You stood among the other Harbingers, a sea of dark coats and masked faces, each wearing grief like a costume. Or, in some cases, like armor.

Pierro's voice echoed, distant and ceremonial, praising Signora's sacrifice. It meant nothing to you. La Signora had been a means to an end—a powerful tool, now broken. The Fatui did not mourn tools. They replaced them.

The candlelight guttered. Somewhere behind you, a heel clicked against marble, steady and deliberate.

The fine hairs at the nape of your neck pricked. You didn't need to turn around. You knew that particular rhythm of footsteps by now—measured, confident, and utterly devoid of humility.

The inevitable always found you eventually.