The Alcor cut through the final stretch of open sea before the jagged coastline of Natlan rose like a crown of fire and obsidian. Smoke curled from distant peaks, the air already thick with sulfur and the faint metallic tang of molten rock. Boreas and Elowen pressed against the railing, eyes wide—never had they seen a land that breathed flame so openly.

  Mavuika awaited them at the main harbor of Stadium of the Sacred Flame, arms crossed, her crimson hair flickering like living fire. She wore her full battle regalia: armor etched with ancient glyphs, a great claymore slung across her back that seemed forged from the heart of a volcano itself. Her gaze swept over the group, lingering longest on Varka.

  “Grand Master of Mondstadt,” she called, voice carrying easily over the crash of waves and distant eruptions. “You bring your family to the land of warriors. Good. I’ve been waiting to test the man who once stared down Celestia.”

  Varka laughed, deep and booming, stepping onto the dock with Nicole at his side and the twins trailing close behind. “Pyro Archon. I’ve heard tales of your arena. Care to make one of them true?”

  The crowd that had gathered—tribal warriors, merchants, young fighters in training—erupted into cheers. Word spread like wildfire: The Mightiest Knight of Boreas versus the War Goddess of Flames. The colosseum awaited.

  By midday, the Stadium of the Sacred Flame was packed to bursting. Stone tiers rose in concentric rings around the vast central arena, every seat filled with spectators from every tribe. Banners of crimson and gold snapped in the hot wind; drums pounded a relentless rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the earth itself. Kinich lounged near the front row with Ajaw perched on his shoulder, muttering sarcastic commentary. Citlali watched from a shaded overhang, arms folded, expression unreadable. Xilonen tapped her claws idly against the stone, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Iansan bounced on her toes beside Ororon, already shouting encouragement.

  Mavuika entered first—striding through flames that parted for her like water—drawing a roar from the stands. Varka followed, claymore in hand, cloak billowing. The twins sat in the front row with Nicole, Alice, Klee, the Traveler, Paimon, and the rest of their traveling companions. Boreas gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles whitened; Elowen’s small hands summoned tiny protective breezes around them both.

  The duel began without preamble.

  Mavuika struck first—her claymore igniting into a blazing arc that scorched the air. Varka met it with a sweeping Anemo gale that scattered sparks like dying stars. They circled, tested, then collided in earnest.

  The arena shook.

  Varka’s strikes were precise, powerful, every swing carrying the weight of years commanding Mondstadt’s winds. Mavuika fought like wildfire—unpredictable, relentless, turning defense into offense with terrifying speed. Flames roared up in walls; Varka shattered them with vortexes that howled like winter storms. The crowd surged to their feet with every clash—cheers, gasps, rhythmic stomping that made the stone tremble.

  For long minutes they were equals. Then Mavuika feinted low, spun, and unleashed a torrent of molten rock that forced Varka back. He countered with a massive Anemo burst that extinguished the flames—but the effort left him open for half a heartbeat. Mavuika’s blade found its mark—not lethal, but decisive. A shallow cut across his shoulder, singed edges smoking.

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  Varka staggered, then dropped to one knee, claymore planted in the ground for support.

  The stadium exploded.

  Mavuika lowered her weapon, breathing hard, a fierce grin splitting her face. “You fight like a storm given form, Wolf. But fire burns hotter.”

  The crowd chanted her name—then, unexpectedly, Varka’s too. Respect, not pity.

  Boreas and Elowen were already vaulting over the barrier before Nicole could stop them.

  “You hurt our father!” Boreas shouted, teary azure eyes blazing.

  Elowen stepped forward beside him, winds coiling protectively. “We want to fight you too!”

  The stadium fell into stunned silence—then erupted again, this time with delighted, incredulous laughter.

  Mavuika blinked, then threw her head back and laughed—a sound like cracking thunder. “Little ones with such fire in their hearts? I like you already.” She sheathed her claymore and crouched to their level. “I didn’t mean to wound pride. Your father fought honorably. But if you want to ‘avenge’ him…” She smirked. “Earn an Ancient Name. The old ones—titles carried by the bravest of Natlan’s children. Prove yourselves worthy, and I’ll grant them to you myself. As apology—and as welcome.”

  Before anyone could protest, the ground shuddered.

  Not from the duel.

  Dark fissures tore open at the arena’s edge—Abyssal corruption seeping upward in black tendrils, hissing like venom. Hilichurls warped by the void poured through, followed by larger shapes: Rifthounds, Abyss Mages, a towering Shadowy Husk.

  The crowd’s cheers turned to battle cries.

  Mavuika straightened instantly. “Not on my watch.”

  The Traveler drew their sword without hesitation. “We’re with you.”

  Varka rose, shoulder still smoking, but grin fierce. “Family affair now.”

  Klee bounced on her toes. “Yay! Bomb time!” “Oh my!” Alice as she watched from the sidelines.

  But it was the twins who moved first.

  Boreas closed his eyes—visions flashing: weak points in the corruption, paths the monsters would take. “Left flank—three mages hiding behind the pillars! Right side—Rifthounds charging the stands!”

  Elowen raised her hands. Gentle winds rose, then sharpened—coalescing into barriers that deflected incoming projectiles, guiding allies into perfect position. She shaped gusts that funneled Abyss creatures into kill zones, making them easy targets for Kinich’s attacks, Citlali’s cryo bursts, Xilonen’s kicks.

  The Traveler carved through the front line; Varka and Mavuika fought back-to-back, a storm of Anemo and Pyro that incinerated everything between them. Klee’s bombs—carefully aimed under Alice’s supervision—blasted clusters of hilichurls into harmless sparks.

  Within minutes the disturbance collapsed in on itself, the fissures sealing with a final, angry hiss.

  Silence fell—then cheers louder than before.

  Mavuika turned to the twins, sweat-streaked and beaming. She knelt again, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.

  “You didn’t just help,” she said. “You turned the tide. Little Boreas—your sight saved lives today. Fair Elowen—your winds protected the innocent. When the time is right—when you’ve walked more of your destinies—you’ll earn those Ancient Names. I swear it on the flames of Natlan.”

  Boreas puffed out his chest. Elowen smiled shyly. “We’ll come back,” she promised. “And we’ll be ready.”

  Mavuika ruffled their hair. “I’ll be waiting.”

  As the sun dipped behind smoking peaks, the family gathered at the stadium’s edge—bruised, exhilarated, whole.

  Varka pulled Nicole close. “Our children just fought beside an Archon.”

  Nicole laughed softly. “And held their own. I’ve never felt so proud of them.”

  Paimon floated overhead, arms full of victory spoils—skewers, fruit, shiny trinkets. “Paimon declares this the best trip ever!”

  The Traveler smiled quietly. “One more nation down.”

  Klee hugged her backpack. “Next time—bigger bombs!”

  Under Natlan’s crimson sky, the family stood together—stronger, brighter, forged anew in fire and wind.

  The road home beckoned.

  But for now, they basked in the glow of a victory shared—and the promise of names yet to be earned.