The peculiar alley behind the Court of Fontaine smelled of damp stone, faint hydro mist, and the distant aroma of fresh pastries from Café Lutece. Young Wriothesley, eight years old and all sharp elbows and defiant eyes, barreled into the shadows, heart hammering from evading a gang of older urchins.

  He slammed straight into a girl his age, knocking the neatly wrapped loaf from her hands. It tumbled into a puddle.

  “Watch where you’re—!” she started, violet eyes flashing with indignation as she steadied herself. Her lavender hair was tied back neatly, her dress simple but clean— a stark contrast to his ragged shirt.

  Wriothesley scrambled up, cheeks burning. “This is my spot! You can’t just barge in like some fancy court lady!”

  Clorinde crossed her arms, chin lifting. “This alley belongs to Fontaine, which means it belongs to the people under the Hydro Archon’s gaze. And right now, you’re acting like a wild animal cornered in a trap. What are you even hiding from? Playing at being a hero in a story no one’s reading?”

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  He bristled. “None of your business, miss perfect ponytail. Now get lost before they spot us both and decide two heads are better for punching.”

  She didn’t budge, tilting her head. “You’re scared. I can see it in your eyes. Scared people make bad decisions. Like running into strangers.”

  “I’m not scared,” he shot back, voice cracking. “I’m… strategic. There’s a difference.”

  A long silence stretched, broken only by the erratic trickle of the forgotten fountain. Finally, Clorinde sighed. “Fine. Stay in your ‘strategic’ corner. But if those bigger kids come back, don’t expect me to save you.”

  Wriothesley muttered, “I don’t need saving from anyone.”

  Yet as she turned to leave, he called softly, “Wait… what’s your name?”

  She paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Clorinde. And yours?”

  “Wriothesley.” He tested the word like it was foreign. “Weird name, huh?”

  “Better than being nameless,” she replied, a tiny smile tugging her lips before she vanished into the mist.