𝐄𝐤𝐤𝐨 | 𝐃𝕚𝕣𝕥𝕪 𝐋𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝐀𝕟𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕝𝕤

13. Spite

It had been two days since I woke up in Ekko's room, and I hadn't moved much in that time.

Every attempt to stand or walk on my own ended the same way— with me hitting the floor or blacking out entirely.

It was infuriating, especially because my body had never betrayed me like that before. Apparently, according to Ekko's cautious explanations, the blow to my head from those Shimmered monsters had taken a far greater toll than I'd realised.

Now, on the third day, I'd had enough. I wasn't about to spend another second relying entirely on someone else. This time, I'd push through the haze in my head, the ache throughout, and regain what little independence I had left.

The Firelights' base was larger than I expected. The air filled with the sound of children laughing, tools clanking, and voices murmuring.
As I walked, unsteady but determined, I noticed a mother and her child sitting together near one of the walls. The woman's hands moved deftly, knitting something bright and warm, while the child mimicked her motions with clumsy enthusiasm.
A little further ahead, a girl with a mask cracked down the middle was carefully taping it back together. Her movements deliberate, focused, and the design etched into the mask— seeming almost a signature of who she was.

The space itself felt alive, a sanctuary pulled from Zaun's wreckage.
Plants clung stubbornly to the stone walls, and the faint hum of tech echoed in the air. I stopped to steady myself by a railing, looking out at the massive tree at the centre of the base. It loomed above everything, tall and proud, its roots intertwined with the heart of this strange community.
I wondered if it could become home for me as well. Not yet, definitely. But maybe in time.

A soft whistling caught my attention. I turned to see a grey Vastaya that looked older than me with bat-like ears, sitting carelessly on the ground, leaning against the wall across the space.
At first glance, I thought he might have been the one who had walked in when I first woke up in that place, only because of the looks. But no, this was someone else entirely. He had an edge to him, like a tightly coiled spring waiting to snap.
Trouble, I thought. Definitely trouble.

My gaze dropped to his hands, where he casually spun a blade between his fingers— a dagger with a gleaming, recognisable curve.
My Talon Dagger. The very one I had used to defend myself the night Smeech tried to kill me.
A knot of anger and determination rose in my chest, and I made my way over to him. I didn't sound delicate, but I kept my tone steady as I referred to him.
"Hey, that's mine."

He didn't look up at first, just kept flipping the dagger. When he finally did, his green eyes narrowed, his voice lower.
"No, it's mine."
My arms crossed, I was trying not to let his unbothered demeanour irritate me.
"I've had that dagger for long enough to know it's mine. Give it."

That got his attention. He shifted, pushing off the wall, and stood to his full height, towering over me. The air between us changed— he wasn't just trouble; he was dangerous.
"This dagger," he said, his voice cutting through the space, "belonged to my brother. The brother whose blood is on your hands."

The docks in Piltover.
It suddenly hit me with a flashback.
I remembered that day clearly— all that mess, the Firelight who had come at me with that exact blade, and how I had fought back. I'd taken the dagger, after... like a souvenir.
I wasn't sure of how to feel.

I didn't know what to say. Apologising felt useless, but the weight of his accusation crushed me into silence. His expression hardened, and he raised the dagger, its tip aimed at my throat.
His green eyes locked onto mine, and his voice was a low growl.
"Maybe I should finish this. Get revenge for him. With his dagger, that you dared steal."
My breath caught in my throat. His presence was overwhelming, the hatred palpable. Then a commanding voice cut through the thick tension.
"Scar."