"Oh, home sweet home. As if nothing ever happened. Right, Alice?"

Varka stood on the hilltop, arms loose at his sides, his gaze fixed hard on Mondstadt. The city looked both familiar and foreign—unchanged in its rooftops and lights, but there was a stillness in it he didn't trust.

Alice stepped beside him, slowly pulling off her glove as if they were returning from a harmless little trip. "Crazy how peaceful it looks. As if the city has no clue what we went through out there."

Varka gave the slightest shrug. "Better that way." He meant it, but fatigue crept into his voice, maybe even a hint of frustration.

Alice glanced at him sideways. "You laughed when the cliff came down."

"Because we survived." He narrowed his eyes. "Again."

Silence settled for a moment. Then Varka spat into the dirt and kept walking. "Come on. I need alcohol. And you still owe me a drink."

"I promised you three if you flew off that cliff."

"I fell. I didn't fly."

"Still looked graceful."

Varka gave a crooked grin, but his eyes stayed cold. Not from anger but because he no longer knew how to be happy when everything looked the same and yet nothing was.

---

The door to Angel's Share creaked open and dropped a sudden silence into the tavern. Varka stepped inside—broad and solid like a cabinet that hadn't been touched in years but was suddenly needed again.

Alice followed him lightly, the grin already playing on her lips. "Hope they still have my favorite spot," she muttered as every conversation inside came to a halt.

People stared. Two knights rose slowly, like they'd just seen a ghost.

"...Varka?" someone whispered from the back. Then louder: "No way—that's really him!"

A mug flew into the air—not at him, but as a toast. Then the room exploded.

Cheers. Shouts. A booming "Grand Master!" from the bar. Chairs scraped, people stood, all rushing toward him like he was some kind of miracle.

Varka took it in without much change. He shook hands, took pats on the shoulder, nodded. But he didn't sit.

Alice leaned against the bar, grinning. "Like you never left."

Varka scanned the room. So many faces. So many smiles. But not the one he was looking for.

"Who's missing?" Alice asked quietly, casually.

He didn't answer right away. Then simply: "Her."

"Drink first. Look later."

He took the glass handed to him—full, golden, bitter. He downed it in one go and felt nothing.

"Another."

The door slammed open.

Conversations died again. A few hands reached instinctively for weapons, as if the war had never truly ended.

Varka looked up.

There she was. Standing in the doorway with determined posture and eyes burning with intensity.

For a split second, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. But no—she was real. Taller. Stronger. Her stance confident and sure—a knight who had learned not just to fight, but to lead. Her armor fit like it was made for her. No hesitation. No doubt. She looked like someone who made decisions others flinched from.

Still, her face was immediately familiar. Burned into memory.

His heart pounded harder, though his face gave nothing away. He hadn't forgotten her. Letters from Jean had told him of her promotions. Alice had relayed fragments from Klee's chaotic Dodoco messages. "She trains with Eula.""She's got her own squad now.""She doesn't talk much, but she gets things done."

And now she was standing there. Not a memory. Not a dream.

They looked at each other in silence for two seconds.

Then she moved. Direct. No hesitation. Walked right up to him and slapped him.

Hard. Sharp. Without warning.

Varka didn't flinch. Didn't make a sound. His head tilted slightly to the side. Then he looked back at her.

The sting on his cheek burned. He said nothing.

She stood firm in front of him, breathing shallowly, eyes burning with anger and something else.

He stared right back and felt no rage. Just one sharp, undeniable truth: she'd become even more beautiful.

The slap echoed in the stillness. Varka blinked once before a slow, cocky grin pulled at his mouth.

"Nice aim," he said. "Bad timing. I was just about to enjoy my free drink."

Alice, somewhere in the back, burst out laughing. "Archons—was that the famous welcome-home kiss? Because I'm here for it."

Varka turned his head slightly, though his gaze never left her. "If she plans to kill me, she better wait till I'm drunk. I'm not dying sober."

"Deal with it," Alice muttered. "I'll help dig the grave. I know people with shovels."

A few knights chuckled awkwardly. One, in the back, murmured under his breath with awe: "She really slapped him..."

She didn't move. Still as a storm that hadn't yet decided to break.

Varka accepted a glass from someone nearby, drank slowly, eyes still on her. Not like someone who missed her—like someone finally realizing what he truly had in front of him.

Quietly, almost offhand, he said:

"They still call me Grand Master." He took another sip, gaze steady. "But the way you're looking at me... I feel more like the guy who forgot to take the trash out."

He emptied the glass. Set it down gently.

And his heart was pounding. Louder than he wanted to admit.