Early Morning
The streets were in chaos.
Loud, angry voices rang through Demacia as people poured out of their homes.
Doors and windows flew open, heads craned out in confusion.
Many stormed outside, shouting, arguing, pushing—what began as confusion quickly erupted into a full-blown uproar.
It was the kind of scene one might expect on National Day. But today was no holiday.
Garen stood at a checkpoint, face taut with worry, shouting orders to the Dauntless Vanguard.
He tried to press through the crowd, but the sheer number of people made it impossible.
With no choice, he moved with the flow of the gathering masses, frustration written all over him.
Just this morning, reports came in—there was a massive parade in High Silvermere.
Its likes hadn't been seen in a century.
Thousands of citizens had taken to the streets, starting from the Grand Plaza and marching around the capital.
And it wasn't just here.
Similar uprisings were reported in Myne, Fosbarrow, Veloris, Edessa...
Practically every major city in Demacia was rising, united in protest.
They marched under a single demand: Repeal the ban on magic.
The suppressed tension around forbidden sorcery had finally boiled over.
Garen had long known this day would come.
What he hadn't expected—what shook him to his core—was that the leader of it all was his sister:
Luxanna Crownguard.
The person who should've stayed furthest from this kind of unrest was now marching at the head of it.
How ironic.
Clad in the heavy armor of a Captain, Garen pushed through side alleys and narrow paths until he finally reached the front of the parade.
He stopped, breathing heavily, eyes scanning the crowd.
And there she was.
Lux stood at the front, holding a banner high. Red text covered the cloth—bold strokes that looked like they were written in blood.
The chants around him echoed louder and louder, hammering against his chest like war drums. His eyes locked on the words.
They weren't slogans.
They were names.
Names of Demacian citizens—mages.
All of them had died, imprisoned or exiled, not for committing crimes, but simply for being born with magic.
Their families had written the names in blood.
Garen's heart clenched.
"They were born with magic—and Demacia turned them into criminals!"
"Magic is not a crime!"
"Magic is not a crime!"
"Magic is not a crime!"
The chant surged through the air, overwhelming everything else. The crowd approached.
At the front, beside Lux, were two other young women.
One had vivid blue hair and played a haunting melody on a violin—Sona Bouvier, the adopted daughter of the Bouvier Family.
The other, a swordswoman with Laurent steel at her hip—Fiora Laurent, the youngest of the Laurent family.
Garen recognized them both.
But it stunned him to realize that Lux had convinced a mage to openly use her magic in the parade.
This misstep here could mean death for all of them.
And then, she saw him.
"Brother," Lux said, raising her voice above the chants.
"Are you going to stand in the way of the people's will?"
She stood tall, flag raised high, staring straight at him.
She had imagined this moment countless times.
'I'm sorry, brother... I haven't been a good sister.'
"Luxanna!" Garen called out.
He looked into her eyes for a long moment. Then, with a heavy breath, he said:
"If you believe this is right, then stand your ground."
He stepped aside.
"…Brother."
Lux's eyes widened. That wasn't the response she expected.
Her lips parted in surprise, then slowly curled into a soft smile.
Tears welled up—guilt, gratitude, resolve all mixing at once.
A roar surged behind her, louder than ever before. The violin melody swelled.
To be acknowledged by Garen Crownguard, Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard, was no small thing. It meant everything to the marchers.
'Thank you... brother.'
Lux nodded, smiled through her tears, and held the flag higher, stepping forward with renewed strength.
As the parade passed him, more Vanguard soldiers approached Garen.
"Captain, are we just letting this happen?" one of them asked coldly.
Eben Hess—First Shield. Loyal, rigid man.
Before Garen could reply, another voice cut in.
"We can't be sure our families doesn't carry magic, Hess."
It was Saska Voss, one of the few female members of the First Shield.
Her twin brother, Lourik, stood silently beside her.
Hess gritted his teeth, frustration burning in his eyes.
"We failed to protect the capital..." he muttered.
He slammed a fist into the wall, fury and shame colliding.
But Garen said nothing.
Some things—some truths—were too deep, too tangled, too dangerous to unpack in the light.
Magic. Forbidden. Cursed. Gifted.
Whatever the word, it was part of them now—part of Demacia.
And far more common than anyone dared to admit.
In every five households, at least one Demacian was touched by magic, which the people now called being "dyed with demons."
However, by Noxian standards, most wouldn't qualify as magical talents.
But this was Demacia.
Here, discovering magic meant exile at best, life imprisonment at worst.
And for many, it ended in death, often at the hands of the Mageseekers.
It was no exaggeration to say that every soldier in the Mageseekers had Demacian blood on their hands.
"Don't overthink it," Garen said grimly to his men.
"There are no foreign agitators here. Just our people... finally speaking their minds."
He had made up his mind.
Today, all of Demacia was in turmoil.
Demacia was merely a reflection—a microcosm—of something much bigger.
And deep down, Garen couldn't help but feel a flicker of admiration for his sister.
The kingdom had mobilized the Dauntless Vanguard, the Radiant Guard, the Dragonsworn, and even the Skywatch Riders to contain the unrest.
Forces from every major stronghold had been deployed.
The response was massive, personally led by Deputy Commander Nat himself.
Today was like no other in Demacian history.
Nearly a million citizens had taken to the streets across the kingdom, raising their voices against the ban on magic.
And the one who planned and ignited this storm?
His younger sister.
Luxanna. Not even twenty.
He chuckled bitterly. At her age, he was still a green soldier scrubbing armor in the barracks.
Garen smiled to himself, pride and worry mixing uneasily in his chest.
As the marchers pressed forward, they approached the first key landmark.
--------------
Dawncastle.
Inside the grand Parliament Hall, shouting and commotion filtered in through the tall windows. High atop the throne dais, King Jarvan III sat in silence, brows furrowed.
He slowly glanced across the long table at the eight high officials gathered before him, weighing their expressions individually.
"Mobs. They're nothing but mobs!" snapped Eleanor, slamming her hand on the table.
Her face was flushed with rage and thinly veiled fear.
Never before had marchers made it to the gates of Dawncastle—and not a single guard had stopped them.
The implications were terrifying.
To gather so many so quickly, to reach the seat of power unchecked... whoever orchestrated this had influence far greater than expected.
Now they were protesting the ban. But what if tomorrow, they decided Eleanor herself was the enemy?
As the High Chair of the Noble Council, Eleanor had made her share of enemies over the years.
"Princess Eleanor," said a calm voice, "they are still citizens of Demacia."
General Eldred, Legion Commander of the Mageseekers was completely at ease.
He casually sipped a cup of herbal tea imported from Noxus.
Eleanor scowled.
"General Eldred, when these same citizens storm the Mageseeker Headquarters, I hope you'll still be smiling."
Despite her fury, she paused—something about Eldred's composure made her hesitate.
If even he, who had the most to lose today, wasn't panicking, what exactly did he know?
"Our eight officials, even the king himself, are chosen to represent the people," Eldred said, setting down his cup.
"If they no longer trust us, then perhaps... they have good reason."
His tone was polite, but firm.
Jarvan III said nothing.
Sitting on the throne, he kept his thoughts guarded, merely glancing between Eldred and Grand Marshal Tiana Crownguard, who sat silently at his right hand.
Demacia... is about to change.
Eldred gave Eleanor a small, knowing wink—subtle, but just enough to be seen from where she sat.
Eleanor's expression tightened. Embarrassed, but unwilling to be outmaneuvered, she asked with deliberate coolness:
"Then, may I ask—why is the young lady of the Crownguard family the one leading this movement? And why were we not given even the slightest warning beforehand?"
It was a fair question. As the one who handled noble affairs, such an oversight—or deception—was more than a simple slight.
Marshal Tiana usually firm expression gave way to a flicker of helplessness. She sighed, shaking her head.
"Luxanna has always been... strong-willed. We raised her to be compassionate and to have the courage to serve people. But somewhere along the way... we must've failed her. Or perhaps—Demacia did."
She fell silent. The weight of her words lingered in the air.
Eleanor listened coldly, lips pressed into a thin line.
The muffled sound of strings echoed faintly from outside—delicate but potent music as if imbued with magic.
Her gaze shifted to Adair Bouvier, the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
"Count Adair," she said sharply, "what of your girl?"
"Sona is a kind child," Adair answered, not missing a beat.
"Gentle, well-mannered, beloved by all. She may not be my blood niece, but to the Bouvier family, she is a treasure."
He said nothing about Sona being a mage, nor the enchantment woven into her music drifting through the castle gates.
Jarvan III's eyes narrowed slightly. He recalled the intelligence his spies had delivered just the night before.
He understood.
To raise a child with magic in Demacia... was to live in constant fear.
He could imagine what Adair and the Crownguards must have felt, choosing between family and country.
Just as Eleanor opened her mouth again, Jarvan III lifted a hand. He exhaled slowly, his voice deep with finality:
"That's enough, Lady Eleanor."
The hall fell silent.
"We serve at the will of the people. After today, I will call for a Nationwide referendum. If the majority of citizen representatives believe the ban should be lifted... then it will be lifted."
Jarvan... that's all this father can do for you now.
'The path ahead... You can walk it further than I ever could.'
"Your Majesty!?" Eleanor exclaimed, stunned.
The other council members looked just as shocked.
To issue a referendum now, when tensions were high and emotions even higher, was nothing short of dangerous.
The safer move would have been to stand firm, uphold the founding laws, and align the throne with the anti-magic conservatives.
That way, the Crown would retain the support of the traditionalists and maintain the authority to rein in figures like Luxanna.
Instead, Jarvan had just offered the people a choice.
Doing so opened the door for a new champion to rise.
A new voice for the kingdom.
As the chants of the marchers slowly faded into the distance, the council session adjourned.
One by one, the ministers and nobles left to handle the fallout in their departments.
In the end, only Jarvan III, Eleanor, and Tiana remained in the council chamber.
"Marshal Tiana, a moment."
Tiana had just turned to leave when Eleanor's voice called out.
She paused, glancing back with a raised brow.
"Yes, Lady Eleanor?"
Eleanor offered a gentle smile, but something was calculating behind it.
"Marshal, as you know... His Highness Prince Jarvan is of age. And still, he remains unmarried."
Tiana's expression didn't change, but something cold stirred in her chest.
Still, she replied politely, keeping up appearances.
"A very important matter," she agreed.
"Has His Highness found someone he's interested in? If so, I'm sure Luxanna would be happy to... assist with introductions."
Jarvan III had never remarried after the queen's death. He had only one child—Jarvan IV—and no other heirs.
Everyone in the council chamber knew what Tiana meant.
If His Highness had someone he fancied, Luxanna could be the one to inquire discreetly.
But... it could never be Luxanna herself.
"There isn't a suitable candidate yet," Eleanor said with a weary smile.
"You know as well as I do—among this generation of noble youth, no one truly matches Jarvan's station."
That was no exaggeration. Jarvan was undoubtedly one of the most exceptional men of his generation.
Though not as purely martial as Garen, he excelled in diplomacy, strategy, and leadership—a true all-rounder.
Tiana's eyes glinted.
"How about the daughter of the Bouvier family?" she suggested lightly.
"I've heard she's virtuous and kind, with a musical talent. She might make a fine candidate... for the future queen."
A quiet pause.
Eleanor's expression stiffened.
Usually, she and Jarvan III had looked down on Sona.
After all, she was an adopted daughter, a mute girl with a strange instrument—and rumors of magic surrounded her like a shadow.
But now... she was the only marcher today known to be a mage, still protected under a noble house.
Tiana hadn't said it outright, but the implication was clear: a mage queen, legitimized by royal marriage.
Eleanor chatted with Tiana a little longer, probing gently.
But the marshal refused to budge. Eventually, Eleanor had to let her go.
As Tiana left the hall, Eleanor returned to the throne and frowned.
"Brother... do they have no ambition?"
No matter what she tried, the Crownguards appeared ever-loyal, humble, and dutiful.
Not a trace of overreach.
Tiana presented herself like a loyal shield and steed... yet her every word subtly built a path for Luxanna.
"If she truly had no ambition," Jarvan III replied quietly, "she wouldn't have said 'no.'"
He turned to the window, staring into the gray horizon where the march echoed faintly.
He was old now. His time was running out.
As a father, all he could do was clear the road ahead... so his son might walk it with fewer chains.
Outside, Tiana descended the Castle of Dawn and climbed the high ridge overlooking Demacia.
There, waiting in silence, stood Eldred.
Beneath them was the last stop of the great march.
The crowd was flowing toward the Mageseeker Headquarters.
A final reckoning was near.
-------------
Meanwhile, under the scorching skies of Shurima...
A long desert caravan crept across the dunes—escorted by elite desert troops riding sand-snorkeling beasts, creatures like massive burrowing sharks, gliding smoothly beneath the surface of the sands.
At the center was a colossal beast—its back like a slow-moving island—carrying the homes and possessions of the nomadic sand tribes.
Here, Ezreal and his students rode, having crossed the desert from Keneser by land.
"The sun's brutal today," said Sen Ya, shading his eyes.
"But it's my first time seeing this many tame sand snorkelers in one place."
These creatures were notoriously hard to tame—though not aggressive, they required delicate bonding rituals only the sand people truly understood.
Ezreal, lounging comfortably on the back of the massive creature, waved his hand dismissively.
"What's the big deal? We're a Noxian expedition team now."
His tone was flippant, but inwardly he brimmed with pride.
Just look at this!
He had crossed this desert alone two years ago—hungry, sunburnt, and almost dead.
Now, he rode in a convoy of giants, with a Noxian desert warband escorting him like royalty.
This... this was the treatment a protagonist deserved.
"Professor, you are amazing," Sen Ya said sincerely.
Once a humble tomb keeper of Shurima, he knew just how impossible this level of protection would be for a typical traveler.
Even warlords rarely had such a personal escort.
As the two bantered, Cassiopeia, standing at the platform's edge, narrowed her eyes.
She raised a hand and pointed to the horizon.
"We've arrived."