Chapter 86: Isha's World

(I was starting to drink when I wrote this.)

From birth, Isha's family provided the best they could for her. However, the mines of Piltover were an unforgiving place—filled with chemrats, toxic fumes, gray smog, and abominations formed from Chemtech-induced mutations.

"Mommy, why don't we live where it's sunny?" Isha asked, not even five years old yet.

"We can't, sweety," her mother replied with a sorrowful expression. "It costs too much."

"So why don't we live outside the shiny buildings, beyond the walls?"

"It's dangerous. Lots of evil people, monsters, and no food!"

A snort came from across their tiny apartment as her father, donning his miner's cap, grabbed his pickaxe.

"Got something you want to say?" her mother shot back.

"We could've left years ago. There's plenty of food outside these walls, but you wanted to have a kid—"

Isha cupped her ears as her parents broke into a full-blown argument. Loud shouting escalated into physical cues, and she shut her eyes tight.

Despite these fights, which often left terrible memories and physical scars on both her parents, they never laid a hand on her. Even when their arguments shattered windows, drew knives, or smashed pottery, the violence never touched her.

But the psychological impact and abandonment did.

Around the time of Orion's imprisonment, her parents went missing. She had heard of the explosions in the Undercity. She had seen the brilliant flash of magical light. So when her parents never returned, her first thought was that they had been caught in whatever catastrophe had occurred.

Yet, when she asked around, she heard nothing—no one had answers.

She went to their workplace, where they sometimes brought her to wait while they delved for hours into the fissure, hoping for some news. Finally, she got her answer.

"Sorry, kid. They transferred to a different fissure," the mine's foreman told her.

Little did Isha know at the time, but this foreman was also part of a criminal family that would later—if Orion had never appeared—rise to become one of the Chembarons, all clad in dark suits with oversized chins.

"But... they're my mom and dad. They'll come back, right?"

The foreman wasn't a man without a conscience, and his expression darkened. His mouth opened for a moment before closing again. After a pause, he muttered, "Yeah, kid. But not anytime soon."

Looking down, tears forming in her eyes, Isha saw the foreman hesitate. He had witnessed situations like this too many times before. It was always heartbreaking, but he couldn't make exceptions for every forsaken child or starving soul—he had his own ambitions, his own escape plan from this wretched place.

Clink.

A small metal miner's cap for a child plopped onto Isha's head.

"Your parents are gone. But you still need to eat," the foreman said gruffly. "Go down these tunnels with the next crew and bring back the green, shiny rocks." He pulled out a dull, green-glowing stone. "And I'll feed you."

"Okay..." Isha sniffled between sobs, unable to find words for the tangled mess of emotions in her chest. Her tiny hands gripped a miniature, yet still heavy, pickaxe. Her small frame struggled to bear its weight.

Indeed, she was fed. But like many in her situation, it was stale bread and poor-quality scraps. Occasionally, someone would take pity on her, slipping her extra food. But more often than not, she was alone—swinging her pickaxe in the darkness between shifts of indifferent workers.

Perhaps it was the trauma, or the toxic fumes, but Isha spoke less and less, resorting instead to hand signs. Strangely, the other miners picked up on this and began using it too. It was easier than forcing words through pained throats or speaking with stripped vocal cords from the noxious air. Soon, it became commonplace.

What began as a simple means of communication among the miners slowly evolved. Over time, however, this sign language was warped—repurposed for criminal activity in the Undercity. By the time Isha was old enough to meet Orion, it was widely used, but few knew its true origins beyond the simple phrase: "It came from the fissures."

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On her eleventh birthday, the same foreman gave Isha three copper coins and granted her the day off.

How did he know it was her birthday? Well, before she had lost her voice, he had asked.

Had she stopped speaking due to trauma? The toxins? No one really knew. But she remained silent. Perhaps the only solace she found was that her handsigns had become something useful—something that others appreciated. And so, she continued.

That was the day she ventured topside for the first time.

She recalled her parents' fights, their longing for a better life, and her childish questions about the world beyond the mines.

Yet, as she wandered the upper city, she realized that everything was too expensive.

"Get lost, you filthy sewage rat!" a shop owner sneered, shoving her away, eyes full of disgust as they swept over her dirty clothes and disheveled appearance.

"Three copper? This isn't charity. Scram."

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY STALL!" A hot frying pan swung through the air. Isha ducked just in time and scrambled away. "I'd rather die than serve one of your kind!"

"Was that necessary?" a customer asked with mild disdain.

"I lost my wife and kids because of their riots," the shopkeeper spat. "That little imp can find scraps somewhere else."

Pain twisted in Isha's chest, dull aches spreading through her body. It wasn't new, but it still hurt.

'Why is everyone so mean? Do I really deserve this...? Is there more to life than this?' Isha thought, her hurt mind clouded with emotions.

The questions swirled in her mind, shifting into something darker, something colder.

'I don't deserve this. The others I work with don't deserve this. They have everything while we have nothing.'

Her fingers curled into fists.

That was when she spotted him- a lone figure on a bench, eating meat skewers.

And so, her strange adventures with Orion began.

(Y/N for another chapter on Isha's perspective)