3. The Shadow Dock

983 AN

Aug 23

Zaun - The Shadow Dock

The air was thick with rust, rot, and anticipation. Somewhere beneath the cracked belly of Zaun, below even the smog-choked streets and flickering neon gutterlights, the Shadow Dock stirred.

Black market crates lined the wet stone walls—each humming faintly with volatile distillates, stripped tech parts, or rare chem-compounds. Men leaned against broken scaffolding with rifles across their laps, bored, twitchy, and ill-fed. The water below the walkways was more sludge than liquid, glistening like oil with every ripple from docked boats. There were nearly twenty men in total—some loitering, some on patrol, all on edge.

Then came the sound—footsteps.

Unhurried.

Sharp.

Rhythmic.

One of the guards stood straighter. "You hear that?"

"Pipe echo, maybe."

"Nah," another muttered. "Too clean."

The first to see her almost didn't believe it. A silver-haired figure in a black overcoat with neon linings walked straight down the center plank, not flinching at the puddles, the stink, or the guns now raised in her direction. Her hair shimmered in the dim light, and those glowing cerulean eyes didn't blink once.

Ashryn smiled like she had a secret and the rest of the dock was too slow to catch on.

"Evening, boys," she called, voice bright, echoing across the cavernous space. "Lovely night for a monopoly bust, don't you think?"

The guards raised their weapons.

She stopped. Then grinned wider. "Alright, let's dance."

The dock erupted in gunfire.

Ashryn was already in motion—diving sideways off the plank, drawing her twin pistols in a blink. Her coat flared as she hit the metal siding, using it for cover while her guns barked back with pinpoint precision. Sparks flew. Bullets slammed into barrels, pillars, bodies.

A guard on the crane catwalk tried to line up a shot—Ashryn snapped her wrist, sent a round straight through his scope and into his helmet. Another ducked behind a crate, only for a ricochet to catch him in the knee. Three more tried to flank her from the left, only to eat suppressive fire that pinned them in place.

She advanced with fluid grace—roll, shoot, crouch, pivot.

Seven down in under thirty seconds.

Not dead—disabled, wounded, dazed. She made sure of it. Most of them weren't worth killing. Not yet.

As the last rifle clicked empty, a beefy thug lunged with a pipe wrench, roaring. Ashryn holstered both guns mid-run and slammed her shoulder into his gut. He stumbled back—then she was on him.

She twisted under his swing, grabbed his wrist, and flipped him over her shoulder with brutal force. Another came at her with a baton—she sidestepped, elbowed him in the throat, and used his momentum to send him tumbling into a stack of crates.

A third man tried to tackle her. He got a boot to the chest and a palm strike to the nose. Blood sprayed.

Now she was grinning. Sweating. Alive.

Two more rushed together. She ducked a punch, caught a wrist, twisted, kneed the attacker in the gut, and spun to catch the second one across the jaw with the butt of her pistol. His knees buckled.

The dock fell silent.

Ten men were down from gunfire. The remaining half were groaning on the floor or unconscious after her assault. A few had managed to crawl behind crates, whimpering.

Ashryn adjusted her coat, cracked her neck, and climbed up to the main control post—a creaky metal platform above the primary dock crane—and took a moment to catch her breath. Wind rustled her coat like a flag. She looked down at the sea of crates and leaking barrels with narrowed eyes.

From the shadows behind, a cautious voice spoke.

"Is it... done?"

Ashryn didn't turn around. "Cael, your timing is impeccable."

He stepped beside her, lean and serious as ever. His light brown hair was slightly tousled, and the flickering lights reflected off his lighter brown complexion. His black eyes took in the carnage below without flinching.

"You said you wanted it clean. This isn't clean."

"It's cleaner than it was. And the rats ran, didn't they?"

Cael sighed. "You know Strath's going to hear about this."

"He already has," she said, tossing him a comm-link device she pulled from one of the guards. "Also, I assume his last land route is officially closed?"

Cael nodded. "The deal with the Ironglass smugglers was rerouted through us an hour ago. He's cornered."

Ashryn gave a low chuckle. "Then he'll come crawling."

Cael didn't smile, but his eyes flickered with amusement. "You're infuriating."

"That's the idea."

She walked to the edge of the platform and looked down at the glistening sludge, her expression growing distant. Her hand rested over the insignia on her back. Her mind racing far beyond.

She knows that while piltover will be foolish enough to ignore the upcoming storm, the zaunites will start noticing it soon. And whether they like it or not it's about time that Zaun moved on and became Virelle. And people who don't like to change has no place in The City of Change.

Behind her, Cael asked, "Was it worth the dipot?"

Ashryn's grin returned. Sharp. Ironic.

"Worth it? That depot was a warning shot. This—" she gestured at the dock, now eerily silent, "—this is me firing back."

Then, softer: "Besides... it's not about worth. It's about message. This dock used to choke on Strath's rot. Now it's mine. Now it's clean."

Cael raised an eyebrow. "'Clean' is a strong word."

"Give it a week," she said with a wink. "Maybe two."

She walked off the platform with that same unhurried rhythm she'd arrived with. The gang would hear. The barons would murmur. And Piltover, high above and blind below, would continue to ignore the shift.

But in the depths of Zaun, where power meant blood and respect walked on boot heels, something had changed.

The city hadn't crowned a queen.

But it had just been warned one was coming.

Far above the dock, the pipes moaned like distant thunder. Somewhere beyond, the rest of the city breathed and struggled, unaware that one corner of its underbelly had just been carved out by fire, fists, and a girl with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.