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lullabyes22-blog · 24 days

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Mal de Mer - Ch: 4 - Treasure Part II

Summary:

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.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X

꧁꧂

Maybe I'm just too demanding Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold?

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

A vista of endless blue gives way jagged black peaks rising like a city's skyline.

The Hydra—or so the artificial port is called—sits in a hollow formed by two undersea cliffs, which shield the anchorage from both sides. The sun, a blinding glare, winks off the superstructure. At first glimpse, it resembles a mirage: a phantasmagoria of glass and steel. Closer, it resolves from myth to mundanity: a sprawling, low-slung complex, with an array of docks, hangars and fueling stations. Its colossal weight of ten thousand metric tons is held afloat by a series of airtight nitrogen capsules, encased beneath the steel-plated underbelly. Beneath, miles down, is a bed of solid granite. The complex's anchor, a six-mile-long steel tether, is secured by titanium-plated cables to a peak on the seabed.

The design, a masterwork of engineering, is an homage to its maker: Viktor, the Machine Herald. For an unknown sum, he'd crafted the facility, first as a prototype, then as a permanent installation. Silco had also commissioned his expertise for designing a fleet of specialized vessels: the Siren's Call. A collection of sleek submersibles, built to his exact specifications, and piloted by a cadre of elite seamen.

Their function: transporting precious cargo from the Hydra, back to Zaun.

A fan of sea-spray kicks in the wake of a fleet of skiffs. It sparkles in the intense brightness of the sun, like a handful of tiny diamonds flung to the sky. Silco, at the helm of the lead craft, navigates with a smuggler's ease. The craft's prow, a narrow point, slices a white streak in the water. Inside, the passengers—Cevila, Hector, Lady Dennings, Garlen—huddle, blindfolded and guarded, in its wake.

Abovedeck, Mel sits hunkered behind her husband. She has taken off her inadequate boots and tucked her skirts between her knees. Her bare ankles are rashed with gooseflesh; her dress, half-drenched, clings like a second skin.

This, she thinks, is why he'd asked her to lose the chiffon.

Seamlessly, Silco threads his boat through the maze of piers, and slips between two massive derricks. Then he steers into a small basin, where a pair of towering steel doors yawn open.

At the fore, the port's emblem gleams: Zaun's dagger-winged chem-shield, etched in vivid green.

They are, officially, in the belly of the beast.

Mel, braced against the spray, stares in mute awe.

The hangar is colossal: a maelstrom of sound and motion. A web of florescent lights, strung overhead, casts a harsh white glare. Everywhere, men and women, in labcoats or overalls with Zaun's crest, pass in and out. Some, armed with clipboards, are inspecting cargo. Others, armed with power tools, swarm the corners: checking seals, topping up fuel tanks, testing equipment.

Cranes swing. Pulleys screech. Engines roar. The scene is a sensory assault: an undersea hive, humming with one singular purpose.

Progress.

As her eyes adjust to the dazzling brightness, Mel makes out the dimensions of the dry docks: a spread of interlocking piers and canals, all set in an intricate steel gridwork. Ships of every size and class are anchored: freighters, frigates, ferries. A flotilla of motorboats, their hulls painted the distinctive Zaunite green, zigzag in between like darting minnows. The acrid stink of exhaust and brine is overpowering.

Silco, at the wheel, takes a deep inhale.

"Funny, isn't it?" he says, quietly.

Dazed, Mel says, "What is?"

"What can be achieved if coin is actually invested where it's due."

The spray hits Mel's face, cold as a slap. She is still in shock. She'd had no clue this behemoth existed. No inkling of the depth and breadth of Silco's designs.

Her voice doesn't quaver. But there's a taut note: like the twinge of a pulled muscle. "How long?"

"Three years, give or take. I've had my eye on these waters since before Zaun's independence. The initial plan, if you can even call it that, was to mine minerals from the seabed. Metals, crystals, ore. Anything we could find." A twist of the wheel, and their boat, with a gentle jerk, eases around a corner. "The project had to be scrapped. We lacked the resources to extract. Not to mention the funds to build a port. Revolution's a costly business. So's maintaining control over a city. Especially one that's eating itself alive."

"So, you turned your eye elsewhere."

"Necessity is the mother of invention."

"Shimmer."

His profile is inscrutable: a figurehead at the prow. "Yes."

Mel feels no anger yet. Only a dull hiving in the pit of her belly. The same feeling she gets whenever their arguments veer into dark territory. A sense of disorientation—surrealism—at how easily Silco shifts between extremes.

How, without warning, he steals all her air, and leaves her suffocating.

"And this?" she grits out. "When did you discover glyphs under the seabed? Or that they linked to a portal system?"

"I knew nothing about the glyphs. Only that, since my smuggling days, there were stories of a secret network used by Oshra Va'Zaun's navy. A shortcut between sea routes, where ships, powered by ancient magic, could pass from point A to point B in a heartbeat. Like Piltover's Hex-Gates, but at sea." The corner of his lip curls. "As a young man, I'd always thought the maps drawn up by different navies seemed—odd. The Noxians, for example, are too busy with their conquests to chart out a thorough seaway. They're more concerned with securing the strait's borders, rather than what lies underneath. Demacia, meanwhile, is a landlocked bore. They have no real seafaring tradition, nor the need for one. Their navy's purpose is mostly for patrol, and the odd skirmish here and there."

"And Piltover?"

"Piltover has always been the authority. Or so it claims. It is, however, a city built on greed. The first thing I did after Zaun's independence was to invest in archaic runes from the Shadow Isles. I gifted these to Jinx. For her research into the arcane, and its connection to Zaun's network of magic leylines. Soon, she and Viktor discovered a common thread. The runic systems were not simply confined to Zaun. They were also present, on a much larger scale, along the coastline. A stretch of sea-passage, coincidentally, where Zaun was already establishing a nautical corridor."

The hiving in Mel's belly is spreading. The truth is a bitter sting.

She whispers, "You planned all this."

His profile shifts: three-quarters to the light. The left side, a dark slash. "Is that a crime?"

"The coin from each investment I approved throughout the years. Each transaction sanctioned at my table. Each project aimed at mutual prosperity between our cities." Mel's fingers clench the railing. "It was all being funneled into this!"

"It was being put to proper use."

"This—this is an act of subterfuge!"

The engines rumble as they slow. She's glad for the white-noise. It serves as a screen. The rest of the party, belowdeck, cannot hear them. And yet, the privacy is its own torment.

Here, there is nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run.

Silco, his eye fixed on the horizon, says, "This is an act of necessity."

"Necessity?"

"Zaun's independence is a reality, not a dream. Reality requires capital. And, unlike Piltover, I can't rely on a bottomless treasury of stolen goods. Our mines are ripe with gems. But gems mean nothing without trade routes, and markets, and vessels to transport them. We are one of Runeterra's most well-situated cities, but we can only export via one single corridor: your Hex-Gates." His good eye swivels her way. "If I had asked the Council, you think they would have funded this port? This fleet? The Iron Pearl?"

"You had no right to—"

"No right?" His tone is biting. "I have every right. Zaun is a sovereign state. This is statehood in motion. Fissurefolk have a history of carving out a living, no matter the odds. We've navigated these seas for centuries before the Cataclysm. We've endured wars, famine, natural disasters, and the collapse of an entire empire. We've fought and bled and clawed our way to a foothold. If anything, the least you can do is to afford us the dignity of making our own way."

"You," Mel fires back, "are undercutting the city that supported you."

"Piltover has already taken its pound of flesh. Now, we're taking back our share."

A dull throb begins in Mel's temples. She'd always known Piltover's stranglehold on Zaun. The city's natural bounty: a vast reserve, kept under lock and key by dint of the Peace Treaty. After the Siege, and Zaun's rupture from Piltover, she'd needed to assuage the Council's fears: that Zaun could be, if no longer a treasurebox, a viable trading link. That an accord between them was of mutual benefit.

Two cities: partners in prosperity.

But what Silco has constructed, with the aid of her city's coffers, is a different beast. A counterpoint to Piltover's supremacy: a network of ports and channels, hidden from view, and under his absolute governance. A private empire, beyond her grasp—or the Council's oversight.

A disaster, Mel thinks, with a thousand mile radius.

Once word gets out, the Council will be in uproar. They'll see the Iron Pearl as a direct challenge: their monopoly on foreign goods undermined in the span of a night. Investors will be stricken. Some, dreading a capsized market, will flee. Others, emboldened, will seek Zaun as the next safe harbor. Global trading networks will split along two faultlines. Shipping chains will likewise crack at the seams.

A tectonic shift, as profound as the invention of the Hex-gates.

And Mel, a wedge, caught in between.

Trust me, he'd said.

I do, she'd replied.

The irony is not lost on her: her trust, like her marriage, has led her into a trap.

And, like any trapped animal, she lashes out.

"This your idea of compromise? An ambush in plain sight?" She hears her voice crack, and hates herself for it. "I would've given you anything. All you had to do was ask. But no—you'd rather skulk around in the shadows. Scheming like a—"

"You call it scheming. I call it strategy." Silco's hands, guiding the wheel, are steady. "Or did you expect me to stay on sufferance? My city's trade—its lifeblood—tied for generations to your Hexgates. My future hinging—year after year—on accords written by your Council. Bureaucracy, backtracking, backstabbing. A charade of concessions, with Zaun's dignity as the cost?"

"Charade?" Her face goes hot, then cold. "Is that what you see this voyage as?"

"Worse. I see it as a farce." His knuckles, she notices, are whitening. "You, playing at being my wife. Putting on a show for all your guests. The men and women who've undermined my city at every turn. And what do you do? Peddle your smiles to grease their palms. Force my hand, and force yours, and force everyone else's—all to keep the peace." His laugh is pitched low. And yet it slices through the air. "Peace. If this is the price, I'd rather go to war."

The pain, like a needle, pierces Mel's skull.

She'd known, since the voyage began, that he was angry. That he was sick of the hollow platitudes and hidden barbs. But she'd thought, with her efforts this morning, that she'd successfully mitigated the damage. Diplomacy, rather than daggers—all to the goal of keeping the status quo.

A false premise, she realizes.

Zaun no longer recognizes the status quo. Not when the city has an undersea fortress, and a fleet of ships, and a web of trade routes.

"This—this is politics," she tries to reason. "You've seen me do this countless times!"

"That's precisely the point."

"What point?"

"You." It is a sibilant hiss. "Doing this. Every. Damn. Time."

"Silco—"

"You have a gift for it, Mel. I won't deny." The wheel spins beneath his fingertips. The craft veers into a narrow canal, bordered on both sides by towering cranes. "I've always enjoyed it. How you can turn a crooked cause into a straight road. Turn a cutthroat into a charity case. But have you stopped to consider—just once—that I don't want to be your charity case? That watching you play nice with those leeches and bootlickers, day after day, makes me sick? That I'd rather toss the lot of them overboard than have you sacrifice a shred of yourself for my city's coffers."

"I am a Councilor," Mel protests. "My duty is—"

"Your duty is to be my wife!"

The whipcrack timbre cuts off the words in her throat. For a moment, Mel can do nothing but stare. His expression—the slow hardening shift of muscles, the creeping chill of mismatched eyes—is as remote as a dying star.

In her mind's eye, she sees their wedding night: her ruined silk underthings a breadcrumb trail between parlor and bedroom. Thinks of Silco, a phantom silhouette in the gloom: on top of her, inside her, filling her, all burning eyes and biting kisses and sweat-slick skin. Thinks of the aftermath: of him cradling her in his arms, his fingertips tracing the scratches his teeth had gouged, his whispers a cool balm to the fire his touch had lit.

"We'll get there," he'd promised her, again and again. "Just give it time."

"Time," Mel had whispered, clinging to his neck.

"All we need. All I ask."

"You could ask for more."

His chuckle had grated deliciously against her skin. "I'm greedy, my sweet wife. I take what I want."

And she'd smiled, and let him take.

Wife.

The word, entwining with sensuous tenderness, now constricts like a noose.

"My wife," Silco repeats, quieter, but with an unmerciful intensity that cuts her to the quick. "Not the prop to humanize me in front of hysterical prudes like the Dennings. Not the pincushion to hide behind when Cevila Ferros slings barbs about my bloodline. Not the bargaining chip to trot out when Hector wants to renegotiate a loan, in exchange for a few harmless gropes. Certainly not a piece of meat for Garlen and his pack of jackals to paw at in full view—all for the good of my city." A vein pulses dangerously in his forehead. "My wife, Mel. Mine."

Mine.

The word, like a key, unlocks the full dimension of his rage.

She'd known he was a jealous man. Had assumed, in her naïveté, that it was born of a bruised male ego. Because he was a powerful man, who'd risen from nothing. And, like all power-hungry men, he'd sooner hoard her attention than share it.

Now, she sees her mistake: the root cause of his jealousy was never the sharing.

It was the humiliation.

Having a shipful of strangers, in all their privilege, look down their noses at him. To treat him, publicly, with varying degrees of hostility—all because he'd been born in the wrong place, and raised by the wrong people, and bested his own fate with his bare hands. To be regarded, in turns, as a volatile threat, an exotic savage, or a useful commodity—but never as an equal.

And Mel, in the course of a single evening, had condoned the whole circus.

In her mind, she was protecting his interests. In her heart, she was trying to make amends. In her actions, she was keeping the peace.

But in Silco's eyes, she was making a mockery of her vows.

And with this voyage, selling his soul. All to keep Piltover's good standing at Zaun's expense.

Mel's throat hitches. She can feel the miserable tremors of childhood bubbling up. Her fingers clench the rail; the only thing left to cling to. For a terrifying heartbeat, she is a girl again, condemned beneath her mother's shadow.

But Silco is not Ambessa.

And she is no longer a girl.

"I did this," she grits out, "for us."

"No," Silco says, flatly. "You did this for them."

"They're our guests."

"They are the enemy."

"Silco, they—"

"My enemies," he says. "By word. By deed. The difference, Mel, is that both of mine have teeth."

The salt-spray stings Mel's eyes. Adrenaline, cold as seawater, sluices down her spine.

And it hits her:

I am in hostile territory.

"Why have you brought us here?" she says. "What are you planning?"

At the word—us—there is a change in his expression. It is subtle, but unmistakable. Suddenly, the fluid animation that powers his every move is gone. The man left behind is—not an effigy—but a facsimile of human life. Skin and bones and blood, but nothing more.

Beneath, there is a bottomless void.

And it is very, very hungry.

"I told you," he says. "This is a treasure hunt."

"Silco—"

"I've given them the bait. Now all that's left is to reel them in."

"Reel them in for what?" Without realizing, Mel has begun to edge away. To put herself between him and the bodies belowdeck. "Silco, these are my guests. My allies. I am responsible for their safety."

His stare doesn't falter. "So am I."

"Tell me," Mel says, her heart pounding. "Please."

He is still a moment longer. Then he lifts a hand and smooths back the flyaway curls that have broken rank from her coif. The gesture is oddly gentle. And yet, Mel has a sense that he's gripping her throat in a fist.

"Put your boots on," he says, deathly soft. "We're here."

And the skiff, neat as a pin, glides into the dock.

The guests, in a dazed cluster, file off the skiffs.

Their blindfolds stripped, they resemble, to Mel's eye, a school of bewildered fish: faces palely pinched, eyes gleaming, mouths working. Their shoes squeak on the steel plates. Many, still in their finery beneath their life-vests, shiver in the deepsea chill. There are whispers. Shaking heads. Furtive glances. As if, beneath the dazzling florescence, a monster lurks.

It's the fear that's always in the back of their minds.

The fear, Mel realizes, that Zaun will be their undoing.

She, too, is stunned. Not simply by the sheer size and scope of the Hydra, but by the fact that Silco has, for years, managed to conceal such a behemoth construction. She'd known he was cunning. Known he had a gift for biding his time. But to have built, under her city's nose, a sprawling, multi-level port complex, and an armada of submersibles...

It's not a matter of scheming. It's a matter of strategy.

Did you expect me to stay on sufferance?

Trust me—and don't run.

Her mind, a stifled storm, feels the full brunt of his words.

In her ear, Ambessa's lesson, learned the hard way:

Marriage is a sea unto itself... If you try to tame it, it will swallow you.

"Mel?"

Lady Denning's voice, like a clubbing blow, sends her stumbling back to the present. She blinks. The crowd, a collage of anxious faces, solidifies. The noblewoman is clutching the spray-dampened hem of Mel's sleeve. Her lips, blue-tinged with cold, are pursed in a moue of distress.

"I think," she quavers, "I may have caught a chill."

Mel's nurturing instincts kick into gear. "Stay close. We'll find you someplace warm."

"Mel, where are we? This place—I don't recall our itinerary including it. Is this truly one of Zaun's ports? The size of it—" Her eyes flit, birdlike, over the vast expanse of metal. "Why, it's like the mouth of a leviathan!"

"Sssh. My husband wanted us to see the fruits of Zaun's progress."

"Progress! Oh yes. And then we'll go home?"

"Of course."

"Oh thank gods." A childlike hiccup. "I'm truly not dressed for an expedition."

"I wouldn't worry." Mel, her arm firmly looped around the woman's waist, casts a swift glance at the rest of the group. They are, she notices, also clumped in clusters. The women, huddling together. The men, pacing around them in small, tight circles. The air, despite the chill, crackles with tension. "The sooner we see the treasure, the sooner we'll leave."

"Treasure." Lady Denning jitters a forced laugh. "Yes. A treasure. How—how exciting."

"It will be, yes."

The answer is rote: a reflex honed over years of crisis.

Inside, she is paralyzed. She'd been prepared to deal with the economic repercussions of the Iron Pearl. Nightmare scenarios of Piltover's trade networks collapsing into a morass of litigation. Zaun's ships, their holds laden with contraband, being impounded at sea. The Council, furious, holding her at fault—

All of that, she could've dealt with. She's a Medarda, and Medardas can outfox the fiercest threats.

But Silco's plan, whatever it is, is a different beast.

She has no precedent for this. No guidepost; no rules of conduct. Only a feeling, as visceral as the bite of winter, that something is closing in.

She looks across the platform, and there, a hundred feet away, is her husband.

He is speaking to the crew: wiry, sharp-eyed men and women in grease-streaked uniforms. They are all Fissure-born: Mel can tell by the tattoos and scars crosshatched on their bodies; by the glint of cybernetic implants on their hands or faces; by the sinewy muscles that flex in their shoulders and arms.

Ambessa had often liked to say there's no trusting a man or woman without a single scar.

A marked man has more backbone in his pinkie than an entire pedigree of soft-skinned cowards.

If that is the case, then these are the most upright people in existence.

A court to a crooked king.

In their midst, Silco is a slender silhouette. His features are set in blandly neutral lines; his body holds an easy languor. And yet his voice, compelling in its slow articulation, holds the group in thrall. They do not shrink in subservience, like serfs under their liege's boot. Instead they lean in: grim-faced, intent. The deference in their stance verges on reverence.

Mel knows how much power the Eye of Zaun wields. In Piltover, he is a formidable adversary. On the global stage, he is an up-and-coming terror.

Here, in Zaun's territory, he is a god among men.

Succinctly, he issues a series of orders. As one, the crew nod. A single gesture, and they disperse: each vanishing down a different corridor of the maze. The last of the men—a hulking brute, with a shock of bright orange hair and a face that's a mass of knotted scars—touches his fist to his chest. His mouth, a lipless slash, cracks in a smile.

Silco imparts the barest smile in turn.

Then, he turns—and his eyes, two chips of different-colored ice, lock onto Mel's. She feels, again, as if her throat is being encircled in a cold fist—and lovingly, oh so lovingly, squeezed.

A blink, and the pressure is gone.

And her husband, closing the distance, is at her side.

"The crew are bringing around carts," he says, pleasantly. "They'll escort the guests to the viewing gallery. Give them a bird's eye view of the haul."

"Haul?" Mel keeps her frayed nerves from her voice, "Of what?"

"Patience. You'll see." He gestures to the brute-faced crewman. "This is Kolt. He and his men will handle the party's safety."

The man, with an affable grin, nods. "Yessir."

Lady Dennings, huddled close to Mel, whispers, "Safety? I—I don't understand. From what?"

"Protocol," Silco says smoothly. "Nothing more."

The poor woman, trembling, presses closer to Mel. "I think," she mumbles, "I need a hot drink. And a dry cloak."

"You'll have both, and more. Just an hour's patience."

"An hour—?"

The noblewoman's voice fades into white-noise. From within the warrens of the Hydra, a strange rumble erupts. A low-pitched buzzing at first, it grows, like a wave, into an earsplitting discordance. It resembles a thousand metal gears grinding against each other. And yet the echo is surreally musical, like a symphony swelling from the depths the sea.

The guests, crying out, huddle into protective swarms. Some clap their hands to their ears. Cevila, hissing like a wet cat, swats free of her cringing husband. Hector, quivering volubly, nearly stumbles to his knees. Garlen, swearing, draws a pistol, and is immediately restrained by his own retinue.

Lady Dennings, clinging to Mel's waist, nearly swoons. Bracing her elbow, Mel holds her steady. Her skin crawls with seven layers of gooseflesh. The sound is everywhere: a palpable force, vibrating up her spine. It feels like a descent from foreboding to doom. Her mind, always balanced on an effortless gyre of equilibrium, is suddenly off-kilter. The imagination conjures a monster: vast and unseen, rousing itself from slumber. Acres of sea-water, churning, as it begins its slow crawl towards the light.

Only Silco stands his ground. He is preternaturally calm, his hands laced behind his back, his profile cut from cracked stone.

Like a conductor before his infernal orchestra.

Then—

The demonic grinding fades. The molecules in the air, pinwheeling spastically, begin to settle. The silence throbs into lingering aftershocks—until, gradually, the ordinary hum of activity resumes.

As one, the guests heave out a collective sigh.

"My stars," Hector wheezes. "That was frightful!"

Cevila cries. "It was a seaquake!"

"Feh," Garlen grunts. "More like a faulty engine. I've heard worse at Zaun's foundries."

To punctuate his point, he kicks the railing. His boot-heel rebounds off the metal with a hollow clang. Sound and fury, Mel thinks, signifying nothing. Underneath, he is terrified.

Lady Dennings, curled at Mel's side, is a wreck. Her eyes are swimming; her cheeks wet.

"Oh, dear gods," she whimpers. "Please, Mel. Let's just go. Please."

"Hush," Mel soothes, though her heart is pounding. "It's over. We're fine."

"That noise—ghastly! It sounded like a monster."

"No monster," Mel says, hoping she's right. "Only—"

"Magic," Silco finishes.

At this, the noblewoman buries her face in Mel's shoulder. Mel, keeping her composure, holds Silco's stare. Even with the distance between them, she can feel the electricity of impending danger in the air jump like a needle into the red.

"Magic," she repeats, flatly. "What sort?"

"The undersea glyphs. They emanate a resonance, each time they are used." His tone is light, but the gleam in his eyes is pure blackness. "Different frequencies for different distances. That, for instance, was an arrival."

"An arrival of what?"

"Treasure."

Lady Dennings has begun to whimper. Reflexively, Mel smooths circles between her shoulderblades. She's a delicate soul, prone to the vapors. Her husband, the milquetoast, is too feckless to do anything but hover.

Mel's own husband, the bastard, is only a stone's throw away. And yet, the distance might as well be the breadth of an ocean.

"I don't care for games," she says, leveling the turmoil beneath her tone into steel. "Explain yourself. Or show us the way out."

"I intend to."

"What?"

"The way out. That's where we're going." With a languid sweep of his arm, Silco gestures them deeper into the abyssal maze. "Tread carefully, my dear. The rest of you: come."

It's not a request, but a decree.

And the guests—the hostages, in all but name—follow.

The cart ride is a rollercoaster.

Not the exhilarating type: with loops, and spins, and a plunge that leaves you cheerfully breathless. This is the opposite: a series of gut-wrenching spirals and gravity-defying corkscrews. The carts, a fleet of narrow, flat-bedded vessels, are designed for efficiency rather than comfort. Mel, seated with Silco, grips the edges with bloodless knuckles. She's half-certain the next twist will send them colliding straight into a dead-end.

The interior of the Hydra is a labyrinth. The network of zigzagging corridors, catwalks and canals is an infrastructural marvel: a cityscape unto itself. Everywhere, generators throb. A latticework of pipes snakes overhead. Workers rush to and fro. The pulse of machinery is a warm womb, burgeoning with possibility.

A sense of the world changing shape.

The Medardas, Mel thinks, believe in keeping the world as it is.

Now Silco, with a single decade's work, has thrown that belief into a tailspin.

He sits, an impassive silhouette, in the seat opposite. She'd always known he could keep a cool head under pressure. Now, witnessing his calm in the face of the unknown is terrifying. He is no longer the man who'd kissed her, with such fierce tenderness, at breakfast. Nor the sly enigma who'd sat, smoking, at the bar, while Mel had spun her diplomatic web.

This is a stranger: an ice-cold entity, his plans locked behind a sheet of blankness.

She feels for the ring he'd given her, twists it on her finger. It's all she can do not to wrench it off and fling it in his face.

"Bastard," she hisses under her breath.

He doesn't flinch. "So many have said."

"I will never forgive you."

"Many have said that, too." A beat. "I wonder how many times I'll have to listen to you say it."

"Not much longer, the rate you're going." Her rage has calcified into a core of gold: reactive to nothing, and solid to the worst blow. The Medarda rage, Ambessa used to say. It's why our women are the fiercest. "I'm beginning to see why Sevika warned me to steer clear."

A crease—instantly flattened—passes beneath his forehead.

"Sevika?"

"Before the engagement was publicized. She pulled me aside. Told me I was taking a huge gamble. That she didn't think you and I would suit." Mel, sensing the chink, presses her attack. "She never told you, did she?"

Silco, motionless, says nothing.

"Now I see why. Truth has no appeal to you. Only games." A glance at the guests, a straggling cluster in the rear cart. The poor things are terrified: the women shaking, the men pale. Only Garlen, the bullheaded brute, looks ready for a fight. "She warned me of that, too. She said, if this was a passing fancy, I should keep an escape route open. But if it was a permanent fixation, you'd make my life a living hell."

The crease appears again. And holds.

"What," he says, "did you tell her?"

"I advised her to save her breath. I said I wasn't afraid. I was a Medarda. And Medardas, come hell or high water, always get what they want."

"A bloodline of unparalleled ambition."

"I believe the word Sevika used was 'blind hubris.' I could tell she didn't think much of my pedigree—or my choice. When she left, I thought she was simply bitter. All her years of loyal service, and her beloved leader had bypassed her. Worse, he'd chosen a Topsider." Mel smiles without humor. "Blind hubris is right. I didn't understand at all. Her warning was less about me, and more about you."

There is no change in Silco's expression. Yet the opacity is deceptive: more a veil than wall.

"Sevika," he says, low, "has only ever had Zaun's interests at heart."

"Does she know the full extent of your plans?"

"Yes. She is loyal to the cause."

"Then perhaps it's her you should've chosen."

She'd meant to hit below the belt. But his answer, flat in its simplicity, leaves her reeling.

"I nearly did."

The cart's wheels shriek. Sparks leap. They round a corner, and the corridor narrows. The walls, composed of industrial metal, are streaked with rust.

Or blood.

Mel's throat closes. "You two—"

"She was my comrade. When necessary, my sounding board." The timbre is even. "Sometimes more."

The veil is drawn. Behind, Silco is unknowable. But no longer, Mel thinks, untouchable.

"Did you—" she begins.

"Did I what? Trust her? A damn sight more than I do you. Did I fuck her? Yes, and often. Love her?" He doesn't bother hiding the derision. "Sevika never angled for my love. She knew where she stood. In my bed, and at my side. That's what made her a good lieutenant. She understood loyalty." A shrug, careless, but weighted with intent. "Unlike some."

Mel lowers her head. There is a tiny taste of blood where she's bitten her underlip. It fades fast beneath the sourness of rage.

She thinks of Sevika: all hard lines, and cold dark eyes. Of her body—scarred, sinewy and so unlike her own—that Silco must've taken pleasure in. The thought of them together is an ugly blemish on her mind's eye. And yet, she thinks of the rapport between them: a seamless coordination of word and deed. The implicit understanding of each other's motivations. The tacit safekeeping of the other's secrets. The fierce devotion, born from a shared purpose.

He says Sevika, and his surface stays deceptively slick. But if she dives deeper, the waters are bloodstained.

"You," she says, "loved her."

"That's not what I—"

The rebuff is too sharp. Like the crease in his brow. His facade: cracked.

And Mel, a lifetime's study of her mother, sees her opening.

"You loved her," she says, "but you had to let her go."

She has him. She knows, by the flicker of his eyes.

"Yes," he admits, finally. "I did."

"Why?"

"Because, in Sevika's words, I'd already committed myself. Because the crisis between you and I was too fraught to sidestep. Because if I'd kept her around, I'd have done something... rash. Selfish." Another shrug. "She told me, in simple terms, to get on with it. Even if, by the end, my cold feet had morphed into fins." He offers a thin smile. "Mal de Matrimonium. It takes a certain woman to inspire it."

"Like me."

"Yes." The smile fades. "I'm sure of many odds, Mel. Sure of Zaun. Sure of Sevika. Even Jinx, my wildcard, works in ways I can predict. But you? You're the one variable I cannot account for. And that makes matters... complicated."

"You regret our marriage.

"I never said that." A long, awful silence. “I detest the waste."

Mel, stunned, stares.

"I've lived long enough to know, when the dice are cast, the result is a tossup. It's the nature of the beast. With you, it was always a question of whether it was desire—or the desire to make a difference. Whether I could live with the first. And whether I could afford the second." His stare, unerring, holds hers. "With Sevika, the scales were simpler. She understood my means. She understood my ends. Our desires didn't hold us hostage. They were simply a natural consequence. I've no doubt, had I chosen her, she'd have my bollocks on a platter. But, at the end of the day, Zaun would be the stronger for it." A beat. "And my life, safer."

Safer.

The word slashes through Mel's fugue. In her mind, she sees a pair of warm tawny eyes. A smile, pure and true. Arms enfolding her, and soft lips kissing her forehead, her nose, her mouth. A different man, a better man—his embrace a refuge rather than a tightrope. To the last, he'd cradled her close, and whispered, with all his heart:

Don't go.

I'll take care of us. We'll be okay.

If she could've chosen her Happy Ending, it would've been Jayce.

But there is no such thing as Happy Endings. Or, if there are, her mother made sure she'd lost hers the moment she was born.

A Medarda, Ambessa always said, languishes in safety.

It is in danger that she shines.

The cart shudders, its speed decelerating. Mel's anger—that golden core—has gone brittle. His confession is an axe. Each sentence, a blow.

But her spine does not bend.

"It's too late," she says flatly. "You’ve chosen me."

"I have."

"I'll oblige you, if you wish. Your bollocks on a platter." Her smile barely wavers. "Your heart, I've yet to find."

Now the crease deepens. Barely perceptible: a cut of shadow.

“Mel,” he says, warningly. "Let's be grown-ups about this."

"Oh, indeed!"

"We entered this union with our eyes open. Our motives were never altruistic, much less romantic. You sought to stabilize your Council seat. I, a means to leverage my city's independence. It was a bargain struck with a single clause. To both our benefit." He shakes his head. "The rest is noise."

"I've seen how well you deal with noise."

"And I've seen how you manage the same. But this is not noise." A grim chuckle. "This is our future."

"Don't presume to speak for me."

"I'm not presuming. I'm stating facts." He leans forward. "If you had no intention of seeing this through, you would've cut your losses. Hell, you had the perfect chance. Back on the ship, you could've sided against me. Could've claimed ignorance, or trickery, or betrayal. Instead, you chose to stand by me. Why?"

"Because—"

Because I've failed one relationship already.

Because I’m tired of losing what’s mine.

Because, gods help me, I—

The words stick in her throat. The truth, too deep, refuses to dislodge without bleeding.

"Because I gave my word," Mel snaps. "Earlier today, you made me promise not to run. You said, and I quote: 'I've a great deal to hide. But the endgame is the same as your schemes for my city: a step toward something greater.' Now you've taken me to a secret stronghold. A place you've built with Piltover's money, and kept hidden from Piltover's eye. You've put a shipful of foreign dignitaries on the chopping block. Tell me—is this the endgame? Because it's beginning to look like a declaration of war."

The crease disappears between Silco's brows. In its place is a frown. It's not the frown he makes when she's displeased him. It's the frown that lingers in the aftermath of his daily Shimmer-shot. When the pain is a dull, grinding ache, and the medicine's effects have yet to kick in.

"War," he says, "is the last thing I want."

"Then what do you want?"

"What I've always wanted. A better tomorrow."

"For who?" She looks him dead in the eye. "You—or us?"

"That depends on the ‘us.’"

The cart snakes sharply down a corridor between two columns, jogging left and right. Sparks fan from a welder's torch above; the glittering embers, sulfurous and bright, cascade past his cheek. His profile is shadow, set against a background of fireflies.

"Us," he goes on. "What's your definition of the word, Mel? Is it a piece of paper? A ring? The words we say, or the acts we share? Or is it those great heaving ideals: peace, prosperity, and the common good? Because all of that won't happen unless my city's free. Free to be a powerhouse unto itself. Free to control its own destiny, and make its own choice. That, Mel, is my endgame."

"And my guests?"

"Witnesses—or collateral."

Mel stops short.

"They can choose to swim with the tide. Or resist, and drown."

The golden core flares into molten fury. Without meaning to, Mel bolts to her feet.

"If you touch a hair on their heads—"

The cart shoots past the corridor and veers sharply to a stop. The sudden change of momentum, from full speed to dead stillness, throws Mel off balance.

The world spins. Her fingers skitter off the metal grille. She pitches forward.

Then—

Warmth. Solidity. Anchorage.

Mel, reeling, finds herself enfolded in Silco's arms. His breath, soft and smoky, gusts against her temple.

"Trust me," he murmurs. "That's all I ask."

The golden core is in meltdown. A thousand sensations, a thousand emotions, fractaling into a single streak of focus. For a moment she isn't sure whether to cling, or claw. Her body is caught in a mad swelter, a furnace-blast of need. The only certainty is the thud of her heart, and the scent of his skin.

Then, like a match, her clarity ignites.

"Let me go," she seethes.

He obeys. The air is a vacuum: chill where his warmth had been. His mismatched eyes kick off a strange smokeless heat that Mel feels all the way to her spine.

But he makes no further move.

"Your choice," he says, very quietly. "Same as theirs."

Then, without waiting for a response, he steps off the cart.

Mel is left to gather herself. Her guests, disembarking dazedly, are looking to her for direction. She feels, the way she had in girlhood, the weight of the world bearing down. A thousand pairs of eyes, a thousand expectations. Lady and Lord Dennings, huddled together like children. Hector and his wife, whispering furiously. Garlen, his fists clenched, pacing the length of the platform.

And Silco, loping ahead, his shadow a shark's dorsal fin cutting through the light.

"This way," he calls.

The guests, in a straggling line, follow.

Mel brings up the rear, her belly a pit. A few faces swivel her way. She forces a bright smile.

"We're nearly there," she soothes. "All will be well."

Her confidence—an unraveling lie—is the only veil she has left.

The viewing gallery, a vast circular arena, is submerged deep in the Hydra's belly.

The cantilevered walls are lined with portholes: round, glass-paned halos, crusted with salt. They offer a perfect three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the undersea vista. The depths are lit by the bluish glow of spotlights. Despite their incredible intensity, they do not illuminate much. Just a stratum of alien landscape: the swirling patina of deep-sea sediment, dotted with the skeletal carcasses of sunken ships. Now and then, a shoal of fish flits by, trailing a ghostly phosphorescence. Squids materializing, then vanishing, in a tangle of pale tendrils. Eels undulating slowly in the current.

It is an abyssal kingdom, guarded by the dark.

In the center of the arena is a colossal pit. Ringed by a rudimentary safety rail, it resembles an amphitheater. The rim is a series of interconnected catwalks, in concentric circles. At their aperture, a single walkway juts out. It leads, not to a door, but a tank. It is colossal: shaped like an hourglass, with a diameter nearly twenty feet wide. Its surface is perfectly smooth: a mirror of polished glass.

The bottom chamber is empty save for a layer of powdery white sand. Either it is Mel's imagination, or the grains seem to hover a half-inch above the floor. The top chamber is constructed out of scaffolding. Upon the platform sits a dais shaped like a hexagonal star. Its points are etched with a series of sigils

Mel recognizes the patterns. They are similar to the ones on the Hexcore.

At the pyramid's base sits a series of blocks. They are etched with letters: a script so incongruous it verges on absurd.

XOXOXOXO

Atop the dais rests a metal cylinder. A glowing purple sphere, the size of a man's fist, floats in a cradle in its base. Hidden behind its faceted surface, Mel glimpses the dimensions of a mysterious shape: a pentapod, conchical and quill-spined. Trapped like a fly in resin, its silhouette is delineated, then swallowed, then delineated again, in pulsations of light.

Her pulse kicks up a notch.

Everywhere, the air holds a palpable crackle. The glyphs are a throbbing lattice. The sea's currents, a massive heartbeat.

Science. Chem-tech. Magic.

All converging, like the spokes of a wheel, upon a single, impossible nexus.

"This," Silco says, "is the greatest treasure aboard the Hydra."

The guests, hushed, stare at the hourglass. They resemble children beholding a forbidden toy.

Hector pipes nervously. "It looks—like a fossil."

Garlen snorts. "A gewgaw from the Fissures, more’n likely."

"But it seems—alive!"

"Psssh. Just Trencher trickery." Garlen cuts a scathing look Silco's way. "Isn't that right?"

Silco's look of placid indulgence never wavers. In the marine twilight, he resembles a figment of the deep: coiled and patient. Biding his time before the fatal strike.

"Trickery, no," he says, lightly. "A relic, yes."

"Relic?"

"Indeed." He gestures to the floating sphere. "This is what the ancients called the Forbidden Idol."

The guests fall deathly silent. Their expressions are a spectrum of dread and disbelief. They've heard the old tales, in some fashion. The legend of the Forbidden Idol: an arcane device, forged by the sorcerers of Oshra Va’Zaun, to unlock the gates of the Netherworld. Its existence had, for generations, been relegated to a fairytale. The Idol, if it ever existed, was lost to the silt of time.

Now, here it is: floating serenely before them.

"Gods above," Lady Denning whimpers.

"No gods," Silco corrects. "Only industrious men. I'm sure we all know the legends. In the days before the Cataclysm, the Idol was a symbol of the Void. A vessel believed to house a multivariate spirit. The key to all knowledge. In the right hands, it could unlock the mysteries of time and space. In the wrong ones, it could usher the end of days."

His tone is casual. As if describing a peculiar species of coral.

"Horseshit," Garlen grunts.

"Perhaps. But there's a kernel of truth to it. The Idol does, indeed, contain a matrix of information. But not to the universe. The knowledge stored within is far more mundane. The details of a project—a map, if you will—compiled by voyagers from the First City."

Cevila, white-faced and tightly-wound, snaps, "Voyagers? You mean—"

"Mages," Mel cuts in softly.

Silco nods. "The original architects of Oshra Va'Zaun. Their purpose was to establish a concourse between our world and the Void. They believed the binary could be bridged, through the use of the right conduits. Sigils. Seals. Gems. Taken altogether, they'd be capable of translating the energies of the Void into a language comprehensible to mortal minds."

"Language?" Hector echoes. "A language of what?"

"Power."

The word falls with the faintest ripple; a stone arrowing straight into the depths.

"Power is the only language the Void understands. It is not an entity that can be bargained with. It is a primordial force; a vast reservoir capable of granting—and destroying—life. The mages sought to transmute this raw essence into a finite form. To capture a shard of the infinite, and distill it. To that end, they devised an artifact that contained, within itself, the blueprint for its own construction. A creature, born in the Void, and imbued with a fraction of its wisdom. A living repository. They trapped this creature, ageless, in a stasis field. Through sigils and spells, they calcified the beast, and imprisoned its consciousness, until it could no longer escape its enclosure."

The Idol coruscates hypnotically. The stone’s facets ripple and reform. The pentapod, briefly, seems to flex its coiled body. Then, the light subsides, and it slips back into inertia.

"The Void's ambassador," Silco says. "Frozen between life and death. A hostage to the whims of progress."

Lady Dennings shivers. "How dreadful."

"Men, playing god, are singularly cruel." A beat. "But their ingenuity? Undeniable. The creature's body has been alchemized into flesh and bone. Its spirit is sealed into the crystal. And its knowledge—a compendium of a hundred thousand years—condensed into a single volume. All of it written on the pages of its own prison."

The silence stretches. All eyes, in their orbit, are fixed on the Idol. Mel imagines the weight of it: a vast, crushing pressure like the bottom of the sea.

If the creature were ever to awaken, would the crystal shatter, or the world?

"This," Silco continues, "was the oracle of Oshra Va'Zaun. The old mages used it for their own ends. With its energies, they fueled their city. Their architecture. Their weapons. Their ships. They discovered zones, on land and sea, where the boundaries between our world and the Void were thinnest. There, they established nodes: glyphs carved into seamounts, obelisks erected at cliffsides, temples built from the bones of the earth. And, invisible to the naked eye, a network of ley-lines, linking each node to the other."

"Like a spiderweb," Mel says.

"Precisely. A web sensitive to the currents of the Void. It took years, and thousands of lives. When the final node was completed, the mages—foolishly—decided to test their creation. They activated the web, and drew from the Void an unprecedented amount of energy. Too much, for manmade structures to contain. The network collapsed into the waves. The mages were wiped out. The Idol sank to the bottom of the sea. Out of sight—but never truly gone. As the centuries passed, it continued to serve as a magical beacon. A siren, singing its song. Calling out, to those willing to listen."

The guests, half-seduced, have drifted toward the railing. A few lift their hands, as if to reach for the Idol.

Like pilgrims at a temple, Mel thinks.

Or moths lured to a flame.

Lady Dennings, and a few others, shrink back.

"Gods above,” she breathes. “This is—madness."

"On the contrary,” Silco says. “This is the purest expression of physics. Two charges, positive and negative, in a magnetic field. A force, pulling them together, by increments of time and space." The gleam in his eyes briefly shutters. "That’s how Jinx was able to find the Idol. An affinity of blood—or spirit. At great cost to herself, she recovered the relic from a distant shore. At great risk, she decoded its secrets, and unlocked the power contained within. All to make the dream a reality."

The dream, Mel thinks.

A network of undersea glyphs.

A trade route traversed in minutes.

A city: shining, strong, self-contained.

Free.

"So how's it work?" Garlen demands. "How's it haul cargo between places?"

Silco's half-smile cuts like a blade. "As I said. Resonance. The Idol is sensitive to the frequency of the Void. Each glyph buried along the seabed exudes a unique vibration, which the Idol is attuned to. Like a song of call and response. Zaun's navigators—over the years—have made deep-dives, mapping every glyph hidden under the waters of this strait. Their patterns are recorded, then faithfully carved into the dais in a series of sigils. Now, each time a different sequence of sigils is activated, the Idol broadcasts a corresponding vibration across the distance. The matching glyph, transforming these vibrations into sympathetic wave, opens a conduit. A portal that can be crossed by any vessel. Anywhere."

"Anywhere," Garlen repeats dubiously.

"Anywhere within Zaun's network. Which, I assure you, is extensive."

Hector whispers. "How—how far?"

"A dozen cities, spanning Valoran and the southern coast of Shurima. All linked by ley-lines of magical hotspots. Each one hosts a port similar to the Hydra." He spreads his arms. "The Hydra itself? The epicenter. From here, our goods are transported to Zaun’s shores. At the Iron Pearl, they're unloaded and redistributed to buyers from far-flung lands. A perfect loop: no delays, no customs. All right at Zaun's doorstep."

The silence shudders—not with dread, but temptation. In the guests' faces, Mel sees the naked dimensions of greed taking shape. A trading nexus without parallel. For a politician, hungry for favor, it is a banquet. Investments in everything from textiles, tech, trinkets. All available at a fraction of the expense, with a quarter of the wait. The returns would be astronomical.

All Zaun asks is the right to traffic freely across the seas. The right to be seen as a trading partner, rather than a pauper.

"But what of the danger?" Lady Dennings interjects. "The Idol's energy... It's unstable. Isn't it? Look at the way it's pulsing. And the sound earlier. So ominous..."

Silco's half-smile deepens.

"That, my lady, is the song of progress. The power of this Idol is derived from the Void. The same Void that destroyed the world, in ages past." He tips a mocking salute. "A debt, I'm afraid, the world has yet to repay."

Lady Dennings lets out a low, terrified moan.

"Hush, now. It's less volatile than you think. The sigils on the dais act as a mechanism to dampen the force. Jinx calls it a Hex-Code. She uses a great deal of technical jargon, so I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say, each combination of sigils controlling the Idol does not simply activate its power. It also ensures the power remains within a controlled radius." He indicates to the letters embedded into the base of the dais: XOXOXO. "No doubt, you've noticed the particular script."

"What is that?" Cevila says. "It doesn't look like any rune I've ever seen."

"Because you haven't. Jinx made it up. A private joke." The grin that touches his lips suggests he's the only one privy to the humor. "Simply put, it means 'Crossing Over.' It's the acronym Jinx and Viktor used to first calibrate the intensity of the Hexcore’s power. Now it's a safety mechanism. A trapped-key interlock, as Jinx calls it. Through a combination known only to Jinx, and myself, the magic of the Idol can be safely manipulated."

Lady Dennings' hand flutters over her heart. "But—what if you two were to have an accident? Wouldn't that be catastrophic?"

"My daughter, and I, are very careful. We're aware the power at our fingertips is vast. If the worst should pass, there are failsafes in place. Including an automatic lockdown sequence. The Hydra also has its own protective wards. They mitigate the worst of the Idol's force. As long as we take care, and follow the proper procedures, it is safe."

The final syllables, soothingly authoritative, fall like a spell. Mel senses the guests' fear abating; a narcolepsy of calm washing over the arena.

"And now," Silco says, "for the demonstration."

The guests jerk into alertness.

Turning, Silco gestures to someone. It is Kolt, the stolid man from earlier. His craggy features are unreadable. But the shadow of a grin touches his lips. Mel, watching him stride into view, feels a frisson of foreboding. But Kolt only crosses to a narrow control panel at the corner. A series of switches are thrown, a sequence of dials turned.

A moment later, the molecules in the air begin to hum.

It is a high-pitched note, piercingly pure. Mel flinches. The guests cry out, covering their ears. Then, like a tuning fork, the sound modulates. From a discordant thrum to a deep, melodic pulse. It is, Mel realizes, the same frequency that had been heard earlier. But more sonorous, and less frightening, like an underwater dirge.

Like the sea itself given voice.

Inside the hourglass, currents spiral. On the dais, the pyramid's panels, in sequence, begin shifting. The sigils glow a preternatural blue. One by one, they slide up and down, aligning into the desired configuration. At the base, the blocks imprinted with X's and O's slot into their grooves. The purple sphere, the Idol, gives off an irradiated glow. Inside, the pentapod seems to strain against its prison. Mel catches a glimpse of a single, cyclopean eye.

A scream builds in her throat, threatening to burst. The frequency reaches a crescendo. The light's intensity is blinding, searing, melting.

Then it happens.

In the bottom chamber, the sand begins to rise. It accumulates slowly, drifting as if on a current. Then it coalesces into a vortex. Mel thinks of the shapes she'd seen across nature: fractals, radials, double-helixes. Each shape, a geometric construct: a blueprint of life. A snowflake, an atom, an embryo.

And then—

Gold.

Formed from the particles, and solidifying. The grains of sand, all congealing into a single point. The gold takes shape, and mass, and dimension. Nuggets, becoming chunks, becoming ingots. A river of riches, pouring from the vortex and spilling into the chamber. The hoard is the color of the sun, and flashes with a warmth that dazzles.

Then the frequency shifts. The glow ebbs. The Idol goes dormant. In the chamber, the vortex collapses, and only the gold remains. It is a vast pile: a king's ransom. Enough to make the Council's coffers tremble.

Enough to set the mind of every guest aflame.

"How—" Garlen begins, then falls silent. He is thunderstruck. "How did it—"

"Sands from the seabed of the Urvashian Islands," Silco says. "Their minerals, according to alchemists, are the purest counterbalances of elemental energy. Each time cargo is transported, the sands are placed in the hourglass. They act as a stabilizer, absorbing the effluvium of the Void. By the time the cargo is retrieved, the sands go inert. Harmless." A quirk of the brow. "Best of all, we've no need to replace them. Their potency never wanes. They can be used over and over, indefinitely."

The guests are speechless. Even the bullheaded Garlen is mute with awe. Their eyes, passing from the Idol to the gold, are lit with a collective fever.

The crewmen, wheeling in a pair of crates on flatbed carts, make their way down the catwalk. Mel follows their progress. With utmost care, they unlock the chamber, and heave out the gold. The ingots, stacked neatly, fill the crates. Their movements are matter-of-fact: they've witnessed this miracle a hundred times before. But a twinkle of elation catches in their eyes.

They are all Zaunites: born and bred in grime. Now, they've hit paydirt. That twinkle is the taste of a life changed.

A future, free.

Silco, at the railing, watches them work. When they've finished, the crate is sealed. The crewmen wheel their burden toward the elevator. The grille gates clang shut. With a whirr of cables, the cart begins its ascent. A few men wave jauntily at the guests. Silco tips his own chin, a laconic farewell. His smile, though thin, is a rare sight.

The smile of a man whose dreams are, inch by inch, becoming real.

Then his eyes meet hers.

Something, briefly, breaks through the rigidly neutral expression. Something he'd tried to hold back, and could not.

It's not a look she can name. But Mel's throat catches. In lament, or longing, she cannot say.

The scale of his will is beyond measure. What else could he have accomplished, had he not been cheated? Has he cheated her, now, of her own choices?

Or only bypassed her own prejudices?

"Where—" Garlen swallows, and tries again. "Where'd the gold come from? It looked—"

"Icathian?" Silco, his eyes still on Mel's, nods. "You are correct. Payment, for a contract. We're aiding in the restoration of their capital, after its sacking at the hands of Noxus. As recompense, the chieftain has granted Zaun the rights to navigate the southern waters. A boon, given Icathia's history. The strait is a graveyard of lost civilizations—and buried treasure. It took years, and a great deal of coin, to excavate the remnants. The gold you see is a small percentage. Our share." A shrug. "Yours too, if you wish."

The guests stir. A few murmur. Cevila's face holds a harpy's lineaments. Hector's waxen countenance is flushed. Garlen's massive fists are clenched. Lady Dennings appears on the verge of swooning. The rest, spines jellied and appetites whetted, are starved fish circling round their own greed like chum on a hook.

Silco's words resound in Mel's head.

"I've given them the bait. Now, all that's left is to reel them in."

"The Iron Pearl," Silco continues, "cannot flourish as a Free Trade Zone, without the cooperation of Zaun's allies. That is, after all, the reason we've sojourned these waters. To broker peace, and forge alliances. You are my guests. Your presence here is a show of good faith. And your goodwill, in the coming days, will be integral to the success of this endeavor. I'm certain, should your nations respect Zaun's independence, you'll receive your just dues. In partnership—and profit."

There is a bland smile on his face. But his words are a stormfront. They move, inexorably, blotting out the space. They push aside all resistance, making impossible anything other than the total awareness of him. The gallery's temperature changes perceptibly from a cool draft to a chill.

Mel, weaned on her mother's lessons, feels goosebumps pebbling her skin. The guests, stripped equally bare, shiver. Even Garlen's sneer has gone brittle.

The offer, soft-spoken, is the soul of diplomacy. But not a single man or woman is insensible to the undertow. Zaun has established, with possession of the Forbidden Idol, a series of gateways at the doorsteps of every nation. Should a war be declared, these channels can be easily cut off. A chokehold, economic and strategic, that will strangle the ports into poverty. Retaliation will mean incurring Zaun's wrath: the cost, incalculable. Weapons of unknown potency. Threats, in a dozen secret hideaways. And a sorceress, mad as a hatter, whose whims may, at any moment, turn the tide.

All of this, Silco has spelled out in the politest terms.

Alongside the third option.

A handshake—between the guests, and the man whose worth they now know is worth gold. The man they can no longer afford to snub. After six nights of insulting everything from his city's origins to his personhood, their arrogance has led them to this moment. He: the powerbroker. They: a motley assemblage of aristocrats, a thousand leagues from home. Without the protection of their vaults, their vassals, their vanity.

With only Silco's word to guarantee their safe return.

There are no gods at sea, Ambessa used to say. Only the depths, and their mercy.

Silco's mercy, Mel thinks, will be less forthcoming.

"This is—" Cevila clears her throat. In more modulated tones than Mel has ever heard: "This is a marvelous opportunity, Your Chancellorship. But it is—that is—there is a lot to take in."

"In—Indeed," Hector says. "I, for one, will have to confer with my peers. They’ll need to—we’ll all need to—”

He breaks off. The rest nod their agreement. A few glance around, seeking guidance, or a savior.

Their eyes alight on Mel.

Mel, who has been in Silco's crosshairs the whole time. Who, by a series of events that now seem utterly inevitable, has been maneuvered to stand either beside the man whose hand will tip the scales of power—or be the last barricade between him and progress. Her choices, her convictions, her desires—all flowing weightlessly on a single rolling wave, and converging upon this very moment.

Did he plan this, too?

Or did he let the chips fall where they may, and seize the opportunity as it arose?

The air in the arena goes chokingly thick. The guests, a chorus of anxious breathing, stare at her. Silco's eyes never once leave her face. He is reading the small nuances of her expression like sailors read the stars. She can practically see him calculating the odds: gains weighed and losses tallied.

He is the highwire act, balanced between the heights and the abyss.

He is the shark, circling bloodless waters.

He is the bridegroom, waiting at the altar.

Waiting, Mel realizes, for her to make the call.

He's laid a gauntlet at her feet: a choice, with no margin for error. And yet, the ultimate test of trust.

If she refuses him, then she is the last line of defense. Piltover will become a citadel, with its worst nightmare at the doorstep. Her marriage: a failed gambit, her alliance with him a sham. She'll have to reconnoiter in every sense: reestablish her reputation, rally her allies, then re-enter the fray with all her armor intact.

And if she sides with him...

If she sides with him, Piltover's pinnacle is his to scale. The Hex-gates will no longer be the bastions of her nation. Their reach will stagnate, while his will grow. Not an imbalance, but a parity. One that, if she can believe him, will secure a better future. If she can believe he wants nothing more than a handshake, and a bargain. If she can believe that his ambition, though vast, is not bottomless. That the dream he has built, with the labor of his own hands, is the best hope for a divided land.

"Trust me," he'd said, and kissed her.

And imperative—and a dare.

A Medarda, Ambessa had said, will risk all, if only to shine.

And she, in this moment, is the only Medarda present. The sole voice of authority. Her approval is a green light, or a red signal. One word, and she seals her fate, and Zaun's. One word, and the scales of balance are tipped. A stalemate of seeping blood and crippling self-sabotage—or the chance to walk falteringly forward, hand-in-hand.

You are a Medarda, Mel thinks.

A Medarda does not simply stand.

A Medarda stakes her claim.

And he, Silco, is hers.

Schatze, Ambessa had called her father. Treasure.

And he'd been hers, for a time.

Until the day he'd sailed off, and caught his death.

Mel, the last of the Medardas, lifts her chin.

She thinks of Jayce, and the breakthroughs of Hex-tech. That night she'd crossed the threshold into Heimerdinger's office, and beheld the miracles conjured by a boy, desperately willed, thrusting himself beyond the constraints of mundanity to kiss the stars. And how, by the end, his ascent had become a collision course with disaster: Icarus with his wings clipped, and shadows etched beneath his bright eyes, and the ghost of the dead child, cold as the void, lingering at his feet.

She'd thought him, in his brilliance, unstoppable.

And she'd learnt that even a sun can burn out.

Now, she takes in Silco's silhouette. The Idol's radiance, a violet starburst, touches his face with eerie luminescence—the steep angles and unforgiving ridges not otherworldly but subaqueous. He is Icarus' shadow, a distorted mirror of his ambition: wings scabbed into scar-tissue and claws dripping blood, his trajectory not upward, but deeper into the dark.

Yet the burn in his eyes is the same. The desire: to push past the limits of the known; to see the world, and everything in it, transformed.

Will he, Mel wonders, prove the death of her own ambition, or its fulfillment?

"Trust me," he'd said.

A siren's lure, calling her to the depths. Calling her home.

Mel makes her choice.

"This," she says softly, "is certainly a leap to progress."

Silco's remote smile does not alter. "A leap? I'd call it a bridge."

"And its foundations? Are they stone—or sand?"

"They are as solid as gold."

If he's aiming for a weak-spot, it doesn't show in Mel's smile. Instead, she steps closer. Close enough to share the same air. To see the way his nostrils flare, just the tiniest bit. The way his body shifts, infinitesimally, toward her own.

Inside her, the golden core flares: a heat-seeker, finding the one spot in the ocean's depths that is warmest.

She looks into his mismatched eyes. The green, a glacial rime, unyielding. The red, a blood moon, waxing. Both: watching her intently. Waiting for the next move.

"Gold," she says, "is not a foundation. It is a lure."

He doesn't blink. Doesn't so much as breathe.

"It is not what keeps a city's ships at the dock. Nor its people loyal. Nor its trade, stable and profitable." She tips her chin. "That's all built on trust. On an exchange of values, and the willingness to compromise. A bridge built of gold—one based in profit—is a bridge that will collapse under the first sign of strain. Because the real value—the intangible—lies in the bonds we build." Her eyes probe, deftly, behind his forbidding stare, to the human impulses buried at its root. "It is trust that keeps the gates open. It is trust that holds nations together. Without it, a bridge can never be built."

He remains motionless. But in his eyes: a flicker. "Are you speaking of Piltover, or Zaun?"

"I speak of both, as one." She leans forward, and speaks for his ears alone. "Because they are one."

He smiles. It is, in a strange way, the smile that had first won her over—out of hostile distance and into wary truce. The smile that, in its slow, steady burn, had drawn her closer and closer. A glint so full of fire and shadow, a conspirator's promise and a lover's secrecy, that it had been like a spark struck to a fuse, a chain reaction set into motion until all at once she was caught and burning too.

Jayce, Mel knows, was her match. Always incandescent; always brilliant.

Silco is her catalyst. Always igniting, always setting her ablaze.

"A bridge, then," he says.

She nods. "A bridge."

There is a collective breath. The guests relax into whisperings and nervous trills of laughter. They weren't, Mel realizes, certain whether she was truly in on the secret, or if she'd been blindsided the same as them. Then again: why would they assume she and Silco had a rapport? That he'd chosen her as his partner, in every way? Their own marriages—and it hits Mel with a belated shock—have been predicated on nothing beyond political convenience. One-sixth remain unconsummated, one-third in the throes of extramarital affairs, and the remainder enduring a mutually-beneficial detente.

No desire. No trust. No love.

Marriage: the purest definition of compromise.

Silco, Mel thinks, would rather have something different.

So would she.

"A bridge," she repeats, her eyes never once leaving his. "Across borders. Across the seas. Across all that divides us." Her voice softens. "For a better future."

The guests' crosstalk flows with ease now. She has, as Piltover's envoy, conceded the point. The wrinkles of the Iron Pearl's operation will need to be smoothed out. The terms of the trade agreement negotiated. But the groundwork has been given leeway to settle. Piltover may remain, ostensibly, the neutral party. They may neither invest their coinage, nor participate directly. But, like any partner, they'll have a finger in the pie—and a hand in shaping the terms.

It is a formidable concession.

One that, Mel hopes, will not come back to haunt her.

"Piltover," she continues, "will honor the treaties, and respect Zaun's sovereignty. In exchange, Zaun will guarantee the safe passage of Piltover's ships through these waters. And those vessels belonging to the nations who are recognized as our allies." She pauses, then adds, very quietly: "Is that agreeable?"

Silco's smile—a sly sideways slant—returns. "To the dot."

"Then, perhaps, I might make a suggestion. As a gesture of good faith."

"Of course."

She smiles, demurely. "I believe the Hydra should have a new name. One less... intimidating."

His brow quirks. "Such as?"

"I was thinking—" Beneath her lashes, she casts him a pointed look. "Thesaurus."

"Like a repository?"

"Like the old Shuriman vault."

His look—of surprise, recognition, and humor—is fleeting. But it is no mirage. The grin cuts his features into an uncanny semblance of boyishness. It is, she thinks, the first time she has ever seen him smile without a trace of irony. The golden core inside her, deliquescing, is a slow, heavy, heated pulse. The crowd of guests, the vast room, the Idol, fade back.

He is all she can see: the prize at the blackest depths.

"It sounds," he says, "like the fitting end to a treasure hunt."

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #mal de mer #melco #arcane mel #mel medarda #silco x mel

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