(Marvel, DC, images, manhuas, and every anime that will be mentioned and used in this story are not mine. They all belong to their respective owners. The main character "Karito/Adriel Josue Valdez" and the story are mine)
Ixtal caught them gently.
The portal irised open above the central terrace, a round mouth of light spilling Targon's people into heat and green and birdsong. The air here smelled like wet stone and citrus and actual soil, not ash. The first Targonian to step through—an old man with sunburnt cheeks—stumbled, blinked, and just... cried.
Ixtali hands were already there to steady him.
Word traveled faster than any announcement. By the time the last of the refugees cleared the gate, the terrace was rimmed three-deep with Ixtal's own—hunters, geomancers, kids still in festival paint that had never quite washed out since the war started. They saw Adriel, saw the strangers, put it together.
Their king-that-wasn't-a-king had brought more ghosts back from the edge.
Qiyana was first down the steps from the palace. The crown she'd never wanted sat easy on her now: a collar of jade and gold, hair braided back, bare feet landing light on stone Adriel had helped pour. She snapped her fingers; attendants moved without being told, guiding Targon families toward waiting houses, opening storage sheds that had never held weapons, only blankets, grain, spare clothes.
"Welcome to Ixtal," she called, voice amplified through the living stone. "We don't have much, but what we have, we share. You'll be given homes, food, and quiet. The last part is non-negotiable—sleep when they tell you."
She slid a look at Adriel with that last bit. He snorted, half a laugh, half an exhausted bark.
The champions of Targon came through last, holding the rear like they didn't know how to stop guarding. Leona with her shield slung; Diana, pale and watchful; Aphelios and his sister moving like a single thought; Taric taking hits from jostling kids with a smile; Pantheon towering behind them, the apron he'd swapped for armor still tied at his waist. Soraka stepped through the portal and inhaled like she'd been underwater for months. Zoe hopped, spun, and immediately almost walked off the terrace until physics and Taric both caught her by the collar.
"Whoa," Adriel muttered, watching them take in the city. "You can tell who's used to disaster tourism."
Artoria hummed beside him. "And who would quite like this to be the last stop."
The crowd peeled off in currents. Ixtali citizens took Targonian hands like it was the most normal thing in the world. A little boy stared up at Leona's armor until she—almost shyly—knelt and let him touch the sun-disc. Neeko popped out of nowhere, declared herself "welcome committee," and started dragging Zoe and Aphelios toward what sounded like food. Darius and Katarina watched from a balcony higher up, both arms folded, expressions caught between suspicion and relief.
After a few minutes, the terrace was mostly empty. Just champions heading palace-ward and a handful of stragglers.
Adriel's shoulders finally slumped.
"Okay," he said under his breath. "Now I'm feeling it."
Artoria glanced sideways at him, reading the way his weight shifted, the micro-wobble in his stance. "You held a Mahlo cardinal in your hand and tried to punch Wrath to death with it," she said mildly. "I would be more concerned if you weren't tired."
Adriel scrubbed a hand over his face. The Toxin suit had peeled back down into clothes—plain shirt, dark pants, still dusted in cosmic debris if you looked close. "Yeah, yeah. I'm just saying, if anyone wants to roll out a bed right here, I'm not gonna complain."
He let his head tip back. Ixtal's sky glowed soft orange, the sun finally climbing down after pretending it hadn't almost been ripped out of its socket by their fight. Somewhere behind him, Qiyana was issuing orders like a storm giving directions.
Artoria's voice softened. "We should check on Ace and Peter first."
He groaned. Not at the idea—at the reminder of responsibility. "I can see their bars," he argued weakly, flicking his fingers to pull up the overlay only he could see. Two green HP lines, no red debuffs. "They're fine."
Artoria gave him the look she reserved for certain types of stupidity. "You know that is not the same thing."
"...Yeah." He let the interface fade. "Yeah, I know."
She started toward the palace, sword at her hip bouncing lightly. "Besides, if they are sleeping as deeply as I suspect, it will be amusing to wake them."
He caught up with her in three long steps. "You're a menace, you know that."
"I am learning from the best," she said, completely straight-faced.
He laughed, the sound coming out rough but real. "God. You, making jokes. If I show this to season-one me, he'd think I got hit in the head."
"You did get hit in the head," she pointed out. "Several times. Today alone."
They cut through the palace corridors—living stone grown into arches; vines trained up columns; little elemental lights flickering in niches. Ixtal had been a prison once under her rule. Adriel had helped break the bars and then insisted it become something else. People here still bowed when he passed. He always twitched, like it itched.
Artoria watched the way he flinched from the respect and stored it away with all the other contradictions that made up the man who'd dragged her out of darkness.
"You know," she said quietly, once they were out of earshot of anyone but the walls, "when I first arrived here as a Dark, they wouldn't even look at me. Only knelt. Or hid. I kept wondering how long it would take before they broke completely."
"And now they glare at you in the market when you skip the line," Adriel said. "Progress."
A small, secret smile pulled at her mouth. "They argue about the price of bread with me. It is... unpleasant and wonderful."
"That's 'cause you overpaid on purpose that one time. You ruined the economy, lady pop."
"I was trying to tip."
"Yeah, well, there's minimum wage and there's king Arthur dropping a dragon hoard on the counter."
She shook her head, fond. "You and Peter and Ace, you never stop talking."
"Yeah, and you're starting to join in." He nudged her lightly with an elbow. "You mellowed out, Saber."
"I would not call it mellow," she said, but the protest lacked heat. "I would call it... less broken."
His throat worked. "Good," he said simply. "You deserve that."
They reached a pair of carved doors near the guest wing. Two Ixtali guards straightened; Adriel waved them at ease. One of them, a young woman with a scar along her jaw, grinned.
"They've been quiet for an hour," she reported. "Loud before that. We heard arguing about quantum physics."
"Jesus," Adriel said. "Alright, thanks."
The doors swung open on a long, cool room. Hammocks and low beds ringed the walls. A balcony opened onto jungle. The air smelled faintly of potion herbs and whatever Ace had been snacking on last.
Two shapes dominated the nearest corner.
Ace lay sprawled on his back on a too-small bed, one leg hanging off, mouth open. His newly-regrown arm was thrown over his eyes. Peter had face-planted sideways across a second mattress, still half in his ruined suit, mask tossed on the floor. Both were surrounded by evidence of earlier consciousness: empty potion bottles, a plate that had once held something fried, a crumpled napkin with "YOU OWE ME SO MUCH FOOD – Ace" scrawled on it.
They were also snoring. Loudly. In alternating rhythms.
Artoria stared. "You were wrong," she said. "It is not twelve hours. It is hibernation."
Adriel put a hand over his heart. "Beautiful. My boys."
He crossed the room on soft feet, then hesitated at Peter's bedside. Up close, you could see the damage wasn't just physical. Even with the healing potions, there were exhaustion shadows under his eyes, a tension line in his jaw even while asleep. The kid's fingers twitched sometimes, like his dreams weren't fully convinced the fight was over.
Adriel lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed. For a second, he just... watched him breathe.
Artoria stayed by the door, giving them space. She'd seen the readout of what Peter had been put through. She'd watched enough of the Star Guardian universe's fate to understand why Soraka had looked like that.
Adriel reached out and, very gently, ruffled Peter's hair.
"Hey," he said, voice low. "Spidey. You still alive or what?"
Peter jerked awake with a sharp inhale, hand half-raising like he was about to shoot a web. Spider-Sense flared; then his gaze focused, saw who it was, and the fight drained from his shoulders all at once.
"...Oh," he croaked. "It's just you."
"Wow," Adriel said. "Love the enthusiasm. Really warms a guy's heart."
Peter blinked, then groaned and flopped onto his back, both hands covering his face. "If I pretend to be dead, will you let me sleep another week?"
"Nope. I need to see if you're mentally shattered so I can schedule therapy. Our budget's tight; we can only afford one breakdown at a time."
"Then book it for you," Peter mumbled through his fingers. "I'm good."
Ace snorted awake at that, as if his brain had been waiting for the chance to be included in an argument. "The hell you're 'good,'" he rasped, rolling over. "You looked like cursed fanart five hours ago."
His eyes found Adriel and Saber at the foot of the beds. "Oh, hey. Boss. King Arthur. We win?"
"You're not dead," Adriel said. "So yeah. We win."
Ace squinted. "Mangog?"
"Deleted."
Peter lowered his hands. His eyes were bright and raw. "AM?"
"Also deleted." Adriel met his gaze. "You did that part."
Peter stared at the ceiling for a long beat. His throat bobbed. "Oh yeah..." he said finally. "I forgot."
Silence settled for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Just full.
"You scared me, you know," Adriel added. "Both of you. A lot."
Ace rolled his eyes, but it was softer than usual. "Dude. You fought Wrath with math. Don't start."
"Yeah," Peter said. "You literally punched him with a concept. That can't be safe."
Adriel snorted. "Says the guy who accepted cosmic dark shit into his bloodstream because a goblin dared him to."
"That's not— okay, that's a little fair."
Artoria stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on the footboard. "How do you feel?" she asked Peter. She meant more than physical.
He seemed to hear it. He stared at his hands. Flexed them. "Like I got hit by a train made of feelings," he said. "And then someone poured me back into my body with a funnel."
Ace let out a hoarse laugh. "That's poetry, bitch."
"But I'm... here," Peter finished, more quietly. "And it's me in here again. Not him. That's... a lot."
Adriel nodded once. "You did good," he said. "No one expects you to bounce back in a day. Or ever, honestly. Take the time you need. Eat, sleep, be annoying—normal Peter stuff. Then we do the next impossible thing."
Peter looked at him sidelong. "You good?"
"No," Adriel answered honestly. "But I'm functioning. I'll crash later." He blew out a breath. "Right now I wanted to see you with my actual eyes instead of just a green bar."
Ace raised his regrown arm and wiggled the fingers. "Check it out. New limb. 10/10 would not recommend the growing process."
Artoria's mouth thinned in remembered disgust. "It was... graphic."
"Yeah, Ixtal potions don't mess around," Adriel said. "At least you got symmetry back. You were looking like a budget action figure."
Ace flipped him off—with the new hand. "I almost died helping your boy here, and this is the thanks I get."
"You also almost died eating twelve plates of food afterward," Peter muttered.
"Worth it."
Adriel stood, joints popping. "Speaking of food," he said, "there's a whole lot of traumatized champions out there, and I promised them some kind of welcome thing. You two up to walking to a table, or do I gotta drag you?"
Ace swung his legs over the side of the bed. His first attempt to stand looked like a baby deer on ice. He caught himself, grit his teeth, then straightened. "I can walk," he said. "Might complain, though."
Peter sat up more slowly. Every micro-movement came with a wince, as if phantom pain still triggered even when the body was fine. "Yeah," he said. "If we stay in here any longer I'm gonna start thinking. That's bad."
Artoria offered him a hand. He hesitated a second, then took it. She pulled him up with smooth ease.
"There will be many people," she warned. "Some you know. Some who know you too well from other stories."
"Cool," Peter said weakly. "No pressure."
"Plenty of pressure," Ace said. "Zero expectations."
"That's worse."
Adriel clapped both of them, one hand each, on the shoulder. "Relax. It's not a council. It's dinner. Or... whatever meal we're at. I lost track of time somewhere between 'planet cut in half' and 'using set theory as a weapon.'"
"It's evening," Artoria supplied. "Again."
"See? Perfect. Dinner." He jerked his chin toward the door. "Come on. Qiyana will get offended if we don't show up. Apparently I'm royalty now. Ixtal law or some shit."
"You are treated like a king," Artoria said.
"Yeah, and I keep telling them that's a bad idea. You've seen how I dress."
Ace huffed a laugh, and Peter managed a small smile as they shuffled toward the hallway.
Adriel and Artoria split at the crossroads of the upper hall, the way they'd done a hundred times now.
"I'll tell the cooks," she said. "Make sure the table is big enough for everyone's trauma."
He snorted. "Tell them to make extra rice. Ace eats like three people and Peter cheats with webs."
She shook her head, but there was a small smile there. "Rest. For once."
"Yes, mom."
He watched her go for a heartbeat, then turned toward his own wing.
The palace in Ixtal still felt like someone else's save file.
Arched ceilings, living stone carved into patterns only geomancers could read, little streams running along the hallway edges with glowing fish that doubled as nightlights. Doors of polished wood inlaid with metal from ores he'd dragged back out of the Nexus. Artifacts perched in niches that would've belonged in a museum back in the real world.
And at the end of the corridor: his room. Two huge doors with his damn crest over them, because Qiyana insisted and he'd been too tired to argue that hard that day.
He pushed them open anyway.
The place was ridiculous. Big enough to host a five-on-five. Four-poster bed draped in sheer fabric that fluttered in the breeze from the balcony. A wall of books, half of them salvaged from ruined regions, half printed out of the Nexus archives. A desk buried in notes and sketched cosmology diagrams. Screens—actual TVs and holo-plates—mounted between carved stone, lazily cycling through maps and system menus.
Once upon a time he'd split rent with three other broke kids and prayed the power bill didn't spike. Now he had a room bigger than his old apartment block.
"Still weird," he muttered.
"Neeko thinks it's perfect!" a bright voice chirped.
He stopped dead.
Neeko was sitting cross-legged on his bed like she'd spawned there, tail swishing lazily behind her, colorful hair spilling over one of his pillows. She bounced up the instant she saw him, eyes lighting like someone had turned up the saturation on the room.
"Adriel! You are finally back." She hopped off the bed and padded barefoot over, practically vibrating. "Neeko was waiting. And waiting. And waiting more. But it is okay. Neeko has patience now. Sometimes."
He blinked at her. "Didn't I just see you dragging Zoe and the others around the city?"
"Tour is done!" she declared proudly, hands on her hips. "Neeko showed them big trees, big waterfalls, small bakery. They like bakery. Now they rest. So Neeko came here." She tapped her temple. "Neeko already memorized all the rooms after little rebuild. Is easy."
Of course she had.
He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. "You know there's this thing called 'personal space,' right?"
She stepped closer anyway until she was almost nose-to-chest with him, peering up. "Neeko knows. Neeko ignores."
He huffed, but he didn't back away. With her it was... different. Less threatening, more like being cornered by an overexcited cat.
"How is Adriel?" she asked, just like she always did. "Is Guardian okay? Neeko saw fight on big shiny screen. It looked—" her face scrunched "—scary. Even more scary than big man with hammer. And that was very much scary."
"Mangog," he said. "Yeah. He's... a lot."
"You almost died." The words came out flat. Not accusing, just terrified in past tense.
He tried to shrug and his shoulders protested. "Almost doesn't count."
"Almost counts very much!" Neeko threw her arms up, tail fluffing. "Last time you 'almost' died, Neeko found you all burned and broken after black hole. You slept so long. Neeko thought maybe... maybe Guardian would not wake up." Her voice dipped on that last part, old fear peeking through.
He exhaled. "The Hercules thing was different."
"You went through a hole that deletes concepts," she said, pronouncing "concepts" like it tasted bad. "And you came back wrong colors and made of screaming. Neeko remembers."
"Yeah, okay, that part sucked."
She stepped even closer, looking him over like she expected a piece to fall off. "And now you say you held math in your hand and smashed it into big wrath monster. That is worse, Adriel!"
He snorted despite himself. "You make it sound so stupid when you say it out loud."
"It is stupid!" she snapped, then flinched at her own volume. Her shoulders hunched, ears drooping. "Neeko does not like seeing you die. Even almost."
The room went softer around the edges. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly aware again of how much smaller she was than him, how wide her eyes were.
"Hey," he said, voice gentler. "Look at me."
She did.
"I'm here," he said. "Walking, talking, swearing, pissing off villains. That guy hit me with the concept of wrath itself, yeah. I hit him back with Mahlo cardinal nonsense. First time something like that touched me—Hercules, black hole, death—my system freaked out. This time... it adjusted. I'm built different now." He tapped his temple. "Combat adaptation. Concept adaptation. Whatever you wanna call it. Next time some bastard throws impossible math at me, I'll probably just burp."
She stared for a beat. "...Neeko does not like that sentence," she decided. "But she understands the meaning. Your body remembers. It resists more. Builds armor."
"Exactly. Doesn't mean it's fun, but I'm not about to keel over." He held his arms out and did a little spin. "See? Intact. No medbay this time."
She squinted, like she could see HP bars floating next to him. "Are you sure?"
"Neeko."
"...Neeko will still worry."
"I know." He sighed, but there was a small smile there. "Just, like, worry at a lower volume, yeah?"
She made a face, then let it melt into a grin. "Neeko will try her best."
She sank back onto his bed without asking, tail curling around her ankles, eyes still tracking him. "So! What now? Big wrath monster is gone. Scary goblin and screaming computer are deleted. What does Guardian do next?"
He kicked the door shut and toed off his boots as he talked. "Next? I talked with Ace and Peter. I wanna let them sleep a bit more, then tonight we're doing a big dinner. All the surviving champs, old and new. Welcome Targon properly, remind everyone we're not completely screwed yet."
Neeko's face lit. "Feast!" she clapped. "Neeko likes feasts. Neeko will help cooks. Make spicy things. And desserts. Many desserts." She paused. "And you will rest before this, yes?"
"That's the idea," he said, peeling his shirt over his head. Scars caught the light—white lines, puckered patches, the kind of road map no one asked for. "Shower, nap, then social anxiety buffet."
Neeko's gaze flicked over the scars and her smile dimmed. "You have more," she said quietly.
"Yeah." He didn't bother pretending otherwise. "Mangog isn't exactly gentle."
She scooted to the edge of the bed, hands twisting in the sheets. "Neeko wants to help."
"You already are," he said. "You gave Targon a tour in like five minutes. Pretty sure half of them only didn't panic because you were bouncing in front of them."
She perked up at that, then tried again anyway. "Neeko can help you too. Neeko can bring towel. Or sit and talk while you wash. Hold clothes. Make sure Guardian does not fall asleep and drown."
He stared at her.
"Absolutely the fuck not," he said.
Her cheeks went a shade greener, but she burst out laughing, tail thumping the mattress. "Neeko jests! Mostly. Neeko just—" she sobered a little "—wants to stay close. In case."
"Yeah, I figured." He softened the refusal with a half-smile. "You can stay close after I don't smell like exploded universe, okay?"
She wrinkled her nose. "You do smell like... burnt ozone and sadness."
"Exactly. I'm doing everyone a favor if I shower."
She hopped to her feet, hands raised in surrender. "Fine, fine. Neeko will go. She will help with feast. And she will tell the others that Guardian is not allowed to lift anything heavier than a spoon until tomorrow."
"Hey—"
"Doctor Neeko has spoken."
He sighed dramatically. "You're all menaces."
She walked past him toward the door, then paused. For half a heartbeat, the goofy energy dropped and something very real shone through.
"Neeko is glad you came back," she said softly, looking at the floor. "Neeko does not want to lose more people."
He swallowed. "Me neither."
She flashed him one of her sun-bright smiles, then slipped out into the hall, tail vanishing last.
The room felt quieter when she left. Bigger, somehow.
Adriel let out a long breath and headed for the adjoining bathroom.
The tech in there still made the Ixtali servants whisper. Smooth white tiles from somewhere that wasn't this universe. A shower stall with pressure controls and temperature readouts. A mirror that doubled as a display, still flickering faint Gamer-system overlays if he tapped the corner. All patched into Ixtal's elemental infrastructure like it had been built that way.
He stripped the rest of the way and caught himself in the mirror.
Yeah. More scars. A jagged one along his ribs he didn't remember earning. A set of circular marks on his shoulder that looked suspiciously like a god's fingers. A thin white line from his collarbone to his sternum—Mangog, definitely.
"At least the face is still pretty," he muttered.
He touched his cheekbone, half-expecting a crack. Nothing. Hands, too—calloused, nicked, but no permanent damage there. The visible bits stayed mostly intact. Everything else had taken the hits.
"Occupational hazard," he told his reflection, and stepped into the shower.
Hot water hit his shoulders and he almost sagged right there. Muscles he didn't know he still had tension in unwound in increments. The smell of blood and alien dust and ozone spiraled down the drain.
He put his forehead against the tile for a moment and just... let himself feel it. The weight of how long this war had been going on. The number of worlds he'd seen broken. The way Mangog's last words still crawled a little at the back of his skull.
He missed home. Stupid stuff—cheap coffee from the corner panadería, humid nights with bad reggaeton leaking from three different cars at once, his mother yelling at him for leaving shoes in the hallway. The sound of the ocean that wasn't trying to kill him.
"Later," he told himself. "You can think about that later."
Right now there were people here counting on him not to fold. People he'd dragged into this by existing. People he'd saved who needed more than one miracle.
He shut the water off, toweled down, pulled on the softest set of clothes in reach: loose sweats, a t-shirt that had survived three universes, socks with little lightning bolts on them that Peter had insisted were "on brand."
He staggered to the bed and fell face-first onto it with zero grace.
"Fuck, I'm tired," he mumbled into the pillow. "Mangog, Hercules, Death, AM, Goblin... I need to start picking fights with people who work retail."
He flipped over long enough to stare at the ceiling. A thought poked him.
"Dinner," he said aloud, winced, then waved a hand vaguely toward the door. "Artoria's got it. She knows I forget shit."
His eyes slid closed mid-sentence.
The palace hummed quietly around him—magic, tech, and breathing walls. Outside, Ixtal made room for new people. Somewhere in the kitchens, Neeko was probably terrorizing the staff with ideas for dessert. Somewhere else, Qiyana was pretending not to be worried about all of them.
Adriel drifted under fast, the exhaustion finally catching him.
For the first time in a while, there were no nightmares waiting with teeth bared. Just darkness. And, far away, the vague knowledge that when he woke up, there would be food, friends, and one more impossible fight waiting on the horizon.
Later.
For now, he slept.
...
Artoria took the back stairs down to the service level, heels ticking a clean metronome on stone. Kitchens first. Notices next. Then find the boys—
She pushed through the swinging door into heat and steel. Someone had ripped open the afternoon—saffron and steam and the metallic ring of cleavers. A half-dozen cooks snapped to attention because old habits die noisy. Artoria raised both hands.
"At ease. Big dinner tonight—late afternoon." She rattled it off crisp and simple. "Full house: Ixtal families and the new Targon arrivals, plus champions. Think comfort food that travels well on trays. Half the room still twitches at loud noises, so no firecrackers on plates. I'll get you a headcount within the hour."
A chorus of "Yes, Lady Saber," and "Understood," rolled back. Someone already started a pot of rice the size of a bath.
"And—" she added, because she could hear Ace in her head— "desserts. Plural."
A cheer she pretended not to hear.
She cut back out to the corridor and nearly walked into a broad chest and a freckled grin.
"Yo," Ace said, hands in pockets like he'd been born in hallways.
"I thought you'd be glued to Peter," she said, genuinely surprised. "Or raiding a pastry cart."
"Both reasonable guesses." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "He detoured to the lab to 'check a thing.' Which is code for 'Ace stands around and nods while science happens.' Hard pass."
A laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. "You? Afraid of beakers?"
"Not afraid. Allergic." He leaned in, stage-whisper. "I am smarter now, but not 'stare at a screen for three hours' smarter. I'll break something."
"Fair." She glanced down the long corridor. With the kitchen briefed, she had a few hours to spare—and after weeks of only battle and triage, hours of rest felt like a luxury. "Walk with me? Ixtal's calmer outside the palace. Mostly."
"Sure." He shrugged. "If the crowd doesn't eat us."
They stepped out through a side gate into the upper district. Ixtal breathed around them—vines braided into lamp posts, magitech lines glowing under cobbles, market awnings fluttering like bright sails. You could feel the graft where Adriel had dragged the twenty-first century into a jungle city and the city had decided it liked the look.
People noticed them immediately. It always started the same way: someone froze mid-errand with recognition, then two, then a ripple. It wasn't hysteria. More like gratitude surfacing wherever they walked. A dozen different "thank you"s in a dozen different accents. A little boy thrust a flower at Ace and ran away like he'd thrown a grenade.
Ace scratched his cheek, embarrassed. "I miss being anonymous."
"You were vice-captain of a pirate emperor," Artoria said dryly. "I doubt you ever were anonymous."
"Yeah, but back then it was either cheers or gunfire. This is... a lot of eyes." He shrugged as two Targonians bowed, awkward and sincere. "Happy eyes, fine. Just... many."
Artoria felt the weight too, but differently. Once those eyes had looked at her with chains in them. Now they looked with a wary mercy. Adriel's word carried here. That helped.
They drifted into a newly built side street that hadn't existed a month ago. At the corner: a café with glass windows and a chalkboard menu, plants dangling off a balcony like an excited haircut. The sign read Río & Root in looping script. It smelled like espresso and warm sugar.
Ace slowed. "We going in or pretending we didn't see it?"
She lifted a brow. "You just ate lunch."
"I can eat lunch." He opened the door anyway. "And dessert."
A charm on the frame chimed them in. Conversations paused, then resumed with the small uptick you get when two minor celebrities sit down like normal people. They found a table against the window. A server materialized with water and a brave smile.
"Something small," Artoria told herself out loud.
Ace looked at the menu and immediately betrayed her. "Do they do sampler platters of everything sweet? Asking for a friend."
"Behave," she hissed, but her eyes had already locked onto a photo: a slice of tres leches cake layered with tropical fruit, caramel shining like sin. The second her brain identified sugar, her stomach declared a coup and growled loud enough to make the next table turn.
Ace's grin was pure trouble. "Oh? What was that?"
She kicked him under the table. "Silence."
He folded his hands, saintly. "Just saying, we're in a café. The gods intended dessert. Also, I will absolutely burn through the calories before we make it back to the door."
"You burn through calories standing still." She glared at the menu like it owed her money. "Fine. One dessert. Each."
"Two each," he bargained.
"One."
He lifted his hands. "Compromise queen."
They placed the order—two coffees, tres leches for her, something obscene involving chocolate and lava for him. The server left. Ace lounged, looking around like he was mapping exits and bakeries.
"You ever think Qiyana builds this stuff just because Adriel offhandedly says 'you know what would be cool?'" he asked.
"She does," Artoria said. "He says 'a café would be nice,' and the next day there's a café. It's shameless."
"Ah. So she's down bad."
"Terminal," Artoria said, and then realized she'd said it like... a person who notices things. She sipped water to hide the heat rising in her face. "Anyway."
"Anyway," Ace echoed, smirking.
The desserts arrived like victories on plates. Artoria's resolve died on impact. Tres leches glistened under a thin drift of cinnamon; the fruit shone like jewels. She stared a second too long.
"A moment of silence," Ace murmured, utterly solemn.
"Shut up," she said, but softer, and cut a bite. The first spoonful hit and the world got about twenty percent friendlier. She closed her eyes, let herself have it.
Ace watched her, shook his head, and dug into his own cake with the kind of satisfaction you can't fake.
"So," he said around chocolate, "plan for tonight is 'feed people and try not to cry,' right?"
"More or less. Adriel wants warmth and welcome. Targon needs to feel like they belong here, even if half of them still sleep with boots on."
"Swain still walking around with the 'I run an empire' posture?"
"Less of it," Artoria said. "Qiyana knocked it down a peg. She has a very effective weapon."
"Her fan?"
"Adriel's name."
Ace snorted. "Yeah, that'll do it."
The bell over the door chimed again. Sarah Fortune slipped in on a breeze of salt and cologne, red hair tucked into a scarf, a takeout cup already ordered with a glance. She blinked, clocked them, and beelined.
"Look at you two," she said, setting her elbow on the back of a spare chair. "I leave for five minutes and you find the only decent espresso this side of Ixtal. Mind if I crash?"
"Sit," Artoria said, genuinely pleased. They'd already crossed from allies to friends a while ago—Sarah had asked, and Artoria had said yes. War just accelerates the math on bonds.
Sarah dragged a chair from an empty table and swung it around backwards, riding it like a gunslinger. "Quick check-in. Noxus cohort calmed down after the 'you're not under Juggernaut anymore' speech," she said, eyes flicking between them. "They were prickly—no surprise—but once housing and food were on the table, posture softened. PTSD is still doing its slow ugly work, but they're listening."
"And Swain?" Artoria asked.
"Still proud," Sarah said, shrugging. "Pride's a good spine until it breaks. Qiyana helped him... recalibrate. Dropped Adriel's name with the kind of smile that makes men rethink their day. Also mentioned Ace." She tilted her chin at him. "Full intimidation combo."
Ace rubbed the back of his neck. "I forgot I saved those folks, to be real. Was a little busy chasing Peter."
"Right priority," Sarah said, without heat. "We needed all three of you breathing." She sipped the espresso the barista had ghosted to her like a bribe. "Speaking of—how's he doing?"
"Stubborn and fine," Ace said. "Shook off the last of AM and Goblin. He's... quieter. But he'll climb out. Guy's built stupid tough. We keep him surrounded, he'll remember that."
Sarah's shoulders eased a hair. "Good." She took another sip, eyes half-lidded in appreciation. "Okay, then I'm done interrupting your... outing."
"It's not—" Artoria began.
"—a date," Ace finished with her, deadpan.
"Of course it isn't," Sarah said, grin sliding sharp. "You just look nice together in a place with desserts. Pure coincidence." She stood, flicked Artoria a salute she'd only half earned. "See you at dinner."
She was gone before Artoria could manufacture a retort that didn't sound exactly like a retort.
Silence sat down at the table and folded its arms. Ace poked at it with his spoon.
"So," he said, tone light like a lifeline, "we've had our fun. Walk back?"
"Yes," Artoria said too fast, then forced air into her lungs and repeated it like a normal human. "Yes. We should check on the prep."
They boxed the last bites—Ace mourned openly, she pretended not to—and stepped back into the late sun. The path to the palace wound between market stalls and new murals, up stone stairs that had learned to carry too many feet. People waved. Ace waved back, smaller this time.
At the top of the last flight, he bumped her shoulder with his. "For the record, if it had been a date, you bonking me in the middle of a café would've been a top-tier highlight."
Her ears warmed traitorously. "Don't get used to it."
"No promises."
They reached the gate. Inside, the palace had shifted toward dinner mode, a low thrum of logistics. Artoria paused at the threshold.
"Thanks," she said.
"For what?"
"Letting me be... this." She waggled a hand vaguely at herself—former tyrant, current coordinator, glutton with a fork.
Ace laughed. "You're doing fine, Saber."
They split—him toward the guest wing, her back down into the humming belly of the house, a list already reshuffling in her head. The afternoon would carry them to night. Night would carry them to one more table, one more circle, one more little proof that life still insisted.
It was enough, for an hour.
...
Peter rapped his knuckles on the doorframe five times—same rhythm Adriel taught them, same little secret handshake with the room—and the space on the other side flipped like a coin. Bed and dresser folded into themselves; bookshelves telescoped down and recompiled into lab benches; the window dilated into a light well. The apartment smell (linen, soap, towers of Ace's laundry) got replaced by clean ozone and printer-plastic.
"Home sweet lab," he muttered.
He set the capsule necklace on the nearest stainless surface without looking at it. The nanites in his suit listened. At his collarbone, matte black peeled back and ran like mercury; a thin river of gold traced the spider across his chest and spilled to the bench. The Iron Spider reassembled itself in layers: frame, plates, micro-gaskets. The shoulder pods clicked open like camera apertures. The mask rose last and settled beside the torso with a polite, magnetic thunk.
Two taps on the chest emblem woke the power bay. A pearl of not-light rose from the socket and hovered: the Speed Force core. It sat there being a whole idea in a marble—no edges, yet it had a face; no weight, yet it made the bench feel heavier. It hummed in a pitch he felt more in his molars than in his ears.
"Hey, troublemaker," Peter said to it, because talking to hardware is free.
He got to work. New nanite blocks slid out of the printer and into a hopper; the damaged clusters in the shoulders disassembled under a field and crawled into a tray like obedient ants. HUD holo popped over the bench on a two-finger flick—schematic of the suit, red blisters where A.M. had forced him to fight Ace. He hated that map. He fixed it anyway.
He re-etched a burned trace; he reflowed a cracked spine conduit; he told the right rear leg to stop pretending it was a coat hanger. All the while the core hovered in his peripheral like a lighthouse, casting a feeling instead of light.
Don't look. He looked.
If you stared long enough you could convince yourself you saw motion inside it—lanes on lanes, a highway folded into a bead. It pulled at memory in a way he didn't love. Faces, then a voice that wasn't the voice he wanted to hear, then a lot of empty.
He exhaled, long. He reached into the hoodie pocket he still wore under the half-peeled suit and fished out the little capsule. Chrona smiled at him from a life he'd let get covered in dust. The shame came like a cold wave, predictable as tide.
Ace's voice barged in from the talk they'd had in Ixtal's courtyard yesterday (or hours ago—time blurred when you lived in a castle and fought demigods): She's not going to torch you for what you did when you weren't you. That woman hacked the Nexus itself to get me your location. If she can do that, she can handle forgiving you. Don't be dramatic, bro. Breathe.
Peter smiled without humor. "Yes, sir, Captain Heart-to-Heart," he said to the empty room, and set the capsule down gently like it could bruise.
He checked the core again, because apparently he was a moth now. The hum braided with the lab's fans. The longer he looked, the more the old Star Guardian noise tried to boot: manipulated smiles, the way he'd weaponized silence, the way fear had done exactly what he'd told it to do. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Cool. Love reliving my villain era," he told the ceiling.
A knock broke the loop. Normal rhythm. Not five.
Peter's back straightened. "Yeah?"
"It's... Soraka," came through the door—soft, careful, like she was renting the syllables.
He closed his eyes for one second. The version he'd known flashed through: gentle, kind, used like a tool. Weaponized faith. His fault, not hers. Not this one. He unlocked the door.
Soraka hovered on the threshold like a deer deciding if the field was safe. New clothes, tired eyes, energy turned down to 'please don't break me.'
"Hey," Peter said, easy. "You good?"
She tried on a smile and it didn't fit yet. "I—can I... talk? If this is a bad time—"
"It's fine. Come in." He stepped back and gestured at the lab like it made sense as a living room. "Ignore the murder-bench vibe."
She slipped inside and perched on the edge of a stool like it might eject her. Peter hit the kettle. Habit. When life is on fire, make coffee; at least then fire smells like something you chose.
He slid a mug across. She looked at it like it might be a test. He took a sip of his own. "It's not poison," he said, then winced. "That was a joke. Bad one."
"It's okay," she said automatically, which meant it wasn't yet.
They sat in the soft whirr for three breaths. He could practically see the guilt writing a thesis behind her eyes.
"Alright," he said quietly, cutting in before she could drown in it. "You need to stop beating yourself up for things you didn't do."
Her head jerked up. "I—how—"
"Because I know the posture," he said. He tapped his own chest. "Trust me. Gold medal in self-blame over here. But this isn't on you. Alternate yous made choices in a different sandbox. This you is... you." He waggled fingers. "New file. New save. You weren't there."
"I was a Dark," she whispered, like it still tasted bad. "I watched things. Other me's. Other lives. What they did to you—what I did to you—"
"You didn't," he said, calm as a level. "They did." Then, because she was absolutely going to argue with that line anyway, he added, "And even then, it wasn't just them. I wasn't me. The suit wasn't helping. The situation was engineered to break who I am. It worked for a while." He let the truth sit. "I hated that version of me."
Her fingers tightened around the mug. "I should have done something. Any of us. I should have reached across and—"
"And what? Crossed canons?" He shook his head. "You know the rules. You try to brute-force that, the cosmos bricks you. Or worse. And if you'd managed it?" He shrugged. "I wouldn't have recognized it as help. I wasn't listening."
She breathed like someone remembering how. The set of her shoulders shifted half a degree.
He leaned forward on his elbows. "Look, carrying a library in your head sucks. Seeing all the bad fan edits of your life sucks worse. People taking pieces of you and bending them into—" He stopped himself before he said it out loud. She knew. "It messes with your sense of being a person and not a prop. I get it. But you're not a punishment for what happened to me. You don't have to apologize for existing."
Soraka stared down, eyes glistening, then up at him. "How do you still... do that? Smile. Be gentle. After... everything."
"Honest answer?" He gave her the tired grin he wore when jokes didn't land. "I'm hanging on with duct tape and spite. Also friends. Ace. Artoria. Adriel. If one of us gets pulled under, the others drag him back up. It's the rule." He set his mug down and held out his hand across the table. "Peter. Not the one in your head. The one in front of you. Wanna be friends?"
That got a cracked laugh. It broke into a small sob and then into motion—she stood, the stool squeaked back, and she hugged him like she'd just remembered how. He didn't make it weird. He just wrapped his arms around her and let her cry into his shoulder, standing there between a hovering piece of impossible math and a suit that had watched him at his worst.
"I saw so much," she said into his hoodie. "Good versions. Bad ones. Ones where I'm... not treated like a person. Ones where I am. I thought if you saw me you'd—" She hiccuped, searching for the word. "Judge. Or hurt me. Or need me to be what I was in those stories."
"Absolutely the fuck not," he said, simple. "We don't do punishment arcs in my lab." He felt her huff a laugh into the fabric. Good.
They stood in the hum for a while. The kettle clicked off again, out of things to do. When her breathing evened, he eased back and kept his hands on her forearms so she'd feel anchored, not dismissed.
"You're allowed to be okay," he said. "You're allowed to be not okay. You're allowed to be a person first and a symbol never."
She nod-nodded, wiping at her face, embarrassed about the leak. "Sorry. That was—"
"Don't apologize for human firmware," he said. "Also—" he pointed at the lab door "—this room is a cry-friendly zone now. I'll get a sign made."
That won a real smile, small but true. "Thank you."
The gamer system pinged—blue ghost text in his peripheral. ACE: dinner in ~1 hr. bring your face. wear a shirt that is actually presentable, for fuck sake.
Peter snorted. "Speaking of human firmware—there's a big welcome dinner thing in an hour. You probably got the memo already, but if you didn't, now you did."
"I did," Soraka said, smoothing her hair with both palms, then stopping because her hands were still shaky. "I... will come. I want to meet everyone properly. Not on a battlefield."
"Good plan." He glanced at the Speed Force core still hovering like an accusation and tapped the housing on the bench. A panel irised open; the core slid in and went to sleep, lights dimming to a heartbeat. "I gotta clean up and pretend I'm presentable."
Soraka took two steps toward the door, then turned back like a thought had tugged her sleeve. "Peter?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For... letting me be new."
He leaned his hip on the bench and shrugged one shoulder. "What else are friends for?"
"Warning me if I am about to wear two different shoes?" she tried.
"I can only promise to laugh after," he said.
She laughed for real this time and slipped out. The door shut on a soft seal. The lab breathed.
Peter let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. "Sick," he told nobody. "My life is a drama now. What's next, a cooking episode?" He caught himself, grimaced. "Great. Jinxed it."
He killed the holo, palmed the capsule with Chrona's picture, and felt that ache again—the one that lived between shame and hope. He tucked it back into his pocket like a promise, showered fast, and dragged on a clean shirt that could pass for not actively fighting someone.
As he laced his sneakers, he swept his gaze over the bench: suit reassembled, core asleep, tools docked. The room was a bedroom again in a blink when he hit the wall panel—the lab folding back into normal like a magician's trick you know and still enjoy.
He checked the time, checked the mirror (still a face, still a person), and headed out. Dinner, people, noise. A good problem to have.
...
Adriel slept like he'd been unplugged. Dead to the world, starfished across too much mattress, one arm flopped off the edge like a dropped flag.
Three knocks. Nothing.
Two more—lighter, amused.
Silence.
The door eased open anyway, because the "owner" of the palace technically had keys to every room, technically didn't care about technicalities, and absolutely did not plan to miss her own welcome dinner because the unofficial king was drooling into a pillow.
Qiyana slipped in on quiet sandals, all bangles and poise, jungle dusk spilling around her from the hallway. The suite was the usual Ixtal-meets-21st-century mashup: carved stone ribs, living vines braided into the walls, soft hum of climate charms tucked behind sleek paneling Adriel had smuggled in from the future. She clocked the mess at a glance—jacket on chair back, boots under table, a half-read report in Adriel's blocky handwriting—and then clocked him.
"You really do sleep like a fallen statue," she murmured, climbing onto the bed the way a queen takes a dais—sure she belongs there.
She tried gentle first. Fingers to his shoulder. "Adriel," she whispered near his ear, breath warm. "Wake up, my king."
Nothing but a snore and a muscle twitch.
She leaned closer, lips basically brushing his ear now. "Dinner's waiting," she sing-songed. "Your people are waiting. Your queen is waiting."
Spider-Sense or pride, something woke. Adriel blinked hard, rolled—and found Qiyana's face inches from his. No flinch. No yelp. Just that flat, I'm-too-tired-for-shenanigans look he'd perfected.
"I swear I don't remember agreeing to be a king," he rasped, voice gravel-thick.
Qiyana's mouth curved slow. "That's the pretty thing about crowns in Ixtal—they fit who they choose. The people decided. I simply... endorsed their taste." She tapped the bridge of his nose with a lacquered nail. "Up. The queen refuses to be seen without her king."
"What kind of bullshit?" he muttered, pushing hair out of his eyes. "I save a continent and suddenly I'm married by referendum?"
"Indirectly," she said, eyes glittering. "A civil arrangement. Very efficient."
He squinted at her. "Your logic is questionable."
"My logic built a café for you in three days because you mentioned you missed lattes." She reclined on an elbow, letting the bangles sing. "You work harder than anyone I've ever met. Let me fuss."
"Ah. So that's the plan." He sat up against the headboard, still talking flat, still giving her nothing to bounce off except the barest smirk. "Say it enough times until it's true."
"It is true." She drew a lazy circle on his chest over the shirt, measuring muscle like she was assessing a new blade. "And you know I'm not playing. I like men with drive, Adriel. Men who change the world and don't apologize for it."
"Sly girl," he said, but the word was almost fond. "You're pushing it down everyone's throat."
"If they choke, they can drink." She tilted her head, honest now under the tease. "Stop pretending you don't know how I feel."
That cracked him open a little. He rubbed his face, a sigh catching on the way out. "I'm not pretending. I'm scared." The humor edged out of his tone. "I've already lost... two. Or they lost me. Either way, it's loss. And this job? It eats lives. Darks don't play fair. If they find a seam, they pull. If they find you—" He broke off, jaw tight. "I don't want to put you in that blast radius."
"Look at what you've done," she shot back, no hesitation. The Empress under the flirt. "Look at what you do every hour. You build cities out of ruin. You rip gods off thrones with your bare hands. I'm not porcelain. I chose this crown. I choose you." She inched in, steady, unstoppable: ring light, jungle perfume, heat. "You can be afraid and still be mine."
Her lips floated a breath from his—confident, almost smug that she'd closed the distance. He let the moment hang, heartbeat-long, then lifted a finger and set it between them.
"Careful," he said softly. "I'll... think about it. Just—don't set your heart on a timeline." The weariness made him honest. "I'm tired of funerals."
For a beat she just studied him, pupils wide. Then she swung a knee and, with all the grace in the world, seated herself across his lap—queen on a throne, posture perfect, aura loud—but the seriousness never left her eyes. Suggestion, not demand.
"If we made something new," she said, voice lower, "and the story tried to erase it? What if the child of a Guardian is... different."
That got past the armor. Shock, then a quick shutter. He put his hands lightly to her waist—not to pull, just to place—and blew out a breath. "We are not doing hypothetical kindergarten applications right now." A crooked grin. "Also, people are literally waiting on us. I need a shower. Please, Qiyana. Drop it—for now."
The plea wasn't weak; it was real. Qiyana weighed it, the way she weighs wind and stone. Then she slid off him, smooth, and straightened her tiara like she'd always been standing.
"I don't joke about this," she said, back to cool, to queen. "Take me seriously."
"I do," he said, meeting her eyes. "Too seriously, probably. That's the problem."
She reached the door and paused, hand on the frame. The tease returned for one last flourish. "Then hurry, mi rey~. Your throne at the table gets cold without you."
He let his head thump back against the headboard the second she vanished. "¿What the fuck just happened?" he muttered to the ceiling. "Am I in a harem arc? My God."
He peeled himself out of bed, grabbed the first clean fit that didn't scream "war," and hit the shower for the world's fastest reset. Shirt, jacket, boots. One last look in the mirror to make sure he didn't look like he'd just wrestled a demigod and lost to a pillow. He didn't. Mostly.
The corridor ran warm with evening—lantern glyphs waking one by one, jungle air cooled by subtle tech, servants sliding past with plates and nervous energy. Adriel rolled his shoulders, exhaled long, and set off toward the dining hall.
Of course he was going to be the last one there. Of course.
...
The dining hall was built to intimidate—vaulted vines, cut-stone ribs, light runes breathing warm along the ceiling—but right now it just held people and noise. Plates clinked. Chairs scraped. Half the table (Ixtal, Targon) made small talk with the shaky energy of survivors pretending this was normal. The other half (Noxus) radiated the "let's get this over with" of a press conference after a loss.
Ten minutes past call time, Swain's patience blinked. "How long does your 'king' intend to keep us waiting?"
The room turned and looked at him like one organism. Leona's stare alone could've set a fuse. Darius folded his arms but said nothing. Katarina, weirdly, was the only one who didn't bristle—just watched the doors, mouth tight, like she'd already decided how she felt.
The doors opened. Qiyana stood halfway up on reflex, then remembered she was supposed to be cool and sat again.
Adriel walked in rolling his left shoulder like it still remembered Mangog. Jacket thrown over a black tee, hair damp from a too-fast shower, expression that "my bad" neutral he used when he didn't want a lecture.
"What took you so long?" Qiyana asked, queen-voice with a smile aimed just for him.
"Checked the last Ionians," Adriel said, dropping into the seat beside her. "Lillia, Karma, Shen. They've been out since the mess in Ionia. Everybody forgets side characters when the narrator gets distracted."
...Excuse me?
Adriel glanced up at the air, then did a slow, petty side-eye at nothing.
Right. My bad. Continue.
He spread his hands. "They're stable in medbay. Not dying. Just—KO'd."
Ace blew air through his teeth. "Not on me, by the way. Kinda busy trying not to end up as Peter's kill cam."
Peter scowled. "You threw me into a mountain."
"You tried to cut me in half."
"Because a demon was—"
"Because you're dramatic."
"Say that again—"
"Boys," Artoria said without looking, sipping water like it was wine. "You sound married."
A ripple of laughter took the edge off. Even Swain's mouth twitched.
Adriel used the opening. He stood—not grandstanding, just making sure everyone could hear without shouting.
"Thank you for pivoting on short notice," he said. "Targon, welcome to Ixtal. This is home until it's not. We've got one big lock left on the map—Piltover and Zaun—and then we start unbreaking everything Anansi bent."
Demacia would have clapped to be polite; Ixtal clapped because they meant it. Even the Targon crew—Leona, Diana, Aphelios—looked lighter hearing someone say the plan out loud.
Swain (ex-whatever you call the head of Noxus when your empire's been turned into a horror exhibit) steepled fingers. "How, exactly, do you plan to take a city inside a darkness dome we cannot breach?"
Adriel scratched his jaw, choosing words that would land without breaking brains. "Two layers are sitting on top of each other," he said. "Think... two histories stitched. Outside we've been living one. Inside the dome is another—different rules, different beats. If we stomp in loud, the space fights back. Easiest path is follow the expected beats long enough to find the spider in the web. Cut him out, peel the layers apart, fix the math he broke."
Kayle narrowed her eyes. "You speak of fate as if it were a ledger."
"Sometimes it is," Adriel said. "We don't have to obey it. It's just cheaper on time if we ride the current until the mouth of the river."
Artoria's gaze slid up to the crystal ribs, remembering. "The Crawling Chaos warned us," she said, voice going a shade steel. "All of us will be required. No solo heroics."
"Sí," Adriel said. "We're not John Wicking a god alone."
Katarina, finally: "And this Anansi... he's the center of it all?"
Adriel's posture changed—just a degree. "He's the hands that set the first domino. He also threw me in a hole outside of story and let something say 'die' to me for—" he swallowed the number like a pill—"a stupidly long time."
The table got quiet in waves.
"I reset around it," he said. "Hacked the trail so the curse couldn't follow. Didn't know it would work. It did. Lucky. I'm still here. You're still here. He won't be by the end of this."
He let the silence breathe, then cut it with a half-grin. "After that? I'm taking the longest vacation in the history of PTO. Don't @ me."
Miss Fortune snorted into her cup. Taric clapped once like a toast. Even Darius' beard looked less angry.
Qiyana flicked two fingers. The kitchen doors swung open. A procession of covered platters glided in on arms human and arcane. Lids lifted in soft chorus.
Food became a language: sun-flatbreads and citrus for Leona; moonfruit and cool rice for Diana; Demacian roast for Garen wasn't here, so Sivir claimed the platter, unimpressed, swapped it for spiced Shuriman lamb; a delicate set of Ixtali sweets for Aphelios (Soraka nudged the plate closer when he got lost staring at nothing); a Bilgewater pan fry that made Sarah's shoulders finally unknot; Lux's bowl was just... comfort—creamy stew with a ridiculous bread; Noxus got food they knew how to respect: red meat, heat, and a ruby wine that didn't ask permission.
Noxians tried to maintain posture; posture failed in the face of good seasoning. Katarina let herself actually enjoy a bite and didn't die, so she had another.
Conversation split into little rivers. Kindred's Lamb perched quiet beside Adriel's chair like a white moon, sipping something sweet; Wolf roamed, occasionally cackling near the ceiling where no one could see. Zoe narrated three topics at once to a patient Soraka until Taric rescued Soraka by declaring Zoe needed a tour of the dessert cart. Kayle and Diana argued in polite daggers about "ends" and "means," with Leona referee-ing by existing. Swain and LeBlanc ran a silent chess match with glances; Darius ignored them both to see if Ace would arm-wrestle (Ace would, after pie).
Peter and Ace did what they do—bit, banter, ham—until the table started orbiting their nonsense. Peter showed a napkin sketch of a "don't worry about it" stabilizer he'd slipstreamed into his suit; Ace pretended to get it, then made explosion noises and asked when they could test it on something large. They got scolded (fondly) by three different women in under two minutes: Lux, Diana, and—surprisingly—Katarina.
Adriel let the noise wash over him. He ate like a man who'd been punching for days, then slowed to fruit punch and a chair angled to take the room in. Qiyana drifted back to him eventually, a soft orbit; Lamb already had the spot at his left, hooves tucked, head tilted like she heard music no one else did.
"See?" Qiyana murmured, not looking at him, chin high the way queens keep it. "King or not, they're only laughing because you said this is a night to breathe."
"I said eat, jugar, and don't start beef," Adriel said. "They did the rest."
"Same thing." Her hand found the back of his chair for a second—brief, possessive, then gone. "You smell like you sprinted to get here."
"I did. Long story. Jungle hallway tried to flirt with me." He took another drink. "You did good."
"Obviously," she said, pleased anyway.
Music happened from nowhere—light strings over a low drum. A section of the floor unrolled into something that wanted to be a dance space. Noxus pretended not to care and definitely cared. Demacia wasn't here to dance badly in valor armor, so there was less laughing than there could have been.
Ace stood, scraped his chair back, and stuck out a hand toward Artoria with no preamble. "Dance?"
Artoria blinked, then smiled like someone had shoved the sun through a crack in a wall. "If you step on my toes, I'll break yours."
"Deal."
They moved stiff for a beat, then found the thread—Ace big-shouldered and loose, Artoria precise until she wasn't, the two of them laughing in the middle like the fight had finally let go of their spines.
Adriel breathed. For once, the weight sat somewhere he could hold it without breaking.
Wolf's laugh did a lazy circle around the rafters. HUNGRY FUN. EAT DANCE. (Somewhere, a server dropped a spoon and blamed a draft.)
Peter let someone drag him to a game table—Zoe, obviously—and ended up teaching a group the most chaotic card game from a world that didn't exist here. Miss Fortune watched, amused. Lux hovered and made sure Peter ate between rules explanations. Soraka checked on everyone anyway, hands warm as always. Taric declared every outfit "outrageously brave" and meant it.
Noxus loosened by degrees. Swain actually told a story. LeBlanc didn't contradict him. Darius lost the arm-wrestle on purpose to a boy who needed to go to bed believing in himself. Katarina caught Adriel's eye across the room, gave a quick, sharp nod that said more than thanks, then went back to pretending she wasn't soft.
Qiyana nudged Adriel's cup with her knuckle. "Fruit punch? Really?"
"After today?" He shrugged. "I'd rather taste the night."
She made a face like that was almost a line, then forgave him. Lamb leaned closer, voice small and bright. "Do we dance?"
Adriel smiled, tired and real. "In a minute, woman. I'm—taking a picture."
"Of what?" Qiyana asked.
"This," he said. "All this."
Qiyana followed his gaze. The queen mask slipped; what was under it was just a woman who understood what a miracle looked like. Her fingers found the back of his chair, then his wrist. "Tell me."
He stared into his cup. "You don't need my sob story. Go dance. I'll catch up. I'll... eat more. Whatever."
She didn't move. Her hand slid on top of his, small and hot and unapologetic. "I'm not leaving you alone with your head, king. Not tonight."
Lamb's ears tipped toward them. She held his quiet for a breath longer, then slipped off the booth like fog and drifted toward the dance floor. Wolf's laugh looped the rafters and faded.
Adriel exhaled and watched it leave him. "Okay." He lowered his voice. "No hero speech. Just... how it started."
Qiyana nodded once. "Alright."
"At first," he said, "I was efficient. Cold, if we're honest. Make friends because it makes the job easier. Say the right things so people orbit you. Keep them close so you can move the pieces faster. Don't get attached so it doesn't ruin you when the board flips."
His mouth twisted. "I told myself it was smart. It was also me being a coward."
He rubbed his thumb against the cup's rim like he was trying to sand it smooth. "There was a night in Piltover. Before the stitch. Vi was in my face. Scared. Angry. Being Vi. I snapped. Told her I'd fix it, she wasn't the main character, just—stay in her lane so I could work." He huffed a laugh that didn't have humor inside it. "I called her a side character to her face. Who the hell does that?"
Qiyana didn't answer. She squeezed his hand once. Keep going.
"I pushed people away so I wouldn't have to lose them," he said, eyes on the middle distance. "Because I already watched everyone die once. Twice, depending on how you count it. We beat a monster we weren't supposed to, celebrated, thought the story was done... and then the Regulator version of Thanos walked in like the bouncer at the end of the universe and snapped the lights out. Whole reality gone. Just me and Peter left to remember it."
His voice dropped to a scrape. "He didn't even look at us. Just... cleared the board."
A table nearby cracked up at something Ace said. It came in like surf and receded. Adriel kept going.
"So I built a mask. Be useful. Efficient. If somebody fell in love? Fine. Easier to direct. If someone called me friend? Fine. Easier to keep them in orbit. Safer for the mission. That was the lie." He blinked hard. "Then the stitch hit, and the symbiote came off Vi, and she had a hole through her stomach like the world decided that was her exit. My brain went silent. No pain. Just—static."
He swallowed. "You know the rest. Anansi's maze. The backrooms. Nine hundred quadrillion or quintillion of 'try again' with something whispering die like it was a weather report. The kind of repetition that rewires you into either a machine or a monster."
His mouth flattened. "I don't want to be either."
Qiyana was already closer, shoulder to his. She didn't say "you're not." She let him have the space to land the thought without her finishing it for him.
"I told myself I can't keep anything good. Every time I let myself have a second like this?" He gestured at the room with the cup. "Something catastrophic shows up to collect. So I keep distance. Be the tool. Don't be the person. Safer. Cleaner. Less blood."
A tear tracked without drama. He wiped it with the heel of his hand like it was sweat. "And then I walk in here and it looks like... after. Like we actually made it. And my chest goes tight because I don't trust it. I keep waiting for the punchline."
The booth held them like a secret. Out in the open, no one looked over. Qiyana shifted, turned fully to him, knee bumping his. She framed his face with one palm and didn't pretend she wasn't soft for him.
"You were an asshole," she said, even. "Own it. Okay. But look at your receipts."
She thumbed toward the room. "You rebuilt Ixtal. You freed an enemy and taught her how to live. You pulled a god off our neck. You gave these people a night where they laugh without flinching." She leaned closer, not playful now—royal, honest. "You did that."
He stared at the table. "With help."
"Yeah, with help," she said, and the accent put a tiny smile in the word. "We're not props in your story. We're with you. That's the point. There are four of you now. If your head goes to the dark place, we drag you back. If mine goes, you drag me. That's the deal."
He breathed out through his nose. "I don't know how to let my hands... let go. Every time I did, something fuck's up."
"Then learn," she said simply. "Same way you learned to throw a punch without breaking your wrist. Reps. Start small. Tonight is small." She nodded at the dance floor, where Ace dipped Artoria too far and nearly paid with his life; both of them laughed anyway. "Let yourself have twenty minutes of joy with no audit. Then try thirty. Then an hour. We'll spot you."
His eyes glassed again. The second tear slid down and he didn't catch this one. Qiyana moved first—no show, no performance. She pulled him in. He went. Forehead to her shoulder, hand closing in her sleeve like he was afraid he'd float off if he didn't anchor.
"I don't deserve—"
"Shut up," she said into his hair, and it was the gentlest command he'd ever been given. "You're not a ledger. You're a person. You don't earn love with kill counts."
"Qiy—"
"Shh. Let me be here." Her voice softened. "You kept calling yourself a tool. Tools get put away when the work is done. People get fed and danced with and teased until they roll their eyes." A tiny smile colored the words. "You are very roll-your-eyes-able, by the way."
He barked a laugh that broke in the middle and turned into a breath. He didn't lift his head.
"And listen," she went on, quieter. "I like drive. I like power. I like the way you move through a thing and make it obey. But I don't like the lie you tell yourself that you have to do it alone. No more. Understood?"
He nodded against her. "Yeah..."
They sat like that while the party did what parties do. Wolf whooped somewhere and stole a pastry. Kindred's Lamb drifted past again and didn't look their way, but her head tilted the smallest degree, blessing or witness. Swain gestured mid-story with a fork like a general moving armies; Darius lost a second arm-wrestle to a child with exactly the same level of gravitas. Lux and Soraka coached Peter through a dance step he absolutely did not have. Ace caught Adriel's eye across the room and, because he was Ace, raised both thumbs and mouthed, "Don't die," like an idiot. Artoria smacked him gently and then waved at Adriel with that small, fond smile she thought no one saw.
Qiyana finally eased back enough to look him over. She wiped under one of his eyes with a knuckle. "Better?"
He sniffed, shrugged, honest. "A little."
"Good." She tapped his cup. "Finish that. Then give me two songs. No speeches. No plans. Just... songs."
He made a face. "I dance like a forklift."
"I am the Empress of Ixtal," she said, chin tilting. "I can make even a forklift look good."
He huffed. "Cabróna."
"Yup," she said, grin quick and sharp. "You're favorite cabróna."
He rolled his eyes—there it was—and drained the cup. When he stood, she stole his hand like it had always been hers. They slid out of the booth into the low light and the living noise, two figures lost in the honest mess of a room that—for one night—belonged to the living.
Behind them, on the table, a single white feather lay where Lamb had been. Or maybe it was a napkin thread catching the glow. Either way, the air felt lighter.
"Two songs," Adriel said, as if bargaining with fate.
"Three," Qiyana countered, already pulling him toward the floor.
He let himself be pulled. And for the first time in longer than he could measure, he didn't rehearse the next disaster in his head. He counted beats. He tried not to step on her toes. He let the night be the night.
To Be Continued...