Darius had given her a room that would shame a Demacian dignitary.
Walls draped in deep crimson silk. Black lacquered beams carved with snarling beasts. Bronze candelabras casting warm light onto velvet coverlets. The air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and a faint curl of smoke from the hearth. Everything here was beautiful, but heavy with purpose—as if every stitch, every polished surface, had been chosen not just to please the eye, but to remind her whose coin paid for it.
Her own armor and leathers were gone. In their place: a sleeping shift of silk so fine she could feel the whisper of the weave against her skin with every breath. Fit for a princess, or perhaps a prize.
She lay in that luxury like a trespasser.
Sleep came slow.
He appeared to her as he always did — in fragments.
First as a mistborn figure, tall enough to rest the weight of a great hammer against the earth as though it were a walking stick. Broad-shouldered. Silent. She *knew* she was meant to recognize him. The original keeper. The one she'd sworn to find a worthy successor to. But every time her gaze tried to fix on his face, the features slid away like water over stone.
A hand settled on her shoulder—warm, firm, protective. Yet there was an edge there too, something claiming in the way his thumb traced slow, idle circles.
When he leaned down toward her neck, she felt the brush of breath.
And suddenly the hand seemed larger. Rougher.
The breath came warmer. Closer.
And then the fangs dug in.
She jolted awake.
The silk twisted around her like a net. Her grip was clenched in the velvet coverlet, knuckles pale as if bracing for a blow that never came. Sweat prickled down her spine as she sat up, drawing in the heavy air of the room, pulse quick and uneven.
She flinched at a knock on the door.
"Hammer-bearer." Darius's voice. Steady, composed.
She rose, bare feet silent on the carpet, and cracked the door just enough to see him. His armor was shed, replaced by a loose black tunic.
"What do you want?" she snapped.
"One of the night guards," he said, his mouth curved into the faintest ghost of a smile, "claims he heard you moaning in your sleep."
Heat surged into her face before she could stop it.
"He's mistaken."
Darius held her gaze for a heartbeat too long.
Then he inclined his head slightly, stepping back. "If you say so."
He didn't press it, didn't smirk or tease. But in his eyes, just for a moment, there was that sharper glint—the same determination she'd seen by the fire, the same certainty of a man who knew how to wait for a door to open on its own.
And then she caught it—the faintest curl of scent in the air. Rich. Warm. Savory.
Her stomach, the traitorous thing, tightened.
When she turned, the source was apparent. A woman stood behind Darius—tall, slender, draped in plain linens with a dark veil drawn over her face. She moved with the quiet precision of someone accustomed to being invisible. In her grasp: a gilded waiting trolley, laden with silver trays oozing hot steam. There was fresh bread still warm from the oven, a wedge of pale cheese, roasted meat glistening under a glaze, a small bowl of cut fruit…
Darius leaned in the doorway.
"I had it brought up," he said. "You fought well yesterday; I felt it a shame you didn't eat much last night. Wouldn't have you going into the day half-starved."
Poppy, licking back her pooling saliva, glanced between him and the maid, wary.
"You arrange breakfast for all your… captives?"
His mouth curved, unreadable. "Only the ones that may require their stamina."
The maid stepped aside, almost ceremonially, revealing the tray in full—like the yordle herself was part of the offering. The morning light caught against the silverware, flashing, as the smell struck Poppy again: herbs, butter, the smoky sweetness of the meat.
Her pride told her to ignore it.
However, her stomach staunchly opposed the motion.
When she didn't move right away, Darius inclined his head toward the table. "Eat. Or I'll take it as an insult to my hospitality."
He let the pause linger a moment.
"And I would be forced to consider a punishment."
Poppy bit her lip. A faint, dizzy heat curled through her chest, as she wondered if this was all some bad dream she hadn't yet woken from. Here was the Noxian take on manners, she supposed. Domination wrapped in a shroud of kindness, the line between courtesy and control so thin you could mistake one for the other.
Her body moved like it was on strings.
She sat. She ate.
And every bite, under Darius's gaze, felt measured.
Poppy was halfway through the roasted meat—suspiciously good, crispy at the edges and soaked in something sweet and herbal—when Darius spoke again.
"The maid will dress you once you've finished," he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Poppy choked slightly. "She'll what?"
He raised a brow. "You're my guest, aren't you?"
"I'm not some pampered noble!"
"I know," he said smoothly. "But I would have you clean, well-fed, and rested before the next round."
He started to turn.
"And if you'd prefer not to be idle," he added over his shoulder, "you may stroll the courtyard. Or the library, if that suits you better."
Poppy opened her mouth to protest again—too late. Darius was already walking away, broad shoulders retreating down the corridor with the heavy, unhurried tread of someone perfectly at peace with his own authority.
She scowled after him. "Bossy jerk."
The maid remained by the doorway, still and silent.
Poppy glanced at her again, gaze drifting to the click of a fine iron collar gleaming just under her veil. Small etchings were carved into the metal, too fine to make out.
Her irritation dimmed.
"What's your name?" she asked gently.
The woman hesitated, then bowed her head with mechanical grace. "My designation is Lysse, miss."
"Lysse." Poppy tried the name out, then nodded. "Alright then. Thank you, Lysse."
The maid blinked. A tiny flicker of something passed behind her eyes—gratitude? Surprise?—before she bowed again, retreating toward the wardrobe.
A few minutes later, Poppy stood, arms crossed tightly, staring down a luxurious array of garments splayed out across the bedding like a battlefield's worth of unfamiliar weapons.
Every outfit was worse than the last.
Corseted gowns. Robes split scandalously up the side. Tunics that clung too tightly, necklines that plunged too far. Soft, silky, swishy things in shades of wine and gold and black. No armor. No boots. Not even a sturdy belt in sight.
Poppy's ears twitched in rising panic. "I—uh—I'm fine! I'll dress myself, thanks."
Lysse froze.
"Are you… quite certain?" she asked, voice just a little too fast.
Poppy turned. "Yeah. Why? What's wrong?"
"…Nothing," Lysse replied too quickly, hands folded in front of her. "If that is your wish, miss, then I shall comply."
She bowed again—deeper this time.
And as she straightened, Poppy caught it: the faintest wince, like a ripple of pain through the base of her skull. Her fingers curled slightly, lips twitching in a tight grimace that vanished a second later.
"…Lysse?" Poppy's voice softened. "What was that just now?"
But Lysse was already stepping back, her expression carefully composed once more. "Shall I remain outside while you change, miss?"
Poppy hesitated.
"…Yeah. Sure. Thanks."
The door clicked softly shut behind her, and Poppy turned back to the bed.
She looked down at the shimmering dresses. Then at her reflection in the silver-framed mirror: wild hair, bare feet, silk shift.
She frowned.
"This is so ridiculous," she muttered. Then she sighed and reached for something less scandalous than the rest, muttering under her breath, "Damn Noxians. Figures I'd lose to a psychopath with a strange liking for yordles."
She paused, fingers still curled around the fabric.
What could he possibly see in her?
The thought came unbidden. She was a yordle—small, strange, long-lived in ways most people couldn't even comprehend. A creature of stories and half-remembered myths, not someone meant to be… looked at. Certainly not in that way. Certainly not by a man like Darius. A Noxian. A general. A walking embodiment of everything Demacia had taught her to stand against.
Romance between their kinds? The idea bordered on absurd.
How would it even work—two lives so mismatched in scale, in years, in expectation? She'd watched humans age and wither like leaves over centuries. Watched affection turn to memory, memory to ache. She knew better than to let herself wonder.
Her ears twitched, and she shook her head sharply, as if to fling the thought from it.
No. This was nothing. A game. Theater and circumstance, nothing more. The War Games required proximity, demanded courtesy, demanded its participants play their respective roles. Darius was playing his as well as she was playing hers. That was all this was—make-believe draped in silk and sharpened smiles.
At the end of it, he would still be a Noxian.
And Noxus would still be the enemy.
She exhaled, steadied herself, and finished dressing—determined not to let her thoughts wander somewhere dangerous again.
The library was not what she expected. Far from the pristine bastions of knowledge like the halls she half-remembered from Demacia's earliest days. No, this was surprisingly more modest. Even cozy, despite the circumstances. Shelves bowed under the weight of too many books, stacked two and three deep. Dust-covered scrolls were crammed into neat little cubbies. Maps were pinned directly to the walls, edges curling with age. The scent was dust and ink and old leather—and beneath it all, something faintly metallic, like blood long dried.
Because of course, Poppy thought.
Light filtered in from high windows, catching motes of dust that drifted lazily in the air.
Poppy wandered as if she were sleepwalking.
She found military treatises first. Predictable. Noxian doctrine written in a dozen hands—brutal, pragmatic, unapologetic. Then histories. Not just of Noxus, but of everywhere. Demacia too. Though those volumes were thinner, newer, heavily annotated with sharp, dissenting notes in the margins.
One passage described Demacia's founding:
—a haven established by refugees fleeing magical persecution—
"Refugees," she murmured with a frown. "That part's right, at least."
She moved on. To folklore. Monster compendiums. Illustrated bestiaries of antiquity that made her snort quietly—well now, that's not how horns work—until she reached a back shelf, half-shadowed and conspicuously less organized.
The titles here were… odd. Out of place. Poetic, flowery. Vague in a way that felt deliberate.
The Hammerbearer's Desire.
The Hammer and the Caressing Hand.
Beneath the Hammer's Weight.
Poppy squinted, unsure of what to make of these.
"…Huh."
She pulled one free.
It fell open somewhere in the middle, pages well-worn.
Her eyes skimmed a line—
—and snapped the book shut so fast it made a noise.
Her ears burned.
She looked around, heart pounding.
She swallowed. "This—this can't be what I think it is," she whispered.
Slowly, she cracked the book open again. Just a little. Its contents were not… explicit, per se. But nothing was remotely subtle about the scenes being depicted. All steeped with implication, gentle touches and whispered nothings abound. Yet for how crass the subject matter might be, the language used to convey it was… reverent. Devotional, almost. The texts spoke with admiration of a "great warrior from a distant land." A "stout, valiant figure" of a "noble species" wielding a "magical hammer." But a woman still. One that could be won over under just the right amount of applied pressure.
The full realization of what she was reading made her stomach flip.
She shut the book again. Harder this time.
Her face felt like it was on fire.
"It's about me," she hissed.
…an entire collection of embarrassingly earnest fantasies. Erotica. Devout, almost. Each one insisting—incredibly—that she was a worthy prize!
"That's—that's ridiculous! Humans are ridiculous."
She shoved the book back onto the shelf.
But then, as she was turning, she hesitated in her step. Glanced at the spine again.
Her hand crept back, traitorous. "…for purely academic purposes," she muttered, yanking it free and tucking it under her arm before she could think better of it. "To better understand… any misconceptions humans might have." About, err, interspecies relations! Or yordle anatomy.
Forbidding herself to even so much as look at the other titles, she fled the library at a brisk pace.
Lysse followed after, concerned.
"Just needed some fresh air," Poppy reassured her.
"I will show you to the courtyard, then. If it pleases you."
The air outside was cooler than within the manor's halls, paved in stone holding onto the day's shade. Poppy walked its perimeter beside Lysse, sandals whispering over the pale flagstone. She kept her gaze forward, only shifting between different flowers or ferns that briefly caught her attention, hands clasped behind her back—anything to keep her thoughts from circling back to those bookspines of gilt-lettered debauchery.
She considered the dress she'd chosen. A light drape of silk cinched just above the waist, dyed a muted wine-dark that almost matched the manor's banners. Flexible leggings hugged her legs without restricting them, and the sandals—simple leather, well-balanced—bent easily with each step. Nothing pinched. Nothing snagged.
She hated to admit it, but whoever had chosen the garments had known exactly what they were doing.
It moved with her. Let her move.
Poppy rolled her shoulders once, experimentally, then flexed her toes against the stone. No resistance. No weight dragging her down. It felt… good. Dangerous, that—how quickly comfort could dull suspicion. How easily a body could be coaxed into forgetting it was a guest, or a captive, or a possession being secretly appraised for its worth.
She scowled faintly and clasped her hands tighter behind her back, as if discipline alone might keep the fabric from winning her over.
"So," Poppy said, a little too brightly, "this place."
"Redthorn Hold," Lysse corrected.
They passed beneath a narrow arcade where ivy had been trained—forced, Poppy thought—into obedient lines.
"It's… nice." If a bit gloomy.
Lysse glanced at her. "Would you care to know the history?"
She spoke without drama, as though reciting a weather report. The manor had once belonged to a duke who ruled the surrounding lands. A proud line, the Redthorns. An old one. However, when famine came and taxes did not ease, the people rose. The duke was dragged from these very halls. So was his wife. His sons. His daughters. None spared.
Poppy slowed. "The children too?"
Lysse nodded once. "A tree which bears fruit will rise again once felled."
Ownership changed hands after that—between the families who had led the uprising, then between those who slaughtered them in turn. Blood answered blood. Eventually, Noxian command intervened. A platoon arrived. Order was restored. The manor was seized, stripped of lineage, and repurposed—used now only when convenient. War Games. Summits. Displays of power. Only the servants remained year-round, tending to the ghosts that never quite left.
They reached the courtyard's far edge, where a dry fountain sat cracked and empty. Poppy stared into it for a long moment, ears drooping just slightly.
"…That's awful," she said.
Lysse inclined her head. "All great change comes with a great upheaval."
Later—much later—back in her lavish, absurdly soft bedchamber, Poppy sat cross-legged on the mattress, Orlon's hammer propped nearby like a silent witness.
The day refused to settle, clinging to Poppy's thoughts in restless pieces. She told herself she didn't care when Darius would return. Told herself it didn't matter. And yet the longer the room stayed quiet, the more aware she became of it—of the space he had left behind, and the way her pulse jumped every time she imagined it filled again.
A book she'd borrowed from the library lay hidden beneath her pillow.
She stared at the ceiling.
This is stupid, she told herself firmly.
This is just a game.
He's the enemy.
They're all the enemy.
And yet…
With a groan, she rolled onto her side and dragged the book free. The Hammer and the Caressing Hand, its cover read.
"Just one page," she whispered to no one.
Purely out of anthropological curiosity.