The wind outside the Crucible didn't whisper. Didn't howl. It bit. Not some mysterious breeze you'd tell stories about. It had teeth. Sharp and wet. It sank right through their cloaks, gnawing at muscle, scraping past skin and bone like it wanted to hollow them out and leave rattling shells behind. It wasn't weather. It was something angry, like the land itself had made a choice. They weren't welcome here. Not just unwelcome—marked.
Ezreal pulled his cloak tighter, but it was soaked through and heavy, flapping against his ribs like a dead thing draped over him. His boots slipped on the grass that felt slick and sticky, like the earth had sweat something sour into it, a kind of cold that crawled in his bones. Every step pulled on his legs. The pack on his back weighed more than it should have, dragging at him. The shards inside were dark now, not glowing, but not silent either. They throbbed quietly, deep and ugly. No words. Just pressure, a dull thud behind his teeth that buzzed like a headache waiting to break.
Behind them, the Crucible wasn't just closed or hidden. It was gone. No crack in the rock. No shimmer hanging in the air. Nothing. Like it had never been part of the world at all.
They climbed until the ridge met the sky, a jagged edge against thick, choking clouds. The last of the light died behind them. It didn't come back.
Below, Phokorus lay wasted. Or what was left of it. The valley looked like it had tried to scream and ended up tearing itself open instead. Trees once stood there, proud and tall. Now they were blackened stumps leaking thick sap that looked like old, congealed blood. Smoke drifted across the basin, thin and sour like a wound that wouldn't heal. Not just fire smoke—something fouler. It clung to the air and stuck to the tongue.
On the far ridge, a siege camp spread out like a sickness. Rows of tents, fires flickering behind canvas walls, steel glinting through the haze. This wasn't a camp waiting for war. It was hungry for it.
Caylen knelt beside a pile of broken stones, half a cairn or maybe just the ruins of one. He brushed soot from the rocks slowly, as if the stones might give up some secret if he was patient enough. His jaw ticked—a sharp little twitch. The tell he had when his gut twisted but he hadn't yet decided whether to scream or swallow it all down.
"Ironcrag," he muttered. His voice was rough and dry, like gravel underfoot. "Too clean. Too sharp. Mercs don't line up like that unless someone scrubbed 'em good and paid for the silence."
Ezreal stepped beside him, squinting through the smoke. The banners caught his eye.
Crimson wolf. Iron anvil. Both beating against the wind that bit and tore at their faces.
Dax let out a noise—half a laugh, half a cough—and then spat over the stones. His mouth twisted like he'd tasted something rotten.
"Bastard did it," he said. "Torvald sold Phokorus out. Just cashed the whole damn thing and walked."
Ezreal shrugged off his pack and let it thud to the ground. His spine cracked loud as he straightened. The shards inside buzzed louder now, like angry bees trapped in a sack.
"Kaelith can't hold that city like this," he said, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. "The court's broken. The Spire Council's too scared to admit the sky's already fallen."
"If she's even alive," Caylen said flatly. His voice sounded scraped and dry, like hope had been sanded away. Not a question. A fact.
Nobody answered.
She'd vanished. After the battle. After tearing apart that godlike thing without even touching it. The smoke swallowed her whole. No body. No sign. Not even whispers.
Ezreal pushed himself upright. His bones protested like old floorboards left out in the cold.
"If Ironcrag flanks from the east, it's over," he said. "No reinforcements. No supplies. The city will rot standing before they even touch the walls."
Dax tilted his head, his eyes sharpening but his face staying calm. "So what? We limp back in like ghosts? Just us, dragging the end of the world behind us like a sack of bones? They didn't listen before when they were fed and warm. Why would they listen now, starving in the dark?"
Ezreal didn't shift his gaze from the fires. "We've got the shards."
Caylen straightened, arms crossing tight enough to look like he was holding something in, or holding himself back.
"We swore not to use them."
Ezreal didn't flinch. "We swore not to finish the egg. That's the line. We're not crossing it."
Dax snorted, dry and bitter. "We're sitting right on that line."
Ezreal shrugged. "The Crucible didn't cleanse us. It gave us fire. Now we decide what burns."
Caylen held his eyes a moment longer, then gave a sharp nod. Like a blade settling back into its scabbard.
"We take it back."
They moved under the moon. Muscles screaming. Old wounds reopening. Blisters peeling beneath scars that hadn't finished healing. The land didn't want them back. Roots snagged ankles. Frost slicked the stones. Even the trees looked like they were shrinking away.
Somewhere behind them, drums started. Slow and steady. Not panicked. Orders moving through the dark. Ironcrag was ready.
By dawn, they reached the aqueducts. Or what was left of them. Stone blackened and bent like meat burnt and forgotten in a fire. Towers leaned like broken knees. One had collapsed entirely, still smoldering at the edges.
No birds. No rats. No sound except their own steps and ragged breathing.
Scouts met them outside the city gates. Steel hissed—three blades and two bows drawn. Their armor bore Kaelith's colors, faded and scorched, like loyalty barely hanging on. The soldiers looked hollow. Faces pale, eyes ringed with shadows deep enough to hide secrets. Armor patched with soot and prayer.
Ezreal pulled out the token—a flat coin carved from bone, a serpent coiled on its face.
The lead scout caught sight of it, met Ezreal's eyes, then nodded.
No questions. Just passage.
Phokorus wasn't a city anymore. It was a wound. It hadn't fallen, but it was bleeding slow and knew it.
They didn't walk the main road. The scouts led them through alleys and broken corridors, past faceless statues worn by wind and claw. Walls marked by fire and time. No one looked at them long.
The observatory still stood at the hill's top. Barely. Its dome split down the middle, like a cracked skull left to rot. The light that had once filled it was gone, replaced by cold dust and silence.
Inside, seven people waited.
Not a council. Just what was left.
Old minds in worn bodies. Too many empty chairs.
Tarrin Greystone slumped in the middle, sunk into a circle of burned cushions. His beard had thinned to ash in places. He looked like a man caught somewhere between life and resignation.
He blinked up when they entered. His voice dry, rough as old bark.
"Tell me you didn't come back empty-handed."
Ezreal dropped the sack onto the stone floor.
The shards inside gave a low, sick hum. Like something angry waking from a long sleep.
"We brought what Ironcrag doesn't have."
Tarrin's eyes locked on the bag like it might bite him. His lips thinned tight. He didn't ask, but he knew.
"You finished the egg?"
Ezreal shook his head.
"No. Just the shards. That's where we stop. But if Ironcrag wants to play gods, they'll have to stare this down first."
Tarrin sagged deeper into the cushions. Rubbed a hand down his face, like trying to wipe away months of wear.
"They'll call it a bluff."
Caylen stepped beside Ezreal, voice rough and sharp, like broken glass in a pocket.
"Then we bluff louder."
Thunder cracked outside. Real thunder. No omens or magic. Just sky tearing open.
Caylen moved to the broken window and stared down at the valley below. His shoulders didn't move, but something in his eyes turned hard.
"They've started."
Fires spread across the hills. Siege engines groaned into motion. The first scream of war slipped into the cold air like smoke.
Ezreal knelt beside the sack. His joints popped and groaned.
He didn't touch the shards. Just stared at their weight.
"If we want to keep this world standing," he said, barely more than a breath, "we have to stop dropping it every time we fight."
No one argued.
Below, the horns began to howl.