This is a tale of the past, yet a future waits to unfold. Once, he roamed the lands of Teyvat, his journey destined to be told. With every wisp of wind by his side, he found companions—bonds he could not deny. As he ventured through realms ruled by different elements, many rose to oppose him. But once he knew who he faced, fear had no place in his heart. This story begins 500 years ago, when the Traveler journeyed from world to world with his sister. Upon arriving in Teyvat, their path was blocked by the Heavenly Principles. You may think you know this tale, but not from this perspective. I was there—watching—as they challenged the heavens... only to fall, with no hope to grasp.
I am Venti the Bard, sitting here in Mondstadt's tavern, strumming a tune and sipping something sweet. Now, let us peer into a part of the story that was never revealed. Five hundred years ago, deep within Dragonspine, there lay a dormant wind tied to Mondstadt's past—one that opened the path to a forgotten land, a country we never even knew existed. And there, hidden in the frost, was a companion of mine. One never spoken of in tales, for they carried a secret—one so dark, so shameful, we dared not whisper it to the wind.
Sitting upon an icy throne in the Star-Grow Cavern, a mysterious figure watched, his spiky white hair and aqueous blue eyes gleaming in the dim light. His nose, tinted with a hint of red, caught the last glow of the golden sky. He paced, back and forth, around the empty throne room, the silence pressing in, as if he were waiting for someone—someone he desperately needed to arrive soon. Then, a soft knock-knock echoed through the room. The door creaked open. In walked a dragon, blood dripping from its body like crimson rain. The icy king's heart sank in horror as he saw his friend bleeding to death before him. With trembling eyes, the king looked at him and whispered one regretful line: "My friend, Is this the consequences of my choice?"
"This isn't something as trivial as that..." The dragon writhed in agony, his body convulsing as bloody screams echoed through the air. His voice was thick with pain, each word a struggle. "I have made a grave mistake... sins that cannot be undone. I had no choice. I became the downfall of all my kin."
"What is the meaning of this?" asked the king. "What happened to your kin? What happened in the nest of the Frost Dragons?"
But the dragon could only lie there, coughing blood, unable to respond. Its body lay still on the ground, life slowly fading as it writhed toward its inevitable demise.
Standing beneath the cavern's dim, icy glow the king's appearance finnally became visible. He was Orion, a dark-skinned man whose very presence defied the frostbitten lands of Dragonspine he ruled. Standing at 5'11", he was draped in heavy furs—not the ornate robes of nobility, but garments built for survival. Practical, worn, and battle-hardened, yet carrying an undeniable grace. Beside him lay the dragon, a creature of stunning contrast: small in stature, even more so than Dvalin, yet impossibly majestic. Its pure white scales shimmered like snow under moonlight, and instead of horns, a crown-like arrangement of feathers adorned its head. Its wings, though delicate and slim, fanned out with ethereal beauty—more angel than beast.
The king wandered the throne room, consumed by sorrow.
His heart wept silently, his eyes brimming with questions.
Without a word, he stormed out, sprinting toward the nest—
Only to be met by flames, wild and unrest.
A massacre lay before him, a scene carved in dread,
So vile, so grotesque, even vomit would envy the horror it bred.
"How did it come to this?" asked the king, his voice trembling.
"What could I have done? Is this one of my sins?"
He wandered the charred nest, searching, investigating—
But his heart recoiled at the sight of burning corpses.
With a heavy breath, he turned away, stepping into silence.
He sat upon his throne—
Not a soul remained to witness his grace.
"Venti, where are you?" he cried into the wind.
"Will you not come to help me still?"
He pleaded to the God of Wind, Barbatos,
But only silence answered him.
"Oh, my dear friend, how could this come to be?" Orion whispered, his voice thick with grief. "You, who were once the noble dragon, now lie here, breathless, with no life in your wings."
He slumped onto the throne, his weary gaze fixed on the lifeless form of his companion. The weight of the moment pressed heavily upon him as he turned to the winds. "Venti, where are you?" he pleaded, but the silence only deepened. No reply.
In the emptiness of the throne room, in the stillness of a kingdom now hollow, Orion took a long, shaky breath. With a heavy heart, he left the room, dragging his feet as he moved toward his chambers. There, he collapsed onto the bed, overwhelmed by the crushing weight of sorrow. Tears streamed down his face, each one carrying the agony of a thousand unspoken words. His body shook with pain, as he cried out in frustration, "How did it come to this?"
To understand how the king came to be in such despair, we must journey back a few years, to when Orion was first crowned the ruler of a kingdom that knew no sorrow... until now.
The kingdom of Arian was a prosperous nation, cradled in secrecy within the heart of Dragonspine's frozen peaks. Sustained by its own means and shielded by the ancient cryosovereign dragon, it remained untouched by the world beyond. To outsiders, it was but myth—but to its people, it was paradise. They revered the dragon not as a ruler, but as a silent guardian, a divine presence that watched over them with unwavering grace.
Three years before the tragedy that scorched their joy, the kingdom celebrated a day bathed in light. It was the Festival of Winds—a time of song, laughter, and boundless cheer. The streets bustled with dancing children, their voices echoing with joy, unaware of the fate that loomed far ahead. That day was to be remembered for the coronation of a new king. Arian's prince, Orion the Second, was to receive the crown from his father, Orion the first, beneath the falling snow and the watchful eyes of the mountain's sacred beast.
The grand doors swung open with a thunderous crack as the king stormed into the chamber of his son. His voice boomed like a sudden avalanche, rattling the walls. "What are you doing, my son? Why are you not yet dressed? The plaza is overflowing—the people await! All of Arian has gathered to witness the moment you take my place!"
Orion turned, startled, his posture slouched like a wilting snowflower. He looked down, hands trembling slightly. "But Father," he murmured, voice barely above the whisper of the wind, "I told you… I'm not ready for this. What if I fail? What if my rule brings ruin to Arian?"
The king paused, the fire in his eyes dimming. With a heavy breath, he sat beside his son, the weight of crowns and years etched in his expression. "You speak of failure, yet you forget—this kingdom does not stand by your will alone. It thrives beneath the watchful gaze of the Cryosovereign. So long as our divine protector walks the skies, and as long as I stand beside you, how could you possibly falter?"
Orion looked up, his father's words slowly melting the frost of fear from his heart. He inhaled deeply, steeling his nerves. The doubts, the trembling—meaningless in the face of faith, legacy, and guidance. If he were to wear the crown, he would need to cast aside fear and forge his resolve in ice.