The rain came down in sheets that evening, turning Fontaine’s streets into shimmering mirrors of hydro light and turning the peculiar alley into a shallow, reflective river. Wriothesley stumbled into their hidden spot like a wounded animal, one hand pressed to his side, the other dragging a torn sleeve across his bloody lip. His makeshift home—a rickety shack pieced together from scrap wood and salvaged canvas near the Fleuve Cendre outskirts—had been ransacked. A gang of thugs, drunk on cheap absinthe and the thrill of chaos, had torn through it looking for anything worth taking. When they found nothing but a few herbs and a cracked teacup, they turned their frustration on the boy who dared call the place his own.

  He collapsed against the vine-covered wall, breath ragged, knuckles split from the few punches he’d managed to land before fleeing. The cold stone bit into his back, but he barely felt it over the throbbing in his ribs. All he could think was how unfair it was—how he’d dreamed of order, of a world without pointless violence, and here it was crashing down on him again.

  Minutes later—or maybe hours; time blurred in the downpour—Clorinde appeared at the alley mouth, umbrella in one hand, a small basket of leftover bread in the other. She’d been on her way to their usual spot with a treat from Café Lutece, hoping to surprise him with a new fruit-infused pastry. The sight of him—curled up, bruised, soaked—made her drop both umbrella and basket into the mud.

  “Wrio!” Her voice cracked, higher than usual, as she rushed forward and dropped to her knees beside him. Rain plastered her lavender hair to her face, but she didn’t care. “What happened? Who did this?”

  He tried to sit up straighter, wincing. “Some idiots causing chaos. Broke in, trashed everything. I… I fought back. I had to. But there were too many.” His voice was rough, edged with frustration more than pain. “I hate unnecessary fights, Clor. Hate ‘em. But they wouldn’t stop.”

  Clorinde’s hands trembled as she tore a long strip from the hem of her dress—simple cotton, nothing fancy, but clean. She pressed it gently to the cut above his eyebrow, dabbing away blood and rainwater. “Hold still. This is going to sting.”

  He hissed through his teeth but didn’t pull away. “You don’t have to—I’m fine. Really.”

  “You’re not fine,” she said firmly, though her voice wavered. “You’re bleeding all over our alley. And you’re shaking. Stop pretending you’re invincible, tough guy. Let me help.”

  Wriothesley let out a shaky laugh that turned into a cough. “Bossy as ever. Fine. Patch me up, Miss Future Champion. But if you make it worse, I’m blaming your sword-stick practice.”

  She managed a small, watery smile despite the worry in her eyes. “It’s not a stick. And I’d never make it worse on purpose.” Her fingers worked carefully, wrapping the cloth around his knuckles next. Every time he flinched, her heart twisted. “Tell me exactly what happened. All of it. No grumbling—just the facts.”

  He sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. “They came looking for ‘easy pickings.’ Thought a kid alone meant no fight. I told ‘em to leave. They laughed. One grabbed my tea herbs—like, who steals dried leaves?—and when I shoved him off, they all jumped me. I got a few good hits in—broke one’s nose, I think—but… yeah. I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t want to end up worse.”

  Clorinde tied off the bandage, then sat back on her heels, studying him. Rain dripped from her lashes, but she didn’t blink. “You defended yourself. That’s not unnecessary violence. That’s… surviving. And protecting what little you have.”

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  He met her gaze, something raw flickering in his stormy eyes. “Still feels wrong. I keep thinking—if things were fair, if there was order, none of this would happen. No raids. No bruises. Just… quiet. Tea. Picnics. You.”

  Her cheeks flushed pink beneath the rain, but she didn’t look away. “Then we’ll make it fair. Someday. Together. You build your fortress, I’ll guard it with my blade. No one messes with us—or anyone else—without consequences.”

  Wriothesley reached out slowly, his bandaged hand finding hers. Their fingers laced together instinctively, cold from the rain but warm where they touched. A gentle flutter stirred in his chest—something new, fragile, like the first crack of sunlight after a storm. Puppy love, unnamed and innocent, blooming in the midst of pain.

  “You don’t have to face it alone,” Clorinde whispered, squeezing his hand. “We’re friends, right? More than that, maybe. I mean… you’re the only one I tell my dumb sword dreams to. The only one who makes bad tea taste good.”

  He chuckled weakly. “Hey, that tea was good. You said so.”

  “It was,” she admitted, scooting closer until their shoulders pressed together. “And you’re good. Bruised or not.”

  They huddled there as the rain poured harder, sharing body heat under the overhang of vines. The alley felt smaller, safer—like the world outside couldn’t reach them. Wriothesley’s head eventually dropped to rest against her shoulder, exhaustion winning out.

  “Thanks for being here,” he murmured, voice barely above the rain. “I didn’t think anyone would come looking for me.”

  Clorinde rested her cheek against his damp hair. “Idiot,” she replied softly, cheeks burning despite the chill. “I’ll always come looking for you, Wrio. I promise.”

  They stayed like that until the storm eased, hands still clasped, hearts beating a little faster than friendship alone could explain.

  Nearby, hidden behind a stack of crates at the alley’s entrance, a girl about their age with golden hair and bright, curious eyes peeked out. Navia—daughter of Callas, president of the Spina di Rosula, a bubbly whirlwind of energy even at her young age—had been on her way home from a market errand when she spotted the two huddled figures. She knew Clorinde vaguely from neighborhood glimpses (their families moved in overlapping circles of Fontaine’s working class), and the boy with the black hair looked like the one Clorinde sometimes mentioned in passing.

  Navia clutched her small umbrella tighter, eyes wide with a mix of worry and awe. “Oh wow,” she whispered to herself, bouncing on her toes. “They’re like… like stars in Fontaine’s sky! All huddled up, holding hands in the rain. So dramatic! So sweet!”

  She dashed home through the puddles, bursting into the Spina di Rosula headquarters where her father was reviewing ledgers by lamplight.

  “Papa! Papa, you won’t believe what I saw!” Navia exclaimed, dripping water everywhere. “Clorinde and this boy—Wrio, I think?—they were in the alley, all beat up and rainy, and they were holding hands! Like real friends! Or… more? It’s so romantic! Like a story from the theater!”

  Callas looked up, amused despite his fatigue. “Slow down, little rose. Holding hands? In the rain?”

  “Yes! And she was bandaging him! Like a hero nursing her wounded knight!” Navia clasped her hands dramatically. “They’re inseparable, Papa. Destined, I bet. Everyone’s going to talk about them one day!”

  Callas chuckled softly, ruffling her wet hair. “Perhaps. But let’s leave destiny to the Archon and her grand plays. For now, get dried off before you catch cold.”

  Navia nodded vigorously, already plotting how she’d tease Clorinde next time they crossed paths. But deep down, even at her young age, she sensed something true in the scene she’d witnessed—two kids clinging to each other against the storm, blind to the romance blooming right under their noses while the whole world (or at least one bubbly observer) could see it plain as day.

  In the alley, as the rain tapered to a gentle patter, Wriothesley squeezed Clorinde’s hand one more time. “We should get out of here before we turn into drowned rats.”

  She nodded, helping him stand. “Come on. My place isn’t far. Dad’s working late—there’s dry clothes and leftover soup. And no arguing.”

  He leaned on her shoulder as they walked, the flutter in his chest refusing to fade. “Bossy,” he teased weakly.

  “Worried,” she corrected, smiling through the lingering worry.

  And just like that, in the aftermath of the first real storm of their young lives, their bond deepened—still companionship on the surface, but underneath, something warmer, something inevitable, stirring like hydro currents beneath Fontaine’s eternal fountains.