Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

TW: Mention of aggression and enforcer misconduct.

Grace Nightingale. 

She belonged to a prestigious house and a family that had decided when she would take her first steps when she was an infant till the coffin her wrinkled body would lay. Anybody could feel asphyxiated by the thought of it, but Grace pushed those aside for the sake of her mind. 

Her servant, Julie, a couple of years older than her, would walk with her through the Innovation Park. Once a week, they would collect a bouquet at Rose's Collection near Main Street. 

That day, she chose daisies. 

On their way home, she would admire the colorful leaves dancing in the air when the sun fell on the horizon, and her thoughts lingered on how much she loved it there. Piltover, the City of Progress. Grace's beloved home. 

Although the sight was splendid, it was their cue to leave. 

Back to the Nightingale's manor, Julie handled the bouquet of daisies knowing what to do and Grace walked straight to the dining room. It was just time for them to have supper. 

Everything ran smoothly. She was already sitting with her parents, discussing trivial things about her day. 

They waited, but Sebastian’s absence started to become part of the routine due to his new schedules, so they started their dinner.

Her older brother got into the military academy three years ago. Despite the first year being easy, now Sebastian’s new position had him occupied and he disappeared from the family schedule. So dinner became the only time they could share some words with him. 

Although Sebastian could act like an overbearing idiot, Grace missed him dearly. 

At the growing sensation of melancholy in her heart, the brunette started her meal. The filet mignon, cooked to tender perfection melted in her mouth, its caramelized crust brought her to heaven.

The steak was paired with buttery mashed potatoes, their golden edges crisped just right.  And on the side, asparagus spears, she could see they were lightly seasoned and sauteed to retain a delicate crunch.

Every element was carefully balanced resulting in such a luxurious yet comforting dish.

Grace tried her best not to hum as a sign of approval unless she wanted another table etiquette lesson right there.

“... Ms. Kiramman won the first prize at the shooting competition. Grace, I wish you were there to witness it. That kid has shown excellency, out coming Captain Grayson, can you believe it?” Her father mentioned. She could see his excitement through his smile. He was a shooter himself, loved to hunt, and tried to get her to practice with him, but she never showed genuine interest in it. 

The cold feeling of a gun in her hands and the hunting eye following an animal. A target. She couldn't get the grip of it. 

Grace learned what was necessary to keep her dad satisfied. 

“She will be eleven this year, am I correct?” Grace asked.

“After New Year's.” This time, her mother corrected with good humor. 

Grace's mother was always in a distant mood, dealing with the family’s line of work, Nightingale Express, a shipping and delivery service—a legacy that Grace expected it to be hers. So it was astonishing to see her with a little smile lighting up her face as the world turned around to her advantage. 

Grace's sight landed on her father’s, looking for an explanation but his eyes broke contact immediately.

That was out of the ordinary. 

Before she could ask, the front door opened and closed followed by loud steps and the family's sight followed the blue navy uniformed man who couldn't stop throwing insults into the air. 

“Sebastian, dear, you're here.” Her mother said back in her distant façade. 

Her brother addressed their mother when passing by her, then, he planted a kiss on her forehead. Grace could tell Seb smelled terrible by how her mother’s nose pinched in disgust. 

Another delightful bite of steak to avoid showing off a mocking smirk.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Seb said, taking his regular seat at the table. His dirty blonde hair looked like a mess after he took off his helmet, and placed the item on his lap. His uniform seemed a bit crumpled. “The lieutenant sent my team to make rounds around the Undercity slums. Those filthy animals.”

Grace looked up at Seb, her gray eyes betraying shock by the choice of words. 

“Brother, don't you think it's disrespectful to refer to them in that way?” Her comment caught his attention but he simply started his meal as soon as their mother continued hers. 

“You would have to see it to understand what I mean, sis.” Seb's eyes darkened with annoyance as he replied.

Her parents seemed not to care much about his derogatory statement but listened to him.

Seb became very expressive about the Undercity and its people: How disgusting it was down there; the constant smell of cigarettes, piss, and blood everywhere. How he had to fight one of them dirty individuals to teach them a lesson. That they could only understand with a beat-up lesson, just like animals do. 

She could feel her grip tightened around the utensils, uncomfortable. That feeling didn't go away even when she was back in her room, dressed in her silk undergarments with Julie’s help, who closed the door leaving her alone for the night. 

Alone with her thoughts: "I heard how uncivilized the Undercity people are, but hearing it from Seb was… Different. I felt his disdain and hatred against them. Is it true? Is it that bad?”

“You would have to see them to understand what I mean, sis,” Seb’s comment replayed in her mind. 

Grace's body turned around on her bed, feeling the soft blanket welcoming her for the night. The moonlight dimmed in her room sweetening the ambience and then, something unexpected in her clicked with determination. 

A desire to comprehend the differences between both cities. 

A week went by, and Grace did not think it would be an easy task. 

“Why would you want to go to the Undercity in the first place? Do me a favor and concentrate on your studies.”

“Yes, mother.”

Her mother's immediate but predictable negative along with the enforcement patrolling around Piltover's limits were challenges she refused to back down from.

As soon as the night fell and Julie left her bedroom, Grace dressed up quickly in comfortable attire for her secret mission. 

Escaping the manor wouldn't be a problem either. Seb and Grace used to sneak around when they were just kids, running away in mischievous laughs from her mother's tasks and chasing her dad once he came back from business at the end of the day to receive a long lecture. 

The Nightingale siblings were ridiculous little beings, to say the least. 

Opening her room’s window, she got to see the river Pilt in the distance: the reflection of the moon swimming in slow waves as some birds flew over a ship almost close to the shore. Another beautiful sight Piltover had to provide.

Quietly, she left the window almost closed. The coffee-tone tiles sounded in low clacks when her boots pressed on them and carefully, she continued her way to the nearest tree whose height was taller than the second floor of the manor. 

As soon as her feet touched the grass, she hid behind the trunk. The tip of her fingers tickled funnily and her hands accommodated the hood of her cloak, hiding her brown hair under it.

Now she needed to find her way to Piltover's limits with the Undercity.

Asking the right questions in a caring tone, she got a hold of valuable information. 

“I did not know they required numerous guards for watch duty.” Grace mentioned once she found her brother in the hallway. 

It was early morning and she expected him to be there after a long night at the bridge. 

“Funny enough. They only have one by the elevator, but nobody goes there after ten. Who would risk their well-being going to the Lanes?” Seb scoffed. His body facing the great window in the hall, she could watch the dark bags under his pale eyes, seemingly tired.

“Oh, really?” Her voice tone did an excellent job hiding the excitement crawling under her skin. 

“Yeah. Warren always takes a nap, he's lucky to get such a boring position. I don't even think he does his job correctly… What a lazy bastard.” Seb commented almost in a whisper. They both knew how to keep appearances, but Seb seemed to grow tired of it. 

The memory finished playing when she got to the elevator area that connected both cities. 

If Sebastian was right, Warren wouldn't be a problem. 

The enforcer’s snoring was loud, even if he was in the cabin. It was surprising he never got in trouble for sleeping at the job, but there was no one around and the moment was right. The elevator was not locked, thanks to Warren's indolent behavior. 

Getting herself in, she felt her heartbeat fastened in a matter of seconds. Was she going to do it? As soon as the horn sounds and the button is pressed, she will discover the rest of Piltover’s land. 

“Now or never, Grace.” She whispered when the ship announced its arrival on the shores. Warren didn't wake up—he was probably used to the loud horn or a heavy sleeper. 

She pressed the button and the elevator squeaked its way down. Slowly, but safely. 

Grace held her breath until it escaped from her lips as soon as the elevator’s door slid. In front of her, a different world under the canyons appeared. 

Piltover was beautiful and rare to say, it was prosperous, and even in the dark of the night, it shone with magnificent convention. However, the Undercity seemed… neglected. 

Smoke could be found everywhere and Grace coughed because of it.

Stepping out of the elevator covering her face with her arm, she noticed the warm lighting that tinted the whole place and when she looked up, the moon was nowhere to be found.

Grace was deep in the Underground, the Lanes, to be exact.

Walking further, she began to understand why her parents showed no interest in going there. But that did not stop her, it encouraged her indeed. 

Grace’s eyes jumped from one individual to another. Each was unique in its way, but she had to stop herself from detailing them the moment they noticed her presence. 

Her body felt stiff and her steps fastened. Not so far away, the warm light intensified and she was able to read the place’s name. People went in and out in a good rhythm, it seemed to be a popular spot. 

Thud! 

“My apo-…” Her words lingered in the air when she looked up at the big figure in front of her. A serious but intimidating expression where those eyes switched into an unexpected anger that made her feel small. 

“A Piltie, huh?” His scratchy voice gave her goosebumps. Now, she felt the weight of her actions lay on her shoulders. 

Taking a step back, she mumbled some words but the man seemed to not care about her intentions there. 

Grace needed to act. To scare him. Her right hand was slowly making its way to her hip where her father's gun lay—a personalized gift she received at the age of sixteen, placed on her bedroom shelf as a decorative piece.

Before she could even get a chance, the man’s hand grabbed her wrist in a quick but strong hold. Grace gasped.

“Let me go!” She protested, gray eyes looking around screaming for help, but nobody listened. Finally, her sight lay on a young man who had just exited the bar, he saw her for a brief moment but imitated the group’s behavior. 

“Got gold in ya?”

“They’re like animals, some thrashing will make them understand their place.” Seb’s words appeared again as a solid reminder. She wasn't the animal, it was him. Her free hand was directed to her gun, determined to do what it meant necessary for her survival. 

“Whatever you're doing, leave it,” Grace stopped, as if someone just warned her. Her fingers touched the cold metal for a second before retrieving it. The man didn't look at her anymore, but slightly behind him, where the voice spoke again. “This won't bring you or your family any good,” her aggressor’s semblance transformed into a nuisance, but he let go of her wrist.   

Grace hid her shaking hands behind her back, and as reality hit her like a cold bucket of water, she felt terrified. They would outnumber her as soon as she pointed her pistol towards him. What was she even thinking? 

Her respiration was irregular, but kept it quiet. Her heart wanted to jump out of her chest at any second. She watched both men talking, recognizing one of them as the young man who ignored her at first, but there he was, proving her wrong.

“... Not yet.” His voice full of conviction, convinced her aggressor to leave, not without mumbling some insults towards her.

It was probably the tension of the moment but Grace contemplated the opportunity of running away. Back to the pleasing Piltover, to the comfort of her home. She saw enough. 

The brunette stepped back, but the man looked at her severely. 

Grace swallowed a small squeak when he got closer to her, allowing her to appreciate the pair of teal-blue iris tinted in interest. His ink-black hair was tied in a small bun, where some strands fell gracefully around his sharp face. His attire was casual, but it was layered with taste. 

"One would think that self-preservation was an inherited trait, but it seems most still lack it,” he spat the comment with a touch of venom, but his expression stayed the same. Always reserved. “I suggest you fix your cloak. That fancy gun won't get you out of trouble if you're not fast enough.”

Looking down to her hip, she noticed the shiny silver radiating against the warm street lights. Grace did not want to admit it, but she followed his advice. Her brown cloak covered her whole body again. 

Grace did not know if she should thank him. One part of her curled up in embarrassment and considering his condescending attitude towards her, Grace’s pride intensified. 

“Why did you help me?” The question escaped from her lips and the stranger snorted with mockery.

“As much as I would like to enjoy seeing a topsider getting ridiculed, it wouldn't be smart,” the man commented with a smirk appearing on his face but disappearing in a severe expression. “We do not need more problems coming from you.”

Grace stayed silent, feeling a hundred eyes looking precisely at her. The air around felt dense, so she took a deep breath. 

“I didn't mean to cause problems.” She murmured, purposely. 

“Then, what could be a topsider’s motivation to be here? Just passing by, perhaps?” His tone mocked her again, but Grace recognized there was no point in lying to get her way out of there. 

“I came to learn,” she answered with conviction. “About the Undercity.” 

The man’s expression stayed cold, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity, replaced with annoyance within seconds. 

“You should go.” His comment was an order disguised as advice. His teal-blue eyes met hers again, finding insecurity and uncertainty that he couldn't blame her for. 

Grace wanted to say something, but she was interrupted by the presence of a female voice. 

“Aye, Silco! You're taking the longest with that cigarette. You comin’ back?” Grace looked over his shoulder, finding a dark-haired woman by the entrance of the bar. Her smile only enhanced the beauty of her features. 

The man, Silco, simply turned to his side and said: “No, I will see you tomorrow. Something came up.” Grace noticed the woman's face frowning in confusion but nodded in answer. “Let's go.” 

“Uh?” She mumbled, watching him pass her by. 

“If you wish to leave on your own, be my guest.” He mentioned walking away. 

At that moment, Grace looked around her. Some of the people already left, but those who were still around didn't seem comfortable with her being there. 

The brunette did not hesitate and took a couple of long steps to get to him. Walking next to him, made her notice how tall he was compared to her. She was used to her heels giving her a couple of inches, but heels weren't comfortable for what she planned. 

As they made their way back; a couple of coughs escaped from her lips, a result of the dense fume around. Clearing her throat, she glanced at the man to check if he would pick on that, but nothing came out of his mouth.

Grace wouldn't mind it, but her nerves were eating her alive and she felt the urge to talk to dissipate them. 

“So… Silco, am I right?” The black haired hummed in approval but didn't seem so happy to be acknowledged by her. “That man. I understand he seemed in need of financial help, but I did nothing to him! Why would he act so…” 

Brute? The term came up quickly to her mind, but the word never made its way out of her mouth.

“... Rude?” Grace finished her sentence when she noticed Silco's brow arched expectant. His hands were in his leather jacket, and he dismissed nonchalantly. 

“Topsiders aren't exactly welcomed here.”

“Why?” Grace asked quickly, noticing how Silco's shoulder became stiff, and his expression turned upset. 

“If curiosity surpasses you, then feel free to stay and witness Piltover's wrongful enforcement in the Lanes.”

Wrongful enforcement? It couldn't be. 

The Undercity’s crime rate was higher by 65% excluding what was known colloquially, the fissures. Piltover's crime rate was barely existent, with a 2% that commonly occurred within its limits with the Underground. She remembered such information from Alaric Kattenhorn’s article. 

He was an enforcer in his twenties and became an honored captain past his forties. With his prestigious reputation, he got the opportunity to educate other Piltovans about the Undercity's nature and the enforcement’s safety methods. 

But as Grace saw earlier that week, her brother confessed to beating up someone from Undercity but never explained his need behind such action other than putting the so-called trencher in his place. Nor did any of them ask him why. 

Wrongful enforcement. 

The walk continued and Grace noticed how long it was, one thing she ignored once she got there. 

Grace looked up at Silco and detailed his profile, he possessed charming features. When that thought crossed her mind, her hands touched her pants, cleaning the excess of sweat. It had to be the result of her adrenaline due to the early altercation. 

“I am sincere about my motivations,” she mentioned confidently, catching his attention again. “You seemed kinder, and I am eager to learn more about you–your people and the Undercity,” she fixed her words quickly, keeping her interest moderate. “Would it be possible to meet again?”

Silco's solemn face turned to hers, his eye contact was uncordial, and a familiar feeling of burden arose in her body, as if she made a terrible mistake.

“You should stay in your gilded cage,” another order. “Blessed with safety and ignorance.”

Concern turned into displeasure. 

Her fists tightened, hidden from his sight, and Grace could tell he enjoyed taunting her. The black-haired man pointed to the elevator in the distance.

“I hope my kindness serves as a righteous trade for your silence.” Silco finally said to Grace, a teasing smirk appearing on those thin lips. She understood what he meant. 

She wasn't from there, everyone could tell. 

And if it wasn't for him, she probably wouldn't have made it home that night. 

So, Grace adjusted her posture and demeanor. “Thank you,” she said, continuing her way to the elevator. Sliding the gate door, it opened, two more steps and got in. When the Nightingale turned to behold him, Silco was already departing.

His raven hair danced at his slow pace and as far as her eyes could see, Grace became aware of a mild glow in his hand. Her expression softened recognizing the little object.

A cigarette. 

Chapter Text

With gentle notes of apple sweetened with a honey-like flavor, her mouth enjoys the floral, delicate, and calming taste with every sip of her tea. 

Muffled noise could be heard in the background, a product of her constant distraction. 

Grace believed she would forget about the Undercity, but her mind kept replaying the events repeatedly.

The smoke scratching her throat made it difficult to breathe down there, the dirty and dark alleyways that formed the dangerous Lanes, and the man who proved it by attempting to rob her, and probably wanting to hurt her. 

All of those things should have been enough so she could agree with her brother and never look back, but deep inside, it wasn't that easy. 

Grace knew it was because of Silco. 

Despite his condescending attitude, he still helped her. In that short time they had, he responded thoughtfully and true to himself; although his words were shot to hurt her pride, she would twist his orders and dig for more information. Learn their origins, and understand how all of them got to where they are now. 

Earlier that day, she went to the Academy’s library looking for scholarly works, finding one by Cecil B. Heimerdinger, one of Piltover’s founders—he had established the city as a refuge from the conflicts caused by mages, and himself lived through at least one of those wars.

In that study, the Yordle also explained when a sea passage was created, the rich, unsunk part became known as Piltover, while the remaining part became the Undercity. 

But she knew that already from Professor Warbritton’s history class. Since she had memories, Grace accepted the story told in the books and learned it like Janna’s prayers. 

But when she dared to question his lectures, the professor would dismiss her. Her anger translated into protest directed at her parents, and her dad would simply define the Undercity's importance according to the work production in the mines. 

After multiple rejections and unsatisfactory answers, Grace's curiosity was deemed a pointless need for knowledge. She did not have to deal with the Underground’s politics or its people. They became invisible compared to her life priorities. 

Priorities set up by her mother. 

Grace had to study the art of mathematics, the logic of accounting, and the vast geography of Runaterra to be up to her mother’s standard to take up the family business. She couldn't risk making a idiotic mistake that could destroy decades worth of extensive work and sacrifice. 

Her brother was supposed to take care of the Nightingale’s business at first and Grace would follow his lead. 

But when Seb turned twenty-six, he spoke of an epiphany. Something he felt so dearly in his heart that changed the trajectory of his life forever. Her mother was infuriated, but when his acceptance letter arrived signed by ex-lieutenant Kattenhorn, she relented. 

Now, Grace saw herself obligated to follow that path. No questions asked. 

“... Gracie, are you there?” A sweet tone brought her back to the present. 

“I am sorry, Edith, may you repeat?” Grace asked immediately, looking at her friend.

Edith smiled softly and nodded. 

“Of course, I was wondering if you could lend me some company later this week. I'm in need of a new dress for the social event.” The woman fixed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, while her hazel eyes diverted to the Morningstar’s landscape. 

Tasting the Chamomile herbs infused with milk, Grace accepted. 

“Wonderful!” Edith’s smile reached her eyes proving her content. “I wish Lucille could join us, but she'll be away from home.” 

Grace's smirk presented involuntarily, knowing what would unravel. 

“Demacia is my home, Edith” Lucille corrected, rolling her warm green eyes. “Don't act like you don't know that,” she placed her cup on the table with a tint of annoyance. 

“I do know and I chose to ignore it,” the blonde replied, emphasizing the words at the end. “You have lived here most of your life, by choice. Home is where the heart is,” she finished by taking a sip of her tea. 

Edith and Lucille were the real personification of oil and water, but their friendship worked somehow. Grace adored them. The academy brought the three of them all together and became inseparable as time passed. 

“Is your heart in Demacia, Lucille?” Grace asked, starting a small play between them. 

The dark-haired woman rolled her eyes again. “Not you too.”

Edith and Grace laughed, noticing how Lucille’s lips turned curved a bit. It was obvious the oldest woman couldn’t get mad at them for that long, not over something so trivial.

“Why do you need to go back there?” Grace asked, curiosity growing in her mind.

“It’s my mother, she has fallen sick,” her green eyes turned cold, but no hint of worry was present. It seemed like a forced responsibility. “In any way, my brother will stay so you won’t miss me much,” Lucille informed, but her words were directed to Edith whose cheeks turned rosy.

The blonde took another sip of her tea, trying to hide her excitement.

“So, he will be coming to the social night,” Edith’s comment sounded more like a question, one that made Grace cover her smile with her palm, trying to not catch her attention. Lucille nodded. “Then, we will have to find the perfect dress. A sublime one.”

“So, he can take it off of you?” Grace teased and Edith’s hazel eyes opened dumbfounded.

Lucille laughed along with Grace. “I mean, he is dying to see her,” the black-haired woman prolonged her words with a tease, prepared for Edith’s playful slap.

“Oh Janna, don’t be surprised if you end up on the menu by the end of the night,” an audible gasp came out of Edith’s mouth. The blonde woman had turned red in embarrassment and slapped the brunette’s arm. “Ow!”

“You are absurd!” Edith reprimanded, carrying an expression of disbelief. Grace wanted to laugh again, but dying was not part of her plan.

“You are engaged to him, it will happen sooner than you think.” The dark-haired woman commented and the blonde one fixed her posture, her face now reflecting indecision. 

“I know…” Edith bit her lip and then shook her head pushing away a thought. “I do not want the conversation of my intimate life to be the last topic we speak of this afternoon.”

“Understood,” Lucille said, glancing at Grace. “What about the gentleman Keiran? Is he still residing in Ionia, Grace?”

Edith and Lucille stared at Grace’s pursed lips, noticing that was not a good change of topic.

Keiran Mori was a friend of the Nightingale siblings. They met during a business gathering, his family traveled from Ionia to Piltover with a wonderful proposal that her parents could not reject, creating a bond of camaraderie. 

Although Keiran was Sebastian’s age, people in their parents’ social cycle were fixated on knowing if a civil partnership would come out from the young Nightingale and the only son of Noboru Mori. 

Grace’s face frowned upset and took a sip of her now cold tea. “Keiran will be present for the social night,” she critically stated. 

The group stayed quiet, all of them finishing their teas before giving their farewell.

After leaving Edith’s manor, Grace found herself running directly to her room, with the library's book tugged under her arm, avoiding her mother's watch if possible. 

Julie went to her room, announcing dinner, but Grace turned it down. 

“May you tell my mom I won't be able to assist? I am exhausted and I do not want to bother her.”

“Yes, lady Grace.”

Ironically, the brunette could not rest. Her mind wandered around that interest that haunted her for the past hours. 

Turning the warm light of her lamp, the moonlight trespassing the glass of the window lost its protagonist. Then, set up her books on her desk to leaf through them again; there had to be something, useful information, but it was extremely limited. 

“Why?” The question flew in the air with annoyance. 

They were thick books, full of story and images of Runaterra; detailing the warrior's avarice of Noxus for dominating more, starting to create a conflict between them and Demacia. The first lands of Ionia, their rich culture regarding the arts of magic and the deserted region of Shurima, being the second closest place to the Undercity. More regions that constituted the Runaterra realm, but her interest did not extend to those. 

Her fingertips caressed her temples reading the studies, trying to find at least something, but nothing was found. 

Grace snorted and her gray eyes looked outside the window. She had the river Pilt as her everyday horizon; when the sun met the water, it created a beautiful color scheme, impossible not to be amazed. But that night, she could watch the waves move in the presence of a sizable Nightingale ship. 

“You should stay in your gilded cage. Blessed with safety and ignorance.” She heard playing in her mind, his tone commanding her to remain still. 

She looked at the clock on the wall. “It's half an hour to midnight, the horn will sound soon,” glancing at her door, Grace evaluated her determination. She had always “chosen” the safest outcome, one influenced by an authoritarian agent. 

“Why would you want to go to the Undercity in the first place?” Her mother’s voice murmured next to her ear, causing her skin to prickle.

This search for knowledge was not meant for her parents but for her.

Her willingness got her dressed up in comfortable attire—this time, shadow-toned garments. Securing her bedroom that fell in the dark, barely illuminated by the moon; Grace accommodated the goose feather pillows and covered them with her blanket, imitating a body figure. 

Following last night’s plan, she sneaked around the manor’s cornice, hid behind the tree’s trunk, and then made her way to Piltover's limits. Warren's snoring was present and she ran towards the elevator with books in hand, just in time for the horn to make its entrance. 

When the elevator’s door slid open, Grace saw the smoke again—so, she covered her face before taking a step out. The warm lights were barely illuminating the alleys, but she could notice the wet bouldery surface, as it rained somehow. 

It was sunny that day, so it must have been something else that caused the moisture. 

She kept her hoodie on, her eyes looking straight ahead, ignoring whoever was there. Her boots were making contact with some puddles, her firm grip around the leather cover of the books, her heartbeat fastening due to the nature of her escapade. 

Even though Grace felt tense, some comfort presented as she stepped unperturbed into a bar, known as The Last Drop. But that comfort did not last. All eyes observed her, some were looking for a fight and others were trying to figure out the reason for her being there. 

Grace pressed her lips when she could not find Silco in the crowd. 

The Nightingale could recall Silco leaving that place. Probably seeking for some silence–a characteristic Grace and her aggressor did not provide–, so he could smoke. When he terminated their altercation, a woman looked for him. Probably an acquaintance. 

Unfortunately, that purple-haired woman was also nowhere to be found.

“Need somethin’… Or are ya lost?” A deep-resonant voice came from the bartender, his face expressing solemnity with a tint of caution. 

Should she leave? 

Grace pressed her lips and did the opposite, stepping forward. The air became dense, but she kept walking towards the man behind the bar. 

Could she ask him?

“I’m…” She started, but his gray eyes were wary. His demeanor was hunting her and he did not need to move to intimidate her. “I'm looking for someone.”

The man kept silent, but with a glance to the crowd, Grace did not feel them watching over her anymore. 

“Lookin’ for who?” He asked sharply. Grace detailed the man in front of her, finding similarities between the both of them: twin gray eyes and milk chocolate brown hair. He wore a simple attire—a comfortable one for work, a cleaning rag laid on his shoulder.

“His name is Silco,” she noticed the bartender’s mouth subtly opened and the look in his eyes darkened. “I-I am not looking for any trouble…” Her words came out as a humbling mumble, interrupted by a tread down the stairs.

Those teal-blue eyes looked at her with such astonishment, then converted into discontentment too quickly.

“Only an idiot would come back to the wolf's mouth,” his unappreciated taunts became present. “Why are you here?”

“These books…” Grace placed the books on the bar table, catching the bartender’s and Silco’s attention. “They tell the origins of Piltover with great detail, but they're limited when it comes to the Undercity,” her face betrayed frustration. “Why is that?” Gray eyes met teal, one demanding for the other’s knowledge. 

Another pair of gray eyes quietly watched between them, wondering. 

“Winners always get the opportunity to change history to their best benefit,” finally, Silco responded. With a glimpse of approval, the black-haired man turned to the bartender. “Brother, this is the singular topsider I was telling you about.”

A warm sensation was placed on her cheeks, rapidly ignored by the man’s glance. “Vander,” he said.

“I’m Grace,” she introduced herself, tempted as if she should start a handshake for courtesy, but felt words were necessary at that moment. “I came looking for knowledge, not problems,” she reiterated, gaining a smirk from him.

“Kid’s stubborn, don’t ya think?” Vander’s thick accent came out, ready to serve her but to Silco’s interest, Grace’s grimace was instant.

“Kid? If I was a kid I would not be here.” The brunette’s hands were placed on her hip, glancing at the men.

“Then, how ol’ are ya?”

Grace’s expression relaxed. “I am twenty-five.”

“It seems that Piltover it's doing an extraordinary job keeping you all blissfully unaware.” Silco commented with an annoyed tone that tried to hide something else.

Inhale. One, two, three, four… Exhale.

“...Maybe,” Grace started, noticing Silco’s smirk. “Or maybe we just don’t have the full picture,” the brunette signaled the books on the table. “You seem to, though—care to share, or was that just theater?”

Teal-blue eyes flickered again but his expression did not change. For a couple of seconds, the three of them stayed quiet.

“May he get you a drink?” Silco broke the silence, but Grace did not say a thing. “Would whiskey be a good pick?” The front section of his deep black-hair fell when he invited her to sit.

“I do not drink.”

“Might as well be a kid then.” The bartender tried to banter, but the woman disregarded him.

Vander cleared his throat.

“Ah, I understand. Perhaps a cup of tea would be better for your refined taste?” The mockery presents itself again in the slim figure of an appealing man.

Taking a seat, Nightingale nodded with approval but then noticed Vander’s inquiry in his eyes.

“Chamomile, please.”

Chapter Text

TW: Mention of hunting, animal euthanasia, and unresolved conflicts with one's mother/mommy issues.

The Helper.

The forest was colored in hunter green, and the sky was painted with ashy clouds, while the cold wind hit against her pale skin.

Wearing a uniform that camouflage with the live oaks and silk gloves of an innocent color carrying an undesired weapon.

“Don’t hesitate, kiddo.” He spoke, soft but influential, as he looked in the distance at a marvelous buck—its relaxed whitetail, twitching to the sides.

The girl nodded slightly, fixing her posture and the rifle itself. 

One eye closed, the other looking at its target. 

The animal stepped slowly, chewing from the grass. It was just a moving thing, she thought. 

Pointing at its head, her index finger prepared on the trigger for the precise time, but when those naive pitch-black eyes looked at her, Grace felt suddenly disturbed. 

Her sight went on an off angle, and rapidly, the bullet left the muzzle. 

Bang!

A frightening sharp gasp escaped from her lips immediately, ignoring the pain in her shoulder due to the recoil when she noticed the state of the poor buck laying on the grass. 

Although she did not miss, it did not kill. 

“Shit,” her father murmured, undemonstrative. “Come with me.”

Her ashen eyes followed his figure leaving her side and her feet finally moved after several orders. They kept a certain distance from the animal—the buck’s breath was loud, crying out due to the pain. One Grace inflicted. 

Her father accommodated his rifle in a perfect position—worthy of a marksman— his cerulean eyes searched for precision and then silence followed the echo of the gunshot. 

The deer had already stopped kicking and breathing heavily when they got closer. 

The brunette bit her lip trying to keep herself together, noticing that primary color soaking on the grass slowly. Feeling her hands slightly tremble, her grip tightened around the gun. 

Her father kneeled by the deer, checking the wound on its shoulder. She could tell he was analyzing her failure, tints of disappointment growing on his demeanor. 

“I don't think I'm made for this, father…” Grace whispered with dejection, her sight locked on her nut brown boots incapable of facing him or the deer. 

Another pair of boots appeared in her view and a hand placed on her shoulder caught her attention. Lifting her head, she watched him. 

The barely seen wrinkles in his face, gray conquering his brown hair, and years of experience captured in those eyes that showed her compassion. 

“Nobody is, Grace,” he said softly, “But with practice, you will excel.” The girl nodded instinctively, but he could see through her. “What's wrong?”

She stayed quiet, formulating her answer multiple times, but could not say it aloud. 

“I don't like hunting,” simple as it was, she confessed. “It makes me feel… inhuman.”

Her father's thumb caressed her shoulder with a familiar warmth, and a small smile appeared on his lips. 

“You don't like killing, which is different,” Grace thought about his choice of words and nodded with approval. Her father seemed to think about something, an intimate thought. “Yet, killing is sometimes necessary. Something unspeakable, but when you find yourself in a life-threatening situation—you don't want to join the dead.”

Ashen eyes looked behind her father's figure, finding those pitch-black eyes staring at the sky without a glimpse of life. 

Noticing the morbid nature of the conversation, her father exhaled abruptly. 

“You must comprehend this is just one of many critical circumstances that would demand you to take a crucial decision, regardless of whether your life is at risk or not.”

The girl’s lips pressed in a thin line, sensing the crumble of her self-confidence. 

“What if I make the wrong decision?” The question felt like a whisper compared to her loud heartbeat. 

Her father’s smile appeared again, not deemed for a bit. “Then, you own up to your mistakes.”

Eventually, Grace came to reality when her father, Nolan—now, with a trimmed beard and a haircut that highlighted his dark gray hairs tinted with some brown—left the manor with Seb, both waving their hands at her as a sign of a farewell. 

Early as it was in the morning, father and son were ready to spend a couple of hours in the wild for entertainment, an activity she abandoned at the age of sixteen. 

“Lady Grace.” Julie called behind her with an expectant and respectful demeanor. 

The brunette turned towards her and nodded. 

“My mother,” she murmured. “She must be thrilled about today's work," sarcasm made its way out of her mouth as they walked inside the home. 

The hall was silent; the cream curtains were tied by a golden rope letting the sunlight reflect against the window glass and their shadows followed their figures at a slow pace, stopping at the sight of a big maple door.

“I will take it from here, Julie.” Grace informed watching the woman leave after providing a small bow. Her fingers interlaced together as she breathed in, attempting to calm the habitual nerves that her body would suffer from, her stomach was used to that sickening sensation, and her heart yelled for relief. 

Opening the office’s door, she saw her mother standing in front of the desk—her alabaster blouse detailed with delicate ruffles tucked in a viridian silk skirt, not long enough to cover her leather boots. Her apparel was a partial reflection of her identity, exquisite but not complicated.

“You are late.” Her mother greeted her with a distant tone, and turning towards her, Grace could see her mousy blonde hair perfectly brushed in a braided low bun. Twin eyes looked at each other for a second.

“My apologies, mother,” Grace’s head bowed. “I was attending to father and Sebastian as they departed.”

The heels clacked against the marble floor. Grace’s eyes followed the woman as she positioned herself behind the desk, searching for something; a cigar appeared in her sight, being lighted up with such elegance.

A swirl of smoke curled and twisted in the dim light. “Did you send the invitations?”

“Yes,” the brunette started. “We have received attendance confirmations from numerous houses; including Kattenhorn, Rudgewick, Hoskel…” Grace could hear her mother’s approval interjection after each surname was mentioned.

Although the family business was remarkable, Grace knew it was not enough for her mother, Eleonora, who was quite fixated on the Nightingale’s noteworthiness. The woman wanted their last name to weigh in the right rooms, to represent class and power. Such a desire was not hers alone—it had been quietly passed down by Eleonora’s father. 

They accomplished Nightingale’s social appearance and impeccable conduct, so the disturbances within the manor’s walls were discrete.

Eleonora thought vulnerability was dangerous—a philosophy conceived from sorrow and resentment. Understanding her mother was a challenge, one that gave Grace too many heartaches.

The young Nightingale could remember the turbulent discussions in her teens. When the misapprehension turned them into the worst version of themselves; Grace would run to her room and cry until her face got puffy, comforted by her father’s hugs when he became aware of the conflicts.

The Tyrant.

“She is spiteful! An evil woman!” Grace complained, clinging to her father’s torso.

“This evil woman we’re talking about is your mother.” He commented, his hand caressing the girl’s hair before they separated. 

Nolan watched her tears accumulate while her face turned into a bright red.

“I DON’T CARE. I HATE HER!” The girl shouted infuriated. Unthinkable rage was running through her veins, in a small body replete of negative sensations; such feelings transformed into a distressful embarrassment when those cerulean eyes turned gloomy. Grace covered her face, muffled sobbing escaping through her shaky palms. “Why-y is she so cru-uel to me-e…”

The man drew a breath, strolling towards her.

“Your mother’s concerns can seem distorted, but she means well.” Her father’s voice turned gentle, his hand resting on her shoulder.

“How?” Grace’s hands lowered, and Nolan saw tears falling down her cheeks. Her gray iris contrasted with the red due to the constant crying. 

“She can be...” He took a second to continue. “A complicated woman,” squeezing her shoulder, Nolan caught her attention once again. “Listen to me, kiddo, there is a reason why you haven’t met your grandmother.”

In a whisper, Nolan confessed to his youngest a past that was not his but his wife’s.

Grace’s grandmother did things most could not understand, she could barely function every day and careless as she was, those actions only caused torment to Eleonora’s heart. However, the situation worsened at the arrival of a man, one they deemed intolerable and when Eleonora turned eighteen, she had to deal with the consequences of an illicit relationship. 

“What your grandmother did, it brought shame to the family,” the father explained to the child, who listened carefully. “This stays between us. No matter how much your heart is aching, you won't use this against her,” the words remained in her head, locking those memories as a cautious reminder. 

“What about… the Kirammans?” Eleonora’s question was tinted with interest, but her expression was stoic. 

“Mrs. Kiramman will confirm her attendance in person tomorrow at the social event. Additionally; in her letter, she has asked for you, it seemed important.” 

“A meeting?” Glimmery gray eyes fell on the young Nightingale. "I suppose she did not mention the nature of it, am I right?”

Grace nodded, noticing a slight smirk on her mother's lips followed by another blow of smoke. 

“You can resume your tasks for the day,” Grace bowed and felt so eager to leave the office, that she turned on her heels. “Oh, Grace” Eleonora called with a tone that provoked goosebumps on her daughter's skin. 

Brunette faced blonde, awaiting. 

“Do not disappoint me with tomorrow's attire. You must be marvelous.”

Although her mother's request was expected, something between the lines caused her to feel uneasy. 

A thought crossed Grace's mind but it was rejected quickly. 

“I won't disappoint you, mother.” Words left her mouth as a reflex, anything that could appeal to the woman's attention. 

The Watcher.

Sitting on a velvet cushion sofa, Grace waited with a thin line of patience; agreeing to assist Edith with the dresses was not only a favor but a tedious task as her friend struggled.

Edith couldn’t decide which silhouette or fabric best enhanced her presence, and the poor stylist was quickly running out of ideas. Was the trumpet shape too bold? Or was the high neckline too modest? And the sleeves—slim or pagoda? Should they add lace for emphasis, or keep the design clean and simple? And the colors? Oh, Janna… The cursed colors.

Imperial topaz, lemon fog, languid lavender… All those tones looked wonderful on the blonde, but she was not delighted.

“Gracie, what do you think about this one?” Edith’s low tone tinted with interest got her attention. The blonde’s hands were fidgeting with the beige laces were an elegant detail that refined her personality, combined perfectly with the teal satin of her dress. Her pale shoulders and cleavage were naked, slightly covered by some of the teal textile; the skirt fell with grace and a layer of lace could be seen under it, perfecting the body of it. Her hazel eyes glimmered with contentment but kept looking for approval.

Grace incorporated from her seat with a soft smile, getting face to face with Edith.

“You look stunning.” Her words provoked a joyful smile that made the blonde turn to the nearest mirror, admiring herself once more.

“Do you think he will like it?”

An encouraging thought crossed her mind, wanting to let her know that her fiance’s opinion was not important if the dress made her happy, but she knew her friend well and those words would not be enough. She needed reassurance.

“He will,” Grace started, looking at Edith’s reflection on her side. “Thomas asked for your hand, he loves you and sees you,” her hand grabbed the blonde’s and tightened her grip. Edith’s smile was accompanied by some blush on her cheeks.

Taking a sharp breath, Edith spoke “I know, but I feel so… vulnerable.”

Grace glanced at the stylist and with a nod, asked her to leave. As soon as the room left the two of them alone, Edith looked at her.

“Grace, my heart belongs to him and,” a brief pause, her tone getting softer. “I cannot imagine it differently,” hazel eyes crystallized.

“That is good,” the brunette added, her fingers caressing the foreign hand. To her surprise, the blonde’s face looked at her with sadness, one she could not understand. “What is it?”

At that moment, Edith held Grace's hands instead.

“Gracie, I am worried about you,” her friend confessed. “You seemed lost as if there was nothing to live for…”

“Why would you say that?” The Nightingale interrupted her abruptly. “I am not lost but on my way to inherit my family’s work.”

Grace’s eyes avoid Edith’s, probably upset but not other than herself.

“But that is not what you want,” her friend spoke, cupping her face with such delicacy that forced the other to look at her. “What is that your heart desires?”

That question pinched the deepest of her mind, a problem she deliberately ignored. 

Grace felt bothered, wanting to slight her for being intrusive, but she knew it was wrong. It was not her friend’s fault and she was not a kid anymore to throw a tantrum—just the thought of it made her cringe.

Then, what is that her heart desired? 

Her mind lingered into the depths of the Undercity. The rats squeaking and the scattered beer bottles in the alleyways, the warm lights guiding her across the thick layer of smoke, leading her to a specific place where the clinks of their drinks, their voices and laughs were muffled by the folk tunes; portraying authentic smiles although they lived miserably.

Even though she did not know the pair well, her high spirits sought them rebelliously, indulging in the feeling thoughtlessly.

Finally, Grace looked up at Edith, finding those hazel eyes expecting her with patience.

“What my heart desires…" The words came out slowly, weighing the latest alteration in her life. “Is still a secret to me.”

Oh, was that transparency or justification? Only The Prey would know.

Chapter Text

Gray eyes admired the orange tint spreading across the blue sky as the sun set; the young Nightingale showed no excitement, though her parents were delighted by the social night—a business event disguised as a noble gathering.

Their conversation was not stimulating at all, Grace could recollect a couple of surnames followed by details her mother deemed significant, but other than that, the brunette could not wait for it to end.

When the carriage made its way to the building’s entrance, a beautiful starry night became the protagonist. When the porter opened the door, Nolan helped Eleonora get out, and then Grace—whose attention was caught by a certain melody from the ballroom—, took her arm. He directed both his wife and daughter to the Crystal Ballroom, a pleased smirk on his face. 

Grace’s eyes detailed the ballroom quickly, finding no difference from times before: the glass partition walls reflected with the warm lights of the crystal chandeliers, those cascading from the hand-painted ceilings, the hardwood flooring was partially covered by a royal blue carpet with trimmed golden details. With every step taken, the tones of a sonata became clearer; it was such a melancholic sound, capable of captivating some of the guests’ attention, who showed their appreciation by watching the group playing, one of them being Edith.

“Should we greet your friend, or will that be embarrassing for you, kiddo?” The question came out in a whisper that only Grace could hear.

“You do not embarrass me.” The brunette answered, sharing his tone.

“Something important to share?” Eleonora’s voice reflected annoyance, although she showed a friendly facade. 

“No.” Father and daughter said in unison. Nolan walked them towards Grace’s friend who did not take long to notice the family’s presence.

“Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale,” Edith bowed with respect, a glass of champagne in her hand. Hazel eyes landed on the brunette. “Grace,” she greeted, showing off that beautiful smile of hers. “Such a pleasure to see you tonight.”

“Ms. Morningstar, the pleasure is ours,” Nolan expressed, unlocking his arm from his daughter’s—setting her free for the night. “I hope your loved ones are thriving. Is all well at home?”

“All is well at home, and I thank you for asking.”

“And what of your new family?” Eleonora spoke calmly, but it only set an unresting ambiance for the conversation. They all knew the matriarch’s nature, so when the old pair of gray eyes flickered with a dangerous interest, it was too late for Edith to respond. “I was under the impression that Ms. Rudgewick was called away due to a family emergency, and your fiancé appears curiously absent. Has something transpired?”

“Mother.” Grace’s voice and face betrayed disappointment, only challenging her mother’s discretion. 

Twin sets of eyes looked at each other for a brief moment and the silence reigned between them, adding awkwardness to the situation. Then, they could hear the strings start playing the second movement, an energetic sonata followed by the Allegro essence. 

Edith fixed her composure and wore a polite smile towards Eleonora. “My new family is quite well, Mrs. Nightingale. As for my fiancé, he was called away—an acquaintance of his seemed to believe this was the most opportune moment to discuss matters of business. Such things, I’m afraid, are beyond my control, as it is his duty to attend to them.”

Edith’s defense was immaculate and to Grace's frustration, her mother’s lip curved into a satisfied smirk. “I am glad to hear it. Now, if you’ll excuse us…” Eleonora said and then looked at her daughter, “Grace, we shall see you later.”

Nolan imitated his wife's actions and gave his farewells as well. Consequently, the couple left, leaving the pair of young women slightly confused. 

As soon as her parents had a good distance between them, the brunette turned to the blonde. 

A tone of crimson red spread on the oldest woman’s cheeks—a sign of unbearable embarrassment. “I am so sorry about my mother’s behavior,” her words came out quickly, sensing how her brown hair would turn gray in a matter of seconds due to the stress, “I cannot believe what she just did. I don't even know what goes through her head sometimes!” Grace exclaimed her complaints in a whisper, but her friend was not listening. 

Grace caught Edith’s eyes locked on her parents talking to ex-lieutenant Kattehorn and his wife. 

“I believe your mother was testing me, Grace,” Edith’s voice was solemn. “She is not the kind of person to simply… harass someone.”

Grace's fingers pinched the bridge of her nose. Inhale. One, two, three, four, five, six… Exhale.

“Do not worry, Gracie,” the brunette felt a friendly hand caress her naked shoulder with delicacy; gray eyes looked up at caring hazel ones. “And I must say you look marvelous tonight!”

The young Nightingale’s garments were an extension of her tendencies; wearing a striking gown of Sacramento green silk with the delicate cream-white lace trims adorning the edges of her neckline, hem, and sleeves—the same fabric peeking out from beneath the skirt, giving it a touch of softness while preserving its tailored elegance. Shoulders, arms, and cleavage were bared, although a soft, detached silk sleeve in matching green drapes gently from the upper arm, falling around the forearms like a whisper of ease. 

Her neck sits her usual choker crafted from the same green silk, bordered in lace, adorned with a single emerald gem hanging from the center—a piece linked to her family’s house. Golden earrings glint subtly, catching the light of the chandeliers. All of it was chosen to satisfy her mother’s wishes.

But the compliment, innocent as the sender’s intentions, only provoked a forcing smile from the receiver. “Thank you, Edith,” she responded quietly, fixing a milk chocolate strand behind her ear. Julie assisted Grace in arranging her hair, not long enough to fall over her shoulder but to flow in soft layers over the nape of her neck. A Sacramento green bow styled the single elegant braid, adding a playful touch to her poised appearance. “The melody, it was enchanting, was it not?”

The mention of the quarter of strings made hazel eyes flicker with excitement, erasing any hint of attention from her. “Certainly,” her hand brought the bubbly drink to her lips, and took a short sip. “I am in such delight to discover Ray Chen playing for us this evening.”

Her comment not only informed Grace but showed proof of Edith’s admiration towards the violinist, who slid his digits along one of the strings, creating an excellent glissando. The young man’s face betrayed a satisfied smirk, a sign of pride.

“It was last summer when the Philharmonic Orchestra of Ionia came to the city to perform a collection of their classical pieces, it was magnificent,” the blonde added, eyes locked on the violinist, “... Lucille would have loved it.”

“Indeed, but my sister’s interest will always be the piano.” A deep velvet voice cut into their conversation causing both women to turn towards the individual. 

A man whose pale skin, slick back charcoal black hair, and blue eyes that resemble the sky in the spring could give away his identity effortlessly. It also did not help him that both siblings would dress in dusky attires no matter the occasion, therefore most people would mistake them as fraternal twins. Standing in front of them was Thomas Rudgewick, a nobleman who found his purpose in a small land instead of his hometown, which also rewarded him with Edith. 

Their story of love surged and never seemed to end. Everyone could see they were one for each other. 

“Ms. Nightingale, it is so good to see you again.” Thomas’ accent was elegant, one most women could say it was carrising to the ear. He proceeded to bow respectfully, still carrying that charming smile of his. 

“Mr. Rudgewick,” Grace returned the bow, watching the man lock arms with her friend, catching a glimpse of joy in her eyes, “The feeling is mutual.”

“Enough with the formalities, please!” Edith interrupted, taking another sip of her drink attempting to hide her rosy cheeks. 

“I suppose we can do that, my dear, since we are all friends here.” Grace nodded in approval, smiling at the couple. 

Although Thomas was a good man, he would steal Edith’s attention so quickly with just one glance that Grace felt she was interrupting the couple. Now she wished more than ever that Lucille was there to be her companion for the rest of the night. 

“The Waltz should start later tonight, as soon as the quarter is finished playing,” Thomas continued and sky-blue eyes landed on gray ones, with curiosity. “I am aware of your dislike for balls, Grace… I wonder if you have found an alternative for the meantime before your mother finds you a dance partner.”

A waltz… It should not be a problem, but something Grace disliked more than hunting, was dancing. 

She could remember finding out she had two left legs that could not dance to the rhythm of any Minuet or Waltz, even if her life depended on it; having to meticulously control her steps to avoid hurting the poor tutor’s feet was stressful enough, and the big difference between dancing and hunting lessons is that she could not abandon the dancing even if she begged on her knees. 

Grace looked at Edith’s champagne, almost tasting the sour flavors on the tip of her tongue, but she exhaled instead. 

“I will manage,” Grace responded, unsure as the couple looked at her expectant “... Somehow.”

Edith smiled at Grace's comment, but her eyes slightly turned behind her; the seriousness took over her expression and it demanded the brunette’s attention, turning on her heels, she caught someone walking towards the trio. 

Third movement began, a soft and sweet melody contrasting terribly with her feelings. The rhythm of the string was Andante, but her heartbeat was not. 

“Mr. Mori…” the words left Grace's lips, dry like Shurima’s deserted lands. The three of them bowed, demonstrating respect, but for Grace, it was only etiquette, “I hope your family is in good health.”

“They are, thank you.”

Keiran Mori had always been the same reserved individual; keeping his interests and affairs secret to the world, even to her. Although they shared a friendship when young, now it seemed impossible to let it flow. 

Epicanthal folds—not a common physical trait for Piltovans but still considered an exotic characteristic although his dark brown eyes were not unique, they were incapable of demonstrating a glimpse of joy for the evening’s event, contrasting with the appearance of a kind smile directed only to her. His dark chocolate hair was brushed just like the Ivy League, and if Keiran wanted to be part of the enforcers, he would excel in the requirements: straight posture, solemn demeanor, and persevering motives. 

The rest did their greetings following the same protocol, adding some speaking about the Ionian man’s affairs in the city, it was a matter Grace could not find interesting. Another business trip brought the young Mori back to her home, but she desperately wanted him out. 

“... It will be beneficial for both parties, perhaps it will result in technological advances at a certain point” Keiran explained to the couple, whose interest was genuine. A brief silence brought Grace's attention to the conversation, noticing his expectant gaze on her. “I had a pleasure speaking to you both and congratulations on your engagement, but I must require Ms. Nightingale’s presence for an important matter.”

“Thank you,” Thomas took over the conversation, noticing the exchange of looks between the young woman. “We will leave you alone, but do not hesitate to join us for Waltz later tonight.”

As if Thomas could not read the room—or willingly ignore it—, he provided a smile to them and forced his fiancé to leave with him, to another part of the ballroom. Edith looked back, apologizing for the sudden abandonment with mute words. 

As a result, Grace's hand grip tightened with fury, incapable of escaping Keiran’s presence for once in her life. 

“Grace,” his soft tone could not soothe the storm going through her mind at the moment, gray iris looking at him with a tint of annoyance. “I hope my presence is not threatening your peace because we will be seeing each other often. As you might know, our parents are acting rather… secretive, but I can assure you it is not what you think.”

“You seem confident about it, why is that?” The woman interrupted sharply.

“Your father does not see it appropriate, hereby it won’t happen,” the answer was simple. Brown eyes looked gray worried. “No need to worry about it.”

“I… I suppose.” Words came out unsurely. All the anger disappeared, leaving a sense of confusion. She should be happy, to say the least, freed from a civil partnership they both did not want, but something in her bones was telling her that was not the end of it.

“How is your brother’s well-being? I heard he is an excellent enforcer.” Keiran noted quickly, this time, his eyes were darting around the ballroom, acting less confident.

“Sebastian is fine,” Grace answered, “And should be here anytime soon. He promised to my mother.”

A smirk, such a minuscule sign of excitement that it could have been ignored easily.

The violins’ sound started getting stronger, good enough to mark the Presto section of their small concert. Grace and Keiran agreed to stay in silence, listening to what the quarter of strings had to offer and at a certain point, both of them watched the entrance. One of them with desperation, the other with desire.

The sudden appearance of the dirty blonde hair was enough to shift the ambience and both, Nightingale and Mori, watched the man—still wearing his navy blue uniform and helmet to the side of his arm—made his way to the center of the event. Seb greeted his parents first and then the couple they were speaking to. It was a matter of time for those cerulean eyes to look at them, a possible result of a suggestion.

From her peripheral view, Grace noticed a slight action from Keiran, who fixed his jacket eventually. Walking swiftly, Seb took a glass of champagne from one of the servers, taking a sip from it before reaching his destination. “Sister,” he greeted with a pleasing smile, “You look splendid.”

“Thank you.” Grace said and Seb’s attention passed to Keiran.

“Janna, it’s been ages! Did your parents finally let you out into the real world, or did you escape on your own?” Her brother’s formalities disappeared at the sight of an old friend, one whose chuckle could be heard.

A crack only one could make to that man’s walls of indifference. 

“You definitely know the answer,” Keiran responded, small wrinkles forming on the side of his eyes. “So, you made it into the academy. Your sister and I were just talking about it before you walked in, flashing that shiny badge like it’s no big deal.”

Curious gray eyes landed on the emblem, Piltover’s symbol gleaming in pure gold, placed on her brother’s hip. A result of his accomplishments.

“No big deal, huh? Hard to agree when I’m knee-deep in the Undercity’s mess every other day.”

A tint of displeasure darkened her gray eyes, looking at cerulean ones. “What has transpired this time?” Although Seb did not seem annoyed by her sudden question, his composure straightened. 

“I’m not exactly at liberty to share details, but… there’s been some movement—particularly in the Lanes.”

A movement in the Lanes that required enforcers' assistance and couldn’t be disclosed to the public? The question was stuck in her mind and raised concerns that, unconsciously, she gestured impatiently.

Seb’s brows frowned due to Grace’s persistent inquiries, but he chuckled, brushing it off.

“As you may have noticed, my friend, Grace has taken quite an interest in the nature of my work,” Seb mentioned, swirling the drink in his hand. As he was taking a sip, his eyes looked solemnly at his sister. “Rest assured, the situation will be handled appropriately. Nothing to be concerned about.”

The young Nightingale forced a gentle smile. “I am glad to hear that,” she voiced as her ears caught the silence as the quarter of strings started playing a gloomy melody, capable of provoking nostalgia and a sense of calm. “If you’ll excuse me”, providing a quick bow, she left the men alone.

Her steps were calculated, passing by multiple individuals she did not concede the honor to greet anyone that did not require her attention; finding a corner where the royal blue velvet curtains, she stood up next to, watching the event flow from a different perspective.

Grace saw her father exchanging words with another nobleman, her mother was nowhere to be seen, Seb and Keiran were still engaging in a conversation, and her friend Edith was captivated by Thomas’ presence in her arms. The brunette breathed her exasperation out of her lungs.

“Good evening, Ms. Nightingale.” a juvenile tone of voice demurely called her surname.

The brunette’s eyes then caught the only daughter of the Kirammans.

Her attire was adorable to say the least; wearing a dark lilac jacket paired with a long, flowing skirt in the same shade, her ivory blouse was accented by a delicate black bow at the neckline, and her dark blue hair fell freely around her shoulders, unadorned, allowing her gentle beauty to shine without embellishment.

“Ms. Kiramman,” Grace nodded to the girl, “I trust your evening has been nothing short of delightful.” 

“It is, thank you,” innocent teal blue eyes looked away. “And I do hope yours has been equally enjoyable,” a soft smile appeared on the woman’s face.

“May I ask why you find yourself alone? I fear this gathering may lack companions of your age and spirit” The curiosity took over Grace’s interest.

“My father is nursing a mild cold, and my mother is currently engaged in conversation with yours… I suspect, to my dismay, that I may be the topic.” A hint of insecurity betrayed Caitlyn’s confident demeanor.

“And what leads you to believe that?” The Kiramman girl knew the question was harmless and wore a kind smile.

“I aspire to become an enforcer, just like your brother, Ms. Nightingale.” The girl’s excitement, shown with such self-control, could not be hidden easily. However, Grace caught between the lines in the consequences of Caitlyn’s aspirations for her family. 

Caitlyn Kiramman was an only child. It was explicit she would assume her mother’s position at the Piltover’s Council, but with the sudden ambition to go to the police academy, she had rejected her family’s legacy. Therefore, why would Cassandra speak about that sensitive matter with her mother? The Nightingale did not have anything to offer.

“I had hoped to speak with him personally, but he appears to be occupied at the moment.” Caitlyn mentioned and so both pairs of light eyes glance at the men, whose conversation did not seem to end anytime soon.

“It seems I am not the only one who has taken an interest in the nature of his work,” Grace added to herself, then looked back at Caitlyn. “May I ask what inspired you to pursue such a path?”

Small pale hands interlocked eagerly. “I wish to make a difference… to help others and bring justice to those who are so often denied it.”

The selfless motivations behind Caitlyn’s aspirations were a true reflection of herself, which brought Grace into a state of surprise, one that gradually transformed into gratification, hoping the girl’s determination would last even in the worst of situations.

“You will make an exceptional enforcer, Caitlyn. Of that, there can be no doubt.”

An old soul, still navigating the constraints of a limited world, shared a quiet smile with a young spirit just starting to explore the one unfolding before her.

There was no trace of that dazzling dress anymore, it was replaced with such basic garments—those Grace kept exclusively for her nightly outings, transforming that marvelous essence into a shadow that could camouflage with the dark alleys she walked to, always looking forward to the warm lights that guide her through the Lanes. Being a Saturday night; it was evident the bar would be crowded, so when her presence at the entrance caught the attention of multiple customers it did not surprise her. What did was their uninterested reaction after recognizing her, focusing on drinking, dancing, or talking. 

The Piltovan woman made her way through the crowd, careful enough not to disrupt anyone, till facing the barman, whose pleasant attitude did not convert at the sight of her.

“Aye, you picked a fine time to drop in, didn’t ya?” His welcoming tone was friendlier that night, becoming another surprise she could not brush it off of her shoulders. 

And Seb’s words came to her mind as whispers “... There’s been some movement—particularly in the Lanes.” Even if she mentioned it to him, would Vander trust her to tell what happened earlier that day with the enforcers? 

“Yes…”

Would Vander question her for the information she had about his people’s problems? That little information was too much, Grace had to be careful about it, so her gray eyes looked at him leery. "You seem quite enthusiastic tonight. I suppose it is because of the clientele, very hectic, right?”

At that moment, Vander’s smile disappeared in a quick second and transformed into a chuckle that brought his enthusiasm back. “Heh, you could say that, but you ain't here for me, are ya? You’re after my friend, over there.”

Oh Janna, that selection of words.

That playful, but innocent selection of words made her whole body tense, exchanging an interested inquiry of her mind for a significant one. 

What could have given him that impression? 

She emphasized her motivations for understanding the Undercity and its people. Nothing else! Although Silco was a very attractive man, she never gave them a reason to believe she was after him… Had she? Of course not, she was over analyzing Vander's words, spiraling into a state of non-sense distraction. 

This time, a chuckle escaped from her mouth, alleviating that ridiculous tension on her shoulders. “I will see you later, Vander,” she said walking to the area the bartender pointed at. 

There, in the corner, Grace found him. 

His silhouette was sharp, leaning against the wall with a drink in his hand. The glass shined due to the warm lights around the bar and when the cold material touched his lips with delicacy, the subtle movements of his Adam's apple when he drank the golden shade liquid. Standing close enough to see a light smirk on his face when savoring the taste, it had to be something delectable. 

“There you are.” His tone of voice was velvet, while the smell of Whiskey fainted. Could she also taste it if possible? Rapidly, she patted her hands against the fabric of her pants, cleaning any sweat residue.

“Silco,” her greeting came out rather timid, a quality she covered quickly with confidence, “I see you're indulging in tonight's… gathering. Is it still a good time to continue our discussion?”

His teal eyes looked at her expectantly, the curve of his lips reflecting some entertainment he couldn’t hide. “Ah, of course,” Silco swirled the drink before emptying with another sip, “Follow me.”

“Where?” Her words came out more quickly than supposed to, Grace glanced around the bar wondering where he wanted to go.

“Unless you prefer to continue our discussion around imminent commotion and some drunks, upstairs will be your best shot for a quiet exchange of views” Silco explained while walking at a slow pace—typical of him—towards the bar, then left his finished drink on top of the table. Grace followed him quietly, watching him till they made it to the second floor.

The narrow hallway was dark, making it barely possible to notice some decoration on the walls and a couple of doors; one of them was opened by the man in front of her, who consequently stood with his usual pleasant smile.

“Ladies first.”

Grace answered with a simple nod, entering the room, which she examined carefully: it was extremely small compared to… Anything. Maybe it was the amount of objects filling the corners like a storage closet, or the old and improvised furniture that seemed to serve a multifunctional purpose, but it was humble. The wooden floor creaked beneath her step, finally stopping when she sat down on the nearest couch, feeling the worn-out patched fabric with the tip of her fingers.

The young Nightingale felt strange and it was a result of the extreme contrast of Piltover’s abundant space and the Undercity’s lack of it. That ordinary room was not even half the size of her washroom and by the looks of it, this was their own version of a living room. 

Silco watched her quietly and sitting close to her was enough to bring her attention back to him.

“I believe you remember where we left off, correct?” Grace commented. Her hands were directed to the small bucket bag she hid under the cloak, where her notebook, a faded textbook, and some studies of Runaterra were placed on the wooden table.

“Correct.”

Grace glanced at Silco once he gave his quick response, charisma replaced by taciturn. 

Their last exchange was related to the origins of both cities, while Piltover’s facts were sufficient, the Undercity's were the opposite. However, Silco was cultured and didn’t hide the source of his knowledge: an old textbook, “The History of Zaun: The City of Iron and Glass”. If the time-worn cover where the golden lettering was hardly readable and the pages dull light brown pages were not enough to believe the legitimacy of the book, then the co-author was it. 

Cecil B. Heimerdinger. 

At first, it was incredible how a book could last in such a deplorable state; but in Silco’s words, that book was older than the two of them. A piece of lore passed down from one to another until it fell into his hands, taken care of for the best interest to ultimately become an object of persistence.

Decades ago, Professor Heimerdinger helped a historian—whose name seemed to have been forgotten or perhaps, forbidden—to recollect enough information about the foundation of the Undercity, once known as Osha Va'Zaun and changed over time to Zaun, it was an old Shuriman port city that collapsed due to an explosion by some traders and merchants wanting to build a canal two-hundred years ago. When the land fell underground, what was left became Piltover and the rest was overlooked, becoming the Undercity.

Then, it was a mix of confusion and disappointment that bothered Grace. Why would the Professor omit a fundamental part of their culture? Why would the academies decline to teach their origins and history? And worst of all, why did they, Piltovans, ignore it for centuries? They were once united. 

“You were right,” Grace broke the silence between them. Gray eyes connected with teal, frustration meeting severity. “There is no registry of The History of Zaun in any library of Piltover, and I… suspect it was prohibited its distribution,” a sour taste was placed on her tongue, “It seemed to have happened behind closed doors.”

She expected him to say something, tease her, annoy her, but he kept his composure. However, Silco did not seem neutral about it, she could tell by the tension on his jaw and shoulders, and if he was upset, it was not towards her.

Grace continued, “The choice of knowledge was taken away from the people of the Undercity, their identity. What once belonged to Zaun…”

“The Nation of Zaun” Silco corrected with a sharp tone. Consequently, Grace tried to check the textbook, curiosity creeping out innocently. “You won’t find it there…” This time, he interrupted gently. The young woman’s brows furrowed in confusion, but something deep in her mind imploded her not to inquire about it. “Knowledge has not been the only thing taken away from us, Grace.”

The way he pronounced her name was indeed remarkable, but the nature of his comment did too, creating another mix of feelings that started crawling all over her skin.

“There has to be a way to change that.” She murmured almost to herself, thinking what could be the best approach in that situation. Scheduling a meeting with the Professor should not be difficult; the Yordle was known to be an understanding individual, maybe she would get the answers and come up with a solution that could benefit everyone. 

Her train of thought was quickly disrupted by a chuckle followed by a sarcastic hum. “What bright ideas could be convincing enough to change your people's views after years of pure neglect?” His question, a rhetorical one, was full of poison. She knew he thought she was another Piltovan who felt pity about his people—and he was not entirely wrong. “Piltover is ambitious, they won't even dare to share some of the sun with us. We are no more than lowlife to them.”

“Stop that,” Grace interrupted him, a sense of discomfort setting within her bones. His words were voiced with resentment and bitterness, one's pain could not be denied when it was true. “I should go,” another whisper. 

Her pale hands started packing the books back into her bucket bag, stopping at Silco’s history book. Although Grace hesitated, she still took it with her—an action seen by the man, but didn't protest. 

Both adults stood up in silence, one guiding the other to the exit of the room. 

Silco was right again and Grace knew it. Her people were judgmental to others, even to each other, how could she do something significant to transform their differences into their strengths? A surge of inspiration hit Grace through an idea that some would think impossible, but if she played her role correctly and patiently, it could result in her favor. 

“Someone would think that with that smile of yours, you would stay a little longer,” Silco caught her attention, “Wouldn't you?”

His nonchalant attitude failed to hide his curiosity—or perhaps, he did not intend to, as if he was testing the waters. Either way, Grace's smile softened. 

“That won't be possible tonight.” The brunette answered, and the black-haired man simply hummed. “Silco,” she tasted his name on her tongue, carefully choosing her words, “I heard that… there has been some movement in The Lanes that will require enforcer’s assistance to be taken care of properly.”

His teal eyes flickered with a shimmer of surprise, quickly hidden with a smirk that revealed his satisfaction. “It is good to know your interest in my people is genuine.”

It has always been that way and always will.