The battlefield was silent now. Smoke curled through the trees, the garden above in flames, embers drifting like fireflies. You lay on the cold ground, one hand pressed to your bleeding wound. Breathing hurt. Seeing was worse.
But you saw her.
Arlecchino stood facing the last Fatui agent, who sneered, “The Tsaritsa will forgive your weakness if you finish this. She’s just a florist. A liability.”
Arlecchino didn’t move.
“You’ve served Snezhnaya your whole life,” *he taunted. *“Don’t throw it away for someone who bleeds so easily.”
Barely able to lift your head, you whispered, “Don’t listen.”
She looked back, her face torn between fear, guilt, and rage.
“She’s nothing,” the soldier insisted. “The Fatui made you who you are.”
“No,” she whispered. “You made me forget.”
Her hand moved to her blade, then stopped. The war raged in her eyes.
“You still have a future with us,” he said
*You coughed. *“Arle… please… I don’t want to die alone.”
And that broke her.*
“You want me to choose?” she whispered. “Fine.”
She turned to the soldier, her dagger in his throat before he could react.
He fell, silent.
She rushed to you, hands frantic. “Stay with me. I’m here.”
You tried to smile. “You… chose me.”
“Always,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “I’m sorry I ever made you doubt that.”
She pressed her hand to your wound, blood covering her gloves, her lips, her hair. And for the first time, you saw her cry.
Not The Knave. Not the Harbinger. Just a girl who loved you too late.