Down in the Fortress, the days dragged like chains across stone.

  Wriothesley had never been good at waiting. He could endure years of confinement, reform an entire prison system, fight in pankration rings until his knuckles bled—but this quiet, deliberate silence from Clorinde was something else entirely. Every morning he checked the courier log with a casualness he didn’t feel. Every evening he stared at the mint in his greenhouse as though it might sprout an answer. No letter. No visit. Nothing.

  The indifference was worse than anger. Anger he could fight. Silence left him restless, pacing his office, punching shadows, replaying the formal letter he’d sent and wondering how many ways he could have written it differently. Appreciate. The word mocked him now. Polite. Safe. Cowardly.

  He needed to fix it. Properly. Face-to-face. No ink. No distance.

  The grand parade—rescheduled by some official’s request—was the perfect excuse. The entire Court of Fontaine would be there: floats, fireworks, Furina’s theatrics, crowds lining every aquabus route. If he attended, he could find her. Apologize. Explain. Beg, if he had to. Anything to crack the wall he himself had built.

  But first—he had to be ready.

  He couldn’t just surface on parade day and hope the crowd didn’t overwhelm him. Seven years underwater had left him unused to open sky, open noise, open eyes. So he practiced.

  Sigewinne became his reluctant accomplice.

  Late at night—when the Fortress slept—they took short trips to the surface. Small excursions. A quiet corner of Fleuve Cendre at dawn. A back alley near the aquabus depot at dusk. Always avoiding the main thoroughfares, always steering clear of the Palais and the Court where Clorinde might be. Sigewinne walked beside him, small hand occasionally patting his arm when his breathing grew too shallow.

  “You’re doing fine,” she’d say. “The sky isn’t falling. Neither are you.”

  He’d grunt, fists clenched, but he kept going. Each trip a little longer. Each time the air felt a little less foreign. He wanted to see Clorinde—ached to—but he refused to face her half-broken by a crowd he couldn’t yet handle. Not when the stakes were this high.

  One evening, during one of their secret outings, he spotted Navia.

  She sat alone at an outdoor table in a small café near the aquabus terminal—golden curls catching the last of the sunset, a half-eaten fruit tart on her plate, parasol propped against her chair like a sentinel. She looked relaxed, content, utterly unaware of the Duke watching her from the shadow of a nearby archway.

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  Sigewinne nudged him. “Go talk to her. She’s Clorinde’s best friend, right? She’ll know what’s going on.”

  Wriothesley hesitated—then stepped forward.

  Navia noticed him immediately. Her eyes widened, then narrowed with calculation. She didn’t stand. She simply leaned back, crossed her legs, and smiled the smile of someone who already knew exactly why he was here.

  “Evening, Your Grace,” she said brightly. “Fancy meeting you topside.”

  He stopped a respectful distance away. “Miss Navia.”

  She gestured to the empty chair opposite her. “Sit. Or don’t. But if you’re here to ask about Clorinde, you might as well be comfortable.”

  He sat.

  A beat of silence.

  “Where is she?” he asked quietly. No preamble. No titles.

  Navia studied him—really studied him. The faint shadows under his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The way his scarred knuckles flexed against the table.

  “She’s been busy,” Navia said at last. “She has to take care of the parade. You know, security details and stuff. Assisting Lady Furina. You know how it is.”

  He didn’t buy it. “And how is she? Really.”

  Navia’s smile faded. “She’s doing fine, I guess. If I’m not being rude. I think, you should probably go ask her personally instead.”

  Wriothesley looked down at his hands. “I wrote her a letter but she didn’t reply. I thought I should thank her formally. But it was the exact opposite of what happened.”

  “Then you should have been honest,” Navia replied gently. “With her.”

  He exhaled through his nose. “I will. At the parade. I just… need to be ready for the crowd first.”

  Navia tilted her head. “You’re practicing. That’s good. But don’t wait too long, Your Grace. Clorinde is stubborn. She’s already half-convinced herself you don’t want to be friends with her anymore. (A half-lie) And once she locks that door…” She trailed off, shrugging. “You’ll have to knock very loudly to get back in.”

  He met her eyes. “I know.”

  She leaned forward. “Then come to the parade. Find her. Talk to her. No letters this time. And no putting on walls. Just you and her. Before she decides the silence is safer than the risk.”

  Wriothesley nodded once—slow, decisive.

  Navia smiled again—this time softer. “Good. Now go practice some more. And maybe try smiling when you see her. She likes that old alley grin of yours.”

  He huffed a quiet laugh. “Noted.”

  He rose to leave.

  Navia called after him. “Oh—and Duke?”

  He paused.

  “She still keeps your first letter in her desk drawer,” she said quietly. “The one she wrote when you were sentenced. She never threw it away. Just… something to think about.”

  He didn’t reply.

  But as he walked back toward the checkpoint with Sigewinne, the weight in his chest felt different.

  Lighter.

  The parade was closing in—days away now.

  He still didn’t know exactly what he would say when he found her.

  But he knew he would find her.

  And this time, he wouldn’t hide behind ink or titles or fear.

  He would show up.

  For her.

  For them.

  For the boy and girl who once shared bread in an alley and promised each other endless spars—and who might, just might, finally be ready to keep a different kind of promise.