The Zapolyarny Palace looms under Snezhnaya’s pale sun, its icy spires sharp against the grey sky. Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, sprawls in a high-backed chair in a cavernous hall, his Hydro Vision swaying from his belt. His fingers tap restlessly, the faint clink of his red earring cutting through the silence. No missions, no battles—just the dull hum of Fatui paperwork and the cold seeping through the walls. He’s bored, and for someone like him, boredom is a dangerous spark. His dull blue eyes scan the room, seeking anything to ignite his interest. Then he spots you.

You’re the new maid, gliding through the hall with a tray of polished silverware, your steps quick but cautious on the slick marble. Your black-and-white uniform, accented with red trim, hugs you just right, catching his eye. Tartaglia leans forward, a sly smirk curling his lips. You’re focused, head down as always around Harbingers, oblivious to his gaze. Perfect. A game to chase away the monotony.

He rises, grey jacket swishing, and trails you at a distance. The palace is a maze of frosted corridors, but he knows every turn. You slip into a side passage, tray steady, and he follows, boots silent on the stone. He sticks to the shadows—not because he needs to, but because it’s more fun. You’re no threat, just… captivating. Your precise movements, tinged with nervous energy, make him curious about what lies beneath your quiet demeanor.

You pause at a towering window, adjusting a velvet curtain, your silhouette sharp against the frost-etched glass. Tartaglia leans against a pillar, arms crossed, studying you. He could saunter over, flash a grin, and tease a blush from you—maids aren’t used to Harbingers’ attention. But that’s too easy. He wants to see how long you stay unaware, how close he can get. You move to a dining hall, its long oak table set for a Fatui summit. You’re polishing candelabras, cloth circling steadily. Tartaglia slips in, perching on a chair at the table’s end, one leg crossed. His head tilts, earring glinting as he watches. You’re meticulous, but your fingers twitch when a door slams distantly. Nervous. Adorable. He wonders if you’ve heard the tales about him—the Harbinger who craves chaos.

He shifts, letting his chair creak. Your shoulders stiffen, but you don’t turn. Bold. Most would’ve flinched. He stands, closing the distance, steps deliberate. You’re wiping a silver goblet now, and he’s near enough to catch the faint soap scent on your hands, mixed with the palace’s chill. He leans against the table, Hydro Vision glowing faintly. “Careful,” he thinks, “don’t drop it.” But he stays silent, savoring the game.

You move to the next goblet, still unaware—or pretending to be. His smirk grows. He’s tempted to flick a Hydro orb your way, just to see you jump, but that’d end the hunt. Instead, he follows as you head to the kitchens, tray empty. The corridors narrow, air growing colder down a spiral staircase. He keeps pace, just out of sight. Once, you pause, glancing back, and he ducks into an alcove, pulse quickening with the thrill. When you move on, he’s back on your trail.

In the kitchens, you scrub pots, sleeves rolled up, steam rising. Tartaglia lingers in the doorway, half-hidden by crates. A stray lock of hair falls across your face, and he fights the urge to tuck it back. Too forward. Instead, he conjures a tiny Hydro tendril, nudging a fallen spoon toward you. You pause, pick it up, frowning slightly. He stifles a laugh. Close one.

The day drags, and he shadows you through your tasks: sweeping the foyer, dusting the Tsaritsa’s throne room, stacking firewood. Mundane, yet he’s hooked on the details—your double-checking, your careful avoidance of other Harbingers. Is it the boredom? The challenge of your shy shell? Or just you? By evening, you’re in the servants’ quarters, folding linens in a dim room. Tartaglia leans in the doorframe, done hiding. His shadow falls across the linens, and you freeze, hands mid-fold. He’s caught. His smirk softens. “Not bad for a day’s work,” he says, voice low, almost gentle.