Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The war was already lost.

The sky, tinged with ash and fire, illuminated the ruins that had once been the mages’ fortress. The walls, which had once seemed insurmountable, were now cracked and corroded by the relentless advances of Piltover's forces. The smell of ozone and blood filled the air, mixing with the dust of destruction.

Viktor was on his knees in the center of the main hall, his wrists bound by chains imbued with runes of magical suppression. 

He wasn't fighting. There was no longer any reason to resist.

But the gaze of his former disciples burned hotter than any spell.

“You betrayed us, Viktor.” 

The voice of the new leader was now as icy as steel. Around him, the few remaining mages clenched their fists, their eyes filled with despair and hatred .

“I tried to save you.” Viktor muttered, his voice hoarse, but firm.

“Would you sell us out to Piltover in exchange for your distorted vision of peace?” Another mage spat out the words. ”You wanted to tame us like caged beasts!”

“I wanted to protect us!” Viktor raised his head, his eyes sparking with a purplish glow. “If we could show Piltover that magic doesn't have to be chaos, that it could be stabilized, we might have had a chance of surviving! ” 

The mage shook his head.

“You were never one of us.” 

Just then the doors opened with a bang.

Piltover's troops burst into the hall, guns and spears drawn. The new leader of the mages didn't back down. On the contrary, he turned to the victors and handed Viktor over to them.

“This man is no longer our leader. Do with him what you will. ” 

Viktor remained motionless. Shock prevented him from speaking.

Piltover gladly accepted the gift. But his punishment would not be swift. No.

They wanted an example.

[...]

The smell of ash and burnt metal permeated the air. 

The streets of Zaun, once vibrant with the energy of magic, were now just ruins and rubble . 

Piltover's soldiers marched in their shining armor, dragging the last survivors of what had once been the arcane resistance.

Viktor was among them.

His clothes were torn, soiled with soot and blood. The chains tightened around his wrists, draining any remnants of magic he could use to fight back. He had fought to the end. Not for glory, not for power , but because he knew that if Piltover won, magic would be eradicated forever.

But he had lost.

In the center of what was left of the main square, Piltover's leaders watched what they called the “last remnants of the magical threat”. Among them, a defeated mage was pushed forward. A young man, his apprentice , on his knees before his oppressors. 

He was shaking, not from fear, but from wrath.

“You made us burn you one by one,” Said one of Piltover's commanders, coldly. “You will see your magic extinguished by your own hands . Now, if you wish to live a little longer…” A guard kicked him forward, eliciting a pained sigh. “ I demand you to curse your leader. ” 

The gloved finger pointed at Viktor.

“He will never cast another spell,” The commander declared. “and anyone who dares to look at him will understand the fate of those who dare to touch something as dangerous as magic.”

The mage flinched, his tired eyes searching Viktor's for reassurance. Viktor shook his head, almost imperceptibly. Huck understood what he was trying to say. 

“No.” Huck spat, harshly. “Kill me if you want, but I will not do it.” 

The guards looked at each other, amused. “Very well.” Huck's eyes widened. “Then we'll kill you and find someone else to do it.” 

The commander's words were followed by the sound of a blade being drawn. The mage hesitated. His gaze swept over the fallen bodies around him: friends, brothers, mentors.  

If he didn’t do as said, they would kill the few that remained.

Viktor sensed the hesitation. His fists clenched.

“Do not obey them.” He warned. “They will never stop” .

The mage closed his eyes, and made his decision. 

“Please forgive me, sir.” 

He raised his trembling hands and began to chant the spell. Magic crackled in the air, a distorted echo of what had once been glorious . Arcane symbols flashed around Viktor, trapping him in a luminous circle. The pain came in waves, burning his bones, consuming his skin. 

He screamed, but his voice was lost in the thunder of the curse being sealed.

The figure in front of the soldiers changed. 

The flesh yielded to the arcane. 

Piltover's soldiers watched, satisfied.

The mage's words were careful, and even though no one else could notice, Viktor realised something was incomplete . Small breaks in the spells, pauses that looked like hesitation, but were deliberate . A symbol traced in the air with a gesture longer than necessary.

Huck looked at him, and in his eyes there was something more than defeat.

Hope.

Viktor's eyes, once burning with determination, became cold and luminous like a magical abyss. His hands, once firm and human, became spectral claws. What had once been a man was now something beyond —  the Herald of the Arcane.

His body was wrapped in a dark cloak of energy. His eyes, once alive, were now slits of arcane light. His own power, which he once believed could save the mages, had been twisted to mark him as an aberration.

A living reminder, to everyone there and to future generations, that as long as Piltover existed, magic would never be accepted.

Piltover's soldiers took a step back.

“It is done.” The mage's voice trembled, tired.

The commander smiled with satisfaction. 

Then, without hesitation, he plunged his blade through his chest. Viktor screamed , but was pushed to the ground before he could even try to help. 

Huck’s eyes were fading, but something was still bothering Viktor. The spell was still echoing in his mind. Words he couldn't quite process at the moment, syllables that seemed to flow in a... peculiar way.

When his eyes went blank, his lips moved one last time, soundlessly, but Viktor could understand.

“It is not over yet.”

The way his gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, the way his fingers twitched, as if he was holding something invisible— 

For a second, it seemed that it wasn't just a curse.

The war was officially won.

[...]

The dim candlelight flickered in the small workshop, casting oscillating shadows on the walls lined with books and diagrams. 

Jayce was bent over his workbench, scribbling notes next to an ancient grimoire. The magical symbols glowed faintly on the paper as he muttered an incantation under his breath, trying to channel the energy correctly.

The sound of the door opening was so sudden that he barely had time to react.

“Jayce Talis.”

His mother's voice came out firm, cutting.

Jayce froze. 

Her eyes travelled around the room in a second: the books, the diagrams, the rune still flickering on the paper. Jayce saw her gaze fix on the grimoire, and in that instant, he knew there was no denying it.

Ximena closed the door behind her slowly, her face tense.

“Tell me this is not what I think it is.” 

Jayce swallowed.

“Mom, I—” 

“You promised.” Her tone wasn't one of anger, but of concern. “You promised you'd put this behind you."   

He looked away.

Ximena ran a hand over her face, as if trying to keep calm. She walked over, picked up the grimoire and closed it tightly.

“Where did you even get those things? She asked, somewhat irritated. Realisation took over her expression. ”Are you meeting that professor again?” 

Jayce opened his mouth to try and defend himself, but the answer was obvious. 

“This is not a game, Jayce.” Her voice carried concern. ”Piltover won the war against the mages. You know what they do to those who still practice.” 

Jayce clenched his fists.

“Magic isn't just about destruction!” Jayce raised his voice, regretting it when he saw Ximena frown, annoyed. “You know that, you know it saved Father's life—” 

Ximena sighed, her frustration evident.

“You need to be more careful, Jayce!” Her voice became lower, almost a whisper. “Your father... he was lucky to get out of that war alive.” She brought her hand up to her face, massaging her temples. “Just to sacrifice himself for a hopeless cause! ” 

Silence fell between the two of them. 

God, Jayce missed him so much. 

Jayce looked at the grimoire in his mother's hands, then at her.

“I don't intend to stop.” 

Ximena closed her eyes for a moment, a pained expression on her face. 

“You hurt me deeply, my dear.” The sadness in her voice was clear, and Jayce felt his own heart squeeze inside his chest. “I have already lost your father, I am not going to lose you too.” 

She turned a few pages, her eyes wide at the sight of the arcane symbols. Her face hardened, her lips tightened into a thin line. Then, without saying another word, she spun on her heels and crossed the room.

“Mom, wait!”

Jayce tried to stop her, but it was too late.

The grimoire flew from her hand straight into the fireplace. The flames engulfed the pages before he could try and reach them.

“NO!” Jayce lunged forwards, but Ximena grabbed his arm.

“Enough!” Her voice shook, but her gaze was firm. “I warned you, Jayce. I told you it was dangerous. You did not listen. Now, I am not going to give you a choice. This nonsense is over. ” 

Jayce watched in horror as the leather of the cover darkened and crumbled in the flames, the pages wrinkling and turning to ash before his eyes. He tried to pull his arm away, but Ximena wouldn't budge.

“You don't understand!” He shouted, despair in his voice. “That book— it was the only one I had!” 

“And now you won’t have it anymore.” 

The silence between them was thick, broken only by the crackle of burning wood.

Ximena let go of Jayce, her gaze still full of worry and frustration.

“If they find out what you're doing, there won't be anyone to save you. Not even me.” 

She walked away, leaving Jayce standing there, the heat of the fire burning his skin, but nothing compared to the knot in his throat. 

He stood there for a long time, watching the last ashes of the knowledge he had tried to preserve drift away into thin air.

[...]

Jayce hated his job. 

The heat in the forge was stifling. The smell of burning coal and molten metal permeated the air, and the sound of the hammer against the iron echoed in a constant rhythm. Jayce was covered in sweat , his sleeves rolled up and his muscles tense as he gripped the tongs, holding the glowing piece in place.

“Harder, boy! Your father never missed a blow.” The master blacksmith sneered, watching Jayce lift the hammer with effort. “If he'd been here, he'd have finished that piece before you'd even decided how to hold the tool.” 

The comparison burned hotter than the surrounding fire. 

Jayce gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the comment, concentrating on the next blow. But he hesitated for a fraction of a second, and the impact came crooked. The metal reacted unpredictably: a hot splinter broke free and hit his forearm.

The cut was thin but burning. He instinctively stepped back, and in that brief moment of distraction, his tweezers slipped.

The glowing piece of metal fell to the ground with a thud.

There was immediate silence. Everyone in the forge stopped what they were doing to look. The master blacksmith sighed heavily and crossed his arms.

“If you had been moulding a blade, you would have ruined everything. If it had been a piece for an important client, we'd already be bankrupt.” 

Jayce opened his mouth to reply, but the blacksmith was already shaking his head.

“Your father had a natural talent for it. You... well, maybe one day.” 

The comment made Jayce swallow.

“Take another one and do it again. This time, no damage.” 

Jayce frowned, annoyed. 

“Actually, I'll stop for today.” He announced. Jayce left his tools on the table, the others' gaze on him. “Maybe it is better than causing more damage.” He couldn't contain the sarcasm in his voice. 

Heading for the exit, he could hear some gossip: 

“I don't know how Ximena thinks he is the one that’s going to keep this business running.” 

Jayce closed the door firmly. 

[...]


“Oh, Jayce.” 

He tried to hide the wound, wiping away the blood with soot.

“It's nothing, really.” 

Ximena frowned, worried.

“Nothing, Jayce? You're hurt.”

“I got distracted for a second and missed a blow.” He tried to explain. “It's no big deal.” 

She sighed and ran her hand through his sooty hair, pushing it away from his forehead with an automatic gesture.

“I know this is not what you wanted.” Her voice was softer now. “But you need something to hold on to. Something to keep you stable.” 

Jayce looked away.

“You mean something to keep me out of trouble.”

She smiled a sad smile and squeezed his hand.

“It's the same thing.” 

The warmth of his mother's touch contrasted with the rigidity of the forge. Jayce knew that she worried, that everything she did was for fear of losing him. But that didn't make the chains any less heavy.

So he just nodded.

“I know.” Ximena left a kiss on his forehead, and his smile was inevitable. 

“Caitlyn is here to see you.” She warned, stroking her son's cheek. “I'll make you something to eat, you must be starving.” 

“Thank you, Mom.”  

Ximena smiled warmly. 

“I've got some bandages in the cupboard, clean that wound and put one on, will you?” 

Jayce nodded and Ximena headed for the kitchen. He let out a sigh that he had been holding in. 

Since last week, Jayce had been going crazy. Gradually, his study materials were disappearing, and Ximena threw everything she could find into the fireplace. Perhaps she thought she was being sly, but she wasn't. 

Jayce headed towards the bedroom, walking straight past Caitlyn, who raised an eyebrow, sarcastically.

“Oh, hello to you too, Jayce.” She quickly followed him into the bedroom. ”Thank you, it is good to see you as well!” 

Jayce rolled his eyes, but there was a tender expression on his face.

“I'm sorry, Cait.” He bent down in front of the bed, lifting the mattress. “I'm not having the best of weeks. How's it going with the enforcers thing?” 

Caitlyn leaned against the doorframe, bored. “Not much different than usual. We arrested a few thieves but they were released when we recovered the belongings.” She sighed. ”I miss some actual action.” 

Jayce laughed dryly. ”You mean the war?” 

“Of course not.” She spat. “I just wanted to do more than random searches and patrols.” 

Digging a little deeper, Jayce found it. 

The leather bracelet he had got from his father, a blue-ish stone rested in the middle of the material, inanimate. Jayce was never able to decipher it. He knew it was important, but he was never able to awaken its power. 

He remembered his father's words well: that bracelet was special. 

“It was given to me by the mage who saved my life.” He once said. ‘I'll be eternally grateful to him, I don't even know if the poor man is still alive.” 

Unfortunately, Kaleb never managed to find him. They didn't know how it worked, or if it worked. It was the last thing linking Jayce to magic, and luckily, Ximena couldn't find it. 

Noticing the object in her hands, Caitlyn raised her eyebrows, suspicious. 

“Jayce, is that a rune?” 


He turned towards his friend and denied it with a head movement. 

“I still don't know what it is.” He admitted. “I thought I was close to finding out before my mom threw all my studying away.” 

Caitlyn crossed her arms firmly. Her accent, even more evident. “Well, she's right! You should not be messing with these things, magic is forbidden. It's never done any good.” 

As the daughter of one of Piltover's counselors, Caitlyn had a strong opinion about magic. 

Deep down, Jayce hoped that he could show Caitlyn how beautiful magic could be. It could be used for more than just destruction; magic had saved his father once. 

Unfortunately, Caitlyn had always been very loyal to her convictions. Which, in a way, was admirable. 

“Please don't tell anyone, Cait.” Jayce pleaded. “You know I don't mean any harm.” 

She sighed, uncrossing her arms. 

“I know, but— this is dangerous.” Caitlyn bit the inside of her cheek, nervously. “Promise me you won't do anything crazy.” 

Jayce nodded, but he wasn't sure he believed his own words.

“Of course, I promise.” 

[...]

The workshop smelled of smoke and ancient parchment. 

The orange glow of a flame danced at Jayce’s fingertips, unsteady, wavering like a candle in the wind. 

“Slow down,” Singed warned. “you’re trying to force the magic to bend to your will, but it needs to be guided, not controlled.” The professor watched patiently, his eyes assessing every movement. 

Jayce frowned, and the gout of fire flickered slightly before dissolving in a sigh of sparks. He cursed under his breath, curling his hand into a fist. 

“No matter how hard I try, it always disappears.” 

“Because you still think like a blacksmith.” Jayce stared at him, confused. 

“What does that mean?” 

“Blacksmiths shape metal with force and precision, bending it to their will.” He closed his fingers slightly, and the flame twisted, forming sinuous patterns in the air. “But magic doesn’t bend. It’s not something you can hammer into the shape you want.” The flame began to compress, shrinking until it was a small sphere of flickering light between his fingers. “It’s like glowing metal—it can’t be held tightly without burning. You must learn to guide it, not master it.” He let out a sigh, the sphere of light wavering in his hand. “And right now, you’re trying to forge it with tension and brutality. You're tense.”

“Well, of course I am!” Jayce huffed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know why I even try anymore. My mother found out about everything and threw my books into the fireplace. Even the scrolls you gave me! ”

The professor remained silent for a moment. Then he sighed.

“I figured this would happen sooner or later,” he muttered. “Ximena is a good woman, but she carries the fear of all Piltover.”

“Fear? That’s an understatement.” Jayce huffed. “They hate magic.”

The professor folded his hands on the worn wooden table.

“And why would that be.” Singed muttered, sarcastically. 

Jayce fell silent, looking away. Everyone knew.

The War of the Mages.

Centuries ago, Zaun and Piltover were still separate cities. But magic was both a blessing and a curse—the wizards promised healing and progress, but they also brought destruction. 

A war broke out.

In the end, Piltover won, and any trace of magic was either eradicated or driven into the shadows.

Before the war, wizards were an essential part of society. They cured diseases, strengthened crops, and even aided in the technological development of the cities. However, over time, the reliance on magic grew unchecked .

Some noble families and scholars began to resent the power that mages held, for their influence extended beyond even political leaders. Instability began when a group of mages decided that they should rule, arguing that since they held the power to shape reality, they were better suited to lead than politicians and scientists. 

This created divisions among the mages themselves: some wanted to maintain their position as guides and healers, while others sought domination. When Piltover attempted to impose restrictions on magic, forcing mages to register and regulating their use, radical groups within the magical community revolted.

The conflict began with protests and sabotage, but quickly escalated into open warfare. Mages could heal and create wonders , but they also had the power to destroy . In response, Piltover kidnapped his opposers, forcing them to develop anti-magic weapons and technology, and war became inevitable.

In the end, the destruction wrought by mages served as justification for Piltover banning them altogether, uniting the two cities.

In popular folklore, the benefits of magic were forgotten, replaced by fear of what it had become in the peak of the war. Thus, the name “mage” ceased to mean healing and knowledge and became synonymous with chaos and destruction.

Jayce exhaled slowly.

“I understand what the war did to people. But I also know what mages did before it started. My father always said that healers saved many lives, including his own. ” Jayce clenched his fist, squeezing it lightly. ”How can something that has helped so many people be treated as a threat? ” 

The professor smirked.

“Because Piltover didn’t win by destroying magic.” Singed pointed out. “They won by teaching people to fear it.” 

Jayce stared at him, the words echoing in his mind.

“So what now? What should I do?” 

The professor stood up, walking over to a bookshelf filled with old tomes.

“Now, it’s your choice.” He picked up a small book and placed it on the table in front of Jayce. “If you want to give up, I wouldn’t blame you. But if you want to continue…” The professor pushed the book closer. “You’ll have to learn to see beyond what you already know.” 

Jayce looked at the book. Then, hesitantly, he slid his fingers over the cover.

The flame flared up again in his hand.

This time, it lasted a little longer before dissipating.

It still wasn’t enough.

But it was something.

[...] 

Candlelight flickered over the aged pages. The scent of ancient parchment mixed with the faint scent of fresh ink filled the small office. 

Jayce inattentively leafed through his mentor’s notes, his eyes scanning arcane formulas and symbols he was still struggling to decipher. His teacher, an elderly man, was writing meticulously in another notebook, immersed in his own work, as if he had forgotten Jayce was still there. 

Then a name caught his eye. 

Herald of the Arcane.

Jayce frowned. The term was scribbled among scattered notes about the War of the Mages. Beside it were incomplete sentences: “Sealed magic…” “Curse imposed…” “Forgotten even by his own…” He felt a shiver run down his spine. 

“Professor,” he called, straightening his posture in his chair. “What is this?” The man did not look up immediately, continuing to write as if he had not heard. Jayce turned the parchment toward him.

"Herald of the Arcane. You wrote about this. What does it mean? "

The professor paused his quill in the middle of a word. For a moment, only the faint crackling of the candle filled the silence.

"It’s just a story." he finally answered, without looking at Jayce.

"I don't remember anything like it in the records of the War of the Mages," Jayce insisted, pointing to the notes. "'Curse imposed'? 'Forgotten even by his own'?"

The professor closed the notebook with a dry thud. His gaze, which had always been patient before, now seemed distant, somber.

"There are things that should remain buried, Jayce."

The seriousness in his tone caught Jayce off guard. He had never seen his mentor so... restrained.

"But if such an important herald really existed—"

"Then he met the fate he deserved." The professor interrupted, rising from his chair. His voice was low but firm. “And it is not up to us to dig up ghosts from the past.” 

Jayce opened his mouth to argue, but the professor's gaze left no room for debate.

“If you want to continue learning from me, this matter is dismissed.” 

With that, Singed blew out the candle next to him, ending the conversation definitively.

[...]

The metallic clang of gears filled the small space of Ekko’s workshop, the smell of oil and burnt metal mingling with the sweet aroma of some hot drink. 

Jayce sat on a wooden bench, watching as Ekko dismantled an old clock, his nimble fingers separating the small pieces as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

Jayce was there because he knew that if any descendants of ancient Zaun still preserved stories that Piltover tried to bury, it was them. 

“Have you heard of the Herald of the Arcane?” Jayce asked, breaking the silence. Ekko raised an eyebrow, not taking his eyes off the mechanism he was working. 

“You mean the story grandparents told to scare the children?” Powder answered before Ekko could. She was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, adjusting a small contraption that she twirled between her fingers. “The great haunting of ancient Zaun. The cursed creature that roams the mist, waiting to devour the foolish who dare venture too far into the darkness." She recited, her tone exaggerated as if she were trying to mess with a child's mind.

Jayce laughed, crossing his arms.

“I don’t think it’s just a story,” Jayce insisted. “There’s a lot that Piltover erased from the records after the war.”

Ekko snorted, finally looking at Jayce.

“Ah, yes. The mage who was punished by his own apprentice. He was one of the most powerful, but in the end, he was left alone and forgotten.”

Powder stopped what she was doing and looked at Ekko.

“Do you believe that?”

Ekko hesitated for a moment, then shrugged.

“Well, every legend has some truth to it. And if the story of the Herald still survives, maybe there might be something more to it. Who knows?”

Jayce leaned forward, his voice lower.

“What if he’s still alive?” 

Powder and Ekko exchanged a look. For a moment, only the ticking of the unfinished clock filled the workshop.

They laughed.

“Come on, I’m being serious!” 

Ekko took a deep breath, trying to contain his laughter. “Jayce, we know you’re into magic and everything, but the Herald of the Arcane is just a story to keep the kids from going too deep into the forest. He doesn’t really exist.” 

"Yeah, All the mages involved in the rebellion were killed that day." Powder turned the mechanism in her hand, a clicking sound echoing through the workshop. "No one was left to tell the tale." 

Jayce sighed, defeated.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” 

[...]

The storm had begun earlier than expected. 

Ximena was traveling with her merchandise when the winds became too fierce to continue. The road connecting the trade routes was impassable, and shelter was few and far between.

She had heard rumors of ancient ruins nearby, a castle hidden among the mist and vegetation, supposedly abandoned since the War of the Mages. 

She was not one to believe in stories to scare children. If such a place existed, it meant sturdy walls against the biting wind and perhaps even a dry place to spend the night. When she finally found the castle, she realized that the stories were not entirely wrong. 

The imposing structure stood against the dark sky, shrouded in an air of abandonment and mystery . The iron doors were ajar, and the interior, though ancient, did not seem completely forgotten. 

Cautiously, Ximena entered, leaving the wagon behind and pulling Angus with her. 

The silence was profound, but unnatural. There was no dust accumulated as there should be in a deserted place. The fire in the hearth still burned. It was then that she realized: someone lived here.

A shiver ran down her spine the moment she felt movement behind her. Angus ran away, not even giving Ximena the chance to grab it. Before she could react, a presence emerged from the darkness.

Glowing eyes, cold voice.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The shock made her flinch, but the gaze of the being before her kept her frozen in place.

His body wasn’t completely human—fragments of magic pulsed around him as if they were part of his flesh.

The Herald of the Arcane.

The name appeared in her mind like a forgotten whisper, a legend told over the years, always with a warning tone.

“I— I didn’t know there was anyone here. The storm— ” Her voice trailed off.

“And that’s why you thought you could come in here as if this place were yours?”

The accusation in his voice made her freeze.

“I didn’t mean to. I just needed shelter— ”

The Herald didn’t seem convinced. His cold gaze swept over the goods Ximena carried, her cloak soaked from the rain. He noticed the familiar symbol. 

“A merchant. From Piltover. ” The way he said the city’s name sounded like poison. “You always take what you want. Always come back to tell your stories. But you… you won’t. ” Ximena’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“I cannot let you go.” The Herald stepped closer, the firelight dancing across his magic-marked features. “Piltover believes the Herald of the Arcane is gone, that this castle is just a ghost from the past. If they know I still breathe, they will return. To finish what they started.” 

He raised his hand, and an ethereal glow spread across the hall. Behind her, the gates slammed shut, a magical seal glowing for a moment before disappearing.

Ximena took a step back, but the door behind her slammed shut.

A magical barrier flashed for an instant, sealing her inside the castle. Her heart pounded in her chest. 

“What are you going to do to me?” 

The Herald tilted his head, watching her as if pondering the sentence. His eyes were like cracks of golden light, as if the very power within him was trying to escape. Trying to see beyond the light made Ximena feel an inexplicable shiver , as if she were looking at something that shouldn’t exist. 

“Piltover destroyed everything that was important to me. You are part of this city, of this history. You will stay here. So that you can see what is left. So that they will remember what they did.” 

Ximena felt her throat tighten.

[...]

Night had fallen, and Ximena had not returned.

The sharp wind blew through the streets of Piltover, carrying with it the metallic smell of the gears of the forges and the distant aroma of spices brought by the merchants. Jayce paced back and forth in the small courtyard of his house, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed.

He tried to ignore the lump in his throat as the hours passed. Maybe there had been a delay on the road, maybe the rain had made the journey difficult. But the truth was that Ximena always returned on time. She never kept him waiting without warning.

When dawn arrived and there was no sign of her, Jayce could no longer sit still.

"This doesn't make sense." he muttered, more to himself than to Caitlyn.

The young Kiramman was sitting on the wall, watching him with her arms resting on her knees. Her impeccable patrol uniform contrasted with the tired expression on her face.

"Jayce, perhaps she is just late.” Caitlyn said, though there was hesitation in her voice. “You know how negotiations outside the city go.” Jayce stopped abruptly and turned to her. 

“My mother is never late. Ever.” He ran a hand through his hair, restless. “She said she’d be back last night. What if something happened?” 

Caitlyn sighed and slid off the wall, walking towards him. “If it was a common delay, there’s no reason to panic. But if you’re right… ” Her blue eyes gleamed in the light of the lanterns. “Then we need to find out where exactly she went.” 

Jayce nodded, but the concern didn’t leave his face. “I know she was going to trade supplies with some nearby villages. The last place she mentioned was a village near Ancient Zaun.” 

The mention made Caitlyn stiffen. 

“Do you think she might have gotten too close?” 

“What if that’s what happened?” Jayce licked his lips hesitantly ”What if my mother met some delinquent?” 

Caitlyn crossed her arms.

“If she ended up in the Forbidden Lands, we better act fast. We can’t take a patrol squad without raising panic, so…” 

She stopped and looked directly at Jayce.

“Let's go. Together.” 

His eyes widened slightly.

“Cait, are you sure?” 

She sighed.

“You’ve already decided you’re going, haven’t you?” 

Jayce didn’t answer, but the silence was enough to confirm it.

“Then I’ll go with you.” She said firmly. “Someone needs to keep your head on your neck.” 

Jayce laughed, but concern soon returned to his expression.

“If something happened to her…” 

“We’ll find out,” Caitlyn assured him, squeezing his shoulder. “And bring her back, I promise you.” 

Without further hesitation, Jayce nodded, determined.

[...]

The next morning, they both walked to the commercial square, where the merchants were still organizing their goods. Some remembered Ximena leaving the previous morning, but no one saw her return.

“She would take the road south, wouldn’t she? ” asked one of them.

“If the rain caught her halfway, maybe she sought shelter in a nearby village.” Another one tried to comfort him.

The problem was that there were no villages in that region. Only the forest .

Caitlyn approached with her horse.

“None of the merchants have seen her since last morning,” she said, pulling on the reins to keep the animal in place. “I guess we have no choice.”

Jayce swallowed hard.

The Forbidden Lands had that name for a reason.

It was where the ancient mages once lived; nowadays, it was just a precarious city, taken over by Shimmer addicts and dangerous criminals.

Jayce nodded, climbing onto the horse next to Caitlyn.

“Let's go find her.” 

[...]

Caitlyn and Jayce had searched for hours.

There was not even the slightest sign of Ximena. Jayce felt his chest tighten, inevitably, all his hypotheses on the subject were extremely negative. In his head, his mother would be very hurt, or even worse.

As if sensing the negativity emanating from his being, Caitlyn tried to comfort him.

"We'll find her, Jayce."

"Thanks Cait, but I'm already starting to lose hope."

The pair walked for a while longer, night was already beginning to fall again. Looking around, Jayce froze in place when he saw his mother's horse abandoned on the road.

"Angus!" He shouted, making Caitlyn pull the reins of her horse, the animal stopped at the same moment, and Jayce jumped off.

As he approached, reaching out his hand, the horse dodged. The animal was soaked, scared . Looking back a little, the cart carrying her merchandise was still there, but Ximena was not.

Dread tightened his chest. Caitlyn stepped closer, understanding the gravity of the situation. 

“Shit.” Was all she could say. 

“Cait, this is all of her stuff.” 

The girl got off her horse, her impeccable boots sinking into the mud. Looking around, she raised her eyebrows, finding footprints. The tracks led into the forest. The pair looked at each other, and with a glance they knew what they were going to do. 

The wind blew hard, as if it wanted to erase any trace left of her. With each step he took deeper into the darkness, Jayce felt more like he was heading towards something that shouldn’t be found. 

The footprints simply stopped. 

And then, he saw it. 

A castle. 

The building rose against the stormy sky, its towers hidden by the mist. It was something imposing, clearly affected by time, but still, it maintained its relevance. Caitlyn tried to get some confirmation. 

“Do we think she’s in there?” 

Jayce nodded immediately. 

Mist crept across the stone floor, rising in gentle spirals as Jayce and Caitlyn entered the abandoned castle. The massive iron doors creaked in protest as they were pushed open, revealing a vast hall, lit only by the pale moonlight that filtered through broken stained glass windows. 

The air inside was thick, charged with a static electricity that made the hairs on the back of Jayce’s neck stand on end. Caitlyn stood rigidly beside him, her hand resting on the holster of her pistol. 

“Something is not right.” Caitlyn murmured, her eyes scanning every shadow. 

Jayce didn’t answer. His heart pounded in his chest as they walked through the main hall. Weathered statues of hooded figures lined the walls, their expressions hidden by the darkness. The floor was a cracked mosaic, the designs a memory of ancient times. And then, something moved.

A cold wind swept through the hall, extinguishing some of the torches that still burned on the walls. Caitlyn drew her gun in an instant, and Jayce turned, his muscles tense.

"I knew someone would come, eventually." The voice came from no specific place, but seemed to reverberate through the walls, like an echo without origin.

And then, he appeared.

From the top of the spiral staircase, shrouded in shadows and a pulsing arcane glow, a figure watched them. The being wavered between the physical and the ethereal, as if it were between two existences.

Its glowing eyes burned like embers, and the energy that surrounded its body flickered, molding itself into distorted shapes before dissolving into thin air.

Caitlyn fired three times, the bullets passing through the creature, not having the effect she had expected.

She stared at her gun, then at that being, her expression frightened.

“Piltover never knew when to retreat.” He continued, descending step by step. His feet made no sound against the stone. Jayce swallowed hard, but kept his stance firm. 

“Where is my mother?”  

The Herald stopped on the last step. The dim light revealed a bitter smile. 

“The Piltover merchant.” He tilted his head. “Have you come to bargain for her?” 

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes. “What do you want with Ximena?” 

“Nothing,” he answered simply. “I just can’t let her go.” The door behind them slammed shut. Caitlyn drew her gun, without hesitation. Even though she knew her bullets would have no effect. 

“Do not think we’re just going to accept this. You may be playing with Jayce, but you’re not playing with me.” 

The Herald didn’t even glance at the gun pointed at him. 

“Playing?” His voice held dark amusement. “I do not ‘play’, young Kiramann.” 

Even at the mention of her surname, Caitlyn did not flinch .

“You have a name,” she threatened. “I want to know who or what you really are.”

For a moment, the room seemed to contract around them, as if the very structure responded to the Herald. He stepped down the last step, moving just close enough for Caitlyn and Jayce to see him better.

“I have had many names,” he murmured, as if recalling a not-so-distant past. “A traitor, a monster, a threat.” He circled the two, studying them.

His movements were unnatural. He seemed to glide rather than walk, his feet touching the ground without a sound.

“But the name that matters to you… is the Herald of the Arcane. ”

Jayce’s eyes widened, remembering his conversation with Ekko and Powder. 

Caitlyn kept her gun steady, but her expression grew wary.

“You don’t look human. Why? ”

The Herald’s bright gaze gleamed, intense.

“Ah, finally an interesting question. But do tell me, miss Kiramann… Do you really want to hear the answer?”

Caitlyn pressed her lips together.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the truth is never as simple as the stories we’re told.”

A tense silence fell. For the first time, the Herald seemed to hesitate. But then he let out a low, humorless laugh.

“Interesting.” 

Jayce took a step forward, more cautious now that he knew who, or what , they were talking to. 

“We’re not here to cause any harm,” he tried. “I’m just looking for my mother, then we’ll leave and it’ll be like we never set foot here .” 

The Herald tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes glowing in the dim light. 

“And am I just supposed to believe that?” His voice was soft, almost curious, but it held a weight that sent a shiver down Jayce’s spine. “That two sons of Piltover would enter the stronghold of a fallen mage and just walk away without telling anyone? ” 

Jayce clenched his fists, fighting the urge to back away. 

“I give you my word.” The Herald let out a short, dry laugh.

“The word of a Kiramann and someone from an inferior house?” He took a step forward, and Caitlyn raised her gun again, her finger steady on the trigger. The movement didn’t seem to worry him. “Tell me, boy, how much is your word worth in Piltover?” 

Jayce felt a lump form in his throat. He knew the answer. Nothing .

Caitlyn kept her gun level, her eyes fixed on the Herald.

“If our word is worth nothing to you, then what do you want?” Were it not for the situation, Jayce might have found some humor in the illusion that he also held any significance. “What do you expect us to do?”

The Herald stared at her for a moment before looking back at Jayce.

“Do you really wish to take your mother back?”

“Yes.” Jayce didn’t hesitate.

The Herald sighed, crossing his arms, and his voice was lower, almost tired.

“And what do you think will happen when she returns to Piltover?” he asked imposingly . “That she can simply go on with her life without anyone questioning where she has been?”

Jayce felt tension build in his chest.

“She could say she got lost in the woods, that she doesn’t remember what happened! ” The Herald laughed, and this time there was something bitter in the sound.

“Piltover isn’t that naïve. If she disappeared and came back alive, they’ll want to know why. And once they start looking for answers, it won’t be long before they discover this castle is not as abandoned as they would like to believe.” Caitlyn narrowed her eyes.

“So that’s it? You kept her here because you’re afraid they’ll know you’re still alive?” 

The Herald’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Jayce saw a flash of something darker in his expression.

“I know what Piltover does with what they fear. I’ve seen it happen. ” Jayce opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. 

He knew it was true. Piltover had eradicated the mages from the city, erased their history, turned their memory into twisted legends. If they discovered that the Herald of the Arcane still existed, they would not rest until they had destroyed him completely. 

For Piltover, magic was a threat , a remnant of an era that they had made a point of erasing.

The Herald stepped even closer, his presence filling the room. 

“If your mother returns, Piltover will come after me . And I do not intend to sit around waiting for that.” 

Jayce looked at Caitlyn. She was gripping her weapon tightly. Part of her, he knew, also understood the danger it represented. Then Jayce took a deep breath. 

“Take me instead,” he said, without blinking. Caitlyn’s eyes widened, ready to argue, but with a gesture, he stopped her. “With me here, they won’t say anything, I could be travelling . Let her go and I’ll be your bargaining chip.” 

The Herald studied him for a long moment, as if considering his proposal. “Are you willing to do that?” 

“I am.” 

The Herald nodded, as if he had expected this answer. His gaze returned to Jayce. “If you wish to take your mother’s place, Piltover boy … so be it.” 

Before Caitlyn could protest, shadows rose up around Jayce, snaking like living chains. Caitlyn acted quickly, firing at them, but the bullets dissipated into thin air as if they had no bearing. 

“Jayce!” She tried to pull him back, but the shadows were stronger, tearing them apart.

“Cait, I’ll be alright!” Jayce shouted. “Please help my mother.” The young Kiramann’s eyes filled with frustration and fury, but she knew she had no choice.

Ximena was out there somewhere. Jayce had made his decision. She had made a promise. 

The Herald raised his hand, and in an instant, a flash of arcane light filled the room.

When Caitlyn manages to open her eyes again, Jayce is no longer by her side.

Chapter Text

Caitlyn moved silently through the corridors of the castle, her fingers tight around the handle of her rifle. The air was cold, heavy with humidity and the smell of old stone. Occasionally, the wind whistled through the gaps in the high windows, but otherwise everything was silent.

She expected to find Ximena locked in a dark cell, chained up like a prisoner . But as she approached an ajar door, she heard voices — or rather, one strident voice and a calm one.

“I told you, I don't want anything! I don't need water or food!” 

Caitlyn approached cautiously and peeked inside.

Ximena was standing in the middle of the room, her body tense, her eyes burning with frustration. In front of her, a man wearing a pale cloak held a tray with a jug of water and a plate of untouched food. His face remained calm, unwavering in the face of Ximena's refusal.

“Please, madam. You haven’t eaten anything since you arrived.” said the man, patiently. “You've been a difficult guest.” 

Ximena clenched her fists.

“I'm not a guest at all. I want to leave. I need to get back to my son.” 

The follower tilted his head slightly.

“The Herald was clear. Unfortunately, your knowledge of this castle poses a threat to all of us here.” 

“Let me out!” 

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to do this, madam.” 

Ximena pressed her lips together, as if holding back a swear word.

Caitlyn didn't wait any longer. She pushed open the door and entered the room, her eyes immediately meeting Ximena's.

“Ximena.” 

The woman turned to her, surprise replacing anger for a brief moment.

“Caitlyn?”

The enforcer glanced quickly at the man, who was now just watching the scene in silence, before turning her attention back to Ximena.

“I’m here to rescue you.” 

Ximena took a deep breath, relief mixed with confusion.

“How did you find me?” Her eyes widened. “Where's Jayce?” 

Caitlyn hesitated for a moment, then let out a sigh and was direct:

“He… offered to take your place.” 

The silence that followed was almost suffocating.

“What?” Ximena's voice faltered, as if the very air had been knocked out of her lungs.

“The… Herald— accepted the exchange. Jayce made a deal and now he's stuck here.” 

Ximena estaggered back a step.

“No... this can't…” She ran a hand through her hair, breathing hard. “How could he do this?” 

“How could he not?” 

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to process everything. Her boy . Her son. He didn’t deserve this. Jayce’s heart is so full of love, if they could only see— 

Her head ached , she regretted ever setting foot in that damned castle. 

“We need to go.” Caitlyn glanced at the man once again. “Stay close to me. And be quiet.” 

The man barely moved, making no attempt to stop them from leaving. The two left the room and began to move through the corridors. The castle seemed more alive than Caitlyn remembered, the lit candles casting moving shadows across the stone walls. There was a strange silence, but at the same time a feeling that they weren't alone.

When they rounded a corner, Caitlyn stopped abruptly.

A woman was standing in the middle of the corridor.

She was wearing a long white robe, flowing like silk, with subtle embroidered patterns that Caitlyn didn't recognise. Her face was serene, her eyes clear and attentive.

Caitlyn instinctively raised her weapon, but the woman raised her hands in a gesture of calm.

“You don't need to be afraid.” 

Before Caitlyn could ask anything, other figures began to emerge from the shadows. They were men and women, even children, all dressed in pale colours, with gentle, silent gazes. None of them carried weapons or made any mention of stopping them.

Ximena exchanged an apprehensive glance with Caitlyn.

“Who are you people?” 

The woman in white smiled softly.

“We are those who were saved by the Herald.” 

Caitlyn frowned.

“You’re his servants?” 

The woman tilted her head slightly, like the implication was absurd . 

“We follow the Herald, as one follows the light in the darkness.” 

“Are you going to stop us from leaving?” Ximena asked, her voice tense.

The woman denied it with a calm gesture.

“If the Herald’s allowed you to go, then we'll simply help.” 

One of the other figures approached, a man carrying an extra cloak that he held out to Ximena.

“It's cold out there. You'll have a long way to Piltover.” 

Caitlyn blinked, surprised by the unexpected kindness. She looked at Ximena, who hesitated before accepting the cloak.

The woman in white indicated the corridor ahead.

“Please, take this path. It will lead you to the exit.” 

Caitlyn still didn't trust them completely, but there was nothing to suggest that they were lying. Though, she couldn’t help but ask: 

“Why are you helping us?” 

The woman smiled again, but didn't answer directly. She just said:

“The Herald may be feared, but he's not cruel .” 

Caitlyn remained silent for a moment. Ximena placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing. 

“We should go, dear.” 

Caitlyn agreed, giving one last look at those people. Their smiles didn’t even flinch. She didn’t know what that creature could have done to them, but they didn’t have the time to find out. Not yet. 

For now, the important thing was that Ximena was safe.

Now they had to find a way to get Jayce out of that castle.

They followed the indicated path, while the Herald's followers watched in silence, like invisible guardians watching over the castle.

[...]

Jayce didn't know exactly what he was expecting to find as he was led through the castle corridors. But it definitely wasn't that.


The hall was vast, the high walls covered in faded tapestries and bookshelves filled with books that seemed untouched for years. The air was charged with something indescribable, an almost electric sensation that made Jayce's skin crawl. In the centre of the room, sitting on a stone throne adorned with symbols he didn't recognise, was the Herald.

The figure in front of him exuded something Jayce couldn't quite describe - it wasn't exactly threatening, but it wasn't welcoming either. The blue cloak enveloped his body in an almost ethereal way, and the arcane markings on his skin pulsed faintly, like embers about to burn out. But it was the eyes that were most striking: deep, impenetrable , watching him unhurriedly.

Jayce was silent for a moment before crossing his arms, trying to look firmer than he felt.

“What happens now?” 

The Herald didn't answer straight away. He just tilted his head slightly, studying Jayce as if he were assessing something invisible. When he finally spoke, his voice was low but clear:

“The castle is at your disposal. You can do as you please, we do not have to maintain such… frivalties. ” 

Jayce frowned. 

“You are now a guest of this castle.” 

“Guest?” Jayce let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You held my mother captive, how could you say that?” 

The Herald didn't deny it.

“Then consider it a matter of perspective.” 

Jayce narrowed his eyes.

“What if I try to leave?” 

“You can try.” 

The way he said it sent a shiver down the back of Jayce's neck. The tone wasn't threatening. There was no challenge, no irony. Just an absolute fact.

“Is that all?” 

“As long as the secret of my existence remains hidden, you'll be safe.” The Herald raised one of his hands, as if it were a mere detail. “You can wander wherever you want within the confines of the castle, do as you wish.”

Jayce held the Herald's gaze for a moment, his fists clenching subtly.

“So that's it? I'm stuck here until you decide what to do with me?” 

“I don't need to decide anything, boy.” The Herald replied, impassive. “The world has already decided for us.” 

Jayce felt his jaw clench, but he didn't retort. The silence between them stretched on for longer than seemed comfortable. Then, without another word, the Herald looked away and made a brief gesture with his hand.

The door behind Jayce opened and a woman entered, bowing his head in silent reverence.

“You are not a prisoner, and your mother wasn't mistreated at any time.” He said, like he could feel in his bones that was what Jayce was thinking. He was right. “I would never do that to anyone, even if they are sons of Piltover. ” 

Jayce hesitated for a moment before finally turning round and leaving.

But as the door closed behind him, Jayce couldn't help feeling that, even from a distance, those eyes were still on him.

Watching.

Waiting.

[...]

The corridor seemed longer than it should have been. The dark stone walls absorbed any remnants of heat, and the only source of light came from the torches scattered along the path. Jayce walked beside the woman who had introduced herself as Sky, one of the Herald's followers. She seemed calm, even serene, as if the castle didn't cause her the slightest discomfort.

Sky walked in front of him, her arms crossed behind her body, her posture relaxed as if she wasn't leading a stranger through a fortress that, at least in theory, should be inhospitable .

“So, where exactly are we going?” Jayce broke the silence, crossing his arms.

“To your quarters.” Sky replied without looking away. “The Herald may be many things, but he's not cruel, you won't be treated like a prisoner” 

Jayce let out a short, humourless laugh.

“No? Strange. Because up until now, everything has seemed exactly like that.” 

Sky didn't answer straight away. They turned into a wider corridor, where a few other figures in white moved silently, carrying objects or muttering low words to each other. Jayce watched carefully, his expression filled with doubt.

“Who are these people?” He asked.

“Devotees of the Herald.” 

“Devotees? As if he were a king or... a god? ”

Sky smiled.

“Nothing so grandiose.” 

Jayce frowned.

“So why are you here?”

“Because he saved us.” 

There was an unwavering simplicity to her answer, as if there was no room for discussion. Jayce snorted and ran a hand through his hair, annoyed.

“Saved you?” 

“From Piltover. From magic hunters. From ruin . Each of us has a different story, but they all end in the same place: the Herald gave us a second chance. ” 

Jayce slowed his pace.

“So if you're here because he saved you... does that mean you're a prisoner too?” 

Sky stopped walking and stared at him in surprise. For a moment, Jayce thought she was going to laugh.

“You don't understand, do you? ” She asked, with an almost gentle look. “I'm not a prisoner. I chose to stay.” 

He walked through the cold corridors of the castle, feeling the weight of his own thoughts crushing his shoulders. With every step, uncertainty ate away at him.

Magic. He had heard about it all his life. His father told stories about how mages had healed, protected, worked wonders. But Piltover told a different story. Piltover won the war against the mages. Piltover eradicated the threat of sorcery so that the city could prosper without fear.

But what now?

His mother was kept captive because of a mage.

His mother — who had never been involved in anything other than hard work and negotiations — was forced to be a hostage to something she barely understood. How was he supposed to see magic now? 

A mage saved his father. Another mage had put her in that situation. And now he was there, a prisoner of one.

Jayce clenched his fists.

It was easier to think that everything was black and white. That Piltover was right and Zaun was wrong. That mages were dangerous and science was the only answer. But there, trapped in a castle ruled by a cursed being, nothing seemed so simple.

If magic was only about destruction, why did Sky and the others follow it with such devotion?

Jayce ran a hand over his face in frustration. He didn't want to admit it, but the more he thought, the less certain he was.

“Why?” 

She hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the right words.

“If we're here, it's because he gave us a home. And I wouldn't trade that for anything.” 

Jayce opened his mouth to argue, but then he realised something.

Sky didn't speak like a blind follower, like someone who had been indoctrinated. There was sincerity in her voice, real conviction.

And that bothered him more than he'd like to admit.

The castle, the magic, the Herald... none of it fitted in with what Jayce knew. And, for the first time, he realised that he might have to find out the answers for himself.

“In a way. The castle is a refuge.” Sky added. 

“A refuge from what?” 

“From the world.” 

Jayce arched an eyebrow.

“And you think this is a good place to live? A gloomy castle in the middle of nowhere, serving a… creature?” 

Sky laughed softly.

“You talk like you've been thrown into a dungeon.” 

“Haven't I?” 

She stopped, looking at him curiously.

“Do you feel like a prisoner, Jayce?” 

Jayce hesitated.

“My mother was kept here against her will. That's enough .” 

Sky tilted his head slightly, but didn't argue.

“I understand why you see it that way. But... Do you really think everything is so simple?” 

“What does that mean?” 

She started walking again, and Jayce followed.

“You grew up hearing only one story about magic, didn't you?” Sky asked. “That it's dangerous . That mages are enemies. And now you're here. One mage has kept your mother here, and is now keeping you, and yet, you don’t feel like a prisoner .” 

He wiped his hands across his face and snorted.

“I just... don't know what to think anymore.” 

Sky smiled, as if he'd expected that answer.

“This is good.” 

“How can it be good?” 

“Because questioning means you're starting to see beyond what you've been taught.” 

Jayce looked away, thoughtful.

“My… professor . Never mentioned the Herald before. Only once, when I was reading some of his notes on the matter.” Jayce explained.. “And, well ... it didn't look good. When I asked him about it, he said he got the punishment he deserved.” 

Sky stopped abruptly and turned to face him.

“Did you believe that?”

“He is a wise man.” 

She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows.

“Then you're a fool.” 

Jayce blinked, surprised.

“What?”

“If you really believe you can understand someone based on a single sentence, without ever questioning the whole story, then you're a fool .” 

Jayce opened his mouth to protest, but stopped himself. Something in the way Sky stared at him made him swallow his words.

“What do you know about him, then?” He asked, crossing his arms.

Sky sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“The Herald never belonged to one side. And that made him an enemy to all.” 

Jayce frowned.

“That doesn't make sense.” 

“Not to you. Not to Piltover . But the world isn't just made up of what Piltover believes.” 

“You know... I don't hate magic. ” 

Sky blinked in surprise.

“What?” 

“I’m… drawn to it, actually.” Jayce rotated his hand in the air, as if trying to catch something invisible. “Ever since I was a child. My father used to tell me stories about mages who healed people, who helped whole villages to prosper. He used to say that, before everything went wrong, magic was a gift, not a threat .” 

Sky watched him intently, as if re-evaluating everything he thought about him.

“So why are you so reluctant?” 

Jayce sighed.

“Even though I like magic, it's still... difficult . Unpredictable . My mother always warned me, and I see it now.” He sighed, he would give anything to hold Ximena one last time. “It seems that every time I get close to it, my life falls apart a little more.” 

He lowered his hand.

Sky was silent for a moment before smiling.

“Maybe it's because you're still trying to fit magic into the rules you know.” 

Jayce laughed humorlessly.

“If you have a manual, please let me know.” 

“There is no manual. But I can show you a few things.” 

He looked at her hesitantly. 

Sky didn't seem to be mocking him.

[...]

Jayce followed Sky through the castle corridors, his curiosity growing with every step. When Sky first talked about ancient books and runes, he never expected that she would actually take him to explore them.

Sky stopped in front of a dark wooden double door, the edges adorned with inscriptions almost erased by time. With a gentle push, the door creaked open, revealing the interior of a vast library.

The air inside was different — denser , as if it held centuries of knowledge in its dust. Huge bookcases rose to the ceiling, laden with leather-bound books, rolled parchments and fragile-looking tomes. The smell of old paper and candle wax hung in the air.

Jayce stood paralysed in the doorway, his eyes scanning every detail with fascination.

“This... this is incredible , Sky.”

Sky smiled, pleased with his reaction.

“Not many people come here. But I thought you'd like it.” 

He crossed the room in long strides, running his fingers along the spines of the books. Some were marked with symbols he didn't recognise, others had titles written in a language he had only seen in sparse notes in his own study of magic.

“How come nobody uses these?” Jayce asked, turning to Sky. “This place is fascinating!” 

She shrugged.

“The Herald... doesn't like coming back here very much.” Jayce blinked.

“Why is that?” 

Sky hesitated, but then shook her head.

“I… shouldn’t be talking about it.” 

Jayce frowned, but before he could ask any more, a discreet glint caught his eye.

He lowered his eyes to his own wrist.

The bracelet his father had given him — a cold, silent artefact until then — glowed with a faint blue radiance.

Jayce stood still, feeling a warmth pulsate under his skin. It was faint, but unmistakable.

Sky noticed it too.

“This... this has never happened before?” 

Jayce denied it with her head.

“Never before.” 

He lifted his wrist, turning it against the light. The glow rose and fell gently, as if it were breathing along with him.

“It seems to recognise the surroundings.” Sky said, moving closer.

Jayce swallowed.

“Or recognizes something here.” 

He looked around again, this time with a new kind of wonder.

And then he saw it.

At the back of the library, leaning against a table, was an antique clock. Its structure was delicate, made of metal darkened by time, but its details were still clear— finely crafted gears, runes etched along the rim, and a cloudy glass that reflected the low light of the room. 

Ekko and Powder would probably rip this thing to pieces just to know more. 

Something about it felt… off.

Jayce took a step forward, but before he could reach out to touch it, Sky grabbed his arm.

“Better not.”

He looked at her, surprised.

“What is it?”

She pressed her lips together, quickly looking away.

“Just…don’t touch it.”

“Why? What’s so—”

“Jayce.”

The seriousness in her tone made him pause.

Sky took a deep breath and forced a smile, as if to dispel the sudden tension.

“We’ve seen enough for today. Let’s get out of here.”

“But—”

“The Herald wouldn’t like it if he saw us here.” she added, tugging at his arm.

Jayce hesitated for a moment, taking one last look at the watch.

The object was still there, motionless . But for some reason, it seemed to be watching him back.

[...]

Jayce sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the stone floor with his forehead resting on his hands. His thoughts were trapped in the forgotten library, the shelves of untouched books, the smell of ancient paper and dormant magic. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. 

The clock. It was a strange object—almost inconspicuous amidst the grandeur of the library, but there was something about it that made its presence impossible to ignore. A forgotten artifact? A fragment of the past? Or something more? 

Whatever it was, Sky didn’t want him to touch it. And that was what bothered Jayce the most. 

She didn’t explain, didn’t try to convince him with some vague excuse. She just stopped him. As if she already knew something he didn’t — or as if she was protecting him from finding out. 

The bracelet on his wrist was still cold, but he remembered the feeling it had felt when it glowed. The same warmth he had felt when he studied magic, when he had molded raw energy to create something new. The entire library seemed to have this presence. A quiet force, as if the books themselves were waiting to be read, as if the objects within were more than just relics.

And the clock…

He could almost see it again, standing there, too still. Like a secret forgotten by time.

If the Herald didn’t like the library, then what else was he avoiding? What else was hidden here?

Jayce turned to the side, staring at the stone ceiling.

He might have left the library. But his mind was still there.

He barely noticed the soft knock on the door.

“Jayce?” She called. “Dinner’s ready. The Herald requests your presence”

He recognized Sky’s voice before he even turned around.

“I’m not hungry.” He almost rolled his eyes. “And I definitely don’t want to have dinner with my mother’s kidnapper.” 

There was silence for a moment, but the door didn’t open.

“Are you sure?” she asked hesitantly. 

Jayce exhaled slowly.

“Yes.”

He heard a sigh from the other side.

“Well… then I’ll have dinner for you.”

Jayce let out a snort.

“Enjoy.”

Sky stood there for a few more seconds, as if to insist, but finally she pulled away.

Jayce turned back to staring at the floor.

Time passed without him noticing.

It was only when he heard another sound at the door that he raised his head.

This time, it wasn’t a knock. It was the soft creak of the wood opening.

“I said I’m not—”

He stopped mid-sentence when he saw Sky enter the room, balancing a tray in her hands.

“I know what you said,” she interrupted, unfazed. “But it’s not my fault.”

Jayce frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Sky placed the tray on the table by the window and turned to him with a satisfied smile.

“The Herald sent it.”

Jayce blinked.

“What?”

“He sent you food,” she explained with a shrug. “You can refuse to go to dinner, but you can’t refuse his orders, can you? ” Jayce opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. She had a point. Sky chuckled softly at his expression. “Well, looks like you have to eat now.” 

Jayce looked at the tray hesitantly. The food was plain but smelled good—soft bread, steaming soup, and something that looked like hot tea. He ran a hand over his face and sighed. 

“Did he really send that?” 

Sky smiled. “You can always ask him.”

Jayce snorted. “I’d rather not risk it.” 

With one last wary look at the food, he picked up a piece of bread and took a bite. Sky leaned back against the wall, satisfied. 

“See? It wasn’t that hard.” 

Jayce rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but smile.

[...]

The moment Caitlyn and Ximena stepped through the gates of Piltover, a small crowd had already begun to gather. Concerned murmurs rippled through the streets as merchants, neighbors, and a few distant relatives rushed forward, their faces twisted with worry.


“Ximena! Oh god, we heard you’d gone missing—”


“Where have you been? What happened?”


“Where’s Jayce?”


Ximena inhaled sharply at the last question, gripping the hem of her cloak tightly. Caitlyn shot her a quick, warning glance before stepping forward, her expression calm and composed.


“There was an incident on the road,” Caitlyn said smoothly. “We ran into trouble outside the city, but I was able to bring Ximena back safely.”


The explanation was just vague enough to discourage too many follow-ups, but the unease in the crowd didn’t dissipate so easily.


“Trouble?” One of the merchants, an older man with sharp eyes, frowned. “What kind of trouble?”


Ximena hesitated. Her fingers twitched as if she wanted to reach for something—Jayce’s arm, perhaps, the steady weight of her son beside her. But he wasn’t here.


She forced a smile instead.


“You know how the outskirts can be,” she said, voice light, rehearsed. “Bandits, unpredictable terrain. Nothing we haven’t handled before.”


A few of the onlookers exchanged glances, some still wary, but Caitlyn stepped in again before the conversation could drift too close to the truth.


“Ximena needs rest,” she said firmly, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “It’s been a long journey. If you’ll excuse us.”


She didn’t wait for their permission. With a small nod, she steered Ximena forward, leading her through the crowd and down the quieter streets. Only when they had put enough distance between themselves and the watchful eyes of Piltover’s citizens did Ximena let out a long, unsteady breath.


“You were right,” she murmured. “They’re already suspicious.”


Caitlyn nodded. “They will be, for a while.” Then, more gently, “But we did what we had to do.”


Ximena glanced down, her expression tight. “And what about Jayce?”


Caitlyn hesitated. “We keep our word. We don’t say anything until the time is right. I promise, we will get him back.” 


Ximena’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue. She just looked ahead, her steps slower, heavier.


Because no matter what lies they told, the truth remained the same.


Jayce wasn’t home. And until he could be, there would always be eyes watching, waiting, whispering.

[...]

Jayce couldn’t sleep. 

The castle was too big and too quiet, so Jayce did what he did best: explore.


When he got to the library, he walked closer, studying the object carefully. The metal was unusual — it had a dull sheen and a slightly irregular texture to the touch. The gears had no visible connection to each other, but they still turned. Jayce frowned and did what not most people would do: he touched it.


The moment his fingers brushed the glass, something clicked inside the clock. A deep, reverberating sound echoed through the hall, as if it had triggered something very ancient.


Jayce recoiled in alarm.


The glass grew hot beneath his fingers, and the hands began to spin rapidly, faster and faster, until they were a blur of gold.


His eyes widened.


“What…?”


And then, everything around him disappeared.


The past took shape before his eyes.


Flames.


Echoes of distant screams.


Jayce was no longer in the castle — not in the present. He was seeing something that had already happened.


In the center of the scene, a figure fell to its knees on the stone floor. His thin, bent body writhed in pain, his hands shaking as he tried to hold on to anything. His robes were torn, burned at the edges, and a dark mist surrounded him, as if his very shadow were being ripped from him.


Jayce knew immediately who it was.


The Herald. 


Or rather, what was left of him.


On the other side, a younger mage muttered ancient words, his tone cold and unforgiving. The purple glow of the curse enveloped the man, pulsing as if it were eating him from the inside out.


Jayce couldn’t hear what he was saying. But he saw his expression.


Pain. Anger. Wounded pride.


Even here, even in defeat, he didn’t bow.


Jayce felt his chest tighten.


The faces around him were blurred, shadows without identity, but the golden glow of Piltover’s armor was unmistakable.


He wanted to look away, but the clock wouldn’t let him.


The mage lifted his head one last time, staring at the men who condemned him. The violet glow in his eyes burned with fury, but when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out.


The mage before him had his eyes widened in terror.


And then, with a final gesture, the black mist dissipated — taking with it the last shred of who the man had been.


The scene shook, crumbling into golden particles around Jayce.


He blinked.


The castle hall came back into view. The clock had stopped once more.


Before he could even think to pull his hand away, a voice echoed behind him:


“I hope you found what you were looking for.”


Jayce froze.


He turned slowly and met the Herald’s bright eyes.


The creature stood in the doorway of the hall, half-drowned in the shadows, his features hidden by the dim light of the candles. But even here, in the semi-darkness, the authority in his voice was undeniable.


Jayce opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again.


“I… was just looking.”


He raised an eyebrow.


“And do you tend to touch everything you look at?”


Jayce swallowed.


“I’m a curious man.”


The clock was still spinning behind him, and Jayce had the impression that the Herald looked away for a brief second, as if he already knew exactly what was going on.


When he looked back at him, his expression was neutral.


“So tell me, blacksmith. What have you learned?”


Jayce hesitated. He didn’t want to admit that he had no idea what had happened. But the Herald knew. He always knew.


“You were a man… once.” 


The Herald didn’t react at first. His expression remained unreadable, his eyes unreadable, but Jayce caught the smallest shift—the tightening of his fingers at his side, the way his weight subtly shifted, as if steadying himself against something unseen.


A confirmation.


Jayce exhaled.


“I don’t know how, or why. But you weren’t always… this.” He gestured vaguely, unsure of what word could possibly encompass what the Herald had become. A shadow of something greater? A relic of something lost? A ghost?


The Herald let out a slow, measured breath.


“And what else?”


Jayce frowned. “What do you mean?"


“You touched it.” The Herald tilted his head slightly, watching him. “Surely you must have felt something.”


Jayce hesitated. Because he had felt something. The briefest flicker of… something beneath his fingertips. Not just metal, not just old gears and arcane engravings. It was deeper than that. A pull, a whisper.


Like something calling to him.

Like something waiting.


He clenched his fist. “I—”


The Herald took a step forward, and the space between them suddenly felt smaller.


“The past lingers in places like this, blacksmith.” His voice was quieter now, but no less commanding. “In things like that.” His gaze flickered, just for a second, towards the clock. “If you listen closely enough, perhaps you’ll hear its voice, too.”


Jayce’s throat was dry.


He wanted to ask— what voice? What past? Yours?

But something in the way the Herald was looking at him made him swallow the words.

Instead, he squared his shoulders.

“Maybe I already have.”

A long pause. Then, the Herald’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Then perhaps you are not so blind after all.”

“What did you do?” He couldn’t help it. “I never heard about a cursed mage in all my studies of the war. Why are you different? ” 


The creature stood there for a second, the anticipation killing Jayce from inside. The air in the room felt heavier, as if the walls themselves were leaning in to listen. The Herald’s gaze did not waver, but there was something else now—something that made Jayce’s stomach twist.

Finally, he spoke.

“I was a warning.”

Jayce frowned. “A warning?”

The Herald took a slow step forward, and the dim light of the library flickered against the sharp edges of his form.

“They wanted to ensure that no one else would follow my path,” he said, voice even, controlled. “To carve into history what happens to those who do not kneel.”

Jayce swallowed. He could hear the weight behind those words, the history tangled in them. The resentment. The pain.

“But why you?” His voice was quieter now. “ What made you different?”

For a moment, it seemed like the Herald wouldn’t answer.

Then, almost imperceptibly, his fingers twitched.

The Herald exhaled slowly, a breath that sounded more like the whisper of a dying fire than anything human. His gaze didn’t waver, but Jayce saw something flicker beneath it—something deeper than the cold detachment he usually carried.

“You assume that history tells the truth,” he finally said. His voice was steady, but there was a weight to it, a bitterness laced beneath the words. “That because you have not read about me, I did not exist. ”

Jayce opened his mouth, but no words came.

The Herald stepped forward, slow, deliberate. The dim light of the chamber flickered against the golden engravings of his armor, casting long, jagged shadows against the walls.

“Tell me, blacksmith— how many war mages are recorded in your books?”

Jayce hesitated. “A few.”

“And how many of those books were written by the victors?”

The realization settled like a stone in his stomach.

He had never thought about it. Not really. Piltover had won the war—of course the histories were written from their perspective. Of course names had been erased, stories twisted, truths buried.

“Then what’s the truth?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

The Herald tilted his head, regarding him carefully. “The truth?” His fingers flexed at his sides, claws scraping lightly against the fabric of his robes. “The truth is that magic was never the real threat.”

Jayce frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” the Herald said, stepping past him, his voice dropping lower, “that if your people had feared magic alone, they would have simply forbidden it. But they did not just banish magic. They erased those who wielded it. ”

Jayce turned to follow him, but the Herald didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he raised a hand, palm up, and for the first time since Jayce had arrived at the castle, he called forth magic freely.

A small, golden light flickered to life in his hand.

It was delicate, soft — so unlike the destructive force Jayce had been taught to fear. It pulsed, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

“This,” the Herald murmured, “is not what they feared.” His fingers curled, and the light twisted, shifting into a jagged shape, the color darkening. “They feared those who could use it to change things. To challenge the order they had built.”

He let the magic flicker out, his hand falling back to his side.

Jayce swallowed. “And you?” he asked, carefully. “What did you do?”

The Herald finally looked at him again, his golden eyes unreadable.

“I tried.”

Jayce’s breath caught.

The way he said it—flat, simple, undeniable.

Before the war ended, before he became this. 

The realization sent a shiver down Jayce’s spine. He had spent his entire life hearing stories about the war — how Piltover had triumphed, how magic had been contained, how the world had been saved . But no one had ever mentioned this.

No one had ever mentioned him.

Jayce exhaled slowly. “So they turned you into a monster instead.”

At that, the Herald let out a low, humorless chuckle.

“A monster.” He tilted his head, watching Jayce carefully. “Is that what you see?”

Jayce hesitated.

He thought about the library, untouched by time . The followers , devoted and unwavering. The power that still lingered in every shadow of this place.

He thought about the way the Herald had spoken, not with mindless hatred, but with purpose.

With pain.

“…No,” he admitted. “I don’t think you are.”

The Herald didn’t move, but Jayce could feel the shift in the air between them.

For the first time since he arrived, it felt like the Herald was truly looking at him.

“Now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity… I suggest you don’t mess with anything you don’t understand.”


Jayce blinked, and the creature was gone. 

[...]

He was not satisfied. 


Dust gathered like a veil on the stone benches, covering metal instruments and parchments yellowed by time. The smell of old oil and burnt paper hung in the air, and Jayce ran his fingers over the cold surface of the nearest table, pushing away the centuries of oblivion that rested there.


He had lost himself in the corridors of the castle, guided by an instinct that even he didn't understand. Something was calling him in that forgotten wing, a silent whisper that pulsed in the back of his mind. It felt wrong to wander around without Sky next to him. 


When he pushed open the heavy wooden door, he did not expect to find a laboratory.


It was smaller than the large library, but every detail told a story. Diagrams scattered across the tables showed sketches of devices that seemed to mix gears with arcane runes, as if someone had tried to unite scientific precision with the fluidity of magic. Jayce picked up one of the papers and examined the notes written in meticulous handwriting. Some of the words were formulae, others technical schemes that he actually could understand, but among the calculations, loose phrases caught his eye:


‘We can coexist, there's no reason for disagreement’


‘If only they would listen to me.’


Jayce frowned. Who did those words belong to? What did they mean?


He made his way to a corner of the room where a glass stand held something peculiar — a bracelet, similar to his own, but unfinished. The piece was open, displayed as if its creator had never had the chance to finalize it. Jayce touched the cold metal and, in the next instant, felt a shock run through his arm.


A snap in the air. An image, vague and fragile, formed in front of him.


The laboratory was the same, but it wasn't abandoned. A tall man with dark hair and simple clothes was leaning over a table, muttering to himself as he sketched out a new diagram. There was a glint of determination in his eyes, but also a sombre weight on his shoulders.


‘They refuse to see. But I'll do it for them.’


Suddenly, the man closed his notebook. When he lifted his head, Jayce could finally see. 


He was the same man he saw earlier. 


It was the Herald. 


The vision dissipated as quickly as it came, leaving Jayce gasping for breath. He blinked a few times, trying to catch his breath, and looked around, but nothing else moved.


His fingers still tingled. It was like the castle was trying to show him something. 


He swallowed, gripping the unfinished bracelet tighter.


Jayce felt a weight in his chest, something he couldn't name.


He looked again at the scattered diagrams and, this time, saw in them not just experiments... but dashed hopes.


By some tools, he noticed it. 


The same grimoire he had seen burn in front of his eyes. 

[...]

The grimoire rested on the table, its ancient pages faded by time, but still pulsing with a silent energy. Jayce ran his fingers over the familiar words, remembering the last time he had held that book — the fear in his mother's eyes, the flames consuming the pages before him. But now, there, inside the Herald's castle, magic didn't seem like a mistake.


It seemed alive.


The air around him vibrated, as if the magic that had once seemed so distant was now at his fingertips. Jayce was sitting on the cold stone floor, his breathing rhythmic and his hands open on his knees. The faint pulse of energy danced in his fingertips, warm and unstable.


He took a deep breath and recited one of the spells he had tried before. At the time, all he had achieved was a weak, inconsistent glow. 


As soon as he muttered the final words, he felt the power slip through his hands like a thread of electricity. An invisible current ran through his body, and suddenly the room around him reacted.


It was magic. Real magic. And he didn't fear it.


The candles on the shelves lit themselves. The carpet beneath his feet shook. The grimoire glowed with an intense golden colour. Some things started to levitate. 


First, small objects — feathers, sheets of paper, a forgotten cup.
 

And then the furniture began to float.


Jayce's eyes widened when he saw the chair next to him rise from the floor without him having done anything other than channel the energy. The table creaked as it rose from the floor. The chair slid upwards, spinning slowly in the air. The candles on the candlestick went out and came back on in an unsteady glow. The books on the shelf vibrated, shaking as if they were alive . Jayce opened his eyes and felt a mixture of awe and fascination.


He tried to release the spell, but the magic no longer felt like something he was holding — it was something that flowed through him , something that the castle amplified . Gravity seemed uncertain, and for a moment, Jayce felt that he himself could be pulled along with the furniture.


He didn't realize he could do that.


Then the door opened with a bang.


“Jayce?” 


The shock made everything fall apart at once. The desk fell heavily back onto the floor, the books scattered in a deafening crash and the chair almost rolled out of the room. Sky was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide as she watched the scene.


Sky looked around the room, then at him, then at the grimoire, and then opened her mouth, unable to decide what to say first.


Jayce blinked.


“...Hey.” 


Sky looked at him, then at the chaos around him, then at him again.


“That…” She pointed slowly at the overturned furniture. Then, she pointed at Jayce. “You—” 


Jayce cleared his throat and stood up, trying to look dignified-which was difficult when a book slipped off his shoulder in the process.


“I thought the ceiling was going to collapse.” 


Jayce grimaced, looking around. Okay, maybe he overdid it a little.


Sky pointed at him, still stunned. “I knew you didn't hate magic, but I didn't realize you were—” She gestured awkwardly at all the chaos in the room. ”Well, that .”


Jayce crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. “That what?” 


She was still looking at him as if she were seeing something impossible. “Jayce, you're channeling magic with a grimoire you shouldn't even be able to use. And I felt what you did.”


Jayce looked away, feeling a weight settle on his chest. “Outside the castle, none of this worked.” He looked down at his hands. “But here... it's as if the magic recognises me.” 


Sky was silent for a moment. But then something in her gaze changed — shock gave way to a spark of excitement.


“This is incredible.” She approached, carefully picking up the grimoire. “If you've already achieved this without any formal training, imagine what you can do if you learn to channel it better?” 


Jayce blinked. “Are you offering to... teach me? ” 


She smiled. 


“Of course! If magic is reacting to you like that, it means there's something there. Something big.” 


Jayce looked down at his hands again, the heaviness in his chest being replaced by something else: expectation.


“Well…” He gave her a half-smile. “Where do we start?” 

Chapter Text

The underground ring was stifling. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and rusty metal, Caitlyn hesitated for a moment before entering, her rigid posture contrasting with the absolute chaos around her. She felt every heavy gaze as she made her way through the crowd. Her Piltover uniform made Caitlyn an easy target — or at least someone who didn't belong there.

The noise of the crowd's shouts drowned out the sound of punches hitting flesh and the hurried footsteps of punters trying to secure a good deal. Zaun's underground ring — or what used to be Zaun — was buzzing with the energy of a fierce fight. 

In the ring, bathed in bright white lights, stood the omnipotent figure of a woman . 

Her wrists and torso were covered in bandages, her reddish hair fell softly and almost angelically across her face, a huge contrast to the hostile environment in which she found herself. 

Black make-up ran down her cheeks like a war hero, her blue eyes were all Caitlyn could see and the huge tattoo on the woman’s back when she turned around was what gave Caitlyn the certainty that she had found the person she was looking for. 

With one final punch, her opponent fell to his knees, his body swaying slightly before the man finally collapsed. 

Excited shouts echoed around the place, cheap beer flying everywhere as the woman was cheered with an enthusiasm that Caitlyn had never witnessed before. 

As they removed the man's unconscious body, Caitlyn followed her out of the ring with her gaze. 

The fighter seemed completely oblivious to the attention around her, wrapping more bandages around her fists as she prepared for the next fight. Caitlyn wasted no time. The woman’s reddish bangs moved slightly as she tilted her head, as she finally noticed Caitlyn approaching. 

She looked her up and down, and Caitlyn couldn't tell if it was in judgement or interest . 

“Are you lost, Piltie?” Vi arched an eyebrow, assessing Caitlyn's impeccable outfit and measured walk. “This isn't the kind of place people like you usually hang out.”

Caitlyn kept her chin up.

“I am exactly where I need to be.” She stood her ground. “You're Violet, aren't you?” 

Vi let out a low laugh.

“Hell yeah I am. You can call me Vi.” She bit her lip, taking another good look at Caitlyn. “What could you possibly want from me? Do you need an escort to get home without getting your boots dirty? ” Violet pouted, mockery evident in her tone. 

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes, ignoring the provocation.

“I need your assistance.” 

That took Vi by surprise. She tilted her head, now genuinely curious.

“My help? And what makes you think I'd be interested?”  

“I pay well.” 

Vi snorted.

“Of course you do. But you still haven't told me what for.” 

Caitlyn moistened her lips, feeling the weight of Violet's distrust. She knew she had to win her over, and that this kind of conversation couldn't be solved with a simple offer.

“Someone important has been taken away. A friend. ” She said quietly, looking around before continuing. “And I cannot count on anyone in Piltover to get him back.” 

Vi narrowed her eyes, studying Caitlyn.

“A friend, huh?”

“I can't trust anyone in town.” Caitlyn admitted, her rigid posture beginning to crumble. “It's a delicate situation. But I know you have contacts, you know people and the right informants... You can help me assemble a team.” 

Vi crossed her arms and stared at her in silence for a moment, her eyes assessing every detail of Caitlyn's face. The way she tried to keep her composure, but failed a little every minute, the urgency in her voice, the frustration hidden under that trained calm.

“What if I told you I’m not a hero?” Vi leaned forward a little. “That I don't fight for noble causes and that my only concern is for myself?”

Caitlyn held her gaze, feeling her heart race.

“I don't need a hero. I need competence. And I can guarantee that the payment will be more than enough to compensate for the risk.” 

Vi ran her tongue over her tooth, thoughtful.

“You know I could just take the money and disappear.” She teased, testing Caitlyn.

“You could.” Caitlyn admitted, raising an eyebrow. “But you won't. If you were that kind of person, I wouldn't have come to you.” 

Vi laughed softly, shaking her head. This girl was intriguing, indeed. 

“Alright, cupcake. You got my attention. But not my agreement yet.” She tilted her head, her gaze defiant. She raised an arm, and a waitress approached, placing two large glasses of beer on a nearby table. 

She pulled out a chair, sitting down with her torso resting on the backrest, legs wide open on each side of the furniture. 

Caitlyn had to look away for a moment. 

Violet gestured to the chair in front of her, inviting Caitlyn to sit down. 

“Convince me.”

[...]

Jayce walked slowly through the stone corridors, his eyes scanning old tapestries and dusty armour as if he wanted to absorb every detail of the castle. The grimoire he held close to his body was slightly hidden against his chest.

He turned a corner distractedly and stopped suddenly.

The Herald was standing there, his back to him, in front of a large stained glass window bathed in late afternoon light. Golden and blush tones cut across his figure, making his long tunic look even more imposing.

Jayce thought about going back, but it was too late. The Herald had already turned his face towards him, and his amber eyes took in his presence with the same tranquillity — or suspicion — as always.

“Are you lost again, Piltover boy?” Asked the Herald, without irony. Just a slight curiosity in his voice.

Jayce gave a forced smile.

“Let's just say I haven't memorized all the corridors yet... it is a castle, after all.” 

The Herald nodded, taking a step to the side, as if to make room for Jayce to approach. He wasn't sure why, but he accepted.

“Are you adapting?” He asked, his eyes returning to the stained glass window. “This place can seem... a bit funereal for someone from Piltover.” 

Jayce leaned lightly on the stone parapet in front of him, still holding the book against his chest.

“It's quieter than I imagined." He said sincerely. “And cold. But it has its... charms.” 

The Herald let out a low sound, something between a restrained laugh and a sigh. Still not facing him, he asked:

“Are you bored? ”

Jayce thought for a moment. Then he shrugged.

”Not exactly. There's too much going on for that. It's more... strangely quiet. As if the castle is waiting for something.”

The Herald turned his face slowly, his eyes fixed on Jayce's with interest.

“What about you? Are you waiting for something?” 

Jayce held his gaze for a moment, trying not to look suspicious, even though he felt the weight of the question. Then he looked away and gave a slight, almost defiant smile.

“Does freedom count?”

That earned him something unexpected: a real, if subtle, twitch of the Herald’s lips — almost a smile. It passed quickly, but Jayce caught it, and that flicker of human expression felt like a small victory.

He glanced quickly at the book in Jayce's arms. “Have you found something interesting?”

Jayce hesitated for half a breath, tightening his hold on the grimoire.

“Just a bit of light reading.” He said, feigning nonchalance. “Trying to keep my mind sharp while I’m… stuck here.”

The Herald raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “That book does not look particularly light.”

Jayce glanced down at it, then back at him. “Guess I just like a challenge.” He gave a little shrug, tone light but edged with pride.

The Herald turned back to the window. “Careful with what you read. Some books in this place bite back. ”

Jayce tilted his head. “Is that a warning?”

“It is a mere observation.” The Herald stated. “Some knowledge… is not meant to be understood by those who seek it for the wrong reasons.”

Jayce frowned slightly. “And how do you know someone's reasons?”

There was a pause.

The stained glass painted shifting colors across the Herald’s face, and for a moment, he looked older — worn .

“You learn.” He said simply. “After enough people try to twist truth into weapon.”

Jayce studied him in silence, unsure of what to say. The Herald didn’t seem angry — just distant. Tired.

He spoke again, voice lower now. “This place has its own way of revealing intentions. Do not be surprised if it starts revealing yours.”

Jayce shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the grimoire pressing against his chest. “Maybe I’m just trying to understand. Not everything has to be a weapon. ”

The Herald’s gaze returned to him, sharper this time, as if something in Jayce’s tone had caught his attention.

“Then I hope you remember that.” He said. “Because this castle does not forget.”

Jayce opened his mouth to respond, but the Herald was already turning away, his silhouette swallowed by the fading light filtering through the stained glass.

Left alone in the corridor again, Jayce exhaled slowly and glanced down at the book in his arms.

It didn’t feel so harmless anymore.

[...]


The muffled sound of a book falling echoed through the empty room.

“You got distracted again.”  Sky said, already crouching down to pick up the tome Jayce had let slip off the table.

“I wasn't distracted, I was just... thinking.” Jayce replied, scratching the back of his head with a guilty smile. “About the theory you explained yesterday.”

Sky raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Thinking, huh. The same way you “thought” and accidentally lit one of the candles with your elbow? ” 

“That was completely intentional. A new conjuring method. Whole body involved." He replied, with a cheeky grin.

She snorted out a laugh, even though she tried to keep her expression serious. "You're getting better. But if you don't learn to focus, you'll end up lighting up the whole library together."

Jayce sighed and leaned back in her chair, looking at the runic circle traced on the floor — half-erased, as if it had been remade several times.

"I didn't think it would be so... sensitive. Magic. One wrong thought and everything backfires."

Sky sat down next to him, crossing her legs. "You have talent, Jayce. You just don't have the patience. Magic isn't like your tools. It senses when you're trying to force it."

Jayce looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if he expected to see a spark between them.

“So I have to... ask for permission?”

Sky smiled. "Sort of. It's a conversation. And sometimes magic responds better when you shut up and listen."

They were silent for a moment, the soft crackling of the candles filling the space. There was a tranquillity there, a familiarity that hadn't existed in the first days of training. Jayce no longer looked at Sky with scepticism, and she no longer treated him with uneasiness.

Jayce sighed, remembering his earlier conversation. 

“Do you think the… Herald… Would he react negatively if he knew I’m trying to learn magic?” 

Sky arched her eyebrows, taken aback by the question. 

“I mean—” 

Sky interrupted him. “I don’t think so.” Jayce stared at her with a look that felt almost hopeful. “The Herald still carries deep scars from the War that definitely shaked his trust. But as long as there’s people like you, magic will survive! And that’s what matters the most.” 

Jayce let out a quiet breath, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a bit. He glanced down at the chalk in his hand, running his thumb over its edge.

“That’s… comforting.” he said, though his voice carried a hesitant note. “He’s not exactly warm. I can never tell what he’s thinking.”

Sky gave a small laugh, leaning back on her hands. “He may not be. But he watches. Listens. He notices more than he lets on.”

Jayce looked up at her, his brow furrowed. “Do you think he knows?”

Sky tilted her head, considering. “If he does, he hasn’t said anything. Maybe he’s waiting to see if you’ll come to him first.”

Jayce gave a dry laugh. “That’s assuming he doesn’t just throw me out the window.”

She smirked. “He won’t. Trust me, if he wanted you gone, you’d already be halfway down the mountain.”

Jayce laughed despite himself. “Again, comforting.”

They sat in silence for another beat, the warmth of the candlelight making the old stone room feel less harsh. Outside the narrow window, the sky was already beginning to shift to dusk, streaks of violet and blue melting into the horizon. Jayce, despite everything that brought him there, wasn't so sure he wanted to leave as bad as before. If he returned to Piltover, where magic was forbidden, he would have to leave a part of him behind.

This new, exciting part of him. 

Sky broke the quiet first. “Alright, you’re done being existential? ”

Jayce smiled. “For now.”

She got to her feet and held a hand out to him. “Then let’s try that conjuration again. But this time, try not to catch your sleeve on fire.”

Jayce took her hand, standing. “That was one time.”

“That was three times.”

As they returned to the center of the room, stepping once more into the faded chalk lines of the circle, there was something different in Jayce’s posture — more grounded, more certain. He wasn’t just experimenting anymore. He was learning. And despite the secrecy, despite the risks, it felt… right. 

Even if the Herald didn’t know yet.

Even if Jayce wasn’t sure he was ready for when he eventually found out.

[...]

The scent of dried herbs and brass lingered in the air, just like always. Ximena adjusted the display of polished mechanical trinkets on the front counter, her hands moving with practiced ease. Outside, the murmur of the city floated in through the open windows — a reminder that life went on , with or without answers.

She forced a smile as the shop bell chimed and a familiar customer stepped in.

“Morning, Señora Talis.” He greeted, setting a small box on the counter. “Got that valve casing you mentioned.”

"Perfect timing.” Ximena replied gently. “I’ll take a look.”

Her voice was even, pleasant. It had taken weeks to get it there — to not let it waver every time someone walked in and asked about Jayce.

But today, luck wasn’t on her side.

The man lingered a second too long. Then, with the cautious curiosity of someone who meant well but didn’t know where the line was, he asked:

“Have you heard from your boy lately? Haven’t seen him around the forge.”

Ximena didn’t flinch. She kept her eyes on the casing, rotating it slowly in her fingers, pretending to assess the craftsmanship.

“He’s travelling.” She said smoothly. “Helping with some research abroad. You know how he is, restless.”

A smile. Measured. Polished.

"Oh! Well, good for him, he was always a smart kid, that one.” The man said, clearly relieved to hear something. “Though I hope he’s not causing trouble wherever he is.” He joked. 

Ximena laughed, the sound a little thinner than usual. “He always finds something to break and put together again.”

After he left, the little shop fell quiet again. She stood there for a while, staring at the spot where the sunlight hit the counter. Dust danced in the light, like little ghosts.

Travelling.

Helping.

Words she repeated over and over until they sounded almost real.

Her fingers strayed to the drawer beneath the counter. She opened it slowly, revealing a thin slip of parchment folded in four — the last letter Caitlyn had sent, still smelling faintly of oil and rain.

We’re working on it, the note had said. I’ll get him back.

Ximena closed the drawer gently.

[...]

The warehouse was dimly lit, the city’s filtered light bleeding through the cracks in the walls. The echo of distant machinery and dripping water filled the silence between them as Caitlyn unrolled a roughly sketched map over an empty crate.

Vi stood across from her, arms crossed, chewing the inside of her cheek like she was already regretting saying yes.

“So…” Vi said, eyeing the map. “We know where he is. Great. But this place?” She tapped the sketched outline of the castle with a knuckle. “It’s not exactly open to visitors, is it? ”

Caitlyn nodded slowly. “We’ve confirmed his location, but not much else. The castle’s surrounded by some kind of Arcane barrier. My contacts couldn’t get close without triggering it.”

“Hold on, Arcane barrier? Are we talking about magic?” Vi raised an eyebrow. “And you figured I’m the one who could walk through the front door?

“I figured,” Caitlyn replied, calmly, “that you know the undercity like no one else. You have allies, eyes in places I can’t reach. And more importantly…” She paused, meeting Vi’s gaze. “You don’t ask questions you can’t afford to answer.”

Vi leaned back a little, folding her arms tighter, she squeezed the leather of her jacket. “You’re flattering me again. That’s dangerous.”

Caitlyn offered the barest hint of a smirk. 

“Not flattery. Just the truth.”

They stood there for a beat. Then Vi sighed, stepping closer to the map.

“I’ve got a few people in mind. Might be able to scrounge a small team that doesn’t mind getting their hands dirty.”

Caitlyn’s eyes brightened slightly. “Good . I can arrange supplies, equipment. I’ve already started modifying a transport—”

Vi cut in. “Slow down, cupcake! I said might. You’re used to doing things by the book, yeah? This? It’s gonna get messy. Real messy.”

Caitlyn straightened. “Messy doesn’t scare me.”

Vi studied her for a long moment. “You’ve got that look.” she said, half amused, half impressed. “Like someone who already jumped headfirst into the fire.”

“I did,” Caitlyn replied simply. “The moment they took him.”

Vi was quiet for a second. Then she gave a small nod, almost to herself.

“Alright then.” She said. “Let’s get your friend back.“

They bent over the map together and for the first time, they started to feel like a team. Not quite trusting. Not quite friends.

But close.

[...]

Jayce ran his fingers along the dusty shelves, the smell of old parchments and melted wax filling the air. The castle library was vast, but also strangely silent, as if it held secrets that didn't want to be discovered. Ever since he had arrived, this place had attracted him more than it should have.

Again, for no ones surprise, he couldn't sleep.

His eyes rested again on the carved table clock resting on one of the tables in the corner, away from the windows. Magical symbols delicately engraved around the dial, some of which he was beginning to recognise thanks to his training with Sky.

He approached slowly, the grimoire tucked under his arm, his eyes fixed on that object that had made him uneasy since the first day

Why do you make me so curious? He thought. You never really answer, you never say what you think. And yet there's something about you... something I can't help but try to understand.

Jayce ran his fingers over the polished surface of the wood.

Maybe, if I understand what moulded you, I can understand why you look at me like that. Why are you keeping me here.

Jayce reached out and touched the clock.

The sound of the gears changed like the last time — a dry click, as if something had been released. Then the room darkened for a moment, and the air became denser. The golden light of the sunset was replaced by a bluish, magical twilight.

Jayce’s head got forcefully bent back, his eyes turning a milky shade of white. Images began to form in the space in front of him — blurred at first, then sharper. Like crystallised memories. 

The world around Jayce dissolved into shades of grey and red. When his feet touched the ground again, he could taste the metallic smoke in the air.

He was in the midst of ruins. What remained of an ancient hall was just a devastated field - broken columns, burnt stones, blast marks and ancient magic etched everywhere. The smell of blood hung in the air like a shadow.

And in the centre of it all, him.

The Herald. 

His body was slumped, destroyed, a large wound across the side of his torso. One of his arms hung useless, and his face was covered in blood and soot. His skin burned with the dull glow of ancient runes, scars fused to his flesh by pure magic.

Even so, his eyes were open. And full of rage.

“You should have let me die.” He muttered, his voice weak but firm.

In front of him, a woman with bright golden eyes and an expression marked by suffering, golden marks all over her body.

"You still don't understand. The curse is not the end of you. It's only the beginning.” She crouched down, looking into the eyes of what had once been human. “Your apprentice made sure of that."

“I see you noticed that as well.” He tried to laugh, but everything hurted. “There is no point, miss. Why save me?” 

"Because you are still breathing. And where there is breath, there is hope."

The Herald let out a mirthless laugh, which turned into a cough. His body trembled.

"Hope? Look at me." He raised his hand with difficulty. "I've been torn apart by war. My body. My faith. My cause." 

The woman approached cautiously.

“And yet you survived.”

The Herald stared at her with a mixture of fury and despair.

“Surviving is not living.”

She placed a book on the floor between them. A leather book with a golden coat of arms on the cloak, a braided spiral rune... something important was there.

"This book contains what many wanted to destroy: the memory of what was lost... and what can still be recovered. Including you."

He hesitated, his eyes fixed on the book.

"Recovered? They turned me into a beast. A symbol of everything Piltover fears."

“You were cursed because you tried to protect your own.” The woman said firmly. "But the curse is not final. It molds itself to the soul." She sighed. "It is not broken with hatred. But with acceptance. With connection. Someone can... open the way. "

“Acceptance does not rewrite a curse.”

“But it could break it.”

The Herald looked away. 

“Then let someone else carry that hope.” He stated. “Mine is already over.”

“Not yet.” The woman replied tenderly. "That's why we sealed the book. That's why we treasure this moment." Her eyes started to glow again, golden particles at the point of her fingers. “Now, you won’t be as powerful as before, but I can help you. ” 

Jayce, invisible as a spectator of the vision, took an involuntary step forwards. The image began to flicker — as if time was closing in on itself. Golden magic enveloped the Herald, healing his body. 

Before everything disappeared, he still heard the woman’s last sentence:

"One day, someone will see your true self. And when that day comes... the seal can be undone. "

Jayce stepped back with a startle, the clock falling silent under his hand. The library returned to normal, the silence resuming as if nothing had happened.

But something inside him had changed.

He now knew that The Herald’s curse wasn't just a punishment. It was the mark of a choice — and of a hope that had been buried along with the war. 

Jayce clenched his fist, determined. Maybe that was his chance, to get out, to go back to his mother.

"I need to find that book.”


[...]

The acrid smell of chemicals nearly masks the sound of the door opening.

Singed, hunched over a bench lit by flickering green lights, doesn't need to turn around to know who's come in. He'd recognize that steady step anywhere .

"I thought you had gotten over the need to show up here." He said, without looking.

“I could say the same thing.” Ximena replied. 

Silence. Just the clink of the bottles in his hands and the soft bubbling of a rust-colored liquid in a glass dome.

Ximena approached, her thick coat still dirty from the street. Suddenly, she turns over a bag on his desk, revealing several ancient books and scrolls. Singed’s eyes opened wide, almost shocked.

“Jayce told me you burned those.”

“Jayce doesn’t know everything.” She crossed her arms. "I need your help." 

He smiles, though no one sees.

"And why would I help?" 

"Because it’s about my son." She answers, her voice doesn't tremble, carrying a dense weight. "You owe me." 

Singed finally turns his face. His dull eyes stare at her with the coldness of a man who has seen the world fall apart more than once. "I owe you?" 

Ximena takes a step forward, approaching the counter. 

"You didn't help Kaleb when he needed you." The words fall like lead. "Not that night. Not when he needed it most. " 

Singed didn’t deny it. 

"But now you're going to help my son. You're going to do something right, for once ."

"I don't know why I would do that." His voice was tinged with skepticism. 

She takes a deep breath, controlling the anger and pain building in the back of her throat.

"Because I couldn't help my husband, but I will help my son." Ximena said, the intensity reverberating in the space between them. “Jayce is in the old castle by the mountains, the Herald is holding him captive.”

Singed finally turned around to face Ximena, his heart beating faster inside his chest.

“The Herald?” He mutters. “ You— You mean Viktor? ”” 

Ximena stepped forward, without hesitation, and looked him straight in the eye.

"Yes. And he has my son, that’s why I’m here." She insisted. "You told me was gone, Corin. That he would not pose a threat to anyone anymore." 

"Viktor is dead!"

Singed stood still for a moment, her words knocking the ground out from under his feet. He shaked his head in disbelief. That couldn’t be. Viktor was dead, he saw it with his own eyes.

"Viktor was—" He trailed off with the lack of response. "It's impossible, Ximena. He is... finished. His body did not— There is no way he could have survived."

Ximena stepped forward, her eyes shining with a mixture of determination and pain.

"I know what I saw, that’s him.” 

Singed looked stunned for a few seconds. The man got up, walking over to a table where a glass vial of glowing liquid sits, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention to it. Quietly, his brain was absorbing the news, a surprise he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

“That can't be...” He muttered, more to himself than to Xinena. "The Herald… Viktor— He was left for dead. I was there.”

Ximena crossed her arms, watching him with hardened eyes.

"I want a way. I want my son back.” 

Singed turned around completely. His expression a mix of interest and something older . A memory. A ghost.

He watched her face. The same stubbornness as before. The same fire that almost consumed him years ago. Singed shaked his head once more, as if finally acknowledging the intensity of the situation.

"And if I say it's not possible?"

"Then you'll find a way." She moves even closer, now face to face with him. "Because I won't lose anyone else."

Singed looked at her with a less cynical expression, one that mixed something between reluctance and an interest in something that has long been buried.

"Perhaps, I can help you. But I cannot promise safety. If Viktor is really alive, he will be even more dangerous than he was before.” He looked Ximena straight in the eye for a second. “He won’t be taken down without magic .” 

Ximena swallowed hard.

Nothing mattered as long as Jayce wasn’t home, where he belonged.

“Give me the damned book.” 

Chapter Text

The sign above the door creaks in the wind, the hands of a large clock on the facade having almost stopped. The window displays intricate mechanisms, all stopped at the same instant. The most constant sound here comes from inside— a steady ticking, a soft metallic noise, as if time were being reassembled by hand. Caitlyn adjusted her hood once more before knocking on the weathered wooden door.

Beside her, Vi crossed her arms in barely concealed impatience.

“Are you sure they can be trusted?” Caitlyn asked quietly.

“Don’t worry.” Vi replied. “They’ll listen.”

Caitlyn looked at her, worried. “Listen?”

The door opened with a click. On the other side, Ekko appeared with a grease-covered rag thrown over his shoulder and a screwdriver in his hand.

"Oh, it’s Vi."

“What’s up, little man?”

“I’m not a child anymore.”

“Not listening.” Vi squeezed his shoulder. “Hey pow-pow.”

A high-pitched laugh filled the room. “Hi sister, did you suddenly remember that you have a home?” Powder ironized.

She rolled her eyes, affectionately. “Shut up.” 

Finally noticing the presence of another person, Ekko looked at Caitlyn, his brow furrowed. She lifted her head slightly, revealing part of her face— enough for him to recognize her.

"You're the patrol officer. A... Kiramman."

From the back of the workshop, Powder's voice rang out, disdainful: "Seriously, Violet? An enforcer? Here?"

“She’s not a threat.”

Powder laughed, tightening some screws on the clock in her hands. “Oh, I’m sure.”

"I am not here on official business," Caitlyn replied, slowly removing her hood. "I am here for Jayce."

Ekko narrowed his eyes and Powder suddenly stopped what she was doing. "Jayce?" He muttered, sharing a look with Powder. “We haven’t seen him in weeks.”

“Yeah, and he used to pass by like, all the time.” She added.

Caitlyn took a step forward. "He's in danger. And we can't ask anyone in Piltover for help."

Powder suddenly got up. "Why?" She walked over, wiping her hands with a colorful flannel. "Did he get into something you were supposed to stop, but couldn't?"

Vi gave her a look. “C’mon, be nice.”

Caitlyn hesitated for a moment, slowly crossing her arms. "It's not like that." She took a deep breath. "He is being held captive by the Herald in the castle at the top of the mountain."

Silence fell heavily on the workshop. The sound of the clocks seemed louder, slower.

“Jayce trusted you guys, didn’t he?” Caitlyn asked, just to confirm what she already knew. Ekko responded with a nod.

“He helped us more than once. He didn’t have to. But he did.”

“Sometimes he brings us some parts from the forge, it’s very useful.” Powder added, her voice more restrained than usual. Caitlyn swallowed and nodded.

“Then you deserve to know the truth.” She rested her hands on the worn wooden table. “His mother, Ximena, suddenly disappeared while travelling. She didn’t come back like he usually expected. Jayce insisted we investigate. When we found traces… It all led us to the castle. The Herald’s castle.”

Vi nodded, adding to the story: “He kept her locked up so Piltover wouldn't know he was still alive, and this Jayce of yours offered to take her place.”

Powder and Ekko exchanged a look. The clocks ticked away with implacable precision. Ekko scratched his temple impatiently as Powder stepped away from the bench, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

“Madam, with all due respect…” Ekko began, eyes narrowed. “The Herald does not exist.”

“We were talking about this with Jayce… I don’t know, weeks ago?,” Powder added, shaking her head. “It was just another one of those war stories. A rumor fearful folks came up with to scare children..”

“I saw him. I spoke to him.” Caitlyn said finally.

The sentence fell on the room like a weight.

Ekko raised his eyebrows. “Saw who?”

“The Herald. He’s dangerous.”

Powder snorted. “Then what? He appeared floating amid lightning and shadows while his voice echoed in the halls?”

Caitlyn opened her mouth to respond— but before she could say anything, a voice came from the corner of the room, husky and steady, as if it had been waiting for this moment. “She’s not exaggerating.” Everyone turned. Benzo was leaning against the door frame, as if he’d been there for a while, listening in silence. His expression was serious, and the shadows of the workshop accentuated the weariness in his eyes.

Ekko frowned. “Benzo? How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough.” Benzo approached slowly, the heavy sound of his boots against the wooden floor echoing among the hanging clocks. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But I heard the name. The Herald.”

Powder raised an eyebrow. “What? You know about him too?”

Benzo nodded, placing a calloused hand on the counter. “I saw him. At the end of the war. Before everything went to ashes.”

“You were in that mess, Benzo. It’s easy to remember wrong when everything turns to ashes and blood.”

“It wasn’t just ashes.” He stepped closer, placing a calloused hand on the table. ”I saw what they did to him. He wasn’t a man anymore. He became something else. Something stuck between life and death. Between realms. Living magic. Living pain.”

“And he survived?” Powder asked. Benzo nodded again.

“He survived. Vanished, yes. But never died. Some say the land still feels his presence. Like the weight of a storm that hasn’t passed.”

Ekko was silent, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

Caitlyn took another step forward. “I don’t know what he is. But I saw it with my own eyes. He’s keeping Jayce in that castle. And even though Jayce isn’t chained… he is not free.”

Ekko looked at Benzo, then at Caitlyn. “And if all this is real… what do you want from us?”

“Help.” Caitlyn replied. “I want to set up a small group. Off the books. I need people who can be trusted. And who aren’t afraid of what they might find. Without official involvement from Piltover.” Her lips pressed together into a thin line, then she sighed. “Ximena is safe, Piltover believes she was attacked by bandits. The truth would cause a panic. Jayce is missing, and people are starting to talk. If anyone finds out he’s with a magic bearer, everything we know could unravel.”

Powder approached Ekko, her voice low but frantic. “They could use this to justify another war. What if they come after Claggor again? Or the others? They can’t—” As the words spilled out, her eyes flicked to Caitlyn. Realization hit, and she went quiet, biting her tongue. Caitlyn stood still, arms crossed, gaze steady — but not cold. There was a moment of tension, heavy and quiet.

Then she spoke, slower than before.

“I was raised to see magic as the threat it is,” She admitted. Her voice lowered, and there was something honest in it — something tired. “But Jayce is my friend. And I’m not here to turn anyone in.” She looked at Powder, then Ekko. “I’m not going to report your friends. I just need your help to bring him back — safely.”

Vi took a step forward, placing a hand on Caitlyn’s shoulder. She flinched for a second, not expecting it, but sent a thin smile toward her. Vi’s voice was calm, but steady. “Alright, we’ve got the truth out in the open. Now we need to decide— are we actually doing this?” She looked at Ekko and Powder in turn, her hand dropping to her side. “We’ll need a route, eyes on the castle, people who know the terrain and how to get in without raising alarms. This isn’t just a rescue mission. If we screw up, we’re dragging Piltover and what’s left of Zaun into another storm.”

Powder folded her arms, hesitating. “So what— you want us to sneak into the home of some magical cryptid and just hope he doesn’t kill us?”

Vi shrugged. “That’s the general idea.”

Ekko leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. He looked at Caitlyn, then Vi. “You’re both serious about this.”

Caitlyn nodded. "I promise you’ll all be properly rewarded."

Ekko was quiet for a moment. Then, he glanced at Powder.

“If we’re doing this, we do it our way. No politics, no Piltover orders.”

“Agreed.” Caitlyn replied immediately. Powder exhaled hard through her nose.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… fine. I’m in.”

Ekko leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing in thought as the weight of what they'd just agreed to began to settle. “If we’re really doing this,” He said, voice low, “and we actually want to make it out alive… then we’re going to need someone who knows magic. I don’t care if Piltover hates it. Hate’s not gonna protect us from whatever’s in that castle.” He looked directly at Caitlyn. “And neither will science.” Caitlyn hesitated, but nodded slowly.

“I just want to bring Jayce back. Whatever it takes.”

Before anyone could respond, Benzo started talking again. “You’re walking into something none of you are ready for.” His voice was quiet, but it filled the room. “I was there when the Herald fell. I saw what was left of him, saw the runes still burning into his skin, the way the land around him refused to rot or heal.” He paused, as if searching for the right words— or the strength to speak them. “He wasn’t just powerful. He was changed. Twisted by what they did. What you’ll find in that castle won’t be just magic— it’ll be grief. Desperation.” The room was still. No one dared interrupt. “I watched friends turn into husks just by standing too close to what that place became. I carry those scars to this day— not just the ones on my body.” He touched his side absently, as if remembering an old wound. “So if you go… go knowing this isn’t a rescue mission. It’s a reckoning.”

Vi broke the silence, jaw set. “Then we’ll face it. We’re not afraid.”

“You should be,” Benzo said, voice hoarse. “But if you’re brave enough to keep walking despite that… then maybe, just maybe, you have a chance.”

Ekko exhaled, a slow, measured breath. “Then let’s start with a list. Supplies. People. Magic.”

“And a plan.” Caitlyn added.

[...]

The muffled sound of his own footsteps echoed among the shelves of the forgotten library, where the dust was as thick as the mystery that hung in the air. Jayce had spent days searching this section— a space so neglected that even the oldest followers seemed to avoid it.

The dim light of the forgotten library barely reached the oldest shelves. Jayce ran his fingers along the dusty spines, his eyes alert for any symbol or word that might give away what he was looking for.

Now, with an old cloak over his head and his fingers stained with dried ink, he searched for something specific.

This was it. It had to be here.

Among the books, an old, heavy volume stood out: dark leather cover, marked by almost faded inscriptions. He recognized it at once— not by the words, but by the images that had appeared when he had touched the clock.

It was the same book of his vision.

The edges were worn, the binding weather-beaten, but unmistakable. In memory, the Herald held it in his bloody hands, protecting it as if he held more than words. In a way, he did. 

Jayce pulled it out carefully and hid it beneath his tunic, his fingers gripping the leather tightly, as if the castle itself might give him away.

The air suddenly turned cold, sending shivers down the back of his neck. With an ancient whisper in his ear, the room seemed to shrink. Jayce didn't need to look back to know who it was.

“An interesting read for a guest.” 

Jayce turned around suddenly. The Herald was there, standing under the light cast by a stained glass window in shades of blue and amber. The golden afternoon drew long shadows on his figure, making him as imposing as he was inaccessible.

“Just… looking for something to pass the time.” He tried to sound casual. But the tension between his eyebrows betrayed him.

The Herald walked slowly toward him, his steps unhurried, he took a look at the bookcase, recognizing the books. 

“Something about mages, I assume? ”

Jayce hesitated, his throat dry. “You seem to know what everyone is reading in this castle.”

“It’s an old place. It carries more memories than walls.” The Herald moved a little closer, without hostility, but with the usual air of someone who sees more than meets the eye. “What about you? Still adapting?”

Jayce nodded slowly, keeping the hidden book pressed against his body.

“More than I imagined.” He hesitated. “Less than I would have liked.” 

“Adaptation takes time. And will.” The Herald looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and assessment. “You have both. I am not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing yet.”

Jayce gave a half smile, trying to hide the tension.

“I’m still deciding what to think of you, too.”

A brief silence followed, as if the castle walls were listening, too.

The Herald took a step back.

And then, with a slight nod, he changed the subject.

“Come to the main hall tonight.”

Jayce looked at him, confused.

“What’s in the main hall?”

“A dinner.” The Herald spoke simply. “Consider yourself invited.”

Jayce narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

The Herald almost smiled. “Because sometimes, answers aren’t in books.”

“And they’re in dinner?”

“They’re in the fellowship.” The answer came softer, almost introspective. “And you’re… persistent.”

Jayce stared at him, suspicious but curious nonetheless.

“Do you… eat? ”

The Herald’s eyes flashed for a moment. His mouth twisted. It wasn't quite a smile, but there was something close to it.

“Come and find out.”

And with that, he turned and left the hall, his long robe sliding across the floor like a living shadow. Jayce stood still for a few seconds, the book still warm in his hands, as if it had a life of its own.

"A dinner." He murmured, as if the word sounded stranger than it should.

The castle was a place of silence and shadows, and the Herald, a being of few certainties. So why now? Why now, when he was getting so close to the truth?

"Maybe he knows . Maybe he saw me with the book. Maybe this dinner is just a pretext to... observe. Control ."

Jayce ran a hand through his hair, restless.

"Or maybe... maybe he just wants to talk. Maybe he's tired of silence too ."

There was a doubt hammering at the back of his mind. One that wouldn't shut up. Silence returned. And Jayce let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, looking at the door where the Herald had disappeared through.

He pushed himself away from the bookshelf, walked to the nearest stone table, and only then did he remove the book from where he’d hidden it. His hands were still shaking. 

The leather creaked as he opened the cover, he was greeted by the smell of dust and age. The letters were etched in silver ink, shimmering in the soft candlelight. Jayce’s fingers rummaged gently through the pages, looking for an answer, for something . 

Then, he found it. 

Jayce frowned, running his finger over the verses.

“Time will yield beneath the gaze of one who sees beyond fear,
when blade and spell turn to the same song,
and the Fallen is seen not as shadow, but as veiled light.
The one who walks between two worlds
shall break the chains forged in times of ruin,
for He, who was cast out by all, carried
from the very beginning, the longing for unity.”

[...]

The room was shadowed, except for the flickering light of a candle that was about to go out. Jayce sat on the edge of the bed, the old book open before him, as if its pages held the power to reveal answers he could not yet formulate. 

The lines of the prophecy seemed almost to whisper, even in the silence of the night: 

Jayce read each line slowly, quietly, his eyes fixed on the words as if he could force them to reveal something more.

He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath.

“Time will yield…” He whispered. “Like the past and the present could… overlap. Like there’s still a way to fix what was broken.”

His fingers drifted to the bracelet around his wrist. That old, unassuming artifact — now pulsing with a weight he didn’t quite understand.

“One who sees beyond fear.” He murmured again. 

He stood up, began to pace back and forth, the book still open in his hands.

“When blade and spell turn to the same song,” Jayce murmured. “Maybe… when Piltover and the mages make amends?”

His eyes returned to the page, fixed on the last line.

“The one who walks between two worlds…”

He let the words linger.

“I mean… I am stuck between two worlds. But that doesn’t mean I’m—”

He sighed and turned toward the window. The castle loomed quiet, patient.

“If this prophecy is about someone real…”

Jayce stopped before the window, staring out at the night. The castle slept in silence. But the weight of the prophecy pulsed in the air like something alive.

A soft knock broke the silence, followed by the quiet creak of the door opening. Sky stepped in slowly, her arms crossed against the cold draft of the hallway.

“I— sorry ,” She murmured, eyes flicking toward the candlelight. “I saw the light under the door. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jayce glanced over his shoulder but didn’t close the book. He wasn’t hiding it — not exactly. Still, the way her gaze dropped to the open pages made something tighten in his chest.

Sky furrowed her brow, stepping closer with a mix of curiosity and unease.

“…Where did you get that?” She asked, voice low.

“I found it hidden behind the silver-covered books,” Jayce said. “But I saw it before… in a vision . From that clock in the library. And now it’s here, like it’s been waiting.”

Sky moved a little closer, drawn in despite herself. Her eyes ran over the delicate ink lines, the careful script.

“You should be careful though. If the Herald finds out you’ve been tampering with that clock again... or that you found this book…” Her gaze flicked toward the pages again. “He might not like it.” 

Jayce looked back at the book, fingers tightening slightly around its edges.

“I’ll be careful.” he murmured. “But I have to know.”

Sky didn’t argue. She just nodded slowly, as if she understood that once you start chasing truth like this… it’s hard to stop.

“This isn’t an ordinary book,” She said slowly. “This was written by someone close to the Herald. One of his apprentices, I think.” She looked up at him. “Not many know it even exists.”

Jayce nodded faintly, tapping the page with his finger.

“It talks about him. The Herald. But also… someone else. ‘The one who walks between two worlds.’” He hesitated. “Maybe that means someone from Piltover? But…”

Sky watched him for a long moment before stepping up beside him.

“Maybe you’re here for more than just your mother.” She said softly.

Jayce exhaled, still unsure. But something in her tone made his pulse quicken. She was quiet for a second longer, then added, in a lower voice:

“ Maybe ,” She repeated, “you were called.”

Jayce stared at the book again, his heart pounding.

“I just wanted answers. But now it feels like the answers are pulling me toward something much bigger.” 

Sky watched his face carefully, then placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Then don’t run from them.”

Jayce stared at Sky’s hand still on his shoulder. The gesture was subtle, almost brotherly, but it gave him a strange sense of comfort— as if, for a moment, he was no longer alone in the face of something so great.

“‘Called.’” He repeated with a bitter smile. “It feels more like a trap than an invitation.”

Sky pulled her hand away, but her eyes remained fixed on his.

“I understand your concern. But this prophecy… It's about choices too. About someone deciding to see beyond what they’ve been taught. This isn’t just about destiny. It’s about courage. ”

Jayce glanced down at the book again, still uncertain — but not dismissive.

“I’m not sure I believe in chosen ones.” He murmured.

“Maybe it’s not about being chosen…” Sky replied, softly. “Maybe it’s about choosing to be the one who changes things.”

He looked at her. And for a moment, the silence between them felt like understanding.

“What if I don’t have that courage?” He pointed to the book. “I never asked for this, Sky! I just wanted to go home, back to my mother. Back to my life. ” 

Sky sat on the edge of the bed, next to the book, and flipped through a few pages carefully.

“You’ve already done more than most would. You’re trying to figure it out. And even though you are afraid, you chose to learn.” She looked up. “Besides, you told me you hated how monotonous your life was before.” 

“It was but—” 

Jayce sighed, lowering his voice.

“Did you know all this from the beginning? About the prophecy?”

“Not all of it,” She replied. “But I’ve heard the followers whisper about it. About a time when the Herald would be freed by someone who understood the value of magic and humanity together.” Sky laughed quietly. “Many thought it was just a foolish hope.”

Jayce arched an eyebrow.

“You too?”

Sky smirked. “I don’t know. But… now you’re here . Your heart does not carry hatred and your interest in magic is spontaneous. You and this book. Maybe it’s no coincidence.”

He fell silent, then sat down next to her, looking at the old pages again.

“There’s a line that made me uneasy: ‘for He who was cast out by all, carried, from the very beginning, the longing for unity.’”

Sky nodded slowly.

“They talk about the Herald. About Viktor.” 

Jayce turned to face her, surprised to hear the name.

“You call him that?”

“I don’t usually refer to him like that. But, before the curse, before everything… he was just Viktor. A man trying to heal the rift between worlds. Between people .”

Jayce didn’t answer right away, but his eyes were full of questions.

“He seems so distant… almost unreachable. But sometimes, when he talks to me, it’s like there’s something… broken . Something he’s trying to hide.” He closed the book carefully. “Maybe this prophecy is about healing too.”

Sky watched him in silence for a few seconds.

“If it is… then maybe the healing could start with you.”

Jayce took a deep breath, absorbing Sky’s words. The book now seemed to weigh more heavily in his hands, but in a different way. Not as a burden— but as a link, a harbinger of things to come.

“He invited me to dinner again. Personally.” Jayce said suddenly, as if he were still trying to believe his own words.

Sky blinked.

"What?"

“Yeah. In the main hall. Today.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she tilted her head slightly, assessing Jayce’s tone with a smile that threatened to escape.

“Well… that’s new.”

“What?” He asked suspiciously.

“The Herald doesn’t really dine , Jayce,” Sky replied, her smile now more evident. “He usually makes sure we eat and then eats when we leave. I’ve never seen him extend an invitation like that.”

Jayce frowned uncomfortably.

“Maybe it’s just… a gesture of courtesy.”

“Sure,” Sky said, in a tone that didn’t sound the least bit smug. “Courtesy with candles lit, chairs lined up, and a place just for you at the table. Very casual.”

Jayce huffed and turned away to hide the blush that rose to his face.

“It’s not like that, Sky.”

“Of course not!” She held up her hands. 

“Come on, we barely talk to each other.” He said, laughing despite himself. “And I’m being held captive, if you ever forgot.” 

Sky shrugged, still amused.

“Fair. But I’m just saying… maybe you’re starting to gain his trust. Or his curiosity. ”

Jayce looked away, his eyes fixed on the window now darkened by the night. He still felt the weight of the prophecy, still didn't know what to think about it all — but, for some reason, the invitation to that dinner seemed even harder to understand.

"I just want to understand who he is." Jayce murmured. "If this is a step towards that... then so be it." Sky watched him for a moment more seriously, then smiled gently.

"In that case, take it easy. And use the right cutlery." Jayce laughed, shaking his head.

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"No," She replied, already heading towards the door. "But good luck! If he's asking you to dinner... it's because something has changed." Before closing the door, Sky leaned on it for a second. “Oh, and please don't have too much fun. Tomorrow I'm the one on cleaning duties.”

“Shut up!” Jayce threw a pillow, but Sky was faster to dodge. “ Does he even—?! You know what— We are not having this conversation.”

“Live a little. The least you can do is enjoy your stay.” She joked. “I think he could use some distraction too. He’s… a very lonely man despite everything.” 

Sky finally left, and Jayce stood there, looking at the book in his hands and the reflection of his own doubt in the window. 

[...]

The hall was different tonight. 

Jayce took a deep breath before pushing open the heavy doors. He knew he had been invited — or summoned, perhaps — to this dinner, but that didn’t make it any less strange. He walked through the hall with measured steps, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for some confirmation that this was indeed real.

There were only two places set. And one of them was already occupied. 

The Herald looked up at him. His face was calm, his eyes alert, but there was something indefinable about his posture. A subtle stiffness, as if he, too, were groping in the dark. His fingers were clasped together on the table with precision, and his robe caught the candlelight in barely perceptible glints.

“Good evening.” Jayce said, stopping at the chair that had been reserved for him.

“Good evening,” the Herald replied, with a slight inclination of his head. “Please have a seat.”

Jayce pulled out his chair and sat down. The gesture was simple, but fraught with hesitation. His shoulders were tense, his eyes trying not to linger on Viktor for too long. As much as he knew why he was there, he still didn’t know what to expect from this dinner.

“I… I wasn’t sure if I needed to get ready for anything formal, I didn’t really bring luggage.” He said, gesturing vaguely to himself. His shirt was minimally tidy, but still creased from an afternoon of reading and studying.

The Herald stared at him for a moment. There was something in his golden eyes that wavered between assessment and… curiosity.

“This isn’t Piltover. No one will judge you for wearing less silk.” 

Jayce gave a half smile, more relief than humor.

The table was set with understated elegance— nothing extravagant, but every detail had a purpose. There was dark bread, candied fruit, roasted root vegetables, and a deep wine that reflected the candlelight. The Herald sat first, at one end, and gestured to the chair next to it. 

There was no one else there. Just the two of them.

The silence between them was filled by the delicate sounds of the meal being served by an ancient metal automaton, its movements precise and silent. Still, you could see a glimpse of magic, like he was controlling it from afar. 

“Did you craft this?” Jayce asked, pointing to the contraption, breaking the tension with an almost casual tone.

The Herald glanced at the automaton, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth — though it was hard to tell whether it was amusement or nostalgia.

“I did,” He said. “A long time ago. Before all this.”

Jayce looked at the construct more carefully. Its joints moved with fluid precision, almost too graceful for a machine. There was something familiar in the mechanics, and yet distinctly different. It was like seeing a dream of Piltover technology through a magical lens.

“It’s impressive,” Jayce said. “You blended enchantment and design in a way I’ve never seen.”

The Herald nodded once, quietly pouring wine into both their cups. “Magic and science were never enemies, not until people made them so.”

Jayce didn’t answer right away. He took the cup but didn’t drink. Instead, he let his eyes roam around the room — the long table, the quiet hum of power just beneath the stone walls, the solitary plates set for two.

Candles danced lazily beneath the high arches of the hall, casting soft shadows across the stone table. The food— modest but welcoming — looked tasty and warm, at odds with the coldness of the castle. Jayce still couldn’t get used to the contrast: the place seemed shaped by pain, and yet there was room for something… human. 

The Herald stood before him, calm, his posture straight, his fingers folded on the table, but his eyes lingered on Jayce for longer than necessary. Not in judgment— there was something else there. Wariness. Curiosity .

“Sky said you don’t usually dine.” He tried, with a hesitant smile.

“I do not, indeed.” The Herald replied with quiet honesty. “But this is not a formal dinner. It’s just a… necessary moment.”

Jayce arched an eyebrow, resting one arm on the table.

“Necessary for what?”

The figure looked away for a moment, as if searching for the right word.

“Despite… circumstances— You are still my guest. You insist on trying to figure me out. And I… I have not decided yet if I should allow that.”

Jayce leaned back a little, surprised by the bluntness.

He blinked, then let out a quiet huff of laughter. “Well,” he said, tilting his head, “that’s probably the most honest answer I’ve heard in weeks.”

The Herald gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “It is still hard for me to… open up. You are a Piltovan, after all.” 

Jayce studied him for a moment. Up close, the Herald — Viktor — looked… tired. Not in the way someone might after a long day, but in the way stone grows weathered over time: worn by things no one else sees. It wasn’t just the war or the magic. It was solitude. The kind of solitude that sank deep and stayed there.

Unfortunately, Jayce couldn’t help it.

He shifted in his seat, then asked, “What keeps you going? After all of this… isolation?”

The Herald looked out the window briefly, the faint glow of moonlight tracing the edges of his face. “It’s the people who depend on me, and those I’ve taken in. They give me purpose— something to protect , something to fight for. Without them, I wouldn’t keep going.”

The Herald looked at him again, as if weighing something. 

“You remind me of someone,” He said at last. “He used to ask questions too. Too many, sometimes. He thought the truth could fix anything.”

“Did it?”

“No.” His voice was distant. “But he asked anyway. That was… admirable.”

Jayce wanted to ask more. 

He wanted to talk about what he had seen, about the book now hidden under the bed. But he didn’t. Instead, he found himself asking something simpler. 

“Do you always eat dinner alone?” The Herald seemed surprised by the question.

A slight silence fell before he answered, “Almost always. Most of my followers see me as a symbol. Not as someone to share a meal with.” 

Jayce nodded slowly. “That sounds… lonely.”

The Herald looked up. 

The candlelight flickered between them. The wine remained untouched.

His gaze dropped to the table, and when he spoke, his voice was low. “Loneliness has its uses. It keeps people safe… from me. Or at least, from what I became.”

Jayce leaned forward, elbows now resting fully on the table. “You didn’t become a monster.”

“No?” The Herald’s tone was neutral, but his eyes shimmered strangely. “Then tell me, what am I?”

Jayce didn’t look away. “Someone trying to make the best out of a thousand mistakes not entirely his own.”

Another silence followed, but this one was different — gentler, filled with the weight of something unspoken but acknowledged. 

Outside, the wind moved through the stone like a whisper.

At some point, The Herald reached for a piece of bread, tearing it carefully with long fingers. Jayce mirrored him without thinking, and the two ate in a quiet rhythm. No grand declarations. Just… presence.

It wasn’t trust yet. But it was something close.

They sat there for a few more minutes, not needing to fill every pause. The dinner was not formal — and perhaps for that very reason, it was the most human Viktor had had in years.

The meal progressed at a leisurely pace. There was no rush, no protocol. Between sips of wine, Jayce allowed himself to relax slightly. The food was surprisingly good— rustic, but tasty — and he felt strangely… satisfied. For the first time since arriving at the castle, there were no immediate questions pressing against his temples. Only the low sound of silverware, the rustle of candle flames, and The Herald’s silent presence across the table.

Jayce leaned back slightly in his chair, glancing at the half-empty plate in front of him. “That was… surprisingly good.” He said, a bit more relaxed now. “I didn’t expect to enjoy it this much.”

The Herald gave a faint, amused hum. “I was not exactly a good host since you arrived, I fear.”

It wasn’t just the meal. It was the effort behind it. The subtle sense that someone had thought of him.

Sharing a meal with someone else reminded him of home. 

That was when the conversation faltered for a moment. Jayce, distracted by trying to make sense of one of the inscriptions on the side of a ceramic cup— probably magical, like everything else there— moved his hand slightly to point, and then…

Clack.

The spoon resting next to the plate floated for a second, trembling in the air, before falling back down with a metallic sound. Not loud. But enough to cut through the silence.

Jayce froze. His breath caught in his throat.

The Herald didn’t seem to notice right away— or maybe he was just looking away at the exact moment— which gave Jayce enough time to quickly close his hand, as if he were simply adjusting something on the edge of the table.

“Is everything alright?” He asked, his eyes turning to him calmly but alertly.

“Uh— yes . The spoon… slipped.” Jayce picked it back up with forced ease and forced a brief smile. “Gravity, am I right?”

The Herald stared at him for a second longer than necessary. But he didn’t say anything.

Jayce looked away, forcing himself to breathe. The heat that ran through his fingers was still there, an uncomfortable reminder of what was starting to manifest itself more frequently. He was learning. Or rather— something inside him was awakening. But this was definitely not the right time.

Not with him so close.

“Everything is… delicious , by the way,” Jayce said, trying to sound casual. “I never imagined that an isolated castle at the end of the mountains would offer such a complete meal.

The Herald smiled slightly, accepting the change of subject.

“Thank you, Jayce. Magic has its privileges.” He said simply.

The Herald lifted a small glass between his slender fingers, swirling the liquid calmly. The flickering light from the candle reflected off the edges of the crystal and cast soft shadows across the table. He seemed distant for a moment, his eyes fixed on some memory.

“Magic,” He began, his tone calm, almost meditative, “is usually silent. It rarely comes like thunder. It builds from within. Like water in a cracked pitcher. You don’t notice it until it’s overflowing.”

Jayce shifted in his seat, his muscles tensing. Under the table, the napkin on his lap had begun to smolder at the edge, a faint wisp of smoke curling up toward his jacket. His fingers twitched instinctively, quickly pressing down to douse the heat, his face carefully composed. He nodded, pretending to follow the train of thought.

“Many people think that controlling it is a matter of willpower.” He continued, unaware. “But too much willpower cracks the structure. Magic needs… space. It molds itself to fear, to doubt, to guilt. It’s an extension of who we are. And if you lie to yourself… it lies to you, too.”

Jayce let out a sigh that he disguised as a relaxation. He moved his hand discreetly to his lap, covering the darkened mark with the cloth. 

Jayce forced a half-smile, voice low and dry, pretending to pay full attention. “So, it’s not the magic that’s dangerous… it’s what we carry into it. ”

The Herald turned slightly, his golden eyes studying him with quiet curiosity. “Exactly.”

He set down his glass, the sound of glass against wood echoing softly. His eyes rested on Jayce’s face for a second longer than necessary.

“You look pale,” He said simply. “Is the wine okay? Or did the conversation go on too long?”

Jayce gave a nervous laugh, a little too loud. “The wine is great! And the conversation… too.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

The Herald watched him for a moment, then slowly stood. “Would you care to walk with me?”

Jayce looked up, eyebrows raised in faint surprise.

“It’s late,” The Herald added, “but the garden doesn’t seem to mind.”

There was a pause, but only a brief one. Jayce hesitated for a moment, crumpling the burnt napkin into a ball and shoving it into his pocket. 

In the end, he folded. “Sure. A walk sounds good.” He gave a small nod and rose to his feet. “Lead the way.”

[...]

The garden was different under the moonlight.

Jayce tucked his hands behind his back to hide the faint trembling of his fingers. The accidental spark from earlier still haunted him. But there was something about the garden, about the way The Herald moved through it like a ghost that had finally found a place to rest, that eased his nerves.

Outside, the night air was cool, crisp against Jayce’s skin. The garden, dimly lit by the soft glow of enchanted lanterns floating above the paths, looked less like a fortress courtyard and more like something half-remembered from a dream. Wild lavender bloomed in patches, and small streams wove around the stone paths with an almost deliberate elegance.

For a while, neither spoke. They simply walked— side by side, the silence between them no longer uncomfortable.

Despite everything, he couldn’t help to say: 

“I… I didn’t think I’d see anything like this here.”

The Herald stopped beside him.

“The magic of the earth is freer at night. When no one is looking, it allows itself to flourish.”

Jayce glanced at him sideways, as if trying to figure out if that was a metaphor.

“Does that apply to you too?”

The Herald smiled with one corner of his lips, without answering. He approached a tall plant with blue leaves that moved when he touched it. He extended his fingers and the plant seemed to recognize him, bowing as if in reverence.

Jayce stepped closer, watching with fascination and curiosity.

“Have you always been this… connected to all this?”

“In a way.” He replied. “When I was young, I thought I needed to tame magic. That it was something that needed to be controlled, disciplined . Today… I see that it just wants to be understood.”

Jayce absorbed those words in silence.

For a moment, only the sound of leaves rustling and magical lights floating between them filled the space. Jayce reached out, and one of the small spheres of light landed in his palm. He watched it dance between his fingers, as if the magic itself were playing with him.

The Herald watched as a magical vine climbed up one of the stone columns on its own, and Jayce stared at the blue moss-covered ground, his thoughts as thick as the night air.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone.” Jayce suddenly said. 

The Herald slowly turned his gaze to him, but did not answer immediately.

“I wouldn't tell anyone about you, about the castle . If you would let me go.” 

The Herald didn’t answer. He kept walking for a few meters, his eyes fixed on a bush of yellow flowers, as if he were trying to hear something quieter than his own thoughts.

“I’m not a risk to you,” Jayce continued. “Or… I don’t want to be. I just want to understand . And, if possible, go home.”

He stopped in front of the fountain. He didn’t look at Jayce.

“I don’t doubt your intent.” The Herald said with a melancholy calm. “But intent… isn’t always what destroys.”

Jayce glanced at him sideways, confused.

“Then what?”

The Herald ran his fingers along the edge of the cold stone, then answered, still not looking at him:

“Fear.”

The word hung in the air between them like a confession.

“I’ve spent too long seeing what happens when you reveal something too soon. When you trust too much. When you let it… slip away.” He took a slow breath. “I’ve lost everything once.”

Jayce didn’t speak right away. The castle, in all its silent vastness, seemed to lean in slightly to listen as well.

“So you keep me here out of fear?”

The Herald hesitated. Finally, he nodded.

“Yes. Not out of revenge. Or conviction. I am just… afraid of what the world might do to the others if they knew I am still here.”

Jayce was silent for a moment, his jaw clenched, his gaze now focused on the fountain.

“I understand,” He said finally. “More than I wanted to.”

The Herald stared at him, surprised by the lack of anger in Jayce’s voice.

“Piltover teaches us to think that magic is dangerous,” Jayce said, almost with a bitter smile. “I grew up thinking all the mages had been exterminated. And now… I sleep in a castle with one of them.”

“This isn’t a castle,” The Herald muttered. “It’s a ruin with walls that pretend to remind us of what used to be a home.”

Jayce looked at him, and something in his face softened.

“Still, you invited me to dinner.”

The Herald looked away, as if that had been a slip.

“Perhaps… I’ve grown tired of being alone, too.”

A brief silence fell again.

Jayce ran his hand over his arm, uneasily.

“So what happens next?” He asked. “Do I stay here forever, walking in circles? Pretending this is freedom?”

The Herald took a slow breath.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have a plan?”

“I never had a plan that included someone like you.”

Jayce gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Neither did I.”

They stood in silence, side by side, as the water from the spring crackled softly between the rocks.

“If I promised… that I wouldn’t tell anyone. That I would disappear. That I would leave everything behind and never look back… would you let me go?”

The Herald finally looked at him. For a moment, his expression was impossible to read.

“I would like to believe so.”

Jayce stared at that face for a moment. Something was giving way, even if it was still just a little. But there was something different now. A thread of doubt, maybe even hope, threading the words between them.

He sighed, looking away at the stars that could barely be seen through the branches of the garden. The arcane barrier that surrounded the castle, more visible during the night. 

“I just want to understand what it all means. And why does it seem like the longer I stay… the less I want to leave.”

The Herald didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either.

And for the first time, the silence between them no longer felt like a barrier.

It felt like a bridge.

[...]

The fog was thick in that part of the forest, as if the world itself wanted to hide what lay between the ancient and twisted trees. Singed moved silently, his steps light as those of an animal accustomed to hunting in the dark. He had not done so in years— but nothing in his body seemed to have forgotten.

There was the castle.

In the distance, among the dense canopy, the towers of the forgotten building rose. The lights did not come from torches, but from subtle runes that pulsed on the walls, breathing like a living organism. A silent warning that this was not a simple ruin.

Singed did not approach yet. The magical barrier, although weaker than in other times, still existed. He approached only enough to observe.

It was then that he saw someone.

A man — young, — came out through a side passage. He wore white, simple clothes, but with small embroidered ornaments that he recognized as arcane symbols. He was in a hurry, but not suspicious. He carried a small bag over his shoulders.

Singed moved quickly and silently, positioning himself on the trail before the boy could pass. By the time the young man noticed him, it was too late to run.

“Are you going to the village?” Singed asked, his voice hoarse, scratched like ancient metal.

The apprentice hesitated, eyes wide. “Who are you?”

“Someone who still believes in magic.” Singed gave a half smile. “I’ve heard stories. From the Herald. From the refuge .” 

The boy remained on guard, but the tension eased a little. Stories about refugees still circulated. There were always people looking for shelter. There was always someone lost enough to believe.

“No one gets here by accident.” The apprentice said suspiciously.

The young man hesitated for a few more moments, assessing the stranger. With a suspicious look, he finally spoke, almost as a challenge:

"If you really are a mage, prove it. Cast a spell."

Singed smiled, without losing his composure. He knew he could not hesitate.

With a precise movement of his fingers, he began to mutter an ancient incantation. The words were charged, ancient and powerful.

In an instant, a vortex of purple energy appeared before them, slowly spinning and emitting an intense glow, like a mini storm contained in the palm of Singed's hand.

The apprentice's eyes widened, his mouth agape.

"That... that is too advanced," He muttered, taking a step back. "You are not lying."

Singed lowered his hand, dispelling the vortex.

"I am not a stranger to magic." He said firmly. "And I am not here to deceive anyone."

The young man pressed his lips together, uncertain. He didn’t seem ready to let the stranger into the castle… but his curiosity got the better of him.

“The Herald… he rarely leaves the castle. Some say he’s not the same as he used to be. Others… that he’s weakened. Only the oldest ones still see him often.”

Singed raised an eyebrow, absorbing the information in silence. 

So he still lives. Ximena was telling the truth. He thought to himself. A whisper pierced by something deeper. It wasn’t fear. Nor relief. It was memory.

His gaze was lost for a second, fixed on some point in the twilight, where the silhouette of the castle was barely visible. That cold, solitary outline on the horizon.

He saw Viktor still young, with eyes more hopeful than sensible, arms covered in ink and runes, debating with Grays and mages as if both could coexist. Those long nights of studying— and the arguments. Always arguing.

The most brilliant among the mages. Always talking about balance, always trying to please both sides— too much, even.

Singed remembered the long meetings in which Viktor asked for calm, restraint, as if it were possible to contain what was born from within. As if magic had to ask permission to exist.

“I can’t let you in. But if you really want to join us… you will find a way. Or he will find you. He always does.”

Singed only nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the castle.

“Thank you, boy. That is more than I expected.”

He turned to leave, but before disappearing down the trail, he muttered, almost inaudibly:

"Don't be fooled by everything that shines in the dark. Sometimes, it's just the remains of an old fire."

And so, he disappeared into the shadow of the trees — not in a hurry, but with the certainty that their reunion was only a matter of time.

Chapter Text

The large stone room was silent, except for the low crackling of the torches. Mages of various ages occupied the benches around the central table, their eyes fixed on Viktor, who kept his hands resting on the dark wooden top. The meeting had begun with rumors — increasingly insistent — that Piltover was preparing to march against them. 

No attack had yet taken place, but tension spread like a suffocating fog.

“They say the city guards are already training with new weapons, more lethal than ordinary gunpowder.” Said a red-haired mage, her voice low and suspicious. “And that the councilors are openly discussing how to ‘contain’ our influence.” 

“And some of us are still missing!” A man added. 

An impatient mage in a blue tunic slammed his hand on the table. “We don't have to wait for them to act first. They will never accept our existence. To them, we are a threat just by breathing. We can't sit idly by while the Greys prepare our coffins!” 

A murmur of agreement spread through the circle, the word echoing like a familiar poison.

Viktor, who had been watching silently until then, looked up. The reflection of the flames made his golden eyes even more intense. When he spoke, his voice was firm, cutting through the side conversations.

“We do not use that term.” His voice cut through the air like steel. “They are not Greys. They are people. Without magic, yes, but no less worthy of respect.”

The man cringed a little, but did not take back what he had said. The atmosphere in the room grew heavy, as if everyone were waiting for a major conflict. Viktor took a deep breath and continued:

“We need to be cautious." Viktor began, his voice low but firm. "Piltover does not just fear our existence. They fear what they don't understand. If we continue to let magic flow in an unstable manner, we will only fuel the argument that we are an uncontrolled threat.”

One of the mages, a man with long gray hair, snorted.

“Cautious? Always the same speech about moderation, Viktor. What do you suggest? That we tie our own hands?”

“What I propose is not ‘tying our hands,’ as you say. It is stabilizing. If we can structure magic, make it predictable, we show Piltover that we are not the chaos they believe us to be. This is survival, not submission.”

A woman with intense eyes replied almost immediately:

“Or maybe it's a way to prune us. Have you thought about that? Controlling magic, shaping it, restricting it... sounds a lot like limiting what we can be. Today you talk about stability, tomorrow about which spells we should or shouldn't use.”

Viktor remained upright, though the weight of her words fell heavily on him. Murmurs echoed, this time mixed with doubt and curiosity.

“Control is not imprisonment. It is survival. If we let magic become corrupt, if we let it run wild, we will be nothing but monsters in their eyes. Stabilization does not diminish us— it guarantees us a future.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not in agreement. It was the kind of silence that breeds mistrust. One of the mages looked away with disdain; another drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. Viktor's idea had not been rejected, but it had planted a seed of division.

He realized this. And yet he did not show it. He just raised his hand.

“That's enough for today. We shall meet again when the time comes.”

The meeting ended with a heavy atmosphere. Murmurs still lingered among the mages as they rose. Viktor watched them in silence, his expression firm, though his eyes carried a weariness deeper than he cared to admit.

When everyone began to disperse, his eyes met Corin's. The older man, with his rigid posture, stopped when he noticed Viktor's gaze.

“You trust me, don't you?” Viktor asked in a low voice, almost as if he needed to hear himself say it.

Corin’s expression remained serious, but he nodded resolutely. 

“Always.”

A small relief crossed Viktor's features. He returned the nod almost imperceptibly, and then Corin walked away, accompanying the others to the exit.

The hall emptied until only Viktor and Huck remained. 

The younger man, who seemed in no hurry to leave, watched the mage closely. Viktor leaned on his makeshift cane, his shuffling steps betraying the effort he was making to maintain his posture.

The apprentice approached slowly, leaning on the table rail.

“You didn't give them all the details.”

“It wasn't the right time.” Viktor replied, discreetly massaging his leg before leaning on his cane again. The movement elicited a brief expression of pain. “They wouldn't understand.”

“Maybe they never will.” Huck murmured, his eyes attentive.

Viktor sighed, his body leaning as if, at that moment, he was carrying more than his own weakness.

“If we can advance our studies... stabilizing magic may not only ensure our survival, Huck. It may... it may even cure things that—” 

Huck stared at him for a moment. “Your leg.”

Viktor nodded, almost imperceptibly. “But we're far from any conclusion.”

He tried to take a step away, but the movement failed, and Huck instinctively grabbed his arm to support him. Viktor accepted the help, though pride tightened his chest.

“You won't be able to keep up this pace alone.” Huck said quietly. “Not for long.”

Viktor looked away, his golden eyes fixed on the cold floor. “Then we need to find an answer before it's too late.”

Huck didn't reply. He just stood there, supporting some of his friend's weight as silence enveloped them, heavy as the shadow of something inevitable approaching.

[...]

The stone corridor sounded less oppressive than the night before, though the silence still hung heavy. Jayce descended the steps when he spotted the Herald standing near a tall window, the heavy curtains drawn back, letting the cold light shine through.

Jayce's heart raced, but he forced himself to remain composed. He approached with a slight cough.

The light coming through the window highlighted the lines of his face, always so controlled, but there was something subtle in his golden eyes: a silent assessment, perhaps even restrained acceptance.

Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but carrying a subtle warmth: “Good morning, Jayce. You seem to be finding your footing here more quickly than I anticipated.”

Jayce raised his eyebrows, amused. “Is that meant as a compliment?”

The Herald lifted his chin, impassive. “More of an observation.” Then he turned, his dark cloak brushing the floor. “Come. The castle is too vast for you to get lost among the corridors.”

The silence that settled after the brief exchange of words was not uncomfortable— it was just... new. 

The torches attached to the walls cast long shadows, and Jayce glanced away from time to time, curious about the reliefs carved into the ancient marble, symbols that seemed to pulsate with a faint energy.

“This place seems to get bigger everyday.” Jayce commented, trying to break the silence. “Every time I walk through here, I discover a new corridor.”

“It was built to confuse intruders.” The Herald replied, his deep voice echoing. “Even I could get lost sometimes if I don't pay attention.”

Jayce laughed softly. “So it's not just me.”

The Herald turned his face toward him, just for a second, and what could have been a hint of humor formed in the expression hidden by the shadow of his hood.

“No.” He murmured. “It's not just you.”

They walked a few more steps in silence, the sound of Jayce's boots contrasting with the rhythmic dragging of the staff.

“And these... inscriptions?” Jayce pointed to the walls. “Are they protective runes?”

“Some are. Others are memories.” The Herald rested his fingers on a carving that represented a circle intertwined with straight lines. “Each corridor holds fragments of stories that must not be forgotten.” If he had eyebrows, Jayce was sure one of them was raised right now. “You seem to know a lot about runes.” 

Jayce laughed, nervously. “I just had a lot of free time to read these days.” 

The Herald’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, thoughtful, as if weighing the truth behind the casual words. Then he nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly.

“You’ve been paying attention.” He said softly, the staff now tapping lightly against the stone floor as he led the way down a wider corridor lined with tall windows. Sunlight spilled across the marble, illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the air.

Jayce followed, trying to keep pace, but his curiosity kept dragging him toward the carvings and small details. “These symbols… do they all tell the same story, or are they… different?”

“Different.” The Herald’s voice was measured, precise. “Some are warnings. Some are guidance. Some… reminders of what we once were, and what we chose to preserve.” He paused for a moment, glancing at Jayce. “You notice more than most visitors would. That is… useful.”

Jayce smiled faintly, trying to hide the warmth he felt at the observation. “Useful, huh? This one I’ll take as a compliment, then.” 

A short silence followed, broken only by the echo of boots and staff. The corridor opened up into a smaller gallery, where the carvings depicted scenes of figures manipulating magical energies, binding or releasing them, protecting or warring. Jayce’s eyes followed the lines, tracing the movements captured in stone.

“Are these… mages?” He asked, voice quiet.

“Not all.” The Herald replied, stopping to rest a hand on one of the panels. “Some are guardians. Some are scholars. All were necessary to maintain balance.” His golden eyes met Jayce’s, and there was a faint flicker of something behind them— a memory, or maybe a warning.

Jayce hesitated, then spoke, the words careful. “And you… you were part of this?”

The Herald's hand tightened slightly on his staff, though he didn't look away. "I was responsible for maintaining order, yes. For ensuring that the power we wielded didn't destroy itself… or those around us." The Herald, unwittingly, blurted out a sound somewhere between bitterness and regret. "As you must know, I have failed."

The admission hung in the air, sharp as a blade hidden beneath layers of restraint. For a moment, Jayce didn’t know how to respond. The Herald stood rigid, his shadow stretched long across the gallery wall, his hand still pressed against the carved stone as if drawing steadiness from it.

Jayce’s chest tightened. He could hear the weight in those words— I have failed. Not a dramatic proclamation, but something quieter, more dangerous: the kind of truth someone only lets slip when the silence between them feels too heavy to hold.

“You didn’t fail.” Jayce said cautiously. He tilted his head, searching the Herald’s expression, but the hood and golden gaze revealed little. “From what I’ve seen, you’re still here. People still follow you. They still trust you.”

The Herald’s jaw shifted, a faint motion, but enough to betray the conflict in him. “Trust can be fragile. Responsibility heavier than iron. You save one family, one home, and believe it enough… until you see the ones you could not protect.” His voice darkened, low, threaded with something ancient. “The echoes of those failures tend to outlive the victories.”

Jayce’s throat felt dry. 

He thought of Piltover, of choices made in boardrooms and councils that had seemed so clear, so triumphant for everyone at the time— only for people to wonder later what had been broken in the process. He let out a slow breath, softer than he intended. 

“Maybe. But… sometimes saving anyone is worth it. Even if you couldn’t save everyone.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched again. The Herald’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pulled his hand away from the carving and straightened, the staff striking the floor with a firmer sound.

“You speak with certainty for someone who carries so much doubt.”

Jayce blinked, caught off guard, then gave a short, humorless laugh. “Guess that makes two of us, then.”

Again, there was the faintest curve at the Herald’s mouth— not quite a smile, but something less rigid, almost human. It was almost surprising how these were escaping more often. He turned away, the cloak shifting as he began to walk again.

Jayce realized, with a subtle unease, that the figure beside him was not just a keeper of the castle or its history, but someone who carried responsibility for lives, for choices that had consequences far beyond what Jayce could yet comprehend.

The silence returned, but this time it was different— less tense, more a quiet understanding as they continued their unhurried walk, the day and the carvings around them a shared space where words were not always necessary.

As they rounded another bend in the corridor, a soft shuffle of footsteps approached from a side hallway. One of the Herald’s followers, a young man with sharp eyes and a cautious posture, stepped forward and bowed slightly.

“Master.” His voice was low but urgent, almost trembling. “The village to the east— Enforcers from Piltover raided it. They were searching for Arcane traces. Many homes were damaged… some families hurt.”

The Herald froze for a moment, the golden glow of his eyes hardening. His grip on the staff tightened, the faint sound of metal against stone echoing sharply in the hall. “Show me the specifics.” His tone remained steady, but there was steel beneath it.

The young man nodded quickly, pulling a small parchment and unfolding it with shaking hands. Jayce caught a glimpse— crude sketches marking broken rooftops, ruined fields, scorch marks where weapons had been discharged.

Jayce swallowed hard. He had seen Enforcers act with cruelty before, but something about seeing their destruction reach this far— into lives so simple, so far from Piltover’s politics— knotted his chest.

The Herald took the parchment, studied it only briefly, then returned it with a curt nod. “We go at once. Gather salves and warding stones. And send word ahead for them to hold steady until we arrive.”

The follower bowed again and hurried off, leaving the echo of boots behind.

Jayce lingered, unsure what to say. Every movement of the Herald commanded weight, but here it wasn’t about pride or display. It was protection. Responsibility. 

The Herald then looked at Jayce, a faint tilt of his head acknowledging him. His voice quieter, but no less firm. “You may come with us. Or remain here. I will not force you.”

Jayce hesitated, the offer striking something deeper than he expected. His chest lifted slightly at the invitation. A small, conflicted smile tugged at his lips— pleasure at being trusted mingling with lingering doubt. He took a slow breath, feeling the tug-of-war between his instinct to run and the desire to see this life, these people, up close.

He tilted his head.

“Don’t you think I could try and escape?”

The Herald’s gaze held him steady, unreadable, until finally he said, “I am under the impression you will not flee.”

Something in Jayce’s chest stirred at that— trust, fragile but real. He let out a slow breath and nodded. “Then I’ll come with you. If you’ll have me.”

The Herald’s eyes softened, just a flicker, but enough. He turned, staff striking once against the marble as he moved toward the gates. “Stay close, then.”

And Jayce followed.

[...]

The journey was silent. 

The Herald's staff marked a steady, firm pace as the group made their way along the narrow trails. Jayce followed close behind, his mind torn between the anticipation of seeing the village and the lingering doubt about why he had agreed to accompany them on this mission.

When they reached the hill, the smell of smoke hit them first. As they descended, the view opened up: burned houses, broken fences, heavy boot marks in the mud. The enforcers had been there. The damage was not total, but enough to leave scars.

The residents, upon seeing the Herald, lifted their faces with immediate relief. Murmurs spread, some children ran to him, grabbing his cloak with small hands. “The Herald has arrived!” shouted a woman, her voice breaking.

But when their eyes fell on Jayce, the mood changed. A heavy silence spread, followed by whispers. A younger boy pointed, his eyes narrowed. His finger discreetly indicated the hem of the coat. The fabric bore the almost imperceptible stitched mark of a Piltover manufacturer.

The tension rose. A man stepped forward, clutching a makeshift axe. “He's from Piltover.” The word sounded like an accusation. “You brought one of them here?”

Jayce froze, swallowing hard. Instinctively, he wanted to raise his hands, to explain himself, but he realized that any words could sound like a defense of greater guilt.

The Herald, however, raised his staff firmly. “He is with us and under my protection.” His deep voice echoed, cutting through the murmurs. “He will not be disturbed.” 

The tension eased, but did not disappear. The villagers backed away, still suspicious, keeping their eyes fixed on Jayce as if his every movement was suspicious. Jayce felt the weight of those stares, the raw rejection. The feeling of displacement burned under his skin. 

He stayed slightly behind while the Herald spoke with the village leaders. The way they all bowed slightly before him was almost reverent— there was respect, but also trust. He gave short, direct orders, and each one moved with a readiness that spoke of years of working together.

When Jayce tried to approach, offering to help carry one of the supply boxes, an older woman gave him a sharp look.

“No need.” She said, with a tense smile that didn't reach her eyes. “We're used to it.”

He hesitated. “I just want to help, ma'am.”

“We already have help.” Added a young man, too quickly, taking the box from his hands.

Jayce took a step back, his jaw clenching. There was no explicit hostility— just that harsh politeness that made it clear he was a stranger there.

For a while, he tried to ignore the feeling. He followed the Herald through the alleys, watching him heal wounds with precise, calm gestures, conjuring magic as if it responded to his breath. Wherever he went, people relaxed. Children followed him. Mothers smiled.

Jayce, on the other hand, felt increasingly out of place. When he tried to approach, conversations ceased. When he offered help, someone else stepped forward and took over the task.

“Hey.” Sky's voice sounded low beside him, gentle but firm. “Don't take it personally.” 

Jayce exhaled in a short, humorless laugh. “I don't think I'm being very useful around here.” 

She watched him for a moment, then shrugged. “They're just afraid.” She said simply. “But they'll understand, they just need to get to know you better.” 

Jayce looked away, the weight of her words tightening his chest. “I don't know if that's enough.” 

Sky nudged his shoulder lightly. “But that's how you start.” 

Her tone was playful, but her gaze was not— there was something sincere, almost protective about it. Jayce tried to smile, more out of gratitude than conviction.

Sky forced a small smile, as if trying to lighten the mood. “I also thought they would never look me in the eye when I first got here.” She laughed softly, a short, almost nostalgic sound. “And I didn't even have any Piltover branding on my clothes.”

Jayce looked at the discreet symbol embroidered on the cuff of his coat — the seal of the Inventors' Guild — and felt his stomach tighten.

“They saw it, didn't they?”

Sky nodded, sighing. “They did. And they know what that means.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Piltover isn't exactly known around here for... generosity.”

He frowned, not defensively— it was shame.

“I didn't come here to cause trouble.”

“I know.” Sky squeezed his arm with a quick, comforting gesture. “The Herald knows it too. He wouldn't have let you stay if he thought you could be a risk.”

Jayce looked away to where the Herald was helping a group of villagers, his voice calm, his presence almost serene. For a moment, he thought about how easy it seemed for him to inspire confidence— and how impossible it was for himself.

Sky followed his gaze and added, more softly, “Just... give it time. They need to see who you are. And if you want my advice, act like you already belong.”

“What if they still don't want me here?” He murmured.

“Then we try again.” She replied, and walked ahead, calling out to someone who needed supplies.

Jayce stood still for a moment, watching her walk away. Then, he took a deep breath, pushed away his discomfort, and started walking again. Even without knowing if she was right, the idea of trying seemed better than standing still.

The sky was already tinged with orange when the sound of hammers and voices faded away, giving way to a weary silence. Jayce, who finally managed to help organize some supplies, noticed a murmur coming from a nearby house— and a trail of faint smoke rising from the chimney.

Curious, he approached. 

Through the half-open window, he saw a family gathered around an extinguished furnace. The father was trying to light the fire with sticks and sparks from a flint, but the flame died every time. The mother fanned it with a piece of wood, her face sweaty, and a child watched with wide, distressed eyes.

Without thinking, Jayce approached. “I can help with that.”

The father raised his head abruptly. “I think we got enough help from Piltover.” The words were spat out like poison.

Jayce raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I'm just trying to help.” 

“We can handle it.” The woman replied, politely but coldly.

Even so, Jayce took a step forward. “It's just that—” He hesitated. “The wood looks damp. It won't catch fire like this.”

The man snorted and turned away. “Then we'll wait for it to dry.” 

Jayce stood there for a moment, watching the child rubbing his hands together to keep warm. The Herald was a few feet away, talking to another group, oblivious to the scene.

He took a deep breath and, before he could think better of it, knelt down in front of the furnace.

“Just... let me try something.”

Jayce reached out his hand over the cold ashes. His brow furrowed in concentration. Remembering the napkin from dinner, his fingertips glowed— a faint thread of energy escaped, like a bluish spark that curled back on itself. 

A second later, the fire was born— small at first, then steady, dancing with a constant heat. The family fell silent. The woman brought her hand to her mouth. 

“Was that... magic?”

Jayce scratched the back of his neck, somewhat embarrassed. “Just a trick. A way to... make things easier.”

The child laughed, clapping his hands. The father stared at the fire, incredulous, then looked at Jayce with a different expression— still cautious, but no longer hostile. “Will it stay lit?”

“As long as you keep feeding the fire, yes.” Jayce replied with a sheepish smile. 

The man nodded slowly, then held out his hand, hesitantly. “Then... thank you.”

Jayce shook his hand, feeling the ice break. “No need to thank me.” 

The man nodded, but did not immediately let go of Jayce's hand— his gaze was curious, trying to understand what he had just witnessed. The woman, meanwhile, approached, kneeling near the furnace, her face illuminated by the newly born flame.

“That really is magic, isn't it?” She repeated, her voice now soft, without the fear of before. “I thought only the Herald could do something like that.”

Jayce hesitated, feeling the weight of the question. “It's... different from what he does. I learned it another way.” He smiled shyly. “Let's just say... fire and I get along.” His mind returned to last night's dinner again. “Too well.”

The child, still enchanted, stretched out her fingers to feel the heat. “Are you a mage too?”

“Not exactly.” Jayce replied, laughing. “But I like to build things!” 

The father leaned back against the wall, his shoulders relaxing. “I've never seen a man from Piltover use magic before. Don't you guys burn people who do that there?”

“Not everyone there thinks that way.” Jayce replied, looking away for a moment. “Some of us believe that magic can heal more than it can destroy.”

The woman exchanged a quick glance with her husband. Then she got up and went to a shelf. She returned with a clay bowl in her hands. “Stay for a while! The soup is still warm— or it will be, now that the fire is back on.“ A shy smile curved her lips. ”It's the least we can offer."

Jayce blinked, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“We do.” The man replied firmly but without harshness. “You helped our house breathe again.”

Jayce accepted the bowl and after some minutes, the simple, familiar smell of soup filled the air— vegetables, herbs, and something reminiscent of smoked meat. He sat down on a nearby bench, and the child snuggled up beside him, watching with fascination as he blew on his spoon. 

Jayce lowered his gaze again, swirling his spoon in the bowl as the fire crackled gently nearby. Heat spread throughout the room, but what truly warmed him was something more subtle— the feeling of belonging, of not being just a passing stranger. It made his chest tighten unexpectedly. He sat on the bench, blowing out the steam, and for a moment the sound of the crackling fire took him back to a distant memory.

“Does it remind you of someone?” The woman asked, watching him silently.

Jayce smiled slightly, a sad smile. “My mother used to make soup like this... when winter came too early.” He stirred the broth slowly, avoiding her gaze. “The house always seemed smaller on those days, but the smell... the smell made everything seem easier.”

The child stared at him curiously. “Is she in Piltover?”

Jayce took a moment to respond. “Yes.” He finally said, in a low voice. “She would love to see a place like this.”

A respectful silence followed. The woman placed her hand on his shoulder, briefly, without words. “Then eat, for her.”

Jayce obeyed, the simple flavor reconnecting him to something he has lost. Through the window, he saw the Herald standing in the distance, watching the scene in silence. There was something new in his gaze— less judgment, more curiosity. Perhaps even... a touch of understanding.

Jayce looked down again, stirring his soup with a restrained smile. For the first time since arriving in this place, the warmth of the fire didn't feel merely physical. It felt familiar. Human. Almost like home.

“What's Piltover like?” The child asked, eyes brimming with curiosity. “They say the lights never go out there!” 

Jayce smiled, stirring the soup slowly. “It's true. There are lights everywhere.“ He hesitated, searching for the words. “But not all of them make things warmer.”

The woman tilted her head, as if she understood more than he had said. “Then maybe that's why you learned how to make fire.”

Jayce laughed, a low, sincere sound.

For the first time since arriving in this place, he felt... part of something. Even if only for a brief moment.

[...]

The village had quieted with the setting sun. Lanterns glowed faintly in the narrow streets, and at the centre of the square, a small fire crackled, scattering sparks into the night.

Someone had brought a stringed instrument, and the soft notes of music drifted lazily through the air. A few villagers hummed along, others simply sat in the glow, letting the warmth and melody soothe the day away.

Jayce sat a little apart at first, but eventually— perhaps drawn by the fire, perhaps by the man sitting opposite it— he found himself closer. The Herald’s tall silhouette was unmistakable, his staff leaning against the tree trunk beside him, his cloak heavy even in the firelight. 

His golden eyes caught the glow of the flames, unreadable.

Jayce glanced at the musician, then back at him. He tried to look interested, but his gaze kept wandering— drawn again and again to the man who sat so still, so composed.

“You are not listening.” The Herald said suddenly, his voice quiet but certain.

Jayce startled slightly, a laugh slipping from his lips. “I am. I swear. It’s… soothing.”

The Herald tilted his head, a faint trace of humour touching his words. “You have looked at me more times than at the musician. Perhaps I should assume you find me more entertaining?”

Jayce rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed, but unwilling to back down. “Maybe I just don’t have the ear for music.” Jayce leaned forward a little, resting his arms on his knees. The firelight caught the sharper lines of his face, softened by the flickering glow.

The musician strummed another gentle chord, and this time Jayce let himself listen, letting the notes mingle with the warmth of the fire and the quiet of the village around them. He noticed the subtle sway of the villagers, the way a mother held her child a little closer, the way an elderly man tapped his cane in time.

“I didn’t expect it would be like this.” Jayce admitted, voice low. “Even after everything today… it feels… normal. Peaceful.”

The Herald’s gaze lingered on him, thoughtful, as if weighing the honesty behind the words. “Moments like these are rare.” He said softly. “Perhaps that is why we remember them so clearly. They remind us of what is worth protecting.”

Jayce nodded slowly, the fire casting shifting shadows across his features. “I can see that.” He murmured. “And it makes me… want to help more, I think. Even if they don’t ask for it.”

A faint smile touched the Herald’s lips, almost imperceptible. “Caution has its place. Yet I see that you are learning the value of presence, of action, even when unseen.”

The fire crackled, sending up a small spark that drifted lazily into the night. Jayce let out a quiet laugh, a sound mingling relief, curiosity, and something warmer he couldn’t quite name.

“You know…” He said after a pause. “I think I could get used to nights like this.”

The Herald’s golden eyes softened slightly in the firelight, and for a brief, unspoken moment, the distance between them felt less daunting.

Jayce studied him, thoughtful. For a moment, the music faded completely from his attention. The only thing he saw was the faint light in those golden eyes, and the weight carried in his words.

The Herald noticed, and after a moment added, "You're still not listening to the music. That's a bit rude."

Jayce grinned, caught. “I think I prefer this conversation anyway.”

For the first time that evening, the Herald let out a sound that might have been the ghost of a laugh.

The song shifted into something slower, almost mournful, the notes lingering in the cool air. The villagers leaned closer to the fire, voices hushed, conversations fading as the music filled the silence.

Jayce, however, couldn't shake the creature in front of him. The Herald stood straight, but there was something different tonight— the fire reflected in the golden rims of his eyes, giving him a humanity Jayce hadn't expected to see so soon.

Jayce swallowed, looking away from the fire. The flames danced and crackled, and yet, he felt as if the weight of those words burned inside him. They remind us of what is worth protecting.

The song ended with a soft chord, and light applause spread through the circle. The atmosphere broke, voices returned, and some children ran across the square. Jayce blinked, as if awakened from a trance.

He glanced back at the Herald, who was already standing, leaning on his staff with a firm but unhurried movement. The figure seemed as unshakable as ever— and yet, Jayce knew he'd seen something different that night.

Before he knew it, he was smiling to himself. Not mockingly, not triumphantly. Just… warmth. An unexpected warmth that lingered even when the fire in the bonfire had become nothing but embers.

[...]

The sun barely filtered through the tall stone windows, but the light already warmed the silent room. Jayce woke slowly, the heavy sheets still tangled around his legs. For a moment, he thought he'd dreamed it all— the night in the village, the music, the golden gaze fixed too intently on him— 

A light knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. 

"Come in." He said, his voice still hoarse with sleep.

Sky appeared with a basket in her arms, the restrained smile of someone carrying too many secrets.

"Good morning! Did you sleep well?" She asked, entering with careful steps.

Jayce sat up, scratching the back of his neck. "Well enough."

She set the basket on a chair. The precisely folded fabric caught his eye: a set of new clothes, elegantly cut, with subtle embroidery on the collar and cuffs. The colors recalled the castle walls— grayish green and dark red.

"Are these for me?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sky nodded. “He ordered it to be delivered first thing in the morning.” 

Jayce didn't need to ask who. There was an underlying tone in her voice, a veiled respect, almost uncomfortable.

"Did he say something?" He asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"He just—" She hesitated. "He just said it’s about time you dressed like someone who belongs here."

Belonging.

Jayce stared at the clothes in silence. As much as he wanted to laugh at the idea, something tightened in his chest— an uncomfortable feeling that something had, in fact, begun to change.

"He seems confident." He murmured.

Sky shrugged, already heading for the door. "Maybe he just sees more than we do." She settled into the nearby chair, crossing her legs calmly, her eyes shining with curiosity. "I realized I never asked you about dinner. How was it?" Sky asked, leaning forward slightly, interested.

Jayce sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"It was weird, to be honest. It felt like every time one of us spoke, we were walking a tightrope."

Sky smiled softly, as if she understood what he was feeling.

"The Herald has always been like this. And he's not just what he seems. He has a reserved manner, but he cares more than he lets on."

Jayce thought for a moment.

"Sometimes I feel like he watches me too much, you know? Like he's measuring everything I do... or think. It makes me uneasy."

Sky frowned slightly, thoughtfully.

Jayce gave a weary smile.

"I think I also caused a little incident at the table... I used magic by accident, twice. He almost noticed."

Sky's eyes widened in surprise.

"Really? What?"

Jayce shrugged, a little embarrassed.

"The first time my spoon levitated and I just pretended I dropped it. The second time my napkin caught on fire.” Sky took a hand to her mouth. “I managed to put it out, but my heart almost jumped out of my chest! He was watching me so I had to pretend I was paying attention to what he was saying."

Sky laughed, but there was a serious tone in her voice. "It shows you're still learning to control it. But be careful, he can be very perceptive."

Jayce sighed.

"Yeah, I know. And that makes me even more nervous around him."

Sky placed a hand on his arm, smiling reassuringly.

"It'll be okay. He doesn't want to scare you, he just wants to protect us."

Jayce looked at her, feeling an unexpected comfort.

"Thanks, Sky. Sometimes this whole thing seems like too much for one person."

She chuckled.

"Yeah, and you still have a lot to learn. But you're not alone. You can count on me."

Jayce lifted his clothes with a half-smile. She was almost at the door when Jayce called her back:

"Hey, Sky…" He said, a little hesitantly. "About training… Are we on for tonight?"

Sky turned, his eyes lit up at the proposal.

"Sure! I just thought you would be too tired after yesterday.” 

"I am a little. But I need to learn to control this before I end up setting another napkin on fire." Jayce replied, chuckling to himself. Sky laughed along, nodding.

"Tonight, then?"

"That sounds perfect." He confirmed, his smile firmer now.

She winked, already walking away down the hallway. The door closed with a soft click, leaving Jayce alone. He looked down at the fabric in his hands, then out the window. 

The sky was clear. The day had barely begun.

[...]

Jayce stepped quietly through the garden, the early morning light spilling over dew-covered paths. The scent of damp earth and flowering herbs filled the air, a contrast to the cold stone of the castle halls. He rounded a low hedge and spotted the Herald standing by the fountain, his figure still in the soft glow of dawn.

“Viktor.” The greeting came out almost too casual, and he corrected himself with a half-smile. “I mean— Herald!”

The Herald slowly turned his face, analyzing him. His golden gaze flashed quickly, as if considering correcting the form of address, but he only tilted his head slightly. “Jayce.”

There was a moment of silence. Jayce took a deep breath and adjusted the collar of his shirt— one of the new pieces Sky had brought him. “I... wanted to thank you for the clothes.” He said, a little awkwardly. “After days of wearing the same ones, I was starting to think the dust from the castle was going to fuse with me.”

An almost imperceptible sound escaped from the Herald, perhaps a breath of laughter, perhaps just a sigh.

“It was rude of me to let you in that state.” His voice was firm but not hostile. “Making you look miserable would not benefit me in any way.”

“I wouldn't say miserable.” Jayce replied with a crooked smile. “But I admit I feel... more human this way.”

The Herald's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before turning back to the window. “Humanity is as much a burden as it is a relief.”

Jayce’s gaze drifted to the new clothes still fitting strangely on his frame. He remembered Sky’s words from earlier, light but firm: He just said it’s about time you dressed like someone who belongs here.

The memory made him smirk quietly to himself. Belonging… such a simple concept, yet so complicated in this place. In these circumstances. He adjusted his coat slightly, trying to make the unfamiliar fabric feel less foreign, less like a costume and more like part of himself.

Jayce adjusted the collar of his shirt, still finding the different cut of the fabric strange, heavier than the clothes of Piltover. 

Jayce was silent for a few moments, watching the trees in the garden sway in the breeze. Finally, he murmured, “Do you... miss being human?”

The Herald took a moment to respond. His golden eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "Humans... have a tendency to get lost in feelings, in trivialities. It's comfortable, sometimes. But also fragile.“ He sighed slowly, almost as if the words were difficult to utter. ”Being forced to give up certain things... it's not easy."

Jayce frowned, curious. “So... you do miss it?”

A silence hung between them, heavy and quiet at the same time.

“Maybe parts of it.” He finally said, without turning around. “The simple connection, the uncomplicated laughter, the touch of someone who doesn't carry a weight they didn't choose. But I don't regret the world I chose to protect. Nor the duty that defines me.”

Jayce bit his lip, thinking about what that meant.

The Herald slowly raised his gaze to him, golden against the twilight.

“There are things that fill you more than any human company could.” A pause, and then he softened his voice slightly, almost to a whisper: “And sometimes, an attentive observer can make loneliness less heavy.”

Jayce looked away, feeling the weight and sincerity of that. A strange feeling, almost comfort, mingled with curiosity.

“You surprised me yesterday.” The Herald added, his voice low but firm. “I didn't expect a Piltovan could...” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “...act with such consideration in a place like that.”

Jayce raised an eyebrow, surprised, but couldn't hide a smile. “So that means I'm not just another walking problem?”

The Herald gave him a look that almost seemed like a restrained smile. "No. You're... different from some I've met. And your help to that family... showed more than you realize. Willingness to care. Something that, until today, I thought was rare among your kind."

Jayce looked away for a second, heat rising to his cheeks. 

He paused, then admitted softly, almost reluctantly, “Perhaps… part of why I invited you was in hopes you would prove me right. I’ve been… too exposed, too vulnerable around you. I needed to know if I could trust that you wouldn’t take advantage of that.”

Jayce’s eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and a quiet, warm curiosity. “So… you wanted me to show I wasn’t trustworthy… because you didn’t feel safe being vulnerable?” He let out a small, nervous laugh. “I hate to tell you, but that's an awfully human thing to do.”

The Herald’s golden eyes met his, steady and unflinching. “I trust few. But sometimes, one must see for oneself. You’ve earned a small measure of it today… though I remain vigilant.”

Jayce laughed softly, nervously, a little off balance from the honesty. “Well… I guess lighting a furnace is more important than I thought.”

The Herald shook his head slightly, as if disapproving, but his eyes shone with unexpected warmth. “Sometimes it's the simplest gestures that reveal someone's character.”

Jayce took a deep breath, trying to ease the tension that still hung between them.

"You know... in Piltover, everything is movement, lights, gears, noise. There's always someone chasing something or trying to impress someone.“ He looked away for a moment, remembering his mother. ”My mother... She always said I should try to see the world differently. That I didn't need to get lost in everyone else's rush."

The Herald tilted his head slightly, listening intently.

“And you? Have you been able to follow that advice?” His voice was calm, almost curious.

Jayce chuckled softly, somewhat wistfully.

“Sometimes. Sometimes it's difficult. But here...” He glanced around at the peaceful garden and the distant village fire that still glowed in his memory. “...It's easier. I feel like I can think, really think.”

The Herald remained silent for a moment, letting the weight of those words sink in.

“Piltover shapes you, but it doesn't completely define you. What you do with what you learn, that's what matters.” He paused, looking Jayce in the eye. “You helped that family today. Without being asked. Without seeking recognition. That... says a lot about who you really are.”

Jayce looked away, embarrassed, but feeling a strange warmth in his chest.

“I just wanted to help. But... thank you. I didn't really expect anyone to notice.”

The Herald lifted one corner of his mouth, almost imperceptibly, like a restrained smile.

“To notice... and to remember. It's the least one can do when truly observing.”

Jayce took a deep breath, feeling the tension ease a little. For the first time since arriving at the castle, he didn't feel like he needed to be constantly alert, nor that his past in Piltover condemned him. 

Jayce’s chest tightened with a mixture of pride and something else he hadn’t quite named. He realized that in watching the Herald, in being allowed so close to his world — even for just a moment — he had begun to understand why this man demanded loyalty, why he carried himself with such gravity. And yet, despite the vigilance, there was a humanity there, a careful generosity that surprised Jayce more than he expected.

“Thank you… for letting me see that.” He murmured. “For letting me be part of it, even a little.”

And in that shared silence, Jayce began to understand something essential: he didn’t just want to witness the Herald’s world. He wanted to remain close to it.

[...]

Jayce and Sky had been training for several hours, their focus broken only occasionally by laughter or Sky’s sharp corrections. 

They were in one of the castle’s larger chambers, a space repurposed for practice. The floor was worn stone, etched with faint scorch marks from past exercises, and high arched windows let in streams of moonlight that painted the room with shifting patterns.

Wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, giving the chamber a sturdy, almost rustic feel despite the castle’s grandeur. Several mats were scattered across the floor, a few stacked against the wall, along with racks of small tools and equipment used for magical exercises. Arcane symbols were etched along the walls in faded gold and silver, remnants of old wards and protective charms that hummed faintly in the background.

The air smelled faintly of soot and wax, a reminder of candles and previous magical experiments. A few potted herbs — used in minor spellwork — lined the edges of the room, and the soft murmur of magical energy occasionally tingled against Jayce’s skin as he moved, making him feel both alive and slightly unnerved.

Sky moved gracefully across the chamber, her hands trailing faint blue light as she guided him through precise motions. Jayce followed, sweat beading on his forehead, every fiber of his concentration locked on controlling the small flames he conjured.

Despite the formality of the space, there was an intimacy in the room— a sense that it existed solely for learning, for pushing limits and making mistakes in a controlled environment. Jayce felt a strange comfort here, even as he struggled to bend the flames to his will, and he couldn’t help but notice the faint flicker of pride in Sky’s eyes when he finally managed a small, stable flame.

Hours had passed, yet neither of them seemed eager to stop, each correction, each spark, a thread in a growing bond of trust, skill, and quiet camaraderie.

Jayce wiped the sweat from his brow, staring at the small controlled flame dancing on the tip of his fingers. Sky circled him, her eyes sharp, watching his form.

“Steady.” She said, voice calm but firm. “Focus on the center of the flame. Let it respond to your intent, not your frustration.”

Jayce nodded, taking a deep breath. He spread his hands slightly, trying to expand the fire without letting it surge. “Like this?”

Sky moved closer, guiding his hands with hers. “Better… now keep it there. Control it.”

Jayce adjusted his posture, trying to focus on the center point of the flame floating between his hands.

“Remember what I taught you.” Sky said, standing firmly behind him, “Breathe deeply. Feel the energy, not the force.”

Jayce nodded, but couldn't help a mischievous smile. “Hey, do you think I can make the flame spin in circles?”

Sky raised an eyebrow, chuckling softly. “You want to play with fire? Jayce, seriously...”

“Just a test!” He laughed, and on impulse, he stretched his arms out to the side. The flame spun, making a small arc. Sky tried to control it with her hands glowing blue, but the energy escaped for a moment, forming small sparks on the ground.

“Careful!” Sky exclaimed, stepping forward.

Jayce laughed, trying to correct it, but ended up creating a second flame that jumped over the first. “Ouch. I think I overdid it.”

Sky sighed, eyes half-closed, but couldn't help smiling. “You're impossible…”

Jayce leaned closer, trying to merge the flames. For a few moments, the room held a fragile balance. The flame hovered, responding to his direction, flickering but contained. Jayce felt a small surge of pride, a rush of excitement— this was the first time it had really obeyed him.

Then a spark leapt too far, dancing across the edge of the mat. Jayce panicked, trying to reel it back in. Sky’s hands glowed as she attempted to contain it, but the energy slipped past her grasp, licking along the corner of the wall.

“Jayce! Step back!” She shouted, her voice tense now.

The flames jumped onto a nearby wooden beam, and Jayce’s stomach dropped. Sparks flew across the floorboards, and the small practice fire threatened to ignite everything around them. Sky’s glow intensified, but the fire was spreading too quickly for her alone.

“Focus! Control it!” She barked, trying to corral the flames, her expression tight with worry.

Jayce waved his hands frantically, but the fire seemed to have a will of its own, climbing the walls, curling toward the ceiling. Panic rose in his chest. “I—I can’t stop it!” He admitted, his voice cracking.

Smoke began to fill the room, stinging his eyes. Sky’s voice was strained, almost a shout now. “Step back, Jayce! Don’t let it get near you!”

Before Jayce could react, the door swung open with a soft, commanding creak. 

The Herald stepped inside, his cloak brushing the floor, staff in hand. With a single, deliberate gesture, the flames vanished, leaving only faint wisps of smoke curling toward the ceiling.

Sky and Jayce turned toward the figure and immediately exchanged nervous glances. The Herald seemed impassive, his golden eyes swept over the room, taking in the singed mats, the blackened edges of the wooden beams, and the two trainees standing frozen in shock. It took a few seconds of awkward silence for him to finally speak.

“I see you’ve been... practicing.” He said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable weight. There was no accusation in his tone, only observation.

Jayce swallowed hard, heat rushing to his cheeks. “I—I didn’t mean for it to get out of control.” He stammered, glancing at the remnants of the flames. “Listen, I’m sorry. I know you said magic can be dangerous in the wrong hands but—” 

The Herald’s gaze remained steady, unflinching, as if weighing every word. “I am aware.” His tone was quiet, measured. “And yet you chose to continue.”

Jayce swallowed again, cheeks burning. “I just wanted to learn. To control it… properly.” His hands twitched nervously at his sides, still tingling from the lingering heat.

The Herald’s eyes flicked to Sky briefly, then returned to Jayce. “I have known for some time that you and Sky were training.” There was a faint pause, his staff tapping lightly against the floor. 

Jayce’s eyes widened. “But— You said that it was dangerous if someone was using it for the wrong reasons—” 

“Exactly.” He simply said. “If I ever thought your intentions were devious, I wouldn't have let you be training for so long. You’ve been allowed this… experiment, as it were.” 

Sky exhaled sharply, relief and embarrassment mingling in her expression, while Jayce’s heart pounded in his chest. “You… you knew?” He whispered, both awed and anxious.

“Of course.” He added. “It was somewhat entertaining. Until now, giving you almost killed yourselves.” 

Jayce’s cheeks flushed hotter, and he ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean for it to get that out of control. I thought I could manage it…”

Sky nudged him gently. “Well, maybe you got a bit carried away.” Her voice held both teasing and relief. 

The Herald’s golden eyes remained steady on them, unflinching. “Control is not optional. Power without discipline is a hazard— to yourself and those around you. I allowed this, yes, but I also expected caution. You must understand that the flame obeys your intent, but it does not forgive negligence.” 

Jayce opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the Herald spoke again: 

“But... Despite everything. This does bring me back.” Jayce lifted his brows, surprised by the change in the atmosphere. “It has been a while since I had an apprentice. One could say I miss it.” 

Jayce blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected admission. “You… miss teaching?” He asked, a hint of curiosity and awe threading his voice.

The Herald’s gaze softened just slightly, though his posture remained composed. “Yes.” He said, almost quietly. “Guiding someone, seeing them struggle and grow… it reminds one why discipline exists in the first place. Why care must always accompany power.” 

Sky seemed excited all of a sudden. “Master, are you suggesting…?” 

“Indeed.” He nodded. “I would like to guide you on your journey, Jayce. If that is okay with you and miss Young, of course.” 

Jayce’s eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and excitement bubbling inside him. “Wait— you… you want to teach me? Really?” His voice was barely above a whisper, incredulous.

The Herald’s golden gaze held firm, steady as ever, yet there was a subtle warmth beneath the surface. “Yes. But understand this… guidance is not indulgence. Mistakes will be met with instruction, not punishment, but you must commit fully.”

Jayce nodded, determination mixing with a flicker of nerves. “I understand. I’ll do my best— and I’ll listen.”

The Herald gave a slight nod, firm and sure. “Very well. Classes will begin as soon as possible. I have to take a look at some old notes first. Now, if you excuse me.” 

Without another word, he turned away. With his cloak sliding across the floor, he left the room. The door clicked softly, leaving Jayce and Sky alone, the residual heat of the contained fire still lingering in the air.

Sky let out a dramatic sigh, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms, a mischievous smile forming. “You know, Jayce... I'm dying of envy right now.”

Jayce frowned, confused. “Why?”

“You're going to have lessons with The Herald!” She shook her head, incredulous and amused. “It hurts me that you don’t even realize how exciting this is yet!” 

Jayce laughed softly, running a hand through his hair. “I think I’ll be too busy trying not to set the castle on fire again to feel excited.”

Sky bumped his shoulder playfully. “Oh, come on! That’s half the thrill! Besides, who wouldn’t be a little giddy about lessons with The Herald himself?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Giddy, huh? I guess that’s one way to put it.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Jayce… this is huge. Some people have been here for years and haven’t gotten this chance. And you— freshly arrived and already under his tutelage! You better make it count.”

Jayce’s chest lifted slightly at her words, a mix of pride and nerves stirring within him. “I’ll try not to disappoint… I really will.”

Sky’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “And maybe, just maybe, you’ll figure out why he’s so interested in you— or should I say, why he keeps giving you these opportunities? First dinner, now this?”

Jayce swallowed, heat rising to his cheeks, and laughed nervously. “Maybe he’s just generous. Isn’t it his whole deal? You're such a conspiracy theorist.” 

“Well.” She shot back with a grin. “I call them like I see them.”

They shared a quiet laugh, the tension of the earlier fire forgotten, replaced by the anticipation of what was to come.