Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Two households, both alike in dignity
In fair Teyvat, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life,
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows
Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-marked love

And the continuance of their parents' rage—
Which but their children's end, naught could remove—
Is now the twenty-six chapters' traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend."

Chapter Text

It was hot.
Sizzling.
Even at eight o’clock, the heat curled off the stone walls of Teyvat like invisible flames, clinging to skin, curling hair, and drawing a lazy sweat from every pore. The sun had barely risen above the rooftops and already it painted the piazza in molten gold, blinding and relentless.

Teyvat was stirring from its slumber, shaking itself awake in bursts of color and sound. People spilled out of shuttered homes, baskets on their arms and sleep still in their eyes. Merchants barked at each other over stalls half-assembled, arguing about space, shade, and the price of olives. Horses clattered over cobblestones, wagons groaning behind them, their wheels dusted with the white powder of flour and stone.

At the heart of it all stood the Raiden mansion—one of the grandest in all of Teyvat. Its walls were tall and proud, its gates golden and always guarded, and within its walls the hum of early morning was beginning to rise. In the kitchens, servants moved like ants in the heat, juggling pans and trays, sweat running in rivers down their backs. The scent of fresh-baked bread and roasted ham drifted from the open kitchen windows, curling through the streets like an invitation.

But not all servants were working.

Two of them—young, bored, and hot-blooded—had slipped out early, dodging duties in favor of mischief. Haruki and Renji, clad in the Raidens’ crisp livery, strutted into the growing crowd of the piazza. Their movements were exaggerated, chests puffed and hands constantly near their sword hilts, as though Teyvat itself were a stage built for them alone.

"I can tell you, Renji," said Haruki, swaggering as he adjusted the dagger at his belt, "I’m ready for them. Just watch me. Let a Kusanali so much as put a foot in the piazza and you’ll see how quick I am."

Renji raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. He had known Haruki long enough to recognize the bluster. It puffed off him like steam, thick and obvious. And this morning, it was almost too easy.

"How quick you are to run away, you mean."

Haruki bristled, squinting against the sun. His scorn twisted his face, giving him the look of a man perpetually dissatisfied with the world. "Not from the Kusanalis," he snapped. "I’ll take on any of their men—or women," he added, with a wink and a lewd smile.

"I know that’s your level," Renji replied dryly. "But our quarrel isn’t with the women. Why quarrel with the women? This is between the men."

"Ha." Haruki straightened up, his pride inflating like a rooster in the morning light. "When I’ve dealt with the men I’ll take care of the women." He made a vulgar gesture, half-hidden beneath his cloak. "Don’t you worry about that."

Renji shook his head, amused despite himself. He was about to respond when he noticed movement—two figures approaching through the swirl of morning bustle, dressed in the light green and gold of the Kusanali house.

"Well here’s your chance to show me," he muttered, jerking his chin toward them.

The glint in Haruki’s eyes sharpened. He set his hand on the hilt of his sword, overly theatrical, as if already imagining a cheering crowd behind him.

"Right," he said. "We’re on. Pick a fight with them. I’ll be right behind you."

Renji gave him a sideways glance. "That’s what I’m afraid of."

The Kusanalis were getting closer—Rami and Krupp. Rami carried himself like a noble’s son, chin high and gaze half-lidded, his uniform neat, his face expressionless in the heat. Beside him, Krupp was less assuming, but the sword at his hip looked no less sharp.

"No wait," Renji hissed, tension tugging at his voice. "Be careful. We mustn’t put ourselves in the wrong. Let them be the ones to start."

Haruki gave a subtle nod, then whispered back, "Alright. I’ll bite my thumb at them. If they take that, it’ll really show them up."

Renji smirked, already frowning as they walked past. It was a ridiculous performance, but it gave the blood a reason to rush a little faster.

Haruki raised his hand slowly and bit his thumb in their direction, exaggerated and unmistakable.

The Kusanali servants slowed. Rami’s eyes flicked up and down Haruki’s frame like he was examining a street rat who’d wandered into a palace. He turned to Krupp brow raised. Krupp shrugged, noncommittal.

Then Rami turned back.

"Are you biting your thumb at us?" he asked, voice flat, precise.

Haruki froze for a fraction of a second. "I’m biting my thumb, as you can see," he answered coolly.

"I can see that. But are you biting your thumb at us?"

Haruki leaned toward Renji. "Is the law on our side if I say 'yes'?"

Renji shook his head sharply, lips barely moving.

Haruki straightened. "I’m not biting my thumb at you."

Rami nodded once. "Well. That’s alright then." He turned, pretending to lose interest. "Peace to you."

But the word tasted bitter to Haruki. He couldn’t let it end like that—not with Kusanalis walking away untouched, unbothered. The fun had barely started.

"I’m definitely biting my thumb, though," he added, loudly.

Renji, spurred by the tension and heat, stepped forward with a sneer. "Do you want to make something of it?"

Rami paused. He tilted his head, considering. "Make something of it?" he echoed. He turned his head, asked Krupp, "Do we?"

Krupp rolled his eyes. "No," he said with a wave. "We don’t want to make anything of it."

Haruki’s face twitched with frustration. He leaned in, crowding Rami’s space with a smirk. "Because if you do... I’m ready."

He stepped back, posed like a painting—elbow resting on Renji’s shoulder, one leg crossed over the other, expression carved from disdain.

Rami studied him. Then, nodding slightly to Krupp, he turned to leave.

But Haruki couldn’t take it. He darted forward, blocking their path. "I don’t know who you think you are," he snapped. "I’ll have you know my master’s just as good as yours is."

"Not better, though," said Rami, stopping once more.

Haruki hesitated. He could feel the edge beneath the words, the blade that waited beneath the politeness. If he said “better,” it would be the match to dry straw.

He opened his mouth—

Then Krupp’s whisper: "Look. There’s Young master Kusanli's cousin."

From a narrow street emerged a figure—handsome, proud, and unmistakably Kusanali. The man had cream white hair, and red eyes which were seemingly confused at the nearby commotion.

Rami’s eyes lit up.

He stepped closer to Haruki and poked his chest. "There’s something I have to tell you," he said. "My master’s better than yours."

Haruki’s rage snapped like a whip. "You’re a liar!" he shouted, drawing his sword in one swift motion. "Come on, draw if you’re men!"

Steel hissed from scabbards.

The Kusanalis’ blades gleamed in the sun, swift and eager. In a flash, the four young men were upon each other, rapiers clashing with sharp metallic screams. They danced between crates of figs and startled chickens, blades slicing air and ringing against steel. The crowd scattered, shouting, as Teyvat’s peace dissolved into the first fire of a feud that would burn for blood.

The well-dressed youth earlier was Cyrus, cousin to the Kusanali heir, and the last young man in Teyavt likely to become involved in a street fight. He was returning from an early morning walk when he saw the fighting servants. Without hesitation, he sprinted towards them.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Stop that! Put your swords away! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

He drew his own rapier and rushed into the brawl, weaving between flashing blades and flailing limbs.
“Stop!” he cried. “Stop it!”

A crowd had already gathered, drawn by the shouting and the unmistakable clang of steel on steel. Among them was the fiery niece of Raiden Ei, head of the rival household. This restless young woman was named Mei, and unlike Cyrus, she could never resist a fight. The mere sight of a Kusanali crest was enough to set her blood ablaze.

“Hey, Cyrus,” she called out, her voice thick with scorn. “Fancy finding you fighting with servants. Why don’t you pick on a real man for once?”

Cyrus ignored her, focused on trying to part the hot-blooded boys still swinging wildly. But Mei was not so easily brushed off. She drew his sword and approached, pressing the tip lightly to Cyrus’s shoulder.

“Turn,” she said, her tone dramatic and cold. “And face your death.”

“Forget it, Mei,” panted Cyrus. He rarely took the cousin of the Raiden heir seriously, even on a good day—and this was not one. He slapped the blade from his shoulder with the flat of his hand, irritation plain on his face.

“I’m trying to keep the peace. Put your sword away. Or help me stop these fools.”

“What?” Mei laughed, bitter and sharp. “A sword in your hand and talking about peace? Don’t insult me. I hate that word. Just as I hate all Kusanalis. And especially you.”

With that, she lunged, and Cyrus barely had time to raise his blade to block the strike.

Around them, the chaos deepened. The four servants were still fighting, and more had joined—friends, allies, anyone with a grudge or too much pride. The narrow streets around the piazza burst open with bodies, people shouting, stumbling, drawing blades. Fruit carts were overturned, chickens squawked and fluttered madly, and piglets squealed as stalls were trampled beneath boots and blades.

An officer of the city’s Watch forced his way through the mob. Waving a longsword above his head, he roared at the crowd.

“These cursed Raidens! These damned Kusanalis! Curse the lot of them! Down with them all!”

By now, the entire piazza was in turmoil. Some fought wildly, while others tried in vain to calm them. Wounded men twisted in the dust, moaning, their blood soaking into the broken cobblestones. Wooden stalls lay shattered, fabric torn, and the air buzzed with heat and fury.

Above, a balcony door burst open. Raiden Ei, matriarch of the house, stormed out still in her nightgown, followed by her wife, Yae Miko. Raiden Ei had a terrifying presence. Her long violet hair cascading into a braid had been messed up and her purple eyes full of annoyance. Yae Miko on the other hand seemed more calmer but also more cunning. She had soft pink hair and matching purple fox eyes, glinting with amusement.

“What’s this infernal racket?” she barked. “Fetch me my Musou no Hitachi!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Yae Miko, holding her back.

But Ei was not jesting. She’d caught sight of her old rival, Nahida Kusanali, down in the piazza. The woman stood amid the brawl, sword raised, as if daring Ei to descend and meet her. She was a bit shorter than Ei, but her presence just as large. Her white fading into soft green hair complimented her light green eyes. However the fire of past years flared behind her eyes.

“Bring me my sword!” Ei demanded.

The Kusanali head spotted her instantly.

“You villain, Ei!” she shouted. “Come down here and fight!”

Her sister, Rukkhadevata, tugged at her arm, trying to steady her. “Enough! Let it go, khāhar koochikam!” Strangely enough, Rukkhadevata looked almost exactly like Nahida, only a slight bit older and taller. The truth is, Rakkhadevata--despite being the older one--had no interest in becoming the family head and instead handing the role to her younger sister. Although many people protested against this at first, saying Nahida was too young and unfit to being the next head, they slowly became comfortable with her ruling.

“Let go of me, Aji!” she snapped, shaking her off. “Leave me! Come on, Ei! Come on, then!”

“You’re out of your mind!” Rukkhadevata cried. “You think I’ll let you fight? What if you get hurt? What are you doing?!”

Just as Nahida finally pulled free of her grip and leapt toward the stairs, Ei had already descended in her nightgown, her sword in hand. The two heads were rushing toward each other like bulls in a ring.

Then—suddenly—the brassy wail of trumpets split the air. Dozens of them. Furious and commanding.

Every citizen in the piazza froze. Even Mei, who was pressing Cyrus back with quick, precise strikes, paused and turned toward the palace, its great columns casting deep shadows over the chaos. From beneath the high steps came the Princess, flanked by courtiers and officers, her golden cloak billowing behind her. Her blonde locks were put into a bun with a crown keeping it in its place.

The fanfare faded into silence. The crowd fell still. Only the dust remained, curling in the golden air.

The Princess strode forward, rising onto the low stone wall by the fountain. From that height, she looked out over her unruly people. Her yellow gold irises swept the broken stalls, the bloodied faces, the wounded groaning in the dirt. Then it landed on Ei and Nahida—still standing, still armed.

She said nothing at first.

Then she spoke.

"This is the third time that you, Raiden, and you, Kusanali, have disturbed the tranquillity of our city and obliged the elders of Teyvat to make peace between you," the Princess’s voice rang out, cold and thunderous across the square. She stood high above the chaos, her royal cloak fluttering in the breeze, the gleam of her polished sword reflecting the morning light.

The piazza had fallen into a stunned silence, broken only by the distant cries of birds disturbed from their roosts and the groaning of the injured. The stench of dust, blood, and crushed fruit hung heavy in the warm air. The sun, now rising over the rooftops, seemed almost reluctant to shine on the aftermath of such senseless violence.

The Princess’s eyes swept across the wreckage—the overturned carts, broken wooden stalls, the dazed faces smeared with grime and blood. Then her gaze landed back on the two family heads who stood at the center of this storm. Raiden Ei and Nahida Kusanali, both still bristling with the adrenaline of a fight unfinished. Swords in hand. Pride intact. Dignity in tatters.

"It seems it hasn’t worked. You are both so blighted with hatred."

The fury in her gaze intensified.

"So this is what I’m going to order. If you ever disturb our streets again, you’ll pay for it with your lives."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. No one moved. No one dared. The Princess’s words fell like thunder, and her eyes—stern and resolute—left no room for mercy. This was not a warning. It was a promise.

A few whispers passed between onlookers, eyes darting nervously between the two matriarchs. The feud between the Raidens and Kusanalis was notorious, but this? This was a line drawn deep into the stone of Teyvat itself.

"Now go home, all of you," the Princess commanded, her voice weary with the weight of too many senseless mornings like this.

Ei turned, face flushed with rage and humiliation. But the Princess stopped her with a raised hand.

"Wait, Raiden."

The violet-haired froze mid-step, robes rustling.

"You will come with me."

Then, to Nahida:

"And you, Kusanali, come and see me this afternoon. I’ll let you know then what else I’ve decided. Now all of you—go home."

Gradually, the crowd began to dissolve, the energy draining from the scene like water from a shattered vase. The wounded limped away or were helped by friends, and the vendors—ever pragmatic—returned to their broken stalls, salvaging what they could from spilled baskets and shattered jars. Bits of cloth flapped in the breeze, dust coated everything like a fine ash. The warzone slowly became a marketplace again.

Only a few remained now. Among them, Cyrus, the youth, whose shirt was rumpled and sword still unsheathed. His hands trembled faintly—not from fear, but from the residue of conflict.

Fortunately, he hadn’t been injured. But his thoughts were far from calm, still clouded with the image of Mei—the Raiden’s niece—grinning with theatrical malice as she lunged for blood. Cyrus’s jaw clenched.

"What happened?" asked Nahida sharply. "Were you there when it started?"

Cyrus nodded, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve. "It began with the servants," he said. "And then Mei appeared. She came straight for me—unprovoked. Her blade was flying at my head before I could even draw mine. I had no choice."

Rukkhadevata wasn’t listening. Her face, usually serene, was pinched with worry.

"Where is he?" she asked urgently. "Have you seen him today?"

"Who?"

"Dottore. Have you seen him?"

Cyrus gave a tired smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "I think he’s avoiding me. I couldn’t sleep last night and I got up early, before dawn. I walked out to the sycamore grove near the edge of the city."

He gestured toward the narrow alley beside his home, where sunlight barely touched the stone walls.

"And he was there. I called to him, but the moment he heard me, he darted into the woods. Didn’t even look back. Clearly didn’t want to talk."

Rukkhadevata frowned. Nahida sighed, heavy and deep.

"I’ve heard that he often goes there before dawn," she said. "They say he isolates himself there a lot. And as soon as the sun rises, he rushes home and locks himself away. Shuts the windows, drowns out the world."

"Have you any idea why he’s acting so strangely?" asked Cyrus, lowering his voice slightly.

"Not the slightest," said Nahida, eyes narrowing with concern. "He hasn’t said anything to me."

"Have you asked him?"

"I have. And I’ve asked others to try as well. But he’s become... distant. Secretive. How can I help him if he won’t speak?"

As they stepped through the garden gate, Cyrus’s eyes flicked up. There—at the far end of the street, walking slowly toward them—was Dottore. His figure was graceful as ever, shoulders broad, though weighed down by some invisible sorrow. His clothes were neat but shadowed, his expression unreadable.

"There he is!" Cyrus said quickly. "Go in. I’ll speak to him. I’m determined to get to the bottom of this."

Rukkhadevata hesitated, brushing a hand gently down Cyrus’s arm.

"Bless you," she said softly.

"Come on," said Nahida, leading her inside with one last glance at her son, and then to Cyrus. "Good luck."

As the door shut behind them, Cyrus stepped down into the sun-dappled lane. He squared his shoulders, brushed back his light curls, and set his eyes on Dottore.

This time, he would not let him walk away.

Cyrus strolled slowly down the sun-bleached street, his boots kicking up little clouds of Teyvat dust. The heat clung to the stone walls like tension in the air—residue from the chaos earlier that morning. Though the square had begun to clear, the air still carried the scent of sweat, cracked leather, and bruised pride.

Just ahead, he spotted a familiar figure walking with his head bowed, shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world pressed down on him. Cyrus quickened his pace slightly, falling into step beside his cousin.

"Hi," he said quietly as he neared him.

Dottore didn’t look up.

Cyrus tilted his head, trying to catch his cousin’s eye as the man was quite tall. "Good morning."

Dottore pretended not to hear. But Cyrus was persistent. He bent his head even further, lowering himself until he was nearly face to face with Dottore’s averted gaze, blocking any hope of ignoring him.

"Good morning," Cyrus repeated.

Dottore finally let out a long, deep sigh, almost theatrical in its weight.

"Is the day so young?" he asked, voice flat.

"Only just gone nine."

"Oh dear," said Dottore, releasing another heavy breath. "How the time drags when you’re sad." His eyes wandered to the rooftops as though the answer might be written in the sky. "Was that my mother I just saw ducking into the house?"

"It was," said Cyrus. “What kind of sadness is this that makes the time drag so?"

"Not having what I need to make it go fast."

Cyrus arched an eyebrow. "Not in love…!"

"No, out."

"Out of love?"

"Out of the favour of the girl I love."

Cyrus chuckled under his breath, though he tried to contain it. "Dear oh dear. It’s a hard life. That love, such a gentle thing, should be so rough when it comes down to it."

"Yes," Dottore agreed bleakly crossing his arms and rolling his ruby red eyes. "I don’t want to talk about it. Where shall we go for lunch?"

But as they reached the corner, Dottore came to a sudden halt. His eyes swept over the wreckage—collapsed awnings, traders chasing stray chickens and piglets, wounded men limping past bloodied stones. The street bore scars from the morning's clash, echoes of swords and shouted curses still lingering in the air.

"What happened?" he asked, blinking slowly at the scene. But before Cyrus could explain, Dottore sighed again and shook his head. His sky blue hair becoming a bit ruffled in the process.

"Don’t tell me." His voice was low and bitter. "I know all about it. This is about that hatred." His eyes were distant now, glassy with thought. "But I’m thinking only about love. Oh, everything is upside down."

He turned sharply to Cyrus. “Are you laughing at me?"

"Would I do that?" Cyrus said, hand over his chest in mock offense. "You make me want to cry."

"Why?"

"Because you’re so pathetic."

"It’s love that makes me pathetic," Dottore muttered. His words quivered with more than just humor. "But don’t give it another thought. You’ve got more to think about. If you start feeling sorry for me it’ll only make things worse. So goodbye."

"Hold on," Cyrus said, reaching for him. "I’ll walk with you."

"Where to? I’m not here. This isn’t me. I have lost myself. Dottore’s somewhere else."

Cyrus frowned, growing more serious. "Alright. Be serious. Tell me who it is."

"I can’t bear to say her name."

"Come on."

"Well, I’ll tell you. She’s a girl."

"Oh, well done," Cyrus deadpanned. "I assumed that when you said you were in love."

"And she’s beautiful."

"Good for you."

"But she doesn’t want to know." Dottore pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed his eyes dramatically. "She’s not interested in love: says she never will be. She won’t listen to anything I say. When our eyes meet she looks the other way. I’ve even offered her money."

"Well. She’s determined not to have a man."

"Oh God," Dottore whispered, like a prayer or a curse. "Such a waste. She’s so beautiful, Cyrus. And she’ll go through life alone and when she dies all beauty will die with her. She says she’ll never love anyone so I’m destined for a living death."

Cyrus reached out, firm but gentle, and grasped Dottore’s wrist.

"Will you trust me? I can tell you how to forget her."

"How?" said Dottore, eyes wide. "Impossible. Tell me how."

"Simple," said Cyrus. "Get out and about. Look at other girls--or boys."

"It’s no good," Dottore said, shaking his head. "Whenever I see a beautiful girl from now on I’ll only think of one who is even more beautiful. Goodbye, Cyrus. There’s no way I could forget her. There’s nothing you can do."

"I’m taking that as a challenge," said Cyrus with a grin. "I’ll sort it out, don’t you worry."

Chapter Text

The morning light streamed in golden sheets through the tall, arched windows of the Raiden estate. The main hall was quiet now, a rare calm after the uproar in the streets. The Raiden head stood near the center of the room, one hand resting on the curved back of a carved oak chair, the other gesturing idly in the air as she spoke.

“No,” Ei said firmly, looking toward the young nobleman before her. “It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. We’re both bound over to keep the peace—one as much as the other.” She gave a tired sigh, her face tightening with the weight of years. “And I don’t think it’s so difficult for those of our age.”

The man standing across from her was Count Kenzo, barely in his twenties. He looked a but similar to the princess, being a distant relative. Elegant in posture and dress, Kenzo moved with smooth detachment, his gloved hands folded behind his back. He glanced sideways at the decorative tapestries lining the wall—portraits of long-dead Raidens and their glories in battle. His hair kept in a long high ponytail shined from the chandelier light.

“You’re both respectable heads,” Kenzo said, lips tugging into something polite but thin. “It’s a pity you’ve had to live your lives as enemies.” His tone was mild, but his eyes were already moving beyond the topic. The feud meant little to him—it was tedious, something beneath his station. But Raiden was powerful. And her son… her son was the real prize. “Let’s get down to business,” he added with a nod. “What do you say to my proposition?”

Ei began to pace. Her heels clicked across the marble floor, echoing faintly through the hall. She stopped near the window, her gaze traveling out to the garden where roses climbed the walls in careful spirals. She was quiet for a long moment before turning back toward Kenzo.

“Look,” she said, stepping closer. “I can only tell you what I’ve already intimated.” She moved slowly, thoughtfully. “My son is still a child. He’s not even sixteen yet.” She gave a short shake of the head. “Give it time. In a couple of years, he’ll be just about ready for marriage.”

Kenzo raised his eyebrows, but his voice remained smooth. “Many younger than him are being wed already.”

Ei’s expression darkened. “And their lives are ruined.” She stepped toward Kenzo, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder. “My son is very special to me. He’s my only surviving child.” Her voice softened. “All my hopes rest on him. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Kenzo met the older’s eyes, and after a beat, gave a short nod. Ei’s gaze softened.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Let’s agree to a compromise. Take it slowly, Kenzo. Gain his confidence. If he agrees to marry you, then my consent will follow. And my blessing too.”

The young count considered it—his expression unreadable—then extended a hand. Ei took it and shook it firmly.

“That’s settled then.”

With new energy, Ei moved toward the desk in the corner of the room. The surface was cluttered with scrolls and sealed letters. She shuffled through them and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

“And now,” she said with a grin, “to pleasure.”

She spun back toward Kenzo, waving the invitation slightly in the air. “Tonight I’m having a party. There are going to be a lot of people. All friends of mine—among which I count you, of course.”

Kenzo gave a short, courteous bow.

Ei winked, voice playful now. “Why don’t you join us? I can promise you, my humble house will be filled with gorgeous girls and boys. And I mean gorgeous. Real stars.” She chuckled. “Make yourself at home—look at them, talk to them, dance with them. Perhaps you’ll even like one of them better than my son.”

Kenzo gave him a wry smile.

“It’s alright with me if you do,” Ei added. “Marriage is a big step. You have to be sure. No use rushing these things.”

She turned toward the hall and raised her voice. “Akari!”

A moment later, a young servant came scurrying in, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, drying his damp hands hastily on the hem of his shirt.

“Jump to it,” Ei said, holding out the parchment. “Go on, take it. I want you to go all around Teyvat and find the people on this list. Tell them they’re invited to my party tonight.”

Akari took the paper with both hands, bowing awkwardly before backing out of the room. The weight of the task settled into his stomach like a stone.

Once out in the piazza, Akari finally allowed himself to glance down at the list. His heart sank. The names swam on the page like a foreign language. It was the first time he’d ever been trusted with a task like this… and he couldn’t read a single word of it.

He stood frozen, paper trembling slightly in his hand. People bustled around him—vendors crying out over crates of citrus, noblewomen drifting past in embroidered silks, a boy running after a stray dog.

Akari’s eyes darted around. He needed help. Someone literate. Someone trustworthy.

Just then, two well-dressed gentlemen strolled past him, their voices carrying in casual debate. Akari straightened his back and fell in behind them, listening closely, trying not to draw attention.

“Come on, man,” one said, laughing lightly. “One fire can put another one out. Infect yourself with a new disease and it will kill the old ailment.”

Akari perked up. They sounded clever. Educated. Maybe—just maybe—one of them could help him.

“Sure,” said the second young man with a smirk, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “For your ailment we’ll just use a herbal remedy.”

The first one frowned and stopped walking, turning to face his friend. “What?” he said, incredulous. “Herbal remedy? What for?”

“For the broken leg you’re going to get if you don’t shut up.” He jabbed a finger playfully at his friend’s ribs, grinning as the other dodged the poke with a laugh.

Akari quickened his step and approached nervously. He clutched the crumpled invitation to his chest, clearing his throat as he fell in beside them. These two seemed educated—they used strange words and made strange jokes. He couldn’t understand a thing they were talking about. That had to be a good sign.

“God ‘i’ good e’en,” Akari said, breathless. “ I pray, sir, can you read?”

The two boys stopped walking and turned toward him, looking down. The one with the tired eyes—the sad-looking one—nodded slowly, hands in his pockets.

“Yes,” he sighed dramatically, gazing somewhere beyond Akari as if picturing a tragic horizon. “I can read my own fate in my unhappiness.”

Akari blinked, unimpressed. “Perhaps you’ve learned that off by heart,” he said, tilting his head. “But can you read by sight?”

The moody boy blinked, then smiled faintly. “Yes. If I recognize the letters and the language.”

The other one burst into laughter, doubling over slightly with a slap to his own thigh. “Good answer!”

Akari squinted. He didn’t have time for riddles. “Alright, forget it,” he muttered, waving a dismissive hand and turning on his heel. “Thanks anyway.”

He had only taken a few steps when the sad-looking one called out, his tone suddenly more genuine. “Wait—I’m only joking. Of course I can read.”

Akari stopped, half-suspicious, but handed over the invitation.

The boy took the paper carefully, holding it between his fingers like it was something delicate. He read aloud with a slow rhythm.

“Signior Cyno, and his husband and daughter… Count Zhongli…” He tilted his head, eyes scanning. “Her Highness Lumine and her brother Aether. Hmm…” His brows lifted slightly. “See here, Cyrus. Aether’s on this list.”

He paused as his eyes found a familiar name.

“My sister Makoto..., my dear cousins…” He slowed down. “My fair friend's daughter Sohreh.”

At her name, his voice grew hushed, and he clutched the paper theatrically to his chest with one hand, closing his eyes with a sigh. Then, just as suddenly, he opened them again and continued.

“…and the rest. A lot of people on this list.” He looked at Akari. “What’s it for?”

“A party,” said Akari, hands on his hips now, more confident. He was finally getting somewhere.

“Whither?” asked the sad boy, eyes narrowing with interest.

“My master’s house.”

“And who are they?” asked Cyrus, stepping slightly forward now, hands behind his back in mock formal curiosity.

“The great, rich Raiden Ei.” Akari puffed out his chest slightly as he said it. “Everyone’s invited—as long as you’re not a Kusanali.” He snapped the paper out of the boy’s hand, nodding once. “Cheers.” He turned and trotted off into the crowd.

As Akari disappeared into the bustle of the street, Cyrus turned to his companion with a grin, nudging him with an elbow.

“Aha!” he said. “Sohreh’s going to be there. Among some of the most luscious boys and girls in Teyvat.”

He raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Let’s go to Raiden’s party, Dottore. No one will mind. And let’s be objective about it. I’ll show thee that the girl you think is a swan is nothing more than a crow.”

Dottore folded his arms and turned away with an overly dramatic shake of his head, face full of disbelief.

“A girl more beautiful than Sohreh?” he scoffed. “Never. The sun’s never seen a more beautiful woman since the world began.”

Cyrus groaned and threw his hands up. “Rubbish! Every time thy seen her, she’s been on her own.”

He stepped in front of Dottore, gesturing emphatically. “You need to make comparisons. I’ll bet there’ll be hundreds of girls at that party who’ll put Sohreh in the shade.”

Dottore hesitated, still moody, then finally gave a long sigh. “Alright. I’ll go.”

Cyrus smirked.

“But not because I think you can show me anyone better,” Dottore added quickly, finger raised. “I’m going only so that I can see her.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes and clapped a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “Sure, sure. We’ll see who’s right.”

They started walking again, fading into the moving crowd, their laughter and quiet banter trailing behind them like dust on the breeze.

Chapter Text

Lady Yae Miko swept into the sitting room with a faint rustle of silk, her posture stiff, arms crossed neatly in front of her. The nurse was seated in a high-backed chair, needle and thread working carefully through a corner of white linen.

“Nurse,” Yae Miko spoke, lifting her chin slightly. “Where’s my son? Call him forth to me.”

The Nurse didn’t look up from her sewing at first, but her ears perked. She turned her head and called out, shading her eyes from the lamp with a squint. “Lady-bird! My lamb! Where is that boy? Scara!”

A voice answered brightly from the next room, “Coming!” and a moment later, Scaramouche burst in with a soft flurry, wiping flour off his hands—clearly he'd been sneaking a snack or helping in the kitchen.

When he caught sight of his step-mother standing so formally by the window, his face shifted to mild surprise. “Mother! I am here, what is your will?”

Yae Miko’s expression stayed composed as she stepped further into the room, smoothing her sleeves with a quick flick. “We need to talk,” she said briskly. “Nurse, leave us. This is a private matter.”

The Nurse rose slowly, grumbling under her breath, gathering her sewing and adjusting her bodice. But before she could reach the doorway, Yae Miko changed her mind.

“You might as well stay,” she said with a sigh, motioning vaguely with her hand. “Your advice would be helpful.”

The Nurse’s eyes lit up with curiosity and she returned quickly to her seat, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. Scaramouche folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight, unsure what this was about.

Yae Miko cleared her throat and pressed her fingers together as though trying to arrange the conversation like an embroidery pattern. “You know Scara’s getting to the age when…” She trailed off, brow furrowing delicately. “Let’s just say he’s at a pretty age. He’s going to be sixteen in two weeks.”

“Oh yes,” said the Nurse immediately, placing her hand dramatically over her heart. “After New Years, he’ll be sixteen. He was the same age as my Susan, God rest her soul.” She sat back and waved the needle in the air for emphasis. “Anyway, New Years, clear as day. I remember it so well: it’s been twelve years since that big earthquake—that’s the very day she was weaned! Lord, I’ll never forget it…”

She laughed softly, already drifting into memory, her hands gesturing wildly now as Scara rolled his eyes just slightly and Yae Miko rubbed her temples with slow, deliberate circles.

The Nurse kept on talking, utterly oblivious to the sharp, impatient tapping of Miko’s fingers against the polished table. Scaramouche, sitting stiffly nearby, exchanged a long-suffering glance with his step-mother, but the Nurse rambled on, eyes glazed with memory.

“You and master were at Khaenri'ah then,” she said, waving her needle in the air like a pointer. “I’d put wormwood on my nipple—sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall—ah, how well I remember it.” She pressed a hand over her heart dramatically, letting her sewing drop into her lap. “But as I said, when he tasted the wormwood on the nipple of my breast, tasted its bitterness, he spat my breast out and pulled such a face!”

She paused to act out Scaramouche’s baby expression, screwing up her features and puffing out her cheeks.

“And that was twelve years ago. He could walk already—well, waddle, really—and he used to rush about like a little drunkard and fall flat on his face.” The Nurse chuckled, slapping her thigh as she remembered. “Just the day before that, he took a tumble, poor thing. And my husband, God be with his soul—ah, such a lovely man—he picked him up and said, ‘Do you fall on your face? When you’ve got more sense, you’ll fall on your back, won’t you, Scar?’”

Miko sighed and rested her elbow on the armrest, rubbing her temple. Scaramouche buried his face in his hands, contemplating his entire life.

“And God strike me down if the little wretch didn’t stop crying and say ‘Yes’! Right there!” The Nurse shook her head and beamed, holding up her fingers as if swearing by it. “To see that! If I live to be a thousand, I’ll never forget it. ‘Won’t you, Scara?’ he said, and the pretty child stopped crying and said, ‘Yes.’”

She slapped her thigh again, tears welling up from laughter. “Won’t you, Scara?” she repeated. “And the pretty fool just stood there and said ‘Yes’!”

“Enough of this, I pray thou hold thy peace,” said Yae Miko sharply, finally straightening up and fixing the Nurse with a glare.

“Yes, Madam,” the Nurse said, clasping her hands together with exaggerated obedience. But she was still grinning uncontrollably. “But I can’t help laughing! To think he stopped crying and said ‘Yes’! And with a bump as big as an egg! A wicked lump! He cried so bitterly and then—” she burst out laughing again, rocking in her seat, “—‘You’ll fall backward when you grow up,’ he said. ‘Won’t you, Scara?’ And he just stopped and said—‘Yes’!”

“And you stop dead now too, please, Nurse,” said Scaramouche dryly, though his lips twitched with embarrassment.

“I’ve finished,” the Nurse said quickly, waving her hand as if zipping her mouth shut, though the fondness in her eyes lingered as she looked at Scaramouche. “But I must say it. You were the most beautiful baby I ever nursed. If I could only live to see you married, I’d die peacefully.”

Yae Miko pounced on that line, smoothing Scaramouche’s hair as he pulled him gently closer. “Married,” she said softly. "That 'married' is the very theme I came to talk of.” She tucked a strand of indigo behind Scara’s ear and gave him a small sly smile. “Tell me, son Scara, How stands your disposition to be married?”

Scaramouche blinked and tilted his head. “I’ve never even thought about it,” he admitted, brows furrowed.

“Well, think of marriage now,” his mother said, her voice firmer. “Those younger than you are already wives and husbands here in Teyvat." She waved her hand as if brushing aside the past. “But to cut a long story short—the valiant Count Kenzo seeks you for his love.”

The Nurse gasped and sat forward, clutching her chest. “Now there’s a man, young master. The perfect man.”

“The best in Teyvat,” Yae Miko added, nodding once, eyes glittering with pride.

“Without doubt,” the Nurse echoed, giving Scaramouche an encouraging pat on the knee earning her an annoyed look.

“Well?” said the Guuji Yae, giving Scaramouche a hopeful look. “Do you think you could love him?”

Scaramouche’s hands fidgeted in his lap. He hesitated, biting his bottom lip. It was all too sudden, too heavy.

“You’ll see him at the party,” said his mother, watching him closely. “Have a good look at him. You’ll see what I mean. And he has sound prospects being related to the current princess. By having him, you’ll have everything.”

The Nurse chuckled and gave a sly grin. “You’ll have even more than that. Everyone knows that anyone would grow bigger by having him.”

Yae Miko ignored her pointedly, lips tightening. “Come on,” she said, cupping Scaramouche’s chin gently to lift his face. “What do you think? Do you like the idea?”

Scaramouche spoke slowly and with care, his eyes flicking between his mother and the Nurse. He smoothed the folds of his yukata nervously.
“I’ll look forward to seeing him. Yes,” he said with a polite nod. “I’ll look at him, but I’m not going to rush into anything—or do anything that you wouldn’t want me to.”

Yae Miko gave a small, approving smile, her hands folded neatly in front of her. The Nurse, beside her, leaned forward with eager eyes, clearly ready to burst with more commentary—but was mercifully interrupted.

There was a knock at the door and it creaked open. Akari stepped in, slightly breathless, his cap askew.
“Madam,” he said, giving a quick bow, “the guests are starting to arrive. It’s all going on down there. My master wants you.”

Yae Miko rose from her chair with a graceful swish of her kosode, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve.
“I have to go,” she said, already turning toward the doorway. Then, looking back over her shoulder, she gestured lightly to Scaramouche. “Come on, Scara, the Count’s waiting.”

The Nurse clapped her hands together, beaming.
“Go on, darling,” she cooed, placing a hand over her heart as if she were watching the start of a love story. “Go and meet your love.”

Scaramouche gave a small, uncertain smile and followed his mother out of the room, the Nurse watching after him fondly with misty eyes. After all, the women had been his caretaker ever since he was born.

Chapter Text

“Are we going to make some excuse for showing up uninvited?” said Dottore, glancing sideways at the others. “Or shall we just walk in and see what happens?”

They stood in the piazza, half in shadow beneath the stone arches, watching the grand front door of the Raiden’s mansion as it swung open and shut, letting in streams of well-dressed guests. Laughter and music drifted out, carried on the warm evening air. Lanterns flickered along the garden wall, casting golden light across the cobblestones.

Aether sat cross-legged on a low stone bench, idly humming some half-invented tune, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his knee. As he swung his head around to the rhythm, his long blonde braid swung swiftly as-well. He leaned back on his elbows, eyes half-lidded in mock boredom, clearly enjoying the tension. “You’re all debating like this is a council meeting,” he said lazily, rolling his eyes. “I, at least, come with an invitation—though I suppose thou could pass for my entourage.”

Cyrus crossed his arms, his brow furrowed as he looked toward the mansion. “No speeches,” he said firmly. “Speeches are out. No one makes speeches anymore. We just go in. If they don’t like it—too bad.”

Capitano gave a quiet nod, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. His eyes darted to the guards at the gate. “Let’s not draw attention. The more normal we look, the less likely we are to be asked questions.”

Dottore exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uneasy. He wasn’t in the mood for festivities. “Alright, then,” he muttered. “Give me the torch, Capi. I’ll carry it.”

He reached out without meeting Capitano’s gaze, his other hand stuffed deep into the folds of his coat. “I’m not going to dance,” he added, more to himself than to the others, his voice low and distant.

Aether smirked, arching an eyebrow. “Thou never do when your heart’s involved. But who knows? Maybe tonight the stars will realign.”

Dottore didn’t reply. He simply took the torch, its flame flickering against the uncertainty in his eyes, and started walking toward the gate.

“Oh no you don’t,” said Aether, stepping in front of Capitano and shooing him away with exaggerated flicks of his fingers. “You’re dancing. That’s the whole point of crashing a party—mystery, music, and movement.”

Dottore dropped onto the edge of the stone fountain beside him with a soft groan, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared at the ground, then looked up with a weary sigh. “I’m not in the mood.”

Aether turned to him, hands on hips, incredulous. “Come on, you’re a lover. Lovers live for dancing. For drama. For firelight and flirtation.”

Dottore shook his head, his mouth twitching with frustration. “Not me. Love’s exactly the reason I can’t dance tonight. I feel like I’ve got lead in my chest. I’m too heavy-hearted.”

Aether threw his hands in the air and let out a theatrical laugh. “What an act! What a magnificent, moody little storm cloud you are.” He strutted in a slow circle around Dottore like a ringmaster mocking a melancholy lion. “The great Il Dottore, undone by a girl’s glance.”

The others burst into laughter. Capitano chuckled under his gray patterned mask, and Cyrus gave Dottore a playful nudge with his elbow. Even a few passing guests glanced over at the commotion.

Dottore’s expression hardened. He straightened up and looked Aether in the eye. “So love’s nothing now, is it? Just a joke to you?” His voice had dropped. “You don’t understand until it grabs you by the throat. It hurts like hell.”

Aether’s smile softened for a split second, but he quickly shrugged it off. “Then snap out of it. Shake it off, dance it out. That’s what parties are for.” He spun away and held out a hand. “Cyrus—toss me a mask. I want to look dangerous.”

Cyrus handed a golden-yellow mask over with a grin wearing a sparkly red one himself. “Let’s go before we waste the whole night sulking.”

The group started to gather around him, straightening cloaks, adjusting masks, checking over their shoulders for guards.

“Right,” said Cyrus, already moving toward the gates. “Once we’re in, let’s all get down to some serious business. No more speeches, no more sighs. Just music, masks, and maybe a little mischief.”

Dottore rose slowly, torchlight flickering in his eyes. He fixed his own white mask and followed.

“But I told you—I’m not dancing,” Dottore hanged back a step from the group. He folded his arms across his chest and let his eyes wander to the glowing windows of the Raiden mansion. “I’m just going to watch.”

Aether looped an arm around Dottore’s shoulders with practiced charm, giving him a gentle shake. “Come on, man,” he said with a grin. “We’re wasting time talking. The night’s not going to wait for us.”

Dottore didn’t budge. His gaze dropped to the ground, and he exhaled through his nose. “I know we don’t mean any harm. But honestly, I don’t think it’s very smart to go to this party.”

Aether tilted his head, his playful expression faltering. “Why?” he asked, suspicious of Dottore’s sudden seriousness.

Dottore hesitated. “I had a dream last night,” he said quietly.

That did it—his friends immediately groaned in unison. Capitano rolled his eyes. Cyrus threw his hands up in mock despair and started walking toward the gate. “If we don’t get a move on,” he called over his shoulder, “all the good food will be gone.”

People were streaming past them, dressed in violet and velvets, masks in hand, laughter echoing down the stone piazza. The mansion’s great doors opened and closed like the mouth of some grand creature swallowing guests whole.

Dottore watched them with a far-off look, almost trance-like. “It wasn’t just any dream,” he said slowly. “I’ve got this feeling—a real one. Something’s going to happen tonight. Something big.”

Aether sighed and rubbed his forehead, clearly impatient, but Dottore continued, voice growing heavier with each word.

“I don’t know what exactly, but it feels like… fate. Like tonight’s going to start something I can’t stop. And it’ll end with me repaying a debt—with my life.”

The group fell silent for a moment. Cyrus and Capitano exchanged glances, brows raised. Aether gave a theatrical shake of the head, puffing out his cheeks. “Stars and omens again? You’re such a poet it hurts,” he said, trying to break the tension. “Too much sleep and not enough wine, that’s your problem.”

Dottore shrugged, as if brushing off his own words, though his eyes lingered on the glowing threshold of the Raidens’ home. “Alright then,” he said at last. “Off we go.”

He took a deep breath, adjusted his mask, and followed them into the night.

Chapter Text

The servants were in a frenzy. The kitchen doors slammed open and shut, sending gusts of warm air and the scent of roasted meats into the halls as Akari darted between tables like a man on the brink of collapse. “Where’s Ryoma?!” he shouted, eyes scanning the chaos. “He hasn’t scraped a single plate! Is he glued to the floor?” His voice was half accusation, half desperation. The clatter of platters and the hum of growing laughter from the ballroom pressed in from all sides.

Ryoma, sleeves rolled to his elbows and hair sticking to his temple with sweat, gave a sharp laugh. “When the only ones with manners look like they rolled through the fireplace, we’re in bad shape indeed, 'tis a foul thing.”

Akari barely heard him. “Clear the stools! Sideboards, plates—everything!” he barked. Then, in a more conspiratorial tone, he leaned toward a fellow servant with a wink. “Save me a bit of marzipan, will you? And as thou truly loves me, have the porter let in Kamisato Ayato and Ayaka. They’ve been hanging off the gates like ghosts waiting to be invited in!” He turned back to the madness. “Hinata! Ryoma! Move like your lives depend on it!”

Hinata, arms full of cutlery, stumbled past him. “Yes, yes, I’m ready! I’m moving!”

Akari rolled his eyes and pointed emphatically. “You’re being looked for in the great chamber like a lord’s lost dog. Get going!”

“Can’t be in two places at once,” muttered the Ryoma as he shoved a bench back against the wall. “Smile, boys. Be quick, and maybe the last one standing gets the leftovers.”

Servants moved like clockwork wound too tight—chairs scraped, dishes vanished, and torches were adjusted to bathe the opulent hall in flickering gold.

Then came the Raiden head, her presence as commanding as the crest on her chest. “Welcome, gentlemen!” she boomed, voice echoing over the music. “Any lady who isn’t suffering from corns on her feet will dance—won’t you?” She turned with mock seriousness to the group of women, eyes twinkling. “What, no takers? If you act shy, I’ll swear it’s because of sore toes!”

The guests laughed, the room warming with ease and wine. Ei’s smile lingered with a trace of nostalgia. “There was a time when I too wore a mask, and a whisper was all it took to catch a beautiful lady’s eye. Ah—but no more, no more.”

The musicians struck up a lively tune, and couples began to spin across the polished floor, skirts brushing like petals in motion. Ei clapped her hands sharply. “Make room! Clear the hall! Dance, girls!” She turned to the servants. “More light! Move those tables—out with that fire, it’s like an oven in here!” Then, catching sight of her cousin sinking into a chair, she chuckled. “Ah, even these surprise guests are welcome. Sit, sit, cousin. We’re far too old to leap and twirl. How long since you and I last wore masks, eh?”

Her cousin chuckled, rubbing her knees. “By the Virgin, twenty years if it’s a day.”

Ei scoffed. “Nonsense! 'Tis not so much, 'tis not so much. It was Zhongli’s wedding. Fifteen years, no more.”

“'Tis more, 'tis more, Zhongli’s son has now turned sixteen,” her cousin countered, and they both laughed, the kind of laughter that tries to forget how fast time runs.

Across the room, unnoticed in the swirl of dancers and aristocrats, Dottore stood still. He’d drifted away from his friends, their chatter lost behind him, his thoughts now held captive by the boy with indigo hair across the hall. He leaned toward a servant with a voice low and unsteady. “What man is that which doth enrich the hand of thy blonde over there?”

The servant followed his gaze but only shrugged. “I know not, sir.”

But Dottore barely heard him. His heart had already leapt, irrational and electric. “He teaches the torches to burn bright,” he whispered. It was as if the air around him had shifted, as though the lights burned for him and him alone. “He shines like a jewel in the dark—far too rare for this world.” His voice trembled slightly. “Like a white dove among crows, he outshines every being here.”

The room blurred—no music, no crowd, just him. The rest of the night receded like a tide.

“When the dance ends,” he murmured, “I’ll find him. I’ll take his hand, and with that, I’ll make mine holy.” His breath caught. “Did I ever love before this? No. Not truly. My eyes have lied until now.” His gaze never left him. “Because I’ve never seen beauty… until this night.”

Mei froze mid-step, narrowing her eyes as laughter and music swelled around her. She tilted her head slightly, listening more intently. A masked guest’s voice had just drifted through the chatter—smooth, too familiar, too wrong.

She stiffened, jaw tightening.
“By his voice I know that this man is a Kusanali," she muttered through clenched teeth.

She snapped her fingers sharply, signaling to her Page, who had been lingering by the wine table.
“Get my sword, boy,” she hissed, voice low but lethal.

The page blinked, startled, then scampered off through the throng of dancers.

Mei’s hand rested where her sword should hang, her fingers twitching with impatience. Her lips curled in disdain as he glared at the masked intruder.
“How dare this punk come here with his face covered by a mask so he can mock and scorn our celebration? To defend the honor of my family, I don’t think it would be a sin to kill him.”

She rolled her shoulders back, preparing to storm across the hall—when a hand gripped her arm.

Ei had seen the fire in her niece’s eyes and intercepted her with the practiced ease of a woman used to managing tempers at her own events.
“What’s all this, Mei? Why are you so furious?”

Mei jerked her arm free and leaned in, eyes burning.
“Obasan, that is a Kusanali—our rival. He’s a rogue who’s come here out of spite to scorn our celebration.”

Ei squinted across the room, squashing a smile as she recognized the boy.
“Young Dottore is it?”

Mei’s face darkened further. She leaned in, voice sharper.
“'Tis he, that villain Dottore.”

Ei’s expression shifted to something harder, firmer. She folded her arms.
“Calm yourself. Leave him be. He holds himself like a gentleman of good manners, and, to be honest, everyone in Teyvat says that he is a virtuous and well-behaved youth. Not for all the wealth in this town would I insult him in my own house. Be calm. Pretend you never saw him. That is my command, and if you respect me, you’ll stop with all these frowns, which is no way to behave at a party.”

Mei drew back, incredulous. She scoffed, tossing a hand in the air.
“It’s the way to behave when a scoundrel like him shows up. I'll not endure him.”

Ei stepped forward, eyes blazing now.
“He shall be endured. What, girl? I say you will. Get out of here. Am I the master here, or you? Get out. You won’t stand him? God save my soul, you’ll start a riot among my guests! And you’ll crow like a rooster!”

Mei opened her mouth in protest, fists clenched at her sides.
“Why, Obasan, ’tis a shame.”

Ei pressed a hand to her chest like she might physically hold back her fury.
“Come on, come on. You’re an impertinent girl. 'tis that really how thou think it is? This silliness is likely to come back to harm you. I know what I’m doing, but you feel the need to contradict me. Well, I’ll show you a thing or two.”

She turned away from Mei abruptly, clapping loudly and raising his voice to the guests with exaggerated cheer.
“Well done, my dears!”

Then, quieter but razor-sharp, she snapped back at Mei:
“You’re an insolent girl, now go. Keep your mouth shut.”

To the servingmen, she shouted over the music, her voice carrying over the crowd:
“More light, more light!”

And back to Mei again, her voice a hiss of fury just beneath the surface:
“You should be ashamed of yourself! I’ll make you be quiet.”

Then, as if nothing had happened, she pivoted back toward the guests with a sweeping grin and open arms.
“Party on, my friends!”

The musicians resumed their melody. Couples twirled back into rhythm. The fire cracked and laughter filled the hall again.

But Mei stood motionless, her breath shaking. She looked down at her own hands, clenched so tight they trembled. The rage didn’t go away—it burned deeper.

“The blend of enforced restraint with my burning rage is making me tremble. I’ll leave. But I’ll make Dottore regret this prank, which at the moment seems to him like such great fun.”

With one last glare in Dottore’s direction, Mei turned and stalked away, the crowd parting in silence as she passed.

The music still hummed from the grand hall beyond, muffled by thick violet drapes and the stone curve of the corridor, where golden candlelight flickered dimly. Dottore had wandered, half-dazed, through the fringes of the celebration, drawn to a quiet alcove draped in ivy and shadows—and there, like fate stepping out of a dream, stood the same indigo-haired from before. His kimono shimmered faintly in the low light, and the moment their eyes met, the chatter and music behind them seemed to vanish.

He stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate, as though approaching a sacred place. With breath caught between nerves and wonder, he reached out and gently took the others hand. “If I offend you by touching your holy hand with my own unworthy one,” he said, his voice low and reverent, “then my lips stand ready, like two blushing pilgrims, to smooth my rough touch with a gentle kiss.”

Scaramouche didn’t pull away. His breath hitched slightly, but he steadied it. Amused by this display he matched his intensity with calm poise. “Good pilgrim,” he replied, tilting his head slightly, “you are unfair to your hand. Your hand shows proper devotion by touching mine, just as pilgrims reach out to touch the hands of saints. Holding palm to palm is like a pilgrim’s kiss.” His voice was warm and teasing, as though he enjoyed how much he was unraveling in front of him.

Dottore inched closer, still holding his hand between both of his own. “Don’t saints have lips? And pilgrims, too?” His words came like a secret, meant for the other man's ears alone.

“Yes, pilgrim—lips they’re supposed to use to pray.” Scaramouches gaze didn’t falter, though his cheeks bloomed with color.

Dottore leaned in slightly, his breath mingling with the shorter in the hush of the alcove. “O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

Scaramouche’s reply came soft and sure: “Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.”

“Then remain still while I pray.” His voice was barely audible, reverent. Dottore leaned down and pressed his lips against the other—a gentle, tentative kiss that sent a shiver through both of them, warm and electric in the secluded stillness.

He drew back just a fraction, his eyes wide, breath shallow. “Now your lips have cleaned the sin from mine.”

Scaramouche held his gaze, as though steadying himself from a sudden fall. “Then my lips now have the sin they took from yours.”

“Sin from my lips?” Dottore asked, breathless, intoxicated. “Oh, how you urge me on to another crime. Give me back my sin.” He kissed him again, this time with more certainty, more feeling, the quiet corner around them blooming with unspoken longing.

“You kiss by th’ book,” Scaramouche murmured when they parted, his voice unsteady now, his cool composure slipping just slightly.

Their world might have gone on, spun further into this shared spell—if not for the sudden voice of the Nurse calling from the hallway. “Young master, your mother craves a word with you.”

Scaramouche jolted slightly, pulled back from him as if waking from a dream. His hand lingered in the taller's for one last heartbeat before he turned, glancing back over his shoulder.

Dottore watched him disappear into the shadows and gilded light of the corridor beyond, and something in him already ached. “Who is his mother?”

The Nurse, passing him briskly without a second thought, replied, “Well, young man, his mother is the matriarch of the house. A good, wise, and virtuous lady. I nursed her son, who you were talking to just now. I tell you, the one who marries that man will be rich.”

And in the dim quiet of that hidden space, Dottore stood stunned, the echo of Scaramouche’s touch still burning in his palm—his heart now carrying the first weight of impossible love.

The music had softened into a lull, the great hall now scattered with the last of the guests trickling out. Servants moved like shadows, extinguishing candles and clearing away goblets and crumbs of sugared fruits. Laughter echoed faintly from the corridors, but here near the stone archway that led out to the moonlit garden, lies the Kusanali heir half-lost in the sensation of the son of his fated enemy’s kiss lingering on his lips.

He touched his chest as if trying to steady something fluttering wildly within. “Is he a Raiden?” he whispered to himself, the words tight in his throat. “Oh, what a price I’ve paid! My life is now owned by my enemy.”

Cyrus spotting Dottore from the crowd, appeared at his side, catching the tension in his cousin’s posture. He glanced toward the gathering of Raidens beginning to break apart behind them. “Let’s go,” he said in a hushed, urgent voice. “Let’s go, now while everything is still perfect.”

Dottore exhaled slowly, his eyes still on the place where the mysterious--Raiden?--man who captured his heart in one evening had disappeared. “Yes, it is still perfect now,” he murmured. “But I’m afraid it will never be perfect again.”

At the center of the hall, Raiden Ei, beaming and flushed with wine and the success of the evening, raised her voice cheerfully. “No, gentlemen, don’t leave now. We have a bit of dessert arriving any moment.” A guest leaned close to whisper something, and Ei paused, then nodded with a chuckle. “Is that so? Then, I thank you. I thank you, honest gentlemen. Good night.” She turned and clapped her hands. “Bring more torches over here! Come on, let’s all get to bed.” She passed her cousin and gave a tired smile. “Ah, by God, it’s late. I’m going to sleep.”

The crowd slowly unraveled. Courtiers gathered their cloaks, couples giggled behind fans, and masked guests disappeared into the warm Teyvat night. Scaramouche remained behind, standing still beneath a grand arch, his gaze sweeping the departing figures.

He leaned in close to his nurse and whispered, “Come hither, Nurse. Who is that gentleman over there?”

The Nurse squinted, following his line of sight. “The son and heir of old Kaedehara.”

Scaramouche’s heart skipped, but he kept his voice even. “Who’s the one going out the door?”

“That, I think, is young Sethos,” the Nurse answered, already half distracted by the bustle of the retreating guests.

Scaramouche stepped forward slightly, craning his neck. “What about the one over there, who wouldn’t dance?”

The Nurse shook her head. “I know not.”

Scaramouche clutched his handmaid’s arm, his tone suddenly urgent. “Go ask him for his name.”

The Nurse nodded and hurried off, vanishing into the thinning crowd. Scaramouche remained alone for a breathless moment, the silence wrapping around him like a cloak. He clutched the edge of a nearby column, his knuckles pale.

“If he’s married,” he whispered to himself, “I’d rather die than marry someone else.”

The Nurse reappeared a moment later, her expression marked with surprise. “His name is Il Dottore. He’s a Kusanali. He’s the only son and heir of your greatest enemy.”

The words landed like a stone in Scaramouche's chest. He staggered back half a step, his lips parting in disbelief. “The one man I love is the son of the one person I'm supposed to hate!” he breathed. His hands came to his chest as though to contain the ache swelling there. “I saw him before I knew who he was, and learned who he was too late! What a monster love is, to make me love my worst enemy.”

The Nurse frowned, sensing the shift in her charge’s voice. “What’s this? What’s this?”

Scaramouche turned slightly, trying to recover his composure. “A rhyme I learned just now from somebody I danced with,” he said quickly, brushing it off with a half-smile, though his voice wavered.

From the far end of the hall, someone called out: “Scara!”

The Nurse straightened. “Anon, anon!” She took Scaramouche gently by the elbow. “Come along, let’s go. The strangers have all left.”

Together, they exited into the night, Scaramouche casting one last glance behind him—back toward the place where his world had quietly, irrevocably changed.

Chapter Text

”Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie,
And young affection gapes to be his heir.
That fair for which love groaned for and would die,
With tender Scaramouche matched, is now not fair.

Now Dottore is beloved and loves again,
Alike bewitchèd by the charm of looks;
But to his foe supposed he must complain,
And he steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks.
Being held a foe, he may not have access

To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear,
And he as much in love, his means much less
To meet his new belovèd anywhere.
But passion lends them power, time means, to meet,
Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet.”

Chapter Text

Dottore couldn’t bring himself to leave—not yet. The heavy oak doors of the Raiden estate had closed behind him, but his feet moved like they were bound to the stone, reluctant to carry him any further from the world he’d just entered. Every step away was a betrayal of the night, of that beautiful boy.

Scaramouche.

His name pulsed like a secret in his chest, beating in time with his heart. He had met him only moments ago, spoken to him in riddles and rhymes, kissed him, and in that fleeting touch, something ancient and eternal had begun to bloom. It was madness, but it was the only thing that felt real.

He leaned into the cool stone wall bordering the Raiden orchard, pressing his palms flat against it as if he could will himself to melt into it, become part of the garden, of the house, of him. The scent of roses clung to the night air, and somewhere above, a branch rustled with wind—or perhaps something more.

“Dottore!” A voice snapped the stillness. “Hey, Dottore!”

His spine tensed. He could hear their footsteps now—his friends, calling from the street beyond. The drunken energy of the party was still on their voices, thick with mischief.

Dottore’s breath caught. Not now. He inched along the wall, looking for shadow, for escape.

“Cousin!” Cyrus’s voice was closer now, tinged with concern.

“Oh Dot-to-re!” Aether’s mocking sing-song rang out. “Do-to-to-re!” A burst of laughter followed. “Wherefore art thou vanishing, lover boy?”

Dottore’s fingers scrambled against the rough stone, and by some miracle, found a crack, then a ridge. His muscles coiled, and with a surge of desperation he climbed. His shoes slipped once, scraping, but he pressed on—one foothold, then another. Grit bit into his hands, but he didn’t care. In a breathless scramble he hoisted himself onto the top of the wall, heart hammering. He lay flat on his stomach, the world beneath him muffled and distant.

Below, the voices drew closer. Leaves rustled as Cyrus stepped into the orchard path.

“I swear thy have run off home to avoid us,” Aether muttered. “Probably tucked up in bed by now, dreaming of that ice-hearted Sohreh.”

Dottore clenched his jaw. Sohreh? The name echoed hollow in his mind, like a faded note from a song he no longer remembered. What was she now but a ghost in comparison to Scaramouche’s fire?

“No,” said Cyrus. “He was just here. I saw him slip into the shadows. I’ll bet anything he climbed over this wall.”

Aether chuckled darkly. “Oh, so now he’s some nocturnal sprite? Well then, let’s conjure him, shall we?” He raised his voice with theatrical flair. “Dottore! Brave Dottore! Rise, thou ghost of passion past! Come forth, thou lover of shadows, and speak!”

Dottore lay motionless on the top of the wall, his breath shallow, his body pressed tight against the cold stone. The night air bit at his skin, but he hardly felt it. Below, the laughter of his friends echoed up like ripples disturbing the hush of the orchard. Their voices were thick with wine and the thrill of mischief, careless and loud in the dark.

There was a lull, then the inevitable stir of voices again—Aether, of course.

“Dottore! Madman!” he called with theatrical flair. “Lover! Appear to me! Appear in the form of a… sigh!”

More drunken giggling. Dottore winced and kept still.

“Say something!” Aether called out again, drawing out the words. “Anything!”

There was whispering, a snort of laughter, and then Aether's voice took on a parody of reverence—as if he were delivering a sacred rite.

“I conjure you in the name of Sohreh’s bright eyes,” he intoned solemnly, pausing just long enough for effect. “By her high forehead, and her scarlet lip…”

Cyrus and Capitano burst into hoots of laughter. Dottore could hear one of them slap the other on the back.

“By her fine foot, straight leg…” Aether continued, the priestly tone cracking with suppressed laughter. “And quivering thighs!”

That sent the others into an explosion of cackles. Leaves rustled from someone doubling over in amusement.

“And everything else in that region!” Aether cried, nearly choking on his own glee. The orchard rang with raucous, howling laughter.

Dottore bit his lip hard to stifle a laugh of his own, part in exasperation, part in affection. They were ridiculous.

“That you appear to us,” Aether went on, struggling to stay upright, “in the likeness of—of—” The others barked out absurd animal sounds, howling and braying like fools.

“In the likeness of yourself!” Aether declared triumphantly, spreading his arms in mock benediction.

“Shhh!” Cyrus hissed between laughs. “If he hear thou, thou wilt anger him!”

“How could that make him furious?” Aether said innocently, still panting from laughter. “Raising him in the name of his beloved? That’s fair enough, isn’t it? I’m only trying to… raise him.” He grinned through the suggestive pause, sending the others into another round of wheezing amusement.

Dottore rolled his eyes, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. They were impossible.

“'Tis no use,” Capitano said eventually, once the laughter had faded into tired sighs. “He’s hiding in the orchard somewhere. Leave him be. Since love is blind, he’s best off in the dark.”

Aether yawned with theatrical flair. “If that’s so, it’s no wonder he can’t hit his target. And by ‘target,’ of course, I mean Sohreh.” He stretched, his voice growing lazy. “Ah well. Goodnight to Dottore. Let him play ghost if he likes. I need my bed more than his company.”

“Might as well,” Cyrus agreed. “You’ll never find someone who doesn’t want to be found.”

Their voices drifted into the distance, shoes scuffing against gravel as they ambled away, laughter now only a faint echo.

Chapter Text

Dottore sat up slowly, the cool stone beneath him slick with dew. Above, the moon hung enormous and pale, flooding the orchard in silver light. He looked around and realized with a jolt that the wall he perched on bordered the Raidens’ grounds. One side fell away into the narrow alley where Aether, Capitano and Cyrus had called for him. The other opened into a hushed orchard, tangled and shadowy, where trees swayed gently in the breeze. Beyond the orchard loomed the back of the Raiden mansion—tall, dark, and silent. Somewhere inside those walls was Scaramouche. His heart tugged toward him. Was he thinking of him too?

For Aether, love was a joke, a game of words and laughter. But for Dottore, it burned—aching and holy.

Suddenly, a light sparked in an upstairs window. His breath caught. It had to be him. That glow—warm, golden—banished the cold of the moon. He was the sun, far brighter than the pale goddess of the night. The window opened. A door creaked. And then—he stepped out.

“It’s him,” he whispered, as though saying it might make him vanish. “Oh, it’s my love.”

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but drink in the sight of him, silhouetted on the balcony. The mans lips moved, though he couldn’t hear the words. He couldn’t possibly be talking to him… and yet he imagined he was. His eyes traced every curve of his face, marveling. How could such beauty exist?

It was like two of the brightest stars in all the heavens had been called away, and begged his indigo eyes to shine in their place until they returned. And even so—his cheek outshone them. The light of his skin would put those stars to shame, as daylight does a flickering lamp. His eyes—oh, if they were in the sky now, the birds would begin to sing, fooled into thinking it was morning.

Scaramouche leaned his cheek against his hand.

Dottore’s chest ached. “Oh,” he breathed, “to be a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek…”

Scaramouche sighed—softly at first, then louder—as if trying to release something too heavy for words. The sound tugged at Dottore’s chest like a thread being pulled tight. He had to get closer.

Without a second thought, he leapt down from the wall. Another time, the drop might have bruised him, but now he barely felt the earth as he landed. All that mattered was the voice that had sighed into the night, the voice that pulled him forward like gravity. He was an angel, glowing somewhere in the darkness, and wherever he walked, the world around him seemed to shine.

He crept low through the orchard, weaving between gnarled trees and wild vines until he reached the one that stood just below the balcony. Its twisted branches offered cover, and he ducked behind them, heart pounding. The leaves whispered faintly overhead.

Then, his voice again—soft, aching: “Oh Dottore, Dottore…”

Dottore froze, every part of him stilled by the sound of his beloved saying his name. “Wherefore art thou Dottore?” he said, his voice carrying upward, unaware of the boy listening below. “Deny thy father and refuse thy name… or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love and I’ll no longer be a Raiden.”

Dottore clenched his fists, aching to reveal himself, to cry out, “I’m here!” But he held back, caught between the thrill of hearing his secret thoughts and the fear of shattering the moment too soon.

“’Tis but thy name that is my enemy,” he continued, his voice trembling with longing. “Thou art thyself, though not a Kusanali.” He paused. Dottore leaned closer against the bark of the tree, breath caught in his throat.

“What’s Kusanali?” he asked the night. “'Tis nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name!” Scaramouche sighed again, deeply this time, and Dottore's heart broke for him. Shall I hear more or shall I speak at this?

“What’s in a name?” Scaramouche said quietly. “That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet…” Dottore closed his eyes—each word wrapping around him like a vow. “So Dottore would, were he not Dottore called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title.”

And then—his voice dropped to a whisper, almost a prayer: “Dottore, doff thy name. And for that name, which is no part of thee, take all myself.”

Dottore couldn’t hold back a moment longer. Bursting from behind the tree, he stepped into the moonlight. “I take thee at thy word,” he said, voice low but sure. “Call me ‘Love,’ and I’ll never answer to Dottore again.”

Startled, he gasped and stepped back into the shadows of the balcony. “Who are you?” Scaramouche demanded. “Coming here in the dark, hiding and listening?”

“I don’t dare say my name,” Dottore spoke. “It’s yours now to destroy. I hate it—because you hate it. If I’d written it, I’d tear it up before your eyes.”

Something shifted in his expression. “Art thou not Dottore?” he asked, searching his face. “And a Kusanali?”

“Neither, fair doll,” he whispered, “if thou no longer wish them to be.”

Scaramouche leaned forward, eyes wide, fear creeping into his voice. “How did you even get hither? Why? The orchard walls are high and wild, and this place is dangerous for someone like you. If anyone in my family finds you…”

“I flew over them,” he said simply, “on the wings of love. No wall can keep love out. No threat can stop me. Love dared me to come, and I came.”

“But if they see thee—they’ll kill thee!”

He smiled, softly. “Your eyes hold more danger than twenty of their swords. One kind look from you is all the armor I need.”

Scara glanced around nervously, shadows moving in the breeze. “I don’t want them to see you here,” he murmured.

And still Dottore stood, lit by moonlight and the fire in his heart, as if no danger in the world could outweigh a moment with the other man.

“It’s alright,” he said gently, eyes fixed on the man above as if he were the only light in the dark. “It’s dark enough to keep me hidden. But even if it weren’t—even if the whole world saw—if you don’t love me, I’d rather be caught and killed by your kin than live a single day without your love.”

Scaramouche leaned against the balcony, his voice lowered in wonder. “Who told thou how to find me here?”

Dottore couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Love did,” he said, almost laughing at the truth of it. “I’m no sailor, Scaramouche, but if you were cast away on the far side of the world, I’d still find you. I’d cross any sea, brave any storm, just to stand beneath your window.”

Scara turned his face slightly, his voice soft and almost embarrassed. “It’s a good thing it’s night. If it weren’t, you’d see how red I’m blushing from what you heard.” He paused, gathering his breath. “I wish I could pretend I didn’t say those things. But I won’t lie. I meant them. So tell me, Dottore—do you love me?”

The question struck him like lightning, thrilling and sudden. He opened his mouth to answer, but he rushed ahead, his words tumbling out in nervous passion.

“I know you’ll say yes—and I’ll believe you. But people swear love and then change their minds. Don’t be like that, Dottore. Please don’t.” Scaramouche's soft hair bathed in moonlight as it hung forward over the railing. “If you truly love me, say it honestly. But if you think I’ve been too quick, too forward—then I’ll play coy. I’ll hold back and act like I don’t feel this. But only because I’m so in love with you. That’s why I’m saying all this so plainly. I’ll love you truer than anyone else ever could.”

Scaramouche looked down, his voice soft and sure. “If I’d had the chance to be shy, I would’ve. But you heard my heart before I could guard it. So please forgive me—and know I’m serious.”

Dottore stepped closer beneath the balcony. “I swear by the moon—”

“Oh, no!” he interrupted quickly. “Don’t swear by the moon. She changes every night. I don’t want a love that changes with the tides.”

“Then what shall I swear by?”

“Don’t swear at all,” he said, then added in a breathless hush, “Or if thou wilt, swear by yourself. By your heart. That’s the god I believe in. Swear by that, and I’ll believe thee.”

Dottore looked up at him, struck silent by the way his eyes held him. But Scaramouche turned away slightly.

“No, don’t swear,” Scara murmured once again. “Even though I love you, this is all so sudden. Too sweet, too wild—like lightning. It’s gone before you can say it lit the sky. I’d rather you say goodnight.” He stepped toward the balcony door. “Let this love, this bud, grow in its own time. Goodnight.”

Dottore blinked. “Just like that?” he asked softly. “Art thou just going to leave me here?”

Scaramouche hesitated, then turned back. “What more can we do tonight?”

“We can make promises,” he said. “Faithful ones. Sacred ones.”

“I already gave you my heart,” he whispered back. “Before you even asked for it. And yet… I wish I could take it back.”

Dottore froze. “You want to take it back?”

“No,” he said, eyes shining. “Only so I can give it to thy again. I love you so much that the more I give, the more I have. It’s endless. Like the sea.”

Suddenly, the night broke with a voice calling from within the house: “Scara? Lamb? Honey love?”

Scaramouche turned, startled. “I’m coming, Nurse!” he called quickly. Then to Dottore, “Dear Kusanali—if your heart is true, so must your word be.” He almost vanished into the house.

Dottore stood there, hands clasped to his chest. “Oh night,” he whispered. “Sweet night, blessed with wonder.” He laughed softly, eyes raised to the glowing sky. “If this is a dream, let me never wake.”

But then—there he was again, stepping out once more onto the balcony.

“Just one more thing,” Scaramouche said, breathless. “And then, truly, goodnight. If you’re serious—if your love is real—then send me a message tomorrow. I’ll send someone to you. Tell me when and where we’ll be married, and I’ll come to you. I’ll be yours forever.”

“Scara!” came the Nurse again, louder now.

“I’m coming!” he yelled with a huff, voice torn between duty and desire. Then, just for Dottore, he leaned far over the edge of the balcony, his hand reaching into the night as if he could somehow touch him. “If you’re playing with my heart, Dottore… if this is just a game to you—then please, leave me now. Don’t make my sorrow worse. I’ll send a messenger tomorrow.”

Dottore’s heart clenched. Leave him? Trifling? Did he truly believe he could be so false?

“As true as—” he began, stepping forward, but he had already gone inside.

Darkness pressed in. It was as if the moon had vanished, and all warmth with it. He stood still, the echo of her voice clinging to the walls like fading music. Maybe he should leave. Maybe he didn’t belong here after all. He turned, heavy-hearted.

“Psst! Dottore! Pssst!”

He spun around so fast it was like he’d flown—suddenly beneath his window again in a heartbeat, pulled back by the sound of his voice like it was a lifeline.

“Dottore,” he whispered. “What time should I send someone to you?”

“Nine,” he said, his voice full of hope.

Scaramouche smiled down at him, his laugh like the flutter of wings. “I’ll remember. But it’ll feel like twenty years until then.”

And then, his brow furrowed slightly. “I’ve forgotten why I called you back.”

Dottore grinned. “That’s alright. I’ll just stay here until thy remember.”

“Then I’ll never remember,” he said playfully, “so that you’ll stay here forever.”

“Then I’ll never leave,” he answered, “because I’ll be hoping you’ll keep forgetting. I’ll forget that I ever lived anywhere but here—beneath this balcony, beneath your eyes.”

Scaramouche looked down at him, quiet for a moment. “It’s nearly morning,” he said at last, his voice a soft ache. “I want you to go, but I don’t want to let you go.”

Dottore stepped forward slightly, the distance between them unbearable.

“It’s hard to say goodbye,” Scara whispered. “I wish I could keep saying good night until it turned into good morning, and even then I wouldn’t stop.”

With one final look—full of everything neither of them could say—he slipped from view and was gone.

Dottore stood there for a moment longer, basking in the echo of his presence. Then he turned, racing through the orchard, the wall that had seemed so tall before now nothing under his feet. Dawn was just brushing the horizon with silver. Sleep was a stranger to him now.

He knew exactly where he was going.

To the priestess—with the most astonishing news love had ever written on his heart.

Chapter Text

Columbina was already awake, her robes and long pink and black hair brushing the dew-soaked grass as she wandered through the early light. The eastern sky was streaked with pale fire, and the last shadows of night fled westward, making way for dawn. From time to time, she looked upward, then knelt to gather herbs, filling her wicker basket with a careful mixture of healing and deadly plants before the sun could draw the life-giving moisture from their leaves.

Nature was her solace, her scripture. She often mused on the soil beneath his feet—how it was both cradle and grave, a mother that gave birth to all life, and a tomb that gently reclaimed it. She saw wonder in every leaf and flower, believing that even the most vile weed had purpose—some hidden virtue or secret poison. In her eyes, nothing living was without power, and nothing so pure that it couldn’t be twisted if misused.

She paused, holding a small blossom between her fingers, its petals glistening with dew. Even this innocent flower, she knew, contained the power to heal... or to kill. Its scent could ease suffering; its sap could end a life. People were much the same, she thought—light and shadow coiled together in the heart of every man.

Her reflection was interrupted by a figure approaching through the tall grass. A young voice called out, breathless and bright: “Good morning, Bina!”

The shorter girl turned. “Ah, who’s this, wandering out at daybreak? Il Dottore? Something must be troubling you, to be up before the sun. At your age, only worry or love keeps sleep at bay, but youth is meant for deep, easy dreaming. And yet—here you are. I can see it on your face: you haven’t slept at all.”

Dottore, still catching his breath, smiled. “You’re right. I didn’t sleep—but I’ve had the sweetest rest I’ve ever known.”

Columbina raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. “God forgive you. Wast thou with Sohreh?!”

“Sohreh?” Dottore blinked, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. “No. I’ve forgotten her completely.”

She laughed softly. “Is that so? Well then, my boy—tell me, where hast thou been then?”

“Come,” said Dottore, eyes shining. “I’ll tell you everything as we walk to your chapel.” They began to stroll through the grass, and Dottore’s voice trembled with excitement. “I was dining with enemies last night—when one of them struck a wound into me. But I wounded him too. And you, Bina… you’re the one who can heal us both.”

The priestess slowed, looking up at him puzzled. How she hated how much taller the other had gotten incompared to her. “Speak clearly, 'Tore. I don’t follow your meaning.”

“To be plain,” Dottore said, breathless with joy, “I’m in love with Scaramouche, Raiden’s heir. And he loves me in return. I want us to be married—and you must perform the ceremony. Today.”

She stopped short. “My Archon!” she exclaimed, stunned. “What a change this is! Have you forgotten Sohreh so quickly? Is this how young men love? With their eyes, not with their hearts? Jesu Maria! Only yesterday your sighs for Sohreh filled the air. I still hear the whining in my ears. Look—there’s still a tear-stain on your cheek!”

Dottore opened his mouth to reply, but the small priestess held up a hand. “It was ‘Sohreh this’ and ‘Sohreh that’—and now, a few hours later, it’s all Scaramouche? Just like that?”

“Thou hast scolded me constantly for loving Sohreh,” Dottore said, confused but firm.

“I scolded thee for thy obsession,” she replied gently. “Not for loving truly.”

She studied Dottore’s face, searching for the truth behind his sudden transformation.

“And thou told me to bury love,”

“Not to dig up another grave,” Columbina replied, voice sharp with concern.

“Please, dear priestess,” Dottore spoke, stepping forward and towering over the other, urgency in every word. “Don’t scold me now. The one I love now—he loves me back. That’s the difference. The other… she never did.”

Columbina narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps because she could sense your heart wasn’t truly in it.”

The priestess fell into silence, her thoughts quick and heavy as she put a hand to her chin. This match—it was reckless. Two young lovers, born from houses steeped in hatred. A marriage like this could spark ruin. But… could it also bring peace? Could love succeed where reason and force had failed? Could this be the spark that doused a burning feud?

The idea struck her with sudden clarity. If this bond was real, perhaps it wasn’t a curse, but a chance.

She straightened, decision made. “Come on, then, thy wild-hearted boy,” she said, a smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. “Come with me. 'Tis one matter where I can help you. Who knows? 'Tis may be the very thing to turn your families’ hatred into love.”

Dottore lit up like the morning sky. “Then let’s go—let’s not waste a single moment!”

But as he began to run, Columbina raised a hand. “Easy now. Those who rush stumble fastest. Love, like all things worth having, needs time to root. Let’s walk.”

Chapter Text

“Where the devil could Dottore be?”

Aether and Cyrus sat in the shade along the low wall of the fountain. The sun was already climbing, and the stone beneath them was warm. Aether idly traced a heart in the dust with his fingertip.

“Didn’t he come home last night?” he asked, squinting at the sky. It was far too bright today.

“Not to his father’s,” said Cyrus. “I spoke to his servant this morning. No sign of him.”

Aether scoffed. “Who would’ve thought it? That the ice-cold Sohreh could send such a great man spinning.”

Cyrus shifted. “Did you hear? Raiden’s niece hath sent letter to Dottore’s house.”

“A letter?” Aether sat up straighter. “A challenge, no doubt.”

Cyrus nodded. “And Dottore’ll answer it.”

Aether smirked. “Anyone with a hand can write a reply.”

“I mean he’ll fight,” said Cyrus.

The blonde laughed, but there was no joy in it. “Dottore’s already finished. He’s been run through by a woman’s glance, flattened by a sigh, trampled by verses of love. You think he’s in shape to face Mei?”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “Mei’s just another swordsman.”

“You think so?” said Aether, sitting up straighter. “Mei’s not just anything. She’s practically the next Queen of Thunder, the master of blade and form. She fights with rhythm—one, two—” Aether danced an imaginary sword through the air, lunging toward Cyrus. “—and three lands straight through your ribs.”

Cyrus laughed and swatted his hand away.

Aether leaned back, shaking his head. “She’s so precise he could slice the button off thy sleeve without brushing the cloth. She knows every flourish, every feint. But still…” His voice dropped. “She’s all show. Flash and polish.”

“Then she’s no real threat,” said Cyrus.

Aether grinned. “Still a threat. Just one who enjoys looking good while killing you.”

Cyrus straightened suddenly. “Hey—look who’s arrived.”

Dottore was walking toward them across the square, a spring in his step, something lighter about him.

“Well, well,” said Aether, eyes gleaming. “Look who the morning dragged in. There he is. Look at him! You’d think he’s been crowned king of love. Even the goddesses of old would feel plain beside his new flame. Dido herself would look like a scullery maid.”

He stood and gave an exaggerated bow. “Signor Il Dottore, bon jour! Thou disappeared on us last night. A vanishing act worthy of applause.”

“Good morning,” Dottore said, a half-smile playing on his lips. “What’s this about cheating you?”

“The slip, the slip,” said Aether, tapping his temple as though it were obvious. “Don’t you get it? Thy gave us the slip.”

Dottore laughed. “I’m sorry, Aether. I had urgent business. Truly—I’m sorry.”

The apology was quickly buried under a flurry of teasing. They tossed jests back and forth like a ball, trading barbs with familiar ease. The gloom that had weighed on Dottore only a day ago had vanished, and his friends noticed. He was himself again.

“There we are!” said Aether, clapping him on the back. “Isn’t this better than moping and muttering about love? Now you’re sociable—now you’re the talented, funny, Il Dottore again.”

Dottore grinned and couldn’t seem to stop. His eyes kept flicking to the far end of the square, alert for movement.

Then he saw her—well, not Scaramouche, but his messenger. The Nurse, bustling forward with skirts like sails, cyan hair flowing with the wind, flanked by poor Akari, who struggled to manage her flowing train that caught the breeze like a ship’s banner. “A sail! A sail!” cried Dottore jokingly, pointing.

Aether joined in, shading his eyes as if spotting a galleon on the horizon. “Full wind!” he shouted. “Brace yourselves!”

Dottore ran to greet her. Aether darted behind, snatched the edge of her train, and waved it like a flag. The Nurse turned with a glare and backhanded him so fast he landed in the dust, blinking.

“Akari!” she barked.

“I’m hither!” Akari rushed to her side.

“Give me my fan, Akari.”

Aether groaned, rubbing his cheek. “Good, Akari,” he said, rising to his feet, “give her the fan. Oh yes—she needs it to hide her face. The fan’s far lovelier.”

The crowd of bystanders laughed. The Nurse swung at him again, but he ducked, threw his arms out, and bowed dramatically to more applause.

“Good morrow, gentlemen,” said the Nurse, settling herself on the fountain edge.

“Good afternoon, fair gentlewoman,” said Aether with a sweeping flourish.

“Afternoon?” she asked, puzzled.

“Oh yes,” he nodded. “The rude hand of the clock now rests right on the prick of noon.”

“Disgusting,” she snapped. “You disgusting man.”

Once the laughter died down, she turned serious and wiped her brow with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Gentlemen,” she said, “can any of thee direct me to young Il Dottore?”

All heads turned toward him.

“I can,” Dottore spoke. “But by the time thy reach him, he’ll be older than when thy started. Yes, it’s me. Il Dottore—youngest of the name, for better or worse.”

“Well said,” she said with a chuckle.

Aether frowned, stepping back beside Dottore. “That was well said? Thou standards are low.”

The Nurse waved him off. He fell back in mock surrender—and got slapped again, this time with enough force to make him yelp.

“If thou art Dottore,” she said, turning back to him, blowing on her stinging hand, “I’d like a word.”

Cyrus smirked. “Looks like she’s going to proposition him.”

“A bawd! A bawd!” Aether called, strutting. “Off to the chase!”

The others joined in, circling the Nurse with exaggerated caution as though hunting wild prey.

“What’s the message?” asked Dottore. “Go on,” he said to his friends. “Leave us.”

Aether, clearly bored now, gave a mock sigh. “When you’re done flirting, come to your house—we’re all invited to dinner.”

“I’ll be there,” Dottore called after him.

Aether swept backward with theatrical bows. “Farewell, old girl. Lady, lady, laaady!”

The Nurse huffed and watched him go. “Who is that cheeky one? All those games!”

“Oh, he just loves to hear himself talk,” Dottore said with a half-smile.

“If he pulls that nonsense again, I’ll show him what for,” she muttered. “I could take on twenty of his kind. And if I can’t, I know someone who can! I’m not what he called me, I’ll tell you that.” She turned sharply to Akari, who was dreamily playing with the fountain water. “And you! Sitting there while they abuse me?”

Akari jumped up, startled. “I didn’t see anyone abuse thee. And if I had, I’d have stood up for thee—if it was legal, 'that is.”

“God be my witness, I’m shaking, I’m so angry,” the Nurse said, breathing hard. “Horrible man.”

Then she composed herself and looked squarely at the blue haired. “Now, as I said—I’ve got a message for you. My young master sent me. But I’ll keep what he said to myself for the moment. First, I need to say this: if you’re playing games with him, if you’re leading him into some fool’s paradise, it would be wicked—wicked! The poor boy's so young, and if thy mean to trick him, then shame on thou. Shame on anyone who’d do that to a man like him.”

She crossed her arms and stared him down.

“Nurse,” Dottore said gently, putting his hand on his chest, “give your young master my best regards. I give thee my word…”

“Oh!” she interrupted, suddenly bright. “I’ll tell him that! Lord, he’ll be so happy!”

“Tell him what?” Dottore asked. “You didn’t even hear the rest.”

“I’ll tell him thy gave your word. That’s a fine start.”

“Listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “Tell him to find a way to get to confession this afternoon. At Columbina’s cell, he’ll be absolved—and married.”

He pulled a small purse from his pocket.

“No, no,” the Nurse said, taking the money and tucking it quickly into her bodice. “Not a penny. This afternoon, you say? He’ll be there.”

She turned, practically dancing with excitement.

“Wait, Nurse,” Dottore said, catching her attention again. “My servant will bring you a rope ladder. I’ll use it tonight to climb up to Scara’s room. Goodbye. If thou stand by us, I’ll make sure thy well rewarded. Goodbye—and give him all my love.”

“Bless you, bless you, sir,” she said, beaming. “Oh, wait!”

“What now?” he said, amused.

“Can thy trust your servant?”

“With my life,” Dottore said. “He’s loyal as steel.”

“Oh, sir, my young master is the sweetest little soul. Lord, Lord—when he was just a little chatterbox…” The Nurse drifted into a fond memory, then snapped back. “Anyway! There’s a nobleman in town—Kenzo, his name. Has his eye on him. But I’ll tell thee, he’d rather marry a toad than him. A toad!”

She leaned closer. “I teased him, said Kenzo was better than you. Just teasing! But he went pale as linen. Oh, and one more thing—doesn’t daffodil and Dottore both start with an D?”

Dottore sighed. “Yes, Nurse. But so what? D is just a letter.”

“D,” the Nurse said thoughtfully. “It doesn’t sound quite right, does it? Like a growling dog. But my lord has this darling little saying about you and daffodils. You’d love it—I just can’t remember exactly how it goes…”

“Just give him my love, Nurse,” Dottore said, gently.

“Oh, I will. With pleasure!” she grinned. “Akari!”

“Coming!” came the reply.

“Go on ahead of me—and don’t dawdle!”

Chapter Text

Scaramouche could tell it was midday from how the sun perched high above the distant hill, burning through the blue haze like a watchful eye. His fingers drummed restlessly against the windowsill as he peered out for what felt like the hundredth time. The Nurse had been gone for three hours—three! She had sworn on her ridiculous hairpins she’d be back in half an hour.

Useless woman, he thought, brushing a strand of indigo hair from his porcelain face, his red eyeliner sharp as his glare. Maybe she couldn’t find him. No, that’s impossible. She’s just slow. Always slow.

He sighed dramatically and leaned further out the window. Love’s messengers should be swift—faster than thoughts, faster than sunbeams chasing away shadows. Doves should be dragging Love’s chariot through the sky, not this lumbering, wheezing relic of a nurse that always seemed two steps behind.

If she had even a trace of passion in her soul, she would’ve flown back and forth like a tennis ball—Scara serving and Dottore returning. But instead, the Nurse was like… lead. Heavy. Dull.

Just as he turned from the window with a huff, movement caught his eye. There she was! Her bulky skirts flapping like sails in a lazy wind as she approached the garden gate. At last.

Scaramouche didn’t walk—he flew. Like a gust of wind, he darted down the stairs and across the garden, nearly knocking over a startled servant who was just unlocking the gate.

He stopped in front of her and seized her arms. “Oh, Nurse! Did you find him? What did he say?” His indigo eyes glimmered with urgency. “Send your lackey away—I don’t want him hearing a word of this.”

The Nurse gave Akari a look. “Stay here and guard the gate, Akari.”

Akari gave a sleepy nod, clearly more interested in the shadows under the tree than guarding anything.

Scara pulled the Nurse a few steps aside and stopped so abruptly her skirts swished forward. He crossed his arms tightly and stared at her. “You’re making that face again. What’s happened? Even if 'tis bad news, tell it with a smile. Please, Nurse?” His voice took on a rare sweetness. “And if it’s good, don’t ruin it with that wrinkled frown.”

They passed under a thick trellis overgrown with blooming wisteria. A stone bench rested beneath it. With a theatrical groan, the Nurse sank down.

“Oh, my legs,” she wheezed. “I swear they’ll be the end of me. That journey nearly killed me.”

Scaramouche narrowed his eyes and remained standing. “Thy look like you fought a war, not ran an errand.”

She pulled off her head covering and fanned herself with it. “A war would’ve been easier. This heat, these hills—my feet aren’t made for climbing like a mountain goat.”

“Thy mouth is made for talking, though,” Scara muttered, tapping his foot impatiently. “Start using it.”

The Nurse waved a hand lazily. “Oh hush, child. Let an old woman breathe before you explode.”

Scaramouche wanted to scream. He paced in tight, sharp circles beside the garden bench, his long indigo hair swinging with each frustrated turn. His hands were balled into fists, then opened again, fingers twitching. She’s going to make me lose my mind.

“Thou can have my legs, my lungs, my soul if thy just give me your news!” he snapped, whirling toward her. “Please, Nurse—I beg thee—tell me! Please, dear, dear Nurse, tell me now!”

The Nurse leaned back, wheezing dramatically and patting her cyan hair back into place. “Sweet Archons, child! What a storm thou art! Can’t thy see I’m still catching my breath? I nearly collapsed on the way!”

Scara planted his hands on his hips and glared down at her. “How can thou be out of breath when thou have enough breath to tell me that you’re out of breath? Just say yes or no—how hard is that?!”

With a sudden collapse of pride, he dropped onto the grass before her, the folds of his indigo robes puddling around him like a spilled ink stain. His anxious eyes stared up at her. “Is it good? Or is it bad?”

The Nurse gave a tragic shake of her head, her grey eyes narrowing with fake sorrow. “Well, if you want my honest opinion... you’ve made a terrible choice. Honestly, you really don’t know how to pick them. Dottore? Of all people? No, not him. Not the one.”

Scara reared back, blinking. “You what?”

But the Nurse was already waving her hand as if to fan away her own words. “Well—he is more handsome than any other man I’ve seen. And those legs! So well-made. And as for the rest of him—his hands, his feet, the whole of him—” she leaned in with a mischievous whisper, “though we shouldn’t be talking about such things—they’re divine.”

She let out a dreamy sigh and rubbed the small of her back, then reached out to clasp Scara’s doll-like hands in her warm, callused ones. “Now, answer me truthfully: do you have permission to go to confession today?”

Scara nodded quickly. “Yes. I do.”

The Nurse grinned, her whole round face lighting up like a lantern. “Then run—get yourself to Columbina’s chapel immediately. There’s a husband there waiting to make you his.”

Scaramouche jolted up, eyes blazing with joy. “He’s really—?”

She pushed him gently toward the path. “Go! I still have one more errand—Dottore asked me to fetch a rope ladder so he can climb to your window tonight. I’ll see to it myself.”

She turned toward the kitchen door. “Now go! I’ve earned my supper after all this fuss. Go on, Scara—fly!”

With his heart thundering in his chest, Scaramouche ran. Not even the wind could catch him.

Chapter Text

It was cool inside the chapel. Pale sunlight spilled in through the high stained-glass windows, scattering fragments of color across the stone floor. Wildflowers grew untamed just beyond the open doors, swaying gently in the breeze. Inside, it was quiet—expectant.

Dottore stood alone, facing the doorway, his red eyes sharp and unblinking. He looked like he hadn’t moved in minutes. Heat shimmered above the hillside, blurring the distance, but his gaze was locked forward—waiting.

Columbina, draped in her flowing white robes with pink and black hair cascading like silk ribbons down her back, stood by the altar, hands gently folded. A white butterfly clip glinted in her hair, unmoving despite the whisper of wind from outside. She looked like a fallen angel watching over a soul about to be judged.

“May the heavens bless this union,” Columbina intoned in her hauntingly soft voice, “so that you will have no regrets once it is sealed.”

“Yes, yes,” Dottore replied absently, never tearing his gaze from the chapel doors. “But even if all the sorrows of the world were to follow this moment, they would still be worth it. Just one breath with him—one second of it—and nothing else matters. Just say the words. Bind our hands. Let it be done.”

Columbina tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with a trace of quiet amusement.

“Such fire always burns quickest,” she murmured. “It is the nature of explosives to flare... and then vanish. Even honey can sicken when tasted too often. Too much sweetness can turn to bitterness. Pace yourself, Dottore. It’s the steady flame that survives.”

But he wasn’t listening.

He stepped forward suddenly—eyes wide. Over the hilltop, a figure appeared: indigo hair caught in the wind, a flash of red eyeliner, and skin as flawless as porcelain. Scaramouche was running down the hill, light as air, barely seeming to touch the ground. He moved like a dream, or like something far too beautiful to be real.

Dottore rushed to meet him before Columbina had even finished speaking.

In seconds, Scaramouche was in his arms, breathless, trembling from the run, but smiling—genuinely smiling, like the world had finally aligned just right. Dottore kissed him without restraint, over and over, as if to reassure himself that Scara was really there.

The priestess stepped forward and touched Dottore’s shoulder with two gloved fingers.

Dottore slowly pulled back, but kept one arm firmly around Scara’s waist.

“My Scaramouche,” he said softly, brushing windblown hair away from his lover’s face. “If you feel even a fraction of what I do, tell me—how much happiness do you think this moment holds? Could we ever even measure it?”

Scara rolled his eyes and rested his forehead lightly against Dottore’s.

“You always talk like a mad poet,” he murmured. “Stop talking about imagined happiness. Our love isn’t a guess or a metaphor. It’s real. And if you think it can be counted, you’re a fool. My love’s grown too wide, too deep. Even I can’t see the end of it.”

Columbina watched them silently, the edge of a smile ghosting over her lips.

“Then let it be done,” she said.

Chapter Text

'Twas blisteringly hot once again: the kind of heat that pressed down on the world like a weight. The only motion came from a lizard that darted across the white-dusted stones of the piazza, vanishing into a tangle of ivy and shadow. Goats dozed in the shade, chickens huddled in silence, and even the piglets lay still. Market stalls stood deserted under faded awnings, their keepers slumped in sleep.

Dinner had just ended at the Kusanali estate. Cyrus, Aether, and a few of their companions slipped out quietly, leaving the elders to their siesta. They wandered into the piazza, squinting in the sun’s glare, their footsteps dragging. The air shimmered. It felt like the world was melting.

They reached the old stone fountain at the square’s center. Aether, his golden eyes mischievous and hair tied loosely in braid behind him, leaned over and splashed a handful of cold water at the others.

“Come on, Aether,” muttered Cyrus, brushing droplets from his white shirt. His red eyes flicked toward the towering gates of the Raiden mansion. “Let’s not linger here. 'Tis too hot for games, and we’re right on Raiden turf. You know how fast things ignite between our families. Someone’s bound to pick a fight.”

Aether laughed and ran his fingers through his wet blonde hair, eyes glittering. “Look who’s preaching peace. Thy? Cyrus, you’ve got the shortest fuse of us all.”

Cyrus arched a pale brow. “Me?”

“Oh come on, don’t act innocent,” Aether went on, grinning. “You’re as hot-blooded as anyone in Teyvat. Admit it.”

Their friends started laughing and jeering, thumping Cyrus on the back in mock fear, raising their hands like they were shielding themselves from a monster. Even Cyrus chuckled, shaking his head.

“You’d start a fight over someone having a single extra hair in their beard,” Aether continued, climbing up onto the fountain’s edge like a performer taking center stage. “Or pick a quarrel with a guy for cracking nuts—and felt offended by it.”

Cyrus sat down heavily on the fountain’s edge and cupped water in his hands, splashing it over his face to fight the heat. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, you’re ridiculous,” Aether said, eyes gleaming as he gestured grandly. “Your head’s full of quarrels, like an egg’s full of yolk. Or maybe it’s just scrambled from all the times someone’s cracked your skull.”

Before Aether could duck away, Cyrus shot to his feet and gave him a hard shove. With a splash that sent water spraying across the sunbaked stones, Aether tumbled into the fountain.

Everyone went silent.

Then—his head popped up, drenched but smiling.

“You once picked a fight with a man just because his cough woke up your dog,” he continued, voice muffled slightly by the water as he treaded dramatically in place. “And don’t deny you yelled at a tailor for wearing his new coat before the spring festival! Or that poor merchant with the old shoelaces in his new boots.”

He climbed out, water streaming from his hair and clothes, and flopped down again on the wall, completely unbothered by his soaked state.

Cyrus rolled his eyes, but there was a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “If I quarreled as easily as thee, no one would bet I’d survive more than an hour.”

Aether opened his mouth to shoot back a reply—but Cyrus suddenly stiffened. His expression darkened as he peered past the fountain.

“Careful,” he murmured, rising to his feet. “Hither come the Raidens.”

Across the piazza, emerging like shadows from the great iron gate of the Raiden mansion, a group of young nobles strode into the square. At their head was Raiden Mei—tall, composed, and lethally beautiful. Her violet eyes glinted coldly under the sun, lightning braided into the flow of her dark hair as if she carried a storm with her.

Aether didn’t even turn around. He continued pouring water over his golden hair, ignoring the rising tension. “So what?” he said coolly, flicking droplets behind him. Aether began to whistle a little tune, casual as ever.

“Stay close,” Mei told her companions without looking at them. Her voice was smooth as silk, but steely beneath. “I’ll handle this. Gentlemen. Good afternoon. I have a word to say to one of thou.”

“A word?” Aether said, raising an eyebrow. “Just one?” He resumed his carefree whistling, then lifted his arm to pretend he was washing under it. “Why stop at one? Let’s have a word and a blow.”

“You’ll find me ready—if you give me reason,” said Mei, her voice even but sharp. Her hand hovered near her sword hilt.

“Surely thy can find a reason?” Aether quipped. He bent over the fountain again, spitting on its stone rim and polishing it with dramatic flair. “Maybe my hair’s too blonde for thy taste?”

The tension was thick, but Aether’s performance had his friends cracking up. Even a few of the Raiden group smirked, though they quickly stifled it. Mei didn’t smile. She stepped forward until she was barely a yard from Aether.

“Aether,” she said. “You consort with Dottore.”

“Consort?” Aether froze in mock shock, then slowly turned to look at her. “What, you think we’re musicians now?” He leapt off the edge of the fountain, landing lightly in the dust. “If that’s the case, then expect a discord. Hither my fiddle bow.” He drew his blade with a smooth motion. “Hither what’ll make you dance. Consort, she says! Unbelievable.”

Mei blinked—just a flicker of surprise—then stepped back, evaluating. Her hand still rested on her hilt.

Cyrus, watching everything with growing unease, stepped between them. “Hey—'tis a public square. Either talk this out somewhere private or just let it drop. The whole town’s watching us.”

Mei drew her blade in one graceful motion. “Let them. Their eyes were made for watching. I’m not going anywhere.”

Aether looked ready to lunge, but instead, with a theatrical sigh, he lowered his sword and drove its point into the ground. Then he leaned on the hilt and started whistling again.

Applause broke out among their group. Even Mei’s lips twitched in the faintest ghost of a smile. Maybe it would’ve ended right there…

…if Dottore hadn’t come running.

“Cyrus! Aether!” he called, breathless.

Aether’s head snapped up. “Well. Never mind,” he muttered. “Hither comes your ‘man,’ Mei.”

Dottore reached them at last, panting. He bent over the fountain, his wavy light blue hair falling into his face as he drank deeply. Water dripped from his chin as he looked up.

“Dottore,” said Mei. Her voice cut through the air like a blade.

He turned and smiled at her, eyes glowing red beneath his damp bangs.

“There’s only one thing I need to say,” Mei said, drawing herself to her full height. “Thou art a scoundrel.”

Her blade was already half raised.

Dottore stood up, his smile soft but unreadable. “Raiden Mei,” he said. “I have reasons—good ones—not to respond to thy insult. But don’t call me a scoundrel again.”

He turned his back on her and returned to the fountain.

His friends burst into cheers. The Raiden entourage hissed and jeered.

“Boy,” said Raiden Mei, and the crowd fell silent again. “This won’t excuse your insult to me. So turn and draw.”

Dottore turned slowly, extending his hand calmly. “Come on now,” he said. “I’ve never insulted thee. I love your family more than thy can imagine.”

Applause rippled through the onlookers. But Aether, who had been nodding along with approval, stopped smiling as he saw Mei ignore Dottore’s offered hand. His eyes flicked between the two.

“You’ll know the reason for my love very soon,” Dottore continued softly. “And so, dear Raiden, whose name I respect as highly as my own, be patient till then.”

Mei was left with no choice: if Dottore refused the challenge, she had to walk away. She turned to leave.

Aether sprang up suddenly. “How can you let her push you around like that?” he said towards Dottore hotly. “Submit if thou want, but I won’t. Hey, Mei, rat-catcher! You’re not leaving, art thou?”

Mei turned back with a cool smile. “Why? What do you want?”

Aether drew his rapier with a flourish. “My dear queen of lightning,” he said, “Only one of your nine lives—and I intend to take it. Then, depending on your behavior afterward, I’ll beat the other eight with a stick.” He bowed mockingly. “Will thy be so kind as to draw your sword by its ears? Hurry, or mine will be around your neck before you know it.”

Mei smiled, almost amused. “Well then.” She drew her blade smoothly. “I am yours.”

“No,” said Dottore between them, stepping forward as their blades met. “Please, please, Aether. Put your rapier away.”

Aether struck an exaggerated en garde pose, making their friends laugh. He was absurd, as always—but everyone knew he was one of the finest swordsmen in the city. Only Dottore’s face showed worry.

“Come on, Mei,” said Aether. “Your passado.”

Mei quickly realized Aether wasn’t here to fight seriously. He was clowning, fencing with flair and wit instead of skill. Supporters on both sides hooted and cheered. Even Mei laughed when Aether backed into the fountain, slipped, and came up spraying water from his mouth.

But Dottore couldn’t laugh. He seemed unusually upset.

“Help me, Cyrus,” he said urgently. “Draw, Cyrus. Beat down their weapons.”

But Cyrus was enjoying the show far too much. He was weak with laughter.

Dottore stepped in front of Aether. “Aether! Stop it.” Then to Mei: “Please stop.” Then pushing Aether aside: “Stop. Your sister--the Princess has forbidden this in Teyvat. Don’t you remember? Please, stop, both of you.”

A crowd had gathered, laughing and cheering. Suddenly, without warning, Mei froze. She stared hard at Aether for a few moments, then turned away quickly, followed by a handful of her closest friends.

Dottore’s relief was so strong he threw his arms around Aether and hugged him tight.

Aether clung to him, but his face twisted with pain. “I’m hurt,” he said. “Curse both your houses!” He spoke jokingly as he clutched his side and grimaced at the crowd, which erupted into roaring laughter.

Breaking free from Dottore’s embrace, Aether staggered toward the laughing faces. “I’ve had it!” he declared—and the laughter only grew louder.

His legs buckled, and he fell hard.

Cyrus wiped a tear of laughter and knelt beside his friend. “What? Are you hurt?” he asked, grinning at the crowd, which cheered.

“'Tis a scratch, 'Tis a scratch,” said Aether. “Yet 'tis enough.” More cheering.

“Where’s my page?” Aether called out. “Tell him to fetch a doctor.”

Dottore noticed a small bloodstain on Aether’s shirt but saw how theatrically his friend was clowning it. “Come on, Aether,” he said. “The wound can’t be that bad?”

“No,” said Aether. “It’s not as deep as a well, nor as wide as a temple door. But it’s enough: it will do.” The crowd clapped. Aether raised himself on his elbow and saluted them. “Ask for me tomorrow,” he said, “and you will find me a grave man!” They laughed loudly. Aether dropped back onto the ground.

Dottore knelt beside him. Aether gripped his hand weakly. “I’ve had it!” he gasped. “Dottore, curse both your houses. Archons, to be killed by a dog! A rat—a mouse—a cat… An arrogant poser like that. Why did you keep coming between us?! She got me under your arm, Dottore.”

“I was only trying to help thee,” said Dottore quietly. Aether must be exaggerating. It couldn’t be that bad?

“Cyrus,” Aether whispered hoarsely. “Help me into the house or I’ll pass out.”

Dottore and Cyrus lifted him. Cyrus slung Aether’s arm over his shoulder and the two began walking toward the Kusanali mansion. Aether kept falling then getting up again. The onlookers applauded. Dottore sat on the fountain wall, not joining the banter. He wasn’t sure what to think. Aether’s words were bitter—but he always spoke like that. It was almost comical: Aether leaning on Cyrus and adopting a funny, exaggerated walk.

After they had gone some way, Aether turned. “Both your houses!” he shouted, then slumped against Cyrus. “They’ve made worm’s meat of me,” he whispered. “I’ve had it. Curse your houses!”

Cyrus helped him inside. Dottore found himself alone as the others moved away—the fun all over. He was sure Aether wasn’t badly hurt, but he couldn’t shake the thought that even if it wasn’t so bad, it was his fault. Aether, his friend and close relative of the Princess, had taken this wound on his behalf. The more he thought about it, the heavier his heart grew.

He thought of the insults Raiden Mei had hurled at him—Mei, who was now his cousin. He should have answered her challenge. Instead, he had been taken off guard by Scaramouche’s beauty, gone soft—and turned coward.

Cyrus came running toward him.

“Oh, Dottore,” Cyrus said as he came near, “Aether’s dead.”

Dottore felt the shock like a blow to his chest. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. He hadn’t been pretending. The wound had been far worse than any of them had guessed.

“There’s going to be more of this,” he said, voice tight. “I can feel it. This is only the beginning.”

“There’s Raiden Mei again,” Cyrus said as Mei emerged from the Raiden house. Dottore was on his feet instantly. He drew Cyrus’s sword from its scabbard and dashed across the piazza.

“Raiden Mei,” he shouted. “You called me a scoundrel. Take it back! Aether’s dead, and one of us will join him.”

Mei stopped. Her face was grim. “Thy wretched boy,” she said coldly. “You’ll be the one to join him.”

Dottore waved the sword fiercely. “This will decide that.”

The fight was bitter and furious. No time for posturing or civility: it was a battle to the death. Both lost their rapiers in the fray, turning it into a brutal contest of strength—punching, scratching, kicking. At one point Mei had Dottore by the neck, squeezing the breath from him, but he fought free and backed away. Then their friends rearmed them.

The piazza was packed now, as if all of Kusanali and Raiden watched in silence. The earlier laughter and teasing had vanished. This was deadly serious, and even Cyrus made no move to stop it. Exhausted, Dottore summoned every ounce of strength, and when the moment came, he plunged his rapier through Mei’s chest. He felt the blade pierce through, saw her shirt bloom with red. Time seemed to freeze. He pulled out his sword, and Mei collapsed. The fiery Raiden was dead before she hit the ground.

Cyrus couldn’t take it all in. His mind echoed one thought: thank the archons it wasn’t Dottore lying there.

“Run, Dottore!” Cyrus shouted. “Don’t just stand there staring. It’s death if they catch thee. Get going!”

“Oh, fate has destroyed me,” Dottore said.

“What art thou waiting for?” Cyrus said urgently.

There was only one place Dottore could go. He took one last look around and fled.

A group of guards approached Cyrus.

“Where’s the man who killed Aether?” one demanded. “Which way did Raiden Mei go?”

“There he is,” Cyrus said, pointing to the body.

“Come with me,” the guard said as a trumpet fanfare sounded across the piazza.

“I arrest you in the name of the Princess.”

Word of Aether’s death had spread fast. As Princess Lumine strode into the piazza, Kusanali’s men were bringing Aether’s body out. Nahida and her sister accompanied them. The Raiden heads emerged from their house too, and the four stood facing Lumine as they had only the day before. The guards lifted Raiden Mei’s body and laid it beside Aether’s.

“Where are those who started this quarrel?!” Lumine demanded.

Cyrus sank to his knees. “Noble Princess, I can tell thee everything.” He pointed to Raiden Mei’s body. “There she is, killed by young Il Dottore for killing your dear brother Aether.”

Ei fell to the ground and kissed Mei’s face. “Oh my sister’s child!” she wailed. She looked from Lumine to her wife. “Oh Princess, the blood of my niece has been spilled. I want revenge. I want Kusanali blood.” She laid her head on Mei’s chest. “Oh niece, niece,” she sobbed.

Lumine’s main feeling was anger. “Cyrus!” she said. “Who started this?!”

Cyrus told Lumine how gently Dottore had spoken to Raiden Mei, how he said he did not want to fight, how he mentioned the anger the Princess would feel. Then how Mei had turned against Aether, who was just as angry, and started quarreling until it came to blows. Cyrus told how Dottore tried to stop them, how Aether was wounded under Dottore’s arm. Only after Aether had been killed did Dottore attack Mei.

“She’s Kusanali’s sworn enemy,” Yae Miko cried. “Of course she’s biased. And he’s lying! It wasn’t just the two of them fighting—there were at least twenty! All fighting. I want justice, and thou must give it to me, Princess. Il Dottore murdered Raiden Mei. Dottore must die.”

“Dottore killed Raiden Mei, and Raiden Mei killed Aether,” Lumine said. “Who should pay the price for Mei’s death?”

“Not Dottore,” Nahida pleaded, kneeling. “Not Dottore, Princess. He was Aether’s friend. He only did what the law should have done.”

“And for that, we must exile him,” Lumine declared, pointing at both Nahida and Ei. “You’ve dragged me into your hatred now. My own brother lies there bleeding. I will fine thy so heavily you’ll regret it. I’ll be deaf to all pleas and excuses, so don’t even try.” She looked at Nahida. “I’m sick and tired of this. If I’m too lenient, there’ll only be more killing. Let Il Dottore go immediately, or when he’s found, that hour will be his last.”

Chapter Text

Scaramouche was impatient for the night to come. The day felt endless. He wished the god of the sun would urge his steeds to race faster toward the distant horizon, so night could fall like a thick curtain. Then his husband could come to him in secret. Who needed daylight? Lovers didn’t — their own beauty was light enough to see by. Besides, if love is blind, night is the best time for it.

He sat in his chamber, marveling at how long a day could be. He thought about what would happen when night finally fell and Dottore was with him: how he would give himself to him and by doing so, bind him forever. The darkness would hide his blushes when they made love. He went to the window and gazed out over the orchard where Dottore had stood. It was so frustrating: he had bought a house of love but not yet taken possession of it — he was like a new doll, untouched and waiting. Oh, the tedium: he felt like a child on the night before an important day, with all his new clothes laid out but forbidden to wear them until morning.

His Nurse came slowly up the garden path from the gate. Yes, she had the rope ladder. But she didn’t look happy. Perhaps she was tired. Scaramouche left his room and ran as fast as he could — through the halls and down the stairs — reaching the Nurse before she got to the door.

“Hello, Nurse,” he said. “What have you got there? The rope ladder that Dottore asked you to bring?”

“Yes… yes!” said the Nurse, her voice dull. She sat down on a bench and dropped the ladder. She didn’t look at Scaramouche, just shook her head slowly and began wringing her hands.

“Oh dear,” said Scaramouche. “What’s wrong? Wherefor art thou wringing your hands?”

“Oh no, oh no,” said the Nurse. “Their dead, their dead, their dead. It’s all over — all over. May the archons help us, their gone, their killed, their dead.”

Scaramouche went cold. Did she mean Dottore? He was numb. “Can heaven be so hostile?” he whispered.

“No,” said the Nurse. “But Dottore can be. Oh, Dottore, Dottore. Who would have thought it? Dottore!”

Scara’s eyes blazed with desperation as he grabbed the Nurse’s arm. “What kind of monster are you,” he demanded, his voice trembling, “saying such things? Torturing me like this? Has Dottore killed himself? Just say yes or no.”

The Nurse avoided Scaramouche’s gaze, her face pale and drawn. She swallowed hard, struggling to speak. “I saw the wound with my own eyes,” she said at last, placing a trembling hand over her chest as if to steady her beating heart. “Right here.” Her fingers traced an invisible line. “A pitiful corpse… a blood-drenched, pitiful corpse. So pale — pale as ashes — and covered in blood. I nearly fainted when I saw it.”

Scaramouche staggered back, collapsing onto the soft grass. His body shook with sobs that racked him from head to toe. His heart shattered, each breath a jagged shard of pain. He wanted to close his eyes forever, never to open them again. To die there, wrapped in sorrow, and be buried beside Dottore.

The Nurse’s voice cracked, filled with grief. “Mei, Mei,” she wailed, rocking back and forth, clutching her hands to her chest. “The best friend I had. Oh dear Mei! Good Mei. I never thought I’d live to see you dead.”

Scaramouche pushed himself upright, tears streaming down his cheeks. His eyes blazed with a furious light. “Why are you contradicting yourself?” he demanded. “Is Dottore dead? And Mei, too? Both my beloved cousin and my even more beloved husband? Then come on, doomsday — sound your trumpet! For who is alive if those two are dead?”

The Nurse’s head hung low. “Mei is dead, and Dottore banished,” she said softly. “That Dottore who killed Mei — he’s banished.”

“Oh God!” Scaramouche shrieked, clutching his head as if to hold back the storm inside. “Did Dottore kill Mei?”

“He did, he did. Oh God help us, he did,” the Nurse sobbed, her body trembling.

Scaramouche sprang to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. “I can’t believe it!” he cried. “Oh, the scoundrel. A snake’s heart hidden behind a handsome face! Did ever such a beautiful cave harbor such a dragon? A beautiful monster! An angelic devil — evil dressed in the clothes of good — just the opposite of what he seemed! I can’t believe such hypocrisy could live in such a gorgeous palace!”

The Nurse gave a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “No,” she said harshly. “You can’t trust any man — they’re all liars, all hypocrites. Huh. Where’s Akari? Bring me some brandy! All this sorrow is aging me. Shame on Dottore.”

Scara’s eyes flashed dangerously. He jabbed a finger at the Nurse. “I hope your tongue is blistered for saying that!” he spat. “There’s no shame on Dottore! Oh, what a beast I was to criticize him!”

“Will you speak well of him that killed your cousin?” the Nurse asked quietly, her eyes searching Scaramouche’s face.

“Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband!?” Scaramouche replied, his voice breaking with sorrow. “Oh, my poor husband. Who will support you when I, thy three hours' husband, have mangled it?” He shook his head slowly, pain etched in every line. “But wherefor, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?”

Akari appeared at the gate, carrying a small flask. The Nurse snatched it from his hands and waved him away impatiently.

Scaramouche sank back onto the grass, his fingers digging into the earth. “If he hadn’t killed Mei,” he said softly, “that scoundrel Mei would have killed him. Why am I crying? My husband is alive. Mei wanted to kill him, but Mei’s dead now — the villain who wanted to kill my husband. It’s all good news. So why am I crying?”

His voice grew quieter, haunted. “There’s something you said, Nurse — worse than Mei's death. I wish I could forget it, but it haunts me still. 'Mei is dead, and Dottore banishèd.' That 'banishèd,' that one word 'banishèd' is like the death of ten thousand Mei's. Mei’s death would have been bad enough, but if it had ended there, I might have borne it. But Dottore’s world — his whole life — is destroyed.”

He stood suddenly, trembling. “But with a rearward following Mei’s death, 'Dottore is banishèd.' To speak that word, Is mom, mother, Mei, Dottore, Scaramouche, All slain, all dead! 'Dottore is banishèd!' There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word’s death! No words can that woe sound. Where are my mothers, Nurse?”

“They’re crying over Mei’s body,” the Nurse answered softly. “Do you want to go to them? I’ll take you.”

“Are they washing her wounds with tears?” Scaramouche asked bitterly. “I have more tears for Dottore’s banishment than they’ll ever have for Mei’s death.”

He turned to the Nurse, voice cold but broken. “Take the rope ladder away. Dottore’s already gone.”

His shoulders sagged as he walked toward the house. “I’m going to bed,” he said quietly. “And I’ll die there, with death as my lover instead of Dottore.”

The Nurse took Scaramouche gently by the hand and guided him toward the staircase. “Hie to your chamber,” she urged softly, her voice steady but caring. “I’ll find Dottore to comfort you. I wot well where he is.” She paused, glancing toward the garden where the shadows deepened. “Hark ye, your Dottore will be here at night. I’ll to him. He is hid at Columbina' cell.”

Scaramouche’s fingers trembled as he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small, shining ring. He pressed it into the Nurse’s palm with urgent hope.
“O, find him!” he whispered, eyes bright with tears. “Give this ring to my true knight, and bid him come to take his last farewell.”

The Nurse folded the ring carefully into her hand, her gaze full of promise and determination. Without another word, she hurried off down the hall, leaving Scaramouche alone with his mounting fears and fragile hope.

Chapter Text

“'Tore! Come out of there. Come out.”

Columbina’s voice was gentle but firm as she stood before the cold stone altar, the very place where she had joined the young lovers in marriage. Her face was lined with worry, heavy from the dark news she had carried back from Teyvat.

Beneath the altar, in the shadowed corner, Dottore lay pressed low, as if trying to disappear into the cold stone itself.

“You poor fellow,” Columbina sighed, stepping closer, “So overwhelmed by unhappiness.”

Slowly, Dottore edged forward, his pale face barely lifting from the floor. He didn’t rise fully, but knelt, clutching at the rough fabric of the priestess’s robes.

“Bina,” he whispered, voice trembling, “Have you any news? What is the Princess's sentence? What’s going to happen to me?”

Columbina’s eyes softened. “'Tis not so bad, she said carefully, “I’ve brought you news of the sentence.”

Dottore’s breath hitched sharply. “What could be ‘not so bad’ about a death sentence?”

“A less harsh sentence,” Columbina said with relief, “Not death but banishment.”

“Banishment?” Dottore’s hands gripped the Priestess’s robes tighter, his voice cracking. “Ha, banishment! Be merciful, say 'death,' for exile hath more terror in his look, much more than death. Do not say 'banishment.'”

“You’ve been banished from Teyvat. That’s all. Be grateful,” Columbina tried to reassure him. “Teyvat’s not everything: the world’s a big place.”

Dottore shook his head slowly, despair deepening in his eyes. “There is no world without Teyvat walls," he said, voice hollow before continuing. "But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence 'banishèd' is banished from the world, and world’s exile is death. Then 'banishèd,' is death mistermed. Calling death 'banishment,' thou cutt’st my head off with a golden ax and smilest upon the stroke that murders me.”

“Oh sinner,” Columbina scolded gently, “You ungrateful boy. You don’t know how lucky you are. The law calls for your death, but the kind Princess has taken your side and ignored the law: she’s converted your sentence to banishment. She’s being merciful, and you can’t see it.”

Dottore’s shoulders shook with silent sobs as he sank back onto the cold stone floor. His face crumpled, tears streaming down his cheeks, glistening like shattered glass in the dim light.

“Torture, not mercy,” he moaned, his voice raw and desperate. “It’s torture, not mercy. Heaven is in Teyvat because this is where Scaramouche lives. Every cat and dog and little mouse, every unworthy creature, that lives in Teyvat lives in heaven because it can see him. But I won’t be able to. Carrion-eating flies will have more vitality, a more blessed existence, and more romance than I will. They can touch Scaramouche’s doll-like hand and can steal kisses from his sweet lips, which blush when they touch each other. But I can’t touch his hand or kiss him. Butterflies can kiss him, but I must fly from the city. Butterflies are free, but I’ve been banished. Do you still argue that exile isn’t death? You didn’t have some poison, a sharpened knife, or some other weapon that you could have used to kill me quickly, nothing so disgraceful, other than banishment? Oh Bina, damned souls use the word 'banishment' to describe hell. They howl the word. How, as a priestess, confessor, and my friend, can you have the heart to say to me the word 'banished?'"

His voice broke as he spoke, eyes red and swollen, cheeks wet with tears.

Columbina moved closer, her hands firm but gentle as they grasped Dottore’s shaking shoulders. “You crazy, foolish young man, listen to me.”

But Dottore clutched his hands over his ears, shaking his head fiercely. “Oh! You’re going to talk about banishment again.”

“Be philosophical,” the Columbina urged softly. “It will comfort you, even though you’re banished.”

Dottore threw his head back and let out a bitter laugh. “There you are, still going on about banishment. To hell with philosophy. Unless philosophy can make a Scaramouche, move a town, change a princess’s mind, it’s useless. So don’t keep on!”

"Oh," said the priestess. ‘You won’t listen. I see that madmen have no ears."

"How could they when wise men have no eyes?"

"No," spoke Columbina. "I have to disagree with you. I will eventually persuade you."

"Never! Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel," spoke Dottore. "Wert thou as I, Scaramouche thy love, an hour but married, Mei murderèd, doting like me, and like me banishèd, then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair and fall upon the ground, as I do now, taking the measure of an unmade grave."

There was a loud, rapid knocking on the door.

"Quick," said Columbina. "Get up! Hide! Quick!"

"No," said Dottore. "I don ‘t care what happens to me, I’m not hiding unless I can lose myself in a mist made of my own groans."

The knocking was louder now.

"Listen to that! Who’s there? Get up, Dottore, they’ll catch you!"

More knocking.

"Run to my study. And perhaps…" Columbina shook her head when Dottore refused to get up. "What stupidity is this?" She turned to the door. "I’m coming, I’m coming!"

The knocking continued. Columbina hurried to the door and pressed her ear to it.

"Who’s that? What do you want?"

A sharp rap echoed through the quiet chapel.
“Let me in,” a voice called urgently from outside. “And I’ll tell you. Raiden Scaramouche sent me.”

Columbina hurried to the heavy wooden door and slid the bolts back with a soft scrape. “Welcome, then,” she said, his voice gentle but tired.

The Nurse stepped inside, her eyes wide and frantic. “O holy priestess, O tell me, holy priestess,” she begged, her hands wringing the hem of her cloak. “Where’s my young master's husband? Where’s Dottore?”

Without a word, the Columbina pointed with a tired gesture toward the shadowed altar at the back of the chapel.

There, slumped in the gloom, lay Dottore, his face pale and streaked with tears, eyes swollen from weeping. He rocked slightly, lost in his grief, as if drowning in an ocean of sorrow.

The Nurse let out a heavy sigh. “Oh, it’s the same with dear Scara,” she murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Just the same.” She followed the priestess’s lead to the altar.

Leaning down, she jabbed a trembling toe into Dottore’s side. “Get up! Get up if you’re a man!” Her voice cracked between frustration and tenderness.

Dottore stirred and slowly lifted his head. She knelt beside him and took his cold, trembling hand in hers. “For Scaramouche’s sake, get up.”

He rose unsteadily to his feet, swaying like a tree in a storm. His voice was barely more than a whisper, trembling with desperation. “Nurse... thou speak of Scara? How is it with him? Doth he not think me as an old murderer, now I have stained the childhood of our joy with blood removed but little from his own? Where is he? And how doth he? And what says my concealed doll to our canceled love?”

The Nurse’s eyes filled again. “He doesn’t say anything,” she replied softly. “He just cries and cries. Throws himself on his bed, then rises again, calling out ‘Mei,’ then ‘Dottore,’ then falls back on his bed as if he can no longer bear the weight of either name.”

Dottore’s hands clenched tightly at his sides. “As if my name were a bullet,” he murmured darkly. “As though my hand had murdered his cousin, not I.” Suddenly, he grasped the Columbina’s arm, his fingers digging in with urgent strength.

“Please, tell me, Bina—where in my body lies my name? Show me so that I can cut it out!”

Without warning, Dottore pulled a dagger from beneath his cloak, his eyes wild and desperate.

Columbina and Nurse reacted instantly—both lunging forward. Bina locked Dottore’s arm in a firm grip, while the Nurse snatched the dagger away before it could draw blood.

“What are you doing?!” Columbina demanded, voice fierce and disappointed. “What kind of man are you? You look like a man, yet your tears flow like a woman’s, and your wild actions are no better than an animal’s.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Thou hast amazed me. By my holy order, I thought thy disposition better tempered. Hast thou slain Mei? Wilt thou slay thyself, by doing damnèd hate upon thyself? And what of the husband who lives only for you?”

Her voice rose, filled with urgency and sorrow. “Why curse thy birth, thy heaven, and thy earth? They are all part of you! Do thou truly want to lose everything—life, love, hope—by killing thyself?!”

Columbina watched Dottore carefully, her heart heavy with concern. She could see the desperate longing in the man’s eyes — the deep wish to end it all. But the girl knew he had to act fast. She stepped closer, speaking quickly but firmly, trying to steady Dottore’s spiraling thoughts.

“Listen to me, man,” she urged, gripping Dottore’s shoulders gently but firmly. “Pull yourself together. Think clearly for once. It’s not all darkness. There are blessings here — hidden but real.”

She took a deep breath, her voice softening. “Scaramouche is alive — the very reason you want to live. That alone is a bright light in this gloom. That’s a plus. Then Mei, fierce and deadly, meant to kill thy — but thou killed her first. Another plus. And the law that once called for your death? It’s been turned on its head. Instead of death, you’re banished. Not a blessing most would want, but it’s still a mercy. Another plus.”

The Nurse, standing quietly nearby, smiled faintly and glanced at the priestess with gratitude. Dottore had stopped sobbing, his bowed head slowly lifting as the words sank in.

“You see?” she continued, eyes shining with conviction. “It’s all pluses, my boy. Happiness follows you, but you behave like a spoiled, ungrateful child. Be careful — people like that often die miserable.”

A faint light returned to Dottore’s eyes. He straightened up, shoulders steadying. Slowly, he nodded, absorbing Columbina’s counsel. The Nurse’s hands folded tightly together as if in silent prayer.

“Go on,” Columbina encouraged, stepping back. “Go to Scaramouche. Climb up to him chamber and comfort him.”

Dottore turned, hope flickering on his face.

“Wait,” Columbina called after him. “Make sure you don’t linger once the Watch takes their posts — or you won’t escape. Go to Khaenri'ah. That’s where you’ll live for now, until we can make your marriage known. We’ll plead with the Princess, and you’ll return — joyful and free.”

She waved toward the door. “Nurse, run ahead. Tell Scaramouche to send everyone to bed early — grief will help with that. And tell her Dottore’s on his way.”

The Nurse laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, miss!” she said, breathless. “I could stand here all night, listening to such wise words. What a thing, to be educated!”

She pulled a small, gleaming ring from her cloak and held it out to Dottore. “He told me to give this to you. Hurry now — it’s getting late.”

Dottore caught the ring and smiled faintly. “I’m alright now,” he said softly as the Nurse hurried off.

Columbina watched him go a few steps, then called, “Go on. Good night. Remember — either leave before the Watch arrives or disguise yourself. Stay safe in Khaenri'ah. I’ll keep you informed and send your servant at once with any news.”

With one last nod, Dottore slipped quietly away, hope kindling in his chest for the first time since that dreadful day.

Chapter Text

Lady Yae watched the two men from her place on the velvet chaise, the dim glow of the candelabra softening the lines of her tired face. Her wife stood by the tall arched window, the pale moonlight outlining her figure as she rested a heavy hand on Count Kenzo's shoulder. The silence between them was long enough that even the ticking of the clock sounded loud in the grand, somber room.

“With all these sad things, we haven’t had time to persuade our daughter,” Ei said at last, her voice weary. “Look here! He loved his cousin Mei dearly, and so did I.” Her gaze drifted to the moonlit garden outside, where the shadows of trees swayed in the night breeze. “Well,” she sighed, “we all have to die.”

Ei turned slightly, glancing toward her wife as if seeking her agreement. Miko reclined back, one hand pressed to her temple as though the very thought of more tragedy weighed her down.

“It’s very late,” Ei continued, her voice softening. “He won’t come down tonight. I must say, if you hadn’t been here, I would have been in bed long ago.”

Kenzo, standing tall but uneasy, inclined his head politely. “This is the wrong time for such matters,” he said gently, glancing between the grieving parents. He crossed the room and bowed to Miko. “Good night, Madam. Give your son my compliments.”

“I will,” she said quietly, rising with effort. “And I’ll let you know what she says early tomorrow. She’s heartbroken tonight.”

As Kenzo turned toward the door, Ei’s voice stopped him. “On second thoughts,” she said briskly, straightening her back, “I’ll take the risk and say yes. He’ll do as I tell him.” She snapped her fingers sharply, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “Miko, go and see him in the morning. Tell him about my son Kenzo’s love for him.” Her tone softened slightly. “And tell him—listen carefully—tell him next Wednesday…” She paused, frowning. “Wait. What’s today?”

“Monday, my Lady,” Kenzo replied.

“Monday?” Ei chuckled to herself, pacing a few steps as if calculating something unseen. “Well, Wednesday is too soon. Thursday. Make it Thursday.” She turned sharply, her eyes glinting with decision. “Tell him he’s getting married to this noble earl on Thursday.”

She stepped closer to Kenzo. “Will thee be ready then? Is it too soon?” she asked, though she barely waited for an answer.

“We won’t make a fuss about it,” she went on. “Just a friend or two. Mei being murdered so recently, it would be disrespectful to celebrate too much. So we’ll have only a handful of guests—half a dozen, no more.” She gave Kenzo a curt nod. “But what do you say to Thursday?”

Kenzo took Ei’s hands in his own, his expression earnest. “My lady, I wish tomorrow were Thursday.”

Ei laughed, a brief spark of life breaking through her weariness. “Well off you go, then. Thursday it is.”

She saw Kenzo out, then turned back to her wife, “Go to Scara, Miko,” she said. “Prepare him for his wedding day.” Then, raising her voice, she called, “Light! Hey! Light to my room!”

A servant scurried forward, torch in hand, casting flickering light across the marble floor as Ei followed, muttering to herself, “It’s so late that we should really call it morning.”

Chapter Text

The pale room was still wrapped in shadows, the shutters half-closed against the first hints of morning. Scaramouche clung to Dottore beneath the soft folds of the bed curtain, his voice trembling.

“You’re not going!” he whispered urgently. “It’s not morning yet.”

Dottore lay down beside him again, pulling him close, his breath warm against Scaras cheek. He kissed him softly. “It really is morning,” he murmured. “The clouds in the eastern sky are streaked with light. I have to leave if I want to stay alive — or die if I don’t.”

Scara turned toward the faint glimmer at the window, refusing to believe. “That light isn’t daylight,” he insisted. “It’s just a meteor sent to guide you on your way to Khaenri'ah. So stay. Please — you don’t have to go.”

Dottore smiled grimly. “No,” he said, “I don’t. Let them catch me. Let them put me to death. I’m happy if it’s what you want. I’d rather stay — I welcome death if it’s your wish.” He kissed her again, lingering. “How are you, my doll? Let’s talk — it’s not day yet.”

Scara clutched his hand. “You must go. Hurry — come on, go! It’s getting lighter every moment.”

Dottore sighed deeply and looked toward the shuttered window. “The lighter it gets, the darker our troubles become.”

At that moment, a soft knock broke the quiet. The Nurse’s voice, low and urgent, came through the door. “Young Master!”

Scaramouche jumped slightly. “Nurse, what is it?”

“Your mother’s coming to your room. It’s morning — be careful!” The Nurse peeked in for a second, then quickly shut the door again.

The lovers clung to one another, their lips meeting again and again in desperate silence. Then, at last, Dottore crossed to the window and began to lower the rope ladder. Scara followed, he leaned out into the cool dawn air.

“Have you really gone, my love — my husband, my friend?” he called softly down. “I want to hear from you every hour of every day. Each minute will feel like many days, and I’ll grow old before I see my Dottore again.”

Below, in the shadowed orchard, Dottore turned and looked up at him. “Goodbye,” he said. “I’ll send word as soon as I can.”

Scara’s voice broke. “Do you think we’ll ever meet again?”

“Of course,” he answered. “And all this trouble will one day be something to laugh about.”

Then he disappeared among the dark trees, swallowed by the quiet garden below.

Scara stayed at the window long after he was gone, the dawn now spilling faint gold across the floor. He thought of the old saying — that Fortune was fickle — and wondered why it toyed with someone as faithful as Dottore. If Fortune must change, let it be now, he prayed. Let it turn back to him, and bring him safely home.

Then he heard his mother calling. His heart leapt. What was she doing awake so early? Or had she not slept at all? It wasn’t like her to come to Scaramouche’s room at this hour. What could she possibly want?

As soon as Miko saw her son’s pale, tear-streaked face she stopped short in the doorway. The gilt of the chamber seemed to dull around him.

“What’s the matter, Scaramouche?” she asked, voice clipped but watching him closely.

“I’m not well,” Scara whispered, fingers twisting the hem of his kimono.

“Still crying for your cousin? What are you trying to do — wash her from her grave with tears?” Miko snapped, folding her hands. She moved toward the fire and let the poker clink into the grate as she spoke. “Even if you could, that wouldn’t bring her back to life. So stop now. An appropriate amount of grief shows love; too much shows a lack of sense.”

Scaramouche bowed his head. “I can’t stop crying: I feel her loss so deeply,”

Miko’s stare hardened. “It still won’t bring her back,” she returned. She turned and paced once, the silks at her shoulders whispering. “Rather cry because that scoundrel who killed her is alive.”

“What scoundrel?” Scaramouche asked, lifting his chin slowly as if bracing for the name.

“Dottore!” Miko said, the single word like a struck bell in the room.

Scaramouche’s hands went cold. He thought of Dottore — of the man who had stood under his balcony, not as a monster but as the impossible love that had upended his world. He answered cautiously, each syllable small: “May God pardon him. And yet no one causes me as much sorrow as he does.”

“That’s because the murderous traitor is still alive,” Miko spoke, jaw set.

“Yes, Mother,” Scaramouche replied, the last of his composure thinning. He could not bear the thought of anyone else avenging Mei; anger and dread warred inside him. “I’d like no one but me to avenge my cousin’s death.”

Yae Miko's expression softened only a fraction — a mother’s readiness to steer grief into action. “We’ll have revenge, don’t you worry about that,” she promised, voice low and hard. She reached for a folded handkerchief, pinched it between two rings, and tossed it toward a tray by the hearth. “So stop crying. I’ll send someone to a man in Khaenri'ah — where that criminal has fled — and he’ll be given such an unexpected dose of poison that he’ll soon be keeping Mei company. And then I hope you’ll be satisfied.”

Scaramouche’s fingers went numb around the cloth in his own hand. The Nurse looked on from the farther corner — cyan hair loose around her shoulders, grey eyes wet — and shifted uneasily, the rope ladder and the memory of promises weighing between them.

Scaramouche would never be satisfied until he saw Dottore again. His heart clenched every time he heard the man’s name and couldn’t go to him. The ache was unbearable — a wound that pulsed with each breath.

“I’ll find the man,” said Miko coldly. Her lips curved into a small, practiced smile. “But let’s put that behind us now, my son — because I’ve got some joyful news.”

“Joyful?” Scara repeated, lifting his head. His voice was hoarse from crying. “It’s about time I had some joyful news. What is it, Mother?”

“Well,” Miko smoothed the silk of her sleeves as she sat down on the edge of his bed. “You have a thoughtful mother, my child. To help you through your grief, she’s arranged something… something you didn’t expect.”

Scaramouche’s fingers tightened around the bedsheet. Something I didn’t expect. His throat went dry, but he managed, “And what’s that, Mother?”

“Here it is,” she said, her eyes bright with forced delight. “Early on Thursday morning, the honorable and noble Lord Kenzo, at the Shrine of Eternity…”

Scaramouche froze, staring at her.

“…will make a joyful groom of you!”

The words struck him like lightning. He sprang to his feet, hair swaying around his face. “No!” he burst out. “By the archons and by the Princess herself, he will not make a joyful groom of me! I can’t believe this haste! That I should be given away before the man who’s truly my husband can even court me!” His eyes burned, tears shimmering like molten glass. “Tell Mom that I will not marry yet — and when I do, I swear it will be to Dottore —who you know I hate—, before I ever wed Kenzo. What kind of joyful news is this?”

The door opened before Miko could answer.

“Well, here’s your mother now,” she said coolly. “Tell her yourself — and see what she will.”

Ei stepped in, her face tight with fatigue. Her gaze softened when she saw her son. Tears streamed down Scaramouche’s pale cheeks, catching the light like shattered pearls.

“It often drizzles at sunset,” Ei murmured. “But at the sunset of our neice’s life, it’s a storm.”

She came closer, sitting beside Scara on the bed and taking his trembling hand in hers. “Still crying? she asked.

At that, Scaramouche’s sobbing deepened — quiet, breathless gasps that he tried to muffle. Ei sighed and drew him into her arms, pulling him close against her armor, as if she could hold the breaking heart together through sheer force of will.

“A whole storm,” Ei spoke, voice low and shaken. She turned to her wife. “Have you told him of my decision?”

“I have,” Miko answered. “But he refuses. He thanks you and declines. I wish the fool would take his consolation in private.” Her voice was sharp but restrained.

Ei put a steadying hand on Scaramouche’s shoulder — a touch meant to remind, not to comfort. “Slowly,” she said, trying to make sense of it. “I don’t understand. He won’t have it? Isn’t he grateful?” He looked from her wife to her son, incredulity plain in her expression. “Isn’t he proud? Isn’t he counting his blessings — that we have found such an important gentleman to be his husband?”

Scaramouche swallowed hard, searching for words that would not inflame his mother more. “No — not proud that you’ve found him. Thankful that you have. I can never be proud of something I do not want, but I’m grateful for what you intended, because it came from love.”

Ei’s face flushed with a mixture of frustration and sorrow. She took a breath, as if to temper her next words. “What — ‘proud’ and ‘thankful’ and then ‘no thank you’?” She let out a long, sharp exhale. “Listen here, child. Don’t offer me riddles. We have planned carefully. You will go with Kenzo to the Shrine of Eternity on Thursday. I have asked, I have arranged. This is no mere whim.”

She closed the small distance between them and cupped Scaramouche’s chin with two fingers — a commanding gesture, not a caress. “I ask you, as your mother, to accept this. If you refuse, I will see that you are guided there myself.”

Scaramouche’s eyes flashed with pain. He stood up and stumbled backward a step, hands clasped. “Mother,” he said quietly, his voice raw. “Please — let me speak one thing. Hear me.”

Ei's jaw tightened, standing up as she folded her arms, forcing her disappointment into words. “You are being foolish. Do not make this harder than it is. We have suffered enough.” She glanced at Miko and the Nurse. “We can temper the ceremony — few guests, modest fare. Grace and discretion — " She hardened her voice. "But the marriage will take place.”

Miko moved between them, placing a hand lightly on her wife’s sleeve to steady the tone. “Enough,” she said firmly but kindly. “Threaten him with consequence if you must, but we will not break him here in anger.” Her voice carried the authority of the house and the warmth of a mother who, though grieving, would not let rage undo them further.

The Nurse, crouched near the foot of the bed, kept her hands clasped, eyes glistening. She opened her mouth as if to plead for Scaramouche, then closed it, seeing the hard line in Ei’s face.

Ei drew a breath and made her choice of words with care. “Listen well,” she said, softer now but unyielding. “You will go to the Shrine of Eternity on Thursday. You will do your duty to the family. Afterward, we will speak of your wishes. Do you understand?”

Scaramouche bowed his head, tears slipping down like small beads. “Yes, Mother,” he whispered, voice breaking. The words were reluctant, but the moment held the weary submission of a son who loved his family even as he loved another.

Ei released a long sigh and, seeing her son’s distress, let her shoulders sag with a hint of regret. “Then prepare yourself, we mean to keep things dignified. I will have Kenzo understand the need for discretion. Now — sleep, all of you. We must face the day with steadiness.”

Miko gave Scaramouche’s hand a quick, almost tender squeeze before she stepped beside her wife.

Scaramouche opened his mouth to speak, but Ei raised a hand sharply.
“Don’t say a word,” she snapped. “Not one. Don’t even look at me like that.” Her fingers twitched once — but to control herself. Her voice, though lowered, carried enough force to shake the air. “My patience is thin as glass.”

Miko had her hand on Ei's arm, her expression tight. Ei exhaled through her nose, and wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve. “Miko,” she said, voice trembling between weariness and fury. “We thought the heavens mocked us by giving us but one child… and now I see we were cursed to have even him.”

Scaramouche stood frozen, tears stinging his eyes, unsure whether to speak or to vanish into the shadows of the chamber. The heavy silence cracked when Ei banged her hand on a nearby table — as though punishing the universe.
“Damn it all!” she thundered. “The ungrateful child!”

“May the gods have mercy on him,” said the Nurse softly. Her voice wavered as she stepped forward, unable to bear more. “Shame on you, my lady, to speak so to your own son — to the one who’s lost so much already.”

Ei’s head turned, slow and cold. Her eyes were storm-dark. “What did you say?” she asked, the words edged with steel. “You? The family servant dares lecture me now?”

“I’m only speaking what’s right,” the Nurse said, trembling but firm. “He’s heartbroken, not defiant.”

Ei’s voice dropped an octave, dangerous in its restraint. “Get out of my sight.”

“My lady—”

“Out!” Her tone cracked like thunder. “Do you think your tongue will mend this house? Go! Leave before I lose my temper further.”

The Nurse flinched, hesitated, then bowed her head and backed away toward the door. Her cyan hair caught the lamplight before she vanished into the corridor.

Miko stepped forward quickly, taking her wife’s hand again before her anger could flare anew. “Enough,” she said softly. “You’re overwrought.”

“Overwrought?” Ei said, with a bitter laugh. She turned away from both of them, pacing the floor in long, taut strides. Her voice grew sharper, but her back stayed turned, as if she could not bear to face her family. “Every day and night, every moment — in peace and in chaos — my only ambition was to see this child secured, safe, respected. To find him a match that would bring honor to our name. And now, when I finally discover a suitor of noble blood, wealthy, well-spoken, and kind — the sort any parent would pray for — I am met with… rebellion.”

Scaramouche’s voice was small, his body trembling. “Mom, please—”

Ei spun toward him with despair. “Do you even understand what I’ve done for you? What I’ve sacrificed? The Raiden name carries weight, boy. I will not see it tossed aside because you are blinded!”

Miko’s eyes flicked between them both — wife’s fury like lightning, her son’s silence like the echo after thunder. She stepped between them gently, her tone still calm but urgent. “You love him, Ei. Remember that before you speak further.”

Ei’s shoulders rose and fell. Her gaze softened, but the fire in her hadn’t gone out. “Love,” she muttered. “Love is not disobedience.”

Scaramouche stood trembling, caught between defiance and sorrow. He wanted to speak — to shout the truth — but the words stuck in his throat like shards of glass.

Ei started pacing the floor again, each step echoing against the chamber walls. “And then,” she said bitterly, “to have a wretched, weeping child staring fortune in the face and answering me like this—” She mocked Scaramouche’s tone cruelly: “ ‘I don’t think I’ll get married. I can’t love him. I’m too young. Please, Mother, excuse me.’ ”

Her eyes blazed, lightning flickering in them. She pointed a trembling finger at Scaramouche. “Eat where you please, but not under my roof. Think on that, my boy — I am not jesting. Thursday is close. Search your heart and be wise. If you are still my son, I will give you to my friend. If not—” Her voice broke, heavy with finality. “Then go. Beg, starve, die in the streets if you must. I will not own you. And you’ll not see a single coin of mine. I’ve made my decision, and I will not turn back.”

She turned sharply and strode out, the doors slamming behind her like thunder.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The air itself seemed still.
The Nurse — who came back in shortly after —looked at Scaramouche, her grey eyes brimming with pity, but Miko’s face was cold and distant.

Scaramouche’s voice trembled. “Is there no pity in heaven?” he cried. “No spirit that can see my misery?” He reached for his mother’s hand, desperate for warmth, but she pulled away sharply.

“Oh, please, Mother — don’t turn from me,” Scara begged. His voice cracked, tears spilling down his pale face. “Postpone this marriage, even for a week — a day! Or if you will not… then make my bridal bed in the tomb where Mei lies.”

Miko’s eyes glimmered, but her words were hard. “Don’t speak to me. I’ve said all I mean to say. You heard Ei — do as you will. I’ve finished with you.”
And with that, she swept from the room, her robes whispering against the stone.

Scaramouche crumpled where he stood, the weight of it all pressing on him like a storm. “Oh gods… oh Nurse, what can I do?” His voice broke, trembling like glass about to shatter. “I have a husband already — how can I be wed again while he still lives? Tell me, please, what to do. How can heaven be so cruel?”

The Nurse hesitated, wringing her hands. Her cyan hair fell into her eyes as she sighed. “There is some comfort,” she said slowly. “It’s this: Dottore is banished — and might as well be dead. He cannot return, not openly. If he does, it will be in secret and danger.”

She glanced at Scara softly but with a strange practicality in her tone. “So, since that’s the truth… I think the best thing for you is to marry the Count. He’s kind, he’s handsome, and he can keep you safe.”

Scaramouche lifted his tear-streaked face, disbelief and betrayal flashing in his indigo eyes. “You… you think I should marry him?”

“Oh, my dear,” the Nurse said gently, as if coaxing a child, “he’s a lovely gentleman. Dottore’s a rag compared to him. Even an eagle doesn’t have a face as sharp as Lord Kenzo’s. I swear it’s the better match — far better than the first. And even if it weren’t…” She looked down sadly. “Your first love is as good as gone. Living in exile, he’s of no use to you now.”

Scaramouche stared at her, silent, his heart breaking anew — realizing that even the one person who had always comforted him had turned away.

Scaramouche looked at the Nurse, eyes glistening with disbelief. “Do you really mean all that?” he whispered.

“Every word, my dear,” said the Nurse gently. “It’s the best choice for you. Truly.”

Scaramouche’s lips trembled, but he forced a small smile. “That’s it then.”

The Nurse tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said softly, his voice delicate as glass, “you’ve really comforted me.”
He turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears forming again. “Go and tell Miko I’ve gone to Preistess Columbina's chapel. Tell her I’ve gone to confess for angering my mother— and to ask her forgiveness.”

The Nurse’s face brightened, relief softening her features. “Ah, good. This is wise of you,” she said with a little nod. “Yes, this is the right thing.” And with that, she hurried out, humming faintly as she went.

The moment the door closed, Scaramouche’s smile vanished. His hands clenched, trembling.

A wicked, deceitful creature, he thought bitterly. A devil in a nurse’s gown.
Which sin was worse — that she had told him to break his sacred vow, or that she had dared to insult Dottore, his only love?

She had once spoken of him with endless praise — calling him radiant, incomparable — and now, with the same tongue, she condemned him.

As Scaramouche dressed and wrapped his dark cloak around him, his eyes were dry now — cold, hollow, like the calm after a storm.

He slipped silently through the Raiden estate’s back halls, moving like a shadow through the fading dawn. One thing was clear in his mind: he would never confide in the Nurse again.

He would go to the Priestess.
If there was any hope left — any salvation — Columbina would know of it.

But if not…

Scaramouche pressed a trembling hand to his heart. Then there was only one path left — one he would take without fear.