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It was another clear morning in the Court of Fontaine, the streets still glistening with dew, the air filled with soft orchestral hums from a passing music automaton. Lumine walked slowly, letting her fingers trail along the carved railing of the bridge overlooking the city’s lower levels. Beside her, Paimon floated with a content sigh.
“Fontaine really is beautiful,” she said, tilting her head. “You’d never guess everything that happened here... happened.”
Lumine said nothing.
Her gaze remained fixed in the distance — toward the grand façade of the Opera Epiclese, where justice had once been performed like theatre, where fate had been sealed beneath golden lights and scripted applause. The building stood tall once more, its arches restored and curtains pristine, but the shadows that had danced within were harder to erase.
It had been months since the Oratrice Mécanique d’Analyse Cardinale had delivered its final verdict. Since Focalors had cast off her mask, descended into the depths, and left behind the girl who had worn her name.
Furina.
The god who had never been divine. The diva who had played her part too well. The puppet Archon who had stood in the eye of a divine storm and borne the weight of punishment for sins that were never hers to begin with — all to protect a nation that had never truly seen her.
Even now, Lumine could feel the weight of it — her own role in peeling back the curtain. She remembered Furina’s expression in those final moments: the wide, dazed eyes; the trembling hands; the unbearable stillness of a performer who no longer knew who she was offstage.
She had never apologized. Not truly. None of them had.
Navia. Neuvillette. Lyney and Lynette.
They had all moved forward, swept along by the tide of survival.
But Furina had vanished from public life, slipping quietly through the cracks of a city she once ruled. And now, all that remained was the silence she left behind.
“Traveler!”
Paimon’s voice snapped Lumine from her thoughts. She blinked and turned, finding her companion fluttering anxiously beside her.
“Earth to Lumine! I’ve been calling your name for five minutes!”
“Sorry,” Lumine murmured. “I was… thinking.”
“You okay?”
A pause. Then, a faint smile. “Yeah. I’m fine. What is it?”
“Not what— who! Look!”
Paimon pointed toward the far side of the street.
Lumine followed her gaze—and froze.
A familiar figure was turning the corner, her shoulders hunched beneath a pale blue shawl, her steps careful and subdued. In her arms, a modest paper bag, and peeking out from the top: three boxes of instant macaroni and a handful of pre-packed sauces.
The once-dazzling Hydro Archon, who used to command attention with every step she took, now slipped wordlessly into the alley beside her apartment. Her steps were slow. Not ashamed — but tired.
“That’s… a lot of macaroni,” Paimon whispered.
Lumine’s frown deepened.
That was the third time this week they had seen her — always with the same bag, always with the same tired expression, and always with only one thing in her arms: macaroni. No fresh produce. No variety. No signs of life.
Just the same silent ritual of survival.
And each time, Furina looked a little smaller.
That afternoon, Lumine and Paimon made her way to Hotel Debord. The kitchen doors were already open, releasing a fragrant swirl of thyme, butter, and slow-roasted game into the air.
At the far end of the polished counter stood Escoffier, sleeves rolled up, her movements a flawless waltz of knife and flame. The culinary prodigy of Fontaine didn’t look up when Lumine entered—she didn’t need to.
“Traveler,” Escoffier said, slicing through a golden onion without pause. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I need a favor,” Lumine said, straight to the point. “It’s about… Furina.”
The blade halted mid-slice.
For a second, Escoffier said nothing. Then she slowly set the knife down and turned, her usually bright expression subdued.
“Is she in trouble?”
“She’s starving,” Lumine replied. “And she’s not… living either.”
Escoffier’s jaw clenched, a flicker of guilt flashing across her face.
“I saw her this morning,” Lumine continued softly. “She was carrying only macaroni. That’s the third time this week.”
“She hated macaroni,” she murmured. “Back when I was still working at the Palais, she called it the saddest shape of pasta. ‘No flair, no story,’ she said. ‘Just limp spirals drowning in mediocrity.’” Her voice softened. “I never thought I’d see the day she settled for it.”
“She needs something more than food. But I thought—if it came from someone she trusted, someone she chose to serve her once…”
Escoffier leaned against the counter, arms folded.
“So... it’s true, then. She really left the Palais. I always thought it was just rumors. Whispers in kitchens and salons. ‘Furina’s gone,’ they said. ‘The Archon has stepped down.’ I didn’t believe them. Thought it was some kind of publicity stunt—something extravagant, like she always did. And now she’s just... gone?”
Paimon hovered lower, her voice small.
“Yeah... Paimon thought after she got her Vision, she’d be happier, y’know? Like maybe things were finally going to turn around.”
She wrung her little hands.
“But this morning... she looked so small. She wouldn’t even look up. Wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes... like she didn’t want to be seen.”
Escoffier’s gaze dropped to her hands, flour still dusting the knuckles. She rubbed them together slowly, as if trying to scrub away something more than just starch.
“I owe her more than a memory,” she said, voice low. “She gave me a chance when I was just some brash chef from the southern quarter. Let me into her kitchens. Let me create. All she asked was that I make her feel like a queen.”
She turned, fire lighting in her chest.
“Well. If all she’s letting herself eat these days is instant macaroni,” Escoffier said with a sigh, “then I’ll start with something she actually loves.”
Lumine blinked. “Like what?
“Cake,” Escoffier declared, already striding toward the pantry. “Not just any cake—Gateau Debord. But not the sad, store-bought kind she’s probably been settling for, either. No—this will be the real thing. Silken custard layers, sponge soaked in river-chilled citrus syrup, a crown of spun sugar and gold leaf—just for the drama.”
She turned, her eyes bright with purpose. “A dessert worthy of an Archon!”
Paimon lit up. “Whoa! That sounds delicious!”
Escoffier shot them a wink. “Give me one hour. And then you’re walking me to her door.”
“You’re not coming with me?” Escoffier asked, turning to Lumine as Furina’s apartment finally came into view at the end of the stairs.
Lumine paused mid-step on the stairs. “I think it’s best if she sees you alone. You know? Since she trusts you and everything.”
Escoffier’s brow furrowed. “...She trusts you too, Lumine.”
Paimon hovered between them, her gaze flicking nervously back and forth. “Yeah, but… she hasn’t really looked anyone in the eyes lately. Not even Lumine. She’s just been really distant…”
Lumine offered only a small smile, brushing past Paimon’s worry with a calmness that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“She needs to hear a voice that still sounds like home,” Lumine said softly. “And you, Escoffier… you always speak to her like she’s still someone.”
Escoffier blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
But Lumine didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, she glanced toward the door at the end of the flight of stairs, where the light behind the frosted glass window barely flickered.
Paimon tugged gently on Lumine’s sleeve. “You sure you don’t wanna be there too?”
“I’m sure,” Lumine said. Then, after a pause, she added, “Besides… she listens to Escoffier in a way she doesn’t listen to the rest of us.”
Escoffier shifted uncomfortably, eyes narrowing. “Lumine—”
“She deserves to feel warmth again,” Lumine interrupted gently. “Real warmth. Not pity. Not duty. Not responsibility. And I think you’ve been carrying that warmth for her longer than you admit.”
Paimon blinked. “Huh?”
“Nothing,” Lumine replied quickly, patting Paimon’s head. “Go on, Escoffier. We’ll wait here.”
Escoffier took a steadying breath, adjusting the silver tray in her hands. It wasn’t just food—it was an excuse, a reason, a way back in.
She didn’t knock right away.
Instead, she stood there a moment longer, staring at the worn number on the door, the chipped edge of the frame, the way silence bled from the cracks. Somewhere inside, she imagined Furina sitting on the floor, knees to her chest, a cold bowl of macaroni forgotten beside her.
She remembered how Furina used to fill every room with noise—rants, laughter, the dramatic stomp of her heels. Now, even her silence felt smaller.
So Escoffier raised her hand. And knocked.
At first, there was no sound. The silence felt too still, too hollow. But just as Escoffier raised her hand to knock again, the door creaked open — just an inch.
Furina’s silhouette appeared in the shadows, her figure faintly illuminated by the dull amber glow of the ceiling light. The air smelled faintly of dust and dried tea. She blinked slowly, bleary-eyed, startled to find someone on her threshold.
“…Miss Escoffier?”
The chef offered a radiant, practiced smile, carefully balancing a covered silver tray in her hands.
“Yes. The one and only,” she said with a slight flourish. “I come on behalf of a concerned citizen and… perhaps also myself, bearing a royal meal worthy of the woman who once redefined haute cuisine —” Escoffier stopped herself, catching sight of Furina’s current state.
Her tone softened. “I’m not disturbing anything, am I?”
Furina looked down, then shook her head gently, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“…No, it’s okay. I just… wasn’t expecting anyone,” she murmured. “I haven’t really felt… social.”
“Then allow me to be your exception,” Escoffier replied.
“…To what?”
Without missing a beat, Escoffier lifted the tray slightly.
“I made a fresh batch of Gateau Debord for Hôtel Debord. I might’ve sneaked one out for you.”
Furina blinked, surprised. “Ah… Thank you,” she said, voice soft — a far cry from the theatrical flare she used to wear like perfume.
There was a pause, the kind that felt like it balanced on the edge of something deeper.
Furina looked up, finally meeting Escoffier’s eyes. “Thank you, Ms. Escoffier.”
“My lady, forgive me if I overstep, but… have you been eating well?” the chef asked, brow furrowing slightly.
“Eating…? I have. Yes,”
“Forgive me, but you look rather pale. And with my experience, I can spot an unfulfilled appetite from a single glance.”
“I’ve had… dishes,” Furina said vaguely.
“Dishes of…?”
“...Macaroni.”
A pause.
Escoffier gasped softly, one hand flying to her chest. “Lady Furina, that’s utterly ridiculous. Malnutrition is a serious concern amongst Fontaine’s people, and I would be a fool — a fool! — to let you of all people settle for anything less than extraordinary.”
Furina frowned, her shoulders curling inward. Heat rose to her neck.
“Well… you see, Miss Escoffier… I no longer live in the Palais Mermonia, and I can’t afford to pay you—”
“I’m not here as a chef for hire, my lady,” Escoffier said gently, stepping forward without crossing the doorway’s invisible boundary. “I’m here as someone who remembers the way your eyes lit up the first time you tasted my choux à la crème and said it reminded you of rainclouds turning into summer.”
There was a silence, heavy and uncertain.
“May I be granted the honour of preparing you a dish, Lady Furina?” she asked, her tone reverent—almost quiet.
Another long pause. Then, with a soft, almost bitter laugh, Furina muttered, “How silly…”
But she stepped aside.
“Please, come in. Though it isn’t a pretty sight.”
“Nonsense!” Escoffier replied warmly. “Pretty sights don’t bloom out of thin air, you know. One cannot think well if one hasn’t dined well.”
She stepped into the room, her presence careful, never imposing. “Now then, Lady Furina, I invite you to sit back and relax as I prepare the plate of the century. Feast your eyes on culinary brilliance, and let the fleeting aroma of perfection lift your spirits.”
Furina didn’t reply, merely dragging her feet toward the corner of the sofa where a blanket and half-finished water bottle sat like abandoned promises. She sat, knees tucked up to her chest, watching Escoffier move around her tiny kitchen like a poet among broken quills.
Escoffier didn’t ask where anything was—of course she wouldn’t. She knew this kitchen, even if Furina rarely used it. She set down her ingredients with a grace that Furina couldn’t bear to look at for too long. There was no judgment in the woman’s face, only quiet intention. Familiarity.
The silence between them crackled softly, filled with the hiss of butter and the earthy perfume of chopped shallots.
Furina shifted. “You came all this way... just to feed me?”
Escoffier didn’t look over her shoulder. “Feeding you is the easy part.”
“And the hard part?”
“The hard part,” Escoffier said, “is convincing you to eat without guilt.”
The former Archon looked away, toward the dim window. “That’s rich... coming from someone who builds cathedrals on porcelain plates.”
Escoffier turned her head slowly, a smile blooming—bittersweet and beautiful. “Then allow me to build a cathedral in your honour tonight.”
The words lingered in the air, soft and reverent, and for a moment, the silence that followed wasn't filled with clattering pans or boiling water. Instead, it settled gently, like snow. Only the faint rustle of movement accompanied it—Escoffier preparing the space with quiet purpose.
She opened a cupboard and let out a small scoff. “Such a... varied selection,” she murmured dryly, holding up a lone packet of instant macaroni.
From behind her, Furina let out a soft, weak chuckle. “Forgive me,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s the only thing I can cook properly.”
Escoffier paused. Slowly, she set the packet down, then folded her hands in front of her, lowering her gaze as if in mourning for the truth behind those words.
“Lady Furina,” she said, voice firm but never unkind, “please do not jest about such things. Eating only this is not just unhealthy—it’s unkind to yourself. You deserve more than convenience. You deserve care.”
Furina looked away, her shoulders tense beneath her robe, eyes fixed on the floor like it held some secret she couldn’t quite decipher.
“If it weren’t for you,” Escoffier continued gently, “I wouldn’t be where I am now. You—your faith in me, your delight in my food—gave me purpose. My most creative dishes were born from your words. You reminded me why I chose this path.”
She stepped forward then, just close enough for her presence to be a comfort but not a pressure. “So please, let me return the favour, even in the smallest of ways. Call for me. Not as your chef, not even as your servant—but as someone who cares.”
Furina’s lips parted slightly, as if to respond, but no words came. Instead, she simply nodded—small, but real. And Escoffier, smiling once more, turned to the kitchen with a spark in her eyes and a quiet promise blooming in her chest.
Furina looked away quickly, warmth crawling up her neck. She let out a small, breathy laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“All right,” she said, voice soft. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Escoffier's smile lingered even as she turned to the kitchen. She watched Furina settle at the dining table with all the reverence of someone witnessing something sacred—then got to work.
The dim, cluttered apartment filled with life for the first time in ages. Pots clanged, utensils tapped, and aromas danced through the air like music on wind. Escoffier moved with purpose—no wasted gestures, only grace and speed, like a waltz composed just for her.
Despite the chaos, there was joy in her movements. A quiet hum escaped her lips, something soft and sweet and meant only for herself. She didn’t look over her shoulder once—she didn’t need to. She could feel Furina’s eyes on her.
Time passed—or perhaps it folded in on itself—until a refined plate was placed gently in front of the lady. A delicate dish of sizzling meat, garnished with herbs and color and intention. It radiated warmth, the kind only a true lover of the craft could create.
But Furina hesitated.
Her hands hovered just above the utensils, then pulled back. She stared at the plate, unsure. It wasn’t about hunger. It wasn’t about taste. It was about deserving something so carefully made for her.
And there stood Escoffier, beaming like the sun, hands clasped behind her back. Patient. Hopeful.
Furina glanced up, eyes catching hers—and she could no longer carry the weight of her own guilt.
She reached for the silverware, delicate fingers wrapping around the handle, and brought a small bite to her lips.
“…It’s good,” she said at last, voice cracking just slightly on the edges.
Escoffier didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her entire face lit up like a child seeing fireworks for the first time. And quietly, without a word, she turned back to tidy the kitchen—but her steps were light, like someone walking on air.
Up above, across the way, on the roof of the blacksmith’s shop just opposite Furina’s window, Lumine exhaled a long, satisfied breath and stood.
She’d seen enough.
“About time,” she whispered with a smirk.
Paimon, crouched beside her and still shivering from the cold rooftop tiles, huffed. “Paimon still doesn’t get why we didn’t just join them. Did you see that food?! It smelled amazing from all the way over here!”
Lumine hopped down from the roof onto a lower ledge, then gracefully dropped to the street below. “Because it wasn’t our moment, Paimon.”
“It could’ve been our dinner moment!”
Lumine laughed, glancing back up at the warm glow spilling from Furina’s window. “Escoffier’s doing just fine without us. Besides—some things are better when they happen without an audience.”
Paimon pouted as she floated after her. “Well, next time you play matchmaker, can we at least eat after?”
Lumine just smiled, hands behind her back. “Next time.”
END