Arcane: A Spark Among the Gears

Orion frowned at the half-assembled mechanism sprawled across his workbench. Sparks flickered from the exposed wiring, and an unpleasant odor of burning insulation rose into the warm air. For the third time in a week, he'd encountered a critical shortage of quality parts. Try as he might, none of the salvaged scraps he'd collected could fully replace the more sophisticated components he needed.

"Holding it together with melted-down iron rods and wishful thinking," Orion muttered, slipping off his improvised prosthetic to massage the stump of his arm. He'd been working for hours without a break, and fatigue was setting in. "It's no way to make real progress."

His mother, Clara, appeared in the doorway, her brow knitted with concern. "That smell," she said, crossing the room in quick strides. "Oh, Orion, not another short circuit?"

He sighed, gesturing to the charred coil resting on the table. "I tried to replicate a more refined generator coil with leftover wiring from old enforcer equipment. It's too brittle. I need higher-quality materials, or else everything I make will keep breaking."

Clara gently placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch soft. "Have you talked to your father about this?" she asked. "He might help you source better supplies."

Orion shifted uncomfortably. "I know he tries, but it's complicated. So many confiscated parts are locked away in city vaults or strictly regulated. Sneaking them out would be illegal—and I don't want Dad jeopardizing his position."

Her lips formed a tight line. She nodded, clearly torn. "You're right. We'll have to think of a different approach."

Two days later, Orion joined Grant on a routine walk through Piltover's bustling market district. The father and son made an odd pair—Grant, clad in a simple civilian tunic after his shift, towered over the crowd; Orion, sporting his half-finished mechanical arm and wearing goggles on his forehead. People glanced their way, some out of curiosity, others with a glint of admiration for the ingenious boy who'd become something of a local curiosity.

They stopped at a stand piled high with metal rods, springs, and rivets. The merchant, a broad-shouldered man named Ferros, greeted them with a polite nod. "Afternoon, Grant. Young Orion." His gaze flicked to the teen's prosthetic. "Need more parts, I assume?"

Orion ran a hand through his dark-blue hair. "Yes, but not these," he admitted. The selection on display was serviceable but hardly advanced. "I'm looking for sturdier steel, precision gears, maybe some refined copper wiring."

Ferros grimaced. "That kind of stock doesn't come cheap—or easy. You'd be better off dealing with one of the big houses who handle advanced imports. Kiramman, Talis, Medarda… though they rarely sell to individuals."

Grant glanced at Orion, a thoughtful expression forming on his face. "Thank you, Ferros," he said before guiding Orion away from the stall. "He's right, you know. The top-tier stuff is usually under contract with the big families or the Academy."

Orion looked up, frustration evident. "It's not just about having the parts, Dad. It's about steady access. How am I supposed to innovate when I'm stuck with scraps that break half the time?"

Grant's eyes softened. "Your mother and I have been talking, son. There might be a way."

Later that evening, Orion found himself seated at the small dining table at home. The savory aroma of Clara's stew hung in the air, but tension dampened the usual coziness. Grant cleared his throat, glancing at Clara, who offered him an encouraging nod.

"Orion," Grant began, resting his elbows on the table. "We've been watching you struggle. We can't get you the resources you need on our own, and you're at a point where you're outgrowing this workshop."

Clara reached over and squeezed Orion's hand. "You have so many ideas—some that could be transformative for Piltover, and we believe in you. But you might need a backer, someone who can fund your projects, or at least give you regular access to quality materials."

Orion's shoulders stiffened. He knew they were right, but the idea of courting wealthy patrons made him uneasy. "A backer? Like a sponsor or investor?" he asked, stirring the stew absently.

"Yes," Grant said. "Families like the Kirammans have a longstanding tradition of supporting technological advancements. They've been known to fund up-and-coming inventors if they see potential. Remember the Talis family? They sponsor the Academy's research. There are channels through which you could showcase your work."

Orion lowered his gaze to the wooden tabletop. "But what if they just laugh at me? I mean… I'm just a kid with a prosthetic arm, trying to make new energy sources. They might not take me seriously."

Clara's tone was gentle but resolute. "That's why you need to show them your prototypes. Prove that you're more than just a tinkerer. You have a functioning mechanical arm, a wind generator that actually produces electricity, and a multi-gear bicycle. These are real innovations."

Grant leaned forward. "You're also approaching the age when most young people apply to the Academy, Orion. If you gained acceptance, you'd have access to mentors, advanced labs, and a whole network of future collaborators. Not to mention scholarship possibilities."

Orion's chest tightened at the thought. He'd always worked alone, except for the occasional help from Tobin or the moral support of his parents. The Academy was a revered institution in Piltover, a place of brilliance and prestige. Yet, being there also meant stepping into a more public sphere, meeting other young minds, and competing—or collaborating—on large-scale projects. Did he truly belong?

"You really think I could get in?" he asked, uncertainty lacing his voice.

"Why not?" Clara countered, offering him a small smile. "You're self-taught, but your creations are on par with what many older students dream of building."

Orion inhaled slowly. A swirl of doubts, excitement, and curiosity stirred within him. "Alright," he conceded at last. "I'll try. I'll see about reaching out to someone from one of these big families or the Academy. But I'm going to need help."

Grant placed a reassuring hand on Orion's shoulder. "That's what we're here for, son."

The next day, Orion locked himself in his workshop. He rummaged through boxes of parts, carefully selecting the best pieces of each invention he had prototyped: the mechanical arm, the wind generator's miniature model, and a simplified version of his multi-gear bicycle. He even included notes—sketches of an early wristwatch concept, partial formulas for his attempt at Energon. If he was going to pitch these ideas, he had to do so in an organized, compelling way.

With determined precision, he packed everything into a sturdy wooden crate that Grant had scrounged from an enforcer supply depot. Then he wrapped each item with cloth to avoid damage. By noon, he had the entire presentation set.

Clara knocked on the workshop door. "Ready?" she asked, stepping inside and glancing at the crate. "We can start with Lady Kiramman's estate. She's known to be courteous, and their family name carries a great deal of influence."

He exhaled, shoulders tense. "As ready as I'll ever be."

Clara smiled, placing an arm around his shoulders. "We believe in you, Orion."

Grant escorted Orion through Piltover's more affluent district. The cobblestone streets here were immaculate, lined with impressive architecture that soared into the sky. Gilded railings and ornate lampposts attested to the wealth concentrated in these neighborhoods. Orion felt a pang of envy—what sort of machinery could he produce if he had even a fraction of these families' resources?

They approached a grand estate nestled behind a high wrought-iron fence. Emblazoned on a plaque by the gate was the name Kiramman. A guard stepped forward, eyeing them warily.

"State your business," he ordered, though not unkindly.

Grant cleared his throat. "We're here to see if Lady Kiramman might grant an audience to my son, Orion. He's an inventor with prototypes that may interest her family."

Orion offered a polite bow, trying to exude confidence despite the nerves tying his stomach in knots. After a moment's hesitation, the guard waved another uniformed attendant over to pass along the message.

They waited in tense silence, Orion's heart thrumming. Had this all been a mistake? He was just a teenager with big ideas—perhaps the Kirammans had no time for him. Grant placed a hand on his shoulder, offering silent reassurance.

Finally, the attendant returned with a mild grin. "Lady Kiramman has agreed to see you," he said, opening the gate. "But be prepared to show her something truly remarkable. She does not hand out patronage lightly."

Orion's breath caught. This was it. He clutched the crate of inventions carefully, stepping through the ornate gate, feeling as though each footstep echoed in his ears.

Grant walked beside him, whispering, "Just be yourself, Orion. Speak clearly about your work, and let your inventions do the rest."

The boy nodded, swallowing hard. Beyond the gate, the path led through a meticulously kept garden, then into a grand foyer with marble floors. Servants bustled, guiding them toward a spacious drawing room adorned with luxurious furniture and stained-glass windows. Sunbeams danced across the polished floor in brilliant patches.

At the far end stood Lady Kiramman, a poised woman in a regal gown. Her expression was neither stern nor overly welcoming, more like mild curiosity. "Welcome," she greeted, inclining her head. "I understand you have something to show me?"

Orion stepped forward, heart pounding but resolve firm. "Yes, my lady," he said, voice steady. "I've brought prototypes… and I'm hoping you'll see the potential in them."

He placed the crate on a nearby table and began to unpack his mechanical wonders—small-scale, rough around the edges, but undeniably innovative. Standing to the side, Grant offered a reassuring nod. As Orion started his explanation, the tension in the room thickened with possibility.

This moment might be the turning point in Orion's life—the day he stepped beyond the constraints of his little workshop, letting Piltover's elite see what one determined boy could do. And though he didn't yet know how it would end, he felt a flicker of confidence spark in his chest. He was here, in front of one of the city's most influential families, ready to seize whatever opportunities might emerge from the meeting.