Mortality has a curious relationship with faith. In places like Piltover, where progress is the one true god and cogs are its angels, faith is a relic, a curiosity kept in history books. But here, in Zaun, it is different. Mutable. Desperate. Zaun does not have the patience for distant gods or ethereal promises. Faith here is placed in tangible things: in the stability of a rusted metal beam over a chemical abyss, in the genius of an inventor who can make a lamp work from scrap, in the strength of a man like Vander who offers protection. And in the darkest, most forgotten places, faith is a stubborn whisper, a memory of better times.
My visits to Zaun had become a silent pilgrimage to these pockets of forgotten faith. It wasn't tourism; it was an act of witness. I would walk through the arteries of the undercity, feeling its pain like a low, constant fever, a lament that rose from the fissures along with the chemical steam.
The city's modern name was harsh, industrial. I still remembered the name that resonated in my memories from centuries ago, before Piltover's explosion of progress, before the great chasm split the city into two unequal halves. It was not the ancient Osha Va'Zaun from the time of empires, whose stories I had only read in dusty tomes. But I had known this city when it was a single, vibrant port, a wild place of trade and invention, whose inhabitants still looked to the sky and, on windy days, remembered to whisper prayers to an old goddess named Janna. It had been a whole city, with its ups and its downs, but it was one.
My acts in the undercity were small, as discreet as the secrets I kept. I would leave baskets of fresh bread and medicinal herbs near makeshift shelters where children slept huddled together. I would use subtle touches of my own magic to ease the pain of a wounded labourer, disguising it as a balm I carried. These were not the gestures of a grandiose saviour, but of a gardener trying to nurture the few flowers that insisted on growing in the cracked concrete.
It was during these walks that I began to feel it. A presence. Constant, intelligent, watching me from the shadows. It was not the hungry vigilance of a thief, nor the casual curiosity of a passer-by. It was something more. Focused. Analytical. A mind that was not just seeing my actions, but weighing my motivations, dissecting my purpose. There was caution in that presence, a distrust inherent to Zaun. But beneath it… I felt a painfully familiar echo. An ancient ache. An anger that burned cold, like the frost-fire of the Freljord.
I knew that, eventually, the shadow would reveal itself. And I knew where.
I was in the alley that housed the last, faded remnants of Janna's mural. The lone flame of a votive candle, left by an anonymous faithful, cast dancing shadows on the wall, making the image of the goddess seem to breathe. It was a place of memory, the perfect setting. I turned, and I waited.
He emerged from the shadows, not with the swagger of a thug or the haste of an assassin, but with the deliberate, fluid calm of one moving through a territory that is rightfully his. He was lean, with an austere elegance to his dark clothing that seemed both out of place and perfectly suited to the gloom. The disfiguring scar that circled his left eye did not mar him; it gave him an aura of dangerous intensity, the mark of a pain survived and meticulously transformed into purpose.
The moment our gazes met, I felt the fullness of his aura, and it confirmed everything I had suspected. It was an ocean of suffering, held back by an impassable wall of iron will. And in the heart of that ocean burned a single, terrible word: betrayal.
"You are the 'Lady' from the shop on the bridge," he said. His voice was a controlled whisper, almost without inflection, but it cut through the alley's damp air with the precision of a scalpel. "The one who serves tea to our oppressors from above and offers alms to our needy below. An interesting duality. Tell me, what do you hope to achieve with these… gestures of charity?"
"Easing suffering where I can is not charity. It is a duty," I replied, my voice just as calm but resonating with a weight that did not belong to this place. "And my door is open to all, the oppressed and the oppressor, for I believe that even the hearts most hardened by power or by pain can be reached. True change is not born of segregation, but of encounter."
He let out a sound that was almost a laugh, devoid of any trace of humour. A dry sound, like dead leaves breaking. "Encounter? They see us as animals in a cage, to be studied, controlled, or at best, ignored. Every crumb they throw down here to the Sump, every gesture of false philanthropy, is just to keep us docile, to assuage their own guilt. They poison us with their air, exploit us with their labour, despise us for our poverty, and you think a hot cup of tea will erase centuries of a blood debt?"
"No," I agreed, my gaze steady. "A cup of tea will not erase the debt. But it can teach a new language, one not spoken only with fists, blades, and contempt. The injustice that Piltover commits is a fact, an indelible stain on the soul of this land. But to answer that injustice with a hatred that perfectly mirrors their contempt will only serve to create an endless cycle of pain and retribution."
"Pain has its purpose," he retorted, his gaze hardening, becoming more focused. "Pain purifies. It burns away weakness, complacency. It makes us strong. You speak of healing, of a new language, but some wounds are not meant to be healed. They are meant to be sharpened, polished, and turned into weapons. Betrayal…" he touched the scar around his eye with his fingertips, an almost unconscious gesture, the memory of a ghost's touch. "...it does not teach the virtue of forgiveness. It teaches a single, brutal lesson: that absolute loyalty is the only currency of value, and that unrestricted power is the only wall that can truly protect your own from a world that wants them drowned."
The pain in his voice was so palpable I could almost see it, a shadow writhing around him. "Power built on the foundation of vengeance," I said, my voice tinged with the sadness of one speaking from experience, "is a house built on quicksand. It inevitably collapses under the weight of its own endless bitterness. I have seen empires fall for less."
That last sentence hung in the air between us like a bolt of lightning frozen in time.
His face, previously a mask of cynical control, faltered. He took an almost imperceptible step backwards, not from fear, but from sheer shock. The subtle arrogance in his posture dissolved, replaced by an intense, analytical caution. His brilliant, paranoid mind was working furiously, reprocessing every word I had said, every detail about me, trying to fit the impossible piece I represented into his map of the world. A shopkeeper, however strange, would not speak of the fall of empires in the plural with the familiarity of one describing a change of seasons.
He was not a man given to superstition, but he was a master at recognising power and anomalies. His eyes moved from my face to the faded mural of Janna behind me—a legend of ancient, protective power—and back to me. He no longer saw an idealistic philanthropist. He saw a puzzle, an impossibility, an unknown factor.
"Who are you?" he asked, and this time the question was not a challenge but a genuine demand, tinged with the first, fascinating trace of uncertainty I had seen in him.
"I am a witness," I replied simply. "And I have seen many versions of this same story, in many lands, under many skies. The story of the revolutionary who convinces himself he must burn the world down to build a paradise on the ashes, only to discover, too late, that ash is an infertile soil and that he has become the very monster he swore to destroy."
From that moment on, the dynamic changed. He was no longer testing me; he was studying me. He had realised he was not speaking to a piece on the board. He was speaking to someone who, perhaps, had already seen the entire game, from beginning to end, more than once.
"I do not wish to build a paradise," he said, his voice regaining its firmness but with a new current of gravity. "Paradises are a Piltovan fantasy. I wish to build a nation. A nation of Zaun. Independent. Strong. Where we will not have to ask for leave to breathe or bow for their scraps. Where we will be the masters of our own destiny. And I will do, without hesitation, whatever is necessary to achieve it. Loyalty will be the foundation, and betrayal will be torn out by the root and burned."
"A nation," I repeated, the word sounding both noble and dangerous. "And in this nation of yours, forged in the fire of vengeance… will there be a place for compassion? For a second chance? Or will it just be Piltover's tyranny with a new crest, a new banner, and a different accent?"
He took a step towards me, the intensity in his one visible eye almost hypnotic. "Compassion is a luxury that was taken from us long ago. Perhaps one day, when Zaun stands tall, strong, and unbreakable, we can afford to speak of it. But today, compassion is a weakness our enemies will exploit. Today, we need unity. We need strength. We need a singular purpose. Anything that divides us, any sentiment that weakens us, is a poison."
I looked at him, seeing the wounded boy beneath the revolutionary of steel. Seeing the betrayed brother beneath the future father of a nation.
"What you call poison," I said, my voice a final whisper, "is what makes us human. What stops us from becoming the monsters we fight. The ability to forgive, not for them, but for ourselves. So that the wound stops bleeding and can, finally, scar over."
He seemed to consider my words, not to accept them, but to file them away, to analyse them later. He gave a slight nod, not of agreement, but of acknowledgement. "You and your… daughter… you are interesting pieces on this board. Build your haven, if you wish, Mistress Morgana. Offer your healing. But know this: when the storm I am building finally arrives, everyone, without exception, will have to choose a side. There will be no more middle ground on the bridge."
And with that, he turned and vanished into the shadows from which he'd come, leaving behind only the echo of his pain and the promise of a future bathed in blood and fire. He saw himself as Zaun's saviour, its one true champion. And in his broken logic, perhaps he was. But I, who have seen countless saviours become tyrants under the weight of their own crowns, could only see a man so deeply wounded that he was willing to break the entire world to try and feel whole again.
And I prayed to the forgotten gods, like the Janna on this mural, that Zaun would survive not only the cold oppression of Piltover, but also the terrible, destructive love of its own dark prophet.