Clorinde returned to the Palais Mermonia at first light—uniform pristine, posture impeccable, hair re-tied into its usual severe ponytail. No trace of the night remained on her exterior except the faint, stubborn flush high on her cheekbones and the way her fingers kept drifting unconsciously to her lips.

  She walked straight into her father’s disapproval.

  étienne was waiting in the small antechamber outside her quarters—still in yesterday’s pressed jacket, cane planted between his knees like a judge’s gavel. The moment she crossed the threshold he rose. Slowly. Deliberately.

  “You did not come home last night.”

  The statement was flat. Cold. Final.

  Clorinde stopped just inside the doorway. She met his gaze without flinching.

  “No. I didn’t.”

  Silence stretched—sharp enough to cut.

  “Did you spent the night with him?”

  She did not deny it. She did not blush. She simply lifted her chin.

  “Yes.”

  étienne’s knuckles whitened on the cane.

  “You are the Champion Duelist. Furina’s personal guard. The living blade of Fontaine’s justice. And you—” His voice cracked with something dangerously close to disgust. “—spent the night in the bed of a convicted murderer. In the belly of that prison he now pretends to rule.”

  Clorinde’s jaw tightened.

  “He is the Duke of Meropide. Pardoned by Monsieur Neuvillette. Even cleared by the Oratrice. His sentence is served. His reforms have made the Fortress a place of rehabilitation rather than punishment. If Fontaine’s own system can accept that, why can’t you?”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Because I raised you better than to throw yourself away on a man with blood on his ledger.”

  “You didn’t raise me at all,” she said quietly.

  The words landed like a slap.

  étienne recoiled—visibly.

  “You were never able to look at me without seeing her death,” Clorinde continued, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. “So you raised me like a tool instead of a daughter. You taught me to raise myself. Even Petronilla left. I learned about duty, discipline, and distance. You never taught me love. Wriothesley did. In an alley. With half a loaf of bread and a promise to spar until one of us won. He saw me when you never did.”

  étienne’s face hardened into something carved from stone.

  “You are a disgrace to your title.”

  “I honor it,” she countered. “By choosing someone who fights for fairness instead of hiding behind it.”

  He took one step forward—cane tapping once against the floor like punctuation.

  “If you continue down this path, you will lose more than my approval.”

  Clorinde looked at him—stared—and saw the man who had never once held her when she cried.

  “Then I choose to lose it, I never needed it anyway,” she said softly. “But I will not lose him again.”

  She turned and walked away.

  étienne did not stop her.

  But his resolve hardened behind her retreating back.

  Meanwhile, beneath the waves, Wriothesley had already made his decision.

  He surfaced that same morning—no fanfare, no escort. Just a dark coat, scarred knuckles, and a determination that felt sharper than any gauntlet he had ever worn.

  He would meet her father.

  Not to beg. Not to prove anything.

  But to stand in front of the man who had raised Clorinde and make it clear: her choice was hers alone. Whether étienne accepted him or not was irrelevant. Clorinde had chosen. And that was enough for him.

  He had barely stepped onto the Court plaza when he felt the first tremor of something wrong.

  The city felt… off.

  Too quiet in places that should have been bustling. Guards clustered in unusual patterns. Whispers moved faster than the aquabuses.

  And then he saw them.

  The Fatui.

  Not the usual diplomatic delegation—subtle, uniformed, predictable.

  These were operatives. Masked. Moving in small, coordinated groups. Slipping through alleys. Watching rooftops. One of them—a tall figure in crimson and black, white hair catching the light—paused on a balcony overlooking the Palais.

  It was Arlecchino.

  The Knave.

  The Fourth Fatui Harbinger.

  ”What is she doing here?”

  Wriothesley’s blood went cold.

  She was watching the Palais with the calm, predatory patience of someone who had already decided the current regime was inadequate.

  A coup.

  And Clorinde—Furina’s personal guard—was right in the middle of it.

  He moved.

  Fast.

  Warn her as soon as possible.