Dozens of people are lined up in neat rows and columns as they pass through the main road that could, potentially, lead them all the way to the colossal tower at the very center of the city. Venti stood at the edges of the moving crowd. He stands beneath the cloth of a wooden tent set up along the road. He keeps his head down, his eyes sometimes darting to the Tempestas guards intermittently placed in the crowd like shepherds guiding sheep. He looks back down at his hands when he feels someone's gaze on his back. He wasn't sure if it was a Tempestas guard or if it was one of the members of the crowd, but he knew that they were all liable to ruin him. He wasn't simply harboring an instrument hidden in the back folds of his ratty shawl, but he was also keeping a small wind elemental. Both were reasons for him to be thrown in prison. The former would lead to his execution, and the latter would certainly lead to his torture. Like most sane people, Venti didn't want to be imprisoned, die, or suffer through torture.

Unlike most sane people, he did not discard his instrument or the wind elemental despite being keenly aware how this was going to play out should he be caught.

Venti ran dull red apples through a basin of freezing cold water. His fingers were beginning to squirm like broken cogs. His scars were an ugly shade of red compared to the paleness of his skin. His attention kept getting drawn to them. He supposed it was a good thing. It kept him from forgetting that he was merely a servant helping his superiors sell fruit to listless crowds and emotionless storm spirits. He was not an illegal, daring bard who sang about the worlds beyond the Anemo wall as if he had truly seen it firsthand. He enjoyed being that person, but he was smart enough to know that his nightly escapades should not leak into his daily affairs.

The wind elemental, perhaps, had not yet learned the way of his world. The creature was practically buzzing in the shadowy spaces between Venti's shawl and his shirt. He could barely afford a moment to tell the elemental to remain still and silent. He had so many fruits to wash. The crowd continued to move, grabbing their bags and dropping their coins. The Tempestas marched onward to their master's tower. His superiors kept glancing over at him, and one of them was holding the same stick that caused the scars on his hand. Venti took a deep breath, continuing to scrub the apples.

The elemental had not spoken to Venti yet, so he didn't know the creature's true name. Venti decided to call the elemental 'Elf', and it seemed the windy cloth did not mind the name one bit. Another thing Elf didn't mind was music. Venti would play his lyre, and Elf would dance in the air like a leaf floating in the wind. Most of Elf's movements were accompanied by a jingling noise similar to twinkling bells, and it usually enhanced Venti's music instead of distracting from it. Venti just wished he could share his new music with someone. Hannah's bar had not opened up again, and Venti couldn't find anyone else willing to risk it. He was lucky that the elemental was willing to be his audience.

He was also lucky that Elf was willing to be his muse. With the power of Anemo, Venti was allowed to catch snippets of places he had never been before. His senses could not pick up on anything, but his mind would be filled with emotions that were never his. He felt the sense of belonging that came from being a traveling wind in a sky full of other winds. There was something truly special about being part of a crowd like that, being unique and of something greater. Venti did not know a single thing about the sky or being wind, but he felt like he was there in his beating heart. It was enlightening and humbling. He found that the only way to put it into words was to put it into song.

"Venti!" A voice snapped. The servant looked up sharply, hoping that he hadn't been caught slacking off as his mind drifted back to the most recent poem he had been writing. Luckily, he didn't feel any pain as he lifted his hands out of the basin with an apple held against his palm. The servant in charge of the daily trips down to the market was Aart. He wasn't the nicest person, but he was by far the most merciful boss. He gave Venti the slightest amount of slack, and Venti appreciated it more than he would ever verbally tell Aart. "The work day is over. We're cleaning up now. Finish up with the few apples you have now, and then help Bernhold sort the remaining fruit into crates."

Aart walked away from the tent with a handful of scrolls in his arms. Although he didn't tell Venti what he was doing, Venti knew. At the end of every workday, the person in charge of any particular tent was tasked with reporting all of their sales and earnings to the taxman stationed at the market sitting in his stone cylinder. Aart was one of the few servants who knew how to read, write, and do arithmetic. Venti could read and write, but he was hopeless with numbers. He could understand addition and subtraction with simple numbers, but once it got bigger or more complex, he had no idea what he was doing.

Bernhold could not read or write. It wasn't because he wasn't smart. He was one of the smartest people Venti knew, but he was never given a formal education. None of them were given a formal education. Venti was lucky enough that the daughter of the family he served did not like doing homework, and he was tasked with doing it for her until her tutors found out. Aart used to be a servant of a high-ranking noble family. When that family fell, the Deichert family graciously accepted him even though he was probably smarter than most of that family's advisors. Perhaps it was his schooling from another family that made Aart into the kind-hearted person he was today.

"Get your head out of the clouds, boy," Bernhold said with a gruff tone. Venti glared at Bernhold's back as he finished polishing off the last apple. Bernhold and Venti had a complex relationship. Bernhold's expressions and mannerisms made it seem like he hated Venti, and why wouldn't he? Bernhold was pragmatic and ill-tempered where Venti was imaginative and social. There were many times when Bernhold would lecture Venti about proper behaviors as he dragged Venti away from whatever shady place he was trying to go in order to play music. But those actions made it clear that he liked Venti to some degree. He had never revealed to anyone that Venti played music illegally or that he wrote poetry in his spare time. None of their superiors ever found out that Venti had snuck out of the mansion. He didn't make Venti do any extra work or pay him for his silence. The worst he had ever done was manhandled Venti gruffly as he dragged the bard around, and really, it could be a lot worse.

"I am plenty aware of the dim and dull reality we live in. Why not allow me a moment to stow away to the colorful world hidden just beyond the clouds?" Venti complained, rising to his feet to stand right beside Bernhold's side. They were sorting fruit into crates based on two factors: what type of fruit they were and how rotten they were. As a way of saving money, the Deichert family implemented a system where most fruit could be preserved. Only the most rotten goods could be thrown away. Those with a little bit of rot or mold were left at the bottom of the crates, and the freshest fruits were positioned at the top for consumers to find and buy. Venti didn't like the system, but his opinions held no sway over the minds of his masters. He had never even met some of them, only a third daughter that would inherit nothing but marriage prospects.

"Don't say that. The Tempestas guards are still here," Bernhold told him sharply. Venti imagined that if Bernhold's voice was a physical item, it would be a claymore. A heavy sword with force behind it, but it was also sharp enough to cut through dummies and, though he had never personally seen it, flesh. Venti compared his own voice to the lyre. It was a little high-pitched, wispy in places. Aart's voice was like a long, nearly endless road. It was uniform and monotone, stretching to the horizon like an undefined promise. There weren't many nuances; at least, none that Venti could hear.

"For what reason do they have to listen to little ole' me?" Venti asked with a breathy laugh lingering at the tip of his tongue. Although he asked that question with an expression of innocence, he could feel the cold press of his lyre into his back and the quiet fluttering of Elf at his side beneath his shawl.

Bernhold patted Venti on the back. It was a simple, friendly gesture, but Venti's eyes widened. Bernhold had pinpointed exactly where his lyre was. Granted, it wasn't the smallest instrument so it could have been a lucky guess, but it still alarmed him to find out that Bernhold knew him so well. Bernhold whispered with a voice that sounded like a blade slicing through skin, "Music in any form is against the law."

"And I don't understand why. Some of the Lord of the Tower's laws I can understand. I can partially get a few. But music is one of the many I do not understand the reason for. What about playing an instrument or singing a tune angers our lord so much? Why must we stop enjoying our lives for his peeves?" Venti demanded to know in a voice just as quiet. His voice, however, was a lot more energetic like a frantic harp building up to a crescendo.

"Venti," Bernhold growled through gritted teeth, looking up from the tomato he had been sorting. A few drops of red juice dripped down the side of his hand. Venti winced as he saw how angry Bernhold was. Venti kept his head down as Bernhold continued speaking. "Do not say such a name so lightly. The Lord of the Tower is our master. He is the one that protects us from the winter storms outside, and he is what allows our nation to prosper. It does not matter what the likes of you and I think about his rules. He is a god. We are humans. That is it. That is all there will ever be."

Bernhold was not religious so much as he was realistic. Venti had seen the angry twitches on Bernhold's face when he heard new laws or was reminded of old ones. Bernhold just had enough sense as to not say a word against the Lord of the Tower. The god of storms was all-powerful. Venti's only skill was cleaning fruit and playing a lyre. Bernhold couldn't even read. The two of them wouldn't be able to do a thing against a divine entity. Bernhold had long-since accepted this fact. He had moved past it. He continued with the limitations of his life. Venti clung to his childish aspirations to see the sky, to be something greater, to explore the world beyond the Anemo walls, and bring Mondstadt back to its former glory.

"You cannot blame a man for daring to aspire for something greater. I do not need to fight the Lord of the Tower. If I was given a chance to speak with him, I am sure we could come to an agreement. He is so busy fighting the god of winter that perhaps he does not know how we suffer. If someone were to take the time to explain it, I'm sure our merciful lord that made the tower his abode will understand," Venti whispered with such assurance in his voice. He could not claim to know the god of storms. He did not know what thoughts could hold a god's mind hostage. He did not dare to imagine what worries could plague a powerful deity. He could only hope that the same words that came from Venti's mouth could be heard by the god's ears. He hoped that perhaps they could reach an understanding if they were allowed a moment to have a conversation.

Bernhold turned to Venti with something poisonous and deadly in his eyes, a command to be silent without any audible cues. Venti flinched back even though he knew that Bernhold wasn't going to hit him. It was simply an instinctual fear, but he could see the way Bernhold's face twitched at the notion of Venti taking a step back. Venti wanted to apologize, but Bernhold's attention slid away from Venti before any attempts at repentance could be made. Venti almost called out Bernhold's name, but he heard something like yelling behind him. He turned away from Bernhold to see where the yelling was coming from.

Two Tempestas guards were walking down the empty street. They floated just above the ground in iron boots meant to make them look more humane. In between them, they dragged a screaming girl. She thrashed against their hold, kicking against the smooth stone of the pedestrian street. Her eyes wildly looked around her, begging for someone to help her. The servants left cleaning up their stalls watched on with pained expressions and heavy limbs. The shudders on the windows to the buildings lining the street were slammed shut, but nothing could overtake the sound of the girl pleading and the wind howling. For one moment, her teary eyes snapped to Venti. She held his gaze, and something compelled him to take a step towards her. Bernhold grabbed Venti's shoulder, holding him in place. Elf slipped out of Venti's shawl, remaining close to his body but otherwise staring at the events presented before them.

At the end of the street, the Tempestas guards stopped moving. The two guards turned around, but not in a way that any regular human could. For a brief moment, the arms that held the girl remained firmly placed as the Tempestas guards turned around. When they steady themselves, the arms made from storm clouds reattached to their shoulders and another storm cloud shot out on their other side. Venti stared with morbid curiosity. Some part of his mind wondered what it would look like if the Tempestas were made from flesh and bone. Venti winced as that thought filled his mind, especially when the girl's body took the place of the Tempestas.

"This is what happens when you wish to speak with the Lord of the Tower," Bernhold whispered, his voice wispy and almost not there. He meant it for himself, but Venti shivered anyway, fear rippling down his spine. The god of storms and the god of winter were fighting, but they weren't the only gods in the war. There were more gods in Mondstadt, but they didn't last long. Anyone who threatened the Lord of the Tower's rule, anyone with a scrap of divinity giving them some sort of power, was quickly escorted to the Beacon. It was the large pillar made from pure energy that shot through the center tower, forming the true heart of Mondstadt. It never flickered or wavered, being the primary power source that kept the Anemo barrier up. The Beacon warded off monsters and established suitable living conditions for the mortals beneath the barrier. Although the Beacon was an extension of the Lord of the Tower's strength, sacrifices were frequently made to it in the form of divine humans who had not yet ascended.

Venti's hand lifted up to gently cusp Elf. The elemental burrowed into Venti's hand as if he somehow knew what was going to happen to that poor girl. Venti wondered if that would happen to Elf if he were caught. He was an elemental, not a god, but the potential was there. Anything with some semblance of power could become a god if it attained enough worship or found a way to Celestia.

Venti looked up sharply at the thought. No matter how fast the wind blew or how thick the Anemo energy was, the shining castle in the sky was constantly visible. The home of the gods could somehow pierce the veil. Venti knew that meant something was watching them, and it wasn't a welcome feeling. Whatever Celestia was, Venti wasn't convinced it was inherently good. If it were, why would it force the gods to fight against each other until one remained? Venti didn't know what life was like before the war started, but his master had told him a couple of stories. She sang of the times when the gods lived in harmony and humans had ultimate freedom. Even with her gone, her stories remained in Venti's head, urging him to discover for himself whether Celestia could be trusted instead of blindly believing.

"I'm going home," Venti muttered once the girl had been escorted to the highest ring of Mondstadt where all the clans lived and the lord's tower lay idle. He couldn't stand being in the street anymore. Everything nagged him in the wrong way, and he had a lot of unprocessed emotions churning in his gut. The best way to deal with it would be to write a poem that truly encompassed what was happening in his mind.

"Goodnight," Bernhold muttered, finishing up the last crate. Bernhold sat on one of the crates, probably waiting for Aart. Venti walked away. His movements were sluggish, but his breath was pulling tirelessly at his lungs. His good mood had dissipated as easily as paper being passed through the Anemo barrier. He hated feeling helpless and weak. Logically, he knew there was nothing he could do to help that girl. How was he, a bard, supposed to help a girl against two Tempestas guards, and all the other Tempestas guards that would be after her if he managed to succeed? It was worse than impossible: it was fruitless. It was doomed to failure. Venti didn't hate the impossible; he hated the inevitable.

"What a world we live in," Venti whispered into the night, standing in one of the side streets. Elf flew out of his shawl, spinning in the lukewarm air in a jingling dance. Elf possessed limited expressions considering he only had two glowing white dots in a shadowed face, but he managed to look happy. Venti wondered how Elf could be happy, but then he realized that Elf wasn't happy. He was trying to make Venti happy. Venti couldn't be certain what Elf understood, but he seemed to recognize emotions. He probably knew them better than Venti did. If a creature could not communicate in simple words, all it knew how to do was feel.

"Thank you, Elf," Venti whispered to his new friend. He lifted up one of the apples he had swiped from the crates. He was sure that Bernhold had seen him steal it, but it was one of the apples with more bruises than dull red skin. Bernhold didn't care that it was gone because no one else would want it. Venti snapped the apple in half. Apple juice dripped out of the cream-colored interior, rolling past his pinkie fingers as he lifted one half of the apple to Elf. The elemental sat on top of the apple instead of eating it, but Venti knew this was just Elf's way of eating it. Elemental spirits didn't need food; they fed off the leylines crisscrossing the world. But they could taste, and Elf loved to try new things. Venti didn't know why Elf came to Mondstadt or why he chose to save Venti. He assumed the elemental just wanted to try new things. In the same way Venti wanted to see the sky, perhaps Elf wanted to see the ground.

Venti chewed on his half of the apple as he escorted Elf home. The streets were empty. Everyone was preparing or cleaning up their quarters. Those with the capacity to care about their children or tolerate their spouses spent a few precious moments with them. Most, Venti was sure, were already asleep. The workdays were long, and they started early. It was better to get the maximum amount of sleep. Food could be eaten while working, and familial ties were not important. Sleep was a commodity as much as currency was in Mondstadt.

"Look over there, Elf," Venti whispered, pointing towards the rooftop of a large house that lifted over the stone wall separating the middle ring from the high ring. Elf seemed to be looking at where Venti pointed, so he continued talking. "That house belongs to one of the major clans. They existed long before Mondstadt was consolidated as one city-state. I could not tell you how many children they have, but I can say that they have one daughter. She has pale blonde hair like the wheat that grows from the fields. She has eyes like freshly refined steel, mostly gray with touches of blue. She gave me a gold coin to play her a song, one of freedom and glory. She promised she wouldn't tell a soul I played a song for her. Music is outlawed, and the clans of the high ring know this fact more than anyone else. But I could see it on her face. She wanted more than this birdcage we've all been put in since birth. I can only hope that she inherits her parents position so that she might petition the Lord of the Tower for our deliverance."

Venti stared at the house for a long moment, willing the daughter of the clan to climb back on her rooftop like she did a few weeks prior. It had been a chance encounter. It had been dumb luck that she asked the top of the Anemo dome for a song, and that he had been close enough to hear and brave enough to speak. He knew that it was a bad idea to tell someone from the high ring that he possessed a lyre and knew how to play it, but she looked so lonely sitting on those shingles. Venti could almost believe that he had been staring into a mirror when her eyes dipped down to meet his. How could he not play for her when she desperately needed it?

"We should get home," Venti said. He continued walking forward, going to this elusive home. He used the word vaguely and absently. He had a bed at the Deichert estate. He was given his meals there. He stored some of his belongings there. He did not believe that it truly constituted as a home. It was a permanent inn more than anything else. His true home was an abandoned building at the very edge of Mondstadt. He would crawl up to the top floor of the dilapidated tower. He could barely hear his own voice over the roar of the wind, but he knew it was better that way. No one else could hear him playing his lyre or singing a song. For once, the wind was a help rather than a hindrance. That place was his true home, but he couldn't go there. Curfew was soon, and his hands were hurt enough.