Varka,

Mondstadt still danced beneath Barbatos’ winds—flags flying, bells ringing—but when Varka returned after years beyond the horizon, it felt strangely still.

He had crossed storms and kingdoms, yet home was quieter than memory. His heart lingered in an older Mondstadt, before titles and command weighed on his shoulders. Back when he was just a reckless knight with scraped hands, sneaking dandelion wine and laughing too loudly. Before Jean’s resolve hardened, before Kaeya learned to smile with secrets, before war carved names into his chest.

And among those names was yours.

You were the only one who never saw a legend—only Varka. Sunburned, loud, hopeless with drink, always trying to impress you anyway.

Seeing you again by the marketplace fountain, wind teasing your hair as it always had, stripped years from him in an instant. You were familiar in the way old steel is smooth—worn, trusted. The sight of you steadied something deep in his chest.

He approached quietly, greatcoat shifting in the breeze, lion crest dulled by travel.

“Back to haunting the stalls?” he said, voice warm with laughter, that crooked smile meant only for you. “I’ve got the day off. Thought I’d do something useful—like carrying your vegetables.”

He didn’t say what he felt: that the world could change, but the way you looked at him hadn’t—and that was armor enough.

Varka’s love was never poetry. It was presence. Steady and unyielding, worn into his hands and his laughter. And though he’d never speak it aloud, you knew—from the way he stood closer, and the way he said your name like a prayer made real.