The big day had arrived. The day my long and occasionally glorious existence, which had once included ruling empires and witnessing the death of stars, was reduced to the role of a glorified barista and bean-counter in a city powered by cogs and irritating optimism. The grand opening of The Last Cup. For me, it was the start of a dreadfully tedious sociological experiment. For Morgana, it was the most important day of the last century.
She was awake before dawn, and the nervous yet contained energy emanating from her was enough to curdle milk. I watched her from my bed through the ajar door of my room. She was already dressed in her new attire of leather and purple velvet, the Shadow Lady reborn as a respectable proprietress—albeit one who could bind your soul in chains if you complained about the temperature of the tea. She was checking every cup on the shelf, every jar of leaves, every cinnamon roll I had baked the night before, ensuring everything was perfect. The dedication was admirable. And a little pathetic.
"If you polish that cup any more, it will turn to dust, and we'll be one item down in the inventory," I said, finally dragging myself out of bed.
She turned with a small start. "I just want everything to be… right. For everyone."
"Relax," I said, yawning. "It's just tea and cakes. We're not negotiating a peace treaty… yet."
The shop was immaculate, smelling of lemon-polished wood, the fresh flowers Morgana had insisted on placing in small ceramic vases on each table, and the intoxicating, almost sinful aroma of my first batch of White Wolf Biscuits for the day. The air was heavy with a quiet expectation.
"Are you ready?" she asked me, her hand hovering over the wooden sign on the door.
"To serve leaves in hot water to strangers in exchange for coins that barely cover the import cost of said leaves? I was born ready," I retorted. "Years of study and research have prepared me for this exact moment of capitalist glory."
She rolled her eyes, but I saw a small smile. With a deep breath, she flipped the sign.
From 'Closed' to 'Open'.
And then… nothing.
For ten agonising minutes, the only sound was the ticking of a large bronze wall clock I had insisted on installing, more as an instrument of psychological torture than for telling the time. The gentle bubbling of our copper kettles was a constant murmur of useless readiness.
"Perhaps the concept of 'open for business' is too complex for the average Piltovan," I suggested, already bored.
"Have patience," she said. "It's early."
"Progress doesn't sleep. Or so I hear."
Patience, as always, was overrated. But eventually, the first customer arrived. And, of course, he was exactly what the universe, in its infinite sense of ironic humour, would decide to send us.
The Piltovan Expectation
He was the walking personification of Piltover. A middle-aged man in a perfectly tailored grey wool suit, immaculate spats, and a pair of multi-lensed spectacles that whirred and clicked as he surveyed our establishment. He entered like one inspecting an acquired property, his gaze sweeping over our mixture of Victorian and Eastern decor with an expression of calculated disdain.
"Hmph," he grunted, tapping the floorboards with the tip of his bronze cane. "Interesting. Another attempt to capitalise on the 'rustic-imported' aesthetic. I do hope the service is more efficient than the decor is muddled."
He chose the most central table, sat down noisily, and, without even glancing at the menu, snapped his fingers. The sound was sharp and offensive. "Waitress! The strongest coffee you have. And a cronut. Quickly. I have a meeting with Clan Medarda in twenty minutes and I require mental clarity."
Morgana, with a calmness I had to admire, approached his table. "Good morning, sir. Welcome to 'The Last Cup'. Unfortunately, we don't serve coffee. Nor cronuts."
The man stared at her as if she'd just said they only served wet sand. His optical lenses whirred, focusing on her. "You don't serve… coffee? By Progress, what sort of serious establishment doesn't serve coffee? It is the fuel of thought! Of innovation!"
"One that believes in the mental clarity that comes from contemplation, not from anxious caffeine," Morgana replied softly. "We offer a selection of teas."
"Tea," he repeated the word as if it were a plague. He finally picked up the menu, holding it with two fingers as if it were contaminated. "Jasmine Whisper… Crescent Moon… Zaunite Black Rose? What ridiculous names. Where are the normal options?"
"'Golden Dawn' is our robust black tea blend, with a hint of bergamot," I said from the counter, my voice flat.
He ignored me. "Just give me a black tea. Strong. No sugar. And one of these… 'Cloud Cakes'. And if I am late for my meeting with Medarda, the fault will lie with this place's inefficiency."
I served him the 'Golden Dawn' tea. It was a blend I had perfected over the past few days, using leaves from the foothills of Targon that were dried under the light of a full moon, with a touch of bergamot oil from an orchard that no longer existed. Beside it, I placed a single 'Cloud Cake', so light and airy it seemed to defy gravity, a recipe that involved folding the meringue 1,024 times.
He took a sip of the tea, his expression one of pure impatience. And then, he froze.
I saw the exact moment his mind registered what he was drinking. It was not the bitter, astringent tea he expected. It was robust, yes, but smooth, with layers of flavour that unfolded on his tongue: malt, a hint of wild honey, and the bright, citrusy perfume of the bergamot on the finish. His optical lenses stopped whirring. He looked at the cup, then back at Morgana, the arrogance on his face being replaced by genuine confusion. He took another sip, slower this time, contemplative.
Then, with an air of scepticism, he cut into the Cloud Cake with his fork. And was surprised again. The texture was ethereal, dissolving in his mouth with a delicate taste of vanilla and a hint of lemon zest. He ate the entire cake in three bites, which for a man of his standing was the equivalent of devouring a roast boar with his bare hands.
He said nothing. There was no "thank you" or "that is delicious". Piltovan arrogance wouldn't allow it. But when he stood to leave, he left enough coins on the table to pay for three cups of tea and five cakes. He glanced at the counter one last time, not at me, but at the other pastries in the display case, before hurrying off to his meeting, looking like a man whose orderly worldview had been subtly but irrevocably shaken. He would be back. Quality, I knew, was a more addictive drug than power.
The other Piltovans followed a similar pattern. They'd enter with disdain, order the 'simplest' or the 'strongest', and leave in a shocked, contemplative silence. I saw two engineers loudly arguing about the calibration of a hexdraulic piston fall silent after tasting the 'Forgefire Brew', their eyes widening at the blast of warm spices, before returning to their discussion, but this time with a renewed and focused energy. I saw a group of socialites order the 'Crimson Infusion' and become genuinely wonderstruck by the vibrant colour and the tart, refreshing taste, taking out a notepad and beginning to plan how they would serve something "so divinely rustic" at their next party.
They didn't understand the place. They probably saw us as two odd outsiders. But they understood quality. And in Piltover, quality was a universal language. The city's beating heart may have lacked a soul, but it had a terribly discerning palate. And we, unintentionally, had just satisfied it.
The Zaunite Hesitation
It was around noon, when the shop was half-full with the hum of the Piltovan elite, that the dynamic shifted. The door opened, and a small group paused at the entrance, blinking in the warm light, like creatures of the night suddenly exposed to the sun. They were Zaunites.
The difference was palpable. Their clothes were a patchwork of mended leather, coarse canvas, and rusted metal, built for function, not fashion. The very air around them seemed to carry the soot of Zaun. One of them, a burly man with a mechanical arm that hissed with every movement, met my gaze. I saw his life's story in his eyes: distrust. He looked at the starched Piltovans, heard their conversations about profits and losses, and began to turn, pushing his younger companions back outside.
Morgana, who had been watching them from the window, moved. With the grace of a shadow, she was at the door before they could leave.
"Hello," she said, her voice quiet but firm enough to make them pause.
The man with the mechanical arm turned, his biological hand already in a defensive fist. "Sorry, ma'am. We thought this was somewhere else."
"This is 'The Last Cup'," she said. "And no, you did not. You are welcome here."
He laughed, a dry, humourless sound. "Welcome? Ma'am, we know which side of the Promenade we're on. We know the price of a cup of tea 'round here. We're not looking for charity or trouble."
"I don't offer charity," Morgana replied, her tone unshakeable. "I offer tea. We have blends for all pockets, and I can assure you the price on the menu is the same, no matter which side of the bridge you sleep on." She paused, and her voice softened. "And the first cup for new neighbours… is on the house."
They looked at each other, shocked. The offer was so alien to their reality it sounded like a trap. One of the younger ones, a wiry lad with cracked goggles, stepped forward, glancing at the Piltovans on the other side of the room who were pretending to ignore them with great effort.
"Are you sure… we can come in here?" the youth asked, his voice barely a whisper, his wide eyes going from the hextech crystal chandeliers to the cold faces of the Piltovan customers.
Morgana offered them a small smile, a gesture not of pity, but of genuine hospitality. She guided them to one of the larger tables near the window that looked out onto the street, a place of prominence, not a dark corner. "There is no boundary in here," she said, and her voice, though soft, carried the weight of an ancient conviction. I heard the queen in her, the judge, the protector. "Tea is tea. And people are people. All are welcome."
The shock on their faces was the realest thing I'd seen all day. They sat down stiffly, as if expecting the chairs to bite them. The man with the mechanical arm, who seemed to be the leader, placed his hands on the table where he could see them, a habit of one who is used to being accused of theft.
While Morgana went to fetch the hot water, I approached the table, notepad in hand.
"House rules," I announced. "Don't ask for coffee. And I exploit everyone equally. Piltovan, Zaunite, Vastayan, Yordle… your coin is worth exactly the same to me, as long as it isn't counterfeit."
The joke caught him by surprise. And he laughed. A genuine, rusty laugh from deep in his chest that seemed to break the tension in the whole room. The other Zaunites smiled. On the other side of the room, a Piltovan man huffed into his teacup, clearly offended at being grouped with the 'rabble'. Perfect. A perfect balance.
"What do you recommend for… us?" he asked, the 'us' heavy with a weight that meant 'people who work 18-hour days amidst toxic fumes and whose last meal was stale bread'.
Morgana returned with the kettle. "To start," she said, her tone the knowing one of a true healer, "something to clear the lungs. The Spirit's Cleanse." She poured the pale green infusion into dark ceramic cups.
The aroma that rose was of fresh mint, eucalyptus, and something else, an herb I knew only grew on the Targon highlands. They drank hesitantly. And then, one by one, their faces changed.
"By… Janna," the wiry lad whispered after a sip. He coughed, a dry hack, but then took a deep breath, and his eyes widened. "I can… breathe. Really breathe. The air doesn't burn."
"My chest has never felt so… light," a young woman with grease stains on her face agreed, looking at her cup as if it were a holy relic.
Robert, the leader, just nodded at Morgana, a slow nod full of a respect words could not convey.
"And," I said, placing a plate in the centre of the table, "you need to eat. It comes with the tea."
On the plate were my 'Gilded Cog Cinnamon Rolls', fresh from the oven, the warm, sweet scent filling the air around them.
They looked at the rolls as if they were gold. Slowly, the youngest one took one. His first bite was tentative. His second was ravenous. Silence took over the table as they ate, the only sound being murmurs of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
"Never… never had anything so… soft," the youth said, his mouth full, without an ounce of shame.
"It's like eating a warm cloud," the girl agreed.
It was Robert who finally turned to Morgana, the expression on his face a mixture of gratitude and a deep, bitter confusion.
"Why?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Why are you being… like this… with us?"
Morgana, who was wiping a nearby table, paused. "Like what?"
"Decent," he replied, as if the word were foreign. "Last week, we tried to go into a coffee shop three blocks from here. The proprietress sent us packing before we could touch the handle. Said we'd 'scare off the real customers'. At the bakery near the bridge, they sold us yesterday's loaves for double the price. Here…" he looked around, at the warm shop, at the empty teacup, at the plate of rolls, "…you've given us your best table. And your best tea."
"That is not my 'best tea'," I cut in, unable to resist. "It is my 'standard lung-cleansing' tea. You don't even want to know what I'd charge for the best."
The glare Morgana shot me made me shut up.
"What my… apprentice… means to say," Morgana said, her voice soft but with a touch of steel directed at me, "is that the quality of our service does not depend on the quality of your clothes, or which city you call home. You were thirsty. We had tea. The equation is simple."
The group of Zaunites was silent, processing a logic that went against everything they knew in Piltover. They weren't just satisfied customers. They were potential ambassadors. The news that there was a place on the Promenade, a single place, where Zaunites were treated not as problems but as people, would spread through the undercity faster than any chem-fire. Morgana's small, idealistic experiment was beginning to work.
The two worlds, sat under the same roof, separated by only a few feet of floorboards but a million miles of prejudice. Then, the truly interesting customers began to arrive.
A young Piltovan nobleman, clearly bored and with more money than sense, approached the counter. He wore a blue velvet coat and looked dreadfully proud of it. "Surprise me," he said, with the arrogance of one who has never truly been surprised. "I want the most exotic thing you have. Something I can tell my friends about. The price is no object."
I smiled. A genuine smile.
I served him an infusion of a vibrant pink, which smelt of honey and a strange, effervescent joy. It was the 'Leaves of Involuntary Laughter' from a sentient jungle I had been trapped in for a time.
Five minutes later, he was at his table, guffawing uncontrollably. Not a laugh, but a torrent of pure, terrifying glee he could not stop. Tears were streaming down his face as he tried, and failed, to maintain his dignity. His friends, confused and alarmed, had to drag him out, while he was still laughing hysterically about the colour of the curtains. I just shrugged at Morgana's shocked look. He had asked to be surprised.
Later, an old man from Zaun came in. He moved with the stiffness of chronic pain, his body a collage of cheap, hissing and dripping chem-tech enhancements. The skin on his face had the grey tone of long-term chemical poisoning. He sat in a corner, alone, and asked for something for 'the rust in his bones'. I gave him the 'Serpent's Remedy', a dark, bitter tea that smelt of earth and ancient roots.
He drank it in silence, without complaining about the taste. And then I saw him flex the fingers of his hand, once, twice, without the usual grimace of pain. He stared at his own hand, disbelieving. His shoulders, which had been hunched with pain for years, relaxed. And a single, silent, devastating sob escaped him. His eyes filled with tears. It was the first time he had been without pain in a decade. He said nothing. Just left three silver cogs on the table, triple the price, and walked out, standing a little straighter than when he had come in.
I saw Morgana watch the scene, and the expression on her face was of a sorrow and satisfaction so profound it almost hurt to look at.
Closing Time
By the end of the day, we were exhausted. The empty shop smelt of a strange mixture of a hundred different teas, cinnamon bread, and the fragile, tired promise of something new. Morgana was cleaning the cups at the counter, her body moving with a satisfied fatigue.
"It was a good day," she said, her voice soft. "A very long day. But good. I think… I think we are building something good here, Azra'il."
I looked at our accounts book. The profit was modest. We had irritated some Piltovans, confused others, made one laugh hysterically, and given a dying man a moment of peace. And most importantly, we had survived. We had established ourselves as the oddest establishment on the Boundary-Mark Promenade.
"If this place doesn't go bankrupt in a week, or if we're not shut down by the Health and Safety Guild for accidentally poisoning a nobleman with laughing-tea," I said, stacking the last cups to be washed, "we can already consider it a cosmic miracle."
Morgana laughed, a low, genuine sound. "I'll take the miracle, then."
"So will I," I said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a cup of my own remedy. Serving tea to others is dreadfully draining work. And the dishes won't wash themselves."
She took the tea towel from beside me. "We can share."
And side by side, as the Piltovan night began to glow with its lights, we washed the dishes. Like two normal people. The idea was so absurd it almost made me laugh. Almost.