Weeks melted into months like sugar in hot tea, and the peculiar alley—once just a damp, forgotten corner—transformed into their private kingdom. The hydro vines that climbed the walls seemed to glow a little brighter whenever they arrived, as if the city itself approved of their secret meetings. Wriothesley, still skinny but growing bolder by the day, would sprawl on the cool stone with his arms behind his head, staring up at the twisting vines like they held the answers to everything.

  “Listen, Clor,” he said one overcast afternoon, voice full of grand certainty, “one day I’m gonna fix this whole mess. No more kids like us having to hide or steal scraps. Imagine it—a place where everything’s fair. No chaos, no bullies taking what isn’t theirs. Like a giant fortress, but not the scary kind. The good kind. Where people get second chances instead of punishments.”

  Clorinde sat cross-legged nearby, her small hands wrapped around an imaginary sword hilt, practicing slow, precise thrusts into the air. She paused mid-motion, tilting her head thoughtfully. “A fortress, huh? Sounds dramatic. But if you’re going to build something like that, someone’s got to make sure the rules actually stick.” She mimed drawing her blade with a flourish. “I’d be the enforcer. I’ll duel anyone who tries to break the peace. But only if it’s just—none of that unnecessary violence you hate so much. With precision. Allowing fair fights. Winner takes the moral high ground.”

  Wriothesley snorted, rolling onto his side to face her. “Moral high ground? You sound like one of those fancy court judges already. Bet you’d make ‘em bow before you even draw your sword-stick.”

  “It’s not a stick!” Clorinde huffed, cheeks puffing out in mock offense, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. “It’s a proper training blade. My dad says if I keep practicing, I’ll be unstoppable one day. Faster than you, anyway.”

  “Oh yeah?” Wriothesley pushed himself up on his elbows, grinning like a challenge accepted. “Prove it, Miss Future Champion. I bet I could dodge your fancy swings and land one good punch before you blink.”

  Clorinde stood up dramatically, planting her feet in a mock duelist stance. “Bring it on, tough guy. But when I win, you have to admit swords are cooler than fists. And call me ‘Your Grace’ for a whole week.”

  “Your Grace?” He burst out laughing, clutching his stomach. “In your dreams! If I win—and I will—you gotta share your next café bread. The whole thing. No tearing it in half like you’re being generous.”

  “Deal!” She lunged forward in slow motion, pretending to swing an invisible blade. Wriothesley ducked exaggeratedly, rolling aside and popping up with fists raised like a boxer.

  “Too slow! Ha! See? Fists win!”

  “You cheated—you rolled!” Clorinde chased after him, both of them dissolving into giggles as they darted around the narrow alley, bumping into crates and splashing through shallow puddles. They collapsed against the wall eventually, breathless and grinning, shoulders touching.

  “You’re ridiculous,” Clorinde said, still catching her breath. “But… it’s fun. Being ridiculous like this with you.”

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  Wriothesley’s grin softened. “Yeah. It is.”

  Their picnics became ritual. Scavenged apples, day-old bread, sometimes a bruised pear one of them had “found” (never stolen—Clorinde’s rule). They’d sit shoulder-to-shoulder, legs dangling over the edge of an old stone ledge, trading bites and stories.

  One rare sunny afternoon, the clouds parted like a curtain, spilling golden light into the alley. Wriothesley arrived triumphant, clutching a small cloth bundle and a chipped ceramic cup he’d borrowed from a kind vendor.

  “Look what I got!” he announced, plopping down beside her. He unfolded the cloth to reveal a handful of wild herbs—minty green leaves, a few dried chamomile flowers he’d foraged near the aquabus routes. “I brewed some tea. It’s not fancy like your fruit coffees, but it’s calming. Like… a quiet spot in all this city noise. You should try it.”

  Clorinde took the cup carefully, inhaling the steam. Her eyes widened. “It smells… peaceful. Like lying in grass with nothing to worry about.” She took a cautious sip, then another, face lighting up like she’d discovered treasure. “Wrio, this is actually really good. Warm. Gentle. You’re gonna be dangerous with this talent one day.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks pink. “Yeah? Maybe I’ll open a tea stall someday. No fighting, just people sitting around, relaxing. And pets! I want a pet. Something small that doesn’t mind the dark alleys. A little dog or… I dunno, a fancy bird.”

  Clorinde laughed softly. “A bird? In a fortress? It’d fly away the first chance it got.”

  “Not if the fortress is nice,” he shot back. “It’d stay. ‘Cause it knows it’s safe.”

  She handed the cup back so he could share. Their fingers brushed again—longer this time, neither pulling away right away. “I’d visit your tea stall,” she said quietly. “Bring sweets. We could have real picnics. On the grass, in the sun, no hiding. Just… us.”

  “Deal,” Wriothesley murmured, leaning back to watch the vines sway. “You know, Clor, you’re the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m gonna turn into trouble. Like I’m worth the time.”

  Clorinde turned to him, serious now. “Because you are worth the time. You talk about fixing things. About fairness. Most kids just want to survive. You want better. That’s… special.”

  He met her gaze, something soft and unspoken flickering between them. “You too. You’re all about justice, but the real kind. Not the showy stuff.”

  They sat in comfortable silence for a while, sharing the tea sip by sip, until distant trumpets echoed from the main streets—a procession passing nearby.

  High on a gilded aquabus float, the Hydro Archon Furina herself glided past in all her theatrical splendor: frilled dress billowing like sea foam, mismatched eyes sparkling under the sun, hat tilted at a dramatic angle. She was cursed to eternal youth, she had worn the mask of divinity for centuries, her appearance forever that of a poised young woman playing the grandest role of all.

  As the float rolled by the alley mouth, Furina’s sharp gaze caught the two small figures huddled together, laughing over a shared cup. She leaned over the railing slightly, whispering to her nearest attendant with exaggerated delight.

  “Oh, look at them! Two little sparks of destiny tucked away in the shadows. How utterly poetic! A future guardian of order and his swift blade of justice, sharing tea like the world isn’t watching. Mark my words, my dear aide—that duo is going to be Fontaine’s greatest story one day. Or at least the most entertaining one!”

  The aide nodded politely, accustomed to Furina’s dramatic proclamations. Furina sighed theatrically, fanning herself. “Ah, young hearts, so blissfully unaware. Carry on, little ones. The stage of fate awaits!”

  Back in the alley, oblivious to the divine audience, Wriothesley nudged Clorinde with his elbow. “You’re such a show-off with that imaginary sword stick.”

  Clorinde stuck out her tongue. “Oh yeah? Prove you can keep up, tough guy. Next time, no rolling cheats!”

  “Bring it,” he shot back, both of them dissolving into laughter again, the sound echoing off the vines like a promise.

  In that hidden corner of Fontaine, amid steam and stone and stolen sunlight, their friendship took root—innocent, unbreakable, and quietly destined for so much more.