It started with a breath.
Vines peeled from the cracks in the stone like they'd been holding their breath for centuries—trembling, hesitant, like fingers just waking up. Water wept from deep aquifers, curling in silver threads down the arms of carved sentinels and weather-worn glyphs. The mosaics, scorched and cracked, pulsed once, then shifted—tiles clicking back into place with unnerving precision, like the bones of something dead remembering how to stand.
They passed the statue of the Raven Mother. Once shattered, now whole again. Her wings unfurled in still, solemn grace, her blind eyes closed like she was listening to something that hadn't been spoken in centuries. The silence around her wasn't empty. It was thick. Sacred. It pressed against their skin.
Ezreal raised his hand and brushed the stone robe with his fingers. "She saw it," he murmured, voice low and weighted. "Everything that came through here. And she waited."
The deeper they went, the more the air shifted.
Glass pods, long clouded with age and silence, began to stir. A soft hiss leaked from the seams. Frost melted in slow drips, sliding down the curves of glass. Inside, limbs began to twitch.
An elven woman sucked in a breath and let out a shuddering sob, hand reaching blindly toward the light. A dwarven soldier coughed, blinking like the world had come back too fast. A tiefling child wailed, high and raw, clinging to the edge of his pod like it was the last thing keeping him from slipping away again.
Caylen dropped down beside him, one knee on the stone, voice soft. "Shhh... you're alright. You're alright. You're safe."
They moved from one pod to the next like ghosts with matches—offering heat, water, whatever pieces of kindness hadn't broken yet. Some survivors came back slow. Some didn't speak. A few would never speak again. But the fog was lifting. The weight of forgetfulness cracking open. Memory returned like a first breath after drowning.
Then they reached the chamber.
Tamerand's cradle. But it didn't feel like death anymore.
It breathed.
Golden moss shimmered underfoot with every breeze. The broken columns stood again, scarred but proud. And from the shattered crown of the dome above, the light spilled in—real light, soft and warm like the world hadn't ended after all.
And in the center stood a man.
No monster. No relic. Just a man.
Tamerand, the Aurum Warden. Tall. His skin the sheen of old gold, like a statue that had lived too long. Robes the color of worn parchment hung loose over his frame, hair long and unbound. His eyes were quiet and full of pain—but not just pain. There was relief in them too. Maybe forgiveness.
"You didn't come for victory," he said, voice deep and slow like stone cracking. "You came for truth."
Ezreal bowed his head. "We found it," he said. "Buried under everything we were afraid to see."
Tamerand's gaze shifted, drifting past them toward the survivors stirring behind. "Then let the truth breathe again."
He raised his hand.
A pulse rolled out from him. Not magic. Not heat. Something older than either. It moved through them like a dream half-remembered—like memory you didn't know was yours until it hit you. Where it touched the waking, things lit up. Names were whispered. Songs long buried came back. Even the quietest prayers found their way to lips again.
Caylen swiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand. "How many years has it been?"
"Too many," said Tamerand. "And not enough. I still remember too much."
Dax stepped forward, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. "We need to get them out. Some of these people won't survive the night."
"I'll walk with you," Tamerand said. "Until the last sees daylight."
Ezreal didn't move, just studied him. "And after that?"
Tamerand looked up at the light breaking through the ruined ceiling. "I've kept quiet long enough. Maybe it's time I went back. To the Accord."
Caylen blinked. "You'd face the Council again?"
"No," Tamerand said, voice cutting sharper now. "I'd stand for them. There's still a wound that hasn't closed. But first... we rise."
And they did.
Verek had expected silence, but not like this.
Not this brittle, waiting kind. The kind that settled behind your eyes and made you feel like something had been cut out of the world. The hum was gone—the one that had been crawling under everything, whispering warnings in a voice older than stone. Now it was just... quiet. A real quiet.
Kings Port had started breathing again.
The market wasn't bustling, not exactly. More like stirring. People moved through its narrow veins with stiff backs and sideways glances, like they'd only just remembered how to walk without ducking. Candles burned steady in glass jars by shrine-corners, their flames thin but unshaken. The fish barrels were full again. The voices weren't whispers anymore, just soft and aimless, floating up between stone alleys and battered shopfronts. No more waiting for shadows to speak first.
The Reaver's grip was gone. Shattered. Left behind like a bad dream.
The sky still hung grey, like stormclouds had been baked into it, but the fog had peeled back. Wet rooftops glimmered with something close to color. Stones looked cleaner, though no one had scrubbed them. Sea-glass beads hung from the eaves, clicking gently in the wind. Pennants snapped above the barracks, and some kid shrieked laughter as he tore down the wharf barefoot, splashing water in all directions like it owed him something.
They walked in the middle of it.
At first, the crowd barely noticed. But the shift came creeping in, slow and sideways, like a wind changing direction. Faces turned. Eyes squinted. Then someone remembered. A spark leapt from one person to the next. An old woman at a bread stall stepped forward, her fingers all knots and shakes, and pressed a faded little charm into Caylen's hand. It was twine and bone, marked with the black wings of the Raven Mother.
"For luck, darling," she said, voice cracked and reverent. "You turned the tide. Bless you for it."
Caylen bowed his head, his smile quiet and crooked, the weight of it sitting deep in his throat. He didn't say a word, but it was all there in his eyes.
They passed a chapel next—half-fallen but alive again. It had turned into a patchwork healing hall. Dax stopped in the doorway, letting the heavy air hit him: incense, salve, old grief. Inside, blankets were wrapped around shoulders like armor. One woman rocked without sound, face buried in her hands. Someone murmured a prayer that barely made it past their teeth.
Dax didn't speak. He just knelt. Pulled a battered copper ring from his pocket and set it on the stone, right in the middle of the floor. It was scratched, dulled, probably worthless. But it had weight.
By dusk, they reached trader's lane. The city moved with an awkward rhythm, like someone recovering from a broken leg. The blacksmith's forge coughed fire into the street. The apothecary reeked of fireroot and damp sage. The group split up without talking—too used to each other for plans. Caylen bartered two old stage rings for a carved seabird whistle. Dax rewrapped the worn leather on his quarterstaff. Ezreal lifted a dusksteel ring from a velvet tray, its infernal markings faint and mean, and slid it into his coat like it belonged there. No one asked. No one had to.
For a little while, they were just people again.
That night they stayed at The Harbor's Gasp, a weathered inn tucked into the cliffside like it was trying to hide from the ocean. Its windows opened to nothing but wind and black water. Lanterns swung slow on rusted chains, casting shadows that made the floorboards seem older than they were.
For once, no gods pulled at their words. No dream-laced omens. No creeping voices talking of breach or burden.
They played cards. Drank spiced wine that burned just enough. Caylen hummed something soft but left it unfinished. Dax passed out in a chair with his arms folded like a barricade. Ezreal sat on the floor, legs crossed, cloak puddled around him like it was trying to swallow the edges. Thimblewick curled into his shoulder, looking more like ash than fur.
They didn't talk about what came next.
Not until morning.
Down at the docks, the world had teeth again. Gulls cried like they'd been insulted. The air tasted of rope and brine and new weather. Pulleys groaned. Orders got shouted without care for politeness. Sunlight bounced off the planks, and boots hit wood with sharp intent.
The Skyward Lark was waiting for them.
She looked fast. Sharp, sleek, with a navy hull and silver trim that caught every bit of morning light. Her sails bore the winged sigil of Phokorus, and her silence had the kind of edge that meant this ship wasn't built to be noticed.
King Torvald stood by the gangplank, cloak snapping behind him like it had opinions. His quartermaster was stone-faced beside him. Up by the prow, Zavara Ellenoir stood statue-still, arms behind her back, braid tight as wire, eyes fixed on the sea like it might flinch.
The king turned as they approached and gave a single, clipped nod. "Two days to Phokorus," he said. His voice was calm, but carried weight. "Kaelith's expecting us."
Zavara didn't look away from the horizon. "The sea favors shadow-walkers," she said, voice low and even. "But it won't hide what's waiting past the tide."
Ezreal paused at the ramp, gaze drifting over the city one last time. The crooked towers, the winding stairs, the cliffs where the gulls still screamed. Nothing gentle about any of it.
Then he boarded.
The Lark groaned a greeting, ropes and timber creaking like old bones being asked to move again. She wasn't some merchant's prize. This was a ship that remembered storms. Her crew moved like clockwork with scuffed boots and no wasted words. Every line pulled tight. Every knot told a story.
Ezreal found a spot near the stern and stood there, watching the city disappear behind them. Kings Port had never been his. Not really. But leaving still scraped something raw.
"You're thinking loud again," Caylen said, suddenly beside him, leaning lazy against the rail like it was a stage prop. Too relaxed. Performed.
Ezreal didn't turn. "Saying goodbye."
"To who?"
"To the thing we thought we came here for."
Caylen's grin wavered, then fell. "Closure's a liar," he muttered. "You don't get it. You just run out of fight."
Ezreal didn't answer. The wind pulled at his coat, tugging like it wanted something he wasn't ready to give.
Up ahead, Dax hovered by the rigging. Watching the crew, watching the water. He didn't like the sea. Never had. Too open, too quiet in the wrong ways. But the Lark? She earned his respect. Solid bones. Clean lines. Probably hiding weapons under her boards.
He squinted at Zavara. She hadn't moved an inch.
He walked over. No reason to be sneaky. "You're not exactly chatty for a spymaster."
Zavara didn't flinch. "That's why I'm breathing."
A short sound escaped him, half grunt, half laugh. "We're really going back. To her."
"To Queen Serpantwind," she said, her voice like frost just before it turns to rain.
"We didn't exactly part on cheerful terms."
"None of us did," she replied. "She sent the call. You answered. That's the part that matters."
"And if it's not enough?"
"It won't be."
Midship, Verek stood by himself, caught in some stillness the sea hadn't touched. His hair whipped in the wind, silver streaked like cloud trails. Thimblewick crouched on a rope coil nearby, ears twitching, eyes wide and too sharp for a creature his size.
Verek lifted a hand toward the carved figurehead. The lark—fierce, beak open, eyes silver like stormlight—seemed to watch him back. Magic hummed near his fingertips, not cast but known. The ship wasn't just wood and rivets. It was awake.
Torvald stepped up beside him, quiet as a shadow falling.
"There's something underneath it," Verek said.
"There is," the king replied. "Gifted to Phokorus's first queen. Carved by sea-folk from Iriyen. Bound in wind and memory. One of a kind."
Verek let his hand drop. "It carries more than passengers."
Torvald nodded. "It carries judgment."
That night, the sea melted into gold. Lanterns danced overhead, swaying like stars that couldn't decide where to fall. The sky caught fire with constellations.
They gathered near the helm.
Caylen lifted his flask, lips twisted in a smirk that didn't quite ring true. "To truths we didn't ask for, and futures we'll probably regret."
Dax drank like it was a chore.
Ezreal took the flask. Looked at it. Held it a moment too long. Then passed it on.
"You good?" Caylen asked, voice soft, like he meant it.
Ezreal didn't look at him. "Not yet," he said, quiet and flat. "But I'll figure it out."
Below the hull, something deep shifted in the water.
And the world tilted its ear.