The clouds cracked open above them with a kind of lazy violence, spilling copper and gold like a wound that hadn't finished bleeding. Behind them, the village lay in full view of the sun, the light crawling over rot that hadn't meant to be seen. Blood streaked the alleys, windows hung open like torn mouths, and everything about the place looked less like ruins and more like a warning someone carved into the ground with a knife.
Dax squinted up at the sky, one hand raised to shield his face. "Hurts like hell," he muttered, voice flat and rough. "Still better than another godsdamned illusion."
They turned east. That way lay Kings Port—the city that sealed its doors and stared through the cracks.
The road ahead shimmered with heat or maybe magic. Could've been both. It stretched like a scar through stone, cut up and half-buried in mist. Trees hung over the path, crooked and close, leaning in like they wanted to listen in without being seen. Something about the air felt thinner now. The kind of thin that made you feel watched.
A sharp wind knifed through the trees, grabbing at an old banner still clinging to a post that had mostly given up. The cloth gave way, floated to the dirt like forgotten paper, its sigil so faded it may as well never have existed.
Ezreal broke the silence, voice low. "Whatever we find there... we face it together."
Caylen flicked ash off his sleeve in a perfect echo of Verek's usual habit, but with a lopsided smirk that curled just for Dax. "And if the gods feel like cutting us a break for once," he said, "maybe breakfast'll be waiting."
Dax snorted, chewing a stiff strip of something that may once have been meat. "As long as the bread doesn't try to chew back, I'll call it a win."
Behind them, Greymoore smoldered. What was left of it hissed in the wind, fire licking low along bones and wreckage. The place had finally stopped pretending to be anything else. It had always been a corpse.
Verek moved ahead, steady and unflinching, his spellbook cracked open in one hand. His lips moved with a rhythm more prayer than incantation. Scorch marks still clung to his robes, the fabric stiff where it had burned. Threads of ward light drifted around him—tiny things, like fireflies caught in a jar that wasn't airtight anymore.
Overhead, Thimblewick circled in a low arc, wings rasping dry like old scrolls peeling apart. When he spoke, his voice came out far too clean. "Too many eyes back there. And none of them belonged."
Caylen wandered up beside Ezreal, slower than usual. He moved like someone walking through the tail-end of a hangover. His fingers fidgeted with the chain at his neck, the motion small, but tight, like it was the only thing keeping him here.
Dax dragged along behind them, his stride steady but hard. His shoulder was wrapped up tight beneath a strip of bloodied linen, but it was his eyes that looked worse—like he hadn't stopped seeing the Oracle even now.
"Sky's felt off since that thing died," Caylen said, mostly to himself.
Ezreal didn't glance over. "Not off. Just... waiting."
By midday, the woods dropped away to reveal a ridge that overlooked the sprawl ahead. Below them stretched Kings Port, barely visible through the fog that wasn't really fog. It wasn't hiding the city, not exactly—it was warping it, reshaping the edges like memory pulled through water.
Towers stabbed out of the skyline like old teeth. Worn down. Blunt. The sky behind them turned the color of molten pewter, smeared and heavy. The farmlands outside the gates had gone feral. Wild stalks grew in thickets, tangled with thorned vines thick enough to trap hooves.
They stopped at the top of the ridge. For a while, no one said anything. Just wind and distance.
"They shut the gates," Verek said. "Ignored every call sent to them."
Ezreal's jaw tightened. "What if we're early? What if whatever's coming hasn't landed yet?"
Dax spit the stem of his fruit into the weeds. "Then we knock. Ask the king if he still smells like a man."
They made their way down into the groves on the city's outer edge. The air didn't bite, but it didn't breathe either. No birds sang. The ground felt hollow somehow. Like everything that should've lived here had picked up and walked away.
Their camp went up beneath an old elder tree, its roots curled up and out of the ground like claws frozen mid-swipe. Verek said nothing while he scratched a ward-circle into the dirt. Caylen sat down near the fire, his journal cracked open. His handwriting was different. No dramatic loops, no song in the lines. Just sharp ink and too much space between the words.
"Who do we even trust now?" he asked. "Valentines? Maybe. Ipswich? Gone. The Council?" He let out a sharp breath. "No. They'll bury this before they fix it."
Ezreal crouched near the flames, elbows on his knees, face shadowed by firelight. "Nobody's giving us a map. So we draw one. And yeah... blood works."
Dax leaned against the tree, sword resting across his lap. "Then let's start carving."
The fire crackled. Shadows danced around the circle. And for a breath, it felt like something deeper might be watching.
Thimblewick landed close to the flames, his voice light, cheerful like it didn't know better. "If we're going to be devoured, we might as well taste exquisite."
Caylen barked a laugh that didn't have much joy in it. "We start slow. Roads first. Edges of the city. Look for cracks."
"No spells unless we need them," Ezreal added, quiet and sure. "I'll cloak our path."
Verek nodded once. "And we adapt."
A breeze rolled in off the sea, not sharp but steady. It smelled like rusted armor and old pews. The fire twitched.
The trees didn't sway anymore. They listened.
When twilight settled over the clearing, Verek stood and raised his staff. The wind stopped. A shallow pool nearby froze across its surface, still and smooth. At the center, one lily sat trapped mid-bloom.
Caylen leaned closer to it, voice barely a breath. "Beautiful. But it ain't right."
Ezreal didn't answer. His eyes were on the skyline.
The storm above Kings Port wasn't the sort that tore in loud. It just loomed. Pressed down. Not fury—something slower. Older. Judgment, maybe.
Lightning crept across the clouds in slow, searching arcs. Like fingers reaching for something soft beneath skin. The thunder growled low and deep, but never cracked open.
And then it came—a sound from within the walls. Clean and cold.
A bell.
It rang once.
Then again.
Far away. Empty. Still sharp enough to cut through everything else.
Ezreal rose, the edge of his cloak dragging against dead leaves. "They know we're coming."
Verek didn't move. His eyes had caught the storm's reflection, and they didn't blink. "Let them."
They stood, quiet but not still. The fire burned low. Their coats whispered against the breeze.
Kings Port didn't wait out of fear.
Whatever was behind those walls... it dreamed with its eyes open.
They doused the fire without a word. Caylen wrapped his journal tight and shoved it deep into his pack like it might bite. Dax dragged his whetstone across steel, long and steady. The scent of iron filled the clearing.
Verek knelt near the frozen pool and touched it. The frost recoiled like it knew his name.
"It sees us," he said, voice low.
Caylen's head jerked up. "It?"
"The watcher," Ezreal answered, dead calm. "Whatever it is, behind the veil of that city. It's watching."
The ground gave a slow shiver. Not violent. Just a reminder that it could shake harder if it wanted.
Kings Port hadn't fallen.
It had changed.
Thunder cracked wide open in the distance.
And they started walking.
Not like pilgrims.
More like a promise someone had to answer for.