Chapter Text
Varka had read countless reports in his life. Daily accounts of petty and domestic disputes, missing cats, near world-ending crises, logistics, finances, trade courts, and both foreign and internal affairs filled his days. Yet here he was, poring over the reports of a fifteen-year-old boy.
On one side of his desk lay a stack of papers detailing the incident where the 5th Company’s commander, the benevolent knight Adorno, uncovered Eroch’s sinister ploy: child experimentation to achieve transcendent power.
On the other side sat a seemingly mundane report about a cargo route gone awry. A family had been ambushed by a group of masked and skilled bandits. However, the boy in question wasn’t taken by the bandits, nor by his parents, nor even by the Knights of Favonius, who had been called for aid. Instead, he was seized by Eroch’s cronies, bound with coarse ropes, and transferred from cell to cell alongside countless other children.
And yet, while the other children whimpered and cried, what met Adorno’s gaze that day was something entirely different. Among the cluster of frightened faces stood a boy whose expression betrayed no trace of fear. The ropes binding his wrists, tightly knotted and unforgiving, had already been nicked. A small, subtle cut, made by an arrowhead he had hidden.
In the middle was a report detailing the concerns of the boy’s parents. Skilled bowmakers located in Dornman Port, meticulous and caring. They came from a long family tradition of bow crafting, completing every order with unparalleled precision and quality. Perfectly carved limbs, well-oiled and lacquered surfaces, neatly waxed strings, and flawless resistance made each bow a masterpiece. It was no wonder they were protective of their son. From what Varka could tell, Lohen had been a sweet and obedient child, but ever since that fateful night, something in him had changed.
He began sneaking away in the dead of night to fight. At first, it happened once a week, then every few days, until it became a nightly ritual. With each outing, his spoils grew more plentiful, his targets stronger, all without anyone noticing. When Lohen finally signed up to become an adventurer and donned the famed uniform, his parents were left in stunned silence.
The final stack of reports came from the Adventurers’ Guild. It spoke of a small-framed archer moving like the wind, slipping into packs of monsters and taking them out with unerring precision. Every arrow struck true. And then, of course, there were Master Cyrus’s words, likely documented at the insistence of Lohen’s parents:
"I can assure you, if anyone’s being bullied, it’ll be the monsters. Not Lohen."
Varka sighed as he tried to take it all in.
There was his own failure in not catching onto Eroch’s schemes sooner. There was the incident itself, which had clearly left a deep mark on what had once been an innocent child. And then there was Adorno himself.
Adorno, a veteran knight who had served under the former Grand Master, was a name that brought bright smiles to children’s faces. He was known for spending his off-duty hours helping those around him with small tasks such as sweeping the ground, watering plants, looking for lost cats, or bringing candy to children just to see their faces light up.
Varka glanced over the reports one last time before lifting his gaze to meet Adorno’s steady, kind blue eyes. “Are you sure you want this kid to take part in the exams?”
Adorno’s smile was calm, his voice as patient and measured as always. “It’s as I told his parents: ‘Once an arrow is drawn, it cannot be recalled. But we can still guide it before it leaves the string, pointing it in the right direction.’”
Varka chuckled softly. “Is that your experience speaking?”
“No,” Adorno replied with a faint smile, his expression unwavering. “It’s my advice, as an archer and as your senior.”
Varka exhaled, conceding the point. Adorno had a way of cutting through doubts with his quiet wisdom. Though Varka had served as Grand Master for several years, he knew better than to dismiss someone like Adorno, especially when it came to matters involving children. After all, he himself had once been a rule-breaking, rambunctious kid.
He understood the importance of care and guidance in shaping someone like Lohen.
It was crucial to ensure that the arrow, once drawn, would fly true. Otherwise, it might veer off course, and they could end up with another Eroch on their hands.
“You said he seeks power?” Varka asked, his voice heavy with thought.
“He does, but his motivation differs” Adorno replied, his tone steady. “ Eroch sought power to place others beneath him, to dominate and control. Lohen seeks it so he can remain free from the control of others. And as the ones who failed him first, it is our responsibility to teach him that strength is not measured by how much he can destroy or kill, but proven by what he chooses to protect.”
Varka sighed and looked down at the report, his eyes lingering on Lohen’s name. Fifteen years old, only ten when he had been taken. Soft mint-green hair. Pale skin. Large eyes. Features like any other child’s, and yet stripped of the innocence they should have held.
Too young to carry the burdens he carried, too skilled to be ignored, and too determined to simply be told no. If they really were to do this it would be important not to smother or coddle him. While young he was also a survivor. A victim yes, but not one that could be treated like a fragile thing that will break if spoken to too firmly
At last, Varka reached for his quill, his expression resigned. “Fine, have it your way. He’ll take the exams, but there will be conditions. He is to be watched, and I mean properly watched. If he shows even the slightest sign of losing himself, we intervene immediately.”
“Agreed,” Adorno said with a nod.
“And since you’re the one recommending him in the first place, you’ll be involved every step of the way,” Varka added, fixing him with a pointed look.
“I expected no less,” Adorno replied, his calm demeanor unwavering.
“Oh, and one more thing before you leave,” Varka said, his curiosity getting the better of him. “How did you convince him to even try out for the Knights?”
At that, Adorno’s expression shifted into a peculiar blend of amusement, apology, and unmistakable mischief.
It was the exact expression that always made Varka wary because, for all his benevolence and chivalry, Adorno had a talent for being deeply unpredictable when he wanted to be.
“I may have made you a target,” Adorno admitted, his tone far too casual.
Varka blinked, his brain struggling to process the words. “You did what?!”
Adorno’s hearty laugh echoed through the room, his amusement only growing at Varka’s incredulous expression. “It’s only natural,” he said, still chuckling. “You’re the one who drove the mastermind behind the incident to his end. Is it really so strange that the boy would set his sights on Mondstadt’s beloved Grand Master and the Knight of Boreas? After all, when Eroch chose to end his own life, he also took away any chance for the boy to get the revenge he craved.”
Adorno did not need to say the rest. Varka understood the implication well enough.
He was the one who had brought Eroch down, the man who had ended the threat before Lohen ever had the chance to face it himself. To the boy, Varka was not merely proof of power. He was the closest thing to a worthy measure, the nearest target to test whether he was truly strong enough.
For a long moment, Varka could only stare at Adorno, mouth slightly agape. “You…” His voice rose in disbelief. “You sent a kid after me?”
Adorno’s grin widened, his tone entirely unapologetic. “I prefer to think of it as giving him a goal.”
Varka’s eyes narrowed as he jabbed a finger at the report on his desk. “It says right here that his skillset includes poisons and other underhanded tactics.”
Adorno raised an eyebrow, his tone turning dry and laced with humor. “With the amount of alcohol you consume,” he said dryly, “one would think you had already developed resistance to most poisons. Honestly, it is a miracle you are still alive at this point.”
Varka opened his mouth, then closed it, his lips pressing into a thin line. For several seconds, the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius sat there, visibly grappling with the sheer audacity of what he’d just heard. His fingers drummed against the desk as if searching for a retort, but none came.
Finally, he exhaled sharply, throwing his hands up in defeat. “You know what? Fine. Just… just go. I need a moment to process this.”
Adorno chuckled, the sound warm and unbothered, as though he hadn’t just admitted to turning a traumatized child into a potential threat to the most powerful knight in Mondstadt. “Take all the time you need, Grand Master. I’ll be sure to let Lohen know you’re looking forward to meeting him.”
Varka shot him a glare that could have frozen the waters of Cider Lake. “Looking forward to—Adorno, I swear, if this kid tries to poison me—”
“Then it’ll be a valuable learning experience for both of you,” Adorno interrupted smoothly, his calm demeanor unshaken. “You’ll learn to be more vigilant, and he’ll learn that you’re not so easily bested. And if, by some miracle, he does manage to get the better of you, perhaps it will finally convince you to stop leaving empty bottles under your desk.”
The silence that followed was profound. Varka stared at him, his expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. Adorno stared back, serene as a chapel bell with a calmness that bordered on infuriating.
Without a word, Varka lifted a hand and pointed toward the door, his gaze fixed firmly on the desk in front of him. “Out.”
“As you wish,” Adorno said, dipping his head in a respectful bow.
He turned to leave, the tails of his coat swaying lightly with each step. His hand had barely touched the door handle when he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Oh, and Varka?”
“What now?” Varka groaned, not even bothering to look up.
“Try not to take it personally if he doesn’t like you right away. He’s a good kid, but he’s got a bit of a wild streak. Reminds me of someone I used to know.”
Varka finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. “If you’re about to compare me to a fifteen-year-old, I’m going to—”
“Relax,” Adorno said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I was talking about myself… mostly.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving Varka alone with the stacks of reports and the faint echo of his laughter. The Grand Master leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if it might hold the answers to the chaos Adorno had just unleashed.
For a moment, Varka considered pouring himself a drink. Then the image of Adorno’s smug, knowing smile surfaced in his mind, and his hand froze halfway to the drawer.
Absolutely not.
With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his temples. Never mind the headache that usually came after a hangover; Adorno had just made him the emotional substitute for Eroch on Lohen’s revenge ladder.
And as if that were not enough, the boy was fifteen.
Fifteen.
Prime territory for rebellion, boundary-pushing, irreverence, and the particular brand of little-shit behavior that made adults question every decision that had led them to a position of authority. Worse still, Lohen was skilled. Far too skilled, if Cyrus’s informal note was any indication. Not impulsive or reckless, but deliberate, almost dangerously so.
Kid listens more than he lets on. Don’t talk down to him.
Varka stared at that line for a long moment. Then he groaned and dragged both hands down his face. Wonderful. Not only was the boy dangerous, traumatized, and apparently using him as a measuring stick for vengeance, he was also sharp enough to notice every misplaced word.
This was going to be a nightmare.
The worst part was that Varka could already feel himself caring.
It was an infuriating sensation. Unwelcome, inconvenient, and far too familiar. He had spent years learning how to recognize the first signs of trouble in young recruits: the ones who laughed too loudly, fought too eagerly, flinched too quickly, or stared too long at weapons as though strength alone could answer every wound life had left behind.
Lohen, from the reports, seemed to fall into several categories at once.
Varka lowered his hands and stared at the papers scattered across his desk. “Fifteen,” he muttered again, as if repeating the number might somehow make it less absurd.
It did not.
A child that age should have been worrying about chores, training blisters, ill-timed growth spurts, and whether his parents would scold him for coming home covered in mud. He should not have been familiar with captivity. He should not have known how to cut rope with a hidden arrowhead. He should not have been filing monster kills under the Adventurers’ Guild with the cold efficiency of a seasoned hunter.
And he absolutely should not have been considering the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius as a personal milestone.
Varka leaned forward and reached for Cyrus’s note again as he skimmed over the earlier words.
Kid listens more than he lets on. Don’t talk down to him.
Then his gaze dropped lower. Beneath the first line, in Cyrus’s looser, far less disciplined scrawl, was a dark smear Varka had initially dismissed as a spilled inkblot. Only now, with the paper angled toward the light, did he realize it was writing.
Another note. One he had overlooked.
Also don’t praise him like he’s made of glass. He hates that.
Varka stared for a while before slowly setting the paper down. “Of course he does.”
Because naturally, the boy did not merely require caution. No, that would have been too simple. He required precision. Too gentle, and he would bristle. Too stern, and he would dig his heels in. Too dismissive, and he might decide to prove a point with weapons. Too impressed, and he might assume Varka was patronizing him.
Varka had negotiated with stubborn nobles, drunk captains, foreign envoys, and one particularly unreasonable merchant who had tried to argue that a cart full of explosive barrels was technically a religious offering.
Somehow, this felt more complicated.
A knock came at the door and Varka closed his eyes. If that was Adorno returning to add one more cheerful warning, he was going to throw something.
“What?” he called.
The door opened just enough for a young knight to peer inside. “Grand Master? The examination schedule for the new candidates has arrived.”
Varka opened his eyes. “Bring it here.”
The knight stepped inside, posture stiff with the particular nervousness that came from interrupting a superior who looked one breath away from challenging his desk to a duel. He placed a folder near the edge of the table, saluted, and wisely retreated without asking questions.
Varka flipped it open. Names, ages, sponsor, recommended divisions, assessment categories. Standard enough. He scanned down the list until he found it.
Lohen.
Age: 15.
Sponsor: Adorno.
Recommended assessment: Archery, close-range combat and evasion, field judgment, survival tactics.
Additional note: Candidate has requested permission to participate in sparring evaluations.
Varka stopped breathing for a moment. Then he read the line again, just in case his eyes had betrayed him. They had not.
A slow, disbelieving laugh left him. “Of course he has.”
Not archery alone. Not field judgment. Not survival tactics, where his skills would at least have an obvious place. Sparring, against trained candidates, likely older and larger than him. A controlled environment, yes, but still one where pride, adrenaline, and carelessness could turn even wooden weapons into bruises, sprains, or worse.
And knowing the type of child the reports described, Lohen had not requested sparring because he wanted to make friends.
Varka could almost hear Adorno’s voice. ‘He needs to learn where he stands.’
“Yes,” Varka muttered to the empty room, “and apparently I need to learn how many gray hairs one child can give me before I meet him.”
He reached for his quill again and wrote beside the note.
Approved under supervision. No lethal tools. No poisons. No concealed blades. No live arrowheads. Opponents to be selected carefully. Medical staff on standby.
He paused. Then added, after a moment’s thought:
Do NOT underestimate him.
Varka stared at that final line. It felt strange to write. Not because he doubted it, but because some instinct told him it was the most important instruction of all. Not for the other candidates. Not even for the examiners, but for himself.
He leaned back once more and let the chair creak beneath him.
A child like Lohen would know when someone was holding back out of pity. He would know when someone saw only the wound and not the person who had survived it. He would know when an adult softened their voice too much, chose their words too carefully, or acted as though kindness meant pretending nothing sharp existed beneath his skin.
Varka had seen that look before. In soldiers. In survivors. In mirrors, long ago.
His expression sobered.
Adorno’s methods were ridiculous, infuriating, and quite possibly hazardous to Varka’s long-term health, but beneath the mischief, there had been intent. He had not sent Lohen toward the Knights because he thought the boy harmless. He had done it because Lohen was not harmless, and because pretending otherwise would only leave him alone with every dangerous thing he had learned to become.
Varka exhaled slowly. “Fine,” he said to the room, quieter this time.
If Lohen wanted a measure of strength, then Varka would give him one. Not a target. Not an enemy. Not some unreachable legend polished clean by distance and rumor. A wall, perhaps. A guidepost. Something solid enough to strike without breaking, and steady enough not to strike back in anger.
And if the boy came at him with rage, suspicion, poison, arrows, or that particular fifteen-year-old talent for making every adult in the vicinity regret speaking, then so be it.
Varka had survived worse.
Probably.
Another glance at the exam schedule made his confidence falter slightly. “Medical staff on standby,” he repeated under his breath, then dipped his quill again and added one more line.
And check all drinks beforehand.
He stared at the sentence.
Then, with a grimace, underlined it twice.