Chapter Text
The bells of Fontaine rang with brittle clarity, echoing off cathedral walls that glittered with chandeliers too bright, too perfect, as though light could silence the murmurs in the crowd.
Perfume and powdered faces, masks of ivory and gold, nobles watching with the same hunger they brought to court—waiting, judging, rehearsing who might stumble, who might shine.
Lyney stood at the center of it all, a magician stripped of his stage, his top hat and flair exchanged for a stiff suit that felt more like a cage than a costume. His hands twitched, desperate for cards to shuffle, coins to vanish, anything to distract from the tremor in his chest.
"You're pale," Furina remarked from beside him, her voice soft enough for only him to hear but sharp enough to slice through the suffocating silence. She smiled like a doll posed in perfect light, but her eyes flickered with something restless—mockery, perhaps, or nerves she would never admit.
"Are you nervous, Lyney? Imagine what they'll say if the magician forgets his lines at his own engagement."
Lyney forced a smile, too quick, too rehearsed. "Lines I can handle, m'lady. It's the audience that's the real trick."
Furina tilted her chin, pearls trembling in her hair. "Then you had better not disappoint them. Fontaine loves a tragedy, but they'll never forgive a farce."
His throat tightened around the vow he was meant to recite, words drilled into him by endless rehearsals and sharp reminders of family duty. It was all so precise, so calculated—love measured in wealth, promises crafted for reputation.
Not once had he been asked what he wanted.
Not once had he even dared to ask himself.
-
Later, when the chandeliers dimmed and the court was satisfied with its spectacle, he escaped.
Past gilded corridors, past marble steps still echoing with laughter, he slipped into the night where the air tasted less of perfume and more of rain.
The forest beyond Fontaine stretched like a drowned cathedral, branches bent like arches, roots twisting through the soil like forgotten prayers. He carried the ring in his palm, feeling its weight like a chain.
"If I can say it here..." he muttered, voice hushed as if afraid the trees might gossip.
"Then maybe I can say it there."
He closed his eyes, drew a shaky breath, and recited the words that had tangled in his mouth all evening. His voice trembled, softer than the rustle of leaves, but it grew steadier with each line.
"With this hand, I will lift your sorrows. With this heart, I will shelter you from the storm. With this ring—"
His fingers fumbled, brushing against a root that jutted from the earth like a gnarled hand.
The ring slipped, slid down, caught upon something cold, something slender.
He froze.
The forest was silent.
No wind, no owl, no ripple of water—only the echo of his vow hanging in the air like a spell he hadn't meant to cast.
And then, from beneath the earth, something moved.
A hand, pale as moonlight, fingers curling with a crack of bone. Soil fell away in shivering clumps.
A voice, soft and broken as a drowned song, whispered into the night.
"...You kept your promise."