Enkanomiya’s sunken ruins stretched beneath the ocean’s surface like the bones of a forgotten god, their white marble pillars glowing faintly with the pale luminescence of ancient mechanisms. The air—thin and pressurized—was heavy with the scent of salt and primordial stone, and the distant roar of abyssal currents echoed through the corridors. Alice had torn open the rift with a dramatic flourish of her hat and a burst of chaotic energy, the portal shimmering like a tear in reality itself. Beyond it lay not the familiar blue of Teyvat’s skies, but a vast, ascending staircase of floating celestial fragments—steps of pure starlight and condensed ether, leading upward toward the unreachable domain of Celestia.

  Varka stood at the threshold, his black-and-teal coat whipping in the unnatural wind that poured from the rift. His claymore rested across his broad shoulders, Anemo Vision pulsing steadily at his hip like a second heartbeat. Behind him gathered their unlikely alliance: Jean in her crisp knightly armor, Mika clutching maps and compasses with white-knuckled determination, Razor crouched low and growling softly at unseen threats, Diluc with his claymore already drawn and flames flickering along the blade, Kaeya leaning casually against a pillar with his usual half-smile hiding sharp calculation, Natlan warriors painted in ritualistic red and gold, and members of the Hexenzirkel—Alice bouncing on her toes with barely contained glee, Barbeloth murmuring star-charts under her breath.

  Nicole floated slightly above the ground beside Varka, her golden hair drifting as if caught in an invisible current. Her eyes—deep and ancient—held both resolve and quiet terror. She had chosen this path the moment she allowed herself to fall for him in Nod-Krai, but the reality of ascending toward the very seat of divine judgment still pressed against her like the weight of collapsing stars.

  Varka turned to the group, his voice carrying the easy authority of a leader who had rallied knights through blizzards and volcanic trials alike.

  “This isn’t just a march for glory or duty,” he said, loud enough for every ear. “This is for freedom—the kind Barbatos fought for, the kind Mondstadt was built on. Celestia sits above us all, pulling strings, cursing those who dare to love beyond their rules. They turned Nicole’s people into wandering lights for the crime of feeling too deeply. I won’t let that happen to her. Not while I can still swing this blade.”

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  A murmur of agreement rippled through the ranks. Jean stepped forward. “For Mondstadt. For love that defies chains.”

  Razor bared his teeth. “Protect pack. Protect Nicole.”

  Alice clapped her hands. “Oh, this is going to be deliciously dramatic! Let’s go ruin some divine tea parties!”

  Varka looked to Nicole, his blue eyes softening. He reached out and took her hand—her fingers cool and ethereal against his calloused palm.

  “Ready, my guide?” he asked quietly.

  Her voice resonated only in his mind, warm and teasing despite the tremor beneath it. With you? Always. But if we fall… at least we fall together. No more silent observing. Just us—loud, awkward, and ridiculously talkative.

  He grinned, the old playful spark returning. “That’s my witch.”

  He pulled her close for one final moment before the ascent. Their kiss was fierce and unhurried—lips crashing together with all the pent-up heat of their burning romance. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground; her hands tangled in his blond hair, tugging just enough to draw a low growl from his throat. The world narrowed to the taste of wine and wind on his tongue, the faint floral scent that clung to her skin, the way her body molded against his as though made for it. When they parted, both were breathing hard.

  “For victory,” he whispered against her lips.

  For us, she answered.

  Then, together, they stepped through the rift.

  The staircase of starlight welcomed them with a gentle, almost mocking hum. Each step felt lighter than the last, gravity loosening its grip as they climbed higher and higher. The air grew thinner, colder, laced with the metallic tang of divine energy. Below them, Teyvat shrank into a beautiful, fragile marble—continents like scattered jewels, oceans like spilled ink.

  Varka kept Nicole’s hand in his the entire way. Whenever doubt flickered across her face, he squeezed tighter and cracked a joke.

  “Bet the gods up there have terrible taste in wine. Probably drink nothing but holy water.”

  Or they sip the tears of mortals. Very dramatic.

  He laughed—loud, booming, defiant—and the sound seemed to ripple through the celestial steps, shaking loose tiny motes of light.

  They climbed for what felt like hours, days, eternals—time bending strangely in the liminal space between worlds.

  At last the staircase ended at a vast golden gate, sealed with runes older than any mortal tongue. Beyond it, the faint outline of floating islands and towering spires could be seen, bathed in perpetual dawn.

  Varka planted his claymore tip-first into the translucent ground.

  “Here we stand,” he declared. “And here we demand an answer.”

  The gate trembled.