I Pray to Gold

One

The corridors of Piltover's Council building were a labyrinth of shadow and silence. Orin moved like a ghost through the darkness, his footsteps light and deliberate, the only sound the faint whisper of his breath against the cold stone walls. A hood concealed his face, casting his features into shadow, and in his right hand, he gripped a small, sharp knife—a meager comfort against the dangers that lurked behind every corner. An empty sack hung loosely over his shoulder, waiting to be filled with whatever he could steal from the heart of Piltover's power.

Orin had no business being here. This was a place for the powerful, the untouchable, the ones who played with lives as though they were pieces on a board. And yet, here he was, a nobody from the Undercity, with nothing but desperation and foolish bravado driving him forward. He moved carefully, feeling the weight of his own recklessness with every step, the sting of adrenaline keeping his senses sharp.

The walls around him were lined with opulent paintings, depictions of Piltover's history and the men and women who built it. Their painted eyes seemed to follow him as he passed, silent witnesses to his intrusion. Orin sneered beneath his hood—these were the faces of people who had never known hunger or fear, whose power came from gilded halls and bloodless deals. People who would never understand the world he came from.

A flicker of light caught his eye, far down the corridor, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Guards. Orin's heart kicked up its pace, the cold spike of panic threatening to freeze him in place. He glanced around, his mind racing for an escape. The footsteps were getting closer, each echo like a ticking clock counting down his chances. There was no time to think, only act.

Orin spotted a door to his right, its heavy wooden frame barely visible in the dark. Without hesitation, he lunged for it, shoving it open just enough to slip inside. He pulled the door shut behind him with a quiet click, pressing his back against the wood as he strained to hear the approaching guards. The flicker of torchlight passed beneath the doorframe, then slowly faded away. Orin let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his grip on the knife tightening.

For a moment, he stood in the dark, the silence wrapping around him like a cloak. He couldn't afford mistakes like that. One wrong move, one flicker of light catching his face, and this could all end with him rotting in a cell. Or worse.

Orin had stepped into another world entirely. The library stretched before him like a cathedral of knowledge, towering shelves filled with countless volumes of leather-bound books that whispered of power and secrets. The roof soared high above, so distant that it seemed lost in shadows, supported by columns that spiraled into the darkness. Three levels, he counted, with staircases crisscrossing up and down like the web of some great, unseen spider. It was a place that defied the grime and grit of the streets outside, a fortress of thought and privilege that he could barely comprehend.

Then, another flicker of light caught his eye, faint and warm—a soft, yellowish glow that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat in the darkness. Orin pulled his hood further down, casting his face deeper into shadow. His fingers tightened around the knife, the familiar weight anchoring him to the present, a sharp reminder of the danger he was in. He moved cautiously, weaving between towering bookshelves that loomed over him like silent sentinels. The air was heavy with the musty scent of old paper, ink, and candle wax, mingling in a way that felt both foreign and oddly comforting.

As Orin reached the far corner of the room, he paused by a large circular bay window, the moonlight barely visible through the thick glass. The window cast a faint glow around him, mingling with the warm yellow light of a lone candle burning on a nearby table. He was hidden here, shrouded in shadows and far from prying eyes.