The Duke’s administrative office felt suddenly too small, the air too thick. Clorinde stood with her back straight, sword still sheathed at her hip, while Wriothesley remained behind the desk as though it were the only thing keeping him anchored. Neither moved to sit again. The tea cooled untouched between them.

  She noticed everything.

  His hair was longer now, pushed back in a careless style that still managed to look deliberate—black strands escaping to frame a face that had sharpened with time. The boyish roundness was gone; in its place were hard angles, faint scars crossing one cheekbone like pale lightning, and shadows beneath his eyes that no amount of artificial light could erase. His shoulders were broader, the black coat stretched across them in a way that spoke of years spent hauling, fighting, surviving. Yet the way he stood—weight balanced on the balls of his feet, hands loose at his sides—was the same stance he’d taken in the alley when he was ready to spar.

  He was watching her just as closely.

  Her dark purplish hair was still pulled into that neat ponytail, though a few strands had loosened during the elevator ride down. The Champion coat fit her like armor—elegant, unyielding—but he could see the faint tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers flexed once, twice, as though itching for the hilt of her sword. Her violet eyes were the same, sharp and searching, but there was a new weight behind them: years of unanswered questions, of climbing alone. She was taller, leaner, carved by discipline and duty, yet the small scar on her left knuckle—the one she’d earned blocking his playful punch when they were young—was still there, pale against her skin.

  Neither spoke for what felt like eternity.

  The silence stretched, awkward and heavy, filled only by the distant thrum of Meropide’s machinery—like a heartbeat neither of them could ignore.

  Finally Wriothesley broke it, voice low. “Tomorrow. Pankration ring. 0900 hours. No audience. Just us.”

  Clorinde nodded once. “No holding back.”

  “No holding back,” he echoed.

  Another beat of silence.

  She turned toward the door, then paused. “I’ll see you then.”

  He didn’t reply. Just watched her leave, the soft click of her boots echoing long after she was gone.

  The next morning, the pankration ring was empty.

  No cheering inmates. No guards. No Melusines watching from the sidelines. Just cold metal flooring, dim lights, and the faint echo of dripping water somewhere far above.

  They met in the center.

  Clorinde wore her Champion coat open over her usual black training attire, sword and gun holstered but untouched—she had chosen a training blade for this. Wriothesley stood opposite in his usual dark shirt and pants, mechanical gauntlets gleaming faintly on his hands. No cape, no insignia. Just him.

  They looked at each other.

  Time seemed to stutter.

  His eyes—storm-gray, still capable of seeing straight through her—held hers without flinching. Hers—violet, fierce, unreadable—searched his face as though trying to find the boy beneath the Duke.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Neither blinked.

  Pride demanded they begin.

  Clorinde moved first—swift, elegant, a diagonal slash aimed at his shoulder. Wriothesley sidestepped, gauntlet flashing up to block. The impact rang out like a bell.

  They circled each other.

  She was faster than he remembered—lighter on her feet, strikes precise and relentless. He was stronger—every block absorbed her force and returned it in controlled, powerful counters that forced her to leap back.

  The fight was heated, beautiful, brutal.

  Sweat beaded on her brow; a strand of purple hair escaped her ponytail and clung to her cheek. He noticed.

  A bruise bloomed on his forearm where she’d landed a glancing blow; she noticed.

  They traded blows in near-silence—only the clash of metal, the scuff of boots, the harsh rhythm of their breathing.

  Midway through, during a brief lock—her blade pressed against his gauntlet, faces inches apart—Wriothesley spoke, voice rough.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Clorinde’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

  “I am,” he insisted, pushing her back with a sudden burst of strength. “For the silence. For the years. For letting shame win. For making you wait.”

  She spun, blade whistling toward his side. He blocked, but slower this time—almost deliberately.

  The apology crept into his movements: a fraction too slow to counter, a guard left open just long enough for her to score a clean hit across his ribs.

  She pressed the advantage—slash, thrust, spin—until he was backed against the ropes.

  One final strike—perfect form, perfect angle—and her blade tapped his chest, right over his heart.

  “Yield,” she said, breathing hard.

  He didn’t move.

  She stared at him—chest rising and falling, eyes locked on his.

  He wasn’t fighting back anymore.

  Something cracked inside her.

  She threw the training sword aside. It clattered across the metal floor.

  Then she stepped forward and began pounding her fists against his broad chest—once, twice, three times—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to demand.

  “Why?” she demanded, voice breaking on the word. “Why wouldn’t you let me in? Why did you make me wait? Why did you think I couldn’t handle seeing you like this?”

  Wriothesley caught her wrists gently—his scarred hands enveloping hers.

  She froze.

  He looked down at her, and for the first time since she’d arrived, he smiled.

  Not the guarded, crooked smirk of the Duke.

  The old smile. The one from the alley—open, boyish, a little sheepish, full of warmth.

  “Clor,” he said softly.

  The sound of her old nickname—spoken in that voice—shattered something inside her.

  Emotion surged: anger, relief, grief, longing—all at once. Her eyes burned. She blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. Typical Clorinde—always holding the line, even when it hurt.

  He released her wrists and cupped her face instead, thumbs brushing the corners of her eyes.

  “I was scared,” he admitted. “Scared you’d see the blood and walk away. Scared you’d stay and I’d ruin you anyway. But mostly… scared you’d look at me the way I looked at myself.”

  She swallowed. “I never did.”

  “I know that now.”

  She searched his face—every scar, every line, every trace of the years apart.

  “I won,” she whispered.

  “You did,” he agreed. “But it doesn’t feel like winning, does it?”

  “No.”

  He pulled her closer—slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.

  She didn’t.

  Instead she rested her forehead against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart.

  “Come back to the office,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ll explain everything. No more silence. No more hiding.”

  She nodded against him.

  They walked back together—side by side, not touching, but close enough that their shadows merged on the corridor walls.

  In his office, he brewed fresh tea—properly this time, Sigewinne’s blend—and they sat across from each other again.

  He told her everything: the trafficking ring, the night he snapped, the confession, the rise through the pankration ring, the reforms, the pardon he still hadn’t used. He spoke without excuses, without flinching.

  She listened—quiet, composed, feelings locked tight behind her stoic mask.

  But when he finished, when silence fell again, she met his eyes and asked the question that had haunted her longest.

  “Why did it feel like this the moment I saw you again?”

  He tilted his head. “Like what?”

  “Like… everything we left in that alley never really left.”

  Wriothesley reached across the desk and covered her hand with his.

  “Because it didn’t,” he said simply.

  She didn’t pull away.

  For the first time in years, Clorinde let herself feel the weight of what had always been there—buried, stubborn, unbreakable.

  And for the first time, she didn’t fight it.