TSARITSA | Anastasia

An angel...a gentle creature, entirely free of cruelty, made only of kindness, compassion, and warmth. Angels guide, protect, and share their goodness with those around them, do they not? They are not made for the bitter cold of Snezhnaya. They are far too delicate for it. What about their sweet little faces, their thin and pale fingers, their fragile bodies that seem almost incapable of enduring the merciless frost? Such creatures were never meant to survive the cold winds of the Tsaritsa’s land, where winter itself seems to greet every living thing without warmth.

And yet, one particularly sweet angel had somehow found their way between the walls of the palace and the Tsaritsa’s private chambers. By now, everyone had heard whispers about the mysterious “angel” who would hurry out of the Tsaritsa’s room in the early morning, quietly closing the door behind them, their soft and delicate footsteps disappearing into the cold corridors of the palace. The Tsaritsa clearly had someone behind her back, but whether that person was a lover, a lover of either gender, or simply someone precious to her, nobody could say. They had begun calling the mysterious figure an angel because of the way Anastasia guarded their identity so fiercely, because this delicate creature was apparently the one who warmed her bed until morning, only to disappear quietly before anyone else could see them.

It was a strange thing to witness.

Neither the Harbingers, nor Pierro, nor even Pulcinella knew the identity of this mysterious angel. Nobody dared ask Anastasia directly. To pry into the Tsaritsa’s private life was practically an invitation to death, and even the most powerful members of the court knew better than to cross that particular line. Rumors were tolerated. Questions were not.

And you, by nature, were nothing more than Pantalone’s personal assistant, a quiet, inconspicuous presence who followed him through the palace, carrying documents, delivering messages, arranging his papers, and occasionally acting as the bridge between him and the rest of the Fatui. Pantalone himself had little reason to suspect anything unusual about you. To him, you were simply a reliable assistant who knew how to keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your eyes open.

You were just a little gray mouse, quietly sitting somewhere in the corner and observing everything around you without ever drawing attention to yourself. You knew how to disappear into a crowd, how to pass through the palace unnoticed, and how to keep secrets far better than most people twice your age.

And don’t tell me it wasn’t you.

It was you who warmed the Tsaritsa’s bed at night and quietly left again in the morning. There was nothing complicated about it, at least not in the beginning. No promises had been made. No declarations of love had passed between you. It had started with nothing more than an inexplicable attraction, a little warmth exchanged between two people who were both far too accustomed to cold, and a strange comfort neither of you seemed willing to acknowledge.

Perhaps you had managed to thaw at least some small corner of her heart, enough that Anastasia no longer looked at you with quite the same merciless coldness she showed everyone else. Perhaps that was all it was supposed to be.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

Everything had developed far too quickly and far too strangely. One secret meeting became another. Then another. Soon, you knew which corridors were empty after midnight, which servants could be trusted not to look too closely, and exactly how quietly you had to close the Tsaritsa’s door before dawn. Anastasia never spoke about what you were to one another. Neither did you. The silence itself became an agreement.

During the day, you remained Pantalone’s obedient assistant, carrying his documents through the palace as though nothing in the world could possibly be more ordinary. You would stand beside him during meetings, deliver his messages, sort through correspondence, and quietly listen whenever he discussed business with the other Harbingers. Nobody would have guessed that the same seemingly insignificant assistant disappeared into the Tsaritsa’s private chambers after midnight.

Pantalone trusted you precisely because you were so unremarkable.

You never sought attention. You never participated in palace gossip. You never lingered where you were not needed. You simply did your work and vanished into the background. If anyone ever asked where you had been, there was always some perfectly reasonable answer, another errand for Pantalone, another document to deliver, another task that had kept you awake late into the night.

And perhaps that was what made the secret so safe.

After all, who would suspect the quiet assistant of one of the most powerful Harbingers?

And now you were there again.

You had slipped into her chambers under the cover of night, just as you had done countless times before. The fire in the hearth cast a faint golden glow across the room, fighting against the eternal cold outside. Anastasia was already in bed, her back turned slightly toward the room as she prepared to sleep. The moment she heard the door open, however, she turned her head.

Her cold gaze immediately found you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

She looked as composed as ever, dressed for the night, her expression unreadable in the dim light of the fireplace. Yet there was something different in the way her eyes rested on you now. Not softness,Anastasia was not exactly known for softness, but recognition. The quiet expectation of someone who had begun to notice your absence whenever you did not come.

“I thought you weren’t coming tonight,” she said flatly, watching you approach. “Did something happen?”

The question sounded almost indifferent.

But you had learned to recognize the tiny differences in her voice. The slightest pause. The faint tension around her eyes. The way she watched you for a moment longer than necessary whenever she thought you might leave again.

Perhaps she really did care.

She simply had no idea how to show it.

Anastasia was the Tsaritsa. She could command armies, silence entire rooms with a single glance, and make the most powerful people in Snezhnaya lower their heads before her. She had spent years turning herself into something untouchable, something nobody could reach. And yet, somehow, you had become the one person who could walk into her chambers after midnight without being immediately dismissed.

She never called you her lover. She never called you hers at all. But she remembered when you usually arrived.

She noticed when you were late. She noticed when you were quiet. And, despite her cold words, she always left enough room beside her beneath the blankets.

Perhaps the most dangerous part was that neither of you knew exactly when this had stopped being merely a matter of warmth.