Time, for mortals, is a river. It flows in a single direction, constant and merciless, dragging everything in its course. They measure it in days, seasons, and, if they're lucky, in decades. For me, time is an ocean. I have stood on its calm shores, submerged myself in its silent depths, and been lashed by its most violent storms. Two months, by mortal count, can feel like the blink of an eye or an eternity. For me, these two months in which 'The Last Cup' became the unlikely epicentre of Piltovan social life were both. A blink in my long existence, and an eternity lived in teacups, whispered conversations, and the constant tinkling of the little bell above the door.
Our tea house had gone from a secret haven to a phenomenon. The scent of oakwood and dried herbs that had once been a balm to my soul now competed for space with a cacophony of expensive Piltovan perfumes, the lingering grease of Zaunite tools, and the earthy aroma of distant lands. The small common room was perpetually full, a living, pulsating mosaic of humanity in all its forms.
"It's a madhouse," Azra'il muttered from her trench behind the counter, her brow furrowed in concentration as she orchestrated a complex dance with four porcelain teapots and an army of infusers. "An elegantly decorated, lavender-scented madhouse, but a madhouse nonetheless. We should start charging an entrance fee."
"It's called success, dear," I replied, balancing a tray with three steaming cups. "And do remember it was your idea to settle in the City of Progress."
Her sharp glare could have curdled milk. "I suggested a temporary refuge, not becoming the personal slave to Piltover's caffeine-addicted gentry. Look at them."
I looked. I saw Lord Harrington, an inventor whose creations rarely worked but whose fortune was inexhaustible. He was gesticulating wildly to a group of university academics, describing his latest experience with the 'Chef's Special'. At a more discreet, Eastern-style table near the window, an Ionian man in simple robes, named Kai, was holding his cup in both hands, his eyes closed as if communing with an ancient spirit. Near the stove, a Shuriman woman with skin tanned by the desert sun, who had introduced herself as Zafira, was watching Azra'il with the intensity of a hawk, as if expecting her to reveal a thousand-year-old secret at any moment. And mixed among them, faces from Zaun, youths with noisy chem-tech augmentations, labourers with soot under their fingernails, all visibly tense at first, but slowly relaxing in the neutral atmosphere we had cultivated.
Zaunites called it 'The Truce'. Piltovans called it 'The Salon'. Both were correct. It was a place where the cogs from above and the pipes from below could coexist in silent appreciation of a good, hot drink.
Today, Azra'il's special brew was particularly… revealing. Leaves of Confession, gathered under a specific moon on a slope she refused to name. It didn't force the truth, merely loosened the chains that bound it. The compulsion was gentle, almost a relief to the drinker.
"...and then I realised," Lord Harrington declared, loud enough for half the room to hear, "that my Mechanical Cat-Fur-Brusher was fundamentally flawed! The truth is, I hate cats! I'm a dog person!"
His companions blinked, stunned. One of them cleared his throat and, under the tea's influence, admitted, "Well, my lord, with all due respect, we all knew. The steel spring-tail was a bit too aggressive."
I smiled behind my hand as I delivered the order. At Kai's table, the effect was more subtle. A single tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, but not before I noticed. He met my gaze and whispered, his voice thick with nostalgia.
"This flower… Common Dream-Blossom. It grows nowhere in Valoran, except… except in the sacred groves of Ionia. The way your partner blends it with the wild ginger root… it reminds me of home. I feel as if I am committing sacrilege by drinking it." He looked at Azra'il with a mixture of reverence and suspicion. "Is she from there? She has the soul of an Ionian herbalist."
"She has the soul of a kitchen tyrant," Azra'il scoffed, having the hearing of a bat and the subtlety of a thunderclap. "And if you keep staring at me like that, I'm going to start charging for spiritual analysis."
Kai flushed and shrank back, returning to his cup. I controlled the urge to reprimand Azra'il. Her acidity was part of the place's charm, apparently. A pillar of sarcasm in a sea of herb-induced sincerity.
The little bell rang again, and a young journalist from the Piltover Times came in. I recognised her from previous visits. She found a vacant spot at the counter, took out her notepad, and ordered the Chef's Special. I predicted trouble. An hour later, the proof came in the form of her frantic scribbling. Azra'il, in a rare moment of idleness, leaned over to peek.
"What's the little songbird writing so eagerly?" she asked, drying a cup with unnecessary vigour.
The journalist, influenced by the Leaves of Confession, did not hesitate. "'The Last Cup: An Oasis of Progress or a Dangerous Social Cauldron?' I'm exploring the duality," she said with an air of importance. "On the one hand, it's fascinating. The only place in the city where Piltover's elite share the air with… well, with the folk from below." She paused. "On the other, the truth is my editor believes this place is a risk to public morals and order. He says familiarity breeds complacency. And complacency breeds… problems."
"Tell your editor to come in and have some tea," Azra'il replied, her voice dangerously soft. "I have a special blend for men with stale opinions. It's called 'Shut Up and Drink'."
The journalist laughed nervously and went back to her writing.
That was the summary of our success. We were acclaimed and feared. A refuge and a threat. I could not have been more pleased. True justice does not flourish in sterile, gilded courtrooms, but in the messy, uncomfortable spaces where different truths are forced to meet.
The day finally ended. The last cup was washed, the last table wiped. The silence that settled was deep, almost sacred. Azra'il threw herself into one of the armchairs, letting out a groan that seemed to come from the depths of her soul.
"I am exhausted," she declared to the ceiling. "My hands smell of bergamot and resentment. My feet feel like they've been trampled by a brontosaurus."
"Brontosaurus? I don't know that animal, but I don't think they exist on Runeterra," I commented, locking the door.
"They do now. And they all ordered the Chef's Special today, with an almond biscuit on the side," she retorted. "This is unsustainable, Morgana. My prodigious talent is being wasted on memorising whether the noblewoman at table seven wants honey or lemon. I was made to decipher ancient runes, not to fight with a kettle that threatens to explode every five minutes! This job is far more stressful than it looks."
"You were the one who insisted on designing an experimental hextech kettle for the counter," I reminded her.
"A tactical misjudgment that I deeply regret every time it makes that high-pitched squealing sound," she admitted with a dramatic sigh.
I sat down opposite her, the weariness heavy on my own shoulders. She was right. The dream of a small refuge had been swallowed by its own popularity. It was alive, but it was hungry and demanding.
"We need help," I said, the conclusion obvious and unavoidable. "This isn't just our haven anymore; it's a real business. And it's growing faster than we can prune it."
Azra'il stared at me, her eyes narrowing. "Help? You want to bring strangers in… here? To our sanctuary? With my herbs? With my kitchen?"
"If you don't, your kitchen will soon be your tomb, and you'll die drowned in a sea of used tea leaves," I replied calmly.
She was silent for a long moment, clearly at war with herself. The desire for control versus the desperate need for five minutes of peace. Finally, she conceded with a dramatic sigh.
"Fine," she said, as if agreeing to her own execution. "But I conduct the interviews. And I have veto power. If I don't like the way they breathe, they're out."
"Fair enough," I agreed.
The next day, a small, elegant handwritten sign appeared in the window: "Help Wanted. Patience, discretion, and a tolerance for an ill-tempered head chef are required. Experience is a bonus. Survival, a necessity." The script was unmistakably Azra'il's.
The response was… overwhelming. But among the crowd, four figures stood out. We decided to interview them after hours, to have some peace.
The first to enter was a man who carried the weight of Demacia in his posture. Lucien Dargan was tall, straight-shouldered, and his movements were precise, almost painfully controlled. He wore simple clothes, but the way he wore them spoke of a noble past. There was a deep fear in his eyes, a constant vigilance I knew well. The fear of a mage in a land that hunts mages.
"Ladies," he said with a formal bow that seemed absurdly out of place in our humble tea house. "I thank you for the opportunity to present myself. My name is Lucien Dargan. I am a scholar… with experience in applied thermodynamics."
Azra'il raised an eyebrow. "'Applied thermodynamics'? Can you boil water, lad?"
Lucien's face remained impassive, but I saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. "Indeed, madam. The precise maintenance of temperatures is one of my specialties." To prove his point, the forgotten kettle on the counter began to whistle softly, the steam rising in a perfectly steady stream, without the uneven hiss of normal heating. The gas flame beneath it wasn't even lit.
"A walking kettle. Fascinating," Azra'il said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "And what brings you to the city of cogs and pollution, Mr. Dargan? Was the thermodynamics in Demacia not… hot enough for you?"
Lucien's facade wavered. "Demacia… is no longer my home. I seek a place where my skills are not seen as a curse."
I intervened. "Your skill would be valuable here, Mr. Dargan. Temperature control is the soul of a good brew. But this place… it sometimes hosts Piltovan Wardens. Sometimes even travellers from Demacia. Would you feel safe?"
His gaze met mine, and for an instant, I saw the extent of his suffering. He wasn't looking for a job; he was looking for a sanctuary. Like so many others who passed through our door. "Safety," he said quietly, "is a luxury I have learned to live without. But a purpose… that I long to find again."
Silently, I nodded. He understood pain, persecution. He would do.
The second candidate entered with the lithe confidence of a predator. Kaeli Shian was a Vastayan, with pointed, nimble ears that twitched to catch every sound, and golden eyes that seemed to see more than normal. She did not wait to be invited to sit; she just settled into a chair and crossed her arms.
"I hear you need someone who understands leaves," she said, her voice carrying a melodic Ionian accent, but her words as direct as an arrow. "Half the Promenade sells floor-sweepings and calls it tea. I hope this place is different."
Azra'il smiled, a thin, dangerous smile. She liked a challenge. "We sell liquid art, my dear. Do you have the palate to appreciate it, or just the tongue to criticise it?"
Kaeli closed her eyes, tilted her head, and took a deep breath. Her nostrils flared. "Oakwood. Notes of dried lavender hung to the north. Remnants of the Leaves of Confession, with a touch of chamomile to soothe the effect. And…" She opened her eyes, fixing them on Azra'il. "…a hint of Targon's Moon-petal which you keep in a sealed ceramic jar on the top shelf. Rare stuff. Dangerous if used incorrectly. So, yes," she concluded with a smug smile. "I think I have the nose for the job."
Azra'il was genuinely impressed, though she hid it well. "Not bad for a curious stray cat."
"One needs a keen sense of smell to survive," Kaeli shot back. "For example, I know you sweeten the Piltovan biscuits with honey instead of refined sugar. A rustic touch. I approve. But if I see a customer put three cubes of sugar in your Twilight Lotus tea, I might have a breakdown and need to be restrained."
I laughed. "Sometimes, hospitality requires us to overlook small culinary crimes, Kaeli. Do you think you can manage?"
She shrugged. "I can try. But I make no promises that my disdain won't be visible."
The third seemed to have walked into the wrong place. Edmund Falken, or "Eddie," as he insisted we call him, was a wiry Piltovan with spectacles that slid down his nose and an aura of perpetual anxiety. He was carrying a small wooden box with trembling hands.
"Ladies! It is an honour! A tremendous honour!" he stammered. "I… I don't know much about tea. But I do know about… about this!"
He opened the box, revealing a row of perfectly glazed little cakes. The smell of vanilla and red berries filled the air.
Azra'il took one, examined it as if it were a time bomb, and took a bite. She chewed slowly. Eddie looked as if he was about to faint.
"The sponge is a bit dense," Azra'il said at last. "You used butter that was too cold and didn't aerate it enough. And the icing is too sweet. Lacks a touch of acidity, perhaps a little lemon zest to balance it."
Eddie's face fell. "Oh. I'm sorry. I tried…"
"But," Azra'il continued, taking another cake, "the raspberry filling is sublime. And you've achieved a crispness on the base that is nearly impossible without a Hextech convection oven. You have raw talent, lad. But you're a walking disaster. Why here?"
"I wanted to get into the Culinary Academy," Eddie confessed, his gaze on the floor. "But… the fees. I thought… if I could work here, learn from the Chef… I've heard your food is as legendary as the tea. I can wash dishes, sweep, anything! I just want to learn."
I saw in him the spark of passion, the fire that drives mortals to achieve greatness. And I also saw the barrier of circumstance that extinguishes so many of those flames. Giving him a chance wasn't charity; it was an investment.
The last candidate arrived without ceremony. Rixa Veyra was from Zaun, and Zaun was marked on her. There was an economy to her movements, a watchful stillness in her grey eyes. She brought no references, just herself.
"I need a job," she said, her voice low and husky. No frills. "Grew up serving in the Sump-taverns. I can handle drunks, brawlers, lost nobles, and moody chem-barons. Your poncy Piltovan customers don't scare me."
Azra'il leaned forward. "Hypothetical question. A rich Piltovan customer complains his tea is cold, though it is scalding. He's being deliberately rude and humiliating you in front of everyone. What do you do?"
Rixa did not hesitate. "I apologise sincerely for the lapse in our service. I take the cup away. I take it to the counter. I count to ten. I come back with the same cup and say, 'A fresh brew, prepared to the exact temperature your distinguished preference requires, sir'. He won't know the difference. What he wants isn't hotter tea; it's to feel superior. I give him that, the bill is the same, and I avoid a scene."
There was a silence. Azra'il looked at me. I looked at her. That was more than experience; it was wisdom born in the trenches of service. Rixa didn't see a customer; she saw the need behind the rudeness. It was a form of compassion, hardened and pragmatic, but compassion nonetheless.
After she had left, we were alone with the magnitude of the decision.
"Well," Azra'il said, leaning back. "We have a paranoid fugitive mage, a tea-snob with olfactory superpowers, a talented pastry-chef with the confidence of a blancmange, and a Zaunite survivor who could probably pick your pocket while serving you with a smile. It is the most pathetic team of misfits I have ever seen."
"I see them differently," I replied, standing and moving towards the small balcony at the back. "I see a man who needs a place to call home. A woman who can protect the quality of what we serve. A boy whose talent will die without an opportunity. And a young woman who deserves more in life than just to survive."
I opened the balcony doors. The Piltovan night air came in, cool and clean. Below us, the lights of the City of Progress glittered like a field of fallen stars. Further beyond, the greenish fissure of Zaun glowed with a more dangerous, wilder light. So different, and yet so intrinsically linked.
Azra'il joined me, leaning against the rail. We were quiet for a moment, watching the twin cities.
"You're going to hire all of them, aren't you?" she said, more a statement than a question.
"Yes."
She let out a huff that was almost a laugh. "This is going to be an absolute disaster."
"Or," I said, a trace of genuine hope in my voice, a feeling I had thought long lost, "it will be the beginning of something truly remarkable."
Azra'il did not reply. But I saw her look at our little shop, at the warm lights emanating from within, and in the reflection of the glass, I saw something she would never admit: a fleeting glint of pride. Perhaps this haven was made of broken pieces and lost souls, but there, that night, under the watchful eyes of the cogs and the stars, I felt we were building something whole.