Like most stories—not all, but most—this one begins with a dream. A child’s dream—fragile, unguarded.

  Not of kings or rulers.

  Not of heroes or monsters.

  Not of legends or myths—

  but of pages unread, of questions unanswered, of secrets whispered.

  In Piltover, the only constant is change. The city in the sky evolves with each generation, monuments built with pale marble and sharp angles, as if posing for a portrait that will never be finished. Great clock towers and mechanical spires loomed over the city, their gears and counterweights shining through iron-framed windows.

  Dawn settled gently over the streets below. The brass curbs caught the first light and held it, thin lines of gold tracing the edges of the stone. Light poles stood at careful intervals, their glass lanterns dimming as the sky brightened, while rows of trimmed trees cast long, orderly shadows across the pavement. The cool air carried the scent of river water, polished metal, and fresh bread drifting from bakeries already at work.

  On the outskirts of the city, the clean stone streets thinned and the great bridges stretched across the river. Near the water's edge, nestled in the shade of two looming brass-and-steel monuments to progress, sat an old library. It had been built long before memory, with steps worn smooth by feet long gone. The windows stood narrow and warped by age, bending sunlight into uneven lines that crawled across the wooden floor. Hidden between stacks of books taller than he was, Fenn lay on his stomach atop a worn runner rug, elbows planted, chin resting in his hands. The rug smelled faintly of dust and ink and something older—paper that had survived more winters than anyone living could count.

  Morning light glinted off the steel-rims of his oversized glasses. The lenses magnified his eyes, reflecting lines of text back at themselves as though trying to memorize every word at once. His clothes were layered in patches, threadbare at the cuffs. His fingers were permanently ink-stained from touching what others left untouched. Dirt freckled his cheeks. He had long ago stopped trying to scrub it away.

  Each yellowed page he touched, brittled by time, told a story long forgotten by most and remembered by few. They spoke of kingdoms that rose in defiance of tyranny, of heroes who stood unflinching in the face of turmoil, of myths so faded that even their echoes whispered rather than spoke.

  It was within a leather-bound book, tucked away in a darkened corner, that the boy—Fenn—found something unexpected, even to himself. The story was older than the twin cities. Older than the sundering that split them in two. It spoke of an age before Piltover and Zaun—a city called Oshra Va’Zaun.

  He whispered slowly, "Oshra Va’Zaun…Va’Zaun…Zaun." The Undercity had once carried a different name. Older than Piltover. Each page cracked with age. The ink barely clung to the parchment. Only a single passage remained intact, one that would have been missed by anyone not looking closely. It told of a kingdom before merchant guilds, during the peak of the Shuriman Empire. Of a king—not a conqueror, not a tyrant—but a steward of his people. A man with power who, when the time came, let it all go. He stepped away from the throne. He set down the crown.

  "That’s it?" Fenn flipped the page, looking for more. No betrayal. No battle. No execution. "He walked away," Fenn whispered. "…Why?" He read the passage again. And again. "They just let him?" The book offered no answer. Frustrated, he slid the volume back, careful to return it exactly as he had found it. He believed everything had its place—even forgotten things. Especially forgotten things.

  As he turned to leave, he felt it—her gaze. Not stern. Not angry. Just there. He didn’t fear the librarian, but he didn’t want her attention. To Fenn, adults used children more often than they offered kindness. All but one. A man who sometimes fed him without asking questions. That meant something to Fenn. The weight of her gaze pushed him to hide. From shadow to shadow, closer and closer to the window. The hidden one—the window where the latch never quite caught.

  The streets of Piltover felt cleaner to Fenn—calmer, unnaturally so. Gripping the cool bronze railing, he stared at the bridge spanning the Pilt River. Dawn light slid along its steel ribs, catching on rivets and seams where darker metal had been welded. The repairs never quite matched. Some beams still bore faint discoloration—heat-scorched streaks that no polishing could erase.

  The river moved beneath it in steady silence, wide and indifferent.

  From this distance, the bridge looked seamless—an elegant arc of iron and stone joining one shore to the other. But up close, the differences showed. New bolts gleamed too brightly against older steel. Sections of the railing dipped ever so slightly where weight had once bent them. The air carried the faint metallic tang of rust beneath the scent of water.

  They called it the Bridge of Progress. Fenn saw the scar.

  He traced the line of darker metal with his eyes, following it from one tower to the next. The Day of Ash had split more than stone. The fracture remained—quiet, reinforced, disguised. Piltover rose in pale marble and ordered geometry. Beyond the river, the haze over Zaun hung lower, heavier, clinging to rooftops like something that refused to shift.

  Fenn stepped into the lift without looking back. The iron gate rattled shut behind him, its teeth catching with a sharp metallic snap. The mechanism groaned to life, gears grinding somewhere above his head, cables tightening with a low, straining whine. The platform shuddered, then dropped.

  Cold air rushed upward through the slats beneath his boots, carrying with it the faint tang of iron and something sharper—ozone, thick and electric. He barely heard the clacking of the gears this time. The rhythm of them folded into his thoughts, steady and mechanical. The light changed as he descended. Sunlight thinned into strips between iron beams, then fractured into dim amber glow. The hum of the city shifted too—no longer the orderly tick of clockwork towers but a layered chorus of distant hammers, steam valves hissing, pipes knocking in uneven pulses.

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  The lift hit bottom with a dull thud that jolted up through his legs. The gate scraped open. It was not the opening of the gate that told him he was home. It was the smell. Not fresh bread or river wind—but oil, smoke, damp stone, and the sour chemical burn that clung to the back of his throat. Neon tubing flickered against the cavern walls, bleeding pink and green light across slick steel surfaces. Water dripped somewhere unseen, tapping in irregular intervals.

  Even at the edge of the Lanes, the glow never fully dimmed. Shadows moved along the rock walls, elongated and uncertain. Somewhere deeper below, a machine coughed to life, sputtered, then roared into a steady grind. Above, things were polished. Down here, they endured. And still, as the gears quieted behind him, his thoughts lingered on the impossible image of someone choosing to let go.

  Mornings were meant for the library. It was quiet then—quiet enough that no one noticed him between the shelves, quiet enough that even the dust seemed to settle gently instead of drifting. Hunger faded there. So did the tightness in his chest, the constant awareness of what he lacked. Between pages, the world softened. Pain grew distant, like sound muffled through thick walls.

  But the maze of streets did not soften for anyone.

  Fenn moved through them with practiced ease, slipping between carts and crates, ducking under lines of hanging laundry that brushed damp fabric against his hair. The stones beneath his boots were uneven, slick in places where runoff from higher levels trickled down and pooled in shallow grooves. With each step, the familiar aches began to return—first a hollow pull low in his stomach, then the faint tremor in his fingers. The library dulled things. The Lanes sharpened them.

  The closer he traveled toward the center, even at this early hour, the air thickened with voices layered over one another. Sellers barked prices over clattering blades and rattling chemkits. A woman laughed too loudly from a balcony above, her perfume fighting unsuccessfully against the smell of oil and smoke. Somewhere in a narrow cut between buildings, two men spoke in tones too low to be heard clearly—just fragments carried on the air, words clipped short the moment anyone passed.

  Metal rang. Steam hissed. A child cried and was hushed.

  At the end of the street loomed a building that looked less constructed than assembled—scrap metal welded into place, sheets of rusted steel overlapping like scales. Bolts jutted from uneven seams. One corner sagged slightly where the foundation had shifted. Even at this hour, the neon sign above the crimson door buzzed and flickered: The Last Drop. The yellow light bled faintly onto the wet stones below.

  With the Last Drop in sight, Fenn’s stomach growled—a long, twisting ache he knew too well. He pressed a hand against it as if he could quiet it by force. Usually, he could ignore it. Usually, he let it become background noise.

  Not this time.

  As he walked toward the a side entrance, the shaking returned. Subtle at first—a faint tremor in his fingers as he flexed them. Then sharper. It crept into his wrists, into the tight draw of his breath. The world felt slightly unmoored, as though the ground beneath him had shifted half an inch to the left. Even the thoughts he reached for wouldn’t hold still.

  He slowed. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been ignoring it. He hoped Vander would be at the Last Drop. If he was, there was often bread left over—too hard to sell, too soft to throw away. Enough to quiet the shaking. If not, he would have to wait. He had waited before.

  The bar was mostly empty, the early morning quiet settling between overturned chairs and the faint scent of stale ale. The air still carried the residue of last night—sweat, spilled liquor, smoke soaked deep into wood grain. Light from the neon sign filtered through the front window in dull yellow streaks.

  Behind the counter stood Vander. He was a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and solid, filling the space without trying to. His hands were large enough to swallow the glasses he polished. Each one received the same treatment—cleaned, set aside, forgotten—like stories told once and left where they belonged. A faint scar cut across one knuckle. Another traced pale against his forearm. Old stories written in skin.

  Seeing him there, something inside Fenn eased—not enough to erase the hunger, but enough to anchor it. He hurried to the counter, words tumbling out before he could slow them down. His eyes barely cleared the edge.

  "Vander—Vander, you won’t believe what I read," he said, breathless. "It was about a king. Well, not exactly a king. They called him a steward, I think. But he ruled here. Before Zaun. Before everything. It was called—something like Oshra… Zaun. I think. And—and the strange thing is, he walked away. He just left. They didn’t kick him out or anything. He just… left."

  Vander looked down at him, one brow lifting slightly, wiping the rim of a glass with the corner of a cloth.

  "Eas’ there, little guy," he said, voice low and warm, roughened by years of smoke and shouting. "That’s a lot ta take in before breakfast."

  "I know, but—" Fenn pressed on, leaning closer, palms flat against the worn wood of the counter. "Can you believe that? Just walking away?"

  Vander’s mouth curved faintly. "Can’t say I’ve heard that one before." He set the glass aside and studied Fenn more carefully now, eyes lingering just a fraction longer on the slight tremor in his hands. "Ya still heading topside?"

  Fenn hesitated. "Just the library," he said quickly. "Nowhere else. No one ever sees me. Well… almost no one."

  Vander exhaled through his nose. Not a reprimand. Just concern worn thin from repetition. "Ya too curious for your own good. Just be careful, ight?"

  "I will."

  His stomach growled loudly enough this time that even he heard it.

  Vander barked a short laugh. "Looks like you’ve been feeding your noggin’ and forgetting the rest of ya." He reached beneath the bar and pulled out a loaf of yesterday’s bread, the crust hardened and cracked. He broke it in half with practiced ease and handed one piece over. "Mind’s important," he said, "but your body needs looking after too."

  Fenn accepted it carefully, fingers brushing Vander’s palm for the briefest second. Warm. Solid. Real. He trusted Vander. Still, kindness in the Undercity was rarely free.

  Vander turned back to his work, leaving Fenn to eat in silence. The bread scraped slightly against his gums, dry and stubborn, but the ache in his stomach began to loosen as he chewed.

  As he gnawed at it, the image of the king gnawed at his thoughts. Legends were larger than life—figures who ruled with words or swords, whose names outlived them. Vander was none of that. No crown. No throne. No titles carved in stone. And yet, when he stood somewhere, things seemed to settle. Arguments softened. Voices lowered. People listened.

  Fenn watched him, chewing slowly. Picturing the king who walked away. He wondered if Vander ever would.

  If he did—

  would they let him?