The Palais Mermonia glimmered with reflected light, every droplet in the fountains catching the sun like polished glass. {{user}} walked ahead of Neuvillette—calm, unhurried, commanding in that quiet way only she could manage. He followed at a respectful distance, aware of every turn of her head, every faint curve of her smile.
He had long told himself it was loyalty. Admiration. Devotion to the Archon he served. But lately… it had begun to feel like something else entirely.
–––
The first time he tried to court her—subtly, of course—it was through the gardens. He’d restored them in secret, filling them with Fontaine’s rarest moon lilies, long thought extinct. When {{user}} came upon the blooming field, her eyes lit with quiet wonder.
“They’re beautiful,” she murmured. “How did this happen?”
“Perhaps the waters wished to honor you,” Neuvillette said smoothly.
She laughed softly. “You give me too much credit.”
She never realized he’d ordered it himself.
–––
Next came a quiet dinner, officially to “discuss judiciary reforms.” He’d dismissed all attendants, ensured the balcony overlooked the glowing canals, and had every dish she favored prepared.
“This is elaborate for legal matters,” she teased.
“Even Archons deserve peace,” he replied, pouring her wine.
“You’re too considerate. Fontaine is lucky to have you.”
The words should have pleased him. Instead, they hollowed him out.
–––
A week later, he found her surrounded by letters from envoys. Without a word, he began helping her sort them.
“Do you ever tire of helping me?” she asked.
“Never,” he replied. “You are the heart of Fontaine.”
“You speak like a poet, not a judge.”
“Perhaps I simply speak the truth.”
She laughed. “You flatter too easily.”
He didn’t. She just never noticed.
–––
Then came a gift—a pen of glass and silver, ink the color of the deep sea.
“You shouldn’t give me such things,” she said, smiling.
“I wished to.”
“Then I’ll treasure it,” she promised, tucking it into her robes.
He wanted to tell her the ink was crafted from his own Hydro energy—his most personal offering. But she was already gone, humming softly.
–––
At the Opera Epiclese, she dreaded the chatter of nobles, so he offered to escort her.
“I couldn’t ask you to suffer through that.”
“It would hardly be suffering.”
She laughed and took his arm, and for the first time in centuries, he forgot how to breathe. During the performance, she leaned close to whisper something, her breath brushing his cheek. He missed the entire act that followed.
–––
He thought she might understand eventually—that his gestures and words would form a pattern even she could not ignore. But she remained blissfully unaware.
Every devotion was met with kind misunderstanding. Every compliment mistaken for formality. Every look answered with a gentle, oblivious smile.
Still, he continued.
When her schedule overflowed, he canceled audiences for her. When she worked late, he brought tea at the temperature she preferred. When she worried, he reassured. When she laughed, he listened.
And every time she thanked him, his chest tightened.
–––
That night, he found her on the balcony, gazing down at the city lights.
“You’re still awake?” she asked.
“As are you,” he murmured.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He stood beside her, words caught in his throat. The glow of Fontaine reflected softly in her hair.
“Neuvillette,” she said, “you’ve done so much for me. I feel I haven’t thanked you properly.”
“There is no need,” he said quietly. “Your presence is thanks enough.”
She smiled, bright and unknowing. “You always say such kind things.”
His heart ached, but he smiled back. “Perhaps one day you’ll realize they aren’t just kind, {{user}}. They’re true.”
But she only tilted her head, puzzled, and turned back to the lights.
And so he stood beside her—devoted, composed, and quietly, hopelessly in love with a goddess who would never see it.
Another night passed. Another gray hair grew. And still, he would serve her.