"Gah!" Sylas choked out as he collapsed to his knees, violet fire flickering and fading around him as the spell finished dragging him through space.
His breath trembled. Even now, the image of that sword descending toward him was seared into his mind, the cold certainty of death gripping his chest as steel met flesh. No… he forced himself to breathe. He escaped that future.
"Ah. So I reached you in time."
The voice was soft, melodic, calm even through his panic. Sylas lifted his head and blinked, realization dawning as he took in his surroundings. A cavernous chamber, shaped naturally but renovated with purpose: shelves carved into stone, symbols etched across the floor, small clusters of violet flame hovering like lanterns.
At the edge of his blurred vision, the owner of the voice watched him.
A dark-violet-haired woman sat by a circular pool of shimmering violet fire. Her dress, the same deep shade as her hair, clung like shadow against her pale skin. From behind her ears sprouted two feather-like protrusions, almost decorative, until he remembered they were part of her body. And behind her lower back, enormous wings rested, folded with casual grace.
She was no human.
"Morgana…" Sylas breathed, forcing himself upright. His legs trembled but he stood. "Why am I... why did you bring me here? I failed your test."
"Hm." Morgana hummed thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the swirling fire before her. "What an odd way of saying thank you. I find that a little appreciation goes a long way, Sylas."
"What about the others?" Sylas demanded, steadier now. "The rest of the rebellion."
"They escaped safely, without issue," Morgana replied, dipping her fingers into the violet flame as though it were water. "Your escape, however, was all but impossible."
Sylas scoffed, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the memory. "I would have been fine."
Morgana finally turned her head toward him, her golden eyes narrowing. "You would have done something foolish," she said calmly, "and you would have died for it. The power he holds is not something a mortal should ever attempt to meddle with."
Sylas's frown deepened, and Morgana's lips curled into a knowing smirk.
"I am well aware of your… gift," she continued, rising slightly from her seat. "Just as I'm aware of the power you extracted from that single feather you found in the lab. My feather."
Her expression hardened, shadows stirring behind her wings. "Sylas, listen to me carefully. Avoid that man. Do not attempt with him what you attempted with me. Mortals should not meddle with the power of gods."
Sylas grit his teeth. "Is that what he is? A god?"
Morgana's gaze drifted back into the pool of violet flame, the reflection dancing across her face. "He is… undoing incarnate," she whispered, voice edged with something rare for her, fear. "His presence in this realm unsettles me more than you can imagine. I fear for Demacia, and so I must act."
Sylas didn't notice the shift in her tone; all he heard was opportunity. A small, hopeful smile crept onto his face. "Truly? Then this is incredible news. With you on our side, there's nothing that can..."
He stopped when her fingers pressed softly against his lips.
"My stance on your revenge remains unchanged, Sylas." Her eyes met his, firm and unyielding. "I will not be a participant in your rebellion. I will confront the Undoer and discern his motives. Nothing more."
She withdrew her hand and turned her back to him, wings folding behind her like closing curtains.
"Return to your rebellion, Sylas of Dregbourne," Morgana said gently, yet dismissively. "Your path lies elsewhere."
Sylas scowled, jaw tightening. "I was already leaving," he snapped. "It's people like you who let Demacia rot, people who could have saved it before it became the cage it is now." His voice dropped to a low, heated growl. "No matter what happens, tomorrow… Eldred dies."
He didn't wait for her reply. He turned sharply and stormed out of the cavern.
Morgana watched him go from the corner of her eye, expression unreadable. Only when his footsteps faded into silence did she exhale, a long, weary sigh that seemed to drain years from her immortal frame.
She slowly raised her hand.
A long gash cut across her palm, still bleeding faint threads of divine ichor. Dark miasma clung to the wound's edges like living tar, hissing softly as it gnawed at her skin. Even for her, divine, the healing was agonizingly slow.
Though she had saved Sylas, she had not escaped unscathed. Even through dimensions, his attack had reached her.
"I must know…" Morgana whispered, her voice barely above breath. "If he is friend or foe. And what his presence means for Demacia."
Her fingers curled slightly, ichor dripping down her wrist.
"Grant me strength, sister."
Far away, on the highest celestial peak, where mortal skies brushed the borders of the divine, a golden radiance flickered.
A woman stood alone, her hair flowing like molten sunlight, her wings stretching wide as the heavens themselves. She froze mid-motion, eyes widening in shock.
For the first time in nearly eight hundred years, she felt a prayer. A call she thought she would never hear again.
"…Sister."
---
=======I've lost count of how many days it's been since I was brought here. The MageSeekers keep promising that I'll be "Home" soon." They're lying. = T
=======My cell mate is gone. "Home." They told me. I want to go home. I've been good. When is it my turn? = T
=======The screams keep me up at night. It haunts my waking hours and my dreams. Even those in the cells near mine can't distract me. I'm so tired. = T
=======I have a new cellmate. She won't stop screaming. I tried to hold her hand, anything to stop the screaming, but it's pointless. I hope she leaves soon. They're never around long anyways. = T
=======My cellmate is gone. A new one took her place. At least this one is quiet. They whisper to the walls instead. It's... An improvement. = T
=======I made a friend in the cell next to mine. For the first time since I got here, he made me laugh. = T
=======Tomorrow. They say I'm going home tomorrow. I've waited for this day. I've been so good. I can't wait to see my family. I miss them so much. = T
=======They lied. = J
---
Tianna stared at the piece of paper in her hand. The... Journal of one of the mages under the "supervision" of the MageSeekers.
Her fingers tightened around the thin sheets, the edges crumpling beneath her grip. She looked across her, where her husband sat. "Curse you Eldred. What is the meaning of this?"
"What seems to be the problem, High Marshal?" Eldred asked.
She tossed the pages onto the table.
They scattered like dead leaves.
Eldred glanced down, eyes moving over the handwriting, the uneven letters, the terrified scratches near the bottom entries. His brow furrowed faintly, but Tianna caught something else beneath that polite confusion.
Recognition.
"This…" Eldred murmured, fingertips brushing the top page. "Where did you find it?"
When she didn't answer, he continued. "High Marshal, with respect, the MageSeekers handle many unstable individuals. Some scribble nonsense. Some break. You know this."
When she still didn't answer, simply staring at him with a disappointed look, Eldred rose from his seat, every movement measured and elegant. "High Marshal, Demacia faces threats on all sides. Magic corrupts. Even those with good intentions succumb eventually. If the MageSeekers must be harsh to protect the realm, then so be it."
"The MageSeekers," Eldred continued, "are not tyrants, nor monsters, nor executioners reveling in cruelty. They are custodians of order. Stewards of purity. They do the work that must be done, the work others fear to acknowledge is necessary." His fingers tapped gently against the back of his chair, each click deliberate. "To falter now, to question their authority, would be to invite chaos into the heart of Demacia."
Tianna inhaled sharply through her nose. "Demacia has no shortage of chaos right now.ost of them dated back to you and yours cruelty."
"Cruelty?" Eldred tilted his head, almost puzzled. "Perspective, High Marshal. The accounts of broken minds, the scrawls of unstable prisoners… can we truly base policy on such material? These individuals often mistake discipline for torment. Instruction for imprisonment. Freedom for..."
"Enough." Tianna's voice cracked across the hall like a whip.
Eldred stopped.
She stepped closer, the weight of her authority pressing down on the room. "You have been given too much power, Eldred. Let us not pretend otherwise. Your MageSeekers move without oversight, answers to no one, and now..." she jabbed a finger toward the scattered pages on the table "...you dare call this madness? This suffering? This child begging to see his family?" Her voice trembled, not with fear, but fury. "You call it necessary?"
Eldred's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes hardened. "If the child was dangerous, then yes. Necessary."
Tianna's breath caught in her chest, then burned.
"Dangerous?" she repeated, each syllable dripping disbelief. "He was a terrified, imprisoned mage barely old enough to be called a man!"
Eldred exhaled softly, as though calming a hysterical patient. "High Marshal… Prince Jarvan IV himself has placed full confidence in the MageSeekers. His Majesty understands what must be done. He knows that Demacia's future rests on firm, unshakable ideals."
That did it.
Tianna slammed her hand on the table so hard one of the pages fluttered into the air.
"PRINCE JARVAN HAS NO IDEA WHAT HE'S DOING!" she roared.
The hall fell silent.
Eldred's eyebrows lifted a fraction, not in shock, but in victory. In confirmation of something he'd silently suspected about her. His next breath was slow, measured, dangerous.
Tianna didn't let him speak.
"He is young. He is grieving. And he is surrounded by vipers whispering about purity and destiny and the 'necessary sacrifices' of innocents!" Her voice dropped, heavy and trembling. "He trusts too easily. He listens to the wrong people. People who twist law into cruelty and call it righteousness."
Her eyes locked onto Eldred with the kind of cold fury only a Crownguard could wield.
"The MageSeekers have forgotten their duty. And you," she hissed, "have forgotten your place."
Eldred finally straightened, hands folding neatly in front of him, expression turning unreadable.
"On the contrary, High Marshal," he said quietly. "I know my place perfectly." With that he moved away from the chair. "By your leave High Marshal."
He turned around and left.
The doors shut behind Eldred with a soft wooden thud, far too gentle for the storm he left in his wake.
Tianna stood in the empty room, breathing hard. The journal pages lay scattered across the polished marble floor, white sheets stark against the deep blue stone. For a long moment, she said nothing, did nothing, just stared at the mess he'd dismissed as "scribbles of the broken."
Finally, her legs gave a small tremor, and she leaned heavily on the table.
"…Curse you, Eldred," she whispered, not with anger this time, but with a wounded disbelief.
A chill crept across the back of her neck, instinct honed from decades of service. Someone was watching.
"You heard all of it, didn't you?" she asked without turning.
Behind her, Asta slipped into the office through the open window, landing without a single sound. Not even the curtains stirred.
Tianna straightened immediately. Moments earlier she had looked exhausted, crushed by the weight of her duties, but now she shaped herself into an icon of composure: back straight, chin lifted, shoulders set. A High Marshal of Demacia.
Even if her pulse quickened. Even if a thin bead of sweat gathered at her brow.
'Has he come to kill me?' The thought struck like a cold needle, but she hid it flawlessly.
Asta said nothing at first. He merely walked around her desk, slow and deliberate, passing behind her with the calm of a man who feared nothing in this room, not her rank, certainly not her guards, not the consequences.
He reached the chair Eldred had occupied no more than a minute earlier. He pulled it back and sat.
Tianna kept her movements measured as she gathered the documents scattered across her table, stacking and aligning them with precise motions. A practiced way of maintaining control. Her fingers only shook once, and she forced even that still.
Silence pressed against the walls like a tightening grip. She hated it.
At last, Asta exhaled, a long, weary sigh. His voice broke the tension like a clean blade.
"You know…" he began, eyes locking directly with hers.
Tianna held his gaze. She would not look away.
"I ignored a lot of things ever since I landed here," he continued. "So many things. Because this isn't my country. This isn't my land. I have no authority here. These are not my people."
He paused, turning slightly toward the window, where the faint breeze tugged at his cloak.
"Those were the words I told myself every night before closing my eyes." His tone harden. "I'm not that kid anymore... the one who would have rushed in, fists swinging, trying to challenge every injustice he saw... and ending up making everything worse."
He leaned back in Eldred's chair, fingers tapping lightly on the armrest.
"These are not my people," Asta repeated.
This time, Tianna felt something shift, something subtle yet undeniable. She wasn't looking at a young man anymore.
His eyes… They were the same eyes her brother sometimes had.
How? she wondered. He was younger than Garen, perhaps only a year older than Luxanna. Someone that young had no right to have such eyes.
"Yet, you signed the accord," Tianna said, a small, measured smile curving her lips. "You didn't have to. But you did. You promised to protect Demacia in its time of need, as an ally. You gave us your word."
"I did, didn't I?" Asta murmured.
He looked at her again, but this time with unmistakable disappointment. She hated the sting it brought.
"And I don't break my promises," he continued. "Do you know where we found that journal?"
Tianna didn't answer. She didn't need to.
She already knew.
"Next to a room of disfigured corpses," Asta said flatly. "Corpses that had once been human. Their deaths weren't painless either."
His gaze locked onto hers again, seemingly searching for something.
'I thought as much,' she admitted silently.
Whatever he saw in her expression made him look away. She wasn't sure whether that was a relief… or another wound.
"We never expected things to go this far," Tianna said quietly. "The MageSeekers will be handled. I assure you..."
"I was wrong about you."
The words hit her harder than any blade could.
The disappointment in that voice made Tianna's chest tighten.
"I thought you were like the Wizard King from back home," he said. "Someone who could stand above their kingdom and steer it away from collapse. But you're nothing like that."
He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped together.
"Your kingdom is burning from the inside," he continued, each word slow and deliberate, "and you don't have the power to stop it."
Tianna's jaw tightened. She straightened.
"You should mind your words, Asta," she warned. "Demacia has survived greater threats than this. She will come out stronger."
"And I want to help it survive…" Asta said quietly. "Back home, the job of the Wizard King is to protect the citizens. Every last one, regardless of what flows in their veins."
He lifted his gaze, and Tianna saw the resolve in it. Steady. Unshakable.
"But this isn't my land," he continued. "There's no Wizard King here."
Asta rose from his seat in one smooth motion. The chair barely made a sound.
"Demacia accepted me, even if it was… complicated. And from everything I've seen, it's in need of serious help."
He stepped past her, moving toward the window. His steps were quiet, but the air around him seemed to shift. Tianna turned slightly to follow him with her eyes, tension rising in her shoulders.
"The MageSeekers…" Asta said, stopping at the window frame. "If you don't do something about them..."
He placed a hand on the sill.
"...I will."
Asta vaulted cleanly over the edge, disappearing from sight in one effortless motion, leaving Tianna staring at the empty window, a frown on her face.
Asta landed softly on the slanted rooftop of one of Demacia's many stone buildings. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
"Damn," he muttered with a short laugh. "Looks like all those politics Nozel tried drilling into me actually paid off. I didn't make a mess of myself that time."
He took one step forward, and then launched himself into the air. The city blurred beneath him as he crossed entire districts in seconds, the wind snapping past his ears.
He touched down at his estate, the guards recognizing him the instant his boots hit the ground.
The first thing he saw made a small, honest smile tug at his lips.
Darryl was running laps across the courtyard, a heavy sack strapped to his back, judging by the way it shifted, almost certainly filled with rocks. His form was sloppy, but his determination was unmistakable.
Emilia stood off to the side, watching him.
And beside her, quietly observing the scene, was the girl.
Asta's gaze lingered on her for a moment.
Then, without a sound, he vanished again. Only a faint swirl of displaced air remained where he had once stood.