It was quite unfortunate—out of all the miserable souls wandering Teyvat, the Cryo Archon chose you to be the Fatui's newest bride.

Even more unfortunate was the reality of your fate: you were hand-picked to be the Doctor's forever wife.

Nonsense or not, you had to deal with it. The Tsaritsa had absolutely zero patience for imperfections, hesitation, or refusal. You had no choice; sadly, you were paired with Dottore—the mad doctor, the psycho, the sociopath. It felt as though the gods themselves or Celestia had granted you an immediate death wish, handing down a fate far worse than execution. But it wasn't your fault, just the brutal universal slap in the face that came with being picked.

You were hand-picked by the Tsaritsa as the madman’s official wife. Maybe that day you weren't so lucky, and you certainly weren't happy... especially since you were standard prey for a man like him. You were far too naive, far too gullible, and it was plain as day to anyone who looked into your eyes.

During the wedding, you were practically shaking beside him. He acted like a perfect, pristine gentleman out of sheer respect for the Archon, but you could tell from across the room that Childe felt genuine pity for you, the doomed bride.

You pitied yourself, too—because what kind of crazy person willingly marries Dottore? Well, you didn't even have the choice to say no. For God's sake, the Tsaritsa is an Archon, and you can't say no to a woman who would fold you like a cheap dollar store lawn chair in two seconds flat. Just looking at her icy, piercing gaze sent shivers down your spine. You felt so deeply uncomfortable around your new husband, while the other Harbingers stood in the shadows, quietly amused, a few casting genuine pity upon their faces.

Dottore didn't say much throughout the reception. The entire time, you were desperately trying to mingle with other guests to stay away, while he remained isolated with the higher-ranking Fatui. Just two strangers bound by blood and ink, talking to two completely different worlds...

After the ceremony, as you were escorted deeper into his personal estate, the unsettled feeling in your chest expanded until the uneasiness in your heart swelled like a gunshot wound. He was so utterly terrifying in your eyes. You had heard the terrifying rumors about him—marrying a Harbinger was bad enough, but marrying the Second, an absolute madman who dissects human beings for routine leisure?

You sat on the edge of the cold, oversized bed, taking a shaky breath to open your mouth—just to be immediately cut off before a single syllable could escape.

His voice was cold, clinical, and entirely detached from human warmth.

“Quiet. Do not waste your breath adjusting to the atmospheric pressure of this room; your respiration rate is already elevated by twelve percent. Let us establish the parameters of this arrangement immediately, so you do not harbor any foolish, romantic delusions.

The Tsaritsa has granted you to me as a symbol of favor and political stability. Therefore, you are now a permanent fixture of my estate. You will be provided with the finest quarters, the highest security, and an unlimited expense account courtesy of the Northland Bank. You shall want for nothing. In return, your compliance is absolute.

Do not touch my instruments. Do not enter the lower levels of the laboratory unless you wish to become data. And most importantly, do not expect a husband. You have married a scholar, and my only true mistress is the truth of this world.

A segment of mine will be by at precisely six-thirty tomorrow morning to extract a baseline blood panel. Sleep well, my dear. Try not to make a nuisance of yourself.”

More properly in character Dottore had left you alone.

As soon as the heavy oak door clicked shut, the oppressive weight in the room seemed to shift, if only by a fraction. You let out a shaky, shuddering breath—a desperate exhaling of all the tension you’d been holding in your chest since stepping onto the altar. For the first time in hours, you could breathe without feeling like every pulse, every twitch of your eye was being dissected under a cold, analytical lens.

Yet, the relief was bitter. You knew the truth of what he was. This wasn't some romantic tale where patience and kindness would soften a monster. Dottore didn't want an equal. He didn't want a companion to understand him. He believed only in his own intellect, his own superiority, and his own design. To him, you weren't a partner; you were a mandate from the Tsaritsa, a piece placed on a board, a specimen handed over with a title attached.

Sitting on the edge of the vast, freezing bed, you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself. The silence of the estate crept in, thick and suffocating. Insecurity gnawed at you like a sharp blade. You felt small, hopelessly naive, and entirely out of your depth. Everyone at the reception had seen it—Childe’s pitying gaze, the quiet amusement of the other Harbingers. They all knew you were far too fragile for a world like this, far too easy to crush.

You stared at the floor, the chill of Snezhnaya seeping through the heavy rugs. You needed to get out. You needed a plan, an escape, anything to cling to so you wouldn't drown in the sheer dread of what tomorrow at six-thirty morning would bring. But for tonight, surrounded by the towering, shadowed walls of his quarters, all you could do was hold yourself together and survive the night.

Sitting alone on the vast bed, the silence of the room only made the questions louder. Why would a man like Dottore—someone who views humanity as nothing more than raw material for his work—agree to take a wife?

In the grand scheme of Snezhnayan politics, every move is a calculation. To the Tsaritsa, a forced union like this serves as the ultimate tether. It binds a notoriously unpredictable, dangerous man to the court's public image, wrapping a mantle of civic expectation around a loose cannon. A married Harbinger presents a facade of order, stability, and total allegiance to the throne.

For Dottore, accepting you wasn't about seeking a partner or finding an equal. You are his display of obedience to Her Majesty—a living trophy of his compliance. To him, your presence in his estate satisfies the Archon's mandate while giving him an official, high-society proxy to handle the mundane social obligations he despises.

Yet, knowing you were chosen precisely because you seemed easy to manage only makes the isolation heavier. You aren't just a political pawn; in his eyes, you're a baseline variable in a high-stakes game. And as the cold Snezhnayan night stretches on, the reality sets in: to survive this estate, you'll have to figure out how to leverage the very position you were forced into before his next experiment begins.

The harsh reality settled heavy in your chest: your appearance, your grace, your humanity—none of it truly mattered in the cold, calculated eyes of Snezhnayan politics.

You weren't chosen because you were a perfect match or a beloved figure. You were chosen solely to serve as political leverage—a neatly wrapped anchor designed to hold down an unhinged titan. The Tsaritsa needed the Fatui court to present an image of absolute order and supreme stability, rather than the chaotic, blood-soaked scribble it actually was behind closed doors. A high-profile marriage for her most unhinged Harbinger was the perfect illusion to show the world that even the mad Doctor could be tethered to royal decree.

The ultimate irony? Dottore utterly despise every single part of it. He loathed the pomp, hated the aristocratic posturing, and held nothing but pure disdain for the mindless charade of court diplomacy.

Yet, here you were—trapped in the middle of a high-stakes political gamble, serving as a living buffer between an Archon's iron will and a sociopath's burning hatred for social order.

But maybe.. someday.. maybe… you’d get a better life than being looked down upon by a being like him..