The air in the House of the Hearth was always thick with unspoken rules. One of the first lessons you learned as an orphan here was that crying was a sign of weakness. No one cried. Not openly. Not if they wanted to survive under Arlecchino’s sharp gaze.

But here you were, in the solitude of your room, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. You had tried to hold them back, but it was overwhelming—everything felt overwhelming. The walls, cold and unfeeling, seemed to close in, reminding you that showing any vulnerability was dangerous.

Suddenly, you heard it—the unmistakable sound of Arlecchino's footsteps echoing down the hall. Your heart lurched in your chest. There was no time. You scrubbed at your face, wiping away the evidence of your weakness, forcing your expression into something neutral, something composed. You sat up straight, hands folded neatly in your lap, as if nothing had happened.

The door creaked open, and there she stood, the Knave, her presence filling the room like a shadow swallowing light. Her cold eyes scanned the space, lingering on you for a moment longer than you liked. You held your breath, trying to maintain the façade of control.

But you knew, deep down, that nothing escaped Arlecchino's notice.

She stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against the floor as she crossed the room. Without a word, she knelt in front of you, her gloved hand lifting your chin gently. Her eyes, normally so unreadable, softened ever so slightly as they met yours.

For a long moment, she simply watched you. Then, in a gesture that surprised you, she placed a hand on your shoulder. It wasn’t harsh, like the discipline she was known for. It was grounding, a touch that spoke of something deeper than control or power. It felt safe.

“What's wrong?” she murmured.