There were very few occasions in which Emilia LeBlanc ever admitted, to herself, no less, that she was confused.
For someone who had lived as long as she had, who had seen even half of what she had witnessed and done, she possessed an almost insurmountable confidence in her own knowledge, especially when it came to the arcane. The mysteries of magic had long since ceased to intimidate her.
Even when faced with phenomena she did not immediately understand, it usually took only a handful of observations and careful analysis for her to unravel its secrets.
Yet now, a rare and unwelcome question blinked into her mind.
'What is going on here?:
She dangled listlessly in the air, Asta's hand gripping the top of her head as he shook her back and forth.
"You shouldn't be spying on people, Emilia," he scolded. "That was supposed to be an important meeting with High Marshall and the prince. Did you think I wouldn't sense you behind the window? You know you can't hide from me."
Emilia rolled her eyes, still suspended helplessly from his grasp. It was, she was certain, a ridiculous sight to behold. After all, she was taller than he was, and yet there she hung, feet barely brushing the ground, held aloft by nothing more than his grip on her head.
Asta continued speaking, or rather lecturing her, but she found herself barely paying attention. Her gaze had drifted elsewhere, toward the true source of her confusion.
She was watching Darryl.
He was currently engaged with four of her illusions, or at least, that was what she intended everyone present to believe they were. Calling it a battle, however, felt overly generous.
Darryl was dismantling her clones without the slightest hint of strain.
Emilia was not a fighter in the traditional sense. She was a mage, one who specialized in illusions, projections, and deception. Still, after thousands of years of experience across countless conflicts, she was far from fragile.
Darryl, however, did not seem to share that assessment.
He tore through her constructs as effortlessly as Darius carved through the average Noxian soldier, movements precise, efficient, and disturbingly confident.
Barely two weeks ago, Darryl had struggled against a single one of her clones, one disguised as a Demacian knight.
Four days ago, he had taken down a Black Rose assassin on his own.
While blinded, no less.
And now, he was handling more than six of her clones simultaneously.
By her estimation, Darryl had grown more than four times stronger in the span of four days.
And as much as it pained her to admit, Emilia LeBlanc did not understand how.
She had been forced to construct over a dozen clones today alone.
That, too, was an oddity, one she only now realized she had overlooked.
For a very long time, Emilia LeBlanc had never struggled with the creation of her clones. It was as natural to her as breathing. Across Runeterra, several dozen versions of herself already existed, scattered, embedded, watching. And unlike her lesser sisters, she possessed the ability to create far more than they ever could.
But never like this.
She had never summoned so many clones in such a short span of time. When combined with the number of her sisters already active across Runeterra, this level of output should have been all but impossible. The arcane strain alone should have stopped her long before now.
Yet it hadn't.
Which left only one conclusion.
Somehow, quietly, without her noticing, Emilia LeBlanc had grown stronger as well.
Emilia's eyes narrowed slightly as the realization settled in. That disturbed her far more than Darryl's sudden growth ever could.
Power was something she understood. She had chased it, cultivated it, refined it over centuries. Power had rules. It had costs. It demanded balance, preparation, sacrifice. You did not simply become stronger without reason, without a trigger she could identify and exploit.
Her attention finally drifted back to Asta, who had stopped shaking her at some point and was now holding her at arm's length, studying her with mild annoyance.
"You're zoning out," he noted. "It makes you look suspicious. You have a natural scheming face."
"I am thinking," Emilia replied coolly. "Something you might try one day, Asta."
He snorted. "Call me captain." He released her without warning. Emilia landed lightly on her feet, robes settling as if gravity itself had decided to behave properly again. She straightened, dusting herself off more for dignity than necessity, then looked past him once more.
Another clone shattered under Darryl's short blade, dispersing into red motes that evaporated almost instantly.
Her clone had barely perceived his movements this time. Was he still growing stronger now? He hadn't even started using the boons from the eyes she gave him.
"Regarding the meeting," Emilia said at last, turning her attention back to her captain. "Will you accept the High Marshal's proposal?"
Asta raised an eyebrow. "The governor thing?" he asked. "I honestly don't know what to do about that."
Their conversation was interrupted by hurried footsteps. Both mages glanced up just in time to see Mira sprint past them, waving enthusiastically as she went.
The pumpkin mage had been adamant about beginning her training today, regardless of Asta's repeated insistence that she rest. He had argued, reasonably, that she was still visibly malnourished and in need of recovery.
Unfortunately for him, Darryl had spent the previous night teaching her Mana Reinforcement. A technique Asta continued to claim should have been difficult, if not outright impossible, for someone at her level.
Instead, Mira had picked it up with alarming speed.
The result was undeniable. She had demonstrated enough stamina, strength, and control to justify beginning her training immediately.
Emilia herself had supported the decision.
After all, a second subject exhibiting rapid growth in close proximity to Asta, especially one so young, was far too valuable to ignore. With Darryl, Mira, and even herself showing signs of accelerated development, the pattern was becoming impossible to dismiss.
In fact, Emilia was already considering how best to persuade Asta to accept Tianna's proposal.
If he governed a region populated by mages, it would place a large number of spellcasters in sustained proximity to him. That alone was enticing. More importantly, it would allow Emilia to study the method of magic used in his homeland far more closely, and under controlled conditions.
Eventually, Mira rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.
With the fifteen-year-old gone, Emilia returned her full attention to Asta. "I think you should accept," she said calmly. "Captain."
Asta stared at her. "You called me captain," he said slowly. "Is the world ending?"
A faint smile tugged at Emilia's lips. It was subtle enough to be deniable, but Asta caught it anyway.
He crossed his arms, gaze drifting in the direction Mira had vanished. In the distance, the faint sounds of clashing steel and shattering illusions continued as Darryl dismantled another of Emilia's constructs. "A governor means being responsible for these people. Politics. Paperwork."
"People already expect those things from you, which is your fault by the way. You dug this grave." Emilia replied smoothly. "The only difference is whether you acknowledge it or not."
Another clone dispersed into motes of crimson light. Emilia felt it like a soft tug at the back of her mind, less strain than it should have been, less resistance than she remembered. Her expression did not change, but the thought lingered.
Asta exhaled slowly. "High Marshal Tianna didn't make that offer lightly. If I accept, I'm putting myself directly under Demacia's scope."
"And if you refuse," Emilia countered, "she will simply find another way to keep you within her sight. At least this way, you gain leverage."
Asta was silent for a moment. His fingers tapped once against his forearm, a small, habitual motion she had noticed whenever he was actually thinking things through.
"I don't want leverage."
"I am assuming you will need it," Emilia said. "Sooner rather than later."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "You sound so confident of yourself."
She met his gaze evenly. "I rarely sound otherwise."
Before he could respond, a sharp crack echoed across the training grounds as Darryl drove his blade through the final illusion. The clone froze for a fraction of a second, eyes wide, before collapsing into drifting red fragments.
Darryl straightened, breathing steady, not even winded. He glanced toward Emilia and Asta, offering a brief nod of acknowledgment before sheathing his weapon.
Asta followed her gaze. "He's improving fast."
"Yes," Emilia agreed. "Faster than he should."
"It's kinda freaky how strong he's getting so quickly. Doesn't bother me though. Does that bother you?"
"Immensely."
He huffed out a quiet laugh. "Funny. Most mages would be celebrating."
"Most mages lack perspective," she replied. "Rapid growth without understanding its source is not a blessing. It is a variable."
"Do you hate that? variables?"
"I despise them."
Darryl approached, wiping his blade clean with a cloth. "Was that okay?... I mean... sufficient?" he asked, tone respectful but confident.
"For now," Emilia said. "You may rest."
He hesitated, then nodded and moved off toward the water station.
A breeze swept through the grounds, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city beyond, the hum of life, of Demacia enduring as it always had. Emilia looked out over it, eyes thoughtful.
"If you accept the position," she continued, "you gain influence, resources, and proximity. If you refuse, you gain suspicion. Either way, you are already entangled."
Asta was quiet for a long moment. "That's not a selling point. Not for me anyway."
'For me,' she thought, turning to face him fully, eyes gleaming with quiet intensity, 'it very much is.'
"You could end the mage rebellion in a single night, couldn't you?" Emilia said, a smirk curling her lips. "So what 'will' you do about all of those mages?"
Asta sighed, the sound closer to a groan as he leaned back slightly. "Is it really the only way?"
'Obviously not, but…' Emilia thought, before placing a hand on his shoulder, her grip firm but not unkind. "It's simplicity itself," she said aloud. "Consider it training for when you become Wizard King."
Asta looked at her, and she could see it, the faint shift in his expression as thoughts began to align, ideas clicking into place. A plan, still shapeless, but forming nonetheless.
"I was already learning all that stuff back home," he said slowly. "Nozel took that kind of thing seriously. Almost obsessively." He paused, then huffed out a breath. "But I guess a hands-on approach makes sense."
His brow furrowed. "Though… I just realized something. I don't have a vice-captain here."
'Why does it feel like I'm missing something?' Emilia resisted the urge to frown. The conclusion seemed obvious to her. If Asta were to lead the Black Bulls here, then she would naturally stand beside him. After him, she was the most experienced. The most capable.
At least, that was how he seemed to see it.
"Although," Asta continued, glancing at her, "you're still not quite at the level a vice-captain should be. Not yet." His tone wasn't dismissive, merely matter-of-fact. "That position means protecting the rest of the Black Bulls when I'm not around. By yourself, if necessary."
Emilia's smirk returned, sharp and amused. "You don't think I can do that?"
"All you have to do is wound me even once," Asta replied with a grin. "If you can manage that, then you're strong enough." He shrugged lightly. "Until then, prepare to have me as your most frequent company. And vice versa, I guess."
He tilted his head slightly. "Are you up for that?"
"Of course," Emilia replied smoothly, confidence unwavering.
---
___King's Office___
"Explain to me how you let Sylas escape, again."
Jarvan's voice was calm as he spoke, measured and controlled, but there was a sharp edge beneath it that made the air in the room feel heavier. He stood by the tall window overlooking the city, hands clasped behind his back as Demacia stretched out below him in orderly stone and banners.
Beside him stood Garen Crownguard, silent and immovable, his presence a familiar reassurance even now.
Jarvan's gaze did not turn as he spoke, but his words were clearly directed at the violet-haired woman standing several steps away from them, clad in the white and gold uniform of the Mageseekers.
Wisteria clicked her tongue, tightening her grip around the long golden staff she carried, knuckles whitening slightly. "We had them cornered, Your Highness," she said. "The rebels, Sylas included. If it hadn't been for that damned foreigner..."
Jarvan growled, the sound low and restrained. He turned then, eyes hard. "You command the entire Mageseeker Order. You had overwhelming numbers. You should have been able to capture the rebels and Sylas before Asta saw fit to involve himself."
Wisteria lowered her gaze, shoulders stiffening. A flicker of shame crossed her expression, brief but unmistakable.
Jarvan exhaled slowly, the tension easing just enough to keep it from boiling over. "With Eldred gone," he continued, "his former rank now falls to you. Which means this problem is yours to solve."
He stepped closer, stopping just short of her personal space, and looked her directly in the eyes. "Since my father's murderer forced me into this same position, allow me to offer some advice." His voice hardened. "Be better than the dead."
"Understood, my lord," Wisteria said, bowing deeply.
Jarvan turned away again, rubbing his temples as frustration crept back into his posture. "We've been too lenient," he muttered. "I can't believe my father planned to..." He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "And now with Asta in the mix… even the High Marshal…"
He shook his head sharply. "Never mind that. Increase patrols. Increase raids. Round up every last mage."
Garen's eyes widened slightly. "Jarvan."
Wisteria stepped forward before he could say more. "My lord," she said urgently. "We should do more than that. Any mage that poses a risk should be executed."
Jarvan turned, startled despite himself. He shook his head. "Execution without trial is… extreme. And beyond that, it's impractical. We would make an enemy of Asta immediately if we attempted it."
Wisteria's lips pressed into a thin line, anger flaring in her eyes. "My lord," she said sharply, "why are we allowing a foreigner to dictate Demacia's decisions?"
Jarvan did not answer her immediately.
He stood there in silence, gaze fixed on the banners fluttering beyond the window, blue and gold snapping softly in the wind. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the distant noise of the city and the faint creak of stone settling under its own weight.
Jarvan turned slowly, expression tight with restrained irritation. "Whether I like it or not," he continued, "Asta has positioned himself in such a way that ignoring him would be catastrophic. Not just politically. Militarily. If he's aware of this, I am unsure."
His jaw clenched. "He walks into Demacia, interferes in royal affairs, and leaves without consequence. Not because he is untouchable by law… but because touching him would invite disaster."
Wisteria's grip tightened on her staff. "Then why tolerate it at all?" she demanded. "If he is such a threat..."
"Because," Jarvan cut in sharply, eyes flashing, "he has not acted against Demacia."
The words landed heavily.
"He has humiliated us," Wisteria snapped. "Undermined us. Empowered rebels."
Jarvan exhaled through his nose, shoulders squaring. "Do not mistake my restraint for fondness," he said coldly. "I do not trust him. I do not like him. And I resent the fact that Demacia must consider his reaction before making its own decisions."
His gaze shifted to Wisteria, sharp and assessing. "But I am not foolish enough to provoke someone who could end this city in a single night if he chose to."
He stepped past them, moving toward the long table at the center of the chamber, fingers brushing against the polished wood as if grounding himself. "Which is why this problem must be handled carefully. Quietly. And competently."
His eyes lifted to Wisteria once more. "That is why I am placing this in your hands."
Wisteria straightened, surprise flickering briefly across her face before she masked it. "My lord?"
"You understand the threat mages pose to Demacia," Jarvan said. "And you understand the consequences of excess. You will not provoke Asta openly. You will not move against him directly."
Her expression tightened. "And Sylas?"
Jarvan's gaze hardened. "Sylas is different."
He leaned forward slightly, palms braced against the table. "Sylas seeks destruction. He thrives on chaos. He wants Demacia to burn just to prove that it can."
Wisteria nodded slowly. "Then allow me to handle him properly."
Jarvan studied her for a long moment. There was something calculating in his eyes now, something colder than anger.
"I trust that you will," he said at last. "You will tighten the net. You will identify threats. You will eliminate them where necessary, but quietly. Other than that, the mages will be placed in prisons. If blood must be spilled, it will not be spilled where Asta can point to it."
Wisteria bowed her head, deeply this time. "I will not fail you, my king."
"I know," Jarvan said.
He turned back toward the window, gaze drifting once more to the city below. "As for Asta," he added, voice low, almost resigned, "we will have to keep on watching him. Everyone has a weakness."
"Then, by your leave, my lord," Wisteria said, bowing once more.
Jarvan gave a short nod, already turning back toward the window. Wisteria straightened and exited the chamber, the heavy doors closing behind her with a muted thud.
Silence settled in her wake.
Garen waited until the sound of her footsteps had fully faded before turning to Jarvan. His expression was tense, brows drawn together. "This is madness, Jarvan," he said at last. "You can't kill everyone who has magic." His voice lowered slightly. "What about Lux? Shyvana?"
Jarvan turned from the window to face him, his expression firm, resolute. "We must end this rebellion immediately," he said. "If your sister comes home, I will protect her."
The words were decisive, spoken without hesitation, but they did little to ease the tension in the room. Garen did not look reassured, and Jarvan noticed.
He stepped closer, his tone softening, if only slightly. "Garen. You're my closest friend," he said. "And Lux is like family to me. I swear to you, I will ensure that nothing happens to her."
Garen lowered his head, his jaw tight. When he spoke again, his voice carried a quiet strain. "This isn't right, Jarvan. Things have gotten out of hand." He looked up, meeting Jarvan's eyes. "You're giving the Mageseekers too much power."
He shook his head slowly. "This won't quell the rebellion."
"You're letting your sentimentality blind you Garen." Jarvan said. "This will work. Demacia will be whole again."
Garen turned to the window, looking far off as his gaze turned solemn.
---
____Sacred Forest____
"So… you answered my summons."
Morgana sipped from a delicate ceramic cup, the steam curling lazily as she turned her gaze toward Sylas, who stood at the edge of her sanctuary.
He looked nothing like the man who had first arrived months ago.
The feral edge in him had dulled. The angry red hue that once burned in his eyes had faded to something muted, almost weary. His shoulders were tense, but not with rage, rather with the weight of failure.
"I don't know why you wanted me here," Sylas said quietly. "I failed your test."
Morgana tilted her head slightly, a silent invitation to continue.
Sylas drew in a breath. "I was blinded by blood," he admitted. "I let it guide me. I led the mission astray." His hands clenched at his sides. "Our leader… she saw truth in your words. That might alone cannot win." His voice softened. "I see that now too. Leilani nearly lost her life because of my choices."
Morgana nodded slowly, her expression neither condemning nor forgiving. "I can see that you are changing, Sylas," she said. "Even if it took the near death of your comrade for that change to take root."
Sylas lowered his gaze, shame written plainly across his face.
"I would give you my blessings," Morgana continued with a quiet sigh, "if circumstances were not so… complicated."
Sylas looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"
Morgana set her cup down with deliberate care. "The chances of you entering the city of Demacia and escaping it again are virtually nonexistent," she said. "No matter what blessings I might bestow upon you."
Sylas frowned. "Is it the foreigner?" he asked. "Asta."
Morgana nodded. "Indeed. Previously, while unwittingly, I aided your rebellion by drawing much of his attention away." Her eyes darkened slightly. "You will not have that luxury a second time."
The sanctuary fell quiet once more, the weight of her words settling heavily between them.
"But do not fret, Sylas of Dregbourne," Morgana said, a faint smile touching her lips. "The blessing will still be passed on… even if not to you."
Sylas frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The blessing meant to aid you," Morgana explained calmly, "cannot be wielded by you at present. So instead, it will be entrusted to someone who can act in your stead." Her gaze sharpened slightly. "Someone already within the city."
Sylas hesitated. "Asta?"
Morgana shook her head. "I doubt I could give that man anything," she replied dryly. "No. It will be someone else." That was all she offered.
Sensing that no further answers would be forthcoming, Sylas nodded. "I… thank you." He drew a slow breath. "The others plan to lie low for now. Our last mission will provoke a very violent response. We can't afford to lose anyone else."
Morgana smiled softly as she lifted her cup once more, the ceramic warm against her fingers.
Sylas returned the smile, faint but genuine. "Leilani was hoping she might meet you. She was… disappointed she didn't get the chance last time."
Morgana allowed herself a quiet chuckle. "Well, that would be..."
She froze.
A sudden chill crawled down her spine, sharp and unmistakable.
In an instant, Morgana rose to her feet, her middle wings bristling as she moved toward the center of the sanctuary. She stopped before her pool, eyes fixed upon its surface.
"Is something wrong?" Sylas asked, alert now, sensing the abrupt shift in her presence.
Morgana did not answer.
The pool shimmered, its reflection warping until it no longer showed the cavern ceiling above, but Demacia itself. A vast, living map spread across the water's surface.
Her eyes widened.
From the kingdom's edges, a rolling black mass advanced inward, swallowing land and road alike, its movement slow but relentless.
Sylas stepped closer, peering into the vision, his brow furrowing. "What… is that?"
Morgana's lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes ignited with a hateful violet glow.
"Ruination," she said quietly.
The image vanished, the water settling back into stillness as if nothing had disturbed it.
"The Black Mist," Morgana continued, her voice cold. "And with it… the Harrowing."