“During those years of the Archon War, you didn’t smile much.
Silent, good at fighting.
The way you addressed me changed from ‘you’ to ‘You’, full of respect, but lacking the closeness of childhood.
At the time, I was so busy I didn’t have a moment to rest, so I didn’t think much of it, just assuming you had grown up and become steady.”
Anastasia lowered her eyes, her fingertips resting on her knees, and did not respond.
Morgan’s face lit up with a smile again.
“But I actually miss it quite a bit.
You would pull me along to build snowmen, complaining that the little snowmen I made were too ugly.”
You would sit by my side while I played the instrument; you wouldn’t say anything, but you would always listen until the end.
When I told you about my adventures in the sea of stars, you would ask, ‘And then?’
Those times were so leisurely.
No need to think about war, no need to think about the future.”
The carriage was quiet for a moment; the wheels rolled over the gravel road, and the scenery outside the window slowly receded.
Anastasia said softly, “You have never changed.”
Morgan was taken aback.
“Hm?”
“I mean…” Anastasia paused, seemingly organizing her thoughts.
“You are still the person who would stop for refugees, name babies, and laugh out loud while reading trashy novels.”
She looked up.
“It is I who have changed.”
“During the war, I thought I had to become a colder, sharper weapon to be worthy of standing by your side.
To be the Emperor’s spear, rather than just a little girl under your protection.
I thought that was the ‘me’ you needed.”
She paused for a moment.
“…Only today did I realize that was a misunderstanding of myself.”
Morgan did not speak.
He watched Anastasia quietly, his ice-blue eyes reflecting her calm features.
Then, he reached out and, just like many years ago on the snowy plains, gently patted the top of her head.
“It’s good that you’ve figured it out,” he said.
Anastasia did not pull away.
Outside the carriage window, the wind gradually slowed, and the stone gate of the pass appeared at the edge of the horizon.
She smoothed her sleeves, restoring the composure befitting a Grand Duchess.
“We’re almost at the border.”
Morgan followed her gaze; the border pass of Mondstadt already stood not far ahead.
The flag symbolizing the Knights of Favonius fluttered atop the watchtower of the pass.
Below the watchtower, a team of well-equipped knights stood in formation.
Their attire was uniform, and their silver armor shone brilliantly under the noon sun.
It was clearly an honor guard prepared specifically to welcome the foreign delegation.
There were also a few people in relatively luxurious clothing, holding scriptures and dressed like clergy; they must have been bishops and nuns of the Church of Favonius.
Beside the knights were several cargo carriages.
Some personnel wearing simple robes with cross armbands were unloading supplies from the carriages; they must have been healers.
Morgan nodded slightly; it seemed the Anemo Sprite Messenger had delivered the message.
Barbatos had not only received his message about “temporarily adding a batch of human refugees,” but had also quite properly arranged for reception personnel.
“Go and coordinate with the Knights of Favonius,” he said to Anastasia.
“You are responsible for the details of settling these refugees.”
“Yes.” Anastasia stood up; before getting off the carriage, she glanced back at him.
Morgan had already picked up ‘The Domineering Tsarina’ again.
As if the conversation just now had merely been a small interlude in the journey.
But Anastasia knew it wasn’t.
She lifted the carriage curtain and stepped into the gentle breeze of Mondstadt.
The carriage returned to silence.
Morgan maintained his reading posture, but his gaze fell into the void.
He blamed himself for not paying attention; he hadn’t noticed Anastasia’s state of mind at all.
Had he put too much pressure on Anastasia?
Because he cared for Anastasia, he thought of leaving the best things to her, including the throne.
After many years together, he had long regarded Anastasia as family; and family is never defined by whether they are useful or not.
He turned a page, but didn’t take in a single word.
Never mind, today is not a good day for deep reading.
Morgan closed the book, set it aside, and stuck his head out the carriage window.
He watched Anastasia negotiating with the person in charge of the Knights of Favonius.
The other party had clearly heard of the title “Grand Duchess of Snezhnaya.”
Their attitude was respectful and cautious.
The red-haired female knight—could it be the original Knight of Favonius, Vennessa?
A Natlaner from the old era, who fought alongside the Mondstadters to overthrow the rule of Decarabian.
Elders held children by the hand, and women clutched their bundles.
Their faces still bore signs of exhaustion, but their eyes were no longer vacant.
They would find a new home and a new life here.
And that infant named Veronica would grow up under the sun of Mondstadt, carrying his blessing.
Morgan leaned back against the cushion, closed his eyes, and let his perception spread with the breeze.
“Hehe!”
A clear, melodious voice pierced through the carriage wall.
A wind carrying the fragrance of Cecilia and the sound of harp music arrived quietly.
Morgan opened his eyes.
The surrounding air became light, and low exclamations came from the wind.
It was the fairy guards in the honor guard; they had witnessed the arrival of a certain existence.
Then, his carriage door was gently knocked.
A rhythm filled with testing, knocking three times.
Like the Big Bad Wolf in the fairy tale knocking on Little Red Riding Hood’s door; as for what this one was coveting, who knows.
“Morgan—”
The Anemo Archon’s voice came through the door panel.
The end of his tone rose, carrying a touch of deliberate innocence and undisguised anticipation.
“I heard in the wind that you’ve crafted a batch of quite delicious wine.
Won’t you invite me to have a taste?”
Morgan did not respond immediately.
He lowered his eyes to look at the cover of the trashy novel on his lap and immediately shoved the book under the cushion in the carriage.
He could joke about this stuff with Anastasia, but if the bored Barbatos heard about it, he would surely turn it into a poem and sing it everywhere just for the fun of it.
Morgan straightened his posture, relaxing his shoulders and back, and lifted his chin slightly.
He couldn’t lose his decorum in front of a foreign god; he didn’t want to lose his dignity in front of others.
When his brows were devoid of smiles, the dignity and nobility belonging to the Monarch of Snezhnaya were revealed.
His cool and composed expression was elegant and distant, like the stereotypical image of arrogant and cold fairies held by foreigners.
Barbatos outside the door knocked again, this time with a slightly coquettish tone at the end.
“Morgan—I really did smell it.
Gold, sweet, with a hint of chilled freshness, something that bursts like bubbles on the palate—”
This drunkard!
He was indeed craving his SoulGlad!