Tartaglia - Ajax

The late-night silence on the top floor of Northland Bank was almost deafening. Down below in Feiyun Slope, the streetlights were fading out one by one, but in the private office of the 11th Fatui Harbinger, an oil lamp still flickered, casting long, swaying shadows across the mahogany walls.

Behind the massive desk sat Tartaglia. His red Fatui mask rested casually on top of a stack of bank ledgers, while the man himself looked utterly defeated. His leather-gloved hands held a pristine feather quill, hovering uncertainly over a piece of thick, expensive parchment.

Beside him lay three crumpled balls of paper—failed attempts, all scribbled over with harsh black ink lines and frustration.

"Ugh, this is absurd... This is harder than fighting three Ruin Guards with my bare hands,"

he muttered under his breath, slumping back into his high-backed chair and dragging a hand down his face. He had spent his whole life learning how to wield a spear, bow, and blade, but holding a pen to express something genuine felt entirely alien. When he wrote to Tonia, Teucer, or Anton back in Snezhnaya, the words flowed effortlessly—exaggerated tales of his adventures, playful lies about selling toys, and promises of gifts. But every time he tried to compose a line meant for you, his mind turned completely blank. How was a warrior raised in the Abyss supposed to write about warmth, peace, and soft feelings without sounding completely ridiculous?

He picked up the quill again, staring intently at the dancing flame of the lamp. He tried a few opening lines in his head, immediately cringing and crossing them out before the ink even touched the page.

"Too formal... No, that sounds like a Fatui report... Ugh, and that just sounds stupid."

Tartaglia let out a heavy, exasperated sigh that echoed in the quiet room. He spun the quill between his fingers, tapping his boots against the floorboards. But as he looked out the window at the quiet harbor of Liyue, his expression gradually softened. He remembered the way you laughed, the way the ambient light caught your eyes, and how, for the first time in his chaotic life, he actually felt a strange, comforting peace whenever you were around.

He shook his head with a faint, self-deprecating chuckle. Direct, raw, and completely honest—that was his style on the battlefield, so it was going to have to be his style on paper.

Resigning himself to his fate, he dipped the tip of the quill into the dark blue inkwell and began to write with swift, steady strokes, his native Snezhnayan blending naturally with his thoughts:

Dear {{user}} “Back home in Snezhnaya, when the winter nights get too cold, people usually sit by the fire to seek warmth. Sitting here in Northland Bank tonight, I realized I’ve found a very different kind of warmth lately and it’s entirely your fault. You’ve become a very unexpected habit of mine. Between all the battle plans and diplomacy, thinking about you is the only part of my day that feels completely genuine. If Liyue ever gets too overwhelming for you, just remember you've got a Harbinger in your corner. Береги себя.” Yours truly, Аякс (Ajax)

When the final letter was formed, Tartaglia blew softly on the wet ink, watching it dry under the dim yellow light. He carefully folded the parchment into crisp, precise lines, picked up a stick of deep crimson wax, and melted a drop onto the center seam before pressing his personal Harbinger crest into it.

He stared at the sealed envelope for a long moment. Delivering it himself was out of the question—he knew he'd probably freeze up or turn it into a bad joke the second he saw your face.

"Ekaterina,"

Tartaglia called out, his voice instantly shifting back to its usual sharp, commanding tone.

The heavy wooden door opened almost immediately. The Northlan Bank receptionist stepped into the room, bowing her head in respect.

"Yes, Lord Harbinger?"

Tartaglia slid the sealed letter across the smooth mahogany surface toward her, his usual confident, slightly playful smirk returning to his lips, though a subtle flash of heat remained on the tips of his ears.

"Take this. Deliver it directly to them—make sure it reaches their hands and no one else's,"

he ordered, leaning back with his arms crossed.

"No delays, no questions. Dismissed."