12. Ashes Over Water

Chapter 12 – Ashes Over Water

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POV - Marcus – Glimmerdocks Offensive

Glimmerdocks. 3:42 AM.

The rain didn't fall—it slammed. Thick drops beat down against steel scaffolds and broken rigging like war drums. Fog bled from the grates in the flooring, rising like ghosts between towers of rusted crates and riveted walkways.

Marcus pressed himself against a stacked shipping vault, his coat soaked, his breath short. Another pressure trap snapped off behind him, launching a blast of compressed steam that sent two enforcers skidding.

"Shields up! Advance in twos!"

He'd led plenty of urban strikes, but none like this. They hadn't marched into a slum. They'd walked into a war machine.

Metal-plated defenses had been welded into the bones of the dock—elevated kill-zones, spring-locked barricades, and trip-lever spike launchers guarding every stairwell. Even the old merchant rail cranes had been re-rigged into sniper nests with mounted bolt rifles.

One squad tried the left flank. A counterweight net launched upward from a hidden rail, snatching them mid-sprint. Screams echoed as one of the men thrashed, dangling upside-down like a fresh kill.

"They planned for this!" Marcus cursed.

"Who the hell trains street rats like this?"

He already knew the answer: Ashryn Virelle.

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"Captain!" shouted his lieutenant, ducking into cover beside him. "They're using barricade loops—classic Piltovan customs rigging, reinforced with scrap iron! No breach points!"

Of course they were. Ashryn hadn't built her city on ideals—she'd built it on function. Steel, smoke, and grit. And she'd turned these docks into a meat grinder.

His men were exhausted, battered. Every foot of ground gained was met with a spring mine, a bolt trap, or a precise volley from some bastard with the high ground.

"Fall back to Sector Three! Get out clean!" he ordered.

"We'll regroup at first light."

He hated the words. But he wasn't about to lose more men just to die in her gears.

As they retreated under cover, Marcus took one last look at the fog-choked scaffold maze.

This wasn't a gang's stronghold.

This was a city built to last.

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POV - Strath – Holding the Line

Upper Glimmerdocks Overlook. 3:58 AM.

Steam hissed from cracked valves as Strath stood in silence, the scent of rain and hot iron thick in his nostrils. Below, his men moved with precision—no panic, no wild firing. Each one knew their station.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Check the ballast lines. Reset the spiked gate. Leave a barrel trap on the central ramp."

His words, though quiet, traveled. On this dock, his voice still mattered.

He took a drag from his half-soaked roll and let the smoke drift past the brass pipes overhead. Somewhere below, another of Marcus's squads tripped a floorplate. The muffled crack of bone followed.

He smiled.

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Strath had once ruled these docks through fear. Protection money. Shady tolls. Imports smuggled in under false names. That was before the Ashenheart rose from the depths and Ashryn Virelle started redrawing the world.

He hadn't fought her. He'd surrendered first. Not because he was weak—but because he was smart.

"You can die a king of rats," she had told him, "or live as a steward of something real."

He'd taken the deal.

Now his men wore standard greaves and armor plates, not rags. His docks had shift schedules, intake logs, and a functioning freight registry. And tonight, they'd held the line.

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"Sector Three reporting clear," his aide called. "Marcus is pulling out."

"Keep the top rail mined. They'll test it again before long."

His aide hesitated. "Word from the tower. Minister Cael is reviewing your application."

Strath smirked. "Good. Get me a chair with a back. I'm tired of standing."

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Western Docks. 4:11 AM.

By the time Marcus's battered force reached the harbor, the rain had grown thinner—but the air stank of salt, rust, and smoke. Relief turned to tension the moment his boots hit the deck.

Something was wrong.

"Where's the gate team?"

"Sir… the flag's changed. That's not Piltover's seal."

Before Marcus could speak, a chain-net launcher erupted from a nearby crane. Three men dropped, tangled in steel.

Figures stepped from the smoke—armed, masked, cloaked in Virelle gray-blue.

Then came the voice:

"Leave your weapons, Marcus."

"You're trespassing."

He turned and saw them: Callum, crossbow in hand, hood shadowing young, sharp eyes—and beside him, a mountain of menace.

Sevika.

"You picked a bad night to run," she said.

Marcus gritted his teeth. "Damn rats ambushed us at our own fallback."

"Your fallback isn't yours anymore."

Another trap detonated. This one cracked a support beam. Marcus swore and signaled retreat.

"Back to Stillwater Hold! Move!"

The second retreat cost him more than the first.

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Sevika & Callum – Conquest of the Harbor

Western Harbor, Ten Minutes Earlier

POV - Callum & Sevika – The Harbor Raid

Western Harbor. 4:17 AM.

Salt wind lashed at their coats as Callum and Sevika stepped off the old freight track and into the underdocks. The world here was darker—quiet steel platforms suspended over deep, black water. Most of the lights had been intentionally killed.

Not a sound.

Then: crash. Sevika slammed her fist through a chained gate, scattering tools across the loading deck.

"Everyone freeze!" she barked.

"Hands off crates, faces on the floor!"

Startled workers dropped their tools. Two tried to run. One slipped on soaked wood. The other reached for a club—Sevika's boot met his chest and sent him sprawling.

Sevika's boots hit the gangplank with a dull thud. The harbor was half-shadow, lanterns casting orange halos through the mist. Ahead, a barricade rose from crates and chains—clearly reinforced.

"Customs hold is occupied. They've got someone in command," Callum said.

"Who?"

Before he could answer, the door slammed open.

Sheriff Grayson.

Still tall, still upright, armor gleaming with rank—but her eyes flicked between Sevika and the boy beside her.

"You've got some nerve walking into this port," Grayson said. "You and I have unfinished business."

Sevika chuckled. "Still barking orders for a city that doesn't listen?"

"You were with Vander once," Grayson muttered, not unkindly. "He wouldn't have let this mess happen."

"He's gone," Sevika said. "You should be too."

For a moment, silence. Then Grayson stepped forward.

"I'm not here to fight your war. But I'm not handing over my post to gutter thugs either."

Sevika sighed.

Then she moved.

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The fight was quick.

Grayson was good—better than Sevika remembered. Baton strikes flowed with practiced precision, her shield swings tight and calculated.

But Sevika had changed. Harder. Heavier. Smarter.

She blocked the baton with her reinforced gauntlet and countered with a body blow that knocked the wind from Grayson's chest.

Then came the second strike—spinning elbow to the side of the head. Grayson hit the ground hard.

She groaned but didn't rise.

"Keep her breathing," Sevika said, waving Callum forward. "She's not the enemy. Just outdated."

Callum didn't speak. He moved quickly through the crates, pulling aside smuggling covers. His gloved fingers flipped through a logbook, ink-stamped and manually rewritten.

> "Dock 17 Manifest – falsified merchant seal"

> "Cargo listed as processed ore, but it's scrap weapons"

> "Shipment originated topside – Highmarche ledger marks"

He passed it to Sevika, who read enough to know what mattered.

"Marcus's men are funneling black-market gear into the docks," she muttered.

"Look here," Callum said, flipping the next page. "Transfer signatures—fake names, but the crest markings are Piltovan. House-adjacent traders."

"Enforcer sympathizers."

Sevika knelt beside one of the crates, using a crowbar to pry it open. Inside were broken firelights, custom-modded chem pistols, and black iron fittings—cheap, lethal, illegal.

"Let's bring it back. Ashryn's going to want names."

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POV - Ashryn – Clock Tower Command Chamber, Ashenheart

Ashenheart Clocktower. 4:53 AM.

The war room pulsed with low light, dim gas-lamps casting flickers across a floor of brass and riveted steel. Ashryn stood alone, eyes on the mechanical map suspended over the city model. Gear-driven flag markers updated troop locations.

The rain had not let up.

Steam curled along the floorboards as pressure gauges clicked to life.

Glimmerdocks: Line held

Harbor: Secured

Contraband seized

Evidence recovered: paper logs, forged seals, merchant crests

She smiled.

"You came to cut my city," she whispered, "and left me a path to your suppliers."

Ashryn tapped the map gently. Glimmerdocks glowed green. The harbor blinked gold. Her sectors held—no shimmer, no cheats. Just bone and steel.

"Summon Cael, Sevika, and Callum for a full report. Tell Strath to report to the finance ministry for onboarding. He earned it."

The room acknowledged her in soft chimes.

She looked out the window. The rain was thinning. Light crept slowly through the clouds, silhouetting the rooftops and cranes of the city she'd built from the broken spine of Zaun.

"Let Piltover scheme and Silco rot," she said quietly.

"Virelle stands."

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