For a long moment, the hunter said nothing. Her eyes traced Mira's form slowly, taking in the tremor in her hands, the tear tracks still wet on her cheeks, the way she stood half a step behind Asta without even seeming to notice she was doing it.
Then her eyes flicked up. To the pumpkin giant.
The orange flames burning steadily within its eyes reflected in the lenses of her goggles, casting her face in an unsettling glow.
"…You," Vayne said at last. "You're the one who did this."
"Like hell she did!" Asta snorted. "Who are you supposed to be anyway? You don't look like any of the guards here."
If Vayne had been even a fraction less disciplined, she would have blanched.
He did not recognize her.
Not even the faintest spark of recollection crossed his face. He was not feigning ignorance, of that she was certain. This bastard truly had no notion of who she was.
Was he in earnest?
What manner of absurdity was this?
She had sought his life night after night for a full week. Crept through the shadows of his estate. Tested ward and wall alike. Sent bolts whistling through windows and darkness. And yet he had not deemed her worthy of memory.
Her fingers tightened around the haft of her crossbow.
Before she could give voice to her fury, a woman stepped forward, positioning herself just to the side, her bearing composed and her expression one Vayne recognized at once.
Condescension.
"That would be Shauna Vayne, of House Vayne," the woman said smoothly. "Though to most, she is known as the Night Huntress."
Vayne's jaw tightened. She didn't look away from Asta. He raised an eyebrow.
Vayne could practically feel the name bouncing uselessly around inside his thick skull before failing to land anywhere meaningful.
"What do you hunt?" Asta asked plainly.
Vayne answered without a moment's pause. "Your kind."
Then she lifted a finger, sharp and accusing, and leveled it toward the towering aberration of vine and carved flesh that loomed behind them. "And abominations such as that."
The woman beside her sighed softly, rubbing at her temple as if nursing the beginnings of a headache. "Ah, yes," she murmured. "That famous Demacian nuance. Either spotless… or condemned. Nothing in between."
"Excuse me?" Vayne snapped. "Are you even seeing what I'm looking at right now, or are you willfully blind?"
Her fingers twitched against the trigger of her wrist-mounted crossbow, the familiar tension settling into her muscles, even though the weapon was not yet raised.
Not yet.
"I ought to put a bolt through each of your skulls," she continued, her voice hard and measured. "The world would be the safer for it."
And she meant it.
If there had been a way, any way, she would have rushed the girl who had somehow summoned a genuine demon from hell and ended her before things spiraled any further out of control.
But there wasn't.
Not only would she fail, easily, humiliatingly so, but Asta would stop indulging her presence just as easily. And then she would be dead.
That realization sat heavy in her chest.
Vayne frowned.
That was the problem, wasn't it?
In the months since he had arrived, after all her attempts on his life, he hadn't just refused to take her seriously, he hadn't even considered her worth remembering. Not her face. Not her name. Nothing.
It was arrogance in its purest form.
And infuriatingly, he had more than enough power to justify it.
This was her first Harrowing, and from what she could see, the Black Bulls had nearly cleared Havenfall on their own.
Her eyes drifted toward the horizon.
The black mist was receding. Pulling back inch by inch, dissolving before her very eyes.
Vayne's jaw tightened.
Was this as impressive as she believed it to be?
…Or was the mist never as dangerous as everyone else had been led to believe? Vayne was inclined to believe it was the former.
Their strange standoff was interrupted by the heavy, rhythmic beat of wings as a vast shadow swept across the ground.
For a brief, tense moment, Vayne thought the mist had returned. Her muscles tightened instinctively. But then she noticed the young boy beside her tilting his head upward, eyes tracking something above.
Vayne followed his gaze.
A dragon was descending upon the walls of Havenfall.
Her reaction was immediate. She reached back for the heavy crossbow strapped across her shoulders, fingers closing around the familiar grip, only for it to refuse her pull, as though the weapon itself had turned stubborn in her hands.
Her breath caught.
Asta was standing beside her, his hand resting casually atop the crossbow, stopping her from drawing it with effortless ease.
"That's Shyvana," he said calmly, as if answering a question she hadn't voiced. "I sent her to warn the palace."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Stop trying to shoot people."
Vayne shot him a glare. "So you do recognize me," she snarked, not entirely sure why that realization made her feel the slightest bit better. "Bastard."
The dragon lowered her massive head, claws scraping softly against stone. Only then did Vayne notice the figure riding atop her back.
A familiar one.
King Jarvan IV.
When Shyvana dipped low enough, the king leapt down with practiced ease. A moment later, Shyvana was engulfed in a controlled blaze, fire curling inward as her form shifted, shrinking and reshaping until she stood once more as a woman, the flames fading like embers in the wind.
"King Jarvan," Asta said, stepping forward and extending his hand in greeting, as though the battlefield around them were nothing more than an inconvenience.
King Jarvan froze for half a heartbeat when his eyes landed on the scene before him.
The scorched ground. The lingering haze of dissipating mist. The massive pumpkin aberration kneeling like some obedient siege engine behind the group. Mira, pale and shaken. Emilia, composed as ever. Darryl standing stiffly at Asta's side.
Then Jarvan took the hand. "Captain Asta," he said, voice steady, carrying the weight of command. "It seems you've already finished here. And with nary a scratch on Havenfall. You have my gratitude."
Asta laughed at that, rubbing the back of his neck in a sheepish gesture. "It was nothing really. I barely did anything. My squad did most of the work. They've all gotten so strong. I'm proud of them."
Jarvan's gaze drifted past Asta once more, settling on the towering pumpkin creature standing off to the side, its massive form still and watchful, orange embers glowing faintly within its carved eyes. For a moment, he said nothing, weighing the sight with a ruler's measured calm.
"I am inclined to believe you," Jarvan said at last. "Regardless, you shielded all of Havenfall and did so without the loss of a single soul."
Then his expression darkened, the warmth fading from his eyes.
"Under ordinary circumstances," he continued, "this would warrant celebration. Feasting, commendations… perhaps even titles bestowed before the court."
Asta nodded, his expression sobering. "I understand. You've got no issues there, Prince."
"Thank you for that," Jarvan replied, offering a small smile, one touched more by gratitude than joy. "The Harrowing presses inward far swifter than anticipated."
Asta frowned slightly. "From the sky, the black mist looked farther off. I didn't think it would reach any of the provinces for at least a few more hours."
"Those were same as Shyvana's own reports," Jarvan said, his brow furrowing, "yet it is now plain that this is no common Harrowing. Havenfall was the first to be besieged, despite standing farthest from Demacia's outer reaches."
His eyes hardened with quiet concern.
"That alone tells me some unseen hand is at work."
"There was a strange… horse-ghost person," Asta said, scratching his cheek as he thought back. "Called himself Hecarim. The Shadow of War. He was leading the mist in Havenfall. Maybe there's information on him?"
Jarvan inclined his head, expression sharpening. "That is as sound a lead as any to begin with. We shall return to the capital at once. I would ask for your aid in this matter, Asta. There are several provinces we will not be able to reach in time, and..."
"Say no more, Prince," Asta cut in easily. "Count the Black Bulls in. What do you need?"
Jarvan let out a quiet breath he hadn't realized he was holding, relief softening his features. "The full plans are still being drafted in the capital. For now, it would be best that we return there and confer properly."
Asta nodded, then turned back toward his squad. "Alright. Brooms out."
Darryl sighed, reaching for what looked at first like an ordinary stick. With a practiced flick of his wrist, it expanded and reshaped into his signature flying staff. He set it horizontally in the air, and it began to hover, steady and obedient.
"Are we forgetting something?" Vayne's voice cut in sharply, thick with open disgust as she looked between them.
Jarvan's gaze shifted again, sharpening as it settled on Vayne. "Shauna," he said quietly.
Vayne inclined her head a fraction. Respectful. Controlled. "Your Majesty."
That, at least, Asta noticed. "Oh," he said, blinking once. "You know each other."
Jarvan's lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement slipping through the tension. "One could say that." Turning back to the huntress. "And what are we forgetting?"
Vayne gestured toward the towering pumpkin monstrosity. "What are we to do about that?" she asked, her voice sharp, edged with both curiosity and a hint of impatience.
Mira stilled, feeling the weight of so many gazes turning toward her. The attention pressed down upon her shoulders.
Asta, ever perceptive, smiled. "Oh yeah," Asta said, ruffling Mira's hair lightly. "She's got a point. We almost forgot about your summon. Does it have a name?"
Mira's lips curved in a small, almost shy smile as the memories of their battle filtered through her mind. "Yes," she said softly. "The Pumpkin King… or Pumpking, for short."
Her smile faltered, giving way to a small frown. "But… if I unsummon him now, I will not be able to summon him again on my own. I can feel it… I am not yet strong enough."
Asta inclined his head with understanding. "Makes sense," He began. "You were influenced when you summoned him, acting without regard for your own limits. That could've had far worse consequences if luck hadn't been on your side. I suppose this means you'll need to become strong enough to summon Pumpking on your own, without outside interference."
Mira's eyes hardened with determination. "I shall," she declared, taking a measured step toward her summon. The Pumpkin King, immense and silent, loomed over her, the orange glow in its carved eyes now steady and calm.
She extended a hand, letting slender vines curl from her fingers to wrap gently around the gnarled bark of its form. "'It's time to depart, my friend," she whispered. "I swear, I will call for you once I am strong enough. Wait for me."
Like a great, deflating sail caught by a windless sky, the Pumpkin King began to collapse, its massive form losing shape and substance. The vines and bark that had composed its body slowly unraveled, and the smaller pumpkins that had adorned its shoulders and limbs shriveled into nothingness.
At last, all that remained was a tangled mass of dry vines and wood scattered upon the ground. Mira knelt, her eyes widening as tears pricked at their edges. From within the remnants, she gently lifted a finely crafted staff, the wood polished and warm beneath her fingers.
The head of the staff bore a delicate pumpkin carving, intricate and detailed, while several tiny pumpkins dangled from the sides, each no larger than her thumb. She held it reverently, the promise of the Pumpkin King now distilled into this single, tangible form.
"Wonder who has to clean up all those vines... Ack!" Darryl whispered to Emilia before he was chopped on the head by Asta.
---
Tianna Crownguard studied the maps spread across the table before her. Yet no matter how long she looked, her gaze always drifted back to the largest one, the chart that depicted the full breadth of Demacia's demesne.
She let out a quiet sigh and reached forward, sliding an ebony-black cone a few measured paces across the parchment. The map was already crowded with such markers, each one positioned with grim precision. Together, they formed a tightening arc, a slow and inevitable shroud closing in from the east.
Every single cone represented the creeping advance of the black mist, the Harrowing made manifest, rolling ever onward as it consumed Demacian land mile by mile.
Her eyes shifted to the white cones scattered among them. Featureless. Unadorned, just smooth, rounded shapes standing in for the soldiers of Demacia. Knights reduced to symbols. Lives reduced to pieces on a board.
"If we march our knights east now," General Ibell said, her brow furrowed as she traced a route with her finger, "we could reach Cloudfield by tomorrow's eve."
Even as she spoke, there was a clear note of doubt in her voice, as though she herself found little comfort in the plan.
General Miesar shook his head firmly. "By then, the mist will be upon the capital. The Sword-Captain would arrive too late to matter." His finger tapped the map near the heart of Demacia. "And if that comes to pass, where does that leave us?"
Ibell's lips tightened. "So we abandon Cloudfield, then?" she snapped. "And what of Wrenwall? Needlebrook? Are we to cast them aside as well?"
Miesar straightened, his expression hardening. "We send the Silverwing riders," he said sharply. "Have them carry word to the outlying settlements, that the capital stands fortified, that refuge awaits them here until the Harrowing has passed."
He looked directly at Ibell. "It is better than throwing away our elite forces on an errand doomed to fail. Or must I remind you of what the Harrowing truly entails?"
At Tianna's side, Fiora Laurent rubbed at the bridge of her nose, her patience wearing thin. "Must we truly suffer through this yet again?" she muttered, her accent lilting even in irritation. "I swear, it would be far simpler to put a blade through those endlessly wagging mouths."
Tianna Crownguard sighed softly. This was the third time in as many minutes that they had circled the same argument, with neither general willing to yield an inch.
Ibell argued fiercely for dispatching the knights and the various martial orders to the outer settlements of Demacia, to hold the edges and buy the realm time. Miesar, however, stood just as firmly opposed. In his view, splitting their strength was folly. He insisted that Demacia's forces should be drawn back and consolidated within the capital, where they could make a proper stand and defend the heart of the kingdom.
Yet that course came with its own cost.
Not all would be able to reach the capital in time.
The steady flow of refugees from Nockmirch had already strained their preparations, their presence a constant reminder of how quickly things were unraveling. Camps had sprung up along the roads, fearful and desperate, carrying tales of shadowed fields and the dead rising where they had fallen.
Tianna's jaw tightened.
She could not pretend she bore no blame for that.
With Demacia beset on all sides, by the mage rebellion, the MageSeekers' increasingly ruthless crusade, Noxus growing ever bolder beyond their borders, and the arrival of a foreign mage whose power rivaled that of a proclaimed Wizard King, she had failed to give the refugees the attention they deserved. Reports of undead attacks had been filed away, dismissed as panic or exaggeration amid greater concerns.
Now, she was paying the price for that oversight.
The black mist had crept upon them unseen, slipping past their vigilance like a thief in the night, and Demacia found itself caught unprepared, unable to mount a proper response before the Harrowing was already at their gates.
The doors to the chamber swung open without warning as King Jarvan IV strode inside. A hush fell over the room almost at once, aided by the fact that he was not alone.
Shyvana followed close behind him, her presence commanding even without her draconic form. Just behind her came Shauna Vayne, a sight that made Tianna's brow lift ever so slightly. She had not expected the Night Huntress to be summoned to the council.
And then Asta entered.
Tianna caught the change immediately, the faint, almost imperceptible shift in Fiora's posture at her side, the tightening of her stance, the way her attention sharpened as if a blade had been drawn halfway from its sheath.
'Good,' Tianna thought. 'At least matters on that front are progressing as intended.'
The two generals fell silent as well, their earlier argument cut short the moment the foreign mage crossed the threshold. Their gazes fixed on him, measuring, wary. It seemed the rest of the Black Bulls had arrived too, filling the chamber with an unfamiliar but undeniable presence.
To Tianna's other side, Wisteria, the newly appointed head of the MageSeekers, had gone still. Her expression hardened, her eyes following Asta with barely concealed disdain. That much was expected, everything Tianna had learned suggested the woman held little love for him.
"King Jarvan," Tianna said, inclining her head in greeting. "You arrived just as swiftly as you promised. For that, you have our thanks."
Jarvan did not return the courtesy with a smile. His expression remained grave, the weight of the kingdom evident in his eyes. "Think nothing of it. Demacia stands at a crossroads. We must act before events overtake us. Tell me, where is Garen?"
"He has gone to fetch the representative of the Illuminators," Tianna replied evenly. "Given the lady Shyvana's arrival, he should have seen her approach the capital. I expect his return shortly."
Jarvan nodded once, satisfied for now, as his gaze swept across the assembled council, lingering briefly on Asta before moving on.
It did not take long for Garen to arrive, his heavy footsteps announcing him before he entered the chamber. At his side walked a lightly armoured woman, her attire bearing familiar markings that marked her as an Illuminator, her posture composed and deliberate as she followed him inside.
Garen came to a halt a few paces inside the chamber, striking the floor once with the pommel of his sword in a crisp salute.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice steady. "Councillors. High Marshal."
The woman beside him inclined her head in turn. She was clad in pale steel and layered cloth, armour light but finely worked, its surface etched with faint, luminous sigils that caught the candlelight when she moved. A white mantle rested upon her shoulders, clasped at the throat with a sun-shaped pin.
Her eyes swept the room with calm deliberation, lingering briefly on the maps, the clustered cones, the tension that clung to the air like a held breath. Then her gaze found Asta.
And paused.
Tianna noticed it immediately.
"This is Radiant Myrtille," Garen continued. "Chosen Voice of the Illuminators, dispatched at my request."
Myrtille inclined her head once more, this time toward the king. "Your Majesty. The veiled lady watch over you in these darkened hours."
Jarvan acknowledged her with a nod. "And may the protectors grant us clarity, Lady Myrtille. You arrive at a precarious hour."
"So I have gathered," Myrtille replied evenly. "The harrowing."
Her gaze shifted again, this time openly settling on Asta. There was no accusation in it, nor reverence. Only careful appraisal, as though she were studying a phenomenon rather than a man.
Jarvan cleared his throat. "Captain Asta has just returned from Havenfall. The Harrowing made landfall there first."
Myrtille's brow creased faintly. "Havenfall?" she echoed. "That is… unexpected."
"So we have found," Jarvan said. "The mist should not have reached that far inland so swiftly. Yet it did. And it was led."
At that, Myrtille's eyes sharpened. "Led?"
Asta shifted his weight. "Guy called himself Hecarim," he said. "Big. Part horse. Hard to miss."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
Myrtille inhaled slowly, then exhaled through her nose. "The Shadow of War," she murmured. "A personal attack? The sentinels have been quiet for years now."
Wisteria's fingers tightened where they rested against the table's edge. "then all the more reason to purge any who traffic in forbidden magic."
Tianna intervened before the exchange could sharpen further. "Lady Myrtille," she said, turning back to the Illuminator, "How many Radiants can the Illuminators bring forward?"
Myrtille folded her hands before her, posture straight and composed. "The Radiants are still as numerous as we ever were, and we stand ready to beat back this darkness," she said calmly. "But without the relic weapons of the Sentinels, we cannot permanently drive away the Black Mist, nor truly slay the creatures that dwell within it."
Vayne scoffed, the sound sharp in the quiet chamber. "My arrows were made for killing monsters," she said flatly. "Blessed in the name of the Protector himself." She lifted one of the bolts, the faint silver etchings along its shaft catching the light. "They should be more than sufficient."
"I fear that such is not the case," Myrtille replied, shaking her head slowly. "They will fall, yes, but only to be reforged once more from the mist that binds them."
"Captain can kill them."
The sudden voice cut through the discussion, small but earnest. Silence followed almost immediately as every gaze in the room turned toward the youngest of the Black Bulls—Darryl.
Realizing what he had done, Darryl stiffened, his mouth snapping shut as heat crept up his neck. Under the weight of so many eyes, he fought the instinct to shrink in on himself.
Myrtille did not rebuke him. Instead, she turned her attention toward Asta, studying him with renewed focus. "Your AntiMagic," she said carefully. "It works against the creatures born of the Shadow Isles?"
"So it would seem," Asta answered. "AntiMagic undos and erases any magic it comes into contact with. Including whatever it is that binds them to the mist."
A low wave of murmurs rippled through the chamber, mingled with quiet gasps. Myrtille's expression softened, and she offered Asta a radiant smile. "Blessed be the light," she said reverently. "Hope yet draws breath in this world. Will you stand with us, and lend that power to the cause?"
Asta chuckled, scratching the back of his head. "Already told Jarvan here that I'm in. Whatever you need, the Black Bulls are at your service."
Wisteria did not look pleased.
"Your Majesty," she said, breaking the silence, her voice precise and cold, "we are placing an extraordinary amount of trust in a foreign mage whose existence defy the very laws of stone that has kept Demacia safe for years. While his AntiMagic may not truly be magic, to hinge the defense of the realm upon it is..."
"Necessary," Tianna cut in smoothly, before the woman could gather further momentum. "Unless the MageSeekers have uncovered a method of permanently dispersing the Black Mist that the rest of us are unaware of."
Wisteria's lips pressed into a thin line. "The MageSeekers deal in certainty, High Marshal. Not gambles."
Myrtille turned her head slightly, her tone calm but unyielding. "And yet certainty has failed you thus far. The Harrowing does not care for precedent. Only for consequence."
A flicker of something sharp passed through Wisteria's eyes, but she held her tongue.
General Miesar cleared his throat. "If Captain Asta can truly destroy the mist-bound creatures," he said, cautiously, "then that changes the equation. A single point of decisive force could blunt the Harrowing's advance."
"A single point can also be overwhelmed," Ibell countered.
Asta shrugged. "That's why I don't work alone."
Behind him, the Mira and Darryl shifted subtly, a quiet show of unity. Not polished knights. Not soldiers drilled into uniformity. But there was a confidence there all the same, rough-edged and unrefined, yet no less real.
Fiora's gaze flicked toward them, then back to the maps. "If he is to be used," she said bluntly, "then do not waste him guarding walls. Point him where the mist is thickest. Where its masters walk."
Jarvan exhaled slowly. "Then we need to know where it will strike next."
Tianna stepped forward, placing her hand upon the largest map. "The eastern marches are already compromised. If this Hecarim truly leads this incursion, then he will not waste time on scattered villages alone. He will seek symbols. Strongholds. Places of meaning."
Her fingers traced a line inward, stopping just short of the capital. "Cloudfield. Wrenwall. Needlebrook. Palclyff. Everpeak. Evenmoor. And beyond them, Demacia City itself."
Silence answered her.
"At this rate," Tianna continued, "we cannot defend everything. We must choose where to stand, and where to strike."
Myrtille's eyes lifted. "Then allow us to serve as your shield," she said. "The Radiants will accompany your forces. Where AntiMagic cuts the knot, our light will hold the ground it frees."
Jarvan looked between them, then gave a sharp nod. "Very well. Captain Asta, you will be placed at the vanguard of a mobile response force. You will not be bound to the capital unless absolutely necessary."
Wisteria's head snapped up. "Your Majesty..."
"This is not a debate," Jarvan said, his tone steel-hard. "If this is our only means of true resistance, then it must be used where it matters most."
He turned back to Asta. "You will have authority to act as you see fit against the Harrowing. Supplies, escorts, cooperation from all branches of the military."
A pause. "Including the MageSeekers."
Wisteria stiffened.
Asta blinked. "Uh. Cool."
Fiora let out a quiet huff that might have been a laugh.
Jarvan straightened. "Preparations will begin immediately. General Ibell, coordinate evacuations from the eastern settlements. General Miesar, reinforce the capital and establish fallback positions along the inner roads."
He looked to Tianna last. "High Marshal. I leave the overall strategy in your hands."
The weight of that trust settled heavily on her shoulders.
"It will be done," Tianna said.
As the council began to stir, voices rising once more, this time with direction rather than discord, Tianna allowed herself a single glance toward Asta. Toward the unlikely fulcrum upon which Demacia's fate now rested.
But of course, it did not end there, for Asta cleared his throat, drawing the room's attention once more. "So, uhm. I do have one more thing to add. Especially since you guys were talking about how many targets there are for the mist and how we can't defend them all."
The young mage's book hovered from his side, settling before him, its pages fluttering as though stirred by an invisible wind. The room watched in quiet awe as his swords emerged, gleaming faintly in the candlelight. Tianna's eyes traced the motion, noting how the blades rose from the book with practiced ease.
The sword he drew first was smaller than the one he had wielded against the Dauntless Vanguard, yet larger than the weapon Cithria of Cloudfield had described in her duel against Fiora. The blade itself was dark, mottled with streaks of black that seemed to writhe in the faint light. Dirt clung to it, crusted along the fuller and edges, as if it had been dragged from a battlefield long forgotten. Its hilt was heavily ornate, with a four-sided guard that flared outward, the grip coiled in a spiral pattern, ending in a polished sphere for the pommel.
"This is the Demon Dweller sword," Asta said, holding it upright for all to behold. "One of the abilities of the Demon Dweller sword is to connect the wielder to their allies. The wielder before me once used it to grant power to his comrades across space and time, and also shield them from the corrupting power of the underworld."
Tianna glanced around, noting the expressions on the faces of those gathered. Just like her, many seemed uncertain, hesitant to grasp the full measure of his meaning. The mention of underworld corruption and the linking of allies, she had thought his powers were limited to AntiMagic.
"The point is," Asta continued, shifting slightly as the sword hummed faintly with power, "I've also learned this power and improved it. If you can direct me correctly, along with my ki, using this city as a focal point, I can shroud multiple towns and cities in AntiMagic. It won't stop the more powerful undead from passing, but it will erase the magic in the atmosphere, which means the mist won't be able to move through."
Tianna's breath caught. Her legs suddenly felt weak, and she gripped the edge of the table as though it were the side of a castle rampart, bracing herself against the tide of revelation.
"I think I need to sit down," she heard General Ibell say before the stout woman collapsed into Miesar's chair, the sound of her armor clinking softly as she did so.
"That sounds… reasonable," Tianna whispered, her voice low and uncertain as she herself lowered herself into her seat, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing upon her shoulders like the iron of a knight's breastplate.
"So… going back to the plan…"