Doctor Stevanalis sat back in his office chair, letting the hazy glow of the setting sun wash over his desk. He contentedly flipped through the pages of Piltover Weekly until his eyes rested on the latest article by Ezreal, Piltover's Grandmaster Explorer.

My, my, is that boy quick. When I was ten years old, all I thought about was finding salamanders and pulling on girls' hair. And here's a ten year old writing an in-depth article on geological phenomena. The world is a wonderful place sometimes...

So thinking, Doc closed his eyes. The smell of black coffee mingled with the warmth of the sun, and Doc found himself drifting off, back to the good old days. When finding the best salamander out of all his friends was his biggest worry.

The door to his tiny two-room office slammed open. Doc grunted and almost fell over. "Angel? What's wrong?"

There was no other question to ask. Something was obviously wrong. Angel's hair had fallen from its binding into great, loose tangles. Her eyes were wild, her face pale. Doc scrabbled for his glasses and perched them on his nose.

There was blood staining the edge of her white midwife's apron.

"Spit it out, woman!" Doc leapt to his feet, ignoring his knees' groaning protest.

Angel shook her head, dazed. "It's Melena Graves."

"What about her? No time to rest," Doc barked when he saw the midwife searching for a chair.

"She's not going to make it," Angel murmured. Doc sucked in breath, salamanders fleeing his mind. Wordlessly, he started for the door, Angel trailing him.

When they were down the road a little ways, he peered at her over the rims of his spectacles, still not slowing his pace despite the pain in his joints. Angel was clearly afraid to go back. "Did he hurt her? Did Malcolm hurt her?"

Angel shook her head. "No. Whatever else you believe, he's a good man."

Doc sidestepped three cheerful cowhands. He could barely hear Angel over their merrymaking. "Any man who's been to prison for being a conman isn't good in my book, Angel."

"But he was so sweet on her. He - " Angel's voice broke. Doc squeezed her shoulder. She was shaking, trembling beneath his hand like a spooked horse.

It had to be bad.

"Angel," Doc began. He strove to make his voice gentle. No easy feat: Melena was the daughter of his best friend. "What happened to her?"

"Blood."

"Have you never seen it before?"

"Not like this." Angel closed her eyes. "Never like this."

A few minutes later they arrived at the Graves' house, just on the outskirts of town.

There was no sound, save for the creak of the house's wooden bones. Doc felt a little shiver crawl up his spine, slithering like the salamanders of his childhood.

He saw Angel looking up at him with her little waif face. Though she had to be nearing twenty, the dirty smudges on her cheekbones made her look eight years old.

So Doc summoned up all of his willpower and thudded his fist against the door three times.

Once for Malcolm Graves.

Once for Melena Graves.

And once for their unborn, as of yet, child.

"Oh, thank the heavens." When the head midwife of Piltover saw Doc, visible relief filled her face. "Anne! Doc's here!"

"How many women are there? Is this a house party?" Doc stared in wonder as two more young females appeared, their faces carefully neutral. Rose's midwifery students were the best. It was a pity Angel's family hadn't had the resources to train her under Rose. "Clear some of these people out, Rose."

"Aye aye, capp'n. I brought 'em here because I thought it'd be a good case for them to watch but..." Rose sighed. Unlike Angel, her strawberry blonde hair was still immaculate, still bound in tight double-braids across her forehead. Her hands flapping like birds, she shoo'ed the other two women and Angel out of the house, leaving she and Doc alone.

"Careful, Doc. Don't want you to lose your lunch."

"Rose, do you always have to sound so chipper?"

Rose shrugged, her blue eyes glinting manically. Beneath her forced calm and cheer, Doc saw naked terror.

"How bad is it?" He asked in a lower tone. "None of you biddies can give me a straight answer."

"Well, see for yourself." Rose opened the door gingerly and stepped away. The coppery scent of blood smacked Doc on the nose and he fought a brief fight against vomiting.

This is what you've trained for, he reminded himself. So thinking, he went in.

He knew immediately that Melena wasn't going to make it. Blood stained the bed, soaking into the mattress. Blankets and towels surrounded her. Her breath was shallow and raspy.

The blanket Doc's wife made and gave to Melena for a housewarming present was unrecognizable, the pattern sodden.

Surely this - this couldn't be the little girl he'd hefted on his shoulders and carried around. Eaten barbeque with her beneath the hot July sun. Not this red and white...monster.

Her husband of five years, Malcolm Graves, held vigil over her bed.

"Took you long enough." Graves' eyes were rimmed with red. He, too, held the pallor of death.

"I came when Angel brought me. Let me, ah, let me -" Doc swallowed hard. "Let me examine the patient."

Graves stepped aside. Whatever Angel thought, nothing would ever make Doc trust Malcolm Graves. His every feature - his dark hair, reminiscent of Noxians, or his eyes, always aglow with wolfish light - cried out to Doc that he couldn't be trusted.

Never mind that Graves had lived in this same house for seven years. Never mind that he'd actually plied an honest trade for once in his slimy life, serving as a wood-hauler beneath Melena's father.

It was his rotten seed that was killing Melena even now.

Doc shoved the negative emotions to the bottom of his stomach and stepped closer to the dying girl's side. "Can you hear me? Melena?"

Her eyelids fluttered open - no recognition. The once pearly whites of her eyes were stained with burst capillaries. Her icy blue irises held traces of red. Doc shivered.

He leaned down, put his ear to her chest. She was going.

"Can you do anything? Doc? Steve?" Graves put his fist to his mouth. His sandburned, hard face wrinkled.

Doc was almost moved, to see a man who'd spent much of his life in the brig, brought nearly to tears.

Almost.

He pulled Graves out of the room by the shoulders. "She was giving birth, wasn't she?"

Graves nodded and gulped for air. "I don't know what happened. Something inside her. They -" he gestured outside of her bedroom, where the midwives were doubtlessly waiting. "They showed up with cookies and she was smiling. She was smiling, Doc! And then her face -" Graves went still. "Something burst. She bled. Can't you - can't you save her?"

Doc's shoulders fell. "Malcolm, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Graves moved too quickly for Doc to see. He lifted Doc by the shoulders and slammed him into the wall. "Can't you see she's dying, you thrice-damned egghead? All your science and you can't do a single thing? Can you hear me? CAN YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?" Doc saw stars burst behind his eyes as he connected with the wall again, sending one of Melena's watercolor paintings crashing to the floor.

Rose appeared out of nowhere and grabbed the Outlaw's arm, wrenching his grip away with surprising strength. "Malcolm," she hissed. "Go. Go see her out of this world. It's your last duty as a husband."

Doc crumpled against the wall, breathing hard. Feeling every one of his fifty-eight years, he said the first thing that came to mind. "I knew there was a reason I didn't like you, Graves."

Graves sneered, and behind the expression, Doc saw that his words wouldn't matter. Graves had heard far worse insults and let them roll off without a second thought.

"I always knew you were totally useless, Doc." Rose's jaw dropped.

He stalked away, to see Melena out.

Graves cradled Melena in his arms. When she'd started bleeding, his mind had raced. Now all he felt was calm, as frosty as the blue of Melena's eyes. One of his secrets was knowing when to give up, when to stop panicking and let life take its course.

The midwifes had carried the ill-begotten fruit of Melena's womb out of the house and were burying it. Their soft, superstitious incantations floated through the open window. So did the distant chirping of sandcrickets and the smell of rain, and a small breeze.

The world was going on, oblivious to the feverish form in Graves' arms.

"Well, baby girl, I thought my luck was changing. Guess not," Malcolm found himself saying. "I guess Fate was right. When bad luck comes, it comes to stay."

Melena's breath rasped through her throat. Graves held her closer, stroking her dark hair. It was wet with perspiration.

He could feel the fever rolling off of her, hot and damp like the air that hung over swamps. He bowed his head, and twin tears dropped onto her hair. "Won't be long now, I reckon."

It wasn't.

When Doc looked in fifteen minutes later, Graves was standing by the side of the bed, head still bowed in the same position. His only tell of grief was the tightness of his jaw.

Doc cautiously placed his hand on Graves shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Graves shrugged his hand away and went into the gathering night. He let the coolness wash over him. His single, sharp cry of grief rang from housetop to housetop, lonely as a coyote's howl.