Chapter Text
Viktor slipped his fingers between the curtains to peer through the litter’s lattice window.
Bitter autumn air breezed through the irregular, ovular openings. Beyond, a blanket of fog had settled upon yellowed hills, providing only impressions of trees—dark and looming, their immense canopies leafless networks of veins. The Zaunite procession marched through mud with the squelch of feet and hooves and wheels. Viktor shivered, breathing cold air.
“Anything to see?” Silco asked.
Viktor glanced at his mother, seated across from him, but Silco motioned at the lattice, so Viktor turned his eyes to the hills once more.
After a moment, he shook his head.
“Clan Kiramman’s land looks like Zaun,” he replied.
Silco’s scent flared with satisfaction, almost acerbic in its strength.
“Isn’t that interesting?” he rumbled.
Viktor let the curtains close. Borders were imaginary things. Drawn and held in the mind. Zaun had fought hard to free itself from the shackles of Piltover’s clans, to be respected rather than stepped upon, but the fight had not ended when Zaun gained independence. It had continued every decade hence. Today, for the first time since Vander had taken the throne, peace flickered into possibility: a mate-bond. One of Piltover’s powerful clans joined to the Zaunite royal family.
He could feel Silco’s eyes on him, watching in their predatory custom. Weighing Viktor against the political battlefield into which the litter would carry them both. Silco tilted his head, his eyes unblinking.
“What have we to learn, then?”
Viktor considered the question.
“The differences between Piltover and Zaun are not geographical,” he said. “If our land is the same, there must be some fundamental similarity between our peoples. Zaun was part of Piltover once. Perhaps Piltover will be part of Zaun.”
Again, Silco’s scent flared—notes of iron and the intruding tang of shimmer.
A vicious smile unfurled across his lips.
“It is no coincidence that Piltover bargained for you, my child,” he said. “They would have us believe you were selected by accident of biology: the only eligible omega in our royal family. Not so. Piltover’s great clans have no shortage of sons or daughters of every designation. They could have offered suitors for Violet, or Powder, even Vander, but they chose you, and not for the sake of convenience.”
That smile soured so that Silco was simply baring his teeth.
“It always falls to us,” he continued, low and coursing. “The consequences of every action, the impact of every mistake, the decisions no one wants to make... It all falls to omegas to bear.” He clicked his tongue. “It is a thankless task, holding up society.”
Viktor hummed his agreement. He knew how his mother labored in the shadows. Not considered a king, not quite an advisor, the opportunity to rule as queen come and gone in a complex series of turns of youth. He and Vander had led Zaun to freedom. Vander ruled, but Silco ran the country.
“This arrangement with the clans is not yet set in stone, Viktor,” Silco said. He leaned forward to clasp both of Viktor’s hands in one of his own. “Piltover has played their game too plainly, and I suspect they will agree to whatever they must to obtain you.”
Silco lifted his other hand to Viktor’s cheek.
Viktor pressed into his mother's palm.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “we need this alliance. Do we not?”
Clicking his tongue again, Silco released Viktor’s face and sat back.
“We do.”
“Then it falls to an omega to bear it.”
His mother’s eyes flicked to meet his. He was a shrewd and ruthless man who wore those traits so plainly that he tricked others into believing he was neither shrewd nor ruthless. Perhaps they believed an omega incapable of such brutality. No matter what they believed, Silco resented the need for this alliance. He resented the need to give up his only child. Resentment was a dangerous emotion in him.
Viktor still remembered the day Silco had found him in Singed’s dungeons—an ill, abused, and unpresented orphan rescued by the most powerful omega in Zaun. The Zaunite royal family did not live in a palace, but it had seemed a palace to Viktor, and Silco and Vander had raised him as a princess.
“You are a princess of Zaun, a gifted mage, and my child above all else,” Silco said, his words echoing Viktor’s thoughts as they so often did. “I know you will not forget, no matter the burdens that fall to you to bear.”
Viktor nodded. “It is a promise.”
Smiling, Silco bridged the space between them to lift Viktor’s chin on his fingers.
“Good boy,” he said.
Clopping hooves approached the litter. Silco sat back.
From outside came a loud whisper, asking, “Are you in there, V?”
“Of course, Powder,” Viktor chuckled. “Where else would I be?”
“Prove it,” the girl replied.
Viktor peeled back the curtains to show Powder the patchwork of his face through the lattice. She stood in stark contrast to the landscape, her hair and colorful clothing bright even in the fog. She rode alongside the litter atop her paint pony, its mane and tail braided with ribbons to match those in her own hair. Powder grinned when she saw him.
“Pretty cushy ride you’ve got,” she said.
“Would you like to trade places?”
“Bleh, no.” She waved a hand as if to waft the very idea away from her. “The last thing I want is some Pilty alpha attached to my hip.”
The girl had only recently presented as a beta, but she was already enjoying the relative freedom that accompanied the designation. A second child with a brilliant mind, her course was now set to serve as advisor to Violet when her sister eventually ascended the throne. The bonds of statehood would not rest quite so heavily on Powder’s shoulders. For that, Viktor was grateful.
“What do you think they’ll be like?” Powder asked. “Your Pilty alpha.”
Viktor shook his head. “There is little point in speculation,” he replied. “It does not matter who they are. We will be bonded.”
When negotiations had begun, both sides had acknowledged that marriage alone would not be strong enough to satisfy Zaun or Piltover. A mate-bond, or nothing. The parties on either side needed to submit to an irreversible union. Undoubtedly, Piltover felt they’d gotten the better end of the bargain. As an omega, Viktor would be expected to obey his mate, granting Piltover greater political control, but they had neglected to consider that Viktor was an omega who had been reared by Silco.
He did not worry over his ability to maneuver this alpha however he saw fit.
But there was also the matter of his magic.
If Piltover wanted him to serve as their mage, they must first serve him.
“Are you nervous?” Powder asked.
“No,” Viktor replied. He offered her a smile through the lattice. “Are you, Powder?”
The girl chewed on her bottom lip, her whole face contorted into a betrayal of her feelings. She was nervous. Nervous for him, and her expression turned into a playful glare when Viktor chuckled at her.
“They’d better not try anything funny,” she said. “That’s all.”
“Powder!” Vander called from the head of the procession. “Back in formation, please.”
Powder pouted, but gathered up her pony’s reins.
“Coming!” she called. “Bye, V.”
“Goodbye, Powder,” he replied, and with a light nudge to the pony’s flank, Powder clopped out of view. Viktor let the curtains close once more.
Their procession was set to reach Clan Kiramman’s ceremonial hill before sundown, but the wet weather blurred the daylight. Viktor rested against the back panel of the litter and emptied his mind. Silco remained silent, undoubtedly focused on his own machinations. In the rhythm of the march and the swaying of the litter, Viktor did not mark the passage of time until horns trumpeted and the procession came to a stop.
Silco prepared to exit. He smoothed his clothes, then turned his hands to Viktor, raising the hood of the Piltovian betrothal cloak they had agreed he would wear. The heavy fabric pooled around Viktor in iridescent white and shimmer-dyed threads. In the dim light, Silco paused, and spent a moment observing Viktor’s face.
“I will take the clans for all they have, and even that will not be enough,” he said.
A muscle flexed in his jaw.
“Wait here, my child.”
Silco knocked on the litter door and the bearers lowered them to the ground. Viktor caught only a glimpse of the Kirammans’ great hill and the clan tents circling the base as his mother left the litter to join Vander in final negotiations.
How odd it was to sit still while others decided his fate.
Viktor emptied his mind once more to wait, lest he make himself sick with anticipation.
By the time the litter door next opened, night had fallen.
Torches and firelight transformed the clan tents into hulking silhouettes and cast Silco’s face in shadow.
“The betrothal ceremony will proceed,” he said. Eyes adjusted to the dark, Viktor recognized both exhaustion and victory in his mother’s demeanor. Negotiations had concluded to his satisfaction—as much as he could be satisfied with such arrangements. He retrieved Viktor’s staff from where it lay tucked between the cushions. “Lower your veil. I will walk ahead.”
The door closed. The litter rose. Viktor unrolled the gauzy fabric sewn into the hood of the cloak to cover his face.
Outside, the horns of Zaun blew. Long, loud, and resonant in their harmony.
Viktor drew in a deep breath to steady his suddenly galloping heart.
The procession resumed its march, stripped back into ceremonial formation to move to the top of the hill. Vander would lead on foot, Powder following behind. Then an honor guard of Zaun’s finest warriors with their shimmering armaments, then Silco in front of Viktor’s litter. Violet would bring up the rear. In part for protection, in part to signal that the king and his heir supported Viktor on both sides.
The firelight burned much brighter when the procession stopped next. Viktor could see the flames flicker even through the curtains. Horns blew, and the litter lowered to the ground.
“It is with great pride that Zaun gathers tonight.” Vander’s booming voice sounded like it could have carried for miles. “Peace is always an admirable pursuit. In working together, we put to rest the contentions of the past. With this bond, we plant the seed of a new vision for our lands, united in purpose as well as in blood. For the future!”
The horns blew and the shout went out: “For the future!”
Quiet followed Vander’s speech. Someone from Piltover’s delegation must have been speaking, but Viktor could not hear them, likely by design.
The people of Piltover would not condescend to shout.
Nor were they united enough to cheer.
The quiet continued, and they must have introduced their agent in this union. The alpha with whom Viktor would spend the rest of his life bonded. The individual he must steer through Piltover’s treacherous waters to ensure a prosperous future for Zaun. His heart raced. He found himself straining to hear—which clan, what titles, why this alpha—but he could not. And he could not inquire sympathetically without revealing himself.
“Newfound friends of Piltover—” Silco spoke so loudly and so near the litter that his voice startled Viktor. “—great clans of the northern peninsula, we present our representative bondmate: Viktor, Princess of Zaun, High Blood Mage, and Herald of the Arcane.”
The door opened. Firelight spilled in. Silco stood beside the litter, one hand raised to help Viktor exit, the other holding his staff.
Viktor took his mother’s hand and climbed, carefully, out.
A murmur spread through the gathered crowd—the heads of all of Piltover’s clans, their children, their trusted warriors. The same sorts of people Zaun had brought in their procession, but in much greater number. Incredible that any nation with such power behind it would stoop to an alliance with the people who had shaken them off, but stoop they must. Zaun was powerful enough. Viktor smiled beneath the veil.
With any luck, Zaun would be more powerful yet.
Viktor took his staff. Between the twisting wood and Silco’s support, he walked with relative grace toward the bonfire that roared in the center of the gathering.
There, one person stood apart from the crowd.
An alpha.
A breathtaking alpha so beautiful the faces of at the edge of the firelight blurred.
Broad-shouldered, tall. Clothed in shining red and gold. Thick hair with thick eyebrows and the beginnings of a beard, all brown. Firelight glowed across tan skin and shined in hazel eyes, turning them to gold.
He was, by every physical account, an ideal specimen for an alpha—strong, handsome, dominant—but there was something in the way he held himself that spoke to a naivete. Straight and stiff with perfect posture, uncomfortable or unused to all of the eyes on his back, but clearly invested in playing his part, in doing his nation proud, or perhaps simply not making a fool of himself in front of every important figure in Piltover. He looked nervous, but determined.
It was rather endearing.
Even his scent betrayed him—spice and musk tinged with an edge of uncertainty. The man swallowed as Silco approached. No one would see him tremble, but Viktor felt it when Silco passed his hand to the young alpha. His fingers were warm. Viktor very gently squeezed them and smiled.
Their eyes met through the veil.
The alpha stared back with open amazement.
Viktor nodded to Silco, who bowed his head and rejoined Zaun’s delegation.
A beautiful woman with skin adorned in gold came forward, lifting her arms to gesture at the pair by the fire.
“Let the betrothal then be sealed in blood,” she said.
So Viktor would begin this bond without even knowing the alpha’s name.
Steadying himself, the alpha removed Viktor’s veil, breaking the threads and casting the fabric into the fire. The two of them then twined their left arms together so that their own hands hovered in front of their own faces. The attention of the gathering sharpened with intense anticipation. No stranger to blood, Viktor moved first, the alpha followed his lead, and each brought their hands to their mouths to sink their teeth into their own flesh below the thumb.
The tang of blood was hot iron in his mouth.
Viktor released his jaw to clasp the alpha’s hand and let their blood blend.
The alpha had not removed his eyes from Viktor in all that time.
Zaun blew their horns. Piltover applauded. The pair released their hands, but as Viktor withdrew, the alpha very sweetly clasped his fingers and asked silent permission with his eyes. When Viktor nodded, the alpha brought Viktor's hand to his lips and sealed his mouth over the wound, numbing the sting and spurring the healing process.
His mouth was wet and hot as blood.
The pad of his tongue curled against Viktor’s skin.
With a start, Viktor withdrew.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice small.
Flushing, the alpha hurried to his next task. He lowered the hood on the betrothal cloak, which would join the veil in the fire. He was careful not to touch any part of Viktor while doing so, not even his hair. The gathering’s attention sharpened again, leaning closer or craning their necks to get a better look at their new Zaunite princess.
But the atmosphere twisted when the cloak was removed.
Murmurs of dissent spread throughout the crowd.
Before them stood an omega thin and narrow, dressed in the scant robes of a herald mage, marks of plague evident across his body. His staff clearly served as more than just a conduit for his magic. That magic had left its mark, too—strange and spreading purple scars, like skin peeled away to reveal the muscle underneath. If not ill, he was certainly fragile. A body barely held together. Far from the supple form of an omega fit to bear heir after heir.
A young female alpha with bared teeth and midnight hair cried, “Piltover is deceived!” and the crowd erupted into outright clamor.
“Wait—” the alpha said, but he need not have spoken.
Viktor drew upon the blood smeared across his palm to unleash a wave of sympathetic influence and silenced them all in an instant.
Only the pop of the logs in the fire made a sound.
In that silence, Viktor let them feel him. The strength of his mind. The strength of his magic. A bottomless well of pathos. He did not let them sense how easily he could shift their emotions. He did not let them grasp the true depth of his power, only let them see enough to know that such depths could not be fathomed. Then he retreated from their minds.
“Zaun does not traffic in deceit,” he said, a gentle voice carried to their ears through the echoes of the connection. “You knew me as our bondmate long before today. The same cannot be said of your representative, yet here I stand. Would Piltover break this union?”
That would be grounds for war. War in which Viktor—the mage they so desperately wished to acquire—would fight for Zaun. Piltover may have had manpower, but who amongst their armies could stand against a Herald of the Arcane? They did not answer him.
Over his shoulder, the entire Zaunite delegation down to the litter bearers stood in strength and stillness. Vander, a warrior king who had advocated for peace. Violet, his heir and a force in her own right who would not shun a fight. Powder, whose trap-like mind would devise such devious methods of dealing with Piltover that their armies might not even have a chance to meet. Silco, with a smile that only scratched the surface of his monumental control. So far, everything had proceeded according to plan.
Viktor extended a hand to his betrothed alpha.
“Your wound,” he said.
Starting, the alpha glanced at his hand and the blood that ran down his fingers to fall in dark droplets on the earth. Slowly, he offered that hand to Viktor.
Viktor had but to brush his fingers over the skin to stitch it closed. He left behind a scar that would have naturally formed—an engagement mark—though this one flashed with iridescence in the firelight. Murmurs again from the Piltovian crowd. The alpha studied the scar with undisguised wonder, then balled his hand into a fist.
“The union stands,” he said.
His voice was much lighter than Viktor had expected, but warm and impassioned. Given the reactions of the delegation behind him, he absolutely did not have the power to decide such things, but they did not contradict him.
Instead, the woman sheathed in gold made the final declaration.
“We witness then the sealing of this betrothal. Hail, Jayce, head of Clan Talis. Hail, Viktor, Princess of Zaun.”
The gathering repeated her words, a full spectrum of emotion on display. Some spoke with hatred, others fear. Some spoke with hope, others pride. Some hardly spoke at all, and when the recitation had concluded, the clans broke up across that spectrum as well, some whirling to leave the bonfire without a backward glance, others lingering with curiosity, others making way with cheers and shouts to begin the subsequent festivities.
Viktor’s betrothed alpha—Jayce—turned to him and offered his arm.
“Would you join me for the feast, princess?”
“You may call me Viktor, Lord Talis, and of course,” he replied, accepting the escort. “It would be my honor.”
The clans of Piltover had never known the meaning of the word moderation. The feast that followed the betrothal ceremony could have fed the entirety of Zaun. Honey, wine, and roasted meats. Spiced cakes and candied nuts. Fish and fruit and vegetables from somewhere on the other side of the sea, preserved in salt or syrup. Bounteous tables lit with lanterns and torches and candles. Viktor wondered what they planned to do with the excess.
He and Jayce sat side-by-side on a fur atop a dais separate from the celebration. A pedestal upon which they could be properly admired.
“Princess—”
“Viktor.”
“—Viktor,” Jayce amended, turning pink around the ears. “Is your hand all right?”
Viktor inspected his own engagement mark, which had stopped bleeding thanks to Jayce’s prior ministrations, but would not heal for many days yet.
“Yes,” he said. It hurt, of course, but the pain was hardly unbearable. The tiny prickling of pins in comparison to the injuries and illnesses of the past. He folded his hands into his lap and offered Jayce a smile. “You are kind to inquire.”
The alpha’s scent swelled at the compliment, not so much preening as beaming, though his face did not show it quite that brightly as he hid behind a sip from his cup.
“It seems unfair,” Jayce said once he’d swallowed, examining the flash of his own mark.
“Self-healing is a difficult art to master,” Viktor replied, “and my power only extends so far.” The honest truth was that the moment his magic had awakened, he had pushed it to its absolute limit to repair as much as of himself he could. He wandered the world with that magic writ across every inch of his body down to his bones. He still required his staff to walk. He still felt the shallowness of his lungs. “I could not tell you why I find it easier to heal others.”
“Would you like to know why?” Jayce asked.
Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Are you claiming to have answers?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I apologize, pr—Viktor.” Jayce shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, his whole face pink now. “I don’t have answers, but if you wish to study, to...research your magic, I would be honored to assist you.”
“You are a scholar,” Viktor said, an observation and a question.
He had not, after all, heard anything about Jayce before meeting him at the bonfire.
“Of a sort,” Jayce replied. “My family are smiths, craftspeople. I am as well, of course, but I’m more interested in the development of craft itself. Not just smithing, but carpentry, stonework, farming, husbandry. Every occupation. When we understand how a practice is done, when we know what works, we can start to implement the best systems—more efficient means of production.”
“To what end?”
“To better people’s lives,” he said. True intent lent fire to those words and stirred something long-cold in Viktor’s heart. “If we increase crop yield without increasing the demands on labor or land, that means more food. If we can build more efficiently, that means lower costs, and therefore greater affordability. If we can understand how your magic works, we might be able to channel it more easily and with less strain on you. I—love magic, but Piltover has so few mages, I don’t have many opportunities to work with them.”
Ah, so that was why Piltover had chosen this alpha for their representative bondmate. Yet the alpha in question had no idea.
Viktor’s sympathetic resonance betrayed no ulterior motives from Jayce, no subterfuge. It made Viktor wonder to whom Jayce belonged, what the clan lords had offered him in exchange for his cooperation. Viktor could not afford any outside influences that might steer Jayce a different direction than Zaun wanted him steered. He would need to sniff out these answers as swiftly as possible. Perhaps Silco already had them.
“I apologize,” Jayce said with a self-effacing chuckle. “I have a bad habit of—”
“You have no need to apologize,” Viktor replied. “Your passion does you credit.” Jayce hid behind another sip. “I was simply contemplating what the possibilities might look like.” He smiled to assuage any doubts. “I am a scholar as well.”
Jayce’s eyes lit up. His genuine excitement made Viktor’s heart pinch.
Any more displays like that and he might be in real danger.
“Tell me more about your work,” Viktor continued. “About yourself. I regret I am unfamiliar with Clan Talis.”
Jayce offered another self-deprecating laugh as he shook his head. “You wouldn’t have heard of us. Clan Talis didn’t formally exist until today. I’ve been a ward of Clan Kiramman up to now. They’ve generously sponsored my studies and taught me much about governing as well.” Ah, so the Kirammans held Jayce and he had been given a clan of his own in exchange for his cooperation. “At the moment Clan Talis is me, my mother, and—uh—you. Once we’re bonded.”
Jayce blushed, but Viktor hardly noticed. Their own clan. That might prove very advantageous for Zaun.
“Is your mother here?” he asked.
“Regretfully, no,” Jayce replied. “She couldn’t make the journey.”
That, or clan leadership had not wanted her present.
“That is a shame,” Viktor said. “I would very much like to meet her.”
The alpha smiled, soft, his scent exuding comfort to match. “Thank you,” he said, shifting, sinking his fingers into the fur, holding himself back from taking Viktor’s hand it seemed. “I... I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“Looks like the two of you are getting along just fine.”
Jayce started, and Viktor looked over to find Violet approaching the dais. She raised a cup to offer a toast, as was required.
“For the future, and peace, and your continued health and all that,” she said, then drank.
Viktor and Jayce raised their own cups and sipped in acknowledgement.
“Would you rather we were at each other’s throats?” Viktor asked.
“No,” Violet replied. She leaned her shoulders against the dais and slung her elbows up to rest atop it. “But it’d make this so-called party infinitely more interesting...” In Zaun, such celebrations were loud and rowdy affairs, often with more than a few fights—sincere or sparred. In Piltover, feasts did not even include music. Violet leaned her head back to grin at Jayce, raising her fists. “What do you say, lordling? Wanna go a few rounds?”
“Against you?” Jayce asked, blinking.
“Yeah, against me,” Violet replied. “How else are you supposed to prove you’re alpha enough to provide for our princess?”
Her grin sharpened to a mean edge. Underneath the teasing, she was quite serious.
“That won’t be necessary, Violet,” Viktor said. “Not tonight, at least. If you’d like to organize a contest, however, I’m sure you will find plenty Piltovians more than willing to take up your challenge...”
He trailed off as another alpha approached the dais. The same young female with hair the color of the night sky. She outright ignored Violet as she lifted her cup to Jayce and Viktor.
“Clan Kiramman’s congratulations to you both,” she said. “May your lives be as long and prosperous as our new alliance.”
Viktor raised his cup but did not drink.
He had not forgotten the insult she’d paid him at the bonfire any more than she had forgotten the demonstration of his magic that had followed. She had a cold demeanor and a scent to match. Pine and clear water. Violet’s own smoky amber rose to match as she glared at this perceived intruder. Perhaps subconsciously, Jayce’s scent, too, increased in strength. Viktor kept his breathing shallow, too tired after days of travel and an evening of ceremony to deal with the scents of three alphas competing for control of the conversation.
“Thank you, Caitlyn,” Jayce replied.
“You’ve done Clan Kiramman proud,” Caitlyn said.
Violet huffed. Caitlyn’s eyes flicked her direction, and that was all the acknowledgement Violet needed.
“You gonna apologize?” she asked, voice low.
“I don’t see why I should.”
Violet growled. “Are you stupid? Or just rude?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Violet hefted her elbows off the dais, leaving her cup behind, clearly looking for a fight. Caitlyn, for all her pomp and circumstance, looked quite keen to give her one.
“Vi,” Victor said.
She glanced at him, and he softly shook his head. Violet’s lip curled, and she glared fiercely at Caitlyn, but retrieved her cup and lowered her arms. To Viktor’s eye, she seemed to restrain herself from spitting on the ground at Caitlyn’s feet, then exercised what remained of her self-control to leave without another word. Caitlyn watched Violet stalk away and huffed to herself, amused.
“Imagine if we had tried to find a match for her,” she said.
“Make no mistake, Master Kiramman,” Viktor replied. “She would have put you on your back if given the opportunity.”
Caitlyn stared at him—somewhere between affronted and impressed.
“Well,” she said on an outward breath, “if I’d known Zaun’s princess to be so capable of defending himself, perhaps I would have reconsidered my opportunity to become Piltover’s representative bondmate.”
She was mocking him, and plainly so. Despite everything Viktor had endured and the thick skin he’d endeavored to develop, the insult stung. He had no reply for Caitlyn Kiramman, at least not one that did not end with her brain matter spilling from her ears, and so he could say nothing, and that stung worst of all.
A shock of warmth sparked at the base of his spine as Jayce set his hand there.
Jayce did not seem to notice Viktor jolt, his eyes fixed on Caitlyn with territorial intent. When he spoke, he spoke through his teeth.
“Actually, Cait, I think you should apologize.”
She blinked. “Jayce—”
“To Viktor. Not to me.”
Astonished, Caitlyn stared at him. Her mouth hung open, and Viktor might have found her expression more amusing had not every ounce of his attention been focused on the palm pressed against his skin. Jayce’s hand was like hot coal, the sudden smoldering of his protective pheromone like heat off a forge. Viktor had never smelled anything like it, had never been touched so intimately. He froze, in spite of being so warm.
“I...apologize, princess,” Caitlyn said, haltingly and without a trace of sincerity. “My behavior was unbecoming of a lord of Piltover.”
Stiff, she bowed her head and took her leave. Jayce turned to Viktor, a sigh on his lips and concern in his eyes.
“I’m sorry about Cait,” he said, and his hand swept up Viktor’s spine, causing him to tense as if pulled taught on a string from above. Jayce did not notice this, either, settling that hand across the back of his neck. “She’s been combative since negotiations with Zaun started.”
Viktor could not find the words to speak for a moment as Jayce looked into his eyes.
Jayce had beautiful eyes.
“I understand,” Viktor said, eventually. “There are misgivings on both sides.”
“We’ll prove them wrong, won’t we?”
He spoke with such hopeless sincerity that Viktor could not guard against it. His heart kicked like the feet of a frantic rabbit. Who was this man, and how had he so easily found his way around Viktor’s defenses? Viktor could not keep himself from nodding, could not tear his eyes away from the bright light of Jayce’s smile, which shined across his face like the sun.
Releasing Viktor’s neck, Jayce reached for his hand. He hesitated, blushing as if he had not just touched every inch of Viktor’s back. He pressed forward, and lifted Viktor’s left hand to look at the engagement mark. The outline of Viktor’s own teeth below his thumb. Heedless of anyone who might have been watching, he brought Viktor’s hand to his lips and touched a kiss to the wound.
The gesture itself was quite chaste, but its placement and all that had come before made Viktor wonder for the first time in his life what it would feel like to have the outline of someone else’s teeth carved into his neck.
His breath came and went in a deep pattern that burned his lungs.
Jayce changed his grip, kissed Viktor’s knuckles, and let go of his hand.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Jayce said.