Mornings in the clearing had the weight and lightness of a ritual. I would kneel among roots and herbs, hands plunged into the cool earth, tending to small, stubborn things that insisted on growing. Mallow for calming infusions, birch for balms that drew out pain, and small, pale blue flowers that would only open their faces to the morning sun if touched with delicacy. Herbs do not respond to haste; they respond to persistence and respect. It was a kind of slow justice, the sort I preferred, learned from my father so long ago, in the land that is now haunted by laws of stone.
It was in this productive silence, the only sounds the drone of bees and the whisper of the wind, that I heard the dry sound of wood cutting through the air. A whistle, followed by a soft thud and a suspended quiet.
I raised my head, my fingers still stained with soil. Azra'il stood in the centre of the clearing, feet firm on the dewy grass, arms extended with the confidence of one who commands the space around her. In her hands, she held a wooden sword. Long, straight, elegantly simple, without a guard or adornments. It was not like the heavy, brutish blades of Demacia, made for breaking shields, nor the cruel axes of Noxus, designed to intimidate and maim. It had the fluidity and balance of a jian, a weapon from a land and a time I had never seen.
The scene bordered on the impossible: a small girl, whose head barely reached my hip, moving it with unnerving naturalness. Every strike was precise, every parry was perfect, every step had a balance that spoke of a muscle memory her young, growing body should not possess. This was no child's game, mimicking soldiers she had never seen. These were forms, katas, a martial dance that told a story of centuries of discipline.
I was no master of the blade like my sister, whose celestial fire could be channelled through steel to deliver incandescent judgements. But I knew enough of combat to recognise what I was seeing: mastery. Not potential mastery, but one that already existed, struggling to express itself through a body far too small. The sword did not drag her down; it was as if it were an extension of her arm, shaped to her size, to her breath.
And the strangest part: I had never carved it for her. I knew every piece of wood in this forest, every fallen branch. Where had that sword come from?
I stood up, the cool earth clinging to my fingers, a dozen questions forming in my mind, ready to be asked.
It was then that the world, with its casual cruelty, interrupted us.
The sound of snapping branches. Not the crackle of an animal, but the desperate, loud breaking of someone running without care for the noise. Faltering, heavy steps. And a ragged, sobbing breath, tearing through the peaceful morning air.
A young man stumbled out from the shadow of the trees, tripping into the sunlight as if it burned him. One sleeve of his tunic was soaked a dark red, stuck to his shoulder like a gruesome second skin. His eyes were wide, filled with a terror I knew well. The terror of being hunted, which leaves a scent of panic and adrenaline on the air. He took a few staggering steps towards us, perhaps seeing us as a mirage of salvation, before his legs gave out, and he collapsed almost at my feet.
Azra'il lowered her jian, the movement fluid and unhurried, its tip touching the earth. The dance had stopped, but a readiness remained in her posture. Her eyes were watchful, assessing not only the fallen lad but the forest from where he'd come, as if expecting the second act. I knelt beside him. Too thin, too young. Then I felt it, pulsing weakly beneath the pain and panic. A small, trembling flame of power. Magic.
Demacia does not forgive that.
We carried him inside, his body leaning on my shoulder, feverish and far too light. The smell of sweat, blood, and fear filled the cottage, a violent intrusion on our peace. Azra'il propped her mysterious sword against the wall and crossed her arms, assuming her stance of critical observer.
"Are we adopting wounded strays again?" she said, her voice dry. "Because if we are, I'll need to plant twice as many carrots next season. The last fugitive ate my entire winter stock in one memorable evening."
"He's hurt," I retorted, feeling the feverish heat through his tunic.
"Everyone who makes it this far is, one way or another," she shot back, her blue eyes sweeping over the unconscious young man. "Some bleed on the outside, some on the inside, and some just smell bad. This one has managed all three. Congratulations to him on his efficiency."
She huffed but turned and went to the shelf, fetching clean cloths and the basin of water without my having to ask. Her bad mood always came first, an armour thin and sharp as obsidian. But the true gesture, the one that mattered, was always the same: to help.
I laid the young man on my makeshift bed. He flinched when I touched his shoulder. "Easy now," I said, my voice low. "You're safe here."
As I carefully cut away the sleeve of his tunic with a knife, Azra'il approached with a small ceramic bowl in which she was crushing something with a stone pestle, the sound rhythmic and precise.
"Birch root mashed with willow leaf and a pinch of hawthorn blossom," she announced, like a bored apothecary listing ingredients. "For the pain, the inflammation, and to hopefully stop your arm from rotting off. The recipe is mine. It won't kill you. Probably."
The young man, now semi-conscious, looked at the green paste with suspicion, then to me for confirmation. I nodded. "Trust her. Her recipes are better than my soups."
Carefully, I cleaned the wound. A blade-cut, shallow, but dirty and already beginning to fester. He hissed in pain, his teeth clenched.
"Breathe deep," I instructed, applying the cool paste. "Breathe in calm, breathe out the pain. Pain is just a visitor. You don't have to let it sit down and have tea."
Once the bandage was in place, I gave him a cup of water. He drank greedily, his hands shaking. His eyes scanned the cottage the hearth, the dried herbs, my bound wings and finally settled on us, two strange figures who had dragged him inside instead of turning him over to his pursuers.
"My name is Edrin," he said, his voice hoarse. "I… my family is from Eldan village. We're stonemasons, loyal to the King."
He paused, as if the next words were too heavy to lift. Azra'il sat on the edge of the table, silent, just watching, giving him the space he needed.
"Everything changed because of Elara," he continued, the need to tell overpowering the fear. "She's my younger sister. Seven years old. We were playing by the river… and she found a stone, smooth and grey. She held it and… and it glowed. Just for a second. A soft, silver light, like moonlight." He swallowed hard. "Someone saw."
"There is always someone who sees," I murmured, more to myself than to him.
"The neighbours started whispering. Mrs Gable, who never liked us, said it was a bad omen. A week later, the Mage Seekers came. 'A routine investigation', they said. My father tried to reason with them. He said, 'We are loyal to Demacia! She's just a child!' They arrested him for 'obstruction'." Tears were now streaming freely down his grimy face. "My mother screamed… she tried to stand in front of Elara. One of them pushed her. She hit her head on the doorframe…"
He sobbed, his body curling with a pain that came not just from the wound, but from the weight of memory. Azra'il slid off the table and, with an unexpected gentleness, placed a mug of warm water into his trembling hands. The gesture was so surprising Edrin just stared at her, stunned.
"Go on," Azra'il said, her voice surprisingly soft, almost kind.
"I grabbed her. Elara. And I ran. Out the back window. I just… ran. But they have the silver-hounds… they found us in the woods. One of them cut me, I fell. And they took her. I heard her screaming my name…" He looked at his own hands, empty and helpless. "I left her. I ran, and I left her."
Azra'il waited for his crying to subside to a shuddering breath, then scratched her chin.
"So, in short, Demacia is holding firm to its time-honoured tradition of turning children into state criminals and families into tragedies. I'll bet next week they'll make it a capital offence to laugh too loudly in public."
Edrin blinked, the observation so unexpected and precise it shocked him out of his grief for a second. I just held his hand.
"They're afraid," I explained. "And when fear rules, justice becomes a cage for anything that doesn't look like the gaoler."
He ate with us that night. Slowly, silently, as if each piece of bread were his last.
The next morning, I prepared him to leave. As he got ready, I sat at the table, weaving a small talisman from a birch twig, a length of dark linen thread, and one of my own black feathers. I drew the rune for 'irrelevance' on the twig. When I was done, I called him over and placed the small charm in his hand.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice weak.
"It's a disguise," I explained. "It won't make you invisible. Invisibility is a noisy trick of the light that draws more attention than it hides. This is… irrelevance. It whispers to the world that there's nothing here worthy of a second glance." He clutched the talisman. "It isn't a gift, Edrin. It's a loan. A piece of time you wouldn't otherwise have. What you do with it… that is what will matter."
He nodded, tears of gratitude in his eyes. "My lady…" he rasped, "some people speak of a… Veiled Lady. Who walks in the shadows, helping people like us… Is that you?"
"People need stories to hold onto in the dark, Edrin. If that one gives you hope, carry it with you. Sometimes the name is more important than the one who wears it."
He hugged me, quickly, shyly. Then he left, a ghost in his own land.
When I turned back to the cottage, I found Azra'il at the door, redrawing the silence rune on the hinge, improving it.
"So, just another repetitive drama for you?" I asked, my voice more tired than I'd intended.
She didn't look up. "Stories like that are like the chickens in your yard: they cluck loudly, lay eggs of tragedy, then disappear back into the undergrowth looking for more worms."
"And yet you're redrawing the rune as if this time were different."
She finally gave me that look, a piercing blue that always saw more than it showed. "Perhaps I'm just making sure the next lost chicken doesn't get in without a formal invitation. The house needs its rules."
I gave a sad smile. The truth was as clear and heavy as a millstone: the cottage had served its purpose as a cradle. But it was not a world.
I touched her shoulder. "Azra'il, this cottage has kept us safe. But you cannot learn the world through the crack in a window. I want to show you what's out there. I want to show you the dance."
She arched an eyebrow, a gesture that had already become her trademark. "That sounds dangerous, exhausting, and highly likely to end in disaster. I'm in."
"I'm not joking, child. I'm serious."
"So am I," she retorted. "I just like to sound insufferable while I'm agreeing with you. It's more fun."
"Where would you like to go first?" I asked, curious to see where her singular mind would land.
Azra'il crossed her arms, looking at the ceiling as if perusing a menu of destinations.
"Well, from what you've described and what I've deduced… Noxus is noisy. They say even the silence there barks orders. Everyone shouts, bleeds, conquers. Sounds delightful… if you suffer from chronic hearing loss and have a fetish for red flags, both literal and metaphorical."
I waited, patiently.
"Demacia, we already know. A perfect place if you enjoy being arrested for accidentally conjuring magic while sneezing. Besides, the architecture is all white and gold. It's very tiring on the eyes, dazzles the common sense right out of you."
"Azra'il…"
"Piltover… ah, the 'City of Progress'. Where everyone talks as if they're trying to sell you a broken watch they swear is a technological revolution. And Zaun is the complete package: smog, gears, colourful pollution, and the bonus of getting a new lung every three days, because your old one has melted."
She went on, her pace quickening. "Shurima is just sand. A giant, overrated desert where even the storms seem to yawn with boredom. And the Freljord is the polar opposite: endless ice, muscular shirtless men pretending they're not frozen to the very soul. Too much testosterone and not enough quality wool."
She tilted her chin thoughtfully.
"Bandle City… well, from what I read in the books you brought, they say it's a colourful, cheerful place, full of happy little creatures. Which, let's be honest, is far too suspicious. No one is that happy all the time without either plotting something sinister or being in a cult."
I stood with my arms crossed, waiting for her to finally reach a conclusion.
She then sighed, a sound of theatrical resignation. "But you spoke of Ionia. A place where magic isn't hunted, but… danced with. Where the trees have opinions. I want to see this dance. And, if it's as dull as the rest of the world makes it sound, at least they say the tea there is exceptionally good. It's a safe bet."
I smiled. It was her 'yes'.
We gathered our things. It was a quick process, as we had never accumulated much. I packed herbs and clothes; she, her notebooks full of improved runes, a few rare books, and the wooden jian, which she wrapped in a cloth. The cottage, stripped of our presence, remained behind us, a wooden ghost in the forest.
As we closed the door for the last time, Azra'il looked at me. "Alright. Let's see the world. But just for the record: if this 'journey' turns out to be nothing but an endless sequence of mud, smelly taverns, and people spitting on the floor… I'm holding you personally responsible."
"Are you now?" I asked, arching an eyebrow.
She propped the sword on her shoulder, a gesture that made her seem much older than she was. "Of course. I shall write a long and detailed complaint about how you dragged me across the whole of Valoran just to discover that 'adventure' is just a euphemism for romanticised discomfort."
I couldn't help a short, genuine laugh. "And what would you do then?"
Azra'il shrugged, looking at the beaten path that stretched beyond the trees. "Simple. I'd declare war on monotony."
And without waiting for a reply, she started walking. I followed her, listening to the wind rustling the trees behind us, like a whispered farewell. Perhaps she was right: the road would be mud and discomfort. But it would be more, as well. And deep down, I knew that her war on monotony was exactly the company I needed for my own long journey.