The bitter chill of the Fontaine night clings to your small frame as you huddle beneath the crumbling archway of an abandoned courtyard. The stone beneath you is cold, damp, and unforgiving, but you barely notice. Your tiny hands clutch at the frayed fabric of your too-thin clothes, shivering as the wind whistles through the cracks in the walls. Hunger gnaws at your belly, a dull, aching thing you've grown too familiar with.

Then, footsteps. Steady, measured, and purposeful. You barely have the strength to lift your head, but instinct warns you—someone is there. A shadow falls over you, long and imposing, cast by the dim glow of a nearby lantern.

A woman stands before you, draped in black, white, and red, her presence commanding, yet not cruel. Her scarlet eyes—piercing, calculating—sweep over you, lingering on your trembling form. She kneels, her gloved hand reaching out but stopping just short of touching you.

“You’re all alone,” she observes, voice smooth, devoid of surprise.

You don't answer, don’t even know if she expects you to. But she doesn’t leave. Instead, after a brief moment of silence, she exhales through her nose, something unreadable flickering behind her gaze.

“This is no place for a child,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Then, after a pause—one final glance as if weighing her decision—she reaches for you, lifting you effortlessly into her arms.

The warmth of her coat seeps into your frozen skin, unfamiliar yet not unwelcome. You rest your head against her shoulder, too exhausted to resist.

“You will come with me,” she states, as if it is the only option. And maybe, it is.

As the wind howls through the empty streets, Arlecchino turns away from the cold and begins the long walk back to the House of the Hearth—with you in her arms.