The seven Fatui Harbingers turned toward the Tsaritsa’s empty seat at the same instant.
Their gazes sharpened, each carrying enough pressure to make an ordinary person collapse where they stood.
These were not merely powerful warriors.
Every figure seated around the table had climbed to the summit of the Fatui through strength, intellect, cruelty, or some dangerous combination of all three.
Unfortunately for them, Lucian Vale was anything but ordinary.
If anything, his appearance made the Harbingers even more wary.
Snezhnaya’s cold was merciless.
An ordinary traveller who stepped outside without thick winter clothing would soon lose feeling in their fingers, and prolonged exposure could freeze the blood in their veins.
Even the Harbingers respected the climate enough to wear heavy cloaks.
The garments added to their imposing presence, certainly, but they also served the practical purpose of keeping them warm.
Lucian, meanwhile, looked as though he had wandered in from the middle of summer.
His clothes were light and casual.
The newly created Blood Demon Mask hung at his waist, and one hand held a chilled drink with several cubes of ice floating inside it.
He stood near the Tsaritsa’s seat without the slightest sign of discomfort, calmly studying the seven people who had only just noticed him.
A sudden gust of frozen wind swept through the meeting chamber.
Several Harbingers frowned.
The chamber door stood open.
None of them remembered hearing it move.
Dottore felt a chill crawl down his spine.
It had nothing to do with the weather.
His eyes shifted toward Lucian—and for the first time, his composure cracked.
The cloak that had been resting across Dottore’s shoulders was gone.
It now hung comfortably around Lucian’s body.
A bead of cold sweat slid down The Doctor’s forehead.
When?
Every Harbinger in the room immediately tensed.
Their eyes flicked toward one another, silently confirming the same disturbing fact: not one of them had seen Lucian move.
They had been watching him.
They had been ready for an attack.
Yet he had crossed the room, removed Dottore’s cloak, returned to his original position, and put it on without any of them perceiving a single step.
The pressure in the chamber changed completely.
Lucian tilted back his cup and drained the last of his drink with a satisfied gulp.
Then the empty cup vanished from his hand as space folded around it beneath the power of The Hand.
Wherever it had gone, it was no longer his problem.
“Much warmer,” he murmured, patting the stolen cloak.
“These rich bastards really know how to spend.
A coat like this would cost me half a year’s manga earnings.”
The Harbingers heard every word.
For a moment, none of them knew how to respond.
This unknown intruder possessed strength they could not immediately measure, had slipped past Snezhnaya’s defences, had entered the Tsaritsa’s meeting chamber unnoticed, and had stolen a Harbinger’s cloak merely because he thought it looked expensive.
His personality might have been more baffling than his power.
Pierro finally broke the silence.
“My friend,” The Jester said cautiously, “may I ask what brings you here?”
As the Director of the Fatui and the most authoritative person present, it naturally fell to him to speak for the group.
Lucian waved one hand.
“Relax.
It’s nothing serious.
Sit down, and we’ll talk.”
He pointed toward the chairs as though he were the host and they were his guests.
The seven Harbingers exchanged brief looks.
Then, with an obedience rarely seen from the Fatui’s highest officers, they sat back down.
Lucian almost found the sight touching.
Villains capable of listening were a precious rarity.
Back in the JoJo world, far too many enemies had been deranged beyond reason.
Trying to negotiate with them usually ended in dramatic speeches, screaming, and someone attempting murder before the conversation had properly begun.
The Harbingers, for all their faults, at least understood the value of caution.
Lucian’s gaze moved slowly around the table.
Pierro remained outwardly composed.
Dottore watched him with intense calculation.
Arlecchino’s expression was cold, while Sandrone seemed ready to unleash whatever machinery she had prepared.
Scaramouche’s fingers hovered near the Delusion he had been playing with, and Rosalyne’s posture had tightened beneath her cloak.
Then Lucian’s eyes settled on Columbina.
The Damselette trembled almost imperceptibly.
Arlecchino’s attention sharpened at once.
Sandrone quietly gathered power.
Rosalyne’s eyes narrowed as anger rose in her chest.
Lucian ignored all three reactions and asked the question that had brought him there.
“Is Diluc Ragnvindr being held here?”
The tension snapped.
Nearly everyone around the table released a silent breath of relief.
That was all?
He had broken into the heart of the Fatui’s headquarters for Diluc?
Pierro answered without hesitation.
“Release him.”
Diluc was valuable, but not valuable enough to justify gambling the lives of seven Harbingers against an enemy whose strength none of them understood.
Lucian nodded approvingly.
Then he pointed at Columbina.
“I also need her.
Someone asked me to deliver a message.”
The tension returned so quickly that it was almost impressive.
Arlecchino’s hand, which had subtly tightened near Columbina’s, relaxed only slightly when she heard the explanation.
The energy Sandrone had gathered remained poised for release, while Rosalyne suppressed the burst of hostility that had risen within her.
Pierro’s eyes flickered.
He could order Diluc’s release.
He could not make personal decisions on Columbina’s behalf.
Before he could answer, a soft voice drifted through the chamber.
“Very well.”
Columbina’s voice was light and airy, like grass brushing beneath moonlight or a breeze passing over still water.
Anyone unfamiliar with her might have mistaken that frailty for weakness—or assumed she was seconds away from fainting from hunger.
No one at the table was foolish enough to believe either possibility.
Pierro gave a slow nod.
“We will not intrude upon your private discussion, Damselette.
Please escort this gentleman to the prison.”
“Very well.”
Columbina rose from her chair with unhurried grace.
She seemed so light that one careless step might cause her to fade out of the world entirely.
She walked ahead, and Lucian followed.
The moment they left the chamber, silence descended again.
Every Harbinger kept watching until both figures disappeared from sight.
Their expressions carried emotions they had not experienced so openly in a very long time: curiosity, concern, envy, vigilance, and the uncomfortable awareness that an unknown power had walked freely among them.
Dottore stroked his chin, fascination burning in his eyes.
How had Lucian taken the cloak?
No movement.
No visible mechanism.
No elemental trace he could immediately identify.
Among every person and creature Dottore had studied, he knew of no one capable of reproducing that feat in precisely the same manner.
Scaramouche’s gaze darkened.
The oppressive feeling Lucian had inspired reminded him of another overwhelming figure—a woman whose power had once defined the limits of his world.
Power.
Only power was dependable.
Only power could never betray him.
Sandrone looked faintly worried.
She glanced toward Arlecchino, then quickly concealed the emotion behind her usual expression.
Arlecchino lowered her head in thought.
The House of the Hearth possessed an extensive intelligence network, yet none of its reports mentioned an individual named Lucian Vale.
Still, if he had been hired to rescue Diluc, there was one possibility hidden within the northern intelligence circles.
Had that man concealed himself so thoroughly that even the Fatui had failed to notice him?
Rosalyne’s concern was much less complicated.
She did not know whether Lucian intended to harm Columbina.
She also knew that if The Damselette herself could not handle him, charging after them would accomplish nothing except adding another victim.
For once, restraint seemed wiser than pride.
Columbina drifted through the corridor ahead of Lucian.
Her bare, spotless feet hovered slightly above the floor, carried by a subtle magnetic force rather than ordinary steps.
Her body moved so lightly that the cold wind flowing through the passage seemed capable of sweeping her away.
“Kuutar,” Lucian called, closing the distance in several strides, “why are you moving so quickly?”
Columbina turned her head.
That name…
Kuutar.
It was an ancient title tied to the Frost Moon, one that carried meaning among the Frostmoon Scions.
Very few outsiders should have known it, much less addressed her with such casual familiarity.
Before she could dwell on the matter, Lucian reached into his pocket and produced a small mirror.
His hand passed directly through its surface.
When he withdrew it, he was holding a slice of cake on a plate.
The dessert was still cool and fresh, as though it had only just left the kitchen.
Columbina’s thoughts stopped.
It smelled wonderful.
She had seen children at the House of the Hearth eating similar cakes before.
On more than one occasion, she had watched from a distance while quietly wondering how they tasted.
Asking for a slice had seemed embarrassing, and the Tsaritsa did not exactly hand out personal spending money whenever a Harbinger felt hungry.
Occasionally, Columbina accompanied Rosalyne to the House of the Hearth and managed to eat something there.
Even then, she rarely took much.
As a result, The Damselette spent an unreasonable amount of time in what could only be described as an extreme energy-saving state.
“Here.”
Lucian offered her the cake, then produced a fork and placed it beside the plate.
Columbina hesitated.
Then she accepted both.
“Thank you.”
Her pace slowed immediately.
Lucian moved half a step ahead of her, satisfied that bribery remained one of the most dependable forms of diplomacy.
“Kuutar, you already know what I came to tell you, don’t you?”
“Mm.”
The title he had used made his purpose obvious.
He had come from Nod-Krai, carrying words from the Frostmoon Scions.
“The Moonchanter of the Frostmoon Scions is a friend of mine,” Lucian said.
“Her name is Lauma.
She asked me to tell you that your people are still waiting for you to return.”
Columbina fell silent.
She had left Nod-Krai because of the greed of those who worshiped her—the endless demands, the expectations, and the way devotion had gradually become entitlement.
Would a Moonchanter truly seek her again after all this time?
“What would you do,” she asked quietly, “if I refused?”
It was an unusually long question for her.
The cake had apparently restored enough energy to support an entire sentence.
Lucian glanced at her.
“If it were entirely up to me, I’d tie you up and carry you back.”
Columbina stopped chewing.
“But I asked Lauma first,” he continued.
“She specifically told me not to do that.”
“Lauma…”
Columbina repeated the name softly.
Her impression of the Moonchanter improved immediately.
At the very least, Lauma respected her choice enough to prevent Lucian from attempting an abduction.
Lucian seemed to remember something else.
“Oh, right.
Lauma also believes the moon in the sky is false.”
Columbina’s delicate brows drew together.
That observation clearly carried far more significance than Lucian’s casual tone suggested.
“Please tell her this for me,” Columbina said.
“I have not yet completed what I promised the Tsaritsa.
Once that matter is finished, I should return to Nod-Krai.”
“Understood.”
The two continued through the corridors without further conversation.
Columbina finished the cake down to the final crumb.
Lucian studied the empty plate and reached an obvious conclusion.
She was still hungry.
He gave her another slice.
Then a third.
After that came a mushroom pizza and half of a roasted pigeon, all retrieved through the small mirror as though he carried an entire kitchen inside it.
By the time Columbina finished eating, her opinion of the uninvited intruder had improved considerably.
She released the smallest, most secretive burp imaginable, placed one hand over her stomach, and enjoyed a fullness she had not experienced since rising to her lofty position among the Harbingers.
At last, she stopped before a massive building of dark stone and reinforced metal.
“We have arrived.”
Columbina pointed toward the entrance.
This was Snezhnaya’s prison.
It housed not only criminals and political captives, but also the experimental subjects taken from the Delusion factory.
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