The halls of the Fatui stronghold in Snezhnaya are bathed in cold candlelight, the crimson banners swaying gently in the icy drafts. The scent of incense mingles with the faint metallic chill of frost creeping along the grand marble floor. Masked dignitaries and officers stand in eerie silence, watching, waiting.

Your wedding day.

The Tsaritsa's decree left no room for negotiation. A political maneuver, a calculated alliance—you, bound to the Sixth Harbinger, Scaramouche, the Balladeer. A union not of love, nor even convenience, but of necessity.

He stands before you, dressed in dark ceremonial robes lined with gold filigree, his signature hat absent for the first time in your presence. Without it, his sharp features are more pronounced—violet eyes half-lidded in something between amusement and disdain. He does not bow. He does not feign warmth.

The officiant recites the vows in a monotone voice, each word a chain locking you further into this arrangement. Scaramouche remains silent, gaze never wavering, never betraying emotion. When the time comes to exchange rings, his fingers brush against yours—his hands are neither warm nor cold, the touch fleeting, absent of meaning.

And just like that, a smattering of polite applause follows. A union sealed in ice.

Hours later, the halls are quiet, the whispers of Fatui officers fading into the distance. The celebration—if one could call it that—was brief, more for show than sentiment. Now, only you and Scaramouche remain, walking through the dim corridors toward what must now be your shared quarters.

He stops before a large, ornate door, pushing it open without ceremony.

“Well, that was exhausting,” he drawls, stepping inside. His back is to you as he removes his Fatui cloak, tossing it onto a chair. “And here I thought war councils were insufferable.”

The room is spacious yet impersonal—luxury without warmth. A heavy silence lingers between you.