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

9. Melike

Dream if you can
A courtyard
An ocean of violets in bloom

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

---

Breakfast is a quiet affair.

Silco, dismissing the staff, prepares the food himself in the kitchenette: two platefuls of buttery scrambled eggs with a sprinkling of chives, toast cut into fingers, then slathered with apricot jam, a dish of plumply glistening cherries, and a pot of piping-hot black tea

Mel, wrapped in her peignoir, watches. She's still disoriented from the decadence of the bath. Pleasure pulses in the tender space between her thighs. She can feel the phantom of Silco's hot mouth sucking the hurt better. The sweetest penance, paid in kisses. When he'd finally let her go, the aftershocks had left her floating in a haze. Here, the aftershocks are sweeter: Silco, in a pair of trousers and a half-buttoned shirt, his ungroomed hair curling over his brow, a lazy swagger to his stride.

The monster who's spent a near decade ruling the Undercity—making war, taking lives—is absent.

In his place, there's only this: a pirate, barefoot in his quarters, preparing his treasure's breakfast.

With easy efficiency, he pours the tea: a dollop of cream and honey in hers, and two ounces of brandy in his. Together, they take their places in the sunlit parlor. Mel fortifies her seat with several cushions. Silco, his chair tilted at an angle, idly stretches his legs out until his bare feet dip beneath the hem of her robe.

He's playing the rake, and Mel, lips curving, allows it. Dust motes glitter in the golden rays pouring through the skylight. The silence is not awkward. But it's a far cry from last night's extravagance: sighs and moans, and words to make the walls blush.

Daylight has subsumed the darkness. Nakedness has been replaced with the first vestiges of cover.

And reality, a looming thunderhead, brews at the horizon.

Impulsively, Mel reaches across the table. Her fingertips touch his knuckles. Silco, stilling, regards her. She cannot tell if the shadows in his mismatched eyes are a play of the light, or a portent. Then his fingers twine with hers. He squeezes, once.

"Tell me something," Mel says.

"What, petal?"

The endearment passes through her on a warm frisson. His voice is the voice in bed: black chocolate rather than whiskey-on-the-rocks. His is still in Lover Mode. Still her man, his intensity inverted into a leisurely attention, and not the shark: his hunger, his eyes, his teeth.

But the shark is never far below the surface. And Mel, at last, is ready to meet him on equal terms.

Gathering herself, she says, "Last night, you called Shimmer a bargaining chip. A way to get the edge on Zaun's enemies."

"I did."

"If that's the case, then why don't you legitimize Shimmer's sale?"

"Legitimize?"

"Find a way to stabilize its effects, and sell it as a commodity? You'd profit enormously. Better still, by leveraging the drug's efficacy, you'd be improving lives across Runeterra. The coin you'd accrue could be used to fund the expansion of Zaun's armory."

"A pretty proposal." His thumb skims her knuckles. "Except there's no profit in altruism."

"Don't condescend."

"I'm not. Your plan has merit. It's been suggested by factions of our Cabinet. Offshoots of Shimmer-research have shown promising results. Vaccines for Grey Lung. Treatments for cancers. Even curatives for chronic illness. The Firelights have found certain strains beneficial for crop growth, and even for the purification of contaminated soil. Their community farms, in the underbelly of Entresol, have been a model of success." His thumb stills. "The problem is not in the science. It's in the nature of Shimmer."

"I don't understand."

He takes a breath. "What I'm about to tell you is classified. Do you swear to keep it quiet?"

Mel hesitates. "Is this information a threat to Piltover?" At his scowl, she presses on. "If we're to have trust, Silco, I need the terms to be fair. Truly fair. It's my right to not enter any pact without a full understanding of the stakes. You say there's no profit in altruism. There's none in blind faith, either."

His jaw swerves. But his grip, around her hand, does not relent. "The truth, then. And not a word, to anyone."

"I swear."

She says it simply, without embellishment. Like a wedding vow.

"Shimmer," Silco says, "has a base ingredient. It is a blossom called blackflower. In its dormant state, it's a glowing purple flower that sprouts in isolated caves near the southwest Piltt. The roots of that flower go all the way down to the riverbed. The seepage itself is toxic. Yet, at the bedrock, there's a vein of crystals."

"Crystals?"

"Hex-crystals. Ones infused with magic so pure, it's a living entity." A strange look flits over his face. "Before, I thought it was a fairytale. Just one of the hundred myths that creep through the underground. But I was wrong. It's very real. A treasure trove, right beneath our feet." He lapses into silence. "But the cost of harvesting it is too high."

"How do you mean?"

"The magic in that patch of soil: it's volatile. It cannot be mined. If it's disturbed, even by stray currents of magical energy, the aftershocks are disastrous."

Mel recalls the reports of a massive earthquake, two years ago, in the bowels of the Fissures.

"The blast belowground. The mining settlement that was wiped out in the Deadlands?" At his grimace, she realizes: "It was Shimmer that did it."

"Not Shimmer. The root of magic that gives Shimmer its potency. The fundament that powers Zaun's entire grid of runes. The magic that, if handled carelessly, will level a continent." Silco's throat works. "Jinx and Viktor… inadvertently… triggered its currents. The mining settlement caught in the explosion was the result. The radiation from the blast liquified entire buildings. Melted people alive. There was nothing we could do. Afterward, I ordered the entire area cordoned off. The risk is too great."

"And now?"

"Now, it's a restricted zone. Off-limits to all but a team of highly-skilled geologists, who are trying to delineate the exact parameters of the vein."

Mel absorbs this. "And blackflower?"

"In its dormancy, during the Solstice, it's harvested in abundance. It's a reliable source of cheap, low-grade Shimmer. But the pure product—the real deal—is finite."

"Finite, how?"

"It's source only blooms once every year. During the Equinox, when the blackflower unfurls into a spiked maw with glowing purple seeds. We harvest as many of these seeds as we can. Their essence is distilled into a small quantity of unadulterated liquid. But, even so, we must ration it carefully. It takes months to produce a single viable batch. Our curatives—for Gray Lung, for chronic illness, for cancers—they were all successful. But the yield is too little. Mass-producing pure vials, to meet global demand, would drain our reserves faster than we could manufacture more." His scarred mouth flatlines. "To say nothing of rivals, who'd steal the formula. Or try to create their own synthetics. The result would be a flood of knock-offs. And, for Zaun, a loss of control."

Mel retracts her hand. "So you'd rather supply adulterated doses as a killer steroid."

Silco's fingers twitch, as if to chase hers. He disguises the impulse by curling them around his teacup.

"You think me cruel," he says, sipping. "But the steroid is the only way to keep our reserves intact. It's more synthetic than raw, which means it consumes less blackflower. The drug's market value is stratospheric. One batch, sold to the right buyer, would pay for an entire year's worth of research and development. That's a level of capital that could transform lives. Better still, it could finance operations beyond our borders. It can fund guerilla armies in Noxian-occupied lands. It can destabilize their leadership, and drain their coffers—while filling ours. It levels the playing field."

"By setting everything on fire."

"Better a controlled burn than an inferno." His knuckles whiten on the teacup. "It's a means, Mel. I've lit fires in a dozen hostile backyards. Ambessa's war-campaign in Vlonco. Bilgewater's maritime ambitions for the Quaelin. The Demacian occupation of the Kestrel. All of it, disrupted by Shimmer supplies leaking into rebel camps, and incentivizing paramilitary factions. It's kept all of them busy. Busy enough to buy Zaun time"

Mel frowns. "Is this your only recourse? A perpetual state of crisis?"

"I am not the one stoking the crisis. Only managing its fallout, until a solution can be found."

"There is one." Mel's bedrock pacifism cannot take the backseat. "The accord between our cities. To debase its terms by selling a toxic stimulant, and funding a global arms race, and using it to destabilize nations—"

"Did I not keep my word?" he cuts her off. "I've done my best to honor Piltover's embargo of the drug. I do not sell to your city. I do not contaminate my own. I couldn't if I dared. My truce with the Firelights hinges on my confining the drug's circulation to medicine and crops. That was the bargain between us. A safer Zaun. One where Shimmer, instead of fueling chaos, could be an instrument for change."

"And it's been working, has it not? The numbers prove it. Crime is down. Infant mortality, and disease, and fatalities too. Your economy is stable. You've made a true home for Zaun, and given your people what they need to thrive. Why jeopardize all that for an edge?"

"Because Zaun's threats will not sit idle while we flourish. My city plays by my rules. At a word, I can grind the entire system to a halt. I can cripple trade, and choke off resources, and crush out revolt. That's why the chem-barons fear me. Why, despite all odds, I've always maintained the upper hand." There is no pride in his words. Only the iron flatness of a fact that's been hammered, blow by blow, into a city's collective psyche. "Without the edge, I've nothing. Zaun remains a lesser city, not a peer. To our neighbors, and the wider world, we become a weak link. And if Ambessa doesn't exploit our vulnerabilities, then someone else will. Because power is the only language the world speaks."

His voice overlaps Ambessa's from a memory long past: Mark me, child. If you want to last in this world, you must learn to be both the fox and the wolf.

Mel stifles a flinch.

"What will this language win you," she accuses softly, "except war?"

"Not war, but its deterrent. Carry a big enough stick, and no one dares come after your bones."

"Alliances, strengthened by trust, achieve the same." She hesitates. "You and Mother have struck a détente before. Why can't you do it again?"

"You want me to accept that deranged marriage pact of hers?"

"No." Her cheeks blaze. "You are married to me!"

A smile ghosts his lips. "So I am."

"I meant—why can't you negotiate with her?" Her fingers, irrepressibly, twist the wedding ring on her right hand. "I could broker a summit. A private one, where you can talk. Perhaps, if I offered myself..."

"What, as surety?" His voice is regaining that smoke-roughened timbre: a warning. "Or as a hostage?"

"Silco—"

"I've had my fill of Devil's bargains, Mel."

Like the one against Swain, she hears.

Mel bites her lip. The effort to topple Swain's coup, and save their cities, had taken all his wits, and her wiles. It was only because of their combined efforts, and a fortuitous twist of fate, that the danger was thwarted. And when the dust settled, they'd stood in the aftermath, gut-shocked and breathless. But side-by-side.

Two cities, united by the sheer tenacity of survival.

A survival that'd left in its wake, something too tantalizing to let go.

---

Mel hadn't known, then, of the real reckoning, taking root in her belly.

A tiny shape: two arms, and two legs.

A girl.

When she'd first learned the truth, the shock was absolute. She'd been on the cusp of her thirty-sixth birthday. Mysteriously, her cycle had dried up. When the nausea, the fatigue, and the cravings for salt, had kicked in, she'd thought it was the aftermath of her ordeal. It was only when the sickness didn't abate, that she'd gone to the medick.

A quick test confirmed her worst fears: a fetus, over six weeks along.

Mel had expected a bolt of lightning to strike her down.

Her first thought was: Silco.

What he'd do to, once he'd learnt his arch-ally was carrying his child.

Her next: Ambessa.

What she'd do, once she'd learnt her daughter was carrying a Medarda heir, and a Trencher's bastard.

At the time, she'd felt body besieged: her womb an overthrown castle. For years, she'd done everything in her power to deny a pregnancy. As a girl, she'd quaffed potions of powdered rhizomes every morning: a precaution, lest, during an attack on the Medarda household, a rival warlord captured and bred her to force a succession. As a teenager, she'd begun her first course of the Demacian pill, and kept to it for the rest of her days. As a woman, she'd taken added precautions: sheaths, barriers and all the rest.

And, always, her monthly bleeds came. Never heavy, never light. Just enough to confirm the rhythm.

Just enough to fool her into thinking she was safe.

Finally, on her thirtieth year, bitter and burnt out, she'd made the choice. To deny the tides of time, and her family's bloodline, their due. She'd consulted a doctor to get herself fixed, and the procedure had been smooth and near-painless. A minor surgery, a quick recovery, and her cycle had resumed.

Except this time, her womb, for all intents and purposes, was a drawbridge, locked and barred.

Your last avenue, she'd written to Ambessa, is a dead-end.

Ambessa's reply, two weeks later, was succinct:

Fool.

Mel refused to dwell. She'd set her mind on more pressing matters. Her city, and her work with the Council, and Hextech. It wasn't until her night with Jayce, the ease of his company, and the gentleness of his hands, that she'd remembered that word again:

Fool.

She'd wondered, crazily, if her mother was right. If she, in her quest for sovereignty, had closed the door to something sweeter.

She'd fantasized, in shameful moments, what it might be like. To have a family with Jayce. To be a mother. Except her mind's eye would conjure the wrong shape. Not a boy with a glowing bronze complexion, and his father's soft hazel eyes.

A girl.

A girl with the smooth brown Medarda skin, and eyes of a shadow-dipped blue, and a smile so sharp it could cut through space.

She'd put the vision from her mind. Her time with Jayce had proven an interlude—blissful, but heartbreakingly brief. Their split had mirrored the rupture of their city. In the aftermath, they'd gone their separate ways. But they'd both held the memory close: what could've been.

If not, Mel thinks, for her own folly.

Silco, for all his sins, was no folly. He was an unmitigated disaster.

Mel cannot pinpoint, exactly, what chemically combustive balance had impelled her, after years of calculation, to give her body to him: bare, without a scrap of protection. A man who'd loomed larger, in her mind, than a nightmare: the embodiment of her city's ills, and her failure, as a stateswoman, to heal them.

He'd taken her raw, and he'd taken her hard. She'd come apart in his arms, in that lightless tunnel, the world reduced to nothing but him. Afterward, he'd confessed that he seldom made love without a sheath. A scrupulous measure, for a man who was the progenitor of so much sin.

His voice, in the gloaming, had been soft. No hint of insinuating gravel. No glint of a razor-edged smirk.

Dizzied, Mel had thought, This is not the man who rules Zaun.

She'd returned to Piltover: her mind in a fog, the scent of him still clinging to her skin. A fortnight passed. Then a month. She'd kept her head down, her eyes on her work. But there was a new strain to her concentration.

A new restlessness to her body.

As if the world had metamorphosed, in a single night. As if she'd left her old self behind.

Fast-forward to two months later, and the truth struck home:

A little girl, growing.

How? she'd asked the medick. How is this possible? I had a procedure. They swore it was permanent. They told me I was safe.

Sometimes, the medick said, the procedure doesn't take. The body finds a way. Even when it shouldn't.

Mel wanted to tear out her hair. Is it—viable? Can I—can I have this baby?

It's early yet. But the scans, by all indications, show the fetus is stable. There's a strong heartbeat. As a first-time mother, you have good chances of carrying full-term.

Mother.

Mel, in a numb haze, had barely crossed three steps before vomiting into the wastebasket.

Afterward, she'd made an appointment to have the pregnancy terminated. It'd seemed the best, and least messy, option. Her family line was a bloodbath. And Silco had a well-earned reputation for holding a grudge. Nothing—not even a child—would compel him to lay his animus aside.

Mel had already let her body be breached, and her psyche be compromised.

A child would be the coup de grace.

Yet, she'd seen again, in her mind's eye: the figment of a girl with her skin and his smile.

This time, though, the figment had stayed: a haunting refrain, night after night. And, in Mel's body, the figment took life: her curves filling out; her appetites fluctuating. The need for salt, and sleep, and sex: an unquenchable thirst. She'd wondered, for the first time since Jayce, if she could be a mother. If she could have a child with a man, who was her match. It'd seemed impossible.

And yet, impossibly, she'd told him.

Silco's reaction was not what she'd expected. Not even close.

He'd stared at her, as if his world had been toppled upside-down. Then he'd said, very softly: You're certain?

Mel nodded. Her voice came uncharacteristically small. Nearly two months certain.

Are you certain... it's mine?

The question ought to have stung. Except his eyes were not doubting, but desperate. Mel, reading the subtle tides of his face, was shaken by the revelation: this, too, was not the man who ruled Zaun.

This was someone else.

A man who'd long forsaken the idea of fathering a child. A man who'd never believed, in a million years, that he could kindle a life inside a woman in his arms. Could have the chance to know, intimately, a piece of himself: living, breathing, and blooming into being.

Now he was.

And she was.

Mel, in a rush, said: I've not been with anyone since... since the tunnel. Since you. It shouldn't have happened. Not after the procedure. But the medicks confirmed it. There are scans. There... there is a heartbeat. And I can feel her, Silco. Feel her growing, inside me. And I don't—I don't know what to...

Lights popped behind her eyes: the first burn of tears.

Reflexively, she turned her face away.

Silco's palm, cradling her jaw, stopped her short. His mouth hovered inches from hers. He was not a man given to softness. But his voice, in that moment, was the softest she'd ever heard it.

I'll tell you what to do, he said. You're going to take my hand. And we'll go, right now, to one of my own doctors. We'll have you looked over. We'll find out, for sure, whether the little one will last. And if she will, then—

Then?

Then we've arrangements to make. Because I'll be damned if my daughter is born not bearing my name. And I'll be damned twice, if I let Topside claim her for its own.

Heart in her throat, Mel stammered. Are—are you—?

He'd smiled. A strange smile, like a knife turned over. Shall I get down on bended knee, Mel?

I—I'm not asking for your hand. We've ended the arrangement between us. We both agreed—it was too risky, and—too much was at stake, and—

I know. His fingertips ghosted her chin. Now, it seems, the stakes have changed.

Silco, I'm not asking you to change the terms. I am not asking—or hoping for—anything at all. I only informed you as a matter of principle. You have a right to know. You are her father. But the choice to bring her into the world... is mine.

His fingers stilled. His eyes darkened. For a moment, she saw the monster resurfacing in their depths.

You don't want this child? he asked.

I'm not saying that. Only—

Only what?

This—this was not in the plan. Mine or yours. To put the burden of expectation on our shoulders, when our cities are still fragile—

Mel.

What?

Cupping her chin, he tilted her gaze up. Do you want this child?

His stare was fierce, but not unkind. It was an invitation: to look the truth in the eye. To not complicate it with speech, about herself, and him, and whatever else was tangled between them.

The admission lodged in Mel's throat. I—I don't know. I've never wanted—never planned—

He said, again, Mel.

What?

Do. You. Want. This child?

The query in his eyes threatened to sear her. Mel wrenched her gaze away. There was no answer. Not an easy one. She'd had her entire life planned out. It did not include a baby. It did not even include him.

Now the lines were blurred: the future, a cipher.

What she did know, in her marrow, was this:

The choice is mine.

A choice between a life of conflict, and a life of certainty. A choice between a hollow peace, and the hardest battle.

The choice between the world as it was... and the world as it should be.

She'd taken a ragged breath. And, in the space between them, she'd felt Silco's heartbeat, racing in time with hers. Hoping, against all hope, that her answer would be the right one.

Mel, matching his stare, had given it:

Yes.

Yes?

I—I want her.

With me?

Silco—

His thumb touched her bottom lip, stilling the words.

You understand, he said, this child will change everything. Our cities. Our places, in them. She will inherit more than the Medarda name, or my machinations. She will inherit the bad blood between us. All the ghosts, and the grudges. She will not have an easy life. It'll be a struggle, every step of the way. She'll face prejudice. Scorn. Disdain. She'll have to fight, every day, to justify her existence. And if she fails, the world will chew her up, and spit her out. It'll grind her under its heel, until there's nothing left. Do you understand?

Mel, throat working, nodded. I do.

Will you take the risk, all the same?

For a moment, she stared at him. This man who, for four years, stood as her most ruthless nemesis—and yet her staunchest ally. The man who'd dared to drag the darkest parts of herself into the light. Who'd shown her, in the space of a night, what it might be like, to lay herself bare. To be seen, and known, and taken as she was: without pretense.

Without fear.

And, in the heart of herself, Mel felt the full force of her bloodline resurge: the legacy of a hundred warriors, who'd faced the worst the world had thrown, with their chins held high. Who'd never let anything come between them and their desires. Who'd allowed neither war, nor death, to dictate the course of their lives.

This child—half Zaunite grit, half Piltovan guile—would be no different.

Yes, she'd answered. I will.

He'd kissed her then. She'd felt the monster's lips yield like velvet to her own. Felt the monster's palm span her belly, to where their child was nestled safe. And she'd sensed, beneath the ferocity of the possession, his pledge:

So will I.

In the weeks that followed, Mel's life became a series of contradictions—and revelations. For a woman who'd built her career on knowing the rules, and playing them to the letter, it'd been a heady ride to flout every single one. From her decision to step down from the Council in favor of an ambassadorial title, to the announcement of her engagement among her close circle, to the bombshell that she'd conceived out of wedlock: all a series of landslides that, one after another, knocked the foundations of her pristine persona off-kilter.

She'd not expected Silco, for all his cutthroat ambition, to prove such a steady harbor throughout. He'd taken over, with an almost alarming zeal, the practicalities of her pregnancy: doctor's appointments, nutrition plans, and, when it'd been confirmed that the baby was progressing smoothly, a list of the most reputable midwives in Zaun, vetted for their discretion and competence.

Between them, they had finagled a way to remain in contact: a secure channel of communication, so that Mel could keep him apprised of any changes to her condition. Silco, in turn, had pulled strings to rent out a private condominium near Mel's own, in the heart of Piltover's upper district. There, when their schedules aligned, they'd meet: once a week, to discuss matters related to the baby, or their strategy for disseminating the news, or simply to make love.

And each time, Mel felt something burning bright inside her: an incandescent hunger that she had no choice but to feed. Not because Silco had willed it, or she'd ceded, but because, for the first time in her life, she wanted.

Wanted to feel his lips on hers, and his hands on her, and his body inside hers. Wanted him, too, in the aftermath: breathless and sweat-sheened, his skin decorated with her love bites, and that strange, soft glow in his eyes, that made her feel like a conqueror.

Like a queen.

By the month's end, they'd agreed to publicize their engagement at the upcoming Gala for the Progressive Arts. They'd gathered their respective contacts in the media: the Baron's Bugle, the Sun & Tower, the Harbor Herald. A carefully spun narrative was concocted to soft-launch the scandal: a romance, kept under wraps, that'd blossomed into a love-match, and was now culminating in marriage.

During the gala, they'd appear as the couple: arm-in-arm, exquisitely turned out in black-tie finery, the ring on her finger a spark of green fire, his lips on her cheek a tender, lingering kiss. Afterward, there'd be the press conference. Photographs, interviews, a formal statement from both parties. Then, they'd return: Mel to her city, Silco to his, and await the fallout.

It had come, not a week later, with a vengeance.

Once the story broke, the media devolved into a feeding frenzy. The progressives were riveted: the traditionalists, aghast; the youth, aflame. The rumor-mill had churned into overdrive. The Eye of Zaun, engaged to a Councilor: a Councilor! The last surviving scion of a war-mongering bloodline, no less. The tabloids were rife with speculation: Did Medarda, after a decade in power, finally buckle under pressure, and choose a political match? Was the Eye bewitched by her beauty, and no more than a pawn in her schemes? Or, worse, was this a sinister conspiracy on both sides, to destabilize their respective spouse's city, and bring its people to heel?

In Zaun, the hardliners were a hotbed of dissent. Their future was in the hands of the Undercity's most controversial leader: a statesman, who'd ruled by a razor-sharp brand of ruthlessness. His marriage would mean a shift in the power balance. A new set of rules, not just for his people, but his neighbor: a city-state he'd notoriously kept at arm's length.

In the more moderate quarters, the news was greeted with cautious optimism. The middle classes were more concerned with the economic ramifications of the union. What, exactly, was being negotiated behind closed doors? Would Silco, forsaking the autonomy of his nation, sacrifice Zaun's future on the altar of peace? Or did the marriage bode a true partnership: with trade, and prosperity, and a lasting harmony between their cities?

The Firelights were the only party who'd spoken out directly: a pointed critique on the optics of an Undercity statesman marrying a woman from a privileged background. How could a couple, who'd each benefitted from playing two vastly different systems, hope to improve the lot of those born on the losing end? How could their union, and the profits it promised, serve as anything but a symbol of the status quo taken to its most degenerate extreme?

To those questions, Mel had no ready reply. Silco, too much a realist to deny their merit, made no reply at all.

What, he'd sneered, draped across the settee in Mel's office, did you expect? We are not their heroes. We are their villains. They will not see us as we are. They will use us only as a cautionary tale: a moral lesson on how things ought not be done.

She'd not answered. Only crossed the room, to sit on the arm of the chair, and stir her fingers though his hair. A caress to gentle the monster back into the man, and into her arms.

It will take time, she said, to earn their trust. We cannot undo the past. But we can write the future. In our time.

On our terms, you mean, he retorted, even as his lips found the inside of her wrist. And those terms must be set in stone.

Whose stone? she said archly. My finger has yet to see a ring.

Soon, petal.

Soon?

His lips, against the pulse of her wrist, stilled. As soon as I've ironed out the fine print.

It was a crumb, and yet a confession.

The Eye, for all his prowess in the political arena, had to tread cautiously in his private life.

Jinx has taken the news badly. So badly, she'd torched a building down, and nearly shot Silco through the skull when he'd tried to enter the Aerie. In the aftermath, there was the usual round of threats and ultimatums. The usual litany of names: liar, backstabber, traitor. The usual fallout: smoldering glares and radio silences, eased only by patient words, and the love borne of years.

Jinx, a girl whose trust had been violated so many times, needed to be reminded that she wasn't going to be replaced, or abandoned, or cheated out of a father. She'd be the big sister, and the best friend, to the child they'd soon bring into the world. And though Silco, in the past, had been less than aboveboard in his private affairs, she would be the one exception.

The truth, always.

In the end, they'd reached an armistice: tenuous, but holding.

Sevika was a tougher nut to crack.

Silco's XO had gone to the mat, tooth and nail, to protect her leader's interests. She'd been a loyal second-in-command for the better part of a decade. Her allegiance to Zaun was the only constant in her life. Her loyalty, her trust, were Silco's to command.

And yet, by keeping his liaison with Mel a secret, he'd betrayed her.

Sevika's anger wasn't like Jinx's. It was an older, colder fury: the rupture of decades-old faith. After the dust had settled, she'd gone to ground, and stayed there. Her absence had lasted two weeks. Silco's network had spun it as a work-related sabbatical. Privately, Silco had called it a shitshow, and blamed himself for the fallout.

In the end, he'd brokered a stalemate. His business affairs, thereafter, were to be run solely through Sevika, and no one else. It would act as surety: that Mel would not compromise his position, and he would not compromise her own. As for the rest—the fractured trust, the promises fallen to the wayside—only time, and work, would heal the rift.

Even so, Mel sensed, deep in her gut, that Silco would always look at Sevika—and see a stillborn story. One, that, for the sake of his predicament, he'd cut short.

Mel empathized all too keenly.

In Piltover, her declaration was met with dumbstruck silence. In a city whose politics, like a kaleidoscope, revolved around the status quo, the union had sent shockwaves. The Council, as a unit, had balked. Silco's suitability was lambasted from all quarters. His reputation was unsavory; his methods unconscionable. Mel's own frame of mind was called into question; her motives put under the microscope, her judgement savaged, and her political acumen questioned.

Yet, as the dust settled, and the furor faded, the prevailing sentiment was:

How can Piltover profit from this union?

Mel, ever the pragmatist, had laid out the bottom line. She and Silco had spent evenings in his office: drafting deals, and ironing out terms. Now she'd made a case for a joint-investment consortium between their cities. A skyway, linking Zaun's harbor, and Piltover's Hexgates. Zaun's mines, rich in ore and minerals, would be brokered wholesale to Piltover. In turn, Zaun's infrastructure, overdue for an upgrade, would be financed, courtesy of a generous influx of foreign capital.

The Council had hemmed and hawed, and put the scheme to a vote. They'd done their due diligence. The numbers had checked out.

In the end, the accord was passed: unanimous, and binding.

Mel, in her office, began to receive a slow trickledown of congratulations for her upcoming nuptials. Most were happy for the promise of coin. Others were intrigued by her enigmatic choice of spouse. Still more were wary of a coup. But her tactical approach, paired with a patient charm offensive, had paid dividends.

It should've been a triumph. And, in some ways, it was.

But one look at Jayce's face, and all she'd felt was the hollow ache of loss.

She'd thought, eventually, he'd reach out for a talk. But, even after the news broke, and the days stretched into a week, then two, he'd remained silent. Then, by the month's end, she'd received a request: a meeting at a private garden where she and Jayce had picnicked, long ago, and made love in a patch of sun-dappled grass.

The same patch of grass where, the first time, she'd realized she loved him.

Mel had gone, braced for the worst. What she'd found, instead, was a Jayce she'd not seen in years: a boy, stripped of all pretense, with his heart laid bare.

Why are you doing this, Mel? he'd said without preamble. You know the score. You've known it from the start. He's a monster.

Carefully, Mel replied, I'm not denying that.

Then why? Why give him a chance?

Because the chance was offered. And I had the option, to either seize it, or walk away.

And you couldn't just walk away?!

No.

She'd said it simply, without artifice. Hurt darkened Jayce's eyes.

He's the father of my child, Jayce. My child, who deserves to have both parents in her life.

Jaw flexing, Jayce said nothing.

I'm sorry. Truly. I never planned for this. But... it happened. And we've made our peace.

Peace? he scoffed. You mean the bastard's blackmailed you.

There is no blackmail, Mel said, with a touch of steel. We've both agreed to this. I know you find him disagreeable. I know he's the last person you'd want to ally with. But if you'd look beyond the past, and focus on the present, you'd see how much good can come of this partnership.

Jayce shook his head. You're talking like this is a business merger, Mel. It's not. It's your life. And you'll throw it away, for the sake of a lie?

A lie?

Yes! You think, by pretending it's for the good of the city, I'll believe it's worth the price? That I'll let you walk down the aisle, and be married, to a man who's done nothing but spread poison everywhere?

Against her will, Mel felt a flash of anger. I'll remind you, Jayce, that I belong to neither you, nor him. If I walk down that aisle, it's because I choose to.

Jayce flinched, but held her gaze. I don't expect you to belong to me. But I do expect the truth.

That, you already have, Mel said, and her voice held a quiet conviction. I chose this, Jayce. I chose him. I'm going to make it work.

At the cost of your happiness? Softer, more ragged. At the cost of love?

Mel didn't falter. But she was aware of the wedding ring, heavy on her finger. Silco had presented it last night: a band of twenty-four carat gold, inlaid with a square-cut emerald, and flanked by twin rows of baguette diamonds. On one side, the Medarda crest; on the other, Zaun's chem-shield.

The symbolism was plain. Not a shackle, but a pledge of fealty, freely given.

A promise, in time, of something more.

Mel took a breath. Jayce. This isn't an affair of the heart. But that doesn't mean I'm giving up on love.

What's that mean?

It means... The truth, treacherously slippery, wouldn't slide off her tongue. It means I must look at the bigger picture. Our cities need each other. And Zaun's citizens deserve a second chance. They've been left out, and left behind, for too long. At least, with this marriage, they'll know that Piltover sees them. That they're part of the same family as us.

A family built on politics.

A family built on progress.

For a long moment, Jayce stared at her, as if memorizing the shape of her face. Finally, he said, You deserve more, Mel. Not because you're the daughter of a House, or the Councilor of a city. You deserve more because you're kind, and beautiful, and brilliant. You deserve it because you push us all to be our best selves. You're the heart of us, Mel. You always have been.

Mel, eyes stinging, said, Jayce—

I won't stand here, and pretend to be happy for you. I won't try to understand why you'd choose him. And I won't deny, right now, that it doesn't hurt to think of the two of you together. To know there'll be a little girl, and that man will be her father, while I'll be a stranger. But if that's your choice, Mel, then...

Then?

Then I'll support you. His lips made a tight angry smile. Just—be careful, all right. For the love of god, be careful. Because if he ever hurts you, or your baby, or the future we've worked so hard for, I swear on all I've held holy, I'll burn him, and everything he's built, to the fucking ground.

And, just like that, the boy was a man. In his stare, she saw, refracted through the prism of experience, the same fierce idealism, and the same bright-burning ambition, and the same unflinching readiness to change the world.

It was that stare, above all else, that had first attracted her to him: an untarnished faith in the face of adversity, and the willingness to lay himself on the line, and fight till his last breath, for a better future.

That would not change, no matter how far they strayed apart.

Nor, she understood, would her feelings for him.

He was gone, before she could speak. But his words lingered.

Like the depth of his pain—and his promise

Mel, alone, twisted the ring on her finger. And vowed, that whatever else she might lose, she would not lose sight of her own.

A week later, the wedding date was set. The venue was chosen: a secluded enclave, set deep in the woodland hills, overlooking the sea. Invitations were sent: Piltover's elite, and Zaun's top brass, and a few vetted journalists.

And Mel's ring, on her finger, twisted, and twisted, and twisted.

In a fortnight, she'd be a bride. Then, a wife, wedded to a monster, and the mother to his child. There'd be no turning back. Only a lifetime of choices: made, remade, and unmade.

In the end, no matter the price, she'd have to pay it in full.

Melancholy, Silco breathed, as they lay folded in the darkness, and each other's arms, suits you ill.

Shivering, Mel couldn't meet his eyes. I was just thinking.

About?

About how fast things have moved. It's not what I'd planned. But then, nothing in my life has gone according to plan, since I met you.

Second thoughts?

She heard no challenge in his words. Only a question posed with quiet gravity. As if her answer—her truth—was the only currency that mattered.

She'd mistrusted that gravity, at first. Had wondered, often, if it was a ruse. Her lessons about men and power were hard-won. Playing both was a matter of illusion, and required the right balance of fact and fiction.

But, in the night, Silco was different. His gravity was no trick, but a force: raw, relentless, and compelling her closer. Inviting her to seek out, and surrender, to the dark. To allow his eyes to drink her in, and his body to fill hers, and her heart, at last, to be stripped bare.

Here, she could be his petal, his darling, his treasure. Here, she could do anything, be anyone. Or be nothing at all but a string of sweet syllables: Yes, Gods, please, more, harder, until she could think no more, and all her words became a gasping, drawn-out sob that was his name.

And when it was over, and the darkness settled again, she was someone else: a woman, who, without fear, could ask for anything, and be answered. Who, for all her beauty and guile, wielded the power to lay waste to a monster, and remake him into a man.

She'd not understood then, that the monster was all too real.

And so, too, was the man.

Now, she felt his hand on her cheek. He was studying her: watchful, wanting. As if, at any moment, she might turn herself away. Or vanish altogether, like a figment, and leave him alone.

A fate she'd once thought was hers.

No second thoughts, she promised. No regrets. Only... it's happening so fast. Too fast. It's like a dream, and I'm afraid that, when I wake, I'll find it wasn't real. Everything will be gone, and I'll have to pay for my folly. Just like before. Only this time, I'll have no one to blame but myself.

His thumb brushed her bottom lip, still swollen from his kisses. You think... what? You'll say, 'I do,' and have to live with a monster, and his curse, for the rest of your days?

I think, she whispered, I've already been cursed by monsters. What matters is... a way to break the curse.

The barest smile cut the corner of his mouth. Break the curse—or the news?

Mel bit her lip. Both. I've been so preoccupied, I'd not considered... how I'm going to tell Mother. About the baby. I don't want her to be blindsided. When she is, she can be... volatile.

You think she'll cause trouble?

I think she'll see me as the trouble. A marriage she doesn't approve of. A baby with a Zaunite. And, in the same stroke, a deal that's put her interests in Hextech at risk. She'll try and use any leverage to dissuade me from going through with this. Any leverage at all.

Silco's smile faded. A hard gleam entered his good eye. Including the child.

Mother is capable of it. More, if it suits her agenda. She's a warlord. She doesn't care if she has to play dirty, or pull every nasty trick, to get her way.

Silco's bad eye flared with an ugly red light. In the gloaming, Mel saw his thoughts pivoting: one calculation, then another. The lines etched on his face told a story of his own battles: won by playing the dirtiest tricks and executing the narrowest gambits.

Yet, even an old hand like him knew: sometimes, the best strategy was to hold your cards, and let the game pan out.

It would be risky to alienate her, he conceded. Our networks are too closely twined. And there've been times when our interests have aligned for the best. But... he stroked her bottom lip again, as if the feel of it, of her, might ground him. Just—be careful.

Careful?

With her. With yourself. I know Ambessa, and she is no fool. She'll sniff out, in a heartbeat, the weakest point. And, once she finds it, she'll go for the jugular. If not yours, then mine.

And Mel, feeling the truth of his words, could only nod. Reflexively, her fingers went to her wedding ring, and twisted again. Already, it had become a fixture: a talisman to keep the ghosts of the past at bay.

But no talisman could stave off the inevitable.

Ambessa.

Rather than by missive, Mel chose to break the news in person. She'd invited her mother to her private apartments, and dismissed the staff. That way, if the walls rang with shouts of maternal strife, at least her paintings would be the sole witnesses.

Ambessa had listened, stonefaced, to the whole saga. When Mel was finished, she'd stared at her daughter with the full measure of her unyielding eyes.

Then, she'd shaken her head.

You absolute fool.

Mel stiffened. I fail to see how—

Ambessa forestalled her. Did I teach you nothing, child? Medardas are not slaves to their loins. We make our own fate. And we do not, under any circumstances, allow another soul to dictate our destiny.

I'm not letting Silco dictate anything. I'm doing what's best. For my city, and his, and the child between us.

A Trencher's bastard.

She'll be born in wedlock. She'll be a Medarda, by blood, and a Zaunite by birth.

So: little better than a savage.

Mel's spine straightened. So: your grandchild. The only legacy you have left.

Ambessa's eyes narrowed. Do not threaten me, Mel.

That is not a threat, Mother. That is a fact.

Ambessa loomed in; a monolith of muscle and bone. Mel held her ground, and her gaze. And something—some irrevocable shift, like the turn of the tide—came to pass. In that moment, Mel was no longer the girl haunted by her mother's lessons. No longer determined to eclipse the shadow of her past with a superficial surfeit of light.

She was, instead, a woman grown into her strength. A statesperson, a Councilor, a survivor. A woman whose mind, and heart, were her own.

And, soon, a mother.

The change in her bearing must've shown. Ambessa's eyes widened, then shuttered. Mel, with a hint of irony, smiled.

You cannot win this argument, Mother, she said. Nor can you intimidate me. I've chosen to go through with this. My marriage to Silco, and the child that comes of it. My legacy—if you call it that—will be a better future.

Better for whom? Ambessa snapped. For those damned Trenchers? For that man, who'll stop at nothing to spread his poison across the world?

If we were truly honest, Mother, is it a poison? Or merely the opposite side of a coin?

Ambessa's lip curled. Do not play the fool, Mel. He peddles freedom, and sells death. His hands are stained as red as the battlefields my armies have left behind. And your child will bear the taint of that legacy. Whatever your high hopes—for a blank slate or a better future—you've doomed her as surely as you've doomed yourself.

That is not for you to decide.

It is not a decision. It is a fact. And you'd do well, to remember: the line between our kind and theirs is as old as the sea. Your Hexgates and your golden spires and your lofty goals of progress are but a few years old. Our blood is centuries. And any weak link— Her eyes flicked, once, to Mel's belly, —should be excised.

Mel's fist closed, protectively, over her womb. In her voice echoed an edge of steel. If that were true, Mother, then why did you let me live?

Silence fell: the first in a lifetime.

Ambessa's expression didn't shift. But her eyes did: a crack, shining through the facade. A mother, too, staring at the daughter she'd lost. Would have lost, in full, had she not, against all her instincts, cast her out, and cut the cord. A jettisoning that was yet a mercy—because otherwise, Mel would've been dragged down by the weight of her bloodline.

You were no weak link, Mel, she said, and her voice was the closest thing to gentleness that Mel knew. You were meant to be the torchbearer. The living proof of our triumphs. You—and Kino—were to inherit our family's light, and raise it high, so the rest of the world could see.

Mel's throat ached. And now?

Now you are the last of our line. Your brother is gone. My own days are numbered. And you've chosen to throw in your lot, not with the living, but with the dead. Because that is where that parasite will leave you: six feet under, and forgotten. As for the child? Ambessa took a breath. Yes, she is a Medarda. But a poor one, if he is her sire. If the gods are just, she'll die in the womb, and your ties to him, unravel. If not—

Mel's jaw hardened. If not?

Then her best hope is to be raised in Noxus. In her rightful place. Yours, too.

This was a clubbing blow to Mel's equilibrium. You—you'd take her away?

I'd take her home. And you, too.

But my banishment—

Has expired. Ambessa's smile was mirthless. I'm growing old, child. All my wars, my victories, will come to nothing, if they're not remembered. Our bloodline, and our legacy, must endure. And I will not see them fall, because my daughter is playing house with a deadman walking. I'd have you back home, with me. Both of you.

A piercing pain lanced Mel's ribcage. Her secret, most shamefully cherished wish, made flesh. A life, once torn from her, now offered on a golden platter.

But not because her mother had changed her stripes. Because the future she'd fought so hard to secure had turned against her. Because, after years of war, Mel's gift for honing peace had become the weapon of last resort.

A peace built, not on hope, but a hunger for everything.

Off Mel's silence, Ambessa came closer. Her hand settled, heavily, on Mel's shoulder. It's not an impossible choice, Mel. It's the only choice. The only place where you, and your child, will thrive.

And, in the pit of her soul, Mel wondered: What if it's true?

And her fingers, finding her wedding ring, twisted, and twisted, and twisted...

---

Now, Mel's fingers fall still.

The ring, heavy and gleaming, feels welded to her skin. Her eyes find Silco's across the breakfast table. A slant of sunlight gilds his scarred face. His hair curls softly over his brow. But in his features, she sees the shadow of the same monster as her mother's.

The one who's claimed the heart of a city—and won't let hers her go.

Mel whispers, "You think Mother will try to take me away? By force?"

"I don't think," Silco says. "I can see it happening in real time. Last night's missive is the first in a string of threats to come. You're her only heir. In your belly, sits the future of her legacy. She'd wage war to get her hands on both—and your city besides. Swain's down for the count, but he's not out. Soon, he'll rally, and fill his coffers. He and Ambessa will start their games all over again. She'll need your Hex-tech. She'll need Zaun's trade routes. She'll need a supply-line, and a base of operations. You are her ticket to all that. You and the baby. If I were in her shoes, I'd not hesitate to make a move."

"This isn't chess game," Mel snaps. "It's a carnage waiting to happen!"

"Better carnage than my child as collateral." He sets his teacup down. His stare levels with hers. "I warned you last night, Mel. Cut the knot—or keep the line tight."

"You did."

"And you chose to stay."

"It's a choice we made together. That doesn't mean you can dictate the terms."

"I will do whatever is necessary to protect what's mine."

Their eyes lock. Doubt, anger, and the darkest of desires, colliding in an instant. Mel holds her ground. Last night, she'd come to grips with the depths of herself. She'd come apart in his arms, and given in to every impulse that ever raged between them.

Now, she must confront the new vistas it opens. Must face the frightening extremes he will go to achieve his ends. Must grapple with the fact that she has willingly thrown in her lot with him.

And her child's future.

Reaching out, Silco caresses her jaw. His thumb traces the shape of her mouth. It is a prelude to a kiss. But it is his gaze, like a blade, that slips into her heart.

"Marriage," he says quietly, "is a binding contract."

"I recall the vows."

"Vows are ideals. The rest is work."

"I recall that, too."

"Then you ought to know. I do not shy from work. No matter how ugly, or hard, or bloody." His stare darkens: that glint of feral intensity that can still hypnotize her at the worst of times. "You are carrying my child. My family. I will not tolerate a single shot fired your way. You belong at my side, then there you will remain. I'll serve you a thousand cups of tea. I'll bring you every jewel you desire. I'll lay the world at your feet, and let you choose the pieces you'd like to see shine—or burn. But in turn, you must stay, and not falter. Not once."

"And if I do?"

"Then we'll both be very, very sorry."

Mel holds herself very still. Even as his palm gentles her cheek, she feels the unyielding certainty in his words.

Dimly, she thinks: I should be terrified.

I should be running as far as possible.

Instead, her heart settles, irrevocably, upon its choice. Because Silco, in his bottomlessness hunger, has chosen too. Now he is asking her—begging, really—to stand by her decision.

To stay.

Staring at him, Mel is struck by the dizzying realization. Here, on this side of the dawn, her world is not merely upended. It is laid bare.

The path, in the clean morning light, is her own.

"I am a Medarda," she says. "We do not run."

Silco's mismatched eyes hold hers. A blue horizon, and a black undertow. Mel can't tell which one claims her.

But the kiss, she takes for herself.

Carefully, Silco gathers her across his lap. She settles against him with a little sigh. The silk of her peignoir slides up her thighs; his palms caress the bare skin and body-warmed gold plating. Once, she'd have felt this position a precarious perch. Now, it's the most rightful seat in her world.

Mel, nestling closer, teases his lips open. The kiss is not a struggle, but a sweet melding. Honey and tobacco; tea and mint. All the base ingredients of her, and of him, blended into a single exotic blend. This, she understands, is their compromise. He will show her the dimensions of his need. And she, in turn, will show him the scope of her trust.

Trust...

"Silco."

"Mmm?"

"You say Shimmer is a scarce resource."

He nods. "There's the rub."

"What if the supply wasn't so scarce? What if you had resources, at your disposal, to increase the production?"

Silco's hands, still caressing her thighs, go still. "Are you talking about Hex-tech?"

"I am."

A look of bemusement—almost endearingly boyish—flashes across his face. "I don't follow."

"The hex-crystal vein you mentioned: the one by the riverbed. Are its frequencies closer to infrared or ultraviolet?" At his stare, she elaborates. "Magic comes in different spectrums. They read, in the three-dimensional world, as frequencies. Infrared, ultraviolet. Each frequency, when channeled through a particular crystal, yields a different effect."

The boyish look gives way to a suspicious squint. "How d'you know this?"

"How do you think?"

His hands, splayed across the geometric cut of her golden leg-plates, flex. "Your armor."

"Yes."

She can see the understanding creeping into his stare. He's seen the effects of her armor before: how it can absorb and rebound any attack. He knows, because she'd chosen to use it against him, during a moment of blind frenzy. Because she'd feared her life, and her city, were on the line.

In his eyes, she sees the moment relived. Then, he'd not known of the full story. Now, the pieces are falling into place.

"Kindred's bones." His fingers trace her knee. "You can sense frequencies."

"I can." She hesitates. "I told you, once. My armor was a gift from my father's kin. They called themselves the Order of the Solari. A clan of sorcerers, who could harness the sun's radiance of ultraviolet ions. They transmuted it, using a special gold, into the purest form of white magic. A protective sphere, that could turn any spell against its caster." She bites her lip. "To don the armor, the wearer must take a vow. To honor the Sun, and never to sully the light."

"To never kill, in other words."

Mel nods. She is aware of an emotion, a sense of heaviness, that comes with this confession. It was, after all, the catalyst of her banishment.

"The Solari creed," she says, "is to do no harm, except in defense of life."

"And you, a Medarda."

"Yes." The heaviness, lodging itself, in an ache in her breastbone. "The armor once belonged to my father. He'd renounced the Solari's teachings. But he kept the special gold on him, melted into a medallion. A good luck charm, he called it. When I was thirteen, he gave it to me. The moment I touched the metal, I felt the resonance. That's when I knew." A shuddering breath. "I'd inherited the Solari's gift. His family's gift. He made me keep it a secret. Only Mother and Kino knew. Mages—those sensitive to magic—are coveted in Noxus. If word got out that Ambessa Medarda's spare could sense the arcane..." A shaky breath. "It could have been a disaster. An enemy could try to kidnap me. Use me as a conduit, to siphon power, and drain a nation."

Silco's palm cups her kneecap. "Like your first lover."

"Dazur. Yes." The ache threatens to liquify into tears. Except she's scarcely wept a tear for that man in years. "I'd known him nearly all my life. When I turned nineteen, I'd lost my virginity to him. I believed, foolishly, that I could trust him. So one night, I told him. About the medallion. About my gift. He swore he'd never breathe a word." Mel's voice sinks into a hoarse whisper. "In the end, he didn't have to. I'd taken him into my bed. Bedded myself bare. There was nothing else he needed to breach."

"That's why he tried to abduct you." Silco's palm cups her knee. "Why he tried to force you to use your power."

"Yes." Her hand closes over his. "After—after Mother killed him, his head was brandished on a pike on the battlements. A declaration, for all to see. General Medarda had avenged her daughter's honor, and protected her legacy. She'd also kept its darkest secret safe. The Mage in her house, who'd inherited the blood of the Solari." The rims of her eyes sting. "For days, I stayed in my chambers. I looked out, from the window, at Dazur's severed head. And I thought: I can be more, can't I? More than a pretty pawn, or a secret, or a disappointment. I can claim my birthright." She lifts her chin. "A month later, I had the medallion recast into armor. I took the vow of the Solari. And my price—"

"Banishment," he says.

She nods, barely. "You know that story, too. For a Medarda, a vow to do no harm is tantamount to renouncing one's bloodline. Mother was furious. I'd committed the worst sacrilege: rejecting her legacy. I'd betrayed the name itself. As punishment, she had me cast out." She doesn't shiver, but the chill is bone-deep. "I don't regret my choice."

"Even if you were a Mage? In a city where magic is banned?"

Mel can't keep a smile from her lips. "Proof of magic is like proof of virginity. For all the fuss, it's difficult to tell the difference." She sobers. "Besides. The vow of the Solari is not meant to be a burden. It's a guiding principle. A way to keep one's actions true, and one's spirit balanced. The Sun does not grant power without the burden of accountability."

"If the Council knew, they'd have banished you."

"I've been banished before. I've survived." She meets his stare. "Jayce knows my secret. I'd used my gift to sense the frequency of his protype Hextech. And my influence to spur him into taking a chance with it. I wanted Piltover to understand magic. How, at its purest, it was not a force to be feared, but embraced. After I... after we became lovers, I told him the truth. He swore he'd never betray me. And he never has."

"You've told me your secret too."

"Yes." The memory of that morning-after: the wan sunlight, her terror-struck fugue, her tearstained shame. "And you've kept it safe."

"It was your choice to trust me."

"And yours to betray the trust." She studies his face. "But you didn't."

"I know a thing or two about secrets, petal. They're best held in a strongbox. Not a loose hand."

"Then perhaps you'll believe me, when I say the same." Taking his hand, Mel lifts it to her breast, where her heart flutters. "Magic is a net of frequencies. Hex-tech, the Solari, even Shimmer. They are all woven on a thread of the same frequency. The call of the Void. If diluted, it becomes corrupt. Dark matter, and dark intent. Infrared. But, at its purest, the frequency is ultraviolet. Raw magic." She cradles his fingers. "I've taken Shimmer into myself before. I've felt the resonance. The pain, the ecstasy. All the chaos that follows. And I can tell you, without a shadow of doubt: the source of Shimmer's power is a vein of ultraviolet hex-crystal. That means, like the Forbidden Idol, its magic can be stabilized."

"With what?"

"The same thing you used on the Thesaurus to equalize the Void's frequencies. Sands from the seabed of the Urvashian Islands."

She sees, in the dark of his eyes, a spark come to life. His mind, and hers, syncing to the same wavelength. Mel wonders, fleetingly: Could he possess Magesight, like I do? Or have years of Shimmer given him an insight, as close to it? Can he sense, in the very air between us, the frequencies at work? Can he taste their currents, and feel the tide of the universe, rearranging itself?

Or have the two us, finally, fallen into alignment?

She wonders, too, if their child will share the same sight. If it will have her own frequencies to harness. If it will have the capacity to sense, and change, the fabric of the world. She wonders if, like her father, the baby's gifts will manifest, in a different form, on the material plane. Or if, like her mother, the baby's being, every particle, will be attuned to the ethereal.

Or would the girl be, as their marriage, a reconciliation of dark and light?

A fusion that could harmonize, soon, into a home.

"It could work," Silco muses. "There's plenty of sand."

"And enough blackflower. Your teams can upgrade its formula into a consistent potency. Without the side-effects." She kisses his scarred knuckles. "Think of it, Silco. You've had success with medical treatments derived from Shimmer. If there was a way to stabilize its formula, and replicate the result—a safe, synthetic blend with Zaun's patent—you could leverage the drug as a panacea. With a steady supply, you'd have a real bargaining chip."

Silco's hands slide off her body. "What you're suggesting is impossible."

"Nothing's impossible. We've been down this road before."

"An operation of that scale would require immense financial backing. A dedicated workforce. An ungodly amount of research. That's not even mentioning the cooperation necessary to make it happen."

"I'm not proposing anything that's not already a reality. Our industrial sector has the facilities. Yours has the workers. Between us, we have the know-how to explore viable avenues of development."

"Zaun would be skint before we'd even recouped the initial costs."

"What if the funding came from above?"

"Above." His bad eye, unveiled by his hair, is piercingly red. "As in: Piltover?"

"Why not?"

"A venture of that scale would require a new set of terms. A rewritten accord between our cities. A renegotiation of the Treaty. All of it, requiring an official audience with the Council."

"You are looking," Mel reminds him, "at a Councilor."

Sunlight pours through the skylight. It turns Silco's face into a portrait of ravaged shadows. It's as if the sun itself is at odds with the topography of his flesh. But his mismatched eyes, locked on hers, are nakedly bright. Mel can almost see the storm burgeoning in his skull: a hundred scenarios, each more dangerous than the last.

A hundred vistas, each brighter than their sum.

"Mel," he warns, "if this is a game..."

"No game. A compromise."

"What?"

Mel shifts, drawing a leg over his. With both palms on his chest, she pins him. The body beneath hers is all lean spareness. But its lineaments reverberate with latent power. He could pulp her bones, if he wished.

Except his palms, cradling her hips, are gentle.

"I'll lobby the Council," Mel says. "We will sponsor a lab. A place where our bright minds, and yours, can work together. We'd put Shimmer to better use than bloodshed. The drug's capacity for healing is limitless. You've proven that just by existing." She touches her fingertips to the seam above his bad eye. His scar, deeply textured, is like sun-warmed leather. "It's time the world saw that, too."

"The Council would cry bloody murder."

"Then we'll shout them down. Together."

He is silent, his eyes roaming her face.

"Together," he says, "is a big word."

"And I don't take it lightly." Her lips replace her fingertip, soft on his mouth. "Why not take the leap? I know your scientists have been struggling to perfect a stable batch of Shimmer for years. With the right resources, they could. Hex-tech, too, was unstable before Jayce and Viktor made a breakthrough. The difference between the two is that Hex-tech was sanctioned by a Council, and Shimmer is not." She cups his cheek. "Let us do right by you, and Zaun, and the whole world besides. With your city's brightest minds, and ours."

"My city." Silco's scoff rumbles through her ribs. "Do you even know whom you're referring to?"

"Well..." Mel hesitates. "There's Jinx. There's Viktor. There's the Firelight boy. And there... Singed, isn't he called?"

"That's right. One trigger-happy menace. One Machine Herald hellbent on sloughing off the flesh. One green-eyed idealist with a chip on his shoulder the size of Valoran. And the last? A mad chemist who, by the grace of some god, hasn't turned my city into a zoo." His short laugh is a graveyard's worth of irony. "Zaun's brightest minds."

"Singed's research has shown remarkable promise. It's a pity he keeps refusing all Council's inquisitions. If he were willing to cooperate with the investigators, and open a line of dialogue—"

"Cooperation is not in his vocabulary."

"The Firelight boy. Ekko. He seems like a reasonable young man. His work with the crops, and the soil, is the model for what both our cities are hoping to achieve." At his glower, she sighs. "Even if he is Jinx's sometime-beau."

"He's a mouthy brat. With a death wish, besides."

"Viktor has worked closely with Heimerdinger. His Hex-tech is the reason my city is still standing. Even if he and Jayce have a history of, shall we say, creative differences, the man is a visionary."

"With a steel cage for a body, an automaton for a heart, and masses of loons camped outside his laboratory." His high-pitched mimicry is spot-on. "'Glorious Evolution! Vive La Machine!'"

"They're... zealous. But it's understandable. He has given them hope." Softer, "Same as Jinx."

His favorite subject, but not without a dose of paternal censure. "Jinx is perfect, and I'll not hear a word against her. But she's also a former war-criminal. I'm sure she'd find your proposal fascinating. But the second your investors learned of all the ways she's garnished her resume, she'd be barred at the door." He shakes his head. "Your city's built on prejudice as much as progress, Mel. The optics would be disastrous."

"I'm a Medarda. I know how to spin a tale." A smile tugs at her lips. "And how to play dirty."

He stills. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, the Council's name needn't be on the tag. Not officially."

He stares.

"Do you imagine it's the first time the Council has claimed plausible deniability? Every five years, a portion of our budget is allocated to private enterprises, not officially endorsed by the state. Projects that, in theory, are a boon to our city's economy. In practice, they're a way to skirt the laws." A tingle climbs up her spine: the thrill of her own daring. "Hex-tech was our lightning in a bottle. And you know, as well as I, that none of its early test-runs were sanctioned by the Council. Only—"

"Only you," he finishes.

Mel nods.

Silco's lips acquire their own devious curl. "So you'll sponsor this venture, under the table?"

"I'll sponsor it," Mel corrects him, "out in the open. I'll give the Council the option of sponsoring it, too. But their names won't be involved. Mine will."

"You'd risk that?"

"It's my risk to take." She threads her arms around his neck. "One third of the coin would come from Piltover. One quarter, from Zaun. The last, the biggest chunk, would be funded, privately, by donors."

"Donors."

"People who've profited, for years, off your city's misery." She kisses the spot beneath his jaw. "People on this ship."

Silco's pulse, beneath her lips, kicks up a notch.

"Well, well," he murmurs, "a little Trencher cock, and she's already thinking like a crime lord."

"There's nothing 'little' about it." Another kiss, to the underside of his chin. "Nor is it a crime. We're a married couple, sharing breakfast. Discussing our future."

"Discussing the grift of a lifetime."

"Not a grift. An investment. A chance to set things right."

They are close enough that she can count the lashes on his good eye: a choppy fringe, nearly translucent in the sun. But it's the heavy lid that gives his stare that supersaturated depth. The longer Mel stares, the less she can resist tracing the contours of his face: touching the silvered edges of his hairline, mapping the crooked bridge of his nose, caressing the hard crest of his cheekbone.

Evidence, in her palms, of his frailty.

His sigh is just a little hoarse.

"You're making it difficult," he warns, "to think straight."

"Don't think. Trust."

"Trust is not something I give wholesale."

"Then let's make it a bet." She nuzzles the hollow of his throat. "Let's wager on the future."

"Petal, if this is some misguided attempt to undo my sins, I'll have none of it."

"You think it's impossible?"

"I think," he says, "you've a gentle heart. And I've seen too many gentle hearts die in their own blood."

"Mine isn't a gentle heart. It's a Medarda's heart. We've fought for millennia to keep it beating. That won't change because you're near, Silco. If anything—" Her palm starfishes his chest, and the bruise beneath his shirt. Her claim, writ in flesh. "—It will only beat harder."

Silco regards her with an intensity she cannot quantify. As if he's peeling back her layers, one by one, and taking the measure of what resides within. The sensation is unnerving—and acutely erotic. All that's left, raw and throbbing, is her truest self: a woman who cannot deny him a single inch.

His own, under her palm, is a muscle-fisted clock. Keeping time to her touch.

I have him, Mel thinks, with a wild, exultant thrill.

He is mine.

Deliberately, she takes one of his hands, fingers interlacing. Guides it to her belly, and the tiny, barely perceptible swell there.

"Well, my pirate," she whispers. "Have we a wager?"

He inhales, sharply. His fingers, against her skin, tremble.

"Mel..."

"It's all right," she says. "It's only us."

His palm spans her belly. She feels the pulse, in his fingertips, beating out his hidden hunger. Since the child's quickening, his vigilance never flags. Always alert for the barest flutter of aberration—or the faintest whiff of blood. But he seldom allows himself to touch her there so unreservedly. Each time, his hands and mouth are a hairsbreadth away.

An invisible demarcation of the space where their future resides.

Mel doesn't blame him. A child is no an easy thing, even for an old hand. He'd stumbled into fatherhood with Jinx, the way most men stumble on a casket of gold: sheer luck and a touch of vertigo. She can't imagine his early years were easy ones. All she's witnessed is the aftermath: a girl, full-grown, whom he loves fierce enough to set the world on fire.

For Jinx, he'd burn it all down.

For their child, he'll build it anew.

"Us," Silco says, and his voice is hoarse. "That's... a word, too."

"Another big one. But I'm ready."

"Are you?"

"I've never been more certain."

He swallows, minutely. His palm stays over her womb. She senses that it's taking everything for him to keep still. Knows it's a constant struggle not to crush her to him. To claim her, and their child, with the same merciless tenacity he's laid claim to all else.

A shark, she reminds herself, cannot swim backwards.

Only forward.

"We'll start slow," she says. "Start by drafting the terms of the agreement. A fair deal, not a favor. The Council will need wooing. Your Cabinet, too. Then, there's the matter of the funds. They'll need to be diverted, discreetly, from official coffers. As for the donors, we'll have to tread carefully. A little leverage goes a long way, but we mustn't appear grasping."

"And your mother? Don't think she'll not hear the news."

"Let her." Mel's palm covers his. "Soon, she'll see we're not going anywhere. We'll prove her wrong, and she'll have no choice but to accept our terms—or risk our wrath."

A smile, finally, cuts across his face. "Risk her grandchild, you mean."

"One and the same." Her fingers caress the hard row of his knuckles. "We'll be the ones holding the cards soon, Silco. Once we are, we can renegotiate. For a truce, or a peaceable pact. We'll call it... the Treaty of the Golden Bridge."

"Poetic."

"But not without merit." Her eyes glow into his. "Wasn't it a bridge that brought us together?"

He makes a noncommittal noise. But his stare holds a savoring softness. They may not have all the pieces in place. But they have this:

The morning, and its spreading golden light.

A high-pitched cry pierces the air.

Mel nearly leaps from Silco's lap. Déjà vu sends a shockwave of gooseflesh down her body. It is the same cry that she'd heard last night.

The cry of a child.

Or a nightmare, given life.

Silco's head jerks up. A vein throbs in his temple.

"Fuck."

"What?"

He swears again. It's not lost on Mel how his encircling arm tightens

"What is it?" she demands. "Silco—"

"That damn Lorin. I told him to put the chit in the hold."

"Lorin—what?"

His eyes meet hers. "The boy's not dead. Whatever your mother believes."

"Not dead?" Mel blinks. "But I thought..."

"Her letter? Bad intel fed by worse spies. The body that washed up on shore wasn't Lorin." Silco's expression holds a dark subspecies of mirth. "As I said, I knew her men were on the island. The villagers knew, too. A coastal town that close-knit. They know every face, every birthmark, every tattoo. Still, they didn't breathe a word. Everyone dreads crossing Ambessa Medarda. She's a terror."

"But you did."

"Yes." His thumb sweeps her navel. "You forget, petal. I'm a terror, too."

The cry, once again. This time, it's less piercing.

More... plaintive.

"Who, then?" Mel manages. "Whose body washed up on shore?"

"One of Ambessa's own scouts." The mirth shades into a half-lidded malevolence. "Kolt alerted me the night we were scheduled to arrive on the islet. He said that a few guards were on the take. Ambessa's scout had bribed them to let him slip inside our villa. To find something that would incriminate me. A letter. A ledger. Anything that could be used as leverage, to get me to heel." His lip curls. "Foolish. The moment he breached those grounds, he'd dug his own grave."

Mel's blood chills. "You killed him...?"

"Kolt did. A chance to prove his bite." He tips a shoulder. "It's not so difficult, in a place so remote. The sea provides plenty of options. One can, quite literally, drown their troubles. In my case, Kolt found a shark."

"A shark."

"There's a small quay near the village. Not an ideal spot for swimming; it attracts a pod of bull sharks. Mostly, they're a nuisance. But a few, in particular, have a taste for human flesh. Kolt dragged the body out, and heaved it into the water. By the time the remains washed up, they were unrecognizable. The same day, Kolt helped Lorin stage his own death: a boat cut loose, and a splash into the sea. In truth, he'd stowed into the SS Woe Betide. I paid off the villagers to keep their mouths shut. They carted the scout's corpse off, and burned him at the pyre as one of their own."

"So you let my mother believe...?"

"That she'd got me by the bollocks. A ploy, so she'd show her hand. Ambessa's a clever one. But she's not invincible. And she's certainly not above gloating." Silco's mouth thins. "She'd hoped to spook you into running. Instead, she's shown her eagerness for the Iron Pearl, and for snatching you, and your unborn child, back to her side."

Mel's wits regain their balance. "And knowing the extent of her ambition, you can make countermoves."

"Correct. Once we're docked in Zaun, Lorin will be smuggled out into the city. The crew will show him the ropes. A year or two, and he'll have the training necessary to understand insurgency tactics."

Disquiet, like nausea, creeps in. "He's young, Silco."

"We're all young. We all grow up." Silco lays a palm on her thigh. "In time, the boy will return to the island, fully trained. He'll have his pick of recruits: villagers eager for change. Those who've grown weary of the Noxian yoke. Together, they'll build a new order. They'll take control, and drive the Ambessa's scouts from their territory. All with the weapons we provide them."

"Meanwhile, the island will become one of Zaun's outposts."

"It has strategic value." The palm caresses her thigh. "But that's not it's only appeal."

"No?"

"It would, in time, make a fine retreat."

"A retreat?"

"For you and the child." A shadow falls over his eyes. "It's not a safe world out there, Mel. We know it. We've lived it. Even with a hundred accords, there are no guarantees." He mouth works as if tasting something bitter. "I can't give our children a world without risk. But I can make certain they have places to retreat to, until the madness boils over."

"Silco—"

"I should have told you sooner. I wanted to. But, between your mother's games, and the ups and downs of Mal de Matrimonium, I needed the situation well in hand." He squeezes her knee. "And I needed to know you wouldn't run at the measures taken."

Mel's eyes hold his. "You should have trusted me."

"I wanted to try."

"Try harder." She cradles his head, gently, in her palms. But the compulsion of the past hours is undeniable: the need to strip him, and lay him bare, and take her due. "Because if you're not careful, you'll have your Iron Pearl, and your island, and your city. But you'll not have us."

His eyes, too, drink in the measure of her. Mel sees, barely perceptible, the softening in his features. It's a subtle shift: the way sea, in the dawn, goes from a hard impermeable gray to a soft transparent blue. She's seen this look before. The one he'd worn, earlier in bed, as she'd taken him all the way inside.

His hunger, barely leashed. His devotion, a naked burn. And this.

This, that is not quite either. Yet both of them, and more.

Then he is closing the space between them, both hands skating up the arch of her spine. Their bodies, sliding, lock together: the sharp-ridged cage of his torso melded to her hourglass curves, the whipcord strength of his arms, and her own, a smaller, darker loop, encircling his neck.

No kiss, but their foreheads touch. The morning light, pouring over their heads, merges their shadows into one.

"Mel," he breathes. "I—"

The cry, piercing, intrudes a third time.

Mel jerks. She'd been so lost in him, she'd forgotten. Now, its pitch is unmistakable. Not human, and not monstrous.

It reminds her of—

"Is that," she manages, "a kitten?"

Silco's subaudible sigh is its own answer. "I told Lorin to keep it out of sight. He must have left it to run amok in the galley." He frowns, his thumb brushing her nape. "Are you all right?"

"I..." Mel swallows. "I thought it was a child."

"A child?"

"Last night. I kept hearing the cry, over and over. I—" She shakes her head. "Why is there a kitten on board?"

Silco tips a shoulder. Dismissively aloof—and unabashedly disingenuous.

"I'd meant it—" He won't meet her eyes "—to be a gift."

"Gift?"

"You told me you'd had a tabby, as a girl. Ambessa had it put down, after learning its claws were poisoned." A smile, off-kilter. "Your face, when you were recounting the tale. Positively wretched. I'd thought—" He breaks off. "It was spur-of-the-moment. At the island's docks, one of the crewmen saw the scrawny thing, and I had him drag it aboard. After checking for fleas, of course."

Mel blinks rapidly. Her eyes are burning, worse than ever. She's not certain if it's because of the unexpected care behind the gesture—or because Silco, still avoiding her eyes, looks the picture of awkwardness. The sight, so foreign, is nearly laughable. As is the idea that this man, the Eye of Zaun, had been spurred into action by a sorrow. And sought, in his own way, to soothe it.

A kitten.

Her kitten.

"I—" Her erratic pulse takes a moment to steady. "I want to see it."

"Now?"

"Yes." Her fingers clutch his lapel. "Please."

He relents, with a guarded look. Their bodies disentangle. Mel straightens her robe, and scrubs a palm across her cheeks. They are dry, but she feels the telltale streaks of tears, the ones that she'd never shed as a girl. For the kitten that, even now, she misses with a ridiculously childish ferocity.

Or, perhaps, her tears aren't for the kitten, but the girl who'd held it.

Silco, at the intercom, relays the instructions. In a few moments, Lorin appears at the doorway. His clothes are wrinkled, as if slept-in. There's a smear of jam at the corner of his mouth. He must've been in the galley, helping himself to breakfast.

"Sir." He's breathless, a little wide-eyed. "The cat. I've got her, and—" He stops, noticing Mel. A blush suffuses his freckled face. "Good morning, ma'am."

Mel tries to summon her serenity as a stateswoman. But the sight of this young man, with sticky smears of jam on his chin, is too adorable.

"Lorin," Silco says tersely. "You were ordered to keep the pest confined to the hold."

"Yes, sir, I was. I did." Lorin, chastened, fumbles with something in his pockets. "She's a real fidget, this one. She kept squirming, and then the bag tipped over, and she got out. She ran right through my legs, and up the stairs. I couldn't get a grip on her. "

"That's why I suggested a crate."

"I thought a bag would do, sir. She's such a tiny thing."

"Now here we are." Silco's tone is a replica of the one he uses, in exasperated moments, with his crew. "Next time, Lorin, mind your orders. I don't dole them out of whim."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Well? Hand over the little devil."

Sheepish, the boy deposits a squirming bundle into Silco's waiting palm. It's the most incongruous sight: the lean, hard-edged crime-lord, and the fuzzy wisp in his hands.

Mel, at Silco's elbow, peers down with open curiosity. She sees, not a monster, but a darling: brown and gray with black stripes. It has a white tufted belly and a short, bushy tail that ends in pale scrim, like a paintbrush dipped in milk. Its ears are tiny triangles; the paws the size of acorns. A pair of eyes, deepset green, peer from an impudently snubbed face.

It looks nothing like Mel's girlhood kitten. But it's a sweet little bundle—and Mel, instinctively, wants it.

Wants it, fiercely.

"Oh," she breathes. "She's lovely."

Reaching out, she caresses one silken ear. The kitten's nose, wet and pink, nudges her fingertip. A soft purr rumbles through the tiny body—then climbs in staggering octaves. Clearly, the creature is pleased with its new admirer.

Silco grimaces. "She's got a voice on her. You'll not sleep a wink if you let her stay."

"I—I don't mind."

"Well, she'll need a bowl." His tone is curt, but not entirely heartless. "Lorin, fetch a dish from below. Fill it with scraps."

"Yessir."

"And a litterbox. One of those hideous potted plants in the stateroom ought to do."

"Yessir."

Mel, caressing the kitten, can't help noticing: the boy's rapt expression as he listens to Silco's instructions. He's clearly unused to the sumptuous trappings of the ship. But it's the man, not the vessel, who holds him in thrall. He watches Silco as if the man were a master painter: wielding a brush and a palette of unguessable colors, and a vision to bring the world into focus.

Mel has seen that look before.

Her emotions are a roil, but she schools her voice. "Thank you, Lorin. This is a kind gesture."

"Of course, ma'am." He smiles, almost shyly. "If there's anything else I can do—"

Silco cuts in. "That will be all."

"Sir."

Lorin salutes. The door swings shut, and she hears the boy's retreating footfalls.

In the silence, Mel can't quite meet Silco's eyes.

The kitten, nestled in his palm, is a perfect circle of fur. The purr vibrates deep enough to shake its little ribcage. Unable to resist, Mel scoops the kitten out of Silco's palm. It weighs no more than a pair of velvet gloves. She cradles it to her chest. The kitten's paws knead her breastbone. The purr ramps up a notch.

Dazed, Mel listens to the serenade of fuzz. It's like a miniature orchestra: the timbre shifting from bass to soprano, and back again.

"Silco," she whispers. "Thank you."

His look is guarded. "Don't thank me yet. The thing's a regular terror. It's already clawed the ship's upholstery to shreds. You'll have to keep its nails trimmed, and confine it to the parlor while we're at sea. And, once we're home, it must remain in your Topside penthouse. I don't need it getting underfoot in my quarters. Or shedding on my carpets."

"And once our residence at the Promenade is built?"

"We'll have a kennel."

"Silco."

"Mel," he rejoins, "I will not turn our bedroom into a petting zoo."

"No." She can't resist a tiny tease. "You'd prefer a shark tank."

"I prefer you, and Jinx, and our child. The rest, cat included, may rot." That earns a yowl from the purring bundle. He regards the cat with an arch look. "If this is your attempt to renegotiate, it's not working."

"Not a renegotiation." She smiles. "Only a small indulgence."

"Indulgences lead to mutiny."

"You are wedded to a sea-witch."

"A watery grave for us all, then."

Their stares hold. She sees the warmth hidden in dark undercurrents. The burn in Mel's eyes threatens to spill over. Burying her face in the kitten's fur, she struggles to compose herself. The impact of the past hours, her mother's machinations, and the terrifying enormity of her own emotions, hits her all at once. It's overwhelming, and a little dizzying, and entirely, unutterably Silco.

A man who, last night, set his future at her feet, and bade her claim him, if she dared.

A man who, this morning, has presented her with a gift: small, but no less precious.

Monsters, Mel thinks, are like paintings.

Both are layered, and full of secret meanings.

"Well," she murmurs. "I suppose you ought to have first rights."

"To what?"

"A name."

He makes a dour moue. "It's a cat. Name her whatever you like."

"But she's a gift." Mel tips the kitten towards him. "She deserves a name from the giver."

Silco's stare settles on the feline with a hint of distaste. Mewing, the kitten stretches a paw out. It snags his shirt cuff, and the claw catches. Swearing under his breath, Silco disengages the hook. His touch is brisk. But she notices that it holds an unerring care.

Whatever front he puts up, he's dandled a cat or two in his time.

Mel watches the man's face, and the cat's, locked in a battle of wills. Finally, a crooked smile tugs at Silco's scarred mouth.

"We should call her," he says, "Ambessa."

"Silco."

"Or, if you're opposed to the idea, Jayce."

"That's not funny."

"It is, a bit." He strokes the kitten's chin. "What did you call your old tabby?"

"Tigris."

"Hmm. This one's not exactly a Tigris."

"No." Mel regards the kitten's squinched face. "She's far too sweet."

"Bit of a scriker, though, isn't she?"

"Scriker?"

"It's a slang from the Lanes. Anything with a healthy pair of lungs."

"I do hope you won't name her Scriker."

"I'd rather not name her at all." He sidles closer. Doesn't touch the kitten. His thumb, light, skims her cheekbone. "The baby, on the other hand..."

Mel, despite the flutter in her belly, doesn't falter. They've had this talk before. "In Noxus, it's believed unborn children belong to the Celestials. They are not given formal names, until their third year of life. By then, their spirit is sure to have settled in the body."

He crooks a brow. "Zaun is not Noxus. And you're Piltover's darling. Between us, we can break the superstition."

"It's custom, not superstition. The Grand Matron, until I was three years old, never addressed me by my name. In her eyes, I was an imp of the infernal realms." A wry smile. "Not to mention: I was a menace."

"What, then, did the old harpy call you?"

"Girl, mostly. Or Little Dear. The occasional Brat."

"Charming."

"I was, frankly, the opposite. But Kino, when we played together, would call me 'Honeybee.' That was the name I liked best." Mel's smile grows wistful. "I've had so many names in my life. All were given to me by others. None truly suited."

"So why not choose one?"

"You know why." Mel cradles the kitten closer. "Names have power. If a name fails to suit..."

"Then you're trapped with the wrong one." Silco's thumb touches the corner of her lips. "Still. Don't you think the name-bearer can change the name's meaning? Make it their own, by strength of will?"

"You believe so?"

"We've both done it." He shrugs. "Why not our daughter?"

Mel bites her lip. Our daughter. Each time he says it, all the blood in her body races to pool down into her womb. She's never been the maternal sort. Always had a keen, unerring sense of her own ambition, and what it takes to achieve it. The last thing she'd wanted was to be tied down. Or worse, found wanting.

And yet...

Her mind makes a quicksilver leap back in time. To the Void, and the little girl, and the warmth that had followed her all the way down to the Deep End. She can still taste the soft apple-rounds of the child's cheeks under her lips. Still smell the scent of the girl's hair, like a bracing whiff of summer-sweet strawberries. Still feel that tiny palm, with its five little fingers, on hers.

That same hand, Mel imagines, is inside her, now.

And hers is on it.

The longing is nearly a gut-punch. All the things she'd lost—a home, a family, a sense of self—come rushing back.

All the things she may yet reclaim.

"I'd want," she whispers, "something special."

"Something special." Silco's echo is bland. "You mean: Piltovan."

"Not necessarily. Something... honest." Absently, she strokes the kitten's ears. "I'd want her to be herself. Whoever that is. No masks, no posturing. Just..." Her eyes flick to his. "I suppose I'd want to give her what I didn't have. The freedom to choose."

He is silent. The gravity of his stare is almost physical. She feels his thoughts ticking over.

"How about," he drawls, "we make a bargain."

"Oh?"

"I'll name the kitten. You name the baby. If we dislike the names, we'll trade."

This, Mel thinks, is hardly a fair deal. But the allure of a game is irresistible.

"All right," she says. "We have a wager."

"Let's seal it, then."

He offers a hand. She takes it. Their fingers lock, and their mouths follow. It's a kiss that holds no quarter: slow and deep, and full of the night's decadences. Their bodies, melding, squish the kitten between them. An indignant yowl rises. They are oblivious. By the time they part, both are a little winded.

"Well?" Silco's voice comes gravelly. "What's it to be?"

"Go first."

"A proper name?"

"Anything you like."

A smile cuts across his face. He considers the ball of fur.

"Melike," he says. "Call her Melike."

Mel's legs feel felled from under her. It's the last thing she expected. Moreso because she'd never told him of that special name. It's not a secret she'd recounted to anyone: not even Jayce, her dearest, or Elora, her confidant. No one, not a soul, knows that the name, bestowed on her in Wuju, is the one she cherishes above all.

But he does.

He knows, and he's given it, without hesitation.

"Melike," she repeats, slowly.

"It's the dialect on your favorite island, isn't it?" His tone is teasing. His eyes are not. "Melike. The Queen Bee. A fitting tribute."

Mel tries to conceal her shock. There are, she thinks, no coincidences. Only patterns, laid by design. And this pattern, he's laid expertly, so she can't escape.

Nor, Mel thinks, would she try.

"It's a good name," she manages. "You chose well."

Silco regards her with that unerring scrutiny. "Well? Let's hear yours."

"I'll have to pay a forfeit."

"What for?"

"Because." She shivers a little. "You've already claimed it."

His fingers, tipping her chin up, are gentle. But his stare, darkening, is pure, visceral satisfaction. He'd been content, thus far, to wait. But her admission, Mel knows, has given him permission. And, like the shark he is, he'll not hesitate to claim his due.

"Have I, now?" His thumb drags, deliberately, across her lower lip. "I wonder what else I might claim."

"Anything," she whispers.

"Anything?"

"If you tell me... how you knew."

He smiles. There again, that startling glimpse of humanity. He leans in, and their foreheads meet. He breathes in, and Mel does too. The moment is fragile: a gossamer filament of light, barely perceptible, but purely theirs.

A dream, held.

"My clever petal," he murmurs. "Do you need to ask?"

The Void, Mel thinks. It reveals the truth.

It shows us ourselves.

To her, it showed the girl. To him, it showed the girl's future. And now that he knows both are safe, and close, and his, he'll bestow his own seal of approval.

Types like Silco always have the last word.

Types like Mel always get the last laugh.

Types like us, she thinks, will make the child a handful.

"Melike, is it?" he says.

"Daughter of Zaun and Piltover," Mel whispers. "What do you think?"

"I think—" His mouth, a mere inch away, smiles. "She's ours."

They kiss. It's the soft savoring of the morning. It's the ruthless taking of the night.

It's a future, in the flesh.

Theirs, together.