The first true night of our journey settled over us like a velvet cloth, thick with moonlight and the scent of pine. Mondstadt's borderlands were quiet in a way Fontaine never was—no machinery humming beneath the ground, no water-pressure groaning through the veins of the nation, no distant applause echoing in gilded courts.
Just wind.Just stars.Just the sound of Furina trying very hard to pretend she wasn't cold.
"I am not shivering," she insisted, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
"You're literally vibrating."
"It is the wind's fault! It's assaulting me with malicious intent."
"You said earlier it didn't feel malicious."
"I have changed my mind," she snapped, teeth chattering despite her best efforts.
I took off my cloak and placed it over her shoulders before she could protest. She froze, staring down at the fabric.
"I didn't ask—"
"You didn't have to."
Her mouth opened, shut, then opened again. She looked away, gripping the cloak tighter.
"…Thank you," she muttered.
Her voice was small. Honest. Almost shy. A stark contrast to the divine confidence she used to carry like a second skin.
We found a clearing to rest in, sheltered by a ring of tall trees that swayed like guardians in the breeze. A small fire crackled between us, casting gold across Furina's face. She sat on a fallen log, legs tucked under her, hair glowing like frost-kissed silk.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then:
"Do you think he was right?" she asked quietly.
"Venti?"
"Yes." She tugged at a loose thread on the cloak. "About the wind pushing those who need to move."
"What do you think?"
She closed her eyes and breathed in slow.
"I think," she whispered, "that I spent five hundred years trapped behind glass. Watched. Judged. Feared. Worshipped. Performed. And for the first time, the world is too wide for me to see its edges."
Her fingers trembled slightly.
"And I don't know how to move without a script."
She looked up at me, moonlight catching in her eyes.
"Am I allowed to be lost?"
I sat beside her. Not too close, but not far either.
"Yes," I said. "You're allowed."
She inhaled sharply—as if the answer had been something she desperately needed and didn't know how to ask for.
The fire crackled.
A moment passed.
Then she leaned her shoulder against mine—slowly, hesitantly, as though expecting me to pull away.
I didn't.
She relaxed.
Just a little.
We settled in for the night. I laid out one bedroll; Furina examined it like a foreign object.
"This is… it?" she asked. "This thin sheet is where we're supposed to sleep?"
"It's not a Fontaine palace bed."
"It's not even a chair."
"You'll manage."
She pointed at the ground accusingly.
"It's lumpy."
"It's nature."
"It's uncomfortable!"
"That's the same thing."
She glared at the bedroll again, then at me, then back at the bedroll—as if trying to negotiate with it telepathically.
"I refuse," she declared.
"You have to sleep somewhere."
"I shall sleep standing."
"No, you won't."
"Yes, I will. Like a vampire."
"You're not a vampire."
"How do you know?"
"Because you tripped earlier in broad daylight."
She made a strangled noise of offense.
"That was not my fault! The ground assaulted me!"
I sighed and rolled out a second bedroll.
"You can take this one."
She blinked.
"You brought two?"
"I figured you'd complain."
"That is… unfairly perceptive," she admitted.
After more dramatic huffing and several failed attempts to arrange her blankets aesthetically, she finally lay down, facing the fire.
For a long time, she was quiet.
Then, in a small voice:
"…This is not as awful as I expected."
I smiled. "Good."
"Though I still feel profoundly undignified."
"It's part of the experience."
She made a faint grumbling sound but didn't move.
After a few more minutes, she spoke again—so softly I almost missed it.
"Will you still be here in the morning?"
"Of course."
She exhaled, long and slow.
"…Good."
I woke before sunrise.
Furina was still asleep—curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, hair spilling over her shoulders. She looked peaceful. Vulnerable. Young in a way her centuries-old consciousness rarely allowed.
For a moment, I simply watched her breathe, steady and soft.
Then her eyes fluttered open.
She blinked up at me, dazed.
"…What time is it?" she whispered.
"Early."
She sat up, rubbing her eyes like a child. The moment she realized she'd done something cute, her expression soured.
"You saw nothing."
"I saw everything."
"Unacceptable."
But she didn't seem truly angry—just flustered. And beneath that… something gentle.
We packed up camp and began walking again, the world slowly brightening around us. Birds chirped from branches overhead; the sky bled from purple to rose gold.
Furina stretched dramatically.
"My body aches," she complained.
"That's normal."
"It shouldn't be."
"It is."
She huffed but kept walking.
And then—it happened.
A small bunny hopped onto the path ahead of us.
Furina froze.
"Oh no."
"It's just a rabbit."
"I know what that is," she whispered, eyes wide. "But why is it approaching me?"
"It's curious."
"It is sizing me up. It wants to devour my ankles."
"It's a rabbit."
"It has sharp teeth!"
The rabbit sniffed her boot.
Furina shrieked.
I sighed, picked up the rabbit, and set it safely aside in the grass. It hopped away.
Furina glared at it until it vanished.
"That creature was malevolent."
"Yes, the deadly grass menace."
"I sense your sarcasm."
We resumed walking. Over the next hill, the landscape opened into a long stretch of wildflower meadows. Windmills rose in the distance, their wooden blades sweeping across the sky.
Furina stopped.
Her breath caught.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
Mondstadt's open fields, golden and endless, swayed before us like an ocean of sunlight.
"I've never seen so much sky," she murmured. "It feels… infinite."
She took a step forward, then another, almost as if the ground itself were drawing her closer.
"Fontaine feels so small from here," she said quietly.
"Everything feels small from Mondstadt."
She stared at the horizon—eyes glowing, alive, filled with something raw and new.
"Is this what freedom looks like?" she asked again.
"Yes."
She turned to me, and in her gaze there was awe, fear, excitement, and something else—something that sparked like a heartbeat.
"I want to learn it," she said. "I want to learn how to live without chains."
"You will."
She stepped closer.
"You'll help me, won't you?"
Her whisper trembled.
"I don't know how to do this alone."
I looked at her.
At her uncertainty.At her hope.At the way the wind pulled softly at her hair, as though urging her forward.
"You're not alone," I said.
She exhaled shakily.
Her fingers brushed mine—hesitant, unsure—then intertwined with them fully.
It was the first time she had taken my hand on her own.
Her grip was soft. Warm.Real.
"…Thank you," she whispered. "For staying."
We walked on, hand in hand, toward Mondstadt.
Toward the next unknown.Toward whatever she would become.