Leon woke on his knees.

  Cold marble pressed into his skin. Light—pure, blinding, unforgiving—filled the chamber around him, pouring down from a vaulted ceiling so high it dissolved into white.

  His breath came slow.

  Measured.

  As if the room itself decided how much air he was allowed to take.

  He did not remember arriving.

  Before him stood two figures.

  Noxus Helior did not move. His presence alone weighed upon the hall like judgment made flesh—silver hair still as frost, eyes sharp as if already disappointed by whatever Leon might say.

  Beside him stood Aurora.

  She wore no crown.

  She never needed one.

  Her hair shimmered faintly, each strand holding a memory of starlight. Her skin glowed softly, untouched by time. When her eyes opened fully, Leon felt his heart stutter.

  They were not galaxies like Alicia’s.

  They were stars.

  Countless.

  Distant.

  Eternal.

  “Chosen one,” Aurora said.

  Her voice echoed—not loudly, but everywhere. As if the chamber had been waiting centuries to hear her speak.

  “You have returned,” she continued. “My knight.”

  Leon swallowed.

  He reached to his sides.

  The daggers were there.

  Where the old ones had once rested, new blades now hung—crescent-shaped, pale as moonbone, edges humming with restrained power.

  They felt right.

  As if they had always belonged to him.

  Leon bowed his head.

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  “My queen.”

  Noxus finally spoke.

  “What news have you brought us, child?”

  Leon lifted his gaze.

  He told them everything.

  The battlefield.

  The darkness.

  The golden butterfly.

  The city swallowed whole—soundless, lightless, terrified.

  And then—

  Lucien.

  He spoke of shadow that did not behave like shadow. Of a realm that answered Lucien not as a servant—but as a throne reclaimed. Of power that did not explode outward, but returned inward.

  As if something long scattered had remembered its shape.

  He did not exaggerate.

  He did not lie.

  When he finished—

  Silence followed.

  Then—

  Noxus smiled.

  Just slightly.

  “So,” the king murmured, almost amused, “two keys have formed.”

  Aurora stepped closer.

  She raised a hand.

  Light gathered in her palm—soft at first, then brilliant, starfire coiling inward like breath drawn by the heavens.

  She pressed her fingers to Leon’s forehead.

  The mark burned.

  Not painfully.

  But decisively.

  A sigil flared into existence: a radiant star etched in ancient lines.

  Leon gasped.

  Power surged through him—not brute strength, but alignment.

  Clarity.

  Purpose.

  The sigil faded, sinking beneath his skin.

  His eyes dimmed.

  Human again.

  Aurora smiled—and drew him into an embrace.

  Warm.

  Maternal.

  “You have done well,” she whispered. “Your father was the finest knight I ever commanded. Loyal. Brave. It is a tragedy the trial did not choose him for more.”

  Leon’s throat tightened.

  Noxus’s gaze sharpened.

  “Your father,” the king said. “Does he still live?”

  Leon hesitated.

  “…Barely.”

  “My uncle overthrew us,” Leon continued steadily. “He keeps my father alive in the dungeons. My mother is dead. He hunts me—not to kill me first, but to make me watch.”

  The chamber did not react.

  Aurora’s hand tightened slightly on his shoulder.

  “If I help Alicia win,” Leon said carefully, “as agreed. If I continue feeding you information… will you save him?”

  Water gathered in Leon’s eyes.

  Aurora pulled him closer.

  “Of course,” she said gently. “Rules are rules. But loyalty is remembered.”

  Her fingers brushed his cheek.

  “You have earned our hand, Leon.”

  Noxus nodded once.

  “Continue your work,” the king said. “Gather what you can. Observe. Report.”

  His voice lowered.

  “When the trial ends, you will have what you were promised.”

  Aurora stepped back.

  “You are no longer a prince of nothing,” she said softly.

  “Rise, Leon Bright.”

  Light erupted.

  The chamber vanished.

  Leon staggered as the world snapped back into place.

  He stood just outside the coliseum walls. Dawn bled faintly over the city.

  Life continued.

  As if gods had not just written something into his soul.

  He ran a hand through his hair.

  “Shit.”

  Lucien.

  He turned toward the distant horizon.

  Lucien had not returned to the coliseum.

  He had gone home.

  And there were only two days left before the Second Trial.

  Leon clenched his fists.

  The star sigil beneath his skin pulsed once.

  “How am I supposed to explain this,” he whispered, “when I don’t even know what I’ve become?”

  The sun rose.

  And somewhere far beneath the Shadowborn castle—

  A sword shivered.