Arcane Vander X Reader

The Whispering Shadows of Zaun

The neon glow of Zaun’s undercity pulsed like a living organism, casting erratic shadows on the damp walls of the jinkx-infested alleyways. You tightened your cloak, the fabric thin but sufficient to ward off the chill of the night air. Your boots echoed softly against the cobblestones as you navigated the labyrinthine streets, your destination clear: the Last Drop, a tavern rumored to be a haven for mercenaries, thieves, and the occasional chemtech dealer.

You weren’t here for the company. You were here for information. Specifically, information about a man—or rather, a specter of a man—known only as Vander. The leader of the orphaned gang, the Damaged, was a figure of both fear and reverence in Zaun’s underbelly. His name was whispered in the same breath as cautionary tales, yet you’d heard enough to know there was more to him than the rumors suggested.

The Last Drop was a cacophony of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional scuffle. You slipped through the crowd, your eyes adjusting to the dim light. The air was thick with the scent of cheap liquor and sweat, but you barely noticed. Your focus was on the figure sitting alone in the corner, his broad shoulders hunched as if bearing the weight of the world.

Vander.

You approached cautiously, your hand brushing the hilt of the dagger strapped to your thigh. He didn’t look up as you slid into the seat opposite him, his gaze fixed on the half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him. The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, until finally, he spoke.

“You’re not from around here,” he said, his voice rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

You smirked, leaning back in your chair. “Neither are you, I’d wager. Not really.”

His head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. There was something in them—a flicker of wariness, perhaps, or maybe something deeper. You couldn’t tell.

“What do you want?” he asked, his tone clipped.

“Answers,” you replied, keeping your voice low. “About the Damaged. About you.”

He snorted, a bitter sound. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But you’re playing a dangerous game, asking questions like that.”

You shrugged, though your heart was pounding in your chest. “I’ve always been a fan of dangerous games. Besides, I’ve heard enough about you to know there’s more to the story than what the chemtech addicts whisper in the alleys.”

For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze piercing as he weighed his options. Finally, he sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to deflate him further.

“Fine,” he muttered, signaling the bartender for another drink. “Ask your questions. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You leaned forward, your elbows resting on the table as you laced your fingers together. “Let’s start with the Damaged. Why do you protect them? What’s in it for you?”

Vander’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his glass. “They’re all I’ve got left,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Zaun chews people up and spits them out. The Damaged… they’re the ones who’ve been spit out too many times. I won’t let them be forgotten.”

There was a raw honesty in his words that caught you off guard. You’d expected defiance, maybe even arrogance, but not this—not the vulnerability that seeped through his gruff exterior.

“And you?” you pressed, unable to stop yourself. “What’s your story?”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking away from yours as if the memory was too painful to confront. “I was just like them once,” he said eventually. “An orphan, scraping by in the gutters. But I made choices… choices I can’t take back. Now, I’m just trying to make sure no one else has to walk the same path.”

The weight of his words hung between you, heavy and unspoken. You could see the toll it had taken on him—the lines etched into his face, the darkness in his eyes. But there was something else there too, something that defied the rumors: a spark of hope, however dim.

“Why are you really here?” he asked suddenly, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made you shift in your seat.

You hesitated, debating how much to reveal. In the end, you decided on the truth—or at least, part of it.

“I’m looking for a way to make a difference,” you said, meeting his eyes. “Zaun’s a powder keg, and I’m tired of waiting for it to explode. I think you might be the key to stopping it—or at least, to lighting a different fuse.”

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, draining his glass. “But be careful what you wish for. The undercity has a way of swallowing people whole.”

You smirked, though your stomach twisted at the implication. “I’ve always been a fan of dangerous games, remember?”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, fleeting but genuine. “Then welcome to Zaun,” he said, extending a hand. “Where the stakes are high, and the odds are always against you.”

You took his hand, feeling the callouses on his palm, the strength in his grip. For the first time since you’d arrived in Zaun, you felt a flicker of something akin to hope.

Maybe, just maybe, you’d found an ally in the shadows.

As you left the Last Drop, the neon lights of Zaun seemed to flicker with newfound intensity, as if the city itself was holding its breath. You knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but for the first time, you felt like you had a chance—not just to survive, but to make a difference.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.