Chapter Text
Once, you had been beloved.
An angel radiant and untainted, your wings the color of morning light, your voice the melody of the heavens. You were the favored one, the chosen entertainer of the Heavenly Principles, called forth to sing in the halls of eternity. Your gift was meant to soothe, to please, to adorn the court of the divine with songs of flawless beauty.
But even the most perfect songbird must never forget its cage.
It happened only once—that slip of defiance. You dared to speak where silence was expected, dared to voice your thoughts when only your music was desired. In the midst of their solemn deliberations, you interrupted the Principles themselves. For that sin, your gift was made into your curse.
From that day forth, you could speak no word, utter no sound, unless it was bound in melody. A beautiful voice, yes—but emptied of freedom, hollow in its gilded perfection. No longer a companion, no longer even a servant—merely an instrument.
And as if that punishment were not enough, your wings were clipped. Feather by feather, glory torn away, until the skies themselves rejected you. The Heavenly Principles decreed it mercy—after all, they said, should a pet not be grateful simply to stand in the Primordial One’s presence?
So you obeyed.
You sang when summoned. You bowed when dismissed. You lived in chains of gold, a treasured plaything draped in sorrow.
Yet not all of heaven was still.
The Shade of Time, one of the first angels born under the Primordial One, grew restless beneath the usurper’s reign. One by one, the other ethereal beings bent their ears to whispers of rebellion. War simmered, waiting for its spark.
You heard their call—but you turned away. You, more than any, knew the futility of defiance. There was no victory to be had against the throne above the stars. And you would not allow yourself to be shattered alongside them.
When next you stood within the golden chamber, your silence was heavier than any song. The Primordial One saw it in your eyes—the plea, the refusal, the quiet declaration that you would take no part in this war.
And so, perhaps in pity, or perhaps in cruel amusement, they granted you a fragment of freedom. Not escape, but sleep. A dreamless, endless slumber where no punishment could reach you, no rebellion could burn you. Eternal stasis, until the storm had passed.
…And so it was.
But eternity has its limits.
When your eyes opened again, it was not to Celestia’s light. No golden spires. No radiant court. No song drifting in eternal halls. Instead, the cold press of glass encased you, and beyond it flickered unfamiliar lamplight. Strange instruments hummed in a place that reeked of steel and alchemy, not divinity.
You had not awoken in heaven.
You had awoken in Teyvat—within a laboratory of shadows.
And the first face you beheld through the shimmering glass was not angel, nor shade, nor god.
It was the gaze of a young man, brilliant and unyielding, with toothpaste hair and a mind already far too sharp for the world around him.
Zandik.