"It seems I'll have to study this more carefully once we return."
Duke rubbed his chin as he gazed at the empty expanse below, a glimmer of excitement flickering in his eyes. But the urge—the thrill, the hunger—he forced it all down.
Now wasn't the time to think about such things. Their work here was done. What remained was a mess best left to Prince Jarvan IV and his father, Jarvan III.
"So this is what you meant by an effective range of ten kilometers?" Jax murmured from beneath his mask, his voice tinged with disbelief. Such destructive power… he hadn't seen anything like it since the days of his oldest memories.
That was during the all-out war between Icathia and Shurima.
Yet now, thousands of years later, he was witnessing something just as terrifying.
There was not a trace of magic in it—and yet, its destructive force was beyond comprehension. He couldn't help but wonder: what would happen if such a weapon were hurled into the Void?
A cold curiosity took root in Jax's heart. Duke's earlier warning now weighed even more heavily in his mind.
"This is… horrifying," someone whispered, stepping back in fear. Their gaze toward Duke was filled with shock. "If mortals can wield power like this, then what have we been training and refining our bodies for all these years?"
Hearing that, Xin Zhao looked around. Every face he saw was the same—shocked, frightened, and lost.
If such a weapon appeared on the battlefield, how many lives would it take just to overcome it?
"Enough!" Jax barked, his voice sharp as a whip. "Steady your minds! Don't dwell on what you just saw. A warrior bends but does not break!"
"Don't let fear take root in your hearts!"
He could see their resolve wavering. If he let this continue, most of them would be useless once they returned—broken in spirit, never the same fearless warriors again.
"No wonder you said you wouldn't use it lightly," Prince Jarvan muttered, forcing a strained smile. Duke merely shrugged, pulled out his flask, and took a drink without saying another word.
To reveal such a weapon before others would inevitably breed suspicion—and suspicion gives birth to fear.
And fear…
...leads to hysteria.
That was why Duke so rarely used weapons of such magnitude. To those who could not comprehend their nature, he would only become an object of terror—a monster beyond reason, rejected by the very world he sought to protect.
That was the price of knowledge—the agony of being misunderstood.
Not that Duke cared much. In the end, truth always proved itself.
The prince opened his mouth to speak again, but Xin Zhao suddenly reached into his coat and pulled out a communicator—a tablet entrusted to him by Jarvan III before they left. It could connect to multiple channels.
The device was shaking violently, its screen flashing with urgency.
Xin Zhao immediately accepted the call.
In the blink of an eye, the terrified face of a palace attendant appeared on the screen. "It's terrible—terrible news! His Majesty... His Majesty has been assassinated!"
"What?!"
Everyone froze. The attendant swallowed hard, stammering, "The mages have revolted! Thousands of them stormed the capital—along with raiding bands from Freljord! The entire royal city is in chaos!"
Jarvan and Xin Zhao exchanged horrified looks. Worry and panic filled their eyes. Duke, meanwhile, simply sighed, rubbing his chin again. "So we've been led around by the nose all along."
He chuckled bitterly. "LeBlanc, you've truly played your hand well. In such a short time, you've managed to connect a web of seemingly unrelated events into one grand design."
"As expected of the Deceiver herself. Even I fell into your game without realizing it."
Duke took another long drink from his flask. From the very moment the Black Rose spies abducted Lux, everything that followed had already been set in motion.
LeBlanc truly lived up to her title. In record time, she had orchestrated an intricate plan with ruthless precision.
"Still," Duke muttered with a faint smile, "it's a pity—I've made my own preparations."
He took another sip, exhaled slowly, and let the burn of the liquor linger in his chest.
Half an hour before Jarvan III's assassination.
In the front hall of Dawn Castle, a woman strode swiftly toward the council chamber. Her blue cloak flared behind her with each step, the eagle-shaped pauldrons on her shoulders glinting with a commanding presence.
"Are the others here yet?" Tianna demanded as she reached the door.
"They're all inside, Marshal," came the reply from the guard standing before it.
"And His Majesty?"
"Not yet, my lady."
The guard opened the doors for her. Tianna entered quickly, the heavy doors shutting behind her with a deep thud.
"Well, that's everyone," the guard murmured to himself, a strange smile creeping across his face. He pulled a peculiar-looking seal from his cloak. "Let's hope this works."
He pressed the seal onto the door, his fingers glowing faintly with magic. The seal lit up for a brief second before dimming again, and threads of power began spreading across the doorway—seeping into the very walls of the council chamber.
Inside, Tianna had barely taken a step toward her seat when she tasted something bitter in the air. Her instincts screamed danger. She could feel it—an unfamiliar, oppressive magic enveloping the room.
Her expression hardened. In one swift motion, she turned and drew her sword, slashing at the door.
To the astonishment of the other council members, her blade struck not wood, but something that felt like taut, unyielding hide. The sword bounced back with a dull vibration.
"What's going on?!"
"What kind of magic is this?!"
"I thought we were here for a council meeting!"
"Where is His Majesty?! Where's Jarvan?!"
The hall descended into chaos.
"Enough!" Tianna's voice cut through the clamor like steel. Her eyes swept over the panicking nobles. "Who issued the summons for this meeting?"
"Of course, it was His Majesty!"
"Then where is he now?" someone demanded.
The question froze her. Realization hit like a hammer. They had all walked into a trap—a trap meant for them… and for the king.
"This is bad. Jarvan's in danger!"
Meanwhile, outside Dawn Castle.
Sylas walked forward unimpeded, the clinking of his chains echoing behind him. A cruel, eager smile played across his face.
Everything… would end tonight.
The proud king upon his golden throne, and all those hypocritical nobles—they would pay their due.
But one thought gnawed at the back of his mind.
Why was everything going so smoothly? Was it all the work of the Pale Lady's design?
Or… had someone else been orchestrating this from the shadows, long before he ever joined?
As he pondered the first question, more doubts followed—too many, too fast. It made his head ache. He shook them off. There was no point thinking now. His task was clear.
End the monarch's rule. End the ban on magic. And forge a new future for Demacia.
When Sylas reached the base of the castle wall, the guards were nowhere to be found. Only a lone figure in armor stood waiting for him.
"You…"
Sylas froze, lowering his chains. He could feel the ominous magic radiating from the stranger's body. It was the same sinister energy as the one who had freed him from his cell.
"So it's you," Sylas muttered.
The figure chuckled. "Impressive, Sylas of Dregbourne. That instinct of yours… it almost makes me envious."
"But enough talk. We have work to do."
"Work?" Sylas frowned. "So this was all your plan?"
"What does it matter?" the stranger sneered. "Didn't you want to end it all? The chance is before you. Take it."
He tossed a map at Sylas, then placed his hands on his own neck and twisted hard, a smile still etched on his face.
"I hope, when next we meet… you've fulfilled your dream, Sylas of Dregbourne."
The armored body fell to the ground with a hollow thud. Sylas stared down at the corpse, unease churning in his gut. Every step of this night… had been calculated.
What would become of him once his "success" was achieved?
He gritted his teeth and pressed on, following the map through the corridors until he reached the royal bedchamber. The doors were wide open, and inside, a man in royal finery stood near the window, looking out anxiously.
When Sylas stepped into the doorway, Jarvan III turned.
"Who are you?"
"I am Sylas of Dregbourne," he replied coldly, dragging the chains of his petrified shackles across the floor as he advanced. His steps were measured, deliberate.
"Dregbourne…" The king frowned, then his expression softened with recognition. "Yes. I remember you."
"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" Sylas's lips twisted into a mocking grin. "More than a decade, rotting in your dungeons. Every day, I dreamed of this moment."
"Now… I'm glad we finally meet."
"Your Majesty!"
Sylas raised his hands, magic surging around the shackles. Neither man noticed the shifting shadow beneath the king's feet—nor the pair of cold, inhuman eyes opening within it.
Nor the silent glint of a blade.
"So," Jarvan said quietly, "you've come to take your revenge?"
"Of course I have!" Sylas roared. "Do you have any idea how many mages you've slaughtered? How many lives you've destroyed? We are born with gifts, and yet you treat us as monsters!"
He took another step forward, his voice rising. "We are Demacians too!"
"We! Are! Demacians!"
Sylas's fury echoed through the chamber as he drew close enough to strike. Jarvan III looked at him—really looked at him—with an expression that was neither anger nor fear, but sorrow.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
Sylas laughed bitterly. "You? Apologizing?"
He lifted his chains. "Don't you think it's far too late for that?"
"I've already decided to abolish the ban on magic," the king said.
Sylas froze mid-step, eyes wide.
"The introduction of Hextech Gateways was meant to pave the way. In truth, I was ready. The ban would be lifted on the day of the Grand Tournament's closing ceremony."
Sylas's mouth twisted into a half-smile, half-sneer. "Too late, Your Majesty."
"Far too late."
Jarvan closed his eyes. "You're right. I am sorry for what you've suffered."
"I'm sorry, Sylas of Dregbourne."
"Then ascend, Your Majesty," Sylas hissed.
He swung his chains, but before they could strike, a blade flashed through the air. From the king's shadow, a monstrous form erupted—a nightmare cloaked in darkness.
The creature's sword clashed with Sylas's chains, sparks scattering through the chamber. Then, as swiftly as it had appeared, it sank back into the shadows, taking Jarvan III with it.
Sylas froze, trembling.
He remembered. The mother and daughter who vanished from the cell beside his, all those years ago—the same dreadful energy.
"What… what is this?"
A blade pierced his chest from behind.
"I gave you your chance," a mocking voice whispered in his ear, "and you squandered it."
"Sylas of Dregbourne."
The last thing he saw was darkness swallowing the light.
End of chapter....
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