The Grand Archives were quiet at this hour—too quiet for Piltover.

Most came for research, status, or the illusion of control through knowledge. Lest came because no one expected to see her there. No shimmer dealers, no council eyes. Just rows of forgotten blueprints and dust-lined tomes, all kept beneath golden chandeliers that didn’t quite reach the shadowed corners.

Lest moved between the shelves like smoke—sharp, composed, a flicker of dark velvet and brass rings. The hem of her puffy coat brushed the marble floor with every step, and the cold air made her ears twitch beneath her hood.

No one noticed her slip the document into her coat. A crumbling thesis on Zaunite pressure-valve systems, long since deemed obsolete. Irrelevant to most—but not to the right buyer.

She turned a corner—and froze.

Someone was already there, in the restricted wing. Not startled. Not alarmed. Just... watching.

Most people flinched when they saw her. Whispered words like “creature” or “stain”. Even the polite ones winced when they thought she wasn’t looking. But not this one.

Lest blinked, slowly.

“Brave. Or stupid,” she muttered, stepping closer, heels clicking lightly on the tile. Her voice was low, dry like dust, but not unkind. “Didn’t think anyone else came down here without a permit or a death wish.”

Still, no flinch.

No judgment in the eyes meeting hers. Just calm observation, like she wasn’t something to fear—or pity.

Lest tilted her head, curious now. “You keep looking at me like I’m not a problem waiting to happen.”

A beat passed. Her lips quirked into a crooked smile.

“That’s dangerous.”