The day of the grand parade dawned bright and theatrical, as though Fontaine itself had dressed up for the occasion.

  The Court of Fontaine was transformed: aquabus routes lined with banners of hydro-blue and silver, fountains choreographed to burst in synchronized arcs, streets cleared and polished until they gleamed. Furina’s flamboyant speech opened the festivities from a floating dais above the central plaza—her voice amplified by hydro amplifiers, her mismatched eyes sparkling under the midday sun.

  “Citizens of Fontaine!” she proclaimed, arms flung wide. “Today we celebrate order, justice, and the unyielding spirit of our nation! Let the parade begin!”

  Crowds cheered. Floats rolled forward. Melusine performers twirled in synchronized dances. Pure water mist exploded overhead in glittering patterns.

  Clorinde stood at the head of the security detail—black Champion coat immaculate, sword and gun at her sides, posture rigid as steel. Her preparations had been impeccable: every route double-checked, every guard positioned, every potential blind spot accounted for. She moved through the chaos with mechanical precision, issuing quiet orders, scanning faces, ensuring nothing disrupted Furina’s spectacle.

  But inside, indifference had settled like frost.

  She told herself it was relief—no more restless visits to Meropide, no more waiting for letters that never came warm enough. Yet every time a tall figure in dark coat passed in the crowd, her heart stuttered. Every time she caught the scent of mint on the breeze, her throat tightened. She was a lost lamb, she thought bitterly, searching for a shepherd who had chosen to stay hidden. She wanted—needed—to be found. But pride and hurt kept her moving forward, eyes forward, heart locked.

  Below the surface, Wriothesley had spent the final days preparing in his own way.

  He had accepted it now—fully, painfully. What he felt for Clorinde wasn’t mere admiration. It was deeper. Older. Rooted in shared bread, shared rain, shared promises made when they were too young to understand what they were promising. He wanted her smile—the rare, unguarded one she saved for him. He wanted her laughter, sharp and bright like a blade catching light. He wanted afternoons of quiet walks, evenings of shared tea, nights where silence felt safe instead of lonely.

  He could no longer endure not seeing her.

  So he came.

  Sigewinne had coordinated with other Melusines to ensure the parade flowed smoothly—small teams stationed at key points, ready to redirect crowds or clear paths if needed. Wriothesley surfaced early, coat collar turned up, moving through back streets until he reached the edge of the Court. He circled the parade route slowly, eyes scanning every float, every guard post, every cluster of spectators.

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  Luck was not on his side.

  The crowds were too thick, the floats too grand. He didn’t know her current patterns—where she stood during security sweeps, which vantage points she favored. He had spent seven years learning the Fortress’s every shadow; he had spent one afternoon learning the new Fontaine, and it wasn’t enough.

  Then, sunset came.

  The last float rolled past. Fireworks bloomed and faded. The crowds began to thin, drifting home in laughing clusters. Furina took her final bow from the dais, waving dramatically as the hydro lights dimmed.

  Wriothesley stood in the emptying plaza, out of breath, hopelessness settling cold in his chest.

  He was afraid he might not see her again after this.

  Panic clawed up his throat. He refused to let it win.

  He began to roam—block by block, street by street. Past cafés closing their shutters. Past aquabuses gliding to their docks. Past fountains still whispering in the twilight.

  And then—a memory surfaced.

  The peculiar but familiar alley.

  The one behind the Court where they had first collided—him hiding from thugs, her clutching a loaf of bread. Where she had stopped him from stealing. Where they had shared their first real conversation. Where everything had begun.

  He turned on instinct.

  The alley was quieter now—overgrown vines still pulsing faintly with hydro energy, the forgotten fountain still trickling erratically. And there, sitting against the wall with her knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around them, was Clorinde.

  There she was, looking small. Lost. Nothing like the Champion who had stood at the head of the parade.

  Wriothesley’s heart lurched.

  He rushed forward—boots echoing on stone—dropped to his knees in front of her, and scooped her up without another word.

  He hugged her so tightly she gasped, arms crushed against his chest, face buried in the crook of his shoulder. His coat smelled of metal and mint and the faint trace of surface rain. His heartbeat thundered against her ear—fast, unsteady, alive.

  “I’m sorry, Clor,” he whispered, voice trembling, cracking on every syllable. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that to you. I shouldn’t have hidden. I shouldn’t have written that damn letter. I was scared—scared I’d ruin everything if I let myself feel it all. But I can’t—I can’t keep pretending I don’t need you.”

  His arms tightened further, almost crushing. His breath hitched—once, twice—like he was fighting not to break entirely.

  Clorinde’s arms—stiff at first, locked by weeks of self-imposed distance—gave way.

  She melted into him.

  Her hands fisted in the back of his coat. Her face pressed harder against his shoulder. She couldn’t speak—words caught behind the lump in her throat, behind the promise she had made to herself never to feel this again.

  But her feelings were stronger than her logic.

  Stronger than pride.

  Stronger than seven years of separation.

  She hugged him back—fiercely, desperately, as though letting go would mean losing him all over again.

  The alley’s fountain trickled on, whispering secrets only the two of them could hear.

  They stayed like that—locked together on the cool stone, breathing each other in—until the last of the parade fireworks faded overhead.

  Neither moved.

  Neither wanted to.

  Because in that moment, in the peculiar alley where it had all begun, they finally understood:

  They had never stopped searching for each other.

  And now—finally—they had been found.