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If she closes her eyes, she can still see the red.
She remembers the bleeding backdrop for the writhing masses below, the crimson fractals adorning her frostbitten hands. Oh, how they positively shattered in her desperation to rid the stains from her skin. But still, the red permeated. Like blood in the snow, it solidified into something permanent, coagulating and warping her very ideals until they were unrecognizable.
The people of Khaenri'ah shattered in much the same way, in the wake of her sheer cold. They held no love for her, and in that moment she could not blame them for it.
In the centuries that followed, the goddess sequestered herself in a cage of blue, a crystalline cocoon that covered any imperfections in a layer of frost. It quelled and cultivated a festering wrath in equal measure. There is no telling how long she spends huddled away in her palace, so still that she does not disturb the dusting of ice that roots her to the floor. She is but a husk, a vessel for machinations of the highest degree. Even if the gods will not aid her in toppling Celestia, she will find worthy devotees for her message. Harbingers of her benevolence.
Whispers of her ambitions have already begun to spread across Teyvat. But these would be nothing compared to the proclamations of her divine mouthpieces.
The patter of rain is what finally breaks her from her musings. A shadow casts over the frozen god, roiling clouds blocking the moonbeams that spilled into her chamber. Droplets begin to lash against stained glass, its thrum nearly drowning out the clipped knocking against the door.
Surprise almost lifts the impassive mask from her face as the ice parts to reveal a stiff figure. The Hydro Archon's eyes are as dark and turbulent as the clouds above, marring her usually-neutral expression. She recognizes a similar erosion in the other god's features, a disquiet that tightens the latter's hand into a fist around the hilt of her sword. The God of Justice bore witness to the red, and has finally made her judgment. The delay is of no consequence - for in the face of immortality, 500 years is trivial. It feels no longer than a heartbeat, as insignificant as a nation's final breath.
Rain curtains the pair of traitors. She bows her head low to watch between matted strands of hair as the water pools reverently around their feet, spilling across the threshold and melding with her beloved frost. Shards of ice melt and refreeze into chunks of gleaming armor.
It is a bond.
A pact.
She finds a lurking hunger in the Hydro Archon's gaze, and a wicked glint brightens dull eyes. Celestia will be brought to its knees.