Chapter Text
A soft crimson dusk was slowly sinking towards the earth. The barely smoldering sun brushed its tip against distant foreign mountains and, slowly but surely, began setting the tops of the tallest trees alight. The warmth was retreating. A wind rose — gliding freely where nothing stood in its way, then raging and thrashing wherever people with their strange, intricate buildings dared block its path. Its invisible wings swept over the city, sweeping up leaves and akademiya caps alike, and high above the patterned rooftops, as well as deep within the corridors of the houses it so despised, its deep, resonant howl carried a wordless, centuries-old ache.
Yet one headpiece refused to be torn from its white-haired owner, no matter how hard the wind tried. Blindingly bright, its elaborate metalwork glinted in the rays of the slowly dying sun, casting a vivid, sharp-edged shadow — one with two tall, wolf-like ears. Its owner, capable of withstanding the wind's every assault, was none other than the renowned General Mahamatra of the Akademiya: Cyno. Finding a small window in his otherwise relentless schedule, he had chosen a leisurely stroll along the outskirts of his city and the sight of a fading sunset over a lonely evening in an empty apartment.
But the call of duty, paired with a nagging, suspicious unease that hadn't released the General for weeks now, did not allow his rest to stretch longer than a few minutes. At present, Cyno was maintaining a steady — but unhurried — run, pursuing two Fatui agents he had discovered dangerously close to the city. Back in that clearing, they had been throwing blades at each other, purely for amusement — because calling it "training" would have been an insult to the word — failing to hit even the trees. The moment the General Mahamatra had appeared before them, they had bolted into the forest with a shriek. Cyno found himself curious where exactly they were running. He knew that, by the Akademiya's regulations, the Fatui were forbidden from setting up camps within Sumeru city limits and its immediate surroundings. And so, instead of arresting them on the spot, he decided to follow.
The agents scrambled clumsily ahead of him, having ridiculously discarded their weapons. They shoved through the underbrush, exchanging unprintable words about their carelessness and their boss's displeasure — a boss Cyno would very much have liked to have a civilized little chat with. At one point, one of them lagged behind to whip a bent-back branch directly into the approaching Cyno's face. The plan cracked under pressure... literally, because the branch snapped. With a terrified yelp, the agent bolted forward so fast he actually overtook his comrade. Cyno only rolled his eyes. Neither of these two idiots looked a day older than twenty, and the General found himself wondering what kind of boss could be so irresponsible as to let two young, inexperienced boys with zero sense of direction wander off into the forest on their own. He also wondered whether these two would actually lead him anywhere at all, or if they'd get so lost that he'd end up having to lead them back out.
It seemed, by sheer luck, that the pair had finally found their camp. The General Mahamatra emerged from the shadow of the trees behind them and surveyed the scene. Three tents bearing the insignia of the Fatui stood before him — the one in the middle was twice as tall and twice as wide as the others. There were several weapon racks for spears, hammers, and blades, suggesting the camp had been set up here for quite some time. A short distance beyond the tents, the ground fell away into a cliff, revealing the wind-swept city of Sumeru below, gilded by the sunset that framed it.
The two agents Cyno had been tailing at a pace that was practically a stroll had, with their shrieking, raised the alarm for the entire camp. The place consisted of a couple dozen boys, none of them looking any more mature — all apparently in the middle of doing absolutely nothing of value. All of them, terrified at the sight of the General Mahamatra on their doorstep, instantly abandoned their leisure activities, their wide, boyish eyes fixed on him. Cyno swept a stern gaze over them. His lips nearly curled into a mocking smile at the sheer absurdity of the situation, but he was still on duty. With a loud thud, he struck the base of his spear against the ground, making every boy before him flinch in unison. He spoke, his voice booming and firm:
"I am the General Mahama—"
His introduction was abruptly cut off by yet another yelp from one of the agents. Tripping over himself, the man sprinted headlong towards the largest tent. Cyno watched, bemused, as the others attempted to stop him, grabbing at his arms, but they were too late. The man tumbled straight through the blue tent flap, which swayed in the wind, and vanished inside.
For a couple of heartbeats, a deathly silence reigned, broken only by the muffled sound of the panicked agent's voice jabbering through the fabric. Cyno narrowed his eyes. The other boys stood rooted to the spot, only exchanging frightened whispers and darting their gazes between him and the tent, waiting for something. The silence was suddenly sliced by the sharp smack of a hand hitting skin, and Cyno understood the panicker had gotten what he deserved. The General felt no real threat — despite the way every coward around him had flinched and screwed up their eyes in fear. Still, on principle, he turned his spear, adjusted his grip to something more ready, and fixed a hard stare on the tent entrance.
The wind that had been troubling the blue flap stilled at the very moment a hand drew the fabric aside without haste. The hand stood out, pale against the dark interior of the tent. From within, a slight figure emerged with a slow step that resonated, hollow, in the surrounding silence. Cyno recognized him instantly: the Sixth of the Fatui Harbingers — the Balladeer. The edges of his wide hat glowed in the light of the departing sun, the black veil behind him swaying with a soft rustle. The trinkets dangling from the cords on either side of it gave off a faint, jingling chime, and it seemed to steal the breath from most of those present. The Harbinger stopped a few paces from his tent in silence, crossed his arms over his chest, and swept a lazy, thoroughly bored gaze over his trembling agents. The moment his eyes landed on the stranger, they lingered. His thin, dark brows twitched upwards, barely registering a flicker of surprise — though they did nothing to alter the way his eyelids always sat low, drooping almost to the pupils.
The Balladeer said nothing for a time, only frowning faintly, as if in thought — though no one could have said he was actually troubled. He studied the stranger staring back at him with a mixture of indignation and bewilderment, thinking and thinking, until at last he dismissed it all with a wave of his hand and a resigned sigh. He rolled his eyes and spoke, his voice a monotone, expressing little beyond boredom. He didn't seem to care whether the interloper standing a dozen meters away heard him or not.
"Hm... I have this feeling I should know who you are, but... Ugh, whatever. I don't care anyway." He glanced at Cyno with a staggeringly breathtaking level of ignorance, shifted his weight entirely onto one leg, and cocked his hip out to the side, his lips twisting with indifference. "What do you want, jackal?"
The indignation at such brazen behavior and the shock of unexpectedly encountering one of the Harbingers surged through Cyno, threatening to overwhelm him. He quickly fought to suppress both. His grip tightened on the shaft of his spear, his narrowed eyes fixed grimly on the Balladeer. Obviously, if a Harbinger was here, it meant Cyno had stumbled upon the trail of something important — something he could not afford to lose, and certainly could not afford to let mere irritation jeopardize. One thing, however, he could not conceal: a small, trembling crease that arched above one side of his nose, betraying his disgust. He repeated his warning, his voice every bit as stern as before, his narrow eyes never leaving the Harbinger.
"I am the General Mahamatra of the Akademiya, Cyno. I demand that you, Scaramouche, immediately explain your presence on territory where the Akademiya's charter forbids the establishment of Fatui military camps. Fail to do so, and I will promptly place you and your men under arrest. Now."
His words were met with no immediate reaction, save for a few frightened whispers. Scaramouche stood before him in the exact same posture, the exact same expression on his face. Nothing about him changed. Nothing changed for several almost-awkward seconds — until, at last, his lips pressed together and a pensive, drawn-out hum escaped them. A moment later, it dissolved into yet another indifferent sigh and yet another mocking roll of his eyes. This time, his shoulders actually deigned to rise.
"No, still don't remember." His gaze skimmed over the agents waiting for some kind of action on his part, still utterly blank and indifferent. Then, with a dull clap, he pressed his palms together and smiled at them. It was a tight, jeering smile, his brows drawn together in feigned sympathy. "Boys. I give you permission to practice those skills you've learned on our guest here. Well — with him, of course. Don't be shy. Show him what you can do."
He flicked his hand dismissively, already turning back toward his tent, while the agents began exchanging bewildered glances. Cyno didn't know whether to laugh at this circus or be furious at such careless treatment, but the Harbinger's behavior was unequivocally getting on his nerves. Not only had he failed to recognize him as the General Mahamatra, but now he was unsubtly trying to sic his worthless underlings on him? Pathetic.
"B-Boss? But how are we supposed to..." one of the boys attempted in a trembling voice, immediately cut off by the bored tone of the turned-away Harbinger.
"There are many of you, and one of him, are there not? Go on, then." His steps gradually slowed, and his voice, with each word, dropped until it was nearly a furious snarl. "After all, must I be the one to teach you that I am not to be disturbed over such trifles, hm?!"
With that threat promising nothing good, he stood for a second with his back to the terrified camp. Then, in total silence, he stepped into his quarters. A moment later, the cowardly snitch came flying out through the blue tent flap, delivered by a well-placed kick.