The bells of Fontaine had always rung with theatrical precision—six tones, a pause, then a seventh, just long enough for the audience to gasp.Furina used to time her entrances by them.
But this morning, she didn't move at all. She lay sprawled across her bed, one hand over her eyes, the other holding a half-eaten croissant that had gone soggy in the humidity. The room shimmered with faint Hydro light—her emotions leaking again.
"Archons above," she groaned, "why is consciousness such a noisy thing?"
For a moment she didn't know whether she was Furina, Hydro Archon, or someone who had merely dreamed being her. Last night's dreams had been too vivid: memories of sitting behind a glowing screen, watching herself on a stage, laughing, crying, judging. A fan's memories.And that was impossible… wasn't it?
She sat up, blinking at the gilded mirror across from her bed. The reflection blinked back, perfectly mimicking the movement—and yet, for a fraction of a second, the mirror-Furina winked first.
"Right," she muttered, "either I'm still asleep or I've finally gone completely meta."
A knock rattled the door."Your Excellency?" came the muffled voice of a Marechaussee officer. "The city council requests your presence at the reconstruction briefing!"
Furina considered pretending to be dead. Then she remembered she was technically immortal and that would only start rumors.
"Tell them the Hydro Archon is engaged in deep reflection upon the state of existence!" she called back.
A pause."…Should we schedule refreshments for that, ma'am?"
She sighed. "Tea. With lemon. And silence!"
When the footsteps faded, she flopped back onto the mattress. The ceiling mural of Fontaine's great scales of justice loomed above her—one side shimmering gold, the other deep blue. Once, the balance had terrified her. Now it just looked tired.
"Alright," she whispered to the empty room. "If I really am the one who watched this world… what do I do with that? Applaud? Rewrite it? Panic?"
No answer, of course—only the faint hum of water through the pipes and the distant chatter of gulls outside.
She got up, threw on her ceremonial coat (far too dramatic for a morning meeting), and marched to the balcony. Below, Fontaine glittered like a dream half-remembered: gears turning, fountains spraying, citizens bustling. The smell of pastries and machine oil filled the air.
And down there, standing by the canal as calm as ever, was Focalors—or at least the part of him that had remained after their strange separation. He waved when he saw her, smiling that maddeningly serene smile.
Furina waved back with all the grace of a drowning cat. "Why does he always look like he knows the script ahead of time?" she muttered.
By the time she reached street level, Focalors had already prepared a basket. "Breakfast, Your Excellency. I thought perhaps you'd prefer croissants that haven't achieved sentience."
"Har, har," she said, stealing one anyway. "Don't you have divine things to be judging?"
"Retirement, remember?" he said lightly. "You're the Arconte now. I'm just… advisory tide."
"Advisory tide," she repeated. "That sounds like something one steps in by accident."
He chuckled, and for a moment the sound steadied her. Maybe reality wasn't unraveling; maybe she was just being dramatic. (Statistically likely.)
Together they crossed the bridge toward the council hall. Citizens bowed or waved—Fontaine never decided whether to revere or meme their Archon. Someone shouted, "Furina! Will there be another public trial today?"
"Only if the defendant is punctual!" she called back, striking a pose. Laughter followed; she basked in it a heartbeat too long.
Inside the hall, papers rustled, engineers argued about water pressure, and a junior official nearly fainted when she entered. Furina swept to the podium, cape flaring.
"Good morning, my loyal audience—ah, I mean, constituents! Let us begin this… riveting performance on municipal stability!"
Focalors coughed. "It's called a meeting."
"Yes, yes, semantics."
The engineers presented charts. She nodded sagely at random intervals, secretly wondering if anyone would notice she was doodling tiny Hydro sigils shaped like croissants in the margins. They didn't.
Halfway through, the lights flickered. The water flowing through the decorative pipes turned dark, almost black. A collective murmur rose.
"Not again," groaned an officer.
Furina straightened. "Remain calm! The Hydro Archon shall personally—ah—delegat— no, handle this crisis!"
She dashed outside, Focalors close behind. The canal water boiled and twisted, forming shapes—humanoid outlines of liquid shadow. Abyssal residue.
Furina raised her hand. "Alright, you eldritch puddles! You've interrupted a perfectly dull meeting, and for that—prepare to be over-dramatically purified!"
She spun her scepter. Hydro energy flared, dazzling and unstable. A geyser erupted, splashing half the street."Too much flourish!" Focalors called."I was adding emphasis!" she shouted back.
Another wave surged; this one aimed for a group of bystanders. Focalors moved like the tide itself, intercepting it with a calm sweep of his hand. "Focus, Furina."
Focus. Right. She breathed, remembering something from her dream-memories—how to center the flow, not just perform it. The next motion was smoother: a spiral of water that caught the dark residue and pulled it into a crystalline sphere.
The citizens applauded. Furina bowed instinctively, hair dripping. "Thank you, thank you! Spontaneous heroism truly suits me."
"Spontaneous?" Focalors said dryly. "You nearly flooded Rue du Moulin."
"Minor artistic sacrifice!"
When the last trace of darkness faded, Focalors examined the sealed sphere. "This isn't ordinary corruption. It's reacting to you."
"To me?" she said, half-offended. "I bathe regularly!"
He gave her a patient look. "Your energy, not your hygiene. There's resonance—like the water remembers something."
Furina stared at the swirling blue-black core. For an instant, the reflection inside wasn't her—it was someone sitting at a desk, typing. Her hand trembled.
"Maybe it's just… a trick of the light," she said quickly. "Let's call it that before I start narrating my own existential crisis."
Focalors raised an eyebrow. "You already are narrating it."
"…Touché."
They walked back toward the hall as workers cheered. Furina plastered on her confident smile, but her thoughts rippled like unsettled water.If the world was a story—and she was aware of it—then who was writing it now?
She glanced at Focalors, who was quietly humming some old Fontaine melody. Maybe, she thought, the best way to find out was to keep living it.
After all, even the best plays needed rehearsal.
And if the curtain had really fallen… she'd simply raise it again.
End of Chapter 1