Azra'il's POV
The first morning in Piltover arrived with the harmonious, omnipresent ticking of a thousand clockwork mechanisms. It was like being trapped inside the heart of an exceedingly punctual wind-up giant. From the window of our room at 'The Bronze Griffin', life in the Artisans' Quarter was already humming. The smell of heated metal and strong coffee drifted up from the streets, a fragrance that Eos insisted on analysing as 'a complex mixture of ferrous oxides and roasted beans'. I called it 'not-Noxus', which was a considerable upgrade.
I found Morgana on the parapet of our small balcony. She was standing there, looking dreadfully poetic and tragic, as she always did. It was a pose that doubtless worked well in legends and tapestries, but was terribly impractical for urban reconnaissance. The main problem: she was still wearing her 'mystical widow mourning an abstract concept' robes. Amidst the vibrant colour palette and the daring cuts of Piltovan fashion, she stood out like a crow in a cage of canaries.
"That ends today," I announced, my voice breaking what she likely considered a moment of profound contemplation.
She turned, one eyebrow arched. "Peace and quiet?"
"That," I said, nodding my chin at her dark dress. "That... Dark Age fashion statement. We have a mission. Operation: Make My Guardian Look Like She Belongs in This Century. And no, it is not optional."
"These robes have served me well for centuries, Azra'il," she protested.
"And a stone hammer served the caveman well. Things evolve, Morgana," I retorted. "Here, you wearing that is the equivalent of screaming 'I AM A MAGICAL ANOMALY, PLEASE INVESTIGATE ME'. It's dreadful camouflage. Consider this an update to your fashion operating system. A necessary one for security."
The use of the word 'security' hit home. She sighed, a sound that contained millennia of exasperation. "Very well. But nothing… extravagant."
"Your definition of extravagant and mine are vastly different," I warned. "My extravagant involves dragons. We'll keep things on a smaller scale, I promise."
With her reluctant agreement secured, I guided her out of the square, plunging into the bustling arteries of Piltover. It was like walking through the inside of an impossibly complex and absurdly clean clock. Polished white marble pavements were trod upon by citizens whose clothes, in their precise cuts and vibrant fabrics, looked as if they had been designed by architects, not tailors. Spider-like bronze automatons polished away invisible smudges on the ground, and the air carried a clean scent and the fragrance of expensive perfumes wafting from the open doors of shops.
"It's all so… sterile," Morgana murmured, pulling her hood a little further forward, as if the very sunlight might stain her shadows.
"That's the smell of money, Morgana," I replied. "And of successful social repression. Pay attention. No one runs. No one shouts. No one looks even remotely unhappy. It's the most suspicious utopia I've ever been in."
Our first stop, at my insistence, was exactly the kind of place that made Morgana feel uncomfortable. A chic boutique in the heart of the Merchant District, with a pretentious name like 'The Gilded Cog'. The facade was an entire wall of curved glass, and inside, polished metal mannequins displayed the latest and most absurd fashions on rotating pedestals. It was less a clothes shop and more a temple dedicated to the art of spending money you clearly didn't earn by the sweat of your brow.
"Are we really doing this?" Morgana asked, pausing at the entrance, looking like a goddess of the night about to be forced into a sun-drenched ballroom.
"Reconnaissance," I said, nudging her gently inside. "To understand the enemy, you must first understand their terrible fashion choices."
The saleswoman, a tall, thin woman whose smile was as genuine as fool's gold, glided towards us. Her eyes swept over me, a plain-looking child, and landed on Morgana, in her dark, travel-worn robes, with a poorly disguised horror that quickly morphed into condescending pity.
"May I… help you?" she asked, the word 'help' sounding more like 'exorcise'. "Are you looking for something for… a special occasion?" The euphemism for 'a funeral' hung in the air between us.
"We are looking for something for the… lady," I said, stepping forward and taking control, to Morgana's relief. "Something that says, 'I am powerful and mysterious and will possibly judge your filthy soul', but in a way that's socially acceptable at brunch."
The saleswoman blinked, her sales-programming clearly unable to process my request. "Ah. Right. Something… bold. I have the perfect piece."
She guided us to the back of the shop and, with a flourish, revealed her 'perfect piece'. It was a monster. A peach-coloured frilly dress, covered in tiny, purely decorative bronze cogs that would probably jingle with every step. And to top it off, shoulder pads in the shape of little clockwork wings.
"It is the height of Hex-Victorian fashion!" she exclaimed, clearly very proud.
Morgana looked at the dress as if it had personally offended her. I, on the other hand, was fascinated by the sheer audacity of the thing.
"Go and try it on," I told Morgana with a wicked smile.
The look she gave me could have frozen a volcano. But, stubbornly, she took the dress and marched into the fitting room.
I waited, savouring the moment. The saleswoman hovered nearby, no doubt imagining the fat commission she would earn. Finally, the fitting room curtain swept open.
Morgana stood there, looking like a mechanical wedding cake that had been attacked by a flock of bronze birds. She was rigid with discomfort.
"Absolutely not," she said, her voice strained. "I can feel metal poking me in places I didn't know could be poked. And I think one of the cogs is pulling my hair."
I circled her, trying my hardest not to laugh. "I see the appeal," I said thoughtfully. "It's… distracting. No one would expect someone wearing this to be able to conjure soul-chains." I looked at the saleswoman. "What else have you got?"
The second attempt was a simple, elegant dress of sky-blue silk.
Morgana emerged, and for a moment, she looked like a fairy queen from a forgotten legend. But the discomfort on her face was palpable. "I feel… exposed," she murmured, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's too… light. Optimistic."
I had to agree. The colour simply did not match her aura of majestic melancholy. "Rejected," I decreed. "It makes her look overly trustworthy. Not good for business."
The saleswoman looked on the verge of despair.
"Thank you for your… assistance," I told her, already guiding Morgana towards the exit. "I think we are looking for something with a bit more… substance. And less… decorative clockwork."
We left the boutique and stepped back into the sunlight, leaving the saleswoman behind to console her mannequins.
"I told you it was a bad idea," Morgana said, adjusting her familiar robes with relief.
"On the contrary," I retorted. "It was a success. We now know exactly what not to look for. And we have confirmed my theory: money can't buy taste. Come on. I know where to go now."
With that, I changed our route, moving away from the centre with its shiny, pompous shops. With the disastrous, yet enlightening, experience of the chic boutique behind us, I guided us back towards the more familiar and honest streets of the Artisans' Quarter. The logic was simple: if we wanted to blend in with real people, we needed to dress like them, not like the shop-window dolls of the Merchant Clans.
"Now we're getting somewhere," I murmured, more to myself than to Morgana. The shops here were smaller, the facades made of wood and brick instead of glass and brass. The scent of creativity was in the air, a mixture of turpentine from artists' studios, tanned leather from cobblers, and the steam from laundries. It was on a narrow, winding street, far from the main square, that I saw it. A small brass sign, polished but old, hung above a dark wooden door, which read: "Judith's Atelier: Stitching for All Eras". The name did not promise fashion. It promised craftsmanship.
"Here," I said, stopping. "This has potential."
Morgana looked at the small shop, at the hardy plants growing in pots on the windowsill, and some of the tension left her shoulders. We entered, and the sound of a small bell announced our arrival. The interior was exactly as I had expected: welcoming, a little cluttered, and smelling wonderfully of fabric, sewing machine oil, and the faint, comforting aroma of herbal tea. Rolls of Freljordian wool, Ionian silks, and fine Shuriman cotton were stacked to the ceiling. Mannequins displayed clothes that were classic in their cut but with undeniable touches of Piltovan functionality.
"Hello, dears," a raspy voice came from behind a mannequin. An elderly woman, small and stooped with age, emerged, holding a pair of brass shears that looked too heavy for her. Her eyes were clouded with cataracts, almost completely white, but she moved with the certainty of one who knew every inch of her domain by touch and scent. "Looking for something for the coming chill, or just tired of the foolish fashions downtown?"
"The latter," I replied. "My… guardian… is in need of an update. Something that's practical, but doesn't make her look like she's just left an opera."
Judith, the seamstress, laughed, a dry sound like autumn leaves. "Ah, a woman of sense. A rarity in this city." Her milky eyes turned in Morgana's direction. "Come into the light, dear. Let me see what I have to work with."
Hesitantly, Morgana stepped forward into the centre of the room, where a dusty sunbeam lit the air. Judith did not look at her face, but at her form, her posture. Her wrinkled hands rose and, with silent permission, touched the heavy fabric of Morgana's dress. "Strong. Durable," she murmured, her voice appreciative. "But lifeless. A fabric like this is for hiding from the world, not living in it. You don't need to hide, my dear."
I saw Morgana stiffen at the old woman's insight. "We need something… functional," I said, taking over to spare her. "She needs freedom of movement. And," I added with a glance at Morgana, "perhaps a bit of colour."
"Right, enough of the funereal black, depressing-dark-purple, or any colour that screams 'I'm mourning my own existence'," I announced. "Let's start the parade, round two."
This time, the experience was completely different. Judith, understanding the need for functionality, worked with us. Morgana still gravitated towards long dresses, a centuries-old preference hard to break. But instead of scoffing, Judith brought options.
"A dress doesn't have to be a prison," the old seamstress said. She showed us a dark grey wool dress, but with a cut that allowed the skirt to be buttoned up, transforming it into wide trousers.
"Clever," I admitted. "Modular. I approve."
"It's still… grey," was Morgana's only comment.
It was then that the perfect 'compromise' began to take shape. It became a collaborative project, a three-way negotiation. Me, focused on tactics. Morgana, on aesthetics and comfort. And Judith, the master, translating our conflicting needs into a cohesive garment.
I insisted on leather for protection. Judith agreed, bringing out a beautifully crafted brown leather corset, soft yet sturdy. "For posture," she said, "and to deflect a stray glance or a misplaced blade."
Morgana insisted on fabrics that breathed. Judith suggested a linen blouse of creamy white, with full sleeves that could be tied at the wrists with leather straps. "Elegance and practicality."
And then, the colour. I wanted something that wouldn't make her a target. Morgana wanted something that wouldn't make her feel exposed. Judith went to the back of the shop and returned with the main piece. A roll of heavy velvet fabric. At first glance, it looked like a dark colour, almost black. But as she unrolled it in the light, it revealed its true nature: a shimmering royal purple that seemed to hold a starry galaxy within.
"For the skirt," Judith said, her milky eyes twinkling. "Dark enough for the shadows you love, but with a colour that lives on its own. The leather for strength, but a fabric like this… it needs something that flows. That has a bit of the night in it."
To my satisfaction, the skirt was designed with discreet slits and bronze hooks that allowed it to be hitched up at the sides. The ensemble was completed with a wide leather belt full of small pouches and brass buckles, and high boots that were both elegant and sturdy.
"Try this one," Judith said, and in her voice was the certainty of an artist who knew she had created her masterpiece.
When Morgana emerged from the fitting room this time, the silence in the little shop was different. I stopped mid-sentence about the carrying capacity of the belt pouches. Judith, the seamstress, dropped her measuring tape, the metallic sound lost on the rug.
Judith walked around me, the admiration clear in every line of her face. "Ah, yes," she whispered, more to herself. "It's not the dress that is beautiful, my dear. It is the frame. Bones like yours... a posture like that... you don't see it these days. There's a… majestic sorrow to you." She looked me up and down. "Anything you wore would be remarkable. My job here was just to make sure the clothes didn't dishonour the woman wearing them."
I felt the wave of embarrassment coming from Morgana. It was the first time in a long time that someone had looked past her shadows and seen… the form beneath, the woman, and not the legend or the healer. And then I looked at her. Really looked.
I didn't see the healer, the fallen angel, the guardian, or a travelling companion. I saw… a woman.
A woman who, behind centuries of pain and contained power, still existed. The outfit didn't turn her into a queen or a model. It just removed the veils of mourning and practical functionality she used to hide. The brown leather accentuated the strength of her posture, the white of the linen, the paleness of her skin, and the deep purple… the deep purple seemed to be the colour of her very soul, melancholic and regal. There was a beauty there that wasn't delicate or celestial; it was earthy, forged in stubbornness and resilience. And it was, to my absolute and profound annoyance, irritatingly impressive. I had to look away.
I cleared my throat, breaking the spell and forcing the familiar barrier of sarcasm back up. "Well," I said, looking at an imaginary loose thread on my sleeve. "That is… acceptable. At least now you look less like a historical monument and more like… a person. With a good sense of colour coordination. It is an improvement."
The use of the word 'person' was intentional. Less grand than 'threat', but somehow, more sincere. And I knew, by the way a tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, that she had heard what I didn't say. That behind my dry comment was a genuine compliment. One I would probably spend the next century trying to deny I ever made.
With the most difficult—and expensive—problem solved, my turn was quick. "I need clothes for working and not being noticed," I told Judith. "Functionality above all else."
The old seamstress nodded, already understanding me perfectly. In minutes, I was kitted out. Dark canvas trousers reinforced at the knees, perfect for climbing or kneeling in dirty places. A cream-coloured cotton shirt with sleeves that could be rolled up. A leather waistcoat with more internal than external pockets, for tools, components, and the occasional stolen snack. And soft-soled boots that made no sound. I didn't look like a noblewoman, nor a warrior. I looked like an overly serious engineering apprentice, or a skilled messenger. The perfect disguise. The invisibility of normality.
We left the atelier hours later, carrying several packages and with our finances considerably diminished. As we walked back to The Bronze Griffin, I glanced at our reflections in the glass shopfronts. We no longer looked like refugees from another time, two dark, incongruous blots on the bright landscape. We looked like… we belonged. Or at least, we were much better at pretending to. The camouflage was complete.
"So," I said, breaking the comfortable silence as we climbed the inn's stairs. "Now that you look like a respectable Piltovan citizen and no longer the personification of a gothic poem, what's next? Shall we open a tea shop? Start a book club? Adopt a mechanical cat?"
Morgana looked at me, and the small smile that had been playing on her lips deepened. She adjusted the collar of her new attire with a newfound elegance.
"You know, Azra'il," she said, with a thoughtful tone that was both sincere and a perfect imitation of my own sarcasm. "A tea shop isn't the worst idea you've ever had. A quiet place, filled with the scent of herbs and far from the intrigues of kings and gods…" She looked out the window at the bustling square, at the people living their lives. "I think, for the first time in a very, very long time, we don't need a grand plan. The plan is just… to be here. To find a quiet place. To live one day at a time."
I stared at her. To live one day at a time. Without a great enemy to analyse, without a conspiracy to unravel, without an apocalypse to avert. The idea was so strange, so alien, that it was almost… frightening. And also, in a way that made me uncomfortable, a little appealing.
"Right," I said finally, the word sounding foreign on my tongue. "No plan. That sounds… inefficient. And disaster-prone."
Morgana laughed, a low, genuine sound, the first truly carefree laugh I'd heard from her since the Freljord. "Probably," she agreed. "But maybe that's exactly what we need for a while."
For the first time in months, perhaps years, the future did not look like a battlefield to be mapped, but a frighteningly blank page. And in the quiet of our new room, in a city of infinite progress, I couldn't decide if this was the beginning of a dreadfully long holiday or just the unbearably dull calm before the next, inevitable storm. Either way, it would be a new experience. And I hated new experiences. They always ended with things exploding.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
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Today the publisher went crazy and sent me four chapters to translate and edit at once. I think after she recovered, she wanted to make up for lost time. At least with the Runeterra fanfic, she's much more enthusiastic about helping me translate it than the Fairy Tail one. She was too lazy to translate the Fairy Tail chapters. 😂