asked him to tell stories about the stars, but quickly grew tired of dragons. Ruen could understand; there were many large monsters in the universe, but such things as stars were unique. Deep down, he still wished to see them one day.   

When he was not playing with Kaeya, he spent more time daydreaming than ever before. Because what else was there to do? Thinking was all that was left, and any thoughts about the real world only left him shaky.   

It would be great if he could become an author, but at this point, he’d settle for just touching a book again.   

Ruen wasn’t sure when it had started, but his eye was hurting.  

It was a deep, throbbing ache in his skull, accompanied by nausea that made his skin crawl. He felt like something was wrong.   

When it started, he wasn’t going to tell his father because it wasn’t that bad. When it got worse, he didn’t know why he didn’t say anything, but he didn’t.   

Ruen was going to Teyvat.   

He wasn’t as happy as he would have expected.   

When Kaeya asked him to stay, he agreed, and their father decided he’d wait until Kaeya was older. Ruen didn’t know what to feel.   

He’d wanted to go to Teyvat, but he didn’t want to leave his family. He wanted to see the stars, but not when he had to become a spy to do so. He wanted to go to Teyvat, but only if he could be free. He didn’t want to continue with the obligations he’d thought were set behind him.   

He didn’t know what he wanted anymore.   

Ruen’s eye was getting worse. Kaeya knew now.   

Every day was a blur. He didn’t know how he was still holding it together, but he was. It hurt, and there was nothing left in the ruins of Khaenri’ah anymore. There was nothing left to do other than wait for nothing. It felt like everything was about to end, somehow. He felt grief.   

It wouldn’t be long until his father found out.  

Now his father knew, too.   

It hadn’t been because of the pain. There were black tendrils growing in the surface of the skin around his eyes, cool to the touch. His father’s eyes had flashed with a mixture of shock and recognition the moment he first saw it.   

He knew he was going to end soon.   

Did he regret anything?  

It would have been nice to see the stars. They were just out of reach.  

It was too late.   

He was begging, he thought. Crying, too, and his ears were ringing and his vision was tunneled so far that he couldn’t see what was right in front of him. He didn’t know what he was saying, but it wasn’t working.   

He could just barely make out his father’s voice over the sound of his own heart, of Kaeya’s sobs. “I’m sorry... Ruen.”  

And then it was over.  

Prince Ruen Alberich was no more.