Elena had been trapped underground with Niegal for nearly seven hours now, the two of them sequestered in the quiet sanctum beneath the cliffside market. The storm still thundered above, but in the belly of the city, there was stillness.
At some point, Niegal had produced a battered wooden box from one of the many storage crates lining the curved stone walls. Inside: a bottle of dark amber rum and a neatly rolled bundle of cigarillos.
"Perfect," he said, with a wry grin. "For a party of two."
Elena welcomed the smoke with a relieved sigh, fingers steady as she lit one- chamomile, blue lotus, and the gentlest strain of mana-infused leaf. She leaned back in her chair, exhaling in soft plumes.
"Sometimes," she quipped to Niegal, "it's easier to breathe in something other than air when you're overwhelmed."
He laughed at that, low and mellow, sipping straight from the bottle like it was nothing. She teased him for hogging most of the rum. He only shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile more than his body would allow.
They sat side by side after a while, talking like old friends. Shoulders touching.
Both once-strangers to Puerto Cuidad.
Both oddly fond of sunny days despite their storm-born temperaments.
The hours blurred.
Elena hadn't felt this safe in months. Certainly not since the tribunal. Since the child. Since Seamus stopped seeing her.
She eventually let her head rest on the table, cheek nestled on the crook of her arm. The scent of spice, smoke, and rum clung to everything, and the warmth of Niegal's voice in the background was lulling her toward sleep.
Before she drifted off, she felt a gentle weight settle over her—his coat.
She smiled, eyes closed.
He takes very good care of his patients, she thought hazily.
Niegal remained where he was, watching her sleep beneath the flickering lamplight. His expression was soft. Bittersweet.
There was something aching in her, he realized. Something lonely.
He had assumed Aurora would've wrapped her in protection by now. That Seamus—well, he'd figured the man would be clinging to her after the miscarriage.
But, from what Cheri told him, it seemed as though Seamus had cast her aside, drowning in politics and grief.
Niegal frowned.
Smart, beautiful, reserved, kind, he thought. And alone.
He took a final pull of rum, then capped the bottle and rose slowly, boots echoing faintly on the stone floor. He approached the heavy door.
Click. Snap. THUNK.
It groaned open with a loud swing—the floodwaters had finally receded.
Niegal turned back for a moment, watching Elena's still form wrapped in his coat.
His chest tugged.
He didn't understand the feeling. Only that it hurt more than it should to leave her behind.
But he couldn't stay.
Not now.
He swiped a plain cloak from one of the re-stocking stalls in the now-breathing market above. The tide had dropped. The world was exhaling again.
He stepped onto the stairwell, heading toward the surface… just as another cloaked figure nearly barreled into him on their way down. He stumbled, blinked, then moved on.
Niegal didn't look back. He was already halfway to the coast road by the time thunder cracked again.