The urge to swing—just once—and let the newborn power explode out of him was almost unbearable.
Kairo forced a long breath through his lungs and locked the pressure down. Fingers trembled; muscles coiled tight under the sudden surge.
Calm. Hold it.
The star-bright violence of Stardust Ace ebbed behind an inner seal. He could still feel it roiling, hungry—one gesture away from tearing a canyon through the world.
"Worth it," he murmured, flexing his hand. A Path's finisher felt different from anything he'd taken before—clean, decisive, final.
Downstairs, the clink of glass and a familiar voice drifted up from the bar.
"Master Diluc, this week's accounts."
"Storms cut into business again," Diluc replied, skimming the page. "Let's hope they pass quickly."
Knuckles pounded the tavern door. A Favonius Knight stepped in, armor still rattling. "Master Diluc! Thieves hit the Cathedral—the Holy Lyre der Himmel is gone. We suspect a Fatui caster. City's under lockdown; the embassy refuses a search. If you see anything, report at once."
"I understand," Diluc said simply.
The Knight left. The door swung again.
"Ehehe~"
A green cloak breezed through with a grin. "Master Diluc here too? Perfect. Put a bottle on my tab."
"Put it back," Diluc said, deadpan. "And you look underage."
"Relax." The bard patted his chest. "I was drinking before you—"
He caught himself, smiled too wide, and skipped upstairs with the bottle anyway.
Diluc watched him go, then murmured to Charles, "I'm visiting the embassy. The Knights hesitate when it matters, and they're toothless with the Fatui. I have my own expectations for this city."
He swept out into the night.
Venti found them on the second floor—Lumine; Paimon; and Kairo, calm as moonlight. His eyes went straight to the Lyre in Lumine's arms, and he beamed.
"Marvelous work. Even without me, you made it out smoothly and let the Fatui eat blame. Brave and clever."
His gaze slid to Kairo, amused and intent. "Mr. Kairo—an otherworlder, yes?"
Kairo didn't bother to dodge. "And Mondstadt's Archon walks its streets as a busker."
Paimon puffed up. "So you are Barbatos! You tricked us!"
Venti waggled a finger. "Tricked? I only said I was a bard~"
"The Lyre's next, right?" Paimon huffed. "Call Dvalin and fix all this?"
"Holy Lyre der Himmel—the real thing, yes." Venti's smile thinned. "But its strings are dry. The wind in them is… tired." He held the instrument with something like reverence. "Rosewood that remembers the gale… starmetal strings that keep their chill… mm. Long time, old friend."
He nodded at Lumine. "Not repair—resonance. The strings need density of Anemo. You kept Dvalin's Tear?"
Lumine lifted the purified crystal—clear as a star caught in ice—and let one drop fall upon the Lyre.
The strings quivered.
A breath of wind rippled outward from the wood. Dull grain brightened; dusted carvings woke; blue light threaded each string. Then a quiet radiance rolled across the frame like dawn.
The Lyre looked new.
Gold sheen gilded the body; runes sharpened; the strings glowed faintly, humming with a clean, far-off sky.
Venti touched a note. A soft chord stirred the air, and memory came with it—old roads, wild hills, the laughter of a city that chose freedom.
"For now, it's awake." His voice softened. "Your purification kept the wind from bleeding out. More Tears would help—he's still crying, somewhere no one walks."
Lumine nodded. "Then we'll find them."
On Mondstadt's streets
Acting Grand Master Jean was already halfway to the Snezhnayan embassy when the air changed.
An Anemo pulse—pure and cathedral-wide—bloomed over the city. A single high string answered it, sliding through the night like a blade of light.
Jean stopped dead.
The Holy Lyre? Impossible. It had lain silent for years; even her Vision could not coax a whisper.
She snapped a decision. "Hold the embassy," she ordered the escort. "Report any movement. I will confirm… this."
She turned—not toward the embassy—but toward Angel's Share.
Dawn Winery's master paused as well. Diluc felt the pulse shiver along the rooftops, old and sacred. His eyes narrowed toward the tavern he owned in name, if not in spirit.
The green cloak. The "bard." His jaw set. He pivoted, boots ringing against stone, and cut a new line through the dark.
Outside the embassy
Chaymenhoff, Fatui Pyro Agent and debt collector, lifted his head as the wave passed and went still.
The Knights' siege, the citizens' whispers—none of it mattered for a heartbeat.
That was the Lyre.
It meant its rightful player had found it—and that it was no longer his problem to steal. His expression soured. The plan was ash; the Cicin Mage had returned empty-handed; now the city itself sang the proof.
If he reached the source first, perhaps—perhaps—there was still an angle. A hostage melody. A moment to seize.
He turned his thoughts like a blade, eyes narrowing toward the tavern lights.
Upstairs, the glow eased from Kairo's skin. Venti's sideways smile said he'd noticed—and approved.
"Since we're past pleasantries," the bard said lightly, "shall we sing for a dragon?"
He plucked a testing arpeggio. The Lyre answered him like a living thing.
Down in the square, bootfalls gathered. One set measured and resolute. Another, long and sure. And from across the city, steel scraped in Snezhnaya's scabbards.
The song would carry. Who it would call… and who would come to take it—
Next: A hymn for Dvalin—while Jean, Diluc, and the Fatui converge on Angel's Share.
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