Archive of Our Own

The story starts, as most stories do, with an old woman.

Mona’s shopping for peaches in the market stalls of Sumeru when she sees her.

The woman stands with a back hunched from age, a red shawl draped around her head. She walks with shambling footsteps, sniffling, staring at something she holds in her palms. The red splotches around her eyes are a clear sign this isn’t the first time she’s cried today, and that, more than anything, is what pushes Mona to worry.

“Excuse me, Ma’am?” She says gently, softly. She doesn’t want to draw more attention to the old woman. She knows from experience that the last thing you’d want when weeping in public is more eyes on you. “Are you alright?”

“I’m alright, dear,” says the old woman, whom Mona’s started referring to as Grandma in her mind. She clutches the object in her palm so tightly that Mona struggles to make out what it is, but then she sees delicate golden chains, and realises it’s some sort of locket. “Just feeling out of sorts.”

Mona gives the woman a firm but reassuring look. “Are you sure? Can I help you with anything?”

The woman’s smile is a broken, wilting thing, and Mona’s heart clenches at the sight of it. She loosens her grip, confirming Mona’s suspicions and revealing the full shape of the locket. At the center of the necklace is a picture of a man who doesn’t appear to be much older than Mona herself. He’s smiling at the photographer; a wide, toothy grin that sits at sharp odds with Grandma’s melancholy.

“I haven’t seen my grandson in weeks,” Grandma confesses, sniffling. “I… He went on an Akademiya project out into the deserts, and he hasn’t come back since.”

“Have you reported to the authorities?”

“That’s the first thing I did,” she sighs. “They’ve sent out search missions, but they haven’t been able to find him. I’m starting to wonder if they ever will.”

Mona perks up, surging with the excitement that comes with being able to help—

But then she hesitates.

She’s done this before. People with missing family members coming to her, giving her an item belonging to their loved one, demanding her to read their constellations so that their current whereabouts can be discovered. Every time she answers with unpleasant truths, the reaction is always the same; the confusion, the rage, the grief. And then after that comes the blame—all of it directed towards her.

You’re a scam.

How could you say something like that?

My son would never get involved in that kind of lifestyle.

You’re lying.

You’re faking your readings.

She bites her lip.

This woman might react the same way. She might yell, she might scream, she might cry. But that doesn’t make her any less deserving of the truth.

“I can help, if you’d like,” Mona offers.

Grandma looks at her, incredulous. “Truly?”

Mona nods. “I’m something called a hydromancer,” she says. “Have you ever heard of that before, Ma’am?”

“Only in passing,” she says. “I heard they’re mostly employed by the Akademiya for the Rtawahist staff, so I just assumed… I assumed their services would be paid.” As if remembering something, she looks at her pockets, then fixes Mona a sad look. “If payment is what you seek, I don’t have much—”

“I don’t charge for my hydromancy,” Mona cuts in immediately, “And I don’t think hydromancy is something that should ever be charged for in the first place. I could try reading your grandson’s constellation, Ma’am. That’s going to reveal where he is right now, and it might reveal how the search team can get to him.”

Grandma takes Mona’s hands, eyes shining. “I would forever be in your debt.”

“Oh, um.” She’s… Caught off-guard by her sincerity, admittedly. “Well, we’ll need to find a body of water first. That would make it easier for me to read his constellation.”

The woman leads Mona to her home, a quaint little building conveniently structured beside a river. Kneeling on the dirt beside the shallow bank, Mona performs her usual hydromancy routine, keenly aware of the woman’s hopeful stare behind her. This is a worried grandmother with a bleeding heart; Mona refuses to disappoint her.

Finding the grandson’s constellation is fairly easy after Grandma provided his birth chart. Mona scours the stars, selects the point she’s looking for, and dives in as she has been taught to do. She sees flashes of distant memories, of a childhood spent running under the sun from a strict, yet loving, mother. She even sees Grandma, sat by the fireplace and knitting a shawl as she beams affectionately at the man whose past Mona is reading.

Mona skips through them all, of course. No use basking in the afterglow of someone else’s happy family. It’s not like that’s going to fix her own.

She finds the turning point. Apparently, a few months ago, the man began to rack up a debt with Treasure Hoarders. He wanted to fund a business, unaware that the very foundation of the business was rigged from the start by the same Treasure Hoarders to whom he was indebted. When he couldn’t gather the money by the day of demand, they beat him, then kidnapped him. That’s where he is now; working for them in one of their shady outposts, lacerated hands making a living off of cheating others the way he was cheated. 

She returns to the realm of the living, dreading to speak the truth.

“Ma’am,” she starts, fists clenched. This is the moment; she’s going to lose all of Grandma’s goodwill. “I’m so sorry…”

She tells the old woman everything, no details spared. She gives the exact timeline and location, as well as a description of the man’s surroundings for the search team who are inevitably going to be sent to rescue him. Mona provides as much as she’s able to, as if that’s somehow going to make up for the bitter truth of her words. 

The woman’s eyes widen, and in them, she sees nothing but grief and heartbreak.

Mona straightens her spine, preparing. No use delaying this. My grandson would never get involved in something like that. You’re lying to me. There’s no way you’re telling the truth. The man I raised would never—

“Thank you.”

Huh?

Mona blinks.

“Thank you,” the woman repeats, tears streaming down her cheeks. She takes Mona’s hands again, “Thank you, thank you so much. I was—we were—we were lost before this. Before you. We had nothing to go on, no hints, no clues. I need to—I’m going to file another report now, but if there’s anything I can do to pay you back—”

“Nothing at all, Ma’am,” Mona says awkwardly. Then, spurred by some invisible force, she blurts out, “Oh, actually—could I… Would you mind if I accompany you to file that report?”

Grandma beams at her, the same way she beamed at her grandson when Mona read his constellation. It makes Mona’s chest squeeze uncomfortably, though she doesn’t know why.

“Do you think,” an old woman’s voice, cold and crisp, drawls in Mona’s ear, “This kind of work is acceptable?”

Even at twelve years old, Mona Megistus knows this is a trick question. If she says yes, she’s in for a painful lecture. If she says no, she’ll be made to point out her own flaws, which just ends up circling back to the lecture. 

“I asked you a question,” Barbeloth looks amused by her silence. In her hands is the paper Mona’s written about the recent shift in Mondstadt’s constellation. It’s riddled with red correction tape and enough inaccuracies to last a century. “Do you think this kind of work is acceptable?”

“No, Master.”

Barbeloth clicks her tongue. “Rhine’s boy was already doing so much better when he was your age. I don’t know where I went wrong with you.”

Mona has yet to meet Rhinedottir’s boy. She knows their paths will cross eventually, knows that she has much to learn from the illustrious Albedo Kreideprinz. But for now, all she has of Albedo are the cutting moments in which Barbeloth compares them.

“Come here,” the old hag beckons, giving Mona a quill dipped in red ink. “Explain each and every mistake to me.”

“I would be honoured,” Grandma weeps, cutting Mona’s train of thought.

She chokes back—something. Not tears, no. But something, lodged in the base of her throat. 

They reach the Akademiya within an hour. As Sumeru’s main governing body, there’s a branch of the Mahamatra dedicated to handling cases that have nothing to do with academic crimes, and that’s the office Mona and Grandma visit. Surprisingly, when they open the door, they’re greeted by none other than the General himself.

“Cyno,” Mona greets, surprised.

“Mona,” Cyno returns. “You have business here?”

They haven’t had much chance to interact since Mona started staying in Sumeru. He’s frequently busy with his work, and his close friend—friend?—Tighnari’s not on the best terms with Wanderer.

“She’s here to accompany me, General,” the old woman inclines her head in respect. “She’s done me a great deal of help, this one. A great deal, indeed.”

Cyno raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Grandma files her report to one of the officers, and Cyno remains, listening to the woman’s recollection of Mona’s hydromancy and how it successfully discovered her grandson’s location. The officer then speaks to Cyno privately, and after what feels like hours of waiting, Cyno reemerges and hands out orders for a rescue team. He’s an incredibly efficient man, despite his dry sense of humor. Tighnari’s feud with her lover aside, Mona has a great deal of respect for him. 

“They’ll find him soon,” she places a reassuring hand on Grandma’s shoulder. “I’m sure of it.”

“You’re a blessing from Celestia, dear,” the woman murmurs kindly. She looks at both Mona and Cyno, albeit shyly. “I know you’re both busy people, but if… If you have the time, maybe, could I—could I treat you both to dinner?” 

Mona and Cyno exchange glances. She’s… Never been offered dinner in exchange for a reading before. She’s not sure how to feel about it, honestly. She doesn’t want people to start thinking they owe her anything in exchange for hydromancy, but well, she’s never been one to reject free food.

“We’d love to,” Cyno answers for her before she can formulate a response.

She shoots Cyno a warning glance. Cyno’s response is a deadpan stare. Just deal with it, his eyes seem to say.

Grandma serves a humble but delicious dinner of biryani and freshly-cut fruit. It’s the best biryani Mona’s ever tasted, though admittedly, she hasn’t tasted much. Still, it’s leagues better than the one they serve at Lambad’s; the old woman should take up a job there, Mona thinks. Then the restaurant might see more business than Kaveh on a despondent Thursday night when he’s had a fight with Alhaitham.

She giggles at herself, and Cyno notices. 

“You did a good thing,” says the General. They’ve spent the better part of the dinner exchanging polite words, answering the old woman’s curious questions about the Akademiya and astrology. She’s in the kitchen now, serving yet another plate of fruit even though Mona and Cyno have told her they’re full.

Mona waves a dismissive hand. “Anyone with my abilities would have done the same.”

“If that were true,” his eyes darken, “I’d be out of a job.”

Oh. Between the biryani and the warm cups of chai, Mona’s almost forgotten who she’s dining with. 

“Every field has bad apples,” she amends. Puffing out her chest, she grins, “Though, as the Great Astrologist herself, I’m proud to represent mine.”

“Empty words,” Cyno says bluntly.

“Empty—huh?” She squints. “Excuse me?”

“You’re putting on a show,” he gestures towards her. “You don’t actually mean what you’re saying.”

“And how would you know that, General?”

“Intuition,” he doesn’t waste his words. “Today, you’re a good person who did a good thing. Do yourself the kindness of understanding that.”

*

When she recounts the story to Wanderer in bed, he snorts, running a finger through her hair. 

“Humans are shallow everywhere,” he sneers, “But the people here are less so. At least, compared to that city of yours—though Mondstadt sets an incredibly low bar, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Of course she would be grateful you helped her find her grandson, fool.”

“Don’t be crass,” she flicks his nose. The mention of Mondstadt brings an ache to her chest, but she ignores it. “I’m just saying her reaction was uniquely kind. I wonder if she runs a charity of some sort—that’s why she was penniless. Perhaps I can make a donation of some kind if she does…”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “And where will you find the money to make such a donation, between the thick manuscripts and shiny equipment that you’re always purchasing?” 

“You are insufferable,” she suffocates him with kisses so that he’s no longer able to speak. Unfortunately, he seems far too pleased with her vengeance, pulling her on top of him and returning her kisses with equally ferocious ones of his own. “You are insufferable, and rude, and arrogant—”

“And yours,” he cuts off. “Just as you’re mine. Don’t forget that, mage.”

“How can I forget when you remind me every day?” She chides, squishing his face. 

“Maybe I wouldn’t need to keep reminding you if you weren’t always running off somewhere,” he retorts. 

“I’m not running off,” Mona pouts. “I’m doing research, and my research requires me to observe the skies. I rather thought you’d be used to it by now.”

“Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and you’re not by my side,” he scoffs. “I don’t think any sane person’s ever going to get used to that.”

“Ah, but we’ve well established that you’re not sane.”

“Because of you,” Wanderer tightens his grip. “Because my lover is a madwoman who disappears at odd hours and runs around in strange places chasing stars that may or may not exist. You can’t blame me for wanting reassurance.”

The mention of it quiets Mona. 

Some few months ago, Wanderer proposed the next step to their relationship. She didn’t expect him to do that, knowing the kind of person he is—she thought he would need more time. He’s lost so much, and he’s been the cause of so much loss, too; there are nights when Mona sees the ghosts of his sins haunting his features, those hollow eyes staring at the wall as he reminisces all the blood he’s spilled in the name of godhood. She’s fine with it—he required a slow approach, and so did she.

Apparently not.

Apparently, the sheer number of times Wanderer’s been abandoned made him feel like he needed to lock down every good thing in his life the moment they were in his hands. And so, when the opportunity came—the first time she visited his home, with her body wrapped in robes and exhausted from hours of lovemaking—he pushed a marriage proposal.

And she…

She told him she needed to think about it.

“Give me time,” Mona begs, reaching for his hand. “I just—this is happening so fast. Give me time.”

Emotions flash in his eyes; rage, entitlement, possessiveness. Those blue irises hold a storm that no one in Teyvat is capable of comprehending, not even Mona herself. But she’s seen it in glimpses, in brief seconds. She sees it now in the way his fingers twitch—as if he’s torn between reciprocating her touch or wrapping his palms around her neck.

“Okay,” he says slowly, dangerously. “I’ll give you time.”

Gently, she kisses Wanderer’s cheek. 

He seems to notice the shift in her mood, and lets go of her.

She curls up next to him, her head on his shoulder. “I meant what I said, you know,” she mumbles, “About needing time. I don’t… I want to be with you, for however long you’ll love me. I don’t intend to leave you. I’m just—sorting things out, that’s all.”

“For however long you’ll love me,” he mocks, raising the pitch of his voice to imitate hers. “You make it sound as if this is temporary. Like I’m just another one of the idiots in your hometown who sees something shiny and throws it away when they’re done with it.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No,” Wanderer says. “No, you didn’t.” 

He turns around, and that’s the end of it.

But for Mona, it’s not that easy.

“Marriage?” Barbeloth snorts, surveying the book in her hand. She took it directly from under Mona’s bed, where the sixteen-year-old girl took great measures to hide it from her demanding teacher. “This book ends in marriage?”

“Yes.” At the height of her teenage years, Mona’s grown far bolder in talking back to her. Still, though—she’d rather avoid an argument. “Most romance books tend to end that way, you see. Otherwise, it’d be categorised as a romantic tragedy, and sold on a different shelf.”

“And whyever would my student—who claims she intends to join the Hexenzirkel someday—read books about people who end up married?” Barbeloth questions. “Marriage brings nothing but distractions. We both know this, and we know it well.”

Mona considers her next move. “Alice is married,” she decides to say, “And she’s one of the most powerful members of the Hexenzirkel.”

“A clever choice, using an example as an answer,” Barbeloth acquits. For a brief moment, Mona’s entire world shines brilliant gold. Praises from her are so few and far in-between, Mona’s learned to hoard every single one like treasure. The shine, however, is immediately dimmed when Barbeloth adds, “You seem to be forgetting one key point, however: you are not Alice. You are nowhere near Alice’s power.”

“But I can be,” Mona argues. “I’ll be as powerful as Alice someday, and then—only then—I’ll fall in love. I swear it. You’ll see.”

“Student of mine,” Barbeloth preens, crossing her legs, “Be careful with the promises you make.” 

*

The next half of this story involves a friend. Several friends, to be technical.

One such friend is Kaveh, darling of Sumeru’s architecture division.

The Rtawahist Darshan has requested him to build a new stargazing tower for them with a rather handsome fee. They’ve included an additional fee so that he could hire a consultant, too. For some reason, despite knowing hundreds of Akademiya-licensed scholars who would be more than willing to help, he’s chosen Mona as his expert on the project.

“I just don’t understand why you need me,” Mona tells him over tea. “You have the entire Rtawahist department to choose from. I’m not even in the Akademiya.”

“But you’re the best and brightest,” he says firmly, “And don’t argue with me on this. I’ve asked around. I’ve done my research. I’ve listened to Layla’s two-hour rant about your entire publication history. You can do things no one in the Darshan can, and that counts for something. That’s the exact kind of mind I want on my project.” 

“Your project is a building, not a research,” she reminds. “You’ll want someone who’s familiar with community, with working in large teams—again, someone who’s in the Akademiya. My expertise, though brilliant as I am, means nothing when you intend to build a structure.”

“You see things others can’t,” Kaveh replies, eyes wide as saucers. “Trust me. Just meet me tomorrow night at my house to discuss basic plans, and if you still feel like you’re not up for the task, I’ll let it go.”

“Your house,” Mona smirks, “That you share with Alhaitham?”

“Don’t speak that man’s name,” he hisses, lowering his voice. 

It is, indeed, the house that he shares with Alhaitham. 

“I’m not sure why a woman of your reputation would willingly spend her free time with Kaveh,” Alhaitham says when he opens the door for her, “But I won’t question it.”

“I’m helping him with a project,” Mona supplies. Other people’s domestic problems are none of her business. “If you must know, he’s paying for my expertise.”

“With imaginary Mora, I’m sure.”

Something about their dynamic—about Alhaitham gently chiding Kaveh’s money habits—reminds her of Wanderer. Where will you find the money to make such a donation, between the thick manuscripts and shiny equipment that you’re always purchasing?

Mona doesn’t say that, though. That’s something for them to settle.

She finds Kaveh in the living room, maps and building plans sprawled across the table. Mona joins him on the carpeted floor as Alhaitham retreats to his quarters.

“Did he say anything mean to you?” Kaveh accuses. “If he did, allow me to apologise on his behalf. I swear, he doesn’t know how to act—”

“He said nothing of the sort, Kaveh,” Mona gently interrupts, holding back a laugh. “Now tell me about your building.” 

Kaveh’s eyes light up, unfurling a blueprint so he can explain. Mona’s never actually seen him in his element before, when he enters the headspace of an architect and becomes a master of the craft. Regrettably, he’s usually drunk and upset whenever she finds him, so this is a refreshing change. He’s brilliant and energetic, his hands moving this way and that to emphasise key points, his tone swelling with pride as he explains important aspects of the building. Mona quickly learns that he possesses a strong work ethic; he’s structured and precise, but also imaginative, keenly aware of his own goals and the amount of effort it takes to achieve them.

What ends up becoming of his grand ideas is the diagram of an extravagantly tall building, a skyscraper that pierces the clouds with a retractable glass dome. It’s an honourable plan, one that she would love to see finished, but she quickly finds the flaws.

“Your idea is good,” she starts to say when he’s finished his excited ramble, “But I think you’re putting too much priority on how tall the building is. Trajectory matters as much to astrology as height does—maybe even more. So many of the stars we see are best visible when we’re looking at them from an angle, and not upwards.”

Instead of looking dejected, Kaveh looks receptive. He turns the blueprint to her and hands her a pen with red correction ink. “How do you mean?”

“Here,” she draws a line from the roof of the building to the edge of the blueprint. “I don’t know how many forms of astrology your building intends to accommodate—”

“As many of them as possible,” Kaveh answers immediately.

Mona stifles a smile. “... But even the most basic forms of astrology would require some degree of leverage from the scholar. Imagine you’re on the edge of a cliff…”

That’s when they brainstorm. They look through all the blueprints, maps, and plans, breaking down every single one and highlighting which part works, which doesn’t. Through the process, Mona ends up learning a little bit about architecture: the very basics of beam structures, the necessary qualities of a sturdy foundation, and the philosophy behind Sumeru’s many building styles. She hopes she’s imparting some astrological knowledge onto Kaveh, too—he looks like he’s genuinely interested in what she’s saying, asking further about the theories of scrying when he’s confused and clarifying certain thoughts in his head.

It’s… Nice. Collaborating with a friend like this, it’s nice. She’s not keen on holding red ink—I’m failing him, I’m tearing down his work, I’m showing him how worthless he is how worthless I am how worthless we all are—but then she catches the sight of Kaveh’s face, all pleasant and smiling, and she calms down. Remembers where she is: in the living room of Kaveh and Alhaitham’s house. Not in the cold study of her master’s Mondstadt home.

Speaking of Alhaitham, he shows up in the middle of their discussion. He comes to them—to Kaveh—with a plate of pomegranates, sets it on the table, then leaves without offering a sentence. Mona gives Kaveh a funny look, to which Kaveh responds with a sharp, “Just ignore him.”

“See, I knew I was right to ask for your help,” Kaveh says once they’ve decided to take a break, scooping pomegranate into his mouth.

“Today’s discussion was illuminating,” Mona hums in agreement. “I learned a lot about architecture. I wonder if I can implement that into my hydromancy, somehow. Oh, perhaps an article about how city structures affect the quality of one’s scrying? Yes, that would be interesting…”

“Run it through me when you write that, if you’d like,” Kaveh suggests. “Maybe I can help. Though, if anything, today’s proved I know fuck-all about astrology…”

“What you don’t know doesn’t matter,” Mona cuts through his self-deprecation. “It’s what you’re willing to learn that makes you who you are.” Then she grins to ease the tension, “I’d have thought being in the Akademiya would give you a significant boost in your ego.”

“Oh, trust me, it does,” Kaveh peacocks, patting his chest. Then he grimaces, “Some more than others—like that lover of yours. I still don’t know what you see in him.”

“Wanderer’s a gentleman once you get past his prickly side.”

“Is he?”

“No,” Mona laughs. “But he knows me like no one else does—and I know him.” 

“That’s a very…” He tries to find the right word, “Scholarly way of looking at love. Just the simple act of knowing each other.”

“Would it kill you to stop comparing me to him for just one day?” Mona shouts, turning around so that Barbeloth doesn’t see the tears building in her eyes.

She doesn’t have to look to know Barbeloth’s expression: wry amusement, a hand tapping that velvet armchair of hers, shoulders relaxed like she has all the time in the world. She’s lived longer than anyone Mona knows, and there’s no tantrum she can offer that Barbeloth hasn’t seen before.

“I compare you to him because I know you,” Barbeloth says. Mona’s just turned in another reading, and the quality of her work was… Subpar, to say the least. And she’s fine with that; she can handle constructive criticism. She just wishes the old hag would stop bringing up Albedo every time Mona does something that doesn’t match her standard. “I know you better than anyone else. I’ve known you from the moment your father left you on my doorstep, from the moment you read your first constellation when you were five. I know your quirks, your strengths, your flaws. I know you better than anyone else in this world—a crucial fact that you ought to do your best to remember the next time I tell you something about yourself.”

Mona doesn’t say anything. She pretends to look at a random bookshelf, surveying the books as if she might find salvation there.

“Am I understood, Mona?”

Mona sets her jaw, silent. She won’t give Barbeloth the satisfaction of a vulnerable response.

“I asked you a question,” Barbeloth flicks her wrist. The book closest to Mona’s hand flies off its shelf, falling to the floor inches away from her foot. “Am I or am I not understood?”

She grits her teeth. “Yes, Master,” Mona says, “I understand.”

“I think it’s about more than knowing,” Mona grabs one of the pomegranates. “It’s about… Seeing, too. Seeing the truth of who someone is, and accepting it.”

Kaveh tilts his head. “Isn’t knowing worth more than simply seeing?”

“I wouldn’t look at it that way. It’s not enough to know that your housemate likes pomegranates,” she teases, gesturing to the plate between them. “It’s also worth to see how much they enjoy the fruit; see the situation they’re in, and wonder, It’d be nice if they had some pomegranates to accompany them.”

“I see what you mean,” he huffs, face red. Then he smiles, “You’re very wise, you know. About more than just astrology. Cyno told me you helped an old woman find her grandson.” 

Mona flushes. “I was just doing my responsibility as a respectable astrologist,” she puffs her chest.

“It’s honourable either way,” he wiggles his spoon through the pomegranate flesh. “I’m sure your city—Mondstadt, was it?—misses you. And to think you left a crowd of fans to live with Hat Guy…”

“Ah.” She sets down her spoon, awkward. “I didn’t have fans in Mondstadt.”

He blinks. “No? But your fanbase here in Sumeru is intense.”

She’s yet to interact with said Sumeru fanbase, but she appreciates the response. “Well,” she clears her throat, “Mondstadt and Sumeru perceive astrology differently. It’s just how things are.”

“So they’re not big on science?”

Mona wants to confirm his suspicions, tell him Mondstadt values freedom more than rigid academic progress. Of course the scientific arts wouldn’t be big in Mondstadt, she thinks to say. The people are more concerned with making sure everyone’s safe and happy, fed and clothed and loved with warm bonds linking together outstretched hands.

But then she remembers Albedo. 

“Aunt Barbie congratulated me on my new position,” Albedo says, looking up from his desk.

They’re in his Dragonspine lab together, exchanging notes on their recent project. Even with the mountains’ cold, almost everlasting winter, nothing sends shivers down Mona’s spine like the mention of her master—or the mention of her master with Albedo.

“Did she?” She shoots him a smile. “That’s to be expected. Chief Alchemist is a big deal.”

Of course she did. Mona knows this already. Knows it through the letter Barbeloth’s just sent last night, in which she wrote—with excruciating detail—how hilarious it was that Rhinedottir’s boy could covet such an illustrious position while Mona still lived in the edge of the city, struggling to get people to take her astrology seriously. It’s the final nail in the coffin, the dagger through an already bleeding heart; the culmination of years of being compared to the man that stands in front of her.

But he’s her friend. Above everything, he’s her friend. She loves him more than she hates Barbeloth’s words. 

“Do you think this is a step in the right direction?” Albedo smiles back. “To getting Mondstadt’s common people to listen to science more, I mean?”

“Maybe,” she sits next to him. “I can’t scry something that involves the fate of so many people like this, but I have high hopes.” 

The last part’s unspoken: high hopes for you, at least.

“I have high hopes, too,” Albedo beams. It’s rare that he’s so expressive. He truly is ecstatic about this, and Mona’s happy to see it. “Soon, alchemy and astrology will be as important to Mondstadt as the teachings of freedom.”

Albedo is rarely ever wrong, but even in that moment, Mona can already tell he’s wrong about this. Alchemy, yes. Astrology, not so much.

It doesn’t matter, though. In this cavern laboratory, all she’s thinking about is him and her master, him and her master. 

She wants to ask Barbeloth: if you had to choose between Albedo and I, who would it be?

She wants to ask Albedo: if you had to choose between Barbeloth and I, who would it be?

(The answer, as it turns out, comes far too easy for the both of them.)

“Things have been changing, especially in the past few years,” she says slowly. “My—” friend, rival, the first person I ever lo— “colleague, was named the Chief Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius a few years back. Ever since then, people there have been far more receptive towards science.”

“Science in general?”

Here’s where it stings.

“Mostly alchemy,” she says breezily. “But I’m sure Mondstadt’s citizens will someday be open to astrology.” Then she adds as a joke, “I’ve been working very hard to open them, after all.”

Kaveh rubs his chin, silent and contemplative.

“It seems to me like Mondstadt people are only willing to listen to science if it comes with a shiny military title,” he muses.

Anger flares in Mona’s gut, instinctive.

How dare he? How dare he? What does Kaveh know about Mondstadt? Mona’s the one who grew up there. As frustrated as she is with its people’s attitude in regards to her field, the memories of the Anemo nation cling to her still.

The salt air wafting to her nose as she runs down the docks of Dornman Port. The smell of freshly-baked bread in the street just in front of the Church of Favonius. The feeling of her mother threading her fingers through Mona’s toddler hair, replaced by the feeling of Barbeloth’s hands binding it in tight twintails. The weight of her first astrology textbook in her arms, the glow that expanded in her heart when her master finally started trusting her to use a telescope. The magic of her ten-year-old senses performing hydromancy, the sudden rush of arcane knowledge that flooded through her veins as she experienced what it’s like to be a true scholar.

Dragonspine, Mondstadt City, Starfell Valley. Her family’s humble cottage by the sea. Her mentor’s looming manor just behind a tower of mountains. 

Fischl, Albedo, Jean. Barbeloth, the Hexenzirkel, her parents.

Her homeland—hers, forever hers.

“That’s not true,” Mona objects, furrowing her brows. “The people of Mondstadt are honest, good people. It’s an old country, and it’s been through a lot, so yes—it might be a little slow to new ideas, but it’s still a dignified nation. Do recognise how rude it is to make assumptions about places you’ve never been to.”

Kaveh looks taken aback, as if he wasn’t expecting her sudden defensiveness.

Honestly, she wasn’t expecting it either. She doesn’t even know where it came from. She can’t recall ever feeling so strongly for Mondstadt before. Not until now, here, when someone else is questioning the integrity of her country.

“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly. “I… Didn’t know you have such a strong attachment to your country.”

“I didn’t know either,” Mona echoes, staring at the table. Drumming her fingers on the floor, she mumbles, “I’ve made things awkward, haven’t I?”

“Not at all,” the architect lies, hands flailing about.

She looks at him. Kaveh wears his heart on his sleeve; he’s always been too emotive for his own good.

“Okay,” he sucks in a breath, “Maybe a little. Just… Couldn’t help but notice some unresolved issues there.”

“No such thing,” Mona says quickly, straightening her back. “I was a little surprised, that’s all. No one’s ever spoken poorly of my country in front of me before. Except for Wanderer, that is—but he speaks poorly of almost everything and everyone.”

“That he does,” Kaveh chuckles. “If you don’t mind me asking, Mona… When he speaks poorly of Mondstadt, what does he say?”

“Nonsense,” she huffs, recounting Wanderer’s words verbatim. “That it’s a nation of idiots, that I’m the only person there with half a brain, that everyone who calls me a scammer should ‘choke on their own curses and die.’ Of course, I am intelligent, but not because everyone else in my country is a fool. I’m an accomplished scholar—it just so happens that Mondstadt hasn’t yet seen the value of astrology.”

“You love your homeland,” Kaveh observes.

“About as much as anyone else does,” she shrugs. “Don’t you love Sumeru?”

He looks like he’s choosing his next words carefully. “I love it enough to want to correct its flaws,” he settles, “Of which it has many.” 

“It’s the same for me. Mondstadt’s lack of respect for astrology is a flaw—one I’m working to change someday.” The air between them hangs heavy with the weight of two nations. Scholars alike, but from different countries; one that values academia and one that values wine. “I’m not giving up just because it takes time. What kind of astrologist would I be then?”

“The kind that values self-preservation,” Kaveh’s response comes quick. She should have expected this, truly; he’s just as clever as she is. Of course he would be able to counter her points.

Mona doesn’t consider herself a resident of Sumeru yet. She still owns the lease to her apartment in Mondstadt, which she visits regularly. When she does, she’ll stay for a few days, a week at most, and she’ll visit Fischl, take a lovely hike in the mountains, visit Cider Lake. She likes the arrangement; she intends to keep it that way.

His answer makes her wonder, though. If perhaps, she’s wasting her efforts in trying to convince Mondstadt of astrology’s uses. If she’d be better off permanently moving to Sumeru, where her talents are not only appreciated, but celebrated—by a rather intense readerbase, according to her Kshahrewar friend. If her loyalty to the Anemo nation is onesided, merely the futile wishes of a starry-eyed little girl longing to be a part of something bigger than herself.

But—no. She’s not studying astrology for fame or prestige. She’s studying it because it’s who she is, because she’s a truthseeker in search of answers. 

Still, though. It would be nice to receive applause instead of scrutiny, for once. 

Albedo could do it, she thinks, head spinning. Mondstadt didn’t care about alchemy either before he showed up. But then he changed everything. He could do it, so why can’t I? 

Why can’t I?

Why can’t I?

Am I really falling behind?

Was she right all along?

Does she really know me better than everyone else?

Even now—even after I haven’t seen her in years?

“Mona?” Kaveh’s gentle probing snaps her out of her spiral.

“My apologies,” Mona says. “Thank you for today, Kaveh. You’ve been delightful company. If you need any more help from me, feel free to reach out.”

The stare that he gives her makes her want to crumble. His eyes are soft, almost pitying; she doesn’t want to be pitied. She hates pity. What reason does he have to pity her?

Because you love something that doesn’t love you back, a voice in her head whispers.

“I’m not going to act like I know how you feel,” he starts, “But… You should talk to Nilou. I have a feeling she might be able to understand you. And she’s one of the smartest people I know, too. I mean,” he coughs, a flash of irritation, “Some people here—close-minded people, by the way—will tell you her craft is lesser, and that’s because they’re idiots. But it’s precisely why I think she’ll understand you.”

“There’s nothing I need to talk about,” she denies, huffing. “I don’t need to be comforted over non-issues, thank you very much.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Suit yourself,” he grins weakly. “But I’m your friend, Mona. So is Nilou. It’s not a bad thing to confide in your friends.”

“You speak of your illustrious lineage, yet you also refer to your master as a ‘hag’ and a ‘stubborn dimwit.’ Which of these descriptions is accurate?” Albedo asks on one Thursday afternoon.

Mona’s head snaps towards him, surprised. She’s just gone on a long rant about Barbeloth, about how often she’s compared Mona to Albedo growing up, about the bitterness that festered in her heart because of it long before the two of them even met. There’s even tears building in her eyes, but at the genuine curiosity—curiosity, not sympathy—in Albedo’s tone, she quickly blinks them away.

She looks at him for several moments, waiting. Waiting for him to say something, to offer words that are more than just scientific questions. 

She’s never thought of it, the way she speaks so highly of Barbeloth one moment and drags her name through the dirt in the next. She didn’t expect to think of it now, when she’s confiding in her friend.

Albedo stares back, inquisitive.

Right. He’s… Not good with feelings. It’s not his fault. The intricacies of personal relationships are often lost on a genius like him, whose mind is occupied with far more important things—like the ingredients for his next alchemical project.

“Hmph.” She throws her hair behind her shoulder. “The techniques passed down to me are exceptional, of course, but my teacher is not my equal. Does she know the market rates for eggs, butter, or wheat? In this regard, I have already far surpassed her.”

She’s never confided in him since then.

“Of course,” Mona says emptily. “What are we without our friends?”

*

Kaveh’s finalised blueprint is met with resounding success from the Akademiya, so Mona hears. She’s glad the institution’s moving forward with their plan, even though she herself has no intention of being too involved with Akademiya proceedings.

Which is why she’s surprised when she receives a letter one day, requesting her presence for a guest lecture in a Rtawahist class with a generous compensation.

Mona’s given a lecture for the Rtawahist class before—only once, in the past, before she and Wanderer became proper lovers. When they were still running around their emotions like children, terrified of confronting the vulnerability that comes with caring for each other. Her Sumeru fanbase was still newly growing, then, and beyond the typical enthusiasm of a knowledge-hungry scholar, she didn’t find much besides one or two students blushing and making moony eyes at her as she talked in front of the lecture hall. 

If you think your skill level is fit to give lectures, be my guest. I pity the unfortunate student whose introduction to astrology is through your drivel. 

To no one’s surprise, Barbeloth wasn’t supportive of her prospects back then. She made the mistake of writing a letter to her master seconds after she received the offer, and Barbeloth’s response boiled down to a scathing, passive-aggressive rant about how she thought Mona was just embarrassing herself. And that’s precisely why Mona doesn’t intend on writing to her again, now, as she considers whether to give a second lecture or not. 

She decides to accept, in the end. The pay is good, and it gives her more room to practice explaining astrology at a simplified level. She needs to get better at that if she wants Mondstadt to accept her field someday.

On the day of the lecture, Layla greets her at the gates of the Akademiya.

“I’m your assistant for today,” she greets, breaking out of her sleepy daze as her eyes glimmer with excitement. “I’m… I’m the one who handled all the registrations, the one who booked the lecture hall, the one who prepared all the items that you—you requested for. I’m so, so honoured to do this for you. I’m so—oh, you won’t believe how many people signed up for your lecture.”

“Lead the way,” Mona smiles.

She has a certain fondness in her heart for the young Rtawahist student. When they first met, the girl was stuttering and gasping through her words, barely able to look Mona in the eye as she explained what a huge fan she was. Their interactions since then have been marked with more or less the same flustered behavior, though she’s mellowed down slightly the more they keep seeing each other. Mona understands that Layla admires her; Nilou and Kaveh, on the other hand, think Layla has a crush. The fact that Mona sometimes catches Layla glaring at Wanderer definitely doesn’t help dissuade the nonsense theory.

Even so, Mona likes Layla. She’s sweet, helpful, and brimming with a passion for the stars. 

Layla leads her down the hall of the Rtawahist department’s structure, and Mona expects to enter when she passes the classroom she used for her first lecture. But Layla keeps walking, and Mona follows her up a flight of stairs until they eventually reach a heavy set of double doors that looks far too extravagant to be the entrance of a classroom. Mona’s suspicions are proven right when Layla pushes the doors open, revealing not a classroom, but an auditorium large enough for the entire Church of Favonius worshippers to sit comfortably.

Mona turns to Layla, bemused. “Are you sure you didn’t book the wrong hall?”

“Nope,” Layla shakes her head. “I… At first, we were going to use a classroom, the way we did at—when you had your first lecture. But when the registrations opened, so many people signed up, and I couldn’t—” she fumbles for the papers in her arms, “I couldn’t… Fit them all into one classroom. The sages gave me permission to use the auditorium. I hope—” she looks down, cheeks flushing— “I hope that’s okay with you.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Mona squeezes Layla’s shoulder. “I’m honoured so many people signed up. Come on—help me unpack my things.”

“Okay,” Layla chirps, nodding rapidly. She tails after Mona as Mona approaches the main desk, opening her bag to take out the necessary tools. An astrolabe, several books, a handmade projector, a spectrometer, her best diagrams… Layla helps her nail them to the wall just so that the sunlight shines on them perfectly. Soon, all she has left to do is wait for the students to show up.

The students show up in droves—never singular, always as a group. She’s always found that to be one of the most interesting aspects of academic institutions; how learning is done as a collective. She tries to flash a smile at each and every student as they sit down, but then another batch of students arrive. And another batch. And another batch. And another, another, another. It’s not long until she loses track of all the heads walking inside the room. 

“Told you a lot of people signed up,” Layla mumbles under her breath.

“That you did,” Mona acknowledges her oversight, staring at the ocean of faces in front of her. She feels like she’s about to perform a music show, not a lecture. “I just wasn’t expecting this many.”

Finally, at thirty-eight minutes past nine (her lecture was supposed to start at exactly nine-thirty a.m.), it seems like all the students have arrived. The crowd settles, and Mona takes center stage, doing a quick headcount. It’s somewhere in the hundreds; she’s not sure, and she doesn’t want to stroke her own ego—even if she does think she deserves it, sometimes.

All of these people have come here to listen to her. 

Mona doesn’t like to be insecure of her own intellectual prowess, and she knows very well that she possesses an audience. Her column for the Steambird is one of the newspaper’s most popular reads, and she’s received letters here and there of people telling her that her articles made them interested in astrology.

Still, though. An audience is one thing; an audience laid out in the flesh before her eyes is something else entirely.

And to think you used to give me so much lip for comparing you to Rhine’s boy when you were small. Now, look at you both. He’s made quite a name for himself. I know Mondstadt’s never even had a Chief Alchemist before; that title they’ve given him is one that’s been made specially for him. 

You, on the other hand… I’m hearing nothing about you, other than what Alice tells me through her daughter’s letters. Is that your only admirer, student of mine? A ten-year-old little girl who sees the best in everyone? You live in a rented apartment, so Klee says. You can’t even get people to believe your readings on a good day, and on a bad day, you’ve been called a scammer, a fraud, and worse. You’re oh-so sad about it, apparently. I’m sure you don’t need me to inform you how pathetic that is. Respect is something you demand, not beg for.

No wonder you can hardly get anyone to listen to you.

Mona steadies her trembling hands and steps forward. 

“Good morning,” she begins, holding her head high. “Thank you all for coming here…”

She conducts her lecture. There’s a bit of a stumble in the beginning, a slight buffer on her words; she’s never had the attention of so many people before. She wonders if this is what life is like for Albedo as the Chief Alchemist, having the entire Knights of Favonius—and by extension, the entire city of Mondstadt—rely on you for advice. Even so, she’s quick to find her footing, and after that, everything flows smoothly.

The topic of her lecture is, of course, celestial shifts and their relations to a person’s fate. Her crowd is mostly made up of first-years; young enough that she has room to learn explaining from the base level, but experienced enough that she doesn’t feel like tearing her hair out from how much she has to dumb things down. Mona juggles through her points efficiently, laying them out one by one, detailing what the rise of one constellation might mean for another. How, then, does this affect people whose constellations are tangled close together? This is an easy topic to connect to young students, whose heads are so often filled with thoughts of love and romance. It’s so easy to spot their intrigue—it’s almost endearing. 

When she starts doing thought exercises, she walks around the lecture hall so that everyone has her attention equally. She throws out questions like bait, circles it into a discussion, pitting students against each other and bringing them together once they find common ground. She witnesses firsthand the debating skills that the Akademiya fosters; it’s competitive, and students have turned arguments into a verbal battlefield. 

No wonder Wanderer fits in, Mona thinks, amused. The memory of her lover brings a flutter to her heart—but with it comes the memory of their last conversation regarding their relationship. That part makes her stomach sink. 

You make it sound as if this is temporary. Like I’m just another one of the idiots in your hometown who sees something shiny and throws it away when they’re done with it.

When Mona wraps up the lecture, she’s met with thunderous applause and bright, hopeful eyes. Her chest tightens. She feels like her heart’s going to burst out of her ribcage any second now. 

Layla congratulates her on the seminar, and the two of them tidy things up as the students file out of the hall. Mona gathers the diagrams; Layla gathers the books. 

“Excuse me, Miss—Miss Megistus?” A small voice calls from behind her.

Mona turns around to see a group of five students standing near the stage, each one of them trying to hide behind each other (and failing, either due to constant shoving or a general lack of space). The frontmost student—a girl with light brown hair pulled into twintails, just like her—shuffles closer, hugging a notebook to her chest.

“Yes?” Mona responds, walking down the platformed steps. “Can I help you with something?”

The brunette girl squeaks, then jumps behind her friend—a dark-haired boy. The boy’s face turns bright red, and he drags the girl back to the front as he chides her under his breath. “You’re the one who said we should talk to her,” he whispers.

“But she’s so cool,” the girl whispers back.

“Of course she’s cool,” another student—silver-haired, almost like Cyno’s—whispers. “She’s Mona Megistus.”

Mona raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Not that a scholar like myself doesn’t appreciate a bit of mystery,” she clears her throat, “But I do have somewhere else I need to be after this, so I would appreciate an end to the cryptic behaviour.”

“I’m so sorry,” says the brunette girl, bowing her head. “I—we were—it was a really good lecture. I mean, the lecture you gave—it was really good.”

“We learned a lot,” a different student pipes up.

“So much,” says the dark-haired boy.

“We, um,” the silver-haired student stutters. “We’ve been a big fan of your work for a long time.”

“We have a book club,” the student at the very back of the group says. “We sit t-together every week and read one of your articles.”

“We’re starting the one you wrote about Liyue-based constellations this week,” the dark-haired boy chimes in. Something about him reminds her of Wanderer. If Mona ever has a child with that man, the child would probably look similar to this boy.

Not that that’s something I’m actively thinking of…

“I’m flattered,” Mona thanks them. “That’s a riveting article, indeed. The skies above Liyue harbor are unlike anywhere else in Teyvat.”

“Iwanttogotheresomeday,” the brunette girl blurts out.

The dark-haired boy shoves her.

“Oh,” she looks like she’s just remembered something. “Oh, right, um. We—we came here because we wanted to ask if… If maybe—if you could give us an autograph?”

Mona tilts her head. “An… Autograph?”

“For our book club pamphlet,” she continues, showing the notebook—which isn’t a notebook at all, but indeed, a pamphlet, just as stated. The words STARRY NIGHTS AND BRIGHT SKIES BOOK CLUB — MEETINGS WEEKLY EVERY FRIDAY 5.30 P.M. AT RTAWAHIST GARDEN are visible in the middle of a dark backdrop.

“It would mean a lot to us,” the silver-haired student pleads.

“Yeah,” the dark-haired boy nods eagerly. “We could brag about this to—”

One of his friends elbows his chest.

“O-of course, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” the brunette girl apologises, pulling the pamphlet back. “I’m sure you’re super busy—”

“I’d love to,” Mona interrupts, taking out a quill. She stretches her hand, “Your pamphlet, please.”

It’s a surreal experience, the act of signing her name for a gaggle of blushing fans. She’s always perceived signatures as a necessity for legal documents, or the mark of a displeased mentor expressed through letters. Barbeloth has a way of signing her name that lets Mona know just how disappointed the old hag is every time she sends a letter, and Mona’s learned to interpret it instinctively. Autographs aren’t for people like her, she thinks. They’re for celebrities, politicians, people with important positions. People like Alhaitham, the Chief Justice, the Tianquan.

People like Albedo, that nagging voice at the back of her mind whispers.

When she hands the pamphlet back to the students, they look at her like she’s a god. One of them has even started crying, tears flowing down round cheeks that haven’t outgrown the aftereffects of puberty.

Kids these days.

“Good luck with your book club,” she says. She grins at the dark-haired boy, “And please, do feel free to brag to whoever it is you intend to upstage.”

“His name’s Rizal, and he thinks he’s better than us because he owns the same astrolabe you own,” the boy says quickly. 

“Shut up,” one of his friends admonishes.

Mona stifles a laugh.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” the brunette girl bows, and the others fall into line, thanking her profusely and bowing as they skitter away.

As they walk away, Mona overhears the silver-haired student whisper, “Do you think she’d say yes if I asked her out?”

She almost chokes at the question. These children have to be at least six years her junior—

“You’re too stupid for her,” the dark-haired boy says, nudging his friend’s head. 

“Besides,” someone else chimes in, “I heard she’s already with Hat Guy—you know, the weirdo from the Vahumana Darshan.”

“Him?” The teenagers collectively gag.

Mona shakes her head, giggling inaudibly as she returns to the center table. 

“You’ve met your fans,” Layla grumbles when she comes back. “Sorry if they were bothering you.”

“I think they’re adorable, actually,” Mona rebuffs. 

The sleepy scholar lights up, blushing. “Really?”

“Mm-hm. I wasn’t quite expecting to be treated like a celebrity.”

“I thought you knew you had fans here,” Layla’s eyes are wide, owlish.

“I knew, but… Still. This was unexpected.” Mona buttons up her leather bag with everything already packed inside. Offering Layla a casual grin, she says, “It’s a far cry from how I was treated back home, that’s all. Why, even the most experienced scholars would be surprised at such a jarring change.”

Layla studies her intently, and it’s moments like these that Mona remembers despite the girl’s tired, dreamy visage, she’s still an Akademiya-raised scholar through and through. In a sudden show of boldness, she says, “If you ask me, the people back in your home were uselessly sitting on a pot of gold.” Then her shoulders shrink, and she’s back to being Layla; sweet, soft-tempered Layla. “I just wish… I wish you and people like Lisa Minci stayed in Sumeru. You’d be more appreciated here.”

It’s Mona’s turn to blush. She’s used to compliments—of course she is. As stubborn as Mondstadt is when it comes to astrology, she’s still had her fair share of people appreciating her talent, no matter what her teacher wants to claim. Still, though—it’s not a sin to appreciate every compliment she gets, and that’s exactly what she says.

“Your praises are very welcome,” she tries to sound as suave as possible, the perfect picture of confidence. She offers a hand, “Now, come on—let’s close up together.”

Layla takes it, fingers trembling.

Mona leaves the auditorium with a bounce in her step that she didn’t have when she walked in, the voice of Barbeloth in her mind quieting itself to silence.

*

Though Mona’s stay in Sumeru has been filled with pleasant surprises, the nation of wisdom soon reveals itself to be just like any other nation: a place that has good people, bad people, and everyone who exists in-between.

This revelation comes to her one Thursday afternoon, as she’s sitting in Lambad’s Tavern revising her upcoming article. The citation process isn’t one she particularly enjoys, but it’s crucial for academic integrity, so she puts just as much effort in it as she put into writing the article itself. She’s so engrossed in her work that she barely even notices a man slipping in the seat across from hers until he clears her throat, calling for her attention. 

Mona looks up. “Can I help you with something?” She asks, irritated. She was so close to finishing and heading home, where her lover waited with open arms and a sharp mouth.

“I’m told you’re the one I should go to for an accurate reading,” the man stutters, fidgeting. He appears to be a scholar from the Akademiya—the Amurta Darshan, based on his robes. “Can you help me?”

She bites back a frustrated sigh. It’s rather rude, to interrupt someone’s work just to demand something of them, but she’s not about to refuse. It is an astrologist’s sole responsibility to ensure that everyone—regardless of their background, regardless of their social status—has equal access to their own fate, and she doesn’t intend to abandon her duty because of personal feelings. “Of course I can,” she purses her lips, slightly displeased.

“How much do you charge?”

“Zero.” His line of questioning just irritates her further. “I don’t believe hydromancy requires charge.”

“Good, good,” the man breathes a sigh of relief. From his pocket, he takes out an old, crumpled photograph of a beautiful woman. The woman looks… Not unhappy, but not happy either. “My wife is missing. I haven’t seen her in months. Could you—could you find her?”

Mona takes the photograph, observing it. The nearest river is miles from Lambad’s, but she has a bowl of water on the table that she ordered so she could occasionally spritz her face to stay awake. She supposes it’ll have to do.

Looking into the reflection of herself on the bowl, she begins her divination process. She finds his wife’s constellation easily, diving into it and repeating the same steps she did for Grandma just last month.

But the memories that Mona sees are vastly different compared to the memories of Grandma’s beloved boy. She sees the messy interior of an otherwise lovely house; unwashed dishes, scattered clothes, children’s toys cluttering the floor of a long hall. She sees heated arguments behind closed doors, whispers that escalate to shouts reaching the ears of a little boy hiding in his room. She sees a failing marriage and a son caught in-between, eyes closed shut and tiny hands clasped over his ears.

And then she sees the culmination.

The woman in the photograph has prominent bags under her eyes in this vision. She’s packing clothes into a rucksack, and her husband’s not there, but their son is. Once she’s finished packing, the woman grabs his hand and walks to the door. She takes one last look at the home she’s leaving, and there is the answer to everything: longing for the marriage she’s throwing away, regret at having let their relationship—or letting herself—crumble this far. She’s wasted so many years of her life for this man, and she should have left at the first sign it wouldn’t work out. But she stayed, and now both her and her son are paying the price for it.

The memory changes, showing everything that comes next: a ticket to Fontaine, a deed for a house, papers detailing enrollment of the son to a nice Fontainian school. Despite everything that’s happened, the woman and her son have a decent life.

The flashback ends, and Mona returns to her booth at Lambad’s with trembling fingers.

This man’s just lied to her.

“Your wife isn’t missing,” she says slowly, softly. If she lets even a hint of emotion slip, she’s going to start yelling, and she won’t lose her composure like this. “But I suspect you already knew this.”

“What do you mean?” The man hisses defensively. “Of course my wife is missing, she’s not here—”

“Forgive me, I misspoke,” Mona laughs sardonically. “If you truly believed she was missing, you’d have asked me to find your son, too. But no. You only asked for your wife, because you know your son’s with her. You know she took him. I believe you know why, too.”

His demeanor switches completely. Where he was nervous and fidgety before, now, Mona finds the same ego and chauvinism that she’s certain is the reason why his ex-wife thought disappearing from his life would be easier than divorcing him. 

“I don’t appreciate what you’re implying,” the man raises his voice, turning heads. “If you know where my wife is, and you’re intentionally keeping it from me—”

“Ex-wife,” Mona corrects. “If you’re not going to respect her during your marriage, at least respect her now that it’s over.”

“How dare you?” He rises from his seat, hands slamming the table hard enough to shake it. Mona refrains from jumping; she won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. “The details of my marriage are none—none—of your business. I asked you to find her, and it seems you have, but you’re refusing to tell me—”

“Out of respect for her decision—”

“I’m the one who hired your services—”

“My ‘services’ aren’t something to be hired,” Mona fumes. She can’t start a shouting match here. Not when people are watching. “I don’t ask for payment; hydromancy is something I perform so that everyone can access their own fate—”

“No, no, no,” the man shakes his head, rubbing the wrinkles of his forehead as if it might change Mona’s answer. His face has turned red with anger, and there’s a kind of deranged look in his eyes that makes her wonder if she should just back away. “This is—this is your hook, isn’t it? You offer people free readings, get them to trust you, and then you scam them.”

“What?” Mona shrieks, forgetting that she’s meant to restrain herself. He’s a scholar affiliated with the Akademiya, for Archons’ sakes, not some farmer from Mondstadt—

“What’s going on here?” A familiar voice cuts in, firm.

Mona turns to see Kaveh, standing by her table with his arms folded. Behind him, Alhaitham’s settled down on the nearest table with a book in his hand. He doesn’t look like he’s paying attention to the conversation, unlike Kaveh. 

“Ah, Kaveh,” the man sighs. “Finally, someone of sound mind. This woman is trying to scam me—”

“I’ve done no such thing,” Mona objects. She, too, rises from her seat so that she’s at least on eye-level with this mongrel.

“She’s a hydromancer, or so she says,” the man sneers before she can get another word in. “I hired her to find the whereabouts of my wife, and she’s refusing to tell me what she saw. I’m starting to suspect it’s because she couldn’t see anything—”

“I’ve heard enough, Ishak,” Kaveh frowns. “I know Mona, and I know it’s impossible to hire her for her hydromancy. You haven’t paid her a single cent, which means she owes you nothing.”

Mona stares at Kaveh, stunned to silence. She might even be more shocked than Ishak the divorcee, honestly.

Is Kaveh… Defending her?

They’ve only known each other for a few months. She’s assisted his project once, but he paid for that—and the help she provided can’t possibly be worth getting into conflict with a respected member of the Akademiya.

She doesn’t understand him. Doesn’t understand what he wants at this moment, what he’s getting at.

Quickly, secretly, Mona performs a reading on him. Just the tip of the iceberg—she’d hate to violate his privacy.

She catches flashes of Kaveh’s inner thoughts: sympathy, pity, camaraderie. A sense of knowing what it’s like to be underestimated by others. A silent, begrudging, What an idiot. I hope this fool doesn’t make Mona think people in Sumeru are anything like Mondstadt.

Oh. 

He’s not playing some kind of game. He’s not getting anything out of this.

He’s defending her because he considers her to be his friend.

“Aunt Barbie was nothing but pleasant,” Albedo says over tea, the Traveler smiling beside him. 

Mona’s invited the both of them over to her home after she heard Barbeloth made a surprise appearance at Albedo’s trial. She hasn’t seen her master in years, and she loathes to write a letter after their last correspondence soured, but still. She’d like to know what the old hag’s been up to, even if they’re not on good terms.

“She was,” the Traveler nods, sipping her cup. “She gave us another challenge to help us prove ourselves, and once we finished, she told us what a great job we did.”

Mona stares, incredulous. “She did?”

That doesn’t sound like the Barbeloth she knows. The challenges are her style, yes; Mona’s been subjected to too many of her obstacles growing up. But the praise? The congratulations? That’s not Barbeloth at all. In the past, even if she went above and beyond to complete a task for the old witch, the most Barbeloth would give her was a grunt of approval. Praises were treasured gifts that emerged sparsely; comparisons were far more common.

“She did,” the Traveler grins, nudging Albedo’s shoulder. Mona feels her stomach turn to ash. “Mona, your teacher sure does have a sense of humor.”

“Does she?” Mona forces a laugh, her insides hollow.

“She sounds like she misses you,” the Traveler says fondly. “That wasn’t even the only time she brought you up out of nowhere.” 

Mona refrains from looking too excited, lest she make a fool out of herself. “What else did she say?”

“Only that we did marvelously,” Albedo says cryptically, and she gets the feeling that there is something he’s keeping from her. Like her, the alchemist has never been good at telling lies. Sure enough, he casts shy glances at the Traveler from underneath his lashes, like he’s scared of getting caught staring but he can’t keep himself from it anyway. “And that if we were to find you, we should gloat about it.”

“That sounds like her, alright,” Mona snorts. Her chest hurts. “And here the two of you are, gloating to me.”

“We’re not gloating to you,” the Traveler says good-naturedly. Neither she and Albedo haven’t caught onto the undertone of bitterness in Mona’s words, and she’s grateful for it—she doesn’t need the conflict that comes from that confrontation. “You asked us what she’s like, and we’re telling you. She misses you, Mona, and she loves you.” Her eyes soften, “Won’t you write to her? It’s good to keep your loved ones in your life, you know.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Mona smiles sweetly, knowing how much the Traveler misses her brother. Mona genuinely hopes she finds him soon. “Just out of curiosity, did the two of you say anything to her? When she mentioned me, I mean?”

It’s the most pathetic question she’s ever had to ask. She feels like she’s debasing herself just by speaking the words, honestly. But there’s a part of her that burns to know, aches for the truth of her good friends’ responses to her master’s taunting. It is hypocritical of a scholar like her to mask the real questions behind pretty words, but she screams it anyway in the depths of her own mind: Did you defend me? Did you say anything in regards to me? Did you think of me at all?

She hopes they hear this silent meaning. She hopes they don’t. It’s not like Albedo’s ever defended her when the citizens of Mondstadt call her a liar, anyway.

“We didn’t have time,” the Traveler sounds apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mona. I would have loved to speak with her more, but she just went and disappeared.”

“Aunt Barbie tends to do that. She’s always had an unpredictable temperament,” Albedo laughs fondly. He turns to the Traveler, “That’s why I was glad to have you by my side during the trials.”

“Hey, I was only there because you said you needed someone to keep you in check,” the Traveler flicks his forehead affectionately. 

“I can think of no one better for the task,” he nods sagely, then laughs again.

Well. That easily answers all three of Mona’s questions. She watches them giggle and make playful jabs at each other, drinking their tea as they reminisce about everything they saw in Alice’s domain. The moving chess pieces, the board’s sudden flip, the arrival of Barbeloth as a toy… It sounds like quite the adventure. One she wasn’t a part of, despite being a witch’s apprentice, too. Despite having dreamed of joining the Hexenzirkel since she was a little girl.

They’re going to join together when the time comes, her and Albedo. That’s been the plan since they first befriended each other. Since the moment Mona saw those wide, glacier eyes, and understood why Barbeloth has been comparing her to this man her entire life.

It occurs to Mona, right then and there—staring at Albedo and the Traveler making eyes at one another across her silver tea set—that she’ll never have Albedo like this.

Ishak’s cutting voice sends her barreling back to the present.

“That may be the case,” he grits, “But that doesn’t change the possibility that her readings might be fake. She could be spreading falsehoods, for all we know—why else won’t she answer where my wife is?”

“Perhaps because your wife doesn’t want to be found,” Mona says sharply, “Least of all by you.”

“That—that’s preposterous,” Ishak splutters. He gives Kaveh a beseeching look, “See what I mean? She’s clearly spouting lies.”

Kaveh shrugs. “With the rumors I’ve been hearing, I’m inclined to believe her.”

“Then you’re an even bigger fool than she is,” Ishak spits. “Maybe it’s true, what they say about the Light of Kshahwerar—that he can’t keep money in his pocket.” 

Kaveh clenches his jaw. “Why, you—”

“Are you questioning their scholar’s integrity?” Comes Alhaitham’s voice, a cool knife slicing through the heat of their screaming match.

Ishak blinks, looking at Alhaitham—who hasn’t even bothered to lift his head from his book.

“I—” Ishak looks baffled. “What I meant to say was—”

“Because if you are, you know the rules,” the scribe continues. “You can debate them openly in front of a committee of relevant experts. I could call the General and have it arranged right now.”

“Those rules only apply to members of the Akademiya,” Ishak huffs. He points his index finger to Mona, “This woman is no Akademiya scholar.”

“She’s been a guest lecturer twice,” Alhaitham reminds.

“Which means her name’s in our archives,” Kaveh nods, flanking Mona. “She’s one of us.”

One of us.

“You don’t have to do this,” she mumbles to Kaveh. The whole tavern’s watching their scuffle now.

“Nonsense,” Kaveh whispers. “I’ve got personal beef with that guy, too. He’s trouble to everyone, not just you.” 

Having realised the odds are stacked against him, Ishak curls his lip in disgust. He turns his heel and walks away, out the tavern, slamming the door behind him as he leaves. The impact is hard enough to rattle the front side of the tavern, shocking a random server who happens to be passing by.

“I…” Mona looks at Kaveh, then Alhaitham, back to Kaveh. “You shouldn’t have gotten yourselves involved. It might affect your standing in the Akademiya.”

“My position’s too cemented to be affected by something so ridiculous,” Alhaitham deadpans.

“Besides,” Kaveh grins warmly, “You probably had a reason for keeping the truth from him. I’ve had colleagues tell me his home life’s not so good. Here, join us,” he beckons to his table with Alhaitham.

“That’s precisely the reason, actually,” Mona sighs, taking a seat. “His ex-wife took their son and ran away from him. I wanted to respect her wishes.”

“A wise choice,” Alhaitham muses. Finally, he sets down his book—and looks directly at her. “Never intervene with someone’s efforts to get out of a bad environment.”

“Look at you, saying something nice,” Kaveh mocks, but nods in agreement. “This guy has a point, though. You did the right thing there.”

Mona wants to burst into tears. She wants to throw her arms around them both and squeeze them into a tight hug, even though she doesn’t think Alhaitham’s the type to enjoy physical affection. 

She doesn’t do any of that, though. Instead she orders another drink and spends the rest of her afternoon with them, her article momentarily forgotten as Kaveh fills her in on Akademiya gossip.

As she listens to him enlighten her on the details of a torrid workplace affair, Mona realises she doesn’t need her friends to defend her—but it’s still nice when they do so, anyway.

*

The last part of this story ends with a lover.

Because, that’s what all stories are at the end of the day, isn’t it? A love story. 

It doesn’t matter who the players are, where it’s set, or what happens in the middle. Every story that’s ever existed is a story about love—and so’s this one.

Sometimes love exists in something as simple as a bowl of chazuke. In that case, Wanderer makes the best shimi chazuke in the world.

Mona doesn’t know how he does it, given that chazuke is an incredibly simple dish made of rice and boiled tea. But she’s tasted chazuke from others before—mostly because Wanderer forced her to, as he wanted her to know how much better he is in comparison—and none of them are perfectly blended like Wanderer’s.

The bitter fragrance of his homemade tea blend. The sticky sweetness of the rice. The balanced combination of toppings he uses: salted salmon cooked to perfection, crisps of dried seaweed, texture in the form of sesame seeds and cut tarako. He’s a master chef when it comes to his chazuke, a fact he acknowledges with annoying smugness as he serves another bowl to Mona over dinner. 

“You eat like a Hilichurl,” he comments, watching Mona scoop another mouthful.

“I’m going to pretend like I didn’t hear that,” she chews. “Surely, my own lover wouldn’t be cruel enough to compare me to a beast.”

“You’ve made a servant of your own lover,” Wanderer gestures to the apron he’s wearing. “I’m not sure you’re in a position to decide what’s cruel and what isn’t.”

“You’re no servant,” Mona scoots her chair closer to him and wraps her arms around his sides. In the months they’ve lived together in Wanderer’s home, they’ve grown comfortable enough with each other that affection has become common between the two of them. She didn’t think they’d ever get to this point, but now, it’s often that he wakes her in the morning with his lips on her forehead, or she helps him get dressed before attending an Akademiya lecture. Domesticity is as foreign to Mona as it is to Wanderer, so they work on it slowly, steadily—hand in trembling hand. “As terrible as your reputation is, I know you love cooking.”

The last part goes unspoken: For me.

“You’re in charge of dinner tomorrow,” he grumbles, pressing his cheek to her hair. “Nothing from Mondstadt or Fontaine. The lack of spices alone could kill my refined tongue.”

“Imagine that. The ruthless, fearsome Wanderer, dying from undercooked Mondstadt chicken.”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always saying most people have no idea what fate has in store for them?” He pinches her nose, snickering. “Knowing the average intelligence of the Anemo nation, I’d rather not take my chances.”

“Has anyone ever told you how incredibly cruel you are?”

“Only three times a day, usually coming from the same shrill voice.”

“Scumbag,” Mona swats him across the forehead.

“Oh, look. There’s the voice again.”

She screeches, raining light punches down his back as she wolfs down her chazuke. He laughs and serves her another bowl, then calls her greedy, saying she’s going to gain weight—before telling her he’s going to love the added weight anyway, because he’s a sick pervert. When they finish up dinner, Mona clings to his arm on the way to the study, and she might feel a little bit embarrassed about how she’s behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl if she doesn’t feel Wanderer’s hand slotted around her waist.

It’s become part of their routine. Every night, they’ll retreat to the study and… Well, study. In each other’s presence, feeling the weight of the other’s company settle in the air like a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. There’s something intimate about propping open a scroll of notes on the same couch, working on their own research separately with their legs tangled together. Mona is currently starting another article for the Steambird, while Wanderer’s neck-deep into deciphering a mistranslation of runes from a recent ruins expedition.

This is how scholars love: in debates, in comfort, in the shared breaths of books and old paper.

When the clock strikes eleven, they wrap up their work to ready themselves for bed. Mona’s fairly certain Wanderer doesn’t even need sleep; he just likes the routine. Or he likes to watch her sleep. The latter’s something she finds just slightly unsettling, but she won’t deny him small comforts like these when she’s been denying so much from him already. 

It hurts her just as much as it hurts him, that she’s leaving his proposal of marriage unanswered. But her master’s words linger on the back of her head like a ghost, and every time she thinks of accepting, she’s suddenly reminded of her own promise.

I’ll be as powerful as Alice someday, and then—only then—I’ll fall in love. You’ll see.

She’s nowhere near as powerful as the Great Adventurer, yet she’s already fallen in love—twice. The first time with the wrong man, the second time with the right one. Someone who’s capable of loving her back, who sees her as much as he knows her. Someone who counters her arguments with precise viciousness, but takes her hand when she stretches it forward. 

She loves Wanderer with all her aching, bleeding heart. Loves him even when she’s not supposed to, loves him to death and whatever comes after.

And marriage… Marriage feels like the final betrayal. The one, singular proof that she failed to keep her promise—that Barbeloth’s always been right, and she’s not worthy of the Hexenzirkel.

“Mona?” Wanderer calls as she stands, catching her wrist.

“Hm?”

“It’s been four months,” he says.

He doesn’t have to clarify. It’s been four months since I asked you if you want to get married.

“So it has,” Mona kisses Wanderer’s cheek tentatively.

Her blood runs cold when he recoils, almost like he’s disgusted by her. “And you still need more time, I’m assuming.”

“I do,” she says quietly.

“How much more?” He persists, his voice soft—a sign of danger. “Weeks? Months? Years? Will I be sitting beside your deathbed, waiting for an answer?”

“I don’t know, Wanderer,” Mona frowns, provoked by his tone. If he thinks he can make demands of her like that old hag, he’s sorely mistaken. “I told you I needed time, and I don’t appreciate being put on a deadline.”

“Deadline?” He laughs humorlessly, completely hollow. “I ask you to marry me, and you’re upset that I’m giving you a deadline?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Mona argues. “You know what I meant.”

“You’re the cruel one,” Wanderer steps forward, fingers still on her wrist. He pulls her closer until their chests collide, then stares her down like a predator animal. His blue eyes glow faintly under the study’s dim lighting; that tends to happen when he’s very, very angry. “All your talk about how cruel I am, but in our relationship, you’re the one with the knife. You’ve always, always been the one with the knife.”

“Why do you keep doing that?” Mona covers her face with a book to hide the tears.

“Doing what?” Barbeloth tilts her head, looking up from a hat she’s stitching.

“Just… That,” Mona gestures vaguely. “When my work doesn’t match your standard, when I do something you don’t approve of—Archons, even when I do something you approve of, but I don’t do it completely right—you cut me into pieces.”

“Cut you into pieces?” Barbeloth laughs. It’s high and shrill and cold, like the sound of waves crashing against a cliff. “I wasn’t aware I’ve suddenly become a butcher for your sake. Where’s my knife, then?”

“That’s your knife,” she counters. Verbal sparring is just another Tuesday for them. She’s learned to adapt to Barbeloth’s sharp tongue, though it’s either that or take it like a coward and cry—which she’s never going to do. “Your words. What need do you have for a weapon when your hag mouth is the biggest one yet?”

Silence stretches between them.

Then, “You want to know why?”

That prompts her to look up, tears be damned.

“Because, student of mine,” Barbeloth taps her nails on her armchair, “You need me. You need me to become great; you need me to map out the stars, to learn the truth of the world. Here’s your lesson for today: when you make someone need you, you can treat them however you’d like.”

“That’s quite the exaggeration,” Mona scoffs, yanking her hand away—which turns out to be the wrong move, as Wanderer quickly maneuvers her backwards and pins her hips to the desk. 

“You don’t want me,” he accuses.

She shakes her head. “Don’t jump to conclusions—”

“You think I don’t deserve you,” he continues, “Which is true, after everything I’ve done. So why don’t you just leave me? Why string me along like a puppet?” 

“No,” Mona’s hands jump to cup his jaw. “No, Wanderer, don’t say that, please. I could never. I would never.”

Wanderer steels himself, hands on either side of her body. “You’re rejecting me, then,” he concludes. “You don’t want marriage, but you want whatever’s between us to go on. Is that it?”

“Do we have to decide now?” She pleads, frustrated. “We have ages to make up our minds, I don’t understand why you feel the need to rush—”

“What’s so difficult about rejecting me?” He hisses, leaning closer. The heat of him burns her. Wanderer’s rage could topple nations; it almost has, in the past. He’s not an inherently violent man, but too much has happened to him, and the violence that now rots inside of him cannot be purified. “Go on, mage. Reject me. Tell me I’m fun to keep around, but not good enough to marry.” 

“You’re poisoning yourself,” Mona says firmly, a hand on his chest. “You’re grasping at straws that aren’t there, burning bridges you worked so hard to build. I won’t have it. I won’t leave you because of your nonsense.”

“No,” Wanderer drawls. “You’ll leave me because of yours.”

And then he kisses her.

After that, it’s a clash of tongue and teeth; hands ripping through clothes, grabbing fistfuls of hair, tangled fingers desperately scraping up what the other has to offer. Wanderer takes her then and there against the desk, rough strokes scratching the foot of the table against floorboards, wood creaking beneath entwined bodies that draw closer and closer with every thrust. It’s rough and ragged and horrible, angry with everything that remains unspoken between them. Mona starts crying halfway through it, sobs of pain and pleasure and heartbreak. When their lips meet again, she can taste the bitter tang of his tears, and she realises he’s crying, too. He’s not doing this to hurt her, and she’s not doing this to hurt him. 

Somehow, they hurt each other anyway.

Scholars love in debates and comfort, but this is how Wanderer loves: with clawed fingers and fangs sinking onto the skin of her neck. With possessiveness, with need, with all the resentment that’s been festering with him for the past four hundred years. Everything he touches gets bruised in the aftermath.

This is what Mona’s binding the rest of her life to, and she accepts it. Maybe she’s insane like that. 

She comes down from their collision shivering and spent, her nightgown reduced to shreds. The ache in her legs is the stuff of nightmares, and she can’t even move a muscle. Thankfully, Wanderer’s quick to help her with that; she feels him wrap arms around her body, carrying her to the bathroom, washing her. 

It’s a few moments of newfound peace, bathing together and rinsing the sweat off of each other. When that’s over, he lifts her from the tub, dries her hair, guides her to their bedroom. For a brief moment, she thinks the argument is over and they’re back to normal. But then he sets her down on the mattress, and instead of tucking himself into the blankets beside her, he turns to leave.

It’s her turn to catch his wrist. 

(It’s her turn to beg him to stay.)

“Where are you going?” 

“Somewhere,” he answers vaguely.

“Don’t lie to me,” she seethes.

Just as she did before, Wanderer yanks his hand away. “I’m going to sleep on the couch.”

“But—” Mona looks at the bed, then looks at him. “Why?”

He gives her a cold stare. “If you think I can handle sleeping next to you right now, you don’t know me at all.” 

He turns to leave.

Mona jumps from the bed and runs to him, hugging him from behind. A sharp pain shoots through her leg, but she ignores it. This is important to her. She tears down her pride, her arrogance—all of it, for him.

She refuses to make him feel like a puppet. She refuses to make him feel like—

Like how Albedo made me feel. Like how Barbeloth made me—still makes me feel.

“I’m not going to leave you,” she mumbles into his back. “Not because of your nonsense, and not because of mine.”

He’s quiet for a while.

Then, “That’s just the thing.”

Mona peeks over his shoulder.

“You never talk to me about your nonsense,” he says softly. 

“That’s not true,” she denies, squeezing him tight. “I talk about my nonsense all the time.”

“Give me an example then, truthseeker,” he snorts. 

She comes up empty, because she knows what he means. It’s the unfortunate truth.

He knows about how people back home treated her, but not because she told him—because he witnessed it firsthand. Saw it with his own eyes, then grabbed throats and threatened to crush windpipes until people gave her the respect she deserved.

The stars might be fake, he said back then, But so is the rest of this country. So are the rest of you. The least you could do is respect the one truthful mind around here.

He doesn’t know about Albedo. She doesn’t know how to tell him about her first friend without spurring his jealous wrath.

And he doesn’t know about Barbeloth. About the old hag’s stellar parenting skills, about the promise Mona made when she was sixteen. 

She doesn’t know how to tell him that without spurring her own tears. And she won’t—she won’t cry for her mentor ever again. 

“That’s what I thought,” Wanderer sneers. “Mona Megistus, the Great Astrologist. How brave and daring you are, that you’re so terrified of opening up to your lover.”

“I trust you,” she insists. 

“If that’s the case, I’m not sure why you don’t tell me anything.”

“I’m not sure why you’d tell me this,” Albedo says softly. “You know I’m your friend, but you know how much I respect Aunt Barbie as well. It puts me at a conflict.”

“I’ll tell you everything someday,” Mona begs, “I promise.”

Another promise she doesn’t know if she can fulfil. It seems she has a habit of making those.

Finally, finally, he softens. The tension in his face drops, and those blue eyes are no longer glowing. They’re round and sweet when they look at her, when he tilts his chin forward to capture her mouth in a kiss.

“Good night, mage,” he says, and leaves the room. 

*

Things have been different since then.

Wanderer still talks to her. He would never ignore her, and she would never ignore him. Neither of them are capable of that.

But there’s an undertone of tension permeating every single one of their interactions. A string that’s been stretched too far, an invisible wall that prevents the two of them from reaching out to each other. The tension lingers, seeping beneath the words they speak and the touches they give. He knows it as much as she does; she sees it in his eyes when he eventually returns to their bedroom and sleeps by her side again. Even cuddling doesn’t help, doesn’t take away the fractured parts of their relationship.

Mona feels like she should fix this, but she doesn’t know how. 

She’s never encountered a problem she couldn’t solve—Barbeloth made sure of it. Through hell and high water, Mona’s been raised to come up with a solution to every dire situation, bar none. Failure to do so means the smack of a wooden ruler on her knuckles, or the sound of her teacher’s sharp criticism tearing her heart again.

Though, she supposes none of that mattered in the end. When danger came—when Mondstadt’s troubles threatened to endanger the city, when the body parts of ancient dragons rose to wreak havoc—no one thought her expertise was worth the call. No one thought she would be of much help. She was relegated to defend the streets, far from the main fight—from the area where Albedo transferred Durin into a new body. She was useless when her homeland was in peril, and she’s useless now, living in a shared home with a man she’s hurt.

“The worst thing you can be in this world, Mona,” Barbeloth says from behind her, an open book in her hand, “Is useless.”

Lately, Mona has come to realise that everything seems to circle back to Barbeloth. Her mentor haunts her like no one else does. She feels the old hag’s phantom hand guiding her whenever she recalibrates an astrolabe; feels that same hand wrapping bony fingers around her throat whenever she makes a mistake. 

Get out of my head, she wants to scream. 

Let go of me, then, Barbeloth’s taunting voice responds. Let go of me the way you should have all those years ago, when you decided you wouldn’t be coming back to me.

“I’ll be coming home late today,” Mona informs Wanderer over breakfast.

He doesn’t meet her eyes, focusing on the plate of eggs before him. She knows he doesn’t even need food to survive. “Why?”

“Zubayr Theatre’s offering free dance classes tonight, and Nilou begged Kaveh and I to attend hers.”

“So you’re accompanying Kaveh make a fool of himself.”

“Nilou says with his long limbs and graceful legs, he has potential.”

“That’s Nilou’s way of saying he looks like he’s never seen a day’s worth of hard labor in his life,” Wanderer snorts.

“What about me?” Mona takes a peanut from the plate served between them, then throws it at Wanderer. Come make fun of me. Come tease me like you always do.

He ignores the flying peanut, cutting through his egg’s yolk with a spoon. “I think you’d make a decent dancer if you tried. Certainly not Zubayr Theatre standards, though.”

That’s… Enough. He could do better, and normally he does. So there’s still some bitterness left in his heart. It’s been three weeks, and Wanderer has yet to let go of the argument they had that night. 

“I have the keys,” Mona reminds him. “You don’t need to wait for me to come home. Sleep, if you’d like. I’ll try not to wake you.” 

He says nothing. She considers that to be the end of the conversation. 

Mona goes through her day in a haze. She uses her morning to finish an article in a coffeeshop near Lambad’s—more specialised to drinks, and nowhere near as noisy—then a research regarding the difference between forest constellations and desert constellations that requires literature from the Akademiya’s library. That’s fairly easy to obtain, what with the amount of connections she now has, though she hopes that one day, access to astrology books will be more democratised all across Teyvat.

There, she encounters Alhaitham. She gives him a smile, and he returns with a curt nod. Man of few words, he is. She wonders if that’s why he matches Kaveh so well.

But… Maybe not that well. She wonders if she’s ever going to hear the full story behind their relationship, someday. 

She meets Cyno for tea in the afternoon, who informs her that they’ve successfully rescued Grandma’s boy, and he’s currently in the hospital receiving treatment for his wounds. The Treasure Hoarders did a number on him, so sayeth Cyno. When they found him, he just took another beating due to a baseless accusation that he wanted to steal from their boss, and he would have lost too much blood if the operation were even a minute later. 

Mona’s fondness for Grandma grows every day. The lovely old woman still regularly invites Mona to dinner; even invites Cyno, when the General has time between his busy schedule. It’s become almost a routine for the three of them, those quiet nights of biryani and chai in a house miles away from the Akademiya. She hopes Grandma keeps inviting them even after she’s been reunited with her grandson.

“I heard Ishak called you a scammer,” Cyno says bluntly, sipping his tea.

“That he did,” Mona confirms. “It’s been handled, though.”

“Pity. I was looking for an excuse to charge him with something.”

“Abuse of power is beneath you, General.”

“With my height, there’s not much that’s beneath me.”

Mona can’t help it; she smiles. “I suppose that makes the both of us.”

There’s a flash of childlike giddiness in Cyno’s eyes. It disappears as quickly as it appears, but since it’s the most emotion she’s ever seen on the General’s features, she cherishes it while she can.

She wraps up her meeting with Cyno and heads to Zubayr Theatre, where she sees Kaveh—along with a crowd of other Sumeru citizens—standing in front of the main door. He waves at her; she waves back. They head inside to find Nilou’s class, which is apparently being held in the main pavilion—courtesy of being one of the theatre’s best dancers. Of course Sumeru’s performing arts would reserve nothing less for the star of the spotlight; it’s good that this institute recognises talent when they see it.

Mona bumps her shoulder against Kaveh’s. “Are you ready?”

“Of course I am,” he brags, a hand on his chest. He’s tied his hair into a ponytail, his clothes far more casual than usual—a white shirt and loose red trousers, with none of the vests or accessories he’s often seen wearing. Mona herself has taken more or less the same precautions, her dark hair pulled into two low buns. “Remember what Nilou said about me the other day?” Kaveh wiggles both arms and legs, “I’ve got star potential.”

She instead remembers what Wanderer said this morning, and stifles a snort. That’s Nilou’s way of saying he looks like he’s never seen a day’s worth of hard labor in his life.

As if summoned, Nilou appears from behind a purple curtain. She twirls to the front of the stage, her movements lithe and graceful, easily commanding the attention of everyone in the room. 

“Thank you all so, so much for attending,” she says dreamily, waving her fingers. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your presence. Today, you’re all going to be a part of Zubayr Theatre’s efforts to strengthen this country’s performing arts.” 

Beside her, Kaveh nods at no one in particular. His supportiveness endears Mona; he still finds it in his heart to be passionate about things he has no understanding of, and it’s the sweetest thing in the world. And Nilou, of all people, deserves that kind of support.

Mona’s aware that Sumeru doesn’t have the best history with performing arts. She’s happy to see Nilou—who’s become something of a close friend to her in the recent months—gaining the courage to expand her love for performing arts and cement their importance within the country.

You should talk to Nilou. I have a feeling she might be able to understand you.

She quickly crushes the memory under her metaphorical heel.

“Since this is a class for beginners, I’m going to teach the basics,” Nilou continues. “Don’t worry—you won’t be expected to perform like the dancers you sometimes see in festivals. But,” a hint of mischief enters her tone, and she raises one arm—the first pose to one of her dances, “I do expect passion and energy, so please remember to give it your all!”

Mona squints, mumbling to Kaveh, “That sounds like a thinly-veiled threat.”

“Especially for the lovely scholars in the back,” Nilou adds, flashing Mona and Kaveh the biggest grin she’s ever seen. A few heads turn their way, curious.

“That was a thinly-veiled threat,” he surmises. 

And it certainly wasn’t an empty threat either. Apparently, what a professional dancer considers ‘beginner’ and what the average person considers ‘beginner’ are oceans apart. Nilou works the entire class to the bone, choosing a choreography that pulls at every single one of their muscles and stretches their stamina beyond belief. Mona’s no stranger to physical exertion; the stargazing hikes to Dragonspine’s snowy peaks are by no means easy. But somehow, as she stumbles through a piece that’s meant for the theatre’s younger dancers, Mona finds herself struggling and huffing far more than she ever has at her hikes. 

Nilou spins, Mona spins with her. Nilou jumps, Mona jumps with her. Nilou swivels her foot forward and dives sideways with a light flourish, Mona… Tries her best.

Her only source of comfort is that Kaveh’s struggling just as much, if not more than her. The poor architect has tripped twice in an attempt to replicate Nilou’s pirouettes. At some point, Mona even hears an audible crack from his hipbones when he tries following the sinuous movement of Nilou’s stomach.

By the end of the class, they’re both lying face-down on the marble floor, exhausted and heaving as everyone else packs up their things to leave. It makes for the most unflattering image. Naturally, Nilou giggles and snaps a picture of them in this state with her Kamera. 

“I take it you both had fun,” Nilou approaches them once everyone’s filed out.

Kaveh’s response comes in the form of a muffled groan.

“It’s the most exercise either of us have done in a while,” Mona translates for him.

“I’m glad to be of service, then,” she laughs, reaching out both her hands to them. “Come on. There’s a bathhouse connected to the main theatre. Once you’ve both cleaned yourselves up, meet me in the garden.” 

Intrigued by Nilou’s proposition, Mona somehow scrapes enough energy to crawl to the aforementioned bathhouse, rinsing herself of sweat and changing into something more presentable. She meets Kaveh in the hallway outside, and he slumps against her.

“So much for star potential,” he grumbles into her shoulder. 

“You’re the Light of Kshahrewar,” Mona reminds him, slinging his arm over her neck. “We’re all a star in something.” 

“I don’t feel like a star right now.” 

Nilou’s garden surprise is revealed to be dinner. Served on a long table surrounded by cushions is an array of foodstuffs: plates of biryani, golden-brown samosa, crispy panipuri, steaming buttered chicken, bowls of curry shrimp and meat stew. With a lethargic body and a starving stomach, Mona doesn’t even have to think twice; she drops Kaveh and slides onto the nearest cushion, grabbing a plate.

“You didn’t have to,” she tells Nilou as she fills her plate with stew.

“Yeah,” Kaveh shoots her a glare as he stumbles forward, then smiles at Nilou, “You shouldn’t have troubled yourself.”

“I wanted to,” Nilou waves her hand. “Having the Light of Kshahrewar and the Great Astrologist attending my class does more for our initiative than you could ever know. Every attendee counts, of course,” she rushes to add, always considerate, “But the two of you are respected figures in the Akademiya. A vote of support from someone like you goes a long way.”

“I’m happy to help, but I’m not in the Akademiya,” Mona says.

“You helped build the new Rtawahist tower, though,” Kaveh says through a mouthful of shrimp, “And I made sure to let everyone know that.”

She lets out an appreciative hum. It does feel nice to be included in something. “I suppose you couldn’t have gotten very far without me.” 

“And you have a very dedicated fanbase here,” Nilou reminds. “Hopefully, when word gets around that the two of you showed up, it’s going to garner more interest for the theatre. After that… Who knows,” she says wistfully, hands clasped together, “Maybe we could have more people who are interested in both science and performing arts. Then everyone could choose their passions more freely—or they wouldn’t even have to choose, if they want to pursue both. They could simply follow their heart’s wishes.”

“Hear, hear,” Kaveh nods, munching happily despite his earlier apprehensions.

Nilou giggles. “The only thing that could have made it better was if I’d succeeded in convincing Alhaitham to join. The Akademiya’s Scribe, favoured by the Lesser Lord Kusanali herself…”

Kaveh splutters, almost choking on his food. “You asked Alhaitham to join?”

Mona elbows his chest. “You’d have liked to see him dancing, wouldn’t you?”

“I have—” he’s actually choking now— “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I—Nilou,” Kaveh grabs Nilou by the shoulders, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because she knew you’d react like that,” Mona snickers. They’re halfway through finishing their dinner, and from a container beside the table, Nilou calmly arranges a generous assortment of sweets—even as Kaveh’s still shaking her shoulders like a wife who’s just caught her husband cheating. 

“He politely refused my request, so I didn’t think it mattered anyway,” Nilou pats Kaveh’s cheek. “I would have told you if he’d said yes, though. Then I would have chosen a different choreography to teach…” 

Kaveh looks like he’s about to start emitting smoke from his ears. “What does that mean?”

“That your relationship still has a long way to go,” Nilou says solemnly, squeezing herself free from Kaveh’s grip, “Unlike our astrologist friend here, who has the most foul-tempered student in the Akademiya wrapped around her finger.”

The innocent remark makes Mona grip her spoon. 

“Mona?” Kaveh tilts his head. “Everything okay?”

She blinks, offering a smile. “Everything’s fine,” she helps herself to more samosa. “Nilou’s right. Whatever’s going on between you and your housemate, you still have a long way to go, and I don’t need to read the stars to know that.”

She knows her response misses the mark before either of them say anything. Even when she’s tried to keep up with the mood, even when she’s plastered on her best imitation of an easygoing grin, Nilou and Kaveh are still looking at her like she’s just said something wrong. Or maybe that’s an expression of pity—both of those things are the same in Mona’s mind, anyway. Scholars should be respected, not pitied. So if her friends pity her, it means she has said something wrong. 

“If there’s… Trouble in paradise,” Nilou starts, choosing her words carefully, “You can talk to us about it. We’d never air out your dirty laundry.” 

“There’s no trouble in paradise,” Mona says defensively. “I told you, everything’s fine. Nilou, you were telling us about your initiative?”

But Nilou doesn’t return to discussing Zubayr Theatre’s mission to increase interest in the performing arts. 

Instead, she looks at Kaveh, then looks at Mona. Her wide blue eyes are filled with so much sympathy that it makes Mona sick. Makes her want to run, to get away from them, to go home where there’s another pair of blue eyes waiting for her. Waiting for an answer from her.

She’s trapped. Everywhere she goes, there’s one person or another begging her to confide in them, and she’s trapped. 

She hates it all. Hates that these people think their friendship entitles them to her secrets. Hates that she actually wants to share those secrets, but vulnerability is a humiliation ritual she can’t afford to undertake. Not when that old hag’s voice still whispers in her ear. Not when the sound of Barbeloth’s condescending laugh rings in her head every time she thinks she deserves a break.

“Remember what I told you when we met up to discuss tower plans?” Kaveh asks softly, speaking to her as if she’s fragile. “Nilou’s here now. No better time to talk to her about your, uh, homeland issues.”

“Yes, well,” Mona snaps before she can stop herself, folding her arms, “My problems with Wanderer have nothing to do with my homeland issues, as you’ve so aptly put it. The one thing they have in common is that they’re both none of your business.”

That’ll do it, she thinks. That’ll push them away, just as she pushed Albedo away. Just as she pushed the Traveler away. Perhaps that’s why the hero of Teyvat has never once thought of Mona when she encountered Hexenzirkel witches. 

But they don’t leave. Kaveh’s eyes soften, and Nilou reaches over the table to take Mona’s hand.

“I wasn’t always confident in my dancing,” she says sweetly, “And… I didn’t always have a good relationship with the rest of my family. One day, the stress reached a boiling point, and my teacher found me crying in the corner of the theatre. She told me that problems are like trees; they’re more connected than you think, and you’re never going to solve yours if you don’t find the roots.”

Nilou’s words sink deeper into Mona’s mind than she’d like to admit.

The number of people who have slipped beneath the surface of Mona’s cracks can be counted on one hand. A swordsman from Inazuma, a musician from Liyue, Fischl, and the Traveler—who’s probably forgotten, anyway, which is for the best. It seems that every time Mona allows someone to see beyond the Great Astrologist’s exterior, it’s largely happened by accident; the mirage pool in the Golden Apple Archipelago, the loudmouthed passerby when Wanderer visited Mondstadt. She has never made the clear, conscious decision to open up. To talk about her nonsense. 

And now, she’s not even in Mondstadt anymore. She’s in Sumeru, with new friends and a relationship that’s falling apart because she’s refusing to listen to anyone but the voices of her teacher that exist in her own mind.

It has to end. At some point, it has to end.

Mona gathers her knees to her chest and averts her eyes. “Wanderer proposed to me a few months ago.”

Kaveh lights up. “That’s—”

Nilou shoots him a warning look.

“—Interesting,” he completes. “And how do we feel about it?”

“I want to give him an answer,” she confesses. 

“But?” Nilou probes gently.

“Have either of you ever heard of the Hexenzirkel?”

“I have,” Kaveh chirps. “They’re a coven of powerful witches based in Mondstadt. I’ve been told they’re experts on… Pretty much everything.”

“Growing up, I was mentored by one.” Mentored by one, disciplined by one, raised by one. Mona’s almost twenty-six years old, and she’s only now comfortable enough to admit that Barbeloth is so, so much more than a teacher to her. She’s been more from the moment Mona was sent to live under her wing. “She goes by the codename B. She taught me everything I know. She was… A force of nature, you could say.”

Nilou gives a pause, as if to let the space between them breathe. “But not a very good mother?” Her assumption comes in a gentle tone, devoid of accusations.

Mona nods. “But not a very good mother. I doubt she ever tried to be one—and that was to be expected of her. She wanted a scholar, not a daughter. I’m meant to be her successor.” She fiddles with her fingers, threads her knuckles through the loose parts of her stockings, does everything she can to distract herself from the image of the witch that begins to form in her head. “And I want the same. I want to join the Hexenzirkel someday. That’s—it’s always been my dream. I’m told if I get married, I might threaten that possibility.”

“You can’t join the Hexenzirkel if you’re married?” Nilou’s eyes widen.

“There’s no official rule,” she corrects. “We—they have one member who’s married, but she’s an even bigger force of nature than my teacher. B said for someone like me, marriage would only be a distraction. I could never be the kind of person who’s married and focused on my ambitions at the same time—my skills just aren’t quite there yet.”

“That’s nonsense,” Kaveh objects. “I don’t know a single astrologist that’s more dedicated than you—and I’ve lived in Sumeru for only about, oh, my whole life.”

“She has a point, though,” she muses. “As much as I’d hate to give the miserable old hag a victory… I have to consider the facts. Mondstadt doesn’t take my divination seriously. I can hardly go a day without someone calling me a liar right after they’ve asked for my help. I keep thinking maybe, if I had a title of my own, or if I had support from the Knights, or—or something, something to help cement me in my own city…”

She stops talking when she notices Kaveh staring at her.

“It makes so much sense now,” he shakes his head as if he’s connected the pieces together. The pieces of what, though, Mona isn’t sure. He scoots closer then, looking her dead in the eye, “Look, I’m sorry if what I say next comes across as mean, but you’re not going to change Mondstadt overnight—especially if you’re planning to do it alone. And you’re not going to magically gain the approval of your mentor even if you somehow manage to change that nation. I know her type,” he raises his hand to silence her when he sees her open her mouth to object, “The Akademiya’s teeming with professors like her. I can guess what she’s like, how she raised you, how she’s probably criticised you for every small mistake. I can even guess the reason behind it.”

Mona blinks, curious. 

“You think the—what’d you call her just now? You think the reason that the miserable old hag,” Kaveh emphasises, earning a laugh from her, “Is hard on you is because you’re not good enough for her. Maybe she’s compared you to other people—maybe she’s told you how much you’re falling behind. But that’s all just smoke and mirrors, I’ve learned.” He shakes his head again. “She chose you to be her successor. You’re likely the one person in this world who matches her standards. That doesn’t justify how she treated you,” he’s quick to clarify, “It just means nothing you do is ever going to be ‘good enough’ for her. She’s always, always going to keep pushing your limits—because you’re the only person who can handle it. So… Don’t beat yourself up too much, hm?”

“Even if your teacher never admits it, you’re more than good enough for us,” Nilou adds. “Kaveh’s right, Mona. You can’t change an entire nation overnight. And you can’t compare your progress to people who have help,” she gives Mona a knowing look. “I’m lucky I have my theatre. But you’ve been shouldering this burden all on your own, haven’t you?”

New perspectives she’s never considered before, from new people that Mona never thought she’d speak of this to. She thinks about how the progression of science often requires an objective outsider’s input, and then thinks about it some more, because—

Because the alternative is bursting into tears. Which she does.

“Oh, Mona,” Nilou shifts from her cushion and switches to Mona’s side, enveloping her in a warm hug. “Oh, it’s alright. We’re here.”

“You’re going to make me cry, too,” Kaveh sniffles, joining the hug from his cushion. She’s now sandwiched between them, their cheeks pressed against both sides of her forehead as she cries for an embarrassingly long amount of time. Mona tries to remember the last time she’s cried this long—or the last time she’s cried at all, and of course, the first memory that comes up is one of Barbeloth.

The day right after Albedo’s trial. Her last correspondence with her master, before she decided to stop writing to Barbeloth for good. A scathing letter with Barbeloth’s classic signature, detailing every way in which Albedo was better than Mona.

She’s always, always going to keep pushing your limits—because you’re the only person who can handle it.

An old hag—an old witch—showing love in the only way she knew how.

“You’re never to speak of this to anyone,” Mona mumbles through her tears, wiping them furiously. 

“Your secret’s safe with us,” Nilou promises, offering her one of the treats on the table. Mona takes it and stuffs her mouth full, and then with three more treats just in case. 

“I’m serious,” she reaches for another treat. Sumeru’s sweets are different from the ones in Mondstadt, with a herbal sweetness instead of a sugary one, but they’re no less delicious. “My reputation as the Great Astrologist could be done for.”

“Reputations don’t die that easily,” Kaveh tuts. “I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve been caught half-drunk and crying in Lambad’s. Lo and behold, my title remains intact—I’m still the Light of Kshahrewar and the architect of Alcazarzaray.” 

“We need to talk about that someday,” Nilou points out gently.

“No, we don’t,” Kaveh wriggles his finger cheekily like he’s scolding a child. Mona’s glad to see she’s not the only one with issues about opening up. Speaking of, the clever architect swiftly redirects the topic with a quick, “What we need to talk about right now is Wanderer. Because I just know he’s been giving you trouble for putting him on hold.”

“I’m not putting him on hold,” Mona grumbles. “I just… Wish I knew how to stop hurting him.”

“If you start talking about how he deserves better than you, Teyvat’s officially gone mad,” he deadpans, unimpressed. “I know next to nothing about him, but something about that face tells me he has a body or two hiding in his past…”

“Bodies or otherwise, I love him,” she whispers, and she means every single word. She looks at her hands—at the teardrops she’s wiped with her palms, at the lines of hydromancy just under her skin that come to life whenever she summons the stars. She’s nowhere near as powerful as she should be; as she needs to be, if she wants to love someone. “But I promised my mentor I wouldn’t let something like this get in the way.”

Nilou tilts her head. “How does love get in the way, I wonder?”

“Well,” Mona struggles to speak. How does one begin to explain the Hexenzirkel’s grand mission to someone who’s never heard of them? Exploration of the cosmos, dissection of Irminsul, traversing the very threads of fate itself. “It weakens you. It… Gives you a vulnerability—one that not everyone’s equipped to handle. It’s not as if I’ve sworn off love,” she mutters, dismissing the idea of something so dramatic, “I just—I made a promise to my teacher that I would only settle down if I’d reached a certain level of power.”

“The threshold’s very high, I’m assuming,” Kaveh snickers.

Mona scowls, thinking of Alice. Higher than the stars themselves. 

Nilou sets her hands on her lap, squaring her shoulders. “Maybe my opinion’s not worth as much, since I’m not a scholar—”

Kaveh spits out a cocoa bean in his mouth. “Come on, don’t say that—”

“But I think you have the order wrong, Mona,” she asserts firmly. “We couldn’t have rescued Lesser Lord Kusanali if we’d acted alone. I couldn’t have—” Nilou’s voice wavers briefly— “I couldn’t have defied the Akademiya if I’d acted alone. So I think we become our very best selves when we have people who love us. After all,” she clasps her hands together, “How powerful can you actually be if you’re lonely all the time?”

Nilou is strikingly wise for someone the nation of wisdom tends to underestimate. Even the Hexenzirkel’s members are stronger when they are together—that’s why the coven was formed in the first place. That’s why, for all their clashing ideologies and personalities, they still meet to exchange pointers. The truth of the world is far too vast to be mapped out by one single individual.

“I’m not telling you to accept his proposal,” Nilou goes on. “I’m just… asking you to consider what you want. What you’d have done already, if you hadn’t already made a promise to your mentor.”

Mona thinks of Wanderer, who’s probably still awake right now. He’s waiting for her in the study—or maybe the living room, where she’ll see him immediately as soon as she walks past the entrance. She knows he wouldn’t sleep unless she’s home safe. Knows he’d stay up all night if he has to, knows he’d tear Sumeru apart in search fotr her if she mysteriously goes missing at this hour.

They’ve been through a lot. A rocky encounter at Musk Reef, followed by months of ‘chance meetings’ that either end in sparring or in bed. And then Irminsul; godhood, false sages, and mistakes that send egos crashing through the floor. When she saw him again—when he came to her doorstep trembling and scared—she could tell he was a changed man, but the Scaramouche she knew and fought was still there. He loved her then, he loves her now—through false skies and changing tides.

Mona realises there’s no one else she’d rather come home to.

“When I start planning the wedding,” she says softly, like she’s sharing a secret for the first time, “How do the two of you feel about being bridesmaids?”

Nilou smiles, and Kaveh’s entire face brightens—at Mona’s discovery or at the prospect of being a bridesmaid, she doesn’t know.

“I’d be honoured,” Nilou answers.

“I’d look fantastic in a dress,” Kaveh vows.

Later, when Mona walks home, the stars in the night sky almost seem twice as bright.

It’s a summer night, and the stars are calling for her. Mona’s sure of it. She may be only five years old, but she’s never been more sure of anything else. So she sits by the riverbank and stares at them at the reflection of the water, and every time it ripples, she swears she can see fate itself. The fate of her parents, of her friend across the street, of her neighbour that sells candied apples in front of the seaside hut.

“How are you doing that, child?” An aging voice comes from behind her.

Mona turns to see an old woman dressed in shimmering blue robes. It’s the prettiest dress Mona’s ever seen; she has half a heart to touch it, but her mother’s pressed on the importance of manners.

“Doing what?” Mona asks.

The woman steps forward until she’s standing beside her. “That,” she points to the water. “You’re scrying, fool girl.”

“I’m not a fool,” Mona grumbles. “And I’m not ‘scrying’. I’m reading the stars.”

“Reading the stars is scrying,” the old woman snorts. “How long have you been able to do this?”

Mona blinks, confused. “The stars talk to me,” she answers, hoping that’s enough. “So I just listen to what they say. But they—they don’t have voices.” She gestures to the river, “This is how I listen.”

“Indeed,” the old woman nods. Mona doesn’t know how much her life is about to change. Doesn’t know the world she’s about to step into, the pursuit of something she’ll never fully understand. Doesn’t know the arcane magic embedded in her fingers is going to drive her parents away from her, push them to abandon her on the doorstep of this very woman. “What’s your name, fool girl?”

“I’m not a fool,” Mona repeats, glaring. “My name is Mona.”

“Mona,” the woman’s eyes glint with… Something. Something warm, maybe. Something that makes Mona feel seen for the first time in her five years of life. “You’re going to change the world.”

*

Wanderer is in the living room—just as she predicted.

He’s reading a book when she enters, and he doesn’t raise his head. He simply says, “You’re home.”

“I’m home,” Mona replies. Her heart’s beating a mile a minute, rattling in her ribcage as if she’s about to go to war. “Can we talk?”

That’s when he looks at her. His eyes widen, and he leaves the couch immediately. “Have you been crying?” 

He’s upon her in seconds—she doesn’t even see him move. It’s a trait of his that’s always unnerved her, but it’s never made her love him any less. “Did that architect say anything to you? Fool man, can’t keep his problems to himse—”

“I want to marry you,” Mona declares. 

Wanderer freezes. She sees the moment it happens, every limb that makes up his body snapping into rigidness. 

“I want to marry you,” she repeats, cupping his face. “I’ve never once wanted otherwise.”

“Are you—” his voice breaks. “Are you sure?”

He’s still frozen, but Mona can see his fingers tremble—just as they did the day he asked her to marry him, the day she rejected his proposal with her need for more time. But there’s no flash of anger or possessiveness in his eyes now; there is only love, overwhelming but unsure. Hesitant, as if he’s wondering if this is just a dream. His hands are shaking in an attempt to hold back from her.

“I’m sure,” she presses a kiss to his lips.

Then, and only then, does he wrap his arms around her. He suffocates her in a tight embrace, holding her against him like he intends to sink her into his skin and trap her inside his ribcage so that she can never leave him again. And she’s never going to leave him, never even going to think about it, but she doesn’t know what to say right now, so her love comes in the form of burying her face in his shoulders.

Before she knows it, he starts lifting her, twirling her in the air and letting her look at his face in all its glory. He’s always been beautiful, with his doll-like features and dark blue eyes, but happiness suits his beauty far better than misery does. 

She shrieks, a little dizzy from the spinning, and he pulls her back down.

“You’re mine,” Wanderer breathes across her neck, carving the words on her body. He kisses her, and kisses her again, and again, and again. “You’re mine. Nothing’s ever going to take you away from me. I’ll kill anyone who tries.”

“No murders if you’re to be my husband,” Mona scolds, tapping his nose. “I don’t want a household with blood in it.”

“That’s negotiable,” he amends, kissing the corner of her mouth. Then a piece of that hesitation returns, “What made you decide?”

“That architect you accused of having too many problems,” she teases. “You really ought to be nicer to him. A talented dancer helped along the way, as well.”

“I’ll pay off his debt if he keeps convincing you to love me,” Wanderer says carelessly. “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” Mona giggles, “Just as you’re mine, too. It’s written in the stars.”

“Only because I wrote it there,” he’s still gripping her like she’s going to run at any second. “That false sky of yours was never going to help me—I had to take matters into my own hands.”

She decides to let that remark slide for tonight, laughing. He picks her up in a bridal carry and guides her to the bedroom, where he tosses her onto the bed and climbs on top of her. For a moment, she thinks he’s going to make love to her—something she certainly wouldn’t be opposed to. But then he slumps on top of her, his head on her chest, and it makes her melt all the same.

“Before we get married,” she says tentatively, “Could I ask something of you?”

Wanderer nuzzles closer. “Anything.”

“Could I—” she scrunches his bodysuit. She’s done this before, just minutes ago. Surely, she can speak to her own fiancee. “Could I talk to you about my nonsense?”

“Of course.” He doesn’t miss a beat. He’s close to her at once, attentive, eyes pinned on her and only her. “Your nonsense is my nonsense too.”

So she tells Wanderer everything. Or she tries to, at least—hoping that the effort is worth something to him. She tells him about Barbeloth, about how the old hag raised her, about how she’s used her words as a weapon against Mona growing up. About how she was the first person to see the worth in Mona’s peculiar abilities, about how the rest of their years together were spent honing those abilities until Mona felt close to breaking. She keeps talking, even if her sentences come stilted, even when she’s struggling through tears. 

She tells him about Albedo, about how she’s been compared to him her whole life. About the friendship that bloomed between them the moment they met, about how it began to fizzle away when Albedo was crowned Chief Alchemist—or when he met the outsider from beyond the skies, and he seemed to prefer spending his time with a star rather than with somebody who studied the stars. There’s no love there, not anymore; she’s just grieving over losing her friend. He’s always going to be a fellow truthseeker to her. 

She tells him about Mondstadt. About Dornman Port and the smell of the sea, about how the elderly used to give her free candy when she asked. About how much it hurt when people started clambering to her for readings, only to abandon her the second she said something they didn’t like. Above everything else, Mondstadt is her city, her home; it’s where everything began. Mona imagines one day it’s where everything will end for her, too. 

Wanderer listens. He never takes his attention off of her. He drinks in her every word, gathering all the bits and pieces of her and claiming them for himself. He’s hers and she’s his—forever. He’ll be by her side when she carves a place for herself within the Hexenzirkel, and she’ll come back to him after she uncovers the truth of Teyvat.

See? This is a love story after all.

It’s always been—down to the stardust between entwined fingers, to the magic that exists in shared breaths.

*

The wedding is held in the gardens of Zubayr Theatre.

It feels fitting, somehow. That’s where Mona realised what she truly wanted, and that’s where she’ll speak her vows.

(Of course, there’s also the added benefit of not having to pay for the venue—Nilou’s campaign to push the importance of performing arts is the gift that keeps on giving.)

By some miracle, she managed to persuade Wanderer’s agreement in combining Mondstadt, Inazuma, and Sumeru’s traditions for the ceremony. He was difficult at first, reluctant on everything that has to do with the Anemo nation, but she’s since convinced him of its meaning: to celebrate where they came from, and where they intend to build a future together. 

“I predict that today will be a most auspicious day,” comes Fischl’s distinctive voice from behind the dresser, carrying a hairclip in hand, “For my left eye, the Auge der Verurteilung, foresees nothing but happiness when you walk down the aisle. Indeed, not everyone is blessed with the powers of the Prinzessin der Verurteilung, but my generosity is so that I’ve taken it upon myself to tell you, Great Astrologist, that you—”

“Have nothing to worry about,” Oz, the flying bird, fills in. “That’s what mein Fraulein intends to say, Miss Megistus.”

Mona giggles, taking the hairclip from Fischl’s outstretched hand. “I figured as much, thank you.”

When she wrote to Fischl of her upcoming marriage, Fischl’s response was one of joy. She was admittedly less joyful upon discovering the identity of the fiancee, with phrases like “mean-spirited vagrant” and “vagabond manservant” sprinkled in her letters. But the eccentric girl’s eagerness was quick to return after Mona offered her a bridesmaid position, to which she immediately packed her bags and boarded the first ship to Sumeru. Now she’s here, in the theatre’s powder room, helping with the final preparations of the wedding as Kaveh desperately tries to fix the buttons of his suit somewhere behind her. Much to Nilou’s disappointment, he ended up forgoing to wear a dress; Mona suspects Alhaitham-induced embarrassment to be the cause.

“It was fine when I tried it last night,” Kaveh complains. “I can’t possibly have gained weight in one night, can I?”

“That happened to me before a performance, once,” Nilou says, stretching the suit behind Kaveh’s back. There’s a needle between her fingers and a thread of fine silk; surely, a skilled performer like her is used to last-minute costume changes. “But if it helps, I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.”

“What’s happening, then?” He laments.

“As the Prinzessin der Verurteilung, allow me to impart my divine wisdom upon you,” Fischl clears her throat, then leans closer to Mona’s ear. She whispers, “You’re sure you want that one in your wedding?”

“He’s one of my close friends,” Mona scolds, lightly pinching Fischl’s cheek. She calls behind her back, “You’ll be fine, Kaveh. Your housemate’s going to adore you no matter what.” 

“This isn’t about him,” Kaveh squawks, floundering about.

“Don’t move,” Nilou adjusts the side of his suit. “Ah, I think I’ve found the problem. There’s a folding mistake here…” 

Mona finishes clipping her bangs, then stands up, sweeping her skirt sideways. “I’m ready.”

Her wedding dress is a delicate fusion of styles that are popular in both Sumeru and Mondstadt. Close, tight stitches to the midriff, long sleeves, and flowing skirts that cut a wide berth around her. Patterns of constellations are sewn across the gown, with Wanderer’s own Peregrinus close to her heart—where he should be. Down her back runs a veil of shimmering silver-white, the silk fabric casting illusions of a starry sky when it catches under lamplight, stopping at the foot of her gown. As Mona gathers her bouquet of white lotus flowers, she flashes her bridesmaids—and bridesman—a questioning look.

Nilou claps; Fischl gives a hum of approval. Kaveh says, “If he doesn’t cry tears of joy at the sight of you, Cyno and I have an assassination plan laid out.”

“Such violence,” Oz clicks his beak. “Surely, mein Fraulein would not condone.”

“With the authority of the heavens, the Prinzessin does condone,” Fischl dismisses. 

The doors open, and Mona walks out.

There’s much to be said about her wedding. About the decorations; glowing lanterns arranged down a walkway of deep blue, more lotus flowers decorating every glass vase and ornate bowl in sight. About the crowd; Mona’s invited everyone she knows from Mondstadt and beyond, and from the looks of it, most of them have showed up. She sees Kazuha, Xinyan, Jean, Lisa, Kaeya, even Albedo, who stands close to the outskirts of the garden.

But when she catches sight of Wanderer at the end of the aisle, everything else falls out of focus. 

While planning the wedding, neither Mona nor Wanderer shared the details of their clothes to each other, so they didn’t know what to expect. Like her gown, his kimono fuses styles from Inazuma and Sumeru as well. He’s dressed in black, contrasting her all-white, but even from this distance she can see he has patterns stitched onto the fabric too. One pattern, to be exact; an Astrolabos sign close to the heart, much like her Peregrinus.

That’s when Mona feels the tears come.

Luckily, Wanderer looks to be on the verge of crying, too, so Cyno and Kaveh’s assassination plan won’t come to fruition.

One moment she’s at the door, and the next she’s with him on the small podium they’ve set up.

“You—” Wanderer whispers, then falters. He tries again, “You—”

“Look beautiful,” she completes, smiling mischievously like they’re sharing a little secret in front of all these people. “I’m aware of that, thank you.”

He laughs. It comes out choked, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Witch,” he mouths.

“Scumbag,” she mouths back. 

Other weddings have priests, merchant council members, sages, or tribal chiefs to officiate their wedding. Mona and Wanderer have a god.

Lesser Lord Kusanali stands between them, green eyes bright with centuries of wisdom. She smiles at Mona, proud and grateful. She smiles at Wanderer, warm and soft. Almost like a mother.

The honor of having an Archon oversee their wedding cannot be overstated, but even Kusanali’s voice fades into the background with Wanderer in front of her. It’s only when they’re about to exchange vows that everything becomes clear again.

“You should know,” Wanderer starts, sounding smug as ever even when he’s about to get married, “I still think the stars are fake.”

Mona rolls her eyes. Indignant cries resound from the audience, particularly the Rtawahist scholars in attendance. She spots Layla clenching her fists.

“The stars are fake, and fate is only what we make of it,” he goes on, ignoring them. “I never saw the point in things like that. It didn’t seem fair to me. I’ve had to claw my way through life, and I’ve had to pay the price for it. But being with you is the easiest thing in the world to me,” his eyes shine, voice trembling, “Even when we don’t often, if ever, agree on something. Even when we fight. Even when we ignore each other, despite sleeping in the same bed. Everything feels… Easy. Like I’ve found peace for the first time in my life. Like I’ve found the one—the one—thing that quiets my mind. Everything is—is loud, in there. And I deserve it. I would never say that I don’t—but it doesn’t mean I’m equipped to handle it all the time. So when the sound of your voice calling me to the study puts the clamor to silence, I chase after it.” 

“I’m no hero. I suspect everyone here thinks that,” he throws an apprehensive glance at the crowd. Faruzan harrumphs, Tighnari snorts, Albedo tilts his head. Layla throws her cheek the other way while Kaveh scratches his neck. Wanderer looks back at the podium, at Mona, “But you know it. You’ve known from the moment we met. Yet you love me anyway. So, Mona Megistus. Be my wife.” He smirks slightly. “Before I wreak havoc upon Teyvat.”

The applause that comes after is the most awkward one she’s ever heard, but she doesn’t even care anymore. 

From the corner of her eye, Mona thinks she sees—

Ah, no. It’s just her imagination.

She can’t possibly be here.

“It’s just like you to put petty threats in your wedding vows,” it’s Mona’s turn to say her part. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. And if our friends that have gathered here today think you’re no hero, they should know how our first meeting went. We hated each other. I thought you were against everything I stood for, and you thought I was in your way.”

“But,” her heart swells at the memory, “You were the first person in that place to truly see me. I’d just—I’d just moved back to Mondstadt at the time, and things weren’t going so well for my astrology. People didn’t understand what I could do—or what I couldn’t do. I was called—things. Terrible things. So when you—someone I should have despised, should have feared, wondered if my hydromancy was the only thing in this vast stretch of land that could match against him, I felt seen. I felt like—I feel like you see me.”

Wanderer’s eyes widen. She’s never told him this; of what Mondstadt was like before they met, of the fact that she heard his private musings about her in Musk Reef.

“Fate is called as such, for it cannot be changed, nor can it be reversed. It can only be but accepted.” Mona takes a deep breath, “From the moment we met, our fates have been intertwined. Yours over mine, mine over yours. It is what makes you see me; it is what makes me love you. I take you to be my husband, Wanderer.” For old times’ sake, she returns his smirk, “The Archons know someone needs to keep you in check.”

There’s a roar of cheering and the sound of Kusanali speaking again. It’s all fluff and noise to her. She reaches for Wanderer just as he reaches for her, because it’s like this, and it’s always going to be like this; the two of them in perfect sync. When they kiss, Mona feels the stars watching.

*

“I wish you’d told me you had a fiancee when we met,” Grandma says when Mona comes to see her amidst the wedding party. She tiptoes to pinch Wanderer’s cheek, and Wanderer… Tolerates it, surprisingly. “I would have given you a housewarming gift.”

“The wedding gift you gave us is already more than enough,” Mona says kindly, and it’s true. Grandma gave them a pair of lovely handstitched slippers and the recipe to her biryani. The second item is worth more than gold.

“Such a lovely boy,” Grandma nods happily. “And you have such lovely friends, too. Many successful people. The names of some of these scholars… I wonder if any of them would be willing to speak to my grandson…”

“You’re more than welcome to ask around,” Wanderer offers with simpering politeness—one that hides malicious intent. 

Grandma trots away, and Mona tugs Wanderer’s arm. “You’re planning something.”

He nods forward, where Grandma is seen approaching Kaveh. “I’m planning to speed up your architect friend’s relationship, if that’s what you mean.”

From across the courtyard, Alhaitham’s eyes venture from his conversation with Cyno to where Kaveh is.

“A dangerous maneuver,” Mona comments. “I’m not sure if the jealousy route fits them.”

“Alhaitham’s not violent like me, don’t worry,” Wanderer dismisses. “Your old woman’s boy is safe.”

“Does that sentence imply he’s not safe if she were to introduce him to me, then?”

He looks at her with a very visible, What do you think?

“At least Fischl is having fun,” Mona directs her attention to where Fischl is. She’s surrounded by various scholars from the Akademiya, who are all listening with a concerning degree of intensity as she rambles about the worldbuilding of her little Immernachreich fantasies. 

“Those are the heart-brain people, aren’t they?” Wanderer looks mildly curious. “They study… What’s it called? Psychology?”

“Something like that.” Just then, she sees two figures lingering at the edge of the crowd.

A woman with purple hair in a long braid and another woman with fox ears. 

Mona tenses. She recognises them. Of course she does. Your nonsense is my nonsense, just like Wanderer said. 

She’s about to warn him when she feels his grip on her hand tighten. In his eyes is a storm of emotions that changes by the second; anger, grief, vengeance, love. 

“Why are they here?” He hisses, throat bobbing. 

She looks around and finds Kusanali speaking to a group of scholars, and she instantly understands. 

“I’m not sure,” Mona says gently, “But I know they’re here for you. She’s here for you.”

“But why would she… Now, after everything…” Wanderer shakes his head, as if refusing to believe what’s right in front of him. The baggage between him and the woman he calls his mother is heavier than anything Mona’s ever known, and she knows there’s nothing that can erase the weight of it.

But perhaps it can be eased.

Mona kisses his cheek, “Go to her.”

“Are you insane?” Wanderer looks frantic. No—no, he looks like a child. Like the scared little boy he must have been when Raiden Ei abandoned him.

“Just go to her,” Mona persuades. “You don’t have to talk to her for long—or at all, even. But go to her first, and see if you can stand to be in her presence. You have me, if it becomes too much. You can come back to me.”

Wanderer doesn’t say anything, and for a second, Mona thinks he’s about to run the opposite direction instead.

But then he squeezes Mona’s hand, gives her one last look, and walks to his mother and her wife. Mona watches him take step after step, each one heavier than the one that came before. She wishes for him nothing but peace of mind. Wanderer may not think he deserves it, but from her, he’ll have it anyway.

“Congratulations on your wedding,” a familiar voice says from behind her, and she knows who it is before she turns around.

“Thank you,” she gives Albedo a polite smile. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Klee’s never been to Sumeru before,” Albedo gestures at the ten-year-old child, who’s currently running around the garden admiring various sights. “And I haven’t seen you in a while, so I thought I could checklist two tasks with one trip.”

“You seem well.” If there is life after death, then perhaps hell is the simple act of conversing with someone you used to know very well—but you don’t anymore.

“I am,” Albedo nods. “And you also seem… Well.”

The silence between them could fill oceans.

“And happy,” he adds after a while. “Wanderer makes you very happy. I can see that.”

“On the good days, I suppose,” Mona jokes. “You should see what he’s like on the bad days.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle.”

“Of course. I am the Great Astrologist, after all. If I could handle the old hag, I can handle anything,” she chirps.

And there’s the silence again. 

Mona sees Nilou, and thinks to call for her—

“I didn’t know people in Mondstadt were calling you things,” Albedo says—or blurts out, more like. She’s never seen him without his composure before. He’s always so collected, so perfect, but now she sees a slight dent in the facade. “And I wasn’t—I wasn’t aware you were so… Affected, by it.”

Is that so? She wants to say. She doesn’t, though—there’s no use rehearsing old wounds. 

She waves a hand, “That’s all in the past. I still intend to change Mondstadt’s perspective on astrology, so you don’t need to worry. I know how much my field relates to yours.”

“That’s not my main concern,” he intervenes. “You were affected by it. And you are my friend. I feel as though I should have done something.”

“As I said, that’s all in the past,” Mona hazards a glance back to Wanderer. She doesn’t need a war being started at her wedding.

Albedo follows her line of sight, and a look of understanding dawns on him. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I have always seen you. Always seen the worth in what you can do.”

There’s… Too much that can be said about that. About his voice as he speaks the words, about the timing in which he’s chosen to speak them. A lifetime ago, Mona’s heart would have fluttered to the stars. Now it just thumps once, twice, then falls to the same rhythm again.

“Of course you did,” she hums. “We were both raised by Hexenzirkel witches. It would have been odd if we didn’t see the value in each other.”

Albedo gives her a pointed look, because he knows she’s aware that is not what he means. 

“Pity the Traveler couldn’t make it,” she says quickly before he can open his mouth again. “I wonder if Nod-Krai is giving her trouble.”

“I suppose we’ll know when we see her again,” Albedo replies, and that’s that. He excuses himself politely, citing Klee as an excuse. Mona isn’t sad to see him leave. 

She does almost slump down from exhaustion, though. The dress is quite heavy, and confronting one’s first love does terrible things to the psyche. It’s nothing she can’t recover with a few minutes of sitting, she knows. There’s cushioned chairs near the garden’s rear, so she thinks to wait for Wanderer there—

But like the coming of Albedo, fate throws yet another wrench in her plans. 

“I distinctly recall,” says the woman that haunts Mona’s every waking moment, “A sixteen-year-old making a certain promise to me.”

For the first time in over five years, Mona looks Astromancer Barbeloth Trimegistus in the eye. “I’m not sixteen years old anymore, Master. Minds are prone to change as they mature, you see.”

“Is that what you are?” Barbeloth drawls. She is as daunting as ever, with her robes of midnight blue and the magic crackling in the air that surrounds her. “Mature?”

“Mature enough to live without you looming over my decisions, certainly.”

Her mouth curls into a scowl. It’s the same scowl Mona sees in her dreams, when she’s reliving past mistakes and failed researches with red correction ink. It strikes an ache in her heart, even now. She wonders if there’s ever going to be a day she outgrows the little girl sitting with her head down in her master’s study.

“You’re marrying someone who’s disrespected the very tenets of fate itself,” she informs. “Surely, you know this.”

“I know this.”

“And yet you love him anyway.” Her eyes—those sharp, hawk’s eyes—squint. “Did I not raise you for better?”

“You raised me for the best,” Mona doesn’t bend. Doesn’t falter in the slightest. She has predicted this moment from the day she chose to invite her master. From the day she wrote that letter, daring the old hag to come to her wedding. “That is why I make the choices that I do.”

Barbeloth stares at her, unyielding. “And I imagine you still think yourself deserving of joining the Hexenzirkel someday.”

“I do.” 

In the distance, she sees Wanderer still talking to Raiden Ei and her fox familiar. Their eyes meet, and when he seems to realise who she’s talking to, his features morph into a look of alarm—before settling on fury.

I’m fine, she hopes to convey with her smile.

It barely calms him down. Mona has about a five-second period of grace to switch this conversation into something more pleasant before Wanderer comes sauntering over with his Anemo vision at the ready.

Barbeloth notices the exchange, of course. She scoffs. “Horrible, unstable man. All that nonsense about him being the one who sees you…”

Mona shrugs. She doesn’t owe her master an explanation. “Everything I said was the truth.”

“I always figured you’d catch feelings for someone more refined. Someone like Albedo.”

She’s about to say: He’s in love with someone else.

But no. That doesn’t matter. That doesn’t matter at all.

It doesn’t matter who Albedo wants. It’s her wedding day; it’s about who she loves. There is no space for anything else. There is only Mona Megistus and the man who chose her over everything else. 

“Wanderer is the one I love,” Mona says it like an oath she’s etching onto the branches of Irminsul itself. “The heart is a little like fate. Once it’s decided on something, it’s rather difficult—if not impossible—to reverse it.”

“I didn’t teach you that,” Barbeloth sneers.

“No,” she shakes her head. “I learned that on my own.”

To her left, she sees Wanderer thundering over, the hero to her rescue. To her right, she sees Nilou waving at her, a sweet treat in hand; she’s probably calling to start the wedding dinner. Kaveh stands next to her, Alhaitham behind him, and somehow they’ve managed to rescue Fischl from the scholars using her as a test subject.

Her husband, her friends. The people who chose her.

If you had to choose between Albedo and I, who would it be?

And there it is; the choice. Mona offers it to Barbeloth now.

“I have a wedding dinner to attend,” she points at her friends, at her furious husband. “You’ve made your thoughts on my marriage clear. You can join, if you’d like. But don’t expect me to trouble myself begging for you if you choose to leave instead.”

She turns her heel and walks away, meeting her husband’s outstretched hand at the midpoint. She doesn’t bother looking back to see if Barbeloth is following.

The threads of fate concern not only the future, but the present as well. This is what she has now, in the present. Wanderer and Nilou and Kaveh and Fischl, even Layla and Cyno and Grandma. Sumeru and Mondstadt both; the home she’s building with her husband, and the home she still holds close to her heart. Mona hopes one day, in the future, it will be enough for her.

I’ll make it enough, she thinks. That’s her choice.