It was over twenty years ago that Ennieux sat in the duchess's office, opposite her sister Celine. Before Ennieux ever met Horace, she'd heard of him—as part of an agreement Celine had made with the Gren family.

"Marriage?" Ennieux asked quietly. "Have… I got a choice?"

For a long while, the Saintess didn't respond. Her gaze traced the books along the wall, as if she might find a gentle response written on one of their spines.

But when she finally spoke, her answer was curt. "No."

Though Celine's own marriage had secured Varant's permanent access to orichalcum, the duchy's material needs ranged well beyond. The forges were always wanting for steel, to say nothing of mythril or adamantine. And foods suitable for the northern wall—easy to store and transport, nutritious, and edible enough—were just as vital a provision.

These supplies had always been procured from the west, the Gren family chief among their allies. A union between the two families would formalize this close relationship, fostering trust, and with it, terms more favorable still.

And the Grens who'd long lent the eum-Creids aid, would be lent honor—their efforts understood as service rendered unto the empire. Within a generation, their viscounty might well be raised to a county.

Ennieux hugged her arm protectively, not even bothering to hide the resentment in her voice. "Then the two of us will be just the same as you two—you and Duke Henry."

"...There is no reason you can't fall in love, Ennieux," Celine said steadily.

"Then is there a reason you couldn't?" Ennieux asked sharply. "It's horrid how you treat that man—"

"Enough, Ennieux!" Celine snapped. But seeing the way her sister trembled in response, Celine took a deep breath, which she let out in a long and tired sigh. "I'm sorry, Ennieux. It's just what must be done."

"Then how much did it cost for the Grens to purchase my happiness?" Ennieux asked bitterly. "Do my hopes have a weight in adamantine?"

Now it was Celine's turn to give her younger sister a look of resentment.

"If the scales were to only weigh the preciousness of feelings and metals, Ennieux, then perhaps they'd tip your way," she said coldly. "But when those chosen fail to bear the duties, then it is the rest of us who feel the burden. All I ask of you is to carry your weight in whatever way you can."

Seeing the ice in Celine's eyes, Ennieux lowered her gaze. 'Then… in what way?

"I'm saying, Ennieux," Celine said, fingers pressed languidly to her temple, "that if you can do nothing else for this duchy, then have children."

In the present, Ennieux stood over Horace, with crossed arms and an impatient, tapping foot as if she'd been waiting for ages.

Horace just blinked up at her, perplexed. He looked slowly to his left. Seeing no one sitting there, his head swiveled to his right. The viscount seemed to have difficulty believing his wife would approach him of her own accord.

"...Me?" Horace sputtered out.

"Who else?!" Ennieux huffed. "Come along, now! If we dawdle here all evening, all the shops will be shuttered and every stall empty. Then what will we tell our children—that we couldn't even manage a simple trip to town?!"

"Ennieux," Horace said patiently, "Even if it's our children, there is no need to force yourself to—"

"I am not so graceless that a single evening with my husband would be some torturous ordeal," Ennieux said, though the scowl on her face wasn't particularly convincing. "If this will make Camille happy, then it is a trifling sacrifice."

"...A sacrifice," Horace sighed, as he stood up. "Right. What's one evening?"

He offered Ennieux his hand. But she didn't take it, her eyes widening and her gaze lingering, before she uncomfortably looked away. "I-it would look a tad childish, don't you think?

Horace's outstretched hand faltered. "Yes… I suppose so."

And Ennieux, seeming to want to ease her small rejection, nudged her head softly toward the promenade.

Like that, the two began their walk, attempting to retain the dignity befitting their noble station yet fumbling all the worse for it. Awkward as adolescents, they proceeded side-by-side, unsure of what distance to keep.

The promenade wound its way gently downward. Stone shops painted in cheerful yet fading colors were flanked by stalls competing for what space they could. Hanging lanterns stirred faintly with the breeze, casting a soft glow over the rippling, chattering crowd.

A stall selling mythril jewelry of dubious purity displayed its wares on velvet cloth, bracelets and necklaces glinting as they caught lanternlight. Food stalls began to appear—tins of candied fruit and honey cakes here, mead and meat pies there.

The din of the crowd had gotten livelier as the evening deepened, but as for the noble couple, there was only silence between them. A few times, Horace opened his mouth to suggest stopping somewhere, only to be interrupted by a swell of noise—laughing children and swooning couples, vendors loudly cajoling.

A crush of people came in from the other side, jostling the husband and wife and pushing them together. For a startled moment, they found themselves pressed close, Ennieux's hand instinctively reaching for Horace's arm to steady herself.

When she realized what she did, she flinched. And Horace, feeling her physically recoil, pulled away.

"I apologize," Horace said, politely raising his hand. "No, rather, are you okay?"

"There is nothing to apologize about," Ennieux said, looking away. "And I'm fine."

Seizing upon their sudden closeness, and the break in the silence, Horace leaned slightly toward her ear. "Did you have a place in mind?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd.

"This is my first time in Old Town," Ennieux said, also raising her voice, yet somehow seeming meeker for it. "I hardly know the area."

"Is that so?" Horace asked, sounding slightly surprised.

"Even though I've lived here all my life, yes!" Ennieux replied, some insecurity edging into her voice.

The crowd which had been pushing them together momentarily thinned, and the two went on, pulling clumsily back to their original distance.

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Surprisingly though, Ennieux attempted to continue the conversation. "I have hardly ventured into the city! I'm fully aware how sheltered it seems…"

"I didn't say that," Horace said.

A shadow crossed Ennieux's face. Her arms tightened around herself, and her eyes fell half-lidded.

"The truth doesn't need to be spoken…" Ennieux said, her voice dimming and her expression crestfallen. "...to be true."

The silence between them returned—unfortunately, just as they were reaching their walk's natural destination: a plaza at the end of the promenade, at the center of which stood a statue of the Saintess.

Stone tables and benches dotted the square, topped with candles already a quarter spent. Elms, circled by flowerbeds, were scattered throughout, lanterns strung from their branches.

The ambiance was lovely. But Horace simply didn't know what to do. Because Ennieux looked miserable.

Horace was no stranger to Ennieux's moodiness. But this hurt in her eyes was something else. She was caught up in her own little world now, and she'd quietly drifted ahead without realizing. The way she kept her gaze down, it was as if the pretty sights of the plaza were painful for her.

Slowly, reluctantly, Horace raised his arm—something was telling him to reach out, to take his wife's hand and gently draw her back to his side.

Yet his fingers curled closed, and his arm fell limply.

What could he do? It was the very act of being together which was making her so unhappy. Letting this outing drag on any longer would only make it worse. And trying to step into her world uninvited would only prod at the tender hurts which kept them apart in the first place.

"Perhaps we should just find a simple meal and return to the castle," Horace said.

"...And then dine together in my parlor?" Ennieux asked, quietly.

"There's no need to," Horace assured her.

A complicated expression crossed Ennieux's face. Her eyes wrinkled and her lips pursed, but she didn't quite look angry.

Yet somehow Horace was struck by the sense that he'd said the wrong thing.

"So be it," Ennieux said, her voice barely audible above the crowd's din.

Halfway across the plaza, two cloaked figures sat at a stone table, watching. A stack of parchment with colorful drawings rested atop it.

"We got them to the plaza," Renea muttered. She glanced at the first drawing with the hanging lanterns. "But they're just standing there. Is this really fine? They look like they don't want to be here. Shouldn't—shouldn't we do something?"

"...We should wait and see first," Ailn said, fiddling with his wrist. "Meddling now might actually get us off track from the future we want."

"But they wouldn't even be here if we didn't give them the first push," Renea murmured, dissatisfied. "Viscount Gren's already gesturing in the direction of the promenade. At this rate, they'll really turn back."

Ailn scooped up the parchment from the table and began leafing through it.

"Well, they need to end up at the Festival of Light together. They wander the festival stalls together, then watch what I can only hope is fireworks," Ailn said, trying to parse Bea's last drawing. He flipped a couple of pages back. "Before that… it looks like the spark happens when Horace stops Ennieux from tripping. That happens right by a florist's stall—then, after he catches her, he buys her a bouquet. Huh. Smooth move."

He drummed his fingers on the table and glanced up at reality: Ennieux's posture closing off, Horace stiffening beside her. "Yeah, that's probably not happening without a little help."

Renea bit her lip. "Then…"

Fishing for a silver from his pocket, Ailn put Bea's second drawing at the top of the stack: Ennieux and Horace sitting at a table, two cups labeled 'JUICE' between them. "Well—next step's pretty obvious."

Ennieux lingered listlessly, arms crossed and gaze drooping, while Horace scanned the stalls for any fare easy enough to carry back. But before he could unwittingly end their evening in the most frustrating way possible, a man called out to them from across the plaza.

"Milady and milord! Would the two of you not grace my humble stall with your patronage?" the man asked, gesturing to one of the plaza's stalls, where a brazier set into its frame kept a simmering cauldron.

A rich scent wafted off, spice and sweetness over something floral, its warm invitation just as insistent as the man himself.

"Mulled wine?" Ennieux murmured, her interest piqued. Her posture opened, just barely, one hand resting lightly against her collar.

"How much?" Horace asked, grasping at the first flicker of interest his wife had shown all evening.

"For you two," the man grinned, "I have a very special price."

"A special price?" Ennieux asked suspiciously. "And why would that be?"

"You are a fine lady of the eum-Creids, are you not?" the man asked. He swept both hands outward, palms up, as if to cast a spell over the whole plaza. "The lovely sister of the woman to whom we owe all this beauty."

"Ah… Y-yes, that would be me," Ennieux said.

"Come, come! Please, a beautiful lady such as yourself surely has a palate sophisticated enough to appreciate this fine draught," the man said. "And the gentleman! I should like to see how the wares of my humble stall compare to the refined tastes of Calum!"

"Well, I see no reason to object," Horace said, continuing to ride the wave of opportunity. "Shall we?"

"I suppose I do enjoy the warmth of mulled wine," Ennieux said, striding over to the table beside the stall.

Both husband and wife took their seats, and the vendor hurried to oblige, plucking a ladle from its hook and dipping it into the simmering cauldron. He gave the wine a slow stir, spreading its fragrance, coaxing slices of apple into the scoop before filling two earthen mugs.

"I shall leave the two of you to it," the man said with a bow. He stepped back with a smile. "Please. Enjoy the wine—and savor the moment."

The two sipped quietly at their drinks. The atmosphere began to shift. The evening lacked the cold bite which usually called for mulled wine, yet the taste alone brought with it the sense of huddled warmth.

"Well…" Ennieux murmured. "This… isn't so bad."

Her face began to flush.

Letting out a slow, almost reverent sigh, Ennieux lowered the cup from her lips and set it down—her fingertip tracing along its rim, lingering where she'd just sipped.

"I can understand why Camille is ashamed of me…" she said softly. "That girl has always trod where I would not."

A faint smile touched her lips. Yet tears began to well in her eyes. The vulnerability she had worked so hard to hide was finally surfacing, coaxed out by the sweet, warm wine.

"Camille's not—" Horace began. The words caught on his teeth. "She still has ways to mature, Ennieux."

But it was little consolation. Ennieux began to sniffle, head drooping so low that her bangs fell forward and covered her eyes.

She let a single sob escape, unable to stifle it, and the goldenvow in her hair threatened to slip free.

At last, Horace understood just how deeply his wife ached to connect with their daughter—how wounded the struggle had left her.

He reached out to comfort her, hand drifting toward her shoulder which had begun to tremble.

"Ennieux—" Horace started.

But he faltered, his hand hanging in the air just shy of her.

Ennieux's lips had parted halfway, as if she were in shock. Then she started mumbling, too low for him to hear.

"...afford… kinder…"

Horace hesitated a moment, unsure if he should gently cut in. "Sorry?"

"Couldn't she afford to be a little kinder to her mother?!" Ennieux howled, head jerking up. She downed the rest of her drink in one go. "For God's sake, she ought to be grateful she still has one! That she has both her parents! Look at her cousins!"

"...Perhaps there is a better place for this—"

"She treatsh me as if I'm some dreadful shrew, just putting on airs, while she has the common touch. But of course she does! Why wouldn't she? She's an Azure Knight, after all, and those proud paladins've never been guilty of the slightest pretenshion!" Ennieux ranted. "Oh? Honey'n my cake? Honey'sh far too sweet f'r someone sworn t'the sword! I'd ratherrr a scone baked with soilll."

Then she suddenly halted, looking quite weepy. "Oh, but Nicolas has alwaysh been a darlin'..." Ennieux corrected herself, voice cracking.

Only a single mug of wine into their night, Ennieux was already sloshed.

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