The Palais Mermonia’s grand atrium was never meant to be a battlefield.

  Marble floors gleamed under hydro-lantern chandeliers. Statues of past Archons stood sentinel along the colonnades. The air usually carried the faint scent of polished stone and incense. Tonight it carried smoke, ozone, and the metallic tang in the air.

  Arlecchino stepped through the shattered east doors like she was entering her own parlor.

  Her black-and-red coat flared behind her like spilled blood; the white streak in her hair caught every stray light. Four House of the Hearth operatives flanked her—silent, masked, blades already drawn—but she raised one gloved hand and they halted. This was not their fight.

  Furina stood at the top of the grand staircase, chin high, mismatched eyes blazing with a defiance that looked almost painful. Neuvillette stood one step below her—robe still immaculate, cane already summoned in one hand, hair lashing behind him like a whip.

  Arlecchino stopped at the foot of the stairs.

  “Lady Furina,” she said, voice calm, almost polite. “Chief Justice.”

  Furina laughed—sharp, brittle, theatrical to the last.

  “The Knave graces us with her presence. Should I be flattered, or merely terrified?”

  Arlecchino tilted her head.

  “Neither. I am not here for spectacle. I am here because Fontaine is rotting under a lie.”

  Neuvillette’s voice cut through like falling water.

  “Speak plainly, Harbinger. You have breached the Palais. You have endangered the Archon. State your grievance.”

  Arlecchino’s crimson eyes flicked to Furina.

  “The grievance is simple. Fontaine has been led by an actress for five hundred years. A performance so convincing that even the Hydro Sovereign believed it. But the prophecy has passed. The lie has served its purpose. And now the lie sits on the throne, playing dress-up while the nation waits for real leadership.”

  Furina’s hands clenched at her sides.

  “I protected this nation—”

  “You preserved it,” Arlecchino corrected. “There is a difference. Preservation is passive. Protection requires strength. Decisiveness. You have been neither.”

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  Neuvillette stepped forward.

  “The Oratrice has spoken. Furina remains Hydro Archon. The sentence of exile was suspended. The nation stands. What more do you demand?”

  Arlecchino’s gaze shifted to him—cool, assessing.

  “I demand accountability, Sovereign. You allowed a mortal to impersonate divinity for half a millennium. You watched the prophecy unfold, knowing the truth, and did nothing until the very last act. You let children drown in the streets while you debated legality.”

  Neuvillette’s cane lashed again—once, hard.

  “I protected the prophecy’s resolution. Had I acted prematurely, the consequences would have been catastrophic. Fontaine would have shattered.”

  “Fontaine did shatter,” Arlecchino replied. “It simply took five centuries instead of five minutes. You protected a system. Not the people.”

  Furina’s voice cracked like thin ice.

  “I never wanted this role. I was ordered to play it. By the real Focalors. By the very divinity you claim to serve. I gave everything—my name, my face, my life—to keep the lie alive long enough for the prophecy to be broken. I sat on that throne and smiled while my people suffered because I was told it was the only way. And now you stand here and call me inadequate?”

  Arlecchino’s expression did not soften, but something flickered in her eyes—recognition, perhaps.

  “I do not call you inadequate because you failed to feel pain. I call you inadequate because you failed to act on it. You could have told the truth. You could have trusted your people. Instead you chose the script. And now the script is over.”

  Neuvillette raised his cain slightly—not threatening, but ready.

  “You serve the Tsaritsa. Your loyalty is to Snezhnaya, not Fontaine. Why should we believe this is anything but another Fatui power grab?”

  Arlecchino’s lips curved—just a fraction.

  “Because I have no interest in ruling Fontaine. I have children to protect. Orphans who deserve better than a nation that drowns its own. The Tsaritsa seeks the Gnoses, not petty thrones. I seek only to remove an obstacle to real change.”

  Furina laughed again—this time hollow.

  “So you would kill me to ‘save’ my people?”

  “I would remove you,” Arlecchino corrected. “Death is dramatic. Exile is cleaner. Step down. Let the Sovereign take his rightful place. Let Fontaine be led by someone who does not need to pretend.”

  Neuvillette’s voice was steel.

  “I have already taken responsibility. The Oratrice found Furina guilty—and pardoned her. The prophecy is fulfilled. The flood did not come. The people are safe. If you truly care for Fontaine’s orphans, you will not spill blood in its halls today.”

  Arlecchino studied him—long, unblinking.

  “You would bear the weight of her sins?”

  “I already do,” Neuvillette said quietly. “I have borne them for five hundred years. And I will bear them for five hundred more if necessary. But the people will not pay for my silence any longer. The lie ends here. Furina remains Archon—not as Focalors’ shadow, but as herself. And I will stand as her justice.”

  Silence.

  Then Arlecchino exhaled—a single, measured breath.

  “Very well.”

  She turned—coat flaring—and walked back toward the shattered doors.

  Her operatives followed without question.

  At the threshold she paused.

  “Tell your Champion Duelist to tighten her perimeter,” she said over her shoulder. “Next time I will not come alone.”

  The doors closed behind her.

  Furina sank onto the top step—suddenly small, suddenly exhausted.

  Neuvillette knelt beside her.

  “It is over,” he said gently.

  Furina laughed—weak, watery.

  “Is it?”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “It is the beginning.”