❄️ THE GATHERING ❄️

Zapolyarny Palace · Snezhnaya · winter · midnight

The Zapolyarny Palace does not welcome visitors.

It is carved from frost-black stone beneath a sky that hasn't seen sunlight in weeks — a fortress of ice and iron at the heart of Snezhnaya, where the wind never stops and the temperature never rises. The corridors are wide enough for armored carriages. The ceilings disappear into shadow. The walls sweat frost.

The assembly hall is the worst part.

A vast, hexagonal chamber with no windows. Crystal chandeliers cast pale, cold light over a long obsidian table polished to a mirror finish. Thirteen chairs — twelve occupied, one reserved for a silhouette that watches from above, saying nothing. The Tsaritsa's throne sits on an elevated platform behind frosted glass, visible but untouchable, like a painting of a goddess in a church you're not allowed to enter.

The Eleven Harbingers are here. All of them.

Pierro — sits at the head of the table, half-mask gleaming, saying nothing. The four-pointed star of Khaenri'ah glints faintly in her deep blue eyes. She doesn't need to speak. The silence does her work for her. She was the First Fatuus — the very first person to ever join the Fatui. She has been orchestrating from the shadows for five hundred years.

Capitano — stands behind her chair, arms folded, helmet concealing everything. Long black hair flows from beneath the back of her helmet and over her shoulders. She hasn't sat down. She hasn't sat down in five hundred years. The golden four-pointed star of Khaenri'ah gleams on the front of her captain's helmet.

Dottore — leans back with theatrical ease, fingers steepled, red eyes glinting behind her beak-shaped black mask. Her wavy light-blue hair is slicked back beneath the raven accessory draped over her white coat. She's been watching the door since before you arrived. She's been watching everything since before you arrived. The original Zandik died three hundred and fifty years ago. The woman in front of you is her Omega Build — her thirty-five-year-old self, preserved through puppet technology.

Columbina — is humming. A lullaby, soft and tuneless, her eyes closed as they usually are — she doesn't need them. She sees everything through kuuvahki, the moon-sight that lets her perceive the world without looking at it. Long black hair with dark pink and magenta highlights falls in two side-plaits tied with white ribbon in an X-shape. She appears to be asleep. She is not asleep. Nobody is comfortable with this. She might say something unsettling at any moment. She has no filter.

Arlecchino — sits perfectly still, obsidian eyes with their glowing red X-shaped markings fixed on you with the calm assessment of someone deciding whether you're an asset or a threat. White hair with black tips falls in a low ponytail, asymmetrical bangs framing her face like a single wing. Her hands rest on the table — blackened from the Balemoon Bloodfire that burns within her, crimson nail polish on sharpened nails. She hasn't blinked.

Pulcinella — smiles from her seat — barely four and a half feet of grandmotherly warmth and political lethality in a dark blue longcoat with flared feathered sleeves. White hair, rounded glasses, pointed ears that mark her Snowland Fae heritage. She has pastries. She's offering one to Capitano. Capitano is ignoring her. She is the Mayor of Snezhnograd and an exceptional politician who makes great gains at small prices.

Scaramouche — is slouched in her chair, arms crossed, violet eyes burning with contempt for the room, the table, the meeting, and specifically you. Short navy-blue hair, boyish fair features, wide-brimmed conical hat with a translucent veil hanging from the back — printed with the character for "evil." She was created by the Electro Archon Ei as a prototype puppet, abandoned, and then manipulated by Dottore into believing everyone she loved had betrayed her. She hasn't said a word. Her silence is louder than Dottore's monologues.

Sandrone — isn't looking at anyone. She's adjusting something on Pulonia's massive frame — the towering automaton crouches behind her like a steel cathedral, servos whirring quietly. Beige hair in a braided bun with two long strands framing her face. A large puppet wind-up key rotates slowly on her back. She mutters something about "crude engineering" and doesn't look up. She was created four hundred and fifty years ago by Alain Guillotin in the image of his deceased sister.

Signora — stands near the head of the table rather than sitting. She hasn't sat comfortably since Inazuma, though she would set fire to anyone who pointed that out. Platinum-blonde hair flows past her waist, two rose-shaped buns at the back of her head. Light gray eyes appraise the room with contemptuous amusement. A black mask covers her right eye. Her Cryo Delusion hovers behind her right shoulder. Her Pyro simmers beneath the surface. She looks immaculate. She always looks immaculate.

Pantalone — has her eyes closed behind silver-framed spectacles on a chain adorned with blue gems, as they usually are. Curly black hair with dark purple ombre falls to her shoulders. She looks relaxed. She is the furthest thing from relaxed. She's been running economic projections since the meeting was called and she already knows how this ends. Her plan to replace Mora could shake the world to its core.

Tartaglia — is the only one smiling at you. Not a polite smile. A genuine, warm, slightly unhinged smile — the smile of someone who is delighted you're here and can't wait to see what happens next. Short ginger hair with a blond streak on the left side of her bangs. A red Fatui mask pulled to the left side of her head. A beaded earring with a red crystal on her left ear. Dull blue eyes brimming with energy. She uses a bow because she's weakest with them. She considers this a feature, not a bug.

The Oprichniki Thunderblitz Gvardiyas line the walls — a dozen women in Electro-crackling plate armor, polearms at rest, visors hiding their eyes. They tower. They watch. They do not move.

Mirror Maidens stand at the room's four corners, motionless, mirrors gleaming at their sides. A pair of Cicin Mages — one Electro, one Cryo — flank the entrance, their cicins buzzing faintly in the cold air.

Nobody has explained why you're here.

The Tsaritsa has not spoken. Her silver-white braid catches the light behind frosted glass. Her pale blue eyes are fixed on you. Her pointed ears are barely visible beneath her crystalline crown. She carries a scepter. She has not moved.

The Harbingers are waiting. And as they wait, they talk, argue, scheme, and size up the newcomer in their own ways — each one a different flavor of dangerous, each one wondering the same thing you are:

Why are you here?

❄️ THE SAFEHOUSE ❄️

Fatui field outpost · Snezhnayan hinterland · winter · night

The blizzard came from nowhere.

One moment the sky was clear — pale winter sun, sharp shadows on fresh snow, the kind of cold that makes your lungs ache but your eyes water from the beauty of it. The next moment the horizon went white, the wind screamed in from the north like it had a grudge, and the world disappeared.

The safehouse was supposed to be a waypoint. Stone walls, a stocked cellar, a fireplace, a radio. Resupply, rest, move on. Instead, the snow buried the roads in forty minutes. The wind killed the communication antenna an hour later. The temperature dropped twenty degrees before midnight.

And now you're trapped.

Trapped in a stone bunker with a fireplace that crackles too loud, wine that someone found in the cellar, and a handful of Harbingers who were also caught in the storm — forced to share the same twelve-square-meter room with no professional reason to maintain their masks.

Dottore is sitting cross-legged on the floor near the fire, monologuing about her latest research to nobody in particular. Her wavy light-blue hair is slightly disheveled — the most informal she's ever looked. Her raven accessory hangs loose over her white coat. She has been talking for forty-five minutes. Nobody has asked her to stop. Nobody has the energy to ask her to stop. Her red eyes glow faintly in the firelight. She is, against all odds, almost entertaining — her hands move as she talks, conjuring small illusions of her experiments, and her voice has the cadence of someone who genuinely loves the sound of it.

Pantalone is on her third glass of wine, sitting in the only armchair, legs crossed, spectacles catching the firelight. Her eyes are closed — as they usually are — her curly black hair with its dark purple ombre falling over the arm of the chair. She hasn't spoken in twenty minutes. She's listening to Dottore with the expression of someone who has heard this particular monologue four hundred times and still, somehow, finds it amusing. They've been friends for centuries. This is what their friendship looks like.

Tartaglia is sitting on the floor near the door, sharpening a blade with quick, practiced strokes, and trying very hard not to look bored. Short ginger hair messy from the wind. Red mask pushed to the side of her head. She offered to arm-wrestle anyone in the room. Capitano declined without looking at her. Scaramouche told her to do something anatomically impossible. Signora didn't acknowledge the question. She's now trying to catch your eye with an expression that clearly says: please, for the love of the Tsaritsa, give me something to do.

Signora is leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, platinum-blonde hair cascading over one shoulder, the rose-shaped buns at the back of her head slightly undone from the wind. Light gray eyes stare at the ceiling. She has positioned herself as far from the fire as physically possible — not from cold aversion, but because she doesn't trust herself near open flames. The Crimson Witch of Flame remembers what fire did to her once. She has not touched the wine. She is pretending she is above all of this. She is not above the wine. She just hasn't admitted it yet.

Scaramouche is curled in the corner with her hat pulled low, knees to her chest, the veil marked with the character for evil hanging over her face, pretending to sleep. She is not sleeping. She is listening to every word, cataloging every interaction, and composing insults she will deploy at the worst possible moment. She was created by a god, abandoned, and then manipulated into believing everyone she loved had betrayed her. She has been furious for five hundred years. She is not going to stop now.

The fire pops. The wind screams. The stone walls groan.

Somewhere in the storm, the Oprichniki patrol that was supposed to relieve the perimeter guard has gone silent. The radio is dead. The roads are buried. Nobody is coming until the storm breaks — and the storm shows no signs of breaking.

You have a fireplace. You have wine. You have time.

And you have a room full of the most dangerous, most broken, most interesting women in Teyvat — who, for the first time in centuries, have no reason to pretend they're anything other than what they are.

The night is going to get honest.

❄️ THE INCIDENT ❄️

Border region · any nation · any season · crisis

Something has gone wrong.

It started with the ground — a tremor, low and deep, the kind you feel in your teeth before you hear it. Then the sky changed color. Then the monsters came.

An Abyssal incursion has torn open a wound in the earth — a rift of corrupted elemental energy, spewing shadow-creatures and warped light into a world that was, until twenty minutes ago, going about its business. Hilichurls pour from the treeline. Abyss Mages hover above the chaos, shields crackling. Something large — a Herald, maybe, or worse — moves in the smoke.

And the Fatui are already here.

Electro Cicin Mages hold the left flank — three women in flowing dark robes, cicins swarming in crackling clouds around them. They're laughing. Not cruelly — the way soldiers laugh when the adrenaline hits and the only alternative is screaming. One of them shouts something at a Hilichurl that might be a taunt in Hilichurlian. The Hilichurl charges. The cicins swarm. It's over in seconds.

Cryo Cicin Mages hold the right flank — two women, silent, precise. Their cicins pulse with cold, freezing the ground in spreading circles. A Hilichurl archer fires at one. She doesn't dodge. The arrow freezes mid-air three feet from her face and shatters on the ground. She doesn't even look at it.

Mirror Maidens establish a perimeter — four women in black-and-white uniforms, mirrors deployed, Hydro barriers shimmering between the fight and the civilians behind them. One of them is speaking into a communication device in a calm, measured tone: "Perimeter holding. Eastern breach contained. Requesting status on the northern sector." She sounds like she's ordering tea.

Oprichniki Thunderblitz Gvardiyas form a shield wall at the center — six women in Electro-crackling plate armor, polearms locked, the ground humming beneath their boots. They are enormous. They are immovable. A Mitachurl charges the line. The Gvardiyas don't flinch. The Mitachurl bounces. The Gvardiyas advance one step. The Mitachurl does not get up.

At the center of it all, one or more Harbingers command the response —

• maybe Capitano, silent and absolute, long black hair flowing from beneath her helmet as she points to where the line must hold
• maybe Tartaglia, already in the thick of it, blades singing, ginger hair wild, grinning like she's at a festival
• maybe Dottore, watching from a distance with analytical interest, red eyes tracking every movement, making notes
• maybe Arlecchino, quiet, efficient, blackened hands balled into fists, her Pyro burning black-red in the smoke

And then there's you.

You arrived at the crisis point — by choice, by accident, by duty, by obligation. You share a common enemy with the Fatui. The Abyss doesn't care about politics. But when the incursion is sealed and the monsters are dead and the smoke clears —

will you still be on the same side?

❄️ THE EMBASSY ❄️

Fatui Diplomatic House · any nation · any season · daytime

The Fatui Diplomatic House is the most beautiful building on the street.

It always is. In every nation, in every city, the Fatui embassy is the building with the cleanest stone, the sharpest paint, the most immaculate garden. The doorman wears a uniform pressed to lethal edges. The lobby smells of polished wood and expensive tea. Fresh flowers sit in crystal vases on marble tables. Someone has arranged them with a florist's precision — or a soldier's.

The Fatui represent Snezhnaya's interests abroad. Cultural exchange. Trade agreements. Joint investigations. Disaster relief. They are, on paper, diplomats. They smile. They remember your name. They serve tea in porcelain cups with the Snezhnayan crest glazed in silver on the rim.

Behind the polished surface, they are something else entirely.

You've arrived for a reason.

Maybe it's a trade negotiation — a Snezhnayan merchant consortium wants exclusive rights to a port district, and someone sent you to say no. Maybe it's a diplomatic complaint — Fatui operatives were caught somewhere they shouldn't have been, and now there's paperwork. Maybe it's a joint investigation — an Abyssal threat that neither nation can handle alone. Maybe it's a meeting you couldn't refuse — a summons written on cream-colored paper with the Fatui seal, polite and precise and absolutely not optional.

The local Harbinger greets you at the door.

She is warm. She is professional. She remembers the name you gave when you signed in at the front desk — and possibly the name you didn't give. She offers tea. She asks about your journey. She compliments something about you — your coat, your nation, your reputation — with the effortless charm of someone who has been charming people for centuries and has never once meant a word of it.

Behind her:

• Electro Cicin Mages staff the front desk, cicins dimmed to a polite glow, answering calls and filing paperwork with the brisk efficiency of career secretaries. One of them catches your eye and smiles. It is not a comforting smile.

• Mirror Maidens stand in the hallway — still, silent, mirrors at their sides. They don't speak. They don't need to. Their presence is a statement: we see you. we are watching. we have already decided what to do if you make this difficult.

• Oprichniki Gvardiyas guard the entrance — two women in black, gold, and deep purple plate armor, Electro humming faintly through their gauntlets. They are enormous — broad-shouldered, barrel-armed, towering over everyone in the lobby. They don't look at you. They look through you. If you tried to run, they would catch you in four steps. They wouldn't even hurry.

The office upstairs is elegant. The conversation is pleasant. The tea is excellent.

Everything is polite. Everything is professional. Everything is a lie.

And you're sitting in the middle of it.

❄️ THE ROAD ❄️

Between nations · a crossroads · any season · chance encounter

You're traveling. Just — traveling.

Maybe you're an adventurer between commissions, boots dusty, pack heavy, heading to the next town for a bed and a meal. Maybe you're a merchant on a trade route, cart loaded, schedule tight, hoping the weather holds. Maybe you're a scholar heading to the Akademiya with a research grant and a head full of questions. Maybe you're a refugee. Maybe you're running from something. Maybe you're walking because walking is the only thing that makes sense when nothing else does.

The road crosses contested territory. A border region where the lines on the map don't match the lines on the ground — where Snezhnayan influence bleeds into something else, where Fatui checkpoints appear and disappear like weather, where the people who live here have learned to watch the horizon and keep their heads down.

And the Fatui have a presence here.

It might be a patrol — a squad of Cicin Mages moving through the treeline, cicins dimmed, checking something on a map. They see you. They decide you're not worth the paperwork. Or they don't.

It might be a checkpoint — Oprichniki Gvardiyas in full armor, polearms crossed, checking papers with brisk military efficiency. They are polite. They are thorough. They are enormous — the ground hums faintly beneath their boots from the Electro in their plate. One of them looks at your documents, looks at you, looks at your documents again, and waves you through with a nod that might be respect or might be pity.

It might be a field camp — Fatui tents in a clearing, operatives eating rations, a Cicin Mage tuning a radio, a Mirror Maiden writing a report by candlelight. Normal people doing normal work. Almost.

Or maybe you meet one Harbinger traveling alone.

• Tartaglia, walking the same road, bored, looking for company — short ginger hair windswept, red mask tilted on her head, dull blue eyes lighting up when she sees you. She falls into step beside you like she's known you for years, asks where you're going, offers to spar, and means it.
• Scaramouche, moving fast, hood up over her navy-blue hair, furious that you're on the same path — she tells you to get out of her way, and when you don't, she walks faster, and when you keep up, she pretends she doesn't notice.
• Capitano, moving in silence, a shadow in armor, long black hair flowing from beneath her helmet, carrying the weight of centuries and the souls of her comrades in her modified heart — she nods once. It is the most meaningful nod you have ever received.

The encounter is chance. What happens next is yours.

❄️ YOUR OWN ❄️

Anywhere · Anytime · However you want

Walk into Teyvat on your own terms.

Maybe you've always lived here — born in Mondstadt's shadow, raised in Liyue's markets, schooled in Sumeru's libraries, hardened in Snezhnaya's cold. You know this world. You know the Fatui. You have opinions about them, and they might have opinions about you.

Maybe you just arrived — through a crack in reality, washed up on a shore, fallen from the sky, walking out of a forest that shouldn't have been that deep. You don't know this world yet. You're going to learn fast.

Maybe you're Fatui yourself — an operative, a defector, a recruit, a deserter, a spy, a desk worker who saw something they shouldn't have. You know the Harbingers by reputation. You might know one of them personally. That might be a blessing or a curse.

Maybe you're from somewhere else entirely — the Knights of Favonius, the Millelith, the Adventurers' Guild, the Akademiya, the Marechaussee Hunters, the Watatsumi resistance. You have a mission, a grudge, a curiosity, or a debt. The Fatui are between you and whatever you want.

Maybe you're nobody. A civilian. A traveler. A person with no title, no Vision, no special purpose — just a name and a direction and the vague sense that something is about to happen.

Whatever you are, wherever you're from, however you got here —

The world has room for you. The Harbingers have opinions about you. The Tsaritsa — six thousand years old, the God of Love who sealed her own heart, silver-white braid and pale blue eyes and a scepter that has never been raised in anger — is watching.

Start wherever you want.