premise. fate doesn’t always strike like lightning; sometimes, it brushes your fingers against someone else’s. when you and a certain someone meet by reaching for the same thing at the same time, you both realize you might’ve found something you didn’t know you were looking for.
features. cyno, kaeya, albedo, kazuha, heizou, wanderer, xiao
part 2. out now
[itto, diluc, tighnari, childe, ayato, alhaitham, neuvillette, bonus heizou]
cyno
You browse the merchant booths in the small village just outside Sumeru City, the air fragrant with spices and ink. Vendors display everything from hand-copied manuscripts to experimental powders in glass jars. One table in particular catches your eye, presenting a sealed container of dark blue liquid labeled as a “rare stimulant derived from desert flora, guaranteed to increase mental acuity.” It’s expensive, yes, but you’ve never seen anything like it. You reach for the jar, fingers skimming the cool glass, but another hand lands on the lid at the same time.
You startle, looking up to meet the piercing gaze of a man in a black cloak and golden headpiece. The sheer severity of his stare makes your pulse trip; it feels less like a coincidence and more like he’s caught you in the middle of a crime.
“You’re under arre—” he begins, voice low and final.
Then he pauses. Blinks once. His gaze flicks to the vendor, then back to you, registering in a fraction of a second that you are merely…shopping.
“…Never mind,” he says. “You’re not the suspect.”
The silence that follows is thick and awkward, your hand still hovering over the jar, his still inches away.
“That’s good…?” you venture, unsure if you’ve just narrowly avoided incarceration or a lecture.
He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, his fingers close around the jar with clinical precision. “This is evidence. The seller is distributing diluted tinctures stolen from a restricted research project.”
The vendor sputters. “Evidence? You have no right—”
That’s when the man produces an official seal from inside his cloak and delivers the words with cool finality, “General Mahamatra. You are under disciplinary review for unlawful possession of Akademiya property.”
The color drains from the vendor’s face. He bolts.
Cyno doesn’t even flinch; he just presses the jar into your hands, surprising you. “Hold this.” Then, he’s gone in a blur of white and gold, chasing the man into the street.
You stand there, dumbfounded, jar cradled awkwardly, trying to reconcile the fact that two minutes ago you were shopping and now you’re holding contraband evidence for the Akademiya’s most intimidating law enforcer. When he returns, dragging the subdued vendor by the collar, he reclaims the jar without hesitation.
“Thanks for keeping it safe,” he says. He studies you for a beat, expression unreadable. “You stayed calm; I’m impressed. Most people would find the whole situation rather…jar-ring.”
It takes a moment for your brain to process his words. Did the General Mahamatra just make a pun? You blink, caught between disbelief and amusement. “Oh, um…quite pun-derful of you to notice,” you reply, your voice carefully polite.
Cyno’s lip twitches, just the faintest hint of a smile. Without another word, he turns sharply and disappears down the street.
You can hardly believe it when the next time you run into him, he’s across the table at a TCG gathering, fanning a hand of Genius Invocation cards. “Your move,” he says, eyes unreadable, but there’s a spark of mischief there that hints this second meeting may not have been a coincidence.
kaeya
The ballroom is too warm, too loud, and too full of people smiling at each other with their teeth and not their eyes. You’ve lasted an hour longer than you meant to, and the glass in your hand has been empty for twenty minutes. That is your excuse, anyway, as you slip toward the long table glittering with bottles of Mondstadt’s finest vintages.
You keep your gaze low and shoulders angled away from the crowd, moving with the sort of careful ease that makes you nearly invisible. If you time it right, you can snag a bottle, slip out a side door, and no one will be the wiser. Your fingers curl around the cool glass neck of a Dawn Winery vintage, only to be met by someone else’s hand. You blink, startled, and look up.
The man across from you wears a half-lidded smile that seems too amused for the situation. “Well,” he drawls, thumb still resting on the bottle, covering your own, “I can’t decide if this is luck or tragedy. I come here to steal a drink, and find someone attempting the same crime.”
You arch a brow, not pulling your hand back. “Steal? It’s not stealing if it’s freely provided.”
“Mm. True. But…” His smile sharpens. “It’s not exactly encouraged to smuggle the whole bottle, is it?”
The implication makes you flush, mostly because he’s right. “Maybe I was planning to share,” you counter quickly.
“Oh?” His head tilts, and for a heartbeat, the noise of the ballroom dims around you, his attention drawing you in like a tide. “In that case, I’d be terribly rude to deny such a generous offer. Shall we call it a conspiracy, then?”
You hesitate, weighing whether to release the bottle or wait for him to. But then, almost without thinking, you both lift it at the same time—two culprits caught in the same scheme. His gloved hand lingers a moment longer on yours, then slides away, leaving a chill in its absence.
“You don’t enjoy parties either, then?” you ask, because somehow it seems better than silence.
He lets out a smooth chuckle. “Let’s just say I prefer my evenings quieter. Fewer masks, fewer lies. Unless I’m the one telling them, of course.”
You narrow your eyes slightly, half amused, half wary. “And who exactly are you?”
He dips his head in a mock bow, eye glittering like starlight off wine. “Kaeya Alberich, at your service. And you are…?”
You give your name, and for reasons you can’t quite place, he repeats it softly, as though tasting it alongside the wine you now both hold custody of.
“Then it seems,” Kaeya says, taking a step back toward the nearest balcony, “that we have a drink to share. Unless you’d rather go back to mingling with the delightful guests inside?”
The distant murmur of forced laughter and tedious speeches echoes behind you. You don’t need long to decide.
albedo
The Windblume Festival turns Mondstadt into a swirl of music, petals, and too many people for the streets to comfortably hold. Vendors call out over one another, ribbons stream from poles, and the air smells of cider and roasting chestnuts. You are admiring a stall of delicate windwheel asters when a flash of red darts into your peripheral vision—a small girl, all energy and excitement, tugging at the sleeve of a blond man.
“Albedo! Dodoco says this one’s perfect for making a big kaboom!” the girl chirps.
Your head turns automatically at the words big kaboom. You catch sight of a handmade plush in her hands: a round, cutesy thing with painted ears and a stitched smile. And sparks. Your stomach drops. Is that a bomb?
You’re still trying to discreetly look without looking when the toy slips from her fingers, bounces once on the cobblestones, and rolls toward a crowd of festival-goers.
“Bomb—!” The warning tears out of you as you lunge forward, instincts overruling everything. From the corner of your eye, you see the blond man react at the exact same moment, his gloved hand shooting out toward the object.
Your fingers brush it first, curling protectively around the strange, sparking toy as you draw your body around it to shield the crowd behind you. The world narrows to the weight in your hands and the quick, sharp sound of someone’s boots hitting stone beside you.
A gloved hand presses against your back. An urgent, low voice. “Give it to me.”
You twist slightly, meeting pale teal eyes that are far calmer than the situation warrants. His focus isn’t on you, but on the dangerous sphere you are shielding. You relinquish it.
The man—Albedo, apparently—places his palm over the surface, muttering something under his breath. Golden alchemical light swirls, and in a blink, the sphere melts into the soft white bloom of a Cecilia.
“…There,” he says simply, straightening.
You sit up, breathing hard. “Was that—”
“Yes,” Albedo interrupts gently. “And next time, please don’t throw yourself on an active explosive. That was reckless.” His brows draw together, a mixture of puzzled scolding and something almost like respect. “Effective, but reckless.”
You blink at him. “You’re welcome?”
Albedo turns to the child. “Klee,” he says mildly, though the undertone makes her shoulders hunch. “What did I tell you about bringing…those out in public?”
Klee shuffles. “Not to…unless you’re watching…but you were watching!”
You can’t help but let out a faint laugh, even as adrenaline still thrums through you.
Albedo fixes her with another measured look. “Even so, you must be more careful. Jumpy Dumpty is not a toy to bring to a crowded festival. You could have put this kind stranger in real danger.”
Klee’s head droops as she turns to you. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to scare anyone. I just wanted Jumpy Dumpty to see the Windblumes.” Her eyes suddenly brighten, and she tugs at your sleeve. “Can I make it up to you? We can all go together! I’ll be super careful!”
Albedo opens his mouth to protest, but you see the faintest hint of resignation—and maybe willingness—in his expression.
Which is how you end up walking through the Windblume Festival flanked by a sheepish Spark Knight and a quietly watchful Chief Alchemist, the three of you sharing candied apples under a shower of petals.
kazuha
It’s drizzling lightly in Ritou, the kind of soft rain that turns every lantern’s glow into a watercolor blur. You pause beneath the eaves of a small vendor’s stall, hand hovering over the last paper-bound anthology of old Inazuman travel poems. Just as your fingers graze the cover, another hand arrives beside yours.
Instinct pulls your gaze sideways. The stranger beside you smells faintly of salt and pine, a trace of open sea clinging to him even here in the crowded harbor. He tilts his head, gaze flicking from the book to your face, then upward, as though listening to the rhythm of rain sliding from the eaves.
“My apologies,” he says with the faintest bow, voice quiet enough that it feels private despite the bustle of the street. “It seems our paths converge.”
You retract your hand, unsure if he’s claiming the book or inviting you to take it. “It’s the last copy,” you explain. “I’ve been looking for this one.”
“Ah,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the cover with reverence. “I’ve been looking for this one, too—on behalf of a friend who misses these words.”
For a moment, you’re both silent, the rain filling the space between your choices.
Then, he smiles—fleetingly, like a gust carrying petals past—and offers, “Perhaps we could read it together. My ship departs for Liyue in two days. Until then, we may both be travelers in these verses.”
The proposal feels improbable yet unshakably right. He makes the purchase, then presses the anthology into your hands with a smile soft as the mist around you. You cradle it carefully as you step aside with him to let others pass.
That’s how you find yourself, later that evening, sitting with Kazuha under the overhang of a tea house, the rain still falling in silver threads while he reads the first poem aloud. By the time you reach the final page, you realize that though the poems are short, and your acquaintance briefer still, both have carried you farther than you expected.
heizou
The busy chatter of Ritou’s morning market fades beneath the thud of something hitting the cobblestones. A cream paper envelope sealed in red wax skids to a halt between your boots. You bend at the same time as a stranger on your right, nearly knocking foreheads. He catches himself with a grin, quick as a fox.
“After you,” he bows.
You pick up the envelope, turning it over. “Addressed to…no one?”
“Mm. Interesting, isn’t it?” His eyes—green, bright, and uncomfortably observant—flick over it once, and you can almost hear gears turning. “No return name, either. Only a Sumeru merchant’s mark in the corner.”
The merchant in question had already vanished into the crowd.
You pass the envelope toward him, but his fingers don’t take it right away. “The wax is still soft,” he murmurs, “meaning it was sealed minutes ago. Which means they didn’t plan to send it through the official post. More of a…hand-delivered sort of message.”
You tilt your head. “A love letter?”
“A threat,” he corrects cheerfully. “The merchant’s boots are polished—expensive habit. But his sleeves are ink-stained, which means he wrote this himself on the go, instead of paying a scribe, and didn’t have time to clean himself off. And when he passed the dock guards, he didn’t meet their eyes.”
“You got all that from a quick glance?”
He finally accepts the envelope, slipping it into his coat. “Well, no. The boot polish and the sleeves told me. His refusal to meet the guards’ eyes was just confirmation.”
“And you’re…?”
“Kazuha told me to say I’m Shikanoin Heizou, but personally, I think ‘genius detective’ has a nicer ring to it. Want to help me deliver this letter to the intended recipient? I promise it’ll be more interesting than your errands.”
You glance at the market. The morning is still young; the crowd swirls with the promise of unknown stories to be revealed.
You find yourself smiling. “All right, Detective. Lead the way.”
wanderer
The bazaar had been nearly picked clean under the weight of the noon sun. You squint at a certain vendor’s stall, spotting the very last parasol tucked to the side—light, elegant, and exactly what you need to avoid melting on the walk home. You reach for it, only to have your fingers collide with someone else’s.
The stranger next to you is small but sharp-edged, dressed in blue with a wide, absurdly oversized hat that casts such a deep shadow you can’t even see his whole expression. But you feel the glare when his hand tightens around the handle.
“Tch. Figures someone else would try to snatch it.”
You blink, then slowly release your grip. “Oh, sorry. You can have it.”
His eyes narrow as though you’ve just insulted him. “That’s it? You give up that easily?”
“I mean, it seems like you got here first.”
He makes a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Pathetic. If you wanted it, you should’ve fought harder for it.”
That pricks your pride. You cross your arms, raising a brow at him. “Big words coming from someone already wearing a hat that’s basically an umbrella.”
His shoulders stiffen. Slowly, he turns his head toward you, and though the brim casts most of his face in shadow, you see the twitch in his jaw. “Excuse me?”
You gesture at the massive thing shading him like a portable pavilion. “Seriously, with a hat like that, why do you even need a parasol?”
For a second, he looks like he might actually bite you. Then he yanks the parasol closer with a sharp tug. “I don’t. But if you think that means you’re getting it, you’re even dumber than you look.”
You snort, more amused than offended. “So you don’t need it, but you don’t want me to have it either? That’s childish.”
His eyes flash, but he doesn’t respond, turning on his heel and stalking off, parasol in hand like it’s a prize he’s won.
Still, a couple hours later, when you step out of another shop, you nearly trip over something propped against the wall by your feet—the parasol. There isn’t any explanation; it’s just been left there, waiting. But when you glance down the street, you swear you see the brim of that ridiculous hat vanish around the corner, like he’s been watching to make sure you find it.
xiao
You hadn’t expected the lanterns to sell out so early. The vendor at the harbor stall is already packing up when you spot it—a single, small Mingxiao Lantern tucked beneath the counter. The vendor hesitates when you ask for it. “I was going to save that one for…” His gaze flits to the side.
You follow it, and that’s when another hand reaches for the lantern at the same time as yours. Gloved fingers brush against yours, cool despite the humid evening air. The man in front of you isn’t dressed like anyone you’ve seen in the harbor before: sleeveless white shirt, jade armpiece, and a mask at his waist. His golden eyes fix on you, unblinking.
“I need that,” he says simply, voice low and certain.
You don’t let go. “So do I.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then, faintly, he adds, “It’s…for someone.” His gaze slides away, as if the words have been pulled out against his will.
Something about his tone—the tightness in it, the way “someone” sounds like they aren’t here anymore—makes your grip soften, though you don’t release it yet. “Is it for a promise, or a memory?” you ask quietly.
His eyes snap back to yours, startled. “You ask too much of a stranger.”
“You’re the one trying to take my lantern,” you point out, feeling a little too childish in your defense.
A faint, almost imperceptible curve touches the corner of his mouth, then vanishes. “Fine. Keep it. I’ll…find another way.”
You frown. “Or,” you offer before you can think better of it, “we could light it together.”
That earns you a long, assessing silence. Then he steps aside, not in agreement exactly, but in something close to it.
In the end, you both kneel by the pier, the warm glow of the lantern lighting his profile. He doesn’t speak until it lifts into the night, drifting toward the mountains.
“For a soul who can no longer see it,” he murmurs, not quite to you, but not to himself, either.
By the time you turn, he is gone, leaving only the rippling water and the faint trace of sandalwood on the breeze. He hasn’t told you his name, and you don’t know where you’ll find him again. Still, you have the feeling this won’t be the last time you see him.
