Frieda dragged Orion up the tavern stairs, one step at a time, her slippers slipping on the wooden planks as he swayed like a sack of very attractive potatoes.
With a grunt, she shoved him through the room door and let him fall—face-first—onto the bed.
"You are ridiculously heavy…" she groaned, huffing and puffing as she flopped beside him on the edge of the mattress.
Orion snored.
Loudly.
She stared at him.
Despite everything—the wine, the snoring, the fact that his arm was now half-hanging off the bed like a drunk chandelier—he still looked… beautiful.
A soft smile curled on her lips.
"Can I… stay here till sunrise?" she whispered, more to herself than to him.
No answer. Just another snore that might've said "yes" if you squinted.
She stayed anyway.
Sitting beside him, watching his sleeping face.
"You're so pretty…" she murmured, voice low, eyes soft.
"Kinda look like my dad… but like, in a hot way. Is that weird?"
She giggled quietly at herself.
Her cheeks flushed pink.
"A little kiss won't hurt anyone, right?"
She leaned down, ever so slowly—her breath catching in her throat, lips inches away—
And then—
BAM.
The stench of wine and regret hit her like a divine punishment.
"UGH—!!" she recoiled dramatically, flailing backwards off the bed.
"I take it back. I take everything back!"
Coughing and waving the air, she stumbled to the balcony, dragging the window open and stepping into the night for sweet, blessed oxygen.
She looked up at the stars, her hands on the railing, her heart still fluttering from the moment that almost was.
"What am I doing?" she whispered, exhaling.
"Didn't I set out to see the world beyond Arian? To live wild, to be free…"
She stared at the sky, where constellations twinkled like tiny promises.
"And here I am… falling for a man who smells like fermented fruit and bad decisions."
She laughed softly.
But still—
She smiled.
Frieda sighed, the stars now behind her, the wind calm against her cheeks. With a small smile, she turned and tiptoed back into the room.
Orion was still sprawled across the bed like a corpse of wine and regrets.
She slipped beneath the sheets beside him, careful not to disturb his drunken slumber.
"I'm sleepy..." she murmured, pulling the blanket over her.
"We'll continue our discussion tomorrow morning..."
---
The Next Morning
Sunlight streamed in through the tavern window, warm and golden. Birds chirped. The world was calm.
And Orion?
He wanted to die.
"Ughhh..." he groaned, clutching his pounding head.
"That damn bard. How much did he let me drink?! I feel like I swallowed a tavern."
As he sat up, squinting at the light like it had personally betrayed him, his eyes landed on the girl lying next to him.
Frieda.
Sleeping peacefully.
In his bed.
His soul left his body.
"What—?! Did I…? Did we...?? Oh Archons, what kind of man am I?? I thought I was a better man! A knight of decency! Not... not a tavern-floor flirt!"
Frieda stirred, blinking sleepily. She stretched her arms with a satisfied yawn.
"Good morning..." she said dreamily.
"Wanna continue from where we left off last night?"
Orion froze.
Face flushed. Brain shutting down.
"W-what? Now?! But it's still early! I haven't even bathed yet! I—I—this is moving too fast, I don't even know if I snore—"
Frieda rubbed her eyes, smiling.
"What does that have to do with anything?" she teased, her voice still laced with drowsy innocence.
"I had a really good sleep. Let's just pick up where we left off our—"
She paused, mid-sentence.
Orion didn't.
He hugged her.
Without thinking. Without calculating.
Just pure, soft affection pulling him forward like a tide.
"Fine," he whispered, his voice low and tender, "if you insist."
He cupped her face gently, gazing into her eyes like they were constellations made just for him.
And then—
He kissed her.
Softly.
As if their souls had already done this hundreds of times before in dreams they could no longer remember.
And this?
This was the first time they'd gotten to do it awake.
---
They stayed in Mondstadt.
And though their past lives had been filled with dragons, wars, and shattered stars—
In this one?
They laughed.
They danced.
And for once—
They lived.
The dream shattered like glass in silence—and a new one began.
Morven stirred slightly on his stone seat, his silver hair catching the faint glow of his pendulum.
"It's already started..." he murmured, rubbing his temples.
"And I'm already dreading what this'll do to the barrier's integrity."
He sighed long and deep, not with frustration—but fatigue.
"These dreams won't grant you combat experience, Orion… Frieda... but they will mature you."
With that, Morven drifted back into his slumber, monitoring the illusion like a warden of fates.
---
In the Dream Realm
(The following is similar to the part in Chapter 16, Due to the same scene in a different scenario but not so different, please remain patient)
The air was heavy—not with mist, but with meaning.
Kaelya knelt first.
Her jet-black hair spilled forward like a veil, her voice steady yet laced with urgent reverence.
"Lord Orion… we've assembled, just as you asked."
Beside her, Ignarion lowered his head, glacier-forged armor groaning faintly with the motion.
The cold never touched him. But this? This was not cold. This was pressure. Judgment.
"Lord Orion. Please… bless us with your divine wisdom."
Morven, ever unreadable, dipped his head. A smile ghosted his lips but never reached his eyes.
"We have returned to your grace."
Then—Seraphyx.
He did not kneel.
He stood perfectly still—like a statue left behind after the gods had packed up and left.
His soft pink hair hovered faintly, untouched by wind, his beauty otherworldly… but lifeless.
Not with disdain—but emptiness.
"Father," he said at last, his voice faint yet echoing like a prayer cast into a hollow temple.
"Please… give us purpose once more."
And then—
The fog stirred.
Not with a breeze.
It recoiled—as if the dream itself feared what was coming.
From the depths rose a shape vast enough to smother logic.
A head.
Colossal. Ancient. Sovereign.
Orion—the true Cryo Sovereign—emerged.
Crowned in jagged antler-horns that shimmered like constellations frozen mid-collapse, his gaze burned with ageless judgment. His scales bore glacial hues—ashen white, deep sapphire, faint violet pulses beneath the skin like frozen echoes of grief.
He moved silently. Like snowfall on graves.
And when he finally spoke, the world flinched.
"Ignarion."
"Kaelya."
"Morven."
Each name cracked the air like a sentence passed.
"You three… have disappointed me."
The temperature didn't drop by degrees. It dropped by eras.
The mist thinned further. Frost crystallized on their knees. The pressure of millennia held their chests tight.
They bowed deeper, knees aching. Hearts racing.
And then—
A trembling unison:
"Please tell us our mistakes, Lord Orion."
He moved.
The great Sovereign leaned forward, and the sky seemed to bend with him.
His breath didn't frost the air—it turned it to glass.
Yet it did not wound. It felt like the palm of a father checking for fever—cold, but deeply caring.
And then he looked at them.
And they broke.
"Even now..." he whispered—not loud, not wrathful.
But quieter than fear.
"You call me 'Lord Orion'… unlike Seraphyx."
Far above the reach of mortal lands—beyond clouds, above stars, and nestled in the breath between tempests—stood the Air Palace.
A palace not built, but sung into existence by gales older than time. Its spires swirled like inverted whirlpools of marble and glass, endlessly shifting, yet never collapsing. The wind here did not howl—it whispered secrets in languages the world had forgotten.
And seated at the very heart of it, upon a throne of woven storm-silk and floating petals—
Was Lady Frieda.
Her blonde hair danced in soft breezes that never ceased, glowing faintly under the floating skylight above.
Her cool blue eyes—once filled with warmth—now shimmered with the sharp clarity of a storm just before it breaks.
She wore a gown of pale green and snow-white, sleeveless and flowing, adorned with subtle feather motifs across her shoulders and waist. Around her neck, a choker of skyglass pulsed gently with her breath. The hem of her dress never touched the throne beneath her—it floated, weightless, as if the wind refused to let her fall.
She didn't sit like royalty.
She sat like judgment on a breeze.
Below her, the wind parted like curtains.
And through it rose the terrible form of Highfall.
A dragon shaped like a sky-serpent—long and twisting with massive wings that fanned out like blades of dying dusk. His scales were cyan, luminous and sleek, but black veins pulsed across his body, crawling like ink on paper too pure. A sinister aura bled from him, undeniable. It did not belong in the sky, and yet, here it was—kneeling.
His head bowed, his claws scraped the platform gently as his voice echoed low and rumbling like a gathering storm.
"My Sovereign. The skies stir. The preparations are complete. The Vassals of Wind are united under your name. The strike against the Cryo Throne may commence at your will."
Frieda did not blink.
She watched him with the silence of someone weighing entire climates in her mind.
"And what of Orion?" she asked softly.
Her voice didn't raise—but the clouds outside trembled ever so slightly.
Highfall lifted his head, slowly.
"He slumbers, my Queen. Still locked within the dream-forged illusion crafted by the Emblem of Time."
A pause.
"But he grows... aware. Each cycle, he wakes closer to the truth. His presence as the Cryo Sovereign lingers beneath the surface of that dream. He will not be easy prey."
Frieda exhaled. The air rippled like a sigh across an ocean.
"He never was."
Her fingers drummed gently against the throne's armrest—each tap guiding a minor cyclone somewhere across the globe. Her gaze turned distant, as if seeing Orion's frozen domain through the endless wind.
Then—
She smiled.
But it wasn't the Frieda of Mondstadt who smiled.
It wasn't the girl with messy hair, blushing cheeks, and kind dreams.
This Frieda had tasted sovereignty.
And it had sharpened her like a blade.
"Send word to the others," she said finally, rising to her feet as petals and wind curled around her ankles.
"We march soon. The war begins at the fall of the seventh gale. Orion must either awaken..."
Her eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped like a guillotine.
"...or be swept aside by the winds of change."
Highfall bowed lower.
"As you command, Sovereign of the Storm."
And with a violent whirl of wind and light, the dragon vanished—cutting through the clouds like a spear hurled by the sky itself.
Frieda stood alone.
But not empty.
Her wind hummed with tension. Her throne trembled under a storm that had not yet begun.
And deep, deep in her heart…
She did not know if she wanted Orion to win—
Or to stay asleep.