She nearly toppled under the hammer's weight, but steadied and reared back in a wild arc—too high, too clumsy.
Her sparring partner caught the blow on his shield with a grunt, boots skidding back a pace.
"Better," he said, breathless. "Try again."
She adjusted her grip. Her fingers were blistered, her arms sore, but her eyes stayed locked. She'd never wielded it before, and the hammer was even heavier than it looked—heavier, she thought, than anything had a right to be—but she wasn't about to give up.
I have to be strong.
For them. For all that we've worked so hard to build.
She stepped in. Spun. Put everything she had into the swing—
Whump!
This time, the blow connected.
Her target was flung off his feet, shield and all, landing in the tall grass with a solid thud.
"Oh no—!" The hammer fell from her grasp.
"I'm so sorry! Are you—are you okay?"
Laughter—warm, trickling.
She dropped beside him, her pulse quickening where their skin met.
Then came the embrace. Swallowtails danced through the grass and above their heads, set against cloudless blue sky. A kiss that could've lasted forever.
"You were truly majestic," he teased her gently.
"Not as majestic as you getting knocked flat on your butt."
"It was bold of me to attempt a block there. Sometimes I forget my own age when we spar like this, the way you make me feel like I'm still a whelp."
She rolled on top of him, straddled his chest with a sly grin.
"Must be my yordle magic at work."
His hand all but engulfed her, the way he cradled the gentle arch of her small, stubborn frame.
"Careful," he chuckled, "don't let any of our men catch you saying something like that."
"Or what? They'll think I'm a witch?"
"You're liable to get burned at the stake or tossed stone-laden in a river."
She didn't answer again right away. She lay atop him, breath steadying, brow gently furrowed as the weight of his jest settled. He always was one to weave in a joke, though she couldn't help the way her thoughts at times curled in dread beneath the surface. Having no fear of death, it was easy to be brave in the face of danger. Reckless, even. Not that the reason was something she often chose to share. Even–no, especially–with him.
The truth—that most lives were bound to a mortal thread, that such fragility was the norm—had only dawned on Poppy gradually, over long years of walking beside humans.
To speak of it aloud would feel almost tasteless.
Among her kind, death was rarely permanent—more nuisance than tragedy.
But in the eyes of humans…
"Poppy?" His voice tugged her from the tangle of her thoughts.
With an easy, unconcerned smile, she brushed her nose against his. "I'm not scared. So you don't have to be, either."
He smiled at that. Then he drew her closer, and their lips met once more. No urgency to it. Her hands slid up his chest, small fingers curling into his tunic like she might drift away otherwise. His thumb traced the edge of her cheek, unrestrained but careful. For a while, they allowed themselves to forget the world—all but the warm breath and the touch of grass between them, held in the golden hush of summer.
The kiss broke slowly, like mist under a morning sun.
No words were needed. Orlon stood, brushing off his cloak. He began the walk uphill while Poppy lingered a moment, still dazed in the afterglow, before rising to follow.
Just over the rise, there was a sprawl of tents nested in the basin of a wooded valley. Braziers burning bright in the early afternoon haze. The clang of hammers, the murmur of hundreds of voices of people united in towards the same goal. Wooden scaffolds rose like ribs around half-formed buildings. A settlement—not yet a city—a spark, full of life and hope and splendorous, shining grit.
Demacia–a blueprint, a skeleton, of what was to be.
With the air of a proud father Orlon beheld it, the fledgling city of his founding.
"Never fails to amaze," he said.
The wind sang as Poppy joined his side, long ashen hair blowing.
"Forgot something," she said, guiding the hammer—his hammer—back into his palm.
"Thank you," he murmured, eyes scanning the haft with a solemn frown as the sun caught the gleam of gold across its head. Then he looked up, and his smile held the shape of some quiet wisdom.
"Actually," he said, "I think it suits you better now."
Poppy wrinkled her nose. "Don't be silly."
She folded her arms, glancing away like she hadn't heard him at all.
That was before. Today, a similar wind still blew, though the view had changed. Gone was the camp, the cozy firelight. In its place: walls—towering, sheer, cracked and weathered. Crowned with faded long-hanging banners. A line of new arrivals curled up from the base of the hill like a dying serpent: coils of travelers and traders, refugees and dreamers, each waiting their turn to be judged.
Heat shimmered off the flagstone. There was a constant buzzing, of flies drawn to the flanks of horses and cattle. At the end of each day the street had to be cleared of piles of trash and manure, but nothing could be done to fully absolve it of the smell.
Sergeant Merren sat slouched behind the intake desk, his ledger open, pages fluttering in the stale breeze, quill clutched like a dagger between ink-stained fingers.
He was halfway through a yawn when the next arrival stepped forth.
"Name?" he asked, eyes still on the page.
No answer.
His gaze drifted up—casual at first, then arrested.
The woman before him wore a coat the color of bruised night, high-collared and cut for movement. A woman born of affluence, by any estimation. But her boots and gloves—well-worn, dusted—did not match the coat's refinement. Nor did her raven-dark hair, bound in a formidably tight soldier's knot.
"Shauna Vayne," she said, each syllable clean and final as a bell toll.
Merren's pen stopped moving.
"...Origin?" he asked after a beat.
"Demacia," she replied. "Born and bled."
His throat worked once in a dry swallow. He'd heard the name. Doubtless most in his station had. One of the elite who came and went on clandestine business.
Her stare did not break. The air around her felt sharper now.
His gaze flicked to the twin crossbows at her sides—elegant, but worn. The wood was darkened from years of usage, not polished for display. No mere props for intimidation. Not like the merchant fops who strutted with sidearms to impress or unnerve.
"And your trade?"
She reached into her coat. "I eliminate those lurking in the dark who would threaten the crown," she said, voice low and even, producing a folded parchment. "Or… what's left of it."
She dropped it on the desk like a verdict. A silence stretched between them like drawn steel as Merren examined it. Naturally, this did not take long. The paper smelled faintly of ash, its wax seal bearing the sigil of the High Council. Beneath it, scrawled in ink: Magehunter.
He nodded faintly, hand trembling despite himself, and reached for the stamp.
He pressed it down.
"Reason for entry?" he managed. The final question.
"Because our new King…" She leaned forward, her scent—a faint trace of old leather—overwhelming. Her gaze, colder now, almost hungry. "Has no idea what the fuck he's doing."
Merren blinked. "I see," he said, adjusting in his seat.
"Have I ticked all of your boxes now?"
"Yes, Ms. Vayne. You may—"
She didn't wait for him to finish. Huffing, she swept up her parchment, turned, and passed through the gates. Her coat flared like a predator's tail.
Merren was still reeling after she had gone.
He held his breath until the rhythmic clack of her boots had faded entirely into the city's heart—releasing it, finally, in a long, deflating sigh.
"N-next," he called—voice cracking.
The line moved on. Sergeant Merren rubbed his temple, blinked grit from his eyes, and resumed the ritual. A wiry farmer with smoke-scorched sleeves claimed his village was razed by Noxian raiders—one of a dozen that week. Next came a sand-swept Shuriman spice trader whose incense-stained ledger reeked of cardamom and salt. A half-drunk Bilgewater crew—five in total, all brine and swagger—arrived without papers and refused to leave without a fight. It took three guards to drag them out, snarling curses in a tangle of limbs and cheap cologne. Merren barely looked up from his desk. The chaos came and went like rain off slate and he was used to it by now. Ever since the jailbreak, intake had doubled. Security had tripled. The crown could ill afford to play a generous host to threats it couldn't name.
The next figure stepped forward, and Merren didn't even glance up at first.
"Name?" he asked, voice clipped.
Silence.
He sighed. "Name?" again—more forcefully this time, already preparing to flag a guard, eyes still flicking across the page from the last incident report.
"I'm Poppy," came the reply, bright and clear and far too chipper for the mood of the hour.
He looked up, frown already half-formed—and blinked.
She barely reached the height of the table. Her armor looked real enough—scuffed, well-kept, functional. The kind of steel worn, not flaunted. And slung across her back was a burlap-wrapped length of something enormous—twice her size, by the looks of it, though she stood like it weighed no more than a picnic basket.
Merren blinked again. "...Origin?"
She scratched the back of her head. "A little place outside of Bandle... probably wouldn't be on the map."
He paused, pen hovering. "Band–?"
"Don't worry about it," she added quickly. "Just put 'traveler.' Or, uh, 'citizen of the world.' I've heard that sounds noble."
His brow furrowed. "And what is your trade?"
There was a beat. A long one. Then she stepped forward, pulled the hammer from her back, and plopped it down on the desk with a thunk like the punctuation of fate.
The table groaned.
Merren recoiled slightly from the weight of it.
Golden metal caught the sun like it had been waiting for this exact moment to gleam.
Poppy smiled, soft but firm.
"A gift," she said. Then, after a breath:
"…For the King."
That earned a long silence. Merren's eyes, once again, were slow to rise from the weapon to the one who bore it. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.
He gestured—to the guards, unsure if he was meant to laugh, salute, or run.
"I–I'll need to confirm with the upper office."
"That's fine," said Poppy, as cheerful as a spring bloom. "I'll wait."
And she did. Just off to the side. Humming to herself. Watching the line crawl forward again like none of this was particularly unusual. The guards returned after a short conference behind the gate. One—a younger man with an apologetic frown—stepped forward, helmet tucked under one arm.
"We appreciate the gesture," he said, tone rehearsed to sound official. "But under current law, all royal audiences require verified sponsorship from a member of the high court or military. I'm afraid we can't admit you through this gate."
Poppy blinked. "But... I'm not here to ask for anything. I'm giving a gift. That's different, isn't it?"
The guards shared a glance.
The younger one tried to smile.
"That's not how it works. Especially not now."
"Not now because of what, exactly?" she asked, arms crossing tight over her chest.
The smile flickered. "Because you're a stranger with a weapon bigger than you are, claiming to be here on royal business with no papers, no clearance, and no visible allegiance to any noble house. In case you missed it, it's a bit of a tense time."
Behind her, someone in the queue muttered something about "another loony with a grudge."
"Now," the guard continued, voice dipping into something more procedural, "you're welcome to stay in the outer settlement for the time being. It's standard for unaffiliated travelers. Lodging's available, and if you need coin, there's work to be had. Report to the intake post by the Westwall."
Poppy didn't move. She stared up at the city—at the spires just barely visible beyond the gates, veiled in sun-haze and lofty promise.
Her hands curled slowly around the hammer's haft.
She nodded—but it was mechanical, delayed. Her gaze lingered on the gate as if memory alone might unbar it.
"…Right," she said. "The Westwall."
The guard dipped his head. "Best of luck."
Demacia—a city she'd helped raise from dust and dream—now stood sealed before her, blind to the hands that once shaped it. After all these years, it saw only a stranger.