The arena where the games were held spanned like a wound cut clean through the land. On one side, Demacia's banners snapped sharp and proud in the wind—blue and white, lion sigils blazing beneath the sun. On the other, Noxus answered with crimson and black, iron trimmed in gold. Between them lay the pit itself: stone and sand, blood-scoured from centuries of sanctioned carnage. Neutral ground, both nations called it. Whereas in function, it was no different from an active warzone.
Poppy watched from the stands, seated in a shaded section elevated above the rest that was cordoned off by wrought iron rails. The VIP tier. Where Noxian elites drank wine and discussed outside business, wagering lives like coins.
She felt out of place. Not unwelcome—but worse. Displayed.
Below, the horn sounded. The crowd roared.
Darius entered the arena with no spectacular flourish. He didn't so much as raise his axe to the crowd or acknowledge the cheers. He simply walked to the center of the pit, heavy boots grinding stone, and waited. Three opponents approached him at once—Demacian fighters by the look of their armor, dulled for the Games but no less real for it. Veterans, all three. They spread out, cautious, circling.
Poppy leaned forward with anticipation.
She'd heard the stories. Around Demacian campfires, Darius was spoken of like a beast. A butcher. A cruel savage who reveled in gore and conquest.
What she was about to witness couldn't be further from that.
He moved with precision—every step calculated, every strike deliberate. He didn't rush. Didn't roar. He let them come to him, watching, analyzing. When the first lunged, Darius pivoted—not away, but through—hooking the man's shield aside with the haft of his axe and slamming his elbow into the exposed joint beneath the helm.
Down.
The second came in hard from the flank. Darius caught the blade on his axehead, twisted, and used the man's momentum against him—sending him sprawling with a kick to the knee.
The third hesitated.
That was the kind of mistake Darius looked for.
He closed the distance in two strides and struck—not to kill, though one could be fooled—the flat of his axe ringing against armor in a perfect blow.
Within a span of minutes, three bodies hit the sand.
The audience erupted.
Poppy exhaled slowly, only then realizing she'd been holding her breath.
That bout had a name—a gambit. A formal challenge. Rare, symbolic. One commander was pitted alone against three officers of lieutenant rank or lower from the opposing force. No formations. No banners. Just unfeeling steel and nerve.
The rules were simple. If the commander fell, he would forfeit one captive back to the other side. Should he prevail, the three he defeated would be claimed in turn.
The victor was the last to fall.
Poppy knew what—or rather who—the Demacian side had wagered this time.
Not coin. Nor territory.
It was Her.
She felt the weight of it now, heavy as the hammer across her back. For political reasons, they would have debated in their war room. For appearances, it wouldn't do for such an enduring symbol of Demacia's founding to remain in Noxian hands, even temporarily. Not with tensions already taut. Not with fears of magical subterfuge still smoldering under the city's skin.
She'd told herself she didn't mind.
That she was only another piece on the board.
But after witnessing Darius so easily dismantle his opponents, she wondered—uncomfortably—what a huge blow to morale it would be for him to have actually won.
"HA! Hell yeah! That's it!"
The laugh came from her left—loud, sharp, delighted.
Poppy startled.
The man seated beside her sprawled in his chair, boots kicked up against the rail like he owned the place. He wore red and gold, but not the uniform cut of a general. His armor was lighter and far flashier, more theatrical.
His mustachioed grin was wide and wolfish.
"Knock 'em dead, big bro!"
Poppy froze.
Slowly, she turned her head.
The man caught her look instantly and barked a laugh, eyes lighting with interest.
"Ohhh," he drawled. "That face. That's priceless."
She turned away at once, ears burning.
"Hey, hey—don't get shy on me now," he said, leaning closer. "What's with that look, little mouse?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Poppy muttered.
He chuckled. "Sure you don't."
She tried to ignore him. But he pressed:
"You're that prize my big bro won in the last bout, ain't ya?" he continued cheerfully. "He's had you holed up like a princess in that crummy old manor ever since."
"Just now," Poppy said, carefully, "you called Darius—"
"—Lord Darius," the man corrected instantly, tapping his temple. "Come on. You've gotta stick to the script."
"I'm never calling him that," she spat.
"Okay, okay! No need to bite." He laughed again. "Whatever unresolved internal conflicts you've got going on aren't my business."
She eyed him sidelong. "…Is he really your brother?"
The man looked almost offended. "Wow. Ouch." He slapped a hand to his chest. "Name's Draven. And to answer your question, little lady—yes. Unfortunately. That big lug and I are, in fact, brothers."
"You don't look it," Poppy said.
"Think so?" Draven smirked. He gave a phony sigh of relief. "Thank the gods."
Poppy looked him over, appearing displeased.
"You're watching from the stands."
His smile faded as he lounged back, eyes flicking to the arena where Darius stood amid the cheers like a statue carved from the earth itself. "I don't fight in the Games anymore. Not after that time I—well, anyway. What's the point if the rules don't let you make it interesting?"
"You find this boring?" Poppy asked.
"The way soldiers go at it, it's like the missionary style of fighting," he said lightly. "Especially when it's him. But a win's a win, I guess. Efficiency rules on an actual battlefield."
Poppy sensed there was a stronger emotion of a sort underlying his tone, then, as he glanced away with a dismissive snort. Certainly not admiration, exactly. Nor pure disdain either. A note of something more complicated—a twisting of the two sentiments that perhaps only he could articulate. Not that he ever would.
Draven's gaze slid back to her before long.
"I'm surprised he hasn't dragged you down there with him."
Poppy stiffened. "He never asked."
"And if he did?"
"I would say no. I won't fight my own people."
Draven tilted his head. "Are Demacians really what you'd call your people?"
Poppy bristled.
The question landed wrong. Too casual, too direct.
"You don't know what you're talking about. I was there when Demacia was founded!" She exclaimed. "Before the crowning of the first emperor!"
Draven rolled his eyes. "So what? You telling me it hasn't changed at all in the hundred-odd years since then?" Another snort. "I knew Demacians were a bunch of sticks in the mud, but I'm sorry, that's just plain sad."
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
"You ever consider hopping the border?" he pressed. "Just to look around? After so long?"
"No. I mean—I don't…"
She trailed off.
In truth, she… hadn't considered it.
The realization left her strangely off-balance.
Draven watched her carefully.
Then he smiled—wiser than he knew to let on.
"Maybe," he said, "all this time you've been searching for a hero, or whatever… you just aren't going to find them in your own backyard."
Poppy turned away from him, jaw tight.
Below, the crowd still roared.
Her eyes found Darius again and she noticed the stains on his armor now. Smudges of sand, dust, sweat. The dullness along the edge of his axe where it had struck again and again—not in rage, but with discipline.
A warrior who didn't waste motion.
A man who didn't swing (or speak) unless he meant to bring a matter to resolution.
Her fingers curled unconsciously in her lap.
A man like that… could be a Hero.
She didn't realize she was still thinking about it until the gates closed behind them.
The roar of the crowd followed them only so far. By the time the carriage doors shut, the sound had thinned to a dull echo. Like thunder remembered rather than heard.
Seated across, she found herself staring.
"General."
The word slipped out before she could stop it.
He glanced at her—just long enough to acknowledge the address—and then looked away again, posture settling into that unreadable stillness that had unsettled her since the first night.
"You needn't use titles," he said.
She swallowed. "Right."
A pause.
"What is it?" he asked.
"You… fought well today." She meant it simply. Sincerely.
"I saw you conversing with my brother."
Poppy folded her hands together.
"Your armor," she said. "It's… seen a lot today. I can tend to it."
He looked at her then.
A corner of his mouth twitched.
"Why?"
Poppy gave a deflated sigh, falling back against the seat.
"Do I need to have a reason?" she snapped.
His gaze didn't waver. "What is this really about?"
"You won. I lost." Her ears flicked back; saying it aloud still stung more than she expected.
"So now my life's in your hands. That's the rules of the game, right?" She let out a sharp breath. "Or are Noxians only comfortable when everything is transactional?"
"I only asked you a simple question."
Poppy exhaled, long and tight.
"I've cleaned armor before," she said. "For someone who mattered to me."
A pause—longer this time.
"I don't do it lightly."
"That still doesn't answer my question."
"Okay—fine." She gave a frustrated little groan. "I noticed the dents," she said. "The way your armor moves when you turn. You don't fight like you're wearing it—you fight like it's part of you."
She swallowed.
"You've been… fair to me."
A beat.
"So I just thought—"
Darius leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees now. Attentive.
"Thought what?"
Her voice dropped. To a near-whisper.
"I thought I could give it the care it deserves."
The carriage rocked gently beneath them, wheels grinding over stone.
Darius said nothing at first.
He sat there, gaze fixed ahead, jaw working once as if he were turning the thought over in his mouth—testing its texture. The silence stretched uncomfortably long.
Poppy resisted the urge to fidget.
Her hands stayed folded in her lap, knuckles tight.
She wondered, absurdly, if she'd said too much. Or not enough.
Finally, he nodded once.
His gaze flicked—just for a moment—to the hammer at her back.
"Okay."
The word landed with more force than she could have anticipated.
Relief rushed through her so fast it nearly made her dizzy—as beneath it, traitorous and unwelcome, something warm unfurled in her chest. She felt a plunging sensation in her stomach, like if she'd stepped too close to a ledge and the ground had dropped away for a heartbeat. Through the remainder of the carriage ride, she had to fight to keep her eyes forward, her breathing dull. But she couldn't quite contain the small, stupid smile from tugging at the corner of her mouth.
There was no thought spared for any other matters once they had arrived back at Redthorn.
The smithy sat apart from the manor proper, half-buried into the stone like a lingering afterthought. Racks of horseshoes lined one wall. Tools hung in careful rows, their handles worn smooth by generations of working hands. A single forge glowed low, banked for warmth rather than work, its light casting long amber shadows across the floor in the fleeing daylight.
Darius stepped inside first. The door shut behind them with a final, echoing weight while Poppy lingered a heartbeat too long near it, suddenly aware of the enclosed space. The way the air pressed closer here. The way sound seemed to fall inward rather than escape.
It felt like a jail cell.
That's when she noticed Darius was already loosening the clasp at his shoulder.
"Here," she said quickly. "Let me."
Perhaps too quickly.
His hand stilled. A low sound rumbled in his chest. Not a refusal.
She was already beside him. Her fingers found the fastenings with practiced certainty. Leather straps, metal buckles warm from his body. The armor yielded piece by piece, each release marked by a subtle shift in his breathing. She worked carefully. Respectfully. However, that didn't stop her from noticing how close she stood, or how broad he was even without the armor's exaggeration. How the heat of him lingered in the space between them, as if the steel had been holding it in.
The cuirass came free last, almost the size of her. She took it from him with both hands—staggering slightly before recovering, bracing it against her hip.
"Careful," he muttered.
"I've got it," she said, just a touch too eagerly for her liking.
She laid the armor out across the central worktable, piece by piece. Each plate bore the marks of the day—scored edges, flecks of dried grime, faint dents and scratches.
When she straightened after, she realized her hands were trembling.
Darius noticed.
"Is something the matter?"
"No," she said immediately, with undue sharpness. "No. You can… you can go."
"Very well," he said quickly. Then turned toward the door. "I have a war council. I'll be away until morning." A beat. "Leave it here once you're finished."
She nodded. Once. Not so much as looking at him.
Her gaze was fully fixed on the armor.
The door closed and he was gone, its sound echoing longer in Poppy's mind than she queasily felt it should have, the silence rushing in to fill the space he'd left behind.
Her breath came uneven now. She hadn't noticed when that started.
She knelt close to examine the armor again.
The warmth hadn't faded yet.
Something in her chest loosened—the sting of salt in her eyes made her briefly wince.
She thought of Orlon. Of sitting cross-legged beside him, centuries ago, oil staining her hands black as night while he talked on, for hours unaware of the way her focus narrowed to the rise and fall of his chest, or the shuffling of his minute features. She could clearly picture, even now, the crinkles around his nose or the ridges of his forehead when he smiled. How her heart would flutter at the sound of his laughter.
She thought of the erotic tales she had come across in the library. Of the reverence in their words. The way they framed yearning as a thing of beauty to be cherished, not feared and hid away.
Her fingers flexed.
Slowly, deliberately, she reached for the latch on the door. She locked it with a hard, decisive click.
She swallowed.
Practicality first, she told herself. Oil would ruin silk.
This next step was sensible. Nay, necessary.
…she shed her garments one by one.
Naked, she folded them neatly over a bench, the forge's warmth kissing her skin with beads of sweat and the cold of the encroaching evening raising gooseflesh along her arms.
She stood there only breathing for a moment, grounding herself.
"This is stupid," she murmured.
But her hands were already moving.
She poured oil into a shallow basin, the scent blooming rich and sharp. She dipped her fingers in, then set them against the armor's surface.
The metal drank it in. Her touch slowed without her meaning it to.
Each motion became careful. Intentional. The way it always had when the work *mattered*. When it wasn't just about maintenance, but preservation, an act of devotion for something she viewed as sacred.
Her breathing changed again.
"General," she whispered—soft, unguarded.
The word lingered in the air, unanswered.
She closed her eyes.
What if it could always be like this?