5. Shadow Stirs
POV: Ashryn
The system hovered before her—silent, waiting, alive.
She stood in the war room alone, the Clocktower dim except for the soft pulse of Virellite in the walls. Her coat hung loose from her shoulders. One hand on her hip, the other flicking through the ghost-light menus.
> [SHOP PANEL OPENED]
Filter Applied: Origin – Subordinates
Type: Superpower, Blueprint
DP Balance: 22,900
She tapped four items.
> [✓] Photographic Memory – 12,000 DP
Source: Lynne
[✓] Blueprint: Quantum Computer – 5,000 DP
[✓] Blueprint: Countum Server – 1,800 DP
[✓] Blueprint: Jarvis (AI Framework) – 4,000 DP
> Total: 22,800 DP
Remaining: 100 DP
Proceed? [Y/N]
"Yeah," she said softly. "Let's begin."
> [CONFIRMED]
[Photographic Memory – Superpower Installed]
[Blueprints Acquired: Stored in Mental Archive]
▸ Decryption Required for Construction
▸ Skill Synergy: Mechanical Engineering Recommended
Ashryn exhaled.
A ripple passed through her mind—quiet at first, then sharp. Her own memories began to shift, not multiply, but solidify. Crisp. Permanent. She could now recall—not replay. Every map she'd glanced at, every name spoken during the speech, every flick of someone's expression—locked in. Hers forever.
And then came the blueprints.
Not machines. Not yet. Just lines in her head—foreign, elegant, complex. Schematics that whispered in languages she half-understood.
Quantum logic lattices. Modular AI pathways. The curved lattice of a Jarvis neural shell.
She couldn't build them. Not yet. But now, she knew where to begin.
Ashryn grinned, stepping away from the interface as it faded from her sight.
"Alright then," she muttered. "Let's draw the future first… build it after."
---
POV: ???
Boots echoed through the cavernous steel underpass of the Main Harbor Command Post, a temporary Piltovian structure hastily erected where the Glimmerdocks met the shimmer-stained canal edge. New spotlights buzzed overhead—far too bright for Zaun's usual gloom.
Piltover banners fluttered on half-rusted poles.
The enforcer patrol moved in silence—orderly, efficient, and unwelcome. They filed past crates, checkpoints, and reactivated lift bays until they entered the reinforced command center at the core of the hold.
A senior enforcer snapped a salute. "Sir. Stillwater lockdown complete. No resistance."
The man seated at the operations desk barely glanced up.
"Continue," he said.
"Supply chains secured. The main docks and bridges are under watch. We've also begun occupying the old smuggler tunnels that connect toward the Lanes."
The enforcer hesitated.
"And the theft," he added. "The hexcrystals from the lab… witnesses point to a group of Zaunite youths. Vander's old lot."
A faint twitch in the captain's jaw.
"Names?" he asked.
The officer checked his notes. "Vi. Mylo. Claggor. Powder."
The man finally looked up.
Captain Marcus.
Polished Piltovian issue. Not a speck of rust or soot on his white-gold uniform. Face clean-shaven, voice clipped, eyes like carved glass—sharp, but tired.
A man of the city.
Of Piltover.
And one who would've happily never stepped foot in Zaun again.
But here he was. Again.
He stood slowly, approaching the central table. On it, glowing map points flared to life—Clocktower, Lanes, Stillwater, and Sump.
"We're not here to police petty thieves," he said flatly. "We're here because that Clocktower lit up like a bloody sun."
He tapped a blinking marker over Virelle.
"This? This is trouble. And if the Council had any backbone, we'd be sending soldiers, not scouts."
The officer frowned. "Do we inform Silco?"
Marcus paused.
Silco.
He hated saying that name. Hated needing him. Hated that he owed him.
But Silco still ran half of Zaun in truth—even if the girl on the tower thought she could change that.
Marcus exhaled through his nose.
"No," he said at last. "Not yet. Let's see how this new 'queen' of theirs moves first."
He stared one last time at the flickering tower display, eyes narrowing.
"Deploy the full division to Glimmerdocks and Stillwater. Quiet occupation. No alarms. Keep our powder dry."
He turned away.
"And send scouts to the Lanes. If Vander's brats are involved… I want them found."
He didn't add the last part aloud—but he thought it.
"And silenced."
Their tent flapped open and after seeing who came marcus saluted, though didn't have much of respect and asked," is there a reason for your presence Sheriff Greyson?"
Sheriff Greyson who entered looked around and said to Marcus," Nothing major captain you carry on."
Marcus sneered at her said," hope you won't interfere with council orders Sheriff Greyson you've been protecting them long enough."
---
[Silco's POV – Undercity Labs, One Week Prior to Present]
The stench of chemicals hung thick in the air—acrid, cloying, alive.
Silco stood in the dim glow of a shimmer vat, the purple fluid churning beneath its glass shell like a living storm. Tubes pulsed along the walls. Gears hissed. He watched with sharp, flickering eyes as Singed adjusted a regulator dial.
It let out a hiss.
The mixture turned more vibrant.
Perfect.
Singed glanced up briefly. "It's stable. Stronger. But side effects remain."
Silco inhaled deeply, savoring the sharpness. "Pain sharpens loyalty. Just keep them functional."
Behind them, a pair of test subjects—half-broken men twisted by weeks of augmentation—groaned as shimmer coursed through their veins. Purple flickered beneath their skin. Their eyes glowed.
Weapons.
Monsters.
Both.
"Have them outfitted and sent to the factories," Silco said. "Keep them out of the streets—for now."
Singed didn't answer, already documenting results with surgical precision.
Silco turned to the wall map of Zaun. Pins marked Sump, Lanes, Glimmerdocks, and now—Virelle.
A new power was rising.
He knew the girl behind it. Ashryn Virelle. Clever. Calculating. Charismatic. A rare kind of dangerous.
"Let her light her tower," Silco muttered. "That light will cast a very long shadow."
He pulled a lever. The next batch of shimmer poured into containment.
Zaun was changing. So he'd change faster.
---
[Vander's POV – The Lanes, One Week Prior to Present]
The familiar clang of hammers rang through the forge.
Vander stood near the scaffolding that overlooked the Lanes. Smoke curled from the chimneys below. Kids ran deliveries. Runners dashed between rooftops. The people were working again—not just surviving.
He leaned on the railing, arms crossed.
The speech from the Clocktower still echoed in his head. Ashryn's words. Her promise of a better Zaun.
He didn't hate it.
But he didn't trust it either.
Not yet.
Not after what he'd seen ten years ago.
Inside the old warehouse behind him, Benzo and a few old-timers sorted crates—food, tools, medical supplies. Every neighborhood under his protection was getting a share. The Lanes had always been his, and he'd be damned if they starved under someone else's banner.
He turned as Sevika climbed up the stairs.
"Still no movement from Piltover," she said, catching her breath.
"Not yet," Vander replied. "But they will. This quiet won't last."
Sevika leaned beside him, eyes scanning the horizon. The glow of the Clocktower was visible even from here.
"You think we back her?" she asked softly.
Vander didn't answer right away.
"We hold the Lanes," he finally said. "We keep our people fed. Trained. Ready."
"Not for her," he added. "For us."
Vi gave a short nod, accepting that.
Below, the people kept working. Quietly, diligently. Vander's people.
If war came, they wouldn't be pawns. Not again.
---