POV - MORGANA
The temple did not reveal itself as an ordinary construction. It revealed itself as an ancient wound finally exposed to the light, slowly, inevitably, carrying pain and truth in equal measure.
At first, it was merely a shadow amongst shadows. A rumour of something greater hidden amidst the lesser buildings of Bilgewater. But as we ascended, the shadow gained form. Substance. Weight.
And when it finally became impossible to ignore, I understood why the Buhru had built here. Not despite the height. Because of it. This place needed to be above. It needed to look the ocean in the eye as an equal, not a supplicant.
The structure rose from the black crags of Bilgewater like bone piercing through torn flesh; not gently, not with the architectural grace that Demacia adored, but with necessity. As if it had grown here. As if it had always been here, and the city had built itself around it, accepting or ignoring its presence as convenient.
Black stone.
Not the dead grey of common masonry. Not the sterile white Kayle would have chosen, no demanded, for her temple.
Deep black. The black of oceanic abysses where light goes to die. Black that drank the rising sun and returned nothing save a promise: 'What you bring here, you face here. No lies. No glamour. Only truth, naked and cold as deep water.'
And I, who had spent centuries shrouded in self-imposed shadows, recognised an immediate kinship. This place did not pretend to be something it was not.
Refreshing. Terrifying. Both.
The timber interlaced within the stone told a more honest story than any chronicle of Demacia.
These were not planks from forests. They were the corpses of ships. Skeletons of vessels that had sailed their final journeys and found their end not in calm, but in purpose. Broken hulls resurrected. Shattered masts redeemed. Every beam bore scars marks of storms survived, battles lost, crews drowned.
Death transformed into a foundation. Integrating into something new, carrying history as a lesson rather than shame. Salvage as redemption.
A concept that made something in my chest tighten in a way that was not entirely uncomfortable.
"This shouldn't exist," Azra'il murmured, but there was admiration in her voice, not disapproval. "Physics violently disagrees with this architecture. The load distribution is impossible. The angles are wrong. Symmetry does not exist. It should collapse."
"But it does not collapse."
"Because it accepts change." She touched a wall lightly, fingers tracing joints that visibly flexed under the pressure of the sea wind. "It doesn't resist. It breathes. It moves. Philosophy manifested in engineering. Or..." she glanced at me, "or faith strong enough to alter reality."
"Nagakabouros does not seem the sort of deity that alters reality," I observed. "She seems the sort that accepts reality as it is brutal, chaotic, killing and says: 'So live within it, or drown trying.'"
"Less comforting than most religions."
"But more honest."
A truth we both recognised: Demacia lied. It promised order, justice, protection. And it delivered forced conformity, blind punishment, fear.
Kayle's justice promised purification through light. And it delivered ash where people used to be.
Nagakabouros, however, promised little beyond the obvious: 'You will die. The question is: did you live first?'
Brutal.
True.
I could not decide if I loved or hated the clarity.
The temple had no doors. Of course it didn't.
I realised this metres before we reached the entrance a wide, arched opening carved into living stone like the mouth of a cave or the throat of a giant sea creature. No timber blocking it. No iron bars. No guards posted interrogating visitors regarding their intentions.
Just open void, inviting and threatening in equal measure.
Doors were an illusion. Doors said: "I can keep things out. I can choose who enters. I can control who accesses the sacred."
But the ocean had no doors. A storm had no doors. Death had no doors to prevent entry when the hour arrived.
So why would a temple dedicated to the primordial force of motion and change have doors?
Doors implied that something inside needed protection. That the sacred was fragile, vulnerable, demanding defence against the profane.
But Nagakabouros, I realised as I stared into the aperture revealing dense shadows beyond, did not view Herself as fragile.
She viewed Herself as inevitable. Like the rising tide. Like the passing of time. Like death eventually arriving for everyone. She needs no doors because she fears nothing that might enter.
And perhaps, a more disturbing thought, because she did not distinguish between the devout and the profane. Between the believer and the sceptic. Between the worthy and the unworthy.
All were equal to the ocean: eventually, everyone drowned or learned to swim. Choice was the only variable.
I stopped at the threshold, hesitating in a way I hadn't for decades. Not out of fear; I had faced horrors that would make lesser gods flee. I had looked my sister in the eye whilst she proclaimed my fall. I had met the Ice Witch and discovered the creatures she hides beneath the frost. Physical fear was a luxury I could no longer access.
But there was another kind of fear. Spiritual fear. The fear of being seen, truly seen, completely stripped of glamour and pretence and the careful construction of a persona that kept the world at a safe distance.
This temple promised sight.
Not gentle.
Not merciful.
Just honest.
And honesty was more frightening than any violence.
The atmosphere shifted instantly, so drastically it was like passing through a veil, or diving underwater, or crossing from life into something else. The temperature plummeted. Not the cold of winter. The cold of the depths, where the sun never reached, where bodies sink and are never found. Damp. Heavy. Every breath had texture, a taste of salt, decay, spices I did not recognise but which part of me seemed to remember. Remember from what, I did not know. Only that there was an ancient weight in that scent. A collective memory of generations who lived and died with the ocean as their witness.
Light filtered through irregular fissures in the stone, not windows, but architectural wounds left intentionally open. The light arrived blue-green, filtered through something that was not glass but perhaps water, perhaps crystal, perhaps merely solidified belief.
An illusion of being submerged. No, not an illusion. A reminder. You are already drowning. You always have been. The question is not if you will drown, but how hard you will fight before accepting it.
Braziers burned at irregular intervals, not with common fire, but flames that were green at the edges, blue at the centre, releasing smoke that rose in spirals appearing to possess intent. Incense burned within, not the commercial varieties that Demacian temples usually imported for the cathedrals. Something more honest. Dried fish. Seaweed. Spices from places Valoran's maps did not name. Resin from trees that grew on islands existing only in sailors' legends.
The scent of history. Of the ocean. Of life. Of death. Of the perpetual continuation of both.
And the central idol.
Nagakabouros.
Not a comfortable symbol that allowed distance between the devotee and divinity.
But a presence condensed into physical form because physical form was the only language mortal minds could process without breaking completely.
Wood so black it seemed to absorb light as a black hole absorbs stars. Carved, no, grown, into a shape that was half giant octopus, half sea serpent, half something that had no name because human language had not evolved to describe primordial forces.
Tentacles coiling upwards and outwards in patterns that hurt to follow visually. Not because they were ugly. Because they were too true. Every curve was frozen motion. Every spiral was a wave halted mid-break. Looking at them was like looking at a photograph of an ocean in a storm; you knew it was moving, you simply couldn't see it because you were trapped in a single moment.
But you knew.
You felt it.
And eyes.
Of course it had eyes.
Eyes that made no anatomical sense on a creature that was more concept than body, yet there they were: deep amber, or ancient jade, or burnt gold, impossible to define because they changed. Not physically. Perceptually. As if the colour depended on who was looking, what sins they carried, what truths they avoided.
And they glowed.
Not with reflected external light.
With internal light. Consciousness. Intelligence.
Ancient in a way that made my millennia seem like the blink of an eye.
And it was watching me.
Not metaphorically.
Literally watching.
I felt the weight of divine attention just as I felt the weight of chained wings: constant, inescapable, reminding me that choices have consequences, and consequences have weight, and weight never disappears, only redistributes.
"Can you feel it?" Azra'il whispered, not out of religious reverence, but from a visceral recognition that a loud voice would be a violation. Like shouting during a moment of silence for the dead.
"I feel it." My own voice came out hoarse, carrying a weight I did not intend. "This is no ordinary statue."
"No." She studied the idol with the intensity she applied to everything, but there was something different now. Hesitation? Fear? Respect? "This is an anchor. A focal point. A partial manifestation of something so vast it cannot fit into physical reality, so it compresses itself into a form mortal minds can process without shattering."
A surprisingly theological analysis from a child who preferred science.
But correct.
I could feel, not see, not hear, feel, the vastness beyond the idol. Like an iceberg: a small visible part above water, an incomprehensible mass hidden below, waiting.
"It is like being watched by an ocean that has decided to have eyes," Azra'il continued, voice becoming smaller. "And opinions. And... expectations."
"A disturbingly accurate description."
"Thank you. I am disturbed."
We were not the only ones.
Priests, no, the wrong word. Embodiments. Vessels. Nagakabouros in human flesh, moving through the temple with a purpose that was half ritual, half simply living.
All muscular in a way that was not aesthetic.
It was functional. Necessary. Bodies that worked constantly, fought frequently, moved perpetually because stopping was stagnation and stagnation was spiritual death.
Muscles beneath skin like ships' ropes beneath a deck: visible, defined, each with a clear purpose. Not strength to impress. Strength to survive.
And tattoos.
Gods and daemons.
Covering every inch of exposed skin and likely far beyond. Not decoration. Not art for art's sake.
Scripture.
History carved in flesh and pain and ink that was half pigment, half blood, half something sacred that had no name. Serpents. Waves. Tentacles of Nagakabouros coiling around arms, legs, necks. Symbols that seemed to shift when one looked away, not because they changed physically, but because their meaning changed depending on the angle, the light, the mental state of the observer.
Every tattoo was a passed test. Every symbol was an accomplished movement. Every line was rejected stagnation. A spiritual curriculum written in flesh because flesh was the only tablet Nagakabouros accepted.
I looked at my own hands. Pale skin, unmarked save for the occasional scar of battles, of choices, of centuries lived.
I wondered what my tattoos would say, had I the courage to write them.
Fatherless orphan. Abandoned sister. Chained wings. Justice sought but never reached. Compassion offered but rarely accepted because compassion demands vulnerability and vulnerability terrifies. Pain carried as self-imposed penance because if I do not punish myself, who will?
They would likely not fit on a single body.
I would need multiple lives to catalogue every mistake, every questionable choice, every moment where compassion failed and justice became vengeance in disguise.
But I had only one life.
One long, exhaustingly, painfully long life. But singular nonetheless. And sometimes I wondered if that made the weight easier or harder to bear. If I had multiple lives, perhaps I could distribute the guilt. Compartmentalise. Say, "that version of me made that mistake, but this version is different."
But I did not have that luxury.
It was just me. Always me. The same consciousness bearing centuries of choices without the relief of a restart. Azra'il stood beside me, also studying the tattoos with clinical interest.
But there was something in her expression, distance, perhaps. As if she looked not merely with curiosity but with recognition. As if she understood the concept of carrying weight across time in a way a thirteen-year-old child should not understand. But then, Azra'il understood many things she should not. I attributed it to extensive reading. To exceptional intelligence. To a perspective born of observing the world with an attention most people never applied.
Yet sometimes, in rare moments when her guards fell, I saw something in her eyes that seemed... ancient. Weary. As if she had seen more than her age permitted. Azra'il carried weight. And perhaps that was what made our relationship function. We both understood what it meant to carry heavy things that others did not see.
We both knew how to smile whilst the soul bled. We both recognised in the other: 'You are also pretending to be fine, are you not?' And there was comfort in that recognition. Even, especially, when it was a silent recognition. Never discussed. Simply known.
One of them noticed us.
A priestess, a woman whose physical age suggested perhaps thirty years, but whose eyes suggested far more. Eyes that had seen storms, losses, deaths. Eyes that witnessed enough to understand that life was precious precisely because it was temporary.
Tattoos climbed from her hands, beginning at the fingers where small, intricate symbols marked every joint, following along wrists, forearms, biceps, until vanishing beneath the short sleeves of a tunic that likely concealed much more. They climbed her neck too, stopping only at the jawline, but continuing likely under her hairline and down her back.
Not a random pattern. A story. A visual chronology of a life lived in service to perpetual motion.
She approached with a confidence that was not arrogance; it was the absence of doubt. Moving with the certainty of someone who did not know fear, not because she was brave in a way that required effort, but because fear was a foreign concept. Irrelevant.
Fear was stagnation. Stagnation was blasphemy. So fear simply... did not exist as a valid option. The result was a gait that was part dance, part predator, part ocean personified, fluid but powerful, graceful yet carrying the weight of a wave about to break.
She stopped three metres away. Not hesitation, but respect. Enough space not to be threatening, but close enough to make it clear we held no power here. Not really. We were visitors in her territory. And she was deciding if we were welcome.
"Visitors," she said.
Her voice was contradictory, soft in tone, almost musical, yet carrying weight. Like a wave crashing against rock. A sound that seemed gentle from afar, but revealed power when close. A sound that could lull one to sleep or drown one, depending entirely on its disposition.
"Not locals. Not Buhru."
Not an accusation. A factual observation, presented without judgement, but without warmth either. Dark brown eyes, almost black in the shadows, but capturing the light of the braziers when they turned, revealing depths of amber, studied me with an attention that was uncomfortable.
Not because it was hostile. Because it was complete.
As if she were seeing me. All of me. Through the glamour, through the carefully constructed pretence, through years of practice in presenting myself as something palatable for mortals who could not endure the full truth. Studying not appearance, but essence. Weighing. Measuring. Deciding how much truth I deserved to hear.
"But not foolish tourists either," she continued, tilting her head slightly, not a bow, an investigation. A movement reminiscent of a bird studying a shiny object, calculating if it was treasure worth taking or a trap in disguise. "You have..." she searched for the word, "...purpose. I see it. The weight of genuine seeking, not casual curiosity."
She took a step closer, and the light shifted, revealing details of tattoos that were simultaneously beautiful and disturbing.
A serpent coiling around her right forearm, mouth open displaying fangs, but the eyes were... wise. Not aggressive. Just aware. Witnessing. Waves crashing across her left wrist, every crest drawn with precision that suggested hours of pain during application.
And on her neck, partially visible beneath the jawline, a single tentacle of Nagakabouros, thick as a thumb, rising from some point hidden beneath her tunic, curving along the tendon, ending behind the ear in a tip that seemed to twitch when the light flickered.
Not twitching.
Just... suggesting perpetual motion even when still. "You..." she said, focusing completely on me now, ignoring Azra'il momentarily. Not rudely. Just prioritising the greater threat, or curiosity.
"You carry something ancient. Older than Bilgewater. Older than the Buhru. Ancient as..."
Silence as she processed what she saw. Or felt. Or knew through a connection with Nagakabouros that allowed perception beyond mundane senses.
"...as guilt that never fully heals. A wound that reopens. Constantly. Because you do not allow it to close, because you think you deserve the pain."
Breath hitched in my throat.
How did she—
But the answer was obvious: Nagakabouros saw through water. And water was in everything. In the air. In the stone. In me. And through that connection, the priestess saw as well.
Not everything. But enough.
Enough to make the glamour seem pathetic. Enough to make carefully built defences appear transparent as glass. Enough to see me naked. And I realised, with a rising discomfort bordering on panic:
I was not prepared for this.
Not here. Not now. Not from a stranger who owed me nothing, had no reason to lie mercifully, felt no obligation to soften truths that hurt. But it was already too late to retreat. Because she was smiling now. Not cruelly, but with recognition. Like a wolf seeing another wolf and understanding: 'Ah. A predator disguised as a lamb. Or a lamb disguised as a predator. Time will tell which.'
"Welcome, sister of chains. The Serpent loves those who choose prison rather than have prison imposed. It shows rare character."
Then, finally, she looked at Azra'il.
And her expression changed completely.
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💬 Author's note
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Let's be very clear:
👉 Runeterra: happy translator, inspired, thriving.
👉 Fairy Tail: translator actively considering strangling the author after the theatre chapter.
This chapter had:
no stage
no music
no cast singing, fighting and crying at the same time
Anyone who's read the theater chapter in Fairy Tail knows exactly what I'm talking about.
Runeterra is ancient gods, weird temples and existential dread.
Fairy Tail is a comedy with complicated action scenes.
Result?
Runeterra = smooth translation ✨
Fairy Tail = occupational hazard 🔪
One more thing 👀
👉 Please leave a comment for the translator if you're enjoying her translation.
She absolutely deserves it (and positive reinforcement helps keep the author alive).
Quick question for you all:
👉 What do you think about the way I'm handling Nagakabouros so far?
Do you like this raw, strange, slightly judgmental vibe, or would you want it approached differently?
Comment before the translator sees another stage appear.