Pov - Morgana
Night had fallen on the bridge, and with it came the dual spectacle that never failed to fascinate me, even after three years of watching it. On one side, Piltover was lighting its golden and white lights, a terrestrial constellation of progress and ambition, each illuminated window a small star of innovation and mortal dreams built on cogs and steam. On the other, Zaun shone with its own light greenish, pulsating, dangerous, and stubbornly alive, like the bioluminescence of deep-sea creatures refusing to be swallowed by the absolute darkness. And there, between these two eternally conflicting worlds, our small bridge hung like a thread of hope woven over an abyss.
We were on the rooftop, Azra'il and I, sitting side-by-side on an old woollen blanket that had seen better days stained with spilt tea, burnt at one corner from an experiment gone wrong, but still functional, still comfortable. It was our silent ritual of the past few weeks, ever since the talk of leaving ceased to be a distant eventuality and became an imminent reality. We would come up here after the shop closed, when the city's noise dwindled to a constant hum, and we would simply… exist. We would watch. We would process the weight of what we were about to do.
The air was cool, but not cold. The night breeze carried the smell of heated metal from Piltover mixed with the damp, chemical scent of Zaun, a combination that should have been unpleasant but had become, strangely, comforting. The smell of home.
The guitar rested in Azra'il's lap, the mother-of-pearl cherry blossoms glinting softly in the diffuse light that rose from the cities below. Her fingers were already moving over the strings as I sat down beside her, plucking notes that seemed to float on the air like dragonflies dancing over still water. The melody was delicate, contemplative, something with that pentatonic cadence I associated with the Eastern songs Ionian merchants sometimes hummed quietly in the salon while waiting for their orders.
It was not a song I recognised. Perhaps it was something she had heard somewhere on her travels before we arrived here, or perhaps it was something she was creating in that very moment, weaving the notes like a spider spins its web by instinct, by necessity, by pure and simple beauty. There was space between the notes, deliberate silences that were as important as the sounds. It was music that breathed, that thought, that contemplated.
"This melody," I said softly, not wanting to interrupt but too curious to stay quiet. "Is it Ionian?"
Azra'il didn't open her eyes, but a small smile touched her lips as her fingers continued their dance. "Something I heard once, from a travelling bard who visited the Tea House."
She played a particularly beautiful sequence of descending notes, like water falling over stones. "Ionians have an interesting musical philosophy. They say the most important note is not the one you play, but the silence that comes after. The space where the note lives and breathes before it dies. The music is not in the sounds, but in the spaces between them."
"Like everything in life," I observed, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. "What matters is in the spaces. Between words. Between people. Between worlds."
"Poetic," Azra'il commented, but there was no sarcasm in her voice. Just… agreement. "And irritatingly true."
The melody continued, evolving slowly, like a story being told note by note. There was something hypnotic about it, something that made the distant noise of the cities the hiss of steam, the banging of hammers, the muffled voices gradually fade away, leaving just the two of us, the music, and the vast night sky above.
We sat like that for several minutes, me watching the twin cities while Azra'il conversed with her guitar in a language only the two of them understood. It was a moment of pure peace, the kind of moment you want to preserve in amber, to keep forever, because you know it is as fragile and fleeting as dew at dawn.
It was Azra'il who finally broke the contemplative silence, though her fingers kept playing, never stopping completely.
"I went down to Zaun yesterday morning," she said, her voice low and casual. "One last visit to The Last Drop. Final farewells."
"How was it?" I asked gently.
Azra'il played a more pensive sequence of notes. "Quick. As it should be. Vi was at the entrance when I arrived. She didn't say anything, just… hugged me. Hard. Fast. Then she let go and said, 'come back better, because I'm going to be better'. As if it were a challenge."
A small smile touched Azra'il's lips. "I said, 'challenge accepted'. And she went back inside the bar before either of us could say anything else."
"Very Vi," I murmured.
"Very Vi," she agreed.
The melody grew lighter, almost playful. "Powder and Ekko were inside, of course. Surrounded by parts and projects. Ekko said his last goodbye with a firm handshake, respectful. Powder tried to do the same, but gave up halfway and hugged me anyway… Again."
She played a quick trill. "That's when I told them about the letter."
"The letter for Jayce and Viktor?"
"Yes. Said I'd sent a recommendation. That I received a positive reply. That they can present themselves at the laboratory in two weeks." Her fingers danced over a satisfied progression. "Powder nearly knocked over three projects, she was so excited. Started chattering about 'real Hextech' and 'equipment that won't explode, or will explode better'."
"And Ekko?"
"He was quiet. Processing. Then he asked, 'Why? Why'd you do it?' And I told him the truth: 'Because wasting talent is inefficient. And because you deserve the chance'."
The music became more serious. "Vander was at the bar. Wiping glasses. Always wiping glasses. He saw me, nodded, and without a word, he took two clean glasses. Filled them with that red fruit juice he saves for special occasions. Handed me one."
Azra'il stopped playing for a brief moment. "We toasted. He said, 'Take care of yourself out there. And when you come back because I know you will you'll always have a table here.' We drank in silence. I put the empty glass on the bar. He put his hand on my shoulder, squeezed once, and went back to his glasses."
"That was it," she concluded, starting to play again. "Quick. Simple. The way goodbyes should be when you know they're not permanent."
"You will come back," I said. "One day."
"One day," she echoed, the music now sounding like a distant promise.
"And you?" Azra'il finally asked, looking at me as her fingers continued their work. "Did you have your own goodbyes in Piltover?"
"Yes," I said, my voice heavier than I expected. "Caitlyn came by the day before yesterday. With Cassandra."
Azra'il's fingers faltered on the strings, creating a slightly dissonant note of surprise. "The Kiramman matriarch? It's rare for her to descend from her tower to visit our humble bridge. Should I check for signs of the apocalypse?"
"They came for afternoon tea," I said, a small smile touching my lips despite the melancholy. "It was… surprisingly normal."
"Normal… right," Azra'il played an ironic chord progression. "The world really has changed."
"Caitlyn had the Ionian jasmine blend," I went on. "The one you always say is—"
"'Wasted on uneducated Piltovan palates'," Azra'il finished. "My position remains. Three sugar cubes in jasmine tea is a crime against nature."
"She likes what she likes."
"She is objectively wrong."
The melody grew lighter, almost playful. I continued, "Cassandra had the traditional Ionian tea. The same one she always asks for, prepared in the old style."
"As ever, a woman of impeccable taste in tea and questionable principles in politics," Azra'il admitted. "And then? Did you tell them?"
"Yes." My voice grew softer. "I told them about Ionia. About leaving. About leaving the shop in the hands of Lucien and the others."
The music stopped completely. "How did they react?"
"Caitlyn was sad," I said, the memory still fresh. "She didn't cry, the Kirammans don't do that in public, but I saw it in her eyes. That glint of unshed tears. She put her cup down on the table very carefully, as if she were afraid her hands might shake."
I traced patterns on the blanket, needing to do something with my hands. "She said this place had become a haven for her. She used that exact word. Said that here, she could take off the weight of the Kiramman name. She wasn't the heiress. She was just Caitlyn. A young woman having tea and talking about things that carried no political weight."
Azra'il began to play again, soft and gentle. "And the ice matriarch?"
"Cassandra was more… Cassandra," I said. "She didn't show her sadness openly. That would be improper. But she offered to help. Immediately."
"Let me guess," Azra'il said. "Something pragmatic and extremely useful disguised as a business transaction?"
"Exactly." I smiled despite the sadness. "She said she has contacts with several captains who run the trade route between Piltover and Ionia. Ships that regularly transport goods for House Kiramman."
"How convenient," Azra'il murmured, the music now mocking.
"She offered to arrange passage with one of these captains. A trusted one. She said the route is long and potentially dangerous, there are pirates near Bilgewater, treacherous waters, seasonal storms—"
"Pirates?"
The word came from Azra'il's lips not as a question, but as a revelation. The soft, contemplative melody she had been playing stopped with a harsh, dissonant note. And then the silence was replaced by something completely different. A new music was born from her fingers, lively, chaotic, and full of a rollicking energy. It was a sea-shanty, a tune of maritime adventure, with rising scales that sounded like waves crashing on a ship's hull and galloping rhythms that evoked the wind filling the sails. The promise of chaos and danger had awakened something in her.
I looked at her with a suspicion that grew with every cheerful note. "Azra'il…"
"Actual pirates!" she said, her eyes shining with that kind of dangerous enthusiasm that, in my long experience, usually preceded the need to fix something, pay a bribe, or explain an international incident. The music now had an almost comical touch, a tavern song about sea-raiders and buried treasure. "Bilgewater! The den of corsairs, smugglers, treasure hunters, and, according to the books, a fascinating architecture built from the wrecks of a thousand ships! Wouldn't it be absolutely fascinating? All that wonderful aesthetic of 'freedom through anarchy' and 'predatory capitalism in its purest form'?"
"No," I said firmly, though I already felt my resolve wavering in the face of her infectious enthusiasm.
"Think of the possibilities!" She played a particularly dramatic sequence of chords, as if providing the soundtrack for a naval chase scene. "The study of exotic weaponry, unconventional sailing techniques… perhaps I could even find an aspiring Pirate King with grandiose ambitions and a questionable work ethic. It would be immensely educational! A unique anthropological opportunity!"
"Educational," I repeated, my voice completely flat, devoid of any conviction.
"Yes! I could study the hydrodynamics of pirate ship construction… and the engineering of naval cannons! And," she added, her tone suddenly becoming more serious and academic, "their culture! Their legends! They worship a sea deity, don't they? Nagakabouros. The philosophy of eternal motion, where the only truth is the constant flow and anything that stands still is destined to be destroyed by the tide. It is a brutally pragmatic theology. Imagine the kind of society that is born from a faith like that!"
I stared at her, surprised by the depth of her interest. It wasn't just about the cheap thrill of lawlessness; it was a genuine desire for study.
"And who knows," she continued, her tone, instead of conspiratorial, becoming deliberate, like one presenting a business proposal. "Perhaps the travel plan could be… adjusted. The Kiramman ship will make a stop to refuel. Instead of a visit of a few hours, I suggest an alteration to the plan." She looked at me, and the melody stopped, letting the next sentence hang in a heavy silence. "We disembark in Bilgewater. And we proceed to Ionia later, by other means. We'll figure something out."
"What?" The word escaped me, incredulous. "You want to… stay in Bilgewater? Alone? For days? Perhaps weeks? Months?"
"It is the only way to conduct a proper field study!" she said. And then the guitar exploded into a triumphant, adventurous melody, like the soundtrack to the most exciting decision ever made. "A full immersion! We can rent a room, catalogue the factions, study the plunder-based economy… and perhaps," the music grew mischievous, "trade insults with a real pirate. For purely anthropological reasons, of course."
I sighed, with the weariness of one who has seen this sort of 'puzzle' many times and knows the pieces are usually made of bone. "Azra'il, the plan was Ionia. Peace. Balance. The silence of the ancient forests. You are proposing the exact opposite: the noise, the chaos, and the omnipresent smell of rotten fish and desperate ambition."
"But to understand harmony, you must study dissonance," she retorted, using my own philosophies against me with surgical precision. "It's an educational detour. The final lesson."
She was impossible. And terribly persuasive. I knew that physically, we would be safe. Few things in this mortal world could pose a real threat to me, and Azra'il, I suspected, was far more capable than she let on. My apprehension wasn't about our survival. It was about our sanity.
"You're not going to let this go, are you?" I asked, feeling my hope for a peaceful journey dissolve.
"The research opportunity is too good to pass up," she replied.
I sighed, exhaustion winning me over. "If," and the 'if' was now a concession to her stubborn intellect, "we agree to this sociologically exhausting expedition, there are conditions. Non-negotiable."
Azra'il's eyes shone with triumph. "Proceed."
"First: the logistics are decided by the ship's captain. He must secure safe and respectable lodgings. We are not staying in any old dive just because the 'tavern's acoustics are authentic'."
"Reasonable."
"Second: our research is observational. Official markets, main docks, and, if your theological curiosity is that insatiable, a visit to a Buhru temple. No proactive interaction with thieves' guilds, pirate crews, or any entity that resolves contract disputes with harpoons."
"Alright. Observation from a safe, and likely boring, distance. Understood."
"And third," I said, staring at her seriously. "No international incidents. No mutinies. No acquiring of cursed artifacts. No sinking of ships, even if they deserve it. The goal is to study the chaos, not become the centre of it. If things start to get… complicated to a level that might attract the attention of a Reaver King or a sea serpent, we leave."
She considered for a moment, then nodded. "Acceptable conditions. See? I can be reasonable."
"You are being reasonable because you got what you wanted," I pointed out.
"Exactly! It's almost as if compromise is an effective strategy," she said, pleased with herself.
I shook my head, half-exasperated, half-amused. I had traded the certainty of peace for the promise of chaos, all in the name of her curiosity. And, as irritating as it was, I couldn't deny that a part of me was intrigued too. Just a tiny, infinitesimal part.