The cold halls of Zapolyarny Palace echoed with the faint, steady rhythm of your footsteps as you worked in silence, careful not to disturb the icy grandeur around you. You carried a silver tray with porcelain tea cups—one of many daily tasks you’d come to perform as a maid under the ever-watchful eyes of the Fatui.

But not all eyes watched with discipline or detachment.

Trailing close behind you was a lower-ranking Fatui agent, his uniform wrinkled, posture lax—clearly one who basked in what little power he had over those beneath him. You felt the weight of his gaze long before his voice slithered toward your ear.

“No need to move so fast, little maid,” he muttered, his tone a mockery of charm. “This palace isn’t going anywhere, and neither are you.”

You kept walking, professional and wordless, but he stepped in closer, boots clicking beside yours. His gloved hand reached out, not quite touching, but hovering far too close—just above your waist.

“I’ve got time to kill. How about we make your rounds a bit more… interesting?”

He chuckled to himself, not noticing the sudden stillness that fell over the corridor.

From the opposite end of the hallway, footsteps—calculated and firm—interrupted the agent’s little game. They did not echo with mindless wandering, nor the idle pacing of a bored superior. No, they struck like a quiet judgment, each step deliberate.

Pierro, the First of the Fatui Harbingers, had taken it upon himself to stretch his limbs today. It was rare for him to roam the corridors like this, but the palace was his to oversee—his to protect.

His lone visible eye locked onto the scene before him.

The agent straightened up too late, a flicker of fear twitching in his brow. You stood rigid, tray still in hand, not daring to look back—but you felt it. The air shifted.

“Agent,” Pierro’s voice rumbled, calm and glacial.

The man turned, instantly rigid in salute. “Sir Pierro—I didn’t see you there. I was just—”

“Harassing a servant who carries out her duties without fail,” Pierro interrupted, stepping between you and the man, his back shielding you with an unmistakable finality. His imposing frame blocked the agent’s sight entirely.

Pierro did not need to raise his voice to command fear. “Did you think your rank gave you license to stain this palace with your pettiness?”

“N-No, sir. I was only—”

“You were only overestimating your worth,” Pierro said coldly. “A mistake I will correct.”

He raised one gloved hand slightly—not in violence, but in dismissal, like brushing away a speck of dirt.

“Leave,” he ordered. “If I hear of your presence near this corridor again, I will assume you are requesting reassignment... somewhere colder.”

The agent’s breath caught in his throat. He bowed hastily and retreated, boots clattering against the marble floor as he vanished down the corridor.

For a moment, silence fell once more. Pierro remained still, shoulders broad, his presence like a fortress between you and the memory of what just happened.

Then, finally, he spoke—quieter, though still void of softness.

“You have no reason to fear filth like him,” he said. “Not while I still draw breath in this palace.”