The rest of the tour unfolds in a series of stark, vivid snapshots.
First, the armory: a vault in the heart of the compound, where racks of composite rifles and next-generation pulse cannons are arrayed under harsh security lights. The training area beyond is a labyrinth of reinforced partitions and foam-embedded barricades, the floor stained with old paint and new sweat. Alessia and Marigold walk the length of the space together, Isabella trailing behind, recording notes for some future audit. For a few minutes, Alessia is almost herself—a subtle competitor, offering commentary on the merits and flaws of each weapon, her sharp wit softened by the presence of someone who, if not an equal, is at least a peer.
At one point, Marigold lingers before an old model of Knight's blade, its edge worn to a dull gray by years of ceremonial use. Alessia watches, then speaks, her tone light but edged with challenge: "Does it bother you, seeing the real thing reduced to a trophy?"
Marigold considers. "Not really. Sometimes, a trophy is all that's left of a legend. It helps us remember those before us."
She snorts, but the sound is almost affectionate. "You're more pragmatic than I expected."
The air between them crackles with a new understanding. Neither mentions their earlier awkwardness, but neither forgets it, either.
Next, the hangar: a vast, echoing chamber alive with the metallic symphony of engine diagnostics, impact wrenches, and the shouts of ground crew. Marigold is recognized immediately—heads pop up from behind engine blocks, faces peek through the haze of coolant and grease. He returns every greeting, always by name, though Isabella suspects he has never met any of them before. The effect is immediate: engineers whoop, a maintenance tech offers him a battered lunch box "for luck," and even the most skeptical veterans relax a fraction, as if the mere presence of a Knight makes the day more survivable.
"Not what you expected?" Isabella asks, sidling up to Marigold as he watches a team replace a cracked intake valve.
"I thought it would be more… grim," he admits.
"It's always grim," she says, "but people find reasons to live anyway. Even if it's just to finish a job or tell a good story." She nudges him, then adds, "You're a good story for them. Even if you don't see it."
He says nothing, but the words settle somewhere deep, somewhere that matters.
At last, they reach the City of Soleil.
To call it a city is generous—by the standards of the old world, it is more a warren of prefabs and shipping containers, strung together by ad hoc corridors and covered with polycarbonate domes to keep out the salt and the sun. But compared to the sterile gloom of the HQ's interior, Soleil is an explosion of color and life. There are banners, shopfronts painted in reckless pastels, bursts of hand-drawn graffiti in every available corner.
Marigold stops at the threshold, momentarily overwhelmed. The avenue before him is alive: children racing in packs, their voices rising above the buzz of the solar lights; a pair of old women hawking sweet rolls from a cart that clearly predates the Emergence; a teenage boy, shirtless and sunburned, hauling crates of produce to a café where an elderly couple sits sipping at mismatched mugs.
For the first time all day, Marigold feels the pulse of something he has not known in years: hope, not as an idea or a duty, but as a living current, a force that whirls through the air and lodges in the spaces between people. He can almost hear it, in the way a musician hears the resonance in a note, or a gardener senses the promise in a seed.
He stands there, silent, as the noise of the city pours over him.
Isabella notices. She steps into his field of view, waving a hand. "You okay?"
He blinks, almost sheepish. "Yes. Sorry. I was… distracted."
Alessia, who had been scanning the street with a soldier's vigilance, lets her posture relax. "Never seen a place like this?" she asks, a touch of the old sarcasm in her voice.
Marigold shakes his head. "No. I never thought… I never thought you could build something like this, here."
Isabella smiles. "And fun fact! This wasn't Cecill's idea, or any of the HQ Pioneers, really. It started with a few refugees—they couldn't just sit around and wait for the world to get better, so they made something of their own. Every stall, every mural, every café—it's all because someone needed to remember who they were."
He gestured at the bustling streets around them. "Why Soleil?"
Isabella followed his gaze, a soft smile forming. "Because even here, we need to remember that the sun still rises. That's what this place is—not just shelter, but light."
Marigold watches the city, the way it moves and hums and refuses to give in to despair. "It's… amazing," he says, the word reverent, as if it's the only thing left to say.
Alessia steps up beside him, hands clasped behind her back. "Cecill and the other pioneers like Dr Timothy didn't want to burden the refugees. Said they should focus on surviving, not wasting energy on 'rebuilding.'" She glances at the painted walls, the riotous flowers blooming in planters. "But one of the reps—just some stubborn old guy—refused to give up. Said a life without beauty was just another kind of prison." She laughs, but there's a sadness to it. "So they let him build. And the city grew."
Her voice dips, softens. "Sometimes I come here just to remember. Not what the world was, but what it could be. And for others it also the place that feels like home"
Isabella, emboldened, takes Alessia's hand and squeezes. Alessia, surprised, squeezes back.
Marigold looks at the two of them—at the city, at the possibility of joy—and realizes he has never been more out of place, or more at home.
Marigold studies the faces of the people in the square. There is tiredness, yes—lines etched deep by grief and fear. But there is also a glow, a stubborn radiance, as if each person here carries a private sun.
He realizes: in the end, this is what they're all fighting for.
He turns to his companions. "Shall we continue?"
Alessia, gaze still fixed on the sunlight glinting off Marigold's armor, nods. "Lead the way."
Together, they walk into the city, three survivors among a thousand dreams.
🌹🪻🏵️
Isabella is a master of the social current; she floats through Soleil's corridors with a practiced ease, waving to market vendors, calling out by name to children and the old men who sit at the chess tables every afternoon. But today, she is more than a familiar face—she is a herald, and Marigold is her unexpected charge.
The golden knight draws every gaze. Children tail them, some darting close enough to touch the gleaming armor before retreating in giggles. Adults bow their heads in respect or pause work to watch his passage, whispers trailing in his wake like the wake of a ship. Even the chronically unimpressed adolescents in their repurposed streetwear cannot look away.
At first, Marigold finds it disorienting. The attention is something to be endured, not savored; a legacy of legend he has never felt worthy to claim. But as they progress deeper into the city's core, he feels the scrutiny soften—becoming not awe, but recognition, even gratitude. In the reflection of every glass-fronted stall, he sees his own figure bracketed by Isabella's warmth and Alessia's fierce presence. He does not know what to do with this new constellation, so he simply follows.
Halfway through the main avenue, Marigold is distracted by a strange sensation—like the tug of a distant tide, or the sudden intake of breath before a speech. He stops, pivoting slowly. At the very heart of a cobbled plaza stands a modest pedestal, not more than a meter high, topped by a wrought-iron pole. Suspended from the pole is a lantern, its glass smoky, its frame battered by years of salt and wind. Inside, a flame burns—steady, gold-orange, immune to the breeze.
Marigold is transfixed. "What is that?" he asks, pointing.
Isabella, caught mid-greeting, follows his gaze and gasps. "Oh! I forgot to tell you about the lantern." She moves closer, beckoning Marigold and Alessia to join her.
They stand before the pedestal. Marigold is close enough to see the details: the smudges of fingerprints on the glass, the burn-marks around the handle, the simple, almost childlike inscription on the plaque below—Soleil's First Light.
Isabella gestures at the flame. "When Soleil was founded, one of the refugees—a mechanic, I think—went out every day and night to gather as many people as possible to help him build a city, where people can call it home. The story goes, every time he went out, he always carried a lantern, lit, together with him, as a symbol of motivation I supposed, for the refugees." She pauses, looking at the flame with an uncharacteristic solemnity. "When they finished building the first shelter, he put the very same lantern he use to bring the people together here, and it's never gone out. Not once."
Marigold blinks, struggling to process the miracle. "That is the same flame?"
Alessia, usually skeptical of legend, answers before Isabella can. "It is. People say it's somewhat magical gift from the heaven." Her eyes linger on the flame, and for the first time since he met her, Marigold sees something like awe in her expression.
Marigold steps closer, feeling the familiar surge of sensation—a rushing warmth, an updraft of memories not his own, the pulse of collective hope. He realizes, suddenly, that the current of dreams and prayers he'd sensed earlier flows from this very light.
He reaches out, not to touch, but to simply bask in its aura. He wonders what sort of power could keep a flame alive through the end of the world.
Inside his mind, a voice hums: I sense strong magic around that light. The timbre is unmistakable: Gilgamesh, materializing with a flicker, visible only to Marigold.
Marigold's inner voice is reverent. Then the surge earlier—it came from this?
Correct, says Gilgamesh. That's no ordinary flame. Whoever gave it to the founder, must have been a Knight. No one else could create an immortal fire—except someone who so attuned to the arcana.
Marigold wonders: Why would a Knight do that?
To leave a promise, perhaps. To show that even after everything is lost, some things can endure.
The warmth in Marigold's chest tightens. He tries to hold the thought, then suddenly, Alessia's hand flicks into his peripheral vision, breaking the trance. She waves it in front of his helmet, then lets it drop. "You good, Sir Daydreamer?"
Marigold startles, snapping back to the surface of things. "Sorry. I lost my train of thought."
Alessia sighs, an exasperated affection softening her usual iron. "I never thought Knights could daydream. Guess you're full of surprises."
Isabella grins, then points to the east. "Come on. There's still half the city left, and I know just the place for a break. Unless you'd rather stay here and stare at the lantern all day?"
Marigold shakes his head, the gold of his helmet catching the flame's reflection one last time. "Lead on," he says.
As they walk, Gilgamesh lingers a pace behind, the ghost of his presence a shimmer only Marigold can feel. The mentor's voice is sly but approving: I suppose even the knights can daydreaming a little.
Marigold doesn't reply, but the warmth in his chest refuses to fade.
They move through Soleil's narrow streets, Isabella at point, Alessia flanking. The sunlight filters through banners and canopies, dappling the group in shifting patterns. Every now and then, a voice calls to Isabella, or a child dashes out to touch Marigold's gauntlet. Alessia fends off two would-be pickpockets with a glare so sharp it sends them careening back into the market crowd.
When they reach the edge of a broad overlook, Isabella slows, then turns with a twinkle in her eye. "Let's take a detour, and go to a café!" she says. "We have to take a break. Mandatory. Captain's orders."
Alessia raises a skeptical brow. "Since when did you outrank me?"
Isabella shrugs, unrepentant. "Since I discovered this café. Just at the balcony, perfect view of the ocean. Trust me—you'll like it."
Alessia's default retort dies on her tongue. She hesitates, then shrugs, allowing herself to be led.
Marigold watches the exchange with quiet interest. He's still feeling the resonance of the lantern in his bones, but the gentle tug-of-war between those two draws his attention back to the mundane and the immediate. He's surprised at how much he likes the feeling.
Alessia tilts her head, wary. Being busy has always meant something specific to her — proof, evidence, the accumulation of reasons she doesn't need to lean on any knight, ever, for anything. It's the whole architecture of who she's decided to be.
She risks a glance at Isabella, who is humming a tune and smiling as she walks. For a second, Alessia envies her ability to be so, 'present'. Then, suddenly, Isabella turns and faces her with the kind of gentle ferocity that always leaves Alessia off-balance.
Then, quietly, Isabella says, "I know you've been sleeping in the armory, Alessia. I know you haven't left that place for months now." Her gaze is soft, but insistent.
Alessia's facade cracks, a fissure of alarm running through her posture. "So?"
Isabella doesn't let up. "I know about the weapon you've been designing, The one that's supposed to give your team the edge — so Alpha can keep fighting on its own terms. So you never have to depend on the knights for anything." She glances at Marigold, then back to Alessia. "But I'm worried you're running yourself into the ground."
Alessia's shoulders stiffen. "Someone has to. If we're not good enough—if we can't keep up—then we become useless."
Isabella reaches across, sets a hand gently over Alessia's fist. "You're more than good enough. You always were."
There is a silence, deep enough to drown in.
Isabella's voice is a whisper, but it shakes the air: "I admire you, Alessia. No one else would keep going, not after everything. But you don't have to do it alone."
A shimmer of light glints on Isabella's cheek. Marigold realizes, with the slow certainty of sunrise, that she is crying.
Alessia does not know what to do with the tenderness. She tries to armor herself with sarcasm, but the words stick. Instead, she stares at Isabella, eyes wide, as if hoping for rescue.
Alessia blinks, stunned. Then, abruptly, she pulls Isabella into a tight, unyielding hug. For a long moment, neither moves. Alessia's shoulders finally come undone. Something in her — the only friend she has left in this whole grey, exhausted place, the only person who's ever offered her warmth without asking anything back. Alessia thinks maybe, just maybe It's alright to be vulnerable, 'Just for this moment'.
Isabella breathes out, a sound that is almost laughter, and says, "You're crushing me."
"Shut up," Alessia mutters, but her grip loosens, and she pinches both of Isabella's cheeks in a move so swift it's almost a reflex. "Don't ever make me soft again."
Isabella giggles, batting the hands away. "I'll try."
Marigold watches, uncertain if he should intervene. In the end, he simply stands, letting the sunlight pour over him.
Alessia, noticing, gestures at him. "Next time you want to spring a therapy session, Izzy, remember we have a guest."
Isabella flushes. "Sorry, Marigold. I didn't mean to— Um—"
He bows slightly. "You don't need to apologize. I have never seen anyone so brave."
Isabella stares, then breaks into a smile so radiant it could melt steel. "Thank you, Marigold."
As they approach the café, a bright box perched on the edge of the world, Marigold lets his thoughts drift. The words about Alessia's weapon project stay with him. A new weapon that can give her team a chance to fight.
"What a curious thing fate has placed before us," the old king mused. "Two saplings growing from different soils, weathered by different storms, yet reaching toward the same sun. I wonder what tempests shaped them, and what blossoms they might yet yield."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Marigold asks Gilgamesh.
"Well eventually you will understand, but I think you have mush more important question about the Weapon that just mentioned by the lady."
"Interesting, Gilgamesh muses, unbidden. A weapon that could keep an entire team fighting without a knight's help. Fascinating, isn't it?"
"Could that be why we're stationed here?" Marigold asks silently.
"Could be. There's little else worth taking from this place — besides that lantern, of course."
"And the weapon — could you help with it?"
"Ehh. Where'd you get an idea like that?"
"Aren't you the master of weapons?"
A sound like slow clapping. "Good. A-plus for history — my history, anyway." A pause.
"We'd need to actually look at it before I can help with anything."
"Fair enough," Marigold concedes.
"Why the sudden interest, though?" asked the old king.
Marigold has no answer ready. He searches his thoughts and comes up empty; searches somewhere lower, quieter, and finds only the echo of Isabella's words — how Alessia gives everything, sacrifices everything, for the people around her. Maybe, he thinks, that's a thing they share. The will to keep fighting, even when it costs you pieces of yourself.
"...I don't know," he admits, finally.
Gilgamesh's laugh is soft, knowing. "'You don't know?'. I see." A beat.
"A reminder, for future reference — being my chosen means I can see into your memories. Into the things you keep folded away in your heart. Call it my newest superpower."
Marigold's expression tightens.
"Your private matters are your own, of course. Mostly." Another chuckle, "Still. I think it's rather noble of you."
Marigold only sighs — not quite annoyed, not quite at peace, somewhere honest in between.
They finally arrive at the entrance to Café Soleil is more a portal than a doorway—a riot of marigolds and paper lanterns, each emitting a faint but constant glow. Inside, the air is a contest between the scent of fresh bread, brewed coffee, and the tang of salt carried up from the Atlantic just beyond the terrace.
"We are here! Welcome to the best café in the HQ—Café Soleil!" Isabella proclaims, stepping with theatrical flourish onto a tiled entryway decorated in hand-painted suns. She pirouettes, grinning, and gestures for Marigold and Alessia to follow.
Alessia hovers at the threshold, eyes narrowed in calculation. "I've never seen this place before. Is it… new?"
Isabella's eyes crinkle. "Well, maybe if you took a break once in a while, you'd know about it. It's only been the talk of Soleil for, I dunno, six months."
Alessia opens her mouth to retort, but finds herself at a loss. Instead, she settles for a pout, folding her arms. "Fine. Consider me shamed."
Marigold, bemused, studies the scene. The café is split in two—indoors, a hushed alcove with velvet benches and soft jazz played by some old-world speaker; outside, a scattering of mosaic tables overlooking the cliff, the sea's blue so bright it almost hurts to look at. Plants—some real, some plastic, some cunningly hybrid—crawl up every available surface.
Isabella chooses a table at the cusp of indoors and out. Alessia follows, still feigning annoyance, but lets herself be guided. Marigold sits, his golden armor catching the fractured sunlight and reflecting it onto the tabletop in wild, shifting shapes.
Moments later, a bell above the door rings, and from the kitchen emerges a woman in her thirties, café apron tied over a shirt printed with old French cartoons. She has a waterfall of black hair and a pair of ruby earrings that swing with each step.
"Oh my—if it isn't Isabella!" the woman crows, arms outstretched. She makes for Isabella, who rises instantly to accept the embrace.
"Leia!" Isabella laughs, and is immediately lost in a bear hug.
Alessia, less eager for contact, sidesteps the woman's advance, but Leia catches her in a half-hug regardless.
"You must be the famous Iron Maiden," Leia says, stepping back to give Alessia a once-over. She turns to Isabella, eyes twinkling. "Are you sure this is the Iron Maiden? She certainly looks like a maiden, but hardly the iron sort."
Alessia's eyebrow twitches, but she manages to keep her composure. "Maybe I'm just well-dressed," she deadpans.
Leia grins, wagging a finger at Isabella. "Told you so. All these scary stories, and it turns out she's just a marshmallow inside." She turns, noticing Marigold at the table for the first time. "And who is this vision in gold?"
Isabella, cheeks pink, makes the introductions. "This is Sir Marigold—yes, One of the knight."
Leia bows, dramatically. "Welcome, Sir Marigold. May the coffee live up to your legend."
Alessia, relieved to redirect attention, clears her throat. "We're not here to disrupt your day, Ma'am."
Leia waves a hand. "Nonsense! Whoever friends with Isabella are the friend of mine. Sit, sit! I'll bring out the house special." She disappears into the back with a flourish.
Marigold, who has observed the whole scene in silence, tilts his head toward Isabella. "She is… energetic."
Isabella's eyes are soft. "She's the best. She basically runs this place by herself."
The doorbell chimes again, and three figures emerge from the kitchen: two women—one tall, one round—and a man whose hair is so blonde it's nearly white. The women see Alessia and, with a shriek, sprint to her.
"Captain!" they cry, and pile into her with such force that her composure dissolves. Alessia, ambushed by the warmth, blinks, then surrenders to the embrace.
"Mia? Olive?" she manages, her voice trembling.
The blonde man hangs back, hands in pockets, but his eyes are bright. "Hey, Captain," he says, voice quiet.
Alessia's jaw drops. "Mark? How—why—"
"Thanks to your little fairy over there," Mark says, nodding toward Isabella.
Alessia leans in, voice barely above a whisper. "I thought — after the last mission, when you couldn't fight anymore — I thought you'd all just... gone."
"We did, for a while." Mia's smile turns rueful. "Avoided the field however we could. Some of us had people to come home to. Some of us—" Olive picks up where she trails off, "—didn't."
Isabella's expression softens. "Leia took them in. She lost her husband early in the Emergence, so she started this place as a tribute. Said she'd give anyone a job who wanted it. Now the whole café is run by people who lost too much, but wanted to start again."
Alessia processes this, her posture slowly unwinding. "I didn't know."
Mia, squeezes Alessia's shoulder. "We missed you, Captain."
Alessia can't manage another word. She pulls Mia and Olive both back into her arms instead, and over their shoulders, tells Isabella, quiet and shaking, "Thank you, Izzy. This means everything."
Isabella smiles. "Anytime, Captain."
For a while, time itself seems to slow. The café, the sunlight, the stories—it all spins around the table, a little universe carved out of the world's ruin.
Marigold, for the first time since his awakening, feels not like an outsider, but a part of something delicate and real. He looks at Alessia, at Isabella, at the wild mess of friends and found family, and wonders what it would mean to protect not just their lives, but the very fabric of joy that connects them.
He sits a little straighter, lets the sun warm his back, and listens to the laughter.
He thinks, maybe, he could get used to this.
🏵️🪻🌹
While Alessia and Isabella are swept up in their reunion, Marigold lingers near the café's door, half in shadow. He's content to watch the laughter and the easy spill of stories, to witness the way pain and happiness can coexist in the same space. The warmth of the moment is powerful—it almost blinds him, outshining even his armor.
He remembers, suddenly, the day he took the Knight's Oath. The pain, the light, the voice of Gilgamesh offering him a choice: to become the shield, the sword, the one who would carry the world's hope on his back. He remembers saying yes—not because he was brave, but because he could not bear the thought of failing those smiles.
Then a voice echoes in his ears, familiar but layered with others, as if a hundred voices are speaking all at once. He hears them not as words, but as a compulsion, a beckoning: Over here… to the light.
He excuses himself, barely noticed amid the swirl of old friends. He steps out into the plaza, drawn across the cobblestones to the lantern on its iron pole.
"What was that", he wonders. "The lantern?"
Gilgamesh's voice, cautioning. "Careful, this time. That fire isn't ordinary — you already know that. Remember what Hideyoshi taught you: everything around you carries a voice, if you're willing to listen for it. Like a poet's last verse, left behind in the world."
Marigold nods and lets himself go still. The noise of the city fades around him until there's nothing but the fire, and the air grows heavy — with sacrifice, with loss, with something close to death itself.
The world falls away. When he opens his eyes again, he isn't standing in the City of Soleil anymore.
He sees Hideyoshi — but not the Hideyoshi he knows. Younger. Different armour, a different bearing, though the calm at his centre is unmistakably the same.
"Commander Hideyoshi. Everything's in position." The voice comes from just behind him. Hideyoshi nods once in return.
"This must be his first year as a knight", Marigold thinks. Then who— He turns his attention to the man beside Hideyoshi — forties, sharp-eyed, a gaze that seems to cut through whatever it lands on.
"Those eyes. That's—Alessia's father!"
The vision shifts before he can hold onto it. Cecill and Hideyoshi now, standing over a sea of refugees, both men's faces carved from the same grief.
They look like they've already lost, Marigold thinks. The voices answer him, overlapping again: "Yes. So many losses. So many deaths." The vision shifts again — Hideyoshi, walking toward the refugees, offering his hand, and his word.
"I swear to end this apocalypse, by whatever means it takes," Hideyoshi says, and his voice carries, even here, even now, across whatever distance separates the vision from the moment Marigold is standing in. "I will not rest until this world knows peace again. That is my purpose. My goal. I will become the hero all of you need — the house that shelters you from the calamity outside. My armour will carry every prayer you have left. That is my promise."
He lifts the lantern high, calling the fire into it with a flick of his power, and holds it above his head so everyone gathered can see its warmth.
"This flame isn't just a symbol," Hideyoshi says. "It's a promise. My promise, to all of you."
Lord Hideyoshi, Marigold thinks. Then, to the voices: So you're—
"We are his promise," they answer. "His hopes. The prayers of everyone who stood in front of him that day."
"Why show this to me?"
"Because you carry his scent," the voices say. "You carry his promise, too."
"...I understand", Marigold thinks.
The vision dissolves like smoke caught in wind.
The plaza is empty, the night wind sharp. Marigold opens his eyes and finds himself in a starring contest with the lantern.
A touch on his arm brings him back. It's Isabella, concerned. "Are you okay? You disappeared for a second there."
Marigold straightens. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wander." His eyes are still fixed on the lantern.
Isabella follows his gaze. "You really do like that lantern, huh."
"I suppose I do." He reaches toward it, slow, unthinking. "Its flame reminds me of something. Something important."
Before she can ask what, the fire flares — brighter, sudden, its colour bleeding from fiery orange into something closer to gold.
Isabella gasps. So do the handful of others nearby who happen to be watching.
Marigold lowers his hand and presses it instead against his own chest, over the place where a heart would be if he weren't wearing several inches of enchanted steel.
"Master," he murmurs, too quiet for anyone but himself to hear — though Isabella catches it anyway. "I'll carry this promise too. The one you made."
She doesn't understand all of it. But she understands enough — that whatever this lantern is, it carries something the knights made a long time ago, something that isn't finished yet. She keeps the thought to herself, tucked away for later.
Would you look at that," Leia says from a distance, watching the flame settle. "Even his armour looks like it's glowing under that light."
"So that's him," Mark says to Alessia. "The one you and Izzy keep talking about."
Alessia only nods.
"We should head back," Isabella says. "It's getting late."
They return to the cafe, where the evening folds itself around laughter — Leia, Mark, Mia, Olive, Isabella, Alessia, all of them trading stories over cooling tea. Marigold sits a little apart, content with his own bread and his own quiet, the way he's always been most comfortable. He used to disappear into rooms like this one without anyone noticing at all — a background character in his own life, more or less. It's strange, now, to be the thing every eye in the room keeps drifting toward instead.
When the sky finally darkens and the stars come out, Isabella rises, stretches, and says, "Well, that's the end of the tour. Back to reality, I suppose."
Isabella sidles up to Marigold. She is beaming, eyes sparkling with the reflected light from the lantern outside. "It's getting late. We should probably start back before the gates close for the night. Wouldn't want the legend of Soleil to end up locked out on his first day, right?"
Marigold stands, pushing the chair back with an elegance born of armor and habit. "Thank you for guiding me," he says, voice as warm as the fire in the lantern. He nods toward the busy counter. "And thank you, madam Leia, for the food and drink."
Leia, ever the opportunist, dashes out from behind the counter and grabs Marigold's hand with both of hers, "Call me Leia, darling." Leia pretends to swoon, waving away the formality,"And please—visit again. Any knight who brings my girls together gets lifetime coffee, on the house." She punctuates this with a wink so theatrical it momentarily stuns both Isabella and Alessia into silence.
Mark, Mia, and Olive notice this and descend on Leia before she can do any more damage, hauling her back toward the cafe. "Sorry about her," Mark says over his shoulder. "She's like this sometimes."
"You're all so mean to me—" Leia protests, still trying to twist free.
"We've got closing to do," Olive says.
"Call me!" Leia manages, right before the kitchen door swallows the rest of her sentence.
Alessia, unable to take any more, makes a show of rolling her eyes. "Come on, let's get out of here before she proposes marriage."
The three leave the café, walking slowly down the quiet streets of Soleil. The lantern burns behind them, its light a steady, golden beacon in the dusk.
At the edge of the city, Marigold pauses, looking back. "It's a shame," he says, "I wish I could have learned more."
Isabella, a little out of breath from laughter, says, "We can always do another tour. Maybe even throw in a history lesson next time."
He shakes his head, faint amusement in his voice. "Not the HQ. Not the buildings." A pause. "Its heart, I mean. The people, like Leia. Mark, and the others." Another pause, quieter still. "As well the two of you."
Isabella goes red instantly, mouth opening and closing without producing anything close to a sentence. "Y-yes— I mean— uh—"
Alessia turns her face pointedly away, refusing to meet his eyes at all. After a short pause of silent, she speaks "I think you know enough about this place already," flatter than she means it to sound. "You shouldn't get too attached to it."
Marigold doesn't answer. Neither does Isabella.
"We should go, Izzy. Reports won't write themselves." Alessia's gaze stays fixed somewhere over his shoulder. "You already know your way to your quarters, Sir Marigold. That's all for today."
He exhales, something quiet and resigned, and nods. "Very well. Then — until tomorrow."
Alessia doesn't look back as she walks off. Isabella lingers half a second longer, offering him a wide, easy smile and a wave. "Goodbye!" Then she's hurrying after Alessia, footsteps fading into the dark.
Alone again, Marigold turns toward his quarters, only his own thoughts for company — and the old, familiar shape of solitude settling back over him, the one thing about this day that still feels entirely his.
Behind him, a few paces ahead of her own reflection, Alessia keeps her eyes fixed resolutely forward, refusing to let herself glance back even once. Not because she doesn't want to. Because some part of her — the part still built entirely out of discipline and distance — is afraid of what she might betray if she does.
Back inside the HQ, Alessia and Isabella are silent as they make their way to the command offices. After a block, Isabella risks a glance at Alessia, whose cheeks are still red.
"You okay, Ale?"
Alessia, eyes forward, answers after a beat. "He's not what I expected, that's all."
Isabella laughs softly. "No, he really isn't."
They walk a little more. Then Alessia, just above a whisper: "Izzy… thanks. For today."
Isabella's smile is real, and warm, and carries all the promise of tomorrow.
The city is dark now, but Soleil's light is not so easily extinguished.