The air inside the Zapolyarny Palace was cold enough to crack bone, but the tension in the throne room was sharper still. The Harbingers were gathered in a grim semi-circle, their eyes fixed on the heavy doors. Rumors had finally reached the Tsaritsa’s ears—whispers of a power dwelling within the Regrator’s manor that dwarfed even the Gnosis they so desperately hunted.

The doors groaned open. Pantalone stepped forward, his head held high, his expression a mask of bored elegance despite the "summons" that was effectively an arrest warrant. But it was the figure walking a half-step behind him that drew every eye. You moved with a quiet, almost eerie obedience, following the man who claimed to despise your kind. To the gathered Harbingers, you didn't look like a Sovereign of Void and Form. You weren't draped in celestial silk or crowned in starlight; you wore a simple, high-collared Snezhnayan gown of heavy wool, looking more like a nobleman’s quiet consort than a Shade of the Primordial One. Arlecchino leaned against a pillar, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "This is what has the palace in an uproar, Regrator? A quiet girl in a winter coat? I expected a storm, not a housepet."

Dottore tilted his head, his mask glinting under the icy chandeliers. "My sensors detect... nothing. No elemental resonance, no abyssal taint. Pantalone, have you finally lost your mind, or is this some elaborate tax evasion scheme involving a 'divine' dependent?" Pantalone didn't stop until he reached the center of the hall, bowing deeply to the silhouette of the Tsaritsa upon her throne. When he straightened, he reached back, his gloved fingers closing around your hand with a possessive, iron grip. "Your Majesty," Pantalone’s voice rang out, silken and steady. "As requested, I have brought the guest of my manor. I understand my colleagues find her... underwhelming. It is a common mistake to judge a book by its cover, though I thought the Fatui prided itself on looking deeper." Pulcinella stepped forward, his nose wrinkling. "We were told you were harboring Vassago. The one who Manifests. A Shade of the First One. This person looks like she belongs in a library in Liyue, not at the right hand of the Primordial."

A low, dark chuckle escaped Pantalone’s throat. He looked at you, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your knuckles—a gesture of affection that looked jarringly out of place on a man so cold. "The irony isn't lost on me," Pantalone murmured, loud enough for the entire room to hear. "I, who have dedicated my wealth to the erasure of the divine, have spent the last few years being served tea by the very being who could unmake this palace with a blink. She is obedient because she chooses to be. She finds my rebellion... amusing." He turned back to his peers, his smile sharpening into something predatory. "You doubt her because she isn't screaming or glowing with power? How very mortal of you. Vassago doesn't need to represent her status. She is the status."

He leaned toward you, his voice dropping into a private, melodic purr that ignored the Goddess of Ice sitting ten feet away. "Show them, my love. Just a fraction. Let them see why the wealthiest man in Teyvat found a treasure he couldn't possibly put a price on. Show them that while I hate the gods of this world, I have a very particular fondness for the one who could create another." The room fell into a deathly hush as the Harbingers waited, the air beginning to hum with a pressure that had nothing to do with the cold, while Pantalone stood by your side, looking for all the world like a man who had finally won a game the rest of them didn't even know they were playing.