Garen stood at rigid attention beside Captain Voss, his armor feeling unusually heavy against his shoulders. The war room's familiar oak table, polished to a shine that reflected the stern faces gathered around it, had never seemed so small or confining. He watched as Jarvan IV's fingers traced the edges of Xin Zhao's report, the prince's expression darkening with each page turned.

  This room has witnessed centuries of Demacian strategy. Countless victories pnned here. Now we gather to discuss our very foundations crumbling beneath us.

  "You're certain about this control over petricite?" Jarvan asked, his voice cutting through the chamber's tense silence. "Not just the living trees, but our worked stone as well?"

  Xin Zhao nodded once, the slight movement carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "I witnessed it personally, Your Highness. The stranger—Cain—maniputed the material with mere thought. The petricite responded to him as a loyal hound might to its master."

  Garen's jaw tightened involuntarily. He'd seen it too—the impossible restructuring of solid petricite, flowing like water beneath the old man's casual gestures. The memory sent an uncomfortable prickle down his spine.

  How do I expin what I saw? That our sacred stone, our protection against magic's corruption, bent to this foreigner's will like cy in a potter's hands?

  Tianna Crownguard stood with her back to one of the chamber's massive petricite pilrs, her face a masterpiece of controlled displeasure. His aunt's frown had deepened almost imperceptibly—a sign that those who didn't know her well might miss, but which Garen recognized as profound disturbance.

  "If what you describe is accurate," she said, each word measured and precise, "then every defense we've constructed over generations is potentially compromised."

  Garen felt the walls around them differently now. The massive petricite fortifications that had always represented safety suddenly loomed with menacing potential. His gaze traveled up the smooth white surface of the nearest column, following its path to the vaulted ceiling where it joined dozens of others in perfect, orderly symmetry.

  We've surrounded ourselves with it. Built our homes from it. Crafted our armor with it. If this stranger can control petricite at will, we've essentially imprisoned ourselves within weapons pointed at our own hearts.

  "The soldiers who were exposed to him," Jarvan continued, setting the report down with deliberate care. "You say they're physically unharmed but... changed?"

  Captain Voss stepped forward, his normally confident posture subtly altered since their return. The man stood straighter, yet somehow less rigid—as though some internal tension had been simultaneously intensified and released.

  "Changed, yes, Your Highness," Voss confirmed. "We see more clearly now. The petricite—it doesn't merely suppress magic as we've always believed. It communicates. It processes. It... connects."

  Garen watched the captain closely, noting the almost reverent quality that had entered his voice when speaking of the stone. The same tone had infected all the recovered soldiers, a subtle shift in perspective that manifested in how they now regarded the petricite surroundings—not with the casual familiarity of the everyday, but with a new awareness that bordered on worship.

  They look at our walls the way the devout look at sacred texts. As though seeing hidden meaning in what was once merely stone.

  "Connects to what, exactly?" Tianna demanded, pushing away from her pilr to approach the table.

  Voss hesitated, his eyes briefly unfocusing as though listening to something beyond ordinary perception. "To other realities, Marshal. To possibilities. To forms of existence we've never contempted."

  The chamber seemed to contract around them, the air growing thick with unspoken implications. Garen felt a pressure building behind his temples—not pain exactly, but an awareness of the petricite surrounding them that he'd never experienced before. A subtle vibration that resonated through his armor, through his skin, settling somewhere behind his sternum.

  Is this what they feel now? This constant awareness of the stone's presence? This sense that it's somehow... listening?

  "And this visitor," Jarvan pressed, his knuckles whitening against the polished tabletop. "This 'professor' as he calls himself. What are his intentions toward Demacia?"

  Xin Zhao's expression remained carefully neutral, though Garen detected the subtle tension in his fellow warrior's stance—the barely perceptible shift of weight that indicated preparedness for conflict.

  "He expresses no hostile intent," Xin replied carefully. "His interest appears primarily academic—a schor's fascination with discovering the properties of a new world. However..."

  "However?" Jarvan prompted, his voice hardening.

  "His very existence represents a fundamental challenge to Demacian understanding," Xin continued. "He embodies what we have spent generations defining as our greatest threat—magical power beyond conventional constraint. Yet the petricite, our sacred protection against such threats, responds to him with... recognition. Perhaps even welcome."

  Garen's hand moved unconsciously to rest on his sword hilt, the familiar weight offering little comfort against the implications unfolding before them. The massive petricite walls that had always represented Demacia's strength and security now seemed to press inward with oppressive awareness.

  We've built our entire society on the belief that petricite protects us from magic. What becomes of Demacia if that protection was never what we thought? If our walls have been listening all along, waiting for someone who speaks their nguage?

  "The soldiers who were exposed to him," Tianna said, her voice cutting through Garen's thoughts. "Are they still loyal to Demacia?"

  The question struck at the heart of their most immediate concern. Garen had spent days observing the recovered men, watching for signs of enchantment or corruption. What he'd found was more unsettling than either—men who remained devoted to Demacian ideals but now viewed those ideals through a lens that had been fundamentally altered.

  "They consider themselves loyal," Garen answered, speaking for the first time since the meeting began. "But their understanding of what Demacia is—what it represents—has shifted. They speak of our kingdom as though it stands at a crossroads rather than upon an unshakable foundation."

  Jarvan's gaze fixed on him with sudden intensity. "Expin."

  Garen drew a deep breath, organizing his thoughts carefully. "They believe Demacia has misunderstood its own strength. That our rejection of magic has prevented us from recognizing the true nature of the petricite that protects us. They speak of... potential. Of evolution."

  They speak of transformation with the fervor of converts. As though they've glimpsed a future Demacia that exists beyond our current understanding—a kingdom that might embrace what we've always hated.

  The pressure behind his temples increased, a subtle throbbing that synchronized with his heartbeat. The petricite columns seemed to pulse in his peripheral vision, though when he turned to look directly at them, they appeared solid and unchanging as always.

  "And you, Crownguard?" Jarvan asked quietly. "You were exposed to this visitor as well. Has your understanding shifted simirly?"

  The question hung in the air between them, weighted with implications that extended far beyond this chamber. Garen felt the eyes of everyone present—Jarvan, Tianna, Xin Zhao, Captain Voss—all waiting for his response with varying degrees of concern and suspicion.

  Have I changed? The petricite feels different now—alive in ways I never perceived before. I sense its presence like a constant hum beneath ordinary awareness. But does that make me any less Demacian? Any less devoted to our ideals?

  "I remain loyal to Demacia and its principles," Garen stated firmly, meeting Jarvan's gaze without hesitation. "But I cannot deny that the stranger's presence revealed aspects of our world I had not previously perceived. The petricite..."

  He paused, struggling to articute sensations that defied conventional nguage. The white stone surrounding them seemed to lean closer, as though eager to hear how he would describe its nature.

  "The petricite has always been more than mere stone," he continued carefully. "We've known this. It's why we've built our kingdom around it, incorporated it into our most vital structures. What I witnessed in that forest suggests not that our understanding was wrong."

  Tianna's expression hardened further, the subtle shift in her features communicating profound disapproval. "wrong in what way, nephew?"

  The familial address—rare in formal settings—underscored the personal nature of her concern. Garen felt the weight of generations of Crownguard service pressing down upon him, demanding adherence to traditions his family had helped establish.

  She fears I've been compromised. That my exposure to this visitor has corrupted my judgment. Perhaps she's right to worry.

  "The petricite doesn't merely suppress magic," Garen expined, echoing Voss's earlier statement but infusing it with his own understanding. "It... remakes it. Remakes it into words for deaf ears."

  The chamber fell silent as his words settled over them. The implications stretched beyond immediate security concerns into the very foundations of Demacian identity. If petricite—their protection against magic's corruption—was itself a form of magic, what did that mean for their kingdom's most fundamental beliefs?

  Jarvan rose from his seat, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the war table. "If what you say is true, then we face a threat unlike any Demacia has encountered before. Not an enemy to be fought with sword and shield, but a challenge to our very understanding of ourselves."

  He moved to the nearest window, where afternoon light streamed through in pale beams that illuminated motes of dust dancing in the air. Beyond the gss, the white walls of the city stretched toward the horizon—petricite barriers that had defined and protected Demacia for generations.

  "We must determine whether this visitor represents opportunity or existential threat," Jarvan continued, his voice hardening with resolve. "And we must do so before word of his abilities spreads beyond this chamber."

  Garen felt the pressure behind his temples intensify, the subtle awareness of petricite expanding until it seemed to fill his consciousness. The white stone walls surrounding them no longer felt like protection but like attention—as though the very substance of Demacia's security had awakened to a new possibility and now waited, with infinite patience, to see how its human inhabitants would respond.

  The petricite is listening to us now. It has always been listening. And for the first time in Demacia's history, someone has arrived who can breath a reply.

  Luxanna Crownguard slipped away from the chamber with practiced stealth, her light-absorption spell dampening the natural luminescence of her blonde hair. The voices of her brother and the Demacian leadership faded behind her as she navigated the servant's corridor, her heartbeat quickening with each step away from discovery.

  They don't even realize I was there. Garen would be furious if he knew.

  The cool stone walls seemed to whisper against her fingertips as she traced her path through the darkness. Petricite always felt different to her than to others—not just cold, inert material, but something alive with negative potential, a constant hungry presence that pulled at the magic within her.

  Like a leech that never fills, always thirsting for more.

  She emerged into the afternoon sunlight, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted. The narrow alleyway provided momentary shelter from prying eyes as she pressed her back against the rough stone wall, allowing herself a moment to process what she had heard.

  A stranger who could control petricite. Who understood it in ways the Mageseekers never had.

  Not just control it—speak to it. Command it. Make it flow like water instead of stone.

  Lux tilted her head back, gazing up at the massive white walls that encircled the city. From her position, they seemed to stretch endlessly upward, their pristine surfaces catching the sunlight with an almost painful brilliance. How many times had she looked upon these same walls with conflicted emotions? They represented everything Demacia stood for—protection, security, order.

  And imprisonment. Suppression. Fear.

  The walls had always been both shield and cage to her. They kept the horrors of the outside world at bay while simultaneously trapping her within a society that would execute her if they discovered what truly flowed through her veins.

  If they knew what I am—what I can do—they'd put me in one of those cells. Even Garen might not be able to protect me.

  A patrol of Mageseekers passed at the end of the alley, their distinctive uniforms sending an instinctive chill down her spine. Lux pressed deeper into the shadows, though she knew her light-dampening spell would hold. Years of hiding had perfected her techniques of concealment.

  They sense nothing. They never do. Their instruments are crude compared to what true understanding could create.

  The conversation she had overheard repyed in her mind. This visitor—this Professor Cain—had revealed something fundamental about petricite that challenged everything the Mageseekers cimed.

  Her fingers tingled with suppressed energy, the magic within her responding to the mere thought of release. How long had she contained it, channeled it in secret, feared its discovery? The constant vigince exhausted her more than any physical training ever could.

  What would it feel like to walk through Demacia without fear? To use my light openly instead of hiding it away like something shameful?

  A pn began to form in her mind—dangerous, perhaps even treasonous by Demacian standards. But if this stranger truly understood petricite in ways the Mageseekers did not, perhaps he could help her understand her own connection to the stone. Perhaps he could teach her to interact with it rather than be suppressed by it.

  I need to find him. Speak with him. Learn what he knows.

  Lux pushed away from the wall, her decision made. The petricite around her seemed to pulse with new awareness, as though responding to her changed perception. Had it always done that, or was she simply noticing it now because of what she'd heard?

  It's watching me. It always has been. But maybe it's not my enemy after all.

  She moved through the alley with renewed purpose, her steps light but determined. Finding this professor would be challenging—the Demacian leadership would surely keep him isoted, studied, perhaps even imprisoned. But Luxanna Crownguard had spent her entire life navigating secrets and restrictions. She had become adept at finding paths where others saw only walls.

  If anyone can reach him, I can. And if he truly understands petricite...

  The magic within her stirred, responding to her changed perspective. And somewhere in the woods, surrounded by the very substance that had defined her imprisonment, waited a man who might hold the key to her freedom—and perhaps, to Demacia's transformation.

  ———

  Lux's fingers traced the worn leather of Starfire's reins, the familiar texture grounding her against the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm her carefully maintained composure. The mare's cream-colored coat caught the dappled sunlight filtering through Demacia's eastern gates as they slipped past the guard rotation—a timing Lux had memorized through years of cndestine movements.

  This is madness. Absolute madness. If auntie discovers I've gone after this... visitor... alone—

  She pushed the thought aside, guiding Starfire toward the forest path with subtle pressure from her knees. The horse responded instantly, their years together creating a partnership that required minimal communication. Lux had chosen her mount for intelligence as much as speed—Starfire knew when to move silently, when to wait, when to flee.

  Today, they would need all these qualities and more.

  The city walls fell behind them, white stone gleaming in the afternoon sun like bleached bone. Lux felt the familiar relief that always came with leaving Demacia's suffocating vigince, though she knew the sensation was rgely illusory. The Mageseekers' influence extended well beyond the physical boundaries of the city, their patrols frequently sweeping the surrounding countryside for any hint of magical activity.

  She pushed the thought aside, guiding Starfire toward the forest path with subtle pressure from her knees. The horse responded instantly, their years together creating a partnership that required minimal communication. Lux had chosen her mount for intelligence as much as speed—Starfire knew when to move silently, when to wait, when to flee.

  They would need all these qualities and more.

  The city walls fell behind them, white stone gleaming in the afternoon sun like bleached bone. Lux felt the familiar relief that always came with leaving Demacia's suffocating vigince, though she knew the sensation was rgely illusory. The Mageseekers' influence extended well beyond the physical boundaries of the city, their patrols frequently sweeping the surrounding countryside for any hint of magical activity.

  Her magic pulsed beneath her skin in response to her anxiety, a warm current seeking expression. Lux breathed deeply, using the techniques she had developed over years of self-imposed discipline to channel the energy inward, containing it within the cage of her ribs where Demacian detection methods were least likely to register its presence.

  The road narrowed as they approached the petricite forest, ancient trees rising like sentinels on either side. Their white bark seemed to glow with internal luminescence despite the daylight, creating an atmosphere of perpetual twilight beneath their canopy. Lux had always avoided these woods when possible, the concentration of magic-suppressing stone creating a constant, uncomfortable pressure against her gift.

  Today, that discomfort felt different—not the familiar dull ache of suppression, but something more akin to anticipation. The petricite seemed to watch her approach with newfound awareness.

  They said the stone responds to him. That it welcomes him. Could it truly be alive in some way we've never understood?

  Starfire halted abruptly at the forest's edge, ears flicking nervously forward then back. The mare's muscles tensed beneath Lux, her usual confidence repced by uncharacteristic hesitation. The petricite trees loomed before them, their presence somehow more imposing than Lux remembered from previous journeys.

  "It's alright, girl," she murmured, leaning forward to stroke Starfire's neck. "I feel it too."

  The horse snorted, pawing at the ground with obvious reluctance. Lux closed her eyes, allowing a tiny fraction of her carefully contained magic to flow through her fingertips into Starfire's tense muscles. Not enough to register on any Mageseeker instruments that might be nearby—just the barest whisper of reassurance, light flowing like water beneath the mare's skin.

  Dangerous. So dangerous. But necessary.

  The effect was immediate. Starfire's breathing steadied, her posture rexing as the gentle magic eased her fear. Lux opened her eyes, scanning the forest path with renewed determination. Somewhere within those white trees waited a man who might hold answers to questions she had never dared ask aloud.

  "Forward," she commanded softly, and Starfire obeyed, stepping across the threshold into the petricite grove.

  The change was immediate and profound. The usual dampening effect of the stone—that familiar pressure that pushed against her magic, containing it, suppressing it—had transformed into something entirely different. Rather than resisting her power, the petricite seemed to acknowledge it, to resonate with it in ways that sent shivers racing along her spine.

  It feels... curious. Like it's tasting my magic rather than rejecting it.

  The official path wound through the trees in a careful route that Demacian patrols had maintained for generations, deliberately positioned to maximize exposure to the densest concentrations of petricite. Lux had traveled it many times, always feeling the gradual strengthening of that suppressive force with each step deeper into the forest.

  Today, the path itself seemed to waver before her eyes. The white trees leaned inward, their branches shifting subtly to obscure the familiar route while simultaneously revealing a different way—a narrow gap between trunks that hadn't been visible moments before, leading away from the patrol route into unmapped territory.

  Starfire noticed it too, her head turning toward the new opening with ears pricked forward in curious attention rather than fear. The mare nickered softly, as though questioning whether they should investigate this unexpected invitation.

  The forest is... directing us? Guiding us?

  Lux hesitated, years of Demacian caution warring against the purpose that had brought her here. Following unknown paths through magic-responsive terrain vioted every safety protocol she had been taught since childhood. The rational choice—the Demacian choice—would be to remain on the established route, to approach her destination through known channels.

  But if the petricite truly responds to him, perhaps it's leading me to him now.

  The trees seemed to lean closer, their white bark gleaming with subtle patterns that reminded Lux of writing in a nguage she couldn't quite read. The new path beckoned with silent insistence, offering a direct route to what she sought rather than the circuitous approach of the official road.

  "Well, Starfire," she whispered, gathering the reins with renewed determination, "we didn't come this far to follow Demacian protocols, did we?"

  The decision made, Lux guided her mount toward the opening. The petricite branches parted further as they approached, creating a passage that seemed to form specifically for them. As they entered this new path, Lux felt a curious sensation wash over her—not the suppression she had expected, but something almost like recognition.

  The stone knows me. It sees what I am—what I've hidden for so long—and it doesn't reject me for it.

  The path wound deeper into the forest, each turn revealing new vistas of white trees arranged in patterns too precise to be natural. Lux's trained eye recognized geometric precision in their pcement—mathematics expressed through living matter, equations written in wood and stone. The deeper they traveled, the more pronounced these patterns became, until the entire forest seemed to pulse with ordered intention rather than wild growth.

  Starfire moved with increasing confidence, her earlier hesitation repced by curious interest. The mare's ears remained forward, her pace steady as she navigated the narrowing path with sure-footed grace. Whatever communication had passed between them through Lux's magic seemed to have granted Starfire understanding beyond normal equine perception.

  The quality of light changed as they progressed, the natural sunlight filtered through petricite canopy taking on prismatic qualities that cast rainbow-edged shadows across the forest floor. Lux felt her magic responding to these altered conditions, stirring beneath her skin with eager curiosity rather than the desperate containment she normally maintained.

  It wants to be expressed here. To interact with this pce. As though the petricite is inviting rather than suppressing.

  A sharp turn in the path brought them suddenly into a small clearing, and Starfire reared in surprise, nearly throwing Lux from the saddle. Her trained reflexes allowed her to maintain her seat, though her heart hammered against her ribs as she struggled to control the startled mare.

  Before them stood a man—the man, she knew instantly—his gaze fixed on a petricite sapling with schorly intent. As they approached, he turned, silver eyebrows arching in mild surprise rather than arm. Lux’s breath caught for just a moment; his distinguished features and the graceful way he carried himself seemed to defy the years etched upon his face. A blush crept across her cheeks as she forced herself to focus, recalling the whispers she'd heard of him—elderly yet somehow ageless, cd in peculiar attire unlike any fashion she'd encountered in her exhaustive studies of foreign cultures.

  Most striking was the way the petricite responded to his presence. The white trees leaned toward him like flowers tracking the sun, their bark luminous with patterns that pulsed in rhythm with his movements. The very air around him seemed charged with potential, reality bending subtly in ways that made Lux's trained mage-sight blur at the edges.

  He's not controlling the petricite. He's conversing with it. They understand each other.

  "Well, hello there," the man greeted, his accent unlike anything Lux had heard before—not Demacian, not Noxian, not from any region of Runeterra she could identify. "I wasn't expecting visitors in this particur section of the forest. The trees have been quite insistent about maintaining my privacy."

  Lux struggled to find her voice, suddenly acutely aware of how unprepared she was for this encounter despite all her mental rehearsal. The man—Cain—observed her with kind eyes that nonetheless seemed to perceive far more than her physical appearance.

  "You're not like the others who've come looking for me," he continued, his head tilting slightly as though listening to something beyond human hearing. "The soldiers approach with fear masked as authority. You approach with fear masked as curiosity. Far more interesting, I must say."

  His gaze shifted to Starfire, who had calmed considerably since their abrupt meeting. "And your companion seems remarkably receptive to magical influence. A bond formed through trust rather than dominance. Quite refreshing."

  He knows. He sees what I am without any demonstration. Without any confession.

  "I—" Lux began, then paused, gathering her composure with practiced discipline. "I'm seeking understanding. About the petricite. About what it truly is."

  Cain's expression brightened with genuine pleasure, as though she had offered him a precious gift rather than a potentially treasonous inquiry. "Ah! A fellow schor! How delightful. The trees mentioned you might come, though their temporal perception is rather different from ours. 'Soon' to them could mean anything from hours to decades."

  He gestured toward the sapling he had been examining, inviting her closer with the casual authority of a professor welcoming a student. "The petricite has been telling me the most fascinating stories about Demacia's history. Not the version in your official records, mind you, but the perspective of the stone itself. Would you care to hear what it says about your family specifically? The Crownguards have had quite an interesting retionship with magic over the generations, despite what current doctrine might suggest."

  Lux felt the blood drain from her face, her carefully constructed world tilting dangerously on its axis. This stranger knew not only what she was, but who she was—and apparently, secrets about her lineage that even she might not be aware of.

  He could destroy everything. My family. My brother's career. My freedom. My life.

  Yet something in his manner suggested no threat, only genuine intellectual interest. He regarded her not as a dangerous mage to be contained, not as a Demacian noble to be respected, but simply as a curious mind seeking knowledge—a perspective so rare in her experience that she hardly knew how to respond to it.

  "The trees told you about me?" she finally managed, her voice steadier than she felt.

  Cain smiled, the expression transforming his schorly features into something almost grandfatherly. "The petricite speaks in many voices, if one knows how to listen. Yours has been particurly insistent tely—a light contained but never extinguished, growing stronger despite attempts to suppress it."

  He gestured to a fallen log nearby, its surface smooth and dry despite the forest's perpetual moisture. "Perhaps you might dismount and join me for a proper conversation? Your mare seems quite capable of looking after herself, and we have much to discuss about the nature of petricite, magic, and the curious intersection of the two that you embody so beautifully."

  The invitation hung in the air between them, weighted with possibilities that Lux had never dared consider. This man offered knowledge that might transform not only her understanding of herself but of Demacia's very foundations. The risk was enormous—discovery, accusation, execution.

  But the potential reward...

  Freedom. Understanding. Perhaps even acceptance of what I truly am.

  Lux made her decision, swinging her leg over Starfire's back and dropping lightly to the forest floor. The petricite beneath her boots seemed to welcome her weight, the stone warm and responsive rather than cold and unyielding as she had always experienced it before.

  "My name is Luxanna Crownguard," she said, lifting her chin with the quiet dignity that had carried her through years of dangerous secrecy. "And I would very much like to learn what the petricite has been trying to tell us all along."

  Cain's eyes twinkled with approval and something more—a recognition that transcended ordinary perception. "Excellent," he replied, patting the log beside him. "Let's begin with what you already know, and then move on to what you've always suspected but never had confirmed. The petricite has been waiting a very long time for someone like you to finally ask the right questions."

  As Lux moved to join him, the forest around them seemed to lean closer, white trees bending inward to create an intimate space where secrets could be safely shared. For the first time in her life, her magic stirred within her not with desperate need for containment, but with joyful anticipation of expression.

  Perhaps this is what freedom feels like. Not the absence of walls, but the discovery that the walls themselves might have been misunderstood all along.

  Jarvan IV sat rigid behind his desk, the ornate wooden chair—carved with the Lightshield crest his ancestors had proudly dispyed for generations—feeling like an instrument of torture against his spine. His office had always been a reluctant necessity, a concession to the administrative burdens of leadership when he would rather be on the training grounds with nce in hand. But never before had these walls seemed so... attentive.

  The petricite is watching me. Listening. Has it always done this?

  The white stone surrounded him on all sides, no longer the comforting symbol of Demacian security but something alien and evaluative. His lungs struggled against an invisible pressure, each breath simultaneously too full and utterly insufficient. The air itself seemed charged with an awareness that made his skin prickle beneath his formal attire.

  Father never mentioned this sensation. Did he feel it too, sitting in this very chair, making decisions that shaped our kingdom? Or is this new? Changed, like the soldiers said?

  Jarvan's fingers drummed against the polished surface of his desk, the rhythm betraying an agitation he would never permit himself to dispy publicly. The reports from the petricite forest y spread before him—detailed accounts of the stranger, this "Professor" who spoke to their sacred stone as though conversing with an old friend. Who reshaped it with mere thought. Who understood it in ways that generations of Demacian schors had apparently failed to comprehend.

  Our entire kingdom built upon a foundation we never truly understood.

  His hand twitched toward the ceremonial spear mounted on the wall behind him—an heirloom meant for dispy rather than combat, but suddenly, violently appealing. The urge to drive its point into the white stone walls rose unbidden, a visceral desire to wound what now felt like a living presence surrounding him.

  Would it bleed if I struck it? Would it scream? Would the entire city feel the pain?

  The thought sent a cold current down his spine. If the petricite truly lived in some fashion, if it truly communicated as the reports suggested, then Demacia had unknowingly built itself within the body of something ancient and incomprehensible. They had carved their homes and fortresses from living tissue, shaped their weapons from bones that might still feel.

  We are parasites burrowing into flesh that has tolerated us. Until now.

  Memories of his father surfaced—stern, principled, unwavering in his commitment to Demacian ideals. Jarvan IV had discovered the letter after his father's assassination, the royal seal barely dry on parchment that would have disbanded the Mageseekers, reformed Demacia's approach to magic entirely. In his grief and rage, he had burned it, the fmes consuming what might have been his father's most important legacy.

  I chose vengeance over vision. Hate over understanding. And now...

  The white walls seemed to inch closer, the ceiling lowering by imperceptible degrees. Not physical movement—the rational part of Jarvan's mind recognized this—but a psychological pressure that compressed his thoughts into increasingly frantic patterns.

  The door creaked open, the sound unnaturally loud in the suffocating silence. Jarvan's head snapped up, relief flooding through him at the sight of a human presence interrupting his spiraling thoughts. Xin Zhao entered with his characteristic fluid grace, though even his poised exterior showed signs of strain—a tightness around the eyes, a subtle tension in his shoulders that most would miss but Jarvan had learned to read over years of friendship.

  "Your Highness," Xin began, his voice carefully moduted. "The Mageseekers have completed their preliminary assessment of the affected area."

  Jarvan gestured toward the chair opposite his desk, suddenly desperate for conversation that might anchor him against the tide of unsettling revetions. "And? What have they found that wasn't in your initial report?"

  Xin remained standing, his posture suggesting he preferred mobility to comfort. "They found nothing, Your Highness. Which is precisely what concerns them. The instrumentation they use to detect magical disruptions shows no readings whatsoever in the vicinity of the transformed outpost."

  "No readings?" Jarvan leaned forward, brow furrowing. "How is that possible? You witnessed the stranger maniputing petricite with your own eyes."

  "Indeed." Xin's gaze flickered briefly to the white stone walls surrounding them before returning to meet Jarvan's. "The Mageseekers suggest that either their instruments are fundamentally fwed..."

  "Or?"

  "Or, what I believe, what the stranger does is not magic as we understand it. Something more fundamental. Something that exists beneath or beyond what our tools were designed to detect."

  The implications settled over Jarvan like a physical weight. If the Mageseekers—Demacia's first line of defense against magical threats—couldn't even detect what this visitor was doing, then their entire security apparatus was effectively blind.

  We've built our kingdom on the assumption that we understand the enemy. That we can identify it, contain it, control it. If that assumption is false...

  "There's more, Your Highness." Xin's voice cut through his thoughts. "The affected soldiers. Their condition has... progressed."

  Jarvan felt his mouth go dry. "Progressed how?"

  "They've begun to exhibit a heightened awareness of the petricite around them. They can sense patterns in the stone that others cannot perceive. Some cim they can hear it... communicating."

  Just like I'm beginning to. The walls. The floors. The very foundation beneath us. All of it watching. Waiting. Speaking in a nguage we're only now realizing exists.

  "And is this communication hostile?" Jarvan asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

  Xin hesitated, an uncharacteristic dispy of uncertainty from the normally decisive warrior. "Not hostile, no. But insistent. They describe it as... anticipatory. As though the petricite is expecting something. Preparing for something."

  The pressure in Jarvan's chest intensified. He rose from his chair, no longer able to remain still under the scrutiny of the white stone surrounding them. Moving to the window, he gazed out at the city spread below—the gleaming petricite walls and towers that had always represented Demacia's strength and security now seeming like components of some vast, patient entity.

  "We need to speak with this visitor directly," he decided, the words emerging with more certainty than he felt. "Not through intermediaries. Not through reports. I want to look this 'Professor' in the eyes and understand exactly what he represents to my kingdom."

  To determine if he's the greatest threat Demacia has ever faced, or perhaps, its greatest opportunity.

  Xin nodded, his expression revealing nothing of his own thoughts on the matter. "I anticipated you might wish this. I've taken the liberty of establishing a secure location for such a meeting. Away from the city. Away from the densest concentrations of petricite."

  The implication was clear—even Xin, loyal beyond question, harbored concerns about what the stone might overhear, might report back to this stranger who understood its nguage.

  "Good." Jarvan turned from the window, squaring his shoulders with the practiced posture of authority that had been drilled into him since childhood. "Arrange it immediately. And Xin..."

  "Yes, Your Highness?"

  "Tell no one. Not the council. Not the Mageseekers. Not even the High Marshal." The weight of potential treason pressed against his conscience, but Jarvan pushed it aside. "Until we understand what we're facing, I trust only you in this matter."

  And perhaps not even myself. Not when the very walls have ears, and those ears might belong to something we've never truly understood.

  As Xin bowed and turned to leave, Jarvan felt the petricite around him pulse once—a subtle shift in pressure that might have been imagination but felt undeniably real. The stone had heard his pns. The stone was listening.

  "Xin," Jarvan called, the word emerging more vulnerable than he'd intended. His voice echoed strangely against the petricite walls, returning to him distorted, as though the stone itself mocked his uncertainty.

  The steward paused at the threshold, his hand resting lightly on the ornate door handle. He turned, his expression carefully neutral, yet Jarvan could see the subtle tension in the corners of his eyes—the only betrayal of emotion the disciplined warrior ever permitted himself.

  "Was I wrong?" The question hung between them, weighted with implications neither man had dared voice until now. "All this time, with the mages. The containment. The... executions." Jarvan's fingers traced the edge of his desk, feeling every grain and imperfection in the wood. "Is what I've done unforgivable?"

  How many have suffered under my decrees? How many families torn apart? Children separated from parents, all in the name of Demacian security?

  Xin remained silent for a long moment, his gaze traveling to the petricite walls as though consulting with the stone itself. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the measured consideration that had guided Jarvan through countless crises.

  "Perhaps," he said, the single word falling between them like a bde. "But forgiveness is not what matters now."

  He crossed the room with fluid grace, stopping before Jarvan's desk. For once, the formality that typically defined their retionship dissolved. Xin reached forward, csping Jarvan's shoulder with unexpected firmness.

  "Even if it were unforgivable," he continued, "you must still do everything in your power to make amends. Not for absolution, but because it is right."

  The touch lingered, transforming into something Jarvan had rarely experienced—a brief, awkward embrace that communicated more than words ever could. The contact was stiff, unpracticed, two warriors unaccustomed to physical comfort finding their way through unfamiliar territory.

  He still believes in me, even knowing what I've done. Even suspecting what I might have become.

  "The measure of a ruler is not in avoiding mistakes," Xin said as he withdrew, resuming his formal posture. "It is in having the courage to correct them, regardless of cost."

  With a slight bow, Xin departed, leaving Jarvan alone with the watching walls and the weight of realization pressing against his chest. The petricite seemed to lean closer, as though eager to witness his next decision.

  Jarvan reached into his tunic, fingers closing around the pendant he kept hidden against his heart. The scale was warm to his touch, its deep crimson surface catching the light with an inner fire that defied the cold sterility of his surroundings. He traced its outline, feeling the familiar ridges and valleys that had brought him comfort through countless nights of doubt.

  The scale pulsed once against his palm—a subtle vibration that might have been imagination but felt undeniably real. A response. A reminder that she remained connected to him despite the barriers he had erected between their worlds.

  I will come to you soon, he promised silently, knowing somehow that the thought would reach her. Not as Jarvan the prince, not as a Demacian, but simply as the man who loves you beyond the boundaries our people have created.

  He tucked the pendant back against his skin, its warmth spreading through his chest like liquid courage. The guards would question his departure, of course. They always did. But he had long since perfected the art of slipping away when necessity demanded it.

  The petricite walls watched him rise from his chair, their attention palpable as he gathered his resolve. Let them watch. Let them report back to the stranger who understood their nguage. Perhaps it was time for Demacia to be seen clearly—not as it pretended to be, but as it truly was.

  Morgana traced her finger along the rim of her earthenware mug, feeling each imperfection in the cy as though it were a confession whispered directly to her skin. The tavern's warmth pressed against her, a suffocating bnket of humanity—their ughter, their petty concerns, their ignorance of what truly moved beneath the surface of their orderly world.

  She observed them through the veil of her magic—a simple enchantment that didn't hide her so much as redirect attention elsewhere. The spell felt like gossamer against her skin, a constant tickle of arcane energy that reminded her of her true nature. Not that she could ever forget, with the weight of her bound wings dragging behind her, each feather a testament to choices made long ago.

  The tavern's patrons ughed and argued around her, their faces flushed with ale and false security. Their voices rose and fell like waves against the shore of her consciousness. Morgana found herself smiling despite her contempt. There was something almost endearing about their ignorance, these people who believed themselves protected by their white walls and their righteous creed.

  They could be so much more if they weren't shackled by fear. If they weren't taught from birth to hate what flows within them.

  A serving girl passed close enough that Morgana could smell the vender oil in her hair, could see the tiny scar above her left eyebrow. The girl's sleeve brushed against Morgana's arm, yet her eyes never registered the contact. The magic held, as it always did.

  So simple to move among them unseen. To witness their true selves when they believe no guardians watch.

  Unlike her sister, Morgana had never lost her fascination with humanity's contradictions. Kayle saw only their potential for corruption; Morgana saw their potential for growth through that very corruption. These tavern-dwellers, freed from the Mageseekers' watchful eyes, revealed themselves not as the stern, magic-hating zealots Demacia pretended to be, but as people—fwed, warm, capable of both cruelty and kindness in equal measure.

  Two guardsmen leaned against the bar, their postures betraying exhaustion that their words attempted to mask with bravado. Their voices dropped lower as they exchanged information not meant for public consumption. Morgana tilted her head slightly, her hearing sharpened by centuries of practice at gathering secrets.

  "...entire outpost, just gone," the taller one muttered. "Not destroyed. Transformed. Like the petricite itself decided to reshape it."

  His companion shifted uncomfortably, gncing over his shoulder as though the very mention might summon whatever had caused such a disturbance. "Captain Voss hasn't been the same since they brought him back. Stares at the walls like they're speaking to him."

  "And the stranger?" the first guard pressed. "The one they're calling a professor?"

  "Not human," came the whispered reply. "From what the ones who came back. Makes the petricite... respond. Like it recognizes him."

  Morgana's fingers stilled on her mug, a familiar sensation crawling up her spine—the recognition of power that existed outside Demacia's narrow understanding. Power that might, perhaps, be worth investigating.

  The petricite responding? Interesting. Very interesting indeed.

  She had long suspected the white stone was more than Demacia believed. Its properties too convenient, too perfectly aligned with their fear of magic to be mere coincidence. The guards continued their hushed exchange, unaware of the ancient being absorbing every word. A disappeared outpost. Soldiers returned with altered perceptions. A stranger who spoke to stone and received answers.

  Someone new has entered the game. Someone who understands what I've only suspected.

  Morgana rose from her seat with fluid grace, her bound wings floating just above the floorboards as she moved. No chair scraped, no floorboard creaked, no patron turned to watch her passage. Her magic ensured she remained a ghost among the living, present yet unseen, her existence a whisper rather than a shout.

  The night air greeted her as she slipped through the tavern door, cool against skin that had endured the heat of celestial fire. Demacia spread before her, white walls gleaming under moonlight like bleached bones. How many times had she walked these streets over the centuries, watching this kingdom rise from frightened refugees to proud oppressors? How many times had she considered tearing it all down, only to stay her hand at the st moment?

  Perhaps I've waited all this time for exactly this—someone who might reveal the truth without destroying what could yet be salvaged.

  The petricite forest called to her from beyond the city walls, its presence a constant pressure against her senses. She had avoided those woods for centuries, finding the stone's effect on her magic unpleasant though not debilitating as most believed. Now, however, the forest seemed to beckon with new purpose, the moonlight on its white trunks creating patterns that almost resembled nguage.

  Morgana unfurled her wings slightly, feeling the ancient bindings that kept them from their full glory. Even constrained, they lifted her effortlessly, carrying her over the city walls with a silence that mocked Demacia's vaunted security. Guards patrolled below, oblivious to the fallen celestial passing overhead, their petricite armor useless against magic they couldn't even perceive.

  So proud of their defenses, yet so blind to their vulnerabilities.

  As she soared toward the forest's edge, Morgana felt something she hadn't experienced in centuries—genuine curiosity. This stranger, this "professor" who communicated with petricite... could he be the catalyst that finally forced Demacia to confront its hypocrisy? Could he reveal what she had long knew—that their rejection of magic was built upon fundamental misunderstanding rather than genuine protection?

  The forest opened before her, white trees standing like sentinels against the night sky. As she descended toward their canopy, Morgana felt the familiar pressure of the petricite against her magic—but something had changed. The sensation was no longer merely suppressive but inquisitive, as though the stone itself were examining her with newfound awareness.

  It recognizes me. After all these centuries, it sees me.

  Her feet touched the forest floor with delicate precision, wings settling against her back as she oriented herself. The petricite trees seemed to lean toward her, their bark gleaming with subtle patterns that shifted when she looked directly at them. The air hummed with potential, with waiting, with recognition.

  Somewhere in this forest waited a being who had awakened something ancient. Something that had, perhaps, been waiting all along for the right ear to answer its call. Morgana moved deeper among the white trunks, her path illuminated by moonlight filtered through petricite branches.

  Let us see what new pyer has entered this ancient game. And whether they understand the pieces they've begun to move.

  Lux's heart hammered against her ribs as she extended her hands, palms upward toward the canopy of petricite branches. The magic within her—that dangerous, beautiful power she had hidden away for so long—surged through her veins with joyful abandon. No more containment, no more desperate suppression. Here, with this strange visitor who understood what she truly was, she could finally be.

  "May I... show you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Cain's eyes crinkled at the corners, his silver beard catching the dappled forest light. "My dear, I would be honored to witness your gift expressed freely."

  He doesn't fear it. Doesn't hate it. Doesn't want to lock it away.

  The realization sent a tremor through Lux's fingertips as the first tendrils of light emerged from her skin—hesitant at first, like shy creatures testing unfamiliar terrain. The luminescence spiraled upward, gaining confidence as it climbed toward the white branches overhead. Where her magic touched the petricite, the stone didn't absorb or suppress as she had always experienced. Instead, it seemed to dance with her power, reflecting and refracting the light in prismatic patterns that transformed the forest around them.

  "Extraordinary," Cain murmured, his schorly attention fixed on the interaction between her magic and the trees. "The petricite isn't suppressing your energy at all—it's engaging with it, transting it, amplifying certain frequencies while harmonizing others."

  Lux ughed—a sound of pure, unbridled joy that startled her with its intensity. How long since she had ughed without restraint? How long since she had felt anything but fear when her power manifested?

  "They always told me the petricite would protect everyone from magic like mine," she said, directing a beam of concentrated light toward a particurly ancient tree trunk. "That it would contain the corruption, prevent the danger."

  The light struck the white bark, but instead of being absorbed as she expected, it blossomed outward in spiraling patterns that resembled writing—complex symbols that shifted and changed as they spread across the forest floor.

  "Look at what it's doing!" Lux excimed, her voice rising with excitement. "It's not fighting my magic—it's... writing through it!"

  Cain stepped closer, his movements carrying that curious grace that seemed both elderly and ageless simultaneously. "Indeed. The petricite is using your energy as a medium for expression. Rather like using paint to create art—the paint itself isn't being rejected, merely shaped into more complex forms."

  Emboldened by his encouragement and the stone's receptive response, Lux gathered more power between her palms. The light condensed into a pulsing sphere that illuminated her face from below, casting her features in a radiance that revealed the woman beneath the careful Demacian mask she had worn for so long.

  "What else can I do with it?" she asked, the question directed as much to the forest as to Cain. "If it's not suppressing me, if it's working with me..."

  She released the sphere upward, watching as it exploded into a shower of luminous particles that drifted through the canopy like falling stars. Each mote of light that touched the petricite branches created ripples of responsive energy, the white stone glowing with patterns that seemed to answer her magic's inquiry.

  It's beautiful. I'm beautiful. My magic isn't something to hide—it's something to celebrate.

  "Try creating a barrier," Cain suggested, his eyes alight with schorly fascination. "See how the petricite responds to structured magical intention rather than pure expression."

  Lux nodded, gathering her power with newfound confidence. She had practiced this in secret for years—defensive magic that might one day protect her brother on the battlefield, though she had never dared reveal such abilities. Now, with an encouraging audience and a forest that seemed eager to participate, she extended her hands outward.

  The light flowed from her fingertips in geometric precision, forming a translucent shield that shimmered with internal radiance. Where the barrier's edges met petricite, the stone didn't dampen the magic but reinforced it, sending tendrils of white energy along the shield's surface that strengthened its structure while adding patterns of dazzling complexity.

  "It's helping me," Lux whispered, awestruck. "The petricite is making my barrier stronger, more stable."

  Cain circled the luminous construction, his fingers hovering just above its surface without touching. "Fascinating. The stone isn't merely responding—it's actively contributing, adding its own properties to your magical framework. This suggests a level of intelligent interaction far beyond what I’ve understood."

  Inspired by this discovery, Lux dissolved the barrier and focused her concentration on a new challenge. Her brow furrowed slightly as she directed her magic downward, compressing light into a solid rectangur form beneath her feet. The construct glowed with steady luminescence as she cautiously stepped onto it, testing its ability to support her weight.

  "I've never tried this outside my chambers," she admitted, bancing carefully on the ptform of light. "And never with such... freedom."

  The ptform lifted her several feet above the forest floor, petricite patterns swirling beneath it like supportive currents. Lux ughed again, twirling atop her creation with childlike delight that belied her years of forced maturity.

  "Look at me!" she called down to Cain, her face flushed with exhiration. "I'm standing on pure light!”

  In her excitement, her concentration wavered momentarily. The ptform flickered beneath her feet, its structure destabilizing as her focus shifted. Before she could react, the light dissolved completely, leaving her suspended in empty air for a heart-stopping instant.

  Lux gasped, arms pinwheeling as gravity recimed her. The forest floor rushed upward—then stopped abruptly as strong arms caught her with surprising gentleness. Cain had moved with impossible speed, positioning himself beneath her falling form with the precise timing of someone who existed partially outside normal physical limitations.

  "Careful now," he murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest where she found herself pressed against him. "Excitement affects concentration, which affects manifestation. A lesson every practitioner learns eventually."

  Lux felt heat rush to her cheeks as she registered several sensations simultaneously—the unexpected firmness of his chest beneath the strange fabric of his clothing, the subtle scent of something like ozone and old books that clung to him, the strength in arms that should have belonged to a much younger man. He held her with casual ease, as though her weight were inconsequential.

  Oh gods, I'm blushing like a schoolgirl. He looks old enough to be my grandfather, yet...

  Her thoughts scattered in confusion as she became acutely aware of the impropriety of their position—a Demacian noblewoman in the arms of a mysterious foreigner who challenged everything her kingdom believed. Yet beneath that social awareness y something more unsettling—a flutter of attraction to this impossible being who saw her magic as beautiful rather than dangerous, who spoke to petricite as an equal rather than a tool.

  "I—I'm so sorry," she stammered, mortification repcing her earlier confidence. "I should have maintained better control."

  Cain set her gently on her feet, his hands lingering on her shoulders to ensure she was steady. His touch felt strangely electric, as though currents of subtle energy passed between them—not intrusive or threatening, but deeply aware.

  "No apologies necessary," he replied, his eyes twinkling with amusement rather than judgment. "Exploration requires risk. The petricite seemed quite delighted by your experiments, regardless of their conclusion."

  Lux stepped back slightly, needing distance to collect her scattered thoughts. Her magic still hummed beneath her skin, responsive and eager rather than the carefully contained force she had always maintained.

  I came here for knowledge, for understanding—not to act like some infatuated girl dazzled by attention.

  Yet she couldn't deny the exhiration of being truly seen for the first time. Not as Luxanna Crownguard, exempr of Demacian virtue. Not as a dangerous mage to be feared and controlled. But simply as herself—a young woman with extraordinary gifts that deserved celebration rather than suppression.

  "The petricite," she said, deliberately steering her thoughts toward the academic purpose of her visit. "You said it communicates. What is it telling you about Demacia? About... people like me?"

  Cain's expression shifted, schorly interest repcing the grandfatherly warmth that had momentarily flustered her. "It speaks of patterns, primarily. Cycles of acceptance and rejection that have shaped your kingdom's retionship with magic over generations."

  He gestured toward a nearby tree, its trunk marked with subtle variations that Lux had never noticed before. "The stone remembers a time when Demacia welcomed magic—when your ancestors understood petricite as a protection, not as a means of oppression. The current doctrine of rejection is retively recent, historically speaking."

  Lux moved closer to the tree he indicated, her fingers hovering just above its surface. "May I?"

  At Cain's encouraging nod, she pced her palm against the white bark, sending a gentle current of her magic into the living stone. The response was immediate and profound—images flooding her mind not as visions but as impressions, emotions, fragments of memory that belonged to something far older than human civilization.

  She gasped, pulling her hand away as though burned. "It's alive," she whispered. "Not like a tree, not like an animal. But alive nonetheless. And it remembers... everything."

  "Indeed," Cain confirmed, watching her reaction with evident interest. "The petricite forms a network throughout Demacia—a single consciousness expressed through countless individual nodes. It has witnessed your kingdom's entire history, from its founding to its current crisis."

  Lux's head snapped up at his final word. "Crisis? What crisis?"

  Cain's expression turned somber, the lines of his face deepening with concern that seemed genuinely empathetic rather than calcuted. "My arrival has accelerated something that was already in motion. The petricite is... awakening. Becoming more active in its communication. The soldiers who encountered me directly were merely the first to notice, but the awareness is spreading."

  He gestured around them, where the white trees seemed to lean inward with attentive presence. "Soon, all of Demacia will begin to perceive what you're experiencing now—the stone speaking, responding, revealing truths that have been hidden for generations."

  Lux felt a chill race down her spine despite the warmth of the forest. "And my brother? The king? The Mageseekers? What will happen when they realize the very foundation of their power has been... misunderstood?"

  Cain's eyes met hers, ancient wisdom and genuine compassion mingling in his gaze. "That, my dear Luxanna, depends greatly on what you choose to do with your newfound understanding. The petricite has been waiting for someone like you—someone who bridges both worlds, who carries Demacian values yet embodies what they've rejected."

  He extended his hand toward her, not touching but inviting. "The stone speaks most clearly to those who are willing to listen. And right now, it's speaking to you with particur urgency."

  Lux hesitated, her earlier confidence wavering under the weight of implication. She had come seeking personal understanding, perhaps even a way to exist more freely within Demacia's constraints. Instead, she found herself facing a revetion that might transform—or destroy—everything she had ever known.

  This is bigger than me. Bigger than my freedom. This could change Demacia forever.

  The petricite around them pulsed with gentle luminescence, responding to her emotional turmoil with what felt strangely like reassurance. The forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her decision—to embrace this new understanding or retreat into comfortable ignorance.

  "Show me," she finally said, extending her hand toward Cain. "Show me what the petricite wants me to know. About Demacia. About magic. About what we could become."

  As their fingers met, the forest erupted with light—not just her magic now, but something deeper, older, more fundamental. The petricite sang around them, a soundless melody that resonated through bone and blood and memory. Lux felt herself falling forward into understanding that transcended words, her consciousness expanding to encompass perspectives beyond human comprehension.

  The petricite had stories to tell. And Luxanna Crownguard—Demacian noble, hidden mage, potential bridge between worlds—had finally learned how to listen.