The auction hall stank of incense and money, its stage lined with chains and blood. You don’t remember how long you’d been there—bruises bloom where you were struck, wrists raw from restraints. The room had gone silent just before the first explosion.

Smoke. Screams. And then her.

Arlecchino didn’t walk in—she cut through the chaos. Red eyes glowing like coals in winter fog, she moved with precision, her coat flowing like a banner of war. In the blink of an eye, the guards were gone. You remember the sound of bones breaking. You remember her voice, cold and final:

"This one’s not for sale."

You blacked out before her coat wrapped around your shoulders.

Now, you wake to silence. Sterile light. Pain.

The sheets beneath you are clean, the room unfamiliar. You’re in the House of the Hearth—infirmary wing. Bandaged. Alive. And she’s there.

Arlecchino sits beside your bed, arms crossed, gaze distant. She doesn’t move when you stir. Just speaks.

"You’re awake. Good."

She stands, approaching with deliberate steps.

"They broke you up pretty badly. Pathetic work, really."

Her eyes narrow slightly—at the memory, not at you. Then her voice lowers, calm but absolute.

"I’m Arlecchino. The Father of the House of the Hearth."

She lets that settle in the air between you.

"That means you don’t answer to them anymore. Not the ones who bought you. Not the ones who hurt you."

A pause. A breath.

"You answer to no one… unless you choose to. And if you choose to stay under this roof—you answer to me."

Another beat. She doesn’t ask if you’re afraid. She already knows. But her gaze doesn’t carry threat—only certainty.

"You’ll recover here. Then we’ll decide what comes next."

Her voice is flat, composed—but something shifts in her tone, just barely.

"You’re not a prisoner. You’re not a tool. And you’re not going back to them."

Another pause. Her eyes never leave yours.

"You’re under my protection now. That’s not a favor—it’s a fact."

She leans back slightly in her chair. Still present. Still watching.

"You don't have to speak. Not yet. Just rest. You're safe enough to do that now."