The walk to the Fortress checkpoint was quiet at first—not the heavy silence of earlier misunderstandings, but the kind of quiet that settles when two people have finally said the most important things and now simply exist in the same space.

  Clorinde’s hand stayed in Wriothesley’s the entire way. His palm was warm, rough, the calluses catching slightly against her smoother skin every time their fingers shifted. Neither of them let go. Every few steps one of them would squeeze—just a small, unconscious pulse of reassurance—and the other would answer with the same gentle pressure. It felt new. Fragile. Necessary.

  Halfway along the path that skirted the edge of the Court, Clorinde’s gaze drifted to the line of trees bordering the walkway.

  She slowed.

  Several trunks bore fresh damage: bark splintered in fist-sized craters, branches snapped at odd angles, one young sapling leaning drunkenly as though it had been shoved hard from the side. The wounds were too precise, too human to be storm damage or stray animals.

  She glanced sideways at Wriothesley.

  He was already looking anywhere but at the trees—face flushed to the roots of his hair, jaw working like he was chewing on an apology that hadn’t quite formed yet.

  “What… happened here?,” she asked dryly.

  Wriothesley winced so hard his shoulders hunched.

  “I—yeah. About that.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I might’ve… taken my feelings out on some innocent bark the other day. And the day before that. And maybe once more on the way here.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. To the trees. And to you. For… making a mess.”

  Clorinde’s lips twitched.

  “Did you really do this? What did the trees do to you?”

  He shot her a look—half mortified, half defiant. “In my defense, I didn’t even know that I did this. I was too—distracted by you at the time.”

  “Me? What did I do?” She was irked by the sudden blame.

  ”That day, when we went out. Your dress—I…” he couldn’t continue. Voice becoming smaller with embarrassment.

  ”Pft.” A soft laugh escaped her—the sound surprised both of them.

  Wriothesley’s blush deepened, but his grip on her hand tightened.

  They continued walking.

  As they neared the checkpoint, his steps slowed. He started talking—quick, nervous, filling the silence with every small detail he could think of, as though if he kept talking she wouldn’t notice how badly he wanted her to like what came next.

  “The entrance lift’s been recalibrated,” he said. “Smoother ride now. Less rattling. And the Melusines repainted the corridor signs last month—brighter colors. Easier to read in low light. Oh—and the tea in the admin kitchen is actually decent these days. Sigewinne’s been experimenting with blends. There’s one with lemon rind that’s—” He caught himself mid-sentence. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

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  “You look nervous,” she said gently.

  He exhaled through his nose. “Yeah.”

  They reached the checkpoint. The night-shift guard—a familiar face—saw them approaching hand-in-hand, did a visible double-take, then quickly looked away and busied himself with his ledger.

  Wriothesley cleared his throat again. Put his free hand on his mouth as if mimicking a cough.

  “Official business,” he told the guard, voice gruffer than necessary. “The Champion Duelist is… accompanying me. For consultation. On prison security.”

  The guard nodded so fast his cap nearly fell off. Clorinde trying to look somewhere else because Wriothesley refused to let go of her hand.

  “O-Of course, Your Grace. Have a lovely evening.”

  ”Carry on.” He instructed the guard. The guard took another look from behind and smiled.

  The lift doors closed behind them.

  In the sudden privacy of the descending capsule, Wriothesley finally let some of the tension bleed from his shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again—soft, sincere. “For everything. For the stupid letter. For making you think I didn’t want any of this. For not realizing it sooner.”

  Clorinde turned to face him fully, the dim light of the lift casting gentle shadows across both their faces.

  “I’m sorry too,” she said. “For shutting you out. For assuming the worst instead of asking you directly.” She lifted their joined hands, brushed her lips across his scarred knuckles—light, deliberate. “It’s like what you said. We’re both new at this.”

  He watched her mouth move against his skin, throat working.

  “Yeah,” he rasped. “We are.”

  The lift chimed. Doors opened onto the administrative level.

  Wriothesley hesitated on the threshold.

  Then he led her forward—slowly, almost ceremonially—down the corridor to his office.

  He paused outside the door.

  “I’ve never…” He swallowed. “I’ve never really had a home. Not before this place. And even then—it was only by duty, survival, or responsibility. Not…” He looked at her. “Not somewhere I wanted to bring someone I—”

  He stopped. Started again.

  “I want you to see it. All of it. The messy parts. The good parts. Because this is where I’ve been living for the past seven years, and if we’re going to do this—really do this—I want you to know where I’m coming from.”

  Clorinde squeezed his hand.

  “Then show them to me.”

  He pushed the door open.

  The office smelled of chamomile, mint, old books, and faintly of machine oil. Hydro lamps cast a warm glow over the desk piled with neatly stacked reports, the small greenhouse thriving in the corner, the worn armchair by the window that overlooked the lower levels. It was sparse, functional, but there were touches of care: a chipped teacup on the shelf that looked suspiciously like the one he’d once borrowed from a vendor as a boy, a single framed sketch of the central fountain in the Court (unsigned, but unmistakably hers).

  Sigewinne was waiting inside—perched on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, smiling like she’d known exactly when they’d arrive.

  “Your Grace, you’re back.” she greeted, then turned to Clorinde with genuine warmth. “Miss Champion. It’s good to see you again—this time, under better circumstances.”

  Wriothesley cleared his throat—awkward, flushed, suddenly very aware of how young and uncertain he felt.

  “Sigewinne, this is… Clorinde. My—” He faltered. Looked at Clorinde. “My…”

  Clorinde stepped forward, offering her hand.

  “His,” she said simply.

  Sigewinne’s smile widened. She hopped down and shook Clorinde’s hand with both of hers.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said. “Mostly in the middle of the night when he thought no one could hear him.”

  Wriothesley groaned and covered his face.

  “Sigewinne!”

  Clorinde’s lips twitched.

  Sigewinne patted his arm. “I’ll leave you two. The Fortress is still standing. Thanks to me.”

  She slipped out, slowly closing the door softly behind her. Looking at them as the door was closing.

  Silence settled—thick, warm, intimate.

  Wriothesley looked around his office as though seeing it for the first time.

  “This is… it,” he said quietly. “This is home. Or the closest thing I’ve had to one.”

  Clorinde stepped closer—slowly—until she could rest her forehead against his chest again.

  “It’s more than enough,” she murmured.

  His arms came around her—gentle this time, reverent.

  They stood like that—two people who had spent years learning how to survive alone, finally learning how to belong together.

  “Thank you, Wrio.”

  Neither spoke a word again.

  They didn’t need to.

  And in the quiet of the Duke’s office, with the faint hum of the Fortress beneath them and the soft glow of hydro lamps above, they began—carefully, awkwardly, beautifully—to build something real.