Morning arrived without any fanfare.
Poppy woke to a picturesque stillness. Sunlight filtered through the narrow window slats, painting thin bars across the bed, falling warm against her face. For a moment she was content to merely lay there staring up at the ceiling, counting breaths, willing her thoughts to behave.
But the hammerbearer was never one to linger over-long.
She rolled onto her side, then promptly sat up, heart thudding as her eyes landed on Orlon's hammer resting against the wall.
It had been there, too. Yesterday, at the smithy. When she–
Her heart sank. She bit her lip, wishing to forget.
I'm sorry you had to see me like that.
It won't happen again. I promise.
She scrubbed a hand over her face. It still smelled of the fragrant oils she'd used to polish the armor.
She let out a soft groan.
"This is fine," she muttered to the empty room.
Poppy dressed with brisk efficiency—tightening straps and belts as though she was cinching the frayed parts of herself back together. By the time she departed from the bedchamber, her expression was molded to be carefully neutral, her posture square, her ears angled just so.
If she acted like yesterday didn't exist, then it wouldn't.
That was how it worked. Or so she told herself.
The manor servants moved with practiced discretion, eyes down, allowing a wide berth as she barrelled through the halls with only one destination in mind.
There was no sign of him in the smithy.
However, the armor was gone.
Okay. So he already took it back. Maybe he left to go somewhere for the day.
None the wiser.
Somewhere distant, metal rang—clean, rhythmic.
She followed the sound without thinking and found none other Darius in the inner courtyard.
He was shirtless, skin still damp from exertion, a towel draped over one shoulder while he rested on one bent knee by an arrangement of training dummies and weapon racks along the wall—rows of blunted axes and practice blades resting in notched wood.
Poppy stopped short of rounding the corner.
…she took a teeny-tiny peek.
She told herself it was purely tactical awareness. An assessment of a future potential threat: noting posture, balance, reach.
That was all.
Still—something in her throat snagged.
The raw spectacle of the man before her could not be denied. His were broad shoulders, corded with muscle that hadn't been sculpted for show, but earned through repetition and strain. Old scars crossed his deep-tanned skin in pale, uneven lines—some shallow, some etched to the bone—each one the quiet evidence of battles with outcomes that could've gone either way.
His back flexed as he reached for a gauntlet, muscle moving beneath skin with an economy that made her head swim.
She looked away at once. Too late.
Her ears burned.
She cursed her own weakness.
Get it together, she told herself.
He's just… a person.
A very… annoyingly well-built person!
She cleared her throat—louder than necessary.
That got his attention. Made him turn, just slightly. Enough to acknowledge her presence. Only to let his gaze flick over her: attire, stance, the way she was standing just a little too neatly that it made her appear rigid.
"Morning," he said.
That was it.
No mention of last night.
No lingering look.
…not the measliest speck of gratitude, either!
Relief and irritation both tangled in Poppy's chest.
She crossed her arms. "You're up early."
"There is no utility in sleeping late."
"Right."
Silence stretched.
She shifted her weight. Her boot scraped stone. She hated how preoccupied she was with analyzing him—of how easily her entire world seemed to bend around his presence.
"You're restless," he said, hands posted on his hips and staring at the wall with his back to her.
His great, ginormous, muscle-y back.
Poppy stiffened. "I-I'm not."
He began rolling his shoulders. "You are."
She shot him a look. "You always this combative?"
"Only yesterday," Darius said mildly, "you were remarkably forthcoming."
Poppy huffed, crossing her arms.
"Shut up."
She turned away, jaw tight, lip puffed in defiance.
"I just… saw some quality armor that needed polishing. Don't let it get to your head."
"So you say."
"Doesn't mean I'll start letting you walk all over me."
"I strive to not make assumptions," he replied. "To merely go by what I observe."
"Okay. Go on, then. I'll humor you."
"You're looking for something."
She scoffed. "That's not exactly a mystery."
"A fight."
"I don't fight for fun."
"No," he agreed, facing her finally. "You fight for purpose. You cling to purpose. You're so afraid of letting go of it, you'd sooner push others away than embrace them fully, if it can be helped. Lest you risk surrendering that purpose."
Poppy glanced at him despite herself.
"That's not true," she said.
Her grip tightened unconsciously around the haft of Orlon's hammer.
"I'm not afraid of anything. Or anyone."
"Then tell me," he said, calm as ever, "why you always look like you're bracing for an impact."
Dubious, she opened her mouth. Closed it.
She wouldn't let it show in her features, but inside, she was shaken.
What does he see in me that I can't see?
He took a step closer—looming, just enough to bring her back into his gravity. "You carry that hammer like a promise you never meant to keep," he said. "You wield a weapon you insist does not belong to you."
Poppy's ears flicked back once before she stilled them.
"I don't… see what that has to do with anything."
Darius studied her for a long moment.
Then, without ceremony, he made a slight gesture for her to approach.
She hesitated. "What now?"
"Come," he said. "Spar with me."
She forced back a smile. "And if I say no?"
"Apologies," he said, shrugging once. "I wasn't aware you had prior commitments."
Her ears twitched. "…that's not fair." You ass.
Stepping aside, he motioned toward the weapon racks behind him.
"Choose one. Grant yourself a feel for it."
Poppy followed his gesture reluctantly, walking over to where the racks were arranged with brutal practicality. Blunted edges, weighted cores, grips wrapped and rewrapped until the leather was soft as skin. These were not ceremonial arms. They were teaching tools—made to bruise rather than kill, to correct rather than punish.
She eyed the entire selection with bubbling suspicion.
"…You're joking," she said.
"I don't jest."
"You think you're so cool, don't you?"
She approached the rack anyway. Her gaze passed over a short sword first—balanced, sensible. Then a spear. A mace. A flanged warhammer not unlike her own, though slimmer, lacking the impossible density of Orlon's make.
Her hand hovered naturally toward the warhammer.
But she stopped herself.
No. Still too similar.
She reached instead for the sword.
The moment her fingers closed around the hilt, she frowned.
It wasn't bad, exactly—but it wasn't right either. The balance pulled forward too eagerly, demanding commitment she didn't trust.
She gave it a few experimental swings.
Clean arcs. Efficient.
Empty.
She set it back with a soft clack.
Darius watched her without comment.
Next—a spear.
She adjusted her grip, tried a thrust, then another. The reach was appealing. The control. Distance meant safety. Distance meant clarity.
But something in her chest foundered.
Too distant. Too detached.
She returned it.
Her eyes lingered on a pair of hand axes after that. Light. Fast. Brutal in close quarters. She tried one, then the other—testing weight, wrist movement, speed.
She thought there was a flicker of something there. A spark.
Then it vanished.
She exhaled sharply and stepped back.
"This is pointless. I already have a weapon."
"You have a responsibility," Darius corrected. "Not the same thing."
She opened her mouth to snap back—
—and froze.
Her gaze had drifted.
There, half-forgotten at the end of the rack, was something… bolder.
It was a blunt-headed polearm shorter than a halberd, longer than a mace. The shaft was solid oak, reinforced with iron bands, the head squared and weighted for impact rather than cleaving.
Her heart beat out a traitorous little thump.
Darius noticed.
"That one," he said surely, "doesn't demand ownership."
She shot him a look.
"Weapons don't demand anything."
"They do," he replied. "Some just do it louder."
Her fingers closed around the haft.
She lifted it.
The weight settled comfortably. Uncannily familiar in a way that made her breath catch.
Her stance adjusted without thought.
Feet planted.
Shoulders squared.
Center of gravity lowered.
The movement that followed was instinctive.
She swung once—felt the air move.
Not fast. Not flashy. But decisive. A sense of rough finality to its strike. A denouement.
Her ears twitched like a sensing antenna.
She tried again—this time striking a nearby dummy.
"Oh!"
The impact rang up her arms.
Something in her core loosened.
Darius spoke behind her. "You look frightened."
She swallowed. "…It's not my hammer."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
Still holding the maul, she turned inward—seeking refuge not in distance, but in memory.
The hammer had never just been a weapon. It was a tether. To Orlon's voice. To the earliest days of Demacia, when hope was fleeting and had to be forged—coaxed from ash and iron by those brave few original settlers who refused to let it die.
Every mile she'd traveled with it had been another vow renewed:
I am still searching. I have not failed you.
And yet.
There were nights—quiet, unguarded moments of solace beneath the stars—when she imagined what it would be like to never find the hero at all. To let the years stretch on, unbroken. To keep the hammer not out of duty, but out of love. Or out of fear. Because as long as the search continued, the past remained close enough to touch. Handing the hammer over would mean admitting that an era had truly ended—and that she would have to cobble together a new life in the world that came after.
Her fingers tightened around the haft.
"It feels like I'm breaking away from something," she murmured at last.
"We grow by shedding loose parts of ourselves."
"Maybe I'm scared of what I'll be left with."
"As I'd imagine you should be," Darius said. "I cannot speak to the complexities of your mind, of a being as long-lived as you. However, I do know the heart of a warrior. And whether you pay it due respects or not, that is a part of you."
That hit harder than the strike.
For the first time in a long while, Poppy smiled without meaning to.
"…Don't read into it," she said quickly.
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close enough to be noticed.
"I wouldn't dare."
This new weapon… it rested easily in her hands.
What might it be like, she wondered then–
To fight without the weight of a legacy deciding every swing?
The answer never came.
Instead—
Steel screamed.
Poppy barely had time to register the blur of red and iron before a throwing axe came spinning out of nowhere, whistling straight for her head.
She saw it coming in time but didn't move.
She didn't need to.
Darius did. He stepped in, arm snapping up as his own weapon flashed. The clash of steel against steel rang sharp and loud as the axe was knocked aside midair, embedding itself in the stone wall with a heavy thunk that made dust rain down.
"Oh come on," a familiar voice drawled from the archway. "You didn't even let it come close!"
Draven strolled into the courtyard like he owned it, hands spread wide in mock apology. "Reflexes are still sharp even off the field, huh, big bro? It's like you never take a second to relax."
Poppy stared at the axe in the wall. Then at him.
Then back at the axe, incredulous.
"…You threw that. At me."
"Guilty." He winked. "I was aiming to miss, though. So don't get your pigtails in a twist."
Darius didn't even look at him.
"I take it you're seeking some frail amusement again, brother."
"Hope I'm not interrupting anything tender."
Poppy's ears went nuclear.
"Who do you think—"
"You've arrived at an opportune moment," Darius said, her protest dying against his unbroken reserve.
Draven blinked. "Have I?"
"Yes." Darius turned slightly, gesturing toward the racks. Toward Poppy. "Spar with her."
Poppy's head snapped around. "What?"
Draven's grin spread, delighted. "Oh. Oh. You're serious."
She recovered quickly—too quickly.
"I agree," she said, before either of them could speak again.
Darius glanced at her, brow lifting a fraction.
"But," she added sweetly, swinging Orlon's hammer up into view and letting its weight settle familiar and heavy in her hands. "I'll be using this."
Draven let out a low whistle. "That's a statement."
Darius regarded the hammer for a long moment.
Then he gave a single, curt grunt.
"Use whatever weapon you wish," he said.
His arms crossed over his chest.
"But understand this," he continued evenly, eyes never leaving her, "if you refuse to step beyond what you already know… you are denying yourself the chance to become something more."
Poppy bristled.
"Then I guess I'll just have to prove you wrong."
Draven laughed, rolling his shoulders as he walked over and plucked his axe from the wall.
"I love this gal already!"
And just like that, the fight was set.