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By a fated coincidence, the Harbinger’s formal attire meant came with a pendant matching the hue of the Snezhnaya young man’s eyes.
Dottore stretched out his hand to fasten it below his collar, then casually adjusted the black fur trim along his neck.
“Everyone will address you as Lord of the Ninth Seat from now on.”
The Second Seat smiled faintly.
“Or would you prefer Pantalone?”
“I like ‘my dear companion’.”
The newly tailored overcoat carried a medley of scents: the seasoned tailors and budding assembly lines of the Fatui arsenal, gunpowder, aged iron, the grimy stench of snow, woven together with the banker’s usual cologne. Amid the firelight in the hearth, they exuded a rough, rich aroma.
Feofan had imagined something far more… uplifting. Yet in this moment, all he felt was tranquility.
Zandik wore only a shirt and trousers, without even his gloves. Feofan took his hand, wishing to place every achievement and victory he had earned into that warm palm. He bade him touch the steady thud beneath his ribs, the beat of his heart.
“It races fast.” The Doctor teased. “Nervous for your oath of allegiance to the Tsaritsa at tomorrow’s ceremony? Try not to get flustered and forget your lines.”
“It races because you stand before me.”
I needed to see you. The man in his thirties spoke solemnly. He had finally clawed his way up from the lowest rungs to claim this remarkable promotion: a new uniform, a new appointment, endless unresolved debts, endless intrigue to follow, and likely assassination attempts awaiting him. But seeing the man before him mattered above all else.
Even on this deep night, when everyone beyond the fire’s glow slumbered, and the new future still lay unhatched within its shell. If he was to pluck the fruit, he wished to share it.
“Rest assured. I shall ensure you live safely until tomorrow,” spoke the man who had been his superior yesterday, and would be his ally tomorrow.
If only time could freeze here, leaving them merely Zandik and Feofan.
“Though admittedly, no assassinations have ever taken place inside Fatui dormitories.” The Second Seat kept his tone light, jesting still.
“I wish to swear an oath to you.” The hand resting upon his chest stilled for a heartbeat, yet did not pull away.
Beneath it, the heart began to beat slower, heavier.
“…Are we rehearsing?”
“An oath that belongs solely to you.”
Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel sank to one knee, draped in his ornate cloak over simple thin garments, like a self-proclaimed knight. He spoke his vow. “No third soul shall hear it.”
Those crimson eyes did not turn him away. And so the quiet ritual began.
“Starting tomorrow, I shall stand as your equal.” Feofan clasped that hand tight, as if holding a scepter and orb, a lethal blade, or a bouquet of flowers brought all the way from Sumeru. He pressed it to his forehead.
“I will strive endlessly to keep pace with you, to stand beside you. For our shared ideals and shared sins, I shall share in every victory and endure every bitter consequence alongside you. I will… always be truthful to you, and never lose faith.”
The bitter winter never abates. Stay and watch beside me.
When Feofan opened his violet eyes, the last trace of a smile faded from Zandik’s face. His jaw tightened, lips pressed firmly together, though he never let go of the hand in his grasp.
“I expected something far more eloquent.”
“What need is there for flowery words?” The silver-tongued man said plainly. “It is only you and I here.”
“I shall demand no loyalty from you,” the solitary Second Seat replied. “Whatever I have invested in you has already brought its reward.”
“Precisely because I know our alliance will never waver,” the rising Ninth Harbinger answered. “I shall not falter. You will bear witness.”
“…Truth be told, I am always surprised to see this arrogant side of you.”
“Well, I am still young, after all?”
“I have never regarded you as lesser than myself.”
“I know.”
Feofan pressed a gentle kiss to Zandik’s fingertips to soothe him. For everything he had always known.
That was why he offered no empty, immeasurable promises. He already possessed what he sought—from the very day they met.
“…I hope a blessing spoken by a heretic man will not bring you misfortune.” At last, Zandik leaned forward and kissed Feofan’s forehead. “May all your wishes come true, my boy. I shall always hold your your faith in my thoughts.”
And I shall drink every drop of your blood and tears.
Feofan silently vowed. He never lied to Zandik, and he would keep this word.
END