Chapter Text
Fontaine exhales a memory older than its cobblestones, older than the tides that lap against its edges.
The city breathes, and in the quietest hours, the river carries whispers of what once was, of the bride who returned to water and starlight, of the magician whose heart still trembles in the wake of absence. The streets are empty, lanterns flickering like hesitant stars, and even the wind seems to pause, listening.
The drowned cathedral is gone now, its ruins surrendered to time and tide, yet the memory of vows unmade, of love sacrificed, remains in every root, every shadow, every curve of stone and water.
Lyney walks the city at night, deck in hand, steps measured yet reverent, haunted yet tethered to a presence that cannot be fully grasped. Every echo of applause lingers behind him, a ghostly ovation that swells in empty theaters, quiet streets, and the hollow chambers of memory.
He remembers the final vow, the moment when she let him go, the tear-streaked blue flame in her eyes, the voice that trembled yet rang with unyielding truth.
"You were never mine to keep."
The words are etched into his soul, a lament carved in the marrow, shaping the rhythm of his heartbeat. Every trick, every performance, every smile now carries the weight of absence, of devotion, of love that transcends form.
Furina moves through Fontaine too, freed from the chains of fear and jealousy.
The rigidity of duty has softened into something fragile and human. She walks the drowned woods, letting the wind carry the memory of what she almost possessed but could not hold. She does not seek to win, does not seek to claim, only to be free—to breathe without the weight of another's vow pressing against her chest.
And in that freedom, there is a sorrow that is quiet, yet deep, a reverence for what the world has taken and what remains unseen.
The city itself seems to remember.
Bridges creak in the night as if sighing, lanterns flicker with ghostly rhythm, and the river hums a sorrowful melody. Those who pass near the drowned woods sometimes swear they hear it.
A piano's sorrow, a voice half-remembered, the echo of laughter, of tears, of vows both honored and released.
Children clutch their mothers' hands, sailors pause mid-step, and even the wind seems to hold its breath in recognition.
Lyney's performances have changed.
The tricks are no longer for awe or applause; they are offerings, tethered to memory, homage to what shaped him. He performs alone yet never truly alone, for every card spun, every flourish executed, carries her essence—the bride who returned to water and starlight, whose freedom became his burden and blessing.
The phantom applause persists, soft and insistent, threading through theaters, streets, and empty rooms like silver ribbons of remembrance.
He visits the drowned cathedral's remnants, standing where water once licked the altar. He closes his eyes, letting the memory of blue flames, seafoam, and starlight fill the space.
The veil between past and present quivers, whispers of love, grief, and sacrifice brushing against him like a tide. He lays a single card on the ruined steps—a magician's flourish frozen in time, a silent message: I remember.
Furina watches him from afar, unseen, letting the moment pass. There is no jealousy now, no desire to compete, only acknowledgment. The love they both carried, the bond they both knew, exists beyond possession.
In the quiet of the woods, in the hush of the city, the memory of the bride and the magician, the two brides and the single groom, persists—a tale of devotion, sacrifice, and the shattering of chains that binds life to death.
The river swells gently, carrying fallen leaves, broken petals, and fragments of whispered vows downstream. Each ripple catches the light of the moon, reflecting memory in motion.
Somewhere, beneath the water, the bride's essence smiles faintly, a shimmer of seafoam and starlight that mingles with the tide, unseen yet felt, untouchable yet eternal.
Lyney pauses mid-step on the cobblestones, hearing the faint echo of applause in the distance.
He turns, letting it guide him through empty streets, past bridges and fountains, past alleys drenched in history and grief. He smiles, a fragile curve of lips, knowing that memory itself can sustain, that love unclaimed can endure.
The city remembers too.
The walls, the streets, the very stones hold the tale in their marrow.
In quiet moments, travelers whisper of a groom whose heart carries the weight of two brides, of a vow that could not be bound by life alone, of a bride who returned to water and starlight. Fontaine itself hums with this story, its memory etched in shadows, reflected in water, carried on wind.
Children sometimes hear a melody in the woods near the drowned cathedral, faint piano notes that rise and fall like tide against sand. They do not know whose hands played, whose grief, whose love, only that it exists—unseen, yet undeniable.
Lyney walks beneath lanterns, letting the phantom applause echo through his soul.
Every trick now is a bridge, every flourish a whisper, every card a message to her essence carried in the tides. The theater, the streets, the city itself becomes a stage for remembrance, an altar for memory, a cathedral without walls.
Furina listens to the river as well, letting it carry her own soft sighs of acknowledgment. The love she thought she wanted, the vow she almost claimed, has transformed into understanding: freedom is the truest gift, and grief shared need not consume, only honor.
The veil quivers in quiet moments, a reminder that the underworld is never far, that memory is a living tide. Shadows bend and stretch across walls and water, tracing the steps of the bride, the groom, the liberated soul who chose release over possession.
Lyney stops by the fountains, letting water ripple across his fingertips. He breathes, feeling both the hollow ache and the tethered love, knowing that absence has given him presence, that the void left behind carries meaning heavier than applause.
The city exhales once more. Streets settle. Bridges creak in quiet acknowledgment. The river hums a lullaby that only those who remember can hear. And somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of a piano rises, sorrowful and exquisite, threading through night and memory.
Lyney lifts his head, deck in hand, heart tethered to an absence that is both pain and blessing.
"I will carry you," he whispers again, to shadows, to water, to wind.
"Always."
And Fontaine remembers.
The tale persists, carried in whispers: a groom, two brides, a vow that bound life to death, a bride who returned to water and starlight, and a magician who performs for memory alone.
Some say that on quiet nights, when the wind carries the river's sigh and the moon lingers low, the drowned woods still echo with a piano's sorrow, and those who listen feel the weight of a love that could not be contained.
The city sleeps, but the story endures, eternal, unbroken, whispered in the tides, the streets, the shadows, the hearts of those who remember.