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Chapter Text

“Deliverer? What does that mean?”

“You’ll be a hero worshipped by all! You will protect this world and save lots and lots of people from scary enemies with your sword. Do you like the sound of that?”

“But…”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t want to be everyone’s hero! I just want to stay in the village with everyone I know!”

Golden eyes flicker.

A blurred gaze upon an unfamiliar throne room.

Seven empty thrones stand in a semi-circle before him. Vaguely, he is aware he rests upon a throne himself. The rest of his surroundings refuse to come into focus, his eyes sliding off of the white-gold backdrop.

His mind is full of fog, but he doesn’t recognize the place.

He should be alarmed, but…he’s so tired. The demand for slumber drowns out all else as soul deep weariness chains him in place. The world can wait a little longer, can’t it? 

Eyes slip close and sleep reclaims him once more.

“I left for the holy city to seek the dawn after the black-robed swordmaster laid waste to my homeland. My wish as a Chrysos Heir has never changed—I just want to shoulder the hopes of others, chase the Coreflames, and build a new tomorrow for Amphoreus.”

The man stirs upon his throne.

Through the haze of sleep muffling conscious thought, a feeling of urgency prickles at the back of his mind. He’s supposed to be in the city doing…something. 

Something important.

He’s going to let everyone down. 

Stand up.

Golden eyes fight to stay open as he tries to force himself to his feet, but his body is as sluggish as his mind. His body feels distant, his limbs weighing him down like lead in water. By the Titans, he wants nothing more than to rest—to answer the siren song of sleep pulling at his consciousness. 

Once more, he succumbs to dreams.

“I am…the one who bears the world. I am the blazing sun, destined to rise!”

This sleep is not natural, Phainon knows.

Phainon has been on the receiving end of a sedative spell more than once. While this spell is several orders of magnitude stronger than those of Okhema’s healers—even Hyacine‘s—he recognizes the feeling nonetheless. 

Awareness does nothing to weaken the magic’s hold on him, however. Even now, Phainon can feel it trying to pull him back into unconsciousness. The call to lay down and close his eyes is nigh on irresistible. The metallic taste of golden ichor floods Phainon’s mouth; the pain keeps him awake a few seconds more.

His friends' sacrifices will not be in vain.

The room swims and spins as Phainon struggles to focus. Beyond the seven lesser thrones, at the end of the hall, he can make out a pair of great arching double doors. What lies beyond them is a mystery, but Phainon now has a goal: an exit.

Okhema needs him.

Amphoreus needs her Deliverer.

Determination burns bright even as the darkness swallows him.

“Are you ready, Nanook? I brought you destruction!”

A flare of anger ignites in Phainon’s chest—fury blazing through his veins like the roar of a dying star. Golden rage burns away the lethargy chaining him in place, fueling him as he wrenches himself free from the throne. 

Kneeling on the dias, an indescribable anger surges through Phainon—a screaming destructive hatred. Then, as swiftly as it had come, the rage recedes, leaving behind a painfully empty void. The heart once burning with fathomless hatred, now aching with grief. 

What happened? Tears sting Phainon’s eyes—evaporating as soon as they were shed. Why is he crying? 

Phainon tries to remember. The spell of sleep is broken, but his memories remain blurry. The last he remembers…he was heading to the Vortex of Genesis with Cyrene. The Theoros—wait, no. Cyrene is dead—murdered by the Flame Reaver. As deeply as Phainon wishes it wasn’t so, he was the only survivor of Aedes Elysiae.

Stelle is the Demigod of Time.

Closing his eyes, Phainon recalls racing to the Vortex of Genesis with the Coreflame of Worldbearing as the Flame Reaver pursued them. He remembers Mydei staying behind to hold off the dark swordsman…he remembers the Flame Reaver catching up to them, with no Mydei in sight.

Mydeimos the Undying, Demigod of Strife.

A fresh wave of grief crashes over Phainon. The memories of his fellow Chrysos Heirs' fates tormenting him. Lady Trianne, Professor Anaxa, Lady Aglaea, Hyacine, Miss Cipher, Mydei, Lady Tribbie, and Lady Trinnon. Dan Heng, too.

Lady Aglaea trusted him to lead the Flame Chase Journey after her death.

While Phainon remembers leaving Dan Heng behind in the baths with the Flame Reaver, everything after jumping into Trinnon’s Century Gate with Stelle is a blank. He doesn’t know what happened next—how everything ended.

Had Phainon failed or had he succeeded in ushering Amphoreus into the Era Nova?

Ascending as the Demigod of Worldbearing might explain the two great wings of purple and gold emerging from his lower back, among the other physical changes his body has undergone. He can not recall offering up the Coreflame or undergoing the trial, but he had been in the possession of Kephale’s Coreflame when Lady Trinnon opened the Century Gate to the Vortex of Genesis.

He also feels different. Despite the turmoil in his heart and the spell he wrenched himself free from only minutes ago, Phainon feels stronger than he ever has before. Golden power thrums under his skin, humming with divinity. 

Could this be Era Nova?

Whatever Phainon is—Demigod of Worldbearing, or something else—he is no longer a mortal human. Titans, he prays he was successful in his usurpation of Kephale. Phainon promised to deliver Amphoreus into the Era Nova.

Titans, Phainon wants it to be true. His comrades can not have sacrificed themselves for nothing—for Phainon’s failure.

However, Phainon can not assume the successful completion of the Flame Chase—he can not assume Era Nova. Because what if he is wrong? If the Eternal Holy City is facing the end of days and needs him still? Or if the Century Gate misfired? Phainon would need to get back to Okhema as swiftly as possible. Or he could be in the Trial of Worldbearing. That might explain his missing memories, but would raise the stakes to that of the fate of the world.

Phainon needs to figure out where he is and how(if) he can return to Okhema. Everything else—the wings, the power, the strange fit of rage—can wait until after. And if this is his Trial, then he will pass the test. 

Phainon stands.

Leaving the raised dais, Phainon strides past the seven smaller thrones. Vaguely, he is aware of seven wells of energy pulsing at the edge of his senses. He spares each of the thrones—cores of teal, brown, purple, green, blue, red, and white energy—a brief glance before deeming them irrelevant to his current goal and moving on.

When Phainon reaches the great double doors of the throne room, they swing open for him without prompting. He steps into the hallway, and notices the triquetras prominently decorating the walls as he makes his way through the hall. The symbol is, unfortunately, not one Phainon recognizes.

The hallway quickly gives way to a grand open air pavilion surrounded by a paved courtyard. Instead of the eternal sunlight of the Dawn Device, the silver light of the moon shines from overhead to illuminate Phainon’s surroundings. Once, this place was beautiful. Perhaps even rivaling Okhema's golden splendor, but those glory days are long since passed.

More than one stone pillar has given way to rubble, increasing the ceiling's burden upon the remaining column. A dusty basin sits empty at the pavilions center, and glancing up, the ceiling is decorated by a faded mosaic of a sun and three moons. Beyond the pavilion, the patterned gold and white tiling of the courtyard is littered with chips and cracks and the features of five great statues overlooking it all have been worn away by the passage of time. 

Long abandoned.

Has he awakened in a city like Castrum Kremnos? A once prosperous people consumed by the black tide, Phainon speculates as he runs his fingers over the edge of the basin. The desolation is familiar for he has walked the ashes of too many fallen civilizations. Yet, that conclusion feels…off.

Too quiet.

Not even the ruins of Janusopolis are silent. There are the cracking moans of titankin, whose footsteps echo danger through the halls. The background hum of forgotten mechanisms. Perhaps even the rare flutter of a brave nymph. Haunting quiet, but never truly silent.

Phainon inspects the basin. White stone comprises the body, more triquetra carved into the base, and the rim is laden with tarnished gold. The construction reminds him of Okhema’s blessed fountains. All the architecture here is reminiscent of the Eternal Holy City. Distinctly different yet drawing on a shaded design language. If Phainon was feeling poetic, he might liken the place to Okhema’s fallen cousin.

Abandoned around…five hundred years(?) or so ago—give or take a century—if the degree of tarnish in the gold is a reliable indicator. Paint pigments would be a more reliable indicator of age, but Phainon will make due with what he had. Besides the approximate age of abandonment, his closer examination of the artifact has yielded no clue to his location. 

He doesn’t recognize the techniques used to craft the basin—certainly not Okhemian, Kremnoan, or even Styxian or Aidonian work. The translation between materials is flawless; a perfection beyond even Chartonus‘s masterfully skilled hands. 

Still, the basin’s central location and its resemblance to Okhema’s blessed fountains sticks with Phainon. The basin is bone dry; it's devoid of the water carrying the Titans’ Blessings. Maybe if…

Dawnmaker materializes in Phainon’s hand. The swordsman rests a finger upon the blade, applying the lightest of pressure and drawing a sliver of golden blood. The blade vanishes as Phainon holds his hand over the basin, letting his blood drip down into the bowl.

The stone drinks in the gold greedily, and Phainon is hit with a rush of power which has him feeling vaguely lightheaded. Energy surges through him, an overflowing well of golden power spilling outward into the land. 

Before Phainon’s eyes, the pavilion and courtyard are restored to pristine condition as if touched by Oronyx’s Miracle. The golden light continues to bloom outward, and Phainon can feel it enveloping and restoring structures beyond the courtyard. Gold seeps into every crevice of the…island(?), the land readily absorbing everything he gives as if being fed for the first time in centuries. Like sunlight trapped in stone, everything shines.

The night sky dances in a captivating golden aurora.

Phainon is not so captivated as not to notice the arrival of newcomers. He spins as the air splits in three places behind him, a different golden eyed young woman stepping out of each tear in reality. The two with white hair—one with red wings and the other with two giant halos and a dress as white as her hair—and one with golden hair and heterochromic grey-gold eyes.

The two white haired young women—Red and White, Phainon mentally dubs them—fall reverently to their knees while the woman with golden hair—Gold, he’ll call her for now—remains standing several paces further back.

The three women are strangers in an equally strange land; however, Phainon instincts tell him they are not enemies. If they are locals, then they may hold the answers he is seeking. If they are fellow outlanders, then they might join together to find the way out of this place.

“Hello friends, I am Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” Phainon declares with a friendly smile, extending an arm in greetings. “May I have your names?”

White’s head tilts thoughtfully, her face unreadable.

Red’s expression is one of poorly concealed horror.

Gold‘s face, conversely, breaks into an utterly delighted grin. “Oh, how fascinating.”

Chapter Text

“You don’t remember, do you?” Gold’s grin only grows as she strides past her companions and up to Phainon. “To think, even the almighty Heavenly Principles is beholden to the law of regression. You say you are Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, is that right?”

The glint in Gold’s eyes is uncomfortably reminiscent of Professor Anaxa, and Phainon takes a step back as the gold haired woman encroaches uncomfortably upon his personal space.  “That I am. And you are, miss?” 

“And so polite.”

“Rhinedottir,” Red hisses admonishingly, her frustration evident. “You are speaking to the Heavenly Principles.”

“Please, Ronova, as if what has occurred here isn’t obvious,” Gol—Rhinedottir(?) says, shooting an amused glance back at her red winged companion—Ronova(?)—before returning her attention to Phainon. “The Heavenly Principles awakened over a millennia ahead of schedule—healed of his wounds yet unable to even recognize his Shades. How many thousands of years of memories were burnt, I wonder, to facilitate his return.”

The Heavenly Principles?

Shades?

Phainon understands very little of what Rhinedottir(?) is saying; however, from her words, the woman had been aware of his enchanted sleep. “Excuse me, I fear I am not following. I woke not long ago, and I would appreciate an explanation.”

White is the one who answers, speaking up for the first time. “The Heavenly Principles sustained grave injuries in the Cataclysm. A long slumber was deemed the swiftest path of recovery.”

Ronova(?) nods, adding: “We have maintained the order of the world in your absence, as instructed.” 

Gravely injured in the Cataclysm? A sinking dread fills Phainon as he recalls the Flame Reaver’s assault on Okhema. Had the dark swordsmaster gotten past Dan Heng and followed Phainon and Stelle into the Vortex of Genesis? Had Phainon been struck down before he could complete the Miracle of Genesis and bring the Era Nova?

No, all could not be lost. Phainon could not have failed completely, for stolen divinity courses through him. Moreover, the black tide has not yet reached this strange corner of Amphoreus. 

There is still yet time for the Miracle of Genesis. 

Phainon remembers the cunning plots and plans of his mentor. He could believe this was a contingency plan of Lady Aglaea’s design. A final scheme from beyond the grave; another of the Goldweaver’s many secrets.

“What of the city Okhema?” Phainon asks, burying his fears. “Did Lady Aglaea leave instructions to reach the Vortex of Genesis?”

“Okhema? Hmm,” White hums with vague curiosity and a total lack of recognition which has the heart of Okhema’s Deliverer sinking. “There has never been a city with that name in Teyvat. This is Celestia, the heavenly seat from which the Heavenly Principles and his four Shining Shades oversee the fate of this world…I suspect Rhinedottir is correct in her assessment—you have forgotten much…Lord Phanes.” 

Teyvat?

Celestia?

Lord Phanes?

“…Seven thousand years ago, you descended from beyond the sky and created us, your shades, to aid in conquest and governance. Abandoned by its previous king, you turned this world into the cradle for humanity beloved. Under you, the Heavenly Principles, humanity flourished for a millenia until the old king returned to reclaim his abdicated throne—bringing with him Abyssal poison. Order was restored when the king laid slain and the lands cleansed of corruption; however…Celestia suffered…catastrophic losses. The Heavenly Principles never fully recovered, a lingering weakness which was exploited five hundred years ago by the Kingdom of Khaenri’ah. The abomination of the Abyss was once more unleashed upon Teyvat, and repelling the incursion cost the lives of several Archon, a Shade, and your own grievous wounds. The Heavenly Principles retired to Celestia to recover.”

“A greatly abridged version of history,” Rhinedottir(?) comments, crossing her arms. The woman radiates amusement. “If I didn’t know better, Istaroth, I might think you were leaving details out on purpose.”

“Not all of us are schemers, Rhinedottir,” Ronova(?) glares. The winged woman evidently having something of a grudge against Rhinedottir(?).

A sly smile. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“It is a serviceable account for now,” The woman in white—Istaroth(?)—waved a hand dismissively at Rhinedottir(?). 

While the women seem convinced of the truth of their words, Phainon is skeptical. Chrysos Heirs are long lived, with lives stretching into centuries, but they are not that long lived. Even the divine Demigods—which Phainon feels far closer to than to mortality as he is now—would not live to see seven thousand years. That is longer than the entirety of the Era Chrysea.

Seven thousand years is an absurdly long time to merely forget. And, she claims he conquered an entire world. Phainon is no Imperator Cerydra. “Forgive me if I don’t take you at your word. I may have slept for…a long time, but I fail to see how sleeping would erase my memories to the degree you imply.”

“It wasn’t the sleep which robbed you of your memories,” Rhinedottir(?) says, shrugging carelessly. “That, you did to yourself.”

Phainon stares at the Shade. “Excuse me?”

“While elemental life forms such as the Aranara are best known for the sacrifice of memories, gods are equally capable of the act. Memories are converted into power to fuel an act otherwise beyond their limits. The Dendro Archon famously reverted into the form of a child to cleanse the corruption of Ay-Khanoum, and sacrificed herself once again to heal the tainted scars left by the Cataclysm. Marchosius as well, he gave up all he was to revitalize a dying land,” Rhinedottir(?) explains, lecturing with all the academic authority of a scholar of the Grove of Epiphany. “You were grievously injured during the Cataclysm, and you evidently were not content to wait to heal naturally with time so you resorted to drastic measures to expedite your recovery. You did this to yourself, Lord Phanes. Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if you overshot your intended target.”

The grey-and-gold eyed woman speaks with such surety that Phainon finds himself almost believing her—not fully, not completely, but…he remembers being asleep on the throne. Drifting between dreams, the desperate desire to wake up burned. The willingness to pay any price because they needed him.

The tale spun by the Shades is possible—impossible to reject out of hand.

The picture painted by Istaroth(?) fits the broad strokes of Era Nova foretold—the world recreated anew by the Demigod of Worldbearing—if Phainon were to believe her. Yet, the prophecy is vague on the details. The world is to be granted salvation through renewal; Amphoreus would be born again with the new down, but…what did that mean exactly?

And hadn’t Phainon already supposed he had ascended as the Demigod of Worldbearing, usurping the authority of Kephale? He’s no longer a mortal human; he has wings and divinity never had as a mere Chrysos Heir. Which…would mean he was able to perform the Miracle of Genesis.

Phainon wants to believe he hasn’t failed everyone.

“Well, your argument isn’t unconvincing, but you must admit that’s rather a lot to take in.”

“Belief matters not,” Istaroth(?) says blandly, as if commenting on the weather. “Whether you bid us to call you Lord Phanes or Phainon of Aedes Elysiae matters not, you remain the Heavenly Principles.”

“…Please call me Phainon.”

“Phainon, then.” Rhinedottir(?) accepts easily. “I am Rhinedottir, I hold the authority of the Ruler of Life.”

Ronova(?) rises to her feet. “She is n—”

“Ronova,” Istaroth(?) cuts off her fellow Shade. “I think it best to save the matter of our sister for a later date.”

“But—”

“I will take responsibility, so please Ronova, maintain peace for our sister’s sake,” turning away from Ronova(?), Istaroth(?) rose to her feet and curtsied. “I am Istaroth, the Ruler of Time and third among your Shades.” 

Ronova(?) follows after her sister, closing her eyes and raising a hand over her heart as she introduces herself to Phainon. “As the Heavenly Principles do not remember me, I shall reintroduce myself to you Lord Pha—Phainon. I am Ronova—the Ruler of Death and the second of the Four Shining Shades.”

The Rulers of Life, Time, and Death—weighty titles. Phainon supposes that would make the Shades Lady Rhinedottir, Lady Istaroth, and Lady Ronova.  

“The awakening of the Heavenly Principles has been disorienting,” Lady Istaroth says to him. “Time will be needed to adjust. Perhaps Ronova might provide a tour of Celestia?”

Phainon accepts the Shades’ offer. 

He does want to see more of Celestia. He wants to uncover whether the Shades speak the truth—if he truly is in the far flung future—or he’s being deceived as he tetters on the precipices of failure. Mayhaps Lady Ronova will show him the way off the floating island of Celestia to the ground.

(If not, Phainon thinks of his wings, he has a plan B.)

The Ruler of Death led Phainon to the tower at the center of Celestia—the Solar Palace, the residence of the Heavenly Principles when not allegedly taking century-long naps in the Celestial Throne Room. The building shines over the Celestia, casting the island into day even as the moon still traverses the heavens. 

Celestia’s own Dawn Device.

Phainon climbs the great staircase which spirals upward from the palace’s foyer. Lady Ronova follows two steps behind him, explains that, despite its size, the palace only truly consists of two rooms: the foyer and the chambers of Heavenly Principles. The majority of the structure actually consists of the staircases connecting the two areas. 

The staircase walls are decorated with dazzling detailed murals. The history of Teyvat, Lady Ronova explains. The murals near the bottom of the stairs show the recent history and depict events deeper in the past the further up you went all the way to the beginning of Celestia.

“The awakening of the Heavenly Principles should be added to the record. Your return is a monumental event, but…” Lady Ronova trails off, hands drifting down to pick at the hem of her dress. “The record has not been added to since the Cataclysm.”

The Khaenri’ahan Cataclysm—the apocalyptic event Lady Istaroth claims injured Phainon so severely that he was forced to slumber on Celestia’s Throne for five hundred years and erase several millenia of his own memories to awaken.

It’s a preferable truth, that he is indeed Phanes and he achieved the Era Nova and forgot. Phainon will not be able to bear it if he failed the Flame-Chase Journey; that he failed his people who trusted him to lead them into the new dawn.

“If the Heavenly Principles will it,” Lady Ronova says, speaking quickly having evidently taken Phainon’s silence for displeasure. “I will see the Solar Palace’s walls updated in Asmoday’s stead.”

“Asmoday?” Phainon hadn’t heard the name before.

“The Ruler of Space,” Lady Ronova answers, refusing to meet Phainon’s gaze. She radiated guilt, but why would Lady Ronova feel guilty?

Oh.

Lady Istaroth had mentioned a Shade had perished in the Cataclysm. Hyacine’s self-sacrifice and Mydei’s stand against the Flame Reaver are fresh in Phainon’s mind. Now he feels horrible for reminding the Shade of Death of her sister’s loss. “Lady Asmoday’s work is beautiful as it stands. Would you be so kind as to tell me the stories she put here?”

Grateful for the change of subject, Lady Ronova is eager to expand upon anything and everything upon the walls which catches Phainon’s interest. The result is a far more detailed lesson in Teyvat’s history than Lady Istaroth’s brief overview.

Phainon learns Teyvat is divided into seven kingdoms for the seven elements—Anemo, Geo, Electro, Dendro, Hydro, Pyro, and Cryo—each ruled over by an Archon. The Archons are gods chosen to oversee their land in the name of the Heavenly Principles, and as such, are entrusted with their respective element’s Elemental Authority. The seven smaller thrones Phainon had seen when he awakened belonged to them.

(When Phainon inquires about the Kingdom of Khaenri’ah, Lady Ronova tells him a godless nation who rejected the order of the Heavenly Principles did not warrant inclusion in Celestia’s history.)

This section—‘the Era of the Seven Archons’—shows the rise of the civilizations that dominate the current age. The people of Amphoreus have endured centuries of hardship with the decline of the Era Chrysea and the ever encroaching black tide. The prosperity of humanity on Teyvat brings a smile to Phainon’s face. Monstadt, Liyue, Inazuma, Sumeru, Fontaine, Natlan, and Snezhnaya have flourished.

Phainon wishes Mydei was here to hear Ronova’s description of the Nation of War. Natlan’s philosophy of War as competition would intrigue his friend…would have intrigued his friend. Perhaps Mydei would have taken inspiration from the Natlanesse for a way for the Kremnoans to retain their warrior pride while leaving behind their self-destructive drive for bloody glory.

“The first Pyro Archon, Xbalanque, valued friendship and unity. A peerless warrior who extended his hand in friendship…even with those who he should have considered his enemy.”

Lady Ronova is picking at her dress again.

Taking note of Ronova’s sudden spike of anxiety, Phainon elects to shift topics. He gestures at a painted tapestry of a city nested within a great tree—reminiscent of the Grove of Epiphany. “By the plant-life, would I be bold to suppose this the kingdom of the Dendro Archon?”

“Indeed,” Lady Ronova dips her head. “Specfically Sumeru City, home of the Sumeru Akademiya. They call it the City of Wisdom because the current Dendro Archon—Buer—has resided in the city for the last five centuries.”

Two cities of scholars built around a grand tree. The Grove of Epiphany venerating the Titan of Reason, Cerces. Sumeru City following the God of Wisdom, Buer.

A grand coincidence.

Or perhaps not. If Teyvat is Era Nova then would it truly be surprising to find echoes of Era Chrysea? The prophecy declared the new era would be built on the memories of the old. Perhaps Natlan is a successor to Mydei’s dreams for a new future for the Kremnoans.

The next period is the Archon War.

A two thousand year period during which the many gods of Teyvat warred for one of the seven thrones on Celestia. A grand battle royale enacted by Celestia to select the Seven Archons to govern the land and cull the number of gods in Teyvat.

Barbaric.

Lady Ronova shrugs indifferently. “After the Great War of Vengeance, the Heavenly Principles was no longer in position to suppress the gods were they to become corrupted by the Abyss. Extreme measures were necessary for the continued stability of Teyvat.”

…Phainon could understand Celestia’s logic. Titans corrupted by the black tide are a threat like none other. Hundreds of gods fallen to madness like Nikador would be the end of all civilization. However, the possibility of corruption is not sufficient cause to condemn hundreds of innocents to death.

“Celestia ensured only the gods who loved humanity most would be possible victors. The first Hydro Archon—Egeria—was selected for her devotion to her nation over any martial prowess.”

A god whose love for her people is great enough to be recognized by the heavens themselves. “Perhaps I can meet her in the future.”

Lady Ronova frowns. “That will not be possible. Egeria was the first of the Archons to perish in the Cataclysm. She was overwhelmed by abyssal monsters.”

“…I see.”

“The Geo and Anemo Archons were the only Archons to emerge from the Cataclysm unscathed.”

The Archons have Phainon’s utmost respect for standing against the tide of the Abyss to protect Teyvat. Whether they survived the carnage or died a warrior’s death, all seven are heroes…which doesn’t make their deaths any less depressing. Phainon thinks of the scholars who stayed behind in the Grove to protect the Coreflame of Reason from the black tide and Flame Reaver.

Phainon and Lady Ronova settle into silence as they continue to climb the tower; the stairs spiraling upwards and onwards. For a time, the walls were decorated by the many battles and alliances of the Archon War. Two thousand years of history.

The murals of the Great War of Vengeance are horrific. 

Broken moons, ruined cities, and a dark wave of corruption sweeping over the land. The heavens torn asunder as the Heavenly Principles, Four Shades, and a Shooting Star battled with the tainted King of Dragons and his Seven Dragon Sovereigns. 

Even the worst of the black tide pales in comparison to the devastation wrought upon Teyvat in this war by the Abyss. As small mercy as it might have been, the black tide was slow, taking over a thousand years to swallow Amphoreus. Abyssal corruption is rapid and infectious.

A disaster of a scale impossible to comprehend.

Phainon is not ashamed to admit he speeds up a little, increasing his pace on the stairs to sooner leave behind this wretched chapter of Teyvat’s history. There is no pleasure or even curiosity to be found in images of death and destruction. Phainon has seen enough of that first hand for several lifetimes.

Nearing the top of the tower, the scenery changes once more. Cities from before the great war devastated them. The images are pleasant. Humans and dragonkin living in harmony before Dragon King return shattered Celestia’s peace. A sky with three moons. A land unblackened by Abyssal taint. 

“The Era of the First Civilization,” Lady Ronova named it.

A time before Celestia broke from the mountain tops and ascended into the sky. The city surrounding Celestia looks so similar to the Eternal Holy City of Okhema. 

Home.

Having seen the history of this world, Phainon is increasingly convinced of the Shades’ claims of him being their ‘Heavenly Principles.’ Teyvat has become a real place, with history and tragedy and triumph. Possibility collapsing into reality. In Phanes’ conquest, Phainon sees a bloody deliverance of Era Nova. The world rebuilt for humanity—for the New Dawn of Amphoreus.

Phanes—Phainon—had succeeded.

The sacrifices of the Chrysos Heirs, of everyone on Amphoreus, were not in vain.

Which means Phainon is over seven thousand years removed from his friends—both in their deaths on Amphoreus and in their new lives in Teyvat. Never again will he share a meal with Castorice and Mydei or play with Lady Tribbie, Lady Trianne, and Lady Trinnon. Professor Anaxa will never teach him a new lesson nor will Hyacine be there to scold him on his terrible sleep habits. Never again can Phainon seek the guidance of Lady Aglaea.

(Had Stelle and Dan Heng experienced Era Nova? Or had they returned to trailblazing the stars?)

They lived and died, and lived and died again. 

And Phainon remembers nothing of their second lives. Precious memories of his comrades—his cherished friends—sacrificed in the name of healing wounds Phainon doesn’t remember receiving. 

All that remains of Amphoreus is legacy.

A legacy Phaned has safe guarded for seven thousand years. The Era Chrysea had lasted for four thousand years before the black tide swallowed Amphoreus—his Era Nova has lasted almost double that. Bloody as the birth of Teyvat was, Phanes repelled the Abyss time and time again, never allowing the infection to take root in the world. Phainon can be proud of that. 

Phainon’s resolve hardens.

His other self, Phanes, bled for this world; he bore the weight of the fate of Tevyat on his back. Phainon will do the same. Phanes sacrificed all that he was—burning himself away until only his younger self of Phainon remained—so the world would not be without its Deliverer. Phanes must have known Phainon would take up his mantle as Teyvat’s protector. For how could he not love Amphoreus’s legacy?

The people of Teyvat.

Phainon and Lady Ronova reach the landing at the top of the stairs. The entrance to Phanes—to his—chambers before them. There is another scene carved upon them: a sun, surrounded by four smaller stars, descending from the heavens. The arrival of the Heavenly Principles on Teyvat, and the creation of the Shades.

The Shining Shades.

Lady Istaroth said the Heavenly Principles created the Shades.

Phainon had not paid much heed to that particular statement. The origins of the Shades was low on his list of questions he needed answers to. However, now convinced of the Shades’ claims of him being their Lord Phanes…if Phainon is truly Phanes, then Phainon created the Shades. 

Stopping at the landing, Phainon turns to the Shade of Death. “Lady Ronova, might I request a small favor of you?”

“Anything, Lord Phainon.”

“Would you be willing to allow me a closer look of your face?”

A puzzled blink followed by a nod. “If that is the Heavenly Principles’ wish.”

Mindful not to crowd Lady Ronova, Phainon leans over her. He scrutinizes the Shades features, searching. Lady Ronova looks like a younger version of Phainon’s mother—her grandmother, Audata of Aedes Elysiae. His memories of her are hazy; he had been barely more than a child when she was slain. Yet, he sees her clear as day in Ronova’s face. 

While the Shade is more beautiful, comparing a goddess to a mortal is an unfair contest. She has the eyes Phainon’s father had lauded as more golden than the hills of wheat. Ronova’s hair is the same snowy white Phainon had inherited from his mother, even including the subtle waves which had skipped him over.

The familial resemblance is obvious in retrospect. 

Because if the Shades are Phanes’ children…

…Ronova is Phainon’s daughter.

Chapter Text

The Mondstadt night is peaceful. 

The hour is late. The city and her citizens are sleeping; the windmills beat in a familiar lullaby. A cool breeze of late autumn blows gently through the city, and warm lanterns illuminate Jean’s path down quiet cobblestone streets. 

Jean loves Mondstadt.

That her people can sleep soundly—safe, and their freedom secure—makes every late night and every even earlier morning more than worth the sacrifice. In Grandmaster Varka’s absence, the duty to safeguard Mondstadt falls upon Jean’s shoulders as the Acting Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius. 

The shadow of Stormterror has long passed, cured of his abyssal corruption by the Honorary Knight Lumine. Jean is grateful the disaster had had a happy ending. Dvalin’s mind and body were purified of the Abyss Order’s taint, and Mondstadt regained her forgotten protector in the Dragon of the East. Jean had even learned the true identity of Mondstadt’s elusive Archon—Barbatos, God of Freedom and the Anemo Archon.

Or the name he is currently going by: Venti the Bard.

Who is also the reason Jean is on her way to Angel’s Share at this hour instead of in her office reviewing reports and signing off on the Investigation Teams’s requisition requests. The bard had taken the uncharacteristic initiative to call a meeting—gathering together those aware of his identity as Barbatos.

This is to be Archon business.

And the Acting Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius has a fair guess as to what the topic of discussion will be: Celestia. Twelve days ago, the floating island lit up the night sky like a golden sun. Observation with sightseeing scopes had revealed the dilapidated ruins had been restored to a gleaming palace fit for gods.

The multi-story stone buildings in combination with the incline Mondstadt was built upon means Celestia isn’t visible from this part of the city. Still, Jean can not help her gaze drifting to the western sky in the direction of Wolvendom. Celestia is at the forefront of everyone’s minds, even more so than the preparations for the upcoming Weinlesefest festival.

Speculation runs rampant.

What had caused Celestia to reawaken after five hundred years of silence? What could this mean for the seven nations? Could it be a sign? How might Celestia’s return change Teyvat? Or would it even change anything at all? 

Jean had had Lisa assemble a report on all the information the Knights of Favonius had on Celestia, and the librarian’s report was frustratingly sparse on hard facts. Not entirely surprising given Celestia’s greater presence in myths than in recorded history. Once, the gods of Celestia were in regular contact with humanity, but communication had ceased and Celestia had settled into the role of observer long before even the Archon War. Time has erased the names and numbers of the celestial gods from records.

The consensus among scholars is that Celestia instigated and presided over the Archon War. For reasons unknown, they had pitted the gods of Teyvat against one another in a battle over seven divine thrones which had given rise to the seven Archons. Celestia had hung like a golden sun in the skies of Teyvat for another fifteen hundred years before going dark after the Cataclysm.

Though the tales have faded in popularity over the last five centuries, there are countless folk-tales about the floating island of the gods, but Lisa notes telling which stories contain grains of truth and which stories are wholly fabrications is impossible. Celestia is often said to be the original home of all of the gods before they descended to Teyvat and spread across the land. Other tales tell of the greatest vision-holders ascending to Celestia and achieving godhood upon their deaths—heroes like the Falcon of the West, Vanessa, forever watching over Teyvat.

Personally, Jean believes powerful gods reside in Celestia. However, raised in an era where Celestia’s presence has long since faded and in a nation whose Archon watches over his people in anonymity, the matters of the divine had held little relevance to Jean. 

“Master Jean!”

“Raymond,” Jean nods a greeting to the knight of Favonius. “Good evening. How goes your patrol?”

“All clear—the only excitement so far tonight was one of the cats from the Cat’s Tail got out. I helped Margaret catch it so she could close up shop,” Raymond tells her, and then continues. “Though…there are two Fatui skulking about the waypoint by the main square. They aren’t breaking any laws, but they’re acting suspicious and you’ve ordered us to report any suspect Fatui activity.”

“You were right to report this to me, Raymond. I’ll check in on them.” The waypoint is on Jean’s way to Angel’s Share, she won’t even have to make a detour.

“Thank you, Master Jean!”

Jean frowns as she carries on her way. She dislikes the Fatui’s continued presence in the Nation of Freedom. The Tsaritsa’s private army hides behind the veneer of being ‘diplomats’ while spying, sabotaging, and sowing division in other nations. The Traveler had told her how the Fatui had been behind the civil war in Inazuma last year. She hasn’t forgotten Fatui’s scheming during the Stormterror incident. Jean wishes she could throw them all out of Mondstadt without causing a major diplomatic incident with Snezhnaya—the Cryo Archon is not one Jean can afford to cross.

Arriving at the waypoint, Jean spots the lurking Fatui. Tension leaves the Acting Grandmaster as she recognizes the two—Mikhail and Lyudmila, the most prolific gossip among the Fatui delegation in Mondstadt. Jean’s distaste for their organization aside, these two are relatively harmless. Still, Jean has a duty to investigate.

The duo are too engrossed in their own whispered conversation to notice Jean’s approach. The wind favors Jean, carrying words she would have otherwise strained to hear clearly.

“—akademiya. I swear it’s true,” Mikhail is saying, animatedly moving his hands for emphasis. “Viktor is in Sumeru, and he wrote to Anastasia about all of it! I overheard her telling Sergei everything at dinner.”

Lyudmila shakes her head. “Viktor could have misunderstood Lord Dottore. The Dendro Archon is weak—I can not believe she is responsible for Celestia’s awakening!”

“It’s too much of a coincidence, Lyudmila! Lesser Lord Kusanali threatens to awaken Celestia and then Celestia wakes up only a month later!”

Unconvinced, Lyudmila folds her arms across her chest. “Perhaps she merely predicted Celestia’s return. I hear the Electro Archon’s neglecting her duty to grant Electro visions is the cause.”

“The Electro Archon is granting visions once more!”

“That doesn’t erase the three years without any new Electro vision holders, Mikhail!”

Jean’s suspicions are confirmed. Mikhail and Lyudmila are outside of the Goth Grand Hotel at this hour to gossip among themselves—nothing to be concerned over. The topic of Celestia has captured even the Fatui. Due diligence done, Jean can continue her journey.

The sign outside declares Angel’s Share closed for the night. Light shines dimly through the bar’s windows; the door isn’t locked. Jean ignores the sign and lets herself in.

Even after hours, the Angel’s Share tavern is as homely and welcoming as ever. The smell of apple cider and dandelion wine lingers in the air as a pleasant aroma, and the lamps cast the bar’s interior in warm light. Flower garlands dangle down from the railings on the top floor. Adventurers’ memorabilia adorn the walls—it’s obvious why Angel’s Share is the favored bar of the local adventurers.

Diluc has done well.

Speaking of the Master of the Dawn Winery, Diluc is cleaning up behind the bar. He must have sent his bartender home early with the last of the patrons. “Good evening, Diluc.”

“Same to you, Jean. The others are already upstairs,” Diluc greets her, gestures to the top floor of the bar. “I’ll join you once I’ve finished closing up. What would you have to drink?”

“You don’t have to, Diluc.”

“I insist.”

”Very well, I’ll have a black coffee.”

Today has been a long day and her supply of coffee at headquarters was suspiciously empty. Jean suspects Kaeya—it would not be the first time the cavalry captain swiped her supply when he thought she was overworking herself. Jean, tactfully, does not mention her suspicion to Diluc, avoiding the topic of the man’s estranged brother.

Jean loves both men dearly, and she wishes they could all be friends again as they were when they were children. She doesn’t understand how the once brothers had fallen out so badly after their father’s death. Diluc and Kaeya refused to speak of the matter.

Heading up the stairs, Jean reaches the second floor of Angel’s Share. Only one table is occupied; the middle table by the wall. Seated against the wall is Dahlia, the deacon of the Church of Favonius nursing a rich purple drink—wolfhook juice, Jean would guess by the color. Beside Dahlia and surrounded by many empty bottles of dandelion wine is Venti, sprawled out across the table.

Dahlia raises his glass cheerfully. “The Acting Grandmaster has arrived~”

“Jean! You’re here!” Venti beams, waving her over to the table. “Come and join us!”

With a fond sigh, Jean takes the seat directly across from Dahlia. She pushes aside two of the wine bottles. “Someone has consumed a lot of dandelion wine.”

“My best buddy Dahlia here promised to treat me,” the Anemo Archom chirps.

“Our esteemed Anemo Archon bid me be generous,” Dahlia winks, playfully. “And it would be suspicious if Venti was in Angel’s Share and wasn’t drinking wine.”

“This is a private meeting—not a secret meeting,” Diluc interjects, joining the group and sitting down beside Jean. The barkeeper places a vivid blue drink topped with a sprig of mint that is decidedly not coffee. Diluc and Kaeya may not be brothers by blood, but you would never know with their shared disapproval of Jean’s caffeine addiction.

“Thank you, Diluc.”

“Don’t mention it,” Diluc smiles, before taking a sip on his own beverage of choice—plain Dawn Winery grape juice. 

Jean nods. “Now we have all gathered, let us begin.”

“I agree,” Dahlia says, a cheeky smile on his face as he picks up his drink and swirls it in his glass. “We all have our drinks so it’s time to get to business—Celestia.”

Venti flops back onto the table with a groan. “Uuughh, don’t remind me.”

Diluc raises an eyebrow at the bard. “You were the one to call this meeting.”

“Celestia has awakened. As the Anemo Archon, you are our nation’s authority on the matters of the gods,” Jean presses. “What will this mean for Mondstadt going forward?”

Venti lifts his head. “If all goes smoothly? Nothing. A big shot in Celestia woke up from a long nap. Could be worse, from what I hear he didn’t wake up grumpy.”

”From what you hear?” Jean repeats, astonished. “You have contact with Celestia?”

“That would be telling~” Venti smiles, bringing a finger to his lips. “I am but a single thread of the thousand winds.”

Jean and Diluc exchange a look. 

“In all seriousness, there shouldn’t be much for you to be worried about,” Venti says, straightening up. “Celestia doesn’t make a habit of intervening in human affairs without cause and Mondstadt is in good standing. He loves humanity.”

“He?” Diluc prompts. 

“Ehh, you can think of him as…my boss, or my boss’s boss? Unimportant! I wanted you to know he’ll be dropping by soon to check-in with me—see how Mondstadt is doing, maybe do a little sightseeing. He’s feeling rather out of the loop, having missed the last five hundred years and all.”

“A celestial envoy? How exciting!” Dahlia claps, the deacon of the Church of Favonius looks ecstatic. “How should we prepare? It’s short notice, but I bet we could add on to the Weinlesefest festivities. Oh, I know! The Choir could put on a show!”

Centuries have passed since the last time Mondstadt played host to a visiting god. The Seven very rarely strayed from their nations, and there are few other gods left on Teyvat after the Archon War. The only god other than the Archon within Mondstadt was the spectral Wolf of the North—Andrius—who had sacrificed his physical body to concede victory and position of Anemo Archon to Lord Barbatos. Moreover, different gods possess different temperaments, temperaments which need to be considered to avoid causing offense.

Hosting a celestial envoy will be no simple affair.

“Ah, he's normally a pretty…distant and private kind of guy so I’d rather not cause a fuss,” Venti says, shaking his head. “Ideally, you all won’t even know he was here until he’s gone. Though, if your paths do happen to cross, I would ask no mention be made of me being beaten by a Fatui Harbinger. It would be embarrassing if that got out.”

Jean recalls La Signora, the Eighth Harbinger of the Fatui. The witch had taken advantage in the aftermath of the Stormterror incident to attack Venti. She had waited until the Anemo Archon had exhausted himself aiding in the defense of his people and purification of his dear friend Dvalin to strike. Jean does not take pleasure in the deaths of others—even her enemies—but she did not mourn La Signora when the news of her execution by the Electro Archon reached Mondstadt.

Jean speaks. “Understood, but is there anything you would have us do to prepare? And when can we expect the celestial envoy to arrive in Mondstadt—will they come during or after Weinlesefest?”

“Everyone should carry on as they are—there’s nothing here Celestia should take issue with…though maybe Albedo should take a short sabbatical,” Venti pauses to take a sip of his wine, and Jean makes a mental note to arrange an errand in Liyue or Sumeru she can send the Chief Alchemist on. “And hmmm, I’m not sure when exactly he’ll stop by. Near the tail end of Weinlesefest, I would guess. That’s about when the Pilgrimage wraps up over in Natlan.”

Venti may be attempting to play his worry off with his usual laidback attitude, but Jean can see how stressed the bard is by the impending visit by this celestial envoy. Which worries her, setting the Acting Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius ill at ease. Stormterror had proven the Knights of Favonius—in their current reduced state—are not equipped to combat godly threats. She has heard of the devastation the unsealed Osial nearly unleashed upon Liyue Harbor. And while an ancient god, Osial was no celestial divinity. Jean does not want to imagine what a god feared by even the Archons could do if angered.

Still, for all the bard’s antics, he is dependable and dearly loves the people of Mondstadt. Yes, Jean will place her trust in her Archon. 

“I’ll ensure everything goes smoothly during the festival,” Jean swears to her Archon. “The Knights of Favonius will not let you down.”

“You can count on the church to do its part as well,” Dahlia promises, elbowing Venti playfully in the ribs. “What’s the point of being the Herald of Barbatos if I’m not able to throw my weight around to help out a friend? If I say it’s the will of the Anemo Archon, no way will Cardinal Calvin say no!”

Venti beams at the knight and the deacon. “You guys are the best!”

“Don’t mention it, Venti,” Dahlia smiles. “What are friends for?”

“Moving on, do you know if there is a reason why Celestia has chosen to awaken now of all times?” Diluc asks, shifting the subject. “I’ve had dealings with several merchants from Liyue in recent days.”

“In the city to sell their goods during the Weinlesefest festivities?” Dahlia guesses. 

“Wine merchants,” Diluc confirms, continuing. “There’s been quite a bit of unrest in Liyue Harbor. The Liyue Qixing is making their best effort to keep the calm, but the word is Celestia has awakened due to the death of Rex Lapis. While respect is still paid to the late Rex Lapis, Liyue is without an Archon—a godless nation.”

Like the Kingdom of Khaenri’ah, went unsaid.

“Liyue Harbor is currently divided between those who believe Celestia has returned to appoint a new Geo Archon and those who believe Celestia has awakened to pass judgement upon the Nation of Contracts for straying from the guidance of the gods.”

“Rex Lapis was killed two years ago,” Jean says, as much to reassure herself as the others. “If Celestia was going to respond, they would have done so back then.”

Dahlia frowns. “Two years is not long at all in the timeline of the divine.”

“…I wouldn’t worry about that,” the Anemo Archon says, slyly. “I’ll let you in on a little secret: the throne of Geo isn’t as vacant as people believe it to be. After the assassination of Rex Lapis, the current Geo Archon chose to remain in the background to allow humans to govern themselves.”

Dahlia smirks. “Another absentee archon? Barbatos is truly an outstanding role model.”

That is…reassuring on multiple levels. Jean may care for Mondstadt first and foremost, but the people of Liyue are good neighbors and good people—if a tad too preoccupied with more for Jean’s taste. If there is a Geo Archon watching over Liyue—even if from the shadows—then Celestia will not cast its judgement upon them. Little is known about the fate of Khaenri’ah five centuries after its doom but not a single Khaenri’ahan remains anywhere in Teyvat.

The news of a new Geo Archon is more surprising than it should have been. No new Geo Archon had risen following Rex Lapis' very public assassination during the Rite of Descension two years prior. The people of Liyue had rallied together, the Liyue Qixing expanding to fill the gap the death of their god had left. Time passed and the assumption was there would not be a new claimant to the Throne of Geo. Yet…Archons have died before. The Hydro and Cryo Archons had been among the Archons who met their end during the Cataclysm and they had been quickly succeeded by the Tsarista  and Lady Furina de Fontaine. The new Geo Archon must be of a similar philosophy to Venti.

“Speaking of the reason behind Celestia’s awakening, I have overheard rumors from the Fatui speculating that Lesser Lord Kusanali is responsible. I’ve also heard there’s recently been a shake-up in the leadership of the Sumeru Akademiya—with the Dendro Archon ousting sages. Could she have awakened Celestia to solidify her political position in Sumeru?”

“It’s beyond the power of a mere Archon to awaken Celestia,” Venti shakes his head. “It’s a mystery why he chose to end his long nap now. Rather inconvenient timing, really. Still, strings have been pulled so Mondstadt will be the second nation visited by our celestial envoy. Sandwiched between Natlan and Inazuma, the Nation of Freedom can fade safely into the background.”

Chapter Text

Celestia floats high above the inland Nostoi Sea, surrounded by the mountainous peaks of Liyue, verdant forests of Sumeru, and the crystal waters of Fontaine. Perched on a levitating boulder, Phainon gazes down at Teyvat. This world is vast, filled with people who have never known the horror of the black tide.

There are even villages.

The last villages in Amphoreus had died out over a decade before Phainon had joined the Flame-Chase Journey. Without soldiers and great walls, villages were too vulnerable to the black tide. They either fell like Aedes Elysiae or were abandoned—their people seeking shelter in the remaining great cities. Not on Teyvat; every time Phainon looks out over the land, he finds a new pocket of civilization. 

Here, nations are far more than the single city-states of Amphoreus. 

Phainon desperately wants to descend to the world below and experience Teyvat firsthand for himself. Only Istaroth’s warning of the disruption his presence would cause holds Phainon back. His own curiosity and restlessness are no excuse to trouble the lives of others.

Still, Phainon is impatient. His friends gave their lives for the promise of this new better world—where human civilization has finally been allowed to flourish. He wishes Mydei and Castorice—all the Chrysos Heirs, really—were here beside him so they could witness this new dawn together.

Though, Phainon supposes they had. 

Phainon is the one who has forgotten. He is the one who had chosen to burn away the precious memories of his comrades in Era Nova after journeys end. And that’s only what Phainon knows he’s lost. Seven thousand years, time gone like water slipping through open fingers.

He has no right to complain over the unfairness of his fate; however, grief for that which time has stripped him of swirls in Phainon’s heart nonetheless. He misses his dear friends and comrades. Crueler still, Phainon has awoken to a family he does not remember. While Phainon senses the Shades’s relationship with Phanes hadn’t been…close, what parent forgets their children.

Rhinedottir, Ronova, Istaroth…and Asmoday.

Phainon swears he’ll do better by them than Phanes.

‘Phanes’…Phainon wonders where the name came from. 

He left behind the name ‘Khaslana’ after the destruction of Aedes Elysiae—retreating behind the childhood nickname of ‘Phainon.’ Then, ‘Phainon’ had become the name of Okhema’s Deliverer; the name recorded alongside his fellow Chrysos Heirs. ‘Phainon’ is not a name the current version of him has any desire to set aside; however, he can imagine how his future other-self might.

How much innocent blood had he had to shed for Amphoreus’s Era Nova? The Miracle of Genesis was far crueler than any of them had known. Waging a war of conquest, he had traded the future of dragons for the future of humanity. Stained crimson red, would the name of Okhema’s Deliverer still fit him? ‘Phanes’ would be a clean break from the heroic ideal that, even in his successful ushering in of Era Nova, he could no longer lay claim to. 

Phainon can’t regret it.

The actions taken by Phanes may make Phainon a horrible person, but he swore to deliver Amphoreus into a new dawn. A mirror revealing the darkest dark of the depths Phainon will sink too—the price he will make others pay for his world. Okhema’s Deliverer is sickened, yet…any price is worth paying for Amphoreus’s sake.

For the Miracle of Genesis.

Teyvat stretches out into the distant horizon, the sun casting all into golden light. The great tree of Sumeru City—oh so reminiscent of the Grove of Epiphany—stands guardian over the dazzling sea of green rainforest, and beside them colossal pyramids rise out of the red sands of Deshret Desert. In Liyue’s Huaguang Stone Forest, stone spires rise up to piece the clouds. Water cascades down from Fontaine’s plateau in a curtain of waterfalls. At the very edge of the horizon, the Great Volcano of Tollan spews fire and ash at the heavens.

Even from afar, Teyvat is beautiful.

In another life, Phainon would capture these vistas on his teleslate and send them to Castorice. Perhaps Ladies Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon as well. And Natlan’s volcano might have interested Professor Anaxa.

Hmm? 

Phainon isn’t alone on Celestia—someone has appeared in the courtyard near the throne room. Focusing in on the background awareness he has of Celestia, Phainon can sense her presence as a crimson flame. The smile on Phainon’s face widens.

Ronova.

Technically speaking, Celestia is as much the Shades’ home as it is Phainon’s, but their presence on the island is sporadic at best. He would like to spend more time with his…daughters, but Teyvat’s Rulers of Life, Death, and Time have duties to attend to, and Phainon isn’t going to make keeping him entertained one of their responsibilities. Istaroth is the Shade Phainon has seen the most of as she has taken upon herself the task of educating him in the history and functioning of Teyvat. 

Grasping the well of power within him the Shades call ‘Space’ and he thinks of as ‘Passage,’ Phainon bridges the space between the courtyard and Celestia’s edge. Stepping through the gate, Phainon arrives in the courtyard; Ronova standing in the grassy courtyard.

The courtyard has changed drastically since Phainon ‘first’ met the Shades here almost two weeks ago. Calling upon his authority over Celestia and the powers of Reason and Earth—no, the powers of Dendro and Geo, Phainon had remade the area in the image of Okhema’s Garden of Life. 

An excuse to practice his powers, Phainon would say if the Shades had asked.

An imperfect imitation. The great tree had proven impossible to grow without destroying the surrounding building. The flowerbeds and hanging garlands remain frustratingly off despite Phainon’s best efforts to replicate the garden’s flora. And…there are no people, no little chimeras lazing about or getting up to mischief. Still, the familiarity of home brings Phainon comfort.

Moreover, the Garden of Life fits right in with the rest of Celestia as if the garden had always been a part of it. The more time Phainon spends wandering Celestia, the more echoes of Okhema he sees. While Phanes’ Celestia is a less blatant homage to the Eternal Holy City than Phainon’s recent additions, Phanes must have longed for their home as deeply as his younger self does.

Shaking away memories of the past, Phainon waves to the Shade of Death. “Hey there, Ronova! Wonderful to see you!”

Ronova curtseyed. “Good afternoon, Lord Phainon. It was unnecessary for you to come to me. I would have gone to you.”

“And wait even longer to see you?” Phainon says, smile bright and fond. “And you don’t have to call me ‘Lord Phainon,’ if you don’t want to. Phainon is fine.”

Ronova and Istaroth’s deference towards him is uncomfortable. They’re supposed to be family, and Phainon is still wrapping his head around this Heavenly Principles business. Mydei—crown prince of Castrum Kremnos—would have been the better fit for the mantle of god-king than Phainon, the Okhema’s Deliverer hardly knows what to do with a crown.

Ronova fidgets under Phainon’s golden gaze. “Addressing the Heavenly Principles directly would be…improper.”

Well, Phainon isn’t going to order Ronova to call him by his name. While he’s managed to talk Ronova and Istaroth into referring to him as ‘Lord Phainon,’ instead of ‘Heavenly Principles,’ he wishes the Shades would drop the titles entirely. So far, only Rhinedottir has taken to using ‘Phainon.’

An awkward pause.

Ronova is as unsure how to act with him as he is with her. 

What to do?

There is no Marmoreal Market to lose an afternoon browsing through together like Phainon has done countless times with Castorice. Celestia has no gentle Dromas to visit nor mischievous Chimera to wrangle. Even if Ronova shares Stelle’s fascination with trashcans—which he rather doubts to be the case—Phainon has yet to encounter any as he explores Celestia. 

…Phainon should fix that. Needed or not, Stelle would be aghast to learn Celestia is without as much as a single noble waste receptacle. 

Perhaps they can spar? Phainon is restless, with plenty of physical energy to burn, and there is much to be learned about a person from how they fight. Plus, he could use the opportunity to further acclimatize to his newfound power as the Heavenly Principles.

“Well,” Phainon says, coughing awkwardly. “I was planning on using the practice field later—I could use a training partner.”

Ronova acquiests. 

Flashes of red and gold light up the skies above Celestia, the Primordial One and the Ruler of Death clashing in an explosive dance of energy and steel. Two celestial divinities clashing in a contest of martial skill; sword against spear.

Grinning, Phainon dives at Ronova and brings Dawnmaker down on her in a blow augmented by gravity as well as his own power. His blade sparks against her spear as she deflects the strike, using his own momentum to send him downwards. Ronova’s technique is impeccable, and she does not hesitate to capitalize on her sudden advantage in altitude.

Lances of crackling crimson bombard Phainon from above. Experience with the attack has taught him to counter instead of attempting to dodge it. A slash of Dawnmaker cleaves through the rain of death in a burst of gold. Yet, in this brief moment a critical mistake has been made—Phainon had taken his eyes off of Ronova.

A spear presses lightly against Phainon’s throat.

Relaxing, Phainon dismisses Dawnmaker and beams at his sparring partner. “Haha, it appears victory is yours once again, Ronova. I don’t think there is—was a spear in Okhema that could even begin to compare. Your technique is flawless.”

“There is nothing remarkable about my victory,” Ronova says, following Phainon’s example and dismissing her weapon. “You are capable of beating me, Lord Phainon. You would soundly defeat me in a true battle.”

“I can overpower you,” Phainon corrected.

Phainon could.

If Phainon brought the full force of his divinity to bear, he could overpower and overwhelm Ronova with ease. Inexperienced as Phainon may be with his ‘new’ power as Teyvat’s Heavenly Principles, the Ruler of Death simply can not compete with him in a contest of raw divine authority.

However, in a fair fight? Where Phainon keeps his power roughly even with hers? Ronova has won the contest of skill every time but the one—and she’d let him win that initial match. Where Phainon might outclass Ronova in sheer power, she has a substantial advantage in combat experience. His daughter has polished her skills and combat instincts over thousands of years.

Ronova is a peerless warrior; Phainon is proud.

Phainon would like to believe Mydei and he could have taken Ronova if they worked in tandem—perhaps even with Castorice joining them, as risky as such a move would be. However, Phainon knows in his bones the Chrysos Heirs would have met defeat at Ronova’s spear.

…If Ronova was there when the Flame Reaver struck Okhema…

Carried by glowing gold and purple wings, Phainon floats down to the field below; Ronova follows after him. The once pristine field has been ruined by their battles. Grass is burnt and charred, and the ground is ravaged by craters and cleaved gorges. With a command of Geo, Phainon restores the shape of the land; a fresh carpet of greenery spreads across it with a pulse of Dendro.

Turning back to Ronova, Phainon thanks her for the spar. He is grateful for the opportunity to practice his powers in ‘battle’ and flight has added an entirely new dimension to combat. How he appreciates Ronova taking time away from her duties as the Ruler of Death to spend time with him.

Ronova tilts her head, face impassive. “It is the duty of the Shining Shades to assist the Heavenly Principles in all things.”

Phainon…does not like Ronova’s response.

He had sensed the Phanes had not had a close relationship with his daughters. The ghosts of his parents whisper shame and disappointment in his ears—how dare any version of their son have treated their granddaughters like subordinates. A mistake of his other-self Phainon will have to rectify; mistakes he must make up for. 

Taking a chance, Phainon reaches out and takes Ronova’s hands in his. Squeezing them gently, he meets the Ruler of Death's gaze. The Heavenly Principles bears his heart honestly. “I mean it—I know there’s a lot I don’t remember, but I’m truly happy to have met you, Ronova. I’ll cherish the chance to get to know you all over again.”

A moment passes; Ronova searches Phainon’s eyes.

A hesitant smile. “…I would not be opposed.”

“Wonderful,” Phainon glows—literally, his wings brightening by several degrees of lumen—as he lets go of the Shade’s hands.

“…Why do you want to visit the seven nations, Lord Phainon?” Ronova asks, looking away from Phainon and out in the direction of the distant Great Volcano of Tollan. “The Heavenly Principles has not been interested in the intervention of human affairs since the era of the First Civilization. Celestia has only involved itself when the order of the world is threatened.”

Phainon hums as he thinks Ronova’s question over. “I can’t speak for Phanes, but I want to see the new world my friends entrusted me to build. I want to see its people living lives free from threat of the blac—the Abyss. I want to love every part of Teyvat as I loved Amphoreus. Which includes you, Ronova.”

Under the purple-red of a twilight sky, a tea party is being held.

The Ruler of Life had completely taken over the balcony of the Solar Palace. A pink and white cantilever umbrella shades a table covered with a flowing white tablecloth. A white-gold porcelain tea-set rests on the table: an ornate teapot, two delicate teacups with handles in the shape of winged serpents, and patterned plates and saucers upon which are half-a-dozen teatime snacks. 

Seated in a carved wooden chair with pink cushioning across from Rhinedottir, Phainon does his best to mind his manners as he scarfs down several Bulle Souffles. The small airy cakes are housed in the skin of an orange—or bulle, as oranges appear to be called on Teyvat—and topped with caramelized bulle peels in the shape of flowers. They are delicious.

Phainon isn’t truly hungry—his divine state has rendered food and water entirely optional indulgences—but these teatime treats are the first ‘meal’ he’s had on Celestia. The last thing he remembers eating was a salad before Hyacine, Stelle (and Mem), and he challenged Aquila.

“Someone enjoys eating,” Rhinedottir comments, playfully. On her plate is a yellow-brown jellied dessert she had called ‘Coffee Bavarois.’ 

Phainon laughs sheepishly. “Yeah…it’s been a while. I guess I must have missed it.”

“I’m glad. Istaroth and Ronova don’t care for it, they always refuse my tea parties. I’m partial to seafood and coffee myself. What foods do you favor, Phainon?”

“Salads are my favorite. Oh, and I also like honeycakes…my mom used to make them for a friend and I when we were kids. I never thought to learn the recipe until after…she was gone.”

Were Rhinedottir anyone else, Phainon wouldn’t have shared that last detail. Time has healed Phainon’s wounded heart to the point he can share bits and pieces of Aedes Elysiae with others, but the people? Talking about his family, about Cyrene it still hurts. Still, Rhinedottir deserves to have what pieces Phainon can bring himself to share.

Phainon can still clearly remember his mother calling Cyrene and he in from playing in the wheat fields. Nothing like a sweet treat to have children racing home. He wishes he’d learned the recipe. Phainon thinks it was a family recipe from his grandfather’s family, though he can’t be sure. The honeycakes at Kyros’s Dinner are the closest Phainon had found to his childhood memory of the dessert—even then, the spices and nuts aren’t quite right.

“Tea?” Rhinedottir offers as the floating teapot fills her own teacup. “It’s from Liyue.”

“Please.” 

The teapot drifts over to Phainon with a wave of the Ruler of Life’s hand. The tea is a similar warm orange to Okhema’s herbal teas; the steam carrying a subtle floral scent. After trying the tea, Phainon must guilty admit to preferring this new Liyuean blend to the ones served in Marmoreal Palace. The favor is perfectly complex with a pleasantly sweet aftertaste.

Phainon tells Rhinedottir as much.

“I expected you would,” The Ruler of Life says, stirring a sugar cube into her own teacup. “Chenyu Vale is known across Teyvat for their tea. Their cultivation of Chenyu Adeptea predates even the Archon War so you could say several millenia of work goes into every pot of Chenyu Brew.”

How safe a world must be for a village to thrive for thousands of years on the cultivation of a speciality like tea. Valuable farmland spent on luxuries instead of sustenance. Once, perhaps there had been villages like one in Chenyu Vale in Amphoreus but by Phainon’s time those days had long since passed. Haunted by mad titankin and the black tide, trade routes could not be trusted to import food reliably. If a settlement was unable to feed itself, famine would come eventually. 

Rhinedottir continues. “A dear friend gifted me a box of adeptea from Qiaoying Village’s very own Chunming Teahouse. She told me to enjoy it on a special occasion, and I do believe this counts—for what is more special than family reuniting after five hundred years?”

“You didn’t need to do that, Rhinedottir,” Phainon frowns. If this tea was an expensive gift from a friend, he didn’t want Rhinedottir to feel obligated to use it on him because he is the Heavenly Principles. 

“I wanted to, and I can always acquire more if I so desire,” Rhinedottir says, waving off Phainon’s concerns. “If you must repay me, pick up a new box for me when you visit Liyue Harbor—we can have another tea party. Now, tell me of Amphoreus.”

Phainon gazes at his reflection in his teacup. “Where do I start?”

“At the beginning?" 

Resting her chin in her palm, Rhinedottir leans forward and she listens with rapt attention as Phainon tells her the story of Amphoreus and the Flame Chase Journey. The twelve titans that gave birth to the world, the emergence of the ruinous black tide, and how Lady Tribios stole the Coreflame of Passage—becoming Amphoreus’s very first demigod.

“Go find the children of humanity with golden blood in their veins, shatter the dimmest dark in this world, and walk towards the tomorrow where the stars gleam.”

Lady Tribios split into a thousand versions of herself to spread her prophecy to every distant corner of Amphoreus. She proclaimed the world’s salvation would come from the Miracle of Genesis—when the twelve Coreflames were seized from the twelve Titans, Amphoreus would be reborn in Era Nova.

The initial conflict over the credibility of the prophecy, with many reluctant to turn against their gods. Then the Chrysos War, where golden-blooded Chrysos Heirs warred over who had the right to succeed the Titans. How Imperator Cerydra, Lady Hysilens, and Lord Terravox emerged victorious as the Demigods of Law, Ocean, and Earth—claiming the Eternal Holy City of Okhema as base of the Flame Chase. The Coreflames of Romance and Trickery would be claimed during this era.

After Imperator Cerydra’s disappearance, Lady Aglaea—Demigod of Romance—would become the new leader of the Flame Chase, Ladies Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon at her side as the Demigods of Passage. 

“Lady Aglaea,” Phainon remembers his mentor. “She’s the one who brought me to Okhema. I was young, when the black tide destroyed my village. I was only a wanderer, but she saw potential in me. I learned swordsmanship with the Okhema city guard, and then she sent me to the Grove to be educated by the scholars for several years. When I returned, I officially joined the Flame-Chase. Lady Aglaea chose me as the Chrysos Heir to claim the Coreflame of Worldbearing and succeed Sky Father Kephale…and as her successor after her death.”

Phainon’s hand clenches with his heart, his grip on his teacup tightening. He remembers Lady Aglaea’s death. He remembers how she had designed and crafted his outfit as Okhema’s Deliverer. The Goldweaver did not approve of her mentee’s sense of fashion—or lack thereof. 

Personally, Phainon thought the outfit he’d picked for himself and that Lady Aglaea had swiftly replaced looked fine. Castorice and Lady Trianne assured him his chosen outfit was a fashion disaster. Ladies Tribbie and Trinnon had been kinder, labeling Phainon’s choices ‘unique.’

Titans, Phainon misses them all dearly.

“You hold this Lady Aglaea in high regard,” Rhinedottir notes. “How did she die, if I might ask.”

“Betrayal…she…Lady Aglaea—the Goldweaver—led the Flame Chase and safeguard Okhema for centuries,” Phainon says softly. “She was my mentor…she always believed I would perform the Miracle of Genesis and bring Era Nova.”

“And her trust wasn’t misplaced.” Rhinedottir’s voice is kind. “Would I be correct that you possess all twelve Coreflames? I notice how there are twelve Coreflames, and between yourself, the four shades, and the seven elements, we have twelve once more.”

Nodding, Phainon confirms Rhinedottir’s theory. There are twelve wells of power inside of him that he recognizes as Sky, Earth, Trickery, Reason, Ocean, Strife, Romance, Law, Death, Time, Passage, and Worldbearing. Or as Teyvat names them: Anemo, Geo, Electro, Dendro, Hydro, Pyro, Cryo, Life, Death, Time, Space, and Reason.

The teapot refills both of the celestial gods’ cups as Rhinedottir bids Phainon continue his story of Amphoreus. Phainon recounts his friendships with Mydei—Demigod of Strife—and Castorice—Demigod of Death. Of his role as Okhema’s Deliverer, and the arrival of the two Trailblazers from beyond the sky.

Rhinedottir perks up with renewed interest. “Voyagers from the stars?”

Smiling at the memory, Phainon recounts how he met Stelle and Dan Heng in the ruins of Janusopolis while on a mission to escort refugees to Okhema. Of studious and stoic Dan Hang, and his blooming friendship with Hyacines—Demigod of Sky. About Stelle, the Galactic Baseballer and rule-breaker extraordinaire who took up the mantle of Demigod of Time. Stelle, his dear partner and the greatest hero Phainon had ever known. 

When Okhema was under attack by the Flame Reaver, Dan Heng had stayed behind in the Marmoreal Palace’s baths to buy Stelle and he time to reach the Vortex of Genesis so Phainon could become the Demigod of Time and bring Era Nova. Stelle—his partner—had been by Phainon’s side to the very end.

“I don’t know what happened to them after…after the Miracle of Genesis,” Phainon confesses, voice cracking a little. “My last memories are of diving into Trinnon’s Century Gate—Stelle beside me. Stelle was the Demigod of Time, but they were outlanders. Would they have been included in Amphoreus’ Era Nova?”

“There is no way to know for certain. If circumstances were different, I might suggest exploring Irminsul. However, those events would predate its creation.”

Irminsul.

Istaroth had covered Teyvat’s world tree in his lessons. The great tree stored all the memories of Teyvat and her people. Irminsul is the heart of Teyvat’s network of leylines—the source of life as well as where souls go after death. 

“All life returns to the leylines,” Phainon muses, an idea forming. “Rhinedottir, do you think I could find the others recorded in Irminsul? Mydei, Castorice, and the others would have lived their second lives on Teyvat.”

Rhinedottir considers the question carefully before answering. “At one point, perhaps. Time erodes all and seven thousand years have passed. Memories as elemental energy cycle through Teyvat—finding them would be akin to pouring a glass of water into the ocean and attempting to scoop out the exact same glass of water. I won’t tell you it’s impossible, Phainon, but it is unlikely. The essence people call ‘souls’ struggle to maintain cohesion—their sense of self, if you would—that you sometimes see of souls in the Night Kingdom.”

“The Night Kingdom?” Phainon does not recognize the term from Istaroth’s lessons.

“Hm? I thought Istaroth would have informed you by now,” Rhinedottir hums, tilting her head to the side. “Natlan’s leyline network was all but destroyed during the Great War of Vengeance. Celestia’s ability to weave new leylines was also…damaged, by the conflict. The Night Kingdom serves as Natlan’s afterlife and repository of memory. If you wish to know more, you should ask Ronova—she is the resident expert on the Night Kingdom.”

“She is?” Phainon supposes that made sense. Ronova is Teyvat’s Ruler of Death, after all.

Rhinedottir stirs her tea. “Oh yes, after the war, Ronova conspired with a seelie, Yohualtecuhtin, to craft an alternative to the leylines—the Night Kingdom. You were quite wroth with her afterwards.”

Phainon couldn’t understand. The leylines are both a safe guard against the encroachment of the Abyss and the final resting place of Teyvat’s dead. With the Night Kingdom, Ronova saved the people of Natlan from a horrid fate. Phainon can’t imagine the people like those of Aedes Elysian falling to the black tide and then being denied the peace of the afterlife as well.  

“Why would I be angry with her for helping people?”

“Ronova defied the Heavenly Principles,” Rhinedottir says, between taking a bite of her coffee jelly. “The principle duty of a Shade is to uphold the order established by the Heavenly Principles. Our dear Ronova overstepped the bounds of her remit with her meddling in the order of Natlan. For which she was harshly reprimanded for.”

…So the animosity between Ronova and Rhinedottir isn’t as one sided as Phainon initially thought.

More than the mysterious ongoing feud between sister Shades, Phainon is struck with what a horrible leader and parent Phanes had been in this instance. Not even Lady Aglaea at her coldest would praise a leader who severely punished their subordinates for saving so many souls—in both life and death. And how could a parent punish their child for being kind and helping those in need?

Phainon is not blind to how Ronova and Istaroth act like his subordinates. None of the Shades express any grief over the loss of Phanes. Phainon might still live, but the person Phanes was is gone along with his memories. 

Before, Phainon had assumed their relationship was distant. However, he is beginning to suspect Phanes’s relationship with their daughters was essentially nonexistent beyond their celestial duties. Which, how could Phainon’s other-self do that? Was he so fixated on safeguarding Era Nova that he neglected his family? How could Phanes? Did he forget how precious family is? The agony in his heart after Aedes Elysiae? The pain of losing them which fades but never disappears. 

Mydei would have knocked sense back into him.

Castorice would have been Disappointed in him.

Phainon’s wings droop, light dimming under the weight of shame. “I have been a horrible parent.”

“There have been worse,” Rhinedottir concedes, an odd twinkle in her mismatched grey-gold eyes. 

“…I’m sorry.” Those two words don’t feel nearly enough to convey the depth of Phainon’s feelings. His apology is a paltry offering for actions taken and not. “I swear I’ll do better this time. I told Ronova I want a fresh start—a chance to get to know you all and you me…if you’ll have me, that is.”

A pause.

Then, laughter.

When her laughter subsides, Rhinedottir wipes a tear away from her grey eye. “Phainon, you truly are a child.”

This is not how Phainon expected this to go. “I’m not.”

“I don’t care when you were born—with what memories you have left, you’re not even scratching fifty. You are a chick still learning to fly. To think we—no, never you mind that,” Rhinedottir waves her hand dismissively yet not unkindly. “In all ways which matter, I am centuries your elder, Phainon. I have no need for you to parent me, and I would rather our relationship not be restricted by rigid roles. We are family, are we not? We can be flexible and see how we fit together with time.”

Chapter Text

A peaceful gentle breeze blows over Celestia. The winds should have been harsh and biting at this altitude, but, no matter the turbulence and temperature beyond Celestia’s borders, the floating island’s weather is that of a warm eternal spring.

Phainon leans against the inner railing of a gazebo.

Celestia’s signature white stone carved into delicate railings and benches, a perfect place to enjoy the outdoors with a friend while sheltering from the sun. Phainon has found many places like this in his explorations of Celestia—remnants from when the island was home to more than the Heavenly Principles and his Four Shining Shades. 

For all the heavenly island’s restored splendor, Celestia is as desolate as when Phainon awoke on his throne. He dearly misses Okhema City with her lively bustling markets, training yards, and always occupied baths. If only he could discuss books with Castorice…

…Castorice would like Ronova, Phainon fondly thinks. Would the Ruler of Death have been able to touch the Demigod of Death without succumbing to her curse? As he is now, could Phainon? The Authority of Death is within him. 

Phainon blinks away the tears before they can fall.

Speculation is pointless. This Phainon is at least seven-thousand years too late to grant his dear friend’s wish. He hopes he was able to hold Castorice’s hand during the era of Teyvat’s First Civilization.

…He will never know.

Phainon wants to break something. How dare Phanes deem precious memories of their comrades disposable. The more Phainon learns of this new world made possible by the Miracle of Genesis, the angrier he grows at Phanes. 

Teyvat is not a perfect world—the corruption of the abyss chews at the roots of Irmunsul; a poison kept at bay, but never truly purged after the Dragon King Nibelung carried it passed the False Sky’s barrier. 

However, there is no existential threat bearing down on the world necessitating an active Heavenly Principles. Civilizations rise and fall and rise again in a cyclical loop. If only Phanes had been content to sleep another few hundred years then perhaps their final memories of the Chrysos Heirs would not have been burned upon the fire of restorations. Phainon might know the fates of Stelle and Dan Heng—two brilliant stars fighting to the end for a world not even their own.

For Phanes to have erased memories of Stelle—their partner—is utterly unforgivable. Phainon seethes at the disrespect to Stelle—to all the Chrysos Heirs. The Shades, as well. Grief, jealousy, and fury rage as a bonfire in Phainon’s chest over the time stolen from him. 

Unbidden, the urge to destroy boils to the surface. An impulse which should have felt alien to Okhema’s Deliverer. Emotions—heavy and aching and wrathful—swirl within Phainon demanding release—demanding destruction. 

Wings flaring with the light of a blazing sun as Phainon reaches out a hand.

Strife. 

In an instant, the entirety of Celestia’s northern fields are engulfed in an immolating storm of Pyro. Stone melts into puddles of glowing lava; plant life is reduced to particles of atomized ash. Idyllic meadows are replaced with dead barren wasteland.

This is wrong.

Drawing on the once-power of Titan Oronyx, Phainon grasps at the threads of Time. He needs only turn the clock back by a handful of seconds. Phainon exhales as time reverses—deletes—the ravager’s work; all evidence of Phainon’s moment of destruction erased.

Staunchly ignoring the heat bubbling under his skin, Phainon sits down on a bench. Leaning his head against one of the gazebo’s supports, Phainon closes his eyes and imagines the starry peace of the Vortex of Genesis. 

.

.

.

Yawning, Phainon opens his eyes and sits up. He stretches his arms over his head and flexes his wings. Sleep may no longer be necessary, but by the Titans did it feel good.  And hey, his new inability to dream means there are no nightmares to torment him. A nap was precisely what he needed to cool his head. 

He feels better—refreshed. 

“I see you’re done sleeping, Lord Phainon.”

Phainon startles—Istaroth?

With his constant awareness of Celestia, the Shades rarely catch him by surprise. The fog of sleep has masked the Ruler of Times presence on Celestia. She sits on the bench opposite to Phainon, gracefully leaning against the railing. The charms of her halo sway softly in the breezes; the gentle song of wind chimes.

“Istaroth. You should have woken me.” 

“I do not mind,” Istaroth hums. “My time is mine to spend as I will.”

“Still, I hate to make you wait.”

The Ruler of Life crosses her legs. “Have you made progress in altering your form since last we met?” 

“I’m afraid not,” Phainon laughs sheepishly. Despite Phainon’s efforts to change his appearance into a less conspicuous human form, his golden eyes refuse to return to their original blue and his wings remain stubbornly corporeal. He has figured out how to brighten or dim the glow he gives off, but not how to turn it off entirely.

While far from universal, Istaroth had explained the ability to shift one’s form is not uncommon among Teyvat’s divine and elemental beings. The people of Liyue worship the Geo Archon in the form of an amber dragon, but Morax often takes the guise of a human to walk unnoticed among his people. 

He doesn’t mind his new divine form. His body feels as natural to him as when he was a ‘mere’ mortal Chrysos Heir. His wings are as much an extension of him as his arms. Flight under your own power is an exhilarating experience. However, if possible, Phainon would like to follow the Geo Archon’s example and meet his people not as a god but as a man.

A chasm threatens to divide Phainon from humanity.

“Worry not, Lord Phainon. You will relearn what you have lost with time.”

“I’ll keep trying,” Phainon promises, and then casts a questioning look at the Ruler of Time. “…This won’t affect whether I can travel Teyvat, will it?”

From the beginning, Istaroth has impressed on Phainon the disruption his presence is capable of causing on Teyvat. Most would not recognize him as the Heavenly Principles, but only the blind would not recognize him as a god. The few divinities that still walk Teyvat after the Archon War are universally known as beings of great power and importance. Humans would fear him or seek to worship him. Neither of which are reactions Phainon is keen to incur.

“This will not be an issue,” Istaroth reassures him, tucking a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear. “It will be better for you to be seen as a celestial god. The reawakening of Celestia is causing waves in Teyvat—to know their Archons are in good standing with Celestia would do much to quell anxieties. I believe you wish to continue your policy of keeping the Heavenly Principles unknown?”

“Yes.”

“I expected as much,” Istaroth says, nodding to herself. “My plan was always to present you as a celestial envoy, in any case. The Archons will know the truth, of course, but they understand Celestia’s preference for anonymity. You will be a god of Celestia, not the god of Celestia.”

A celestial envoy.

Phainon can make peace with such a role. 

He understands the fear the powerful and the unknown can strike into the hearts of men, and Celestia—the abode of the celestial gods—is both mysterious and powerful. Moreover, the last time Celestia involved itself in mortal affairs was during a great catastrophe—centuries ago. 

Phainon swears he’ll set the people of Teyvat’s minds to ease. 

“I’m glad the Archons agreed to meet.” In Okhema, Lady Aglaea would have had to perform clever political maneuvers to call the council on similarly short notice, and Phainon assumes the sovereign gods of nations have greater demands on their time than city elders. Though the Council of Elders had proven itself capable of quickly mobilizing when doing so suited their agenda. Phainon chooses to blame the council’s obstinacy on the machinations of Caenis.

May that woman rot in the Underworld.

Istaroth raises a single delicate eyebrow. “Hosting the Heavenly Principles is not an honor an Archon would turn down lightly…however, while you are welcome to visit Sheznayan territory, the Cryo Archon has declined to meet with the Heavenly Principles personally.”

Phainon blinks, surprised. “But why?” 

“There is bad blood between the Tsarista and yourself. You broke her heart into pieces and she has borne a grudge against the heavens ever since.”

He did what.

Istaroth must have read the expression on Phainon’s face. Her lips quirk upward as she elaborates on her statement. “The relationship between the Heavenly Principles and the Tsarista was never romantic in nature, I assure you—rather the opposite, I would say. The Belyi Tsar’s daughter was below the notice of the Heavenly Principles.”

“…”

One-sided heartbreak. 

Yeah, that certainly explains why Sheznaya’s Tsarista has no wish to see him. Taking Phanes’ treatment of his own daughters as an indicator, Phainon doubts he had been kind to the woman who now reigns as Teyvat’s second Cryo Archon.

“She intends to have one of her trusted Fatui Harbingers deal with you on her behalf, but as the Heavenly Princip—”

“No! It’s fine,” Phainon interrupts Istaroth. “I’ll meet with her Harbinger. I don’t intend to start my reign ordering people into situations they aren’t comfortable with. The Archons have ruled well these past five-hundred years. They have nothing to fear from me—I’m no tyrant, it’s the job of the Heavenly Principles to protect the world, and the job of the Archons to lead Teyvat.”

The Chrysos Heirs had taken the reins of leadership from Okhema’s Council of Elders centuries before Phainon came to the Eternal Holy City. Teyvat has no need of the tyranny Lady Aglaea and the Chrysos Heirs had so often been accused of. Amphoreus was dying a slow death and the Flame-Chase was their world’s only hope for a future. Teyvat is not facing the end of days. Instead, Teyvat is so wondrously alive—infinite possibilities stretching out in a future blessedly devoid of apocalypse. 

The Era Nova has arrived; Teyvat is a world without need for a golden blooded tyrant to lead them to salvation.

“…as you say, Lord Phainon,” Istaroth says, tone noncommittal as ever. “With the matter of the Cryo Archon settled, I have finished speaking with the Archons and preparations are underway in all nations for your arrival. I have arranged the travel itinerary. Unless you have changed your mind?”

“No, I appreciate the effort you must have gone through putting together all this for me,” Phainon smiles. “I’m up for whatever you have planned. You know Teyvat better than I, Istaroth. I trust you.”

Or rather, Phainon supposes, he chooses to trust Istaroth—the same way he chooses to trust Ronova and Rhinedottir. Phainon knows judging trustworthiness by shared blood is a faulty proposition. Mydei’s father—King Eurypon—had sought to end the life of his own infant son, whereas his mentor—Krateros—while misguided at times, always sought to do what he believed to be best for Mydei. 

Still, Phainon wants to trust them—in this reborn world, the Shades are all he has to hold onto. 

“Your tour will span twenty-seven days—three days in each nation with a rest day in between. Time aplenty to meet with the local Archon and acquaint yourself with the region.” Waving her hand, Istaroth conjures between them an intricately painted map of the elemental nations. “You can, of course, revisit at a later date if you desire. Given your expressed interest in the Sumeru Akademiya, I’ve arranged for you to go there last so you may spend more time there without delaying meetings with the other Archons.” 

Given his position as Heavenly Principles, Phainon shouldn’t favor one nation over another and he has no plans to. However, he can’t help but be drawn in by the parallels between Sumeru City and the Grove. What would Professor Anaxa think of the Nation of Wisdom, were he here? 

How thoughtful of Istaroth.

“Where to first?”

“Natlan,” Istaroth answers, tapping the Nation of War on the map. Then moving her finger to the other nations, Istaroth traces out Phainon’s path across Teyvat. “Then Mondstadt, Inazuma, Fontaine, Liyue, Sheznaya, and ending in Sumeru.”

Leaning forward, Phainon listens intently to the Istaroth.

“In the interest of familiarizing yourself with the local cultures, I thought it best you start your tour with Natlan and Mondstadt,” the Ruler of Time explains. “The Pilgrimage of the Sacred Flame is currently underway in Natlan. It’s an event with great cultural significance. You will meet with the Pyro Archon the morning of your arrival—she indicated she has important matters she wishes to discuss with you. The tournament comprising the second stage of the competition will be held later the same day. The second day will be yours to explore the city and the surrounding region. The closing ceremony on the third day will conclude your time in Natlan.”

What might the Pyro Archon want to bring to the attention of the Heavenly Principles? Something of grave importance, surely. Whatever the matter may be, this may prove to be Phainon’s first test in upholding his duties as Teyvat’s Heavenly Principles.

“Continuing on the cultural events front, Mondstadt will be holding their Weinlesefest festival—a celebration of the Anemo Archon and conclusion of the harvest season. The festivities should provide you ample entertainment. There is no set schedule, but the Anemo Archon has offered to show you the best sight-seeing spots. He does ask you meet outside of the city, for he enjoys his anonymity.”

…And Phainon—winged and radiating golden light—is currently the polar opposite of inconspicuous. 

Istaroth taps on the cluster of islands to the south-east of the main continent of Teyvat. “The next nation you shall travel to is Inazuma—Narukami Island, in specific. The Electro Archon has provided a detailed itinerary for your visit and will host you in her residence of Tenshukaku. She has ordered a nationwide celebration to honor the return of Celestia.” 

Phainon frowns. “Is a celebration truly necessary?”

“Abiding by the Heavenly Principles has long been a matter of import to the Electro Archon,” Istaroth says, casting her gaze out over Celestia’s northern fields. “I imagine she also wishes to display national unity to the Heavenly Principles—the civil war ended only a year ago.”

“Moving on to Fontaine, though the Hydro Archon was evasive with the details of her plans for hosting you, she has promised to show you the Justice of Fontaine. Egeria’s successor is a known eccentric. Why, she’s claimed all gods—even those of Celestia—will know her judgement. Whatever the Hydro Archon’s plans, Fontaine is the most technologically advanced of the seven nations. There will be plenty for you to do and see.”

An Archon willing to challenge even the Heavenly Principles of Celestia in the name of Justice? 

Mydei would approve; Phainon’s friend always valued doing ‘right’ no matter the difficulty. Phainon also suspects few are those in this world who are willing to directly challenge him. That alone would have won the Hydro Archon his respect. 

“I’m looking forward to meeting her. If I remember correctly, the Hydro Archon’s name is Focalors?” 

“Correct,” Istaroth nods, the charms of her halo chiming with the motion. “The Hydro Archon bears the demon god name of Focalors. However, she more commonly uses her chosen name of Furina de Fontaine. She is still young by the standards of the gods. Egeria must have created her not long before the Cataclysm as a failsafe.”

“You never mention Focalors was Egeria’s daughter.”

Istaroth’s golden eyes are unreadable. “Hmm, I suppose you might call her that, Lord Phainon. Egeria’s methods were not dissimilar to your own in the creation of us Shining Shades. Now…Liyue Harbor—Liyue as a whole, truly—has experienced unrest among the populace since Celestia’s awakening. They fear judgement for their lack of an Archon.”

That couldn’t be right. 

Like the rest of Celestia, he can sense the Archon’s thrones—radiant with the elemental authority contained within—at the periphery of his awareness. The Geo Throne feels…occupied, for lack of a better term. 

There is a Geo Archon, and Phainon tells Istaroth as much. 

“True, but the Geo Archon faked his death two years ago leaving most to believe the Throne of Geo vacant,” Istaroth explains. “Truthfully, I wouldn’t be surprised if Geo aligned vision holders and elemental beings seek you out in order to put themselves forth as candidates for the new Geo Archon. While they will not know you as the Heavenly Principles, you—as a celestial god—will be assumed to have a say in the selection.”

“Something I unfortunately have ample experience with,” Phainon says, thinking back to his days in Okhema. “People found me more approachable than many of my peers, so they came to me when they wanted to curry favor with Lady Aglaea. Or even Mydei on occasion. If it comes up, I can handle it.” 

“How reassuring…Morax wishes to meet you in the Minlin region for your first day in Liyue, and you will spend the remaining days in Liyue Harbor. Arrangements have been made with the Qixing to host you—the approval of a celestial envoy will settle the Liyueans’ fears. The Qixing’s Tianquan—Ninggaung—should be making an announcement tonight.” 

Phainon closes his eyes. His reawakening has caused harm he has a responsibility to right. Liyue will know Celestia has not turned on them. Phainon wants people to look up to Celestia and feel a sense of security, not a sense of uncertain dread.

Istaroth continues. “The Cryo Archon has been terse in her communication with me. She will have her harbinger meet you in the Nod Krai region of Sheznaya.”

Phainon nods along in acceptance. 

“Lastly, you will go to Sumeru with the Akademiya which intrigues you so.” Is that a slight tone of amusement Phainon hears in the Shade’s voice?

“The Dendro Archon only recently became an active player in the dealings of the Sumeru Akademiya. She is appreciative of being the last in the line of Archons to meet with you, and is using the extra time to order her affairs and to finish her preparations for you.”

Phainon is glad the Dendro Archon did not take her nation being saved for last as a disrespectful slight. There are—were politicians in Okhema who’d have taken offense.

“Additionally, Lord Phainon, Lesser Lord Kusanali is believed to be in a predicament similar to your own—the Dendro Archon underwent regression after spending all her power cleansing Sumeru of corruption in the aftermath of the Cataclysm. The truth is a complicated matter we can revisit before you depart to the Nation of Wisdom, but she will likely feel kinship with you over your shared circumstances.”

Another Archon for Phainon to look forward to meeting. Someone to relate over what they’ve both done to themselves. The God of Wisdom regressed around five hundred years ago. Would it be too much to hope Lesser Lord Kusanali might even have advice for him? 

Natlan, Mondstadt, Inazuma, Fontaine, Liyue, Sheznaya, and Sumeru.

The seven nations of Teyvat.

Phainon is ecstatic; feathers flex in anticipation. After two weeks of gazing down at the world thriving beneath Celestia, he is finally going to step foot on its surface. “When do I depart?”

“We will leave tomorrow at daybreak. I will accompany you to the gates of Natlan’s capital. Though, if you have need of us Shades, you need only call and we will answer,” Istaroth answers. “With how ‘new’ this land is to you, utilizing your Authority of Space to navigate Teyvat would be cumbersome. Teleport waypoints will provide a more guided travel network as you re-familiarize yourself with this world. If you prefer the scenic route, flying is also an option.”

What a dilemma.

Phainon considers his options. “I think I’d like to use the waypoints. It’ll be a learning experience—and it’s faster.”

Istaroth purses her lips. “Lord Phainon, I ask that you…temper your expectations.”

Phainon blinks. “What do you mean, Istaroth?”

“While Teyvat may bear the traces of your ancient homeworld, the new world is not the old. The winds of time are eternally blowing—history rhymes, it never repeats, Lord Phainon. I do not want you to distress yourself searching for that which is no longer here.”

Teyvat is not Amphoreus.

Not anymore.

Not for a long, long time.

Phainon flashes Istaroth what he intends as a reassuring smile. “I know—you don’t have to worry. Truly, all I want is to explore this new world.”

Phainon knows.

Teyvat is not Amphoreus, but Amphoreus’s Legacy.

Chapter Text

The people will all be dissolved into the water, and only the Hydro Archon will remain, weeping on her throne. Only then will the sins of the people of Fontaine be washed away.

Head held high, Furina strides through the halls of the Palais Mermonia as her heels click on the marble floor. Her posture radiates the confidence of the divine while her gloves hid away her sweating palms.

No matter her personal feelings, Furina must uphold her duty to the Fontainian people.

Following a step behind Furina, is her stalwart bodyguard—Clorinde. As ever, the foremost Champion Duelist of the Court of Fontaine is the perfect picture of professionalism. However, Furina knows even the inscrutable Clorinde is keen to hear the news Furina is soon to share.

It is only to be expected, really.

Celestia has returned to the world; the once ruined island of the gods now shines like a golden beacon in the heavens above. In times unprecedented, for humans to seek the counsel of their Archon is only natural. Archons are gods—the highest authorities in Teyvat and the closest beings to Celestia. And for the first time, there is no need for Furina to fake this divine wisdom.

Because Celestia has spoken to Furina.

Internally, Furina shudders as she recalls her encounter the previous evening with the celestial being who claimed the name of ‘Istaroth.’

Furina was in her apartment—the top floor of the Palais Mermonia. The orange light of the setting sun streamed through the sitting room windows. Stacks of papers covered the coffee table and the surrounding carpet. Furina sat in the middle of all of it, poring over the latest reports from the Fontaine Research Institute.

Water levels continue to rise.

Each year, the ever rising tide claims a little more of Fontaine. Centuries of investigations and a vast information network, and she has little to show for it. Furina is powerless in the face of her people’s encroaching doom.

Whispers of the prophecy are spreading in the Court of Fontaine. An old folktale gaining traction among the populace as the nation of Hydro gradually sinks beneath the waves. Few truly believe it, Furina knew. The tale’s growing popularity is an expression of the people’s anxiety over the increasing water levels. 

The shadow of fate looms darker and darker over Fontaine. The damning words of the prophecy echo in Furina’s nightmares.

The people will all be dissolved into the water, and only the Hydro Archon will remain, weeping on her throne. Only then will the sins of the people of Fontaine be washed away.

All Furina can do is to keep pretending and trusting in Mirror-Me. Yes, everything will be well so long as Furina continues to play her part in this grand opera. 

Nevertheless, Furina desperately wishes she could do more for her fellow Fontainians. She reached for another report from the Institute. Damestier was monitoring the effect of the mekafish on the ecosystem and the risks the rogue aquatic automatons may pose to people as waters rise. 

The clock announced the hour.

Startling, Damestier’s report slipped from Furina’s hands. White pages fluttered towards the blue carpet. 

—time stops.

The world was awash in a gradient of monotone. Paper hung frozen in the air. The clock ceased to tick forward. A voice with no origin reverberated around Furina.

“I am Istaroth—the Ruler of Time. I speak on behalf of the Heavenly Principles on Celestia.”

Furina’s heart stopped.

Celestia had discovered Furina’s deception, and Istaroth was here to unmask her as a fraud. Furina had failed—she doomed the people of Fontaine with her failure to keep the most important secret.

Furina is not the real Hydro Archon.

That she is not even a god.

“Hydro Archon Focalors,” the voice addressed Furina, and she could breathe again. Furina’s five century long masquerade must have had held because the being who claimed the title of the Ruler of Time called her Focalors—the Hydro Archon.

Furina must believe her ruse remained intact.

Even when faced with the gods of Celestia, Furina will endure until the very end—til the final curtain call. The Fate of Fontaine depends on her performance.

Dipping into an elegant curtsy, Furina held her head high. The prideful words of a god spilled from her lips. “I am indeed the god Focalors—Fontaine’s beloved Hydro Archon and the very embodiment of Justice itself. To what do I owe the honor of Celestia’s sudden attention after being ignored for so long?”

“The Heavenly Principles has awoken from his long slumber. The Primordial One desires to meet with his Archons and survey the domains entrusted to their stewardship.”

“I see.” Furina recognized neither title, but this ‘Heavenly Principles’ must be an extremely powerful celestial god if the Archons are expected to answer to him. He is the god Furina will need to fool. “Well, I will welcome the Heavenly Principles to my domain with the finest of Fontainian hospitality.”

“I surmise your predecessor ensured you were adequately informed of the Heavenly Principles.” 

Arrogantly, Furina smiled as she lied. “Lady Egeria told me enough in the little time we had together before her passing.” 

“Good,” Istaroth hums, approvingly. “You understand the stakes.”

“I am the god of Justice.” Furina understood the Fate of Fontaine hangs in the balance. Mirror-Me is counting on her—all of Fontaine is counting on her.

“Then, I advise you to ensure your Hydro Dragon makes a good impression on the Heavenly Principles.”

Neuvillette?

Furina almost stumbled in her performance. What importance would the Chief Justice of Fontaine have to Celestia—to this ‘Heavenly Principles?’ Neuvillette has resided in the nation of Hydro and has served the Court of Fontaine for the entirety of Furina’s tenure as Hydro Archon. 

“If the Heavenly Principles intends to judge one of my people, he should be prepared to be judged in turn,” Furina declared, eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms. “Fontaine is the nation of Justice, after all, and not even the highest gods are above Justice.”

“…How audacious.”

The rest of her conversation with Istaroth of Celestia was a nerve wracking dance which pushed Furina’s five centuries of experience as an actor to the limit. The Ruler of Time gave Fontaine—and Furina, herself—only thirteen days to prepare for this ‘Heavenly Principles.’ She was to introduce him as ‘Lord Phainon, Envoy of Celestia.’ Furina bluffed and deflected when Istaroth pushed her for details. 

The masquerade remained unbroken.

With the doors of the Palais Mermonia before her, Furina banishes the memory of her unsettling encounter with the Ruler of Time from the forefront of her mind. She has a job to do and she will not afford the distraction. 

After all, it simply will not do to keep the good people waiting.

With a dramatic bang, the doors to the administrative center of the Court of Fontaine swing open, and Furina steps out onto her stage. The crowd gathered at the foot of the steps to the Palais Mermonia clap and cheer at Furina’s arrival. 

While the majority of the Fontainians here are reporters, every day citizens have also gathered at the steps of the Palais Mermonia—all are eager to hear the words of their Archon. There are even a handful of Maison Gestion employees lingering at the periphery, hoping to catch the show before they must hurry on with their administrative duties. 

Word has spread rapidly: Lady Furina de Fontaine—God of Justice, and Fontaine’s beloved Hydro Archon—has a grand announcement to make to her people. 

Theatrically, Furina throws out her arms. “Dearest citizens, my people who hold the ideal of Justice in your heart! Thirteen days since the light of Celestia shone down upon us after generations of darkness, and I am not blind to the furtive glances cast towards Heavens. But! Fear not the divine unknown, for I, Focalors, God of Justice and Hydro Archon, shall illuminate you!”

The crowd cheers.

“Indeed, I, as the god of Fontaine, have communed with the gods of Celestia themselves,” Furina declares to her amazed audience. “After such a long slumber, there are those among them who wish to reacquaint themselves with the lands of Teyvat—from the windy hills of Mondstadt to the thundering skies of distant Inazuma, and to pure waters of our very own Fontaine! And I, your Hydro Archon, will personally show Celestia’s envoy—Lord Phainon—why the nation of Hydro is the greatest of them all!”

The people erupt into a clamor of questions as the air is filled with the flashing and clicking of kamera. Hungry for the front page, reporters shout their questions over one another until all voices are drowned out in cacophony.

Holding her hands up, Furina shakes her head. “Patience, patience, my good people! While a momentous occasion no doubt, that is no excuse to abandon our civility. All persons will be heard in good time for I am a magnanimous god. You may ask your question when I call upon you, and no sooner.”

Mummers break out among the gathered crowd. Furina hears the people whispering to each other excitedly. 

A visiting god—from Celestia, no less.

When was the last time a god besides the Hydro Archon graced Fontaine with their presence? Centuries, easily. The Seven rarely stray from their lands. The chance to meet a god is a once in a life-time opportunity!

The other nations of Teyvat are not blessed with Archons nearly as accessible as Fontaine’s own Lady Furine de Fontaine. Mondstadt’s Barbatos is the ‘absentee Archon,’ Inazuma’s Raiden Shogun rules from her palace, Sumeru’s Lesser Lord Kusanali was a recluse until a mere month ago, and the Pyro Archons of Natlan are simple humans albeit ones who hold the Throne of Pyro.

(No one considers a meeting with Snezhnaya’s frozen-hearted Tsarista. The late Rex Lapis is, graciously, left out of discussion entirely.)

“Lord Phainon, she said his name is.”

“A celestial god in Fontaine? I must meet him. I could pass down his autograph as a family heirloom!”

“What might he be the god of? Not Justice. Nor Freedom, Contracts, Eternity, Wisdom, War, or Love, surely.”

“Why waste time with pointless speculation when your god is here to answer all of your questions,” Furina laughs, refocusing the crowd's attention. The Hydro Archon scans the throng of reporters, and a blonde reporter catches her eye. Furina points to her. “You there, in the purple skirt.”

“Yes! Chronie, from The Steambird—political affairs!” salutes the reporter. “Is this a sign Celestia intends to have greater involvement in Fontainian affairs going forward?”

Starting off with a difficult question.

However, this is a question Furina had prepared for. While there are scattered folktales pointing to an era in the ancient past where Celestia might have been closer with humanity, save for the Fall of Khaenri’ah, the celestial gods have historically had little to do with mortal affairs. 

So Furina finds the gods of Celestia entangling themselves in Teyvat rather unlikely. Especially with how this ‘Heavenly Principles’ is masquerading as a ‘simple envoy.’ So long as Furina’s secret remains safe, Celestia should be content to leave Fontaine to her as the Hydro Archon.

“Why, I am the God of Justice, Focalors!” Furina says, posing with her hands on her hips. “The Regina of All Waters who sits upon the Throne of Hydro! Appointed by the gods of Celestia themselves to rule over Fontaine as your Hydro Archon! Dearest citizens, I have long managed the divine affairs of this nation in the name of Celestia and I will continue to do so!”

The people hang on their Hydro Archon’s every word as Furina chooses the next journalist.

“Thank you, Lady Furina!” the man squeaks, pen and paper ready in hand to record his Archon’s words. “What can the Court of Fontaine expect from this visit?”

Furina wishes she knew.

“W-well, my good people, know Celestia’s envoy will descend upon Fontaine in twelve days time! Let us raise a hand to those of the Maison Cardinalice who are laboring even as we speak to prepare the Courte of Fontaine for this most marvelous of occasions!”

While better known for being the office responsible for all fanatical matters within the Court of Fontaine, the Maison Cardinalice also presides over the nation’s diplomatic affairs. Furina is grateful the Maison Cardinalice has taken the preparations off her hands. Twelve days is barely time at all for a single person to plan and prepare for a visit as important as this. Last Furina heard, they were in talks with Monsieur Vaneigem to buy out all the prior reservations at Hotel Debord as to exclusively host Lord Phainon.

“I have no desire to spoil the surprise the Maison Cardinalice is preparing for Celestia’s visit,” Furina states, airily. “Lord Phainon will have three days in our fantabulous nation—none can match the Court of Fontaine in technology and the arts!”

An opera sounds like a wonderful idea, actually. Furina should pass it onto the Maison Cardinalice that she wants to entertain Lord Phainon with one. What a way to keep the ‘celestial envoy’ occupied for several hours. 

There is nothing Furina fears more than discovery—not even death—and the more time she spends in the company of Lord Phainon, the greater the chances of him finding out she is but a human. However, if she runs from the celestial god then it’ll be assumed she has something to hide. 

Furina cannot afford to give Celestia a reason to suspect her.

Lady Furina de Fontaine is the one and only Hydro Archon.

Spotting the familiar pink hair of The Steambird’s most famous reporter among the sea of journalists, Furina points at Charlotte.

“Charlotte—reporter for The Steambird!” The pink-haired reporter eagerly announces herself. “Lady Furina, on multiple occasions, you have proclaimed not even gods are above your Justice. Can the people of Fontaine expect you to hold the celestial envoy accountable to our laws?”

“Would Lady Furina really put a celestial envoy on trial? Celestia is no joke.”

“Lord Phainon is a foreigner. Even if he is a god, no way he’ll avoid breaking a law. They never do.”

“I hope she does. A god of Celestia on trial in the Opera Epiclese—it would be the can’t-miss-event of the century.”

“Is it even possible for the Oratrice Mecanique d’Analyse Cardinale to judge a god?”

“Would it even go to a trial? If this Lord Phainon opts to defend his honor in a duel…not even the great Champion Duelist Lady Clorinde can hope to prevail against a god!”

“Maybe Lady Furina would stand in for the Champion Duelist—god versus god! Can you imagine the show?!”

“Haha, I guess there’s no better way to experience the infamous Fontainian justice than first hand! What would happen if Lord Phainon was found guilty? Do you think she’ll send him to the Fortress of Meropide to serve his sentence?”

Furina needs to reign in the crowd before things spiral entirely out of her control. Her? Fight a god? A terrifyingly absurd idea. 

“Why of course,” Furina smoothly declares. “I am the god of Justice and Fontaine is the Nation of Justice. We can hardly leave a law broken unaddressed. However! My good people, it is not our way to wish a heretofore innocent on trial for mere entertainment. Judgement will be levied if, and only if, the law of Fontaine is trampled upon.”

That should be good.

Surely a high ranking god of Celestia will not go around breaking Fontainian law like a common criminal. Although…Fontaine’s legal system has a reputation beyond its borders for being convoluted and draconian, and foreigners often find themselves running afoul of the law. Furina will have to ensure Lord Phainon breaks no laws while in Fontaine.

“Disappointing, but Lady Furina has the right of it.”

“That’s true. It is rather unFontainian to want the law broken.”

“Lady Furina really is the embodiment of Justice.”

“Moving on,” Furina declares, looking over the crowd for the next lucky questioner. A duo in garbs of Sumeru and Liyue catch the false Archon’s eye. “As fascinating as the subject is, I fear we do not have all day. You two, you may ask away.”

“Thank you, Lady Furina. I’m Atashye, and this is Huang, we’re correspondents with the Teyvat Times,” an older gentleman bows, introducing himself and his partner holding their kamera. “Having communed directly with Celestia, do you have any comments on the ongoing crisis in Liyue?”

They can only be referring to the Rex Lapis situation. Liyue Harbor has been without an Archon—without a god—since assassination of Rex Lapis a few years ago. Given the fate of the last godless nation of Teyvat…well, Furina cannot say she does not understand the Liyuean people’s fears.

Istaroth—while serving as Celestia’s messenger—made no mention of the empty Geo Throne in her conversation with Furina. Moreover, Furina is not a god—she is a human like any other. She knows not the ways of Celestia; however…

Furina twirls, a knowing smirk on her face. “Goodness, I would have thought the answer self-evident, but I suppose not all are blessed with divine insight such as myself. Nevertheless, I believe the Qixing will be addressing the matter shortly, and I would be loath to rob them of their thunder.”

Divine, Furina may not be, but the information network she has spent the last five centuries cultivating is among the best in Teyvat. The divine priestess of Watatsumi Island and former rebellion leader—Sangonomiya Kokomi—has been sighted within Electro Archon’s very own Tenshukaku.The Knights of Favonius are placing the kind of food delivery orders with local Mondstadt restaurants that always coincide with a sharp uptick in overtime. There is movement abroad, and now Furina is confident as to the reason why—she must not have been alone in encountering the Ruler of Time.

And why, this very morning, Furina had received a missive from her agents in Liyue Harbor informing her the Tianquan will soon be making a big announcement from the Jade Chamber. The illusion of knowing more than a mortal ought is key to maintaining a facade of divinity.

The crowd nods along, suitably impressed by the ‘foresight’ of the Hydro Archon.

“It's an honor, Lady Furina,” the next journalist curtsies to her Archon. “I am Marié, a writer for the Seven Nations Gazette.”

Seven Nations Gazette—the second most infamous tabloid magazine in Fontaine.

Furina has chosen poorly. 

Marié clutches her notepad and pen. “Is the celestial envoy—this Lord Phainon—coming to Fontaine related to the rumors of the prophecy? Will you, Lady Furina, be discussing this most dire of threats to the very existence of Fontaine with Celestia?”

“Hahaha! I can assure you Lord Phainon has not been drawn to Fontaine by some sort of dire calamity hanging over our heads. That would be quite absurd,” Furina laughs as she shrugs her shoulders theatrically. “Lord Phainon simply wishes to meet with the Archons and see the nations of Teyvat on Celestia’s behalf.”

The people seem to accept her answer. The prophecy is, for now, a novel curiosity. She does not know how long until it grows into a matter of public concern. Furina does not want her people to fear the prophecy. Because everyone will be saved. 

Furina just has to keep trusting in Mirror-Me and playing her part.

And soon deceive the one of the most powerful divine beings in all of Teyvat.

No pressure.

Though…perhaps Furina can discuss the prophecy with Lord Phainon. It’s a topic safely removed from her true identity…unless he questions why the supposed Hydro Archon is unable to handle water on her own. Furina bites her lip, the risk could be well worth taking. 

How much more of Fontaine will be swallowed by the waves before the grand finale arrives to save them all? Furina doesn’t know how much longer she will have to continue in her role. The show has already gone on for five hundred years…how many more Fontainians will be driven from their homes by rising water?

Furina waves for the short woman who has resorted to standing on top of the stone railings to be seen over the rest of the crowd to speak.

“Celine—La Gouttiere!” the reporter for Fontaine’s most infamous tabloid magazine introduces herself. “What is your personal relation to the celestial envoy, Lady Furina? Family? Colleagues? Friends? Acquaintances?”

Two gossip rags in a row. What horrible luck. She’ll have to complain to Neuvillette when she sees him after this press conference is over.

“Haha! We are but fellow gods—celestial envoy and Hydro Archon,” Furina covers her mouth with a hand as she giggles. “Your god is flattered by the insinuation her lineage might be traced to the heights of Celestia. Justice is the greatest and most noble ideal of them all! However, I must dash your entertaining fantasy. I am a god born of Lady Egeria’s divinity.”

“Such a tragic tale. How Lady Furina sprung from the tears Lady Egeria shed on the eve of the Cataclysm.”

“Lady Egeria wanted Fontaine to have a god of Justice even if the worst should come to pass.”

“How sad. Lady Furina barely had the chance to know her mother before she fell in Tunigi Hollow. The sands of Sumeru are no place for a Hydro Archon’s final resting place.”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

What would Lady Egeria say if she saw Furina? The pretender to her throne masquerading as her divine daughter? Would Lady Egeria judge her for her centuries of heretical deception? Or would the original and true god of Justice understand why Furina has donned this mask? 

The Fate of Fontaine.

Furina’s practiced smile never falls as she calls upon the next in the crowd. There are still  Fontainians with questions who have yet to be heard by their Archon. 

As always, the show must go on.

After countless questions and posing for the kameras, the press conference was finally over. Furina—Clorinde, a step behind her—returned to the halls of the Palais Mermonia. Fontaine’s esteemed Hydro Archon makes her way towards the office of her Iudex, Monsieur Neuvillette. Around Furina and Clorinde, the men and women of the Maison Gestion pour over paperwork at large communal tables.

Neuvillette would be attending the orientation ceremony for the Marechaussee Phantom—the special detective division of the Maison Gardiennage led by Neuvillette himself. The majority of the force is comprised of Melusines. The race of petite semi-aquatic females was born of the corpse of the dragon Elynas who attacked Fontaine during the Cataclysm. There was a dark time the Fontainian people treated Melusines with suspicion, but they are now an accepted and integral part of Fontainian society.

Though the law forbidding the use of the pronoun ‘it/its’ to refer to a Melusine remains on the books. Prejudice against the Melusines has yet to be completely stamped out.

The Melusines love Neuvillette as a father and he loves them all like daughters. Furina’s Chief Justice always attends events important to the lives of Melusines. She will not mind waiting for Neuvillette’s return—his care for the Melusines is sweet.

Furina walks with a skip in her step. “The press conference went swimmingly, Clorinde, did it not?”

The Champion Duelist tips her head. Her purple feathered hat remained in perfect place on her head. “The newspapers will sell well tomorrow…might I make a request, Lady Furina?”

“As if I would ever deny my Champion Duelist. Ask away, servant of Justice.”

“My thanks, Lady Furina. Regarding Mademoiselle Charlotte’s question…”

“Yes?” Furina prompts her bodyguard, not allowing any of her nerves to leak into her voice. Charlotte had asked if Furina would, as the Hydro Archon and god of Justice, hold Lord Phainon to trial if were to break Fontainian law. None should be above Justice, but as a human in truth, Furina lacks the power to enforce Justice upon a god—let alone a god of Celestia.

Clorinde continues. “…I am willing to face Lord Phainon in your name if an honor duel is demanded in lieu of a trial. However, I can not promise victory. Even for a vision bearer, a god is a mighty opponent. So I ask that you exercise discretion when choosing whether charges ought to be brought.”

“Fear not, Clorinde. I will never place you in such a position carelessly,” Furina promises the Electro vision bearer. She will not have Clorinde duel a god to the death (or surrender, technically, but usually to the death) over ketchup being consumed in any way other than as a condiment. “And I am grateful for your loyality…even if it is only expected to be loyal to your god. I praise your dedication to Justice.”

Clorinde nods grimly. “That is all I can ask, Lady Furina.” 

Arriving at the office doors of the Chief Justice of Fontaine, Furina bids Clorinde to remain outside. She wishes to discuss matters with Monsieur Neuvillette privately. The Hydro Archon has not to fear from her dear Iudex.

“Very well, Lady Furina,” Clorinde nods, stepping aside. The meka luminaire next to her casts the Champion Duelist in warm fluorescent light. “I will await your return here.”

“Thank you,” Furina says as she closes the door behind her. Now out of the eye of the public, she slumps against the door. “Ha…that was a lot.”

“Lady Furina, I see your press conference has concluded.”

“Neuvillette!” Furina jumps. “I had thought you were overseeing the Marechaussee Phantom orientation ceremony this morning!”

“The orientation concluded some time ago,” the Chief Justice of Fontaine explains, a hint of amusement in his voice. “If you check the clock, you’ll find it’s well past noon.”

Furina blinks. “It is? I must have lost track of time…” 

The grandfather clock by the bookshelf declares the time to be a quarter to one. Furina must have spent more far time with the reporters than she’d thought.

“No matter,” Furina sheepishly coughs into her closed fist. “As Fontaine’s beloved Archon, it is only natural I guide my dear people in matters of the divine. A god’s time belongs to her people, after all.”

“Celestia’s return has caused a stir, and you have handled it better than some of your peers. Fontaine is adapting to the change in the status quo,” Neuvillette observes, before adding the derisive comment that: “Though, I would have preferred the Usurper-King continue to rot on his stolen throne.”

Chief Justice of Fontaine was not pleased with the return of Celestia’s light. The skies about the nation of Hydro were overcast for days after—the sky blanketed in ominous grey clouds. In all her—painfully—many years, Furina had never seen a sight like it. The rain falls as Neuvillette’s tears, but not a single raindrop fell from the sky.

So Lord Phainon is the King of Celestia? Furina frowns—the more she pieces together about this ‘Heavenly Principles,’ the more dire the picture becomes. Furina must deceive a god-king. And truthfully, Neuvillette’s evident scorn for him has Furina on edge the most.

“You think so, Neuvillette?”

“The Usurper has left a trail of ruin in his wake as he imposes his Order onto this world,” Neuvillette eyes Furina. “How much did Lady Egeria tell you before she departed to battle the Abyss?”

Furina looks away as to not meet the Chief Justice’s gaze. Would Mirror-Me know? “Truthfully, my time with Lady Egeria was short. I know Lord Phainon rules over Celestia, and us Archons are to answer to him. Lady Egeria called him the king of the gods.”

“Whatever name he chooses to go by,” Neuvillette says, tapping his fingers on his desk. The slits in his violet eyes suddenly became more prominent. “He is a tyrant who subjugated dragonkind, he rewrote the laws of this world to bestow it upon his precious humans—but only so long as humanity does not stray from the path he has predetermined for them. The wretched Winged One has carved his order into Teyvat with the blood of the guilty and the innocent alike.” 

Neuvillette continues on—his words painting an ever darkening picture. “While I hold no love for the angels who once served Celestia, they did not deserve the fate the Usurper dealt them. He banished them from Celestia, cursing the entire race to lose their minds and bodies. That is the cruel origin of the Seelies.”

How horrible. The ghostly wisps that guide travelers away from danger—and sometimes, even to treasure—were once angels? Once thinking, physical beings?

Furina feels fear. Her hands tremble as she reaches for Neuvillette. “…You’ll be by my side, won’t you, Neuvillette? When the Heavenly Principles comes to Fontaine.”

“I will meet him alongside you, Lady Furina. I have no intention of cowering from the Usurper. It is my throne he has stolen—not my pride as a dragon.”

“Wonderful,” Furina claps, overwhelmed with relief. She does not know what she would do if she were forced to face the dreadful Lord Phainon on her own. 

“However,” the Hydro dragon adds. “I will not abide sleeping under the same roof as the filthy collection of feathers that parades himself around as the true god of Teyvat. If it is your intention to host Phainon in one of the Palais Mermonia’s diplomatic apartments, plans will have to change.”

“Fear not, my dear Iudex Neuvillette,” Furina says, shaking her head. “The Maison Cardinalice is overseeing the necessary arrangements, but I believe the plan is to host Lord Phainon at Hotel Debord.”

“Acceptable,” Neuvillette nods solemnly. “A luxury the Usurper does not deserve, but one appropriate for a god. Fontaine can ill afford the ire of the Primordial One.”

“Indeed,” Furina agrees, her voice perhaps a tad too high. “That is something we very much want to avoid.”

Neuvillette narrows his eyes. “Hmm…I believe it may be wise to assign Captain Chevreuse to our esteemed guest’s security detail.”

Furina raises an eyebrow at the suggestion. “Such a task is more fitting of the general Maison Gardiennage forces. The Special Security and Surveillance Patrol specializes in difficult arrests. While Hotel Debord is more publicly accessible than the Palias Mermonia, a celestial god is hardly going to be threatened by an ill-intentioned human.”

“The safety of the Usurper is no concern of mine, Lady Furina,” the Hydro Dragon scoffs. “Captain Chevreuse and her squad are both well adept at performing surveillance, and more than capable of dealing with any…interested parties who may prove problematic. I will not have Fontaine caught between schemes of the Fatui and the Usurper.” 

“I’ll pass along your suggestion to the Maison Cardinalice.”

Chapter Text

The gentle light of daybreak shines upon Celestia.

Around the entrance of the Solar Palace, the gods of Celestia have gathered around the teleport waypoint. Phainon had missed the waypoint floating several paces to the left of the doors when Ronova had shown him the personal chambers of the Heavenly Principles. He’d passed by the waypoint daily since then, but had dismissed the blue crystalline structure inlaid in silver and gold as decorative sculpture.

Not so.

The waypoint is one of the hundreds making up Teyvat’s teleport waypoint network. Istaroth explains how the leylines connected all waypoints, and thus you can ‘skim’ the distance between waypoints via the leylines. However, after the Abyss gained a permanent foothold in Teyvat, Celestia cut off access to the waypoint network—leylines corruption is a large enough concern without providing the Abyss with a ready doorway in. Nevertheless, the waypoints remain functional and open for use by the Heavenly Principles and Shining Shades. 

Finally, Phainon is about to step beyond Celestia and into the wider world of Teyvat. He’ll discover the world he and his companions fought so determinedly for. Despite his eagerness to depart for Natlan, Phainon listens to Istaroth’s explanation attentively. 

“Traversing the network is not difficult once one is familiar with the leylines’ currents,” Istaroth says, resting a purple gloved hand on the waypoint. She holds out her other hand for Phainon to take. “If you are ready to depart, I shall guide you to the Stadium of the Sacred Flame.”

Glancing away from Istaroth and back at Rhinedottir and Ronova, Phainon flashes a grin. “Farewell for now, my friends.”

“We will await your return to Celestia, Lord Phainon,” Ronova promises, and she does not bow nor curtsy. Progress.

With deliberate playfulness, Phainon winks at his daughter. “I’ll miss you too, Ronova.”

Phainon’s words are weighted with truth. Despite the handful of days he has known Ronova, he cares deeply for her—for all three Shades. Perhaps it isn’t the same aching longing for Castorice and Mydei. All the same, he’ll miss her for these three days they will be apart.

An idea.

“Unless…you want to come with me to Natlan?” Phainon proposes, very intentionally, phases it as a question. 

Ronova declines.

“Then,” Phainon replies, cheerfully. “I’ll be seeing you in three days.”

“How sweet,” Rhinedottir drawls, leaning back against a pillar. Then she hisses, her halo momentarily flashing from gold to blue. 

“Looks like even the gods aren’t immune to headaches,” Phainon jokes, then more seriously asks: “You’re not unwell, are you, Rhinedottir?”

The Ruler of Life shakes her head, running a hand through her golden hair. “An unfortunate stray thought—nothing more.”

”Treasonous, no doubt,” Ronova mutters darkly under her breath.

“Before you go—catch,” Rhinedottir continues, ignoring her sister; she retrieves a pouch from an inside pocket of her robes and tosses it to Phainon.

Phainon catches the pouch, recognizing the weight and clink of coin. He is about to protest—he has no desire to take money belonging to his daughter—but Rhinedottir swiftly shuts down his objections with a heterochromatic look.

“Although I have no doubt people will give you your every desire, you—Phainon—won’t enjoy imposing on the generous hospitality of your hosts,” the Ruler of Life’s gold-grey eyes gleam. “Don’t spend it all in one place, kid. Repay us with your stories from Natlan.”

“Not a kid,” Phainon huffs without real heat. “Regardless, you have my thanks, Rhinedottir.”

“Compared to me, you are,” Rhinedottir smirks, radiating amusement. “Have fun, and do try to refrain from making negative judgments. It would be a shame; Natlan is an archeologist’s dream.” 

And with that confusing statement, the Ruler of Life turns on her heels and vanishes from Celestia and his senses. Phainon slips the pouch of mora into the pocket Lady Aglaea had sewn into his jacket for this very purpose.

Smiling a final farewell to Ronova, Phainon takes Istaroth’s hand who pulls him into the immaterial of the teleport waypoint network.

A journey in the duration of a long blink.

Energy solidifying back into the physical.

Emerging from the leylines, Phainon finds them standing atop a lookout tower; the local waypoint floating behind him in the rooftop’s center. The view is incredible—the Basin of Unnumbered Flames stretching out for miles before them. The basin’s red cliffs are painted in swoops of blue, purple, and white, and in the distance, the jagged peak of the Great Volcano of Tollan smolders.

Mist rises up from the surrounding valley, the floor of which is blanketed with morning fog. The deep blue of rivers are just barely able to be made out, and smudges of green foliage peaks out of the mist.

A plateau rises out of the basin's center, crowned by what can only be the Stadium of the Sacred Flame. Natlan’s capital city appears to have been carved out of the red rock of the plateau itself. The red of the stone is broken by giant painted murals visible even from this distance, and by the deep blue banners draping the city’s walls. The city is built around a grand arena, above which a massive rainbow bonfire blazes with Pyro.

Two long bridges are the only ways of access into the city—unless one were to scale several hundred feet of vertical rock. The Natlanesse had chosen a perfectly defensible location for the heart of their nation. How fitting, for the capital of the Nation of War to be a fortress.

For a moment, Phainon wants to compare the Stadium of the Sacred Flame to Janusopolis—the fallen home of Lady Tribios. Janusopolis was built into the mountains, and Natlan has carved their capital out of the top of a plateau. The rocks are different—grey and red—and the buildings couldn’t be more different. He’s looking for similarities where there are none. 

Even at this early hour, there are still people about. Around the base of the lookout tower, a man wearing a blue open shirt hauls crates of gleaming blue fruit. In the field, a woman wearing an elaborate green hat shares her breakfast with an equally green creature and its two children. A merchant and his two beasts of burden catch Phainon‘s eye—never before has Okhema’s Deliverer seen such creatures. They look like exceptionally floofy mini dromases.

“Oh, what manner of creature is that?” Phainon asks curiously, points at the strange mini-dromases. “I’ve never seen anything quite so fluffy. Not even chimeras.”

“Alpaca,” Istaroth answers, then further elaborating: “They have long been popular beasts of burden in Natlan for their kind nature, wool, and ability to navigate the mountainous terrain. Distant relatives of the sumpter beast, though they look it not.”

“These alpacas look like smaller, fluffier versions of the dromas. My old teacher adored dromases—I wonder what he would think of them,” Phainon watches as the trader and his alpacas make it across the bridge and into the city proper. “And, sumpter beast? That’s hardly the most approachable of names.”

“Sumpter beasts are hardy creatures known for their gentle nature. You’ll encounter them in Sumeru.”

“Something to look forward to when I visit the Sumeru Akademiya, then.” Flexing his wings, Phainon looks to Istaroth. “As beautiful as the view is, I don’t want to keep Lady Mavuika waiting. Shall we?”

Istaroth nods. “Let’s.”

So, Phainon steps off the roof’s edge. A free fall of a moment before a beat of purple-gold wings sends him soaring over the basin-valley. The Ruler of Time may not have inherited the wings of her heavenly father like Ronova had, but she joins him in flight nevertheless. The wind picks her up, carrying her through the sky like a dandelion in a graceful breeze—her hair fluttering in the wind.

What must the Pyro Archon, Mavuika, be like?

The Pyro Archon is the only one of the Seven to be human. Dozens of humans have laid claim to the Pyro Throne and the demon-god name of Haborym—God of War. Born without any inherent divinity, they climbed to the highest of heights in this world to hold the Authority of Pyro through their grit, merit, and determination. Lady Mavuika is the latest in a long illustrious line of mortal Natlanesse heroes who have stood on the same level as gods. 

Not that Chrysos Heirs were in any way superior to the masses—they were humans like any other—in their blessing and their duty. However, no normal mortal human had ever seized a Coreflame—let alone passed their Trials. All the Titans were usurped by golden blooded Chrysos Heirs. 

The chasm between humanity and gods on Teyvat is far greater than the one that set the Chrysos Heirs apart. Lord Xbalanque and his successors are remarkable.

What would it be like to cross blades with the God of War?

Phainon and Istaroth land before the Stadium of the Sacred Flame’s gates. Fittingly of both the nation of Pyro and the autumn season, many braziers burn to keep the city warm. Up close, Phainon can see the graffiti covering the walls in explosions of stylish color. The graffiti art—while polar opposite to Okheman artistic sensibilities—is lively and loud, and Phainon finds himself charmed. 

“Promise you’ll be careful and not push yourself too hard.”

“I promise. Really, Chuychu, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“That’s what you said last time, Chasca!”

“And I’ve gotten stronger since then. Relax and watch your sister win.”

There is no reaction to Phainon and Istaroth’s arrival. People—dressed predominately in shades of orange, green, blue, purple, and red—mill about as they make the most out of the early morning. None so much as cast a glance in the direction of the two celestial gods.

“Did any of the contenders from the Children of Echoes make it to the second round?”

“They don’t see us.” Phainon observes.

“I have my ways, Lord Phainon. It would be inconvenient if they could,” Istaroth says, setting off to the southward road into the city. “Mavuika will be in the Speaker’s Chamber.”

Following Istaroth, Phainon takes care not to bump into any passersby with his wings. Natlan’s capital is built in rings around the central arena. The Speaker’s Chamber is located in the southernmost point along the outer ring. 

“I knew I’d win big betting on Maulani! Fifteen thousand mora!”

Turning to the left, Istaroth guides him through the streets. People are up bright and early because of the tournament.

“That Kinich has gotten pretty far for a kid without a vision.”

“Vision or no vision, he bears the Ancient Name of Malipo! Kinich will bring victory for the Scions of the Canopy!”

“Bleh, the Archon already comes from your tribe.”

“Hey, hey—there's plenty of glory to go around.”

Passing by an open air restaurant, Phainon sees a woman in blue preparing to open for the way. The smell of fresh fruit walfs enticingly out from under the blue-purple cloth canopy. A hanging sign proclaims the name ‘Xocolalt Beverages.’

“Hurry up, Kachina! Yantasar will open any minute!”

“I’m coming, Maulani!”

A pair of girls race past Phainon—one tall with white hair dressed all in blue and one short with squirrel ears dressed in yellow. The taller one—Maulani—runs several paces ahead of her companion—Kachina—but the distance between them does not grow. The duo skidded to a stop in front of Xocolalt Beverages.

Phainon tilts his head—he can sense elemental energy from this ‘Maulani’ and ‘Kachina.’ The cool embrace of Hydro comes from Maulani, and Kachina radiates the steady hand of Geo.

These two must be vision-holders.

Istaroth had spoken of vision-holders when she had taught Phainon of Teyvat’s system of elemental energy. Humans bestowed with slivers of the sovereign elemental authorities within the Thrones. The widely held belief of humanity is that visions are gifts from the Archons—a not wholly inaccurate belief but not a truly correct one either as the granting of visions is a process carried out independently to the will of the Archons.

Maulani waves to the woman behind the counter. “Good morning, Yantasar! Any chance I could have two quenepa berry smoothies for myself and my friend Kachina here?”

“I’m not open yet, Maulani.”

“Oops,” Maulani scratches the back of her head sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”

“I never said I wouldn’t serve you,” the merchant says, her frown giving away to a smile. “It’s almost time anyway, and if it’s you…let’s call this my congratulations for moving onto the second stage of the Pilgrimage. You make us People of the Springs proud, you hear?”

Maulani grins, giving her fellow tribeswoman a thumbs up. “I never do any less than my very best. Oh, that rhymed. Neat!”

“Two quenepa smoothies, was it? Are you sure about that? Because the special today is lavender blast—I ordered lavender melon from Inazuma to have a special special for the Pilgrimage.”

“All the way from Inazuma?” Kachina repeats, eyes wide with awe. “That’s so far away!”

“Oooh, that sounds super yummy. What do you think, Kachina?” Maulani asks her friend, licking her lips. “Remember, I’m buying today so don’t worry about cost. I can’t have my number one cheerleader hungry when the tournament starts! Plus, even though you were eliminated in the first round, you did your best! Your effort deserves to be celebrated!”

“I’ve never had lavender melon before. I think it would be fun to try it,” Kachina says softly, after thinking her options over for a moment.

“That’s the spirit! Okay, you heard Kachina, Yantasar! Two lavender blasts!”

“That’ll be six thousand mora.”

“Oof, that’s steep, Yantasar. Any chance of a champion’s discount.”

The fruit smoothie merchant raises an eyebrow. “I’m already opening early for you and your friend, Maulani.”

“Six thousand mora, coming right up,” Maulani promises as she rifles through her purse. “Huh? Where did I put it? I could have sworn…”

Kachina leans over. “Everything okay?”

“Totally fine,” Maulani reassured her friend as she continued to dig around her puffer-fish shaped purse. “I just might have sorta kinda misplaced my mora? I know I put my mora in here last night…”

Never one to leave another in a bind, Phainon withdraws a handful of mora from the pouch Rhinedottir had gifted him, and places the coins down on the table. The Ruler of Life may have intended for Phainon to spend the money on himself, but ensuring two friends can have a fun breakfast together? Money well spent in his book.

Noticing the golden pile of mora on the counter, Kachina points to it. “Is this it?”

Maulani’s eyes go as wide as saucers. “Huh!? No way! How did it get there!”

A smile on his face, Phainon walks away from the smoothie stand. Amphoreus and Teyvat may be different worlds, but the people remain the same. While capable of horrible acts, humans overwhelmingly seek cooperation and community. 

Bonds.

Friendship.

Golden eyes observing the Heavenly Principles, Istaroth hums. “Humanity is ever Teyvat’s greatest treasure.”

Phainon agrees—nothing is more precious than the people.

Carrying on, Istaroth leads Phainon further into the city.

Descending a flight of stairs, they pass a trader fussing over an ‘alpaca.’ The animal is even fluffier up close than from a distance—like the alpaca is wrapped in clouds plucked from the sky. For all the alpaca's long neck and solid body resembles a (tiny) dromas, the face is closer to a sheep than a lizard.

A strange creature, indeed.

Though charming.

“He hails from the Children of Echoes,” Istaroth comments, noticing the direction Phainon’s attention had shifted. “The people of Natlan have a tradition of wearing clothes in the color of their tribe. The color of the Children of Echoes is yellow.” 

Phainon thinks back to Kachina—she had worn the same yellow as this trader. “So the Geo vision-holder from earlier, would she also belong to the Children of Echoes?”

“It is likely,” Istaroth affirms.

As the celestial duo grow near the Speaker’s Chamber, Phainon notices how walls are covered in paint. Star bursts of yellow, orange, and red explode across the walls, and streaks of blue adorn the roofs. The culture of Natlan is awash in vibrant color.

There is a teleport waypoint floating to the side of the square leading to the Speaker’s Chamber. So Istaroth had taken Phainon on the scenic route—giving him a glimpse of Natlan before meeting with their Pyro Archon. 

Thoughtful of her.

Here, Istaroth stops—her halo chiming. “This is where our ways part, Lord Phainon. Should you have need of your Shades, you need only summon us.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Phainon promises.

“You’ll want to hurry,” Istaroth hums, tucking a loose strand of white hair back behind her ear. “My power will not conceal you for long once separated."

And Phainon does not want to cause a scene.

Following Istaroth’s advice, Phainon swiftly crosses the square to the Speaker’s Chamber. The building is a round red rock temple—painted as richly as the rest of Natlan, and patterned with lines of bright brass metal. The structure is crowned with a golden sculpture of a flaming sun.

Hand on the doors of the Speaker’s Chambers, Phainon glances back. He sees Istaroth kneeling down and stroking the fur of a green creature nesting in a corner of the square with its offspring. The Shade gives the animal a final pat upon its head before vanishing from sight entirely.

A moment later, Phainon senses her return to Celestia. Istaroth has rejoined Ronova outside the Solar Palace. He’s glad Istaroth and Ronova get along well as sisters. 

In any case, Lady Mavuika awaits.

At the center of the room, a figure stands before the bonfire.

The woman’s hair shines the orange-red of flame. She burns with Pyro like a hearth of metaphysical fire. This woman can only be Lady Mavuika.

Phainon should introduce himself. Hmm, appearing behind a warrior can be taken as a threat, so…to the side, then? Would it be too dramatic if he sat on one of the thrones? Lady Trianne would approve. Oh well, no need to over think a simple introduction.

Istaroth’s spell is broken when Phainon speaks, and red eyes fly to the now visible Heavenly Principles. “I presume you are the Pyro Archon, Lady Mavuika? I am Phainon of Ae—Celestia.”

Force of habit almost has Phainon introducing himself as ‘of Aedes Elysiae’ instead of ‘of Celestia.’ Even when his village lies in smoldering ruin, Phainon will always consider Aedes Elysiae his home. Not even his many years in the Eternal Holy City had changed that—for all he loves Okhema and her people from the bottom of his heart.  

If only for himself, Phainon wants to preserve Aedes Elysiae’s memory.

However, as the Heavenly Principles, Phainon’s affiliation with Celestia takes precedents when interacting with the inhabitants of Teyvat. The Heavenly Principles referencing a fallen village of a long forgotten world instead of Celestia will only sow confusion. 

Breezing past his slip-up, Phainon carries on. “It’s good to meet you, Lady Archon.”

If the Pyro Archon was startled by Phainon’s sudden appearance, she doesn’t show it. “I am indeed Mavuika. Which makes you Celestia’s Heavenly Principles. On behalf of all of Natlan, I welcome you, Lord Phainon.”

Phainon smiles with the charm of Okhema’s Deliverer. “I was told you have pressing matters you wish to discuss with me?”

“Like Celestia, we of Natlan, sustained lasting damage in our battle with the Abyss five-hundred years ago,” Lady Mavuika says, standing tall in the firelight. “The Abyss infiltrated the Night Kingdom, and the brave warriors of Natlan have waged an unending war against the Abyss; however, our leylines are being eaten away. The Night Kingdom is weakening by the year, and the situation grows increasingly dire.”

The smile is wiped from Phainon’s face.

The Abyss was never fully purged from Teyvat following its introduction by the Dragon King Nibelung during the Great War of Vengeance, and the Khaenri’ahan Cataclysm had released a fresh wave of corruption into the world. Despite the best efforts of gods and men, the tainted evil lingers. 

Phainon knows this wretched truth.

However, an full scale invasion of a nation’s system of leylines goes far beyond the picture of a persistent yet contained threat painted by Istaroth. Why hadn’t the Shades told him? While Natlan stood in peril, he had wasted away his days on Celestia. Phainon is Teyvat’s Heavenly Principles—he has a duty as the protector of this world!

Unbidden, memories of the Grove of Epiphany rise to the surface. Not of idyllic days as a student; learning alongside Castorice and studying under Professor Anaxa. No, memories of the Grove’s fall to the Black Tide and the Flame Reaver.

The bodies of the scholars who stayed behind to defend Cerces’s Coreflame lay in the grass. Even behind a mask, the pungent smell of copper smothered all other scents as lifeblood—red and gold, both—dripped from the uncountable stygian claws of Black Tide monstrosities and a single blade. 

A civilization lost to the dark.

Phainon will not allow Natlan to meet a similar fate.

Had Phanes known? 

Lady Mavuika continues. “Natlan needs the Abyss purged and the Night Kingdom restored. As the Archon of Natlan, I am seeking the aid of Celestia to do so, and I am more than willing to pay whatever price the Heavenly Principles deems appropriate for invoking the power of Celestia.”

“There’s no price to be paid,” Phainon shakes his head, and places a hand over his heart. “As guarding Natlan is your duty as the Pyro Archon, my duty as the Heavenly Principles is to guard all of Teyvat—Natlan included.”

Destroying the Abyssal monsters should be easy enough. Phainon has plenty of experience fighting the influence of the Black Tide. Frustratingly, however, he doesn’t know where to start on the Night Kingdom.

To think Phainon would need to contact the Shades so soon after setting off.

His first instinct is to ask Istaroth—the Ruler of Time has taken the role of his teacher in this strange new—wonderful—world. However, maybe Ronova would be better? Rhinedottir told him Ronova knew the Night Kingdom the best of the Shades, having created it.

“…You are not what I expected of the Heavenly Principles, Lord Phainon,” Lady Mavuika says, expression shifting from serious to jovial. “On behalf of Natlan, I thank you for doing this service for our nation.”

A hero’s smile. “I need no thanks, Lady Mavuika. I…must confer with the Shades before acting on the Night Kingdom. On my honor as a Chrysos Heir, I swear I will drive the Abyss away from your lands.”

Istaroth and Ronova warned Phainon against being too forward regarding his…lacking memories. While he doesn’t intend to hide his regressed condition, the Shades advised him it best not to openly advertise it. An effectively ‘young and inexperienced’ Heavenly Principles might be taken as weakness such as with the Dendro Archon. The last thing Phainon wishes for is for the people to feel insecure in Celestia’s protection. 

“We can table this discussion for tomorrow then, Natlan’s straits are not so dire that we can’t hold on a few days more,” Lady Mavuika nods agreeingly. “You’re here to experience the hospitality of Natlan. Well nothing can compare to the Pilgrimage of the Return of the Sacred Flame. This is when the passions of the Natlan people burn the brightest.”

“I know,” Phainon chuckles. “The tournament was all people could talk about on our way here. The excitement is catching.”

“The tournament begins at high noon, and I’ll introduce you to the crowds then,” Lady Mavuika winks at him. “You’ll sit with me—the best seats in the stadium. My people will be eager to show Celestia their pride as warriors.”

“As a warrior myself, I’m looking forward to the show.”

“Oh?” Lady Mavuika’s red eyes gleam. “What weapon do you favor?”

“A great-sword.” 

A flick of his wrist summons Dawnmaker to Phainon’s hand. The sword is perfectly preserved from his time on Amphoreus. He discovered Phanes never used Dawnmaker—Ronova didn’t recognize the blade. Yet, Phanes had retained possession of it, for Dawnmaker remained in their subspace pocket for Phainon to draw.

A precious memento of Okhema that Phanes hadn’t been able to bring himself to use nor to discard.

“She’s beautiful,” the Pyro Archon compliments. “My weapon of choice is also a claymore. I call her A Thousand Blazing Suns.”

A gorgeous glowing red blade flashes into existence.  

“That blade is as much a work of art as a weapon,” Phainon admires the claymore with the eyes of a swordsman and an antique appraiser. “The craftsmanship is exquisite.”

“I’ll pass along the compliment,” Lady Mavuika chuckles, dismissing her weapon. “A dear friend of mine crafted A Thousand Blazing Suns for me.”

“What a coincidence, the same is true for me. A dear and old friend—the grand craftsman Chartonus—forged Dawnmaker for me when I first embarked on my journey. He maintained it for me for many years….” Phainon trails off. Never again will he visit Chartonus’s smithy to chat with the Mountain Dweller. 

Another companion lost.

Instead of commenting on Phainon’s sullen expression, Pyro Archon offers him her hand. “Call me Mavuika—all my friends do.”

“Only if you call me Phainon,” Phainon smiles as he reaches out and shakes Mavuika’s hand.

Mavuika beckons he follow her. “Come, Phainon, how’s about a tour before the real show begins?”