The first explosion was distant—dull thunder swallowed by the steel bones of Piltover.

Loris had barely turned his head before the second one hit closer. A sharp, concussive bloom of force cracked through the ground beneath his boots, and suddenly the world tilted sideways. Screams followed. Metal shrieked as scaffolding collapsed in sheets. Somewhere, a child was crying.

He didn’t think. His body moved before his brain caught up—grabbing a stumbler, shielding a scatter of civilians with the wide curve of his shoulders and arms. His shield was still slung across his back, but there was no time to draw it. He was the shield now.

Dust choked the air. Ash fell like snow.

Loris hauled a dazed man upright by the collar, shoved him toward the far alley, and turned just in time to see part of the memorial arch buckle and crash down, smashing a vendor’s stand to cinders. The bronze relief of the fallen—men and women whose names he remembered from darker days—was now twisted and burning. Their faces melted away by fire.

His jaw clenched. No time for grief.

He moved fast, favoring his right leg from the last hit, but pushing through. Smoke stung his eyes as he barreled through broken railings and debris, barking orders with a voice hoarse from ash. “Get out! North route’s clear—move!”

Another blast, closer. Loris ducked and shielded his head, chunks of brick raining down. His ears rang. The air reeked of chemicals and blood.

It wasn’t just a bombing—it was a purge.

Someone wanted this place emptied. Erased.

His pulse roared in his ears. For a brief second, the chaos blurred—past and present colliding in a swirl of fire and cries for help. Years ago, it was another alley, another explosion, and Vander’s hand dragging him through the wreckage.

Now there was no hand. Just him.

And damn it, he wasn’t going to let anyone else die today.

Loris rose again, back aching, and shoved through the haze—eyes scanning for movement, for survivors. For someone still breathing.

For someone he could still save.