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Her skin glowed green and blue
The starry sky dimmed by fiery hues
My white dress blew in midnight's view
Of the world reborn, begun anew
Two thousand years and twenty more
And she looked beautiful as ever before
As she pushed me down into the warm
Water deep below my clothes were torn
Lilith by Saint Avangeline
...
…
The wind howled through Nod Krai as though the land itself were alive. Endless forests stretched like ink stains across the white canvas of faint snow, their branches were heavy with ice or flushed with green leaves. The silence is deeper than prayers, Sandrone thought. This was a place even the townsfolk tread carefully, where people were said not only to be careful of the Fatui, but also at the shadows behind it.
The Wild Hunt. According to her research and source, it was that Rerir's propaganda to get to the moon marrows while causing havoc and destruction.
Sandrone had always despised Nod Krai. Too rough, too loud, too human, too crowded. Yet here she was, her mechanical familiar crunching the snow behind her as she approached Silvermoon Hall, a place more legend than stone. The Frostmoon Scions once said Columbina had sung it into existence, that her voice bent reality like glass.
The Silvermoon Hall was not like a cathedral abandoned by gods. It was the opposite, flowers sprawled out everywhere. Lunar structures were towering and full with luminuosity, Its spires caught the moonlight. The sky was similar to stained glass. glowing faintly with scenes of faceless and fake stars. And in the highest seat of the Moon-like structure, pale as porcelain, sat Columbina, waiting.
“You are late,” Columbina’s voice carried the moment. She was not even near the Moon Maiden yet, and already her presence pressed against Sandrone like the weight of sleep.
Pulonia clattered, unease in their clockwork frames. She raised a gloved hand and silenced them.
“You measure time too strangely,” Sandrone replied. “I arrived exactly when I intended to.”
The Damselette laughed softly — or perhaps sighed. “Time bends differently here. Nod Krai devours hours like wolves devour lambs. You will see, my doll.”
Her silhouette emerged from the dim light: her black hair cascading into scarlet tips, white ribbons trailing, and her lips are like the faintest rose– Not that Sandrone was staring. To any other, she might have seemed fragile, but Sandrone knew better. Fragility was Columbina’s weapon. It was how she wrapped hearts, how she pulled entire legions into stillness.
“Let’s cut to the deal. Why summon me here? Couldn’t you just have teleported me in this freaky hovel of yours again?” Sandrone asked, tone sharp. “You do know how risky it is when you had that Luonnatar of yours personally seeking me out…. at the experimental design bureau! Palestar Edict is still in effect, you and I are doomed if they find out about us."
Columbina ignored her last statement, instead, she tilted her head. “I do not control where they go. Furthermore, I thought you were going to be at the adventurer’s guild too.”
The atrium of Silvermoon Hall was not warmed by fire. Only the moon lit its vaulted ceiling, refracting through colored glass into patterns of silver on the floor. Columbina sat by the grand structure, humming a hymn without words. Sandrone stood rigidly, Pulonia stationed like a statue, and the Moon Maiden noticed.
“You surround yourself with it always,” Columbina whispered, not looking at Sandrone. “Do it guard you, or do you hide behind it ?”
“They obey,” Sandrone corrected her. “That is enough.”
“Is it?” Columbina’s voice softened. “Perfection without desire… doesn’t it make you ache?”
Sandrone felt something twist inside her chest — a faint echo of anger, or fear, or longing, she could not tell. Her fingers twitched, as though tightening invisible strings.“They are flawless, everything I make is the pinnacle of mechanical perfection. Or would you rather prefer me being as twisted as that Doctor?” she said again, more forcefully.
Columbina finally turned her gaze on her. “Then why do your hands tremble when you say so?” Pulonia creaked faintly in the silence, as though mirroring Sandrone’s unease. And, she hummed a familiar song again.
The sound was not music but memory — a tide rising in the ribs, pulling every secret to the surface. Pulonia froze mid-motion, their gears stilled by something even Sandrone’s command could not resist.
“What did you do-”
“Shhh,” Columbina breathed, placing a finger to her lips. “They only dream for once. Can you not allow them even that?”
Her lullaby spread like frost across glass, coating the hall in stillness. Even Sandrone’s breath faltered, caught between resisting and surrendering. For a moment, she thought she saw one of her creations turn its head slightly, as though longing — a gesture she had never built into their design.
Columbina’s voice lowered, softer than the snow. “Tell me, my doll. Do you never wish for something that disobeys you?”
Sandrone’s eyes narrowed, but her chest ached with a sharpness she could not name. She hated that Columbina’s words burrowed too deep, like needles under porcelain. She hated it more that she had no answer to her nonsensical questions.
…
Later, when the silvermoon hall had grown quiet again, Sandrone found herself walking the moonlit field with Columbina at her side. The Damselette’s bare feet made no sound against the field, while Sandrone’s boots echoed like clockwork.
Columbina spoke without looking at her. “Do you ever tire of iron and strings?”
“I tire of nothing,” Sandrone said, her voice clipped.
“Lies,” Damselette said softly. “You tire of being perfect, most of all. Please rest, my doll. You’ve worked hard enough already.”
Sandrone stopped walking. Pulonia loomed behind her, silent but tense. She turned to face Columbina, whose expression was unreadable — half-dream, half-sorrow. “Why do you care,” she demanded. “And if I stop trying, he will only get stronger. I will not allow that. I will not allow him to lay an inch on you or the Moon.”
Columbina’s lips curved into something between pity and tenderness. “Because even the moon cares for the puppets dancing beneath it. And because one day, when your creation shatter in the snow, it will not be their silence that breaks you. It will be your own. Do not worry about me, my doll.. My powers.. They will return to me soon.”
Sandrone said nothing. Her chest was too tight, her throat too dry at the thought of Rerir possibly eradicating the only being she’s held close in her lifetime. And Columbina, ever merciless in her softness, leaned close enough that her breath brushed her’s ear. “Stay tonight. Let me sing you restless. Let me see if these strings can take a break.”