#arcane prequel

Once his office door snicked shut, he rose and strode for the wet bar by the fireplace. He poured himself a stiff drink and downed it before pouring another tipple. 

The news soothed him. Rynweaver had barely slept the night before, his mind reeling from his visit to the Councilor’s office. Not that he feared any serious retaliation from Bone, but he did wonder if there would be any repercussions for his actions.

But even more so than that, what the old man had said as Rynweaver had been leaving the office had shaken him.

There is at least one. And he is angry, Thade. There is enough contempt in that boy to topple your whole bloody empire. It is not my policies that will be your undoing. It will be the consequences of your own actions.

Rynweaver sipped at his tumbler and walked over to the massive, ornate windows that overlooked the Mainspring Crescent, the Pilt just beyond that. And beyond that the Undercity’s Promenade. It was difficult to read from where he was, but Rynweaver could make out harsh strokes of graffiti that affronted Piltover with expletives and demands of sovereignty. 

The liquor slid down his insides, its instant warmth loosening the squeezing grip of anxiety.

It had to be a lie. One last, desperate barb from a dying man. A horrendous blind guess that inexplicably hit a mark. 

He hadn’t thought about that day in so long. He’d been young and stupid. Overwhelmed with the responsibility that had been mounted on his shoulders with his father’s untimely passing. And she - she had given him a demure smile as she had walked passed one day. And she had been very beautiful - 

Rynweaver knocked back the rest of his drink, and set the tumbler down on his desk with a firm thunk. 

No. It was a lie. If - if such a child existed, that woman would’ve come forward. Looking for handouts, trying to raise a fuss. That’s what those people did. He’d seen it a few times in his life. Destitute women coming after some of his peers, claiming their dirty little children were theirs. Such situations caused a kerfuffle in Piltover’s high society, but never reached the mass public-sphere. Houses’ lawyers were quick to shut the situation down. Most women were content with the paltry sum thrown at them to keep away; the others who continued to bellyache were threatened with institutionalization, or having their children removed from their care.

Thade looked out his window again, craning his neck in the direction of the Council building. He couldn’t see it from his office. But he could see the beginnings of dark smoke coming from its direction. 

It was a lie. And Bone was dead.

Grayson sullenly looked down at Bone on the gurney. The mortician had done a nice job applying the make-up. He didn’t look as sickly as he had in life. She had powdered his pallor to a subtle peachy glow, and had expertly added a slight flush to the high points of his cheekbones. He really did look like he was merely asleep.

Her heart stuttered and she swallowed the lump in her throat. She reached out and grabbed his hand. It was cold. 

She whispered, “I’m so sorry, Councilor.” A sigh rattled her chest. “I am so sorry we weren’t able to see your vision through. I –“

Grayson’s voice caught on a sudden hook of sadness. Tucking her chin to her throat, she breathed deeply, calling upon the lessons her enforcer training had taught her about staying sturdy in times of crises. 

Eyes closed, she breathed in fully, completely; and released that breath in a steady, even exhale. She repeated the exercise until the tightness in her throat melted. Opening her eyes, she looked back down at Bone.

“I will do my best to see it through. I won’t let the people of the Undercity be destroyed.”

She squeezed his hand, ignoring how the dead muscle didn’t respond to her grip. She released it and looked at him once more. It would be the last time. Tomorrow he’d be lain into a casket, and it would be sealed and prepared for the memorial procession that followed any councilor’s death.

After a minute, Grayson turned on her heel and walked toward the mortuary door, boots tapping on the cold tiles. She thanked the mortician for the privacy she’d allowed her, and began the journey back to Enforcer Headquarters.

When Grayson returned, LeDaird called her into his office. Her brow scrunched at the large map on his desk, little metal pawns dotted across it.

Before she could ask, LeDaird said, “We will have extra security at Bone’s funeral procession.” 

Leaning over the desk, Grayson saw that the map was that of Piltover. The route of the procession laid out in a thick red line. It was standard procedure to have security for such an event, but the number of extra enforcers and their placements were atypical. Grayson frowned.

“Sir?”

“We’re taking no chances,” LeDaird said. “All hands are on deck. Bone’s funeral would be a prime opportunity for the Children to try something.”

Grayson didn’t disagree. But she was concerned about how such a move would impact the increasingly tenuous relationship between the Undercity and Piltover. Guilt coiled in her gut. She wished that things had happened differently. She wished she’d been able to check in with Bone one more time.

“I understand your reasoning, sir. Are we at all concerned about the optics of that choice? Increased enforcer presence at an Undercity Councilor’s funeral? What if that incites the Children?”

“If it does, then we’ll already have officers at the ready.” A heavy sigh blew out through LeDaird’s nose, and his broad shoulders slumped a bit. “I am not making these choices lightly, Dora. It is our job to keep Piltover safe. You may need to make similar choices in the future.”

Grayson swallowed and nodded.

Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

That was the motto the Children took on in the days leading up to Councilor Bone’s memorial.

Escape routes through the sewers were mapped out and safehouses were solidified. Homes and businesses readied themselves to board up windows and doors if necessary. Alleys with dumpsters and other large items were scouted out and taken note of in case barricades needed to be erected. Weapons were taken stock of and distributed to those who wanted them. Along with a firm warning from Vander that they were not to be used unless absolutely necessary. An order Silco begrudgingly agreed with.

Kat and Sevika took to preparing and organizing all the medical supplies they’d been squirreling away in The Last Drop. It had been months since Kat had brought the first small cache with her, and the hoard of bandages and medicines had grown exponentially. Sevika smiled widely as she took in the bounty.

Kat felt less at peace with it.

It didn’t take long for resources to dwindle.

She just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Growing up, Papa had read Kat and Viktor fairy tales about people wishing on stars. They would wish for success, for change, for well-being, for loved ones. The stories always ended with their wishes coming true.  

Kat couldn’t see any stars outside of Silco’s bedroom window. Just the buildings and bridges that surrounded his and Enyd’s apartment. She doubted the lights twinkling in nearby windows counted. 

She sat on the edge of the bed, toes curling and straightening over the worn wood floor. Her hands sat in her lap, right index finger repeatedly running over her thumbnail. A small movement to give her anxiety an outlet. A featherlight touch appeared on the small of her back, and Kat started. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Silco peering up at her, eyelids heavy but gaze clear.

“Can’t sleep?”

Kat shook her head and murmured ‘No’ before turning her attention back to the window. The mattress shifted as Silco sat up. He curled himself around her, his legs bracketing hers as they draped over his bed. His arms wrapped around her upper body, his front melding against her back. A heavy sigh drifted through Katya’s nose at the warmth and weight of him. Silco kissed her neck before resting his chin on her shoulder.

They were silent, watching Zaun bustle before them despite the late hour.

Zaun is alive Silco had said. Kat was certain of that fact, too. As certain as she was of the duplicitous nature of life.

If Zaun was alive, it could be killed.

“I am scared. Scared of what might happen tomorrow.”

There was a nervous tightness in her jaw, afraid to voice such a thing out loud. Afraid that her concern would be misconstrued for uncertainty, regret, or wavering loyalty. She waited anxiously for Silco to respond.

Worry slid from her body when Silco kissed her neck again, and pulled her in closer. “I know. Many are scared. There is much to lose,” he murmured. Viktor’s face flashed in Kat’s mind. “But there is so much more to gain.” Again, Kat thought of her brother. Thought of freedom for the both of them.

“Are you scared?” 

Silco was quiet for a long while. Kat could tell he was thinking by the way his fingers softly drummed against her skin. 

“‘Scared’ doesn’t feel entirely accurate,” he finally answered. “Nor does anxious. It’s not excitement, either. There is a deep calmness in my bones. Not a calm that suggests all is well. Rather a carefully cultivated serenity. A sort of acceptance that there is no turning back now.”

Kat snorted lightly. “Calm before the storm, is that it?”

“I suppose.”

Silence fell between the pair, both watching the cityscape outside the window. Kat took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She smelled the soil and citrus scent of Silco’s room, felt his loose and heavy body envelope her. She imagined what it would be like to feel the way he did. Calm and ready.

Kat opened her eyes. The lights outside shimmered.

“Just so you know,” she quietly said, “my fear does not outweigh my belief and commitment to our people.”

There was a pregnant pause as Silco sat up straighter. His left hand reached up and gently turned Kat’s head to look at him. His blue eyes shone brightly.

“I know.” His thumb extended up to brush the beauty mark beneath her right eye. “Your courage is bigger than your fear. I’ll be at your side tomorrow. We all will. And you’ll be by ours.”

Kat’s chin dipped, heart tapping behind her sternum. Silco leaned forward and kissed her, hands sliding back down to wrap snugly around her. Kat melted into him, body settling even more comfortably into the security of his arms.

The kiss was slow. Their lips rolled over each other’s with unhurried smoothness, their tongues barely grazing in the space between. A kiss to seal promises spoken and unspoken. A kiss that tempered the fear in Kat’s chest.

Silco pulled her back fully onto the bed, laying her down gently, his mouth never leaving hers. The sheets were drawn up around them. Soft but determined hands slid their underwear down. Kat drew her legs up, Silco’s teeth dragged over the sensitive skin of her neck. They joined together, and Kat’s eyes fluttered shut.

There were stars behind her eyelids. 

She wished on them.

The security huts on Piltover’s side of the Bridge were closed the day of Bone’s funeral, their gates left up. It was less a show of good faith, and more to accommodate the number of people pouring in from the Undercity. 

Throngs of Undercity citizens lined the streets, dressed in dark garb, faces stony and eyes bright. They threaded between the insultingly low number of Piltovans in attendance, making their spines stiffen and palm their pockets and purses protectively. Though the people of the Undercity paid them no mind beyond an occasional connecting of eyes. Piltovans looked at them distrustfully; they looked back with restrained contempt.

But they did nothing else. They waited for the procession to begin. They waited for their signal.

Much of Bone’s memorial proceedings were traditional, and thus public knowledge. 

In the morning, he would be interred in the Council Building’s Great Hall where the remaining Council and nobility would pay their respects privately. That is to say: sit performatively in front of Bone’s coffin until it was time to load it onto the caisson. Then he would be marched along Piltover’s streets to the Grand Cemetery, and be laid to rest in a public mausoleum.  

Council, Guilds, and Houses had erected stands from which they would watch the funeral procession. Great, gilded boxes hung with heavy, black velvet drapes that kept those in power separate from the masses, and looking down on the recently deceased. 

An increase in security was not announced, but it was unsurprising.

Silco, Vander, and Kat made their way across the Bridge mid-morning. Annie and Beckett would be crossing over shortly after them. Benzo, Sevika, and Nasha had already wheedled their way into Piltover. Other members of the Children traveled in throughout the morning, interspersing themselves through the crush of other Zaunites coming to pay their respects.

Enyd was unable to make the journey. News of Bone’s death walloped her already fragile immune system, and left her with a fever and a sore throat that exacerbated her preexisting condition. 

She’d watched apprehensively that morning as Silco, Vander, and Kat prepared to leave for the memorial, a bony hand gripping her shawl tightly at her heart. 

Vander and Silco folded Zaun’s flag up into a compact triangle, making sure that the grommeted edge was easily accessible. Silco carefully slid it into the secret compartment Kat had sewn into his jacket the previous day, along with the telescopic pole Mek had forged earlier in the week.

Silco slid his arms through the jacket, and Enyd shook - pride and fear warring inside her small frame. 

“Remember,” she had said, voice a grating rasp, “hide your faces when it’s time.” She reached over and thumbed the black handkerchief strung around her son’s neck. Vander and Kat had matching ones. All the Children did at this point. “They can see us when they hand over our sovereignty.”

Silco pointedly ignored the enforcers dotted about the entrance into Piltover. Officers in reinforced suits and brass masks milling through the waves of incoming Zaunites under the pretense of security. Silco’s nostrils flared. It was subliminal intimidation. Meant to deter anyone from stepping out of line. Especially now that the line-holder was to be paraded through the streets of Piltover.

He rolled his shoulders, the movement adjusting the stiff frame of the flag and pole in his jacket. Kat slipped her fingers between his and squeezed. He squeezed back. 

He was ready for this. 

Zaun was ready.

They cut through the crowds lining the streets, occasionally spying other Children as they went. They would lock eyes for a moment, a resolute acknowledgement, a bolster of morale. 

They passed box seats of Houses and nobility. When they spied Rynweaver’s crest, Vander jockeyed in front of Silco, accidentally butting against Katya as he went. He used his massive frame to shield his Brother from view. It was unlikely that Rynweaver would see them, but Vander would take no chances where Silco was concerned.

The number of Children was thickest near the massive square that interlocked the paths leading to the Council building, the Academy, Blue Winds Court, and the main drag to the Bridge. Where the caisson would be pulled past the enclosure the remaining Councilors would be seated.

Vander, a good head or two above most in the crowd, scanned around once they stopped. His heart was a non-stop rapid beat in his chest, his stomach churned, threatening to evict his meager breakfast. He eyed the enforcers lining segments of the road, armored and masked like those by the Bridge. His gaze lifted. More of them perched behind the parapets of buildings, offering a bird’s eye view.

Vander nudged Silco’s back.

“Lots o’ enforcers,” he whispered. “Some up top.”

Silco’s eyes flicked up. “We anticipated a heavy enforcer presence. It changes nothing.” Katya glanced over her shoulder at Vander. Their eyes locked, and while Vander was less than pleased with the woman, the flicker of concern in her face made him feel less alone. 

Kat turned back to face the square, her eyes lifting to the massive clockface on the large, white marble tower to their left. The procession was due to begin within the hour. It would take the trussed up, black draft horses about ten minutes to pull Bone from the Council building to the square. Then . . . 

Her eyes drifted toward the wide path that led up to the Academy. Classes had been cancelled for the day. She thoroughly searched the faces across from her, and relief bled through her insides when she didn’t spy Viktor. 

She was glad he’d had enough sense to not attend Bone’s funeral despite their friendly report. Maybe Heimerdinger allowed Viktor into the Great Hall to say his respects in private. She hoped he’d been able to say good-bye.

A light hush rippled over the crowd as the Councilors appeared, walking in a line up the steps into their covered enclosure. Heimerdinger at least had the wherewithal to look somber. The rest of the Council - like the Houses and Guilds they’d passed on the way in - appeared disinterested.

“Who do you think they’re going to nominate to take Bone’s place?” a man nearby whispered. 

All three of them glanced over. The speaker looked to be some Topside merchant. He was dressed in simple, but fine, fabrics tailored close to his portly frame. A ridiculous flat-topped hat made to resemble an Ionian benkan was perched upon his head.

“I am not sure,” his companion - a lanky man of about the same age, in a similar outfit - replied. “Surely not another Trencher. Not with all this mess going on.”

The other shook his head, hat drifting to one side. “Utterly ridiculous. Our imports of Ionian silk have already been delayed twice. I’m not sure how much more patience I have for this. They better appoint someone who’s willing to lay down the hammer on those Sump-Rats.”

The pair was hopelessly ignorant to the scathing looks being directed their way. Not only by Silco, Kat, and Vander, but by the other Children within earshot. Vander caught the eyes of a few of them and sent a warning glare their way. 

Say nothing.

Do nothing.

“I thought they taught you lot better manners than to try and replace a man before he’s in the ground,” snapped Silco.

Vander winced. “Sil.”

His thick fingers stretched out to gently press against Silco’s back.

The pair of merchants turned to look at them. Their faces began to splotch with embarrassment, but managed to keep their expressions unimpressed and aloof. They eyed the three up and down before snorting and shifting down the street. Other Children held their ground as the pair went, making them have to awkwardly step around their uncompromising bodies.

Vander let a sigh blow out through his nose as he watched them go. His eyes scanned the buildings across from them, counting the enforcers on the roofs. He hadn’t seen Grayson since they’d crossed over. Not that he would know what to do if he had.

They were here to demand freedom. Not chat with the Enforcer Captain.

The clock tolled the hour. An uneasy ripple agitated the crowd. Bone would be leaving the Great Hall, held inside a coffin of thick, lacquered oak. A far cry from the thin, pine boxes Zaunites were put into - if they were put in anything at all. 

The burial method was yet another insult Piltover would have the Undercity suffer. 

It was customary Below Ground to cremate the dead. It made no sense to bury bodies when that cost living citizens real estate and resources. Keeping Bone’s body whole and interring him in a mausoleum felt like another denial from Piltover.

We lay claim to this as well.

Kat loosed a long, steady breath through pursed lips. Her heart thundered and stomach felt leaden. Next to her, Silco straightened and gripped her hand reassuringly. Behind her, Vander shuffled in closer.

A few minutes later the lonely, hollow tone of a singular trumpet playing a dirge bled into the air. As it grew closer, it was accompanied by the clop of hooves and gentle surrusus of steady wheels.

Vander saw the procession first. The musician was in front, a lean, dark-skinned woman with locs pulled into a tumble atop her head. Her brass trumpet shone in the daylight as it crisply crooned its song.

Behind her two black draft horses with black plumes pulled the ornate caisson. Bone’s coffin, covered in a blanket of lilies, was displayed behind the glass panes of the carriage. He watched as the determined faces of the Children slowly turned to follow its journey. 

Waiting.

Waiting for - 

“It’s time,” Silco whispered.

Careful to not draw too much attention to themselves, Vander whipped out his knife and quickly sliced through the seam of the back panel of Silco’s jacket. Kat’s hands slid inside and withdrew the folded flag and pole. With practiced movements, she and Vander threaded the pole’s rings through the flag’s grommets. Silco tugged the black kerchief up over his nose, took hold of the flagpole, fully extended it, and held it aloft.

Later, superstitious and religiously-minded people alike would whisper about how a breeze picked up at that moment, and stretched the flag out in all its glory. The day had been relatively still up until Silco lifted the symbol of the Children’s dream up. As if Janna herself endorsed the movement. 

The initial reaction to the flag rising was stilted. At first, it seemed like no one noticed or cared. Between the bodies of oblivious Piltovans, Children tied similar black handkerchiefs around their faces. 

Just as the caisson rolled into the square, Silco strode forward, the flag a wide ribbon behind him. The Children began marching to the front of the crowds and into the street chanting ‘WE ARE THE STORM’S FURY!’

The Council sat up straight, leaning forward in their seats. Topsiders whispered concernedly, their heads swiveling around madly as if looking for someone to explain what was going on. Enforcers on the ground and above jostled, assessing if the situation was dangerous, waiting for any kind of order from the Sheriff or Captain.

The trumpeter stopped playing, and the caisson’s driver pulled the horses’ reins back as the Children poured into the street, converging on the carriage. The animals snorted and whinnied at the sudden direction, gagging on their bits and stamping their hooves. Both the driver and musician panicked at the sudden onslaught of bodies, and bolted. Before the horses could do the same, Annie and Nasha leapt forward and grabbed their bridles. Strong grips and solid energy helped to calm the unsettled beasts. 

Silco climbed onto the caisson, followed by Kat. The Children surrounded the caisson, the outermost ring held together by their biggest and strongest: Vander, Beckett, Benzo, Sevika, and other broadly-built members meant to intimidate and protect.

Vander kept one eye on the churning crowd of Topsiders before him, and one on Silco behind him as his Brother stepped on top of the carriage’s roof. Kat stood off to the side on the coachbox, her eyes, gold and glimmering above her black handkerchief, stayed on the flag gently waving in the wind.

Silco held the flag and his free arm up high, as much a gesture to quiet the chanting as it was to show he held no weapon. He turned toward the Council’s enclosure. All six Councilors were on their feet. Enforcers had entered their box, prepared to pull the politicians down at a moment’s notice. 

Behind his mask, Silco sneered.

“We are the Children of Zaun, the Storm’s Fury,” he called out. His voice was a blade through the air. “We are here to demand the emancipation of the Undercity - the Nation of Zaun. The city-state of Piltover has shown time and time again that it is unfit to govern our people. The man in this casket is but one small example that proves that. You brought an Undercity citizen onto Council - someone who had the expertise and experience to guide you into creating equitable change - and you did nothing.”

The black-clad crowd bellowed their agreement. The Councilors stared at them with wide eyes. Kat took great pleasure in seeing Heimerdinger’s fur stand on end. 

As the crowd’s frustration ebbed, Silco cried out, thrusting the flag into the air, “Free Zaun!”

“FREE ZAUN! FREE ZAUN! FREE ZAUN!” The Children chanted, stamped their feet, and tossed their hands in the air.

Kat yelled through the cloth covering her face. Her insides vibrated. She’d never felt so certain, so alive.

Pride that threatened to tear Vander’s chest open swelled inside him as he cheered, as he watched Silco atop the caisson.

The stomping grew impossibly louder. The ground shook with it. The glass holding Bone’s coffin rattled. The horses, which had been reluctantly content during Silco’s speech, jerked their heads and stepped back. The carriage swerved slightly, knocking Kat to her knees, and causing Silco to widen his stance and nearly drop the flag.

Once sturdy, Silco reached out to help Kat up. She placed her quivering hand in his steady one. It sent a surge of courage through her, and she held tighter. As her gaze lifted to his face, she expected to see those blue eyes looking back at her, ablaze with righteousness. 

Instead, his focus was out on the street. Over the tops of the Children’s heads. Instead of the zeal she anticipated, his eyes were sharp and reticent. Calculated. 

Kat looked over her shoulder, and her insides dropped.

Marching toward them were a squadron of enforcers armed to the teeth, riot shields held out in front of them. They came up the street that led toward the Bridge, parting scared and confused people as they went, effectively blocking the Children in.

Topsiders lining the streets began to cry out and scatter, looking for any means of escape. The Councilors were whisked away without so much as a response to the demands made of them.

Above, enforcers on the roofs got into defensive positions, setting their rifles on tripods and hunkering low.

Vander’s head swiveled wildly, looking to Silco for some kind of instruction. They couldn’t stay like this. It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.

By the time the enforcers on the ground were fifty feet from the Children, they had gone silent. But they did not shy back. They faced the line of brass and blue with equal assuredness.

The enforcers stopped, and after a moment the shields opened to let Sheriff LeDaird step out.

“Listen to me. We are going to give you one chance - one - to drop to your knees and surrender.”

The seconds that ticked by were agonizing. Vander willed Silco to look over at him. He didn’t. His Brother’s eyes, near rabid in their hate, stayed glued on the Sheriff.

LeDaird’s face deadened, and he sighed. He turned on his heel and disappeared back behind those brass shields. Before an order could be given, there was a tinny clank! as a canister was tossed out of a building’s window and hit the street. It rolled between the Children and Enforcers - and exploded.

Sorry not sorry about the cliffhanger 😘

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Toeing off his boots, Silco stepped down the hall and peered into the small galley-style kitchen. Enyd’s artillery of baking supplies were already lined up, prepared for that day’s battle. The oven ticked and warmed the air, helping to bloom the small bowls of yeast lined on the back of the stovetop. Enyd stood on a small stool, carefully pulling a burlap sack of flour from an upper cabinet.

“You seem to be feeling better.” Silco’s tone was casual, but the tint of rosy hope was clear in his voice.

“Blessed Snowdown to you, too, son,” Enyd grunted, hefting the bag into her arms and closing the cupboard door. She gingerly stepped off the stool and set the bag down. “How was The Drop’s party last night? I was sorry not to come.”

Silco’s mind stuttered for a moment. He’d not gone to the party. Not really. As smoothly as he could, he brushed his hair around his neck, attempting to shadow the hickeys Kat had left on him. Unfortunately, his hair was not quite long enough, and it just uselessly swished under his ear.

“It was fine. The usual ruckus.”

Enyd nodded, a smile wistful with bitter-sweet regret and memories curling her lips. She began measuring cups of soft, cream-colored flour into a large, chipped bowl.

“Aren’t you due at the mines?”

“In a bit. I wanted to check on you first.”

Gratitude deepened the smile on Enyd’s face. Humbleness edged it, the unspoken threat of her death looming over them.

“My perfect boy,” she sighed.

She reached a hand out and cupped his cheek. For a second, her eyes flitted to the bruises on his neck. Silco felt his stomach coil and face warm. Enyd’s face betrayed nothing as she stepped back to finish measuring the flour.

Silco did his best to tamp down the roiling unease rippling through his gut. He was twenty-three for Janna’s sake! While he had never brought a bedmate home, his mother knew he frolicked about. It was only natural. They’d had ‘the talk’ when he was twelve, with an emphases on consent and safety that had left Enyd teary-eyed and Silco burning with shame. Since then, there had been very little discussion on the matter. That is to say: None.

And true to that, the next thing Enyd said was, “Shall I warm up some stew for you tonight? Will you be home?”

Heat warmed like coals in his cheeks. “Ah – No. I won’t be home tonight – “

“Vander should begin charging you rent at this point – “

“I’m going to go to Kat’s, actually.”

He tried to sound nonchalant, but Enyd’s cup halted in the flour bag and her head snapped in his direction. Silco suddenly became very interested in a fleck of peeling paint on the wall.

“Kat’s?”

Silco nodded, wiping the paint chip he peeled up on his trousers.

“How long has that been going on?”

As much as he willed it not to, Silco felt the warmth in his cheeks bloom into a pink flush across his face.

“Not that long,” he admitted. His feet shifted nervously over the threshold, toes catching on the metal strip.

Despite the color in his face and waver in his voice, Silco held his mother’s gaze. He hadn’t expected her to scold or argue with him, but when her surprised expression shifted to a beatific smile, he felt his insides sag with relief.

She returned her attention to the flour saying, “I’m glad. She’s a lovely young woman. She seems to make you happy.”

“She does.”

A beat of silence before Enyd eyed the small built-in clock on the oven. “You should hurry if you’re to make it to work on time.”

Silco nodded and stepped over to buss her on her temple.

“Have a good day, Mum. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Silco said as he headed back toward the front door.

As he slipped his boots back on, Enyd’s voice raised from the kitchen: “Be safe!”

Silco bit back the groan in his throat, but allowed himself the eyeroll.