Chapter 30 – The Fractured Table
The Council Hall stood untouched — and yet, it felt like a ruin.
The heart of Piltover's power, once the epitome of unity and brilliance, now beat with a fractured rhythm. Even the great dome above, its stained glass casting colored light across the marble floor, no longer inspired awe. Instead, the light fell like judgment, illuminating cracks — not just in the glass, but in the ideals it once represented.
The long, crescent table stretched like a blade between seven seats, each one occupied by a different kind of power. And for the first time in decades, none of them spoke.
Not at first.
The holoprojector flickered to life at the center of the room, displaying a slow, grim sweep of the Academy ruins. Ash. Rubble. Still-burning embers. A twisted statue of Council founder Lysar had collapsed across the courtyard, her stone eyes forever cast downward.
The silence broke with a single voice.
A firm, composed woman with streaks of silver in her tightly braided hair.
"We've always known the Academy was a target," said Cassandra Kiramman, her eyes steady but pained. "But I never thought we'd be proven right this way."
Cassandra was Piltover's spine — unbending, unyielding, a matriarch of the city's old blood. Her authority didn't need to be spoken. It simply was. Yet today, even she looked tired.
"Don't act like we weren't warned," came the gruff voice of Torman Hoskel, slouched in his seat like a man ready for a brawl. His beard was streaked with ash, his collar still smeared with smoke from the scene itself.
Torman, the industrialist. Voice of the old machines and the working class. He had little patience for theory, even less for excuses.
"We paraded our tech in front of the world like drunk aristocrats waving gold in a slum. And now someone's kicked our front door in."
Across the table, a calmer voice cut in.
"We are not some back-alley inventors bragging in a tavern, Torman."
Mel Medarda.
Poised. Serene. Dangerous.
She lounged in her seat with elegance, fingers adorned with gold rings, voice smooth as silk steeped in venom.
"We are Piltover. If our progress threatens others, that is not our fault. It is the cost of greatness."
Beside her sat Jayce Talis, co-head of the Council, shoulders stiff with anger barely restrained. His hammer was not at his side — but the way he gripped the table made it clear he was one more accusation away from making something break.
"This wasn't an act of desperation," Jayce said. "It was coordinated. Calculated. They knew the layout. They hit the energy cores, the shield generators, even the failsafe vaults. Someone fed them that intel."
"Not someone," said a voice older than the rest, crackling like dry parchment.
Professor Heimerdinger.
Once dismissed. Now reinstated. His ears drooped lower than usual, his eyes filled with a quiet grief that age could no longer shield him from.
"We must face the possibility that this was not merely a political act. It was a statement."
"A declaration of war," muttered Salo, the wiry man of statistics and law, adjusting his monocle with shaking fingers. His pale face reflected the red glow of the ongoing casualty count. "And our city was not prepared."
"I warned you this would happen," Heimerdinger continued, softly. "When we began applying Hextech to military infrastructure — even passively — we crossed a line. And we were not the only ones to notice."
"Enough philosophizing," snapped Irius Bolbok, a merchant prince in politician's clothing. Gold-trimmed, always calculating. "While we mourn, trade collapses. Investors flee. Noxian eyes turn toward our ports. If we appear fractured, we become weak — and the world eats the weak."
Mel raised a brow. "We're not weak."
"You look weak," Irius replied coldly. "And perception is all that matters."
The debate grew louder. Accusations flew. Some blamed Zaun. Some whispered of internal sabotage. Others feared foreign agents exploiting political unrest. Through it all, Cassandra remained silent — until a particularly callous suggestion from Salo sparked her fury.
"We should double patrols. And limit Hextech access to only verified council projects. Close the undercity gates if needed. We have the authority—"
"No," Cassandra snapped, rising to her feet. Her voice silenced the room.
She walked slowly toward the edge of the table, her boots echoing in the hollow chamber.
"If we become tyrants to feel safe, we've already lost. Our strength was never in how many walls we built, but in the belief that this city could be different."
Heimerdinger nodded faintly, but few others met her gaze.
Jayce spoke again, lower this time.
"We need answers. Not philosophy. Someone out there turned our greatest minds into corpses. Someone has tech that rivals ours. And if we don't act, they'll do it again."
Mel's voice was velvet over steel. "Then we must find them before they find their next target."
The room fell silent again.
For now, there were no plans. Only grief. Only the ashes of ambition.
And far beyond the stained-glass dome, the winds of change blew through Piltover — soft, but rising.