The Alcor’s sails caught the final tailwinds of Natlan’s fiery breath as the ship turned north once more. Smoke and sulfur faded behind them, replaced by the clean, crisp scent of pine and distant rain. Boreas and Elowen stood at the prow, hair whipping in the breeze, faces turned toward Mondstadt like flowers seeking the sun. The journey had been long—filled with duels, abyssal battles, new friends, and promises of Ancient Names yet to be earned—but the pull of home was stronger than any adventure.

  They arrived just as the first dandelion seeds of spring began to drift across Starfell Valley. The Windblume Festival was already stirring: banners of green and white unfurled from every tower, flower carts rolled through the streets, and the faint, joyful strum of lyres drifted on the wind.

  Jean met them at the city gates, no longer weary but radiant—her armor polished, a crown of windwheel asters woven into her hair. Behind her stood the Knights of Favonius in full festival regalia: Lisa with a mischievous smile and a basket of dandelion wine, Kaeya twirling a rose between his fingers, Diluc quietly overseeing barrels being rolled toward the square, Noelle carrying trays of fresh-baked apple pie with effortless strength.

  “Welcome home,” Jean said, voice warm. “The city has been waiting.”

  Everything fell into place as though the winds themselves had planned it.

  The central square transformed into a living celebration. Tables groaned under platters of Mondstadt specialties—sticky honey roast, steaks grilled over open flames, sweet madames and cream stews. Crystal shrimp dumplings imported from Liyue, Fontainian macarons, Inazuman dango, even spicy Natlan skewers still sizzling. Barrels of dandelion wine and apple cider flowed freely; laughter rose like bubbles.

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  Venti perched atop the statue of Barbatos, lyre in hand, leading an ever-growing circle of musicians. His melodies wove through the air—light, free, defiant. Citizens danced in spontaneous rings, children chased glowing Anemo wisps conjured by playful knights, and couples exchanged windblumes under blooming trees.

  Varka found Venti at the height of the revelry. The bard hopped down, grinning ear to ear, and thrust a bottle into the Grand Master’s hand.

  “To freedom!” Venti toasted.

  “To never bowing,” Varka replied, clinking bottles before they both drank deeply.

  They laughed like old comrades—Varka’s booming voice mingling with Venti’s clear tenor as they traded stories: battles won, heavens defied, children raised in the shadow of gods. Around them the festival spun on—Klee setting off harmless fireworks that burst into flower shapes, Alice teaching young mages tricks with illusionary butterflies, Paimon finally gorging herself on every sweet she could reach while the Traveler watched with quiet fondness.

  Boreas and Elowen danced in the center of it all—winds lifting their steps, visions guiding them through the crowd so they never bumped anyone. They laughed freely, faces flushed with joy and wine (the non-alcoholic kind, under Nicole’s watchful eye).

  As night fell, lanterns rose—smaller than Liyue’s, but brighter in their simplicity. Each carried a wish for freedom, for love, for tomorrow.

  Varka pulled Nicole into his arms amid the throng. “We made it,” he murmured against her hair. “All the way home.”

  She smiled up at him, violet eyes reflecting lantern light. “And we brought the world with us.”

  The music swelled. The winds sang. Mondstadt—city of freedom—celebrated with open hearts and open bottles.

  For one perfect night, every worry dissolved into song.