Burned to embers, born anew
She heard the guards posted in front of her cell whisper. “She killed the harbinger?” Crucabena’s dying face haunted her, the sadistic shine in her eyes fading as she was consumed by Peruere’s flames. Clervie’s limp body followed soon after, her too-frail frame pierced by Peruere’s own blade.
Peruere clenched her fists as a wave of agony washed over her. She grunted, forcing herself to focus. Sorrow, so she knew, sorrow only caused one to waver.
A faint greenish hue caught her eye. From the frost-covered window, the lights of Shnezhnaya glimmered, just as Clervie had described back when they were children. Peruere could still see her sister’s curious gaze, how she’d ask with innocent wonder why a “Mother” would hurt her. Clervie never had an answer. Instead, she had a dream—to see the sky shine. Her breath hitched.
The events of the past days washed over her. Her sole friend, her one sister, was gone. And she had let her go. She had to, after all.
Clervie was truly dead. And so was Peruere. All that remained was a decaying husk, cursed and wretched from the moment she was born, trapped in the icy grip of her Majesty, the Tsaritsa.
As the lights danced across the frost-rimmed window, she allowed herself a fleeting moment of peace. But peace was fragile here. The screech of the gate shattered her reprieve, pulling her back to the cold reality.
Still cuffed to her throne-like chair, the girl berated herself for not paying attention. Two more guards approached, their faces just as blank as the unyielding walls of the hallways she was soon led through. The air grew colder as she ventured deeper into the domain of her Majesty, the icy air starting to bite into her darkened skin. Peruere shivered, longing for warmth – for an embrace that would never come.
At last, they had finally arrived at their destination. Bleak quarters near the frozen heart of the Palace, a blank slate– just like the teenager that now stood in the massive doorframe. The fatui sergeants uncuffed her, sketched a curt bow and departed. She watched passively as the door clicked shut, the sound booming through the empty space.
She waited for the sound of the key, locking her in, sealing her fate in rigid ice. It never came.
Confused, the girl turned, taking in her new surroundings. A bed with white linen, perfectly draped over its wooden frame, too pristine for someone like her. An empty desk and shelves loomed like hollow shadows, their emptiness reflecting her own. The air was still, silently suffocating her.
One detail caught her attention – out of place in the solemn room. An elegant tailcoat, adorned with red and silver ornaments, rested on the bed. Atop it lay a letter, unmarked, its purpose unspoken.
She was unsure what her fate entailed. Only one thing was certain: She had left everything, everyone behind. Slowly, her fingers brushed the paper, cold and smooth. A new name, a new identity. Peruere was no more – whatever awaited her, there was no turning back.
✧
Arlecchino wore her provided attire. The garments fit her perfectly, almost as if they were tailored to claim both her body and soul. The heavy cloak, silken and lined with fur, clung to her shoulders, its warm embrace completing her undoing. Useless, she thought, as she knew the cold in her heart would never leave again. No matter what she attempted.
Steeling herself as the monolithic wooden doors swept open, she inhaled the air filled to the brim with power. Four of the Eleven harbingers stood before her, each an embodiment of the Tsaritsa’s will, her future colleagues.
She let her icy gaze sweep over the Harbingers gathered before her. Towering above her as she approached was The Jester, director of the Harbingers and her Majesty’s most loyal servant. His blue eyes pierced her very being, as if trying to make sense of her deeds. To his left stood Number 6, The Balladeer, draping his cloak over his oversized hat with an irreverent smirk. To his right stood The Captain, a brutal and efficient warrior, his tales of his battles won unmatched in the entirety of Teyvat.
And then, her gaze found her. The 8th Harbinger, La Signora. She stood tall behind the Captain, her luscious figure veiled by her harbinger cloak. Her pale, silky hair cascaded over her back, catching the light of the windows above her. One side of her face was concealed behind a mask too large for her delicate features, lending her a grotesque yet haunting beauty.
“The king of hell” realized that her gaze had lingered for far too long. She averted her eyes, but the sight of that Harbinger remained etched into her memory. Arlecchino could not tell why, but the woman had an allure that she had never felt before in her short life.
As she climbed the stairs to The Jester, his stern voice echoed through the loveless hall: “Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, decrees as follows: I hereby pardon your crimes and bestow upon you a new name. This title and its legacy of bloodshed are now yours to bear, my poor, cursed Knave.”
It was decided.
She was Arlecchino now – “The Knave,” 4th of the Fatui Harbingers. A cursed, wretched harlequin bound to serve the will of her Majesty. The king of hell whose flames now belonged to the ever-frozen queen in the land of love.
✧
As the Tsaritsa had welcomed a new Harbinger to their ranks, celebrations were in order. It unfolded in the opulent, unusually lively halls of Zapolyarny Palace. The clinking of goblets filled with the finest wine filled the air, mingling with laughter that was out of place in the oh-so cold demeanor of the Fatui. As before, not all Harbingers were present, but those that were indulged in the intoxication allure of wine and revelry, inhibitions melting away like snow on the first spring day.
Yet amidst all the chatter, Arlecchino lingered in the shadows, just like she always did. Quiet and composed, just a dark figure barely illuminated by the ice-carved chandeliers. Her sharp gaze took in the scene in front of her with calculated detachment, when she suddenly noticed a elegant figure seemingly floating towards her. Her crimson dress hugged her silhouette in ways Arlecchino had only imagined in her wildest dreams. Moving with a grace that drew all eyes to her, La Signora approached her. The Knave stiffened in her quiet reprieve, her mask of indifference faltering as The fair Lady sat beside her.
“It’s impressive,” Signora began, her voice smooth and honeyed, each syllable so beautifully enunciated, “that you’ve become a Harbinger at sixteen, Knave. Even more, that you’re 4th.” She chuckled and leaned in slightly, her pale, stormy eyes locking onto Arlecchino’s soulless voids. “Truly fascinating. I wonder...” She continued the eye-contact and added: “… what we can expect from you as you mature, hmm?”
Arlecchino faltered, only for a moment. Her lips parted to reply, but the words were stuck in her throat as her mind betrayed her composure. She was used to such taxing and honeyed words from “Mother,” but The fair Lady appeared to have a special charm on the young Harbinger. Her mind raced, she was left breathless by the tempest of the women in front of her. Her skin was pale as the frozen wastelands of Shneznaya, her eyes the colour of an ice storm, yet burning with an intensity that effortlessly melted Arlecchino’s walls.
“I… thank you for your praise. I hope to meet your expectations,” she replied at last, her voice steady but devoid of the warmth that Signora’s presence seemed to demand.
The Fair Lady laughed, a low, musical sound that echoed softly in the space between them. Yet, like the frost-laden air, it was cold and distant, never quite touching her icy eyes. “So formal,” she murmured, her voice laced with subtle amusement. “Considering how formal you are, I suppose I should properly introduce myself. I am La Signora, the Fair Lady, 8th of the Fatui Harbingers. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Arlecchino finally summoned the courage to lift her gaze, her dark eyes locking onto the woman before her. She tried to steel herself, to let her icy exterior shield her from the allure of Signora’s presence, but it was a futile effort. Every detail of the Fair Lady seemed crafted to captivate—the perfect curve of her crimson lips, the cascade of silken hair that framed her face, the subtle gleam of her ornate mask catching the light. A foreign feeling stirred within Arlecchino, something unfamiliar and unnerving.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she replied, her voice quieter now, as if speaking any louder might shatter the fragile tension between them. “You may call me Arlecchino, if you prefer.”
The Fair Lady chuckled softly and took a languid sip from her wineglass, her movements deliberate, almost theatrical. Arlecchino’s eyes followed the motion, transfixed as the deep red liquid painted Signora’s lips an even darker shade. There was something mesmerizing about it, something maddeningly perfect.
The younger Harbinger clenched her hands, forcing herself to break free of the spell. “I’m afraid it’s getting late,” she said abruptly, standing and clasping her hands behind her back to maintain her composure. “I will now head to my quarters. I look forward to collaborating with you.”
Before she could second-guess herself, she reached out, gently taking Signora’s hand in her own. The Fair Lady’s skin was cold to the touch, like sculpted marble, but Arlecchino bowed nonetheless and pressed a kiss to her knuckles—a gesture of respect laced with a quiet, unspoken reverence.
Signora watched her with an enigmatic expression, her lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. “Quite the charmer, aren’t you?” she murmured, her voice tinged with amusement.
Arlecchino paused, glancing back at her with an unreadable expression. Then, with a faint shrug, she turned and strode away, her steps echoing in the vast, silent corridors of the palace. The cold air bit at her skin, but it wasn’t the chill of Snezhnaya’s frost that lingered in her thoughts—it was the image of La Signora, her gaze like a snowstorm, her smile as fleeting and dangerous as fire in the frozen wastes.
The night of her ascension, the young Knave found sleep elusive. Her thoughts were not plagued by death, as one might expect. No, they were haunted by the image of a woman—a vision of beauty with skin like snow, stormy eyes that held untold depths, and hair as silken as the whispers of winter winds.