The years between ten and fifteen passed like a swift current in Fontaine’s eternal hydro streams, carrying Wriothesley and Clorinde deeper into their respective worlds. What had started as childish games in the alley evolved into something sharper, more intense—a rivalry that crackled with energy whenever they crossed paths. Clorinde’s training under her mentor’s watchful eye had blossomed; she spent her days in the training yards near the Court, perfecting her sword forms and even dabbling in marksmanship with a borrowed pistol. “Precision over power,” her mentor would say, and she took it to heart, her movements becoming a elegant dance of control and discipline.
Wriothesley, on the other hand, had grown taller, broader, his fists hardened from endless practice against makeshift punching bags in the shadows of Fleuve Cendre. He’d taken odd jobs around the outskirts of the Fortress of Meropide—hauling crates, enforcing minor order among the workers—dreaming aloud of one day turning that grim underwater prison into a place of true rehabilitation. “No more chaos,” he’d mutter during his solitary drills. “Just fairness. Gauntlets that punch sense into people without the mess.”
Their meetings grew rarer as responsibilities piled on, but when they did happen, the alley thrummed with old magic. One crisp evening, just after Clorinde’s fifteenth birthday, she arrived with two steaming fruit coffees from Café Lutece and a paper bag of fresh pastries, her training sword slung over her shoulder like a casual accessory.
“Thought you might need a break from all that Fortress grunt work,” she said, handing him a cup with a teasing smile. “Can’t have you turning into one of those grumpy inmates before you’re even inside.”
Wriothesley accepted it, his fingers brushing hers deliberately as he took a sip, savoring the sweet-tart blend. Now broader and sporting faint scars from rough jobs, he leaned against the vine-covered wall with a smirk that was equal parts playful and challenging. “Bribing me with sweets now, Miss Champion-in-training? Careful—I might get used to it and start expecting deliveries every day.”
She arched a brow, settling beside him on a crate and unwrapping a flaky tart. “If you want them so badly, just say so. No need to act all gruff and mysterious. Or are you too busy dreaming up those fancy mechanical gauntlets to admit you’re hungry?”
He chuckled, low and rumbling, leaning closer so their shoulders touched. “Maybe I like seeing you bring them. Makes me think you miss me, Clor. Admit it—life’s boring without our little spars.”
Clorinde’s cheeks tinged pink, but she met his gaze with that cool, unflappable stare she’d been honing. “Don’t flatter yourself, Wrio. I just don’t want you starving again. Someone has to keep order in your chaotic life. Besides, who else is going to put up with your endless talk about ‘reforming the Fortress’?”
He set his cup down, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Chaotic? Me? Says the girl who swings a sword like she’s auditioning for Lady Furina’s next grand opera. Admit it—you like our competitions. Last time in the alley, you almost beat me in that mock spar. Almost.”
“Almost?” She set her pastry aside, standing up and drawing her training sword in a fluid motion. “I was holding back to spare your ego. Next time, I won’t. And when I win—for real—you’ll have to call me ‘Your Grace’ for a whole month. Bow and everything.”
“Oh?” Wriothesley’s grin widened, wolfish and entertained as he rose to his feet, cracking his knuckles. “Bold words. But if I win—and don’t think I won’t—you owe me a real picnic. Grass, sun, no duties or training. Just us, tea, and whatever sweets you sneak from the café.”
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She hesitated for a split second, her violet eyes flickering with something deeper than rivalry—affection, perhaps, or the thrill of their growing tension. Then she smiled, a seductive edge creeping into her voice even at fifteen. “Fine. But when I win, you brew me tea every day for that month. Proper blends, no excuses. And maybe throw in some of those herbs you forage—like the ones that taste like quiet afternoons.”
“It’s a deal,” he murmured, stepping into a loose fighting stance. Their pinkies hooked in a childish promise, but the air between them hummed with unspoken electricity, a tension that made their hearts race.
They sparred lightly then, her graceful dodges weaving around his powerful swings. Laughter punctuated the clacks of wood on wrapped fists. “You’re telegraphing that punch, Wrio!” she’d taunt, lilting voice full of glee. “Might as well send a letter first!”
“And you’re dancing more than fighting, Clor!” he’d retort, dodging with exaggerated flair. “Is this a duel or a ball?”
By the end, they collapsed against the wall, breathless and grinning, promising each other more—endless spars until one truly bested the other. “We keep going,” Wriothesley said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Until we beat it out of each other. No holding back.”
“Agreed,” Clorinde replied, her hand lingering on his arm. “But don’t go easy on me just because you think my hair’s pretty.”
He laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But life, as it often does in Fontaine, had other plans. Clorinde’s training intensified; her father pulled strings to get her into advanced duelist programs, shadowing guards and even attending minor court sessions. “Duty calls,” she’d say apologetically during their increasingly sparse meetings. “But we’ll spar soon. Promise.”
Wriothesley nodded, hiding his disappointment behind a smirk. “Go be amazing. I’ll be here, honing my skills. Those gauntlets won’t invent themselves.”
Little did young Clorinde know, something darker had been hovering over Wriothesley for the longest time—a shadow that stretched back to his earliest memories as an orphan. Adopted by a couple who seemed kind at first—warm smiles, promises of family—they had taken him in along with dozens of other children, parading a loving facade to the world. But behind closed doors, in the dim basements of their sprawling home on the edge of Fleuve Cendre, the truth festered. They were human traffickers, viewing the children as livestock: fattened with false affection, then sold to shady merchants or “disposed of” when they grew too old, too troublesome, or too aware.
Wriothesley had sensed the rot early—whispers in the night, locked doors, the way his “parents” tallied the children like inventory. But he buried it, clinging to the illusion of home. As he honed his fists in secret, dreaming of justice, the pieces fell into place. One fateful night, at fifteen, he overheard them plotting to sell a group of younger kids to overseas buyers. Rage boiled over; he confronted them, demanding the truth.
“You’re nothing but monsters,” he’d snarled, fists clenched. “Treating us like… like things to be traded!”
His adoptive father laughed coldly. “And what are you going to do about it, boy? You’re just another mouth we fed until you were useful.”
That was the breaking point. In a blur of fury and calculated strikes—honed from years of alley practice—Wriothesley took his revenge. He overpowered them, freeing the remaining children who cowered in the shadows. Blood stained his hands, but in his mind, it was justice: no unnecessary violence, just the end of chaos. He disposed of the bodies methodically, then turned himself in at the nearest guard station, confessing everything without a shred of remorse.
“I did what had to be done,” he told the stunned officers. “They viewed us as livestock. I freed us.”
The trial was swift, sensational whispers rippling through Fontaine. Wriothesley, still in his early teens, stood tall in the courtroom, fully admitting his crimes. No grudge against the system—he’d acted on his own code, knowing the consequences. Sentenced to exile in the Fortress of Meropide, the very place he’d once dreamed of reforming, he was shackled and led away into the depths.
Everything changed that day. The boy who brewed tea and sparred with laughter vanished into the underwater shadows, leaving only echoes for Clorinde to chase.
