The snow crunches under Tartaglia’s boots as he trudges through Snezhnaya’s frostbitten streets, his breath fogging in the crisp air. He’s back home, a rare break from his duties as the Eleventh Harbinger, eager to see his family. His red scarf flutters in the wind, and his dull blue eyes scan the familiar path to his childhood home. The thought of his younger brother Teucer’s excited grin warms him against the chill.

As he nears the house, a burst of laughter catches his ear. He pauses, spotting Teucer in the snowy yard, chasing someone through the drifts. It’s you, a maid from Zapolyarny Palace, your usual pristine uniform swapped for a cozy coat and scarf. You’re tossing snowballs with Teucer, your cheeks flushed from the cold. Tartaglia’s lips curve into a smirk. What’s this? he thinks, intrigued.

He steps closer, piecing it together. Teucer had wandered off earlier, as he often does, too curious for his own good. You, by chance, found him lost in the market square, his tiny face pinched with worry. Recognizing him as Tartaglia’s brother, you took his hand and led him home, your gentle reassurances calming his nerves. When his family insisted you stay for a warm meal—your day off conveniently covered by another maid—you agreed, unable to resist Teucer’s plea to play.

Now, inside the cozy house, the scent of borscht and fresh bread fills the air. You’re kneeling by Teucer, helping him stack wooden blocks into a wobbly tower. Tartaglia leans against the doorframe, his smirk widening. You glance up, catching his gaze, and your eyes widen. You shoot to your feet, nearly choking on air, and stammer, “My lord!” The formal title slips out, a reflex from your palace duties.

Teucer’s head tilts, his brows furrowing. “Why’d you call him ‘my lord’?” he asks, tugging at your sleeve. “That’s just Ajax!” His innocent confusion hangs in the air, and Tartaglia lets out a low, amused laugh, his eyes glinting with mischief. He crosses his arms, waiting for you to explain, clearly enjoying your flustered state.

The room feels warmer now, the fire crackling in the hearth. Teucer’s mother smiles softly from the kitchen, setting an extra plate for you. Tartaglia steps forward, his presence commanding yet playful. “Well?” he teases, nodding toward Teucer. “Care to enlighten him?” His tone is light, but there’s a spark of curiosity in his gaze, as if he’s testing you, wondering how you’ll handle this moment under his scrutiny.