Xin Zhao observed the courtyard with practiced vigince, his spear resting lightly against his shoulder as he maintained his post beside the High Marshal. The afternoon light caught on the polished stone of the Demacian pace, creating patterns that his eyes tracked automatically, a habit formed from decades of service that demanded constant awareness of his surroundings.

  A guard flinchingly received news from a servant, before sighing deeply. When the guard approached Tianna Crownguard, Xin noted the subtle tension in the man's gait before he even opened his mouth to speak.

  Something has disturbed the order of things, Xin thought, watching how Tianna's expression hardened as she received the news, her face transforming from composed authority to granite-like severity.

  The High Marshal dismissed the messenger with a curt nod, then turned toward Xin with purposeful strides that echoed against the marble floor. Her armor caught the light differently than the stone—harder, more deliberate, like the woman herself.

  "Steward," she addressed him formally, as always, though they had known each other for years. "A situation requires immediate attention."

  Xin inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her without interrupting. Tianna never appreciated unnecessary words, a quality he respected in her.

  "An outpost in the petricite forest has vanished," she continued, her voice lowered to prevent the spread of information beyond their immediate circle. "Not attacked, not abandoned—vanished. Overnight."

  Vanished. The word settled uncomfortably in Xin's mind. Objects did not simply disappear, nor did outposts manned by trained Demacian soldiers. There was always an expnation, though he had lived long enough to know that expnations were not always comforting.

  "The rumors are already spreading through the lower city," Tianna added, her displeasure evident in the tightening of her jaw. "I've received three different accounts ciming everything from rogue mages to some new monster emerging from the forest depths."

  Xin considered this information, his fingers adjusting their grip on his spear almost imperceptibly. "What evidence remains at the site?"

  "That's the concerning part," Tianna replied, beginning to walk toward the barracks with an expectation that he would follow, which he did with silent efficiency. "No signs of struggle, no blood, no destruction. But every weapon, every piece of armor, every tool that could be used for defense—gone. As though the entire garrison armed themselves for battle and then... disappeared."

  The implications troubled Xin more than he allowed his expression to reveal. Not a desertion. Not with Demacian soldiers. Not with that many men simultaneously.

  "This is no simple beast," Tianna continued, voicing what Xin had already concluded. "Beasts leave traces—destruction, remains. This is something else."

  They reached the entrance to the barracks, where several officers stood at attention, clearly awaiting orders reted to this very situation. Tianna paused, turning to face Xin directly.

  "I need someone I trust to investigate this," she said. "Someone who can recognize magical threats but won't be swayed by superstition or panic."

  Xin understood immediately. "I will go," he stated simply, already calcuting what preparations would be necessary.

  Tianna nodded, satisfied but not finished. "Garen will accompany you."

  Interesting choice. Garen Crownguard was formidable, certainly, and his experience with magical threats was extensive. But he was also the very embodiment of Demacian ideals—sometimes to a fault. His presence would ensure the mission maintained its official character, while Xin's more... pragmatic approach might uncover truths that official channels might miss.

  "When do we depart?" Xin asked, already mentally preparing for the journey ahead.

  "Immediately," Tianna replied. "Garen is preparing as we speak."

  Xin nodded, his mind already mapping the petricite forest, recalling its strange energies and the peculiar silence that pervaded its depths. He had traversed those woods many times over his years of service to the crown, but never to investigate a disappearance of this nature.

  Petricite absorbs magic, he reflected. Yet something powerful enough to remove an entire outpost would require immense magical energy. A contradiction worth exploring.

  "I will gather what I need," he told Tianna, already turning toward the path to his quarters.

  "Xin," Tianna called after him, causing him to pause and look back. Her expression had softened almost imperceptibly—a change only someone who had known her as long as he had would notice. "Whatever this is... it's already causing unrest. Find answers quickly."

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment, understanding the unspoken concern. Demacia's stability rested on order, on certainty. The unexpined created fertile ground for fear, and fear could undermine the very foundations of the kingdom they had both served for so long.

  As he strode toward his quarters, Xin's thoughts turned to the forest that awaited them. Petricite trees standing sentinel over ancient secrets, their white bark gleaming in dappled sunlight, their roots drawing strange energies from the earth. Whatever had occurred at that outpost, the forest itself might hold the answers—if one knew how to listen properly.

  And if the forest won't speak, he thought, his grip tightening momentarily on his spear, then perhaps whatever took our soldiers will.

  Xin Zhao sat astride his mount with practiced stillness, his posture betraying nothing of the thoughts churning beneath his composed exterior. The stable's familiar scents—hay, leather, horse, and the faint metallic tang of armor—filled his nostrils as he waited. His own preparations had been completed with characteristic efficiency; his weapons checked, supplies secured, armor adjusted to allow for optimal movement without sacrificing protection.

  Across the stable, Garen Crownguard struggled with his destrier, a magnificent beast with a temperament that matched its master's stubborn determination. The younger man's movements were precise but forceful, his muscur frame tensing as he tightened the saddle's girth strap against the horse's resistant breathing.

  Young Crownguard still approaches his mount as he does his enemies—with direct confrontation rather than patience, Xin observed, noting how the horse side-stepped and snorted in protest. A fine warrior, but he has yet to learn that some battles are won through stillness.

  "My apologies for the dey, Steward," Garen called over his shoulder, his formal address reflecting the public nature of their mission despite years of shared battlefield experience. "Valor seems to sense the urgency of our task and has decided to express his enthusiasm... inappropriately."

  Xin acknowledged with a slight nod, appreciating the younger man's attempt at levity despite the gravity of their mission. "A spirited mount reflects its rider. There is no need for haste within these walls—our enemies will not become more vanished while we prepare properly."

  The subtle correction in his words achieved its purpose; Garen's movements became more measured, his breathing more controlled. The horse, sensing the change, settled somewhat, allowing the Crownguard to finish securing his saddle bags.

  "What are your thoughts on this disappearance, Steward?" Garen asked, his voice lowered though they were alone in this section of the royal stables. "My aunt provided only the essential details."

  Xin considered his response carefully, aware that his assessment would shape their approach to the investigation. "I think what we face is neither simple nor straightforward. An enemy that leaves no trace is one that wishes to be miscalcuted, unable to be estimated."

  He shifted his gaze upward, through the stable's high windows where the afternoon sky revealed itself in patches between the wooden beams. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon, their edges tinged with an unnatural violet hue that stirred something in his memory—a simir sky before a battle long ago, in a life he rarely allowed himself to revisit.

  "We will have weather to contend with," he observed, his tone neutral despite the foreboding the clouds inspired. "Those storm formations suggest powerful air currents meeting resistance. Unusual for this season."

  Garen followed his gaze, his brow furrowing. "Magic?" he asked, the single word carrying the weight of Demacian suspicion toward arcane forces.

  "Perhaps," Xin replied, noncommittal. "Or simply weather. Nature needs no enchantment to be formidable."

  Though the timing is... convenient, he added silently, making a mental note to observe the storm patterns as they traveled. In his long experience, coincidences were often anything but, particurly when magic might be involved.

  Garen finally mounted his now-cooperative steed, the animal seeming to have accepted its role in the coming journey. The younger warrior settled into his saddle with the practiced ease of one born to Demacian nobility, where horsemanship was taught alongside swordpy from earliest childhood.

  "I defer to your experience in this matter, Steward," Garen said, his tone respectful without being obsequious. "How shall we proceed?"

  Xin appreciated the deference, recognizing it not as weakness but as tactical wisdom. Despite Garen's reputation and considerable abilities, the younger man understood the value of experience—particurly when facing unknown threats.

  "We will follow the eastern forest path," Xin decided, already calcuting travel times against the approaching weather. "It provides cover should the storm overtake us, and the petricite density increases gradually, allowing us to note any... disturbances in its pattern as we approach the outpost site."

  He guided his mount toward the stable entrance with subtle pressure from his knees, the animal responding instantly to his command. As they emerged into the courtyard, the full extent of the gathering storm became apparent—dark, roiling clouds advancing from the northeast, precisely the direction they would be traveling.

  They followed the road eastward, the clip-clop of hooves against cobblestone gradually shifting to softer thuds as they left Demacia's paved streets for the packed dirt of the outer thoroughfare. Xin Zhao's mount maintained a steady pace beneath him, responding to the slightest pressure of his knees with practiced precision.

  As they approached the petricite walls that marked the city's boundary, a peculiar sensation crawled across Xin's skin. The fine hairs on his forearms rose beneath his armor, not from cold, but from something more primal.

  The stone watches us.

  The thought came unbidden, irrational yet persistent. Xin studied the massive white barriers as they passed through the eastern gate. Petricite had always possessed a certain quality that set it apart from ordinary stone—a subtle hum that vibrated just below the threshold of hearing, a coolness that persisted even under the summer sun. Today, however, something felt different.

  Like eyes following our passage. Like breath held in anticipation.

  "Steward?" Garen's voice cut through his contemption. "You've gone quiet."

  Xin maintained his composure, betraying none of the unease that had settled in his chest. "Observing," he replied simply, gesturing toward the forest that y ahead, its first pale sentinels visible in the distance.

  The petricite trees stood like ancient guardians, their white bark gleaming with an inner luminescence despite the darkening sky. Their canopy stretched upward, branches intertwining to form a network that reminded Xin of veins in a living organism.

  "The storm approaches faster than anticipated," Xin noted, watching violet-tinged clouds roll across the horizon. The air carried the metallic scent of impending rain, but beneath it lurked something else—something acrid and unfamiliar.

  Garen shifted in his saddle, his destrier snorting and pawing at the ground. "The animals sense it too," he observed, running a calming hand along his mount's neck. "Something about this weather disturbs them."

  Not just the weather, Xin thought, noting how his own horse's ears flicked nervously as they drew closer to the forest's edge. The very air tastes wrong here.

  A gust of wind swept down from the mountains, carrying with it a sound that might have been distant thunder—or something else entirely. Xin's grip tightened imperceptibly on his spear, decades of combat instinct responding to a threat his conscious mind had yet to identify.

  "We should make haste," he suggested, his tone measured despite the growing disquiet in his chest. "The outpost site lies three hours' ride from here, assuming we maintain our current pace."

  As they entered the forest proper, the quality of light changed dramatically. The petricite trees absorbed ambient illumination, creating a space that was neither bright nor dark but something uniquely in-between—a twilight realm where shadows cked definition and distances became difficult to judge.

  Xin's mount hesitated at the threshold, requiring gentle but firm guidance to proceed. The animal's reluctance mirrored his own internal caution, though years of discipline allowed him to push forward without revealing his concern.

  The forest has always been strange, but this... this is different.

  The path narrowed, forcing them to ride single file. Xin took the lead, his senses heightened to an almost painful degree. Each sound—the creak of leather, the soft exhation of the horses, the distant call of forest birds—registered with crystalline crity. Yet beneath it all persisted a silence that should not exist in a living woodnd.

  "The petricite density increases here," Garen observed from behind him, his voice unnaturally loud in the muffled atmosphere.

  Xin nodded without turning. He felt it too—the subtle drag against his own pte, as though the metal itself responded to the stone's presence. More concerning was how the sensation had begun to affect his thoughts, creating a curious pressure behind his eyes.

  Like fingers pressing against my mind. Testing. Probing.

  A branch snapped somewhere to their right, the sound sharp as a whipcrack in the unnatural quiet. Both men halted immediately, warriors' instincts perfectly aligned. Xin raised his hand in a silent signal, indicating that Garen should remain still while he investigated.

  Dismounting with fluid grace, Xin handed his reins to the younger warrior and stepped off the path. The forest floor felt strangely resilient beneath his boots, yielding slightly before pushing back, almost like walking on flesh rather than soil and fallen leaves.

  He moved with the silent precision that had kept him alive through countless battles, his spear held at the ready position. Twenty paces from the path, he discovered the source of the noise—a petricite branch y broken on the ground, its fractured surface gleaming with moisture that resembled nothing so much as lymph from a wounded limb.

  Fresh break. Recent. Yet no wind strong enough to cause this has passed through.

  Kneeling, Xin examined the break pattern more closely. The wood had not splintered outward as it would from external pressure. Instead, the break appeared to have originated from within, as though the branch had simply decided to separate itself from its parent tree.

  A droplet of the strange fluid fell from above, nding on his armored shoulder with a soft plink. Xin looked up, scanning the canopy for movement. Nothing visible disturbed the pale network of branches, yet he could not shake the sensation of being observed—not by eyes, but by something more fundamental and alien.

  The forest itself seemed to hold its breath around him, waiting.

  "Steward?" Garen called, his voice muted despite its natural strength. "Do you require assistance?"

  Xin rose, his decision made. "Continue forward," he replied, returning to the path with measured steps that betrayed none of his growing concern. "But remain vigint. The forest is... awake today."

  As he remounted his horse, Xin caught Garen's questioning gnce but offered no further expnation. Some observations were better kept private until he understood their significance. The younger warrior would see the broken branch as a trivial matter—perhaps the work of an animal or simply natural decay.

  But Xin Zhao had survived decades in royal service by recognizing patterns where others saw coincidence. And something in this forest had changed fundamentally since his st passage through these woods.

  The petricite has always absorbed magic. What happens when it has absorbed too much?

  They pressed onward, the path winding deeper into the heart of the forest. With each passing mile, the strange pressure in Xin's mind increased, not painfully but persistently—like the gentle but inexorable force of water rising against a dam.

  The violet-tinged clouds had overtaken them now, casting the forest in an eerie glow that transformed the white bark of the petricite trees into something that resembled exposed bone. No rain fell, despite the heaviness of the air and the occasional rumble of thunder overhead.

  A storm that refuses to break is often more dangerous than one that rages openly, Xin reflected, scanning the path ahead where it disappeared around a bend. Just as an enemy who hides his intentions presents the greatest threat.

  His mount suddenly halted, ears fttened against its skull, nostrils fring wide. Behind him, Garen's destrier did the same, pawing nervously at the ground.

  "They sense something ahead," Garen observed unnecessarily, his hand already moving to the hilt of his sword.

  Xin nodded, extending his spear to its full length with a subtle click of its interlocking segments. "We proceed on foot from here," he decided, dismounting gracefully despite the weight of his armor. "The horses will only hinder us if they panic."

  They secured their mounts to a sturdy petricite sapling, though Xin doubted the animals would remain if truly frightened. Something about the forest's unnatural silence suggested that flight might prove impossible regardless.

  As they rounded the bend in the path, Xin's breath caught in his throat. Before them stretched a perfectly circur clearing where no clearing should exist—a space perhaps fifty paces across where every tree had been... not destroyed, not uprooted, but simply erased, as though they had never been.

  In the center of this impossible space stood what remained of the outpost—or rather, what had repced it. The familiar structure of Demacian architecture had been transformed, twisted and reshaped into something that resembled a dwelling but followed rules of design that belonged to no human aesthetic.

  The white stone walls curved and flowed like liquid frozen in mid-pour, windows pced at heights and angles that made no practical sense. The entire structure pulsed with a subtle luminescence that matched the rhythm of Xin's own heartbeat.

  Not destroyed. Not abandoned. Transformed.

  "By all the stars," Garen whispered beside him, his normally confident voice reduced to awe and horror in equal measure. "What manner of magic could do this?"

  Xin Zhao said nothing, his mind racing to categorize this threat against all he had witnessed in his long years of service. Nothing in his experience provided adequate comparison. This was not destruction but recreation—matter reshaped according to an alien will.

  The petricite walls of the former outpost seemed to notice their presence. The pulsing light intensified, and a vibration traveled through the ground beneath their feet, as though the earth itself had awakened to their intrusion.

  It recognizes us, Xin realized with absolute certainty. The stone knows we are here.

  The forest fell silent around them. Not the peaceful quiet of a woodnd at dusk, but something deliberate—a conscious absence of sound that raised the fine hairs on Xin's neck. Even the wind had stilled, as though nature itself held its breath in anticipation.

  Like an audience before a performance begins, Xin thought, his grip tightening imperceptibly on his spear. Or predators watching prey.

  His instincts—honed through decades of combat and court intrigue—screamed contradictory warnings. Flee. Submit. Surrender. Die. Each impulse more alien than the st, each pressing against his disciplined mind with increasing urgency.

  Beside him, Garen's body tensed, muscles rippling beneath his armor as he fought the same invisible assault. The younger warrior's jaw clenched so tightly that a vein pulsed at his temple, his hand trembling slightly as it hovered near his sword hilt.

  "Do you feel it?" Garen whispered, his voice unnaturally strained.

  Xin gave a single, sharp nod. The pressure against his thoughts increased, like fingers probing for weakness in his mental fortifications. Not magic as he understood it—this was something older, something that existed before humans had given names to the forces they feared.

  They both inhaled deeply, the air tasting of petricite dust and something else—something bitter and ancient that coated the tongue like ash from a funeral pyre. Xin forced his right foot forward, then his left, each step requiring conscious effort against the invisible resistance.

  Whatever dwells here wants us to turn back. Or kneel. Or perish where we stand.

  The clearing before them shimmered with a fine yer of white particute, not fallen snow but something more deliberate. It covered everything—the transformed outpost, the ground, even the ordinary wooden fence posts and stone markers that had once defined the boundaries of the Demacian instaltion. The dust seemed to pulse with subtle luminescence, responding to their approach with increasing brightness.

  It sees us. The stone sees us.

  Xin's gaze tracked across the transformed ndscape, noting how the white powder had settled most thickly around the impossible structure at the center. Unlike natural dust or ash, it didn't drift or scatter with their movement but remained perfectly distributed, as though each particle had been deliberately pced.

  "The petricite has... changed," Xin observed, his voice barely audible. "It's no longer absorbing magic. It's..."

  "Becoming something else," Garen finished, swallowing hard.

  A flicker of movement caught Xin's eye—a ripple passing through the dust-covered ground, like a wave traveling across water. The pattern expanded outward from the twisted structure, reaching toward their feet with deliberate purpose.

  It recognizes our presence. It's responding.

  Without discussion, both warriors took another step forward, their training overriding the primal fear that urged retreat. Xin felt sweat trickling down his spine despite the unnatural coolness of the air. Each breath came slightly easier than the st, as though whatever presence inhabited this pce was gradually accepting their intrusion.

  The white dust seemed to shift as they approached, particles rising and falling in microscopic patterns that reminded Xin of written nguage—a text too small and complex for human comprehension, yet undeniably deliberate in its arrangement.

  It's communicating. Not with words, but with patterns. With presence.

  The transformed outpost loomed before them, its impossible architecture more disturbing with each step closer. What had once been straight Demacian walls now curved and intersected in ways that suggested something that Xin couldn’t intuit. Windows pced at irrational heights and angles reflected nothing, their gss-like surfaces absorbing light rather than returning it.

  And from within, a soft glow pulsed in perfect rhythm with Xin's heartbeat.

  It knows me. It knows the cadence of my blood.

  Xin's foot disturbed the edge of the dust yer, sending a minute shower of white particles dancing upward. They didn't fall back to the ground but instead hovered momentarily before his face, arranging themselves in a pattern that almost—but not quite—resembled a human expression.

  Curiosity. Recognition. Welcome.

  The sensation of being watched intensified, but the hostility had diminished, repced by something equally unsettling—a sense of invitation that pulled at Xin's consciousness like a gentle tide drawing him toward deeper waters.

  “Oh! Hello!” They heard from behind them. An old man, yet too young. In robes covered in nguage unknown to him. “I didn’t realize there were still people around here! Same folks as the people stationed here? Sorry if I’ve messed things up here, I’ve been testing stuff out on this pce here. Uh… I don’t have any money to repce the things with.”

  Xin Zhao raised his hand sharply, halting Garen's motion toward his sword. The younger warrior's muscles tensed beneath his armor, battle-ready instinct fighting against the command, but years of discipline prevailed. Garen's hand froze inches from the hilt, though his posture remained coiled like a spring under tension.

  This creature appears human, but something about him pulls at my perception—like staring at a reflection in disturbed water.

  Xin's vision narrowed unnaturally, the edges of his peripheral awareness colpsing inward until only the strange man remained in focus. Not magic as he understood it—not the brute force of elemental manipution or the subtle whispers of enchantment—but something more fundamental, as though reality itself bent toward this being.

  "The soldiers stationed here," Xin said, his voice steady despite the pressure building behind his eyes. "Where are they?"

  The old man—yet somehow not old enough, a contradiction that made Xin's trained senses prickle with warning—adjusted his strange robes. Garments covered in script that resembled no nguage Xin had encountered in all his years of service to Demacia or his life before. Symbols that seemed to shift slightly when not directly observed.

  "Oh, they're quite safe!" The stranger's tone carried genuine reassurance, though his eyes betrayed a calcuting intelligence that catalogued their weapons, their stance, their every reaction. "I'm treating them at my home. Bit of an unfortunate misunderstanding when I arrived—interdimensional travel is terribly disorienting for everyone involved, I've found."

  Interdimensional? Not the ravings of a madman. He speaks with the certainty of one who has witnessed what he describes.

  The pressure against Xin's mind increased, not painfully but persistently—a gentle probe seeking understanding rather than dominance. The sensation reminded him of standing before the king's council, being evaluated by minds that held power over his fate, yet this felt more intimate, more thorough.

  "Your home," Xin repeated, keeping his spear lowered but ready. "You cim to have moved our soldiers to another location?"

  The man—Cain, he'd called himself—gestured vaguely toward the transformed structure. "Well, yes. The outpost wasn't particurly suitable for recovery. Too angur, too... restrictive in its energy patterns… apparently. My pce is much more conducive to neural recalibration."

  Beside him, Garen shifted his weight forward, impatience radiating from his rigid posture. Xin sensed the younger warrior's growing frustration, his instinct to demand immediate answers, to see threats resolved through direct action.

  Patience, Crownguard. This being could have destroyed us already if that were his intention.

  "They suffered some cognitive disruption," Cain continued, his fingers tracing patterns in the air that left faint luminous trails, like fireflies dancing in twilight. "Nothing permanent! Just the natural consequence of minds encountering concepts they weren't evolutionarily prepared to process. Rather like showing advanced calculus to someone who's just biologically coded for counting."

  The white dust around their feet rippled in response to his gestures, forming concentric patterns that mirrored the movements of his hands. Not random dispersion, but deliberate communication—the petricite itself responding to his will.

  The stone obeys him. Or perhaps they understand each other in ways we cannot comprehend.

  "Show us," Xin commanded, his tone leaving no room for refusal despite the polite phrasing. "If our men are unharmed as you cim, you will take us to them immediately."

  Something flickered across Cain's expression—not fear or guilt, but a momentary recalcution, as though adjusting variables in a complex equation. His eyes, which had seemed merely human at first gnce, now revealed subtle differences in their depth and focus, as though viewing the world through multiple perspectives simultaneously.

  "Of course, of course," Cain agreed, his demeanor shifting to something more accommodating. "I'd be delighted to have visitors, actually. Been conducting the most fascinating observations on local physics—your reality has some truly elegant mathematical principles underlying its fundamental forces. The interaction between consciousness and matter alone is worth decades of study!"

  The white dust swirled around him as he turned, forming a path through the clearing toward the impossible structure. Each footstep left momentary impressions that sealed themselves moments ter, the petricite particles flowing like liquid before resolidifying.

  He commands the very substance of petricite—the material that defines Demacian security. If he wished us harm...

  Xin gnced at Garen, communicating volumes with the subtle tilt of his head. The younger warrior nodded almost imperceptibly, understanding the unspoken strategy. They would follow this strange being, observe his "home" and the condition of their missing soldiers, but remain vigint for any sign of hostility or deception.

  Xin's jaw clenched as he followed the stranger through the transformed clearing, every step disturbing the white dust that seemed to flow rather than scatter beneath his boots. The eccentric old man—Cain—moved with a peculiar grace that belied his apparent age, leaving a trail that pulsed with subtle luminescence before fading back into the forest floor.

  This being walks as though gravity is merely a suggestion rather than w, Xin observed, maintaining a precise distance—close enough to strike if necessary, far enough to react if attacked.

  As they approached the edge of the clearing, Xin noticed something that made his trained senses sharpen to painful alertness. The footprints of Demacian soldiers—not scattered in patterns of combat or retreat, but aligned in perfect unison, as though an entire garrison had marched in lockstep.

  The trail led to a section of disturbed earth where the white dust had settled more thickly. Xin's experienced eye immediately recognized the impression of bodies falling in unison, the subtle discoloration of the petricite particles where fluid had been absorbed. Blood. Demacian blood soaked into the strange white powder, not spttered in patterns of violence but pooled in the precise manner of controlled bleeding.

  His breath caught, a reflexive inhation that filled his lungs with air tainted by petricite dust. The sensation burned along his airways, not painful exactly but invasive, as though the stone itself sought entry to his body through this most basic function.

  It seeks to know me from within. To understand what I am made of.

  "Ah, yes," Cain remarked, noticing Xin's attention on the bloodstained ground. "That's where the initial neural disruption occurred. Perfectly normal reaction to interdimensional energies exceeding their perceptual thresholds. Rather like an electrical surge overloading a circuit—temporary shutdown to prevent permanent damage."

  The casual dismissal of his soldiers' suffering sent a cold current down Xin's spine. Not malice in the stranger's tone, but something perhaps more disturbing—clinical detachment, as though observing specimens rather than warriors.

  Garen stepped forward, his patience visibly fraying. "You speak of our men as if they were boratory experiments."

  "Do I?" Cain seemed genuinely surprised by the observation. "I assure you, their welfare has been my primary concern. The fireflies have been quite attentive healers."

  Fireflies? This being speaks in riddles and expects us to comprehend.

  As if summoned by the mention, points of light emerged from the transformed structure ahead—not insects as Xin understood them, but pure luminescence given form and purpose. They moved with deliberate patterns, their flight paths forming complex geometries that reminded him of battle formations, each light responding to the others with perfect coordination.

  "My little friends," Cain expined with evident fondness. "They were here when I arrived—or perhaps they arrived with me. The distinction seems increasingly academic. They've been instrumental in helping your soldiers recover from their cognitive overload."

  The lights approached Xin, hovering before his face in a configuration that somehow conveyed curiosity without features. He felt the same gentle pressure against his mind that he had experienced earlier, but more focused now, more intentional—like fingers testing the texture of fabric.

  They seek to understand what I am. How I think. Whether I represent threat or opportunity.

  "They won't harm you," Cain assured him, misinterpreting Xin's stillness as fear rather than tactical assessment. "They're simply curious about new consciousnesses. Your particur thought patterns are quite fascinating to them—disciplined yet adaptable, yered with experiences from multiple cultural frameworks."

  The revetion that these lights could perceive his thoughts sent a spike of arm through Xin's carefully maintained composure. In all his years of service, he had encountered many forms of magic, but nothing that could so casually breach the sanctity of mind.

  The home loomed before them now—not recognizable as mortal architecture but something that followed rules of construction that belonged to no human aesthetic. Curves where angles should be, openings where walls should stand, surfaces that seemed simultaneously solid and permeable. Bance and logic seemed to care not for the building.

  Cain gestured toward an opening that shifted subtly as they approached, widening to accommodate their passage. "Please, enter. Your soldiers are resting comfortably inside. The fireflies have established quite an efficient recovery space."

  The interior defied Xin's expectations. Rather than the alien ndscape the exterior suggested, the space within felt strangely welcoming—open yet sheltered, lit by the same gentle luminescence that emanated from the "fireflies" now floating in complex patterns across the ceiling.

  The space adjusts to our expectations, presenting what we can comprehend while maintaining its fundamental strangeness.

  Along what might be called walls, if such conventional terms applied, rested the missing Demacian soldiers. Each man y on a surface that conformed perfectly to his body, supporting limbs and spine with ideal pressure. Above each soldier hovered clusters of fireflies, their light pulsing in rhythms that matched the men's breathing.

  Xin approached the nearest soldier—a young recruit he recognized from the spring muster, barely old enough for his commission. The boy's face appeared peaceful in repose, his breathing deep and regur. No visible wounds marked his skin, yet the pallor of his complexion and the slight flutter of his eyelids suggested dreams of unusual intensity.

  "They sleep," Xin observed, his tone neutral despite the relief that threatened to crack his disciplined exterior.

  "More than sleep," Cain corrected, moving beside him with that unsettling grace. "Their minds are being... recalibrated, for ck of a better term. My arrival created a localized distortion in the fabric of reality—nothing catastrophic, just a minor adjustment in how fundamental forces interact in this specific area. Unfortunately, human brains aren't evolved to process such shifts in physical constants."

  He gestured toward the fireflies hovering above the sleeping soldiers. "These remarkable entities are essentially rewiring neural pathways that were disrupted by exposure to interdimensional energies. Rather like restoring corrupted data, though that analogy drastically oversimplifies the process."

  Garen moved to another soldier—a veteran sergeant whose scarred face Xin knew well from previous campaigns. "When will they wake?"

  "Soon," Cain promised, his tone suggesting absolute certainty. "The recovery process is nearly complete for most of them. The officer—Voss, I believe—required more extensive reconstruction due to his remarkable resistance to cognitive shutdown. Quite impressive neural architecture, actually. He maintained consciousness far longer than should have been biologically possible."

  The casual mention of "reconstruction" sent another chill through Xin's carefully maintained composure. This being spoke of rebuilding minds as though discussing simple masonry.

  He remakes them according to his understanding of what they should be. What guarantee do we have that what awakens will still be our men?

  As if sensing his concern, one of the fireflies detached from its cluster and approached Xin directly. It hovered before his face, its light shifting through spectra beyond normal human perception, creating patterns that somehow conveyed meaning without nguage.

  They wish to reassure me. To demonstrate that their intentions align with my desire for these men's wellbeing.

  The light expanded slightly, revealing complex internal structures that reminded Xin of the diagrams he had once seen in ancient texts—representations of the soul as understood by philosophers long dead. The firefly's illumination pulsed once, twice, three times in perfect synchronization with his heartbeat.

  It knows me. It knows the rhythm of my life.

  "Fascinating," Cain murmured, observing the interaction with schorly interest. "They rarely establish direct communication with new consciousnesses so quickly. Something about your particur mental structure must resonate with them."

  Before Xin could respond, a sound drew his attention to one of the resting soldiers. The man—a veteran archer named Damiere—stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering as consciousness began to return. The fireflies above him intensified their illumination, their patterns shifting to accommodate this change in state.

  Xin moved closer, his hand instinctively reaching for his spear. Not a threatening gesture, but preparation—for what, he could not precisely articute even to himself.

  If what awakens is no longer truly Damiere, I must be ready. Some fates are worse than death.

  The soldier's eyes opened slowly, revealing pupils that contracted normally in the gentle light. He blinked once, twice, his gaze gradually focusing on the impossible ceiling above him. No scream of terror erupted from his throat, no panicked thrashing of limbs—only a deep, shuddering breath that suggested profound relief.

  "Steward Zhao?" Damiere's voice emerged hoarse but steady, recognition clear in his eyes as they found Xin's face. "You've come for us."

  The simple statement carried such weight of trust and expectation that Xin felt something within his disciplined exterior shift slightly—not breaking, but acknowledging the responsibility pced upon him by this faith.

  "We have," he confirmed, his tone revealing nothing of his inner uncertainty. "Can you tell us what happened here?"

  Damiere's brow furrowed slightly, concentration evident in his expression as he sorted through memories that seemed to resist conventional ordering. "There was... a visitor. An old man, but not... not like any elder I've encountered. The petricite responded to him. Welcomed him."

  His eyes shifted to where Cain stood observing their interaction, widening with recognition but showing no fear—only a strange reverence that disturbed Xin more than terror would have.

  "Him," Damiere whispered. "The trees speak to him. The stone obeys him."

  Around them, other soldiers began to stir, consciousness returning in a wave that spread through the chamber. The fireflies responded with changing patterns, their light adjusting to accommodate this collective awakening. Each man's return to awareness followed the same pattern—confusion giving way to recognition, fear transforming not into relief but into something more troubling: acceptance.

  They have been changed. Not in memory or loyalty perhaps, but in understanding. They have glimpsed something beyond ordinary perception, and it has altered them fundamentally.

  Captain Voss remained motionless on his resting pce, the fireflies above him working more intensely than those attending the other soldiers. His face, normally composed in the stern mask of command, appeared strangely vulnerable in unconsciousness—as though the barriers that separated duty from the man had temporarily dissolved.

  "Your captain requires additional time," Cain expined, moving to stand beside Voss's resting form. "His mind resisted the interdimensional shift most strongly, causing more extensive neural disruption. The reconstruction is proceeding well, but rushing the process would risk permanent cognitive damage."

  Xin studied the elderly figure carefully, noting details that had escaped his initial assessment. The man's clothing, though strange in design, seemed to shimmer with subtle patterns that responded to the fireflies' movements. His silver hair caught the light in ways that suggested it might not be composed of ordinary matter. Most disturbing were his eyes—kind yet utterly alien in their depth, as though viewing the world through multiple perspectives simultaneously.

  He appears human, yet everything about him suggests otherwise. A visitor not just from another nd, but from beyond reality as we understand it.

  "What are you?" Xin asked directly, his tone neither accusing nor fearful—simply seeking information necessary for tactical assessment.

  Cain smiled, the expression transforming his face into something almost grandfatherly, though the effect was undermined by the way the fireflies gathered more densely around him in response to the question.

  "A reasonable inquiry, though one with a rather complex answer," he replied, adjusting what appeared to be leather patches on his elbows with fastidious precision. "I was a professor of theoretical physics—a schor of fundamental reality, you might say—in my original dimension. Now I appear to be... something more. The transition between states of existence has granted me certain capabilities I'm still in the process of understanding."

  He gestured toward the resting soldiers, his movement leaving momentary trails of light in the air. "I didn't intend to disrupt your men's neural functions. My arrival created a localized distortion in reality that their minds simply weren't equipped to process. Rather like showing complex mathematics to someone who has only learned to count—the concepts exceed their perceptual framework."

  One of the awakened soldiers—Leonard, a veteran of the northern campaigns—sat up slowly, his movements careful but not pained. "He speaks truth, Steward," the man offered without prompting. "We felt no malice from him. Only... vastness. Like trying to comprehend the ocean when you've only ever seen puddles."

  The other awakening soldiers nodded in agreement, their expressions showing none of the fear or confusion Xin would have expected after such an experience. Instead, they regarded Cain with a mixture of respect and something that disturbed Xin far more—a kind of reverence typically reserved for religious experiences.

  Garen moved closer to Xin, his voice lowered though in this strange pce, Xin doubted any conversation could truly be private. "They seem unharmed, but changed. Is this an acceptable outcome to report to the High Marshal?"

  A profound question that cut to the heart of their mission. The soldiers lived, would apparently recover fully, yet something fundamental had shifted in their understanding of reality. Was this a rescue, or would they be returning with men whose loyalties—or at least perspectives—had been irrevocably altered?

  Before Xin could formute a response, the fireflies above Captain Voss intensified their illumination, their patterns shifting to indicate some significant change in his condition. The captain's eyelids fluttered, his breathing pattern accelerating as consciousness began to return.

  Cain moved toward the awakening officer with evident interest. "Ah, excellent timing. The captain's recovery has progressed more rapidly than anticipated. His neural architecture shows remarkable adaptability for a human consciousness."

  For a human consciousness. He speaks as though from outside our species entirely.

  Voss opened his eyes with the deliberate control that characterized everything about the man. No disorientation clouded his gaze as it swept the impossible chamber, cataloging details with military precision before finally settling on Xin's face.

  "Steward Zhao," he acknowledged, his voice steady despite the circumstances. "You've witnessed it too, then. The truth about our petricite."

  The statement hung in the air between them, den with implications that threatened to undermine centuries of Demacian certainty. Xin felt the weight of it press against his carefully maintained composure, demanding a response that would shape whatever came next.

  What truth has he glimpsed in his altered state? And what will it mean for Demacia if he speaks it aloud?

  Garen moved among the recovering soldiers with surprising gentleness, his massive frame bending to offer support as each man attempted to stand. His strength, normally deployed in battle against Demacia's enemies, now served as anchor for his weakened brethren. Xin watched the younger warrior's careful ministrations, noting how the soldiers responded to his presence with visible relief—a testament to the Crownguard name and all it represented to these men.

  The familiarity of Garen's uniform provides them comfort. A reminder of order in the midst of... whatever this is.

  Xin approached Captain Voss, who remained seated on the edge of his strange resting pce, his complexion still bearing the pallor of one who had glimpsed things beyond ordinary comprehension. The captain's eyes held a new awareness that disturbed Xin more than any physical injury might have—a depth that suggested fundamental alterations to how the man perceived reality.

  "Can you stand, Captain?" Xin asked, offering his arm without command or pity—one warrior to another.

  Voss nodded, grasping Xin's forearm with surprising strength. "The petricite speaks, Steward," he murmured as he rose, his voice pitched low enough that only Xin could hear. "It always has. We just never understood its nguage."

  He speaks heresy with the conviction of revetion. What did he witness while unconscious that transformed certainty into... this?

  Xin maintained his composed exterior, betraying none of the disquiet that rippled beneath his disciplined mind.

  Around them, the recovered soldiers gathered in small clusters, their conversations flowing with unexpected ease given their recent trauma. Their postures had rexed, tension draining from shoulders that should have remained alert in such alien surroundings. They gestured toward the impossible architecture with expressions of wonder rather than fear, pointing out features to one another as though admiring art rather than confronting the unnatural.

  "Your men appear to be recovering admirably," Cain observed, approaching with that peculiar grace that suggested only partial adherence to natural ws. "Cognitive function returning, memory integration proceeding normally. Quite remarkable resilience, really."

  The fireflies—or whatever these luminous entities truly were—danced around the elderly figure in patterns that reminded Xin of courtiers attending royalty. Their light seemed to intensify in his presence, creating a subtle corona effect that emphasized his otherness despite his human appearance.

  "We are grateful for your... assistance," Xin replied, choosing his words with diplomatic precision. "Demacia acknowledges your aid to her soldiers."

  Formal gratitude commits us to nothing while acknowledging the debt. Standard protocol when dealing with potentially dangerous allies of uncertain motivation.

  Cain's expression brightened with genuine pleasure at the acknowledgment. "Delightful! I've been so concerned about making a proper first impression. Interdimensional relocation doesn't typically come with etiquette guidelines, you know."

  He csped his hands together, the gesture strangely grandfatherly despite the impossible energies that seemed to flow just beneath his skin. "You must all be famished after such excitement. Cognitive restructuring requires tremendous caloric expenditure—for the patients and the practitioners alike."

  The suggestion of food—such a mundane concern amid these extraordinary circumstances—caught Xin momentarily off-guard. The normality of the offer stood in stark contrast to the alien environment, creating a cognitive dissonance that mirrored the strange architecture surrounding them.

  "I've become quite proficient with local ingredients," Cain continued, apparently oblivious to Xin's internal calcutions. "The forest provides remarkable sustenance once one understands its patterns. Perhaps you'd care to join me in the kitchen while your colleague continues assisting the men?"

  A strategic opportunity. Separation allows for more direct questioning while maintaining observation of our forces through Garen.

  Xin exchanged a gnce with the younger warrior, communicating volumes through subtle shifts in expression that years of battlefield coordination had refined into an efficient nguage. Garen nodded almost imperceptibly, understanding the unspoken strategy.

  "We would be honored," Xin replied, his tone revealing nothing of his wariness. "Crownguard, please see to the men's continued recovery while I accompany our host."

  Garen straightened, his posture shifting subtly from caretaker to guardian. "Of course, Steward. They'll be ready to move when you give the word."

  Ready to move, but to where? Back to a Demacia that cannot comprehend what they've experienced? Or somewhere else entirely?

  The soldiers appeared to draw comfort from Garen's authoritative presence, their conversations becoming more animated as the familiar hierarchy reasserted itself. Yet Xin noticed how their eyes occasionally drifted toward Cain with expressions that bordered on reverence—a concerning development that required further investigation.

  "This way, if you please," Cain gestured toward an opening in the wall that hadn't been visible moments before. The architecture shifted subtly as they approached, the passage widening to accommodate their passage with the fluid grace of a living organism adjusting its posture.

  Xin followed the elderly figure through the passage, maintaining a precise distance that would allow for defensive maneuvers if necessary. His spear remained secured across his back, accessible but not threatening—a bance that had served him well through countless diplomatic engagements of uncertain outcome.

  The passage opened into a space that defied conventional understanding of "kitchen" while somehow fulfilling all the functional requirements of one. Surfaces that might be counters curved and flowed at heights that adjusted subtly as they entered. What appeared to be cooking implements hung suspended in arrangements that suggested both aesthetic consideration and practical efficiency.

  Most striking was the light—not the artificial illumination of torches or magical sources that Xin had encountered throughout his extensive travels, but something that seemed to emanate from the very surfaces themselves. The gentle radiance cast no shadows, creating an environment where depth and dimension seemed simultaneously enhanced and altered.

  "I've been experimenting with local culinary traditions," Cain expined, moving among the impossible surfaces with practiced familiarity. "Fascinating fvor profiles—quite different from my original reality, yet with surprising parallels in certain fundamental taste experiences."

  His hands moved with surprising dexterity for one of his apparent age, gathering ingredients from containers that seemed to emerge from the walls themselves. Pnts that Xin recognized from the petricite forest, their properties altered through some process that enhanced their natural colors and textures.

  "You speak of different realities as casually as a merchant might discuss neighboring provinces," Xin observed, positioning himself where he could observe both Cain's activities and the passage back to where Garen guarded their men.

  Understanding his origin may provide insight into his capabilities and intentions. Knowledge is the foundation of effective strategy.

  Cain smiled, the expression transforming his schorly features into something almost grandfatherly. "Perspective, my dear Steward. When one has experienced the dissolution of what was once considered an absolute boundary, the distinction between 'here' and 'elsewhere' becomes rather more flexible."

  He gestured with a utensil that resembled a knife only in its basic function, its edge seeming to phase between solid and energy as it sliced through what might have been vegetables. "I died, you see. Quite thoroughly, according to medical consensus. Terminal illness, metastasized beyond treatment. Yet here I stand, reconstructed in a reality operating under different fundamental constants."

  The casual mention of his own death sent a chill through Xin's disciplined exterior. Not fear, precisely, but the profound disquiet that comes from confronting concepts that defy natural order.

  He speaks of death and resurrection not as miracle or magic, but as transition between states of existence. What implications does this hold for our understanding of life itself?

  "Your men experienced something simir, though on a much smaller scale," Cain continued, his hands never ceasing their practiced movements. "A glimpse beyond the boundaries they had been taught were absolute. The petricite facilitated this perception—it serves as a conduit between states of reality, you see, not merely a suppressant of magical energies as your people have believed."

  The utensil in his hand paused momentarily, hovering above the prepared ingredients. "That's the fascinating misconception at the heart of Demacian understanding. Your petricite doesn't suppress magic—it processes it, refines it, communicates through it. Rather like a transtion device between different forms of energy."

  Xin maintained his composed expression despite the profound implications of this revetion. If true, it would undermine centuries of Demacian security protocols, the very foundation upon which their kingdom's defense against magical threats had been built.

  Could our greatest protection have been misunderstood so fundamentally? And what would it mean for Demacia if this truth were widely known?

  "You suggest our understanding of petricite is fwed," Xin stated, neither accepting nor rejecting the cim. "Yet Demacia has relied upon its properties for generations without incident."

  Cain resumed his culinary preparations, combining ingredients in patterns that followed some internal logic invisible to Xin's observation. "Not fwed so much as incomplete. Your people discovered one aspect of petricite's nature and built an entire cultural framework around that limited understanding."

  He gestured toward the walls of the impossible kitchen, where the white stone pulsed with subtle luminescence that synchronized with his movements. "The stone responds to consciousness, you see. It doesn't reject magic—it harmonizes with it, transtes it, sometimes amplifies it when the correct... frequency is achieved."

  The fireflies that had accompanied them into the kitchen began to arrange themselves in geometric patterns above the prepared ingredients, their light intensifying as though participating in the cooking process. Xin watched with carefully concealed fascination as the raw materials began to transform beneath this illumination, colors deepening, textures shifting.

  Cooking without fire. Transformation through light and will rather than heat. Is this magic as we understand it, or something more fundamental?

  "Your men glimpsed this truth when I arrived," Cain continued, his tone suggesting a professor expining complex concepts to a promising student. "The petricite responded to my presence—my particur consciousness—creating a resonance that temporarily overwhelmed their perceptual frameworks. Not harmful in the long term, merely... expansive."

  Xin considered this expnation, weighing it against the evidence before him. The soldiers' behavior, their altered perspectives, the strange reverence they showed toward this being—all consistent with a profound shift in understanding rather than simple injury or enchantment.

  "And now they see differently," Xin observed, his tone neutral despite the implications.

  Cain nodded, his expression thoughtful as he arranged the transformed ingredients on surfaces that adjusted their height to receive them. "They perceive more accurately, though not completely. A glimpse beyond the veil, you might say—enough to recognize that reality is more complex than they previously understood, but not enough to fully comprehend its true nature."

  He paused, fixing Xin with a gaze that seemed to perceive far more than surface appearance. "Rather like yourself, Steward. You've always sensed there was more to the world than Demacian doctrine acknowledged, haven't you? Your experiences before joining their ranks gave you perspective they ck."

  The observation struck uncomfortably close to truths Xin kept carefully guarded. His life before Demacia—the arenas, the blood, the different understanding of power that came from surviving in worlds where strength meant something far removed from Demacian ideals of justice and order.

  He sees too much. Perceives what I've kept hidden beneath years of loyal service. Is this insight or invasion?

  "We all bring our experiences to our service," Xin replied diplomatically, neither confirming nor denying the implication.

  Cain smiled, the expression suggesting he recognized the evasion and found it somehow endearing. "Indeed we do. And those experiences shape how we interpret new information, new... revetions."

  The food—if such a conventional term applied to what had been prepared—now arranged itself on serving implements that hovered slightly above the surfaces that had produced them. The aroma that rose from the transformed ingredients carried complex notes that reminded Xin simultaneously of familiar Demacian fare and something entirely foreign—spices that shouldn't exist in this realm, preparation methods that defied conventional understanding.

  "Shall we rejoin your colleague and the recovering soldiers?" Cain suggested, gesturing toward the passage with a movement that sent the hovering ptters gliding smoothly ahead of them. "I find shared meals facilitate understanding across cultural boundaries—or in this case, across dimensional ones."

  As they moved to follow the floating food back toward the main chamber, Xin maintained his careful observation of their strange host. The elderly figure moved with that unsettling grace that suggested only partial adherence to physical ws, his form sometimes seeming to anticipate spaces before fully entering them.

  He exists partially outside our reality even while inhabiting it. What other ws might prove flexible in his presence?

  The implications of this being's presence in Demacia—of his apparent command over the very substance that formed the foundation of their kingdom's security—presented strategic complexities beyond anything Xin had previously navigated in his long service to the crown.

  As they approached the chamber where Garen guarded their recovering men, Xin composed his thoughts into the precise, measured report he would eventually deliver to the High Marshal. Yet even as he organized these observations, a question persisted beneath his disciplined exterior—one that would find no pce in official documentation but would shape his personal assessment of this extraordinary situation:

  What happens to a kingdom built upon certainty when certainty itself proves to be illusion?