Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As Luxanna descends the cold, cracked hall, prisoners and shackled souls rattle at the bars of their steel cells. They call to her from the cold, isolating sanctity of their confinement with words of disdain and rage, yet fitted with a tinge of desperation. Longing.

Chains clinking and dragging across the ground, sickly coughing, and the idle drips of water from the faulty plumbing create an almost torturous atmosphere for somebody like Luxanna, who remains forced to look only ahead. Not to the lost, broken eyes of the prisoners she passes, and not to the horrid conditions they’re being held in.

She passes rows of guards that never move. Guards that boast beautifully pristine silver armor, while the prisoners and lost souls behind them wear little more than rags and the layers of filth they’re forced to mingle with.

Eventually after what feels like a decade of walking, Luxanna reaches the final cell at the end of the hall.

Brushing a lock of platinum blonde hair from a pair of crystalline blue eyes, Luxanna does her best to shine a smile toward the prisoner, despite his muscled back being turned to her. The tension between the two is palpable as the prisoner looks over his shoulder, even without an exchange of words.

Crownguard can’t deny the quiver that develops in her clamped fists, or the race of her heart as she finds herself faced with a prisoner known for aggression and outbursts.

With an uneasy clearing of her throat, Luxanna manages to croak her first sentence.

“Sylas. Mage of Dregbourne. Wanted for Incitement to rebellion, treason, unlawful use of magic, and attempted regicide.

Despite refraining from direct eye contact with Luxanna, Sylas can’t help but release a rich and sardonic laugh as he rises to his feet, the weighted shackles around his wrists clinking freely within the four walls of his cell.

Slowly, with his chains tensing and straightening behind him as he walks, Sylas approaches the bars, wrapping his hands around them.
The pounding of Luxanna’s heart becomes almost audible as The Unshackled stares through her soul, his piercing, hate-filled eyes almost accusatory.

With pupils that glow the same hue of blue as the petricute shackles that hold him, Sylas’ body looks as if it courses with magic that neither he, nor his Demacian captors, can contain.

The whip scars across the prisoner’s bare chest tell a story. But not a pleasant one.

“Luxanna Crownguard. Demacia’s prized lapdog. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Another prisoner down the hall screams, forcing Luxanna to gasp and take three steps back from Sylas’ cell, one hand against the wall and the other on her chest as she catches her breath.

With a mocking laugh, Sylas shakes his head.

“Afraid? You should be.”
Sylas sneered, his voice tipped with contempt as sharp as a dagger.

Though Luxanna can’t control the faint quiver in her legs, or the screaming urge to leave the dungeons and double security, she manages to steel herself once more with a clearing of her throat.

Stepping toward the cell and leaning on the bars, she retorts:

“Afraid of a petty criminal chained to a rock?”

With a shake of his head, Sylas looks down the hall of the dungeons from between two bars.

His stringy, shoulder length black hair contrasts with the piercing blue of his pupils and the petricite veins and streams that course through his muscled upper body.

“Not at all. You should be afraid of them.”
For the first time since their meeting, Sylas breaks from a smile, his expression now entirely hostile with narrowed eyebrows and clenched, tight fists around the bars.
“You cage and shackle what you don’t understand. You’re nothing but an empire of cowards, drunk with a power you’re unfit to wield.”

As Sylas leans further against the bars of his cell, furnished with nothing but a mound of straw for a bed and a solitary bucket, the chains confining him to the opposite side of the cell become increasingly taut, emitting an audible crackle of tension.

Despite the initial fear of the Demacian dungeons, Luxanna doesn’t flinch this time. With a stiff and straightened back, the Demacian militant doesn’t intend to back down from Sylas’ threats.
She meets The Unshackled’s piercing petricite glare with one of her own, her brow furrowed and her arms crossed over the chest of her military garb.

“And you? You’re a scared, hateful man who’s spent the last 14 years in a cell.”

With a nod and an aggravated sneer, evident by the subtle shaking of his head that follows, Sylas turns his back to Luxanna and approaches the perricite barriers that his chains connect to.
They glow with a blue aura, one that casts a dull hue against the cold, cracked stone floor of the cell.

As he trails his fingers across their radiant surface, Sylas looks at Luxanna over his scarred shoulder.
“Indeed I am. And yet, you need me for something. Otherwise, why would you be down here among dungeon filth?”

“I don’t need you.”
Luxanna is quick to respond, her lips pursing with clenched fists.

Sylas snickers.

“Prove it. Skip back upstairs to your cozy beds and balconies, Damcian dog.”
The prisoner’s words roll off of his tongue with a tinge of venomous scorn.

Luxanna rises to her tiptoes, putting her head between the bars and challenging Sylas’ cold, intimidating stare—almost as if to tell him that she won’t back down. She’s always been the type to rebel, to stand against the grain.
Their eyes remain locked in each other's for what feels like eternity, until Luxanna speaks once more, her brow furrowed and blue eyes as piercing as Sylas’ own.

“Dog? Sharp words for a man chained to a rock.”
A devilish grin stretches over Luxanna’s face as she speaks.
For “the Lady of Luminosity,” her tongue is sharp. It carries with it a certain strength, one that Sylas admittedly didn’t expect.
Demacian royalty and elites aren’t known for their confidence under pressure—at least, now when dealing with prisoners.

Sylas pauses for a moment, caught off guard.
Then, he grins.

“I may be shackled, Luxanna. But you are chained. To your kingdom, and to your ideals.”

Luxanna scoffs.
That’s exactly what he said at his trial four years ago. Calling the jury sheep, cowards, shackled slaves to the Demacian machine. Simply the ramblings of a prosecuted man.
…Right?

The Demacian elite has no time to dwell before she backs down from the confrontation of the cell, crossing her arms.

“If it didn’t work on the judge, it certainly isn’t going to work on me, Sylas.”

The mage shakes his head, the rattling of his chains following and echoing through the cold, stone halls.

“Maybe not now. But when you see the truth, Luxanna, you can’t keep living the lie. Remember that.”

At this point, Luxanna feels that communicating with Sylas is out of the question, turning on a heel and beginning down the dungeon halls once more.
Whether he’s mad from 14 years of imprisonment, or just trying to get into her head, the Demacian can’t really tell. At least, not until he says…

“Have you ever felt free, little light? Free to live, not as a soldier, but as a woman? As a mage? You should give that some thought.”

She hates the very notion, but Sylas’ words cause her to freeze in place for a moment, her fists clenching tight.
“Little light.” She hasn’t heard that name since she was.. well, little. To know that nickname, you’d have to know all of the people close to Luxanna.

She keeps walking, her heart now a little faster in her chest.

Chapter Text

Luxanna hasn’t talked to Sylas since their first meeting.
It’s been.. two days? No—three. Something like that.
The Demacian can’t deny her peaking curiosity and intrigue. Although, it goes even deeper than that.

Deep down, Luxanna is rooting for him. She wants him to be free. His family, his friends, they all must miss him dearly. She can’t imagine the level of resentment and hatred they’ve garnered since his imprisonment. Second only to Sylas’ own.
That isn’t to say his imprisonment was a mistake. To not only raise a blade toward the king, but to encourage dozens of others to as well? Sylas calls it a cause, Luxanna and her Demacian allies call it nothing more than a mob.

Regardless of what you call it, however, one thing remains evident.
Those people listened.
They heard Sylas. They took his outstretched hand with a willingness to die for it. And for what? Magic? Freedom?

Luxanna shakes her head, sighing exasperatedly and flopping onto her soft, warm mattress. The very same The Unshackled mocked her with. A cozy bed, a cozy life, never having to believe or fight for anything.
Her curtains wave in the soft Demacian wind, Luxanna’s blonde hair whisking with it.

Her blue eyes meet Luminosity—her wand—leaned against the wall in the corner of her room.
Flecks of dust float past shafts of light beaming through the room, highlighting the glistening, golden-streaked accents of the weapon. To think, if it were held in anybody else’s hands, it would get them executed. And yet in Luxanna’s, it’s a symbol of authority. Pride.

Who gives Luxanna the right to wield Luminosity, and the magic it channels? Demacia—the very same people that slaughter and imprison mages on sight?

She can’t help but ask herself why she deserves magic when the people of her kingdom are punished for practicing it.
It’s a common question, even among Demacian nobles. The roundabout answer they’re given does little to clear it up, always dismissive and quick to shut the notion down. “Magic is a disciplined force,” “Magic is unfit for the common folk,” “It’s too dangerous,” yadda yadda.

Eventually, Luxanna finds herself welling with frustration. The more she thinks, the more she regrets even stepping foot in those dungeons.
How do you open your eyes to a truth that’s been buried for so long?

Feeling defeated, and in all honesty, quite frustrated, Luxanna approaches the window of her room, looking out against all of Demacia.
Radiant petricite towers with points glistening against the afternoon sun loom over the bustling city beneath. Statues of great heroes and petricite guardians line fountain-accented streets, accompanied by the hustle and bustle of Demacia’s denizens as they go about their lives.

Carvers. Woodsmiths.
Mages.

Luxanna cups her head in her palm, her nostrils flaring with a heavy sigh as she grows increasingly frustrated with her conflicting ideals.
Her loyalty lies with Demacia. To that, there’s no question. But she’s also loyal to magic—any mage would be.

Why is Demacia making her choose?

Voices split through the chilled afternoon air like a knife, pulling Luxanna from her thoughts with a gasp as she looks down from her window to observe.
A man, perhaps 50–maybe 60–is dragged and shoved with hands behind his back, surrounded by a group of Demacian soldiers.

He screams at them. He claims them to be weak-minded, and afraid. Cowards.
..Sheep.

Blue energy courses through the veins of his neck, his wrinkled face scrunched with an indescribable anger.

An old, feeble woman with short grey hair and a cane shouts, pleading for the man to be released. She says everything she thinks they’d want to hear. That it was just out of curiosity, that he isn’t a mage, and he understands his place in the kingdom.
They don’t listen.

They continue to usher the man along, despite digging his feet into the ground as the soldiers shove him with crossed spears and stern, emotionless expressions. His clothes are stained with blood from being physically subdued, his skin bruised.
If he were a threat to Demacia, he would have fought back the moment he felt threatened. Isn’t that what mages do? Act on instinct, and leave nothing but a trail of destruction and turmoil in their path?

By now, Demacian onlookers have averted their eyes. They cover the faces of their children, and duck back into their homes.
The man shouts his wife’s name before the castle doors shut.

And then, silence.
For one brief moment, Luxanna swears she can hear the gentle whisking of leaves through the Demacian wind.

When the silence is broken, it’s done so with the old woman below crumbling to her knees, sobbing.
She grasps at the gravel on the golden-accented castle path, just to feel something in her hands.

Luxanna doesn’t realize that she’s crying until her breathing is far too fast to catch up with.
She backs up from the window, gasping for air amidst a mind that raced uncontrollably. She stumbles over a pile of books tossed haphazardly on the floor, sending her barreling to the ground, and further inducing her panic.

Hyperventilating, Luxanna reaches for Luminosity, her hand recoiling the moment her fingertips touch its golden rings.
Something she’s known for so long suddenly feels foreign. She’s no better than the old man sent to his death only moments ago.

With her back against the wall of her room as far from the window as can be, Luxanna pulls her knees to her chest.

Is that what it was like for Sylas’ mom? Watching her 12 year old son be dragged, beaten, and paraded through Demacia’s streets as a centerpiece for their subservience?

A wave of nausea rushes over Luxanna, her quivering legs suddenly breaking into action as she rushes toward the nearest bathroom. Unfortunately for the Demacian, she barely gets half a foot outside her room before running into an obstacle. In the literal sense, of course.

Standing on the other side of the door, with a gauntleted arm held in a knocking motion, Garen releases a quiet "Oomph!" as Luxanna rams into him in her panic. By some miracle, and despite immediately stumbling and exacerbating her nausea, Luxanna manages to avoid throwing up all over her big brother.

Garen eases Luxanna back onto her feet, an expression of worry painted all over his sharp features.
Being 6 '5, 250 lb mass of Demacian pride and steel, Garen is completely unphased by the impact aside from the apparent fear and disgust on his little sister’s face.

“Luxanna? Are you alright?”

Luxanna doesn’t even know how to respond.
The easy thing to do would be to say: “Yes, Garen, I’m fine.” Unfortunately, that’s not as easy when she’s on the verge of crying, throwing up, or both.
Probably both.

Another solution would be to tell Garen that, no, Luxanna is not okay. But he wouldn’t understand. A champion of Demacia doesn't often meddle with emotions and internal conflicts—after all, what’s there to be conflicted about? Demacia’s dauntless blade, that’s what they call him. And it’s for a reason.

Luxanna takes Garen’s offered assistance, taking a deep breath to steel herself as she wipes her tears.

“Yes, I—I’m fine. I just got a little down.”

Garen laughs heartily, but with a hint of sensitivity. Despite being built like a statue with a square face and the shoulder width of a gorilla, Garen knows how to keep his presence from being too overwhelming. He talks quietly, keeping his voice low and reserved.
“Down? You? I don’t think I’ve seen you cry your whole life.”

Unamused, Luxanna shakes her head and scowls, attempting to brush past him.
She’s stopped by a gauntleted hand on her shoulder, a faint creaking noise emanating from Garen’s armor as he leans down.

“Luxanna. Do you take me for a fool?”

A grin forms over Luxanna’s face, sniffling and wiping her cheek again. “Yeah, usually.”
Garen wipes Luxanna’s other welled tears, a smile stretching across his square jaw.

“Ouch! I know I didn’t teach you to talk like that.”

Luxanna smirks, her eyes still red and puffy.
Garen always had this quality about him, even in moments of confusion. Where her parents weren’t, Garen was there.
Always. “And it’s a good thing, too. You think the world needs two Garens? No, one is plenty.”

“I disagree. But alas…”

Garen shrugs, ruffling Luxanna’s hair with his other hand as he nods toward the hall in front of them. “Come. It would do us well to get some fresh air.”
Pedestals of golden-accented quartz display heads of famous Demacian figures. Tianna Crownguard, the Durand family, even Jarvan III has a place at the very end, surrounded by a wreath of golden flowers.

Luxanna shakes her head, stepping back toward her room’s doorway.

“Actually.. you go on ahead. I should touch up my room before the cleaners come around.”

Garen cocks a bushy eyebrow.

“A messy room isn’t like you either. You have me a bit worried, sister.”

With a shake of her head, Luxanna steps away from Garen and back toward her room, brushing a lock of golden hair behind her ear.

“Garen, I’m fine. Seriously. I know you have far more important things to worry about. Shoo.”

Well, Garen knows when he’s fighting a battle he can’t win. With Luxanna, that actually ends up being the case more often than not! Where he faces only victory on the Noxian battlefields, Luxanna remains one of the few people capable of putting him in his place.

Eventually he bows, his mighty armor clinking and his blue Demacian cloak touching the quartz floor for a moment.

“I understand. I’ll be back to collect you for dinner.”

“Bye, dummy. Love you.”

And with that, Garen descends down the hall once more, the mighty slam of his armored boots against quartz creating a heavy and rhythmic boom through the elegantly designed halls.

Luxanna turns on a heel, when something catches her eye.
Against the beautifully carved white floor, the faint glimmering sparkle of a golden-accented key rests. It must’ve fallen off of Garen? Surely the Dauntless blade of Demacia wouldn’t be so careless? At least, not unless his wreck-of-a-sister bashed into him full force only moments earlier!

Its edges are made of Petricite, the bow laid with golden rims and an aquamarine blue ribbon tied to its edge, indicating its use for breaking magic seals.
The blade itself doesn’t have any notches or rivets—nothing that would indicate any usefulness with actual locks. It simply works by freeing magic within a Petricite source,

The Demacian can’t deny the incredible urge to take the key. It was as if the magic in her was begging, pleading to unite with its conduit.
A pair of conversing guards pass by Luxanna’s room, and without thinking, she subtly hovers her foot over the key to obscure it from sight.

She doesn’t know why.
Something within her—maybe it’s the magic, or that pesky rebelliousness—but SOMETHING is telling her that she needs this key.
The guards’ Demacian cloaks whisk as they pass by Lux, a moment of clarity and realization splitting down her spine as she catches a glimpse of the kingdom’s crest—a winged sword. The sword is symbolic of Judgement, and ironically, that’s exactly what Garen calls his own blade. The wings stand for grace, and for eternal righteousness.

For a moment, Lux feels inclined to remove her foot. To take the key, return it to Garen, and to never return to those dungeons again.
But she can’t.
“When you've seen the truth, you can’t keep living the lie.”
Those words haunt her, even now.

With the guards’ passing, Luxanna uses every fiber of her being to scoop the key up, and sink back into her room before she gives herself the opportunity to change her mind.

..What has she done?

Chapter Text

As a prisoner of 14 years, Sylas has grown accustomed to being treated like the animal Demacia claims him to be. The screams of prisoners down the hall have simply fallen into the foreground of thought, next to the idle clanking of chains and the drips of water through the ceiling from faulty plumbing.

Certain things, however, never cease to remind Sylas of the world he’s been robbed of.
Occasionally the dungeon doors are opened, letting the smell of the Demacian castle’s cooking waft in, like a slap in the face that somehow stings worse than if it had come from one of the guards themselves.

It’s about midday, evident by the haphazard toss of Sylas’ lunch between the bars of his cell as a guard passes by.
The tray clatters to the ground, sending the honeyed pastry and simple cut of bread skidding across the floor.

“You.. shouldn’t eat that.”

A voice rings from the outside of Sylas’ cell. One painfully familiar.

The Unshackled turns to meet the eyes of Luxanna Crownguard, slowly standing with a grunt. “Do you think I have much of a choice?”

Sylas speaks with an accusatory tone, his demeanor closed off and hostile evident in the way he clenches his fists, eyes fixating back on the “food” beneath him.

This time, however, Luxanna doesn’t meet Sylas’ confrontational nature with one of her own.
Beneath her left arm is a stack of books, each with rotted and torn exteriors. The spines of the books have nigh-given out, the pages between the covers now a sandy hue from age.

“I got permission from the brass to bring you these. A touch of the outside world.”

Sylas sneers.

“How kind of them. After 14 years in this pit, they’ve decided to reward me for good behavior?”

“Good behavior? Need I remind you that you tried to kill the king? You don’t get any points for good behavior.”

And with that, Luxanna abruptly sticks the bookstack between the bars of Sylas’ cell, meeting his gaze with a furrowed brow and in intense glare.

He hesitantly reaches out, taking the stack of books in one large, scarred hand.
Scanning the first book’s velvet cover, his fingers trace over intricately stitched, golden threaded letters reading: “Law of Light: Demacia”

With a scoff, Sylas shakes his head and scowls.

“You’ve come to hand deliver tales of your Kingdom's ‘valor?’ How very patriotic of you.”

Lux furrows her brow, sighing in exasperation and crossing her arms over her chest. “Then I’d be happy to take them back for you. I’m sure you’d love that.”

For a moment, Sylas contemplates.
There was something about that statement that.. really hurt him.
Books were his life. His everything. When he wasn’t practicing magic in the basement of his house, he was at the library, reading. While other kids played, Sylas read. And he wouldn’t have had it any other way.
To think it would land him imprisoned someday.

In his moment of vulnerability as he gazes at the book once more, Luxanna looks at the floor beneath them, a tinge of remorse evident from her furrowed brow.

“Look. I want to talk.”

“So talk.”
Sylas cracks his book, his muscled neck craned as his ocean blue eyes scan the pages.
His expression lightens—just for a moment, he looks free from the anguish of his imprisonment.

And then, it fades. Just as it always does.
Luxanna sits down on the dungeon floor, pulling her knees to her chest with her attention poised between the bars of Sylas’ cell.
The words linger in her mind before she speaks them. She runs the risk of making Sylas feel worse, but Luxanna feels that she needs to know his reasons.

“I guess.. I just want to know why. Why would you go so far, just for magic? I mean.. people died, Sylas. Mages and soldiers alike. Even the innocent people on that jury.”

Sylas sighs, clearly unsurprised by Luxanna’s lack of understanding for his cause.

“Picture yourself chained to a pole. Stripped of your clothes, your dignity, and your magic.”

The book held in Sylas’ hand suddenly slams shut, the noise booming and echoing through the halls and making Luxanna jump slightly.

He slowly approaches the bars, sinking onto a knee and staring through the Demacian’s very being.
A rat scurries past Sylas’ leg, something that occurs often enough in this pit to elicit no reaction from the mage.

“All of this while a man prattles off your ‘crimes.’ While crowds and mobs glare and shake their heads at you, and call you a monster from the safety of their cozy existence. People that have never dared to think, to breathe, or to look behind the wool that that your Kingdom pulls over their eyes. And you have the nerve to ask me why I fought?”

Admittedly, Luxanna is taken aback.
She wasn’t expecting such a.. sharp, and eloquent response from a man trapped in a cage for 14 years. What Luxanna thought to be mere ramblings were the heartfelt beliefs and ideals held by a man oppressed by his own country.

She opens her unscarred lips to speak, but is cut off.

“Because if I didn’t, someone else would have. Where I failed, another may have succeeded—and mages may have finally been granted the freedom they deserve.”

There’s a knot in Luxanna’s stomach, the very same she felt as she watched that man be beaten and separated from his family, despite his wife’s pleas of desperation.
He didn’t fight back. He didn’t even argue. He just wanted to be with his wife. But Demacia didn’t see the man in him—only the mage.

The silence between the Demacian and her shackled adversary grows. It’s excruciating. So much so that when Luxanna opens her mouth to speak again, the words have trouble reaching her tongue.

“…The soldiers in the barracks told stories of that trial for weeks after it happened.”

With a solemn laugh of disbelief at her own words, Luxanna holds her knees even tighter to her chest, placing her chin in between them as she meets Sylas’ intense gaze once more.

“They laughed as you weeped for the mages that got caught in the crossfire. They thought it was funny—a monster like you crying over loss of life. Even Garen…”

Luxanna shakes her head, her platinum hair freeing itself from its spot behind her ears and falling haphazardly to her pauldron-clad shoulders.

“I don’t know. I keep thinking about what you said to me. Once you see the truth—“

Sylas cuts her off, his voice deep and somber.

“You can’t keep living the lie.”

Another silence draws between the two, almost as if it were a moment of mutual understanding. If what Luxanna says is true, that seems to be exactly what she’s after with Sylas.
Of course, the question still remains: Why does Luxanna care? Why should she care?

Meanwhile, the Demacian’s eyes grow dim, fixating on the disgustingly unkempt floor separating the two.
Even now, Luxanna finds herself picturing Sylas’ bare feet walking across this every day. The pain of the rough stone, and the isolating coolness of it would drive her mad.
And yet, upstairs she's comforted by warm, crackling fire and the chiseled statues of Demacia's greatest figures.

"I never knew," she admitted quietly. "I mean.. I never knew how important freedom to practice magic was. Then I find out that people are dying for it, even as we speak.”

Sylas nods. This time, it was without the contempt or scorn that often accompanies any of the prisoner’s actions.

“And they’ll continue to do so. To be a mage isn’t to practice magic, Luxanna. We breathe it. We acknowledge it as the force that governs all others.”

“And you attempt to harness it?” Luxanna asks with a brow raised. Sylas shakes his head, his strongly black hair rolling over his shoulder as he motions to the Petricite barriers attached to his shackles.

“There is no controlling magic. Only engaging with it. Even these shackles, they’ll break someday.”

Sylas’ attention is drawn to the Petricite barriers for far too long, his aquatic tinted eyes growing somber in a moment’s notice.

“I’m sure of it.”

Luxanna feels a tinge of pain in her chest watching Sylas. Those barriers, they’re his cage. Not this cell, and not the countless guards keeping him confined.
He’d spend every day of his life in this cell if it meant he could practice magic freely. If he could read, write, and catch glimpses of the world through papyrus pages and leather-back covers.

When Luxanna stands, she does so hesitantly, and, despite the glares of the guards that it elicits, she sticks her hand through the bars for a handshake.
A smile stretches across her face, her expression even brighter than one could expect from the ‘Lady of Luminosity.’

“Thank you, Sylas. I’ve learned a lot about you.”

Despite Luxanna’s voice ringing as sweet as honey, and her expression beaming light through the dark, dank pit that Sylas inhabits, he’s hesitant to take her hand.

When he does, his own dwarfs Luxanna’s in size, nearly wrapping all the way around it.
For reasons she simply can’t explain, it makes Luxanna feel safe. Despite being in the presence of one of Demacia’s most dangerous men, this exchange has felt.. honest. A mutual understanding was gained between these two unlikely acquaintances.

When Luxanna’s hand is pulled back, she holds eye contact with Sylas for a moment, his own eyes suddenly widening as he feels a cold, metallic presence in the hand used to shake Lux’s. For this reason, the Demacian elite doesn’t yet let go.

The next time Sylas meets her gaze, it’s almost a complete 180. Her brow is furrowed, her unscarred, pink lips pursed shut as she looks to their conjoined hands, pulling Sylas attention.
Slowly, with Luxanna’s hand gently releasing the prisoner’s, a glint of Petricite held in her palm catches a dull flicker of a wall-hung lantern outside of his cell.

Even before he traces his eyes across the key’s golden bow, Sylas knows exactly what’s been placed in his hands.
A Petricite key. Capable of nullifying or amplifying magic in anything it touches, it’s one of the few artifacts capable of disabling the stone’s anti-magic properties.

Before Sylas is even given a chance to ask Luxanna why, though it’s unlikely he would anyway, she’s already turned on a heel and begun her descent down the dungeon halls.
Despite the severity of what she’s just done, her steps are confident. Unflinching.

And Sylas? His shock is painted across his bearded face, his eyes wide and his mouth agape as he turns the key in his hand.
Even now the dormant magic in Sylas is brewing like a violent storm—reaching, clawing, aching to unite with the Petricite artifact held in his hand.
Even now, the energy contained within the shackles pulsates a vibrant blue, radiating across his lower forearms.

It’s real.

His hair tied in a loose ponytail, Sylas looks over his left, then his right shoulders—his back turned to the bars of the cell.

Just then, a guard passing by Sylas’ cell looks in, adjusting his Demacian wing-plated helmet and kicking the bars. His sharp chin morphs into a sneer as he looks toward the thrown food tray, his pristine steel boot kicking the pastry toward Sylas.

“‘Yew ‘aven’t eaten yet, rat? ‘Coz that’s your last meal of the day.”

As The Unshackled looks over his shoulder, his eye beams bright with hues of blue, accompanied by veiny energy flowing across every inch of his scarred exterior. Flickers of blue shocks and vapors split through the cell’s air, a vibrant shift in ambiance from the usually empty, desolate cell surrounding Sylas.

The key held in his right palm hums. But all Sylas hears is a plea, a desperate longing to unite with the dormant magic welling within the mage’s body.

The closer the key draws to the Petricite shackles, the further Sylas’ magic reaches up his body—a million cobalt-colored roots and tendrils claiming every inch of his being beneath his skin. He looks the same as he did on that day.
The day that changed Demacia forever. Countless mages, jurors, and civilians, lost to a rebellion.

As Sylas raises his right palm, grunting and ripping his shackle from its barrier with a wicked smile, one thing remains clear.
The rebellion breathes once more.

Chapter Text

For the vast majority of Demacia’s massive population, life is quite simple. Tailors, smiths, and farmers attend to their day-to-day, unfettered by its tedium. It’s a lot easier to do when your streets are paved in gold-accented quartz, and your parks are filled with gorgeous fountains and constant reminders of prosperity.

For others, however, simply going through the motions isn’t “living.” They demand something more—. Thrill, excitement—respite from the monotony of “humble” kingdom living.
Anywhere else, this would be magic. But not Demacia.

For every 100 civilians of Demacia, you may find one mage. Look closer, and you’ll find 20 more. Basements, library attics, alleys, people seeking to break free from the chains of simple life, practice and admire magic—a force beyond themselves.

On the rare occasions that life is disturbed for Demacia’s general populace, magic is quite often at play. It’s not necessarily uncommon to see mages mid-detainment, surrounded by a sea of resplendent silver armor and billowing azure cloaks as they’re dragged to the dungeons by Demacia’s bravest lapdogs.

People say change isn’t fast—Demacia wasn’t built in a day, after all. But sometimes, change is sudden, crashing through streets like a tidal wave, flooding the people with new ideas, and new hopes.
In an ideal world, Sylas envisioned this for Demacia. Is it realistic? Maybe not. But Sylas always shot for the unrealistic, and the inconceivable.
It’s just who he is.

As the sun dips behind the grand spires of Demacia's towering cathedrals, casting long shadows across the golden-accented streets, the city's general populace remain oblivious to the impending chaos.
The gentle hum of daily life continues, a seamless display of simplicity and prosperity. Yet, within the isolating serenity of Demacia’s cracked and decrepit dungeons, a brewing storm is given the one opportunity it needs to release. All of it, thanks to Luxanna.

Sylas hasn’t been given much time to plan his escape. I mean, you’d think that with 14 years locked in a cell, all he’d do is scheme, and plot. And he did, but not his escape.
No, he was planning something far bigger than that. Bigger than himself.
He recited the speeches he’d address the people with, and he’d etch the banner they’d hang over Demacia’s into the cold stone walls of his cell.

Now that his moment to break free is here, it almost feels surreal. Maybe it’s the magic that finally roams freely though his body once more, or maybe it’s the simple disbelief that comes with the idea of freedom after 14 years.

He doesn’t know, nor does he care.

The moment his shackles snap from their Petricite barriers, it’s all hands on deck in the dungeons. The first guard to encounter Sylas had the misfortune of being responsible for much of his suffering. A young man—maybe in his 20s—with an azure blue shoulder-pad over his armor, indicating his status as warden. A coiled whip rests over his leather belt, as well as a beautifully pristine silver gladius.

Stood outside of the prisoner’s cell as he attends to his rounds, he taps the bars with his stun baton, furrowing a brow and looking over Sylas’ scarred, muscled back.
Something within the cell is off—he can tell—but after so many years, seeing the same old cells and the same old prisoners, he can't quite place a finger on it.
Not until it’s far too late.

The guard’s eyes widen for one brief moment as he notices the snapped barrier hinges, stepping back before the Unshackled turns, whipping his chains between the bars and sweeping the young man off of his feet.
He lands against the dungeon floor with a crack, his wing-plated helmet freeing from his head and rolling across the floor.
Caught in a moment of disheveled panic, the guard whips his gladius from its scabbard and aims it between the bars—only for them to immediately be struck down by the mage and his lashing chains, their steel exteriors snapping like a twig beneath a Petricite fist.

Gasping and panting, the warden backs away from Sylas as fast as he can from his position on the floor.
The chill of the cold floor sends a shiver through Sylas’ spine, his nostrils flaring as he takes a breath of the air outside of his cell.

A pair of guards rush down the hall, the flames of the wall-hung lanterns dancing as they pass by, clamoring between themselves. When they reach the view of Sylas, looming over the warden with tears streaming down his cheeks, they ready their spears, breaking into a wild charge.

The leftmost guard is the first to go down, simply being swept off of his feet with a lash of Sylas’ right hand. The Petricite chain splits across his silver knee guard, a deafening ring screeching through the dungeons as he collapses and clutches his knee to his chest, leaving his other ally charging alone.

Sylas lets this one get in close, evading the thrust of his spear with a grunt and whipping his right hand upward, sending his chain across the Demacian’s face with a trail of blood following. The impact was enough to send him stumbling backward, catching himself against a wall and gasping as he clutches what appears to be a broken nose.

With all three guards—warden included—quaking in their silver boots, Sylas scoffs, shaking his head as he descends the dungeon halls.
A droplet of sweat rolls off of his jet black hair, catching in the stubble of his face.

According to Sylas’ observation of these dungeons for 14 years, six pairs of guards patrol at different times throughout the day—plus the warden. With three incapacitated, that leaves nine scattered throughout the barracks attached to the dungeons.
Ascending the stone stairs leading to the thick wooden, iron-reinforced door, Sylas very slowly opens it with a deafening creak, wincing at the noise.

The door leads to a large, simply decorated tavern. Tables, chairs, and tankards stretch across the room’s drab reaches, the wall-hung lanterns having collected layers of dust and grime.
Photographs of Demacia speckle the plank walls, alongside racks of spears and pikes—each bearing the wings of Demacia on the pommels.

Sylas steps through the room cautiously, narrowed eyes scanning every inch of the cobweb-laden floors as he approaches a series of hooks on the walls.
Tunics, overcoats, and vests hang freely, painted with a faint orange tint from the lanterns hanging beside them.

Gods, how long has it been since Sylas felt warmth? Since he wore anything other than his simple torn, stained trousers?
Too long.

With an unsteady breath Sylas pulls a large overcoat off of the hook, blowing its fur collar to free the dust—which immediately rushes into his eyes and throat resulting in a choked cough.
The exterior is a simple dark blue cloth, with wolf fur lining the shoulders, collar, and wrists. It looks quite warm. As an added bonus, a fur-lined hood rests on its back—which Sylas immediately throws over his head.

With a shrug, Sylas slides it over himself, adjusting to the strange feeling of being clothed again after 14 years.
Granted he’s still shirtless, leaving his muscular, scarred abdomen exposed beneath the overcoat, but it’s a start.

Attached to the tavern segment of the barracks are two hallways, one on the east and western walls respectively. Sylas scans the golden plaques beside each, one reading: ARMORY, and the other reading: KITCHEN.
Okay… neither of those are particularly ideal for avoiding contact with other people, but nobody ever said that breaking out of a maximum security dungeon would be easy!

By now, Sylas is starting to understand why there are so few guards in the dungeons themselves. Even if you manage to break out of a cell and escape the dungeons with your life, where will that put you? Right in the middle of the Demacian keep, of course!
He also has to consider the fact that he’s left all of the guards alive, either simply paralyzed in fear or unconscious. Despite his blackened heart and the rage welled within it, he refuses to leave another mother without kin. He won’t shatter families the same way that Demacia does.

Regardless, the Unshackled presses on, eventually deciding that the armory is his best shot at staying under the radar.
The door opens with a sickening creak, and Sylas takes his first few steps into the large circular room.
A spiral staircase leads to a large balcony far above, with racks of armor and weaponry scattered across the bottom floor

Shelves of various blueprints like the walls, with scrolls and maps bunched up and shoved haphazardly into every opening or crevice between the rows of books.

Sylas yearns to explore, and to see just what Demacian military literature has to offer.
He can’t help himself from snatching a leather-back book as he hastily passes by a shelf, tucking it in the inner lining of his overcoat as he descends the spiral stairs.

It’s at this moment that Sylas realizes how much his body has deteriorated after 14 years in a pit. He’s retained phenomenal muscles due to the labor prisoners are forced to endure, but his lung capacity is abysmal, leaving him ragged and sweating by the time he reaches the top of the spire.

He opens the door to the footbridge. connecting the armory tower to the kitchen tower. And from here, he’s given his very first breath of free air in 14 years.
A flood of emotions wells within Sylas as he looks across the footbridge’s Petricite barrier, taking in the view of the sun descending over Demacia’s horizon.

Buildings, crowds, chapels, statues. It’s all changed so much since his detainment.
By the time a tear rolls down his scarred cheek, Sylas is pulled from his brief moment of contemplative thought to hear the echoing, metallic footsteps of somebody ascending the spire stairs.

Sylas stands tall, his shackles hanging to his sides as another pair of guards burst through the door. One is quite heavy, boasting a large kite shield with a small divot at the top to allow for aiming of rifles and crossbows. Of course, that means that the much shorter, skinnier guard in the back reaches for a rifle slung over his back, deftly cocking it and taking aim with a twirl beneath his shoulder.

With his heart pounding in his chest, his eyes staring down the end of a barrel, Sylas raises his hands.

“Fine. You win, dogs.”
Sylas growls, his voice husky and filled with contempt.

The smaller guard smiles, shaking his head as he closes his left eye, leaving his other aiming down the iron sights.

“You’ve had your chances, mage. We shoulda put you down a long time ago.”

Sylas’ eyes widen as the guard’s index finger presses against the trigger.

A deafening pop splits through the air, a small plume of smoke rising from the barrel and dissipating in the dusk sky.
With a quiet grunt, Sylas falls to a knee, breathing heavily with his hand placed over the impact point on his left chest.

Both guards smile as the shield-bearer raises from his knelt position, a loud clang emanating through the air as he moves his shield.
All grows quiet on the footbridge.

A subtle thump raises the guards’ attention once more as a book falls from the interior of Sylas’ coat, right where the bullet’s impact was.
Through its leather cover, a bullet hole.

Realizing that the book had buffered the impact of the shot, the guards look between each other and scramble to put themselves back in position.
And yet, it’s far too late.

Sylas has already recovered from having the wind knocked out of him, a smile stretching across his face as he stands tall once more to watch the shorter guard struggle as he reloads his rifle.
It’s ripped from his hands as Sylas lashes a chain across the front most guard’s chest, sending him staggering backward and disarming him while the Unshackled lashes his other wrist toward the rifleman’s wrist, resulting in a deafening crack.

The rifle falls from the footbridge, smashing against the ground beneath them as Sylas approaches the duo. The shield bearer regains his footing in time to charge Sylas, only to end up thrown over the footbridge’s barrier after a brief scuffle.

Leaving only Sylas and the rifleman, the Demacian guard simply raises his hands, wincing.
“You’ll—You’ll never get away with it, you know.”

Sylas shrugs, pulling his hood over his head once more.

“Maybe. But I’d rather die standing than live kneeling. Can you say the same?”

Looking over his shoulder and meeting the eyes of the quivering guard, Sylas shakes his head and continues forth with a scoff.

Crossing through the kitchen tower and encountering minimal resistance doing so, Sylas now finds himself in the northernmost spire, leading directly into the main plaza of Demacia’s market district.
Faced with two massive, hulking wooden gates, Sylas takes his last breath of confinement. After 14 years in the dark, the light of freedom is mere feet away.

With a triumphant step forward and a loud grunt, Sylas presses his palms to the massive doors.
He squints against the dusk light that beams through, raising a hand over his eyes and pressing on.

“Halt.”
A voice rings out from directly in front of Sylas as he slowly lowers his hand, adjusting to feeling the Demacian streets beneath his feet, and breathing the free air as any other Demacian man would.

In a ring surrounding Sylas are two rows of guards.
In the front row, shieldbearers—each with a kite shield held in front of themselves, and a spear in their offhand. The second row are a mix of riflemen and arbalests, each with their sights trained on the Unshackled.

In the middle, and standing about fifteen feet from the Unshackled, is none other than Garen Crownguard, Justice held in hand as his fist tightens around its grip.
Behind the soldiers, a massive Petricite statue of a winged golem rests dormant on a knelt position, head down with a hand on its knee.

Despite its dormant position, magic energy pulsates through its Durand-accented exterior.
The golden wings sprouting from its back catch the light of the sun as it continues disappearing behind Demacia’s looming chapels and high hills.

Sylas pulls his hood down with a heavy sigh, arching his neck back and looking toward the sky.
Despite the ambush he’s just walked into, a smile remains stretched across Sylas’ stubble-laden face.

Garen remains on guard, clutching Justice as wind whisks beneath his azure cloak.
Crowds of onlookers standing on the doorways of their homes and clutching their loved ones, watch as Garen steps forward.

“Give it up, Sylas. This has gone on long enough.”

“You have the power to stop it all, Garen. End the persecution of mages, and give the people their freedom. Do that, and I’ll gladly walk myself back to the dungeons.”

Garen shakes his head, laughing in disbelief.

“You’re still trying, after 14 years? Haven’t you grown tired of it—of dreaming for a day that will never come?”

Sylas’ brow furrows, his hands clasping the shackles hanging from his wrists out of frustration.

“It will come. You’ll see.”

With a heavy sigh, Garen looks over his shoulder, raising a gauntlet-clad hand into the orange sky.
The dormant statue far behind him suddenly spurs to life, golden wings unfurling as its massive body sheds dust, loose Petricite, and accumulated grime.

Standing at a massive, nearly incomprehensible 50 meters tall, the statue casts a shadow against the ring of soldiers, leaving Sylas momentarily stunned.
All of this? For him?

Garen snaps his fingers, redirecting Sylas’ attention to himself.

“Is this how you want to die, Sylas? Caught in a delusion—a fantasy?”

“Better than chained to a rock. If I die here, it’ll be as a free man, Crownguard. That thought sickens you, doesn’t it?”

Despite Garen’s instinctual response being no, to tell Sylas that he’s wrong, the red tint that creeps across his square jaw says otherwise.

“You leave me no choice.”

Garen raises Judgment into the sky, its golden edge catching the light of the setting sun just perfectly.

With the descent of his arm, the Demacian smite will strike Sylas, and end the mage revolution once and for all.
Sylas’ eyes fix on the sun behind the statue’s massive wings, a smile still on his face despite the circumstances.

In a moment, he’ll be dead. It’ll be under the sun, breathing the free air, and in full view of Demacia’s people.
Maybe this will mark the beginning of change. Or maybe, he’ll die for nothing.

Garen lowers his arm, the clouds above Sylas beginning to break—when all suddenly grows still.
His arm is stopped midair, held by the small, pale hand of Luxanna Crownguard.

A sickening, heart wrenching silence fills the air, as both Sylas and Garen find themselves without words.
Even the soldiers lower their weapons, a wave of confusion washing over the crowd.
With wide eyes and an agape mouth, Garen looks to the many bewildered faces of his legion, and then to Luxanna.

“What do you think you’re doing, Luxanna?”
Garen speaks through gritted teeth, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead amidst the confusing, and slightly embarrassing display.
This was supposed to be swift Demacian justice.

Luxanna glares at Garen, her small hand still wrapped around as much of his arm as she can muster.
If Garen truly wished to defy Luxanna and end this here, he'd no doubt have the strength to do so.
But if his sister has found some meaning in this mage scum, Garen needs to know why.

“This isn’t right. Killing a man in cold blood, in front of families? That isn’t justice, brother. Can’t you see that we’re headed for a civil war?!”

Garen furrows his brow.
“And what do you know of justice, Luxanna? This isn’t your fight. Please, go inside.”

Luxanna breaks into tears of frustration, ripping her arm from Garen’s and walking through the ring of soldiers.
Stunned, Garen struggles to stop her before she's only feet away from Sylas.

With a breath of determination, Luxanna plants herself in front of him, her arms stretched out to her sides.
If they want to get to Sylas, they have to get through her.

“No, brother. I’m sorry.”

Being given an out, and having somebody come to his defense against all odds, Sylas finds himself in shock.
It’s painted all over his face, his eyes wide and mouth agape as he leans forward.
He whispers to Luxanna, his voice low and hoarse. “You don’t have to do this.”

Luxanna looks over her shoulder with a scowl, a fierce determination in the oceanic blue of her eyes.
And with that, Sylas understands. Right now, his role is to stay quiet.

A sickening, eerie moment of silence draws out between the stationed Demacians, and the traitorous mages before them.