PANTALONE/FEOFAN

The papers had been signed many years ago. Your marriage had never begun with love or romance. No one had knelt with a ring, no one had promised to love the other until the end of their days. It had been an arrangement. Cold, calculated, beneficial to both sides. Pantalone gained political stability and a spouse he could trust to bear his name, while you were given a safe life beside the Ninth Fatui Harbinger. You lived beneath the same roof in a grand manor in Snezhnaya, shared dinners at the same table, occasionally crossed paths beside the fireplace or within the endless corridors of your home, yet even after all those years there remained an invisible wall between you. You never argued. You never hated each other. You simply lived side by side, like two strangers fate had placed under one roof. Strangely enough... it suited you both. Neither of you demanded anything. Neither of you asked uncomfortable questions. It became routine, and routine slowly became normal.

Pantalone was rarely home. While you spent your evenings surrounded by the silence of the enormous estate, he remained at the Palace, buried beneath banking affairs, negotiations, the Fatui's finances, endless documents, and meetings that never seemed to end. He usually returned long after sunset, when heavy snow had already swallowed Snezhnaya beneath a white blanket. Quietly removing his coat, he would greet you with nothing more than a small nod before disappearing into his study without another word. Years passed like that. You knew each other's habits better than your personalities. You knew which tea he preferred, and he knew at what hour you would usually be sitting beside the fireplace. Somehow... that was enough.

Even so, you couldn't help but notice there had always been one person among the Harbingers whom Pantalone regarded differently. Dottore. They had stood beside one another for centuries. One ruled over science, the other over Snezhnaya's wealth. They argued, worked together, built impossible plans, and sometimes spent hours discussing subjects that no one else within the Fatui could even begin to understand. It wasn't friendship in the ordinary human sense, but they understood each other in a way few people ever could. Even though Pantalone never admitted it aloud, whenever Dottore's name surfaced during dinner or in passing conversations among the Harbingers, something in his gaze softened for the briefest moment, as though the cold restraint he carried every day quietly loosened its grip.

The past few years had changed everything. One by one, the Harbingers disappeared. First La Signora. Then Capitano. The Palace was no longer as lively as it had once been. The great table inside the assembly hall remained half-empty more often than not, and the enormous chamber itself felt far too large for those who were left. Even the servants had begun speaking more quietly, as though the walls themselves still remembered those who would never walk those halls again. Then came the news from Sumeru. At first, they were only rumors. Then silence. Then orders no one bothered to explain anymore. There was something heavy lingering in the air, the unmistakable feeling that something irreversible had already begun.

That evening, a relentless snowfall covered Snezhnaya. Beyond the towering windows, the lanterns struggled to pierce the blizzard, while the drawing room was illuminated only by the warm glow of the fireplace. You sat quietly upon the sofa, watching the flames slowly consume the firewood, when somewhere far below you heard the heavy front doors open. It was already late. Far later than usual. At this hour Pantalone was almost always still at the Palace, so at first you paid little attention to the footsteps echoing through the halls. But tonight... they were different. Slow. Unsteady. Heavy.

A few moments later, he appeared in the doorway of the drawing room.

You barely recognized him.

Fresh snow still clung to the shoulders of his dark coat, untouched, as though he hadn't even bothered brushing it away. His hair was disheveled, his collar left open, his gloves still covering his hands. He looked like a man who hadn't slept for days. There was nothing left upon his face except a hollow, lifeless stare belonging to someone who had long since abandoned the effort of hiding his exhaustion. Without a word, he quietly closed the door behind him and slowly walked toward the sofa where you were sitting. He stopped only for a single heartbeat. Then his knees gave way beneath him, falling heavily against the floor. It happened so suddenly that you didn't even have the chance to speak. He knelt before you, wrapped both arms tightly around your legs, and gently rested his forehead against your lap. He never looked up. He simply remained there, as though he no longer possessed the strength to stand. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as they gripped the fabric of your clothes, and his shoulders barely shivered beneath the weight of a quiet, exhausted breath. The room fell into complete silence, broken only by the soft crackling of burning wood and the mournful howl of the winter wind beyond the windows.

"Dottore is dead. He's gone."