Arcane: Sea of ​​blood

I was brought into the warden's office like a bag of trash that needed to be thrown away. He sat behind a massive oak desk, his face hidden in shadow, but I could feel his cold gaze on me. The guard who carried me set me down on the floor and stepped back, as if afraid I was infected with something terrible.

"Is this him?" the warden asked in a low, hoarse voice, like the creak of rusty doors.

"Yes, sir," the guard replied. "His mother… she's no longer with us."

"I see," the warden sighed, as if this were a routine matter. "Take him to the Piltover Orphanage. Let them deal with him."

The guard nodded and picked me up again. I didn't resist. What was the point? I was too weak to fight, too small to change anything. But in my head, thoughts were already brewing—thoughts that were far from childish. I looked at the warden, at his cold eyes, and promised myself that one day I would return. One day I would become stronger, and then they would all regret it.

We moved toward the cable car that connected the prison of Quiet Abyss to the mainland. When we reached the platform, I saw for the first time what lay beyond the prison walls. The island was surrounded by raging waters that crashed against the rocks with such force that it seemed as if the ocean itself wanted to wipe this place off the face of the earth. The cable car hung over the abyss, and as we began to move, I felt my heart skip a beat. Below, the waves churned, and in the distance, on the horizon, the outlines of Piltover were already visible.

Piltover... The city of progress, the city of light. As we approached, I couldn't take my eyes off its majestic architecture. Tall towers adorned with stained glass and golden ornaments, bridges that seemed like a web woven from light and steel. Everything here breathed luxury and technology I had never seen before. Fountains, parks, streets filled with people in bright clothes... It was a world that felt like a dream. But a dream I couldn't accept.

I looked at all of it and thought about how far this world was from the prison of Quiet Abyss. There, within the stone walls, there was no place for beauty. There was only cold, hunger, and despair. And here... here everything shone as if the world were a beautiful place with no room for pain. But I knew it was a lie. Behind this beauty hid the same filth, the same suffering. It was just better hidden here.

When we reached the orphanage, I was greeted by a low stone building with the typical architecture of the city. After a brief pause, the guard called out to a nearby boy who was watching us with curiosity. A couple of minutes later, a woman with a kind but tired face emerged. She was dressed in a simple dress, but her eyes held a wisdom that spoke of having seen much in her life.

"Mrs. Evelyn," the guard began, "his mother..."

"I understand," she interrupted him, as if she didn't want to hear the details. "Leave him here. I'll take care of him."

The guard nodded and left, leaving me alone with Mrs. Evelyn. She leaned down toward me, her eyes filled with warmth, but I didn't return her smile. I didn't trust that warmth. I didn't trust anyone.

"My name is Mrs. Evelyn," she said softly. "I run this orphanage. You'll be safe here."

I couldn't answer. I just looked at her, and there must have been something in my gaze that made her flinch. But she didn't back down. She took me in her hand and led me inside.

The orphanage was a large, bright building with tall windows and colorful walls. Everywhere there were toys, books, paintings... Everything here breathed a life I had never known. But I didn't feel like I belonged in this world. I felt like an outsider.

Mrs. Evelyn brought me into a room where children were playing. They were so... alive. So free. And so foolish. They laughed, ran around, shouted, as if there was nothing scary in the world. As if they could afford to be so... naive.

The children ran up to me, their eyes shining with curiosity. They asked questions I didn't understand—or maybe I just didn't want to understand.

"Where are you from?" asked a girl with red hair. She smiled as if the world were a beautiful place with no pain or suffering.

I didn't answer. I just looked at her, and there must have been something in my gaze that made her step back. She retreated, but the other children didn't give up. They kept circling around me like flies around honey. Their voices blended into a noise that hammered at my ears.

"He's strange," someone said.

I clenched my fists. Strange? They called me strange? These children who didn't know what real pain was, what hunger was, what death was? They laughed as if there was nothing scary in the world. As if they could afford to be so... naive.

I couldn't leave. I was too small to walk. But I could watch. And I watched them, and there must have been something in my gaze that made them step back. They didn't come too close, but their eyes were full of curiosity.

One of them, a boy with a dirty face and a split lip, came too close. He reached out to touch me, and I couldn't take it. I swung at him, but my arm was too weak to do any harm. The boy jumped back as if he'd been hit. He looked at me in surprise, and then his face twisted in confusion.

"Maybe he's stupid?" he asked, but didn't come closer.

I didn't avoid him. I just stared, trying to show as much indifference as I could with my expression. I don't know if it worked, but he walked away. Meanwhile, the other children kept watching me, fussing around as if I were some kind of exotic creature.

After a good half hour, the children began to disperse, but one girl stayed. She approached me, her eyes full of curiosity. She was small, with dark hair and big brown eyes. She looked as if she had never seen the world outside the orphanage.

"You look sad... no, angry... or maybe sad. Why?" she mused quietly, tilting her head slightly.

"Because the world is cruel," I thought. But I couldn't say that. I was too small to speak.

"Don't be sad. My mom said only bad children are sad because their sadness can make others sad too," she continued cheerfully. "I'm a good girl, don't worry. You can be good too," she finished with a slight nod, as if convincing herself of this thought. She probably would have continued her monologue if one of the other children hadn't called her.

I watched her leave, and for the first time in a long time, I felt something other than anger and pain. It was a strange feeling, as if something inside me had shifted. But I didn't want it. I didn't want anyone to touch me. I didn't want anyone to try to change me.

I frowned slightly at the thought and even tried to curse out of habit. For the first time in a long time, I was free—free from the stone walls of the prison, from my mother's suffocating care, from the children, from their laughter, from their stupid questions. Alone with my thoughts, I retreated into my own world, where there was no one but me. And in that world, I was strong. In that world, I was safe.

But even in that world, I couldn't shake the thought of what the girl had said. "You can be good." Those words echoed in my head, a sound I couldn't drown out.

I didn't want to be good. I didn't want to be like them. But what if she was right? What if there was still something good in me? What if I could be someone else?

I didn't know the answer. And maybe I never would. But one thing I knew for sure: I wasn't like them. I would never be like them.

And that was good. Because in this world full of pain and suffering, being different was the only thing that mattered.

I sat on the floor, hugging my knees, and stared into the void. Thoughts swirled in my head that I couldn't put into words. Suddenly, I heard footsteps. Raising my head, I saw the woman who had greeted me at the entrance. Her face was calm, but her eyes were tired, as if she had seen too much in her life.

"Come on," she said softly, reaching out her hand. "I'll show you your room."

She picked me up, and I felt her warmth seep through my skin. She carried me down the hallway, past other children who watched us with curiosity. Finally, we stopped at a door. She opened it, and I saw a small room with a crib, a table, and a chair. On the table lay a book, and on the wall hung a drawing of the sun and the sea.

"This is your place," she said with a faint smile, tucking me into the crib.

She smiled and left, leaving me alone. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, and couldn't help but compare this room to the cell in Quiet Abyss. There, it was cold, damp, and dark. Here, it was warm, bright, and... cozy. But it didn't make me happy. I felt like a stranger in this world, as if I had been placed in a cage, albeit a more comfortable one.

The days in the orphanage passed slowly. I got used to the new place, to the new people. My room became my sanctuary, a place where I could be alone with myself. But even here, I couldn't escape the memories of the prison. They came to me at night, in the form of nightmares that woke me in a cold sweat.

Over time, however, I began to notice changes in myself. My body, which had once been weak and emaciated, began to grow stronger. Thanks to regular meals and the absence of stress, I grew faster than my peers. I wasn't the strongest, but I was resilient. It was something new for me—to feel that my body obeyed me.

Among the children at the orphanage, I found two friends. The first was the girl with dark hair and big brown eyes who had once told me I could be good. Her name was Lina. She was kind and naive, but behind that naivety lay a deep sadness. One day, she told me that her parents had been imprisoned for corruption. I didn't believe it. In Piltover, corruption was the norm, and I was sure her parents had simply crossed someone more powerful. But I didn't tell her that. She believed they would return one day, and I didn't want to take that hope away from her.

My second friend was a lazy boy named Eric. He was strange—he spent all day sitting in a corner, crafting flowers out of wire and glass. His creations were so beautiful that they were sold in the central square. Eric never spoke much, but his silent support meant more to me than words. He taught me that even in this world, you could create something beautiful if you tried.

By the age of four, I had grown accustomed to life in the orphanage. I wasn't happy, but I was grateful to have a roof over my head and food to eat. I learned to hide my emotions to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. But deep down, I remembered my goal to become stronger. I didn't know what the future held, but I wanted to be ready for it.

One evening, lying in my crib, I looked at the drawing of the sun and the sea on the wall. I thought about Lina, about her words, about how I could be good. I thought about Eric and his flowers, which he created out of nothing. And I realized that perhaps, in this world, there was room not only for pain but for something greater. Something worth living for.