Arcane: Sovereign Of The Broken City

Chapter 12: Bad Luck Meets Worse Timing

POV: Cael → Lynne

Location: Bonewalk, Cauldron outskirts

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Cael's POV

Cael never liked Bonewalk.

The name itself was a joke—one of those places in Zaun where nothing walked unless it had the guts to risk being stripped bare. Old catwalks hung like broken ribs overhead, corroded railings twisted like bones cracked wrong. The smell of metal, blood, and burnt chems clung to the walls.

He was only here because an old crew contact said there was an opening—one last deal, one big enough to wipe his name off Smeech's blacklist for good. Dumb to trust an ex-contact. Dumber to believe in clean deals in Bonewalk.

He realized that as soon as he stepped into the meeting yard and saw both colors flying.

Crimson-ragged arm bands on one side—Krug's crew. Fluorescent green masks on the other—Jorg's dogs. Two rival outfits. Same product. Same turf. Same idea: screw the middleman.

And Cael? He was the middleman.

"Told you he'd bring both sides," one of Jorg's men sneered. "Trying to play clever, Cael?"

"I didn't bring anyone, you back-breathed bastard," Cael growled. "You all set this up yourselves."

A weapon cocked. Fingers twitched near holsters. A single chem-stim crate lay unopened between the groups like a landmine.

Then someone fired.

The sound cracked the air like thunder.

Chaos exploded.

Cael didn't stay to see who shot first. He dove behind a stack of broken gears, letting the two gangs tear into each other. Screams filled the yard, metal slammed into flesh, and chemical fire sizzled somewhere nearby.

He counted—Three... four... five...

On six, he made a break for it.

He bolted down a narrow rust-channel, ducking blind swings and ricocheting rounds. Footsteps pounded behind him. He didn't know who was chasing him—Krug's boys, Jorg's, or both. Didn't matter. They all wanted him dead now.

Note to self, he thought bitterly, next time someone says 'one last deal'—run the other direction.

"Never pause," Cael muttered to himself, sprinting through a flood channel. His coat was torn, one sleeve half-burned from a glancing chem-bolt. His ribs ached from where some idiot tackled him into a rusted pipe.

Two days. He'd been running for two days.

The first day he'd stuck to the ducts and filters, hoping the chase would die down. It didn't.

Second day, he'd tried looping toward the Fissures—bad idea. Jorg's network went deeper than he thought. By the time he hit Sunken Market, his legs were shaking and his stomach was a hollow pit.

That's when he heard another set of steps ahead, fast and light—someone running the other way.

And then—

Wham.

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Lynne's POV

It had been a simple job.

Read a formula. Report the buyer. Get out.

Lynne had memorized pages of chem-manuals before. This one had been sloppily folded into the back pocket of some idiot who owed the wrong people money. The formula itself? Some kind of modified coolant-stabilizer used in illegal undercity condensers—nothing fancy.

What she hadn't known was who it had been stolen from.

The buyer was expecting the original chemist.

Instead, he got her.

"You're not Dreck," the buyer muttered, squinting at her over yellow goggles. "You don't even look like Dreck."

"I never said I was Dreck," Lynne said, backing slowly toward the exit.

"You said you had what he promised."

"I do have the formula."

"Which means you stole it."

She froze.

The warehouse shadows shifted. More men stepped out from behind the crate stacks. They all wore the same emblem—spiral coils inked on necks or jackets. Heatcoil Syndicate. Minor players in Piltover's underworld. Absolutely brutal in Zaun.

Lynne's eyes darted across the room, calculating.

Six men. One broken exit vent. No good cover. No escape route unless...

She ran.

Behind her, someone shouted, "Grab her!"

She burst through the vent gate, scurried into the ducts, and slid through a half-flooded pipe. Rust and slime clung to her coat, her boots scraped metal with every frantic step. She didn't dare stop. Not until she'd put three alleys between her and them.

And it's been hours since but the heat didn't seem to lessen even a tiny bit.

Her lungs screamed, her legs burned. She rounded a corner, slid down a collapsed support beam, and ran headlong into—

Someone else.

They collided.

Shared POV

They slammed together.

Cael grabbed Lynne's wrists before she could elbow him. Lynne hooked her knee up like she meant to throw him. Both froze mid-move.

"Gun-thief," she hissed.

"Info-rat," Cael growled.

"You still owe me for that pistol."

"You still owe me for letting you live."

They might've fought right there if heavy boots hadn't echoed behind them—thick, stomping, angry boots. Syndicate boots. From the Heatcoils.

"I vote running," she gasped.

"Seconded," Cael grunted.

And they ran. Again.

They didn't talk. No time.

Bonewalk was behind them, but the city wasn't letting go. Between kurg's crew, jorg's dogs and the Heatcoil Syndicate goons, it felt like half of Zaun was chasing them. The only advantage they had was knowledge—streets, vents, tunnels—and luck.

Mostly luck.

They cut through a drain shaft near Fissures, slipped between broken catwalks and sideways pipelines, crawling over dead ducts like rats. Cael led the way through an abandoned filtration plant where he used to hide loot. Lynne recalled a bypass route to the lower wards from memory alone, guiding them with gestures and breathless words.

They collapsed once in a defunct chemical laundry, hiding behind carts of molding fabric for hours, neither speaking, both listening.

"They won't stop," Cael muttered when the silence finally broke.

"No," Lynne agreed. "They want us alive. That's the problem."

"Still thinking of a plan?"

She didn't answer. Her mind was already spinning through dozens. None ended well.

They pressed on, crawling into Sunken Market just before dusk on the second day.

The place stank worse than usual—smoked fungus, rotten starch, chemical piss. The noise was unbearable. Half the market was yelling; the other half was watching.

Eyes everywhere.

They couldn't rest. Not here.

Then Lynne paused.

Cael saw it in her face—recognition, hesitation, the flicker of a gamble.

"What?"

"Do you remember her?" Lynne asked. "That girl. Ashryn."

Cael blinked. "The maniac who cracked Smeech's courier for fun? Yeah. I tried to sell her a gun once. She took it and my boots."

"She helped me once. No reason. Just did."

Cael exhaled, half-laughing, half-exhausted. "You think she'll help again?"

"I don't know," Lynne admitted. "But if anyone in Zaun's crazy enough to go against all these crews and still be standing…"

"She'd be the one."

They shared a look.

And turned toward the Cauldron.

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Final Scene: The Reunion

Lynne's legs were done.

Cael was limping.

The last alley they turned into brought them face-to-face with a gang of low-level smugglers sniffing coin.

They were cornered.

Again.

Lynne raised her fists, shaking.

Cael raised his stolen pistol, breath ragged.

Then a voice rang out like a shotgun blast wrapped in a grin.

"Aw hell," Ashryn called from the rooftop above. "You two look like actual alley rats."

Lynne's eyes widened. Cael blinked.