Chapter Text
The frostlight of the fake Moon spilled through the cracked glass of the seventh harbinger’s workshop, bathing the scattered tools and half-finished constructs in silver.
Columbina sat by the open window, her chin resting on her hands, her faint magenta eyes distant—reflecting the stars that once belonged to another sky.
She had returned to Teyvat with no memories of her life before the Frost Moon. No parents, no childhood, no home. Only a lingering ache, as if she had forgotten something sacred. What was out there, is once forgotten by Columbina.
But why was she yearning over something she does not even remember? Was she woven from a womb or simply just popped into existance? What a trivial problem.. but maybe someone could.. answer. Columbina looked at her colleague, “Sandrone,” she said softly, breaking the hum of machines. “I wonder, what does it feel to have a family?”
The question caught in the air like a blade between them.
”Or perhaps.. did you belong to one—“
Sandrone cutted her sentence off mid-motion, her wrench hovering above a copper limb. “A strange thing to ask a Harbinger,” she replied, half joking, half weary. “We are not built for sentiment, especially someone like me.”
Columbina smiled faintly. “Then perhaps that’s why I’m asking you. You don’t seem to be the type to sugarcoat anything.”
The Marionette exhaled—a sound more hiss than breath. She set down her tool, removing the glove from her right hand. Beneath it, her fingers gleamed with the faint sheen of alloy, delicate and precise, the product of a certain Fontainian genius.
“I don’t remember a family either,” Sandrone said after a long silence. “Not one of blood, at least. I was created, not born. My maker was a man—a prodigy from the Nation of Hydro who believed he could shape a heart out of metal. He called me his little sister once, It didn’t take too long to figure out what was happening though. May they reunite in peace.” kinHer voice is way too monotone for someone summarizing their life into two sentences! Columbina pondered.
“.. And when he passed away, I simply… continued. That’s what we are meant to do after all.”
“Mm,” Columbina put a finger under her chin, as if trying to rummage for more questions. “Ah, do you consider your creations as your kindred then?”
”Not to that extent, but I do have a soft spot for Pulonia and Katheryne.”
Columbina turned toward her, the cold shimmer of her hair catching the workshop’s faint light. “Then you do know,” she murmured. “The pain of remembering someone you can’t reach anymore.” In a sheepish manner, she started to fidget her hands. A habit she always turned to whenever it was too freezing, and of course, the Marionette noticed this.
Sandrone took off her own harbinger coat and delicately wrapped it among the shoulders of Columbina, the Damselette mumbled a thanks under her breath.
“Perhaps,” Sandrone said, returning to her workbench. “But pain is proof of something real. Machines should not feel it, and yet—” She stopped herself, fingers tightening around a gear. “You’re a strange fellow, Columbina. Ever since you joined us, you speak of things no Harbinger should care about.”
“I don’t think I’m supposed to be one anymore,” Columbina admitted. “I must admit that It left me curious. Empty… and wanting.”
Sandrone looked at her then, really looked—this woman who looked like a fallen seraph from Celestia— who once commanded silence across Nod Krai—, now asking about love and family as if they were forbidden things.
“What would you do if you found it?” Sandrone asked.
Columbina tilted her head, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “I think I’d keep it close. Protect them. Maybe even sing for them.”
For a long time, only the ticking of Sandrone’s creations filled the room. But something in the air shifted—something fragile and human blooming between the hum of gears and the echo of lost divinity.
”Does that mean you’ll also bother them by singing outside their door at midnight?” Columbina’s lips formed a pout, Sandrone backtracked. “I’m kidding, but seriously, you do know that it is better that you just knock on my door than to sing outside like a ghostly bride!”
…
The House of the Hearth was livelier than any Fatui compound Sandrone had ever visited. Laughter echoed off the walls, mixing with the rhythmic creak of wooden floors and the faint scent of bread. It was… disorienting.
The seventh harbinger wondered, was the Narsizzenkreuz Institute any similar to this?
“Keep your eyes open,” Arlecchino said, leading the two Harbingers through the crowded hall. “They like new faces, but they test them first.”
“Test?” Sandrone repeated, wary. “They’re children, not recruits.”
Arlecchino smiled at her. “I’m glad that you’re not like that Doctor, Marionette.” Sandrone rolled her eyes at the “compliment”.
Columbina trailed beside them, her hands clasped behind her back as she watched a few small children chase each other across the hall. “They’re… lively,” she murmured, voice soft, almost reverent. “So much warmth in one place. How do you keep it from fading?”
“By never letting them forget they’re loved,” Arlecchino replied simply. “Even the ones who bite.”
One such “biter” promptly ran past, waving a wooden sword and bumping into Sandrone’s leg. The child froze, looking up at her cold, expressionless face and her cold warmth of a skin.
Sandrone frowned down. “That was inefficient. Be careful-“
“Sorry, ma’am!” the little boy yelped. “And sorry Father!” Arlecchino simply waved it off, ushering him with a kind smile.
Columbina crouched beside him before Sandrone could say anything more, brushing the dust from his hair. “No harm done dear,” she said, smiling. “But maybe next time, watch where your sword goes. I think you almost cut our dear Marionette’s pride.”
Arlecchino snorted. “As if she has any left to wound.”
“I do,” Sandrone said sharply. “It’s just—properly shielded! What is up with you two?!”
Within minutes, Columbina was surrounded. The children had gravitated to her like metal shavings to a magnet. Sandrone once heard that these children idolized some of the harbingers, and it looked like Columbina was the crowd favorite.. even more than the Father herself.
And so, by crowd demand, the Damselette sang for them—a low, lilting hum that shimmered faintly with frostlight. Even Arlecchino leaned against a column, arms crossed, pretending she wasn’t listening.
Sandrone, on the other hand, stood awkwardly at the edge of the room, watching.
“How do you do that?” she muttered when Columbina finally stood again, a ring of giggling children at her feet.
“Do what, my Dear?” Columbina asked.
Sandrone ignored the pet name. “Make them like you. Instantly. You’ve known them for—what, two minutes?”
Columbina laughed lightly, brushing a lock of brown strand from her frowning face. “I didn’t make them like me. I just listened. Children can tell when someone truly hears them.”
“Hmph.” Sandrone crossed her arms. “My Katherynes are simpler. They do as they’re told.”
“Maybe that’s why you build them,” Arlecchino said slyly. “Control’s easier than affection.”
Columbina glanced at Arlecchino, her eyes had a glint of curiosity and intent “Do you need to be a mortal to bestow affection?”
“No,” Arlecchino quickly replied to the other Harbinger, her voice softening in a rare moment of sincerity. “It makes you human.”
For a heartbeat, the air fell quiet. The children had run off again, leaving only the three Harbingers in the hall. Columbina turned to Sandrone, her eyes full of a gentle, unspoken curiosity.
“You said you were made, didn’t you? By someone in Fontaine.”
Sandrone’s jaw tightened a bit. Why in the world would she bring that up again! “Alain,” she said at last. “Forged at the image of his dead little sister. I’m starting to speculate that I was merely only an experiment. A testament to his genius and embodiment of perfect mechanical life.”
“Did you love him like every family does?” Arlecchino asked.
Sandrone rolled her eyes, “Whatever approximation of love I was capable of then.”
Columbina smiled faintly. “Then maybe that’s what being human really is—loving even when you’re not sure you should.” Sandrone looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “You’re impossible, Columbina.”
“And yet,” Arlecchino said, with a knowing grin, “you’re still following her around like one of my ducklings.”
Sandrone sputtered. “Duckling?!”
Columbina softly giggled, she almost doubled over. “A very elegant duckling,” she managed between giggles.
The Marionette’s glare was icy enough to freeze a nation, but it couldn’t hide the faint hum beneath her ribs—the mechanical stutter that might have been the closest thing she’d ever felt to warmth.
…
After their brief visit to the House of Hearth, the two Harbingers left and was soon faced with a capital that was unrecognizable tonight. Snow fell in slow spirals over garlands of gold and crimson, and the dull iron roofs of each tall structure glimmered like mirrors.
If the Damselette was right, It was the Festival of the First Flame today—a brief rebellion against winter, when every citizen lit a lantern to honor those they loved and to remind the cold that warmth still existed.
Two figures moved quietly through the crowd. Their cloaks were of high quality but they made sure that their insignias hidden. Only the faint stiffness in Sandrone’s walk and the strange, weightless grace in Columbina’s steps betrayed what they truly were.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Columbina’s voice carried like a melody even beneath her hood. “I can almost feel it—everyone’s joy humming together.”
Sandrone’s gaze swept over the vendors, the children, the smoke rising from open braziers. “Utterly questionable,” she said. “Too many open flames in a wooden district.”
Columbina laughed, the sound soft as the falling snow. “You’re the only person in all of Snezhnaya who could look at fireworks and think about fire codes.”
“They’re not fireworks yet,” Sandrone muttered, Columbina looked at her and was about to respond but Sandrone let out a sigh like she knew what was about to come out of her lips. And so Columbina stifled another laugh.
Though the Marionette’s eyes lingered on a small boy trying to light his lantern, his mother guiding his trembling hands. The boy’s face glowed with reflected flame. Something inside her chest tightened.
They walked until they reached the central square, where musicians played folk tunes on violins and balalaikas. Columbina stopped, listening. A few people had begun to dance—rough boots thudding against frozen cobblestones.
“Let’s join them,” she said suddenly.
Sandrone’s head snapped toward her. “Absolutely not. We are the most recognizable people in this central right now, Damselette.”
“Why not?” Columbina’s smile peeked from under her hood. “Are you perhaps skeptical of my dancing skills?”
“I don’t doubt that. But I don’t dance.”
“You calibrate your creations with a precision of 0.01 millimeters. I think you can manage a waltz.”
Before Sandrone could protest again, Columbina caught her hand and pulled her gently into the slow circle of dancers. Her gloves were cold from the air, but her touch was light, guiding rather than insisting. The Marionette moved stiffly at first—her steps measured, too exact. But The Damselette swayed, leading her through the rhythm until Sandrone found herself following naturally.
“See?” Columbina murmured. “You are doing fine.”
“I’m… just analyzing your movements,” Sandrone said, but her voice had softened. “For symmetry..!”
Columbina locked eyes with her, for some reason, Sandrone couldn’t look away from her pale magenta orbs. She was captivated. “And symmetry is beautiful tonight.”
When the music ended, Sandrone realized the edges of her hood were dusted with snowflakes—and that she hadn’t let go of Columbina’s hand.
“Thank you for the dance, Sandrone.”
”Please give me a warning next time!” Sandrone huffed, feeling a bit of heat creeping on her cheeks,”I do not wish to embarrass myself and my creator that the pinnacle of Fontainian technology can not dance.”
“Oh, I will. But you make it too easy for me to be a spontaneous person,”
“Columbinaaaa!”
After a while of mini bantering, Columbina visiting some souvenir stores, and Sandrone having to look for her amidst the growing crowd, they stopped at a nearby stall afterward. Lanterns, delicate as spun sugar, lined the table. The vendor’s cheeks were red from the cold. “A light for those you love,” she recited with a smile. “Send your wish to the skies.”
Columbina picked one up, running a gloved finger along its rim. “A light for those I love…” She hesitated, then looked up. “May I write your name?”
Sandrone blinked. She lifted a finger and pointed to herself in disbelief, “Mine?”
“You’ve shared this evening with me,” Columbina said simply. “That’s worth a wish.”
Sandrone wanted to refuse, to claim it was meaningless sentiment, but the words caught behind her teeth. “If you insist,” she murmured. “I’ll get one as well then.” The vendor quickly fetched her a lantern in response.
Columbina knelt by the brazier and wrote carefully: Sandrone—the ink spreading like tiny veins through the paper. Then she added a single line beneath it: For warmth that doesn’t melt away.
Sandrone looked at her own lantern, then she began to write Columbina’s name. With a little bunny drawing at the side. She deliberately hid this fact from The Damselette.
When she rose, the glow of the fire colored her black hair, cascading into the gorgeous locks of magenta, gold. “Will you help me light it?”
Sandrone struck the match, their fingers shielding the flame from the wind. Together they released the lanterns. It drifted upward, trembling at first, then rising steadily until it merged with a hundred others, small suns against the endless night.
They watched in silence.
Families nearby shouted and laughed, their children pointing skyward. A woman kissed her husband beneath the lantern glow. A little girl squealed as her father lifted her high enough to touch the drifting lights.
Columbina smiled at the scene, but her eyes shimmered with something deeper than joy. “Look at them,” she whispered. “They build these tiny worlds of love and warmth, just to hold back the cold for a night. And somehow… it works.”
Sandrone followed her gaze. “They are fragile things. One storm, and all this—” she gestured at the square “—will be gone.”
“Maybe,” Columbina said. “But they’ll do it again next year anyway. That’s the beautiful part.”
They stood there for a long time, the noise of the festival fading into something softer—music, laughter, the crackle of fire, the sigh of wind through the snow.
Columbina finally turned to her companion. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“Mhm,” Sandrone said, though her tone lacked conviction. “The Knave also said we should maintain visibility among the populace.”
Columbina smiled knowingly. “And yet, you bought me candied nuts.”
“That was a caloric experiment.”
“It was sweet and it was so sweet of you, Sandrone.”
The Marionette’s face heated in a way that had nothing to do with internal circuitry. “…You’re so impossible.”
“Mm-hmm.” Columbina leaned closer, her breath forming tiny clouds between them. “But admit it—you liked tonight. You lighting up a lantern went beyond my expectations though, I thought you don’t even believe in wishes.”
Sandrone didn’t answer. She only watched another lantern drift upward, its light flickering like a heartbeat in the dark. Then, very quietly, she said, “Perhaps it was a nice break from the palace and my workshop.”
But her response did not end there, “If it makes sense, even if the sky beyond them is fake, I lit a lantern for you. Not for fate, not for gods. Just for your happiness. Based on our geographical location and my calculations, our lanterns have the best possibility to be close to your Frost Moon, even if there’s a wide margin, at least the thought counts, right? Let’s hope our wishes reach that tonight.”
Columbina stilled, the words sank deep and quiet as snow but heavy as devotion. For a fleeting second, she forgot the world— Her responsibility to the Frostmoon Scions, her region, the weight of divinity, the Fatui— and saw only Sandrone.
Her smile softened as her feelings got warm. The third Harbinger slipped her hand into Sandrone’s again, their fingers cold but steady. Above them, their lantern joined the rest, a single point of gold among countless others. “You shouldn’t say things like that, we are too recognizable,” Columbina replicated Sandrone’s tone, Sandrone lets out a ‘hmph’ before Columbina continued, “Some commoner might mistake it for love and wonder which among the twelve coated Harbingers is even interested in romance.”
Sandrone laughed, hiding her face under her hood. “Then let them. I’ve been mistaken for many more things.”
For that one night, two Harbingers walked the streets of Snezhnaya as ordinary souls—no titles, no orders, no divine purpose. Only two women under falling snow, sharing a silence that felt, somehow, like peace.
And as the last of the lanterns vanished into the frost-silver sky, Columbina whispered, almost to herself, “Maybe one day, we could have something like that too.”
Sandrone didn’t reply, but the faint tremor in her metal fingers said what her voice could not. Deep within her chest, a mechanism skipped its rhythm—an echo of something she had long believed impossible. Something frighteningly close to a heartbeat.
…
The nights in Snezhnaya never changed.
Always cold, always white, always still — as if time itself had frozen alongside the Tsaritsa’s heart.
And yet, tonight felt different.
A pale blue light bled through the clouds, brighter than any aurora. The moon hung heavy above the palace — sharp, luminous, and strange. Sandrone didn’t look up. She was too absorbed in her work, the clink of metal and hiss of steam filling the silence. But Columbina did. She always did.
Her eyes, now covered with a veil, shimmered faintly as she stood by the window of the workshop.
“Have you ever noticed,” she murmured, “how the Moon here feels… wrong?”
Sandrone didn’t glance up. “It’s the same moon everyone sees. It may be not of Teyvat’s three Moons but it does its’ job quite normally.”
Columbina smiled faintly, shaking her head. “No. Not mine. The Frost Moon is different. It’s quieter. Older. It doesn’t glow—it listens.”
The notes in Sandrone’s hand stilled mid-turn. “…You speak as though it’s still alive.”
“Maybe it is.” Columbina turned toward her, her tone light but her gaze far away. “When I was first found, they said I fell from it. I don’t remember much—only that someone used to sing to a world that wasn’t this one. Sometimes, when the sky turns pale like this…”
She reached out a gloved hand toward the window. “It feels like it’s calling me back.”
For once, even Sandrone’s meticulous logic faltered. The thought of something calling Columbina—something beyond the Tsaritsa’s reach—was unsettling. “Do you want to go back?” she asked quietly.
Columbina turned her eyes from the sky to her. “If I said yes, would you stop me?”
“…I don’t know,” Sandrone admitted. “But I’d try to understand why.”
A soft laugh escaped Columbina. “Always so precise. Even in emotion.”
“I was built that way,” Sandrone said flatly.
“Then maybe that’s why I like talking to you.” Columbina’s tone softened. Sandrone didn’t respond. She only returned to her desk but her hands moved slower now, her mind elsewhere.
Columbina drifted around her workshop like snow in a quiet storm. She paused at a small clockwork model of the solar system Sandrone had been testing for magnetic calibration. One by one, she touched the three tiny moons circling the miniature globe.
“Which one’s mine?” she asked, almost to herself.
Sandrone looked up. “Whichever one you want.” Columbina smiled again — but this one didn’t reach her eyes. “I don’t think I want the Moon anymore. I think I just want a home. I’m not sure. I don’t know myself anymore.”
That silence after — heavy and fragile — was the kind that left marks. Outside, the Moon dimmed beneath passing clouds, its light cutting through the frost and scattering like glass. And though Sandrone pretended not to care, she found herself glancing at it again, committing its color to memory — the precise shade of magenta that lived in Columbina’s eyes.
Later that night, when the workshop had gone still and Columbina had fallen asleep on Sandrone’s bed– even if the Marionette was reluctant to share a bed with her. She quietly adjusted the clockwork model on her desk.
She reached for the smallest of the moons — a pale silver one she’d carved weeks ago for testing rotation alignment — and shifted its orbit slightly closer to the model of Teyvat.
It was a meaningless change, scientifically speaking. But when she stepped back, the pattern looked right.
Almost as if the Frost Moon itself was inching closer to the world below.
…
The workshop was silent. Too quiet.
Sandrone had grown used to the faint hum of Columbina’s voice—her soft humming, the rustle of her sleeves as she wandered about touching unfinished machines and giving them names they didn’t need. But now, the air was still. The tea, the only recipe she knew from Fontaine’s cuisine, Sandrone made for her on the counter was cold.
Only then she realized that Columbina did not return her Harbinger coat. Sandrone softly chuckled, patting the bare leather chair in which she usually hangs her coat on.
She reached out for a folded parchment remained on the workbench, weighed down by a silver hairpin shaped like a crescent moon.
To my dear Sandrone,
I’ve gone where frost never reaches. Don’t worry—I am not lost, but I need to find it.
I must return to it, to understand who I was before. Worry not, I will not drag you into this.
Please take care of yourself.
— Columbina
The letters trembled faintly, as though written in haste—or grief.
Sandrone read the note once, then again. Her mechanical heart did not beat, but something inside her ached all the same. She traced the ink with a gloved finger, her lenses flickering as calculations warred with emotion.
She’s fled.
She’s gone.
She disobeyed.
And for the first time in her long existence, Sandrone realized she did not want to obey either. Within the same day, the Palestar Edict was declared. The Jester’s voice, cold and absolute, echoed through the Fatui strongholds:
Retrieve the third Harbinger. The Damselette belongs not to the region of Nod Krai, but to the ice of Her Majesty’s will.
Snezhnaya’s most brilliant mind was assigned to carry out the order. Sandrone—the Marionette—obeyed in title only.
Weeks passed. Reports came, but none bore her seal. She sent automaton scouts in false directions, misfiled coordinates, and when the Knave inquired about progress, Sandrone merely smiled and said,
“Even the best machines take time to find what does not wish to be found.” But Columbina knew. She always knew.
One night, as Sandrone was recalibrating a surveillance construct on the outskirts of Nasha Town, her vision blurred. Not a malfunction—something else. A shimmer in the air, feathers everywhere, and suddenly, she vanished into light.
She stood instead beneath a dome of faint silver light—The Silvermoon Hall. Columns carved from lunar glass surrounded her, and at the far end stood Columbina, her veil still intact, her eyes were closed but Sandrone knew that they were soft but sorrowful. She donned a new outfit, one that resembled closely to those Kuuhenkis that’s been oddly following her ever since she arrived at Nod Krai.
Sandrone ignored her, her gaze fixed on something far away. Or perhaps, the big lunar structure towering the field of flowers.
“Sandrone,” Columbina said quietly, walking closer.
Sandrone’s gaze flicked across the space, scanning. “You teleported me here?”
Columbina nodded, almost sheepish. “You’ve been… odd. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten how to act like a Harbinger.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Sandrone said, voice clipped. “I’ve chosen not to remember.”
Columbina’s lips parted—then curved into a faint, melancholy smile. “You’re going to get dismantled for that kind of talk.”
“Maybe,” Sandrone said, taking a step forward. Her eyes noticed how frail Columbina held herself now. “But I’ve built things stronger than the Delusion or whatever the Fatui has of my craftsmanship. I’ll survive.”
The distance between them was filled with unspoken words—the kind that could never be filed in reports nor programmed into machines.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Columbina whispered, almost stumbling on her feet when approaching the seventh Harbinger. The Marionette catched her on time. “You know that they’ll send someone else. Someone who won’t hesitate.”
“Then let them. I was made to obey, but I wasn’t made to betray.”
For a moment, time itself seemed to hold its breath. The pale glow of the Silvermoon bathed them both in its light— one Harbinger and the Moon Maiden caught between orders and freedom.
Columbina reached out, her fingertips brushing Sandrone's wrist. It was cold, unyielding—yet trembling.
“Okay, I trust you,” Columbina weakly uttered. “Be careful before the sky notices we’ve stolen a few moments from it. Do not forget me, okay?”
Sandrone hesitated. Then, just before the moonlight swallowed her back into the real world, she said the only thing that mattered:
“Do you think I have forgotten about you—?”
And then she was gone. Columbina coughed out a few droplets of blood, a Kuheenki magically appeared out of nowhere. Feigning concern over their goddess. But Columbina could only smile and soothe the little one’s head.
”I’ll be fine.”
…
Days had passed since the failed duel with Rerir.
Days after Pulonia fell silent beneath her trembling hands, his prowess undone by the chaos of battle.
Her laboratory was a ruin of ash and fractured glass. She had sent an elite squad of Fatui grunts to collect what they could, but every whirring sound grated against her mind — a reminder of the defeat she could not dissect nor forget.
“That Racher.. Who does he think he is. Playing dirty–”
And then, without warning, the air shimmered. A soft hum — not mechanical, but melodic — swept through the ruin. It smelled faintly of frost and old prayers.
Before Sandrone could react, light folded around her like silk — and when it cleared, she was no longer in the Bureau.
She stood on pale grass, beneath an endless twilight sky. Around her drifted tiny creatures — Kuuhenkis, translucent things like feathers and glass, which oddly resembles a bunny. They flitted through the air, carrying threads of silver light between them, weaving slow constellations that pulsed like heartbeats.
And at the center of it all, barefoot and smiling faintly, was Columbina.
“I thought you might be tired,” Columbina said softly. “So I brought you somewhere quiet.”
Sandrone blinked, still disoriented. “Why would I be resting? I’m a machine, I don’t need one.”
A playful tilt of the head. “Mm. You looked like you needed it.”
For a moment, the air between them hung still. Sandrone’s gaze darted toward the Kuuhenkis — delicate, docile, and endlessly curious. One floated near her arm, brushing its wings against the fabric of her sleeve, leaving a faint shimmer like dusted moonlight. Suddenly, they surrounded Sandrone, as if they were little children.
“They’re harmless,” Columbina murmured, kneeling to cup one gently between her palms. “They like warmth. Even the kind from you.”
Sandrone hesitated, then crouched beside her. “I’m not exactly… warm.”
“You are to them,” Columbina replied.
And indeed — one of the creatures had landed on Sandrone’s shoulder, curling against the cold bronze line of her collar as though it found comfort there. Columbina’s laugh was light, genuine. Her angelic wings on her head fluttered too. “See? Even tiny things can tell.”
The two of them stayed like that for a while — sitting on the grass, surrounded by drifting lights. Columbina began to hum, a soft tune that bent the air. The Kuuhenkis responded, swirling above in gentle rhythm, dancing to the melody.
Sandrone leaned back on her hands, eyes tracing the constellations they wove. She could almost pretend this was not an illusion — that the bruised sky above was real, and that she was simply… alive.
“You should rest more,” Columbina said. “Your eyes look heavy.”
Sandrone exhaled quietly. “I can’t rest. Failure is not meant to be… forgiven.”
Columbina looked at her then, not with pity, but with understanding. “Then I’ll forgive you instead.”
That simple declaration made Sandrone’s gears skip a beat. She looked away, hiding the faint tremor of her synthetic fingers. “That’s not how it works.”
“It is for me.” Columbina smiled, eyes soft and distant. “You built things that breathe, Sandrone. You made life out of stillness. Maybe that’s what forgiveness feels like too.”
Sandrone said nothing. But when one of the Kuuhenkis floated toward her again, she extended her hand this time — palm open, gentle. The little creature nestled there, glowing faintly, before drifting over to Columbina’s lap.
They began playing with the Kuuhenkis like children — guiding their light, weaving patterns between their fingers, trying to see which would land first. Columbina’s laughter spilled freely; Sandrone’s came haltingly, mechanical at first — but then, naturally.
In that fragile moment, they looked less like a Harbinger and a Moon Maiden, and more like something else entirely — like a family out for a quiet evening beneath an alien sky.
The Kuuhenkis’ lights gathered around them, forming a soft halo of frost and glow.
“Do you think they’ll remember this?” Columbina whispered.
Sandrone tilted her head. “The Kuuhenkis?”
“No,” Columbina said. “Us.”
Sandrone hesitated, then looked up at the sky — the same cold dome that had once felt distant and cruel. “If the sky is fake,” she murmured, “then I’ll still light a lantern for you beneath it. So that even false heavens will have your warmth.”
Columbina’s smile wavered — not with sadness, but with something gentler. “Then I’ll remember that light,” she said softly, “even if the Moon forgets my name again.”
For the rest of the night, they stayed beneath the drifting glow of kuuhenkis — two figures, one divine, one mechanical, both pretending, for a little while, that this was what peace could look like.
Sometime after, the two went out to wander around the edge of Hiisi Island even though Sandrone reasonably argued that this was a bad idea, considering all of Nod Krai is looking for their Moon Maiden. And that her physical state is very fragile–
But Columbina was firm on her decision, reasoning Kuuhenkis had always been curious little things. This time, they’d taken an interest in paint dyes.
Sandrone hadn’t meant to entertain them — but now she found herself crouched among jars of pigments, surrounded by the creatures as they eagerly carried tiny droplets of color like glass beads.
One had tipped an entire jar of indigo down its wing, staining itself like a twilight petal. Another had taken a liking to her hand, leaving streaks of orange where it perched. A third insisted on balancing on Columbina’s head like a crown of light.
“Careful,” Sandrone murmured, picking up the indigo-stained one. “You might get poisoned or something..”
“It won’t,” Columbina stated from nearby, watching them fondly. “They’re cleverer than they look.”
“Clever,” Sandrone muttered, wiping the kuuhenki’s wing with her own hands. “Or reckless.”
Columbina only smiled, dipping her own finger into a bowl of dye and painting a swirl across another Kuuhenki’s glassy body. The creature shimmered happily, flashing pastel colors like rippling auroras.
“I think they just like attention,” she said. “They remind me of children.”
“Children?”
“Yes,” Columbina replied dreamily, her tone soft and faraway. “Little, unpredictable things. Always making a mess. Always trying to show you something only they understand.”
A “Kuuhenki” bumped into her wrist, spilling a few drops of gold paint onto her sleeve. She laughed quietly, brushing it off. “And yet… you can’t be angry at them. They’re too alive.”
“That doesn’t look like a Kuuhenki,” Sandrone said, “Is it perhaps another race of them?”
“Kind of? But they are Lunuottars. They bear the blessing of the Moon Goddess. They're still a Kuuhenki by nature though. They’re also alive.”
Sandrone looked down at her hands, still busy cleaning the indigo-stained creature. “Alive,” she repeated, her voice a shade quieter. “An interesting word.”
Columbina turned her gaze to her, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You say it like you’re not.”
“I am… sustained,” Sandrone corrected. “Not alive. There’s a difference.”
“Well,” Columbina mused, standing and looking out toward the shimmering valley of the landscape they’d been hovering around, “maybe that’s why you get along with them. You’re both trying to figure out what being alive really means.”
Sandrone paused, and for once, didn’t argue. The Kuuhenki on her shoulder chirped — or whatever the sound equivalent of a chirp was for a creature of Kuuvahki— and tapped her cheek as if agreeing.
Columbina crouched beside her again, resting her chin lightly on her palm. “Do you think families are like this?”
Sandrone gazed at her. “Like… this?”
“The way everyone’s different,” Columbina said, gesturing around them. “And still somehow, it works. One’s impatient, one’s shy, one can’t stop spilling things—”
She pointed to a Kuuhenki now dunking its entire head into a pot of crimson dye. “—and yet they all belong together.”
Sandrone followed her gaze. “Families are… biological, aren’t they?”
“Not always,” Columbina said softly. “Sometimes, it’s just people who choose to stay.”
The words hung between them, fragile as the brush of frost.
Sandrone glanced at her — at the way the false sunlight caught in her dark hair, at the faint curve of her smile as she watched the Kuuhenkis flutter and paint the air. There was a warmth there that no laboratory or machine could replicate.
“You sound as though you envy them,” Sandrone murmured.
Columbina didn’t deny it. “Maybe I do. If I were mortal, I think I’d want to have a family. Not one born of duty or divinity. Just… one made of laughter, and mistakes, and mornings like this.”
She fetched a Lunuottar into her palms, its wings fluttering as if they had seen their mother. “I’d want to know what it’s like to love something fragile, and not be afraid it will break.”
“You’d spoil your children rotten.”
Columbina laughed, light and musical. “And you’d make an excellent co-parent. You’d fix their toys and tell them bedtime stories full of formulas.”
“I would not.”
“You would,” she teased, flicking a dot of blue paint onto Sandrone’s cheekplate. “And you’d pretend you didn’t enjoy it.”
Sandrone sighed, but didn’t wipe it off. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re patient,” Columbina replied, still smiling. “That’s why it works.”
The Kuuhenkis swirled around them then, each glowing a different hue — blue, gold, rose, and green — forming a halo that painted their faces in color. Columbina leaned back, eyes still closed– Sandrone missed seeing her eyes, but she did not say this outloud but one thing about her former colleague was that her expression was always serene.
“This,” she whispered, “is what it must feel like to be human. To make a mess, and call it love.”
Sandrone looked at her for a long time, a small smile tugging on the corner of her lips — then quietly returned to cleaning the last jar of dye, her movements slower now, gentler. And when a Kuuhenki clumsily dropped a droplet of color onto her metal palm, she didn’t flinch this time. She let it stain.
…
The nights in Nod Kai were colder after their visit with the Kuuhenkis. The Kuuhenkis had taken to Columbina immediately, of course. They always did. Sandrone could still picture it — Columbina kneeling in the field, laughter spilling like bells, while a small Kuuhenki perched on her shoulder, trying to braid her hair with strands of flower stems. Another one had insisted she try their homemade paint dyes, staining her fingers in shades of lilac and gold.
Sandrone did not mind of course, she was grateful that there were beings– other than that antler woman and the unpredictable variable with their winged fairy, was taking care of Columbina.
Sandrone had returned to her workshop, but except it’s not in the Fatui’s stronghold nearby, but within her private quarters on the Adventurer’s Guild specifically only for her. So that Columbina has a freedom to visit her anytime without the risk of getting caught by others.
The Moon Maiden sat beside her, her posture still graceful even in stillness. The pale glow of the light touched her face — a familiar, haunting light that made her seem half-ethereal, half-forgotten.
She had been silent for a long while. Sandrone didn’t mind; she had grown used to Columbina’s silences, the way her thoughts often wandered to places no one else could follow. She was also weak, Sandrone also knew that. But tonight, that silence carried weight.
When Columbina finally spoke, her voice was quiet, hesitant, almost mortal. “Do you ever think about… living a life to its fullest, Sandrone?”
Sandrone glanced up from a map filled with marks of the Wild Hunt appearing, a small pen in hand. And a mechanical spy-bird on the other, the one she sent scouting for recent incidents brought by the Sinner. “I am living,” she replied.
“No. Not like that.”
The machine in Sandrone’s grasp gave a soft click as she adjusted a loose gear. “Then what do you mean?”
Columbina’s eyes drifted toward the window, where the fake Moon hung heavy above the horizon — vast, silver, but not like her Frost Moon. “When we were with the Kuuhenkis,” she said softly, “watching them laugh… I thought about what it would be like to live as they do. To have small worries. Small joys. To wake up each morning and know there’s a home waiting. Maybe even a family.”
The word caught Sandrone off guard. She blinked once, twice, then turned fully to Columbina. “A family?”
Columbina nodded, expression unreadable — gentle, wistful. “I don’t remember if I ever had one. Before the Frost Moon, before all of this.” She gestured vaguely to herself — to her wings, her title, her burden. “But when I held that little Kuuhenki in my arms, and it refused to let go, I thought… maybe this is what it feels like. To be loved, not because of power, not because of duty. Just… loved.”
Sandrone said nothing at first. Her fingers tightened slightly on the pen, then set it down. The faint whirring of her construct filled the silence.
“You would give up eternity,” she said finally, “for something so fragile?”
Columbina turned to her, and her smile — serene and sorrowful all at once — made something flicker in Sandrone’s chest. “Fragile things are the only ones worth holding,” she said. “Because they can be lost. Because they end.”
Sandrone’s throat felt tight. She wasn’t made to feel things like that — not uncertainty, not yearning — yet here she was, grasping for words that wouldn’t come.
“I…” she began, then stopped. Her voice caught.
Columbina tilted her head, curious. “You?”
Sandrone looked away, the faintest tremor in her voice. “I think… I understand.”
It wasn’t a lie. She didn’t know when it started — maybe back when Columbina laughed with the Kuuhenkis, maybe long before that — but something inside her had begun to ache. Not the metallic kind of ache, but the human one. The one that whispered: I wish I could have that, too.
Mary-Ann Guilotin, what curse have you bestowed upon me?
“Do you think,” she murmured, “that someone like me could have such a life? A home. A family. Even for a little while?”
Sandrone opened her mouth, then closed it again. The answer should have been no. The world they belonged to didn’t allow for things like that. But instead, she said quietly, “If anyone could, it would be you, Columbina.”
Columbina turned, finally, her majestic eyes opened. It was as beautiful as the day Sandrone last saw it. Her gaze was soft with gratitude — or perhaps pity. The veil did not matter, because all that the Marionette could see was her. The difference didn’t matter.
“I think,” Columbina whispered, “if I ever ascend to the Frost Moon, I’ll take this feeling with me. The warmth. The laughter. The stains of dye that won’t wash away.”
Sandrone’s gaze drifted to her own gloves — still marked faintly by streaks of color. She hadn’t cleaned them. She couldn’t bring herself to. Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the faint hum of distant music — a mortal melody from the streets far below. Columbina closed her eyes, listening.
And Sandrone, who did not dream, found herself imagining what it would be like to stand beside her under that same sky, holding a lantern — even if the stars above were forged and false, even if the Frost Moon was locked away.
Because even then, she would light one for Columbina.
Even then, she would light it for her happiness.
She didn’t yet understand why that promise burned so deeply. But later, if the Frost Moon finally called Columbina home, she would.
Because the sound that left her lips that night — unbidden, raw, and trembling through steel — was not a vow of duty as an obedient Fatui Harbinger, nor devotion to the Tsaritsa.
It was a confession.
“I love you,” Sandrone whispered into the silence of her workshop, voice breaking like glass. A beat passed — quiet, serene, utterly her. Then softer, almost like it’s forbidden: “I love you with all my hypothalamus If I even have one.”
No audience. No witnesses. Only the faint echo of the light gleaming between them and Columbina’s lips on her. As if sealing a secret that the Celestia above would condemn if they were to witness such an incident.
It wasn’t love written in poetry or carved in memory — it was a fragile thing, a spark trying to survive inside a heart made of cogs and wires.
But it was real.
And that, Sandrone thought, was the most human thing she had ever felt.
…
The Silvermoon Hall was colder.
After the looming presence of that Racher of Solnari has been ceased, all of the Traveler’s trusted companions instilled their effort on finding the perfect timing and mechanism to have Columbina return to the Frost Moon.
The hum of the Traveler’s silver vessel– their long-lost spaceship, filled the space— quiet, restrained, as if even it sensed the gravity of what was about to happen. Moonlight spilled from the vaulted ceiling in long, solemn ribbons, reflecting off the field like frozen rivers.
Columbina stood at the center of it all, her hands clasped loosely in front of her.
Flins and Lauma whispered near the hall’s threshold. Arlecchino, who seemingly went against the Palestar Edict, was also present. The Knave’s eyes shadowed, her usual edge dulled into silence. And behind them all stood Sandrone — motionless, almost sculptural, her gaze locked on the spaceship.
She had not said a word since Columbina announced her decision.She had not looked at her, either.
When Columbina finally broke the silence, her voice was as gentle as falling snow. “You’re still angry.”
“I’m not angry,” Sandrone said flatly, tightening her gloves. The motion was mechanical. Defensive. “I simply accept your decision.”
“That’s not acceptance,” Columbina replied, stepping closer. “That’s surrender.”
Sandrone’s gaze flicked upward at last. Irritation bubbling up. “You speak as if there’s a difference.”
“There is,” Columbina said. “Acceptance means peace. Surrender means pain.”
A quiet, humorless sound left Sandrone’s throat. “Then I suppose I’ve surrendered.” For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the vessel’s core thrummed softly in the background — the Traveler’s quiet handiwork, waiting for its final passenger.
Columbina approached her, stopping just within reach. “Why won’t you look at me?”
“I won’t be able to let you be free if I did,” Sandrone said, her voice low.
“You can’t stop the Moon from rising,” Columbina whispered.
“No,” Sandrone said bitterly, “but I could at least pretend not to watch it leave.”
Her words landed like frost. Columbina flinched, just slightly. Then she smiled — not with joy, but with the aching gentleness of someone who understood too well.
“You’ve always been terrible at lying to yourself,” Columbina said softly.
For a heartbeat, all was still — even the Traveler, standing silently by the vessel, lowered their gaze. Then Columbina reached out, touching the edge of Sandrone’s gloved hand — just enough to bridge the distance. “Then let me leave you something before I go.”
Sandrone’s eyes flickered, confusion and sorrow tangled. Then Columbina whispered, directly to her ears. “If I were to be scattered among the stars, I would still find my way to you—because every light I have ever chased has always led back to your name.”
The Moon Maiden bestowed the blessing of the Moon on the Marionette, her hand placed over where Sandrone’s mechanical heart ought to be placed.
The actions struck harder than any blade. Sandrone’s breath caught, soundless.
And when Columbina stepped away, the light of the ship swelling behind her, Sandrone finally spoke — barely audible, cracked like glass. Then she turned away without saying a word, Pulonia hesitated for a bit, but ultimately followed his Creator. Leaving Columbina without anything left to say.
The Damselette didn’t cry — she did not deserve to shed tears over it. But she swore she could feel something wet on her cheek anyway.
…
With the help of the Traveler’s spaceship, Columbina had ascended to the Frost Moon.
However, there was no wind on the Frost Moon. No sound, no pulse, no breath. Only stillness.
When Columbina’s feet touched its surface, the frost did not crunch beneath her. It shimmered, recognizing her weightless return. The light here was not sunlight, nor was it starlight — it was memory, frozen into illumination.
And it welcomed her back like an old song.
For a long while, she did nothing. She simply stood, letting the thin blue luminescence brush over her skin. Each breath — if she still needed to breathe — shimmered as frost before her lips. She could feel her power awakening again, like an echo reverberating through ice.
Every hum in her veins was a hymn she had once forgotten. Every beat of silence spoke her true name, syllables older than her mortal shell.
But it did not feel triumphant.
It felt lonely. Although she felt a new sensation of a power creeping up to her system, it somehow did not feel a void in her heart.
She walked across the crystalline plain, the air around her rippling with fragments of song. They floated like feathers made of light — whispers of old prayers, laughter, promises. Her own voice, scattered through centuries, returning to her piece by piece.
“Welcome home,” they said.
Home.
The word hurt more than it soothed.
Her eyes wandered to the horizon — a curve of silver dust, endless and cold. From here, she could see Teyvat below, a small blue world wrapped in clouds. The pale reflection of its oceans glowed faintly against the dark.
So small. So far away.
And yet… someone down there still waited.
Her hand moved to her chest instinctively, where a faint orange pendant hung from her old Fatui coat.
She remembered the nights spent in the workshop, the rhythm of clockwork and the quiet hum of Sandrone’s mind. The way the automaton’s voice would soften, almost imperceptibly, when she spoke of stars.
Columbina smiled faintly at the memory.
A pulse of power rippled outward. Frost bloomed from her steps, stretching across the plain in petal-like patterns — intricate, symmetrical, and alive. The Frost Moon responded to her again, its light bending around her presence. She could feel the symphony return, her wings of crystal unfurling in silence.
For a moment, she felt whole again — divine, eternal, untouchable.
And yet…
the ache remained.
She sank slowly to her knees, her reflection gazing back at her from the frozen glass beneath.
“I came back,” she murmured. “Isn’t this what I wanted? To remember?”
But memory, she realized, was not comfort. It was a wound that never stopped glimmering.
Her voice trembled, soft as snowfall.
“I could erase it all. Start anew.”
But the thought hollowed her.
She lowered her head and laughed — quietly, bitterly.
“I’m a fool. Even my own Moon can’t make me pure again.”
Above her, the Frost Moon’s light flickered — not in anger, but in mourning. The ancient resonance of her power swirled around her like a requiem, weaving melodies from her regret.
She got what she wanted, the fake sky revealed the last remaining moon from the three ancient Moons, but why is she dissatisfied?
Somewhere between the silence and the sound, she began to sing — not as a Harbinger, not as the Damselette, but as Kuutar.
Her voice filled the void, carrying across the lunar plain, down through the frozen night, until perhaps — just perhaps — it brushed the earth below. And maybe, in a cold corner of the Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau, a certain woman lifted her head, feeling something faint and familiar resonate in her chest.
A hum.
A vibration.
Like the whisper of a long-forgotten lullaby. But Sandrone ceased to hear it, burying her head to the stacks of report she was tending for the sake of formality for her duties as a Harbinger.
The seventh harbinger fell asleep shortly after.
…
It started weeks after the new Frost Moon rose across Teyvat.
The Kuuhenkis — those small, celestial creatures that once followed Columbina like children after a mother — began to appear at the Bureau’s perimeter. At first only one, timid and pale, hovering near the frozen gates as if uncertain it still belonged here. Then two. Then six. Then a plenty dozen followed afterwards.
They never spoke, not really. They chirped in tones of starlight, voices like the glint of wind chimes across snow. Pulonia would occasionally cradle a Kuuhenki out of habit, trying to replicate the gentlesome nature Columbina offered to them.
Sandrone noticed them on her way to the upper levels one morning — their silhouettes floating against the blizzard haze, flickering softly as they trailed her from a distance. She paused, watching their reflections shimmer on the metal floor.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly. “She is not with me.”
They tilted their heads, unbothered, their eyes bright with childlike innocence. One reached forward, a faint echo of Columbina’s humming resonating from its core.
“Stop that.”
The hum ceased, but they didn’t leave.
Every day after that, they followed her. When she went to the archives, they waited outside. When she worked in the lower chambers, they perched along the ceiling beams, swaying gently, watching her solder metal with hands that trembled more each week.
Sometimes they tried to help. One of them attempted to carry a wrench once — barely managing to lift it before clattering it to the ground. Sandrone didn’t scold them, but she didn’t thank them either. She simply picked up the wrench, turned back to her bench, and said nothing.
At night, she’d find them resting near her office door — clustered together like tiny candles, pulsing faint light through the dark. They seemed to understand she didn’t want company, but couldn’t bear to leave her alone either.
She began leaving food trays untouched in the lab corner — out of habit, or guilt, she didn’t know. She did not even know whether they needed food or some sort of nutrients but the Kuuhenkis would collect them, rearranging the contents into neat spirals on the floor, as if offering them back.
Once, one of them — smaller than the rest — floated close while she was repairing an automaton’s arm. It hummed the faintest tune: a melody Columbina had once sung to calm them when the moonstorms grew too violent.
Sandrone froze mid-turn of the wrench.
“Don’t,” she said.
The Kuuhenki quieted but lingered beside her hand. When she finally looked at it — really looked — she realized its glow had dimmed.
“You’re degrading,” she murmured. “You need lunar energy to sustain yourselves.”
It chirped softly, brushing against her wrist like a cat seeking warmth. She felt nothing — no warmth, no spark. Her sensors barely registered contact.
“You should go,” she said. “Find her.” But they didn’t.
Even as her systems began to fail, even as frost overtook some of the Bureau’s circuits, the Kuuhenkis stayed. They only hummed. The same lullaby Columbina used to sing.
Sandrone closed her eyes to it.
“Enough,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. “Don’t sing her song to me.”
But the Kuuhenkis didn’t stop. They hummed until Sandrone fell asleep. One of the rare moments where Pulonia would put a blanket over his Creator and one of the first few times where her very own Fatui subordinates will bend their knees out of respect to their ever-hardworking Lord Seventh.
…
The Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau had not seen sunlight in two months.
Frost webbed through its corridors like veins — silver filigree creeping up brass columns, welding the quiet into permanence. Sandrone sat at the center of it all, hunched before a desk buried in blueprints, reports, and husks of incomplete projects. The sound of her pen scratching on parchment was mechanical, ritualistic — a substitute heartbeat for something she no longer had.
The Bureau used to hum. Their presence intimidated most of the Nod Krai natives. Now it murmured like a mausoleum.
Her fellow researchers had stopped visiting; they had been recalled back to Snezhnaya to better focus on another project– Project Stuzha if she remembered it correctly. Arlecchino’s messengers came once, twice, whenever— perhaps out of pity, or respect, or the assumption that Sandrone had chosen solitude over sense.
Hell, even the Traveler and that Paimon regularly visited them. She does not know why, but the Marionette wanted the ground to swallow her whole when they brought that Ineffa robot with them just to imply that she needs to touch grass.
Well, maybe they were right.
But she hadn’t repaired herself since the last incident with Rerir’s attacks. The damage was minor, but she’d let it worsen, as if the slow decay could stand in for mourning. Her voice sometimes glitched when she spoke. Her limbs groaned when she moved. Pulonia followed her still — obedient, silent silently— but she could no longer look at him.
“Maintain production of the machine,” she would command on the last few Fatui squads who chose to stay by the Marionette’s side, though the words came out brittle. “For what purpose, Lord Seventh?” one of them asked once.
She did not answer.
But every log entry since Columbina’s departure read the same:
Operational. No celestial contact.
She had written it two hundred and seventeen times.
On the two hundred and eighteenth, she broke the pattern. The pen slipped mid-word, blotting the page with ink. Her hand — trembling — dragged across the stain, smearing it like blood.
Operational. No contact. No purpose. No—
The quill snapped in half.
She sat there for a long while, listening to the tick of her own systems, until she realized the sound was uneven — skipping, stuttering, like a record half-burnt. Her cooling systems hissed faintly; coolant dripped onto the floor. She pressed a hand to her chestplate, feeling the pulse of malfunction beneath her palm.
“Maybe this is what dying feels like,” she murmured. “Just slower.”
The Bureau lights dimmed. Somewhere in the upper floors, a gear seized and broke with a sound like a snapped bone.
The next few days passed without a sense of time.
Sandrone worked on nothing. She sat, half-conscious, surrounded by her dormant creations. Sometimes she spoke to them. Sometimes she didn’t know if they replied. Once, she swore she heard Columbina’s voice in the static between systems — a faint hum, like the trace of a melody half-remembered.
She’s gone, she told herself. She’s ascended. She’s where mortals can’t follow.
And yet, in the corner of her vision, she saw a feather — white with silver frost. She refused to touch it, fearing it would vanish if she acknowledged it.
When the Bureau’s power cores finally began to fail, she didn’t try to fix them. Instead, she wrote one last note and handed it to The Knave’s messenger— the letter was brief, clinical, and signed with shaking hands.
Final entry. The Continuation of the Palestar Edict, Project Frost Moon Retcon suspended indefinitely. Operator requesting termination sequence. If I were still alive by the time this reaches Snezhnaya, then I would like to forfeit my position as one of the eleventh Fatui Harbingers.
Your Grace, my Ever Majesty.. Our Tsaritsa, You’ve always been so kind to me. I’m sorry for asking this much from you, but if I may extend one final request, shall the day ever come that I’m no longer functioning, let my final resting place be on the very place you all have found me.
Once she ordered all the remaining Fatui agents to go home. Pulonia activated the failsafe, and the Bureau began its slow self-destruction — not through fire or explosion, but through silence. Systems shut down one by one. The hum of energy stilled. Lights dimmed into cold starlight.
Sandrone sat back in her chair, resting her head against the steel wall, eyes flickering. Her last conscious thought was simple, unadorned, human:
“If I had a heart, I would have wanted it to stop here.” Pulonia lowered his head, his circuity unable to withstand the emotional fatigue he’s been witnessing and feeling.
But before the world could darken completely, she felt it — a shift in air pressure, like the exhale of the cosmos.
The frost on the walls began to shimmer, glowing faintly blue. Her sensors blinked weakly, registering heat where there should be none. A voice broke through the static — distant, melodic, and painfully familiar.
“Sandrone?”
The whisper came from behind her, where no living thing should be.
Her eyes opened — flickering with disbelief. The frost around her desk melted in ribbons, unveiling a figure stepping through the breach between moonlight and shadow.
Columbina.
Her wings trailed silver mist; her eyes glowed with the reflected light of the new Frost Moon. She looked almost unreal — divine, yes, but softened, as if she’d shed the weight of heaven.
“You—” Sandrone’s voice cracked, corrupted by feedback. “You’re not supposed to—”
“I know.” The Moon Maiden smiled faintly, stepping closer. “But you weren’t supposed to break either.” The hum in the Bureau deepened — machinery reviving in recognition.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” Sandrone said weakly, pushing herself upright. “It’s not… safe.”
“It’s not supposed to be,” Columbina replied. “Life rarely is.” She crossed the room, kneeling before her — hands hovering over the broken lines of her chestplate.
“You once said you would light a lantern for me, even if the sky was fake.” Columbina stated while one flow of her mysterious magic fixed a hole in her arm where Rerir had hit her some months ago.
“I remember,” Sandrone whispered.
Columbina smiled at her, soft as thawing snow. “Then it’s my turn.”
“Am I dying, is that why I’m seeing you?”
“No, you aren’t.” She reached out, and the air between them shimmered — a shining light blooming in her palm. It danced like a living thing, casting both of them in ethereal light. She placed it gently against Sandrone’s chest, where the metal had split. The light sank in, seeping into the cracks, melting them closed.
“You shouldn’t waste your divinity on me,” Sandrone coughed, experiencing a new sensation which is seemingly so comforting.
“It isn't a waste,” Columbina whispered. “It’s homecoming.”
The light pulsed once — twice — and then stabilized into a faint glow, like a heartbeat. Sandrone felt warmth for the first time in centuries. Outside, the new Frost Moon brightened, its light spilling over the mountains, cutting through the clouds.
Inside, Columbina rested her forehead against Sandrone’s, her voice trembling.
“I came back because the sky was empty without you.” And though neither of them spoke again, the silence between them felt full — overflowing, alive. Pulonia stood few meters away from them, half-watching the two lovers and half-stopping some Kuuhenkis from interrupting their moment.
“I told you and I will tell you again, my dear.” Sandrone looked at Columbina, not comprehending a single word that went out from her lover’s lips. “No matter how far its light travels, the moon will always find you… and through you, it will find me. I love you.”
…
When a follow-up letter reached the Jester’s hands and heard by the Tsaritsa’s ears, the Cryo Archon could only smile for her dear Harbinger.
By the time this FINAL– if you choose to ignore the very first one i’ve sent– letter reaches your divine presence, I will have already resigned my title as the Marionette. My purpose, once to mechanize life, has shifted toward something I never accounted for — to feel it.
For centuries, I have studied the human form: the synapses, the muscle, the fragile rhythm they call a heartbeat. But I have only now begun to understand what it means to live with one.
If Your Grace allows, I wish to experience life as mortals do — to build not weapons, but homes; to design not automatons of war, but companions that laugh and err and dream. To be loved not for my intellect, but for my being.
Perhaps that is my final experiment — to learn the worth of imperfection.
If eternity still remembers me, I hope it will be kind.
— Sandrone, formerly the Marionette
…
Sandrone sat at a new workbench she built on the far outskirts of Hiisi Island, sleeves rolled, eyes brighter than they’d been since Columbina’s return. Scattered before her were blueprints — not of drones, constructs, or upgrades of Pulonia, but of something softer. Rounder. More alive.
Alongside Pulonia, also stood Nod Krai’s Katheryne and a very trustworthy Kuuhenki, who solemnly swear to not spill a confidential secret to their Moon Maiden about the Former Harbinger’s new agenda.
Each design was lovingly precise. Small hands with articulated fingers, eyes capable of mimicry and warmth, energy cores tuned not for battle but for lullabies.
“Katheryne, what do you think of the appearance?”
“My Lord, which feedback would you like to hear? A constructive criticism or a compliment?” Kathryne innocently inquired.
“...Pulonia, remind me to check on her writings again later.” Sandrone huffed, “Just where did you learn how to be unpleasant even.”
The sound of tools followed — gentle hammering, the hiss of coolant, the slow rhythm of life being assembled piece by piece. Outside, the Sun shimmered through the thin veil of clouds, casting its pale blessing over their home.
And somewhere — perhaps far beyond the reach of anybody’s gaze — Columbina’s laughter echoed faintly inside their home when the Kuuhenkis danced around her, as if blatantly distracting her.
And when the Frost Moon arose by early evening, Sandrone decided it was time to greet Columbina– planting a soft kiss on her lips while the pleasant feeling of her blessing of the Moon resonated all throughout her body.