The silence that settles in 'The Last Cup' after closing is a living entity. It settles over the empty tables, breathes in the residual aroma of tea and sugar, and carries the ghostly echoes of the day's conversations and laughter. It is a silence that comforts me, a moment of calm in the turbulent ocean of mortal existence. That night, however, the silence was laced with the tension of our last visitor. The ghost of Jayce Talis's naive idealism, and Azra'il's abnormally sharp reaction to it, still hung in the air.
My girl was polishing the counter with a contained fury, each sharp movement a silent critique of the young inventor's arrogance. I watched her from the corner, feeling her frustration radiating in waves. It was never just anger with Azra'il. Her anger always had deeper roots, in soils I could not see. It was the weariness of a soul that seemed to have seen too much, a fatigue that did not match the youthfulness of her face.
"If I hear the word 'synergy' one more time in the next hundred years, I am personally going to find the perfect resonance to explode a brackern crystal in the middle of the Piltovan Academy," she grumbled to a particularly shiny teapot.
"The world has enough fire already, my dear," I said, my voice soft in the quiet salon. "It does not need you to add more."
She turned, leaning against the counter, her arms crossed. There was a restlessness in her, an energy that needed an escape valve. "Then show me a miracle that doesn't involve fire," she challenged. "You want to see the real technological miracle of Zaun? It's called bad ale, served in dirty glasses, over a wooden bar that has survived more brawls than any of that boy's containment runes. It is robust. It is honest." She stared at me, a defiant glint in her eyes. "Come on. I'm taking you for a drink at Vander's."
I hesitated. Zaun. The modern name was harsh, industrial. I had walked its streets a single time, centuries ago, when the towers that now form Piltover were just cliffs dreaming of touching the sky. In those days, the city was a thriving port, salted by the sea and blessed by the winds of a goddess. The city had scars, yes, but its heart was strong and free. Now, I felt only the ghost-echo of that vitality, suffocated under layers of toxic progress and despair. What Piltover had built above seemed to have crushed what once existed below.
To return there would be like visiting the grave of an old friend I hadn't seen in a very long time. But curiosity, the same force that drives mortals, won out over my melancholy. I had to see.
"Very well," I agreed, my voice softer than I'd intended. "But if the ale is as bad as you say, you're paying."
A crooked smile, the first genuine expression of relaxation I had seen on her that night, played on her lips. "It's a deal."
The descent in the riser was a transition between worlds. We left the polished order of Piltover and plunged into the visceral chaos of Zaun. The air changed first. It grew thick, heavy, a broth of smoke, oil, and sweat that clung to the lungs. For me, it was like breathing the collective pain of the city. Azra'il, on the other hand, inhaled deeply, as if returning to a forgotten home.
We walked the winding streets, a labyrinth of rusted metal and makeshift walkways. I observed everything. The puddles of chem-fluid that glowed with a sickly light, the hardened faces of the passers-by, the children who darted like nimble rats in the gloom. There was a resilience here, a stubbornness to exist that was, in its own way, both beautiful and terrible. Zaun was not just a dirty, polluted city; it was an open wound that refused to stop pulsing.
It was then that we stopped. Azra'il guided me to a wider alley, where the wall of an old, crumbling building stood. And there, almost completely erased by time and soot, was a mural. It was what remained of an ancient painting: the figure of an ethereal woman, her arms raised as if embracing the sky, her hair flowing like the wind itself. Symbols of clouds and birds surrounded her. At the foot of the mural, in a small recess in the wall, were offerings. Grey, withered flowers, plucked from some stubborn plant growing in the cracks. A piece of stale bread. A single cheap candle, its small flame flickering, a beacon of faith in an ocean of despair. A few residents, old and stooped from work, were kneeling for a moment, their heads bowed in silent prayer.
"They pray to a ruined painting," Azra'il observed, her voice devoid of emotion. "Piltover would laugh at this as primitive superstition. But I don't know what's worse: worshipping gods who are absent, or idolising noisy cogs that promise a future that never arrives for everyone."
I moved closer, my heart heavy with the weight of memories that were not mine but that I recognised from old stories. My fingers touched the worn surface of the wall. I could feel the echo, the whisper of countless prayers that had been poured out here over the centuries. The aura around me shifted, becoming graver, older.
"She is not just a painting," I said, my voice low. "She is a memory. Long before Shurima raised its Sun Discs, before the mortal empires even learned to name the seasons, there was Janna." I turned to Azra'il, whose eyes were fixed on me, curiosity overcoming her usual cynicism. "An elemental goddess of the air, the mistress of winds and storms. The city that once existed here, Osha Va'Zaun, knew her as their protector. When the air grew heavy with volcanic smoke, when storms threatened to swallow the coast, their prayers to her brought relief. The wind would shift. The smog would clear."
I sighed, the sound lost in the distant noise of the city. "But mortals have short memories. The power of men grew, their ambitions built new cities and new gods. And the old ones were forgotten. Today, few even remember her name… and what little remains of their faith is here, at the bottom of Zaun, in the place where she was, once, most loved."
Azra'il listened in silence, an unreadable expression on her face. Her gaze shifted from the mural to the people praying, and then to the ground.
"Goddess of winds, protector of the forgotten…" she said, her voice sarcastic but with a trembling edge of something more. "Sounds familiar. Everyone's loved a goddess like that at some point. Until the day they get tired of her, or until something newer and shinier comes along to take her place."
I heard the strange, deep bitterness in her words. It was the pained wisdom of a jaded historian, or a tragic poet, not of an eleven-year-old girl. Where did this pain come from? This cyclical certainty of abandonment? Every time I thought I had peeled back one layer of the enigma that was Azra'il, another, deeper and darker, revealed itself. Before I could form the question on my lips, she turned away, the armour of cynicism firmly back in place.
"Enough divinity. Let's find something we can actually believe in. Cheap alcohol."
The contrast was like a blow. We left the sacred silence of the alley behind and, a few minutes later, plunged into the profane cacophony of 'The Last Drop'. The place was Zaun in miniature: it smelt of spilt ale, sweat, and hot metal; it was on the verge of collapse, but somehow remained standing, held together by stubbornness and the rowdy camaraderie of its patrons.
"Welcome to the true temple of Zaun," Azra'il said with a crooked smile. "Here, the prayers are toasts, and the only miracle you ask for is to make it home without losing a tooth."
Our entrance caused a small ripple in the sea of people. Azra'il was greeted with nods and a few shouts. "Oi, it's the exploding kettle girl!" a man yelled from the bar. She was known here. But as I entered, with my robes and my silent presence, the whispers began.
Vander, from behind his bar-trench, saw us, and a genuine smile lit up his tired face. "Well, look who decided to trade tea for 'ale'. And brought elegant company, too." His gaze appraised me for a moment, not invasively, but with the skill of a host who understands his clientele.
He turned and, ignoring the rustic tankards he served the others, took out a surprisingly clean crystal glass. He mixed a clear liquid with a touch of a pale flower syrup and a single dark fruit that seemed to absorb the light. He slid it across the bar to me. The drink glowed softly and exuded a complex, floral aroma. For Azra'il, he poured a tall glass of purple fruit juice. The gesture was clear: he recognised the difference between us, her young fierceness and… whatever it was he saw in me. A fatherly reminder that, despite the unnervingly old soul I sensed in my child, her body was still young. And that, despite my own appearance, perhaps he sensed something of my own age.
Before we could take our drinks and find a table, three men approached, clearly emboldened by alcohol and my appearance, which must have clashed terribly with the surroundings. They were labourers, their hands calloused, but their eyes were filled with that cheap arrogance that drink often lends.
"Well, well, look what we have here," the leader said, a smarmy man with a smug grin. "A Piltover flower, blooming in our Sump. Must be lost, pretty thing. Let us show you the way back… after a drink, of course."
His friends snickered. Azra'il, beside me, crossed her arms, a dangerous glint appearing in her eyes. She was ready to intervene with some comment that would likely end in violence. But I held up a hand, a subtle gesture for her to wait.
I turned slowly to the man. I said nothing. I just looked at him. I let him see not a woman, but the silent vastness behind my eyes. I let him feel the weight of ages, the patience of a mountain, and the promise of immeasurable pain if he took another step. The arrogance on his face wavered, replaced by confusion, and then by a primal, instinctual fear he could not comprehend. His smile withered. He stammered something unintelligible, took a step back, bumping into his friends, and the three of them scurried away, suddenly very interested in finding another spot to drink on the opposite side of the bar.
The entire episode had lasted no more than ten seconds. Azra'il raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Okay, that was efficient. Not a drop of blood spilt. I'm almost disappointed."
Vander, who had been watching closely with a cloth in hand, let out a low, respectful chuckle. "Your friend doesn't need fists," he said to Azra'il. "She's got… weight. Now that's a talent."
With peace restored, we took our drinks. Azra'il guided me to a more secluded table in the corner, from where we could observe the life of the bar.
Sitting there, the familiar chaos of Vander's children ran through the place, a microcosm of Zaun itself. Vi at a nearby table, trying to look grown-up and bored. Powder, with her huge goggles, was showing off some spark-emitting contraption to an impressed Claggor, while Mylo made jokes that no one seemed to hear. There was a brutal honesty here. "They have little," I observed, "but they share everything. Even their joy is collective. There are no masks here."
"No masks," Azra'il agreed, taking a sip of her juice. "Just broken teeth."
It was then the evening took an unexpected turn. A drunken duo got up on a makeshift stage and began to torture a guitar and some pans. They were terrible. And they were wonderful. When they finished, one of them pointed directly at our table.
"Listen up! The next act… is the drop-dead gorgeous gothic lady in the corner!"
All eyes turned to me. I felt the heat rise to my face. "Oh, no. Absolutely not. I sing worse than a strangling gromp."
Azra'il raised an eyebrow, the glint of pure sadistic delight in her eyes. "What's this? The ancient sage, the voice of eternity, guardian of the oppressed… afraid of singing out of tune at a pub karaoke? This I have to see."
"Not on your life," I retorted firmly. "If anyone's getting on that stage, it's you, you little provocateur."
The suggestion was like a spark in a powder keg. The bar exploded.
"SING, KETTLE GIRL!"
Powder climbed onto a stool, her eyes shining. "I'll bet five cogs she can sing!" Mylo jeered, "If you're off-key, we'll boo you into your next reincarnation!"
Azra'il sighed with the drama of a deposed queen. "Fine, fine. Since the lady over there is a complete coward, I shall save the honour of our table. I'll sing you a bittersweet romance," she announced to the makeshift microphone. "Something to match the smell of stale ale and broken hearts in this place."
The crowd laughed, expecting a weepy, over-the-top ballad. She took the guitar, tuned two strings with an inexplicable ease that made me raise an eyebrow, and what followed was not what anyone expected.
"This song…" she said, her voice low, almost a secret, "is about things that never end."
She began to play. The fingering was complex but soft, a melody that felt both simple and moving, like a love song in an ancient world. Her voice, when it came, was intimate, confessional, as if she were singing to a single ghost in a room full of people.
🎵"I feel the world pulling at me,
Always trying to bind me to it.
But I will not mind the pain,
I'll resist as much as I can…"🎵
A different kind of silence fell. Not of surprise or shock, but of attentiveness. The raw honesty in her voice was captivating. Vander stopped wiping his glass, his gaze fixed on her, his expression unreadable.
🎵"Watching the hours go by,
I think of how I wanted to have kissed you.
To the place of our farewell I go,
To the reunion of us both…
I see the moment finally arrive,
Everything until yesterday was only spoken.
In my notebook you will find
The story of who I am…"🎵
I felt a shiver. To whom was she singing? These were not the words of an eleven-year-old girl. They were those of a soul who already knew the routine of goodbyes and the fragile hope of reunions. I looked at her face; her eyes were closed, the sarcasm completely gone, replaced by a vulnerability I had never seen.
🎵"Life has taught me
To have courage even in difficult times.
Without giving up, I run to you.
I have chosen not to feel fear.
Into a deep sleep I plunged, and another world I saw.
Everything was different in that new place.
Far from all I have ever known,
Beyond the same routine and paths I followed…"🎵
The lyrics were a puzzle, speaking of other worlds, of a deep sleep that changed everything. To the others in the bar, it probably sounded like a fantastical ballad. To me, it was like hearing fragments of a truth I had always sensed in her but could never name. Powder, on her stool, swayed gently, hypnotised by the melody. Vi was frowning, trying to decipher the enigma of the song.
🎵"There are words that flee our hands:
Destiny, the future, and the heart.
No matter how I try, it is hard to change,
There is always a place that calls us to return…
Looking at all the time that has passed,
People come and go, everything goes on.
But we still have so much to write.
The story has not ended…"🎵
"People come and go, everything goes on…" The line hung in the air, heavy with a resignation that did not belong to youth. I felt my own centuries of loss echo in that line. It was a truth that only the immortal, or the most ancient of souls, could sing with such conviction.
🎵"United with you I am,
When we meet.
We will not say the usual words.
A millennium for us both
Can exist in a single day…" 🎵
Her voice gained a soft intensity, a promise made across time. The couple who had been dancing before now stood still, hand in hand, just listening. Azra'il's song had transformed the noisy tavern into an intimate, timeless space.
🎵"In the dictionary I can see
How much the world defines itself in words.
A kaleidoscope made
A day in August return.
Now I can see,
You were always there beside me.
With a smile you taught me
That the world can surprise…"🎵
🎵"Even if I cannot control the days to come,
And all I hope for may cause me pain,
I will strive to change this end.
Who knows, to find you in a better time…" 🎵
She sang with a mixture of weariness and stubborn hope, the very essence of her personality. A soul who already expected the worst, but who, against her better judgement, still allowed herself to look for something better.
🎵"There are words that flee our hands:
Destiny, the future, and the heart.
No matter how I try, it is hard to change,
There will be a place of hope.
In that word, love,
Your sweet scent will be there.
Be it here or wherever,
I will always hear your laughter…"🎵
🎵"If I can no longer see you here,
I don't want to forget about us both.
Moments I lived with you, so special,
I want to always keep.
My duty is to remember!"🎵
Her voice trembled on the last line, an outburst of raw emotion that silenced even the buzzing of the lamps. It was a vow, a declaration of war against forgetting.
🎵"There are words that flee our hands:
Destiny, the future, and the heart.
No matter how I try, it is hard to change,
There is always a place that calls us to return…
Looking at all the time that has passed,
People come and go, everything goes on.
We still have so much to write.
The story has not ended.
Love will survive…"🎵
The last note of the guitar dissolved into the air, and the silence that followed was profound, almost sacred. No one quite knew how to react. It wasn't a song for whistling and bar-room cheers. It was something more.
A single clap rang out. Then another. And soon the bar was filled, not with a rowdy ovation, but with a warm, respectful applause, a collective acknowledgement that they had witnessed something genuine and deeply personal.
Azra'il gave a single, brief nod, her eyes still distant. She got off the stage and returned to our table, picking up her glass of juice as if she were returning from a long journey. Her armour of sarcasm was back, but it seemed thinner, more fragile.
"Better than the pan-guys, at least," she murmured, not looking at me.
I stared at her, trying to process what I had just heard. That song… it was a map to a landscape I did not know. A glimpse of a past, or many pasts, that made no sense.
"That wasn't just a song, Azra'il," I said, my voice low. "That was someone's story. Who taught you to sing about time that way?"
She finally looked at me, and behind her young eyes, I saw a flash of that same vastness I had felt in the music. An ocean of memories.
"No one teaches you," she said with a disarming simplicity. "You just… learn to remember."
And with that cryptic answer, the puzzle of her soul became infinitely more complex. That night, the child I had raised showed me that no matter how much I cared for her, there were entire worlds within her that I might never come to know. And I, who considered myself ancient, felt irredeemably young before the mystery that was my daughter.