Chapter Text
A few months after Sandrone’s death and Columbina’s near erasure, all Arlecchino could think about was how tired she was. Not the kind of exhaustion that sleep could fix. The kind that settled deep in her bones and refused to leave.
Rays of light barely slipped past the heavy curtains of her rented inn room, thin and pale as they cut across the floor. She squinted at the intrusion, eyes burning, head pounding dully. Something sat on her desk- papers, stacked carelessly.
Reports?
That shouldn’t have been there.
She distinctly remembered filing for a vacation months ago, long before the events in Nod-Krai had spiraled into blood and ash. She had made sure of it. Had even confirmed it twice. Slowly, she pushed herself upright. It couldn’t be an emergency. If it were, someone would have come in person. Someone always did.
She crossed the room anyway, bare feet cold against the floor. The moment she reached for the papers, her vision swam. Dark spots bloomed at the edges of her sight, spreading too fast.
Her knees buckled.
A dull thud echoed through the room.
The world went black.
She woke with a sharp gasp.
The first thing she felt was warmth, rough and unforgiving beneath her palms. Concrete. The second was noise. Loud, overlapping voices, too many of them, pressing in from every direction.
Arlecchino sucked in a breath and gagged.
The air was thick with unfamiliar smells. Oil. Smoke. Something artificial and sharp.
She pushed herself upright, head throbbing as she took in her surroundings.
People.
Crowds of them.
Brightly dressed, loud, careless. Laughing children tugged at their parents’ hands. Strange metal carriages roared past without horses, moving far too fast for comfort. Lights blinked and flashed overhead, overwhelming in both color and intensity.
She swallowed hard.
She was sitting in the middle of a busy street.
Arlecchino rubbed at her head, wincing as numbness flared painfully down her leg. She shook it out, jaw clenched as pins and needles burned through her skin.
She, the Fourth Harbinger of the Fatui, a killer, the last heir of the Crimson Moon Dynasty, was sitting on her ass like a lost civilian.
That alone felt wrong.
Her thoughts spiraled, sharp and disordered. How did she get here? The last thing she remembered was collapsing in her room. This had to be some kind of trick. An illusion. A poorly executed one, at that.
Her gaze flicked to the side.
A bag hung loosely over her shoulder.
She didn’t open it yet. She didn't want to.
“Hey, sweetie.”
The voice came from behind her—rich, smooth, and unfamiliar. Speaking in Inazuman.
Arlecchino froze.
She turned slowly.
The woman standing there looked barely older than she was. Her clothes were neat, her posture relaxed, her smile gentle in a way that made Arlecchino’s stomach tighten.
It reminded her of Columbina.
“Are you lost?” the woman asked.
Arlecchino blinked.
Lost?
What in Teyvat was she talking about?
She opened her mouth to ask her just that, but her gaze dropped.
To her hands.
Her curse receded.
Pale skin. Slender fingers.
No blackened veins.
No crawling marks of corruption.
No burning pressure under her skin.
Her curse, the one that never left, the one she felt even in her sleep,
It was gone.
Completely.
Her breath hitched before she could stop it.
The woman noticed immediately. “Hey,” she said, concern sharpening in her tone. “Easy there. Are you hurt?”
Arlecchino flexed her fingers once.
Twice.
Nothing hurt.
That was wrong.
She straightened, shoulders squaring automatically, her expression cooling as instinct took over. “Where,” she asked carefully, voice low and even, “am I?”
The woman hesitated.
“…Japan,” she said. “Musutafu, specifically.”
Japan.
The word meant nothing.
Arlecchino stared at her, face unreadable. “I see,” she said after a pause that stretched just long enough to unsettle.
The woman laughed awkwardly. “Uh, right. You really are lost, huh?”
Arlecchino finally looked around properly.
Towering buildings of glass and steel surrounded them, reflecting light in blinding flashes. Symbols she didn’t recognize covered signs and storefronts. People moved with purpose, yet none of them carried Visions or Delusions. There is no familiar sense of order in this place.
And yet—
Something buzzed in the air.
Not magic.
Not quite.
Power.
Unrefined. Chaotic. Worn openly.
Her gaze lingered too long.
Suddenly, she was on her feet, ignoring the sharp protest from her legs as she bolted down the street. She didn’t look back.
This couldn’t be happening.
She ran until her lungs burned, until the noise faded into something distant and dull. When she finally stopped, she found herself in front of a small convenience store.
The doors slid open on their own.
“What,” she muttered.
She hesitated, then stepped inside.
The first thing she searched for was a mirror.
Stores in Fontaine loved their reflective surfaces. Surely this place had one.
She passed shelves stacked with unfamiliar objects, their labels written primarily in Inazuman. Her brows knit together.
The woman had said Japan.
This place felt far more advanced than Inazuma ever was, perhaps even more modern than Fontaine, Nod-krai or Snezhnaya. Bright colors assaulted her senses, cartoonish images of people in skin-tight costumes plastered across the walls.
Her temples throbbed.
She already hated this place.
At the back of the store, she found a mirror.
It looked unused, its surface fogged with dust, but she could still see herself.
She looked… younger.
Gone was the menacing, towering Father of the Hearth.
In her place stood a fifteen-year-old.
Her hair brushed her shoulders, longer than it had been back then. Her white hair framed her face in a way she didn’t recognize.
She stared.
She was wearing a simple black long-sleeved blouse, its collar tied with a delicate white bow. Short white pants. Black boots paired with white socks.
The resemblance made her stomach twist.
Too close to the uniforms the old House of the Hearth had forced onto its orphans-
Before she tore it down.
She left the store shortly after, sitting heavily on a bench outside. Her hands shook as she opened the bag she’d been carrying since she woke up.
Inside was her Vision.
It was brighter than she remembered.
She reached for its power—and froze.
Had her Vision fused with her Delusion?
Entirely unheard of.
Dottore would have a field day with this.
A small flame flickered at the tip of her finger. She extinguished it just as quickly. Testing her full capabilities here would be reckless. Especially when she didn’t know who or what controlled this city.
Despite her body being that of a teenager, her power remained unchanged.
How peculiar.
She pulled a small pouch of mora from the Vision, along with a hair tie that once belonged to Lynette. Slowly, she tied her hair into a half ponytail.
This world felt godless.
And that alone made it dangerous.
A scream rang out from across the street.
People scattered.
Arlecchino rose to her feet.
Something was very wrong.
And she intended to find out what.