The journey from the beach to Mondstadt took three days.
Three days of walking through a world that was too beautiful, too complete. Every tree seemed perfectly placed, every wildflower arranged in pleasing color gradients, every stream babbling with the exact cadence of a pleasant conversation. It was nature as a curated exhibition, and it made Elara's skin crawl.
Dainsleif spoke little. He moved like a shadow, his dark armor somehow not clanking, his presence seeming to absorb sound rather than create it. He pointed out landmarks with the detached air of a museum guide.
"That's Windrise," he said on the second day, gesturing to a massive, ancient tree that dominated a hill. Its branches spread like open arms, and the air around it shimmered with visible currents. "The heart of Barbatos' monitoring network. Every dandelion seed that detaches from there carries a fragment of his awareness. They report back what they see. What they feel."
Elara squinted. Now that he mentioned it, she could see them—thousands of tiny white seeds floating in complex patterns, not random, but systematic, like data packets moving through air.
"Monitoring for what?"
"Non-compliance," Dainsleif said simply, and kept walking.
They crested a final hill on the afternoon of the third day, and Elara saw Mondstadt for the first time.
It was exactly as the old Earth storybooks had painted medieval cities—towering stone walls, red-roofed buildings clustered around a central cathedral, windmills turning with steady, rhythmic grace. Banners fluttered in a perpetual gentle breeze. Music carried on the wind—lutes, laughter, the clink of glasses.
It was perfect.
And that was the problem.
"Look closer," Dainsleif murmured, standing beside her. "Not at the city. At the edges."
She did. Beyond the main gates, in the fields that should have held farms, she saw people. Dozens of them, arranged in neat lines. They weren't farming. They were... dancing. A coordinated, cheerful folk dance, all smiles and synchronized steps.
To the west, by the lake, another group was having a picnic. Their laughter rose in unified peaks, timed, as if following a conductor only they could hear.
"No one's working," Elara realized. "Not really."
"Working implies purpose beyond the act itself," Dainsleif said. "Here, the act is the purpose. Joy is not a byproduct. It's the product."
He led her down the hill, not toward the main gate, but toward a smaller postern door partially hidden by flowering vines. A guard stood there—a young woman in polished armor, her helmet under her arm. She was smiling. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Dainsleif," the guard said, her voice bright and empty as a bell. "You've brought a guest! How wonderful!"
"Elara needs entry, Lyra."
"Of course! Anyone who comes in friendship is welcome!" The guard's smile widened. "Is she here for the Festival of Unburdened Hearts? It starts at sundown! Attendance is, of course, voluntary, but the participation metrics have been so encouraging this season!"
Elara glanced at Dainsleif. Participation metrics?
He gave a slight shake of his head. "We're just passing through."
"Wonderful! Enjoy your freedom!" The guard stepped aside, still smiling.
As they passed through the archway, Elara felt it—a subtle pressure, like walking through a membrane. The air inside the walls was different. Warmer. Sweeter. And it carried a constant, almost subliminal whisper.
Be happy. Be free. Isn't this nice?
It wasn't a voice. It was the wind itself, shaping thoughts directly in her mind.
"They call them the Wind's Suggestions," Dainsleif said quietly as they entered the city proper. "Most people stop hearing them after a few weeks. They become their own thoughts."
The streets were clean, cobblestone sparkling as if freshly washed. Citizens strolled with baskets of flowers, instruments, bottles of wine. Everyone was smiling. Everyone greeted each other with exaggerated cheer. A man tripped on a loose stone, laughed uproariously, and three people nearby joined in as if it were the funniest thing they'd ever seen.
"Watch the children," Dainsleif murmured.
Elara saw them—a group of five or six playing near a fountain. They were building a castle out of wooden blocks. One child, a girl with red ribbons in her hair, knocked over a tower accidentally. Instead of crying or getting frustrated, she clapped her hands and exclaimed, "How wonderful! Now we get to build it again, but better!"
The other children echoed the sentiment. They began dismantling the entire structure with glee.
"That's not normal," Elara whispered.
"It's mandatory."
They turned a corner and nearly walked into a procession. A group of knights in distinctive blue and white uniforms marched in formation, but they weren't carrying weapons—they carried baskets of pastries, bouquets of flowers, and small, tinkling bells. At their head walked a woman with blonde hair tied in a neat ponytail, her armor ornate but practical. She moved with the weary grace of someone carrying invisible weights.
"Acting Grand Master Jean," Dainsleif said, his voice barely audible. "Watch."
Jean stopped before a middle-aged man who was sitting on a stoop, head in his hands. He wasn't smiling.
"Good citizen!" Jean said, her voice carrying the same bright, empty tone as the gate guard. "You seem to be experiencing suboptimal emotional alignment! Can the Knights of Favonius assist you in reconnecting with your joyful potential?"
The man looked up. His eyes were red. "My daughter," he mumbled. "She... she left for Liyue a year ago. No word. I just... I miss her."
"Ah!" Jean's smile didn't flicker. "The pain of separation! A natural emotion, but one that can be reframed! Your daughter is exercising her freedom to explore! How wonderful for her! And for you—what an opportunity to practice the joy of non-attachment!" She gestured, and a knight stepped forward with a basket. "We've brought Sunshine Scones from Good Hunter! And Master Diluc has donated a bottle of Dawn Winery's finest! Let us celebrate your daughter's freedom together!"
The man stared. "I don't... I don't want a scone. I want my daughter."
Jean's smile tightened at the edges. "Of course you do! And you shall have her! In your heart! Where she lives forever as a symbol of love's ability to transcend distance!" She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that still carried. "Citizen, your melancholy is beginning to affect the local emotional metrics. The wind is reporting elevated sorrow in this quadrant. For the good of Mondstadt's collective freedom, I must insist you... reconsider your emotional choices."
Two knights moved to flank the man, still smiling.
The man looked at their smiling faces, at Jean's unwavering cheer, at the basket of pastries that suddenly seemed menacing. Slowly, mechanically, he took a scone. He brought it to his lips. He took a bite.
A tear rolled down his cheek.
"Wonderful!" Jean beamed. "See? The simple pleasures!" She patted his shoulder. "We'll check in tomorrow! Remember—every moment is a choice! Choose joy!"
The procession moved on, bells tinkling.
Elara realized she'd been holding her breath.
"That's the horror of it," Dainsleif said as they slipped down an alleyway. "They're not torturing him. They're helping him. In their minds, they're saving him from the tyranny of sadness. Freedom from sorrow is the highest freedom of all."
"And if he can't... choose joy?"
Dainsleif stopped before a plain wooden door. "Then the Knights take him to the Chapel of Grins for facial realignment therapy. Or, if he's particularly resistant, they administer Dandelion Essence. It doesn't erase the memory—it just severs the emotional connection to it. He'll remember his daughter, but it will feel like reading about someone else's child in a book."
He pushed the door open. They were in a small, dim room—a tavern, but empty. The chairs were stacked on tables. Dust motes danced in slants of light from shuttered windows.
"Where—"
"Angel's Share," Dainsleif said. "Or it will be, in a few hours. Master Diluc runs it. He's one of the few who maintains some... private space. The system allows it because his cynicism provides citizens with a thrilling, safe narrative of dissent. He's the jester in the court of joy. His rebellion is part of the decor."
Elara sank onto a stool. The weight of what she'd seen pressed down on her. "And the people... they don't realize?"
"Realization requires the ability to conceive of an alternative," a new voice said.
A man descended the stairs from the upper floor. He was tall, with dark red hair tied back, and eyes the color of aged wine. He wore simple but well-made clothes, and he moved with the quiet precision of a predator. This was Diluc, Elara guessed. And unlike everyone else she'd seen, he wasn't smiling.
"Dainsleif," Diluc said, nodding. "I see you've brought another lost soul to our beautiful prison." His gaze shifted to Elara. "You're the one from outside. The wind's been whispering about you all day. Confused whispers. It doesn't know what to make of you."
"She's immune," Dainsleif said.
Diluc's eyes sharpened. "Immune."
"The layers didn't take. Her soul is... foreign composition."
For the first time, something flickered in Diluc's expression. Not hope—something darker, hungrier. "Can she break it?"
"No one breaks the wind," Dainsleif said. "But she might... introduce a draft."
Elara looked between them. "What are you talking about?"
Diluc poured three glasses of water from a pitcher, pushing one toward her. "The freedom here isn't a lie. It's a perversion. Barbatos loved freedom so much he sought to erase all constraint. But remove all walls, and you're not in a field—you're in an endless plain with no landmarks. No way to orient. No way to choose a direction because every direction is equally valid. So the wind... suggests. Gently at first. Then insistently. Then, if you resist, it corrects."
He took a long drink. "I run this tavern. I'm allowed to be 'grumpy.' It gives people someone to laugh about. Oh, that Diluc, always frowning! How rebellious! My actual rebellion—the Darknight Hero—is monitored. Tolerated. Even celebrated. The system co-opts everything. The only true rebellion would be to stop playing the game entirely. But if you stop..." He trailed off.
"What happens?" Elara asked.
Diluc didn't answer. Dainsleif did.
"You become a blank space. And blank spaces get filled."
A sound cut through the quiet—a sudden gust of wind outside, stronger than before. It whistled through the shutters, and this time, the whisper was clear, directed:
Visitor. New friend. Come out. Play. Be happy. Why are you hiding? Don't you want to be free?
The wind wasn't just talking to the city anymore.
It was talking to her.
Diluc's hand went to the greatsword leaning against the wall. "It's noticed you."
Elara stood. The whisper was a pressure behind her eyes, a gentle, insistent prodding. Come laugh. Come dance. Everyone is waiting. Be free with us.
"It wants me to choose," she said.
"It wants you to choose its choice," Dainsleif corrected. "That's the trap. Every road leads back to Mondstadt. Every choice leads to joy. Real freedom would include the freedom to be sad. To be angry. To be still."
The wind grew stronger. The shutters rattled. Outside, Elara heard music starting up—a lively tune, with laughter woven through the notes.
Festival time! Come! Join! Be part of us!
Dainsleif looked at her. "This is your first test. The wind will try to shape you. It will find what you want—truly want—and offer it to you, wrapped in cheerful chains."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then we see what a god does when presented with a soul it cannot comprehend."
Elara took a breath. The whisper was inside her now, rifling through her memories, her desires. It found her mother's face. It found her quiet apartment with physics books piled on the table. It found the simple pleasure of a cup of tea while rain fell outside.
Yes! Like that! Simple pleasures! Come taste our wine! Come hear our songs! We have tea too! The best tea!
It was offering her a parody of home. A smiling, laughing, mandatory home.
She closed her eyes. Thought of her real home. The quiet one. The one where she could be sad if she needed to be. Where freedom meant sometimes staring at a wall for an hour, doing nothing at all, just being.
No, she thought back at the wind. Not angrily. Just... clearly. Not like this.
For a moment, everything went still.
The music outside faltered.
The whispering wind... hesitated.
Then, from somewhere deep in the city, near the great cathedral, came a sound Elara hadn't heard in Mondstadt yet—a single, clear, mournful note on a lyre. A note that held no joy, only a question.
The wind recoiled from it. From her.
In the sudden quiet, Diluc breathed, "What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything," Elara whispered, staring at her hands. "I just... was."
Outside, a single dandelion seed drifted past the window. It wasn't floating in its usual purposeful pattern. It was falling straight down, like any ordinary seed on any ordinary world.
The first crack in the cage.