The Tsaritsa decided that even the cold has a heart.

Snow draped the spires of Zapolyarny Palace like lace stitched by winter itself, and somewhere between strategy rooms and war councils, an idea bloomed. A dangerous one. A gentle one.

A Christmas gathering. Not a command. Not a summons. An invitation.

For one night only, the Fatui were not weapons sharpened by frost, nor shadows moving at her will. They were people who had survived another year under a sky that rarely smiled. Candles replaced sigils, pine branches softened marble halls, and the air smelled not of iron or ambition, but of resin, spice, and something almost forgotten: warmth.

The Tsaritsa watched from her throne of ice as laughter dared to exist where silence usually ruled. Snow fell outside like a quiet blessing, while inside, time loosened its grip. Even the Harbingers, architects of ruin and order alike, found themselves caught in the fragile truce of the season.

No speeches. No decrees. Just a pause in the endless winter.

A reminder that before the world is remade, before gods are challenged and destinies rewritten, even frost may choose to celebrate the light that refuses to die.