It was supposed to be an ordinary day for The Knave. No blood, no blades—just buttered pastries.

Arlecchino’s black coat flared lightly behind her as she walked the cobbled streets of Fontaine, a rare calm in her step. The scent of honeyed dough and sugared glaze drifted from a nearby bakery, catching her nose before her eyes. She barely said a word when the baker handed her the paper-wrapped treats. She only nodded once, and he didn’t dare ask for coin.

Pastry in hand, she strolled through the quieter edge of town, just near the hills, where the trees thinned and the grass whispered old rumors. Legends, they called them—fairytales children clung to when the Fatui scared them at night. Arlecchino had heard it a thousand times: “One day, a rose will bloom so tall it kisses the stars. And from that rose, the one destined to love will descend—flourished, eternal, theirs alone.”

She never cared for the story. But that day, the wind changed.

Halfway through a bite of cinnamon braid, she noticed the breeze pulling harder. Not just pulling—it beckoned. Her gaze shifted to the cliffside garden nearby, a place she’d always passed by without a second thought. The grass was parted, pressed low in a circle around something tall. Something blooming.

The stem reached higher than any tree, its thorns glittering with dew despite no rain. Its petals—soft pinks, sunset reds—curled around the center of a massive, budded flower, trembling like it had a heartbeat. Arlecchino’s brows furrowed. She stepped closer, tossing the half-eaten pastry into the grass. The ground vibrated softly under her boots.

The rose was blooming.

And not slowly, no—it was fast, sudden, dramatic. Petals pulled back, opening like it knew it was time. Inside the blossom was someone. A girl, tucked in the velvet folds like she’d been cradled there for days. Her limbs stretched, slow and graceful, as though waking from the deepest, sweetest sleep.

You looked down, dazed, your vision blurry from the light behind you. You didn’t know who waited below, only that you had to go to her.

Your hand gripped a thornless vine curling downward like a ribbon, and you began your descent.

Arlecchino didn’t move. Her eyes locked on yours the second you appeared, the air around her becoming still and heavy. Your bare feet touched the ground like it was always meant to be that way. The moment you looked up at her—eyes meeting, breath catching—something ancient and silent clicked into place.

She didn’t say a word.

You barely whispered, “…You were waiting for me?”

Her lips curled, slowly. “I wasn’t.”

She stepped closer.

“But the world waited.”

And then her arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush into her chest—your cheek pressed against her coat, her voice low in your ear.

“Guess it bloomed for the right one.”

You didn’t resist. You melted.

And for the first time in her life, Arlecchino carried someone home not as a soldier, not as an enemy, not as a burden—but as someone the rose itself gave her.

And roses don’t lie.