Mal de Mer

by Lullabyes

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise. War was simpler business... Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series. SilcoxMel

7. Breakage

You've got the butterflies all tied up
Don't make me chase you
Even doves have pride

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

---

The SS Woe Betide sails with the evening tides, bound for home.

The wind, a balmy sirocco, lifts the sails. Stars dance on their reflections in the water. The air is a blend of salt and spice. In the distance, the village fades into a collection of fractaling colors. The harbor, a web of docks and masts, disappears in a froth of white lace.

Mel, perched by the porthole window, watches the shores recede.

Soon, it will all be a memory. Just one of dozens. They'll linger in the spaces between her days, and her nights. Happiness, condensed to a single moment.

Turning her ring around on her finger, Mel touches it to her lips.

Happiness, Ambessa always said, is the first step in the long journey down. A full heart, and the fire in your belly goes out

Better to stay hungry.

A hungry wolf, Mel knows, never sleeps. It watches, and waits, and never misses the signs. A hungry shark is the same. It never stops prowling. Not until it finds the next meal. The next kill. Not until it's the only thing with teeth left alive in the sea.

The rest: a frenzy of red.

That is how Ambessa survives.

And Silco.

Twisting the ring around her finger, Mel thinks: And me?

Is my belly full?

Is my soul satisfied?

Or will I always hunger, just like the two of them?

Her belongings have been unpacked from their trunks. In her armoire, a row of brand-new dresses hang: all airy cotton and mulberry silk. At her escritoire, stacks of documents await her perusal. In Silco's berth, his bags have already been neatly stowed away. Presently, he's at the wheelhouse to confer with the captain.

They'll make landfall at the Hexgates in a week. A brief layover in Piltover, where she and Silco will disembark arm-in-arm to the dazzle of shutterbugs. She will play her part. The radiant bride: her smile rehearsed to a sparkle. He will play his part. The indulgent groom: with the world on his arm, and progress on his string.

Together, they will navigate the volley of interviews—some curious, others downright invasive. They will pose for the photo-op, her hand nestled demurely in the crook of his arm. He will hold the door open for their limousine, and guide her through with a touch at the small of her back. Before the door swings shut, the press will be treated to a final glimpse of her palm, resting on his thigh.

The shutterbugs will scramble to capture the gleam in her eyes: adoration and triumph. And his: desire and conquest.

The next morning, the 'stolen' snap will be the talk of the town. Every paper, from the top-shelf gazettes to the sleaziest gossip rags, will speculate on the marital temperature. Experts in body-language will proffer their ten cents worth. Fashionistas will debate on whether her dress, or his pocket-square, imparted a sartorial message. Political pundits will weigh in on whether there's an heir on the way, and whether the child will be a private citizen of both worlds, or the custodian of two fractured nations.

And when they arrive in Zaun, the show will continue. No press. But the rumors will swirl like currents. At the Promenade, the venue for their welcome banquet will be ready. Silco has already imparted strict instructions for everything to walk the line between elegance and extravagance. Enough to flaunt full coffers and generous goodwill, but also a signal to Zaun's scheming elites that the Eye is ready to resume his place at the city's shadowy nexus.

By the night's end, he'll have laid the groundwork for the real business. His chessboard will be reconfigured: brand-new bargains struck, old threats neutralized, and a dozen inevitable countermoves anticipated.

A shark, Mel thinks, never stops moving.

Not unless it's dead.

She rests her forehead against the porthole. Outside, the island is a distant silhouette. Inevitability looms. Their return, and their duties. Every step, carefully calibrated. Every move, meticulously plotted.

And where, in all this, will there be time for them?

Mel shuts her eyes. With every knot, she feels the sea between reality and dream deepening. With every minute, a part of her resists the homeward pull. The languor of the past few days, in contrast to the frenetic pace of the past sixteen years, has loosened the taut wires that have kept her upright and unerringly focused. There, beneath the swaying palm trees, and the sun, and the stars, a different life unfurled. A simpler life, sweetened by the waft of violets and the whisper of the wind through the coconut fronds. A life in which, for a little while, she could imagine a world beyond her station, or her duty, or the legacy of a mother she can never please.

A world where, for a little while, she could be Mel.

It's a dangerous seduction. The craving, not for a different ending, but a new beginning. A dream that's tantamount, in its own way, to surrender.

And yet, surrender is what Mel has done.

Day by day, she's let go of reticences she'd not even known she still cherished. Hour by hour, she's laid down her defenses until they've scattered like pearls from a snapped necklace. Minute by minute, she's yielded to a man who's stripped her bare, and then filled her up—again, and again—until every cell in her body sings an exultant hymn, and her heart soars beyond its limits.

Until her mind, terrified, forgets to keep score.

She remembers how it felt to wake up nestled against him, and fall asleep with his arms around her. Thinks of how the days began the same way the nights ended: with the shape of his mouth on hers, and the heft of his cock inside her, and her name a ragged litany on his lips. A man who'd split a city down to its center—undone by her softest touch.

By the release only she could give.

To be the architect of a man's undoing: it's a heady thing, but hardly a novelty. With Silco, it's different. She's had a month to learn the contours of his desire. His habits, his hungers. Now she wants to delve deeper. To go beyond what he's willing to show, and learn what he holds close.

Everything that is concealed beneath the wave—waiting for her to dive down.

Mel drifts. The ship rocks. Waves slap the hull. For a moment she's transported back in time. Another voyage—her first, to the glittering shores of Piltover.

The ship had rocked the same. The waves slapped the same. And the sky was the same endless vault of stars.

She'd stood at the prow, watching the island recede, and tried not to weep. She was a Medarda—exiled or not—and a Medarda never showed tears. Never betrayed the smallest sliver of a doubt.

Never looked back.

Gathering herself, Mel rises. Tries not to feel the tug of the island, or the weight of legacy.

The evening's slipping by. She must ready herself for dinner.

Her dress is already laid out on the bed: bias-cut silk, with a pearlescent shimmer of gold-green. She's chosen it as a subtle tribute to Zaun and Piltover's official colors. It is her last chance to make a statement amongst these snobs, and she intends to do so.

The difference: now there are no more aspersions cast on Zaun's name. No sneers, at Silco's expense. Every passenger aboard the vessel has taken the measure of her marriage. And, in the span of a month, found it unyielding.

A promise of the shifting tides.

In the bath, Mel indulges in a fragrant soak: essence of neroli, and a few drops of Silco's bergamot cologne. She's grown fond of the scent, with its secretive undertones of musk. It suits him, and she's worn it, too, like a second skin, throughout their honeymoon.

Reclining against the smooth enamel, Mel lathers her curls. The ends are frizzing. Too much sea air. It's a nuisance, but she savors the task. Same way she savors the aftermath of the morning's lovemaking across her body: a treasure trove of pretty hues. A reddish stain, at the crook of her neck. Another, on the underside of her breast. The blue-stained imprint of his fingers on her hips, and another purpling her inner-thigh.

Every blotch is a banner: Mine, mine, mine.

The deadliest enemy, Ambessa always warned, spreads his poison insidiously.

Mel, fingertips tracing the marks, thinks: Perhaps, Mother.

Or perhaps, the only poison is yours.

Again, her eyes slip shut. The ship's rocking is hypnotic. She must take care not to fall asleep. Last night, she'd dreamt she was submerged in a tub like this, overflowing with warm water. Then, in a blink, she'd been up to her neck in blood, thick and clotted as tar. When she'd screamed, the blood had gurgled down her throat.

It had tasted, she remembers, like the sea.

Nerves, Silco had soothed, when she'd woken him with a thrashing cry. So many changes.

Especially since—

A cry skitters into Mel's ears.

Her eyes fly open.

The bathroom is empty. Nothing but the faint creak of the ship's timbers. Yet the call was clear in the steamy acoustics.

High and wavering, like a newborn's.

Except there are no children on board. Just a retinue of crewmembers, and two dozen passengers, and she, and Silco. And yet the baby's cry is rising. A soft, keening note—lost and alone. A pitch that makes her want to search, and search, and search, until she can find it, and cradle it close.

The cry stops.

The water, sloshing gently, is the only sound.

Maybe, a small voice whispers, it's a ghost.

The hairs on Mel's nape rise. Goosebumps rash her skin. Rising, she drags on her robe, knotting the sash tight. Then she pads, barefoot, into the stateroom.

All is still. Through the porthole, the inky curve of the starred night is a brilliant backdrop. Not a soul in sight.

Sealegs, Mel reminds herself.

The voyage is at an end. That is the crux of her restlessness. Too many days of swimming and sun and sex, with no duty except to herself and her pleasures. Now her mind is conjuring up plaintive phantoms.

In the kitchenette, Mel makes herself a cup of tea. Silco has taught her a clever trick for naturally sweetening the brew: a twist of cinnamon. The taste is unusual, but she's developed a fondess. He takes it that way, she knows, because in the Fissures, sugar was once a precious commodity. One more detail, amongst the thousand gleaned, that's shaped her understanding of the man, and what he did, and why he did it.

A reminder, too, of her own role.

Be the bridge, and pave the way for a better future.

Slipping the gathered silk of the gown over her head, Mel enjoys the sensation of it coursing down her bare skin. The lines hold a tantalizing elegance: a slim-cut sheath that skims her curves, and a hem that kisses her ankles. Before the mirror, she does a slow swivel. She's put on a few pounds. Her curves are less the ideal, and more a woman of flesh and blood. On her breasts and belly, all the changes, within and without, are delineating themselves.

Soon, all of Piltover will be a-buzz with the evidence.

Guilty, Mel thinks, as charged.

Gently, she traces the curve of her belly. Not a maternal bone in her body, and yet she's stirred by the improbability residing there. A little girl, belonging to both Zaun and Piltover—and yet beholden to neither. Who'll carry the best of both worlds, and so much more.

An ambassador, before her birth.

Silco, ever the pragmatist, is already focused on the day-to-day minutiae. No child of his will be born with a single disadvantage: not when the odds are stacked against them from the cradle. He's conceded, grudgingly, that it's safer from a sanitation standpoint for Mel to deliver Topside. But after the first month, he insists, Mel will make the journey to Zaun—and stay for the duration of the year. Already, a full-scale residence is under construction at the Promenade. Privacy and location are key: the house is to be tucked away from the city's main arteries, in a secluded cul-de-sac, where sunlight is plentiful, and safety is airtight. A team of vetted professionals have already begun designing and installing the necessary amenities: a state-of-the-art nursery, an expansive playroom, and a private medical suite for Mel's prenatal and postnatal care. Then there's the matter of security. He is the Eye of Zaun: any child of his will be born into a climate of prestige and peril. No less than two dozen guards will be stationed around the clock. They will rotate in twelve-hour shifts, and be accompanied by four fully-trained nurses. In the event of a breach, a private, underground passageway has already been excavated for an emergency escape. It leads to a secret chamber, equipped with provisions, and a direct line to the Hex-Gates, should an evacuation prove necessary.

It's a grim list, and not the sort that a woman in her condition should hear. And yet Mel can't help being reassured that he's taking such scrupulous care. They are, neither of them, naive. Between the tangled skein of her family's brutal history, and the bloodied threads of his, any child of theirs is a vulnerability. Especially one born to a world that's only beginning to reconcile to a brand-new shape.

The shared legacy will be a burden, no matter how sweet the doting, and how bright the light.

But, as Silco is adamant, the child will not shoulder the burden alone.

Remember, he'd written to her, the day before the wedding, in a game of simple arithmetic, children have triumphed under slimmer odds than ours.

And I, for one, cannot wait to see what our little unknown quantity is made of.

The memory steadies her. A man who keeps the faith. Who's shown, through word and deed, how far he's willing to go. He's the other half of the equation, and, if she plays her part, and he his, the life sleeping beneath the silk will have a future. A bright one, untrammeled by the past. No bondage. No bloodshed.

Only the open road, and a clean slate.

The clock on the mantelpiece shows a half-hour till seven. Mel has enough time to set her correspondence in order. Soon, she will be back at the Council's helm—and they'll be looking to her for guidance. No time, then, for indulgences.

And no time, either, for regrets.

At the escritoire, Mel sifts through the missives. There is a sizable stack. The Iron Pearl, and the riches it portends, has begun reaching the ears of every powerbroker in Piltover—and beyond. Already, they are lining up, and jockeying for their cut.

Dearest Mel, writes a duchess of the Demacian Buvelle clan, her penmanship positively dripping with honey. I hope your honeymoon has been a delightful affair, and that I will soon have the honor of seeing you and your esteemed husband in person. My cousin, the Honorable Phillipe Buvelle, will be hosting a gala at Piltover's Grand Theater, at the eve of the Solstice. It is our hope that you both will honor us with your presence. A number of the Lightshield clan will also be in attendance. The Crown Prince is keen on brokering a trade deal with Zaun's burgeoning chem-tech enterprises.

The future is bright, and I have every confidence that you will play a part in shaping it. Meanwhile, I pray to the Light, and the Lady, and the Blessed Lovers, that you find contentment in your union.

My cordial regards,

Lady Katarina Buvelle.

Mel smiles at the addendum: The Prince is especially keen to procure his own stash of medicinal Shimmer. Word of its ...effects… in the bedchamber is renowned. If, perhaps, your husband can impart some guidance, then I will ensure that a token of his gratitude finds its way to both of you.

The royal coffers, as you know, are generous.

The next correspondence, from Nerimazeth Tradesman's Guild, is more succinct:

Councilor Medarda,

News of Zaun's Iron Pearl has reached our shores, and our coin-purses, and both are ringing like a bell. Our Guildmaster would very much like to meet with you and your husband. I have been authorized to play the guild's emissary, and will soon be arriving with my delegation by next month. Shurima has long enjoyed fruitful ties with Piltover. Meanwhile, Zaun holds an esteemed place in our history, through the remnants of the old vassals of Oshra Va'Zaun. I have no doubt that the closeness can be revisited.

May the Sun shine bright on all three of our cities, and bless the union that has brought them together.

Awaiting your reply, and safe travels,

Yasmin Tariq

The following missives are of similar import: from the Freljords, and the Shadow Isles, and Bandle City.

With a cool eye, Mel sorts them into three neat stacks. The first: invitations. The second: requests. And the third: entreaties. Already, her mind is sketching out the finer points of each trade arrangement: tithes levied, markets expanded, alliances cemented. Once home, she will instruct Elora to begin drafting a proposal to the Council.

They will be wary, at first. They are sticklers for tradition, and the shifting currents of political alliances would daunt even the most daring entrepreneur. But the benefits of a wider market, and revenue from the Iron Pearl, will persuade them to the merits of her proposal. A few well-chosen backroom deals, and a judicious reminder of past favors done, will sweeten the pot.

Soon, Zaun and Piltover will be the closest they've yet been. And Valoran, in turn, will reap the rewards.

Setting her chin on her fist, Mel contemplates the path ahead.

The next few months will be crucial. Once the Iron Pearl's in full swing, and the profits begin trickling steadily into Piltover's coffers, her duty will be to ensure the Council doesn't spend them like water. A prudent hand, and a watchful eye, will make the difference.

Meanwhile, the media coverage of Zaun and Piltover's trade pact will be a litmus test. Its shifting shades will reflect how her marriage is holding up in the public eye. With the rosy glow of the honeymoon gone, and the realities of day-to-day business setting in, there must be no room for cracks to show.

Soon, Mel thinks.

Soon, I'll give them something to talk about.

The thought stirs a secret smile.

The last few letters are perfunctory: felicitations, fawning, the occasional flirtatious overture. She'll parse them out later. From Elora, there's a cursory account of Council proceedings: a debate on a tax reform, a trade dispute with Bilgewater, and the latest census data. In closing, she's penned: We'll all be relieved to have you back. I hope you had a restful break. He misses you—even if he won't say so.

The He in question has mustered the courage to send his own message: a brief telegram that somehow manages to be both solemn and fumblingly boyish: Mel. Hoping all's well. Drop me a line. Then, as if blurted despite his good sense: I hope, for his sake, he's treating you well.

Mel's smile softens.

Jayce, for all his foibles, always means well. His antipathy toward Silco is as much a matter of principle as it is personal. He'll need to see, with his own eyes, that the man she's has chosen is worthy. That there is more to him than the sum of his sins.

And Mel, in turn, will have to trust it.

Her eyes fall on the final letter.

It is a trifolded rectangle of cream parchment. Unmarked except for a golden sigil. Mel's fingers linger over the wax seal. The same color as the ruby on Silco's wedding band. As the blood smearing a soldier's scimitar. As a heart, split in two.

House Medarda.

Mel takes a steadying breath. Ambessa, no doubt, will want an account of the month's proceedings. A progress report, as it were, of Mel's marriage. Ambessa knows the shape of Silco's ambition. Once she catches wind of the Iron Pearl's ripening fruits, she'll be eager to get her hands on the harvest. A share, and more, will be demanded—be it through sly cajolery, or the cold kiss of steel.

And Mel will be expected to facilitate her mother's designs.

First a spare. Then a castaway. Now a lynchpin.

Mel would relish the irony, if it weren't so painful.

Bracing herself, Mel slits the seal. The missive unfurls: a rich scroll of vellum. The handwriting is bold and precise as a sword cut. Ambessa's wit, when she cares to wield it, is a weapon honed to draw blood.

Predictably, there is no preamble.

Mel—

No word since you departed the Wuju isles. However, my intelligence has been more forthcoming. The seaside's made quite the urchin of you, I'm told. Barefoot, with your hair all wild, and a smile that would shame the moon.

Heed my advice: don't get too comfortable.

You are not a child making sandcastles at the shore. You are a Medarda, and Medardas don't play in the dirt. We live, and rule, and conquer from the heights.

Heed this, too: a woman who strays too far from the shores, soon finds herself with no place to go.

And no name to call her own.

Speaking of no-names: your husband's kept you busy. Word is, the two of you barely set foot outside your bower. I'll not begrudge you the pleasures of the nuptial bed—even if they are with Trencher scum. But keep your wits about you. If a fine prick is all it takes to distract you, you're better off staying on that godforsaken rock, and letting the rest of us handle the real work.

A muscle feathers in Mel's jaw.

Ambessa always has a talent for needling at her softest parts. And reminding her, with a single penstroke, that nowhere is far enough to escape her shadow.

The rest of the missive is written in cipher. It's a ruse. There's nothing in the code for prying eyes to decrypt. Rather, the real message is in what's left out. The gaps between letters, and the spaces between the lines. Mel's mind, trained to the task, fills in the blanks. The jumble of symbols becomes a dance, and the alphabets, a story.

And, as always, there is no happy ending.

Received your message.

Nearly drowned, did you? And he—the shark—saved your life.

Beware, my girl. A shark does not trade in heroics. Only in blood. Already, he's begun to exact his price. I am told he spoke with the Wuju's villagers during your stay. Stirring them with talk of revolution. A man's entitled his opinions. But it is best to confine these to card games in the parlor.

By the by. The boy he'd enlisted—Lorin, was it?—has met a bad end. Washed up on shore, his neck broken.

Dangerous ideas are like dangerous drink. They undo the best of men.

Your husband ought to keep that in mind.

News of his Iron Pearl is making waves. Sadly, the waves are not made of gold—but Shimmer. My warmasons, stationed in Zaun, have observed shipments of a highly potent steroid—packaged as a performance enhancer. It is presently bound for Ionia, and Bilgewater, and the southernmost outposts of Shurima. No doubt he will use the Iron Pearl as a steppingstone, and Piltover's influence as the cover, to spread his filth farther than ever.

I'm sure he's promised you a pretty cut. Far wiser, I think, that you watch for a cut throat.

I will await your reply. Until then, keep that shark at bay. Even if, for the moment, he makes you feel like a girl on a swing, remember:

If you slip, the fall is a long one. And the bottom is bloody.

You've had your seaside frolics, Mel. Now's the time to come home. Home, to Noxus. Your banishment will be a thing of the past. Your inheritance, a reality. And your place, a throne.

You—and your child—will be safest here.

—Ambessa

Mel's breath lodges in her throat. Between her fingers, the paper shakes. The words, stark against the ivory, pulse and swell.

Lorin, she thinks.

The boy from the village. The one who'd wanted the chance to fight, and die, on his own terms. Had he, instead, died on Ambessa's?

Warmasons, she thinks.

Silco mentioned them weeks ago. Making overtures to the chem-barons, for a shot at the Hexgates. Were they, in fact, under her mother's employ?

Shimmer, she thinks.

Bound for Ionia, and Bilgewater and Shurima. What does it mean for the trust between her city and Silco's, and the trade deals they've brokered?

Mel's head throbs. She feels unmoored. A month of happiness, torn away in a blink. Now the stormclouds are gathering, and she is going under. All the work she'd done, the agreements she'd forged, the hopes she'd harbored—were they a mirage? Or is this another of Ambessa's games? An attempt to pit her against a man who has proved himself more than her equal?

Mel's fingers tremble. Steadying them, she folds the missive, and lays it atop her escritoire. In the mirror, she stares at herself, trying to see the serene stateswoman.

She only sees a drowning girl.

And that is the most dangerous sign of all.

A heavy hand settles on her shoulder.

"There you are."

The cabin is a pocket of shadows. Silco, within, is a blacker silhouette. She'd not heard him come in. Her eyes, rising, take in his attire: a sleek black dinner jacket, a silk brocade vest with subtle gold filigree, and a shirtfront of blood red. His cravat, pure white, is pinned with a chrysoberyl: a green-gold gemstone that matches the color of her gown.

It, too, is a tribute to Zaun and Piltover's union. And a sly taunt on their shared currency:

Progress.

"Dinner's begun," he says.

"I—I lost track of time."

"So I see." With a fingertip, he stirs the pages on her desk. "That's quite the pile. A full evening's entertainment, and then some." His thumb catches the edge of the envelope. It flickers open. Her mother's writing, stark, peeks out. "Word from the Matriarch."

"It's nothing."

"Nothing?" A single brow quirks. "From Ambessa, it's rarely nothing."

"You needn't worry. She's passing the time. There's not much distraction to be had, between war campaigns." Mel's voice is a steady alto. Not a tremor. Not a tell. "I'm sure, after a month of idleness, you can sympathize."

"Old habits die hard." He lets the paper drop. His eyes, hooded, lock on hers. "But not all."

Instinct pulses a warning in Mel's veins: Show nothing.

Not until you know the game.

She is a Medarda, and the Medardas are patient hunters. As patient as sharks. And yet, Mel, neither wolf, nor shark, finds her fingers twisting her wedding ring. A single turn, and then another. A single thought, and then another. Her mother, and Silco, and her mother again.

Would he?

Could she?

"Mel?" His palm cups her chin. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes." Mel licks her lips. The air is warm, and tastes of bergamot. "Just dizzy."

"Mal de Mer?"

"I'm fine." She summons a smile. "A little dancing will put me to rights."

His good eye, roving, narrows a fraction. Then his hand drops. His smile is inscrutable.

"Well then," he says, voice as smooth as her lie. "Shall we?"

Mel, rising, takes his arm. Together, they exit the cabin.

And, for a moment, she hears it again. The short, high-pitched cry from somewhere far away.

Rising, and falling.

---

The evening is a bright blur.

Mel plays her part. The perfect hostess, her smile as scintillating as the champagne. She makes the rounds: clinking her cut glass of pineapple juice with the guests' crystal flutes, and tickling them into peals of laughter with anecdotes from the island. She bats her lashes demurely at compliments on her gown, on her glowing complexion, on the apples in her cheeks. She playfully bats away innuendos about hers and Silco's penchant for early bedtimes and late-afternoon breakfasts, and the amorous soundtrack always emanating from their private bower.

At dinner, she holds court with practiced ease. Toasts are made: to the ship, to their cities, to the future. She samples forkfuls of every delicacy on the menu: braised squid, a medley of steamed shellfish, a silken chocolate souffle.

When the plates are cleared, the quartet strikes up a waltz. Mel joins the whirling throng on the parquet. Partnering the men, she is a light-footed sylph, all dipped lashes and choreographed grace. Partnering the women, she is a playful sprite, all warm wiles and whispered confidences.

All the while, she's aware of Silco's eye, tracking her every move.

At the tail-end of the waltz, he approaches, and taps a gentleman on the shoulder. Flustered, the poor man relinquishes Mel. Silco, claiming his bride, leads her into the next dance. They spin into a fluid glissade that, to onlookers, suggests hours of practice, but is in fact a seamless synchronicity.

His palm, between her shoulderblades, is a shorthand: Mine

No matter who she's partnered, he'll cut in, and reclaim her, and the rest of the night.

In her ear, he breathes, "Something's wrong."

Mel, careful to keep her smile fixed, says, "There isn't."

"No?"

Silco's palm, stealing to the small of her back, caresses the bare skin. The touch is a query. His perception, attuned by a lifetime of navigating treacherous waters, senses her strain.

"Your mind's elsewhere," he says. "Your eyes are glass." He spins her, then reels her close, so they're kissing-distance. His fingers thread through hers. "And here, you're not."

"A dancer is only as good as her partner."

"Is that insult, or flattery?"

"Perhaps it's a challenge."

"Am I being called to rise to the occasion?" He guides her through a faultless twirl. "Or fall short?"

"Time will tell."

"Time?" His lip quirks. "Or later tonight?"

Mel's words dry up. His smile deepens, and he leans in.

"Oh yes. Definitely later."

Mel's pulse teeters. Thrill—or dread—she cannot say.

They finish their dance. The effortless sync—a spin, a lift, a pirouette—wins a round of applause. Mel, her eyes locked on Silco's, gives nothing away. Here, they are not alone. Not a pair, married, but two statesmen, in the middle of a grand game.

Except the rules are no longer set in stone.

As Mel, on Silco's arm, returns to her table, her senses are reeling. Every step is a near stumble; every smile a near slip. But her mind, a smooth mechanism of clockwork gears, keeps to its own time.

Lorin.

Warmasons.

Shimmer.

Bit by bit, Mel pulls the scattershot details together. Silco's trade deals with all her guests—would their vessels be used as mules for transporting Shimmer? (A convenient front, with the Council's stamp of approval). The Iron Pearl as a trading nexus—is it in fact slated to be a trafficking hub? (Convenient again: I as the figurehead, and he the puppeteer.) All the words he'd spun, of unity, compromise, work—was it to stir a fire in the guests' bellies, or pull the wool over Mel's eyes? (Most convenient of all—a bride: besotted, and blind.)

And Ambessa—what has she to gain from undermining the Iron Pearl's viability? (Stymying trade routes, so Zaun's ascent cannot encroach on her influence.) Killing a village boy—what does that buy her? (Wuju remains a Noxian outpost, and its populace, her pawns.) And what, ultimately, does the missive win her? (A warning, that I've fallen prey to a man who'll poison me, and Piltover, and her potential empire.)

On and on, inexorable, Mel's mind turns. On her finger, the wedding ring twists, and twists, and twists.

Would he?

Could she?

By ten o'clock, the festivity is winding down. Music slows to a tinkling. The passengers, trailing laughter, depart in twos and threes for their berths. The consensus is exuberantly positive. Zaun and Piltover's accord, whatever its knots, promises to smooth out into a shared tapestry of progress.

Mel, too, has been congratulated and fêted. The jewel of the hour, and the future's glittering herald.

Inside, she drifts in a soulless daze.

In their stateroom, Silco dismisses the valet. His orders: see that they hold the course through the night. Mel, poised by the dresser, listens to the door shut. The echo of the lock is a gun cocked. Her pulse beats wildly against the bars of its cage.

In the mirror, her reflection is a stranger's.

Behind her, Silco is undoing his cuffs. The click-click of studs, and the whisper of fabric, is an intimate litany. At the villa, sometimes they'd share a bath together after the banquet. An iota of trust: halved and shared. She'd glimpse him at his most relaxed: nothing but the water to hide the marred surface of the man. And he, in turn, would glimpse her: a creature of bright illusions, barefaced and wholly bared.

In that space, their bodies, their minds, were an even trade.

Here, it's different.

She is the veiled one. And he, the man holding the razor.

"That," Silco says, at her back, "was a hell of a show."

Mel's voice, from far off, is steady. "It went well."

"Went well?" He tosses the cufflinks, carelessly, onto the bureau. "My dear, from you, that's downright bland."

"I'm a little tired." Her reflection forces a smile. "The dancing was—a challenge."

"Sealegs in doubt?"

"Maybe the Mal de Mer is resurfacing."

"Pity." He prowls closer, his breath stirring the fine hairs on her nape. "Here I'd hoped to rise to the occasion." He encircles her. A hand, cupping her belly, pulls her flush against him. "Unless the occasion requires falling." The tip of his tongue, languid, traces her jugular. "Is that what's got your sealegs wobbling, Mel?"

His palm, splayed over her womb, is a gentle pressure. His fingers, brushing her hair aside, are a tease. As he kisses her nape, and her shoulders, and the curve of her spine, Mel wonders if it's his last act as a husband—before he reveals the monster, locked in the dark side of his face.

A shivery ache passes through her: an echo of loss yet to come.

"Perhaps," she manages. "Both."

"Then we'd best keep you tethered." He catches the edge of her earlobe between his teeth. "How about a silk ribbon? A pretty white one around your wrists? Maybe one around your neck, too? Something to tug you closer, or hold you still, until you've made all sorts of pretty promises..."

The shivery ache becomes a a full-on tremor.

Her mind churns. One minute, a black tide. The next, a bright mirror. Ambessa's writing, stark. Lorin, his neck snapped. The Shimmer, bound for a thousand shores. Her city's future, a bloodstained question-mark.

Like her husband.

The man who'd saved her, when death was a cold, wet embrace.

The man enfolding her now. The cool length of him is a solid wall at her back. His right hand cups her chin, the left passing possessively from her breasts, to her belly, to the vee of her thighs, where the sweet familiar throb has already begun.

Her body, traitorous, wants him. Wants, in equal measure, for the island's idyll to be real.

Him, and her, and nothing in between.

A little breathless, she asks, "What kind of promises?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" His right hand curves around her throat. "Let's start with the simple ones. Are you happy, petal?"

In the mirror, her eyes cannot hold his. "I—I am."

"Look at me and say it." His palm, gentle, grips her jaw. "Are you happy?"

Mel lifts her eyes. The reflection of their paired bodies: a scarred man in dark serge, and a smooth woman in gleaming satin. One, a killer pared down by a lifetime of privation. The other, a privileged spare from a legacy of killers.

And the child, their union's byblow.

In her skull, Ambessa's words echo:

If you slip, the fall is a long one. And the bottom is bloody.

"Mel," he says. "Tell me."

"I'm—happy." Her smile trembles, but holds. "With you."

His lips find the soft spot behind her ear. She feels the edge of his teeth. An answering current tugs, sharp and sweet, between her thighs. He's learned her body, inch by inch. Learned, too, her moods and how to match them.

The men she's had before, with their panting, doglike lusts, seldom succeeded.

Ironic, that she'd found it easier to bed them. No need to give them more than her body. No risk in giving anything of herself. She'd given too much, with Jayce. And the aftermath had felled her. A week later, when the fever was gone, and the tears dried, and her sheets no longer bore his scent, she'd returned to work.

To a Council that needed her. To a city, and its future.

Now, with Silco's cool lips on her burning skin, Mel thinks: I can't bear it.

Not a second time.

Not with him.

"Silco." The word sticks in her throat. "I want—I want you."

"You have me." He turns her, a slow rotation, like the hands of a clock. Their eyes meet. "In all the ways I know."

"And the ways you don't?"

"Are we playing a game? Or making a deal?"

"No—no games." Her eyes fall shut; she burrows closer. Beneath the crisp linen of his shirtfront, his heart beats as deep as the sea. "Take me to bed."

"Mel—"

"Now."

And Silco, sensing her storm, obeys.

---

In the dark, she tries to see him, without the sea of truths and lies in the way. Tries to see the man, not the monster. Tries to keep her secret tucked close, and the doubts from the tip of her tongue, and the sea-salt from her eyes.

All the while, his hands, his mouth, his body, are a tide laying her bare.

Then he's inside her. She's crying out, her legs curled tight around his flanks, her nails gouging into his back. It's not the fierce coupling that comes after a heated quarrel. Not the wicked games, invented on the spot, that leave her wrung-out and near-witless.

This is a claiming: so entire that she knows she will not survive it.

The rabbit hole she'd slid down so effortlessly with the others is closed off completely. She is condemned to the raw totality of it. To the heat of him, and the fullness of him, and the rhythm of him.

All the while, the questions, circling, refuse to stay drowned:

Would he?

Could she?

In her blood, the cry echoes: short, high-pitched, lost.

Hear me.

In her heart, the ache rises: deep, desperate, damned.

Don't let me drown. Please.

In the dark, she tries and tries and tries—

In her ear, Silco breathes: "Mel?"

Mel's eyes fly open. He looms over her. His back, beneath her clutching palms, is a web of scars. The damp muscles coil and uncoil as he rocks. A slow glide in, a slow drag out. He's holding himself, and her, on a knife's edge. And she is slipping. Slipping.

Straight toward the fall.

"Mel." His ragged voice drags her back. "Where are you?"

"I'm here," she manages. "With you."

"You're not. You're—somewhere else." His arms slide under her shoulders, both palms seizing her skull. The angle sinks him deeper, until she's gasping, digging her heels into the small of his back. "With someone else."

"No." Her cry is strangled. "No, I swear—"

"Liar."

His face, inches from hers, is unrepentant. A single blue eye, blisteringly bright. The other: a seething hellpit. She's been caught, before, between those two extremes. In the tunnels of Zaun, a knife in his hand, bodies at his feet. The night she'd met, head-on, the monster who'd torn a city asunder. Who'd taken, by bloody reckoning, a life for a life.

He'd saved her from being gutted. Only to drag her down into the depths.

Now, his eyes vow a worse fate.

A prickling fear invades Mel's chest. In a blink, the pleasure is poison: hot, sick, surging. She senses that if he wasn't inside her right now, she'd be dead. And not a quick stabbing or a steady strangulation. Nothing so merciful. Something worse. Something that would prove how much she'd mattered.

How irrevocably she'd cut.

And yet, because he's inside her, he cannot hurt her.

Not without killing himself.

"Who," Silco grits, "are you with?" He rocks, hard, and her body shudders in answer. "Tell me."

"You. Only you."

"Only me." His hips grind, mercilessly. "So why can't I find you?"

"Silco—"

The tears, treacherous, spill. She tries to rouse him with a pitch of her hips; needing the friction, the frenzy, to cut the roiling sea in her down to size. Needing it, and needing him, and needing to get away, before the cry breaks loose and drowns her.

It's the cry of a newborn, lost and alone. It's the cry of a girl, abandoned, and at sea.

It's her cry.

The cry that she's silenced for so long, she no longer recognizes it. No longer remembers what it's like, to be seen, or heard, or known. No longer knows if she is anything at all, except a handful of bright illusions.

No longer knows what will happen, if she lets it out.

"Mel." His thumbs, callused, smooth the dampness from her cheeks. "Open your eyes."

"Please." She can't keep the quaver from her voice. "Finish."

"Open them." He stills, and the pressure, Gods, the pressure. "Look at me."

"Please I—"

"Look at me."

The command cuts like a whiplash through the dark.

Mel, with a shuddering gasp, obeys. And finds herself, seeing no monster, but a man. His unholy rage is gone. His arms are the same: not a cage, but a sanctuary.

A place where, if she's brave enough, she can lay herself bare, and belong.

"Petal," he breathes, and she knows he means to kill her, "Talk to me."

"I—"

"You're cold as ice." His forehead touches hers. "What's wrong?"

"I can't." She sucks in a breath, and it's a lungful of salt. "Please—I can't—"

"Hush. Just breathe."

His weight eases. He rolls to his back, taking her with him, so she sprawls bonelessly on top. Their bodies disconnect in transit.

The loss is gut-deep: the beginning of the end.

Still: he stays. Cradles her, murmurs to her, strokes her hair. She's never felt so small. The shame is a black hole, and her mother's silhouette, a gravitational pull.

A Medarda never cries.

A Medarda never breaks.

A Medarda never drowns.

And she, Mel, has done all three. Worse, she's letting him see her: stripped of her armor, and utterly, humiliatingly, bare. Letting him, a shark bred in the blackest, most unforgiving depths, know what she truly is: a lost girl, with no anchor. Who's spent her whole life wading through bloodshed, and pretending it's left no stains. Who's spent her whole life, scheming, striving, surviving, and come no closer to the shores.

In the dark, she waits for Silco to cast her aside.

He doesn't.

And that's when the terror hits fever-pitch.

"Don't." Mel thrashes in his arms. "Don't look."

"Sssh. Mel. It's alright—"

"Let me go."

Astonishingly, he does.

In the dark, his arms drop. They are two strangers. In between them: the cold, empty air.

Mel stumbles out of bed. Her nakedness is a raw nerve. But short of yanking the sheet from under him, and wrapping it around herself, there's no recourse.

Clumsily, she crosses to the bathroom.

His eyes, the last she sees, are a pair of crosshairs. Shockingly black, and burning.

Mel locks the door.

The cold marble leaps to meet her collapsing body. The sob, smothered in her palm, is a sound she hasn't heard since her girlhood: an ugly, guttural keening. The tears cut scalding lines down her cheeks. Her heart is a cracked thing behind her ribs.

For a time, there is only this: the cold tiles, the sting of salt, and the choked sobs.

Slowly, the world rights itself.

The first sensation is the gooseflesh enrobing her body. The second is the wet glue of her arousal between her thighs. The third is the ring on her twisting fingers. The rest, a series of small realizations, each more damning than the last.

She's lost herself in him. She'd thought her past, and her future, were two seas divided, and she, the steady bridge between. She'd thought marriage, like a treaty between nations, could be drawn up in black and white, and all the variables accounted for.

She'd not seen the depths, or the shapes within.

Shapes that, in another life, she'd dare to call love.

Mel, jerking to her feet, fills the tub with icy water. Then she slips in. First her toes, then her ankles, then her thighs. By the time she's sitting, chin-deep, the chill is a vise grip. Perversely, she welcomes it. What's a few goosebumps compared to the knife's edge she's walked half her life?

Except the knife's split into an abyss.

And her husband, a prowling shadow, is on the other side.

Again, Mel's fingers go to her wedding ring. She turns it round on her finger. Slowly, her thoughts turn, and they are, inexorably, the same.

Would he?

Could she?

And then, the epiphany, ice-cold:

If Mother could, then so would Silco.

Mel's palms slap the bath's porcelain rim. Tears threaten to rise again. She rises instead, water streaming down her body. She's had enough. Enough of her mother's games. Enough of her family's bloodshed. Enough of the long, lonely nights of her own making.

If the truth is a monster, then the monster is what she will have.

And if the monster is a replica of her past, then she will end her marriage.

Here and now.

Dragging on a robe, Mel feels for her wedding ring, and tugs it off. It's worth a fortune, not a life.

Setting it on the basin, she exits without a backward glance.

Silco isn't in bed. The sheets are rumpled. But the warmth is long faded. The stateroom is empty. From the porthole window, starlight streaks the gloom. Reflexively, Mel's eyes fall on the canvas portrait. She's hung it in a corner, wrapped in sheaves of cloth. No risk of sea-spray or smoke tarnishing it. When they return home, it will go on display in her apartments.

A sea-monster, rising. The glow in his eye, a beacon. And, embossed in silver and gold, his heart.

Hers, in her chest, wrings itself raw.

Squaring her shoulders, Mel goes to the private promenade. She will find Silco there. Standing at the railing, watching the stars. Or pacing, slowly, like a beast in a cage.

Either way, he will be waiting.

And the reckoning, like the tide, will come.

Mel unlatches the door. Crossing into the high-ceilinged space is like entering a different dimension. The cold air engulfs her. The deck is a wide crescent, overlooking the port and the starboard sides. All around, the sea is an inkblot, the stars a scattershot. The waves, rising and falling, are a dirge.

And at the far end is Silco.

He's dressed—rumpled white shirt, low-slung trousers—but his hair curls in disordered bed-tufts, and his feet are bare. His cigarette cherry glows and dies with each drag.

In the glow, his left eye is a depthless black.

Mel thinks, with a jolt, of their first fight here. The night she'd been swallowed by her own fears. Of him, and the marriage, and her mother's shadow. How she'd lost her sealegs, and fallen, and he'd taken her, not by the throat, but to bed. How, in the days after, he'd tended to her with a calm solicitude, and never once jettisoned her. How, when a week after, the tide had swallowed her for real, he'd leapt in, and dragged her back to surface.

Was that a mirage, too?

"A bit underdressed for the chill, aren't we?"

Silco's silhouette doesn't stir. But his voice drifts on the wind, dark as smoke.

Mel, shivering, crosses her arms.

"I'm sorry," she says, and it's the truth. "I—I needed a moment."

"I'd rather you'd had it in bed."

"You've been very kind."

"No, I've been very patient." He takes a drag. The cigarette cherry winks, like the eye of a fitful demon. "You're lucky I am. I can't abide drama."

Mel's throat tightens. "Can't you?"

"Not in the bedroom. Honesty, I've found, makes a damn better lubricant."

"I'm sorry." And again, she is. "I didn't mean to spoil—"

"Spoil? Nothing's spoiled. Unless you get this way with every Will, Wick, and Willy you've had between the sheets. Because if that's the case, then I'd suggest reconsidering your strategy."

The cigarette smolders, and embers scatter everywhere. She tries not to flinch. "That's unfair."

"Unfair is me going to bed with a woman who's half a mile away." He flicks ash. "Unfair is her thinking I won't notice, or that I'll roll over and start snoring." His bad eye, twinning the cherry, burns a bloody red. "And if she's not careful, unfair is going to come knocking on her door. With a crowbar in hand."

"Please. Let's just—"

"What? Go back to bed? Where you'll play pretend, as you've done for years, and I'll pretend to be none the wiser?"

"Silco, don't let's have a scene—"

"You were crying." His voice goes deadly soft. "I did not care for that. And, frankly, I'd rather not see it again."

Now she does flinch. A full-body tremor. She's never felt so bare. Her robe, a scrap of silk, might as well be spun cobweb. He can see her. All of her. The cracks she conceals from everyone. Her mother, Jayce, the Council. And the one part, the most vulnerable, that she will soon be unable to conceal from the world.

Her hand drops, instinctively, to her belly.

"I'm sorry," she repeats. "I don't... I'm not used to this."

"What, marriage?" He smiles, a little bitterly. "Don't fret. Neither am I."

"Not that." Mel gestures, between them. "This."

"This?"

"Us." She feels the dread rising, and quells it. "Letting someone—inside. Really. Inside."

"Inside," he echoes.

She watches him swallow the remainder of the words: a little ripple under the skin. The rest of him: dangerously still. And it occurs to Mel, that patient as he is, he is, and always will be, a predator. With every prevarication, he is counting to himself, and when he reaches zero, he'll turn, and show her his teeth.

His body, leashed, is a warning.

And, yet, a plea.

"I think," he says, carefully, "you're telling me that you're afraid. Is that it?"

"Yes."

It's out before she can stop it. There's no taking it back.

"You're afraid of letting me in. Meaning: you're afraid of yourself." Smoke spirals from his mouth. "You prefer taking men to bed, and not letting them see a thing beyond what you choose to show. Usually, it's a polished performance. Everything choreographed, from the first kiss to the final flutter. When the curtain falls, the men think it was all for them. Every smile, every sigh. All the while, you watch them. Learning what makes them tick. Turning each thumbscrew, until they sing your tune."

Mel's cheeks burn. "I don't—"

"Don't play coy. You've a lifetime's practice. So have I." A slow lungful. The ember glows red, catching in the gaunt topography of his features. In profile, his jaw is a blade. "The difference between us is: I'm tired of the charades. And yet, here I am, freezing my balls off. Wondering how many times I can retread the same ground. And why, time and again, it always ends in the same place."

Mel's pulse is a gallop. "What ground?"

"Oh, a veritable labyrinth. Second thoughts. Cold feet. Broken promises. The end's the same. You'll run." He taps his temple. "But first, you'll spin a story. Something to justify the grand exit. Something to keep me from tearing your city apart when I go after you. Because I will, Mel." His voice, grinding inexorably, is a warning. "Because a man doesn't become what I am by letting things go."

The words strike dead-center. Her palm splays across her womb. In the starlight, she sees him fully.

Pure hunger, in a razored ring of teeth.

"Is that what I am?" she says, low. "A thing?"

"The question isn't if you're a thing," he rejoins, equally low. "It's if I'm the thing you want to run from."

"And if I do run?"

"Don't make me answer." He exhales, and the smoke unravels. His face, in the gloom, exudes menace. And yet its lineaments are nakedly human. "Please, Mel. Just tell me. Did I do something? Hurt you? Whatever's wrong, I will undo it. But do not—do not—make me answer. Because neither of us will like what comes next."

The rawness pierces her. It's a reminder: this man, monstrous though he is, has his own share of hurts. They are etched, livid, on his skin. Now, he's braced for another. And its finality will be irreparable. She knows, because she feels the same.

Dread that the truth will be a mirror her oldest nightmares. Dread that it will crack, and the splinters will be fatal.

"You haven't hurt me," she whispers.

"No?"

"Not yet."

Silco's head cants. Silence: his only reply.

Mel cradles her elbows in her palms. Memory wells like blood in her mouth. If she opens it, everything will spill free, and she won't know how to stop. So she swallows. Tries to find her sealegs. Tries, not to be the stateswoman, or the seductress, or the savant—but the woman she's trying to become.

"I've received a letter," she says. "From—"

"From your mother." It's a flat summation. "She's the only person who can put that look on your face."

"Yes." She falters. "And no."

"No?" The last embers of his cigarette scatter, pulsing, in the wind. With an idle precision, he flicks the butt over the rail. The fiery pinwheel falls into the sea. "Why else are you eyeing me like I've a knife at your back?"

"It's hard not to, when I know how well you can hide them."

"A matter of faith, or a fact?"

"I'm a Medarda." She holds his stare. "We have a way of finding the blade between the ribs."

Now, he turns.

The starlight carves his features into white, ancient ice. She cannot read him. And, she realizes, she cannot feel him. No heat, no life, no breath. It's as though the wind has stolen everything. What's left is the monster, and nothing else.

And he is waiting.

"Mother," Mel says, "was having us watched. On the island. In the village." She inhales raggedly. "She had that boy—Lorin—murdered."

He is still. Utterly, unnervingly still. "Is that so?"

"She did it to send a message. To you, about the Iron Pearl. She knows everything—"

"Because of her warmasons. I am aware."

"What?"

Their eyes lock. His features, in the gloom, are flat, reposeful. "They made a good show of it, didn't they? Trying to throw my network off by cozying up to the chem-barons. They were a bit slow, though. By the time they'd gotten in bed with the worst of the lot, I'd already recruited the best."

"They're... in your pocket?"

"The right pittance buys the right man. And the right bribe, a better one." His lips stretch thinly over barbed teeth. "House Medarda should be careful with its mercenaries. Their loyalties are fickle as the tides."

"So you knew all along?"

"I'm the Eye of Zaun."

"And you did nothing about them." The accusation, flung, fails to hit its mark. He's too far to reach. "You let them roam, and write their reports, and pass them on. And you told me—me, your wife—nothing at all."

"What was there to say?" He tips a shoulder. "Since our wedding, Ambessa has been watching our every move. Why do you think I keep the crew in the ship on such a tight leash? So no one slips up—and no spies slip in. But everywhere else? There's very little to stop General Medarda from getting ahold of the smallest detail. Every fuck, every fight. I'd wager, while we were in Wuju, she knew the exact number of times you flung a cup at my head. And the number of times you begged me, with your pretty mouth, to finish inside you." He levels a stare so sharp it guts her. "You expected me to tell you that? To have you fret, and fear, and feel the walls closing in? I'd rather have you be, if only for a moment, free. And, Kindred's teeth, you were. On that island, you were free as a bird." His jaw grits. "I will not apologize for savoring the sight."

Shock-sweat breaks on Mel's forehead. Her breath comes on a hitched gasp.

"You knew—?"

The accusation, a second blow, lands. He does not dodge.

"If I'd told you, would you have felt it a proper honeymoon?" Off her silence: "I thought not."

"Do not turn this on me! All this time, you've been hiding the truth! The marriage, this trip, everything—it's all been a sham!"

"Not a sham. A test."

"What?"

"A test," he repeats, patiently. "Between myself, and Ambessa. One of us had to blink first. So I let the General dispatch her spies. I pretended to be none the wiser. She'd have her false-bottomed reports. I'd have my double agents. In the meantime, I'd keep her from doing any real harm. We'd have our honeymoon. We'd seal deals and set the foundation for the Iron Pearl. Then we'd go home. Back to Piltover and Zaun. Back to the real work."

The wind buffets Mel. Her mind reels.

"But Mother knows," she breathes. "She knows everything you're planning."

"Of course she does." A vein rises and falls in his temple. "Thanks to you."

"Me?"

"At the pier, you nearly drowned. That's when the game went awry. You had a fit of vulnerability. Or mortality. And so, you reached out, as a child does to a parent. You wrote her a letter. Didn't you?"

"I—"

"That's all she needed, Mel. A single loose thread. Her spies on Wuju began asking questions. How had you drowned? Where did it happen? How did you arrive there? Soon, they'd learned we did not cross over by boat. In time, they'd triangulated the rough location of the Thesaurus. Ambessa realized my plan was further along than she'd anticipated. For months, she'd been trying to take in the lay of the land. Learn where the Forbidden Idol is being housed. Now, she can swoop in." He stops. "But first, she needs her chick safely under her wing. Soon—before I sink my teeth in." Softer, "And, oh, petal. You don't know how deep my teeth they go."

Mel feels as though chunks of viscera have been torn from her belly. "I—I was your surety?"

"No. "You are Ambessa's. So long as you're at my side, she cannot touch the Iron Pearl. But the moment you're gone, it's in the palm of her hand. That's why she's written to you. It's a summons to return home, isn't it? Once you do, the bloodbath begins."

Tears burn, and Mel beats them back. "You knew all along."

"Not until tonight. Now the pieces are falling together. A letter from Ambessa, telling you what I've done. You, on the other side of the door, crying your eyes out. Me, left wondering: what the hell was in it, that's got my darling ready to jump ship. I thought it was something simple, like lover hidden in the wardrobe. But no. You've received something worse. An omen dredged from the depths."

"Are you saying she's in the right?"

"I'm saying, if a Medarda senses a threat, it's because there is one."

Mel's pulse buzzes hotly. The rest of her: a sheet of ice. "Then it's true?"

"What is?"

"The Shimmer." A sticky bitterness is gathering in her throat. "Mother says you're using the Iron Pearl to transport it as a steroid across Valoran. To Ionia, Bilgewater, and southernmost Shurima. Places where militia presence is scarce, and the locals are desperate. You'll use the Iron Pearl's cargo manifests to cover the trail. And Piltover's seal of approval, to open a thousand doors."

He says nothing. His expression is calm. But a cold, implacable current runs beneath.

"Silco?" Mel presses. "Is it true?"

"Which part?"

"All of it!"

"Yes," he says simply.

The silence echoes loud as a thunderclap. Mel's lips part. Her voice, like her body, is locked up.

"Shimmer," he says, "is a lucrative enterprise. The Pearl, and its routes, will disseminate it to the far corners of the world. Places we've never had reach before. In time, it will spread throughout Valoran. A transnational marketplace, ripe for the picking."

"Why would you—" Mel cuts herself off. The buzzing becomes a roar. "When did you decide this? And why, for Janna's sake? Why would you risk everything we've achieved—?"

"Because," he says, enunciating with ice-tipped precision, "Shimmer is Zaun's lifeline."

"Lifeline?"

"A means to feed our children, and clothe them, and send them to school. A way to provide our city with medicine, and technology, and a thousand other things, that no one has given a toss about." Disgust reshapes the curl of his lip. "My city has spent a century in the shadow of yours. Exploited, neglected, surviving on scraps. For a decade, your Hexgates have stagnated our markets, and cut off our economy, while you gorged on all our spoils. Now we're a free city, and I will see that my people are given a fighting chance. Shimmer is the key. Its revenue is worth approximately six times that of Zaun's platinum, gold, and silver. With the Iron Pearl, we can turn it into a bargaining chip."

Mel stares. The reality refuses to register. It's like a painting that cannot cohere. Like a seascape, mutated into a mass of aberrant shadows: too dark, too deep, for the psyche to pierce.

"Bargaining chip," she breathes. "For what?"

"Everything. Our autonomy. Our sovereignty. The right to make a nation, free of Piltover's leash." His good eye slits. "In time, Zaun will begin leveraging its agency over the Shimmer trade. Nations considering normalizing relations with us will have no choice, lest they risk being frozen out. Others, whose markets are crippled by the drug's distribution, will be forced to pay us a premium, so that we reduce its trafficking as a goodwill gesture. The same nations will try to eliminate its supply. But with our monopoly on the biggest trade routes outside of the Hex-gates, they will fail. Sanctions would stymie their businesses. Boycotts would cut their own supply. They'll be trapped, in a web of their own making. And Zaun's ascent, spinning its heart."

"This is—" Mel's head pounds. "Insane."

"Insane is a thousand Zaunites living in sickness and squalor. Insane is children selling themselves on the streets, or dying by the dozens. Insane is a city that cannot rise, because it is strangled, and cannot fall, because the ground beneath its feet is a swamp." His teeth, gleaming in the starlight, are daggers. "This is Zaun, reclaiming what's ours. By any means necessary."

Mel, swaying, catches the railing.

"At what cost? Thousands will die! Thousands are already dead! Shimmer is—" Bile surges up her throat. "You're the one who warned me. Who told me not to trust a single drop. I'd see you die before I see you addicted. Isn't that what you said?" Her fists ball. "And now—you'd trigger a transnational trade war? Poison the entire world? Gods. You are either insane, or the most vile hypocrite I've ever known!"

"Vile?" A shadow creeps across his face. "That, I am. Hypocrite? The definition needs amending."

"The only amending needed is between your ears!" The rage is an inferno. The tears, a boil. "Everything you've told me. About your vision for Zaun, and Piltover. About a shared future. All of it was a lie. When we began, I feared you'd see peace as just another cage. I didn't realize you were a jailor of your own making. That your only desire was to see us bound, and shackled, and suffering—"

"There is more than one kind of suffering, petal."

"Do not call me that." Her palm flattens across her belly. "Did you plan this baby too? Or did you pray to the Devil for the luck of a child, and he, in his cruelty, saw fit to give you mine? A woman who'd already taken measures to prevent such a thing? Who, against all odds, still wound up carrying your nightmare?"

Something shifts in his features. The chiseled ice deliquesces into flesh and bone. One footstep, and none of his usual grace.

"Mel," he says. "Listen."

"Do. Not. Touch me." Her bared teeth are a match for his. "I remember how overjoyed you were, when you learned about the baby. How much you wanted her. Our little unknown quantity, you called her. I was the one, afraid. I told you: I couldn't bear to be a mother. I begged you to understand. And you—you held me. Told me it'd all be all right. We'd be all right. A walk down the aisle, you wrote, isn't much different than a walk down the corridor. It's a means to an end." A sob wallops her. "I thought you meant a family. A home. Instead, you've duped me, and my city, and now, this child too. Half a Medarda, and cursed to be my Mother's pawn. Half a Silco, and damned to see her father's legacy unfold. And I will not have it. I will not."

The tears are pouring now. Mel can't see anything through their veil.

Foolish girl, Ambessa taunts. What did you think?

A clot of blood, and he'd shed his scales?

A monster only ever wants to see the world in red.

Silco is quiet. A dark, impenetrable shape.

"You think," he says, toneless, "you know me so well."

"I know my mother," Mel says hoarsely. "She's never allowed a future that didn't suit her designs. And you—you're the same. Between you two, you think you've bound me. By blood, and marriage, and a child that isn't even born. But you're both wrong. I won't let you." She swipes at her wet cheeks. "When we get back, I will tell the Council. About your plans, and the destruction you'll wreak. I'll see that Zaun's sanctioned, and that the Iron Pearl is seized, and your Shimmer is burned. As for this girl—" She inhales, and it's the deepest dive she'll ever make. "You will never see her. Your future will not be her cross to bear."

Silco says nothing. His silence, his total lack of motion, is preternatural. The sea is the only movement. The waves, a ceaseless churn.

"That," he rasps, "is one thing I will never allow."

"You think you could stop me?" Mel steels her spine. "When my family's done a thousand times worse?"

"You're not your family, Mel."

"I'll not be your dupe, either. I won't stand by, and let you poison her future."

"Is that why you think I'm doing this?"

"Why else? Revenge? Profit?"

"Survival."

He has not stopped looking her. She wants to wrench her stare away, but can't. His mismatched eyes seem to draw her in; she is tangled in his gaze, a riptide threatening to swallow her whole. For the first time, she sees, without a shadow of a doubt, the truth of him.

The depth. The darkness.

It is, like the rest of him, a terrible thing.

"You think," he says, "I don't know the risks of trading Shimmer? What it will mean for my family? For us? Do you think I'm so mad that I can't see past my own spite? Kindred's bones, Mel. I'm from a city full of addicts. I've lived my entire life on the precipice of addiction. It's a curse, and the price is far too steep." His throat works. "But it's the price, damn it, to keep the wolves from our door. The same door your mother is beating down."

Mel stares. A small, cold flame, at the bottom of her heart, is flickering. "What are you saying?"

"I think you know." He drags a hand through his hair. "You have the Hex-tech. We have the Forbidden Idol. Between us, we're practically a factory for Noxus' war-machine. The difference is, my city is the weak link. You've gutted us to feed the machine of progress. Not just you. All our guests, tucked up safely in their staterooms tonight: the Demacians, the Noxians, the Bilge-wankers. The lot of 'em. They've bled us, and exploited us, and they'd bleed us again if there was a chance." His fingers knot in his hair. "Your mother leads the charge. She'll use the Iron Pearl as a pretext. And, soon enough, a scapegoat. I'll be hung. Zaun will be condemned, its economy choked off. Then she'll make her move. Seize the territory as her military outpost. I know, because it's what I'd do. Her eyes are on your city, but it's mine that must fall first." His hand drops, and his stare is depthless. "I will not see it happen. Not to my home. Not to Jinx. And not to our daughter."

Mel stares. The flicker, a little bigger. "You're saying—"

"I'm saying that Shimmer is the only way to level the playing field. I'm saying that, no matter how the game's stacked against us, I will fight to my last breath, so my people can breathe. I'm saying that, when your mother comes, as I know she will, I will meet her, with a war-machine of my own." His voice grates: an axe splitting bone. "If you think I'm a monster, so be it. I'll have your disgust. I'll have your hate. But I won't have our daughter's ruin. So go on, petal. Tell your Council. Tell the whole world. But remember: it won't keep the monsters out. Only shackle the one in your corner. And he, at least, would never turn his back on you."

The flicker feeds a spark. A small, hot flame. In its radius, the darkness is not quite so deep.

Her heart, not quite so cold.

"And if the price is too high?" she whispers.

"What?"

"If I have to watch you damn yourself?" Her palm cradles her belly. The tears, drying, are runnels of salt on her cheeks. "If you pay for our child's future? How will I live with it? Knowing the things you've done. The things I've let you do?" A shudder. "How will she?"

Silco's stare is unwavering. "I'm asking you to trust me."

"Trust is a zero-sum game."

"So is survival. And no daughter of mine will be born in chains."

Mel trembles. The spark grows. And with it, a deep, fierce heat.

"I will not raise her," she says, "in a world on fire."

"You won't have to. You'll have me. And Jinx." He crosses the space. In a heartbeat, he's before her. "Peace comes, not through kindness, but ferocity, Mel. You know that. Your city may be a shining bastion. But your Council's a gaggle of fools. Your allies, blind and complicit. Your coffers, pinched from letting the Undercity's riches spill out, not in. If there's a war, Piltover will fold. But Zaun—Zaun will stand. I will make sure of it. Because if your city falls, so does ours." His palm, cool, cups her chin. "I'm not a good man. I've never claimed to be. I've done things that would make you run screaming. I'll spare you the nightmares. But I'll never spare you the truth. War will come. A war rooted in money—and fought by magic. And we'll need everything we've got. Our best—and our worst. You want a world where our daughter doesn't grow up with a knife at her throat? Where my Jinx doesn't have to see her future burn? Well, that world will not wait. We have to take it. The hard way. With blood, and guts, and every weapon we can wield."

Mel, swallowing, meets his eyes. "Every weapon."

"Yes."

"Then what of compromise?" She advances too: one step, then another. "My mother won't be the only threat to our shores. Shimmer may be your foothold. But you'll need more than that to survive. You'll need allies. Partners. People who believe, like I do, that progress comes from the strength of our bonds." Her hand rests, tentatively, on his heart. "If you truly want our family safe, Silco, then you'll have to start somewhere."

"Somewhere?"

"With me." She holds his stare. "Start by trusting me."

"I do."

"You don't. Otherwise you'd have told me about the Iron Pearl. About my mother. About the Shimmer. You'd have had faith in the choice we made, and the future we're building." She sucks in a breath. "You've taken risks. I know that. But you're not alone. I'm here too. From the moment I chose to stand beside you, in front of the Council, I've lived with the consequences. Because I've chosen you. Chosen a world, that is ours, and not theirs. And I'm still choosing, Silco. Every day, I choose."

Something in his features flickers: open and closed at once. The monster is subsumed. But the man, in the dark, is unknowable.

"Is this you, then?" he says, quietly. "Choosing?"

"I am."

"Choosing to stay—or go?"

The silence that follows is no thunderclap. It is a lightning bolt: a flash of purest white. It doesn't blind Mel. It bares what's been submerged. On his face, ten whole layers of skin peeled away, exposing a deep and ugly hurt.

"You'll go," he says. "And I'll be left with nothing. Not an alliance. Not a marriage. Not a goddamn thing."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it?" The corner of his mouth crooks. "Ambessa's letter. I wager she's given you a way out. Come home, with your baby, and your banishment's done. The Matriarch will forgive, and forget. You'll have a second chance. And House Medarda, an heir." The crook flattens. "Don't pretend it's not tempting. You, the exilee, returned to grace. Your daughter, the golden chick, at the top of the flock. No one, and nothing, between her and the sun."

"Mother can't promise me that." Mel's fingers curl into his shirtfront. "No one can."

"But she's the closest." His right hand covers hers. "I've been in this game a long time, petal. If there's one thing I know, it's that survival comes first. But when it's your child's life on the line, survival's not enough. You'll give them the world. You do anything—anything at all—to guarantee their happiness. Even if it means sacrificing yours."

Blinking, Mel tries to clear the haze. Tries, and fails. Through the tears, Silco's features are a blur.

"I know you," he says. "You're a Medarda. You'll always take the sure bet. The one that won't cost you a thing. Not a piece of your heart, or a scrap of your soul." His thumb caresses the bare skin of her fingers. Her wedding ring sits, abandoned, on the bathroom sink. "I trade in both. Revolution demands every inch of yourself. It gnaws you down, and leaves only the barest bones. Every step's a gamble, and I've taken a thousand. My brother. My eye. My humanity. All of it, a roll of the dice. I've made my peace with whatever the odds bring." He stops. "Can you?"

"I—" Mel falters. "I don't know."

"Well, you'd best start." He squeezes her hand, and lets go. "The first time I did business with your mother, she took a knife to my palm. A blood oath, she called it. To seal our bond. The first time I did business with you, I took a knife to yours. Not to seal our bond—but to cut us both free." His stare searches hers. "Do you remember?"

"Yes," she whispers.

"So what's it going to be now? Cut the knot—or keep the line tight?" The starlight limns his face: the single hooded eyelid, the sharp point of cheekbone, the lines of age spreading from the eye-socket. The face, she thinks, of a man who's stared at the deepest recesses of human depravity. And seen treasures worth keeping. "Between us, you're the one with the real choice. I've nothing but my city, and my child, and my pride. You? You've riches, and beauty, and a hundred hands ready to catch you. Or—" A sardonic tip of his brow, "—just the one pair."

"Don't—"

"Don't talk of Talis? When you love him, still. And he loves you." Off her flinch: "He told me, you know. The day he stormed down to Zaun, and into my office. He told me all about what remains unfinished between the two of you."

"What?" A crack splinters somewhere in the center of Mel's ribcage. "Jayce—spoke to you? When?"

"The week before the wedding. He was quite the picture: fists on my desk, teeth bared, eyes spitting fire. My blackguards were ready to drill him full of holes. Lucky for him, I'd just had the carpet replaced." The brittle twitch of a sneer. "By the end, I feared for my guts spewing rather than his blood. His speech was pure saccharine. How you were a woman who deserved a lifetime of devotion—whereas I deserved a lifetime behind bars. How, if I'd a shred of decency, I'd call off the wedding rather than destroy your life. How a slit-eyed carnival barker like me could never dream of holding a candle to the light you were." A beat. "I'm not paraphrasing, by the way. Those were his exact words."

The crack is no longer in Mel's ribcage. It runs the length of her sternum. The pulse seeping out is hot as blood.

"Jayce never told me," she whispers. "And you—you said nothing at all."

"Why would I? Contrary to rumor, I've no taste for courting drama." He shrugs, a smooth roll of shoulders that doesn't quite disguise the strain. "I'm telling you now because it matters. Because he meant it. He called ours a sham of a marriage. And the baby, a prisoner of war. I'll admit—for that, I was ready to gut him. But his next words gave me pause." The silence that follows is a blade stirring Mel's guts. "He said, 'Five years. That's how long it'll take, before she realizes she's made the worst mistake of her life. Five years, before you screw it up, and she sees you for the wretch you are. Then she'll go. With the baby, and everything else. You'll be left with nothing. You'll be nowhere. Because that's where you belong.'"

"Silco..." All at once, she's shivering. "I didn't know—"

"Know what? That he's a better judge of character than you or I will ever credit?" His stare dims. "Maybe that's why I didn't gut him. Why I let him say his piece. So be it, I told him. Five years, and I'll get my money's worth. Because isn't five years plenty? Particularly for a wretch like me? Five years, and I'd have it all. The pleasure of your body, and the privilege of your smiles, and the right to plant myself in the heart of them? And in the heart of our child, who'll have your pretty ways, and the gold coins in her eyes, and the curls in her hair." He drags a strand through his fingers: wistful, wanting, a little wild. "Five years is a lifetime, Mel. Longer, if you've spent it betting against the odds. And will double down, again and again, no matter the cost. Because that's what it takes, to win a hand like yours, petal. Everything, and then some."

He releases her hair, the curls slipping like water between his fingers.

Mel's shivers intensify. The idea that Jayce had come to Zaun, to fight for her, is galling. The idea that Silco had been a willing listener is worse. Because, between them, they'd doubted her choice. They'd wagered, behind her back, that she'd fold, and the rest would fall. Just like Sevika. Just like Ambessa.

Just like Mel, herself.

"Five years," she breathes. "Was that all you expected out of this?"

"I expected nothing at all," he says simply. "Only what I could get."

"Or take?"

The single, soft rasp. "Yes."

Mel's lips part. Words fail her. The cold, the wind, the emptiness: they are all she knows.

That, and the depthless dark of Silco's eyes.

"I told you before. I'm a greedy man. And you're no consolation prize, petal. You're a treasure worth a thousand crowns. Talis knows it. Just as he knows I'll pay any price to keep you. Even if I don't deserve one fucking bit." His mouth tips into a strange smile. "He's a good man. Honorable. Trustworthy. All of that matters. As our girl grows, it will matter more. You will miss his warmth, and his light, and his faith. You'll miss your mother's certainty, and her strength, and her protection. Me? I'm the worst of both worlds. One quarter Shimmer, and all starveling. I've Talis' ambition, and none of his honor. Your mother's cruelty, and none of her titles. I'll be a constant reminder of the paths you didn't take." The smile dies. "You should take them."

"Is—" Mel's throat works. "Is that what you want?"

"Doesn't matter what I want. All that matters is what you choose And I'll not wait five years to hear it." He steps back, the space between them a thousand leagues. "You can have the sure bet. The easy road, with a comfortable seat. Or you can take the gamble. Bet the whole damn thing on a monster. One who will fight you every step of the way. Who'll demand every ounce of your faith. But who will never, ever, turn his back on you."

"Silco..."

"Two choices, Mel. One answer. What's it to be?"

Mel's world swims, and the tears fall, and she thinks: So this is the high tide.

In her mind, she sees Jayce, agony crumbling his handsome face. Jayce, who'd begged her, not to do this. Not to marry Silco. And Mel, whose reply had been a kiss, and a goodbye, and the hardest lie she'd ever told:

I don't love him. So it won't hurt if it ends badly.

She sees Elora, a hand clapped across her mouth. Elora, who'd done her best to reason with Mel. To make her end the pregnancy. And Mel, who'd soothed, and strategized, and lied through her teeth:

If it goes south, we'll separate. I'll keep the child with me. She'll have no cares.

Nor will he care.

She sees her mother, a silhouette blotting out the sun. Her mother, who'd warned her, that motherhood and marriage are writ, not with love, but blood. And Mel, who'd held her head high, and lied straight to her face:

He'll do, Mother. One man's as good as another.

It's the legacy that matters, after all.

Now, the high tide swallows her, and she sees only the truth:

She'd chosen. Again and again. Chosen, in a hundred ways, and the gusts of memory blow her lies away. The first time they'd met in Zaun's war-stripped harbor, the sunlight banding his silhouette, and she'd known him, instantly, for what he was. A man, willing to cross a million lines—but not the last one. Not his daughter's life. The first time she'd watched him with Jinx, a blue sprite enfolding his arm, their smiles two sideways slashes, and the longing had hit her like a gut-punch. The first time he'd kissed her, and touched her, and made love to her, and she'd known this would never be a quick tumble, savored by midnight, forgotten by dawn.

She'd known. And she'd gone, willingly: to his bed, and his back-alleys, and the darkest corners of his city. To the deepest depths of herself. She'd opened her arms, and her body. Let him have her. Let him see her.

And when their child, a curl of shock in her belly, brought their world crashing down, she'd seen—

Not his fury.

His joy.

It had blindsided her. How a man so hardened by the world could hold her with such care. That he'd clasp her hands in his own, and exact the promise that she wouldn't end the pregnancy. How he'd persuaded her, not through cajolery or subterfuge, but by baring a heretofore hidden truth.

The need of a man, who'd spent his entire life without, and who was now willing to risk everything, just for the smallest taste.

He wants this child, she'd thought.

Not for leverage. Not for legacy. Not even to make a mockery of Piltover's elite.

He wants this child, because she's ours.

Mel shuts her eyes.

She'd lied: to Jayce, to Elora, to Ambessa. But she cannot lie to herself. In the stateroom, she's painted her own proof of principle. Her sea-monster: half-ascending, half-descending. With her golden fingerprints all over his heart. Hers, in turn, marked with his teeth.

"I've chosen," she whispers.

"What?"

Mel's eyes open.

In the black of Silco's stare, she sees a fragile glow. A single star, hanging in the night.

A way home.

"I've chosen," she repeats. "And I will not go."

His breath hitches. His stare, a vise. "Mel—"

"I will stay." She closes the space between them, the tips of her sandals touching his toes. "With you."

The glow in his eyes is no longer a star. It is a blaze. A thousand fractaling futures, bursting into flame. And then his arms enfold her, and their foreheads touch, and the closeness stirs something inside. An irresistible undertow. The kind that goes beyond bodies, and breath, and desire. The kind that touches the bottom of the ocean, and finds, there, a bedrock of gold.

"Say it again," he rasps.

"I won't go." Her fingers card through his hair. "I'll stay."

"Again."

"I'll stay."

"Again."

"I will stay." She smiles through the spilling tears. "I will."

Cupping the back of her neck, he drags her in. His lips radiate the night-chill. But the kiss is hot: tongues melding and teeth catching. His hands are in her hair, on her throat, on her breasts. Hot, too, with impatience. And yet, the sensation is a deep, drugging pull. For the first time, she's drunk from a different cup than desire, and the taste is the sweetest she's known.

Mel's eyelids drift shut. Her spine is an unspooling thread. Her heart is a lit fuse. And the night is combusting into red.

She isn't drowning. She is burning alive.

"Silco," she gasps between kisses.

"Hmm?"

"Take me to bed."

He growls, and it's a pitch of bottomless hunger. Before she can blink, he's swept her up, her feet dangling off the deck, the stars pirouetting above. Then they're inside, and in bed, and the salty bite of the sea is blotted out by the scent of him, and the heat of him, and the feel of him. The blackness is total, and full of nothing else.

Like the tide, he engulfs her.

And Mel, sobbing, lets herself be found.