Poppy's days in the manor continued to blur like silt in a cup of wine.
At first, she tried to resist the grasping lull of routine. Lysse would offer dresses she accepted stiffly, submitting to her daily fittings with an air of martyrdom mostly born out of a sense of politeness. The fabrics felt excessive. Too fine. Too indulgent. What was the real devious intent behind all of this? She stood in front of the tall mirrors that lined the inside of her bedchamber's spacious closet with her arms crossed, ears angled back, as if daring the reflection to betray her.
Until, one morning, she caught herself turning slightly in place. Watching the skirts sway.
She thought she looked… pretty.
Lysse noticed, but said nothing. Only smiled.
From the arena stands, she learned Darius by measures of distance. By the way the crowd leaned forward when he entered the arena. By the way the air itself seemed to brace in expectation.
She told herself she watched because she should.
Understanding her captor was only sensible.
It was tactical. Prudent.
It was about making the best of an unfortunate situation, all said.
Still, her eyes always seemed to find him too quickly for her liking. She became like a devoted scholar of his habits in battle—the way he shifted his weight between each decisive strike. The patience he showed when opponents rushed him, perhaps mistaking stillness for hesitation. How he always sought to end fights cleanly, without cruelty, without spectacle.
Gradually, she began to notice the same patterns elsewhere. Be it the way he paused in doorways, as if accounting for a room before entering it. Or how, after a long day, he would set the individual pieces of his armor down with deliberate care, never callously tossing them aside. How he seemed to listen—truly listened—when his officers spoke, even when he ultimately overruled them. How he ate without excess, drank without indulgence, rose before dawn every day without a single note of complaint.
Even at rest, he carried himself with a sage-like… tranquility, almost.
It unsettled her, that level of mindfulness and self-control. His consistency. The quiet revelation that the man in the arena and the man pacing the manor's halls were not two different creatures at all—but the same will, simply expressed through different means.
And yet. There was a hint of more. Something jagged and wild, roving underneath the surface.
She became aware of him one evening not because he entered the room—but because the room changed.
The low murmur of conversation softened. Footsteps adjusted. A subtle reordering, as instinctive as breath. When she looked up, he was there at the far end of the gallery, conversing with one of his captains.
She told herself she would look away.
She didn't.
Darius dismissed the officer with a nod and turned—his gaze finding her with unsettling immediacy, as though he'd sensed her there the entire time.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then he approached, unhurried.
"You're spying on me again," he said, stopping a respectful distance away.
Poppy bristled reflexively. "I'm allowed to look."
"I didn't say you weren't."
That threw her. She glanced aside, then back. "Does it bother you?"
"No," he said after a pause. "If it did, I would have corrected it."
She studied him then, searching his expression for some trace of mockery or dominance. There was none. Only that same steady attention he gave to everything he deemed worth his time.
"You don't mind being watched," she said slowly.
"I mind being misunderstood," he replied. "You do not strike me as careless."
Her ears twitched.
"That… almost comes across as a compliment."
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but something warmer than neutrality. "It was meant as one."
Silence stretched.
"You've adapted well," he added, eyes briefly flicking to the dress she wore—subtle, muted, chosen with more confidence than the first days had seen. "Most wouldn't."
Poppy crossed her arms, defensive by habit rather than conviction. "I don't have much choice."
"No," he agreed. Then, quieter: "But you still choose how."
That landed deeper than she expected.
She looked away first this time, unsure why her chest felt suddenly tight. "You're giving me too much credit."
"I see you as well," he said.
Another pause. This one felt different—charged, as if something hovered just beneath the surface, unspoken by mutual consent.
At last, Darius inclined his head. "Enjoy your evening, Hammerbearer."
As he turned to leave, she surprised herself by speaking.
"Darius."
He stopped.
She hadn't used his name before. Not like that.
"Yes?"
Her mouth opened. Closed. Whatever she'd been about to say slipped through her fingers like water.
"…Good night."
For a heartbeat, she thought she'd imagined the way his shoulders eased—just slightly.
"Good night," he said, and this time there was no mistaking the warmth in it.
He walked on.
Draven, on the other hand, gave her no room for unspoken admiration.
Their spars became routine—loud, fast, and unrelentingly competitive. He fought like a storm with rabid opinions, laughing mid-exchange, switching weapons without warning, daring her to keep up. They traded bruises. Taunts. Victories. Some days she won by stubborn endurance. Other days he did by sheer audacity. Neither kept score. One day, one of their fights ended with both of them flat on their backs, staring up at a sky gone hazy with the midday heat.
Draven groaned. "You hit harder every spar."
"You'd win more if you talked less," Poppy replied, breathless.
She rolled her head to look at him.
"Hey," she said, quieter. "What do you really think about Darius?"
Draven snorted, folding his hands behind his head.
"What the hell kind of question is that?"
"I'm serious. Do you actually hate each other's guts? Or is that all just for show?"
He sighed, eyes still on the sky. "We've always gotten on like this. All bark, all knives. He's a brick wall, I'm fireworks. Total opposites." A pause. "Still brothers."
He turned his head, fixing her with a knowing look.
"But I think," he added lightly, "I should be the one asking you that."
Poppy didn't answer right away.
She watched a cloud drift past the sun. And for the first time, she wondered when exactly the manor had stopped feeling like a prison—and rather like a crossroads.
She had lived long enough to know that time did not move the same for everyone. With mortals, the years went by like weather—felt immediately, spoken of often in passing. For her, they accumulated the way dust did in forgotten corners. Slowly. Invisibly. Only noticeable when she stopped to look.
Change, Poppy had learned, rarely arrived with warning.
She recalled sitting alone at the edge of the manor's garden one evening, boots planted in the grass, hammer laid across her knees. Somewhere inside, voices drifted—servants, laughter, the faint clink of porcelain as they prepared the night's banquet. Life happening without her involvement.
So be it. Longevity had taught her a trick early on:
Attachment was optional.
People came and went. Cities rose, shifted, renamed themselves. Causes hardened, fractured. If she kept her world small—one person, one promise, one road—then nothing could really be taken from her. Not permanently.
That was the logic. Orlon had been the exception, Demacia had been the extension of him.
After that, she'd learned to be careful. She had never allowed herself to grow close to anyone like that ever again. Never truly belonged again. She told herself it was the product of discipline. A higher purpose. Her steadfast resolve. But somewhere along the way, it had become easier to think of it as strategy. Survival.
Poppy guessed it hurt less that way.
She traced a thumb along the hammer's haft, worn smooth by centuries of use.
How many nights had she slept beside it?
How many dawns had begun with the same weight in her hands, the same vow quietly renewed?
If I keep walking, nothing ends.
But now—
She thought of silk dresses that no longer felt like costumes she was forced to wear, for a role in a play she didn't memorize the script to.
Of Lysse's careful kindness.
Of Draven's laughter cutting through exhaustion like sunlight through a pall of smoke.
Of Darius, steady as a mountain, looking at her.
Like she was a thing unfinished—not shattered by time and old heartbreak, as she so often felt.
The thought unsettled her.
Maybe it wasn't that she couldn't grow attached.
Maybe she had simply chosen a life where she never had to watch anyone age past her.
Poppy exhaled slowly.
Living so long meant outlasting things. But it also meant deciding—again and again—whether to let anything matter long enough to hurt.
She rested her forehead against the hammer.
"…It's better for everyone this way," she murmured.
Saying this, she was unsure anymore of who she was trying to convince.
The hammer, for its part, did not answer.
And that, too, felt familiar.
Poppy lay where she'd fallen, the courtyard spinning slowly back into focus above her.
Draven let out a long, theatrical groan beside her. "Next time," he said, voice rough with exertion, "we're calling it a draw before my spine files a formal complaint."
She huffed. Didn't look at him.
The silence that followed came heavy.
Her thoughts—traitorous things—kept circling.
Not him. No.
Her gaze drifted, unbidden, to the edge of the courtyard where Darius had stood earlier. Empty now. Of course it was. He never lingered where he wasn't needed.
How long had it been since they last spoke?
Unfinished, she thought again, the word twisting in her chest.
Draven shifted slightly, turning his head toward her. She felt it more than saw it—the warmth of his shoulder near hers, the easy closeness he never seemed to question.
"You're awfully quiet," he murmured.
She swallowed.
"That's usually when you're about to do something reckless."
Her hammer lay just out of reach.
She rolled onto her side—further from it.
The movement brought her face closer to Draven than she expected. Close enough to count the scratches dusted across his nose. To feel his breath brush her cheek when he spoke.
"Hey," he said softly now. Teasing, in his usual way. A sound like purring almost.
Something in her chest snapped.
Before she could think better of it—before she could brace, or plan, or retreat into something safe—Poppy leaned in—
And kissed him.
It was brief. Meaningless.
It was also far too honest for how little she understood it.
Draven froze. He seemed… startled.
Then he pulled back. To look at her properly.
Poppy's eyes were wide now, her breath shallow as she watched Draven study her face.
"…Okay," he said quietly. "Yeah. That tracks."
She blinked as though she'd just woken up. "What?"
"Don't get me wrong—it's not like we couldn't go somewhere with that. Hell, I've shared a cot with one or two yordle gals in my time. But you and I both know that, just now, wasn't about me."
Her mouth opened but no sound came out.
What did I do that for?
He exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking away.
"You're deep in it, babe. There's no hiding it."
Poppy looked away, ears burning. "Deep in what?"
"Just now—wasn't an accident."
Her hands curled into the cobblestones.
"I don't know. I mean. No, I didn't—"
"Hey." He cut her off gently. "It's all good. Awkward smooches aren't a crime. Trust me."
She laughed weakly, scrubbing at her face.
"You're… annoyingly insightful."
"You mean for someone who throws axes at people for a living?" He chuckled lightly. "Thanks. Actually I get that a lot. But hey, even though you're like a hundred years older than me, take my advice…"
She turned her focus to him intently.
"You either want something or you don't," he said, "there's no in-between."
Poppy lay back again, staring up at the sky.
The heat of the dying sun pressed down. The crossroads loomed.
"…I'm not sure what I want," she muttered.
Draven shrugged, sprawling beside her once more. "Eh. I've had worse kisses with better timing."
That earned a small, shaky smile.
But even as Poppy smiled—
Even as the dust settled and the moment passed—
Her thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.
To a man who didn't laugh.
To a presence like a fault line beneath her feet.
To the feeling that she'd just proven something she wasn't ready to face yet.
That scared her far more than a kiss ever could.
Regardless, the games would continue.
A new day dawned. Another match was set.
Crimson banners snapped overhead as Darius stepped out onto the sand of the arena at the head of his unit, boots sinking slightly into ground already churned by earlier bouts.
His soldiers fanned out, keeping formation.
The opposing side had been measured—numbers, posture, confidence.
Only then, as he always did, he let his gaze drift up. Toward the VIP section in the stands. To linger at that familiar line of iron railing in a way that would have appeared casual, unimportant.
But something was missing.
His jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.
Of course, she had no obligation to attend. The manor was not a cell; the stands were not a leash.
And yet—
His eyes moved again, slower this time. Searching where Poppy usually sat. Where she leaned forward when he fought. Where she pretended not to watch, failing every time.
Nothing.
The horn sounded.
Darius lowered his gaze back to the arena, attention snapping cleanly into place. There were men in front of him. There was a battle to conclude. That was all that mattered.
The opposing force advanced.
Steel rang.
Sand scattered beneath charging feet.
And then—
The sound of boots on stone. Movement behind.
Unhurried, not uncertain. Not anymore.
Darius felt it before he saw it—the shift in gravity, the subtle disturbance in the atmosphere of the arena. One of his soldiers glanced back, startled, before quickly correcting himself.
He turned. And Poppy was there, stepping out onto the sand from the tunnel behind the Noxian line.
She wore no silk today. No borrowed finery. She was dressed for motion—leather, reinforced cloth, her hammer secured across her back. The sun caught along the metal as she moved, bright and unflinching.
The crowd murmured, equal parts confused and curious.
She didn't look at them.
She walked straight past the banners. Past the waiting soldiers.
And stopped at Darius's side.
Turning her head slightly she said, low enough that only he could hear:
"You didn't think I'd miss one, did you?"
For the first time since entering the arena, Darius forgot the enemy in front of him.
His gaze flicked over her—checking, assessing.
"Why now?" was all he asked.
She gave a tiny shrug. "I wanted a better view."
"You understand what this looks like," he said quietly.
"I do." Her mouth curved—not into a smile, but something daringly close. Feelings of uncertainty, for her, had always been easier to manage through immediate action.
"Let them look," she said resolutely.
The horn sounded again, sharper this time.
It was a call to engage.
Darius turned forward once more, axe settling into his grip.
"You will remain at my side," he said.
She snorted softly. "We'll see."
"That is a direct order."
"Only because you said so, General."
That earned the faintest exhale from him—something that might have registered as mild amusement, if anyone else were watching.
The opposing commander shouted an order.
Darius stepped forward.
And Poppy stepped with him.
The crowd on both sides was loving it.
Darius did not look back again.But as the battle began, as steel met steel and purpose cut through noise—he remained acutely aware of her at his flank. Not as a captive. Not as a symbol. But by her own volition.
And whatever this was—whatever had shifted since the last time he'd seen her in the stands—
There was no going back.
Whether either of them was ready for it or not.