Chapter Text
Three years earlier…
The clash of steel had long since faded, replaced by the murmurs of the gathered crowd. The duel was over.
Mister Callas lay motionless in the center of the arena, sprawled in a way no living man should be. Clorinde stood above him, her blade lowered at her side, her breath thready—but only on the surface. Beneath it roiled something unbearable, something heavy enough to crush her from the inside out.
No… no no no…
“And that’s another win for our Champion Duelist, Miss Clorinde Dumont!” The announcer’s voice roared through the arena, pulling her from the haze. She raised her head from Callas’ limp body, taking in the faces of the crowd as their cheers grated against her ears.
Clorinde’s eyes locked in on a wailing woman collapsing into an agonizing scream. Her blonde curls clung to tear-streaked cheeks as she fought against the arms restraining her. Her hands clawed through the air, reaching, always reaching, for a father who would never rise again.
Their eyes met—a once-brilliant blue now drowned in grief and betrayal.
“Papa! Papa!”
Clorinde took a staggering step backward. Her ears rang. Her throat closed. Her sword felt like it weighed a thousand pounds in her grip. She looked at her hands as if they didn’t belong to her.
Navia struggled harder, clawing to reach the center of the arena, but the bystanders held firm. Behind her stood Neuvillette, silent. A pillar of judgment wrapped in rain-soaked robes. Watching. Judging.
He arrived too late.
Clorinde tore her gaze away before she could read anything in his expression, before she could lose the last of her composure and unravel right here in front of everyone. She stumbled back, her breath tight in her throat. She couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t look at Mister Callas’ body any longer. She just needed to speak to Navia and deliver some paperwork—and then vanish.
Just as her mother did.
Once vast and echoing, the arena seemed to cave in around her, pressing in like a closing fist. Her footsteps echoed in the silence of her mind as she pushed through the crowd, her sword dragging behind her, streaking the marble floor with blood.
The press swarmed her as she walked, a flurry of questions assaulting her from every side.
“Champion Duelist, was this truly necessary?”
“Clorinde, any comment on the death of Mister Callas?”
“How does it feel to remain undefeated after this victory?”
Victory .
The word made bile rise in her throat.
He hadn’t even tried to fight back.
He’d accepted his death so calmly, like it was the only choice left to him.
And that made it worse.
She clenched her jaw and raised an arm, shoving through the crowd, her expression unreadable, though her pulse thundered in her ears. Every step she took was heavier than the last. They parted at the sight of her—like she was something to be feared.
A monster.
But she was no different from one.
She spotted Navia in the chaos—still screaming, still reaching for a different outcome. Her body wracked with sobs as Neuvillette held her upright.
“Navia–Navia, please–” her voice cracked as she reached out to her closest friend since childhood.
Navia turned on her like a storm.
“You—” Navia’s voice broke, eyes red and swollen and brimming with disbelief. “You did this. How could you? How could you both let this happen!?” Her grief-stricken eyes searched for the Iudex, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Where’s the justice in this!?”
The words cut deeper than any blade. Clorinde opened her mouth, but there was nothing she could say that would mend what had just been broken. The grief in Navia’s gaze burned into her, searing the moment into her memory.
Nothing that could be forgiven.
Nothing that could be undone.
She would never even forgive herself.
“Go! Go away! I never want to see you again! It should have been you !”
Clorinde flinched as though struck. She turned, fleeing before her legs could give out beneath her—fleeing the wreckage she'd caused, the grief she couldn’t stop. The world smeared at the edges as her vision blurred, the sounds of the crowd dulling to a distant hum.
She just needed to get far, far away from that place. But her legs did not carry her fast enough. Her heart pounded loudly in her head and stomach, her footsteps pounded against the polished floor, and the world spun in slow motion as she tore through the exit.
The cacophony of the arena fizzled out, but she could still hear Navia’s cries.
She would never forget them.
“Murderers! Murderers!”
She finally fell through the doors and into the pouring rain, taking in a deep heave of the damp, cool air. The storm had broken, and the patterning of the heavy rain served as an oddly soothing soundtrack while both she and nature released their emotions in torrential downpours. Oddly enough, it brought her a sliver of relief.
Because finally, something else was crying with her.
Now, she was in the Fortress of Meropide, deep beneath the sea. A fitting place for someone with blood on their hands.
The moment she stepped into his office, she felt the tremors in her hands worsen. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her away from the outside world. Wriothesley sat at his desk, reading over reports, but he glanced up immediately upon her arrival. His sharp eyes softened as he took her in.
She said nothing as she handed him the documents.
His gaze flicked over them, but he already knew. Knew by the way she stood, the way her fingers twitched at her sides, the way her breath shuddered.
“The great Mister Callas,” he murmured. “Dead by duel at forty-five.” Wriothesley seldom crossed paths with Mister Callas, but he still held a great sense of respect for him. He was sure that Clorinde had a much closer relationship with him.
The words sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. She turned away and sank heavily onto the couch in the corner.
“I’ll make some tea,” he said simply.
She stared at her hands while he moved. The gloves clung to her fingers, speckled with blood. His blood . With a sharp inhale, she tore them off, dropping them onto the table. The tremors worsened. Her fingers curled in against her palms as if that would make them stop shaking, her nails digging into the flesh and leaving small, bright-red crescent-shaped welts embedded in her pale skin.
She pressed a hand to her forehead, pressing hard in hopes of wiping away the memory of the events of the day. The scent of tea leaves filled the space, warm and familiar, but it wasn’t enough to ground her. The pressure in her chest only grew.
“How about a sugar cube?” he said as he dropped one in her cup before handing it to her.
She took it, bringing it to her lips, but her hands were trembling too much. The bitter liquid scalded her tongue and dribbled at the corner of her mouth. She grimaced, setting the cup down before she just spilled the whole thing.
Not yet, Clorinde. Just a little longer.
She clasped her hands in her lap, fingers digging into the fabric of her skirt and her nails pricking small holes in her tights. Her breath came shallow, uneven. The room was warm and safe, but her skin felt cold, as if the rain from above still clung to her. She curled her toes in her boots, trying to find something—anything—solid beneath her.
Her vision blurred at the edges once more, either due to dizziness or unshed tears. Likely both.
She bit her lip, hard, willing it to stop quivering. When that didn’t work, she dragged her nails against the skin of her arms, scratching over the fabric until her fingertips ached. The air in her lungs turned thin, her ribs tightening around her breaths like a vice.
She tried to force it down. Hold it in. She would not cry here. Duelists don’t cry in front of others. Duelists don’t cry, ever. But the pain swelled like an unstoppable force.
No matter what she did, she could not get enough air.
Her hands trailed up her neck, tugging at her neckline before they shot up to her hair, clawing through the strands, undoing the ribbon and knocking her bycoket hat off with a dull thump to the floor.
Wriothesley looked up from his papers at the sound.
She heard the creak of his chair and the floorboards shifting under his weight. Then the couch dipped beside her.
“Clorinde.” His voice was quiet, careful.
She turned away, letting her dark hair shield her face like a curtain, and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Clorinde,” he said again, firmer this time. He reached out, hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “What happened out there?”
She shook her head. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
“Clorinde, talk to me.” His fingers brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ear. “Don’t hide from me.”
She clenched her fists tighter. “I killed him.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Mister Callas. My best friend’s father. The closest thing I had to a father.” Her breath hitched. “And I killed him.”
She expected Wriothesley to offer reassurance and comfort. To tell her it was out of duty and that she had done what was necessary, what she believed to be justice. Instead, he let the silence stretch. And then—he pulled her shaking hands out of her lap and enclosed them in a tight squeeze with his own, larger and warmer ones and gave her a gentle look with his cool, blue eyes. “You don’t have to keep things from me. Don’t hold it in.”
But her hands wouldn't stop shaking. Her chest wouldn't rise properly. Something in her throat caught and refused to let go. She pressed a hand to her lips to hold it all in, but her shoulders had already begun to tremble.
And then, without warning, her breath cracked.
The tears didn’t fall right away. Not at first. But a choked sob slipped out before she could stop it—startled, almost. As if she hadn’t realized she was crying until the sound escaped her.
Her composure crumbled with terrifying speed.
Clorinde’s breath broke into shallow gasps, each one more erratic than the last. Her shoulders curled inward, her body caving under the weight of everything she had held back. Her hands shot up to cover her face as the first sob ripped through her, violent and raw. The weight of abandonment, of loss, of everything she had tried to suppress crashed over her in waves.
More followed, wracking her body, breaking her down piece by piece. She curled forward, arms wrapping around herself as if she could hold herself together. Her cries were muffled by her sleeves, but they still filled the office, sharp and agonizing. Each breath was a struggle, each sob more fractured than the last.
He slid closer, careful not to startle her, and reached for her like he’d done it a hundred times before. Gently, he guided her against him — an arm around her back, a hand cradling the back of her head. When she didn’t pull away, he gathered her into his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Clorinde didn’t lean on anyone. Not ever.
And yet, now, she collapsed into him.
Her hands fisted in his shirt as if to anchor herself, grasping blindly for something solid. Something that wouldn't leave.
She pressed her forehead to his collarbone, sobs wracking her chest, but he didn’t flinch. He just held her—firm, steady, quiet—the way a harbour holds against the storm.
Her fists clutched his shirt, sobs wracking her lungs. She hated that he saw her like this. Hated that she needed him. But she held on anyway.
He didn’t tell her to breathe. He didn’t tell her it would be all right. He didn’t care that she clawed at him, hit him, and sobbed until her voice cracked and her ribs ached. If this was what she needed, he wouldn’t stop her.
And when, after what felt like an eternity, the storm within her quieted, leaving only soft hiccups. He gathered her up and carried her to his chambers, where at last, she could rest.
He set her down on the edge of the bed and knelt at her feet. He meant well when he listed a bunch of options for her. “You can sleep if you’d like. Or bathe. Maybe eat something.” His tone was careful, trying not to push.
But she only wrapped her arms around herself again, retreating inward.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He understood her struggle, but it was getting a bit difficult to work with her when she would shut him out. “It’s alright. We’ll go slowly, one at a time. Let’s get you washed up first.” He lifted her gently and took her to the attached bathroom.
She leaned heavily against the counter for support as Wriothesley knelt before her, his fingers working carefully to untie her boots. He moved with quiet patience, pausing after each removed layer to ensure she was comfortable before continuing. When the last of her garments pooled at her feet, he averted his gaze and stepped away to draw her bath, filling the tub with lukewarm water.
Steam curled gently in the air as Clorinde stepped in, one leg at a time. She sank into the water with a quiet sigh, drawing her knees to her chest. The warmth enveloped her, but she remained still, as if unsure how to let it soothe her.
Wriothesley rolled up his sleeves and knelt beside the tub, his touch steady and deliberate. He dipped a cloth into a small basin, then slowly poured water over her shoulders, letting it cascade down her back in rivulets. The rhythmic motion of his hands, the quiet splashes—everything was unhurried, meant to ease the weight pressing upon her.
He leaned forward and brought his lips down to her ear to whisper gentle reassurances and sweet nothings. She didn’t hear most of them due to her mind being in a faraway place.
As he worked shampoo through her hair, he massaged her scalp with slow, gentle strokes, his fingertips careful yet firm. When he moved to wash her back, his touch was reassuring, tracing soothing circles over her skin. The scent of soap and faint traces of saltwater mingled in the air, grounding them both in this moment of fragile serenity.
Once he rinsed the last of the lather away, he reached for a towel, unfolding it with quiet efficiency. Clorinde let him guide her out of the tub, and as he wrapped the towel around her shoulders, he lingered just a moment longer—offering warmth, offering steadiness—before stepping back to give her space.
He led her back to the bedroom and eased her down onto the edge of the bed. Moving with the same quiet patience, he retrieved a fresh change of clothes. It was one of his shirts—soft, worn, and far too big for her—but it would do for now. Without a word, he helped her into it, the fabric swallowing her frame.
She liked the softness, how it had traces of his familiar scent.
Wriothesley then left the room for a brief moment before returning with a plate and a simple sandwich. He set it down beside her and crouched to meet her gaze. “Just a few bites,” he coaxed. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”
Clorinde stubbornly turned her head away, her lips pressed into a thin line. He sighed, then gently guided her face back toward him, tapping the sandwich against her lips. Her resistance wavered, and she finally took a small bite, chewing slowly, as if every movement required effort.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Good girl.” He offered her another bite, which she hesitantly took.
Bit by bit, she ate, barely aware of her own progress. By the time she heard the quiet clatter of the plate being set aside, the sandwich was gone.
“You tricked me,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse from all the crying.
Wriothesley chuckled, the sound low and warm. “I didn’t trick you. You just kept going, and I wasn’t going to stop you.”
“Oh.” She wiped at her damp cheeks, exhaustion settling in like a heavyweight. “I just… I just want to sleep now.”
He guided her back onto the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. “I’ll be in my office, alright?” He started to pull away, but before he could stand, a delicate hand grasped his wrist.
“Please don’t go…” Her voice was small, almost lost in the quiet of the room. “I don’t want to be alone right now…”
His chest tightened. “You want me to stay?”
She nodded, looking up at him with tired, vulnerable eyes. “Stay.”
He exhaled softly, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand. He couldn’t leave her like this.
Wordlessly, he removed his boots and changed into something more comfortable before slipping into bed beside her. He opened his arms, and she instantly burrowed herself into him.
Wriothesley adjusted his hold, wrapping his arms securely around her and pressing her against his broad chest. His embrace was steady, unyielding, as if he could shield her from the weight of the world—even if only for tonight.
“You’re shaking like a leaf…” Wriothesley’s voice was quiet in the darkness, almost hesitant. “Clorinde.”
When she peered up at him again, her bright violet eyes were missing their usual crack of lightning in them. Now, they were just dulled by her guilt and self-blame.
He sighed, shifting slightly so he could see more of her face. “You don’t have to talk, but…” He hesitated. “I need you to know that you’re not alone in this.”
Clorinde exhaled sharply, a bitter sound. “That’s not true.”
His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I’m always alone,” she murmured. “I always have been.”
Wriothesley’s chest ached. “Clorinde—”
“My parents left me first,” she continued, her voice dull. “I don’t even remember their faces. Just the sound of the door closing. And then Petronilla—she may as well have been gone even when she was there.” A shaky breath. “Then she left, too.”
Wriothesley stayed silent, letting her speak.
“And now Navia and Mister Callas…” Her hands clenched into fists around his sleep shirt. “I killed him. And Navia will never forgive me for that. I—” Her breath caught, throat closing up. “I don’t even blame her.”
Her shoulders curled inward like she was bracing for a blow that wasn’t coming. “It always happens. People leave, and it’s always because of me.”
The way she said it was so blasé, as if it were simply a fact. Spoke of it as if it were something she had long since accepted and become numb to, but still hurt her deeply.
Wriothesley exhaled softly and tightened his hold on her, resting his chin atop her head. "Clorinde," he murmured, his voice steady. "People leave for all kinds of reasons, not because of you."
“Maybe I was never meant to have anyone.” She let out a trembling exhale. “Maybe that’s just the way things are.”
He had no easy answer to that. He wouldn’t insult her by pretending he did. Instead, he stroked a soothing hand down her back, his fingers tracing slow, methodical patterns.
He reached for her hand—not forcefully, but enough to make her feel his warmth. His presence. “Clorinde,” he said, his voice steady, though his grip on her hand was gentle. “You don’t deserve this.”
She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean into him, either.
“I don’t know why people leave,” he admitted, his thumb tracing slow circles against her skin. “I don’t know why life has been so cruel to you. But it’s not because of you.”
Clorinde pressed her forehead against his chest, her breath shuddering. “I should have done more,” she whispered. “I should have fought harder to keep them.”
“You can’t hold on to people who are already slipping away,” he said gently. “Sometimes, no matter what you do, they go. But that doesn’t mean they were never yours to love or that you don’t get to mourn their loss.
“You’re not to blame, not for any of this.”
Clorinde squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the fabric of his shirt so tightly from fear of losing him too. She let out a shuddering breath. She was holding back again. “Then why does it feel like it is?”
“Because when people go, they don’t take the guilt with them.” His voice softened. “It stays. It lingers. And when there’s no one left to blame, it turns on you. Grief is cruel. It lies to you. Makes you believe things that aren’t true.”
Clorinde stared at their joined hands, her grip tightening ever so slightly. “...I don’t know how to make it stop.”
“You don’t have to.” Wriothesley shifted closer, his warmth pressing against her side. “Not tonight. Because you’re not alone, Clorinde.” He rested his cheek against her temple, his voice a low, steady presence. “I’m here. Right now. And I’m not leaving.”
She didn’t respond, only pressed herself closer to his warmth, as if she could disappear into it. He didn’t push her to speak, didn’t expect her to. He just held her.
Minutes stretched into an eternity, the room so quiet he could hear the soft hitch of her breathing or a sniffle as she tried to steady herself. Eventually, her exhaustion began to take over, her tense body relaxing just slightly in his arms.
Wriothesley shifted carefully, lowering them both until she lay fully against the mattress, still curled up against his chest. He pulled the blanket over her shoulders, keeping her tucked against him.
“Sleep, Clorinde,” he murmured. “I’ll still be here when you wake.”
She shifted closer, tucking herself fully against him. And this time, when the silence settled between them, it wasn’t so suffocating.
A shaky breath. Then, finally, she let her eyes close as the exhaustion of the day finally caught up to her.