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The rain in Mondstadt always tastes sweeter than the biting sleet of Nod-Krai, but tonight, Varka is too exhausted to appreciate it.
He unlatches the heavy oak door of his estate, the quiet groan of the hinges welcoming him back to an empty house. For months, his days have consisted of unruly recruits and the endless paperwork that accumulates when he leaves his desk for more than an hour.
Leaning his claymore against the entryway wall, he steps out of his dirt-caked boots, ready to collapse into the nearest flat surface.
As he approaches his bedroom, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Varka’s hand twitches toward where his weapon usually rests. He isn’t a legendary knight by accident; he knows the subtle hum of elemental energy like the back of his hand, and right now, his room is radiating it.
Quietly, his feet making no sound against the wooden floorboards, Varka pushes the door open.
The scene inside makes him freeze in sheer bewilderment.
Sprawled across his unmade bed is a woman.
She is, without a doubt, the most striking creature Varka has ever laid eyes on.
A cascade of long, thick, light blue hair spills like silk across his pillows, so bright it seems to catch the moonlight filtering through the curtains. She wears midnight-blue silk pajamas that drape loosely over a small, delicate frame, the dark fabric contrasting sharply with her pale skin. One of her legs is casually hooked over his heavy duvet.
The woman is breathtaking—but more importantly to Varka—she feels entirely formless, like a being made entirely of air.
She lazily tilts her head back, her eyes locking onto his. When she speaks, her voice is soft, but her dry, overly formal etiquette is completely unmistakable to his ears.
“You look utterly exhausted, Grand Master,” she murmurs, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. “Did the Favonius paperwork finally defeat the legendary Varka, or are you simply unusually slow this evening?”
The tension drains from Varka’s broad shoulders in an instant, replaced by a massive laugh that he quickly stifles so as to not wake his neighbors.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Varka chuckles, stepping right up to the edge of the mattress. “I knew nobody could sneak past my perimeter guards, but I didn’t think I’d find a fae lounging in my bedsheets. You look beautiful, Flins.”
The second the compliment leaves his mouth, the woman’s smug demeanor shatters, her eyes widening.
Flins, accustomed to centuries of hiding behind the predictable mask of a human gentleman, has completely underestimated how a mortal man would react.
Varka knows how humans are: they box everything into rigid categories. Perhaps she’s terrified that he will look at her with disgust.
“You—” her voice cracks, her elegant composure vanishing. “You should turn around, Varka. I apologize. This was… an oversight. A moment of self-indulgence. I did not mean for you to see this aberration.”
In her panic, her magical control completely slips right before his eyes.
With a snap, a pair of translucent wings manifest on her back, twitching erratically in mid-air. Her skin sheds its human illusion for a terrifying second, revealing the ghostly blue flame of her core beneath.
She scrambles backward on the bed, desperately trying to force herself to shapeshift into her usual form, her hands trembling as she tries to hide her face beneath her hair.
“Don’t look,” she stammers. “Let me fix it. I will leave—”
“Hey, hey. Stop that.”
Varka moves with lightning speed, sinking his weight onto the edge of the bed. His massive, warm hands reach out to capture both of her trembling wrists. The sheer weight of his mortal presence anchors her, forcing the chaotic elemental energy to stabilize.
“Look at me, Flins,” Varka says, his voice dropping its usual booming volume.
She freezes, her breathing shallow and uneven, her wings fluttering weakly against the air. Slowly, she lowers her hands and looks up at him through her eyelashes, waiting for the revulsion she’s certain is coming.
There is none.
Varka ensures his eyes are incredibly warm, crinkled at the corners with a soft, reassuring smile. With a gentleness that seems impossible for a man his size, his thumbs brush soothing circles over the back of her freezing hands.
“I’ve led thousands of men through hell and back,” Varka says, his gaze locking onto hers. “You really think a beautiful woman sitting on my bed is going to scare me off, especially when I know it’s just you inside? Man, woman, or a literal floating wisp of blue fire, you’re still the sharp-tongued Lightkeeper who watches the stars with me. That’ll never change.”
Flins stares at him. Her wings stop twitching, draping softly over the mattress.
A soft, defeated sigh slips past her lips. She lets her hands rest in his, her skin warming up from his touch.
“You are an incredibly foolish human, Grand Master,” she whispers.
“Maybe,” Varka grins, letting go of her wrists only to loop a heavy, comforting arm around her waist, pulling her effortlessly against his side, “but I’m your fool.”
He shifts, and a smear of dried mud flakes onto the duvet. He grimaces.
Varka lets go of her waist with a reluctant chuckle, pushing himself off the mattress, his joints popping.
Flins is still sitting cross-legged on the duvet, her eyelashes blinking up at him.
“Give me a minute,” Varka says, gesturing down to his dirt-stained trousers and the constricting straps around his right leg. “I can’t relax all day in this. I’m going to suffocate.”
Flins nods. “By all means, Grand Master. Do not let me impede on your domestic hygiene.”
Varka rolls his eyes, a fond grin plastering his face as he retreats into the adjacent washroom.
There, he strips off his clothes, letting the heavy, sweaty fabrics hit the floor with a thud. The relief is instantaneous. He washes the grime of Mondstadt’s roads from his face in a basin of cold water, rubbing a towel through his messy hair until it sticks up in every direction.
When it comes to sleepwear, Varka has never cared for refinement. He pulls on a pair of oversized, heavily worn flannel trousers and slides into a loose, comfortable cotton top.
Back in the bedroom, he finds Flins exactly where he left her, but the nervous tension has left her frame. Her wings are gone, and she is casually running her fingers through the massive, tangled waves of her hair.
“Much better,” Varka grunts, rolling his shoulders. “Come on—the good stuff’s in the living room. Though, I usually drink it with a grumpy gentleman, not a beautiful lady.”
Flins lets out a soft laugh, sliding off the edge of the bed. Her feet make no sound against the floorboards as she follows him, the silk of her pajamas whispering against her pale skin.
“For the record, human,” she says, stepping into his space once they reach the living room, “the lady is much better company.”
Varka’s chest rumbles with amusement as he crosses a tall sideboard, unlocking the small cabinet built into it and pulling out a bottle of Snezhnayan Fire-Water.
“I’ve been saving this for an occasion like tonight,” he says, popping the cork.
He grabs two mugs, hooks his free arm gently around her shoulder, and guides her toward the couch.
Varka sinks onto the plush cushions of the living room sofa, setting the bottle on the low wooden coffee table and stretching his long legs out, a deep sigh of utter contentment leaving his chest.
Beside him, Flins doesn’t so much sit as she does evaporate onto the cushions.
“Come here,” Varka murmurs, extending his large, bare arm in invitation.
Flins slides closer, curling her legs up onto the sofa. She leans sideways, intending to rest her head against his collarbone, but the moment she settles, she lets out a huff.
Varka blinks down at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Human anatomy is a poorly designed cage,” Flins grumbles, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “This has never been a problem in the lighthouse.”
Varka looks closer and instantly bites back a laugh.
A heavy handful of her hair is caught under his arm, and a few strands are plastered directly across her face and mouth.
“Oh, stop squirming,” Varka chuckles.
He reaches down, untangling the silky mess. He carefully combs the strands away from her face, tucking the long waves over her shoulder so they cascade down the back of the couch instead.
“There,” Varka says, resting his hand on her waist to secure her against him. “Crisis averted.”
Flins’s eyelashes flutter shut as she finally rests her cheek against his chest. “Your assistance is noted, Grand Master. Though I assure you, I had the entire situation under control.”
“Sure you did, Flins,” Varka grins, his thumb tracing a lazy, soothing circle over the dark silk covering her hip.
Under the soothing rhythm of his touch, Flins completely relaxes, her wings manifesting once more. They drape loosely over Varka’s bare arm, wrapping around him.
Varka reaches over with his free hand, pouring a generous splash of the Fire‑Water into a single mug.
Before he can reach for a match, Flins lifts her hand. A soft blue spark gathers at her fingertip, no brighter than a candle flame. She touches it lightly to the rim of the mug.
A thin sheet of blue fire blooms across the surface of the liquor, dancing in a quiet, controlled ripple. The flame burns cooly, casting a soft glow over her pale features before fading into the air.
“There,” she murmurs, her voice low with calm satisfaction. “Properly served.”
Varka takes a slow sip, the spiced warmth spreading through his chest, then holds the mug out to her.
“Want some?” he asks.
Flins tilts her head up slightly, letting her lips brush the rim as he carefully tips the mug for her. She takes a small, measured sip, letting the warmth of the Fire‑Water bloom inside her.
“Exquisite,” she whispers, sinking right back into his chest. “Perhaps Mondstadt isn’t entirely dreadful.”
The spiced heat of the Fire‑Water settles into Varka’s chest. Under his arm, Flins is a weightless, soothing presence.
“You’re tracking dirt into my thoughts, Grand Master,” Flins murmurs, her voice slipping into a softer, lazier register. She doesn’t open her eyes, her cheek still pressed firmly against his collarbone.
Varka lets out a low, vibrating chuckle that rumbles right beneath her ear. “Is that right? Didn’t know my thoughts were that loud.”
“They are incredibly loud,” she replies, a sleepy smirk tugging at her lips. “You are thinking about the Favonius logistics reports for tomorrow. I can feel the tedious, human stress radiating off your shoulders. It is highly disruptive to my resting state.”
“Well, if you’re so bothered by it, you could always assist me,” Varka teases, his thumb continuing its slow, lazy circles over the midnight‑blue silk of her pajama pants. “A wave of your hand, and Mondstadt’s budget deficits disappear into the wind. Sound like a plan?”
Flins lets out a soft, melodious sigh, shifting just an inch closer until her small frame is entirely curled into his side. “My time is better spent guiding lost souls and guarding the lighthouses, human. Not for balancing the ledger books of a city that worships a god who drinks away his allowance.”
Varka barks out a short, stifled laugh, shaking his head. “Fair point. Can’t argue with that.”
A quiet settling falls over the dim living room. The localized warmth radiating from Flins’s chest feels incredibly comforting against the chilly night air, combating the frost that naturally coats her skin. Varka rests his chin gently atop her head, the waves of her hair brushing against his jaw.
“Hey, Flins?” Varka asks softly, his voice dropping into a deep, sleepy rumble.
“Mm.”
“You look nice like this,” he says. “I mean it. You don’t have to follow rigid manners when you’re under my roof. If being a lady feels comfortable… you can stay like this as long as you want.”
For a long moment, Flins doesn’t answer. Her wings tighten just a fraction around his arm, anchoring herself to his solid, mortal warmth.
“You are entirely too sentimental for a Grand Master,” she whispers, her tone lacking any of its usual sharp, cynical bite. “Human forms are arbitrary to my kind. We shift to suit our environment, or to survive. Tonight, this form simply felt… peaceful.”
“Then keep it,” Varka murmurs, his own eyes drifting shut as the exhaustion of the past months finally catches up to him. “Peace looks good on you.”
“Do not grow accustomed to it,” she breathes, her voice growing fainter. “Tomorrow, I must return to the Final Night Cemetery. The souls in the fog do not care for beauty.”
“Tomorrow is hours away,” Varka grunts softly, his heavy arm tightening securely around her waist. “Go to sleep, little spirit.”
Flins doesn’t reply. Her breathing slows into a gentle, rhythmic mimicry of human rest. Varka lets himself drift off, completely anchored by the weightless, ageless fae resting against his heart.