Mortal life, I have observed over countless ages, is governed by cycles. The cycle of the seasons that dance between birth and death, the cycle of the moon that pulls at the tides of emotion, and my own personal least favourite cycle: that of the predatory curiosity of the elite. It operates with a depressing predictability.
First, the elite ignore you, deeming you insignificant. Next, when your existence becomes a popular whisper, they fear or scorn you as a disorderly anomaly. Finally, when they realise you have become influential without the proper permission of their closed circle, they invite you to a party. Make no mistake, it is not a gesture of acceptance; it is an act of taxonomy. They need to dissect you with their eyes, catalogue you with polite conversation, and place you in a gilded box with a clear label, so that your mystery no longer disturbs the delicate, fragile ecosystem of their power.
Our categorisation label arrived on a Tuesday afternoon.
The letter was a work of Piltovan arrogance. The paper was as thick as ancient bark, in a shade of ivory that suggested an almost aggressive exclusivity. The gold wax seal, bearing the Kiramman crest, was flawless. The calligraphy, so elegant and precise it looked as if it had been engraved by an automaton, whispered of its own unquestionable superiority.
"Lady Cassandra Kiramman invites Mistress Morgana," I read aloud to Azra'il, who was waging a battle of wills with our hextech kettle to teach it not to whistle in the exact pitch of a scream of agony, "proprietress of the distinguished Tea House 'The Last Cup', to a private reception for the elite of Piltover tomorrow evening."
A sad smile touched my lips. "Proprietress of the tea house." A convenient omission. As if the girl before me were not the chaotic, brilliant heart, the soul and the storm of the whole place. I handed the invitation to her.
Azra'il took it as if she were handling a particularly disgusting insect. Her eyes scanned the text, and her nose twitched, an infallible barometer of her rising irritation. "Translation," she said, her voice dripping a sarcasm so pure it could corrode silver. "'The social zoo you've set up is making too much noise and attracting too much attention. We would like the head keepers to present themselves in the golden cage so we may observe them up close and decide if you are an amusing attraction or a threat that needs to be… contained'." She slightly crumpled the corner of the paper with her fingers. "Piltover is a master of it: polishing anything, living or dead, until it becomes a spectacle for their own vain entertainment."
"It could be useful," I murmured, considering. It was an incursion into enemy territory, yes, but the knowledge gained could be valuable. "To see up close how the councillors think. To hear their conversations when their masks of politeness are a little lower, loosened by wine and overconfidence."
She let out the sigh of a martyr. "Ah, yes. The great Council. Of that whole gaggle of overfed peacocks, Cassandra at least has a functioning brain and, for some inexplicable reason, doesn't seem to openly hate Zaun's existence. And Heimerdinger… well, he's an ancient Yordle and a scientist. I have a reluctant respect for any creature that tries to understand the universe instead of simply exploiting it to death."
"And the others?" I asked, genuinely curious about her merciless analysis.
She began to count on her fingers, each one representing a facet of Piltover's governmental dysfunction. "Let's see. According to the gossip from the academics I get drunk on Truth Tea. Hoskel, the mining lord, a man who speaks of ores and rock veins with a fervour others reserve for poetry or romance; to him, the entire city is just a glorified mine waiting to be excavated. Shoola, a fanatic for order and protocol, who probably believes that breathing fresh air should be a privilege earned through bureaucratic paperwork, not a right. Salo, a little man whose soul has been replaced by a calculator; his vocabulary seems to be limited to 'profit', 'margin', 'taxes', and 'interest rate'. And finally," she paused, her eyes narrowing, "the jewel in the crown: Mel Medarda, the Noxian exile who has reinvented herself as the spider at the centre of Piltover's web. She smiles as if she's offering you a cup of the finest Ionian tea, but in reality, she's already calculated the market value of your organs and planned three political moves ahead while you're deciding whether to take sugar or lemon."
I remained silent for a moment, absorbing the brutal accuracy of her summaries. She saw the bare, cold cogs behind the curtain of politeness with a clarity that both frightened and filled me with pride.
"So… are we going?" I asked.
She rolled her eyes so dramatically I thought they might get stuck. "We're going. Consider it a reconnaissance mission in hostile territory. But when I inevitably get annoyed and give an impromptu speech on the collective stupidity of the ruling class, don't say I didn't warn you."
The decision to go was the easy part. The matter of what to wear, I discovered, would be the first battlefield. I would have been content with my simple, functional, and discreet robes. I was, however, intercepted by Azra'il's appraising gaze, which measured me up and down like a general inspecting a faulty weapon.
"What is it now?"
"You," she said, crossing her arms, "are going to arrive looking like a stern schoolmistress who got lost on her way to the library. They don't understand the elegance of sobriety. For the Piltovan elite, if something doesn't glitter, cost the equivalent of a small nation's gross domestic product, or blind the guests with an excess of ornamentation, it is considered furniture. And you are not furniture." She cut me off before I could protest. "Relax. I'll find you a dress. Just… don't ask how."
With that troublemaker's smile that always preceded something either extraordinary or catastrophic, she disappeared into the cellar. I heard the dragging of heavy chests, the metallic click of an old lock, and then a deep silence. When she returned, she carried a parcel that seemed to absorb the light in the room.
I opened it, and for an instant, time and breath stopped.
It was a dress unlike any I had ever seen, not in Demacia, not atop Targon, not in any of the mortal realms I had witnessed. The fabric was the colour of the night sky at its deepest and clearest, but when the light touched it, it did not reflect; it shimmered with the light of a thousand distant stars. Silver embroidery, as fine as spiderwebs woven by the moon, traced patterns that resembled forgotten constellations. It was not a piece of clothing; it was a fragment of the firmament itself. When I touched the fabric, it was cool at first, then warmed, as if living matter were responding to my own heat.
"This… does not belong to this world," I whispered, astonished.
Azra'il feigned a yawn. "It's just a dress. Will it do?"
"Where did you…"
"Remember our deal? You don't ask, I don't have to invent an elaborately absurd lie."
I sighed in surrender. There was power in that garment. There were ancient memories. And the uncomfortable feeling that, by wearing it, I would be carrying the history of a world I did not know.
Of course, my revenge was immediate. "And you," I said, staring at her tea-stained work uniform. "You are not showing up to an elite event looking like you've just survived another controlled explosion."
"I was going to wear my apron. It's honest. It's a statement."
"You will look elegant," I insisted.
Minutes later, she was transformed, and protesting every second of it. A white dress shirt, a well-fitted dark blue waistcoat that, according to her, "restricted her escape manoeuvres", dark trousers, and shoes that gleamed. The final piece, a small bow tie, was a battle I won through sheer attrition. Her hair was combed, highlighting her bright blue eyes.
She looked at herself in the mirror with the deepest disgust. "Brilliant. Now I look like the child-butler of a decadent magnate who probably died under mysterious circumstances."
"You look adorable," I said. The scowl she shot me was nearly lethal.
The day that followed was filled with a contained tension. Azra'il spent most of it in her cellar, likely taking out her frustration on some unfortunate prototype. I supervised the tea house, but my mind was distant, going over the complexities of the evening to come. For the elite of Piltover, it would be just another night of wine and empty conversation. for us, it would be a careful incursion, a mission to observe without being fully understood.
When night finally fell, painting the Piltovan sky in shades of purple and gold, a discreet, hired carriage was waiting. Azra'il was silent the entire journey, her eyes fixed on the passing city-scape, her expression a mask of studied indifference. I knew that beneath that facade, her mind was as active as mine analysing, preparing, anticipating.
Our arrival at the Kiramman manor was exactly as I had foreseen. An ocean of ostentatious luxury, where men discussed the fluctuating prices of hex-crystals as if they were the fate of the world, and women laughed with sounds that seemed like the tinkling of empty glass bells. And then, I stepped out of the carriage.
The moment I set foot on the marble staircase, all eyes fell on me. And on the dress. A silence rippled through the hall. Conversations paused. I saw a lady of the high bourgeoisie whisper to her friend, "By the Gods, where is that fabric from?" A Shuriman merchant leaned forward for a better look. "Not even in the silk fairs of Nashramae have I seen something that captures the night so." The dress did not shine; it breathed. With every step, new constellations seemed to twinkle on its dark surface.
Cassandra Kiramman received us with her impeccable diplomacy, but she could not hide the spark of genuine surprise behind her polished facade. "Mistress Morgana… what a striking gown. The cut is… mystical. I daresay, it is something Piltover has never seen."
Azra'il, ever the opportunist, whispered to me, "See? Just throw a bit of stardust at them and the monkeys are fascinated." But before I could reprimand her, she smiled at Cassandra. "It's exclusive. My mother has interesting contacts."
Cassandra, a master of reading subtext, focused on the word 'mother' with the precision of a laser. Her expression didn't change, but I sensed a subtle shift in her perception of us. "Interesting. I confess I had assumed Miss Azra'il was merely your apprentice, Mistress Morgana. But… I see appearances can be deceiving."
Azra'il crossed her arms. "Apprentice? Usually, I'm the one giving the lessons."
The Councillor arched an eyebrow, amused, and gestured to the side where her daughter stood. "Then allow me to formally introduce you to my daughter. Caitlyn."
The young Kiramman curtsied respectfully, but her eyes were fixed on Azra'il, filled with a curiosity that overrode any protocol. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Mistress Morgana… and Miss Azra'il," she said, her voice clear and polished. Then she leaned forward slightly with an excited look. "I must ask… I've been hearing curious rumours. They say you… you frequent the taverns in Zaun. Is that true?"
The way she said 'Zaun' contained an entire universe of forbidden mystery and danger, the sort of fascination a well-bred child has for the wild world beyond the walls.
Azra'il raised an eyebrow, a crooked smile forming on her lips, clearly enjoying the girl's audacious naivety. "'Frequent' is such a formal word. I would say I… conduct field visits to study the local fauna in its natural habitat. And sometimes, that fauna convinces me to sing."
Caitlyn's jaw dropped slightly, the confirmation exceeding her expectations. "So… is it really true? The gossip about the 'Tea Fairy who sings for the Chem-Barons'… It's not just an exaggeration?"
Azra'il froze for half a second, the horror of having gained a new, even more ridiculous nickname plastered across her face. "'The Tea Fairy who sings for the Chem-Barons'? By the gods. That's even worse. Brilliant, now my reputation is spreading like a plague." She sighed dramatically. "Soon I'll be a full-blown urban legend."
Caitlyn suppressed a giggle, her eyes shining. For her, this was not a source of shame; it was the most fascinating, courageous thing she had ever heard. Cassandra watched the exchange with sharp eyes, perhaps realising for the first time the nature of the influence we were beginning to have on her daughter, an influence that came from a world she had spent a lifetime trying to keep at a distance.
With the grace of an expert hostess, Cassandra guided us from the more intimate conversation into the heart of the salon. "Come," she said, her voice pulling us back to the reality of the party. "There are people who are eager to meet the famed proprietress of Piltover's most famous tea house."
We were then cast into the social whirlwind, a vortex of polished smiles, calculated handshakes, and conversations that were less about communication and more about status affirmation. A portly, red-faced industrialist, who could only be Hoskel, monopolised me for a moment, his breath smelling of expensive wine and raw ambition. He raised his glass in a grandiloquent toast. "Piltover guides the world into the future, Mistress Morgana! Every invention, every merchant ship, every hex-crystal mined, is a brick on the road to human perfection!" I smiled politely, the image of imprisoned brackern souls shimmering in my mind, feeling the invisible weight of every one of those 'bricks'.
"Yes," Azra'il murmured beside me, her voice low and venomous as the nectar of a carnivorous flower. "A road paved with excellent intentions and a fine brass finish, which guides everyone straight into the abyss with an impressive profit margin."
I escaped Hoskel only to be intercepted by a smaller, more agitated man whose eyes looked like gold cogs. Salo, no doubt. He spoke of 'franchise opportunities' and 'supply chain optimisation', seeing our tea house not as a haven, but as an under-utilised asset. I listened to him with the patience of one who has watched mountains turn to dust, while Azra'il made crude drawings of Salo being eaten by a treasure chest on a napkin.
It was in the midst of this dance of banalities that I felt the atmosphere of the room shift. It wasn't a loud sound or an announcement. It was a subtle change in the current, like when a great predator enters shallow waters. The conversations didn't stop, but their trajectories curved. The groups readjusted subtly, like iron filings aligning to an unseen magnet. All eyes, if only for a split second, turned in the same direction.
Then I saw her. Mel Medarda.
She didn't enter the room; she conquered it with her mere presence. She moved with the calculated, fluid grace of a panther, her golden dress not just shining, but seeming to radiate a light of its own. It was not the power of a title or the authority of a uniform. It was something deeper, more instinctual. The power of one who understands that true influence is not imposed, but attracted.
She navigated the salon, trading a smile here, a word there, each gesture precise and purposeful. She was the centre of gravity in that social galaxy. Finally, her path brought her to our small circle, where Cassandra was waiting.
She greeted our hostess with the rehearsed politeness of a Noxian diplomat, a formality that barely concealed the familiarity of two powers acknowledging each other. And then her honey-gold eyes landed on me. Her gaze was different from all the others. There was none of the stunned curiosity about my dress, nor the greedy calculation of the merchants. It was an appraisal. Pure, cold, and deep. She was reading my history, my posture, my presence, and calculating not just my value, but how I fit into the complex Piltovan power-board that she so clearly dominated.
"Mistress Morgana," she said, her voice as smooth as silk but with the resonance of steel beneath. The fact that she already knew my name did not surprise me. Figures like Mel Medarda do not leave unknown variables in their equation. "Your reputation precedes you. I've heard your establishment has become the only place in Piltover where a politician and a poet can, in fact, have an honest conversation."
"The honesty usually depends on the type of tea they order," I replied, my tone just as calm. "We merely provide the space. The conversations belong to those who have them."
A subtle smile touched her lips. She appreciated the evasive answer. It was a language she understood. "A neutral space in a city of factions," she mused, more to herself. "That is not just a business. It is a political manoeuvre, whether intended or not." Her eyes moved to Azra'il, who stood beside me, silent and watchful, her expression of polite boredom her best armour. Mel sized her up in a split second. "And you must be the talent behind the flavours. Caitlyn has spoken of your pastries."
"I have my moments," Azra'il said, her voice deliberately neutral.
Mel turned her attention back to me. "Your tea house," she continued, "has become a… singular meeting point. Fascinating how a simple salon can unite voices from so many worlds. It is proof that even in Piltover, there is a yearning for something more… authentic."
I was about to offer another polite reply, but something stopped me. As I looked at her, past the golden silk, the perfect posture, and the calculating eyes, I felt it. It was not a guess or an intuition. It was a perception, as clear and unmistakable as the touch of the wind or the smell of earth after a rain.
It was magic.
Not the trapped, screaming magic of the Hex-crystals. Not the wild, chaotic magic of the fugitive mages who sometimes sought my aid. It was something different. A dormant magic, deep and ancient, coiled in the core of her being like a hibernating serpent. It was so perfectly contained, so deeply buried beneath layers of Noxian discipline, Piltovan ambition, and sheer force of will, that I was certain Mel Medarda herself had no idea of its existence. It was a blood-heritage, a spark of an ancestral power that her lineage had suppressed or forgotten, but that still ran through her veins, silent and potent.
My gaze must have lingered, my expression must have changed, for in an instant, Mel's flawless facade faltered. I was not seeing her as others did—a politician, a rival, a beautiful woman. I was seeing a vessel of a singular, slumbering power, an enigma she herself did not know she was. She felt my gaze not on her public persona, but on her deepest secret, a secret she did not even know she had. A small frown of genuine confusion, almost of vulnerability, appeared between her perfect brows before being quickly suppressed.
Azra'il, of course, noticed the silent exchange, and her ability to read subtext was as sharp as my own. She leaned in and whispered in my ear, her voice full of a wicked amusement.
"Either you've just fallen in love at first sight with the beautiful and intimidatingly rich Lady Medarda, or you've detected another walking problem with a dark secret. Which is it, Mother Raven?"
I ignored her, still processing the magnitude of that discovery. The garden of steel and crystal that was Piltover hid more seeds than I had imagined. Some were of progress, others of destruction. And some, like the one I sensed in Mel Medarda, were of an ancient, forgotten magic, just waiting for the right soil to sprout.
The party continued to swirl around us, a carousel of bright smiles and sharp ambitions. We were approached by a small, energetic figure whose magnificent moustache seemed to contain more exuberance than most entire men. It was Professor Heimerdinger. His large yordle eyes, magnified by thick glasses, shone with an insatiable curiosity.
"Fascinating! Absolutely fascinating!" he said, adjusting his glasses and looking from me to Azra'il and back again. "The social synergy in your establishment is a phenomenon worthy of study! The peaceful cohabitation of Piltovan and Zaunite demographics in a commercial space defies at least seventeen of my sociological prediction models! I have heard rumours of your teas, of course, with their… stimulating, and at times, chemically revealing properties! What is the method? Cold-brewing? Sonic maceration? An application of elementary alchemical principles? Tell me everything!"
His energy was infectious, but exhausting. It was the pure curiosity of a mind that saw the world as a series of glorious puzzles to be solved. Azra'il looked at him with a reluctant respect she rarely showed anyone.
"It is an age-old family mystery, Professor," she said, playing along with a feigned seriousness. "If I told you the ingredients, I'd have to wipe your memory, and frankly, you seem to have far too many interesting memories I wouldn't want the bother of cataloguing and archiving. The bureaucracy would be a nightmare."
Heimerdinger let out a chortle, a high, cheerful sound. "A joke! Excellent! I enjoy humour in my culinary ventures! Creativity flourishes in levity!" His gaze then grew more serious. "But the question of influence is real. A place that can soothe tensions so effectively… it has power. And power, my dears, is a variable that must be understood and, if possible, regulated. By the way," he added, his mind leaping to another topic, "I heard young Talis visited you. A brilliant, brilliant young man! But his methodologies... a tad… over-enthusiastic! The pursuit of synthetic Hextech is noble, but dangerous! Arcane instability is no laughing matter!"
"We noticed," Azra'il murmured, in the tone of one stating an obvious fact.
With a few more questions about the porosity of our teapots, Heimerdinger departed, leaving in his wake a sense of well-intentioned optimism and a complete lack of awareness of the darkness that lurked beneath all the progress he so loved.
I left Azra'il in the clutches of a curious Caitlyn, who had dragged her near the balcony to ask her more questions about Zaun. Alone for a moment, I allowed myself to retreat into the shadows near a marble column and just watch. It was what I did best. I heard fragments of conversations drifting on the cigar-smoke-laced air.
"...the latest shipment of crystals from Shurima was of an inferior quality, yet Hoskel insists on keeping the price high. Ever since House Ferros tightened its grip on the mining routes, the quality has dropped but the prices have risen. Their monopoly is stifling true innovation in favour of control..."
"...there's talk of 'redeveloping' the Entresol. A polite way of saying they're going to demolish the homes of a thousand people to build more warehouses for House Ferros..."
"...the Medarda girl is brilliant, yes, but don't forget: she has Noxian blood. A snake, no matter how golden its scales, is still a snake..."
It was a garden made of steel and crystal, and its beauty was undeniable. But the soil from which it fed was dark and deep. Piltover's wealth was irrigated by the silent suffering of the Brackern, whose imprisoned souls powered their lights, and by the desperate toil of Zaun, whose lives were considered the acceptable cost of progress.
My sister, Kayle, would see this city and judge it with celestial fire, burning away the corruption until only ash remained. But fire does not distinguish. It burns the rotten and the innocent with the same fury. And I, I looked upon this garden of hypocrisy and saw not just the poison, but the rare flowers that, against all odds, insisted on blooming: Caitlyn's loyalty to her friend, Heimerdinger's passion for knowledge, the strange resilience of a people who built a paradise over an abyss. Justice, for me, was never about eradicating, but about pruning. And I wondered what kind of gardening would be required here.
My reverie was interrupted by Azra'il, who reappeared at my side with two glasses of sparkling juice.
"I've tired of answering questions about why Zaunite rats are bigger than Piltovan ones," she said, handing me a glass. "The answer, obviously, is a diet richer in chemical waste and ambition. But the young investigator did not find it amusing."
"Are you having fun?" I asked, a gentle tease.
"As much fun as one can have in an aquarium full of smiling piranhas," she replied. "I think I've gathered enough data for one evening. Can we go home?"
I nodded. The night had already given us what we needed. We found Cassandra and Tobias near the exit, bidding farewell to other guests.
"Leaving already, ladies?" Cassandra asked, the perfect hostess to the very end. "I trust the evening was… enlightening."
"Extremely," I said with sincerity.
Tobias smiled, a warm gesture amidst the polished coldness of the room. "It was a pleasure to have a new perspective in these old halls," he said, his gaze lingering on me for a moment. "Piltover needs more voices, and fewer echoes."
As we turned to leave, Caitlyn gave Azra'il a discreet nod, a gesture of reluctant respect between two young women from radically different worlds who, for a moment, had found common ground.
Finally, we were in the silent darkness of the hired carriage. Azra'il threw herself onto the velvet seat and undid her bow tie as if it were a chain strangling her. She was quiet for a long time, watching the lights of Piltover pass by the window.
"Well," she said at last, the weariness in her voice replacing the sarcasm. "We survived. The most boring and revealing party in Valoran. What was your final verdict, Mother Raven?"
I looked out at the glittering city, a miracle of engineering and a masterpiece of denial.
"They are a garden," I said, the image solidifying in my mind. "A garden made of steel and crystal. It is breathtakingly beautiful, if you don't think too much about the dark and suffering earth upon which it grows. And it is full of poisonous flowers."
"And Medarda?" she teased gently. "The most poisonous flower of all?"
"No," I replied, the memory of that magical current still vivid. "She is different. She is not a flower. She is a dormant seed. And I do not know if, when she finally awakens, she will become a flower of rare beauty… or a weed that will strangle the entire garden."
The garden of steel and crystal that was Piltover held more secrets than I had imagined. Some were of progress, others of destruction. And some, like the one I sensed in Mel Medarda, were of an ancient, forgotten magic, just waiting for the right soil, the right season, to finally sprout. And we, with our small and humble tea house, were planted right in the middle of it, watching and waiting.