Archive of Our Own

His life was full of things that can only exist in spite of what others think.

For example:

The desert did not actually belong to Cyno, nor did he belong to it.

Cyno grew up in the warm and nurturing embrace of the rainforest, like any other from the Akademiya. Nearly two decades, to many— especially the long-lived— was not much. But it was all his life, it was where all of his self belonged, where his family was.

All of it that mattered, fit into a single blink of an eye.

But because he was born in the desert, because he came from it, because he himself was not even a day over 25, that blink was superficial. To the eyes of the Akademiya, he was still a desert dog, brought to heel under the Sages’ feet.

Nature above nurture is easier for most people to understand, Tighnari had once told him over a few cups of wine at Lambad’s. Because they have their own understanding of the true nature of people like us— their general understanding of our selves— they’ll favor that over the truth any day.

So, Cyno didn’t hate the desert, not for something as shallow as the prejudices of ignorant scholars. The desert was uninvolved in such modern day politics. It was ancient and eternal, simultaneously familiar and foreign. Its people were friendly, their homes comfortable. Though the climate took some getting used to, there was no doubt in his biological makeup that he was made to live there.

But despite what others may think, the desert did not actually belong to him, nor did he belong to it.

When the issue of Lesser Lord Kusanali’s proper ascension was finally solved, Cyno felt as if this fact had never been truer.

It’d been months since things finally started settling down. The previous sages were confined to Avidya, under the forest rangers’ care. Alhaitham was, though Cyno so loathed the fact, the current Grand Sage (“— Acting Grand Sage. I know what they teach you in Spantamad, Cyno, I know you know words matter.”) Cyno had reinstated himself as General Mahamatra the moment Lesser Lord Kusanali had been freed.

Looking out at Aaru Village, he felt himself a lone pebble on Sumeru’s forest floor, watching everything sprout and shoot up in the dirt around him. Despite the hardships and revelations— Lesser Lord Kusanali’s presence, Priest Kasala’s final words— through it all, Cyno remained as he was, stagnant in the face of change.

“You should take a break, General. Or… how do they say it? ‘At ease, soldier.’”

He took a deep breath and withdrew himself from meditation, lowering to the ground. “I am taking a break.”

Heavy footfall stopped beside him. “I doubt whatever it is you're doing could be considered relaxation. Not when you’ve got such a severe face on,” Rahman pointed out.

“I’m not making a face,” Cyno denied. “This is just how I look.”

“Eh, let’s agree to disagree. You’re young, it's a time for celebration. You should come join us by the fire. Dehya is about to dig up the tajine.”

Cyno turned to look up at him.

How Rahman managed to make a one-eyed smile seem so friendly, he didn’t know. He’d tried before, but then his master had just pinched his cheek and told him to focus on finishing his meal.

Dismissive, Cyno responded, “I’ll be right there.”

Rahman leveled a look at him that was equal parts unimpressed and amused. “The desert won’t disappear if you look away, you know. It’s been there since before our gods helped foster civilization in it, it’ll be there for longer than either of us can live. We’re safe here.”

“... I wasn’t patrolling. Just… thinking.”

He took a moment to look back out into the clear desert sky, the sea of stars spread out in the horizon.

Rahman waited.

Footfalls again, this time softer. Probably someone from the village, Cyno didn’t mind.

After another deep breath, he said, “So much has come to pass in such a short time. We’re living in extraordinary times, Rahman. Is it normal to feel so small despite these changes we’ve brought about? To feel as if the tides could have changed without my role in moving them?”

Rahman chuckled. “I’d wager you played a bigger role than most. Not just anyone can bring about justice for an entire people tossed aside for centuries. We’re grateful to you. For you, even.”

We. The desertfolk, Rahman meant.

The thought of it grated against him, a discomfort so distinct, he didn’t know what to do with it.

Cyno was used to caution, to disdain, to disrespect. Gratitude wasn’t rare in his life, but in his line of work, he never cared to stick around for it. It was all… “Just a part of my duty.”

And perhaps it was also due to the expectation in Rahman’s eye, that discomfort. Maybe it was also because Cyno grew up in the forest that, in that moment, he realized that he’d been thinking of Rahman the way people thought of him.

Because from that knowing gaze alone, belying a deeper meaning behind his gratitude, Cyno could sense that they were both thinking of that memory from the tomb— Priest Kasala, perhaps Al-Ahmar’s last and Lesser Lord Kusanali’s first divine priest in the desert, uttering his final words to future generations.

Impossibly, his cowl grew heavy at the thought. The spirit within pulsed in response.

Rahman is a lot wiser than I gave him credit for. A treacherously prejudiced thought, that. He turned it in his head before letting it go, vowing to rethink his own ideas at a later date.

“Not all Akademiya folk are as duty-bound as you, General.”

This was Setaria, the one who’d walked up to them moments ago.

Cyno did not turn to look at her, stifling the shiver that threatened to run down his back as a breeze blew past them.

“If I may, there’s a philosophy common to us desertfolk that I’ve been thinking about for months now,” she added, amiable, truly the teacher she had shaped herself to be all these months. She cleared her throat, “‘A grain of sand is insignificant, but an ocean of them possesses immeasurable strength.’”

Us desertfolk.

Cyno turned to look as she walked up to his other side.

Setaria did not look back, instead surveying the horizon as he’d done before, eyes tracking lines that were foreign to him, for all the ways that mattered. Constellations, cardinal stars, he knew about those. Relied on them enough times in his travels to survive. But Setaria was Rtawahist, the same year as Minci. He’d seen her name on one of Tighnari’s shelves before, on a considerably thick text on forecasting and Sumeru’s harvest calendar. There was no doubt she knew names and histories for those celestial bodies he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

…

There was that feeling again.

Like an insignificant grain of sand.

He supposed the saying made sense. There were others that were similar, hailing from Liyue, Mondstadt, Fontaine.

They all were small things in a vast land, capable of changes of cosmic proportions. He was one of many (Dehya, Alhaitham, Tighnari, Rahman, Setaria, the Traveler, Candace) that had brought the scales back to their proper orientation, that had defeated the Fatui’s false god and brought justice to the heretics masquerading as sages.

“I understand now,” Cyno said, because he did. “Thank you for that.”

A hand landed on his shoulder, hardened and calloused by a life full of strife. “You think too much, kid—”

He bristled. “Not a kid.”

Rahman did not falter. “— I think if we get some food and a couple drinks in you, you’d start to loosen up. C’mon, before Dehya starts yellin’.”

As he turned to follow both Setaria and Rahman, the feeling bubbled up behind his throat again.

Us desertfolk.

Us.

Food for thought.

For now, food for ravenous appetite.

Back in his office, he found himself listless, still.

He took his cloak off and tried to dust off any remaining sand that may have gotten in.

He’d been in Aaru Village for the better part of a week, making sure the preparations for the desert projects were being attended to with the proper care it needed. He wasn’t entirely too involved in making curricula or giving instructors thorough background checks— those were jobs he would have left to pass under Utayba and the Mahamata’s care. But he had wanted to properly bridge the gaps between the matra, the Corps of Thirty, and the rest of the mercenaries under Rahman’s care.

That had been what the feast was for, mediated by Candace and Setaria. Dehya had managed to “grease the wheels” to ensure that the project was “a smooth ride”— her words, not his.

…

There were not a lot of prejudiced men under his care, a pleasant surprise he was careful not to expect.

Had it been due to his self-imposed exile?

Had it been due to his own assignment as General?

Or, perhaps, it had more to do with the Radkani case—

The door to his office opened.

Nabil startled when his eyes landed on Cyno, clutching a bag to his chest. “Lord Cyno! I didn’t know you’d returned.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he said, because it was true. And, because the work day still wasn’t done, “Did you and Aarav clear my backlog of cases?” The ‘again’ went unsaid, but judging from the look on Nabil’s face, it was understood regardless.

This was a recent development, brought about by his exile. It honestly surprised him the first few times it happened but he supposed he should have expected it, given how long he was gone. “Right,” Nabil said, “It was a slow day, sir. We figured since they weren’t high profile, we’d clear them out for you rather than wait. I hope that wasn’t…”

“It’s alright,” he said, with some measure of relief as he took a seat by his desk. “Thank you both. Again.”

Apart from Utayba and Taj, they’d been with him the longest, Aarav and Nabil. Familiar faces in the ever-dwindling ranks of the matra. Though Nabil had been the only one of them who knew of his exile, Aarav was no less trustworthy than the rest.

He wondered, briefly, if the Akasha had calculated his trust in them as well, had fed this information to the sages. Not that it mattered, anyhow. He knew he was a lot more trusting than most people, that he was the type to expect people to act on their principle, so when Azar rejected his audit, he followed Tighnari’s footsteps and forged his own lonesome path through the darkness.

He trusted his people with many things, but his life was not one of them.

Upon his return, there hadn’t been any major changes to the matra’s infrastructure. Utayba had not opened the repository to anyone other than high-ranking matra and the Traveler, under Cyno’s orders. Of course, there had been a recent crackdown and layoffs due to the Radkani case, but Nabil, Usem, and Shohre had made quick work of it, so perhaps it was because of this that there hadn’t been clever upstarts sticking their heads into places they shouldn’t.

Despite his misgivings and paranoia, the sages simply didn’t care to cripple the matra’s current mode of enforcement.

Or maybe the matra were just that insignificant to their cause?

Maybe Cyno could have done what he did with his people knowing why he did it.

Maybe they could have helped.

To the Grand Sage, the matra are nothing more than tools for the sages to assert and maintain their control over knowledge, he’d said once. He believed it of Azar, but did he expect it from fellow matra?

Did he really believe they would all be so disloyal?

“Mora for your thoughts, my lord?”

He looked up and found Nabil by the shelves. The bag was still by his side.

He nodded at the bag. “What do you have there?”

Nabil glanced down at the bag, then lifted it up, “We were sending out people to collect Akasha terminals under Lesser Lord Kusanali’s orders.”

He blinked, “The Lesser Lord’s…?”

Nabil nodded, smiling at some distant thought. “She dropped by your office and gave the rookies quite the scare. She asked us to collect the few of them that were still with the Mahamata and Navbed outside the city. She gave us permission to ask the Corps of Thirty for assistance, if we were stretched too thin to retrieve the ones past Port Ormos.”

Then, as if remembering, Nabil’s eyes brightened. “Right, she was looking for you as well. I think that’s why she dropped by. She said she was willing to wait, in case you had more pressing things to take care of but that if you had the time, she had already informed the guards by the Sanctuary of your arrival.”

“When was this?”

“Just this morning, Lord Cyno.”

He looked out his window. Just past noon, it seemed. “... Probably done with her meeting already.”

“Hm?”

“Leave the bag here,” he said, louder. “I’ll bring it to her. You’ve done good work today, Nabil. Get some rest.”

“And you, sir? You’ve been back and forth between the desert and the Akademiya for weeks now.”

Cyno looked up at him as he dropped the bag off, as instructed. The earpieces within it clattered. The bag seemed to be a lot heavier than it looked. Nabil did not seem relieved by putting it down, nor did his concern waver as Cyno stood.

“I’m going to formally file a vacation leave. I’ve already given permission slips for the people I’ll be leaving in charge while I’m gone.”

“O-oh. For how long, sir?”

He shrugged. “A month or two, maybe. Interdarshan’s next month, right?”

This caught Nabil’s interest, eyes lighting up with wonder. “You’re participating, Lord Cyno?” No doubt this news will reach the rookies by sundown.

“If it’s worth the prize.”

…

“Do you get it?”

“I-it’s good to have you back, sir.”

There was another visitor in the Lesser Lord’s residence when he finally made the trek up to the Sanctuary.

Cyno wasn’t keen on prying into his Archon’s business while he waited for her to arrive, so no matter how disgruntled his companion got in the expansive silence of the Sanctuary, he kept his quiet.

This was no different to standing in on interrogations with Taj or sitting in on caravans with scholars and mercenaries on the way to Port Ormos.

He’d seen this Inazuman around before in passing, between cases and trips to the desert, between the doors of the Akademiya and his office. It was hard not to remember the ornate hat even if it was just in passing. It was likely that they were a newer driyosh, or they came to attend a few classes for some certification or other.

If his people hadn’t told him anything about them, then this person probably wasn’t anyone of note. Even if they were growing more and more restless by the second, a tell-tale sign of a guilty conscience or whatever it was Tighnari liked to say.

“Are you really going to wait here the entire night,” they asked eventually, annoyed and no doubt perturbed. Everyone always asked eventually, if Cyno waited long enough. That wasn’t really Cyno’s intention this time but, well.

“I was summoned,” was his only answer.

“It’s never a formal summons with her,” they grumbled in informal Inazuman, probably not intending for Cyno to hear or understand. He did anyway. “It’s always tacked on with ‘only when you don’t have any other pressing matters,’ then she won’t expect that, as Archon, her people will probably treat her as the priority.”

Cyno turned to look at his… fellow visitor.

Undoubtedly Inazuman, an Anemo Vision by their breast… nothing out of the ordinary, at first glance. Apart from their irreverence and presence in a place as sacred as the Sanctuary of Surasthana.

Cyno was no Vahumana scholar, but he knew for a fact that Inazumans had no place being irreverent towards the gods, not with the way the god of eternity instilled her authority over her dominion.

…

Well, he supposed there were all sorts of people.

“What,” they asked eventually, in Sumeran again this time, not looking but perhaps feeling Cyno’s gaze on them.

“I suppose it would be rude to ask what sort of business you have with Lesser Lord Kusanali,” Cyno said.

“You’re right,” they responded. “It is rude.”

“Please don’t mind him,” echoed Lesser Lord Kusanali’s voice. Cyno couldn’t properly locate where it was, so he stood at attention and waited.

She floated into the main platform from one of the side rooms of the Sanctuary, eyes aglow with energy and a little bit of amusement. “Kasacchi is here momentarily for our meeting as an adviser. I’ll be brief with you, Cyno— may I call you Cyno?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

She smiled, walking past her visitors. As she passed, the center console glowed to life. Screens and lists of texts appeared to light up in midair. He was too far away to make out any of it.

She took a seat by the console, swinging her legs as she spoke. “I’m grateful for your reinstatement, Cyno. It’s an honor to work with you, really. Before I put the order to paper, I was just going to ask if you had ideas for a restructuring of the matra’s current operations. I know your people are spread out as it is with just the Akademiya, but with the desert projects, we might circumvent that if we come to an agreement with the local mercenaries.”

He gave Kasacchi another brief glance before nodding. “I already have, with a group of mercenaries hailing from Ayn Al-Ahmar. They were integral to your rescue, my lord. Rahman and Setaria both hail from sister tribes with core members within the group, so the rapport was not difficult to build. Alhaitham had handled most of the relevant trade negotiations before the siege to maintain our partnership.”

“Oh! That’s wonderful. Yes, I believe he’s shown me what he and the desertfolk agreed on, though if I’m being honest, he could have given them more. I’ll remember to discuss it with him and the Navbed. The Corps of Thirty brigades in Caravan Ribat, then? Did you reach an agreement with them as well?”

Cyno tried not to sigh. “There is still much left to be desired. I admit, centuries-long prejudice might require more than just a few feasts, and we did just detain Siman after the siege. While we’ve removed most of Farrokhzadan from the Corps, their allies are still at large. It will take a serious infraction to remove them from the ranks or time to earn their trust in your ruling. I had to manipulate a whole brigade just to bring Ayn Al-Ahmar to the city without raising suspicion and it still resulted in an altercation in the Grand Bazaar. So even our actions might seem heaped with suspicion if we extend an olive branch right now.”

She hummed at that. “Should we start there, then?”

“... I’m afraid I don’t follow, my lord.”

“The matra deal with academic business,” Kasacchi spoke up. Cyno glanced at him, then away. “Just academic business. They have no claim on Caravan Ribat, the Corps of Thirty, or the desertfolk. If you extend the matra’s authority, it’s just going to cause conflict.”

Lesser Lord Kusanali turned to look up at them, hands on her hips. “The Akademiya was once and should always have been dealing with matters relating to Sumeru’s many intricacies, livelihood and culture included. After all, isn’t instruction and education the real core of life and culture? This was why I asked Cyno to come here.

“Kasacchi is a rather opinionated Vahumana scholar, Cyno. Do not mind his frankness. But he’s correct, which is why restructuring was on my mind. This is not a matter of extending the matra’s authority, it’s just that, at the moment, we need to handle the desert projects with care. This would mean no permitting of texts and teachings disproportionately prejudiced against desertfolk. As the guards against insidious propaganda like this, the matra should be involved, don’t you think?”

“You think people would do that, my lord?” Cyno asked. A distinct sensation of deja vu hit him as the words came out of his mouth, one that immediately deemed himself naive for even asking otherwise. His next words turned to ash on his tongue.

Lesser Lord Kusanali’s eyes softened, perhaps aware of this. “Kasacchi.”

Kasacchi sighed, crossing his arms. “I spotted someone tampering with a few educational supply balloons before they even left Ribat.”

Cyno’s brows furrowed. “And you didn’t report—?”

“It was a group of men from the Corps of Thirty,” Kasacchi added, glaring though seemingly not upset at Cyno’s accusation itself. “I wasn’t there to stay long and it wasn’t any of my business. Still,” he looked at Lesser Lord Kusanali, “that doesn’t warrant extending their reach to the desert. Think about it. If you were desertfolk, what would you think about the increase in matra activity, the Akademiya relegating your village’s every move?”

Cyno sighed. He was right. “Most people view the matra as the Akademiya’s tools of power anyway. I would think that it’d be just like with the sages again.”

“Exactly,” Kasacchi said, aiming his next words to Cyno, this time. “And even if you hire from the Corps of Thirty or more local mercenaries in the desert, they’ll view that as yet another tool or an extension of it. Your best bet is to wait for them to bring the idea to you instead of rushing them into it.”

Lesser Lord Kusanali hummed, turning to look towards the texts floating on the air. “You both make excellent points. However, this is a matter of great urgency. While we’ve gotten rid of corrupt authorities, there are still middlemen at large.” She touched a few of the floating texts, swiping away a few squares. “We can arrange a talk with Miss Setaria, Rukh Shah, and Asfand. We’re going to need a Vahumana expert on hand as well. Attend the talks with me, okay, Kasacchi?”

“I’m not even a dastur,” he grumbled.

“Yet. Still, you’re more qualified than most of the scholars we have in attendance, considering our last great sage from Vahumana is currently confined to the Avidya forest rangers’ care,” she pointed out, shaking her head. “It’s not a tall order, Wanderer. Most of the negotiations will probably be done by Miss Candace anyway, since Aaru Village is going to be our center for desert education. I just need a second opinion and you’re predisposed to give yours whether I ask for it or not.”

… More qualified? Wait—

“Just you, my lord?” In Aaru Village? Cyno doubted a bunch of mercenaries would be able to easily subdue an Archon, not with Candace and Dehya around, but still.

“Weren’t you listening, she said Rukh Shah and Asfand were going to be with us,” Kasacchi pointed out.

She nodded. “Kasacchi will be my guard and assistant. If it would ease your worries, Cyno, I’ll commission someone from the Adventurer’s Guild as well. I’ve wanted to try that for a long time now!” She put a finger to her chin, looking up in thought. “Maybe they’ll tell the Traveler…”

“I’d rather they don’t,” muttered Kasacchi.

Cyno cleared his throat. “That’s not quite what I meant, my lord. Just that since we’re looking into the integrity of the desert projects as well, perhaps someone from the Mahamata should be there as well. If not to take minutes, then to ensure the quality of whatever material they would require.”

She hummed, considering this. “Alhaitham?”

Cyno squinted. While he was a more familiar face than most members of the Mahamata, if they weren’t bringing the General Mahamatra along for reasons other than personal preference, then the current Acting Grand Sage probably would have been a way worse thing to signal to the desertfolk.

“Panah,” Lesser Lord Kusanali offered,after his too long moment of deliberation. “He’s a little overwhelmed at the moment, so maybe the travel and the more focused task will give him some reprieve. I’ll just have to ask Alhaitham to reshuffle if he requires someone to hand Scribework to.”

Trust her wisdom and judgment, the spirit within urged, She knows what she says.

It was not a thought Cyno could reject because he did trust his Lord’s judgment despite what the spirit thought.

If she says she wants to go to Aaru Village personally, he should give her encouragement.

If she says she wants to restructure the matra, the Navbed, and the Mahamata, then he should follow her orders.

If she says this… Kasacchi was qualified enough to aid and protect her, he probably was.

It was just that…

Part of him wondered if that should have been a role he took over for.

Funnily enough, it was the same part of him that hosted the spirit.

(Briefly, he remembered the memories in the tomb and wondered how much of this jealousy was his or the spirit’s.)

From the giggle she made at Kasacchi’s scoff, Cyno figured perhaps it was less a matter of trust in his skills and more her closeness with this Inazuman that matched her preference so he couldn’t really hold it against her. It’d been only recently that his own faith and belief in her had been revived after all. He didn’t know what this Inazuman’s relationship with his Archon was, but perhaps he didn’t have to know for now.

Perhaps in the future.

“Before I take my leave, then.” Cyno lifted the bag he carried to the Sanctuary. Its clattering echoed in the vast hall. “The Akasha terminals you asked to be collected this morning, my lord.”

“Oh! You can put those down by the console.” She pointed at the center of the platform. “Thank you, again. We should talk before you clock back in, alright? I’d love to just chat more about your view on things and what you and the others saw in the desert. Alhaitham has been very tight-lipped and the Traveler was in a rush, so I couldn’t ask them.”

“Of course, my lord. I’ll be sure to remember.”

“Have a nice vacation, Cyno!”

“Really, right now?” was Kasacchi’s judgmental question.

Cyno raised a brow at him, then bowed at Lesser Lord Kusanali. “For any matra-related matters, please contact Nabil. For personal ones, send a duskbird straight to Avidya Forest. I’ll be sure to make myself available at the earliest notice.”

“Duly noted. Tell Master Cyrus I said hi,” she said, smiling sweetly.

… He didn’t even want to ask how she knew he was planning on dropping by before his trek to Avidya so he just nodded. He turned and gave Kasacchi a nod as well as he passed the other on his way back out the Sanctuary.

He wasn’t even out the door when Kasacchi said, “What an oddball.”

“Wanderer!”

Cyno’s earliest memory from childhood was of the desert sun.

He was young, cloaked against the harsh winds and biting grit. He was looking up at the hawks circling the cliffs above.

It was, like most things he cherished from that time, a brief moment.

Most of his earlier childhood remained indoors, drawing and inevitably carving runes and symbols he couldn’t read, memorizing words he barely understood and names of figures he had no knowledge of yet.

Amun,

Nabu,

Anubis.

But that moment of sunlight illuminated everything his eyes could see. The ridges of the cliffs, the cresting sand dunes, desert wildlife. It was such a striking image that he couldn’t help but think about it in the days between his life then and what his life was going to be for the foreseeable future.

Master Cyrus once mentioned that this was his mind’s way of protecting him.

And perhaps there was truth to that.

Whenever Cyno had nightmares about his time in those caves and ruins, there was always the stench of blood wafting in the air. He didn’t know if they were real or figments of his imagination, supplied by learned biases against desertfolk and their folk rituals and spiritual beliefs.

He’d seen the records from the repository though.

Not because he seeked them out personally. Though his master was surprised by his lack of initiative in this regard, he cared not for the priests who burned this brand on his arm and tethered this spirit to his. He had made his peace with them, once he came of age and he hoped, one day, Collei would too, with her own past.

Regardless, and still, he’d seen those records.

Cyrus, still just a dastur then, along with a gaggle of other researchers on an interdisciplinary project between Haravatat, Spantamad, and Rtawahist, had found him in the desert of Mt. Hadramaveth, caged and shackled like a wild dog. His arm, from Cyrus’s own stories, had been soaked through with blood beneath his coat.

Remnants of the Eremite tribe Utu were scarce. There were naught but a few missing records and the tattered pieces of their emblem, all relevant records having been ransacked and torn and burnt through already, suggesting a hasty escape or an accident. One of the largest surviving texts report the following:

        “... functioning. The gullible Northerners bought our bluff. Lord Hermanubis has found his new host. Our task now is to hide the…”

A child has been brought to the Akademiya by the Spantamad dastur, Cyrus. The child speaks little of the events, if at all. This is perhaps from shock. Bimarstan healers have found nothing out of the ordinary outside of the expected malnourishment, dehydration, and the burned brand on their arm in the shape of a shackle.

Nevertheless, this case is cleared from matra jurisdiction and will soon be passed to the Scribe for the Mahamata to judge instead.

Attached to the file was the said torn record and a grainy picture of Cyno’s thin arm, burn still fresh.

There were no other traces of the Utu, not a single person from any mercenary groups hailing from them.

Perhaps due to Cyrus’ connections, no Mahamata personnel bothered Cyno about it after the initial matra investigation.

Years later, when Cyno’s curiosity was near boundless about his enigmatic past, he asked Asfand time and time again if he ever heard of an Utu tribe from Mt. Hadramaveth. This was earlier in his curricula, when he was still trying to strike a balance with the spirit within (dormant and silent though it was), but Asfand just sighed every time he asked.

“The Corps of Thirty do not hail that far into the desert, Cyno. Ours is a coalition of tribes from Port Ormos. You’re better off asking someone from the desert or some snob from Vahumana who thinks they’re better than us.”

There were two semi-accurate sources of the Utu remaining in Sumeru, both of them meeting every other month in a small residence in the north side of the city.

After rescinding his title of Sage a few years prior, Cyrus retired here, in a hut next to the Bimarstan building. He would lend his assistance there from time to time, coming up with potions and tinctures for element-related injuries and such. The peak of his duty was about a year before, when Tighnari had proven to the Amurta and subsequently, to the entire Akademiya, that the Withering was connected to the Ley Lines. Then, he stopped.

Cyno hadn’t been able to keep a steadier correspondence with him during his self-imposed exile and later during his supervision of the desert projects, but not for lack of trying. Cyrus tended to neglect his correspondences after retirment.

He frowned as the wood groaned beneath his feet, hoping against all hope that his master would not hear.

His frown deepened as he tried the front door and it opened without resistance.

Cyno had been in and out of the city for months now, this was the first time in a while he’d been able to visit. Yet, still, his master’s door was unlocked. Though he disliked having to explain why he was crashing in so late, he disliked even more the idea that his master was unsafe.

At least there were no candles or lanterns still lit around the residence as he entered. The old wood would go up in flames so easily. Cyno has been trying to wean his father off of them, giving him safer alternatives born of alchemy or nature, but Master Cyrus was a stubborn fool set in his ways— an aspect of his Cyno deeply admired.

Somewhere deeper in the house, a door cracked open. A thin thread of light shone through the cracks, illuminating part of the room. Cyno could see seed packets on the kitchen countertop then, next to a tome he could have sworn he’d seen before.

“Cyno, s’that you?”

“Yes,” he sighed, taking his cowl off and dropping all pretense of sneaking. “You’re still up. Why did you leave the door unlocked?”

“Tighnari said you were coming home today.” The door opened wider. Cyrus was already in his sleeping robe, bleary-eyed without his spectacles. “You told your boy but not me? I’m hurt.”

“Baba, not every letter that comes from a duskbird is from Tighnari. Bala has been sending you letters for three years now.”

“I still think that’s a terrible name for a duskbird,” Cyrus sniffed. He once told Cyno that Bala looked more like a Navid, mostly due to wishful thinking that any letter coming from the duskbird was good news.

“Even if I told you I’d be home, you should have at least locked it.”

“Sumeru City is very safe. That’s half the reason I chose to stay here.”

Except when Sumeru City was under constant pressure from the sages to change for the worse, detaining detractors and opposition left and right. Except when Sumeru City was under a city-wide illegal experiment where none of its participants were aware they were a part of.

Cyrus was no doubt exempted from this because of his proximity to Cyno. Maybe as a bargaining chip, maybe because they simply forgot about Cyrus.

He was too tired to bring these factors up, to start an argument so late in the night. Not with Cyrus looking sleep-drunk and content. “Yes, the other half being close proximity to Zaha Hadi,” he retorted instead, earning a groan from Cyrus that amused him greatly.

“Don’t speak that witch’s name in my home. I’ve had enough of her banging my door down for the month.”

“If you don’t want me to, stop stealing her crops every month, plain and simple,” Cyno said, stopping by his doorway. “What does Tighnari call it… Ah, yes, ‘schoolyard bullying.’ I think you’re familiar with the concept. Flirting at your old age…”

“Insolent child,” Cyrus muttered with great affection. “I’ll have you know, I have better chances with other people than that stingy old coot.” He took a seat by his desk, picking up his discarded book. “Now, where was I… Ah, yes.”

Cyno could picture it clearly: Cyrus receiving Bala’s letter, reading by his desk as the night drew on. At some point, he must have nodded off until he heard Cyno enter the house.

“Will you at least stay until lunch tomorrow, have a few meals with your old man,” Cyrus asked, glancing up from his reading. “I haven’t seen you in months. Have you been eating? Those rations aren’t enough, you look even skinnier than usual, poor thing.”

Cyno had great respect for his master, he really did. Cyrus was a great scholar with such moral integrity, he was practically Cyno’s role model.

As a father, he was a little too doting.

Cyno meant that with all the love he had in his heart.

He remembered a time when he used to tail Cyrus during classes, barely a day over nine years old and already participating in driyosh-level class recitation when none of his master’s students were willing to answer. In every class, Cyrus would have a different snack set out for him, like he was afraid Cyno would go hungry between 2-hour sessions, even telling his students to bring Cyno with them if they were going for a restroom break.

Looking back, it seemed Cyrus was just as clueless with raising children as Cyno had been with Collei. Ever the stronger man between them, his master made do with what he had while protecting Cyno from scholars trying to turn a child into their greatest paper.

(A small part of him, the part of him that grew a little spiteful of his agreement with the spirit over the years, wondered if he should have resigned from his post as soon as he received Collei, if he should have helped raise her instead like Cyrus had with him. It would have been a boon to Tighnari, for one. It would have helped with his peace of mind to see Collei grow, for another.

But the price to pay for cohabitating with the spirit within was steep, and he was only able to pay it as a matra. He would not allow himself to try to strike a balance between paying for his own existence and trying to keep Collei and Tighnari safe from the sages.

Looking at Cyrus then, so well-suited to retirement, it made him wonder if Cyrus would ever accept sagehood a second time, if Lesser Lord Kusanali offered again. With Cyno well out of his hair, he had the chance to do it.)

“You know, we could have a meal together at Tighnari’s this weekend. I’m on vacation, ordered by Lesser Lord Kusanali herself.”

“My knees can’t take hikes like they used to,” Cyrus complained, wiggling his legs in gesture. “Zakariya set me up with something to help with my joints. These rainy seasons are gonna be hellish, I’ll tell you.”

“Ah, excuses. You have a whole gossip circuit around the Grand Bazaar twice every week. You’ll hurt Nari’s feelings one of these days,” he joked.

“How about you bring them to your old man instead,” Cyrus reasoned, turning a page on his book. “We’ll make a day out of it, then I can finally get some food in that little girl of yours. Proper food.”

Cyno rolled his eyes. “I’ll stay for lunch tomorrow and no later. I’ll be back next week with… well, with whatever Tighnari and Ashpazi have in the station. If you need anything, send Bala.”

“And Collei?”

He turned, feet already taking him to his room before he’s even finished speaking. “If she’s willing,” he yawned. “Good night, Ba. Love you.”

As always, Cyrus cooked up a veritable feast before Cyno even woke.

Cyno had to admit, he missed this— waking to a meal he loved, feeling afloat with his lack of obligations, cracking jokes back and forth over the breakfast table. Cyrus, ever the doting father, always did his best to try and get Cyno to open up, plying him with food and menial chores to talk over.

He’d grown up to be quite the busybody, Tighnari once told him after he got sick and had to stay over in Gandharva that one time. Of course, this was said with as much fondness as Tighnari could muster up on too little sleep, over a bowl of cold water.

But it was because Cyrus was such a role model for him that Cyno was the way he was.

When things needed to be done, they were done. And if Cyrus wanted Cyno to be happy, he would find things to do that would include Cyno somehow—whether that be doing house chores or doing grocery runs down at the Bazaar or grading papers.

So, there Cyno was, eyes stinging from chopping red onions, feeling his world grow smaller as the sun rode its chariot across the sky.

Then and there, in his master’s kitchen-dining-living space, Cyno was no General Mahamatra, no vessel for Hermanubis, no savior of Sumeru. He was neither desertfolk nor forestfolk. He had no actions to weigh on the scales of justice.

He was just Cyno, Cyrus’ boy, the one who still had a few decks to conjure up in the face of new meta, mechanics, and setups that were no doubt added in his prolonged absence. There was also a Genius Invokation event a month after the Interdarshan Championship and he was wondering, idly, if he could find a dedicated cardback designer on such short notice.

Call him shallow, but he loved days like these,

“You’ll get all wrinkly like me if you keep looking like that, son.”

Cyno blinked, then shook his head at Cyrus’ words. “That isn’t as big of a negative as you might imagine. It’d be a privilege to get older.”

“Sheesh, can’t your old man joke?”

“Jokes are funny.”

“Yeowch!”

He straightened in his seat and flicked his hair over his shoulder. “Besides, I think the wrinkles will go great with my hair.”

Cyrus roared at that. “Vain till the end. Who taught you that one?”

“Dehya.”

“The Flame Mane? She’s as out of your league as your Tighnari was.”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t encourage either of them to fan the flames of my vanity. We met at Aaru Village and almost tore my arm off when she saw me trying to bathe in oasis water afterwards. The next morning, she brought me to Caravan Ribat to buy me eyeshadow, of all things. Says it helps with the sun.”

Cyrus made an appreciative noise. “Stylish and practical. You really know how to pick ‘em.”

Cyno could still remember her telling tall tales about Candace’s own lack of vanity and how much easier he was to buy gifts for in comparison. Of course, as was customary in Sumeru, this came with the fact that Cyno also had to exchange a few of Tighnari’s homemade essential oils and tinctures. A gift for a gift.

“Are these good?” Cyno asked, pushing the bowl of chopped onions towards Cyrus.

“Yes, thank you.” Cyrus did not even look before taking it and dumping the contents into the pot. “Now, what other sorts of trouble did you land yourself in while you took a page out of Fontaine’s book and went into exile?”

Of course, Cyrus had been one of the first people to know, apart from Tighnari. Cyno was nothing if not his father’s boy.

“Well, we stumbled into a desert tomb,” he started, casually.

Unbelieving, maybe a little unsure if Cyno was being truthful or was just pulling his leg, Cyrus merely hummed in acknowledgement as he stirred the pot.

“In it, we found the last known words of the priest Kasala expounding on the vast wisdom of our Lesser Lord Kusanali and telling future desertfolk to not forget this kindness.”

Cyrus threw him a glance at that. “Where are you going with this.”

“Nowhere,” Cyno shrugged. “We were in a desert tomb. Lesser Lord Kusanali told me to tell her in excruciating detail when I come back from vacation, so you’re actually getting all the news before our god. He had my cowl on, Baba, could you believe it.”

“This better not be a joke.”

“I told you, jokes are funny.”

“Cyno.”

“Master Cyrus.”

It is high noon when he leaves Sumeru City. In his pack, there are about three or four meals packed in leaves, a few gifts from Cyrus to Tighnari and Collei, gifts from Cyno himself from his time in the desert, and his special Casket of Tomes.

Needless to say, he was packed like a merchant’s sumpterbeast, the irony of which put him in a good mood.

The road from the city to Gandharva was not particularly long or arduous. There were a few wild animals here and there and, refreshingly, far less Withering zones.

He wagered a few new settlements would return to repopulate the perimeter of the city before the year was up, perhaps a few residences coming straight for the desert.

The thought of it warmed him almost as much as the overbearing midday sun did.

Gandharva was, as Tighnari’s last letter told him, bustling with activity.

If it wasn’t senior forest watchers being followed around by a gaggle of trainees, it was mercenary groups and academics alike, a few adventurers and merchants huddling around bulletin boards. Nearly none of them paused to bow at him or acknowledge him, far too busy with their chosen activities to keep track of him.

It did not take long for him to drop his heavy load on Collei’s porch.

“L-Lord Cyno!” came the expected stutter. Collei jumped to her feet, a good sign that she was hale and healthy. Cyno believed Tighnari’s letter saying so, he really did, but a part of him still sagged in relief when he saw the healthy tint on her rosy cheeks. “You’re here? I-I mean, it’s been so long! Should I go get Mas—?”

Cyno shook his head, holding a hand up. “It’s fine. I meant to come here first. I just got here from my childhood home and wanted to drop off some gifts.”

Collei flushed, “Oh, um, thank you. Uh, here, by the carpet.”

They sat on her floor, huddling around Cyno’s tall pack as he took out Cyrus’ and his own gifts.

“You seem to be recovering better. I’ve thanked Lesser Lord Kusanali plenty since the event, though I mostly really tell her about your tenacity.”

Collei flushed even redder at the mention. “Um… Haha, thank you. I’m just about to be assigned my first full week of patrols as a leader. Master told me he thinks I was ready, since it seemed I was already capable enough to um… help while he was dealing with Karkata and Miss Haypasia. A-and after he got struck by lightning that one time…”

Cyno’s heart warmed at the words. “That’s good to hear. It’s convenient I brought these, then. Think of them as congratulatory gifts.”

Collei’s nose scrunched a little at the word, hands raising a bit, no doubt reaching for a notepad she currently did not have.

Cyno’s pack came equipped with a pen, so he was quick to jot down the letters on the closest surface. Namely, his thigh.

Collei yelped. “I-I’ll get a towel!”

Cyno shook his head. “It’ll wash off. Here’s how it's spelled.” He presented his thigh.

Collei laughed. “I could have gotten up to get my notepad, y’know.”

“Then you wouldn’t have been able to open your gift so soon. Go on, this one’s from my master.”

Like clockwork, Collei settled down at that, pulling in closer to peer at the wrapped package in Cyno’s hands. “Master Cyrus?”

He nodded, pushing it towards her.

Collei had the endearing habit of unraveling her packages carefully so as not to tear the wrapping paper. He knew, of course, but only from what Tighnari had told him through letters. He’d never actually seen it in action.

It’s to help refine her motor skills, Tighnari said. Same with the sewing and the knitting. Exercising those muscles would help stave off paralyzation.

But Eleazar was gone, a euphoric thought that had Cyno holding back an amused smile as Collei carefully peeled back his father’s haphazard packaging.

“Any guesses on what it could be?”

Collei snorted. “Master Cyrus always sends books.”

“So certain now, are we,” Cyno said. “What do I usually send then?”

Collei gave him a look that was the spitting image of Tighnari’s. “Usually something related to a joke.”

Cyno huffed. “That’s true. Maybe not this time though, right?”

“It better not be,” she teased. Then, finally, the packaging came off. “See, I told you they were boo— Is this the latest copy of Onibudou.”

Usually Cyrus sent Collei educational texts— self-help books, clothing patterns, dictionaries, self-written books on elemental mastery. But… well.

Tighnari may or may not have let slip to Cyno that the Traveler had gotten Collei hooked on that one light novel series, which he may or may not have let slip to Cyrus, who had the overwhelming tendency to overcompensate for his lack of visitation with gifts.

…

Maybe Cyno got that from him.

Collei looked up at Cyno. “Can I read it?”

“You haven’t even opened mine yet,” Cyno teased.

Collei, who seemed to have caught the humor in his flat tone, huffed. “I already know what it is, Master Tighnari told me to expect bolts of fabric or something.”

Cyno tutted, pretending not to be caught out. “That’s only one of them.”

He reached deep into the safest part of his pack and checked before pulling out…

Three simple Genius Invokation cards.

“New character cards?”

Cyno grinned wide, “Not just any character cards.”

He flipped them over.

Collei drew even closer. “I-Is that Master Tighnari?! Wh—? Since when?”

“Since Guuji Yae dropped in a few months ago,” he said. “The both of us had cards, I didn’t see why not. Don’t tell Nari.”

“Don’t tell me what.”

“Master, Master, look!”

Collei bounced to her feet, then nearly stumbled. Cyno’s hands raised reflexively, but did not touch. Tighnari did the same, though Collei recovered her balance not even a moment after.

“Whoa,” Collei laughed. “What a rush.”

“Don’t stand up so fast,” Tighnari scolded, ears flicking.

“Yeah, sorry but looook!”

He looked down at the cards.

Then blinked.

Then looked at Cyno.

“What are these.”

“My newest deck.”

Collei spun. “Can we try them Lord Cyno? Please?”

Well, since she asked so nicely.

“We really shouldn’t be going on this trip with her,” was Tighnari’s late night remark.

All three of them had retreated home when news of Cyno’s vacation broke. Collei was delighted by this news, a reaction Cyno was still riding the high of.

Once they got home, however, Cyno was quick to discover that this was because Collei had been worried about Tighnari. She was about to start packing for a two-week trip to Mondstadt, apparently, just in time for the Windblume Festival that all her Mondstadter friends had invited her to. Tighnari’s lack of assistant during this time had been a source of many arguments between master and student, brother and sister.

This late night remark from Tighnari seemed to be the source of it.

Cyno shook his head, braiding and unbraiding his hair idly as Tighnari brushed his tail by his desk. “It’s a two-week trip. Neither of us are going to spend that time relaxed, not knowing if she had gotten there alright or if she was enjoying every second of it.”

“She’s gone and made the trip plenty of times in the past three years,” Tighnari argued. “She hasn’t been in danger once, and she knows to stick to safer roads. I’ve taught her well enough, and she’s learned from her experiences between. She’s a lot savvier than you think.”

Cyno sighed, putting his hands down to look at Tighnari, hunched over his desk, bathed in low, flickering lamplight from a few fireflies they caught in the garden earlier that day. “What’s this really about.”

“What do you mean ‘what’s this about,’ it’s not about anything. Collei’s a big girl, she can handle another trip to Mondstadt without us.”

There were plenty of times within his years as a Sumeran when Cyno found that there were certain things about social situations that required a measure of grace.

If one were to consider it a dance, one could say he had two left feet, though not for lack of trying. Certain things stood out more to him due to frequency. Here, a scholar too intimidated by him to give him a simple answer. There, a matra who misconstrued most of his hilarious jokes from the matra handbook as perfectly serious matters. Even further, desertfolk who assumed he was past the Wall to evict her from her abode.

But there were certain things harder to pick out sometimes. Hidden social rules that had him stumbling over his conversation partner’s feet. There’s a saying from Fontaine about how still waters run deep, and Cyno found that most people required a diving license.

Tighnari was one such person.

Tighnari was also one of the only few people he was willing to take the plunge for, no matter how deep, no matter how treacherous the currents. It was the least he could do. Not only because Tighnari was willing to raise Collei for him (with him), but because Tighnari was one of the only people willing to do the same for him.

And they were both very quick studies of each other.

So, what seemed to be the problem here?

Case 1: Collei was about to leave for Mondstadt. She has been doing this almost yearly within the past three years, a feat both Cyno and Tighnari were privy to.

Case 2: Cyno, under the guise of choosing to go to Mondstadt to commission a custom cardback design, invited himself on this trip to have the chance to spend time with his family. As a result, Collei invited Tighnari as well.

Case 3: Tighnari wanted to reject the invitation, though he’d been swept along as both Collei and Cyno began packing.

Theory:

…

Okay, this was a tough one.

Tighnari asserted that he didn’t want to go because Collei was capable enough.

So, maybe…

“Do you think our coming with her is gonna hurt her ego?”

Tighnari scoffed, “She’s not that fragile. You saw how she lit up, she’s delighted we’re coming with her.”

Debunked.

Okay, then, if it wasn’t because of Collei’s pride, then maybe…

“I’ll be there with you,” Cyno pointed out, inching out of bed to sit closer to Tighnari. “If Collei runs off with her friends, you won’t be alone. Besides, Minci and the Knights have been nothing but grateful to you for taking care of her. You’ve read their letters to her. If we visit, I doubt they’ll make you feel left out.”

Tighnari’s tail flicked out of his grasp, an action even he didn’t expect as he groaned and caught it roughly in his hands. “That’s not—” Tighnari sighed, “I’m grateful but, please, Cyno, it’s not because of that either.”

Well, that’s down as well.

But he was onto something there.

This was, as Tighnari so helpfully stated, not about Collei.

So, it really must be about…

“Are you anxious about being away from home for too long.”

Tighnari growled, low and unintentional. His ears flattened to his head, and he swung around narrowly missing hitting Cyno with his shoulder.

“Would you stop interrogating me before bed?”

“Would you rather I do it in the morning before we leave?”

Tighnari deflated.

Bingo.

“Cyno… I hope you know that I know how stupid it is but yes. Yes, I am anxious about being away from home for too long. I can’t help it, it’s… genetic. Evolutionarily so. So could you please drop it, I am hanging by a thread here.”

Finally, finally, Cyno reached out and grabbed him gently, slowly.

Tighnari melted in his embrace, nuzzling under his chin.

“I’m sorry for prying,” Cyno mumbled, because he really was. “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t agreed to something you were severely, morally opposed to.”

That earned him a laugh, which he counted as a win.

“... I usually have to pry stuff like that out of people,” he added.

Tighnari shook his head. “No matra allowed in the bedroom.”

“Yes, sir, General, right away.”

Tighnari’s ear hit him on the nose.

They stayed like that for a while, holding and being held. Cyno felt tensions he hadn’t felt like he’d been holding ease away the longer he sat there.

If he were honest, most of those tensions melted away the moment he set foot in Gandharva Ville.

Here, he didn’t have to put up his cowl, didn’t have to intimidate and stand too tall.

In his—Tighnari’s, Collei’s—in their home, he was allowed just… be.

With a deep breath, he said. “I’m home…”

Tighnari pulled away.

His eyes reflected a light that wasn’t there. With a gentle, bemused smile, he said, “Welcome home,” before leaning in for a kiss.