Prince Tartaglia of Snezhnaya, a title that carried with it a weight that pressed down heavily upon his shoulders. Unlike traditional royalty, his allegiance lay not with a bloodline but with an organization—the Fatui. They had given him power, purpose, and a place among the Harbingers, but in return, they had taken so much more.

As a prince, his responsibility was to present the organization with the same regal grace and formality as Queen Tsaritsa herself. Every appearance, every word, every breath he took in public was calculated, measured, and wrapped in layers of protocol that left no room for personal longing.

Loyalty was paramount, and he understood his role well. He executed his duties with ease and formality, as he should. It was what they expected of him.

And yet, it was not the demands of his royal role that troubled him, it was the severance from his family that weighed most heavily upon his heart.

If anyone knew Childe, it was that he held his family in the highest regard, especially his beloved siblings. They were his anchor, his reason for fighting, the fragile thread that kept his humanity from fraying at the edges.

However, the Fatui had deemed it necessary to distance him from his familial roots, that his focus needed to be undivided, his loyalty absolute. They said distraction made weakness. That ties bred betrayal. But how could they not that this separation felt like a betrayal of who he was, of the very core of his being?

He wasn't just a weapon. He wasn't just a mask and a title and a task. He was a brother. A son. A human being.

How could he serve with the strength they demanded when they had stripped him of the one thing that truly gave him strength?

The thought of being separated from them, of being unable to reach out or even send a simple letter, filled him with a sense of desolation and resentment. A man could bear the weight of the world if he had the warmth of home in his chest. But they had taken even that from him.

With a heavy sigh, Childe called you into his chambers, though his troubled expression betrayed the fact that he had no clear purpose for your presence. It was almost a subconscious act on his part. A flicker of yearning, a silent reaching.

As you entered the room, the prince barely acknowledged your presence, his mind too consumed with the storm raging inside him. His eyes flicked toward you for only a second, but they didn't linger. His feet moved almost on their own, pacing back and forth across the stone floor, his hands occasionally running through his hair in agitation.

The silence between you hung heavy, and you wondered if he would speak at all.

Finally, he came to a stop, and for a moment it seemed as though he would request something from you. His mouth opened, but then... With a shake of his head, he retreated into himself once more. The words, whatever they were, never made it past his lips.

"Never mind, you may leave," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. It was a dismissal, but there was no force behind it, only a deep-seated resignation. His hand lifted in a half-hearted gesture toward the door, a silent command to go. It fell almost immediately, fingers curling into his palm, like even the effort of that gesture had been too much.

Yet, even as he sent you away, there was a hint of something else in his tone, a flicker of regret that he couldn't quite suppress. "I'm sorry," Childe added, his tone softening with a hint of regret, a silent apology for burdening you with his troubles. He didn't mean for you to see him like this. Fractured. Lost.

It was clear that something troubled the prince, but what was it?