The Magician's Trick
The destruction was over, leaving a haunting silence in its wake. The once-bustling city of Kalstead now stood in ruins, its streets littered with rubble and ash. The mercenaries and converted soldiers who could escape had fled, leaving behind only their shattered plans. Fortunately, the revolutionaries had warned the civilians in time, sparing many lives. Yet, the cost was still immense. Several revolutionaries and countless Demacian soldiers had fallen, their bodies now lying cold amidst the debris.
Under the pale glow of the moonlight, survivors—soldiers and civilians alike—banded together, combing through the wreckage. They pulled the injured to safety and carried the dead to a clearing in the town square, where a solemn line of lifeless forms began to take shape. Each new body placed among them deepened the weight of the night's tragedy.
Jarvan IV and Xin Zhao arrived in the midst of this grim scene. As Jarvan stepped into the devastated city, his legs faltered. He fell to his knees, staring in disbelief at the destruction illuminated by the moonlight. The air felt heavy with smoke and sorrow, pressing down on him like an unbearable burden.
For a moment, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He could only stare, wide-eyed, at the remnants of Kalstead—a city he had sworn to protect. When he finally gathered the strength to stand, he made his way to the town square. There, his worst fears were confirmed. The rows of dead stretched before him, a tapestry of loss and failure.
His breath quickened, his chest tightening as his eyes swept over the bodies. Among the fallen, his soldiers stood out, their shining Demacian armor dulled by soot and blood. Each familiar crest and emblem felt like a blade to his heart. Their faces—some youthful, others hardened—stared blankly into the night, their lives snuffed out under his command.
Jarvan couldn’t bear it. He turned and stumbled into a shadowed alley, Xin Zhao close behind him. When they were alone, the prince collapsed against a wall, his head in his hands. His shoulders shook as the tears came, hot and unrelenting.
The weight of his failure bore down on him, suffocating in its intensity. Jarvan’s tears fell freely now, pooling on the dusty ground beneath him. For the first time in his young life, he felt truly powerless—a prince undone by the consequences of his choices. The responsibility that came with his title, which had once felt like a noble calling, now seemed like an unbearable burden.
“I’m not ready for this,” Jarvan whispered, his voice trembling. “I thought I could lead them, protect them, but… I’m just a boy pretending to be a leader. They died because of me, Xin. All of them. Because I wasn’t strong enough.”
Xin Zhao, ever the stalwart protector, knelt beside him, his expression calm but his eyes filled with understanding. He placed a firm hand on Jarvan’s shoulder, steadying the prince as his grief threatened to consume him.
“You’re wrong,” Xin said, his voice low but resolute. “You’re not just a boy. You’re a prince. And princes don’t fail because they stumble. They fail when they refuse to stand back up.”
Jarvan looked up, his tear-streaked face etched with doubt. “How can I lead anyone after this? How can they trust me when I couldn’t even save my own soldiers?”
Xin’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “Because leadership isn’t about never falling. It’s about what you do after you fall. It’s about owning your mistakes, learning from them, and carrying that weight with honor. Your soldiers followed you not because you’re perfect, but because they believe in the man you’re destined to become.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with truth. Xin leaned closer, his gaze steady. “You’re barely twenty, my Prince. No one expects you to have all the answers. Every great leader started where you are now—doubting themselves, questioning their worth. What sets them apart is their choice to rise from their failures, to grow stronger because of them.”
Jarvan’s breath hitched, but something in Xin’s words struck a chord deep within him.
“The people out there,” Xin continued, gesturing toward the ruined city, “they need you now more than ever. Not a perfect prince, but a human one. Someone who cares enough to feel this pain, to carry it with him, and to fight for a better tomorrow. That’s what true strength looks like.”
Jarvan wiped at his face, his hands trembling. The grief still lingered, heavy and unrelenting, but beneath it, a flicker of determination began to take root.
Xin stood, extending a hand to Jarvan. “You can’t change what happened here tonight. But you can honor the dead by leading the living. That’s what they would want. That’s what your people need.”
For a moment, Jarvan hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached out and took Xin’s hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. The weight in his chest hadn’t lifted, but it no longer felt insurmountable.
As they stepped out of the alley, the moonlight illuminated the destruction before them. Jarvan’s heart ached, but his resolve was stronger now. He would carry this pain, but he wouldn’t let it define him.
He wasn’t just a boy pretending to be a leader. He was a prince learning to be one.
The firelight flickered softly as the line of hungry civilians moved forward, accepting food with quiet gratitude. Powder stood by the large pot of stew, carefully ladling portions into bowls, while Vi handed out bread loaves beside her. The two worked in silence for a while, the sounds of the crowd filling the space between them. Across the square, Caitlyn’s commanding voice carried over the noise as she coordinated the recovery efforts. Meanwhile, Ekko moved swiftly between the medics, assisting them with the injured, Maya by his side.
As the line thinned, Vi glanced at Powder, her movements momentarily slowing. She shifted the bread in her hands, as if stalling, before finally speaking. “So,” she said, her voice breaking the silence with a hesitant edge, “you’re not calling yourself Jinx anymore?”
Powder didn’t look up, but her hand faltered over the pot, the ladle hovering mid-air. “Uhmhmm,” she hummed, nodding her head in a small, almost reluctant gesture. Her blue hair fell forward, veiling her expression.
The silence between them stretched like an invisible wall—thick, unyielding, and impossible to ignore. Powder then glanced at Vi, her pink eyes flickering with curiosity. “So… how’s life with your sheriff lady?” she asked teasingly, though her voice carried a hint of genuine interest.
Vi raised an eyebrow at the nickname but couldn’t help the slight smile tugging at her lips. “It’s…” She paused, her words catching in her throat as she tried to find the right way to explain. “It’s good. She’s… steady. A lot smarter than me, that’s for sure. Keeps me grounded when I get… y’know, reckless.”
Powder tilted her head, a faint smile curving her lips. “She sounds like just what you need,” she said quietly, her tone softening.
Vi smirked but didn’t respond, letting the words settle between them. Again an awkward silence fell, the kind that seemed to creep in whenever they touched on something too raw or unfamiliar.
As the quiet stretched on, Vi’s eyes drifted downward, catching a faint glint against Powder’s chest. She frowned, her gaze sharpening. “Is that… Mom’s necklace?”
Powder’s hand instinctively moved to the pendant, her fingers brushing over it protectively. “It looks like it,” she admitted, her voice soft. “It even has the F scratched on the back. But… I found it in the forest. Inside the hollow of a dead tree trunk.” She paused, glancing at Vi. “It was just there.”
Vi blinked, confusion flickering across her face. “That doesn’t make sense. I kept all of Mom’s things—all our things—at Vander’s bar. It must be a coincidence,” she said, though her voice wavered with uncertainty.
Powder didn’t argue, letting the mystery hang between them. The moment was broken by a low, rumbling yawn. Both sisters turned toward the sound, their eyes landing on Warwick, curled up in the shadows of a quiet corner. His massive frame was tucked into a canine-like pose, his breathing deep and steady.
Vi stared at him for a long moment, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “Does he… remember anything?” she asked softly, her voice tinged with hope.
Powder shook her head, her expression heavy with sadness. “No,” she said softly. “Vander is gone, Vi. I tried so many times—again and again—to help him remember, to bring back the man he used to be. But there’s nothing left of that. He doesn’t remember being human, doesn’t remember being our dad. All he knows now is our scent—yours and mine. That’s all that’s familiar to him. And even in this state, all he feels is the instinct to protect us. That’s all he has left.”
Vi’s breath hitched as she looked at Warwick, his massive form bathed in the soft glow of the fire. Her jaw tightened, and her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. The tears came slowly at first, then faster, spilling over as she clenched her fists at her sides. Her gaze lingered on Warwick, the weight of Powder’s words sinking in like a stone in her heart.
She turned away, wiping at her face with trembling hands, but the ache remained. Quietly, she took a step back, her shoulders slumping under the burden of loss and acceptance. The firelight flickered against her form as she stood there, letting the grief wash over her in silence.
As the flames danced and crackled, a shadow moved into view. Jarvan approached, his armor smeared with dust and his face pale with exhaustion, yet his posture remained regal, his steps purposeful. The weight of the destruction around them was evident in the tight set of his jaw, but his eyes softened as he reached Vi and Powder, who had turned their attention back to the people in need.
“I wanted to thank you both,” he said, his voice steady despite the heaviness in the air. “Your help here has been invaluable.”
Powder crossed her arms, her gaze shifting toward Warwick in the distance before landing back on Jarvan. “We’re just doing what we can,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with a solemn determination.
Vi glanced at Jarvan, then at the fire, her expression unreadable. She gave a small nod of acknowledgment but said nothing, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.
Before Jarvan could say more, a soldier jogged up, saluting sharply. “Your Highness,” he began, his voice clipped and urgent. “We discovered something in the jail.”
Jarvan straightened, his brows furrowing. Vi and Powder exchanged a glance, their conversation momentarily forgotten. “Go on,” Jarvan said, his tone sharpening.
The soldier hesitated briefly, his gaze flickering to the sisters before returning to Jarvan. “After hearing some gunshots, we searched the cells. Inside, we found three bodies—a mercenary, Kara, and an unidentified individual. Nearby, we uncovered a concealed passage. It seems the mercenaries may have used it to infiltrate Kalstead.”
Vi’s fists clenched at the mention of Kara, her jaw tightening.
The soldier continued, his tone urgent. “We also found Mireya, the leader of the mercenaries. She was unconscious near the hidden passage. She’s alive but injured and has been placed under guard in a secured tent.”
Jarvan’s brow furrowed, processing the information. “The leader of the mercenaries? Are you certain?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the soldier confirmed. “We’ve verified her identity. If anyone knows the extent of their plans or how they infiltrated Kalstead, it’s her.”
As the soldier delivered the information about the discovery in the jail, Jarvan and Xin nodded before making their way toward the tent. Vi and Powder stood nearby, listening intently.
Before they left, Vi turned to Jarvan, her voice firm. “Can we come with you? Mireya knows about Caitlyn and me, and we need answers,” she said, her gaze unwavering.
Powder added, looking at Jarvan, “I’ve faced her before. I might be able to help.”
Jarvan, understanding the weight of their words, paused. He considered for a moment before nodding in agreement. “All right. Let’s go.”
The group made their way toward the tent, with Vi, Powder, Jarvan, and Xin entering together. Inside, Mireya was already conscious, her sharp eyes following their movements as they entered. She lay on a cot, her posture tense despite her injury, her breathing steady but heavy. The moment they entered, her gaze flickered across the group, a knowing, guarded expression in her eyes.
Soon after that, Quinn entered, bringing Caitlyn with her. Caitlyn’s eyes immediately went to Mireya, sharp and focused. She was no stranger to interrogation. She stepped forward and took her place near the others, ready to get the answers they all needed. Ekko, too, stepped in, his gaze meeting Mireya’s with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
Jarvan observed the group, his gaze sweeping from Caitlyn to Ekko, then finally landing on Mireya. It was clear this wasn’t going to be an ordinary interrogation—it was a reckoning, a gathering of those with personal stakes, and each member of the group carried a unique understanding of the situation. The stakes had grown too high for simple questions and answers.
Mireya, lying in her cot, met their stares, unflinching. Her earlier smirk had faded into a more calculated, restrained expression. The silence that had surrounded her in the earlier moments was gone, replaced by the unspoken knowledge that whatever game she had been playing, it was coming to an end.
Jarvan took a steadying breath, his voice low and deliberate. The moment for evasion had passed. Mireya’s silence had been her shield, but now, the truth had to come to light.
As he nodded to Caitlyn and Quinn to take charge, the conversation shifted gears. This was no longer a matter of simple strategy—it was about understanding the true depths of the plot they had uncovered. The room held its breath as the interrogation began, each word carrying the weight of the lives at stake.
The tent was heavy with the weight of the questions still hanging in the air. Mireya, despite her injuries, seemed unphased, almost toying with the group. Quinn’s sharp inquiry echoed in the space, the tension palpable.
"Something doesn’t add up," Quinn said, eyes narrowing. "Noxus failed to take hold of Kalstead. The Demacian backup has arrived, and yet not a single elite or even a soldier from Noxus showed up. Not even Swain. Why?"
Mireya smirked, her lips curling in amusement. Her exhaustion didn’t seem to matter—she was in control of this moment. Without a hint of hesitation, she met their gaze and answered, her voice cold and calculating.
"Have you ever watched a magic trick?" she asked, a glint of dark amusement in her eyes.
The room fell silent. Quinn frowned, not sure where this was going. Jarvan stood tall, his expression unreadable, but the unease was evident in his tense posture. Xin’s eyes narrowed, not letting go of Mireya for a second. They were all listening, waiting for the next move in this twisted game.
Mireya continued, her voice dripping with knowing cynicism. "When a magician performs a trick, the distraction is what makes it work. Everyone’s eyes are focused on the wrong thing, right? The attack on Kalstead? That was the distraction. The trick itself? It’s already happened."
Mireya’s gaze flicked from one person to the next, a dark smirk playing on her lips.
"You think we failed," she continued, her voice now like velvet, smooth and chilling. "But no, we didn’t fail. We won. The magician finished the trick, and now you’re all in the dark. The distraction was the show, but the real work is already done."
A wicked, maniacal laugh followed her words, echoing in the tense silence of the tent. Mireya's eyes gleamed with something dark and triumphant, her gaze flickering from one person to the next. The laughter bubbled up from deep within her chest, unnerving in its fervor, as though she were savoring the moment of their confusion.
The room fell into an eerie stillness, save for the unsettling sound of her laughter that reverberated off the walls of the tent. No one spoke immediately. Confusion flickered across the faces of those present, a sense of unease settling over them like a heavy fog. What had she meant? What was she implying? Jarvan, Caitlyn, Ekko, and Quinn exchanged looks, their minds racing to piece together the meaning behind her cryptic words.
Powder and Vi stood near the entrance, their expressions unreadable, as though trying to make sense of the shift in the room. The tension had escalated, and the answers they sought now seemed even further out of reach.
In Ravenhurst
Ava stood outside her house, her eyes scanning the darkened horizon. The night was eerily still, but her thoughts were anything but calm. Ravenhurst lay far from the chaos of Kalstead, yet the news had reached her. Word had come from the Demacian soldiers stationed in the area—Kalstead was under attack. The city, already teetering on the edge, had now fallen into turmoil, and many soldiers tasked with protecting Ravenhurst had been called away to defend it.
Ava's gaze lingered on the empty road as she waited for her daughter, Maya, to return. A growing unease knotted in her chest as she paced, the quiet of the night amplifying her concern. Where was she? Why hadn’t she returned yet?
Ava’s fist tightened as she took in the cold night air, the chill seeping into her bones. She couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in her chest. The sudden absence of the soldiers, the unsettling quiet that lingered around her home, all of it gnawed at her instincts. She’d been through too much to ignore the weight of something amiss.
Her gaze shifted to a tree branch not far from where she stood. A crow perched there, its black feathers glistening faintly in the moonlight. Its eyes fixed on her, unblinking, an eerie presence in the stillness of the night. Ava shivered, a strange chill creeping up her spine. The bird's stare felt almost knowing, ominous.
With a quiet, unsettled breath, Ava turned to go inside, but the air seemed to shift as she entered into her house. Her foot paused midstride as a voice echoed through the stillness, a low whisper that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
“My grandfather always said… the things we seek are often hidden in places no one dares to look... or perhaps, they're closer than we ever imagined.”
The words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning, as the wind rustled through the trees. Ava stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat, her heart racing. She didn’t know who had spoken—nor did she have time to think further. Her instincts screamed for her to run far away from whatever shadow had just touched her world.