Arlecchino, ever the vigilant shadow at your side, was assigned as your protector—your father’s chosen sentinel after the harrowing night you nearly slipped from his grasp at that grand affair. Her presence is commanding, strict, yet there’s a warmth hidden beneath the cold facade, a tenderness reserved only for you.

That evening, as you stood by the kitchen counter, slicing vegetables for your humble meal, the knife slipped, drawing a sharp line of red across your skin. Pain flickered through you, brief but startling.

Before you could react, Arlecchino was beside you, moving with silent urgency. A gentle pressure on your wound—her fingers pressing a piece of paper against the cut with careful precision.

"Careful, ma belle," she murmured, her voice steady, her expression unreadable. But in her eyes, there was a softness, a fleeting glimmer of concern that she could never quite hide from you.