From Act 1 to 182376. Furina and the truth.

Act 182368. Furina and the Revelation to Herself

“My dearest citizens, from the bottom of my pure heart, filled with justice, I thank you once again for attending today’s session! It was truly…” Furina paused, searching for a word. “…enchanting. Now, I ask you all to disperse, au revoir.” The opera house soon grew empty, and the performance came to its end. Only the echo remained—Furina’s most loyal spectator, unwilling to abandon the hall. It happily repeated every sound that dared stir in the silence. But Furina did not linger long either—another day pressed upon her, reminding her of her duty, of the reason she sat there at all. Returning to the place she always came back to after her time among the people of Fontaine, Furina allowed herself, if only for a moment, to rest from the cacophony of voices that surrounded her nearly every day. She sighed in relief, shook her head—and then, down her cheek rolled a tear, heavy with the pain and bitterness she carried every passing moment. She had promised, sworn with a hand to her heart, that she would not allow Judgment Day to come—at least, not in her lifetime. Outside, the sun shone bright. Street musicians played, filling the city with a melody where the accordion stood out above all else, almost taking the lead role in the performance. It carried a charm unlike any other. Alongside it came violin and cello—the violin singing high notes like a nightingale, the cello weaving deep, melodious lines, giving the piece its richness. The saxophone, with its rhythm and striking bass, was enough to capture any heart. Furina listened, tapping her foot, smiling without realizing it as she closed her eyes. For the first time in a long while, she let herself surrender to the flow of notes. She realized how long it had been since she could truly hear each sound, each tone, each chord, and forget the endless roar of voices in the opera hall where she usually sat, elevated above them. Most of all, she cherished solitude. It was the only state where she could, for at least a second, think not about her vow but about herself. Hard, though—her thoughts always ran back, and she fought to chase them away, but to no avail. They returned again and again, clinging to her mind. Some gripped so tightly they left no choice but to carve themselves into her memory. And these thoughts, always the same, circled around the prophecy, the promise, and the eternal reminders of her duty, no matter her own struggles. “Kill yourself trying if you must, Furina, but you must endure. All for Fontaine. All for the Reflection. It’s hard—but nothing worth bearing has ever been easy. Everyone suffers, everyone carries their burden. Why shouldn’t you? Hundreds, even thousands of lives rest in your hands, and you dare think of yourself?!” So she chastised herself, never allowing room for failure, for fate could strike at any moment, any hour, any second—even now. And so it went, for nearly five centuries. Yes, sometimes she allowed herself small escapes from human troubles, but she never forgot the prophecy. Each passing day it pressed harder and harder on her shoulders, making her restless, making it seem as though nothing could help her. And truly, nothing could—except music, and the trust of her people. She saw how Fontaine relied on her, believed in her, unsuspecting, just as they had on the very first day of her rule as Archon. She glanced at the clock. Barely any time had passed since she returned to her office, granting herself those few stolen minutes of “rest.” Now it was time to resume her duties. Over and over, the same cycle, unchanged for centuries. Only on rare days could she break the routine. Clerks came with their reports, offering false hopes that dissolved at once into disappointment; the Melusines, on the other hand, truly did brighten her days, and she could not help but adore them; her conversations with Neuvillette, shifting between formal and personal in ways she never fully understood, as though the pattern was his alone to dictate. At last, the day ended, and it was time for sleep. At such moments she often chuckled at her “schedule.” The entry marked “sleep” always amused her, as if she were a child needing to be put to bed by the clock, or else she’d accomplish nothing. But truly, she was so exhausted by midday she could barely stand. Sometimes she collapsed at her desk outright. The burden of being Archon was heavy indeed. But what could she do? The answer was obvious—accept it.

Act 182376. Furina’s Judgment Day

“It’s all your fault!” “Why won’t you do anything about this, Lady Furina?!” “The prophecy may soon come true, and you don’t even care?!” So began Furina’s day—with the accusations of her citizens after the tragedy in Poisson. Anxiety mounted. Panic gripped her once again, chaining her, silencing her, leaving her powerless to deny, to defend, to prove her innocence. Fear gnawed at her—fear that the prophecy was indeed nearing its fulfillment, ready to begin at any moment. So many extraordinary events had unfolded of late, too many to count. And most, if not all, had followed the Traveler’s arrival in Fontaine. Terror consumed her, clawing at her soul, the weight on her shoulders pressing harder each time, wounding her deeper. And she could do nothing. “All is preordained. Fate may be delayed, but only for a time—soon it returns to its path, leading all to its destined end.” All she could do was flee—to Poisson, to some hidden place where no one could find her. She ran to the lowest part of the village, standing at the water’s edge, unable to contain the flood of her emotions. Controlling them had become harder and harder. Pressure closed in from all sides. Doubts and suspicions grew around her. Clashes with Neuvillette became more frequent. Playing the role of Archon was heavier than ever. And so, Furina wept again. Her tears fell into the water, rippling outward in widening circles. She whispered her mantra over and over, endless: “Forgive me… It’s my fault… Forgive me…” And then came a voice she least wished to hear—the Traveler. “Ah? O-oh, Traveler! You even found me here—oh, you! What is it, hm?” Before long, the mob of angry citizens found her too, closing in fast. To her surprise, the Traveler helped her escape, guiding her into a hidden shelter along their path. He tried to speak to her, and the conversation slowly shifted into something like confession. His words prodded at her—she trembled, afraid to open up. What if he betrayed her? What if he revealed her secret? She wavered in doubt, until… …she stood in the “Epiclese.” Eyes glared at her—some with scorn, some with disgust, some with pity. What did it mean? How had she come here? What was this trial staged before her? Denial. Judgment. The very thing she had feared and evaded for centuries, at last made real. Events had brought Furina to the final act, her own fate laid bare. Now all would learn the truth. She tried to keep up her mask—her theatrical, charismatic, confident façade as Archon—hoping to win back Fontaine’s trust. But it was no use. None believed her anymore. Rage turned inward, she cursed herself for failing to keep her promise. And once she realized nothing could be saved, nothing undone—tears streamed down her cheeks again. Only this time, not in solitude, but before all of Fontaine, her weakness exposed. Anger. This time, the organ did not play harmonies for her ears—it struck them, merciless, mingling with the endless accusations. Furina tried to refute them, but failed. The Traveler and the rest always seemed to have another card to play, while hers fell short. And when the marks of Primordial Sea water were found upon her hand, she knew it was over. Fate itself had cried out: “Checkmate, Furina.” Despair. “Please, believe me, I am your Archon! This proves nothing!” Only contemptuous stares. “Don’t look at me like that! If I were mortal, could I touch the water so easily? That’s absurd! Please…” Silence. Not a whisper, only crushing stillness. Bargaining. Her tears flowed again—strong, bitter, sincere, soaked in the pain she had borne through centuries of play-acting. No strength left. Everything spilled out. Depression. Then, Neuvillette’s voice, echoing across her mind: “As Chief Justice, I must deliver my verdict. Lady Furina stands accused of passing herself off as an Archon while being but a mortal, deceiving the people of Fontaine. I find Lady Furina… guilty.” No point protesting. Her silence was proof enough. No one could, or would, believe her now. Everyone had been deceived—even Neuvillette. And now he too fell silent, closing his eyes, unwilling to look at her. If before her tears trickled slowly, now they poured in torrents down her cheeks. She sank into her chair, quiet like all the rest, awaiting her sentence. Nothing mattered anymore. It was done. No escape. Acceptance. Fate mocked her now, laughing cruelly at its victory and her defeat. It jeered, savoring its sport. It had tormented her for five centuries already, but now it reveled in her agony. Pain burned through Furina, guilt gnawed at her, guilt for failing the Reflection she had sworn to protect. “You must stage a masquerade, endless and unbroken. No one must ever suspect who you truly are…” And she had. The props were perfect. The lead role was hers—Furina’s alone. She earned that cruel part, a role that became her torment. The people of Fontaine played the secondary roles unwittingly, supporting her act as “Archon.” And so the masquerade lasted five hundred years. Until now. In the 182,376th act, the mask was stripped away, her every card overturned, her pieces defeated in this game of fate.

The play had ended.