The manor in Mondstadt had never felt more like a fortress. High stone walls, reinforced with subtle Geo wards courtesy of visiting adepti allies from Liyue, encircled the grounds. Knights patrolled in shifts—Jean’s orders, unspoken but ironclad—while Varka himself spent nights on the battlements, claymore resting across his knees, eyes scanning the star-strewn sky for any unnatural flicker.

  Boreas and Elowen were growing faster than any ordinary children. By their first autumn, they already toddled with purpose: Boreas toward open windows where breezes carried distant whispers, Elowen toward the garden where flowers seemed to lean in as if listening. Their powers sharpened with each passing moon.

  One overcast afternoon, as Nicole read ancient tomes in the sunlit nursery, Boreas climbed into her lap unbidden. His small hand pressed against her cheek, and the room tilted. Visions cascaded—not vague impressions, but vivid scenes: a cloaked figure in Snezhnayan white slipping through Mondstadt’s back alleys, eyes fixed on the manor; a golden cube shimmering in the void above Celestia, watching like an unblinking eye; and farther still, threads of fate fraying where the twins’ lives intersected them.

  Nicole shuddered, pulling him close. “You saw too much, little one,” she whispered. “Rest now.”

  Varka found them like that—Nicole pale, Boreas asleep against her chest. When she recounted the visions, his expression darkened. “Celestia’s gaze hasn’t wavered. And the Fatui… they’re moving again.”

  That night, under a moon veiled by thin clouds, a Cryo falcon returned. This time the note was longer, written in the Tsaritsa’s own elegant hand:

  The children’s gifts intrigue Her Majesty. Prophecy unbound by Irminsul, winds that answer no Archon—these are tools for a new era. Snezhnaya offers sanctuary: training under the Harbingers, protection from celestial retribution. In return, loyalty. Refuse, and know that others will seek what you shield.

  Varka crumpled the parchment. “They think our children are weapons to be bartered.”

  Nicole’s eyes flashed violet. “They’ll learn otherwise.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The next threat came not from afar, but from within Teyvat’s own weave.

  The Traveler returned—alone this time, Paimon absent, their face etched with urgency. They met Varka and Nicole at Windrise once more, the great tree’s leaves rustling as though the wind itself carried warnings.

  “I’ve seen signs,” the Traveler said quietly. “Ley line disturbances near Dragonspine. Golden cracks in the sky—brief, but unmistakable. The Sustainer stirs. She who separated me from my sibling… she senses your twins. Their existence challenges the order she upholds. If the Heavenly Principles deem them a repeat of that ‘arrogation of mankind,’ they’ll act.”

  Nicole held Elowen tighter; the girl’s tiny hands summoned a soft breeze that wrapped around them like a shield. “Then we prepare. No more waiting for judgment.”

  Varka nodded. “We train them—not to hide their gifts, but to master them. Boreas’s sight can warn us. Elowen’s winds can defend. Together… they might even rewrite the rules Celestia clings to.”

  The Traveler offered a small, determined smile. “I’ll stay a while. Teach them what I’ve learned of defying fate. The Abyss Order watches too—my sibling leads them now. They might see your children as kin, or as threats. Either way, alliances shift quickly.”

  Days turned to weeks of quiet intensity. Varka sparred gently with the toddlers in the garden—teaching Boreas to focus his visions without draining himself, guiding Elowen to shape her breezes into barriers rather than storms. Nicole sang old angelic lullabies that calmed their powers when they flared, her voice weaving threads of control into their innate chaos.

  One evening, as the family gathered by the hearth, Boreas pointed at the flickering flames. “Bad sky people come,” he said clearly—his first full sentence.

  Elowen cooed in agreement, a swirl of Anemo lifting embers into harmless spirals.

  Varka knelt before them, massive hands gentle on their heads. “Let them come,” he said. “We’ve faced worse. And we have each other.”

  Nicole joined him, her hand finding his. “The heavens may watch. Thrones may scheme. But fate isn’t theirs to dictate anymore.”

  Outside, the wind picked up—not threatening, but alive. It carried the scent of dandelions and distant snow, a reminder that Mondstadt’s freedom still held. Boreas and Elowen slept soundly that night, their small forms glowing faintly in the dark—prophet and guardian, born of love that defied gods.

  Shadows lengthened on the horizon, from Celestia’s silent spires to Snezhnaya’s frozen courts. But within the manor’s walls, a new story was being written: one where children of defiance grew into guardians of their own fate, backed by parents who had already toppled thrones once before.

  And when the first golden crack appeared in the sky above Mondstadt—faint, fleeting—the family looked up together.

  They did not bow.

  They waited. Ready.