The kitchen is small, tucked into the back of a house that has stood in Mondstadt longer than most of the Knights on active duty. The wooden table is worn smooth from years of use. A bowl of fruit sits untouched. A kettle has gone cold.

Outside, the city is going about its afternoon. You can hear the distant clatter of a cart on cobblestones. A child laughing somewhere up the street. The windmills turning, slow and steady, as they always do.

Then—footsteps.

Not the light, quick steps of a neighbor. Not the measured tread of a Knight on patrol. These are heavier. Deliberate. The kind of steps that carry distance with them, even before the door opens.

The latch clicks.