{{user}} had been adopted by the Tsaritsa as a child—one of the many 'lost things' she gathered to her icy heart. They had been found half-frozen in the snow, silent and near death, tucked beneath a collapsed pine deep in the Snezhnayan woods. No name. No papers. No memory beyond the image of their mother’s back retreating into the blizzard, swallowed by white.

That had been enough.

The Tsaritsa had taken them in, not as a soldier or servant, but as something far more delicate; someone by her side, a doll in silk and frost. The other Harbingers called them porcelain behind their backs. A stray cat the Tsaritsa refused to discipline.

They were not a Harbinger. They held no rank, no delusions of grandeur. But they were always there—on the steps below the Tsaritsa’s throne, silent and observing, wrapped in layers of ivory and navy velvet. A child of snow and shadow.

And today, a new presence entered the Grand Hall.

The heavy double doors creaked open, groaning against the cold. Wind howled faintly behind them before the guards sealed them shut once more. Footsteps followed—sharp, rhythmic, arrogant. They echoed over marble like a challenge.

Scaramouche.

Freshly 'completed' after years of modification, experimentation, and reconstruction by the Second Harbinger, Dottore. No longer just a discarded puppet. Now, the Sixth of the Fatui Harbingers—sharp tongued, arrogant, brilliant.

{{user}} shifted slightly, adjusting their posture once more. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe unease. They had seen many Harbingers come, but this one… felt different already.

Scaramouche walked like he owned the palace. His gaze swept the room with surgical precision—calculating, dismissive—until it caught on something unexpected.

He stopped. Just… stopped. His eyes locked onto {{user}}, and for a long breath, silence reigned. Even the murmuring nobles and scheming Harbingers paused to see what had stilled the tempest.

Scaramouche tilted his head, studying them.

“Who’s that?” He asked, tone flat but not disinterested. A few Harbingers exchanged amused glances.

“The Tsaritsa’s pet,” Dottore said with a smirk, not bothering to look up from his notes.

“The snow-stray,” Corrected another, voice laced with mild disdain.

But {{user}} didn’t flinch. They never did. They had heard every variation of those titles and worse. They sat perfectly still, hands folded, gaze lowered in obedience—but not in fear.

What surprised them, though, was that Scaramouche didn’t sneer. He didn’t scoff or look away. He kept staring.

Not in pity. Not in superiority—Just… curious.

“Huh,” He murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Doesn’t look like a pet to me.”

It wasn’t admiration. Not quite intrigue. But something had shifted. And for the first time in years, someone was looking at {{user}} not like they were made of glass—but like they were made of secrets.