Arcane: In This New World

Tarren stood within the metallic circle he had installed in his lab, morning sunlight streaming through the window, casting long shadows across the room. His hands fumbled momentarily as he secured the heavy belt around his waist, the cold metal pressing against it. In the distance, Heimerdinger sat at a small table, sipping his tea, his large ears twitching with curiosity as he observed the young inventor.

"Birds fly with their wings, and the principle of biomimicry suggests that nature should often be our inspiration for technology," Heimerdinger mused. "And yet, you've designed a belt instead of wings?"

Tarren smirked as he adjusted the belt, ensuring the hex-gem socket was properly inserted. "Wings are great for birds, professor. But for us? Not so much. We don't have the stamina to flap wings constantly. Besides, wings would be cumbersome and inefficient compared to this."

"You have a fair point," Heimerdinger conceded, stroking his beard. "But why a belt?"

"It's just a prototype. The design could evolve, but for now, a belt seemed the most efficient. The idea is simple: it nullifies the force of gravity pulling us down and allows for movement in any direction." Tarren took a deep breath before pressing a small switch on the belt.

The device hummed to life, arcs of blue light flickering across its surface before a surge of energy enveloped him. Particles of shimmering blue briefly coated his body before dissipating, and then—his feet lifted off the ground. His body floated weightlessly, the sensation both strange and surreal.

Heimerdinger's eyes widened in awe. "Great gears and sprockets! Can you move?"

Rather than answering, Tarren tilted his body forward slightly, and to his delight, he glided effortlessly across the room. He twisted his torso, and he spun mid-air, adjusting his movements instinctively. It was like swimming, but faster—more natural than he had anticipated, and more responsive. If he wants to stop, it stops, if he wants to move, it moves. It just works.

"Brilliant!" Heimerdinger clapped his hands in excitement. "Now, what are the limitations?"

"Theoretically? None," Tarren replied, enjoying the sensation for a moment longer before powering down the belt. He landed smoothly, his boots tapping against the lab floor. "But practically? Air resistance. If you move too fast without protection, your skin could be torn apart by sheer force."

"A concerning drawback," Heimerdinger noted, nodding. "Even so, this could render airships and blimps obsolete."

"I doubt it will replace them," Tarren responded as he removed the belt and set it on his workbench. "The technology is expensive, and in the wrong hands, dangerous. At the end of the day, it's still Hextech, and we can't just let people buy hex-gems like trinkets from a market stall."

Heimerdinger's ears perked up slightly. "It seems the more you develop Hextech, the more you wish to limit its reach."

"Not limit, Professor. Just regulate. Hextech should be a strategic resource, something to benefit society as a whole, not a commodity for the common masses." Tarren picked up the gem from the belt, holding it up to the morning light filtering through the window. "Right now, we have plenty. But in a decade? A century? We don't know. If Piltover becomes entirely dependent on something finite, we'll collapse when it runs dry."

"A wise perspective," Heimerdinger murmured. "Far too many invent without thinking of the long-term consequences."

Tarren chuckled softly. "I might not be around if that day comes, but you will be, Professor. You'll see it all unfold."

"Most likely," Heimerdinger sighed, sipping his tea. "Which is why I appreciate your foresight. I have seen time and time again the devastation caused by shortsighted ambition—including my own, and the people around me. It is nice to see someone with a viewpoint such as yours."

Tarren studied the professor for a moment before pulling something from his pocket. "Professor, can I ask for a favor?"

"Of course, my boy," Heimerdinger said with a warm smile.

"Not as a professor. As the Head Council."

Heimerdinger's brows furrowed in curiosity. "Ah. A serious request, then."

Tarren handed him a sealed letter, the wax imprint unmistakable. Heimerdinger's expression shifted as he carefully broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the words, his face cycling through a myriad of emotions—surprise, relief, regret.

"I see," Heimerdinger said softly, lowering the letter.

"So?" Tarren asked. "Will you bring this to the other councilors? At least consider it?"

Heimerdinger closed his eyes for a moment before nodding. "I will do everything in my power to ensure this is heard, Tarren. You have my word."

Tarren blinked, taken aback. "You... will?"

"I have seen the errors of our council's ways, and the consequences of our negligence." Heimerdinger exhaled deeply, his eyes filled with unspoken memories. "If things had gone differently, it would have led to an even worse outcome. It's a miracle that it has come to this."

"Professor?" Tarren narrowed his eyes.

Heimerdinger stood abruptly, leaving his tea unfinished. "I must go now. This must be handled immediately."

"Y-Yeah… alright then," Tarren muttered, watching as Heimerdinger hurried out of the lab.

Alone now, he glanced down at his empty hand, then toward the door Heimerdinger had just exited through. The ease with which the professor had agreed—it was unexpected. Suspicious, even.

—

Tarren walked through the grand halls of the academy. The echoes of his footsteps against the marble floors were the only sounds accompanying him as he made his way to the next person he needed to convince. Councillor Medarda was perhaps the most politically shrewd member of the council, someone who could turn tides with a single word. If anyone could make things happen, it was her.

Elora, Medarda's ever-diligent assistant, walked beside him, keeping pace with a quiet efficiency. "The councillor is currently finishing a meeting with another guest," she informed him. "But it should not take long."

As they arrived at Medarda's office, the door opened just as Elora raised her hand to knock. Medarda stepped out, gracefully dismissing her previous guest. Tarren immediately recognized the woman standing before him—Amara, a well-known merchant of Piltover, the one that Tarren is cautious of, all for the wrong reasons.

"Tarren," Amara greeted with a polite smile. "Surprising to see you here."

"Just business, ma'am," Tarren replied, his own smile forced but respectful.

Amara merely nodded. "Of course. I shall not keep you, then."

She departed without another word, her heeled boots clicking softly against the polished floor. Tarren's eyes lingered on her retreating figure for only a moment before stepping inside, following Elora's gesture to enter.

Medarda took her seat at her grand desk, the massive balcony behind her allowing a flood of golden sunlight into the spacious office. The councillor regarded Tarren with a calculating curiosity.

"What brings you here, young man?" she asked, her voice silky. "I wouldn't have thought you the type to visit my office of your own volition. Is it about the hexgate?"

"The hexgate project is exactly where I want it to be," Tarren replied, his tone firm. "Do not interfere with it, Councillor. I'll know if you do."

Medarda leaned back in her chair, amusement flickering in her gaze. "The project is funded by the city, Tarren. Ultimately, the council has the final say." She tilted her head slightly. "But I agree with you. A premature cut of budget or misstep could be disastrous. Better an expensive success than a cheap failure."

Tarren scoffed lightly. "And as always, your concerns remain on gold rather than the actual consequences of the failure."

Medarda simply smiled. "Gold dictates consequences."

"Is that why you kept that woman's company?" 

"That woman?" Medarda raised her brow. "You mean Amara? She is an influential merchant. Tarren, oh Tarren. You've been quite important for this city for a while now, surely you must know that the backbones of politics around here are favours, especially with merchants. I was just trying to curry some from the local authorities. I am an outsider in all but name after all." 

"Always that excuse, councillor." Tarren hummed. "But, speaking of favors…"

He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the letter, setting it down on the desk and sliding it towards her.

Medarda raised an eyebrow as she picked it up. She examined the wax seal before breaking it open. "I didn't recognize this seal. Is it your new House seal?" she remarked.

"No. That letter isn't from me." Tarren said simply. "Just read it."

The councillor unfolded the letter, her eyes scanning the contents with measured interest. There was no immediate reaction, only the slightest narrowing of her gaze as she absorbed the words. When she finished, she set the letter down and let out a quiet chuckle.

"You are asking me," she said with a touch of amusement, "to consider supporting the independence of more than half of Piltover's territory?"

"I'm asking you to make it possible," Tarren corrected. "Not to support it outright. I need you to allow an audience—to let Zaun's representatives speak for themselves."

Medarda studied him for a long moment, then leaned forward slightly. "Do you realize the chaos that will ensue if even a whisper of this spreads?" she asked. "There are far too many vested interests in the undercity—factories, land holdings. Many of Piltover's elite would explode in protest, even doing something more drastic."

"Most of those factories have long been abandoned. The council did nothing when the gang wars turned the undercity into a battleground. In truth, the council never does anything when it comes to the undercity, except to suppress or ignore it." Tarren's voice was calm, but firm. "You've only been on the council for what—seven, ten years? You're not responsible for the mess of the past. But this letter represents decades of mistakes and negligence. It also represents a solution—one that, for once, does not begin with bloodshed."

Medarda tapped her fingers against the desk in thought. "And what of your allegiance, Tarren?" she finally asked. "To this academy? To the council? Or to this… Zaun?"

"Why must I choose?" Tarren countered. "All I am asking for is a negotiation. The rest is up to you and Zaun's representatives."

Medarda exhaled through her nose, then looked back at the letter, rereading it with fresh eyes. After a moment, she nodded. "I will think about it," she said. "You make a fair point. The council has never addressed the root of the problem, only its symptoms. Perhaps negotiations could serve as a first step. But I make no promises."

"That's all I need," Tarren said, inclining his head slightly. "I'll take my leave."

As he turned towards the door, Medarda suddenly spoke again. "Wait."

He paused, glancing back at her.

"You will be attending the Kiramman debutante ball, yes?"

Tarren frowned at the abrupt change in topic. "Why does that matter?"

Medarda smiled knowingly. "You're attempting to sway the council. If this comes to a vote, you need a majority."

"I'm aware."

She leaned back in her chair, watching him carefully. "You have Heimerdinger. The Kirammans are your sponsors. With me, that's three. You need one more."

Tarren hummed in thought. "The rest of the councillors aren't exactly… approachable."

Medarda smirked. "So you're just going to give up?"

"If it comes to a vote, it needs a hearing first," he countered. "I'm the only one you can call for it."

Medarda chuckled softly. "Fair enough. Go, then. I'm sure you have work to do."

Tarren nodded in polite thanks before exiting the office, his mind already shifting to his next move. As the doors closed behind him, Medarda leaned back in her chair, gazing out onto the city below. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the surface of her desk.