The day Clorinde was crowned Champion Duelist of Fontaine dawned bright and theatrical, as all events under Lady Furina’s gaze tended to be.

  The grand plaza before the Palais Mermonia had been transformed into an open-air arena: banners of hydro-blue and silver fluttering in the breeze, hydro-powered fountains choreographed to burst in synchronized arcs, and the Archon herself presiding from a raised dais in full regalia—frilled hat tilted at a dramatic angle, mismatched eyes sparkling with performative pride.

  Clorinde stood at the center of the ring, clad in the newly forged Champion’s coat: black with silver embroidery that caught the light like rippling water, her sword sheathed at her hip, gun holstered opposite. She had just bested the final challenger—a veteran Gardes captain—in a duel that lasted less than five minutes. The crowd’s roar still echoed when Furina descended the steps, holding the ceremonial badge aloft.

  “By the authority vested in me, Focalors, Hydro Archon of Fontaine,” Furina proclaimed, voice carrying across the plaza like a perfectly rehearsed aria, “I name you Clorinde, Champion Duelist of this nation! And as is tradition, I appoint you my personal guard—my blade in the shadows, my shield in the spotlight. Rise, and accept your duty!”

  Clorinde knelt briefly, then stood tall as Furina pinned the badge to her coat. The Archon leaned in close, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper only Clorinde could hear.

  “You’ve earned this, my dear. Now go forth and be gloriously unyielding. And do try not to look quite so serious all the time—it ruins the aesthetic.”

  Clorinde allowed the smallest of smiles. “I’ll do my best, Lady Furina.”

  The ceremony ended in fireworks of hydro mist and applause. Clorinde was whisked into a whirlwind of congratulations, official documents, and a private reception where Furina insisted on toasting with fruit-infused sparkling water (“Because real champagne is so last century!”).

  It was only later, in the quiet of her new quarters within the Palais—larger, with a view of the fountains—that the news reached her through an official briefing packet.

  The Duke of Meropide had been formally recognized by the Court. The former inmate Wriothesley had reformed the Fortress from within, turning corruption into structure, punishment into rehabilitation. The title “Duke” was no longer a mocking nickname; it was his official designation. Warden. Administrator. Leader.

  Clorinde stared at the page until the words blurred.

  He had done it.

  The boy who once lay on cool stone dreaming aloud of a fair fortress had become its ruler.

  And still—he had never answered her letters. Never once granted her a visit.

  The upset hit her in waves: first sharp anger, then a quieter, deeper ache. Why refuse her now, when he had the power to say yes? When she had finally climbed high enough that no gate should be barred to her?

  She understood, though. In the cold logic of her mind, she understood.

  He was ashamed.

  The man who had killed to stop greater evil, who had confessed without excuse, who had rebuilt an entire prison around principles of fairness—he could not bear to face the one person who remembered him as innocent. As the scrappy kid who hated unnecessary violence, who brewed terrible tea and promised endless spars.

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  She understood. But understanding did not erase the hurt.

  She could not let go.

  Their friendship—fragile, stubborn, buried under years and bars—still mattered. And there were questions she needed answered: not about his crimes (those were public record), but about him. About the boy beneath the Duke. About whether any piece of that alley promise still lived.

  So she kept writing.

  The letters continued, sent every few months like clockwork.

  Down in Meropide, life had settled into a strange rhythm for Wriothesley.

  His office—once a guard post—was now lined with shelves of smuggled books, a hydro-powered kettle that never quite cooled, and a small corner greenhouse where he grew herbs under artificial light. The Melusines had become his quiet allies; Sigewinne, the head nurse, especially so.

  She had taken to visiting his office in the late “evenings” (Meropide time was arbitrary), bringing medical reports and—more importantly—critiques of his tea habits.

  “You’re brewing whatever you can scrounge again,” Sigewinne said one shift, wrinkling her small nose as she sniffed the cup he offered. “This one tastes like engine grease and regret. You need proper blends. Something with calming chamomile, maybe a touch of mint. Not… whatever mystery leaf this is.”

  Wriothesley leaned back in his chair, smirking faintly. “It keeps me awake. And focused. I like being focused.”

  “You mean you like poisoning yourself slowly,” she countered, hopping onto the edge of his desk. “Your blood pressure is elevated, your sleep is abysmal, and you drink enough of this sludge to float a small boat. At least let me teach you how to make healthy teas. I have recipes. Good ones.”

  He sighed, but there was fondness in it. “Fine. Next batch, you can supervise. But don’t expect me to cut back on quantity. Tastes can be changed but consumption is non-negotiable.”

  Sigewinne beamed. “Deal. Now…” She glanced at the locked drawer where he kept the letters. “You still haven’t opened the letters from the Champion Duelist?.”

  Wriothesley’s smirk faded. “No. Not yet.”

  “You know she’s persistent,” Sigewinne said gently. “She’s been writing to you for years. Maybe it’s time to see what she actually says. You might be surprised.”

  He stared at the drawer for a long moment. Then, slowly, he unlocked it.

  The first letter—oldest, edges slightly yellowed—was simple. Plain paper, neat handwriting.

  Wrio,

  I heard what happened. I read the transcripts. I don’t know what to say except… are you all right? What have you been doing down there? I still think about our spars. About you. Write back if you can.

  —Clor

  He stared at it, throat tight.

  The second was similar. The third. The fourth.

  All of them—until the most recent—were gentle. Asking how he was. Telling him about her training. Mentioning a new fruit coffee she’d tried that reminded her of his blends. Sharing small victories, small frustrations. Never judgment. Never accusation.

  Only friendship.

  Only her.

  He opened the last few in sequence.

  The tone had shifted.

  One read:

  I’ve now been crowned as Champion Duelist. Lady Furina’s appointed me as her personal guard. I thought you’d want to know. I thought you might finally answer. But you haven’t. Why won’t you let me see you? What are you so afraid of?

  Another:

  You’re the Duke now. I read the reports. You did what you said you’d do—you made it far. I’m proud of you. But I’m also angry. Years, Wrio. Years of silence. If our friendship meant anything, you’d at least tell me why.

  The final one, sent only weeks ago:

  I understand shame. I understand not wanting to face the past. But you don’t get to decide for me what I can handle. I’m not that little girl with the bread anymore. I’m the Champion Duelist. And I’m still waiting for an answer. If you won’t give me one, I’ll keep coming until the gates can’t keep me out.

  He closed the last letter slowly, hands trembling just slightly.

  Sigewinne watched him quietly.

  “I made a mistake,” he said at last, voice rough. “All this time… I thought keeping her away was protecting her. Protecting both of us. But she never stopped. She never judged. She just… kept being Clor.”

  Sigewinne nodded. “She’s persistent because she cares. And because she still has questions only you can answer.”

  Wriothesley stared at the stack of letters now spread across his desk—years of unanswered friendship laid bare.

  He exhaled, long and slow.

  “Maybe it’s time I stopped hiding.”

  Sigewinne smiled softly. “Maybe it is.”

  Outside his office, the Fortress hummed on—machinery turning, inmates working, Melusines patrolling with quiet efficiency.

  But inside, something long frozen began, very slowly, to thaw.

  The Duke of Meropide picked up a fresh sheet of paper.

  For the first time in years, he began to write.