Callian ran.
Ran like his life depended on it.
His blood was on fire—his eyes alight with a pink, violent madness.
He sprinted through the darkness of Eastside, heading back toward Entresol.
The earthy ground simmered beneath his feet—burning underneath the heat of his heavy, racing strides.
Barely a minute passed before the glowing streetlamps of Northside came into view—sending a rush of artificial anticipation surging through Callian.
Originally, it had taken him upwards of fifteen minutes to reach the manor from this final, distant frontier.
Now, in this shimmer-fueled state, he had made it in two.
Such were the perks of becoming a monster.
Callian ascended, forcing himself to neglect shimmer's enticing call to continue employing his explosive armament.
All the boots would do was shatter or melt Entresol's frail walkways and send him tumbling back into the Underground's depths.
He climbed—higher and higher—leaping from support to support with grace, despite his heightened emotional turmoil.
He stared upward, eyes fixed upon the patchy grey sky that was visible through the many sinkholes scattered across Promenade's surface.
Dawn was breaking over the Twin Cities.
He had to hurry.
Eventually, he reached Promenade—his final leap setting him down atop the cracked cobble of the surface's crumbling streets.
He darted through the abandoned cityscape—the greying sky above him getting lighter and lighter with each passing minute.
Callian reached one of the bridges that lay above the dirty Pilt River.
To his irritation, it was manned—causing a further spike in his already mounting stress levels.
His mind contracted.
It would just be two bodies. Just two.
He would be fast—faster than they could react—then dump their bodies into the river after they died.
Nobody would know how, or by whom.
No—No.
There had to be another way.
Callian's eyes flickered toward the thick steel wiring that ran between the bridge's towering supports.
Doable.
He ran—his figure cloaked within the shadows cast by the dark morning clouds.
He leapt onto the nearest wire, sprinting up its incline until he reached the topmost span—directly over the centre of the bridge.
He stepped onto the concrete platform atop the tallest of the decorated pillars, glancing down to observe the guards who lay ahead of him.
If even one of them looked up now…
Callian forced the artificial bout of paranoia aside.
He glanced down at his arm—raising it and unbuttoning his coat's tightened sleeve.
Beneath that outer layer of clothing, a strange black fabric lay wrapped around the entirety of his forearm.
He unwrapped that too—peeling it back feverishly.
His movements jostled the collection of small grey stones that were sewn into the strapping—causing more than a few of them to strike together quickly.
The contact made them light up—sending a jade glow across the series of runes chiselled into their otherwise smooth surfaces.
The swirling jade-coloured gleam faded quickly, returning to a dull, ordinary grey.
Callian's eyes darted across his forearm—toward where a large tattoo lay inked across his skin.
To the naked, untrained human eye—especially in this darkened light—the tattoo might've appeared to be a solid black.
But in reality—it was so finely detailed, so precisely drawn, that only those of an incredible sight would be able to decipher it.
Callian turned over his arm, examining a map only he could see.
Tiny crests lay dotted across the tiny, tattooed map of Piltover, paired with precisely noted dates of both ownership and affiliation.
Callian searched.
For the object of his hate. For the object of his… worry.
The Kiramman crest.
It was all across the miniature drawn city—from the civilian housing district, to the industrial estate and the city's docks.
The family had fingers in Piltover's every pie.
Laying eyes upon that crest irked him so.
There. The family estate.
Northeast of here.
Just as Callian was lacing the wrap back around his arm—something else on the map caught his ever-keen eye.
It was crest—paired with another, different Kiramman one.
It was attached to a workshop not far from here.
The crest was a hammer.
It was a famous crest. One Callian knew all too well.
But why? Why was it affiliated with the Kirammans?
Shimmer's tendrils squirmed again, their influence extending further across his mind.
Callian hastened to rewrap the fabric.
It didn't matter. Not now at least.
For now, he had somewhere to be.
Someone he had to kill.
He buttoned his sleeve back up, pink eyes returning toward the duo of guards below.
It was time for him to move.
✦ ✦ ✦
"? years prior - The old timeline
"Cal. I think it's time we stop avoiding this conversation."
Ekko's hesitant voice pulled Callian back to the present.
The young man's discomfort was obvious—as was the edge of finality in his tone.
"The Kirammans," he started, fixing Callian with an uneasy look. "What are we going to do about them?"
A sharp sound suddenly came from the workshop's desk, drawing the pair's attention away from one another.
"Ah," said Heimerdinger, sounding immensely regretful.
A broken stick of chalk rested in his outstretched palm.
The yordle dropped his hand to his side before coughing into his other hand awkwardly.
Then he turned to face the two.
"Yes—I quite agree," he said, pushing past his somewhat embarrassing mistake. "We've tiptoed around this particular subject for a time far too long. Now, I believe, may finally be the time to breach it."
Ekko glanced at Callian, absently beginning to toy with his ornate-looking pocket watch.
The shorter, blue-haired man sat at a small table positioned in the corner of the room.
A blonde-haired woman sat by him—her focus firmly aimed toward the tattoo she was inking into his skin.
In response to the duo's words, Callian's arms clenched—barely.
He did not want to have this conversation.
"Lord Bright!" The woman burst out, pulling back her hextech-powered arm from his own. "If you move your arm one more time, I'm going to have to redo this entire section! This isn't an easy task, even for me—as I'm sure you well know!"
An immediate regret flared within Callian's mind.
"Apologies Matilda," he replied, knowing full well how much time and effort had gone into the map so far. "It will not happen again."
The woman huffed unhappily, but let it go.
Not because the man was her superior—but because she knew she couldn't blame him for his slip-up. Not after what the people of the lower regions had gone through because of that stupid, foolish woman.
"You already know my stance on this matter—as do you also know our Liege's. We are both quite clear on that."
Callian's vague, deflecting answer made even the understanding Heimerdinger waver.
Ekko swivelled in his chair, looking even more uncomfortable than he had before.
Both of them knew Callian well.
The only time the usually direct man was vague with them was when he didn't want to lie.
"Listen—Cal," Ekko started, turning back to face him. "I know what Caitlyn did was wrong—believe me, I do. I was there when… when it happened. Just like you were."
The young man looked back up, fixing Callian with a steady, uncompromising stare.
"But if you go ahead with what I think you're going to do to her? To her whole family?" he shook his head. "It just isn't right. Surely you know that?"
"I'm inclined to agree with young Ekko on this matter," Heimerdinger interjected—also firmly—stepping forward. "As grave a mistake as Caitlyn made, it should not make her past self accountable for her future mistakes. Mistakes, might I remind you, she has long since paid for in full."
Callian smiled bitterly in response, allowing a dull resentment to begin festering in the back of his mind.
This, solely, was a grievance he would always allow himself to feel. Always.
"That woman's penance does not bring back the dead," he replied, his voice consciously empty.
"No," Ekko answered quietly, recognising the man's restraint immediately. "But this—"
He gestured toward the chalkboard—toward the machine Heimerdinger had been working on.
"This? This will. That's why we're building it. Not just for our future—but for theirs too."
Callian stared at the two before him, his gaze deadening.
He respected them both. A great deal. Especially Ekko.
They were good men. Far better than him.
He closed his eyes slowly.
His free hand rose, gently coming to knead his closed eyelids.
They twitched jauntily—their spasms caused by the shimmer polluting his system.
It screamed with everything it had—calling for a resolute, violent denial of his comrades' request.
For instead, a vow of bloody vengeance.
Callian exhaled. Softly.
"Give me a reason not to," he said, his voice quiet. "If it is sound—then… I will try."
A flicker of relief crossed Ekko's face.
Then the sentiment faded, and he smiled wryly.
"Right then," he said, exchanging a knowing look with his yordle mentor. "Let's get to brainstorming."
"Excellent."
Heimerdinger tossed the broken chalk to the side and clapped his hands together, looking both thankful and satisfied.
"Now, let's begin with the late Cassandra—Caitlyn's mother. I knew her personally—once having been sat on the high council—and I believe that she, at least, can be reasoned with."
Callian's mind began to drift away from the ongoing conversation.
His Liege's orders had been clear, and he agreed with them wholeheartedly.
But these two…
The impression they had of him—even after all this time. After all he had done.
He didn't want to fail to meet their expectations.
He would try. Try to live up to the image of the man they saw him as.
But, if it came down to it—if it looked like there was no other feasible way to move forward—then he would forsake that image without hesitation.
He would try to be a good man.
But if their plan faltered—or failed—then he would default back to his Liege's orders.
And exterminate the entire Kiramman line.
His more altruistic companions' objections would be irrelevant.
Besides, they would not be there to see him fall once more.
Her future had to be preserved.
At any cost.
✦ ✦ ✦