By the time they turned ten, the peculiar alley had long since stopped being just a hiding place. It was their training ground, their arena, their private stage where the line between play and something fiercer began to blur. Clorinde’s mentor, Petronilla had started giving her real lessons—proper footwork, grip adjustments, the rhythm of a blade that wasn’t imaginary anymore. She carried a short wooden practice sword now, polished smooth from endless drills, and her movements had sharpened into something graceful and deadly precise.

  Wriothesley, meanwhile, had taken to wrapping his knuckles in strips of old cloth and practicing against the alley walls—controlled punches that cracked stone dust without breaking skin. He talked endlessly about “mechanical gauntlets” he’d seen sketches of in a junk dealer’s stall: brass and hydro-powered, fists that could punch through steel without spilling a drop of blood. “No unnecessary violence,” he’d insist, even as he shadowboxed. “Just enough to make things fair.”

  Their afternoon meetings turned into sparring sessions almost without them noticing.

  One crisp autumn day, golden light slanted through the hydro vines, painting shifting patterns on the damp stone. Clorinde arrived first, twirling her practice sword in lazy figure-eights, the wood whistling softly.

  “You’re late, tough guy,” she called as Wriothesley jogged up, already peeling off his jacket and tossing it over a crate.

  “Had to dodge a patrol,” he panted, rolling his shoulders. “They’re cracking down on ‘unlicensed brawling’ again. Idiots. Like I’m causing trouble.”

  Clorinde smirked, planting the tip of her sword in the ground and leaning on the hilt like a conqueror. “Maybe because you keep punching crates until they cry for mercy.”

  “They started it,” he shot back, grinning. He raised his fists in a loose boxer’s stance. “Ready to lose again?”

  “In your dreams.” She lifted her sword, shifting into a low guard. “First to three touches wins. No crying when I win.”

  “Three touches? You’re getting soft on me, Clor.”

  “Three clean touches,” she corrected sweetly. “No wild haymakers that knock me into next week. We’re practicing control.”

  He snorted. “Control’s boring. But fine. Ladies first.”

  She didn’t need a second invitation. Clorinde darted forward, light on her feet, blade flashing in a quick diagonal slash aimed at his shoulder. Wriothesley sidestepped—barely—grinning wider.

  “You’re getting slow, Wrio!” she taunted, voice lilting with mischief as she spun and aimed a follow-up thrust at his ribs. “Or maybe I’m just too fast for you now.”

  He blocked with a forearm, the wooden blade smacking against cloth-wrapped skin with a satisfying thwack. “Oh please, Clor. One solid punch and you’d be flat on your back. But I wouldn’t want to mess up that pretty ponytail. It’s working so hard to look intimidating.”

  Clorinde’s cheeks flushed pink, but she laughed—a bright, delighted sound that echoed off the walls. “Intimidating? This is elegant. You’re just jealous because your hair looks like a bird nested in it after every fight.”

  “My hair’s aerodynamic,” he retorted, ducking under her next swing and throwing a playful jab that stopped an inch from her collarbone. “Point for me!”

  “Cheap shot!” She twisted away, countering with a sweeping arc that forced him to leap back. “That barely counted!”

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  “Rules are rules, Miss Future Champion. One–zero.”

  They circled each other, breathing hard, sweat beading on their foreheads despite the cool air. Clorinde feinted left, then struck right; Wriothesley caught her wrist gently—too gently—and tugged her off-balance. She stumbled into him, their chests bumping, faces inches apart.

  For a heartbeat neither moved. His hand was still on her wrist; her sword hung forgotten at her side. Their eyes locked—storm-gray meeting violet—and something electric zipped between them, quick and warm and confusing.

  Then Clorinde recovered first. She shoved him back with a mock scowl. “Cheater! No grabbing!”

  “You fell into me,” he protested, laughing as he released her. “That’s on you.”

  “Liar.” But she was smiling too, cheeks still flushed. “Two–one. You’re lucky you’re my friend.”

  “Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow, smug. “Lucky enough to get a rematch?”

  “Of course.”

  Their laughter rang out again, bright and carefree, but underneath it something new had taken root: a spark of real rivalry, sharp and thrilling, laced with admiration neither would admit out loud yet.

  The true test came a few weeks later at the annual Fleuve Cendre Harvest Festival. The streets near the Court overflowed with lanterns, aquabus floats, street performers, and—most excitingly—a children’s mock-duel tournament set up in a roped-off square. Wooden swords and padded gloves only; winners got ribbons and a basket of sweets from Café Lutece.

  Clorinde signed up the moment she saw the poster. Wriothesley followed five minutes later, pretending it was a coincidence.

  “You’re really doing this?” she asked, bouncing on her toes as they waited in line.

  “Someone’s gotta keep you humble,” he replied, cracking his knuckles. “Can’t let you think you’re unbeatable just because you’ve got fancy footwork.”

  She tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “And you think your big fists are going to win against actual technique?”

  “Technique’s overrated. Power wins fights.”

  “We’ll see.”

  They both advanced easily through the early rounds—Clorinde with precise, dancing strikes that left opponents stumbling; Wriothesley with controlled bursts of strength that knocked wooden blades flying without hurting anyone. By the finals, the small crowd was buzzing.

  The announcer—a cheerful man with a megaphone—called them forward.

  “Final match! Clorinde of the Court district versus Wriothesley of… uh, the alleys! Begin!”

  They faced each other in the center of the ring, wooden weapons raised. Clorinde gave him a tiny, challenging smile. Wriothesley winked.

  The bell rang.

  She moved like water—quick sidesteps, feints, a thrust that grazed his sleeve. He countered with a heavy swing she ducked under, then another that forced her to leap back. They traded blows faster and faster, laughter mixing with grunts of effort.

  “Come on, Clor! Hit me already!”

  “You first, show-off!”

  She spun, blade whistling toward his side. He blocked, twisted, and tapped her shoulder with the flat of his padded fist—light, almost gentle.

  The crowd gasped.

  “Point to Wriothesley!” the announcer shouted.

  Clorinde narrowed her eyes, playful fire igniting. “Lucky.”

  “Not luck. Skill.”

  She came at him harder—slash, thrust, spin. He dodged, blocked, countered. The match stretched on, neither willing to yield an inch. Finally, Clorinde feinted high, dropped low, and tapped his thigh with perfect precision.

  “Point to Clorinde!”

  The crowd cheered wildly.

  One more exchange—blades clacking, feet sliding on packed dirt—and Clorinde slipped under his guard, tapping his chest dead-center.

  “Match! Winner—Clorinde!”

  The square erupted. Ribbons were handed over; a basket of fruit tarts and macarons thrust into her arms. Wriothesley stood there panting, hands on his knees, grinning despite the loss.

  Clorinde walked over, slightly out of breath, and held out the basket. “Here. Halfsies. You earned it.”

  He straightened, accepting a tart and taking a huge bite. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he said around crumbs, voice quieter now, almost shy. “I mean it. That last move? It was perfect.”

  Her cheeks went bright pink. She looked down at her wooden sword, suddenly self-conscious. “Hmp! Only because you let me win.”

  He laughed softly. “I didn’t let you do anything. You beat me fair and square. And… it was fun. Really fun.”

  She met his eyes again, something soft flickering there. “Yeah. It was.”

  They walked away from the ring together, shoulders brushing, sharing sweets as the festival lanterns glowed around them. The rivalry was real now—sharp, competitive, exhilarating—but so was the warmth beneath it. A deeper current had begun to flow between them, subtle and unstoppable, carrying them toward teenage storms neither could yet imagine.

  As they disappeared into the crowd, a familiar golden-haired girl in the audience clapped enthusiastically.

  “See, Papa?” Navia whispered loudly to Callas beside her. “Told you! They’re going to be legendary.”

  Callas only smiled. Some things, he knew, were better left to unfold in their own time.