Chapter 32: Medarda

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the city of Piltover. High atop one of the city's most prestigious buildings, the elite gathered in celebration of another Progress Day. The event was equal parts celebration and opportunity—a space for nobles and merchants to mingle, strike deals, and align their interests under the guise of charity and civic goodwill. Waitstaff weaved through clusters of attendees, their trays laden with fine wines and delicate snacks, while a soft melody from a string quartet filled the air. The city stretched out below, its vibrant lights twinkling against the encroaching night.

Tarren stood at the corner of the gathering, isolated against the grandeur. Dressed sharply to match the occasion, his discomfort was evident in the way he leaned against a column, far from the clusters of conversation. The young innovator's presence among the sea of middle-aged nobility was a stark contrast to their old men's conversations. He had been sent as the academy's representative, a decision he increasingly questioned with every passing moment.

He didn't engage, but he listened. News traveled quickly in gatherings like this, and tonight, a particular snippet caught his attention.

Near the balcony, an older man with an air of frustration confronted Chief Grayson. Tarren's eyes and ears caught their exchange even from his vantage point.

"The undercity is in chaos, Chief Grayson," the man barked, his voice low enough to keep the conversation private yet firm enough to convey his anger. "Gang wars, burning warehouses—my factory is there. My employees are there. I've heard nothing. What are you doing about it?"

Grayson met his accusations head-on. "The undercity is volatile, as it has always been. My enforcers will not be sent to their deaths unnecessarily."

"It's your job to ensure order," the man snapped.

"It is my job to protect Piltover," Grayson countered smoothly. "The undercity has a way of… resolving its own conflicts. If—and only if—the violence threatens to spill across the bridge will the enforcers intervene fully. Until then, I suggest patience."

The old man muttered something under his breath before departing in a huff, leaving Grayson standing alone. She turned slightly, catching Tarren's gaze. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips as she raised her glass in a silent salute before walking away.

Tarren exhaled, his thoughts drifting. The undercity, the chaos, he is thinking of going back there, but Vander seems to still be busy. His musings were interrupted when he sensed a presence approaching.

"Who invited you?"

The voice was smooth, filled with curiosity and amusement. He turned to find Councillor Mel Medarda standing before him, a golden goblet in hand, her regal looks accentuated by her rich attire.

"I'm here as the academy's representative, Councillor." Tarren replied, sighing lightly. "Honestly, Professor Heimerdinger could've sent someone else. I'm too young for this crowd."

"Too young," she echoed with a faint smirk. "That's hardly an excuse. I became a councillor only a few years older than you are now. Like you, I didn't have the luxury of being welcomed as a native."

"You're from a Noxian family, and I'm from the slums of the undercity," Tarren said plainly. "That's hardly the same."

Mel arched her brow. "Insightful for someone of your background. But the point remains—connections matter, and you'll find that your influence grows faster than you think. You'll need allies to sustain it."

She paused, studying him. "You've made waves today. I'm impressed, I didn't think you'd have results in this fast of a time, at this magnitude no less. The council already received a proposal to grant you a dedicated lab. I'll ensure the discussion tips in your favor."

Tarren offered a small smile. "Thank you, Councillor."

She hummed approvingly. "Remember my advice. Connections are the lifeblood of the people here, whether you like it or not. And soon enough, you'll need to think about establishing your own name—a House, even. But for now, you should go home, it doesn't look pleasant that a bored teenager is standing among us. I'm sure you're tired as well from all the presentations you've done today."

Before he could respond, she turned, seamlessly integrating herself into another group of guests. Tarren sighed, glancing at the exit. Deciding he had endured enough, he made his way toward the door.

As he stepped into the corridor, the lively chatter from the event faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the city below. He began walking, only to hear a soft voice behind him.

"Excuse me?"

He turned to find a middle-aged woman with striking white hair standing in the doorway.

"Yes?"

"You're Tarren, correct?" she asked with a gentle smile.

"I am," he replied cautiously. "And you are?"

"I'm Amara, a merchant." she said smoothly. Her name struck something cold in Tarren's mind—a faint bell of recognition he couldn't immediately place.

"What could a merchant want with a student like me?"

"Oh, nothing too serious," Amara said, her smile not leaving anytime soon. It is at this time that Tarren realized who she is, and his face hardened, his mind numbed. "I attended your presentation today. You're an incredible prospect for this city. I simply wanted to introduce myself. I hope we can work together in the future."

Tarren forced a polite smile. "Of course."

The door closed behind her, leaving Tarren in the dimly lit corridor. His smile faded, replaced by a cold, contemplative expression. His mind churned with unease as he turned and began walking back to his residence.