Arcane: In This New World

The sound of Tarren's footsteps echoed in his ears as he stepped into the center of the council chamber. Though the room was filled with loud voices, overlapping arguments, and the occasional slam of a hand against the polished wooden table, his own movements felt exaggerated in his mind. Every shift of his joints, every glance of his eyes, every breath he took felt entirely conscious, as though the very act of existing in this space required careful precision.

The chamber was grand, lined with golden trim and decorated with banners of Piltover's crest, but despite its elegance, it felt suffocating. The men and women seated around the long, curved table—were in the middle of a heated dispute. Spittle flew across the polished surface of the table as voices raised, accusations were thrown, and indignation burned behind sharp glares.

Then, with a sharp bang of the council hammer against wood, silence blanketed the room.

"Enough," Head Councillor Heimerdinger's voice rang firm yet level. His usually kind and curious eyes were hardened with authority. "Let us hear the messenger of this message first."

Councillor Salo scoffed loudly, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. "Hear him? He's with them! A boy from the Undercity—his opinion is barely unbiased."

Tarren's fingers twitched slightly at the words, but his expression remained neutral. He turned his gaze toward Salo, his tone as cold as steel. "Then who would you rather speak in my stead, Councillor? One of your lackeys? A handful of well-paid actors?"

Salo's face darkened in anger. "How dare you—"

"I said enough!" Heimerdinger's voice cracked across the room as he slammed his hammer once more. The tension simmered under the forced silence. "Speak, child. Tell the council why we should accept this request."

Tarren exhaled slowly before beginning. "Thank you, professor." He let his gaze sweep over the faces of the council before speaking again. "I'll get straight to the point, esteemed councillors. I am confused as to why this hearing is even necessary in the first place."

Councillor Salo let out a sharp laugh. "See? This hearing is borderline useless."

Tarren didn't dignify the interruption with a response. Instead, he took a slow step forward, making a deliberate path toward Salo's side of the table, standing just in front of him. He met the older man's eyes with an expression of pure boredom. "Piltover prides itself on being the City of Progress," he stated. "Away from the land-hungry tendencies of Noxus, away from the feudal rule of Demacia. We call ourselves pioneers, inventors, diplomats… and yet, we can't even manage our own internal problems."

"What exactly are you implying?" Councillor Shoola asked with a frown, her sharp eyes scanning him carefully.

Tarren turned his attention to her. "The problem of the Undercity has always been ignored by this council," he said plainly. "A rebellion happens? You send enforcers, arm them with guns, and execute anyone who crosses the bridge. Anarchy consumes the region? You ignore it and hope it burns out, so long as it doesn't spill into your pristine streets through the bridge."

His lips curled into a humorless smile. "That bridge—the Bridge of Progress. What an irony. A structure meant to connect Piltover to the Undercity became the very thing that further separates them. And now, the ones across that bridge have come to you, offering a chance to talk about destroying it—not doing it, just talking—and still, you sit here and argue that they shouldn't even be heard." His expression darkened. "I don't get it."

"This is exactly why I don't like a boy as young as you speaking here," Councillor Hoskel snapped. "Do you even understand the consequences of these ideas? There is a lot of gold in the Undercity—gold that merchants and noble families do not intend to let slip through their fingers. If they so much as suspect that their profits are at risk, there will be chaos. We may be the City of Progress, but progress does not come for free."

Tarren's gaze sharpened. "What gold, Councillor? The gold that you abandoned for two years while the Undercity burned? When these merchants protested—when they begged—you turned your backs. And now, suddenly, you're concerned about their voices?"

"That is different," Councillor Bolbok interjected, his gassy voice rumbling through the chamber. "We are not discussing minor uprisings. We are talking about the independence of more than half of Piltover's territory. The impact will not only be internal, but external as well."

"See, this is why I am confused." Tarren chuckled, shaking his head. "You make a lot of assumptions, but you haven't even allowed the representatives to speak yet. Let them be here, listen to their plea, and clear up your assumptions. Is that really so difficult?"

"Now, Tarren speaks some sense." Councillor Kiramman's voice rang clear in the chamber. "We can hear their demands first. Then we decide. That is easy enough."

"No." Councillor Hoskel interjected, his voice sharp with warning. "As I said, if any influential persons in Piltover catch wind of this—if they even suspect that we are discussing the possibility of independence—they will act. And not just them." His eyes swept across the room. "Even our own authority as the council of Piltover would be shaken. You, esteemed councillors, of all people, should understand the consequences."

"I understand the risk, Councillor Hoskel," Councillor Medarda spoke smoothly, leaning forward. "But I believe inviting these… Zaun representatives are the right course of action. The Undercity Problem has festered for decades, and it remains unresolved. If we tread carefully, we might find an equitable compromise." She glanced around the chamber. "Even these so-called 'persons of interest' would have little ground to object if we handle this correctly."

"That is a lot of 'ifs,' Councillor Medarda," Salo muttered, skepticism heavy in his voice.

"The future is always uncertain." Medarda offered him a measured smile. "But at the very least, we should try. This is the least bloody solution available to us. If the anarchy of two years ago had escalated into another full-scale rebellion, I doubt all of us would still be sitting here today. Some would be buried beneath our city."

A hushed silence followed her words. 

"I would like to say a few words." Heimerdinger's voice cut through the tension. The murmurs died down as the Head Councillor adjusted his spectacles. "I intend to support the wishes of the Zaun representatives, whatever they may be. You may argue with me all you like, but you will not change my mind. However…" He hesitated, the weight of his centuries of experience reflected in his eyes. "I recognize that certain factions in this city will oppose any agreement we reach. That is the reality of Piltover, the city I have called home for generations." He sighed, a rare melancholy seeping into his tone. "If this endeavor brings us to the point of no return to these factions, then I will take the role of the black sheep."

The room fell into a stunned silence. Tarren, who had been watching Heimerdinger carefully, narrowed his eyes slightly.

"What do you mean, Head Councillor?" Hoskel asked, intrigue flashing in his gaze.

"I will step down as Head Councillor if the backlash from the noble houses and merchant guilds is severe." Heimerdinger spoke with certainty, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the room. "But I ask that you honor the negotiations, whatever the outcome. If we come to an agreement, I expect it to be upheld, regardless of external pressures. Let me be the sole blame for this situation."

More murmurs filled the chamber now, hushed but intense. Even Tarren hadn't expected Heimerdinger to make such an offer. 

"Is there any disagreement?" Heimerdinger asked, his voice steady.

For a moment, no one spoke. The implications hung heavy in the air.

"I believe this is the best course of action," he continued. "It allows us to move forward without bloodshed. So, let us vote. All in favor of inviting the Zaun representative to speak before this council, raise your hands."

One by one, hands went up.

Kiramman. Medarda. Heimerdinger. Bolbok. Shoola. Hoskel.

Salo, the last holdout, glanced around and saw he was alone. His lips pressed into a thin line. Begrudgingly, he lifted his hand.

It was done.

Tarren stood in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back. He could feel the shift in the air—the turning of a tide that had long been stagnant.