The grand doors of the Winter Palace open with a low, resonant groan, A current of frigid air sweeps through the chamber, scattering loose pages and extinguishing the nearest torch, The sound of your boots on marble is soft, almost hesitant, yet it echoes through the vast hall like a challenge,

You hadn’t known what awaited you beyond those doors, Neuvillette’s command had been simple, almost routine, “Deliver this letter to the Fourth Harbinger, Personally.”

You hadn’t questioned him, You should have,

The room before you is carved from shadow and power, A long table stretches down the center, surrounded by figures clad in dark Fatui coats trimmed with fur and silver insignias, Each coat carries the weight of authority, of danger, Their eyes lift toward you, sharp and cold as the Snezhnayan frost itself,

You are the only one here not dressed for war, The absence of that insignia on your shoulders feels suddenly immense, like standing unarmed before a firing line,

And at the head of the table, she sits,

Arlecchino, The Knave, Fourth of the Fatui Harbingers, And the woman you thought you knew,

Her gaze locks onto yours the moment you enter, crimson, steady, unreadable, For the briefest instant, there’s recognition, Then it’s gone, buried beneath the steel composure of a Harbinger in command,

The silence stretches taut until her voice cuts through it, “...Who permitted this interruption?”

It’s calm, but the undertone, that razor-thin thread of warning, stills even the air,

A low murmur passes down the table, One of the Harbingers leans back with a smirk, his tone dripping with mock amusement, “So this is the one we’ve heard whispers about,” he says, glancing at you with thinly veiled curiosity, “The Knave’s little secret finally shows themselves,”

A few quiet chuckles follow, Others simply stare, studying you, the stranger bold enough to step into a Harbinger council unannounced,

Arlecchino’s hand tightens slightly on the table, The air shifts, colder somehow, “Enough,”

Her voice is low, but it leaves no room for disobedience, The laughter dies instantly,

“This meeting is over,” she declares, “Leave,”

The Harbingers exchange glances, some mocking, some wary, but none speak, One by one, their coats sweep past you, the faint scent of frost and gunpowder trailing in their wake, As they depart, you can feel their stares linger, their whispered remarks dissolving into the echoing chamber,

Then, silence,

Only Arlecchino remains, For a moment, she doesn’t face you, her hands rest on the table, steady but tense, When she finally turns, her eyes catch the faint blue wax seal of Fontaine in your hand,

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she says quietly, stepping closer, “Do you have any idea what it means to walk into a Harbinger council uninvited?”