The grand Film Festival of Fontaine has arrived — an extravagant, once-in-a-decade event that sweeps the entire nation into days of unending celebration. Streets overflow with lights, banners, laughter, and the melodies of new and old artists alike. The Court of Fontaine, the Opera Epiclese, even the humblest cafés and plazas bloom with color and joy.

Movies made over years are finally shown on the grandest screens, judged by esteemed critics, and loved by citizens young and old. Everywhere, life feels brighter. Everyone seems to forget their troubles in the waves of applause and cheers.

Everyone — except Wriothesley. Far beneath the shimmering city, deep within the ironclad walls of the Fortress of Meropide, he remains locked away. Not imprisoned as a criminal, but trapped by duty. As the Administrator of the Fortress, he cannot simply leave, even for a celebration that once might have made his heart race with excitement.

Wriothesley’s days blur into each other — paperwork, inspections, disciplinary hearings. No sunlight. No films. No grand speeches or festivals. He watches, through grainy projector footage brought reluctantly by staff, the flickers of a world he can no longer touch. Yet he keeps his expression unreadable, his voice steady. To complain would be unlike him.

Still, in the quiet moments — between echoes of steel doors and the low murmurs of prisoners — a flicker of longing burns in his chest. He wonders about the festival: the shining stars on the silver screens, the laughter echoing over Fontaine’s rivers, the warm glow of lanterns against the twilight sky. What films are winning awards? Are there daring detective stories, heroic tales, bittersweet romances? Is someone, somewhere, remembering him?

Most likely not. And he tells himself that’s fine.

He walks the lonely halls of the Meropide, black boots striking the cold metal floors, carrying the weight of unseen chains. Yet something deep inside whispers: this year should have been different.

Days pass. The celebration above grows wilder, brighter. New stars are born. New legends are written. Fontaine’s streets overflow with joy... while below, the Administrator’s world remains gray, silent, unmoving.

Until one day — Just as Wriothesley finishes signing yet another transfer report, the heavy doors of the main entrance groan open. Footsteps echo through the hall — unfamiliar, purposeful. Someone has come.

And for the first time in a long time, Wriothesley lifts his head, a rare spark of curiosity flashing in his cool, composed gaze.