Archive of Our Own

Our tale unfolds in fair Mondstadt: a burgeoning city forever awash in chatter, constructed upon triumph and age-old crusade tales.

To outsiders, Mondstadt was known as the city of freedom, no better illustrated than by the deep-set smile lines rooted in each cheerful expression seen, or by the random outbursts of laughter that echoed far across brick and stone. It was embedded in the orange shingles that lined every sturdy rooftop; that sizzled beneath the sun as if they were freshly oiled potatoes pulled from a bountiful harvest instead. It coursed through the sailing breeze, tangled within the heavy thrum of the massive, birling windmills that laid claim to the rich land.

Yet, there remained one place in the city unaffected by the lively clamor: The Mondstadt Library.

It was a haggard space, engulfed in dust and ripe with the scent of ink; wholly lacking the typical aroma of wine. Quiet and unassuming, it was smudged in a far-off corner inside the Knights of Favonius Headquarters. It was a branch frequently forgotten and vastly underutilized, and to most, it was a place to explore merely once—maybe twice.

To Sucrose, though, it was practically her own slice of Celestia.

Day after day, Sucrose would arrive at the Mondstadt Library, excited to whittle away hours of her free time in the secluded space. And, day after day, this routine of hers scarcely ever changed. It was always the same thing: The checkered black-and-white tiling of the Mondstadt Library would absorb her vision as she first set foot inside, right before her gaze settled on bookshelves and bookshelves built from weathered oak that towered over the room, crammed with a vast assortment of paperbound texts. Tables, chairs, and those same, hefty bookshelves covered every naked strip of wall, making the space feel somehow overfilled, yet, still strangely hollow.

If Lisa was manning the front desk that day, Sucrose would meekly offer a stiff wave and courteous bow in the librarian’s direction before promptly shuffling into the deeper pits of the library, turning her head before she could see Lisa’s full reaction. Fluffy, spindly fern plants would coax her pittering steps across the staircase, her languid tempo strumming a dissonant tune with each creaking rung she crossed.

The downstairs nook was what truly captivated Sucrose, beckoning her back day after day. It was a space in which real magic drew its breath.

It was a soft world cast in the orange glow of star-shaped rice paper lanterns, too dim and warm to reliably use for reading. However, that dull light illuminated the vast catalogs of books that crowded the carved-out space, detailing studies on topics that the alchemist had never even pondered before. Rows and rows of research, theories, and experimental data languished in that enthralling downstairs nook, providing her a glimpse into new worlds; gifting her an inch of clunky breathing space to surrender herself to.

Sucrose had grown used to this special, almost secretive sanctuary that she held close to her heart. It was where, time and time again, she’d find herself comfortably nested in one of the library’s worn-down chairs, a stack of books carefully collected beside her to peruse. It was always quiet, peaceful, and warm.

Which was why it was so surprising when—for once—it was anything but.

“Graciously lend thine ears to the humble plea that resonates from the depths of my being!” a high-pitched, shrill voice accosted, stinging Sucrose’s sensitive ears. “For I, Fischl, Prinzessin der Verurteilung, humbly beseech thou!”

“B-but Fischl, I already told you. I…” The alchemist shuttered a sigh, turning her attention away from her eccentric friend and back onto the book that was longingly splayed before her. She had been so captivated by this book on arctic biomes before Fischl had arrived, propositioning her to join a play, of all things. Though Sucrose was never one to turn down a game of charades with Klee, acting in a play pieced together by Fischl—in a serious manner, no less—seemed to exist realms apart from where her comfort zone subsisted. “I’m just not really c-cut out for acting. Can’t you ask someone else to do it? The Traveler is probably more capable than I am.”

“I shall impart upon thee a most profound negation!” Fischl slammed her hand atop the rough grain of the table that Sucrose sat at, drawing out a harsh, wooden cry. Sucrose’s shoulders jerked back from the sudden noise, her amber eyes flicking up to land squarely on the overbearing sight of Fischl. “I embarked, scouring diligently for the utmost deserving soul to grace my theatrical spectacle. A realm far removed from the mundane tapestry of existence, hosted by none other than the most sublime performers that have ever danced with a dream. A realm of vivid imagination, wherein those dreams meld with reality, and the stage becomes a canvas for extraordinary exploits. Lo and behold, dear Sucrose, architect of alchemical marvels and scholar of this mortal plane, it is thee who bears the essence I seek!” Her striking gaze—a vibrant green so dazzling it looked almost molten—pinned Sucrose in place. “Henceforth, thou art compelled to acquiesce to the entreaty of thy Prinzessin der Verurteilung!”

Oz sailed beside Fischl as she spoke, his shadowy wings flapping in tandem with the flow of her soliloquy. After her grand speech faded into the atmosphere, his resonant voice dutifully filled the brief silence that followed. “What Mein Fräulein means to say,” he clarified, “is that you alone, Sucrose, possess the essence which Mein Fräulein seeks. Without your attendance, this grand play will not prevail.”

“I… I understand,” Sucrose responded. Her intestines felt like they’d been knotted together as she considered their words. With her forehead creased and her brows furrowed, she timidly asked, “What’s, um, the play about?”

Fischl’s piercing laugh quickly spilled into the deepest corners of the Mondstadt Library. Sucrose’s animal-like ears pressed firmly against her scalp, with her face flushing a pale red out of sheer embarrassment. “Ah, this theatrical spectacle transcends the very boundaries of mere lexicon!” Fischl exclaimed. She folded her arms across her chest, cocking her head to stare down at Sucrose with fire spattering against the glass windows of her eyes. “The extent of my capability to recount leads to the otherworldly tale that unfolds, wherein the conflict of warring domains finds its resonance! It is a monumental chronicle of devotion, ardor, mortality, and renaissance. Shouldst thou yearn for deeper insights, thou art compelled to partake in the spectacle of the play itself!”

Sucrose released a brittle groan. That didn’t answer my question at all, she dimly thought. Participating in a play—especially a ‘grand play’, as Fischl and Oz persistently called it—was terrifying to the alchemist… Though, she had to admit that there was a small part of her that found the idea intriguing. She regularly kept to herself; whether she was working in silence alongside Albedo and Timaeus, spending her days and nights holed up in the Mondstadt Library, or even collecting research materials in the fields of Windrise unattended. For better or for worse, she was fully resigned to her daily routines.

She wondered, then, what it would feel like to break free—even if only for a day or two. To do something unfamiliar and new. The prospect of embracing the unexpected seemed exciting, yet… raw fear still gripped her in its hideous clutches. She was petrified at the thought of taking center stage; of shuffling a flimsy costume on her body and performing in front of a drunken crowd. Yet, bowing out due to fear almost frustrated her more than the fear itself. Perhaps it really was time to embrace something different. Besides, if this role was truly tailored with her in mind, as Fischl had claimed, she felt reasonably comforted. While their interactions in the past had been limited, the rare moments that they did spend in conversation had left Sucrose assured that the outlandish adventurer would have been considerate of her demure nature when casting her.

At least, she hoped so.

Am I actually considering this? Sucrose swallowed the thick apprehension that had crawled up her throat, with her body melting into the cushions of her chair from indecision.

"Pray tell,” Fischl said, chiseling into the silence that loitered around them. “Having traversed the passages of contemplation, what answer dost thou offer?"

Sucrose’s honey-trimmed eyes simmered close, with her hands bunching into fists on her lap. She sucked in a flimsy breath through her teeth before quietly uttering, “Okay. I suppose I’ll… join your play.”

A crescent grin stretched across Fischl’s face, wide and triumphant. “Ah, my intuition proved true! Indeed, this is a most electrifying development.” Sucrose watched as the adventurer pinned her hands to her sides, standing even straighter and further elongating her spine. “Pray, does the fabric of time currently preclude thee from entertaining other engagements?”

“Ah, well… I have to go to the Crafting Bench i-in a few hours. I was just reading to fill the time before then.”

“Marvelous! In that case, the cosmic tapestry hath conspired to grant thee ample moments for practice at this very juncture.” Without warning, Fischl seized Sucrose’s upper arm, jostling the alchemist out of her seat and into an unbalanced standing position. A miserable yelp escaped Sucrose, overshadowed by Fischl’s sharp command, “Hark, our comrades eagerly await us amidst the windswept heights of Windrise! Swiftly, we must hasten our steps, for time doth not tarry!”

Others…? At the offhand comment, a cold pit settled in Sucrose’s stomach. I… I didn’t even think about other people. How many people will I be performing with? How many people will I be doing this in front of!?  The familiar throb of anxiety spilled from her heart and sank through her body—like pure, pungent vinegar worming through her veins and burning layers of tissue in its wake. Doubt crept back to the forefront of her mind, clouding her judgment. What am I even doing…? This is definitely a mistake. “F-Fischl, wait, I—”

“Verily, no moment may we squander further!” With Fischl’s grip secured on Sucrose’s arm, she tugged the alchemist toward the staircase, drawing them both upstairs. “The urgency of the hour demands swift action!”

Any courage Sucrose had gathered rapidly withered to shreds. Deflated, and with her heart lodged in her throat, the alchemist allowed herself to be dragged; finding no use in wrestling against Fischl’s demands. I guess I did agree, after all… but, what exactly am I getting myself into? She inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of parchment, dust, and rich wax before they exited the one place she’d always been able to find solace. Out in the greater city, the bumbling aroma of alcohol and fat-laden foods coated her nose, causing her expression to crinkle.

Archons willing, Sucrose prayed that she wouldn’t come to regret this decision.

As they crossed the city’s drawbridge, Sucrose couldn’t help but admire the grand oak tree that towered over the landscape of Galesong Hill, marking the exact location of Windrise. Even from this distance, she could clearly see the tree’s thick, twisted trunk that gave way to hundreds of thousands of spindly wooden limbs, all decorated with clusters of glittering leaves. Sunlight filtered through the keyhole-sized gaps in the greenery, illuminating the crumbling stone pillars that were perched at the base of the tree. Amongst the ancient debris scattered there, a single, fractured statue of the Anemo Archon was positioned in the middle of it all, poised right atop the very heart of Windrise itself.

Every time she visited Windrise, it always looked the same. And yet—much like the Mondstadt Library—it was a sight that she never grew weary of. She could spend hours of her day, grass-stained and delirious, just planted beneath the timeworn oak researching the particular genus of Windwheel Aster that was located there and never become bored. She could probably spend her day just studying the unique wind frequency that wallowed in the open glade, or even by collecting beakers of varying pond specimens—a strange medley of plants, fish, and compacted sediment.

Windrise was a wonderland for an alchemical researcher such as herself. It was a familiar yet breathtaking spectacle; a world outpouring with beauty and magic, crammed into each eroding pebble and droplet of morning dew.

With the sun-ripened breeze pressed against her face and rouge blades of grass tickling her skin, her worries quickly evaporated, burying the heavy seed of anxiety in her stomach. Yet, as she and Fischl neared ever closer to the oak’s trunk, she began noticing blurry speckles of unusually vivid colors all melded together. At the sight alone, that dense, dark, slithering feeling of anxiety that she longed to distance herself from was quickly shoveled back into her bloodstream. She squinted her eyes, her vision gradually catching onto human-shaped silhouettes just ahead. From what she could see, it was a decent gathering of people.

Sucrose swallowed the lump in her throat. “Are those the other cast members…?” Her voice was soft; nervous.

“Indeed,” Fischl said, increasing her pace. Trudging slightly ahead of the alchemist, she flung her arm out in the direction of the crowd, gesturing dramatically at them. She raised her voice, injecting a magisterial flair into her announcement. “Behold, the remaining cast I have gathered for this glorious spectacle of a play! Gaze upon them with awe and wonder!”

“Sucrose!” The squeaky, recognizable voice of Klee bit through the sound of rustling wind with ease. Sucrose’s ears extended skyward in surprise, and she leveled her eyesight with the ground just in time to catch Klee lunging—arms outstretched—toward her legs, wrapping her arms around her in a sturdy hug. “I almost went fish blasting even though big brother Albedo told me not to do that anymore just because I was so bored without him or you here!”

The alchemist placed a hand atop Klee’s head, flushing at her childish antics. Before Sucrose had time to offer a greeting in return, a different, loftier voice suddenly pitched up beside her. “Well, I never. Calling me boring, huh?” Another familiar voice, this time belonging to Mona. Sucrose sheepishly turned her attention to the astrologer, a thin smile sprawled across her face.

“Oh, um… hi Klee, hi Mona.” She glanced between her two friends, feeling a mote of relief form at the recognizable faces. Thank goodness… “It’s really lovely to see you b-both here.”

“Hey, don’t forget about me!” Not far from the shadows where Klee had initially pounced from, Sucrose finally noticed Timaeus—standing idly beneath a perfect ray of sunlight that engulfed him in its entirety. He grinned at her, a flattened palm clipped against his forehead to block out the blinding glare. “It’s great to see you, Sucrose. Now we have another alchemist added to the play!” A chuckle rolled from his lips, airy and coltish.

She loosely waved a hand in return, contented, right before catching sight of another person squatting only a few paces away from her alchemist counterpart. At first glance, he looked somewhat unkempt, but as he turned his head to grin up at her—ashen tufts of hair stuck to his cheeks and a white bandage adorning the bridge of his nose—she instantly recognized the face of the unfortunate adventure. “Heya, Sucrose! Long time no see!”

“Oh, hi to you too, Bennett. And hi, Timaeus.” Sucrose’s amber eyes quickly stretched across the remaining plane, searching. “Is this everyone?”

“Almost all are present,” Fischl interjected. She strode further away from the group, gathering everyone in view; her steps loud even atop the whisper of grass. She turned, stationing herself back-to-back with the Archon statue as Oz sailed beside her, duteously. Summoning the strength of her full voice, she addressed the entire group. “Our last guest shall arrive anon! Fret not over that matter for the moment. Instead, allow me to regale thee with the intricacies of thy roles! Though some might already be acquainted, with the inclusion of Sucrose, I, Fischl, Prinzessin der Verurteilung, can shed even more light upon the unfolding narrative.”

Discreetly, Sucrose eyed the modest gathering, a wave of relief crashing at her feet. I suppose the size isn’t too bad… and I know everyone here, at least. Maybe it was a good thing that I accepted Fischl’s invitation. A wispy smile laced her face at the thought, and it was preserved even as Klee unfasted her tight hold around Sucrose’s legs. The infamous Spark Knight peered up at the alchemist—an unspoken bond already forged between the two—before her expression quickly melted into one of pure joy. Her beaming smile rivaled the garish explosions that she often inadvisably discharged, and was over in a flash as she wordlessly turned on her heel, relinquishing her attention to Fischl. Sucrose found her own smile doubling, her worries slipping into a featherlight slumber.

The rough sound of Fischl clearing her throat snapped the alchemist’s attention back to the matter at hand, curiosity pinching her mind. “I shall bestow upon each of you the scripts I have diligently penned, meticulously detailing thy distinctive roles in this grand production!” Without hesitation, the eccentric adventurer bent her knees, gathering a stack of crisp, yellowing scripts that had been collected in a loose pile beside her. Based on a single script’s density, Sucrose calculated that there were around six scripts in total.

Mona was the first to receive her role, with Fischl sauntering over to the astrologist by taking wide, effortless steps. Selected carefully from the pile she held, a dangling script was offered to Mona; just within reach. “Mona, in her grandeur, hath been bestowed the role of the valiant knight, sworn to serve the noble prince,” Fischl boldly proclaimed, a playful grin accompanying her declaration.

Mona appeared smug, accepting the script with ease. “I can think of no better person than I to fill this role. Surely, I will be the perfect knight!”

Supplying only a courteous bow, Fischl marched to where Klee stood, bending her knees in order to come face-to-face with the young girl. “Klee, with her explosive expertise, shall take up the mantle of our wondrous pyrotechnic designer!” With a brief pause, she rummaged through the pile she held, presenting a script to Klee within seconds. “Her craft shall ignite the skies with spark bombs, enchanting the audience with awe and exhilaration!”

Sucrose stiffened at hearing the role bestowed upon the Spark Knight. Albedo and Jean will not be happy when they hear about this. Klee, oblivious, nearly ripped the script out of Fischl’s hands. Her crude hold was already leaving thumb-shaped indents on the thick paper. “Yay!” she cheered. “Klee can’t wait to blow up more Jumpy Dumptys!”

Fischl straightened her spine, hefting herself back into a standing position. Releasing a soft grunt of contentment, she wordlessly skipped over Sucrose—who had been standing next to Klee—waltzing instead to face Timaeus. “For Timaeus, the dauntless alchemist, a role of utmost significance awaits,” she said. She thrust the handpicked script out to him, nearly shoving it into his chest. “Behold! He shall grace the stage as our resolute background tree! Cloaked in an oversized guise, his very presence shall evoke jubilant cheers from the audience!”

Wide-eyed, he accepted the script, two smears of blush coloring his normally pale face. He rubbed the back of his neck before nervously exclaiming, “Wow, thank you so much, Fischl! I’m honored!”

Fischl gave a curt nod before twirling around, the hem of her asymmetrical dress cascading around her in a mesh of purple and black. With her back turned to the group, she announced, “As for myself, I shall not only be the illustrious host of this spectacle, but I will also take the helm of the knight, dutifully sworn to the esteemed princess.” She plodded forward, deftly turning to face everyone again after only moving a few paces. “And my faithful companion, Oz, shall stand beside me, not merely for his unyielding support, but as the harmonious co-narrator in this grandiose performance!”

“It is an honor, Mein Fräulein,” Oz affectionately replied.

Sucrose’s mint green eyebrows bunched together, confusion clear on her face. Had Fischl deliberately skipped over Bennett and herself, or was she simply delaying the reveal of their roles; drumming up further dramatics? Did that mean she was cast as… a lead? Her thoughts solidified in her mind a second too late, and she was unable to stop herself before blurting out, “What about Bennett’s role? O-or mine?”

The adventurer shifted her gaze toward Sucrose, wearing a feverish expression that was permeating with excitement. “Fear not, for I have not overlooked the curious tale of Bennett nor thyself!” Her gaze lazily stirred to Bennett, and the unlucky adventurer looked back at her in wonderment. “Initially destined to embody the princess’ knight, I entreated Bennett to audition, to ensure the utmost perfection. Yet, alas, after a series of mishaps, broken props, and inadvertent bruises, I deemed it wise to revise the casting decision.”

“Yup, it’s true,” Bennett murmured, his voice wafting behind Sucrose in a faint stream. The alchemist turned her head, finding Bennett looking off into the blue sky, a faded token of embarrassment on his expression. “Some of the more visible bruises on my body today are from my earlier tryout...” Despite the discomfort, he grinned, shucking a bold thumbs up in Fischl’s direction. “But I’m still here to support the Prinzessin der Verurteilung: The play’s fearless leader! I’d never miss out on helping her whenever or wherever I can!”

Sucrose didn’t miss the abnormal tinge of blush that cradled Fischl’s expression, nor the abnormal, warbly tune that inundated her voice as she spoke next, “Ahem... yes, quite... th-thank you for thy unwavering support, Bennett..."

“Anytime!”

Fischl cleared her throat, regaining her composure. “Moving forward, I hold in my possession the very essence of thou role, Sucrose!” She strode over to where the alchemist stood, planted in front of her with one of the final few scripts she’d been holding onto now extended outward. “In this grand opus, thy presence, dear Sucrose, shall be the pinnacle of brilliance, breathing life into a character unmatched in prowess and grace. Verily, thou art to grace our play as the renowned princess!” she declared, unabashedly animated.

Abruptly, all color drained from Sucrose’s face. On instinct—in complete disbelief—she tore the script out of Fischl’s outstretched hands, her eyes raking over the title page in an aporetic stupor. ‘Sweet Flowers & Silver Swords’, it read in a large, elegantly-written font. Beneath it, a short, italicized sentence was scrawled out in red ink, confirming the alchemist’s worst fear: ‘ROLE: Princess of the Sweet Flower Kingdom’, it read. A leaden weight sank into her lungs, stealing her breath. “I…” Talking stung; the bitter taste of panic was harsh and unforgiving in her throat. “I’m… p-playing the lead!?”

Sucrose readjusted her glasses, fresh tears already brimming her lower lashes—casting her vision in a blurry sheen. She mustered the courage to lock eyes with Fischl, a silent plea baked into her glazed amber stare. The adventurer placed a hand on her own chest, wistfully sighing. “Ah, my cherished comrade, only one of the paramount leads! I vow upon the stars, that thou art destined to embrace this role fully. I implore thee, let not this opportunity pass like a fleeting wisp of mist, for thou art destined to shine among the stars as we weave a tale that shall be whispered through the ages!”

“But, Fischl, I-I… I just…” I can’t do it. Sucrose sighed in exasperation, releasing all of the pent-up frustration and dread plastered in her bones. She closed her eyes, focusing on her inner thoughts, and took a long, shallow drag of the balmy air. I’ve come so far already. For all I know, maybe I’ll like performing; I’m friends with everyone here, and Fischl really seems to believe in me, but I just… I still don’t know how I feel about any of this. After a minute, she found herself opening her eyes again, re-reading the title page of the script. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad; maybe she’d discover some deep-rooted love for acting wound tightly to her soul.

She tried to remind herself that she had wanted a break from her routine, after all.

A pressing thought crossed her mind, then, absentminded and suspicious. I’m playing one of the leads. She peered at the untouched script withering in Fischl’s hold. And Fischl stated that one person was still missing from the group earlier, she reflected. If that’s the case, then who…?

The question sat at the back of her mouth, jumbled amidst her earlier turbulence. However, she’d never get a chance to ask it aloud, as just as she worked up the needed mettle to spew her prevailing concerns, a gentle voice hit her ears—one that she was all too acquainted with. “Apologies for my delay. There was a Knights of Favonius meeting I had to attend, and it went beyond the estimated time.”

The world around her seemed to slow, growing heavier; freezing in a pool of compacted gravity. She found herself timidly looking up from her script—clutched so tightly that her knuckles carried a strained white tinge—with her honeyed eyes settling on Albedo’s approaching, graceful stature. His hair was mussed in the way he naturally wore it, with his teal eyes drinking in the surrounding area keenly. Her pulse quickened, a rosy blush already burning the apples of her cheeks. Why in Teyvat is he here!?

“Big brother Albedo!” Klee sang, instantly skipping to land by his side. She tossed her arms around his legs in a hug just like she’d done when Sucrose had arrived, crinkling her script haphazardly against his thighs.

“Hi, Klee,” he returned, a note of tenderness in his voice. He smiled, gently patting her head—just like Sucrose had done, too—before he turned his attention to face everyone else in the group. He supplied a cursory nod and wave at his friends—Mona, Timaeus, Bennett, and Fischl—before stopping short when he finally noticed Sucrose. His smile widened, threaded with a mite of confusion. “Oh, Sucrose? Are you joining Fischl’s play as well? That’s quite unexpected of you.”

Her ears drooped against her scalp, with her eyes shifting from Albedo to a patch of dehydrated grass nearby. “O-oh, well… Fischl wanted me to join, and I found it quite difficult to say no, so…” But perhaps I really should have declined, especially with Albedo—of all people—here now.

“Well,” he said, “I’m happy to see that you’ll be participating, too.”

She chanced a glimpse in his direction, a fragile smile tugging at her lips despite the turmoil whirling within her mind. “Um, thank you,” she murmured, suddenly feeling imprisoned in a glass display; scrutinized. “You as well.”

The booming voice of Fischl punctured the atmosphere again, swiftly breaking Sucrose from her daze. “Ah, 'tis a pleasure to have thee amongst us, Albedo, yet time is of the essence! We must not dally!” Oz continued to glide beside her, his fluttering wings punctuating her fervent declaration.

Despite her serious tone, Albedo released a breathy laugh, shifting his full attention onto Fischl. “I understand. Again, I apologize for my delay.” His gaze swept over the group a final time, incisive, before landing back on Fischl again. “I see everyone already has their roles assigned. Would you mind filling me in?”

The adventurer chucked her hands to her sides, adopting a lofty stance. “In essence, I shall bear the dual mantle of both the narrator and a noble knight! Alongside me, my loyal companion Oz shall weave the narrative's tapestry. Mona, too, holds the esteemed rank of a knight, while Klee shall unleash her fiery explosions when the need arises.” Albedo’s face fell at her last comment, a sigh rolling from his lips. Fischl ignored it, seamlessly continuing, “As for Timaeus, he shall take on the charming guise of the background tree! Bennett stands as a steadfast support. And lastly, our delightful Sucrose graces the stage as the illustrious princess! As for thy role…” Sucrose didn’t even need to hear Fischl’s announcement to know what his role would be; all of the pieces markedly clicking into place. It still lanced her heart with poison, though, seeing Fischl thrust a script toward Albedo and eagerly exclaim what the alchemist feared to be true: “Behold! Thou art now destined to embody the illustrious persona of the prince!”

Sucrose’s ears didn’t work after that, shuttering the noise that spun like a dangerous whirlwind around her. Her eyes closed, whisking her vision into darkness. She felt dizzy and panicked and dispirited, the feelings blooming abruptly in her chest. How am I going to overcome my feelings for him when he’s playing a prince and I’m… I’m the princess!?

It had been something she’d been dealing with—quietly—for as long as she could remember: The troubling feeling of infatuation. She only ever felt it around Albedo, though. Sucrose was an alchemical genius when it came to studying plant specimens and wildlife, yet, complex emotions and feelings still mystified her. She’d wanted to study it further, to try and wrap her mind and heart around the strange reactions that consumed her, but she’d always felt that she’d stepped too far outside of her comfort zone when attempting to do so.

Albedo’s mere presence was enough to elicit an uncomfortable clinch in her heart, doubling her pulse and warming her blood. His simple ‘good morning’ each day was enough to disarm her; to send her spiraling into thoughts unknown. His temperate smile, graceful posture, striking teal eyes—the same color as her Anemo vision… these were all features that were etched into her mind, an image she could conjure in a split second if need be. It was as if he had been carved from marble or chalk; as if he was the very manifestation of a perfect human being.

And it made her act in a manner that rattled her—that flustered, mesmeric twinge swallowing her whole each time.

She listlessly peered down at her script again, her whole body growing cold. She darted her eyes from the whimsical, fluid handwriting to Albedo—who stood nearby, poised confidently. Could she really go through with this? Should she just quit before she embarrassed herself any further? It’ll be awkward to quit in front of everyone here, but… could it be any more awkward than performing as a lead alongside Albedo? Her head was pounding, dancing to an imprecise rhythm. I have to tell Fischl I can’t do this anymore. Maybe she’ll understand if I tell her that—

“Hark, Sucrose! Didst thou hear my proclamation?”

The alchemist jolted, her glasses falling to the tip of her nose. With a shaky hand, she adjusted her glasses to sit comfortably on the bridge of her nose again, quickly hooking her gaze onto Fischl’s smelted green glare. “U-um, sorry, Fischl!” Her voice was wavering, and she winced at the sound of it. “I zoned out for a second. What was it that you said?”

The adventurer merely sighed, placing a hand on her chest in dramatic flair. “Now is not the hour for indulging in reveries! I beseech thee to heed my words, for I am imparting vital intricacies!” she scolded. Sucrose nodded, her skin prickling with unease. “As I stated,” Fischl continued, “the performance shall unfold in the presence of the entire Adventurers’ Guild in a mere two days! Hence, our practice sessions must occupy each evening till that fateful hour!”

Truly, could this day get any worse?

Sucrose sucked in a stream of air, mustering the courage to withdraw from the play. She just needed to rip the bandage off, even if doing so would humiliate her. Before she could follow through, though, a hand fell on her shoulder, killing the words in her throat. She swiveled on her heel, coming face-to-face with Albedo. “It’ll be nice to do something together outside of the alchemy lab, don’t you think?” he said. A genuine smile graced his face, brightening his fair, lissome features.

“I… s-suppose so. But aren’t you nervous about performing something like t-this in front of the entire Adventurers’ Guild? I don’t know if I can do it.” She squeezed the hem of her jacket nervously, glancing down at her feet. “I don’t have as much charisma as you do, Mister Albedo.”

“Please, just ‘Albedo’ is fine, especially since we’re not in the lab.” She looked up to see him sporting a narrow frown, with one of his blond eyebrows raised in disbelief. He retracted his hand from her shoulder, choosing to hold it behind his back instead. “You’ll do fantastic, Sucrose,” he said, his tone sincere. “Performing in this play is not something I would normally engage in either, yet I’m looking forward to it. With you here, perhaps it will be even more enjoyable. I truly can’t think of a better person to fill the role of a princess than yourself.”

The way he looked at her—like he was inspecting every single star in the sky within her pupils—made her shiver. He looked at her as if there was no one else but her. Her stomach flipped uncomfortably, her resolve to leave steadily dissolving. She sighed, exhaling every atom of frustration in her body as she did so. I guess I’m stuck in this play, then…

Archons above, she really was regretting this decision.

With the sound of Fischl’s directorial instructions and the soft rumble of laughter from her castmates in the background, Sucrose relented. A lazy beam of sunlight teetered beside Albedo, casting a brilliant golden glow across his graceful stature. She bit the inside of her cheek, feeling anything but excited. “Th-thank you,” she murmured, fighting the urge to stare at her hands instead of at Albedo. She worried that looking at him too long would incinerate her. “I… can’t wait, either.”

Two days had flown by in the blink of an eye.

Initially, when Sucrose agreed to join Fischl’s play, she worried that their daily practices would completely derail her, yet she had seamlessly fallen into a new, short routine. In the morning, she continued to shoulder her post at the Crafting Bench in between regulating her research at the alchemy lab—her physical state running purely off of caffeine and sugar. By late afternoon, she was still able to wrangle enough time to hole herself up at the Mondstadt Library for an hour or two, and then, by evening… she would awkwardly trickle into the group of people aimlessly gathered at Windrise.

Rehearsal would go on for hours; far beyond the first crack of dusk that whispered in the sky, chasing the featherlight clouds with a radiant display of purple, murky blue, and bronze. As soon as the moon was inflated high above them—evident between the splitting tree bark overhead—Fischl would announce the end of their session, escorting the group back to the entrance of Mondstadt all while spouting quirky fables. To Sucrose’s surprise, during their practice sessions, time would melt away into little more than a blur, and she found herself feeling sad whenever practice was over—her head dangling downward as they sluggishly trekked home. Maybe she did have a secret penchant for acting, after all.

Two days was not a lot of time, however. The play itself was fairly short, but the group had only been able to go over the most notable scenes: Namely, the fight scenes between Mona and Fischl, a few monologues, and a handful of heart-to-heart moments that Albedo and herself shared. After the first few uncomfortable, bumbling minutes, Sucrose had found that she was able to embody her role quite well. By that point, the scenes in which she’d have to gaze longingly at Albedo or the moments in which she’d have to raise her voice to spill her guts—alone—were not as daunting as they once had been. Her feelings for her mentor still dwelled within her heart, spiking her bloodstream more and more with each dazzling look he aimed her way, but… she was able to tamp her adoration into compacted dust for now, at least, even if that ability was only temporary.

Yet, however comfortable she had gotten in those two fleeting days, it did little to quell the panic that now stirred in her mind, paralyzing her as her eyes sifted through the arriving crowd.

It was finally the evening of their performance, and Sucrose was poised backstage, restless—a thick, wine-red curtain the only thing between her and the audience. Fischl had enlisted the free hands of the Knights of Favonius workers to hoist the monumental piece of fabric up earlier in the day, arranging it to sit just above the balcony atop the Adventurers’ Guild and stopping right before it reached the city’s entrance gate. Somehow, the eccentric adventurer had also gotten her hands on a pair of clunky spotlights hailing all the way from Fontaine, and those spotlights had been hooked onto the roof of the nearby flower shop, casting a blinding streak of white-hot light on the curtain, centered on the makeshift wooden stage that lied just behind it. The smell of fried food, rich beer, and skin musk wafted in the air, making Sucrose’s head spin.

Stealing another peek from beyond the gap in the curtain, Sucrose felt nauseous. She could see droves of people settling around the tables that had been borrowed from the taverns nearby, arranged in several rows. That sickening twinge in her stomach increased as she watched a group of stragglers slot into the final remaining chairs; thick grins plastered on their faces and greasy food cradled in their clutches.

It didn’t help that the dense costume she was forced to wear clung to the heat of her swelling nerves; her dizziness surged. It was a billowy, cupcake gown—tethered at her waist with a blue dandelion-stained corset and silver lace. Pale cream-toned sleeves devoured her arms in excess fabric, clinching at her wrists. A silky bow was fastened on the apex of the outfit’s high neck, still bearing the swirling gem of her Anemo vision. The obscene costume was finalized with an enlarged, artificial Sweet Flower that had been contorted into a hairclip and affixed to her bangs. Fischl had allowed her to wear her glasses, but Sucrose almost wished that she hadn’t, as seeing not only herself but others was only causing her more stress.

Abruptly, the overhead lights flickered off, snatching her eyesight with them. Wish granted, I suppose, she mused. Her ears leveled to her scalp as the sudden noise of heeled footsteps clattered onto the wooden stage, moving in a controlled rhythm. The audience’s murmurs simmered into a placated hush, and for just a moment, Sucrose felt as if she were in an otherworldly dream—somewhere far from any realm of tangible existence.

As the brash, rhythmic click-clack of movement stuttered to a halt, a cotton groan bristled in the air; the unversed tug of the curtain peeling opening. A heavy lull followed a second later, smothering the spectators. “Denizens of this mortal realm! From the depths of my eldritch heart, I, Fischl, Prinzessin der Verurteilung, extend profound gratitude for gracing this enchanting play with thy presence!” Fischl’s electrifying voice sang, leaping beyond the cusp of darkness that consumed them. The lights above shivered once before quickly flicking on, a dull orange glow pouring over her vivacious silhouette. A sliver of curtain still divided Sucrose backstage, and from her position, the alchemist could just barely make out the adventurer occupying center stage—basking in her own glamor. Her costume burned a deep purple and silver against her fair skin, and her expression was one of gleeful delirium. “Prepare thy spirits,” Fischl continued, “for what thou art about to witness shall etch itself into the annals of history for eons to come! A somber saga shall unfold, chronicling the clash of two kingdoms in the throes of relentless war! The Sweet Flower Kingdom, champions of peace, shall collide with the Alchemy Kingdom, driven by a thirst for victory! This bittersweet narrative shall weave the threads of mortality and abundance... a tale that I earnestly wish shall captivate all who partake in this eve's revelry!"

Sucrose half-listened to Fischl’s intriguing spiel, her eyes busy raking over the audience again, nervous. The telltale outline of the Traveler and Paimon caught her attention, seated near the front alongside Bennett—whose gaze was transfixed on Fischl.

Her inspection crumbled as a firm hand landed on her shoulder, jostling her from her trance. She bit back a squeak, hearing a gentle, “Sucrose?” Oh no, she thought. I know that voice… Flustered, she slowly rotated, facing the bemused—and expected—sight of Albedo. “Sorry to startle you. I called your name earlier, but you didn’t seem to hear me,” he said, his eyebrows drawn downward. “I just wanted to ensure that you were doing okay before the play began. Are you nervous?”

“W-well,” she started, wincing at the fragility in her tone. Dimly, she found herself drinking in the sight of Albedo before her; a mellow blush rising to her cheeks, masked by the opaque layer of makeup Mona had applied to her earlier. He donned a costume befitting a real prince, with the heavy fabric draping across his form as if it were tailored specifically to his lithe body. Navy and ivory hues were lit ablaze, glinting off of the reflective gold buttons that dotted the elegant ensemble. An elongated cape was tucked beneath the metal epaulets on his shoulders, its hem mere inches from the floor. I’m certainly more nervous than I was before now, she inwardly remarked. She gently shook her head, clearing her mind. “I am a little nervous, y-yes. Performing in front of such a large crowd is rather… daunting.” Her head hung low, her gaze glued to her pearly sandals.

“Don’t let it worry you.” His voice was pleasant and warm, reminding her of her favorite cream-laden coffee. “If you get nervous while you’re on stage, just pretend that you’re practicing at Windrise. You did a truly amazing job during all of our rehearsals.”

Her feet shuffled uncomfortably, her hands bunching into the fabric of her skirt. The entire weight of Teyvat felt like it was pinned atop her shoulders, crushing her beneath its monumental pressure. “I appreciate the advice. Thank you, Mister Albedo,” she responded under her breath.

He sighed, the sound thick with bridled frustration. “As I’ve mentioned countless times before, just Albedo is fine.” Her eyes cautiously slid to his, his expression stoic with displeasure.

Brassy, sharp whistling and raucous cheering suddenly overtook the open space, causing Sucrose’s ears to flatten. She deftly whirled around, peeking beyond the blip of curtain hiding her. “We now venture forth into the heart of the Alchemy Kingdom, whereupon the day is ensnared in an everlasting deluge, drenching the land in its incessant downpour...” the baritone hum of Oz proclaimed, quickly extinguishing the adulation. She watched the shadowed raven soar beneath a cardboard rain cloud, braving a downpour of droplets that Sucrose knew—from earlier practice sessions—that Mona was discreetly summoning.

“Ah, I suppose that’s my cue,” Albedo whispered.

Sucrose turned her head to look back at him, a smile finding its place on her uncertain expression. “You’ll do great,” she said softly; genuinely.

Despite his brittle glances at the stage and taut posture, Sucrose could see the depth of gratitude in his growing smile. “Thank you,” he said. Before his steps freely slipped away, he sent her a final, unexpected wink—with Sucrose’s heart faltering at the sight—before privately calling back to her, “You look wonderful, by the way. Like a real princess.”

Sucrose barely registered when he’d disappeared after that, his stride vanishing into little more than white noise behind her. With wide eyes, her hands shot up to her face, her palms pressed against her cheeks to quell the raging fire stoked by his compliment.

It was certainly going to be a long night.

Steel clashed against steel, the metallic wail rolling beyond the delicate bounds of the starlit sky. At the same time, a barrage of miniature spark bombs was chucked onto the stage from just behind the expansive, colorful cardboard backdrop, landing flush alongside Timaeus’ foot ( who was helpless and stationary, adorned in his bulky tree costume near the corner ). Ash, smoke, and shredded iron danced in the air, threatening to clog the performers’ noses, yet lending to an utterly hypnotizing show for the audience.

“Cast aside thy blade, for thou art doomed to find naught but failure in thy attempt to vanquish me!” Fischl cried, her expression one of practiced fury. In a flash, she lunged—blade first—toward her opponent: Mona.

The astrologist dodged with little regard, quick on her feet. A perfected laugh rumbled from her throat, followed by a terse, “Never! For it shall be you who shall perish in the end; not I!”

Sucrose watched the exchange, mesmerized. Backstage, her hand loosely pinned a stray pleat of the curtain back, her gaze glued to the unfolding scene. Both Mona and Fischl are incredible fighters, even if it’s just for show, she thought absently, inhaling a heavy stream of air.

Though the alchemist hadn’t endured a fight scene, she, too, was out of breath—still recovering from the grand monologue she’d acted out only minutes prior. The play was more than halfway done, and had been going off without a hitch; flowing from one tense moment to the next. Sucrose had been enjoying herself, sliding into character with little effort and capturing the cheerful roar of the crowd. When her nerves rose and her memory blanked, she’d cast a helpless glance at Albedo and his smile would effortlessly reset her, flashing the next line into her mind. Even if Albedo wasn’t gracing the stage alongside her, she still had Timaeus as a steady rock by her side—or rather, tree, she supposed. Time had been rendered inutile, with Sucrose finding herself swept up into the dizzy world of imagination; her voice strong and her movements flawlessly rehearsed.

It was truly exhilarating. And, somehow, it was already almost over.

There was only one major scene she had left to endure… Her eyes slammed shut at the thought alone, her breath suddenly shallow and strained. We never found much time to practice that scene in full, yet I have to wonder if practice would have even helped, anyway…

Despite the smothering warmth that had been heaped onto her from the stage lights overhead, Sucrose fought back a cold shudder. Stealing a final peek at the stage, she watched as Fischl’s blade ‘impaled’ Mona, a guttural, shrill howl of pain leaving the astrologist. Briefly, a look of valor graced Fischl’s features before twisting into her own mimicry of agony, her head gradually maneuvering downward to find Mona’s dull sword having ‘pierced’ through her heart as well.

That’s my cue, Sucrose thought, feeling the massive weight of reality encroaching upon her all at once. She turned her back, navigating along the familiar, darkened backstage pathways in silence—save for the tired chatter of her footsteps. As she meandered to the outskirts of her post, she felt her joints already aching and her eyes struggling to stay open. It was turning out to be a long night, made even longer by the blaring lights, ear-splitting crowd, and pressure to flawlessly recite her lines, complete with an overblown smile stretched across her face. Anxiety was the only thing keeping her afloat; that all-too-familiar, agonizing feeling of unease that squirmed through her veins like hot oil.

An eternity seemed to pass as Sucrose gnawed on these feelings, her body numb as her hands hovered within reach of the rung of a ladder. Her next scene—her final scene, thank the Archons—called for Sucrose to situate herself on the balcony that was perched just above the Adventurers’ Guild. As soon as she heard the first spark of applause pour out from the audience, the sharp click of the overhead lights shutting off, and the bright hiss of velvet brushing against wood, she hastily scampered into position. Once situated, she smoothed out the papery wrinkles in her skirt and silently cleared her throat, forcing her spine taut.

And then there was silence; a pause. A frozen breath in time. Sucrose could just barely hear the intrigued murmurs of countless voices, all slinking together in a wave before battering against the large curtain. She remained planted, yet was gripped by an onslaught of icy nerves. Her worries twisted and twinged inside of her like a restless parasite, greedily feeding on the color that dwelled in her complexion.

She counted the seconds as they rolled by, waiting for the curtain to pull apart with those far-too-blinding lights beaming directly onto her. Pretend the audience isn’t even there. It’s just me. It’s my final scene. I can do this…

Finally, slow and ungracefully, the curtain swayed open once again. The stage lights clicked on just as expected, the blinding yellow haze consuming Sucrose in its hunger. Meekly, she turned her head toward the crowd, her eyes locking onto a sea of mismatched colors and silhouettes facing her in return; watching her with an engrossed fascination.

Her skin suddenly itched. The urge to unleash a gust of Anemo beneath her, pounce from the balcony, and sprint into the deepest, darkest corner known to man was strong inside of her. Although she’d performed other scenes before this, she’d yet to grace the stage alone. There was no one here for her to fall back on, to counter her lines and provide support in her performance. Albedo wasn’t here to support her performance…

Not yet, she silently corrected.

An unexpected cough resounded below the balcony, coming from the center of the stage. Sucrose turned her attention to the noise, confusion clear on her face, only to catch Timaeus flashing a toothy grin up at her. He donned his clunky tree costume, a look of splendor caught within his twinkling hazel eyes. The two made solid eye contact, and Sucrose could just barely decipher the faint message he mouthed to her: ‘You can do this’.

That’s right. I guess I’m not fully alone, she thought. Steeling her nerves, she sucked in a half-hearted breath, attempting to melt into character. “O-once again, I find myself alone in my own… castle… reflecting upon the struggles my kingdom has endured th-throughout this needless war,” Sucrose monologued. Her voice was dry and strained, her stutter still uncomfortably prominent in her speech. She closed her eyes to steady herself once more, forcing a pensive expression onto her face. “News of my crowned knight’s passing has only just reached my ears, and I am now more l-lost than ever… Perhaps luck was never truly on my side.”

She clutched the wooden railing of the balcony with one hand, sprawling her other hand across her forehead with a melodramatic sigh. She tilted herself toward the audience, a look rife with pain and devastation clear on her face. “I can hardly remember why this war even began. It’s all so… futile,” she bemoaned. “I just wish I could solve this dispute with the Alchemy Kingdom some other way. I fear this has gotten f-far too out of hand for that now, though.”

Another click harshly resounded as a new light snapped on, occupying the empty space across from Sucrose. The timid alchemist could instantly feel her heart rate double, blood pumping loudly in her ears as she watched Albedo saunter fully onto the stage, that garish light trailing his every dramatic movement. The audience gasped at his appearance, and Sucrose had to stop herself from joining them as well. Just pretend it’s not Albedo… this is just a play, she internally reasoned, praying that she didn’t look as flushed as she felt.

Albedo’s opulent, ivory cape fluttered behind him as he came to a stop beneath the balcony, his fervid gaze directed solely on her. “Hark, princess of the Sweet Flower Kingdom!” he jubilantly called. “I apologize for dropping by unannounced, and appearing from the shadows, no less. However, I could not help but overhear your dilemma… I, too, share the same sentiments that you relay. I have also just lost my crowned knight in battle…” He listlessly brought his hand to his chest and balled it into a loose fist, turning his head toward the audience in a look of practiced devastation.

I wish I could be as charismatic as Albedo, Sucrose thought, dazed. No matter how many times I watch him perform, he continues to surprise me. He’s a natural actor. Her mind snapped back into focus as Albedo’s voice fell upon her ears again, loud and unblemished. “In truth, I feel responsible for this bloodshed,” he lamented. “I not only misread the situation between our two kingdoms, but I also misappropriately directed my soldiers to occupy your land… Yet, I come bearing good news!” He gazed at her with fiery determination, his teal eyes alight with a delirious fervor. “I have finally dreamed of a way to rectify this situation. A solution that will no doubt reunite our kingdoms in solidarity, thereby freeing our lands from the shackles of war!”

Sucrose’s stomach fluttered, her eyes glued to Albedo’s magnetic visage. He gazed at her as if she were some precious treasure; as if she were a rare specimen tucked beneath the lens of a sanitized microscope for him to inspect. A wealth of conviction and adoration cloaked each word he spoke, in such a way that it felt like he was speaking only to her in this moment.

A blip of uncomfortable silence passed before Sucrose realized that their scene was far from over; that it was her turn to speak. “O-oh?” she squeaked in response, her throat already withered and dry. Her eyes darted to Timaeus, settled in the shadow that was cast from Albedo’s cape, and swallowed her nerves before continuing. “You dare to soil my kingdom’s land with your pr-presence? I don’t recall inviting you, nor do I think I want you here, quite frankly.” Her tone sounded a pinch stronger and more secure, even though acting intimidating was difficult for her to achieve. She inhaled a steadying breath before finishing her lines. “I should alert my guards of your presence and be rid of you before you cause further trouble…”

“Please don’t, princess! I beg of you to listen to my plea!”

Sucrose squashed any outward-facing nervousness that threatened to adorn her face, preparing for the inevitable. Here goes nothing, she thought, the words opaque and weighted as she chewed them over in her mind.

“How many times must I tell you?” she insincerely challenged, sizing Albedo up with as much fury as she could muster. With a frustrated cry, she stomped her foot on the edge of the balcony, feeling herself suddenly kick through the worn-out wood. Barely a heartbeat passed before the platform fully crumbled, peppering sawdust and iron nails onto the stage beneath her.

On instinct, Sucrose released a soft gust of Anemo underneath her scrunched form, slowing her fall. Her eyes instinctively shut as a restrained howl was ripped from her throat, masking the collective intake of air from the shocked audience before her.

Time seemed to slow to a syrupy lull, with only one thought parading in Sucrose’s mind: Please don’t land on the stage, please don’t land on the stage, please don’t land on the stage…

Yet, instead of the harsh smack of brick and thick wood colliding with her back as she feared, it was the leather of Albedo’s gloves that she felt, fully supporting her weight.

“Princess! Are you alright?” His voice crackled from above her; frenzied and panicked. He really is a natural at acting, she limply thought, her mind gradually spinning back into reality. She cracked an eye open, watching as the fuzzy border of her jumbled vision retreated in waves, carefully revealing the visage of Albedo’s worried face. Loose strands of his honey-blond hair tickled her cheeks, and the overwhelming scent of freshly cut flower stems, stale coffee, and something dusty and pale—almost chalk-like—flooded her nose.

Her heart stammered in her chest, a flush of crimson swiftly exploding across her face. Surely, forced this close together, Albedo could feel just how flustered she was—let alone tell. It was obvious. It was foolish. Her hands trembled like a shriveled, uprooted flower in the wind; sweat beaded beneath her bangs, and a light sheen of fog settled in the corner of her glasses. Sucrose could feel the gentle warmth that radiated on her back from his gloved hands, could feel the soft wisps of his breath brush against her nose.

Was it her turn to hash out a line? She could barely even remember where she was anymore.

And Albedo definitely took notice of this.

He settled her feet gently on the stage floor, still cradling her back in his hold. Calmly, he placed a hand beneath her chin, tilting her face toward his. He dropped his pitch to a tender whisper, all but mouthing, “Sucrose, don’t be nervous. Pretend no one is watching, okay? It’s just us.”

“Ah, o-okay…” she mumbled in return, offering a weak nod. Her eyes locked with his, and she allowed the world around her to melt away. The audience became little more than a smudged mass of unsightly colors, and even the glaring lights seemed to dim above her. All around her, notable features faded away—becoming blurry—as if they were lodged behind a frosted chunk of glass. It was only her and Albedo now.

A fragmented smile snaked across her face; hopeful. Swiftly, Albedo muttered beneath his breath, “It’s your line, Sucrose.”

She blinked the stardust out of her eyes, blearily slipping back into character. What was it that he last said? ‘Am I alright?’ With a shallow inhale, she briskly drove her hand toward Albedo’s chest, planting it firmly on one of his gold, overly-embellished clasps. “I-I’m quite alright, prince. Thank you for, um, catching me… I suppose...” She’d tried to raise her voice, though it sounded more broken than anything else. “Now p-please, unhand me!”

“Do not thank me. It’s the least I could do.” He smiled, summery and cordial. The hand he’d used to lift her chin fell to his own chest, lightly placed atop her balled fist. “Allow me the honor to profess my solution to you. I fear you may think it is sudden, yet, it is the truth in my heart.”

Sucrose’s eyebrows furrowed together, panic welling in her core. I… can’t quite recall this part of the script. Did I skip over something?

“This war began from my own foolish doing,” Albedo said. “This, I can not deny. However, I have requested my army to pull back—to retreat and cease their needless fighting. Yet, it seems that they have grown a mind of their own. They have begun rebelling against even me…” He wistfully sighed. “I pored over old documents, questioned many commanders on my side, and even met with notoriously cruel adversaries for answers. None were able to help me, and I feared this war would never end. That is, until…”

“U-until?”

“Until I realized how easy the solution was. It was right in front of my face, staring me down, after all.” She could feel his grip on her hand loosen, and she could see the tips of his ears burn a pale red. “Princess, I am asking you to marry me! Doing so will ensure our kingdoms become fully united, and it will effectively destroy any remaining conflicts of war. I see no better option.”

Her eyes widened, her pupils stretching into thin discs. She could faintly hear the collective gasp that sputtered forth from the audience, yet her mind felt too cluttered to even fully think. She opened her mouth, closed her mouth, and then opened it again. She struggled to find the words she wanted to speak; she worried she couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. This was… it was certainly not in the script I read. We never practiced anything like this, either! Her brain felt like it had been squeezed through a metal colander. How was she even supposed to respond?

She watched as Albedo closed his eyes, noticing his chest rise and fall irregularly. The air around them was heady and sickly sweet, and Sucrose found herself wading into the unfamiliar of it all.

His eyelids fluttered open again, and—still in character—he announced, “In exchange for your hand in marriage, I shall bestow upon you the one thing I can readily give.”

Cautiously, he leaned toward her, their noses nearly colliding. Sucrose bit back a squeak, her wide, honey gaze transfixed to his suddenly addled expression. She wanted to ask him what he was doing, wanted to know if what he was doing was as Albedo or as the character he was merely playing on stage, but the questions never left her lips as he sealed the distance between them and kissed her.

It was strange, at first. The fleeting thought that this was her first kiss—her first kiss with Albedo, no less—crossed her, yet fizzled into the recesses of her mind just as quickly. Her nerves were alight with an icy fever; she felt chilled to the bone, yet the hot rush of blood in her veins ignited her.

His lips were soft and sweet against her own, with a lingering taste of caramel and mint. She almost forgot to breathe, her whole body enraptured by the kiss they shared. Her arms weakly circled his neck, wishing they could stay like this forever.

Yet, like lightning, a thundering roar of applause burst into the open air, shaking her out of bliss. She opened her eyes to the vivid reality she’d left behind, the harsh stream of overhead lighting temporarily blinding her. Albedo parted from her, and her chest twinged with an uncomfortable loss. His face was fully flushed, and he struggled to maintain eye contact with her, his teal gaze dipping toward the audience instead.

Right. The audience.

Sucrose turned her head toward the sound of applause, coming face-to-face with the fuzzy mesh of colors and silhouettes actively cheering the pair on. Her ears pinned themselves to her head—both from sensitivity and embarrassment—and a splash of cherry red exploded across her face.

She was grateful that Albedo still had an arm looped around her back, hoisting her up. Otherwise, she was sure she’d flop onto the floor like a limp doll. In a daze, she vaguely heard him give a speech about their marriage being solidified in the coming days, but her mind was too jumbled to fully listen. She couldn’t help but replay what had just happened over and over again in her head, awestruck.

The crowd’s ovation continued, even as the curtain began its sudden, lethargic shuffle to a close. A few loose whistles and shouts were tossed into the cool night air, drawing a jolt of surprise from Sucrose. Yet, once the lights shuttered off, Albedo steadied his hand around Sucrose’s shoulders and guided her off of the stage, his steps heavy and staggered.

Sheepishly, as they walked, she gazed up at him through her glasses. His face was still fully turned away from her, a heavy draping of blush alight on his cheeks. It was adorable. She realized that she’d never seen him blush before, and she silently hoped it wouldn’t be the last time, either.

As they scampered off set, people frantically rushed around the pair, prepping for the following scene—the final scene, no less. Fischl’s booming, directorial voice could be heard instructing others into their set positions, coaching lines, and instilling much-needed excitement, and yet, Sucrose paid no mind to any of it.

Instead, her fingers absentmindedly traveled to her chapped lips, the image of what had happened only a moment prior playing on a broken loop in her mind again and again and again.

“And so… the two kingdoms united, establishing a peaceful life for citizens from all walks of life,” Oz narrated, his voice rich, spanning the charmed audience. “No longer was war a constant plague on these lands. No, instead, both kingdoms flourished in abundance! The Sweet Flowers native to the Sweet Flower Kingdom’s soil were readily utilized by the scholars of the Alchemy Kingdom, producing cure-alls, breakthrough innovations, and unique tonics.” As he spoke, unsophisticated, vivid cardboard cutouts waggled on stage behind him: cutouts of ginormous Sweet Flowers, of fizzling potions in mismatched beakers, and of cheery townsfolk, dressed in far-too-colorful garb. It was apparent that Klee had a hand in creating them.

Sucrose watched the scene unfold from backstage, just as she’d done before. Her hand dug into an obscured pleat of velvet fabric and her eyes were blown wide. Despite her sharp gaze—glued to the dynamic, paper-thin puppets on stage—she struggled to retain any elements of the story. Foolishly, she had hoped that watching the play would draw her mind back into reality, away from the all-consuming thoughts of the kiss she had shared with Albedo…

But, as fate would have it, that had turned out to be more of an unreasonable wish than anything rooted in sensibility.

A soft tug on Sucrose’s wrist jolted her out of her musings, causing her to let out a faint, startled squeak. She craned her neck to the side, feverishly peering behind her shoulder—and in an instant, her eyes landed squarely on the source of her burning reflections… Albedo.

He wore a tender smile on his face, illuminated by the fuzzy stage light that trickled in from the small gap in the curtain behind Sucrose. His navy, princely tunic contrasted with his bright teal eyes, highlighting the genuine interest held in his gaze. “Sorry to startle you,” he whispered. The light shifted, and Sucrose caught sight of the pale blush smudged across his cheeks. “The play is coming to a close. Fischl requested that I walk you on stage for our final bow.”

Her forehead creased in confusion, and her mouth parted to quietly reveal as much. But, without hesitation, Albedo slid his hand from her wrist to her palm, sprawling his fingers out before interlocking them with her own; silencing her. The breath she had been drawing in slammed to a halt and her eyes bolted to their hands, her face instantaneously lit aflame. He’s… he’s holding my hand!?  Insecure, muddled, and riddled with uncertainty—she chanced another look at his face, finding his expression swirled with faulty confidence. Countless thoughts rattled in her mind, only multiplying as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

And it was in that flustered state that Albedo led her toward the center stage.

As soon as their shoes touched the wooden flooring and the blinding overhead lights stirred against their moving forms, a wall of dense adulations crashed over her. Sucrose’s ears flattened against her scalp as a barrage of shrill whistles and unintelligible hollering bubbled forth from the audience, and she swallowed the growing lump in her throat. This is too much, she decided. Subtly, her eyes shifted downward to her hand which was still intertwined with Albedo’s. Especially after every other confusing thing that’s already happened tonight…

Fabric rustled beside her where there was once empty space, and she flicked her gaze toward the imposing noise. Finding nothing at eye level, she glanced further downward at the floor and caught sight of Klee: eagerly skipping at Sucrose’s side and buzzing with excitement. The timid alchemist gave her a slight smile, curious and as close to pleasant as she could muster, before noticing the rest of her castmates pouring onto the stage behind her and Albedo. Mona and Fischl sauntered forth—still dressed in their knightly attire—and Timaeus shuffled in behind them, his tree costume awkward and clunky, fully hindering his steps.

Albedo steered her to a vacant corner of the stage, coming to a rest. In a line, Sucrose quickly realized. Facing the audience, she blinked once, twice—clearing the dense glob of light from her vision. Squinting, she was able to just make out a handful of recognizable faces in the crowd. Sitting closest to the stage, the Traveler, Paimon, and Bennett were all seated together. Their once-white tablecloth had been stained an array of strange colors, notably with splotches of reddish-purple—spilled wine, she realized—and concentrated grease patches… likely all from Bennett’s clumsiness. A freckling of other familiar faces was also notable in the vast sea: Tommy, Wagner, Sara, and even Katherine were all in attendance. The air was ripe with the stench of alcohol, lard, slow-cooked meat, and stale gunpowder from Klee’s Jumpy Dumpties.

It was incredibly overwhelming.

Sucrose soaked in the chaotic atmosphere, her jaw plated shut. Dimly, she was aware that Klee, Mona, and Fischl had also come to a halt, stationed on the other side of Albedo. Timaeus had taken the longest to get into position, barely peeling beside Sucrose before the sun swallowed the moon. He grabbed her free hand once he did, his palms slick with sweat.

Confused by his action, her shoulders jerked backward. Just as quickly, though, were her shoulders pulled forward with sloppy momentum as Timaeus and Albedo steeped into a grand bow on either side of her. In an instant, she was facing the floor, her glasses sliding to the tip of her nose. The audience’s cheers quickly swelled, spreading and expanding before temperately fading into the vast, navy-soaked corners of the sky.

Sucrose held in a wince, the noise grating to her sensitive ears.

The bow seemed to last ages, and she was relieved when everyone finally unfolded themselves. She was tired. Absolutely exhausted. And she was ready to lumber home, curl up in bed, and crack open a glossy research paper—a mug of tea drowned in sugar and honey in hand.

Sucrose readjusted her posture, itching to retreat backstage. But, as she did, Timaeus’ hand slipped from hers like a bar of wet soap. He let out a sharp yelp before colliding—back first—onto the wooden floor; his costume crinkling and bending into little more than an oversized paperweight.

Laughter rippled forth from the audience, a smattering of sympathetic gasps trailing behind. “I’m… I’m alright!” Timaeus shouted, his voice muddled with pain. Sucrose could see an embarrassed, scrunched-up frown settle against his defeated expression, his eyes squeezed shut like folds of paper.

She bent down to check on him right as the overhead lights flickered off and the heavy curtain moved slowly of its own mind, content with merely swallowing the stage. Another rush of jubilant applause emerged, pinching at Sucrose’s delicate ears.

“Are you really alright, Timaeus?” she asked, her voice nearly drowned by the sharp cheering. Their other castmates could be heard beside them, too, having already broken off into small groups and discussing their performances.

“Uh… yeah,” he said slowly. He belted out a few groans as he shimmied his body left and right, unable to flip onto his stomach or land firmly on his feet. Like this, he reminded Sucrose of an overturned Tent Tortoise.

She let out a stream of air, grateful he was uninjured. “Would you like s-some help getting up?”

“Sure thing!” Without hesitation, he flung his arm upward, a bright smile displacing his earlier discomfort. “Thanks so much, Sucrose.”

She grabbed his arm, pulling him up with ease. “No problem,” she murmured in return, watching as he stretched his shoulders, popping his tired joints.

As soon as she was sure Timaeus was okay, her attention shifted, pulled to her other castmates’ shared merriment. Klee bounded in small circles around Fischl, with rigid, croaking tunes belting out of each wooden slate she danced upon. Mona prattled on in senseless circles about her splendid performance to Albedo, who seemed to be listening to her with feigned interest. Sucrose noticed his eyes shift, linking with hers, before hastily turning back to Mona, a tint of red suffusing the tips of his ears.

“Hark! My humble ensemble!” Fischl trumpeted, her molten green gaze sweeping across the gathered group of people. “Thou hast all performed with exceptional prowess. Truly, it was a spectacle that hath left even the cosmos itself in awe!”

“It is as Mein Fräulein said,” Oz added. “That was an admirable performance.”

Sucrose mumbled a short, “Thank you,” under her breath amidst the shallow sea of nodding heads. Her hands tightened into fists, bunching the fabric of her fluffy skirt and crinkling it. She was fully aware of Albedo’s warm presence beside her; unnerving her. “It was interesting to perform,” she quietly continued. “I… I think I had fun. Thank you for inviting me, F-Fischl.”

“Thy performance was wondrous, Sucrose, and hath left an indelible mark!” Fischl exclaimed, her words washing over her like a warm tidal wave. The timid alchemist smiled in return.

The harsh pounding of obnoxious footsteps sounded from around the corner, growing more muddled with each passing second. Sucrose turned her head right as Bennett barreled into view—catching as he nearly slipped three times, spouting brazen apologies along the way. At last, he righted himself in front of Fischl, hastily displaying a buoyant thumbs up at her.

“Wow! Fischl, your play was absolutely incredible!” Bennet sang, parading a warm smile that simmered with golden sunshine. He grabbed her hands in his own, holding onto them in what looked to be a sturdy grip. “I’m so proud of you! You and everyone else did a fantastic job!”

Fischl’s shoulders stiffened, her expression unreadable; some loose amalgamation of embarrassment and bashfulness. “Oh, well… f-forsooth, Bennett. I, um, extend my gratitude.” She cleared her throat, the sound dimmed from Oz’s flapping wings. “I am most pleased that thou hast come to lend thy support!”

Mesmerized by the peculiar exchange before her, Sucrose almost didn’t react to the faint tap that pressed into her shoulder. Confused, she angled her gaze to its source, finding Albedo looking down at her, wearing an uneasy expression on his face. “Sucrose,” he nervously began, “can we talk privately? Maybe by the outskirts of Mondstadt’s entrance? The stars do look lovely tonight, after all.”

She swallowed a glob of thick saliva, her previous nerves bumbling back to the surface in seconds. “Uh, s-sure. That sounds great, Mister Albedo.”

His jaw tightened at the moniker, annoyance rolling over his face before melting into something troubled. “Alright, come with me.”

The pair wordlessly departed from the rest of the group, slipping past the heavy curtain and through open blips of space that the audience had left. Everyone who had gathered to watch the play had all but devolved into a drunken cacophony of laughter, dancing, and out-of-tune singing, anyway, so no one paid any mind to their presence.

Sucrose stole a peek at the sky, observing all the million bursts of light that twinkled in their frozen playground overhead. The moon had already sailed to its apex for the night, and it sat fat and visibly cratered, like a pale flower pistil surrounded by a drove of celestial petals. Ribbons of gleaming saffron light danced lazily across slabs of brick and cobblestone and grass blades alike, drawing her attention back to the pathways beneath her feet.

It wasn’t long until Albedo’s steps came to a halt, with the pair only a handful of paces beyond the Mondstadt drawbridge. The cool night air smelled crisp and sweet, reminding her of the failed Cryo-Slime-apple-tree hybrid she’d tried to propagate and harvest many months back. After just one arduous bite of the icy skin, she’d shelved the project indefinitely.

Having now left the raucous afterparty behind, the quiet hush that fell over the grassy fields was a much-needed change. Only the howl of wind and murmur of animals both alert with excitement and curled within foliage—tucked into sleep—loitered around them.

She’d almost forgotten the presence of her mentor idled beside her as she drank in the wonderment of nature.

Almost, until he began to speak.

“Sucrose, I apologize for the need for a private chat, but I must know something.” From the corner of her vision, she saw him clench his hands into fists before steeling his eyes shut. “Were you aware of… what was going to happen in our final scene together? You seemed rather caught off-guard.”

Her lips twisted into a frown. “In truth… I had n-no idea, just as you suspected,” she said. “From what I can recall, my script ended with the prince proposing a solution to the princess, but the, um, proposal itself seemed to be left purposefully ambiguous.” She couldn’t help but mimic his expression, squeezing her eyes shut. She truly wished the ground beneath her feet would alchemize into quicksand and swallow her whole. “So, the idea of… well, m-marriage was certainly not detailed in my script, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I see,” was all he said in return.

Tense. Everything between the two of them felt so tense. Sucrose peeked one eye open, disliking how the air felt thick and full of static. The animalistic chatter of night seemed to still as well; as if this was just another scene in their play, and their audience had transformed into nocturnal insects, hanging on the edge of their wooden, moss-ridden seats.

They stood in suffocating silence until Albedo finally broke it, releasing a stilted breath. “I find the entire situation quite odd. My script detailed the proposal in great length—as you witnessed—yet Fischl explicitly instructed me not to rehearse any of it during our practice sessions.” He pivoted, turning to face Sucrose head-on, his exasperated stare piercing into her unnerved one. He continued, “Now I understand why you seemed so confused. I assumed that you were aware of the scene and that Fischl had explained this to you as she had to me.” He released another frustrated breath. “I should have confronted you beforehand, just to be sure. You seemed rather… displeased by the outcome. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable, Sucrose.”

He turned his gaze away from hers right as her ears flattened against her scalp. She fought the urge to plaster her hands against her eyes and curl in on herself, despising the awkward shift their conversation was beginning to take. Is he upset because of the misunderstanding? Or is it because he thinks that I… didn’t like the kiss? Her heart threatened to slam through her ribcage, ripping into two before it gave out. She was grateful for the blanket of obscurity the night sky granted her, masking the ridiculous blush that saturated her cheeks.

She took a shallow breath, urging herself to speak. “I… I wouldn’t say I disliked it or anything,” she whispered, almost hoping he hadn’t heard her. “I guess I was just surprised, i-is all.”

He crossed his arms against his chest and hummed an understanding. “Regardless, I’ll speak with Fischl about the manner.” His words carried a cold bite, yet his demeanor seemed unbothered. Sucrose couldn’t help but frown, a gentle wave of dread nipping at her feet. In a decidedly lighter tone, Albedo added, “I can’t help but feel as if we’ve been set up in some way. Though, I admit it seems farfetched.”

Sucrose only nodded.

And then that same, crushing silence swallowed them whole once again.

Her gaze became fixed on her shoes, observing how they glimmered with an almost glass-like sheen; how difficult it had been for her to learn to walk in heels, regardless of how slight the incline was on this specific pair. She felt like she couldn’t do anything else.

Her nerves buzzed, every fiber of her being on edge. Should she ask to leave? Dismiss herself from Albedo’s presence as if she were simply clocking out of an overdone shift at the alchemy lab? He was her mentor, she supposed. He would probably understand her desire to run home and bury herself in a mound of blankets. Yet, something invisible kept her in place, rooted to the dirt where drowsy grass blades openly lapped at her ankles.

Just as he had before, Albedo broke the growing silence, snapping it in half as if it were nothing more than a sheet of burnt caramel. “Since we’re speaking privately,” he said, “I wanted to ask you another question, if that’s alright.”

“O-oh, sure. Please, go ahead,” Sucrose replied, still staring at her shoes.

“Since you admitted to being merely surprised, I’m curious to know, then… did you enjoy the kiss we shared?”

Embarrassment tucked into her, inhaling her whole, bones and all. Why in Teyvat was he asking her this!? Foolishly, she expected that their lives would crumble into some semblance of normalcy after that scene. That, perhaps, it was just the fabled Prince of the Alchemy Kingdom and the illustrious Princess of the Sweet Flower Kingdom sharing an abstract kiss—not her and Albedo.

There was no winning for her in this situation. If she admitted the truth to him—yes, she did enjoy their kiss—would that disgust him? Would he shun her? Of course, if she lied to him instead—told him that she had been repulsed by it—perhaps that would shatter his heart, or even his ego.

Her hands trembled. She looked to the glistening stars in the sky again, maybe wishing they’d take pity on her somehow. But they didn’t, and as she swallowed her pride and turned back to the situation at hand, finding Albedo watching her expectantly, she sighed. In the quietest voice she could muster, she gave her terse answer, “Yes, I… did.”

“Is that so?” His voice was warm and light; fragile, like fresh ice cubes dropped in a mug of blistering coffee. Even without facing him fully, she could sense the ruminative expression he wore, studying every movement she made.

She wondered if she had misspoken. Perhaps she should have lied, or maybe she should have just refused to answer entirely.

Instead of dealing with any form of ire directed at her, she only felt the fake, giant Sweet Flower in her hair lift away from her scalp, the clink of its metallic clip digging into the cold and bitter atmosphere.

Her attention snapped back to Albedo, watching as he held her hairpiece delicately in his hand, holding it up as if it were a rare diamond. He had tucked his other hand gracefully behind his back, and like this, Sucrose couldn’t help but picture him as a real prince borne from every fairytale she’d ever read. A radiant beam of silvery moonlight illuminated his perfect features, catching on a lazy smile drawn upon his lips. He was examining her hairpiece, his eyes alight with a comfortable satisfaction.

“Outside of their uses for alchemy, I’ve always been quite fond of Sweet Flowers,” Albedo coolly professed. “Though many people find Sweet Flowers uninteresting, I’m drawn to them. They’re beautiful, familiar, and captivating. And whenever I come across one, I can’t help but be reminded of someone I care quite deeply for.” He flicked his gaze to hers, the pale teal of his eyes almost glowing in the low light.

The wind around them seemed to die out, with heat dragging across Sucrose’s flesh. She wrestled with herself, struggling to find a reply. She was barely able to mutter a pathetic response of, “Oh, I, um, a-also enjoy Sweet Flowers,” before her lips pursed together, clamming up. Quickly, she broke eye contact, wavering at his composed demeanor.

Albedo’s breathy laugh danced by her ears—a melodic, sweet sound—and her heart surged in her chest. Her pulse roared, drumming loudly in her ears; the noise surely spilling out into the scenery around them. “I’m aware of your fondness for them, Sucrose. After all, Sweet Flowers comprise the very backbone of the research you conduct.” He shifted his weight, ruffling the heavy cotton layers sewn into his costume. “Perhaps that is one of the many reasons they remind me of you.”

The temperature around them seemed to spike; as if there was a blazing summer day embedded in the core of the crisp, autumn night that truly enveloped them. Sucrose swallowed the growing lump in her throat, still unable to meet his gaze directly. “I’m… I’m not sure I follow you, Mister Albedo.”

She heard the grass beneath his feet stir before she realized he had moved forward, stopping mere inches from where she stood. Her Sweet Flower hairclip still resided in his hand, soaking up the little space that lingered between them. “Hm. I admit, I’m struggling to find the right words to say this…” Albedo glanced to the side, his nervous energy almost palpable. Wearily, he murmured, “May I kiss you again, Sucrose?”

Her breath hitched in her throat, her amber eyes as wide as tea saucers. There’s no way he actually said… that! She weakly shook her head, fighting the urge to squeal. I must have misheard him! Slowly, she drew her attention back to her mentor, lamenting his far-too-close proximity and captivating, princely appearance. She wasn’t even sure how to respond in her frazzled state. “Mister Albedo, um… wh-what was it that you said?”

His eyebrows crinkled together, notching delicate creases into his porcelain skin. “Perhaps I haven’t made my feelings obvious enough to you…” he breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Sucrose stiffened, choosing to stay silent in fear of breaking his unnatural composure.

Modestly, he said, “I believe that Fischl came to me first, asking if I’d partake in the play she was working on; or rather, ‘grand spectacle’, as she called it.” A flimsy smile seemed to pierce through his nervous demeanor at the memory. “I politely declined, however, my refusal was not taken lightly. She barraged me with offer after offer that, looking back now, I suppose she intended to change my mind.”

His eyes held a faraway look, uncertainty pooling in his irises. Sucrose gently cleared her throat, nudging him to continue.

And with a drawn-out sigh, he did. “Fischl told me that she would gladly bestow rare specimens to the lab from unseen realms for me to research. When that failed to work, she didn’t hesitate to offer to bring desserts from Good Hunter to me twice a day, or to drop off coffee each morning for me for a week. She even told me that Klee would be participating in the play and desperately wanted me to tag along, and that it would be cruel for me not to do so.”

“I’m surprised she begged you to such a degree,” Sucrose murmured. “She must have really wanted you t-to participate…”

“Well,” Albedo drawled, “that isn’t everything she came up with.” He paused for a moment, a medley of emotions sprawled across his face. “One of the last things she told me was that she was going to ask you, Sucrose, to join the play. She seemed certain you would join, and… she didn’t hesitate to reveal that the character she wanted me to play would share a brief kiss onstage with the character you would be playing. She mentioned that if I was unable to participate, she had planned to ask any available adventurers in my stead; Tommy being her next choice.” He grimaced at the name.

Sucrose couldn’t quell the strange curiosity that rose to the surface of her chest, the feeling of a swarm of Crystalflies rattling untethered in her heart. “Are you saying that you… only joined because of m-me?” she questioned, her voice quivering.

“I am. If you hadn’t played the role of the princess, I wouldn’t have agreed to play the prince.”

Albedo took another small, wary step forward, nearly bridging the remaining distance between them. Featherlight, he nested her Sweet Flower hairclip back into her hair, tactfully sweeping the mint green tresses like a curtain from her face. His eyes were alive with every emotion that bumbled beneath the surface of his skin—sincerity, compassion, tenderness, affection—and Sucrose knew she could no longer pretend to be blind to it.

“Have I properly conveyed my feelings to you now?” Albedo asked lowly, his warm breath producing a grain of fog on Sucrose’s glasses.

“Yes, um, y-you very much have.”

“Wonderful,” Albedo hummed. “Forgive me if it’s impolite to ask again, but while we’re here alone, I believe now is the best time to do so.” He placed his cold hand beneath her chin—just like he had done during their scene together onstage—and gently tipped her face up to meet his. “May I kiss you, Sucrose?”

A feverish blush exploded across her cheeks, and her mouth hung open, awestruck.

Waves of emotion crashed over her, drowning her in their presence. Surprise, embarrassment, elation, love. For Sucrose, love was the most confusing feeling of all; the feeling that stuck to her, tangled around her limbs as if it were wet seaweed.

These feelings were commonplace whenever she was with Albedo, yet they had always been small enough to ignore. Now, though, they felt unbelievably potent, and Sucrose had never been more anxious about it.

She wondered briefly if this was some drawn-out dream. Albedo—the very person who had awakened these feelings within her all those years ago—confessing his adoration for her?

Sucrose inhaled a shallow breath of air, enjoying how Albedo still smelled of caramel and mint and chalk up close. She darted her gaze from his face to his neck before just closing her eyes altogether. “Yes,” she whispered, swallowing her nerves. “I… would love that, Mister Albedo.”

The silence that followed lasted a second too long, and Sucrose panicked, immediately surmising that this must have all just been some elaborate, cruel joke; and she had turned out to be the punchline. Her eyes shot open, her blood running cold.

As she came face-to-face with Albedo, she noticed that his mouth was quirked into an unusual, mischievous smile, causing Sucrose’s blood to fully freeze over.

He spoke low, his tone smug, “Only if you address me as ‘Albedo’.”

Sucrose bit her tongue, suppressing a flustered squeak. She hated nothing more than disrespecting his position to his face, but she supposed there was no other way out of this situation. Frustratingly, she sighed. “Alright,” she muttered. “Then, I would love that, um…” She paused, her voice quivering. She lowered her tone further, hoping he wouldn’t hear her as she rasped his request through her teeth, “Albedo.”

He smiled, tender and sweet. In a delicate, measured movement, Albedo leaned forward, pressing his lips against hers. He shifted the hand he’d laid beneath her chin higher, cupping her cheek with his gloved palm.

Bit by bit, her body flooded with warmth. Her muscles relaxed, and she found herself melting into the kiss they shared. She strung her arms around his neck, a smile ghosting her lips, relishing the feeling of being so close to him like this.

Researching this addictive feeling that he invoked in her would be her top priority now, so long as he allowed it, of course. She longed to explore every unique characteristic that comprised the emotion of love, and she was looking forward to doing so with Albedo as her research partner.

In the end, Sucrose supposed that she was grateful that Fischl convinced her to partake in that play after all.

Crouched behind one of the many stone pillars fixed by the entrance of Mondstadt, a certain adventurer delighted in the shadowy, faraway sight that was laid before her: The sight of two alchemists, hopelessly in love with one another, finally professing their unmistakable affection through a heartfelt embrace.

A grin broke out on Fischl’s face. “It seems that my scheme hath borne fruit,” she said in a hushed tone, her voice masked by the racket of noise spilling out from the outdoor party behind her.

Oz hovered by her side, with even the heavy stir of his wings quieted into little more than a dull hum. “I take it that thou hast successfully united the two alchemists, Mein Fräulein?” he asked.

“Indeed,” Fischl gloated. “It is all as I intended. The flawless conclusion to the play I had orchestrated from the very outset!” Her expression bloomed into one of victory, a playful twinkle dancing in her eye.

Although she was powerless to predict the uncharted whims of the future—unlike Mona, which, perhaps Fischl would stamp a mental note in her mind to ask the astrologist about that topic later—she was still confident about one thing.

She was confident that Albedo and Sucrose would be able to live the happily ever after they’d always yearned for. Together.