Clorinde woke before dawn, the weight of her father’s words still pressing against her ribs like a second blade. She sat at her desk in the half-light, quill in hand, and stared at the blank page longer than she ever had before a duel.
Then she wrote.
Not a formal report. Not a polite thank-you. A letter—raw, unfiltered, the first she had ever sent him without hesitation or restraint.
Wrio,
I’m done waiting for permission.
Meet me tomorrow at dusk. The same overlook above the plaza where we watched the sunset last time. No parade. No crowds. Just us.
I want you to see me—not the Champion, not the guard, not the girl who once gave you bread. The woman I am now. The one who waited seven years and still chooses you every day.
PS—Don’t make me wait again.
—Clorinde
She sealed it before doubt could creep in, handed it to the first Melusine courier she saw outside the Palais, and walked away with her chin high. Rebellion tasted sharp on her tongue—against her father, against the part of herself that still believed duty must always come first, against the universe that seemed determined to punish every spark of happiness with shadow.
She wanted to see him. She needed to. Not in stolen alley moments or careful public walks, but openly. Unapologetically. She wanted him to look at her and understand: beneath the cold Champion facade was a woman willing to burn every rule she had ever lived by to have what she wanted.
And what she wanted was him.
The second letter she wrote that morning was to Navia—short, urgent.
Navia,
Meet me at Café Lutece tomorrow, noon. We need to talk. About him. About how to make this work.
—Clor
Navia arrived early, already halfway through a fruit tart when Clorinde sat down. One look at Clorinde’s face—set jaw, shadowed eyes—and Navia’s teasing smile vanished.
“So… tell me everything that happened.”
Clorinde told her everything: the kiss in the alley, the goodbye at her gate, her father’s cold fury waiting inside the house. The ultimatum. The threat to choose.
Navia almost squealed in excitement at first but instead she listened in silence, pastry forgotten.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
When Clorinde finished, Navia reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“Nothing bad is going to happen to this,” she said firmly. “Not if we don’t let it. Your father is scared—scared of losing the last piece of control he thinks he has over you. But you’re not a child anymore. You’re the esteemed Champion Duelist. You’ve earned the right to choose who stands beside you.”
Clorinde looked down at their joined hands.
“I told him I already chose,” she said quietly. “Years ago.”
“Then keep choosing him,” Navia replied. “Every day. And as your bestest friend, let me help! We’ll figure out how to get you two together without the whole Court watching. Discreet meetings. Safe places? Tell me! Whatever it takes.” She winked with assurance.
Clorinde managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you Navia.”
Before Navia could reply, a Melusine courier appeared at their table—pink hair neatly tied, expression unusually grave.
“Miss Clorinde,” she said softly. “Urgent summons from Chief Justice Neuvillette. Palais Mermonia. Immediately.”
Clorinde’s stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
The Melusine hesitated. “I’m not permitted to say. Only that it concerns Lady Furina.”
Clorinde stood so quickly her chair scraped the floor.
Navia rose too. “Go. I’ll handle things here.”
Clorinde was already moving.
The walk to the Palais felt endless. Every step echoed with guilt. She had been distracted last night—kissing Wriothesley in an alley while someone slipped through her security detail and nearly killed the Archon she had sworn to protect.
When she reached Neuvillette’s office, the Chief Justice stood at the window, back to her, hands clasped behind him. Furina sat nearby—not on her usual dramatic throne, but in a simple chair, looking smaller than Clorinde had ever seen her.
Neuvillette turned.
“There was an assassination attempt last night,” he said without preamble. “After the parade ended. A lone assailant—a Fatui, carrying a concealed weapon—nearly reached Lady Furina’s private chambers. Your security perimeter held everywhere except one blind spot near the aquabus terminal.”
Clorinde’s knees threatened to buckle.
She bowed deeply—lower than protocol required.
“Forgive me,” she said, voice hoarse. “I should have been there. My detail was—”
Furina raised a hand, cutting her off.
“Where were you last night, Clorinde?” she asked—not accusing, but curious.
Clorinde’s throat closed. She could lie. She could say she was running additional sweeps. Instead, truth slipped out.
“Forgive me,” she repeated. “I was… distracted.”
Furina studied her for a long moment.
Then—miraculously—she smiled.
“What’s life without a little theatrics?” she said lightly. “I’m unharmed. The attempt failed. And you—” She gestured to Clorinde’s face. “—you look like someone finally beat you senseless. I won’t punish you for happiness, dear Champion. Not when it’s so rare in this city.”
Clorinde bowed again, deeper.
“I swear my loyalty and my duty,” she said. “It will not happen again.”
Neuvillette inclined his head. “We will find the perpetrator. Strengthen the perimeter. But your focus must be absolute from now on.”
“You are dismissed. Go now.” Neuvillette commanded.
Clorinde nodded.
”I will excuse myself.”
She left the Palais with guilt sitting heavy in her chest.
Duty first.
Always.
Yet as she walked the quiet streets back home, another thought slipped through the cracks:
Whenever something good happened, something equally bad followed.
Was this the universe’s warning?
Was it telling her to abandon the newfound feelings that had finally broken through her walls?
She stopped in the middle of the empty plaza, looked up at the stars beginning to appear overhead, and whispered to no one:
“I won’t.”
Not this time.
She had waited seven years.
She would fight for him now—against her father, against duty, against fate itself if she had to.
Because some things, she had finally learned, were worth the conflict.
