Morgana's POV
The saltwater sang an ancient song against the hull of 'The Serpent's Fortune', a constant melody that had lulled me into a false sense of peace over the last few days. It was the first time in months that the only sound in my ears wasn't the grinding of war-gears or the whispers of intrigue. The sea, vast and indifferent, had a knack for putting the concerns of empires into their proper perspective: small, noisy, and ultimately, fleeting.
Azra'il spent most of her time in our small cabin, poring over a collection of maps and technical schematics of Piltover that she had somehow acquired as part of her parting 'negotiation' with the Du Couteaus. I, on the other hand, found my refuge on the deck. I would spend hours watching the waves, feeling the spray on my face, and letting the vast blue cleanse the soot of Noxus from my soul. I was in no hurry. After nearly two years trapped in an iron cage, the simple feeling of movement, of being on the way to somewhere else, was a balm.
It had been centuries. Many centuries since my feet had last walked in this part of the world. I tried to search my memories, flipping through ages like one would an ancient, dusty book. The last time I was here, there were not two cities, one crowning the cliffs and the other clinging to its roots. There was only one. A robust and noisy trading port, known to travellers as the Bluewaters borough, a place of transition where goods from the east met those of the west. A place of potential, yes, but still rustic, built more of wood and hope than of stone and ambition.
But there was something older. A deeper memory, not my own, but of the world. A memory extracted not from my experience, but from fragile scrolls read in libraries that had long since turned to dust. Stories that connected this vibrant port to the greatest empire the world had ever known. It had Shuriman origins. A coastal city-state, before the great darkness, before the fall of the Sun-Gods.
I closed my eyes, concentrating, trying to fish the name from the bottom of time's ocean. It was like trying to hold smoke. Kahara...? No. Zuretta...? The syllables felt wrong, foreign in my mind. And then, like the sudden gleam of a lighthouse cutting through the fog, the truth ignited in my memory.
Osha'Va Zaun.
"The Vast Oasis of Zaun". A name that evoked images of sun-drenched ports, of bazaars filled with wonders from all over the empire, and of a culture rich in trade and astronomy. A coastal jewel of ancient Shurima, millennia before Piltover had dreamed of rising on its bones. The city beneath the city, Zaun, was not Piltover's shadow. It was its forgotten ancestor. The original name had survived, corrupted but persistent, a ghost on the tongue of time.
A sad smile touched my lips. It was the story of so many places in this world. The new and the brilliant building their palaces on the silent graves of the old and the wise, without ever bothering to learn their names.
"Land ho!" The sailor's cry from the mainmast pulled me from my thoughts.
Azra'il emerged from our cabin, shielding her eyes from the sunlight for the first time in days. She came to stand beside me at the ship's rail.
And then, we saw it.
Rising from the morning mist to meet us. Not the towers of a city, but the cliffs themselves. Colossal walls of white and gold rock, soaring from the turquoise sea like the bones of ancient gods. And on top, crowning the cliffs, was Piltover.
It was not the city of stone and wood my old memory held. This was a city of a new myth. Spires of brass and glass scraped the sky, glinting in the sun like jewels. Delicate walkways connected the peaks, and I could see the gleam of complex gear-work and the reflection of light on polished lenses. But the true marvel, the work that defined this new age, was right ahead of us, cleaving the continent.
The Sun Gates.
A monumental arch, so vast that our ship seemed a toy as it approached, carved into the cliff-face itself. At the centre of the arch, a colossal mechanism of bronze gears and crystal lenses spun slowly, capturing the sunlight and focusing it into a beam of pure energy. As we drew closer, the water before the gate began to churn, and the massive bronze lock-gates, larger than any fortress gate I had ever seen, began to descend into the depths, opening the way to the canal that linked the oceans. The power and precision of the engineering were breathtaking.
"Impressive," I murmured, genuinely awestruck by mortal ambition.
"A maintenance nightmare," Azra'il retorted, her eyes narrowed, seeing not the wonder but the mechanics. "A single misaligned gear and they'd flood half their own port. Their arrogance is structural."
Despite her cynicism, I saw her tilt her head, her mind, I knew, already deconstructing and analysing every moving part, every pulley, every stabilising mechanism she could sense. As our ship glided smoothly through the now-open canal, passing under the colossal arch, the city of Piltover unfolded above us like a promise of a bright and orderly future. A gilded cage, perhaps, but one of staggering beauty.
And far below it, in the deep shadows of the canyon where the sunlight struggled to reach, I saw the first glimpse of the other city. The true ancestor. Zaun. A labyrinth of rusted pipes, neon lights, and a greenish smog of pollution, clinging to the base of the cliffs like a stubborn memory that refused to be forgotten.
Two cities, one built upon the other, joined and divided by this cliff of progress. I could feel the tension between them, a societal fault line about to rupture. We were not arriving at a haven. We were arriving at the epicentre of an earthquake that had yet to begin.
The ship docked with a dull thud at one of Piltover's busier, more anonymous piers. Not the opulent docks of the Merchant Clans, but a functional working place, reeking of fish, tar, and the strange, ozonic smell of Hextech magic that hung in the air. House Du Couteau's promise had been kept: the captain let us disembark along with a dozen other nameless passengers, asking no questions and accepting a generous 'bonus' to forget our faces before we'd even stepped away from the ship. And that was it. The last thread connecting us to Noxus was cut. We were on our own.
Carrying our small but heavy travel bags, we blended into the harbour crowd, a sea of sailors, traders, labourers, and inventors. The air was a constant hum of activity: the screech of steam-cranes, the shouting of orders, and the omnipresent sound of gears and clockwork. It was the sound of ambition channelled into profit, not war.
"And now?" I asked Azra'il, feeling the enormity of the city and our complete anonymity within it.
"Now," she replied, her eyes already scanning the architecture, the routes, the patrol patterns of the Wardens in their shining bronze armour, "we start from scratch. First, a roof. Then, information. And most importantly, a low profile."
Our first challenge was the great divide of the world. Before us, the Hex-lift rose, the artery of brass and iron that connected the pulsing heart of Piltover to its feet in Zaun. With no contacts, no waiting carriage, we had to do what every status-less newcomer did: queue, pay the exorbitant fee, and board the circular platform with the other Piltovan aspirants.
As we waited, the contrast was stark. Men and women of the topside, with their immaculate clothes and expressions of mild disdain, stepped off the lift. And in the queue with us were labourers, merchants with coarse goods, and the two of us, two shadows attempting to ascend to the light.
The journey up was silent and dizzying. The platform rose with a smooth, constant hum, the city of Zaun becoming a labyrinth of greenish lights and deep shadows below. The Grey, the toxic smog that hung over the lower city, formed a canopy, a blanket that seemed to hide the secrets and suffering of its inhabitants from the sight of those who lived in the sun. I looked down and felt a pang of something that felt like homesickness for a home I'd never known; there was a brutal honesty in that darkness that the sunlight above seemed determined to ignore.
And then, we broke through the clouds.
The sunlight hit us with an almost physical force, reflected off a thousand surfaces of glass and polished brass. The air was clean, crisp, almost sweet in comparison. And Piltover revealed itself in all its arrogant glory. The architecture was a symphony of elegant curves, glass domes, and suspended bridges that seemed too delicate to bear the weight of progress.
On the streets below, life moved with the precision of a clockwork mechanism that some mad, brilliant artisan might have built. The people wore finely tailored clothes, full of metal buckles and embellishments that looked as though they'd been looted from the innards of a watch. The wardens, in their gleaming blue and brass armour, looked like living automatons. And everywhere, small mechanical creatures of metal and gears whirred along the pavements, delivering parcels or sweeping away dust that barely dared to settle. There was a constant hum in the air, the ticking of a city that prided itself on never stopping.
"It's all so… manufactured," I murmured, instinctively adjusting my heavy, dark robes. Amidst all this metallic gleam and bright colour, I felt suddenly out of place, a relic of a forgotten age.
Azra'il, who had been analysing the structural flaws of a nearby walkway, flicked her gaze to me. She looked me up and down, then at the elegant Piltovans passing by, then back at me. An expression of pure, painful realisation formed on her face.
"That's it," she said, with the gravity of one who has just solved a cosmic riddle. "I knew there was something wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, confused.
"Your clothes," she said, pointing an accusing finger at my dress. "Morgana, with all due respect, you dress like a funereal grandmother from the era of Jarvan I."
I stared at her, stunned. "I… what?"
"The cut is archaic. The colour is depressing. And the fabric… it looks like it was made to withstand a Freljordian winter, not a stroll through a climate-controlled city," she continued, merciless. "People here aren't looking at you because you're a mysterious demigoddess emanating arcane power. They're looking because they think you've escaped from a history museum."
Her audacity was so breathtaking that, for a moment, I was speechless. And in that moment, before I could formulate a worthy reply, she delivered the final blow. "As soon as we find a roof, the first thing on the priority list is, and I'm not joking, burning your entire wardrobe and starting from scratch. I refuse to be seen with someone whose fashion sense is older than the Noxian empire itself."
That did it. My reaction was purely instinctual. I reached out and, with the precision of a move practised by mothers and guardians through the ages, I gave her a swift but firm tweak on the ear.
"Ow!" she yelped, the sound surprisingly childish coming from her, as she pulled away. "What was that for?! It was constructive criticism!"
"And that," I said, lowering my hand, one eyebrow arched, feeling a rare, small smile play on my lips, "was a constructive 'ear-tweak'. Keep it up, and next time I'll teach you about the fashion of 'shadow-chains' around very talkative ankles."
Azra'il rubbed her ear, giving me a look of pure indignation, but I saw a glint of amusement in her eyes that betrayed her offence. The tension of arriving in a new, unknown world broke, replaced by a comforting familiarity. She might have the wisdom of someone far beyond her years, like a little ancient soul trapped in a child's body, but in moments like these, she was just that: a child. A terribly, insufferably, petulant one. And perhaps it was that balance between the old soul and the young heart that kept her sane. And, in a way, me too.