Fangs ✶ Arcane.

𝟬𝟬𝟭 Dreamers From Piltover

Chapter One
DREAMERS FROM PILTOVER

𓃹

   Lysander Valehart had a peculiar habit of finding himself wandering the streets of the Undercity.

"One day, I hope these people will no longer be cast aside," Cressida murmured, her voice heavy with sorrow. "They have such beautiful minds, so many brilliant creations that will never reach our city because we've pushed them away." She frowned deeply, her sympathy for the people of Zaun etched across her face. To her, they were no different from the citizens of Piltover, save for the circumstances of their upbringing.

But after the war, everything had changed. Both Cressida and Lysander longed for a time when things felt simpler, when the divide wasn't so stark.

"Don't get your hopes up, Cress," Lysander replied softly, his tone resigned. His arm rested protectively around her waist as he guided her down the dimly lit street. "Our people are far too self-centered for that. It's rare for anyone from Zaun to rise above their circumstances and make it in Piltover."

"But it's so unfair," Cressida said, coming to an abrupt halt. Lysander stopped beside her, tilting her chin gently with his fingers to meet her gaze. Her frustration was written plainly in her expression, her glistening eyes betraying the emotions she struggled to contain. "I just wish they wouldn't always be fighting. I just want everything to go back to the way it was—back to before."

Lysander's jaw tightened as he held her gaze. "Cressida, even before the war, there was conflict between us. It might not have been as blatant, but Piltover and Zaun were never truly united. The divide has always been there, just less visible." He sighed, his voice softening as he tried to comfort her. "Please, don't burden yourself with something you can't change. Some things are simply out of our control."

Cressida's frown deepened, but she didn't argue. Instead, she turned her face toward the distant glow of Piltover's towers, their light starkly contrasted against the shadows of Zaun. Lysander's words were pragmatic, but she couldn't stop her heart from yearning for a world that might never exist—a world where the lines between the two cities blurred, where their people weren't so far apart.

Lysander watched Cressida carefully as her gaze lingered on the distant glow of Piltover, her shoulders tense with unspoken frustration. He wanted to offer her hope, but he wasn't the dreamer between them—Cressida was. She always had been. For every problem they encountered, she sought a solution, even when the odds were stacked against her. It was one of the things he admired most about her. But here, in the shadowed alleys of the Undercity, hope felt as fleeting as the pale light filtering through the cracks above. 

"We should keep moving," Lysander said softly, his hand still resting on her waist. He glanced down the narrow, winding path ahead, his sharp eyes scanning for any signs of trouble. "The dealer won't wait forever, and I'd rather not give anyone a reason to notice us lingering." 

Cressida nodded reluctantly, her fingers clutching the edges of her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The air in Zaun was heavier, tinged with the acrid scent of chemicals and machinery, so unlike the crisp, cool breezes of Piltover. As they walked, the hum of industrial activity grew louder, accompanied by the occasional hiss of steam or the distant clatter of gears. The Undercity never truly slept, its heart beating in time with its chaotic, unrelenting industry. 

"Do you really think this part is worth all the risk?" Cressida asked, breaking the silence between them. "I mean, sneaking down here, dealing with someone who likely has every reason to scam us..."