The guards stepped aside without a word, their plated forms grinding softly as they shifted just enough to open a gap. Steel scraped steel, a rough shuffle that echoed up the corridor walls before fading out, swallowed whole by the thick hush that waited there. Then the guards turned again, backs to them, still as statues carved out of war and duty.
The High Gate groaned open like some old beast coming awake after too long a sleep. The air that spilled out wasn't just cold—it was sharp, like metal shavings or breath pulled from a dying fire. It didn't feel like winter, or even the chill of stone buried deep. This cold had teeth. It clung to the skin like it meant to stay.
The torches didn't catch fire. They flared, sudden and wrong-colored—sick gold and pale blue crawling up iron sconces along the walls. The light didn't chase away the dark so much as twist it. Shadows writhed like they had their own plans. As the party moved in, the hallway squeezed inward. Walls wept with damp, thin veins of dark stone gleaming under the torchlight like bruises that hadn't settled. The floor shimmered too, slick with something that wasn't quite water.
No one talked much. Words felt like they didn't belong here.
Caylen's voice finally broke the silence, low and dry. "You think this is all part of some test?"
Verek didn't slow. His robe hem dragged through the damp. "Maybe. But what's it meant to test? Endurance? Tolerance for mold?"
Something in the stone below vibrated, slow and steady. Not loud, but deep. It crawled up through the soles of their boots, a steady thrum like a distant breath—or a buried heart.
At the corridor's end stood two doors, tall enough to shrink the room around them. Carved across their surface was Kings Port's crest—twisting vines and knotted snakes, all curling toward an iron crown sharp with rusted points. The edges where old blood had dried were still faintly dark.
Before anyone touched the doors, a voice crawled out from the stone. It didn't echo. Just rolled in, quiet but impossible to miss. It wasn't human. Not exactly. Like the city itself was speaking through its bones.
"What do you seek in Kings Port, strangers?"
The voice didn't threaten. It watched.
Verek stepped closer. "We're here for King Torvald. We need his counsel."
The pause stretched out too long. Then the voice came again, calm but heavy. "Then step forward... let silence weigh you. Know this—you haven't reached the end. Just the threshold."
The doors groaned as they opened, scraping wide enough to let cold light spill through. It wasn't torchlight. It was older. Paler. Like frost glinting off something cracked and sharp.
The throne room was vast. Most of it lost in gloom. Columns rose out of the dark like drowned trees. What banners remained hung ragged and still. The air stank—iron and mildew and too many years packed into too little air.
Their footsteps sounded too loud on the black stone floor.
At the far end, the throne sat hunched on a cracked dais. It looked like someone had carved it out of broken rock and decided that was enough.
And in it sat King Torvald.
He didn't move. The iron circlet on his brow had gone dull. His hair hung long and greasy. His robes clung to him, heavy and limp. His skin had gone the color of old parchment, threaded with faded blue veins.
But his eyes were wide open. And they didn't miss a thing.
"So," the King rasped, voice like brittle bark. "You've come. Crossed the gate. Carried the weight. Now here you are."
Verek stepped forward, his voice clear but roughened by the air. "Your Majesty, the world's tearing apart. We need your voice. Your backing."
The King tilted his head, just slightly. "And what will you give for it? What's the going rate for truth?"
Silence dropped again. Thick. Not awkward. Final.
The Kingsguard lined the walls, unmoving. They weren't just for show.
Then someone moved beside the throne.
She didn't belong in this room. Too clean. Too composed. Velvet red, a raven brooch at her throat. Hair like spilled ink. And eyes that burned—green, sharp, amused.
Zavara Ellenoir.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. "Names. Now."
Ezreal's came out steady. "Envoys of the Spire of Accord. Here for the King's ear."
The King's mouth twisted. "Still clinging to titles, are they? Still playing their word games while the sky frays."
Dax shifted, weight rolling to his heels. Caylen didn't look up.
"The Council's afraid of your silence," Caylen said, quiet but firm. "They're afraid of what it'll cost us all."
The King didn't laugh. Just exhaled something bitter. "Let them be afraid. The world doesn't ask their permission to rot."
Zavara's fingers brushed the side of the throne. Whatever storm was building in Torvald's voice quieted beneath her touch.
She looked to them again. "Speak, then."
Verek didn't hesitate. "The dragons stir. Fey borders bleed. The Fold's fraying. If Kings Port stays quiet, the rest may follow."
Something flickered behind the King's stare.
He rose. Not quickly. Not easily. Bones cracked like dry branches. His robes dragged behind him like wet cloth.
"And who suffers more?" he asked. "Those who move? Or the ones who wait and burn?"
Zavara turned her gaze to Verek. "He'll speak more. But not until you've seen what holds him here."
A sound rolled through the floor. Not loud. Just certain.
Zavaraturned from them, stepping through a narrow arch behind the throne. "Follow. You need to see what lives beneath."
Caylen's voice barely made it out. "Beneath?"
She didn't answer. Just kept walking.
They followed.
Stone stairs wound down in tight turns. Moss slicked the steps. Old iron gates barred the path in places, carved over with sigils that hurt to look at for too long. The deeper they went, the less the torches seemed to care. Each one struggled to stay lit.
The air grew colder. Not just physically. Like the walls themselves didn't want them here.
Dax muttered behind clenched teeth. "Feels like walking into a grave."
Ezreal didn't even glance back. "That's because we are."