Chapter Text
***
Piltover is overwhelmingly green.
Lush, arid land with flowering trees and rolling hills. Truly the sort of kingdom a child might read about in a fairy tale – one with adventures of princes and dragons.
In the center plaza is a bronze statue of Jayce Talis slaying a dragon. Viktor leans his head back into the carriage wall, and wipes a hand down his face.
“Oh for the love of…”
Piltover flourishes from its blessed assets. Easy access to water, fertile soil, and mountains rich with ore. Their air is clean, unlike the thick gaseous musk found in Zaun. Viktor finds that he misses it already.
They roll past several checkpoints, then over a bridge and into the courtyard of the capital.
As soon as the carriage doors are opened, Jayce is quickly swarmed by stewards and chamberlains hammering for his attention. He doesn’t speak to Viktor, nor does he expect him to.
Viktor steps off the carriage, and is so busy looking up at the looming palace, that he nearly bumps into the woman waiting for him.
“Oh – apologies.”
“Welcome to Piltover, my lord,” a woman bows. “Sky Young, your personal retainer. Please allow me to show you to your private quarters.”
She’s a nice-looking girl, with curly hair and thick glasses. All the staff seem perfectly groomed; no hair out of place, no blemishes, ailments, not even a stain on their white clothes. It all feels like a stage act.
Viktor searches for his one familiar face in the plaza. He catches a crown of pink hair, but she’s already chatting it up with that unimpressed captain of the guard. He will consider himself ‘on his own’ for now.
He straightens as best he can. “Thank you, Miss Young.”
The palace is a familiar concept, but new in execution. The colors are so much brighter – whites and golds, exquisite carvings and marble archways. Statues of lions and dragons perch on the columns, and the stained-glass windows are painted in local religious figures.
His uneven steps sound loud in the grand, empty hallway. The floor is so smooth, no cobble to catch the tip of his cane in. He is homesick.
Sky paces beside him quietly, making no objection to Viktor’s slow stroll.
“It’s a lot to take in, I’m sure.”
Viktor hums. “I assume it has been many years since a Zaunite has stepped foot behind these walls.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You needn’t call me that,” says Viktor. It makes him want to cringe – and suddenly, he understands Silco just a little more.
“Sorry, sir,” Sky nods. “The orders from his majesty were clear. Treat him as you would me.”
Viktor blinks. Well that’s a tall order.
He really said that?
Sky continues the tour. He follows her through a maze of vast hallways, and makes note of each door she explains along the way. Grand banquet halls, serving quarters, the armory, the barracks, the war room and the forge and the chapel and the bathhouse. The palace is like its own village sitting right on the top of the world. Each new hallway makes him realize the further wealth disparity between Piltover, and home. It’s a bit disgusting.
“That is the library,” Sky points. “It‘s known as the Pride of Piltover, one of the greatest archival collections on the continent. At the top of the staircase is an observatory chamber. Mechanisms in the dome can track celestial bodies – the students like to use it for their research. Myself included.”
Viktor feels his very soul awaken. He leans forward, attempting to catch a glance through the cracked door.
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” Sky smiles. “It would be my pleasure to show you once you’re rested.”
He wants to go now, but her concerned expression tells him that he must not look well. Long days of travel awaken old hurts; his leg is stiff and his back brace rubs bruises against bone. He reluctantly agrees.
His room is in the west wing. It is elegant, yet basic; a simple bed, a dresser, a vanity and a long mirror. Lunch is already sitting on a tea table.
“The maids will bring the rest of your things,” Sky says, pulling back curtains. “Please let me know if anything is not to your liking, your comfort is of the utmost importance. Also, a kind reminder that this lodging will be temporary. Once you’re married, you will be moved into His Majesty’s quarters.”
Viktor’s stomach rolls over and eats itself. Yes, he figured as such.
He keeps his expression tactfully blank.
“Thank you.”
Sky hovers, like she’s not sure if she should stay. Viktor stares at the steaming tea on the table, and Sky clears her throat.
“Well I – um, if you need anything, please – please ring the bell!” She goes to close the door, then gasps, peeking back in. “Welcome to Piltover!”
Click.
***
Viktor sleeps a while. He naps atop the quilted bedspread because he’s hesitant to battle with the sheets tucked tightly under the mattress. Dinner is brought to him on a literal silver platter. No one calls for him, and no one visits.
His stuff is piled up in the corner of the room. Viktor dreads to think of the state of his specimens after rattling around in a carriage for days. His current experiment will need to begin all over again – if he’s allowed to continue his work.
The bathhouse calls his name. Literally; a maid comes to fetch him. Viktor isn’t allowed to run his own bath, apparently. He assumes they think it would be cruel to make him carry his own water (as if Viktor does not use magic for such things). That is, until he notices a steel water pump in the corner of the room.
Indoor plumbing. Inspired. He will write Silco about that.
The maids ran him a bath that’s so hot it stings his fingers. Viktor waits until he is alone again to tediously peel off his back brace. The support has run deep, purple lines in his pale skin from wearing it for so long. He observes the similar indentations on his leg with a frown.
Viktor is not interested in anything else his naked reflection has to offer – and neither will Jayce, when he truly sees him. That thought is nauseating.
The hot water eats him down to the bone, and his mind drifts. He lets out a sigh that he’s been holding in for a while.
Viktor is out of place. Like a wrong puzzle piece shoved where he doesn’t fit.
The staff remind him of little porcelain dolls with painted smiles and stiff posture. He finds it unlikely that they harbor no hostility for someone they would previously call an enemy. Viktor would prefer honesty over false hospitality.
He wonders if that is his fate; to slowly succumb to the poison of politics. To be eaten alive on two fronts.
***
Washed clean and bored out of his mind, Viktor sits on the edge of the bed and sighs. He flexes magic between his fingers, watching it ember and glow under his nails.
The monument of a steeple is visible through his window; far in the distance, the grand church of Piltover stands proudly to worship whatever God they care about (Viktor doesn’t remember nor does he care). Though not in practice anymore, their ancestors would burn ‘witches and wizards’ at the foot of those doors. He wonders if they positioned his room here on purpose.
Feeling defiant, he casts his hand in front of the empty space before him. The room glows a brilliant blue as runes etch onto the locks of each wooden chest containing his possessions.
Knuckles rap on the door.
“Viktor? Are you awake?”
Viktor pauses. He begins to stand, but changes his mind when he can’t be bothered to look for his cane. “Come in, your majesty.”
The door creaks open, and Jayce steps inside.
“Good evening.” He speaks low, to match the time of the hour. “I came to see if your living arrangements are acceptable. Sorry it took so long, my counselors were…” Jayce trails off. He looks up and around the room, observing the speckles of magic that float through the air. Shirts, trousers and jackets fold themselves into neat piles, before stuffing into a dresser. Viktor refuses to hide this.
“They are satisfactory. Is that all?”
Jayce continues to gaze around the room. His stature is wide against the arched doorway, his eyes glowing from the sparkle of the levitation spell. His manner of clothing is not entirely Piltover, yet nothing like Zaun; the stitching is ornate as expected, but layered, cuffed, and casually untucked. A brown coat, brown boots, and that gold leg brace that still has Viktor curious.
Jayce blinks, blinks again, then appears to snap out of it.
“Yes. I – yes. That’s all.” Viktor stares, and Jayce stares right back. “I assume you have questions.”
Too many that do not matter. This man will soon be his husband, and Viktor already wishes he would leave.
“Am I expected to stay in this room?”
Viktor is more or less a prisoner here, doomed to this unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar place, and Jayce seems to catch on quickly. He scratches at his beard (his mannerisms are slightly more relaxed than his formality in Zaun).
“The palace is yours to enjoy as you please.”
“Just the palace?” Viktor prods.
Jayce crosses his arms in thought. “Like it or not, Piltover will become part of you. I’d encourage you to become familiar with her – as long as you have a guard with you.”
Viktor flicks his wrist, and slams a drawer shut from across the room. “I have no need of your guards.”
Jayce narrows his rugged expression. “I know. Humor me.”
In this evening"s candlelight, Viktor studies him thoroughly. Though his voice is kind, his eyes are intense – no longer glowing in awe of his magic. Jayce hovers like there’s something more he wishes to say; but the longer the silence stretches, the more it serves to annoy him.
“I will fulfill every duty required of me as your consort,” Viktor says darkly. “But we are not friends, and I will not love you.”
Jayce’s expression walls off fully. His eyes glower, and his big hand lands on the doorknob.
“I don’t expect that of you.”
“What do you expect of me?”
It whips through the room like a blade. Viktor begins to regret asking, because Jayce’s countenance turns from broodily awkward, to downright menacing. Viktor is boldly reminded of who he is speaking to.
He steps forward, and Viktor rises defensively. Jayce’s voice is a callous growl.
“I’m fully aware of what I’ve done to you. If you want to hate me, then hate me – but I will expect one manner of obedience from you, and that is when I call, you come.” Jayce stares him down, and Viktor’s magic sizzles between the webs of his fingers, like a fuse ready to ignite. “Do we have an understanding?”
Viktor grits his teeth.
“Yes.”
Jayce nods briskly. The fury melts as quickly as it came, and he turns back towards the doorway, leather gloves squeaking on the handle. “My quarters are in the west wing. If you need me, send your retainer.”
He attempts to shut the door quietly, but it still rattles the metal hinges. Viktor sits back down again, creaking the wooden bedframe.
He squeezes his fingers into a fist, and snuffs all the candles in the room.
***
After a full day in his luxurious not-prison, Viktor decides to venture out in search of that library again. If he is to waste himself away here, then he might as well consume as much of Piltover’s hoarded knowledge as he possibly can.
Feeling determined, Viktor wipes a clammy palm down the front of his cotton vest, then grips his cane and swings open the door.
When he shuts it, a guard is already waiting.
“Oh,” Viktor blurts. The guard answers with an even blink. He’s a fishman; green from head to toe, and crisp in his Piltover armor. “I uh.” Viktor waits to see if the guard will attempt to stop him, but he simply blinks with his double eyelids. “Okay. Good day.”
He turns, takes three steps, and gives pause as metal footsteps follow. The guard stops just as he does; a sharp, blank face as a portrait of indifference.
Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Just...going to the library.”
The guard nods. Viktor starts off again, the footsteps follow, and Viktor sighs. He reluctantly accepts his silent company as he works to remember which endless hall led to the library.
His mysterious guard is not overly tall, nor intimidating, but the colors on his shirt suggest a high-rank, and the sword on his hip is thin and deadly, having been smithed by an expert craftsman. The walk is awkwardly quiet, and by the hundredth click of his cane, Viktor peeks from the corner of his eye and asks, “Do you have a name? Or do you refuse to speak to a Zauntie?”
The guard stops in his step. He stands formally, and stares him down with an intensity that makes Viktor go ah, foot in mouth.
Then, the knight raises a gloved hand, and makes a fist. He extends his fingers, and draws a shape by the corner of his jaw.
Oh.
“Steb,” Viktor translates. “My apologies.” He asks if he is hard of hearing, to which Steb answers, no. He takes a leading step towards the library hall, and Viktor follows. He clears his throat.
“This must be beneath you.”
Steb signs, ’No. Protect Lord Consort. Highest Honor. Chosen Few’.
Viktor chokes. “I’m not –” He coughs. “I mean, I’m not yet. And I’m sorry, but I hardly need protecting.”
Steb nods, then holds open a door. Viktor sighs, and shuffles through.
This hallway is tall, with gold archways and a bulky wooden door at the end. This must be the other side of the library.
“You’re looking at me like I might bite,” Viktor observes. Steb’s eyes widen fractionally, and the door slams with a loud creak. “I already know I"m an outsider. And I am no royalty.”
Steb’s sharp, marine eyes flicker down the hall, then back again. His hands move firmly, his expression resolute as he signs ‘king’ with a strong downward motion, then gestures ‘same’ with a quick swipe of his extended thumb and pinky. He jerks his head towards the door and points, ‘you learn’.
Viktor frowns at this. Steb opens the door to the library, and Viktor’s neck creaks back like one of the silver hinges.
***
Viktor doesn’t know where to begin. Endless aisles of historical records, astronomy, theoretics and herbology. Any books on magic are in the restricted section, which is a shame. After one nasty look from the librarian, Viktor doesn’t bother.
He was proud of the collection back in Zaun, but this truly puts him to shame. The library is in pristine condition; cleanly dusted shelves with gold crown moldings, and frescoes on the ceilings. Big circular windows bring in natural light, and Viktor finds a small red chair and an oak desk near the wall of fiction, so Viktor sets himself up to hide, and Steb is nice enough not to hover, taking post over by the front door.
His master once told him about this library. He used to dream of it – a place where he could forget his life of pain, and lose himself in the theoretical what if. He wanted to create a world where children could run faster than the boats in the river, where there was always enough food to go around, where the air smelled clean and the water tasted like crystals.
A child’s prayer.
He opens a leatherbound book on Piltover’s legal system, and takes root in that velvet chair.
Hours go by, and Viktor is left unbothered. Various students and council members pass in and out of the library, but besides a page shuffling or the rolling of the ladder, it remains tensely quiet.
The door opens so loudly, it makes him jump.
“Hey, you! Have you seen V around here? Skinny guy, black cane, kinda nerdy – can’t miss him.”
Viktor looks up, and Vi makes eye contact from across the library. She lights up. “Oh, hey! Nevermind, thanks man.” She gives Steb a pat on the shoulder, who stares in wide-eyed bewilderment. “Take a break, I’ve got it from here.”
“Vi,” Viktor whispers. She stomps over in her full armor, and swipes aside a pile of tomes so she can sit. “Nice of you to finally check in.”
“Hey, hold the sass. Caitlyn is making me go through basic training before I can join the guard – it’s seriously bullshit. She’s just twisting my arm ‘cause I’m from Zaun, swear to God.”
“It’s because you are clearly a spy,” Viktor whispers, squinting. “The most obviously placed spy to ever spy in existence.”
“Hey, take it up with Silco, not me.” She shrugs. “With me here, they’ll know better than to fuck with you. Word gets back to Silco, Silco writes the king.” She draws a line across her throat. “I already punched a squire for talking shit about you. You’re welcome.”
Viktor slips a handkerchief out of his pocket, and uses it to mark his page before closing the book.
“Thanks. I’m surprised Silco even cares about my treatment here.”
Vi’s face twitches into a frown. She crosses her arms, but her voice softens.
“I’m sorry, Vik. I know it sucks, but Silco does care. In his own slimy way, I guess.”
Viktor is fully aware that Vi’s motivation lies mostly in the source of the purplish lovebites hiding under the collar of her armor, though Viktor keeps that thought to himself. He is grateful to have at least one familiar face in this pristine hellhole.
“Hm.”
“How’s being a princess?” Vi teases.
He looks right; empty. Left; not a soul in sight.
“I hate it,” Viktor hisses. “Eyes everywhere, locked in a shiny room with no purpose. It’s like being an ornament.”
“Pfft, just wait until they parade you around in that big ceremony. And people ask why I gave up my title.” Viktor scowls at the mental image, and Vi knocks her boot against the side of his foot. “Sorry. But it could be worse. Could be starving out in those gutters.”
Violet also knows what it’s like to come from nothing. That’s why Viktor says, “I suppose that’s true.”
“I know you can handle yourself,” Vi says, standing again. “But really. I don’t trust these motherfuckers for as far as they can throw their damn peace treaty.”
I guess that would be the point of all this, Viktor thinks. A pact made in blood.
“I know.”
Vi’s hand is heavy and strong against his shoulder.
“You’ll make some sense of all this. I’d rather someone levelheaded sit in that hotseat than some idiot with an agenda.”
“I could have an agenda,” Viktor argues.
Vi laughs. “All you care about is whatever shit you can cook up in your lab.” Another visitor shoots her an angry glare for the volume of her voice, and she glares right back. “It’s kinda comforting, I guess.”
Viktor runs his fingers along the spine of the tome. Vi leaves him with much to think about.
***
He misses his crappy botanical garden.
It was small and wilty, and it struggled to grow in the stuffy Zaun air, but Viktor had tended greatly to those plants, and in return, they rewarded him with cures to various poisons and curses alike.
He sits in the windowsill of his room, and feeds magic to his poor, dead wintersoot. He pulls energy from the air around him, then spills the arcane off his fingers, bleeding it into the veins of the stem – but he can feel no life within it. A bloody shame.
His door bangs, and Viktor clenches his teeth to curb his frustration.
“Come in.”
A head of curly hair peeks in. He attempts to be a little nicer when Sky greets him. “Good evening, my lord.”
“Mm.”
“His Majesty has requested you join him for dinner.”
Viktor lowers his palm to his lap, and stares at the brown leaves of his dead plant. Jayce’s words ring in the back of his mind.
If I call, you come.
“Yes,” Viktor mutters. “Yes, alright. A moment.”
“Of course.” She shuffles a bag in her arms. “I also have clothing sent by the tailor. The maids will refresh your room while you’re gone – I’ll hang these in the closet for you.”
Excess, on excess. Viktor wore the same mended pair of trousers for a decade. The clothes in her arms look brand new. He nods stiffly, and Sky quickly shuffles towards the closet.
The smell of fresh food makes him nauseous. Viktor is far from hungry, and his stomach turns as he is led into the dining room.
It is smaller, more intimate than the grand hall where the rest of the staff takes their meals (but smaller and intimate are terms to be used lightly, because the table very well could seat twenty).
Jayce sits at one end, his eyes hazy and distant as a chamberlain mutters in his ear. He spots Viktor in the doorway, and clenches his jaw.
“Yes, fine. Dismissed.”
The man bows, and scurries away. Viktor stares at all the food in horror.
“I thought you’d be hungry,” Jayce says.
Viktor looks up and down the table. Meat, garnish, pastries, wine – the good stuff too, the kind Silco would only break out when he was trying to win someone over.
“You must think I’m a cow.”
Jayce squints, “I only thought you could use a good meal.”
“Now I’m too skinny for your tastes?” Viktor counters. A servant pulls out the chair before he can grab it, and Viktor huffs in frustration. “Sorry, the curvy mages were on the other aisle.”
“You are not making this easy,” Jayce scowls.
“I already told you, ‘this’ is unnecessary.”
Jayce could behead him for being a smartass, but decides to let it go.
Viktor is educated on good manners from living in the castle of Zaun, but still finds himself at a loss at the amount of forks. Hands place his napkin for him, pour him wine, select the food for his own plate – and it makes him miss the days he would eat his meals over Silco’s war table, one hand on a stick of chalk and the other in the bread basket.
Viktor takes one bite, then two. As expected, the taste is artificial perfection. Soulless and pretty (like everything else in this empty dining room).
“So,” Jayce starts, breaking the silence. “Do you study magic?”
Viktor looks up at him without moving his head. “Really?”
Jayce sets down his goblet a little too harshly. “We’ll be married by the end of the month, and I don’t know a damn thing about you. Forgive me for trying.”
This barely constitutes as marriage. It’s a binding oath, a sacrifice without the extra bloodshed.
“There is nothing worth knowing about me,” Viktor says. Jayce’s eyes flicker with frustration. “I don’t even have a last name. No Zaunite does.”
Jayce pauses. Viktor pushes around a vegetable stalk on his plate, then thinks about the hungry children back home, and forces it down.
“Do you hate me?” Jayce asks.
Viktor looks at him. He is without the fur shawl, and the top two strings of his shirt ties are undone, giving peak to muscle that Viktor is acutely aware of. Without the gloves, Viktor can see all manner of scars, welts and bruises on his hands. He finds that odd.
“Piltover and Zaun have different reasons for the war,” Viktor says. “A nation is naturally selfish. Everyone wants what’s best for their own. And that’s simply what this is – I am not your own.” Jayce’s face twitches, almost like a flinch. It’s hard to read. Viktor looks off at the gilded windows, and sighs. “You have chosen to wed a disabled mage from the home of your enemy. I don’t belong here.”
Jayce takes this in visibly. “That’s not your decision to make.”
Viktor flares. “No, it was not.”
The silverware rattles, and the candles flicker on the table. Jayce’s eyes track the movement like a predator, and Viktor goes rigid, shamefully unaware that he had exerted his magic.
Jayce sets his hands on the table, and stands. He looks like he has many choice words to say, and Viktor braces himself for the worst; curses, flying candlesticks, the sharp end of a sword – good job Viktor, he’s going to call off the peace treaty because of your big, fat mouth –
Broad shoulders rise, then fall with a deep sigh.
“Fine.”
He finishes off the wine, then pushes in the heavy ornate chair, and leaves.
Viktor finds himself alone at the table, one waiter posted against the doorway, two knights pretending they didn’t hear a thing. He pokes at a bobbled fish-head with the end of his knife.
***
The wedding is in three days, and Sky has packed him a full schedule of fittings, lessons, and rehearsals. None of which Jayce attends.
Viktor looks between Sky standing at the pulpit, Steb on guard against the chapel door, and all the empty pews in their neat little rows.
“It’s…smaller than I imagined,” Viktor mutters. Sky gives him a questioning look, and Viktor clarifies, “Nothing. I just imagined Piltover would be overly exuberant with their ceremonies like everything else in this country.”
Something clicks, and Sky begins to laugh. “Oh, no. This isn’t the crowning ceremony, just the wedding. The real reception is going to take months to plan. The council wanted to rush the oath to make your partnership legal – the whole kingdom is going to want to attend your official coronation.”
Viktor needs a moment to stomach this. Feeling wobbly, he takes a seat on the empty pew.
“Oh lord.”
“I think it’s more intimate this way,” Sky ponders, a scroll of parchment tucked to her chest. “Kind of romantic, a small gathering like this. Are you excited?”
Viktor drops his face into his hands.
***
Viktor is not amused by his babysitter.
It’s not that he doesn’t like Steb – he’s actually the least irritating of all the revolving guards – but it would be nice to wander the palace without a knight on his heels.
Viktor has attempted to continue his research in the small corner of his temporary bedroom, in a way that he hopes does not warrant attention. And to do so, he needs ingredients – and without the access to his old spell cabinet, Viktor knows he needs to get creative.
One of the foyers had jadelilies growing in the planters, which is precisely what he needs for a concealment spell. Not that he plans on escaping the palace…just…
He wants to break into that goddamn restricted section.
So Viktor grabs a handful of dirt out of his potted dead plant, then whispers an incantation beneath his breath. He cracks open his door, and peeks through the sliver.
Steb’s webbed ear twitches, and before he can turn, Viktor blows the dust against the back of his neck.
Steb’s knees instantly buckle, and Viktor catches him with magic before he can hit the floor.
“Sparks and bloody slag,” Viktor curses, hands shaking under the magical strain. “You are heavier than you look.”
He manages to manipulate Steb’s dead weight into his quarters. Through a bit of work, he props him up against the wall, and fixes his little hat. Steb lets out a tiny snore. There, that should buy him an hour.
Viktor adjusts his own clothes, then gently closes the door behind him. The great hall is unsettlingly quiet as usual, so Viktor strides quietly as he can towards the foyer. Today, of all days, his leg brace decides to squeak, and Viktor slaps the side of the wheel with a palmful of magic. “Rusty piece of…”
He has memorized the west side of the palace by now, and after three short turns, he begins to smell humid air and fresh flowers. Just as he steps towards the open doorway, he pauses at the sound of hushed shouting.
“ –what were you THINKING?!”
“I’ve done everything you asked of me! Everything, Mel!”
That’s Jayce. Interest piqued, Viktor peers around the corner, and sees Jayce standing in the foyer with a woman so beautiful, the sunlight halos around her like it knows better. Smooth skin adorned in gold, a slippery dress and beaded hair tied high on her head. He recognizes the style of face markings – she is a Medarda.
“I told you to marry a woman, Jayce,” Mel seethes, shaking her hands in frustration. Jayce steps closer, imposingly.
“And I said if I wanted to marry a woman, I would have married you.”
The wind sucks right out of Viktor’s sails. He stands there, eyes wide, as he watches Mel physically deflate. She turns away as if resisting temptation.
“Jayce…we argued this so many times. Piltover and Noxus have been allies for years. You need to marry a princess from Zaun. This was the only way to create lasting peace.”
Jayce crosses his arms. “Well, I made my choice. Tomorrow I’ll marry a Zaunite, and everyone will get their happy ever after. The end.”
Mel rubs across her forehead and groans. “This is a disaster, I knew I should’ve gone with you…”
Jayce grabs her wrist and pulls her hand from her face, and for some reason, the physical touch makes Viktor’s gut swoop.
“He’s the healer of Zaun. One of the most powerful magi east of Nockmirch.”
“Yes, who wastes away in his silly lab,” Mel gestures, huffing. “Silco could not tame him, what makes you think you could?”
Jayce looks away, and Viktor tucks back against the wall, flat out of sight. He presses a hand to his mouth to stifle his breath.
“I’m not going to. All I’m saying is, years ago the leaders of this realm hunted down their mages and created war with our sister country. This’ll show the world that Piltover has changed – just like you wanted.” Jayce pulls her hair out of her face, and tucks it tenderly behind her ear. “Never happy, are you?”
Mel pulls away again. “Your wedding is tomorrow. Do not touch me again.”
“Yes, alright.”
Viktor stares at the white stone ceilings, and waits until their footsteps dull into the distant sound of a door slam. He decides to return without the flowers.
***
Steb wordlessly narrows his eyes, and Viktor tongues the side of his cheek, looking up and away.
“Oops.”
Steb looks like he wants to use several vulgar hand signs, but resists through a great amount of restraint. He makes a few motions that Viktor doesn’t know, but he does recognize the sign for ‘trouble’, which is fair.
***
Viktor sits in the windowsill of his room, overlooking the training yard. Vi’s hair stands out in a crowd, allowing Viktor to easily spot her where she stands; proud and smug and looming over a soldier writhing on the ground, nursing a broken nose.
His wedding attire is hanging on the wall. Viktor picks at the skin of his bottom lip. The result of his eavesdropping has provided new information that he can’t ignore. It seems he was wrong about a few things, concerning Jayce Talis.
When he thinks of tomorrow, an even bigger pit carves in his stomach.
Carefully, he reaches for the bottom cuff of his pant leg, and rolls it up to the knee. Furious purple flesh is hot to the touch. Viktor spins a runic symbol in the center of his palm, and sets it where the curse has crept up his thigh. It begins to glow, showing the gold simmering through the veins. The bruise is several inches higher than last month.
Magic cannot soothe the pain. But that’s his burden to bear.
***