Chapter 4: Echoes of Windrise

Days passed like leaves on the breeze.

The city of Mondstadt, though still scarred from past wounds, began to open its arms to the strangers from the stars. What had once been cautious glances became nods of acknowledgment, then smiles of familiarity. And slowly, the crew of the Astral Express began to find their place among the people.

Kiana became a regular sight in the plazas and streets, often surrounded by laughter. The children adored her—drawn to her energy, her warmth, her knack for storytelling. Whether she was teaching them how to spar with sticks or sneaking them extra rolls from the bakery, she was sunshine incarnate. For a city still learning to laugh again, she was a breath of spring.

Noah spent his mornings near the western walls, lending quiet help to the builders and farmers. He never boasted, never spoke of where he came from. But his presence was steady, and his silence comforting. People came to him for advice, or just to sit nearby and feel a little less alone. He shared construction techniques from distant worlds—modest, subtle hints that improved efficiency without drawing attention.

Elysia, meanwhile, had become something of a mystery and a muse. She'd often be found weaving through markets, listening to old songs and stories, learning the heartbeats of those around her. Her charm was effortless, but never overbearing. She brought color where it was fading—and curiosity where there was doubt. Occasionally, she'd be invited into local gatherings where her voice joined songs of old and laughter felt like healing.

Together, they became part of the city's rhythm.

Lumine, too, began to lower her guard. Though her steps always carried the weight of distant memories, she made quiet efforts to connect. She helped heal the wounds of Mondstadt not just with her blade, but with her presence.

She spent mornings with the city's herbalists, gathering ingredients and learning their practices. When a merchant's daughter twisted her ankle in the market, Lumine carried her home in silence, then stayed until the child fell asleep.

She spoke little, but people began to understand her language of action. Children would run up to her with wildflowers and hand-drawn maps. Some even pretended to be travelers like her, donning makeshift cloaks and wooden swords, calling her 'Captain Lumine.'

At night, she would linger near the cathedral steps, listening to old hymns or helping hang lanterns. A few elders told her stories—tales she remembered in pieces. When they spoke of stars and ancient wars, her eyes grew distant, but she never turned away.

By the time the days began to grow warmer, even the most guarded of citizens looked upon Lumine not with suspicion—but with quiet respect.

At the Adventurer's Guild, their names were already known. Not just for their growing reputation in combat, but for how they carried themselves. Strange powers or not, they helped. They listened. They stayed.

—

One evening, under the fading light of a cloudless sky, the four of them sat together atop the city's ramparts. A small kettle steamed beside them, set on a makeshift burner Noah had quietly assembled. The soft clink of ceramic cups punctuated the hum of distant music below.

Kiana leaned back against the stone, arms stretched behind her head. "Do you think we'll stay here forever?"

Elysia glanced at her, a playful smile on her lips. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

Kiana laughed. "I helped fix the bakery's oven yesterday. The owner gave me three whole pies. I shared them. Mostly."

"Mostly," Noah echoed, smirking faintly as he poured tea for each of them with a practiced hand.

"I repaired a section of wall with old man Hildebrand," Noah added after a pause. "He didn't say much. But today, he offered me tea. That's when I knew he approved."

Elysia rested her chin on her knees, hands wrapped around her cup. "I listened to a widow sing a lullaby from the time before Khaenri'ah. Her voice cracked halfway through, and she cried. Then we cried together." She looked up at the stars. "Mondstadt isn't perfect, but it's trying."

Kiana inhaled the steam rising from her cup, then pulled out a pouch from her coat, revealing a still-warm pastry she'd hidden earlier. With a triumphant grin, she bit into it unapologetically. "Tea is nice and all," she mumbled with her mouth half-full, "but snacks make everything better."

Elysia laughed softly. "You're going to turn into a sweet roll one of these days."

Kiana merely gave a thumbs-up, still chewing contentedly. "The kids asked me to tell them a bedtime story yesterday. So I told them about the Astral Express. I changed the names, but they still called the main character Kiana by the end."

Lumine sat close, her gaze distant as she sipped. "A boy at the guild asked me if I was a knight. I said no... and he gave me a wooden sword and said I should be."

Noah listened quietly, then spoke. "We don't belong to any one world. But... we leave pieces of ourselves behind in every place we protect."

Lumine turned toward the horizon. "Mondstadt was the first place that made me feel… like I could breathe again." She looked back at them, her voice softer. "Maybe that's why the Abyss wants to corrupt it."

They drank in silence for a while, surrounded by starlight and the wind. It wasn't just tea. It was memory, warmth, and unspoken promise.

Silence settled, not heavy but thoughtful.

—

The next morning, the city stirred with its usual rhythm—blacksmiths hammering, bakers kneading, children chasing the wind. But something had changed.

Lumine returned from the Citadel, her expression serious. "We've received a new commission," she said, gathering them beneath the guild's canopy. "Reports from the forest near Windrise. Creatures—twisted by the Abyss. Locals say the air feels... wrong."

Kiana stood, brushing crumbs from her lap. "Windrise? That's where the giant tree is, right?"

Noah nodded. "Sacred ground. If the Abyss is moving there, we can't ignore it."

Elysia brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Our first real challenge, isn't it?"

Before they left, they moved through the city one more time, bidding quiet farewells.

Lumine stopped by the herbalist's stall to return a satchel of dried mint. The old woman there pressed a small pouch of fragrant clover into her hand. "For calm nerves," she said. "And to remember where the wind smells sweet."

At the edge of the square, a widow approached Elysia, slipping a delicate charm of woven reeds into her palm. "For protection," she whispered, her eyes misty. "You listened when no one else did."

Kiana joined one last game with the children, laughing freely. When it came time to part, they crowded around her, each offering a simple token—a ribbon, a pebble, a hand-drawn picture. One girl gave her a button from her coat. "So you don't forget us."

Noah helped the carpenter he'd worked beside with one last delivery of timber. The older man offered him a worn leather glove, stitched and patched. "For grip," he said gruffly. "And because you never asked for anything."

The baker's wife slipped a bundle of sweet rolls into Kiana's hands with a wink. A young artist handed Elysia a folded sketch of the team. The blacksmith offered Noah a small, engraved charm—just a scrap of metal, but made with care.

A child tugged at Noah's coat, pressing a single daisy into his hand. "Come back safe, mister."

He closed his fingers gently around it. "I will."

They had earned the trust of the people. Now they would protect them.

And in the heart of the wild, the Abyss waited.

—

In the woods beyond Windrise, cloaked in shadows and seeping silence, a figure watched the treeline.

"You came back," it whispered, unseen eyes glinting. "Good. I've been waiting."