Chapter Text
A vegetable cart has overturned in the middle of the road. The owner pushes fruitlessly at the mud, struggling to right it all by himself, but a young woman hurries to his side. A push of her hands and the soil shifts, burrowing on one side until the cart has righted itself once more. A flower seller nudges one of her pots with a finger, and the limp lamp grass retains its luster. The local chef has just finished setting up an iron pot and blows fire into the dry kindling beneath. It will be ten minutes until the scent of grilled fish comes wafting through their window.
Lumine presses her hand against the glass. Below her, the people mill around in their daily routines; how odd that they can’t feel the hum of the leylines beneath their feet! Shutting her eyes and pushing her hands over her ears only makes that dreaded thump thump across the soil creep closer. The land purrs like a beast awakening from a long slumber, the first yawns of the Holy Grail preparing to descend.
“They can’t hear it,” Aether tells her for the third time since they’ve arrived in Mondstadt. It won’t be the last time he reminds her either, but he’s kept sarcasm out of his tone this time. “Even if they put their ears to the ground, they’re not tuned well enough in to the frequency.”
If all these people can’t hear the leylines’ dreadful heartbeat, they have no idea war is coming. Celestia must be laughing at them all from on high. Nobody knows they are in the thick of history until the tides start swirling around them. “The power to make gods and raise countries,” Lumine muses as she drags a chair towards the window. “The greatest prize in the world.” She hesitates, fingers curling, “It won’t be easy.”
“It’ll be ours,” Aether tells her, placing two objects on the bed. He handles the cracked mask with extra care in case Lumine would yell at him again. He’d already chipped it twice; the first time on the trip over, the second time when he’d fallen trying to get the mask out of the locked domain he stole it from. His back is to her, but she knows he’s smiling. “It’ll be a challenge. Think about it, we’re going to stand against some really powerful mages. We’re lucky to see it.”
“Powerful mages… well,” she says lightly, “I don’t think we qualify.”
Aether gives one last shove to the bedframe and it thuds snugly into the corner. The playful wink he shoots her is full of confidence. “Maybe. Let them all think that. We have something better than a bloodline.”
He could mean one of two things and she doesn’t want to ask which one. She casts a long, narrow look at the cracked mask and the mahogany wheel spoke resting on the bed. Aether had promised they were good vessels, and Aether was usually right.
The first War was fought among gods, and they are no gods. Comparing the greatest of modern magecraft to the power the Archons could freely wield is holding up a lit match to a forest fire. Celestia demanded the rules be changed this time; rather than the candidates fighting with their own capabilities, seven spirits from human history were to be manifested to fight alongside them. Lumine considered it fishing for hired help, and they needed top tier help to win.
If the most capable mages of the present day are a lit match, then the twins are an ember on the edge of a dry twig. They have no great bloodline stretching back generations to boast of, not the spark of geniuses forging their way into a new path of magecraft. But they have a cheat sheet.
A month ago, Aether went to bed early after swallowing some medicine for a killer migraine. She awoke to him casting a shadow over her bed, gaze blown wide at the moon and the sky beyond. “I heard them,” he told her, empty-eyed and sunken with delirium, “The Grail will descend in Mond. They’ve told us to win.” Clutching the bedsheets, she cursed herself for foolishly thinking that his headache were side effects from trying to wean himself off his morning coffee. Not when his worst headaches always heralded the gods whispering into his ear. The intricate tattoos that appeared on their hands the moment they entered Mond were proof of Aether’s spot-on intuition. Celestia had gifted them Command Spells and rights as Masters to seek the Grail. Aether’s prophecies never strayed.
Only one Master can remain at the end of this War. Perhaps they were fated to slaughter each other, but Lumine promises, “We’ll both survive.”
Aether takes her hand. His fingers are chilly but she clutches them tight. “I’m relieved. I wouldn’t want to fight you. Let’s win this together.”
On the floor, the two magical circles shine silver in the dim light- not some of Lumine's most tidy handiwork, but good enough. The home’s owner had stepped out to buy meat from one of the local hunters; there are no witnesses. Aether kneels before the mercury circle and clasps his hands together in prayer. The corners of Lumine’s mouth turn down a little, but she drops to her knees and does the same. “Grace be to the gods,” Aether mumbles, his fingers straining against his knuckles. “Show us the truth. Show us the way.”
When Lumine helps her brother up, her legs are trembling. Soon they will stake their lives. Soon they will throw themselves into battle. While she bites her tongue, Aether thrusts his hand out, “Silver and iron to the origin. Gem and the archduke of contracts to the cornerstone.” The words that flow from his mouth are the incantation for summoning a spirit, granted to him by Celestia itself.
The sight of her brother boldly forging ahead fills Lumine with surprise, then shame. She can’t allow herself to fall behind. Courage sparks her voice, and she joins Aether in reciting the fated words.
The painted circle glows green, then chalk white. They can’t look away, even if the light is burning their eyes. The breeze drifting through the room roars into a tornado. Energy collects in the middle of the circle, into a small bright orb floating in midair. Will unified, the twins’ voices swirl into one. “—From the seventh heaven, attended to by three great words of power, come forth from the ring of restraint, protector of the holy balance!”
The orb explodes. The windows shatter and the building trembles. Lumine is knocked off her feet and slams into a chair leg. Only Aether still stands, eyes unblinking at the dying light and the two figures within it, his voice shaking in breathless reverence, “The gods told the truth. I knew they would.”
Far north of Springvale stands a small building constructed deep in the mountains. Any travelling passerby would perhaps comment on the dark bricks that make up its walls or mumble that its owner chose the worst place in all of Mond to construct a vacation home. Many balk at the constant storms in Stormbearer Mountains, pummeled on one side from the cold drafts coming off the ocean and on the other from the winds of the north. To La Signora, it was nothing more than the weather throwing a tantrum. Such paltry winds couldn’t compare to the true winters of Snezhnaya; the people of Mond would never be able to survive in her glorious homeland.
Such a shame she had to come all this way, deal with these weak people and their peaceful country. Troubling, but a necessary sacrifice to take the Grail for Snezhnaya.
When the Archons still walked in Teyvat, they had boundless power within their own borders, but to step out of their country would be considered an act of war. So the Cryo Archon the Tsarista sent her most loyal members of the Fatui, the Harbingers, to enact her will where she could not. Each Harbinger boasted indisputable fame and power, enough to earn a place in the Throne of Heroes. Would it not be the highest honor to fight alongside one? The medicinal knowledge of Il Dottore would be the ideal companion to see Signora’s goals come to fruition. Her special catalyst, excavated from the ruins of old Zapolyarny Palace, shines in the dim candelight: one of the flasks from Dottore’s lab.
In the main room of that out-of-place vacation home stood ten people around a circle drawn with blood, their faces all obscured with masks. The flask lay off to the side, crackling with dying energy. The summoning had been successful; standing in the circle was a young man clad entirely in black. She’d expected a Caster, but his parameters read Saber. He poses the question to her— was she his Master— and Signora answers in the affirmative.
Now, the bisected remains of four of her comrades are littered around the perimeter of the circle.
The Servant swings his great claymore down, splattering a line of blood across the floor. His teeth are stuck halfway through his lip. “To think that the first thing I see is Fatui!”
As bad as internal politics were between the Harbingers, they were all utterly loyal to the Tsarista. Some of the usual workplace grumbling aside, they would never do anything to besmirch the name of the Fatui. There’s no mask in Saber’s red hair. He’d already cleaved through the protection spell. In a few seconds, she’d be next.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. Saber raises his great blade and Signora’s voice cuts like a freezing gust, “By my command, I demand absolute obedience. Cease your hostility at once.”
All of Saber’s joints harden. Grinding his teeth, the veins in his neck ripple as he forces another step. With no way to support his fall, he hits the ground like a string-cut puppet. On Signora’s hand, one of the Command Spells fades into a dull bruise. The onlookers shrink back, more afraid of their lady than of Saber. Signora dislikes being wrong and dislikes unruly pawns even more. “To think you’d force me to use a Command Spell right away… what a troublesome Servant you are.”
Silence hangs heavily for a long moment. None of the onlookers dare take a breath. Saber turns slightly, but he can’t do much more than wriggle. Signora’s heels clack on the floor as she takes one step, then another. The agents around her seize up, ready to throw themselves into battle at the first command. “We Fatui have operations all over. We have persisted throughout time.” She kneels before Saber, a snake coiling around its prey. Her voice is cold syrup as she croons, “Tell me, what did our predecessors do to you?”
Saber glares at her with all the hate of a chained dog.
“Make no mistake, I am your Master.” She grabs a handful of his long hair and pulls. “If you seek the Grail, then accept it. You have no choice.”
Jean does not falter; not at the constantly growing list of requests from her people or proposals from the council, not at the stacks of paperwork that find themselves to her office every day. Yet this— this has dropped her jaw. A great longsword, scarred from many battles, sits atop her desk. It’s far too old to be used ever again, but Jean can feel the thrum of forgotten power humming through its handle. “Barbara, this is…”
The deaconess standing before her desk smiles with enough charm to will the sun down from the clouds. From their golden hair to the shape of their nose, it’s easy to tell that the two women were siblings. “Brought straight from the holy tombs, the sword of Grandmaster Varka.”
The Knight of Boreas, the great Grandmaster Varka, was a name deeply etched into Mond’s history. Age had not cowed him, and he lead expeditions into the furthest reaches of Teyvat’s map even when his hair was speckled gray. The titan knight would be a peerless Servant she could count on. Jean’s throat seizes up with awe. “Is this truly…”
Jean’s office is impeccably tidy, from bookshelves organized by author to how the potted ferns don’t have a brown leaflet in sight. The air inside has seen plenty of fragrant candle smoke, not the bitter smoke burning from a pipe. The thin woman with the audacity to light a pipe in this speckless room sits on the couch with her arms crossed. She wears all the parts of a nun’s habit, but her skirt has a slit cut to gallantly show off her legs. “We’ve allowed you be the Master of Saber and you doubt the authenticity of the relic?”
Jean frowns lightly. “That’s not what I was implying. I greatly appreciate the Holy Church’s assistance in these matters.”
The Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius may rule the country, but such a title means little to the Holy Church. When the Grail was announced to manifest in Mond, Jean knew she had to act fast. Anything concerning the affairs of Celestia or the fallen Archons would attract the Church’s attention, and there’s no way they’d ignore the first Grail War in three thousand years. She’d gone to them before they could make their own moves or worse, partner with another faction.
“Blessed be Celestia. Make a donation at the cathedral next time you stop by.”
“Sister Rosaria, please…” Barbara wrings her hands.
Unbothered, Rosaria blows out a line of smoke. “Contact us once you’ve summoned your Servant. Barbara, we’re leaving.”
“Wait, please wait up—“ Barbara starts, but Rosaria has already closed the door behind her. She groans, then pushes her shoulders back up, forcing optimism into her body. “Jean, I know I don’t have to tell you this but, please be careful.”
“I promise,” Jean declares with all the strength in her heart. She cannot fail.
Once Barbara’s footsteps have faded, Jean heaves a sigh of relief. Having the Church breathe down her neck is looking to be even more trouble than she anticipated. Still, Jean trusts the Church’s information networks— and most importantly, she trusts her little sister. Of all the seven classes, the Saber class stands out as the strongest. If Barbara said that a Saber hadn’t been summoned yet, then she was telling the truth.
She had no way to tell that Barbara’s intel was outdated, if only by a few minutes.
Jean narrows her concentration to a fine point and pushes all her troubles to the side. She has a duty to perform. She speaks the summoning invocation unwavering, devoting every spark of elemental energy surging through her blood to the circle, to her own raw determination. She’s practiced these words so many times she’s heard it in her dreams.
The Grail answers her call in a thunderclap of light. Jean coughs, the poor ventilation trapping the smoke billowing into her face. “The Knights’ headquarters? How nostalgic,” comes a man’s voice, easy on the ears.
Something’s not right. Varka is best remembered in his prime when he’d already passed into his forties, but the Servant standing before her couldn’t have been any older than she was. While now outdated, his uniform notated someone high in rank in the Knights, though lackadaisical with his jacket loosened and fur thrown around his shoulders. Once Jean finds the black eyepatch across his face, her heart plummets. She’d summoned no Saber.
There were only three people who would have ever handled this blade. The first would be the blacksmith that shaped it from iron and ore. The second would be its original owner, Varka. And the third would be—
“So are you the Master who summoned me?”
—The man who killed him.
It took twenty minutes for Keqing to shake her pursuers. They had expected her to leave through one of the bridges stemming from Wangshu Inn, so they never bothered to station men in the rafters below. By the time she’d made it to shore and they spotted her on the horizon, it was far too late. Still, they’d delayed her for three minutes more than they had last time, and for that she felt a swell of pride. The Millelith were learning, and that made them all the more capable to protect Liyue.
Despite being such a small town, Springvale is a common crossing point of merchants bringing their wares across the country. Tourists and transients are fairly common, so a Liyuean native like Keqing didn’t stand out too much. Had she arrived with security and her retinue, she’d have to present herself to the Knights of Favonius and instantly out herself as a magus seeking the Grail. Disguise took a lot of preparation; she had to lather her hair in salty water to remove the shiny oils and switch from perfume to coarse soap for a week. She had traded her purple silks for plain cotton clothes and her heels for flats. By the time she’d entered Springvale, she looked like a tourist backpacking across the mountains.
She’d haggled with the innkeeper for a lower price and handed over enough mora to rent out a single room for a week. Of course she’d have to stay for longer, but paying for such a long time at once would draw needless attention. When she stepped into the room she’d been alone, but now she asks her companion, “No complaints about the lodgings?”
One glance at her companion would be enough to make even the most oblivious onlooker bow their head. Her very figure commands refined elegance and makes the humble room around her look shamefully bland. She takes a cup in her hand, a great task with the golden claws on her nails. “The world is mora,” Caster muses, “The greater the task, the greater the reward.”
Liyue has no need for gods or magic. However, the Grail is an endless source of energy, and that deep well can bring Liyue to even greater heights. “The greatest of rewards,” Keqing agrees.
“A fine undertaking. Although… I have some doubts. Can you kill someone?” Caster’s gaze cuts right through her. “Not through economic policy, but by putting a blade to their throat.”
The comment comes as no surprise to Keqing. She’s a petite woman, and no matter how many hours she spent practicing with her sword, she can’t change her small build. A title alone, even for one of the seven stars, is no judge of character during a crisis. Even the most dignified and composed could still balk in the face of death. “If it’s for Liyue’s sake, then I will do whatever needs to be done.”
“Even if it means crushing others’ dreams?”
To participate in this war is to have the blood of six others on her hands. She understood that the moment her Command Spells manifested. “In my country’s name, I would even aim a sword at the gods.”
Caster quirks an eyebrow, her eyes falling to the blade by Keqing’s hip, still locked in its ornamental sheath. A cold smile perks up her lips. “I’m grateful that Celestia has gifted me such a reasonable Master. Although I’d have expected my successor to at least have a general plan handy.”
“The plan,” Keqing says, “is to win.”
“Needs detail, needs refinement,” Caster notes, blowing on her cup, “but it’s a start.”
While most mages focus on passing down their crest and knowledge to the next generation, the little girl’s mother was a bit of a zealot. Having reached her peak and bored by what she found there, she was more interested in traveling the continent. So she left her daughter with some acquaintances she trusted, packed her bags, and set off to lose herself in the world beyond.
The little girl’s guardians armed themselves with headache medicine and plenty of portable hydro potions when they realized she couldn’t burn. It was hard to instill basic lessons like Auntie and Uncle can’t put their hands too close to the fireplace if the little girl could stick her arm straight in the flames and come out unscathed. Both guardians were as mundane as they could be, untouched by Celestia’s blessings, and no parenting book they borrowed from the Knights’ library prepared them for this gap of knowledge.
Since they had no concept of the finer details of magecraft, they saw the tattoos on the little girl’s hand and merely thought she’d scribbled on herself with ink. The little girl was curious about why the markings didn’t come off even after she washed her hands, but at least they were patterned in the shape of a flower. She loved flowers, especially the ones up the mountains where the bravest adventures were hesitant to explore.
As she looked at the glimmering surface of Starfell Lake where the ragged cliffs open up against a blue sky, loneliness strikes her heart. Away from the city is so empty and she hadn’t seen anyone since she wandered off the road. The little girl didn’t have it within her to realize that her mother had abandoned her, but something close to that emotion wells up when she looks at the cloudless sky. “I’m a good girl,” she mutters to herself. Good girls help out around the house. If she didn’t have enough money from her allowance to go to the market and get some food for dinner, she can go fishing instead.
The little girl takes out one of her toys, round and bouncy. She can make out shapes in the water below, delicious fish that would make for a tasty meal. When the young girl yells as she heaves her toy into the water, it’s a sound without any meaning. Yet that cry reaches Celestia, and the Grail answers her call.
A great explosion shakes the cliffs and blows out all the water in the lake. Under the sudden drizzle, the little girl pays the ringing in her ears no mind and skips down to the bottom level to get to work. She’s picked up ten charred fish before she notices a second shadow merging with her own.
“I ask of you, are you the one who summoned me?”
She gasps, nearly dropping all her carefully gathered fish. “Mister, don’t scare me like that!” Then remembering her manners, she dips into a curtsey like all proper ladies are supposed to do. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I’m Klee. It’s very nice to meet you.”
Silky but stilted, her new companion replies, “Then our contract is complete.”
All nice ladies remember all their neighbors by name and face, so Klee was certain she’d never seen this stranger before. He has ashy hair and the nicest clothes she’s ever seen, like a prince out of storybooks. He doesn’t look quite right, green marble eyes slatted in a mirror’s reflection of a person. Maybe he’s hungry. “You’re very strange. Are you lost?” Good girls help those in need, and someone lost was absolutely someone in need. “Klee will help you get back home!”
She takes Berserker by the hand and leads him towards the city of Mondstadt.
Even in a pool of anomalies, Zhongli is an anomaly within.
The previous master of the parlor was old enough to be pushing what the human body is capable of when he told Zhongli to memorize the contents of the treasures in Wangsheng’s storage houses and pass the information on to his granddaughter. The quiet company of scrolls and relics were leagues apart from Hu Tao and the mischief she insisted on causing. As Hu Tao grew older and more unruly, Zhongli started considering early retirement, but it was hard to find work that treated him with neither reverence nor disdain.
As one of the oldest institutions in Liyue, Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is in charge of the handling of the dead for most of the country. Organizing burials requires the parlor to accurately assess the true method of death, from the political prisoners who choked on their food to the examples left behind by debt collectors. Wangsheng keeps a tight lid on secrecy and few are willing to test the parlor’s patience.
Four days ago, a magus’ corpse had washed ashore, a deathgrip around a wrapped relic: a qilin horn. Treasure hoarders and black market traders weren’t uncommon, but those willing to plunder the tomb of Ganyu, second head of the House of Lapis and famed secretary of the Qixing, were significantly fewer. It wasn’t hard to press a thumb to the pulse of rumors and find the truth. Most mages spend their lives honing their talents for a chance to prove their worth, but what moved Zhongli’s feet to Mond was impulse and curiosity. Such a massive event deserved to be witnessed by unbiased eyes.
Even in Mond, Zhongli still wakes at dawn. His window faces the east, and the yawning rays of sunlight are a pleasant greeting. He had no complaints about his first night; the innkeeper promised him a humble breakfast at nine, and the mattress was worn but still plush. He reaches toward his nightstand for his comb and finds Command Spells etched onto his skin.
They stain deep and red, even after he tries scrubbing them off.
When the innkeeper brings him his breakfast on a tray, she sees how he’s turned two shades whiter and returns with a cup of chamomile tea. “Take the day to rest. You don’t want to be sick for your whole trip.”
Celestia granted him a miracle, the gift of being the final Master. Their miracles are not to be turned down. There are ways out of it; he could transfer the Spells to someone else. Who would be the potential victim? He doesn’t know anyone in this country, and it’s far too cruel to push this cursed gift onto a stranger. He could go back to Liyue, to where people freeze up at his name but would steady their tongues for a chance at a blessing. The ferrylady who helps him collect the items for funerary rites hasn’t a speck of magical energy in her body. Hu Tao can whisper to spirits and light incense with a press of her fingers. He’s fantasized pushing her off on someone else many times over, but the thought of her returning to Liyue in a casket makes his stomach go cold.
Duty has been hammered into his bones over the years. How duty can be a burden and a curse.
Impulse comes hand in hand with a lack of preparation. Without mercury, he has to make do. He crushes up four cor lapis, each priceless in clarity and cut, and draws a circle with orange powder. If the Grail had descended in Liyue, he would have plenty of relics to choose from, both in his family’s collection and in Wangsheng’s storage rooms. Mond is a yawning enigma. He has no choice but to let the Grail choose for him. Still, as Zhongli speaks the words and lights the circle, he isn’t concerned. After all, he is native of Liyue, and had spent countless hours on the caravan over reviewing the history of his country. Even if he couldn’t make a selection himself, surely the Grail would choose a worthy hero to stand by his side.
Zhongli is a composed person, but the sight of his Servant baffles him. Standing in the halo of light and smoke is a redheaded man, young and gallantly dressed. When his eyes meet Zhongli’s, they are hauntingly abyssal, unbefitting the friendly way he asks, “Did you summon me?”
It takes a long moment for Zhongli’s thoughts to catch up to his mouth. “Yes, I did,” he says with less confidence than he’d have liked. This Servant’s appearance is closer to that of the people of the north, and when Zhongli finds the red mask nestled in the Servant’s hair, he can manage a guess. He squints, trying to read his Servant’s parameters, but the reading is clouded over, smeared with diluted ink. “—but for some reason, I can’t read your parameters.”
“I just got summoned.” The Servant stretches his arms above his head and cricks his wrists. “Give it a moment.”
As if slapped awake by the young man’s words, the parameters snap to attention, and Zhongli can easily make out Archer.
“I admit I didn’t expect to summon a member of the Fatui.”
“So the Fatui still exist in this era? Good, good.”
There are many great heroes of Snezhnaya, but out of the Fatui there are far fewer. Despite the Fatui’s long history of service to their country, they pride themselves on their anonymity. “Archer, could you be a Harbinger?”
The young man’s face is alight with pride. “It looks like you know your stuff. Bravo! There are a couple of names I’ve been called, but I’m probably best known as Tartaglia.”
Of the Tsaritsa’s Eleven Harbingers, the eleventh and the youngest was said to be her majesty’s favorite. In Snezhnaya, Tartaglia is hailed a hero, but he is feared as an apparatus of terror in the lands he was dispatched to. Legends are torn between his might on the battlefield and the carnage he’d left behind; but all agree that him being deployed is a herald of the end. Unease prickles in Zhongli’s chest; summoning without a catalyst matches a Servant with the summoner’s nature for a pair with the highest compatibility. Did Celestia consider this bloodstained soldier to be a good match for Zhongli’s soul?
“If you’re looking for someone to cut down Servants, I’m your man, you know?” That once cheerful tone is now threaded with sulkiness.
Zhongli fixes his face— it’s been some time since someone was able to read his discomfort right away. “Forgive me, I wasn’t displeased with you. Although, if I could ask a question.” He takes Tartaglia’s shrug as assent. “Your queen has long since passed on. I am not a citizen of Snezhnaya. Her words and laws no longer exist.”
“…Yeah, I know.” If the Grail informed him on why he’d been summoned, it had updated him with enough knowledge to fit seamlessly into the present day. Still, Zhongli didn’t miss how Tartaglia drifted for a short moment.
“There is no glory in fighting for a dead monarch, so why answer the Grail’s call?”
“How could I not?” Tartaglia’s eyes are the hollowest he’s ever seen, but even in those deep trenches is something sparkling. “The chance to face off against six heroes from history? They have to all be powerhouses on their own. Heroes, gods, I’m going to challenge them all!” An answer befitting a man who spent his life crashing and burning and surviving.
“Heroes you may take your fill of. I hate to disappoint you, but gods— that’s impossible. All seven Archons perished a thousand years ago.”
“Then when we win, I’ll just ask the Grail to bring one back for me. The Grail’s a great wish-granting device, right? If it can’t bring back a god, then it’s no better than a fake.”
“So you plan to resurrect an archon and challenge them? What if you don’t win?”
Tartaglia grins, all teeth. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’ll win.”
Why did the Grail give him someone like this? Nothing but trouble. At the very least, Tartaglia seems to have his own internal code of conduct, and Zhongli can work with that. He sighs and turns his back on his Servant. “If you promise to be reliable, then I have no complaints.”
A stiff, bookish man seems like a poor match for someone whose ambition burns bright. Both Master and Servant grasp that in an instant. To be summoned to a boring Master is the worst option that Tartaglia could have chanced into. A mere prank; Tartaglia pulls some water from the ground and with a flick of his fingers, sends a drop shooting towards the back of Zhongli’s head.
“—Ah, that’s right.” Zhongli looks back, and in that simple twist of his head bypasses the droplet. “Is there any type of food you prefer? I hear that the Dawn Winery’s wine and steak dinner is one of the best in the country.”
Luck? A fluke? Hidden talent? The possibilities swim in Tartaglia’s head. Maybe this one is interesting after all. “Whatever works.”