Time, for mortals, is both a thief and an artisan. It is a concept I have learned to respect in all its cruel and beautiful duality. It steals youth with one hand, leaving behind the fine lines of laughter and worry around the eyes, and with the other, it carves strength, resilience, and quiet wisdom into the raw marble of experience. I, who have watched millennia pass like the seasons of a single, long life, have learned to recognise the invisible hand of time on the weathered faces of cities and, more acutely, in the blossoming hearts of their children.
And in our first year on the bridge between Piltover and Zaun, time had been a diligent, silent, and relentless labourer.
One year. For me, the blink of an eye, the time it takes for a star to twinkle. For a child, an eternity, an ocean of discoveries and changes. In that time, 'The Last Cup' had ceased to be an anomaly and had become, against all odds, an institution. Our small island of neutrality had sunk its foundations into the rock and steel of the bridge. In Piltover, we were seen as an eccentric curiosity, an 'exotic salon', as they liked to say at their parties, a place where one could have the calculated thrill of venturing near the abyss of Zaun without actually getting dirty. A place where, to their eternal, condescending surprise, 'even Zaunites could brew a decent cuppa'.
In Zaun, however, we were something more. Something real. We were 'The Truce'. The nickname, born in the damp alleys and noisy taverns, had solidified into unwritten law. It was a sanctuary where, by a tacit agreement sealed in silence and respect, even the most ferocious gangs knew that violence was left outside the door. Peace, I had discovered, could have a scent, and it was that of infused tea leaves and fresh bread.
But the deepest change, the most delicate sculpture of time, I saw in them. In the children who, one way or another, had adopted our haven as their own.
In Vi, time had transformed the raw, explosive energy of a supernova into focused power. At fourteen, her body had lengthened, the muscles defining themselves under her skin, a silent testament to the exhausting mornings on the rooftop with Azra'il. Impatience still burned in her like a pilot light, always ready to flare up, but now she knew how to breathe before letting the fire consume and blind her. Legends of the pink-haired girl who 'could drop boys twice her size without breaking a sweat' were whispered in the streets of Zaun. Her strength had become quieter, more rooted, and therefore, infinitely more fearsome.
Powder, at t
Eleven, was an explosion of chaotic genius. The cellar that Azra'il had ceded to her had become her private kingdom, a paradise and a minefield of unfinished prototypes and metal dreams. Gears were scattered everywhere, the smell of ozone and gunpowder hung constantly in the air like a strange incense, and blue sparks would occasionally shoot up through the cracks in the floorboards, to the terror of our more nervous customers and to Azra'il's secret delight. Her boldness had grown along with her skill; she no longer spoke of fixing toys, but of 'changing the very air of Zaun with inventions'.
And Ekko, also eleven now, had become the gravitational anchor to her small hurricane of creativity. His mind was as brilliant as Powder's, but methodical, disciplined, with a sense of time and consequence that was frighteningly adult. Where Powder saw the glorious explosion of a new idea, Ekko saw the mechanics behind it, the steps needed to build it, and more importantly, all the ways it could go terribly wrong. He already showed the unmistakable signs of a leader, a protector who always thought of the group's safety before satisfying his own vast curiosity.
And I... in the midst of this small, burgeoning storm of futures, I had become, reluctantly and inevitably, a safe harbour. On the quietest afternoons, when the flow of customers dwindled, I would gather them around a large table and tell them stories. Ancient myths, legends of Runeterra, tales of forgotten gods and fallen empires. I would see how their eyes widened, how their young minds absorbed the lessons hidden in each tale of tragedy and triumph. In those moments, I would feel my own shadows, my faithful companions for centuries, grow quiet around me, as if accepting this new, unexpected role as a guide. It was like being a mother again, to a brood far noisier and more prone to explosions.
It was on one of these quiet mornings, with the Piltovan sun cutting through the Zaunite smog that rose past the window, that 'progress' knocked on our door, wrapped in the pages of an academic journal. Azra'il was sitting at one of our tables, enjoying a rare moment of peace, a cup of her strongest tea steaming beside the newspaper she was reading with a concentration that could only be described as sarcastically forensic.
The feature article, complete with a detailed technical diagram that made the eyes hurt, announced Piltover's newest miracle: "Zaunite Protégé of Professor Heimerdinger Creates Hextech Automaton for Toxic Waste Cleanup – Machine Demonstrates Signs of Rudimentary Consciousness and Empathy." The text was a masterpiece of Piltovan condescending propaganda. The young inventor, a certain Viktor, was praised for 'overcoming his humble Zaunite origins' a polite way of saying "see, even one of them can be useful if properly educated and polished by us". Blitzcrank, the automaton, was described as a 'mechanical marvel with an ethical heart', the perfect symbol of 'the harmonious coexistence between science and humanity'. The topside, the article proudly concluded, was celebrating this milestone.
Azra'il's celebration was a loud, dry laugh that made several customers turn, startled.
"Feeling machines… what an absolute novelty," she said to the room at large, her voice dripping with irony. "I'll wager the next edition will announce the invention of a teapot that weeps silently when the water reaches the wrong temperature, in protest of thermal abuse."
The children, who had arrived for their informal 'lesson', gathered around, drawn by the commotion. Azra'il pushed the journal to the centre of the table. "Read and learn, pups. This is what progress looks like when it's written by the victors, not the spare parts." She then turned to me, the amusement on her face gone, replaced by that familiar, ancient bitterness. "That is not an ethical heart, Morgana. It is an echo. The only way a pile of cogs can spontaneously develop empathy is if you build its consciousness matrix around a fragment of something that was once alive, that once felt. Blitzcrank is not an invention. It is a coffin with legs. A brackern spirit, fractured and squeezed into a metal shell, and condemned to smile and wave at its gaolers for the rest of its existence."
Vi was the first to understand the implication, with her direct, brutal logic. "So it's like a ghost in a tin suit? If it is, we've gotta let it out."
Powder, on the other hand, was torn between horror and scientific fascination. "A robot with real feelings! I want to meet it! I wonder if it cries oil if you poke its emotional circuits?"
But it was Ekko who, as always, got to the heart of the matter. His eyes were serious, heavy with an understanding that did not belong to a boy his age. "If she's right… it means it never had a choice. That someone stole its life to build a better janitor."
Azra'il took a sip of her tea, her gaze passing over each of them. "Welcome to progress, children. The bill always comes due. And it's always paid by someone who doesn't have a voice to protest."
Her statement hung in the air, dense and uncomfortable. The mood at the table had turned grim, the children pondering the hard truth they had just learned. I saw the sparkle in Powder's eyes dim a little, the indignation in Ekko's deepen, and Vi's expression harden. It was a burden too heavy to carry along with the morning news.
It was then that one of our own beacons of light intervened. Eddie approached the table, a little hesitant as always, but with a gentle smile on his face. He was balancing a large silver tray that held a steaming pot of herbal tea, whose sweet, calming scent was an antidote to the conversation's bitterness, and a plate piled high with his latest baking experiments, small lemon and honey cakes, still warm from the oven.
"I… uh… thought you might like to try these," he said, adjusting his spectacles. "It's a new recipe. I used a bit of the blackberry-blossom essence that Kaeli recommended."
The simple act of kindness, the offering of something warm and sweet, was enough to dispel the shadow. Powder immediately took a cake, her inventor's curiosity overcoming the existential weight. Claggor, who was nearby, was drawn by the scent like a poro to fresh grass. Even Mylo stopped trying to come up with a joke about sad robots and focused on the plate. Eddie served tea for everyone, his movements a little clumsy but filled with a genuine care that was, in itself, a form of magic.
He had created a small island of normality, of comfort, in the midst of our discussion of imprisoned souls. And I was reminded, once again, that the world's greatest philosophical battles can often be put on pause for a good piece of cake.
Later, when the energy at the table had been restored by sugar and tea, and the grim discussion about automatons had given way to lighter debates, I felt the time was right. I pushed aside the crumbs and the newspaper, and opened the old books and maps on the table, creating an island of history amidst the ebb and flow of customers.
"You live at the centre of a crossroads," I began, pointing to the spot on the map where Piltover and Zaun met. "Ships and caravans from all over the world pass over this bridge. It is good to know the places they come from."
I started with the frozen north, unrolling a rustic map of the Freljord. "These are the lands where winter is the one true king. Where people do not build cities of stone but live in nomadic tribes that follow the Elnuk herds."
"Are they strong?" Vi asked, her eyes fixed on the drawings of warriors with axes and bone armour.
"Strong in a way you can barely imagine," I said, an echo of memory in my voice. "I was there a few times, during blizzards that lasted for months. The wind would howl like a hungry god. They did not hide from it. They sang songs to it, to soothe its fury. Their faith is not like the silent prayers you've seen in Zaun. It is a challenge, a conversation with the wild gods that still walk on the ice."
Powder was fascinated. "Do they have inventors? Machines?"
"Their machines are different," I replied. "Weapons forged in True Ice, that never melts. Chimes that can call or calm avalanches. Their magic is raw, ancient, part of the land itself. It is not contained in crystals; it is in the blood and the air."
My finger slid across the map, to the dark, imposing lands of Noxus. "And here," I said, "lies an empire."
"Noxus is evil, right?" said Mylo, who had come to join, repeating a Zaunite cliché. "They want to conquer everything."
"It's more complicated than that," I said, and I felt Caitlyn's curious eyes, a few tables away, lift from her book. "Noxus values one thing above all others: strength. Not the strength of birth, or money, or name, as in Piltover. Just strength. It doesn't matter where you came from, what forgotten tribe or conquered nation. If you are strong, in muscle, mind, or magic, there is a place for you in its legions. It is a brutal meritocracy." I remembered conversations with Azra'il, her clinical analysis. "It is their strength, and their greatest weakness. They unite all under one banner, but the price of that union is the constant struggle for power."
"But how do they keep so many different people under control?" Vi asked, her strategic mind emerging. "If they're from so many tribes, why don't they rebel against the empire, all together?"
It was a brilliant question. "Because the empire gives them a purpose greater than their own tribes," I explained. "It takes their individual strength and channels it for the glory of Noxus. It gives them a common enemy, a shared identity. It is a powerful lesson in how unity, even when forged by force, can be stronger than disorganised rebellion."
I saw Caitlyn, from across the room, ponder that answer with a seriousness beyond her years.
"And here," I pointed to Demacia, the land where Azra'il was born, and felt a pang of irony. "It is the opposite. The walls of white petricite promise order, justice, safety. A place where everyone knows the rules."
"Sounds boring," Powder said.
"It can be," I agreed. "But there is a calm in that order. The problem is its price." I turned to Ekko, whose face was serious. "They fear what they cannot control. And magic, to them, is the personification of chaos. There, a child born with the ability to light a candle with a thought is not seen as blessed, but as cursed. They hunt and imprison mages, in the name of everyone's safety."
Ekko nodded slowly, understanding the terrible logic. The pursuit of perfect order always demands the sacrifice of something, or someone.
I saw the exact moment Vi felt Caitlyn's gaze. Vi's shoulders tensed slightly, a sudden self-consciousness taking the place of her usual confidence. She shot a furtive glance in Caitlyn's direction, and a shy, confused half-smile touched her lips before she suppressed it. From across the room, in a gesture so subtle most would have missed it, Caitlyn responded with a slight nod. It was a silent dialogue, a bridge being built upon the bridge itself, as fragile and as beautiful as a spider's web at dawn.
Powder nudged Ekko with her elbow and let out a giggle. Ekko rolled his eyes. I pretended not to notice, but inwardly, I smiled. The shadows, indeed, see far more than they should, and sometimes, what they see is the unexpected glimmer of a new light.
"Lesson's over," I announced, beginning to gather the maps with an almost reverent care. Their discussion, however, had only just begun, now fuelled by visions of golden deserts and ice-forests. Their world, once confined to the borders of Zaun and the shadow of Piltover, had expanded in every direction.
"I still want to travel," Powder insisted, her eyes shining with images of wonders she could now name. "I want to see a spirit dragon in Ionia! Imagine the mechanics of its wings! And build a sand-skiff to cross Shurima! And maybe a personal heater to explore the Freljord without my nose freezing off!"
"And who's going to fix the air-scrubber in the Sump-alley while you're off drawing your sand-skiffs?" Ekko retorted, ever the pragmatist, his voice filled with a responsibility that seemed too heavy for a boy his age. "No point dreaming of other worlds if our own is falling apart. We have to fix our home first."
His reply silenced Powder for a moment, the harsh truth of his words clashing with her enthusiasm. It was the eternal tension between the dream and the duty, already manifesting in these two small geniuses.
But Vi was quiet for a long time, her gaze lost somewhere between the image of an Ionian mountain monastery on the map and the door through which Caitlyn had just left. The world had presented itself to her not just as a place of wonders or problems, but as a complex system of power. To protect her own here, in the micro-verse of Zaun, or to explore and understand the vast and unknown world out there? For the first time, I saw on her face that she understood these two things were not mutually exclusive, but perhaps, just perhaps, two sides of the same great, dangerous adventure that was life. True protection, she was beginning to realise, came not just from the strength of one's fists, but from the strength of one's knowledge.
I watched them, my small, unlikely family of misfits, gathered on our island of calm, discussing futures that had not yet been written. Each of them already carried within them an unmistakable seed of the adult they would become: the visionary inventor, whose genius was so great it could barely fit in one city; the revolutionary leader, whose loyalty to his land was the anchor of his soul; and the reluctant guardian, whose strength would be forged as much by love for her family as by her understanding of the wider world. They were seeds of a grand and, I feared, terrible destiny. Seeds planted in a rocky and unforgiving soil.
My gaze met Azra'il's from across the room. She was watching me watch the children, a knowing, crooked smile on her lips, as if she understood perfectly the ache in my heart. Her eyes seemed to say, 'You're getting attached again, Mother Raven. You know how this story usually ends.'
And I deeply feared the weight that the world, with its casual cruelty and its relentless politics, would inevitably place on those shoulders, still far too small to bear it. I, who have seen what conviction and destiny can do to two sisters, trembled to think of what the future held for this little band of soul-siblings.
A full year had passed. A year of relative peace. A complete cycle of seasons on the bridge, of cool, misty mornings and golden, sunlit afternoons. Enough time to make us believe that the delicate balance we had built, that small miracle of tea and acceptance, could last forever.
And always, always, just enough time for the world, out there, to begin sharpening its knives, oiling its gears, and planning, with a cold and calculating patience, exactly how it was going to break it all into a thousand pieces.
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Author's Note 🖤☕⚙️
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First of all, I'm so sorry for the delay in updating. I know that waiting for a new chapter is never easy, so I thought it best to be honest and explain what's been going on behind the scenes.
Currently, the story you're reading here is still in the Piltover arc.
However, away from the site, I am already writing the next arc, Bilgewater, which takes place after Piltover. In fact, I already have several advanced chapters of that arc written.
The thing is, the pace of writing changes quite a bit from one arc to the next.
Normally, in this Runeterra fanfic, chapters tend to be around 1500–2000 words long, with a few exceptions that go over 3000.
In the Bilgewater arc, however, the chapters are much longer, averaging around 4000 words, because the focus there is different.
If poverty and misery reign in Zaun, in Bilgewater, it is violence and, above all, Motion that reign. There, everything is in a constant state of flux: bodies, faith, blood, power.
It's the arc where the Motion of Nagakabouros stops being a backdrop and becomes a living, pulsating, and relentless force. The descriptions are more visceral, rawer, and that naturally requires more time and energy to write.
Additionally (and here comes the part where I admit my guilt 😅):
I have been playing a lot of Where Winds Meet. This game is dangerously addictive and is, quite literally, stealing my writing time. And as if that weren't enough, every time I play, I get the urge to drop everything and start a new project with Azra'il in a Wuxia setting, in the world of Shénvara (an original world I created). I am officially fighting my own creative brain to stop myself from opening yet another front and becoming a chaotic entity with no project control 😂
So yes: the delay comes from longer chapters being written behind the scenes for an emotionally heavier arc, and from a game that insists on throwing me into a world of swords, wind, and tragic destiny every time I sit down to "relax".
But rest assured:
📌 the story is not on hiatus,
📌 the Piltover arc is still moving forward,
📌 and the Bilgewater arc is already being built well in advance.
This particular chapter is intentionally calmer. It's about formation, about growth and the world opening up, before it exacts its price.
Thank you for your patience, your kindness, and for continuing to follow this journey in Runeterra.