vicky1919

  Marcus inspected his test work—a newly finished rune sword. It wasn’t perfect. The bde itself had been forged by the trolls, leaving Marcus to handle the rune engravings. Why hadn’t he let the trolls do it themselves? After all, they’d been learning under Ornn for a while now.

  Simple. Ornn only taught them how to carve runes without blowing themselves up. Understanding the meaning, intent, and effects behind the runes? That was something they had to figure out on their own. Just like Marcus had.

  With a flick of his hand, he tossed the sword into the swirling shadow of his storage. Absentmindedly, his gaze drifted toward the troll encampment below as he stepped over to a rge map spread across a nearby table.

  The trolls had made contact with humans recently. Not the savage Volibear-worshipping tribes, but actual civilized humans—ones they could reason and trade with.

  Marcus had already left instructions for Darwin to allow the humans to assist in developing a new settlement by the frozen ke. It would provide the trolls with an extra food source and help forge potential alliances for the future.

  One surprising development, however, was seeing the boy from years ago—Duran—among the group. He still carried the gift Marcus had given him back then. But from what Marcus could sense, the boy had yet to awaken the other gift hidden within him.

  “Hmm... I’m curious to see what kind of path the kid will take. The awakened trolls have picked up some rather interesting abilities.”

  His cwed finger traced a path across the map, stopping at a distant region.

  A human kingdom, huh?

  Marcus had watched the ambush between the troll scouts and the svers. To his surprise, the kingdom’s name and insignia didn’t match anything he remembered from the lore of the game. Most likely, it was just one of many ancient kingdoms lost to time—one that would eventually be wiped out.

  But the location… That was what caught his attention. His skeletal bird scout had followed the lone survivor back, and the man was heading toward a mountain Marcus recognized.

  A pce that, in the future, would be mined by Noxus for its iconic metal.

  “Looks like I’ll need to make another trip,” he mused.

  After giving one st check on the trolls’ progress, Marcus’s form began to shrink. His limbs tucked in, feathers erupted from his body, and within seconds, he had taken the form of a small owl. With a soft flutter of wings, he vanished into the cold night sky.

  -^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-

  On the streets of Nasarf, the air was filled with a mix of chatter, footsteps, and the occasional shouting of merchants trying to draw attention to their stalls. The city was alive, though in a worn and weathered kind of way. People moved along the packed dirt roads in uneven flows—some hurried, others dragging their feet. A few wore proper clothing, but most looked rough, wrapped in patchwork cloaks or old tunics that had clearly seen better days.

  Amid them, a figure in a dark, travel-worn cloak passed silently, blending in with the crowd without drawing so much as a second gnce. Marcus kept his head low, eyes scanning beneath the hood as he took in the sights of a time long buried in history.

  The market was busy, but it cked the color and energy he had expected. Stalls were built from old wood, some barely holding together, and goods on dispy were basic—grains, smoked meat, poorly preserved herbs, and roughly made tools or trinkets.

  But what stood out most were the sve stalls.

  Dozens of them, lined up along the sides of the square. Men, women, and even children sat or knelt behind crude iron bars or ropes tied to posts. Most had bnk expressions, eyes dull and sunken from fatigue or hopelessness.

  “Sves, huh,” Marcus muttered under his breath, barely moving his lips.

  It wasn't a shock—he knew the time period well enough—but the sheer openness of it was something else. No attempt to hide it, no shame. Just business.

  He wandered past a few stalls, pausing only when one trader barked at a passing customer and yanked a young boy forward by his colr. The boy didn’t resist—just stared ahead like he wasn’t really there.

  Marcus kept walking. He wasn’t here to stir trouble. Not yet, at least.

  The truth was, this whole trip was mostly curiosity. He had never set foot in a real city from this age before, and he wanted to see what it was like. But the more he saw, the less impressed he was.

  Calling Nasarf a "kingdom" felt like a stretch. At best, it was a fortified settlement. The city had walls—stone ones, decently built—but beyond that, it was simple. No sign of advanced pnning or infrastructure. Just clusters of buildings pushed together with narrow alleys and uneven rooftops.

  From what he could sense, the popution was maybe a few thousand. Respectable for this era, but still far from impressive. The people carried on, but the weariness showed in their faces and steps. Soldiers patrolled in mismatched armor, holding spears or short swords. At least they were armed, Marcus thought. Some level of structure was in pce.

  He weaved through the crowd until he reached the edge of the pza, where a worn-looking tavern leaned against a rger building. Faded signs hung crookedly above the entrance, and the sound of clinking mugs and muffled ughter leaked from inside.

  Before stepping in, Marcus pulled a copper coin from his cloak pocket, flipping it between his fingers.

  He had “acquired” it not long ago—slipped from the belt of a careless sve trader. A small part of him felt smug about it, but mostly, he was intrigued.

  The coin was surprisingly well-crafted. Rough around the edges, but solid. One side bore a horned animal, maybe a ram or a bull, and the other had some runic script he didn’t immediately recognize.

  “Not bad,” he muttered. “Cast or stamped, though?”

  He slipped the coin back into his pouch, adjusted his hood, and pushed the tavern door open.

  Time to hear what the locals had to say—and maybe learn more about the “kingdom” that had stirred up so much trouble.

  -^-^-^-^-^-^-^-

  The tavern door creaked open as the dark-cloaked figure stepped in. A moment of silence swept over the room as the regurs gnced at the newcomer. The quiet didn’t st—chatter resumed once it was clear he wasn’t anyone they recognized or cared to bother with.

  Marcus scanned the room briefly. Dim nterns hung from crooked beams, casting flickering shadows across the mismatched furniture. The pce reeked of sweat, smoke, and spilled ale. With calm steps, he made his way to an empty table tucked into a corner and sat down with his back to the wall.

  Not long after, a man in a stained apron approached him.

  “Welcome, sir. What’ll you have today?”

  “Some drink,” Marcus replied, his voice low and even, “and whatever dish your cook feels the most confident in.”

  The man gave a short nod. “Sure. Won’t take long.”

  Left alone, Marcus leaned back slightly in his chair, his attention shifting not to what was in front of him, but what was around him. With his heightened hearing, the overpping conversations unraveled easily.

  Talk of the city's recent expansion. The influx of new sves. Arguments about taxes and rumors about strange happenings near the mines.

  “They must’ve found a decent ore vein,” Marcus thought, his eyes idly tracing the scratches on the wooden table. “And of course, they’re tossing bodies into it like firewood to get at whatever’s inside.”

  He didn’t need to guess too hard. The chatter painted a rough picture: a mine recently uncovered, likely rich in some valuable metal. The city, small and primitive as it was, had thrown everything into extracting it—and that included lives.

  But what caught his attention more than anything was a repeating name: “the God-Chosen.”

  Apparently, the sve trade had only ramped up about a year ago, shortly after this so-called chosen one appeared. Not only had they taken over as the head of the local faith, they were also now acting as an advisor to the city's leader—if you could call him a king.

  Marcus frowned slightly under his hood.

  “A god’s chosen, huh?” he thought. “Could be one of those self-procimed types like me, or worse—one of the Aspects’ vessels.”

  He hoped it was the former. A delusional human was a manageable problem. A divine proxy, however, was more complicated. The Aspects had their own agendas, and Marcus didn’t remember any of them being particurly enthusiastic about svery.

  Before he could think further, the tavern keeper returned, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Here’s the food, sir,” the man said, pcing a battered wooden tray in front of Marcus. On it sat a bowl of steaming soup and a bottle filled with an amber-colored drink. “Enjoy,” he added, before walking off to tend to another table.

  Marcus gnced down. He adjusted his face subtly, shifting the shape beneath his hood to something more human-like—less beak, more lips. Best not to draw attention, especially when he didn’t know how this region reacted to non-humans like Vastaya. He hadn't seen one since entering the city.

  He dipped the spoon into the soup, brought it to his lips, and took a sip.

  Immediately, his expression froze.

  “...Salty,” he thought, barely swallowing it down. The broth was more like brine, with a questionable chunk of meat and some shredded leaves of unknown origin floating in it. Fvorless beyond the salt, and definitely not helped by the overcooked texture.

  Still, he forced another spoonful, more out of curiosity than hunger. Thankfully, he didn’t need food to survive.

  Then came the drink.

  He raised the bottle, took a cautious sip—and nearly spat it back out.

  It tasted like fermented fruit juice gone sour, with just enough alcohol to make it count. Bitter, with a strange aftertaste that clung to his tongue.

  He gnced around. The other patrons were happily drinking the same stuff, ughing and yelling like it was the best part of their day.

  Marcus sighed.

  Discreetly, he let the liquid drain from the bottle into the shadows beneath the table—absorbed and stored away by his magic like it never existed.

  “So much for ancient cuisine.”

  He leaned back, resting one arm on the table, letting the low rumble of voices wash over him again.

  He had more to learn here. About the mine. About the so-called God-Chosen.

  And maybe—just maybe—he’d stir the pot a bit while he was at it.