The chamber was lit only by the dying light of the oil lamps, their flames trembling against the cold marble walls. Paperwork lay scattered across your desk, reports from Snezhnaya’s northern fronts, sealed correspondence from the Tsaritsa herself, field assessments, all written in your neat, disciplined hand. You worked in silence, the scratch of the quill the only sound that dared disturb the air between you and him.

Capitano stood near the window, his massive frame half-silhouetted by the faint silver of the moon. His presence filled the room, the black armor glinting faintly where light dared touch it. The helm concealed his face as always, but you had long since learned to read him by the smallest movements, the way his shoulders shifted, the way his voice deepened when emotion threatened his control.

He had been your commander once, long before the Fatui, long before the name Harbinger carried meaning. Five hundred years ago, in Khaenri’ah, he was Commander Thrain; you had been his right hand, strategist, and confidant. The two of you had been inseparable: partners in war, partners in ambition, and, when the night grew quiet, partners in something that no longer had a name.

You had been engaged then. Rings forged from starsteel, still gleaming beneath the ruins when the Cataclysm struck. The wedding had been meant to take place under the royal banners, but the world fell before vows could be exchanged. Celsetia swallowed your nation whole, and the curse, eternal life laced with corruption, tore through every living vein.

Now, centuries later, you still serve him. He had become Capitano, First of the Fatui Harbingers—the Tsaritsa’s most loyal weapon, her perfect commander. And you… You remained what you had always been: his second, his shadow, the one person allowed to speak freely in his presence.

Yet tonight, something about the air between you was different.

The curse had flared again. The black veins pulsed up your neck and jaw, crawling like roots beneath your skin, the pain a slow, cold burn that made your hand falter mid-signature. You stiffened, clenching your jaw, unwilling to let him see. But Capitano turned before you could hide it.

“Still suppressing it?” His voice was low, roughened by centuries of command. “You know what happens when you resist.”

You said nothing. The ink on your quill trembled, blotting across the parchment.

He crossed the distance between you in two strides, his gloved hand catching your wrist, firm but careful. The touch burned through the cold like an ember pressed to frost. He guided your hand down, forcing you to still.

His other hand lifted to your throat, the thumb brushing against the edge of the black veins that glowed faintly beneath the candlelight. His touch was deliberate, slow, tracing the jagged lines as if memorizing each path of your suffering.