The years stretched like taut steel cables beneath the waves. Clorinde turned sixteen, then seventeen, then eighteen, each birthday marked not by celebration but by another layer of disciplined resolve. She trained longer, fought harder, accepted every dangerous assignment the Gardes offered. Her name began to circulate in hushed tones through the Court of Fontaine: the prodigy duelist, the girl with the unflinching violet gaze, the one who never flinched when the blade came too close. Whispers of her past with the “Fleuve Cendre murderer” faded into background noise; what mattered now was her record—clean, precise, lethal when required.

  But every night, when the city lights dimmed and the fountains sang their endless lullaby, she returned to the same question that had haunted her since the trial transcript burned itself into her memory: How do I reach him?

  She tried again at nineteen.

  Dressed in the crisp black-and-silver uniform of an elite Gardes operative—newly promoted after single-handedly disarming a hydro-powered smuggling ring near the Chasm—she marched to the Fortress checkpoint with the confidence of someone who finally belonged on the right side of the law. The same guard from years before was there, older now, gray threading his temples. He recognized her immediately.

  “Miss Clorinde,” he said with a sigh that carried five years of routine. “Still here for prisoner Wriothesley?”

  She lifted her chin. “I am. I have clearance now. Gardes elite status. Official business.”

  The guard consulted his ledger, then shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. Even elite Gardes need special authorization from the Duke himself for inmate visits—especially high-profile ones. And Wriothesley…” He hesitated. “He’s not exactly low-profile anymore. Made quite a name for himself down there in the pankration ring. The administration keeps a tight leash on who gets near him.”

  Clorinde’s jaw tightened. “Then tell me who I need to speak to. I’ll get the authorization.”

  The guard met her eyes—sympathetic, but firm. “It starts at the top. The Duke of Meropide decides visitor lists. And he doesn’t take kindly to people pushing their way in without a damn good reason.”

  She left without another word, but the rejection no longer crushed her. It ignited something colder, sharper. If the Fortress gates wouldn’t open for friendship or duty, then she would become someone they couldn’t refuse.

  From that day forward, Clorinde’s path crystallized into a single, unrelenting goal: to become Fontaine’s strongest Champion Duelist—not just for glory, not just for justice, but so that one day she could walk into the Fortress of Meropide as an equal, or better, and demand to see him. No more begging at checkpoints. No more being turned away like a child clinging to old promises.

  She volunteered for every high-risk operation. She dueled—and defeated—senior Gardes instructors twice her age. She studied the Fortress’s public records obsessively: its rehabilitation programs (or lack thereof), its underground economy, its infamous pankration ring where prisoners earned Creds and respect through blood. She learned that Wriothesley had risen fast in that brutal hierarchy—not through cruelty, but through controlled, devastating efficiency. He fought clean, never killed unnecessarily, and somehow turned even his opponents into reluctant allies. The rumors painted him as a paradox: a murderer who hated unnecessary violence, a convict who enforced order in chaos.

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  Every new detail only fueled her determination.

  One rainy evening, after a grueling duel exhibition where she’d disarmed three opponents in under two minutes, Clorinde stood alone on the balcony of the Gardes headquarters, staring out at the distant silhouette of the Fortress rising from the sea like a dark crown. Rain slid down her face, mingling with the sweat still clinging to her skin.

  “I’m coming for you, Wrio,” she whispered to the storm. “Not to forgive you. Not to judge you. Just… to see if the boy who shared his tea with me is still in there somewhere. And if he is, I want him to know I never stopped trying.”

  She clenched her fist around the hilt of her sword—now the real thing, elegant and deadly, engraved with faint hydro runes. “And when I walk through those gates, it won’t be as a visitor. It’ll be as someone they can’t turn away. Someone who belongs on the other side of the bars… or at least on equal ground.”

  The next morning she requested—and was granted—a private audience with Lady Furina.

  The Hydro Archon received her in one of the smaller salons of the Palais Mermonia, dramatic curtains drawn against the morning light, a single spotlight illuminating Furina’s throne-like chair. She looked every bit the eternal performer: frilled dress, mismatched eyes sparkling with theatrical curiosity.

  “So,” Furina began, leaning forward with chin propped on laced fingers, “the prodigy duelist graces my presence. To what do I owe this honor, Champion Clorinde?”

  Clorinde bowed once, precise and formal, then met Furina’s gaze without flinching. “I wish to request special dispensation regarding the Fortress of Meropide. Specifically, access to a prisoner named Wriothesley.”

  Furina’s eyebrows shot up in delighted surprise. “Oh? The infamous alley boy turned murderer? How delightfully dramatic! And why, pray tell, should the Archon of Fontaine bend the rules of her own justice system for you?”

  “Because I intend to become the strongest Champion Duelist this nation has ever seen,” Clorinde answered steadily. “And when I do—when I stand as the instrument of Fontaine’s law itself—no gate in Meropide will be closed to me. But I need your support to accelerate that path. More high-profile cases. More duels under public scrutiny. A faster track to the title.”

  Furina studied her for a long moment, the playful mask slipping just enough to reveal genuine intrigue. “You’re not asking for a pardon. You’re asking for a ladder. To climb high enough that even the Duke must acknowledge you.”

  “Yes.”

  A slow, delighted smile spread across Furina’s face. “How utterly theatrical! Very well. I shall grant your request—for now. Expect invitations to every major judicial duel, every ceremonial exhibition. Prove yourself worthy of the spotlight, and perhaps one day you’ll march into that underwater fortress like the heroine of your own grand opera.”

  Clorinde bowed deeply. “Thank you, Lady Furina.”

  As she turned to leave, Furina’s voice followed her, softer now, almost thoughtful.

  “One last thing, dear Clorinde. When you finally face him again… remember that justice is not always a clean blade. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it bleeds. Be certain you’re ready for whatever truth waits down there.”

  Clorinde paused at the door, hand on the frame. “I’ve been ready for years.”

  She stepped out into the corridor, rain still drumming against the windows, and felt—for the first time in a long time—something like hope. Not soft or sentimental, but hard-edged and unyielding.

  She would become undeniable.

  She would earn the right to walk into Meropide and demand answers.

  And when that day came, she would look Wriothesley in the eye and ask the only question that had ever truly mattered:

  “Are you still the boy who hated unnecessary violence… or did the darkness win?”

  The Fortress waited below the waves, silent and patient.

  So did he.

  And Clorinde—stronger, colder, more determined than ever—began her climb.