The Weight of Leadership
The sun was at its zenith, casting a harsh glow over Kalstead’s destroyed dockyard. Powder, Ekko, Vi, and Caitlyn had already departed for Ravenhurst, their bus vanishing into the dense forest. Meanwhile, at the shoreline, preparations were underway as Demacian soldiers hurried to ready themselves for the King’s arrival. The destroyed dockyard stood as a grim reminder of the battle’s cost, but the arrival of three massive Demacian ships on the horizon demanded precision and discipline.
The ships, their white sails emblazoned with the golden winged crest of Demacia, halted just beyond the ruined docks. Several smaller boats were lowered into the water, rowing steadily toward the shore. Among them, one boat stood out—a finely crafted vessel with a covered structure, a clear symbol of its importance.
On the shore, Jarvan IV, clad in his ornate armor, stood with Xin Zhao and Quinn by his side. The soldiers, many of whom bore fresh wounds from the recent battle, formed orderly lines, their silver armor gleaming in the sunlight. Despite their fatigue, they stood tall, their discipline unwavering. Trumpeters raised their horns, signaling the approach of their king.
As the boats reached the shore, soldiers moved swiftly to assist. Jarvan III, the King of Demacia, stepped out first. His presence was commanding, his broad shoulders and weathered face speaking of decades of leadership and hard-earned wisdom. Dressed in regal attire—a white and gold robe adorned with intricate embroidery and the crest of Demacia—he exuded authority without the need for armor. His cape, edged with fine golden thread, flowed behind him as he walked, a subtle reminder of the legacy he carried.
Behind him, Luxanna and Garen Crownguard followed. Lux, at just 16, moved with a measured grace. Her bright blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight, framing her youthful yet poised features. She wore a white and gold dress with delicate patterns, befitting her noble lineage. Her demeanor was composed, though her curious blue eyes darted across the scene, absorbing every detail of the bustling shore.
Garen, at 21, contrasted his sister’s gentleness with his formidable presence. Clad in ceremonial armor polished to a mirror shine, he looked every bit the proud warrior of Demacia. His massive greatsword, though sheathed, hung on his back, a testament to his role as both a protector and a symbol of strength. He walked beside Lux with an air of vigilance, his protective instincts subtly evident in the way he positioned himself slightly closer to her.
As the group approached the assembled soldiers, Jarvan IV stood at the forefront, waiting to greet his father. His armor gleamed in the midday sun, but there was a weight in his stance, a silent acknowledgment of the challenges they now faced. For a brief moment, his eyes met Garen’s. The faintest flicker of camaraderie passed between them—a subtle nod of reassurance and shared understanding. Though words weren’t exchanged, the bond of trust between lifelong friends was clear.
Jarvan IV’s gaze then shifted to Lux, who lingered slightly behind her brother. Her eyes met his, and though she quickly looked away, her cheeks warmed with the faintest flush. Jarvan’s lips curved into a barely perceptible smile, a fleeting moment of softness amidst the formalities. The interaction was so brief that it seemed almost imagined, but it spoke volumes to those who knew them well.
The gathered soldiers knelt in unison, fists to their chests in salute. Jarvan IV approached and knelt as well, bowing his head before his father. Jarvan III’s piercing gaze swept over the dockyard before nodding, his voice carrying over the assembled ranks.
“Rise,” he commanded, his tone steady yet sharp. The soldiers stood as one, their eyes fixed on their king.
“Your Majesty,” Jarvan IV began, stepping forward.
Jarvan III raised a hand, silencing him. “We will speak inside.” His voice brooked no argument. Without waiting for a response, the king turned on his heel and strode toward the large tent erected nearby. The fabric, adorned with the Demacian crest, fluttered in the breeze as soldiers stepped aside, creating a clear path for their monarch.
Jarvan IV hesitated for the briefest of moments before following, his armor catching the sunlight as he moved. Behind him, Quinn and Xin Zhao fell into step, their expressions stoic but alert, ever ready to act as the king’s trusted guards.
As they reached the tent entrance, Garen placed a firm hand on Jarvan IV’s shoulder. “Good luck,” he said, his voice low but steady.
Jarvan IV glanced at him, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you, Garen,” he replied simply, the weight of the upcoming conversation evident in his tone.
Lux stood beside her brother, her hands clasped in front of her. Though she said nothing, her soft blue eyes lingered on Jarvan IV for a moment longer than necessary. The faintest smile tugged at her lips, a quiet gesture of encouragement. Jarvan IV caught the look, his expression softening for just an instant before he turned and stepped into the tent.
The heavy flap of the tent fell closed behind them, muting the sounds of the bustling camp outside. Inside, the space was dimly lit, with a large table at the center. The air was tense, heavy with the weight of unspoken words.
Jarvan III moved to the head of the table, his cape brushing against the ground as he approached with measured authority. The dim light of the tent cast sharp shadows across his weathered face, emphasizing the years of leadership and battle etched into his features.
Without a word, Xin Zhao stepped forward, taking his place at the king’s side. His halberd rested firmly in his grip, his unwavering stance a reminder of his role as the king’s most trusted protector.
Jarvan III’s piercing gaze swept over Quinn, then Jarvan IV. His expression was unreadable, a mask of calm authority that carried the weight of unspoken expectations as his eyes lingered on his son.
“Now,” the king said, his voice low and deliberate, each word carrying the weight of command. “Speak.”
Jarvan IV exhaled, the weight of his failure evident in his posture. “Father, I take full responsibility. Many of our soldiers perished under my command. I—”
“Do not waste my time with apologies,” Jarvan III interrupted, his gaze unwavering. “Where are the Noxians? This… this chaos was the work of mercenaries and assassins. And you tell me that Demacian soldiers turned against their own banners? Why were they not rooted out sooner?”
Jarvan IV flinched, his hands clenching into fists. “We had no reason to suspect—”
“Then you did not look hard enough,” Jarvan III snapped, his voice rising.
Quinn, ever loyal, attempted to interject. “Your Majesty, with respect, the situation was—”
“Silence!” Jarvan III’s voice thundered through the tent, his piercing gaze pinning Quinn in place. “I did not ask for your counsel, Captain.”
Quinn lowered her head, retreating a step.
The tension in the tent was palpable. Jarvan IV straightened, his eyes meeting his father’s. “I failed you,” he admitted, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within. “But Kalstead is a key position. If we secure it, we can ensure that Demacia’s interests in the region are safeguarded.”
Jarvan III studied his son in silence, his piercing gaze unrelenting. The stern lines of his face softened ever so slightly, though the weight of his words remained heavy. “Kalstead is, indeed, strategic. In that, you are correct.” His tone shifted, carrying a rare note of approval before sharpening again. “But strength without vigilance is weakness, boy. And Demacia cannot afford weakness.”
Jarvan IV lowered his gaze, the shame of the loss still fresh. “I understand, Father.”
The king’s eyes narrowed, studying him closely. “Do you? Do you truly understand what it means to lead—not just as a warrior, but as a king?”
There was a tense silence before Jarvan IV raised his head, meeting his father’s gaze with renewed resolve. “I will prove it to you.”
Jarvan III regarded his son for a long moment, his weathered features unreadable. Then, with deliberate purpose, he rose from his seat. His towering presence filled the tent, and as he stepped forward, the tension in the room seemed to shift. Placing a firm hand on Jarvan IV’s shoulder, he spoke with quiet intensity. “You will learn from this, son. Not just for yourself, but for Demacia. And when the time comes, you will ensure that this kingdom does not falter. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Father,” Jarvan IV replied, his voice steady, a flicker of determination reigniting in his eyes.
Jarvan III stood tall, his voice firm as he addressed the others in the room. “This city, Kalstead, will not be a mark of failure. It will become the cornerstone of our strength in this region. We will not let the mistakes of the past define us.”
Jarvan III stood tall, his voice steady and commanding. “Xin will accompany me back to Demacia. As for you, Quinn,” he said, turning to the scout, “you will remain here. Keep watch over the forests. We need to know if the Noxians are truly involved, or if Kalstead is simply part of Swain’s personal interest.”
Quinn nodded, acknowledging the gravity of his task. “Understood, Your Majesty.”
Jarvan III’s gaze shifted to his son. “As for Lux and Garen,” he continued, his tone now more deliberate, “they will stay here in Kalstead for a few days. Your betrothed, Lux, must learn what it means to rule a kingdom. One day, she will carry the Lightshield bloodline forward. She must understand the intricacies of leadership. Take her to the places of Kalstead—the landmarks, the historical sites, the areas that show both the past and the future of this land. Each holds its own beauty and significance. She must understand the scope of what we are working to preserve.”
Jarvan IV stood still, unease creeping in as he processed the request. “But—Father, I... I don’t think—”
“Son,” his father interrupted, his voice firm, “you will do this. You will show her this land. Every place in Kalstead tells a story. It’s your duty to ensure she sees it all. This isn’t just about politics; it’s about understanding the heart of the land.”
The words hung heavy in the air, and Jarvan IV fumbled for a response, his thoughts a jumbled mess. “Father, I... I didn’t expect... it’s just that—” he stammered, glancing briefly at the floor, unsure of how to express his discomfort with the situation.
Jarvan III’s eyes narrowed slightly. “This is an order. Do not disappoint me.”
Jarvan IV nodded slowly, finally giving in to his father’s unwavering command. “Yes, Father. I will take her.”
The king’s eyes softened just a fraction, a hint of approval breaking through his stern exterior. “Good. Remember, this is not only for Kalstead but for Demacia’s future. Show her what we are fighting for. What you will one day lead.”
With those final words, Jarvan III turned to Xin Zhao, signaling their departure. As father and bodyguard left the tent, the weight of the responsibility pressed heavily on Jarvan IV’s shoulders. He exhaled deeply, his mind already racing at the thought of spending time with Lux in this way—taking her through Kalstead’s streets and landmarks. He knew it was a task he could not avoid.
In Ravenhurst
The bus rolled to a stop, its engine hissing softly as the doors creaked open. Maya was at the wheel, her hands still gripping it tightly as if she was reluctant to let go. Vi stepped off first, stretching and looking around. The streets were eerily empty, the quiet unsettling.
“So,” Vi said, her tone casual as she glanced back at Powder, “this is where you live now?”
Powder hopped down from the bus, a playful grin lighting up her face. “Yup! Welcome to Ravenhurst. Home sweet home.” She threw her arms wide as if presenting the town to them, her voice carrying a mischievous lilt.
Caitlyn followed, stepping off reluctantly. Her gaze swept over the quaint but desolate streets, and her expression softened as she glanced at Powder. “I’m... glad you found happiness here,” she said, her voice careful, the words sincere despite the lingering hesitance.
Powder’s smile faltered for just a moment before returning with a playful glint. “What can I say? It’s got charm,” she quipped, tossing a wink at Ekko, who smirked in return.
Ekko chuckled, stepping off the bus with his powered-off hoverboard tucked under his arm. “Yeah, charmingly quiet,” he muttered, scanning the empty area. “Too quiet.”
Maya, still in the driver’s seat, furrowed her brow. “Where is everyone?” she asked, finally stepping down and joining the group. “This place is never this empty.”
The group looked around, unease settling over them like a shadow. As they began walking, their footsteps echoing against the silent buildings, a lone figure appeared in the distance. A woman, her pace slow and her shoulders slumped, was approaching. Her face was etched with sorrow.
The woman’s face was pale, her expression heavy with sorrow. Maya stepped forward, her heart racing. “What happened?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
The woman looked at her with tear-filled eyes and said softly, “It’s Ava.”
Maya’s breath hitched as the words sank in. “Mom?” she whispered, panic overtaking her. Without waiting for an explanation, she broke into a run toward her house.
Powder’s playful demeanor vanished in an instant. “Ava?” she repeated, her voice shaky. She and Ekko exchanged a worried glance before rushing after Maya, fear gripping them both.
The urgency in his voice spurred Vi and Caitlyn to quicken their steps, their boots pounding against the cobblestone streets of Ravenhurst.
As they turned a corner, the house finally came into view—but something was off. A crowd had gathered outside, the people of Ravenhurst standing in grim silence. Their faces were solemn, their eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and unease.
Maya slowed as she neared the house, her breath hitching at the sight. The others caught up, exchanging tense glances as the weight of the scene settled over them.
“What’s going on?” Powder asked, her voice unusually small.
The crowd began to notice their presence, and a hush fell over the murmurs. Slowly, the people parted, clearing a path to the house.
Maya hesitated for only a second before she pushed forward, practically running to the front door. The others followed closely, their hearts pounding with dread.
The door was ajar, and the inside was dimly lit. Maya stepped in first, her hands trembling as she clutched the doorframe for support. The others entered behind her, their eyes immediately falling on the figure lying on the sofa.
It was Ava. Her face was serene, her hands folded gently over her stomach, as though she were simply resting.
Maya fell to her knees beside her mother, her voice breaking. “Mom?”
A doctor standing nearby stepped forward, her face heavy with sorrow. She placed a gentle hand on Maya’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
Maya looked up at her, eyes brimming with tears. “How?”
“She passed peacefully,” the doctor said, her tone kind yet somber. “It was natural. She didn’t suffer.”
Ekko stood still for a long moment, his gaze locked on Ava’s lifeless form. His expression was a mix of disbelief and quiet sorrow, a deep sadness weighing heavily on him. Ava had been more than just a friend to him—she had been a guiding figure, someone he trusted completely. To see her like this, still and silent, felt wrong.
Powder, standing beside him, was equally stunned. Her usual playful demeanor was absent, replaced by a solemn look. She stared at Ava, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She didn’t speak, just stood there, processing the loss with the same quiet grief that echoed in Ekko’s eyes.
Vi and Caitlyn stayed a little farther back, giving the others space. Vi’s arms were crossed tightly, her face unreadable, while Caitlyn’s expression softened, but she didn’t intervene. They understood the weight of the moment—this was a loss, and the quiet sadness was enough.