The ocean depths are motionless and frigid, disturbed only by the churning of a boiling vent. It pops and belches, tasting of heavy metal– of ash and silver and poison– and Azshara frowns.

Sylvanas frowns. A glance over her left side confirms Jaina's theory: the people behind them trudge along like hypnotized ducklings, entirely enraptured by Jaina's presence.

It's an old wound now, Shandris' constant worry, like the splotchy bruises that tormented Alleria's pale skin so long she considered them permanent. Reluctant to burden Alleria with anything heavier, Shandris forces out, "Baine has been waiting for me. My people have been waiting for me, thousands of them in Mulgore. It's time to bring them home, as many as I can manage." Her voice wavers, "And I— I need to find my parents, to at least speak with them, even if I can't bring them back. I need guidance in all this."

Jaina wakes with gasp to a twitch and a terror not her own. In the dark her magic envelopes her, an automatic fear response honed to a dagger's edge after a lifetime on the battlefield. She presses up from the warm spot on the sofa, eyes aglow, fingers digging into the sunken cushion beside her head. Her heart races as nervous tinnitus rings in her ears: Sylvanas is no longer beside her.

Her room isn't safe anymore. Not until she knows what to do and how to behave. Not until she processes this new emotion: a depth of yawning pain she didn't know she could experience at all. It worms in her stomach like a sudden illness, nauseating and dizzying, the sort of sickness she never felt when she let herself starve. Hunger is kinder. Hunger protects her with its armor of mechanical apathy and single-mindedness.

She is closed off again now, but still beside Jaina in the bed, her lilac skin cold with the morning air. But remaining through the night is as vulnerable and telling a statement as holding her outright, Jaina contemplates, inhaling deeply. Last time she refused to share a bed with her in any capacity. Last time she could only touch her to push her away.

"Affectionate." The word is not a question when it leaves Sylvanas' lips, stubbornly catching on her fangs. She looks very different now than she did aboard the Admiral's Pride, gently settling the Swan Feather Cape on Jaina's shoulders to keep her from the cold. Her gaze is harsh, displeased, a touch nervous. She continues, lowering her voice, "Your captains understand that this is a political marriage? That this wasn't some courtship you had the freedom to choose?"

Jaina leans her head against the back of the sofa, the angles of her jaw even sharper than usual when bared to the firelight, bone structure prominent and magnificent against the shadows. Her long, graceful neck slopes elegantly down to the curve of her collarbones, anchor pendant heavy on its chain, its silver contrasting the gold trim of her corset as it rests above her breasts. Sylvanas ducks her head, refocusing on her liquor as she tries to control the abrupt, embarrassing tilt of her ears.