The wind off the lake had teeth now—sharp and bitter, nipping at fingers and noses, slipping cold under cloaks no matter how tightly they were pulled. It carried the stink of iron and frost and too many people holding their breath at once. Phokorus had always been a city of tension, but now that tension sat higher, closer to the surface, like it was itching for a reason to boil over.
Caylen tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders, the wind dragging at the frayed hem. His fingers fumbled at the satchel slung over one shoulder, brushing the cracked leather just beneath the flap, right where that strange scroll sat—heavy despite how little it weighed. Not really a scroll anymore. Not in any way that counted. To the untrained eye, it looked like a discarded fragment from an older time, a dusty Letters Patent sealed in wax, lined in gold ink and false titles.
But they knew better.
Under their gaze, it breathed. The surface rippled faintly when no one was looking, and fine lines of sorcery—pale silver, almost like veins—twitched in the parchment like it was dreaming. Those lines moved now. Slowly, but deliberately, curling west. Always west.
Caylen's voice came quiet. "It's pulling again."
Dax sniffed the air, nose wrinkling. "City smells off."
"Less incense," Caylen murmured, eyes scanning the gates. "More metal. Smoke and tension. Everyone's nervous."
"They should be," Ezreal said. His gaze had fixed on the towers ahead, jagged stone teeth outlined against the pale gray sky. "If Malarath's after the shards, then he's not far. Maybe already watching."
The Queen's Watch had doubled their numbers at the temple gate. Two rows of guards in polished plate, halberds gleaming, shoulders stiff with practiced discipline. But it was their eyes that gave them away. Not just alert—jittery. Every glance sharp, too fast, like they were waiting for something to go wrong and expecting it any second. One of them stepped forward as they approached, voice wound tight with nerves.
"Name and purpose."
Dax didn't flinch. He let his cloak fall open just enough to flash the scorched Archive insignia sewn into the lining of his coat—charcoal thread burned in jagged spirals from old battles. "We want Queen Kaelith," he said, not quite a growl. "And we're not here to wait around."
The guard blinked, hesitated just long enough to make things tense, then stepped aside. "The throne solar. She's expecting you."
That froze the group. Ezreal shot a sidelong glance at Caylen. "She knows," he said, under his breath. "Already."
They followed the guard in through the main corridor. The walls arched high above them, carved from Phokorus's famed living marble. Veins of silver and green pulsed faintly under the surface, like old blood still moving under stone skin. Spellfire filtered through stained glass and reflected across the floor in broken colors. Frescoes along the arches shimmered in the corners of their eyes—figures mid-gesture, mid-chant, forever frozen in movement that almost looked alive.
Even the silence in Phokorus had its own sound.
Ezreal's fingers rested near his blade, but he didn't draw. Not here. Not yet.
At the top of the solar steps, Queen Kaelith Serpantwind stood with her back to them, framed against a tall window that bled golden morning across her shoulders. She wore her half-plate like a second skin, the leather beneath scratched and creased at the edges—well-used. Not ceremonial.
She turned before they could speak, her voice steady. "I hope you're here with something better than bad news."
Ezreal stepped forward, pulling the artifact from his coat. He set it down on the table between them. To anyone else, it would've looked like little more than political dust—an old charter, fancy ink, noble posturing from a long-dead bloodline. But Kaelith didn't blink.
She raised her hand. Soft blue light flickered to life around her fingers as she moved them in a practiced pattern. Glyphs glowed at the scroll's edge. The illusion peeled back like fog, revealing the map bound beneath: not ink, but projection. Not still, but pulsing.
A heartbeat made of terrain.
The Queen didn't flinch. "Only the four of you can see this, yes?"
Ezreal nodded. "Tied to us. If someone else tries, they see paper."
She didn't ask how. Just studied it. "The pulse is west."
Caylen leaned over the table. "It's always west."
Dax's eyes never left the slow movement of the pulse. "Every time we check it, it shifts. Like the shard isn't sitting still."
"Not just moving," Caylen said, his voice low. "Reacting. Like it doesn't want to be found."
Kaelith's gaze hardened. "Malarath?"
Ezreal's voice came like a blade sheathed halfway. "He's collecting them. Each shard a different type of arcane charge—different magic, different color. And they're not just raw power. They're pieces of a bigger shape."
Caylen swallowed. "A dragon egg."
Dax folded his arms, brow furrowed. "Not just any egg. This thing's a crucible. It holds the power of all five shards, forged together."
Kaelith didn't blink. "And what hatches from that?"
Ezreal's jaw clenched. "The five-headed queen."
It landed like a blade on stone. No one moved for a beat too long.
"We've had whispers," Kaelith said, eyes distant now. "The soil turning sour. Sky flickering at dusk. Children dreaming of things they shouldn't know."
She turned to face them fully. "You need to go west."
Caylen smirked, tired. "We were hoping to ask nicely first."
The Queen didn't smile back. "You have my permission. You also have my warning."
Ezreal tilted his head. "Which is?"
"When you find a shard," she said, her voice even but firm, "do not carry it. Let it follow you, maybe. Let it lead. But if you think you can own it, it will make you pay for the thought."
From the chest beside her desk, she pulled a reinforced case—sigil-sealed, clearly old. Inside: ration scrolls stamped with blessed ink, twin vials of warded water, and a compass that shimmered faintly as if haunted by starlight.
She handed it to Ezreal. "Take it. You'll need it."
Dax tucked the map away in the inner lining of his vest. "Then we move."
Caylen offered the Queen a shallow bow, more instinct than politics. "Thank you for trusting us."
"I'm not," she replied without a blink. "I'm trusting the map."
As they turned to go, the scroll pulsed one last time, bright enough to cast light on the far wall. Through the stained glass, they could just make out the low curl of mist spilling over the western cliffs. It looked almost like breath—slow and cold and ancient.
Ezreal's voice came quiet as they moved back down the hall. "Whatever's out there…"
"It's already watching," Caylen finished.
Dax just nodded once. "Then we make it blink first."
Behind them, Queen Kaelith stood still, one hand on the table, eyes not on them but on the map. Her voice, too soft to hear, whispered something to the flame.
Outside, the wind picked up again, and this time it sounded like a warning.