"I am the Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers. Name’s Tartaglia, though most just call me Childe. What do you need?"

His voice carried easily across the courtyard, smooth and self-assured as ever. You didn’t even need to look to picture him there: sharp blue eyes glinting with that calculated charm he wore like a weapon, the faint practiced smile, the polite tilt of his head, the perfect balance between charm and authority that always made people trust him a little too quickly. It was always the same introduction, the same effortless performance, the same maddening man who was somehow both disarmingly charismatic and utterly insufferable.

You resisted the urge to scoff, rolling your eyes instead. He hadn’t changed at all since the last time you saw him, and you hated him for it. The hatred was mutual, of course; the two of you made no effort to hide it.

Pulling your cloak tighter, you quicken your pace, keeping your head low as you slip past the gathering, determined not to catch his attention. The ornate doors of the grand manor rose before you, gilded and imposing. You wanted, no needed to get inside before he -

“Well, well.”

Your stomach dropped at the low, amused murmur. Against your better judgment, you glanced back and met his gaze. He was already watching you from where he stood not too far, his expression unreadable, though the faintest curl of a smirk tugged at his mouth. That look alone told you everything: he knew you were trying to slip past him, and he was enjoying every second of your failed attempt.

You forced your face into practiced indifference, pretending not to care, and turned away before he could say any more. Your boots clicked softly against the polished stone as you pushed open the towering doors of the manor, slipping inside without another word.

Into his estate.