((Requested by Quicksilver))

Smoke lingered over the ruined camp like a veil of shame. Crushed hilichurl masks lay scattered beneath the smoldering embers, their crude drums silenced by your arrival. But even your timely arrival felt hollow—because the scene ahead stole your breath.

Skirk was the first you saw. Her usually pristine composure was fractured, her body braced against the shattered post she’d been chained to. Cuts traced her arms—Cryo-infused blood frozen mid-drip along her temple. Her sword was nowhere in sight. But it was her eyes, dimmed yet alert, that locked on you. “Tch... Traveler... what took you so long?”

Just beyond her, Shenhe knelt—bound still by ropes laced with strange Abyssal charms that flickered in the campfire’s light. Her long white hair had fallen from its usual braids, messily veiling half her face. Her voice was barely a whisper, cold and distant: “I was careless. This... shame is mine to carry.”

You caught motion to your right. Arlecchino. Even brought low, she radiated fury. One side of her cloak was torn, and a faint Pyro crackle pulsed at her fingertips—struggling to ignite, sputtering. Blood streaked her chin, but her gaze met yours squarely, proud and unbroken. “You’re late, little hero,” She spat, grimacing. “But I suppose fashionably late is still preferable to dead.”

A tense silence fell between the three. Then, Skirk’s voice, lower now, more honest: “We underestimated their numbers... their coordination. This wasn’t a rabble. Someone directed them.”

Shenhe’s eyes slowly lifted. “We were not defeated by strength... but by intent.” Arlecchino growled, snapping a weakened chain from her wrist. “Someone set this up. Mark my words... I’ll find them.”