A/N: So um... anyone still here?
A/N (2): If there's any mistakes, point it out!
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The city of Piltover basked in the glow of the afternoon sun, its golden spires reflecting light off the polished metalwork that adorned its streets. But today, the usual sense of Piltovan grandeur was accompanied by something else, a tense anticipation. A thick crowd gathered at the mouth of the Bridge of Progress, stretching in both directions, spilling from Piltover's well-kept roads and the rugged, worn pathways of the Undercity. The bridge itself had been transformed for the occasion, banners billowing from its railings. Among them, the unmistakable insignia of Piltover hung high, yet now, alongside it, another sigil flew—a new banner that, until today, many Piltovans had never seen before. The emblem of Zaun, the newly recognized autonomous state.
The contrast between the two sides of the bridge was stark. The people of Zaun, clad in their patchwork clothes and work-hardened faces, wore expressions of unfiltered joy, the kind that came with long-awaited victory. The Piltovans, in their tailored suits and gloved hands, bore something closer to reluctant acceptance, or in some cases, outright discontent. It was a gathering of duality, two worlds that had long coexisted but never as equals, until now.
Tarren found himself among the so-called "elites" of Piltover and Zaun, navigating through the neatly arranged rows of seats prepared for the occasion. He wasn't particularly focused on finding his designated spot just yet; his mind was occupied with the energy of the crowd. He could see it all—the unease in the eyes of the Piltovan nobility, the elation of the Undercity folk, the uncertainty in the gazes of those caught somewhere in between. It was a momentous occasion, yet one fraught with tension.
His wandering thoughts were interrupted by a polite voice.
"Do you know where you are seated, sir?"
A servant had approached him, his face carefully neutral amidst this black and white crowd.
"Um, no," Tarren admitted. "Could you escort me to it?"
The servant gave a small nod. "Certainly."
As they weaved through the seats, Tarren took in the arrangement. The chairs were divided into two distinct sections—Piltovans on one side, Zaunites on the other. Even in this symbolic act of unity, the divide remained palpable. There was no true mingling, no blending of the two societies just yet.
At last, they arrived at his seat. Tarren recognized the person seated beside it immediately.
Amara.
He grimaced internally but maintained his composure. The seat was positioned in the Piltovan section, though near the middle, as if attempting to bridge the gap between the two sides. It was almost amusing, really.
"This one, sir," the servant informed him.
Tarren nodded. "Thank you."
The servant bowed slightly before excusing himself. With little choice, Tarren gave Amara a brief, polite smile before lowering himself into his seat. She did not speak right away, but her gaze lingered on him with something between curiosity and amusement.
Minutes passed in relative silence, the atmosphere charged with unspoken words. Then, the murmurs of the crowd quieted as a small figure took the podium.
Heimerdinger.
The Head of the Council stood before the gathered assembly, his wise eyes scanning the crowd before clearing his throat to speak.
"As we gather here today in celebration of this momentous occasion, please allow me to share a few words before we welcome the representative of Zaun to speak. As my last act as the Head Council—"
Tarren tried to listen, he really did. But the woman beside him had decided now was the time for conversation.
"It's a unique day, isn't it?" Amara mused. "I was surprised that the council even agreed to this. I heard it was all your doing."
"Not at all, ma'am." Tarren forced a smile. "I simply smoothed things out."
"Oh, don't sell yourself short, young man." She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "You played a part in it."
"Well, it's not exactly something to boast about, ma'am." He kept his voice quiet, glancing around at their surroundings. "Especially in this crowd."
"Most people in our position are often not keen on change," she stated.
Tarren remained silent for a moment, letting Heimerdinger's speech continue uninterrupted in the background. Then, after some thought, he spoke again. "Then what is your thought on the matter, if I may ask?"
"I don't particularly mind anything," Amara shrugged. "It's all business to me."
Tarren chuckled softly, though there was little amusement in it. It was an expected answer, though not an unwelcome one.
The speech was beginning to wrap up. Heimerdinger's voice carried over the crowd, concluding with, "Then, without further ado, let us welcome the new representative of the Autonomous Region of Zaun."
The response was immediate. The Zaunite crowd erupted into cheers, their voices ringing through the air with unrestrained excitement. On the Piltovan side, however, there was a notable lack of enthusiasm. A few polite claps, some forced smiles, but nothing more.
Tarren clapped as well, though he noticed the eyes that landed on him for doing so. He ignored them.
And then, stepping onto the podium, his broad frame and confident stride impossible to miss, was Vander. A smile graced his face.
Vander looked every inch the man of the Undercity, broad shoulders, hands scarred by years of hard work and harder choices, his coat worn but clean, carrying no trace of apology for what he was. His presence commanded the podium in a way that was very different from Heimerdinger's. Where the yordle's words carried the weight of intellect and tradition, Vander's mere stance radiated the strength of lived struggle.
The cheers of the Zaunites grew louder as he raised a hand, not to silence them, but to steady the moment. Slowly, their voices fell into a hush, leaving only the faint whisper of wind tugging at the banners above.
"My people," Vander began, his voice carrying easily across the bridge, "have walked these streets for as long as yours have. We built in the shadows of your towers, we bled in the cracks of your polished stone. For too long, our sweat has lined your pockets, and our voices were little more than echoes beneath your feet."
He paused, letting the words sink into the crowd. On the Zaunite side, faces shone with pride and vindication. On the Piltovan side, jaws tightened, fans twitched, and a few nobles shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
"But today," Vander continued, "we stand here not as shadows, but as neighbors. Not as tools, but as partners. We fought to be seen, and now, at last, we are."
The Zaunite crowd erupted again, some standing and raising their fists high. Vander allowed it this time, watching with satisfaction before speaking once more.
"This bridge," he said, turning slightly to gesture at the expanse beneath their feet, "was built to connect our worlds. But a bridge means nothing if no one dares to cross it. Let today be the first step, not of one city towering above another, but of two cities walking side by side."
For a moment, silence lingered. An uncertain, precarious silence. Then came more cheers from Zaun, rolling like thunder, while Piltover's applause remained scattered, polite at best.
Tarren felt the weight of it, the divide that no speech, however earnest, could erase in an instant. But in that moment, as the cheers and restrained applause collided across the bridge, Tarren couldn't shake the feeling that this is truly the day that marked the birth of Zaun.
The moment ended in triumph, or at least, it was supposed to. Vander's words had drawn their cheers, the bridge itself, especially on the side of Zaun, seemed to breathe with excitement.
But then—Click.
The sound cut through the noise, too sharp, too close.
Tarren's head jerked toward it. A man in the Piltovan section had risen from his seat, a pistol clutched in his shaking hand. His face was covered with sweat, his jaw clenched tight, but his eyes burned with pure hatred.
For an instant, no one moved. Then he leveled the pistol at Vander's head.
"You filths should stay where you belong!" the man shouted, his voice breaking. "No more—"
The trigger pulled.
The shot cracked through the air, smoke and fire spitting from the barrel. Vander didn't have time to react, his broad frame turning only slightly before the projectile was upon him.
Tarren's chest seized, panicking. In desperation to stop it, his hand flew up, and his fingers splayed.
The bullet screamed across the air—then stopped. Inches from Vander's temple, it froze, spinning as though suspended on invisible strings. Gasps tore through the crowd. Nobles clutched at one another, Zaunites stared wide-eyed, and silence devoured the space between heartbeats.
Tarren's arm trembled, veins in his hand glowing faintly as the metal warped under his will. The bullet crumpled, folding like foil, before dropping harmlessly to the floor with a dull clink.
The assassin blinked in disbelief, his pistol thrown away forcefully as Tarren moved his hand once more, before pointing towards the man.
"Arrest him!"
Then chaos erupted.
Zaunites roared, some leaping to their feet to save Vander himself from any more attempts, with their cries of outrage colliding with Piltover's shrieks of horror. Guards scrambled, Enforcers pushed forward to arrest the assassin, and the would-be killer was dragged down in a tide of fists and steel.
But none of it mattered.
Now, every eye was on Tarren.
His hand still hovered in the air, fingers shaking, breath ragged. The faint shimmer of anxiety clung to him like smoke, betraying what he had always buried, always hidden, now, due to desperation, revealed.
"Mage," someone whispered, the word slicing through the noise. Others echoed it, spreading from mouth to mouth until it hissed across the bridge like wildfire.
Amara had not moved. She sat poised in her chair, her smile sharpened into something predatory, her eyes never leaving Tarren.
"Well," she murmured, soft enough only for him, "That was enlightening."