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Vi stifled a yawn as she moved through the gilded chamber at the heart of Piltover’s Hall of Law. Dawn was less than an hour old, and the place was quiet. A few drunks were sleeping it off in the shaming cells, and she’d heard there were a couple of chem-augmented thugs in the deeper, more secure lock-ups. She’d ask around later, see if she could provide any insight as to what they were doing up in Piltover.

She rolled her shoulders, the muscles there stiff after a hard night’s work. It had been a long shift, and her forearms were aching from the pressure of her powered gauntlets. All she wanted to do was go back home, get them off, and bathe her fists in ice water. Maybe throw back a few glasses of something strong and sleep some, but the pnuema-tube from Caitlyn had been full of imperatives about getting herself down to the district house on the double. Vi had cocked an eyebrow, tossed the message and given it an hour before leaving her cramped home in the dressmakers-quarter to answer Caitlyn’s summons.

“Hey, Harknor,” she said to the desk-warden when she reached the cells. “What’s so important Caitlyn has to drag me from an erotic dream about—”

“Ah, ah, stop right there,” said Harknor without looking up from his elevated desk as he ran a finger down the list of prisoners brought in during the night. “I’m not in the mood to hear another of your lurid fantasies.”

“You sure?” grinned Vi, leaning on his desk and blowing a loose strand of pink hair from her eyes. “This was a good one. Had a plot and everything.”

“Quite sure,” said Harknor, looking away and holding out the charge sheet. “Caitlyn and Mohan brought in a hextech thief last night. He hasn’t said a word to anyone, but she thinks you might be able to get him to talk.”

Vi arched an eyebrow as she scanned the page.

“Devaki? You’ve been a very naughty boy,” she said, rolling her eyes and curling her metaled fingers into a fist. “Yeah, Devaki and I knew each other back in the day. I’ll get him to talk.”

Harknor shook his head, saying, “Listen, Vi, I don’t want to have to call the surgeon back here again. Caitlyn wants this fella to able to speak when he goes before the procurator.”

“Where is she anyway?” asked Vi. “She isn’t even here to say hello?”

“Chasing down a lead at the docks,” said Harknor. “Said she figured you could handle this one on your own. She wrong about that?”

“Nope,” said Vi, turning and sashaying toward the cells. “Which cell’s Devaki in?”

“Number six. But remember, he’s got to be able to talk!”

Vi nodded and said, “Yeah, yeah...”

She reached cell six and slid back the locking bar. Normally, another warden would secure the door, but Vi didn’t need anyone at her back. She knew Devaki from the old days, even worked with him a few times before the job with the Factorywood Fiends went bad. Devaki was a thief, not a fighter, and if she needed backup to restrain his scrawny frame, then it was time to find a new line of work.

Devaki was sitting on the edge of the chipped hunk of stone they called a bed with his back to the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest. He cradled one arm close to his body, the limb ending at a bandaged stump where his hand ought to be. He looked up as she entered, and his eyes widened in surprise.

“Vi?”

“Piltover’s finest,” she said with a petite curtsey that, despite where he sat, made Devaki smile. “What happened to your hand?”

“Your damn sheriff shot if off,” he said. “What happened to yours?”

“I got an upgrade,” said Vi, holding up her hextech gauntlets. They hummed with a low buzz and she turned them around to let Devaki see just how powerful they were. “Fully customizable with variant levels of hurt. I can punch through walls with these babies.”

“Yeah, I heard what happened to the Ecliptic Vaults,” said Devaki with an easy smile, as if he was talking to the old Vi, the Vi from the Lanes. He wasn’t bright enough to know that Vi wasn’t the one standing in front of him.

Devaki held up the arm ending in a stump. “I’m gonna need an upgrade too. This was a high-end augment from Bronzio’s. That sheriff didn’t need to shoot it off.”

“You can bill her,” said Vi, closing the distance between them in two strides and lifting Devaki off his feet. She threw him against the opposite wall, rattling his bones and sending plaster dust billowing into the air.

Devaki slid to the floor, shocked and gasping for breath. “They’ve been playing nice so far, but now they send you in? What gives?”

“I’m the one they send in when asking all polite doesn’t get you anywhere, cupcake,” said Vi, letting the power build in her gauntlets. “I’m the one who’ll go to town on you with these beauties. Unless, of course, you tell me what I want to know.”

“Whoa, wait! Vi, what are you doing?” spluttered Devaki, holding his remaining hand out before him as he scrambled to his feet.

“I’m interrogating you, what’s it look like?”

“But you haven’t asked me anything!”

Vi cocked her head to the side. “Yeah, I should probably get on that.”

She reached down and hauled Devaki to his feet, applying a growing pressure to his shoulder.

“So, who was gonna buy that stolen hextech?”

Devaki winced in pain, but didn’t answer.

“Come on, you’re tougher than that,” said Vi, releasing his bruised shoulder. “You want to see what happens to a face when I don’t pull my punches?”

“No!” cried Devaki.

“Then tell me what I want to know.”

“I can’t.”

Vi tapped a finger on her chin, as if weighing whether to punch him again. She smiled, the expression worrying Devaki more than the thought of her fists.

“Be a shame if word got round the Lanes that you’d been informing on all your criminal friends for the last couple of years.”

“What?” said Devaki, spluttering in pain and indignation. “That’s a lie!”

“Of course it is,” said Vi, “but I know all the right people to talk to down there. A lot of folk’ll listen if I let it slip that you’re in the wardens’ pocket.”

“I’ll be dead in a day if you do that,” protested Devaki.

“Now you’re catching on,” said Vi. “Tell me what I want to know. I’ll make sure it gets about you resisted arrest. Even give you a black eye so it looks like I beat it out of ya.”

Devaki’s shoulders slumped, knowing he had no defiance left in him.

“Fine, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“Excellent,” said Vi, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

10.14

09:15

Current meteorological conditions in Bandle City seem optimal. Atmospheric pressure is ideal for today's experiments!

Running a fifth trial for my Tridyminiumobulator this afternoon. Some fine tuning is required; singed my mustache. Need to adjust the energy throughput.

16:00

Tridyminiumobulator is still not maintaining intended proper energy efficiency! Necessary to run more numbers. In the meantime, I have found something else that's very intriguing.

While returning home after today's tests, I passed a gaggle of young yordles throwing a spherical projectile at each other. It's a simple enough concept: throw the object at someone, catch it, throw it at another yordle, repeat. But yordle miscalculations result in several errors! They throw with inconsistent accuracy and force, and the ''ball'' (as they refer to it) is frequently dropped... There are many ways for this process to be improved. According to my calculations, and after collecting data from the participants, if the pitching was consistent in both speed and arc there would be a 44.57% increase to fun! I need to ponder this for the evening.

10.15

05:20

Eureka! I've devised a solution.

I've invented an automated ball pitcher. Current name: H-28G. It employs a consistent speed and trajectory, ensuring that the recipient will always be able to catch the ball. It redirects itself to the nearest yordle (if there is more than one in the vicinity) ensuring everyone has a turn. I'll take it to the young yordles today and demonstrate my invention.

Also: spilled toxic acid on my shoes this morning. Bothersome.

10:30

Tested the automated pitcher today. It did not go as planned. The young ones were excited enough about my invention, but, when the machine was turned on, it was far too powerful! Even at its lowest setting it completely knocked a yordle off his feet. Clearly, I overestimated the velocity behind their throws... I'll return soon to make adjustments.

But my priority, for now, is the Tridyminiumobulator; I must fix its complications before lunch. Once it's in good shape, I'll need to test it somewhere else. Bandle City is proving insufficient for field research.

10.16

15:55

Apparently, there's a giant in town. A highly annoying anomaly. The noise outside is disturbing my research!

Must check fish tank today. They've been strangely quiet...

10.17

10:40

I have heard that many yordles have been injured due to the giant-related disturbance. If this doesn't stop soon, intervention will be necessary! I hope H-28G is still intact. I would lose a lot of time if it has to be rebuilt.

16:30

Everything is quiet again. It seems that the giant came to his senses and ran off. I need to gather H-28G tomorrow, once I've finished with more pressing matters. I've almost perfected the Tridyminiumobulator!

10.18

08:30

Today has been quite eventful already. I was surprised by a knock at my door. It seemed like the entire city was standing in front of my house. Normally, when a crowd has gathered, it's because they have some petty grievance about my work. But this time, they were celebrating!

Astonishingly, it seems one of the young yordles took advantage of the H-28G prototype I had left behind amidst the giant tomfoolery. He proved to be innovative, and repurposed the invention into a makeshift turret. It's powerful enough to scare off a giant - imagine that! What an ingenious little fellow.

I wish I could employ his like-minded encephalon in the near future - I have big plans and his assistance could be valuable - but he'd have to leave Bandle City. The scope of my plans necessitates a more expansive testing ground.

Runeterra should suffice!

Born into a wealthy and influential merchant clan, Caitlyn Kiramman swiftly learned the social graces of life in Piltover, but preferred to spend her time in the wilder lands outside it. Equally adept at mingling with the moneyed elite of the City of Progress or stalking a deer through the mud of the forest, she could confidently track a bird on the wing over the merchant districts, or put a shot through the eye of a hare at a hundred paces with her father’s repeater musket.

Caitlyn’s greatest assets, however, were her intelligence and willingness to learn from her parents, who reinforced her understanding of right and wrong, even within a life of comfort and privilege. Her mother was one of the highest comptrollers in Clan Kiramman, and would always warn Caitlyn of Piltover’s seductions, and its gilded promises that could harden the kindest heart. At first, Caitlyn paid little heed—to her, Piltover was a place of beauty and order that she cherished after each trip into the wild.

All that was to change one Progress Day, some years later.

Caitlyn returned to find her home ransacked and empty. The family retainers were all dead, and there was no trace of her parents. Caitlyn secured the house, and immediately set out to find them.

Tracking within the confines of a city was very different from hunting in the wild but, one by one, Caitlyn located the thugs who had invaded her family home. The trail eventually led her to a hidden safehouse, where her mother and father were being tortured for information. She rescued them under cover of darkness, and alerted the Piltover Wardens… though not one of the kidnappers they arrested knew the identity of the individual who had hired them—only a proxy with the initial C.

Caitlyn and her parents began to rebuild their lives… but something fundamental had changed. Her mother in particular could no longer face the politics and duplicity of clan life, and gave up her prestigious role, leaving something of a vacuum in the Kiramman leadership. And, though she loved her parents dearly, Caitlyn had no desire to take her mother’s place, nor to learn her father’s trade as an artificer.

Instead, her focus turned toward breaking through the web of intrigue surrounding the mysterious "C". Utilizing her hunting skills, she established herself as a private investigator, and quickly made a name for herself as someone who could find anything or anyone. In recognition of her self-made success, Caitlyn’s parents crafted her a hextech rifle of exquisite artifice, with greater accuracy than any musket. The weapon could take a variety of specialized shells, and be easily modified in the field.

After a particularly traumatic case involving a missing hextech device and a series of child abductions, Caitlyn was summoned by the Wardens.

She had been recommended by one of their number who had also developed something of an affinity for stranger cases—and their battle with a host of rogue chimerics in the employ of a lunatic chem-researcher driven mad by his own concoctions led to her being offered a formal position as a sheriff. At first, Caitlyn refused, but eventually came to realize that the Wardens’ resources could potentially get her closer to discovering the true identity of “C".

Caitlyn has since become a highly respected officer within the ranks of the Wardens, always striving to make the City of Progress a better and safer place. She recently partnered with a new recruit from Zaun, the brash and reckless Vi. How such an unlikely pairing came about—and been proven so effective—is the subject of wild rumor and tavern speculation among their fellow Wardens, as well as those they haul away to jail.

What Caitlyn doesn't know, however, is that "C" is also keeping tabs on her... especially as her investigations bring her ever closer to the truth.

PURSUIT

Twin energy blasts explode above me, sparks cascading down. I sprint further up the road. Behind me, the chrono-enforcer’s footsteps echo off the narrow walls. Fast. Relentless. Hate to admit it, but this guy’s definitely faster than me…

Good thing I have a few tricks up my sleeves.

At a crossway, I feint right, running two steps down the alley before I shift back, blinking the short distance across the road and sprinting the opposite direction. Classic fake out—a maneuver I’ve perfected over many a chase, thankyouverymuch. Having a Pulsefire suit that bends space over short distances comes in pret-ty handy.

Too bad this guy saw it coming. Somehow.

In a blink, he’s in front of me, both guns blasting. Chrono-enhanced movement. Has to be. I throw my arms up—always protect the face—and the first blast glances off my arm cannon, but the second strikes me square in the chest, sending me reeling. I stumble and fall, hard. In my ear, I can hear alarms blare. I fire a wild shot, but he dashes out of the way, easy. Guns trained on me now. Almost tickling my nose, he’s so close. I put my hands up and blow a stray strand of shaggy blond hair out of my eyes (funny how time traveling leaves little time for haircuts), trying to buy time as the suit attempts to bring my weapon systems to bear.

The enforcer glares down through his visor. “You’re not getting away again,” he says. I groan. So he’s encountered future-me already—which explains why he knew my signature move.

Note to self: think of more signature moves.

“Time’s up, Ezreal. You’ve created enough anomalies for a lifetime.”

I scoff. “Are you serious? You’re a time-traveling enforcer of the Remembrancers, and that’s the best pun you got?”

Somehow, his frown gets even frownier.

“You know you’re gonna be apprehending a bunch of time fugitives and criminals, you have your whole career to prepare, and you lead with… ‘time’s up’?”

His frown breaks into a scowl, and he leans in so close, I can feel the heat from the barrel of his guns. “You’re not talking your way out of this one, you snot-nosed punk—”

“Arcane shift recharged.” Finally! Pearl’s voice pings in my ear, and I don’t wait for Mister Bad Puns to finish his thought as I blink behind him.

Or at least, I should’ve blinked behind him.

Everything flashes to white, as always—but the core of my suit sparks and sizzles from the center of my chest, where the enforcer’s lucky shot caught me. With a jolt I land exactly where I started.

Uh oh.

Crack! I hear my nose break before I feel it. My vision starbursts—Not the face! Not cool! I hear the whirring of his weaponry. …Super not cool.

Time for one of those new signature moves.

I overload my cannon and fire off a massive wave of energy. The enforcer dodges out of the way (seriously, how fast is this guy?!), but the wave tears through the road and walls and neon signs and hopefully no innocent passersby, blowing rubble and shrapnel in all directions.

I haven’t been in a jam this bad since I was a dumb kid. But I’ve learned since then when to shoot your way out, and when to just make an exit.

“Get me out of here, Pearl,” I say, scrambling away as fast as I can. “We got juice to jump?” Something wet drips over my lips, and I run a gloved hand across my face. Definitely bleeding. Definitely a broken nose. Lovely.

“Chrono-jump unstable,” Pearl’s eternally calm voice says. “Pulsefire core damaged.”

“It’s not a no, so I’ll take it as a yes!” I slam my hand into my arm cannon and twist. The familiar rumble of the Chrono-jump Drive revs through it. My fingers on reflex start inputting a destination, but I stop myself. No. Can’t keep running back to him to fix all my problems. Also can’t bear the thought of seeing his smug face right now…

A furious yell. I peek over my shoulder. The enforcer climbs out of the rubble and dust, guns blazing, a constant barrage of energy shots arcing my way.

Man, I must have seriously pissed him off when I met him. Will meet him. Will have met him meeting me.

…Time travel’s confusing.

Energy blasts are straightforward, though. I let fate (well, Pearl) decide where I’m headed, firing the portal in front of me. But instead of a clear view of a destination, an opaque blue-white static crackles across the surface.

No time to hesitate. I dive head first into the unknown. Better anywhere else than a smoking pile of Deadzreal.

I feel the core on my chest shudder and lurch as I pass through the threshold. An arc of electricity surges out from it, and I plummet into whatever timestream awaits.

Yeah. This is gonna be a problem.

AEGIS

He hasn’t noticed me. Yet.

Stealth isn’t usually my strong suit. I’m much more of a shoot-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy. But considering the current state of my Pulsefire core… well, unusual times call for unusual tactics.

He’s just… standing there. Shield at his side. Spear stuck in the nearby ground. Staunch. Reflective. Booooring.

After dropping into an incredibly unpleasant dimension (blood-sucking gnats should never be that big), Pearl managed to pull enough power out of my damaged core to latch on to a chrono-signature of a nearby (well, relativity-speaking nearby) Pulsefire signal. Good news for me—bad news for the enforcer I’m about to jump for their Pulsefire core.

Why fix something when you can steal—er, borrow—a new one?

As fate would have it, I knew this enforcer. Pantheon. A real lunk of a man. Grouchy type: chip on his shoulder, probably a real tragic backstory, blah blah blah.

Currently, he’s standing in the rubble of some building I don’t recognize. To be honest, this whole dimension is one I don’t recognize—it looks like a real dump. Crumbling structures. Decimated vegetation. Evidence of mechanical and chemical conflict everywhere. Major bummer.

I shift in, nice and snug right behind him, arm cannon pressed lightly against the back of his head. “Don’t move,” I growl in my most threatening voice.

He freezes. From my vantage point behind him, I can barely see his visor chirp and whir, likely trying to figure out who I am.

“Ezreal,” he rumbles.

“How’s it goin’, Panth?” I say, grinning, before I remember that I’m supposed to be doing the angry growly thing.

“Here I was, spending all this time searching for you, and you just come to me.” His calm words are undercut by the tension in his voice, and the slight twitch in his scalp as he clenches his teeth in anger. Banter aside, he definitely knows I’m one sneeze away from obliterating his very chiseled, very handsome face.

“Listen, Panth, I know we had this whole thing going last time we met,” I say, leaning in. “But, thing is, I really don’t have time for you or for this wasteland today—”

“You are responsible for this wasteland.” The way he says it stops me cold. Flat, undeniable, matter of fact.

“Uhh, I don’t think so.” I know he’s stalling. I know I shouldn’t engage. I literally just did this to the last enforcer I talked to.

I can’t help myself.

“I generally remember my dimension-shattering escapades, thank you very much.”

“Reckless renegades like you are responsible for all of this.” Pantheon’s gaze casts across the devastated landscape before us, and I can’t help but look as well. “Careless jumps instigating paradoxes. Paradoxes tearing anomalies in space-time. Then… the Praetorians come.”

A chill runs down my spine. Praetorians… here…

Pantheon moves to stand, and I raise my arm cannon in warning, the weapon humming into high gear. He doesn’t bat an eye. “This used to be my home. Then they took everything from me.”

Sure, I take risks. Sometimes big ones. I’m never careless. But I can’t say I haven’t caused a paradox or two before…

“Pantheon,” I say, dropping my arm cannon by a fraction.

Big mistake.

Pantheon leaps at me, an energy barrier blossoming from his shield as my shot fires, a fraction of a second too late. He smashes into me, and I feel my nose break a second time, leaving me dazed. His left hand reaches out, calling his spear to him. I barely regain my senses in time to shift out of the way of his piercing jab.

“You will answer for your crimes before the Remembrancers!” he roars.

Welp. This went sideways, fast. Not a fight I want to pick in my current state. Pantheon throws his spear, and I push my suit to the limit, shifting as far away as I can manage up a hillside.

I rev up my arm cannon for a chrono-jump, and my entire suit shudders as Pearl tries to coax power through the damaged core. “Jump stability is severely compromised, safety protocols recommend—”

Pantheon’s spear flies at me, and I barely duck in time. It crashes into the remnants of a large stone statue behind me, shattering it into dust.

“Pearl! Override safeties! Now!” I don’t wait for confirmation before I aim my arm cannon and fire, relief flooding through me as I cross the portal’s threshold—cut short by a shock of pain as the untamed aether between dimensions lashes at me. I fall up, plummeting to an unknown fate…

RIPOSTE

I wake with a gasp.

Everything hurts. Like I’ve been thrown in the wash and tumbled dry.

Someone is cradling my head. A woman’s face hovers into view. Severe and stern, but in the moment, softened with concern.

“Thank goodness,” she says. “We thought we lost you in zat last jump.”

“Where…” I try to sit up, but an arc of electricity from the core on my chest spasms the muscles on my left side and I clench in pain.

“Zis is not good,” the woman says. “We don’t ’ave much time. He was right behind us. And ze Praetorian swarm… ” She shakes her head. “Lucian and Pantheon went on ahead, and Caitlyn is climbing for a good vantage point—”

I push through the pain and scramble to my feet. I know two out of three names she just said, and neither were ones you wanted to hear from the lips of a stranger immediately upon regaining consciousness after tumbling through unknown time and space.

The woman also stands, holding her hands out, trying to calm me.

“When am I?” I ask, clutching my chest. “Who are you?”

As I get a good look at her, my confusion mounts. She is, without a doubt, an enforcer. The chrono-blade at her side. That Pulsefire core on her suit—some sleeker, future model, from the shape of it. The dumb single pauldron on her uniform. So dumb. Very Remembrancers.

Confusion flits across the woman’s face—then her eyes widen in alarm. “You are not our Ezreal,” she says.

“Listen, lady, I’m nobody’s Ezreal but Ezreal’s Ezreal.” I look around me. I’m in a strange hallway of smooth, white, living metal, accented with chrome. Lamps, glowing blue, hang at regular intervals. It almost feels like we’re standing inside a Pulsefire suit.

A shiver of dread ripples down my spine. It couldn’t be. “This… Is this…?”

“Remembrancer’s Citadel. But you are not supposed to be here. I do not know when you’re from, but you must leave, before you arrive. Er, ze other you.” The woman’s eyes narrow. “You better still arrive. If you’re dead, I’m going to kill you.”

I shake my head. “I have no idea what or when this is,” I point my arm cannon at her chest. “…but I’ll be taking your Pulsefire core now,” I say with all the threat I can muster.

Right then, my arm cannon stutters and sparks. “Weapon systems at ten percent power,” Pearl says in my ear, exceptionally loudly.

From the look on the woman’s face, I swear she heard it too.

“Ah. You’re definitely from ze past.” The woman pinches the bridge of her nose, as if staving off a headache. “I forgot ’ow insufferable you were.”

I frown adorably. “I’m not insufferable. I’m charming.”

She stops dead in her tracks. Her eyes narrow, then she marches straight at me. I take a step back, but she’s already closed the distance and is jabbing a finger into my chest.

“So zis is why you told me that story last night.” She narrows her eyes at me. “About ’ow I had already saved your life twice. And ’ow I’d likely do it one more time before zis was all over.”

“Listen, I sincerely do not know what you’re talking—”

She doesn’t wait for my response but grasps me by my chestpiece and reaches a hand down my collar. I yelp—but she’s triggered some mechanism in there, and the core on my chest spins and opens, revealing the machinations within.

Okay. She’s definitely done this before.

Before I can protest, diagnostic nodes and microtools emerge from her gloves as she sets to work.

“Are… are you fixing it?” I ask, incredulous.

“You were such an idiot. Goodness. Zis damage. Did you pick a fight with Lucian? You picked a fight with Lucian. Incredible he did not kill you. Always was a much better shot.” She isn’t even talking to me, but muttering half under her breath as she works. I try to stand still—even I know you don’t jostle when a chrono-bending energy core is open and exposed.

A noise comes from down the hall, and the unmistakable sound of blaster fire follows. I frown, craning my neck to look, but the woman gives a sharp tug on my suit.

“Hold. Still,” she warns.

Blue sparks fly and a tiny smoke trail plumes, then she’s let me go and the core spins and locks back into place. I look down. The glow looks dimmer than usual, but it no longer arcs electricity every few seconds.

“It works…,” I marvel.

“For one more jump before it breaks completely. Maybe,” she says. “Now go!”

She turns to leave, then stops short. A hand dashes into a pocket, and she flips something at me through the air. I catch it.

“When you meet me, I will show you no mercy,” she says. “Make sure to show me zat. Otherwise, I will kill you.”

I gaze down and see a coin bearing an insignia—thin blade etched over a stylized rose. So many questions flash through my mind. But voices—followed by blaster fire—echo from further up the hall.

“That’s twice,” she mutters, largely to herself. “No time to figure out the third. Two will have to be enough.”

“That’s not very reassuring!” I call after her, but she is already running. She ignores me, turns the corner, and is gone.

I tap the core on my chest. One last time jump, huh. There’s no helping it. Only one person left I can think of that might be able to help me. Looks like I’m gonna have to see his smug face after all.

I really didn’t want to have to ask him for a favor. Again. Yet. Whichever.

I sigh. “Pearl,” I say, “boot her up.” I aim my arm cannon and fire, and once again, a portal opens. “Time to pay a visit to Ekko.”

TIMEWINDER

You ever meet someone who was just enough like you that it made you kinda hate them, because maaaybe it made you see clearly all the little things you hated about yourself, just a little?

Well, that’s not at all what’s happening here with Ekko.

It’s the mohawk.

“You said, ‘goodbye forever,’” he says, not looking back at me.

“I know,” I say.

“‘It’s been fun, but now we’ll never see each other again, which is probably for the best, given everything.’” Still not turning around.

I clench my teeth. “Yeah. I remember.”

“It’s been four seconds.” He sets down the weird cube he’s fiddling with and finally turns around, his arms crossing. Man, the trouble we went through to get that thing.

“Not for me. It’s been ages for me.” I can hear how whiny I sound, and I hate it. “I just… I needed to find you in a where and when I knew for sure you’d be.”

“So much for your cool guy exit,” he says, and I want nothing more than to wipe the smirk off his face. “What kind of trouble you find yourself in this time?”

“Oh, nothing major,” I say, walking down the steps and poking at the various panels and gadgets in his little hideout. “I, uh, I may have run into a little trouble with an enforcer…”

“Nothing new so far.”

“And maybe might’ve gotten, uh, roughed up a bit…”

“Don’t touch that.” My fingertips stop, hovering just above a potted plant suspended in an isolated temporal field. I watch as it shrinks from blossom to bud to new sprout, then age back again all within the same timeline, somehow collapsing all eventualities without generating new anomalies. Chronobreak, Ekko called it. I can’t help but shake my head. I didn’t even think Pulsefire tech could do that—and neither, probably, did the enforcers. It’s pure genius.

I hate it.

“My Pulsefire core is toast and I need a new one.” That “truth” thing worked so well with the lady enforcer, I figure I’d try it out on Ekko. “Got one lying around?”

Ekko laughs. I frown. It’s not at me—I’ve been through enough with this joker to know the difference—but it still stings all the same.

“Okay, sure, fine. Can you fix mine then?”

He walks up and leans in, peering at my chestpiece. “Oh man, this wreck? Are you kidding me? What, d’you take a point-blank blaster shot or something?”

“…Maybe.”

He looks at me, mouth agape. “Always protect the core!”

“Always protect the face!” I retort.

“Doesn’t look like you succeeded at that either,” he fires back, all judgement. He pokes my (very broken) nose, and I yelp in pain.

I wince. “Well then can you build me a new one?” Desperation is creeping in… and Ekko’s already shaking his head. “Why not? You built your suit from scratch!”

He shrugs, “Yeah, and part of that ‘scratch’ was the crystal core I snatched from an enforcer. Same as you.”

No way. Even Ekko has his limits.

I… I’m out of options.

I stumble into a chair, numb. “I burned my last jump getting here.” My head falls in my hands. “If you can’t fix this… then… this is it. I… live here now.”

“Like hell you do.” Ekko grabs his mask from the table with the cube. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said. You ain’t stayin’ here in my timestream. I’ll help you.”

I can’t even look at him. “What options do I have left?” I ask.

“Steal a core.”

I click my tongue in frustration. “Tried that. Harder than you’d think.”

I can hear him clattering around. There’s a click as he straps his Chronobreak pack to his back. “We’ll just need to find a real sucker. Some dummy who’s totally unprepared,” he explains.

He walks up to me and shoves my shoulder. I look up. He’s fully geared up and ready to go. To help me. And knowing the escapade he just got back from… he has to still be exhausted. But he gives me that stupid grin I hate and says, “Let’s go, dummy.”

I start to smile—but my face freezes mid thought.

Oh. Oh damn. That’s it! I am a dummy!

“I hate you so much,” I tell him, bull rushing him into a hug.

“Whoa! Hey! Get off me!,” he shouts.

He struggles, but I cling on. “How long have I been here?”

“About a minute. So, way too long,” he fires back.

His hand is in my face, but I grab his wrist. “Rewind me back to just before I showed up.”

He blinks. “Why—”

I grin. “Buy me back my one last chrono-jump. Then I’ll actually be out of your hair forever, goodbye, never see each other again, blah blah blah.” I reach my free hand to pat his mohawk, but he grabs my wrist this time.

“Don’t. Touch. The. Hair,” he says, icy.

I pull my hand back. “Ekko. Please. Last favor. One more rewind. Like last time.”

With a scoff he replies, “Last time was the last time. And you already know—Chronobreak isn’t meant to carry more than one person.”

I take a deep breath. “I know. And… one of these days… I’ll pay you back. For all the last times.”

“You said we’ll never see each other again,” he sighs.

I wink at him. “Give it four seconds.”

Ekko rolls his eyes, reaching behind his back. “You’re exhausting,” he says as he activates his Chronobreak device.

“Thanks, Ekko.” And I add with a smile, “Owe you one.”

“It’s up to four now,” he corrects, pulling me close as he pulls the cord. The world around us slows, stops—then rewinds at accelerating pace.

Man, I love this guy.

FLUX

Rain pours down in cascading sheets. Down the street, the faint glow of lamps struggle to pierce the gloomy dark, diffused in the downpour. I can barely see in front of my (still very much broken) nose. Every particle in my being hurts. A boom of thunder peals out, and my ears ring in the aftermath. I’m a mess. But it doesn’t matter.

I know this moment and this place so well, I can almost walk it with my eyes closed.

Up ahead, a pair of double doors burst open, and a scrappy boy stumbles out of some sort of shop, a large satchel slung across his shoulders, face obscured by the hood of a heavy cloak. He looks behind him, wasting precious seconds, before sprinting around the block.

I take a deep breath. “Pearl, start the timer.” In my upper periphery, the tracker begins ticking.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand.

A bulky figure races out of the same door after him. A telltale blue glow emanates from their drawn weapon, white armor catching the dim street lamps, even in the rain.

Eleven one-thousand. Twelve one-thousand.

I hurry along, cutting across shortcuts I haven’t taken in a lifetime, yet still as familiar as Pearl’s voice in my ear. I have one narrow window of time to do this. And if I mess it up… I shake my head. I don’t get to mess this up.

Soon, I reach my destination—a looming dark monolith of a building. I find the fire escape, the ladder hanging a good distance above me. I take a running jump and barely reach, my arms screaming in protest as I hoist myself up. Now, just eleven flights of stairs to climb.

I’m going to take a real long nap once I make it out of this one.

Thirty-two one-thousand. Thirty-three one-thousand.

I make it to the roof and duck behind the single door that is the access from inside the building. I crouch low and hurry across, take my position behind where the door would open, and check my timer.

Thirty seconds to spare, give or take.

One chance to get this right.

Forty-five one-thousand. Forty-six one-thousand.

The door bursts open, and the boy from earlier runs through. But the enforcer is right behind. They reach for him and grab him by the arm. A scuffle. A fight. The boy’s satchel is torn from him, thrown backward. In my direction.

I dart forward and grab the satchel, reaching inside for my prize.

The sound of a blaster shot rings out over the rain.

Fifty-five one-thousand. Fifty-six one-thousand.

Two more blasts, in rapid succession. Nothing but the shah shah shah of the rain. Then the dull thud of a body hitting the ground below.

I shouldn’t look back… but I do.

The kid stands, hands shaking, holding a blaster. He slowly walks toward the edge of the building and pushes his hood back to better peer at the body below, revealing shaggy blond hair.

What a sucker. A real dummy.

I duck back behind my hiding spot, jostling with the satchel. The chime of a distant clock tower rings out—twelve chimes of midnight.

I open the satchel and pull out the Pulsefire core attached to crossing bandoliers, and the synchronized arm cannon. They look so small and simple now compared to the suit I had built and modified since then—but they represent the same thing to me now as they did when I first got my hands on them:

Freedom.

I strap the Pulsefire core across my chest. Check Pearl’s countdown. Past-me is about to walk away from the edge. Come looking for the satchel back where it fell. It won’t be there. He would panic—only to find it dangling from the nearby fire escape, where it had improbably slid and landed—or so I’d thought.

I manually punch in a destination on the old-new arm cannon from the satchel, aim, and fire. A crystal-clear portal opens. I smile.

Back in business.

Sure, I’m now doubly traveling on literal borrowed time—stolen from myself. And if I don’t return the core back to the satchel in time, well—I don’t even want to think about the multiverse-ending anomaly it would tear open. I look up and see me start wandering back this way. Only seconds until I’d see the satchel was missing—no time at all.

But when you’re a time traveler, no time… is all the time you need. I hope.

AEGIS

He hasn’t noticed me. Yet.

Stealth isn’t usually my strong suit. I’m much more of a shoot-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy. But considering the current state of my Pulsefire core… well, unusual times call for unusual tactics.

He’s just… standing there. Shield at his side. Spear stuck in the nearby ground. Staunch. Reflective. Booooring.

After dropping into an incredibly unpleasant dimension (blood-sucking gnats should never be that big), Pearl managed to pull enough power out of my damaged core to latch on to a chrono-signature of a nearby (well, relativity-speaking nearby) Pulsefire signal. Good news for me—bad news for the enforcer I’m about to jump for their Pulsefire core.

Why fix something when you can steal—er, borrow—a new one?

As fate would have it, I knew this enforcer. Pantheon. A real lunk of a man. Grouchy type: chip on his shoulder, probably a real tragic backstory, blah blah blah.

Currently, he’s standing in the rubble of some building I don’t recognize. To be honest, this whole dimension is one I don’t recognize—it looks like a real dump. Crumbling structures. Decimated vegetation. Evidence of mechanical and chemical conflict everywhere. Major bummer.

I shift in, nice and snug right behind him, arm cannon pressed lightly against the back of his head. “Don’t move,” I growl in my most threatening voice.

He freezes. From my vantage point behind him, I can barely see his visor chirp and whir, likely trying to figure out who I am.

“Ezreal,” he rumbles.

“How’s it goin’, Panth?” I say, grinning, before I remember that I’m supposed to be doing the angry growly thing.

“Here I was, spending all this time searching for you, and you just come to me.” His calm words are undercut by the tension in his voice, and the slight twitch in his scalp as he clenches his teeth in anger. Banter aside, he definitely knows I’m one sneeze away from obliterating his very chiseled, very handsome face.

“Listen, Panth, I know we had this whole thing going last time we met,” I say, leaning in. “But, thing is, I really don’t have time for you or for this wasteland today—”

“You are responsible for this wasteland.” The way he says it stops me cold. Flat, undeniable, matter of fact.

“Uhh, I don’t think so.” I know he’s stalling. I know I shouldn’t engage. I literally just did this to the last enforcer I talked to.

I can’t help myself.

“I generally remember my dimension-shattering escapades, thank you very much.”

“Reckless renegades like you are responsible for all of this.” Pantheon’s gaze casts across the devastated landscape before us, and I can’t help but look as well. “Careless jumps instigating paradoxes. Paradoxes tearing anomalies in space-time. Then… the Praetorians come.”

A chill runs down my spine. Praetorians… here…

Pantheon moves to stand, and I raise my arm cannon in warning, the weapon humming into high gear. He doesn’t bat an eye. “This used to be my home. Then they took everything from me.”

Sure, I take risks. Sometimes big ones. I’m never careless. But I can’t say I haven’t caused a paradox or two before…

“Pantheon,” I say, dropping my arm cannon by a fraction.

Big mistake.

Pantheon leaps at me, an energy barrier blossoming from his shield as my shot fires, a fraction of a second too late. He smashes into me, and I feel my nose break a second time, leaving me dazed. His left hand reaches out, calling his spear to him. I barely regain my senses in time to shift out of the way of his piercing jab.

“You will answer for your crimes before the Remembrancers!” he roars.

Welp. This went sideways, fast. Not a fight I want to pick in my current state. Pantheon throws his spear, and I push my suit to the limit, shifting as far away as I can manage up a hillside.

I rev up my arm cannon for a chrono-jump, and my entire suit shudders as Pearl tries to coax power through the damaged core. “Jump stability is severely compromised, safety protocols recommend—”

Pantheon’s spear flies at me, and I barely duck in time. It crashes into the remnants of a large stone statue behind me, shattering it into dust.

“Pearl! Override safeties! Now!” I don’t wait for confirmation before I aim my arm cannon and fire, relief flooding through me as I cross the portal’s threshold—cut short by a shock of pain as the untamed aether between dimensions lashes at me. I fall up, plummeting to an unknown fate…

RIPOSTE

I wake with a gasp.

Everything hurts. Like I’ve been thrown in the wash and tumbled dry.

Someone is cradling my head. A woman’s face hovers into view. Severe and stern, but in the moment, softened with concern.

“Thank goodness,” she says. “We thought we lost you in that last jump.”

“Where…” I try to sit up, but an arc of electricity from the core on my chest spasms the muscles on my left side and I clench in pain.

“This is not good,” the woman says. “We don’t have much time. He was right behind us. And the Praetorian swarm… ” She shakes her head. “Lucian and Pantheon went on ahead, and Caitlyn is climbing for a good vantage point—”

I push through the pain and scramble to my feet. I know two out of three names she just said, and neither were ones you wanted to hear from the lips of a stranger immediately upon regaining consciousness after tumbling through unknown time and space.

The woman also stands, holding her hands out, trying to calm me.

“When am I?” I ask, clutching my chest. “Who are you?”

As I get a good look at her, my confusion mounts. She is, without a doubt, an enforcer. The chrono-blade at her side. That Pulsefire core on her suit—some sleeker, future model, from the shape of it. The dumb single pauldron on her uniform. So dumb. Very Remembrancers.

Confusion flits across the woman’s face—then her eyes widen in alarm. “You are not our Ezreal,” she says.

“Listen, lady, I’m nobody’s Ezreal but Ezreal’s Ezreal.” I look around me. I’m in a strange hallway of smooth, white, living metal, accented with chrome. Lamps, glowing blue, hang at regular intervals. It almost feels like we’re standing inside a Pulsefire suit.

A shiver of dread ripples down my spine. It couldn’t be. “This… Is this…?”

“Remembrancer’s Citadel. But you are not supposed to be here. I do not know when you’re from, but you must leave, before you arrive. Er, the other you.” The woman’s eyes narrow. “You better still arrive. If you’re dead, I’m going to kill you.”

I shake my head. “I have no idea what or when this is,” I point my arm cannon at her chest. “…but I’ll be taking your Pulsefire core now,” I say with all the threat I can muster.

Right then, my arm cannon stutters and sparks. “Weapon systems at ten percent power,” Pearl says in my ear, exceptionally loudly.

From the look on the woman’s face, I swear she heard it too.

“Ah. You’re definitely from the past.” The woman pinches the bridge of her nose, as if staving off a headache. “I forgot how insufferable you were.”

I frown adorably. “I’m not insufferable. I’m charming.”

She stops dead in her tracks. Her eyes narrow, then she marches straight at me. I take a step back, but she’s already closed the distance and is jabbing a finger into my chest.

“So this is why you told me that story last night.” She narrows her eyes at me. “About how I had already saved your life twice. And how I’d likely do it one more time before this was all over.”

“Listen, I sincerely do not know what you’re talking—”

She doesn’t wait for my response but grasps me by my chestpiece and reaches a hand down my collar. I yelp—but she’s triggered some mechanism in there, and the core on my chest spins and opens, revealing the machinations within.

Okay. She’s definitely done this before.

Before I can protest, diagnostic nodes and microtools emerge from her gloves as she sets to work.

“Are… are you fixing it?” I ask, incredulous.

“You were such an idiot. Goodness. This damage. Did you pick a fight with Lucian? You picked a fight with Lucian. Incredible he did not kill you. Always was a much better shot.” She isn’t even talking to me, but muttering half under her breath as she works. I try to stand still—even I know you don’t jostle when a chrono-bending energy core is open and exposed.

A noise comes from down the hall, and the unmistakable sound of blaster fire follows. I frown, craning my neck to look, but the woman gives a sharp tug on my suit.

“Hold. Still,” she warns.

Blue sparks fly and a tiny smoke trail plumes, then she’s let me go and the core spins and locks back into place. I look down. The glow looks dimmer than usual, but it no longer arcs electricity every few seconds.

“It works…,” I marvel.

“For one more jump before it breaks completely. Maybe,” she says. “Now go!”

She turns to leave, then stops short. A hand dashes into a pocket, and she flips something at me through the air. I catch it.

“When you meet me, I will show you no mercy,” she says. “Make sure to show me that. Otherwise, I will kill you.”

I gaze down and see a coin bearing an insignia—thin blade etched over a stylized rose. So many questions flash through my mind. But voices—followed by blaster fire—echo from further up the hall.

“That’s twice,” she mutters, largely to herself. “No time to figure out the third. Two will have to be enough.”

“That’s not very reassuring!” I call after her, but she is already running. She ignores me, turns the corner, and is gone.

I tap the core on my chest. One last time jump, huh. There’s no helping it. Only one person left I can think of that might be able to help me. Looks like I’m gonna have to see his smug face after all.

I really didn’t want to have to ask him for a favor. Again. Yet. Whichever.

I sigh. “Pearl,” I say, “boot her up.” I aim my arm cannon and fire, and once again, a portal opens. “Time to pay a visit to Ekko.”

TIMEWINDER

You ever meet someone who was just enough like you that it made you kinda hate them, because maaaybe it made you see clearly all the little things you hated about yourself, just a little?

Well, that’s not at all what’s happening here with Ekko.

It’s the mohawk.

“You said, ‘goodbye forever,’” he says, not looking back at me.

“I know,” I say.

“‘It’s been fun, but now we’ll never see each other again, which is probably for the best, given everything.’” Still not turning around.

I clench my teeth. “Yeah. I remember.”

“It’s been four seconds.” He sets down the weird cube he’s fiddling with and finally turns around, his arms crossing. Man, the trouble we went through to get that thing.

“Not for me. It’s been ages for me.” I can hear how whiny I sound, and I hate it. “I just… I needed to find you in a where and when I knew for sure you’d be.”

“So much for your cool guy exit,” he says, and I want nothing more than to wipe the smirk off his face. “What kind of trouble you find yourself in this time?”

“Oh, nothing major,” I say, walking down the steps and poking at the various panels and gadgets in his little hideout. “I, uh, I may have run into a little trouble with an enforcer…”

“Nothing new so far.”

“And maybe might’ve gotten, uh, roughed up a bit…”

“Don’t touch that.” My fingertips stop, hovering just above a potted plant suspended in an isolated temporal field. I watch as it shrinks from blossom to bud to new sprout, then age back again all within the same timeline, somehow collapsing all eventualities without generating new anomalies. Chronobreak, Ekko called it. I can’t help but shake my head. I didn’t even think Pulsefire tech could do that—and neither, probably, did the enforcers. It’s pure genius.

I hate it.

“My Pulsefire core is toast and I need a new one.” That “truth” thing worked so well with the lady enforcer, I figure I’d try it out on Ekko. “Got one lying around?”

Ekko laughs. I frown. It’s not at me—I’ve been through enough with this joker to know the difference—but it still stings all the same.

“Okay, sure, fine. Can you fix mine then?”

He walks up and leans in, peering at my chestpiece. “Oh man, this wreck? Are you kidding me? What, d’you take a point-blank blaster shot or something?”

“…Maybe.”

He looks at me, mouth agape. “Always protect the core!”

“Always protect the face!” I retort.

“Doesn’t look like you succeeded at that either,” he fires back, all judgement. He pokes my (very broken) nose, and I yelp in pain.

I wince. “Well then can you build me a new one?” Desperation is creeping in… and Ekko’s already shaking his head. “Why not? You built your suit from scratch!”

He shrugs, “Yeah, and part of that ‘scratch’ was the crystal core I snatched from an enforcer. Same as you.”

No way. Even Ekko has his limits.

I… I’m out of options.

I stumble into a chair, numb. “I burned my last jump getting here.” My head falls in my hands. “If you can’t fix this… then… this is it. I… live here now.”

“Like hell you do.” Ekko grabs his mask from the table with the cube. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said. You ain’t stayin’ here in my timestream. I’ll help you.”

I can’t even look at him. “What options do I have left?” I ask.

“Steal a core.”

I click my tongue in frustration. “Tried that. Harder than you’d think.”

I can hear him clattering around. There’s a click as he straps his Chronobreak pack to his back. “We’ll just need to find a real sucker. Some dummy who’s totally unprepared,” he explains.

He walks up to me and shoves my shoulder. I look up. He’s fully geared up and ready to go. To help me. And knowing the escapade he just got back from… he has to still be exhausted. But he gives me that stupid grin I hate and says, “Let’s go, dummy.”

I start to smile—but my face freezes mid thought.

Oh. Oh damn. That’s it! I am a dummy!

“I hate you so much,” I tell him, bull rushing him into a hug.

“Whoa! Hey! Get off me!,” he shouts.

He struggles, but I cling on. “How long have I been here?”

“About a minute. So, way too long,” he fires back.

His hand is in my face, but I grab his wrist. “Rewind me back to just before I showed up.”

He blinks. “Why—”

I grin. “Buy me back my one last chrono-jump. Then I’ll actually be out of your hair forever, goodbye, never see each other again, blah blah blah.” I reach my free hand to pat his mohawk, but he grabs my wrist this time.

“Don’t. Touch. The. Hair,” he says, icy.

I pull my hand back. “Ekko. Please. Last favor. One more rewind. Like last time.”

With a scoff he replies, “Last time was the last time. And you already know—Chronobreak isn’t meant to carry more than one person.”

I take a deep breath. “I know. And… one of these days… I’ll pay you back. For all the last times.”

“You said we’ll never see each other again,” he sighs.

I wink at him. “Give it four seconds.”

Ekko rolls his eyes, reaching behind his back. “You’re exhausting,” he says as he activates his Chronobreak device.

“Thanks, Ekko.” And I add with a smile, “Owe you one.”

“It’s up to four now,” he corrects, pulling me close as he pulls the cord. The world around us slows, stops—then rewinds at accelerating pace.

Man, I love this guy.

Dashing through the shadows of eastern Shurima, a righteous avenger stalks those who have harmed others. His punishment is swift, certain, and exacted by a curious weapon that rights the wrongs of his foes.

Raised on the streets of the city of Marwi, Akshan was introduced to injustice at birth. In a place where local warlords took what they wanted, most people survived by keeping their heads down and minding their own affairs. Try as he might, young Akshan could never manage to let bad deeds go unnoticed and was often quick to intervene when he saw someone being mistreated. This approach made the boy many powerful enemies, and on one fateful occasion, left him beaten within an inch of his life.

But luck was on his side. An old woman named Shadya found the boy unconscious in the street outside her dwelling. Though Marwian custom said she should not get involved, she took young Akshan inside and, against all odds, he pulled through.

As Akshan regained his faculties, he realized his savior was no ordinary woman. Shadya was a member of the Sentinels of Light, an ancient order committed to fighting Harrowings and eradicating agents of the Black Mist. She saw Akshan as a troubled youth, stubborn and defiant, but vulnerable. After butting heads with the boy over her numerous sentinel house rules, Shadya quickly discovered there was much to like about him. He had guts and a conscience—a combination seldom found in Marwi. Seeing the immense potential in the young man, Shadya made a deal with him: she would allow him to stay, free from the grasp of his countless enemies, and, in return, he would dedicate himself to the sentinel order.

Shadya and Akshan formed a fast bond as she taught him everything she knew about surviving as a solo sentinel. Akshan the scrappy street urchin grew into Akshan the full-grown bane of scoundrels. But even as Akshan’s skills grew by the day, he could see his mentor growing more distant, and more troubled.

At last, Shadya told her pupil the reason for her concern: A Harrowing was coming, bigger than any the world had ever seen, bearing an army of wraiths and ghouls from the Shadow Isles. Their only hope of stopping the cataclysm rested with the ancient sentinel weapons that lay buried within Shurima's crypts and tombs. If the world was to be saved from ruination, they needed to collect these weapons, and quickly.

To Shadya’s dismay, she found that the ancient weapons had already been plundered by local warlords. She pleaded with them to relinquish the artifacts for the fight against the inevitable Harrowing, but the warlords refused, determined to unlock the weapons’ mysterious power for themselves.

With time running out, Akshan and Shadya were forced to make do with what they had. As they took stock of their arsenal, Akshan discovered a particularly striking gun hidden away in the base’s vault. Alarmed, his mentor snatched it away and forbade Akshan from ever using it. The weapon, known as the Absolver, was imbued with an ancient enchantment that granted it a strange, unspeakable power—it could take the life of a killer and, by doing so, restore their most recent victims to life.

“It must not be wielded by anyone,” said Shadya. “Such matters of life and death are best left in the hands of fate.”

But Akshan still bristled at sentinel rules, and he had even stronger opinions on fate. He had spent his whole life seeing good people horribly mistreated while bad people did as they pleased without consequence. If fate was real, it definitely needed help—help that the Absolver could provide.

As his interest in the weapon deepened, Akshan continued to pry its history from Shadya and came to a shocking discovery: She had used the gun to save Akshan when she found him unconscious in the street all those years ago. With it, she’d slain the criminal who had nearly killed him, and, in doing so, restored young Akshan to life. He wondered: Why did he alone deserve to be revived by the gun? Surely there were others who were more worthy.

While Akshan questioned the antiquated rules of his order, his mentor continued to press the warlords to turn over their stolen weapons. Tensions between the two parties built until one tragic day Akshan returned home to find Shadya murdered in the street, almost exactly where he had fallen all those years ago.

Akshan knew what he had to do. He made some key alterations to the Absolver and set out into the scorching desert with the forbidden weapon, hungry for vengeance. Though he could not determine which of the warlords had killed his mentor, he knew one way to be certain: he would pick them off one by one until Shadya was returned to Runeterra.

Tamara forces herself to rise early - an easy habit to get into when the earth is your bed and fallen leaves the only blanket. Less so when the mattress is stuffed with goose down and the sheets woven from soft cotton. The curtains are pulled back, and warm light pools on the floor of her third floor boarding room. She’d closed the curtains on her first night in Piltover and had slept two hours past dawn, which worried her so much, she has never closed them since.

Swinging herself out of bed, she strides naked to the window and taps the colored glass with a callused fingertip, black with sooty residue from the workshop. The light shimmers on her skin, her frame wolf-lean and wiry-muscled. Despite that, she rubs a hand across her belly as if fearing it has grown soft. Below her, the cobbled street is already busy with stall-holders setting up to catch Progress Day’s early trade. Colorful bunting to celebrate this auspicious day is strung between every building, giving the narrow street a festive atmosphere so unlike the city Tamara calls home. Cog and key banners of gold and crimson silk hang from the distant towers glittering on the upper slopes of the clan districts. It is there the rivers of gold said to flow through Piltover’s streets have their source.

Tamara grins at the thought and turns from the window. Her room is meticulously tidy, a place for everything and everything in its place. Notebooks are stacked at one corner of her workbench, alongside carefully arranged tools, hex-calipers and folded schemata. Yesterday’s lunch of black bread, cheese and dried fruit sits unopened in muslin wrapping next to her tools. A small metalworking forge is ingeniously built into the brick wall, the fumes carried to the roof via a twisting series of iron pipes. At the center of the desk is a wooden box in which sits the device that has taken her many months of effort to construct, working from the plans etched into rolls of wax-paper she keeps hidden beneath her mattress.

She reaches under her bed for the chamber pot and relieves herself before quickly freshening up with the powders and tinctures provided by her host. She dresses in the rugged clothes of an apprenta; simple leggings, an undershirt equipped with numerous pockets and a wrap-around doublet with an ingenious system of hooks and eye fasteners that can be ripped off with one quick pull. She’d been puzzled at the need for this until Gysbert had blushingly told her it was to make it easier to get off in the event of it catching fire in a workshop.

She checks her reflection in a polished glass mirror hanging on a brass hook on the back of her door, brushing her long dark hair back over her ears and securing it with a leather thong and copper hair-clips. Tamara runs her fingers over her high cheekbones then along the line of her chin, and is satisfied by what she sees. Colette keeps telling her she could do more with her looks, but her friend is young and hasn’t yet learned the danger of being memorable.

Tamara places the wooden box in her shoulder bag, together with the muslin wrapped food and a selection of notebooks and pencils. She’s nervous, but that’s understandable. This is a big day for her, and she doesn’t want to fail.

She removes the chair wedging her door shut and turns the locking wheel to release the bars securing it in place. Compared to where she comes from, Piltover is a safe place, its violent crime rate absurdly low. Its inhabitants are untroubled by the everyday violence of most other cities, but they are not so foolish as to believe they can do without locks on their doors.

Especially in the weeks leading up to Progress Day.

Tamara locks her door and pauses on her way down the stairs to empty her chamber pot in the boarding house’s central chute for the disposal of night-soil. She used to wonder where it ended up, before realizing that shit only ever flows downward. Somewhere below in Zaun, there’s a garden that likely blooms like no other. She places the pot in its assigned cubbyhole for cleaning, and makes her way down the winding screw-stair to the communal dining room. A few of her fellow apprenta are either breaking their fast or frantically tinkering with the devices they hope will finally get them noticed by one of the clans. Tamara places a hand over her shoulder bag, feeling a sense of pride at what she has made. She’d followed the plans exactly, even though the finishing touches went against the grain of her stoic professionalism.

She waves in response to a few weary hellos, but doesn’t stop to talk. Few of them will have slept more than an hour or two a night for the last fortnight, and she will be surprised if some of them don’t fall asleep during their auditions today. She’s out the door to the street before anyone can delay her, and the brightness of the sun pulls her up short.

The high buildings of her street are constructed of square-cut limestone and chamfered timber. Embellished with bronze facings, leaded glass and copper eaves, dazzling sunlight glitters from every surface. The streets are busy and loud, filled with moderately well-dressed men and women moving back and forth. Couriers push between apparitors, victuallers and tallymen, who shout after them and wave their fists. A few vagabond tinkers ply their suspect wares on canvas cloths atop barrelheads, ready to run at the first sight of a warden. Sumpsnipes who’ve hitched a lift on the Rising Howl from Zaun lurk at the edges of the street, scanning the passing trade for someone to cutpurse. These are the younger, inexperienced ones, forced away from the easy pickings of the cross-chasm bridges by the older, stronger kids.

Tamara keeps a wary eye on them as she moves down the street, her steps precise and measured. She has little enough worth stealing, but the last thing she needs today is a sumpsnipe picking something he shouldn’t from her. The smell of roasting fish and fresh-baked Shuriman sunbread from an open dining hall makes her mouth water. Instead, she stops a woman pushing a wheeled barrel encircled by hissing pipes and purchases a hot tisane, together with one of the sugared pastries she has come to love a little too much.

“Happy Progress Day, dearheart!” says the woman as Tamara places a silver gear in her hand and tells her to keep the change. “May the cogs turn clockwise for you today, my lovely.”

The woman’s accent sounds oddly lean and leisurely to Tamara, as if she has all the time in the world to voice what she wants to say, yet it is not uncommon this close to the Boundary Markets: a blend of Piltovan affectation and the looser familiarity of Zaun.

“Thank you,” replies Tamara. “May the Gray never rise to your door.”

The woman taps her head and her heart, a sure sign that she is born of parents from above and below. As much as the citizens of Piltover and Zaun like to pretend they are separate entities, both are far more intertwined than they might openly admit. Tamara wolfs down her pastry and follows the road to its end, exactly twenty steps distant, where it meets the larger thoroughfare of Horologica Avenue. She turns right, finishing her tisane and counting her steps as she crosses each intersecting street. The buildings here are grander than the apprenta quarter where she’s billeted, fashioned from polished granite and ironwork columns.

Many boast flickering chemtech lamps that give the morning air a crisp, actinic flavor. It seems pointless to burn them given the early hour, but Tamara has learned a great deal of Piltover society is dominated by perceived wealth and power - one being a factor of the other. It’s everywhere she looks: in the cut of the clothes people wear, the vividness of the colors and the extent of their publicized philanthropy. Tamara sees numerous couples taking their morning constitutional; well-appointed men and women adorned with subtle augments. One woman wears an implanted cheek-plate with a gem-like hextech loupe over one eye. Her arm is linked with a man bearing a metallic gauntlet that flickers with traceries of light. Across the street, another hunched man in overalls wears what appears to be some form of breathing apparatus on his back - tanks filled with bubbling greenish liquid that vent puffs of atomized vapor.

She sees people look on in admiration and wonderment, but her gaze has been trained to notice what others do not.

The two hextech augments are fake.

Tamara has studied Piltover’s emergent technology closely enough to know what is real and what is not. The cheek-plate is molded silver glued to the woman’s face, and her loupe is nothing more than a lapidary’s lens engraved with a maker’s mark she assumes is fictional. Her beau’s hand is an ordinary bronze gauntlet with glass channels filled with bioluminescent algae scraped from one of Zaun’s cultivairs. Only the breathing apparatus is genuine, and the bloodshot redness of the hunched man’s eyes, combined with the tougher, hard-wearing nature of his overalls, tells Tamara he is from a deep level of Zaun.

She travels from Horologica Avenue to Glasswell Street, along the winding Boulevard of a Hundred Taverns and thence into Sidereal Avenue to Incognia Plaza, where Zindelo’s great sphere sits inactive as it has done since the inventor’s mysterious disappearance last year. Crowds gather around the latticework artifact; gaggles of would-be inventors, artists and pallid, hack-coughed Zaunites who have traveled up-city for the day.

Deep in his cups, Gysbert has told her Progress Day is viewed very differently down in his hometown of Zaun, which he insists was the original City of Progress before Piltover came along. Above, Progress Day marks the moment the Sun Gates opened for the first time, allowing trade to pass easily between the east and west of Valoran. It also marks the moment when taxation on that trade turned the trickle of gold entering the city’s coffers into a fast flowing river. Below in Zaun, it is a day to remember those lost in the geological upheaval that created the east-west passage and submerged entire districts underwater.

One day, two very different perceptions.

Tamara passes through the square, avoiding sprinting pneuma-tube runners as they race to bear messages to their destinations. A promenade courtier, Noami Kimba, waves to her and blows her a kiss. They have met three times in the sultry air of evening, and each time Kimba has offered her a chance to spend the night in her arms. Tamara has refused each time, too busy for any diversions, but if she is able to stay longer than today, she may take her up on the next offer. She makes her way to the plaza’s northern archway as a massively bearded man with metaled shoulder guards and an iron skullcap enters. His arms are pneumatic, piston-driven monstrosities, and Tamara recognizes one of the nameless hierophant cultists of the Glorious Evolved. He grunts at her, before entering the square to harangue passers-by with his zealous blend of theology and techno-sorcery. She leaves him to it and turns onto Oblique Lane, heading toward Techmaturgy Bridge, counting her steps as she goes.

The city opens up before her, revealing the great split that divides northern and southern Piltover. The yawning chasm looks as though it ought to be ancient, the result of natural geological forces, but it came into existence within living memory and nothing natural created it. Man’s hubris and desire to master the elements wrought it. Tamara admires the strength of will it must have taken to enact a plan of such audacity that the splitting of the earth and the destruction of half of Zaun was seen as an acceptable price to pay for future prosperity.

The great tower of the College of Techmaturgy rises arrogantly from the wide canyon, anchored to the upper cliffs by swaying suspension bridges and thick iron cables that thrum like musical strings when the winds blow in hard from the ocean. The main bridge is an arched wonder of steel and stone, thronged with people moving between Piltover’s two halves and cursing the vintners and purveyors of sweetmeats whose rival stalls have created a bottleneck at its center. Revelers still drunk from the night before are shepherded onward by wardens in blue jackets, gleaming boots and checkered trousers. In any other city, they would look ridiculous, but here their gaudy appearance actually seems normal. Sumpsnipes with razor-rings dart through the crowds and more than one reveler will be returning home with what remains of their purse slit and emptied.

The north of the city is where the bulk of the clans have their mansions and heavily guarded workshop compounds. Most of the traffic today is heading in that direction. She sees a good many apprenta making their way across the bridge, each bearing their invention with the care of a mother bearing a newborn babe. She seeks out the familiar faces of Gysbert and Colette, but there are simply too many people to pick out her fellow apprenta. Tamara reaches the end of the bridge, and takes a breath. Normally, she is not scared of high places, but the dizzying scale of the height difference between Piltover and Zaun is breathtaking.

Two statues of robed officials flank the road onto the bridge, one representing the spirit of wealth, the other the essence of honesty. Tamara digs out a bronze washer and places the coin in the outstretched palm of the first statue. The weight of it triggers an internal mechanism and the fingers close over the coin. When they open a moment later, it has gone.

“I always go with the other one,” says a man appearing beside her. He is handsome, dark-haired, and smooth-skinned, which means he is rich. His breath reeks of last night’s shimmerwine. “I find it helps to pay for the things I don’t have.”

Tamara ignores him and carries on her way.

He moves after her, made persistent by the dulled senses of a hangover and too much money in his purse.

“Here, now wait a minute, there’s no need to be rude, young lady.”

“I’m not being rude, I have somewhere to be and I don’t want to talk to you,” she says.

He follows her onto the bridge with a laugh that tells her he sees her as a challenge, someone he thinks he can buy with a few gold hex.

“Aha, you’re an apprenta, aren’t you?” he says, finally recognizing her clothes and seeing the bag on her shoulder. “On your way to the auditions, eh? Hoping to catch the eye of an artificer and be snatched up by one of the great houses, are we?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes,” she answers, hoping against hope that he will hear the brusqueness of her tone and leave her alone. Instead, he increases his pace and stands in front of her, blocking her passage across the bridge. He looks her up and down, as though examining a piece of livestock he’s thinking of buying.

“You’re a fine looking specimen, my girl. A bit bony, but nothing a few meals at Lacabro’s wouldn’t sort, eh? What do you say? It’s Progress Day, everyone should have a bit of fun, eh?”

“I’m not interested,” says Tamara, moving to push past him. “Get out of my way and leave me alone.”

“Now listen here, lass, my name is Cella Allabroxus, and I know a few of the bigwigs on the north side,” he says, continuing to block her way. “Spend the morning with me and I’ll put in a good word for you, make sure your audition gets a bit of a boost, if you know what I mean?”

“No, thanks,” says Tamara, and she can see what’s coming next. He reaches for her arm, but she catches his hand before it makes contact, twisting it around and drawing a surprised gasp of pain from him. If she applies even a fraction more pressure, his wrist will snap like kindling. She uses his pain to maneuver him toward the bridge’s parapet. Her fear of heights quite forgotten, she presses Cella Allabroxus back against the waist-high stonework.

“I asked you nicely to leave me alone,” she says, pressing hard on Allabroxus’s wrist and drawing a whimper of pain from him. “Now I’m asking again, albeit not so nicely. Leave me alone or I will push you off this bridge and when they find what’s left of you spread out over the rooftops of Zaun, they’ll think you were just another drunk who couldn’t walk a straight line over the bridge. Are we clear?”

He nods, in too much pain to speak.

“I don’t need your ‘good word’ or any kind of ‘boost’. I’m pretty damn good at what I do, and I’ll stand or fall on my own, thank you very much. Now smile at me, walk away and go home. Sleep off the wine and remember this moment any time you feel like being discourteous to a lady.”

Cella Allabroxus gasps as Tamara releases his wrist. For a moment she sees he is tempted to retort with something offensive, but she cocks an eyebrow and he thinks better of it. Cradling his wrist, he scurries back the way he came and Tamara lets out a weary sigh. She catches the eye of a sumpsnipe gang loitering on the other side of the roadway and nods in the direction of the fleeing Allabroxus. The footpads take her meaning and race after the man.

“What was that all about?” says a young voice behind her.

The tautness drains from Tamara’s body and she lets a looseness return to her limbs. The cold determination Allabroxus saw falls from her face, replaced with an open smile.

“Nothing,” she says, turning to see Gysbert and Colette. “Just a drunk who thought he’d try his luck.”

“You’re late,” says Gysbert, pointing over the parapet at the dulled metal sides of a mechanized clocktower a hundred feet or so below the level of the bridge. “Look.”

“What are you talking about?” answers Tamara. “I don’t think Old Hungry’s told the right time in years.”

“True,” he says, and though he’s trying to look angry, his eyes speak only of infatuation. “But we agreed to meet before Old Hungry’s shadow was past the Techmaturgy tower.”

He points to where the dark outline of the mysterious clocktower has fallen across the lower laboratory levels of the tower, where greenish-gray fumes leak from hornpipe vents. “See?”

Tamara smiles and puts her hand on his shoulder. He glances down at the point of contact and any anger he might actually be feeling vanishes.

Colette rolls her eyes and says, “Come on, let’s get going. Gysbert might be foolish enough to forgive your lateness, but Clan Medarda won’t. They shut the gates at third bell and they rang the second before we reached the bridge.”

The manor house of Clan Medarda is not far from the northern end of the bridge, but the streets are busy and there will be many others seeking entry to display their creations at the auditions.

“You’re right,” says Tamara, hefting her shoulder bag and patting the device within. “Let’s go and show those rich sons of bitches what we can make.”

The gates of Clan Medarda’s mansion house are imposing creations of tempered steel set in a high wall of alabaster white stone. Bronze busts of its illustrious family members sit in numerous alcoves along the length of the wall, including the clan’s current head, Jago Medarda. Scores of eager apprenta are gathered by the opened gates, each bearing a prized invention they hope will see them secure a contract of servitude with this illustrious house. The politeness on display is endearing to Tamara, with each apprenta being careful not to jostle their neighbor’s creation.

Men in the clan’s colors, armed with swords and pikes, guard the entrance, checking the authenticity of each supplicant’s paperwork before allowing them entry. Tamara watches them as they work, admiring their professionalism and thoroughness. A few apprenta are turned away, their papers incorrectly stamped or fraudulent. They don’t protest, but simply walk away with a resigned shrug.

When it’s their turn, Tamara, Colette, and Gysbert are allowed in without a hitch. Colette had taken it upon herself to ensure their papers were in order, and the youngster is a stickler for details. It’s a trait Tamara believes will stand the girl in good stead in the years to come.

Just as they pass through the gates and third bell rings from the Piltover Treasury building, Tamara feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She has learned to trust this instinct over the years and pauses, as if to adjust the straps of her shoulder bag, looking back to the street. Sitting on the rim of a marble fountain is a woman wearing the loosely tied jacket of a Piltover sheriff, a customized cap pulled low over her shadowed features. One leg is cocked at an angle, her elbow resting atop it as her gaze sweeps the throng of apprenta. There’s a long-barreled rifle over her shoulder, one with what looks like a gleaming gemstone enclosed in a lattice of silver wire. Her gaze pauses on Tamara, who turns away before it can linger too long.

Tamara knows that look: it is the look of a hunter.

The gates shut and she catches up to Colette and Gysbert, who stand in a twenty-strong crowd staring in open-mouthed wonder at what seems at first glance to be a simple carriage. But then Tamara notices the underslung hextech pod and the knot of gold and silver cabling linking it to the front and rear axles. A soft light glows within the pod and Tamara tastes copper on her tongue.

“It’s a self-locomotor,” says Gysbert. “One of Uberti’s designs, if I’m not mistaken.”

“It can’t be,” says Tamara. “She works exclusively for Clan Cadwalder.”

“Not for long, I hear,” says Colette.

“What do you mean?” asks Gysbert.

“Scuttlebut around the workbench says one of Medarda’s agents stole a copy of the schematics,” says Colette, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Rumor has it things got pretty bloody. Bodies all cut up, that sort of thing. Folks are saying Clan Torek are looking to lure her away, but Clan Cadwalder won’t admit anything, of course.”

“Well, they wouldn’t, would they?” says Tamara, as the lacquered black doorway to the manor house opens. “A public admission that their head artisan’s designs were stolen would make them look weak.”

A steward bearing a long black staff and liveried in the crimson and gold of Clan Medarda ushers the hopeful apprenta into the manor house. Tamara hears sighs of wonderment as he leads them through its vaulted antechambers, luxurious reception rooms and grand galleries. The clan’s conspicuous wealth is displayed for all to see in gold-framed portraits that fill entire walls, giant sandstone statues of beast-headed warriors conveyed at enormous expense from Shuriman tombs, and crossed weapons that bear the hallmarks of Ionian design. The floors are gleaming marble flagstones, the grand staircase wide and crafted from the whorled boles of Freljordian Ironwood trees.

Tamara sees that everything in this house is artfully crafted to intimidate and remind the visitor just how little their achievements matter in the face of what Clan Medarda has acquired. She looks up in time to see a woman in a floor-length gray dress and crimson-tasseled pelisse glide being escorted across a mezzanine level by another steward. The heels of her boots click with a strange metallic cadence, and she looks down upon the herd of apprenta with the ghost of a smile creasing her lips as she passes from sight.

Eventually the steward halts their march in a moderately sized waiting room with a herringbone-patterned floor and a Revek clock fashioned from ivory and mother-of-pearl that keeps time with metronomic precision. An imposing set of black-lacquered doors with a hatch at eye level leads onward, but the steward raps his staff on the wooden floor and indicates that they should sit on benches set against each wall.

“When your name is called, enter the proving chamber,” he says. “Move to the lectern and state your name. Give a short explanation of what you will be demonstrating, followed by a brief - and I cannot stress that word enough, brief - explanation of its workings. You will be judged by the learned artificers of Clan Medarda, so assume they know more than you. My advice is to keep your answers short, as they bore easily. If you are successful, take the left door onward. If you are unsuccessful, take the right door onward. That is all. And good luck.”

The steward has given this speech many times before, but Tamara hears sincerity in his last words to them. She places a hand on her shoulder bag, knowing that on any other day, the device within would be enough to secure her a place at any one of Piltover’s clan houses. She shares a look with Gysbert and Colette. Both are nervous, and she is surprised to find her own heart racing. She has spent so long preparing for the Progress Day audition that the thought of stumbling at this last hurdle makes her sick to her stomach. It has been a long time since she felt this way, and she smiles, welcoming the sensation. It will keep her sharp and focused. She reaches over to take Gysbert’s hand and gives it a squeeze. Sweat dapples his brow and he smiles weakly in thanks. Colette is staring straight ahead, scanning the faces on the other side of the room, no doubt wondering who might make the cut and who will fall by the wayside.

The hatch in the black door slides back and everyone tenses. A name is called, and a young girl across from them stands. The door opens from the other side and she shuffles nervously through it. A musty smell of aged wood and charged atmosphere gusts from the proving chamber, and Tamara tries to imagine what it will be like.

Another six apprenta pass through the door before one of their names is called. Colette is first, and she stands with determination, lets out a breath, and walks through the door without a backward glance.

“She’ll be great,” says Gysbert under his breath. “I know it.”

“So will you, Gys,” says Tamara, though she suspects his nerves will likely get the better of him. The kid from Zaun is skilled, but more than just his nerves will count against him in the grand halls of a Piltovan clan.

Two more apprenta are called. Looking at the clock, Tamara sees each audition is getting shorter. Are the learned artisans of Clan Medarda already getting bored? Will that count for or against those yet to demonstrate their devices?

Gysbert all but jumps off the bench when his name is called. He almost drops his bag, but catches it at the last minute, his face red with worry and dripping in sweat.

“Take a deep breath,” Tamara advises him. “You know this stuff. Your work is good.”

“But is it good enough?” he asks.

Tamara thinks she knows the answer, but nods and says, “It is.”

He passes through the door and more apprenta are called until only Tamara remains. The room is empty, but she can’t shake the feeling that she is being watched. When her name is finally called, it is a relief, and she takes a moment to compose herself before turning and stepping through the door into the proving room.

The chamber beyond is circular and illuminated by glowing spheres of glass that float above sconces carved in the shape of outstretched hands, as though giving light to the world. It’s all Tamara can do to suppress a sneer at the rampant self-aggrandizement. It is a lecture theater, with tiered benches rising in concentric rings to the back wall. A plain wooden lectern and workbench sit in the center of the room, and two doors lead onward. Left for success, right for failure.

The tiered benches are capable of holding at least a hundred people, but only five sit before her. Two men and three women, all wearing the crimson robes of masters. They are scratching on great ledgers with gold-plated quills that echo noisily in the chamber’s excellent acoustics. Every one of them bears a genuine hextech augment, and she senses their eagerness to be done.

“Name?” says one of the women without looking up.

“Tamara Lautari.”

“What will you be demonstrating?” asks one of the men. His lips do not move, and his voice grates artificially from a mesh-fronted neck brace.

Tamara sets her bag down on the workbench and removes her creation, an arrangement of wirework struts arranged in a cube with an acid-engraved sphere at its center.

“I call it the Hex-Armillary Amplifier.”

“How do you hope it will function?” he asks again, and Tamara tries not to show how much his mechanically-rendered voice disturbs her.

“By harnessing the properties of a crystal and exponentially increasing its output beyond anything that’s been achieved so far.”

She says the words neutrally, but the arrogance of what she says does not go unnoticed. Every one of the masters now fixes their gaze upon her. They are likely used to hearing grand claims from apprenta, but the confidence in her tone clearly piques their interest.

“And how will you do that?” asks a white-haired man with a gem-faceted eye set in a porcelain plate upon his burn-scarred face.

“The geometries of a crystal are vital, as is the axis upon which it spins,” says Tamara, opening a delicate hatch in the sphere to reveal a precisely engineered cradle. Thin chains, like those of an expensive necklace, hang down, ready to secure a power crystal. “My device reads the speed and angle of spin, adjusting it to achieve optimum power delivery.”

“Absurd,” says a woman with an artificial arm and the penetrating gaze of an academic who has heard every wild idea from her students and dismissed them all. “There is no time in the discharge of a crystal’s power to adjust it with any degree of control. Praveen tried the same thing two years ago and almost brought down half the goldsmithing district.”

“Respectfully, ma’am, I disagree.”

“Your disagreement is irrelevant, apprenta. Can you prove it? Can you demonstrate what you claim?”

“I believe so,” replies Tamara.

“Belief is not the basis of science,” says the woman, as if speaking to a confident but ill-informed child. “Empirical evidence is what is demanded.”

“I can do it,” promises Tamara.

The woman looks unconvinced, but nods and says, “Very well, you may begin.”

A hatch slides open in the workbench beside Tamara. A fretwork stand rises from below, holding a small, faceted crystal of sapphire blue that shimmers with its own internal light.

A hextech crystal.

The crystal is no bigger than her thumbnail, but it is the future.

This is what could make the clans of Piltover rulers of the world if they so desired. Or, if not them, whoever can craft it more efficiently and without the years of work to produce a single item. This crystal has only a low level of power left in it, but it is still immeasurably powerful and outrageously valuable.

She hadn’t anticipated it would also be so beautiful.

“Well, go on then,” says the burn-scarred man. “Dazzle us.”

She lifts the crystal from its holder. It’s warm to the touch, vibrating at a level almost too subtle to detect. It is far heavier than she expects. With exquisite care, Tamara places the crystal within her sphere and fastens it with delicate chains. She checks it is secure and seals her device. The mechanism atop the cube is movable and she twists its interlocking parts to arrange the cardinal points of contact into their engaged positions.

Her device starts to hum as the conduits find a source of power in the crystal, and a soft blue glow emanates from within. Tamara grins as her device spools up. The hum builds and the taste of metal in her mouth grows stronger. It is getting louder now, unpleasantly so, pulsing in waves.

The light spheres around the hall pulse in concert with the rise and fall of the bass thrum coming from her device. It is moving across the workbench, the vibrations jittering it left and right, up and down. Crackles of energy flicker around the sphere, flaring from its upper surfaces like lightning running in reverse.

“Turn it off, Mistress Lautari!”

Tamara reaches for her device, but a whip of blue light lashes out, carving an angry red weal over the back of her hand. She flinches and backs away from her rapidly overloading device.

“I can’t,” says Tamara in dismay. “It’s optimizing too fast!”

She always knew this was going to happen, but she’d hoped the changes she made to the design wouldn’t fail quite as catastrophically as this. A bolt of blue fire arcs out of her machine toward one of the light spheres. It explodes in a shower of magnesium-bright sparks.

Another follows, then three more. Soon the only light is the violent blue glow of Tamara’s crackling device. The woman with the hextech arm stands and makes a fist. With a rush of sliding metal, the entire workbench falls into the floor, which promptly seals up after it. The outline of the trapdoor is briefly limned in light and a hard bang of detonation echoes from far below.

“A safety chamber,” says Tamara, relieved her device didn’t explode a few seconds earlier.

“Yes, Mistress Lautari,” says the woman, sitting back down and picking up her golden quill. “Do you think you are the first apprenta to come before us with a potentially lethal invention?”

“I suppose not,” answers Tamara. She is disappointed, but not surprised. This was always the intended outcome, despite the best efforts of professional pride to sabotage her purpose.

The man with the hextech eye writes in his ledger and speaks without looking at her.

“I think you know which door to take.”

Tamara’s exit from Clan Medarda’s mansion is far less grand than her entrance. The rightmost door opens into a bare stone corridor that winds downward through the rock of the cliffs until it reaches a steel door with enough reinforcement to withstand a siege ram. A heavily muscled enforcer type with hexdraulic arms and a helmet she’s not sure is actually a helmet opens the door. She’s barely through it before it’s slammed shut behind her.

It opens onto a side street lower down the city, one that leads back to the cliffs. Not quite Zaun, but not entirely Piltover. The street is paved with mismatched cobbles and foggy with low lying scraps of the Zaun Gray. Gysbert sits opposite on a crumbling brick wall, the smashed remains of his device lying strewn at his feet.

He smiles as he sees her and says, “It didn’t go well?”

“Not exactly.”

“What happened?”

“It exploded.”

His eyes widen in surprise. He laughs, then claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, shouldn’t laugh. Exploded?”

She nods and grins. He laughs again.

“At least all mine did was fall apart,” he says. “Not that it matters. As if Medarda would let a Zaunite into their hallowed ranks!”

She ignores his bitterness and asks, “Have you seen Colette?”

Gysbert’s eyes light up at the prospect of delivering good news.

“I haven’t. I think she made it.”

Tamara lets out a sigh of relief.

“Well, at least one of us got in,” she says. “So… shall we drown our sorrows? It’s Progress Day, after all. I think we’ve earned a few after nearly blowing up the learned masters.”

A figure moves into view, lithe and silhouetted against the light at the end of the street. Others are with her, but they’re clearly deferring to her since she’s the one with the long-barreled rifle pulled tight to her shoulder. The weapon’s muzzle is unwavering, its sights firmly aimed at Tamara’s head. “Sorry, Mistress Lautari,” says the sheriff she’d seen earlier today, “but I don’t think you’ll be getting that drink.”

Gysbert’s protests are brushed aside as the sheriff and her men lead Tamara away. He hasn’t the courage to follow her, and she’s glad of that. She doesn’t want him dragged into this. She’s frogmarched toward the edge of the cliff, and for a wild moment she thinks they’re going to throw her over the edge.

But this is Piltover. They do things by the book here. Back home, she’d already have a knife in her guts or be sailing through the air on a long drop to the spires of the city below. Instead, they turn into a narrow overhanging street that winds along the line of the cliffs toward the great funicular that leads down to the busy wharves on the ocean passage through the city.

“Are you arresting me?” asks Tamara. “What did I do?”

“Really? You’re going to play dumb?” asks the sheriff. “We searched your room and found everything. The hextech journals, the schematics.”

“I’m an apprenta,” says Tamara. “I’m supposed to have schematics.”

They reach an iron-mesh platform attached to a collimated series of rails angled down toward the ocean and docks below. Hundreds of ships throng the wide channel, moored in the shadow of the titanic form of the Sun Gates that allow sea transit from east to west. Some are just passing through, while others berthed offload goods before filling their holds with the bounty Piltover and Zaun have to offer. Tamara sees Freljordian ice-runners, Noxian troop barques, Shuriman grain-galleys and even a few vessels that look suspiciously like they’ve recently sailed from the thieves’ haven of Bilgewater.

Watching over them all are Piltover’s warship squadrons: sleek, ebon-hulled vessels with twin banks of oars and iron-sheathed rams. Rumor has it they’re powered by more than just the strength of their oarsmen and that each is equipped with a battery of powerful hextech weaponry. Tamara doesn’t know if that’s true, but that people believe it is true is all that matters.

She’s jolted from thoughts of warships as three of the sheriff’s men bundle her onto the elevator, holding her tighter and more painfully than they need to.

“Maybe so, but I don’t think many apprenta have such detailed maps of Piltover hidden within their work. I’m Caitlyn, and I’ve walked a beat for more years than I care to count, so I know this city’s streets better than most. And I have to say, you did a damned accurate job. Even Vi could walk blindfold around Piltover with those plans and not get lost.”

“I don’t follow,” says Tamara, as Caitlyn pulls a lever and the angled elevator begins its juddering descent to the city’s lowest levels.

“Yeah, you’re more a trailblazer than a follower, aren’t you?”

“What does that mean?”

The sheriff doesn’t answer, and Tamara shakes her head, her eyes filling with tears.

“Look, I swear I don’t know what this is all about,” she says, her voice cracking and her chest heaving with sobs. “Please, I’m just an apprenta trying to catch a break. Signing a contract with Clan Medarda was my last chance to make something of myself before my father’s money runs out and I have to indenture myself to one of the Zaun Chem-forges. Please, you have to believe me!”

Her pleas fall on deaf ears, and neither the sheriff or her men bother to answer her increasingly histrionic pleas for compassion and understanding as their descent continues. When the elevator lurches to a halt on the dockside, it’s in the shadow of a Shuriman galleon riding high in the water, its holds freshly unloaded. Tamara sees all her worldly possessions stuffed into a metal cart used to haul grain from the holds of such vessels. Her journals and rolled up plans are inside, pages ripped and torn, months of painstaking work discarded like junk. She smells oil and knows what’s coming next. She throws off the grip of the men holding her and falls to her knees before Caitlyn.

“No! Please, don’t,” she weeps. “Please. I’m begging you!”

Caitlyn ignores her and walks over to the cart. She lifts a smoking pipe from a passing stevedore and tips its burning contents into the cart. The oil-soaked paper of Tamara’s books and plans bursts into flames with a whoosh of ignition. The fire consumes them swiftly, burning everything to ash in a matter of minutes. Smoke curls from the remains of Tamara’s work, and she spits at Caitlyn’s feet.

“Damn you,” she snaps. “May the Gray forever be at your door!”

“Nice try,” says Caitlyn, dragging her to her feet. “You’re pretty tricksy with that accent. It’s good, I’ll give you that. Just enough slang, just enough roughness, but I’ve heard every voice in this city, from top to bottom, and yours just doesn’t fit, you know? A little too much of the soot and spite from your homeland to really pull it off.”

“What are you talking about?” protests Tamara. “I was raised in upper Piltover. I’m a Goldview Lass! Born in sight of the Ecliptic Vaults! I swear I’m not lying!”

Caitlyn shakes her head. She’s tired of this game.

“No, your accent’s good, but it can’t quite cover that guttural Noxian superiority,” she says, punctuating her words with a finger jabbing into Tamara’s chest. “And I know what you are. Yeah, I’ve heard the fireside tales of the warmasons, the warriors who sneak into enemy territory and scout it out. You map out the terrain, find the best ways for an army to advance, laying the groundwork for invasion.”

Tamara doesn’t get the chance to deny the accusation as Caitlyn’s men march her up the gangway and onto the galleon. They hand her to two swarthy Shuriman bladesmen, hard-eyed killers who’d sell their own grandmother for half a silver gear.

“You don’t come back to Piltover,” says Caitlyn, resting her rifle in her arms. “If I see you again, I’ll put a bullet in your head. Understand?”

Tamara doesn’t answer. She sees Caitlyn means every word she says.

“Keep her below, then dump her somewhere unpleasant in Bel’zhun,” says Caitlyn to the shipmaster. “Or throw her overboard once you get far enough out, I don’t care.”

The ship is far out to sea by the time they let her up on deck. Too far from land to swim, but Tamara has no plans to get wet. She watches the glittering jewel of Piltover slide away over the horizon, sad to be leaving, but pleased her mission is finally over.

A shame her artfully prepared plans and schematics went up in smoke, but that was always a risk, and she can recreate them from memory. She closes her eyes and runs through the mental exercises that allow her to conjure walking Piltover’s streets at night, counting steps and mentally mapping every junction, street and winding alley.

She ponders which of the breadcrumbs she left in her wake allowed Caitlyn to draw the net around her, but supposes it doesn’t matter now. The sheriff of Piltover is clever, but Tamara has a nagging sensation it wasn’t actually Caitlyn who discovered her. That worries Tamara, as it means there is someone in Piltover she doesn’t know about who has cunning enough to unmask a warmason.

Whoever it was, and no matter how much they might think they know about the secretive Order of Warmasons, there’s one thing they haven’t yet realized.

That warmasons work in pairs and sometimes it pays to burn one to embed another more deeply in foreign lands.

Tamara smiles to herself, already imagining the valuable intelligence Colette will be gathering for Noxus in the heart of Clan Medarda.

She lies back on a bed of empty grain sacks and settles down to sleep.

I’m going to die.

Every halting breath is agony. It feels like someone has torn open my chest with a rusty saw and filled the cavity with teeth. Because someone has.

He has.

I can’t look at what he’s done to me. I stare through watering eyes at a tiny vault light in the brick ceiling, desperate to see anything but what I’ve become. Beyond lies Zaun—my city—but of the thousands of bustling souls there, not one will have noticed I’m missing. No one is looking for the man I was before.

click

The recording device has clicked on, the wax cylinder turning steadily, and my breath catches again, this time against a sob. He speaks.

“Subject ‘Thinker’ is functionally impaired. Yet hearing and recognition still present.”

click

Between the tears in my eyes and the warping effect of the thick greenish glass of the observation window, the nameless man looks like a half-melted waxen nightmare. Sunken, mismatched eyes dripping across a contorted pallid face, the bandages over his mouth growing and shrinking as he restlessly paces behind the window to get a better look at my condition.

His good eye flicks from me to the source of a deep groan in the corner of my cell. I turn to look at a hulking form, rousing itself from unconsciousness. Glowing pipes and tubes snake around and through its forearms, making them more than double their already considerable size.

As I am now, withered and... changed, the brute could snap me in half without thinking.

click

“Subject ‘Breaker’ regained consciousness at six past fourth bell. Earlier than expected. Promising! Experiment begins at... seven past fourth bell.”

click

No. No, no! Not another experiment.

click

“Establishing the baseline. Subject Thinker, answer the following questions as quickly and as accurately as possible.”

“Wha—”

“First question: what is your full name?”

“I’m not doing this! Do you hear me? I demand you release me at once. I refuse to participate in whatever sick, twisted...” My words trail off.

click

He puts down the mouthpiece of his recording device, and moves to a set of valves at the edge of the window. Without even glancing at me or the thing in the corner, he spins one open, and high-pressure, ice-cold sump water slams me into the wall.

I think I’m screaming.

An eternity later, I’m trembling on atrophied hands and knees, gasping for air. I fumble at the floor, seeking purchase through the slowly draining water, when I somehow catch my wrist on something, and my elbow buckles reflexively, slamming me face first onto the ground.

I’m still for a moment, cradling my arm where the pain is hot and alien—then I feel movement between my chest and the floor. Sharp wriggling, like I’ve fallen on a Uloan scorpion and it’s about to claw through me to escape. I roll, but it follows me. It’s on me, on my bare skin, scratching and squirming, and the skittering noise repulses me. I’m kicking and clawing and yelling and desperately trying to get it off me!

“Tiresome.”

My hands are bloodied and there’s something wrong with my wrists and I can’t get the thing off me. It’s all barbs and claws and it’s like it’s burrowed into my—my chest.

The teeth in my chest.

I remember now. There isn’t an arachnid on me. He did this to me. He carved me up and turned me into something else, something with sucking fangs grafted onto each wrist, and two columns of hungry, flexing pincers from neck to waist. And he wants me to use them to bite the thing in here with me.

He’d once strapped us both down on a rusted iron gurney, needle moving quickly and without mercy as he joined us together. Then he waited. Waited for the “process” to start, for the instincts he’d given me through surgical and chemtech sins to kick in.

When it didn’t happen—when I wouldn’t do it—everything went black.

And now I am locked in this chamber with my intended “host”.

click

“Subject found initial stimulus unpleasant. Resuming baseline questions. If the Thinker subject does not state its full name—”

“Stop, I beg you. Have mercy!” I yell.

“Duration and intensity will be increased by a factor of two. Strike that—make it three.”

click

He’s looking right at me. If he’s smiling beneath those wraps, it doesn’t reach his eyes. He seizes the valve again, and I realize what’s next. There’s nothing to hide behind, nothing to grab a hold of, and as the pipes rumble, all I can do is curl up as small as I can, and take a deep breath.

The blast of water hits so hard, so cold, the air is ripped from my lungs. I smash against surfaces I can’t identify, and up and down are meaningless. There’s a shooting pain from my ankle, and when the assault eventually ceases, I twist and drop to the floor. Once the heaving stops, I lie motionless, feeling weaker than I can ever remember as the last of the water drains from the room.

I’m going to die.

Slam. I flinch when my chem-doped cellmate smashes into the observation window. It is fury incarnate—huge, empowered fists hammering at the glass, incoherent primal yells tearing from its throat.

The glass, and the monster behind it, is unmoved.

Though each movement costs me dearly, I quietly drag myself to the other side of the floor, away from the raging beast called Breaker. It’s still smashing at the glass, knuckles bloodying, despite there being no sign of weakening the barrier. Stubborn or stupid, it keeps hitting. Even when its roaring diminishes and shifts to wordless sobs, those swollen fists won’t stop.

click

“Physical strength of subject ‘Breaker’ is within expected range of pneumatochem-muscular enhancements, but he exhibits limited to no problem-solving capabilities.”

click

Emotionlessly, our torturer taps on the glass opposite the smears from Breaker’s self-inflicted wounds. Then, with a scowl, he turns to look at me.

click

“Subject ‘Thinker’, on the other hand, may have been named hastil—”

“My name’s Hadri! Hadri Spillwether. I’m a person—not this ‘Thinker’ you keep calling me.” I reach out, desperate to touch some grain of empathy in my captor’s heart, no matter what fabrications I have to concoct. “I have a son! He’s... he’s two years old, and he must miss me terribly.”

“A son?” The bandaged man raises an eyebrow. “What’s his name?”

“L-Locke. Little Locke Spillwether—cute as a button and twice as—”

“Enough. You have no family. They perished from the same hereditary disease you yourself suffer from, characterized by accelerated aging and all the miserable infirmities that come with it. For the last thirteen years you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself to anyone who’d listen at the Zaun Academy of Sciences, seeking—no, begging for—a cure.”

His words hammer into me, cold and crushing like the water.

“And yet you repay my extraordinary gift with defiance and bad data.” Now he’s angry. “Your estimates give you five years left to live. More lies, but this time to yourself. You have three wretched years at best before you become a drooling invalid. And there’s no one to take care of you as you did your sister and father.”

There’s nothing I can say. He’s right. What little hope I had for finding a cure was just that: hope. The Academy wouldn’t help me—a swarming mass of the world’s finest minds, each unreachable and distant. Everyone had their own desperate or greedy agenda, and I was just another lost cause. Pitiful. Alone.

I’m going to die.

“But you need not die.”

My gaze snaps to his. I feel... revulsion? Loathing? Outrage? Hope. How dare he say such a thing. How dare he. How—

“How?” I choke out the question. I hate that I’ve asked it.

He doesn’t reply with words. He just slowly nods his head toward the hunched form of the thing I’m locked in with—toward Breaker. The brute is cradling his bleeding hands, rocking back and forth, avoiding eye contact with either of us. Maybe he’s incapable of speech. He’s at least three times my weight, all of it muscle, and that’s before whatever those augments on his arms are doing.

I remember when we were strapped down on the gurney. Similarly trapped together. Equally helpless despite his monstrously augmented strength. The bandaged man wants me to latch on to Breaker, to use him as a... support? A living prosthesis?

My own thoughts make me gag, and I dry heave as I scramble backward, away from Breaker.

“Disappointing.” Our torturer sounds bored. “Perhaps three years is still too remote a negative outcome for you, Thinker. Let me make it more compelling—in your weakened state, you’ll likely suffer multiple fractures each time I apply this negative stimulus. Within four more applications, I’d expect you’d be classifiable as only minimally mobile, and face down in the water, you’ll very slowly drown.”

He’s leering through the glass at me. “From previous observations, I’m led to believe it will be quite excruciating.”

click

The room’s too small. I can barely breathe. My heart is throwing itself against my ribcage like Breaker pummeling the observation window.

I look to Breaker and catch his gaze on me—he immediately looks away. There was little understanding in those eyes, but I saw shared fear and something akin to sympathy. It’s the first real human connection I’ve felt in years. Far more human than our captor.

Without turning to meet his cold, calculating stare, I ask, “And what happens if I do it? If I...?”

click

“Once an ectoparasitic melding is established, I’ll run tests on the nature of the pairing, on the extent of the parasite’s behavior-altering capabilities on the host and so on, and on the resilience of the resulting merged superorganism. The experiment will be concluded, and all this...” He waves airily at the chamber, the pipes and valves, the glass observation window. “All this will be done with.”

click

I nod absentmindedly, as if this is the most normal thing in the world, but my mind suddenly reels with realization. Testing the resilience of the organism. What a clean way to say torturing to death under a scalpel.

This is no cure—not for me. It’s a death sentence.

Finger width by finger width, I manage to pull myself to my feet, hugging the cold brick wall for support. I gasp and wobble for a moment—my ankle is broken already—before turning to face my enemy through the window.

“No.”

There’s a long pause. I can hear the sounds of Zaun—water dripping from the pipes, distant pumps, and the low, comforting rumble of never-sleeping machinery. At the very edge of my senses, I fancy I can hear fifth bell chiming.

I expect nothing of my captor. Still I’m surprised when he reaches out—

click

“Subject is... uncooperative.”

click

He spins the water valve to full strength.

Pain. The water hits like a mountain and slams me against the walls, ceiling, and floor without preference. I don’t know which is which anymore. There’s only noise. There’s only darkness. There’s only agony.

Then there’s light.

A flash so bright that the world behind my eyelids turns gold. A lung-hammering boom.

And then nothing.

I regain consciousness face down on the floor, battered and crushingly cold. I look up.

Something’s changed. Water still gushes out of the vents, though at a lower pressure. Light streams in from a hole punched near the ceiling. A way out? There are more flashes of yellow, followed by distant booms.

A keening wail pierces through the ringing in my ears. With horror, I realize it’s coming from Breaker—he’s cradling his face, blood weeping between his fingers. He charges into the wall, spins, and tumbles into the water.

The water. It’s rising.

In a panic, I try to drag myself closer to the hole, but I’m not moving. The fangs on my wrists rake across the stone beneath the water, setting my teeth on edge, but even with my aching fingers clawing at the floor, I make no headway.

I twist around to see if I’m caught on something, and blanch.

A slab of fallen debris—probably the exact piece that opened that treacherous escape route—is crushing my lower back. I kick at it, and nothing happens. I push it, and nothing happens. I try everything, squirming and screaming and flailing weakly. Slowly the block tumbles from me and splashes to the side. Around me, the rising waters flush red.

I can’t feel my legs.

“Experiment ends at... two, no, three past fifth bell.”

I turn just in time to watch the bandaged man walk away from the window and out of sight. A heartbeat later, the lights go out. The sudden explosions, my paralysis, or my defiance—I wonder which variable rendered his precious experiment worthless to him, worthy only of flushing.

Curse him.

I pull myself to a sitting position against the debris, my blood now black in the dim Zaun light. It feels like the heat is being sucked out of my core, and I’m being frozen from the inside out. I have nothing left.

Sobbing. I hear sobbing from Breaker, a boulder of despair hunkered in the corner, the tubes on his arms creating their own faint green illumination.

I keep my voice low. “H-hey.”

His head snaps up. Black streaks surround his ruined eyes, underlit by what that monster behind the glass did to his arms. An expression of anguish and loss twists on his face as he frantically angles his head to listen.

“B-Breaker?” I’m shivering. It’s hard to get the words out. “Hey, I’m s-s-sorry I don’t know your real—”

Breaker rises, splashing and stumbling, his chemtech implants casting wild shadows. He charges toward me—I squeeze my eyes shut, awaiting the impact.

Suddenly I feel a hand, hot and enormous, on my head. I open my eyes, and Breaker is crouched in front of me, clumsily patting my face and shoulders, as if to make sure I’m real.

A distant flash through the gap in the ceiling, like amber lightning, illuminates him. Under the blood and swelling, he looks so innocent. So alone.

I’m going to die.

But maybe Breaker doesn’t have to.

“Breaker? B-Breaker, you ha-have to listen to... me.” He takes my hand and turns his head to point an ear my way. “There’s a way—a way out,” I tell him. “A hole in the ceiling. You w-want to get out of here, right?”

Still holding my hand, he nods so vigorously that he jerks my body back and forth. The pain is white hot against the ice cold filling me. I almost welcome it.

“Aah! All right. Good. L-listen. Listen! Now, you’re g-going to have to let go of my ha—”

His refusal is clear in his death grip on my fingers.

Water is now lapping against the column of weakly flexing barbs on my chest. They gnash, eager to latch on to a host, as if they know their intended target is near. But I’ll die before I do that to myself. Or Breaker.

With so much of my blood swirling in the water around me, I don’t have long. I have to hurry.

I bring up my other hand and gently unwrap his. “Y-you’re going to be fine, B-B-Breaker. I promise. I just need you to... to make sure it’s safe first.” Breathing’s harder now. “Y-you can do that for me? Then we can b-both get ou-out.”

Lies, but it’s enough to get him to release me.

I nudge his elbow, guiding him to stand. Stretching despite the pain, I give him a tiny shove forward, toward the blown-open gap.

I let my arms fall back into the ice-cold water, realizing that his was probably the last warmth I’ll ever feel.

“J-j-just listen to my voice. I’ll g-guide you!” The water’s at my neck now, and I’m shaking so much it’s hard to see straight. “Forward, just a few steps. Careful, th-there’s d-debris, and—” He smashes his shin into a fallen piece of wall and yelps. “All right, y-y-y-you’re all right. S-step up onto it. Good. Now r-reach out to the w-w-wall. Feel it? Good. That’s good. There are cracks between the bricks. Use them to cl-climb. Now reach up. Reach up, Breaker. That’s it—that’s the w-way out.”

I tilt my head back to get a breath of air, the water at my jaw. At least I can’t feel most of my body now.

“Climb, B-Breaker,” I gasp. Then I stretch my neck and splutter, “Goodb-b—”

The water’s over my face, and despite everything, I’m holding this last breath. My heart beats loud in my ears. It occurs to me that I like the sound of it. I’ll miss it.

My lungs start to burn. This is it. My heart roars. My numb arms thrash. My eyes flicker open and my chest heaves, hungry for air. I cough out part of that last breath and gobble a mouthful of bitter sump water.

There is only panic.

My hand hits something, and I instinctively try to push off from it. Up. Anywhere. But I’m caught. I can’t move. There’s no air and I can’t move. Suddenly my whole vision is taken up by Breaker’s face. No! Not him, too! I struggle, but there’s nothing. My body is giving up. I’m giving up. My vision narrows and darkens; grayness fills it. I see Breaker turning, and distantly hope he’ll make it.

Something’s wrong. Or right. I can’t tell. There’s warmth and movement. I feel myself being lifted up. My body convulses and my vision turns sharp for just one beat of my weakening heart. Through the water, I see the back of Breaker’s head. My chest, no, the things in my chest sense the spine pressed against them, and flex back to strike, stretching like a too-big yawn. A welcome pain.

No. Yes. No!

... I don’t want to die!

As the barbs in my chest clamp down, I plunge my fangs deep into the sides of his neck—

CRUNCH.

I/we live!

We’re still submerged, but our lungs are full of air (and empty). Our limbs are strong and powerful (and weak and broken). We can see again (like always).

I/we push off for the faint light through the water. I/we bring up our hand to shove a metal bar out of the way. Our hand is shockingly big, and farther left than we expected, and we almost overshoot. Adjust. We’ve got it now. It’s so easy to push. The bar goes flying back. We kick upward and swim toward the hole in the ceiling, pulling ourselves up the last distance. We flop onto the roof, outside.

Air.

We cough up the water in our lungs, while our other lungs breathe deeply.

No, not our lungs... my lungs. My hearts beat hard and fast. My minds reel.

I climb down the side of the building with my powerful arms. When my feet touch the ground, it seems at once far away and slightly closer, offset to the side. I can hear with a depth and precision I couldn’t have imagined.

It smells like we’re deep in Zaun. I’m surrounded by leaking containers and heaps of wriggling, sodden trash, in a courtyard behind an old factory. High above, some distance away, a segment of fallen tower is precariously leaning against a chasm wall, yellow flashes and rumbles still issuing from secondary explosions.

The source of my freedom. Of my creation.

I start at the sound of a piece of rubble falling from the cell wall behind me, and I’m reminded just how close I came to death. At his hands.

I can’t stay here (fear!).

Before I know it, I’m running.

It’s exhilarating. I’m shocked by how fast the world goes by, how easily my legs move. Quick as a flash, I duck down an alley. There’s a gate blocking my path, but I’ve already spotted an outcropping of pipes I can vault from, and a hanging railing I can use to swing over it.

Neither of my past selves could have done this, but I can. It’s so easy.

I land lightly, and barely slow down. The impact hurts—one of my spines is broken, but it’s distant, no longer a devastating injury. Now, my strengths complement each other, my weaknesses recognized and supported. I’ve never felt this way before—greater than I was, more complete. At ease with myself.

I lope onward, exiting the alleyway and running straight into a small crowd leaving a Church of the Glorious Evolved–a mass of mechanical legs, breather masks, extraneous metal arms, and other, stranger augments.

But each and every one of these unsettling, augment-obsessed cultists stops dead in their tracks to stare at me.

“He’s got something on his back,” a mechanical-eyed man says.

“What is that?” a woman with a back-mounted prosthetic lung asks.

“It’s feeding on him!” an unseen third hysterically yells from the rear of the crowd.

Expressions change from shock to revulsion. I back up, but I’m surrounded.

Someone shoves me from behind. I try to tell them to stop.

“Pleas— —eave me— —lone.”
“—ASE. LEA— —E ALO—”

The words tumble out on top of each other, issuing from two mouths. I’ve never heard my new voice before, and it sounds both familiar and strange. The Evolved don’t seem to understand. A rock flies past my head.

“STOP-op. I HAVE-haven’t done anything-THING to you-YOU,” I beg. My words are still out of sync—it’s like talking through an echo. My voice won’t do what I want, and these people won’t listen!

A yellow-haired man steps forward from the group, attaching a heavy hammer-like prosthetic to his augmented wrist. He raises it to attack.

“I said leave me alone!” It’s my true voice. Clear as a bell—harmonious in the discord. But words won’t help me now.

Frantic, I look around and find a steam pipe near me, bridging the alleyway from above. Just before my would-be attacker strikes, I leap up, hauling the pipe down to block. The hammer pierces it, and scalding vapor blasts into his face. He falls backward, screaming.

I hear their yells and threats as I run away. I don’t know where I’m going as I charge down the dark cobblestone streets. I run past tenement blocks and corner stores, past a pair of stilt-walking chem-jacks and a spring merchant. I take stairs and corners at speed. I’m sprinting across one of the smaller bridges, iron clanging beneath my boots, when I catch a half-familiar whiff from one of the street vendors. I duck behind an empty stall and inhale deeply.

From a distant corner of my mind, I remember the smell—I remember coming here with... with Mama. She’d give me two washers for the porridge lady, and I’d carry a steaming bowl home.

Home. My eyes well up at the thought. Somewhere I can hide, somewhere I can rest, somewhere safe.

It’s not far from here!

This time, I’m running with heartsick purpose. Up three flights of stone steps on the chasm side, past the old broken glasshouse, then down two streets to the edge of the Factorywood.

Before I know it, I arrive at what was once my home. A charred husk remains, long since abandoned. My mind tries to make sense of it. This was my home (no, it wasn’t). I lived here with my mama and brother (no, I didn’t). She’d painted the walls yellow and said it was liquid sunshine (I’ve never been here).

I carefully make my way up warped stairs sodden from countless rainstorms. The railing feels familiar (alien) to my hand.

I push open the ruin of the door, and my vision swims. My happy memories of bright smiles clash with the reality of burnt remains and debris. Tears stream down my faces. Something terrible happened here, but I can’t remember.

The door to the back room has long fallen from its hinges, and the roof is collapsed in, but my eyes are drawn to the left corner, where I once slept—a small cot lies blackened with soot. I approach, and for the first time, I read the name scratched into the wall beside it:

“Palo.”

That’s me. My name is Hadri—I mean, Palo. I was both, but the me that lived here, that was Palo. Hadri’s mother died in childbirth, but Palo was raised by his mama.

What happened? An accident? An attack? Did Mama anger the wrong chem-baron? Did... did I do something without realizing?

Mama’s desk is a drenched wreck, but something glints in the pile of wood. Her hand mirror. It’s cracked, likely from the heat. I pick it up. When I was Hadri, I couldn’t bring myself to look at what the bandaged man had turned me into, but that was a lifetime ago. I’m different in so many ways, and I have to know.

I look.

A nightmare looks back. A beaten, bloodied, and blinded man stands there—forearms encircled and pierced by glowing green tubes and cables. Hooked on to his back is a sickly parasite, its shriveled arms wrapped around his neck, their syringe-like fangs barely concealed. Its withered legs dangle uselessly. Bloodshot, beady eyes peer from behind the man’s shoulder, widening in horror at what they see.

Revulsion washes over me. I drop the mirror, and my largest hands scramble to tear the parasite from its host. I’m hideous. (I’m smart now!) I’m just a failed experiment. (I’m better now!) No one could ever love me. (I love my new self!) I’ll always be alone. (I don’t want to be alone!)

Alone. I was so alone.

The bitter loneliness of two lives hits me, and I throw back my heads and howl. No one person should ever feel this. No one person can. I howl for losses doubled, and losses shared. I howl in sympathy for myself, and for the depth of loss in another. Across Zaun, I hear others take up the cry—animals, humans, and something in between—who for one moment, paradoxically, are together in their loneliness.

I collapse to my knees, my feet uselessly brushing against the floor behind me.

I will live. Not as Palo or Hadri. Not as Breaker or Thinker. I’m both, or all of them. I’m better this way.

I tear one of the half-burned curtains from the wall and throw it over my shoulders, careful not to obscure my vision.

My memories are too strange, too complex, too confusing. I can’t stay here. I walk out the door and down the steps as I try to decide where a monster like me can possibly go.

click

“In spite of, or perhaps due to, unexpected and explosive complications, stage one of the host experiment has finally completed.”

click

I freeze. My captor stands on the narrow street in front of the house, a pneumatic-powered dart gun leveled at me. Vials on his belt clink menacingly, filled with unknown liquids (it burns!), and a bag on his back suggests he has many more terrible things at hand.

He did this to me.

I can feel the fury swell in both of my chests, my hearts thumping against each other with just ribcages between them. I take an instinctual step toward him.

“I don’t think so!” he warns. He casually flicks the dart thrower to the side, pulls the trigger, and spears a large viridian beetle straight through. I watch, horrified, as the liquid in the dart releases into its body, dissolving it almost immediately, its screams all too audible in my four ears.

His gun is already reloaded, and it’s aimed at me again. I raise two of my hands.

click

“The following questions are for the Thinker entity. Answer quickly, or I’ll apply motivational pressures.”

“What?”

“Quiet. First question: what is your full name?”

The dart gun doesn’t waver as his long, stained finger hovers over the recording device’s switch.

“Hadri Spillwether.” I look around for a way out. Somewhere to run. Anything.

“Good. Next question. What was your father’s name?”

My father? I didn’t know my—wait, no, I did have a father. I looked after him when the disease worsened. His name... his name was...

“Hurry up. Answer the question!” the bandaged man demanded.

“Arvon! Arvon Spillwether!” I sounded more relieved than I expected. More desperate.

“Hmph. Faster! Where did you live? What was your profession? What did I call myself when we first met at the Academy?”

“Here! I lived he—no, wait. I... I don’t... Four-five-one! Room four-five-one at the Smellbloom Lodging House! Profession? I... Was I a clerk? I can’t... I don’t remember. It was so long ago!” I’m sweating, shaking my heads. It’s all mixed up.

click

“Pathetic. What a waste. Devolved into some sort of gestalt entity, contaminating the purity of the primary mind. Unsuitable for further exploration,” he mutters. Then he turns on his heel and starts to walk away.

I feel my faces scrunch into masks of pure rage.

He made me what I am. He set my house ablaze with chemical fire—I remember now how it burned. He exploited my hope for a cure.

And now, he will pay.

I’m four paces away from him. Now two. Then he spins on the spot and smashes a vial of something at my feet. I barely take another step when I find that my boots are glued fast to the ground. He’s two fingertips out of my reach, and I claw at the air uselessly.

“So much for being a Thinker,” he says. “I really was too optimistic. I certainly won’t make that mistake again.”

He takes a long step backward, and turns to head down a narrow alleyway. Leven Wynd—I remember it clearly. The second he’s out of sight, I hunker down and quickly untie my laces, loosening them enough to step out of my boots. With one strong leap, I’m padding barefoot after him down the wynd.

It’s dark in the alley, but my hearing is sharpened. I can hear him at the end of the first turn, still muttering to himself about subjects and sources. It stinks here, and I try not to think about what I’m stepping in as I navigate past the narrow gaps and boarded-up doorways. By the time I reach the corner, he’s halfway down the next stretch, barely visible in the gloom and the smog. I lean down to wrench a broken pipe from the ground as a weapon, and feel a rush as I straighten.

He’s gone.

Impossible! I lope onward, checking doorways as I go. The air is nasty, and I try to muffle my coughs with my curtain, but I can only cover one mouth. I’m getting dizzy, and I turn around to look back the way I came. It’s hazy—too hazy.

He’s using some kind of gas! I wrap the curtain around one of my mouths and bury the other into my shoulder, trying to breathe as little as possible. This is a trap.

I try to stagger back toward home—the corner looks farther away than I remember. I need to make it. I start to run, but one of the doors—red, metal, and spiked—suddenly opens, smashing into my face. I fall.

My limbs, all of them feel so heavy. So heavy. I think I’m crushing myself with my own weight on my back, but it’s already so hard to breathe.

I’m going to die.

The bandaged man stands over me. Tears streaming from my faces, I look up at my murderer, and I remember.

Overlaid upon his face, I see a face from before—with tinted glasses and a clean-shaven jaw. When I first met him, years ago, he strode down the hallway from lab to lecture hall, master of his environment, looked upon with admiration, envy, and something I hadn’t recognized (fear!). In his wake was the faintest scent of cologne. He had stopped and looked at me—not with pity, as I was used to, but with a shadow of excitement and anticipation. He’d introduced himself.

“Singed. You said you were Professor SIN-Singed.”

The harmony drops from my voices, and in my last moment, I am alone again.

Crushingly, painfully, deeply alone.

Singed scrambles madly among his things, desperately searching for something. A cure? A mercy?

His recording device. He clicks it on and drops to his haunches to observe.

“Oh, well done, Thinker Four. That puts you... yes... more answers than even Thinker Two! You’ve been most helpful.”

He clicks off his recording device.

It’s the last thing I hear.

Evelynn slinked through the teeming streets, the shadows of her body blending seamlessly with the night. Her eyes glinted within the gloom, though only the keenest observer would have noticed. Drunks, sailors, and harlots chatted in a nearby thoroughfare, blissfully unaware they were being watched by a demon in the dark. The demon, on the other hand, saw them all with perfect clarity, and judged them with the most discerning eye.

Evelynn’s gaze settled on a man lying in the gutter, a bottle of beet wine dangling from his hands. Ordinarily, the demon wouldn’t give a second thought to someone in his condition. But she had not fed in days, and she found herself desperate enough to consider the man, if only for a moment. It would be so easy. All she needed was to lure him to one of the numerous alleys far from the glow of the street lamps.

The thought perished as she watched a cockroach scurry across the drunk’s face. This was a man too inebriated to feel. His arousal would be vague and muted, with none of the urgent attraction she loved to see in her victims before she brought them low. She might even flay an entire arm before he mustered a scream.

And that was the problem. Over the course of countless feedings, Evelynn had learned everything about her palate: She preferred—no, needed—her victims to feel every prick, every bite, every bit of flesh she peeled away with her claws. A man in this condition would be dull and unfulfilling, scarcely worth her time.

She dismissed the drunk and continued down the muddy promenade, past the windows of a dank, candlelit tavern. A fat, belching woman threw open its door and stumbled out into the night, grasping a half-eaten turkey leg. For a moment, Evelynn considered the woman, how she might woo her into an embrace, and then into the unspeakable hell that would follow.

The demon watched as the woman wolfed down the rest of the meat, never tasting it. There was something deep inside her, a melancholy that would taint the experience.

Evelynn preferred inflicting the pain herself.

The demon moved on, gliding through the shadows of the town, over two more drunks, past a beggar asking for alms, between a couple in the midst of an argument. Evelynn found them all completely unappealing. Hurting them would be like plucking a flower that had already wilted. She preferred her daisies tall and healthy, for those were the most satisfying to cut down.

A dreadful thought overtook her. Perhaps she’d made a mistake choosing this wretched backwater as her hunting ground. Perhaps, at any moment, the thrill from her last victim might wear off, leaving only the nothingness—that utterly empty space inside her where feelings should be.

And then, she saw him…

The gentleman was positively beaming as he exited one of the high-end pubs. He was dapper without being flashy, and he hummed a jaunty tune to himself as he set off down the street with a bouquet of flowers tucked gingerly in the fold of his arm.

The two lashers on Evelynn’s back writhed with excitement. Even from a distance, she sensed this man was completely content in his own skin. She dashed after the gentleman, taking great care not to lose track of her prey or to alert him to her presence.

He walked for nearly half an hour before finally turning up a long walkway toward a modestly sized, cut-stone manor. At the end of the path, the man stepped through the heavy oak door to his home. Evelynn held her unblinking gaze on the windows of the man’s house as they lit one by one with warm candlelight. A slender, austere woman in a high-necked evening gown entered and greeted the man with a welcoming embrace. She feigned a slight surprise at the flowers he had brought, before placing them in a clean vase, right next to an old bouquet.

The demon’s interest grew.

A moment later, two children, scarcely out of diapers, ran into the room and threw their arms around the man’s legs, their wide grins sparkling with tiny teeth. Though the scene played like the epitome of domestic bliss, Evelynn knew what she would find if she probed just a little deeper.

She waited patiently, watching the candles go out one by one, until only the parlor remained lit. The man was alone, settling into a reading chair to draw on his pipe. Evelynn crept out of the shadows, her dark, wispy limbs giving way to warm flesh. Her demonic lashers disappeared behind her back, revealing a shapely female form, with curves too generous for any eye to ignore.

Her hips waggled softly as she sauntered across the lawn to the window. She was nearly arm’s length from the glass when she saw the man bolt upright from his chair at the sight of her, his pipe nearly falling from his mouth. Evelynn beckoned with a single finger, motioning for the man to join her outside.

The man crept to the front door and opened it tentatively, curious to investigate the strange beauty lurking outside his window. He approached her on the lawn with great apprehension, and greater anticipation.

“Who… are you?” he asked timidly.

“I’m whatever you want me to be,” assured the demon.

As Evelynn locked eyes with the man, she plumbed the depths of his soul and found exactly what she was looking for—that tiny lesion of discontent that festered within even the happiest person.

There it is, she thought. All that he wants and cannot have.

“My family…” the man said, unable to finish his thought.

The demon leaned close.

“Shh. It’s okay,” she whispered in the man’s ear. “I know what you want, and the guilt you feel for wanting it. Let it go.”

She pulled back to find the man hopelessly captivated.

“Can I… have you?” he asked, ashamed of his brazenness, but overcome by a strange desire to take her right there on the lawn.

“Of course, honey. That’s why I’m here,” said the demon.

He touched her face with the tips of his fingers, caressing her cheek. She held his hand firmly to her skin and released a soft, sultry chuckle. This sweet, tender, happy man would be hers tonight. He had so much pain to give, and she would take it all.

From behind them, the shuffling of slippered feet sounded from the open doorway of the house.

“Is everything okay, love?” asked the man’s wife.

“Everything’s going to be wonderful, my darling,” the demon answered for the dumbstruck man.

The deal had become even sweeter, and the prospects more enticing. There was one daisy in full flower to pluck, and one bulb to bloom while it watched.

Okay, Zaun. I’m here, I’m fuzzy, and I’m ready to explode stuff.

All that time up there in Piltover serving high-quality pyrotechnics to ungrateful snoots, Heimerdinger making me hide behind that dumb glamour, never allowed to do what I want... It’s left me with a thirst for KA-BOOM!

But was Jinx right? Is the gloomy, stinking undercity teeming with whizz-bang potential?

Let’s see what we’ve got here. What am I looking at? Nondescript building, nondescript building, slightly bigger nondescript building, an explosives factory, another nondescript building, nondes—WAIT, WHAT?

Explosives factory?! Dreams can come true!

I’m not crying. That’s just the Zaun Gray gettin’ all up in my eyes.

Man, the things they must have in there... But it looks so normal. Dull, even. No flashing lights, no sparkling signs... just a rundown pile of bricks and ironwork. It’s like no one even cares how bombs are made. And it’s quiet... GASP! They must have it soundproofed because of all the live bomb testing! I’ve gotta get in there! Ooh, I bet there’s a super secret passageway or maybe you have to blow the front wall off or—

Oh, wait, there’s the door.

Hang on, what’s this?

You’ve gotta be kidding me! Why? How? How could this sacred place no longer be in use? How could anyone be so disrespectful of the creation of lovely explosives and shut it down forever and—what is that noise?

Huh, I’m pretty sure locks aren’t supposed to be all mangled like that. Looks like this door’s been busted open. Let me poke my head around...

I appear to be looking at a pair of disgruntled young humans. Not bombs. Humans. In an empty room. I may be losing interest. They haven’t seen me, at least.

“This sucks,” one of them says. He looks as disappointed as I feel. “You said this place was full of bombs. Well, we’ve searched every corner, and there’s nothing here!”

Stop it now, kid. This hurts.

The other one kicks over an empty crate. “How was I supposed to know they cleared it out?!”

Did neither of them read the sign? I swear, humans never look—

“Whatever,” the first one sighs. Whoa. I wasn’t done thinking my thought. Rude. “I’m bored. Let’s go.”

Not before me—I’m not ready to have my fur ruffled today. See ya, kids!

Man, I can’t believe this. My first venture out in the undercity and I find a bomb factory! Entirely committed to making bombs! That could’ve been home. But no, instead it was the home of shattered dreams.

I’ve gotta do something about this. Yeah. Yes. That’s it. It’s the right thing to do. It’s what it was made for...

I’M GONNA FILL THAT PLACE WITH BOMBS!

Oh, hey! Welcome to my lab. Well, Jinx’s lab. She’s letting me crash here while I find my feet in Zaun. She thinks I only exist in her head, so I guess I’m not taking up too much room. Besides, with all her scrap heaps and bits of junk everywhere, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only thing with fur running around this place.

What, these? Just some hexplosives I’m working on. My own design, of course.

These bad boys are gonna give that old factory the send-off it deserves. Let it go out with some dignity.

I can’t leave it as I found it earlier, waiting for another innocent incendiary enthusiast to come along, get them all excited, and then rip their heart right out without so much as a spark. It was a real emotional rollercoaster.

No, I’ll spruce the place up with my own devices, and then they’re gonna go off one after the other like little fireworks. Flash! Bang! Tssss! Flash! Bang! Tssss! Over and over until the whole place crumbles down in a huge explodey mess.

I call them “Chain Smokers”.

Almost done. I just take this bit here, and this thing here, and... Perfection.

Let’s go blow stuff up!

Okay, I’m back in the building. Come on, “KEEP OUT” sign, you had one job.

My little Chain Smokers are all laid out, ready to show their papa what they can do.

But Ziggs, I hear you say, how are you going to appreciate the products of all your talents if you can’t see them in action? My thoughts exactly. So I’ve got an extra treat for us all: I’m gonna blow the front wall off first!

This big one here’s the Party Popper, and it’s going to create the ultimate peephole!

Alrighty, time to push the button! Three... two... one... Big baddaboom!

...in sixty seconds.

What? I’ve gotta get out of here first—I don’t want to blow myself up!

Come on, come on, come on, I’m ready now! Got this nice pile of junk to hide behind. Perfect viewing distance. And... explode!

Nope. Forty seconds left. Turns out crossing the street doesn’t take that long.

Hey, why did the yordle cross—Oh no, what’re those kids doing back here?! They’re gonna get themselves a faceful of wall if they don’t move soon. Move. Move!

They’re not moving. They’re spray painting the wall. For the love of...

“Hey!” I call from behind the junkpile. “You kids! Get away from there!”

Yeah, that got their attention. A real Ziggs, out in the wild. They’re still standing there, though.

“What? You never seen a yordle before? Seriously, though, you need to move! You’re gonna get hurt!”

Are they...? They are! They’re laughing at me! Well, maybe I’ll just leave them to get exploded, after all! Jinx sure would.

Ohhhhhh, right. Jinx is a psychopath.

Ah! Ten seconds!

And I’m running. I’m running straight at those little sump-punks. Better to be tackled by a yordle than crushed by a building. That’s what I always say.

They’re not laughing anymore. The bigger one’s opening its mouth. “What’re you do—”

“No time! Move!”

BOOM!

We hit the other side of the street just as the wall goes up.

Yes! Bombs away!

Flash! Bang! Tssss! Flash! Bang! Tssss!

It’s mesmerising. Little lightning bolts striking every surface. Bricks tumbling down. Smoke pouring out, clouding all the locals who’ve come out to watch.

Flash! Bang! Tssss!

Wait, why are all these people staring at me instead of my art?

Flash! Bang! Tssss!

The roof is now completely caved in. It’s magical. No, I told you before, it’s the Gray! I’m not crying.

Flash! Bang! Tssss! Flash! Bang! Tsssssssss.

Haha! Yes! I can’t help it. I’m doing my happy dance. That was perfect!

Those two kids are looking at me like I just slapped their grandmother. I guess Zaunites are more used to collapsing buildings than gleeful furballs.

Whatever. I’m going in for a closer look.

My Chain Smokers performed just as they should; what was once a solid structure is now a blackened heap of rubble. That useless “KEEP OUT” sign is poking out from under a smashed roof tile. I’m gonna pick it up, a little souvenir for the lab.

Flash! Bang!

Gah! One of those sneaky little hexplosives waited for me to have a front-row seat. I think I’m on fire but—

“Wheeeeeee!”

—I’m flying through the air—

“Aaaaahahahahahaaaa!”

—trailing smoke—

“Oh, it burns! And tickles! But mostly burns! Hahahahahaha!”

—and all eyes are on this furry rocket.

“See, kids? Now that’s how you make bombs!”

“Why send us all the way out here?” said the soldier leaning against the wall of the gatehouse, arms folded across his chest. “There’s blood on the streets of the Great City, and we’re sent to the border?”

His name was Bakker, and Cithria had never warmed to him—he was prone to seeing the bad in every situation, though to be fair, in this case there was truth in his words.

The rest of their comrades stood nearby. None of them looked particularly happy about their predicament.

Cithria remained silent. She was the youngest of the Demacian soldiers, though she was by no means an untested recruit. In the year she’d spent among their ranks she had proven herself a capable soldier, and one of the fastest with a blade, yet there were plenty of times—this among them—when she felt out of her depth and unsure of herself.

She wore full, gleaming plate armor, as did they all. A shield was slung across her back, and she carried her helmet under one arm, leaving her dark hair, tied back in a long braid, hanging free.

The soldiers stood before the immense Graygate, guarding the northeast border of Demacia. The name was anomalous, for the bastion was built of pristine white stone. It was generally understood that the name had come from the gray shale cliffs nearby, though soldiers stationed here, particularly those who hailed from the south or the coast of Demacia, moaned it had more to do with the perpetually overcast, northern skies.

To either side of the gate tower stretched tall, white stone walls. Pennants fluttered in the breeze from the crenulations, and sentries stood vigil in the cold wind, looking eastward.

“We should be deployed with the rest of the battalion, scouring the forests for that traitor and his rabble,” another soldier said.

“Mages,” said Bakker, speaking the word with loathing. “We should be rid of the lot of them.”

Such talk made Cithria uneasy. She herself had never encountered magic, or at least none that she was aware of, but she had been raised to fear and distrust those that were able to wield it. News from the capital made that fear seem justified.

It was only a month since the rogue mage Sylas had escaped imprisonment and ripped the heart of Demacia apart. That insane, horrifically powerful rebel had ignited a wave of unrest across the kingdom, and even now the Great City was locked down, the military controlling the streets to ensure order.

Cithria agreed they would be more useful elsewhere, but the venom in her comrade’s voice disturbed her.

“I say the whole lot of them should—” Bakker started saying, but Cithria cut him short.

“Heads up. The shield-sergeant’s back.”

The short, stocky figure of Shield-Sergeant Gunthar was heading toward them at a brisk pace. A pair of hooded men walked with him, one to either side.

“Who’s that with him?”

“I don’t know,” said Cithria.

The soldiers snapped sharply to attention as their sergeant and his mysterious companions drew near.

“Alright you lot,” Gunthar said. “I know you’re all wondering why in the Protector’s name we’ve been sent all the way out here.”

The sergeant cast his gaze across their ranks.

“A foreign envoy from the Arbormark will soon be arriving here at the border, and we have been tasked with escorting them safely to the capital.”

Escort duty?

Even to Cithria, it seemed a strangely mundane task. Still, neither she nor any of the other soldiers said a word, and all remained staring resolutely forward.

“The envoy’s protection is our highest priority,” continued Gunthar. “Were even so much as a hair on their head to be harmed while under our guard, it would tarnish the honor of Demacia. The Arbormark have long been our allies, and we must not allow anything to damage that relationship. It is expected we fulfill this duty with honor, grace, and good faith.”

Gunthar’s expression hardened. “Even if it goes against our better judgment,” he added.

The soldiers were well-disciplined, and made no overt reaction to those final words, but Cithria felt and mirrored their unease. What was that meant to mean?

Gunthar gestured to his cloaked companions, who stepped forward, lowering their hoods.

Cithria’s eyes widened.

The older of the pair was a stern-looking man of middling years, his short-cropped hair going to gray, and his skin weathered with deep frown-lines and more than a few scars. The other was a younger man, slimmer of build and nervous-looking, with a sweep of dark hair hanging to one side of his face.

Both wore form-fitting golden half-masks, and dull gray discs of engraved stone pinned at their shoulders holding their cloaks in place.

Cithria let out a slow breath that she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Mageseekers.

“This is Cadstone, a senior adept of the mageseeker order, and his associate, Arno,” said Gunthar, by way of introduction. The mageseekers bowed ever-so-slightly. “They will be accompanying us as we escort the envoy to the capital.”

Horns sounded atop the gatehouse.

“Riders approaching, under the banner of the Arbormark!” came a cry from a sentry up above.

Shield-Sergeant Gunthar nodded to the guards, and the great gates were heaved open, hinges groaning under the weight. The ironwork portcullis was raised, chains clanking, and the immense drawbridge beyond was lowered. It slammed down with a boom like thunder. Early morning sunlight streamed in through the open gate.

“With me,” Gunthar ordered, striding forward with the mageseekers at his side. Cithria and the other soldiers fell in behind them, moving with well-drilled precision.

Cithria wasn’t sure exactly what she was expecting from the envoy, but it wasn’t the massive, dark-skinned man who waited for them. He was clad in bearskins, and carried a staff of heavy wood. He smiled broadly as the Demacians marched forth to meet him.

Cithria watched him warily.

He rode the biggest horse Cithria had ever seen, jet-black and with thick feathering covering its iron-shod hooves. Accompanying him were twenty riders, all wearing long scale mail coats, and carrying axes and shields. One of them bore a standard, depicting the crossed axes heraldry of the Arbormark, which was mirrored on the warriors’ shields.

The envoy dismounted, and strode forward to meet Gunthar and his entourage, smiling broadly. He had the heavily muscled build of a soldier, or a smith; definitely not what she was expected of a mage. She had always imagined them as sneaking, cunning types, preferring subterfuge and trickery to physical strength.

Halting before the Demacians, he touched the palm of his left hand to his forehead, then extended it to the sky. Cithria clasped her hand around the hilt of her sword, thinking he was performing some arcane conjuration, before realizing it was likely an Arbormark salute. Feeling her cheeks burn, she cursed herself for a fool.

Shield-Sergeant Gunthar gave the man a salute of his own.

“My name is Arjen, and I bring greetings from the Lord of the Arbormark,” said the envoy, bowing his head.

“Welcome. I am Shield-Sergeant Gunthar, seventh battalion. And this,” he added, “is Cadstone, of the Order of Mageseekers.”

“You have been a guest within the borders of Demacia before, have you not?” said Cadstone, without any pretense of small talk. “You are aware of the Laws of Stone?”

“Yes, I have been here before, good seeker,” said Arjen, “and I am aware of your kingdom’s rules and regulations. I shall honor the Laws of Stone and make no use of my… talents… while within your realm. I give you my word.”

“Good,” said Cadstone. “Mageseeker Arno and I will be with you, from now until the moment you leave Demacia. It is our task to hold you to your word. Know that there will be repercussions if you do not abide by our laws. But if you abstain from using your… talents, as you call them… then all will be well.”

Arjen bowed deeply, still smiling.

“Then let us be on our way,” said Gunthar. “Your personal guard will need to remain beyond the border, of course.”

“Of course, of course,” Arjen said, before turning and waving his attendants away. “Shoo!” he said. “Be off with you!”

Cithria stifled a smile at the man’s bizarre behavior. The stoic riders turned, one of them grabbing the reins of the envoy’s horse, and galloped away without a word.

“Let us be on our way then!” said Arjen, clapping his hands together.

It was three hours’ solid march northwest to Meltridge, a small river town, where they would board a waiting ship and sail the rest of the way to the capital. Cithria was surprised to find that the envoy from the Arbormark did not slow them, easily matching the punishing pace Gunthar set, his heavy staff striking the ground firmly with every step.

The march took them across windswept moors and dales. The gales whipping down from the frozen north chilled Cithria to the bone. The Demacians trudged on, cinching their cloaks around their necks for additional warmth. Wrapped in bearskins, the envoy seemed unaffected by the weather.

For all Cithria’s apprehension, Arjen was an affable and easily likeable man. She forced herself not to be lulled into a false sense of security, however. The ways of the arcane were full of deception and trickery. While the Demacians were tight-lipped and stoic, clearly uneasy around this mage, Arjen himself passed the time telling stories of his homeland. Most of them involved lots of drinking of ale, feats of strength, and farfetched heroics, but he had a gift for storytelling, and it certainly passed the time better than silence.

“…and then the great beast growled. ‘You don’t come here for the hunting, do you?’ it said.”

The big man guffawed with laughter at his own ribald joke, slapping one of his meaty thighs in mirth. Cithria, marching just to the envoy’s side, found herself smiling despite herself, even as she shook her head at the inappropriateness of the story.

“You get it, lass?” said Arjen, addressing Cithria directly. “He says that because he thinks the man—“

“Oh, I get it,” said Cithria hastily holding up her hand to stop Arjen’s explanation.

Snow began to fall around halfway to their destination. At first, the flakes were small and light, but they quickly became heavier, until visibility was reduced dramatically. Soon, the ground and road were completely blanketed. The snowfall dampened all sound. Cithria walked near the envoy, who was guarded in the middle of the column of soldiers. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the two mageseekers had fallen a few steps back, just out of earshot. They had both drawn their hoods over their heads against the cold.

“I’m curious,” Cithria said, in a low voice that she hoped only the envoy hear.

“Curiosity is a powerful thing,” said Arjen. “Sometimes dangerous.”

A nearby soldier gave her a glance, as if willing her to remain silent. Cithria paused, wondering if she should finish her thought, or let it pass. Her curiosity got the better of her.

“You know of the Laws of Stone, and at least something of the… challenges that currently beset Demacia,” she said.

“I do,” said Arjen. All of his levity was gone now, and his expression somber. “It is for this reason that I have come, sent by my lord. It is for this reason envoys are coming from all of your nation’s allies.”

“But knowing all that, why would your lord send you?”

Arjen looked down at her, raising an eyebrow. “I am chief advisor to the hall of the Arbormark, so it is my place to come,” he said. He saw her surprise, and smiled wryly. “Things are different beyond your borders. If you wished to discuss matters of the forge, you would summon a smith, yes? At a time like this, who better, then, to send than a mage?”

Cithria opened her mouth to say something, then closed it.

Let’s just get him to the capital safely, she told herself.

The sooner they completed this mission, the better.

Dusk was approaching as they made their way into the white-walled town of Meltridge. The guards at the gate saluted, and townspeople stood respectfully aside as the band marched down the main thoroughfare.

“We turn northwest at the next junction,” said Cadstone. The snow was easing, and he lowered his hood, pointing. “The docks lie at the foot of that hill.”

“You’ve been here before, then, lord seeker?” said Cithria, after Gunthar ordered the soldiers to follow the mageseeker’s directions. The mageseeker nodded.

“A young girl lived here,” he said. “Powerful mage.”

“You… captured her?” said Cithria, wide-eyed.

“She gave herself in,” chimed in Arno. “She was benign. Registered. Normally, one such as her wouldn’t be taken in, but ever since—”

“Arno!” snapped Cadstone.

The younger mageseeker fell quiet, looking chastened.

“Let us move,” said Cadstone. “It would be best for us not to linger.”

At this time of early evening, the narrow road down to the docks was busy.

Boatmen finishing work for the day were climbing the hill, making their way home or to one of the numerous taverns that lined the way. Children raced to and fro, chasing each other through the snow, a pair of excited hounds keeping pace. Shopkeepers stood in the doorways of their stores, and peddlers on the street shouted the prices of their wares.

The soldiers were not even a third of the way down the hill before Cithria felt the mood of the street change.

At first it was just a few dark looks and a few muttered words by passers-by. Clusters of townsfolk gathered in doors and alleys, talking in low voices and pointing. A fisherman spat on the ground, his eyes burning with anger.

“Move along, citizen,” growled Gunthar. The man did so, somewhat reluctantly.

Cithria was shocked. She did not expect such outright hostility from Demacians, despite all that had been happening in the capital.

“Tighten ranks,” Gunthar said, and the soldiers responded instantly, keeping the mage and the mageseekers protected at the heart of the column.

A rock struck one of the soldiers in the side of their helmet. Another, thrown from a different direction, glanced from Cadstone’s forehead, drawing blood.

Cithria cursed under her breath at the narrowness of the street. There was little room to maneuver, and they were already too far down the hill to turn back. They had to continue on down to the docks.

“Shields up!” barked Gunthar, the shield-sergeant clearly coming to the same conclusion. “Forward, double-time!”

The soldiers instantly picked up their pace, surging forward along the street.

“By order of the crown, clear the way! Move!” Gunthar shouted. Most of the townsfolk did so, scrambling out of the soldiers’ path, but up ahead, Cithria saw something that made her blood run cold.

A pair of wagons were rolled from alleys ahead, blocking their way. Angry townsfolk crowded before them. Cithria glanced left and right. The white stone walls of shop fronts pressed in on either side, like the sides of a chasm. She realized the doors were all closed and barred, the windows shuttered.

“This is a trap!” she hissed.

“Aye,” said Gunthar. He cursed under his breath.

“Halt! About-face!” the shield-sergeant shouted. The soldiers responded instantly, turning in place. All had their shields raised, though none had drawn weapons.

The mageseekers stood close to the envoy, one to either side. The three of them were kept protected at the center of the soldiers’ formation.

“It’s no good!” shouted Cithria. “This way is blocked, too.”

Now facing the way they’d come, they could see the townsfolk had hurriedly rolled out another wagon, blocking their retreat.

“Give him to us, and no one needs get hurt!” shouted a burly man from atop the wagon. He looked like the local blacksmith, wearing a thick leather apron and holding a hammer in hand.

“Clear the street!” Gunthar ordered.

The blacksmith, who appeared to be the spokesperson for the angry crowd, appeared unmoved.

“Not gonna happen, lad,” he said, gently tapping his hammer into his open hand as an unspoken threat.

While some people ran to get clear of the tense standoff, more townsfolk joined those gathered at either end of the street. Many of them carried farming tools, woodcutter’s axes, and other makeshift weapons, but more than a few had swords scabbarded at their waists. While they were clearly outclassed by the soldiers they faced, they would not be intimidated.

“I say again, clear the way,” said Gunthar.

In response, a stone struck Cithria’s shield. The soldier alongside her—Bakker—made to draw his sword, the blade hissing as he began to slide it from its scabbard.

“No blades!” Cithria cried, putting her hand on the hilt of the sword. “These are Demacians, those we are sworn to protect!”

Bakker, older and more senior than Cithria, scowled, and went to brush her aside, but their shield-sergeant stopped him with a sharp order.

“She’s right,” Gunthar growled. “No sword will be drawn unless I order it.”

The crowd became ever-more aggressive, shouting and closing in threateningly.

Among the din, Cithria made out several individual voices.

“You’ll pay, you swine!” shouted one woman.

“Get him, get him!” roared a man well into his twilight years, though he had the bearing of an ex-soldier.

“We should just give him to them,” muttered Bakker.

Cithria glared at him. “Envoy Arjen is under our sworn protection!” she snapped. “Where is your honor?”

“He’s just a mage,” said another soldier, though Cithria couldn’t see who had spoken.

A heavy earthenware jar struck the soldiers’ line, shattering on a shield in an explosion of shards. A heavy chunk of masonry hit another soldier in the pauldron, dropped from above, and driving him to his knees. His comrades helped him quickly back to his feet, and Cithria looked up to see people appearing on the rooftops around them.

She saw a hooded man up there throw something. Instinctively, Cithria lifted her shield high to protect the envoy standing behind her. A rusted horseshoe struck its curved surface before clattering away harmlessly. Had it struck home, it could have been lethal.

The mage nodded his thanks. He wasn’t smiling now.

“We’ll get you out of this unscathed, on my honor,” Cithria said.

The townsfolk had closed in around them, still shouting, though none of them yet seemed willing to get too close. Nevertheless, Cithria knew it was only a matter of moments before someone charged the line, and she feared what would happen once they did.

“We have to get out of here!” she shouted, as more stones, bricks and loose detritus clattered off the soldiers’ armor.

“If we charge through them, there will be citizen casualties,” said Shield-Sergeant Gunthar.

“That might be our only option,” said Cadstone. Reluctantly, Cithria had to agree. Unless…

“That door!” she called out, gesturing toward a locked and barred shopfront nearby.

“Worth a try,” said Gunthar. “Half circle, on me!”

The Demacians smoothly shifted their formation, forming a curving shieldwall with their backs to the shopfront.

“Cithria! Bakker!” ordered Gunthar. “Break down those doors!”

The pair of them stepped out of the ranks. The mageseekers and Arjen stood within the protective cordon of soldiers, and Bakker impatiently pushed by the envoy.

“Out of the way, mage,” he snarled.

Cithria saw Arjen take a breath to remain calm and not respond. She hurried to the doors, stepping around the mage, and nodded to Bakker.

“On three,” he said. “One, two, three!”

Together, they kicked the double-doors, hard.

“Again!”

Three more times they struck, putting their full weight into the kicks, before there was a sharp, splintering crack, and the doors slammed inwards.

“Go!” shouted Gunthar. “Take the envoy and the seekers, and find a way out! We will hold them here!”

Seeing the object of their ire about to escape, the mob of townsfolk surged forward, charging into the shieldwall.

“Come with me!” Cithria ordered, entering the darkened shop, shield raised before her. “There’s got to be a back door.”

The shop, it seemed, belonged to a candle-maker. Hundreds of wax candles lined the shelves, and an array of floral scents assailed Cithria.

“Here!” shouted Bakker, disappearing towards the rear of the shop.

“Stay close,” said Cithria, and the envoy from the Arbormark, flanked by the pair of mageseekers, dropped in behind her as she followed Bakker deeper into the shop.

The door he found led to a storeroom, filled with barrels, stacks of crates, and sacks. It was so dark that Cithria could barely see Bakker’s shape a few feet in front of her.

“If only we had a candle, eh?” remarked Arjen mildly, making Cithria snort, then cover her mouth to stop herself. It was hardly a time for levity.

Then there was a sound of cracking timber, and light suddenly entered the storeroom as Bakker kicked the back door open. The alley beyond was clear.

Bakker ushered Cithria and the others forward.

“Move!” he said. “I’ll take the rearguard!”

Cithria nodded, and plowed forward, leading Arjen and the mageseekers. She’d gone no more than ten paces when someone stepped out of the shadows of a side-alley, blocking her path.

It was an auburn-haired woman, and she cradled a heavy crossbow in her arms. Even as Cithria slid to a standstill, one hand raised in warning to those behind, the woman leveled the weapon in their direction.

Time seemed to slow.

Snow was falling again, the heavy flakes drifting soundlessly down. The clamor of the crowd and the shouts of her fellow soldiers were faint, here in the quiet alley behind the main thoroughfare.

Cithria saw that the woman’s eyes were red, as if she had been crying, and her expression was one of desperation.

What had driven this town to such a state? In Cithria’s experience, the people of her homeland were lawful and stoic. Why was this town so angry?

“Get out of the way,” the woman said to Cithria, eyes pleading. Her voice was cracked and choked with emotion. “Please.”

“This man is an envoy from an allied nation,” Cithria said, in a calm voice, the kind she might use around a skittish horse. “I cannot allow any harm to befall him.”

“What?” said the woman, her brow furrowing.

“Don’t do this,” said Cithria. “This man is under the protection of Demacia.”

The woman laughed then, the sound desperate and almost manic.

“It’s not him I want,” she said. “It’s the seeker. That one.”

Only then did Cithria realize the crossbow was pointed at Cadstone.

“My daughter never did anything wrong!” the woman said, and tears ran down her cheeks. “Kyra chose to step forward, to alert the mageseekers of her power. She didn’t want to get anyone into trouble, didn’t want to bring grief down upon her family, or on this town. Everyone loved her! All this trouble—you caused it all!”

“You took her daughter…” Cithria breathed, looking at Cadstone.

The mageseeker nodded grimly.

“We had to,” he said. “The law was amended. Any citizen with known magical power, benign or otherwise, is now ordered to be brought in for judgment. Every mage in the kingdom.”

“She was just a girl!” shouted the woman, jabbing her crossbow in the mageseeker’s direction. “You locked her away! With all those criminals! Or maybe she has been exiled and is out beyond the borders, alone! You condemned her!”

Cithria sucked in a breath, certain a bolt was going to be loosed… but it wasn’t. Not yet, at least.

“Kyra was no threat to anyone!” the woman cried. “She used to cry herself to sleep, wishing she had been born like everyone else. And you took her. You’re a monster.”

“The law is the law,” said Cadstone.

“Then the law is wrong,” the woman said. “She was my life, and you took her from me. Now I will take yours from you.”

Her finger tightened around the trigger… but she hesitated as Cithria stepped in between her and the mageseeker.

“Move, please,” said the woman, crying. “I don’t want to see anyone harmed but the one responsible for this.”

“I cannot let you do this,” said Cithria. “Put the crossbow down.”

“My life is over,” said the woman. “His should be too.”

“If you do this, there is no coming back,” said Cithria. “What happens when your daughter returns home, but you are not here because of the choice you make today?”

“No one taken by the seekers is ever seen again,” said the woman. “Kyra is never coming home.”

The depth of despair in her voice was heart-wrenching, cutting Cithria to her core.

“You can’t know that,” pleaded Cithria. “You owe it to her to be here if she does. She’ll need you.”

The woman’s face crumpled in grief, her eyes screwing shut, tears running freely. But she didn’t lower the crossbow.

Cithria took a step forward, reaching out to her.

“I’ll help you,” Cithria said. “I promise you, I will do all I can to find out where your daughter is.”

Cithria was certain she was failing to reach the woman. At this range, the sheer power of a heavy crossbow would punch straight through her breastplate.

“Please,” she said. “You need to be strong. For Kyra.”

The woman collapsed to her knees, all the fight going out of her. But as she dropped, finally giving in to grief and exhaustion, her finger tightened on the trigger.

There was a click, followed by a sharp snap, as the crossbow fired.

The bolt sliced through the air and ricocheted off one of the alley’s white stone walls. Cithria spun as the deadly bolt hissed past Cadstone and Arno, missing the nervous young mageseeker by inches, and shot directly at Bakker.

Cithria saw the envoy from the Arbormark make a slight motion with his fingers, a subtle twisting of his hand. The bolt was knocked off course, as if it had struck an invisible, angled wall just in front of Bakker, and it spun harmlessly over his shoulder.

The hair on the back of Cithria’s neck suddenly stood on end at what she had just seen.

Bakker’s eyes were wide in shock. The bolt should have taken him in the neck, and Cithria could see that he knew it. The giant, bearskin-clad envoy gave her the slightest of winks.

The young mageseeker was on the ground, breathing hard. Cadstone was pressed up against one wall of the alleyway. The woman was kneeling on the ground in the snow, her body wracked with sobs.

Cithria rushed to her side, and gently removed the crossbow from her shaking hands. Then she hugged the woman, drawing her close.

“Do not arrest her,” Cithria said, looking up at Cadstone. “It was an accident, nothing more.”

The mageseeker hesitated, looking troubled.

“No harm befell anyone,” continued Cithria. “She has suffered enough. Please.”

Cadstone sighed, and rubbed his eyes.

“This is not a matter for my order,” he said, finally. “Since there was no magic performed here, I leave that decision to you.”

Cithria caught Bakker’s eye… but he said nothing.

The mob of townsfolk hurled themselves against the Demacian shieldwall, kicking and surging. Bottles and rocks clashed upon shields and helmets, but still the soldiers did not draw weapons.

There was a shout as Cithria emerged from the candle shop once more, leading the red-haired woman, an arm around her shoulder, and the townsfolk backed off.

“Rosalyn?” called the burly blacksmith.

“Kyra wouldn’t want this,” the woman called out. “She wouldn’t want anyone hurt on her account.”

Her sudden appearance gave the crowd pause. A few of them fought on, shoving against the shieldwall, but others backed off, suddenly unsure of themselves.

“Clear the street!” roared Gunthar. “Leave now, and there will be no repercussions!”

The townspeople looked to the blacksmith.

“Do what he says,” he said, finally. “It’s over.”

The fury and resentment in the crowd dissipated, like an early morning fog beneath the sun’s rays. Within a few moments, they looked just like regular citizens once more, now that their faces were no longer twisted with anger and rage. Many in the crowd muttered and looked down, ashamed.

At a nod from Gunthar, the soldiers parted to allow the blacksmith through their ranks, who took the woman in his arms.

“The rest of you, go home!” Gunthar ordered the milling crowd. He could have had them all rounded up and clapped in irons, but Cithria was glad he chose leniency.

Cithria looked around. Miraculously, other than a few scrapes and bruises, no one had been seriously harmed, either among the soldiers’ ranks, or the citizenry of Meltridge. The townsfolk drifted away, dragging the wagons with them.

Her shield-sergeant, Gunthar, looked at Cithria in relief.

“I don’t know what you did,” he said, shaking his head, “but whatever it was, you helped avert disaster today, soldier.”

Cithria felt suddenly tired, and didn’t have the energy to respond. She nodded numbly, and sat heavily on a nearby step.

Soldiers were still watching the last lingering townsfolk warily. Bakker stood nearby, his expression clouded. Cithria’s gaze drifted to the pair of mageseekers, their expressions grim, then to the woman, Rosalyn, crying in the blacksmith’s arms.

All these people were Demacians, and all had good intentions at heart, yet recent actions had set them against each other.

A difficult time was coming to Demacia, she thought.

No, she corrected herself.

It was already here.