The alley’s hydro vines dimmed to a faint shimmer as the last traces of sunset bled from the sky. Clorinde and Wriothesley had long since loosened their crushing embrace, but neither had stepped fully away. They stood close—close enough that every breath carried the other’s scent, every small shift brushed fabric against fabric. The tension still hummed between them, electric and unresolved, but the initial storm of emotion had settled into something quieter, more manageable. Something they could finally speak through.

  Clorinde exhaled slowly, tucking a loose strand of purple hair behind her ear. Her cheeks were still flushed, lips slightly swollen from the kiss she had initiated. She met his eyes—storm-gray, still darkened with want—and forced herself to speak like the adult she was supposed to be.

  “So,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “What happens now?”

  Wriothesley rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit she remembered from their teenage spars. He looked almost boyish in that moment—broad-shouldered Duke undone by one simple question.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve spent so long just thinking about surviving… I never planned for this.” He gestured vaguely between them. “For us. For whatever this is becoming.”

  She nodded, understanding too well. “We both have responsibilities that don’t pause. I’m the decorated Champion Duelist and Lady Furina’s and personal guard. You’re the Duke of Meropide. The Fortress doesn’t run itself, and neither does Fontaine’s justice system. We can’t just… drop everything.”

  “No,” he agreed quietly. “We can’t.”

  A beat of silence.

  “But this—” he continued, voice dropping lower, “—whatever it is… it’s real. And I don’t want to keep pretending it isn’t.”

  Clorinde’s heart gave a helpless thud. “It’s the start,” she said softly. “Not the end. Not even the middle. Just… the beginning of something big. Something that will take time to sort.”

  He nodded. “Time… we finally have.” Kissing her knuckles softly.

  They looked at each other—really stared—and something unspoken passed between them: their agreement, their promise to each other, and the patience they both needed.

  Wriothesley straightened. “Clor, let me walk you home.”

  She blinked. “No, you don’t have to—”

  “I want to.” His tone left no room for argument. “First time the Champion Duelist gets escorted home by the Duke of Meropide? I don’t know about you, but to me, it feels just right.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  A small, surprised laugh escaped her. “Oh? You suddenly treat me like a girl?”

  He smirked—old alley mischief flickering back to life. “I should’ve done this a long time ago. After everything… I was busy pulling myself out of the mud I got stuck in.”

  “I know,” she interrupted gently, cutting off his self-recrimination. “You were just doing your best to survive. I think I was just… impatient.”

  They started walking—side by side, shoulders brushing every few steps. The streets were quiet now, the parade crowds long dispersed. Street lamps cast long shadows; aquabuses glided past in the distance like silent ghosts.

  Clorinde glanced sideways at him. “I shouldn’t have done that to you either. Shutting you out like that. I assumed the worst. I’m sorry, Wrio. Truly.”

  He stopped walking.

  She stopped too.

  He turned to face her fully, then—slowly, giving her every chance to pull away—cupped her face with both scarred hands. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones, gentle despite their roughness.

  “I guess we’re just both new to this, huh?” he said, voice low and rough with emotion.

  She laughed—soft, awkward, relieved. “Apparently.”

  They laughed together then—quiet, shared, the sound echoing softly off the stone walls. It felt like breathing after being underwater too long.

  Wriothesley’s expression sobered. “I know we have a lot ahead of us. Our duties. Countless responsibilities. Time we don’t always control. But I promise—” His thumbs stroked once more, reverent. “I will make this work. Whatever this becomes. I’m not running anymore.”

  Clorinde covered one of his hands with hers. “Of course.”

  Their reassuring words drifted into the night like a vow.

  “I’ll wait for you,” she added quietly, eyes shining. “As I always have.”

  He leaned in, pressed his forehead to hers for a heartbeat—then pulled back before either of them could close the distance again.

  They resumed walking. Sides burning by their body heat every time they touch.

  Time passed by slowly. They took their time strolling the cobblestones. As if they didn’t want the night to end.

  When they finally reached her home—a modest but elegant townhouse near the Palais—Wriothesley stopped at the gate. Moonlight silvered the stone path; a single lamp burned in an upstairs window.

  He glanced at her—fidgeting, like a boy waiting for permission. Then stared—and something vulnerable flickered across his face.

  “Uhm, Clor…” silence lingered. She turned her face to him.

  “Can I… kiss you goodbye?”

  Clorinde’s breath caught. She nodded—shyly, almost imperceptibly.

  He stepped closer. One hand rose to cradle her jaw; the other settled at her waist. Then he bent his head and kissed her.

  It was slow. Passionate in a way that spoke of everything they hadn’t yet said aloud. His lips moved against hers with careful hunger—learning her, savoring her. She rose on her toes, hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders, then into his hair. She kissed him back with equal fervor—soft gasps swallowed between them, fingers tightening in dark strands, bodies pressing closer until there was no space left.

  When they finally parted—gasping, foreheads touching—neither spoke.

  They didn’t need to.

  But for now—for this single, suspended moment—Clorinde and Wriothesley stood at her gate, hands still linked, hearts racing in perfect, unspoken sync.

  The beginning had arrived.

  And neither of them was running anymore.

  …

  A shadow moved behind the upstairs curtain.

  Clorinde’s father—former Gardes captain, now retired but still sharp-eyed and protective—had been waiting for her return. He had watched the entire scene: the tall, scarred man in the dark coat, the way his daughter had melted into his arms, the kiss that lingered far longer than a simple farewell.

  His jaw tightened.

  This would be the start of conflict.