Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I don’t like it here,” said Lucian.

“Good,” Senna said, “means you still got taste.”

Their boat glided silently through the black water, lit only by Bilgewater’s sparse lanterns. Senna stole a glance downward at Lucian. The lamplight drew out the shadows near his eyes. But he caught her staring, and flashed the briefest of smiles. There it was. The warmth. Barely a flicker, but enough to keep that hole in her chest aching for too long. Senna kept running her thumb over her heart, feeling the emptiness like a tooth that had fallen out. Lucian was the only one who kept the cold at bay.

She gave Lucian the smallest quirk of her own lips, then looked back out over the water. The air in Bilgewater was still. Normally, the docks were swarming with bodies, a crush of people exchanging coin and mead, but there was none of that now. Empty docks alone would have unsettled Senna. But they weren't empty. Deserted skimmers bobbed wordlessly in the inky darkness. No lamps shone inside to show occupancy. No life was found on the murky shores. Even the Black Mist itself seemed to have forsaken Bilgewater.

This was worse.

“Why, I quite like it!”

Gwen had been a force of unrelenting positivity. Senna watched her trail a porcelain finger into the water, blue eyes sparkling. Senna only exchanged a look with Lucian, who shrugged and rowed another stroke across the water. They’d given up trying to get Gwen to see any level of severity in their situation, even in a town so obviously consumed by the Black Mist. It didn't matter. She was good enough in a fight, when the time called for it.

“It’s quite peaceful here, not like our last few stops. None of those dreadful wraiths. It could do with some color, though, and some fresher scents than sewage.” Gwen wrinkled her nose, and looked up. "How much farther until we reconnect with your friend, Miss Senna?”

Senna kept her eyes scanning the horizon. “Not much farther. And not my friend.”

She signaled lightly for Lucian to take a left. The massive house-boats creaked ominously as they passed. Senna noticed that all the candles in the lamps were nearly burnt out, left unreplaced for days on end. “Be careful around him. He’s not what they call a benevolent spirit.”

“Oh? And what do they call him?” Gwen asked.

“The devil,” Lucian cut in. “Green, slimy, son-of-a-gun who likes to be the company that misery keeps. If it were up to me, we’d be purifying the town of him.”

Senna exhaled a small laugh.

“He is just a devil,” she said. “One of many just like him. Don’t flatter him.”

Gwen opened her mouth to ask another question, but Senna held up a fist. “We’re here.”

It was a riverboat, anchored in the middle of the river delta that led into the heart of Bilgewater. Unlike the other lights in the city, the riverboat boasted a cheerful string of lights, and a hauntingly merry set of windchimes. The glass clinked on its lonesome in the moonless night. Lucian steered their rowboat until it was level with a ladder; rusted, well-worn, but sturdy. Senna eyed the rungs. They were still wet.

“Oh, how lovely!” Gwen followed Senna up the stairs, effortlessly scaling the side of the boat. “Such a shame the rest of the town can’t be so illuminated. They really should take notes!”

“Sure, Gwen,” Lucian said. He hesitated as he tied their boat, looking over to Senna. She shook her head at him.

“Tie it loose,” she says. “Just in case.”

“You got it.”

The boat seemed to be bigger on the inside, its wide door opening up to an impossible interior. A chandelier hung from a ceiling just a bit too low for a chandelier, and a plush conversation pit sat snug in the center. Just beyond it was a wooden table. A velvety green layer spanned the top of it, marked with disconcerting dark splotches. Senna recognized it instantly as a gambler’s table. The back of her mind knew it as more. A distant memory, from when her hands hadn’t known the shape of a trigger and the dark had still frightened her.

“It’s set,” Lucian murmured to her. Indeed, the gambler table was laden with a thick helping of food, warm and shining with oil in the chandelier light. Senna could pick out chicken, lamb, and the distinct scent of some other meat. She silently prayed that it was pork.

“It’ll ruin the upholstery, if we dine carelessly!” Gwen cried, startling Senna. “ Look, it’s already stained. My my, who would do such a thing?”

“Call it," said a smooth, low, sultry voice, "a courtesy of the devil.”

Senna whirled around. Just beyond the doorway, a dark mass rose from the depths of Bilgewater. Two bulbous, yellow eyes blinked open slowly, and a toothy smile split the monstrous head in two.

“Why, Miss Senna, in the flesh,” said Tahm Kench. “It’s been a good while.”

They had seated themselves at the feast, though Senna noticed - with some light apprehension - that the lower levels of the meal had the stench of Bilgewater salt on it, preserved for some time. She would never call herself close to Tahm Kench, but she’d never known the demon to eat an unfresh meal. Perhaps he wasn’t as well off as he liked to seem.

“So you decided to finally come calling,” Tahm said, waddling to his own seat. It was a massive wooden thing, a construction that must have taken some poor carpenter’s blood, sweat and tears. “I see you’ve brought some company.”

“Yes,” Senna said, tracking Tahm’s movements carefully. “This is Lucian, and this is Gwen. Gwen, Lucian...”

“They call me Tahm Kench,” Kench lifted his comically small top hat, that same unnerving grin on his wide-mouthed face. “The River King.”

“Oh, a king? It is very nice to meet you,” said Gwen, nodding brightly. “I had been under the impression that kings weren’t all that grand, but you may be turning that around. Thank you for hosting us. And thank you for dinner!”

“Oh, no,” Lucian said, quickly. “Gwen, that er... would be his. We shouldn’t take from his meal.”

“Nonsense! Eat up.” Kench reached across the table and hefted a large thigh onto Gwen’s plate. “What kind of a host doesn’t feed his guests? A rude one, that’s what I say.” He patted the thigh, a loud, wet slap reverberating through the riverboat. “You can pay me back later. After all, you must be positively famished.” His eyes gleamed. “I know I sure am.”

Before Senna could say another word, Tahm turned.

“This must be your beau.” He leaned close to Lucian, who in turn, leaned away.

“....hello,” Lucian said, stiffly.

“It is my indubitable pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” Tahm’s massive smile leered over Lucian, and he stuck one wet, clawed hand out. Lucian gave him the briefest of handshakes. “I met your father some years back, when I first laid eyes on your beautiful wife.” Tahm’s eyes shimmered. “Say, how is old Urias?”

“That’s enough, Kench.” Senna’s foot found Lucian’s, touching the side of his under the table. Calm. She watched Lucian’s jaw unclench. “Lucian’s father passed, many years back. But I know you already knew that.”

“I do recall...” Tahm Kench wet his lips. “... a voice quite like your beau’s here, saying some very hurtful things, indeed, just outside my own home.” His clawed hand reached for a drumstick, then two, then three, all disappearing into his gullet like air. Tahm’s massive eyes were searingly bright, staring blankly into Senna’s own. “You wouldn’t happen to know who said those things, would you? You are in my domain, after all.” His claws steepled innocently. Senna met his gaze evenly. “It’s bad practice to insult your host, in Bilgewater.”

“Oh dear...” Tahm’s body swiveled to face Gwen, who had delicately covered her mouth with her hand. “I was going to say something about your ill-fitting clothes, but I suppose that would be rude now. I do like your residence! It has quite the atmosphere.” She lowered her hand, smiling at him. “And as for your clothes, I would be more than happy to whip you up some new ones.”

Tahm Kench burst out laughing, a throaty thing that rumbled the table between them violently. He slapped his wet hand on his belly, rocking back a bit. “Oh, oh, I like this one! Little lady, so honest. Hah!” He settled his clawed feet back on the ground, and peered closely at Gwen. “You may be the sharpest pair of scissors in the shed. Let’s see - you make me those clothes, and I’ll-”

Senna reached out her hand to stop Gwen. “Tahm Kench,” she says evenly. “I am here to make you a deal.”

That was enough to catch the River King’s attention. With his wide, toothy grin, he settled into his seat, patting his belly almost anticipatorily. “And here I thought you’d come to put me out of business permanently,” he said, pleasantly. “Seems like half of Runeterra had that idea, anyways.”

“I am a Sentinel,” Senna said flatly, her eyes narrowing at him. She was, however, growing acutely aware of the stains on the table. The emptiness of the gambling boat. “I don’t have time for the likes of you.”

“Haha!” Tahm Kench laughed. “Are you sure? Because the word on the waterways is, the Sentinels aren’t doing much lately. Except,” he licked his lips, “Satiating some appetites.”

Senna ignored the prickling heat of rage radiating from Lucian. "That's what we're here about," she says. "We need information. Information that you know."

"And what might that be, Miss Lady?" Tahm Kench leaned his massive jaw onto his hands. "You know I can't help you with your curse any more than I already have."

Senna's green eyes flickered. "Some help you were," she said, as sincerely as possible. "But that's been resolved."

"We're more interested in purifying the hulking clouds of death lurking around," Lucian said. "Just in case you haven't noticed."

"Ah, yes. How can little old me assist you fine folk?"

"Isolde," Senna said. "We know that Viego is looking for her. At least, the pieces of her soul that are scattered around. It's why he's spreading the Black Mist so far as to encroach on your territory." Senna paused, watching Tahm Kench roll one of his whiskers in his claws. "We need to know where the rest of Isolde is."

"I see." Tahm rocked forward, clicking his claws against the green cloth of the table. "You don't want to take a shot at the king and miss, so you're beating him to the punch. That's smart. That's real smart. I expect nothing less from you, Miss Senna."

"So?" Senna said. "Tell us what you know."

“Now, now, no need to rush.” Tahm Kench took a length of bone far too large to be that of a bird, and in one swift motion, sucked it dry of meat. He grinned. “What can I expect in return?”

“How about a home to come back to?” Lucian said through gritted teeth. “Unless you’d like to be sent back to whatever hellhole you crawled out of.”

“I was going to ask for three things,” Kench said, giving Lucian a stink eye. “But I think I’ll add ‘keep this one from mouthing off’ to the list. So four things.” He held up his pudgy claws to count them off. “Four, one for every juicy morsel I give you. That’s fair, ain’t it?”

“Fair as the night,” Senna said wryly, earning a chuckle from the River King. “What are your conditions?”

“The first?” Kench’s chair squeaked as he inched closer to them. “Well, Miss Gwen, you have so intrigued me with your offer. I would like a bespoke suit, as soon as your dear hands can manage such a feat.”

“It’s a done deal!” Gwen said brightly. Senna made a mental note to teach Gwen what the meaning of done deals were around Kench.

“The second,” he said, “is that I’d like to come with you.”

“What?”

Senna surprised herself at how she spoke. It paid to be cautious; she’d learned that from Urias. But the image of Kench, in his skin-tight double coat, trundling along her husband and the spritely Gwen, was absurd enough that if she hadn’t been so shocked, she’d have laughed.

“Now, now, Miss Senna. I know what you’re thinking.” He gave her a sly smile. “White is not my color. And you would be correct. I have no interest in joining you. But...” he took a moment to swallow a whole roast chicken. “... it seems all my kinsfolk have gotten themselves lost in this Mist, and the River King is lonely. I have a vested interest in your success, as your husband so astutely noted. I would be much obliged if you would let me tag along, not as a Sentinel, but as a... sponsor.” He bared his teeth. “The Ruined King has been polluting my waters. It’s never a pretty sight when two rulers butt heads. I’m not a warlike king, Miss Senna. But if you’re already itching to shoot from the hip... I may as well hedge my bets where it suits me, hm?”

Senna could feel Lucian’s eyes on her. Say no, he was begging her. Just say no.

“Alright,” Senna said. “But for the duration of your time with us, you respect my decisions as leader.”

“But of course,” Kench said, and Lucian’s foot found Senna’s, smacking it back and forth a bit in a what is wrong with you?! sort of way. Senna could only apologetically kick him back.

“And the last,” Kench said. “Before we go, I’d like to tidy up shop a bit. You know how it is - never leave a dish unwashed before a trip.” He smiled at Senna. “Have you heard of a Captain Sarah?” He hummed deeply. “Ambitious young lady, that one. She’s been cooking up quite the pot of trouble.”

“Can’t say I have,” Senna said. Her eyes narrowed.

“She’s better known - and aptly named, if I do say so myself - by the moniker Miss Fortune.” Tahm Kench smiled. “Now I know you don’t want to hear this, but I would like - and once you meet her, I do think you would like - to take care of her.”

A series of sharp bangs rattled the boat, and the group whirled around just in time to see the door drop off its hinges. The smell of gunpowder and sea salt rolled in, and just behind, a thick, gurgling pile of Black Mist. Amidst the smoke, the darkened silhouette of a woman emerged. Senna shuddered as she saw the woman’s eyes. Mist green. Like hers.

“Well,” Kench laughed, “Would ya speak of the devil.”

Chapter Text

“I’m disappointed, Kench.” The woman standing at the door wielded two revolvers, both still smoking. Mortal weapons, but as Senna peered closer, she could see they were shot through with Black Mist, tendrils of the stuff adhered tightly to the smooth, bespoke surface. “I thought we’d cut a decent deal.”

Senna felt that same insidious cold in her heart. The Captain’s voice was so human. It had a humorous lilt to it, unburdened with age or anxiety. In a blink, Senna could see herself in some other distant universe, sharing a drink with this woman, exchanging news about the latest from the Isles. There was no secret lull in it, no inherent malice. She could have been a person.

But when the Captain turned those green eyes on her, Senna saw herself in them. There was nothing truly alive behind them. Senna would know that better than anyone.

“Decent?” Kench rumbled, slowly rising to his feet. “My dear Miss Sarah, our deal was about as decent as a king’s favored courtesan.”

“I take offense to that, Tahm.” Sarah strutted in as if the rest of them did not exist, smoke rippling off her body in wave after horrific wave. Senna had to fight off a cold shiver. As her hand drifted over the trigger of her relic cannon, Senna made eye contact with Lucian. He read her perfectly. “It’s Captain of the Syren, or the Queen of Bilgewater.” She leveled her revolver between his eyes. “Not a courtesan.”

"My sincerest apologies,” Tahm said, rising to his feet. Sarah’s revolver followed him, his clawed hands lazily dragging a seat over to the table. “Maybe if you could escort these ... guests off the premises," Kench said lightly, "we could speak more privately."

"Oh?" said Miss Fortune, and turned those wicked eyes on Senna. "Well. Save me a seat."

Lucian fired.

Senna felt the Mist move faster than light. Sarah was not there, her feet lost in the inhuman swirl of wraiths, leaning just enough for Lucian’s piercing shot to shatter a vase on the table behind Senna.

The room erupted into cacophony. The riverboat was thrashing in the water, heaved by the blaring wails of the wraiths; Senna’s only sight was the choked, warped faces in the Mist. Somewhere, there was the keening sound of scissors; somewhere, the great belching of the river king; somewhere, the sharp blast of a relic bullet hitting true. Senna blasted off shot after shot, listening, straining, feeling the world tilt under her body for the umpteenth time in her life.

“Sarah!” Senna called into the blackness, swaying into the fray. “Let’s talk about this!”

The wraiths slithered around her, clinging and then leaving, an uncertain flux and flow. They could smell the death on her. She could have been one of them. They weren’t sure yet; but they would be.

“Sure,” said a dozen voices, oozing lazily through the Mist. Senna felt a chill seize her heart. Something grabbed ahold of her gaze, dragging it, turning her towards her left. The Mist parted.

Miss Fortune stood on the gambling table, her gun aimed to the heavens. Stupid, Senna thought, her hand . Arrogant.

“Too slow,” Sarah said, and pulled the trigger.

The sky gaped open. Someone screamed - Lucian? - the roof of the riverboat shattered into a thousand jagged teeth of rafters, the maw of a giant unseen fish, a torrent of wood and tarp flooding forth. One bullet turned into ten thousand. Senna, distantly, felt a fluttering glow in her chest; it ran down the veins in her arm, and she felt her gun fire. The last thing she saw was the light at the end of her barrel, and the bright flash of Lucian’s hand.

Though the Sentinels had always taught her this, Senna was still surprised.

The end of the world was dark.

Then a great heave of the earth spat her up, tilting her gravity upside-down onto algae-slick wood. It was wet, thick with the scent of mutton and poultry and all the slimy things of the earth. Senna spat, gagged, and staggered to her feet. She felt her body lean against something. Rough-hewn wood. The sound of lapping water. Candle wax, dripping down unheeded beside her head. A dark shape rising from the depths.

“Now that gun of yours,” drawled Tahm, “tastes about as good as expected.”

In the distance, the riverboat bobbed on the water, engulfed in billowing flames. The wraiths were howling, writhing as they melted out the windows, plopping into the water in great, viscous masses. Senna dug her fingernails into the lamppost, peering directly into the fireball for a sign - a sign of blue hair, a sight of flashing white. Even for the sickly green of the Captain’s eyes. But there was nothing but the flame and the wraiths, pouring into the water in droves.

“You had a very lucky shot there, Miss Senna,” Kench continued on, heaving himself up onto the docks beside her. “I almost bit that bullet.”

“Lucian,” Senna demanded, voice hoarse, head reeling. “Gwen. Where are they?”

“Take it easy,” Kench said, unfurling one clawed hand out on the water. “I said you had a lucky shot, didn’t you?”

The faint shine of a yellow light, circled around two figures. A shield. Her shield. She hadn’t missed. Gwen was rowing faster than should be humanly possible, Lucian standing astride with his guns at the ready, speeding away from the wreckage of the riverboat. Senna felt like she was brought back to life. She could breathe again.

When they reached the docks, Senna already had her hand out to pull Lucian up. He gripped her forearm - he was solid, heavy, and real. Senna heaved him up with no issue, and pulled him into a brief, but fierce hug.

“You’re okay?”

“I’m okay.” Lucian snuck a brush of his lips across her forehead. “Thanks to someone.”

They turned and reached simultaneously for Gwen, who beamed as she dismounted from the boat. “Goodness,” she says. “That woman was a lousy shot.”

“She almost killed us all,” said Lucain.

“I implore you to speak for yourself,” Kench said, tugging at his lapel. Despite dripping with Bilgewater brine, he hardly looked ruffled. “And look alive, Sentinels. Miss Fortune does not aim to miss.”

He was right. Senna watched the light of the riverboat start to flicker and fade; the wraiths, in their wailing, huddled by the hundreds and then began to fling themselves against it. Senna’s throat tightened as she watched the light die.

“They’re smothering it,” Senna said. “They’re putting out the fire.”

The fog of Bilgewater was pooling around their feet, and Senna realized that it was not just the wraiths. The Mist itself had begun to float towards the lamplights, choking the life out of the candles. There was nothing they could do.

“How dreadful,” Gwen murmured. In the distance, a vortex of wraiths began to pool around the hull of the riverboat. In the dying light, Senna realized it was moving. It was headed straight for them.

“Smart,” Lucian said, with just a touch of rage. Senna brushed her shoulder against his, and they swiveled into position. “How’s your night vision, Scissors?”

“Splendid,” Gwen said, and the lights of Bilgewater went out.

“We can create our own darkness.”

Urias had told her that, many years ago.

“It’s a skill worth having.”

Senna had clung to his words like a child adrift in the island seas.

“Do you mean,” she had asked, the Black Mist appearing over the horizon, “that there’s a good reason for the Mist to follow me? Or that it’s man-made, or...”

“No,” Urias had said, grim humor in his dry laugh. “It means, when the darkness comes, you should close your eyes. Let them adjust.”

Senna opened her eyes.

“Boo,” said Miss Fortune, and fired.

It wouldn’t have been the first time Senna had been shot, but it was the first time she’d felt a round ricochet against her ribs; she half thanked her Sentinel stars for the chestplate, but the other half dissolved in smoke when Gwen cried out, and a loud splash hit the water.

“Gwen!”

“I’m alright!” a gurgled cry from the water. “Go on!” Another loud splash, but there was no time to think.

Lucian had opened fire, but Senna could see it now, the shape of a woman in the Mist, flowing hair and tricorn hat stepping confidently just out of reach. She was almost too fast to track. But Urias’s teachings were Senna’s teachings. All she had to do was point - Lucian was bounding ahead of her.

“Where is she running?” Lucian said.

“To a trap, most likely,” Senna lept between rowboats, feeling them rattle beneath her. She was all-too aware of the sweeping wave beside them, Kench’s leery eyes following them and their quarry. Senna gritted her teeth, calling out to Lucian. “Take my hand.”

His eyes met her, and he could not hide the grimace he made, try as he might. Senna tried to ignore it. Her arm yanked him close, her lips murmured in a language only she understood, and the darkness swallowed them whole.

Pulling the Mist from her own soul had become easier than second nature. Senna let it envelop them as their feet moved in unison. The world of Bilgewater had become eerily green, flying by them as they ghosted through the air. Still - the Captain fell farther and farther away, until all trace of her had been lost.

As they flew, Lucian turned to Senna. “We should go back for Scissors.”

“We will,” Senna says, eyes scanning the waterways, ignoring the worry lines etched into Lucian’s face. He couldn’t see her face. He hadn’t learned how. “She can swim. We taught her how.”

But in the Mist, Lucian anxiety oozed like thick perfume, and Senna could close her eyes and see his clenched jaw, his furrowed brow. “She was in the water with him.”

Senna didn’t bother asking who. “She was.”

Lucian only resigned himself to silence. And then, “You think he’s with Viego?” Senna hummed her question. “Kench.”

“No,” Senna said, not meeting his eyes. But she could feel the look Lucian shot her; it was enough to tell her that the answer came too quickly. “He’s the only reason I got out of that ship alive.”

“You don’t think he’s trying to trick you? Or gut out your heart, or whatever creepy ghost thing Viego’s been trying to do to you?”

“I don’t,” Senna said. “I believe he wants us to win.”

“How are you so sure?”

Senna glanced down at the water, where Kench’s glowing eyes met hers. “Because,” she said, turning back and landing on a dock. She pulled Lucian down, the Mist spilling back into her. Senna shuddered. “I know he’s hungry. And I know Viego is starving him.”

They touched down at an empty courtyard, the looming figures of four houses surrounding them. Beneath the boards, Senna could hear the churning black water. A part of her knew that the yellow eyes were just below, watching and listening. She just had to hope it didn’t offend him, to put her faith in the devil.

The floorboards creaked as they hovered towards the overhang of one building. “Where is she?” Senna murmured. Lucian only gave her a look, and silently fired. The bullet arced, floated - a dazzling light tearing through the second story of the houses surrounding them. There ! A sharp glint of light, blazing overhead, and two piercing green eyes.

“Move!”

Lucian burst left as Senna tore back the Mist, cannon aglow. She saw Lucian’s bullets rain like starlight, shattering the boards above and raining splinters and dust into the courtyard. But always two steps behind. The glow of Lucian’s mark was fading in the Mist. Where to fire? She saw Lucian fire his mark again, but this one exploded; a dozen diamonds, glittering around the houses, pouring in screaming. Wraiths. Dozens of them, half a Harrowing in its own right, and no way to tell which mark was the Captains.

Make your own darkness. Senna felt the cold chill creep up her spine, rustle her hair. Miss Fortune’s laughter was everywhere. But she closed her eyes; she tucked her Mist around her tight. There.

Senna felt her gun fire; felt herself miss. In the distance, she could hear Lucian, yelling her name. In the Mist, she could feel his fear. She could see his face.

“Missed a spot,” said the Captain, and her cold breath touched Senna’s neck.

The folds of darkness melded against each other, screaming, crying, tearing at each other; Senna heard the unfamiliar click of a hammer before her. But her cannon was down; she felt the rushing waters in slow motion.

Senna fired.

The wooden courtyard collapsed in a burst of piercing darkness, splintering in a great upheaval of algae and rot; Senna let herself fall, reached her hand into the blackness and curled her fist around the ankle of the Captain; her Mist ripping at the other’s, clawing, dragging them into the depths with her.

Their bodies hit the water with a shock, the chill so stark and sudden Senna felt her fingers seize. An iron grip on a thrashing prey. Senna couldn’t see; didn’t need to see. It wasn’t her that was going to defeat the Captain.

“Kench!” Senna screamed under the water. She could feel the life-air leaving her mouth, bubbling into the void. Trust. That was what it had taken to rein in the Mist, to leave the lantern, to stand fast in the Harrowing and open her eyes. She would create her own darkness, and she would trust in it.

She felt it, the currents vortex around her, writhing and pulling at her.

Senna let go. The water stilled. And then -

The salt of Bilgewater poured into her nose, her eyes, scorched her lungs as it frothed out of the jagged hole in the boardwalk; Senna felt her body touch clouds before it began to hurtle through the blazing night sky. Senna cried out. Darkness - bring the darkness back - and her Mist sprung forth to wrap her tightly until she could land, with a loud, wet slap on the ground. Bruised, but alive.

“Kench,” she wheezed. He’d gotten the Captain, hadn’t he? They’d won. Senna stagged towards the hole she’d blasted into the planks of the courtyard, peering into the inky waters.

“Stooping down a level?” Senna heard, before a boot connected with her jaw, sending her spinning across the devastated wood. Senna spat; dust, dirt, blood. A hand seized her hair, yanking her upwards. Miss Fortune’s unfazed eyes met hers. Water dripping from her hair. Mist pouring from her fingers. “Oldest trick in the book.” She dropped Senna, letting her chin slam into the ground. Senna groaned. The Mist, which had caught her so gently, seized her arms; Senna felt tendrils claw at her wrists. This wasn’t a normal Mist. Harrowings were supposed to be indiscriminate. Oppressive. But the Mist parted before Miss Fortune like the eye of a storm, as cool and collected as dew.

From the ground, Senna saw Miss Fortune move over to another spot. A body? Lucian.

“Kench!” Miss Fortune crooned, slowly digging the heel of her boot into Lucian’s neck. Senna lifted her head, only for the Mist to gag her tightly. “Dinner is served.” She grinned down at Lucian, who was beginning to turn purple. Senna wheezed, reaching for her gun, but the wraiths yanked at her Mist, bound her in it. “Your wife here tell you what Tahm eats?” she said.

“Stop,” Senna said. “Stop. You don’t know what you’re doing. Whatever lie he’s told you-”

“-about this being the greatest love story ever told?” Miss Fortune said, stepping back. Her hands moved like a captain’s, directing this way and that. The Mist began to burrow around Lucian. “So let’s try this again. I’m not entirely your enemy, Senna of the Isles. I want you to live. And believe it or not, I want your husband to live, too. I don’t like turning my back on friends of Bilgewater. But it’s business. You knew that the second you shook hands with Tahm.”

Senna watched her step back. Lucian’s body was lifted by the Mist, and dangled over the water like bait on a hook. A pulse of anxiety in the Mist. Senna couldn’t see Lucian’s face, but she knew what it looked like. Stall, Senna. “Why even bother with this?” Senna said.

“Viego offered me something I couldn’t refuse,” Miss Fortune said. Senna could feel the wraiths tighten around her bruised ribs. A cough rattled its way out of her throat.

“What’s ... that?”

“Life, Senna. Life.” Miss Fortune’s lips curled up in a smile. “The power to protect it, in Bilgewater. I had to move the people, because of our little scuffle, but see how easy this was?” She reaches out a hand, watches a Mist dance between her fingers like a butterfly. “I can do this all the time. I’m sorry to cause you and your husband’s little lightstick crusade to end, but I need this. And Bilgewater needs me.”

The words were human. Senna saw that distant life again, where she and this woman were friends; where she was handing Senna a drink, and the light in the pub was warm, and there was white sand underneath their feet. But Senna looked.

There was no breath on her lips, no light behind her eyes. Fake appeals to a false concept of justice.

“You have so much of it. Life, I mean. How does it feel to have never gone hungry in the soul?” Miss Fortune sucked in a breath, but Senna knew it was all charade. There was no purpose behind it. “I’m not a stupid woman. I know he gave me these powers to serve him. But I’m not you.”

Senna bit back a cry as the Captain drove a boot heel into her shoulder, grinding down on the joint. Her back hit the cold shock of the ground. The captain leveled her eyes with Senna’s. “I’m not greedy.”

“Greedy?” Senna curled her hands around the ankle of the boot.

“All that life inside you,” Miss Fortune spat, and Senna saw those green eyes staring past her. “When there’s not enough to go around here. How is that fair?” Her gaze turned back onto Senna. Senna stared back. This time, in the cold fury of her words, there was real humanity. “I spent my life tipping the scales. If he wants his wife, he’ll get his wife.” She curled her fist, and Senna felt the light in her chest tear, saw Lucian emerge from the Mist, saw Miss Fortune plant the barrel in his chest. The hammer pulled back. “The world owes us a debt.”

“You’re going to end the world.”

Miss Fortune’s eyes narrowed.

“Call it justice.”

The sheer blue tip of a blade appeared. It rested cooly on Miss Fortune’s collarbone, and a slow, languid shhhhkk of the edges closing echoed across the lake of Bilgewater.

“Now, now,” Gwen said, smiling behind the handle of her scissors. “Scissors beats gun, don’t you think?”

And she snipped.

The Queen of Bilgewater fell at the hands of the seamstress. Senna and Lucian stared - but Gwen merely knelt down, grabbing hold of the Captain’s wrists with a surprising viciousness. “Could one of you hold this?” she asked pleasantly, waving one of the limp hands around.

Senna couldn’t have picked up Lucian’s jaw with a shovel. “Gwen, you...”

“Oh goodness! Nothing so morbid, please.” Gwen moved some of Sarah’s hair. From neck-down, Senna realized it was faintly turning into a ruddy orange. The color in her hands was returning. But from the neck up, her skin remained a pallid grey; wraiths danced frantically around her eyelids. “I briefly cut off her connection to Viego. Much of an emphasis on the brief. Some rope, please?”

“Why, of course, my dear.”

Senna saw Lucian’s jaw tighten as Tahm slid out of the water, blinking his eyes at Gwen slyly. From the depths of the docks, he produced an algae-strewn rope. Gwen wrinkled her nose but accepted.

“Nice of you to show again, Kench,” Senna said. Tahm gave her a full-faced smile.

“My pleasure to make an appearance,” he said. Lucian shot him a dirty look, massaging his throat from where Miss Fortune had made her impression.

“You took your sweet time,” he rasped.

“My deepest apologies, good Lucian,” Tahm said. “But your wife was right on the money, as they say. I couldn’t do much - I was famished.” Kench bared his teeth in a smile. “Thank you for your contribution.”

“We held up our end of the deal,” Lucian said, through gritted teeth. “Information on how to beat Viego. Now.”

“My, you might’ve called this one a freebie,” Tahm scratched his belly, chuckling. “The Captain told you what he wanted. The King deals in the devil’s currency.”

“I swear on my father’s pistols, if you don’t stop speaking in riddles-”

“Souls,” Senna said. Tahm looked at her with that dreaded understanding between them. She was right. “He deals in souls.”

“You can’t play chess with just pawns,” Tahm said. “Not when you’re playing to win back your queen. Miss Fortune here was just one of his little board pieces. If you have skin in this game, I suggest you find your own. Maybe take some of his, before he gets the chance.”

Senna shouldered her gun. “Where would we start?”

“What you’re looking for is a soul-seeker,” said Tahm, finally, adjusting his tophat. “Many talents in the world with that skill. But the one you stand a chance of finding alive is in Piltover.” He gave a hearty laugh. “Where else to make some headway on your quest, than the City of Progress?”

Chapter Text

“Níl sé ina lá, níl a ghrá,” sang the woman in the forge. “Níl sé ina lá is ní bheidh go maidin.” From the doorway, a little girl was watching. She strained her ears, waiting for it - tssss, came the sound, the beautiful hiss of hot steel in the basin. “Nil se'n la is ni bheidh go foil -” The woman turned.

“So you should be asleep, little cailín.”

Guiltily, Sarah ducked her head back, but Abigale only laughed.

The night was at their backs, but there was a window into the kitchen. Sarah could see her father inside. He was making them a midnight snack. She watched him cut the cured meat with careful hands, could smell the crackling of the bread. Abigale sang at him with her pretty, high voice. Without looking up, he crooned back.

Sarah danced on her pudgy little feet, swung her monkey doll around the room. Abigale would look up and laugh at her. Sarah could see her so clearly - the crow’s feet around her eyes, the dimple of her crooked grin, the shine of sweat on her brow. Abigale was a thousand years wise and thirty years young.

They spent the rest of the night singing together, Abigale playing her forge like a fiddle and her father drumming a beat with the dough in his hands. Sarah knew tomorrow morning, there would be fresh bread to eat and a new gun to fire. Both would be perfect. They always were.

“This feeling,” said Abigale, tucking Sarah into bed. “Never let it go.”

“I won’t,” said Sarah. Abigale smiled at her - or at least, Sarah thought she did. It was hard to tell in the dark. She was turning away, now, her red hair pale in the moonlight of the window. “Did you hear me?”

Abigale was leaving. “I said I won’t. I promise!” And though the word was too big for her mouth, Sarah felt as though she knew this emotion well.

Desperation.

“Did you hear me, Mama?”

Sarah reached out to the figure, but she could only see her hands now, pale white in the blackness.

Chapter Text

Piltover was not empty, and the devils were here.

Instead of the base, the Worldstone had dropped the group onto a sigil, hastily scribbled onto a stone by some desperate Sentinel. The alleyway had been barely large enough to fit them all; they’d been backed into a dead end piled high with garbage. The City of Progress seemed to have grinded its life to a sudden, disastrous halt. Lucian had mistaken their landing for Zaun, at first. Just outside the alleyway, Lucian could hear the wailing of wraiths, and the screams of humans. Lucian felt a blood vessel in his temple about to pop.

It was only Senna’s hand that steadied him, strong and firm. “We need to figure out where we are,” she said. “And where we’re going. Gwen, can you give us some cover? And help me make this sigil more permanent.”

“Straightaway!”

Tahm Kench watched in amusement as Gwen threw over them her cloak of Hallowed Mist, taking a deep, long whiff of it. It took everything inside Lucian to not comment on the bit of drool hanging out of Kench’s mouth. At least he had the decency to dab it away with a soiled handkerchief.

“While you two are at that,” he said, watching the two carve the sigil, “I think I will take a gander at what’s around this corner.” He turned, waddling towards the end of the alley.

“Are you kidding me?” said Lucian, moving after Kench. “I can hear the wraiths from here. They’ll sense any soul that steps out into that street and rip it out of your body.”

Tahm Kench stopped at the edge of the Hallowed Mist, turning and quirking an eye at Lucian. He had to bite back a comment as Kench’s globular yellow eyes stared him down. “My boy,” he said. “Who said I had a soul?”

And then he was gone.

Lucian shuddered at the rippling floor. There was something unholy about him, aside from the... well, being a whole demon thing. Pavement had parted like water before the massive creature, and now wobbled in a state of unreality that made Lucian’s head spin. Life used to be easier as a Sentinel. If it was green and black, you shot it till it was dead. Then Senna came back with green eyes; and now he was traveling with a massive demon frog. Fish. Whatever.

“Well,” came the silken voice of Kench. “I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.”

Did people vomit when they went into cardiac arrest? Lucian was sure that his physician was going to have words with him, if they ever survived this. Something about blood pressure and stress management.

“Let’s get the good news first,” Lucian hissed.

“We are just around the corner to your headquarters.”

“Oh, oh, and the bad news?” Gwen asked, hopping up.

Tahm Kench smiled. “I’m sure you can guess.”

“Crawling with wraiths,” Senna finished grimly.

Tahm nodded, adjusting his outfit and checking his clawed hands. “Building’s still tall and standing, if that’s any comfort. But you should know - it doesn’t look like it’s open for visitors, dead or living.” He opens one yellow eye to look directly at Senna. “The doors are locked shut.”

Senna reached around, pulling her silken hood over her head. Lucian wanted to reach out, to hold onto her - hold her back - but she gave him a sharp look with those piercing green eyes, and he felt the muscles in his hands seize up. There were no words. Just that look.

“Let me,” he said carefully, “come with.”

“No,” Senna said. Lucian felt something cold sweep behind his ears, some displeased whispers just out of reach. He shoved aside its disappointment. “Sweep the perimeter for survivors. I’m going to scope the headquarters, see if I can find a way in or if there are any surviving Sentinels.” She narrows her eyes. “The doors should be open, especially at a time like this. We should hear the Sentinels. I don’t like this.”

Tahm Kench chuckled grimly. “My dear Senna,” he said. “I’m afraid, by my observation, that there aren’t any more Sentinels around.”

Lucian saw Senna’s jaw tighten. Of course she’d thought that. But it was not in her nature to leave something unchecked.

“Go,” Lucian said, though he thought he might choke on the words. “We’ll move under Hallowed Mist. I’ll send a star out for you, if we need you.”

Senna lifted a hand to cup his cheek. He offers her a smile. Her hand was cool. They used to be warm. She used to run hot, as if she could carry all the sun from the Isles in her. She used to complain how cold Demacia was in comparison. Lucian remembered teasing her, pulling her close after the embers of their campfire had died, watching the warm darkness of her brown eyes.

“I’ll watch for the star,” Senna says. She could always see past his words.

I’m always going to need you.

Senna pulled her cloak about her, and he felt that same uncanny rush of the soul, something tugging and gently letting go. Senna was gone. A porcelain hand touched his shoulder.

“Shall we go, Mister Lucian?”

Lucian felt the smooth, solid weight of his pistols, and the whispering shadows at his back. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Lucian decided that he did not want to fight anything thinner than soup ever again.

The headquarters had been covered, spotted and lined with the Harrowing and its minions. They’d fought to the door, traveling under guise of Hallowed Mist - but even Gwen’s weaving had its limits, and as they’d careened into the doors of the headquarters, Lucian had found his relics had not been able to unlock the gates.

“What do we do?” Gwen called, and though her voice was light, Lucian could see the beading of sweat on her forehead. Kench stood aside; Tahm’s teeth and tongue could do nothing against the Harrowing. But this? The rushing wind, the wailing of tormented souls and the act of fighting them without Senna - this was familiar enough. Lucian lifted his pistol, and fired a star into the sky.

“What else, Scissors? We fight!”

Lucian had long since learned that each Harrowing looked different; the twisted visages of each wraith were drawn from the souls of each thing that contributed to the thing. In Piltover, the wraiths looked gaunt. Helpless. Desperate.

Lucian put the gun to its forehead and pulled the trigger.

“The doors are opening!” Lucian felt small fingers grab the crook of his elbow, pulling him over Piltover’s cobbled streets and into the marbled tiles of the Sentinel headquarters.

An unfamiliar voice, melodic and bright called. “You’re all in? Good! We need to shut it”

“Not yet!” Lucian roared, eyes searching the billowing cloud. As if the whole of the Harrowing could sense the open door, he saw it - a thunderhead of mist, pallid green against the shadow that was the Harrowing. Lucian could breathe again.

Over the calamity of the Harrowing, in a sweeping flight, Senna landed on the marble, cloak flaring like wings. She tore off the ghastly mask of smoke from her face, and swung her cannon round to the sky. Above them, a gathering wave of wraiths, about to crash down. “Close the doors!”

When Senna fired, he did too. The last thing they say before the doors swung shut was a four-pointed star, enwreathed in shadow, ripping a hole straight through the tide of darkness.

“OMG, like, you totally killed that thing!”

The voice made them both jump - but there was only one person there, a smiling young woman.

“...oh em jee?” Lucian said, baffled. The girl rushed past him and pressed a complicated series of buttons, each one closing a different set of doors and sealing in an extra set of locks. Senna and Lucian gave each other alarmed looks. Those were not up to Sentinel code, and the girl was effectively sealing them all in here to die in the event the wraiths pushed through.

“Like, oh my gods?” the girl said, seeming like she had done this far too many times before.

“Why not just say, ‘oh my gods?’” Lucian asked tensely, shoving her away from the controls. Behind him, he could hear Gwen’s scissors going, the howling screams of the last of the wraiths in the foyer. The girl scoffed indignantly.

“It’s like, to save time! Like, life is short and only getting shorter, you know? You gotta say what you gotta say, like, super fast!” The girl swatted him away. “What are you doing?”

“You essentially sealed us all in a mass grave,” Senna said. “We need an escape route, since your Worldstone is broken. Who installed those doors? Where is your head Sentinel?” Senna eyed the girl up and down critically. She was dressed in a sparkly white outfit, sequined far too many times to be healthy; a glittering purple dress and embroidered gloves completed an outfit too ostentatious to be practical, even by Piltoveran standards.

“What? Oh, me? I’m not a Sentinel! I’ve just been looking for you guys.” She waved her hand. “I redid your doors. The wraiths nearly broke down your old ones like, days ago. And I removed the windows!”

“You what?”

“Look, I’m feeling like we got off on totally the wrong foot here.” The girl bounced a few steps, then spun around, throwing her hands out. “I’m Seraphine!”

Blank stares abounded. Gwen, at least, had the heart to curtsy back. “I’m Gwen! Pleased to meet you.”

Lucian had to take a second to really assess Seraphine. She couldn’t have been more than 20 years old, skin glowing with Piltover pride and a thick tumble of pink curls sweeping low over the ground. Lucian stared. How did she not get stuff stuck in there?

Seraphine hopped back, and Lucian’s finger seized over his gun as a flat - platform - scooter- thing? - flew up underneath Seraphine, cushioning her landing. She swung her legs and beamed at them. “Pleased to meet you too, Gwen!” She laughed lightly. “And you are-?”

“Senna,” said Senna, stepping forward. Lucian could see a small twitch to her eyebrow, and he surreptitiously took a step back. Oh, she was irritated. “This is my partner, Lucian. We-”

“I take it you guys aren’t from around here!” Seraphine was flying a graceful circle around them, as if checking them over. Lucian felt the cool press of Senna’s back against his, and he’d be lying if he didn’t say he felt the comfort. Neither of them enjoyed being circled. “Let me guess - “ she leveled a finger at Lucian. “Demacian, right?”

“How did-?”

“I have an ear for accents,” Seraphine said, grinning. She spun around Gwen, and Lucian could hear it now - the thrumming tones of music. He felt something warm settle over the room. “And you...” she hummed. “I can’t really place you.” Gwen only shook her head and laughed.

“Me, neither!”

“Seraphine,” Senna began, only to have Seraphine zooming up, ear listening intently. She squinted at Senna.

“You sound like you’ve traveled a lot. But - Serpent Isles?”

“Close,” Senna says, guarded, but impressed. Lucian couldn’t help but nudge her. Something about Seraphine was so inherently distracting, disarming. It’s why they had each other, he supposed - to keep their guards up. “Around there. Listen-”

“Bilgewater.”

Seraphine’s smile froze on her face, and Lucian saw the blood drain out of her cheeks. A full-body shudder seized Seraphine as Tahm Kench emerged from the ground behind her, tipping his hat. Seraphine scrambled back - Tahm gave her his customary smile. “Tahm Kench, at your service.”

Lucian saw Seraphine’s gloved hands clutch at her platform, and she was on her feet in a flash. She moved fast, Lucian realized. Too fast. Was she trained?

“What are you?”

Even Senna seemed surprised at the coldness. Seraphine, shaking, floated between them and Kench. She held a hand out. A ward, or a command. “Stay back.” The air in the room grew thicker, somehow, oppressively humid and tense. Lucian could see something in those beady yellow eyes, and it wasn’t friendly.

“Kench.” Senna’s voice cut through. “Stand down.”

“My mistake,” Kench said, giving Seraphine a great, lumbering bow. “I just wanted to introduce myself to the soulseeker.”

Lucian and Senna whirled on her simultaneously. “It’s you?” Senna said. “You can find souls?”

Seraphine’s eyes never leave Kench. “...yes,” she said, slowly. It suddenly struck Lucian that Seraphine was looking at them with a little more intent than he’d felt from most friendly locals - he way her blue eyes zipped to the gash across Senna’s cheek, or the boot-shaped bruising on the side of his neck. But when he thought about it - there was no trace of pain left there, and at a glance, Senna’s gash had faded away. Had Seraphine done that?

When she regarded them now, with those same intelligent eyes, they held none of the warmth.

“Let’s try this again,” Senna said, ease gone. “We are Sentinels of Light, and this is our Piltover headquarters. He-” she points to Tahm Kench, “-is with us. He’ll do you no harm while we’re here. Where are the other Sentinels? I scoured the entire perimeter. There’s no one here. What have you done?”

Seraphine regarded her warily, cocking her head as if to listen to something. After a moment-

“Oh,” she said, voice subdued. “Oh, you must be backup. Well - let me show you around.” She hopped off her platform. She was tall, Lucian realized, even compared to himself. Larger than life. She started walking, and he realized she had massive platform boots on, striding on them with ease towards the back. Not without a wary glance to Kench, but she seemed to accept Senna’s word as good.

Lucian had never been given the pleasure of exploring the Piltover headquarters. It reminded him vaguely of the one in Demacia - sleek marble walls, arching up to what should have been darkness, shattered by the smooth, glowing stones. Esoteric iconography from the isles. The tapestries of the fallen, shimmering in golden thread.

But there was more to it. Copper piping, running through the ground. With some chagrin Lucian recognized the etching of hextech symbols in the floor patterning. The room hummed. He could hear, somewhere, the rushing of steam through pipes, and the churning of gears. Seraphine walked to a door in the far back, tapping some numbered buttons. The door began to chug open - Lucian nearly drew his pistols on it. The ethereal designs were gears, he realized, twirling with blue light to slide the Sentinel doors open soundlessly. As he stared, nearly slack-jawed, Seraphine waved them in.

“We heard something terrible was going to happen,” Seraphine explained as they entered the Worldstone room. The Worldstone itself hadn’t quite been shattered into bits, but laid atop its surface was a metal contraption. A stand, Lucian realized. It looked not unlike the one stationed in the hall they’d just left, the one that sealed the doors. “We didn’t know what, till your people reached out. Asked me to throw some money at the problem and-” she threw her hands out. “Ta-da! Here we are.”

“Who is we?” Senna said. “You haven’t answered my question. The others. Where are they?”

Seraphine’s smile faded slightly. “...lost,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

Senna’s mouth opened for another question, but Seraphine reached out and laid her hand on Senna’s arm. “I met a lot of them in my short time here. They all were such brilliant people. They defended this city I love so much with everything they had.”

“I didn’t know them,” Senna said, but there was something troubled in her voice. “...what happened?”

Seraphine slowly retracted her hand. “The first storm came in while we were still fortifying this place. Your people managed to fight them off, but...” Seraphine bit her bottom lip, running her hand over the Worldstone. “They said it’d done something it never had before. It looked like it was trying to use this. And I heard...” Seraphine trailed off, then shook her head.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” she said. “We managed to bunker down many of the citizens below this place. Between our fortifications and the stones here, it’s managed to keep many in the city alive.”

Senna exhales, rolling her fingers over her cannon. “So we’re alone in this.”

Lucian reached out. Half of him expected Senna to move away, to lean away from his touch and leave his hand grasping at mist. But it landed solidly on her shoulder. She didn’t look back at him, but touched his hand with hers.

“Not totally alone!” Gwen piped up. “We have each other, and I’d suspect, a good friend in Miss Seraphine here! Being the soulseeker we’ve been looking for, and all.”

Lucian took one look at Seraphine’s face. “I don’t know about that, Scissors.”

“Sorry if this is, like, too personal, but,” Seraphine crept towards her platform, which Lucian noted had been following her with an almost protective, doglike persistence. “-how do I know I can trust you all?” her eyes flicked over to Tahm Kench. “Especially him.”

Lucian would have answered, if he could have, but the sheer insanity of having to think about the state of his company for more than two seconds almost had him cracking a broken smile. He was traveling with a girl wielding a pair of giant scissors to kill ghosts, a globular demon that literally ate misery for breakfast and his beautiful, capable wife who was also very undead. Trust them? This glittery, sparkling girl? If Lucian was a better man, he might’ve told her to run the other way. Or fly, or scooter, or whatever that platform thing was.

He was not a better man. Maybe none of them were. The silence stretched through the high-vaulted ceilings of the Worldstone chamber, and then:

“Her heart,” Seraphine said. Her head was cocked to the side, listening for something, her eyes focused on something just beyond Senna. Lucian felt his blood run cold. Seraphine did not sound like she was talking about his wife. “I hear it, beating, just loud enough. In you.”

No. Lucian opened his mouth to deny it, but Senna stepped forward, a glimmer of something in her eyes. “You can?”

“Yes,” Seraphine said, and held out a hand. “Let me listen.”

Without hesitation, Senna put her hand in hers. In a swift movement, Seraphine put Senna’s wrist to her ear, lips half-parted in a question. “She’s so quiet,” Seraphine murmured. “But if I can just ... resonate with her, I can...”

“Senna-”

“Do it,” Senna said, eyes on Seraphine. Lucian could hear the fervent tone where the others could not. The way she got about it. The light, the guide, the ghost in her. “Whatever you need.”

Seraphine opened her mouth, and she began to sing.

Maybe, Lucian would reflect later, maybe it was the hall. The Worldstone chamber arched tall over them all, ivory and towered and beautiful like so many other Worldstone chambers, like so many Piltoveran buildings. The world seemed to bend in at her voice, the music ringing across the polished stone, reverberating in Lucian’s chest. There was something there - like cool water, a current zipping to fill the empty crevices in him, send a shiver down his spine. He blinked - Lucian realized he was looking away from Seraphine, from Senna. The patterned floor glistened below him, and to his chagrin he caught his own reflection in the bronze. Just above his head, reflected still, was Senna. There was a light. She was glowing. She was radiant.

It must have been the hall, he’d tell himself later. But in the moment, it felt something like his homeland would call magic.

Lucian looked up as the light died. Senna’s eyes were shut. For a moment- she was - someone he recognized, from years ago. But she opened her eyes, and she was Senna again.

Seraphine was looking at Senna, hands over her mouth, tears in her eyes. But Lucian could see in the way her eyes squeezed, her head shook - she was smiling. Senna rolled her shoulders, shaking off whatever air had just descended on them all.

“So you’ll work with-” Senna let out a grunt as Seraphine threw her arms around Senna, squeezing tightly.

“To help you? Anything!” Seraphine looked down at Senna, and then with that same unfocused gaze to that thing beyond. “And you too.”

Senna stepped back, and Seraphine turned to the others. Her eyes swept over the group, and Lucian could not help but feel like a spotlight had hit him; cast some sort of long shadow behind him that he didn’t dare turn around to face. Her eyes lingered on him just a touch longer. He didn’t miss it.

“What do you need me to do?”

When Tahm Kench moved to whisper something into Seraphine’s ear, this time, she did not flinch from him. But her beaming face slowly sobered.

“Ah,” Seraphine said, softly. Lucian thought he heard a lilt in there, something foreign and tucked away. It rang familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Senna said. “You’re going to have to.”

Chapter Text

The light had hardly faded from the worldstone before Senna felt the cool metal of a blade beneath her throat.

“Warm welcome,” she said, blinking the light from her eyes. Down the podium they stood upon roiled a mass of people, and that empty pit in Senna’s chest just sunk its floor six feet deeper. They were not sentinels. They weren’t even warriors. These were the sun-beaten faces of farmers, villagers, the people that the Sentinels were bound by oath to protect. They populated the hall, with not a single ivory cloak among them. Senna felt Lucian’s hand squeeze hers.

From the corner of her eye, Senna could see the glint of steel under the throats of each of the others beside her. But no figures - the blades hovered delicately, threateningly, each against the jugular of her allies. Senna chanced a glance down to the wielder of the blade. She rested halfway down the stairs, glaring darkly up at Senna. The villagers below her had cleared a wide circle. The only sound in the room was the soft padding of the girl up the stairs, to stand level with Senna. She couldn’t have been more than 25, floating in red silk, but her eyes were set in a way Senna knew she would not hesitate to draw the blade across their throats.

“Oh my gosh,” Seraphine breathed. “A real Navori dancer.”

The girl stopped, at that, eyes flicking to Seraphine sharply. It silenced her. “My name,” she said, voice echoing down the marble hall, “Is Irelia of House Xan, protectorate of the Conservatory, the Placidcium, and my people. Who are you?”

“Senna,” Senna said, keeping her gaze even. She had to look down to meet Irelia’s eyes. So young. Malnourished, maybe. Senna remembered being her age and just as haunted. “Of the Southern Isles. I am a Sentinel of Light, as is my partner, Lucian.” She felt Lucian try to give a nod, jerking his head back to avoid the blade. Senna watched Irelia’s fingers twitch, and the blade fit itself snugly against his throat once more. “These are our companions, Seraphine of Piltover, Gwen of... of the Southern Isles, and Tahm Kench of-”

“The world, madam,” Tahm said, lifting his hat. “And all the riches it has to offer.”

Irelia scoffed lightly. Senna felt the blade scrape her neck lightly in the wind of her breath. “You come to pilfer.”

“We come seeing aid,” Senna corrected, shooting Kench a side glance. “This is a Sentinel headquarters. The others have fallen. We came to gather our forces, resources, to stop this Harrowing.”

Irelia paused, head cocked to the side as if she was listening for something. After a moment, she steps back, hand withdrawing - the blades sung as they left the party’s necks, a keening sound as they rearranged themselves into a circle behind the young woman. “My apologies,” Irelia says, taking a few steps down the stairs. “This... Harrowing has taken much from us.” Her eyes darken. “And I’m afraid you’re already too late for aid.”

Senna’s eyes flick over the crowd. She could feel it, the sigh of relief they had breathed as Irelia had declared them safe. But the fear was ripe in the room. And there were no Sentinels left to ease it. Senna closed her eyes.

“I see,” she murmured.

Irelia extended a hand out to Senna. “Come,” she said. “Let the people see you. There’s much to be said about a Sentinel being seen, in these times.”

Senna gave Lucian a backwards glance as she took Irelia’s hand.

The people parted as they drifted down the stairs. It reminded Senna of when a monsoon would blow into the islands, thrash the sea against the one craggy rock jutting out from her homeland like a mother cleaning a pillow. She thought she’d grown accustomed to the instinctive wide berth people paid her. Still - when her green eyes flicked to a small girl, round- cheeked and pudgy-fingered, it hurt to see her flinch away.

Irelia had traced the rim of her teacup so many times, Senna was sure there would be a ridge in her finger.

It had been apparent that only parading her and Lucian had any real effect on the people - the only two in Sentinel garb, the only two that appeared to be carrying relic weapons. Even with Seraphine’s face being recognized by a few stragglers - what was a pop star to do in the face of undeath?

“And that’s why we need you!” Seraphine piped up. Irelia stopped her tracing, still somewhat lost in thought. “I can hear it, in your heart. You’re one of the people we need to fight the darkness! If you could come with us-”

“You ask me to abandon my people,” Irelia cutted in. “You ask me to leave and fight ghosts, when my people live before me, frightened and scattered. I cannot accept.”

Figures. Senna watched Seraphine’s face fall, and patted her shoulder. Irelia leaned back.

“You may have your weapons, and materials from this hall. Your people have long protected us. We honor their sacrifice, and your kinship. I ask only that you leave some so we may defend ourselves - I understand that there are other halls, throughout Ionia, like this one that still stand. They speak to us at times, though it is garbled. Perhaps you may save them.”

“You could save them, too,” Senna said. “If you came with us. You would be giving us more of a fighting chance to cut off the head of the serpent. You know how to fight, you know this land. We know Viego’s been collecting relics - and there’s no place in the world that has the same magic as Ionia. We’ve already missed him in Bilgewater and Piltover, small cities- but if Ionia hasn’t fully fallen, there’s a chance.”

“Your people love you!” Seraphine cried, earnestness in her eyes. “I can hear it, all around. They’d rally behind you for sure.”

“Precisely why I cannot go,” Irelia said. Her gaze stubbornly rested on Senna’s own, obstinate about avoiding Seraphina’s siren eyes. “They look to my leadership. They place their lives in my hands to protect and wield. I cannot cast them aside carelessly. You understand.”

Senna did. She wished she didn’t.

“Then at least point us in a direction,” Senna said. “I’m not familiar with Ionia. But Viego has been after artifacts of great power - something you may have knowledge of.”

Irelia leaned back. “I do,” she says, but her blue eyes harden. “I also know of the positions in the land, as you said. Anywhere sacred that may hold the artifacts you seek have long been lost to the shades.”

Senna felt her heart rub up against her chest, strain up against her ribs like a piece of irritating fabric. Lucian must have seen a vein pop on her head, because he laid a cool hand on her shoulder, his pinkie brushing up against the back of her neck. Senna felt every angry fire in her extinguish, like her heart had sunk into cool water.

“Nothing,” Lucian said, “is ever fully lost to the shade.”

Irelia’s eyes flicked between the two of them. “I hope to the spirits that you are right,” she says. She sighs, and turns to look at a tapestry hanging beside the wall. Senna followed her gaze. The Sentinels of Ionia did not have single tapestries for their fallen. They had one long one, suspended from the branches of trees that grew from the ground itself. One twisted up to the ceiling, almost disappearing into the roof itself - and from it, a scroll-like tapestry that spiraled its way down the mighty hall’s marble walls, down to a low-hanging sprout. Senna can see the more recent memory etched there. A thousand crying souls, the silk so blotted in darkness, as if someone had thrown an inkwell against it - and woven in its center, a circle of her brethren, most whom she’s never met. A tiny pinprick of light against the darkness that surrounds.

The tree that held this end seemed to sag under the weight of its story. Senna closed her eyes. She felt Seraphina lay a hand on her shoulder.

“Senna...”

“There’s a grove,” Irelia said, finally. She exhaled. “It is called Omikayalan. Outsiders call it the Greenglade, the Heart of the World, the Grove of the Ancients. Artifacts, relics, we had many of those in the Placidium. But if you are looking for something to help you fight, then the Grove is the only other place I can think of that might withstand the darkness. It may also hold what your Ruined King is looking for.”

Hope. Senna can’t help but lean in, bent over the map, breath bated, pulling away from Seraphine’s tugging hand. “Where is it?” Senna said. “Can you show it to us?”

“Here,” Irelia said, tapping on the map, “most of the time.”

“...most of the time?”

“Maybe I can hear it,” Seraphine said, an insistent tone to her voice. “But Senna-”

“Magic shifts and sways,” Irelia said, “like branches of a tree. While the roots are always there, the exact location of the Grove and its protection will move, instantly and quietly. That’s part of why we are staying here, in these penetrable halls, rather than in the safety of the Grove.”

“Great,” Lucian muttered. “And I’m guessing there’s no good way to reliably locate it before it moves?”

“There are some who would be attuned to the land, that might guide you, but they are rare and full of trepidation even before the darkness,” Irelia said. There was a weary dip to her brow, and Irelia rubbed her temples. “Not to mention, the Grove is protected.”

“Senna-”

“Protected?” Senna said. “By what?”

“Who,” Irelia said. “Spirits of the forest, and-”

“Senna-”

The door slams open, and a young woman stumbles in. “Irelia,” she gasped. “Intruders at the door.”

Irelia was on her feet, Senna counting the singing notes of each blade as they unsheathed behind her. Irelia only gave Senna and Lucian a cold nod before she was striding out the door. “Who and how many, Liana?”

“Just two,” Liana said, but her floating voice was full of taut nerves as the two women walked out the door. “But it’s...”

Senna was still in her seat when she felt Lucian’s hand at her shoulder.

“Follow them?”

“Follow them.”

In a fluttering shroud of shade and shadow, Senna helped Lucian balance in the corners of the ceiling. Senna couldn’t help but feel vaguely like a traitor - in its prime, the Ionian Sentinel headquarters would never have let a corner go unlit. But now, groaning under the weight of the harrowing, the ceilings-lights had gone dim.

Irelia had evacuated the hall. Down, towards the front doors, Senna could hear wood splintering. Lucian wobbled beside her. She grabbed onto his arm.

Two shadows stretched out from the hall. From the rafters, Senna could make out the figures in the doorway. A tall, lithe man, but broad-shouldered and proud. Beside him, a smaller figure - no. He was beside her; a glance told Senna that the dark, burning presence marching up the Sentinel halls was the leader here. From the sides of their head sprouted feathery, fluttering...

“Are those-?”

“Vastayaa,” Senna whispered.

The pair strode in. Senna could make out the shape of malice around the smaller figure, who let her taloned feet spark against the marble hall floor.

Irelia alone stood before them, in front of the stairs to the worldstone. The silence was deafening.

“... Hail, children of Lhotlan,” Irelia said, at last, a hand raised before her chest in greeting. Senna said the vastayaan woman’s ear flick, and she said something. Senna didn’t know the meaning, but she could guess from the way the woman looked like she wanted to spit in Irelia’s face.

“What is she saying?” Lucian muttered.

“I speak Navori as well as you,” Senna said, elbowing him lightly. But her eyebrows creased. Why was Irelia...?

“I’m afraid wartime has taught me a new tongue,” Irelia said, seemingly in response to the woman. “Forgive me.”

“You want to speak the foreigner’s language?” said the woman, and Senna stiffened. The words came quick, sharp, fluent and biting. “Fine. I’ll speak in the terms you understand.”

Senna saw Irelia’s mouth set into a hard line. “I know who you are, Violet Raven,” Irelia said. “I know what you seek - though why here, I don’t understand. In this storm, the forests are yours.”

“Ours?” The woman let out a laugh that sounded like it gurgled in the back of her throat, trills and deep, deep rage embedded between the sound. “Don’t bullshit us, human. You can’t even bring yourself to say our names. You leave us the dregs of the land once you’ve sucked the last of the magic, or abandon it the moment you feel the magic overwhelm.”

“Ho-oh, now you’ve really made her mad!” said the man, hopping from one foot to the other.

Senna watched the woman’s hand turn in the air, and from a line of distinct, slithering smoke, a flare of razor-sharp feathers appeared. Senna could feel her stomach plummeting to the ground, her eyes sweeping over the floor, the tendrils of smoke playfullying darting between the vastayaa’s taloned feet, under their feathered cloaks.

She heard Lucian’s hammer pull back.

Below them, Irelia’s face was hardening into steel like the blades that readied themselves behind her. “I know you, Xayah and Rakan of the Lhotlan,” she said. Senna saw the man’s head snap, cock to attention at his name. “I know you fight for your homeland, just the same as I do. We need not be enemies. But if you should choose to draw blood here - even if you fell me - know that a thousand more blade dancers stand ready to strike you down.”

“Oh?” A wicked violet glow lit up the scars across Xayah’s cheek. Her fingers fluttered dangerously. “And who do you think taught your ancestors to dance, little human?”

Irelia dropped into a stance, the clean shhhing of her blades scraping against one another reverberating through the halls. “The kinder spirits of this land,” she replied. “And I learned well.”

“There are no kind spirits here,” Xayah snarled. “You killed them all.”

“Sounds to me like she needs one more lesson!” Rakan’s smile was sharp. “Miella?”

“You never need to ask me to dance,” said Xayah. In a flash they were at each other’s throats.

Senna grabbed Lucian’s gun, yanking it down as the trio moved faster than beating hearts - maybe faster than light. The whistling and the clang of hard objects on metal were ringing through the halls, wreaking havoc on the senses - for a moment, Senna felt her body fall away and she was in the lantern again, where sound and light were timeless and haunting.

“Senna, what are you doing? We have to help her,” Lucian hissed. “She’s just a kid!”

“You could hit her,” Senna said. “She’s doing fine for herself. But - look behind them.”

Shadows, trailing after the vastayaa like shadows do, but where Thresh’s shadows had been seized, and Captain Fortune’s shadows fearful, the shadows around Rakan and Xayah were...

“Are they - are they playing with them?” Lucian sputtered. The shades were slipping in and out, and Senna could hear Rakan humming as he grabbed Xayah by the waist, flicking her up and over Irelia with shadows streaming from her fingertips like so many ribbons. There wasn’t that eerie, deathly glow to their faces - if anything, there was life to them that made her shiver. But she couldn’t deny her eyes.

Right?

“You always said you wanted a double date,” Senna said grimly, reaching for her cannon.

“For dinner, not for purifying,” Lucian said. “Now?”

Senna crouches, feeling her cloak flutter over the rafters, watching the faintest outline of a shadow it casts on the trio. “N-”

“Senna!”

Senna turned around just in time to see Lucian lunging at her, and a dark shape sweeping up and around the rafters. Her brain processed what was happening as she and her - loving, protective, idiot husband - tackled them off the roof.

“Seraphine-?!”

There wasn’t more time for anything more than an ill-advised cry, and Senna wrest her arms around her husband, trying to pull the shadows to her - turning around to see the pale, wide-eyed faces of the people they were plummeting into below.

Chapter Text

Senna should be worried about the glinting marble beneath her - or perhaps the icy, vengeful blades slicing the air beneath their shoulders - but instead, her mind is overwhelmed as she feels a shade touch the corner of her cloak.

Like water, Senna thought. Her head feels like it’s been ducked underwater. Not the lapping, warm waters of her childhood. A churning, untamed river. Darkness, and wild magic, darting in and out of each other’s arms, like shy lovers. Senna could feel her mind turn over in the water. This, she realized, was the magic of the vastaya. The ruined shades in between their feathers, in the mist of their breath. Their magic. Her magic.

Create your own darkness. Trust in it.

Senna clutched Lucian tight to her body, and let their shadows hit the floor.

Wind out of her lungs. Stars danced in front of her eyes. Senna stared up into the darkness of the Sentinel rafters. It shouldn’t be dark in there, she thought. It should have been brilliant with a thousand lights. But it was all they had, right now.

Senna could hear voices, and slowly dragged herself to her feet. She felt a presence to her left. She looked up, and caught sight of the vastayaa’s eyes; vibrant colors, an impossible fuschia, a glittering green. But alive, alive, alive. Senna staggers to stand between them and Lucian, who was still coughing on the ground.

“ Stop! ”

Seraphine stood, hovering on her board, arms spread and shoulders heaving. The words should have held no power - and indeed, a torrent raven feathers found their way towards her - but glanced off some invisible force. Senna could hear the plink, plink, plink, each note ringing like the chime of a bell off Seraphine’s magic. The sound stirred something in her chest. Her soul, maybe. Maybe someone else’s soul, too. Senna held a hand to her chest.

The music silenced everyone else. The marble halls carried the notes above everyone’s heads; even as Xayah’s hands burned violet, even as Irelia readied her blades, the movements were sluggish and reluctant. Neither side could look at the other without seeing Seraphine first.

“Stop fighting!” Seraphine pleaded, her hands clasped over her heart. “It shouldn’t be like this! Can’t you hear it? All of you?” She whirled around, extending a hand to the two vastayaa. “Especially you?”

Xayah recoiled from her words, tucking herself into Rakan’s cloak like Seraphine was suddenly something disgusting. But Rakan put an arm on her shoulder, leaning towards Seraphine.

“You can hear the music?” Rakan said, curiosity bordering on threatening. But if Seraphine saw the threat, she didn’t act like it.

“I always could,” Seraphine said, lowering her arms. “That’s why they asked me here. They’ve asked me to find people who could help us stop this storm, and the man who created it. The Ruined King.” Her eyes shine. “I think it’s you two. I can hear it, your souls - singing in harmony, overcoming the song of the Ruination.”

“It sings a sad love song,” Rakan says, feathers draped around Xayah’s shoulders. His thumb rubs a circle into a patch of bare skin behind her arm.

“...It sings a dirge,” Xayah says, reluctantly. Her puffed feathers lower. “That goes on, and on, and on and doesn't stop. You would think he could think of something else.”

“Seraphine,” Senna says, breathing very carefully. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, it’s them ,” Seraphine says. “They’re who we’re looking for. These are souls immune to the King’s Ruination.”

Senna could hear the careful scrape of metal-on-metal as Irelia resheathed her blades. A few cautious steps later - she was standing at Senna’s side. “More than that,” Irelia says, and carefully bows to the couple. “Vastayaa. Spirits of air and land. They can guide you to Omikayalan. ”

Xayah gives Irelia a small scoff. But - to their surprise, Rakan scratches the floor lightly with his talons, giving a small, birdlike nod to Irelia.

“You’re saying you know how to stop this storm?” Xayah says, glancing at Senna. She sizes her up. “...Sentinel. I thought they all died.”

“Or worse,” Senna said, grimly.

“She got better,” comes Lucian’s grumbling voice. His hand lands on her arm. She touches it. Senna registers the way this makes Xayah’s ear flick.

“Nifty trick!” said Rakan. “You’ll have to teach me that one. Right, babe?”

“They won’t be teaching us anything,” Xayah snapped. “What they’ll be doing is vacating the hall for our people. Once again, we’re paying for the sins of you humans. Why should we fall by the thousands because one of you can’t get a grip?”

“The Ionian people have nothing to do with the Ruination,” Senna said, stepping forward. “And the man responsible for this is no longer human. He’s something else. If you’re invested in the long-term survival of your tribe, and all of the First Lands, then you need to hear us out.”

“Need to?”

Xayah’s eyes snapped to Senna. Her pupils were jagged, stretching and shrinking, filled with deadly life. The Ruination had not taken her. But there was something else. The sharp conviction of unadulterated hatred. Senna stared into her eyes, and felt something reverberate in her chest. Her heart used to beat the same rhythm. Senna’s old wrath had been smoothed, tempered, both by the guidance of Uriah, and the partnership of Lucien. Her hatred had become a cool river. It wore away and carved canyons out of the immovable masses of darkness. But Xayah? Xayah was a fire.

“It’s been a long time since a human’s even bothered to pretend to care about our Tribe’s survival.”

Senna had never known her fallen brothers and sisters in the Ionian halls. She felt their long shadows, and the empty cold air they left behind. But Xayah had the names of every one of her fallen numbered in her face, folded into every wrinkle of a snarl pulling her lips back. Reason? Could someone reason with a fire? Senna could feel Xayah’s ire edging up to the banks of Senna’s resolve. Their gazes were locked. Senna mentally checked on her bruised arm. Could she lift the cannon faster than Xayah could pull forward her feathers? Could Seraphina keep singing death away? Senna’s mind flashed to Tahm Kench wetting his lips. They’d made a miserable, bloody meal for him.

And then a hand touched Xayah’s shoulder.

“C’mon, miella,” Rakan said. “We can always let them talk, and then kill ‘em after. If they really want to drive out the music, there’s no species better at it than the humans.”

The fire did not die down, but Senna could see it now. That which burned and devoured coming to shield and warm. Rakan directed the indiscriminate destruction in Xayah like a shepherd to sheep. It looked - familiar. It touched something inside the back of her mind like the memories of a cozy kitchen, freshly baked bread, warm sand under her feet. Something mysterious in the world suddenly clicked into place like home, in Senna. She saw, and she understood.

The hatred was part of Xayah. None of it would dissipate. But that is why they needed her. Why they needed him. And why Viego was never going to reach them.

“First,” Xayah said, “you let my people into your halls. Then we’ll talk.”

“We’re on a deadline,” Lucien said. “End of the world mean anything to you?”

“End of your world,” Xayah snapped, “and more reason my people should be inside.”

Senna looked to Irelia. There was a flash of something on Irelia’s face. It read like betrayal, and maybe Senna should have been worried about that - but her mind could only seize upon how suddenly young Irelia looked. How old was she, again? Senna realized she had no idea. How young was she, to be making decisions for what might be the last people alive in Ionia?

“...it will be done,” Irelia said. “So long as things remain peaceful. Most of the people here are citizens. Children. You have no quarrel with them.”

Senna could see Xayah’s feathered ear twitch at the world children. Rakan went to rub her shoulders, as she muttered something that might have been, must be nice.

Must be nice, indeed. Senna tried not to think about the girl who had flinched at the sight of her. Whether or not they saved the world... Maybe there were some things that really were just out of reach.

But then again - maybe impossible things did happen. Senna watched Xayah and Irelia negotiate the terms of peace. Senna watched the doors open to the hall; witnessed Gwen and Lucien delve into the shadows and return, hoardes of feathered Lhothlan in their wake, young and old, feathers brilliant even in the unlit Sentinel halls. One elderly vastaaya plucked a feather from behind his ear, and tucked it into the hand of a young Ionian boy. He laughed.

Maybe impossible things did happen.

The discussion was short. Xayah had patience shorter than a gnatfly’s lifespan, and Rakan couldn’t seem to keep very much in his mind for long. And as Lucien said - they were on a timeline.

Surprisingly, they’d taken to Gwen without much protest. She had that agreeable aura about her, Senna supposed. And as for Tahm Kench, there seemed to be a cold understanding between them. Mutual respect, maybe, though Senna wouldn’t go so far to say that Tahm Kench truly respected anyone. Senna couldn’t quite get a read on how Xayah and Rakan felt about herself and Lucien. Tense, wary. Fair enough.

If anything, it was Seraphine they seemed least comfortable with. Senna watched Rakan and Xayah press to the far corner of the couch as Seraphine hovered on her stage. With Irelia, there was hatred and rage; Gwen, light curiosity; Tahm Kench, distrust. But Seraphine? They didn’t look like they knew what to do with Seraphine. Xayah seemed to opt to flat-out ignore her. And Rakan seemed to be entirely in tune with Xayah, falling in step with her emotions towards everyone else, boisterous as he sounded.

So the discussion was short.

“That’s it, then,” Xayah said. “It’s the end of the world and you need our help.”

Rakan shrugged. “Sometimes the end of the world is just an opportunity in disguise.”

“....no,” Lucian said, confused. “No, it really isn’t.”

“This one is!” Rakan draped his arms across Xayah’s shoulders. “Right, miella?”

Xayah regarded them all evenly. “We’ll bring you to Omikayalan. Then you kill the king, and leave our forests. The only two things you have to do. Don’t massively screw it up, and we all leave alive. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” Senna said. She could feel Lucien scoffing quietly over her shoulder. These two will be fun.

“Maybe not just that!” Seraphine piped up. “We have so many other items to get, pieces of Queen Isolde’s soul. And if you’re immune, then-”

“Follow us,” Xayah said, standing, turning on her heel. Senna could see Gwen patting Seraphine sympathetically on the shoulder. “And don’t fall behind.”