The burn of a Harbinger

#4

Arlecchino's boots echoed through the grand halls of the House of the Hearth, each step precise and deliberate. The building's cold, stony atmosphere mirrored her demeanor—unyielding and sharp, leaving an unsettling air in her wake. Despite the stone walls and the silence that clung to the hallways, this place was filled with children, orphans under her care, whose futures she shaped as coldly and methodically as any Fatui mission.

Beside her strode Tartaglia, better known as Childe, his carefree yet dangerous grin contrasting starkly with Arlecchino's stern composure. His stride was light, and he seemed almost out of place among the severe surroundings of the House of the Hearth. Yet there was something in the way he moved—predatory, controlled—that suggested otherwise. This was a man who thrived on conflict, who relished in the fight. And yet here he was, accompanying Arlecchino in this moment of relative quiet.

"You know," Childe began, his tone playful as he looked around at the children who had gathered in the courtyard ahead of them. "Never thought I'd see you in a place like this, Knave. You don't exactly strike me as the nurturing type."

Arlecchino didn't respond immediately. Her gaze was locked ahead, focused on the children playing in the courtyard, their laughter faint against the snow-laden landscape. The air was crisp, cold, and unyielding, much like the woman standing next to him. She remained silent, her hands clasped behind her back as she surveyed the scene.

Childe watched her for a moment, his grin softening slightly. He knew better than to expect an answer from her immediately, especially when she was deep in thought. So, he waited, his hands resting casually on the hilts of his twin blades, ever ready for action even in such peaceful surroundings.

The children were playing in the snow, their small footprints crisscrossing the courtyard in chaotic patterns. Snowballs flew through the air, followed by peals of laughter. It was a rare sight in Snezhnaya—a moment of innocence in a place ruled by power and ambition. Arlecchino stood at the edge of it all, like an overseer of a world that wasn't entirely hers but one that she had undeniably shaped.

One of the younger boys, his cheeks flushed red from the cold, paused in his game and looked up at her. His wide eyes flickered with a mix of awe and fear—emotions most people felt in her presence. He hesitated, then picked up a snowball, clutching it tightly in his gloved hands.

Childe, noticing the boy's silent challenge, chuckled under his breath. "Looks like you've got a little warrior on your hands."

The boy took a breath, then hurled the snowball at Arlecchino. It sailed through the air, barely holding its form before splattering harmlessly against the hem of her coat. Arlecchino didn't flinch. She merely looked down at the wet patch on her uniform before raising her gaze back to the boy, her face as unreadable as ever.

Childe laughed outright, slapping a hand on Arlecchino's shoulder. "Well, that's one brave kid! Should I give him a medal, or are you going to return the favor?"

Arlecchino's eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no malice in her gaze—only calculation. She knelt down, scooping up a handful of snow with the same precision she used to wield her polearm. The boy's eyes widened as she packed the snow into a tight ball, her movements slow and deliberate, giving him time to consider his next move.

Without warning, she flicked her wrist, sending the snowball flying with pinpoint accuracy. It hit the boy square in the chest, knocking him off balance into the snow. He let out a startled laugh, scrambling to his feet as the other children cheered.

"Careful what you start, kid," Childe called out, still grinning. "The Knave doesn't lose, not even in a snowball fight."

The children, emboldened by the sight of Arlecchino joining their game, began pelting her and Childe with snowballs, their laughter filling the courtyard. Childe, ever the fighter, eagerly joined in, scooping up snow and launching it with an enthusiasm usually reserved for battle.