Chapter 2
The cold, gray walls of the prison cell echoed with the sound of dripping water, a relentless reminder of the days Ivy Kingsley had spent locked away. Her white hair fell in disheveled strands around her pale face, framing those striking green eyes that flickered with defiance that had not dulled over time. She paced the narrow space, her feet shuffling against the concrete floor. "Damn it," she muttered her voice a whisper that barely penetrated the heavy silence. She clenched her fists, feeling the rough edges of her confinement. "I didn't do it."
A guard ambled by, his boots thudding against the floor. "Save your breath, Kingsley. You're here for a reason. Just accept it."
Ivy shot a glare at him, her freckles standing out in stark relief against her flushed cheeks. "You think I'm guilty just because it's easy? What about the real murderer?"
"Not my problem," he said, chuckling as he walked away, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hall. With a sigh, Ivy sank onto the cot, a worn-out mattress that creaked under her weight. The air was thick with despair, but beneath it lay a simmering ember of hope. "I will find a way out," she whispered to herself, determination surging through her veins. "I have to."
As she stared at the cold, gray walls of her cell, the darkness around her began to fade, and her mind drifted back to an afternoon in Zaun. She could almost hear her mother's laughter, a sweet melody that danced through the air like the warmth of the sun. "Look, Ivy! It's beautiful, isn't it?" Her mother held up a dagger, its handle adorned with intricate patterns, glinting in the light. A blue gem sat in the middle glinting in the light. Ivy's heart fluttered with excitement. "Yes! Can I have it?" she had asked eagerly, her face lighting up with hope. Her father knelt beside her, tousling her white hair. "It's not just a dagger, Ivy. It's a tool, a treasure. You must learn to wield it with care and respect." She smiled. "I promise I will!" she exclaimed, her small hands wrapping around the hilt, feeling its weight—a connection to her family and their love. Even at a young age she understood that her family didn't have much. Their home being a single room with worn down furniture and a few flickering lights. Her mother's talent in sewing and crafting helped her family through life. Ivy didn't care about the lack of glamour in their life because to her home wasn't the place but the people.
Later, they huddled together in their small home, her mother teaching her how to sew. "You can make anything you desire, Ivy. Just like this," she said, guiding Ivy's hands over the worn fabric, her voice soft and encouraging. Ivy could still feel the warmth of her mother's hands over her own, the laughter that filled their humble home. She stuck her tongue out focusing on weaving the needle in and out of the fabric. She completed a smooth line of stitching, she giggled looking up at her mother. "See Ivy, you can achieve anything with practice." she reached a hand down grazing a finger across her cheek. Her mother's genuine smile brightened everything. "It's hard." Ivy whined. Her father chuckled walking up to them, his hand resting on her mother's lower back. "You'll experience many hard things in your lifetime, but never let them define you."
But that warmth shattered one day with the echo of the explosion, the day the world turned upside down. It was a day when a bomb ripped through the market, taking her parents in a single heartbeat and leaving her in a world of shadows. Enforcers ran through the streets grabbing innocents, stampeding over the bodies on the floor like they were roadkill. Bullets were being shot, piercing through people as they ran. Ivy backed into a fallen stand, tripping over a man's body. Smoke filled the air clouding her sight. The ruins of buildings and road scattered over bodies, crushing people. She got up, looking down and seeing him lifeless, flames flickering in the hazy reflection of his eyes. Tears filled her eyes as she ran, knocking into men and women fleeing. She knew she couldn't stop, with each step she took, someone around her fell lying dead. .
The acrid tang of smoke burned Ivy's throat as she sprinted down the jagged, crumbling alleyways of Zaun. Her white hair, streaked with ash, whipped against her face as she darted through the chaos. The sharp staccato of gunfire ricocheted through the maze-like streets, each shot punctuated by the screams of those who could not flee fast enough. Pale green eyes, now wide with terror and glistening with tears, scanned frantically for any path that might lead to safety. But there was none—not when the enforcers from Piltover descended like a plague, iron and precision, their march merciless and unforgiving. They came with the rumble of mechanized boots, faces obscured behind masks that betrayed no hint of humanity.
Zaun was reduced to a battlefield in minutes. Ivy's heart slammed against her ribs as she vaulted over the charred remains of a collapsed awning, the heat of encroaching flames biting at her exposed skin. Somewhere in the distance, a mother wailed as the air grew thick with the choking stench of burning oil and charred bodies. A child's doll lay discarded, one button eye melted and strings of blonde yarn singed. The sight seized Ivy's chest with a visceral ache, but she forced herself to keep moving. The metallic clatter of a reloading weapon echoed to her left, and she threw herself into a side street just as a burst of bullets riddled the wall behind her.
"Keep running," she whispered, the plea barely audible over the din.
Adrenaline and exhaustion clawed at her legs, but she pushed on, driven by a primal need to survive. Her eyes stung as ash swirled around her, turning the world into a storm of shadows and embers. Every breath was a struggle, every step a battle against despair as Zaun wept beneath the weight of Piltover's iron fist. One thing she knew was that she should have died that night. She should have not lived to see the next day.
Her thoughts snapped with the sound of a mans scream down the hall. "I will find justice for you," Ivy murmured, her voice barely a whisper, but fierce with resolve. She stood up brushing the dust off her loose gray shirt and brown pants. She walked to the bars of her cell, gripping her hands around the metal polls. She looked out the cell and up at the small window stories high that let the smallest amount of moonlight seep through. What would my parents think of me now, She thought to herself. Her forehead leaned against the grimy bars, her eyes fluttering shut. The memories of love and loss, of a dagger and dreams, surged within her. She would escape this prison, not just for herself, but to honor the legacy of those who had believed in her.