Destiny has a morbid sense of humour. For centuries, I fought against the silent tyranny of Demacia, feeling its petricite walls close in around everything that was free and magical. I saw it as a gilded cage, beautiful and orderly on the outside, but cold and suffocating within. I left that cage behind only to find I had moved into another. One made not of white stone, but of black iron. Not of silent laws, but of sharp blades. And somehow, this one felt much, much larger.
Six months had passed since our forced 'partnership' with Lady Vorth, six months living in the feverish, beating heart of the Immortal Bastion. The property she had given us was elegant, with high walls that guaranteed our privacy, and the resources, I had to admit, were endless. But it was a cage of iron and blades. I would hear the sounds of Noxus through its barred windows: the ceaseless drumming of war drums, the distant clamour of bloodthirsty crowds in the gladiator pits, the grinding of the imperial leviathan's gears. Every sound was a reminder that I was at the centre of the forge that created the weapons that would one day bleed the world.
Azra'il, predictably, adapted with an ease that baffled me. It was as if the honest brutality of Noxus, its logic of strength and ambition, made more sense to her than the veiled piety of Demacia or the wild resignation of the Freljord. The laboratory Vorth had built for us, annexed to our residence, became her kingdom. It was a place of colourful alchemical vapours, complex runic diagrams drawn on slate boards, and the metallic scent of power being deconstructed and remade.
I would watch her work, now with the body of a nearly nine-year-old, yet moving with a certainty and economy of motion that seemed to belong to a master artisan at the end of their life, not a child at the beginning of hers. There was a familiarity in her actions, an absence of hesitation, as if she had already done this a thousand times before. She seemed to thrive in this environment of ambition and power, not embracing it, but dissecting it with a cool curiosity.
I, on the other hand, felt like an ancient tree transplanted into a paved courtyard. Safe, nourished, surrounded by high walls… but yearning for the touch of the wild, honest earth, far from the blood-and-politics-stained stones of Noxus.
Our work, the task that had bought us this cage, progressed with frightening speed. I was no longer healing the plague; I was witnessing the creation of its antithesis. In the first few months, using Vorth's limitless resources, Azra'il had not only finalised the cure, she had perfected it. She isolated and recreated the Ash Seeds in their stable form. The testing phase began soon after.
I participated reluctantly. My task was to be the stabiliser. Mages loyal to House Vorth, 'volunteers' with more ambition than common sense, were brought to our laboratory. I would weave my containment runes, my dark, empathetic magic forming a protective barrier to ensure the process did not spin out of control, while Azra'il administered her new 'Chimera Pill'. I watched men and women of modest talent be seized by convulsions of pure power.
I saw their magical auras expand tenfold, their eyes glowing with a silver light, before the power receded and left them permanently… enhanced. Azra'il was no longer healing. She was rewriting human potential. And every 'success', lauded by Vorth in her secret reports, left a taste of ash in my mouth.
While Azra'il played with the fire of power, I maintained our facade. I tended to nobles and officers sent by Vorth, diagnosing their mundane ailments—gout, battle-stress, subtle political poisonings—with my ancient wisdom. We gained a reputation as seers, as miracle healers. But my salvation came at night. In secret, I would slip away to The Sump, the forgotten ghettos of the capital, where I healed the dispossessed and remembered why I fight.
The tension between our two worlds finally spilt over during one of our evening meals. The routine had become our only refuge, the quiet of a shared meal. But that night, the air was heavy.
"Lady Vorth is growing impatient," I said, breaking the silence. "She spoke of 'mass production'. She wants to equip a legion of scouts with Project Chimera before the spring campaign."
Azra'il shrugged, cutting her bread with surgical precision. "It's a logical development. Enhanced soldiers are more effective. The battlefield survival rate would increase. It is a matter of efficiency."
I put down my fork. "This isn't what I agreed to, Azra'il," I said, and the pain in my voice made her finally look up. "To heal, yes. To protect, yes. But to forge a legion of super-mages for Noxus's ambition… it is poisoning the purpose of our being here. It is poisoning me." I laid my soul bare to her, not as a command, but as a confession.
For the first time in months, I saw her without a ready answer. There was no usual mockery, no cool logic. I saw a genuine struggle on her face. I saw the nine-year-old child and the soul I suspected was as old as the stars, at war. Her blue eyes seemed distant, assessing variables I could not see. She looked small and terribly overburdened.
Finally, she sighed, a sound of resignation that seemed to come from a very, very long way away. And then she looked at me, and the mask of sarcasm fell away completely, leaving something vulnerable and honest in its place.
"You're right."
The two words shocked me more than any magical explosion could have.
"I was… too focused on the strategy. On winning the game." She looked down at her own hands. "I don't want this to poison you, Morgana." She took a deep breath, making a decision that I felt cost her more than any battle. "We'll give them what they want. And then, we'll step back. I will compile all my notes, the theory, the stabilisation process. We'll tell Vorth the 'research and development phase' is complete. We will recommend she select her best alchemists and runemages, and I will train them. I will give them the recipe. And then… we will be free of this. We can focus on real problems."
I was stunned. I understood what she was sacrificing. The control. The leverage she valued so highly. The monopoly on a weapon that made her one of the most powerful people in the empire. "But… Azra'il, what about your project? It's your greatest protection here. It's our only bargaining chip."
She finally met my eyes, and the vulnerability there was so raw it took my breath away.
"No," she said, her voice low but unwavering. "You are. My greatest protection."
And then, as if the sincerity were physically painful, she quickly raised her defences, clearing her throat and looking away. "Besides, they're incompetent. It'll take them a fair while to replicate my work with the same efficiency. That buys us plenty of time to focus on more… interesting things."
Her words hung in the silence of our residence. I understood what she was doing. It was a sacrifice of power and control, a gesture made not out of logic, but out of loyalty to me.
The next day, Azra'il, with a formality she rarely used, requested an audience with Lady Vorth. The reply was, as Azra'il had predicted, immediate. A personal escort from her guard was waiting at the door to our property at dusk.
We crossed the upper districts of the Immortal Bastion. The streets here were not of cobblestone, but of polished basalt slabs that reflected the cold light of the rune-lamps. Towers of black iron scraped the sky, and the air did not smell of forge-smoke, but of the subtle scent of power, intrigue, and expensive perfumes.
The main manor of House Vorth was a fortress disguised as a residence. We entered into a silence broken only by the distant echo of soldiers training in some inner courtyard. Hector, her other steward, guided us without a word, his expression impassive, and we were led to Lady Vorth's study.
The room was not large, but it was oppressive. The walls, from floor to ceiling, were covered with shelves of dark leather-bound books, interspersed with old maps and displays of contained power. A petrified dragon's skull. A vial containing sand that moved slowly, forming patterns. I felt centuries of secrets accumulated in those walls, the air heavy with the weight of forbidden knowledge.
"Little alchemist," she greeted Azra'il. "Have you brought me more good news from your laboratory?"
Azra'il was unfazed. She approached the desk with the gravitas of a guild master. "Lady Vorth," she began, "the research and development phase of Project Chimera is complete."
"Excellent," the noblewoman said. "I am preparing to expand the program. A new wing in your laboratory…"
"That will not be necessary," Azra'il interrupted. "For the next phase, 'mass production', you will require a dedicated team. My talent lies in innovation, not in repetition."
I saw Vorth's smile falter. "You're stepping back? At the moment of your greatest triumph?"
"On the contrary," Azra'il replied. "I am integrating the technology directly into your House. Making the power truly yours. I recommend you select your best alchemists. For the next month, I will personally oversee their training. I will give them my complete notes."
It was a brilliant argument, wrapped in the language Vorth understood: power, control, and security. She was offering to give up her monopoly in exchange for her freedom, but she made it sound like a strategic gift.
"And afterwards?" Vorth asked.
Azra'il took a step back, assuming the humble posture of a mere apprentice. "Exactly what we have been doing, Lady Vorth," she said, her voice devoid of its former arrogance. "We will continue with our apothecary. Our purpose is, and always has been, to alleviate suffering. To heal the wounds that the Noxian spear inevitably creates."
She paused, as if choosing her words with care. "Our future research will focus on developing new remedies, on the search for cures for other plagues and diseases that afflict this empire. We will continue our work as independent healers."
The retreat was so unexpected it left Vorth momentarily speechless. I understood the genius of what Azra'il was doing. By declaring such an altruistic purpose, she was making herself appear harmless.
"However," Azra'il added, in a tone of respectful partnership, "we would not refuse a future collaboration with House Vorth. You have shown you have an interest in complex arcane matters. If, in the future, you encounter a new disease, a new plague, or a new poison that requires our particular skills, we would be honoured to offer our expertise." She smiled. "Provided, of course, that the goal is to find the cure."
The move was perfect. She had returned the ball to Vorth's court. She had positioned us not as pawns or rivals, but as an elite, neutral resource. The sort of resource a master of secrets like Vorth would value immensely: specialists who could be called upon to solve impossible problems and who (apparently) had no interest in the politics behind them.
Vorth, unable to find any flaw or threat in such a 'noble' and well-formulated proposal, visibly relaxed. She now saw us not as pieces she needed to control, but as master artisans she could hire when needed. It was a different kind of power, more subtle and, in the long run, much safer for us.
"Very well," she said at last. "Your terms are acceptable…"