In the far north, high above the frozen peaks, rose a colossal fortress of ice and stone, standing menacingly over the endless veil of snow.
Beneath its vaulted ceilings, men and women stood in white, while a gentle voice sang a haunting lullaby that drifted softly through the hardened air.
"Columbina," a sharp voice cut through her tune. "Enough of your singing. We have matters of far greater weight to discuss."
She fell silent.
"Oh… I only wished to lighten the mood," she murmured, eyes closed, her tone so gentle it was hard to tell whether she meant it or not.
From the shadows, another voice emerged, calm and devoid of warmth.
"Columbina, how about you assist me in an experiment? I find myself rather eager to observe how Kuuvahki functions."
"Dottore," someone interjected. "Now is not the time. Crucabena is dead, and the question stands: what shall we do with her killer?"
"Hah. Crucabena faltered in the end, defeated by a mere child," a voice scoffed. "Perhaps we should reward her for ridding us of weakness."
"I, for one, agree with you, Sandrone. She was pathetic. I don't care what becomes of her murderer."
The Harbingers exchanged silent glances, none mourning the fallen Knave.
Thud… thud…
Footsteps echoed through the chamber, each one steady and deliberate.
Their heads turned, meeting the cold gaze of Pierro—the Jester, the Director—as he descended from the light above.
"You speak the truth," he stated. "But be as it may, she was one of us. And now, her absence leaves a void that must be filled."
Before anyone could utter another word, a thunderous sound broke through.
BANG!
Two massive doors swung open with a resounding echo, drawing every eye toward the sound.
"My apologies for my tardiness," came a light, almost playful voice. "It seems I've lost my way in this enormous palace… again."
A dark-haired man stepped inside, his green eyes gleaming like polished jade. He wore a white coat like the others and carried a dark cane crowned with an owl, its eyes the same striking green like his.
Then his gaze settled on a luxurious white coffin at the center, stark and bare of flowers. One thought crossing his mind:
So it was true. The Knave was gone.
Clearing his throat, he let a hint of mockery seep into his voice. "Oh dear… have I stumbled into a funeral, and no one thought to bring flowers?"
"Silvano!" Sandrone hissed, lunging forward, her fury blotting out all thought of the Knave's death.
"Lay a hand on my creations again and I'll make you wish you'd never been born," she spat, each word a cold promise of violence.
"Sandrone, my apologies," he said with a smile. "Your creations are simply too remarkable; I find it hard not to meddle with them."
"You… you—" she started to retort, but Silvano only smiled, strolling past her puffed cheeks, finding her flustered anger oddly adorable.
"Silvano," Columbina greeted softly, the corners of her lips forming into a rare, gentle smile. "I trust your journey went smoothly."
"Indeed, it went quite well," he said, a genuine smile spread across his face.
"So, you've decided to grace us with your presence at last, Silvano," came a sharp, mocking voice. "A god, they call you, though I see nothing divine in you at all."
It was Scaramouche.
His tone carried that familiar edge of resentment, the kind born from pride and disdain.
Silvano, however, wasn't surprised. Scaramouche had never been one to stomach the idea of a "fool" being revered as a god.
"Nice to see you too, my faithful friend."
He tipped an invisible hat with a grin, his expression unmoved, as though the words had rolled off him without leaving a mark.
"You and I aren't friends—let's get that straight," Scaramouche scoffed, and was about to continue his rant before being cut off.
"Scaramouche, heed my warning," Capitano intervened, casting a brief glance toward Silvano.
"Do not provoke him."
Silvano tilted his head slightly, his usual effortless smile in place, making it difficult for anyone to take him entirely seriously.
Not long after, with everyone assembled in the room, the Dictator called them to attention, signaling the start of the meeting for which they had been summoned.
The Harbingers moved, their footsteps ringing against the cold stone, each taking their rightful place along the long white marble table.
Sitting across from Columbina, Silvano lowered his head, as did the others, each showing some respect for the fallen Knave, even if none truly felt grief over her death.
For she was still a Harbinger, and this was merely a matter of formality.
"Crucabena's loss is a blunder, but it will not hinder our plans to seize the authority of the gods," Pierro declared.
"Then what shall become of Fontaine?" La Signora asked, brushing a lock of golden hair behind her ear with graceful contempt. "If you wish, my beauty could easily rival their so-called nobles."
"Signora is correct," Capitano spoke, his voice reverberating across the room. "Crucabena's influence over Fontaine wanes by the day. We must appoint a Harbinger to restore control."
"Ah, it's been quite some time since I last visited. Their machinery is to die for, wouldn't you agree, Sandrone?" Dottore said, lifting a vial of liquid with a sly grin.
"Now that you mention it, I've been meaning to gather some information on that contraption," Sandrone replied. "I haven't had the time, but perhaps I should pay Fontaine a visit."
"And what of the prisoner? Surely there's a plan in motion otherwise, we would've seen an execution by now," said Pulcinella, the small, long-nosed man.
"Well, plan or not," Silvano drawled, tapping his cane lightly against the floor, "I'd like this meeting to end. There's a bed somewhere with my name on it—Natlan was quite the trip."
Not one brother to comment; they'd long grown accustomed to his humor, even if it was irritating.
"Fontaine…" a low grunt escaped, drawing everyone's attention back towards the Director.
"A nation where their so-called god sits idly upon her throne, amused by the struggles of her own people," Pierro said, his eyes glinting with a cold intensity.
"Nevertheless, one matter remains of utmost importance—the whereabouts of the Hydro Gnosis. That takes far greater priority than maintaining control."
"If it's the Gnosis you're after, perhaps I could charm the goddess myself," Silvano said with a smile. "Would anyone happen to have something that describes her personality?"
"I'd agree with Silvano," Capitano said, his tone steady as his gaze lifted slightly. "He'd be the most suitable to locate it."
"I agree as well."
"Same here."
"Likewise."
One by one, the Harbingers voiced their agreement. It was settled—Silvano would be the one to pursue the Hydro Gnosis.
Silvano's eyes widened in awe. "I've always wanted to see Fontaine's beautiful wonders, its music, its theaters, its art… I'm honored to take it on."
"With that settled, tell me, Pierro, what is to be done with the prisoner?" Pulcinella asked.
Before he could respond, the air shifted, growing colder, a new voice filling the chamber, one that carried both authority and dispassion.
"The girl who defeated the former Knave shall bear the title of Arlecchino, Fifth of the Fatui Harbingers—the Knave."
The room fell silent.
There, upon a throne bathed in brilliant light, sat a stunning woman with pale white hair flowing like snow and eyes gleaming as luminous as the gown she wore, cut just short enough to reveal her long, silken legs.
But none admired her beauty for long; to do so was to invite death itself.
For she was Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa.