regulus was a man in possession of all that fortune and legacy could bestow. as scion to an affluent piltover magnate, born into an influential house, living in the centre of the city's gilded spires, a place of progress with the highest access to education in the academy.

yet, all this ease and opulence seemed fated to unravel, for peace, it appeared, was a fragile privilege.

see, his plight had began when an acquaintance of his—caitlyn kiramman, daughter of councilwoman kiramman herself, had seemingly vanished. he had heard whispers that caitlyn had paid a visit to stillwater prison, leaving with inmate number 516 on a sanction from jayce talis (who’s establishment as a council member earlier that week had regulus seething).

next thing he knew, fear of an undercity uprising was what flitted among the usual vapid, rather tactile gossip that raptured the ears of his inner circle of rich socialites. corruption, betrayal, revenge. those were fundamental to the human existence.

there was a barricade on the bridge. no one from the undercity could make it into piltover. except for you.

a marvel, if a filthy one. you were evidently from the undercity; slightly worse for wear, but mostly intact despite the shimmer that was becoming token on the streets. regulus had found you intriguing—but he should not have. you were filth, beneath him, barely human, according to some. but you looked human. you felt human.

“you are late.” regulus demurred, his form reclining against a crumbling stone wall, casting an elegantly sharp figure against the encroaching night. the sunset illuminated the carved crests of his cheekbones, dark curls awry from the evening breeze that carried the aroma of smoke across the river. “i do not enjoy it when you are late, i could easily be on my way, perhaps in the company of one of my circle.”

you did not doubt this; however he did press his lips to your knuckles, light as a butterfly’s breath. “i see that you are alright. not storming the barricade like a hooligan."