Wriothesley held her hand the entire time.

  From the moment they left the Palais steps until they turned down the quieter streets toward the aquabus terminal, his fingers stayed laced with hers—firm, warm, unyielding. Every few paces he would give a small, unconscious squeeze, as though reminding himself she was real, she was here, she wasn’t slipping away again. Clorinde didn’t pull free. She didn’t want to. The roughness of his calluses against her palm felt like an anchor in the soft morning light of Fontaine, grounding her after the whirlwind of dismissal, freedom, and the quiet promise they had just made to each other.

  They walked slowly—unhurried, almost aimless—letting the city wake up around them. Aquabuses glided past with their gentle hydro hum; vendors began opening shutters; early risers nodded politely as they passed. No one stared too long. No one whispered. They were simply two people in a city full of stories.

  Until Navia.

  She was sitting at an outdoor table outside Café Lutece—golden curls catching the sunrise, a half-eaten fruit tart forgotten on her plate—when she spotted them. Her eyes widened. Then her mouth dropped open. Then the biggest, brightest, most shameless grin split her face.

  Clorinde felt the gaze like a physical touch.

  She glanced sideways—caught Navia’s delighted stare—and felt heat flood her cheeks in an instant. Navia’s grin widened impossibly further; she raised both hands in silent, exaggerated applause, mouthing Finally! with theatrical flair.

  Clorinde’s lips twitched. She ducked her head—shy, embarrassed, but unable to hide the small, secret smile that curved her mouth. She squeezed Wriothesley’s hand once—quick, private—and he looked down at her, brow raised in question.

  “Navia,” she murmured.

  He followed her gaze, saw the blonde waving enthusiastically from across the plaza, and huffed a quiet laugh.

  “She’s never going to let us live this down.”

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  “No,” Clorinde agreed softly. “She isn’t.”

  They kept walking—hand in hand—until Navia was out of sight.

  But the warmth of that moment lingered.

  By the time they reached the quieter streets near the Fortress checkpoint, Clorinde’s steps had begun to slow. Not from fatigue exactly—though the emotional whirlwind of the last twenty-four hours had left her drained—but from something deeper. A pull. A need.

  She stopped near the aquabus platform, turning to face him.

  “Wrio…”

  He stopped too, immediately attentive. “What is it?”

  She bit her lip—suddenly shy again, despite everything they had already shared.

  “I… don’t want to go back to the Palais yet. Or home.” Her voice dropped. “Can I come to the Fortress again? Tonight?” She glanced at his eyes.

  Wriothesley blinked.

  Then blinked again.

  His ears turned faintly pink.

  “You mean… stay?”

  She nodded—small, almost hesitant, but resolute.

  “I… I want to finish what we started,” she said quietly. “That morning. In your room. Before the speakers interrupted us.” Her voice getting smaller at every word.

  The words hung between them—plain, honest, devastatingly intimate.

  Wriothesley’s throat worked visibly. His grip on her hand tightened.

  “Clor…”

  She looked up at him—violet eyes steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.

  “I know it’s sudden. I know we’re both still… figuring this out. But I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to be with you. All of you. Tonight.”

  He exhaled—a shaky, almost pained sound—and pulled her closer until their foreheads touched.

  “You’re going to kill me,” he muttered, voice rough with want and wonder. “You know that, right?”

  Her lips curved—just a little.

  “Then at least you should die happy.”

  He laughed—low, breathless—and pressed a kiss to her temple.

  “Alright,” he whispered against her skin. “Tonight. The Fortress. My room. No interruptions this time.”

  She smiled against his collarbone.

  “No interruptions.”

  They stood like that for a long moment—foreheads touching, hands clasped, breathing each other in—before Wriothesley reluctantly stepped back.

  “I have to get back. Duty doesn’t wait—even for this.” He lifted their joined hands and kissed her knuckles—slow, deliberate. “But I’ll be waiting. I’ll leave the door open for you. Bed already made. And if Sigewinne asks why I’m grinning like an idiot…”

  Clorinde laughed softly.

  “Tell her I’m coming.”

  He grinned—boyish, unguarded, heartbreakingly beautiful.

  “I will.”

  He released her hand—slowly, like it physically hurt—and stepped toward the checkpoint.

  Clorinde watched him go—broad shoulders, steady stride, the faint blush still lingering on the back of his neck—and felt something settle deep inside her chest.

  Tonight.

  No more waiting.

  No more almosts.

  Just them.

  And whatever came next.