Chapter 1: Why Did I Run?
Chapter Text
Part 1: Bilgewater
Chapter One: Why Did I Run?
She ran—faster than she ever had in her life. The cylindrical tunnel blurred around her, the heavy thud of her footsteps lost in the roar of the explosion behind her. A thick cloud of blue smoke billowed in pursuit, curling and twisting through the tunnel like a living thing.
She had set off the explosion as a last resort, fully prepared to be swallowed by the fire, to let it consume her along with the man who she had once called her father. But in that final, desperate moment, her body acted before her mind. She had kicked out, wrenching herself free of his grasp, and thrown herself toward the first escape route she saw—a narrow cooling tunnel that led outside the Hexgate.
Now, she sprinted through the passage, her muscles burning, her lungs screaming for air. The protective gate loomed ahead, growing larger with each stride. She didn’t slow. She couldn’t. With one final push, she launched herself forward, both feet crashing against the gate. The force of her impact shattered the security bolts, sending the metal barrier hurtling outward, spinning into the abyss beyond.
She didn’t stop. Not yet. Not until she reached the tunnel’s edge. And when she did, she dropped, hands catching onto the ledge just as the blast reached her. The force nearly tore her grip away, her body swinging wildly as the shockwave rolled past, sending a storm of blue smoke billowing out over the city below.
For a moment, she just hung there, her breath ragged, her fingers trembling against the cold metal. Then, slowly, she pulled herself back up, dragging her exhausted body over the ledge until she sat at the edge of the tunnel.
She pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, forcing herself to breathe. In. Out. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her skin damp with sweat. When she finally felt steady enough, she wiped her hand across her brow and turned her gaze outward—toward the city that stretched beneath her, bathed in the eerie glow of the dissipating smoke.
The sun dipped toward the horizon, its golden light stretching long fingers across the city’s towering spires. The last rays caught on the metal and glass, painting Piltover in hues of fire and gold. Smoke coiled upward from scattered points around the Hexgate, remnants of the battle that had just raged through its streets. A battle that would no doubt fill the pages of newspapers across Runeterra—Piltover’s triumphant stand against the invading forces of Noxus and a mad mage bent on claiming the City of Progress.
But none of that mattered to her.
Not the war. Not the invaders. Not even the city itself.
The city she once despised, the one she saved only because her sister had been defending it—felt like nothing more than a painted backdrop, distant and unimportant. Her mind reeled with a single question: Why did I run?
She had been ready. She had decided. A heroic sacrifice. The end of the cycle. She would save her sister, rid both cities of their common problem—her. That was the plan. That was what she wanted.
So why had she kicked Vander away in that final moment? Why had she fought to survive when she had already accepted death? Why didn’t she want to go back—to her sister, to her city, to her old... friend?
With a weary sigh, she let herself fall back onto the cold metal floor of the tunnel, legs still dangling over the edge. The adrenaline drained from her limbs, leaving her hollow, breath finally steadying. But as she closed her eyes, the voices came.
A twisted, rage-filled snarl: “You’re a jinx! It’s all your fault! You can’t even die right!”
A somber, hopeful voice, rough yet kind: “You can always build something new. Sometimes taking a leap forward means leaving a few things behind.”
A hollow, sunken whisper, dripping with despair: “Why didn’t you just let the darkness take you? It would have been so much easier.”
A quiet, desperate plea, edged with fear and love: “We can just leave, and never come back.”
And finally, a cold, measured voice: “The cycle only ends when you find the will to walk away.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her palms against her forehead as if she could smother the voices, and quiet the war inside her own mind. Slowly they began to fade.
She knew what she had to do.
For a long moment, she remained still, letting the weight of everything settle. Then, with a quiet exhale, she pushed herself upright, her gaze drifting back to the city one last time.
She had spent years hating this place—resenting its towering spires, its gleaming streets, and its people who looked down on those who struggled beneath them. She had imagined, more than once, what it would feel like to watch those pristine towers crumble, to bring the whole thing crashing down.
But now?
Now, as she looked over Piltover bathed in the last light of the setting sun, she felt... nothing. No anger. No pity. No pride. Just an empty, quiet stillness.
Still, she let herself take it in—every detail of the cityscape, every gleaming window, every plume of smoke curling into the sky. Burning it into her memory. Because she knew—this would probably be the last time she ever laid eyes on Piltover.
She began her descent, moving with practiced precision down the tower’s framework, her path set toward the skyport below. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest, exhaustion settling deep into her bones now that the adrenaline had finally bled away. Pain flared across every inch of her—dull, sharp, throbbing, all at once. Her head pounded as if someone had taken a crowbar to it, and the world swayed slightly with each movement.
The last time she had felt like this, she had woken up on an operating table. The doctor’s voice had been a distant hum, barely cutting through the searing agony in her veins. That was when he injected her with it—a powerful variant of shimmer, a chemical wildfire that her body would never stop producing. It burned through her, igniting every nerve, sharpening every sense beyond what should have been humanly possible.
But pain had never stopped her before. It wouldn’t now.
She forced herself onward, every movement careful, deliberate. The skyport came into view, and to her surprise, a few ships still remained. Guess not everyone made it out. Her steps were slow, weighted, but she pressed forward, slipping onto the nearest vessel.
The sun had fully dipped below the horizon now, and from somewhere near the entrance of the Hexgate, the distant echoes of voices rose once more—shouts, hurried footsteps, the city stirring again in the aftermath of battle.
She didn’t care.
Each step became heavier, her limbs dragging as though shackled to an anchor. Her breath hitched as a sharp, electric shock pulsed through her skull. The world became unbearably loud- sound sharpened into jagged edges, each noise a gunshot against her skull. The dim interior lights of the ship flared too bright, stabbing into her retinas like spotlights. A cold sweat slicked her skin, first at her brow, then rolling down her spine in icy rivulets.
She forced herself deeper into the airship, past the empty crew quarters and down into the cargo hold. The darkness there was a relief, a sanctuary from the overwhelming assault on her senses. She wedged herself into a corner, behind a stack of crates secured with thick ropes, and sank down, curling her knees to her chest.
Her body refused to hold on any longer.
The edges of her vision blurred, darkness creeping in until it swallowed her whole. She slumped against the cold metal wall, breath evening out, muscles finally giving in to the exhaustion, and for the first time in what felt like years—she slept.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
She could barely make out her own hands in front of her, fingers stretching into the void. Slowly, she stood, arms outstretched, and took a cautious step forward. The air felt thick—too still, too stale, as if nothing had ever breathed here before.
Her fingertips met something cold. Metal. Smooth, concave. A wall. She pressed her palm against it, grounding herself as her eyes strained to adjust. Gradually, the murkiness began to lift, revealing the passage around her—a cylindrical tunnel, impossibly long, stretching endlessly in either direction.
She didn’t know which way to go. But it didn’t matter. Eventually, she had to reach something.
She walked.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. The tunnel remained the same—unchanging, unbroken, as if she hadn’t moved at all. Her boots clanged softly against the metal catwalk, slightly raised to provide a foothold within the curve of the tunnel. There were no markings, no signs, no curves in the path to suggest she was walking in circles. Just the same endless stretch of grey, dark and hollow.
Her mind dulled. She stopped thinking. Her legs carried her forward on instinct, an automaton moving through an empty world.
Then—movement.
Far ahead, barely visible, a shadow flickered. A human figure.
Her breath hitched. Hope surged through her limbs like a spark igniting dry wood. She ran.
“Wait!” she called, her voice swallowed by the oppressive stillness. The figure didn’t stop.
Faster. Harder. Her lungs burned, but the shadowy silhouette remained just out of reach, always ahead, always beyond her grasp.
Then—her foot caught on something.
She crashed forward, palms slamming against the cold metal. A sharp sting shot up her arms, but she ignored it, scrambling to see what had tripped her.
Her stomach turned to ice.
A body.
Slumped on the floor, limbs still, hair a wild mess of violet-pink strands. A blue uniform.
Her breath caught in her throat. No.
She lunged forward, grabbing the figure’s shoulder, rolling it onto its back. A pale face stared up at her. Lifeless. Empty.
Vi.
Her sister’s soulless eyes bore into her, vacant, cold.
“No—no, no, no, I saved you!” Her voice cracked, panic clawing up her throat. “Why!? Vi! Why!?”
A hand touched her shoulder.
She whipped around. Nothing.
But the tunnel was no longer empty.
Bodies.
Lining the walls. Lying crumpled on the catwalk.
People she knew.
A large boy slumped against the metal, head hanging low, blood streaking down his face. Beside him, a wiry figure sprawled on the floor, his face hidden behind the first. Across from them, two more bodies—back-to-back. A dark-skinned boy with white hair, bruised and battered, one hand clinging to a turquoise club, the other frozen around a pocket watch. Next to him, a woman with long, dark blue hair in the same uniform as Vi, clutching the shattered remains of her rifle. Her face obscured by her hair like a curtain.
More bodies. More faces. Every single one familiar.
Her pulse pounded against her ribs, a drumbeat of dread.
No. This is wrong. I saved Vi. This isn’t real. This is just a nightmare.
With trembling fingers, she reached for Vi’s face. Slowly, she closed her sister’s vacant eyes.
Then, without another word, she rose to her feet.
She stepped past the corpses, not looking back, forcing herself forward.
She kept walking until she found herself standing before the back of a wooden chair.
The chair stood before her, its wooden frame wrapped in thick, twisted ropes. The bindings crisscrossed the back, looping tightly around whatever sat in it, securing the prisoner in place. She knew who it would be. She always knew.
But this time, it was different.
A girl sat before her.
Thin. Almost sickly pale. Blue cloud tattoos curled along the right side of her body like ghosts etched into her skin. Her arms were bound to the chair, but her long, electric-blue braids wrapped around her torso like a makeshift straitjacket, snaking over her shoulders and winding around her waist, as if they had tied her down themselves. But it was the eyes—the bright, burning pink eyes—that made the air in the tunnel feel suddenly too thin.
“Hey.”
The girl in the chair grinned, tilting her head. “Mind getting me out of these?” She jerked her chin toward the restraints. “They’re starting to itch, and damn, my ass is going numb.” She let out a cackling laugh, wild and untamed.
The standing girl didn’t move. She only stared.
“What are you?” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
The bound girl’s grin stretched wider, lips curling like a crescent moon. “What am I?” She gasped, mock offense flashing across her face. “Babe, how could you forget me?” Her voice was all honey and dynamite, sickly sweet with a volatile edge. “I’m Jinx! You know—stands for Jinx! I’m you. Well... the fun you.”
She leaned forward as much as the ropes would allow, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “Now, c’mon, are you gonna let me loose or not? I’m bored.”
The standing girl didn’t answer. She just looked at the thing in front of her—the reckless, violent storm she used to be. The woman who once craved destruction, who found joy in fire and chaos. The woman who had more blood on her hands than she ever should have at her age.
Now, looking at her… she felt nothing.
No fear. No rage. No guilt.
Just tired.
She exhaled, slow and measured, before squatting down, arms resting on her knees, her head hanging low. A long silence stretched between them, the tunnel holding its breath.
Then, she stood. Without a word, she turned and began walking away.
The girl in the chair snarled. “Where are you going?” The playful lilt in her voice vanished, replaced by something darker. “Come back here! Let me loose!”
She kept walking.
“You really think you can just walk away from it all?” The voice lashed at her back like a whip.
She tensed, her steps faltering.
“You’re a Jinx! Wherever you go, you’ll bring ruin to everyone around you! Look! Look at the lives you’ve ruined!”
The laughter that followed was wild, jagged—like the sound of glass breaking. It echoed down the tunnel, filling every inch of space, vibrating in her skull.
Then—other voices.
Familiar voices.
She turned.
The bodies were moving.
One by one, the corpses she had stepped over began to stir, their limbs twisting unnaturally as they rose to their feet. Hollow eyes locked onto her, their wounds gushing, not blood, but a sickly, luminous pink.
“Pow-Pow...”
A voice like a whimper.
She whipped her head toward it, and her breath caught.
Vi.
Her sister stood there, hands reaching out, eyes wide and pleading. But tears didn’t spill from them—something else did. A bright, glowing liquid leaked from her sockets, tracing jagged paths down her cheeks. “We can be sisters again.”
A heavy stomp. A rush of movement.
“You killed my mother!”
The blue-haired enforcer charged forward, fury twisting her face. That same pink glow oozed from the corners of her mouth, staining her teeth. “You think you can just leave? You have to face justice!”
More voices. More faces.
“Hey, Powder, you got any idea how many of my friends I had to mourn because of you?” The boy with white braids stepped forward, his turquoise club dragging against the metal floor. “You don’t build, you just destroy!”
One by one, they came for her.
The dead. The broken. The betrayed.
Their wounds dripped with that unnatural, pulsing glow, their mouths stretched in agony, in rage. And behind them, still tied to the chair, Jinx only laughed—louder and louder, her head thrown back, shoulders shaking with hysteria.
The girl ran.
But the tunnel stretched on forever.
And the dead were getting closer.
She ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her legs burning with every desperate step. The tunnel stretched endlessly before her, the shadows behind closing in with grasping hands. But then—
Light.
Not the harsh glare of an enforcer’s searchlight. Not the searing white of interrogation lamps.
No—this was different. Warm. Gentle. Like the golden kiss of morning sunlight on frostbitten skin. It beckoned her forward, soft yet unwavering, cutting through the suffocating dark.
And in front of that light—
A figure.
Small. Running toward her.
The closer it came, the clearer it became.
A thin, brown-haired girl with streaks of blue threading through her locks, eyes brimming with tears, arms stretched wide in desperate longing.
Her heart clenched.
The two collided, crashing into each other in an embrace so fierce it stole the air from her lungs. She barely had time to drop to her knees, arms curling protectively around the smaller girl, shielding her as the darkness surged forward.
She braced for impact. For pain. For hands clawing at her, dragging them both down into the abyss.
But no pain came.
Instead, the mass of figures twisted and writhed, their shrieks swallowed as they unraveled into thick, curling smoke. The shadows billowed around them, coiling like serpents, suffocating, smothering—until the light flared.
And the dark recoiled.
The smoke was forced back, retreating like a tide, dissipating into nothing.
Silence.
Slowly, hesitantly, the girl opened her eyes.
The warmth of the light remained. The weight in her arms remained.
She looked down.
And at last, she saw her.
She gently pushed the smaller girl back, her hands resting on thin shoulders, needing to see her—really see her.
Big brown eyes stared back, bright and full of warmth, just as she remembered. A wide, toothy grin spread across the little girl’s face, innocent and full of life.
“Hey, kiddo,” the taller girl whispered, her voice trembling, barely holding back the lump in her throat.
The little girl didn’t speak. She simply lifted her hands, signing a familiar gesture before wrapping her arms around her once more.
This time, the taller girl couldn’t hold back. Tears spilled freely as she clung to the child, pulling her close as if she could keep her there forever.
With a deep breath, she pulled away, wiping her eyes as she straightened up. Then, she reached out her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
For the first time, the endless tunnel had an end—a way out. A few steps ahead, the exit glowed with that same warm, golden light.
Hand in hand, they walked toward it.
But just before stepping through, the smaller girl stopped.
The taller one turned, confusion flashing across her face. “What’s wrong? Come on, we’re almost there.”
The little girl shook her head.
Her stomach twisted. She already knew the answer, but that didn’t make it easier to face “Why not?”
The child lifted her hands again, fingers forming silent words, then let them fall before stepping forward, wrapping her arms around her again.
The taller girl held on as tight as she could. She didn’t want to let go. She couldn’t let go.
But the child was the one to pull away first.
Stepping back, she signed again, repeating the same silent message.
The taller girl swallowed hard, trying to keep herself together. Then, she forced the best smile she could manage, though her vision blurred with tears.
“Yeah,” she whispered, nodding. “I promise.”
One last hug. One final moment.
Then, they parted.
They held up their hands, fingers brushing together in a silent, familiar salute—one last time.
The taller girl took a step back, her heart aching with every inch of distance. She lingered for just a moment longer, staring at the child, memorizing her face, her soft, sad smile.
“…Goodbye.”
The little girl waved; her expression bright yet tinged with sorrow.
The taller girl turned toward the light.
And then—
She stepped forward.
The world dissolved into a brilliant, blinding white—
And she woke up.
Chapter Text
Chapter 2: Yeah, That Works!
She stirred, her eyelids heavy as if weighed down by the remnants of a dream. How long had it been since she’d slept like that? A deep breath filled her lungs, and as she exhaled, she realized something—her head no longer throbbed, and while her limbs felt stiff, the pain had vanished. The shimmer had done its job.
Rolling her shoulders, she stretched her arms, tilting her head from side to side until a satisfying pop echoed through the dimly lit cargo hold. But something still felt… off. Her senses buzzed with an unnatural sharpness, the same eerie sensation she’d experienced after the doctor’s procedure.
The darkness should have been suffocating, but she saw through it with unsettling clarity. Faint light bled in through the door’s edges, yet every detail around her stood out as if bathed in daylight. The hum of machinery purred like a whisper in her ear, the gentle creak of shifting crates followed by the faint tug of rope tightening. Even through the sealed containers, her nose picked up the mingling scents—aged leather, cold metal, dust-laced linens, and the sharp tang of liquor seeping through corked bottles. It was too much all at once.
She pressed her palms against her temples, steadying her breath. The world wasn’t supposed to feel this alive.
Moments passed before she pushed herself to her feet, one hand braced against a crate for balance. Her body had adjusted, but there was no denying it—her senses were sharper, stronger, even beyond what the shimmer should have allowed. A chill ran down her spine as her thoughts raced for an answer. And then, a face surfaced in her mind.
Vander.
Or what was left of him.
His grip had been crushing, his presence overwhelming. And in that fleeting moment when he had captured her, she had felt something—something vast, as if her entire being had been tethered to the pulse of the universe itself.
That was it. The Herald had done something to her.
The shimmer-infused serum in her veins had reacted, and adapted, keeping the subject alive. She wasn’t just enhanced anymore. She had mutated again.
She let go of the crate, rolling her shoulders as she took in her surroundings. The cargo hold had changed since she’d slipped in—more crates than before, some left haphazardly unlatched or stacked in a rush. Someone had been here. Someone careless. They hadn’t noticed her tucked away in the shadows.
Her first step sent a subtle shift through her body—turbulence. A realization settled in. The airship was in flight. It must have taken off while she was asleep. She steadied herself, adjusting to the gentle sway of the vessel before glancing down at herself, taking stock of what little she had left.
Most of her gear was still atop the hexgate, lost in the chaos of the fight. But her gun—Zapper—remained, holstered loosely at her hip. And beside it, tied to her belt, was a small plush.
She hesitated. Then, with careful fingers, she unfastened the little ragdoll and held it close. Its brown yarn hair was streaked with blue, tucked beneath a faded miner’s helmet. A quiet exhale escaped her lips as she pressed it briefly to her chest. Then, just as gently, she returned it to its place.
Next, she reached for her gun, running a practiced hand over its frame before opening the small chamber. A single blue gemstone tumbled into her palm. She turned it over between her fingers, feeling its familiar weight, then brought it to her lips for the briefest of moments before securing it back in place.
She checked her pockets—empty. Of course.
The bandages wrapped around her torso had started to unravel, the loose ends trailing against her skin. With a sigh, she turned to the crates, prying one open in search of something—anything—to wear.
Inside, she found a simple gray cotton shirt, open-collared and worn soft with time. It hung loosely over her frame, its short sleeves extending past her elbows. She tucked it into her pants. It would do. But another item caught her eye.
A coat—extravagant and black, its hood trimmed with gray-white fur. A stark contrast to the simple shirt, but she didn’t hesitate. She pulled it over her shoulders, letting the heavy fabric settle against her before finally turning toward the door.
Time to move.
She reached for the handle. It didn’t turn.
Locked.
A thin sliver of light seeped through the door’s edges—this wasn’t a reinforced door, just a simple lock keeping her in. Gritting her teeth, she adjusted her stance and threw her shoulder into it, aiming for force without noise. The impact sent a dull jolt through her body, but the door didn’t budge.
She scowled. Again.
Another slam, harder this time. Nothing.
Her patience frayed. She wanted out. Now.
Screw this.
Taking a step back, she pressed herself against a large crate, braced her weight, and launched forward—both boots striking the door right at the lock. The metal shrieked, the lock shattered, and the door blasted open, slamming into the opposite wall with a deafening clang. The impact left a deep dent in the hull.
So much for keeping quiet.
She stepped out into the right-side passageway of the airship, rolling her shoulders as she took in her surroundings. Sunlight poured through the windows, illuminating the endless stretch of ocean beneath them. No land. Just water, stretching beyond the horizon. Judging by the sun’s position—high and unwavering—it was midday.
And she was alone.
A ship this size could technically be flown solo, but it was built for a crew of three, maybe four. There should have been people—pilots, engineers, someone. But as she moved down the passage, peeking into the crew quarters, her suspicions hardened into certainty.
Empty.
No bags. No personal belongings. Just a row of bunk beds bolted to the walls, untouched.
Something wasn’t right.
She pressed on, her footsteps soundless against the metal floor as she made her way toward the bridge. The layout of a ship like this was simple—cargo hold, crew quarters, galley, restroom on one side, engine room, captain’s quarters on the other, and the bridge in front. And yet, everywhere she looked, there was nothing. No voices, no movement. Just the low hum of the engines thrumming through the hull.
Finally, she reached the bridge.
Carefully, she wrapped her fingers around the lever, easing it down with measured precision. The door released with a quiet click.
She slipped inside, silent as a shadow.
And prepared to find out exactly what the hell was going on.
The bridge was empty.
Her brow furrowed as she stepped toward the control panel, scanning the console for clues. A pair of circular sunglasses rested beside a barely-eaten sandwich, the bread slightly indented where fingers had last held it. A cup of tea lay on its side, amber liquid spilling onto the floor in slow, creeping tendrils.
She leaned, brushing her fingertips against the cup’s ceramic surface.
Still warm.
Whoever had been here had just left.
Her eyes flicked to the controls—autopilot engaged. Someone had set their course and walked away. She reached for the panel, intent on finding out where they were headed—
Click .
The unmistakable sound of a revolver’s hammer being cocked.
“Identify yourself. Are you Noxian? What are you doing aboard my vessel?”
A man’s voice—deep, but not rough. Defined, deliberate. A slight nasal edge.
Piltie, definitely.
She had heard him before even entering the bridge, his breathing just beyond the left-side door. He had taken his time, moving into position, waiting for her to make the first mistake. She had let him. Given him an opening, just to see what he would do.
His voice sharpened. “Why are you wearing my great-grandfather’s coat? Are you a stowaway?”
That’s what concerned him? Not the break-in, not the possible threat, but the coat?
Leave it to a Piltie to have their priorities straight.
A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “Hey, where’s this ship headed? You flying it alone?”
A brief pause. Then, indignation. “Huh? I’m the one asking the questions here! Now answer me—who are you, or I’ll… I’ll shoot!”
She caught it—just the slightest quiver in his voice. Fear. Hesitation.
“This is getting us nowhere,” she muttered.
“What ar—AH!”
He never got the chance to finish.
She moved before his brain could process it, twisting right as her leg shot out, the heel of her boot striking the revolver from his grasp. The weapon clattered to the floor as she flowed into her next movement—pivoting, shifting her weight, driving her left leg into his chest.
The impact sent him stumbling back, slamming against the bridge wall. Not hard enough to break anything—just enough to make him think twice before doing anything stupid.
She straightened, rolling her shoulders.
“Now,” she said coolly, “let’s try this again.”
She approached the man slumped against the wall, his breath ragged, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. He looked to be on the wrong side of thirty, the weight of exhaustion carved into the deep bags under his eyes. A rough five-o’clock shadow dusted his jaw, and though he wore the standard uniform of a Piltovan navigator, it was draped with something more extravagant—a rich red cloak lined with gold accents. An ornate C was embroidered on the left chest pocket.
An aristocrat? Or just someone who wanted to look the part?
He was still reeling from the hit, one hand pressed against his ribs as a harsh cough racked his body. She had knocked the air clean out of him.
She stepped closer, unholstered her gun, and crouched beside him.
“Now, let’s try this again.” Her voice was smooth, almost playful, the sharp grin she wore just a little too wide. “Are you alone? And where are we headed?”
The man turned his head toward her, still wheezing, eyes flicking first to the gun, then to her face.
Then—recognition.
Realization dawned in his expression, morphing from surprise to something sharper, something like fear.
“You… you… you’re Jinx!” he choked out between coughs, his lungs finally catching up with him. “I heard you died in the battle. How—why are you on my vessel?”
She flinched. Just slightly. A twitch of the eye.
Then the grin was back, forced and sharp-edged.
“Yeah, yeah. Congratulations!” she said, voice dripping mockery. “You recognize me. I’m famous!” She twirled her gun between her fingers, spinning it effortlessly before catching it again. “Now, answer my questions.”
The man caught on quickly. He cleared his throat, straightened a little despite the pain.
“Yes. I’m navigating alone,” he admitted. “And this vessel is headed to Bilgewater.”
“Huh.” She stood, tapping the barrel of her gun against her temple as she mulled that over. Bilgewater.
She turned, sauntering back toward the control panel. Her gaze drifted to the barely-eaten sandwich, and without a second thought, she picked it up and took a bite.
“Bilgewater,” she muttered to herself, chewing thoughtfully.
Another bite.
“Bilgewater.”
And then, with a mouth still half-full—“Bilgewater!”
Excitement crackled in her voice, sudden and electric. “Yeah, that works!”
Still munching, she made her way to where the revolver had fallen. With a flick of her wrist, she holstered her own gun, then bent down to retrieve the discarded weapon. She turned it over in her hand, inspecting it lazily before tossing it back toward the man.
He barely caught it, fumbling before securing his grip.
He looked at her, bewildered.
“So…” she drawled, wiping the last crumbs from her lips. A flash of short bright blue hair caught the light as she tilted her head, curiosity glinting in her bright pink eyes.
“Why are you going to Bilgewater?”
The man stared at her, his expression tight with confusion.
“You’re… not going to kill me?” He sounded almost disbelieving. “I thought you hated Piltovans. You did murder half the council. You ignited the war.”
There was no accusation in his tone—just a quiet demand for understanding. As if he couldn’t make sense of how the infamous Undercity terrorist had ended up standing on his ship, casually eating his sandwich.
Jinx snorted, rocking back against the control panel, arms folded.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Listing my accomplishments won’t win you any points, Piltie.” She threw him a mock salute before lazily plucking the sunglasses from the console, turning them over in her hands.
“And listen,” she continued, voice light, but something in her gaze dimmed. “I might have blown up the council, but I was far from the one who started that war.”
For a moment, her words hung in the air, an edge of something unspoken behind them. But then—just as quickly—she waved it off.
“Not that it matters. That shit’s in the past. We’re moving forward.”
Her grin returned, sharp as ever. She slipped the sunglasses onto her face, tilting her head toward him.
“Now, answer me… Why Bilgewater? What’s there for a topsider like you?”
The man hesitated.
Jinx didn’t wait for a response. She leaned in slightly, as if studying him, tapping a finger against the frames of her newly acquired glasses.
“Because from what I’ve heard, Bilgewater’s basically the Undercity—but wet.” A smirk tugged at her lips. “Pirates, smugglers, exiles, the odd murderer.” She shrugged, casually. “For a Piltie like yourself to go there personally, you’re either escaping… or you’re desperate.”
Silence.
Jinx grinned wider, enjoying the way his lips pressed into a thin line, his hands twitching slightly at his sides. Nailed it.
Bilgewater. She’d heard plenty of stories from the occasional merc who’d stumbled into The Last Drop. Every single one had some wild tale—fighting sea beasts, plundering Noxian or Piltovan ships, barely escaping with their lives. It sounded… fun. Maybe a place to tinker with her weapons. Maybe go on a sea adventure. Maybe fight some actual monsters instead of the metaphorical ones in her head.
Finally, the man exhaled, as if deciding resistance was pointless.
“Well, if you must know, ah… madam…” He straightened, smoothing out his coat before giving a small, stiff bow. “I am Tomen Calvina III, of the Calvina merchant family of Piltover.” The introduction was practiced, polished, every word measured.
“And I intend to establish a bank in Bilgewater.”
“A bank. Huh?”
Jinx let out a short laugh, shaking her head. Of all the things she’d expected, that was, actually, one of them. How Piltovan.
Tomen, however, wasn’t finished.
“And yes, I am desperate. My family is on the brink of collapse. For some reason, the Ferros clan has set their sights on our business—”
Jinx’s eyes glazed over.
Piltovan drama. She tuned him out, watching his mouth move, arms gesturing wildly as he spilled his woes like a cheap melodrama. His voice droned on, all formal and precise, while she stared at him with a blank expression, wondering how long he could talk before he passed out from lack of air.
“Yes, I know Bilgewater is dangerous, but it is first and foremost a trading city—”
“Yeah, okay, I’m gonna stop you right there.”
She pushed off the console, stretching her arms above her head with an exaggerated sigh. “Aspects, you Pilties and your drama.” She rolled her eyes, tilting her head toward him. “From what I gather, you wanna start over? Well, so do I.”
Tomen blinked, mouth still slightly open, clearly thrown off track.
Jinx grinned. “Tell ya what… let’s make a deal.”
She leaned back, resting her elbows on the console like she was offering him the sweetest bargain in the world. “In exchange for your incredible kindness in smuggling me out of Piltover—and never, and I mean never mentioning me to anyone back home—” her grin widened, all teeth, “I’ll help you… I dunno… get started in Bilgewater.”
She lifted an expectant brow. “Sound good?”
Tomen hesitated, staring at her, then at the floor, weighing his options. After a long moment, he exhaled and met her gaze again.
“…Yes. I believe that will work for me.”
“Great!” Jinx clapped her hands together. “Cause if you’d said no, I would’ve had to throw you out the window. And I’m trying to move past that kinda thing.”
She gave him a wink, stepping past him toward the right-side door. As she walked, she tugged at the oversized shirt she’d borrowed, adjusting the coat over her shoulders.
“Oh, and by the way—” she threw a glance over her shoulder, a sly smirk forming— “I’m keeping these clothes. And the sunglasses. Think of it as… payment for pointing a gun at my face.”
The amusement in her voice carried just enough edge to make it clear—she wasn’t really asking.
She reached the door, grabbed the handle, and pulled it open. But before stepping through, she paused.
“And one last thing…”
She didn’t turn around, didn’t look at him. But her voice—clearer than usual, yet somehow heavier—filled the space between them.
“Never mention Jinx. Ever again.”
Tomen didn’t respond. He didn’t dare to.
For the first time since she’d kicked him across the room, the girl felt the weight of his silence. A different kind of silence. The kind where people held their breath and hoped not to be noticed.
She let it hang for a beat. Then, just as suddenly, her voice brightened.
“Well, anyway! Call me when we hit land. Tootles!”
With a flourish, she disappeared through the door, shutting it behind her.
The girl strolled down the hall, making her way to the crew quarters, humming a little tune under her breath. She found an empty bunk, flopped onto the mattress without a second thought, one leg dangling off the side.
She stared up at the ceiling, mind already drifting.
“…Bilgewater, huh.”
Notes:
Originally I thought of adding this tomorrow, but I feel like the first chapter is not enough.
Some quick points, Vi, Caitlyn, and Sevika will appear, but much later, I'm a fair few chapters ahead, but they don't appear until after chapter 8, so if you are waiting for them, please wait patiently.
Also, I know that Jinx probably lost Zapper, but it's such a cool weapon, so has it.
Also the little plush of Isha, I took from her official figure. I thought it would be cute to have that little reminder.
Finally, I will keep referring to her as Jinx in notes but just know that the name of the story will eventually make sense.
Chapter Text
Chapter 3: Extra Baggage
She lay on the bunk, letting the gentle sway of the airship lull her mind into wandering.
Bilgewater.
Waking up to the crash of waves against jagged rocks. Tinkering with her weapons at her leisure. Taking jobs just for fun—maybe hunting down a sea leviathan, diving for treasure in the wreckage of some lost ship, or even ransacking a few Piltovan merchant vessels just to keep things interesting.
Maybe I’ll get an eyepatch. Blend in.
A smirk played on her lips, but then—
A thought crept in.
Would anyone recognize me?
She was trying to start fresh. A clean slate. But ghosts had a way of following. Her reputation was a shadow she couldn’t outrun, one that could tear everything apart before it even began.
The thoughts spiraled. Faces flickered in her mind. Voices rose, echoing through the corridors of her memory.
"It's all your fault."
"You’ll bring ruin everywhere you go."
She winced, hands pressing against her temples, trying to smother the voices before they took root. A sharp breath. Eyes squeezed shut. Just wait them out.
The whispers bled into background noise. Fading. Distant.
She opened her eyes, exhaling slowly. Stared at the ceiling.
Then—
From the top bunk, two long blue braids spilled over the edge.
The girl’s body went rigid.
A slow, sinking feeling took root in her gut as her gaze locked onto the vibrant strands.
Then came the voice.
"Of course they’re gonna recognize you!”
The words rang through the room, dripping with amusement. “I mean, look at me! I’m famous. I’m perfect! ‘The Loose Cannon.’ ‘The Mad Bomber.’ ‘The Demolition Diva.’ There ain’t a single soul on this stupid rock who hasn’t heard of me.”
Jinx cackled from the top bunk.
The girl on the lower bunk felt her skin prickle, a shiver rolling down her spine. She clenched her teeth, then—BANG!—she kicked the frame above her with force, sending a tremor through the metal.
She sat up, breathing unevenly, elbows braced on her knees. Stared at the floor, frantic.
This was different.
She’d always seen the people she’d hurt. Always felt their eyes on her. But this?
This was her.
“Fuck,” she muttered, running a shaky hand through her hair. Guess the mutated Shimmer came with some extra baggage.
Her breath quickened. Pulse thundered. Mouth dry as sand.
Then—movement.
She looked up.
Jinx was sitting across from her now, legs folded on the opposite bunk, spinning one of her long braids around her forearm, playful. Smirking.
"You might’ve chopped off my signature look,” she mused, nodding toward the girl’s much shorter hair. “And hey, I get it. Nobody likes getting their hair yanked in a fight.”
The girl swallowed; her throat tight.
"But you’re still me.” Jinx tilted her head, those burning pink eyes locking onto hers. “You still got that all-consuming fire inside."
The smirk faded. Her gaze sharpened.
"And sooner or later... everyone around you will burn."
The words were flat. Hollow. A simple statement of fact.
A fire ignited in the girl’s chest—rage.
"SHUT UP!"
She kicked the opposing bunk with such force it left the imprint of her boot in the metal.
Jinx didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
She just stared.
"You should’ve ended it,” she murmured. “Why’d you let the boy save us? What’s even left for you? Isha’s dead."
The air thickened. Suffocating.
The girl’s breath hitched. Her nails dug into her palms. The edges of her vision blurred.
"SHUT UP!"
Her scream reverberated through the ship, loud enough to make the walls tremble.
And then—
Jinx was gone.
The door to the crew quarters creaked, and there she stood, leaning against the frame like she’d been there the whole time.
"We promised," she whispered. "We were gonna show them all.”
The fire was back in her voice now, rising with every word.
“If we go out, we go out in a blaze of fire and mayhem. And you—” Jinx sneered, eyes flashing— “you ran. You’re abandoning Vi. Abandoning Silco’s dream.”
Her voice cracked, laced with something almost like betrayal.
“And for what?”
The girl couldn’t take it anymore.
Her hand flew to her holster. A gun was drawn.
Barrel aimed straight at the phantom in the doorway.
Jinx didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
Her voice leveled.
Steady. Cold.
"Remember…”
A beat of silence.
"You are Jinx."
The girl’s grip tightened on the gun.
"You can change your look. Change your name. But you’ll never kill that fire."
Jinx’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.
"And you’ll never kill me."
Then—
She vanished.
The girl sat frozen, arm still outstretched, gun still pointed at nothing.
Her chest heaved. Her pulse pounded.
Slowly, she exhaled, pressing her lips into a tight line.
Finally, she lowered the gun. Holstered it with an angry click.
A crackle from the intercom above the door frame broke the silence.
"Ah… um… Madam,” came Tomen’s voice, hesitant, unsure. “I just wanted to inform you that Bilgewater is visible. We’ll be arriving soon, so… uh… prepare for landing.”
The girl blinked, exhaling through her nose.
She pushed off the bed, muscles stiff, mind still reeling. Walked toward the hall, rolling her shoulders, forcing herself to breathe.
She reached for the window, unlatched it, and swung it open.
Wind rushed in. The salty sting of the sea filled her lungs.
She looked out.
Ahead, through the mist and the crashing waves—
Bilgewater.
The airship descended with graceful ease, its metal hull slicing through the salty breeze as it neared the water.
Huh. Piltie’s a pretty good pilot.
A few hundred meters from the port, the engines shifted from a deep rumble to a low, barely audible hum. The vessel drifted forward, carried by the sea breeze and the momentum of its descent. Then, with a soft hiss, the small jets on the underside engaged, guiding the ship toward the docks in slow, deliberate movements.
The sun had begun its descent, drenching the city in a molten glow. Bilgewater stretched before her, a jagged sprawl of shipwrecks and shanties piled atop one another, stitched together by wooden walkways and makeshift bridges. From her spot by the window, she watched the waves lap against the uneven piers, the silhouettes of ships bobbing in the distance.
A mechanical crackle interrupted her thoughts.
“Ah, Madam…”
Tomen. The ship’s captain. His voice over the intercom carried the familiar note of unease.
“Would you be so kind as to meet me at the bridge?”
She exhaled through her nose, pushed off the window ledge, and made her way down the narrow corridor.
The bridge door slid open, revealing Tomen standing stiffly at the helm. She strode past him, past the glowing control panel, and leaned forward against the front window, drinking in the sight of the city inching closer.
“Why do you call me Madam?” she asked, her tone light, almost teasing. No malice, just curiosity.
Tomen visibly stiffened. His fingers tightened around the helm, his throat bobbing as he coughed out a nervous chuckle.
“Ah, well… I, uh… do not know how to properly address you, and I…” He hesitated, as if stepping into a conversational minefield. “…do not wish to be rude.”
The girl raised a brow, then let out a laugh. A Piltie—probably trained in etiquette since birth—stumbling over his words? That was amusing.
“Yeah… that is a problem,” she mused, grinning. “Can’t exactly be in some brothel and have a wench screaming my old name. That’d leave a sour taste in my mouth.”
Tomen blinked. The expression on his face—pure, dumbfounded confusion—only made her laugh harder.
She glanced at him, still grinning, and shrugged. “Sheesh, tough crowd.” Turning back to the city, she leaned against the console, watching the docks grow nearer. “I don’t mind. I’ll have to think of a new name, Some names are better left buried but that can wait. Call me whatever—Madam, Miss, Your Majesty—I don’t care.”
Tomen hesitated, then let out an awkward chuckle. “Very well, Madam. I’ll… keep that in mind.”
His grip on the helm loosened slightly.
Then, his expression shifted—something more serious settling in.
“Ah, yes. The reason I requested your presence…” He cleared his throat, straightening. “I wanted to share what little intelligence I have on Bilgewater before we port.”
The girl turned, leaning back against the window, arms crossing over her chest. “All right. Go on.”
Tomen nodded, drawing in a deep breath before launching into a horribly rehearsed monologue.
“To start, I must relay how I came to learn of the intricacies of the isles…”
The moment the words left his mouth, she felt her mind begin to drift.
Oh, aspects, this man could talk.
He droned on about some young explorer— Ez… something? —who sold some old pirate’s dagger to one of his acquaintances. About the ancient Buh-something people who inhabited the Serpent Isles. About Bilgewater’s humble beginnings as a fishing village before becoming a pirate haven.
Blah, blah, blah.
She kept her sunglasses on, grateful they hid the vacant look in her eyes as Tomen continued his impassioned speech.
“…Gangplank, a brutal pirate lord, currently rules the city, but—”
His mouth moved, but at this point, she wasn’t hearing a damn thing.
She idly glanced at the window, watching the sun sink lower, its reflection glimmering across the water.
“…and that is why I believe, if I play my cards right, I can succeed here. I can help my family.”
Tomen’s voice took on a note of pride.
Not that she heard a word of it.
A pause.
Then—
“So, what do you think, Madam?”
Nothing.
“…Madam?”
She jolted upright. Brain scrambled. Shit.
“Huh—oh! Yeah! That sounds great. Just… uh… taking in all that you said.”
Tomen seemed pleased enough with that answer, nodding as he focused back on navigating through the crowded docks. The girl exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders as she watched him maneuver.
“You’re pretty good at this, T-man,” she remarked, smirking. “Where’d you learn to fly?”
Tomen glanced at her like she had just spoken in some foreign tongue. His grip tightened for a moment, nearly jerking them too far to one side. A small fishing vessel veered out of their way just in time.
“T… what—? Ah. Yes. I appreciate your praise, Madam,” he said, voice regaining its usual formality. “As I stated earlier, my family—the Calvina family—specializes in transport. One of the best in Piltover, I might add—”
The girl cleared her throat, cutting him off before he could spiral into another speech.
Tomen coughed. “Ahem. Yes, well. I’ve spent most of my life aboard ships. Traveled with our crew and my father since I was a young lad.” His voice carried a hint of pride now, his hands adjusting deftly on the helm. “I’ve transported goods to Demacia, Noxus, and Ionia—though mostly Noxus. Learned through experience. No better teacher.”
A soft clunk echoed through the ship. The distinct sound of metal pressing against wood.
They had docked.
Tomen flipped a few switches, twisted a few knobs, and pulled a lever. The ship’s hum quieted into silence.
Even before stepping outside, the air changed.
Salt. Fish. Gunpowder. The unmistakable stench of Bilgewater.
The distant cries of seagulls overlapped with the cacophony of the docks—voices shouting, orders being barked, the steady thud of boots against wood. A city very much alive.
Tomen straightened, exhaling as he turned toward her.
“We have arrived, Madam.” He gave a small, formal nod. “Welcome to Bilgewater.”
Notes:
This is the last of the introduction chapters. Originally this was part of the next chapter, but I decided to cut it off here.
The next chapter will be out on Friday. From then on I settled on two chapters per week, maybe.
The next chapter you could say is quite "Fortunate."
Chapter Text
Chapter 4: Put ’em Up
Tomen opened the right-side door, gesturing for the young woman to follow. They walked down a short corridor, their footsteps echoing faintly in the narrow space. At the halfway point of the hall, the door to the outside loomed.
Tomen paused.
His gaze flicked back toward the bent frame of the cargo hold door. The memory of her boot slamming into him flashed through his mind. His face twisted, half in discomfort, half in gratitude. She’d held back when she kicked me.
Under his breath, he offered a quiet prayer to whatever deity might be listening.
The blue-haired woman noticed. She didn’t comment, just smirked, the kind of smile that promised trouble.
Tomen reached for the door. He lifted two levers on either side, then gripped the wheel in the center and gave it a firm twist. With a hiss of air, pistons released, and the door swung open.
A short walkway extended from the ship’s hull, bridging the gap to a wooden dock.
The smell hit them first—salt, brine, and the unmistakable tang of fish mingled with the sour stench of sweat and stale rum. The noise came next—a cacophony of shouts, hammering, and the creak of ships swaying on the tide. Bilgewater’s port was alive with motion.
Tomen stepped forward, only to stop short just before the walkway. His hands darted to his pants pockets. Then his coat pockets. He muttered a few choice curses under his breath.
“Ah… Madam,” he said, sheepish. “I seem to have forgotten something in my cabin. Would you mind waiting for me outside?”
She shrugged, stepping aside to let him pass.
Alone now, she turned her gaze to the horizon.
The sun hung low, bathing the port in shades of fiery red, dusky orange, and soft pink. She adjusted her coat, pulling the hood up with one hand. Her other hand swept her signature blue fringe back beneath it.
The fur-lined hood framed her face, and dark sunglasses concealed her eyes.
She took a slow, measured step onto the walkway. Her boots thudded softly against the wood as she crossed it, finally stepping onto solid ground.
The air was warm and humid. It clung to her skin, seeping through the fabric of her coat. She didn’t mind. The heat reminded her of home.
Her gaze swept the port.
The docks sprawled out before her, crowded with ships of every size. Massive galleons loomed over smaller skiffs, the wood dark with age and salt. Ships jutted out of the cliffsides as well, clustered together like haphazard villages. Rope bridges and rickety walkways crisscrossed the gaps, connecting homes, businesses, and taverns in a chaotic web.
She traced the intricate lift systems with her eyes, watching goods and people travel from the docks to higher levels and back again.
It reminded her of the Undercity—scraps and salvage repurposed into something alive.
Further up the cliffs, she spotted heavier stone buildings. Solid. Imposing. That must be where the rich live.
Her gaze drifted higher.
At the city’s peak stood a towering structure, its silhouette sharp against the fading light.
Whoever lives there… rules this place.
The thought faded as another realization sank in.
This is it. I’m really out of the Undercity. Out of Piltover.
Anxiety tightened in her chest. Her palms grew clammy.
I really left.
Her breath quickened.
I’m out of the city. I’m in fucking Bilgewater.
A sharp, breathless laugh bubbled in her throat. It started to escape—then died.
The voices returned.
“Why are you leaving me!?”
Her sister’s voice. Younger. Frightened. Desperate.
“Do you believe you can escape your crimes?”
That polished, venomous tone—Caitlyn. The blue-haired enforcer.
Her fists clenched at her sides. She shut her eyes tight and dropped her head, focusing on her breathing.
In. Out. In.
But then—
A whisper, cold and cruel, slithered into her left ear.
“Fire and ash. All will burn. It’s always our fault.”
Her eyes snapped open. She spun around, heart racing—
Nothing.
But her eyes locked onto something else.
Two brutes were moving toward her.
The two bullies approached in perfect sync, muscles rippling beneath skin inked with tattoos. Their arms, torsos, and even the backs of their necks were a tapestry of snarling beasts, crude symbols, and jagged lines. Beads of sweat glistened on their bald heads from a day under the hot sun.
One carried a flintlock pistol holstered at his belt and wore iron knuckles on his left hand. The other had twin cutlasses strapped to each hip. As they drew closer, the girl’s eyes landed on the matching tattoos on their left forearms—a shield crossed by two swords, with the initials J.H. at the center.
She didn’t know the tattoo, but she knew their look. She’d seen it a hundred times before. They were prowling for trouble.
Around them, dockworkers and sailors kept their heads down, stepping aside without a word. No one wanted to catch the attention of men like this.
The one with the flintlock spoke first.
“Hey there, little lady. Welcome to Bilgewater,” he drawled, his grin wide and humorless. “We’re port security. Name’s Bart. The big one there is Bones.”
Bart gave a mocking little bow, then gestured toward his partner. His voice dripped with false politeness; the kind of tone con men used to disarm marks. They weren’t here to help.
“You’re new here, right? Airship from the Pilt means you probably don’t know the ‘rules and regulations.’ That’s alright. We’re here to help you get acquainted.”
His smile widened.
“This dock belongs to Gangplank. Rules are, you need written permission to land. First-timers also need to have their ship inspected. You know, just to make sure there’s no… contraband.”
The girl’s expression didn’t change. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but if Bart and Bones could see the look, she was giving them, they’d know this wasn’t going to end the way they expected. She stayed silent, watching their little act play out.
Bart didn’t wait for a response. “Now, my associate will kindly escort you to our office yonder,” he said smoothly. Bones stepped closer, his thick fingers twitching, eager to put a hand on her shoulder. “While I… inspect the ship.”
Bart turned toward the open door of the airship.
Bones reached for her—
Her hand shot out.
Fingers wrapped around his wrist like a steel vice.
Bones froze. He looked down, surprised. Her hand barely covered half of his thick wrist, but it didn’t matter. The strength behind her grip was inhuman.
“AHH! You bitch!” he howled, the sound carrying across the docks.
Bart spun around, eyes narrowing.
“Yeah… that’s not gonna happen,” the girl said, her smile sharp and dangerous. She twisted Bones’s wrist for emphasis, eliciting another pained yelp. “You should really work on picking your marks.”
Bones growled, his free hand darting for a cutlass. Bart’s flintlock was already aimed at her chest.
“You dirty sea rat, let him go before I shoot you full of holes!” Bart roared.
Bones didn’t wait. He swung his cutlass at her with all his strength.
“Sure,” she said cheerfully.
Pink lightning crackled.
The afterimage of her silhouette hung in the air for a split second before vanishing. Bones’s blade cleaved through empty space.
His wrist was free, but he was too stunned to process it. He glanced wildly around—
Bart’s expression shifted from confusion to rage as he stared at something behind Bones.
With a thundering crash, something slammed into Bones’s lower back. The force sent him sprawling forward like a ragdoll. He tumbled straight toward Bart.
Bart sidestepped just in time, letting his companion hit the ground hard. Bones groaned, struggling to push himself upright.
Bart whipped his pistol up, finger on the trigger. Before he could fire, his hand jerked backward, the flintlock flying from his grasp as if struck by a bolt of lightning.
The girl stood a few feet away, hood down. Her short blue hair caught the sunlight, and her signature fringe hung over her dark sunglasses. Her gun hovered near her lips, smoke trailing from the glowing crystal at the end of the barrel.
She blew the smoke away, grinning like a devil.
“Let’s try to keep this fun, yeah? Wouldn’t want to end things too quickly.” Her voice was light, almost playful—except for the edge of madness laced beneath the words.
Bart stared, frozen.
She holstered her weapon with a practiced flourish and raised her fists, ready for more.
“Now,” she said, her grin widening. “Put ’em up.”
“AHHH! YOU BITCH!” Bart roared as he charged, brass-knuckled fist raised, every ounce of fury behind it.
The girl sidestepped with ease, fluid as water, and countered with a sharp jab to his center mass. Bart stumbled back two steps, the impact knocking the wind out of him. But he recovered fast, this time swinging with both fists, faster and more desperate.
She danced around each punch, blocking or redirecting any that came too close with swift precision.
“That’s all you got?” she taunted, her grin widening. “My sister hits harder.”
Bart’s face twisted with rage. He threw a wild haymaker. She spun past it, the momentum carrying her just behind him, and snapped the back of her right hand across his jaw. The impact sent him reeling, collapsing next to Bones with a grunt.
At the airship door, Tomen froze in shock, both hands gripping the sides of his head. “Wha… Madam, what happened?!”
“They started it!” she yelled back, her voice practically bubbling with joy.
The crowd around them surged closer, forming a wide half-circle around the fighters. Every hit brought whistles and cheers, the growing audience feeding off the energy of the brawl.
Bones and Bart hauled themselves to their feet. They exchanged a glance, and Bones unsheathed one of his cutlasses, tossing it to Bart.
They charged together, the rhythm of seasoned fighters who had brawled side by side for years.
“Oh, so we’re getting serious now?” the girl said with glee. She shrugged off her coat and tossed it to Tomen. “Hold this.”
Tomen clutched the coat like it was a lifeline, his pale face glistening with sweat. His knees wobbled as the sight of steel-filled fists made him feel faint.
The girl faced the charging men head-on. They were skilled, but not enough.
She weaved through their attacks with a blur of movement. Their cutlasses whistled through the air but never touched her. She ducked low, spun, and vaulted over their strikes, all while landing jabs, knees, and kicks with brutal accuracy.
The crowd’s excitement exploded. More people poured in, spilling from nearby ships and walkways to watch. Onlookers scrambled to higher perches for a better view, their cheers echoing over the port.
Tomen stood frozen in place, still clutching the coat, his great-grandfather’s inheritance— well now hers. Blood drained from his face. He had no idea if his mission would sink the moment they set foot in Bilgewater.
Minutes passed, and Bones and Bart were reduced to panting messes, barely able to stay upright. Sweat poured from their brows. Their movements slowed, each swing getting sloppier by the second.
“Guess it’s time to end this…” the girl said, feigning disappointment. “And I was having so much fun!”
She raised her arms to the crowd, pumping them up. The onlookers erupted in deafening cheers.
Bones, seizing an opportunity, launched one last desperate thrust at her back.
But she heard him. She had heard every breath, every heartbeat, every footstep. This fight had been more than a brawl—it had been a test. A perfect place to push her new limits. The mutated shimmer coursing through her veins had sharpened her strength, her reflexes, her senses.
As the blade shot toward her, she took one step to the side, catching Bones’s arm in both hands. In one swift motion, she drove her knee into his wrist.
CRACK.
Bones howled in pain. The cutlass fell from his hand, clattering against the dock. He collapsed to his knees, his eyes filled with agony.
Now at eye level with her, he met her gaze for the first time a hint of bright pink from the sides of her sunglasses.
She took a step back.
Then she spun, her roundhouse kick connecting with his jaw. His head snapped back as he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
It all happened in the blink of an eye. The crowd erupted with wild cheers, some of them leaping in excitement.
Bart, seeing his partner go down, let out a bellow of rage. He raised his cutlass above his head, both hands gripping the hilt as he charged. His swing was meant to end her.
But she was already moving.
Before the blade could fall, she darted forward. Her right fist shot upward in a perfect uppercut, landing with all the force of a cannon blast.
Bart’s massive frame lifted off the ground.
He hung in the air for half a second before crashing down on his back.
The crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch. The sight of the giant man taking flight sent them into a frenzy.
Bart lay on his back, dazed and staring at the sky, stars dancing in his vision. But he wasn’t out—yet.
The girl stepped over him, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him upright. Her right fist cocked back, ready to deliver the final blow.
BLAM! BLAM!
Two sharp gunshots cracked through the air. The girl froze mid-punch, Bart’s collar still clenched in her fist. The crowd, once deafening, fell into a stunned silence.
“Now, now,” a seductively smooth voice floated over the dock. “I think these two idiots have had enough. Why don’t we call it here?”
The girl opened her hand, letting Bart drop to the ground with a grunt. She stood tall and turned toward the voice.
An incredibly striking woman stepped forward from the crowd, her every movement commanding attention. She had a slim but curvaceous build, light skin, pale green eyes that seemed to see too much, and a mane of long, wavy red hair cascading beneath a black bicorn hat. Two large pistols rested in her gloved hands, smoke still curling from the barrels.
Two men flanked her like shadows. One was massive, the size of the brutes on the dock, holding a hand cannon casually slung over his shoulder. The other was dark-skinned, wiry yet strong, a little older, with a stern gaze, a cutlass at his side, and a large bag on the other.
The redhead stopped a few paces away, her piercing gaze resting on Bart. “Now, Bart,” she said sweetly, her tone like sugar over steel, “why don’t you take your friend and scramble before you embarrass yourselves even more.”
Bart slowly pushed himself up, wincing. He glanced from the redhead to the blue-haired girl, his expression dark with humiliation. “We won’t forget this,” he spat. “We’ll find you.”
He looked back at the redhead. “And you better not interfere, Fortune.”
Bones, now semi-conscious, groaned as Bart hauled him upright, slinging one arm over his shoulder. Together, the two brutes limped away, blending into the dispersing crowd.
The woman holstered her pistols with a smooth motion and turned her attention to the girl. “That was some fight. I like your style, love.” Her voice dripped with charm, but there was a knowing edge behind it.
The girl didn’t respond. Instead, she simply gestured for Tomen.
Tomen, now pale but relieved that no one had died, quickly trotted over. “Here is your coat, Madam.” He handed it to her with shaking hands.
The girl shrugged the coat back on, adjusting it over her shoulders before pulling the hood up once more.
Tomen turned to the tall redhead. “I must thank you, ma’am. Your interference was most welcome.”
Fortune’s gaze remained locked on the girl, but she answered Tomen. “Don’t mention it. Those two had it coming. They pull that scam on every new arrival.”
“If you don’t mind me asking…” Tomen hesitated. “How did they know we were new?”
The dark-skinned man with the cutlass spoke, his tone dry. “You don’t have a pass.”
“A pass?” Tomen repeated, confusion written all over his face.
The large man with the hand cannon gave a nod. “Yeah, a pass. Usually painted on the side of a ship or displayed on parchment. Tells anyone looking that you’re under protection. No pass means easy prey.”
Tomen’s brow furrowed as he processed the new information. Then, with a sudden jolt, he remembered his manners. “Oh! Introductions—how rude of me. My name is Tomen Calvina III, a Piltovan merchant, and this is my… associate… the Madam. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss…?”
“Fortune. Captain Sarah Fortune,” she said with a playful wink. “But most love to call me Miss Fortune.”
The blue-haired girl let out a quiet chuckle under her breath.
Fortune continued, gesturing to her crew. “The man to my left is my first mate, Rafen.” The stern-faced man gave a small grunt. “And the big guy to my right is my gunner, Bellamy.” Bellamy nodded in acknowledgment.
“Now,” Miss Fortune said, motioning to Rafen. He pulled a rolled-up piece of parchment from the bag at his side. “This here is a pass. I’d like for you to have it.”
Her gaze lingered on Tomen, playful and enigmatic. She held the parchment out to him.
Tomen reached for it, but the girl stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“And what do you want for it, Red?” she asked, her tone sharp with suspicion.
Miss Fortune’s smile only widened. “Think of it as… thanks for dealing with those two idiots.” She held the parchment out again, this time to the girl. “And maybe some goodwill for my next request.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed behind her sunglasses, and interest peaked. “Go on.”
“I believe I have a job for you,” Miss Fortune said, gesturing with the parchment. “You don’t have to accept. But I’d love to talk details—perhaps over drinks?”
She leaned in just enough to place the parchment in the girl’s hand. “Not tonight, though. Tonight, we’re busy. But if you’re interested… meet me at the Baron’s Rest in three days.”
Miss Fortune took a step back, her smile dazzling. “Now, with that done, I must take my leave. I do hope to see you again.”
With a final glance, she turned and motioned to her crew. Together, they disappeared into the crowd, leaving Tomen and the girl standing alone on the dock.
The girl waited a moment before unfolding the parchment. On it was the sketch of a heart, crossed by two familiar pistols, with the word Syren scrawled underneath in bold letters. She studied it briefly, her lips twitching into the barest hint of amusement.
She glanced at Tomen, who was still staring after Miss Fortune like a lovesick puppy. His mouth hung open, and his eyes were glazed.
“Close your mouth, you’re drooling, T,” she said with a mock-serious tone.
He jolted out of his trance, trying to compose himself. “I… I am not drooling. I was just—uh—captivated. By her… beauty. And kindness. Yes, her kindness.”
The girl burst into laughter—a real, full-bodied laugh. It had been too long since she’d felt something so genuine.
“Whatever you say,” she teased. “Come on, let’s get back to the ship. It’s already dark.”
The sun had long set, and the port was bathed in a dim orange glow from the light posts and lanterns hanging from ships. The sound of waves lapping against the docks mixed with the distant hum of the city. The once-bustling crowd had thinned, leaving only a few stragglers still milling about.
They made their way back to the ship. Tomen shut the door behind them before heading to the bridge. The girl placed the parchment against the window, visible to anyone passing by. She didn’t trust Bilgewater yet, but at least now they had some semblance of protection.
“Ah… Madam?” Tomen spoke hesitantly. “Would you like to join me for supper in the galley? I’d like to discuss today’s events. Maybe we can plan our next steps.”
The girl raised a brow. “Sure. I’m a little hungry.”
They walked toward the galley, a small, cramped space with just enough room for a tiny kitchen, a pantry, and a four-seater booth tucked into one corner.
Tomen shrugged off his coat and hung it by the door, so the girl did the same before sliding into the booth.
“Anything you’d like to eat? Options are a bit limited, but I can whip something up.”
“What, you trying to butter me up? Got something on your mind, T-man?”
Tomen tensed for a second before exhaling. “Okay, yes. I think we should meet with Captain Fortune. She seemed… well-connected. And pleasant to work with.” His words came out in a rush.
Damn. Red’s got him wrapped around her finger already, the girl thought. Not that she blamed him. Fortune was dangerous in more ways than one.
Still, the girl mulled over her first day in Bilgewater. She was looking for work, and to help Tomen with his thing. And Fortune looked like the type who could offer more than a few fun jobs.
She sighed. “Fine. Make me another sandwich and grab some juice.”
Tomen’s face lit up with a relieved smile.
“But listen,” she added, her tone sharp. “We’ve got a few days. We’ll talk to the locals, find out what we can about Fortune before we agree to anything.”
It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was a start.
Tomen set to work making sandwiches and drinks, placing the food on the booth table before sitting across from her. The two ate in comfortable silence, the tension of the day slowly easing.
Then the girl froze mid-bite, eyes narrowing.
Tomen opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but he didn’t have to.
A deafening explosion ripped through the night, so close it rattled the ship’s walls. The plates on the table shook.
Without a word, the girl shot to her feet and dashed for the nearest window. She scaled the ship’s outer hull with practiced ease, climbing to the highest vantage point.
At the far end of the dock, a massive blaze lit up the night sky. What had once been the largest ship in the harbor was now a flaming wreck, its remains strewn across the water. The fire roared, sending columns of smoke high into the air.
On a nearby ship, a lookout stood frozen, staring at the inferno. Even at this distance, the girl could make out his words, carried by the wind.
“Gangplank’s ship…”
Notes:
Finally, Fortune makes an appearance.
I've decided on a new chapter every Tuesday and Friday.
Chapter Text
Chapter 5: It Was a Declaration
The early morning fog drifted lazily across Bilgewater, cloaking the port in a gray, bone-chilling mist. The sun had yet to breach the horizon, leaving the docks in a half-lit limbo. The usual cocktail of salt air, mildew, and fish was diluted by the sharp tang of ash and gunpowder. Smoke curled lazily skyward from the charred skeleton of the ship at the dock’s end—the aftermath of last night’s inferno.
From her perch atop the airship, the girl sat with one knee drawn to her chest, a telescope pressed to her eye. She was wrapped in her coat, the one Tomen had brought her the night before along with the telescope, eager to survey the aftermath of the explosion. She had kept vigil here all night, watching the blaze consume what had once been Bilgewater’s largest galleon. There was something oddly soothing about the sight of fire and ruin. She hadn’t seen the detonation herself, but judging by the ship’s destruction, it must have been spectacular, whoever had lit the fuse knew exactly what they were doing.
Through the lens, dockhands scurried across the docks, frantically working to smother the last of the flames. Familiar faces darted in and out of the scene—the same two brutes from the day before, now drenched in sweat and soot. Her gaze landed on a tall, thin man directing the chaos. His long black hair gleamed even in the dim light, and his green coat, with its high collar and belt crossed over his chest, was adorned with a distinctive emblem: a skull with writhing tentacles, one of which curled like a hook.
As she scanned the dock, the symbol appeared everywhere—painted on crates and walls, stitched into sails, and even tattooed on bare arms. On one particularly ornate banner, the words Jagged Hooks curled menacingly around the image.
The dockside atmosphere was charged with something more than just panic. Several ships had slipped away under the cover of dawn, their captains unwilling to gamble on whatever storm was brewing in Bilgewater. The placement of the wreck, the damage to the dock, and the precision of the charges left no doubt—this was no accident.
If it had been a random detonation, only part of the ship would have gone up—the ammunition hold, perhaps. But a galleon of that size would’ve been fortified to survive such mishaps. The dock itself had sustained only fire damage, not structural impact from an explosion. No, someone had strategically placed the explosives to hit the ship's most vulnerable points.
And that ship belonged to Gangplank.
Her mind drifted to Tomen’s words from last night: Gangplank ruled Bilgewater with an iron grip, serving as judge, jury, and executioner. Whoever destroyed his ship wasn’t just reckless—they were ambitious. This wasn’t just an explosion. It was a declaration.
Her mind drifted back to Silco and his lessons in the early days after he’d taken her in. Taking over the Lanes hadn’t happened overnight; there had been resistance. “Symbols are powerful,” he’d once told her after they seized control of the Last Drop. “People rally behind them, fight for them, die for them. But symbols make easy targets. If you want to take down a leader, don’t just destroy what they own—destroy what they mean.”
Destroying Gangplank’s ship wasn’t just rebellion. It was war.
Her focus returned to the man in the green coat. He barked orders with the authority of someone high-ranking, but not quite a captain. The uncertainty in his expression hinted at another possibility— the explosion had been more than an attack on Gangplank’s ship—it had been an assassination attempt. And from the look on the man’s face, she wasn’t sure it had failed.
Another of Silco’s lessons surfaced. “I’ve never liked the ‘cutting off the snake’s head’ analogy,” he’d once told her after eliminating a rival Chem-baron. “Human society is more comparable to a beehive. Kill the queen, and the hive will sting—then it’ll raise another queen. Burn the hive if you want to eliminate it. But if you want to rule, you offer them a new queen.”
The girl’s thoughts sharpened. Someone was vying to rule Bilgewater.
A sudden flash of blue hair obscured her view, and an icy shiver crawled up her spine. Her jaw clenched, and the metal of the telescope groaned under her grip.
“Whoa!” A high-pitched, sing-song voice followed. “You work fast. First day here, and the head honcho’s already dead. And burning, no less.” Maniacal laughter broke through the mist.
Jinx.
The girl lowered the telescope and shut her eyes, breathing in deeply. When she opened them, Jinx was gone. Her momentary relief evaporated when she felt pressure against her back.
“Now, now, before you throw a hissy fit,” Jinx, her voice laced with mock sweetness, leaned lazily against her, back-to-back. “I know this wasn’t us. Too few fireworks. Not enough witnesses. Boring.”
Jinx’s wild laughter rang out again.
The girl stood abruptly, fists clenched. She wouldn’t give Jinx the satisfaction of a reaction. She refused to let her past haunt her again.
“Still…” Jinx’s tone softened, curiosity slipping into her voice. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Who’s got the guts to go after Big G?”
A face flickered in the girl’s mind—red hair, fierce eyes. Not tonight. Tonight, we’re busy. Fortune’s words echoed in her memory. The brutes’ first reaction to Fortune had been telling—anger, hatred, fear barely hidden behind a clenched jaw.
“Ohhh,” Jinx cooed. “You think it’s Red, don’t you?”
The sun finally crested the horizon, bathing the dock in gold. The girl replayed Fortune’s every word and gesture. She didn’t know the woman—not yet—but her gut told her she wasn’t chasing shadows. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corners of her lips.
If Fortune had planned this, then whatever job she had in mind would be anything but boring.
“Oh, I like that look!” Jinx squealed, clapping her hands.
The smirk vanished. No. She wasn’t the same girl anymore. Destruction wouldn’t define her. Not anymore.
Before she could respond, a voice interrupted.
“Madam? Could you… assist me for a moment?”
She turned to see Tomen’s head poking over the service ladder’s edge. He climbed up awkwardly, a small basket in hand.
He hauled himself up, panting slightly. “I thought you might be cold or hungry after staying out here all night.” He held the basket toward her. “Coffee and bread.”
She took the basket and sat back down, opening it to find a warm cylindrical container and fresh bread. Tomen stood beside her, gazing over the port.
“Why are you being so… nice? You that scared of me?” she asked with a hint of sarcasm.
Tomen tensed, then gave a small laugh. “I admit, Madam, you are terrifying at times.”
She chuckled, but he continued.
“Yet, you didn’t leave me to those bullies. You saved my ship. For that, I thank you.” His gratitude felt genuine. “I choose to believe in your promise of help.”
She sipped the coffee, bitter, but she didn’t mind. “Thanks. You’re alright for a Piltie.” She took another sip, glancing back at the scorched wreck. “But don’t thank me yet. I’ve got a theory—the one who offered us a job and the one who blew that ship sky-high?”
Tomen followed her gaze to the smoldering ruins.
“Same person.”
They spent the next few days weaving through the chaotic, salt-soaked sprawl of Bilgewater. From the sun-bleached docks to the mist-cloaked alleys, they traversed the city’s many layers. The airship remained moored safely in the docks, thanks to a failsafe the girl had rigged—much to the captain’s hesitation. Still, their pass seemed to serve its purpose. Red had offered protection after all.
As they explored, the girl noted how often the Syrens’ insignia appeared—a bold, defiant mark. But it wasn’t the only one. The Jagged Hooks had the city in a vice grip, their emblem stamped across nearly every building and dock. Yet smaller factions made their presence known too—roughly two dozen other symbols were etched, painted, or scorched into the city’s walls, each clustered in tight, territorial patterns.
The girl saw it all with a calculating eye. These symbols weren’t just banners; they were a language of dominance, loyalty, and threat. She knew the game well. After all, she had once been the executioner for one of the best players.
Despite being foreigners, the two of them didn’t stand out. Bilgewater was a true melting pot. Noxians and Ionians roamed the streets in equal numbers, with Freljordians and Shurimans sprinkled throughout. Occasionally, she spotted figures from the Undercity—people who moved with a hunched wariness she recognized all too well. The diversity extended beyond nationalities. Yordles hustled to and fro, Vastaya with scaled or feathered limbs moved through the crowds, and, for the first time in her life, she saw a Minotaur lumbering down the street, horns scraping low-hanging awnings.
Yet despite the city’s variety, one thing remained constant—the expressions. Every face was drawn with fear. Worry hung in the humid air, heavier than the salt that clung to their skin.
One afternoon, they stopped at a small, makeshift restaurant. A wooden bar jutted from the side of a leaning building, its cracked sign swinging lazily in the breeze. The scent of sizzling fish filled the air—spiced, smoky, and oddly familiar to the girl. Behind the bar, a shark-like Vestaya with arms as thick as barrels leaned over a skillet, flipping fillets with one hand while pouring a dark sauce over them with the other. The man’s movements were quick and practiced, despite the cramped space.
Tomen, eager to prove his adventurous palate, ordered a heaping plate. “One must have the courage to try anything at least once,” he proclaimed with mock bravado—only to choke on his first bite and down a full pitcher of water in a desperate attempt to cool the fire in his throat.
The girl’s lips twitched at his reaction. For a moment, the taste and smell transported her to another life—a memory of meals shared at Jericho’s with Vi and her brothers. A familiar ache stirred in her chest, fleeting but heavy.
To Tomen, every step through Bilgewater was an adventure. To the girl, it all felt strangely familiar. The makeshift houses, layered in grime and salt spray, reminded her too much of the Undercity. Even the more affluent areas had the same rough edges, as though wealth could never quite wash away the filth clinging to the streets. She had expected more—giant sea monsters hung at the Slaughter Docks and sailors spun tales of harrowing journeys—but it all felt like home beneath the spectacle.
Dark alleys were filled with shady figures lurking at their ends. Street rats begged for coins with one hand while the other reached to pickpocket their marks. The city’s layered verticality, with its stacked platforms and hidden passageways, mirrored the Undercity’s towering sprawl. She couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or just homesick. This was her first time outside the twin cities' borders, and yet the world felt small.
Or perhaps the unease she felt was simply Bilgewater itself. Every street they walked down seemed too quiet. There was no laughter, no children playing in the streets—only whispers. Murmurs of worry, concern, and fear filled the air. The explosion still hung over the city like a thundercloud, and no one had come forward to take credit for it. There was no news of the Reaver King of Bilgewater, no word on whether he lived or died. And everyone knew—whether spoken or not—that the city was a tinderbox, waiting for the smallest spark to ignite it.
They spoke with many people over those days, especially those who operated under the Syrens’ protection. The more they asked, the clearer the mosaic became. Sarah Fortune’s reputation was painted in bold strokes: loyal to her allies, ruthless to her enemies, and a beauty as dangerous as the sea.
By the third day, they exited a small shop near the docks. The sun was sinking low over the water, casting shadows long and thin. The girl turned to Tomen, her gaze steady.
“All right. We’ve learned what we can,” she said. “Now it’s time to meet with Captain Fortune.”
Notes:
It's a little shorter this time. This one and the next two were originally one chapter, but it got too long.
The next chapter is out on Friday. It was ezy to write.
Thanks for Reading!
Chapter Text
Chapter 6: Don’t Like Waiting
The Baron’s Rest was the largest and rowdiest tavern in Bilgewater, and as Tomen and the girl stepped inside, they were hit by a wave of noise, heat, and music. While Bilgewater’s streets were steeped in tension and fear, the atmosphere here was jubilant. Here, laughter boomed across crowded tables, tankards clinked in celebration, and the air smelled of salt, ale, and sizzling meat. A bard strummed a lively tune from a corner, his fingers dancing over the strings of a sea-weathered lute. Every table was packed with wide-smiling patrons sharing tall tales over overflowing mugs. Booths along the walls held groups feasting on hearty meals, their animated conversations filling the multi-story space. It was as if the weight of the outside world had been left at the door.
The girl’s sharp eyes roved across the room. It didn’t take long to notice something peculiar. Many of the patrons displayed brands—emblems tattooed on their skin or stitched into their clothes. They were the insignias of various pirate crews she’d seen around town. With a quick sweep, she counted about seven different sigils. But there was one glaring absence—no Jagged Hook symbols in sight.
They made their way to the half-circle bar at the back of the hall, where a large, bearded man wiped down mugs with mechanical efficiency. His sharp eyes flicked toward them, already reading them before they could speak.
“What’s going on?” Tomen asked, his voice cutting through the noise. “The city doesn’t seem in a celebratory mood, but this place is… alive.”
“Fortune’s orders,” the barkeep replied gruffly. “She said to let the booze flow today. Told us we were celebrating—didn’t say what for.” He slid another frothy jug down the bar without missing a beat. “Now, what’ll it be?”
Tomen smiled with his usual Piltovan charm. “Actually, we’re here to meet Captain Fortune. The name’s Tomen Calvina III. Could you point us in the right direction?”
The barkeep paused, giving the pair a slow, appraising look. After a moment, he gestured to a nearby barmaid and murmured a message in her ear. She nodded and disappeared through a door to the left of the bar.
“Wait here,” the barkeep said, already turning back to his work.
When the barmaid returned, she gave them a quick nod. “The captain’s busy. She said to wait. Someone’ll come for you.”
Tomen ordered two beers, and they settled at a table near the bar. The girl fidgeted with the handle of her mug. Patience wasn’t her strong suit, but she was trying. She had to change—didn’t she?
Before she could stew too long in her thoughts, a cheerful voice interrupted.
“Tomen? Is that you? What are you doing in Bilgewater?”
The girl studied him closely. He was about the same age as her sister maybe younger—early twenties—with bright blue eyes and a boyish charm. He wore simple jeans, a shirt, and a worn leather jacket, with pouches hanging from his belt. But two things set him apart from the rest of the tavern’s crowd. The first was his unmistakably Piltovan accent. The second was the golden gauntlet on his left hand, adorned with a shimmering blue gem. To the untrained eye, it might have looked like hextech. But the girl knew better—this was ancient, and a strange power radiated from it.
She instinctively lowered her hood and adjusted her sunglasses, making sure the newcomer couldn’t get a clear look at her. The last thing she needed right now was to be recognized. I really need to come up with a name soon.
“Sir Ezreal! What a coincidence to meet you here! It’s magnificent to see a familiar face!” Tomen exclaimed, standing and shaking the young man’s hand. “Madam, this is the man I told you about.”
Ezreal turned to her with a pleasant smile. “Pleasure’s mine.”
The girl gave a curt nod, relieved that he hadn’t recognized her—yet.
Tomen quickly continued, brushing over details to avoid more questions. “I’ve been here for a little under a week. Given the state of things back home, I thought it was time to expand elsewhere. You remember my fascination with Bilgewater. And she’s been assisting me.”
“Is that so?” Ezreal’s eyes lit up. “I just got here yesterday! Hey, let’s catch up over a drink.” He plopped down in a chair, signaling for another round.
The two men fell into easy conversation. It quickly turned to Ezreal’s adventures—tales of treasure hunts, ancient ruins, and daring escapes. Tomen listened with childlike wonder, hanging on every word.
“And then,” Ezreal said with a flourish, “we barely escaped the collapsing tomb after fighting off a swarm of void spiders!”
The girl signaled a barmaid for something stronger.
Ezreal launched into another tale. “…and that’s how ‘Jarro Lightfeather’ crashed the most exclusive ball in all of Demacia.”
Despite herself, the girl leaned in slightly. Ezreal’s stories weren’t entirely boring, and at least they made the wait for Fortune bearable.
“And that’s where I met the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—Luxanna Crownguard.” Ezreal’s smile faltered, his expression turning wistful.
Rejected, the girl guessed.
“Things are wild everywhere,” Ezreal continued, shaking off his mood. “Demacia’s not safe for anyone with magic… I left as soon as I heard what was happening back home.” His gaze drifted to the gauntlet, his fingers tightening over it.
Tomen, now more serious himself, asked, “Did you arrive from Piltover? Any news from there? Word hasn’t reached here yet.”
Ezreal sighed. “I was there recently. Stopped to visit my uncle after I heard what that Noxian general tried to do. Hard to believe Caitlyn would let herself be used and declared martial law. I knew her as a kid…” His voice trailed off.
The girl tensed at the mention of Caitlyn Kiramman. She took a slow sip from her mug, forcing herself to stay calm.
“But things are looking better now,” Ezreal continued. “People are rebuilding, and a new council’s been formed. Even someone from the Undercity’s on it. Sevi... something.”
“Sevika?”
Ezreal blinked, surprised. “Yeah, that’s it… They’re trying to give the fissure folk a voice. We’ll see how long that lasts.” His eyes darkened with worry.
“Any news on Vi—I mean, on Kiramman?” The words slipped out before the girl could stop them.
Ezreal’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he answered without hesitation. “Ah… my uncle said something about a council meeting where Caitlyn and her partner pushed for Enforcer reforms after some Noxians infiltrated the ranks. Don’t know what they decided, though—I left the morning after.”
The girl’s grip on her mug loosened slightly. Anger warred with relief—furious that her sister was still an enforcer, but quietly proud that she was trying to change things.
Ezreal’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, but before he could say more, Tomen asked, “So, Ezreal, what brings you to Bilgewater?”
As the two men launched into a new conversation, the girl’s mind wandered again, memories of her sister surfacing unbidden. Her vision blurred, and the sounds of the tavern faded into the background.
Then, without warning, a figure appeared in the fourth chair at their table.
Long, electric blue braids draped behind the chair, nearly brushing the floor.
“So good to hear that sis moved on,” Jinx purred, her manic grin wide. “Barely a week, and she’s back to playing with her blue-bellied girlfriend.”
The girl froze. She knew Jinx wasn’t really there. But it didn’t make the vision any easier to ignore.
Jinx rolled a blue marble across her fingers, her eyes gleaming with mockery. “Think she even mourned us? Thought she’d be drowning in shitty Piltie booze, but I guess not.”
The girl squeezed her mug until the handle groaned under the pressure. She forced herself to breathe. What is taking Fortune so long?
But Jinx’s voice cut through her thoughts like a blade.
“Guess she didn’t really care about us after all.”
The girl’s composure shattered. She slammed her fists against the table, leaving deep dents in the wood.
The entire tavern went silent. All eyes turned to her.
Tomen and Ezreal stared, wide-eyed. Ezreal’s right hand instinctively hovered over his gauntlet.
“Is everything alright... Madam?” Tomen began, but she cut him off.
“I’m done waiting. Let’s go.”
She stood abruptly, striding toward the back door of the bar. Tomen followed, hastily apologizing to Ezreal as he went.
Ezreal watched them leave, his gaze lingering on the girl. From the side, he thought he saw something—bright magenta eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. But he said nothing. The barkeep, too, remained silent, pouring drinks as if nothing had happened.
The girl’s breathing was heavy—not from exhaustion, but irritation. Her hands twitched at her sides, restless, itching to lash out. She needed to break something, anything. The narrow hallway leading to the back of the tavern felt suffocating, the walls pressing in as her boots thudded against the wooden floor. Tomen trailed a few steps behind, his voice laced with concern.
“Madam—?”
She didn’t hear him. Couldn’t. Jinx strolled beside her, a phantasm draped in electric blue braids, her every step a taunt.
“Vi doesn’t care about us! No one does!” Jinx sing-songed, her voice grating against the girl’s mind, each syllable like nails scraping metal.
Her blood surged, shimmering fire coursing through her veins. The voices joined in, a rising cacophony.
“Come on!”
“Let me out!”
“Let’s have some real fun!”
Scratched faces loomed from the shadows, specters of her past clawing at her conscience.
“Come back and face justice!”
“It’s all your fault!”
“You’re a jinx!”
“Madam!?” Tomen’s voice barely cut through the torment.
“Why did you leave me?”
“Are you alright?”
The voices swarmed her, a tempest of blame and regret, clawing, suffocating. She gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and then—
“SHUT UP!”
The words erupted from her like a thunderclap, her voice echoing down the hall. Silence followed, thick and heavy.
Behind her, Tomen shifted uneasily, his boots scuffing the floor.
“Madam,” he said carefully, taking a step back, “we can leave. We don’t have to meet with Captain Fortune.”
She turned to face him. Fear flickered in his eyes, but something else too—worry, stress. She let out a slow, measured breath, trying to will her pulse back to normal.
“It’s not that,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I just… don’t like waiting.”
The excuse didn’t fool either of them. Tomen hesitated, his gaze lingering on her face, but with her sunglasses shielding her eyes, he found no answers. Still, he let it go.
“Alright,” he said at last. “I’ll follow you, Madam. But just know—we can leave. If you want.” His voice was sincere, if hesitant.
She held his gaze for a moment before sighing. “Yeah, yeah. Come on. Let’s get this over with.” Pulling her hood lower, she strode forward.
At the end of the hall stood two iron doors, flanked by a towering guard. His arms were as thick as barrels, crossed over a chest like carved stone. Two cutlasses rested at his sides, but the real weapon was the glare he leveled at her as she approached.
The girl stopped before him, barely reaching his chest.
“I want to see Fortune. I’m done waiting.” Her voice carried the edge of her lingering anger.
The guard didn’t flinch. He looked down at her, unimpressed. “No.”
She bristled. The shimmer in her veins flared. Lifting her gaze just above the frame of her sunglasses, she locked eyes with him. Her bright pink irises gleamed.
“Move.” The word was quiet, but it carried the weight of a storm.
“No.”
The guard unfolded his arms, squaring his shoulders.
“Wait, wait!” Tomen stepped between them, hands raised in placation. “We have a meeting with the captain. We just wanted to see if she was ready. We’ve been waiting a long time.”
The guard stared at him, unmoving.
Before he could respond, the doors groaned open. Hinges creaked as a man stepped out—a tall, wiry figure with sharp features and an even sharper gaze. Rafen.
“I was just coming to get you two,” he said, his voice flat and unreadable.
The guard rolled his shoulders and stepped aside, though his glare never left the girl.
“Come inside,” Rafen continued. “Captain Fortune is waiting.”
Notes:
Thank You for Reading!
Ez makes an appearance.
The next chapter is out next Tuesday.
Next Week: Jinx's fortune takes a turn with a fate most grave.
Chapter Text
Chapter 7: Dead Woman Walking
They followed him through the doors, leaving the tavern’s noise behind. The wooden floor gave way to compacted gravel, and torches flickered along rough stone walls. The air grew heavier, tinged with the scent of rust, cheap booze, and cigar smoke.
They stepped into a large circular chamber. Rows of stands surrounded a pit at the center, caged in by spiked fencing. The pit’s walls were stained dark red, the ground a bed of loose gravel. Two doors led inside—one small, the other a solid metal gate beneath the VIP section that loomed overhead. A long wooden plank jutted out above the pit, extending from where the Captain sat.
Four figures occupied the VIP section. Fortune sat at the head of a desk, back straight, her presence commanding. Beside her, a hulking man rested a hand cannon over his shoulder. Across from them, two men sat in chairs, their figures outlined behind a curtain, their expressions hidden from view.
The curtain veiled the girl’s view, but she could hear them plainly.
“That is not what we agreed on, Fortune!” The voice was rough, grave, anger woven into every word.
“You used us as bait!” snapped the second, smoother but just as furious.
“And now you want us to work for you again!? Are you crazy!?”
“We might be mercs, but that don’t mean we take on any job,” the first man spat. “Fuck what that stupid poster used to say.”
Fortune’s voice was silk-wrapped steel. “Now, now… boys. It was a special job, and I knew you two were the only ones who could accomplish it. And you did.”
A moment of silence. Then, a soft thud—a small sack tossed onto the table.
“Here. Catch.”
The girl’s ears picked up the jingle of coins.
“What is it? How much is it, Fate?” The gruff man’s tone was skeptical.
The second voice—Fate—grumbled as the sound of shifting coins filled the air.
“What is this, Fortune? You think we’ll take the job for… for what, 100 gold krakens? We can make this back in less than a month.”
“That,” Fortune purred, “is a five percent advance.”
Silence. Then—
“You mean to tell me,” the rough-voiced man said slowly, “that you’ll pay us 2,000 gold krakens?”
The weight of the sum hung in the air.
“No,” Fate muttered. “I still don’t like it. You almost got us blown up.”
“Now, now, old friend,” the other mercenary chuckled, the faint click of a lighter accompanying his words. “I think we should hear her out.”
“Of course, you would say that now, Malcolm.” Fate scoffed. “What happened to taking better jobs?”
“Well, if you’re too chicken, I’ll do it on my own.” Exclaimed Malcolm.
Their footsteps shuffled, tension thick in the air.
“Listen, boys…” Fortune’s voice cut through, calm but firm. “I have another meeting before the arena opens. Think it over, and we’ll talk later.”
Silence stretched again. Then, Fate sighed.
“Alright. We’ll think it over.”
The VIP doors swung open, and the two mercenaries stepped out. They spared a glance at the waiting trio but said nothing as they passed, their bickering resuming the moment they were out of earshot.
From inside, Fortune’s voice beckoned.
“Come in. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
Rafen led them inside the VIP area—a stark contrast to the rough, bloodstained pit outside. The room was lavish by Bilgewater standards, its walls adorned with banners bearing the insignia of the Syren’s, Fortune’s crew. The dim light of lanterns cast flickering shadows over rich, dark wood booths lining the edges. Opposite the entrance, another door stood, likely leading beneath to the arena.
Rafen gestured toward two chairs before the desk where Captain Fortune sat. She thumbed through a stack of papers before setting them aside with a practiced nonchalance. Tomen gave a respectful bow before lowering himself into the chair, every movement refined with Piltovan grace. The girl, by contrast, simply plopped down, one leg slung over the other, her posture all carelessness and defiance.
Rafen took his place behind Fortune, arms crossed, unreadable.
“I hope you’ve been enjoying your stay in the city,” Fortune said, her voice calm and honeyed. “Do tell me, has the pass served you well?”
The girl said nothing. Silence stretched between them, thick and weighted, until Tomen stepped in to smooth the moment over. “Ah, yes. Thank you, Captain Fortune. Your generosity has made navigating the city much easier.” His tone was measured, deliberate—a diplomat’s cadence.
Fortune smiled, though there was something sharper beneath it. “I’m glad to hear it…” she said, then let the moment linger before adding, “I’ve also heard you’ve been quite busy. Asking questions.”
Tension tightened the air, an invisible rope pulled taut. The girl remained still, her sunglasses masking whatever thoughts flickered through her mind. Tomen cleared his throat before speaking again. “Yes, well… we meant no disrespect, but since we’re new here, we found it necessary to learn more about who we could be working with.” His voice was smooth, carefully neutral.
Fortune smirked. “Of course. It’s only natural to know who you’re dealing with.” There was something playful in her tone, but her gaze remained sharp. She leaned slightly to the side, whispering something into Rafen’s ear. He gave a curt nod before slipping out through the main door.
“I sent him to fetch some refreshments,” Fortune continued lightly. “What kind of host would I be otherwise?”
She leaned back in her chair, tapping a finger against the desk. “Now, I hope your little investigation bore fruit. If you still have any questions, I’d be happy to answer them.”
Tomen glanced at the girl, silently offering her the floor, but she remained unmoving. He took the cue and pressed on. “Yes, from what we gathered, you have an impressive reputation, Captain. Everyone we spoke to spoke your name with great respect.”
A laugh, smooth as silk. “Good to know it’s not just my looks getting praised.”
Tomen pressed forward, his voice firm. “However, before we agree to anything, we need to ask a few questions. Such as the details of the job and—”
“Why you do it?”
The girl’s voice cut through the space between them, clear and devoid of emotion.
Fortune’s smirk faltered. “Excuse me?”
“Why did you blow up Gangplank?”
Silence. A fraction of a second passed, just enough for the flicker of genuine surprise to cross Fortune’s face before she masked it with an easy smile. “Well now,” she mused, “aren’t you a clever little thing? How’d you come to that conclusion?”
The girl tilted her head slightly. “It was just a hunch. Those two guys before us. And your reaction just confirmed it.”
The silence returned, thicker this time. It only broke when Rafen stepped back inside, a dark green bottle in his grasp. He approached the desk, and Fortune retrieved three glasses from a cabinet, placing them before her guests. With a practiced motion, Rafen uncorked the bottle and handed it to her.
The girl tensed the moment the scent hit her—a sickly, artificial sweetness, so familiar it sent a ripple of something unpleasant down her spine. She watched as the liquid poured, its light pink hue catching the lantern's glow.
“Shimmerwine,” Fortune announced, placing the glasses in front of them. She smiled, gaze locked onto the girl. “I thought it appropriate, given the company I’m in… Jinx.”
The name struck like a knife, the air in the room shifting with it. The girl’s jaw clenched. Blood rushed hot with shimmer. Her head dipped slightly, her sunglasses catching the light as she peered over the rim, vibrant pink irises gleaming.
“Oh, now that’s a fierce look, girlie.” Fortune lifted her glass, taking a measured sip before setting it back down. “I—ah—we—” Tomen floundered, but Fortune cut him off with a raised hand, her expression as relaxed as ever.
“You’re not the only ones who did a little investigating,” she continued, her voice sweet, but the weight behind it undeniable. “Rumors travel faster than ships in Bilgewater.” She reached into her desk and pulled out a single sheet of parchment, sliding it onto the table.
A wanted poster. The ink still bold, the name unmistakable.
JINX.
“I must say,” Fortune went on, “it was quite the surprise to hear, just a day after our meeting, that the notorious Undercity terrorist valiantly perished fighting off a Noxian invasion.”
The girl looked at the poster, then up at Fortune. A grin spread across her face, slow and razor-sharp. “What’s the matter, Red? Never seen a dead woman walking?”
Fortune let the moment hang before she threw her head back in laughter. A full-bodied, genuine laugh.
“What do you—” The girl started, but Fortune silenced her with a simple gesture. When she finally spoke, her voice had lost none of its charm, but the steel beneath it had sharpened.
“To answer your question… revenge. Gangplank killed my mother.” There was no disguising the venom in her voice now, no charm to sweeten the bitterness of that name.
Then her attention shifted, locking back onto the girl. “As for you—I don’t particularly care about your past. As long as you’re not here to blow up my city.”
The girl’s grin widened. “I haven’t blown anything… yet. Unlike you.”
She chuckled, but the next words came softer, more certain. “But, Red, this isn’t your city.”
Fortune’s expression barely flickered, but the girl saw it. A crack in the mask, brief but telling. She pressed on. “Yet... ain’t that right, Captain Fortune?”
The captain’s smirk returned. “What do you want from me, huh?” Asked the girl.
Fortune’s gaze was steady, knowing. “I want you on my crew.”
“No.”
Fortune laughed again as if she expected the answer but was amused by how quickly it came. “Yeah, I figured. Fine. There’s a job I need doing, and you seem more than capable.”
She leaned forward, her voice low but unshakable. “I am going to take over this city. That bastard Gangplank let it rot. I’m going to make it a place where people can thrive, not just survive. And I’ll get it done, even if I have to drag it kicking and screaming.”
The words struck something in the girl—deep, buried under years of dust and blood. She had heard words like that before.
Silco’s words.
Silence stretched before she let out a slow exhale. “Fine. I’ll work for you.” She rose and plucked the glass from the desk. “Not joining your little crew, but I’ll take the job. On two conditions.”
Fortune raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
She pointed at Tomen. “This guy wants to open a bank. You’ll make sure he can.”
Tomen gawked, speechless.
“And,” the girl continued, “you never say that name again.” She let the weight of her words settle before adding, “From now on, call me… Zaun.”
Fortune’s grin widened. “Works for me.”
The two lifted their glasses and drank. The deal was struck.
Notes:
Thanks for reading!
Sorry for the short chapter today. I'll make up for next Friday.
So I decided to go with the name Zaun for now, I'll still refer to her as Jinx on notes cause it's easier.
Twisted Fate and Graves make an appearance! I have some fun plans with them, lots of playful banter.
Next time, Fortune's true colors.
Chapter Text
Chapter 8: I’m Just Getting Started
Fortune’s smile was warm, disarming, the kind of smile that made people want to trust her. It was a skill as much as a weapon. She let it linger on the pair in front of her before tilting her head ever so slightly.
“We’ll talk details later. Right now, we’re preparing for a little... demonstration. So do hang around, wouldn’t want to miss it.”
Tomen stood smoothly, offering a respectful bow. “Thank you for your time.” Without another word, he turned to follow the girl, who was already walking towards the door. As they exited, Rafen closed the heavy wooden door behind them with a quiet thud before stepping back to Fortune’s side, his voice edged with concern.
“Are you sure about this, Captain?”
Fortune didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she let the warmth drain from her face, revealing the cold, calculating expression that only her crew ever saw. The expression of the real her.
“You remember that cheeky Piltovan,” she said at last, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest of her chair. “Jinx is volatile, and dangerous. Even to her allies.”
Rafen folded his arms across his chest, his brows knitted in unease. “Then why entertain her at all?”
Fortune’s emerald eyes flickered to the stack of papers piled in the corner of her desk. “You know what they say… keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. And right now, we don’t know which one she is.”
Silence settled between them for a moment before Fortune sat forward, smoothing out the sleeves of her shirt. “Better to keep her at our side anyway… We should open the arena. The others should be here soon, correct?”
Rafen pulled a silver pocket watch from his coat and flipped it open. “Yes. They should be here shortly. I’ll be outside to greet them.” He turned for the door but paused before stepping out. “I’ll alert the others that we’re starting.”
As the door clicked shut behind him, Fortune turned her attention to Bellamy, her cannoneer, who had been silent throughout the entire exchange. She now understood why.
The hulking man was fast asleep, his massive frame somehow balanced upright, his hand cannon slung over one shoulder as his steady breathing filled the room. Fortune exhaled sharply, unamused.
“Bellamy!”
The large man’s head snapped up, eyes wide and alert. “Captain!”
“Go get ready. We’re starting soon.”
Bellamy let out a yawn that could have shaken the walls before stretching his arms. “Ah, my apologies, Captain. I’ll get them ready.” With that, he lumbered off, disappearing behind a door that led to the lower levels of the arena.
Alone now, Fortune leaned back in her chair, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling. Her thoughts drifted—unbidden—to the past. The scent of molten metal filled her senses, the rhythmic clang of a hammer striking steel. She could see her mother hunched over her worktable, hands moving with precision, shaping something with care. She could see herself, younger, eager, watching closely as her mother tinkered on what would be her final pair of pistols.
A tear slid down her cheek before she wiped it away, exhaling softly. “I’ve done it, Mom. You can rest now.”
With renewed resolve, she stood, moving towards the cabinet beside her desk. She pulled out a black leather coat, its silver lining catching the light as she draped it over her shoulders. Then came her hat—a bicorn adorned with a single large white feather. Finally, her hands found her twin pistols, the last pieces of her past that she carried forward.
She looked them over, inspecting every detail, before whispering, “But keep watching over me… because I’m just getting started.”
The walk back to the tavern was silent, the distant hum filling the void between them. As they reached the guarded door, Tomen finally spoke.
“Ah… Madam, a moment, please.”
Zaun halted, one hand resting on the door’s handle, ready to push it open. She glanced over her shoulder, waiting.
“I wanted to thank you,” Tomen said, his voice steady. “You kept your word.”
Zaun let out a small breath, almost a scoff. “Yeah, don’t mention it… really.” She shrugged. “I was just holding up my end of the bargain. Besides, congrats, you’re free of me now.” The last part came with a hint of forced humor, but Tomen didn’t laugh.
Instead, he met her gaze with quiet sincerity. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me. If you ever need something in the future, don’t hesitate to ask.”
For a moment, Zaun hesitated, looking back at the door before finally pushing it open. “Thanks.”
The guard stepped aside, his eyes lingering on her. She ignored him, striding through without a second glance. Tomen, however, offered a small nod as they passed.
As they moved deeper into the tavern, he spoke again, a touch of hesitation in his voice. “So… should I address you as Miss Zaun from now on?”
Zaun frowned. “What? No. That’s… just so they stop calling me Jinx.” She shifted uncomfortably before adding, “For now, sure, I’ll use it. But you can keep calling me Madam.”
“I see,” Tomen mused. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Zaun waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll think of something better later. For now, let’s get a drink. Looks like we’ll be waiting again.”
She pushed open the tavern door, and the change in atmosphere hit them like a wave. Before, the place had been lively—now, it was packed to the brim, buzzing with energy. Every table was full, barmaids darted between patrons carrying overflowing mugs and trays of food, and even the seasoned bartender looked like he was struggling to keep up with the endless orders.
Music poured from every corner, bards playing in sync, their song reverberating through the building. The air was thick with the scent of ale, sweat, and the excitement of something about to unfold.
Zaun shoved her way to the bar, elbowing a couple of men aside to make room. They shot her irritated looks but quickly backed down when she slid her glasses down just enough to meet their gaze—a silent warning not to test her.
She waved to the barkeep, who caught her signal and quickly made his way over. “What’ll it be?”
Tomen ordered a beer. Zaun didn’t hesitate. “Something hard.”
The bartender chuckled, setting down a pint for Tomen and a small glass filled with a clear spirit, a thin slice of lemon floating at the surface. “Enjoy.”
Tomen raised his drink slightly and turned to her. “If you don’t mind, Madam… a toast.”
Zaun arched a brow but lifted her glass.
“To new beginnings,” he said.
She clinked her glass against his with a small smirk. “To new beginnings.”
As their glasses clinked and they downed their drinks, Zaun felt it before she saw it—the shift in the tavern’s energy. The hum of drunken chatter dulled, replaced by a hushed, expectant silence. Eyes turned toward the entrance.
She followed their gaze.
Five men strode in, each draped in elaborate coats, the kind that spoke of power and blood-stained coin. They carried themselves with an air of authority, as if they owned the very ground they walked on. But it was the details that caught her attention—the insignias. Each man bore a different mark, some on their belts, others embroidered on their coats or even inked into their skin. Symbols of dominance. Of territory.
“The Alliance,” someone whispered beside her.
“What are they doing here?” another murmured.
“You think the rumors are true?”
“They must be. Why else would all five captains be here?”
Zaun barely registered the murmurs, her focus narrowing as the man leading them stepped forward. Rafen. She leaned in slightly, listening.
“Gentlemen, we’ve been expecting you,” Rafen said smoothly, though there was an unmistakable tension in his tone. “Please, follow me.”
The five captains regarded him with barely concealed disdain but didn’t argue. Instead, they followed, their boots striking heavy against the floor as they moved toward the door leading to the arena. Just before stepping through, Rafen exchanged a subtle nod with the bartender. The bartender returned it without a word.
Then, the door shut behind them.
For a long moment, nothing happened. The silence stretched, thick with speculation, before the tavern erupted into hushed conversation, theories and rumors flaring to life like wildfire.
Zaun didn’t join in. Her attention was on the bartender.
He checked a pocket watch, let a few more seconds pass, then raised his voice above the noise. “The arena will be open shortly. You can start making your way in.”
The shift was immediate. Patrons pushed toward the back door, eager to witness whatever spectacle awaited them.
Beside her, Tomen exhaled, eyes flicking toward the dispersing crowd. “Madam, I think this is the demonstration Fortune mentioned.”
Before Zaun could respond, a hand clapped against Tomen’s shoulder.
“Tomen! Didn’t see you get back.”
Ezreal. His words slurred slightly, his grin wide. He’d been enjoying himself, that much was clear.
“What was that about, huh?” he asked, nodding toward the arena door. “Wanna go check it out?”
Tomen hesitated, then glanced at Zaun.
She barely spared him a glance. “Go. I’ll be there after I finish my drink.”
Tomen gave a slow nod before following Ezreal into the crowd, disappearing through the back.
The tavern felt emptier now, the energy simmering instead of crackling. Only stragglers remained—some uninterested, others waiting for the initial rush to settle, a few simply finishing their meals.
Zaun took another slow sip of her drink, her thoughts swirling like the liquor in her glass. She had seen those insignias before, scrawled across the city like warnings. She had heard the whispers of an uneasy alliance between five captains, a fragile truce holding them together.
So that’s how she plans to compete.
Her mind drifted to Silco’s endless lessons, the ones he had drilled into her over and over. “Wars aren’t won with ideals, Jinx. They’re won with bodies.”
She exhaled, tilting her glass back, draining the last of the burning liquid. The empty glass met the counter with a soft clink.
Then, a movement caught her eye.
A thin, pale hand reached for her glass—fingers long, delicate. One of them was missing. The middle finger. And the stump was still bleeding.
Zaun froze.
She knew that hand.
Her breath hitched as she slowly lifted her gaze.
Jinx stood behind the bar, grinning.
“Hey there, little lady. What can I get you?”
The words slithered through the air like a slow poison, seeping into her bones. A chill crawled down her spine.
Jinx’s grin widened, splitting her face like a wound. “How about a hobo knife fight? They’re my favorite. Packs quite the punch.”
Zaun inhaled sharply through her nose, adjusting her breathing. She was getting really tired of these encounters.
“Oh, Blue, don’t be like that,” Jinx cooed, tilting her head, her electric eyes gleaming. “I know deep down, you love me.”
Then, laughter—sharp, unhinged, scraping against the walls of Zaun’s skull.
Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t move.
Jinx sighed dramatically, drumming her fingers against the counter. “So, Zaun? That’s what we’re going with now?” She rolled her eyes. “Boring.”
The specter lifted Zaun’s empty glass, holding it up between them. A few drops of shimmering, iridescent blood slid down into the glass, catching the dim light like liquid neon.
“You were always a daddy’s girl.”
Her voice dropped lower, the teasing edge vanishing, replaced by something colder. Meaner.
“You think helping Red build her little pirate utopia—naming yourself Zaun—makes up for abandoning his dream?”
Zaun’s breath hitched.
Jinx laughed in her face before downing the glass, the shimmer blood clinging to her lips, long tendrils of pinkish-red slipping from the corners of her mouth.
Zaun’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. Her breath came harder now.
“I will help create something better.”
The words left her lips before she could stop them. Maybe she was talking to Jinx. Maybe she was talking to herself.
Jinx smirked. “Oh? And you really think we can trust little ol’ Red?” She pouted mockingly. “She’s a pirate. And pirate deals? They always end with a knife in the back.”
Something twisted in Zaun’s gut.
Jinx leaned in, her grin lazy, knowing. “All I’m saying is, sure, work with her. But when the time comes? Be ready to be the one doing the stabbing.”
She slid the empty glass back across the counter, the last few drops of shimmer blood staining the bottom.
Then she just stared, grinning.
Suddenly, a hand clamped down on her shoulder.
Zaun snapped back to reality, breath catching in her throat. She whipped around, hood slipping from her head, wild blue strands falling loose.
Tomen stood before her, chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Madam, you need to come with me. Now.”
His voice was urgent, almost frantic.
Zaun’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”
“It’s… it’s Fortune. She’s—” He struggled for words, shaking his head. “You just have to see it for yourself.”
Her pulse quickened. Instinctively, she glanced back at the bar—at Jinx.
But she was gone.
The specter had vanished like smoke, leaving behind nothing but the lingering chill in her spine and the empty glass in front of her.
Zaun exhaled sharply, forcing the tension from her limbs. Whatever was happening, she’d deal with it.
She shoved off from the bar, moving swiftly. Her pace quickened until she outpaced Tomen entirely, weaving through the thinning crowd with sharp precision. By the time she reached the arena, she was already climbing the side of the stands, her fingers gripping rough wooden beams as she pulled herself up.
The moment she gained her vantage point, she saw it.
The arena was packed, overflowing with bodies pressing against the barriers, their shouts and cheers merging into an unrelenting roar. But all of it—the chaos, the excitement—faded into background noise when she spotted the VIP platform.
Her stomach twisted.
There, at the edge of the platform, stood Fortune.
One of her pistols was raised, aimed at a man teetering backward on a narrow plank that jutted over the pit below. His hands were raised in surrender, fear carved deep into his movements.
Around her, four men—four captains—were restrained, held in tight headlocks by Fortune’s people.
Then Rafen stepped up behind her, handing her something. A bullhorn.
A sharp, ear-splitting alarm cut through the arena, silencing the crowd in an instant.
Fortune lifted the bullhorn to her lips.
“Everyone, thank you for being here tonight.” Her voice carried easily, commanding yet intoxicating.
“I have some announcements to make.” The crowd hung onto her words, waiting.
“First…” She paused, savoring the moment. “Gangplank is dead!”
The arena erupted. Gasps, shouts, disbelief.
“I destroyed him,” she continued. “And his ship.”
The air was thick with shock. Fortune waited, letting the weight of her words sink in before she spoke again.
“But now, the real reason you’re all gathered here.” Silence fell once more.
She took a slow step forward.
“I will be the new queen of Bilgewater.”
The arena roared again, some voices cheering, others filled with confusion.
“And tonight…” Fortune’s gaze darkened, her pistol unwavering. “I’m cleaning house.”
A sharp laugh barked from the man on the plank.
“Damn sea witch! What the hell is this?! This isn’t what we agreed on!”
Fortune cocked the hammer of her pistol with a metallic click.
The man shut up.
“These men call themselves the Alliance,” she continued, voice ringing clear. “They claimed to stand against Gangplank. To help the struggling. To provide jobs, protection, freedom.”
“We did!” the man on the plank spat.
BLAM!
The shot was deafening.
Fortune’s pistol fired, and the man stumbled back, barely keeping his footing. The bullet had grazed his leg.
Smoke curled from the barrel of her gun.
“But what they really offered,” she said, her voice like steel, “was extortion.”
The right-most captain was shoved off the VIP ledge. His scream was short-lived, before hitting the pit below.
“Slavery.”
Two more bodies followed.
“Murder.”
The last man was pushed over, his body tumbling down into the depths.
The only one left was the man on the plank.
He was shaking now, looking between Fortune and the pit, eyes wild with desperation.
“Damn it, Fortune! You said you’d let me go!”
Fortune stepped closer, lips curling into something like amusement. “And betrayal.”
With one swift motion, she kicked him square in the chest.
He barely had time to scream before he hit the ground in the pit. The arena exploded with cheers.
Zaun wasn’t sure if they were celebrating the execution, or just the promise of carnage to come.
Fortune turned back to the crowd, raising a single hand. Silence fell instantly.
Then, she spoke to the crowd.
“I’ll give you all an offer.”
Her stance was firm, her presence undeniable. But her eyes… her eyes were locked onto one person.
Zaun.
“You can either join me and help turn this city into something worth living in…”
Her gaze was unrelenting.
“…Or stand against me and die.”
A metallic groan cut through the arena.
Zaun stiffened, her instincts flaring to life. From her vantage point, she saw it—the gate beneath the VIP platform creaking open.
Then they emerged into the pit.
A pack of creatures—twisted things that looked like a cross between a shark and a rat, but as big as wolves.
The moment they hit the sand, they moved, sinewy muscles rippling beneath slick, armored hides.
“Razorfins!” someone screamed in excitement.
The creatures snarled, rows of needle-sharp teeth glinting under the dim light.
Zaun exhaled, her pulse hammering.
Fortune still hadn’t looked away from her.
“So,” she purred, voice rich with amusement. “What’ll it be?”
Zaun’s eyes flickered to the writhing beasts in the pit, then back to Fortune.
Her throat was dry, her heart a relentless drum. Only one word escaped her lips.
“…Fuck.”
Notes:
Thanks for Reading.
Jinx finds out what she is in for.
Fortune is as ruthless as she is beautiful.
Next time: Cupcakes?
Chapter Text
Part 2: Piltover
Chapter 9: Tomorrow’s Gonna Be a Long One
The roar of the crowd was deafening as the razorfins tore into the fallen men, their screams drowned beneath the wild cheers of bloodthirsty spectators. The scent of fresh-spilled blood mingled with the sweat and salt of Bilgewater’s rowdy people.
Zaun’s stomach twisted—not from the carnage, but from the unsettling calm she felt watching it unfold.
She should have felt something. Disgust. Horror. Pity.
Instead, she felt nothing at all.
Silently, she climbed down from the stands, her boots landing lightly on the compacted gravel below. Tomen was waiting for her, his face twisted with a mixture of worry and nausea.
"Madam, what should we do? I… I…” He swallowed thickly, his complexion turning an unhealthy shade of green. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
He turned abruptly, stumbling to the nearest wall before bracing himself with one hand and belching loudly.
Zaun approached him, her face unreadable. Without a word, she placed a firm hand on his back and patted it once.
People were already starting to trickle out of the arena, the excited murmur of their voices filling the space where the chaos had once been.
“Come on, Jonah, we have to hurry!”
She turned her head toward the sound of hurried footsteps. A tall, lean boy in a flat cap darted past, his breathless excitement barely contained.
“Wait for me, Jay!” A second boy, shorter and rounder, struggled to keep up, his suspenders bouncing with each hurried step.
“Wait until Jameson hears about this! The Bilgewater News Gang has the scoop of a lifetime—come on!” Jay called back, laughter in his voice.
Zaun watched as they disappeared into the hallway, their eager chatter fading into the distance.
More voices filled the air, whispers of disbelief, anticipation, and unease.
“Is Gangplank really dead?” one man muttered.
“She did it. She really did it,” another said, voice tinged with something between awe and fear.
“Fortune’s the one to bet on, I’m telling ya!”
But not all were so eager to stake their hopes on her rule.
“All I know,” an older woman murmured, pulling her coat tighter around herself, “is that the streets are about to run red. And I don’t plan to be here when they do.”
Zaun turned at the sound of a familiar voice behind her.
“Oh, that’s where you guys are.”
Ezreal.
She barely had time to brace herself before the blond-haired explorer strode toward them, hands casually tucked into his belt.
“Man, that was something. I didn’t think Fortune—” He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze locking onto her.
Zaun didn’t need to look to know what had caught his attention.
Her hood was down.
For a moment, surprise flickered across his face. Then, just as quickly, it shifted into something else—disbelief, maybe even recognition. He shook his head slightly as if trying to clear an intrusive thought.
Whatever it was, he chose not to voice it.
Instead, he turned his attention to Tomen, who was still leaning against the wall, looking worse for wear.
“Tomen, you’re not looking too great.” Ezreal’s tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of concern.
“Oh, Sir Ezreal,” Tomen groaned, straightening up and adjusting his coat. “Yeah, I’m… just not used to that much violence.”
Ezreal gave him a knowing smirk, then turned back to Zaun, his expression unreadable. “You know, now that I think about it, I don’t think you ever introduced me to your assistant.”
Zaun met his gaze with steady indifference.
Tomen, oblivious to the tension hanging between them, perked up. “Oh! How rude of me. This lady here is Zaun, and she is not my assistant. She was merely assisting me in getting settled in the city.”
Zaun extended a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Ezreal hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. Then, cautiously, he took her hand.
“…Ah. The pleasure is mine.”
His grip was firm, but she felt the slight tremor in his fingers, the telltale dampness of nervous sweat. His eyes flickered downward—to the faint edge of blue ink peeking from beneath her sleeve.
Recognition struck him like a lightning bolt.
Zaun didn’t let go.
Instead, she tightened her grip just enough to keep him anchored. Then, leaning in ever so slightly, she tilted her head, her vibrant pink eyes locking onto his sharp blue ones.
“I do hope we can continue being friends,” she murmured, her voice sweet as poison.
Fear. Panic. Realization.
It all flashed through his gaze, momentary but unmistakable.
She smiled. Wide.
Then, just as easily as she had trapped him, she let him go.
Ezreal stepped back—two quick, involuntary movements, like a rabbit sensing a wolf too close for comfort. He glanced at Tomen, searching for something, anything, but the older man remained blissfully unaware.
Zaun saw the way his mind worked, rapidly cycling through possibilities, escape routes, damage control.
She let him flounder.
“Will you be staying in Bilgewater long, Ezreal?” she asked, her tone almost too pleasant.
Ezreal swallowed.
“I… I… I’m—”
Whatever excuse he was about to throw out died in his throat.
A shadow loomed over them.
The large man who had been guarding the entrance stepped forward, his presence casting an unshakable weight over the trio.
“Captain Fortune requests your presence.”
His voice was cold steel, his eyes locked onto Zaun with unwavering focus.
Ezreal saw his out.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure.” He grabbed Tomen’s hand, giving it a quick shake before half-saluting Zaun. “Goodbye!”
Then he pivoted and power-walked toward the nearest exit, not daring to look back.
Tomen blinked after him. “Well, that was peculiar. I wonder if he’s feeling unwell.”
Zaun sighed.
“He knows.”
Tomen turned to her, confused. “About wha—”
His eyes flickered to her hair.
Realization dawned.
“…Oh. Oh no.”
“It’s fine,” she said, adjusting her coat. “I’ll handle it later.”
The guard cleared his throat, motioning for them to follow.
The scent of blood, beer, and sweat thickened as they moved back into the arena.
Zaun barely spared a glance at the pit, but she caught enough—gleaming teeth, gnashing jaws, the wet, crunching sounds of razorfins feasting on what remained of Bilgewater’s so-called Alliance.
The arena was nearly empty now, its silence far heavier than the chaos that had come before.
She stepped forward, toward the VIP area, without hesitation.
The guard left them at the door without a word before returning to his post.
As Zaun and Tomen stepped inside, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. Tension thickened the air, curling around the room like smoke. There were more people here now, more eyes to watch, more bodies to account for.
At the desk, Captain Fortune sat with casual authority. Her wide-brimmed hat rested beside her pistols, her fingers absently thumbing through a stack of papers. Behind her, Rafen loomed like a silent sentinel, ever at her side. The four brutes who had assisted in her brutal demonstration earlier stood by as well, their presence a reminder that the night's violence had not yet faded.
Across the room, two figures occupied a worn couch near the far wall. One, a lean man, held a novella in one hand, his lips twisting into exaggerated expressions as he read—completely engrossed in whatever absurd tale the pages spun. Beside him, a young woman was hunched over a peculiar device, tools in hand, her focus unshaken. Neither of them acknowledged the newcomers.
More familiar faces sat closer to the desk.
The two mercenaries from before.
Malcolm? —broad-shouldered, gruff, a perpetual scowl carved into his weathered face—puffed lazily on a cigar, the embers glowing faintly in the dim light. His partner, the other one— Fate, if she recalled correctly—tapped his boot impatiently against the floor, fingers idly shuffling a deck of well-worn cards.
The conversation hushed as the door clicked shut behind Zaun and Tomen.
Fortune leaned back in her chair, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. "Great. Now that we’re all gathered, we can begin."
She stretched, rolling her shoulders before glancing over her shoulder at the four muscle-bound enforcers behind her. “Alright, boys. Good work today. Now, go help Bellamy with the cleanup.”
The brutes nodded in unison before disappearing through a door at the back of the room.
With that, Fortune turned her attention to the four people seated before her. “Let’s get to business,” she announced, then gestured toward the two men. “But first—introductions.”
She motioned toward the card-wielding man first.
“This here is Twisted Fate—infamous card shark, swindler, and mercenary. Always has an ace up his sleeve.”
Zaun's gaze shifted to him, studying his sharp features—angular jaw, piercing eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. It was a fine thing, wide-brimmed with intricate gold embellishments that glinted under the low lantern light. He dressed in a long black coat, a salmon vest over a crisp white button-up, and fitted black trousers tucked into well-worn boots.
He inclined his head slightly. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
His voice was smooth, deliberate—words drawn out, vowels stretched, his tone steeped in a lazy confidence. She hadn’t noticed it before, not with all the chaos.
Fortune smirked and turned to his companion.
“And this is Malcolm Graves. Mercenary, gambler, thief—wanted in every city he steps foot in.”
Graves exhaled a puff of smoke through his nose, shifting the cigar in his mouth. His attire was practical—a blue shirt and dark brown trousers, leather boots and gloves, belts heavy with pouches. A crimson cowl draped over his broad shoulders, a splash of blood-red fabric marking him like a warning.
He grunted. “Yeah, whatever.”
Fortune chuckled at his lack of enthusiasm before gesturing to the two who had just entered.
“Boys, this is Zaun—an Undercity mercenary. And her associate, Tomen Calvina, a Piltovan merchant. She’ll be assisting you two with the heist.”
Zaun’s brows lifted slightly. A heist? So that was the job Fortune had in mind.
Tomen tensed beside her.
Fortune turned her attention to him, her voice honeyed but firm. “Now, Tomen, I do plan to help with your little venture, but for now, could you wait at the back?”
Tomen hesitated, casting a glance at Zaun. She gave him the barest nod.
"Very well." He bowed slightly before making his way to an empty chair at the back of the room.
Graves let out a huff, shifting in his seat. "Alright, Fortune, let's get to the point. What do you want us to steal?"
Fortune didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she pulled a parchment from beneath the pile of documents on her desk and held it up for them to see.
It was a newspaper.
Bold ink stretched across the page:
‘SIRMAGO FAMILY CATCHES YET ANOTHER THIEF!’
Fortune’s smirk widened.
"In three months," she said, setting the paper down, "you three will be stealing the largest collection of Sapphilite on the Serpent Isles."
Boots pounded against the cold concrete, each step heavy with urgency. The dim overhead lights flickered, casting fleeting shadows as she raced down the corridor. Her breath came fast, uneven, chest tightening with every frantic thought screaming through her mind.
No, no... I can’t lose her again.
The walls blurred past in a smear of gray and steel, her only focus on the destination ahead. She barely registered the sting of her shoulder as she crashed against it, hands finding the frigid metal bars, gripping them so tightly that her fingers numbed.
Powder-blue eyes, wide with fear, searched the darkened cell.
There she was.
A small figure sat curled facing the back wall, knees drawn to her chest, head bowed, long blue strands spilling over her shoulders like a tattered veil.
Vi opened her mouth to call her name—to scream, to plead that she turn around, that she see her—but no sound came. Her throat burned with the effort, but silence swallowed her whole.
Her hands flew to the cell door, pulling, clawing, desperate to pry it open. The iron held firm, unyielding. She shook the bars with everything she had, rage and anguish fueling her, ignoring the way her palms scraped raw against the cold, unrelenting steel.
The pain barely registered.
Her fingers tore. Blood smeared the metal. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her throat raw from silent cries that never broke free.
Still, the girl inside the cell did not move.
She didn't turn.
Didn’t notice.
Vi collapsed to her knees, forehead pressing against the bars, her hands slipping lifelessly to her sides. Tears streamed freely, mixing with the sweat and grime, her body trembling with grief.
Please, Powder… Please…
Her vision blurred. Her lips moved in soundless prayers.
Then—warmth.
A gentle hand, soft against her tear-streaked cheek.
Vi’s breath hitched, eyes snapping open.
Powder’s arm stretched through the narrow gap between the bars, fingers brushing against her skin. But when Vi looked up, what she saw shattered her.
A face not twisted in anger or hatred. Not in fear.
But peace.
The kind of peace that came with acceptance.
“We will always be sisters,” Powder whispered, her voice achingly tender, “even worlds apart.”
Her other hand cupped Vi’s face, cradling it.
Vi choked on a sob, leaning into the touch, clinging to the warmth, the fleeting comfort. The sound that left her lips was barely more than a rasp, strained and broken.
“I... I can’t lose you… Not again… Please, Powder.”
The warmth bled away.
The hands on her cheeks grew smaller.
The fingers curled, tightening.
Vi gasped as they slid down to her throat, pressing in. The warmth turned to ice.
She whipped her head up.
The cell was gone.
The corridor vanished.
She was outside, rain slashing against her skin, soaking through her clothes. They were no longer grown, no longer women.
They were children again.
A grimy alley stretched around them, flames roaring behind, the acrid scent of burning chemicals curling in the air. Their father’s twisted, lifeless body lay crumpled to the side. Smoke billowed, swallowing the sky.
And Powder—small, trembling, her face streaked with soot and tears—tightened her grip around Vi’s throat.
"Then why did you leave me!?"
The scream split through the storm, piercing, accusing.
Vi’s heart slammed against her ribs, breath choking in her throat.
“No, I—Powder, I didn’t—I—”
The words strangled themselves.
The world cracked apart.
She woke up.
Vi jolted awake, gasping.
Cold sweat clung to her skin, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gulps. Her chest heaved as she fought to steady it. Breathe in. Breathe out. She forced the rhythm, grounding herself, pushing past the suffocating weight pressing against her ribs.
The pounding in her head sharpened at her temples, a dull, persistent ache. Her throat felt parched, her mouth dry as sand.
She swallowed hard, blinking against the morning light filtering into the room. After a few moments, her pulse began to slow, the nightmare loosening its grip. She exhaled, shifting onto her back, sliding the silk sheets from her overheated body. The cool air kissed her skin, chasing away the lingering haze of sleep.
Instinctively, she stretched her arm across the bed, fingers searching for warmth.
For her.
Instead, she met only cool sheets.
Vi’s brow furrowed as her hand swept over the empty space where Caitlyn should have been. She pushed herself upright, scanning the room. Sunlight spilled through the curtains, painting soft golden hues over the elegant furniture. The faint chirping of birds drifted in from the garden outside, a peaceful contrast to the chaos still echoing in her mind.
Her gaze landed on the nightstand.
A full glass of water, condensation dripping in lazy rivulets down the sides. Beside it, a small tray holding two pills.
A quiet chuckle escaped her.
She took the pills, chasing them down with a long drink of water, relishing the way it soothed her raw throat. Lowering the glass, she turned at the sound of the door opening.
Caitlyn stepped in, bathed in the soft morning glow.
Dark blue hair spilled over her shoulder, a loose silk robe—matching in color—draped over her slender frame. In one hand, she balanced a cup of tea and a folded newspaper; in the other, a small plate with biscuits. She moved with effortless grace, but Vi caught the telltale signs of distraction—the way her brows were slightly pinched, the distant look in her eyes.
What wasn’t distracting, however, was the way Caitlyn’s cheek subtly bulged.
Vi grinned.
“Mornin’, Cupcake.” Her voice came out rough, thick with sleep.
Caitlyn’s head snapped toward her, startled. Her lips parted as if to respond, but she quickly remembered the biscuit she was still chewing. She covered her mouth, swallowed hastily, and chased it down with a sip of tea before clearing her throat.
“Oh. You’re up early.”
She made her way to the small coffee table by the window, setting down her tea, newspaper, and plate of biscuits before turning her attention back to Vi. As she moved toward the bed, Vi watched the sunlight catch on the faint scar peeking out from beneath the hair covering the left side of Caitlyn’s face.
Vi reached for her as Caitlyn sat beside her on the edge of the mattress. Their lips met in a slow, familiar kiss. Vi deepened it, humming against Caitlyn’s mouth, savoring the lingering sweetness of biscuits and tea.
“Mmm,” Vi murmured as she pulled back just enough to smirk. “Sweet.”
Caitlyn huffed, cheeks tinting pink. She grabbed the glass of water from the nightstand and took a quick sip, pretending to ignore the amusement in Vi’s gaze.
“I would’ve brought more biscuits,” she muttered, setting the glass back down, “but I thought you’d sleep in today.”
Vi’s smirk faded. Her gaze dipped slightly, shadowed now.
Caitlyn noticed.
She cupped Vi’s cheek with a soft, steady touch. Vi leaned into it, letting her eyes flutter shut for a moment, absorbing the warmth.
“Did you have that nightmare again?” Caitlyn’s voice was gentle, laced with concern.
Vi exhaled through her nose, nodding. “Yeah…” The word came distant, reluctant.
Caitlyn shifted, wrapping her arms around her, pulling her close. Vi melted into the embrace, burying her face in Caitlyn’s shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of lavender and early morning tea. Caitlyn pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, her fingers moving in slow, comforting circles along Vi’s back.
Vi’s sense of safety had died that night long ago on the bridge, drowned in blood and fire and grief.
But here, in Caitlyn’s arms—she found something close to it again.
A moment of silence passed, warm and steady, before a low, unmistakable rumble broke through it.
Vi groaned. Caitlyn chuckled.
Caitlyn rose to her feet, collecting her tea and biscuits. “Come on. Let’s get you something proper to eat.”
Vi followed, grabbing the red robe draped over a chair, and lazily pulling it on as she trailed after her. Caitlyn lingered at the door, waiting for her.
“We can take it easy today,” Caitlyn mused. “We’ll need the rest for tomorrow.”
Vi stepped past her, holding the door open with a knowing smirk.
“Yeah,” she said, voice low.
Tomorrow’s gonna be a long one.
Notes:
Thanks For Reading!
Thus concludes Part 1, a job is given and a team is formed.
Part 2 will focus on CaitVi and what has been happening in Piltover.
For my CaitVi enjoyers, I hope the wait was worth it.
Next Time: A day in the life.
Chapter 10: A Woman Who Shoulders the World
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 10: A Woman Who Shoulders the World
A crisp autumn breeze swept through the grand foyer of the Kiramman ancestral home, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and earth. Morning light streamed through the tall windows, stretching across the polished floors like golden ribbons.
Three figures stood near the entrance. A large, well-worn duffel bag rested beside the door.
Tobias Kiramman stood with his daughter, a somber smile tugging at the corners of his lips, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. Caitlyn mirrored his expression, blinking rapidly, as if willing herself to stay composed. A few steps back, Vi stood with her arms crossed, her posture relaxed, but her gaze sharp and unreadable.
She watched as Caitlyn said her goodbyes to her father, the two of them exchanging quiet words of affection. Vi had spoken to Tobias only a handful of times in the past three months—she could count the conversations on one hand. In the beginning, his eyes had been cold, not in anger, but in grief, the kind that weighed down a man’s shoulders and hollowed out his voice. He had spoken to her only when necessary, and Vi had made a habit of staying out of his way, which wasn’t difficult. She and Caitlyn were rarely home for long.
But something had shifted over time. The weight of Tobias’ gaze had softened. During their shared dinners, the tension had become less rigid, the silence more companionable. He still looked at her with sadness—Vi had seen that same sadness in Caitlyn’s eyes, too—but there was something else now.
Acceptance.
Maybe even gratitude.
Caitlyn took a deep breath. “Father, I promise to do better. To be better. Just like you and Mother taught me.”
Tobias exhaled slowly and pulled her into a firm embrace. His strong arms wrapped around her as they had so many times before, offering the steady comfort she had always known.
“I know you will,” he murmured. “You have your mother’s strength and an unshakable will.”
A fresh wave of tears welled in Caitlyn’s eyes as she rested her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes, savoring the safety of his presence, of this moment.
“Do you think she’d be proud of me?” she asked, her voice small, like a child’s. A tone Tobias hadn’t heard in years.
A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest, soothing her like it had when she was little. He pulled back just enough to cup her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing gently over her cheeks.
“Your mother was always proud of you,” he said with quiet certainty. “Even when she struggled to show it.”
Caitlyn let out a soft, shaky laugh. She leaned into his touch, drawing strength from it.
Tobias studied her, his gaze lingering on the woman she had become. To him, she would always be the little girl who beamed with delight when she hit a bullseye during their training sessions. But time had changed her. His smile faltered slightly as his eyes drifted to her left side—her deep blue right eye now paired with a scarred, gray left.
His grip tightened for a moment before he let out a slow breath. “My only regret is that I couldn’t do more.”
Caitlyn shook her head, placing her hand over his. “I’ll be all right,” she assured him softly, then turned her gaze to Vi. “I have Vi on my side.”
Tobias followed her line of sight. Vi met his gaze, chin slightly lifted, expression steady.
He gave Caitlyn one last squeeze before stepping back. “I know. But take care of yourselves.”
The moment lingered before he turned to the door, glancing at the bag by his feet.
“Vi, would you mind giving me a hand?”
Vi arched a brow, glancing at Caitlyn, who offered her a small nod.
“Of course.”
She strode forward, grabbing the worn leather bag before following Tobias outside.
The garden was still damp with morning dew, the scent of lavender and earth fresh in the cool air. The sun had barely crested the horizon, casting long shadows over the path as they walked in silence.
Vi kept her grip firm on the bag, though it was surprisingly light.
“That bag means a lot to me,” Tobias said after a while, his voice calm. “It carried everything I owned when I first arrived in Piltover.”
Vi’s gaze flickered to the leather duffel.
“I came here from Ionia to study medicine,” he continued. “On my first day, I wandered into the wrong alley and was mugged. Lost nearly everything I had. A young enforcer saved me—Grayson. Afterward, she took me to the station to file a report.”
Vi listened in silence, intrigued by the unexpected story.
“Shit first day,” she muttered.
Tobias chuckled. “At the time, I thought so, too. But while I waited at the station, a girl in plain clothes and a cap struck up a conversation with me. Nothing extraordinary—just small talk, a distraction while we both waited.” His lips curved into a reminiscent smile. “It was brief, but in that moment, I felt like I had made my first friend in this city.”
They paused near a cluster of lavender, Tobias reaching down to pluck a small sprig.
“A servant eventually came for her,” he continued. “Turned out she had run away from home and had been causing quite a bit of mischief.”
Vi huffed a quiet laugh. “Sounds like a real firecracker. Would’ve liked to have met her.”
Tobias’ smile deepened. “You did. It was Cassandra.”
Vi’s steps faltered. She turned to him, her mouth slightly open, as if trying to find words.
Tobias simply nodded.
Then his expression grew somber. “Vi… I owe you an apology.”
Vi stiffened slightly.
“I lashed out at you after Cassandra’s passing,” he admitted. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive your sister, but over the past year, I’ve had time to reflect.” He let out a slow sigh. “This city is broken. Divided. And your sister’s actions… they were the result of years of oppression.”
Vi swallowed, unsure how to respond.
Tobias didn’t wait for her to. “I believe in what you and Caitlyn are trying to do. I know it won’t be easy, and it will take more from you than you realize.” He turned to her fully, his eyes searching hers. “So, I ask you—as a father—please, look after my daughter.”
Vi’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to speak past it. “Of course, sir. I’ll never leave her side.”
Tobias’ expression softened. He gestured for them to keep walking.
“I know you love her,” he said after a few steps. “I saw it in the way you stayed by her side after the battle. Even when you were barely holding on yourself.”
Vi remained quiet, absorbing the weight of his words.
They reached the gate. Tobias extended his hand, and Vi passed him the bag. But instead of leaving, he held out his hand again—this time for a handshake.
Vi grasped it firmly.
“In you, I see a woman who shoulders the world,” Tobias said. “But remember, a relationship is a partnership. Lean on Caitlyn when you need to.”
Before Vi could respond, Tobias pulled her into a brief, fatherly hug.
Then he stepped back, picking up his bag and turning toward the road.
“Take care,” he called over his shoulder. “And remind Caitlyn to write. You know she’ll forget.”
Vi smirked faintly. “Yeah… I will.”
She watched as he walked away, disappearing down the misty path, leaving behind the quiet hum of morning.
Vi walked back toward the entrance, where Caitlyn stood waiting, a warm smile gracing her lips. Without a word, Caitlyn reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together as they stepped inside the now-empty mansion.
They stopped just past the foyer, the vast silence of the estate settling around them. Caitlyn leaned into Vi’s side, resting her head on her shoulder with a quiet sigh.
“You know,” Caitlyn murmured, her voice tinged with something somber, “I don’t think I’ll miss living in this house.” Her fingers tightened slightly around Vi’s. “It always felt too large, too old, too cold.”
She paused, exhaling slowly. “The only thing that made this place feel like home was my parents…”
Her voice trailed off, lost in memories.
She had spent so many years at odds with her mother—arguing over everything from schooling to friends, to lovers, to her future. At the time, every disagreement had felt like a battle she needed to win. But now, standing here as an adult, she could see what her mother had been trying to teach her all along: integrity, curiosity, independence.
And yet, all she could think about now were the things they would never be able to share with her.
Her father had been the balance in their home—the quiet calm that tempered any storm. Losing Cassandra had changed him. When he told her he was leaving, returning to Ionia, she hadn’t been surprised. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt.
Caitlyn tilted her head, looking at Vi.
Her father had only left when he was sure she wouldn’t be alone. When he knew she would always have someone looking out for her.
A small, wistful smile touched her lips. “And I think… wherever you are is where I’ll call home.”
Vi turned her head, meeting Caitlyn’s gaze. Her own eyes shimmered, emotion pressing at the edges, threatening to spill over.
“Me too, Cupcake.”
They made their way upstairs to Caitlyn’s room, time slipping through their fingers. The announcement wasn’t until later tonight, but their schedules were packed, leaving them only this brief respite.
Caitlyn dressed with a practiced efficiency, slipping into a black turtleneck and tailored slacks, her blue coat lined with gold accents draped over her shoulders. An eyepatch covered her left eye, and her hair was styled loosely, falling naturally around her face.
Vi, on the other hand, opted for a more familiar look—slim black trousers tucked into heavy boots, a snug short-sleeved shirt, and her hands wrapped in cloth. Finally, she picked up a faded red jacket from the bed, fingers brushing over the worn fabric.
“I can’t believe you kept this,” she murmured, turning it over in her hands.
Caitlyn hesitated, her voice tinged with something unspoken. “I couldn’t part with it… it was all I had of yours.”
Vi turned to her, studying the way Caitlyn busied herself with small touches to her outfit. Stepping closer, she slid her arms around Caitlyn’s waist, watching their reflection in the mirror.
“Did you ever try it on?” Vi teased, her voice low.
Caitlyn’s cheeks tinged pink.
“Perhaps…” she replied, feigning indifference.
Vi smirked. “Oh yeah?”
A sigh. Caitlyn knew there was no escaping Vi’s persistence. She dropped her gaze, fingers smoothing over her coat as if that would ground her. “After our… separation, I might have worn it to sleep. Once or twice.”
The blush darkened, spreading to her ears.
Vi grinned.
Shaking her head, Caitlyn straightened abruptly, her movements stiff as she turned to face Vi. “All right, finished. We should get going.”
Vi chuckled, stepping back with her hands raised in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Let’s go, Cupcake.”
They walked hand in hand to the front gate, where their paths would diverge. As they neared, their hands finally slipped apart, lingering for just a second longer before letting go.
“Have you decided where you’re heading first?” Caitlyn asked.
Vi nodded. “Yeah. Gonna check in with Little Man first. Haven’t seen him since the battle. After that, I’ll take a look at the old stomping grounds.”
Caitlyn hummed in understanding. “I’ll stop by the station first. I want to review the last batch of applicants personally. Then I’ll meet with the Ferros clan.”
Vi frowned slightly. “Ferros, huh? I still have a weird feeling about them, babe.”
Caitlyn sighed. “Yeah, I don’t trust them either. But right now, they have the most sway on the council.”
Vi pursed her lips, not liking it, but knowing Caitlyn was right.
They slowed as they crossed the gate, pausing just long enough for Caitlyn to lean in, pressing a quick kiss to Vi’s lips.
“Be safe,” she murmured.
Vi smirked, stepping back. “I should be the one telling you that.”
She walked backward for a few paces, watching Caitlyn with a teasing glint in her eye before finally turning on her heel.
Caitlyn stood there for a moment, watching Vi disappear down the path, the morning sun catching on her red jacket before she was gone.
Then, with a small exhale, she turned and headed into the city.
Vi stood at the city’s edge, the bathysphere to the Undercity back in operation, its cables rattling in the distance. She glanced down at the familiar sprawl below—neon lights pulsed like veins through the darkness, and the air carried the heavy cocktail of oil, rusted metal, chemicals, and sewage. The scent hit her like a punch to the gut.
No hesitation.
She stepped off the ledge.
The wind roared past her ears as she twisted midair, her body moving on instinct. At the last second, her hands caught the cliff’s edge, muscles coiling before she kicked off the wall, flipping backward onto a nearby rooftop. Her boots slammed down, the impact jarring up her legs, but she barely noticed.
She still had it.
Without slowing, Vi launched into motion—vaulting across rooftops, sprinting over rusted pipework, her body a blur against the Undercity skyline. The city blurred past in streaks of blue and pink, fire escapes rattling under her weight as she slid down rails, her boots skimming across metal. She cut through open windows of abandoned buildings, ducking under low-hanging beams, her momentum never breaking.
Aspects, she’d missed this.
As she ran, she stole quick glances at the streets below. It looked the same. The same flickering neon, the same tangled mess of pipes and walkways. But there was more graffiti now. More blue.
Ahead, a long gap stretched between two buildings. She knew this jump—there used to be a mural of a woman overlooking the alley. It had always been one of her favorites.
Vi picked up speed.
She hit the edge and launched herself forward, tucking her knees, arms slicing back to minimize drag. But as she soared, something caught her eye—a flash of blue, streaks of paint at the edge of her vision.
Her head turned, just slightly—
Too late.
Her landing came hard. Instead of rolling smoothly, she slammed against the rooftop, skidding and tumbling before coming to a stop flat on her back. For a moment, she just lay there, breath heaving.
Then, with a grunt, she pushed herself upright—her gaze locked on the mural that had stolen her attention.
It wasn’t the woman she remembered.
The new mural loomed over the jump, larger than life. It was Jinx.
Her sister stood at the center, a massive flag clutched in her grip, long blue braids whipping behind her in imagined wind. Her expression wasn’t the usual manic grin—this was different. Determined. Defiant. Below her, a crowd surged forward, each figure painted with streaks of blue in their hair.
Vi exhaled slowly, resting her forearms against the rooftop edge, taking it in.
Behind her, the soft whirr of fan blades cut through the mist.
She tensed.
Turning her head slightly, she caught the movement—three figures closing in on hoverboards, their silhouettes gliding through the haze. The one on the left was a broad-shouldered man, bat-like ears protruding from his mask. The rightmost figure was lean, sharp, a crow’s beak jutting from her faceplate. And in the center—white braids spilling over an owl mask—hovered someone she knew all too well.
Vi smirked, leaning back against the ledge, arms crossing over her chest.
"Hey, little man. How long you been following me?"
The central figure kicked off his board, flipping it onto his back with practiced ease. A hiss of pressure released as his mask detached, revealing a familiar face, marked by the hourglass painted across his skin.
Ekko grinned.
“Long enough.” His eyes flicked toward the rooftop where she’d crashed. “That was some landing. You losing your touch, Vi?”
Caitlyn walked the streets of Piltover, her steps steady, but her mind restless. The city had endured three months of uneasy quiet since the Hexgate attack, yet scars of the Herald’s rampage lingered. Twisted metal spirals jutted from buildings like broken ribs, and the faces of the people mirrored the city’s wounds—strained, wary, untrusting.
Fear had taken root in those first chaotic days, but it was the funeral on the bridge that had buried any fleeting hope of peace. Whatever fragile truce had flickered between the cities was dead only days later. Old resentments had resurfaced like festering wounds, and Piltover and the Undercity had resumed their long-standing hostility as if it had never been interrupted.
The emergency council had been formed in response, each fallen member’s clan sending a representative to fill the seats. Caitlyn had made her own decision then, relinquishing her family’s claim to a council seat—on one condition. Someone from the Undercity would take her place. Mel had helped push the motion through, and Caitlyn had hoped, perhaps naively, that the people of the Undercity would elect Ekko.
Instead, they chose Sevika.
Regret burned in her chest at the memory of the woman taking her mother’s seat. Silco’s former right hand, a woman Caitlyn had fought against on multiple occasions. She didn’t trust her, but she couldn’t deny that Sevika had done more to ease the unrest in the Lanes than anyone else. She pushed for aid, for resources, for self-sufficiency. It wasn’t kindness—it was pragmatism. Vi had been livid, but even she had held her tongue, at least for now.
As Caitlyn continued her walk, she caught the stares.
Anger. Contempt. Blame.
People turned away when she passed, whispering behind their hands. Some barely concealed their disgust, others met her eyes with open resentment. They blamed her for helping Ambessa Medarda establish her forces in Piltover. Most knew she’d been manipulated, but it didn’t matter.
Jayce was dead. Mel had returned to Noxus. And Caitlyn was the only one left standing.
The Undercity's hatred cut deeper. The name Kiramman had become synonymous with oppression—the enforcer who had ordered raids, blockades, curfews, and mass arrests. A name that had become just another boot pressed down on their necks.
Guilt gnawed at her.
She had become an enforcer to help people, to protect the city—to bridge the gap between Piltover and the Undercity. But in the end, she had done what so many before her had done. She had enforced suffering in the name of order.
Her thoughts pulled her back to the present as she neared the Hexgate, and there, standing tall at the heart of the city, was the bronze statue.
Jayce Talis.
Hammer in hand, head held high, watching over Piltover like a silent guardian.
She stepped closer. The plaque at the base read:
The Man of Tomorrow. Inventor of Hextech. Defender of the City of Progress.
Caitlyn traced the name with her eyes, lips pressing into a thin line. She wondered—if Jayce and Mel had never returned, if she had been left to handle Ambessa’s attack alone, would she have been able to unite the cities? Would she have led them to victory?
She already knew the answer.
A child passing by caught sight of her and immediately shrank behind their mother’s skirt. The woman clutched the child close and hurried away.
Caitlyn swallowed down the lump in her throat and turned toward the station.
The last three months had been spent cleaning up the wreckage of her own choices. Leaving Piltover with Vi and never looking back had been a tempting thought, but not yet. Not until she finished what needed to be done.
First, she had stepped away from the council. It hadn’t gone as she hoped, but the decision had been made.
Second, she had torn apart the enforcers from the inside out.
When Mel assumed control of the Medarda war band and withdrew her mother’s forces from Piltover, Caitlyn had been horrified by how deeply they had infiltrated the enforcer ranks. The force had not only been riddled with corruption but had, for years, operated as a standing army against Piltover’s own people. And worse—foreign agents, spies, and traitors had been woven into its structure like a cancer.
Maddie’s betrayal still made Caitlyn’s stomach churn. She had trusted the woman—let her get close. And all along, she had been a snake coiling around Caitlyn’s throat.
So, Caitlyn had proposed reform.
A full-scale restructuring—downsizing the force, rigorous vetting, allowing recruits from the Undercity. The enforcers would no longer be a force of oppression. They would be Wardens. Guardians, peacekeepers, protectors. Not enforcers of law, but watchers of justice.
It had been a battle to push through, but with the backing of Councilor Shoola and Medarda, it had passed. And tonight, they would make the announcement.
There had been a time when Caitlyn would have leapt at the chance to lead such an organization. To finally do some real good.
Now, she knew better.
The station was alive with motion as Caitlyn stepped through the doors.
People hurried back and forth, files in hand, uniforms crisp, voices raised in conversation. Reports were filed, orders given, and desks cluttered with papers. The chaos was familiar.
She didn’t stop. Weaving through the main floor, she took the stairs two at a time, making her way up to the third floor where she had claimed an office for the time being.
Waiting outside her door was Den, the station archivist.
A young woman, dressed in a khaki skirt, red blouse, and green vest, her hair tied up in a messy bun. Large round glasses sat on the bridge of her nose, her eyes sharp with intelligence. A recent academy graduate, Caitlyn had hired her for her sharp mind and relentless curiosity.
“Tea and cookies to go with your reports, ma’am?” Den teased, her tone light.
Caitlyn exhaled a quiet laugh. “Black leaf brew, inspector. And they’re biscuits.”
Den grinned. “Of course, ma’am.”
“Den, do you have the dossiers for the last batch of applicants?” Caitlyn asked as she pushed open the office door.
The archivist nodded, motioning toward the desk. “Right there. Organized from least to most interesting. Corina and Zayne show the most promise.” A playful note entered her voice.
Caitlyn gave her a dry look. “Thank you. I’ll take your consideration into account.” She shifted her gaze toward the stack of files and let out a slow breath. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Den held up her hands in mock surrender. “I’ll be right back with your tea and biscuits.”
Caitlyn sighed as the girl disappeared.
The reports sat in a neat pile on her desk, waiting. She stared at them for a long moment before picking up the first dossier.
Soon, it will be over.
She let the words settle in her mind, repeating them like a quiet mantra.
And then, she started reading.
Notes:
Thanks for Reading.
Piltover's Finest front and center.
I spent a lot of time thinking about how Piltovans would react after the battle, and while the last bridge scene was nice, I don't believe the peace would last long.
Hope you enjoyed this chapter.
Next Time: Offers you can't refuse.
Chapter 11: I’ll See What I Can Do
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 11: I’ll See What I Can Do
The haze of the Undercity curled through Vi’s hair like ghostly tendrils, thick with the scent of metal, oil, and something acrid she chose not to think about. The mask Ekko had given her was plain and featureless, but it served its purpose—keeping the worst of the airborne grime from coating her face and making it easier to breathe in the heavy, chemical-laden air.
She rode with Ekko on an extended hoverboard, gripping the edges for balance. He had joked about teaching her to ride solo, but she wasn’t quite ready to risk eating metal in the twisting maze of pipes and passageways that led to the Firelights' base. Even now, with Ekko controlling their speed, she felt each shift in momentum like a near-disaster, her body working overtime to stay upright. They moved slower than usual, mostly for her sake, but also because the path itself was treacherous—constant turns, sudden drops, and impossibly narrow corridors that would have sent her crashing into rusted pipework if she miscalculated even once.
The last time she had come here, she had been blindfolded. Now, with her eyes open, she wasn’t sure that prior knowledge would have helped her navigate this labyrinth. She exhaled through her mask, watching the twisting network of tunnels blur past.
"Fuck, how do you not get lost?" she called over the roar of the board, hoping Ekko could hear her. He remained silent, shifting his weight slightly. She mimicked his movement just before another sharp turn.
Vi huffed. "Kinda feels like you’re trying to confuse me."
Again, Ekko said nothing, but she could feel the tension in his posture, the way he leaned a little harder into the next turn. That was suspicious.
"Wait… are you trying to confuse me?" she demanded, her tone edged with mild betrayal. "What the void, Ekko?"
Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured. "It’s not about you. Things have been... difficult. We can’t be too safe."
Something in his tone made Vi swallow any further protest. He was serious. She didn’t need him to elaborate to understand what that meant.
They twisted through a final passage before reaching a massive, round door embedded into the metalwork. As the hoverboards slowed to a stop, Vi stepped off, landing with a solid thud. Scar—the bat-like Vastaya she vaguely remembered from last time—approached the door, tapping a rhythmic pattern against its surface. A moment later, the heavy mechanism groaned, gears turning as it unlocked.
As soon as they stepped inside, Vi felt the shift in atmosphere. The air here was different—clean. Not just free of pollutants, but fresh, like stepping into a forest untouched by industry. It hit her before she even saw it.
The massive tree still stood at the center of the open courtyard, its brilliant green leaves stubbornly defying the onset of autumn. Surrounding it were homes carved into the walls, interconnected structures built along the thick branches, a world suspended in the glow of dim lanterns and sunlight filtering through the canopy.
Vi let out a low whistle. "Still the best sight in the Undercity."
They had barely stepped inside before the Firelights emerged from their homes, filling the open space. A swarm of kids crowded around Ekko, their faces alight with excitement.
"Ekko! When are you gonna teach me to ride?" one kid shouted.
"No! You said I was next!" another huffed, arms crossed.
Scar let out a sharp tap of his metal staff, and the clamor quickly settled as the children scurried back to their routines. Ekko just smiled, motioning for Vi to follow him.
"They love you," she noted, falling in step behind him. Then, after a beat, she added, "Man, I really wish you had been the one elected to the council."
Ekko chuckled dryly, leading her up a flight of stairs toward a workshop nestled in the side of the great tree. "That’s what happens when you disappear for six months and people think you’re dead."
Though his words were light, there was something heavy beneath them—regret, maybe. Vi didn’t push.
Inside, the workshop was a chaotic symphony of invention. Machinery hung from the ceiling, some parts rusted, others gleaming with fresh work. Blueprints, diagrams, and hastily scrawled notes covered nearly every surface. Vi’s gaze flicked over to Ekko’s green coat, now draped over a chair. Familiar blue and pink doodles decorated the fabric in a sporadic mess. A small, unbidden smile tugged at her lips.
Ekko caught her looking but said nothing, just sat at a workbench, idly fiddling with a tool.
Then, without warning, he asked, "So, did Caitlyn kick you out or something?"
Vi blinked. "What?"
Ekko’s grin widened. "Come on, Vi. Spill it."
She narrowed her eyes. "Rude. Cupcake’s still sweet on me."
That was all it took for them both to burst into laughter. Then Ekko stood, closing the space between them with an embrace. Vi returned it, holding onto the familiarity of an old friend finally found again.
Meanwhile, back in Piltover, Caitlyn sat at her desk, flipping through the last two dossiers. Den had been right—Corina Veraza and Zayne Asako were the strongest candidates. Both hailed from the Undercity, though their paths had been vastly different. Corina, the daughter of botanists, had graduated from the academy with high honors and worked as a research assistant. Zayne, on the other hand, was Undercity through and through. His brother had been killed in a gang dispute, and he had spent years trying to join the Enforcers, only to be turned down because of his birthplace. Instead, he had carved out a life as a private investigator in Piltover.
Caitlyn exhaled, pressing her fingers to her temples. The restructuring of the force was still unannounced, so all candidates had been submitted by current members. She couldn’t remove all of the old Enforcers, but she and Vi had spent the past three months scrutinizing every remaining officer, ensuring only those who could be trusted remained.
It had been exhausting—long nights, too much coffee, and endless arguments. But Vi had been by her side through it all.
Her eyes landed on Corina’s file again. Submitted by Den.
Caitlyn’s voice carried out to the station archivist beyond her office. "Den, could you step in?"
The young woman entered, looking a little apprehensive but composed. She knew what Caitlyn was going to ask.
"Since you submitted her," Caitlyn pushed the file forward, "I wanted to hear your reasoning."
Den took a breath. "Corina was my senior at the academy. She’s brilliant, sharp-eyed, and has a strong sense of character. But I didn’t submit her because we know each other—I did it because I truly believe she’s the right fit."
Caitlyn studied her for a moment before nodding. "Thank you, Den. That’ll be all."
As Den exited, Caitlyn leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. She had given everything these past three months, trying to make up for past failures. But soon, it would be over. Only time would tell if it had been enough.
Her thoughts drifted to Vi, a glass of liquor in hand, humming softly by the fire.
Soon, she would tell her.
And then, if Vi wanted—if she was ready—they could leave.
To find her.
Vi and Ekko leaned against the worn metal railing that circled the massive tree, their gazes following the flow of life below. Children darted between makeshift stalls, laughter echoing in the open space, while older Firelights moved with practiced efficiency, repairing, building, surviving. The golden light filtering through the leaves softened the harshness of the Undercity, a fleeting illusion of peace.
"So why are ya here?" Ekko finally asked, his voice steady, his eyes fixed ahead.
Vi exhaled, arms crossed, leaning more heavily against the rail. "What, can’t I come see an old friend?"
Ekko scoffed. "Vi, it’s been three months. Not once did you come down here." His tone was dry, but beneath it, the weight of disappointment settled.
She clenched her jaw and looked away, watching the flickering lanterns sway in the low-hanging mist. "I’ve been busy... Nah, that’s bullshit. I just couldn’t. Everything here reminds me of her."
Ekko didn’t press, but she felt the shift in the air between them. The silence lingered until she forced a smirk onto her face. "But really, I came to check up on you, little man. Make sure you haven’t gotten yourself killed doing something stupid."
Ekko side-eyed her, lips quirking. "Yeah... Hey, follow me. I need to show you something. And tell you where I was those six months."
Without waiting, he pushed off the railing and headed toward the workshop. Vi hesitated, then fell into step behind him, weaving through the cluttered workspace until they reached a door at the far end. It was his room, messy as ever, but Vi’s eyes were drawn to a mural at the back wall—different from the large one outside. This one wasn’t painted on stone but stretched across a massive canvas.
It was her sister.
Not Jinx, but Powder older. The sister she never knew.
Her hair was shorter, a streak of pink coiling around her blue locks. She wore a simple white dress and a cropped black jacket, something clean, something gentle. Her smile was soft, unburdened. And her eyes—blue steel, no madness behind them, just clarity. Just hope.
"That’s Powder," Ekko said, voice distant. "But not your Powder."
Vi took a step closer, fingers brushing over the dried paint. Her throat felt tight.
"Here, sit down," Ekko nudged a stool toward her. "It’s kinda a long story."
She sat, eyes never leaving the painting as Ekko began his tale. He spoke of Jayce, of Heimerdinger, of how they had stumbled through the cracks of reality itself, thrown into a world untouched by hextech. A world where her death had meant peace. Where Vander and Silco had made amends. Where her brothers worked together. And where Powder had never become Jinx.
Vi listened, struggling to wrap her head around it all. The ache in her chest deepened when Ekko spoke of his return, of the Jinx he had found. "I couldn’t let her... Jinx is what Powder had to become to survive. I understand that now." His voice was raw, older than his years.
Vi swallowed hard, the weight of it all settling. She rose to her feet, stepping closer to the mural, studying it in silence before her gaze shifted to the scattered tools and paints nearby.
"Hey, little man, mind doing me a favor?" she asked, turning to him, a pair of scissors and blue paint in her hands.
Ekko stared for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, okay."
Minutes later, they emerged from the room. Vi felt lighter. Her shoulders, for the first time in months, didn’t feel so burdened.
"So, where else are you heading?" Ekko asked, stretching his arms.
"Around. Thinking of stopping by The Last Drop before the announcement tonight—oh, right." Vi turned to him suddenly. "Caitlyn and I are restructuring the enforcers. The official announcement is tonight. Wanted to see if you’d attend."
Ekko tilted his head. "So the rumors are true?"
Vi raised a brow. "What rumors?"
"Been hearing whispers about changes after they found all those snakes in your ranks."
Vi scoffed. "Yeah. A whole rework. That’s what we’ve been busting our asses over for the last three months."
Ekko studied her, his expression unreadable. "Will you be joining? Will Caitlyn be the new sheriff?"
Vi’s smirk faltered. "Nah. We’re just setting things up. After tonight, our work is done."
Ekko’s gaze softened. "That’s good. Caitlyn would be painting a bullseye on her back otherwise. She’s not exactly a fan favorite down here."
Vi looked away. She knew. She knew exactly how her girl was viewed in the lanes. And she couldn’t even blame them.
But Caitlyn was fighting. Harder than anyone knew. And Vi would be with her. "I know... but I’ll stand with her." Her voice held conviction, unwavering.
Ekko watched her, then let out a quiet chuckle. "Damn, you really love her."
Vi huffed out a laugh. "Yeah. I do."
They walked toward the entrance, Ekko giving her a few directions on how to navigate the pipes quickly back to the main streets. Accepting her invitation to a Piltie party, but only because it was her, and maybe he could learn something new. As they reached the door, Ekko seemed to hesitate before glancing at her, something more serious in his gaze.
"Hey, Vi, I have something important to ask."
She turned to him. "Shoot."
Ekko exhaled, organizing his thoughts. "Do you think you could get a hexgem? I’m thinking of rebuilding the Z-Drive."
Vi blinked. "Damn, going big, huh?" She crossed her arms, thinking. "I don’t know, little man… Those things have been under heavy lock and key since the battle. Caitlyn has access, but…"
She trailed off, contemplating the implications. Would Caitlyn allow her to take one? Or would she have to steal it? The Council had yet to decide what to do with them.
"Okay, okay, let’s try this." Vi shifted, meeting his eyes. "If I get you a gem, do you think you could fix up my gauntlets?"
Ekko’s eyebrows shot up, caught off guard. Then he looked toward the sky, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. "I think… yeah, I could."
Vi grinned, extending her arm. "Alright. I’ll see what I can do."
Ekko grasped her hand firmly, sealing the deal.
The spire loomed over Piltover’s heart, its placement a deliberate statement—standing tall with an unobstructed view of the council building and the academy beyond. Unlike the city’s many steel-and-granite structures, this one was a testament to wealth and precision, its façade clad in pristine white marble, edged with gleaming silver. When construction had begun years ago, the sheer expense had made it the talk of the city, a monument to the Ferros clan’s unyielding influence.
At its peak, a grand clock watched over Piltover, its silver face catching the midday sun, its azure hands unwavering in their quiet defiance of time itself.
Caitlyn stood at the base of the building, head tilted as she studied its unmarred surface. While much of Piltover bore subtle scars from the Herald’s arcane storm—cracks in stone, warped metal, the lingering echoes of unstable magic—this spire remained untouched. The marble shone without blemish, its silver filigree uncorroded, the clock’s steady ticking undisturbed. It was as though the storm had never touched it.
A mechanical hiss broke her thoughts as the entrance doors slid open. From within emerged an older gentleman, his every movement precise, practiced. His silver-threaded servant’s attire was impeccable, his monocle catching the light as he regarded her with a measured gaze.
“Madam Kiramman,” he greeted smoothly. “I am Jeeves, and I have been instructed to escort you. Master Albus is eagerly awaiting your arrival.” He gave her a bow—just deep enough to acknowledge her station, but not so deep as to overstep.
Caitlyn returned the gesture with the practiced grace of someone born into Piltovan high society. “I trust Mr. Ferros has not been waiting long?” Her tone was composed, polite but guarded.
“Not at all. Your punctuality is, as always, commendable.” Jeeves straightened, then gestured toward the grand entrance. “If you would follow me.”
Without another word, Caitlyn stepped inside.
Albus Ferros sat at the head of an elegant, elongated desk, framed by the most breathtaking view Piltover’s wealth could afford. Stacks of documents lay in neat disarray before him, and with a steady hand, he lifted a porcelain cup, sipping his tea while his sharp, bespectacled eyes scanned the reports. A man in his position could afford no oversights. Each line of text carried the weight of power, and he absorbed every detail with meticulous precision.
The rhythmic clink of sharp metallic feet on marble broke his concentration. Without looking up, he set the paper aside and exhaled slowly before raising his gaze. Standing before him was a tall woman, her body encased in sleek white, dark blue, and gray armor. Only her face remained uncovered—pale white skin, high cheekbones, short platinum-white hair, and piercing electric-blue eyes that seemed to cut through the very air between them.
“Hello, Mother. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Albus asked, his voice carrying only the faintest hint of irritation.
“I am here to observe.” Her voice had a mechanical lilt, devoid of warmth.
“I can assure you, all will proceed accordingly.” His tone was measured, but the displeasure seeped through.
“I know you are capable, Albus. Otherwise, I would not have sent you to the council.” Her voice remained steady, emotionless. “As I said, I am only here to observe.”
With precise, unnatural movements, she turned and disappeared through a side door. The moment the latch clicked shut, another knock sounded at the main entrance.
“Master Albus,” came the refined voice of Jeeves, “Caitlyn Kiramman is here to see you.”
Albus straightened in his seat, setting his teacup down with practiced ease. “Send her in.”
Caitlyn stepped into the spacious corner office, her sharp gaze instantly taking in her surroundings. The room exuded power—grand yet calculated, with towering bookshelves and an expansive window that overlooked the city. And at the center of it all sat Albus Ferros, former head of Clan Ferros, now a newly appointed member of the council. He wore a tailored green-striped shirt, his dark hair, and mustache impeccably groomed, a charming smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Miss Kiramman, it is a pleasure to speak with you finally,” he greeted, standing and moving around his desk to extend a hand.
“Yes, it’s unfortunate we haven’t had the chance sooner, but we’ve both been occupied,” Caitlyn replied, shaking his hand firmly. He gestured for her to sit, and she obliged.
“Would you like some tea? I recently acquired an exquisite blend from Ionia. I’ve been eager to share it.” Albus motioned to Jeeves, who nodded before leaving the room.
“Thank you.” Caitlyn studied him carefully. His posture was relaxed, but there was confidence in his every movement. His gaze was unwavering, assessing. He was a trained politician, and she met his stare as an equal. When dealing with the Ferros clan, one could never afford to appear uncertain.
“How is your father, if you don’t mind me asking?” Albus asked smoothly. “I heard he left the city this morning.”
A flicker of surprise crossed Caitlyn’s face, her breath catching for just a second before she composed herself. “I see the Ferros intelligencers are as efficient as ever,” she quipped.
Albus chuckled. “Yes, but I ask sincerely. I always enjoyed our conversations at the galas. His stories of Ionia were mesmerizing.”
Caitlyn hesitated before answering. “He decided it was time to return to his ancestral home. My mother’s passing was… difficult for him. He believes he will heal better in Ionia.”
“My condolences,” Albus said with genuine softness. “Cassandra will be dearly missed.” A pause. “Though I am glad to hear he is moving forward. I hope you are as well.”
Caitlyn remained silent. Albus continued, leaning forward slightly. “When my father, Hakim, passed, I did not take it well. I buried myself in work. Nearly destroyed myself in the process. I only hope you are taking care of yourself. I know how tirelessly you’ve been working on the enforcer reforms.”
She was momentarily taken aback. The Ferros were feared for their ruthlessness, their ability to manipulate, and their habit of always being three steps ahead. Yet Albus’s concern felt… sincere. Before she could respond, Jeeves returned, setting down a tray with tea. With precise movements, he poured their drinks before stepping aside.
Albus took a sip, then set his cup down. “Now, tell me, what can I do for you?”
Caitlyn exhaled and straightened. “I have several matters to discuss, but let’s start with the announcement tonight. Has the council selected a new sheriff?”
Albus glanced down at the reports stacked neatly on his desk. “You provided us with excellent candidates. Each possesses leadership, intelligence, resilience, and integrity.” He hesitated, just briefly. “All qualities you have.”
Caitlyn stilled.
Albus pressed on. “The council has decided. They want you to be the new Sheriff of Piltover.”
She sighed. “No. The people hate me. They want change.”
“There will be change,” Albus countered smoothly. “And we believe you are the right person to lead it. Opinions can shift. When they see the work you’re doing, they will come around. You will have the full backing of the council.”
His words were calculated, persuasive. With council support, her reforms could reach farther, and make a real impact. But the weight of the people’s resentment pressed heavily on her mind. And then—Vi. Would Vi stand by her? Would she leave? What about finding her?
No. Vi would stay.
Her heartbeat slowed, her thoughts clearing. Then another question surfaced, sharper, colder.
“Why does the council want me?” she asked, her voice even.
Albus hesitated. It was subtle, a flicker of movement, a shift in his posture. “As I said, you have the necessary qualifications.”
She remained silent, urging him to continue.
“Your experience speaks for itself.”
Still, she waited.
“And your house commands respect within the council.” His voice quickened at the end, composure cracking just slightly.
There it was. The truth, her clan, her legacy, her curse. They didn’t want her—they wanted her name. The Kiramman name, even in disgrace, still carried weight. The people might despise her, but they would not defy her house. No matter what she did, she would always be pulled back in. She would never be free.
Caitlyn stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Ferros.” She gave a small bow and turned for the door.
“Wait, Miss Kiramman—”
“I will think about it.” She cut him off, her voice firm. “Good day.”
And with that, she left the office, the weight of her family name pressing down on her shoulders.
Notes:
Thanks for reading!
Caitlyn is given an offer, should she take it, or should she not?
Ekko and Vi is a relationship I like, because he is the last remainder of her childhood, her last connection to the Undercity.
Next Time: Conversations and DecisionsAlso, for the Lightcannon fans, I started a modern au, Dandadan-inspired mystery, ghost short story. New chapter out later today, when I finish editing it.
Chapter 12: Make Them Regret Choosing You
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 12: Make Them Regret Choosing You
Vi moved through the Lanes with the practiced ease of someone who had once called them home. Even at midday, the light barely touched these streets, swallowed by the tangled maze of metal and scrap. Neon signs buzzed and flickered overhead, bathing the alleyways in violet, cyan, and electric green hues. For those unaccustomed to it, time itself became meaningless down here. The air was thick with familiar scents—chemicals, rusted metal, the ever-present grime of the Undercity.
She noticed the absence first. Fewer shimmer addicts than before. It had been months since she and Caitlyn had set out to dismantle its production, and under the Noxians, the operation had been all but eradicated. After the battle, they sent search units for the Doctor, but he had vanished. Down here, if someone didn’t want to be found, they simply weren’t. Vi could only hope he was gone for good, but she knew better. Sooner or later, someone else would take up the mantle. Shimmer would return.
No one paid her much mind as she moved. A few passing glances, but nothing more. The city was busy—people out and about, their faces worn but content. After six months under Piltover’s heel, the last three had been a breath of fresh air. Vi hadn’t set foot in the Undercity since the battle, but she had kept a close watch, gathering reports. The change had come fast.
The power vacuum she and Caitlyn created had been slow to take effect, delayed by the Noxian occupation, but when their grip loosened, unrest followed. Small skirmishes broke out, gangs fighting for old territories. The Firelights had quelled some of the chaos, but the real credit belonged to Sevika. Vi hated to admit it, but the woman had been keeping the Undercity from burning. She had pushed for aid, secured supplies after the battle, and, with the Ferros clan’s resources, had kept most of the gang wars from spiraling. But she couldn’t put out every fire. New Chembarons were rising, and Vi had dossiers on a few of them. For now, they were low-priority. None had yet pushed past the city’s borders. She wanted to take them out before they became a real problem, but she lacked the manpower.
She turned a corner, a block away from the Last Drop when something caught her eye. An alleyway.
Her steps faltered. The sight before her pulled her back into the past. Their old hideout.
The rundown arcade looked just as she remembered—broken windows, rusted machines, ghosts of a childhood long gone. She stepped inside. Dust swirled in the dim light as her boots scraped against the floor. Her gaze drifted to the old torn boxing machine, then to the screen, still intact.
VI – 4800
POW - 4406
Vi exhaled sharply, her mind flooded with memories—Powder tinkering with the machines, grinning when she got them running again, the sound of her laughter echoing through the space. She reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the machine when—
A flick of a lighter.
She spun.
"Hey, Vi. You know better than to keep your back open."
Sevika’s voice was as dry as ever. The glow of her cigar lit the edges of her sharp features. She leaned against the arcade’s entrance, one boot crossed over the other, a blood-red half-poncho draped over her left arm. She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, the kind that didn’t fade with a good night’s sleep.
Vi’s expression hardened. “What, your new masters keeping you busy, traitor?”
Sevika exhaled smoke, unfazed. “You’re one to talk. How’s keeping Kiramman’s silk sheets warm?”
Vi’s fists clenched, but she forced herself to breathe through the anger. “What do you want?” she muttered, brushing past Sevika.
“Nothing,” Sevika said, stepping aside without resistance. “Just wanted to see if it was really you.”
Vi kept walking. Footsteps followed. Heavy. Familiar.
She didn’t bother turning around. “Why are you following me?”
“I’m not.” A pause. “Just happen to be going the same way.”
Vi scoffed, but let it go. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the hum of the Undercity around them. She frowned, a thought crossing her mind. “Why’d you join the council? I thought you wanted to free the Lanes.”
Sevika shot her a look. “Why’d you join the Enforcers? Didn’t you want to save your sister?”
Vi halted, rounding on her, anger flashing in her eyes. “You don’t get to talk about her! You and Silco—”
“I what?” Sevika cut in, stepping closer. “I basically raised that brat.”
Vi froze.
The words hit like a gut punch. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Sevika brushed past her, unfazed. Vi stood there, arms slack at her sides, the weight of the realization settling in. Someone had to have taken care of Powder. She had been just a kid. Anger bled away, replaced with guilt.
Vi swallowed hard, then turned. "Hey."
Sevika slowed but didn’t turn.
"Thank you," Vi said, voice quieter than she intended. "For taking care of her."
Sevika finally stopped. She sighed, tilting her head back slightly before glancing over her shoulder. “You know… I didn’t think I’d miss her. But… she kept things fun.”
Neither spoke after that. They simply walked.
The last few turns were taken in silence. Then, they arrived.
Vi stopped.
Her stomach twisted.
Where the Last Drop had once stood, all that remained were its charred ruins.
She had read the reports, but seeing it in person was different. The sight of it stole the air from her lungs. Her home. The place she had grown up in, trained with Vander, and listened to drunks tell wild stories of the Lanes. Gone.
Tears pricked the edges of her vision, but she blinked them away. Her gaze shifted, catching sight of workers clearing debris. Sevika had already stepped forward, speaking with one of them.
Vi approached the woman, who was reading over a report. “You cleaning this up?”
The woman barely spared her a glance. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Sevika sighed. “I’m going to rebuild it.”
Vi’s brows furrowed. “Why?”
“I need a place to drink in peace.”
Vi let out a short, humorless laugh before falling silent. She hesitated, then asked, “Why did you betray Vander?”
Sevika blinked, genuinely caught off guard. She turned to Vi, studying her. There was no accusation in her voice. Just a quiet need to understand.
Sevika exhaled. “Back then, I was angry. A lot of us were.” Her voice dropped, touched with something almost nostalgic. “I was sixteen when Vander led us across that bridge. I lost my father that day.”
Vi stayed silent, listening.
“So, when Topside came breathing down our necks again… I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t fight.” Her voice was distant. “Silco… he was willing to do whatever it took.”
Vi didn’t bother hiding her distaste, but Sevika continued.
“From your perspective, yeah, I betrayed Vander. But back then, I thought he was the one betraying the Undercity.”
Vi studied her. For the first time, she saw something she hadn’t before—understanding.
“So why the council?” she asked. “What are you getting out of this?”
Sevika chuckled. “Because now I see it differently. Zaun isn’t just a rebellion. Zaun is its people. And from up there, even with the little voice I have, I can do more for them.” She smirked. “I’m still fighting for Zaun’s freedom.”
Vi opened her mouth, but Sevika cut her off with an unexpected question.
“Kiramman had a meeting with Ferros today, yeah?”
Vi stiffened. “Yeah. Why?”
Vi ran.
The Undercity blurred past in streaks of neon as she sprinted through the streets. She barely registered the people leaping out of her way.
She took the bathysphere. It would be faster.
The moment the doors slid open, she bolted.
She flashed her old badge, pushing past security.
She ran through Piltover’s polished streets, heart hammering in her chest.
Fuck. Caitlyn.
What are we gonna do?
Ekko soared above the city, his hoverboard slicing through the crisp evening air. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting Piltover’s towering spires in hues of gold, rose, and deep amber. He pulled off his mask, taking a deep breath of the cleaner air. It was a luxury, one he rarely afforded himself, but tonight was different. Tonight, he rode alone—an unusual occurrence for the leader of the Firelights.
He’d told Vi he would come as a favor, but the truth was, he needed this. A few hours where he wasn’t carrying the weight of the Undercity on his back. He was young, yet he bore the will of too many. In the last three months, he hadn’t had a single moment to process everything. The funeral had barely ended before the gangs started making their moves, eager to carve up the remains of what had been left behind. While people mourned, others schemed to fill the power vacuum. So, Ekko did what he always did—kept moving, fighting, securing supplies, helping those in need. Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. Most nights, when he did sleep, his dreams were haunted by echoes of another timeline—one he could never forget, nor did he want to. He fought for a future where the Undercity had a chance. And he wasn’t about to give up.
But tonight, he just wanted a few hours. To celebrate his friend’s accomplishments. And to find a way—any way—to help the Lanes.
The Kiramman estate loomed ahead, its pristine architecture standing in stark contrast to the world Ekko came from. It was more a mansion than a home, its grand facade bathed in the dimming glow of sunset. As he approached, something felt... off. The front entrance was dark and silent. No signs of the usual servants or security Pilties have. No one answered when he knocked.
Weird.
Frowning, he circled around the side of the mansion. A few faint lights flickered in the back. Peering through a window, he caught sight of Vi pacing the floor, her movements tense, restless. Caitlyn sat nearby in a study, her posture rigid, a hand pressed to her temple. The air inside looked heavy—serious.
He descended and knocked on the balcony door. Vi turned, hesitating for only a second before unlocking it and pulling it open.
“Sup. No one was at the front,” Ekko greeted.
Both women relaxed slightly, gesturing for him to enter.
“Hey, little man, sorry, we were… busy,” Vi said, leaning against the wall.
“Hello, Ekko,” Caitlyn added, her voice softer, distant.
He stepped inside and immediately felt the tension. He had walked into something. They weren’t even dressed for the event yet, while he stood there in a borrowed green suit and tie. He glanced between them. “Should I come back later? You two seem... in the middle of something.”
Caitlyn opened her mouth, but few words came. “No… it’s just—”
“The council’s trying to force Caitlyn into becoming Sheriff,” Vi cut in.
“Vi!” Caitlyn snapped, shooting her a glare.
“What? I already told Ekko. He might be able to help,” Vi said with a shrug.
Caitlyn sighed before motioning for Ekko to sit across from her. She took a steadying breath. “It’s more complicated than that.”
Ekko stayed quiet, listening as she gathered her thoughts.
“Sevika informed Vi that the Ferros clan persuaded the council to choose me for the role.”
Ekko leaned forward, absorbing the information. “To what end?”
“That’s the part I don’t know,” Caitlyn admitted, pressing a hand to her temple.
“I told you—they want to use her as a shield,” Vi muttered. “You can’t trust those arrogant pricks.”
Caitlyn just massaged her temples.
Ekko tilted his head. “I don’t get it. Why you? Why not some puppet?”
Caitlyn let out a dry chuckle, frustration seeping into her voice. “They will eventually. But because even though the general populace hates me, the noble houses still respect my family name. They think I’ll be more inclined to grant them leeway.”
“So just decline,” Ekko said. “Vi said you were only setting things up.”
Vi answered this time, her tone sharp. “Sevika said that bastard Ferros convinced the council to dismantle Caitlyn’s reforms if she refuses.”
Ekko’s brows furrowed. “So, work for them until you break under the pressure, then they replace you with someone they can control. Or refuse and watch all your work burn.”
The two women just nodded.
Ekko exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “So, what’s the plan?”
Caitlyn hesitated, glancing at Vi before speaking. “I want to decline,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “If I take the position, it’ll only widen the divide between the cities.”
Vi crossed her arms. “I say we fight it. Expose the council. We can’t let them get away with this.”
Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “That wouldn’t change a damn thing. The clans only care about their self-interests. Even if we called them out, things would go right back to how they were.”
Ekko tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, lost in thought. “Would they fire you if you accepted, then?”
Caitlyn blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Only if the public demanded it. Even then, they’d find a way to pressure me into resigning first. My family's name carries too much weight.”
Ekko stood and started pacing. His mind worked quickly, analyzing angles, weighing risks. Leadership was something he understood all too well. And in Caitlyn, he saw someone trying to fight from an impossible position. He glanced between her and Vi, his own resolve settling into place.
“Okay,” he said finally, turning to face them. “So, the problems are: the people don’t trust you, and the elites think they can manipulate you.”
Caitlyn gave a small nod. “That about sums it up.”
Ekko hesitated for only a moment before his lips curled into a grin—one full of defiance.
“Then let’s make them regret choosing you.”
Vi slipped out of the Kiramman estate through the side entrance, avoiding the grandeur of the main gate. The hex-carriage waiting for them was an old prototype, a birthday gift from Jayce to Tobias a few years back—narrow enough for Piltover’s winding streets, powered by a rechargeable battery linked to the mansion’s energy supply instead of a hexgem. It wasn’t any faster than a traditional carriage, but it needed less upkeep, and tonight, that was good enough.
“You sure you know how to drive this thing?” Vi asked, eyeing the young man already perched in the driver’s seat. The streetlamps caught the silver sheen of Ekko’s locks as he inspected the controls.
He smirked. “How hard can it be?”
Vi scoffed. “Uh-huh. Just warn us before you crash into something.”
She turned as footsteps approached, and her teasing grin softened. Caitlyn strode toward them, elegance personified, her tailored black-and-white suit hugging her frame, the deep blue cape embroidered with the Kiramman crest catching the dim glow of the city lights. Vi exaggerated a bow, extending her hand. “My lady.”
Caitlyn rolled her eyes but accepted the gesture, letting Vi help her inside. “Oh, quit it.”
Vi just chuckled and turned to Ekko. “Alright, we’re ready.”
With a pull of a lever, the machine hummed to life, rolling smoothly through Piltover’s lantern-lit streets.
Inside, the ride was quiet, save for the distant hum of the carriage. Caitlyn sat across from Vi, staring out the window, lost in thought.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” Vi said, voice low but certain.
Caitlyn blinked, pulled from her thoughts, before a faint blush dusted her cheeks. “You’re not looking too bad yourself.”
Vi smirked. She’d gone for a similar monochrome suit—black pants, white shirt, though she’d ditched the jacket, claiming it was strangling her arms. She’d also left one too many buttons undone, insisting she needed “room to breathe.”
Caitlyn’s gaze lingered on her hair. “I didn’t get a chance earlier… I like what you did with it.” Her voice was soft, almost nostalgic. “It reminds me of when we first met.” She hesitated, then smiled. “And… I like the blue streak.”
Vi’s grin softened into something more intimate. “Yeah, Ekko’s got some skill, huh?”
Their fingers found each other in the dim carriage light. For a moment, the city faded away, leaving only the warmth of Caitlyn’s touch.
But then Caitlyn exhaled sharply, her grip tightening. “Do you really think this will work?” she asked, voice tinged with doubt. “What if—”
Vi gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “It will.”
“But how can you be sure?” Caitlyn pressed. “What if it just makes things worse?”
Vi shifted closer, placing her other hand over Caitlyn’s. “Growing up in the Lanes, I hated topside. Thought they had everything, left us with nothing, and called it progress. I wanted to fight, take what was ours—get Powder out, give her a real future. Never thought anyone up here gave a shit.” She lifted Caitlyn’s chin gently, forcing her to meet her gaze. “Then I met you.”
Caitlyn’s breath caught, uncertainty flickering behind her eyes.
“You made mistakes. And yeah, people don’t trust you right now. But Ferros got one thing right—opinions change. And once they see you in action, Cupcake, they’ll see the real you.”
Vi sealed the words with a quick, reassuring peck on Caitlyn’s lips before nodding toward the window.
“Now, get ready,” she murmured as the carriage slowed. “We’re entering the wolf’s den.”
Outside, the towering silhouette of the Council Hall loomed ahead, its grand doors awaiting their arrival.
Notes:
Thanks for Reading.
Sevika! Finally. The season 2 decision to have her in the council at the end, in my opinion, came out of nowhere, given her history being Silco's number 2.
But, I have ideas on how it could work.
Also, you might have noticed how I only referred to the city as the Undercity. That comes from one of my biggest issues with Season 2. In the end, there is no Zaun, it's still part of Piltover.
Well anyway. Next Time: Declarations and Progress
Chapter 13: A New Era of True Progress
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 13: A New Era of True Progress
The grand conference hall buzzed with the murmurs of Piltover’s elite. Councilors and their families occupied the prime seats, while foreign dignitaries who braved travel to the City of Progress after the Noxus battle held quiet conversations in clusters. Journalists from all corners of the city—and beyond—jotted in their notebooks, while members of the merchant guilds watched the proceedings with sharp, calculating eyes.
The whispers grew louder when Caitlyn Kiramman entered, hand in hand with Vi. The sight alone was enough to set tongues wagging, but what truly stirred the crowd was the figure trailing behind them—Ekko. Once a ghost in the undercity, a leader known only in the shadows, his name had become a topic of hushed discussions after the battle for Piltover. Three months ago, he had been unknown to these halls. Now, merchants who once ignored the Lanes sought an audience with him, desperate for safe passage into the undercity. None had succeeded. And yet, here he was, walking in with Caitlyn Kiramman.
"You think this is some kind of statement?" someone murmured.
"Walking in with two trenchies..." another whispered.
Vi caught the words and turned toward the voice. The speaker quickly averted their gaze, pretending to be interested in their champagne.
The murmurs died down when Albus Ferros approached them. He was draped in a regal blue and bronze coat, intricate figures of workers etched into the shoulder pads, his metallic collar fanning behind his head like a peacock’s plumage.
"Madam Kiramman," he greeted, offering a formal bow. "I’m glad you could join us tonight."
Caitlyn returned the gesture with practiced grace.
Ferros turned to Vi and Ekko, his smile polite, measured. “And it is a true pleasure to formally meet two heroes of the battle for Piltover.”
Vi and Ekko stood there, momentarily caught off guard. “Uh, thanks,” they mumbled in unison.
Ferros chuckled. "Madam Kiramman, would you be so kind as to join me? There are final details to discuss." He extended his arm toward Caitlyn.
She hesitated only for a moment, then gave Vi’s hand a reassuring pat before stepping away with Ferros.
Vi and Ekko drifted toward the back of the hall, near the balcony. Vi snatched a glass of champagne from a passing server, downing it in one gulp. She would rather stare down a dragon than be left alone with these wolves in silk. At least she had Ekko beside her.
For the moment, no one dared approach them.
Vi’s eyes flicked toward the door Caitlyn had disappeared through, anxiety tightening her jaw.
“She’ll be alright,” Ekko said, watching her.
Vi sighed. “Yeah, it’s just… you know. She’s losing the only thing protecting her.”
Ekko tilted his head. “You said you’d stay by her side. What’s this? Second-guessing yourself?” His tone was light, teasing—but purposeful.
Vi’s gaze snapped to him, resolve hardening. “Never.”
Ekko grinned, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “That’s the Vi I know. You’ll keep her safe.”
The words struck deeper than she expected. They reminded her of Vander.
"I’ll see if I don’t fail this time," she muttered. It was meant to be sarcastic, but it came out hollow.
Ekko’s grip on her shoulder tightened. “Vi… that wasn’t your fault.”
She exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of her neck. “I know. I just—” She shook her head. “I’ll focus.”
Ekko didn’t push further.
A voice interrupted their conversation.
“Excuse me… are you Vi?”
Vi turned. A girl stood before her, no older than sixteen, with bright pink hair tied into a high ponytail that cascaded down her back. She wore a fluffy pink dress, and a pendant shaped like an ‘A’ rested against her collarbone. But it was her eyes—round, sapphire blue, brimming with curiosity—that caught Vi’s attention.
"Uh… yeah," Vi answered cautiously.
The girl practically squealed. “Oh, that’s so cool!”
Her gaze flicked to Ekko. “And you must be Ekko!” she said, clasping her hands together. “I’ve read all about you two—Undercity kids who fought to save the city. It’s inspiring!”
Vi and Ekko exchanged a glance, momentarily stunned.
“Oh! I didn’t introduce myself.” The girl straightened. “Seraphine Artura. It’s truly a pleasure to meet you both.”
Vi reached out, shaking her hand. “Yeah, nice meeting you.”
Seraphine beamed, then turned to Ekko. “Artura?” he echoed, studying her. “That name sounds familiar. Who are your parents?”
The girl’s excitement dimmed slightly, her expression turning more composed. She leaned in, lowering her voice. “My dad is an inventor. He works with Mr. Ferros. That’s why I’m here—he’s part of a big project being announced tonight.”
Ekko and Vi exchanged a silent look, nodding in understanding.
Before they could ask more, the lights dimmed, and a spotlight illuminated the stage.
“Oh, it’s starting!” Seraphine whispered. “It was a pleasure—I hope we can talk again.” She gave a small bow before slipping into the crowd.
Vi turned to Ekko. “Who are the Arturas?”
Ekko’s brows knitted in thought. “If I remember right, he’s an inventor from the Lanes. Moved topside with his wife about fifteen years ago. I read he’s an acoustician… but he also consulted on the hexgate.”
Vi smirked at the familiar spark in his eyes—Ekko, the kid who used to pore over every inventor’s magazine he could get his hands on, absorbing every scrap of knowledge like it was gold.
But before she could comment, movement on stage caught their attention.
Albus Ferros had stepped up to the podium.
The grand hall settled into hushed anticipation as Albus Ferros stepped onto the stage. The air buzzed with barely contained energy, whispers tapering into silence when his commanding presence took the podium.
"Good evening, everyone," Ferros began, his voice rich and deliberate. "It is truly an honor to see so many of you here tonight."
Vi and Ekko sat toward the back, surrounded by a cluster of reporters, their quills scratching feverishly against parchment. The room, packed with Piltover's elite, foreign dignitaries, and merchant guilds, listened with bated breath.
"An event of this magnitude is usually reserved for Progress Day," Ferros continued, his voice magnetic, effortlessly drawing in the crowd. "But what we have to share tonight will mark a new era of true progress for our great city."
A smattering of applause rippled through the room, and Ferros waited, letting the moment stretch before continuing. Vi and Ekko exchanged a wary glance. Whatever was about to be announced would undoubtedly shape the future of Piltover—and the Undercity’s.
"First and foremost, I must thank you all," Ferros resumed, nodding to the assembly. "For nearly two centuries, Piltover has stood by its principles: neutrality, innovation, and the pursuit of knowledge. We are a city of trade, not war. We do not boast a standing army, yet when we were threatened, we did not cower. We stood tall. We proved our strength!"
The crowd erupted into cheers, an almost feverish national pride swelling in the room.
"Even our brothers and sisters from the Undercity stood beside us in defense of our home!" Ferros proclaimed.
Vi and Ekko barely contained their scoffs. The truth had been much grimmer—division, distrust, and bloodshed. Unity only to fight a greater evil. This unison Ferros spoke of was a polished fiction, far removed from the reality they had lived.
"We did not just survive—we prevailed!" Ferros declared, his voice rising with conviction. "And for that, I thank you!"
The applause was thunderous, filling the chamber with a near-deafening roar. Ferros raised a hand, signaling for silence, his expression firm as he continued.
"That brings me to our first announcement. I want to make one thing very clear: Piltover does not hold Noxus accountable for the attack."
Murmurs broke out across the hall. Vi caught snippets of hushed conversations.
"Do you think the rumors are true?" a reporter whispered.
Ferros held up a letter, displaying it for all to see. "This," he said, "is a declaration from Jericho Swain himself, signed by his top generals— Darius of Basilich, and Faris Noradi—as well as several noble houses. They have denounced the rogue war band led by Ambessa Medarda, the former head of Clan Medarda."
The murmurs grew louder, a wave of speculation sweeping the hall.
Vi overheard one of the journalists mutter under her breath, "Damn, Mel’s been working hard."
Ferros gestured toward the front row, where an older gentleman sat with a composed expression. "This resolution was made possible through the tireless efforts of Jago Medarda, who joins us tonight, and the former councilor Mel Medarda, whose dedication to this city has never wavered."
Jago barely lifted a hand in acknowledgment before settling back into his chair.
"As a gesture of goodwill, Noxus has not only condemned these rogue actions but has pledged reparations to aid in our reconstruction. They reaffirm their commitment to Piltover as a vital trade partner."
A beat of silence passed before Ferros delivered the next blow.
"Thus, I am pleased to announce that, effective immediately, the council has voted to lift the trade embargo with Noxus."
A wave of applause rolled through the room, particularly from the merchant guilds, who had been eagerly awaiting such news.
Ferros allowed the excitement to settle before pressing on. "Now, for our next announcement. Hextech has become the very cornerstone of our city’s progress. Yet, we suffered a great loss when its brilliant inventor, Jayce Talis, gave his life to defend Piltover."
A solemn pause hung in the air.
"But his legacy will not end here."
The curtains behind Ferros lifted, revealing a dozen men and women standing in pristine formation. The crowd collectively gasped.
"These individuals," Ferros said, gesturing to them, "are the finest minds Piltover has to offer—top graduates of the Academy, protégés of Talis, and survivors of Ambessa’s abductions. Thanks to our intelligence efforts, we were able to safeguard some of our brightest scientists from harm."
Among them, Ekko spotted a man wearing a familiar pendant—an ‘A’ emblazoned on its surface. He nudged Vi, who simply nodded.
Ferros' voice swelled with pride. "But that is not all. Today, I am proud to announce that, under council authorization, a select few have been granted permission to begin the production of this."
He held up a small, glowing blue gem.
Vi and Ekko immediately recognized it.
"A Hexgem," Ferros proclaimed, his voice triumphant. "A stable hex crystal. Today, we take another leap forward—we bring Hextech to the masses!"
A stunned silence lingered before the hall erupted into raucous cheers. Merchants whispered of boundless profit. Inventors speculated on its implications.
Vi leaned toward Ekko. "Guess I can really get you that gem."
Ekko, however, wasn’t smiling. He understood what this meant—a greater disparity between Piltover and the Undercity.
Ferros raised his hands again, silencing the commotion. "And now, for our final announcement."
The hall stilled, anticipation thick in the air.
"During the battle, we witnessed a tragic failure. Our Enforcers—meant to protect us—were turned against us. Corruption had taken root."
A new wave of murmurs spread through the crowd.
"Change was necessary. A proposal was made. A reformation was drafted. And today, I introduce to you: The Wardens!"
A mix of cheers and wary whispers rippled through the assembly.
"And there is no better person to lead them than the one who has painstakingly worked to shape this new force. Ladies and gentlemen, your new Sheriff of Piltover—Caitlyn Kiramman!"
Gasps and murmurs followed as Caitlyn stepped onto the stage. She shook Ferros' hand before taking the podium, her gaze steady, composed.
"Thank you, Councilor Ferros." Caitlyn’s voice was steady, composed, yet edged with undeniable resolve. She scanned the sea of expectant faces before her, aware of the scrutiny, the skepticism hanging thick in the air.
"The Enforcers were created to serve this city—to protect its people. But over time, corruption took root. That safety was lost." A murmur rippled through the hall, the weight of history pressing upon every listener. Judging eyes bore into her, yet she did not falter.
"But today marks the beginning of something new." Her voice lifted, firm with conviction. "I am proud to introduce the Wardens—a force built not to enforce control, but to safeguard the people. A watchful eye, not a heavy hand. We will defend the weak, aid those in need, and restore the safety that was lost."
From the back of the hall, Vi sat stiffly, her fingers twitching. She could feel the tension thickening, the silent resistance bristling beneath Caitlyn’s words. Ekko squeezed her hand, in reassurance.
Caitlyn inhaled, bracing herself. "I know many of you question my appointment as Sheriff. Some of you see my name and think only of privilege, of recent history weighted by oppression." She paused. Albus Ferros, ever the strategist, tilted his head slightly. He had noticed something—something amiss.
"The name Kiramman has been woven into the fabric of Piltover for nearly a century. It has brought prosperity, prestige, and division. A division felt most by those of the Undercity."
Now, the silence was absolute. Even Ferros remained still, his sharp gaze locked onto her.
"So tonight, I, Caitlyn Kiramman—sole heir to House Kiramman—declare the dissolution of my clan."
A shockwave passed through the assembly. Voices erupted in stunned disbelief. Reporters scrambled to document the moment, their quills scratching furiously against parchment.
"Has this ever happened before?" one whispered in disbelief.
Caitlyn lifted a hand. The room obeyed, falling into stunned quiet.
"All assets of Clan Kiramman will be sold or auctioned, and every coin will go toward charities and organizations dedicated to healing both cities. Our family estate will no longer stand as a symbol of privilege—it will become an orphanage for those abandoned by our city’s failings."
For the first time, true silence fell over the hall. Not the expectant hush of ceremony, nor the uneasy quiet of unspoken dissent. This was something deeper.
Vi could hear her own heartbeat.
"I will lead the Wardens," Caitlyn continued, her voice unwavering, "not as the head of a great house, but as a citizen. One whose only loyalty is to the people."
Vi’s chest tightened. She tore her eyes away from Caitlyn to scan the room. Some faces were alight with hope. Others, twisted in disbelief. A few remained expressionless, masks carefully in place. But the reporters were frantic, ink staining their fingers as they struggled to capture history in real-time.
Then Caitlyn turned, locking eyes with Ferros.
"With the full support of the council," she declared, "I, Caitlyn Kiramman, accept the position of Sheriff of Piltover."
She stepped back, offering the crowd a slight bow. And then, her gaze drifted past the councilors, past the nobles, to the one figure seated at the back of the room. Vi.
Vi gave her a slow, lopsided grin and shot two thumbs up. Then, without hesitation, she clapped.
The sound cut through the tension like a blade.
A second later, another joined in.
Albus Ferros.
Then the councilors.
And then, like a tide breaking against the shore, the hall erupted in applause. Some with enthusiasm, others with reluctant acceptance. But the moment had been sealed.
Caitlyn met Vi’s gaze once more. In that quiet exchange, in the understanding between them, a promise was made.
Whatever came next, they would face it together.
Notes:
Thanks for Reading!
Thus Piltover returns to a new status quo.
This completes part 2.
I'll be taking a short break before starting part 3.
Next Time: The Great Sapphilite Heist
Small change: Jericho Swain is the Grand General, and Boram is gone. At this time I'm trying to keep in line with the current lore. (4/10/25)
Chapter 14: Invitation for Two
Summary:
The heist begins. Fortune forms a group of daring individuals to steal from some of Bilgewater's most infamous, the Sirmago Family.
Notes:
Thanks for waiting. I hope you enjoy this next part. Let the Great Sapphilite Heist begin!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Part 3: The Heist
Chapter 14: Invitation for Two
Bilgewater was calm—at least on the surface.
The streets bustled with life, merchants hollering for attention, buyers haggling with practiced ease, and children darting through alleyways in a flurry of laughter. The scent of salt, sweat, and freshly fried fish clung to the air, mixing with the ever-present musk of the harbor. Above, the sun blazed high, casting sharp shadows over the uneven cobblestone roads, yet the water beneath the docks ran colder, stirred by the early autumn winds rolling in from the west.
It was almost as if there wasn’t a war raging beneath the city’s cheerful facade.
A girl walked among the crowds, weaving through the chaos with effortless ease. The dark lenses of her sunglasses reflected smiling faces—faces that, only three months ago, had worn very different expressions. She passed the bounty board, the lifeblood of every mercenary in Bilgewater. It had changed since the war started. Not in appearance—the wooden frame was still warped from the humid air, the metal studs rusted with sea spray—but in the sheer number of posters plastered over it.
The board was overflowing.
Layers of parchment, one atop another, peeling at the edges where the wind caught them. Captains, crew members, and rival factions all with prices on their heads. Requests for help, odd jobs, even petty fetch quests—all scribbled hastily in thick black ink. A crowd gathered, scanning the names, shouting to the scribe who sat at its side, jotting down which bounty had been claimed.
Business was good.
The war had turned mercenaries into prized commodities, and in turn, they fed the city's economy. Weapons, supplies, drinks—the gold flowed, and Bilgewater thrived.
The girl descended a short flight of steps, approaching a barred window where a quieter sort of business was conducted. She rapped her knuckles against the iron grate.
“Fuzzball, you open yet?”
A grunt came from within, followed by the shuffle of boxes and the clink of glass containers. A moment later, a pair of large, furry ears appeared, followed by a scowling face. The yordle’s rough, gravel-coated voice contradicted his soft appearance.
“Damn it, Blue, how many times do I gotta tell ya? The name’s Earnest.”
Zaun smirked. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll remember someday.”
The Yordle rolled his eyes. “What do ya need? And just so you know, I’m outta gunpowder.”
Zaun slid a folded piece of paper through the bars. “Shame. I was hoping for a little more fun.” Her grin was sharp, playful.
Earnest scanned the list, his expression tightening when he reached the bottom. “Flashbangs, puffcaps, glycerin… sapphilite?” He let out a low whistle. “That’s gonna cost ya double. Sirmagos got an iron grip on the stuff—it ain’t easy to come by.”
Zaun opened her mouth, ready to haggle, but footsteps behind her stole her attention. A firm hand landed on her shoulder.
“Zaun, where the void have you been? We’ve been waiting.”
She turned to find Isobel standing there, arms crossed, weight shifted to one hip. The woman had the standard Bilgewater look—tight leather pants, a cropped shirt with her crew’s sigil, and a pink bandana tying back unruly curls.
“Had a few errands to run,” Zaun said simply before slipping Earnest a small pouch of coin. “Get it delivered before tonight, alright?”
The Yordle weighed the pouch in his palm, gave a slow nod, and pocketed it.
“All done?” Isobel asked, rocking on her heels.
Zaun turned away from the window. “Let’s go.”
As they moved through the city, they stuck to the back alleys, avoiding the heavier crowds. Soon, they reached a main road leading to Gray Harbor—the wealthiest district in Bilgewater, home to its bigshots and crime lords. A peaceful place, all things considered. At least on the surface.
Technically, it was Jagged Hooks territory. But everyone knew the truth.
This was Sirmago territory.
The buildings here were different. Built from stone, not scavenged from wrecked ships. The air smelled less of brine and rot, more of old money and polished brass.
They followed the main road from the shadows, slipping behind rows of houses until they reached one under construction. Scaffolding stretched around the perimeter, a flimsy wooden fence half-heartedly blocking the entrance. To outsiders, it was just another remodel. In reality, it was a staging ground—a place Fortune had acquired for their little heist.
Zaun and Isobel entered through the back, climbing two flights of stairs before stopping in front of a heavy wooden door.
Isobel knocked—six taps, a specific rhythm.
Boots scuffed against the floor on the other side before the door creaked open, letting them inside.
The room was dim, its windows covered save for a few slits where watchful eyes could peer out.
“Took you long enough.” The voice was rough, familiar. Malcolm Graves leaned against a crate, arms folded. “You get it all?”
“Yeah. How’s it looking?” Zaun asked, moving toward a window. She pulled back a scrap of parchment, revealing their target: the Sirmago family home and museum.
“Not much changed,” Graves admitted, “but T.F.’s got somethin’ to show ya.”
Across the room, Twisted Fate lay stretched out on a couch, hat pulled over his face. Graves didn’t bother with pleasantries—he kicked the couch, jolting the man awake.
Fate groaned, adjusting his hat as he sat up. “Can’t a man get some rest?”
Zaun barely glanced back. “You had something to show me.”
Fate stood, stretching before sauntering over, Graves following behind. With a flick of his wrist, a card appeared between his fingers, its edges gleaming under the low light. He extended it toward Zaun.
She took it, scanning the words printed in gold lettering.
Sirmago Family Ball – Invitation for Two.
Her expression darkened. She looked up at them, unimpressed.
Fate smirked. “Now all ya gotta do is find a date.”
The city stretched before her, bathed in the dying light of the setting sun. Gold and copper hues washed over the rooftops, glinting off glass windows and the ever-present sea. A cool wind rolled in from the harbor, slipping through the alleys and rattling the makeshift signs of street vendors. Yet Bilgewater paid it no mind. Life here never slowed—not for the tides, not for the seasons, and certainly not for a breeze.
Zaun walked with purpose, her boots clicking against the uneven cobblestones, weaving through the evening crowds. At a busy intersection, a sharp voice rang out over the bustle.
“Extra! Extra! News from the Pilt! Trade with Noxus resumes and much more!”
Her gaze flicked to the source—a boy, no older than ten, standing atop a wooden crate, a bundle of newspapers under his arm. His face was smudged with ink, but his grin was bright as he waved a copy in the air.
She stepped closer, glancing over the stack.
“Evenin’, ma’am! Interested in a copy? The Bilgewater News Gang has all the latest scoops—from the north of Valoran to the south of Shurima!” he chirped, eager as any street hawker.
She barely registered his words. Her eyes locked onto the front page. Not the headline. Not the article. But the image.
Her sister—standing alongside Caitlyn, hand in hand, smiling.
Her stomach twisted. Around them stood the new councilors, but two faces stood out like a dagger to the ribs—Sevika, of all people, and just barely visible in the back, a familiar mop of dreadlocks next to a pink-haired girl.
Ekko.
She snatched a copy without a word.
“Ah, ma’am, you gotta pay for that,” the boy reminded her.
Without looking, she reached into her pocket and flicked him a copper kraken. He caught it midair, flashing another grin before turning to his next customer.
Zaun walked on, scanning the article as the sounds of the city faded into the background. She skimmed through trade agreements, shifting alliances, new technologies, and political restructuring. None of it mattered. But one line caught her eye.
Kiramman dismantles her clan.
A small, humorless smile tugged at Zaun’s lips. Guess she is different, huh?
Streetlamps flickered to life, casting long shadows as the last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon. She keeps walking, the wooden planks of a bridge groaning beneath her steps, ropes creaking with every move.
A voice slithered through her thoughts, sharp and familiar.
“She looks happy.”
Zaun stiffened.
The specter balanced effortlessly on the bridge’s rope railing, swaying with the wind.
She forced herself forward. Ignored it.
“Think we could’ve been happy if we’d stayed?”
Jinx’s voice was softer than usual.
Zaun exhaled sharply through her nose, finally glancing back. The figure stood there, arms outstretched, looking down at the dark waters below.
The thought had crossed her mind before. Going back. What Vi’s face would have looked like if she’d turned around instead of disappearing through the Hexgate.
But the memory of Isha pulling the trigger—Vander falling—churned in her gut, hollowing her out from the inside.
Break the cycle.
The words rattled through her skull like a broken record.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Jinx’s ghostly form smiled before stepping off the ropes, vanishing into the abyss.
Zaun clenched her fists, her breath uneven, her chest rising and falling too fast. The newspaper crinkled in her grasp. She forced her shoulders to relax, inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. Focus.
She kept walking.
By the time she reached the docks, the tide had settled low, waves smoothing out against the wooden piers. She made her way back to the airship to grab what she needed—just a few last tools before heading to the safehouse to finish the gadgets for the heist.
Her mind drifted back to the meeting with Fortune.
“Sapphilite? From the Sirmagos? You gotta be joking.”
Graves’ voice was rough with disbelief, his scowl deepening.
“Yeah, hate to say it, but I gotta agree.” Fate leaned forward, arms crossed, watching Fortune carefully.
The pirate captain lifted a single finger, silencing them both. “About a month ago, an old friend of mine from my mercenary days reached out. Said a few royal houses have been buying up all the sapphilite they can get their hands on.” Her voice was measured, steady. “Seems like there are changes in the Immortal Bastion.” She let the words settle before adding, “If Noxus’ preparing a storm. Then, we’re gonna sell them the thunder.”
Graves and Fate exchanged a look. A flicker of unease passed between them, neither liking the direction this was going.
Zaun tilted her head. “What’s sapphilite?”
The room went silent. Both men turned to her with wide eyes.
Before they could launch into whatever lecture was forming on their tongues, Fortune reached into her coat, pulling out a small corked vial. Inside, pale blue liquid shimmered under the candlelight. She tossed it to Zaun without a word.
Zaun caught it easily, though she didn’t miss the way the two men tensed—like she was holding a vial of raw explosives.
“Sapphilite,” Fortune explained, “is a key ingredient in potion-making. Harvested from live jaull fish right here in Bilgewater. Alchemists, mages, and aristocrats with more coin than sense pay a fortune for it.”
Zaun tilted the vial, watching the inky blue liquid shift under the glass.
“That little bottle goes for ten gold krakens. And the Sirmagos? They’ve got a damn monopoly on it.”
Fortune sat back, crossing one leg over the other.
“You forgot to mention,” Fate added dryly, “how volatile it is when exposed to heat. Or that a single vial can eat through your hand if you touch it directly.”
Zaun stopped tilting the vial.
Graves grunted. “I’m not sure about this, Fortune.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Even if we break-in, how much are we takin’?”
Fortune met his gaze. Steady.
“All of it.”
Silence.
Graves exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. Fate just shook his head.
“Listen, Fortune,” Fate started, voice edged with frustration, “I can’t blink that much material out. Distance is too far. Even if we got in, we’d have no way to haul it.”
Fortune smirked. “Don’t worry. We have a plan for that.”
She turned toward the back of the room. “Isobel, come here.”
The trio followed her gaze to the woman hunched over a coffee table, deep in thought, fingers moving nimbly over some half-built device. It took a sharp nudge from the man next to her for her to realize she’d been called.
She scrambled up, hurrying over. “Sorry, Captain.”
Fortune waved it off. “This is Isobel, my resident tinkerer. She’ll be my eyes and ears during the operation. She has the plan—and she’ll be helping you three pull this off.”
Graves looked her over, unimpressed. Fate simply sighed.
Zaun raised an eyebrow. “So why wait three months? Why not do it sooner?”
Fortune said nothing. She simply picked up the newspaper off the table, unfolded it, and slid it across.
The headline read:
Preparations for the Annual Sirmago Ball are Underway.
The boardwalk creaked beneath her boots as she walked, the scent of salt thick in the air. In the distance, the airship loomed—a dark silhouette against the night sky. Home, for now. She stayed there alone after Tomen had moved into the house Fortune found for him, the one where he planned to build his bank.
She still visited him from time to time, helping out when she could—running errands, managing sales, exchanging currencies. But mostly, she collected debts from fools who thought they could swindle the Piltovan.
Fortune had kept her word. She’d helped Tomen get started, and ensured his business had protection. But growth was slow. Not many people in Bilgewater were eager to take out loans when they weren’t sure they’d live to see the weekend.
As she neared the airship, its details became clearer. Over the past three months, she’d made a few modifications with Isobel’s help. First, a better motor—the damn thing had been too loud at low altitudes and too slow for quick getaways. Next, reinforcing the hull. Piltovan ships weren’t built to take direct fire, and out here, that wasn’t a luxury—it was a death sentence. Finally, a new paint job. She had wanted something bold, something vibrant. But stealth mattered more.
So black it was. For now.
Tomen had been reluctant at first, grumbling about aesthetics, but he’d shut up fast after taking it for a spin. Now he had all kinds of ideas about going into the airship business.
Zaun smirked at the thought.
Isobel had been the real surprise. The Syren wouldn’t have been out of place at the Piltovan Academy, and Zaun was beginning to understand why Fortune trusted her to handle the plan.
She was almost at the ship when movement caught her eye. A familiar figure stood outside, bathed in the glow of a lantern.
Blond hair, slightly tousled, catching the light.
Ezreal.
He glanced over his shoulder, checking the docks before reaching into his coat and scribbling something on a slip of paper. He pressed it against the door, smoothing it flat, then checked his surroundings again before turning back toward the city.
Zaun ducked behind a stack of cargo crates, watching him go.
Curiosity pulled her forward. She stepped out, crossed the dock in a few quick strides, and plucked the note from the door.
Slaughter Docks – Captain’s Pub – 8 p.m.
She turned the paper over.
Ez.
Her brow furrowed. Was this meant for Tomen or her?
She glanced back toward the city, tracking Ezreal’s path. For a second, something prickled at the back of her neck. A presence. A gaze.
Slowly, she shifted her stance, scanning the darkened docks. The air had cooled with the tide, waves lapping against the moored ships. From somewhere in the distance, laughter drifted from another vessel, faint and carefree. But the feeling of being watched remained.
She exhaled.
Whoever it was, they were good—damn good. Well-trained. But there was no killing intent. Not yet.
Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the feeling vanished.
Zaun stared at the note in her hands one last time before smirking and flicking it aside.
“Why wait?”
With that, she turned on her heel and strode back down the docks, her destination set.
She moved like a shadow, slipping between pools of lantern light, silent on the wooden planks of the docks. Tracking the young Piltovan wasn’t difficult—that was new.
She hadn’t seen him since that night. Tomen had, though. He’d met with Ezreal, explained the situation. Whatever was said must have left an impression, because the boy had made a habit of avoiding her ever since. But no bounty hunters were knocking on her door. No worried sister either. So, for now, she let him be.
Still, curiosity was a fickle thing.
She followed him through the docks, watching as he weaved his way toward the Slum Markets. He stopped at a food vendor, handing over a few coins in exchange for meat on a stick, taking a casual bite before continuing on. He looked more at ease now, less wary than he had been at the docks.
But something caught her attention.
She wasn’t the only one tailing him.
Two men—broad shoulders, dark skin, long dreadlocks, and green tribal tattoos curling up their arms—moved in tandem behind him.
Buhru.
She recognized the markings. The original residents of the Serpent Isles. They rarely got involved in Palangy—foreigner—affairs. For the most part, they kept to their temples, their own traditions. And people, even pirate captains, knew better than to cross them.
Zaun knew why.
A few weeks back, she had witnessed it firsthand.
She’d been sitting at a food stall with Isobel, picking at their plates after a long day working on the airship. The place had reminded her of Jericho’s—warm, familiar, the scent of grilled fish thick in the air.
Then came the footsteps.
Heavy. Desperate.
A man sprinted down the street, his breath ragged.
And then, from the ground, a green tentacle materialized, wrapping around his ankles and yanking him down. He hit the dirt with a brutal crack, his hands scrambling at the phantom limb locked around him.
A second later, she saw her.
A towering woman, stocky and broad-shouldered, fluorescent green tattoos glowing across her dark skin. Long brown hair tied in a ponytail. Piercing green eyes like cut emeralds. She moved with the weight of a storm rolling in.
Over her shoulder, she carried a large golden sphere.
The man on the ground flailed, blood staining his hands. “Please, don’t! He deserved it!”
The woman slowed.
Isobel barely glanced up from her meal. “Oh. Illaoi.”
Zaun had heard the name before, mentioned from time to time in the streets.
The man tried to crawl, but Illaoi’s presence alone seemed to root him in place.
“You took it upon yourself to stop another’s motion?” Her voice was deep, unwavering. “Then you must think yourself worthy of Her blessing.”
She lifted the golden sphere. Green light pulsed from it, a circle formed around the man. The air thickened.
Then came the screaming.
A spectral tentacle tore into him, pulling something free—his soul.
His body collapsed, his face frozen in terror.
The soul writhed, struggling, before it, too, dispersed into mist.
Illaoi slung the sphere back over her shoulder and stepped forward, looking down at what remained.
“You were not worthy.”
Then she picked up his body and disappeared into the street.
Zaun had barely noticed Isobel nudging her elbow. “That was the Test of Spirit. Don’t get to see that often. You should feel lucky.”
Now, watching Ezreal, Zaun kept a safe distance, careful not to draw attention from the two Buhru on his tail.
What did you do, Piltie?
She ran through the possibilities. Probably snuck into one of their temples looking for an artifact. Maybe got a little too curious about Illaoi’s sphere.
Whatever it was, it had her interest. A thought crossed her mind.
Maybe he could work.
Ezreal must have sensed something, too. She watched as he glanced over his shoulder. Once. Twice.
Then his pace quickened.
The Buhru men matched him step for step.
He broke into a sprint.
Zaun smirked and took a different route, climbing up the side of a building and following from the rooftops. She saw Ezreal try to shake them—knocking down crates, tipping over market stalls, ducking into alleys. But this was their home turf. They knew these streets better than he ever could.
One of them split off, moving ahead to cut him off.
Ezreal didn’t notice until it was too late.
He turned a corner, and the second Buhru was already there, blocking his escape.
Ez skidded to a halt. “Hey, guys,” he said, breathless. “I think you got the wrong guy.” He lifted his hands, feigning innocence.
The two men stepped forward without a word.
Ezreal swallowed. “Okay, I don’t wanna do this, but I will if I have to.”
He raised his left arm, the jewel on his gauntlet beginning to glow.
Zaun crouched above, observing.
The Buhru hesitated, watching as faint blue markings began to form along his cheeks.
Then the air shifted.
A sharp, metallic scent filled her lungs—the kind that came after a thunderstorm.
The two men reacted instantly, reaching for the short whips at their sides.
Ezreal’s face hardened. “Shit. You asked for this—”
Just as he fired, something struck his arm, knocking his aim downward.
The arcane blast shot into the ground, kicking up dust and debris.
Ezreal’s head snapped up.
Zaun stood in front of him, hands on her hips, hood down, a wide grin stretching across her face.
“Hey,” she said casually. “You crashed a ball before, right?”
Notes:
Thanks for Reading!
The next chapter will be out on Tuesday.
Chapter 15: Party With Moi
Summary:
Ezreal is given an offer.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 15: Party With Moi
Twisted Fate stood by the window, gaze fixed on the Sirmago mansion. Their safe house sat two doors down on the opposite side of the street, nestled inside a home under “renovation.” The cover has worked well so far.
Every morning, a small family-run crew arrived, hammering away at the lower floors, patching up walls, reinforcing beams. They didn’t ask questions. They had been told two things—work on the house, and stay out of the third floor. That was enough.
For the past month, Fate and Graves had watched the mansion, learned its rhythms, and traced its guards' steps. The Sirmagos had spared no expense when building it—a sprawling three-story townhouse, easily as wide as five homes. Limestone imported from Noxus gave it an elegant, pale facade, its intricate carvings a testament to some long-dead artisan. Two grim-faced guards always stood at the entrance, their neat white-and-gold uniforms at odds with their weathered, scarred faces.
The air was thick with humidity, the cool of the evening pulling a low fog over Gray Harbor’s cobbled streets. Fate let his eyes scan the mansion’s windows, every detail committed to memory. They had studied it inside and out. Had to.
Breaking in was impossible.
Not for lack of trying—the Sirmagos had made sure of it. Instead of paying their architect, they’d killed him when the job was done and kept the plans to themselves.
Unfortunately for them, the late architect’s wife had been far more cooperative. She had slipped a secret copy of the blueprints to Fortune before fleeing the city.
Now, they knew three things.
One—the house had only two entrances, front and back, both guarded around the clock. They’d considered breaking in through an adjacent house, but the plans revealed five-centimeter-thick metal plates lining the shared walls. No chance.
Two—the vault. In the plans, it showed a 5-meter by 5-meter blank space in the cellar, which to Fate seemed a little small, given the amount of concentrated sapphilite in insulated casks they had seen delivered over the past three months.
More surprising was the fact that they saw very little be moved out since the war started, they seemed to be hoarding it.
And three—the Sirmagos were colossal egomaniacs.
The entire first floor? A museum. Dedicated to themselves.
Fate had heard the rumors. Never visited. Not that he or Graves would’ve been let in, given their reputations.
The story went that over the years, plenty had tried to rob the Sirmagos. None had succeeded. Worse yet—those who failed hadn’t simply vanished.
They’d been stuffed.
Taxidermied and put on display like hunting trophies.
A chill ran down Fate’s spine as he imagined it. What kind of pose would he be stuck in if they botched the job? A smug grin? A dramatic card flourish? He shuddered and refocused on the mansion.
His gaze swept over its many windows—then stopped.
A familiar figure stood inside, overseeing the guards.
Behind him, Graves let out a low chuckle.
“Hey, look. It’s your ex.”
Fate grunted, pulling away from the window. “Shut up. He’s not my ex.”
Graves only laughed harder, striking a match against his boot and lighting a cigar. “I always said you had terrible taste in men.”
Fate shot him a flat look. “Pot calling the kettle black. If my taste is bad, yours is atrocious.”
Graves smirked, dropping onto the couch at the back of the room. “What the hell are you talkin’ about? Name one. Bet you can’t.”
Fate leaned against the wall, folding his arms. “Ah… the Noxian.”
The smirk vanished.
“Fuck,” Graves muttered. He exhaled smoke, rubbing a hand down his face. “You ain’t gonna let me live that down, are ya?”
Fate chuckled. “It was bad. The man had some choice words about Ionians.”
Graves grumbled. “Yeah, yeah, he was a prick. You made your point.” He jerked his chin toward the mansion. “That still don’t change the fact that Marvolio’s gonna be a problem. How the hell did he end up working for the Sirmagos?”
Fate’s jaw tightened as he glanced back at the window. Marvolio was directing security, his sharp features as unreadable as ever.
“I don’t know.” He spoke honestly. “Last I heard, he was in Ionia. I’d hoped he’d stay there.”
Graves took another drag of his cigar, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “And if he’s still got that freaky magic of his?”
Fate waved him off. “Then he’ll be nothing more than an inconvenience.”
Graves arched a brow. “Sure. Here’s hopin’ he didn’t master it.”
Fate checked his pocket watch, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist.
“The girls are late.”
Zaun spun out of the way as a bolt of arcane energy crackled past her, singing the damp brick beside her.
"Hey! Watch where you’re pointing that thing!" she snapped, glaring at the Piltovan explorer flailing on the ground.
Ezreal was in trouble—one of the tattooed Buhru men had him pinned, an arm snaking around his neck in a tight chokehold. His struggles were growing weaker, his voice barely a rasp. "H—help!"
But Zaun had her own problems.
The alley was too narrow, limiting her movements, and her opponent knew it. He kept close, cutting off any chance for her to pull out Zapper. These two weren’t just brawlers—they moved with experience, pushing her back while keeping Ezreal isolated. It was a coordinated effort. These guys are good.
Ezreal twisted beneath his attacker, desperately trying to shake him off, but he couldn’t get enough room to fire his magic. The confined space worked against them both.
She dodged a blow, shifting her weight back. He was pushing her further into a corner, step by step. Behind him, she saw Ezreal’s resistance slowing.
Zaun exhaled sharply. "Alright. Playtime’s over."
She took two quick steps back, one hand slipping behind her coat, fingers finding the small metal cylinder tucked against her belt.
In a single motion, she flicked it toward the ground between them.
Her opponent barely had time to react—he flinched, diving behind a stack of crates just before the bang echoed through the alley, a cloud of thick, electric-blue smoke bursting outward.
She didn’t wait.
With enhanced senses cutting through the haze, she darted forward, zeroing in on the struggling figures. Ezreal’s attacker barely had time to turn his head before she drove her knee into his face—hard. The force sent him sprawling, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
She exhaled, shaking out her leg. Not bad. She was trying to cut back on the whole murder thing. The last thing she needed was the Buhru Priestess deciding she needed to take the Test of Spirit.
Before the smoke could clear, she hooked an arm under Ezreal’s shoulder and hauled him up.
"Come on, Sparky. Time to go."
And then she ran.
By the time they reached the Slaughter Docks, Ezreal was wheezing.
"That was fun," Zaun teased, slowing her pace as they neared the Captain’s Pub. "Really pissed them off, huh?"
Ezreal doubled over, hands braced on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. "Wh—why did you—" He coughed, wincing. "Help me?"
He straightened, still breathing hard, staring at the cloaked woman in front of him.
Zaun simply pointed at the pub entrance. "Because you wanted to talk."
Ezreal blinked, following her gesture. "That… was meant for Tomen."
She grinned. "Oh yeah? Well, you can tell me, and I’ll pass the message along."
His eyes darted back to her, and immediately, he took a cautious step backward. "No… it’s okay… I’ll tell him later."
Zaun’s smile widened as she advanced a step. "Oh, come on, Sparky. You can tell me… Aren’t we friends?"
Ezreal swallowed hard. "I—ah—well, yeah, but… it was Tomen’s help I needed, you see…"
His feet edged backward, nearly stumbling over a loose plank.
Zaun tilted her head, watching him squirm. "Oh, if it’s a job, I just started taking mercenary work…" She took another step forward, enjoying the way he tensed. “Actually, I could use some help myself. Thought about asking Tomen, but… he’d probably die, and he’ll be busy anyway.”
Ezreal paled. " I don’t think I’d be much help either. You saw me back there—completely useless, really." The words came out in a frantic rush, as if he were trying to outrun them.
Zaun sighed dramatically. "That’s a shame. Guess I’ll just have to drag you to the Buhru grove. You’re a wanted man, and I really don’t want to upset them…"
She said it sweetly, almost playfully, but the threat was clear.
Ezreal froze. The color drained from his face as his panic turned to outright terror.
Slowly, he raised his gauntlet. "I… ah… don’t wanna do this."
Zaun put her hands up in surrender, but her smirk didn’t waver. "Oh, come on, Sparky, you don’t have to—"
BAM!
Her words cut off.
Ezreal’s body stiffened—then crumpled forward like a puppet with its strings cut.
Behind him, Isobel stood holding the shattered remains of a rum bottle, her expression caught somewhere between satisfaction and regret.
"You okay, Zaun?"
Zaun blinked. Then she laughed—loud and unrestrained. She’d seen Isobel behind Ezreal but hadn’t expected her to drop him.
"Yeah… I’m fine," she managed, shaking her head as she stepped toward Ezreal’s unconscious form.
“Now, help me drag him up.”
She turned him over, propping him up before slinging one of his arms over her shoulder.
Isobel hesitated before doing the same with his other arm, struggling slightly under his weight. "Who is this guy?"
Zaun grinned. "Just my date for tomorrow."
Ezreal sat at a grand banquet table in the Great Hall of Victory, a glass of champagne poised delicately in his hand. The golden chandeliers above bathed the hall in warm, flickering light, illuminating the rich golds and deep blues of Demacian banners draped along the towering marble pillars. Laughter and conversation buzzed around him, a symphony of nobility and admiration.
He leaned in, a confident smirk playing on his lips as he regaled his enraptured audience.
“And just like that,” he said, gesturing with his glass, “Jarro Lightfeather, fearless Sentinel of Light, stood victorious over the demonic shadow demon.”
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the guests, their eyes wide with intrigue.
“It wasn’t easy, of course. A creature made of corporeal smoke? Hard to land a hit on something that isn’t exactly solid.” He let the suspense build before leaning in conspiratorially. “But then I thought—how do you defeat a shadow?”
The guests hung on his words.
“With light.”
He let the word linger before continuing, a roguish glint in his eye.
“So there I was, teetering on the jagged cliffs of Evenmoor, cornered and outmatched. But I had one last trick—fire. I lured the beast into a ring of hay, set it ablaze, and trapped it in an inferno. And with the flames forcing it into form, I raised my relic-stone pistol, took aim—”
He mimed firing.
“—and bang! Sent it screaming back to the spirit realm.”
The table erupted into applause and praise. Compliments rained down upon him like a hero’s due.
But only one voice truly mattered.
Across from him sat her.
Luxanna Crownguard.
She was radiant, more brilliant than the chandeliers above, her sapphire-blue eyes shimmering with admiration. Her smile—warm, inviting, utterly perfect—outshone everything else in the room. No woman could ever compare.
Ezreal was lost in her gaze, the noise of the hall fading into a distant hum.
Then—
A scent.
Rich. Earthy. Smoky, with a hint of sweetness.
Ezreal blinked, the atmosphere shifting as the aroma curled around him like unseen fingers. He turned his head to the left—
A burly man sat beside him, cigar smoldering between his fingers. His gaze was heavy, piercing—daggers stabbing through Ezreal’s confidence.
“You think this boy can do it?” the man muttered, voice rough as gravel.
Ezreal’s pulse quickened.
The words weren’t for him.
Slowly, he turned to the right.
Another man sat there, shuffling a deck of cards with practiced ease, his fingers moving like whispers across the worn edges. He barely spared Ezreal a glance, eyes locked on the woman across the table.
“I dunno about this one, love,” he mused, his voice distant, like it had to travel across miles to reach Ezreal’s ears. “Looks a little… flimsy.”
Ezreal frowned, shifting uncomfortably.
Then, the card shark leaned forward.
Ezreal turned back to Lux—
And froze.
Something was wrong.
Her sapphire eyes—gone. In their place, an eerie, electric pink glow.
Her perfect smile had twisted, warped into something grotesque.
The warmth in the room vanished. The chandeliers flickered out, plunging the hall into darkness. Silence fell like a shroud, suffocating, endless—except for her.
She grinned at him, teeth sharp, eyes alive with something unnatural.
“Oh, he’ll do,” she purred, her voice curling around him like smoke. “Not like we have time to find another.”
Ezreal’s chest tightened.
The world around them—gone.
Only her.
The pink light in her eyes pulsed, intensifying as she leaned closer.
“Yeah… you’ll do.”
Her hand snapped forward.
And then—
She slapped him. Hard.
Ezreal jolted awake with a sharp gasp, cold water dripping down his face, seeping into the back of his shirt. His body tensed at the shock, breath hitching as he whipped his head around. His senses adjusted sluggishly—first the acrid scent of cigars curling in the air, then the distant hammering of metal against wood. The dim light flickered as his vision cleared, and he found himself staring into a pair of fluorescent pink eyes.
Zaun sat backward in a chair across from him, arms draped lazily over the backrest, a smug grin stretched across her face.
“Mornin’, Sparkles. Sleep well?” she drawled, voice thick with amusement.
Ezreal panted, his heart hammering against his ribs. He tried to move, only to feel the tight pull of restraints biting into his wrists. He glanced down. Tied to a chair. Arms bound behind his back.
His pulse spiked.
“What the fuck?” he snapped, struggling against the ropes. “Why am I tied up?” His gaze darted around the room, searching for an exit—for his gauntlet.
Zaun waved a hand dismissively. “Relax. I’ll untie you in a sec. Just need to ask you somethin’ first.”
Ezreal glared at her, jaw clenched, but kept his mouth shut. His heart was still beating too fast.
“You’ve been to a ball before, yeah?” she asked casually.
Ezreal blinked. “What?”
She narrowed her eyes. “A ball. Fancy party. Shitty food. Boring rich people. Ringing any bells?”
The words barely processed. His mind was still scrambling, still trying to piece together how he got here. He took a breath, forcing himself to focus.
“Uh… yeah?” he said cautiously.
Zaun’s grin widened. “Great. ‘Cause I got a job for you.” She clapped her hands together, eyes gleaming. “You’re gonna be my date to a ball later today.”
Ezreal stared at her, dumbfounded. “What? Why me?”
Zaun rolled her eyes. “Because you’ve got experience, a magic trinket, and you probably won’t die immediately.”
She leaned forward, resting her chin on her arms. “So… what do you say?” Her pink eyes shimmered with something mischievous, her grin stretching just a little too wide.
Ezreal’s expression remained blank. Then, finally—
“Ah… no.”
Zaun threw her arms back dramatically. “Oh, come on, Ez! Don’t be like that—it’s an easy job.” She made air quotes around easy, which did absolutely nothing to reassure him. “And it comes with perks.”
She ticked them off on her fingers. “One—you get paid. Two—you get to rob the second-richest assholes in Bilgewater. And three—” she pointed to herself with both thumbs, grinning, “—you get to go to a party with moi.”
Ezreal’s lips parted, an incredulous laugh escaping him. “Yeah, see, that last part really isn’t selling it.”
Zaun pouted, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
She stood up and took a step toward him, reaching under her cloak. His stomach twisted as she pulled a knife. His body tensed—
But then she simply leaned down and sliced through the ropes.
Ezreal exhaled shakily, flexing his wrists, the blood prickling back into his fingers. He turned his head, watching as Zaun wandered toward the back of the room. She grabbed something from a nearby table—a small card—and his gauntlet.
Ezreal’s heart stuttered as she tossed it in the air, catching it lazily.
“Fun toy,” she mused, slipping it onto her left hand. She turned it over, studying the mechanisms. “Tried it on earlier, but couldn’t get it to shoot.” She tilted her head, raising a brow at him. “What, is there a button, a magic phrase? Abracadabra?”
Ezreal swallowed, watching her fingers curl around the gauntlet. “It’s… attuned to my magic,” he admitted, voice low.
Zaun clicked her tongue, clearly unimpressed. “Boring. I wanted to shoot some cool lasers.”
With a sigh, she slipped the gauntlet off and tossed it to him. He snatched it midair, clutching it like a lifeline before hurriedly strapping it back on. Then, instinctively, he pushed himself to his feet, shoulders tense, muscles coiled.
Zaun didn’t react.
“You can go if you want.” She sounded almost bored now, dropping back into her chair. “But you’ll be missing out.”
Ezreal’s eyes flicked to the door behind him. Open. Unblocked. She wasn’t even trying to stop him.
He hesitated.
“I can really just leave?” he asked, still skeptical. “You’re not gonna—what, stab me in the back or something?” His gaze darkened slightly. “I thought you hated Piltovans.”
Zaun blinked.
Then, suddenly, she laughed.
Loud and unrestrained, her whole body shaking with it.
Ezreal scowled. “What’s so funny?”
She wiped a tear from her eye, still grinning. “Nothing. Just that Tomen asked me the exact same thing.” She leaned back, smirking. “You Pilties are all the same.”
Ezreal’s scowl deepened.
Zaun exhaled, the last of her laughter fading. “Listen,” she said, tone more relaxed now. “I’m startin’ fresh. Tomen probably told you.” She met his gaze, surprisingly steady. “So yeah, you can leave. No promises you’ll live long, though.” She gave a lazy wave. “Buhru still want your head, remember?”
Ezreal clenched his jaw, last night’s events flashing through his mind.
“And I am serious about the job,” Zaun added. “You take it, I’ll help you out with whatever you got going on in the Serpent Isles.”
That made him pause.
She could help.
His fingers drummed against his gauntlet, his mind turning over possibilities.
Finally, after a long, considering silence, he exhaled through his nose and sat back down. His right hand lifted to his chin, thumb brushing over his lip as he studied her.
“…Alright,” he said at last. “I’ll listen.”
Zaun’s grin stretched wide.
“Perfect.”
She tossed him the invitation.
“We’re gonna crash a party.”
Notes:
Thanks for Reading!
Hope you are excited for the heist, I've been having a lot of fun writing it.
Chapter 16: And If We Fail…
Summary:
The heist begins, and failure is not an option.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 16: And If We Fail…
Zaun stepped into the empty bedroom overlooking the safe house's back alley. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, casting long golden streaks across the worn wooden floor. On the small table in the back of the room sat a neatly closed box.
“Courtesy of the captain,” Isobel said from behind her.
Zaun arched a brow but said nothing as she moved forward, flipping the lid open. Inside lay her outfit for the night—a royal purple, knee-length coat with flocking details, intricate gold embroidery curling along the chest, and a high collar. Elegant, but rebellious. Beneath it, a pair of ivory-tailored pants and knee-high black leather riding boots, polished to perfection.
She ran her fingers over the fabric, feeling the fine stitching, the rich texture of the embroidery. “Must’ve cost a lot.” A smirk tugged at her lips. “I think she has a crush on me.”
A soft laugh escaped Isobel, who leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “She said that part of infiltrating is looking the part.” She stepped forward and held up a small glass bottle. “Also, you’ll probably need this.”
Zaun sighed, already knowing what it was. She took the bottle, rolling it between her fingers. “Ah, fine. But this better not be permanent. I don’t wanna end up looking like an angry oil stain.”
Isobel chuckled. “Come on, I’ll help you get ready.”
—
“So, that’s the gist of it,” said Fate, arms crossed as he leaned against the table.
Ezreal sat across from him, staring blankly, still processing everything he’d just heard. After a long pause, he blinked.
“…Wait. My part is just staying on the roof?”
Fate nodded. “Yeah, basically. Cover the exit, make sure no one bothers us up there. We didn’t know if we could get someone…reliable in time, so you get the easy job.”
Ezreal opened his mouth, then shook his head. “Okay… yeah, I can do that. But—” He gestured vaguely before narrowing his eyes. “Do I really have to leave my gauntlet here?”
Fate waved him off. “The Sirmago’s got a strict zero-weapons policy. Besides, once you get us in, you’ll get it back.”
Ezreal still looked doubtful, already working through possible loopholes. But before he could argue, the door creaked open.
Graves stepped inside, a small sack slung over his shoulder. Without a word, he tossed it onto Ezreal’s lap.
“Here. Get changed. We’re starting soon.”
Ezreal hesitated before pulling open the sack. Inside was a baby-blue suit jacket and, of all things, a jabot. He lifted the ruffled accessory between two fingers like it might bite him, his face twisting with immediate disgust.
Graves smirked. “What? It was a rushed order. Best I could find in your size.”
Fate chuckled at the look on Ezreal’s face, shaking his head in amusement.
The young explorer scowled, looking between the two men as they snickered. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he stood, tossing the jabot over his shoulder as he headed toward the adjacent room.
“Haha. Real funny,” he muttered. Then, without looking back, he added, “Joke’s on you two—I can make anything look good.”
—
Zaun sat still in the wooden chair, eyes closed, as Isobel worked a towel through her damp hair. The scent of cheap dye lingered in the air, the last traces of blue now hidden beneath a deep brunette. Her mind drifted, carried away by bittersweet memories until—
“What do you think?” Isobel asked.
Zaun opened her eyes. The mirror before her reflected a stranger—her signature fringe slicked back, her hair grown out just enough to carry the same scruffiness as the doll that dangled from her belt. A ghost of a smile crossed her lips, distant and sad.
Isobel caught the shift in expression. In the mirror, Zaun saw her brows knit together in concern.
“It’s good, really.” Zaun’s voice was quiet, almost careful. “It just… reminded me of someone.”
She forced a grin to reassure Isobel, and the words seemed to do their job because the girl’s own smile returned. Then, as if struck by sudden realization, Isobel perked up.
“Shit—it’s almost time, I need to get ready!” She fumbled for her pocket watch, flipping it open and checking the time. “I’ll tell Tomen to be on standby, on my way.”
Zaun nodded as she stood, watching the other girl gather her things in a flurry of movement. A small smirk tugged at her lips. She’d grown used to Isobel’s restless energy—it was strangely endearing.
Without even one last wave, Isobel slipped out the door.
Zaun shook her head, letting out a breath of amusement before pulling off her shirt and tossing it onto the table. She had just started undoing her belt when—
“I almost forgot—”
Isobel’s head popped back into the room so suddenly Zaun flinched.
For a split second, the pirate girl’s expression froze. Her eyes widened, her mouth hung open, and then—
“Ah—good luck! Be safe! …Okay, bye!”
She disappeared again, this time much quicker, a hint of pink dusting her cheeks.
Zaun stared after her, wide-eyed, before letting out a small chuckle.
Isobel had that kind of energy—lighthearted, scatterbrained, but never directionless. She could be all over the place one moment, then laser-focused the next, especially when working on gadgets or the ship. It made her easy to be around.
Zaun turned back to dressing, fingers moving on autopilot as she adjusted her belt and smoothed out the fabric of her tailored pants.
Then, a voice slithered into her head.
"She’s cute. Got that poro energy."
Zaun stiffened.
Her eyes darted around the room, searching for the source of the voice, but she was alone.
"Be careful. Get too close, and you’ll burn her."
The words came slow, condescending.
Zaun exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders to shake off the tension. She pulled a sleeveless shirt over her head and tucked it in, refusing to acknowledge the voice.
"How do you think you’re gonna screw this up?"
Her jaw clenched. Focus.
"I’m putting my money on crashing the airship—hahahahaha!"
The laughter was jagged, erratic. Familiar.
Zaun turned to the mirror—and there she was.
Jinx.
Her forehead pressed against the glass, blood dripping down her face from atop her head, staining her hair to the ends of her long, blue braids. A wild grin stretched across her lips, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and madness.
Zaun froze.
Jinx cocked her head, then lifted a trembling hand, dragging two fingers down her cheek to collect the blood. She smeared it across the mirror with a slow, deliberate motion, painting a crude smiley face over Zaun’s reflection.
"Good luck. Have fun."
Zaun’s breath came in short, uneven bursts. Her body refused to move.
Then—
“Zaun, you ready? It’s ‘go’ time.”
Graves’ voice shattered the moment, pulling her back to reality.
The mirror was just a mirror again.
She exhaled, long and steady, and closed her eyes for a brief second.
“…Yeah,” she muttered. “Let’s go.”
Zaun adjusted the cuffs of her new coat, the fine black fabric fitting snugly over her frame. The gold embroidery caught the dim light as she slid on a pair of white gloves, flexing her fingers before pushing her glasses into place.
She stepped out of the room.
Fate, Graves, and Ezreal—dressed in an ill-fitting baby blue tuxedo—turned to look at her. Their expressions were blank, caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief.
Zaun arched a brow. “Are we ready?”
The question snapped them out of their daze. They shifted, busying themselves with last-minute preparations, though Graves let out a low grumble.
“Damn. Barely recognized ya.”
“Yeah,” Fate added, giving her an approving nod. “I think we might actually have a shot.”
Zaun rolled her eyes and turned toward Ezreal. “Come on, Sparkles. Let’s get moving.”
Ezreal was already stepping forward when—
“Your gauntlet.”
Fate’s voice made the Piltovan pause. He turned back, hesitating for a moment before sighing and unfastening the golden glove from his arm. “I still don’t see why I can’t sneak this in.”
“You’ll see soon enough.” Fate took the gauntlet and placed it inside a large sack. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out two blue playing cards and handed one to Zaun and the other to Ezreal. “If things go sideways before we’re inside, use these. They’ll blink you back to wherever I am.”
Zaun turned the card between her fingers before slipping it into her coat pocket. Ezreal, however, eyed it with skepticism. “Teleportation? Seriously?”
Fate smirked. “Try not to drop it.”
Ezreal rolled his eyes and tucked it into his vest.
“Alright, you two go out the back,” Fate instructed, slinging the sack over his shoulder. He barely took a step before groaning. “Damn, this shit’s heavy—how the hell do you even lift it?”
Zaun smirked.
Ezreal, however, narrowed his eyes at the bag, suspicion creeping in. “What exactly is in there?”
Before Fate could answer, Graves snatched the sack with ease, tossing it over his shoulder. “Gotta hand it to ya, girl. You got taste in weapons, but I doubt we’ll need this much firepower.”
“Let’s hope we do.”
The dangerous delight in Zaun’s voice made the three men pause. Graves and Fate exchanged glances—Ezreal just frowned.
“…Right. Let’s get started.” She turned on her heel and walked out.
The streets of Bilgewater were alive with warm lantern light, their glow reflecting off the damp cobblestone. The sun had long since set, and in the distance, thunder rumbled. A storm brewing.
Zaun barely noticed—her focus was on the Sirmago estate ahead—until a flurry of movement caught her eye.
Ezreal was wrestling with the frilly jabot around his neck. “Damn thing—why couldn’t they have picked something more practical?” He tugged at the lace with frustration.
Zaun smirked. “What’s wrong, ‘Jarro Lightfeather’? Thought you had experience.”
“I—I do!” he shot back, then gestured to his outfit. “But look at this! How am I supposed to convince anyone I belong here when I look ridiculous? This could ruin the whole job! All for a joke.”
His dramatic movements were undercut by the grin pulling at his lips.
Zaun gave a mock laugh. “Ha. Ha.”
They fell into a more relaxed stride.
“But in all seriousness, what’s our cover?” Ezreal asked, concern creeping into his voice. “Twisted Fate just said we’re supposed to be foreign nobles, but what if they start asking questions?”
Zaun shrugged. “Just don’t talk to anyone.”
Ezreal’s eyes widened. “We can’t just stay silent! Infiltrating a party means having a convincing story—that’s the best part! Plus, it throws suspicion off us afterward.” His eyes practically sparkled with excitement.
“I couldn’t care less. Just go with whatever.”
Ezreal’s smirk deepened. “Okay. If you say so.”
Zaun didn’t like that tone.
Before she could say anything, they reached the entrance of the Sirmago estate. Two large, grim-faced men flanked the doors, their scarred features carved into permanent scowls. Between them stood an older gentleman, his graying hair neatly combed, a monocle perched on his nose as he greeted guests and checked invitations.
“Welcome. Invitation, please.”
Ezreal handed over their card. The man inspected it for a moment before giving a nod.
“Very well. And who might our esteemed guests be?”
Zaun opened her mouth—
“I am Ez Kiramman,” Ezreal announced smoothly, stepping forward with a polite smile. “Accompanied by my sister, Zaun Kiramman. We come from Piltover, representing our clan.”
Zaun’s head turned so slowly it was almost mechanical. Behind her dark sunglasses, she glared daggers at the blonde.
The older gentleman raised a brow. “I recall the Kiramman clan being dissolved not long ago.”
“Rightly so.” Ezreal let out a wistful sigh. “We’re here at the request of our cousin Caitlyn—handling some final clan business.”
The lie was smooth, practiced. Ezreal didn’t even flinch.
The man regarded them for a long moment, his eyes sharp. But Ezreal’s smile never wavered.
“…Very well.”
The older gentleman stepped aside.
“Welcome to the Annual Sirmago Ball. Enjoy your stay.”
Ezreal gave a small bow before strolling inside. Zaun followed, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
Once they were safely out of earshot, she spoke.
“Ez…”
Ezreal glanced back, his smirk unfading.
“I’m going to kill you when this is over.”
The grand lobby stretched before them, polished marble floors gleaming beneath the golden glow of an opulent chandelier. Ornate columns lined the room, framing intricate frescoes on the vaulted ceiling.
Ezreal, wide-eyed, soaked in the luxury of it all.
Zaun, however, had no interest in the décor. Her gaze settled on the queue ahead, where guests were handing over coats—and, more importantly, weapons—to a poised receptionist stationed near a side door.
A commotion erupted at the front of the line.
“What do you mean I have to leave my gun? Absolutely not!” A burly man in a finely tailored coat threw up his hands in disbelief.
“Sir, I must insist,” the receptionist replied, her voice calm, professional. “It will be safely stored and returned upon exit.”
“Fuck no! Do you have any idea who I am?!” The man’s voice rose to a shout, his hand drifting toward the revolver at his hip.
WHACK.
A massive fist crashed into the side of his head.
The man crumpled like a felled tree, slamming onto the marble floor in an unceremonious heap. Gasps rippled through the guests, but Zaun barely blinked—her focus was on the assailant.
Broad frame. Bald head. Tattoos creeping from his collar. Brass knuckles gleaming on his left hand.
Recognition flickered in her eyes.
One of the brutes she had beaten to a pulp on her first day in the city.
“Bart, please escort the guest outside,” the receptionist instructed smoothly, as if this were a routine occurrence.
The brute grunted, hauling the unconscious man over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The other guests hurriedly averted their gazes as he passed.
Zaun shifted subtly behind Ezreal as Bart approached. He glanced in her direction, eyes narrowing slightly… but he kept walking.
Ezreal, noticing her movements, murmured, “Someone you know?”
She kept her voice low. “Jagged Hooks. Probably a last-minute addition for security.”
Their turn came at the reception desk.
“Any weapons you wish to deposit?” The young woman behind the desk asked with a polite smile.
Ezreal shook his head. “None from me… sis?”
Zaun reached beneath her coat and withdrew a simple dagger, flipping it idly before setting it on the counter. “Careful. It’s sharp.”
Ezreal’s eyes widened slightly, but he held his tongue.
“Thank you.” The receptionist nodded, unbothered. “Please proceed through the left door and enjoy the exhibits.”
They stepped forward, passing through a door marked: Sirmago Family History.
The corridor beyond was dimly lit, the walls adorned with elaborate paintings and glass cases displaying artifacts—testaments to the Sirmago family’s long-standing presence in Bilgewater.
Ezreal broke the silence. “I thought we weren’t supposed to bring weapons.” There was a tension in his voice now.
“In this city, walking around unarmed is more suspicious,” Zaun replied smoothly. “Not that a Piltie would understand.”
Realization dawned across his face. “Shit. You could’ve warned me! Do I look suspicious now?” He glanced around, suddenly self-conscious.
Zaun smirked and pointed at his reflection in the glass of a display case. “No. You look like a dork.”
Ezreal exhaled sharply. “Haha,” he deadpanned.
They continued down the corridor, passing relics of the Sirmago legacy—humble fishermen who had clawed their way to Bilgewater nobility. Ornate oil paintings depicted generations of the family, their expressions caught between regal and cutthroat.
They turned a corner.
Zaun’s mind flicked to the building’s layout. The museum section took up most of the ground floor. If things went smoothly, they wouldn’t need to be here long.
—
The next section of the exhibit focused on the dangerous art of sapphilite harvesting.
Ezreal lingered in front of a massive oil painting, its bold strokes capturing a diver plunging into dark waters, wrestling a bulging sack from the jaws of a monstrous fish. Rows of jagged teeth framed the desperate struggle, the sea around them a chaotic swirl of ink-black and deep blue.
"Crazy," Ezreal murmured. "Wouldn’t it be easier to hunt them first?"
A voice behind them, rough and seasoned, answered.
"Has to be alive. If not, the shit rots and loses its potency."
They turned.
An older man stood behind them, long white hair neatly tied back, a full gray beard masking most of his face. He wore an elegant black suit, but no amount of wealth could soften the raw edges of his features. His left eye was hidden behind a black patch, and in his right hand, he leaned heavily on an ivory cane that struck the marble floor with each measured step.
Zaun’s gaze flicked to the heavy gold ring on his finger, its surface engraved with an intricate ‘S.’ Recognition settled in her gut like a stone.
Aurelio Sirmago.
The founder of the Sirmago dynasty. Retired. Ruthless. A man of stories whispered in Bilgewater’s back alleys.
“It’s a dangerous job,” Aurelio continued, his voice gravelly and slow. “More than once, I had to cut the line of my own divers. Idiots got caught in those bastards’ jaws, and they would’ve dragged us straight to the depths with ‘em.”
His laughter was bitter, a sound that carried more memories than humor.
Ezreal tensed beside her, left hand clenching on instinct. Zaun understood why. There was something unsettling about the way the old man carried himself—an aura that felt like it could smother the air out of a room.
Then, as suddenly as it started, Aurelio’s laughter stopped.
His sharp gaze flicked to Zaun.
"And you? Who might you be?"
Ezreal straightened, caught off guard by the shift. "Ah… I’m Ez Kiramman. From Piltover. It’s a pleasure, sir…" he said, regaining composure quickly.
Aurelio studied him, his expression unreadable. "Sirmago, Aurelio Sirmago," he introduced himself simply, his voice cold.
Ezreal didn’t miss a beat, slipping into his most charming tone. "A pleasure to meet you, sir. You have a beautiful home, and from what I’ve seen, a storied history."
The elder remained silent, letting the words hang between them. Then, his attention shifted back to Zaun.
"And you?"
Ezreal opened his mouth to answer for her, but Aurelio held up a single finger, stopping him mid-sentence. His gaze pinned Zaun, waiting.
"Zaun Kiramman," she said smoothly, though tension lined her voice. "I’m accompanying my brother today. It’s a pleasure."
"Zaun," Aurelio repeated, rolling the name over his tongue. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Beautiful name. Your parents must be historians… to name you after your city's original name. Osha Va’Zaun."
A chill ran down her spine.
He was dangerous. And knowledgeable.
"Yes," Ezreal cut in quickly. "Our parents were archaeologists. They belonged to Piltover’s Explorers’ Guild."
Aurelio’s attention shifted back to Ezreal. A well-rehearsed lie, his expression seemed to say. But before he could press. Ezreal asked, "Your name is unique as well. After Aurelion Sol, I assume?"
Aurelio gave an easy grin. "Quite astute. My parents liked those old Targonian stories."
Before the conversation could continue, another voice interrupted.
"Father, it’s time to get ready."
A man approached, dressed in an elegant white suit, his beard peppered with gray. Artom Sirmago.
But Zaun wasn’t looking at him.
Her attention was locked on the man standing beside him.
Tall, wearing a white vest over a crisp dress shirt, tailored black trousers, and a long black-and-purple cape. His features were sharp, his chin long and pointed. Short dreads peeked from under a tilted top hat. His presence radiated amusement, but Zaun could tell it was the kind of mirth that hid something sharper underneath.
"Marvolio, escort my father back," Artom ordered, before turning away. "I’ll see to that guest."
"Very well, bossman." Marvolio’s grin was all charm as he turned to Aurelio. "Come on, sir, let’s get you out of here."
Aurelio gave Zaun and Ezreal one last lingering look. Then he chuckled.
"Enjoy the exhibit. The next part is my favorite."
His laughter trailed behind him as he left with Marvolio.
Zaun and Ezreal shared a glance before silently continuing forward.
—
They turned another corner and found themselves face-to-face with the Sirmago family’s most infamous exhibit.
Statues lined the walls, each frozen in lifelike poses—frozen mid-action, mid-struggle, mid-defiance. The room buzzed with murmured conversation as guests examined the eerie display, their curiosity outweighing the unease thick in the air.
The pair pushed forward, drawn toward the centerpiece that had gathered the most attention.
At last, they stood before it.
A man, dirty blond hair tousled, his jaw set in a defiant glare. He held a dagger, clad in a rogue’s leathers. But what stood out was the cape draped over his shoulder—blue, white, and gold. A badge glinted over his heart, a sword framed by two wings.
Ezreal leaned in, his eyes scanning the statue’s details. The texture of the skin. The nearly imperceptible scars. The subtle stitches hidden beneath the fabric. The faded tattoos on the exposed arm.
Realization crept over his face like ice.
Zaun glanced down at the plaque.
Orvile Shakes, Demacian Thief.
Fate had mentioned it. But seeing it firsthand was different.
A hushed voice murmured behind them.
"The Sirmago Horrorhouse lives up to its name."
Another, doubtful. "Wait… I thought they said it was a fake."
"Even if this one is," the first voice countered grimly, "I doubt the rest are. This is a sick way to display your enemies."
Ezreal turned to Zaun, his voice barely above a whisper. "They’re not wax, are they?"
She didn’t look at him. "Nope."
His throat tightened. "And if we fail…"
"We’ll be stuffed and displayed."
She turned, moving away.
Ezreal stayed, staring at the skinned and preserved corpse before him. His jaw trembled slightly, a single word escaping his lips.
"Fuck."
Notes:
Thanks for reading.
Chapter 17: Time To Begin
Summary:
Zaun and Ezreal continue their infiltration. And two unexpected faces join the heist.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 17: Time To Begin
Ezreal caught up to her quickly, the weight of the last room still pressing on his chest. The thought of being skinned, stuffed, and immortalized in some grotesque pose sent a chill through him that no sea wind could ever match. His footsteps echoed against the polished floor as they moved deeper into the museum, past portraits and gilded busts of the Sirmago bloodline—smirking aristocrats in oil, each more self-satisfied than the last.
Zaun kept her eyes sharp, sweeping over security personnel and catering staff with practiced precision. Every shadow was a threat, every server’s tray a potential weapon. Ez leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.
“These people are sick. I don’t even want to imagine what kind of twisted pose they’d stick me in.”
Zaun gave him a sly, too-sharp smile without breaking stride.
“Don’t worry,” she murmured, tone laced with mock cheer, “I’m sure they’d pick something fun. You’d be the new prized exhibit—‘The Piltie Explorer.’”
Ezreal grimaced, clearly not comforted by the thought. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased since they’d entered the exhibit. She smirked at his reaction, then added more gently, “You’ll be on the roof. Easier to escape from there.”
Her voice softened. The next words came slower, heavier, drawn from somewhere deeper.
“If things go south… it’s everyone for themselves. Better not to get attached. You’ll only get hurt.”
It was quiet—almost too quiet to hear—but he caught it. Not said to him, not really. Spoken more to the space between them.
Ezreal studied her profile as they walked. He'd only known the stories—the terrorist from the Undercity who blew up half the Piltover council, the unpredictable force of chaos too dangerous for enemies or allies alike. Others had called her a revolutionary, a symbol of resistance against Piltover’s systemic cruelty.
That was the story he’d told Miss Fortune, months ago, when she asked him what was happening out west. But standing here now, beside this strange, sharp-edged girl who spoke like she’d seen too much and trusted too little, he wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.
Tomen’s words echoed in his head: She didn’t want a revolution. She just wanted out.
They stopped in front of a painting—Aurelio again, this time aboard a ship, the ocean wild behind him. In the distance loomed an older Piltover, painted in foggy golds and fading grandeur.
Ezreal hesitated, then asked, “Is that why you’re here? Why you left Piltover? Did you… lose someone?”
The question struck a nerve. She flinched—not visibly, but enough that he felt it. Her silence filled with ghosts. The faces of those she lost, of those she’d killed. The face of a girl she’d failed to save.
She didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to dig those graves again.
“Sure,” she said flatly, and turned to walk away.
Ezreal frowned but followed, still trying to piece her together.
“Why’d you change your name to Zaun?” he pressed, keeping his voice light. “I doubt Caitlyn would chase you all the way out here. You did help save the city, in the end.”
She didn’t reply.
“So what gives?” he went on, hoping a little humor might crack the silence. “You know, from what I’ve seen of Bilgewater, a name like yours could carry weight. You could probably start your own crew. Get yourself a ship, a banner—‘Captain Jinx’ has a nice ring to it.”
Zaun stopped. She looked at him, eyes unreadable.
Then she stepped closer.
“If it were Jinx doing this job,” she said, her voice lower now, darker, “she’d have kicked in the front doors, guns blazing. Blown up this fucking museum on her way to the vault, and laughed while the whole place burned, people and all.”
Ezreal backed up instinctively, but she followed—slow, deliberate. Her neon-pink eyes glinted above the rim of her glasses, hot and vivid as a flare in the dark.
“Because Jinx is what people fear,” she said. “She’s the monster behind your back. A curse that comes upon everyone who crosses her. A curse that only leaves behind death and wreckage.”
She leaned in, breath warm against his ear.
“Be lucky you’re not working with her. If you were… you’d already be jinxed.”
Ezreal froze, a bead of sweat trailing down the back of his neck. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
Then she pulled away just as suddenly, like the whole thing had never happened.
She strode off, calling back without looking.
“Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”
They moved in silence, their steps muffled by the soft velvet runner that guided them through the corridors, until they arrived at the grand central chamber. It was a marvel of wealth and vanity—spacious, opulent, lit by golden chandeliers that shimmered like fireflies above elaborately dressed tables. At the heart of it all, an imperial staircase rose in a proud arc, its broad landing acting as a stage for a small ensemble playing smooth, cheerful melodies meant to soothe and impress.
They lingered near the edge of the crowd as guests began to trickle in—ladies in jeweled gowns, men with polished boots and sharper grins. Servers moved gracefully among them, balancing silver trays crowned with tall flutes of champagne. Ezreal, comfortable in this world of pretense and performance, plucked one from a tray with effortless charm. He nudged one toward Zaun with an encouraging glance. She took it, more to blend in than to drink.
Then a figure brushed past them—another server, moving with purpose. They both recognized her instantly, despite the disguise. Isobel. Her usual leather and soot replaced with a crisp black uniform and a poised gait that sold the act perfectly. She didn’t look at them, but her voice rose just enough to carry:
“Server’s stairs open in five minutes.”
Zaun’s gaze met Ezreal’s. No words were needed. They drifted closer to the doors the catering staff were disappearing through, keeping a casual air as they moved.
Isobel had been planted inside for weeks, working her way into the hired catering team, acquiring intel and, more importantly, a key component of the plan. Zaun was quietly impressed—gone was the gruff, impulsive girl from the docks. In her place, a refined infiltrator, composed and sharp.
They waited.
The room continued to fill. Laughter rose with the music. Then the crowd stirred as a small procession descended the staircase. Heads turned. Conversations paused.
Aurelio Sirmago stood among them, his silver hair swept back, his posture proud. Beside him were faces Zaun had already studied through surveillance—his daughter, Artia. To her left, Artom’s wife and child.
Artia Sirmago stepped forward. Clad in an elegant white and gold gown, her poise was impeccable, her expression severe. She carried herself like a queen. Forty, perhaps older, but untouched by time in the way only wealth could afford. While her brother Artom ran the sapphilite empire, it was Artia who controlled the family’s legacy. The museum was her domain. Every exhibit bore her meticulous fingerprints.
Zaun made a mental note—Artom’s absence stood out. That wasn’t by accident.
Artia raised a glass in greeting.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” she began, her voice carrying with practiced ease. “I know the times are… tense, but your presence means more than ever.”
Polite applause followed.
“But fear not,” she continued, “you are safe here. We’ve increased security to ensure that red-headed witch Fortune and her little coup won’t get anywhere near us.”
Laughter rippled through the room—more applause.
Zaun’s grip on her glass tightened. She scanned the room. The powerful of Bilgewater were here tonight—traders, business tycoons, old money pirates. Most of them, as she’d learned, were tied to Gangplank either through alliance or coin. The Sirmagos had bankrolled his rise, and even now, with him gone, they backed the remnants of his crew. Fortune had good reason to want what they had.
Artia’s speech droned on, but Zaun and Ezreal’s attention had shifted. Their eyes flicked toward the door. The servers moved, guards shifted. The rhythm of the room was changing.
Then Isobel passed again, this time with an empty tray. She vanished through the door, leaving it cracked open.
Now.
They slipped away, unnoticed in the swell of laughter and raised glasses, stepping through the door into a dim, narrow prep area. The clamor of the party became a dull throb behind them.
Isobel met them with quick steps. “We don’t have much time,” she said, thrusting a small iron key into Zaun’s hand. “This opens the server’s stairs door—takes you to the roof. But be quiet. Every door’s got a guard.”
They nodded. No hesitation.
Isobel grabbed a fresh tray and vanished back into the glittering lie.
Zaun and Ezreal made for the staircase, its spiral curve climbing into darkness. They crept upward, silent as shadows. Each door they passed was a point of danger, each step measured and quiet. When they reached the final landing, Ezreal leaned close.
“How are you going to signal the others? Aren’t there guards up top?”
Zaun sighed. “Didn’t Fate tell you?” She tapped the door lightly. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll see soon enough.”
She stepped back, melting into the shadow. Ezreal mirrored her.
The door creaked open.
A guard leaned in, eyes scanning the interior.
Zaun struck.
She launched forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, dragging him out with brutal efficiency. He staggered, clawing at her grip, his feet scraping for leverage on the gravel roof.
Ezreal followed, adrenaline crashing through his veins, unsure whether to help her or prepare for the second guard, but before he could decide.
Light flared.
The second guard noticed too late.
Just like that, they were there—Twisted Fate, Graves, and beside them, two figures that stole the breath from Ezreal’s chest.
Captain Sarah Fortune and Buhru Priestess Illaoi.
The second guard opened his mouth to yell. He didn’t get the chance.
Illaoi stepped forward, her idol swinging like a hammer from the gods. The blow landed with a sound like thunder, and the guard crumpled without a word.
Then they all turned toward Zaun.
Fortune smirked, cocking her head.
“Having a bit of trouble there?”
Zaun’s expression didn’t change. She tightened her grip. The first guard twitched once, then went still.
Only then did she let go, rising slowly.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, breath steady.
Fortune strolled up beside her, calm as if they were still at the party.
“There’s been a small change of plans,” she said with a grin. “We have more targets.”
“What do you mean, more targets?” Zaun asked, her voice low and sharp, eyes narrowing.
Without answering, Fate, and Graves stepped back and began unpacking the large sack they’d brought, pulling out gear and assembling their tools with the practiced ease of people who’d done this before. Just as they’d rehearsed. Just like clockwork.
Fortune didn’t move at first. Then she took a step forward, the moonlight catching the red of her hair. Her gaze swept over Zaun and landed squarely on the one person who didn’t belong.
“Ezreal?” she said, brow raised. “What the void are you doing here?”
Ezreal froze mid-breath, stiffening at the sound of his name. His baby-blue tuxedo—charming and out-of-place—suddenly felt like a spotlight. Illaoi’s head turned sharply, her expression hardening.
“Hey, I—uh—kinda got hired—” he started, hands half-raised in a sheepish shrug.
He didn’t get to finish.
Illaoi moved like a storm. She lunged, one massive hand closing around Ezreal’s neck and lifting him clean off the ground.
“You…” she growled, eyes blazing with fury. “Palangy, tell me what you’ve done with the Sacred Waters.”
Her voice was low and thunderous, a weight that hit harder than her grip. Zaun was already stepping forward.
“Let him go,” she said, grabbing Illaoi’s wrist. Her grip was vice-tight. “Or I’ll crush your arm.”
The two women locked eyes. Illaoi’s tattoos began to pulse with emerald light, ancient and divine. Zaun’s lenses glinted, catching the glow of her power—a bright, unnatural pink. Neither of them moved.
“You too, huh?” Illaoi muttered, her grip tightening.
Zaun didn’t flinch. Pressure built in both their grips, two forces at a standstill.
Ezreal, caught between them, gasped out a raspy, “I don’t know—I don’t have it. I swear!”
The tension snapped.
“Drop him, Illaoi,” Fortune said, stepping in with authority. “Let him speak. And you, Zaun—ease up. I need her arm unbroken.”
A pause. Silence.
Reluctantly, both women released. Ezreal crumpled to the rooftop, coughing violently, dragging breath back into his lungs.
Illaoi stepped away, glancing down at her forearm where a bruise had already begun to bloom. She blinked in surprise.
Fortune crossed her arms. “Alright. From the top. Ezreal—why are you here?”
The boy could barely speak, still trying to get air.
Zaun answered for him. “I hired him. Needed him for infiltration duty. What’s your problem with him?”
Fortune’s eyes flicked from Zaun to Ezreal. “Fate mentioned you’d roped in a Piltie for this gig. I didn’t think it’d be that Piltovan.”
She gestured at Ezreal, who sat slumped on the ground, still catching his breath.
“Illaoi?” Fortune prompted, folding her arms tighter.
The priestess towered over Ezreal, her presence as heavy as a storm tide. “This Palangy was seen near one of our sacred temples three nights ago. The next night, someone stole the Sacred Waters from that same temple. Witnesses say the thief worked for the Sirmagos.”
She leaned closer. “So tell me, boy—how are you involved?”
Ezreal looked up at her. He hesitated… then gave in.
“I was hired,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. “To get the waters. But not by the Sirmagos. The Ferros clan back in Piltover. I don’t know anything about the Sirmagos.”
Silence followed.
He continued, “I’ll give up the search, it’s not worth dying over. Wasn’t getting paid much anyway.” He gave Zaun a reluctant look, “I won’t be needing your help anymore.”
Fortune sauntered over, standing over him, “Do you still want this gig? Last chance to back out.” He looked at the crew, contemplating, “Yeah… I’ll do it. Don’t wanna leave empty-handed.”
And then, slowly, Illaoi extended her hand.
Ezreal stared at it, stunned, but took it. She pulled him to his feet with surprising gentleness.
“Alright,” Zaun said, brushing her coat off. “Now that that’s sorted—Fortune. What are you doing here?”
The captain grinned. “You look good. Hope you liked the gift.”
Zaun crossed her arms.
Fortune sighed, dropping the charm. “Word is, a Noxian showed up tonight. Personally invited by Aurelio. I think they’re here to buy the sapphilite.”
Her voice was sweet, but the edge was back.
Zaun frowned. “And what? You think they’re skipping the usual intermediaries?”
Fortune nodded. “Exactly. Normally the Sirmagos move through the Jagged Hooks. But if they’re dealing directly... they’re hiding something.”
“And these ‘Sacred Waters’?” Zaun asked.
Fortune tilted her head toward Illaoi. “She thinks they’re part of the deal. If that’s true… it’s bigger than we think.”
Zaun’s expression tightened. “So what’s the play?”
“We stick to the plan—with adjustments,” Fortune said, stepping forward, her voice cool and commanding now. “Fate and Graves go for the sapphilite. Illaoi goes after the Sacred Waters. You and I handle the Noxian.”
She looked over her shoulder.
“Ezreal covers the exit.”
Zaun hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Do we still start with the distraction?”
Fortune smirked. “You boys ready?”
Graves gave a rough laugh. “Locked and loaded. Tomen’s not missing this one.”
At their feet, a large tarp had been laid out, painted with a garish pink caricature—a wide-eyed monkey grinning like mad. It practically glowed in the dark.
Fortune raised her hand high.
They waited.
Then the city lit up.
Booms cracked in the distance. Flames erupted from rooftops. Pillars of smoke began to rise from Jagged Hooks' territory, each fire carefully chosen, each blast a message.
They were cut off. No backup. Just them and the Sirmagos now.
Fortune turned back, her smile a weapon.
“Time to begin.”
Notes:
Thanks for Reading!
Fortune and Illaoi join the heist.
I'm trying a new release schedule.
New chapters every Sunday and Tuesday.
Chapter 18: Rats In the Cellar
Summary:
The group infiltrates the mansion, their missions set. Meanwhile, the Sirmagos prepare and scheme.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 18: Rats In the Cellar
The crew stood in silence for a breath, looking out over the city as chaos bloomed like firecrackers beneath the night sky. Then the sound hit them—muffled at first, then swelling: a thunder of footsteps inside the mansion, a stampede of finely dressed guests pounding against doors that would not open. Screams, confusion. Trapped like cattle.
The Sirmagos had designed their manor like a trap—an elegant labyrinth meant to confuse intruders and contain prey. It was a place you could walk into but never walk out of. That was why they’d waited until now. With the party in full swing and guests flooding the estate, security would be stretched thin. Too many people to watch. Too many secrets to keep quiet.
The plan counted on that window—the moment when the guards scrambled to control the crowd. That brief chaos would be their opening to reach the vault. And once inside, it wouldn’t matter if the guards came back. By then, the heist would be all but over. The Sirmagos would only realize they’d been robbed when it was far too late.
Now, with two new targets in the mix, the risk had doubled.
Fortune’s voice sliced through the tension, calm and focused. “Get ready. We won’t have much time.”
Graves tossed Zaun a burlap sack. She caught it one-handed.
“Guess you’ll get to test ‘em out,” he said, voice low and brash.
She gave a sly smirk and opened the sack. Just as she left it, her gear lay inside—tools, weapons, and something personal. Then she pulled out Zapper, checked the charge, and adjusted the holster around her waist.
“Hey, Sparkles. Catch.”
Ezreal turned just in time to snatch the gauntlet out of the air. He slipped it on like second nature, his nerves easing slightly with the weight of it on his arm.
“Kid,” Fate called. “Over here.”
Ezreal jogged over as Fate gave final instructions.
“How was the party?” Fortune asked Zaun, voice playful as the girl strapped on the rest of her kit. “See the exhibits?”
Zaun rolled her eyes, adjusting a bandolier of small canisters over her shoulder. “Tacky. Parading corpses like trophies. And they’re not big fans of yours if that wasn’t obvious.”
Fortune didn’t flinch. “I’d be surprised if they were. Gangplank’s been good to them. Real generous.”
There was ice behind her words.
“It’s about time someone brought them down,” Zaun replied, voice distant as she clipped a plush toy to her belt with care.
Fortune smiled softly. “You ready?”
“Not yet.”
Zaun reached into the sack and pulled out a six-barrel minigun. It looked absurdly oversized in her hands. She slung the strap across her shoulder and bandolier, one hand slipping over the trigger. Her fingers tapped the ignition lightly—click-click, the barrels spun.
A wide, wild grin spread across her face. “Now I’m ready.”
Fortune’s eyes widened. Then she just laughed, shaking her head. “Okay, let’s move.”
She stepped toward the rooftop door, Zaun trailing behind her. Graves clapped a hand on Fate’s shoulder.
“Let’s go.”
Fate gave Ezreal one last look. “Don’t stand on the tarp. Unless you really want to get squished.”
Ezreal gave a stiff nod, then turned to see Illaoi still standing at the edge of the roof, staring out—not at the city, but beyond it.
“Uh… what are you looking at?” he asked, approaching carefully. “Everyone’s already gone.”
She didn’t turn.
Out beyond the rooftops, a storm crept over the southeastern horizon. Its clouds were dark, twisted, pulsing with green lightning. Unnatural.
“I don’t like where that storm’s coming from,” Illaoi muttered, her voice a warning. Then she turned and followed the others into the mansion.
Ezreal lingered. The storm made his skin crawl. Thunder rolled, distant but sharp. That eerie glow lit up the clouds like ghostlight.
He turned for the door, remembering his task: barricade it, and wait.
But something tugged at him.
The Waters… they’re here.
His brow furrowed. He paused, contemplated.
—
Inside the grand hall, panic swelled like a rising tide. Guests shouted over one another, pressed against locked doors, their voices trembling with fear. The party’s music had long since died. In its place: screams, gasps, angry demands.
No one knew what was happening. Only that something was.
Then, a gunshot.
A single sharp crack echoed through the marble chamber, silencing the crowd like a sudden slap.
All eyes turned.
On the staircase landing stood Aurelio Sirmago, gun still smoking in his hand. His calm demeanor was almost eerie.
He handed the gun back to his daughter.
“It appears,” he said, voice carrying across the hall, “that someone is attacking Gangplank’s holdings.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
“Most likely, that witch Fortune.”
The crowd stirred nervously.
“Until we understand the extent of these attacks,” he continued, “none of you are leaving this room.”
Artia leaned close, whispering something in his ear.
“…for your own safety,” he added with a slight nod before descending to his chair, as if this were all just another evening’s inconvenience.
Artia stepped forward and began to soothe the guests, her tone calm, rehearsed.
Aurelio, meanwhile, beckoned over Marvolio.
“Send them to the saferoom,” he said, gesturing toward the rest of the family. Then, quieter, “Afterward, bring a few of the boys with you. Station around the vault. Hidden”
Marvolio’s brow creased. “You expecting something?”
Aurelio’s smile was cold. “New additions to the museum.”
Understanding passed between them like an unspoken pact.
A trap had been laid.
And the rats were already inside.
The group descended the narrow service stairs in silence, each footstep placed with deliberate care. The old wood groaned beneath them, but they moved like shadows, slow and controlled. When they reached the first door, Fortune stepped forward, hand reaching for the handle.
Zaun’s arm shot out.
She pressed a finger to her lips, then leaned in, ear to the door. The others froze behind her, breaths held.
A moment passed.
“Clear,” Zaun whispered. She pushed the door open.
A dim hallway stretched before them, cast in low amber light from wall sconces flickering with dying flame. Fortune gave her a nod. “Good ears.”
Turning to the rest, her voice dropped to a murmur. “We’ll start here. Illaoi, come with us for now—easier to search together.”
Fate spoke up from the rear. “We’ll head straight to the vault. I’ll ping Isobel on the way. They should be locking the guests down in the ballroom by now.”
Fortune nodded once, her expression steel. “If things go sideways, you’re on your own. No heroics. Understood?”
Gone was the usual teasing lilt in her voice. Now, she was all sharp angles and iron will.
The two men exchanged glances, then wordless nods, and vanished deeper down the stairwell.
Fortune and Zaun slipped into the hallway, weapons drawn. Illaoi followed, serene despite the tension, an amused smile tugging at her lips.
“Always so caring, Sarah,” the priestess murmured. “Could’ve just said you think our lives are worth more than the heist. Hahaha!”
Fortune didn’t rise to the jest. She just pressed forward, eyes scanning each door, each corner.
They moved with practiced efficiency, sweeping through rooms one by one. The third floor—private quarters, guest suites, lavish bathrooms—felt untouched by the chaos below. Isolated. Purposefully so. Whatever business the Sirmagos handled, it didn’t bleed into their home.
From somewhere down below, they heard shouts and distant stomping—security, or the trapped guests losing patience.
Fortune turned to Illaoi. “Can you sense the Waters?”
The Buhru woman paused mid-step. Her tattoos pulsed faintly, like sea foam catching moonlight. Then she shook her head. “No.”
“We’ll need to go lower,” Fortune muttered. “Zaun. Stairs?”
Zaun scanned the hallway ahead, then pointed. “End of the hall.”
They pressed on, the silence between them broken only by the soft shuffle of boots and the occasional creak of the floor beneath them.
Zaun kept glancing at Illaoi. Finally, the priestess chuckled.
“If you have a question, girl, ask. I don’t bite.”
Zaun frowned, then asked, “I saw you a few weeks ago. You ripped the soul out of a guy. What are you—some kind of mage?”
Illaoi reminisced for a second, then smiled, tapping the heavy golden idol on her back. “No. I am a Truth Bearer. I channel the will of my goddess, Nagakabouros. Her power flows through me when I administer her will. That man you saw ended another’s motion, so he was judged.”
“That test looked more like execution,” Zaun muttered. “All that for stopping someone’s… ‘motion’?”
Fortune gave a soft snort of laughter, and Illaoi smiled wider.
“You misunderstand. ‘Motion’ is not about walking or fighting. My lady demands we pursue our desires—our truth, our motion. To be still, to surrender to fear or hate, to disrupt or pull others into your own stagnation... that is the sin.”
Zaun tilted her head, her gaze calculating. “So why’d you kill that man? Looked like he was following his desires just fine.”
Illaoi’s steps slowed. Her tone dropped, serious now. “That was not the first time he murdered. He had become a void, dragging others into it. He was judged stagnant. He failed.”
They reached the staircase leading down to the second floor.
Zaun hesitated. One last question danced on her tongue.
“If he’d passed… if he’d been judged worthy—would you have let him go?”
The air held still for a beat.
Even Fortune turned, waiting.
At the top of the stairs, Illaoi stopped. “Yes,” she said simply, and began her descent.
Zaun and Fortune exchanged a glance, then followed her into the dark below.
—
Meanwhile, at the mansion’s ground floor, Fate and Graves moved like seasoned predators.
The service stairs ended just shy of their destination—the cellar. They paused outside the kitchen, where the catering staff had once bustled. Fate reached for the door, wrapping his fingers around the handle. With his free hand, he tapped—six quick knocks. A code.
Graves raised his shotgun, ready.
A tense silence.
Then, six taps came back.
Fate opened the door.
Isobel stood there, hands on her hips, looking more impatient than alarmed.
“Well, took your sweet time,” she said, stepping aside. “Let’s go. Guards are already shifting back into place. We’ve only got minutes.”
They slipped into the kitchen.
Isobel lingered at the threshold, eyes scanning the staircase.
“Wait,” she said, frowning. “Where’s Zaun?”
Isobel exhaled sharply as she led the two men through the twisting warren of servant corridors that snaked through the Sirmago estate. The passageways were intentionally disorienting, a maze built not just for function, but for defense—long, narrow halls that looped back on themselves, corridors ending in blank walls or concealed traps. Memorizing the layout was a feat in itself.
Fate followed close behind, scanning every corner with wary eyes. He wasn’t sure if Graves had bothered to memorize anything at all.
“So,” Isobel said, glancing back with a dry smirk, “the Captain got involved, huh? We’d better pick up the pace before she blows the whole damn roof off.”
“What, you don’t trust your captain?” Graves muttered around the unlit cigar clenched in his teeth, voice thick with amusement.
“Oh, I trust her,” Isobel replied easily. “If Sarah Fortune says she’ll do something, she does it—no questions, no hesitation. It’s just that subtlety isn’t really her... domain.”
She smirked. “First come the shouts. Then the gunfire. Then, somehow—don’t ask me how—the whole place catches fire.”
Graves chuckled, but when he and Fate locked eyes, there was no humor behind it—just grim understanding. They’d hoped the last job had been an exception. It wasn’t. This was just how things went with Fortune.
Graves stepped ahead, eyes locking on the heavy door at the end of the corridor—their path to the cellar and the vault beyond.
“Then let’s move fast,” Fate murmured. “Before the fire finds us.”
—
The stairs descended deeper than expected, a full level below the ground floor. The air grew colder, the stone walls narrowing around them. They reached a plain wooden door, no guards in sight—yet.
They slipped inside.
The cellar was nearly pitch-black, lit only by a pair of flickering lanterns nailed into the damp stone. The air was stagnant, tainted with the acrid scent of chemicals and mildew. They crept forward, silent as phantoms, weaving past shelves laden with foodstuffs, casks of wine, and preserved delicacies. All of it ignored. None of it what they came for.
A narrow hallway beckoned at the far end.
Graves led the way, Isobel tight behind, Fate covering the rear. Something about the silence gnawed at him—an unnatural hush. No guards. No noise. Just the sound of their footsteps echoing softly on stone.
“It’s too quiet,” Graves muttered.
“Yeah,” Fate replied lowly. “Keep sharp.”
They continued on, deeper into the underbelly of the mansion. The air thickened the further they went, and with it, the chemical tang intensified. The hallway ended abruptly. Before them stood a room unmarked on any blueprint—an empty space on paper. But not empty now.
The moment they turned the corner, it hit them—the smell. Cloying. Metallic. Artificial. They raised sleeves over their mouths as their eyes adjusted.
One light. A single chandelier hanging from the ceiling, its glow illuminating the figure standing calmly at the center of the room.
“Hello, rats,” came a voice, smooth and amused. “Congratulations on making it this far.”
Marvolio.
Graves cursed under his breath. “Shit.”
They stepped in cautiously. Isobel moved just behind Graves, her fingers already twitching toward her belt.
“Too bad this is where your little journey ends,” Marvolio added, his voice light and theatrical.
As if responding to his cue, more lights flickered to life—revealing the nightmare.
To their right: shelves lined with clear jars and canisters. Inside floated preserved organs—one jar held a brain suspended in fluid, another, a pair of hands holding a heart. A third was packed with an assortment of glassy, staring eyeballs. Labels in meticulous handwriting marked each container. The air reeked of formaldehyde.
To the left: a sewing station, fabric neatly organized on wooden racks. And an assortment of tools set neatly on a table. At first glance, the figure beside it looked like a mannequin—but Graves squinted and froze.
It wasn’t a mannequin.
Suspended by thick ropes was a corpse—its torso opened like a butchered animal, hollowed out and mid-stuffing, cotton and wool protruding from within. A grotesque taxidermy project, mid-process.
Then came the footsteps—six of them.
From behind.
They spun around just in time to see six men in crisp, spotless white suits entering the room, clubs in hand, pistols on their belts, moving like trained soldiers. They blocked the exit with surgical precision.
“Welcome,” Marvolio said, unbothered, almost chipper. “To the Assembly Room. This is where Madam Artia crafts her next museum exhibits.”
A chill moved through all three of them.
The footsteps returned, different now—measured, elegant. The sharp click of heels on stone, followed by the steady tap of a cane.
Artia and Aurelio Sirmago emerged into the room as though arriving at a gallery opening.
“Would you look at that,” Artia cooed. “New additions to the museum. And I recognize these two—Twisted Fate and Malcolm Graves.”
Her voice was sweet, delicate. But the sweetness was hollow, like the corpse behind her—nothing but wrapping over rot.
Aurelio stepped forward next, his eyes sharp, dissecting. He looked over them like one might examine cattle at a market, slow and calculating. His voice, when it came, was as smooth as oiled leather and just as cold.
“Where are the other two?”
Zaun took point as they descended the staircase to the second floor, zapper drawn, every step deliberate. Unlike the upper level, this floor breathed with movement—shifting shadows behind walls, soft murmurs in distant halls. They’d have to be cautious now. Every room they passed was another trap waiting to be sprung.
Their mission was twofold: locate the elusive “Sacred Waters” and identify the Noxian envoy—described only as a tall, slender woman adorned with a striking headdress. No name, no face. Just a shadow cast by ambition.
“Do you feel the waters?” Fortune asked quietly, glancing back.
Illaoi stopped. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and a faint glow began to pulse from the ink etched across her arms. “Yes,” she murmured, her voice low, reverent. “But faint… It’s close, yet not close enough to find.”
Fortune gave a sharp nod, ready to reply—until Zaun raised a hand, index finger raised in warning.
“Hide.”
Without hesitation, they slipped into the first door on their left. It opened into a shadowed study, the air cool from a half-open window, the breeze stirring papers scattered across a wide desk.
Zaun pressed her ear to the door, holding her breath. Footsteps. Several pairs. One sounded smaller—light, quick, like a child’s. She counted the steps as they passed, then leaned back.
“Sirmago family,” she whispered. “At least some of them.”
Fortune, meanwhile, had begun scanning the desk, rifling silently through the disarray. Letters lay strewn about, and one in particular caught her eye—correspondence bearing the seal of the Jagged Hooks. She unfolded the pages, scanning them with narrowed eyes.
“Malik,” she muttered, recognizing the name—Gangplank’s right hand. “So the Sirmagos were in talks after all.”
The letters painted a story of waning loyalty. The Sirmagos hesitated to fund the Hooks’ efforts, their patience stretched thin. One line stood out like blood on silk: “You’ve yet to eliminate that red-haired tramp. We expected more.” Malik had responded with promises and reinforcements, even offering protection for the party.
Fortune’s lips curled. “Looks like Gangplank’s absence is shaking their little alliance.”
She reached for another document—orders from clients for sapphilite shipments, each delayed or cancelled. At the bottom of the pile sat a half-finished letter detailing a complete halt in sapphilite harvesting.
“Interesting,” she murmured. “What are you up to, Artom?”
Then came the voices.
Fortune and Illaoi froze, glancing around the room. Zaun moved quickly, motioning for silence, then pointed to the far wall.
The window.
And then the right-hand wall.
She crept to it, placing her ear against the plaster. The others followed suit, crouching low. From the next room, the conversation filtered through—muffled but clear enough to catch every word.
A woman spoke first. Her voice was crisp, commanding, laced with a heavy Noxian accent. Cold elegance in every syllable.
“You certainly seem to have your hands full, Artom.”
Artom’s voice answered, his tone oily and composed. “I assure you, Lady Auvray, this will not affect our business. In fact, my father is handling our intruders as we speak—trapping the rats in the cellar.”
The three exchanged glances. Rats in the cellar. There was no question who he meant.
Auvray’s voice dropped, sharp as broken glass. “Last time we spoke, you made bold promises. I’m only here to see if you can deliver. Don’t disappoint me.”
A pause.
Then shuffling.
Illaoi inhaled sharply, tattoos flickering again. “The waters. I feel them. They’re here.”
Artom’s voice resumed, smoother now, like he was unveiling a treasure. “You told us the sapphilite wasn’t enough. But with this…”
A beat of silence.
“Is that…?” the woman asked.
“The last surviving vial of water from the Blessed Isles,” Artom said, as if unveiling a priceless heirloom. “Gifted to the Buhru generations ago during a plague. Long forgotten… until recently. One of our agents discovered a Piltovan explorer searching for them. Marvolio followed him. Acquisition was easy.”
Zaun felt Illaoi’s breath hitch. Rage began to radiate from the priestess like heat off sunbaked stone.
Auvray was impressed. “Well. I must commend you, Sir Sirmago. This will suffice.”
Footsteps sounded again, the faint click of polished shoes.
“If you survive tonight,” she said, her voice silk-wrapped steel, “you and your family may find yourselves ruling over a new Bilgewater. A Bilgewater under Noxian wings.”
Fortune clenched her jaw. Zaun didn’t even need to look to know her fingers twitched near her pistols.
“Yes,” Artom replied. “So until our guests are… dealt with, we’ll hold onto this. For leverage.”
Cold. Calculated. Certain.
The woman laughed, not kindly.
“Very well,” she said, her voice fading as she turned to go. “Then I wish you… happy hunting.”
Notes:
Thanks for reading.
Chapter 19: The Approaching Storm
Summary:
T.F., Graves, and Isobel have their backs against a wall. Fortune confronts the Noxian. And plans change.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 19: The Approaching Storm
Graves raised his shotgun and aimed it squarely at Aurelio Sirmago’s chest. His voice was steady, cold as steel. “Don’t know what you’re rambling about, old man. But if you don’t want your brains painting the walls, you’ll take us to the sapphilite.”
Around them, the guards stiffened, hands inching toward pistols, waiting for a word.
But Aurelio lifted a single finger.
Silence fell like a curtain.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink—just began to move, slow and deliberate. The click of his cane echoed across the concrete floor, the sound unnervingly calm. He circled them like a wolf appraising its prey, his gaze brushing past Graves and Twisted Fate with disinterest until it landed on the girl in the server’s uniform.
“So,” he said, voice low and sharp, “you had help getting in.”
He stopped, finally facing them head-on. His eyes gleamed like glass beneath the soft light.
“Twisted Fate and Malcolm Graves,” he mused aloud. “I’ve heard of you two. The slick card trickster and the loudmouthed thug.”
The three stood back-to-back, tense and coiled. Something about the elder Sirmago’s presence made the air heavy—like a predator had entered the room and locked the doors.
Graves kept his finger on the trigger. Isobel’s hand hovered behind her back, ready to draw. Twisted Fate, ever composed, reached inside his coat with a casual grace.
“We know who you are, too, old man,” Graves drawled. “Now that introductions are outta the way, how 'bout takin’ us to the loot before I start redecorating this place with lead?”
He voiced the threat with seriousness. But the old man didn’t flinch.
Aurelio remained unmoved.
Then, with the quiet grace of a cat sharpening its claws, Artia stepped forward beside her father. Her eyes glinted with cruel amusement.
“I don’t believe you two are dumb enough to try robbing us,” she said, circling behind them, casually cutting off their only exit. “So tell me—who hired you?”
Fate sighed, hand still in his coat. “Now, ma’am, I’m hurt,” he said, smooth as ever. “You know we can’t go givin’ out names. Professional courtesy.”
Marvolio's expression twisted at the sound of his voice. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing with an old and bitter fury.
“Very well,” Aurelio said, raising a hand.
The guards leveled their pistols.
“I respect integrity,” he said. “So let’s make this quick.”
Fate stepped forward, voice sharp and commanding. “You pull those triggers, and the whole mansion goes up in flames.”
A beat of silence.
Aurelio’s eyes narrowed.
“You think we came this deep without a backup plan?” Fate’s tone was confident now, woven with charisma. “You’re right. We’re not alone.”
He raised a hand—and between his fingers, a single red playing card flickered into view.
“These are set to detonate if I die. Right now, our friends are planting them in all the right places. You kill us, and say goodbye to everything you ever built.”
Artia’s face contorted with rage.
“Liar,” she hissed, aiming her pistol straight at Fate’s heart. “I’m calling your bluff.”
But Aurelio raised a hand to stop her.
“Marvolio,” he said quietly, “you’re a mage. Is it possible?”
Marvolio didn’t look away from Fate. His eyes were dark with something deeper than hate.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Fate always has an ace up his sleeve. I wouldn’t put it past him. But…” He sneered. “I think he’s bluffing.”
“Come on, Marvolio,” Fate called, his voice teasing. “You know me. Why would I lie now?”
Marvolio’s fury boiled over. “Shut your mouth, scumbag!” he snarled. “We might not be able to kill you yet, but you’re not getting out of here.”
Fate shrugged, feigning offense. “Then I guess we’re at a standstill.”
Aurelio tilted his head. “What do you propose?”
Fate grinned, eyes locked on him. “Lock us in the vault. Not like we’ve got anywhere else to go.”
A long silence.
Then Aurelio’s shoulders shook.
He laughed. A dry, humorless sound.
Artia followed suit, her laughter manic and loud, echoing against the high ceilings. Even Marvolio cracked a smile. The guards chuckled like hyenas on command.
Graves frowned. “What the fuck’s so funny?”
Artia stepped forward, spreading her arms as if revealing a grand stage.
“This is the ‘vault’,” she said with a flourish. “I converted it into my art studio once we found better storage options.”
Her grin was wild, unhinged.
Marvolio’s voice dripped with venom. “Give it up, Fate. You won’t find what you’re looking for. We’ve made sure of that. I’m no longer the loser you abandoned.”
Fate stiffened. Isobel tensed. Graves kept his weapon raised, eyes scanning every shadow.
Aurelio stepped closer, drawing something from within his cane—a thin, elegant blade that gleamed under the light.
“Before tonight, I might’ve cared if this place burned down,” he said quietly. “But now? By morning, all of Bilgewater will belong to me.”
He raised the sword, pointing it straight at Fate.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I won’t kill you yet. I know how to make a man beg to die.”
Then he lunged.
“Fuck—grab on to me!” Fate shouted.
The moment his fingers brushed Graves and Isobel’s arms, a pulse of blue light burst outward like a flash of lightning.
The Sirmagos recoiled, eyes blinded for a heartbeat.
When the light faded, the trio was gone.
Aurelio roared, slamming his blade against the ground.
“Find them!”
Lady Auvray lounged like a cat in her chair, eyes half-lidded as she watched Artom Sirmago and his two thugs exit the chamber. Their boots echoed down the marble hall, leaving behind the scent of ambition and shitty cologne. She swirled the last of her champagne and contemplated the future.
The Sirmagos—such eager tools.
A few whispered promises, a little taste of imagined grandeur, and they were hers. Offer them a kingdom built on the bones of a dying city, and they’d crawl across broken glass to claim it. The civil war had done half the work already. The death of the Reaver King had left a power vacuum, one that Noxus was all too ready to fill. Gangplank had been a thorn in their side—his raids, his control over Bilgewater’s trade routes, his feral charisma. Now that he was out of the way, the archipelago was ripe for the taking.
She considered the Sacred Waters of the Blessed Isles, the mythic fluid said to heal wounds, even cheat death. A useful resource—if it could be harnessed.
Her musings were interrupted by the soft click of the door handle turning.
Two women entered the room.
“Evening,” one of them said.
The redhead she recognized instantly—how could she not? The second woman lingered by the door like a shadow. There was something peculiar in the way she stood, coiled and alert.
“Captain Sarah Fortune,” Auvray said smoothly, settling deeper into her chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Fortune didn’t return the courtesy. She came to a stop in front of the Noxian and looked down at her with cold, hard eyes. The charm she usually wore like perfume was gone, replaced with something sharper, older, more dangerous.
“The Sirmagos,” Fortune said. “It seems they’ve decided to sell my city.”
Her voice was low, but there was steel in it. Not the bravado of a pirate queen, but the conviction of someone who had bled for the streets she walked. Auvray smiled thinly, unimpressed.
“Oh, darling,” she said, voice velvet-smooth, “Bilgewater isn’t yours... not yet.”
Fortune’s brow tightened.
Before the pirate queen could respond, the Noxian went on. “Today, I’m merely entertaining offers. If yours is better, I’m happy to listen.”
A pause.
Then Fortune’s smile returned—carefully measured and lethal in its own way—as she took a seat across from Auvray. “Well, if you’re so willing…”
By the door, Zaun kept her focus on the corridor, ears tuned for the sound of movement. Illaoi had gone after Artom and the Waters. As for the trio after the sapphilite, they’d either succeed or make enough noise to push everything into plan B.
Take it by force.
It had always been a long shot, slipping in and out unnoticed. The air now buzzed with the promise of chaos. She felt it bloom inside her—excitement. The kind of pulsing thrill that used to drive her off rooftops and into firestorms. Her fingers twitched.
But that wasn’t her anymore.
Focus.
She murmured the word like a prayer. A charm to keep the shadows at bay. She has a mission to accomplish.
Then—knock knock.
Her brow furrowed. No footsteps. No approach. She would’ve heard.
Another knock. Then a whisper, soft as poison.
“Hey… let me in.”
The voice slid around her like oil in water, clinging to the corners of her thoughts.
Jinx.
She remembered that voice. Light, manic, teasing. Dangerous.
“I can feel it,” Jinx said, her voice laced with anticipation. “You’re excited. You want this. You need it. The plan was never gonna work. You were waiting for this moment.”
Zaun clenched her jaw. The voice wasn’t real. Not here. Not now.
Tap tap tap. Non-existent fingers against the door. Soft. Insistent.
“We love this feeling. Standing at the edge, staring down into the dark, grinning.”
She didn’t answer. Not with words. Just another breath. Inhale. Exhale.
“You’re not free, never were,” Jinx whispered, sound tearing into her mind. “Always trying to play eager little soldier. Lost little puppy, looking for someone to yank your chain.”
The tapping turned to knocking.
“Fuck that! Let me out. Let’s have some real fun!”
The knocking to pounding.
Zaun’s head throbbed. She shut her eyes. Her hands curled into fists.
“You can try to ignore me,” Jinx’s voice howled, now everywhere and nowhere. “Bury me. Forget me. But when it starts to burn, I’m the one you turn to. Eventually, you’ll need me again.”
The pounding became deafening.
Then—
“Zaun!”
Her eyes snapped open.
Fortune stood before her, brows knitted. Her voice was low but edged with alarm.
“You okay? What happened?”
Zaun blinked, grounding herself. The noise receded. The room stilled.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “Just a headache.” Waving away the concern.
Fortune watched her for a moment longer, skepticism simmering under concern, then nodded. “Okay.”
Zaun turned her gaze toward the room—and froze.
Lady Auvray’s body slumped in the chair across from them, her champagne glass on the floor, blood spilling like ink across the carpet.
Zaun looked to Fortune, a question in her eyes.
Fortune followed her gaze, then sighed. “Couldn’t come up with a deal.”
She stood, hand already reaching for the door. “Let’s go. We’ve got things to finish.”
Zaun shook her head, as if to clear away the fog.
“Finish what?” she asked.
Fortune didn’t turn around, but her voice carried the weight of vengeance.
“We’re going after the Sirmagos. I’m gonna kill all of them.”
A flash of light cracked across the rooftop, followed by the dull thud of bodies hitting stone. Twisted Fate and Graves landed hard, skidding on their backs as the portal closed behind them. Isobel hit the ground in a roll, breaking her fall with grace and rising with barely a breath.
The two men, on the other hand, stayed down for a beat longer, catching their breath under the open sky.
“Fuck!” Graves barked, frustration already bubbling to the surface. “I told you there was gonna be a problem!”
“How was I supposed to know they moved the sapphilite?” Fate shot back, brushing dust off his coat.
Thunder rolled in the distance—deep, guttural, and getting closer. The air had thickened, and with it came the scent of sea salt and ozone.
Isobel moved around the rooftop, eyes scanning the area. Her brows were furrowed, her thoughts spinning fast. Graves groaned and pushed himself up with a grunt, then extended a hand to Fate, who was sitting cross-legged, polishing his hat before setting it on his head. With a smirk, Fate took the offer and pulled himself upright.
“Listen,” he said, adjusting the brim of his hat. “We know the sapphilite’s still here. Mission hasn’t changed much. Just the execution.”
Fate’s gaze narrowed, “I’m not letting those sick bastards get the best of us.”
Graves huffed, a small grin creeping onto his face. “Then we tell Fortune and the others. No more sneaking around—we take it the hard way.”
“Guys.” Isobel’s voice was calm, but she was trying to get their attention.
The men ignored her, still caught in their back-and-forth.
“Still doesn’t make sense,” Graves muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “We saw crates of that stuff being brought in. None leaving. Even with Marvolio’s magic, it’d be damn near impossible to hide all of it.”
“Guys,” Isobel tried again.
“Yeah,” Fate said, eyes narrowed in thought. “I don’t think it’s just illusion magic. Remember what Artia said? They’re storing it somewhere. They’re hiding it.”
“Guys!” Isobel snapped, louder this time.
Both men turned toward her, annoyed. “What!?”
She stood with her arms out, a pointed look on her face. “Where’s Ezreal?”
The question hit like a dropped anchor.
They looked around.
The roof was quiet. Just the three of them now. The tarp flapped in the rising wind. Two unconscious guards were still tied near the edge, but of Ezreal—there was no sign.
“Goddamn kid ran off!” Graves cursed, shaking his head. “The little coward.”
“No,” Fate said firmly. “Fortune gave him an out. He chose to stay. Something must’ve happened. His probably inside.”
“Don’t matter now,” Graves huffed, striking a match and lighting a cigar. He exhaled slowly, like someone trying to calm the storm inside. “They know we’re here. It’s just a matter of time before they bring the house down on us.”
Isobel had already shed her server’s jacket, tying a bandana around her hair, another across her mouth. “So… how do we play this?”
Fate rubbed his chin. “I doubt it’s on the second or third floor. Too risky. It’s gonna be somewhere secure. It’s gotta be on the first.”
“I disagree,” Isobel said quickly. “The guests would’ve seen it if it were in the museum, and I’ve scouted the workers’ areas. Nothing there either.”
Fate’s mind reeled, turning over what he’d heard earlier. Aurelio’s boasts, the Noxian guest, the hints about Bilgewater’s future. If they were handing the sapphilite off tonight, it had to be in a place easy to move from—but hidden well enough to avoid suspicion.
Then it clicked.
A chill ran down his spine.
“Hide something valuable… in something no one wants.”
His voice was low, barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the wind.
Graves looked at him, puzzled. “What are you sayin’? What do you mean?”
Isobel’s eyes widened, realization blooming. “No. No way.”
Thunder boomed overhead, interrupting them. The storm was coming in fast now. Rain began to spit from the sky, and with it came a flicker of green lightning. A sickly glow rippled across the clouds—a shade that didn’t belong in the natural world.
“I don’t like the look of that,” Graves muttered, watching the horizon. “We don’t have much time. Tomen’s not flying us out in that.”
The dread was thick now. Unspoken, but shared.
Fate turned to them, his voice clear, confident. “Alright. Here’s what we do. Isobel, find Fortune. Tell her what I’m thinking—and that we need to move. Fast. Plan B.”
Isobel nodded once, then disappeared down the stairwell like a shadow.
Graves watched her go, then turned back. “You still haven’t told me what I’m lookin’ for. Where’s the loot?”
Fate was already at the door, hand on the handle. “The Sirmagos’ horror house.”
Graves raised a brow. “You mean—?”
“Their most infamous exhibit.”
Lightning lit the sky again, and the storm finally broke on the shore. Rain came down in sheets, drenching the rooftops in seconds. Fate stepped inside without looking back, Graves on his heels.
And behind them, the mansion groaned as the storm closed in.
Illaoi moved like a shadow behind Artom and his two brutish escorts, her heavy steps softened by patience and purpose. She kept her distance, close enough to strike, far enough not to be noticed. Her body was tense, coiled, barely restraining the fury simmering beneath her skin. Her eyes locked on Artom’s back, every step forward feeding the storm inside her.
Stealing the waters was unforgivable. But selling them—trading the sacred lifeblood of the Blessed Isles to Noxus of all places—that was no crime. That was heresy. That was a death sentence.
The men stopped at a corridor’s fork. Artom passed a small, rune-etched box into one of the brute’s hands. Illaoi’s grip on her weapon tightened. She nearly lunged, body tensing, breath held—until another figure stepped into the hall.
Aurelio.
She froze.
Too far to hear, but close enough to read the tension. Artom’s face paled; Aurelio’s burned with rage. She didn’t need to hear their words. The three thieves—Fate, Graves, and the girl—had slipped through their fingers. The weight of that momentary failure hung between the two men like a drawn blade.
They spoke briefly, then moved. Aurelio and the two bodyguards ascended the marble staircase to the upper level. Artom turned instead, heading down into the mansion’s bowels. Illaoi made to follow—but stopped.
A wrongness pulsed in her chest, like the echo of a warning bell only she could hear.
She closed her eyes. Reached inward. The waters were not in the box the brute now carried—they were still with Artom. A clever trick. But not clever enough.
Her eyes snapped open. She turned and descended the stairs, her presence now a tide no wall could stop.
Moments later, another figure stepped into the intersection behind her—quiet, uncertain.
Ezreal.
He had been following Illaoi for some time now, guided not by logic, but by intuition—the hope that had haunted him since he first glimpsed the glowing blue waters. If Illaoi was moving, then the trail was still warm.
He paused at the landing, eyes flicking between the museum stairs and the hall behind him. His brows furrowed, caught between hesitation and resolve. Then he exhaled, slow and sure.
“I will find them,” he whispered, voice hardening with purpose.
And with that, he vanished down the stairs.
Artia paced the corridor like a cat confined to a cage—an exquisite hallway lined with glass cases and haunting figures, her most treasured monstrosities. She cast a disdainful glance at each creation, their frozen faces not nearly as satisfying as the thrill of making them.
“I can’t believe I’m stuck on guard duty,” she muttered, bitterness staining her words. “As if they’ll even figure it out. If they had any brains, they’d already be gone.”
Her voice echoed cold and sharp through the corridor, brushing against the still air like the edge of a knife.
Leaning against a nearby display—an encased Demacian thief mid-defiance—stood Marvolio, his lean frame cloaked in indifference. He idly flipped an old, weathered playing card between his fingers, watching it spin like a charm or a curse.
“Don’t stress, Bosslady,” he said lazily, though the gleam in his eye told another story. “Fate’s smart enough to sniff it out. And just greedy enough to go after it.”
The way he said Fate carried weight—venom dressed in silk. He didn’t bother to hide it.
Artia turned to him, her tension unraveling just slightly.
“Oh, my sweet magician,” she cooed, voice laced with affection and madness, “I do hope you’re right. After tonight, I’ll need to rebuild the collection.”
She laughed—an eerie, unhinged sound that belonged more to a demon than a woman. Even the shadows recoiled.
Marvolio’s lips curled into a cruel smirk. “Then let me apologize in advance for whatever state I leave them in. Especially Fate.” His voice darkened, words coated in hate. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself.”
Artia’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with delight. “If it means that much to you... then go on. Do your worst.” She tilted her head, amused. “Just leave the head. I want something beautiful to mount when this is all over.”
They both smiled.
And somewhere in the depths of the Sirmago estate, the storm drew closer.
Notes:
Thanks for Reading.
The next chapter will be out next Sunday. I'm on the last stretch of chapters for the heist, and I want to make sure they're as good as possible.
Chapter 20: That Persistent Little Plague
Summary:
Fate and Graves move into position. Fortune and Zaun get ambushed on their way to Aurelio.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 20: That Persistent Little Plague
Lady Auvray sat slumped in her velvet chair, a grotesque mimicry of grace in death. Her lifeless eyes stared downward, vacant and glassy, their once-commanding spark now dulled to a grim silence. Blood painted the floor beneath her, mingling with the spilled champagne that had slipped from her hand. Her coiffed hair, loosened by the bullet that had torn through her skull, draped over her face like a mourning veil, gently stirred by the breeze creeping in from the open window behind her.
Outside, the storm approached—green lightning crackled across the sky, casting the chamber in intermittent emerald flashes. The lamps had gone out, snuffed by the breath of the dead winds. In that dim, flickering half-light, shadows grew longer. Colder.
Then… movement.
Not from the lady. Not from the wind.
From the blood.
The pool of crimson at her feet quivered—softly at first, as though disturbed by the drop of an unseen stone. Ripples fanned outward. The calm surface fractured. The ripples sharpened, swelled, and turned violent, disturbed not by physics, but by something deeper. Older. Malevolent.
A scent filled the room, sudden and suffocating: rusted chains and wilted roses.
And then it pierced through.
A hand.
Pale as death itself, elegant and terrible. Fingers long and slender, scorched in obsidian black as if painted by shadow, glistening but untouched by the blood it rose from. Another hand followed, and then arms—pulling upward with the poise of a noblewoman emerging from a bath.
A woman emerged from the puddle as if it were a doorway. Her gown clung to her like living silk—black and gold, regal and arcane. Her long, ink-dark hair flowed down her back, a single golden jewel resting like a crown at her brow. Her eyes opened—glowing irises of molten gold set in sclera as black as void glass.
She stepped onto the floor with soft, deliberate clicks of her heels, elegant as she was terrible, each footfall echoing like a tolling bell. She paused before the corpse of Lady Auvray and gently brushed aside the veil of hair, revealing the ruin left by the bullet.
Her expression did not shift. It had no need to.
“One shot,” she murmured, her voice cool and flat, “You’d grown careless, my lesser sister.”
She studied the wound with cold disapproval, then slowly raised a single black finger. She touched the hole in Auvray’s skull—a gentle, almost reverent gesture—and the skin gave way like mist. The blood that had escaped her began to flow back, reversing time’s cruelty. The wound mended. Her glassy eyes slid shut for the final time.
The sorceress closed her own eyes and inhaled, drinking deep from memory, pulling Auvray’s final thoughts into herself. She saw it all—the whispered deal with the Sirmagos, the betrayal, the moment Captain Fortune pulled the trigger.
Two memories clung to her interest.
The first: the vial of sacred water from the Blessed Isles, held aloft by the arrogant little man named Artom. So little of it left, and whatever potency it once held had long waned, lost to the rot of time.
The second: a girl. Young. Short. Weaponed. Accompanying Fortune.
The sorceress narrowed her gaze as the memory sharpened. That chaotic energy. That reckless defiance. She remembered her now—the girl who had first weaponized hextech.
“So,” she whispered with a smirk, “you survived after all. How… amusing.”
A flicker of disappointment crossed her perfect face. If only she weren’t so chaotic, she mused. She might’ve made a useful pawn.
Then a sharp, grating caw cut through her thoughts.
She turned slowly.
Perched in the window’s shadows was a crow, eyes glowing red like smoldering coals. It cawed again, shrill and ceaseless, daring to meet her gaze.
Her nose wrinkled with disdain. “Always looking. Always listening. Always prying for secrets.”
She extended her arm with elegance, and from her palm, an obsidian staff bloomed into being, lined with veins of crimson light. She pointed it at the bird without ceremony. A flash of dark red light tore across the room—
—but the crow burst into smoke, only to reform, still cawing, now circling just beyond the window, dancing on the storm winds.
She watched it silently.
Then, with a breath more hiss than sigh, she turned from the bird and back toward the window and the encroaching storm.
“Oh, dear sister,” she whispered into the rising wind, “you thought it was Gangplank that kept Noxus from claiming these isles. You were so very wrong.”
Rain struck the roof like drumbeats of war. Beyond the window, a black mist began to pour through the harbor, swallowing ships, lanterns, and light itself. It approached—unstoppable, ancient.
The crow gave one final cry and vanished into the storm.
And so too did the sorceress, fading like mist, her last words lingering in the air:
“The Serpent Isles could prove… useful. If not for that persistent little plague they call the Harrowing.”
The ballroom was a gilded cage trembling on the brink of hysteria.
Each thunderclap beyond the tall windows peeled louder than the last, echoing through the chamber like a drumbeat of dread. Once a glittering gathering of elites and nobles, the crowd now seethed with barely-contained panic. Frantic whispers gave way to cries. Someone screamed, “Let us out! You know what that black mist means! It’s a fucking Harrowing!”
That word struck like a bell—sharp, final, and fatal.
Panic took root.
In Bilgewater, one learned to fear many things—pirates with knives sharper than their smiles, sea beasts big enough to swallow ships whole, tempests that cracked ships against rocks like eggshells. But the Harrowing? That was different.
That was worse.
The tales said it had begun over a thousand years ago, when the first breach between the living and the dead tore open. At first, the Harrowing was myth—a tale whispered by sailors too long at sea. The first two recorded events were a century apart. The third came eighty years later. Then fifty. Then twenty. The veil between life and death grew thinner with each passing decade.
By the time Aurelio climbed to power on these Isles half a century ago, the Harrowing came once every two years.
Now?
Once a year. At least.
But it wasn’t just the frequency that terrified the people. It was the rage.
No sea beast, no pirate fleet, no hurricane could rival the devastation it left behind. The mist didn’t just kill. It consumed. It claimed.
Survival had two paths: lock yourself inside and pray your walls held… or flee to the Buhru groves, where ancient magics still offered some protection. But if you were caught in the open, if the mist found you unguarded, alone…
Then all that awaited was damnation.
And death within it was not the end. It was a sentence.
Those who died shrouded in that cursed fog rose again—not as themselves, but as wretched echoes, chained to the will of the Ruined King. Mindless. Forever.
The crowd swelled toward the doors. Knuckles slammed against glass. Desperate cries echoed off the marble.
Then, a figure took the stage.
The elderly butler of House Sirmago. His posture was straight as a sword, his voice clipped, composed, but iron-clad with authority.
“Dear guests,” he called, voice rising above the din, “I assure you—you are safer inside than anywhere else.”
A beat of silence.
“So, please… enjoy some music while we wait.”
He turned to the musicians and gestured with a gloved hand.
The band hesitated. Their fingers hovered over strings and keys, eyes flicking between one another in quiet terror. Even they weren’t sure that music was the proper response to impending doom.
But the butler’s gaze—cool, unblinking—sent a chill through their bones colder than the storm outside. They obeyed.
Soft, hesitant notes filled the ballroom. A lullaby for the dead.
“Louder,” the butler snapped, voice sharp enough to slice silence in half.
The musicians flinched, but obeyed again. The tempo rose, volume swelling to fill the chamber with something like calm. The tension in the air didn’t vanish, but it loosened, just enough for shoulders to drop, for guests to step back from the windows. The music created a fragile illusion of normalcy.
Then—
Boom.
A low, muffled blast echoed through the ballroom.
Then another.
Gunfire.
Shotgun bursts, reverberating through the manor’s bones like war drums.
The music faltered. The illusion shattered.
Chaos returned tenfold as guests scrambled for the exits, screaming anew, clawing at the locked doors like prisoners.
“I never told you to stop playing!” the butler roared, eyes burning with cold fire. “If you want to live past tonight, I suggest you don’t stop playing.”
Terror drove the musicians into a frenzy. Strings blurred. Drums thundered. The music grew manic, not soothing now, but a cacophony of desperate defiance—an attempt to drown out the chaos beyond the doors, and the storm clawing its way inside.
—
A thunderclap of fire burst from the smoke—orange and red flaring like a miniature sun within the haze. The roar of the shotgun echoed down the hallway, heavy and final.
Two guards pressed themselves against opposite sides of a corridor intersection, hearts racing, eyes straining through the thick, cloying smokescreen. Visibility was near zero; the only thing worse than being blind was knowing something deadly was coming through that mist.
One guard exhaled, slow and shaky, trying to steady his nerves. A second shot tore through the air, slamming into the corner just inches from his face. The wood splintered violently—sharp fragments grazed his arm like angry bees. He ducked instinctively, adrenaline surging.
“He out?” he hissed across to his partner.
The other guard was mouthing numbers, keeping count, his lips moving faster than his thoughts. Then a frantic nod. “Yeah, yeah! He should be reloading!”
Fueled by desperation and the faintest hope, the first guard rose with a shout, pistol first, and swung around the corner—
Only to be struck down mid-motion.
It wasn’t a bullet. It wasn’t even loud. It was sudden. His body snapped back as if he'd slammed into an invisible wall, his feet lifting off the ground before he collapsed in a heavy thud at the feet of the surviving guard.
Stunned, the second guard could only stare as his comrade hit the floor, a yellow playing card lodged in his forehead, faint arcs of electricity dancing along its surface. The man convulsed violently, then fell still—alive, but unconscious.
Panic clawed its way into the remaining guard’s chest. He gasped, pulse thundering in his ears, but then tightened his grip on his sidearm. He crouched low, turned, and attempted to start shooting blindly into the smoke.
And just as he turned the corner, he saw them, right next to him.
A pair of leather boots emerged from the haze, slow and sure. He froze. Eyes trailing up, he met the calm, dangerous stares of two men every scoundrel in Bilgewater knew by name.
Twisted Fate and Malcolm Graves.
The gambler grinned lazily, flicking another card between his fingers like it was just another parlor trick. “Hey there,” he drawled. “Mind telling us which way to the statue exhibit?”
The guard, trembling, didn’t speak—just raised a shaking hand and pointed toward a door at the far end of the hallway.
“Much obliged,” Graves muttered, stepping forward. The last thing the guard saw was the butt of a shotgun swinging toward his face.
Crack.
Silence.
The two outlaws continued down the corridor, unfazed.
“I’m liking this beauty,” Graves muttered, reloading two shells into his new shotgun with a satisfying click-clack. “That girl’s got taste in armaments.”
Fate gave a quiet chuckle. “She knows her way around a boomstick, I’ll give her that.”
They walked in step, boots echoing in the aftermath of violence.
Then, Graves slowed.
“You know… didn’t that old bastard Aurelio look a little off to you?”
Twisted Fate glanced over. “How so?”
Graves struck a match, lighting a fresh cigar. The flame briefly lit the shadows under his eyes.
“I mean, the guy’s supposed to be pushing eighty, right? Retired, fragile. But he moved like a beast. Like he was fifty years younger.”
Fate’s mind flashed back to the cellar—Aurelio, looming in the dim light, moving with the sharpness of someone far more dangerous than his age suggested.
“Maybe he’s on some fancy elixir,” Fate muttered. “But now’s not the time for theories.”
He nodded toward the end of the hallway, to the door the guard had pointed at.
“We’ve still got work to do. Stay sharp. The real fight’s just getting started.”
Graves exhaled a cloud of smoke, cocked his shotgun with a grin.
“Yeah… let’s get to it.”
Aurelio Sirmago moved with a deliberate, almost casual grace down the dim corridor, his cane tapping rhythmically against the marble floor. The saferoom lay ahead—a corner chamber on the third floor, one of the few modifications made after the mansion’s completion. A simple, clever alteration: a room with a hidden staircase tunneled down to the ground level, offering the family a secret escape route should disaster ever breach their walls.
In thirty proud years, the Sirmagos had never once fled their stronghold. Their home was a fortress—solid, enduring, untouchable. At least, it had been.
Now, the hidden room had seen more use in recent years, not because of pirates or thieves, but because of the creeping black mist that sometimes clawed its way from the sea, swallowing men and sanity alike.
Still, as Aurelio walked, a lightness animated his steps. It had been years—decades—since he moved like this, unburdened by pain or age. The cane he carried was no longer a crutch but an ornament, a symbol of status rather than necessity. His lungs filled easily with the salty air that drifted through the battered mansion.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, savoring the vitality humming in his veins.
"It's a shame to give it up," he muttered aloud, voice thick with amusement. "But that's the cost of doing business with Noxus."
Behind him, two hulking figures kept pace—members of the Jagged Hooks, sent by Malik himself. An offering of "good faith," though Aurelio had no illusions about the true purpose of their presence. He had dealt with men like Malik before: weak, posturing fools, mistaking violence for leadership.
Gangplank had understood power. He was a brute, but a smart one. Aurelio had respected him. Now the old pirate king was gone, and Bilgewater was adrift. Miss Fortune thought she could seize the throne, but she was a fool if she believed the city would rally behind a pretty face and a few lucky battles. She was a symptom of Bilgewater's sickness, not its cure.
No, the city needed him.
The two brutes at his back—Bones and Bart—had been following Artom all night, but Aurelio didn’t trust them yet. Trust was for the dead. But he was willing to tolerate their presence… for now.
He slowed his pace slightly, letting his voice roll out calm and steady. “You boys understand where tonight’s business is headed, don't you?"
The hallway seemed to narrow under the weight of the question. He could hear the hesitation in their steps.
Bones cleared his throat. "Yes, sir," he said quickly.
Aurelio smiled without warmth. “Good. Now, tell me—where will your loyalty lie tomorrow?”
Again, hesitation. Then Bart spoke up, voice firm. "We hold no loyalty to the dead, sir. The Hooks are blind to that truth, but we see it. A Sirmago will lead the Isles."
A beat of silence followed, heavy enough to suffocate. The two men shifted uncomfortably under Aurelio’s calm.
Then, at last, he nodded, satisfaction gleaming in his sinister tone.
“Good answer," he said softly. "The world belongs to the living."
The tension bled from the two men’s shoulders as they resumed their march toward the saferoom.
After a few moments, Bones worked up the nerve to ask, “If you don’t mind me asking, sir… why are we heading for the saferoom? Shouldn’t we be hunting the intruders?"
Aurelio let out a dry, humorless chuckle. It grew into a low, cold laugh that sent shivers crawling up their spines.
"Oh, we will hunt them," he said, voice thick with amusement. "But first, we’re going to leave that box… and pick up my ‘tools.’"
The way he said tools made the word sound like a promise—and a threat.
He continued down the hallway, laughter echoing after him, a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
Behind, Bart and Bones locked eyes, nodded, and reached for their weapons.
Zaun swung her minigun around with a hiss of smoke curling from the still-hot barrel. The warning shots had forced a standoff, but it wouldn't last. She and Miss Fortune stood back-to-back, surrounded by a tightening circle of guards, weapons drawn, malicious grins stretched wide across their faces.
The men kept their distance for now, but step by step, they were closing in.
"You know," Fortune mused, her voice almost lazy as she snapped a shot, blasting the cutlass from a too-bold guard's hand, "I thought you’d be more aggressive."
Zaun clenched her jaw, tamping down the giddy fire lighting her blood. The thrill of battle wanted to take her, wanted to break her loose—but no. She was different now. Different. Focus.
"Don’t believe everything you hear," she shouted back over the roar of her minigun, sending another spray of warning fire into the floorboards.
One of the guards caught on to her hesitation. With a shout, he lunged, blade flashing. Zaun braced, ready to block with the barrel and kick him back—but before she could move, Fortune stepped sharply into his path.
With a swift, brutal kick to his chest, Fortune sent the man sprawling backward. He barely hit the ground before a shot rang out, clean and merciless, snapping his head back as blood fanned across the floor.
Fortune lowered her smoking pistol and met Zaun’s gaze. Her eyes were cold steel.
"Then make the stories real," she said, voice stripped of all seduction. "I’m not paying you to cuddle them. I want them dead."
For the first time, Fortune dropped the mask. No flirtation, no teasing smile—just rage and purpose, coiled tight as a blade ready to strike. Zaun saw it now: this wasn't just about stealing loot. This was personal.
Before she could respond, Fortune spun and fired again, dropping another guard who’d crept too close. Screams erupted behind them as guards hesitated, their bravado cracking under pressure.
Jinx’s voice, soft but insistent, echoed in her mind: "She’s a fucking pirate."
She lowered the minigun slightly, stepped past Fortune, and drew out her smaller pistol—Zapper—slotting a blue gem into its core. Her hand tightened around the weapon. The faint hum of electricity vibrated in her hand as she aimed at the guards boxing them in. Eyes behind dark glasses, a fierce pink.
Fortune, catching the shift, grinned and charged the other half of their would-be captors.
The girl steadied her breath. The guards before her bristled with tension—some ready to pounce, some already faltering.
She caught a glimpse of their faces: some snarling with rage, others sneering with contempt. But a few… a few looked at her differently. Fear flickered in their eyes, quick and raw.
It made her hesitate.
"Let me out. I'll do it."
Jinx’s voice again. But it wasn't cruel. It sounded… worried. Protective. Like a hand reaching out in the dark.
"This is why you made me, Powder..."
The name hit her like a hammer, hollowing her out. Powder. A past she tried to bury deep.
She froze.
"NOW!"
A guard’s roar snapped her back to the present.
They rushed her.
The girl dodged the first swing but slammed hard against the wall. Another blade slashed close, forcing her to duck and weave. They were good—trained to stay close, to prevent her from firing.
Behind her, she heard the sharp rhythm of Fortune's pistols, the raw, wet sounds of men hitting the ground in pools of their blood.
She vaulted off a lunging guard, using his momentum to spring back to a safer distance. Her hand went to a canister at her belt, ready to throw—but then—
Darkness.
The lamps above guttered out all at once, plunging the hall into flickering shadows.
A scream tore through the dark.
All heads turned.
A masked figure stood atop a fallen guard, wrenching a bloodied knife from his neck.
"Fuck! Attack!" the commanding guard barked, panic crackling in his voice.
The mob split, half charging the weaponed girl, the other half sprinting toward the newcomer.
The masked woman moved like water. She slid under a rushed sword swing, slicing a guard's ankles out from under him, then vaulted over another, planting a dagger clean between his eyes before landing lightly on her feet.
The pink-eyed girl blinked. She could barely believe what she was seeing.
But there was no time to gawk. Two guards pressed her hard, blades flashing. She sidestepped one, ducked the other, and unleashed a crackling bolt from Zapper, dropping them both mid-charge. They hit the ground convulsing violently, the sharp scent of singed fabric filling the air.
The masked woman approached through the chaos, voice warm and a little breathless. "You good? You looked out of it."
The girl stared at her. The voice was unmistakable.
"Isobel?" she said, half incredulous, half relieved. "Since when are you some trained assassin?"
Isobel chuckled under the mask. "You’re not the only one with secrets, blue."
The pink-eyed girl gave a weary smile and tilted her head.
A gunshot snapped their heads around.
Fortune stood above the last of the fallen guards, smoke drifting lazily from her pistols.
"Captain," Isobel called, jogging over. "I’ve got news."
She lingered a moment longer, her gaze dragging across the bodies strewn across the floor. One guard's lifeless face stared back at her, blood pooling under his head.
And in her mind, she heard it again.
"You’re not cut out for this, Powder. Let me handle it."
Jinx’s voice was soft. Sad.
"Powder’s dead," The girl snarled silently to herself. "She fell down a well."
"Then who are you?" Jinx whispered.
She felt the words settle inside her like stones dropped in deep water. She said nothing, only clenching her jaw against the storm rising in her chest.
"Zaun."
The name drifted through the air like smoke—soft, unfamiliar. She barely heard it.
Her eyes were locked on the body at her feet.
The man’s gaze, glassy and lifeless, stared up at her. Unblinking. His pupils, fixed in death, reflected her face like twin mirrors—and what she saw chilled her. A stranger stared back. Short brown hair, neat. Fine clothes, blood-splattered and elegant. But the girl in that reflection didn’t belong.
Something was wrong.
Who is she? the thought whispered like a memory slipping through her fingers.
"Zaun!"
The voice was sharper now.
She blinked, tore her gaze away from the corpse, and looked toward the source of the voice.
Fortune.
The woman’s eyes were firm, her jaw tight.
"Zaun, let's go."
Fortune’s voice cut through the haze.
Zaun. Right. That was her name.
She shook her head, as if the motion could scatter the dissonant thoughts that clung to her like smoke.
Zaun looked up to see the captain beckoning her forward.
Fortune called. "We know where they're hiding. Time to pay Aurelio a visit."
Zaun wiped the sweat from her brow, shoved down the voices clawing at her, and moved to follow.
Notes:
Thanks for Reading!
The first scene in this chapter is probably my second favorite scene I've written, the first being the Isha scene in chapter 1. And if you're wondering, the third is Vi's scene with Tobias.
From here on out is all action.
The next chapter is out next Sunday.
Chapter 21: Her Judgment
Summary:
The action begins. Illaoi vs Artom. T.F. & Graves vs Marvolio & Artia.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 21: Her Judgment
Artom paused by the window, gazing out over the rain-slicked cobblestones of Gray Harbor. Streetlamps flickered dimly, their light swallowed by the heavy black mist creeping in from the sea. The glass pane rattled under the wind’s fist, rain lashing against it in erratic bursts. Still, it held firm—thin and trembling, but firm. Holding the outside out.
If only the same could be said for what was within.
Artom's reflection wavered faintly in the glass—sharp lines softened by lamplight, stormlight, and age. He considered the thought, quiet and bitter: perhaps the real evil tonight wasn’t crawling through the mist, but walking these very halls.
His eyes shifted from the storm to the city beyond it. His city. Come tomorrow, anyway.
With a casual gesture, he slipped a hand into his coat pocket and touched the vial hidden there—a simple glass tube, cool and smooth, holding a single ounce of Sacred Water. He ran a thumb over its surface, and a small, crooked smile tugged at his lips.
They’d part ways before morning. He knew that. But not yet. Not until he decided. And definitely not into his father's grasping hands.
The smile faded.
Aurelio believed the throne was his, that he'd live forever, a patriarchal specter ruling from the dark, and that Artom, loyal son and lifelong pawn, would kneel and obey as always.
Artom’s gaze hardened, turned flinty as he stared down at Bilgewater's cold, haunted streets.
There would be a Sirmago on the throne—but it would not be Aurelio.
A sudden gust slammed against the window with startling force, and he flinched. The black mist writhed and clawed at the glass like a living thing. It wasn't just any Harrowing—it was angry.
And it was growing worse by the minute.
In fifty years, Artom had weathered many Harrowings. He'd seen horrors rise from the sea and crawl from forgotten graves. But this? This was different. Stronger. Smarter. Crueler. There was something in the wind that felt sentient.
He reached up, fingers checking the window latch. Still locked. Still secure. The last thing they needed was for the mist to find a way inside.
And then—he heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Each one landing like the toll of a bell. Heavy. Commanding.
He turned.
A towering woman stepped from the shadows, her gaze leveled at him with the weight of judgment.
"Illaoi," he breathed.
Of all the people who could have slipped into the mansion tonight, she was second only to Fortune in his list of nightmares.
"I don’t believe you were on the guest list," he said, masking the tremor in his voice with cool indifference.
She didn’t answer. Her silence pressed in on him, louder than words. Ancient, patient.
He pivoted. Reframed. Talked.
Among the Sirmagos, Artom was the one who negotiated assassins to stand down and rivals to sign over contracts. Words were his weapons.
"Never mind the intrusion," he said, smoother now, hands slightly raised. "I assume you’re here with purpose. But I assure you, I don’t know what—"
"Hand over the Sacred Water," she cut in, her tone like cold steel. "Do that peacefully, and I will be merciful in delivering her judgment."
Her judgment.
She wasn’t bluffing.
Artom stepped back, slow and careful, like a man retreating from the edge of a cliff. "Again, I don’t know what you’re—"
"Say what one more time," Illaoi said, stepping closer, tattoos glowing faintly in the dim hall. "Go on. I dare you."
Her voice was shifting. There was glee in it now. The joy of a predator just seconds from the pounce.
Artom’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing like the storm beyond the glass.
"Listen," he tried again, his voice tight, "your tone is uncalled for. If you need help—"
"Eight," she said.
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Eight guards, young, barely men yet," she continued, her steps heavier now. The walls seemed to close in with each one. "Dead. Murdered."
The window shook as another gust slammed against it, and Artom could feel the panic building in his ribs.
The storm outside howled.
The one inside was walking straight toward him.
"What’s that got to—"
He never finished.
She rushed him.
"Shit!" he shouted, spinning on his heel, coat flaring as he bolted down the hallway. He fumbled for his pistol, drew it mid-sprint, and fired back blindly over his shoulder.
Behind him, Illaoi’s amusement thundered like the sea crashing against a cliff.
And judgment followed him into the dark.
She moved like a storm-wind—swift, unrelenting. Illaoi dodged the gunfire and lifted her idol high, green light pulsing like a heart around her. Power crackled in the air.
Artom ran.
His shoes slammed against the stone floor, echoing down the hallway, but before he could round the corner—he slammed face-first into the ground. Hard. The impact cracked against his cheekbone and knocked the breath from his lungs.
For a moment, he was stunned.
Then he tried to crawl.
His arms obeyed, but his legs wouldn't move. A surge of panic flooded his chest. He twisted back and saw them—twined together, immobilized by a spectral green tentacle, its form flickering with otherworldly energy.
Behind him, she approached.
Illaoi. Priestess. Executioner.
Her idol glowed with raw divinity, and her eyes burned green, lit by something far older and more powerful than rage. Around him, a circle of glowing symbols began to take form—runes of judgment, of endings.
Desperation seized him.
Artom jammed his hand into his pocket and yanked out the vial—the Sacred Water. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, even in the low light.
“Let me go!” he shouted, voice shrill with fear. “I’ll smash it! I swear to the Bearded Lady, I’ll do it!”
He raised the vial high over his head, arm trembling, ready to bring it down against the stone.
Illaoi let out a guttural roar—part warning, part promise.
Then—pressure eased.
The spectral tentacle evaporated. The circle faded. Her eyes dimmed, though her fury did not.
Artom rose, slowly, breath ragged.
“Hand over the waters,” she said, each word heavy as a warhammer.
He met her gaze—and smiled. But this time, there was no charm in it—only cold ambition.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think I will.”
The practiced tone of the diplomat was gone. Artom pointed his pistol directly at her heart.
“This little vial,” he said, voice swelling with pride, “will buy me the throne of Bilgewater.”
Illaoi snarled something in her native Buhru tongue—a string of curses he only half-understood. But the venom in them was unmistakable.
“You Palangy will never understand what those waters mean.”
“Maybe not,” Artom admitted with a shrug. “But I know what they can do. And that’s enough.”
She took a step forward. Her tattoos began to glow once more, green light dancing up her arms like divine fire.
“Ah-ah,” he warned, raising the vial in one hand and steadying the gun with the other. “Not another step.”
She froze, every muscle in her frame tensed, prepared.
Artom grinned, the hunger for power plain on his face. “Let’s finish this.”
He squared his stance and pointed the gun more firmly. “Buhru Priestess Illaoi… You’ll make a fine addition to the museum.”
He cocked the hammer.
Her eyes narrowed.
Bang!
The gun roared. But she was already in motion—ducking, rolling, a blur of motion too fast to follow.
And then—
A flash of blue.
A bolt of arcane light split the hallway, slicing through the dark like lightning through fog.
Artom screamed.
The vial flew with his severed hand as he crumpled backward. Pain blazed up his arm. He opened his eyes and looked down—
His hand was gone. A smoking, ragged stump remained where his forearm ended.
He howled in agony, rolling onto his side as blood poured onto the stone floor.
Illaoi turned toward the source of the blast.
Ezreal stood at the far end of the corridor, gauntlet still glowing, chest heaving from exertion. A streak of red lined his face—blood running freely from a deep gash along his cheek, where Artom’s bullet had grazed him.
He met Illaoi’s gaze, offering her a crooked smile.
Then the adrenaline dropped.
“Ah—shit!” he yelped, finally reacting to the pain as he clutched his cheek.
Illaoi moved instinctively to help—but stopped.
The waters.
She spun around and dropped to the floor beside Artom’s severed hand. His fingers were still curled around the vial. She pried them open.
Her stomach sank.
The Sacred Water was half gone.
“What have you done?!” she bellowed.
Artom had gone still, no longer screaming. He was laughing.
A deep, guttural, unhinged laugh that echoed off the stone walls.
He staggered to his feet, raising his wounded arm.
Before her eyes, the flesh began to knit together—muscle, skin, sinew all sealing shut with unnatural speed. The bleeding stopped.
Only a bloodied stump remained.
Still, he laughed.
“Looks like Marvolio’s little potion works after all!” he shouted, grinning like a madman. “Hahahahahaha!”
Artia paced the length of the hallway, heels clicking against marble, her fingers resting lightly on twin daggers at her hips. The corridor was a gallery of horrors—showcasing her finest creations in grotesque glory, a warped tribute to her genius and cruelty. Patience had never been her strength. From her father, she inherited the temper; her brother got the silver tongue.
A gunshot cracked from beyond the servers’ corridor.
Artia stopped mid-step, a slow smile spreading across her face. She turned to the guards flanking the double doors. With a flick of her hand, they each gripped a handle and waited for the signal. Her gaze shifted to Marvolio, already in position, arms raised, ready to cast. More guards stood ready, sabers drawn, anticipation thick in the air.
More gunfire echoed through the hall—sharp, staccato bursts. Pistols. A shotgun. Probably the outer guards.
They listened.
Not with fear, but with rising excitement.
Then it came: music. Loud, chaotic, rushed. It blasted from the hallway leading to the banquet hall, a manic melody that tried to drown out the gunfire.
Artia glanced at Marvolio again. His jaw was clenched tight with fury. Her grin widened. Her pulse raced—but not with nerves. With hunger. Something had changed since she'd drunk Marvolio's latest potion—an infusion made from the sacred Buhru waters. Now she felt sharper, stronger. Alive.
The gunfire stopped.
A silence fell—brief, yet eternal.
She raised her hand.
The guards cracked the door open slightly. A thin stream of white smoke curled into the hallway.
“Open it. And move back!” Marvolio barked.
The doors were thrown wide.
Something clinked and bounced into the room.
A flashbang.
“Eyes!” Marvolio shouted.
The explosion hit.
A blinding white flash.
A deafening bang.
Artia dove behind a statue, blinking away spots, ears ringing. Then—more canisters. They skittered into the hallway and burst open, spewing thick clouds of vibrant blue smoke. The corridor vanished in a swirl of fog.
“Shit! Fall back!” Marvolio coughed, retreating behind cover.
The smoke wasn’t just thick—it burned. Eyes watered, lungs heaved. The guards staggered blindly, choking. Through the haze came the clash of metal, the hiss of magic, and the unmistakable screams of dying men.
From his cover, Marvolio glimpsed only flashes—swords meeting metal, bursts of arcane energy lighting silhouettes of collapsing guards.
He darted to another statue, eyes narrowed.
“Fuck! Can’t see shit!” Artia's voice pierced the chaos. He saw her—a dark shape in the heart of the fog, daggers out, turning in place like a predator robbed of sight.
“You fucking cowards! Come and fight me!” she roared into the void.
Then—movement.
A glimmer of gold, two glowing orbs cutting through the fog like eyes of a beast.
Marvolio’s heart stopped.
A yellow flash tore through the smoke—aimed straight at Artia.
“Artia! Down!” he screamed, lunging.
He tackled her just in time.
The bolt zipped past and shattered a glass case behind them, shards raining down.
“Hey! Watch what you’re hitting! You hit the sapphilite and we all blow sky-high!” a gruff voice growled through a muffled filter.
Marvolio’s blood ran cold. Graves.
“I know!” came the reply, smug and familiar. Twisted Fate.
Artia thrashed in his arms.
“Unhand me, you idiot!”
“It’s me!” Marvolio hissed, dragging her behind cover.
Recognition flashed in her eyes. Her breathing steadied.
He raised a finger to his lips. Stay quiet.
Her pride burned at needing help, but she nodded anyway.
The sounds of fighting raged on.
Marvolio peeked around the statue, calculating. Then he turned back to her.
“I’ll clear the smoke. Stay hidden. Wait for my signal.”
She shook her head again, approving.
He stepped out, yanked his wide-brimmed hat from his head, and tossed it into the center of the room.
Then he ducked behind another statue.
The hat began to spin.
Slowly at first, then faster.
Smoke coiled around it—drawn in as if sucked by an invisible vortex.
But the smoke wasn’t the only thing pulled.
A limp guard’s body nearby twisted unnaturally, dragged toward the hat like a rag doll.
Artia glanced at Marvolio, her glare demanding answers.
He held up a hand. Wait.
A shout rang out—then the thunderclap of a shotgun.
Silence fell once more.
Marvolio peeked from behind the statue.
The smoke was gone.
Only two figures remained in the center of the hallway.
Graves and Twisted Fate.
They stood over a field of bodies, gas masks glinting under the soft hallway lights. Graves held his shotgun steady. Fate flipped a glowing card through his fingers.
Marvolio stepped out slowly, brushing dust from his coat.
“Well,” he said, voice tight, “looks like you came prepared.”
Fate tilted his head, pulling off his mask. “Yeah, courtesy of a little bluebell from the Pilt.”
Graves didn’t lower his weapon.
“Careful with that,” Marvolio warned, lifting his hands, stepping in front of a grotesque statue—one of their prize taxidermies. “Hit the sapphilite, and we all get a permanent tan.”
Graves scowled. Fate narrowed his eyes.
“I’m just saying,” Marvolio went on, voice smooth, “you figured it out, didn’t you? What’s in these guys?” He gestured to the statue behind him—grotesque, wrong, and pulsing faintly with energy.
The two outlaws edged forward—Fate still flipping his card, Graves silent and ready.
Marvolio smiled. Not warm. Calculated.
“Easy. I know when I’m beat,” he said, lowering his arms just slightly.
He turned to Fate. “Come on, old friend. Let’s make a deal. No need for this to end messy. Not for me, anyway.”
He added, quieter, more personal, “Least you could do, after what happened.”
Fate hesitated. His hand lowered slightly, card dimming.
“Fine,” he said, frowning. “I’m listening.”
The trio—Fortune, Isobel, and Zaun—moved briskly through the dim hallway, their boots echoing against the stone until they reached the stairwell landing. There, Fortune halted, her gaze drawn to the tall window set into the wall. The faint light that filtered through it was anything but comforting.
Outside, the storm had turned violent. Rain lashed against the glass in sheets, and beyond it, green lightning tore open the sky, casting Gray Harbor in jagged flashes of eerie light.
The others stopped beside her, momentarily hypnotized by the sight. The sea beyond thrashed with fury, an unnatural rage pulsing in every crash of thunder.
“Girls,” Fortune said, her voice tight with calculation, “will the airship hold in this?”
Isobel hesitated.
Zaun didn’t.
“It will,” she replied with calm conviction. Her tone wasn’t proud—it was certain. Months of preparation, long nights of engineering, sleepless hours reinforcing the hull and internal systems—they hadn’t done all that just to be torn from the sky by one more cursed storm.
Isobel glanced sideways, voice quieter, uncertain. “I trust the ship... but the pilot? I’m not so sure.”
Zaun turned sharply. The lenses of her glasses reflected the sickly green of the storm, but her eyes behind them burned steady.
“Tomen can handle it.”
There was an edge to her voice now, protective and just a little sharp.
Isobel didn’t shrink back. She wasn’t arguing—just afraid. “This isn’t just any storm. He could’ve turned tail and run.”
Zaun met her gaze head-on. “He won’t. He gave his word. He’ll be there.”
Silence passed between them like a held breath. Then Fortune cut through it with a commanding tone.
“Isobel. Get to the rooftop and light the signal flare.”
Isobel blinked, puzzled. “But Captain, we still haven’t heard from Fate—”
A distant burst of gunfire stopped her mid-sentence.
They all froze, listening.
More shots followed. Dull, distant—yet unmistakable. And beneath the noise, faint music filtered through the chaos, warped by walls and wind.
Fortune smirked. “There’s your message.”
Zaun grinned. “Plan B it is.”
“After lighting the flare,” Fortune continued, “rendezvous with Fate and Graves. Help them grab whatever sapphilite you can. If you see Illaoi or Ezreal—”
A scream tore through the air above them—raw, high, and human. Then another. Shouts followed, panic echoing through the upper floors... then nothing.
Silence.
And then, it came.
A black mist, thick and alive, began curling down the stairwell toward them.
“Fuck,” Fortune hissed.
She paced, back and forth on the landing, the pistol at her side twitching with each heavy step.
“What is that?” Zaun asked, her voice low.
Isobel didn’t look away from the creeping shadow. “The Harrowing,” she whispered.
Before Zaun could ask more, Fortune placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “Give me the flare.”
Zaun reached into her coat and produced a small metal canister with a thin handle. She handed it over without question.
“Captain?” Isobel asked.
“Change of plan. You go straight to Fate. We’ll regroup on the roof. If you run into the others, tell them to run—or be left behind. Go!”
Isobel didn’t argue. She vanished down the stairs like a shadow fleeing the light.
“Stand back,” Fortune told Zaun.
She drew one of her pistols, stepped to the window, and shattered the glass with the butt of the weapon. Rain and wind exploded into the hall, and with them, the chilling tendrils of black mist.
Neither woman flinched.
Fortune ignited the flare with a flick of her wrist. Bright blue smoke hissed into life, swirling violently in the wind. She stepped to the broken window and hurled it into the street below. The smoke rose like a beacon, glowing defiantly against the dark tempest that clawed at the harbor.
“Let’s hope you’re right about Tomen,” she muttered. “Otherwise… we’ll be praying for death.”
She holstered her pistol, drew both weapons, and ascended the stairs without another word.
Zaun lingered a second longer, staring out at the signal flaring bright against the dying world.
Then she followed.
Artom was a storm of fury as he charged. His face was slick with blood, the pristine lines of his suit ruined by crimson splatters. He fired wildly with his one good hand, each shot more desperate than the last.
“Give me back the waters!” he howled.
Illaoi didn’t flinch. She stepped back calmly, the sacred vial already tucked into her pocket—her mission complete. The bullets missed her by miles.
Behind her, Ezreal stood tense, left arm raised, arcane gauntlet pulsing faintly with energy. His other hand clutched the gash across his cheek, eyes sharp despite the pain.
Outside, the storm tore through Gray Harbor. Lightning surged in unnatural green bursts, throwing ghostly light across the corridor. The only barrier between them and the creeping black mist was the fragile, rattling windowpane.
Artom kept coming.
When his bullets ran dry, he hurled the pistol at Illaoi—it bounced harmlessly off her shoulder. A dagger appeared from beneath his coat, and with a guttural roar, he lunged again.
Illaoi raised her idol and deflected the blade with ease. Sparks flew.
But Artom was relentless. He slashed again. And again. His movements were unhinged, blood dripping from his chin, madness gleaming in his eyes.
“Give them back! You don’t deserve them!” he screamed, voice raw, broken.
Illaoi’s expression didn’t waver. “You’re not even worth testing.”
With one heavy shove, she sent him tumbling backward. He hit the floor hard, but scrambled back to his feet, snarling like an animal.
Then—blue light.
A sudden flare from the window cast everything in a different hue.
Ezreal’s eyes widened. “That’s the signal!” he yelled. “Fortune’s pulling us out!”
Whether the mission had succeeded or failed, it didn’t matter—Fortune had made her call. They were leaving.
“You’re not going anywhere!” Artom screamed.
From his coat, he tossed something small—a faintly glowing glass vial.
Illaoi recognized it instantly. Her eyes flashed.
“Down!” she roared.
She slammed her idol to the ground, summoning a barrier of spectral tentacles just in time. The vial shattered against the conjured wall.
A pulse of green fire erupted.
Ezreal hit the floor, shielding his head. Illaoi stood firm behind her summoned wall, holding it with raw strength and divine will. The blast shook the walls.
The explosion flared bright—and was gone in seconds.
Ezreal opened his eyes. Everything around them was scorched. The window shattered. Smoke curled from the blackened wood. Black mist had already begun to creep through the broken glass. The only untouched space was behind Illaoi, where her magic had held.
She rose, unshaken. Her massive frame cast a long shadow as she cracked her neck and faced forward.
Artom stood across the ruined hall, smiling through blood and madness. In his hand, between bloodied fingers, he held three more vials.
“Being a Sirmago means you get… very comfortable with sapphilite,” he said, voice low, unstable. He rattled the vials, the liquid inside glowing ominously. “You stopped one. Let’s see how you handle the rest.”
“You’ll burn this whole building down!” Illaoi shouted back.
“I don’t care,” he snarled. “By morning, I’ll be king of Bilgewater.”
Delirium poured from his mouth like venom.
Illaoi ignored him and spoke to Ezreal instead, her voice like iron. “Kid. Get ready.”
Ezreal turned toward her. Blue light coursed through the gem on his gauntlet and etched down the lines on his face. He nodded once.
“On my signal,” she said.
She stepped forward, lifting her idol.
Artom kept rambling. “With the might of Noxus behind me, I’ll conquer the Isles, the Guardian Sea, the world—”
He didn’t notice the green sigil glowing at his feet.
Not until a spectral tentacle burst from the floor and wrapped around his torso.
“What—?!”
The spirit limb heaved him into the air and flung him toward Illaoi. She stepped into the swing, tattoos blazing with divine light, and met him with a brutal blow from her idol.
The impact cracked bone. Artom flew through the shattered window, out into the raging street beyond.
“Now!” she barked.
Ezreal rushed forward. Outside, Artom was already on one knee, arm pulled back, ready to hurl the remaining vials.
Ezreal didn’t hesitate. A bolt of arcane energy blasted from his gauntlet, striking Artom’s hand mid-throw.
The sapphilite detonated.
Illaoi and Ezreal ducked just as green fire roared past the window, scorching everything in its path. The scream that followed wasn’t human—it was pain given shape and sound.
For a moment, the storm outside was drowned in emerald flame.
Then silence.
Illaoi rose, walked to the shattered frame, and looked out.
The street below burned. Smoke coiled into the sky. Sapphilite-fed fire consumed everything it touched—and at its center, all that remained of Artom Sirmago was the echo of his scream—and the fire drawing a shadow where a man used to stand, until even that vanished into smoke.
She turned back. “We move. Before this place burns with us in it.”
She offered her hand to Ezreal.
He took it, letting her pull him to his feet. One hand instinctively rose to the wound on his cheek, but before he could touch it, Illaoi laid a palm there. Her tattoos glowed green.
Warmth flooded the cut. The pain dulled.
“This will stop the bleeding. You did well, young explorer.”
Her words were stern, but held something rare—genuine respect.
She turned and walked down the hall without another word.
Ezreal stood still for a moment, hand still hovering near his cheek. A weight twisted in his chest, something hard and uncertain.
“What are you waiting for? Let’s go,” She beckoned.
He exhaled.
“I’m coming,” he called, voice steadier than he felt.
Then he followed, the ghost of a thought echoing in his mind.
I’m sorry.
Notes:
Thanks for Reading.
Action heavy chapter. The start of the end. Of the heist, at least.
I'll leave you with the title of the next chapter: Dead Men Walking.
Chapter 22: Dead Men Walking
Summary:
The real horrors of a Harrowing awaken.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 22: Dead Men Walking
The two women moved slowly through the suffocating dark, each step a struggle against the black mist that clung to their legs like wet cloth. Shadows wrapped around them, whispering along the walls. The stairwell groaned beneath their weight as they ascended, and the hallway ahead stretched into a lightless void. Zaun took the lead, guiding them toward the safe room Isobel had marked. Fortune followed close behind, eyes straining against the gloom. The mist was too thick, and she could barely see a meter in front of her.
The fog pulled at them with every step, dragging, resisting—as though the air itself wanted to devour them. Each footfall felt like wading through shallow water, every breath a little tighter than the last. The flickering lights that had once lined the hall had long since died. Only the sporadic bursts of green lightning from the storm outside offered glimpses of the shadowed path ahead.
Zaun rounded a corner, boots soundless on the wood floor. Fortune stayed close, weapons drawn but silent. “You feel that?” she whispered.
Zaun paused. The silence pressing in around them was unnatural. Even the roar of the storm was muffled, as though swallowed by the mist. The shimmer running through Zaun’s bloodstream sharpened her senses—her vision clearer, her hearing keener—but even that couldn't dull the deep, gnawing dread crawling beneath her skin.
She hadn't felt fear like this in a long time. Not the familiar kinds—fear of losing someone, fear of pain, or betrayal. This was older. Primal. The kind of fear that came with the knowledge that something ancient waited just beyond sight, watching. The kind that told you, with every fiber of your being, to run. Death.
“Yeah,” she said at last, voice barely audible.
The pressure built with each step, a slow tightening in their chests, as if invisible hands were pressing against their ribs. A voice inside both women screamed to flee—to turn back before it was too late. But neither did. They pressed on, one slow step after another, drawn forward by purpose, by obligation, by stubborn resolve.
Up ahead, a faint green glow bled through the fog. Pale and ghostly, it spilled from an open doorway at the far end of the hall. Zaun could make out the sound of rain through it—wind howling, the moan of the storm clawing at the building. The mist around their legs thickened, coiling higher with every step.
Soon, Fortune could see the light too. And hear the storm again.
Just as they reached the door. Neither spoke.
They stood side by side, adrenaline pounding in their veins. Zaun didn’t know if the thunder she heard in her ears was her heartbeat or Fortune’s—or both.
They looked at one another. Then, silently, Fortune raised both pistols. Zaun lifted her minigun, her grip steady. A single nod passed between them.
Then they stepped into the room.
And froze.
A man stood with his back to them, tall and broad. Cradled in his arms was the limp body of a small child. At his feet lay a woman in a blood-soaked silk dress, her body twisted on the floor in death.
Zaun knew them instantly. Artom’s wife. And his daughter.
She looked around. The room was larger than the building’s blueprints had indicated. To the left of the woman’s body, a small hatch sat open—the escape route, perhaps. But no one had escaped. Not in time.
The man stood motionless. Faint, unnatural light glowed from him—a sickly, spectral green. He was without his jacket; only a blood-soaked white dress shirt clung to his back, clotted and torn. Zaun narrowed her eyes, studying him. Her breath caught.
There was no sound.
No breathing. No heartbeat. Nothing.
At this distance, she should have heard something.
Fortune remained still beside her, every muscle coiled, breath low and quiet. She didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. She felt like prey in the gaze of a predator that hadn’t looked her way yet.
Zaun shifted her foot—and felt something shift beneath it. A wet squelch.
She glanced down.
A bald head stared up at her, lifeless eyes wide in terror. A few feet away lay the rest of the brute’s body, throat cut open, blood pooling in the mist.
Then she heard it—the unmistakable click of pistols.
She looked up.
Fortune was aiming both guns directly at the man.
Aurelio Sirmago turned.
Silently. No footsteps. No sound.
He still held the child tenderly in his arms, her face buried against his chest. But his eyes were locked on them now—burning with fury, seething with something beyond rage.
Zaun stared back, unmoving.
Then he spoke.
But what came from his mouth was not a voice. It was a sound—spectral, hollow, and full of malice, like the voice of a curse made flesh.
“You…”
It wasn’t a word so much as a hiss of wrath given form.
“If it weren’t for you,” the thing in Aurelio’s skin growled, “none of this would have happened. You will die tonight, Fortune.”
Zaun said nothing. She didn’t fear death—but something in her bones screamed at her to run, to flee.
Fortune didn’t flinch. Her voice was low and steady, cold as steel.
“You brought this on yourself, Aurelio. Tonight is your reckoning.”
And she opened fire.
——
Aurelio strode through the dimly lit hallway with a spring in his step, the two Jagged Hooks traitors trailing close behind. The storm outside whispered faintly through the crumbling walls, but he paid it no mind. It wasn’t his first storm—and he doubted it would be his last. All that mattered now was reclaiming his weapons. Once armed, the hunt would begin.
He reached the heavy door to the safe room, gripped the handle, and pulled it open.
“Grandpa!” a young voice cried out with innocent joy.
A little girl stood up in the center of the room, eyes wide with relief. “Are the bad guys gone?”
Her mother stood silently behind her, still, composed, her hands resting gently on the girl’s shoulders.
“Not yet, sweetie,” Aurelio replied softly, warmth in his voice. “But soon. I’ll—”
Bang!
The gunshot echoed like thunder beside his ear. Aurelio flinched as crimson bloomed across his daughter-in-law’s pristine silk dress. She crumpled silently to the floor, her child dropping to her knees beside her, small hands shaking the woman’s shoulders.
“Mom?” the girl whispered.
Aurelio stepped forward instinctively, but the pain came fast—sharp, searing. Steel burst through his chest from behind. He stared down in disbelief at the gleaming tip of a saber now protruding from him.
He staggered, but a hand pressed against his shoulder, holding him upright.
Bart moved past him without a word, toward the child.
“No…” Aurelio gasped.
The girl screamed as the brute loomed over her, tears streaming down her face. Aurelio strained to move, to intervene—but then came the second pain.
Cold steel bit into the side of his neck.
Blood erupted from his throat, hot and fast. Bones stood behind him, knife in one hand, expression blank. He yanked the blade free and gripped the saber embedded in Aurelio’s back, jerking it out with brutal force before kicking the old man forward like discarded meat.
Aurelio collapsed onto his knees, then onto his face. His vision swam, narrowing to a tunnel focused on one thing—his granddaughter’s face. Her terror. Her helplessness.
“Sto—” he tried to say, but his mouth filled with blood. He couldn’t scream. Couldn’t speak. He could only watch.
Not even the potion laced with sacred waters could stop the bleeding in time.
Bart leveled his pistol at the girl, his voice cold and detached. “Sorry. Blame Fortune. If it weren’t for her, none of this would have happened.”
Bang!
Aurelio’s eyes snapped shut. His face twisted, not in pain—but in rage. He felt his life slipping away, his blood soaking the floor. But he refused to let go. He clung to his fury as a drowning man clings to wreckage.
“Let’s go,” Bart said, already moving toward the mother’s body. He pushed it aside, revealing a hidden hatch built into the floor.
Bones followed—until he felt a tug at his leg.
He glanced down.
Aurelio’s hand gripped his ankle with unnatural strength.
“What the—” Bones snarled. “How are you not dead already?”
He kicked at the old man’s face, but Aurelio’s fingers wouldn’t release. The sacred water had begun to seal his wounds, but it wasn’t enough. He slipped in and out of consciousness, the world flickering around him.
And in the darkness… something called to him.
Something ancient. Something deep.
It whispered from beneath them and beyond the storm.
“Let go, damn it!” Bones roared, kicking Aurelio again. This time the grip loosened.
Bart knelt and unlatched the hatch. The moment he lifted it—
The black mist surged upward like a living thing, roaring into the room. It devoured the light, smothered the air.
“What the fuck?!” Bart shouted, stumbling back.
The mist flooded the chamber, winding around corpses and living men alike. It wrapped around Aurelio, curling into his mouth, his nose, his eyes—as if it had been waiting for him.
He knew what this was.
Death in the mist meant something worse than dying.
It meant servitude.
It meant undeath.
The fog poured into him, invading every inch of his flesh. His body twisted unnaturally, bones cracking as it contorted under the pressure. He ripped off his jacket. Deep inside, something pulled—something tethered him to a faraway place.
A prison without walls.
A chain wrapped around his soul.
The two brutes could only stare, frozen in place, horror written across their faces.
But Aurelio fought.
He fought the pull. He fought the mist. He fought the voice.
He clung to memories—his family, his city, his name.
His legacy.
He screamed. A guttural, broken wail—rage, pain, defiance made manifest.
And then he fell silent.
Still.
Lifeless.
The two men exchanged a look.
Then, without a word, they began to back away.
But before their feet could retreat a second step, Aurelio moved.
He rose slowly, deliberately.
His body glowed—faintly at first, then brighter, an eerie light radiating from his skin. His eyes burned green.
The room seemed to shudder with his rebirth.
The two men stood paralyzed, caught in the grip of raw, instinctive fear.
Aurelio reached down, wrapped his fingers around the ornate cane on the floor, and drew the hidden blade from within. He stepped forward, calm and silent.
Bones let out a wordless cry and charged, saber raised.
Slash.
The motion was almost too fast to follow.
Bones didn’t even feel the blade pass through him. His head left his shoulders in a clean arc, his body toppling moments later.
Bart screamed.
He turned, scrambling toward the open hatch. He made it two steps before he felt something slam into his back.
Crack.
He was airborne, crashing into the far wall like a ragdoll.
He slid down the surface, blood in his mouth, barely conscious. He fell on his back. Before the darkness claimed him, he saw the old man kneel beside the little girl’s body.
Cradling her.
Rocking gently in the mist.
——
Fortune opened fire.
Muzzle flashes lit the dark room like stuttering lightning, but Aurelio was faster—moving like a phantom, his outline barely visible even when caught in the brief flickers of light.
“Shit—I can’t see a damn thing!” she barked. “Zaun! Flare!”
The gunfire echoed like thunder as she emptied her pistols at his afterimage, her voice rising over the din, raw with command. Beside her, Zaun was already reaching behind her back, fingers curling around the cylinder of bright hope. Her eyes adjusted quicker than Fortune’s—sharp, calculating, and already locked onto the man weaving through the shadows. She saw him.
And she saw something else.
Danger.
Pure, concentrated, and old as rot.
She moved to toss the flare, but—
Zaun paused.
“What are you doing?” Fortune snapped, still firing blindly. She was about to shout again when she heard it—something that froze the blood in her veins.
“Grandpa?”
The voice was small. Innocent. Distant. And it echoed strangely, as if it came from someplace beyond the room, beyond the moment.
Aurelio stopped.
He looked down.
The girl in his arms glowed faintly, her light flickering like a dying candle. Her little hands clutched his shirt. Her eyes, once wide with fear, were now confused.
“What’s… happening to me?” she whispered. “I don’t feel good. I hear something… calling me.”
Pain twisted her face.
From the floor, the child’s mother began to convulse, coughing violently as a dim glow ignited beneath her skin. Something unnatural pulsed within her, something trying to escape.
“Stop!” the girl cried, clutching her ears. “Make it stop! Grandpa, please—make the voice go away!”
Fortune and Zaun could only stand there, stunned and speechless.
Aurelio’s eyes, once filled with fury, softened. Sorrow replaced rage. He crouched gently, brushing hair from the girl’s damp face.
“I will,” he whispered. “Close your eyes. Please.”
The girl obeyed.
He moved to the mother next, laying a calming hand on her shoulder. Her panic ebbed. When her eyes opened, there was not only fear in them—but trust too. Carefully, Aurelio placed the child into her arms.
“Hold her. Close your eyes. It’ll be over soon.”
She clutched her daughter to her chest, trembling.
Then Aurelio reached out with both hands and placed them over mother and child. Black mist, the same that had corrupted their bodies, began to flow out of them like smoke drawn from dying embers.
“You will not be slaves to the shadows,” he whispered. “I won’t allow it. Rest.”
He opened his mouth—and inhaled.
The mist poured into him like a living thing, writhing and resisting, clawing for escape. His body shuddered, contorting, tendons straining beneath his skin. His teeth clenched tight against the pain, the scream that nearly escaped.
And then—silence.
The glow faded from the woman and child. Stillness returned. Aurelio stood there, shoulders rising and falling as if he’d weathered a hurricane. His eyes opened slowly.
The anger returned.
He turned toward Fortune, his gaze now colder than the void.
“You really think you have what it takes to lead these Isles?” he asked, voice rasping like stone dragged across stone.
Fortune didn’t flinch. She straightened, aimed one of her pistols squarely at his heart, and spoke with a voice hard as steel.
“Years ago, you commissioned a pair of pistols from the best gunsmith in Bilgewater.”
Aurelio tilted his head, curiosity breaking through his fury.
“You sent Gangplank to pick them up,” she continued, stepping forward, emerald eyes glinting. “He killed her. Burned her home.”
Recognition dawned in Aurelio’s eyes. “I remember. So… you’re the daughter—”
“I will rule the Isles,” she interrupted, fire in her voice. “Not because I want to. Because if I don’t, someone like you will. And more innocent blood will be spilled. I’ll bring justice to these islands.”
Aurelio laughed—a deep, cruel sound that echoed through the room like the toll of a funeral bell.
“Justice,” he mocked. “So, what—only the bad ones die? You think they’ll all follow you? There’s always blood. Always. Innocent or not. It’s the only language this world listens to. That’s the cycle. You're a fool if you think you can change that.”
Zaun stood still, his words worming into her mind. Her grip on the flare tightened. Had she really escaped one cycle… just to fall into another?
Break the cycle, her mind whispered. Over and over.
Fortune turned to Zaun, shouting, “Throw the damn flare!”
No response.
Aurelio’s laughter died into silence as he stepped forward, cane scraping across the stone. “You know, the thing about justice… it belongs to the victor!”
Then he charged.
Fortune cursed, grabbed the flare from Zaun, and struck it to life. Light erupted, searing bright in the darkness. Aurelio reeled, momentarily blinded—and Fortune rolled, narrowly dodging the sweeping arc of his blade.
Zaun snapped back to reality.
“What’s wrong with you!?” Fortune shouted. “You want to die? Get your head on straight!”
Zaun growled, hefting her minigun. “Shut up. Let’s end this.”
They moved in tandem, bullets pouring into the gloom. But Aurelio was already gone—moved behind a corpse, hand placed gently on its shoulder. The black mist coiled again, thickening.
Then came the light.
Sickly green.
The corpse at his feet rose.
Bones, headless and lifeless no longer, shambled forward, puppeteer by the dark.
Fortune cursed under her breath. “Oh great. This just keeps getting better.”
Graves shot a glance toward Twisted Fate, voice low but sharp with impatience. “What’re you waiting for, partner? Kill the bastard already. We don’t need to hear another word outta him.”
Fate said nothing.
“Fate!” Graves barked again, stepping forward, his shotgun raised and aimed squarely at Marvolio’s chest.
The magician threw up his hands, grinning like a fox caught mid-heist. “Whoa now! This is between Fate and me, Smokey. No need to get all trigger-happy.”
Graves didn't flinch. The steel of the gun kissed Marvolio’s ribs, and his voice came out like a growl through gritted teeth. “At this range, I won’t hit the sapphilite.”
The tension in the hall was a live wire, humming with danger. Graves pushed harder, and Marvolio winced, though he didn’t lose his smirk.
“Stop,” Fate’s voice finally broke through the taut silence. He placed a firm hand on Graves’ shoulder.
Graves snapped his head around. “You can’t be serious. Come on, Fate.”
“I’ll hear him out,” the gambler said coolly, his eyes locked on Marvolio’s with guarded calculation. “I owe him.”
Graves held his partner’s gaze a beat longer, then let out a dramatic sigh and stepped back, lowering his shotgun—but not entirely. “Alright. Let’s hear what the guy who wants to turn us into museum exhibits has to say.”
Before Marvolio could speak, a burst of brilliant blue light spilled through the high window at the end of the hall. Both men turned their heads toward it, instantly recognizing its meaning.
The exit flare.
Graves muttered, “Make it quick. We’re runnin’ outta time.”
Fate nodded and stepped forward, the cards at his side rustling like whispers. His voice came calm but cold. “Talk. What do you want?”
Marvolio grinned wide, oozing charisma as he dusted off his coat and took a casual step forward. “Felix, come on. Don’t be like that. We go way back, you and I—”
“I said talk.”
That wiped the charm right off Marvolio’s face. He lifted one shoulder in a concessionary shrug. “Fair enough. You know what the Sirmagos are planning?”
Fate shook his head once, curt.
“They’re selling Bilgewater. To Noxus. Tonight.”
The words landed heavy in the silence that followed. Marvolio let the moment simmer, his voice steady and slick as oil.
“So?” Graves chimed in from behind, unimpressed. “What’s that gotta do with us?”
“Well, Smokey, I dunno about you, but I’d rather not wake up under the boot of some Noxian warlord.”
Marvolio’s tone danced with that conman cadence, words artfully chosen to provoke, to hook. But Fate wasn’t biting.
“Get to the point.”
Marvolio raised his arms like a stage performer revealing the final act. “Cut me in. I’ll help you steal the sapphilite.”
Both Fate and Graves turned toward him in perfect synch. A beat passed.
“Why the hell would we do that?” Graves asked.
Marvolio’s smirk returned as he motioned to the statues frozen throughout the room. “Come on. You really think you’re just gonna walk out with the goods? You probably thought that the Sirmagos were kind enough to keep the sapphilite in tidy little boxes, you could blink away with those cute cards of yours?”
His eyes gleamed.
“I bet you had a nice little safe house ready, too. But even you, Fate, don’t have the juice to move all that weight far. Not without help.”
Fate exhaled slowly, already tired of the game. “Nice guesswork. But no. You’re wrong. I don’t need to move it far.”
He raised a hand and pointed upward.
“We’re going up.”
Marvolio’s brow arched, curious—until his eye caught the flicker of a glowing red card appearing. Fate was already drawing.
“Sorry, Marvolio. I’ll repay that debt in the afterlife.”
He cocked his arm back to throw—but then the world shifted.
A deep, bone-rattling explosion rocked the building. The walls trembled, and a blast of green firelight flooded through a port window. A scream echoed from the streets outside. Graves and Fate both turned instinctively.
And that was all the opening Marvolio needed.
“Now!”
A blur of movement—Artia, emerging from behind a statue. She launched herself at Graves with predatory precision. He blocked the first dagger with his shotgun, sparks flying—but the second struck true, slicing into his right arm.
“Fuck!” Graves roared, stumbling back, blood soaking through his sleeve.
Fate spun on instinct, just in time to see a bolt of red arcane energy hiss past his head. He dropped to the floor, rolled, and ducked behind cover as a second blast scorched the air where he’d just stood.
Marvolio’s expression had twisted into something far uglier now—eyes burning with fury, hands crackling with raw power.
“You’ll die tonight, Fate!” he snarled, his voice no longer playful, but seething.
And the room erupted into chaos.
—
The battle raged on, relentless.
Artia pressed Graves hard, her daggers flashing in tight arcs, a blur of silver with every strike. She gave him no ground—never more than two feet to breathe. Each time he tried to lift his shotgun, she was already there, slipping inside his guard with terrifying speed.
Graves grunted as he twisted, parried, ducked, his every movement instinct honed by years of close fighting. She was fast. Too fast. And she didn’t let up. But thank the stars—she wasn’t better.
She knew her blades well, that much was clear. But experience? Tactics? She lacked them. She overcommitted, left herself open when the frenzy took over. Graves spotted those cracks, those half-seconds of recklessness. He filed them away, waiting for the right moment.
Pain throbbed through his right arm, sharp and deep, where her blade had found flesh. Adrenaline numbed it for now, but his fingers were slipping, his grip weakening with each passing second. He could feel the shotgun getting heavier in his hands. And still, she came.
He dodged another feral slash—and in the corner of his eye, caught a burst of arcane energy. The mages were still at it. Cards spun through the air, colliding with Marvolio’s crimson bolts in dazzling mid-air explosions. Both were careful, calculating—every blast a hairsbreadth from the priceless sapphilite filled statues surrounding them. A single misfire and the whole place would go sky-high.
But Graves could see it—Marvolio had the edge. He moved faster, struck harder. He was fighting like a man possessed. No… there was something off about him. And Artia, too. Graves had fought enough people to know when something wasn’t right.
Then she lunged again—quick, wild. One dagger shot toward his face, the blade singing past his cheek. He reacted without thinking. She’d left herself open, momentum carrying her too close.
He stepped into her.
And drove the butt of his shotgun straight into her face.
The impact was solid—he felt bone give. Her head snapped back with a sickening crunch, and she hit the ground hard, crashing to the marble floor in a heap.
Graves moved fast, his shotgun dropping into position. He was just about to squeeze the trigger—
When she kicked the barrel upward and rolled with the motion, springing back to her feet like a dancer in mid-performance.
And then he saw it.
Her face. Her nose—shattered moments ago—was knitting itself back into place. The blood that had poured down her lips had stopped, the wound closing as if never torn. The wound was gone.
“What in the void are you?” Graves breathed, staring like he was seeing her for the first time—and maybe he was.
Artia grinned through the blood smeared across her face, her eyes wild, alive with something other. “Marvelous…” she purred. “Oh, Marvi, that potion of yours really works. I’ve never felt more alive!”
She came at him again—faster, more reckless than before, a frenzy of steel and manic glee. This time, she didn’t even pretend to care about openings. She was high on something unnatural, immune to pain, maybe to death itself.
“Great! They can heal. Fucking perfect!” Graves spat, his voice thick with sarcasm and rising fury. He backpedaled, trying to make space—any space—to aim properly. But she clung to him like a curse.
And then the room changed.
He felt it before he saw it. A pressure in the air. The subtle weight of something wrong.
His boots grew heavier, as though he were moving through water.
He looked down.
Mist.
Thick, black mist was curling around his feet, spreading fast across the floor like ink in water. It swirled in slow, intelligent patterns, as if drawn to something.
“This just keeps gettin’ better,” he muttered, voice tight with dread.
The mist slithered toward the statues—those frozen, glittering relics of stitched skin—and climbed them like smoke seeking entry. It sank into their mouths, their chests, their hollow eyes.
One by one, the statues began to glow.
A faint emerald shimmer at first, barely noticeable. But then brighter. Brighter. Until each figure stood bathed in ghostly green light, like something dredged from the bottom of the Shadow Isles.
Then they twitched.
Graves slowed his moves. Even Artia hesitated.
The statues—the taxidermied corpses stuffed with sapphilite—were stirring. Not with grace or life, but with something jagged, broken. Fingers cracked. Spines shifted. Heads turned in unnatural, creaking motions as they snapped out of their eternal poses.
And then the screaming started.
Hollow mouths opened, and a sound like the wailing of a thousand damned souls filled the exhibit hall, rising to a deafening crescendo. The walls shook with the force of it. Everyone froze—Fate, Marvolio, Artia, Graves—each one forced to their knees or staggering under the psychic weight of the noise.
They clutched their ears. Some screamed back. But it was no use.
The howls grew louder, sharper, until they suddenly unified— nearly two dozen voices converging into one collective roar.
A single word.
One name.
“SIRMAGO!”
Notes:
Thanks for reading.
The dead awaken. You can't have a Harrowing without a couple of ghosts and reanimated corpses full of explosives.
Next chapter: Guile. Vision. Might.
Chapter 23: Guile. Vision. Might.
Summary:
The thieves work to regroup.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 23: Guile. Vision. Might.
Isobel moved like a shadow through the mansion’s labyrinthine halls, her footsteps nearly silent despite the urgency in her stride. The storm outside roared, rattling the windows in their sturdy frames, and every flicker of lightning sent the chandeliers into a brief stutter of light and dark.
The corridors weren’t empty.
Now and then, she caught sight of a patrolling guard. In those moments, she vanished into shadow, melting into the darkness. If the guards lingered too long or looked too closely, she struck—swift and surgical. A sharp blow to the temple. A twist of the wrist to choke them into unconsciousness. Non-lethal. Not out of mercy, but necessity. Dead men didn’t stay dead tonight. Not with the black mist already beginning to creep across Grey Harbor.
She pressed on.
Isobel knew these halls. She’d studied every turn, every blind corner, every creaking panel. The mansion’s layout was committed to memory. She moved swiftly. The plan had changed almost the moment it began—of course it had. But change didn’t unnerve her. She was trained for chaos. Molded for it. Taught to adapt.
Guile.
She hadn’t been born clever, or quick, or invisible. She’d been broken. Shaped. And sharpened. Over and over. She was made deadly, but empty. Her former masters had made her this way, and then Fortune had taken that broken blade and given it a new edge. A new cause. Isobel didn’t just follow Captain Fortune—she believed in her. In her dream for the Isles, free from the old blood-soaked powers that ruled them. And tonight, she would help carve that dream into reality.
Vision.
She rounded a corner.
Two guards stood watch outside a grand double door. Thick, built like stone walls. Behind them, muffled music leaked through the cracks—a fast, anxious melody, trying to bury the sound of storms both inside and out.
The guards weren’t moving. And if she wanted to reach Graves and Fate, she had to get past them.
Two. Too many for a quiet takedown.
She steadied her breath, fingers brushing the throwing knives at her belt. Her eyes fluttered shut. Five years had passed since she’d washed ashore on these isles. Five years since she’d found her purpose beneath the black flags of Bilgewater. Since Fortune had looked at her not as a weapon, but as a person.
Isobel opened her eyes and moved.
Her first knife flew toward the wall sconce between the guards. Glass shattered. Sparks danced. “What the—”
The first, closest guard turned just in time to catch a second knife in the throat.
He crumpled.
The second guard barely reacted—he shoved past his partner, reaching for the door, ready to sound the alarm. Too slow.
A third knife struck his outstretched hand, piercing it. He reeled back, a scream forming on his lips. Isobel was already there, a blur of motion, leaping into him. Her dagger found the hollow beneath his jaw, and she drove it in deep, twisting hard.
He fell.
She landed atop him, her knees digging into his ribs. His blood pooled fast. His eyes locked onto hers, wide with the fading spark of life.
She didn’t look away.
She couldn’t afford to—not yet.
Only once his body went still beneath her did she breathe.
A mistake.
A thick arm suddenly looped around her neck, wrenching her backward. The first guard—still alive—lifted her with a strangled roar, crushing her windpipe. Pain burst through her skull. Her vision darkened at the edges.
Still, she didn’t panic.
She shifted her weight, twisted her hips, and buried her dagger into the soft bend of his elbow. The tendons snapped like twine. His grip faltered. She kicked off his legs, using the momentum to flip through the air.
While still airborne, she spun and let the dagger fly.
This time, it found its mark—dead center.
The man dropped with a heavy thud.
Isobel landed lightly, breathing hard, scanning the corridor.
Nothing stirred.
The hall’s music had done its job, masking the sounds of the scuffle.
She exhaled slowly and cracked her neck. Then she knelt and retrieved her blades, wiping them clean on the guards' uniforms before sheathing them again.
As she cleaned the dagger, her eyes caught her reflection in the metal. For a fleeting moment, she saw the woman she used to be. The Noxian assassin they had trained, shaped, and used like a tool. A shadow without a face.
But she wasn’t that anymore.
She turned toward the bodies.
Might.
The final lesson carved into her body by the empire she had fled. The power to complete any task. To finish what others couldn’t.
She inhaled. Long. Measured. And when she looked down again, her reflection had changed.
She was no longer the blade of a heartless nation. She was Isobel now—tinkerer, pirate, loyal to a future worth fighting for.
She holstered the blade and crept to the door. Just enough to peek inside.
The grand hall was packed with guests. Wealthy, powerful, terrified. The city’s elite huddled in silence, held hostage beneath ornate chandeliers. A ring of guards stood among them. And at the far end, the old gray butler watched them all with a hawk’s eye.
Isobel's gaze swept the room. These weren’t just rich patrons. These were Bilgewater’s power brokers. And now, they were chips on the Sirmagos' table.
Maybe, she thought, we can steal more than just sapphilite tonight.
The thought was still forming when she felt it—cold and wrong.
The black mist.
It slithered across the floor, curling around her boots like smoke under a door.
“Shit,” she hissed.
She closed the door softly, turned, and knelt by the bodies. Fast hands worked rope into knots, binding wrists and ankles. If the black mist reanimated them, they wouldn't be walking anywhere.
As soon as the last knot was cinched, she took off, a blur through the corridor.
A new objective.
A new destination.
The lobby.
“I really hope this works out,” she muttered under her breath, disappearing into the storm-lit dark.
The statues groaned.
Stiff bodies twisted with tortured grace, straining against the rigid confines of their eternal poses. And then they screamed—an unholy chorus that echoed through the exhibit like a tide of agony and madness.
“SIRMAGO! AURELIO! ARTIA! ARTOM! AAAAHHH!”
Again and again, the names tore from their throats in guttural unison, vibrating through the chamber, smashing against bone and thought like war drums. The sound wasn’t just noise—it was pressure, a physical force that made every breath taste like blood and iron.
Artia staggered, clutching her ears. “Make it stop! Shut them up!” she shrieked, her voice drowned beneath the growing cacophony.
Marvolio dropped to one knee, his hands trembling as he pressed them to the floor for balance. His face twisted in pain, jaw clenched tight—but his gaze never left Fate. His lips trembled, but no spell came.
“Marvolio, do something!” Artia snarled, yanking the dazed magician up by his collar, dragging him away from the center of the storm.
Graves and Fate didn’t waste the moment.
“Go!” Graves barked, grabbing Fate’s shoulder.
A flash of arcane energy hissed through the air—Marvolio, half-conscious, had managed to release a wild blast.
“Shit!” Fate snarled, flicking a card to intercept it. The magic met his trick midair and exploded in a shimmer of sparks.
Graves didn’t hesitate. He tossed a smoke bomb to the floor, covering their retreat in thick gray fog. “Move, now!”
They slipped into the corridor they’d come from, lungs burning, ears still ringing from the infernal wailing. Behind them, the exhibit continued to tremble with madness.
“I’ll take it all!”
“I will ruin you!”
“I’ll be beyond rich!”
“I’ll steal all the sapphilite!”
The voices followed them, each statue screaming its own greed-soaked death wish. Echoes of obsession and failure, echoing louder than any thunder.
The doors slammed shut behind them. The screams dulled—still terrible, but no longer brain-splitting. The hallway felt almost sacred in comparison.
Fate collapsed against the wall, breath shallow. Graves doubled over next to him, hacking into his palm, then muttered through gritted teeth, “Fuck! Living corpses full of sapphilite!”
He started pacing, fury in his stride. “What the void do we do now, Fate? How’re we supposed to move ’em? We can’t haul statues screaming bloody murder!”
Fate didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, forcing his breath into rhythm. The thought of abandoning the plan flickered at the edge of his mind. Just for a moment. Just long enough to tempt him.
“Graves…” he began, voice lower now, heavier.
Graves turned, eyes sharp despite the smoke still clinging to his breath. There was rage there, yes—but underneath it, something steadier. Determination. The kind Fate had come to rely on.
“What? You got something?”
Fate stared at him, saw the grit, the refusal to yield, and he couldn’t help but smile faintly. “You’re bleeding.”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Graves looked down at his arm, now slick with blood. “Almost forgot about it.”
“Let me take care of it.” Fate stepped forward and pressed a glowing card to the wound.
Graves flinched. “Ow! Damn thing always stings.”
The card pulsed warm, sealing the gash with a hiss of magic. The bleeding slowed, then stopped.
“You big baby,” Fate muttered, stepping back. “That’ll hold for now.”
Graves flexed his hand, testing the grip. “Yeah… getting feeling back. Thanks.” He leaned against the wall, pulling out a fresh cigar. Flame kissed the tip, and smoke followed. His shoulders slumped, tension easing just a fraction.
“Alright, partner,” he said, puffing out a long breath. “What’s the plan?”
Fate was quiet. He rubbed his chin, staring at the doors they’d just fled through. The screams were still there, waiting. Calling. Not just out of rage or pain—but something else.
Greed.
“They all tried to steal the sapphilite,” he said slowly.
Graves squinted at him. “Yeah. And they all failed. Ended up on display for their trouble. What’s your point?”
Fate looked at him, voice calm now, almost reverent. “My point is… they still want it. That hasn’t changed. Not even death could kill the craving. So, who’s to say they won’t try again?”
Graves blinked.
Realization dawned like lightning.
Then, a grin broke across his weathered face. “The enemy of my enemy…”
“…is a ghostly bastard full of sapphilite,” Fate finished.
They shared a look. A gamble neither one of them could predict—but it was a shot. Maybe the only one left.
Fate extended his hand. Graves grabbed it.
“Alright,” the gunslinger said with a nod. “Let’s try it.”
Together, they turned back toward the doors. Fate placed a hand on the handle.
They looked at each other one last time.
A silent pact.
Then they pushed the doors open and stepped back into the madness.
Ezreal followed closely behind Illaoi, each footstep swallowed by the oppressive silence of the stone halls. The air was thick and cold, the shadows deeper than they had any right to be. Outside, a storm raged with violent winds, but here—inside—the world was smothered by black mist, and not even thunder could penetrate it.
The only blessing was that they hadn’t encountered a single guard. No one dared walk these cursed corridors now, not with the Harrowing upon them. Even the bravest had abandoned their posts, unwilling to gamble their souls.
Illaoi strode ahead with purposeful calm, her massive form haloed by a shimmering sphere of spiritual light. The enchantment repelled the black fog like a bonfire repels frost. The mist hissed and coiled at the barrier’s edge, writhing like a living thing, trying to find a way in.
Ezreal watched it, unnerved. “What exactly is this mist?” he asked, his voice hushed, as though afraid the walls might be listening. “It looks almost… alive.”
“It is,” Illaoi answered without slowing. “A curse. Ancient. Born of the Shadow Isles.”
They turned a corner, the hallway narrowing into a more claustrophobic stretch of maze-like architecture. Shadows bled from every corner. The mist thickened, rising like a tide.
“But this…” she muttered, scanning the unnatural dark, “this feels different.”
Ezreal narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of the shifting fog. “Different how?”
“Harrowings usually come and go in a single night. They’re violent but brief.” Her voice darkened. “This one lingers. Like it’s made a home here.”
A chill scraped down Ezreal’s spine. He adjusted the collar of his jacket, though it did nothing against the unnatural cold.
“Do you know where we are?” Illaoi asked abruptly, her irritation evident.
Ezreal winced. “Not exactly. I was a last-minute hire.”
She huffed, a sound like thunder rumbling in her throat.
Then, without warning, a scream tore through the halls.
It wasn’t a single voice—it was dozens. Twisted, damned, howling as one. It rolled toward them like a shockwave, carrying despair and rage in equal measure.
Ezreal froze. “What… was that?”
“That, young explorer,” Illaoi replied, her voice grim with purpose, “is the sound of the dead returning. The sound of a Harrowing.”
The atmosphere shifted. The once-stale air now crackled with something unseen, like distant lightning had passed through the walls.
“Get ready,” Illaoi said, lifting her golden idol. “Something’s coming.”
Ezreal tensed. “Huh? I don’t hear—”
“Now.” Her stance shifted—one foot forward, shoulders squared.
Ezreal raised his gauntlet toward the corridor. It hummed with latent energy. His palms were slick with sweat, and his throat went dry as he tried to swallow.
Then he saw it.
A faint, green glow at the end of the hall.
It pulsed once. Then again. And then it began to grow.
The mist parted before it, and shapes took form—first the outline of a woman sprinting with every ounce of strength she had left, and behind her, them.
Specters. Pale, grasping phantoms. The damned.
Ezreal squinted at the woman. Recognition slammed into his chest.
“Isobel!” he shouted.
The woman looked up just long enough to call out in a panic, “RUN!”
Ezreal braced to bolt, instinct roaring at him to flee—but Illaoi didn’t move.
“What are you doing? We have to go!” he barked.
Illaoi only smiled. “Why would I?” she said with a strange serenity. “Stand back.”
Ezreal’s protest caught in his throat as he saw the glow bloom in her eyes—and in the intricate tattoos that coiled along her arms and neck. The protective barrier surrounding them flared, then expanded, pulsing outward until it filled the entire corridor wall to wall.
“Quickly, Syren, get inside!” Illaoi called.
“Get ready, Piltovan. On my signal.”
Ezreal nodded.
The gauntlet thrummed in his hand, lines of arcane power tracing up his arm and across his face. The crystal glowed with brilliant light.
“Ready!” he shouted.
Isobel ran harder, faster than she ever had before. Her lungs burned, her legs screamed, but she didn’t slow. The cold breath of the dead was at her back, and their claws reached for her with every stride. She could feel their hunger—cold, endless, cruel.
Ahead, she saw them—Ezreal brimming with unstable magic, and Illaoi like an immovable mountain, waiting.
She locked eyes with the priestess.
Illaoi smiled.
“Now!”
Isobel dove.
She hit the floor hard, sliding beneath the expanding barrier and into its sanctuary just as Ezreal unleashed the bolt.
The hallway exploded with light.
Arcane energy surged forward in a wide arc, searing through the mist. The specters screamed in unholy agony as they were caught mid-pursuit, their forms burning away like paper in flame. The corridor filled with their howls, then silence.
The mist recoiled. For a brief moment, it was gone.
Then, like a breath inhaled, it began to creep back in.
Illaoi surveyed the corridor with calm eyes. “Nice shot.”
Ezreal collapsed to one knee, gauntlet smoking. “Thanks,” he gasped between shallow breaths.
Isobel rolled onto her side, chest rising and falling with adrenaline-fueled gulps of air. She slowly stood, steadying herself.
“Are you alright, young Syren?” Illaoi asked, her voice warm now.
“I am now,” Isobel replied. Her tone shifted from breathless relief to something more composed. “And just in time. I could use your help with something.”
—
The trio pressed onward through the dim corridors, the silence broken only by the soft hum of the Buhru shield encasing them. Shadows twisted around them like wary predators, retreating from the holy light. Their path led to a narrow doorway—Isobel reached out and opened it, revealing a service stairwell choked in dust and dimness.
Without hesitation, she stepped inside. Ezreal followed close, his gauntlet raised and glowing faintly in the gloom. Illaoi brought up the rear, dragging behind her a heavy burlap sack that thudded against each step, the glow of her tattoos painting eerie patterns across the stone walls.
The second floor offered some relief—the mist here was thinner, the darkness less suffocating. They moved faster, guided by Isobel’s memory of the manor’s layout.
“We haven’t seen any more ghosts,” Ezreal muttered, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. “Think they’re gone?”
“No,” Illaoi replied, her voice low and amused. “They’re keeping their distance—for now. We’re protected. But don’t worry…” She cast a grin. “We’ll be seeing more soon.”
Ezreal grimaced. “Great.”
Isobel pressed forward, her mind chewing on the information they’d gathered. “So the Sirmagos took a potion that doesn’t just heal—it enhances their strength?”
“Yes,” Illaoi said, the amusement gone. “I felt it in Artom. He was faster. Stronger. If he’d actually known how to fight, it might’ve been a fair match.”
Her voice sharpened with contempt. Isobel didn’t press the subject. She understood the weight of what had been squandered—the Sacred Waters were not meant for brute enhancement or corruption. They were divine. Holy. The thought of their misuse stirred her own quiet fury.
A sudden flash of lightning bathed the hallway in cold white light. Isobel turned, catching a glimpse through a high window. The streets below were chaos—fires still raged, emerald-green and fierce. Even with the rain, the sapphilite flames refused to die, and the mist avoided them, repelled as if by an unseen force.
A thought began to form, but it was quickly pushed aside.
“Are you sure about this, Isobel?” Illaoi asked, her voice suddenly serious. “They’re not exactly fond of Fortune.”
Isobel didn’t answer right away. She stepped up to a set of large double doors at the end of the hallway and stared them down like an enemy.
“Only one way to find out.”
With a sharp kick, the doors flew open.
Inside, the music died mid-note. Cries rang out—gasps, shouts, the kind of panicked confusion that always preceded bloodshed. Guests in lavish attire froze like prey. The guards stepped forward, hands on weapons, tension surging.
The trio descended the grand staircase with purpose. The musicians scrambled away, instruments forgotten.
From across the hall, an elder butler emerged, his voice shrill with fury and fear. “You! You’re with Fortune! Guards—!”
He was nearly drowned out by the gasps of the gathered hostages, who shrank back in anticipation of violence.
The guards surged forward.
Then Illaoi stepped in front of them.
With one massive swing, she hoisted the sack over her shoulder and let it fall.
It landed hard, then tumbled down the stairs, the mouth spilling wide.
Gasps turned to stunned silence.
Weapons clattered and gleamed as they rolled across the floor—guns, knives, sabers, tools of violence taken from the guests upon entry, now returned to their feet.
Isobel stepped forward, her voice rising to fill the hall.
“Dear guests… we bring gifts. Courtesy of Captain Fortune.”
A beat. Then, louder, colder:
“If you survive the night, remember who saved you—and who kept you hostage.”
And then it came—another scream. But this one was worse than the last. A wail that didn’t belong in this world, that made blood run cold and hearts skip beats. Without music to mask it, the sound tore straight through them.
Everyone froze.
“Guards! Atta—!”
The butler never finished his command. A gunshot rang out.
He crumpled to the floor, and all eyes turned toward its source—one of the musicians, standing tall with a pistol in hand and fire in his eyes.
“For Fortune!” he bellowed.
For a moment, time itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then chaos exploded.
Guests surged forward, scrambling for the nearest blade or firearm. Screams and gunfire erupted as the ballroom became a battlefield. The guards tried to rally, but they were quickly overwhelmed, outnumbered and outmatched.
Isobel turned to Ezreal and Illaoi, eyes blazing.
“Let’s help them.”
They joined the fray.
Arcane light burst from Ezreal’s gauntlet, slamming into enemy lines and hurling bodies back. Illaoi summoned her power with fury, a great green tentacle smashing into the far wall with devastating force. The wall cracked, then shattered as energy and divine might combined.
A gaping hole opened to the storm-lit streets beyond.
“You’re free!” Isobel shouted, her voice soaring above the noise. “Run! And remember—now you owe one to the Syrens! To the new queen—Sarah Fortune!”
Cheers rose like thunder.
The guests poured out into the night, screaming with joy, desperation, and vengeance. The Sirmagos’ gilded prison had become a battlefield—and now, a ruin.
Isobel turned to watch them disappear into the rain, then looked back at Illaoi with a glint in her eye.
“Let’s see who they follow after this.”
Illaoi gave a small, approving grunt.
“Come on,” Isobel said, already moving. “We’ve still got work to do.”
Miss Fortune wheezed, breath ragged as fire burned in her chest. Every muscle screamed, trembling with fatigue, but her hands stayed clenched around her twin pistols, the grips creaking beneath the strain. Smoke curled lazily from their barrels, mingling with the mist that crept in from every shadow. The only light in the room came from a fading blue flare, flickering like a dying star—fierce, but waning fast.
She stood on the edge, body one heartbeat away from collapse. One missed step, one hesitation, and it would all be over. But vengeance and determination burned hotter than exhaustion. It kept her upright. It fueled every breath.
This wasn’t about gold. Not anymore. She’d come to steal from the Sirmago not out of greed, but out of wrath. She wanted them to suffer. Gangplank’s sins might have started it, but in her eyes, Aurelio Sirmago was just as guilty. He had been the one behind the curtain—the one who hired her mother, who bankrolled the Reaver King, who pulled the strings from the shadows.
Originally, she’d hoped to bleed them dry, drain their coffers, and let them and the Jagged Hooks cannibalize themselves. And when they were weak, scattered, she’d strike. Kill them both. That was the plan—the only path she had to win this war. She didn’t have the numbers. Didn’t have the firepower. But she had timing.
Then came the Noxian rumors.
Her network had whispered of Aurelio reaching across the sea for allies. That changed everything. Fortune had acted fast, killed the envoy—a Noxian woman with blades for words—but she knew it was just a delay. More would follow.
Now or never.
Another roar, another swing—Fortune barely dodged, breath caught in her throat. Her stance wavered, but she forced herself to focus, pulling back from the brink.
Across from her stood a nightmare in human form—Bart, the Jagged Hooks’ enforcer, resurrected by the black mist. No matter how many bullets she emptied into him, the brute kept coming. His flesh had long since stopped obeying the rules of the living. Every time he struck, it was with the full force of a freight train. Bones and tendons shattered with each blow—his own—and yet he moved, jerky and wrong, like a puppet on frayed strings.
She’d fought ghosts before, during past Harrowings. They were annoying, yes, but not invincible. They still carried scraps of who they were—memories, regrets, fear. This thing? This was no ghost. This was meat—a corpse. A shell dragged into motion by something else entirely.
Her eyes drifted past him.
Aurelio Sirmago stood at the far end of the room, arms raised, fingers curled like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of death. The black mist poured from him in thick tendrils, chains of shadow that linked him to Bart and the other brute. Fortune stepped back, boots skidding slightly on blood-slick tile.
Another figure moved beside her—Zaun, the young mercenary with the once too-calm smile and the massive minigun. She wasn’t panting. Didn’t look tired at all. But something was wrong. The fire she’d shown at the docks, that cocky bravado, that flair—it was gone. She moved like someone who had lost the will to win.
“We have to get out of here,” Zaun said, her voice hollow. “These guys won’t stay dead.”
No shit. Fortune nodded. “Follow me.”
They moved in sync, a trained rhythm between them, heading for the corridor that offered a sliver of escape. Fortune hated the thought of retreating—her pride spat at it—but this was suicide. They needed to regroup. Maybe the others had figured out a way to kill these things.
Behind them, Zaun’s minigun thundered, chewing up the floor and wall, forcing the brutes to slow their charge. They weren’t as fast as Aurelio, but they didn’t need speed. If one of them landed a hit, it would be like getting hit by a freight train made of bone and rage.
They were close—almost to the exit—when the monsters suddenly crumpled to the ground.
As if invisible strings had been severed.
Fortune reached for the doors—
—and they slammed shut.
Tendrils of black mist lashed around the frame, sealing them tight. The handles didn’t budge under her weight. She swore and slammed a fist against the door.
“Shit!”
A voice slithered out from the darkness.
“You’re not getting away, Fortune.”
Aurelio’s voice. Smooth. Cruel. Confident.
She turned back, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Zaun, both women now boxed in, backs to the sealed door.
“What now?” Zaun asked.
Fortune looked at her—and froze.
The girl’s face was blank. No fear. No fury. Just… nothing. Her vibrant pink eyes, once dancing with mischief, were dim behind her dark glasses. Hollow.
This wasn’t the same girl from the docks. This was someone who had already accepted the worst. Someone who didn’t care if they made it out.
Fortune’s stomach twisted.
Her eyes snapped back to the room.
The flare was dying now, casting everything in deepening shadow. The black mist slithered across the floor, dragging itself back toward the fallen brutes. She watched, helpless, as the tendrils began to reattach to the brute’s lifeless limbs, and beyond them—
Aurelio. A silhouette in the gloom, hands still raised.
And in the center of the room—between the corpses and the puppeteer—was an open hatch.
An idea sparked.
It wasn’t a plan. Not yet.
But it was a chance.
And sometimes, that was enough.
“Hey,” Fortune said, voice low but steady, cutting through the tension. “What’s your dream?”
Zaun blinked. The question hit her like a stray bullet. “What? Why—?”
She didn’t get to finish.
“People come to Bilgewater for something,” Fortune continued, her words smooth and magnetic—an effortless blend of charm and command. “Most are running from something. Looking for freedom. A place to breathe.”
Her gaze didn’t move from the enemies stirring across the room, but her tone softened, just slightly.
“My dream isn't just about petty revenge. Or sitting on a throne of bones, ruling these damned isles. What I want is to build something better. A place where no one has to beg for freedom, because it’s theirs from the start.”
She turned, just briefly, to look at Zaun. In her eyes, something shifted—nostalgia, perhaps. Pain.
“I don’t care who you were before. Don’t care what brought you here.” She nodded toward the monsters dragging themselves upright once again—Bones and Bart, their grotesque forms twitching with reanimated life. “But if you want to build something new, I’ll need your help to get out of this.”
Her pistol twitched in her grip, subtly angling toward the open hatch at the center of the room. The signal was for Zaun alone.
Silence fell, heavy and expectant.
The flare in the corner flickered, casting deep shadows against the wall.
Then—a hand landed on Fortune’s shoulder.
She turned to see Zaun’s pink eyes glowing, no longer dull, but alive again—burning with intent.
“Here,” the younger woman said, placing a grenade into Fortune’s palm. “When I say so, toss it at that bastard in the back and run.”
She nodded toward the hatch. Her voice was calm, firm.
Fortune narrowed her eyes. “Okay.”
Zaun stepped forward, slow and deliberate. She holstered her minigun, drew her pistol instead.
“Hey, ugly!” she shouted across the room. “Earlier you asked my name.”
She removed her glasses. The light caught her eyes—vivid, almost unnatural, like twin flames in a storm.
The specter turned, tilting his head like a predator sizing up a challenge.
“To tell you the truth…” she said, “I don’t know anymore. I thought maybe naming myself after my father’s dream would be enough. But it isn’t.”
She raised her pistol, leveling it at the towering brute before her.
“If I’m ever gonna find out who I really am, I need to walk out of this room alive.”
Her voice had changed—stronger, more certain. And to Fortune, it sounded like the girl she’d first met at the docks: reckless, raw, real.
Aurelio let out a dark, mirthless laugh. “Hah! I don’t fucking care. You’ll be dead before you get the chance.”
But then Zaun laughed back—sharp, mocking, defiant.
She pulled out a small vial, sapphire-blue liquid shimmering inside. Aurelio’s eyes widened. He knew that glow. Sapphilite.
“You know,” she mused, tossing it gently between her fingers, “this little thing cost a fortune. Now I get why.”
She juggled it once, twice. Lightning danced in the liquid with each motion.
“I had fun figuring out what it could do.”
Aurelio’s mask of arrogance cracked. His scream cut through the air like a blade. “Stop her!”
The brutes lurched into motion, massive and merciless, but they were too slow.
Zaun gave Fortune a quick glance—a wink.
“Now!”
Fortune didn’t hesitate. She threw the grenade with all the strength she had left, aiming straight at Aurelio. And then she ran, boots pounding against the stone as she sprinted toward the hatch.
Behind her, Zaun tossed the sapphilite vial with one final spin.
Aurelio saw it—saw the arc of pink lightning trailing behind her, saw the moment both the grenade and the vial met in midair.
Then the world exploded.
Fire, light, and raw arcane energy surged through the chamber. Aurelio had just enough time to throw up thick layers of black mist, shielding himself from the brunt of the blast.
He crouched behind his conjured veil, enduring the firestorm as it raged and burned.
When the flames finally began to fade, he lowered his arms.
And saw ruin.
The brutes were nothing but smoldering heaps. His family—ashes. The open hatch at the center of the room was gone, sealed shut, the trail cold.
They had escaped.
He screamed—long, guttural, rage incarnate.
“FORTUNE!”
Notes:
Thanks for reading.
I'll be busy this month, so I don't know when I'll release the next chapter.
Chapter 24: Their Stagnation Ends Tonight
Summary:
Fate and Graves work to convince the undead to join them. While Ezreal, Isobel, and Illaoi move to assist them.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 24: Their Stagnation Ends Tonight
As the heavy doors creaked open, the mercenaries stepped once more into the exhibit. A wall of sound greeted them—an unending chorus of wails from the statues that shook the very air, drowning out thought. Graves and Twisted Fate braced for the ambush they expected from Artia and Marvolio, yet what met their eyes was something altogether different.
The two supposed guards were not preparing spells or weapons, but instead struggling to contain the statues themselves. Marvolio’s hands sparked with arcane energy as he forced enchantments upon those still fixed to their pedestals, while Artia, frantic and desperate, used torn curtains as makeshift bindings for the figures that had torn free, careful not to strike too hard lest the sapphilite phials within their bodies shatter. They were so consumed by their battle against the living dead that neither seemed to notice the intruders’ return.
Fate’s gaze flicked to Graves. The two men needed no words, but still, Fate shouted through the din, “Take him out!”
Graves gave a curt nod, lifting his shotgun. He fired once, the shot echoing like thunder among the shrieks. The blast missed Marvolio’s chest by inches, scattering against the wall but grazing the mage’s arm. Marvolio’s cry of pain tore through the chamber, and the statues faltered in their wailing, heads snapping toward the source of the gunfire. Artia, too, turned at the sound—and in that instant, a golden card whistled through the air, spinning with crackling light. Her eyes widened. She dropped the curtain she had wrapped around a thrashing thief-statue and raised her arms in a futile guard. The card struck her squarely, discharging a surge of electricity that sent her to her knees, her muscles locking in painful paralysis.
“You—!” she tried to spit the word, her voice trembling with the shock that wracked her body.
“Graves! You bastard!” Marvolio howled, snapping his hand forward to cast a bolt of magic—but Graves was already moving. He fired again, forcing Marvolio to twist aside, the spell sputtering uselessly against the floor. The grizzled mercenary closed the distance with brutal efficiency, his boots hammering against the marble. Marvolio raised his arm to cast again, but Graves was faster—slamming the mage’s wrist away with the stock of his shotgun and driving his forehead into Marvolio’s face.
The crack of bone was sickening. Marvolio reeled backward with a broken nose, clutching his face, his scream of agony reverberating across the chamber. “AHHH!”
Graves loomed over him, voice a thunderclap: “I won’t give you the time! You’re facing me now!”
The statues loomed in eerie silence above the chaos, their hollow eyes following the fight. Then a voice rang out, booming and sharp, cutting through the din.
“Attention!”
The word cracked like a whip, and all at once the reanimated figures turned toward its source. Twisted Fate stood tall in the center of the hall, his posture regal, commanding.
“Who—” one statue began in a broken, rasping tone.
“Kill them!” shrieked another.
“Are—”
“I’ll take it all!”
“You?”
“I’ll kill you all!”
Their fragmented cries overlapped, drowning out any single thought in a tide of greed and fury. Fate’s mouth went dry. For a moment, he doubted himself. They looked like men and women once—mercenaries, thieves, corsairs—but their jerking movements betrayed the truth. They had been dead far too long . Were they even conscious enough to be reasoned with, or just puppets of their old obsessions?
Then one statue broke free of Artia’s curtain restraint. A Demacian thief—Orville—his body stiff but his steps unnervingly steady, moved toward Fate. His voice, though warped by death, carried more weight than the others.
“Who are you?” the corpse asked. “Why are you fighting the Sirmago?”
Fate’s sharp eye caught the difference immediately. This one moved closer to the living than the rest. Its tone—still guttural, still wrong—was more human, almost lucid. If there was any chance, it lay with him .
The card shark drew a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage and charm he had left. His voice rang out, bold and theatrical.
“Who am I? … I’m you! ”
The words echoed through the chamber, sharp enough to silence even the wails. Artia froze mid-struggle, eyes narrowing.
Orville tilted his head. Fate seized the moment, his voice dropping into a sly rhythm, every syllable dripping with confidence.
“I’m yet another thorn in the Sirmagos’ side. Another name for their long list of enemies. I’m Bilgewater’s best thief .” He swept his hat from his head and bowed low with a flourish. “Twisted Fate, at your service.”
A spark flickered in Orville’s dull eyes.
“You’re here for the sapphilite …” he muttered.
At that word, the chamber erupted again.
“Mine!”
“I’ll take it all!”
“It’s mine!”
Their hollow voices overlapped in a chorus of hunger and greed.
Orville raised his voice above them, his gaze never leaving Fate. “We all died trying to take it. And now that we are back, we all want it. However…” He stepped forward, his tone sharpening like a blade. “That fortune is mine for the taking.”
Fate’s smirk widened. “And you have taken it.”
Orville faltered. “…What?”
“Don’t you feel it?” Fate pressed, his words slicing through the noise. “That pulse , running deep in your body, ready to burn through you?”
The room grew still. The statues—hundreds of them—fell quiet as they focused inward. For the first time, uncertainty filled their hollow eyes.
“ What … did they do to us?” Orville whispered.
Fate’s gaze slid toward Artia, who clawed desperately at the glowing card embedded in her chest. His voice rose, heavy with revelation.
“The Sirmagos filled you with phials of sapphilite. Every last one of you is carrying their fortune . They turned your bodies into vaults .”
Murmurs rippled through the undead as they looked down at themselves. Blue light seeped faintly through seams of old stitching, a cruel glow flickering from within their corpses.
“And the Sirmagos?” Fate continued, his voice a whip-crack. “They’ll never let you leave. When this Harrowing ends, you’ll go back to being what they made you—cold, stuffed trophies. Forgotten .”
The words hit like hammers. A greedy fire rekindled in their hollow chests, stronger than death itself.
Orville’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you suggest… mage? ”
Fate spread his arms, a gambler laying down his final hand. His grin was sharp as a blade.
“Join forces with me. With my crew. Walk out of here alive—or as close to it as you get these days—and you’ll have done it. You’ll have stolen the Sirmagos’ empire right out from under them.”
The silence that followed was electric.
“NO! None of you are leaving!”
The words tore through the hall, jagged and raw, carried on Artia’s blood-soaked scream. Every head snapped toward her. She writhed on the ground, body convulsing, muscles straining as if trying to tear themselves apart. With a guttural cry, she ripped the cursed card from her chest, shredding it in her hands.
“You’re all ours ,” she hissed, voice cracking into a shriek. “Every last one of you challenged us—and failed! ”
Her limbs trembled as she forced herself upright, sinew twitching, eyes burning with fury.
Fate flicked his wrist, another card flashing between his fingers before he hurled it at her. Artia’s dagger flashed quicker, splitting the card midair.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
“Enough!” Marvolio’s roar shook the chamber.
Before Fate could react, a scream cut across the hall. He barely turned in time to see Graves hurtling toward him, body thrown like a ragdoll. Fate sidestepped, and Graves crashed into the marble at his feet, groaning.
Marvolio strode to Artia’s side. In his bloodied hand, he clutched Graves’ shotgun. With a crushing gesture and a flare of magic, the steel buckled and warped into ruin. Fate’s eyes narrowed. Blood streaked Marvolio’s face, but even as Fate watched, the wounds stitched themselves shut, skin knitting with unnatural ease.
“Son of a—” Graves staggered upright, spitting curses, and drew a knife. His ruined gun clattered to the floor. “That bastard broke her, I hadn’t even named her yet!”
“You all failed!” Artia screamed, voice echoing off stone. “ Failures , every one of you! You’ve never stolen from us—and you never will! ”
Fate squared his shoulders, calling over to his partner without looking. “You alright, Graves?”
“I’ll live,” Graves growled, though his glare promised murder.
Then, from behind them, another voice rang out.
“Mage…”
Orville stepped forward, his boots echoing across the marble. The Demacian thief’s gaze lingered on Fate. “Would you put your honor on the line? If we join you, will your words hold true?”
Fate chuckled, but his reply came steady, sharp. “If you join us, you’re not just stealing from the Sirmago…”
Graves finished, voice low and dangerous. “…You’ll be taking them down. Once and for all .”
The hall shifted. Cold crept in like a tide, frosting the edges of their breath. The statues lining the chamber stirred, grinding restraints echoing as they broke free from their pedestals. But this time they did not lunge wildly. One by one, they moved into formation—standing behind Fate and Graves, waiting like soldiers at attention.
“Well, shit,” Graves muttered, eyeing the spectral battalion with a crooked grin. “Didn’t think that’d actually work.”
“Neither did I,” Fate admitted, lips twitching.
Ahead of them, Artia and Marvolio barred the path, their fury palpable, rage fueling every twitch of their hands.
“Alright, everyone,” Fate called out, voice carrying to the dead themselves. “We need to get to the roof. But first…”
He raised a card, its glow flaring like a beacon. “We take them down .”
The chamber thundered with the howls of the dead as the statues surged forward, an army of vengeance answering his call.
The fight was far from over.
The storm outside raged with a fury all its own. Spectral green lightning clawed across the heavens, and the streets below drowned in a tide of black mist that devoured every gaslamp’s glow. One by one, the guests fled into the night, gambling with death in the open air rather than endure another heartbeat inside the Sirmagos’ cursed halls.
Ezreal lingered at the jagged wound torn into the mansion wall, his gaze lost to the storm. Outside, the last embers of sapphilite fire guttered where Artom had burned, their eerie brilliance fading with the rain. The flare that had pierced the sky sputtered low, a dying signal swallowed by the night.
“You can leave if you want,” a voice carried over the crackle of distant thunder. Illaoi’s steps were deliberate as she came to stand beside him, the weight of her presence grounding the chaos. “This isn’t your battle. With your magic, you could make it to safety.”
Ezreal turned his head slightly, enough to catch the Buhru priestess in the corner of his eye. It was the second time tonight he’d been offered a way out, a clean severance from the madness he had stumbled into. He looked back at the storm instead, letting it hold his thoughts.
He traced the night backwards—his last trip home, the letter pressed into his hand, the meeting with the Ferros matriarch, the job discussed, the payment offered. A chain of choices, each one pulling him further into this cursed heist, until he found himself staring out of a broken mansion wall while the world seemed to be consumed by darkness.
“Why don’t you ?” The words slipped from him before he could shape them. His voice carried no venom, only honest curiosity. “You’ve already got what you came for. Why keep fighting?”
Illaoi regarded him with a patience that made him feel suddenly, uncomfortably young. She placed a broad hand on his shoulder, grounding him as firmly as her words.
“My lady teaches us to follow our motion. To forge the path set before us.” Her tone was as steady as a tide, unyielding. “And right now, my motion is bound to Sarah’s. After what I’ve seen—the Sirmagos defiling sacred waters—” she touched the pouch at her side, heavy with its burden, “—my goal and hers are the same. Their stagnation ends tonight.”
Her certainty struck like cold steel. It was not a threat but truth, as immutable as the sea itself.
“I offer you leave once more, young explorer,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Sarah will depart, sapphilite or no sapphilite. What remains here is not your war.”
Ezreal let her words sit, their weight pressing down until he lowered his gaze. For a moment, silence. Then, with a flash of his old grin, he lifted his head again.
“You’re cutting me out that easily ? I want my cut,” he quipped, forcing levity into the storm’s shadow.
Illaoi studied him, then smiled with rare approval. “You have a strong motion, boy. I like it.”
The praise sent an unexpected heat through him, enough to flush his cheeks. He opened his mouth—though what he meant to say, he wasn’t sure—when Isobel’s sharp voice rang from deeper in the mansion.
“What are you waiting for? We don’t have time. I hear fighting in the exhibit hall!”
Ezreal startled, half-turning toward her. “Sorry! I was—uh—trying to spot Tomen.” He hurried past her before she could press the point.
Behind him, Illaoi’s chuckle rolled like low thunder, amused and knowing, as she followed them into the dark.
—
“Well? See anything?” Isobel’s voice was clipped as they rounded the corner toward the exhibit hall.
“N-nothing,” Ezreal answered, shaking his head.
“Shit.” Her grimace was hidden beneath the mask, but the bite in her tone betrayed it. “Fine. We’ll figure something out once we regroup. For now, let’s see if those two knuckleheads are still breathing.”
They moved quickly, boots echoing against the stone. Ezreal broke the silence, unease threading his words. “Isn’t it weird we haven’t run into any specters?”
Both women had noticed the same absence, but neither had spoken it aloud. Silence had weight, and neither wanted to give shape to the thought clawing at the back of their minds.
“Just because we haven’t crossed paths with them doesn’t mean you let your guard down,” Illaoi rumbled from behind, her voice steady as a tide.
“Exactly,” Isobel said, pressing forward. “Keep your eyes sharp. Right now, sapphilite is the bigger problem.”
They reached the tall doors of the exhibit hall. Ezreal pushed at the handle. “I’m sure Fate and Graves have already—”
The words died on his tongue as the doors groaned open.
Inside, chaos reigned.
A mob of reanimated taxidermied statues shambled and swayed through the grand hall, circling the storm of battle at its heart. Graves and Twisted Fate fought desperately against Marvolio and Artia, their movements jagged and strained beneath the weight of exhaustion.
Ezreal blinked, struggling to follow the blur. Graves ducked Artia’s dagger, the blade slicing clean through one of his bandoliers. It tumbled to the ground with a clatter, canisters scattering across the marble.
“Shit!” Graves snarled, diving for it—only for Artia to kick it out of reach.
Fate fanned another handful of glowing cards, but Marvolio’s answering spell shredded them midair. The gambler was running low, his timing frayed by fatigue, while Marvolio seemed to anticipate every flick of his wrist.
And all the while, the statues pressed closer. Whenever Marvolio or Artia moved to strike, a statue lurched between them and their foe, forcing them to break their rhythm. To destroy one outright would mean shattering the sapphilite stitched inside their bodies—turning the hall into a tomb for everyone. Yet when the statues lunged to restrain Marvolio or Artia, the pair slipped away with blinding speed or lashed out with spells that froze their attackers in place.
However, step by step, the mercenaries were losing ground. Exhaustion slowed them.
“What the void is happening?” Ezreal’s voice cracked over the cacophony.
Dozens of glassy eyes turned toward him.
“More!”
“Friend?”
“Kill them all !”
“Foe?”
“You’ll never take it from me !”
The hall erupted in a chorus of screams, the statues’ broken voices overlapping in a deafening roar.
“Shit!” Ezreal lifted his gauntlet on instinct—only for a green spectral tentacle to lash around his arm, forcing it down.
“Don’t!” Isobel’s shout cut through the din. “They’re filled with sapphilite! Break one, and the whole place blows sky-high!”
Ezreal’s pulse hammered. “Then what the hell do we do?”
“They’re with us!” Fate’s voice rang out across the chaos, sharp as a whip crack.
The statues froze mid-step, heads turning toward him.
“Get in here!” the gambler shouted, teeth bared. “We need to take these two down !”
Another voice rose above the din, one Ezreal didn’t recognize. “They’re allies! Make way!”
The statues obeyed, parting like a tide, leaving a path straight to the center.
Illaoi and Isobel didn’t hesitate; they surged forward, sprinting into the maelstrom. Ezreal followed a heartbeat later, still reeling, still unsure, but with no choice left except forward.
“Ez, get ready!” Isobel barked, pointing toward Marvolio.
“Alright!” Ezreal answered, raising his gauntlet as it crackled with energy.
Illaoi surged forward, golden idol in hand. “Graves, left!” she roared.
The mercenary obeyed, rolling aside just as the Buhru priestess swung her relic in a wide arc. The blow caught Artia squarely, the crunch of shattering bone echoing through the chamber. The Sirmago daughter was hurled across the floor like a rag doll.
Isobel’s hand flicked, a blade flashing through the air. Marvolio hissed as the knife buried deep into his arm, dragging his focus from Fate.
“You’ll need more than knives to—fuck!” His retort dissolved into pain as a bolt of azure energy from Ezreal’s gauntlet struck him in the chest, hurling him backward.
The group seized the opening.
Illaoi took command without hesitation. “Isobel, take those two and find us a way out.”
“Aye,” Isobel agreed, already moving to shepherd Graves and Fate back.
“Kid, you’re with me,” Illaoi said, pressing forward. “We’ll keep them busy.”
Ezreal swallowed hard, then lifted his gauntlet and fell in beside her. “O-okay.”
Across the hall, Artia staggered to her feet, fury dripping from every word. “Illaoi! Stay out of this—or your people will be the first we burn when we rule these isles!”
The priestess’s eyes glowed with a molten light, her tattoos burning with divine motion as she raised her idol high. “Only motion rules these isles. Your stagnation has no place.”
Bones cracked and realigned in Artia’s arm, her body reforming itself through twisted magic. Daggers gleamed in her hands. “Then I’ll turn every single one of your—”
The rest of her threat was cut short as Illaoi’s idol slammed into her mid-sentence, the impact sending her skidding across the marble floor. “ Shut up and fight !” Illaoi thundered, chasing after her prey with another crushing swing.
Ezreal, meanwhile, faced Marvolio. The mage’s face twisted with rage, eyes fixed not on him, but on the mercenaries regrouping behind.
“Ahh, I almost had him!” Marvolio spat. “A little closer and I would’ve ended that bastard!”
Ezreal frowned. “Yeesh. What did he do—convince you that goatee was a good idea?”
The mage’s gaze snapped to him, and Ezreal instantly regretted the quip. There was no humor in those eyes.
“No… He abandoned me,” Marvolio growled. “I was his first partner. Two young mages, making a name for ourselves on these fucking islands. He was my first friend —or so I thought.”
A bolt of lightning screamed toward Ezreal. He dove aside, firing a countershot as he ducked behind a display case.
“But he’s nothing but a silver-tongued liar !” Marvolio’s scream shattered glass as another blast tore the display apart.
“We worked every corner of Bilgewater. We stole from anyone we pleased. And when our biggest job came, he set me up .” His next blast smashed into a stone pedestal, chipping it apart.
Ezreal gritted his teeth, eyes darting around. Near one display, he spotted a canister still strapped to a fallen bandolier. He edged closer, waiting.
“He gave me a blue card,” Marvolio sneered. “Said it would save me if I were cornered. His worked. Mine didn’t .”
Ezreal’s stomach dropped. His hand brushed the card in his pocket—the very same kind Fate had slipped him.
“I rotted in a cell for three years,” Marvolio raged, arcane light building in his palms. “ Three years —and he never came for me!”
The pedestal shielding Ezreal cracked under another blast. He cursed under his breath. “Wait! Fuck, I didn’t know that! ” he shouted from cover, inching the bandolier closer. “I only met the guy tonight! If I’d known he was that ah- bastardly , I’d have turned the job down!”
Marvolio barked a laugh, savage and bitter. “Of course. He planned to leave you too. He always does!” His hand rose, gathering another bolt. “Don’t worry—you won’t live to regret it.”
A faint hiss filled the hall. Marvolio’s eyes flicked down. A canister rolled to his feet, spewing a cloud of thick blue smoke.
“Not this shit again!” He pulled his sleeve over his mouth and staggered back, arm raised to block the mystic shot he expected from the haze.
Footsteps closed in. Something whistled through the smoke—he caught sight of the bandolier and reflexively blasted it apart.
But that was the feint .
Ezreal burst through the smoke, gauntlet crackling with power. He drove his fist forward, the blow connecting with Marvolio’s jaw in an explosion of arcane light.
The mage was hurled across the hall, slamming against the wall with bone-jarring force.
Ezreal stood above him, gauntlet still smoking. His chest heaved, but his voice was steady.
“I’m not dying tonight.”
—
The battle raged on. Illaoi and Ezreal held the front, their strikes and blasts keeping Marvolio and Artia from overwhelming the group. At the far end of the hall, Isobel worked quickly, binding Graves’ bleeding arm while Fate murmured with one of the statues—strangely deferential, as if the thing commanded some authority among its kind.
The statues themselves had formed a barricade, their cold, glassy eyes turned outward, protecting the wounded and exhausted from the chaos in the center of the chamber.
Isobel pulled the cloth tight around Graves’ arm. “How’d you get them to work for us?” she asked, jerking her chin toward Fate and the statue in conversation.
Graves let out a short, smoky chuckle, cigar clamped between his teeth. “Common enemy,” he said. “That, and a little nudge to their pride as thieves.”
He winced as she tied off the bandage, then glanced around. “Where’s Fortune? Tomen show up yet?”
“Fortune and Zaun are still dealing with Aurelio,” Isobel answered. “And Tomen’s not coming.”
Graves cursed under his breath. “Aspect-damn it, I’m not walking out of here empty-handed.”
“We won’t,” Fate’s voice cut in. He approached with Orville—the same statue he had been conferring with. “This is Orville. Turns out he can… influence the others.”
Orville’s hollow eyes shifted to Isobel, his stone-carved jaw tightening. “You didn’t tell me one of your allies was a Noxian assassin.” The word dripped venom, and it struck like a blade.
Fate froze mid-step. Graves turned sharply, his cigar tilting. “What?” they said in unison.
Isobel straightened, mask hiding little of the fire in her stance. She met Orville’s dead gaze without flinching. “I left that life the day they ordered me to die. I’m Syren now. Loyal to Captain Fortune.”
Orville stepped closer, towering over her. “Once a snake, always a snake.”
Fate quickly wedged himself between them, hands raised. “Hey! Enough. I vouch for her. And if you want out of here, you’ll need every ally your undead ass can get.” His eyes locked with Orville’s—steel against fire.
The statue held his gaze for a long moment, something simmering in those hollow depths, before finally stepping back with a grunt. “Fine.” He moved to rejoin the others.
Fate exhaled sharply, then turned back to Isobel. “Now—please tell me you’ve got a way out that doesn’t end with three dozen human-shaped sapphilite bombs going off.”
Isobel’s eyes darted toward the broken wall of the dance hall. A plan began to knit together. “We herd them into the ballroom. There’s a hole in the wall—we let the guests scatter through it.”
Graves frowned. “So what, we just walk out into the storm?”
“The halls are crawling with specters,” Isobel replied. “From the main hall, we might make the roof— if Tomen shows up. If not, we cut through the streets and head for the safe house.”
The mercenaries were about to argue when Ezreal’s voice cracked over the chaos.
“Guys! A little help here!” He ducked another crackling bolt of lightning, sweat streaking his face.
“Fine, let’s move. Isobel, you—” Fate began, but she cut him off with a shake of her head.
“No. They trust you. You lead them to the hall. Graves and I will help the others cover the rear—and deal with Marvolio and Artia.” Her feet were already moving toward the fight.
Fate hesitated, then exchanged a grim nod with Graves. “Alright. Everyone with me!” he called, motioning the statues into formation as he led them toward the main hall.
Isobel sprinted across the floor, knives gleaming, Graves close at her side. He lunged at Marvolio with a roar, slamming his shoulder into the mage and wrenching him away from Ezreal.
“Round two, motherfucker!” Graves bellowed. “You’re gonna pay for what you did to my gun!”
Marvolio shrieked in fury, firing wild bolts as he stumbled back.
On the other side, Illaoi wrestled Artia in a clash of steel and raw force. A knife whistled through the air and buried itself in Artia’s shoulder, breaking her rhythm.
Illaoi spared a glance at Isobel. “Worked out a plan?”
Isobel drew another blade, standing at her side. “Yeah. Follow my lead. We’re leaving. ”
Fate led the taxidermied statues through the winding halls of the Sirmago estate. They marched with a grotesque stiffness, their hollow shells creaking with every step. The black mist had given them motion, but not life—they moved like puppets half-rotted from their strings. Fate glanced back now and then; at the rear, his allies held the line, making sure Marvolio and Artia never drew too close.
At last, the main hall loomed ahead. But before Fate could breathe a word of relief, Isobel came running up beside him, her mask darkened with soot and sweat.
“We need your cards,” she said, her breath sharp. “We’re going to collapse the hall behind us. It’s the only way. If those two dogs keep chasing us, we’ll never make it out. A blockade will buy us time.”
Fate’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Alright. Take these.” He pressed several red cards into her hand, their edges glowing faintly with dangerous heat. “Plant them along the hall. Signal me when you’re ready—I’ll light them.”
She didn’t hesitate. With a curt nod, Isobel vanished back into the fray.
“Orville!” Fate barked. “Pick up the pace.”
The Demacian statue gave a stiff jerk of acknowledgment, and the legion of grotesque guardians began to lurch faster, their sapphilite-filled corpses scraping along the halls.
At the rear, the clash was ferocious . Illaoi’s summoned tentacles crashed into the walls and floor, pinning Marvolio and Artia in a storm of divine strength. Graves and Ezreal had fought shoulder to shoulder, their breathing was ragged.
“They just keep coming! ” Graves spat between breaths. “That damned potion’s knitting their wounds back together.”
“How’d you drop Artom?” he demanded.
Ezreal fired another shot, panting. “Sapphilite. Burned him to ash.”
Graves cursed. “If only we could use one of those statues… that’d stop them cold.”
“And blow the whole place sky-high,” Isobel countered, sliding up beside them. She pressed cards into their hands. “Too much sapphilite packed in their guts. We’d be vapor before we reached the safehouse. Place these charges and run.”
The two men nodded grimly and set to work.
“Illaoi!” Isobel shouted. “We’re ready!”
The priestess raised her idol high, her voice carrying like a war drum. A forest of spectral tentacles erupted, slamming into the floor and walls, weaving together into a barricade of divine flesh. Marvolio and Artia hurled themselves against it, shrieking in rage, but Illaoi only pressed harder, her body glowing with the will of Nagakabouros. At last, she turned and sprinted after the others.
“Now!”
The word rang down the hall. Fate’s cards flared, then detonated in a roar of flame and thunder. The ceiling gave way, collapsing in a storm of stone and timber. The hall filled with dust, entombing their pursuers behind the wreckage.
Isobel and Illaoi burst into the main hall, slamming the heavy doors shut behind them.
They had only a heartbeat to catch their breath before Fate’s voice rang out. “Why are you stopping?”
The group turned. Their allies were gathered at the far end of the chamber, poised to escape through the shattered opening they had carved. But the statues stood frozen, motionless as tombstones.
“We have to keep moving!” Graves growled, cigar smoke curling from his lips.
“We’re so close!” Ezreal added, desperation in his voice.
Orville strained to speak, his stone body shuddering. “W—we can’t… something… stopping us—” His words broke, and with a final lurch, he froze in place like the others.
“Fate!” Isobel’s voice cut sharply through the hall. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t—” Fate began, but the rest was drowned out by gunfire .
The sharp crack of pistols echoed from above. The sound grew closer, closer—until the doors on the second floor burst open in a thunder of splintered wood.
Zaun stumbled through first, smoke curling from her guns, followed closely by Fortune. Both women were running hard, shadows snapping at their heels. They skidded down the grand staircase, eyes widening as they saw their comrades and the unmoving statues.
“Fortune!” Illaoi roared.
“Zaun!” Isobel echoed, half in disbelief.
The two newcomers reached the hall’s floor, and Illaoi barreled to meet them. “What are you running from?” she demanded.
For a heartbeat, neither answered—they only scanned the hall, taking stock of the situation. Then Zaun snapped, “Quick! We have to move before—”
Her words were cut short.
The statues screamed.
Every single one. A piercing, bone-rattling chorus erupted from their hollow throats, so loud the air itself seemed to splinter. The group staggered, clutching their ears, their skulls thrumming with pain.
Then, the mist came.
It poured like a waterfall down the grand staircase, thick and suffocating, seeping into every corner of the hall.
“Illaoi! Do something!” Fortune’s shout rose above the cacophony.
The priestess stood firm, lifting her idol high. Golden light burned across her tattoos, spilling outward in waves. A dome of radiant energy shimmered into being, wrapping the group in its embrace. The screams dulled. The mist clawed at the barrier but could not enter. Slowly, raggedly, they caught their breath.
“Thanks,” Ezreal gasped.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Illaoi said darkly. Her eyes were fixed on the staircase above.
One by one, the others turned.
A figure descended to the landing. A man—or what was left of one. His body glowed faintly with an unnatural green light, and from his hands poured endless streams of black mist, thick as tar.
Graves’ voice came low, tight. “What in the void is that ?”
Fortune leveled her pistols, her voice steady but grim. “ Aurelio Sirmago. ”
The group braced themselves.
“Get ready,” Fortune commanded.
And the final battle began.
Notes:
Thanks for Reading!
I'm back! Sorry for the wait.
To be honest, I was unsure of where I wanted to take the story and Jinx's character. But I sat down, really thought about it, and came up with an idea I'm really satisfied with. So I hope you're excited.
I already planned and outlined the chapters all the way up to the end of this part. I will be releasing them as soon as I finish writing and editing them. At least once a week.
Also. For LC week, I wrote a story that connects to this one, so if you're interested, you can read 'She Wants It, So I'm Going to Get It'. It's a possible future for this Jinx.
Chapter 25: Ash and Memories
Summary:
The crew makes a final stand.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 25: Ash and Memories
The air in the grand hall was heavy, thick with a suffocating stillness that dulled even the storm raging beyond the shattered walls. The thunder outside was a distant memory here, swallowed whole by the black mist that seeped through every corner, muffling sound, choking light.
From the top of the grand staircase, a figure began to descend. Aurelio.
He did not walk so much as glide, each step soundless upon the marble, as though the world itself dared not acknowledge his tread. From his open palms, the black mist poured in endless streams, trailing behind him like a shroud, cloaking his frame in a cape spun from shadow. Against that consuming darkness, his body glowed faintly, an eerie, spectral green that clung to him like a second skin.
The crew huddled within Illaoi’s radiant sphere of protection, eyes fixed on the apparition. Graves squinted, his voice low but heavy with disbelief.
“How in the void is
that
Aurelio? How is he still alive?”
As the figure drew nearer, the truth became grotesquely clear. His body was broken, drenched in his own blood. Deep rents tore across his neck and torso, wounds no man could have survived. Yet he moved, unbound by mortal pain, his gaze sharp and purposeful.
Fortune’s voice cut through the silence, quick and bitter.
“Malek’s dogs tried to kill him. And they did. But somehow… he
bent
the mist to his will.”
“That’s not possible,” Twisted Fate muttered, his usual calm shaken. “The dead in the mist don’t return with minds of their own. They come back hollow. Puppets .”
Ezreal’s brow furrowed, a thought forming. “The waters… Could it—?”
The others stiffened as realization dawned, their breaths catching all at once. Illaoi alone gave it voice.
“Yes.”
Fortune turned on her, sharp. “What do you mean, Illaoi?”
The priestess’s reply was cold, wrath simmering beneath every syllable. “Marvolio desecrated the sacred waters. He brewed a potion from them—granting vitality, rapid healing, strength beyond reason. He turned the Blessed Isles ' gift into corruption.”
Her fury was truth enough, but before Fortune could speak again, the answer came from Aurelio himself.
“You’re exactly right, priestess of the Bearded Lady! ”
The voice that filled the hall was not wholly human —smooth, resonant, steeped in both mockery and triumph. The crew turned toward him fully, bracing themselves as he stretched his arms wide.
“Marvolio exceeded himself. His potion gave me not just life, but dominion! ” His laughter followed, low and rolling, swelling into a cackle so vile it scraped across the bones of those who heard it. “I’ve gained so much power!”
At his command, the statues around them lurched, their hollow throats unleashing a deafening chorus of screams, a wail that rattled the shield and frayed nerves. Then, as abruptly as it began, the cacophony ceased. Aurelio closed his hand into a fist, and silence obeyed.
“I no longer need the might of Noxus ,” he sneered. His arms rose again, and this time the mist itself writhed in answer. Figures began to take shape—ghostly forms clawing their way from shadow into being. Faces twisted with agony, warriors, sailors, innocents alike—all who had perished in the mist, now chained to Aurelio’s will. They filled the staircase behind him, a tide of spectral green, endless and hungry.
“Every soul the mist has ever claimed ,” Aurelio’s voice thundered, “now bends at my will!”
The statues shifted into formation with grim precision, while the specters slithered down the steps in unison, their cries swelling like a war drum.
Fortune’s pistol came up, her teeth bared. “You’re nothing but a corpse clawing for scraps, Aurelio! After tonight, you’ll be ash and memory.”
Her rage cracked like a whip, but Aurelio only laughed, the sound dripping with scorn.
“No, Sarah Fortune. After tonight, I
am
Bilgewater. And you—” his eyes gleamed, venomous—“you’ll just be another thief who tried and failed to take what is mine.”
He slammed his fist downward, and the hall obeyed. The specters hurled themselves against Illaoi’s barrier, their blows like hammer strikes on glass. The statues marched away, moving to form a perimeter around their master, leaving the crew alone and surrounded.
Inside the shield, the group pressed together, back to back, as the protective light strained under the assault. The golden glow flickered with every strike, the tattoos etched on Illaoi’s skin burning as she fought to hold the wall. Sweat rolled down her temple.
“Sarah!” she roared. “I cannot hold them for long!”
“Shit!” Graves growled, teeth gritted.
“Captain, what’s the play? Tomen’s not here!” Isobel called out, worry beginning to creep.
“We can’t stay here,” Ezreal snapped, pointing toward the jagged hole torn into the wall—their one chance at escape.
Fortune’s gaze darted between the exit and Aurelio’s looming form, her jaw locking, hatred flaring in her chest. Every instinct screamed to stand and fight, to end him here, to avenge her family, her city. But then a hand settled on her shoulder.
She turned. Zaun’s eyes, glowing faintly pink, met hers.
“Ashes won’t build a better Bilgewater,” she said softly.
The words landed like a blade between Fortune’s ribs.
And for the first time, Sarah Fortune hesitated.
Her jaw clenched, voice breaking into a growl that carried her fury.
“Fuck! If Tomen had been here— ah! ” She caught herself, pulling in a ragged breath. Her eyes swept over the crew, weighing their exhaustion against the fire still burning in their eyes. Then, as captain , she made the call.
“We’re leaving!” Her voice cut sharply through the chaos. “Ezreal, Fate, Zaun—clear us a path. Illaoi, when I say go, you drop the shield.”
Around her, the crew fell into motion.
“Void take it, I hate leaving empty-handed,” Graves spat, but his feet were already planting firm.
Zaun didn’t curse, didn’t complain. Isobel caught the look in her eyes instead—grim, resigned, unshaken.
“Tomen wasn’t ready for this,” Isobel muttered. “
None
of us were.”
Zaun only answered by hefting her minigun, the barrels already spinning. Ezreal’s gauntlet hummed as blue arcs crawled up its plates, while Fate’s cards began to shimmer and whirl in the dim light. Graves and Isobel took their places at the rear, shoulders taut, legs coiled like springs.
Fortune spared one last glance up the stairs, at Aurelio’s silhouette framed in mist. Green eyes burned with hatred—but hate wouldn’t win them this fight. She turned, pistols steady in her hands.
“Ready,” she said. Her voice was steel.
The barrels whirred. The gauntlet hummed louder. Cards rose like a storm waiting to break.
“ Go! ” Fortune roared.
Illaoi’s shield dropped in an instant. The hall erupted . Zaun’s gun screamed to life, belching streams of hextech fire. Fate’s cards spun out, glowing streaks slicing specters to dust. Ezreal’s gauntlet loosed bolt after bolt, arcs searing through the mist.
A path tore open before them, and they ran .
The mist closed on them like a sea trying to drown them, thick and clinging, tendrils dragging at their ankles like skeletal hands. Specters surged from all sides, shrieking, clawing, striking to hold them down. The crew carved and kicked and blasted their way through, lungs burning, muscles straining, every step a battle.
The exit loomed ahead—a hole blasted through the wall, the storm outside raging like salvation itself. They were seconds from freedom when lightning cracked across their path, scorching the floor and hurling them back.
The crew skidded to a stop, heads snapping toward the source.
At the exhibition doors stood Artia and Marvolio . Their bodies bore the marks of the explosion—the burns, the bruises, the gashes—but those wounds closed even as they watched, flesh knitting with unnatural speed.
“Where do you think you rats are going?” Artia shrieked, her voice sharp as glass.
“You’re not leaving me behind, Fate!” Marvolio’s voice thundered with fury as another bolt of lightning lanced across the room, crackling between them.
“They never stop!” Graves bellowed, stepping back as the two villains closed the distance.
Artia and Marvolio sprinted, unnervingly fast, cutting off the exit. The horde swarmed again, pressing from behind. Trapped .
A streak of lightning flared—but this time, Illaoi raised her idol. The golden relic caught the strike, but the force drove her to one knee, the smell of scorched flesh curling into the air.
“Ahhh!” she cried out, teeth clenched against the pain.
Ezreal was at her side in an instant, hand extended. “You okay?”
She seized his wrist and rose, unbowed. “It’ll take more than that to break me.”
But the tide was rising again. Around them, the dead pressed closer, clawing at Illaoi’s barrier as she forced it up once more—a smaller sphere, thicker, burning brighter as her tattoos flared like holy fire.
“I’ll hold them,” she snarled. “But not for long.”
Fortune’s eyes darted between her crew. They were running out of time, out of options.
“Captain?” Isobel’s voice cut through, desperate but steady.
Fortune’s silence was answer enough. For once, she had no plan.
Then the mist itself seemed to pause, like a held breath. Aurelio’s voice slithered across the hall, cold and mocking. “ Trapped . Just as rats should be.”
The shadows stilled. The specters halted mid-swipe. Even Artia and Marvolio froze at the command of that voice.
“Oh, Sarah Fortune,” Aurelio continued, gliding down the stairs, the sapphilite corpses following in step. “I’ll grant you this much—you’ve come closer than any before you. But even you have failed.”
He raised his arm. The mist quivered, ready to strike. “Say hello to your mo—”
He never finished.
Zaun stiffened, her gaze snapping toward the exit , her head cocked to one side as if catching something distant.
“What is it?” Artia sneered—then stopped mid-sentence. She heard it too.
One by one, all eyes turned toward the ragged hole that opened to the storm outside.
“What’s happening?” Ezreal asked.
A grin broke across Zaun’s face. “What is that noise?” Marvolio demanded.
“Zaun? Talk to me,” Fortune pressed.
Her minigun stilled for a heartbeat. Her grin widened. “Our ride’s here.”
At first, it was faint—a thrum beneath the storm, a beat threading through the thunder. Then clearer: voices, music, raw and defiant, slicing through the mist.
“… In chaos, I reign—tear this place apart …”
The sound grew , swelling until it filled the hall. “ Rebel heart! ” the chorus thundered.
Blue light flared from the street outside, flooding the windows in brilliance. A flare had landed, painting the mist in sapphire glow.
“It’s Tomen! ” Ezreal shouted, relief breaking across his face.
“ Who did you call, Fortune?!” Aurelio’s rage cracked like a whip, echoing through the chamber.
But the captain only looked back at him, her green eyes alight with a wicked fire. She lifted her pistols, spinning them once in her hands before leveling them at his chest.
“Everyone,” she called.
The crew turned to her, every muscle coiled, every breath sharp.
“The plan’s back on,” she said, her voice like thunder.
And then, with a grin that cut as deep as a blade, she roared:
“We’re leaving this place— with the sapphilite! ”
“Now we’re talking!” Graves cracked his knuckles, stance wide and eager for the fight.
“And how in the void are we doing that, Fortune?” Twisted Fate demanded, cards flickering at his fingertips, his voice sharpened with impatience.
“Whatever you’re thinking, do it quick!” Illaoi bellowed, her massive frame bracing against the howling tide of specters and black mist that battered at her barrier. The swirling storm clawed at their defenses like a living hurricane , pressing closer with each passing second. Outside, the enemy waited with hungry stillness, poised to strike the moment the shield gave way.
Fortune’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “Alright. Two objectives. One: get the statues to the roof.” She paced, red hair gleaming in the flickering light of the barrier, eyes blazing with reckless resolve. “Two: make damn sure they don’t follow. Here’s how we’re going to do it…”
The crew leaned in, listening with the grim focus of cornered animals. Beyond the barrier, Aurelio’s unblinking gaze remained fixed on Fortune. Beside him, Artia and Marvolio circled the shimmering shield with the patience of wolves, ready to lunge once it cracked.
And then—something shifted. The predators outside slowed, puzzled by what they saw within. The thieves had drawn close, backs pressed together, faces grim, everybody poised like a coiled spring.
But their eyes turned to one figure.
Zaun.
She raised a small canister high above her head, its metal gleam catching the light. A silent promise. The crew beside her didn’t need words; they braced , eyes shutting tight, hands snapping over ears.
The foes beyond were too slow to realize what was coming.
Illaoi let the shield collapse. The black mist howled inward.
Zaun slammed the canister against the stone floor.
A thunderclap split the air—an ear-rending crack that shook the ground beneath their feet. Light flared white-hot, swallowing all sight in its blinding wash.
Screams erupted from the enemy line, disoriented and staggering.
The crew did not waste the opening. As smoke rolled outward, they broke apart into motion, scattering into the storm to begin Fortune’s desperate, final plan.
–
Half-blinded, half-deaf, Marvolio staggered beneath the ringing in his ears. His vision swam, but instinct drove his hand up, crackling with unstable energy. A jagged bolt of lightning leapt from his palm, wild and aimless, tearing across the hall toward where the crew had stood—only to hit nothing.
His sight cleared just in time for another glow to seize his attention—not his own magic, but the sharp, radiant blue of an arcane bolt screaming toward him. He barely raised his arm in time. The blast scorched his flesh and hurled him back against a marble pillar. The impact ripped the breath from his chest, blood spraying from his lips as he slumped against the stone.
For a moment, he sat still, forcing his body to knit itself back together. His eyes rose, scanning through the haze. The thieves were scattering now, each moving with deadly purpose. His focus snapped to one target— Fate.
But before he could raise his hand again, another arcane flash cut through his peripheral. The shot struck his shoulder, spinning him sideways into the wall. His scream tore free unbidden, echoing through the grand hall.
Ezreal vaulted into view, bounding off crumbling stone and weaving through the dead, his gauntlet flaring with surging light. “We’re not finished yet!” the explorer roared, unleashing another bolt.
“Annoying brat!” Marvolio spat, fury twisting his face as he twisted aside, barely evading the next strike. His rage boiled, the Piltovan boy standing between him and his true quarry. Their duel raged on.
–
Across the hall, twin pistols sang their relentless tune. Artia darted through the chaos, skirts torn and bloodied, her potion-driven body mending wounds as fast as they opened. Every time she thought she found an opening, another heart-carved bullet hissed past her cheek, grazing her flesh, searing her fury.
“What happened to that smug tongue, Artia?! ” Fortune taunted, weaving between specters, her pistols never missing a beat. “This is a fight—why are you running?”
“You red-haired sea witch!” Artia shrieked, parrying with sheer desperation. “When I get my blade in you, I’ll gut you where you stand!”
“You’d have to catch me first!” Fortune fired back, her grin as sharp as her bullets.
She pressed her advance ruthlessly—sliding under grasping claws, vaulting over the dead, every move a blur of fluid violence. Her goal was clear: drive Artia to the far end of the hall, away from the center. And with each step, each graze of a bullet that forced the Sirmago daughter back, she carved that separation deeper.
Their duel became its own storm—Fortune’s fury against Artia’s desperation.
–
At the heart of the hall, the roar of gunfire thundered. Graves stood grinning wide, cigar clamped between his teeth, both arms straining to control the wild recoil of Zaun’s minigun. The weapon screamed in his hands, each arcane round ripping through specters in sprays of green mist.
“Ha! Damn, Blue—this thing hits harder than a cannon!” Graves barked, laughter rolling out as bullets chewed through Aurelio’s summons.
From the shadows of the mist, Aurelio advanced, his corpse-light eyes burning with wrath. “Insolent fool!” he thundered, his arms commanding the dead to swarm faster, harder. “You think you can win against me? ”
Graves planted his feet, teeth clenched around his cigar as he swung the weapon with brute strength. Every volley tore through the horde, but the effort drove him back step by step. He welcomed it, dragging Aurelio with him, peeling him away from the statues.
“Old man!” Graves bellowed above the chaos, voice dripping venom. “Thought you’d be stronger. Turns out you’re nothing but Gangplank’s favorite bitch —his piggy bank on a leash!” His laughter cut across the storm like gunfire.
Aurelio’s composure cracked . With a roar, he surged forward, his ghosts accelerating, their strikes biting closer to Graves’ flesh.
That’s right , Graves thought as he drew the patriarch further from the center. Follow me, you undead bucket of chum.
–
Beyond the din, the crew’s purpose sharpened. Fate and Illaoi were already pushing toward the statues, Illaoi’s idol blazing with sacred power. Zaun and Isobel slipped through the shadows like daggers waiting to strike, inching closer to bring the roof down.
Each of them carried the same singular thought, burning in unison:
Just a little longer.
And we’ll win.
–
While the Sirmagos clashed with their allies, Twisted Fate and Illaoi slipped toward the row of statues stationed at the back of the chamber. They loomed in solemn silence, their dead gazes fixed forward, as though untouched by the chaos erupting around them.
“Can you manage moving them all, Fate?” Illaoi called, her deep voice rumbling even as she swung her idol into the side of a shrieking specter. The spirit shattered like mist on stone.
“That was the plan from the start,” the cardsharp replied, sidestepping an ethereal claw that tore through the air where his chest had been a moment earlier. His gloved fingers flicked through a glowing deck, cards sparking with magic. “If it’s just to the roof, won’t be a problem. It’s the whole pack at once that’ll be tricky.”
“And that,” Illaoi barked, a wild grin flashing across her face, “is where I come in.”
But the statues were not so willing to be moved.
The instant Fate drew close, pressing a blue-glowing card against the edge of Orville’s carved Demacian cape, the stone figure shuddered. Its head tilted back with a grinding crack, and its mouth split open in a howl that wasn’t stone at all.
“ Thief! ”
The sound was ragged, unnatural—like the dead themselves had been stuffed into the statue’s throat.
Every other statue’s head twitched at once, snapping toward them with jerky, puppet-like movements. Hollow eyes flared with a sickly light.
“ Thieves! Thieves! ” they shrieked, each word broken, warped, echoing as if dragged from tombs long sealed.
The chorus cut through the chamber, drowning the clash of steel and the howling storm outside.
Fate staggered back, clapping his hands over his ears. Even the gambler’s usual swagger faltered beneath the piercing wail. Illaoi only grimaced, squaring her shoulders against the sound.
“Fate!” she bellowed over the cacophony. “Start tagging them!”
She slammed her idol down, the impact cracking the stone floor. From the fissures, glowing green tentacles burst forth, writhing and lashing around the nearest statues. Each one strained against the bindings, stone grinding and cracking as though the dead within fought to escape.
Fate flinched once more, then forced himself into motion, teeth clenched tight. Blue cards spun between his fingers as he darted from statue to statue, marking them with glowing sigils even as specters swarmed at his heels. The gambler’s movements were sharp, desperate, every flick of his wrist timed between dodging ghostly claws that passed inches from his throat.
Illaoi’s tentacles slammed down again, wrapping chains of spectral flesh around stone ankles and arms, wrenching the statues together. Each movement had to be measured, careful—too much force, and sapphilite might crack, ending their mission in a single careless heartbeat.
The chamber became a battlefield of its own. Fate’s glowing cards stitched across the statues, Illaoi’s tentacles anchoring them in place, while all around the dead screamed their accusation—
“
Thieves! Thieves!
”
And still, the clock was ticking. Isobel and Zaun had their own work to finish.
–
“Finished with this side,” Isobel said, brushing dust from her gloves as she pointed toward the far end of the hall. “Next target.”
Zaun only nodded, her pink eyes gleaming in the dim light. She snapped her pistol up, shots ringing sharp and precise, each round burning through a specter before it could drift too close. She was already moving ahead, her speed carrying her like lightning through the gloom, clearing the path so Isobel could work.
They slipped from shadow to shadow, hugging the marble pillars that lined the grand hall. On one end, Fate and Illaoi wrestled with shrieking statues; on the other, Graves and Fortune kept the Sirmagos busy. Between those storms, the two women worked methodically, stringing together their own destruction—grenades tucked against supports, charges laced with sapphilite phials, even enchanted playing cards taped into place. Anything they had on hand to bring the roof down over the Sirmagos’ heads.
“You always bring this many explosives to a job?” Isobel asked dryly as she armed another pillar.
“I usually bring more, ” Zaun quipped, casually blasting apart three specters that slipped too close. She twirled the pistol on her finger before holstering it, then dashed forward, moving with impossible speed as her knife found another target. “Explosions are sort of my calling card.”
Isobel chuckled, the sound quick and easy despite the danger. She knelt by the next pillar, fastening another charge. “Hey—have you noticed?”
Zaun glanced back, curious. “What? Run out already?”
“Not yet.” Isobel grinned under her mask. “You’re smiling again.”
The words hit Zaun harder than a bullet. She froze mid-step, her hand rising unconsciously to her mouth. She hadn’t realized. The grin was still there—unbidden, alive.
Isobel rose and laid an arm across her shoulder, steady and warm even in the chaos. Their eyes met. “Don’t know if it’s the thrill,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But it suits you. Looks like you’re finding yourself.”
Finding myself? Zaun wanted to ask, but the words caught in her throat.
“Let’s get to the next one, we’re almost fi—” Isobel started to say.
Zaun cut her off. She grabbed Isobel and yanked her aside just in time. A blur of motion tore through the center of the hall— Graves , flung like a cannonball across the chamber. He slammed into the wall with bone-rattling force, stone splintering beneath his weight.
Zaun’s arm still held Isobel close, their bodies pressed together. Isobel’s eyes widened, realization dawning—if not for Zaun, she would have been standing where Graves now lay.
“Graves!” she cried, rushing to him as he groaned beneath the weight of the minigun.
The mercenary coughed, spat, then dragged the weapon off his chest with a grimace. “I’m fine… just need a second,” he rasped.
“Isobel, finish the setup,” Zaun said firmly, stepping in front of them. Her eyes were locked ahead—on Aurelio , striding through the chaos like a nightmare given flesh.
“No, I’ll help—” Isobel started, but Zaun cut her off.
“What do you say, Smoke ? Up for a team-up?” she asked without looking back.
Graves planted a heavy hand on Isobel’s shoulder, steadying her. He barked a laugh, even through the blood in his teeth. “I could’ve handled him myself,” he said, forcing bravado into his gravelly voice as he rose, hefting the minigun once more. He looked to Isobel then, his tone softening. “But… we’re short on time. Go finish the job.”
Isobel hesitated, then nodded. She understood. With one last look, she slipped back into the shadows, leaving them to hold the line.
Zaun’s lips curled into a grin. “Yeah, right. Let me show you how it’s done. Cover me.”
Before Graves could even curse, she was gone—vanishing in a crackle of pink lightning. A heartbeat later, Aurelio’s jaw snapped sideways as her fist connected, the impact echoing like a thunderclap. The patriarch staggered, stunned, as she landed lightly in front of him.
“You look surprised, fishface ,” Zaun taunted, flicking two fingers toward him in challenge. “Wanna dance with me?”
Aurelio’s eyes blazed with fury.
And so it began: Zaun and Graves against the patriarch of the Sirmagos, while Isobel moved through the shadows to finish planting the bombs that would end it all.
–
Fate darted behind the nearest statue, slapped a shimmering blue card against its back, and slid away just as one of Illaoi’s great tentacles lashed forward. The living coil wrapped around the stiffened corpse’s torso, dragging it into the writhing cluster of others she had already ensnared.
“That’s the last of them!” he shouted, his voice bouncing off the vaulted stone.
He straightened, chest heaving, and looked upon the product of their desperate plan. At the far end of the hall, near the grand staircase, nearly three dozen reanimated husks had been bound together—taxidermied mockeries of men and women, their seams splitting, their joints creaking as they strained against their fate. Illaoi’s tentacles pinned them in a grotesque ring, each corpse jerking and twisting, desperate to break free but finding no purchase.
And inside those hollow shells glimmered the wealth of the Sirmagos—their cursed vault of sapphilite.
“We got them!” Fate barked, half in triumph, half in disbelief.
Illaoi roared back, her voice ragged with effort. Her arms trembled as she lifted her idol high, the golden mass glowing, her tattoos searing like molten brands across her skin. Each second was a battle; he could see it in the strain of her muscles, the thunder in her breath.
“I know! Just hold on, just a little longer—I’ll get—”
“ FATE! ”
The warning split the air.
He pivoted, too slow. Marvolio came barreling toward him, his face twisted with rage. Behind him, Ezreal was locked mid-stride, frozen in place by some cruel spell, his boots rooted to the ground like iron weights.
“You’re not going anywhere, Fate!” Marvolio spat. Sparks crackled across his fingers, condensing into a blade of lightning, jagged and deadly.
Fate tried to twist away, but the strike came too fast. He stumbled backward, the blade missing his chest by inches—yet searing into his arm.
Pain exploded white-hot.
He crashed onto his back, rolling clumsily to widen the distance. His eyes met Marvolio’s, cold and venomous, just as the lightning lanced deeper into his nerves. Fate screamed. His right arm convulsed uncontrollably, fingers clawing the air as arcs of blue fire danced beneath his skin. The smell of scorched leather and flesh filled his nose.
He crumpled to his side, gasping, the world spinning, while Marvolio advanced with murder in his eyes.
“ Hurts , doesn’t it?”
Marvolio loomed over him, his voice thick with satisfaction. The pain was unbearable—like molten iron had been poured straight into Fate’s veins. His arm spasmed, dead weight at his side, while the rest of his body curled against the searing agony.
Illaoi stood frozen, unable to move without losing control of the statues writhing in her grip. Ezreal, caught in the snares of a binding spell, could do nothing but watch, teeth clenched in helpless fury.
“You remember this spell, don’t you?” Marvolio sneered as he drove his boot into Fate’s gut, sending him skidding across the polished stone until his back cracked against the staircase. Blood sprayed from his lips. “After all, you were there when I created it.”
He advanced leisurely, the cruel smile never leaving his face. “A spell of electricity, designed to stun and torment. You liked it enough to steal it , to twist it into those pretty little cards of yours, didn’t you?” His laughter echoed in the hall like broken glass.
Fate coughed, struggling for breath. His voice was a rasp. “…created it.”
“What was that?” Marvolio leaned in, turning his ear toward him. “Speak up.”
“I created it,” Fate whispered, eyes glinting with defiance. “I taught you how to use it.”
The words struck deep. Marvolio’s expression cracked, rage flashing through his features. He seized Fate by the collar, hauling him upright and slamming him against the wall. Fate’s legs barely held; his right arm hung useless at his side.
“You’re lucky it only scorched your arm,” Marvolio hissed. “Had it struck your chest, your heart would’ve stopped in a blink. But we’ve still got time…” He stepped back, his palm crackling with fresh lightning. “So let’s enjoy this.”
The next bolt ripped into Fate, not to kill but to torture . His body arched, convulsing, a strangled scream torn from his throat. When it stopped, he sagged against the wall, panting, smoke rising from his scorched sleeve.
Marvolio bent double in laughter, cruel and unrestrained. Illaoi’s jaw clenched—she nearly loosed her hold on the statues, nearly unleashed hell—but then she caught Fate’s eyes. His look was sharp, deliberate: Don’t.
Then, slowly, painfully, he shifted his gaze toward Ezreal. With his one good hand, Fate made a small, precise gesture behind Marvolio’s back, mouthing silent words. Ezreal narrowed his eyes, reading the signs, following the intent.
Marvolio straightened, his laughter ebbing into something darker. His eyes burned with anger, with longing. He stepped closer. “I want to know something before I kill you.” His voice trembled, not with weakness, but with memory. “ Why did you leave me that day? Why did you abandon me?”
The question froze Fate’s blood. It was the one he had dreaded, the one he had buried in guilt.
“I thought we—”
“It was a mistake!” The words ripped from Fate, raw and desperate.
Marvolio faltered, blinking. “A mistake?”
“I never meant to leave you behind,” Fate said, voice hoarse but steady. “The card I gave you—it was a dud . I told you, I was still working out the kinks.”
Marvolio’s breath caught. “No… You said it would work. You said it was our way out of that ship.” His voice shook now, fragments of the past clawing free.
“I know. And… I’m sorry ,” Fate whispered. “When we made our escape, I thought you’d be right behind me. But…you weren’t. I waited at the hideout for days. You never came back.” His throat tightened, the words heavy with shame . “I searched for those pirates, but they never returned to Bilgewater. I thought… I thought they killed you.”
Marvolio’s eyes flickered, storming with grief and disbelief.
“Years later,” Fate continued, softer now, “I heard whispers of a mage in Ionia, a man called Marvolio. I tried to write, to see if it was you. But I couldn’t. I was too ashamed. I thought you’d only ever…”
“ Blame you?” Marvolio finished for him.
Fate lowered his gaze. “…Yeah.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with years of betrayal and loss. At last, Marvolio exhaled, a shuddering, broken sound. “So it was… a mistake .”
“Yes,” Fate breathed. “And I am sorry—”
“I don’t believe you.”
The words cracked like thunder. Fate looked up, eyes wide, as tears welled in Marvolio’s. The mage’s face contorted, pain twisting into fury. “I don’t believe you!” he screamed, manifesting a dagger of pure lightning in his hand.
With a roar, he lunged.
Time slowed. Fate saw his old partner’s face, consumed by rage, by sorrow. And though every instinct screamed at him to move, he didn’t. He couldn’t .
But from the corner of his eye, a flash of blue light erupted.
Ezreal’s shot.
The arcane bolt struck Marvolio’s hand, forcing it inward. The dagger turned , and in his reckless momentum, Marvolio drove the lightning blade into his own chest.
The force carried him forward, crashing into Fate. For a heartbeat, they were pressed together, the echo of years between them in the space of a single breath.
Marvolio staggered back, eyes wide. He looked down at the wound, at his hand buried in his own body. Blood welled, faster than the potion could mend. Slowly, he drew it out, his strength failing with the motion. Blood spilled freely.
When he looked up, his gaze found Fate’s.
In those eyes, he saw everything: disbelief, relief, confusion… and sorrow . A sorrow deeper than the wound, a sorrow for what they had once been.
A faint smile touched Marvolio’s lips. Then he collapsed, lifeless , the spark gone.
–
Fate stood frozen, staring at Marvolio’s lifeless body. The world seemed to stretch—seconds dragging into hours—as silence pressed in around him.
A hand gripped his shoulder, firm, insistent. A voice cut through the haze.
“Fate, are you alright? You have to move! Illaoi can’t hold the statues much longer!”
Ezreal.
The words shattered the fog in Fate’s mind, pulling him back into the present. He tore his eyes from Marvolio and turned—first to the boy’s anxious face, then to the Buhru priestess straining to keep the sapphilite statues bound, then to the chaos still raging at the far end of the hall.
The mission. He remembered.
He tried to rise, but his body betrayed him. His knees buckled. His right arm hung dead at his side, and his veins still burned with the aftershock of electricity.
“Kid…” Fate rasped, his voice unsteady. “You’re gonna have to help me. I can’t load the statues on my own.”
Ezreal hesitated. His gaze flicked back to Marvolio’s body, worry shadowing his expression.
“He won’t be back in time,” Fate said quickly, steadying his tone. “By then, we’ll have dropped this whole damn mansion on their heads.”
That did it. Ezreal gave a sharp nod. “Alright. Okay. Let’s go.”
He ducked under Fate’s arm, slinging it over his shoulders, and hauled him to his feet. “Ready!” he called, meeting Illaoi’s eyes.
The priestess gave only a low grunt of acknowledgment, her broad frame bracing as the teleportation sigils flared.
Fate drew a deep, ragged breath, then shouted across the hall. “Fortune!”
The name cracked through the din of battle. For a heartbeat, steel stilled, and heads turned toward him.
The Sirmago twisted mid-duel, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the statues glowing blue —and the three thieves fading into the same light.
Aurelio broke off instantly, surging toward them.
“You can go all out!” Fate roared, his voice echoing against the stone. “Don’t keep us waiting!”
The flash consumed them—Fate, Ezreal, Illaoi, and the sapphilite alike—and when the light snapped away, they were gone.
Too late.
“Where?!” Aurelio’s bellow rattled the hall as he wheeled on the remaining thieves.
“The roof! Hurry, Father!” Artia cried, sprinting toward the staircase—
But the step never landed. A thunderous blast tore through the stairwell, hurling her backward. More explosions followed, shattering pillars, collapsing stone in a roaring cascade that buried the way upward beneath smoking rubble.
Father and daughter threw themselves aside, narrowly avoiding the crushing weight, and stumbled back to the center of the hall. Dust clouded the air, debris smoldering around them.
When it cleared, their eyes locked on the figures waiting across the chamber.
The thieves.
At their head stood a masked woman, her gloved hand wrapped around a detonator .
“Where do you think you’re going?” Zaun’s voice was low, dangerous. She stepped in front of Isobel. The others fanned out at her sides.
Fortune stepped forward, twin pistols gleaming in the firelight. Her gaze cut straight into Aurelio’s, unblinking, merciless.
She cocked the hammers back.
“Nothing more than ash and memories , Aurelio.”
Notes:
Thanks for Reading!
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Writing for so many characters has been difficult. I tried to give everyone a moment to shine. I hope the scene between Marvolio and Fate landed well. Also, I don't think I'll get around to writing it in, but Graves knows about Fate's past with Marvolio. Fate told him about it once.
Next week, Chapter 26: The Getaway. The final chapter of the heist. Hope you're ready for an explosive conclusion.
As always, feedback is welcome.
Chapter 26: The Getaway
Summary:
The Ending to the Greatest Sapphilite Heist in Bilgewater history!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 26: The Getaway
The storm howled against the airship with merciless force, every gust slamming into the hull like a hammer. Tomen gripped the helm until his knuckles whitened, straining with all his strength to keep the ship steady over the mansion. The vessel groaned under the strain, engines roaring as though protesting the storm itself.
This wasn’t how it was meant to go.
The plan had been clear, flawless. He had waited for the signal, keeping his course as the Syrens struck the Jagged Hooks’ strongholds, their fires lighting up Bilgewater in the distance. Everything was unfolding just as they had planned—until the mist rolled in.
He had seen it first from the harbor: a black tide swallowing the docks, darker than any night, heavier than smoke. Then came the horror that followed. The sea itself seemed to vomit up the spirits of the drowned—countless shapes rising out of the deep, their howls carried by the gale. They fell upon anyone too slow to find cover, tearing through flesh as easily as canvas sails.
Tomen had locked himself in the bridge, but the dead had not forgotten him. Pale faces and clawing hands slammed against the windows, rattling the glass with every strike. Panic decided for him. He took off.
There had been no signal—there could be none, not in that choking black mist—but staying meant death. Better to brave the storm above than let the dead drag him screaming into the sea.
The airship lurched skyward, engines straining, and as the deck tilted steeply, the spirits fell away, tumoring into the abyss below. For a moment, relief. But it didn’t last. The storm was waiting.
Circling Grey Harbor was a battle in itself. The winds tore at him from every side, the rain lashed the hull in sheets like steel shot, and the mist rose higher here, swallowing the horizon whole. Thunder cracked so violently it shook his bones. He expected the worst. No one could live through that—not his crew, not his allies. The rendezvous time had long since passed.
And yet he stayed.
He couldn’t explain why. His hands stayed on the helm when they could have turned to safer skies. His eyes scanned the storm when they should have closed in resignation. Maybe it was madness, maybe duty—but if they lived, if even one of them survived that house, he was their only way out. And he would not abandon them.
Then, through the storm, a miracle.
A flash of blue tore through the mist—a light, faint but unmistakable, burning against the dark. The signal.
Tomen’s chest tightened. His fear didn’t vanish, but it became something else—something he could wield. He reached for the ship’s speakers, flooding the storm with blaring music, drowning out the drum of his own heartbeat. Then he set his jaw, hauled the helm, and steered the ship straight into the gale.
The tempest met him with teeth, but he was no greenhorned pilot. He leaned into the wind, felt the ship buck and strain beneath him, and guided her with every ounce of skill earned on unforgiving journeys.
And somehow, he made it through.
The mansion appeared below, half-sunken in the black mist, its roof barely visible through the storm. Tomen steadied the ship above it, tossed out a flare, and breathed heavily, hands aching from the helm.
Now, there was nothing left to do but wait—and pray the blue light hadn’t been a false call.
–
Tomen wrestled with the helm, every muscle straining to keep the ship steady against the raging winds. The storm clawed at the vessel as if trying to drag it down, and all the while, one thought circled in his head like the gale outside.
Come on… where are you?
He muttered the words under his breath again and again, his eyes fixed on the mirrors bolted near the helm—tools meant for landing, now his only glimpse of the rooftop below.
Through the rain-smeared glass, he spotted it at last: the tarp. Even half-soaked and battered, the monkey painted on its surface was still visible. His signal. His anchor.
But no one was there.
Worry gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. Was he too late? What if someone else reached the roof first? Shadows of doubt circled his mind as violently as the storm itself.
Then—light.
A sudden flash made him flinch and close his eyes, but when he dared look again, he froze. A crowd had appeared on the tarp, far larger than he had expected. Too many. His heart sank until he noticed the circle binding them together, glowing green against the storm.
And to a side stood the Buhru priestess, idol raised high, her tattoos burning with the same divine light.
Tomen’s eyes darted across the figures—and there. Twisted Fate, limping toward, wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Ezreal stood at his side. Alive.
Another flash of light made him recoil—this one not from below, but inside. The bridge itself shimmered, and suddenly they were there: Fate and Illaoi, water streaming from their clothes, both of them breathing hard.
“Quickly, open the cargo hold and lower the ropes!” Fate barked, his voice cutting through the storm like a blade.
“What—Fate?!” Tomen stammered, nearly losing his grip on the helm. “What the void is going on? Who are those people down there?”
But before he could make sense of it, he saw Illaoi in full—the glow racing across her tattoos, her jaw clenched in sheer effort as she held her idol aloft. The air around her thrummed with power.
“Where are the others?” Tomen demanded, half-shouting over the wind.
“They’re the loot,” Fate said quickly, gripping Tomen’s shoulder for balance. His eyes were fierce, unflinching despite the storm. “The others are holding them off. We stick to the plan!”
Tomen couldn’t make sense of it—the loot? people?—but there was no time to argue. He followed instinct and trust. “Fine! I’ll keep her steady, but you’ll have to hit the release yourself!”
Fate staggered to the control panel, slamming the switch. A shudder ran through the ship as the cargo doors opened, and ropes uncoiled into the storm.
Below, Ezreal leapt into motion. Tomen watched him through the mirror—small, quick, a spark of confidence in the chaos. The boy fastened each rope to the corners of the tarp, left arm glowing with arcane energy. When he was finished, he fired a bolt skyward. The signal.
The ship’s winches whirred to life. Slowly, painfully, the ropes drew taut, the sodden tarp lifting into the air—statues and all. Ezreal clung to one line, riding it up through the rain like an acrobat.
The ship strained, but Illaoi’s magic held. The glowing circle binding the statues steadied them against the wind, her idol thrumming like the heart of the storm itself.
“They’re in!” Fate shouted, slamming the control to close the hold. “Tomen—lift us!”
“What about the others?” Tomen called back, his eyes flicking to the figures still on the rooftop.
“They’ll teleport to me,” Fate answered, grim and certain. “But we have to break Aurelio’s reach before it’s too late!”
Tomen’s pulse hammered, but he didn’t hesitate. He hauled the lever back, engines screaming as the ship clawed for altitude.
“Illaoi?” Fate’s voice was low, tense.
Her glowing eyes closed, face drawn in concentration. “It’s working,” she said through gritted teeth. “Their struggle fades.”
Higher. Higher still, until the mansion was a blur beneath them.
Then Illaoi dropped to one knee, her idol dimming as she exhaled. “It is done. Aurelio’s grip is broken.”
Silence fell on the bridge, broken only by the storm.
Fate’s gaze flicked to Tomen. His voice was iron. “I’ll send the signal. Tomen—get ready to run.”
–
Ezreal clung to the rope, his knuckles white, the storm lashing at him with every sway. His clothes were drenched, plastered against his skin, and the wind cut through to the bone. Relief only came when the cargo doors groaned shut beneath him, sealing out the howl of the tempest.
The hold was cramped, the air thick with damp and the sharp tang of soaked leather. As the ropes slackened, the massive tarp sagged to the floor, its ghastly cargo thudding against the metal plating. Ezreal stumbled as his boots touched down, legs unsteady from both the climb and the uneven roll of the ship.
Engines thundered around him, the floor shuddering as Tomen pulled them higher into the storm. Ezreal edged toward the door, every instinct telling him to put as much distance as possible between himself and the three dozen grotesque statues—reanimated, stuffed with sapphilite, their empty eyes catching flickers of lightning through the slats.
They didn’t move. Not yet. Illaoi’s magic still bound them in place.
But the thought had barely settled when a sound split the air. Screams. Dozens of them, overlapping in a nightmarish choir, shrill enough to claw into his skull. Each voice spat something different, fragments of rage tearing through the cacophony:
“Aurelio!”
“May the wolf rip you apart!”
“I’ll kill you!”
“You dare control me!”
“I’ll see you in Volrachnun!”
Ezreal’s stomach twisted. They weren’t screaming at him. They were screaming for him—their fury fixed on the man who had shackled them even in death.
And then, as abruptly as it had begun, Illaoi’s spectral tentacles vanished.
“Shit!” Ezreal hissed, fumbling at the latch of the door.
The din fell silent. One voice, deeper, steadier, cut through the air like a blade.
“You.”
Ezreal froze.
“Turn around.”
He obeyed, heart hammering, eyes locking on the statue that had spoken. Its posture was rigid, but its gaze burned with a strange clarity.
“You’re with the mage thief, aren’t you?” the voice asked. Demacian—Ezreal knew the accent at once.
His mouth was dry. “…Yes.”
“Good.” Orville’s jaw twitched with something close to a smile. “Take me outside. I want to see the moment you beat the Sirmagos.”
The black mist swallowed the ballroom whole. It smothered the air, coiling around chandeliers and tables, dimming the gas lamps until their light was little more than a weak glow through the haze. But no fog could mute the sharp thunder of gunfire echoing through the mansion.
The crew that stayed behind had splintered off, each locked into their own battle, their mission still fixed in mind—plant the last of the bombs, hold the line, and wait for the signal.
Artia glided through the smoke like a phantom, her steps light and deadly, her speed sharpened by the potion she had stolen from forbidden waters. Her face was twisted with rage.
“How dare you kill him!” she screamed, daggers flashing as they carved through the fog. “I’ll tear you apart!”
“Don’t worry,” Fortune answered, her pistols spitting fire, “you’ll join your second-rate mage soon.”
Steel and lead collided in the gloom. Artia had learned from their first clash—she stayed close now, ducking under gunfire, weaving between shots like a serpent coiling around its prey. Fortune met her with equal precision, sliding past slashes meant for her throat, her movements fluid, graceful, dangerous.
It looked less like a battle than a duel of dancers. Daggers sliced, pistols blazed, the rhythm broken only by the hiss of bullets and the whisper of steel. Fortune’s aim struck true more often than not, but every wound sealed almost as soon as it opened, the potion mending Artia’s flesh in defiance of death itself.
Fortune’s cheek stung as a blade kissed her skin, the steel catching the light just before it cut. Blood warmed her face, but she fired back immediately, the sharp retort of her pistols forcing Artia to give ground.
For a heartbeat, Fortune glanced aside—just long enough to glimpse another battle raging through the fog. Zaun and Aurelio clashed with inhuman speed, their strikes and counters a blur too fast to follow. Fortune’s blood boiled at the sight of the elder Sirmago, but she kept her head. She knew she couldn’t win that fight. She had to trust her companions.
Her eyes snapped back just in time to see her own reflection glinting off a dagger meant for her heart. She twisted away, but the blade still left its mark across her shoulder.
Artia smiled at the blood. “Don’t worry, Fortune. No one will even notice the cut—once I put you on display. You’ll be my masterpiece.”
Her voice was honey dripping with venom, her gaze lingering on Fortune as if already savoring the kill.
Fortune wiped the blood with the back of her hand and smirked.
“Look while you can,” she said coldly. “It’s the last you’ll ever see of me.”
–
Aurelio’s gaze slipped past his current opponent, past the chaos and smoke, and locked onto the redhead. Fortune. Always Fortune.
She was the rot at the heart of everything. His empire had cracked the day she put Gangplank in the ground. His family had been slaughtered due to her antagonizing the Jagged Hooks into retaliation. She was the one clawing at his fortune, at his throne, at what was his by blood and by right.
His fury broke loose. Aurelio lunged, his form gliding through the mist like a blade drawn across silk, faster than any eye could follow. But he did not reach her.
A blur intercepted him—Zaun. She met his momentum with a bone-crushing kick that forced him back, her body braced like a wall against his fury.
“No, no, no.” She wagged her finger at him, taunting. “We’re not switching partners, you talking corpse.”
For the first time, Aurelio truly looked at her. His eyes narrowed.
“How?” His voice was a rasp of disbelief. “How do you move so freely in the mist?”
Zaun inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the black haze. When she exhaled, her eyes burned bright pink, alive with shimmer’s unnatural spark.
“Compared to where I’m from?” she said with a grin. “This is fresh air.”
She lifted her weapon, Zapper, and fired. Electricity cut through the fog in a violent streak. Aurelio raised his arm, bending the mist to absorb the bolt before it struck.
Zaun pouted. “Now that’s no fun.”
Aurelio’s gaze lingered on her gun, on the faint blue gem glowing within its barrel. Understanding flickered, and then came the laugh—broken, hollow, rattling up from the grave.
“Hextech… and shimmer. You carry both.” His dead eyes glimmered with cruel amusement. “You’re from Piltover… no—lower. From its shadow. A slum rat, feeding on scraps, drinking their runoff. Hoping to gnaw your way into greatness.”
He stepped toward her, his tone darkening with contempt.
“You made a mistake allying with her. Out on these waters, only power survives. And power—”
Zaun cut him off with a groan and rolled her eyes. “Oh no, not listening to another monologue. I’ve heard enough from crusty old men and their philosophies.”
She holstered Zapper and raised her fists, shimmer crackling across her skin.
“Now shut up and fight.”
Then she was gone in a blur of pink lightning.
Aurelio tracked her, the shimmer burning in her veins matched by the black potion and mist flowing in his. She struck wild—punches, kicks, flips, her movements reckless and alive with feral energy. He answered with precision. His blows were fewer, but each landed like a hammer, his discipline born of decades.
They clashed in brutal hand-to-hand combat that unsettled even their hardened allies. It was raw, savage, and unrestrained—strength and recklessness colliding in a storm of fists and blood.
–
From across the hall, Graves spat a curse and fired the minigun, its roar deafening as it mowed down specters clawing from the mist. “You done yet!?” he barked over the gunfire. “I’m running low here!”
“Almost—last one!” Isobel shouted back. Kneeling by the final pillar, she slid the last red playing cards beneath a grenade, fixing it into place. Her masked face turned, satisfied. “Done! We just wait for the signal!”
“Good. Then we help the others.” Graves swung the massive weapon like a club, smashing a specter that slipped too close. His voice carried a note of worry. “Don’t like how Blue’s fighting. She’s pushing too hard.”
Isobel glanced to where Zaun battled Aurelio. Even through the haze, she could see what Graves meant. The fight was a slugfest. Neither fighter guarded themselves; they met violence with violence, flesh for flesh.
But only one of them healed.
Every lull in the fight revealed another cut carved into Zaun’s cheek, another bruise swelling across her skin. And yet… she grinned. A wild, wicked smile that belonged to someone who lived only for the fight, with no thought of what came after.
It chilled Isobel more than the mist ever could.
–
Zaun pressed forward, blood streaming from a cut above her brow and a nose long since broken, but none of it slowed her. Pain only sweetened the rush. Every punch, every kick, every strike that landed filled her chest with a reckless joy. The thunder of fists on flesh, the jolt of shimmer in her veins, the clash of muscle against bone—it was catharsis. She lost herself in it, no longer fighting for the plan or the mission but for release.
Aurelio did not falter. He absorbed her fury, answered every blow with one of his own, the two locked in a rhythm that felt endless.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” The words rang in her skull, unclear whether they were Aurelio’s or her own. “To let go. To tear. To break.”
She saw his lips moving, but the echo inside her head felt louder, closer.
Then an opening appeared. Aurelio lifted his arms to block high, and Zaun slipped low, pivoting on her heel. Her boot crashed into his chest with the force of a battering ram, hurling him back across the hall until he skidded near the ruined staircase.
Zaun grinned, wild-eyed. “What’s the matter, old man? Age catching up? I’m having the time of my life!”
Her shimmering eyes pulsed, pink and vicious, as she stalked forward.
Aurelio straightened, brushing dust from his coat. His tone was flat, bored. “I’m tired of this fight.”
He knelt. Not to rest, but to reach the lifeless form of Marvolio.
Zaun’s grin died. Realization cut through her like a blade of ice. “Shit!”
She lunged, but too late.
Marvolio’s corpse convulsed. Lightning surged. A blast of arcane energy erupted, striking Zaun square in the chest and hurling her back like a ragdoll. She slammed against the floor beside Isobel, her body twitching with aftershocks, smoke curling from her skin.
Isobel grabbed her, dragging her upright as another bolt detonated nearby. “Move!”
“Fuck,” Zaun rasped, forcing an arm over the masked woman’s shoulders. Her teeth bared, she glared through the haze. Two silhouettes loomed, Aurelio and the mage he had pulled back from death, framed in the thickening mist.
Isobel’s eyes darted between them and the other fight—Fortune locked in her deadly dance with Artia, Graves charging in to assist. Panic tightened her voice. “Can you keep fighting?”
Zaun never answered. The decision was ripped away.
Marvolio blurred forward, a jagged dagger of lightning forming in his hand. In the blink of an eye, he was upon them. Zaun shoved Isobel aside, intercepting the strike with a desperate kick that bought them a breath of space, though her body still trembled from the last surge of magic.
“Wait!” Isobel gasped, searching the fog. “Where’s Aurelio?”
Her words froze them both. Together they turned, dread in their throats.
There he was. Moving with predatory silence. Bearing down on Fortune.
Time fractured for Zaun. She could hear Isobel’s scream—“Captain!”—as if underwater. She tried to run, but her legs betrayed her. Lightning still burned her veins. All she could do was watch as Aurelio loomed over Fortune, arm raised for the killing blow.
Voices roared inside her skull.
You’re a jinx!
It’s your fault!
If only you hadn’t lost sight of the plan!
Fortune turned, too late—
—but Graves was faster.
The outlaw barreled in, raising the minigun like a shield. Aurelio’s strike shattered the weapon, the impact exploding in a violent shockwave that flung Graves like a rag into a pillar. He crumpled at Fortune’s feet.
Time snapped back into motion. Zaun gasped, the voices in her head fading but not gone.
Fortune dropped to one knee beside Graves. Relief flashed across her face as she checked his pulse. Alive. Unconscious, but alive. She rose, pistols in hand, jaw tight as she faced the oncoming figures.
Aurelio, gliding like death incarnate. Artia, her eyes alight with venom.
“Your luck’s run out, Fortune,” Aurelio rasped, his voice carrying like a curse.
The captain said nothing. She only stared back at him, defiance burning brighter than fear.
“Captain!” “Fortune!” Isobel and Zaun shouted together, forcing themselves to rise—only to be driven back by another lightning blast that cracked the marble at their feet.
Marvolio’s hollow voice taunted from the shadows. “No, no, no. Don’t spoil the Big Boss’s moment.”
Zaun snarled, teeth bared, but she was trapped, forced to watch.
Fortune stood her ground, hands steady on her pistols.
“Your ship’s sinking,” Aurelio declared. “When I’m done with you, I’ll reclaim what is mine. I’ll take the throne. Bilgewater belongs to me!”
He raised his arm—
—and then the hall blazed with light.
A flare of brilliant blue seared through the mist, flooding the ballroom in its glow. For a heartbeat, all was still.
Then Fortune’s lips curved into a smile.
“I guess time’s up.”
–
The flare burst overhead, flooding the street outside the hall in a ghostly wash of blue. For the briefest heartbeat, Aurelio’s gaze flickered from Fortune to the light. It was all she needed. With practiced ease, she holstered her pistols, slipped an arm beneath the unconscious Graves, and pulled a single blue card from her jacket.
“No—!” Artia’s cry cracked the air, but Aurelio was a breath too slow.
“We’re leaving!” Fortune’s command rolled across the hall like thunder, her voice sharp with authority and burning with fury. Aurelio turned back, his eyes narrowing as her body shimmered in the flare’s glow, its magic wrapping around her.
“I regret,” Fortune said, every word heavy with years of vengeance and bile, “that I can’t kill you myself.”
Her voice was a dagger, twisted deep. Aurelio’s face contorted into a mask of rage. “Fortune!” He lunged, skeletal fingers outstretched to tear her apart. But before he reached her, the blue light consumed her and Graves both—gone in a crack of magic, leaving only empty air.
Aurelio’s scream ripped through the hall, a shrill, bone-splitting roar that rattled stone and shook marrow.
“Time for us—” Isobel tried to shout, but Zaun shoved her aside. A bolt of lightning scorched the ground where they’d stood a moment earlier.
“You’re not leaving! Give me that fucking card!” Marvolio’s shriek tore across the chamber as he lunged, lightning dancing between his fingertips.
The Sirmagos turned at once, their attention snapping back like predators catching fresh prey. Artia’s eyes glowed, her hand curling around her blade. Aurelio’s voice was low, commanding, absolute.
“You two. Don’t move.”
The black mist thickened, smothering the flare’s glow until the world shrank to shadow. Zaun and Isobel were penned in—separated by Marvolio, hemmed in by wolves.
Aurelio glided closer to Zaun, eyes gleaming. “Undercity rat,” he said softly, dripping venom. “Your strength is wasted on that sea witch. Join me. Give me your card, and I’ll let you live.”
“Father?” Artia faltered, Marvolio froze—but one sharp look from Aurelio silenced them both.
Zaun’s gaze flicked across the room, meeting Isobel’s. The masked woman didn’t like what she saw in those pink-lit eyes—something sharp, dangerous, too close to surrender. Instinctively, Isobel reached into her pocket. Her blood ran cold. The detonator was gone.
Zaun’s hand dipped into her jacket. Slowly, deliberately, she pulled out a single blue card—the one Fate had pressed into her palm at the start of this cursed job.
“Tell me,” she asked, her voice carrying, keeping their hungry eyes locked on her. “What would you have me do? Would I be your hammer? The dog you send to break the bones of anyone who steps out of line?”
Aurelio stood calm, coiled like a wolf ready to spring.
“Would you have me build your weapons? Whisper in my ear that together we’ll show them all?” Her tone wavered, and only Isobel heard the fracture beneath—the pain threaded through the words.
“All that and more,” Aurelio promised, his voice like rot wrapped in silk. “With you at my side, we will rule Runeterra.”
“Yeah!” Artia and Marvolio echoed, their voices eager, blind.
Zaun smiled. Her gaze darted toward Isobel—and the masked woman’s stomach dropped.
Aurelio smiled back, thinking he had won.
Zaun laughed. “Nah. I’m not doing that again.”
The card arced through the air, spinning between them. Their eyes snapped to it, like hounds to meat. They reached—just as Zaun raised Zapper and fired.
The card burst into flame.
“Oops.” Zaun grinned, pink eyes blazing. In her other hand, a small steel cylinder gleamed—the detonator.
“Tell Fortune,” she said, giving Isobel a wink, “to build something better.”
Her thumb slammed the button.
The mansion roared. Explosions cascaded through its bones, shattering pillars and tearing marble into fire and dust. The floor shook, the ceiling groaned, the world itself collapsing.
Aurelio’s howl clawed through the destruction. “You’ll pay for this! Marvolio—kill her!”
The mage obeyed, gathering every scrap of arcane fury into a single, lethal strike.
Zaun tossed the detonator aside and raised her gun. “Bring it!” she snarled, planting her feet. She closed her eyes, bracing, ready to meet her death head-on.
But before the blast struck, Isobel threw herself forward. She shoved Zaun clear, her own arm outstretched, a single red card between her fingers. She hurled it into the incoming spell.
The collision split the air. Magic detonated in a storm of light and fury. Isobel’s scream tore through the blast as her arm was shredded apart. The shockwave hurled the Sirmagos backward, their bodies lost in the collapsing hall.
Zaun caught Isobel as she fell into her arms, blood pouring hot between her fingers. Panic gripped her. “Wh–why? Why would you do that? Why would you save me!?” She pressed the wound, frantic, desperate, her voice cracking.
Isobel’s eyes fluttered, blurred with pain and smoke, but she held Zaun’s gaze. Her lips trembled, her voice thin as thread. “’Cause… I’m your friend.”
Zaun froze. The words cut through her like glass.
Over the roar of the mansion’s death, Aurelio’s snarl rose again, closer, murderous. He glided forward through the rubble, hand outstretched to crush them.
But Isobel’s trembling hand closed around the blue card. Light bloomed.
“Get back here!” Aurelio screamed as magic swallowed them. His grasp closed on nothing.
And in the blink of an eye, Zaun and Isobel were gone.
Aurelio stood in the ruin of his collapsing hall, the magic’s dying glow reflecting in his black eyes. His daughter and his mage staggered back to him, coughing in the dust.
“Father, what do we do?” Artia gasped.
“We have to go after them, Big Boss,” Marvolio urged.
Aurelio turned to them, obsidian-eyed, fury carved into his corpse-pale face. He placed a heavy hand on each of their shoulders.
“We will.”
Their fear softened—until his grip shifted. Fingers clamped at their throats, squeezing.
“Fa–Father!? W–Why?” Artia choked, clawing at his hand.
“No one steals from the Sirmagos!” Aurelio roared, voice shaking the crumbling bones of the mansion. “No one!”
The ceiling groaned, and with a final thunderous collapse, the hall fell upon them.
A blinding flash tore through the bridge, and in its wake, Fortune slammed down hard, Graves’ limp weight beneath her. They tumbled across the cold metal floor until they came to a stop near Twisted Fate’s boots.
Fortune wheezed, the impact rattling her bones, vision scattering into motes of light. The ceiling swam above her, too bright, too far. Her body felt unmoored, as though her senses had been unstitched.
“Malcolm! Malcolm, wake up, damn it!” Fate’s voice cracked with rare panic. He dropped to his knees beside Graves, shaking him by the shoulders.
Fortune coughed, rolled to her side, and forced herself to croak out, “He’s… alive. Just knocked out.”
She tried to rise, but her arms trembled, strength failing her. Illaoi’s broad frame loomed over her, hands reaching to steady her.
“Sarah. What happened? Where are–” the priestess asked, but was interrupted by Fortune's cough.
“Au– Aurelio…” Fortune stammered, forcing herself upright with Illaoi’s support. Her legs shook like a fawn’s first steps. “He revived the mage. I told the girls to—” Her eyes swept the bridge, searching. “Where are they? Where’s Isobel? Where’s Zaun?”
The answer came not in words, but in sound.
A thunderous boom.
Then another.
The ship rattled as the air filled with the distant roar of collapsing stone.
“Captain Fortune!” Tomen’s voice cracked across the bridge. He looked at the mirrors, his face pale. “The mansion—it’s collapsing!”
Fortune staggered to the nearest window, Illaoi at her side, Fate propping Graves against the bulkhead. Through the glass, they saw it: the great roof of Aurelio’s stronghold sagging, then buckling in on itself, devoured by fire and dust.
Silence gripped them, heavy and suffocating. No one breathed. Their thoughts turned as one to those still below.
“You’ve really done it!” a voice suddenly crowed.
They spun. Orville stood near the glass, the sapphilite statue’s grin split wide, his crystalline eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. Ezreal was beside him, his boyish face pale with horror.
“You’ve taken everything from that old bastard!” Orville laughed, the sound harsh and jagged as broken stone. “Hah! HAHAHAHA!”
No one joined him.
“Why aren’t you celebrating?” Orville sneered when he noticed the silence.
Fortune’s face was grim, her lips pressed tight.
Ezreal’s voice cut the quiet. “Fortune… where are they?”
Fortune didn’t answer. She only stared down at the collapsing mansion, her jaw locked.
Ezreal’s chest tightened. “You left them!?” he shouted, the words raw, unbidden. “How could you!?”
The anger shocked him even as it spilled out. He didn’t understand why his stomach twisted at the thought of Jinx—no, Zaun—lying broken beneath that rubble, but it churned in him like sickness.
“No,” Fortune began, her voice low, pained. “I told them to—”
But her words were swallowed in light.
A flare of blue magic erupted in the center of the bridge. Zaun crashed to her knees, sobbing, clutching Isobel’s limp body to her chest. Blood drenched the masked woman’s ruined arm.
“Help! She—she needs help!” Zaun’s voice cracked, panic spilling over into a scream. “Her arm—!”
Illaoi was already moving. She knelt beside them, her great idol of Nagakabouros in her hands. The tattoos along her skin burned alive with power, flooding the bridge with emerald light.
Energy washed over Isobel’s body, staunching the bleeding, but Illaoi’s expression was grim. “This won’t hold for long.” She snapped her gaze toward the helm. “Pilot! We need a doctor. Get us out of here, now!”
“Aye!” Tomen barked. He wrenched the helm, threw a lever forward. The engines roared to life, the ship shuddering as it pushed for escape.
But then—nothing.
Instead of surging free, the ship jerked violently, lurching back as though yanked by invisible chains. Everyone scrambled, clutching railings, fighting to stay upright.
“Tomen! Get us out!” Fortune bellowed over the deafening engines.
“I’m trying!” Tomen shot back, sweat running down his brow. He forced the lever down again. The engines screamed—but the ship did not move.
Then his gaze flicked to the mirrors. His face drained of color.
“Something’s holding us,” he whispered. Then louder, a scream: “SOMETHING’S HOLDING US!”
They rushed to the windows, dread pulling at their guts. Outside, the night was split open by the sight of black tendrils—ropes of writhing mist—lashing up from the ruins below. They coiled around the ship’s hull, dragging tight.
“Ahhh! Not again!” Orville’s voice broke into a shriek. His taxidermy seams split as he clutched his stitched skull, features contorting in agony.
Then came the voice.
“FORTUNE!”
The cry boomed across Grey Harbor, a guttural roar reverberating like some ancient monster dragged from legend. The storm above twisted into a hurricane’s eye, the airship caught in its wrath.
“NO ONE STEALS FROM THE SIRMAGO!”
The words crawled from the ruins, shaking the air itself. Black mist spilled from the cracks of the shattered mansion like liquid shadow—rivers of black blood.
And then it rose.
A colossal arm, skinless and dripping mist, heaved out of the rubble. Then another. And another. Too many, pulling upward, dragging with them a body of impossible scale. Its torso stretched too long, its frame a tangle of limbs that should not exist.
The crew froze.
“What is that!?” Twisted Fate cried, voice breaking.
The answer revealed itself as the creature lifted its head.
It had three faces. Two—Marvolio and Artia—were frozen in eternal screams of horror, their expressions etched with agony. Between them, Aurelio’s visage glared down, twisted into something inhuman, his eyes burning with wrath made flesh.
Green lightning tore across the storm, illuminating the nightmare in flashes.
Ezreal whispered, “Gods help us…” Illaoi muttered a prayer to Nagakabouros. Fate cursed beneath his breath, tightening his grip on Graves.
Zaun refused to look. She cradled Isobel close, the girl’s blood staining her hands, her mind haunted by the memory of a child’s sacrifice.
But two did not avert their gaze. Orville clutched his head, face warping with hate. And Fortune… she saw only her enemy.
The monster raised a forest of arms, reaching like a child for its toy.
“GET BACK HERE!”
The roar split the air, a layered chorus of Aurelio’s voice tangled with the shrieking wails of countless bound souls.
The tendrils snapped taut. The airship lurched, planks splintering, sails ripping, the deck tilting under their boots. The heavens themselves felt as though they were being dragged down into the ruins.
“Destroy those tendrils! Tomen, be ready!” Fortune’s command cracked like a pistol shot.
She threw open a side door and fired into the mist. Pistols blazed. Illaoi bellowed a war cry, her idol glowing as spectral tentacles tore at the tendrils. Ezreal cast aside his fear, flinging arcane blasts that seared through the black coils.
“Dammit, I’ve got no cards left! Tomen, anything!?” Fate shouted, frantic.
“N-no weapons!” Tomen stammered, white-knuckled at the helm.
Zaun’s voice cut through, sharp as steel. “Use this.” She passed Zapper into Fate’s hands.
He didn’t hesitate. Side by side with Ezreal, he unleashed bolts of crackling firepower.
Zaun held Isobel tighter.
The combined barrage tore the tendrils loose. The ship bucked forward, engines howling. For a heartbeat, hope flared—freedom.
Then Aurelio roared.
“NOOOOAHHHH!”
The monster’s many arms stretched skyward, vomiting tendrils in every direction like a spider casting webs. The ship was caught again, whipped back with bone-jarring force.
“Damn it!” Fortune screamed, fury spilling into the storm.
“Sarah…” Illaoi’s voice trembled, despair heavy in her tone.
“No! We try again!” Fortune spat back, fire in her eyes.
“But—” Illaoi began.
“Again!”
A third voice bellowed across the deck. They turned. Orville stood at the side door, shoulders trembling, gaze locked on the monster.
“Do it again—and once you break through, run!”
Fortune’s eyes narrowed. “What are you—”
“I’ll never be that bastard’s puppet again!” Orville screamed, voice raw. “I choose when I die—and I’m taking him with me!”
For a moment, silence. Then Fortune and Illaoi understood.
“AGAIN!” they roared, the word carrying across the bridge. Fate, Ezreal, Zaun, and Tomen joined in.
The ship’s guns and magic blazed once more. Tendrils snapped and fell, the airship lurching free.
But before the engines could drag them clear, Orville leapt.
His body cut through the storm, plummeting straight toward the abomination. Aurelio’s many eyes tracked him, arms snapping upward to catch the falling statue.
“For glory!” Orville bellowed. His voice carried, unshaken.
“For Demacia!”
He tore open his own chest. Inside, sapphilite burned like a captured star. With his final act, Orville shattered a vial.
Ignition.
A green-blue light erupted, sapphilite detonating in a cataclysmic explosion. The monster and the ruins were swallowed whole in the brilliance, the night itself torn apart.
Tomen’s knuckles blanched white around the helm. Every muscle in his arms strained as the shockwave struck them, whipping the ship as if it were no more than a balloon caught in a hurricane. The hull groaned, canvas ripped, and the bridge tilted under their feet. Yet somehow, the airship was fast enough—fast enough to escape the firestorm blooming behind them.
—
The sky itself tore open.
A mushroom cloud of sapphilite fire consumed Grey Harbor, a roaring blossom of green-blue flame that seared the night. Its brilliance cut through the eternal mist from the Shadow Isles, a beacon burning away the darkness like a lighthouse through fog. For the first time in memory, Bilgewater was illuminated not by lanterns or lightning—but by a fire that touched the heavens.
The storm broke.
Clouds shredded above them, leaving a window to the stars. The night sky shone down on the burning world, as if the gods themselves had torn aside the veil to witness the ruin.
Heat washed over the crew. Silence followed.
The mansion was gone. The mist was gone. The monster Aurelio had become writhed and burned in the flames.
And then—within the inferno—they saw him.
A face twisted in hatred, carved from fire and shadow, towering in the blaze. Aurelio.
“Fortuuuuune!”
The scream erupted from the conflagration, a thousand voices screaming as one, the chorus of every soul bound to him. The cry shook the earth, rattled the heavens, clawed at the marrow of all who heard it. It rattled teeth, split eardrums, pressed into their skulls until it felt as though their own thoughts were screaming back.
“Damnnnnnn youuuu!”
The flames surged higher, flaring as though his fury had poured more fuel into the blaze. But the fire did not relent. Slowly, the face began to melt, dissolving back into the inferno. The scream fractured into echoes, then dwindled into nothing but the crackle of consuming fire.
At last, the black mist burned away. Aurelio was no more.
For a long, breathless moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the hum of the engines carrying them onward.
“He’s gone…” Illaoi’s voice was low, certain.
Fortune stood at the window, watching Grey Harbor burn. Rain began to fall again, light and steady. No longer the wrath of a storm—just the fading breath of a tempest spent.
“You did it, Sarah.” Illaoi’s heavy hand came to rest on her shoulder. Her eyes, weary yet proud, carried the weight of faith fulfilled.
Fortune met her gaze. For a moment, she saw not the priestess of the Buhru, but a comrade who had walked with her through fire and shadow. Then she turned back to the bridge.
Ezreal sat collapsed by the door, chest heaving, sweat plastering golden hair to his brow. Twisted Fate leaned against the wall, next to an unconscious Graves, cards long spent. And in the corner, Zaun cradled Isobel, bloodied but alive.
They were exhausted. Beaten. Scarred. But alive.
They had won.
Fortune’s eyes caught the horizon. The first pale rays of dawn stretched over the sea, bleeding gold across the clouds.
Illoai’s words returned to her, and at last she let them sink in.
“Yeah,” she whispered. Then louder, with the ghost of a smile, “Yeah, we did.”
She crossed to Zaun, laying a hand on the girl’s trembling shoulder. Zaun lifted her tear-streaked face, and Fortune met it with a steady, reassuring smile.
“She’ll live,” Fortune promised softly. “On my word.”
Then she turned to Tomen. “Take us home.”
The ship climbed higher into the wounded sky. Behind them, fire devoured the ruins of Grey Harbor. Ahead of them, sunlight broke the horizon.
And so they sailed—scarred but triumphant—carrying with them the prize of the greatest heist in Bilgewater’s history.
Notes:
Thanks for reading!
Thus concludes the sapphilite heist. But worry not, the story is not over!
I hope you enjoyed the heist, with all the twists and turns. In the end, it was the sapphilite that destroyed the Sirmagos. I kept writing about how bad it would be if one of the statues were damaged, so I hope the explosion lived up to expectations. Fly high, Orville. o7
The next two chapters will be heavily focused on Zaun and where she goes from here.
As always, feedback is welcome.
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AngelforYosano on Chapter 1 Tue 25 Feb 2025 01:56AM UTC
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Last Edited Sat 07 Jun 2025 12:46PM UTC
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