Chapter Text
Hidden away in a cave within the Basin of Unnumbered Flames, the Masters of the Night-Wind shamen are hard at work performing Rituals of Sealing. Their task demands the utmost focus—to error now would bring great disaster upon Natlan.
The cave is sweltering; the twenty-three divine relics within radiating heat like tiny suns. The icy power of Cryo offers no relief, and sweat drips down the back of Citlali’s neck as she guides a gleaming golden feather into the prepared vessel.
Citlali’s phlogiston engravings glow a prismatic lilac as she pushes herself to her limits, manipulating elemental energy and phlogiston together as one. The feather burns with divinity and the Masters of the Nightwind hadn’t a chance of sealing it through brute force. Success depends entirely on Citlali’s technique and finesse.
As with the others, the divine essence is imprinted with the will of the celestial god ‘Phainon.’ It's instinct and impression mostly. The omni-elemental energy is pure, its light undivided into seven. The feather flares with power—ancient, wrathful, and hungry for Destruction.
A Will greater than all the shaman combined—greater than even the Lord of the Night.
Gritting her teeth, Citlali persists in her task.
Citlali is Natlan’s greatest shaman, eldest member of the Masters of the Night-Wind, and the bearer of the ancient name Ukumbuko. Even under the weight of celestial divinity, she refuses to falter. Citlali is not a challenger seeking to command divine power that does not belong to her.
This is not a battle, it’s a conversation.
Blue eyes narrow in concentration as Citlali reaches out and soothes the inferno. There is no malicious intent—if there was, the children would have been immolated before the Masters of the Night-Wind could intervene.
Sleep, Citlali implores, before guardian becomes destroyer.
She is running through a field of golden wheat under an orange sky.
Smoke chokes her lungs as the buildings burn around her.
A young girl dies against a rock with her sword buried in her chest.
A man with sky eyes shouts for a snow haired woman to run.
Her blade—heavy in grief—drips drops of mingled red and gold.
She hears a young man screaming.
Citlali banishes the vision, now is not the time for distraction. She can dwell on the memory within the elemental energy when she isn’t sealing a volatile celestial relic. With cool gentle touches, Citlali coaxes the divine feather back into dormancy within the sealing jar.
Almost there.
On her signal, Biram places the lid on the jar—completing the seal.
The Night-Wind shamans wait a full minute—waiting to see if the feather will immolate its ceramic prison in a violent eruption—before allowing themselves to count the ritual a success. Citlali stares intently at the jar as she counts down the seconds in her mind.
Fifty-seven.
Fifty-eight.
Fifty-nine.
Sixty.
Now confident that the sealing jar probably wouldn’t explode, Citlali falls limply back onto the pillowy embrace of Tzitzimitl—her floating pillow familiar. “I’m totally beat. How many feathers are left anyway?”
“That was the twenty-third feather so we are done. With that, all of the god-flesh has been sealed,” the chief of the Masters of the Night-Wind answers, shedding the Soul Shielding Cloak now that the rituals are complete. The cloak—feathered in homage to the tribe’s iktomisaur companions—must have been sweltering in the cave’s heat. Biram addresses the gathered shamen. “Excellent work everyone! Caholom! Toltec! Prepare the vessels for transport back to Mictlan! The rest of you are dismissed! I’ve reserved everyone a bed at the Weary Inn—you’ve all worked hard and deserve a rest!”
The Night-Wind shamen cheer half-heartedly.
The shamen are too tired for enthusiasm. Not one of them got a wink of sleep last night. Chief Biram called an all hands on deck emergency after the discovery of the feathers—celestial god-flesh—in the hands of Natlan children. He’d enlisted all of the Night-Wind shamans in the capital to hunt down the feathers. They had had only a handful of hours until daybreak—when the pilgrims would begin departing the Stadium of the Sacred Flame. Everyone was exhausted, but the Masters of the Night-Wind had located and confiscated all twenty-three feathers in the end.
Six feathers, a deep midnight purple; seventeen feathers, glittering sun-spun gold.
They really are beautiful.
Citlali understands why Atzi cried when she had to take her purple feather from her. Was it not a celestial relic, the feather would be a stunning treasure. The young girl wanted to use it to make hairpins like Citlali’s own. Through her tears, Atzi had handled herself with remarkable maturity for a child her age. She’d handed the feather over without further protest once Citlali explained the dangers of god-flesh.
Atzi and Tezozo’s ignorance was to be expected. Natlan doesn’t have god corpses—the losers of the Archon War—to plunder. Consecrated Beasts were creatures who’d consumed god-flesh, survived, and were empowered and twisted by the usurped divinity. The Desert of Hadramaveth was infested with them to the point they sometimes wandered across the Natlan-Sumeru border and into the territory of the Children of Echoes. The beasts require an entire team of vision-holders to slay.
And a celestial Consecrated Beast was the best case scenario.
The relics had peacefully smoldered until they were taken from their young recipients. It’s a miracle none of the Night-Wind shamen were seriously injured confiscating the feathers. The destructive energy contained within each one…Citlali shudders.
The Masters of the Night-Wind did not choose this cave just to keep the curious from disturbing their delicate ritual. They had performed the Rituals of Sealing in the capital and it had gone wrong. Why, together the feathers possessed enough power to annihilate the whole city.
If a fool with more ambition than sense got their grubby paws on these relics…
Well not to fear because soon the purple and gold feathers will be sealed beneath Mictlan, forever kept safe under the Masters of the Night-Wind’s lock and key. None of the children nor their parents understood their gravity and her tribe’s shamen know how to keep their mouths shut.
Caholom’s idea to give the children replacement replicas was moronic. Citlali would have beaten the high priest and the chief with Tzitzimitli if Biram had approved it. The less evidence this ever happens the better. Time will turn this into a secret the tribe can bury.
“Ah, Citlali before you go…” the chief calls, walking over to Citlali.
Citlali has to crane her neck to look Biram in the face—mask, whatever. The Masters of the Night-Wind towers over the great shaman. It isn’t that Citlali is short, Biram is just freakishly tall. Even her troublesome grandson looks like a toddler next to Biram, and Ororon has grown like one of his vegetable weeds. Even Mavuika—the (second) tallest person Citlali currently knows—only reaches Biram’s stomach.
“You did well, Citlali. Sealing the relics would be an uphill battle without you,” Biram praises, in that prideful way he always speaks of his tribesmen’s accomplishments. Citlali doesn’t need to hear praise from Biram of all people. It wasn’t that long ago that he was one of the brats graffiting her house and hammering on her door to challenge the great Granny Itztli.
Citlali huffs, looking away from Biram. “Yeah, well I was doing my duty as a great shaman! I couldn’t leave dangerous relics in the hands of a bunch of kids! That’s just asking for them to get caught up in a villain's schemes!”
That had happened in Stolen Legacy: Earning The Raiden Shogun’s Gaze. Except instead of a cabal of treasure hoarders coveting the Masterless Visions of the heroes’ deceased loved ones, it would be the untrained children in possession of celestial relics being targeted. Citlali isn’t heartless.
“Nevertheless you have my gratitude, Granny Itztli,” Biram says, fondly.
“If you’re so grateful then you can pay for my food as well as for my lodgings,” Citlali demands petulantly, crossing her arms. “A great shaman never works for free, and this mess totally ruined my plan to go drinking last night!”
There.
That should put an end to this conversation before it gets mushy. Citlali doesn’t need to be thanked. It’s enough that her fellow tribesmen recognize and fear her brilliance!
Biram chuckles. “You have permission to put it on my tab.”
Ugh! Why that big brat!
A city intertwined with a tree so gargantuan that the branches are paved with cobblestone.
She shares a bench with a girl with a purple flower crown, a stack of books between them.
A one-eyed man brandishes a gun at the class in response to her mutiny.
Scholars and students walk halls carpeted in grass.
She bites into a golden apple on her way to the library.
“Ugh,” Citlali groans as she rolls out of bed. She internally curses her own sensitivity. What was usually a boon, is in this instance nothing but a curse. Citlali doesn’t want to dream about celestial gods.
Citlali knows just enough to know about the existence of Forbidden Knowlege—and no more. And she’d like it to stay that way. The last thing Citlali wants is to get herself or her tribe smited because she saw something she shouldn’t have in Phainon’s memories.
Celestia does not part with secrets kindly.
She doesn’t think she’s seen anything that qualifies as forbidden. Just Phainon wiping out a village and a few idyllic snippets of him pulling a Rex Incognito at the Sumeru Akademiya. What was done to Khaenri’ah is no secret—not a single soul in the kingdom was spared Celestia’s wrath. And the Sumeru Akademiya is the Sumeru Akademiya. If Citlali wasn’t born in Natlan, she could simply go there herself.
Though…had it really been a Khaenri’ahn village Citlali saw in her vision? The godless nation had been underground and the massacre had occurred under an orange sky…Ah! Bad Citlali!
Citlali is never speaking of her visions to anyone. Ever. And if she knows what’s best for her, she’ll forget what she saw entirely. She has no desire to involve herself with Celestia.
“So this better not happen again,” Citlali grumbles, running a brush through her pink hair to make herself half way presentable. There’s no need to get dressed because she’d be too tired to change and simply slept in her clothes. They’re rumpled but still serviceable.
Her stomach grumbles.
Citlali grabs a red apple from the fruit bowl on her way out of the room. She bites down…it doesn’t taste half as good as in the remembrance. The wrong color too. Whatever, she’ll still eat it. Then she’s going to go downstairs and run up Biram’s bar tab.
She’s earned it.
And Citlali doesn’t need to be up until the warriors return from the Night Warden War at noon. She can probably afford a morning hangover. A few good drinks might do the trick and keep her from furthering dreaming.
Nursing her third tankard of brandy and with a plate of half-eaten tatacos beside her, Citlali reads the first volume of The Book of Five Springs. Yae Publishing House’s new flagship series has not disappointed. She’d been waiting for months for the foreign merchants to come to the pilgrimage so she could buy all of the novels she’d been denied while the Sakoku Decree was in effect.
She was over the moon when she heard Inazuma reopened its borders.
It’s been three long years.
There are so many light novels for Citlali to catch up on: Hex & Hound, Princess Mina of the Fallen Nation, and Legend of the Wind Knight. She’s waited for so long for this—an entire year longer than her fellow fans in other nations, even. Natlan is always the last place goods are exported to, if at all.
The people of Natlan can’t venture beyond their nation's borders—not without the blessing of the Wayob—so they’ve always had to rely on outsiders to engage in international trade.
Trade flows reliably these days. The youngsters don’t know how good they have it. Citlali didn’t taste proper Mondstadter booze until she was in her eighties, and in her grandmother's day, outlander merchants didn’t come at all. A hundred years ago, Citlali had to place orders with the traders and wait the year to get her books and dandelion wine.
It’s gotten better, but it’s still annoying.
Malta is passed out on the table next to Citlali’s. He hadn’t even made it to his room before crashing. Citlali has some sympathy—the witch doctor had come to look after Night-Wind warriors competing in the Pilgrimage of the Return of the Sacred Flame and got wrapped up in the mess with the feathers. He’d treated a lot of burns.
Citlali takes another sip of her brandy—quenepa berries infused with glowing hornshroom. The proprietor of the inn was inspired by Lord Barbatos himself when he came up with the combination. A hand reaches over and steals one of Citlali’s tatacos.
Citlali screeches. “How dare you chump steal from the great Granny Itztli!”
The Pyro Archon sits down across from the great shaman. “Chump, am I?”
“Oh! M-Mavuika!” Citlali’s eyes go as wide as dinner plates. “I. That. Ah! Forget what I said!”
Mavuika laughs. “Sure, sure…but only if I can have this tataco.”
Citlali agrees and Mavuika happily munches on the stolen piece of dinner. Citlali raises an eyebrow at her Archon. “What are you doing here anyway, Mavuika? Shouldn’t you be busy entertaining our guest?”
“Not tonight—Atea is hosting them in Meztli. Phainon wanted to see the hot springs. They’ll be back for the ceremony tomorrow. As for what I’m doing here…I wanted to check on you. Chief Biram reported back to be about the rituals’ success. You worked long hard hours for Natlan’s sake, and Biram impressed upon me the danger of god-flesh.”
Citlali swigs from her tankard. “I’m fine, Mavuika. The Ritual of Sealing is usually a pretty basic spell. It’s only that the others aren’t qualified to manage that much power without blowing half the basin up.”
Well, maybe Biram could have sealed the relics in Citlali’s absence, but her tallest grandson is not an overly prideful man. She isn’t sure if Biram had the endurance to have sealed all twenty-three…he’d probably have managed ten before he’d have to stop and rest. Regardless, with the stakes being what they were, the chief wanted the most experienced shaman among them to lead the ritual.
“Anyway, you don’t have to worry about me, Mavuika,” Citlali tells her Archon though she doubts Mavuika will truly listen. It is Mavuika’s way to worry about everyone except herself. “An all-nighter won’t kill me—I’m no frail granny. This mess just ruined my night of revelry, that’s all…tch, what an inconsiderate god.”
Mavuika gives a tired sigh as she leans back in her chair. “I’m glad to hear that, Citlali. I confess I feel partially responsible for what happened last night. I was there with Phainon. Had I know, I would have intervened…”
“But you didn’t know,” Citlali reminds the warrior.
Mavuika shakes her head. “Ignorance is no excuse for an Archon. What matters is that Natlan was endangered on my watch.”
The great shaman has seen many Pyro Archons come and go in her over two hundred years of life. Every single one of them burned brighter than any other. They were also all mortal humans—people who made mistakes and didn’t know everything. Mavuika, for all her usual perfection, is the same.
And Citlali wouldn’t have it any other way. Natlan’s best stand as equals to the other nations’ gods without the advantages of ancient knowledge and immortality.
“If anyone is at fault it’s Lord Phainon for handing his feathers out in the first place. What was that god thinking?” Citlali huffs. A god—especially a god of Celestia—should know the consequences of their actions. You never saw Focalors giving out strands of her hair, Barbatos his feathers, or Morax…actually, what did the Liyue Qixing do with Rex Lapis’ body?
“I don’t think he was,” Mavuika says. “The children were begging him for Visions. It was quite the sight—a being like that helpless to the pleas of children. I don’t believe he meant to put them in danger. Phainon is…powerful, but rather unaware of the world. This is the first time he’s left Celestia since the Cataclysm, and I have the impression he’s almost exclusively resided in Celestia.”
So Celestia’s emissary has the personality of an oblivious royal? Like Prince Lawrence in Legend of the Wind Knight. Gods are supposed to be wise. And even if it was over a thousand years ago, Phainon studied at the Akademiya—he can’t possibly be as sheltered as Mavuika believes him to be.
Not that Citlali should have any way of knowing that.
Mavuika continues: “I’ll discuss the matter with him when he gets back from Meztli. In any case, that’s not the only matter I wanted to discuss with you, Citlali. I have a favor to ask.”
“You know you can always depend on me, Mavuika,” Citlali promises her Archon. She means it. Mavuika is the leader Citlali has placed her faith in, and the Pyro Archon’s requests always have the good of Natlan at their heart.
“I’m glad to count you among my friends, Citlali,” Mavuika says, voice fond.
Citlali blushes. “W-well what was it you wanted from me? A great shaman like myself has quite the busy schedule, I’ll have you know!”
“Very well, allow me to explain…”
The Pyro Archon explains the situation to Citlali: Celestia has agreed to Mavuika’s request, and will aid Natlan against the Abyss. Once Natlan’s warriors have returned, Phainon and the Ruler of Death—since when were there TWO celestials in Natlan?!—will purge the Night Kingdom of the Abyss. They will also heal the Lord of the Night, though that last bit will take a little while longer.
“Ronova, the Ruler of Death…I wonder…Mictlantecuhtli…” Citlali mumbles to herself. It’s unsurprisingly not a name she recognizes, but if this Ronova truly had a hand in the Night Kingdom’s construction…that would make her Mictlantecuhtli, wouldn’t it?
A mysterious figure mentioned only in the very oldest of the Masters of the Night-Wind legends. The mysterious sister who taught the Lord of the Night the secrets to weaving sacred scrolls. Mictlantecuhtli was an enigmatic figure in Natlan’s lore—an obscure character linked to the Lord of the Night and the beginnings of the Night Kingdom.
Huitzilin loved ancient mythology…she’d been so sure Mictlantecuhtli was a dragon.
“Mictlantecuhtli?” Mavuika raises a questioning eyebrow.
“Just an old Night-Wind story,” Citlali dismissed, and shoves the last tataco into her mouth. The gods of Teyvat go by many names, in that respect their celestial brethren appear similar. “Sounds like the Abyss is in for the beat down of the century. If those two can really drive the Abyss from Natlan, I might just forgive them for all the extra work they dumped on me.”
Mavuika chuckles.
More seriously, Citlali continues: “It’s difficult to imagine the war with the Abyss being over. We’ve fought for so long…”
The warriors of Natlan have fought the Abyss since the age of the dragons though the nation was not at war with it until the Cataclysm. Citlali’s ancestors fought the Abyss, as did her parents, then Citlali herself. The great shaman has lost much to the Abyss over the years—friends, students, increasingly distant relatives…
…Ororon bears an Ancient Name—Bidii.
It’s only expected that he’ll participate in the pilgrimage eventually as only those with Ancient Names can fight in the Night Warden Wars. It’s not that Citlali doesn’t want her troublesome grandson to fight for their homeland, but…not all Night Warden Wars end in victory. Not all warriors make it home.
It is a sacrifice all in Natlan are prepared to make for their home.
The threat of death isn’t confined to the Night Warden War either. While the Lord of the Night holds the Abyss at bay with all her might, incursions happen on the surface. Some are minor like the ones the People of the Springs’ Night Patrol fend off. Some are major like the one Huitzilin had turned the tides of in the Battle of Seven Colors.
Natlan is the Nation of War—battle and death are ever present.
If Ororon must be stolen away from Citlali, she would like it to be peacefully in his sleep in his old age. Her apprentice might be a numbskull at times, but the boy deserves better than to have his life cut short by claw or fang or poison.
What would peace be like? Living without the threat of the Abyss hanging over all their heads…and Citlali knows better than most how precarious Natlan’s leylines. While sleep has allowed the Lord of the Night to conserve her energy, the guardian of Natlan’s leylines and afterlife is slowly dying—fading.
Natlan can survive the Abyss’s attacks—tribal warriors have fought off the invasions for centuries—Natlan will not survive the Lord of the Night’s passing.
“Peace…that sounds too good to be true,” Citlali says, squinting at Mavuika suspiciously. Celestia had long gone dark by the time of Citlali’s birth, but this kind of intervention seems…out of character of the sky gods, to the great shaman’s limited knowledge. “Hey, they didn’t demand some kind of payment for their power, did they? You didn’t make any binding deals without talking with the rest of us?”
Citlali trusts the Pyro Nation with their nation.
Mavuika, however, is too reckless with herself.
“Nothing like that, I promise you,” Mavuika assures Citlali, casually waving her hand. “Phainon and I have a shared understanding of our responsibility as leaders. He was more than willing to lend a hand once I explained everything.”
“Then why aren’t you happy?”
“…”
“…”
Mavuika’s smile dimmed. “Noticed that, didn’t you? There’s no fooling you, Citlali. I am grateful to Phainon and Ronova. I’m glad that our nation’s days of struggle are at their end, yet I can’t help but be disappointed by this ending. Natlan has always gotten by on the strength of humanity and here I am relying on gods to save us. I know I’d be a poor leader if I denied Natlan this chance because of my own pride, and…”
The great shaman disagrees. While the power of Celestia is the qucusaurus to carry Natlan over the finish line, but the warriors of Natlan are the qucusaurs who flew all the previous laps in the relay. Natlan had survived centuries because of their own strength.
“…I had a plan to save Natlan. The warriors of Natlan would awaken their power and together we’d push back the Abyss. Our nation would not be shackled to traditions like the pilgrimage for our survival. It’s difficult to see it abandoned after sacrificing so much. That it didn’t need to be me in this era—I could have stayed.”
Citlali nods along like she understands what her Archon is saying when she actually only grasps half of it. What does Mavuika mean by ‘staying?’ It’s probably the alcohol muddying her mind. Which is still a win if it keeps her dreams free of memories.
“Enough of my rambling,” Mavuika says, shaking her head. “Now about that favor…”
Stone golems shatter under her blade as she traverses abandoned mountain roads.
A red fairy guides her through the darkness to the steps of a once-grand temple.
She pleads with the priest to lead his flock away from the dying barren land.
Please follow her to the salvation of the dawn.
She ferries the fearful hopeful souls to a city under siege.
Nursing a mild hangover from the previous evening, Citlali rolls out of bed just shy of noon doing her best to pretend her sleep had been dreamless. She’ll do a purification ritual when she gets back later to rid herself of the foreign recollections. She is not waiting for them to fade naturally.
Citlali dresses herself and brushes her hair till she’s publically presentable. Her fashion is not outdated no matter what Ixim whispers behind her back! Youngsters these days are such trend-chasers! Citlali is not ‘overly accessorized.’ Hmph! The nerve!
Exiting her room, she hugs Tzitzimitli to her chest and tries to ignore the pounding in her head as she makes her way down the stairs and through the Weary Inn’s common area.
A yawning Malta takes pity on the great shaman, the witch-doctor handing her a hang-over remedy on her way out the door. The concoction is horribly bitter and salty, but Citlali downs it with minimal complaint. Malta’s hang-over cures are almost as good as his late grandmaster. One day, he might even surpass his teacher’s teacher.
Citlali arrives at the Stadium of the Sacred Flame, weaving through the crowd—much thinner than that of the tournament but still very much present—to stand with her fellow Masters of the Night-Wind tribesmen just in time for the Ode of Resurrection.
Mavuika is giving the customary eulogy:
Warriors of Natlan—heed the call of life.
We are the inheritors of legend and memory.
Those who grew alongside sun and wind.
Those who forged our own destiny and future.
That is Natlan's fire, the lifeblood of our nation.
Biram smiles. “Citlali, you’re just in time.”
That brat is totally judging her right now.
Citlali puffs up her cheeks. “I’m not late.”
“No, you’re not,” Biram says, agreeably.
Citlali looks around, the people appear to be in good spirits. “…I take it the team was victorious.”
Atea would be heartbroken if Mualani stayed dead.
The mood is always somber when the Night Warden War is lost. As long as the war is won—as long as one of the warriors makes it home—Natlan will welcome home all of its brave warriors. If the war is lost…there will be no Ode of Resurrection to save them, and Natlan will mourn their heroes and the Ancient Names that die with them.
Biram inclines his head. “Indeed, but it was a near thing. Only Chasca of the Flower-Feather Clan returned from the Night Kingdom. The Abyss was trickier than usual. It wore the faces of the warriors' loved ones.”
So five dead, though not for much longer.
Like all Natlanesse, Citlali loathes the Abyss. It nearly destroyed their nation five hundred years ago, leaving her nation in a ruin that had only just recovered by the time of Citlali’s birth. More than that, Natlan has waged an unending war with the darkness. The Abyss constantly invades the Night Kingdom and Natlan’s surface.
Over two hundred years, Citlali has watched the Lord of the Night grow weaker and weaker. The Guardian of the Land of the Night holding everything together with her own life force as the Abyss ate away at her realm. It’s been years since the last time Citlali communicated directly with the Lord of the Night, for so weakened is she that she has fallen into a deep sleep to conserve what remains of her energy.
Citlali hates the Abyss.
For all the lives it has stolen.
For all the souls it has desecrated.
For all the suffering it has inflicted upon the Lord of the Night.
Looking up, Citlali spots Phainon next to Mavuika at the Sacred Flame. He’s hard to miss—a figure garbed in white, wings and halo glowing with inner light. There’s no sign of Mictlantecuhtli, however. If the celestial god can really banish the Abyss from the Night Kingdom, Citlali will consider forgiving him for the trouble he has caused her.
Together, the people of Natlan sing the Ode of Resurrection—calling upon the Death to return their victorious lost warriors—as Mavuika vanishes into the Sacred Flame. Citlali’s voice joins the harmony. She knows every word by heart. She was taught by a tribe elder when she was naught but a girl and she in turn has taught the words to countless youngsters.
The tale continues on!
Glory passed through generations!
Courage ignites the sky and earth!
Once more, victory heralds Natlan's path!
We'll wait for you, we'll sing for you!
Come back, brothers, come back, heroes!
Once again, once again, burn bright!
Mualani is the first hero the Pyro Archon guides out of the Sacred Flame, then the two heroes—young and old—from the Collective of Plenty, then the hero from the Children of Echoes, and then last is Kinich from the Scions of the Canopy.
Even from this distance, Citlali can see the young Saurian Hunter appears dazed. Not an uncommon reaction from a warrior of Natlan who just experienced their first revival—the young man did die. A dragon relic on his wrist projects a green saurian spirit. Citlali can’t hear the words being spoken, but it’s clear the projection is throwing some kind of tantrum. Kinich pays the projection no mind as he clutches an object to his chest.
And—Oh.
That’s a Dendro Vision.
Seems the Saurian Hunter has been gazed upon and found worthy of the Dendro Archon’s gift. The element of Dendro will be Kinich’s to command from this day forth. Citlali smiles, what a momentous occasion.
Citlali remembers the night she received her Vision and Ancient Name as clear as yesterday. She’d been seventy—brilliant, a genius by every measure, and yet still without an Ancient Name or even a Vision. Her tribesmen had whispers, how could Citlali be overlooked by the gods and Wayob? She’d finished weaving a special scroll with the memory of a late friend in mind, when she’d received both her Cryo Vision and her name of Ukumbuko—Memory.
The ceremony is almost over.
Soon Citlali will meet up with Mavuika and Natlan’s divine guests. She’s definitely overqualified to be serving as anyone’s guide, but only the best for Celestia. Wouldn’t want to end up like Khaenri’ah.
Natlan had suffered the worst of all five hundred years ago. The aftermath of the Abyssal invasion haunts her people to this day. Though the Khaenri’ahn only mostly deserved their fate for unleashing the Cataclysm onto Teyvat. Citlali remembers Phainon’s memory of the slaughtered rural village. The children hadn’t deserved it.
Whatever, Citlali shouldn’t think too hard about the things she’s meant to forget. Atzi and Tezozo should be arriving back in Mictlan around now. They were sent home with all the non-shamans yesterday morning.
Knowledge is a terrifying thing to possess.