The next morning, the private chamber felt smaller than usual that morning, the high windows letting in pale, watery light that did little to warm the marble floors. Furina sat at the far end of the long table—still in her nightgown beneath a hastily thrown silk robe, hair uncurled and slightly tangled, makeup absent. For once she looked every bit her apparent age: young, tired, human. Neuvillette stood near the window like a statue carved from moonlight, hands clasped behind his back, tail still beneath the hem of his robe. No guards. No attendants. Just the three of them.

  Clorinde entered without knocking—protocol be damned after last night’s encounter with The Knave—and stopped three paces inside the door. She bowed deeply, more out of reflex than formality.

  “My lady. Chief Justice.”

  Furina looked up. Her mismatched eyes were red-rimmed, but steady.

  “Sit right here, Clorinde.”

  Clorinde obeyed—slowly—taking the chair opposite Furina. Neuvillette remained standing.

  Furina folded her hands on the table. Her usual theatrical gestures were gone; her voice, when she spoke, was quiet but firm.

  “You are hereby dismissed as my personal guard.”

  The words landed like a blade between Clorinde’s ribs.

  She felt the air leave her lungs.

  “My lady—”

  Furina raised a hand—small, trembling slightly, but commanding.

  “Not because you failed last night. Not because of the breach. Not because of… him.” A ghost of her old mischievous smile flickered across her face, there and gone. “You are dismissed because you have finally earned the right to protect this nation the way you were always meant to. Not tethered to one frightened actress playing Archon. Not chained to my shadow. But free—truly free—to stand beside the man who has already proven he would tear down the world to keep you safe.”

  Clorinde stared.

  The room tilted.

  Furina rose—slowly, regally, the way she had been trained to rise for five hundred years—and walked around the table. She stopped in front of Clorinde.

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  “You will remain the Champion Duelist because you earned it. You will remain head of the Gardes. Your authority is unchanged. Your duties are expanded. But you will no longer be my shadow. You will be Fontaine’s blade—both of you. Together.”

  Clorinde’s throat closed. Her eyes burned.

  “My lady… I—”

  Furina reached out—hesitated—then pulled Clorinde into a quick, fierce hug. It lasted only seconds, but it carried centuries of unspoken gratitude.

  “Don’t thank me,” Furina whispered against her hair. “Thank yourself. You waited many years for him. You carried my lie for a long while. Fontaine kept me alive that night even when you were distracted by something real for once. Now live, Clorinde. Be happy. Protect everyone—not just me.”

  Clorinde stepped back—eyes shining, chest tight.

  Furina smiled—small, genuine, no performance left.

  “Go. Be with him. And tell him I expect an invitation to the wedding.”

  Clorinde laughed—shaky, startled—and bowed again, deeper this time.

  “Thank you, my lady. Truly.”

  Furina waved her off—already turning back toward her chair, suddenly looking very small again.

  Neuvillette inclined his head as Clorinde passed.

  “You have served with honor,” he said quietly. “Continue to do so.”

  She nodded once—unable to speak—and left.

  Wriothesley was waiting outside the Palais steps.

  No coat. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. Hair slightly mussed from the wind. He looked more like the alley boy she remembered than the Duke he had become—broad-shouldered, scarred, but unguarded. When he saw her expression—wide-eyed, stunned, hopeful—his own face softened.

  “What happened?”

  She walked straight into his arms.

  He caught her—easily, naturally—like she belonged there.

  “I’m free,” she whispered against his chest. “Lady Furina has dismissed me. As her personal guard. I’m still the Champion. Still head of the Gardes. But I’m… free.”

  Wriothesley’s arms tightened until she could feel every beat of his heart against her cheek.

  He pressed his lips to her hair—lingering, reverent.

  “Then let’s go home.”

  She pulled back just enough to look at him.

  “Home?”

  He smiled—soft, certain, a little crooked.

  “Wherever you are.” His expression sobered. “But first—I want to meet your father. Properly. I want to look him in the eye and tell him I’m not going anywhere. That his daughter chose me. And that I will spend every day proving I’m worthy of that choice.”

  Clorinde searched his face—storm-gray eyes steady, jaw set, no trace of hesitation.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said quietly. “He’s… difficult.”

  “I know.” Wriothesley brushed a thumb across her cheekbone. “But I’m not asking for his permission. I’m asking for his understanding. And if he can’t give it—then at least he’ll know I tried. For you.”

  She exhaled—shaky, grateful—and leaned her forehead against his collarbone for a moment.

  “Then we’ll go together.”

  He took her hand—scarred fingers lacing through hers.

  “Together.”

  They walked down the Palais steps side by side—into the bright morning light of Fontaine.

  The city stretched before them: fountains singing, aquabuses gliding, people moving through their ordinary lives.

  And for the first time in years, both Clorinde and Wriothesley felt like they belonged in it.

  Not as Champion and Duke.

  Not as girl and boy from an alley.

  But as two people who had finally found their way back to each other.

  And who would never let go again.