There are universal truths that govern existence. The sun rises in the east. Gravity is a nuisance. And every morning, at around seven o'clock, I am reminded that starting a successful business is just a slow, bureaucratic form of suicide. The sound of our experimental hextech kettle, one of my more questionable inventions, let out its morning whistle, a noise that fell somewhere between a bird being strangled and a mine-collapse alarm. It was the soundtrack to my regret.
"Good morning, Azra'il," Morgana said, her voice the irritating calm before a storm that was me. She was arranging the cushions in the Ionian wing, each movement serene and deliberate. I envied her that peace. It was probably the result of centuries of meditation or simply the complete absence of a functional nervous system.
I, on the other hand, was waging a silent war against a sack of flour that refused to open. "Only if it is for you," I grumbled.
At that exact moment, the universe decided to test the limits of my already non-existent patience. Eddie, my disaster-pastry-chef-in-training, tripped over his own feet and sent an entire baking tray of perfectly golden almond biscuits crashing to the floor. The sound of porcelain and broken dreams echoed through the quiet shop.
He froze, his face pale. "I... I'm so sorry, Chef!"
I did not turn. I just stared at the ceiling, seeking strength from some forgotten god of sarcasm. "Another masterpiece for the gallery of culinary tragedies, sponsored by the grace and coordination of Piltover. Don't worry, Eddie. Just sweep away the evidence of your crime against confectionery."
"Azra'il." Morgana's voice was no longer calm. It had acquired a velvet-coated-steel tone that meant my daily quota of malevolence had been exceeded. She approached, took the flour sack from my hand, and opened it with humiliating ease. "That's enough. You are taking a day off today."
I stared at her, incredulous. "A day off? What is that? Some sort of expensive, tasteless Piltovan vegetable?"
"It is a day in which you do not terrorise your staff nor threaten the furniture," she said, crossing her arms. Her posture was that of a gentle mother, but her eyes were those of an ancient entity that had once bound demons in magical chains. It was a disconcerting combination. She was caring for me, and it was… odd. Most of the maternal figures I'd had throughout my countless lives had either tried to sell me, sacrifice me, or simply ignored me to death. Morgana's genuine care was uncharted and deeply suspicious territory. A good odd, but odd nonetheless.
"They need to learn to deal with a realistic work environment," I argued. "The world outside will not offer them chamomile tea and pats on the back."
"The world outside is not their boss. I am. And I'm telling you to leave. Go and explore the city. Visit a museum. Go to Zaun. I don't care. But you will not spend the day here exuding misanthropy. Kaeli and Eddie can handle the counter and the kitchen."
The mention of Zaun ignited a spark of interest. I grumbled, conceding less to her order and more to my own sudden curiosity. "Fine. But if I come back to find a customer dead from a sugar overdose or poisoned by one of Eddie's experiments, it's on you. And I'll be deducting the cleaning costs from your pay."
She just smiled. Damn it, she always won.
Half an hour later, I was in the hydraulic lift, the 'Rising Howl', making the reverse journey. The descent into Zaun was a symphony of decay. The gentle hum of Piltovan mechanisms gave way to the screech of rusted chains and the groan of overworked pistons. The golden sunlight was swallowed by a greenish fog that rose from the fissures like the breath of a sick dragon. The smell changed. Piltover's clean, perfumed air was replaced by something more honest: a pungent mix of burnt iron, rancid oil, and something vaguely chemical that made my eyes water. It was horrible. I loved it.
[Warning: Ambient air quality has dropped to levels that would induce pulmonary failure in three average Piltovans in under five minutes. Congratulations, you'll feel right at home.]
I smiled internally. Piltover stinks of arrogance, hypocrisy, and cheap perfume used to mask the emptiness. Zaun stinks of smoke, effort, and survival. I definitely prefer the latter. At least here no one pretends the air isn't actively trying to kill you.
The metal gates ground open, revealing a world of twisted pipes and makeshift walkways. The sun was a distant memory, filtered through pollution and the colossal structures of Piltover above. The lighting came from the toxic glow of the chem-rivers and jury-rigged lamps that hissed dangerously. The looks I received were immediate and wary. No one smiled. Everyone watched everyone else. Wiry children with dirty faces and old eyes slinked between the adults' legs, their little hands ready to lighten the load of any careless pocket.
I laughed quietly to myself. *Finally. A place where paranoia is the official language. As it happens, I'm fluent.*
My first destination was the Boundary Markets, a chaotic labyrinth of stalls welded together from scrap metal and covered in threadbare tarps. The place was an assault on the senses. The smell of exotic, burnt spices mingled with the acrid odour of fish of a questionable provenance and the sweetish scent of chem-tech leaking from a nearby generator. It was an ecosystem of survival. Here, they sold stolen cogs alongside strange, wrinkled fruits smuggled from Shurima. One vendor hawked recycled oil pipes while, at the neighbouring stall, a woman grilled skewers of meat over a flickering green flame that hissed and popped.
My stomach, immune to millennia of poisons and questionable foods, rumbled. I approached the skewer vendor, a woman with a mechanical arm that clicked with every movement.
"One of those," I said, pointing at the sizzling meat.
She looked me up and down, noting my relatively clean clothes. "Three bronze cogs. And no refunds if your topside stomach can't handle it."
I paid and took the skewer. The meat was a suspicious colour and the smell was strong, but there was a scent of spices underneath that was genuinely intriguing. I took a bite. It was tough, stringy, but the flavour… was complex. Spicy, smoky, with a metallic aftertaste that, somehow, worked. I chewed thoughtfully, ignoring the vendor's curious stare.
[Nutritional analysis in progress… Composition detected: 38% unidentified rodent protein, 42% fibrous protein of unknown origin, likely reptilian, 20% your own sheer bloody-mindedness for ingesting this. Conclusion: surprisingly palatable. Recommendation: order another.]
"It's tough," I announced to the vendor with my best look of disdain. "But well-seasoned. Give me another."
An almost imperceptible smile played at the corner of her lips. She handed me the second skewer without a word. There, in the heart of Zaun, I had passed some kind of test. The 'topside girl' hadn't just survived the local cuisine; she'd asked for more.
After exploring the market, my destination was inevitable. Guided by the muffled sound of hoarse laughter and out-of-tune music, I found the place that had birthed Mylo's joke: The Last Drop. The wooden sign was worn and stained. The place smelt of cheap spirits, sweat, smoke, and a layer of hopelessness that seemed to have accumulated over decades. It was perfect.
I pushed the door and went in. The noise stopped instantly. If a pin had dropped on the grimy wooden floor, it would have sounded like an explosion. About twenty pairs of hardened eyes turned to me. The silence was heavy, thick with suspicion.
"Look what the lift spat out…" someone muttered from a dark corner.
"It's the girl from 'The Last Cup'," said another, his voice full of astonishment.
The shock was palpable. It was one thing to treat Zaunites with professional neutrality in Piltover. It was another thing entirely, unthinkable, for a Piltovan (or someone who looked like one) to voluntarily descend into the heart of their territory.
I faced the entire room, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. Then I raised one hand in a casual gesture.
"Don't stop on my account," I said, my voice clear and calm. "Please, continue trying to look dangerous. You were almost convincing."
The tension snapped. A few stifled, reluctant laughs broke the spell. Slowly, the hum of conversation returned, though everyone was still watching me from the corner of their eyes. I walked to the bar as if I owned the place and sat on one of the creaking high stools.
Behind the bar, the human-oak-cabinet I recognised from my shop was wiping a glass with a cloth. Vander looked at me, genuine surprise in his tired eyes.
"Well, I wasn't expecting this," he said, his voice a low rumble. "What's a little bird like you doing so far from the nest?"
I propped my elbows on the bar with an exaggerated flourish. "I came on a cultural expedition to broaden my horizons. Starting with the strongest, most potent, and potentially fatal beverage you have for an underage customer."
The whole bar broke into a genuine laugh this time. Vander raised an eyebrow, a glint of amusement in his eyes. Without a word, he took a glass, put some strange-looking fruits inside, crushed them with a muddler, and topped it up with a thick purple liquid from a jug. He slid the glass to me.
I stared at it. "This looks like a liquid dessert," I protested.
"And you look about ten, maybe eleven," he retorted, the ghost of a smile in his beard. "You'll drink your juice and pretend it's Freljordian rum, understood?"
I sighed dramatically, took the glass, downed it in one, and slammed it back on the bar with a serious scowl. "Complex flavour," I analysed. "Fruity notes with a prominent aftertaste of… boredom. It lacks aggression. It lacks the promise of bad decisions."
Vander let out a laugh. A real laugh, loud and resonant, that seemed to shake the very rafters of the bar. It was a rare and powerful thing to witness.
A burly Zaunite on a nearby stool turned to me. "Not scared of walking 'round here alone, little topside princess?"
"Honestly?" I said, turning to face him. "I'm more scared of a badly brewed tea in Piltover. Believe me, that's nearly killed me more times than I can count. Compared to that, you lot are a relaxing holiday."
The reply took everyone by surprise, followed by another wave of laughter. The man blinked, then grinned, showing metal teeth. He had tested me, and I hadn't backed down. I'd mocked the test.
It was then she appeared, coming out of a back room with a dirty dish-towel over her shoulder. Wild pink hair, fists clenched by habit. She stopped dead when she saw me, her eyes widening in shock, then narrowing in pure suspicion.
"What are you doing here?" she spat, the word 'you' loaded with all the contempt a twelve-year-old could muster. "This isn't a place for your kind."
I leaned back on my stool, amused. "And yet, here I am. And so far, no one has tried to stab me, rob me, or sell me for chem-tech experiments. I am genuinely disappointed in your lack of initiative."
[Observation: Provoking children with violent tendencies is generally not recommended by survival manuals. Except, of course, when it's absolutely hilarious. Proceed.]
Vi was about to retort, probably with something physical, when Vander's massive hand landed on her shoulder. "She's our guest, Vi. And as long as she's under this roof, she has our respect. Understood?"
She muttered something unintelligible and turned to wipe a table with a fury that threatened to strip the varnish. Vander turned his attention back to me, pouring another glass of my fruit 'rum'.
"You've got grit, kid," he said, his voice lower now. "But Zaun has a way of swallowing the careless and spitting out the bones. Why did you really come?"
I shrugged, swirling the glass. "Curiosity," I said, and this time, it was the whole truth. "And because everyone, from a Shuriman outlander to the last Piltovan Warden, would tell me not to. That's always the best reason to do anything."
He chuckled, a low, tired laugh. "You remind me of someone I used to know," he said, his gaze distant for a moment. "Stubborn. Always wanting to prove the world wrong about her."
A rare, genuine smile touched my lips. "Hard-headed is just another way of saying 'survivor'."
We looked at each other in a comfortable silence. He didn't see me as an arrogant Piltovan, and I didn't see him as just a Zaunite brute. He saw courage where others would see insolence. And I saw a weary king, ruling over a kingdom of iron and pain. There was a mutual respect there, forged in a few short sentences.
Noticing some customers still looking at me uneasily, Vander straightened up, slammed his hand on the bar to get everyone's attention, and raised his voice for the whole pub to hear.
"This is Azra'il, from The Last Cup. And today, she drinks with us. Anyone got a problem with that, they got a problem with me."
Vander's word was law, and he had just granted me honorary citizenship in his kingdom. The atmosphere in the bar shifted instantly. The suspicion dissipated, replaced by a respectful curiosity.
I raised my glass of juice in a theatrical toast. "Excellent. Now I have my own brute of a bodyguard. Finally a decent perk in this watery-juice rehabilitation program."
The entire bar guffawed, and even Vander shook his head, defeated by my drama. I finished my juice as if it were the most expensive Valorant vintage and slid off the stool.
Before turning to leave, I looked at Vander. "Next time, serve me something that at least tries to kill me."
"Next time," he replied, with that rare glint in his eyes, "try bringing a few more years of age with you."
We exchanged a nod. It was a deal. As I left The Last Drop, the buzz of the bar returned, but the subject matter was now different. I could hear the murmurs: "the girl from The Truce," "she had the nerve to come all the way down here."
I hadn't come to Zaun to prove anything. But as I walked back to the lift, the taste of reptile meat and fruit juice still in my mouth, I knew I had earned something. Not their fear, but something much rarer and more valuable: their recognition. They saw me not as a topside merchant, but as someone who wasn't afraid to walk in the dark alongside them. And for some perverse reason, that felt like a far tastier victory than any tea I had ever brewed.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
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