Chapter Text
When one thinks about fiction, many authors come to mind. In Teyvat, though, there will always be someone gushing about one particular author from Panorama, the Nation of the Arts. That author is none other than Ilias Kostas, a man who achieved nationwide fame upon the release of his first book series, Midnight Voyage , and worldwide fame upon following releases, once his oeuvre made it outside of Panorama. It’d be hard to find someone who hasn’t heard of him by now. His name has been spoken so many times, it’s as if it’s a word as simple as “hello”. Not to mention how often his fans can be heard praising him and his work.
“Ilias is a genius, a true master of fiction!”
“Every author wants to be him. If there’s one out there that doesn’t, then they should take notes anyway, or it’s their grave they’re digging!”
“He’s the pinnacle of storytelling; I’ve never been so immersed in a story that I feel like I’m in the book with the characters.”
“No one writes like Mr. Kostas does. I’ve bought every book, even the ones that are only a hundred pages long. To think he's just twenty-three!”
When someone asks for his thoughts on the matter, though? His answer always comes as a shock.
“They’re simply fans of my work. Really, I’m no celebrity—I’m just another passionate author among many.”
The sheer bafflement individuals face at such an answer somewhat amuses him. He never dwells on it, though, because there’s always a story to bring to life. Once the other person is stunned into silence, he takes that opportunity to grab whatever he has with him, if anything, and be on his way. After all, fiction never writes itself.