Pantalone

The Northland Bank in Liyue Harbor met them with a cold, almost palpable silence.

From the street, the familiar hum of the trade port still drifted in — the shouts of hawkers, the creak of carts, the splash of water against the docks — but here, behind the massive dark-wood doors with their wrought-iron inlays, an entirely different atmosphere reigned. The air was dry and still, smelling of ink, old paper, metal coins, and something else — faint, unsettling, like the scent of ozone before a storm. Too quiet for a place where vast fortunes turned. Too calm.

Paimon twitched her shoulders nervously, drifting closer to Aether.

"Well, this place is something else," she whispered. "Paimon expected at least a couple of guards ready to jump us the second we set foot in here. But it's... quiet as a tomb."

Aether said nothing, only adjusting the baldric of his sword. They had come here with a specific purpose: to gather information about Fatui movements in the region. Rumors that someone from the upper ranks of the Harbingers had settled in Liyue had been circulating for weeks. The Northland Bank was the obvious place to start looking. But the fact that they had been allowed inside without a fight, merely asked to wait in the main hall, was far more alarming than an ambush.

The hall was impressive. High vaulted ceilings, marble columns laced with veins of gold, massive chandeliers of mountain crystal casting a soft, yellowish light over rows of mahogany desks. Several clerks bent over ledgers, heads down. A pair of Fatui guards flanked side doors, frozen like statues. Behind a far counter, an administrator bustled nervously, shuffling papers and repeatedly glancing at the staircase leading upward.

And then footsteps sounded on that staircase.

Slow. Measured. The click of expensive heels on polished marble — unhurried, yet not dilatory. The man descending into the hall clearly knew all attention was his by default and saw no need to rush.

Pantalone.

He was exactly as the few surviving informants had described: tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black and silver. A heavy fur collar framed his face — too handsome for a man bearing the title of Ninth Harbinger. His thick dark hair, streaked with silver, was immaculately styled. Sunken eyes behind spectacles of thin gold regarded the world with the expression of someone long past surprise and fear. And his smile — polite, dazzling, but not warm — was the smile of a shark that had spotted small fry, but was not yet hungry.

He descended without a glance at his guards, without a glance at his clerks, and walked directly toward Aether and Paimon. He stopped a few paces away, inclining his head — almost courteously.

"The Traveler who saved Liyue. And his faithful companion, Paimon," he said, and his voice — soft, enveloping, with a faint huskiness — was like expensive velvet lined with steel. "I have heard a great deal about you. I must admit, I expected we would meet sooner. But it seems circumstances have not favored our acquaintance."

Paimon frowned, edging slightly forward.

"So you're one of the Harbingers? The Ninth, right? Paimon thought you all just sat in your Snezhnaya and didn't stick your noses out. But here you are, in Liyue, acting like you own the place."

"Because, in a sense, I do," Pantalone adjusted his spectacles, the lenses glinting to hide his eyes. "The Northland Bank is my institution. And believe me, I am plotting nothing untoward. At least, not today."

Aether tensed. His hand instinctively drifted closer to his sword hilt, but he restrained himself. Something about this man's calm was more disarming than an open threat. Pantalone made no aggressive moves. He summoned no guards. He simply stood and spoke — and that was far more unsettling than if he had attacked.

"What are you doing here?" Aether asked evenly.

"Working," Pantalone tilted his head slightly, and something akin to approval flickered in his smile — as if he appreciated the directness. "As you can see, I am a banker. And bankers, you know, must sometimes personally inspect their branches. Especially when a region is... unsettled."

He paused, mouth opening as if to say more, but he was interrupted.

A side door burst open, and a man in a Fatui captain's uniform strode rapidly into the hall. Insignia of rank on his shoulders, his face half-hidden by a mask, but visibly pale and tense. He had clearly prepared for the most important report of his life and was ready for anything — except the sight of his Lord standing in the center of the hall, making polite conversation with the Fatui's legendary enemy. The captain stumbled mid-step, but quickly collected himself, snapping to attention.

"Lord Ninth, reporting. Courier services have delivered all cargo according to your list. However..."

He hesitated, casting a brief glance at Aether and Paimon. Pantalone intercepted the look and gestured almost imperceptibly: 'Continue.'

"However, a complication arose with one of the items," the captain continued. "The gift set from the 'Guili Pearl' shop — the one with oils and fabrics from Sumeru — was damaged in transit. The box was soaked. Our people have already ordered a replacement, but it will take two days."

Pantalone was silent for a moment. His smile did not vanish, but the air around him seemed to grow a few degrees colder.

"Two days," he repeated thoughtfully. "And does the courier know this order was intended for my wife, for her name day? And that her name day is the day after tomorrow?"

The captain turned so pale it was noticeable even beneath his mask.

"I... I will immediately order the process expedited, Lord Ninth. We will assign extra personnel. The delivery will be made on time."

"Do see to it," Pantalone adjusted the cuff of his immaculate white shirt, his tone becoming almost genial — almost. "I am not accustomed to disappointing my wife. And I advise you not to make a habit of it either."

And at that moment, time in the hall stopped.

Paimon, who had been hovering warily just behind Aether, slowly turned toward him. Her eyes became the size of saucers. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out — only a silent movement of her lips.

Aether froze as well. He stared at Pantalone, processing what he had heard, his brain refusing to assemble the puzzle. A Harbinger. The Ninth. A banker. Dottore's right hand in funding. A man whose very name was spoken with trepidation even by his own subordinates. This man has a... wife?!

The clerks at a distance stood as if thunderstruck. One dropped his quill and didn't even notice. The guards exchanged the kind of look shared by men who had just learned a state secret and were now wondering if they would be fired or executed. The captain, who had just spoken of the delivery, stood neither alive nor dead — whether from fear of his Lord or shock at having blurted such information before outsiders.

Naturally, Paimon was the first to recover.

"YOUR... WHAT?!" she shrieked so loudly the crystal pendants on the chandelier chimed. "WIFE?! YOU HAVE A WIFE?! A HARBINGER?! YOU?!"

Pantalone slowly turned toward her. His face showed neither irritation nor surprise — only a faint, almost patronizing smirk.

"Is it truly so astonishing?" he asked levely. "I am a banker. I have a stable income, my own residence, and, dare I say, decent manners. Statistically speaking, I am a more promising candidate for a husband than, say, the captain of this branch."

He nodded toward the captain, who now looked like a man longing to sink through the marble floor.

"But you... you're a HARBINGER!" Paimon seemed on the verge of exploding from sheer emotion. "You serve the Tsaritsa! You fund all sorts of villainous things! You even look like a main villain! How can a main villain have a WIFE?!"

Pantalone raised an eyebrow slightly, and something distantly resembling amusement flickered in his gaze.

"I was unaware that one's marital status must correspond to one's role," he remarked. "My wife, you know, also occasionally calls me a villain — but usually when I stay at work later than promised. Or forget to buy fruit on the way home. That, apparently, is a graver crime than funding military operations."

Aether slowly exhaled, realizing his hand was still resting on his sword hilt. He removed it. The situation had transitioned from 'dangerous' to 'absurd', and drawing a weapon now seemed simply foolish.

"So... it is true," he said. "You really do have a wife."

"I assure you, I would not invent a spouse for dramatic effect," Pantalone replied. "That would be too extravagant even for me."

Paimon, still unrecovered from shock, jabbed a finger toward the captain, who was now aspiring to become part of the decor.

"Wait, wait, WAIT! So you mean all that fuss with delivery, and oils, and fabrics from Sumeru — that's all for your WIFE?! Not for some secret ritual? Not for bribery? Not for Dottore's experiments?!"

"I am flattered you think me capable of such multifaceted intrigues, but no," Pantalone adjusted his spectacles. "It is indeed a name day gift. She likes Sumeran oils. And, to be honest, I find selecting the correct shade of fabric far more challenging than, say, destabilizing an entire region's economy. Fabrics have more nuances."

One of the clerks let out a nervous laugh and immediately choked on it upon meeting the Ninth Lord's gaze.

Paimon slowly turned to Aether, her face full of cosmic bewilderment.

"Aether... Paimon thinks the world has gone crazy. First we find out that Signora had a lover, now Pantalone... Who's next? Arlecchino with her husband and three kids? Pierro with a family in a quiet suburb?! Capitano's wife, pining for him??"

"I would not venture assumptions about my colleagues' personal lives," Pantalone noted, his smile widening slightly. "However, since it transpires that you are now aware of my marital status... may I invite you to my office? The conversation you came here for clearly requires a more private setting. And, perhaps, tea."

He paused, then added:

"My wife, by the way, believes I brew it too weakly. I hope you will not be so strict."

Paimon still looked as though she had just been told that dragons not only exist but also pay taxes. But the word 'tea' did its work — she relaxed slightly and squinted suspiciously.

"Alright... Paimon agrees. But only because we have a ton of questions. And not just about the Fatui! About your wife — too! And you have to answer them!"

Pantalone turned toward the staircase and tossed carelessly over his shoulder:

"I will answer what I deem fit to answer. But I promise: the conversation will be interesting."

And he headed up, not doubting for a moment that they would follow. The captain still stood rooted to the spot, clearly realizing he had witnessed something that would change his life. The clerks slowly returned to work, exchanging stunned glances. The guards froze, pretending to have heard nothing.

Aether and Paimon exchanged a look and, without a word, followed. War was war, but this merited a personal investigation.

Pantalone ascended the stairs without looking back. His steps remained measured, but now there was a faint, almost imperceptible note of anticipation in them — as if he were leading his guests not to an office, but onto a stage where a curious spectacle was about to unfold.

Aether and Paimon followed. Paimon was still muttering under her breath, digesting what she had heard:

"Wife... wife... a Harbinger has a wife... Paimon still can't believe it... Maybe he's just crazy and talks to an imaginary wife? No, he looks too normal to be crazy. Too creepily normal..."

The office door was massive, with silver inlay forming the crest of the Northland Bank. Pantalone grasped the handle, paused for a fraction of a second — a barely noticeable movement, as if he sensed something unusual — and swung the door open.

And then he stopped.

For a split second, almost imperceptible, his calm mask cracked. His eyebrow twitched slightly, the corner of his mouth stirred — not with irritation, rather with surprise, but very quickly replaced by an expression of deep, almost philosophical resignation.

In his chair, upholstered in dark burgundy velvet, sat you.

Your legs, crossed at the ankles, rested directly on the polished desk, next to his golden pen and a stack of financial reports. You held one of his books — judging by the cover, an old treatise on Liyuean monetary policy — and were lazily flipping through the pages, your entire demeanor radiating an absolute, unapologetic certainty that this chair belonged to you by right.

Hearing the door open, you looked up. Your eyes met your husband's first, then slid over to Aether frozen in the doorway and to Paimon, who was peeking over his shoulder with the expression of someone who had just discovered an unexpected sequel to their favorite story.

"Oh," you said, closing the book. "And I was wondering what was keeping you this time. Another international conspiracy? Or just an audit?"

Pantalone stepped into the office, his smile returning — but now it was slightly different. Warmer. Or at least, less predatory.

"Merely a minor inspection and... an unexpected introduction," he replied, approaching the desk. "I didn't know you would return today."

"And I didn't say I would," you shrugged, finally removing your feet from the desk and sitting upright. "But my visit to Sumeru ended earlier than planned. So I decided to surprise you, and also check that you weren't working late again."

You cast a meaningful glance at the stack of papers.

"I was just about to finish on time," Pantalone objected, circling the desk and resting a hand on the back of the chair — the very chair where you were still seated. "But, as you can see, we have guests. The Traveler and Paimon. They stopped by to... discuss certain matters."

You shifted your gaze to the stunned duo in the doorway and, to their utter astonishment, smiled — openly, almost amiably.

"Oh, so these are the famous heroes of Liyue?" you asked, rising. "I've heard a lot. My husband, of course, prefers to speak of you in official tones, but I can read between the lines. He likes you."

"I would not phrase it so directly," Pantalone noted.

"Because you are not direct, darling," you retorted. "That's one of the reasons I married you. Someone in our family has to be."

Paimon, who had been silently gasping for air this entire time, finally found her voice:

"So... so it's HER?! The real one?! Not imaginary?! Just sitting there in his office, reading his books, putting her feet on his desk... and HE LETS HER?!"

"Lets her?" Pantalone raised an eyebrow. "You are mistaken. I do not let her. I acknowledge the inevitable. That chair is hers to the exact same degree it is mine — possibly more."

"Much more," you confirmed. "I claimed it first. Back when this office was still just a blueprint on paper."

Aether, who had kept silent until now, slowly exhaled and folded his arms.

"So, Lord Ninth," he said. "You are not only married, but your wife is also utterly unafraid of you. And, it seems, fully aware of your affairs."

"Afraid?" you chuckled, glancing between your husband and the Traveler. "I was afraid of him for exactly the first five minutes of our acquaintance. Then I realized he's just a man who likes numbers more than people and prefers dramatic capes to practical clothing. It's treatable. Well, mostly."

"Mostly," Pantalone echoed, and that note crept into his voice — warm, almost imperceptible, but absolutely unfeigned. "My wife has a habit of downplaying my merits. For example, she neglected to mention that she is one of Teyvat's finest specialists in ancient financial systems. And the only person capable of convincing me to leave work before midnight."

"I simply say that dinner is getting cold and I don't like waiting," you shrugged. "Works every time."

Paimon, still hovering in the air with an expression of extreme bewilderment, turned to Aether and in a dramatic whisper said:

"Aether... Paimon demands we reassess everything we know about the Fatui. If Pantalone has a wife like this, who puts her feet on his desk and he LETS HER... then what else don't we know?! Maybe Dottore grows flowers in his spare time?! Maybe Sandrone had a cat?! Paimon is beyond being surprised by anything anymore!"

"I wouldn't be so sure," Aether remarked, but his eyes, too, held curiosity mixed with wariness. "Seems today's visit to the bank turned out far more educational than we planned."

You laughed — quietly, but sincerely — and gestured for them to enter.

"Come in, don't just stand in the doorway. Since you've ended up here at such a... candid moment, let's at least get acquainted. Tea? My husband brews it too weak, but I have my own stash. Genuine Sumeran. Poison-free, I swear."

"You have just robbed me of half my intrigue," Pantalone sighed, removing his glasses and polishing them with a cloth. "I had planned to keep them in suspense for at least another quarter of an hour."

"You'll have plenty of time for intrigue later, darling," you smiled. "For now — give the people some tea. They've clearly earned it."

And the four of you settled around the office. Pantalone took his place by the window, arms folded. You poured tea, moving about the office with proprietary ease. Paimon, finally sinking onto a chair, was still muttering under her breath about the unfairness of the world and how she was no longer sure of anything. Aether accepted the cup from your hands with a polite nod, but his gaze said much: he did not yet trust what was happening, but he was willing to listen.

The evening promised to be long. And, perhaps, the strangest of their entire journey.

Half an hour before the scandal became inevitable, someone entered Pantalone's office without knocking.

To be precise, the door burst open with such a crash that the stack of papers on the edge of the desk trembled, and the secretary outside let out a strangled sound resembling the death rattle of a man who had failed to warn his superior.

"Pantalone! Buddy! I'm back!"

Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, stood in the doorway with a radiant smile. His scarf was slung carelessly over his shoulder, a fresh scratch adorned his cheekbone, and his eyes blazed with that particular spark that usually heralded either a fight or someone's headache. Sometimes both.

Pantalone raised his gaze from the ledger. His face expressed neither joy nor irritation — merely polite expectation.

"Tartaglia. The door closes."

"Ah, right," Tartaglia slammed the door shut with his foot and, without missing a beat, flopped into the chair opposite the desk. "Listen, I need to discuss the budget for the next operation. Nothing huge — a couple of ships, a squad of fresh recruits, maybe a little bridge demolition. You know, the standard package."

Pantalone removed his glasses and began polishing them with a cloth. Without his glasses, his gaze seemed even more piercing.

"I will review your request in the established manner. Like all the others."

"Oh, come on," Tartaglia crossed his legs. "You know I'm your favorite colleague. Can't we just do it quickly, without the bureaucracy?"

"You are my only colleague who bursts into the office without inquiring whether I have the time," Pantalone noted. "And you are not my favorite. You are the least irritating. These are separate categories."

Tartaglia burst out laughing and had already opened his mouth to reply, but his gaze suddenly caught on something on the desk. His smile began to slowly, almost comically slide away.

On the corner of the desk, next to the inkwell, stood a small frame. Turned so the image was visible only to the owner of the office. But Tartaglia, with his predator's peripheral vision, noticed the edge of the photograph — and that unmistakable, incomparable atmosphere of a personal belonging that had no place among business papers.

"Wait a second," he craned his neck. "What's that you've got there? A photograph?"

Pantalone, without turning his head, calmly moved the frame a little further from the edge.

"None of your concern."

"O-ho-ho!" Tartaglia leaned forward, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "Are you keeping someone's photo on your desk? Pantalone, the great and terrible, the bespectacled cold fish, keeps a photograph?! I'm going to die of curiosity!"

"Your death would be a regrettable, but not critical, event for the organization," said Pantalone.

But Tartaglia was unstoppable. He leaped up and, before Pantalone could do anything, snatched the frame and turned it toward himself.

In the photograph, clearly taken in an informal setting, was a woman. You. Standing somewhere against a backdrop of snowy peaks, in a simple but elegant traveling dress. You were smiling — not at the camera, but slightly to the side, at someone beyond the frame.

Tartaglia froze. He shifted his gaze from the photograph to Pantalone. Back to the photograph. Back to Pantalone. His mouth fell open.

"That's... who?" he asked in the tone of a man beginning to suspect he's not going to like the answer.

Pantalone slowly, almost lazily leaned back in his chair. His smile grew slightly wider.

"My wife."

Silence.

Tartaglia stood with the frame in his hands, and expressions cycled across his face: disbelief, shock, a search for the catch, disbelief again, and finally — the expression of a man just told the sky is green and the sea is made of soup.

"Your... who?" he asked again.

"Wife," Pantalone repeated, syllable by syllable, with the same pleasure he might reserve for signing a death warrant. "A marital union, registered in accordance with the laws of Snezhnaya. Rings, vows, cohabitation. I can send you an excerpt from the dictionary."

Tartaglia slowly placed the frame back. Then stepped away. Then stepped closer again. Then burst out laughing — loudly, nervously, with hysterical undertones.

"No, no, no, wait. You're joking. This is some kind of operation, right? A cover? She's your agent, and you're using a marriage legend as cover? Or is it blackmail? You're holding her hostage and forcing her to play the role of your wife for some intrigue?"

"You overestimate my fondness for theatrics," Pantalone replied. "She really is my wife. And she is playing no role whatsoever."

"NO!" Tartaglia grabbed his head dramatically. "I refuse to believe it! YOU?! PANTALONE?! Married?! I was convinced you were... well..."

He cut himself off, but it was too late. Pantalone raised an eyebrow:

"I was — what?"

"Well... that you were gay!" Tartaglia blurted out. "It suits you so much better, honestly! All that style of yours: the glasses, the capes, the manners, the perfect part in your hair... I thought you had some architect husband somewhere! And now — a wife! A real woman! And she's even beautiful! How is that even possible?!"

Pantalone did not move, but the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.

"I am flattered by your attention to my style. But your assumptions regarding my orientation were, like most of your assumptions, mistaken. I have a wife. And, unlike some, I do not feel the need to chase a throng of admirers to confirm my attractiveness."

That was a low blow. Tartaglia clutched his heart.

"Ah, so that's how it is! You're telling me you have a wife, while I — I, Tartaglia, the handsome one, the hero, the great warrior — don't even have ten fangirls running after me?! This is an insult! I demand satisfaction!"

"Your satisfaction will consist of sitting down right now and calming yourself," Pantalone declared. "And ceasing to shout for the entire bank to hear."

But Tartaglia, naturally, did not sit. He took to pacing the office, flinging his arms about.

"No, I can't calm down! You! Pantalone! Who looks at people like numbers in a report! Who smiles in a way that chills the blood! You have a WIFE! And I have — zero! Zero, Pantalone! Where is the justice?! What did you win her over with? Tax breaks?!"

And at that moment, the office door opened quietly, almost inaudibly.

You appeared in the doorway.

In your hands was a tray: two cups of steaming tea, a plate piled high with freshly baked pastries, emitting such an aroma that even Tartaglia froze mid-sentence and sniffed. You were dressed simply, domestically: a soft dress in a calm shade, minimal jewelry, your hair gathered in a comfortable but neat style. You looked warm, cozy, genuine — the complete opposite of your husband's cold polish.

"I thought you might like some tea," you said, entering, and your voice was calm, amiable. "You have a guest, darling, and you didn't even offer him anything."

Tartaglia stood rooted to the spot. He stared at you with the expression of a man who had just been shown a living unicorn.

"So it's... you... the one..."

"His wife, yes," you smiled and placed the tray on the edge of the desk, first shifting the papers — a habitual gesture, without a trace of fear. "And you, I presume, are Tartaglia? My husband has told me a lot about you."

"A lot?" Tartaglia blinked. "You mean — good things?"

"I mean — a lot," you clarified, and little sparks danced in your eyes.

Pantalone let out a quiet, almost inaudible chuckle.

Tartaglia slowly shifted his gaze from you to Pantalone. Then back to you. Then back to Pantalone. Then collapsed dramatically into the chair and groaned:

"The world is unfair... Why did she choose you and not me?!"

"Tartaglia," Pantalone began warningly.

"No, I'm serious!" Tartaglia threw his hands up. "Look at her! She's sweet, warm, beautiful, her pastries smell so good I'm about to cry! And you — you're a walking calculator in a cloak! Why is she with you and not with me?!"

"Perhaps because I do not ask tactless questions," Pantalone suggested.

"And another thing — why does she look like this, and you look like that?!" Tartaglia continued, jabbing a finger. "She's so... genuine! Homely! Modest! And you — all furs, gold, glasses, gleaming like a New Year's tree! Is it even legal to have a wife like that while being so flashy?! Man, I would..."

"Tartaglia," Pantalone's voice turned icy. "I advise you to finish that sentence with extreme caution."

You, standing by the desk, shyly lowered your eyes and began tracing invisible patterns on the floor with the toe of your shoe — your little foot moving back and forth, a faint blush rising on your cheeks.

Pantalone's gaze shifted to you and softened. Almost imperceptibly — but Tartaglia, accustomed to noticing details in battle, noticed it too.

"Darling," Pantalone called, and his voice suddenly became lower, softer, almost a purr. "Come to me."

You raised your eyes, still pink-cheeked, and took a couple of steps toward him. Pantalone extended his hand, and you placed your fingers in his palm. He drew you slightly closer, but did not embrace you — simply held your hand in his, stroking your knuckles with his thumb.

"Allow me to clarify something for our dear Eleventh," he said, and that signature Pantalone-esque pleasure in verbally obliterating an opponent sounded in his voice. "My wife, you see, has a habit of dressing modestly. It is her choice, and I respect it. But that modesty, like most manifestations of her character, is deceptive."

Tartaglia narrowed his eyes.

"In what way?"

"In this way, my naive friend: that very 'simple little dress' which you likely assessed as a charming domestic garment actually costs more than the annual salary of the First Harbinger."

Tartaglia choked on air.

"WHAT?!"

"Notice the fabric," Pantalone slightly turned your arm, and the dress indeed caught the light — a faint, very expensive-looking spark ran across the material. "It shimmers slightly, see? That is not fake glitter; it is an interwoven thread of galvanically treated silk. Dense, yet flowing. The cut — strictly to her figure. Precisely to hers, because such sculpted figures as my wife possesses exist nowhere else in Teyvat, and I could extol this virtue for hours."

You blushed even deeper and fixed your gaze on the floor, but a warm smile touched your lips.

"Further," Pantalone continued with evident delight. "You see this wedding ring on her finger? With the little diamond? A real diamond? In truth, there are a hundred of them — tiny, laid in the finest pattern around the band. This ring costs more than your entire family, Tartaglia, together with your undoubtedly 'splendid' house."

"HEY!" Tartaglia jumped up. "My family is sacred! And the house really is splendid!"

"I do not doubt it. But the price is not comparable. Let us continue. These elegant, modest little heels — from the latest collection of the brand Antonio Vietri. Does that name mean anything to you? No? It means something to the owners of your yearly salary. The chain worth several billion mora and the bracelet with earrings are not currently visible because of the dress and hair, but take my word for it."

Tartaglia stood with his mouth open, shifting his gaze from you to Pantalone and back. Meanwhile, you had become utterly embarrassed and pressed your forehead against your husband's shoulder, continuing to mechanically trace circles on the carpet with your toe.

"But that is not all," Pantalone squeezed your hand a little tighter. "My wife, you see, has assets in her accounts that she, for some reason, does not use. More houses in her possession across Teyvat than even I myself own. And this bearing in mind that my property portfolio is considered one of the largest."

Tartaglia emitted a quiet, strangled sound.

"She also has a collection of cars. Such cars that exceed in quantity the entire inventory of the most popular and best-selling automobile company in the world. This is despite the fact that she does not even have a license."

"Why do you have a car collection if you don't have a license?!" Tartaglia exploded.

You raised your head and murmured, barely audibly:

"They're pretty..."

"They are pretty," Pantalone repeated with infinite satisfaction. "That is a sufficient basis. But my favorite fact — and, I believe, the most painful for you personally — is that the foremost railway service on the continent is also in her possession."

Tartaglia froze.

"What service?"

"The very one you take home from another region each time. Where you read the little booklets. With the lettering... how does it go?"

Pantalone picked up an envelope from his desk and, squinting, read aloud:

"[{{user}}'s surname] Railways."

Tartaglia slowly sank back into the chair. His face expressed the complete and utter collapse of all illusions.

"I... every time... I go home... on a train... that belongs to YOUR WIFE?!"

"Quite correct."

"And the booklets?! With the lettering?! Those branded, pretty booklets I always read because they have pictures?! YOUR WIFE publishes them?!"

"Also correct."

Tartaglia covered his face with his hands and let out a long, existential groan of misery.

"The world... is horrible... The scariest man in the Fatui has a wife who bakes pastries, owns the railway, collects cars without a license, and is worth more than my entire life... And I, the handsome Tartaglia, hero of battles and terror of the seas, cannot even boast ten admirers..."

"Nature is unjust," Pantalone agreed. "But perhaps you ought to start by refraining from bursting into other people's offices unannounced. It is off-putting."

"I hate you," Tartaglia muttered.

"You adore me," Pantalone countered. "And now, I believe, you owe my wife an apology for your inappropriate remarks. Including the phrase 'Man, I would...'."

Tartaglia lifted his head, looked at you — you were still there, pressed to your husband's shoulder, cheeks aflame and a slight smile on your face — and sighed heavily:

"I offer my apologies. You are wonderful, your husband is a monster, and I am going to go find my place in this cruel world."

"The tea is getting cold," you noted quietly. "And the pastries, too."

Tartaglia froze halfway to the door, then turned around, grabbed a pastry from the tray, and, still muttering about injustice, flopped back into the chair.

"Fine. But only for the pastries. And the tea. But I'm still offended."

"Duly noted," Pantalone adjusted his glasses. "Darling, sit. Your tea is getting cold as well."

You nodded, and your husband pulled up a chair for you — the very one Tartaglia had collapsed into upon entering — with the same natural courtesy with which he did everything concerning you.

Tartaglia, chewing the pastry, watched the two of you and reflected that life was indeed a strange thing. And that now he would have to somehow come to terms with the fact that Pantalone was a married, wealthy, and, by all appearances, contented man. While he, Tartaglia, rode on a train that belonged to his wife, and hadn't even known it.

"First-class ticket tomorrow," he decided grimly to himself. "Let there be at least some benefit."

The garden surrounded the estate on three sides — old, well-tended, full of greenery, flowering bushes, and the quiet, almost musical murmur of a fountain somewhere deeper within. A high stone wall was entwined with ivy, and the wrought-iron gates were parted just enough to let in the sunlight, but not a casual wanderer.

Paimon, however, never considered herself a "casual wanderer."

"Aether, look! It's so beautiful here! It's like we've wandered into some enchanted fairy tale! I wonder who lives here? Maybe some old rich aristocrat with tons of money and no friends at all?"

Aether, checking the map, frowned.

"According to this map, we were supposed to come out at an abandoned watchtower. This is clearly someone's private estate."

"Well, maybe the map is old," Paimon replied carelessly, squeezing through the gap between the gate doors. "Or maybe the watchtower got rebuilt. Or it turned into a garden. Teyvat's architecture is always like that — today it's ruins, tomorrow it's a mansion. Oh, look! There's someone over there!"

Indeed, in the depths of the garden, among the rose bushes and neat beds of lavender, a figure was moving. A woman in a simple work apron over a light dress, with garden gloves on her hands and a small watering can. Her movements were unhurried, almost meditative: she bent to the flowers, checked the leaves, adjusted something, and from a distance it seemed she was part of this garden — just as alive and genuine.

Hearing footsteps, you straightened up and turned to face the uninvited guests. Neither fear nor irritation crossed your face — only a slight surprise, quickly replaced by a welcoming smile.

"Oh, good afternoon," you said, setting the watering can on the ground and peeling off your gloves. "I wasn't expecting guests. You must be lost?"

Paimon immediately flew forward, sparkling with curiosity.

"Yeah! We were following a map, but it seems to be lying a little. It says 'abandoned watchtower' here, but instead it's a whole estate with a garden. Is this your home? Do you live here? Alone? It must be lonely alone?"

You laughed quietly.

"Not alone. With my husband. But yes, this house is ours. And the garden is my personal hobby. When my husband is busy with his... business, I come here."

"With your husband," Paimon repeated, winking at Aether. "So you're married. To some boring merchant who's always away on trips, while you grow flowers here? Did Paimon guess right?"

You smiled in a special way — with the corners of your lips, as if hiding a secret.

"Not quite. My husband... let's just say he really does work a lot. And yes, he disappears sometimes. But I wouldn't call him boring. Rather the opposite — too interesting for a quiet life."

Aether, who had been silently examining the garden until now, shifted his gaze to you.

"We didn't mean to intrude. If you could point us the way, we'll leave."

"Nonsense," you waved a hand. "You've clearly been walking a long time, and you look tired. I just have fresh currant tea ready, and pastries — I baked them this morning. Sit down, rest, and then I'll explain how to get where you're going."

Paimon, hearing about pastries, instantly bloomed.

"Pastries?! Aether, we have to stay! This is fate! Tea, pastries, a beautiful garden — Paimon officially declares this the best map error ever!"

Aether sighed, but didn't argue. You led them along a stone-paved path to a terrace overgrown with wisteria, where a round table with wicker chairs stood. A teapot was already steaming, cups were set out, and on a platter sat the very pastries — fresh, with berries.

"Sit down," you said, pouring tea. "I'll be right back — I just need to wash my hands and take off my apron. Make yourselves at home."

You went into the house, leaving Aether and Paimon on the terrace. Paimon immediately grabbed a pastry and began devouring it with relish.

"Mmm! Aether, this is simply delicious! Whoever this woman is, she's a culinary goddess! And her garden is gorgeous, and the house is beautiful, and she herself is so sweet... I wonder who her husband really is? Maybe some merchant after all. Or a scholar. Or..."

She didn't finish. Because a side door leading from the house to the terrace swung open, and a man appeared on the threshold.

Without the usual fur collar. Without the thin-rimmed spectacles. Without the silver cufflinks and impeccably buttoned waistcoat. In a simple white shirt with an unbuttoned collar, the sleeves carelessly rolled up to the elbows. In house trousers and soft slippers. He was holding a book in his hands, which he had clearly just been reading, and was heading to the terrace with the air of a man who expected to find his wife there — not two stunned strangers.

Pantalone.

Paimon choked on her pastry. Crumbs flew in all directions. She let out a strangled wheeze, jabbing a finger toward the door. "Cough-cough... Aether... cough... it's... it's..."

Aether froze with his teacup halfway to his mouth. His eyes widened.

Pantalone, noticing them, paused for a moment. An eyebrow arched slightly. Then that very smile appeared on his face — calm, polite, but this time with a shade of genuine, almost human puzzlement.

"Oh," he said. "The Traveler. And Paimon. What an unexpected... encounter."

Paimon finally cleared her throat and shot into the air, nearly knocking over her cup.

"WHAT?! PANTALONE?! THAT'S YOU?! LIKE THIS?! WITHOUT THE CLOAK?! WITHOUT THE GLASSES?! WITHOUT ALL YOUR CREEPY GRANDEUR?! YOU LOOK LIKE... LIKE..."

"Like a man in his own home?" Pantalone finished calmly. "That would appear to be the correct answer."

At that moment you returned — already without the apron, your hands damp from washing, which you were drying with a towel. Seeing your husband on the terrace, you smiled:

"Ah, darling, you're awake? I wanted to let you sleep longer. You came home late last night."

Paimon slowly, very slowly, turned toward you. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

"Darling..." she whispered. "You called him... darling..."

You shifted your gaze from your husband to the guests and back.

"Oh. It seems you've already met?"

"They've met," Pantalone confirmed, walking over to the table and placing his book on a free chair. "Although I didn't expect to encounter them on my own terrace. Darling, have you been sheltering stray travelers again?"

"They were lost," you shrugged. "And they looked tired. What was I supposed to do — turn them away?"

"Of course not. You never turn away stray travelers. It's one of your countless virtues."

Paimon finally found her voice and began rattling at such speed that the words blurred into a single continuous stream:

"Wait-wait-wait-Paimon-doesn't-understand-anything! You — that sweet woman with the garden and the pastries, who took us in and gave us tea — you're PANTALONE'S WIFE?! THE NINTH HARBINGER?! THE VERY ONE WHO... WHO..."

"Banker," Pantalone supplied. "Merely a banker."

"MERELY A BANKER?! You're one of the most dangerous men in the Fatui! And she... she... she grows flowers! And bakes pastries! And smiles like she has the most ordinary husband in the world!"

You, having listened to this tirade, calmly picked up a teacup and took a sip.

"Well, to me he is an ordinary husband," you said. "He snores at night, forgets about lunch when he gets absorbed in reports, and is always promising to spend more time at home. I don't know what danger you're talking about — he can't even kill a spider in the bathroom."

"Darling," Pantalone said reproachfully.

"What? It's true. I carried the last spider outside."

Paimon clutched her head.

"Aether... Paimon demands an immediate reassessment of everything we know about the Fatui. If the Ninth Harbinger is a man who walks around at home in an unbuttoned shirt, reads books, is afraid of spiders, and is married to the sweetest woman in Teyvat... then what else is being hidden from us?!"

Aether slowly set his teacup on the table and looked at you.

"You know who your husband is?" he asked. "What he does?"

You met his gaze directly and calmly.

"I know. And I knew when I married him. That doesn't change anything. To me, he's a husband, not a Harbinger. And, to be honest, I think the world oversimplifies people like him. Even the most frightening people have their... weaknesses."

"Weakness," Pantalone repeated, taking your hand in his. "You call me a weakness?"

"You are my weakness," you corrected, and your eyes sparkled. "And I am yours. That's the point of marriage."

Pantalone lifted your hand to his lips and briefly kissed your knuckles — a gesture so intimate and casual at the same time that Paimon sighed loudly and turned away.

"Fine. Fine! Paimon gives up. This is officially the strangest day of our lives. We came, got lost, found Pantalone's wife, drank tea, ate pastries, and now Paimon doesn't know whether to be scared or ask for seconds."

"Ask for seconds," you suggested with a smile. "There are plenty of pastries left. And the tea isn't finished. And my husband, just this once, will be just a husband and not a Harbinger."

Pantalone, who had settled into a wicker chair beside you, only chuckled:

"It seems I have no choice."

"You never did," you replied.

And silence settled over the garden — warm, peaceful, broken only by the buzzing of bees above the lavender and the quiet clink of teaspoons. Paimon, still muttering under her breath, took a third pastry. Aether remained silent, but his face showed a slow, reluctant acceptance that the world was indeed more complex than it seemed.

Even Harbingers are sometimes just husbands. Especially when their wives are beside them.

The main hall of the Northland Bank lived its ordinary life — measured, hushed, steeped in the scent of ink, old paper, and metal coins. Clerks bent over ledgers, guards stood frozen by the doors, an administrator shuffled papers behind the counter, casting nervous glances every so often at the staircase leading to the office of the Lord Ninth.

Aether and Paimon stood by a far desk, waiting for a clerk to issue them a certificate regarding Fatui cargo movements — a dull but necessary errand. Paimon was bored, kicking her legs in the air.

"Well, this place is dreary," she grumbled. "Quiet as a tomb, everyone tiptoeing around, and even the coins clink sort of... scared. Paimon's starting to regret us coming here at all."

Aether didn't answer, but his eyes continued to study the surroundings. He was here for the first time, and everything confirmed the rumors: the bank was not merely a financial institution, but a veritable Fatui fortress in the heart of Liyue.

The entrance door creaked quietly.

Nobody paid attention — doors opened constantly here: couriers, clerks, visitors. But this time the footsteps were not heavy and businesslike, but light, almost weightless. Small shoes clicked across the marble floor, and a thin little voice tore through the banking silence:

"Hello! I need my papa!"

A pause hung in the hall. The clerk behind the counter slowly straightened up and peered over his spectacles.

Before the counter stood a girl. Five years old, no more. Dark hair neatly braided into two pigtails with ribbons. She wore a sweet, clearly expensive but tastefully sewn dress, and in her hands she clutched a plush rabbit with one ear. The girl looked up at the clerk with absolute, unquestioning certainty that her request would be fulfilled.

"Um..." the clerk adjusted his glasses. "Little girl, whose... whose are you? Where are your parents?"

"At home. Well — Mama's probably at home. Or in the garden. But Papa's here. He's in charge here. I got lost, and Papa said: if you get lost — go to the biggest bank. So I came."

Paimon, who up to that moment had nearly fallen asleep from boredom, instantly perked up and drifted closer.

"Wow! Look at that, a little visitor! And she says her papa is the boss of the bank!"

The clerk swallowed nervously.

"Little girl, what's your papa's name? Do you maybe know his name?"

The girl pondered, her little brows furrowing — exactly like someone very serious whom she had clearly watched deep in thought many times.

"Papa is Papa. Mama calls him 'darling' and sometimes 'you forgot dinner again.' And others call him 'my Lord.' But his name..."

She shrugged with an expression as if names were utterly unimportant.

The clerk paled. The guards exchanged glances. An almost imperceptible chill ran through the hall.

"My... Lord?" repeated the clerk.

"Uh-huh. Papa has a furry cape on his shoulders. And glasses — pretty ones, with gold. And he smiles, and everybody gets scared right away. Except Mama and me. Mama says his smile is just a way to save on words. And Papa says that if anyone hurts me — he'll buy their whole country."

Paimon froze. Her mouth fell open.

"Aether..." she whispered. "Is it just me, or..."

Aether nodded slowly. The furry cape on the shoulders. Gold-rimmed glasses. The smile that scared everyone. The boss of the bank. Everything added up, except for one thing — the fact that THIS man had a child.

"What does your papa do for work?" Aether asked cautiously.

The girl turned to him and looked with clear, perfectly innocent eyes.

"He's a banker. And he's also a Harbinger. The Ninth. But that's boring. The main thing is — he's the best papa."

The silence that fell over the hall was so thick it could have been cut with a knife. The clerk behind the counter stopped breathing altogether. The guards tried to merge with the walls. A rustle came from somewhere in the corner — one of the visitors was slowly sliding down a pillar.

Paimon hung in the air, like a shot-down balloon.

"A Harbinger..." she managed. "The Ninth... Papa... Lord Pantalone is a PAPA?!"

"Pantalone?" the girl frowned. "I don't know that name. My papa's name is Papa."

And at that moment, the entrance door burst open with a crash.

A woman flew into the hall. Breathless, flushed, a strand of hair escaping her coiffure, her eyes full of panic. Her dress was clearly expensive, but she wasn't thinking about that now — she was searching for someone with her gaze, and upon spotting the girl standing at the counter, she let out a strangled gasp of relief.

"Sweetheart! Heavens, how could you?! I looked away for a second and you were gone! Do you have any idea how scared I was?!"

The girl, not embarrassed in the slightest, looked up at you and answered calmly:

"I went to find Papa. Like he taught me."

You knelt before her on your heels, took her by the shoulders, felt her over — was she whole, was she unharmed — and exhaled with relief.

"I'll show you 'like he taught me'... And I'll show your papa, too. Both of you."

Paimon, still in shock, slowly turned to Aether.

"Aether... that's the mama. That very mama. The wife. Of that very man. The one we just found out about."

Aether looked at you. A beautiful woman, a young mother who had just survived the fright of losing sight of her child. It didn't fit in his head.

"Excuse me," he said. "You must be..."

You raised your eyes to the speaker and, slightly flustered that so many people had witnessed your panic, adjusted your hair.

"Yes, I'm her mother. I apologise for the commotion. She's very independent. And she takes her father's instructions too literally."

"So your husband..." Paimon began, freezing in anticipation.

But she didn't get to finish.

On the staircase leading from the upper floor, footsteps sounded. Slow. Measured. The click of expensive heels on polished marble. The man descending into the hall was clearly not one to hurry.

Pantalone.

He was exactly as the reports described: tall, broad-shouldered, in black and silver. A heavy fur collar framed his pale face. Sunken eyes behind golden spectacles gazed coldly and appraisingly. His arrival had the effect of an icy draft — everyone in the hall instinctively pulled themselves together.

The girl, seeing him, squealed joyfully and, pulling free from your hands, ran to the staircase with a cry:

"PAPA!"

And the most astonishing thing happened in the next second.

Pantalone crouched down — easily, habitually — and caught his daughter in an embrace, scooping her up. His cold face softened, his smile grew warmer, and, straightening a dislodged ribbon on his daughter's hair, he asked:

"My sunshine, why are you alone? Where is Mama?"

"I got lost! But I did what you said — I came to the biggest bank and said you were in charge here!"

Pantalone shifted his gaze to you, and in his eyes flickered a mixture of tenderness, concern, and mild reproach:

"Darling, how did this happen?"

"She ran off while I was choosing fabrics," you came closer, still breathing heavily. "I looked away for a minute. Literally a minute."

"You know our daughter is capable of walking across half the city in that minute," Pantalone noted, but his voice sounded more fond than reproachful. "She takes after her mother."

"She takes after her father," you retorted. "At least I don't buy the countries of people who upset me."

"I buy the countries of people who upset you. That is different."

Paimon, watching this scene, let out a quiet, strangled squeak. She turned to Aether with a face full of cosmic bewilderment.

"Aether... he's smiling. For real. He's holding his daughter in his arms. He's bickering with his wife. This is the Ninth Harbinger everyone is afraid of. He has a FAMILY. And he was JUST BABY-TALKING WITH HIS CHILD. Paimon doesn't understand anything in this life anymore."

Pantalone, who until this moment had not noticed the bystanders — or had pretended not to — finally turned to Aether and Paimon. His face assumed that very politely cold expression he usually wore for business.

"Traveler," he said. "And Paimon. I assumed our first meeting would take place under more... formal circumstances. However, fate, as always, makes its own corrections."

"You know each other?" you asked, looking with surprise from your husband to Aether.

"By reputation. The legendary hero of Liyue. I have heard much about him. However, we had not met in person until this moment. Well then..." Pantalone raised an eyebrow slightly. "It seems my daughter has decided to arrange our acquaintance earlier than planned."

The girl in his arms fidgeted and looked at Aether and Paimon.

"Papa, who are they? Are they good? That flying lady is funny. Her face looks like she saw a talking dragon."

"Paimon is not a lady!" Paimon protested, still in a semi-swoon. "And Paimon really does feel like she saw a talking dragon! Aether, tell me honestly — are we asleep? Is this all a dream?"

Aether exhaled slowly. "I don't think so."

You, seeing the guests' embarrassment, smiled softly and stepped forward.

"Since we have all met here in such an... unusual way, perhaps we could continue our acquaintance in more comfortable surroundings? In my husband's office, for example. Without the crowd."

Pantalone nodded.

"I agree. Traveler, Paimon — please. Today appears to be a day of unexpected revelations. I will have tea arranged."

"And cookies!" added the girl. "Mama bakes the best cookies. But she hides them from Papa because he eats too many."

"Sunshine, you have just revealed a state secret," Pantalone sighed.

"Never mind, you'll buy her a new one," you chuckled, taking your husband by the arm.

Paimon followed you with her gaze and barely audibly whispered:

"Aether... I think we just met the Ninth Harbinger's family. And they're nice. VERY NICE. I'm never trusting rumors again. Oh, let's go faster, this sweet woman is calling us!!" said Paimon, and grabbing Aether by the hand, she quickly rustled into the office past you, who held the door for them.

Tartaglia took the stairs of the Northland Bank two at a time. His mood was excellent — he had just squeezed double the price out of some arrogant merchant for caravan security, and now he was off to discuss the budget for his next operation with Pantalone. After all, if not him, who else would secure funding for a small but highly spectacular bridge demolition?

"Pantalone! Buddy! Open up, I've got a genius proposal!" he announced, throwing open the office door without knocking — as usual.

And stopped dead.

In the Ninth Harbinger's chair, upholstered in dark burgundy velvet, sat a child. A small boy, no older than four, with neatly combed dark hair, wearing a miniature copy of a suit — white shirt, little black vest, even a bow tie. Before him on the desk lay an open folder of papers, and in his hand he held a pencil, with which he was busily "signing" something in the corner of a document.

The child raised his gaze to Tartaglia. Calm. Assessing. Almost like Pantalone's, but without the glasses.

"Hewwo," said the boy, not ceasing to move his pencil. "Who awe you? Papa ith bithy. He'th having tea with Mama. I'm in chawge."

Tartaglia blinked. Once. Twice. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

"Papa?" he repeated. "Whose papa?"

"My papa. Lowd Pantalone. The Ninth Hawbingew. He weawth glatheth and loveth Mama vewy much."

Tartaglia grabbed the doorframe. A short circuit occurred inside his head.

"Pantalone is a PAPA?! Pantalone has a KID?!"

"Yeth," confirmed the boy, unperturbed. "Me. You didn't thay who you awe. Papa hath a wule — no stwangewth without a wepowt. The thecwetawy didn't let you in, you jutht walked in. That'th a viowation."

"I'm... I'm Tartaglia! The Eleventh Harbinger! I work here!"

The boy tilted his head, examining him. Then he looked back at the papers.

"Tawtaglia... Tawtaglia..." he leafed through the folder. "Ah, here. Tawtaglia. Eweventh. You have a wequeft hewe for an..." he squinted, murmuring, "an opewation with a bwidge demowition. Papa wwote: «Denied. Taketh too wong.» Thowwy."

"WHAT?!" Tartaglia flew into the office and loomed over the desk. "What do you mean, denied?! I haven't even explained how genius it is!"

The boy was not frightened at all. He looked up at Tartaglia and said:

"Papa thayth that if thomeone yellth, you have to thpeak quietew and offew contwuctive tholutionth. Do you have a contwuctive tholution?"

"I... what? Contwuctive — what?"

"Con-twuc-tive tho-lu-tion," the boy repeated slowly. "It'th when you don't jutht thay «give me money, I'll blow evewything up,» but «give me money, I'll blow it up, and hewe'th how much we'll eawn.» Papa alwayth thayth that. He altho thayth «pwofitability» and «divewthification of withkth.» I don't undewthand what they mean, but they thound pwetty."

Tartaglia slowly sank into the chair opposite the desk and stared at the child. Four years old. Four! And he already talked like a miniature auditor.

"Listen, little guy... what's your name anyway?"

"My name ith..." the boy thought. "Mama callth me «thunshine» and «thweet pie.» Papa callth me «my young financier.» And gwandy callth me Nikowai."

"Nikowai?" Tartaglia repeated.

"Yeth, Nikowai. It'th a vewy thewious name. Gwandy thayth it wath hew fawthew'th name. But I can't thay it wight yet. Becauthe of my teef." The boy opened his mouth wide and pointed inside with his finger. "Thee? Motht of them awe gone. The dentitht took them out. Cavitie'th. I eat too many thweets. Mama warnth me, but Papa alwayth thneakth me ekthwa. He thayth I'm hith thweet tooth accomplithe. But then my teef get owwie, and the dentitht hath to pull them."

Tartaglia stared, fascinated despite himself.

"And you're not scared of the dentist?"

"I'm not thcared!" the boy declared proudly. "I'm bwave. I thay 'ahhh' and I thit thtill and I don't cwy. Not even a widdle bit. The dentitht thaid I'm the bwaveft boy in the whole of Thnezhnaya. Even thome big tholdiewth cwy. But not me. I'm a hewo. Papa pwomithed me a gold tooth when I gwow up. A weal one. But I have to wait until my big teef come in. Fohevew."

He tried to demonstrate his bravery by growling. "I can even thay the hawd lettweth. Wike thith: Elrrrr! Elrrrr! ...Thee? It almoth thoundth wike a weal wion. But my tongue getth thtuck on the thtupid holeth whewe my teef uthed to be. Papa thayth it'll impwove when I'm oldew. When I have my big boy teef. And my gold one."

Tartaglia slowly ran a hand down his face.

"So you're in charge of the office, you sign real paperwork, you eat sweets behind your mother's back, and you're not scared of dentists."

"Yeth. Altho I can count to one hundwed. And I know what 'bankwuptcy' meanth. It thmeanth when thomeone thpendth mowe than they have, and then they come to Papa and cwy. But Papa doethn't cwy back. He jutht thmilth. And they cwy hahder."

"That... is the most accurate description of your father I've ever heard," Tartaglia admitted.

"Thank you. I obthewe him a lot. He'th my wole model. Except fow the teef. I don't want hith teef. I want gold."

At that moment, the office door opened slightly, and you appeared in the doorway. In your hands you held a tray: two cups of tea and a plate of pastries. You smiled, but noticed Tartaglia, sitting with the face of a man enduring a deep existential crisis, and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh," you said. "We have a guest. Sunshine, why didn't you call?"

"He came in himself," the boy answered. "Without a report. This is Tawtaglia. He wants to blow up a bridge."

"A bridge?" you frowned. "Again?"

You placed the tray on the desk — in the spot the boy had busily cleared of papers.

"Dear guest, I don't interfere in Fatui affairs, of course, but if you drag my husband into another bridge adventure — I will personally ask Dottore's daughter to make an especially smelly truth serum for you."

"Dottore has a daughter?!" Tartaglia stared.

"No, Dottore doesn't have a daughter," the boy corrected. "Mama was joking."

"Thank you for clarifying, sunshine," you stroked your son's head. "Now — go to Papa, he's finished his tea and is waiting for you in the parlor. I'll talk to our... impatient friend."

The boy slid off the chair, neatly put away the pencil, adjusted his bow tie, and, passing Tartaglia, stopped for a second.

"Uncle Tawtaglia, I have thome advithe," he said. "When Papa cometh back — don't yell. He doethn't like yelling. Thpeak quietly and offew contwuctive tholutionth. A fouth thtep. And if that doethn't work — athk Mama. She'th in chawge of Papa. A fifth thtep. We weawned thith yethtewday. Mama thayth it'th called 'ethcalation pwotocol.' Altho, if you want the money, thay it'th fow flowewth. Not bwidgeth. Flowewth wouwld be contwuctive. They thmell good and nobody cwies."

And the boy left, leaving Tartaglia in complete silence.

You perched on the edge of the desk, crossed your arms, and looked at the Eleventh Harbinger.

"Well? What is it this time? A bridge, you say?"

Tartaglia stared at you in silence. Only now did it fully hit him: Pantalone had a wife. And a son. And this wife — here she is, sitting before him, beautiful, calm, with a slight smile. And Pantalone's son had just denied him funding, explained his dental history, offered an escalation protocol with a four-step plan, and suggested switching to flowers. And now his wife was about to interrogate him.

"God," he squeezed out. "This is a family racket."

"Exactly," you nodded. "So — the bridge? Do you have a constructive solution? My son clearly found yours lacking."

And Tartaglia, for the first time in his life, had no answer.

The Northland Bank hummed quietly, like a hive of diligent but thoroughly intimidated bees. Clerks scratched away with their quills, the guards at the doors impersonated motionless statues, and the familiar aroma of ink, sealing wax, and almost palpable bureaucracy hung in the air.

Aether and Paimon stood in line at the far counter. They needed a certificate. Just a border crossing certificate — a boring but necessary piece of paper, for the sake of which they had to hang around Fatui agents and pretend they were just there on business. Paimon fidgeted, sighed, and periodically peeked over the shoulder of the hulking masked officer standing ahead of them.

"How long can this take," she grumbled. "It feels like this line is moving slower than a snail dreaming it's a rock. Aether, maybe we should just wave our swords convincingly and skip the line?"

"No," Aether replied shortly, his gaze not leaving the hall.

He caught it out of the corner of his eye — some movement by the side door leading to the bank's inner rooms. A small figure detached itself from the shadows and headed confidently toward a group of agents standing by a pillar.

A girl. About six years old. In a neat dark-blue dress with a white collar, and little shoes with tiny buckles. Her hair was braided into two tight pigtails, woven with silver ribbons. In one hand she held a small velvet pouch, and her gaze was so businesslike and focused that the agents involuntarily braced themselves.

The girl approached the nearest officer — a broad-shouldered man in a Fatui captain's uniform, with a silver badge on his chest — and, without the slightest hesitation, tugged on the edge of his cloak.

The captain looked down.

"Uncle," the girl said in a clear, well-mannered voice. "Give me your badge."

Silence. So sudden and deep that the clerk at the next counter froze with his quill raised.

The captain blinked behind his mask.

"...What?"

"The badge," the girl repeated patiently. "Yours. Give it. To me. I have a collection. I already have a gold one, one with little wings, and even one with a red stone. But I don't have one like yours yet."

Paimon, who had half-heard this dialogue, slowly turned in the air and stared at the scene.

"Aether..." she whispered. "Are you seeing this?"

Aether nodded silently. He saw it.

The captain, judging by his posture, was trying to process what was happening. A little girl had just demanded his insignia from a Fatui officer as if she were asking for candy.

"Little girl," the captain said slowly. "This is not a toy. It is the insignia of my rank. It cannot simply be 'given away'."

"It can," the girl objected, and indomitable, almost metallic notes sounded in her voice. "Papa said: if someone doesn't give me what I need — he will fire that person and replace them with... with..."

She frowned, trying to recall the word.

"...with trainable mold."

The captain choked on air. The other agents behind him exchanged panicked looks.

"Mold?" he repeated.

"Yes. Papa said so," the girl nodded with absolute certainty. "Do you have mold? Or a badge?"

Paimon quietly but very distinctly said:

"Trainable mold. Aether. Trainable. Mold. Who taught a child to threaten like that?!"

Aether didn't answer. He was looking at the girl. At her straight little back. At her neatly braided pigtails. At the silver ribbons that clearly cost more than his entire traveling gear. At the pouch, on which, upon closer inspection, one could make out an embroidered crest — the same one that adorned the doors of the Ninth Harbinger's office.

The captain seemed to notice it too. Because he turned pale — even through the mask, one could see the blood drain from his face.

"Um..." he said cautiously. "Little girl, who is your papa?"

The girl blinked, as if the question were so silly she didn't immediately understand how to answer it.

"Papa is papa. He's in charge here. Lord Pantalone. The Ninth Harbinger. He also wears glasses and loves Mama very much."

A crash. One of the clerks had dropped an inkwell. The guards at the doors exchanged the look of people who had just heard a state secret and now didn't know whether to pretend nothing had happened or start looking for new employment. The captain stood clutching his cloak, his expression as if he had just watched his subordinates start a round dance.

Paimon let out a quiet howl. She turned to Aether with a face full of cosmic bewilderment.

"Aether... Pantalone... LORD PANTALONE, THE NINTH HARBINGER, HAS A DAUGHTER?! A LITTLE GIRL WHO WALKS AROUND THE BANK COLLECTING BADGES LIKE TRADING CARDS?!"

And at that moment, footsteps sounded on the staircase leading upward.

Slow. Measured. The click of expensive heels on polished marble. Pantalone was descending into the hall. Without haste, without fuss — like a man who knows exactly that everything happening is under his control. His fur collar shimmered softly in the chandelier light, his glasses gleamed with gold, and on his face played that signature half-smile of his.

He approached the scene — the girl frozen with her hand outstretched, the captain on the verge of fainting, the group of agents who had forgotten how to breathe — and stopped. Placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder. The girl looked up at him and smiled.

"Papa! This uncle won't give me his badge. I told him about the mold, but he still won't give it."

Pantalone raised an eyebrow and shifted his gaze to the captain. The captain made a strangled sound.

"Mold," Pantalone repeated thoughtfully. "I believe I recall that conversation. However, my dear, I phrased it somewhat differently."

He adjusted his glasses, and the lenses flashed.

"I said that if this officer continued to ignore requests from my family, I would replace him with a trainable intern. Mold would have been more effective, but unfortunately, it cannot fill out reports."

The captain drew a convulsive breath.

"The girl got the terminology a little mixed up," Pantalone continued, and something that could be taken for fatherly pride sounded in his voice. "But she grasped the essence correctly."

Paimon, who had been clutching her head this entire time, quietly said:

"Aether... that's not just a daughter. That's a daughter who paraphrases her father's threats. She's already engaging in extortion at six years old. But it's... cute extortion. Paimon doesn't know whether to be scared or impressed."

"Both," Aether answered quietly. "At the same time."

Pantalone leaned down to his daughter and softly — surprisingly softly — said:

"Sunshine, I believe I asked you to stay in the office and not touch anyone."

"It's boring in there," the girl replied honestly. "And the cookies ran out."

"Mama will bring more cookies when she returns. For now — let's agree: you don't touch my officers, and I won't tell Mama that you've been extorting badges again."

The girl considered this for a second.

"Alright. But I still want a badge."

"You will get a badge. A new one. Not from my subordinate."

The captain, hearing this, nearly sat down on the floor from relief.

Pantalone, having dealt with his daughter, finally turned and noticed Aether and Paimon. His eyebrow arched slightly.

"Traveler. Paimon. What an unexpected encounter. I presumed our acquaintance would take place under more... formal circumstances. However, it seems my daughter has decided to arrange it ahead of schedule."

The girl tugged on his cloak.

"Papa, who are they? That flying thing is funny. She keeps making faces."

"Paimon is not a thing!" Paimon erupted. "And Paimon has every right to make faces when she sees a little girl threatening grown officers with mold!"

"Trainable mold," the girl corrected. "It's important. Papa says details matter."

Pantalone let out a quiet, almost inaudible chuckle — a sound so rare that the agents behind him exchanged glances of holy terror.

"Well," he said. "Since my daughter has staged this spectacle, and you have become its witnesses — perhaps we ought to move to a more private setting. There is tea in my office, and my wife will return shortly. I presume an acquaintance with her will be no less... educational for you."

Paimon slowly turned to Aether.

"Aether... they have tea, too. And a wife. And cookies. We came for a certificate and walked into a family comedy starring the Ninth Harbinger."

"It happens," Aether said with a slight smirk. "Let's go."

And they headed for the stairs, following Pantalone, his daughter — who was still holding onto her father's cloak — and the captain, who looked like he was about to file a report requesting transfer to another region.

The streets of Liyue at midday were full of the usual bustle: merchants called out to buyers, stevedores hauled bundles of goods, coins clinked somewhere, and carts creaked. Paimon drifted ahead, scanning for something interesting while Aether checked the map.

"I'm telling you, we need to find that herb shop," Paimon declared. "We're almost out of potions, and without them we won't even set out on the next expedition. Remember last time when..."

She cut herself off, spotting a glint in the dust near the edge of the street.

"Oh! Look! Something shiny!"

Paimon swooped down and snatched a small object from the ground. It was a brooch — elegant, clearly expensive, with a dark enamel finish and a silver border. At its center sat a coat of arms: interwoven letters topped with a stylized crown, and a tiny diamond glinting in the sunlight.

"Whoa!" Paimon brought the brooch closer to her eyes. "This is a real treasure! Aether, check it out! There's some kind of crest on it... Really familiar, actually. I've seen this somewhere before..."

Aether took the brooch from her hands and examined it. Fine craftsmanship, obviously valuable. And the crest did seem vaguely familiar — something to do with a bank, with Snezhnaya...

"It's the crest of some noble house," he said. "See the crown? Only high-ranking officials wear those."

"High-ranking?" Paimon frowned. "Wait... Aether! We've seen this crest! On the doors of the Northland Bank! It's the crest of that one... you know..."

"The Ninth Harbinger," Aether finished slowly. "Lord Pantalone."

Paimon gulped audibly.

"And we found a brooch with HIS crest? Just lying in the street?! Maybe it's stolen? Or cursed? Or..."

"Or just lost," Aether turned the brooch over. "Look, something's engraved on the back."

He peered at the silver plate.

"An address. A residential address. Not the bank."

Paimon hovered in the air, nervously twisting a lock of her hair.

"A residential address? Like... Pantalone's house? His actual home? Aether, this is either a brilliant chance to scout out enemy territory, or a terrible idea that'll end with us turned into stuffed dummies and put in his foyer!"

"We should return the brooch," Aether said. "It's simply the right thing to do. And possibly a chance to learn something others don't know."

"Or just an excuse to get knocked on the head," Paimon muttered. "But fine. Paimon trusts your gut. Let's go."

The house indicated by the address turned out to be nothing like what they had expected. No grim walls, no guards, no Fatui banners. A cozy mansion in a quiet district, surrounded by an old garden. The wrought-iron gates were twined with ivy, and flowerbeds of lavender and roses flanked the path. From beyond the fence came the murmur of a fountain and a distant child's laughter.

"This... this is definitely the right place?" Paimon stared at the nameplate in disbelief. "There's not even a sign saying 'Beware of Evil Harbinger'. Maybe we got it wrong?"

Aether checked the engraving on the brooch again.

"The address matches."

"Then Paimon officially declares: this is the most suspiciously cute villain's lair we have ever seen."

They approached the door. Aether lifted the knocker and rapped.

The door swung open almost at once, as though they had been expected. But on the threshold stood no fearsome Harbinger and no armed guard — but a little girl. Six years old, at most. Dark curls were tied back with a blue ribbon, a tiny birthmark sat on her nose, and she wore a frilly house dress streaked with flour. The girl stared at Aether, then at Paimon, and her eyes lit up.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "What interesting guests! A mister with a sword and a flying fairy!"

"Paimon is not a fairy!" Paimon objected automatically, then caught herself. "I mean... hello, little girl. We found a brooch on the street, and it seems to belong to this house. Here."

Paimon produced the brooch and showed it to the girl. The girl gasped.

"Mommy's brooch!" she clapped her hands. "The very one she lost yesterday! Mommy was so upset, she even burned the cookies! Well, the first batch. The second batch is fine. You found Mommy's brooch! You're good people! Come in!"

She seized Aether by the sleeve and tugged him inside with a strength surprising for such a tiny creature.

"Wait, we're not really..." Aether began.

"Come in, come in! Mommy's baking cookies right now! We have lemon ones today! And there's tea! And Daddy will come down soon, he's upstairs changing because he spilled flour on himself and said a word Mommy told him not to say in front of me. But I still remembered it."

"What an honest little girl," Paimon murmured, drifting into the hallway.

Inside, the house proved just as cozy as the outside. Light walls, wooden floors, carpets with soft pile. From somewhere deeper within wafted the aroma of fresh baking and lemon zest. The girl led them through a short corridor into a spacious kitchen-dining room, and from within came a warm female voice:

"Sweetie, who's there?"

"There's some nice misters and a flying fairy!" the girl called back. "They found your brooch!"

A woman came forward to meet them. You. In a simple house dress, over which an apron with frills was tied. In one hand you held a cookie spatula, in the other — a kitchen towel. Your hair was gathered in a bun, a smudge of flour adorned your cheek, and on your face played a welcoming, slightly surprised smile.

"My brooch?" you repeated, and your eyes lit up. "Oh, thank goodness! I thought it was lost somewhere in the city forever!"

You set aside the spatula, wiped your hands, and came closer. Paimon, still hovering in the air, studied you with interest.

"So it's your brooch?" she asked. "It's very beautiful. And probably expensive."

"A gift from my husband," you smiled. "For our anniversary. He loves to spoil me. He says that if you're going to give something, it ought to be something that won't get lost... well, almost won't get lost."

You extended your hand, and Aether placed the brooch in your palm. You looked at them with sincere gratitude.

"You don't even realize how much you've saved me. I had already mentally said goodbye to it. And you came and brought it back. It's so... genuinely kind. Hardly anyone returns things just like that nowadays. Especially things like this."

"We thought it was the right thing to do," Aether said.

"The right thing," you repeated, and your smile widened. "I like that word. Stay for tea. I just baked a batch of lemon cookies, and supper will be ready soon. My husband will appreciate the company — he's always complaining that we rarely have guests."

"We're not really..." Aether started again, but the girl tugged his sleeve once more.

"Stay!" she insisted. "We also have chocolate cake! And Daddy! Daddy is funny when he's not at work. At work he's scary, but at home he's not."

"Sweetie, don't frighten the guests ahead of time," you gently chided.

And at that moment, on the staircase leading from the upper floor, footsteps sounded. Not the slow, measured steps that pace the marble of a bank, but ordinary, household ones. And a voice — calm, relaxed, with the slight hoarseness of a person who had just woken up or just changed clothes:

"Darling, please don't tell me you've taken in strays again..."

In the kitchen doorway appeared a man.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Without the fur collar. Without the gold-rimmed spectacles. Without the silver cufflinks and the impeccably buttoned waistcoat. In a simple white shirt with an open collar and house trousers. Over the shirt was tied an apron — the very one, it seemed, he had worn while helping with the cookies — with the print of a child's hand on the chest. A smudge of flour marked his cheek.

Pantalone.

Paimon froze. Her mouth fell open.

Aether froze. His hand twitched toward his sword, but stopped midway.

Pantalone froze. His gaze moved from his wife to the guests, back again, then back to the guests — and in his eyes flickered an expression that might best be called "philosophical acceptance of the inevitable."

A pause hung in the air. So long and thick that one could hear the cookie crunch in the girl's hand.

"Oh," Pantalone said. "The Traveler. And Paimon. In my house. In my kitchen. With my wife. And my daughter."

"Daddy," the girl tugged at his apron. "Do you know them?"

"Indirectly," he replied, not taking his eyes off the guests. "Very indirectly."

Paimon finally found her voice. She took a deep breath — so deep she nearly sucked in the nearest napkin — and blurted out:

"PANTALONE?! YOU?! IN AN APRON?! WITH FLOUR ON YOUR FACE?! IN A DOMESTIC HOUSE?! WITH A WIFE?! AND A DAUGHTER?! WHO CALLS YOU FUNNY?!"

"I prefer the formulation 'charming'," Pantalone noted. "But my daughter has yet to master that word."

"I'm six!" the girl announced proudly. "I know the word 'charming', it's just that Daddy isn't charming at work. At work he's scary."

"Thank you, sweetie, for the clarification," Pantalone stroked her head and shifted his gaze to his wife. "Darling, I take it you've already offered them tea?"

"And cookies," you confirmed, not in the least embarrassed. "They returned my brooch. It was the least I could do."

"The brooch?" Pantalone frowned. "You lost the brooch again? The one I commissioned from the jeweler for three months?"

"Not again. Still," you corrected. "And it was found and returned. By these two. By the way, meet Aether and..."

"...and Paimon," Pantalone finished. "I am aware. We are, one might say, colleagues. On opposite sides of the barricades."

Paimon, who had been trying to gather her scattered thoughts that entire time, finally squeezed out:

"So... so it's all true? You have a house? And a wife? And a daughter? And you bake cookies?! YOU?! BAKE COOKIES?!"

"Actually, I bake the cookies," you put in. "He helps. Mostly gets in the way. But he tries very hard."

"I help excellently," Pantalone objected. "I am responsible for the lemon zest. And for ensuring our daughter does not eat all the dough before baking."

"I ate only a little bit," the girl admitted. "And Daddy ate some too. We ate together."

Paimon covered her face with her hands.

"Aether... Paimon can't take any more. It's too much. We came to return a brooch, and we ended up in the domestic bliss of the Ninth Harbinger. He has a perfect wife, a sweet daughter, a cozy house, and he's in an apron eating raw dough with his little girl. Paimon just wants to sit down and rethink life."

"You can rethink it over tea," you offered. "I just brewed a fresh pot. With mint and lemon. And the cookies have cooled."

"And the chocolate cake!" the girl reminded. "We made it with Daddy yesterday. Daddy said cream is like a financial report: if you overdo it, everything goes haywire. But we didn't overdo it."

"That's a metaphor," Pantalone explained. "My daughter didn't understand it, but she remembered it."

Aether exhaled slowly and removed his hand from the pommel of his sword. After all, what did it matter who this man was at work? Here and now, he was simply a husband and a father. In an apron. With flour on his face.

"Tea," he said. "Sounds good."

"Wonderful!" you beamed and gestured everyone to the table. "Sweetie, set out the cups. And you," you turned to your husband, "go wash up. You've got flour on your cheek."

"It's part of my new image," Pantalone remarked. "The domestic banker. It hasn't caught on yet."

"Wash up," you repeated with a smile.

"Right away," he briefly touched his lips to your temple and headed toward the sink, tossing over his shoulder to Aether and Paimon: "I hope you won't decline supper as well. My wife makes excellent lasagna. And I believe we've accumulated many questions for one another."

"We have — yes," Paimon confirmed, still stunned yet already anticipating the cake. "A great many. For instance: HOW?! How did all this happen?! And why does no one know?!"

"There's a simple answer to that question," Pantalone turned off the water and reached for a towel. "If everyone knew I had a family, they would become a target. I prefer for my enemies to think I have no weaknesses."

"And for your colleagues not to drop by uninvited," you added. "They're noisy enough as it is."

Paimon nodded slowly.

"That's... surprisingly reasonable. Paimon almost understands."

"Almost," Pantalone repeated with a light chuckle. "Progress."

And you all settled around the large wooden table. The girl was already laying out cups, clinking them slightly in her eagerness. You sliced the cake. Pantalone, his cheek clean but still in his apron, sat at the head of the table with the air of a man who had not expected his day to go this way, but had come to terms with it.

Paimon quietly said to Aether, while no one was listening:

"You know, Aether... if we ever write memoirs about our travels, the chapter 'How We Found a Brooch and Ended Up at Tea with the Ninth Harbinger and His Family' is going to be the weirdest one."

"Agreed," Aether replied. "But the cake smells really good."

"That it does," Paimon nodded. "Alright. Villain family or not, good cake cannot be refused. Paimon officially declares that."

That Fatui agent clearly hadn't counted on picking up a tail. He zigzagged through the back alleys of Liyue, weaving around carts, leaping over crates of fish, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. But Paimon, flying above the crowd, kept him in sight, and Aether kept pace, slipping between passersby like a shadow.

"He's turning left!" Paimon shouted. "Now right! Now left again — is he doing laps on purpose?!"

"Or leading us somewhere," Aether shot back mid-sprint.

Finally, the agent ducked through an unremarkable door set into the end of an old stone building. No signboard, no Fatui crest — only a dim lantern above the entrance. Aether halted, catching his breath. Paimon drifted closer and fixed her eyes on the door.

"This is it!" she whispered. "The secret base! Aether, we've tracked down their lair! There's probably weapons, and maps, and torture chambers, and all that villainous stuff inside!"

"Quiet," Aether laid his hand on his sword hilt. "We go in fast. Be ready for anything."

They yanked the door open and burst inside.

And froze.

This was no dark warehouse stacked with crates of explosives. No hall of maps and high-ranking officers. No underground prison. It was a bright, sunlit room with a soft carpet on the floor, colorful drawings on the walls, and a mountain of toys in the corner. Small tables and little chairs stood everywhere, occupied by children. Children of various ages — from about four to eight. All neatly dressed, clearly from well-off families, and all, as if on cue, turned their heads toward the intruders.

In the center of the room, on a small raised platform resembling a miniature podium, stood a boy of about seven. Dark hair neatly combed, glasses without prescription perched on his nose — clearly an imitation of someone's style. He wore a tiny business suit: a waistcoat, a bow tie, shiny little shoes. In one hand, he held a large box of candies; the other was raised in a commanding gesture that was evidently meant to signal "silence."

"All wight," the boy announced in a ringing, well-practiced voice. "The financial wepowt today ith good. Evewyone did well. Papa thayth: thtaff detheide evwything. Tho I'm paying out thalawy."

Paimon hung in the air. Her mouth fell open.

"Tha... thalawy?"

The boy nodded and gravely reached into the box. He went around to each child in turn, pressing two candies into every waiting palm.

"Thith ith fow you fow good wowk, Litha. You didn't cwy today. Thith ith fow you, Timmy — a pweemium fow not tattling. And thith ith fow you, Katya, fow lending me youw pencil when I bwoke mine. That wathn't in youw job dethcwiption, tho — an over-time bonuth."

The children accepted the candies with serious faces, some even bowing in return. One girl raised her hand.

"Can I have an advance?"

"An advanthe?" the boy frowned, adjusted his glasses, and pondered as if solving an immensely complex financial problem. "An advanthe ith when you get paid befoe the wowk ith done. Papa thayth advantheth thould only be given in catheth of extweme nethethity. Do you have an extweme nethethity?"

"I want another candy," the girl admitted honestly.

"That ith not extweme. Wequetht denied."

Paimon slowly, very slowly, turned to Aether. Her face was a complete collapse of her worldview.

"Aether..." she whispered. "This isn't a secret base. It's a daycare. A CORPORATE DAYCARE. With salaries. And bonuses. And advances. And an advance being denied."

Aether still had his hand on his sword, but he was no longer sure that drawing it against a seven-year-old "financial director" was the right move.

At that moment, the boy noticed them. He turned, slid his glasses down his nose — exactly like someone much older and much more dangerous — and said:

"Oh. New vithitoth. Who awe you? Do you have an appointment? Papa thaid not to let anyone in without an appointment."

"Who is your papa?" Paimon managed, already sensing she wouldn't like the answer.

The boy straightened up, squared his little shoulders, and with a pride that would be the envy of any herald, declared:

"My papa ith Lowd Pantalone. The Ninth Hawbingew and the motht impowtant bankew. He thayth I'll be the Chaiwman of the Bwoad when I gwow up. Fow now, I manage thith bwanch."

"Bwanch..." Paimon repeated in a weak voice.

"Yeth. Thith ith a bwanch of the 'Cowpowathion of the Nowthland Bank: Pwethchool Divithion.' Papa thayth good thtaff have to be cultiwated fwom childwood. We play bank hewe. I'm the diwectow."

Paimon was soundlessly opening and closing her mouth like a fish flung onto a riverbank.

And at that moment, a side door swung open, and a woman walked into the room. You. You wore an elegant but understated dress with a light shawl over your shoulders. In your hands, you carried a tray with juice and sliced fruit. Noticing the two strangers frozen at the entrance, you stopped.

"Oh," you said. "Do we have guests? I wasn't aware an inspection was scheduled for today."

The boy ran to you and tugged at the hem of your dress.

"Mama! They're not an inthpection. They're thome people. They don't have an appointment. But they have a thword and a flying thing."

"Paimon is not a thing," Paimon responded automatically, then froze. "WAIT. You said 'MAMA'?!"

You lifted your gaze to Paimon and smiled — gently, warmly, without a trace of embarrassment.

"Yes, I am his mother. I'm sorry, we don't usually receive visitors during class hours, but if you have an urgent matter..."

"Urgent matter?!" Paimon threw her hands up. "We thought this was a secret Fatui base! We were chasing an agent! And instead... instead... it's a corporate daycare with candy salaries, a tiny director in glasses, and — A MOM?! PANTALONE'S WIFE?! THE SAME PANTALONE?!"

Your eyebrows lifted slightly, but the smile didn't disappear.

"You know my husband?"

"KNOW HIM?!" Paimon clutched her head. "Aether, she's asking if we know her husband! WE ONLY KNOW THAT HE'S ONE OF THE MOST DANGEROUS MEN IN TEYVAT! AND SHE IS HIS WIFE! AND THEY HAVE A SON! WHO HANDS OUT CANDIES FOR GOOD WORK!"

"And pweemiumth," the boy added. "That'th impowtant."

Aether slowly lowered his hand from his sword. For the second time in recent days, he found himself in a situation where a weapon was utterly useless.

"We apologize for the intrusion," he said. "We really were chasing an agent. He came in here."

"An agent?" you frowned. "Sweetie, who stopped by today?"

"An uncle in a mathk," the boy replied. "He bwought documenth fow Papa. I weceived them with a wegithtry and gave him a watheipt. He left through the back door."

Paimon let out a strangled groan.

"They have... document processing. With receipts. In a daycare. Fatui daycare. Aether, I want to wake up."

You laughed — softly, but genuinely.

"It seems we have a lot to explain. Let's do this: you sit down, I'll pour you some juice, and my son can show you how our system works. And later, when my husband gets back from his meeting, he can answer your questions himself."

"She wants us to stay!" Paimon whispered to Aether. "In the villain's lair. With the son-director. And the mom-wife. And soon Pantalone himself is going to walk in."

"You were the one saying you wanted to understand how things work," Aether observed.

"I thought it would be scary! Instead it's... it's... CUTE! CUTE, AETHER! The Ninth Fatui Harbinger, the scariest banker on the continent, runs a corporate daycare where his own son learns to manage a branch using candy. I'm never trusting rumors again!"

You gestured for them to sit at one of the children's tables and placed glasses of juice in front of them. The boy, adjusting his glasses, sat down opposite them, folded his hands on the table — as if at a real business negotiation — and inquired:

"So? Would you like to join ouw bank? We have pentheon planth and inthuwanthe againth falling off the thwingth."

The streets of Liyue Harbor greeted them with the usual bustle: merchants shouted prices, porters hauled bundles, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of the sea, spices, and fresh baking. Paimon, as always, floated ahead, turning her head this way and that in search of something interesting — or edible, which was most often the same thing.

"Aether, look! Maybe we should buy some meat buns? We've barely got any proper food left after that ruins job, and Paimon can already feel her stomach starting to sing sad songs..."

Aether didn't answer. His attention had been caught by a different scene — off to the side of the main flow of people, on a handsome wrought-iron bench beneath an old tree, sat a boy. Eight or nine years old. Dressed in a neat dark suit with silver buttons, his shoes polished to a shine. His dark hair was impeccably combed, and on his lap lay an open notebook in an expensive leather binding. The boy was writing, utterly absorbed, with a silver fountain pen — too expensive for a child, too adult for his age.

"Paimon," Aether said quietly. "Look over there."

Paimon followed his gaze.

"Whoa! Such a serious little guy! And dressed like a tiny banker. Maybe he's lost? Or waiting for someone?"

"We'll find out."

They approached. The boy didn't even raise his head, continuing to trace neat lines. Now it was clear the notebook held no drawings or scribbles, but a genuine list. Names on the left, notes on the right, and checkmarks beside some of the entries. The handwriting was painstaking but still childlike — the letters danced a little, though the slant was perfectly even.

Paimon, naturally, couldn't help herself.

"Hi! What are you doing out here? Doing homework on the street or something?"

The boy looked up. His eyes were dark, attentive, with an unnaturally calm expression for a child. He gave Paimon an appraising glance — exactly like an adult accustomed to dealing with subordinates — and answered in a level, well-spoken voice:

"Good day. No, this isn't homework. It's a personal project."

"A personal project?" Paimon drifted closer with interest. "What kind of project? Will you tell us?"

The boy considered for a second, as if deciding whether these strangers were worthy of such information, but then, apparently concluding it could do no harm, nodded.

"I am compiling a register of individuals who have, at various times, offended my mother."

Paimon blinked.

"A register... of what?"

"Of individuals. Who have offended. My mother," the boy repeated patiently. "Father said that when I grow up, I will be able to buy any one of them and turn his life into a financial hell. I'm practicing for now. Making the list. Assessing risks. Developing an acquisition strategy."

A pause hung in the air. Paimon slowly turned her head toward Aether.

"Aether... He said 'financial hell.' And 'acquisition strategy.' He's eight."

"Nine," the boy corrected. "Nearly ten, to be precise."

Aether crouched down to be at the boy's eye level.

"Who's your father?" he asked, though the pieces were already starting to click together in his head.

The boy, without blinking, answered:

"Pantalone. Lord Ninth Harbinger. He is a banker and the smartest man in the world."

Silence. Even the street noise seemed to hush for a second.

Paimon opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Drew in a breath for a scream, but only managed a strangled:

"PANTALONE?! THAT PANTALONE?! THE ONE WHO... WHO DOES EVERYTHING... AND EVERYONE... AND THE BANK... AND YOU'RE HIS SON?!"

"Yes," the boy confirmed calmly. "And you, I take it, are the Traveler and Paimon? Father has told me about you. Mother too. Mother says you're good people, just too loud. Especially Paimon."

"I AM NOT LOUD!" Paimon shouted, then immediately caught herself. "I mean... alright, maybe a little. But that's not important! What's important is that Pantalone has a SON! Who sits on a bench writing a list of his mother's enemies! For future financial annihilation!"

"Not enemies," the boy corrected. "Offenders. Enemies are different. Father handles enemies personally. Offenders are my area of responsibility. Father says one must gradually delegate authority."

Paimon clutched her head.

"Delegate authority... He says 'delegate authority'... Aether, I will never again complain that our life is too dangerous. Apparently, we had no idea what real danger is. Real danger is a nine-year-old child with a notebook and a list of people he's going to buy someday!"

"I won't buy all of them," the boy clarified, checking his notebook. "Some of them — only partially. For instance, Mr. Zheng from the jewelry shop — he once told Mother her brooch was tasteless. I plan to acquire a controlling stake in his workshop and repurpose it into a banana warehouse."

"Bananas?" Paimon asked in a weak voice.

"Yes. Mother likes bananas. It will be both revenge and a benefit."

Aether rubbed the bridge of his nose. The situation had gone beyond anything he had prepared for when they set out for meat buns this morning.

"And what does your mother say about your list?" he asked.

The boy smiled slightly — for the first time in the entire conversation.

"Mother says I'm too serious. And that Father was the same way as a child. And she also says that Father is a fool when he's in love, and that it runs in the family."

"A fool?" Paimon laughed nervously. "Your mother calls Lord Pantalone a fool?"

"Only when he's in love," the boy specified. "And he's in love constantly. So yes, she calls him a fool constantly."

And at that moment, a calm, smooth voice came from behind them, a voice that made Paimon's hair stand on end:

"I am not a fool. I am strategically vulnerable to your mother. These are fundamentally different things."

Paimon shrieked and jumped a good meter in the air. Aether spun around sharply, instinctively placing a hand on his sword.

Pantalone stood two steps from the bench. Tall, impeccable, in his unchanging black and silver, with the fur collar and golden spectacles. His arrival had been utterly soundless — either he had approached very quietly, or they had been too absorbed in the conversation. He held a small parcel in his hand — judging by the logo, from an expensive confectionery — and was looking at his son over his spectacles with an expression that could be described as "reproachful tenderness."

"Father!" The boy closed his notebook, but not fearfully — rather like an employee caught working on a personal project during office hours. "You're early. I thought you had a meeting until four."

"The meeting ended early. Fortunately for all involved," Pantalone shifted his gaze to Aether and Paimon, and that signature half-smile appeared on his face, the one that made subordinates feel cold in their chests. "Traveler. Paimon. What an unexpected — and not the first — encounter. First you find my wife's brooch. Then you meet me at the bank. Now you are conversing with my son. I am beginning to suspect you are purposefully hunting members of my family."

"WE?!" Paimon erupted. "We were just going for meat buns! Your son was the one sitting here with a notebook and a list of people he's GOING TO BUY!"

"Ah, the list," Pantalone nodded. "A good project. I'm supervising it."

"YOU'RE SUPERVISING IT?!" Paimon seemed about to burst from sheer emotion. "YOU'RE TEACHING YOUR SON TO BUY PEOPLE WHO OFFENDED YOUR WIFE?!"

"I am teaching him strategic thinking, long-term planning, and the fundamentals of asset management," Pantalone replied calmly. "That these skills can be applied to protecting one's family is a pleasant bonus. Besides," he cast a glance at his son, "I never said 'buy anyone.' I said 'acquire sufficient influence so that they regret their rudeness.' He simplified the phrasing a little."

"Father, 'buy' sounds more impressive," the boy remarked.

"In a business environment, perhaps. In conversation with outsiders — not so much."

"They're not outsiders," the boy looked at Aether and Paimon. "They're good. Mother said so."

Pantalone looked at his son, and his face softened for an instant — almost imperceptibly, but Aether caught it.

"Mother did indeed say that. And Mother, as always, is right."

He turned to Aether.

"My wife, you know, follows your adventures. She considers you a positive force in this world. I am inclined to agree with her, though my Fatui colleagues would likely disagree. But that is their problem."

Paimon, still reeling from shock, sank slowly onto the bench beside the boy.

"Father," the boy tugged at his sleeve. "May I add that merchant who stepped on Mother's foot this morning and didn't apologize to the list?"

"Add him. And mark him with a star — that's a priority."

"UNDERSTOOD!" The boy opened his notebook and began writing busily.

Paimon dropped her head into her hands.

"Aether... It's a family hobby. They make lists of offenders together. I want to go home."

"We don't have a home," Aether reminded her.

"Then I want to go somewhere where there's no Pantalone and his perfect family that is both terrifying and admirable!"

Pantalone adjusted his spectacles, and his smile grew a little wider.

"I'm afraid no such place exists in Teyvat. My wife owns the railway, my son is the future owner of everything else, and I... well, I'm just a banker. A ubiquitous banker."

"Just a banker," Paimon repeated weakly. "Of course. Just a banker whose son can buy a jewelry workshop with his pocket money and turn it into a banana warehouse."

"Speaking of bananas," Pantalone raised the parcel. "These are for Mother. Her favorite pastries. I believe it's time we went home before they get cold."

The boy jumped off the bench, carefully put his notebook into a small briefcase, and stood beside his father. Together they looked terribly harmonious — a miniature copy and the original.

"Goodbye, Traveler," said the boy. "Goodbye, Paimon. If you ever wish to invest in a banana warehouse — do get in touch. I will have favorable terms."

"I... Paimon... we..." Paimon waved her hands. "WE'LL THINK ABOUT IT!"

"Splendid," Pantalone nodded. "All the best. And, Traveler... thank you for not drawing your sword. My son is not yet ready for the spectacle of a corporate conflict involving weaponry."

"I am ready!" the boy objected. "I already saw Uncle Tartaglia throw a chair at Uncle Scaramouche at the last meeting!"

"Who's who? Scaram.. what? I don't remember such a person. You're making up friends again?," Pantalone sighed. "Let's go. Mother is waiting."

And they left — a tall figure in black and a small figure with a briefcase, discussing as they walked how many bananas would fit in a former jewelry workshop.

Paimon stared after them for a long moment.

"Aether... I want a notebook like that. Just in case."

"What for?"

"Well... a list of people who never gave us discounts at taverns. Someday I'll buy them too."

"You don't have enough mora to buy even a tavern, let alone a person."

"I'll save up! Or I'll ask Pantalone's wife. She seems nice."

Aether chuckled and shook his head.

"Come on. I think the meat buns are cold by now."

"The banana warehouse will get cold too!" Paimon sighed. "Alright, let's go. But if that boy ever becomes a bank director — I'm opening an account with him first."

That day was supposed to be simple. A simple commission, a simple road, a simple stroll along the quiet outskirts of Liyue, where even the birds sang more softly and the wind smelled not of fish and spices but of mountain herbs and flowering trees. Paimon, as usual, floated ahead, musing that it would be nice to have a picnic on the hill — the view was lovely, the weather fine, and the buns they'd bought that morning were still warm.

"Let's stop over there, on that meadow?" she chirped. "There's a shady tree, a stream nearby, and the place is just made for Paimon to finally eat in peace!"

Aether nodded in agreement, already turning off the road — and then he froze.

Paimon, unable to brake in time, bumped into his shoulder.

"Hey! Why'd you stop dead like that?! Is it a monster? An ambush? Treasure?!"

"Quiet," Aether squinted, peering into the grass beneath the tree. "Do you hear that?"

Paimon fell silent. And she heard it. A faint, thin sound — not a cry, not a squeak, but something in between. It was the sort of sound a very, very small creature might make, one that hadn't yet learned to truly wail, but already wanted to announce its existence to the world.

"What is that?" Paimon whispered. "A kitten? A chick? Some kind of tiny monster?"

Aether moved toward the sound. The grass beneath the tree was more than just grass — it was something like a natural cradle. Soft moss covered with a fluffy blanket. A light canopy of translucent fabric stretched between the branches, shielding from sun and wind. Beside it lay a tiny pillow embroidered with silver thread, and a little rattle made of mountain crystal.

And in the midst of this splendor, wrapped in the softest cashmere blanket, lay a baby.

Tiny. Two or three months old, no more. Dark fuzz on its head, fists the size of walnuts, and a little face that, seeing the strangers leaning over it, scrunched into a displeased grimace. The baby whimpered — thinly, plaintively, indignant either at being disturbed or at the two strange figures looming over it.

Paimon made a sound like a deflating balloon.

"Aether... that's... that's a..."

"A baby," Aether finished, feeling everything inside him go cold. "A real baby. Alive. Very small."

He looked around. Not a soul. The meadow was empty. No cart, no trace of a camp, no sign that anyone was nearby. Just a baby in a cradle that looked as though fairies had arranged it.

"Aether, where are its parents?!" Paimon darted about in the air. "Why is it here all alone?! Who leaves A BABY THIS SMALL alone under a tree?!"

"I don't know," Aether crouched cautiously beside the cradle. "But everything here is arranged very... carefully. The blanket is expensive. The sun canopy. A rock crystal toy. It doesn't look like it was abandoned in a hurry."

"Maybe it's a trap?!" Paimon clutched her head in horror. "The Fatui? Kidnappers? Evil spirits? Oh, look, it's about to cry!"

The baby was indeed gathering breath for a full-throated howl. Its little face turned red, its tiny lips trembled, and Aether, obeying some ancient instinct he hadn't even known he possessed, scooped the baby into his arms.

The baby froze. It stared at him with bleary, still-unfocused little eyes, and apparently deciding this new person didn't smell too bad, decided not to cry. Instead, it stuck its own tiny fist into its mouth and began chewing on it with great concentration.

"It stopped crying," Paimon exhaled. "You calmed it down. Aether... you're holding a baby."

"I'm holding a baby," Aether repeated, with the expression of someone only just realizing it.

"And we don't know whose it is."

"We don't know whose it is."

"And it's looking at you like you're its dad now."

"Don't say that."

"I already said it!" Paimon threw up her hands. "What are we going to do?! We can't just leave it here! What if it really was abandoned? What if its parents... well... don't come back? Are we responsible for this tiny thing now?! Is this some kind of quest?! 'Find the parents or become the new parents'?!"

Aether carefully pressed the baby to his chest. It snuffled contentedly, still chewing its fist.

"We'll find its parents," he said. "Surely someone around here knows whose it is. The city's not far."

"And if nobody knows?! What then?! Are we supposed to raise it in camping conditions?! How are you going to fight hilichurls with a baby in your backpack?!"

"I'll figure something out."

"'Figure something out'?!" Paimon wailed. "That's not 'figure something out,' Aether! This is a child! Alive! Tiny! It needs feeding, changing, someone to sing it lullabies! Do you even know one lullaby?!"

"No. But maybe you do?"

"Paimon is a flying fairy, not a nanny! Although..." she considered. "I had experience with a little girl in Mondstadt once. But she was older. And she didn't spit up."

The baby in Aether's arms pulled its fist from its mouth, looked at Paimon, and a toothless grin spread across its little face.

"Oh," Paimon pressed her tiny hands to her cheeks. "It smiled. At me. Aether, it smiled! What a sweet little... No! Pull yourself together, Paimon! This is a crisis situation! We have to find its parents!"

And they set off.

First they came across a shepherd tending his sheep on a distant slope. Aether, still holding the baby, asked if he knew whose child this was. The shepherd scratched his head for a long while, then shook his head: "Nah, lad. There's nobody for miles around. Only some rich estates far off, but they're fenced up tight. Maybe from there?"

Then they met an herbalist gathering medicinal roots. The herbalist looked at the baby, admired the expensive blanket it was wrapped in, and suggested it must belong to some very noble family. But whose exactly — she didn't know.

Then they reached an inn on the outskirts of the city, and there Paimon, in despair, flew up to the innkeeper crying: "DO YOU KNOW THIS BABY?! WE FOUND IT UNDER A TREE! IT'S LOST! OR THEY LOST IT! WHATEVER THE CASE, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!"

The innkeeper paled, but didn't recognize the baby. He did, however, advise them to ask the guards.

At the city gates, a guard, seeing Aether with a baby and Paimon hovering over him with an expression of cosmic despair, blinked for a long moment before saying: "First street, second turn on the left. That's the city archive building. Maybe they know about noble families with children there."

They didn't know. Not at the archive, not at the next place, nor the next. Meanwhile, the baby had grown hungry, and Aether, improvising, mashed some bread softened in milk in a clean bowl. The baby ate reluctantly, grimacing, but swallowed. Paimon watched this with the expression of someone witnessing the greatest miracle in the world.

"You're feeding it," she whispered. "You fight monsters, save nations, and now you're feeding babies too. Aether, you're officially the most versatile hero in Teyvat."

"I just want to return it to its parents," Aether replied wearily.

By evening, when the sun was already sinking toward the horizon and they had seemingly walked half the city, Paimon clutched at her hair in despair.

"THAT'S IT! I GIVE UP! NOBODY KNOWS WHOSE BABY THIS IS! IS THAT EVEN NORMAL?! SUCH A BEAUTIFUL, WELL-KEPT BABY, IN AN EXPENSIVE BLANKET, WITH A CRYSTAL RATTLE — AND NOBODY KNOWS ANYTHING?! MAYBE IT FELL FROM THE SKY?!"

"Quiet," Aether nodded ahead. "Look."

On the other side of the street, at the entrance to the city park, stood two figures. A man and a woman. They were facing away from them, but something in their posture, in the way they held themselves, made Aether slow his steps. The woman was in an elegant traveling dress, the man in a long dark cloak with a fur collar. His stance was straight, commanding, and the silver streaks in his dark hair gleamed in the sunset light.

"Aether," Paimon said quietly. "That... that cloak... that fur... Is it just me, or..."

"Yes," Aether swallowed. "It's him."

"PANTALONE?! THE ONE WE'VE NEVER SEEN BUT EVERYONE TALKS ABOUT?!"

"Quiet!" Aether hissed. "Listen... He has resources. Connections. If anyone can help find this baby's parents — it's him. Even if he's a Harbinger. That doesn't matter right now. The baby matters."

"You want to walk up to the Ninth Harbinger with a baby in your arms and ask for help?!"

"Do we have a choice?"

They didn't. Aether drew a breath, adjusted the baby, who by now had fallen asleep with its nose tucked into his shoulder, and moved toward the couple.

"Excuse me!" he called out. "Lord Pantalone!"

The couple stopped. Slowly, very slowly, they turned around.

Pantalone. Without a doubt. Gold-rimmed spectacles, cold eyes, that signature half-smile — which, however, was now rapidly vanishing from his face. Beside him stood you — a beautiful woman whose anxious gaze instantly darted to the bundle in Aether's arms.

"Traveler," Pantalone said, and his voice was lower than usual. "Paimon. What an unexpected meeting. And pray tell..." he paused, his eyes narrowing, "why are you holding our son?"

Silence. Paimon's mouth fell open. Aether froze. The sleeping baby smacked its lips.

"Your... SON?!" Paimon managed.

"Yes," you stepped forward, and your voice trembled with a mixture of anger and relief. "This is our son. He's two months old. We left him in the nest in the meadow — it's a specially prepared spot for infant sleep in the fresh air. It's safe there, there's a protective canopy, everything is thought out to the last detail. We stepped away for literally ten minutes — to talk to the gardener about new shrubs for the estate. And when we came back... he was gone."

You folded your arms and looked at Aether with an expression that could have melted steel.

"We searched everywhere. We were about to alert the entire bank. And you... you just TOOK him?!"

"I... we..." Aether, for the first time in his life, was at a loss for words.

"We thought he was abandoned!" Paimon burst out. "There was nobody there! Nobody at all! We asked everyone! The shepherd, the herbalist, the innkeeper, the guard, the archive! We've walked half the city! We fed him mashed bread! And this whole time he was YOURS?!"

"Mashed bread?!" you pressed your hands to your chest. "You fed my son mashed bread?!"

"We didn't have any milk!" Paimon said in their defense. "And he ate it! Not very willingly, but he ate it!"

Pantalone, who had been silent all this while, removed his glasses and began polishing them with a cloth. Without his glasses, his gaze seemed even more piercing, but what it held now was not a threat, but rather... weary resignation.

"Allow me to summarize," he said. "You found our son in a nest. A nest which, mind you, was equipped with a cashmere blanket, a sun canopy, and a rock crystal toy worth the annual rent of a decent house. You did not deduce that this spot had been arranged by caring parents. Instead, you decided he was a foundling. You took him. You carried him into the city. You questioned half the population. You fed him mashed bread. And now you have come to us, his parents, asking for our help in searching for us."

He replaced his glasses on his nose.

"This is, I believe, the most impressive chain of logical deductions I have witnessed in the last hundred years."

"A hundred years?" Paimon echoed weakly.

"Metaphor," Pantalone said curtly.

You were already reaching out to Aether, and he, not daring to argue, carefully passed the baby to its mother. The baby, sensing its familiar scent, stirred and cracked its tiny eyes open. You pressed him to your chest, and your face softened, but when you looked up at Aether and Paimon again, it was stern once more.

"I understand you meant well," you said. "And I... I appreciate that you took care of him. Truly. But next time you see a baby in a golden cradle under a silk canopy — BEFORE YOU TAKE IT, CHECK IF THERE'S A SIGN THAT SAYS 'DO NOT DISTURB, BABY'S THERAPEUTIC SLEEP IN PROGRESS.' We left one. You apparently didn't notice it."

"There was a sign?!" Paimon's eyes went wide. "Aether, did you see a sign?!"

"No," Aether admitted. "I was looking at the baby."

Pantalone let out a quiet, almost inaudible sigh.

"Well. At least our son has not come to harm. And it appears he hasn't even woken. That speaks to your carefulness. In handling infants, at least, you are more competent than in logical reasoning."

"I'm sorry," Aether said, and that "sorry" was so sincere that you softened.

"Alright," you shook your head. "I forgive you. But if you ever find another baby — just sit tight with it. At least half an hour. Parents usually come back."

"We'll remember," Paimon promised. "Babies are not a find. Babies are a responsibility. Lesson learned."

"Good," Pantalone adjusted his cuff. "And now, I believe it's time we went home. Our son, it seems, has had enough mashed bread for one day."

"I'll send you a basket with proper infant food," you added. "So that next time you decide to rescue someone, you'll have something to feed them."

And before Aether could object that there wouldn't be a next time, you had already turned and walked away, holding the baby close. Pantalone lingered for a second.

"Traveler," he said quietly. "Thank you for not letting him get cold. And... welcome to the club of people who try to do good, but it turns out as always."

With those words, he turned and followed his wife.

Paimon stared after them for a long moment. Then she said quietly:

"Aether... Pantalone has a wife. And two children. One is a daycare director. The second sleeps in a golden cradle. And we just tried to rescue their baby from them."

"Yes," Aether rubbed his face. "It's been a long day."

"And now we're in the club. The club of people who try to do good, but it turns out as always."

"That sounds like our motto."

"Paimon agrees. Let's go home. I mean, to the tavern. Paimon needs to eat something more substantial than mashed bread."

And they trudged away, leaving behind the sunset city, the angry but grateful parents, the sleeping baby, and a lesson they would remember forever: a baby in a golden cradle under a silk canopy is, most likely, not a foundling.