“Ladies and gentlemen… this concludes my opening performance.”

  “Now, without further ado…”

  “We may proceed to the trial of our god.”

  Patchwork metal walls fall apart, crashing heavily onto the polished wooden flooring of the Opera Epiclese like a gift unwrapped. Furina watches, her sharp intake of breath the only noise within the silent courtroom, as spotlights shine down and her white-blue hair shimmers in the flash of a thousand Kameras. The Traveler and Paimon remain in front of her, still seated on a wooden crate, while, to her left, Lyney, the brat from the House of the Hearth, sinks into a final curtsy. He sweeps his magician’s top hat to the side, as if to redirect all attention onto the panicking ‘Hydro Archon’, before swiftly disappearing from the platform with a final twirl of his hat.

  …

  She blinks, rising from a fugue with her feet still leaden, and realizes that at some point, both she and the Traveler had migrated to opposite stands on the second floor of the opera house. The reality of her situation slowly penetrates her mind, clouded with exhaustion and stress, and she can’t help but stifle a laugh at the absurdity of it all. For five hundred years, she’s overseen trials by the tens of thousands, yet here she is, acting as the defendant against a prosecutor for the first time in her immortal life. Her gaze roves over the assembled audience, and with every old acquaintance she recognizes, something shatters in her chest.

  Then she makes the mistake of glancing at the seat of the Chief Justice.

  “For what reason have you remained in this stagnant position? You and you alone have understood the Justice that flows in the lifeblood of this nation.”

  “...”

  “Well, it’s of no major significance. From this day onward, by my authority as the Hydro Archon ‘Focalors’, I proclaim you to be my new Iudex, Chief Justice over all courts of Fontaine.” Furina offered a hand, to which the man stared in visible confusion.

  “Good heavens, have you never seen a handshake before? And do speak up, my dear Iudex. You can’t possibly serve me if you haven’t even told me your name yet.”

  At this, the man slowly extends a gloved hand and firmly grasps Furina’s outstretched limb, examining the process with all the curiosity of someone who has very little interaction with humans.

  “I see. My apologies — it seems I still have much to learn, Lady Furina. Please call me Neuvillette.” A bitter smile flits across Furina’s face. Though Neuvillette may never know it, they have far more in common than he thinks.

  Thus, the relationship between the dragon pretending to be a human and the human pretending to be a god began.

  Iudex Neuvillette’s eyes are like a storm at sea — impartial, inscrutable. There is none of the warmth nor exasperation she has come to associate with him from their centuries of cooperation. In this moment, he is the Chief Justice, and she is but a mere sinner to be sentenced. He must have truly lost his faith in her to resort to such measures. But who is she to criticize him? Everything he knows about her is shrouded in a layer of deceit.

  This time, Furina doesn’t muffle her laugh.

  “Ah, so this is what it is. Yes... You deserve praise for the effort you took to raise the dramatic stakes.”

  Her heart has already been ground into a million tiny fragments. What’s one more betrayal added to that?

  “My dear citizens. Have you all forgotten that I am Focalors, the God and pure embodiment of Justice? Does it not strike you as the height of folly to attempt to bring the very concept of Justice to trial?”

  It is clear to her that she has lost the trust of her people. She can almost hear the hushed whispers, the doubt nagging at their minds. She can’t blame them.

  “I understand your concerns, people of Fontaine. It was my inaction that has led us to the present moment.”

  Furina catches sight of Callas’ daughter, blonde-haired Navia, sitting in the audience. The presence of the president of the Spina di Rosula is made all the more obvious by the absence of two people who would ordinarily flank her — Melus and Silver, her ever-present bodyguards. Two casualties among the dozens of the Poisson incident.

  An image of Navia weeping at the foot of her father’s grave, robbed even of the comfort of being able to lay Melus and Silver to rest, their bodies dissolved by the Primordial Sea, flashes before her eyes.

  The apology rising out of Furina’s throat turns to ash on her tongue, and it is all she can do to avoid choking on her own words.

  “It was my failure that caused the tragedy of Poisson, and for that, it is my duty to stand trial and face just punishment.”

  Useless, wretched, empty words. There are no platitudes, no sentences that she can utter that will erase the fact that people died because of her. People died believing in her, their ‘Archon’, to save them. These people have every right to hate her, despise her, spite her. She doesn’t deserve even the smallest bit of respect, not when she lives every day on the foundation of five hundred years of lies.

  How could you let this happen?

  It beggars belief just how carefree you have been.

  You’re nothing more than a fake.

  “You are not the only ones to be disappointed in me. I, too, am exceedingly disappointed in myself.”

  This, at least, is a truth. There is nothing in this world that Furina hates more than herself, and yet she can only continue her centuries-long act. She has to.

  The stage may break. The script may burn. The crew may quit. But the show must go on, lest all of Fontaine be doomed to the waves.

  And it will. After all…

  “Therefore, let me demonstrate my courage and resolve before you all. I, Focalors, will use this trial to show the world the true meaning of Justice!”

  …Furina de Fontaine is nothing if not a good actor.

  The steely voice of the Chief Justice silences the raucous, cheering crowd, elated at being able to witness what is likely the greatest spectacle any of them will ever see. Neuvillette does not shout, nor does he even raise his voice. The mere presence he commands is enough to force people back into their seats, for that is the weight of the title Iudex, reserved solely for the one who has presided over trials since before their great-grandfathers were even born.

  Where Furina enraptures the audience with pure showmanship to hide her lack of substance, he has both the authority and power to back it up.

  “Furina de Fontaine, the trial taking place today is unrelated to your misconduct as Archon. Instead…”

  Her blood runs cold, and she fears the words coming next more than any assassination attempt. There’s no way. It’s impossible. Nothing she’s ever done should have given them enough reason to believe it. Five hundred years she’s gone unquestioned, surely it won’t end here—

  “You shall be tried for the crime of impersonating the Hydro Archon for the past five hundred years.”

  Shock. The world is blurring before her eyes as gasps echo over the audience, their surprise and indignation all blending together into one budding panic attack. Furina’s breath quickens, hitched sobs failing to escape her lungs because even now she still has to play her role, even as everything is crashing down around her and it’s all over, she’s done for—

  And Neuvillette’s next words are just the hammer to drive the nail in even deeper.

  “Should you refuse to stand trial, you will have the opportunity to defend your honor in a duel.”

  She wants to cry. Instead, she cackles loudly, her sonorous voice filling the entire chamber.

  “Good, good! How thrilling, yet absurd!”

  If they think she’s a fake, they know she’ll never choose the duel. A normal human has no hope of besting a Champion Duelist. They must be expecting her to go along with the trial, likely with some key evidence prepared to condemn her without a doubt.

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  “My dear Iudex, I am Focalors, otherwise known as Furina de Fontaine, a member of the Seven, the Regina of All Waters, Kindreds, Peoples and Laws of Fontaine. On what grounds do you accuse me of being anything other than your true Archon?”

  The Iudex’s eyes are indifferent. Perhaps taking advantage of his silence, the Traveler speaks up for the first time.

  “If that’s the case, then why haven’t you done anything to prevent the prophecy?” she questions calmly.

  Heavens above, this Outlander is far too self-assured for someone who knows nothing of the truth. Everything was just fine until Little Miss Traveler came along and stirred up the silt. Is it really a coincidence that the moment she arrives in Fontaine, the prophecy begins taking effect?

  Furina hates them and yet she doesn’t, because all of this stems from her own inability. The only thing she’s capable of doing is following the role she’s been assigned, all while relying on the hope that mirror-her will be able to pull through.

  “Silence, Outlander. You know nothing of Fontaine’s struggles, and you could not hope to understand the machinations of a god.”

  This situation has spiraled out of control, and to take back the reins, she’ll have to do something unexpected. If words alone won’t convince them, maybe action will. It has to. Otherwise, Fontaine might not exist tomorrow.

  “Fine, I shall participate in this farce. I see there is no way I can convince you of your idiocy. Therefore, I accept this duel.”

  Finally, finally, a hint of hesitation and dismay breaks through Neuvillette’s facade — clearly, the duel was meant to intimidate her into taking the trial instead. On the other side of the chamber, the Traveler and Paimon are whispering hurriedly.

  But it’s too late now. Their plan is already falling apart at the seams, and they have to deal with the consequences.

  Her opponent marches onstage, rapier poised and ready, and it’s a damn good thing that Furina’s persona as the Hydro Archon is her second skin by now because behind the mask she’s a hysterical mess.

  Champion Duelist Clorinde strides forward, not a single button nor feather of her hat out of place. Her eyes are two violet orbs of determination as she levels her sword against the god she swore to serve.

  “Hm? You say you wish to become my bodyguard? How preposterous! A god such as myself has no need of protection.” Furina laughs, even though behind the facade she thinks it would be comforting to have Fontaine’s undefeated Champion Duelist by her side. However, she can’t afford it. The closer the relationship, the higher the risk that she’ll inadvertently let something slip.

  Despite this, Clorinde does not rise from her position, kneeling on the cobblestones of the Palais Mermonia.

  “Lady Furina, I implore you to reconsider. Even a god must rest, no?” Had it been anyone else, the insinuation that the Hydro Archon had moments of weakness would have been ridiculous. Still, she didn’t immediately dismiss Clorinde. To this day, she still doesn’t know why she agreed. Perhaps she wanted someone to confide in, improbable as it might have been.

  “...Very well. In light of your resolve, I shall grant your wish.” A sword is summoned from nowhere and falls into Furina’s delicate hand.

  “Do you, Champion Duelist Clorinde of the Court of Fontaine, swear on your life and your honor to serve I, Focalors, the God of Justice, until your final breath?”

  “I do.” Slowly, daintily, the flat of Furina’s blade falls and taps the kneeling Clorinde on her right, then her left shoulder.

  And so the pledge was sealed in both words and memory.

  The past flashes before Furina’s eyes like a fleeting raincloud evaporated by the sun. She sees the path she must take now, the scene she must follow.

  The script is already laid out, the words within penned so clearly in her blood and suffering. How fitting.

  She is down on the stage again, facing the impassive violet-eyed duelist with arrogance and disdain exuding from her every movement. The thrice-damned Traveler and their companion take seats in the audience, and things begin in earnest.

  “Final chance, my Champion. You would dare raise your blade against a god?”

  You’d raise your blade against me?

  Clorinde’s answer is the crackle of electricity as purple lightning surged from her Vision.

  Truly, she is pathetic to have thought that Clorinde would place their friendship over her duty as a Champion Duelist. Seven years of tea parties, of discussing the latest fashion over cakes, of overseeing trials with Clorinde by her side, none of those things matter. It doesn’t matter that Clorinde is the closest thing she’s had to a friend in centuries. It doesn’t matter that this woman has been a presence in her life every day without fail, a constant reassurance of safety amidst thousands of social battlefields and pitfalls.

  Just like Neuvillette, upon this stage, Clorinde is the blade and the hand of Justice, and Furina is merely a sinner. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

  She deserves nothing less anyway.

  Clorinde is approaching now, her boots clicking and clacking against the Opera Epiclese’s wooden planks — and for all its opulence and splendor, it is a stage that seems wholly insufficient for the clash between the strongest Champion Duelist in history and a god. At least, it would be, if Furina was able to display even a fraction of the ability that the audience expects.

  She sweeps her left arm outwards, and the weight of her sword, Splendor of Tranquil Waters, is comforting as it materializes in a burst of golden light. Whorls of pure Hydro entwine the hilt, forming a guard in the shape of a musical note as the blade fades from a dark blue to blinding white at the tip. The audience oohs and ahhs, frenzied at the opportunity to see their Archon in real combat — any thought of the original circumstances behind this trial driven from their minds by the expectant atmosphere.

  It’s a game she knows how to play well, her skills honed by hundreds of years of practice. Any and all doubts about Furina’s identity can be swept away if the ensuing show is spectacular enough. Of course, this is the first time her identity has ever been called into serious, genuine doubt, but the solution is still the same. The cast may have changed, but it’s still the same song and dance, a routine that she could perform in her sleep. She might hold a sword in her hand, but misdirection is her true weapon.

  And isn’t it ironic that the same sword she used to dub Clorinde her bodyguard, is now what she brandishes against her?

  “People of Fontaine, rejoice! If this trial is what you have deemed to be Justice, then who am I, as the God of Justice, to deny it? You shall all be witnesses to the performance of a lifetime — a masquerade of the guilty!” She addresses the crowd with intensified bravado, stoking the flames of enthusiasm that threaten to overtake everyone.

  They cheer and they shout, uncaring of the very real consequences that have brought them to this point, and Furina is grateful for that because it means she can keep the lie going just a bit longer.

  “Now then, my dear Champion Duelist. Try not to disappoint me — after all, you are a mortal facing a god.”

  Neuvillette, seemingly having decided to continue with the duel despite his visible concern, slams his cane into the ground, silencing the spectators for a second time.

  “This shall be a duel to the death between the Champion Duelist Clorinde and the defendant, Furina de Fontaine. Begin.”

  Furina’s sword skills are about as substantial as her godly powers, meaning nonexistent. The several hundred plays’ worth of choreographed sword fighting she’s acted in are nothing to Clorinde’s practiced, deadly techniques. At best, she can clumsily parry the hits and turn lethal blows into glancing cuts. But this is a performance just as much as a duel, and so presentation is everything.

  It helps that Clorinde is holding back significantly, likely trying to pressure Furina into surrendering. Her movements, though as swift and flawless as ever, are flashy and exaggerated, devoid of genuine mercilessness but brimming with intimidation. At least, with this small silver lining, she can somewhat react and execute dodges filled with all the grace she can draw on.

  The two fighters disengage, Furina’s pale skin marred with dozens upon dozens of small slashes, the navy blue of her ostentatious suit dyed with blood red. She doesn’t react though — her torturously long life has made her very good at hiding her pain. Every fiber of her being is focused on slowing her breaths, denying her lungs the gasping heaves that they so desperately scream for. A god can’t be seen struggling in a duel with a human — she has to be nonchalant, uninterested, bored. Even so, the people watching can sense something strange.

  “Hey, doesn’t it look like Lady Furina is being pushed back?

  “What are you talking about? She hasn’t reacted even once. She must be treating this like a game.”

  “Then why hasn’t she landed a single hit on Miss Clorinde?”

  “Er, maybe she’s unwilling to strike down one of her citizens?”

  Pity and shame flicker behind Clorinde’s eyes at the pathetic sight, and for a moment she is on the verge of surrender, of calling off the duel and accepting defeat. Regret stays her blade and dulls her movements, but Furina can’t have that. She needs Clorinde to continue.

  “It would be a shame if you were to lose your nerve so soon, my dear. Is this all the resolve of a Champion Duelist amounts to?” she taunts, honeyed and sweet words aiming to inflame her opponent’s pride.

  “...Then I shall endeavor to end this quickly.” Clorinde’s face hardens again, but Furina can see right past the mask to the conflicted conscience beneath.

  “Very good! And to think I was starting to bore of this farce. A god I may be, but I’ve always cared deeply for my dear Fontainians. Seeing you in such suffering does my heart no favors, so let’s finish this.”

  The sparking electricity wreathing Clorinde’s rapier heralds an inescapable blow, one that seeks to end everything in a single strike. The duelist lunges with explosive momentum, and time slows to a crawl. Furina makes no effort to dodge — in fact, this is the moment she’s been waiting for.

  She admires the way the light refracts off the steel rapier, the way her Champion’s legs tense and the ground cracks under her force, the pattern every bolt of lightning scorches into the wooden flooring, the perfect, undeviating path the blade traces in the air as it.

  Pierces.

  Her.

  Heart.

  Panic from Neuvillette. A stunned silence from the audience. Shock, but most of all, guilt from Clorinde.

  The agony is sharp and it burns, as if the sun has replaced her heart. Teeth clamped down on her tongue, she strangles a scream that begs to give a voice to her pain. It takes everything Furina has and then some to not stumble and collapse, to force a maniacal laugh past uncooperative lips, but she can’t fall, not here and not now. She still has a role to play, after all.

  “Oh, don’t look so surprised, my dear Champion. Did you really think that you, a mortal, could ever hope to inflict lasting harm on a god?” She musters an unimpressed look down at Clorinde, who is still staring hollowly.

  At this point, the Electro energy infused into the blade has realized her body is the perfect outlet to discharge into and the smell of roasting flesh fills the air, but it’s not enough. She needs this image to be seared into the memories of every person present, so none of them will ever question her status as a god above mortal concerns — Furina reaches out and grasps the handle of the sword, pries it from Clorinde’s limp and unresponsive fingers, and thrusts it deeper into her chest, impaling herself like a sinner on a stake, because isn’t that exactly what she is?

  Heavy are the scales of Justice on both sides, but one is overwhelmingly weightier than the other. When she compares some suffering on her part to the lives of every person who calls Fontaine home, well, there’s only one choice she can make.

  Good actresses hone their craft to mesmerize the whole crowd, and Furina will stab herself in the heart a thousand and one times to save her dear Fontaine. She’ll do anything to ensure that the absolute focus of the stage of judgment remains on her. She’ll bear the unbearable on her shoulders alone, because that’s all she can do as the wretched fraud who can’t offer a single truthful word of apology.

  The sickening squelch as metal bites further into flesh echoes starkly in contrast to the unnerved, disturbed silence in the hall. Clorinde slumps helplessly, strength departing from her limbs, while Neuvillette looks like he’s watching the live execution of a Melusine. Furina can see him and the horror in his eyes as he questions whether the woman onstage, in the throes of insanity, is truly the vivacious person he’s known for centuries. Perhaps in response to his mood, vicious thunder roars in darkening skies as the first pellets of rain pound against the walls of the Opera Epiclese.

  The waves of hysteria are lapping against the fractured and broken dam of her mind. Furina’s smile and her laugh, usually ever so pleasant and amiable, are now distorted into something akin to a prisoner’s final hurrah before being locked into the Fortress of Meropide. Some spectators examine the scene with a morbid fascination, while others look away with handkerchiefs held to their mouths.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that. My dear Fontainians, did you all not wonder, even if it was for a fraction of a second, if I was not your true god? Are you not entertained? Have I not proven, beyond even the shadow of a doubt, that I am Focalors, God of Justice and Archon of Hydro? Who else but a god would be so nonchalant about this?” She dances about the stage, sanguine droplets scattering as she twirls and spins, gesturing toward the sword still embedded in her chest. Her voice comes out a bit too breathlessly, and Furina can’t hide the tremors that wrack her limbs, but no one notices anyway. She doesn’t have Neuvillette’s presence or the strength of a real god, but she has her own way of dominating people’s minds — and right now, they are all far too entranced by the sight of a different side to their chirpy, dramatic Archon to question the chinks that are forming in her mask.

  Still, she’ll cup the falling shards in her hands and force them back together, because she owes it to them to be the greatest fraud of an Archon. To endure the five-hundred-year hell of eternity, so that one day, the people of Fontaine will finally be free of their prophesied deaths, and they can finally reach the far shore at the end of the sea.