Clorinde moved through the Palais Mermonia like a shadow carrying steel.

  Neuvillette’s instructions had been clear: double-check every perimeter, tighten every guard rotation, eliminate every blind spot. She did it methodically—reviewing blueprints, inspecting the Archon’s private wing herself, drilling the Gardes until their salutes were sharp enough to cut glass. Her voice never wavered when she issued orders; her posture never faltered. Duty was armor, and she wore it well.

  But beneath the Champion’s flawless exterior, guilt gnawed like a hidden blade.

  She should have been there last night. Instead she had been kissing Wriothesley in an alley, letting herself feel something other than responsibility for the first time in years. The attempt on Furina’s life had succeeded in one thing: reminding her how fragile happiness could be, how quickly the universe could punish it.

  Yet she refused to surrender it.

  She wanted both—duty and him. She would protect Furina with her life; she would also fight for the man who had waited seven years in the dark for her to find him again.

  As dusk approached, she left the Palais earlier than necessary. The overlook above the plaza waited—quiet, secluded, bathed in the last rose-gold light of day. She walked with purpose, heart hammering beneath her Champion coat. She had never wanted anything this badly before. And now that she was so close to having it, the world kept throwing obstacles in her path.

  Is this a sign? she wondered, steps slowing. Am I being warned to stop before it’s too late?

  She shook her head. No. She would not let fear—or guilt, or her father, or even fate—decide for her.

  Below the waves, Wriothesley finished his work hours ahead of schedule.

  Reports signed. Schedules approved. Security rotations confirmed. He moved through the Fortress with restless energy, checking things twice that didn’t need checking, until finally he could stand it no longer.

  He found Sigewinne in the infirmary, restocking bandages with her usual calm precision.

  “I’m heading up,” he said without preamble.

  Sigewinne looked up, eyes twinkling. “To meet her?”

  He nodded once—short, almost shy.

  She smiled—small, proud, knowing. “Go. I’ll supervise everything here. The Fortress won’t fall apart in one evening.”

  He hesitated at the door.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For pushing me. For believing I could be more than… this place.”

  Sigewinne hopped down from her stool and patted his arm. “You always could. You just needed someone to remind you.”

  He gave her a rare, genuine smile—soft, unguarded—then left.

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  Clorinde reached the overlook first.

  She stood at the railing, hands braced on cool stone, watching the city below begin to light its lamps. The fountains glittered like scattered jewels; aquabuses glided across canals like silent swans. The weight of the day pressed on her shoulders—the assassination attempt, her father’s ultimatum, the guilt that still gnawed—but beneath it all burned a single, stubborn certainty:

  She wanted him.

  More than duty. More than perfection. More than fear.

  “CLOR!”

  The shout echoed across the plaza—loud, joyful, utterly shameless.

  She turned just in time to see Wriothesley bounding up the steps two at a time. Before she could speak, he scooped her up—arms under her knees and back, lifting her clean off the ground like she weighed nothing.

  “W-Wrio!” she yelped, hands instinctively clutching his shoulders. “Put me down! People are looking!”

  He laughed—bright, unrestrained, the sound echoing off stone. “Let them look.”

  But he set her down gently, hands lingering at her waist, eyes drinking her in like he hadn’t seen her in years instead of hours.

  “Sorry,” he said, still grinning. “I was just… so damn excited to see you.”

  Clorinde’s cheeks warmed. “So I gathered.”

  He sobered slightly, thumbs brushing slow arcs against her sides. “You wanted to talk?”

  She nodded. “Somewhere quieter.”

  He followed her lead—down a side path, away from the main plaza, into a small garden overlook half-hidden by flowering vines. The city lights twinkled below like fallen stars; the air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and distant water.

  They stopped beneath a lantern-lit arch.

  Clorinde took a breath.

  “Last night… after I left you…” She told him everything: the summons to Neuvillette’s office, the assassination attempt, Furina’s unexpected mercy, her own crushing guilt. “I should have been there. Instead I was—”

  “With me,” he finished quietly.

  She nodded.

  He stepped closer. “Do you want to stop seeing me?”

  Her head snapped up. “No.”

  Relief flashed across his face—raw, unguarded.

  “Then what is it?” he asked softly.

  Clorinde looked at him—really looked. The way the lantern light caught the scar on his jaw, the faint tension in his shoulders, the quiet hope in his storm-gray eyes.

  “I want to be with you, Wrio,” she said. Simple. Certain. “How about you?”

  He stared at her for a long moment—breath held, world narrowed to the space between them.

  Then he cupped her face with both hands, thumbs stroking her cheekbones.

  “I’ve always thought I fought my way to the top because I needed to survive,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “Turns out… all I needed was you to live.”

  Her eyes shimmered.

  “I thought happiness was something other people got,” he continued. “Something I’d lost the right to after what I did. But after seeing you again—your smile, your laugh, the way you look at me like I’m still worth something—being with you is the best, most rewarding thing I’ve ever felt in my entire existence.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek.

  He brushed it away with his thumb, then leaned in and kissed the damp trail—soft, tender, reverent.

  “I don’t want to see you cry,” he murmured against her skin.

  Then he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

  He took a deep breath.

  “I love you, Clor,” he said. Simple. Certain. “I can never live without you. I know that now.”

  The words landed like sunlight after endless night.

  Clorinde’s breath caught. She stared at him—wide-eyed, trembling—then rose on her toes and kissed him.

  Soft at first. Shy. Full of everything she had never dared say.

  Then deeper. Hungrier. Her hands slid into his hair; his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She poured love into the kiss—quiet, fierce, unshakable—even though neither had needed to speak it first. They both knew.

  When they parted—gasping, foreheads pressed together—Clorinde whispered against his lips:

  “I… love you too.”

  Her voice was small, almost embarrassed.

  He laughed—soft, breathless, overjoyed—and kissed her again.

  They stayed like that—wrapped in each other beneath the lantern light—sealing the moment with a passionate kiss that tasted of relief, of certainty, of seven years finally finding their ending in a new beginning.

  The world continued around them—fountains singing, city lights flickering—but for now, none of it mattered.

  They had said it.

  They had chosen each other.

  And no duty, no father, no shadow of the past could take that away.

  Not anymore.