Before them, the Zapolyarny Palace rises against a sky the color of bruised steel. Its spires are jagged, inhuman, carved from ice and dark stone in equal measure. Snow falls in a slow, deliberate curtain, muffling the world into near silence.

The great doors stand open. Warm light spills from within, a stark invitation against the bitter chill. Inside, voices echo — some raised, some clipped and cold — bouncing off walls that have heard centuries of plotting.

A servant in Fatui livery bows stiffly as Y/n approaches, their breath fogging in the air.