The boy trembled where he hid behind the tall, white-haired man. Asta stood firm, his broad frame completely shielding the child from view.
Across from them, five MageSeekers stood tense, their silver masks glinting in the torchlight. The faint hum of runic restraints filled the air, sharp and accusing. Between the two groups, Garen advanced slowly, his heavy steps echoing off the stone floor of Wrenwall's inner courtyard.
"What is going on here?" Garen demanded, his voice calm but commanding. "And Asta... step away from the child."
Asta didn't move. His tone, though steady, carried an edge of defiance. "He's scared, Garen. Terrified. Like he knows his life's about to end. Why is that?"
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the wind scraping through the courtyard banners. Garen's gaze shifted toward the MageSeekers. "The boy is a mage? How are you certain of this?"
Two of the MageSeekers, those who had accompanied them from Meltridge, looked uneasy. The remaining three, however, stood unshaken beneath Garen's scrutiny.
The leader among them stepped forward. He was a dark-skinned man, broad-shouldered and composed, with a silver half-mask that gleamed across the left side of his face. When he spoke, his voice carried the clipped precision of a man too familiar with authority.
"With the dark mage already apprehended," he began, his tone cold, "we conducted a procedural sweep of the region to ensure there were no lingering traces of corruption."
He spat the final word like a curse. "That required a search of nearby homes. If there was magic left behind, or worse, mages who had slipped through our notice, it was our duty to find them."
The MageSeeker's masked face turned toward the boy. "The GreyMark reacted instantly to his presence. The reading was undeniable. He is one of them."
Asta's expression hardened. "He's a child. That's what he is."
The MageSeeker sneered. "They all start that way."
Before anyone could respond, a strangled cry broke out behind Cithria. She turned sharply, startled, and for the first time realized that the commotion had drawn a crowd, villagers, guards, even castle servants pressing in around the courtyard walls.
A woman was struggling against two soldiers holding her back, her face streaked with tears. "He's my son!" she cried out, her voice cracking. "Please, don't hurt him! He's just a child! He's all I have left!"
Her words hit like a physical blow, echoing through the courtyard. The boy flinched at the sound, trying to hide even deeper behind Asta's cloak.
Cithria felt something twist painfully in her chest. The woman's desperation, the child's fear, it all painted too clear a picture. She knew the truth of Demacia's laws. Even now, after Sylas' rebellion and the death of King Jarvan III, things had only grown harsher.
The Sword-Captain's jaw tightened. He didn't look at Asta right away, instead turning his gaze toward the crying woman and the trembling boy. His grip on Judgment shifted slightly, the faint scrape of metal against scabbard barely audible.
Then he exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Demacia's justice," he said, "is not mine to question. The laws stand."
He stepped closer to the MageSeekers, his voice steady but heavy with command. "The boy will be taken into custody. He will not be harmed, nor mistreated. You will deliver him safely to the capital, and he will stand trial before the Council."
The lead MageSeeker inclined his head stiffly. "As it should be, my lord."
Asta's shoulders tensed. "Trial?" His voice cracked with disbelief. "He's a kid! You think that's justice?!"
Garen turned to him then, blue eyes hard as steel. "I think justice doesn't stop being justice just because it's difficult."
Asta took a step forward, his expression darkening. For a heartbeat, the MageSeekers reached for their staves, but Garen raised a hand, warning them to stand down.
"This isn't your land," Garen said quietly. "You don't understand the history we carry, or what's at stake if we fail to keep magic contained."
"I understand fear," Asta shot back. "I understand people getting crushed because of it. You're no different from the ones back home who looked down on me just because I was born without magic."
Cithria felt the sting in those words. Yet Garen only stared back, unmoving, his expression unreadable.
When he finally spoke, his tone was grave. "If you truly believe you understand fear, then understand this, our kingdom was nearly torn apart because we ignored it. I won't let that happen again."
The boy whimpered softly. The sound drew every eye for an instant, fragile, human, and small. Asta looked back at him, and Cithria saw his anger falter just slightly.
The MageSeekers moved forward again, one producing a containment shackle that pulsed faintly with runic light. The mother's cries grew louder, her pleas breaking into hoarse sobs as she tried to push past the guards.
Asta's fists clenched, knuckles whitening, but Garen's voice came firm and final.
"Enough."
The single word silenced the courtyard.
He turned to his soldiers. "See that the woman is looked after. The boy will be escorted under full guard to the great city. Asta..." He met the young man's furious stare. "...I suggest you stand aside."
Asta's jaw worked silently for a moment, then he exhaled through his nose, the tension in his frame radiating like heat. "...You talk about justice," he said quietly, before turning to face the boy.
Cithria noticed the shift in Asta's expression, the tension in his jaw eased, replaced by a warm, disarming smile. He knelt slightly, placing a steady hand on the boy's trembling shoulder.
"Hey, kid," he said gently. "What's your name?"
The boy hesitated, eyes darting past Asta toward the soldiers and MageSeekers encircling them. His lower lip quivered.
But Asta moved his head into the boy's line of sight, forcing his gaze back toward him. His tone softened, but there was a firmness beneath it, a quiet, unshakable confidence.
"No. Don't look at them," he said. "Look at me. They're not going to hurt you. No matter what happens, they can't hurt you. Understand?"
The boy didn't nod. He didn't believe it, Cithria could see that in his eyes. And she couldn't blame him.
Around them, the crowd murmured uneasily. Garen stood a few paces away, watching in silence, his expression unreadable. Even the MageSeekers seemed momentarily thrown off, unsure what to make of this strange, foreign man speaking so calmly in the face of Demacia's law.
Finally, the boy spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "D… Darryl."
Asta's grin widened. "Darryl, huh? Wow, that's an awesome name."
He ruffled the boy's messy brown hair, earning a startled blink from him. Then, without hesitation, Asta said something that made every soldier within earshot stiffen.
"So, I hear you have magic," he said cheerfully. "That's amazing. You've got a wonderful gift, you know that?"
The words hit like a hammer blow. Cithria felt the air leave her lungs. Even Darryl froze, eyes widening in disbelief.
Asta, however, was completely unfazed.
"I'm not joking," he went on, his tone earnest. "Where I come from, people dream of having awesome magic. I trained my ass off for years trying to awaken mine… but it turned out I didn't have any. Not even a drop."
A few soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. The MageSeekers whispered among themselves, unable to tell if he was mocking them or telling the truth.
Asta straightened slightly, his voice growing firmer. "That wasn't going to stop me, though. I made a promise to myself, that I'd still reach my goal, magic or not."
Cithria frowned, unsure what to make of his words. Around them, tension hung thick in the air, but Asta seemed untouched by it. If anything, he looked genuinely proud of what he was saying.
The boy, Darryl, peeked up at him, still trembling but clearly drawn in. His voice came out small, shaky.
"G-Goal?" he whispered.
Asta smiled, a quiet confidence lighting up his face. "That I'd become the strongest in my kingdom. That I'd earn the most merits. That I'd be a beacon of hope for everyone, rich or poor, orphan or noble. That I'd become the Wizard King, the strongest mage of them all."
Cithria noticed the boy's eyes widen slightly in awe before he quickly averted his gaze, fear tightening his expression as he remembered where he was.
The group fell silent, their attention drawn to Asta as if his words carried a weight that none of them could ignore.
"Do you know what I did after that?" Asta asked, his tone light but steady. "I joined the Magic Knights, even though I had no magic at all. I made it into one of the nine squads that protect the Clover Kingdom. And then I trained harder than anyone. I fought harder than anyone. I pushed myself until the people around me began to believe in me."
He glanced around at the soldiers, his voice steady but filled with passion. "Now, I stand before you as the leader and squad captain of the Black Bulls, the second-strongest squ... err, order in the entire kingdom. I'm closer to my dream than anyone ever thought I could be."
Garen stepped forward, his armored boots clinking against the cobblestone. "What's the point of this, Asta?"
Asta scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "Good question. Why am I telling you all this?" His gaze shifted toward the young boy. "Well, Darryl… tell me something. Do you hate your magic?"
Darryl froze. His wide eyes darted to his mother, who shook her head quickly, fear evident in her features.
The safe answer was obvious, yes. Everyone expected him to say it. But then something flickered in the boy's expression, a spark of defiance breaking through his fear.
He shook his head firmly. "I don't hate it! I use it to help Mama, I make the ground soft so she can plant faster. We don't have to work as hard anymore! I don't want to see her hurt her hurt anymore."
There was a collective gasp across the street as the boy cried out, tears streaming down his eyes.
Cithria's heart twisted painfully. He didn't even understand what he'd done, how those innocent words had condemned him.
Asta's expression softened even further, and his hand lingered on the boy's shoulder, steady and reassuring. "That's amazing, Darryl," he said warmly. "You're using your magic to make life better for someone you love. That's what true strength is."
The boy blinked up at him through his tears, uncertain whether to believe the words. Cithria could see the faintest glimmer of pride beneath the fear, that small light in a child's eyes when someone finally sees them as more than a burden.
But not everyone shared Asta's sentiment.
"That's enough," the lead MageSeeker snapped, his voice like the crack of a whip. "You've said quite enough, foreigner. The child's words confirm what we already knew."
He lifted his staff, the runes along its length glowing faintly blue. The hum of restrained magic filled the air once again. "By Demacian law, no mage, child or not, may go unbound within the walls of the realm."
The mother's desperate cry tore through the moment. "Please, no! He's never hurt anyone!"
Darryl trembled with fear, instinctively stepping closer until his forehead brushed against Asta's chest. The older boy chuckled softly and placed a reassuring hand on his head.
"Earth magic, huh?" Asta said with a grin. "I'm willing to bet you'll be a great and powerful mage someday."
Cithria was practically pulling at her hair now. 'What is with this man!? Does he not see the situation? Is he intentionally ignoring everything!?'
"The Black Bulls could use a mage like you," Asta continued, his tone light and genuine. "I don't think we have an Earth mage yet."
His words silenced the crowd all over again.
'What the hell is he talking about!?' That thought rippled through every onlooker.
Even Darryl looked confused, at first. But as Asta's words sank in, his wide eyes began to shimmer with realization.
"Join the Black Bulls, Darryl. It'll be interesting," Asta said with his usual confident grin.
Beside him, his grimoire floated up, glowing faintly red before opening on its own. The sudden motion made the soldiers around tense, hands flying to their weapons.
The pages fluttered rapidly, and then, from within the grimoire, a black mass seeped out like liquid shadow. It expanded, swirling in the air above Darryl before flattening into a thin, rippling surface.
The boy looked up in awe.
Then, like a living thing, the shadow descended, falling gently over him. It settled and tightened, forming into a black robe that clasped neatly at his collar. Gold trims glimmered faintly, and on the front gleamed an insignia, a raging black bull's head, fierce and proud.
For a long moment, no one spoke.