Asta's hand dropped to his side as the last echoes of their handshake faded into the cold morning air. Around them, the courtyard remained hushed, the gathered soldiers exchanging uncertain glances.
"Captain," one of the vanguard officers spoke, stepping forward, voice hesitant. "What are your orders?"
Garen turned slightly, the gleam of Judgment catching the dim torchlight as he glanced toward the men. "Stand down. The courtyard is secure."
A ripple of relief moved through the formation, though it was tempered by unease. The soldiers sheathed their blades, but none took their eyes off Asta.
Garen adjusted his grip on his sword, lowering it until its tip touched the stone. "Asta," he said, his tone calm, but resolute, "you'll come with us to the great city of Demacia. You've earned enough respect to not be treated as a prisoner, but I'll ask that you stay within the Citadel's custody until we've spoken to the Council."
Asta blinked, tilting his head. "High Silvermere? That's your capital, right?"
Garen nodded once. "The heart of Demacia. It's where the final judgment on this matter will be made."
For a moment, Asta looked as if he might argue. His eyes flicked from the soldiers to the walls, then back to Garen. But then he smiled again, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, sure. If that's what it takes to clear things up, I'll go. Just don't expect me to sit still forever."
Cithria found herself almost smiling at the remark. Almost.
Shyvana's claws flexed as she crossed her arms, her gaze sharp as ever. "He's dangerous, Garen. You saw it yourself. We have no idea what he can do."
Garen met her eyes and gave a small nod. "I would expect you to have a completely different reaction to him."
That silenced her, though the faint growl in her throat said she didn't agree.
The commander turned to Asta again. "You'll be escorted under guard, for formality's sake. I trust you won't make that an issue?"
"Not unless someone tries to pick a fight," Asta said lightly, glancing at the ring of soldiers still watching him like a bomb about to go off. "I'm not here to cause trouble."
Garen's lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. "Then we have an understanding."
He turned to his men. "Prepare a transport. We leave for the great city in two days."
The soldiers snapped to attention, moving with crisp efficiency. Shyvana stalked off toward the far end of the courtyard, muttering under her breath. Cithria lingered a moment longer, her eyes following the strange, black-clad swordsman.
Asta caught her staring and gave a small, disarming wave. "Hey. You okay?"
Cithria blinked, caught off guard. "I, yes."
He laughed, bright and unbothered, as if the tension around him didn't even register. "Yeah, I'm still not sure how I ended up here in the first place."
'I didn't ask anything though.' Before she could answer, one of the MageSeekers called over his shoulder. "This way Sir Mage."
The mage gave her a grin, hoisted his sword onto his shoulder, and followed the commander toward the gates.
---
The next two days passed beneath Wrenwall's gray skies, heavy with mist and watchful silence.
Though the battle was over, the fortress still hummed with the kind of unease that only followed when something unnatural had walked its grounds.
Asta wasn't confined, not exactly. He was given a cot in one of the outer barracks, a space usually reserved for trusted mercenaries or visiting soldiers. Two MageSeekers stood outside his door at all hours, their eyes following his every movement. If the lack of privacy bothered him, he didn't show it.
In truth, Asta seemed... comfortable.
He helped carry crates of rations that arrived from the supply wagons, sparred briefly with a few curious soldiers in the courtyard, and even shared stories over bread and broth at the evening mess. He was loud, cheerful, and entirely out of place among the stiff, disciplined Demacians.
Cithria found herself watching him more than she cared to admit.
When she reported to Garen the next morning, he didn't seem surprised. "I expected as much," he said, arms folded across his chest as he stood on the ramparts overlooking the camp below. "He doesn't act like a man with something to hide. This makes him more dangerous, not less. Keep that in mind."
"Understood Sword-Captain." Cithria saluted.
Shyvana, leaning against the stone wall nearby, snorted. "You're giving him too much credit. I still think we should have bound him."
Garen's expression didn't change. "And risk provoking him into proving why we shouldn't? No. If he wanted to attack, he would have done so already."
Cithria hesitated before speaking. "Sir… what if he's telling the truth? bout being from another world?"
That drew both of their gazes, and she nearly regretted saying it. But Garen only looked thoughtful. "Morn has grown really fond of you then, if she told you of the information we gathered. As for what he claims, we'll cross that bridge when we get there."
---
Morning broke over Wrenwall in muted shades of silver and blue, the light slipping through a low curtain of fog that rolled down from the mountains. The fortress stirred slowly, a living thing waking from uneasy dreams. The clang of armor, the creak of wooden carts, and the low murmur of disciplined voices filled the air.
Cithria was already awake. She had been long before the trumpets sounded. Sleep had not come easily, her mind refused to still after recent events.
Now, as she tightened the last strap of her armor, the morning light brushed against the edge of her pauldrons, painting them in faint gold. She checked the fit of her gloves twice, then again, before securing her cloak. It was habit, the kind drilled into her since her first campaign. But beneath the steady rhythm of preparation, there was unease she couldn't quite name.
Outside, the courtyard was alive with motion. Stablehands loaded supply crates into the wagons. Squads of soldiers fell into marching lines, their voices carrying over the hum of the morning air. The dragon guard was already assembled near the gate, Shyvana standing at their head like a sentinel carved from iron.
Cithria took her place among the vanguard. The air was crisp, laced with the smell of oil and steel. She adjusted her helm under her arm as she caught sight of Asta standing a few paces from the MageSeekers' post.
He was dressed in the same strange, tattered cloak from two days before, though someone had provided him with cleaner underclothes and boots. He looked oddly refreshed, his expression bright as he leaned against a wagon wheel, chatting with one of the younger soldiers like they were old friends. The soldier laughed at something he said, actually laughed, before noticing Garen's approach and straightening instantly.
Cithria frowned. It wasn't that Asta was disrespectful, exactly. He simply... didn't seem to understand Demacia.
To him, rank and discipline meant little. Yet somehow, that lack of reverence didn't come across as arrogance, more like sincerity in a world too strict to allow it.
"Cithria," a familiar voice called from behind her. She turned to see Alys Morn approaching, his weathered features marked by fatigue and something close to caution.
"Unexpected developments?" she finished, adjusting her sword belt.
Morn smirked faintly. "You've been paying attention."
Cithria glanced toward Asta again. "It's hard not to."
Garen's command voice soon carried over the courtyard, firm and clear. "We ride in formation until midday. Maintain distance between the carriages. MageSeekers take rear position. Dragon Guard, cover the flanks."
A chorus of "Yes, Sword-Captain!" echoed through the air.
As the soldiers began to move, Cithria mounted her horse. The leather reins felt cold beneath her gloves. From her vantage point, she could see the whole procession beginning to form, banners of silver and blue fluttering faintly against the morning haze.
Then came Asta, walking easily beside the lead wagon. He gave a lazy wave when he caught her eye. "Morning! Guess today's the big trip, huh?"
'Why is he talking to me again?' Cithria blinked, unsure how to respond. "It's not a trip," she said after a pause. "It's an official escort to the capital."
He grinned. "Right, right. An official escort. Sounds fancy."
She sighed inwardly, choosing not to reply. But she found, to her annoyance, that the corner of her mouth almost lifted.
The gates of Wrenwall groaned open, spilling sunlight and mist across the cobblestone path. The wind carried the sound of hooves and the rhythmic clatter of armor as the column began to move.
But if there was one thing Cithria had learned in her years of service, it was that things were never so simple.
"Mage! Stop him!"
The shout rang out from deep within Wrenwall's inner walls, sharp, and unmistakably urgent.
Cithria turned instinctively, her hand flying to her sword. Around her, the column halted, soldiers glancing about in confusion. The sound of boots and armor shifting echoed through the misted courtyard.
Asta blinked, bewildered. "What? I didn't do anything!"
"It's not you, lad," Hess barked. His gaze swept toward the fortress gates just as Garen vaulted from his steed, Judgment flashing in his grasp. Without a word, the Sword-Captain sprinted back through the gate, the sound of his armor ringing against the stone.
"Hey, wait!" Cithria heard Hess shout, but before anyone could react, a gust of wind cut through the air. Asta blurred forward in a streak of motion, dashing past her and straight after Garen.
"Of course," Cithria muttered under her breath, already reaching for her blade.
Shyvana roared something indistinct and took off after them, the ground shaking beneath her strides. The Dragon Guard moved in unison, their heavy armor clattering as they followed their commander inside.
"This is turning into a right mess, eh?" Hess groaned, swinging off his horse.
Morn laughed, sharp and fearless. "Wouldn't be Demacia without one." She drew her blade and broke into a run. "With me, Cithria!"
Cithria didn't hesitate. She leapt down, her boots hitting the cobblestones hard before she followed close behind. The cold morning air whipped at her cloak as she sprinted through the gate and into Wrenwall once more.
They cut through narrow corridors and arched passageways, their footsteps thundering across the stone. The alarm bells had not been rung, but the tension in the air was unmistakable, something had gone wrong inside the keep.
Cithria rounded a corner and nearly collided with Morn, who had come to a sudden stop. Ahead, the sound of shouting and steel clashing echoed from the next hall.
Cithria didn't know why, but she groaned inwardly the moment she looked past Morn.
Garen stood at the center of the commotion, his sword drawn but held low, not in threat, but in warning. His stance was controlled, shoulders squared, every inch the image of a commander who demanded discipline even amid chaos.
Beside him, Shyvana's expression was dark, fury simmering behind her eyes, though, curiously, it wasn't directed at Asta.
No, Cithria realized with a small frown. Shyvana's anger was fixed squarely on the MageSeekers stationed at Wrenwall.
The three of them, however, didn't so much as glance her way. Their focus, sharp and unwavering, was aimed past Asta, at the trembling boy hiding behind him.
'The boy is a mage?' Cithria thought, suppressing a heavier groan. 'Hess was right. This really is turning into a right mess.'
The child couldn't have been more than thirteen winters old. His clothes were simple, the sort worn by farmers' children, his boots caked in mud. Dirty brown hair fell into his wide eyes, which were glossy with unshed tears. He tried to stand tall, tried not to cry, but the fear etched into his face betrayed him.
And rightfully so.
Cithria knew exactly what awaited mages in Demacia, and things had only grown worse since Sylas' rebellion and the death of King Jarvan III.
Prince Jarvan's grief had turned to fury, and from that fury came a kingdom gripped by fear. Every village, every stronghold, every garrison, MageSeekers were out in force, hunting for even the faintest glimmer of magic.
Cithria herself had helped suppress two riots since Meltridge. She remembered the anger in the people's eyes, the despair in their voices as they cried out against Demacia's laws. Families torn apart, children dragged away in the night for something they could neither control nor understand.
And now, looking at the boy trembling behind Asta's broad frame, she could see the same story unfolding again, only this time, right in front of Garen.
She guessed the boy's family must have hidden him well. Hidden him for years, maybe, living in constant fear of discovery. If Asta hadn't drawn so much attention to Wrenwall, they might've managed to keep him safe a little longer.