Clorinde stood outside Furina’s private chambers, sword already drawn, heart hammering against her ribs.

  The assassination attempt last time had been a probe—a test. Today was the real strike.

  Reports flooded in every few minutes: Fatui operatives spotted near the Palais perimeter. Fatui agents detected in the aquabus tunnels. A small explosion near the Oratrice that had been quickly contained—but the message was clear.

  They were coming for Furina.

  Clorinde’s detail had tripled. Every entrance sealed. Every window reinforced. She herself had not slept, had not eaten, had barely breathed since returning from the Fortress.

  She should have been exhausted.

  Instead she felt electrified—every nerve singing with purpose.

  Furina sat inside the chamber, unusually quiet, fingers laced tightly in her lap. No theatrics. No dramatic declarations. Just a small, pale woman who looked far too young for the crown she wore.

  The door finally opened.

  Neuvillette entered—his robe immaculate but his expression was grave.

  “It is confirmed,” he said without preamble. “Arlecchino has declared the current leadership… inadequate. She intends to replace it.”

  Furina laughed—a short, brittle sound.

  “Of course she does. I’ve been playing Archon for centuries and I still can’t even keep myself safe for one night.”

  Clorinde stepped forward.

  “My lady—”

  Furina raised a hand.

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  “No apologies, Clorinde. You were where you needed to be.”

  Clorinde’s throat closed.

  Neuvillette turned to her.

  “The Oratrice has been consulted. The verdict is… complicated.”

  He gestured toward the chamber’s inner sanctum, where the machine waited—silent, glowing, merciless.

  Furina stood.

  “Then let’s get it over with.”

  The confession took place in private—only Neuvillette, Furina, and Clorinde present.

  Furina spoke clearly, voice stripped of all performance.

  “I am not Focalors. I never was. I have been acting the role for five hundred years under the true Hydro Archon’s command. I deceived the nation. I deceived the Court. I deceived you.”

  Silence.

  Then the Oratrice hummed—deep, resonant, final.

  Guilty.

  Furina exhaled—shaky, almost relieved.

  Neuvillette’s voice was gentle.

  “The sentence is exile. But the Oratrice also recognizes that your deception preserved Fontaine from a greater catastrophe. The prophecy has been averted. The nation stands. Therefore—exceptional clemency is granted. You will remain Hydro Archon. But no longer as Focalors’ puppet. As yourself.”

  Furina stared at him.

  Then—slowly—she began to cry.

  Not dramatically. Not theatrically.

  Just quiet, human tears.

  Clorinde stepped forward—instinctive—and knelt beside her.

  “My lady…”

  Furina reached out—trembling—and took Clorinde’s hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For making you carry my lie. For making you protect a fraud.”

  Clorinde shook her head.

  “You gave us five hundred years of peace. That is no fraud.”

  Outside the chamber, alarms began to blare.

  Arlecchino’s forces had breached the outer perimeter.

  Clorinde rose—sword already drawn.

  “I will protect you,” she said. “With my life.”

  Furina wiped her eyes.

  “Then go. Be the Champion I always knew you were.”

  Clorinde turned toward the door.

  And ran straight into Wriothesley.

  He stood in the corridor—coat torn, knuckles freshly bloodied, breathing hard.

  “I heard the alarms,” he said. “I’m here.”

  Clorinde stared at him—heart lurching.

  “You shouldn’t—”

  “I should,” he interrupted. “And I will.”

  He stepped past her—into the chamber—bowed once to Furina, then turned to Clorinde.

  “Together?”

  She looked at him—really looked—and felt something settle inside her chest.

  “Together.”

  They moved as one—out into the corridor, toward the sound of fighting.

  Behind them, Neuvillette spoke quietly to Furina.

  “Let them protect you. And let me protect the nation.”

  The coup had begun.

  But so had something else.

  Two people who had waited seven years were finally standing side by side—not as Champion and Duke, not as girl and boy from an alley, but as equals.

  As partners.

  As lovers.

  And no Fatui, no father, no prophecy would tear them apart again.