4. Tides And Leaves

CHAPTER 4 – Tides and Leaves

Bilgewater's air always managed to invade the city's highest chambers. Cael could almost taste the brine in the council chamber as he spun his fountain pen idly, eyes holding on Thorne's face a heartbeat longer than politeness required. The man looked every inch the Bilgewater merchant—broad, battered, and grinning in that way only people who'd outdrunk pirates and shopkept krakens did.

"So, here for cargo preservation." Cael let just enough surprise play into his tone, ignoring the written reports on his desk. "Didn't take Bilgewater for the delicate type."

Thorne's grin grew sharper. "It's not the fish that's delicate, it's the profits. And it's not rot that worries us most—sometimes it's the folks who know when a shipment's due to spoil. Keep things colder, and we'll both make out with wallets fatter than a Freljordian goat in harvest."

A lesser merchant would've tried to brush past, but Thorne leaned forward, rolling his toothpick between chipped teeth. "And don't pretend fancy cores are cheap, Cael. You want our docks and our word, you'll need to do better than a prototype and a handshake."

Cael smiled, feigning a sigh. "I was hoping to pay in good intentions and a basket of apples." He let the jest hang, measuring Thorne's response. "But fine — full ice array, distillate modules, and energy packs, field-tested in Solari heat, all certified for ship use. But Virelle gets more than a dock slip and a sack of dock passes. I want priority for Virelle hulls in every port you control, plus customs pass-through. We won't watch our goods rot on a dockside while you decide if our coin's the right color."

"You run hard bargains for a city without a navy," Thorne said, voice low and approving. "Wanted to see if you'd flinch. You didn't." He hesitated only a moment, then scratched his signature, the motion as quick and sure as a man tying knots in a storm. "Let's see if you last. And if you don't, someone else'll buy your ice machines off your creditors anyway."

Cael kept his reply polite, but the glint in his eye matched Thorne's. "If the seas turn bloody, at least we'll have the best-cold drinks for the wake."

They shook hands. It was a merchant's handshake: warm to the palm, cold between the eyes. Thorne strode off, already calculating which Bilgewater routes would yield the richest harvest of coin and influence. Cael saw him off, mind racing through the rest of the day's schedule. Thorne would return to Miss Fortune and no doubt claim the deal as a Bilgewater coup—bilge stories, both of them knew. Thorne had secured plenty. So had Cael. That, he mused, was how you built a future: not on trust, but on leverage.

He had little time to savor the outcome before the next meeting arrived. Here, atmosphere was everything: the Ionian delegation entered without fanfare or a single wasted step. Their silk-robed leader, Senha, offered a composure that was dignified yet never haughty, her entire body language projecting the distinct flavor of Ionian self-reliance—never desperation. She acknowledged Cael with a bow so subtle it might have been a nod, eyes taking in the technology-laden shelves around the chamber without flinching.

"Minister Cael," she greeted, voice smooth as running water. "Word of your city's adaptability travels beyond the sea. Our provinces watch with interest."

Cael inclined his head, not rising from his chair. "Interest usually brings partners, sometimes competitors." He gestured to a seat, offering courtesy that cost nothing and could be valued like gold. "Today I'd prefer the former."

Senha took the seat, hands folded. "We are newly tasked with expanding interprovince communication. There are routes across Ionia we wish to see traversed in half the time, with messages that arrive as clear as dew."

Internally, Cael admired her control. Her language was precise, never revealing a gap that might be seen as vulnerability. "We have relay towers and hover-transport. We can shield them from Navori monsoons and even tune them so the spirits won't howl, metaphorically or otherwise." He let the bravado settle only briefly before adding, "But not so much tech that your council suspects we'd have you floating above the treetops. I know Ionian sentiment."

"There's always suspicion when the wind changes," Senha replied, her words layered, "but we are not a nation frozen in time. Change's only enemy is chaos. Stability—and security—matter more to us than purity for purity's sake. So do terms."

The atmosphere sharpened as the subject edged naturally to defense. "We've heard of your pacifiers. Riot dispersement, yes?"

Cael nodded, leaning back, letting himself seem almost distracted. "Non-lethal," he confirmed. "Disorientation, loss of footing, minor shocks. Dangerous, if you're unlucky or foolish, but I prefer neither enters the equation. We're not street thugs or black marketeers. We engineer for control—not for bloodshed."

Senha tapped a finger on her folder, then smiled—barely. "Of course. Ionia never seeks war, but neither can we offer silence if neighbors threaten peace. And I imagine you priced your crowd disablers to leave us enough coin for your next round of innovation."

"Would you expect less?" Cael grinned, the edge sharper now. "This is Virelle, not a charity fair."

Before Senha could counter, Cael's thoughts flickered back to Ashryn—her relentless, unflagging cheer even in the map-room at midnight, the city stretching star-lit behind her. Cael had been poring over reports, anxiety crawling up his spine like static.

Here's the rewritten version of your speech in Ashryn's personality—bold, strategic, grounded, a little sharp when needed, but never overly dramatic. Every point is preserved, just reframed in her natural tone:

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"Who said Bilgewater isn't important?" Ashryn leaned forward, arms resting loosely on the long table. "Most, if not all, of our sea routes pass through them. Whether we like it or not, they're the gatekeepers. And Ionia? They're on the ropes right now. Noxus wrecked them hard, and they're still crawling back.

Now, normally? Logic says we should stay the hell out of it. Noxus is closer to us than Ionia. And backing their enemy, especially when Piltover has ties with Noxus, could snap the string we're barely holding with Piltover. So yeah—on paper? Supporting Ionia is a dumb move."

She let the silence hang for a beat.

"But we're not playing checkers. We're on the world board now—front and center. The moment we declared independence and stood on our own, we stopped being just another rebel state. We're not kids asking for permission anymore. We're sovereign."

Ashryn's eyes narrowed, her voice firmer. "Noxus isn't evil. Let's get that straight. They don't burn villages for fun. But they conquer. They spread. They absorb. You live under their system, or you don't live long. It's not personal for them—it's power. Order. Strength crushing weakness."

She gestured slightly toward the window, where the faint outlines of Zaun shimmered in the smoke. "We didn't bleed to escape Piltover just to bow under someone else. They ignored Piltover because it was already leashed. No army. Just money. But now that Virelle's risen—independent, armed, and dangerous—they'll come knocking. It's not a question of if. It's when."

"So when that time comes—and it will—we're gonna have to pick a side. And if I'm choosing between Noxus and Ionia? I pick Ionia. Not because they're saints. But because they're the ones fighting to protect what's theirs. They've got the moral ground, and more importantly, once this war is over, they're not going to turn around and try to chain us next. Noxus will."

She looked over at Cael. "So yeah. Build a channel to Ionia. I don't care if it starts with Sett's dogs sniffing around. If even a whiff of our tech lands in Ionia, trust me, we'll have their full attention before long."

Her eyes sparkled. " Give Ionia the tools to stand up. Don't hand it all over, but don't leave them empty-handed either. Get those deals made. If our tech gets seeded well enough, maybe even Irelia's circle notices. And if they want something more dangerous, make them work for it."

She'd kicked her heels up on the desk, half-serious, half-playful. "And if you lose a negotiation, at least do it flamboyantly enough that Sett writes poetry about it."

In the present, Cael fought off a grin as he shifted back in his chair, refocusing on Senha. "So, here's what I'm willing to move. Trade-grade relay towers, short exclusivity periods on infrastructure updates—no monopolies, mind—and crowd pacification tech tested for 'pacifist deployment,'" he said, quoting her phrase back to her. "In exchange: Virelle expects open market access across all major Ionian provinces, no border wall of fees for honest goods, and—" he feigned indifference, "—a direct channel to Irelia's circle or their closest deputies. We're interested in dialogue... and so is our Sovereign." He let that last word hang, as if it might gain weight in the telling.

Senha blinked very deliberately—once, slowly. "Asking for a place at the table instead of watching through the window. Bold."

"I prefer not to eat in the rain," Cael replied, matching her circuitous courtesy.

Senha's mood softened, just for a heartbeat—the camaraderie of rivals finding a rhythm. "I'll see it conveyed. No guarantees. But no dismissals, either." She met his gaze. "Ionian doors stay open, but not unguarded."

Cael gave the faintest nod, mentally tallying every unspoken concession, every potential future string to pull. "Your honesty is appreciated. So is your time."

They finalized the agreement. Senha lingered only long enough for the ceremonial ending, then withdrew, silent as a falling leaf.

As the echo of her departure faded, Cael stretched and let exhaustion roll off his shoulders. Ashryn would cackle at the story—"Did you see their faces when you dropped the Irelia line? That's how you fish for whales, Cael!"—and by the time he'd report back, she'd already be planning three gambits ahead.

He scribbled a note in his ledger:

Bilgewater: gate opened. More to milk later.

Ionia: fertile soil, thorns intact. No friends—yet. But definitely partners.

His lips curled. There was pride in this game, and profit in the patience to let roots and suspicion coil together.

War would come, storms too. But if Cael had done his job, Virelle would have more than just shelter: it would have choice.