The road into Mondstadt stretched wide and lazy, like a path that had long ago forgotten how to be dangerous. The grass was greener here, the air softer, and the wind… somehow alive. It moved like it had a personality—one that greeted travelers, nudged at cloaks, rustled leaves just to say hello.
Furina was not amused.
"This wind is mocking me," she declared, hair whipping in every direction despite her attempt to hold it in place. "It has a personal vendetta."
"It's just Mondstadt's weather," I said.
"No. It is targeted harassment."
She swatted at the air as though expecting the wind to retreat in shame. It didn't. It only pushed harder, lifting the hem of her coat. She squeaked, grabbed it down, and glared at the sky.
"Vile creature," she muttered.
I laughed. "You'll get used to it."
"I will not. I refuse."
But despite the wind's antics, she was walking with a noticeable bounce in her step. Every now and then, she tilted her head, listening. As if the wind carried secrets.
"Is it really like this every day?" she asked, a mix of wonder and complaint.
"Most days."
"Hm." She tugged at her braid. "I suppose I can tolerate winds that are merely annoying and not malicious."
"Progress."
"Do not patronize me."
We walked until the trees thinned and the land opened into rolling hills. Wild dandelions scattered across the field, glowing gold in the sunlight. Furina slowed, her gaze fixed on one patch in particular.
"Those flowers," she whispered. "I've seen them in letters, paintings… I didn't realize they were so bright."
I plucked one and held it out to her. She hesitated.
"Blow on it," I said.
"Why? What does it do?"
"You'll see."
She leaned forward uncertainly and blew. The seeds scattered into the wind, spiraling upward like tiny stars.
Furina gasped—actually gasped—and followed their ascent with wide eyes.
"They… fly."
"That's what happens."
She watched until the seeds vanished, then cradled the empty stem with the kind of reverence one usually reserves for relics.
"That was unnecessarily enchanting," she murmured.
"Do you want another?"
"…Yes."
I handed her one. She tried to blow gently. Nothing happened.
"Put more force into it."
She puffed harder. Still nothing.
She narrowed her eyes at the dandelion, insulted.
"What is this thing's problem?"
"It's just a flower."
"It is defying me."
With a determined inhale, she blew so fiercely that the seeds exploded upward in a messy burst. Furina flinched, coughing, eyes watering.
"Are… are you okay?" I tried not to laugh.
"No," she wheezed, wiping her eyes. "But I have defeated it."
She tossed the bald stem triumphantly.
Around noon, we reached a small tavern perched at the edge of a hill. A wooden sign swung above the entrance, creaking softly: The Whispering Draff.
Furina eyed it skeptically.
"Is it stable?" she asked.
"The sign?"
"The entire building."
"It's a tavern, Furina. People come here for food."
"That is not an answer."
Still, she followed me inside.
The tavern was warm, lit by lanterns and a large hearth. A few travelers sat around wooden tables, and the smell of fresh bread drifted through the air. Furina's nose twitched.
"…I approve of the aroma," she murmured.
We sat near the window, and the tavernkeeper—a cheerful woman with sleeves rolled up to her elbows—approached.
"What can I get you two?" she asked.
Furina straightened, adopting her most elegant posture.
"I shall have your finest dish," she said.
"Which one is that?" the tavernkeeper asked.
"That is what I am asking you."
I intervened before Furina could spiral into indecipherable culinary demands.
"We'll take whatever you recommend," I said.
"One hearty hunter's stew coming right up."
Furina leaned close as the woman walked away.
"What exactly is a 'hunter's stew'?" she whispered.
"Usually meat, vegetables, broth—"
"Meat?" Her eyes widened. "Do they expect me to consume an animal?"
"You've eaten meat before."
"I do not recall this."
"Well, you have."
She tapped her chin thoughtfully.
"Oh. So that's why the texture felt like that."
When the stew arrived, steaming and smelling richly of herbs and roasted meat, Furina stared at it suspiciously.
"Is it supposed to look violent?" she asked.
"It's food."
"It is aggressively brown."
Despite the commentary, she took a cautious spoonful. Her eyes widened.
"…This is actually good."
"Told you."
She took another, then another, and soon she was eating with the focus of someone discovering the concept of hunger for the third time in her life.
Halfway through the meal, she paused and looked out the window.
"Do you think…" she began, voice softer, "Fontaine is doing well without me?"
I nodded. "Yes."
"And Neuvillette?"
"He's strong. They're safe."
She stared into her bowl, pushing vegetables around.
"And what about the people?" she whispered. "Do they miss me? Or is that presumptuous to ask?"
I leaned on my elbows.
"They cared about you. Deeply. They still do."
Her fingers tightened around the spoon.
"I want them to be happy," she murmured. "Even if my absence makes it easier for them."
"You're not gone forever," I said.
"No. But I'm not their Archon anymore." She exhaled slowly. "And I'm not sure they ever knew me to begin with."
"Now they'll get the chance."
She blinked at me—long, searching—before returning to her stew.
"Perhaps."
After resting, we resumed our journey. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the hills, and the wind had grown gentler, as if sensing Furina's earlier complaints.
"See?" I said. "It's not so bad."
"It is tolerable," she admitted. "But that is the highest praise I will give."
We walked until a small dirt path veered off toward a cliff overlooking a valley. Furina wandered to the edge, peering down.
"Oh," she breathed.
The view was sprawling—lakes shimmering like polished mirrors, forests rolling across the land, and far in the distance, the faint outline of Mondstadt's windmills spinning lazily.
Furina stepped closer, captivated.
"Is this…" she whispered, "what freedom looks like?"
I stood beside her. "Yeah."
"It's beautiful," she said, voice unsteady. "And terrifying."
"Why terrifying?"
She clasped her hands together.
"Because freedom means I cannot predict what comes next," she said. "There is no script. No prophecy. No divine role." She closed her eyes. "Just… possibility."
"And that scares you?"
"It does." She looked at me then, a faint tremor in her eyes. "But it also excites me. I want to see everything—understand everything."
"Then we will."
She held my gaze for a moment, then looked away, cheeks tinged with pink.
"We?" she repeated softly.
"If you want."
She hesitated—just long enough for the wind to sweep a strand of hair across her face.
"…I do."
We continued onward until dusk painted the sky pink. Fireflies flickered between the trees, their glow bouncing off Furina's eyes.
She stopped suddenly.
"Wait," she whispered. "Listen."
I did.
Soft humming drifted from a clearing ahead—a tune light as feathers, drifting with the wind itself. Furina stepped forward, drawn like a moth to flame.
We found the source: a bard, sitting on a fallen log, lute resting on his knee. His green clothes fluttered in the breeze, and his teal eyes glanced up with warm curiosity.
"Evening, travelers," he greeted. "Beautiful night, isn't it?"
Furina froze, eyes widening.
"That voice…" she whispered. "Is he—?"
The bard winked.
"Just a humble musician enjoying the winds."
But there was nothing humble about the aura around him. The air seemed to bend toward him, playful and reverent. Furina recognized it instantly.
"You're the Anemo Archon," she said.
He tilted his head innocently.
"Am I?"
"Yes," she insisted.
"Perhaps I'm just Venti," he said lightly, strumming a chord.
Furina's jaw dropped.
"You… you're unbelievable," she muttered.
Venti laughed—a soft, wind-chime sound.
"And you, my dear Hydro star, seem far from home."
Furina stiffened. "Former Hydro star."
"That doesn't make the glow any dimmer," he said gently.
She blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity.
"So," Venti said, swinging his legs, "what brings you two across Mondstadt's borders?"
Furina looked at me. I nodded.
"We're traveling," she said.
"Ah," Venti smiled knowingly. "To learn who you are without the title."
Furina's breath caught.
"H-how—"
"The wind remembers names," he said softly. "Even the ones people haven't learned yet."
She stared at him, unsure whether to be flattered or terrified.
Venti stood, slinging his lute behind his back.
"Take care on your journey. The world is wide, and your story is just beginning."
He stepped past us, but paused by Furina.
"And don't be afraid of the wind," he whispered. "It only pushes those who are meant to move."
Then he was gone—vanishing into the breeze like he had never been there.
Furina remained frozen, eyes wide, hands trembling slightly.
"…He's worse than Neuvillette," she muttered.
I laughed softly. "You okay?"
She inhaled deeply.
"Yes. No. I don't know."
She looked toward the horizon, expression unreadable.
"But I feel," she whispered, "like something just… shifted."
She turned to me.
"Let's go. Before the wind decides to give me more unsolicited wisdom."
And so we continued—into Mondstadt, into twilight, into the unknown.