Viego's breath came shallow as he searched her face, desperate for flaws.
For cracks.
For anything that would tell him this was another lie the world was playing on him.
Isolde tilted her head slightly, concern deepening in her eyes. "You're trembling," she said softly. "You should rest. You've been pushing yourself too hard lately."
He swallowed, forcing his voice to steady. "The world," he said slowly. "It's… different. Don't you remember what happened to you?"
A shadow of confusion crossed her expression. "Happened?" she repeated. Then she smiled faintly. "Nothing happened, my love. I was ill, yes, but the physicians said I would recover. You stayed by my side every night." She squeezed his hand gently. "You promised you wouldn't let exhaustion ruin you again."
That promise. He remembered making it. Remembered holding her in his arms after she had recovered... Recovered. She had recovered, right?
Viego's vision blurred for a moment. His grip tightened unconsciously, knuckles whitening as something ugly twisted in his chest.
"No," he whispered. "You died."
The hall went quiet.
Not suddenly or unnaturally. The laughter simply… faded, as if the world had politely stepped back to give them privacy.
Isolde's brows knit together. "Viego," she said gently. "Why would you say such a thing?"
Because I watched you bleed out in my arms.
Because the world shattered the moment your heart stopped.
Because I drowned a kingdom in death trying to bring you back.
The words burned his throat, refusing to leave.
"You were poisoned," he said hoarsely. "I brought you to the Waters of Life. I..." His voice cracked. "I ruined everything... trying to save you."
Isolde stared at him for a long moment. Then she reached up with her free hand and cupped his cheek.
The warmth was undeniable.
"You've been having nightmares again," she murmured. "The court physician warned me this might happen. Grief can twist dreams into terrible things." Her thumb brushed beneath his eye, wiping away something wet he hadn't realized was there. "But I'm here. I've always been here."
Viego's eyes flicked past Isolde, locking onto his niece. Kalista stood as she always had, straight-backed, vigilant, but her eyes were unfocused, her expression frozen in perfect, obedient stillness.
Like a statue. A memory. His heart lurched.
Slowly, carefully, Viego pulled his hand from Isolde's grasp and stood. The chair scraped softly against the marble floor.
Isolde rose with him immediately, concern sharpening. "Viego, please..."
He took a step back.
The hall seemed to stretch as he did, the distance between them widening just a little too much, the space bending in a way reality shouldn't.
"This isn't real," he said quietly.
Isolde's expression wavered. Just for a fraction of a second. Then she smiled again. "Why would you say that?"
Viego laughed.
It was a hollow, broken sound, stripped of triumph or madness, just a man staring at the one thing he wanted most and realizing the truth.
"Because if it were real," he said, voice trembling despite himself, "you wouldn't forgive me so easily. I was prepared to beg your forgiveness. I did all these knowing that you... that you wouldn't..."
The air shuddered.
The feast table flickered, food blurring at the edges like a poorly held image. The laughter of the nobles returned in disjointed echoes, looping unnaturally.
Isolde's hand reached for him again, urgency creeping into her voice. "Viego, stop. You're hurting yourself. Come back. Sit with me."
He didn't move.
Outside the palace windows, the sky darkened, not with night, but with something thicker. Something familiar.
Black mist seeped along the edges of the world.
"You wouldn't tell me to forget," Viego continued, tears finally spilling free. "You wouldn't tell me the world was fine when I know what I did to it. You would scream, you would rage against me, and I would have welcomed it. As long as it was for you."
Isolde's smile faltered.
Cracks spread across the marble floor beneath their feet, thin at first, then branching outward like veins.
"I did everything for you," Viego whispered. "And if this is punishment…" His voice hardened, pain sharpening into resolve.
The illusion trembled violently.
Isolde's form blurred, her edges unraveling into threads of light and shadow as she reached for him one last time.
"Viego..!"
The palace shattered.
Reality collapsed inward like glass under pressure, the world folding into darkness as the sound of breaking stone and tearing air drowned out everything else.
And in the darkness beyond it all, Asta stood across from Viego.
Viego fell to his knees in the darkness. His hands clutched at his chest, fingers digging in as if trying to tear something out.
"No…" he whispered, voice raw. "Don't take her away. Please…"
Asta stepped closer, gaze steady but not cruel. "So this is your desire," he said quietly.
Viego's shoulders shook as the Black Mist thinned, its fury dulled into something fragile, something broken. "Bring her back." He growled.
"That's not something I can do." Asta replied. "I can't control your own mind Viego. What I can do is connect our souls together."
"Why?" Viego croaked.
"So I can understand you." Asta walked past him. "What you saw was what you imagined your perfect world would look like."
"My perfect... World." Viego whispered. "My perfect... Isolde."
"Isn't that what that was?" Asta asked, looking over his shoulder at Viego. "She seemed pretty nice. She looked at you like you were the only thing in existence. Just as you want her to."
"No!" Viego shot back immediately, turning around to look at Asta. "No. That's not how she is. Her compassion spread out to everyone, kind heart open to all, and they killed her for it!"
"So she was kind." Asta stated.
"Not just that." Viego replied. "There were many sides to my Isolde.
Viego's voice trembled, not with rage now, but with something far more dangerous. Conviction.
"Yes she was kind," he said again, slower this time, as if choosing each word carefully. "But kindness was never weakness to her. She could be sharp. Stubborn. She challenged me when I was wrong." His fingers curled into the dark stone beneath him. "She argued with kings and priests alike,"
Asta remained silent, letting him speak.
"She laughed loudly," Viego continued, a faint, broken smile tugging at his lips. "Too loudly, according to the court. She hated silence. Said it made people hide inside their own heads." His breath hitched. "And she hated injustice more than she feared death."
"Because she believed a king's power meant nothing if it didn't protect the weakest first."
He looked up at Asta, eyes burning not with corruption, but with unbearable clarity.
"And the world rewarded her by taking her from me."
Asta's grip tightened slightly around the Demon Destroyer. Its hum softened, resonating with something deeper now.
"The Isolde in your dreams is not what you wanted," Asta said calmly. "Not who she really was."
"I know," Viego agreed immediately.
The ease of the answer unsettled Asta.
"That woman forgave me too easily," Viego said. "She existed only to soothe my guilt. My Isolde would have fought me. She would have stood in my way."
"She would have hated what I became," Viego cut in, rising slowly to his feet. The Black Mist coiled behind him, no longer raging, but attentive. Listening. "Yes. I know that."
He placed a hand over his chest.
"I know she would have cried. I know she would have begged me to stop. Told me I was wrong. Told me the world wasn't worth destroying for her sake."
His eyes lifted, locking onto Asta's.
"And I would have endured every word. And my love would be alive."
"But at what cost? Not just to the world. To you, and to her." Asta asked. "You don't even know who Isolde truly is. Just pieces of what you think your Isolde is like. That's wrong in so many ways. Toying with the dead like this..."
Viego laughed quietly. "Call it whatever makes you comfortable." He stepped forward, boots echoing in the empty darkness. "Isolde never belonged to the world. She was mine. And the world took her."
He clenched his fist.
"She didn't get to choose to die," Viego went on, voice hardening. "So why should she get to choose how I bring her back?"
Asta stepped forward. "You'd force her to accept this."
Viego tilted his head. "She'll understand eventually."
Silence fell heavy between them.
"You're a child," Asta said bluntly. "Throwing a tantrum because the world didn't give you what you wanted."
Viego's smile sharpened. "Yes."
He didn't deny it.
"I was a king before I was ready to be one," he admitted. "Kalista would have made for a better ruler than myself. I was given power without wisdom, love without loss." His eyes burned. "And when the world finally took something from me, I finally did learn the lesson."
The Black Mist roared in agreement.
"I don't want acceptance," Viego said. "I want Isolde. Whole. Breathing. Her warmth as real as the earth in the ground." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And if she hates me for it…"
He raised his blade, Sanctity forming fully in his grasp. Now that Viego had realized and understood the existence of the realm they both occupied, he could finally exert his power without restraint.
"…Then I'll bear that hatred as long as she lives."
Asta raised an eyebrow. "You won't win. I'll tell you that now."
Viego laughed softly. "Arrogance is a strange thing, isn't it? It has a way of dragging everyone toward the fall that is humility. I myself am not exempt, it seems."
The darkness surrounding them suddenly shifted, taking on a sickly green hue. "And neither are you!" He pointed Sanctity at Asta, the dark mist immediately responding, curling and surging around the mage.
"You made the mistake of connecting our souls. You had the nerve to invade my mind, my memories of her!" Viego roared.
Then he smiled, slow and cruel, as the mist completely consumed Asta. "They say understanding is a two-way street. I will invade your mind, your soul, your very existence, and destroy all that you hold dear. This humiliation must be repaid in full."
He walked toward the massive wall of black mist. A small opening formed within it, like a wound being pulled apart, and without hesitation, Viego stepped inside.
He walked through a tunnel of black mist, passing deeper and deeper until he crossed fully into the mind and soul of the Anti-Magic mage.
"Now, show me..."
"KHEKHEKHE! MAN, YOU'RE SHIT."
The voice was raspy, grating, and it echoed from everywhere at once.
Viego halted. "Who goes there?" he demanded.
"YOU'RE EVEN WORSE THAN THE ELVES. KHEKHEKHE. AND THAT WAS A REAL FUCK UP. SO AMUSING." The voice continued, utterly unconcerned with his authority.
Without warning, Viego's perception of reality twisted.
The black mist vanished, and he found himself standing in a vast red void. His body was no longer flesh, no longer defined, just a mass of living shadow, stark against the crimson expanse.
"What…?" he muttered.
In front of him, existing within the same red world, was another shape of shadow. It was thin, warped, and its proportions told Viego immediately that it was not human. A long, spindly tail flickered behind it, moving with restless, mocking energy.
Its eyes and mouth burned red, the same red as the void itself.
"KHEKHEKHE."
The shadow's head bobbed slightly with the sound. Only then did Viego understand what he was hearing. It was laughing at him.
"OF COURSE I AM." The creature said, its grin widening even further. "IT'S ALWAYS HILARIOUS WHEN IDIOTS CAN'T TELL WHEN SOMEONE'S TRYING TO GO EASY ON THEM."
Viego frowned. Something was wrong, deeply so. This presence didn't feel like the mage's soul. It wasn't bound by mortal limits. It was vast. Hostile. Where was the mage? And if this wasn't him… then what was this creature?
"KID'S TOO NICE FOR HIS OWN GOOD. REALLY, WHAT WAS HE THINKING, BRINGING SOMEONE LIKE YOU HERE?"
The creature lowered itself into a cross-legged position within the red void. As it did, its form began to grow. Slowly at first. Then steadily. Its shadow stretched outward, swallowing the red beneath it, expanding until the void itself seemed to shrink in response. Eventually, all Viego could see was black, layered, suffocating shadow pressing in from every direction.
By then, Viego could no longer find the presence of mind to speak.
An impossible weight crashed down on him, not physical but absolute, as though the concept of existence itself was being forced against him. His thoughts slowed. His will strained. He reached inward, instinctively, desperately, trying to grasp Sanctity... And found nothing.
The connection was gone… absent, as if it had never been there to begin with.
The creature's voice descended from everywhere at once, thick with amusement.
"TOO BAD FOR YOU, THOUGH," it continued, its tone darkening slightly.
"I'M NOT MY BROTHER."
---
"That cannot possibly be…" Thresh found himself rooted to the spot just outside the sacred forest of Demacia. "Possible."
Moments ago, he had felt it, felt the ever-present existence of the Ruined King simply vanish. The tether connecting them melted, peeling away like wax exposed to an unseen flame.
Thresh had never regarded Viego as anything more than a spoiled child wielding far too much power. Power Thresh himself had coveted for far longer than the king had ever lived. And yet, even with that disdain, he had never believed Viego would fall like this. Not so quietly. Not so easily.
"Just who did we enrage?" he murmured, the hooks of his lantern swaying slightly at his side. "And how was there such a being in Demacia in the first place?"
The question lingered unanswered.
"No matter," Thresh continued, straightening as his usual composure reasserted itself. "With the Ruined King gone, I should be able to wield the Black Mist in its entirety and restore myself. This is merely an obstacle. One I will overcome."
He resumed walking forward.
But even as he did, he noticed it, the Black Mist around him thinning, its oppressive presence receding like a tide pulled back by an unseen moon. Already, the air felt lighter. The Yordle must have surrendered.
Without the Mist, he couldn't traverse the land as he wished. No more shortcuts through shadow and despair. He would have to escape Demacia the old-fashioned way.
Annoying, but not impossible.
With relief efforts certain to follow the battle, chaos would provide ample cover. Slipping through the cracks would be easy enough.
Soon enough, he would return to the Shadow Isles. And then, then he would decide how to repay this slight.
A sudden movement at the edge of his vision drew Thresh's eye. He raised his lantern, its eerie glow flaring as it expanded his senses outward.
There, standing calmly in the dim light, was a familiar boy.
"You again." Thresh tilted his head, but even as he did, his awareness stretched further still. He had been followed, and he hadn't noticed. Who else? Two more presences lingered at the fringes of his perception. And… puppets?
"You're here by yourself?" Thresh chuckled, already swinging his scythe in a lazy, rapid arc. "You're either brave or foolish, boy. Tell me, which is it?"
Darryl drew his short sword and stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
'He isn't even holding a relic weapon,' Thresh laughed inwardly. 'And those two hiding nearby… I don't sense anything even mildly threatening from them. No relics either.' His amusement deepened. 'They already knew this, so what's the angle?'
Without a word, Darryl shrugged off his Black Bulls robe. He began wrapping the dark fabric tightly around his blade, layer by layer. Since his appearance, he hadn't spoken once.
Thresh's grip tightened slightly around his lantern. 'I'm not sure what to expect here,' he thought, his smile thinning, 'but I can't afford to be delayed.' While the souls of these brats would be a welcome addition to replenishing his lantern, he couldn't risk drawing the attention of the monster wearing human skin.
His senses flared the instant the boy dashed forward, his speed nearly matching the Sentinel Lucian's unnatural short bursts.
Thresh reacted immediately, bringing his scythe down like a falling hammer.
Darryl sidestepped the blow, ignoring the weapon entirely as it tore a deep gouge into the ground, never breaking his forward momentum.
With a sharp tug, Thresh yanked on the chain, whipping the scythe back toward Darryl's unprotected back. Without even looking, Darryl struck it aside with his wrapped blade, the impact ringing sharply through the air.
His scythe knocked wide and too far out to recall in time, Thresh swung his lantern instead, only for Darryl to slide beneath it with effortless precision. No, lower than that.
He went into the ground. Literally.
Thresh allowed his surprise to linger for no more than a fraction of a second before snapping his scythe back to his hand.
"Gah!" He gasped as something tore through his ribcage.
The sword. The boy's sword.
'What a fool,' Thresh smirked inwardly. Wraiths could not be harmed by conventional weapons. He would savor the boy's fleeting sense of triumph before showing him the...
His thoughts cut off abruptly. Thresh looked down at the blade impaling him, truly looking this time.
It burned. The sensation spread, searing and wrong.
'The robe he wrapped around the blade… Realization struck like ice. It's his power. Damn it… I have to...' "...ack!" The sword twisted, and a fresh wave of agony tore through him. Pain. Real pain. The kind he had only ever felt from Sentinel relic weapons.
"You…" Thresh choked, his voice cracking with fury, "…bastard."
The boy was still behind him, forcing the sword deeper, and Thresh could already feel the sensations in his body beginning to dull.
It was happening slowly, too slowly.
And that was something Thresh fully intended to exploit.
'I only need to touch him once with my scythe,' he thought, even as he staggered back, every movement a crawl through agony. He leaned into it, deliberately pressing back against the boy, creating just enough space. His hand inched closer to the chain, fingers trembling but steady with intent.
'Come on…'
In a sudden, violent motion, he flipped his scythe around and stabbed backward.
Clank!
The strike never landed.
Red chains erupted into existence from every direction at once, winding around his arms, his legs, his torso, snapping tight and dragging his limbs outward. They anchored him to points he could not see, pulling him taut, immobilized completely.
Thresh hissed, struggling as the bindings bit into his form.
"You'll have to forgive me for intervening like this, Darryl," a feminine voice murmured, close enough that it seemed to brush past his ear.
One of the other presences he had sensed stepped into view.
It was a woman.
Thresh did not recognize her, but the moment their eyes met, a chill ran through him. There was something in her gaze, sharp, calculating, endlessly patient, that made even him shudder. The look of someone who planned several moves ahead and never wasted an action.
"There's no problem, Emilia," Darryl replied calmly, releasing his grip on the sword and leaving it embedded deep within Thresh's body. "Although I will say, I had it handled."
The chains tightened imperceptibly, as if in agreement.
"I'm aware of that," Emilia said calmly. "However, I decided we shouldn't take too long."
She turned slightly, directing her gaze to the other presence he had sensed just as Mira stepped forward. The girl moved hesitantly, a shy expression on her face, her hands clasped together for a brief moment before she nodded.
"If you would," Emilia prompted.
Mira inhaled softly, then exhaled.
Mist tinged with magic spilled from her breath, curling low across the ground. At her gesture, the earth began to swell and distort, soil pushing upward as something took shape. A pumpkin emerged, unnaturally large, its surface smooth and dark, veins of faint magic pulsing beneath its skin.
Then it stood.
It rose until it was nearly as tall as Thresh himself, its form lurching upright with an unsettling stiffness. Where its eyes and mouth should have been were only hollow voids, endless, lightless abysses that seemed to drink in everything around them.
"Is that fear I see, Thresh?" Emilia asked lightly.
A mirthful smirk curved her lips, one that would have looked captivating on any other battlefield, in any other circumstance. To Thresh, it was something else entirely.
Terror.
Pure, instinctive terror flooded his being, and he took an involuntary step back, only for the red chains to snap taut, holding him firmly in place.
The pumpkin loomed closer, its abyssal mouth stretching wider, opening like a yawning chasm that promised nothing but oblivion. A slow, inexorable tug at his essence, as if unseen hands were reaching into him, testing their grip.
"This… is not how it ends," Thresh groaned, forcing his head back, green flames flickering wildly as he resisted the pull.
Emilia's eyes gleamed.
"Tell me, Thresh," she said softly, voice laced with quiet amusement. "Did you ever foresee your end… coming in such a manner?"
Emilia let out a soft breath, almost a laugh, as if she'd just caught herself rambling. "Oh, listen to me," she said lightly. "I'm talking far too much."
Her gaze flicked over Thresh again, slow and assessing, like she was memorizing the way his fear sat on him. "It appears legends are always exaggerated."
"No..." Thresh strained against the chains, green fire flaring violently. "I will not be devoured like some mindless wraith!"
But it was futile.
He didn't know this, but the creature before him was a Soul-Reaping Gourd, one of the three generals whose blueprints the Pumpkin King had left behind with Mira.
It possessed a singular, dreadful ability: it absorbed souls to grow stronger, and any soul consumed by the Soul-Reaping Gourd could not be revived by any means unless the gourd itself was destroyed.
With the wrapped sword still embedded in his chest and his movements restrained by the red chains, Thresh was unable to mount any real resistance. Slowly, inexorably, his soul was torn free from his physical vessel, his screams echoing as it was dragged into the abyssal maw.
The Soul-Reaping Gourd closed its mouth.
Thresh's physical form clattered lifelessly to the ground, no longer held together by anything at all.
Darryl retrieved his sword, noting absently that the robe wrapped around it was beginning to fade away. He then bent down and collected the scythe and lantern that had fallen beside the corpse.
The Soul-Reaping Gourd shuddered violently for a moment before beginning to shrink. Its stalks and branching vines twisted and coiled inward, wrapping around its gourd-like head.
Eventually, the pumpkin head detached and dropped to the ground.
Emilia stepped forward and picked it up by the stalk-like handle at its top.
A faint green light glowed from within the pumpkin, now unmistakably lantern-like.
"Oh, the irony," Emilia whispered softly into it. "Feels like home, yes?" She smiled as she spoke to the soul trapped inside.