Chapter Text
This was it. There was nothing left he could do.
Childe, Tartaglia, Ajax. Loyal to a fault, his best trait leading him to his inevitable doom. The Tsaritsa's stone cold gaze had been cast upon him, shooting the iciest of glares. If he were not stone cold himself, the harbinger would have broken into a cold sweat.
The familiar brickwork of the Snezhnayan architecture that once comforted him takes on the form of a prison, the facade he wears his uniform.
Here the 11th harbinger stands, forced to act out his sentence: to end the one he loved the most.
