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The bell above the door gave a low, hesitant chime as Varka stepped inside. The air carried that familiar blend of varnish and age—metal polish, candle smoke, the faint iron tang of old coins that had passed through too many hands. The shop was small, narrow enough that his shoulders brushed a hanging lantern when he ducked past the doorway.
He meant only to drop by on business. Something about freight records, payment for supplies but his attention snagged on the man standing at the counter.
The stranger is tall, but there was something commanding about the stillness that held him. His coat was black, heavy with layered belts and silver accents that caught the light in sharp, clean lines. The long strands of his silvery-blue hair slipped forward as he leaned over the display case, gloved fingers steady and deliberate.
“...It’s clouded,” the man was saying softly to the shopkeeper, pointing toward a pale gem nestled in its wooden casing. “But that’s not a flaw. The haze keeps it from reflecting light too harshly. See how it softens the gleam?”
The shopkeeper squinted, clearly unsure what she was supposed to be seeing. “Ah, yes. Yes, I do see it—very subtle, sir. You’ve quite the eye for details.”
Varka didn’t know his name yet, but somehow it suited him, touched the edge of the casing with one fingertip, reverent, almost like he feared to wake it. “Gemstones are honest things,” he continued. “They show light exactly as it is. The trouble is in us, not them—we forget that beauty changes with the flame, the moon, the eye that sees.”
The shopkeeper gave a small, polite laugh. “A poet, are you?”
He shook his head faintly. “Merely a collector.”
Varka leaned a shoulder against the nearest pillar, staying out of the way. The longer he listened, the more the man’s voice sank beneath his skin. Calm, low, but edged with something sorrowful, like a bell toll heard from far away. It didn’t sound rehearsed, just… careful. Every word chosen the way a craftsman might set a jewel into a ring.
The conversation carried on quietly, stretching longer than any typical trade talk. They spoke of stones from other nations—Liyue, Sumeru, Fontaine—each described like old friends. The shopkeeper nodded in polite bafflement, scribbling prices while the gentlemen spoke of light under water, moonstone that glowed faintly when held to the heart, crystals that dimmed when handled too often.
At some point, Varka realized he’d forgotten about his own errand entirely. He couldn’t stop watching: the fine motion of those gloved hands, the way his coat almost brushed the floor, the faint gleam of the lantern set beside his hips. Even the quiet was different around him. Like the whole shop had shifted to listen.
When the shopkeeper turned to fetch wrapping paper, the man glanced up and that’s when it happened.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Varka expected the usual polite flicker of acknowledgment, but the stranger’s gaze lingered. Cool, yellow eyes, bright enough to hold the reflection of the lanternlight. And yet there was nothing cold in them—only that same strange attentiveness he’d given the gemstone earlier.
Varka offered a friendly smile, the kind that usually broke tension in a second. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, voice low and easy.
The other man hesitated, then inclined his head slightly. “You didn’t. Light only shines where it’s welcome.”
Something about that answer stuck in Varka’s chest, though he couldn’t have said why.
He straightened, stepping closer to the counter, drawn as though by instinct. The gem on the velvet cloth gleamed faintly between them.
And for the first time in his life, Varka—who had never cared much for pretty stones or their supposed worth—found himself wondering what it would be like to be one of them. To be held in that quiet gaze, weighed with such reverence.
The shopkeeper finally seemed to notice him. “Grand Master Varka—goodness, I didn’t see you come in! Forgive me.” She laughed, a little breathless, still busy folding paper around the man's newly purchased gem. “You’re here about the freight manifests, yes? I’ll have the ledger ready in a moment.”
Varka waved a hand. “No rush. Looks like you’ve got more delicate business to finish first.” His eyes slid to the small parcel being wrapped with neat twine, curiosity tugging at him.
The man turned slightly, enough that the light caught the pale strands of his hair. “You’re with the Knights of Favonius, i bet?"
“That’s right.” Varka’s smile was easy, practiced. “Came to sort some trade routes with the guild office here. You?”
“Just passing through.” the man's answer was calm, though his fingers lingered on the tabletop, tracing invisible patterns beside the wrapped gem. “I collect old stones. Not the valuable kind—only those that have kept their color long enough to be forgotten.”
“That sounds like a fair bit of patience,” Varka said. He stepped closer to the counter, drawn by some quiet impulse. The lamplight hit the glass cases, scattering soft blue reflections across the floorboards. “Never thought much about gems myself. But looking at these…” He leaned forward, studying a tray of unpolished crystals, “I can see the appeal.”
The man's head tilted toward him, curious. “Can you?”
“Sure. They’ve all got their scars.” Varka tapped one of the stones gently with a gloved finger. “None of ’em perfect, but they still catch the light somehow. Guess that’s what makes ’em worth keeping, huh?”
The shopkeeper chuckled, tying off the parcel. “You’ve a poet’s tongue yourself, Grand Master.”
“Ha! Don’t tell my men that. They’d never let me live it down.”
The man's lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile that barely touched his face but reached his eyes. “You see the truth in them more quickly than most.”
Varka straightened, meeting that yellow gaze again. The noise of the street outside felt distant; only the soft clink of glass and the slow crackle of the lantern filled the silence.
The shopkeeper slid the parcel across the counter, breaking the moment. The man'd accepted it with a quiet thanks, the gem safe in his palm.
And when he turned toward the door, Varka realized with a start that he was already thinking about what kind of light might follow him out into the street.
The bell above the door gave a sharp little ring as the dark-coated stranger stepped out into the street. The shop quieted again, the faint sound of wrappings and twine filling the silence. Varka found himself still watching the door, though there was nothing left to see except the empty swing of it settling back into place.
“Careful with that one,” the shopkeeper muttered to herself as she tied a parcel, then noticed Varka’s lingering stare. “Ah—Grand Master, forgive me. You're still here. I'll do your request in a moment."
Varka shook himself back, grinning with a faint huff. “I am. Though for a moment there, I thought I’d turned to stone. Never seen a man so wrapped up in a gem he looked like he might speak to it.”
The shopkeeper chuckled. “He does that often enough. Comes in every so often, always with a story for whatever stone he’s set on. Knows more than most jewelers I’ve dealt with.”
“Does he, now?” Varka leaned his elbows on the counter, voice easy but his curiosity sharper than he let on. “And who is he, if you don’t mind me asking? Didn’t seem the ordinary sort of collector.”
The older lady hesitated, glancing toward the door as though the customer might reappear. Then she shrugged. “Name’s Flins. One of the Lightkeepers, if you can believe it. Lives up by the lighthouse, keeps to himself. Doesn’t haggle much—just pays what’s fair and asks for old cuts when I can find them. Says they carry stories better than new ones.”
Varka let out a low hum, rubbing at the scar on his jaw. “Flins,” he repeated, tasting the sound. “Lightkeeper. Hm.”
He thought again of the man’s attire, black as midnight, silver glinting at his throat, the faint frost-gleam of his long hair beneath the shop’s dim lanterns. But more than that—those eyes. Clear, unwavering, and… lonely, in a way Varka couldn’t quite name.
The shopkeeper went back to sorting boxes, but Varka stayed leaning against the counter, the grin at his mouth less careless than before. “Funny thing,” he said, mostly to himself. “I came here for other things, and somehow left thinking about gemstones.”
The old women gave a laugh once again, not catching the weight behind it. Varka pushed himself upright at last, but as he made for the door, he was still turning the thought over.
Outside, the air had cooled. The afternoon sun slanted low across Nasha Town’s rooftops, painting the cobblestones in dull gold. Flins stepped out of the shop and paused beneath the awning, the small parcel of wrapped velvet resting in his gloved hand.
For a moment, he simply stood there. The noise of the street came and went—distant vendors, wagon wheels grinding over stone, but it all seemed far away, dulled as if by glass.
His thoughts, however, were sharp.
That man.
Flins had seen many faces in his life—merchants, scholars, soldiers—but something about this one refused to fade when he looked away. A man built like the old statues carved in cathedral halls: broad, sun-warmed, his voice carrying a kind of grounded joy. And then those eyes—gods.
He exhaled, steadying himself. The image lingered with startling clarity. Blue, not like the shallow color of sky, nor like polished crystal. It was deeper—alive, almost, like light glinting beneath the surface of a river. The kind of blue that refused stillness, that promised motion and laughter and something vast.
Flins had spent years studying gemstones. He could recite their compositions, the way quartz fractured under heat, the refraction angles of sapphire, the spectral range of light through tourmaline. He had handled them all, treasured them. Yet what he had seen just now was not something that could be measured, nor traded, nor cased.
He felt… startled, in a quiet, breathless way.
The memory of that gaze meeting his—it had been brief, but it struck him with the same jolt as seeing light refracted through rain. A coincidence, a small miracle, there and gone.
He tightened his hold on the parcel, the paper crinkling softly beneath his fingers. “A man’s eyes,” he murmured under his breath, almost chiding himself. “How foolish.”
And yet the thought persisted, bright and insistent.
No stone ever burned with that kind of light.
He turned his face toward the wind, the faint salt smell from the harbor threading through the street. The feeling that lingered wasn’t restlessness—it was recognition. As though, for the first time in many quiet years, something in the world had looked back.
Flins closed the heavy door behind him, the wooden bolt falling into place with a dull click. The lighthouse quarters were silent as ever, only the low moan of sea-wind against the windows and the steady thrum of the lantern heart above. He set his cloak aside, then the parcel, then—after a moment’s hesitation—drew the small lacquered chest from its place on the shelf.
The box was a familiar weight in his hands, the paint worn smooth by years of handling. He opened it carefully.
The gems stirred to life beneath the lamplight. Each one caught flame in its own way: the rose-cut garnet with its dark warmth, the teardrop tourmaline with a violet fire, the delicate square of amethyst pale as morning frost. And at the corner—yes, there it was. The blue one.
He lifted it between his fingers. The stone was set into a plain silver mount, its facets clean and deep. He turned it toward the lantern, watching as light spilled through it, scattering into pale, watery hues across his palm.
Beautiful. Of course it was beautiful. He had chosen it years ago, for that very quality—that shifting depth, like a pool that could not be measured at a glance.
But tonight, he found himself frowning.
The color was true, yes. But it was too cold. The fire within it was steady, but lifeless. He turned it again, again, as though it might suddenly reveal the thing he sought. It never did.
A memory rose unbidden: a man across the counter, broad-shouldered, scar catching the light at his jaw, eyes meeting his with a steady brightness. Not cold. Not lifeless. A blue with laughter at its heart.
Flins lowered the gem slowly, his hand closing around it until the angles pressed into his palm. The stone felt suddenly… less.
He breathed out, almost soundless, then set it back in the box among its companions. The click of the lid closing seemed loud in the quiet room.
How foolish, he told himself again. To compare a man’s gaze to a sapphire. To stand there, arrested, as though the world had opened before him in that one glance.
And yet—he knew. No jewel in his keeping had ever burned like that.
His eyes lingered on the closed chest. The lantern overhead pulsed softly with his breath, a faint shimmer of wings almost visible before dissolving again.
“Blue,” he murmured, as though giving the color a name would anchor it. But all it did was set it adrift, deeper into him.
Days passed, but the color would not leave him.
Flins walked his usual patrols along the cliffside, lantern light trailing after him, the sea gnawing at the rocks below. He oversaw the repairs of weather-beaten stones, wrote reports in his tidy script, even gave quiet counsel to the handful of new Lightkeepers who sought his words. Outwardly, nothing was amiss. His posture remained composed, his voice steady, his hands deliberate in every task.
But every time he paused—when the lantern flame guttered, when the ink dried slower than it should, when the waves fell into that heavy silence between crashes—his thoughts returned to it.
That blue.
It had not been like the glassy, shallow glitter of tourmaline. Nor the dark, shadowy depth of azurite. It was something rarer, something unbroken. Clear as a mountain spring, yet fierce enough to pierce.
A blue that caught light in ways no gem ever had, as though the world itself bent just to give it brilliance.
A shard of the sky, set in human eyes. A sapphire cut by no jeweler, owned by no king.
He had thought himself immune to such wonder, after a lifetime of collecting stones dulled by centuries. He had thought he knew every way light could bend itself into beauty. Yet that glance… it had unsettled him, left a tremor low in his chest, something perilously close to awe.
Even now, when he shut his eyes, he could see it.
The unfading, unforgettable Blue.
And though he told himself it was foolishness—that he would never see such a thing again—the impression refused to loosen its grip.
He should have returned to his lighthouse. That was the sensible thing, the responsible thing. Yet instead, his boots found the stone streets of Nasha Town again, the cobbles humming faintly with the press of merchants and travelers. He moved as though aimless, lantern swaying faintly at his hip, but inside he knew the truth:
he was chasing the blue.
He drifted past the market stalls, their shouts and colors weaving around him, until the little collection shop rose into view once more. Its painted sign creaked gently in the wind. Flins lingered outside a moment longer than necessary, as though gathering himself, then stepped in.
The familiar chime above the door greeted him, and the shopkeeper looked up from polishing a tray of silver rings.
“Ah, Lightkeeper,” the old woman said warmly. “Back so soon? Have the gems I sold you lost their luster already?”
Flins allowed the faintest smile. “On the contrary. They are… as enduring as ever.” His fingers brushed the edge of the counter, careful, composed. “But there is another matter.”
The shopkeeper’s brow rose. “Another gem caught your eye?”
Flins shook his head, a slight motion. His voice dropped, lower, quieter—yet intent. “Not a gem. A man. He was here the other day, while I was making my purchase. Broad frame, golden hair. Eyes…” His pause was almost imperceptible. “…blue.”
The shopkeeper’s face lit with recognition. “Ah! You must mean Mr. Varka. Grand Master of the Favonius Knights, if you can believe it. Passing through for business. Not the kind you or I would know the details of, I’m sure, but a man impossible to mistake.”
The name struck like a note ringing through him. Varka. Solid, strong, almost foreign in his mouth.
He inclined his head, as if merely acknowledging the information, though something sharp and quick stirred in his chest. “I see.”
The shopkeeper chuckled, returning to her polishing. “Fine fellow, that one. Honest, if a little boisterous. And those eyes—you noticed them too, eh? Like polished sapphire.”
Flins’ lashes lowered, his expression unreadable, but his pulse betrayed him. Sapphire. Yes. That was the word he had been reaching for all this time.
“I thought as much,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then, with a faint inclination, he added, “Thank you. Your knowledge… is always precise.”
And with that, he stepped back into the street, the name Varka echoing in his thoughts, reverberating against the color he could not forget.
The day was waning, Nasha Town glowing gold as the sun dipped low.
Varka had just finished his business with the town’s quartermaster—trade routes, supplies, the usual grind—and he let himself breathe easier as he strolled down the cobbled street.
That was when he saw him.
The man from the shop.
He stood near the square, lantern resting against his hips, his dark attire unmistakable against the brighter clothes of townsfolk rushing home. He wasn’t moving quickly. If anything, he seemed suspended, gaze turned toward the crowd as though searching for something unseen. The set of his shoulders was too deliberate for accident.
Varka slowed his stride. There was no mistaking him now: the long, dark coat lined with silver accents, the air of quiet command that clung even in stillness. And beneath that, something taut, restrained, like a blade sheathed too long.
The Grand Master had seen plenty of warriors, but few carried themselves like this one. And fewer still spoke the way he had, about gems and light and memory, with such deliberate care.
Flins—Varka remember the name, but the image of him—lifted his head, as though sensing something.
Varka felt it strike him deep in the chest, unreasonably strong for such a fleeting look. He wanted to raise a hand, to call out, but the moment shifted too quickly. That man just turned away, vanishing into the thinning crowd with his lantern glinting faintly like a star being swallowed by night.
Varka exhaled through his nose, a low laugh in his chest. “Huh.”
He kept walking, though his mind lingered where his eyes had been.
Not a gemstone this time, not a trinket to admire under the shop’s dim lamplight. No—this was something else, and he wasn’t yet sure what name to give it.
It happened the next evening.
For once again, Nasha Town was wrapped in twilight, the streets glazed with the sheen of earlier rain. Oil lamps burned along the main road, their reflections trembling in shallow puddles. Varka had lingered later than he meant to, drawn again toward the row of shops where he’d first seen that strange Lightkeeper.
He told himself he was only passing through. Checking the forge. Making sure his order had arrived. Practical reasons, all of them.
But the truth revealed itself soon enough.
Because there he was again.
Standing at the edge of the marketplace, lantern aglow, silver hair catching the last trace of daylight before it vanished. His expression was softer than before, though still distant—the kind of face that seemed half-elsewhere even while looking right at you.
Varka slowed his steps. This time, he didn’t let the moment slip.
“Didn’t expect to see you here again,” he called lightly. His voice cut through the drizzle, warm and even, like a hearthfire finding air.
The man, Flins turned, startled at first, then composed. His eyes met Varka’s—and in that instant, the same flicker passed between them, as if both recognized something wordless.
“Nor I, you,” Flins replied, his voice low but clear.
Varka chuckled, stepping closer. “Couldn’t help noticing you again. You stand out in a place like this.”
“A Lightkeeper’s uniform does tend to invite the eye,” Flins said mildly, though a faint smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth.
“Maybe it’s not the uniform.” Varka tilted his head, grin widening just slightly. “Maybe it’s you.”
Flins blinked, the calm composure faltering for a heartbeat. “That would be… unfortunate,” he murmured.
“Why’s that?”
“Because people look at what they shouldn’t keep.”
Varka let the words sit there for a moment—soft, strange, like something poetic he didn’t quite understand—but he felt the truth in them anyway. Then he laughed, quiet and good-natured. “Guess I’ve always had trouble following that kind of advice.”
Flins’ gaze lingered a moment too long before he looked away.
“Mr. Varka,” the man finally said, half to offer the name, half to test it. “Grand Master of the Knights, if I recall.”
“So you did ask about me,” Varka teased, folding his arms.
Flins gave him a look that might have been reproachful, if not for the slight curve of his lips. “Indeed, I am."
The lantern light between them swayed, reflecting in Varka’s eyes until it looked as though the gem itself had come alive.
Then they walked without a destination.
The town had grown hushed under the weight of dusk, its narrow streets bathed in a half-light that shimmered on wet cobblestones. Somewhere, a musician plucked a slow tune on a lute; elsewhere, a child’s laughter faded into the hum of rain. Flins’ lantern cast a steady circle of pale glow that brushed across the puddles as they moved.
Varka matched his pace easily, hands tucked into his coat pockets. He wasn’t used to walking this quietly—usually, there was laughter, the clang of armor, his men’s voices. But now, it felt right to leave the silence untouched.
“You really carry that lantern everywhere, huh?” Varka finally said, his tone mild, almost teasing.
Flins glanced at it, the faint blue flame within dancing like a breathing thing. “A Lightkeeper’s duty doesn’t end with daylight. This flame is an old companion.”
“It suits you,” Varka said after a pause.
That earned him a quiet look, one eyebrow lifted in faint surprise. “You draw conclusions quickly, Grand Master.”
“Just calling what I see,” Varka said with a grin. “You strike me as the kind of man who notices every detail, collects them like—”
“Gemstones?” Flins supplied. His lips curved, almost imperceptibly.
“Exactly.”
They passed beneath a hanging sign that dripped rainwater in slow beads. The glow from a nearby window caught Flins’ profile—sharp, almost ethereal. He looked ahead, but Varka could see the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his fingers brushed the lantern’s handle as though to ground himself.
“I heard you collect them,” Varka continued, quieter now. “Never really understood the appeal before. Rocks and crystals—beautiful, sure, but empty. Don’t shine on their own.”
Flins stopped walking. The lantern’s light wavered between them. “They shine enough,” he said softly. “If you learn how to look.”
Varka tilted his head, curious. “How’s that?”
Flins hesitated, as though testing the words. “Each gem has a memory. A reflection of where it’s been, who has held it, what light it has seen. When I look at them… I feel the weight of time. It’s not their brightness that matters, but the lives they’ve touched.”
He looked up then, meeting Varka’s gaze fully. “Even the dullest stone can hold something precious, if you care to see it.”
Varka’s smile faded into something gentler. “You talk about them like they’re alive.”
“Perhaps,” Flins murmured. “Some things only appear lifeless until you notice their warmth.”
For a heartbeat, they simply stood there, the quiet stretching between them, the lantern’s light trembling faintly in the rain. Then Varka laughed softly—low, genuine.
“You’ve got a way of making simple things sound rare,” he said. “Like I’ll start seeing gemstones differently now.”
Flins gave a faint nod, as if that pleased him more than he expected.
But neither of them moved to part. They only continued walking, side by side, their reflections trailing behind them in twin streaks.
Their footsteps were soft now, the world holding its breath around them. Nasha Town’s lamplight shimmered in the puddles like melted stars.
Varka had been speaking about something simple—trade routes, the way his knights complained about rations—but his voice slowed when he realized Flins wasn’t answering. The man had gone still again, the lantern light curving softly around his boots.
He glanced sideways. Flins had stopped walking, one hand still resting on the handle of his lantern. The light curved around his fingers, catching faintly on the metal of his gauntlet. His expression was distant, thoughtful in that way that made him seem a little untouchable.
“Something the matter?” Varka asked.
Flins’s reply came after a small pause. “No. Merely… thinking.”
“About what?”
The question hung in the cold air. For a moment, it seemed Flins might not answer at all. Then he lifted his gaze, and the lamplight struck his eyes—silver glinting into blue, blue softening into shadow.
“The color of your eyes,” he said quietly.
Varka blinked, caught off guard. “My eyes?”
Flins inclined his head, as if studying something rare. “They’ve been difficult to forget.”
The words were simple, but the tone wasn’t. It was measured, deliberate, almost reverent—as if he feared saying them too carelessly might break them.
Varka chuckled under his breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”
“I doubt you would,” Flins murmured. He stepped closer, enough that the faint reflection of the lantern light reached Varka’s face. His eyes searched his—unflinching, intent. “I’ve spent years collecting stones. Old, new, fractured, unspoiled. I’ve seen light dance in a thousand ways across a thousand cuts. But…” His voice thinned to a whisper. “Yours catches light differently."
Varka didn’t move, though something in him reacted—a pull, deep and wordless, to that unwavering look. The air between them felt charged, too delicate to break.
Flins drew a breath, as though steadying himself, and his next words came out softer—unguarded, stripped bare.
“It would be enough for me,” Flins said softly, “I wish… just to look at that color for the rest of my days.”
For a heartbeat, everything else vanished—the drizzle, the murmur of distant voices, even the chill that clung to the stones. Only the light remained, thin and golden, trembling between them.
Varka’s breath caught. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it until now. He stepped closer, slow and certain, until the edge of Flins’s lantern brushed his chest, its glow spilling across them both.
The Lightkeeper didn’t move away. His lips parted slightly, no words this time—just a quiet, stunned stillness. His eyes lowered, then lifted again, drawn back to that deep, unguarded blue.
Varka’s grin flickered without meaning to, a little uncertain, a little awed. “Then I’ll keep lookin’ at you from now on,” he murmured, voice rough from how real it suddenly felt. “If it's that what you wish for."
The words hung there, suspended in the soft rhythm of the rain.
He leaned in before either of them could think better of it—slow enough that Flins could have stepped back, but he didn’t. The world seemed to tilt toward the point where they met: the faint warmth of breath, the wet scent of rain, the brush of a nose against a cheek.
Their lips touched—tentative, testing, like a question asked and quietly answered.
The lantern light quivered. Flins’s hand tightened around its handle, but the rest of him softened, melting into the closeness. It wasn’t a hungry kiss, nor hesitant—it was something in between, the kind that holds stillness and surrender in the same breath.
When they parted, the world felt smaller. The streetlight flickered, the air still humming from where their breath had mingled.
Flins didn’t speak. He only watched—the way the raindrops clung to Varka’s lashes, how that blue deepened in the dim light, vivid and alive. It wasn’t a color anymore. It was a pulse, a living thing.
And as the sound of rain filled the silence between them, he thought that he wouldn't spend a lifetime chasing that shade of blue anymore.