Clorinde stared at the formal letter for what felt like the hundredth time, its crisp edges now slightly creased from her fingers folding and unfolding it. The words—polite, distant, utterly professional—stared back at her like a polite dismissal. Regards, Wriothesley, Duke of Meropide. No warmth. No hint of the man who had called her beautiful under the street lamps, who had brushed his thumb against her throat in a sunlit alley. It was as if the entire day had been a dream, and this letter the rude awakening.

  She didn’t reply.

  What for? The thought looped in her mind like a mantra. To pour out her tangled feelings in ink, only to receive another wall of formality? No. She had spent seven years chasing him through letters and locked gates. She wouldn’t chase again.

  So she stopped visiting the Fortress altogether.

  It wasn’t spite—at least, not entirely. The postponed parade she had rescheduled (all because of that one special day, because of him) had ballooned into a whirlwind of duties. As Furina’s personal guard and the Champion Duelist, she was knee-deep in coordinating routes, reviewing security protocols, and rehearsing formations. The event had grown from a simple procession into a grand spectacle—fireworks, aquabus floats, Melusine performers—thanks to Furina’s flair for drama. It was a convenient excuse, one that let her bury the ache under layers of work.

  But in quieter moments, alone in her Palais quarters, she admitted the truth: the letter had hurt. It felt like he had halted whatever fragile thing had bloomed between them before it could take root. A wall, rebuilt overnight. She convinced herself he didn’t want to risk their friendship—better safe than shattered. So she closed off that part of her heart, the part that fluttered at his name, and focused on the parade. On duty. On anything but him.

  Navia, of course, saw through it immediately.

  Their friendship had begun years ago, in the sun-dappled streets of Fontaine’s lower districts. Clorinde had been fifteen, fresh from the shock of Wriothesley’s trial, throwing herself into duelist training with a ferocity that bordered on self-punishment. Navia, bubbly and bold even then, had been practicing her marksmanship nearby—her father, Callas Caspar, president of the Spina di Rosula, had insisted she learn to defend herself.

  One afternoon, Clorinde’s practice sword had slipped during a particularly aggressive swing, sending it flying toward Navia’s target range. Navia ducked with a yelp, then popped up laughing.

  “Hey! Trying to skewer me, or just showing off?”

  Clorinde had frozen, mortified—apologizing stiffly, retrieving her sword with rigid precision.

  Navia waved it off. “No harm done! You’re Clorinde, right? The one who used to hang out with that alley kid—Wriothesley? I saw you two once, holding hands in the rain. It was so cute I had to tell my father about it!”

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  Clorinde’s cheeks had burned. “We weren’t—”

  Navia grinned. “Sure, sure. Come on, let’s spar. Claymore vs pistols and sword. The loser buys the sweets from Lutece.”

  That had been the start. Navia’s relentless cheer chipped away at Clorinde’s walls like erosion on stone. Over the years, through duels and disasters—Navia’s father’s tragic death in a duel (one Clorinde had won, a burden that had nearly broken their bond before Navia’s forgiveness mended it)—they had become inseparable. Navia brought light to Clorinde’s stoic world; Clorinde brought steady ground to Navia’s whirlwind life. Best friends, confidantes, sisters in all but blood.

  Now, weeks after the letter, Navia stormed into Clorinde’s quarters unannounced, as she always did.

  “You know, you’re avoiding him, right?” Navia declared, plopping onto the bed with a basket of fresh macarons. “And don’t deny it. The Fortress guards are gossiping about how the Champion hasn’t shown up since the warden’s big day out.”

  Clorinde didn’t look up from her parade schematics. “I’m busy. The parade—”

  “The parade you rescheduled just for him? Yeah, yeah. Spill. What about the letter?”

  Clorinde sighed, setting her quill down. “It was… formal. Like a colleague thanking another for a meeting. It felt very distant.”

  Navia snatched the letter from the desk, read it, and snorted. “This is a panic letter. He’s so freaking cute, Clor. Men like him—broody, reformed-prison-Duke types—don’t know how to say ‘I like you’ without sounding like a court document.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to say it at all,” Clorinde said quietly. “Maybe friendship is all he wants. And that’s fine. I won’t ruin it.”

  Navia rolled her eyes. “You’re both idiots.”

  Down in Meropide, Wriothesley was unraveling in his own quiet way.

  He had written the formal letter to mask everything: the way his heart had raced when she pulled him from the café, the heat of her skin under his thumb, the overwhelming urge to kiss her senseless in that alley. It was a dam against the flood—a desperate attempt to contain feelings he didn’t know how to handle after years of isolation.

  But now, weeks later, with no reply and no visits, the dam was cracking.

  Sigewinne noticed immediately. Their bond had begun years ago, when Wriothesley was still a fresh inmate, bruised from his first pankration ring fight. She had patched him up in the infirmary—small hands deft with bandages, voice gentle but firm.

  “You fight like you have nothing to lose,” she had said then. “But you do. Everyone here does.”

  Over time, as he rose through the ranks, she became his quiet ally. She supported him through the coup against the old administration, smuggling messages to sympathetic inmates. He, in turn, protected her—ensuring Melusines were treated with respect, expanding the infirmary, listening when she needed to vent about stubborn patients. They were family in a place that devoured such things: she, the compassionate nurse who saw his humanity; he, the Duke who gave her the space to heal others.

  Now she found him in his office, staring at an unopened report, knuckles still faintly scarred from the trees.

  “You wrote her a business letter after kissing her hand?” Sigewinne asked, hopping onto the desk with crossed arms.

  He winced. “It seemed… safe.”

  “It was a mistake,” she said bluntly. “She thinks you’re pushing her away. And you are—because you’re scared.”

  Wriothesley looked at her. “I’ve been locked up for almost half of my life. Freedom? Feelings? I don’t know how to do this without breaking everything.”

  Sigewinne softened. “That’s why you start small. A real letter. A visit. You lost a lot down here, but now’s your chance to get it back. Starting with her.”

  He stared at the mint leaves.

  Above, Navia plotted.

  Below, Sigewinne schemed.

  Neither knew the other existed yet.

  But soon—very soon—they would become the keys to unlocking the misunderstanding, pulling the two awkward first-timers back together before the walls grew too high.

  The universe, after all, was not done with them yet.