Flaw Of RuneTerra (Black Clover X League Of Legends)

[SaberGlory]

"I'm sorry, what?" Cithria blinked, staring in disbelief as the Sword-Captain all but shouted his surprise at the report.

She herself could hardly believe what the Demacian soldier had just delivered.

"Castle Wrenwall was attacked. By mages," the soldier repeated, voice steady despite the tension that hung in the air. "I bear a message from the High Marshal. She requests your presence following the meeting of the Silver Council."

Garen gave a single, sharp nod. "When?"

"At second bell, sir," the messenger replied.

Without wasting another breath, Garen strode toward the council chamber. He arrived at the antechamber just as the last of the nobles were filing out, the toll of the second bell echoing faintly through the halls.

As though on cue, one of the great council doors swung open in silence. The two guards stationed at either side struck the butts of their halberds against the marble floor in salute, and an attendant motioned Garen forward.

The chamber beyond was austere, dominated by an octagonal table at its center. But Garen's eyes were drawn not to the furniture, but to the three figures waiting beside it.

High Marshal Tianna Crownguard stood foremost, his father's sister, and the de facto commander of Demacia's armies. At her side was Prince Jarvan IV, heir of the late king and Garen's closest friend.

And standing with them was Lord Eldred. As always, half of his stern, regal face was concealed by a golden mask, and a petricite disk inscribed with geometric runes rested against his breastplate. He was the leader of the MageSeekers, and his mere presence carried an air of severity.

A scatter of papers lay across the council table, some already half-crumpled from restless handling. Jarvan held one of them in his hand, his expression strained, unease flickering in the tightness of his jaw.

Tianna and Eldred turned toward Garen at once, the High Marshal's gaze sharp and measuring, the Mageseeker's hidden eyes unreadable behind his mask. Jarvan followed a heartbeat later, slower, more reluctant.

Garen saluted in the traditional Demacian fashion, crossing his arms over his chest with clenched fists before stepping forward to stand across from them. The weight of their scrutiny pressed heavily on his shoulders, and he forced himself not to look away.

Jarvan sighed quietly, as though resigned to what was about to unfold.

"Strength through discipline," Tianna said by way of greeting, her voice clipped and formal.

"Honour through diligence," Garen answered without hesitation, ignoring Jarvan's weary exhale just as his aunt and Eldred surely did.

"I assume you've heard the news," Jarvan began, eager to dispense with ceremony.

"Only that Wrenwall was attacked, my prince," Garen admitted. "By mages, no less."

"Indeed." Jarvan extended the document in his hand. "Two mages of immense power. They left Castle Wrenwall in ruins."

Garen's eyes skimmed the parchment, narrowing as the report grew more confounding. "They were… fighting each other?"

"Fools, the both of them," Eldred snarled, his voice edged with contempt. "To flaunt their power so brazenly in our very lands, it is an insult."

"But why?" Garen pressed. "They must know they'd be hunted down at once. Wouldn't they be wiser to remain hidden?"

"Who can fathom how their accursed ilk thinks?" Eldred spat, his scowl twisting behind the half-mask.

Garen forced himself not to look at the Mageseeker too directly. Eldred's words cut too close to the thought he fought to suppress, his sister. Luxanna Crownguard. Officially missing, she was. Yet Garen clung to the fragile hope that wherever she had fled, guiding her fellow mages, she was safe… and far beyond Eldred's reach.

He turned to Eldred finally. "Why haven't they been apprehended then? If they didn't bother to hide themselves then surely it wouldn't be any trouble capturing them."

It was Tianna who handed him the next document. Her expression was grave. "The reports from the knights stationed at Wrenwall are… troubling."

Garen took the parchment and scanned its contents as she went on. "Their power was so overwhelming that even the petricite arms and armor proved ineffective. This account comes from Knight-Commander Alric Wrenford himself."

Eldred let out a harsh scoff. "Sylas' magic was formidable as well, yet he nearly met his end at your hand, did he not?" His single visible eye flicked toward Garen.

He folded his arms with a sharp motion. "If one Dawnguard could bring Sylas to his knees, then these upstarts will fare no better."

"That would be… fool, not fools." Jarvan interjected, his tone edged with disapproval.

Eldred's masked face shifted slightly as he turned toward the Crown Prince. "I beg your pardon?"

Tianna cut across them before the tension could escalate. "Indeed, the clash ended with only one survivor. Of the two mages, one lies dead. The other yet lives."

The chamber grew still after Tianna's words, the silence threaded with unspoken weight. Garen lowered the parchment slowly, its crumpled edge rough against his gauntlet.

"What do I have to do with any of this?" he asked at last, voice measured but firm. "Surely Wrenwall's defense lies with its own commander. If a single mage remains at large, the MageSeekers are well-suited to pursue them. Why call me here?"

Eldred bristled at the implication, but it was Jarvan who answered first. "The chances of it being another like Sylas is not zero. The ability to use magic even while under the petricite's effect is something unique to Sylas, at the moment."

Tianna inclined her head. "And because the mages fought each other. That is what troubles us most. If they were rebels seeking to strike Demacia, their target would have been clear. But they turned their power on one another, heedless of our soldiers, heedless of the fortress itself. Wrenwall was merely… the stage for their quarrel."

Garen's brow furrowed. "That does sound troubling. Such a bold display of confidence."

Jarvan's hand tightened around the edge of the table. "One that is severely misplaced, I assure you. However, If this mage still lives, we must know what manner of enemy, or ally, he truly is."

Eldred's masked face turned sharply toward the prince. "Ally? Your Highness, forgive me, but to speak of alliance with such filth..."

"It is not alliance I spoke of," Jarvan cut him off, his tone hard as steel. "If these reports hold even a semblance of truth-"

Garen noticed the faintest shift in the High Marshal's expression at that, her jaw tightening at the suggestion that a Knight of Demacia might lie in his report.

"-then there may be, perhaps, the chance for an unexpected boon," Jarvan finished, his words carrying more caution than conviction.

Garen knew the prince did not truly believe it, merely covering every possibility. Still, the insinuation left an unwelcome taste in his mouth. Loyalty demanded trust, not doubt.

Tianna's eyes moved from the prince to Garen, steady and resolute. "As one of the few Vanguards to have faced Sylas directly, you are best suited to this task. You will lead a detachment of MageSeekers to assess the truth of this mage. I have requested that Shyvana and the DragonGuard accompany you. Should this survivor prove as dangerous as the reports suggest, their presence will not be wasted."

Garen inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Understood. I will depart at once."

"Good," Tianna replied, gathering the scattered documents from his hands and stacking them neatly atop the pile. "We expect a second set of reports by nightfall. Should your orders change, the message will reach you before you arrive at Wrenwall."

She straightened to her full height, the mantle of command settling on her like armor. "You are dismissed, Sword-Captain. Duty calls."

Garen crossed his arms over his chest in the Demacian salute. Then, with crisp precision, he turned on his heel and marched from the chamber, the echo of his boots trailing in the vaulted silence behind him.

---

Cithria allowed herself a small smile as Cloudfield's hooves struck the packed earth beneath her. She had named her steed in quiet homage to her beginnings, a reminder of the humble village she had once called home.

Ahead, the riders of the First Shield kept their steady pace, armored silhouettes cutting sharp lines against the rolling Demacian countryside. Directly in front of her rode Alys Morn, the company's medic, who even now was locked in a familiar quarrel with Eben Hess. The seasoned soldier's grumbling carried back over the clatter of harness and steel, sharp with exasperation.

It felt like only yesterday Cithria had been a wide-eyed squire, gawking in disbelief at her chance to ride beside the heroes of the Dauntless Vanguard. That first exhilaration still lived in her chest, though now it was tempered, sharpened by the memory of what came after.

The expedition to Nockmirch. The battle that had tested not only her skill but the very convictions she had once held unshakable.

That had been over three moons ago, and yet the scars of it still lingered, making the time since feel far longer. And now here they were again, riding to Castle Wrenwall on another mission. Officially, it was to assess a mage. But as Cithria's grip tightened on her reins, she could not help the thought:

'It sounds more like we're riding to apprehend them.'

Ahead, Hess's voice broke her reverie.

"It's just one mage!" His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched, and a vein ticked in his temple as he glared at Morn, who met his bluster with her usual unflinching calm. "We're the Vanguard, for heaven's sake. Any regiment could've handled this."

"Doesn't matter what we think, does it?" Morn replied, her tone flat as steel. "They deemed this mage worth our attention, so here we are. Orders are orders."

Hess gave a frustrated grunt, his shoulders sagging as if even he knew the argument was already lost. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Cithria bit the inside of her cheek to stifle her laughter. Watching Morn dismantle Hess with nothing but a few clipped words never failed to amuse her.

The column pressed on, steel-shod hooves striking in measured rhythm against the road. The First Shield was not at full strength, this was no campaign, but even a half-strength detachment of the Dauntless Vanguard was enough to draw the wary eyes of villagers and farmers they passed.

Children darted from cottage doors to watch them, wide-eyed and whispering, until a stern look from a mother or elder dragged them back indoors. Word of Wrenwall's fall had clearly outpaced them, rippling across the countryside in rumor and fear.

Cithria felt the weight of those eyes as keenly as her armor. Demacia was supposed to stand as the steadfast heart of Valoran, its soldiers as unyielding as the mountains. Yet here they rode to face a threat their people scarcely understood, one that had already left a fortress in ruins.

Her gaze drifted toward the head of the column, where Garen rode at the forefront beside a pair of MageSeekers in their heavy petricite harness. Between them, silent as stone, strode the half-dragon.

Shyvana's presence always drew stares, even from soldiers who had long since grown used to her in their ranks. Her reddish purple skin glinted faintly in the afternoon light, a living reminder of the strangeness, that Demacia had chosen to accept. She rode not on horseback but on foot, keeping pace with the column without effort, her halberd slung across her back like a banner of war. Not that she needed it anyway.

The DragonGuard had joined their company, few miles out of the great city, and into the foothills. More than a score of them, clad in shining red and gold armour, a sharp contrast to the vanguard's silver and blue.

Cithria had never spoken more than a few words to her, but she had seen the looks the Dragon Guard gave their commander when they thought her back was turned. Respect. Loyalty.

Eben Hess's voice cut the air again, though quieter now, more thoughtful than angry.
"You ever think, Morn, that maybe we're not being sent to assess anything at all?"

Morn arched a brow, her silence inviting him to continue.

"That if this mage really is as strong as the reports say, we're not here to judge them… we're here to end them."

The words hung heavy between them, swallowed only by the steady march of hooves.

"I mean think about it. The vanguard, the MageSeekers, and the DragonGuard. For just one guy. I know orders are orders, but what exactly are we expecting to be facing?"

Morn shrugged although, Cithria was certain that she was seriously thinking through Hess' words. "If he's so powerful that no one could apprehend him. Then he should have escaped on his own by now, shouldn't he? I doubt anyone could hold him. But if he's still waiting, then perhaps there's something to the reports after all."

Cithria tightened her grip on Cloudfield's reins. She wanted to believe that. She had to believe that.

Because ahead, rising on the horizon, the blackened silhouette of Wrenwall's ruined towers was beginning to cut through the haze of distance.

 

[SaberGlory]

Because ahead, rising on the horizon, the blacken

Click to shrink...

So while I'm new here, this is not my first fanfic. I'm actually cross posting from spacebattles. A reader mentioned that I would get more response from this site than at S.B.
I'm with criticism as long as it's helpful.

 

[Djukez]

I like the premise, looking forward for more

 

[SaberGlory]

The road bent, and Wrenwall rose before them.

Cithria felt her throat dry at the sight. The proud fortress that had stood as a border watch for generations now bore scars that no catapult nor ram could have carved. Its western wall still held strong, but the eastern towers were shattered, as if something had reached down from the sky and plucked stone from its crown.

Patches of ice gleamed across the broken ramparts, white sheets catching the last of the sun. Here and there jagged peaks of frozen crystal jutted like cruel thorns from the earth, piercing through collapsed masonry. The air itself seemed to hold a chill, unnatural for the season, and Cloudfield stamped uneasily as they drew closer.

The gates hung open. Although it wasn't destroyed, just broken in their hinges, as though forced from within.

"By the Light…" someone muttered behind her.

Cithria followed the sound. It was Hess, slack-jawed for once, his usual bluster gone. Alys Morn rode beside him, her sharp eyes scanning every ruined parapet. For all her calm, Cithria saw her grip tighten on the reins.

The rest of the Vanguard kept formation, sixteen riders with shields upon their backs, spears gleaming faintly. Discipline steadied them, though every one of them could see what she saw: magic had been here, wild and unrestrained.

Closer still, and the smell reached them. Not death, thank the Light, but a sharpness like frozen iron, biting at the nose. The villagers outside the walls watched from a distance, whispering, their gazes flicking between the soldiers and the castle in a time that she couldn't decipher.

"Stay sharp," Captain Garen's voice rang clear. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, eyes locked ahead. "The report said no lives lost, but until we confirm, we take no chances."

Shyvana walked at his side, her armored boots crunching through a patch of frost. The cold seemed not to touch her. Her gaze swept the ruined towers with a hard, unreadable expression.

The hooves of their steeds echoed hollow against the stone causeway as the Vanguard passed beneath the ruined gates.

Within, the castle courtyard bore the marks of battle and sorcery both. Cobblestones were cracked by frozen spikes, shattered carts lay abandoned where they had been overturned, and sections of the inner wall were slick with lingering frost. Yet, amidst the wreckage, the blue and silver of Demacia still stood. Soldiers in battered armor formed ranks to meet them, spears planted firmly into the ground.

One stepped forward and raised a clenched fist to his chest. "Dauntless Vanguard. We are honored by your presence."

"Report," Garen commanded, halting his steed.

The man, an officer by his cloak and sigil, bowed his head once. "The situation is contained, Commander. The townsfolk live. We have secured the keep and await your command. Knight-Commander Alric holds counsel within. He expected your arrival."

"Lead us."

The officer turned, and the soldiers parted, saluting as the Vanguard rode through their ranks. Cithria felt the eyes of the garrison upon them, expecting the looks of exhausted men and women who bore the look of survivors, not victors. What she saw was the exact opposite, they looked surprised at their arrival, some even excited.

Wasn't there a battle here? The marks and destruction proved so.

They dismounted before the keep, handing their reins to squires. Cithria gave Cloudfield a quiet pat, the stallion still restless from the lingering cold. Together they followed Garen and Shyvana inside.

The great hall of Wrenwall had fared little better. Icicles hung from the rafters, dripping slowly into puddles on the stone floor. Fires burned low in braziers, fighting the unnatural chill, their smoke rising toward cracked beams above.

At the far end stood Knight-Commander Alric Wrenford. His armor bore fresh dents, his cloak frosted at the edges, but his posture was as unbending as the fortress he commanded. At his side, a great warhammer leaned against the dais, rimmed with frost not yet melted.

"Commander Crownguard," Alric greeted, voice heavy with fatigue but firm with discipline. "You honor us with your arrival." His gaze swept the hall, lingering on the Vanguard's shields.

He stepped down from the dais, clasping Garen's arm in the warrior's grip.

"Your men look well," Garen said, releasing Alric's arm. His voice carried not just approval, but surprise. "Better than I'd expected from the reports."

Alric's mouth pulled into the faintest line of grim humor. "We are fortunate, Commander. More fortunate than we deserve." He gestured broadly toward the hall. "The stones may be cracked, the gates broken, but my people yet live. For that, I give thanks."

Cithria caught the slight dip of his shoulders as he said it, the weight of someone who had walked the ramparts after the chaos and counted heads, fearing the worst.

"The Vanguard salutes your defense," Garen answered, raising his fist to his chest. The soldiers behind him mirrored the motion in a ripple of steel and leather. Cithria included.

Alric returned the salute, then motioned to a nearby table. Upon it lay a scattering of maps and reports, parchment weighed down by stones of frost still clinging to their edges. "We have compiled what we could," Alric said, his tone tightening. "The damage was localized to the fortress itself. The village outside saw little more than falling debris. No casualties save for one, a mage, already dead before we reached them."

Alys Morn leaned subtly toward Cithria, her lips moving without sound, Already dead? Cithria gave the slightest nod.

Alric continued. "The survivor… did not flee. He dispatched his opponent, and then remained here. When the MageSeekers attempted to bind him, he resisted, but without bloodshed. No man was slain, though many were… humbled." His voice held the faintest rasp of humiliation, though it was buried beneath his rigid formality.

Garen's brow furrowed as he scanned the maps. "And the ice?"

"A byproduct of their clash, so our men tell it. We found no sigils, no residue of spellwork beyond the frost itself. The keep's masons swear it will hold through the thaw, but…" Alric glanced up, his expression grave. "I have never seen magic of such scale wielded so easily. The reports you read, Commander, they were written with care, but they do not capture the… inevitability of it. He fought as though we could not touch him. And truth be told, we could not."

The admission rang through the hall like a hammer striking stone. Even the fire seemed to crackle softer.

Shyvana's arms crossed over her chest, scales glinting faintly in the torchlight. "You believe he intended no harm, then?"

Alric hesitated. His gaze swept the room as though weighing the ears around him. Finally, he said, "He waits still in the courtyard. Not as a prisoner though, he's made that much clear. He claims he will not move until he has been heard."

Garen exchanged a glance with Shyvana, then turned back to Alric. His hand rested lightly on the table's edge, fingers brushing against the frost-stained maps. "You've done well, Knight-Commander. Now take me to him."

Alric inclined his head. "As you command."

Alric turned, his cloak brushing across the stone floor as he gestured for them to follow. The Vanguard fell into step behind Garen, their boots a steady rhythm against the cold stone. The keep's corridors bore the same scars as the walls outside, splintered beams, frozen cracks spidering along mortar, the occasional jag of ice jutting like a blade from the floor. Torches sputtered low against the damp chill.

They emerged once more into the open air, stepping down broad stone steps that led into the courtyard proper.

Clack!

The sharp crack of wood rang from ahead, carrying across the stone hall. Garen's brow furrowed, and he turned his gaze toward Alric in silent question.

The Knight-Commander had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. "Ah. That would be him. Since his arrival three days ago, the mage has taken to the courtyard at dawn… to train."

Garen slowed, and so did the Vanguard behind him, Cithria among them. A ripple of unease passed through the column. Training was not the word she expected.

"Train?" Garen's voice was low, even, but edged with suspicion.

Alric gave a weary nod.

"His sorcery?" Hess growled, leaning forward as though ready to snuff the answer out himself.

"Goodness, no," Alric replied quickly, shaking his head. "We were spared that particular misfortune."

Cithria blinked, confusion stirring in her chest. If not sorcery, then what? Wouldn't the MageSeekers want to see his craft, to study it, to seize upon weaknesses?

Alric's sigh was heavy, as though he had explained this more times than he cared to count. "According to the man I assigned to watch him, he rises before dawn, and for three hours he does nothing but push himself through… exercises. Fifty thousand push-ups. Fifty thousand sit-ups. Fifty thousand handstand push-ups. Fifty thousand squats."

Cithria's jaw nearly went slack. She recoiled despite herself, and she wasn't alone. Even Garen's expression shifted, stiff, unsettled, as if such excess struck him as unnatural.

'Why,' Cithria thought, aghast, 'would anyone put themselves through that? And what soldier could gain from such strain?'

Alric went on, his tone almost flat with resignation. "We thought the same. Then one of ours, Light forgive him, because I know I won't, mentioned our Demacian regiment. The mage lit up at the sound of it, as though we had handed him treasure. From then on he added to his madness, hours of hauling boulders while training, running the walls of Wrenwall fourteen times with half a quarry on his back. And when the day ends, he does not rest."

He gestured faintly toward the open courtyard beyond. "Evenings, he takes up his blades. Sparring. First alone, then with my men. And they… enjoy it. Enough that more join him each night. By now, half the garrison takes turns crossing swords with him, and he welcomes them all. He seems tireless."

Alric's eyes looked suddenly older, as though the weight of his words pressed down on him. "I've commanded men through sieges, seen them bleed and break. But I've never seen a soul burn with so much raw, ceaseless energy. Not once."

The hall fell into quiet, save for the echo of another clack from beyond the doors.

The great doors to the courtyard groaned as they pushed open, spilling pale light and the sound of rhythm into the keep's shadow.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The noise struck with a steady tempo, wood against wood, like a war-drum played by a single hand. As they stepped out, the source became clear.

In the heart of the courtyard, surrounded by a wide circle of armored soldiers, a lone figure moved with blinding speed. His body bent and twisted in impossible rhythm, blades flashing arcs of wood against a wooden sword wielded by one of Alric's men. The soldier strained with both hands, sweat pouring, his footing sliding against the frosted cobblestones. But the stranger did not falter, not even slowing down.

Each strike landed with enough force to rattle the courtyard walls. Each parry answered with such exactness that even Garen's trained eye struggled to follow. And when the soldier's knees finally buckled, his weapon knocked skyward, the mage caught the falling sword in one hand and returned it to him with a nod, as though the clash had been nothing more than a morning stretch.

Cithria felt her throat tighten. It was not just the skill, it was the ease. No panting. No ragged sweat. His chest barely rose, as though the exertion had been less than a walk across the hall.

The mage turned then, catching sight of them.

He was younger than she expected. Rough ashen white hair, sharp green eyes that seemed to pierce without malice, and a frame packed with just as much bulk as Garen. His garments were odd, a black cloak, ragged and torn at the edges, covered his white shirt. His trouses were a thick brown and his boot were the same.

Apart from the wooden sword in his hand, he didn't seem to have any other weapon on him. Of course, as a mage, he probably didn't need them. Cithria did notice the book on his hip, placed in a sachel.

The soldiers around him straightened quickly, saluting upon noticing Garen and the vanguard.

Garen stepped forward, his shadow stretching long across the frost-stained stones. The weight of his presence drew silence from the garrison.

"You are the one they call Asta," Garen said, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

Cithria raised an eyebrow, though only in the quiet of her mind. When exactly had the Sword-Captain learned the mage's name?

The man before them lowered his blade with a practiced ease, letting it rest at his side. His movements held no trace of fear, no hesitation, even when standing before the much taller Garen. The difference in height was clear, yet the mage's build was nearly as imposing. Cithria caught herself wondering if, perhaps, he might even carry more muscle than the Sword-Captain himself.

"I am," the stranger said at last, his tone steady, almost casual. "Asta Silver. You're definitely not like the others. Who exactly am I speaking to?"

"I am Garen Crownguard, of House Crownguard. Sword-Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard, and the Might of Demacia," Garen declared, his voice carrying the weight of command. At his words, Cithria found herself instinctively standing straighter, pride stirring in her chest.

"Woah," Asta murmured, his expression shifting into one of open awe. "That's a lot of titles. You must have earned many merits."

'You couldn't even begin to imagine,' Cithria thought, her heart swelling with quiet pride for her commander.

 

[trashtaker]

The ultimate anti-magic arrives in the most anti-magic xenophobic nation

 

[Djukez]

I do wonder how they will react to all the different types of magic Asta's world has and how powerful the people in his world are

 

[SaberGlory]

Garen did not yet draw his blade, but his posture shifted, broad shoulders leaning slightly forward, voice heavy with command.

"According to Demacian law, your very presence here is a crime. And that is without even accounting for the damage you inflicted upon Castle Wrenwall."

The mage, Asta, let out a long, weary sigh, murmuring more to himself than to anyone else.
"Every time I end up in a new country, it's always something…"

Garen ignored the words, his gaze never leaving the man before him. "I would advise that you turn yourself in. Yet from the reports I have received, you resisted detainment. Clearly, you will not submit peacefully."

This time, his gauntleted hand fell to the hilt of his greatsword. The motion carried weight enough to ripple through the courtyard.
"Now, give me one good reason why I should not cut you down where you stand, mage."

At once, the Dauntless Vanguard moved as one. Behind Garen, shields shifted, steel rasped faintly against scabbards, and disciplined hands fell to hilts. Cithria felt her pulse quicken as her own fingers brushed the pommel of her sword, ready to draw at the first spark. Beside the Sword-Captain, Shyvana's claws flexed with restrained menace, her presence radiating heat as the nearby Dragon Guard lower their spears with a sharp, practiced snap.

Asta raised both hands quickly, palms open in a gesture of peace. "Whoa, whoa! Calm down, all of you! I'm not the enemy here, seriously!"

"Do not attempt deceit, mage!" Garen's voice boomed across the yard, cutting through the tension like a blade through armor. "Surrender at once. You will answer to Demacia for the destruction wrought here today."

"But I didn't do it!" Asta shouted back, his words loud enough to clash with Garen's, but without the Sword-Captain's gravitas. His tone was raw, even a little annoying. "Man, you guys really hate mages that much?"

Asta's gaze flicked past Garen to the woman beside him. He jabbed a finger in Shyvana's direction, brows furrowed. "Wait, what about her? Isn't she a magic person too?"

The half-dragon's lips curled into a scoff, her tone edged like steel. "I am a spear of Demacia. I serve this kingdom. I am no criminal. You, however, are an enemy."

Asta threw his arms wide in frustration. "But why though!?" His voice cracked with exasperation before it trailed into a heavy sigh. His shoulders sagged, the fight in his stance giving way to something else. To Cithria, it wasn't quite surrender, it was as if a strange calm had settled over him.

"Fine then," he muttered, though there was a stubborn finality in the words. "Let's settle this."

From his hip came the sharp click of a clasp breaking open. A leather satchel stirred, and in a heartbeat, a thick tome slid free and rose into the air, its pages fluttering as if carried by unseen hands. The sight alone sent a coil of dread twisting in Cithria's chest. The mere presence of the book radiated power, and her instincts screamed at her that nothing good would come once it opened.

He was about to cast. She knew it. They all knew it.

Cithria surged forward, boots striking stone, but Garen and Shyvana were faster. The Sword-Captain's greatsword arced down in a shining sweep, the air itself cleaving beneath its weight. At the same moment, Shyvana's claws flashed free, her strike a blur of sharpened steel and scale aimed straight for the mage's throat.

Clang!

The sound cracked like a bell, sharp and unnatural. Sparks burst as Garen's greatsword met not flesh but iron-hard resistance. Asta had raised his wooden training blade, and with one arm alone, he caught the full weight of the Might of Demacia's strike.

At the same instant, his other hand shot up and clamped around Shyvana's wrist. Her claws stopped dead, muscles straining, but the mage's grip did not budge.

Cithria froze mid-step, heart hammering, her breath caught in her throat. The impossible sight burned itself into her mind, one man, holding back both Garen Crownguard and Shyvana, with nothing but raw strength and a wooden sword.

"Whoa!" Asta exclaimed, his grin flashing despite the tension. "You guys are pretty fast. Faster than I was when I first joined the Magic Knights."

Cithria's brow furrowed. 'Magic Knights?' The name meant nothing to her. 'Surely such an order would have reached our ears at least once… Arbormark, perhaps?' Her thought faltered as movement drew her eyes back to the floating tome.

Something stirred from within its pages. At first, it seemed like a shadow stretching free, but no, it was solid, steel-dark, and heavy. A hilt broke through the surface of the book, followed by a strange crossguard, and then the unmistakable breadth of a blade.

With a resounding thunck! a massive greatsword of black steel plunged into the stones at Asta's side. The courtyard floor quivered faintly under its weight, a vibration Cithria felt in her boots. The weapon stood taller than most men, a thing of sheer brutality, born from a book that radiated unmistakable sorcery.

Garen braced as Asta's wooden blade pressed back against his greatsword. The Sword-Captain's boots screeched against the frost-slick stones, sparks hissing where steel scraped stone.

Then Asta's leg snapped out in a sudden, brutal kick. His heel struck Shyvana square in the stomach with a sound like a hammer striking iron.

"Gah!" The half-dragon staggered, then was flung backward outright, her armored form sailing past Cithria in a blur before she crashed into the stone wall with bone-rattling force. Dust and frost shook loose from the impact.

Cithria's breath caught. 'He kicked her… through the air?'

"Ah. My bad." Asta's voice carried with alarming nonchalance as he glanced over his shoulder at Shyvana's crumpled form. He looked almost sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. "She looked really strong, so I thought she'd be tougher. Guess I used too much strength."

For a moment, the absurdity of his tone clashed violently with the devastation he'd just dealt. Bewilderment stirred in Cithria's chest, but instinct overrode it quickly.

By then, she was no longer alone. The Dauntless Vanguard had surged forward, shields raised, spears leveled. The Dragon Guard spread out beside them, steel tips glittering in the pale light. Together they formed a wall of steel and will, encircling the mage in a tightening ring.

Asta, for his part, stood calmly in the center, one hand on his wooden blade, the other resting lightly near the colossal black sword that still jutted from the ground at his side. He didn't even flinch at the sight of two dozen weapons aimed directly at his heart.

Asta glanced down at the wooden sword in his hand. With a casual flick, he tossed it over his shoulder; it clattered uselessly against the frost-stained stone. His hand closed instead around the black hilt jutting from the earth.

When he pulled, the courtyard shuddered. Stone cracked beneath his boots as the greatsword tore free with a grinding roar, fragments of cobblestone breaking apart from the force. The sheer weight of the weapon seemed enough to bow the ground itself, yet he hefted it as though it were nothing more than a training blade.

Garen stepped forward, Judgement raised before him, the golden steel catching the pale light of the frost. His presence loomed over the courtyard, every inch the Sword-Captain of Demacia.

Asta answered in kind. He lifted the massive blade with a single hand, the black steel humming faintly in the cold air, and leveled its edge at Garen. His green eyes sparked with challenge.

"Well, what do you say, Commander?" His voice was steady, almost eager. "Just me and you. Settle this without dragging anyone else into it. No need for more people to get hurt."

Cithria's heart lurched. Every fiber of her training told her to shout a warning, to beg Garen not to face this monster alone. The mage had already thrown Shyvana like a doll, how could anyone hope to match that strength? And yet… her pride in her Sword-Captain smothered the thought. If anyone could stand, it would be him. He would not lose. He could not.

"Against a sorcerer's blade of unknown power?" Garen's grim tone carried across the courtyard, though his grip did not falter.

"It's not a magic sword." Asta cut in quickly, shaking his head. "It's an anti-magic sword."

Garen blinked. "What?"

"Anti-magic," Asta repeated, swinging the weapon in a broad arc. Despite its size, the blade moved with startling speed, whistling through the cold air. "There's no magic in the Demon Slayer."

Cithria's stomach knotted. 'The Demon Slayer…?' The very name of the weapon set her nerves alight. Her eyes lingered on its impossible weight, its black sheen that reflected no light. 'That is no petricite…'

"That looks nothing like any petricite sword I've ever seen," Garen said aloud, his tone edged, as if plucking the thought straight from her mind.

Asta tilted his head, brow furrowing in confusion. "Petricite? Oh, you mean that white metal your weapons are made of? I guess this sword used to be white once, back when Licht wielded it, but that was before it was infused with Anti-Magic, then it turned black."

"Infused?" Garen repeated, his voice edged with doubt. "You expect me to believe Anti-Magic can be infused into something?"

Asta waved his hand, gesturing with the massive blade as if it were nothing more than a stick. "I'm serious. If you don't believe me, check it yourself. Uh… do you have some way of detecting magic?" He scratched his cheek, suddenly uncertain.

The room fell into silence. Cithria could feel the collective pause, everyone exchanging baffled glances. The same thought flickered across their minds. 'Is he actually serious?'

"I-In fact, we do," came a measured voice. One of the MageSeekers stepped forward from the line of guards beside the Dragon Guard. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair visible beneath the golden mask that obscured half his face.

"Neat," Asta said brightly, hefting the greatsword toward him. The sudden motion caused an immediate stir, shields shifted, blades raised, the entire ring of soldiers tightening as if preparing for the worst.

Asta blinked at the reaction. "Uh… relax." He planted the blade into the stone floor with a dull thunk and backed away two steps, hands raised in mock surrender.

The MageSeeker hesitated, gaze flicking between Asta, the embedded sword, and Garen, who looked distinctly unamused by this entire exchange. Then, with a breath, the Seeker stepped forward. From within his robes, he drew a small silver emblem shaped like a stylized flower.

A Petricite GreyMark. A tool the MageSeekers favored, capable of detecting and nullifying magical traces simply by proximity.

The MageSeeker advanced with measured steps, his gloved hand outstretched as the GreyMark drew closer to the sword buried in the stone. The silver emblem pulsed faintly in the dim light, its flowery shape catching the glow of nearby torches.

Nothing happened. No flare, no hum, no reaction at all.

The man froze, confusion tightening his features beneath the golden mask. "How…? How is this possible?"

Asta took a curious step forward, only to make the soldiers flinch again. He quickly shuffled back with both hands raised. "Whoa, relax! I'm just asking. So, uh, what is that thing? What's it supposed to do?"

Garen's voice cut through the tension, low and steady. "That is a Petricite GreyMark. It detects and nullifies magic."

A look of recognition dawned across Asta's face. "Ah, so basically the same as my sword. Got it. Huh… how does it nullify magic though? I thought I was the only one who could do stuff like that. Back home, people would kill for something like this."

His casual words unsettled the chamber more than any threat might have. Cithria felt her chest tighten, was he truly treating this like an everyday curiosity?

"So the sword really isn't magic?" Garen asked, his gaze narrowing on the MageSeeker.

The man faltered, his composure cracking. His fingers tightened around the GreyMark as he glanced between the weapon, the mage, and his commander. "I… I don't know. I honestly don't know what to make of this. We all saw it emerge from the tome. That alone should mark it as magic, and yet…" He trailed off, uncertainty heavy in his tone.

Garen fixed him with a hard stare, one that wordlessly said. 'You're asking me to explain this?'

"So… about that duel?" Asta asked, giving a casual wave of his hand toward Garen. His grin was disarmingly earnest, as though the two of them were merely sparring partners. "I won't use any kind of magic or powers. I just want to see how strong you are, as a fellow magicless swordsman."

The words only deepened the strangeness of the encounter. Every sentence that came out of this mage's mouth seemed to make less and less sense, as though he lived in a world entirely apart from their own.

For a fleeting moment, Garen felt the urge to voice his frustration, to demand clarity, to shout down the absurdity of it all. But the eyes of his men were upon him, and the weight of his station left no room for outbursts. The Sword-Captain of Demacia could not afford to look shaken.

So instead, he straightened his shoulders, his expression settling into the unshakable steel of command. He gave a single, firm nod.

"Very well," Garen said, his voice carrying across the frost-cracked courtyard. "I accept your challenge."

 

[trashtaker]

Demacians are such hypocrites man.

Garen being able to literal summon a big ass sword shouldn't complain about magic much less Asta's big black co-

 

[ThePoroKing]

Peak.

 

[SaberGlory]

Garen's gauntlet tightened around the hilt of Judgment. The sword's gilded edge caught the faint torchlight that flickered across the courtyard, illuminating the frost-slick stone between him and his opponent. Every soldier who stood in the ring of steel could feel the pressure building in the air, the kind that precedes a storm.

Asta's grin widened. He adjusted his stance, lowering his center of gravity, the massive black blade resting across his shoulders as if it weighed nothing. "Alright then," he said, voice bright and utterly without fear. "Let's make this quick."

The moment stretched, silent, taut. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Then, Asta moved.

It wasn't magic, at least not in the way any Demacian would recognize. One instant he was standing still, the next the cobblestones cracked beneath his boots as he blurred forward.

Garen reacted instantly, years of training snapping into instinct. He pivoted, greatsword rising to meet the charge. The impact was thunderous. Asta's blade came down like a meteor, shattering the flagstones where Garen had stood only a heartbeat before.

Sparks burst, steel screamed.

Garen's boots slid back across the stone as he caught the blow on the flat of Judgment. The weight behind the strike was monstrous, like clashing against a siege ram. He gritted his teeth, holding his ground through sheer will.

Asta blinked, surprised that Garen hadn't budged an inch more. "You're tough!" he said, genuine admiration in his voice.

"Demacia," Garen said between clenched teeth, shoving forward and breaking the lock, "does not yield so easily!"

He twisted his blade, bringing it around in a heavy, disciplined sweep aimed at Asta's side. The mage-turned-swordsman leapt back, the greatsword whipping around with deceptive agility. The wind from his counterstrike hissed through Garen's cloak as it passed, close enough to shear a few threads loose.

Cithria felt her pulse hammering as she watched.

The two met again at the center of the courtyard.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Each impact rang like a cannon blast. The shockwaves cracked the stones beneath their feet, fragments of frost and debris scattering with every exchange. Garen ducked under one sweeping strike, driving a boot into Asta's knee to stagger him back before launching into a powerful upward cleave.

Asta raised the Demon Slayer as his knee refused to budge, the blade taking the hit and shrugging off the force completely. The recoil didn't even make him flinch. He swung in retaliation, the black sword humming with a deep vibration that made the air itself tremble.

Garen stepped into the blow instead of away from it. The tactic caught Asta off guard. Garen twisted, redirecting the swing with the flat of his sword before driving his shoulder into Asta's chest. The mage grunted, boots skidding several feet as the commander pushed him back with sheer physical might.

"That's awesome." Asta shouted, laughing as he steadied himself.

Garen didn't respond. He planted Judgment in both hands, breathing evenly through his nose. "If this is your strength without magic," he said, voice like iron, "then you're a dangerous man indeed."

"And you," Asta replied, planting his own sword upright before resting a hand atop the hilt, "You are so strong even without magic. I can't believe that someone else exists. It makes me so happy to know that there I'm not the only one without magic. But at the same time, it's so sad, that like me, you'll never know the joys of magic."

Cithria looked like someone had punched her for no reason as she watched the mage start crying... For some reason.

Then they charged again.

This time, Asta took the offensive first, swinging low and fast. Garen parried, the black steel glancing off his blade with a burst of sparks. He countered with a sweeping strike of his own, but Asta ducked beneath it, using the momentum to pivot and kick off the ground, flipping over Garen's head.

Cithria's breath hitched. "He's flying!"

Not quite, but close. Asta landed behind Garen, twisting his grip on the greatsword and striking in one fluid motion. The black blade came down like a guillotine. Garen turned just in time, catching the edge on his pauldron. The impact dented the steel and sent him staggering back a step, but his counterattack came immediately after, an upward slash that forced Asta to retreat again.

The soldiers watching were silent. None dared move, barely dared breathe.

Asta exhaled slowly, his grin fading into a look of focused determination. "You're strong," he admitted, his voice steady. "But is that the best you can do? If you don't have magic, how do you protect your kingdom?"

The question, simple as it was, struck a nerve.

Garen chuckled, though there was an edge to it. Around him, the Demacian soldiers bristled at what they heard as an insult, an affront to everything they stood for.

Cithria felt a heat rise within her chest, an unfamiliar anger welling up at the mage's words. She didn't understand why they got to her so deeply, but the idea that some outsider would question their strength, their Demacia, was intolerable.

'Who does he think he is?' she thought, forcing her expression to remain calm even as her grip tightened on her sword hilt.

Garen lifted his blade skyward, voice booming like thunder across the courtyard. "Strength through discipline!"

The ground itself trembled as every Demacian soldier answered in unison, their voices echoing with conviction. "HONOUR THROUGH DILIGENCE!"

Asta blinked in surprise, the sheer force of their unity washing over him like a wave.

Then, Garen moved.

He exploded forward with a burst of speed that made the air crack, crossing ten feet in the blink of an eye. "For Demacia!" he roared.

Clang!

The collision was deafening. A gale of wind burst outward as the gleaming silver edge of Judgement met the jagged, blackened blade of the Demon Slayer.

Both men stood their ground, locked in a clash of raw strength and conviction, steel grinding against steel, sparks lighting the space between them.

Then, to Cithria's utter bewilderment, the mage sighed.

"You guys are so cool," Asta said, almost sounding genuine. His tone wasn't mocking, instead it was admiring. "Strength Through Discipline. What an awesome motto." He smiled faintly, though there was something different in his eyes now. "But… it's not enough."

A chill crept down Cithria's spine. She wasn't sure why, but every instinct screamed that something unbelievable was about to happen.

Before anyone could react, Asta shifted his stance. He released his left hand from the hilt of his massive sword, holding the Demon Slayer one-handed as though it weighed nothing.

Cithria's eyes widened. 'That thing was as tall as he was, how could he...'

Steel groaned. Garen gritted his teeth, his muscles straining as he tried to hold the line. But to everyone's shock, the commander of the Dauntless Vanguard began to lose ground. Inch by inch, the mage pushed him back, the ground cracking beneath their feet.

"Not nearly enough," Asta muttered, before twisting his wrist and swinging the sword in a wide arc... effortlessly.

BOOM!

The impact sent a shockwave rippling across the courtyard. Garen was launched backward, crashing into the marble floor hard enough to crater it. Dust and stone exploded outward, and the roar of the soldiers died into stunned silence.

Asta stood there, arm still extended from the follow-through of his swing, the massive black blade humming with faint vibration. He blinked once, twice, then lowered the sword to his side. "Oh… uh, sorry about that," he said, scratching the back of his head. "Guess I put too much into that one."

Cithria stared at him, completely dumbfounded. The man had just sent the Pride of Demacia flying like a rag doll, and now he was apologizing? 'He did that earlier with Shyvanna as well.'

The haze began to clear, and through the settling dust, the shape of Garen rose. The marble beneath him had cracked and caved inward from the impact. Behind him, Judgement stabbed into the ground after it had flown from his hand.

Garen steadied himself, planting a hand on the ground before rising to his feet. He took a step back, gripping Judgment firmly once more as he stared across the courtyard at the black-haired mage.

Asta, calm and unreadable, rested the massive sword on his shoulder. "Even then," he said evenly, "I'm not wrong." His voice carried easily through the dust-filled air. "You're not strong enough to fight me. Not even close. I'm holding back, considerably, just to prove that I'm not the enemy here."

Cithria's hand tightened on her sword. Against her better judgment, she believed him. She didn't know why, but something deep inside whispered that the mage was telling the truth. Even after mocking their ideals and shattering their pride, his words carried no deceit.

He really was holding back.

After all, he hadn't cast a single spell, not one, and yet he'd matched the Sword-Captain blow for blow, then sent him flying with what looked like casual strength.

That realization left her cold. If this was him restraining himself… what would he be like at full power?

Her thoughts spiraled until a groggy voice broke the silence.

"Urgh… what happened?"

Every head turned toward Shyvana, who was surrounded by dragon guards as she slowly sat up, one clawed hand rubbing the side of her head.

'She was unconscious?' Cithria's mind reeled. 'From one hit? He only hit her once!'

No one had noticed, not during the chaos, not with all eyes fixed on the duel. The realization hit hard. That single blow from Asta, one he hadn't even seemed to put effort into, had taken out one of Demacia's strongest. A half-dragon.

Shyvana rose to her feet with a snarl, smoke curling from her lips as her eyes flashed molten red. "You're gonna pay for that," she growled, storming toward Asta.

"That is enough, Shyvana."

Garen's voice cut through the tension like a blade.

She froze mid-step, her head turning sharply toward him. "Sword-Captain?"

Garen shook his head, brushing dust from his armor as he turned to face Asta once more. The tension between them lingered, heavy and palpable.

"You are right," He said, his voice measured but firm. "You've given enough proof that you mean no immediate harm to Demacia." His gaze hardened, though not unkindly. "But remember this, I am more than what Demacia has to offer. So I'll ask that you never speak lightly of her name again."

Asta tilted his head slightly, as though considering the weight of Garen's words.

"I will need to report everything that's happened here," Garen continued, stepping forward with the authority of command. "Depending on what the High Council decides, we'll determine your standing, and your fate, within Demacia. Until then, I ask that you cooperate with us."

The courtyard was utterly silent. Dozens of soldiers, vanguards, and dragon guards watched as Garen extended a gauntleted hand.

Asta's expression softened. He hesitated for a heartbeat, as if measuring the intent behind the gesture. The young mage's eyes flicked down to the hand, then back up to meet Garen's gaze.

Finally, he smiled, a faint, honest smile that seemed out of place after such a fierce duel.

"I will," Asta said, stepping forward and grasping Garen's hand in a warrior's grip. The contact was solid, grounded, two men who, in another life, might've stood side by side on the same battlefield.

For a brief moment, the tension in the courtyard eased. The soldiers lowered their weapons. Cithria exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath. Even Shyvana, still simmering with restrained anger, watched in silence as the two released their grip.

 

[trashtaker]

I wonder if Asta would straight up solo the entire kingdom of Demacia when he founds out what they do with normal mages (cause Lux definitely survived through nepotism)

 

[ThePoroKing]

Tell the poros what you have seen today!

 

[SaberGlory]

Asta's hand dropped to his side as the last echoes of their handshake faded into the cold morning air. Around them, the courtyard remained hushed, the gathered soldiers exchanging uncertain glances.

"Captain," one of the vanguard officers spoke, stepping forward, voice hesitant. "What are your orders?"

Garen turned slightly, the gleam of Judgment catching the dim torchlight as he glanced toward the men. "Stand down. The courtyard is secure."

A ripple of relief moved through the formation, though it was tempered by unease. The soldiers sheathed their blades, but none took their eyes off Asta.

Garen adjusted his grip on his sword, lowering it until its tip touched the stone. "Asta," he said, his tone calm, but resolute, "you'll come with us to the great city of Demacia. You've earned enough respect to not be treated as a prisoner, but I'll ask that you stay within the Citadel's custody until we've spoken to the Council."

Asta blinked, tilting his head. "Tge Great city of Demacia? That's your capital, right?"

Garen nodded once. "The heart of Demacia. It's where the final judgment on this matter will be made."

For a moment, Asta looked as if he might argue. His eyes flicked from the soldiers to the walls, then back to Garen. But then he smiled again, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, sure. If that's what it takes to clear things up, I'll go. Just don't expect me to sit still forever."

Cithria found herself almost smiling at the remark. Almost.

Shyvana's claws flexed as she crossed her arms, her gaze sharp as ever. "He's dangerous, Garen. You saw it yourself. We have no idea what he can do."

Garen met her eyes and gave a small nod. "I would expect you to have a completely different reaction to him."

That silenced her, though the faint growl in her throat said she didn't agree.

The commander turned to Asta again. "You'll be escorted under guard, for formality's sake. I trust you won't make that an issue?"

"Not unless someone tries to pick a fight," Asta said lightly, glancing at the ring of soldiers still watching him like a bomb about to go off. "I'm not here to cause trouble."

Garen's lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. "Then we have an understanding."

He turned to his men. "Prepare a transport. We leave for the great city in two days."

The soldiers snapped to attention, moving with crisp efficiency. Shyvana stalked off toward the far end of the courtyard, muttering under her breath. Cithria lingered a moment longer, her eyes following the strange, black-clad swordsman.

Asta caught her staring and gave a small, disarming wave. "Hey. You okay?"

Cithria blinked, caught off guard. "I, yes."

He laughed, bright and unbothered, as if the tension around him didn't even register. "Yeah, I'm still not sure how I ended up here in the first place."

'I didn't ask anything though.' Before she could answer, one of the MageSeekers called over his shoulder. "This way Sir Mage."

The mage gave her a grin, hoisted his sword onto his shoulder, and followed the commander toward the gates.

---

The next two days passed beneath Wrenwall's gray skies, heavy with mist and watchful silence.
Though the battle was over, the fortress still hummed with the kind of unease that only followed when something unnatural had walked its grounds.

Asta wasn't confined, not exactly. He was given a cot in one of the outer barracks, a space usually reserved for trusted mercenaries or visiting soldiers. Two MageSeekers stood outside his door at all hours, their eyes following his every movement. If the lack of privacy bothered him, he didn't show it.

In truth, Asta seemed... comfortable.
He helped carry crates of rations that arrived from the supply wagons, sparred briefly with a few curious soldiers in the courtyard, and even shared stories over bread and broth at the evening mess. He was loud, cheerful, and entirely out of place among the stiff, disciplined Demacians.

Cithria found herself watching him more than she cared to admit.

When she reported to Garen the next morning, he didn't seem surprised. "I expected as much," he said, arms folded across his chest as he stood on the ramparts overlooking the camp below. "He doesn't act like a man with something to hide. This makes him more dangerous, not less. Keep that in mind."

"Understood Sword-Captain." Cithria saluted.

Shyvana, leaning against the stone wall nearby, snorted. "You're giving him too much credit. I still think we should have bound him."

Garen's expression didn't change. "And risk provoking him into proving why we shouldn't? No. If he wanted to attack, he would have done so already."

Cithria hesitated before speaking. "Sir… what if he's telling the truth? bout being from another world?"

That drew both of their gazes, and she nearly regretted saying it. But Garen only looked thoughtful. "Morn has grown really fond of you then, if she told you of the information we gathered. As for what he claims, we'll cross that bridge when we get there."

---

Morning broke over Wrenwall in muted shades of silver and blue, the light slipping through a low curtain of fog that rolled down from the mountains. The fortress stirred slowly, a living thing waking from uneasy dreams. The clang of armor, the creak of wooden carts, and the low murmur of disciplined voices filled the air.

Cithria was already awake. She had been long before the trumpets sounded. Sleep had not come easily, her mind refused to still after recent events.

Now, as she tightened the last strap of her armor, the morning light brushed against the edge of her pauldrons, painting them in faint gold. She checked the fit of her gloves twice, then again, before securing her cloak. It was habit, the kind drilled into her since her first campaign. But beneath the steady rhythm of preparation, there was unease she couldn't quite name.

Outside, the courtyard was alive with motion. Stablehands loaded supply crates into the wagons. Squads of soldiers fell into marching lines, their voices carrying over the hum of the morning air. The dragon guard was already assembled near the gate, Shyvana standing at their head like a sentinel carved from iron.

Cithria took her place among the vanguard. The air was crisp, laced with the smell of oil and steel. She adjusted her helm under her arm as she caught sight of Asta standing a few paces from the MageSeekers' post.

He was dressed in the same strange, tattered cloak from two days before, though someone had provided him with cleaner underclothes and boots. He looked oddly refreshed, his expression bright as he leaned against a wagon wheel, chatting with one of the younger soldiers like they were old friends. The soldier laughed at something he said, actually laughed, before noticing Garen's approach and straightening instantly.

Cithria frowned. It wasn't that Asta was disrespectful, exactly. He simply... didn't seem to understand Demacia.

To him, rank and discipline meant little. Yet somehow, that lack of reverence didn't come across as arrogance, more like sincerity in a world too strict to allow it.

"Cithria," a familiar voice called from behind her. She turned to see Alys Morn approaching, his weathered features marked by fatigue and something close to caution.

"Unexpected developments?" she finished, adjusting her sword belt.

Morn smirked faintly. "You've been paying attention."

Cithria glanced toward Asta again. "It's hard not to."

Garen's command voice soon carried over the courtyard, firm and clear. "We ride in formation until midday. Maintain distance between the carriages. MageSeekers take rear position. Dragon Guard, cover the flanks."

A chorus of "Yes, Sword-Captain!" echoed through the air.

As the soldiers began to move, Cithria mounted her horse. The leather reins felt cold beneath her gloves. From her vantage point, she could see the whole procession beginning to form, banners of silver and blue fluttering faintly against the morning haze.

Then came Asta, walking easily beside the lead wagon. He gave a lazy wave when he caught her eye. "Morning! Guess today's the big trip, huh?"

'Why is he talking to me again?' Cithria blinked, unsure how to respond. "It's not a trip," she said after a pause. "It's an official escort to the capital."

He grinned. "Right, right. An official escort. Sounds fancy."

She sighed inwardly, choosing not to reply. But she found, to her annoyance, that the corner of her mouth almost lifted.

The gates of Wrenwall groaned open, spilling sunlight and mist across the cobblestone path. The wind carried the sound of hooves and the rhythmic clatter of armor as the column began to move.

But if there was one thing Cithria had learned in her years of service, it was that things were never so simple.

"Mage! Stop him!"

The shout rang out from deep within Wrenwall's inner walls, sharp, and unmistakably urgent.

Cithria turned instinctively, her hand flying to her sword. Around her, the column halted, soldiers glancing about in confusion. The sound of boots and armor shifting echoed through the misted courtyard.

Asta blinked, bewildered. "What? I didn't do anything!"

"It's not you, lad," Hess barked. His gaze swept toward the fortress gates just as Garen vaulted from his steed, Judgment flashing in his grasp. Without a word, the Sword-Captain sprinted back through the gate, the sound of his armor ringing against the stone.

"Hey, wait!" Cithria heard Hess shout, but before anyone could react, a gust of wind cut through the air. Asta blurred forward in a streak of motion, dashing past her and straight after Garen.

"Of course," Cithria muttered under her breath, already reaching for her blade.

Shyvana roared something indistinct and took off after them, the ground shaking beneath her strides. The Dragon Guard moved in unison, their heavy armor clattering as they followed their commander inside.

"This is turning into a right mess, eh?" Hess groaned, swinging off his horse.

Morn laughed, sharp and fearless. "Wouldn't be Demacia without one." She drew her blade and broke into a run. "With me, Cithria!"

Cithria didn't hesitate. She leapt down, her boots hitting the cobblestones hard before she followed close behind. The cold morning air whipped at her cloak as she sprinted through the gate and into Wrenwall once more.

They cut through narrow corridors and arched passageways, their footsteps thundering across the stone. The alarm bells had not been rung, but the tension in the air was unmistakable, something had gone wrong inside the keep.

Cithria rounded a corner and nearly collided with Morn, who had come to a sudden stop. Ahead, the sound of shouting and steel clashing echoed from the next hall.

Cithria didn't know why, but she groaned inwardly the moment she looked past Morn.

Garen stood at the center of the commotion, his sword drawn but held low, not in threat, but in warning. His stance was controlled, shoulders squared, every inch the image of a commander who demanded discipline even amid chaos.

Beside him, Shyvana's expression was dark, fury simmering behind her eyes, though, curiously, it wasn't directed at Asta.

No, Cithria realized with a small frown. Shyvana's anger was fixed squarely on the MageSeekers stationed at Wrenwall.

The three of them, however, didn't so much as glance her way. Their focus, sharp and unwavering, was aimed past Asta, at the trembling boy hiding behind him.

'The boy is a mage?' Cithria thought, suppressing a heavier groan. 'Hess was right. This really is turning into a right mess.'

The child couldn't have been more than thirteen winters old. His clothes were simple, the sort worn by farmers' children, his boots caked in mud. Dirty brown hair fell into his wide eyes, which were glossy with unshed tears. He tried to stand tall, tried not to cry, but the fear etched into his face betrayed him.

And rightfully so.

Cithria knew exactly what awaited mages in Demacia, and things had only grown worse since Sylas' rebellion and the death of King Jarvan III.

Prince Jarvan's grief had turned to fury, and from that fury came a kingdom gripped by fear. Every village, every stronghold, every garrison, MageSeekers were out in force, hunting for even the faintest glimmer of magic.

Cithria herself had helped suppress two riots since Meltridge. She remembered the anger in the people's eyes, the despair in their voices as they cried out against Demacia's laws. Families torn apart, children dragged away in the night for something they could neither control nor understand.

And now, looking at the boy trembling behind Asta's broad frame, she could see the same story unfolding again, only this time, right in front of Garen.

She guessed the boy's family must have hidden him well. Hidden him for years, maybe, living in constant fear of discovery. If Asta hadn't drawn so much attention to Wrenwall, they might've managed to keep him safe a little longer.

 

[trashtaker]

I wonder if Morgana would see Asta's devil form and actually ally herself to him considering that they're both a good person

 

[SaberGlory]

I wonder if Morgana would see Asta's devil form and actually ally herself to him considering that they're both a good person

Click to shrink...

Heehehehehehehehehehehehhehehehehehehehehehehehehehehheheheheheheheh. We'll you'll have to wait until they meet.
Although me personally I want Asta and Kayle to meet so he can give her a reality check

 

[SaberGlory]

The boy trembled where he hid behind the tall, white-haired man. Asta stood firm, his broad frame completely shielding the child from view.

Across from them, five MageSeekers stood tense, their silver masks glinting in the torchlight. The faint hum of runic restraints filled the air, sharp and accusing. Between the two groups, Garen advanced slowly, his heavy steps echoing off the stone floor of Wrenwall's inner courtyard.

"What is going on here?" Garen demanded, his voice calm but commanding. "And Asta... step away from the child."

Asta didn't move. His tone, though steady, carried an edge of defiance. "He's scared, Garen. Terrified. Like he knows his life's about to end. Why is that?"

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the wind scraping through the courtyard banners. Garen's gaze shifted toward the MageSeekers. "The boy is a mage? How are you certain of this?"

Two of the MageSeekers, those who had accompanied them from Meltridge, looked uneasy. The remaining three, however, stood unshaken beneath Garen's scrutiny.

The leader among them stepped forward. He was a dark-skinned man, broad-shouldered and composed, with a silver half-mask that gleamed across the left side of his face. When he spoke, his voice carried the clipped precision of a man too familiar with authority.

"With the dark mage already apprehended," he began, his tone cold, "we conducted a procedural sweep of the region to ensure there were no lingering traces of corruption."

He spat the final word like a curse. "That required a search of nearby homes. If there was magic left behind, or worse, mages who had slipped through our notice, it was our duty to find them."

The MageSeeker's masked face turned toward the boy. "The GreyMark reacted instantly to his presence. The reading was undeniable. He is one of them."

Asta's expression hardened. "He's a child. That's what he is."

The MageSeeker sneered. "They all start that way."

Before anyone could respond, a strangled cry broke out behind Cithria. She turned sharply, startled, and for the first time realized that the commotion had drawn a crowd, villagers, guards, even castle servants pressing in around the courtyard walls.

A woman was struggling against two soldiers holding her back, her face streaked with tears. "He's my son!" she cried out, her voice cracking. "Please, don't hurt him! He's just a child! He's all I have left!"

Her words hit like a physical blow, echoing through the courtyard. The boy flinched at the sound, trying to hide even deeper behind Asta's cloak.

Cithria felt something twist painfully in her chest. The woman's desperation, the child's fear, it all painted too clear a picture. She knew the truth of Demacia's laws. Even now, after Sylas' rebellion and the death of King Jarvan III, things had only grown harsher.

The Sword-Captain's jaw tightened. He didn't look at Asta right away, instead turning his gaze toward the crying woman and the trembling boy. His grip on Judgment shifted slightly, the faint scrape of metal against scabbard barely audible.

Then he exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Demacia's justice," he said, "is not mine to question. The laws stand."

He stepped closer to the MageSeekers, his voice steady but heavy with command. "The boy will be taken into custody. He will not be harmed, nor mistreated. You will deliver him safely to the capital, and he will stand trial before the Council."

The lead MageSeeker inclined his head stiffly. "As it should be, my lord."

Asta's shoulders tensed. "Trial?" His voice cracked with disbelief. "He's a kid! You think that's justice?!"

Garen turned to him then, blue eyes hard as steel. "I think justice doesn't stop being justice just because it's difficult."

Asta took a step forward, his expression darkening. For a heartbeat, the MageSeekers reached for their staves, but Garen raised a hand, warning them to stand down.

"This isn't your land," Garen said quietly. "You don't understand the history we carry, or what's at stake if we fail to keep magic contained."

"I understand fear," Asta shot back. "I understand people getting crushed because of it. You're no different from the ones back home who looked down on me just because I was born without magic."

Cithria felt the sting in those words. Yet Garen only stared back, unmoving, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his tone was grave. "If you truly believe you understand fear, then understand this, our kingdom was nearly torn apart because we ignored it. I won't let that happen again."

The boy whimpered softly. The sound drew every eye for an instant, fragile, human, and small. Asta looked back at him, and Cithria saw his anger falter just slightly.

The MageSeekers moved forward again, one producing a containment shackle that pulsed faintly with runic light. The mother's cries grew louder, her pleas breaking into hoarse sobs as she tried to push past the guards.

Asta's fists clenched, knuckles whitening, but Garen's voice came firm and final.
"Enough."

The single word silenced the courtyard.

He turned to his soldiers. "See that the woman is looked after. The boy will be escorted under full guard to the great city. Asta..." He met the young man's furious stare. "...I suggest you stand aside."

Asta's jaw worked silently for a moment, then he exhaled through his nose, the tension in his frame radiating like heat. "...You talk about justice," he said quietly, before turning to face the boy.

Cithria noticed the shift in Asta's expression, the tension in his jaw eased, replaced by a warm, disarming smile. He knelt slightly, placing a steady hand on the boy's trembling shoulder.

"Hey, kid," he said gently. "What's your name?"

The boy hesitated, eyes darting past Asta toward the soldiers and MageSeekers encircling them. His lower lip quivered.

But Asta moved his head into the boy's line of sight, forcing his gaze back toward him. His tone softened, but there was a firmness beneath it, a quiet, unshakable confidence.

"No. Don't look at them," he said. "Look at me. They're not going to hurt you. No matter what happens, they can't hurt you. Understand?"

The boy didn't nod. He didn't believe it, Cithria could see that in his eyes. And she couldn't blame him.

Around them, the crowd murmured uneasily. Garen stood a few paces away, watching in silence, his expression unreadable. Even the MageSeekers seemed momentarily thrown off, unsure what to make of this strange, foreign man speaking so calmly in the face of Demacia's law.

Finally, the boy spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "D… Darryl."

Asta's grin widened. "Darryl, huh? Wow, that's an awesome name."

He ruffled the boy's messy brown hair, earning a startled blink from him. Then, without hesitation, Asta said something that made every soldier within earshot stiffen.

"So, I hear you have magic," he said cheerfully. "That's amazing. You've got a wonderful gift, you know that?"

The words hit like a hammer blow. Cithria felt the air leave her lungs. Even Darryl froze, eyes widening in disbelief.

Asta, however, was completely unfazed.

"I'm not joking," he went on, his tone earnest. "Where I come from, people dream of having awesome magic. I trained my ass off for years trying to awaken mine… but it turned out I didn't have any. Not even a drop."

A few soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. The MageSeekers whispered among themselves, unable to tell if he was mocking them or telling the truth.

Asta straightened slightly, his voice growing firmer. "That wasn't going to stop me, though. I made a promise to myself, that I'd still reach my goal, magic or not."

Cithria frowned, unsure what to make of his words. Around them, tension hung thick in the air, but Asta seemed untouched by it. If anything, he looked genuinely proud of what he was saying.

The boy, Darryl, peeked up at him, still trembling but clearly drawn in. His voice came out small, shaky.

"G-Goal?" he whispered.

Asta smiled, a quiet confidence lighting up his face. "That I'd become the strongest in my kingdom. That I'd earn the most merits. That I'd be a beacon of hope for everyone, rich or poor, orphan or noble. That I'd become the Wizard King, the strongest mage of them all."

Cithria noticed the boy's eyes widen slightly in awe before he quickly averted his gaze, fear tightening his expression as he remembered where he was.

The group fell silent, their attention drawn to Asta as if his words carried a weight that none of them could ignore.

"Do you know what I did after that?" Asta asked, his tone light but steady. "I joined the Magic Knights, even though I had no magic at all. I made it into one of the nine squads that protect the Clover Kingdom. And then I trained harder than anyone. I fought harder than anyone. I pushed myself until the people around me began to believe in me."

He glanced around at the soldiers, his voice steady but filled with passion. "Now, I stand before you as the leader and squad captain of the Black Bulls, the second-strongest squ... err, order in the entire kingdom. I'm closer to my dream than anyone ever thought I could be."

Garen stepped forward, his armored boots clinking against the cobblestone. "What's the point of this, Asta?"

Asta scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "Good question. Why am I telling you all this?" His gaze shifted toward the young boy. "Well, Darryl… tell me something. Do you hate your magic?"

Darryl froze. His wide eyes darted to his mother, who shook her head quickly, fear evident in her features.

The safe answer was obvious, yes. Everyone expected him to say it. But then something flickered in the boy's expression, a spark of defiance breaking through his fear.

He shook his head firmly. "I don't hate it! I use it to help Mama, I make the ground soft so she can plant faster. We don't have to work as hard anymore! I don't want to see her hurt her hurt anymore."

There was a collective gasp across the street as the boy cried out, tears streaming down his eyes.

Cithria's heart twisted painfully. He didn't even understand what he'd done, how those innocent words had condemned him.

Asta's expression softened even further, and his hand lingered on the boy's shoulder, steady and reassuring. "That's amazing, Darryl," he said warmly. "You're using your magic to make life better for someone you love. That's what true strength is."

The boy blinked up at him through his tears, uncertain whether to believe the words. Cithria could see the faintest glimmer of pride beneath the fear, that small light in a child's eyes when someone finally sees them as more than a burden.

But not everyone shared Asta's sentiment.

"That's enough," the lead MageSeeker snapped, his voice like the crack of a whip. "You've said quite enough, foreigner. The child's words confirm what we already knew."

He lifted his staff, the runes along its length glowing faintly blue. The hum of restrained magic filled the air once again. "By Demacian law, no mage, child or not, may go unbound within the walls of the realm."

The mother's desperate cry tore through the moment. "Please, no! He's never hurt anyone!"

Darryl trembled with fear, instinctively stepping closer until his forehead brushed against Asta's chest. The older boy chuckled softly and placed a reassuring hand on his head.

"Earth magic, huh?" Asta said with a grin. "I'm willing to bet you'll be a great and powerful mage someday."

Cithria was practically pulling at her hair now. 'What is with this man!? Does he not see the situation? Is he intentionally ignoring everything!?'

"The Black Bulls could use a mage like you," Asta continued, his tone light and genuine. "I don't think we have an Earth mage yet."

His words silenced the crowd all over again.

'What the hell is he talking about!?' That thought rippled through every onlooker.

Even Darryl looked confused, at first. But as Asta's words sank in, his wide eyes began to shimmer with realization.

"Join the Black Bulls, Darryl. It'll be interesting," Asta said with his usual confident grin.

Beside him, his grimoire floated up, glowing faintly red before opening on its own. The sudden motion made the soldiers around tense, hands flying to their weapons.

The pages fluttered rapidly, and then, from within the grimoire, a black mass seeped out like liquid shadow. It expanded, swirling in the air above Darryl before flattening into a thin, rippling surface.

The boy looked up in awe.

Then, like a living thing, the shadow descended, falling gently over him. It settled and tightened, forming into a black robe that clasped neatly at his collar. Gold trims glimmered faintly, and on the front gleamed an insignia, a raging black bull's head, fierce and proud.

For a long moment, no one spoke.