Chapter Text
Despite what everyone believed, Rosaria had not torn her habit intentionally.
She despised the thing—let there be no doubt about that. It had been itchy and confining and when its accursed seams finally ripped themselves open one day, well, what was there to be done? Now, she kept wearing it even though the skirt was cut short around her thighs, even though the coif had shifted back to cover her head only barely. Perhaps it wasn’t pious, but at least she could move.
The crown, on the other hand, had been very intentional. Secret trips to the blacksmith and all the illicit funds she could snatch from the pockets of thieves, and it still took a month to create. Nevertheless, when it was done, Rosaria held the wickedly-wrought spikes of cold, dark metal in her hands, and she smiled. The uniform she wore now was not hers and would never be hers, but at least it wasn’t quite theirs.
Not that any of this mattered. The only people who cared about her outfit were citizens of Mondstadt who feared the Church had made a mistake in claiming such an irreverent nun. For the other nuns, it was the least of their concerns about Sister Rosaria. Much higher on the list would be her tendency to seek out situations “unbefitting to the duties of a clergywoman”, as Sister Victoria so liked to put it. Rosaria couldn’t deny that accusation; really, the clergy didn’t know the half of it.
For example, none of the nuns knew a thing about why she wasn’t at the Church tonight.
“I’m not telling you anything,” the Treasure Hoarder snarled.
Quick as a blink, Rosaria’s switchblade pressed against his throat. “I suggest you rethink that decision.”
The thief grimaced, leaning away from the weapon as far as his bindings would allow. Any further, and he’d hit his head against the rock she had him propped against. “Look, I don’t—I don’t know anything! They don’t trust me with that kinda stuff.”
Rosaria dug the blade in a little further; blood began to bead on his skin like tiny, glittering jewels. “Who are they?”
The Treasure Hoarder closed his eyes, his bravado slipping away. “My—My superiors. Please, just don’t kill me. Please!”
She pulled her switchblade back with a disgusted sneer. “Then give me something useful.”
He gulped in breaths of air as though his lungs had never been full before. “They’re planning an attack tomorrow. I don’t have the time or coordinates.”
Rosaria studied the way the silver knife gleamed in the moonlight that shone through the canopy of leaves above. “Then what do you have?”
“Dawn Winery,” the thief said, his voice a strangled gasp. “My group’s stealing a shipment to resell.”
With a sigh, Rosaria rose to her feet. She surveyed the cowering Treasure Hoarder, the frayed ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, and the trees that pressed around them at all sides. She’d spent all this time, brought him out to the heart of the Whispering Woods, just for that?
“Very well,” she replied. She folded her switchblade into itself, and after a moment’s consideration, smashed the hilt into his temple. His eyes slid closed and his head lolled forward, limp. Out cold.
She could’ve left him there, but this was right in the line of a Knights of Favonius patrol route. He’d be found within a few days, and then there’d be official interrogations and uncomfortable questions that would all point directly back at her. Killing him would be much easier, but she tried not to do that when it wasn’t necessary; it was too much work. So, she dragged the unconscious thief to the nearest forest pathway, where Treasure Hoarders liked to rob unsuspecting travelers. He’d be found by his group soon enough, or by another one; either way, it wasn't Rosaria's problem anymore.
The moonlight overhead bathed the forest in its pearlescent glow as she hurried back to Mondstadt. It was the two of them, alone in the world. The sun would rise soon, and she’d have to deal with the repercussions of what she’d learned tonight. But for now it was just the moon and her child, the purveyor of justice, a nocturnal creature of ice and blood. Her Vision burned cold against the small of her back; she allowed frost to spread across the tips of her fingers.
She reached the gates of Mondstadt as the sun broke over the horizon. The Church bells rang six times, their low peals rolling across the hills of the island-city. Rosaria swore; she was missing morning Mass. The guard at the front gate eyed her with disapproval, or perhaps fear. “Sister? What were you doing out this early?”
“Just a walk in the woods,” she lied smoothly. She adjusted her habit and considered removing her crown, but it wasn’t as if the other nuns hadn’t seen it already.
The guard coughed politely. “Did you, uh, run into a thornbush?” He stared pointedly at her modified outfit.
Rosaria’s teeth clicked as she ground them together and smiled, slow and lazy. “Yes.”
++++++++++
“Honestly, Sister Rosaria!”
Rosaria stared forward. The changing rooms used to be confessionals, until they remodeled the interior of the warren that was the Church’s back hallways, where the nuns resided. You could tell because the crosses hung above the mirrors in each partition were particularly ornate. Right now, it was just the most convenient place for an older nun to pull her aside and lecture her in privacy.
In the mirror, she watched Sister Victoria’s gestures grow wider and more passionate. You’d think the woman would’ve tired herself out by now. With one final grand flourish, she stamped her foot and folded her arms around her waist. “Missing morning Mass? For the second time this week? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Rosaria studied her own blank expression. Had the dark circles under her eyes always been there? She couldn’t care any less, but perhaps the others might wonder where she spent her nights.
“Rosaria?” Sister Victoria prompted.
Slowly, she fixed her gaze on Victoria’s—her real gaze, not the one in the mirror. “Sorry.”
“That’s it?”
Rosaria shrugged. From the way the woman’s mouth tightened, she’d likely taken it as an insult. Well, that wasn’t Rosaria’s issue. “What else do you want me to say?”
Sister Victoria opened her mouth, clearly ready to extend the lecture by another quarter hour, then hesitated. “Fine, then. Insolent child. You may make up for it by praying for the time you missed and by assisting with the recital tonight.”
“Ah. Thank you.” Rosaria was twenty now, far from a child (though insolent might still be an apt descriptor), but in Sister Victoria’s eyes she would always be a quiet young teenager in need of spiritual salvation. First impressions really did matter, it seemed.
“Be ready by six,” Sister Victoria added. “Sister Barbara’s turning out to be quite a musical prodigy, and we would hate for her not to have the proper accompaniment for her debut performance.”
Rosaria smiled, as non-antagonistically as she could manage. “Might I have some privacy for my prayers?”
Sister Victoria brightened. “Of course, Sister Rosaria.” Rage forgotten, she ducked her head and hurried out of the changing room. Rosaria watched her leave idly. For the past five years, she’d been late to Mass, classes, recitals, every Church event you could name, and yet the older nuns never seemed to lose any of their shock at her behavior.
She leaned forward, putting her arms on the small dresser below the mirror. By her estimation, there were only about forty-five minutes until the bells rang again, but that was all she needed. Before she put her head down, she caught her eyes in the mirror and smirked at her reflection. “Barbatos, grant me freedom,” she mouthed, and then her head was on her arms and she was asleep.
+++++++++
The Knights of Favonius Headquarters were shockingly crowded for ten o’clock in the morning. The main hall was crowded, not with Knights, but with civilians of all ages. They chattered amongst each other or went through stretches and breathing exercises. Rosaria recognized some of them as frequent visitors to the Church’s injury ward. A grey-haired woman about her age met her eyes, offering her a nervous smile. Rosaria scowled and looked away.
“It’s the entrance exam for all prospective Knights,” a voice said from over her shoulder. “You picked a bad day to visit, Rosaria.”
That was what he called her—not Sister Rosaria. Just her name. Likewise, she’d never once referred to him as Captain of the Cavalry or whatever his ridiculous title was. She turned to find him surveying the crowd with crossed arms. A lock of his navy hair had escaped its ponytail, and the fur of his cape seemed unnecessarily fluffy for a knight. The eye that wasn’t concealed under a patch flicked over to look at her, and as always, she was struck by its bright silver-blue, as though the essence of Cryo was distilled within its depths. “Kaeya,” she greeted.
He grinned. “Looking for Varka or Jean?”
Varka. The name sent a pang through her heart. She shook it off and clipped out, “No, actually. I’m looking for you.”
Kaeya raised his eyebrows, gesturing at the crush of hopeful recruits. “I’m a little busy right now.”
“Shall we meet for lunch, then?” Rosaria said, trying only vaguely to keep her tone measured. She wasn’t angry with Kaeya, not really, but she would sound snappish no matter what. Trying to add sweetness to her voice would be like trying to cover the taste of poison with honey.
Kaeya seemed to understand her intentions, because he smiled. “See you then, Rosaria.” Once she’d slipped away from his side, he clapped his hands together and began calling for order.
As she left the Headquarters, someone bumped into her. She hissed, one hand straying to the secret pocket where she kept her switchblade. It turned out to be a tall man, his blond hair unkempt. “My apologies, sister,” he said, before his eyes strayed to her crown. A frown crept over his face. “Did the Church approve of that? It doesn’t seem very pious.”
Rosaria bit back the words she might have spat at the man, her fingers curling around cold metal separated from them by layers of fabric. She settled for snarling, “Good luck,” before disappearing into the crowd like the wisp of smoke she wished she was.
At noon, she found Kaeya right where she knew he’d be: their favorite table, tucked into a secluded spot at the back of the Cat’s Tail Tavern. Perfect for illicit deals and business negotiations. Rosaria and Kaeya did neither together—they just liked the privacy. He was already cradling a drink in his hands, a cocktail he loved that was fruity and heavy with alcohol.
“Miss Rosaria, lovely as always,” Kaeya said, as if he hadn’t seen her only hours before. As she slid into the chair across from him, he met her gaze and held it—it took her a moment to realize he was studying her dark circles. “How was your night?”
She didn’t know whether that was a genuine question, or if he somehow knew about how she’d actually spent her night; the Treasure Hoarder she’d tracked down, tied up, and interrogated, the moon shining through the leaves, watching it all. Knowing him, it was also just as likely to be an empty insinuation. She could’ve told him the truth, but it would require a lot of background explanation, and she had no energy for that. So instead, she shrugged. “I woke up early and skipped morning Mass to go to the garden and smoke.”
“Typical truancy,” Kaeya sighed. His visible eye glittered in the dim lighting as he leaned towards her. “When will you move past this path of waywardness?”
“How was the entrance exam?” Rosaria asked, changing the subject deftly.
He grimaced. “Mostly terrible. It’s always full of overzealous kids who think their muscles can cover their complete lack of technique.” Tossing back a sip of his drink, he added, “It’s too bad you’re a nun. We could use a new knight with your skills.”
“Hm.” Rosaria, Knight of Favonius. Images of blood, snow, and screaming she didn’t control flashed through her mind in quick succession. Her Vision gave a spark that only she could sense, and she curled her hands into fists to prevent frost from spreading across the table. The bartender walked past; she gestured for a drink. “Don’t you think I’m well-suited to my current job?”
“Why, of course,” he answered, that familiar smirk settling over his mouth. “You’re the picture of religious fervor.”
She adjusted her crown with a scowl. “Enough of this, Kaeya. You know what I’m here for.”
His half-smile dropped. It never failed to interest her how quickly he slipped between façades, when she’d never been able to put up a single one. “I do. What do you have for me?”
“There’s going to be an attack at Dawn Winery today. I don’t have an exact time or coordinates, but I know a Treasure Hoarder faction is planning to steal a shipment to Springvale. I’d handle it myself, but it takes a while to get there, and I have… prior engagements.”
“Prior engagements, huh?” Kaeya said, his smirk returning. “Would that happen to mean—”
Rosaria snapped “No, it wouldn’t,” just as Kaeya suggested, “Hmm. Eula Lawrence?”
She slammed her hand on the table, inciting some stares from the bar’s other patrons. “I don’t care about Eula Lawrence! I care about the safety of Mondstadt. Will you go to Dawn Winery?”
“You both have Cryo Visions,” he continued, as if he couldn’t hear her. “That has to mean some kind of compatibility.”
“We both have Cryo Visions, and we can’t even have a serious conversation without you dragging it off-topic. My prior engagement is an order to pick up from Wagner, not a date. Now, did you not hear me about the attack?”
“I can’t go to Dawn Winery.”
Cold settled in the pit of Rosaria’s stomach. “Why not?”
He rested his chin against one hand. “You know things between me and Diluc are… tense. He wouldn’t want my help even if the winery were under siege by Pyro slimes.”
“And I suppose you can’t send any of your knights to guard the road.”
Kaeya shrugged. “All the ones that aren’t already on patrol are dealing with the exam.”
Her drink arrived. The bartender set it on the table gently and then hurried away. While the two of them weren’t a rare sight here, a knight and a nun still made a formidable pair to those intimidated by Mondstadt’s leaders. Rosaria picked it up and watched the wine swirl within. Ice cubes clinked against glass.
“I wish I could help,” Kaeya said, and despite herself, Rosaria believed him. “Really, I do. I know you don’t like to… operate during the day.”
She sighed. “Disappointing as this is, I can handle it alone.”
Kaeya studied her. “Alright.” His hands curled around his glass. “One of these days, I’d like to know exactly where you get your information.”
Rosaria took a long sip of her wine. It tasted sour. “A little thornbush told me in the garden.”
+++++++++
The year was edging close to winter, and there was a long stretch of chilled air lying between Dawn Winery and Mondstadt proper. Rosaria didn’t mind; ever since the night she’d received her Vision, cold didn’t affect her. She still felt it, though, blooming across her bones like frost.
The cart lumbered forward. It had taken some convincing to get the delivery person to let her accompany them on the road. She’d managed to intercept the cart halfway on its journey to Springvale, underneath a large cliff. The deliveryperson seemed suspicious; she let them draw their own conclusions about why a nun would possibly be alone outside Mondstadt’s walls. They watched her closely out of the corner of their eye.
The attack happened an hour into the silent trip.
The first Treasure Hoarder broke through the undergrowth lining the right side of the road. He jumped directly into the cart’s path, causing the deliveryperson to pull back the reins as hard as they could, stopping the horses before he was trampled. “Are you lost, too?” they started to say, but they never got a reply.
Rosaria hopped out of her seat and over the side of the cart, landing lightly on the dusty ground. Her polearm materialized in her hand and she whipped it forward, smashing it into the Treasure Hoarder’s side. He doubled over, wheezing, and she finished the surprise attack by bringing her folded switchblade down on his head. She stepped away as he crumpled.
“What in the name of Barbatos—” the deliveryperson began, but Rosaria ignored them. She stepped forward, scanning the treeline for Treasure Hoarders.
A rustle sounded behind her, and she spun around, only to find herself face-to-face with a gargantuan man. Two other Treasure Hoarders appeared beside him. None of them had Visions that she could see; that also meant they weren’t armed with any swords, claymores, or polearms, as none were visible and only Vision wielders could store their weapons on immaterial planes. The largest one clutched a hammer in his right hand. “Wrong side, sister,” he sneered.
Rosaria gripped her polearm and lunged. The Treasure Hoarder twisted aside at the last moment, so she didn’t impale him like she’d planned, but her weapon still drew blood as it glanced off his torso. He swore and reached for her. She ducked under his arm and swung her polearm like she’d done with the first thief. Her hit landed, but this one wouldn’t be bested so easily. He grabbed her shoulder and threw her to the ground. She rolled back onto her feet instantly, but the precious seconds she’d lost had given her opponent the chance to reach the cart. The biggest Treasure Hoarder and one of the smaller ones tore open the back and started ransacking its contents while the deliveryperson cowered in the front.
The third Treasure Hoarder had stayed, and so it was he that Rosaria faced. “Who even are you?” he scoffed. He wore a long grey coat that looked ridiculous on him, and a belt of what looked like potions was affixed to his hips. “You don’t look like any guard I’ve ever seen.”
Instead of answering, Rosaria hefted her polearm and lunged. He dodged, and she spun back towards him. A noise like shattering glass distracted her. Her feet were struck with a piercing cold, freezing her in place. She glanced down and hissed in annoyance—those bottles on his belt must’ve been pure elemental solutions. Lucky that he’d picked Cryo to throw; her Vision made her immune to frostbite. It was still inconvenient. She ducked under the fist he swung at her and wrenched her ankle out of the solidified potion’s icy grasp.
A hand clamped down on her upper arm. Rosaria started to pull away, but she couldn’t raise her other arm to block while holding her polearm. The Treasure Hoarder grabbed it too, pinning them both to her sides. “Nice try, sweetheart.”
Rosaria was still more annoyed than anything else. Perhaps it was time to resort to a stronger strategy.
Her Vision pressed against the small of her back, an ever-present spot of cold more intense than anything else she’d felt. Taking a deep breath, she let that cold spread through her body, her limbs, into her polearm. She exhaled; her breath came out as a cloud of ice crystals.
The Treasure Hoarder noticed. His grip on her arms loosened. “Wait,” he called to the others, “She has a Vision, a—”
He never got the chance to finish.
When she tapped into her Vision’s power, Rosaria could see the strands of Cryo woven through the world, like a tangle of vines in the chilly air. In her mind’s eye, she reached out, intertwined her fingers with those vines, and pulled.
This time, when she lunged, the force of the elements wrenched her strike forward. Her polearm disintegrated in her fingertips; her fingertips disintegrated, too. What impaled the Treasure Hoarder was not merely metal and wood, flesh and bone. It was a bolt of pure Cryo, flashing pale blue in the afternoon air, and Rosaria tore through his torso with its energy and left him gasping, stumbling, freezing. As she materialized behind him, she spun back around and slashed her arm in a wide arc—another cutting blade of Cryo bit all the way through his chest before reforming into her polearm.
Some Vision users—Kaeya, for example—needed to be in control when they used their Vision. They pulled their elements from the air and coalesced them into meaning, using them like another weapon. Rosaria, however, was not like that. When she used her Vision, she was control, and she was the weapon and she was Cryo. She was more than human. They said, sometimes, that having a Vision meant you had the potential to be strong as the gods themselves. Rosaria believed it. When she entered this state, she was an avenging angel, sweeping in from the realm of moonlight to let her ice leave destruction in its wake.
The Treasure Hoarder was no longer a threat. Rosaria didn’t even bother to glance at him as his body hit the ground with a dull thud. He might even be alive; regardless, it wasn’t her concern.
“Which of you is next?” she asked the other two, keeping her voice measured.
Disbelief shone on their faces. The smaller one was the first to move; he stumbled backwards before bolting towards the treeline. The larger one spared only a brief disgusted look in his direction before refocusing on Rosaria. “Alright, so you’ve got some tricks,” he spat. “That just means this is gonna take longer than it needs to.”
Rosaria calmly balanced her polearm in her right hand. Her Vision was still active, and she’d been building energy. This man had no idea how many tricks she really had.
Once, while spying on a camp of hilichurls that was suspiciously close to Springvale, Rosaria had encountered a bear in the wild. The way the Treasure Hoarder charged towards her now reminded her of that moment. She twisted out of the way of his hammer, feeling the air change as it whistled past. He lifted his arm for another blow. She stepped behind him and converted her polearm to Cryo, slashing through his torso the way she had with the potioneer.
Though he gasped and bent over, clutching his chest, he didn’t fall. “Vision-wielding witch,” he sneered as he righted himself. “I’ve known true cold before. Your little show doesn’t compare.”
“On behalf of the Church of Favonius, surrender now,” Rosaria replied. “Your intent to harm the people of Mondstadt will not go unanswered.”
The Treasure Hoarder laughed, the sound grating. “Oh, I get it. You think you’re some kind of hero. Attacking people, getting involved in situations that aren’t any of your business.” His grip on the hammer tightened as he raised it once more. “Well, you can’t do those things with broken bones. Let’s see how much the people of Mondstadt care about you when you can’t protect them anymore.”
Rosaria could have argued. She could have defended her own honor. But what would be the point, when this opponent would only be relevant for a few seconds more? Nothing he said mattered. She knew what she was doing here.
Since she had begun to use her Vision today, there had been some kind of power building inside her. It felt as familiar as moonlight, as ancient as Mondstadt itself. She’d never particularly enjoyed fighting; it was what she was good at, and so she did it out of necessity. She loved this moment, though, every time. Rosaria took several steps back and leveled her polearm at his chest. She took a deep breath, feeling Cryo energy press in, humming, singing elemental hymns through the clear, cold air.
The Treasure Hoarder moved first. Rosaria was faster.
Her polearm scythed through the air. The Treasure Hoarder jumped back, but it didn’t matter; the edge of it slashed through him in a burst of dark grey and icily-glowing blue. A hazy field of Cryo now encircled both of them. The drop in temperature enhanced her speed, but it would eat away at his energy—not that he would still be standing after this. In the same motion, she leapt off the ground, kicking the sharp point of her heel into her opponent’s chest. As he fell backwards, she summoned every elemental vine around them. This had always seemed like a logical finishing move; after all, what was her Vision, her body, herself if not just another kind of weapon?
She may not have enjoyed combat, but it came naturally to her. She’d taught herself how to fight back when pacifism would’ve left her starving. It was another person who had taught her how to fight well, though. That person was dead now. Every time she used this divine power of hers, she saw his face, and the face of the scared little girl she’d once been.
Rosaria landed seamlessly, falling to a kneeling position. The energy she’d collected slammed into the ground alongside her. It flashed pale blue for only a moment, blinding them both, and once the unforgiving light faded the end result was visible. An incorporeal lance buried in the center of the Cryo field, wound with shimmering vines and roses.
The Treasure Hoarder lay motionless on the frost-choked soil. Rosaria still knelt against it. She tipped her head back, letting her eyes close as waves of cold pulsed over them; these moments were the closest she ever got to prayer.
In the end, both Treasure Hoarders were still alive. The first one seemed physically unhurt, but was still wracked with shivers. The second one, on the other hand, had a gash across his chest from where she’d kicked him and scratches on his arms, as though he’d fought a thornbush. She dragged them both into the forest, where they’d be hidden from passersby on the road.
The deliveryperson must have seen the entire fight from where they hid, but they didn’t ask for an explanation, and so she offered none. She helped them reload crates of wine into their cart. The only time she spoke was once they were both seated in the front. “I need to go to the city. ” The deliveryperson nodded silently, and they were on their way once more.
+++++++++
The bells of the Church rang five times as Rosaria arrived at the gates of Mondstadt for the second time that day. She thanked the delivery person and watched them leave towards Springvale until their cart was a speck on the distant road.
There was a whole hour to kill before Sister Barbara’s recital. Unwilling to return to the Church just yet, she found herself at her second most frequently-visited spot: Cat’s Tail Tavern.
Her and Kaeya’s usual table was taken by a group of whispering tradesmen, so with a scowl, she took a seat directly at the bar. “What’ll you be having today, sister?” the bartender asked cheerfully.
“Get me a Dandelion Wine.”
The cup was slid across the counter; she snatched it up and downed it without pause.
The first time Rosaria had tried drinking was with Kaeya. They were sixteen then, and drunker on rebellion than any other substance. She’d skipped her confirmation class to meet him in the back of Cat’s Tail, where it was rumored that the struggling business owners would turn a blind eye to underage customers. It had only taken two glasses of wine for Kaeya to become a blushing, awkward version of the smooth talker she’d walked in with. She hadn’t known him very well at the time, and it was fascinating to watch his restraint crumble away. That night, he told her how he wanted to step out of his brother’s shadow. Without ever stating it directly, he let her see how lonely he was, and Rosaria listened and accepted it in pensive silence.
It didn’t work like that for her, no matter how many drinks she ordered. You might say she was blessed with limitless tolerance for the poison of alcohol. Still, that night she kept ordering drinks long after Kaeya had to stop. Perhaps that’s why this memory had arisen; perhaps she should try once more to get drunk. Barbatos knew she could use an hour of oblivion.
She signaled the bartender. “I want another glass.”
“Dandelion Wine again?”
“Actually, I’ll take a Death After Noon.”
She sipped the drink slowly this time. The taste brought with it memories of summer, of skipping Mass to meet up without any regard for the consequences, of waiting for the Knights to get back from missions, of swapping information in the shadows. Memories of Kaeya.
“Is this seat taken?”
Rosaria looked up quickly—was it possible he might have thought of her at the same time she was thinking of him? But that interest fell when she saw who’d spoken to her.
It was the blond-haired man from earlier, the clumsy one who’d ran into her in the Knights of Favonius Headquarters. He stood there awkwardly, hands in his pockets, giving her a smile that seemed more like a leer.
“No,” she replied, then regretted it. The man sat next to her and ordered something, then told her his name, Arnold or Alfred or something of the sort. She heard none of it in detail, focusing instead on the drink in her hands.
“You know, I was surprised to see you here alone. You’re usually with that—” he waved his hand dismissively— “Cavalry Captain. Yes, I’ve noticed you! You’re hard to miss.”
Rosaria said nothing.
The man let the silence stretch, then coughed uncomfortably. “Aren’t you going to ask how I did on the entrance exam?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
A frown crept across his face. “Well, that’s rather rude.”
“Alright.”
His annoyance clearly grew at that. “Look, I don’t have to be talking to you right now. I saw you sitting alone and thought you might want some company from a gentleman. I was planning to ask you to the concert at the Church tonight—I heard they have a new musical prodigy.”
“I’m a nun. I’m attending the recital as part of the chorus. Thank you for your… invitation, but I didn’t require any kind of company tonight.”
The expression on his face twisted into something unpleasant. “Oh, so you’re gonna be like that? Just disregard my attention as if it were nothing? I’ve heard all about that Cavalry Captain of yours. How he takes women as lovers, one after the other, then moves on to the next one. That’s the kind of man you want to belong to? You’re not any different than them, you know, no matter how cool you act or how short you cut your holy uniform.” He took a deep breath, then offered her that same smile from earlier. “But I wouldn’t treat you like that.”
Possible responses flickered through her mind—I don’t belong to anyone, Kaeya takes male lovers too, You don’t know anything about us—but in the end Rosaria said nothing. She brought her glass to her mouth and finished her drink, savoring the sweet taste of Death After Noon one last time. Then she stood up, the chair screeching against the floor as she shoved it backwards.
“Where are you going?” Arnold, or whatever his name was, demanded. He reached towards her sleeve. Rosaria twisted her wrist to send a spark of Cryo towards him, and he snatched his hand away.
“Never speak to me again,” she told him, voice low. They were still surrounded by the chatter of the busy tavern, but she was confident he could hear her. “If I ever find out you’ve been harassing any other woman like this, I’ll give you much worse than a glimpse of my Vision’s power.”
Rosaria dropped a few Mora on the counter for the barkeep and left. There was so much more she could’ve said to him, but he wasn’t worth the time or energy.
She owed him nothing.
Sunset came early this time of year. In the budding darkness that had descended over the streets of Mondstadt, Rosaria decided to run the errand she’d been unable to do all day.
As she slipped through the shadows from side street to side street, she passed by groups of marveling tourists, drunk locals, couples out on dates. None of them noticed her. She sometimes felt like a specter, or perhaps a spectator; she was never actually present in the lives of Mondstadt’s citizens. They didn’t know how much of their casual freedom was due to the work of a sinner.
The street that the blacksmith was located on was busy, but the shop itself was blissfully devoid of customers. Wagner scowled as she appeared in front of him. “Sister Rosaria. You said you’d be here by one.”
“I had other things to do.” She reached into one of her many hidden pockets and pulled out a sack of Mora. Wagner weighed the coins with one hand and reached under the counter with the other. He presented Rosaria with a package, wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with plain thread.
“You order the most unusual pieces. It was tricky to make these, I’ll tell you that. Still, I think them and that crown of yours—” he nodded towards Rosaria’s brow— “are some of my best craftsmanship.”
As she took the package from him, feeling the comforting heaviness of the items within, the clanging of Church bells rolled across the city. One, two, three, four, five, six. Rosaria nodded at Wagner. “Thank you for these. I’ll let you know how they hold up.”
Her walk up to the Church was leisurely. She was already late; why not enjoy the chilled night air for a bit longer than she needed to? She entered the building from the back door and spent a while in the tunnels behind the altar, listening to the recital without joining the chorus. Sister Barbara’s voice was sweet, naïve—perhaps she really did have a chance at a musical career. When Rosaria heard the opening notes of the final song, she slipped away once more and found herself seated in one of the confessional/changing rooms.
Her reflection looked no different than it had that morning, save for a few new tears in the fabric of her habit. That didn’t seem right, somehow. The version of herself that sat here now was different than the one she’d been earlier; shouldn’t that difference be visible to others? She shook off those questions and unwrapped the package from the blacksmith. Inside sat exactly what she’d ordered: a set of eight claw rings, made of ornate silver. She placed them onto her fingers and flexed her hand, feeling their fine solidity. Her eyes strayed back to her reflection. Now, she looked like herself. There was no part of her that couldn’t be deadly.
Before she could stop herself, she set the claws against the corner of the mirror and dragged them down. She ignored the horrible sound of blades scraping against glass, and when she was done, her reflection was warped, distorted by four diagonal scratches against the mirror’s surface.
“Sister Rosaria?”
She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to see who’d spoken—she could see her in one of the mirror’s unmarred corners. Sister Barbara was all dressed up in a habit that looked like piano keys, and her hair was styled in two pigtails instead of pulled back and hidden like usual. She looked frightened, confused. Sometimes Rosaria forgot how young she was. It was strange to think she’d been that age when she’d joined the convent.
Sister Victoria appeared behind the younger nun. She didn’t look nearly as sympathetic. “Rosaria,” she snapped. “You knew how much this recital meant to Sister Barbara! And damaging Church property? How could you?”
Rosaria removed each of her claw rings and placed them back in the package. “I heard you sing, Sister Barbara. You sounded lovely.”
“Thank you, but—are you feeling alright?” Sister Barbara ventured. Sister Victoria still looked furious.
Finally, Rosaria turned away from the ruined mirror and faced the pair of nuns. She smiled, gentler than she ever had before, but she was sure her expression still carried an undercurrent of bitterness. She always did.
“I quit.”