Yandelf did not move.
Not when the winds screamed above.
Not when tens of thousands of Anemo dragons roared for vengeance.
Not when the sky itself threatened to collapse beneath their fury.
She stood alone atop the frozen cliff where StratoFall had fallen by his own tail, the snow around her still stained black with ancient blood.
Her expression remained unchanged—cold, unreadable. Her eyes locked on the incoming horde like a queen watching ants.
Then—
A sudden gust of Cryo energy swept across the ridge, but it brought no cold. Only presence.
A Frost Dragon emerged beside her in perfect silence.
It was enormous—fifteen feet tall at the shoulder, twenty feet in length, its wingspan stretching over fifty feet like a cathedral in motion. Its scales were a blinding white, glistening like snow under moonlight, and atop its head was a crown of feathered frost, regal and wild.
It bowed its head low.
"Frost-Lieutenant Noctharn bow his head low."
Yandelf didn't hesitate. She stepped forward and climbed atop the dragon's skull like she had done so a thousand times before. She sat down gracefully between the crown-like feathers, leaning back against them as if reclining on a throne.
The dragon did not stir beneath her.
Then came another.
And another.
And another still.
One by one, more Frost Dragons of similar size and form descended onto the surrounding peaks—each of them weathered, scarred, and silent. They landed without ceremony, wings folding like tired banners, surrounding Yandelf in a growing ring of ancient might.
Their bodies bore the marks of battles past—claw slashes, burn scars, shattered horns, and in some cases, missing limbs replaced with armor or grafted bone. Not one of them looked fresh.
These were not vengeance-born dragons raised in grief.
These were not children screaming for a brother.
These were veterans.
War-forged.
Dragons who had seen kingdoms fall and gods bleed.
The sky above continued to churn with the maddening fury of the Skyborne Revenants—chaotic, undisciplined, emotional.
But down here?
Here, on the quiet ridge?
War had already arrived.
And it did not scream.
Yandelf's eyes never left the sky.
The wings of the Skyborne Revenants still roared in chaotic spirals above, shouting vengeance and violence into the heavens. But to her… they sounded like children yelling into the wind.
She leaned back into the soft frost-feathers behind her and gently ran her hand along them. The cold crown at her back felt more like silk than ice.
Her voice was quiet. Almost loving.
"They're all weak… Don't waste too much energy playing with them."
And with that, the twelve Frost Dragons moved.
One by one, each of them unfurled their wings—massive, sacred, and weathered by centuries of war. They leapt into the air with absolute silence, their movements synchronized like a choir of death.
No battle cries.
No threats.
No flair.
Just purpose.
As they rose together into the frozen sky, a single truth revealed itself:
There were only twelve.
Twelve against tens of thousands.
And yet… not a single one of them hesitated.
Not a single one looked back
Above Mondstadt—far beyond the clouds where wind turns thin and sky becomes breathless—floats a castle that should not exist.
No earth touches it.
No mountain could reach it.
No mortal eye has seen it from below.
Its pillars are tall and slender—so tall they vanish into the clouds above them, giving no hint where they begin or end. They do not support anything, not in the traditional sense. Instead, they simply exist, resting on clouds that curl around their bases like mist clinging to memory.
The architecture lacks form, structure, or symmetry.
Some parts float freely—rotating slowly, disconnected. Walls phase in and out of solidity, as though built from wind-stuffed dreams. Entire halls shift like drifting islands, their rooms folding in on themselves like the petals of unseen flowers.
Domes ripple like the surface of water disturbed by music.
Staircases ascend forever, curling into vanishing points with no destination.
The palace is alive.
Its colors shift between shades of pale sky and deep midnight, dependent on the wind's mood. Flags flutter that weren't there a moment ago. There are no doors—just curtains of air that part when willed. No guards, yet it is impenetrable.
At the very heart of it sits a throne, or something resembling one. It's not made of stone, or gold, or anything that can be touched. It is a negative space—an absence that demands reverence. Around it, dozens of wind spirits, shaped like robed figures with no faces, swirl silently.
A voice echoes through the halls:
"StratoFall is gone."
A hush falls over the entire structure—as if even the clouds have stopped breathing.
Highfall walked.
Each step pressed softly into the ever-shifting clouds beneath his feet. They held his weight, though they had no shape, no solidity—only memory. And yet he did not fall.
Ahead of him, drifting slowly through the air, was the throne.
It never stayed in one place, never settled, never obeyed gravity. It floated, twisted, danced through the skies of the castle like a wandering thought. It weaved through pillars of air, curled through invisible stairwells, and hovered wherever it pleased.
But everyone—everyone—knew where it was.
Because the presence seated upon it was undeniable.
It was him.
And Highfall's voice broke the sacred silence with a scream no storm could match.
"My older brother is gone!"
He stepped forward, chest heaving, wings trembling, emotion distorting his words.
"The one who was born from the Queen herself—your son!"
He shouted into the wind, his grief not hidden, not ashamed.
The clouds churned around him like they, too, were mourning.
And before him, seated upon the throne of nothing—yet everything—was a man.
Or something that had once chosen the shape of a man.
His expression was unreadable, but filled with amusement, as if this moment of cosmic tragedy was no more than an intriguing scene in a play he'd already read.
He was smiling.
Not kindly. Not cruelly.
Just… grinning.
His face bore no scars, no imperfections. His skin changed constantly, shifting between colors with no rhythm—deep obsidian black, then pale yellow, then warm brown, and then a shade so purely white it seemed to glow.
And his hair followed suit, changing hue to contrast his complexion—white against black, black against gold, and sometimes hues not even found in nature.
His robe was simple—just a single flowing garment that clung to his frame like wind to mountaintops. No armor. No crown. No insignia.
Because he did not need them.
He was the one seated upon the throne that could not be located—because he was the location.
He was the Anemo Sovereign.
And he was listening.
Zephyr opened his lips, amusement curling at the edge of his voice like a breeze playing with fire.
"How interesting…" he said, as though genuinely fascinated. "Since when were we bound by the deaths of those we loved?"
His smile widened—not cruel, but curious, like a man poking at an anthill with a stick just to see what scurries out.
"The very fact that your will bends beneath such emotions tells me everything I need to know, Highfall…"
"You are still far too weak."
He stood up—or rather, drifted into motion, as if gravity existed merely as a suggestion in his presence. He walked through the air with casual grace, upside down, robe fluttering like a wind-borne banner as he circled toward Highfall.
"And so are those who rush headfirst to their deaths, screaming for vengeance," he said with a shrug. "Emotions are loud. Noisy things. We have no need for such unstable subjects."
Highfall's fists trembled. His wings twitched with restrained fury.
"But he was still… your son…" he whispered, his gaze falling to the swirling clouds beneath his feet.
There was no answer. Just the gentle sound of wind weaving through an invisible harp.
Finally, Highfall raised his head and asked, quieter now:
"Even now... will you hide your true form behind that of a human?"
Zephyr paused.
His grin widened. He threw back his head and laughed—a light, mirthful sound that echoed through the castle like bells tumbling down a staircase.
"What kind of idiotic question is that?" he said, still giggling.
His skin shifted again—now starlit silver. His eyes sparkled like green glass.
"I haven't reclaimed my Elemental Authority, not fully. If I dare appear in my true form now, the Heavenly Principles will notice. They'll move."
He leaned forward mid-air, hanging upside down like a spider made of poetry and weather.
"Would you like that, Highfall? Shall I alert the skies that we're still playing with godhood down here?"
He spun once in the air like a dancer, then landed lightly on the clouds again, expression serene.
"Tell me—are you truly trying to stir my emotions? Trying to prove me wrong?"
He tilted his head. His smile didn't fade, but his eyes sharpened—just for a second.
"Because if that's your goal… you've already failed."