Ashes of Progress // Silco x OC

Prologue

"The guilty one 

is not he who commits the sin, 

but he who causes the darkness." - Victor Hugo

Seraphine Moreau. Once a nameless shadow in the undercity, she clawed her way to Piltover's heights, becoming an elite scientist, inventor, and professor. Her brilliance fueled Piltover's growth—elevating its economy, funding schools, hospitals, even reaching into the depths she came from. A name etched in steel: Seraphine Moreau, Piltover's Silver Star. Found dead, consumed by the chemical flames of her own failed experiment. A story destined to be remembered as one of Piltover's greatest tragedies.

I flicked the lighter open, watching the flame dance as if it had all the answers I was missing. Was I stalling? Or hoping I'd change my mind? I couldn't say. My eyes wandered across the lab—chemicals, glassware, everything meticulously arranged to look like an accident. Years of research, all my achievements... everything I'd given to this place. All of it, about to disappear.

A breeze drifted through the open window, brushing against my skin as I took one last look at the sunrise—the last one I'd ever see from here. A weight settled in my chest, a sense of loss I couldn't deny. It hurt to leave it all behind. But Piltover made a choice so I had made mine.

I snapped the lighter open and let it drop. The flames erupted, singing their eerie, mournful song. I walk away from the smoke and ash as Mavara, because Seraphine Moreau withered away.

Found dead, consumed by the chemical flames of her own failed experiment.

I left the burning lab behind, the flames crackling softly in the distance as they consumed everything that Seraphine Moreau had ever been. The streets of Piltover were quiet at this hour, bathed in the first rays of dawn. My footsteps echoed, steady and deliberate, my gaze fixed ahead. I had severed all ties, and there was no reason to look back.

The station came into view, a relic of Piltover's ambitions, built to connect worlds that rarely wished to meet. Piltover's shining heights, the undercity's depths—two halves forever at odds. I stepped onto the platform, slipping into the shadows as another group of commuters bustled past, oblivious to my presence.

The train arrived, the doors hissing open, and I boarded without hesitation. The carriage rattled as it descended, the glow of Piltover's golden towers fading into the cold blue of the underground. The further down we went, the thicker the air became, infused with the scent of smoke, chemicals, and decay. The familiar smell of the undercity I had long since forgotten.

This was the world I had left behind. And now, it was the world I returned to. No more Silver Star, no more illusions. Only Mavara—a name without legacy, without burdens. A shadow among many.

The train shuddered to a stop, the doors sliding open. I stepped off, breathing in the heavy, unfiltered air of the undercity. Thick, acrid, and reeking of metal and oil, it clawed its way into my lungs, making me cough as I adjusted the strap of my bag over my shoulder. I pulled my hood lower, letting the edges shield my face from prying eyes. The further I moved from Piltover's pristine towers, the heavier the world felt, every breath a reminder of where I had come from—and where I now stood.

I wasn't a stranger to this place. Not entirely.

I had been a child the last time I walked these streets, my hand clasped tightly in my father's as he led me through the crowds. Everything had seemed larger then—the buildings, the noise, the people. But now, the streets felt smaller, more oppressive, their corners choked with soot and shadows.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape my throat. This wasn't just a return to my childhood—it was a return to everything my parents had worked so hard to save me from.

I kept moving, staying close to the walls as I navigated the maze of alleyways and market stalls. People moved around me in waves, their faces hard and weary, their voices sharp as they bartered over scrap and salvaged goods.

I reached the market square just as the last rays of light faded, casting the streets in a dull, orange glow. The air buzzed with the hum of generators and the hiss of steam vents, punctuated by the occasional shout from a vendor. I kept my head down, scanning the stalls for anything useful.

It wasn't long before I found what I was looking for—a little building with rooms for rent.

"Looking for something?" the vendor asked, his voice gruff.

"Depends," I said, pulling out a small handful of coins. "Do you have a room?"

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to my hands before he reached under the table and pulled out a box. "Might have what you need. Not cheap, though."

"How much?"

He named a price that was almost insulting, but I handed over the money without hesitation. The faster I got what I needed, the less time I'd spend drawing attention to myself.

"You're new around here," he said as he pocketed the coins handing me the keys.

My chest tightened. "What makes you think that?"

He snorted, leaning against the table. "You've got that look. Fresh off the transport, probably from the topside. Thought you'd find something better down here, huh?"

I tensed, my fingers tightening around the edge of the box. "I'm not from the topside."

"Sure, sure," he said, waving a hand. "Whatever you say. Just don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong. The undercity isn't as forgiving as the towers you're used to."

I left quickly, even though the day just started I felt unbearably worn out already.

The room I had rented was small, barely more than a closet. The walls were streaked with grime, the air damp and cold. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a pale light over the cot and the makeshift workbench in the corner.

It was a far cry from the pristine lab I'd once called my own, but it would do.

I set the bag down and pulled out the tools and scrap I had collected. My notebook followed, its pages filled with sketches and calculations. The designs I had poured my soul into were here, safe and untouched.

But what good were they now?

I sat at the workbench, staring down at the copper coil in my hands. My parents' faces flashed in my mind—the warmth of my mother's smile, the roughness of my father's voice as he told me to aim higher, to do more. They had believed in me, believed in the future I could create.

And now they were dead, killed by the very system they had worked to support.

I clenched my fists, the coil biting into my palm. I had built the stabilizers to prevent accidents, to save lives. But Piltover had twisted my work, turned it into a weapon of control.

Langdon's voice echoed in my mind, smug and self-assured: "Her stabilizers ensure we maintain control over the undercity. Without them, the workers would riot."

The Council's words followed: "Progress requires sacrifice."

Sacrifice. As if my parents' lives had been some necessary toll for their ambitions.

I looked down at the coil in my hands, at the tools scattered across the table. My work wasn't finished. Not yet.

Piltover had taken everything from me. My parents, my name, my future—it was all gone. But I still had my mind. My skills. And if I was going to survive here, I would use them to tear down everything Piltover stood for.

It wouldn't be easy. The undercity wasn't just a home for the desperate—it was a battlefield. But I wasn't a child anymore, clutching my father's hand as he led me through these streets.