The road bent, and Wrenwall rose before them.
Cithria felt her throat dry at the sight. The proud fortress that had stood as a border watch for generations now bore scars that no catapult nor ram could have carved. Its western wall still held strong, but the eastern towers were shattered, as if something had reached down from the sky and plucked stone from its crown.
Patches of ice gleamed across the broken ramparts, white sheets catching the last of the sun. Here and there jagged peaks of frozen crystal jutted like cruel thorns from the earth, piercing through collapsed masonry. The air itself seemed to hold a chill, unnatural for the season, and Cloudfield stamped uneasily as they drew closer.
The gates hung open. Although it wasn't destroyed, just broken in their hinges, as though forced from within.
"By the Light…" someone muttered behind her.
Cithria followed the sound. It was Hess, slack-jawed for once, his usual bluster gone. Alys Morn rode beside him, her sharp eyes scanning every ruined parapet. For all her calm, Cithria saw her grip tighten on the reins.
The rest of the Vanguard kept formation, sixteen riders with shields upon their backs, spears gleaming faintly. Discipline steadied them, though every one of them could see what she saw: magic had been here, wild and unrestrained.
Closer still, and the smell reached them. Not death, thank the Light, but a sharpness like frozen iron, biting at the nose. The villagers outside the walls watched from a distance, whispering, their gazes flicking between the soldiers and the castle in a time that she couldn't decipher.
"Stay sharp," Captain Garen's voice rang clear. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, eyes locked ahead. "The report said no lives lost, but until we confirm, we take no chances."
Shyvana walked at his side, her armored boots crunching through a patch of frost. The cold seemed not to touch her. Her gaze swept the ruined towers with a hard, unreadable expression.
The hooves of their steeds echoed hollow against the stone causeway as the Vanguard passed beneath the ruined gates.
Within, the castle courtyard bore the marks of battle and sorcery both. Cobblestones were cracked by frozen spikes, shattered carts lay abandoned where they had been overturned, and sections of the inner wall were slick with lingering frost. Yet, amidst the wreckage, the blue and silver of Demacia still stood. Soldiers in battered armor formed ranks to meet them, spears planted firmly into the ground.
One stepped forward and raised a clenched fist to his chest. "Dauntless Vanguard. We are honored by your presence."
"Report," Garen commanded, halting his steed.
The man, an officer by his cloak and sigil, bowed his head once. "The situation is contained, Commander. The townsfolk live. We have secured the keep and await your command. Knight-Commander Alric holds counsel within. He expected your arrival."
"Lead us."
The officer turned, and the soldiers parted, saluting as the Vanguard rode through their ranks. Cithria felt the eyes of the garrison upon them, expecting the looks of exhausted men and women who bore the look of survivors, not victors. What she saw was the exact opposite, they looked surprised at their arrival, some even excited.
Wasn't there a battle here? The marks and destruction proved so.
They dismounted before the keep, handing their reins to squires. Cithria gave Cloudfield a quiet pat, the stallion still restless from the lingering cold. Together they followed Garen and Shyvana inside.
The great hall of Wrenwall had fared little better. Icicles hung from the rafters, dripping slowly into puddles on the stone floor. Fires burned low in braziers, fighting the unnatural chill, their smoke rising toward cracked beams above.
At the far end stood Knight-Commander Alric Wrenford. His armor bore fresh dents, his cloak frosted at the edges, but his posture was as unbending as the fortress he commanded. At his side, a great warhammer leaned against the dais, rimmed with frost not yet melted.
"Commander Crownguard," Alric greeted, voice heavy with fatigue but firm with discipline. "You honor us with your arrival." His gaze swept the hall, lingering on the Vanguard's shields.
He stepped down from the dais, clasping Garen's arm in the warrior's grip.
"Your men look well," Garen said, releasing Alric's arm. His voice carried not just approval, but surprise. "Better than I'd expected from the reports."
Alric's mouth pulled into the faintest line of grim humor. "We are fortunate, Commander. More fortunate than we deserve." He gestured broadly toward the hall. "The stones may be cracked, the gates broken, but my people yet live. For that, I give thanks."
Cithria caught the slight dip of his shoulders as he said it, the weight of someone who had walked the ramparts after the chaos and counted heads, fearing the worst.
"The Vanguard salutes your defense," Garen answered, raising his fist to his chest. The soldiers behind him mirrored the motion in a ripple of steel and leather. Cithria included.
Alric returned the salute, then motioned to a nearby table. Upon it lay a scattering of maps and reports, parchment weighed down by stones of frost still clinging to their edges. "We have compiled what we could," Alric said, his tone tightening. "The damage was localized to the fortress itself. The village outside saw little more than falling debris. No casualties save for one, a mage, already dead before we reached them."
Alys Morn leaned subtly toward Cithria, her lips moving without sound, Already dead? Cithria gave the slightest nod.
Alric continued. "The survivor… did not flee. He dispatched his opponent, and then remained here. When the MageSeekers attempted to bind him, he resisted, but without bloodshed. No man was slain, though many were… humbled." His voice held the faintest rasp of humiliation, though it was buried beneath his rigid formality.
Garen's brow furrowed as he scanned the maps. "And the ice?"
"A byproduct of their clash, so our men tell it. We found no sigils, no residue of spellwork beyond the frost itself. The keep's masons swear it will hold through the thaw, but…" Alric glanced up, his expression grave. "I have never seen magic of such scale wielded so easily. The reports you read, Commander, they were written with care, but they do not capture the… inevitability of it. He fought as though we could not touch him. And truth be told, we could not."
The admission rang through the hall like a hammer striking stone. Even the fire seemed to crackle softer.
Shyvana's arms crossed over her chest, scales glinting faintly in the torchlight. "You believe he intended no harm, then?"
Alric hesitated. His gaze swept the room as though weighing the ears around him. Finally, he said, "He waits still in the courtyard. Not as a prisoner though, he's made that much clear. He claims he will not move until he has been heard."
Garen exchanged a glance with Shyvana, then turned back to Alric. His hand rested lightly on the table's edge, fingers brushing against the frost-stained maps. "You've done well, Knight-Commander. Now take me to him."
Alric inclined his head. "As you command."
Alric turned, his cloak brushing across the stone floor as he gestured for them to follow. The Vanguard fell into step behind Garen, their boots a steady rhythm against the cold stone. The keep's corridors bore the same scars as the walls outside, splintered beams, frozen cracks spidering along mortar, the occasional jag of ice jutting like a blade from the floor. Torches sputtered low against the damp chill.
They emerged once more into the open air, stepping down broad stone steps that led into the courtyard proper.
Clack!
The sharp crack of wood rang from ahead, carrying across the stone hall. Garen's brow furrowed, and he turned his gaze toward Alric in silent question.
The Knight-Commander had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. "Ah. That would be him. Since his arrival three days ago, the mage has taken to the courtyard at dawn… to train."
Garen slowed, and so did the Vanguard behind him, Cithria among them. A ripple of unease passed through the column. Training was not the word she expected.
"Train?" Garen's voice was low, even, but edged with suspicion.
Alric gave a weary nod.
"His sorcery?" Hess growled, leaning forward as though ready to snuff the answer out himself.
"Goodness, no," Alric replied quickly, shaking his head. "We were spared that particular misfortune."
Cithria blinked, confusion stirring in her chest. If not sorcery, then what? Wouldn't the MageSeekers want to see his craft, to study it, to seize upon weaknesses?
Alric's sigh was heavy, as though he had explained this more times than he cared to count. "According to the man I assigned to watch him, he rises before dawn, and for three hours he does nothing but push himself through… exercises. Fifty thousand push-ups. Fifty thousand sit-ups. Fifty thousand handstand push-ups. Fifty thousand squats."
Cithria's jaw nearly went slack. She recoiled despite herself, and she wasn't alone. Even Garen's expression shifted, stiff, unsettled, as if such excess struck him as unnatural.
'Why,' Cithria thought, aghast, 'would anyone put themselves through that? And what soldier could gain from such strain?'
Alric went on, his tone almost flat with resignation. "We thought the same. Then one of ours, Light forgive him, because I know I won't, mentioned our Demacian regiment. The mage lit up at the sound of it, as though we had handed him treasure. From then on he added to his madness, hours of hauling boulders while training, running the walls of Wrenwall fourteen times with half a quarry on his back. And when the day ends, he does not rest."
He gestured faintly toward the open courtyard beyond. "Evenings, he takes up his blades. Sparring. First alone, then with my men. And they… enjoy it. Enough that more join him each night. By now, half the garrison takes turns crossing swords with him, and he welcomes them all. He seems tireless."
Alric's eyes looked suddenly older, as though the weight of his words pressed down on him. "I've commanded men through sieges, seen them bleed and break. But I've never seen a soul burn with so much raw, ceaseless energy. Not once."
The hall fell into quiet, save for the echo of another clack from beyond the doors.
The great doors to the courtyard groaned as they pushed open, spilling pale light and the sound of rhythm into the keep's shadow.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The noise struck with a steady tempo, wood against wood, like a war-drum played by a single hand. As they stepped out, the source became clear.
In the heart of the courtyard, surrounded by a wide circle of armored soldiers, a lone figure moved with blinding speed. His body bent and twisted in impossible rhythm, blades flashing arcs of wood against a wooden sword wielded by one of Alric's men. The soldier strained with both hands, sweat pouring, his footing sliding against the frosted cobblestones. But the stranger did not falter, not even slowing down.
Each strike landed with enough force to rattle the courtyard walls. Each parry answered with such exactness that even Garen's trained eye struggled to follow. And when the soldier's knees finally buckled, his weapon knocked skyward, the mage caught the falling sword in one hand and returned it to him with a nod, as though the clash had been nothing more than a morning stretch.
Cithria felt her throat tighten. It was not just the skill, it was the ease. No panting. No ragged sweat. His chest barely rose, as though the exertion had been less than a walk across the hall.
The mage turned then, catching sight of them.
He was younger than she expected. Rough ashen white hair, sharp green eyes that seemed to pierce without malice, and a frame packed with just as much bulk as Garen. His garments were odd, a black cloak, ragged and torn at the edges, covered his white shirt. His trouses were a thick brown and his boot were the same.
Apart from the wooden sword in his hand, he didn't seem to have any other weapon on him. Of course, as a mage, he probably didn't need them. Cithria did notice the book on his hip, placed in a sachel.
The soldiers around him straightened quickly, saluting upon noticing Garen and the vanguard.
Garen stepped forward, his shadow stretching long across the frost-stained stones. The weight of his presence drew silence from the garrison.
"You are the one they call Asta," Garen said, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
Cithria raised an eyebrow, though only in the quiet of her mind. When exactly had the Sword-Captain learned the mage's name?
The man before them lowered his blade with a practiced ease, letting it rest at his side. His movements held no trace of fear, no hesitation, even when standing before the much taller Garen. The difference in height was clear, yet the mage's build was nearly as imposing. Cithria caught herself wondering if, perhaps, he might even carry more muscle than the Sword-Captain himself.
"I am," the stranger said at last, his tone steady, almost casual. "Asta Silver. You're definitely not like the others. Who exactly am I speaking to?"
"I am Garen Crownguard, of House Crownguard. Sword-Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard, and the Might of Demacia," Garen declared, his voice carrying the weight of command. At his words, Cithria found herself instinctively standing straighter, pride stirring in her chest.
"Woah," Asta murmured, his expression shifting into one of open awe. "That's a lot of titles. You must have earned many merits."
'You couldn't even begin to imagine,' Cithria thought, her heart swelling with quiet pride for her commander.