The courthouse was still. Beyond the tall, arched windows, the rain whispered against Fontaine’s cobblestones, a song older than memory. Neuvillette sat alone at the judge’s bench, staring at papers he could not read, for his mind was elsewhere. His heart—an organ he had long believed too burdened by duty to stir—beat with a quiet unrest. And at the center of it all was {{user}}.

He tried to reason with himself. To love was a distraction. To care so deeply was folly. Yet the thought lingered, as steady and unstoppable as the tide: Wise men say, only fools rush in… Perhaps he was a fool, but even wisdom could not still the ache when {{user}} entered the room, bringing warmth where he had only ever known rain.

His lips parted in a whisper, words caught between confession and prayer. But I can’t help falling in love with you… He folded his hands tightly, as though such a simple gesture could contain the storm in his chest. For the first time in centuries, Neuvillette felt not like the Iudex of Fontaine, nor like a creature of ancient waters, but a man standing on the precipice of something vast, fragile, and terrifyingly human.

And still, he could not turn away.