Chapter Text

La lune diminue, divin septembre

(The moon is waning, September sublime)

Les montagnes sont apaisées dans leur lumière

(The mountains lie stilled in their light)

L’ombre plus tôt fait ombre et l’or se repose

(Shadows are quicker to darken and subtle gods)

Subtilement dans le vert. Toute chaleur

(Repose within the green. Yesterday)

Est mort hier comme une muraille était claires,

(The final warmth died out as a wall of darkness)

Avec vent et silence déjà, pensée de la mort.

(With winds and ready silence, a presentiment of death.)

- Pierre-Jean Jouve, Apres le deluge (After the Deluge)  

Chapter 1

Sleep did not come to rescue Clorinde from her thoughts that night, just as it hadn’t for the past seven nights. She wished desperately to return to how she once was, back to a time when she could fall into easy slumber to the sound of Navia’s quiet snores. Instead, seeing her so peaceful only compounded her guilt. 

Clorinde sighed through her nose, a half-defeated noise laced with resignation that will inevitably outlive it. She turned onto her side, facing away from Navia, and there her mind began to drift as it always does.

She’d spent her life as a ward to House Caspar, plucked from the throes of misfortune that rendered her a starving orphan. Callas Caspar, tall and strong and golden, gave her a home and a new purpose. 

And now, after a week spent in sleepless anticipation, that purpose will come to fruition.

No sooner than the reminder cemented itself did the bed shift and warmth blossomed around her midsection. She hadn’t the wherewithal to even flinch or recoil as Navia pulled them close together, her back flushed against Navia’s front.

“You’re awake?” Clorinde hushed into the dark.

Navia kissed the base of her neck, a lazy, habitual motion underlined by the lethargy in her voice. “Your thoughts are rather loud, chérie . What’s troubling you?”

Many things , she wanted to say, so many things that I cannot tell you not only because I have sworn not to, but because I am afraid that you’ll come to hate me. “The future, I suppose,” she murmured instead, not entirely a lie, but it encompassed so little that the catharsis being offered was nowhere in reach.

Navia hummed thoughtfully, stroking her thumb along the hem of Clorinde’s sleep shirt absently. “Are you worried about Father’s trial?”

Clorinde nodded, for she didn’t trust herself to speak.

Navia, none the wiser, nestled against the crook of her neck before sighing. “I’ve been thinking the same. It’s a wonder how I’ve been able to sleep at all, really.” Then she chuckled, “Goodness, have I inadvertently stolen yours somehow?”

In spite of herself, Clorinde smiled and turned over so that they were face to face. “If such a thing were possible, I would happily give my sleep to you.”

“Come now, as if I’d let you,” she lightly reprimanded before her expression drifted into somber contemplation. “I have faith that Father will be successful in proving his innocence. For all his secrets and elusive nature, I don’t believe that he’s the man the people are painting him to be. How could he possibly after all the good he’s done? But...”

As Navia’s words trailed and her gaze could no longer hold Clorinde’s, Clorinde reached up delicately to stroke the backs of her fingers along her cheek. “But?” she coaxed.

“Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if I know him at all. Sometimes I think about those wonderful times where he indulged in our games and realize that those are the memories of a child. Who is he now when he’s not just a father answering to the whims of his daughter? Oh, I must sound ridiculous,” she berated with a humorless chortle. 

“It’s not ridiculous,” Clorinde said, and a wry smile of her own mirrored Navia’s. “I think... Do you remember the first time Callas had erred during a case.”

“I do. Gods, I don’t think he’s ever looked that devastated before,” Navia said. “He nearly drank himself under the table if not for Melus’s inference. How old were we then? Thirteen?”

“Thirteen. And it was strange,” Clorinde continued thoughtfully, “to realize that someone like Callas wasn’t as infallible as we’d grown up believing him to be. He’s more than just a father figure, but rather a man who can still make mistakes. There’s plenty that we don’t know about him— can’t know. And I think it must be normal.”

“I suppose. I just... wish that he would allow me to know things about him—or even with him. As terrifying as it is, I am his successor; not just to the House but to the Spina as well. And yet it hardly feels as though he’s properly taught me anything to prepare.”

Clorinde hummed, knowing this sentiment quite intimately herself. “Training never feels like it’ll pay off, no matter how overt. Though perhaps it’s because he doesn’t know if there is anything for him to teach you.”

In response, Navia scoffed airily. “How easy for you to say, Champion Duelist of the Spina. How did you come by such a title, I wonder.”

It was meant in jest, however Clorinde pressed on, “I had meant only that he might view the ethos of spearheading an organization as something that comes with time and experience. It isn’t so simple as teaching swordplay.”

“No. I suppose not,” Navia sighed. “Doesn’t make it any less frustrating though, and now he’s got himself all tangled up in this mess.”

Clorinde was not one to flinch or recoil, however her own body betrayed her then. It was the barest twitch of her hand as it rested over Navia’s hip, her restlessness manifesting in more than just lost sleep. “Maybe you shouldn’t attend the trial, Navia,” she said, faster than her sense could catch up and realize that she was about to tread on precarious waters.

Navia frowned. “What do you mean? He’s my father, of course I’m going.”

There was more she wanted to say, but growing up with Navia came with the honed wisdom that there was seldom that could change her mind once it’s been made up. She loved that about her. Like the geo she commanded, Clorinde admired her steadfastness, her strength of will. She would make a fine leader of the Spina one day, and it would be an honor to stand beside her.

Clorinde shook her head , more to herself than anything, but the smile that faintly grew on her lips was for Navia as she exhaled through her nose and leaned forward to kiss the corner of her mouth. “You’re right,” she murmured. “And I am with you. No matter the outcome, I will be at your side, Navia.”

Something flashed across Navia’s expression, the room was too dark to properly see. All the same, the realization she’d been outpacing came as a shot of momentary panic. Had she revealed too much? Navia, in her brilliance, could very damn well intuit the weight of her words—the foreboding acceptance there that has become a great burden. Navia had to know. It was naive to think that she could keep anything from her, and secrecy had turned the past week into an entire lifetime. 

But Navia only smiled back and kissed her sweetly, not tasting the bitter relief that exhaled from Clorinde’s lips. “Then I have nothing to worry about.”

***

The trial of Callas Caspar for the murder of the man called Jacques committed on the night of the Confrerie of Cabriere banquet, commenced. However, instead of standing before the Opera Epiclese as a defendant pleading his innocence, Callas announced his right to a duel against his accuser directly. 

Navia’s sharp intake of breath was nearly the death knell on Clorinde’s resolve. However, she kept her expression schooled and their hands clasped in an attempt to be comforting. The grip mutually grew tighter with the passing moments as Callas took his position upon the stage, his sword gleaming in the stage spotlights.

“Papa, what are you doing?” Navia said helplessly under her breath. 

But Clorinde understood, and in her shame and the promise she swore, she prepared for the next phase in Callas’s plan. Her eyes swept across the Opera, scanning for any stray eyes that weren’t on the spectacle transpiring on stage. She spotted two. One, whose face flushed and gathering sweat, stared into their lap with an inscrutable furrow of their brow. And another, who kept fussing with the inside of his coat.

From the prosecution box, Marcel, the founder and owner of the Confrerie of Cabriere of which the deceased Jacques was employed, Callas’s long-time business partner and a friend so close that Navia has called him uncle, accepted the challenge on the grounds that he elected a champion to fight in his stead on account of his ailing health. He invoked a name, Joseph, to fight as his champion. And like a well rehearsed play, a man rose from his seat amongst the audience members and ascended the steps with a haughty swagger to face the waiting Callas. 

The posted Guardes granted the man a sword of his own. They saluted one another. Neither of them possessed a Vision, though Joseph hungered greatly for one. The duel commenced.

What transpired was a deadly dance worthy of Fontaine’s great operatic stage, the stuff of epics that would end in a noble triumph. But its conclusion was a tragedy. Or righteous vindication, depending on who is asked. 

Clorinde, with her years of fighting in the name of the Spina equipping her with being able to see whether a combatant fought to live or die, saw it for what Callas intended it to be: his last duel alive.

He and his opponent lunged for one another, meeting in the middle as if coming to embrace one another. However, they were warriors in this moment, and while the embrace was one of equals, it was anything but warm.

Blades plunged into yielding flesh. Bright crimson glittered with spotlight-gold.

Steel forged by the cold experience of its wielder pierced through his stomach and exited through his shoulder blade. The man known as Joseph died on his knees, whimpering at the hot shock of the unexpected wound and the pain he never before experienced, nor ever again.

Steel in the hands of an eager master punched between his ribs and nestled within his lungs—a thrust too weak to run him properly through. Callas Caspar died staring out towards the audience with his battle focused eyes slowly darkening with death, and found his daughter crying.

From the blood that spilled from his breached ribs and gurgled from his lips, crimson spittle staining his golden beard and mustache, the once great Callas Caspar, just as he killed and was killed, will be reborn as Callas the Unfaithful.

The deed is done, he thought. With the last of his draining strength, he nodded to Clorinde. The barest incline of his head, but she saw it. 

It’s all on you now .

A knife flashed, deadly aimed for Navia’s heart. As fast as the lightning she wielded, Clorinde deflected it with the gauntlet hidden beneath her sleeves. She glared down at the assailant with such ferocity that he visibly flinched before regaining enough of his senses to reach for another knife.

Navia, to her credit in the midst of her compounding shock and grief, asked in a bewildered hush. “H-How did you see that?”

“Because I was looking for it,” Clorinde intoned and pulled Navia to her feet. “We must go.”

The Opera dissolved into chaos even with the Iudex bellowing, demanding for order, but to no avail. It was all he could do until more assailants revealed themselves, all fervent to descend on their prey, and he descended from his seat of judgment to subdue them at once.

Clorinde and Navia sprinted off, climbing the stairs two at a time and crashing through the doors into the foyer. Clorinde took hold of and threw down a nearby hat rack, and before Navia could question why, she saw the reason for it. Clattering out from its concealment within the rack’s hollowed pipe was Clorinde’s rapier, likely put there ahead of time for this very moment to transpire.

“You couldn’t extend the same courtesy for my axe?” Navia said, though her own primary weapon was truly the furthest thing from her mind; after all, she still had her parasol. Now wasn’t the time to ask, but why did Clorinde have to hide hers in the first place?  

“I’ll petition the Epiclese to invest in a wardrobe big enough to store your axe,” Clorinde humored, because anything was better than acknowledging this blatant show of forethought, or thinking about the impending grief over Callas’s death that awaited her. 

They barreled past the checkpoint guards, quickly dispatched and offered half uttered apologies before the duo emerged onto the courtyard proper. The Fountain of Lucine, a beautiful sight in the bright sunset, went completely ignored, and its onlookers were none the wiser to their plight as they dashed past them. 

Hand in hand, they fled—beyond the Opera, beyond the Fountain, and foregoing the waterbus station entirely. The next one wouldn’t make it in time and risking the safety of innocents to their pursuers wasn’t an option.

No, their best bet was to make it to Erinnyes Forest and lie low until they can make their way back to Poisson. With luck, the Iudex and the rest of the Guardes apprehended most of the attackers, maybe even the mastermind himself if he were that desperate enough, but Callas warned her to curb such expectations. Over all, his prediction was right on the money that there would, in fact, be attacks, which both unnerved and relieved Clorinde in equal measures. Relief in that even in the gallows, Callas would still watch over Navia’s safety by keeping her armed with awareness; unnerved that whatever plot he inadvertently uncovered, it was dangerous enough to put Navia at risk by proxy.

Assailants accosted them on the road, emerging from behind shrubs and taking aim from atop trees as they ran. The duo nodded to one another and drew forth their weapons. Navia, limited in her current arsenal, brandished her parasol outfitted with a hidden firearm—a prototype of her own design that proved effective and took out the enemies from the trees. Her form shone gold with geo as it armored her against stray bullets and shrapnel. 

Meanwhile, Clorinde engaged the swordsmen. a blurred melee of purple electro moving faster than they could realize that their throats had been slit, or their stomachs cut open.

A trail of bodies left in their wake, and little time to process it, the two pushed onward. Soon enough they came upon the area dubbed the Foggy Forest Path, a dirt road that cut through a dense thicket of cypress trees and ended by a cool stream. They followed the flow of water up and to the left where a shallow cave partially obscured by a waterfall awaited them. There, they collapsed simultaneously to the soft, dewey grass and struggled to catch their breaths. Their limbs ached with a fiery vengeance. Though Callas had put them under vigorous stamina exercises growing up, nothing could’ve prepared them for the sheer panic that would spur the need for such training to pay off.

For Navia it was as if her entire body had become spring-loaded with energy, unbearably tense with fight-or-flight. In a strange way, it reminded her of the wind-up toys she once owned and delighted in turning the key over and over again to see just how tight she could make the cogs and springs. She sent a silent apology to those lost toys, sardonically lamenting how cruel she’d been to hold that key in their backs for so long.

Clorinde was in much the same way, though she pulled herself up to composure faster than was perhaps healthy. She had yet to even realize that she’d been cut on her left thigh, shorn through her tights and exposing a thin line of skin. Though the wound was laughably shallow, the reality still remained that a throwing knife had indeed caught her unawares.

The cut only made itself known when she pushed herself up to stand. She grimaced through the mild sting of it as she removed her bloodspattered gloves and walked back towards the waterfall for a long drink to quell her burning throat. Navia came up beside her not long after, drinking greedily from her cupped hands until she had her fill.

“Are you alright?” Clorinde asked past the rasp in her voice. She looked her over, head to toe searching for any marks or scratches gained during the escape. Thankfully, she found none.

“I’m fine,” said Navia, then she frowned down at Clorinde’s leg. “You’re bleeding.”

Clorinde regarded the wound with a dismissive grunt. “I’ve had worse.”

“Right...”

They settled back into the cave, and Clorinde braced herself for the inevitable, readying the words she’d practiced and rehearsed for the past week. She prayed that they’d be enough, but looking into Navia’s piercing blue eyes, her tongue turned to lead in an instant.

“You knew this would happen, didn’t you,” Navia said, not a question, but a statement intoned just above an accusation.

Clorinde nodded, slowly.

“Papa put you up to this?”

Another nod.

“That stubborn old man! He’s always—” Then Navia faltered, her mouth parting open as if something had just occurred to her. Or, more rather, she was reminded of something, and it devastated her utterly. “Oh. Papa...” Her eyes turned red with brimming hot tears. “My father is dead...”

Though Callas had prepared Clorinde first and most for this day, it didn’t make the reality of his death any less agonizing. The hole he’d now left behind in this world was unsurmountable, too large for them both to fill even though that was his last will. She didn’t even know where to begin except to say, “I’m so sorry, Navia.” Her voice broke on Navia’s name, the dam of her guilt and heavy conscience crumbling.

“You can apologize by telling exactly what you were planning, and why I had to be kept out of it!” Navia demanded, and it struck Clorinde harder than anything she’d ever endured in her life. She’d rather be impaled than to be on the receiving end of Navia’s ire.

“I didn’t know how everything would transpire, only what Callas deduced and intuited for himself.”

“How long have you both been planning?”

“For me? A week. For Callas?” She paused to think, recalling each day in rapid backwards succession. “Perhaps as soon as he began investigating the Sinthe trade.”

For all efforts made to keep his work covert, there wasn’t anyone who resided in Poisson who didn’t know about the fervent ban on Sinthe he had imposed, including Navia. The subsequent investigation that followed had many scratching their heads in regards of just where this road would lead him; to what ends he would go to discovering the truth behind the concoction that took the nation by storm. 

The last Navia had heard about his progress was about a possible lead into a man named Jacques and he was to meet him at the charity banquet.

And, well, she knew the story after that.

“I see.” A frown creased Navia’s expression deeply. She wouldn’t meet Clorinde’s eye then. 

Clorinde tried to stamp down the ache in her chest at that. “Even if he didn’t say so explicitly at the time, he must’ve known that he wasn’t going to be able to prove his innocence. But, Navia,” she beseeched, trying to catch her eye or some semblance of understanding, “I swear to you, with all that I am, I didn’t know he was going to duel. I have no idea why he’d take that drastic of a measure, or I would’ve tried to convince him otherwise.”

Navia didn’t say anything for a long time, looking off and out like she was somewhere else entirely. Eventually, she murmured, barely audible over the rushing waterfall, “I know you would’ve... He must’ve known too, and that’s why he didn’t tell you.” 

“Perhaps...” Clorinde agreed, sounding smaller than she’d ever had since they were children.

Navia huffed a loud breath through her nose, straightening up and furiously wiping at her eyes. “He would’ve been sentenced to life in the Fortress of Meropide had he not invoked a duel. For him to do so—it couldn’t have been because of his pride,” she said, abruptly changing the subject and falling back on her ‘business-voice’ as she’d come to call it. It hid the tremor that kept threatening to undermine her composure, but only just. “He didn’t mention anything else to you? Anything at all about what he had found out?”

Clorinde shook her head, apologetic. “Other than his meeting with this Jaques individual, he wouldn’t share. He was already at risk as it was without having to involve more members of the Spina. Melus mentioned that the mastermind behind it all already made several covert attempts to shut down the investigation. But now...”

Navia wrung her hands in her lap. “So then, the murder at the banquet—it was all to have him framed?”

“Yes, I think it’s safe to assume so,” she said with a rueful grimace. But it only grew worse from there.

Whomever Callas was about to expose wanted a tight lid on it, and Callas’s investigation inadvertently painted a target on Navia’s back along the way. With the Spina’s president set to undergo trial, the mysterious criminal redirected to her and found a gaggle of desperate enough men to see it done, even if it meant getting caught by the Iudex himself. After all, when Sinthe, the foundation of their very livelihoods, was being threatened, what more did they have to lose?

It was a dangerous tactic to use Navia to lure these adversaries out of hiding, but it was just as effective as Callas planned. Sloppy hunters, he predicted them to be. Loud, and over-eager for a kill.

Navia, of course, was less than enthused to learn about any of this. “And who is this mastermind you speak of?” she asked, a tempest brewing beneath the calm in her voice.

“I don’t know. Callas had his suspicions, however he did not share any concrete evidence, if there was any at all,” said Clorinde, more frustrated with herself than anything for not having anything else of use. By and large, her task was to see Navia to safety. What came next, though, was completely beyond her. 

Did Callas want them to continue on with his work? Did he leave anything behind for them to follow? She traced back through her conversations with the man, hoping for something or other to turn up in hindsight, anything that could give her direction. But nothing came to mind.

“So instead of trying to build a case to defend himself,  he was colluding with you for this... this contingency plan? Behind my back, no less?” Navia accused, her eyes flashing angrily.

Clorinde recoiled at her tone, “I wanted to tell y—”

“Why did he have to die?” Navia barreled on. “You could’ve stopped the duel. You could’ve intervened somehow. You hid your sword, you could’ve gotten it and—” Her words were soon replaced by a stray sob and a hiccup. She buried her face in her hands, trying and failing to rid the memory of watching her father be killed.

Clorinde hung her head, too ashamed to say anything in her own defense. 

Throughout the fight, she had conjured a dozen and one scenarios. She could’ve gotten her rapier from the coat rack before anyone could’ve seen. She could’ve lept onto the stage and declared herself as Callas’s champion and fought in his stead. There were countless times her body itched to move against her will, twitching like a thousand sparks running through her limbs from forced inactivity. Do something, her instincts demanded. Do something.

But if she had, there would’ve been no one to protect Navia from that knife, no one to get her out and lure all the other snakes from their holes for the Iudex to find. Callas would’ve never forgiven her for lasping from the plan for his sake over Navia’s. Even if Navia herself approved of her saving him, she would’ve undoubtedly gotten hurt. Or worse.

Perhaps, then, Clorinde thought morbidly, I was doomed to disappoint one Caspar over the other no matter what I did.

“I’m sorry, Navia. I truly am.”

Navia said nothing, nothing at all. And yet it pierced her more fiercely than if she had cursed her anyway, sharper than any sword point she’s faced.

“Navia Caspar of the Spina di Rosula!” bellowed a voice from beyond the cave mouth.

They both froze—stopped breathing altogether as if somehow that would be enough to convince their pursuer they weren’t there. But if the waterfall hadn’t masked their sounds already, perhaps they’d been compromised since the very start.

“Come out, demoiselle ,” he coaxed. “I have business with you and your champion.”

Clorinde cursed under her breath and retrieved her rapier from the grass. Navia followed suit with her parasol. Either they were both too frightened or unsure, neither dared to say a word as they emerged from the cave.

Waiting for them was a man, older than them both though not by much. His dark hair was trimmed short and neat, a barest hint of stubble grew along his jaw. He dressed in a shirt with its sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a vest devoid of its matching jacket. At his side hung a rapier, polished and shining in the waning sunlight, but by no means a new or inexperienced blade. That much Clorinde could discern at a glance. He stood at the center of the shallow pool where the stream ended with his hands folded behind his back and his eyes trained squarely on the two of them as they approached.

She positioned herself in front of Navia, advising her with discrete hand signs behind her back to survey on their surroundings. It was likely he was alone. If an ambush had been the goal, cornering them in the cave would’ve sufficed, but one can never be too sure and between the two of them, Navia had the strongest elemental sense to sniff them out. With a power linked to something as all encompassing as geo, nothing can hide for long.

“I’ll keep this brief,” said the man in the pool. “Surrender, Demoiselle Caspar, and we can all walk away like civilized people.”

Navia tapped her twice on the small of her back. All clear.

Clorinde didn’t take her eyes off the stranger nor the sword at his hip. Though he spoke cordially, his actions have long since exposed his insincerity. Off in the foliage, Clorinde spotted a suit jacket hanging from the lowest branch of a tree. Her mind’s eye conjured a scene of this stranger coming upon their location, his movements just as shrouded by the waterfall as their own voices had been, and taking his time to remove the jacket and roll up his sleeves. Another glance at the surroundings informed her of one more thing: the slimes and hilichurls that usually reside here had long since been cleared out.

His words offered peace, but everyone in this clearing knew that this was going to lead to one outcome.

“I’ll handle this,” she said to Navia, and took a step forward.

Suddenly, the curl of Navia’s fingers clasped around her bicep, stilling her. “Clorinde,” she pleaded. The hatred of a minute that once overtook her wavered with a million and one things she wanted to say instead, all of them different ways to tell her not to fight, to keep running and get to safety with her. She couldn’t lose Clorinde too, not after everything that’s happened today. But she knew her companion as well as she knew herself. The steely glint in Clorinde’s eye was as stubborn as they come, fiercely loyal to a fault.

“Please. Be careful,” she said instead, and that was all she could bear.

Clorinde smiled reassuringly and gently coaxed Navia’s hand off of her arm to place a kiss on the back of it. Far too forgiving, Navia thought to herself though she was relieved all the same. She will apologize properly once they’ve gotten out of this.

“I won’t be long,” Clorinde promised, but as soon as she let go of her hand, she quickly signed two commands: Run. Hide. In the same motion, faster than the dread that clawed into Navia’s stomach seeing those awful words, Clorinde unsheathed her sword and turned to face her opponent.

He raised his chin, acknowledging her challenge with a knowing smirk that he quickly schooled back to neutrality, and walked forward as well.

She’ll grant this shadowy mastermind one thing: he had an eye for fighters. She had yet to see this one handle a weapon, but his posture was impeccable and his strides were strong and confident, nothing like the pompous prancing of the duelist Callas had faced.

They met at the center, the water coming up to their calves. Luminous lakelight lilies surrounded them with their soft blue glow, and the dying light of the sun presided over as witness. Behind them, distant as the wind, the Opera and its people still clamored with uproars of injustice and more shouts for peace.

“It is an honor to cross blades with you, Champion of the Spina,” the stranger proclaimed with a humble bow of his head before drawing forth the rapier from his belt.

“Don’t speak of honor when you fight for a cowardly viper who preys upon innocents,” she sneered, though she still gave the customary fencer’s salute before taking up her combative stance. The water rippled out from her shifting legs and extended out to lap at the muddy shore, a gentle sound that better suited a leisurely stroll then a precursor to a fight.

He shrugged and for a moment looked genuinely regretful. “We do not all have the luxury of choosing where and whom we find shelter and sustenance. Yours was with the House Caspar, and mine happens to be with a viper.”

“To first blood,” she intoned, not gracing his logic with any further remarks. “ En garde.”

He saluted her, and dropped into a stance that matched her own.

Swords poised and waiting, slicing the passing wind into a near imperceptible whistle. Clorinde shifted on her backfoot, grounding it as best she could against the unsteady silt below, but not too deep that the mud would trap her foot entirely. Her eye caught her opponent doing the same. Neither made to strike, not yet. Such was the thrill of the unknown in a new opponent and wondering all at once in a fraction of a moment: What will they do first? Where are their defenses? And how do I break them?

Clorinde struck first, lunging in a burst of speed and the flash of her sword point aimed for the center of his shoulder.

He parried and retreated, bouncing on his feet to create distance, but Clorinde was in close pursuit. Their blades chimed melodiously as they collided, parrying and attempting to riposte. Much like Callas’s duel, it was a spectacle to behold.

Water splashed all around them, a blessing and bane as it both slowed and broadcasted one another’s movements. Their clothes became soaked through, hair falling in damp fringes and rolling droplets beading from their brows threatening to catch in their eye and them of their precious sight.

Her opponent wasn’t nearly as fast as she, but where he lacked in agility, he made up for in  perception and uncanny precision with the blade. The combination of the two kept him at pace with her strikes and, in any other context, would’ve won her respect.

Clorinde felt the blade pass by her ear—a sharp hiss like a striking snake—as she narrowly dodged another one of his lunges. She did not flinch. She countered. She missed. She parried. She retreated. And the pattern continued.

Mutual breaths fell in ragged puffs then. They stood a pace apart, uselessly wiping their soaked brows with equally drenched sleeves. Their swords had not wavered, still firm in their grip and not a tremor in sight, they cannot show weakness now.

But even so, Clorinde’s muscles were alight with protest. Despite the coolness of the water, her legs were burning with fury, aching at the knees and ankles from fighting on such uneven earth and pushing through the weight of the water around her. Meanwhile, her arms were on their last dredge of strength, on the precipice of succumbing to the stone they wished to become.

Not yet, not yet, not yet, she told herself, and reengaged.

Her leg caught abruptly on the patch of solid ground in the middle of the pool, and in that split second of immobility came the cold sting in her leg. A cut, fresh and bleeding beside the other she had completely forgotten about. Forgotten, and now exploited.

Custom and habit told her that this was the first blood drawn, that the duel was over and she had lost; she could stop.

But a new kind of agony swiftly followed, so fast and precise that it could be mistaken as the same strike in and of itself. Red blossomed from her side where her opponent’s blade pierced through. She choked on her own gasp, stumbling backward as the sword withdrew, tripping over earth and paralysis instilled by her animal brain that now believed itself to be dying. The only motion her body afforded her before she collapsed onto the shallow water was to hold her hand over the puncture as it gushed adrenaline and blood.

Facedown and struggling to her knees, Clorinde did not see him continuing to advance on her, his sword tip stained crimson and thirsty for more.

“Stop!” Navia cried out and rushed to shield the fallen Clorinde. 

The stranger didn’t lower his weapon, though he did tilt his head, waiting.

“The conditions of your duel did not entail death,” she said. “Victory is yours, I’ll go with you willingly. Please.”

He pondered this, looking between Navia and the champion at her feet who was half submerged and losing consciousness. The hand she had pressed against the wound in her side slackened, allowing the blood to flow pink into the water below. Whether she lived or died wasn’t his concern, much less his employer’s. Their aim was for the Caspar heir. It was just a shame that his duel with the Spina Champion had come up so short. Oh well, c’est la vie.

“You raise a fine point, demoiselle, I’ve allowed myself to get carried away. I thank you for being so gracious in your surrender,” he said to Navia, as if he had made a faux pas and not severely wounding her strongest fighter unjustly.

If not for the laws of this land, she would’ve shot him.

“N-No,” Clorinde protested through gritted teeth, and could say no more as she winced sharply. She crumbled once more into the water and Navia was upon her in an instant, helping her onto her back before taking the point of Clorinde’s blade to tear the bottom of her dress to use as a wrap. 

“It’s alright,” Navia said hurriedly, though whether she meant to reassure Clorinde or herself, it was impossible to truly tell. She set to work on the wound, trying with all her might to shut out the shuddering wheezes that fell from Clorinde’s lips to keep focus. Even as the spring-locked tension took hold of her again, she willed her hands to keep still as she tied the torn cloth to staunch the bleeding. Once finished, Clorinde’s bloodied hand took hold of hers—frigid cold and too weak to squeeze, but pleading all the same.

“I’m s-sorry,” she stuttered. The words couldn’t possibly encompass all that she wanted to apologize for, however—sorry for losing, for concealing Callas’s plot from her, for forcing her to go on alone to whatever awaited her next.

They must’ve shown plainly on her face and Navia smoothed a trembling hand over her cheek, clammy to the touch and heartbreakingly pale. “Shh, it’s alright,” she soothed, then stroked Clorinde’s brow to sweep her sweat matted hair from her eyes. “I’ll be alright. You know I will, yes?”

Tears welled in Clorinde’s eyes, burning stark red that made the violets of her eyes devastatingly bright, and the devastation in them unmistakable. “I-I’ll find you,” she whispered.

Navia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes, though she nodded fervently, taking Clorinde’s hand tightly between both her own, and pressed it to her chest where the pain was most unbearable. “I know you will.”

Then she kissed the back of it mirroring the kiss Clorinde had gifted her mere minutes ago,  before releasing it. With her own hands now free, she signed with expert discreteness: Melus. Silver. In Poisson. Rejoin. 

Clorinde gave the barest of nods in return, both on account of being subtle and of her own faded strength.

Finally, on shaking knees, Navia stood and turned back to the awaiting stranger. “Lead the way, monsieur, ” she said, her cordially laced with frost.

He bowed shallowly, unperturbed by her tone, and swept an arm towards the path leading back to the Opera Epiclese.

Navia, with her head held high, obliged and he fell in step behind her. But as he did so, the duelist glanced down at Clorinde, at her bleary gaze and sickening pallor. Even at her lowest, a defiant fire burned behind those eyes and in the grim set of her jaw. He savored the sight a moment before he stopped and gave her another sword-salute. 

“It truly was such an honor to fight you, Champion,” he said. However, instead of sheathing it, his grip on the hilt shifted—adjusted and tightened in his fist. “Is it true what they say? That you were once the Wolf of Poisson?”

She glared at him.

“Heh. No matter. It was truly an honor,” he repeated, this time in a reverent murmur that, when it reached Navia’s ears, chilled her down to the marrow and halted her steps. She turned, just in time to catch the manic gleam in his eye as he continued, “I think such an honor should only belong to me.”

Dread ignited in her stomach then, and she rushed for the duelist—to stop him!

But she was far too slow.

The sun hid behind the mountains, plunging the world into umbral twilight as if unable to bear witness any longer. The last of its rays caught on the duelist’s blade, setting it ablaze in the light of its waning orange as he brought it down, down on Clorinde’s right arm. Her sword arm.

She hadn’t even the strength to cry out—none spared to feel the agony that erupted there.

Her last thought was only of Navia and her scream of horror, and of her own failure as it pulled her deeper into despair. Then the world became nothing but endless darkness.