In the Kingdom of Arian, beneath the coiled form of a slumbering deity, life bloomed.
Mother Rosen lay encircling the entire realm, her colossal serpentine body wrapped around mountains, rivers, and fields like a divine ring of protection. Her breath stirred the winds; her heartbeat resonated deep within the soil. All of Arian rested in her eternal embrace, a sacred cradle where time dared tread softly. Beneath her ever-watchful gaze, every soul moved through life with a serenity few dared dream of—touched by the warmth of her unseen wings, cloaked in the hush of her divine shelter.
Within the crystal towers of the palace, Seraphyx moved with graceful purpose. A being carved of composure and celestial wisdom, he stood beside the royal family as their counselor, his words weighty yet gentle, each one a thread that helped stitch the tapestry of Arian's peace.
Beyond the courtly walls, Ignarion wandered the emerald stretches of the realm. A sentinel without a fixed road, he strode where hearts grew heavy or voices called out in silence, offering aid to the weary with strength as steady as the mountains he passed.
Deep within the heart of Mother Rosen herself, Yandelf slumbered in tranquil stasis, swaddled in divine warmth—unmoving, unbothered, unknowably still. Resting where no pain could touch, held in the sacred hollow of her heart.
On a ledge where moments held their breath, Morven stood between currents of past and future. One hand upon his staff, the other poised in stillness, he balanced at the threshold of eternity and change—a lone sentinel between what was and what may be.
In the palace gardens, beneath an arch draped in luminous blossoms, Kaelya sat in repose, nimble fingers weaving plumes into an intricate tiara. It was a prize for the knights' lighthearted tournament—a detail she pretended to disdain, though her calm smirk betrayed her secret delight in their foolishness.
Far from the grandeur of court and council, in the sleepy village of Roselight Hollow, life moved like a lullaby.
An elderly woman hummed an old lullaby as she pulled a bubbling berry pie from her clay-brick oven, its scent rich with sugar and sun. Outside, children shouted and cackled as they struggled to stack hay bales taller than their heads, limbs flailing with chaotic glee.
"Mind yourselves!" the woman called, wiping her flour-dusted hands on a timeworn apron. "Fall over, and I'll be healing elbows with scoldings instead of pie!"
Laughter exploded like fireworks. The children scattered, racing toward her cottage as the sweet aroma danced on the breeze like a song meant only for them.
One little girl paused and pointed upward, eyes wide. Just above the clouds, a faint shimmer—one of Mother Rosen's wings—caught the light and curled gracefully across the sky.
"Do you think... she eats pie too?"
The old woman smiled, her hands setting the pie on a wooden table that had seen more laughter than storms. "If she ever did," she said, "it'd be this one. Blackberry, just the way she used to like it."
Another child, hugging a hand-stitched dragon plush close to the chest, whispered with all the reverence of prayer, "Maybe if we leave a slice out tonight... she'll visit us in our dreams."
The others agreed at once.
That night, beneath a moon soaked in silver, a single slice of pie sat beside a tiny dragon plush on the window ledge. No footsteps approached, no wings stirred the air—but in the morning, the dish was empty. The pie was gone. Only the plate remained.
Back in the castle courtyard, laughter broke through the cool morning like sunlight through frost. A cluster of knights had discarded their armor, lounging on the grass as the burdens of battle were replaced by leisure and mischief. Seraphyx lingered nearby, a silent sentinel—close enough to watch, distant enough to allow joy to bloom.
Dame Lilienne, the ever-fearless, held up Kaelya's half-finished tiara with a wicked grin. "Loser of today's duel wears this to patrol," she declared, shaking it like a royal decree.
Laughter burst from the ranks.
Sir Gael, ever the clown, had braided his own hair with wildflowers just to annoy the others. He jabbed a finger toward his bald comrade. "Hope you've got glue, old man!"
Two squires fell into the grass, stick-fighting with grand declarations. "For the flowery crown of destiny!" they cried, clashing wood like swords of legend.
When Kaelya finally arrived to retrieve her tiara, she stopped in her tracks. The squad had arranged themselves in a neat row, every knight—grizzled, green, or goofy—donning a handmade flower crown. Some wore them with pride. Others had clearly been robbed or bribed.
Kaelya blinked once. Slowly.
"This… was not the purpose."
Gael raised his chin like a knight before his sovereign. "A crown is still a crown, my lady," he intoned solemnly. "And every knight must serve their queen."
Her lips twitched.
Just once.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
Beyond the sacred veil that concealed Arian from the world, something stirred. Something wrong.
A woman stood alone—no, she claimed the space around her with presence so immense that even the air recoiled. Her very gaze could frighten the heart from a thunderstorm, could curdle the blood of would-be kings while still in their veins.
She was beauty sharpened into weaponry.
Her skin bore patterns like shattered crystal, veins of jagged light tracing down her arms like frozen lightning. Her dress, sleek yet battle-ready, bore the motif of countless blades—elegant, hiltless, and deadly. No embellishments. No softness.
Even her heels were weapons—high, narrow, and cruel, clicking against the stones like the ticking of a countdown.
And she smiled.
A crooked, victorious smile, like a wolf who had found the hole in the shepherd's fence.
Raiclaus.
That name had been whispered in forgotten ruins. Feared in places where even gods dared not look. And now, here she stood—with one hand pressed against the Barrier of Arian. A structure forged by the will of dragons and sealed by gods. Impenetrable. Untouchable. Inviolable.
To mortals.
With a single, effortless push—it cracked.
Not shattered with noise or flame.
No.
It was quieter than breath. More horrifying than thunder.
The fabric of Arian's divine veil simply... gave way.
---
Inside Arian, time jolted.
Mother Rosen's eyes, vast and ancient, flew open in alarm. Her body—an entire coiled continent of scales and love—vanished in the space of a heartbeat. No wind. No roar. Just absence. As if the breath had been stolen from the world.
Across the realm, all felt it.
The royal halls, the sacred forests, the courtyards, the quiet villages—every soul paused.
In the skies above the capital, they gathered.
Seraphyx rose with wings of crystal and frost, eyes glowing with the fire of knowing too much.
Ignarion streaked through the clouds like a burning comet, flames coiled around his fists.
Morven appeared in an arc of bending time, staff humming with the weight of history.
Kaelya hovered, one hand aglow, eyes narrowed and crown forgotten.
Above them, the heavens rippled. The air was thick with pressure, as if the sky itself feared what approached.
Raiclaus had arrived.
And she had not come to knock.
A silence fell over Arian like the moment before lightning strikes.
"Looks like… Mother Rosen has retreated," Morven murmured, his voice barely above the wind. "Back to the realm where she once slumbered."
"That's for the best," Seraphyx whispered, though his expression had gone still—too still. His pupils dilated. "If she hadn't… the Heavenly Principles would have descended upon us without hesitation."
And then it happened.
The Barrier fell.
Not in shatters or screams. Not in flames or song.
It simply ceased to exist.
Arian, once hidden beneath layers of divine illusion and celestial fog, was laid bare to the world. For the first time in an age, the forgotten nation emerged into the open gaze of Teyvat.
Raiclaus stood at the crumbling edge of the vanishing veil, smiling like a sinner at the gates of a church set ablaze.
"So this is where you've been hiding, Rosen," she breathed.
The smile refused to fade. Her heart pounded with joy—real, unfiltered joy. Not victory. Not vengeance. Thrill.
Raw, unholy thrill.
Across the sky, Seraphyx's eyes began to glow.
Not with his own light.
But with hers.
A light so old it had no color—just presence.
Mother Rosen had entered her vessel.
"Raiclaus," came the voice—not Seraphyx's.
VlastMoroz.
Soft. Ancient. Cautious.
"It's not time yet… for us to wage war."
Raiclaus took a single step forward, and the air bowed to her.
Reality strained. The wind whimpered.
An Electro sigil bloomed beneath her boots, crackling violet arcs flickering through the sky as she hovered, suspended in power and longing.
"I have waited long enough," she whispered.
Even her voice trembled with excitement.
"Even if we can't clash at full strength—"
She grinned, sharp as the edge of fate.
"—we still wear our vessels. And thrill," she exhaled, "thrill is enough."
---
Below, in the cobbled streets of the capital, panic surged like a broken dam.
Knights scrambled to formation, shouting orders that were swallowed by the rising wind.
Peasants pointed skyward in fear, some praying, others running. Mothers clutched children. Messengers sprinted toward the palace.
The sky above had split open, and gods now watched from both sides.
And somewhere, deep in the shaking hearts of Arian's people, a single thought took root—
"We are no longer hidden.
And something is coming."