"In the name of Gunnhildr's clan head, I hereby pledge allegiance to the newborn god." "We once wandered through knife-like north winds, enduring grievances as cold as burial shrouds." "Our homeland has long been buried in a dead, silver silence, and our old customs have faded into desolate ruins." "But, like flowers forged by fierce winds, our spines shall never bend." "We shall never betray friendship in days of bitter darkness, and we shall never forget the oath written in blood." "In the name of Gunnhildr's clan head, I hereby pledge allegiance to the newborn god." "We shall not, like the Goldney clan, proffer songbirds wrought from pure gold." "Nor shall we, like the Laurenge clan, pledge glorious deeds of war to the wind." "Unlike the Brodiri, who raise sacred halls, or the Sithones, who present exquisite verses," "We lay before the wind nothing but blossoms, ardent hearts, and a sincerity that shall never fade." "In the name of Gunnhildr's clan head, I hereby pledge allegiance to the newborn god." "We have stood against fierce gales and fought shoulder to shoulder with divinity atop the tower." "We have seen the tender breeze as well. After the gloom, we are reborn beneath the spring sun." "Should the winds one day rage anew, and a tyrant seek to torment mortals again," "We shall not hesitate to stain the bright blossoms with blood, even if it means turning our backs on the divine throne once more." "If the winds remain ever gentle, and the heavens look kindly upon our realm," "We shall guard the song of Mondstadt without faltering, as the new winds once bestowed upon us their sheltering grace." "In the name of Great Arcadia's descendants, thus do we crown the newborn god with the thousand winds." "May your words be as those of our former lord, until the faith of all beings becomes one with poetry." "May your deeds be as those of our former lord, until our former lord acts as you do."

That was a barren age of old, a time when the pale dawn had yet to pierce the cold night. The warrior clad in iron had never beheld the open sky. Sharp winds held aloof the frozen heavens above. Warriors were meant to obey their charge. To smother, in their very cradles, those rebels skulking in darkened alleys, those who dared shake the towering spire. Yet at the songs that flowed from the strings of that young bard's lyre, the warrior laid down sword and blade. Not by tongues of treason beguiled, nor by promises of illusion swayed, The warrior yielded only to the caged bird's yearning for the sky, a hunger writ in the blood of every living creature. Be they paupers, bowed by bitter winds and clinging to the side of the boy, Or the maiden, wandering through pallid plains, calling upon a thousand winds and blossoms; Be they a small sprite of the wind, heart stirred by the boy's music, Or soldiers going no less hungry than those they were bid to subdue; Be they old bards bereft of their eyes, or wandering craftsmen shorn of their hands, Or sick and ailing souls, countless in number, their names lost to the wild winds' howl; All alike, steeped in that song, gentle as the morning breeze, warm as dawn light seeping into cold nights, Would lift their eyes as one and gaze upon the sky, still far above. Even she, the God King's most favored confidant, that taciturn, iron-cold huntress, grim of tongue yet true of heart... Surely, 'twas but by duress of her erstwhile master that her fair hands were stained with innocent blood. For how else might a clutch of soft-spoken words have turned her away from the tyrant, and set her feet upon the path of those who stood against him? Though ineloquent by nature, she too must have longed, like her companions, for a gentler dawn to come... And so the silent warrior cast aside both duty and name, weaving her snare from within the shadows, Gathering, for the boy who sang of morning, the winds scattered across the long night, until at last they rose to blow against the towering gale-wale. "Let the nameless flowers kiss away your tears, and grieve not for the parting that tomorrow brings." "Until the breath of dawn erases my name, and reveals for you the light that is true."

"Iron blades fail to slash it, nor can imprisonment of stones confine it." "The wind has no fear of the future, but constantly flows in its direction." "O sorrowful tyrant, no matter how much blood stains your hands," "As long as the wind still blows, you shall not claim the freedom of song." As the tempest raged before the crumbling divine throne, the frail youth strummed the strings of his lyre for the final time. The melody, once only played in the shadows of dark alleys, whispering courage to the downtrodden, Was now tempered by weary years of strife. It was forged into a roaring defiance of the many, a tempest that no storm could rend asunder. If mortal flesh could not transcend the seat of gods, if the song of "this moment" could not stay the hand of calamity, Then let the desires of countless such "moments" merge with the yearning for liberty that echoes through unnumbered ages. Let the bone-chilling hatred of a single instant be diffused into the long span of Time, as petals adrift upon the breeze. In a single, extraordinary moment, the youth, whose very body became the instrument, strummed strings that once belonged solely to the Master of Time. Even the Mother of the Thousand Winds was stunned, her eyes falling briefly upon the desolate northern lands. That violent, fleeting storm transformed into a thousand-year-long poem of wind and hue, Into breezes caressing clear springs and fragrant fruit wines, into the distant songs of pines and pastoral melodies across viridescent fields. It became the sword that pierced both royal blood and venomous dragons, it became the solemn vows of old, and the sighs of lovers. At the break of dawn, the symphony of a thousand years began its first note. Its name is Mondstadt, and all who hold freedom in their hearts are its musicians. But the flesh and blood of the first to strike the strings could not carry the weight of a nation's song. The great symphony, summoning the usurped power of time, poured a moment's burning fury into a thousand-year instant. The bard's body fell with the collapsing tower, and the name that ought to have endured was swept away by the winds of time. Like frail snows melting upon the breath of spring, it was lost beyond recall of both memory and voice. Only that tiny wind spirit, on the day when the Mother of Time and Wind bestowed her authority, Claimed silently a strand of time from bygone days, along with the name that even the reversal of years could not save. "My dear friend, take now this breeze of a thousand years, and with it, a yearning for joy, and dreams of liberty." "Do not grieve for me. While the winds still blow, folk shall sing as I once did, of their hope for tomorrow."

That was a barren age of old, a past when gentle spring winds had yet to melt ice and snow. Cups of azure had never held sweet wine; naught but bitter songs flowed from mortal lips. The taciturn archer loosed the last arrow at the tyrant, spilling her lifeblood to pierce the unyielding wind-wall. The chorus of defiance swelled, and the breeze surged into a tempestuous tide, striking deep into the heart of the lone king. Thus should have ended the rebellion of mortals against gods, for the Lord of the Storm was cast down from his high tower. Yet, before the heroes breaking free from their bonds could mourn their fallen comrades, A wild storm gathered, fraught with malice to engulf all who were granted a new life. That was the final lament of the tyrant — forsaken by all, his delusions unmade — amidst the wreckage of his throne. Even the frailest of gods, clinging to resentment as their end nears, can topple the mightiest strongholds wrought by mortal hands. Let alone the God King himself, whose might could sever frost and snow, cleave mountains asunder with winds of wrath, and fell drakes with a single arrow. Those who had poured every ounce of their strength into the strife of godslaying could now no longer stay the unforeseen woe. The hope newly kindled upon the ruins seemed destined to be devoured by the wrathful storm, ushering in utter desolation. At the very instant when roaring annihilation was about to strike, what came into view of the sprite, the knight, and all beneath the tower... ...Was the boy, frail of form and unskilled in war. He strode into the raging wind while his fingers danced upon the strings of his lyre. Never before has any song revealed the hidden secret of that hour, nor has any poem probed its truth. The wind, which had teeth to rend the very bones of the earth, fell abruptly silent. Later devotees would call it a miracle. None but the exalted God of Songs knows the words inscribed before the dawn...

Blood-red wine gleamed in golden cups, water-hued jade lay upon pale braids. Bare feet no longer treaded slivers of silver snow; only slivered silver fell about her feet like snow. Beneath the shadow of the towering spire, amidst a prison of delusive enchantment, the huntress believed herself cherished by a tyrant. Consider the wandering craftsman who proffered to her a mechanical singing bird of pure gold, begging only for his life. Both his hands were shorn by her King's cold, sharp wind, lest such a toy ever be made again for another's delight. When the bloodline, steeped in ancient ignorance, bowed down to the wrathful wind, offering her like a sacrifice to the king of the spire, The huntress, who once roosted with owls on withered boughs and danced with hawks across the plains, Knew not that the Lord of Wind, feared by all, would elevate her to the place of favored counsel, so skilled was she with the bow. Before she met her king, she knew not the tenderness of love, nor the searing sting of hate. Before she met her king, no human heart had ever stirred the huntress treading the plains. If there are those born with dreams of kindness and liberty, yearning to cleave the wind-wrought wall of desolation with their song, And if even gods may be ensnared by their own delusion and conceit, doomed to drown in the barren dream called eternity, Then there are those, born wanting, only able to fill their hollow hearts with blind devotion. "My beloved master... Save you, none have shown me gentle dreams." "Neither the kiss of waves upon sand, nor greenwood's embrace of verdant earth." The fierce wind never reflected the suffering of cowering ants, And she beheld none but the lonely figure of the God King. For her master and savior, who taught her the meaning of love, It was fitting that those fearful, loathing eyes were quenched. However— It mattered not the victories she offered to her king, How many throats she pierced in his dungeons, How many rebel villages lay in ruins, How many times whispers were gently spoken in his ear... The king, enthroned atop the spire, crowned by the fierce wind, Who scorned, oppressed, and indulged each of his subjects, Never poured upon her the love he spoke of. Never was he miserly in the love given to the commoners — That fierce wind that could tear mortal flesh. Awoken from blind devotion, she realized she was the only one who spoke with sincerity. From the first meeting, and all the days between, Her likeness was never mirrored in the depths of his eyes. Yes, yes, if even dances offered beneath the veil of wind and gentle whispers could not earn her a moment of his gaze, If all bloodied glory and the delight of slaughter could not make him look only upon her... Then let his gaze linger forever upon the moment her image was seared into it. This she could grasp, the sole treasure worthy of repaying the King's love. This alone, of all that he had shown, might rightly be named as love indeed. For he spoke of love, but was only accompanied by razor winds. "My beloved master... Save you, my heart shall love no other." "So I beg you — look only upon me, none but me." — Thus spoke one, a mortal knowing naught of love, to a god who could not know it. Even in the moment they tore each other apart, neither had ever truly known the other's heart.