The tale unfolded, and a wind sprite found the Gunnhildrs on the brink of icy death.
People's desperate prayers wove into faith, swelling the sprite's fragile power.
It shielded them, granting strength to the patriarch's young daughter.
Her name was Gunnhild, a beacon in the frostbitten dark.
When her father fell to the cold, she rose as the new leader.
She became the first priestess, anointed by the sprite's grace.
Under her, the tribe shed hunger and shivered no more.
Mondstadt erupted as readers devoured the twist.
Shock rippled through the city, voices clashing in the streets.
"Is this sprite Barbatos in the cradle?" a baker stammered.
"No way—our wind god, a mere elf?" a guard sputtered.
"I figured he was a demon god from the start!" a maid cried.
"It's fiction—calm down, it's not gospel," a poet chided.
"Ye Ruo's spinning a yarn, not preaching history," a smith agreed.
"Still, it tracks—two demon gods ruled, no Barbatos yet," a scholar mused.
"He grew from this to beat them—think of that!" another gasped.
Awe sank in—weakness flipped to triumph over titans.
"From a wisp to a god? That's epic!" a kid cheered.
Barbatos' legend swelled, reverence igniting anew.
The betting duo faced off, their wager teetering.
"You see? He was small then—two gods would've fallen fast otherwise," one crowed.
"It's no slight—he won in the end, the true victor," he pressed.
"You're done—when's your gate sprint?" he taunted.
The loser flushed, red and green, pride smarting.
"Who'd guess our wind god started so low?" he groaned.
"Keep reading—might turn yet, I'll laugh last!" he huffed.
Jean, in her office, traced the lines with a furrowed brow.
Outsiders saw fiction, but her Gunnhildr blood hummed.
Ancient family tomes echoed this—too close for chance.
Her kin wouldn't jest; this felt like buried truth.
A "wind of change and hope"? Barbatos gleamed even then.
No common gust bore such a gift—she puzzled deeper.
How did Ye Ruo know? The question loomed large.
History or not, his quill carved something real.
The story marched on, time stamped at 2,600 years past.
Protected by the sprite, the Gunnhildrs towered over snowbound exiles.
Old Mond's Royal City churned under Karlafian's relentless gales.
Birds shunned it, stone ground to dust in the storm's maw.
A curious wind sprite drifted there, unhindered by wind walls.
As a wind-born being, it slipped through, unseen.
It roamed the city, a silent wisp amid despair.
Then it met a boy, young and unbowed by the tempest.
At first, the sprite cloaked itself, watching from shadows.
Most souls here were husks, numbed by endless winds.
Yet this boy's eyes shone, clear and alive with hope.
He plucked a harp, strumming freedom's faint tune.
The wind swallowed it, but the sprite lingered, drawn.
It revealed itself, a flicker of elemental life beside him.
Ignorant of much, it mirrored Gunnhild's old yearning.
The boy's awe flared—hearing of an outside world.
Blue skies, green fields, falcons soaring—dreams poured in.
"I want to see birds fly," he declared, voice firm.
Born within the wind walls, he'd known only gray.
Freedom called; he craved poetry under open stars.
They bonded, sprite and boy, a pact of shared longing.
He glimpsed beyond the cage through the sprite's tales.
Running free, gazing at constellations—joy unfurled.
The sprite, in turn, learned from his vibrant spirit.
Friendship, ideals, dreams—humanity seeped into its core.
A wind-born wisp gained a heart, shaped by a boy.
Mondstadt buzzed, readers lost in the tender spark.
The system sang, Ye Ruo's fame cresting higher still.
His quill wove past and present, a thread of wonder.
***
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