The Clockwork Heart (ViktorxOC)

Prologue : The Weight of Perfection

The morning sun poured through the ornate, stained-glass windows of the Devika estate, casting fractured beams of ruby, gold, and white across the marble floor. The air inside was as cool as the metal that ran through the veins of Piltover's heart, every inch of the manor reflecting the weight of its history. Here, in this house of marble and steel, progress was not merely a goal—it was a law. Khione Verena sat at her dressing table, its surface gleaming in the early light, and gazed into the reflection that stared back at her.

Her fingers, steady from years of practice, dipped into the small pot of gold powder that sat among her other cosmetics, each jar lined with filigree as intricate as the mechanisms her family had invented. She barely needed to look as she swept the brush over the bridge of her nose, hiding the faint freckles that dared to mar the smooth, pale surface of her skin. Imperfection had no place here.

The powder shimmered under the morning light, concealing the tiny marks that Khione loathed. She leaned forward, inspecting the effect with clinical precision. No trace remained. The freckles, those tiny flaws that so often betrayed her facade, were gone, buried beneath a thin layer of glittering gold. Only perfection remained.

Her father's voice echoed in her mind as she worked, as present in her memory as it had been in her childhood.
"Perfection is expected, Khione. You are not just a Devika—you are its future."
His words, sharp and cold as the wind that swept through Piltover's high towers, were etched into her very being. Every action, every thought, was guided by that singular command: to be perfect, to embody the legacy of House Devika, a family that had been there when Piltover's first great skyrails were raised, when the city's heart began to beat with the pulse of progress.

Her hair, a shimmering cascade of white-silver, lay spread out across her shoulders. Today, she would pin it up, woven with rubies and gold, as was tradition. It was expected. Everything in her life, from the delicate jewelry she wore to the way she walked, was an expectation, a demand that she carried with an unwavering grace. Yet, even as she moved with the effortless precision that had been drilled into her, there was a heaviness to the ritual, a weight that had grown over the years.

She sighed, her fingers moving with practiced ease as she began to gather the long strands of her hair. The ruby pins waited, gleaming beside her on the table, each one crafted with the same care that went into the mechanisms that powered Piltover's greatest innovations. Gears and cogs turned in the depths of the city, unseen by the noble eyes that looked only toward progress, but it was those small, intricate pieces that made everything move. Khione's life was much the same—meticulously constructed, every piece in its place, every imperfection hidden away.

With her hair pinned up, the final step of her transformation began. She reached for the gown that lay draped across her bed, its deep red fabric catching the light like a pool of blood. Gold embroidery wound its way along the edges, delicate patterns that resembled the designs of the automated tools her family had pioneered. The dress was a symbol of her heritage, the colors a mark of her status as the heir to House Devika. It was beautiful, of course. Everything she wore was beautiful. But beauty, in her world, was just another form of armor.

She slipped into the gown, the fabric clinging to her body with the same precision as the rest of her carefully curated life. As she fastened the final clasp at her waist, she glanced once more into the mirror. The woman who stared back at her was flawless—skin as smooth and pale as porcelain, eyes sharp and amber beneath perfectly arched brows, lips painted a deep, regal red. Her hair, now pinned and adorned with jewels, gleamed like silver under the morning sun.