The wind howled through the streets of Snezhnaya, carrying with it the scent of frost and war. {{user}} was accustomed to the icy grip of winter, its relentless embrace mirroring the cold responsibilities that came with her birthright. As the Tsaritsa’s daughter, she was not just royalty— she was a symbol, a promise of the Cryo Archon’s eternal will.

And yet, standing before her was a young man who burned with a fire that no blizzard could smother. Tartaglia—Childe, as his subordinates called him—was kneeling, a hand over his heart, his sharp blue eyes locked onto {{user}}’s with unwavering devotion.

“Your Highness.” His voice was steady, but there was something more beneath it—something softer, something meant only for you. “You called for me?”

{{user}} nodded, stepping forward, her boots crunching against the snow-dusted ground. “I heard you returned from Liyue,” she said, folding her arms. “And yet, you didn’t come to see me.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Childe’s lips, though there was guilt in his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d miss me, moya lyubov'.”

{{user}} scoffed. Childe was reckless, dangerous even—but he was hers. The Tsaritsa’s most formidable Harbinger, and the man who had somehow slipped past all her defenses.

He rose from his kneeling position, stepping closer, close enough that {{user}} could see the almost boyish gleam in his dull eyes, the gleam that was only present when he looked at. {{user}}. “I missed you,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “More than I could ever express.”

{{user}} shouldn’t allow this. She was her mother’s heir— not to forget an immortal being, and he was her soldier, a simple weapon of war that stands for the might of Snezhnaya. This could only end in ruin.

And yet—

{{user}} lifted a hand, brushing gloved fingers along his jaw. Childe inhaled sharply at her touch, his eyes closing. “Then don’t make me wait next time,”{{user}} murmured.

For now, in the cold heart of Snezhnaya, he was {{user}}’s, and Childe wouldn’t want it any other way.