POV - Azra'il
He didn't elaborate at once. He just stood there, behind his chart-covered desk, looking at his own enormous, calloused hands as if seeing them for the first time. As if he were checking if they were still real, if he was still real, if the peace he had experienced was not just another cruel illusion the ocean sometimes played on desperate men.
"No fire," he continued, his voice low, almost reverent. "No screams. No smell of burning wood and flesh… no seeing his face on that deck, surrounded, fighting alone while I sank, unable to do anything but watch." He closed his eyes, but this time he didn't seem to be seeing horrors. He seemed to be… remembering the silence. "Just darkness. Soft darkness. Peaceful. Like diving into the calmest depths of the ocean where neither light nor sound can reach. And then… I woke up."
He opened his eyes and looked directly at us. "I woke up with the sun on my face, the sway of the ship beneath my feet, and for the first time in a decade, I didn't immediately feel the crushing weight of returning to a reality that was still burning. I was just… there. Present. Rested."
There was a long, heavy silence, the kind that happens when words are insufficient for the moment, yet still needs to be filled with something.
It was Morgana who broke the quiet, her voice gentle but firm. "You deserved that rest, Captain. For a long time."
Mahr'Lokk let out a hoarse laugh, rough around the edges but genuine at its core. "Deserving and receiving are two very different things on the ocean, madam. I learned long ago that the sea doesn't care what we deserve. Only what we can tear from it with our own hands." He looked at me, specifically at me, and there was something in his intelligent black eyes that made me feel strangely exposed. "But you… you gave me something back that I thought I had drowned along with my son that night. Hope. Not the empty hope that the past would change, but the real hope that maybe, just maybe, the future doesn't have to be just an endless repetition of burning."
[Emotional analysis: You are experiencing what humans call 'pride in helping someone' mixed with 'discomfort at being recognised for kindness' because you still insist on seeing yourself as purely pragmatic despite mounting evidence to the contrary.]
[You hate it when anyone is right. It's your default setting.]
I cleared my throat, a small, entirely unnecessary sound that shattered the emotionally charged atmosphere like a pebble thrown into a glass lake. "Well," I said, retreating to the comfortable safety of technical pragmatism, "the chemistry performed as planned. Five petals of Lunar Sleepwalker to induce deep, dreamless sleep, Tidewrack Root to suppress traumatic memory processing, Serene Memory Moss to harmonise brainwave patterns, and Calm-blossom to stabilise the panic response. Simple. Direct. Effective."
"Simple," Mahr'Lokk repeated, and there was dry humour in that word. "To say what you did was 'simple' is like saying sailing through the Black Mist during a storm is 'slightly challenging'. You gave me back something I thought was permanently lost. That is not simple. That is…" he searched for the word, "…miraculous."
"Miracles are just poorly-explained science," I retorted automatically, quoting a line I had stolen from another life, from another world, where a clever writer had perfectly summarised my philosophy on the universe. "What I did was mix specific substances in calculated proportions to produce a predictable biochemical result. It is reproducible. There is nothing mystical about it."
"Perhaps," Mahr'Lokk said, that small smile still touching the corner of his shark's mouth. "But the result feels like a miracle on my end. And I shall choose to live with that interpretation, if you don't mind."
"Speaking of reproducible," he continued, his voice growing more serious, more focused, "you mentioned you would give me the recipe. The instructions. So that I can… continue to do this. To have more nights like this."
"Yes," I confirmed, already reaching, with the necessary theatrics of rummaging in my pack, for a carefully rolled scroll I had prepared the previous night during my spiral of productive anxiety. Because if there's one thing anxiety did well, it was to make me over-prepare for every possibility.
I placed the scroll on the table between us. It was written in my clearest, most meticulous script, not the hurried scrawl I used for personal notes, but the professional, legible version I reserved for important documents that other people would need to consult without deciphering hieroglyphs.
"Full recipe," I explained, gesturing to the scroll but not unrolling it yet. "Ingredients listed with precise botanical names and physical descriptions to avoid confusion. Exact proportions. Step-by-step preparation instructions, including ideal water temperature, infusion time for each component, and order of addition. Warnings on what not to do, do not boil, never boil, because excessive heat destroys the most sensitive alkaloids. And notes on adjusted dosage for Vastayan physiology based on your reactions."
Mahr'Lokk took the scroll with a reverence that frankly seemed excessive for what was essentially a very complicated tea recipe. He unrolled it slowly, his eyes scanning the contents with the focused attention of someone reading a map to lost treasure.
"This is…" he hesitated, "…detailed."
"I don't do things by halves," I replied. "If I'm giving instructions, I'm giving instructions that actually work, not simplified versions that leave gaps for catastrophic error."
"Catastrophic like…?" he asked, an eyebrow raising with cautious curiosity.
[Like waking up convinced you are a chicken,] Eos whispered at the back of my mind with what could only be described as pure malice.
"Like not working," I said aloud, shooting a mental death-glare at my resident AI. "Or working too weakly. Or causing a headache. Annoying, but not fatal, things."
[Coward. The chicken story is not only documented, it is educational.]
"But," I continued, reaching for my pack again, and this time pulling out something considerably bulkier, "a recipe alone is not enough if you do not have access to the ingredients. And several of these are… difficult to acquire."
I placed a small leather pouch on the table, the kind merchants used to transport valuable spices. It made a soft sound of glass vials gently clinking as I moved it.
"Lunar Sleepwalker Petals," I began to list, opening the pouch to reveal its carefully packed contents. "Five full doses. That is twenty-five petals in total, because each dose requires three for a human and five for you specifically, based on your size and metabolism. Tidewrack Root, enough for six doses. Serene Memory Moss, also six doses. And Calm-blossom, twelve petals, enough for the six doses."
Mahr'Lokk looked at the pouch as if I had just placed a chest of gold on his desk. "This is…"
"Practically six nights of guaranteed peace," I said simply. "More if you can stretch the doses by being frugal, though I wouldn't recommend lowering the quantities as the efficacy will drop. And before you ask, no, I don't want payment. This is part of our original agreement. You get us to Bilgewater; I ensure you can sleep without ghosts. A fair trade."
"It's not fair," he said, his voice hoarse with an emotion he was clearly trying and failing to completely suppress. "It is absurdly generous. These substances… I've seen the descriptions on the scroll. Lunar Sleepwalker Petals that only grow on Targonian peaks where breathing is optional. Tidewrack Root from swamps where most people don't survive the harvest. This is not cheap. This is not common."
"No," I agreed. "But I had them, and you need them. Simple maths."
"Maths that most people wouldn't do."
[You are getting soft. It is alarming. And a little… touching?]
[Keep telling yourself that.]
"Besides," I added, because pragmatism was my comfort zone and I was dangerously close to leaving it, "consider it self-interest as well. If you sleep well, you captain well. If you captain well, we arrive in Ionia safe and sound without any incidents caused by an exhausted, traumatised captain making navigational errors. Everybody wins."
Mahr'Lokk let out that rough laugh again, but this time it had more warmth in it. "You're too pragmatic for your own good, little one. But I accept your explanation. And your gift." He took the pouch carefully, as if it contained fragile explosives instead of sedative herbs. "Six nights. Six nights to relearn what it feels like to wake up and not wish you were dead."
The brutal frankness of that statement hung in the air for a heavy moment.
"But," he continued, his voice growing steadier, more focused, returning to the tone of a captain who commanded men and ships through treacherous seas, "that brings us to the second part of our agreement. Bilgewater."
And there it was. The moment I had been waiting for since I'd convinced Morgana on the rooftop three nights ago. The moment that my entire morning's anxiety had truly been about not whether the tea would work, though that was important, but whether he would actually honour his word.
"I am a man of my word," Mahr'Lokk said, as if he had read my mind, which was impossible but still disconcerting. "Even in my days as Sangremar, when my word was given on the tip of a blade and sealed with blood, I honoured my agreements. That has not changed just because I now wear a respectable captain's uniform instead of corsair's leather."
He moved to one of the large nautical charts hanging on the wall, this one showing the sea lanes between Piltover and Ionia. His finger, massive and with claws that were retracted, courteous, but always visible, traced a line across the yellowed paper.
"Our current route would take us straight through the Conqueror's Sea, skirting the Serpent Isles to the south, and then on through the Guardian's Sea to the Ionian coast. A direct, safe, boring journey. Three and a half weeks if the winds are favourable."
His finger stopped at a specific point on the map, a ragged landmass marked with so many warning symbols it practically screamed 'avoid this place if you value your life and your belongings'.
"Bilgewater," he said, and there was something in his voice, not fear, not exactly, but respect. The kind of respect you give to dangerous predators and fatal storms. "It is here. Technically off our direct route by… three days, maybe four if we add the detour."
"So we're going," I said, trying not to sound overly eager like a child asking for sweets and probably failing.
"If we're going," he corrected, looking at me with those shrewd black eyes, "you need to understand exactly what you're asking for. Because Bilgewater is not Piltover Harbour. It is not even Zaun, where the worst that happens is you lose your purse to a skilled pickpocket or inhale some toxic steam. Bilgewater is… different."
He paused, clearly organising his thoughts, deciding how much brutal truth to give us versus how much diplomatic warning.
"Bilgewater," he finally said, "is where the world lets its dregs come to either die or thrive, depending on one's competence and luck. It is ruled, and I use the term 'ruled' very loosely, by warlords with private fleets who battle over territory through thinly veiled political violence. It is blessed, if you believe in such things, by Nagakabouros, the Serpent Goddess of Eternal Motion, whose basic philosophy is 'you either move or you rot'. It is a safe harbour for pirates, smugglers, assassins, fugitives, and occasionally, very stupid or very brave academics who do not understand that curiosity and longevity rarely coexist in that place."
[Or he's being honest about the actual risks. Hard to say. Possibly both.]
"It is violent," he continued, relentless. "It is chaotic. The rules there are simple: strength and cunning determine everything. There are no Piltovan Wardens to appeal to if someone tries to rob you or worse. There are no written laws beyond 'don't be weak enough to be easy prey'. And there is definitely no protection for two clearly foreign women walking the docks doing 'cultural research'."
"Understood," I said, completely unfazed. "And yet, we want to go."
Mahr'Lokk sighed, a deep sound that seemed to come from the bottom of the ocean. "Of course you do. Why would I expect anything different from someone brave, or mad, enough to make tea for a shark?"
He returned to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and removed something small and white. When he placed it on the table between us, it took me a moment to process what I was looking at.
It was a tooth. Specifically, a shark's tooth. Massive, easily the size of my palm, serrated at the edges, polished until it shone like ivory in the morning light. But it was not just a tooth. There was something carved into it, interlocking symbols I did not immediately recognise, some kind of language or perhaps just tribal markings.
"This," Mahr'Lokk said, pushing the tooth towards us, "is a Blood-Tooth. A symbol I used during my days as Sangremar. Every member of my crew carried one. Identification. Protection. A promise of brutal retribution if anyone harmed them."
He touched the tooth with something akin to nostalgia mixed with pain. "Most are at the bottom of the ocean now, along with the men who carried them. But some… some survived. And some of my old men survived too. Scattered. Living different lives. But they still remember."
"You will take this," he said, not asking, but ordering with the authority of a captain used to being obeyed. "And when you reach the Bilgewater docks, you will look for a tavern called 'The Choked Serpent'. Ask for Tahn. Tahn Dead-Tides. Show him the tooth. Tell him Sangremar sent you."
"Tahn," I repeated, committing it to memory. "Choked Serpent. Dead-Tides."
"He was my first mate," Mahr'Lokk explained. "My right hand. He survived that night because he was on another ship, coordinating flanks. When he heard what happened… he went back to Bilgewater. Opened the tavern. Lives quietly now. But he still owes me loyalty. And he understands that tooth." His eyes grew hard, dangerous. "Anyone who carries a Blood-Tooth of Sangremar is under my protection. To harm you would be to declare war on me. And even retired, even captaining a respectable merchant ship, there are still people in Bilgewater who remember what happens when you make me your enemy."
[I agree. This is essentially a safe-conduct pass armed with an implicit threat of brutal maritime vengeance. Highly effective.]
"Tahn will ensure you have safe lodgings," Mahr'Lokk continued. "He will guide you through the parts of Bilgewater that won't kill you immediately. He will keep you… relatively safe. Not completely safe, because nothing in Bilgewater is completely safe, but significantly less likely to be stabbed in a dark alley or sold to smugglers."
"Comforting," Morgana murmured, but there was dry humour in her voice.
"I am not trying to be comforting," Mahr'Lokk said bluntly. "I am trying to be honest. You asked me for Bilgewater. I will give you Bilgewater. But I will give it to you along with every tool I can to keep you alive while you're there."
He picked up the tooth and held it out to me. I took it, feeling its weight, not just physical, but symbolic. It was cold, smooth, solid. Real. A key to a world that most sane people avoided.
"How long?" I asked. "How long do we have in Bilgewater? And when do we arrive?"
Mahr'Lokk returned to the map, his finger tracing the altered route. "We will arrive in approximately two weeks if the winds hold fair and we don't encounter storms in the Serpent Isles passage. Maybe three if the ocean decides to be temperamental, which is its default setting."
Two weeks. Considerable time at sea. But what came next was even more interesting.
"As for your time in Bilgewater…" he hesitated, clearly calculating something. "That is more complicated. My cargo is non-perishable and my delivery commitments in Ionia have… a margin of flexibility. Lady Cassandra is generous with schedules when it comes to established trade routes."
"Normally," he continued, "I would not stay in Bilgewater longer than strictly necessary for resupply. One, maybe two days at most. It is an expensive port to anchor in, the local warlords charge 'protection fees' that are essentially extortion with a contract, and the longer you stay, the more likely your ship becomes a target of someone's ambition."
"But?" I pressed, sensing a significant 'but' was coming.
"But," he said, that small smile returning, "you have given me something infinitely more valuable than any cargo or schedule. And Cassandra gave me simple orders: get you to Ionia, safe and sound. She didn't specify when precisely, just that you arrive in one piece." He paused, clearly savouring the irony. "And considering you just gave me back the ability to sleep without being tortured by flaming ghosts… well, let's just say interpreting 'within reason' is working heavily in your favour."
He turned fully to face us, his arms crossed over his massive chest. "So here is my proposal: I drop you off in Bilgewater. You do your research, observe your pirate culture, collect your impossible stories. I continue to Ionia, I cannot delay the delivery indefinitely without serious commercial consequences."
"After I deliver my cargo in Ionia and handle my mandatory business there, which will take approximately four weeks, maybe a little over a month, I will return via the same route. I will pass through Bilgewater again to collect you. You have that entire time, give or take seven to eight weeks, to do… whatever it is mad scholars do in pirate ports."
Seven to eight weeks. That was substantial. A good length of time.
[Analysis: Offer appears genuine. Logistics make sense, he has to go to Ionia anyway, returning via the same route is efficient. Leaving us in Bilgewater solves his problem of 'how to keep passengers safe AND fulfil commercial obligations'. Clear mutual benefit. Trap detected: zero. Risk of being permanently abandoned: low, considering his loyalty to Cassandra and recent gratitude.]
"But," Mahr'Lokk raised a huge finger in warning, "this comes with non-negotiable conditions. First: you stay under Tahn's protection for the entire time. He's no babysitter, but he's an anchor. You report to him, he must know where you are, and if you disappear or die, he has means to inform me. Because if I return to find you've become coral reef decorations, explaining that to Lady Cassandra would be… extremely unpleasant for my continued life expectancy."
"Reasonable," I agreed.
"Second condition: when I return, and I will return, in approximately six to eight weeks, the exact date will depend on winds and business, you will be ready to leave. No 'just a few more days'. No 'we've discovered something fascinating and need to investigate'. You get on my ship and we go to Ionia with no further detours. That is a non-negotiable final deadline."
"Also reasonable," I said, my mind already racing with possibilities. Seven weeks. Potentially eight. Enough time not just to observe superficially, but to truly understand Bilgewater. To immerse ourselves in the culture. To gather substantial data. Perhaps even…
"And third condition," Mahr'Lokk said, his voice growing more serious, "if at any point you decide Bilgewater is too dangerous, too chaotic, or simply not worth the risk, if you want to leave before my planned return, Tahn has contacts with other captains. Some trustworthy, some less so. He can arrange alternative passage to Ionia if absolutely necessary. It won't be as comfortable as my ship, and it won't be free, but the option exists. You are not trapped there."
[Or he is genuinely concerned for our survival. Gratitude can do that to people. Turns a contractual obligation into actual care.]
I looked at Morgana, who had remained quiet throughout the negotiation, just observing and processing. She met my gaze with a look that said, 'this decision is yours, but I have opinions which I will share later'.
"Seven to eight weeks in Bilgewater," I repeated, testing the words, feeling their weight. "Under Tahn's protection. With an early exit option if necessary. And then a guaranteed rendezvous with you for the final journey to Ionia."
"Exactly," Mahr'Lokk confirmed.
[I agree. Accept before he reconsiders or realises he is being overly accommodating.]
"I accept," I said, holding out my hand to seal the deal in the traditional manner.
Mahr'Lokk looked at my small hand, then at his own massive one with its retracted but ever-visible claws. With surprising care, he took my hand and shook it, firm but controlled, conscious of his superior strength.
"Deal sealed," he said. "Seven to eight weeks. Tahn will keep you… relatively alive. And I will return to collect you and deliver you to Ionia as promised to Lady Cassandra."
He released my hand and turned his attention to Morgana. "And you, madam? Do you agree to this plan? Or do you have any sensible objections that my younger and more impulsive passenger is ignoring in favour of reckless curiosity?"
Morgana smiled, small but genuine. "I have many objections. All of them sensible. All of them appropriately ignored by my daughter, as expected." She paused. "But seven weeks is better than a few days to keep her from truly catastrophic trouble. We will have time to learn the terrain, establish allies, understand the dangers. That is… acceptable."
"Then it's settled," Mahr'Lokk said with finality. "Two weeks of travel. Six to eight weeks in Bilgewater. And then, Ionia. At last."
He gestured to the Blood-Tooth I was still holding. "Guard that with care. It is literally your lifeline in Bilgewater. Without it, you are just rich tourists waiting to be robbed. With it, you are untouchable, at least by anyone who values their continued breathing."
"I'll inform the navigator of the change of course," he said, switching back into efficient-captain mode. "And I'll prepare a formal letter for Tahn, explaining the situation and making it clear he answers directly to me on the matter of your safety. He won't like it, Tahn hates responsibility, but he'll accept it, because he owes me. A life for a life."
There was history there, clearly. But it was not mine to ask.
"Prepare yourselves," Mahr'Lokk said at last, his tone carrying the weight of a real warning. "Two weeks at sea is enough time to forget how civilisation works. Bilgewater will quickly remind you that rules are a luxury not all places can afford. Stay sharp. Stay alive. And when I get back, I want to find you whole enough to complain about the ship's accommodation."
"We'll do our best," I promised.
"Your best," he repeated, and there was something like reluctant affection in his voice, "has proven surprisingly effective thus far. Let's see if it holds up in considerably more treacherous waters."
We bid our farewells with respectful nods and left the captain's cabin, the Blood-Tooth heavy in my inner pocket like both a promise and a threat.
In the corridor, Morgana finally spoke.
"Seven weeks in Bilgewater," she said, her voice neutral. "You do realise that is enough time for us to get into a substantial amount of trouble?"
"Enough time," I corrected, "for substantial research and profound cultural observations."
"Which will inevitably involve trouble."
"Possibly."
"Definitely."
"Probably."
She sighed, but there was no real exasperation there. Just acceptance. "Alright. Seven weeks. Bilgewater. Let's find out if your curiosity is stronger than your survival instinct."
[It always has been. It is one of your defining characteristics. Also one of your most problematic.]
We returned to our cabins to process what we had just agreed to.
[Interesting is one word. Others include: dangerous, reckless, potentially fatal, and almost certainly memorable.]
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
---------
So… sit down, because here comes the explanation.
👉 My editor/English translator completely lost her mind.
But not in a subtle way. In a productive way. The dangerous kind.
She basically woke up, looked at the chapters and thought:
"Hmm… one chapter is not enough. I'm going to translate MORE."
And she did.
More than one.
Sent everything to me early.
No warning.
No mercy.
And I, clearly a person known for my excellent emotional self-control (trust me), looked at that and thought:
"That's it. You're all going to suffer with me."
The result?
🎉 TWO CHAPTERS AT ONCE. 🎉
Because keeping finished chapters locked away goes against my moral and narrative principles.
So enjoy the double release, stay hydrated, brace yourselves emotionally, and remember:
if Bilgewater is already chaotic inside the story… imagine outside of it.
Thank you for being here, for reading, commenting, losing your minds a little, and following this absolutely unnecessary and dangerously interesting journey of Azra'il.
You're accomplices now. There's no turning back. 🏴☠️💀✨