Syndra had never been to Valoran before, though it filled her with the same despair as Ionia did. It mattered not that the landscape was different, that the animals of its forests had more or less legs; they all beheld her with the same fright as her family did, as everybody in Ionia did. She tried to glean the knowledge of time from the sky and the trees, to tell how long she had spent in her prison, but neither had an answer for her.
She was cold, and she was angry. She wished to question the latter, but she knew well she could not allow that; her fury was the only thing keeping her going. Reviled by all she had ever met, to let go of her ire meant to let go of the single thought that justified her entire existence; the dark pit on the other side was one she'd not escape so easily, perhaps ever.
Still, even as hatred and rage shook her every limb, she could not stave off the terrible sorrow begging to be heard. In all her life, she was called nothing but misfortune; where other children saw joy and pride and love, she had only seen fear and disgust in the eyes of her mother. While her body may have healed, her soul still felt the hits of her brother as if he had beaten her just yesterday.
Breathing had gotten hard with the terrible aching in her chest. She ducked beneath one of the many oaks of the unnamed Valoran forest and tried not to glance up at it boughs, heavier by the moment as they soaked in her dark energies. She raked its fallen leaves together to make herself a damp bedding, and at last felt a speckle of relief when her ivory hair fell over her face and concealed an ugly expression of grief.
She tried to recall her last memories. A teacher who had betrayed her... Like all the others. A prison, made not to just contain her, but force her to relive what was perhaps the direst moment of her young life, over and over. Invaders that had awakened her, not to free her from her torment but in hopes of using her as a weapon against their enemies.
The oak above her howled and cracked as Syndra's antipathy manifested as swirling dark magic, a corrupting force that made the world around feel as she did. And she wept, not for the oak or the world or even herself; she wept for the hated, the outcasts and the lost, because she knew that just like her, there was no hope for them.
When she woke up in a lavish bed full of warmth and velvet pillows, Syndra prayed that she had died. The stars hanging above her in an astromantic diagram certainly alluded to this, and she hadn't known a single person that would ever let her lie in a bed like that. This was most definitely the afterlife, or a carefully crafted trap, or both.
She had no idea how she got there in the first place. She was in a forest before; did she slumber for another century? Did her dark magic transform the howling wood into this chamber? That was unlikely.
She knew that the most reasonable course of action was to get up and prepare herself for a fight, but she couldn't bring herself to do that. Instead she buried herself deeper beneath the cozy blankets, enjoying this moment of rest. Her anger relented a bit then, tricked into slumber by the momentary solace, and the young sorceress was at once overcome by a deep melancholy. She forced her eyes shut with fierce stubbornness, determined to stop the tears from flowing. Then, somebody patted her.
"There there, dark child," a squeaky voice said to her, "do not weep for the forest! It had it coming, I'm sure, being so obnoxiously green and leafy."
"What?" Syndra looked up from the pillows and at the creature talking to her. It was... Small, and wearing a hat that was certainly too big for it. She wasn't entirely sure who or what it was.
"Of course, so much uncontrolled power is very troublesome," the tiny shrouded thing continued, "we'll need to do something about that."
She recoiled from its metal gauntlet, throwing her blanket aside. Her dark energy was with her at once, manifesting as three inky globes above her head. "It's mine. I'm not giving it to you."
"Of course you aren't..."
The little being squinted in a devilish smile, and Syndra knew then that it was a trap. The spheres around her expanded in size quickly, and the room shook with her sheer power. The creature before her reached for its own staff and tried to stop her, but it was too late now; the stone floor collapsed beneath them and they were sent hurling downwards. The entire building was being torn down, and Syndra was reminded of the last moments before her imprisonment. An irrational fear struck her, a thought that she was about to be imprisoned again, and her distress only accelerated the cataclysm; stone and wood swallowed them, burying them both underneath the heavy rubble.
For some reason, Syndra didn't feel its weight on top of her. Her knees and hands hurt from the bruises, but she was safe from the crushing debris. She squinted into the dark around her and then, in a spark of violet magic, the ruins around her flew off in all directions. The small creature that had threatened her before lowered its staff and dispelled the protective bubble it had conjured over the both of them.
"You absolute dingus!" Syndra's captor screeched and, before she could do anything about it, bonked her head with its staff, "what was that for?! My tower!"
"I won't let you take my power!" she yelled back, rubbing her head, "it's mine, do you understand? Mine! I've suffered much for it!"
"I don't want to take your power, you blasted baboon! I'll make you into my apprentice, and together we will usher the world in darkness!"
"Apprentice?" Syndra stuttered, the memories of her former master rushing through her head as the tiny being cackled at its demonic plan, "I had a teacher once, and he betrayed me."
"Was he the greatest dark wizard to have ever lived?" asked the robed creature as it began digging through the rubble. After a moment, it lifted a hefty grimoire from the debris, and cheered so loudly it made Syndra wince.
"He was a monk," she mumbled, "I trusted him, but he only wanted to imprison me."
"Monks," the dark wizard snorted derisively, "what do they know? How to 'meditate' in their huts and preach nonsense, perhaps."
Syndra smiled wearily, for the first time in centuries. She found herself at a crossroad; she could challenge the little dark spirit and continue on her solitary path, or try it once more, reach out for the very last time. She was frightened of the dark places she'd get to see if she was to suffer one more betrayal.
"You're fortunate that I wasn't too fond of that particular tower," the tiny wizard extended a plated hand towards her, "are you going to lie around all day, or will we get us a new one?"
Syndra grabbed the offered hand, not expecting the petite creature to actually, well, help her up to her full height when it barely reached her hips. She was mistaken; while it could not match her in size, it had enough power to send it surging through her and make her ascent all that easier. It was a strange experience, though also oddly calming. Reassuring.
"My name is Syndra," she finally spoke her name when her new master began hopping away. She tired of being called 'apprentice' quickly. "Who are you? What are you?"
"Have I not said already?" her companion huffed, "I am darness incarnate, malice supreme. I suppose you can call me Veigar. Or master Veigar, that's even better."
"Veigar will have to do," Syndra mumbled and pulled her rags closer to her body, "where are we going to find another tower?"
"You'll see in due time, little one," Veigar hissed, "I've this one rival..."
The land Syndra walked with Veigar was beautiful. He explained that they found themselves at the northern borders of Demacia, and that the icy Freljord was just over the majestic mountains that lined the horizon. Syndra heard many tales of the snow-born warriors as a child, most of them told to scare her and her siblings into listening to their parents. To be kidnapped by the mysterious frost raiders and be turned into an ice statue - a fate young Syndra feared even more than her brothers.
"We must be a little careful," Veigar said as they waded through a tall, green field, "the countryside isn't so bad, but every now and then you run into an overzealous monster hunter. They are a bother."
"Hm?" Syndra hummed idly, her gaze fixated on the snowy peaks. Ionia had its own mountains, but none so tall. She felt almost humbled to be looking at those skybound giants.
"Demacia doesn't like magic much, as you will soon see. They see sorcerers as monsters. Come here, girl."
She didn't even register his call, her mind absent, wandering the distant summits. She almost stumbled on Veigar when he stopped in front of her.
"And pay attention," he chided her when she regained her balance and beckoned her down to himself. She ducked, expecting whispers about a secret attack plan; she was surprised when he instead took off his navy overcloak and draped it over her shoulders. It barely reached to her waist, but still made her a little warmer.
"We'll find you something proper once we're at Ronzel's tower," he assured her, "you have magic, so let it course through your body. It will warm you up a little."
She stared into his yellow eyes, at first thankful, then ashamed. She had no idea how to do that, but she didn't want to admit; she simply nodded and stood up again.
"Who is this Ronzel?" Syndra asked when they set off again, her eyes now glued to the back of the petite wizard. He looked even smaller without his cape.
"An imbecile," Veigar snorted and adjusted his oversized hat, "a pretend-wizard that didn't make it in the south so he came to terrify the villagers here."
"You said Demacians didn't like magic here."
"Yes, but Demacia is also currently at war with Noxus," Veigar pointed eastward, "they don't have soldiers for every single country hamlet, especially this close to the Freljord."
Syndra nodded, pretending she had at least a modicum of knowledge about the nations mentioned, and remained silent for the rest of their journey. The wild fields soon turned into sprawling meadows, full of flowery patches that obstinately refused to bow to the coming autumn, and as they began approaching a crystalline lake lining the northwestern side of the verdant pastures, Syndra could finally see their destination.
The village overlooked by Ronzel's tower sat right across the lake, just beneath the towering mountains. With the sun slowly falling in the west, the hamlet was hidden in cool shade, and Syndra could only guess that it wasn't the warmest of places. She shuddered, and then again when her sandals started sinking into the muddy beach that surrounded the mere. Veigar, oblivious to her struggles, made his way straight to a small mooring nearby, their only way to the other side. With much squelching and squishing, Syndra scampered after him.
"Old man!" Veigar hollered at the sullen ferryman guarding the pier, "wake up! We need a ride."
"No visitors allowed to Berwick today," said the elder, "the warlock's orders."
"Aha." The wooden pier creaked under Veigar's feet. "And why is that, I wonder?"
"A wedding, little one." The boatsman leaned on his oar and away from Veigar, wary of the dark wizard baring his sharp teeth at him.
"Who is getting married?" Syndra asked before Veigar could chide the old man for having called him little. She received only stares and silence in response, and it took Veigar smacking the helmsman over the knees with his staff to make him talk again.
"The warlock is to take fair Adaline as his bride," the ferryman said and sighed again, "my little girl did nothing to deserve this fate. Curse the wizards, and curse this war. If not for Noxus, the king would've sent a monster hunter long ago."
Syndra and Veigar exchanged blank stares. The dark sorcerer then turned back to the elder, waving his staff about.
"How about we make you a deal?" Veigar asked, "you take us to Berwick, and we kill the wizard."
"But you are no monster hunters," the ferryman argued, "there are no yordles among the king's men an women."
Yordles, Syndra thought to herself. Was that what Veigar was? She'd never seen one before, only heard of them through fairytales. She thought they were tiny forest spirits, not furry little men.
"Obviously, but—"
"But I am a monk from Ionia," Syndra interrupted the dark wizard, her dull voice giving away none of the lie, "we can, uh, we can take away one's vile magic with a single touch."
"Yes, that," Veigar waved his staff in her direction, quick to catch on to the ruse, "and I'm along to make sure nothing goes wrong. So?"
The ferryman eyed them for a good while, saying nothing. Syndra was starting to think that he saw through their sham, but then he sighed and stepped out of their way to let them on the rowboat. Clearly he was desperate enough to believe a dirty girl in rags and her squeaky companion.
"Please, be careful with the warlock," the old man coughed when Syndra and Veigar seated themselves in the shaky skiff, "he won't hesitate to use Adaline as a hostage."
"Of course," Veigar huffed, crossing his arms, "how else would I take Ronzel's bride for myself?"
The ferryman almost choked at the notion, and Veigar had to hook him with his staff so the poor elder would not fall into the lake. Syndra snorted.
"A mere jest, obviously," the dark wizard sneered, "now row, or we'll find another village to 'liberate'..."
When they finally reached the wharf on the other side, the sun had long since set. The entire hamlet glowed with lamplights, a quaint sight beneath the starry Demacian sky. With the village spiraling upwards to the warlock's tower, Syndra and Veigar had a good view of what was going on from the bottom dock.
"Do you have a plan?" Syndra asked when the ferryman let them off the dinghy. Veigar brushed a few splinters off his legs.
"A lesson, rather," he said and beckoned her to follow him through the cobbled streets, "I will deal with Ronzel and you will watch and do nothing."
"What?" Syndra growled, "what's that good for?"
"Girl, you blasted my tower to smithereens after two misunderstood sentences," Veigar hissed and poked her hip; he couldn't comfortably reach higher. "You need a lesson in self-control."
"So that's what it's about," she snapped at him, "you just want to restrain me like everybody else!"
"No, I want to direct your power in a meaningful way," he barked, "do you think I've not been where you are now, young and full of power and ready to blast everybody?"
Syndra huffed and crossed her arms. Veigar quickly scouted the street before them for company; when he came to the conclusion that everybody was at the tower wedding, he tapped his staff against the ground. A cobble and dirt pillar lifted him upwards until his eyes were on the same level as Syndra's. The young witch stopped.
"Don't make the same mistake I did," said the dark wizard, somehow forcing a modicum of gravity into his pitched voice, "and end up in terrible places because your enemies were more careful than you."
"I'm more powerful than you ever were." Syndra stared at him coldly. "I cannot be broken."
"Is that how you ended up moping in a dying forest? By being unbreakable and indomitable?" he threw the harsh truth right into her face, and she couldn't defiantly stare into his eyes anymore. She looked aside, frowning.
"You'll have plenty opportunities to tear and bite and burst," Veigar dispelled the rocky pillar beneath his feet and jumped back onto the street, "when you're no longer a danger to yourself."
She could feel immense anger building within her again, not because he insulted her but because he was right and she hated it. With her eyes glued to his back, a violent thought flashed through her head: who would stop her if she killed the tower wizard, then Veigar and then everybody in Berwick? She owed them nothing. She owed Veigar nothing. He kidnapped her and scared her and lectured her and...
He gave her his coat. She was reminded of this when she pulled it closer in the chilly night, and her rage relented a little. She didn't want to fight him, not when he was the single person that didn't treat her with contempt.
"Such long legs she's got and she's slower than a baby raptor," Veigar's taunt pulled her out of her thoughts. She puffed her cheeks and hurried after him. At least climbing up Berwick's narrow streets made her warmer...
The wizard was serious about not wanting any unexpected guests; that much was obvious from the locked gate leading to the tower's courtyard. Looking up, Syndra noticed how smooth the mountain wall behind it was; it seemed something else stood there in place of the tower once, probably torn down by the warlock. All the stone blocks and planks the spire was built of seemed notably newer than those used in the construction of the rest of Berwick; they were polished and unweathered, with no dirt or ivy to speak of. The only thing dotting the pristine walls were little garish lanterns, presumably to mark the joyous occassion.
Syndra was surprised to not hear any cheer from the other side, but she chalked it up to a different tradition. She wanted to ask Veigar about it, but the petite sorcerer immediately turned to the two villagers that were apparently stuck with guard duty.
"Open," he said dryly to them, "we're invited."
"I'm not sure," one of the men replied; he was hardly a soldier, rather a farmer or a fisherman who was given a sword he couldn't even use. His companion chuckled.
"You're making this way harder on yourself that it needs to be," Veigar noted, "open the gate or I will kill you and then open it myself."
"Oh, really?" the other rancher-guard taunted him, "and how would the squeaky squirrel do that? Throw nuts at us?"
They started laughing, and Veigar squinted. Syndra wanted to step in, but the dark wizard was quicker to react.
Everything that followed - that she had to witness - changed her. Syndra had killed people before in her life - first her teacher, then the soldiers that unearthed her prison. In both cases her mind wasn't entirely there, and it was always so... Quick and clean. She got angry, her spheres pierced through them and they fell to the ground, and that was it. She never looked into a man's eyes to watch life being drained from him, not before now.
When Veigar's dark magic pressed the mocking farmer against the wall, Syndra almost yelped in surprise, though her eyes remained set on the man. She watched as Veigar's spell grew in force, and she didn't believe until the very last moment that he would truly kill him; when the poor villager literally burst under the pressure, Syndra winced. Nausea hit her together with the man's remains and she was forced to bend over and cough out whatever was left in her empty stomach. And somewhere beyond her veil of white hair, she heard the dark wizard chuckle maliciously, so happy with what he had just done.
The other man dropped his sword and ran away.
"Everything alright?" Veigar asked after a moment, pushing Syndra's mane behind her shoulders, where she couldn't get its tips dirty with blood and whatever else was now on the muddy ground. She nodded, and he turned back to the gate.
"Stay behind me," he said, and the very same magic that turned the villager into paste blasted the gate open. Syndra straightened up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand; her eyes were immediately set on a disgruntled and mildly shocked man across the courtyard. The villagers were gathered around him in a half-circle, neatly sat around a long table. They were all sullen and fearful like the ferryman, though Syndra couldn't tell if this was caused by the strange wedding or Veigar's abrupt entrance.
"You?!" the standing man yelled; he was dressed much better than the guests and so was the woman standing next to him, and Syndra could only guess that he was the wizard, Ronzel. "You promised to never—to never show here again!"
"I changed my mind," Veigar waved his staff, "I want the tower. You have five seconds to disappear. That goes for everybody who doesn't want to die today."
The gathered people of Berwick were smarter than their kinsmen at the gate, and so they did their best to scram; some pressed themselves to the walls, some hid under the table, some ran around Syndra and Veigar back into the village. The warlock's bride wanted to do the same, but he grabbed her by the wrist before she could run.
"We had a deal!" Ronzel hissed, "Doran's Lost Star for Berwick!"
"Hm, yes," Veigar nodded, climbing one of the chairs and then the long table, "but then I remembered that I could have both, so here I am."
Ronzel pierced the little wizard with his flaming eyes, then yanked the poor bride's wrist and dragged her into his tower before Veigar could turn him into a pile of ash. His dark bolt missed and dissipated in the chilly night; Syndra was certain he could obliterate Ronzel if he wanted to, but he didn't want to damage the tower.
"Come," he beckoned her, slid off the table and set out towards the tower, "he has nowhere to run. He's just posturing."
Still trying to forget what she had seen in front of the gate, Syndra hurried after the yordle mage and into the spire. The door wasn't locked; the warlock didn't have time for that as he fled up the tower. Veigar didn't seem to be in a rush, walking the stairs at a leisurely pace - like a wolf approaching its cornered prey. There was much cruelty in the small man, a trait Syndra found both frightening and admirable.
"It is a good, sturdy build," Veigar noted when they reached the first resident level. It was effectively one large common room, panelled with wood; every one of its six wall had a window in it, providing a great view of the village below. It was also terribly messy; Ronzel clearly didn't care to tidy his abode.
"The other warlock mentioned some deal," Syndra said when Veigar started climbing another set of wooden stairs, "I thought you two were enemies."
"Politics," replied the dark mage, "he did a favor for me, so I did one for him and hoped to retain some control over this miserable end of Demacia. It didn't work out very well."
"You could've dealt with it sooner."
"I could, but I had no reason to. I didn't really need this place."
Syndra didn't know what purpose served the second level; most of it was walled off, and Veigar didn't seem keen on searching its every chamber. They simply continued upwards to the attic, which served as a master bedroom. There they found the wizard, together with his frightened bride.
"So you found her," Ronzel spat at Veigar, "your Ionian demon."
"And I made her my apprentice," Veigar affirmed. Syndra squinted. Was theirs not a chance meeting? Did the dark mage foresee her coming?
"He'll betray you too," Ronzel looked at Syndra, desperate for her help, "he throws everybody overboard once they're of no use to him."
"She'll have plenty of time to think about that while lounging around in your tower," Veigar growled, and Syndra once again grasped the coat around her shoulders to reassure herself a bit. No... She wasn't going to change sides now.
Seeing that he would score no new ally here, Ronzel dragged the terrified mad before him. He made a step back, pulling out his jeweled wand and pressing it to her throat.
"Please," the young bride pleaded with him, "I have nothing to do with this."
"I'm feeling benevolent today," Veigar lifted his staff, "so I'm giving you five more seconds to let the peasant girl go."
He began counting, and Syndra had no doubt that Veigar would not hesitate to destroy them both. It seemed that even Ronzel realized this in the end, and so he pushed the maid away.
Not that it helped him in any regard.
Veigar, clearly irritated with the other mage, immediately disintegrated his rival with dark magic. There were no parting words, no melodramatic exchange; Ronzel simply ceased to be, a life ended as unceremoniously as it began. The bride, despite having no love for her to-be husband, began sobbing; before Syndra could turn to her, she ran away, down the stairs and presumably back to her father.
Syndra thought about how it would've been were she born without magic. Maybe she too would have ended up in an arranged marriage with some shady warlock. The thought put a smile on her face; she still despised the world, but somehow it brought her a little peace that they saved another girl from a terrible fate - for now.
"Now, my dear Syndra," Veigar turned to her when he blew away Ronzel's ashes, "I grade your first lesson with an A plus, that is an excellent performance. You deserve some rest."
"I didn't do anything."
"Which can oftentimes be harder than doing too much," Veigar nodded sagely, "I'll leave this room to you for having done so well today. We'll deal with the rest tomorrow."
"Ronzel said something about a Ionian demon," Syndra called after him as he walked down the stairs, "about me."
"Tomorrow," he hollered in response. She snorted, annoyed, and turned to the grand bed placed at the far wall. She doubted she could sleep now, with so many questions she needed to ask and in a room where a man had just died. She was wrong, of course; mighty sorceress or not, her body demanded rest and as soon as she dug into the warm blankets, her mind slipped into the swallowing dark and she slept until the late morning, entirely dreamless.
There was a little chapel in Berwick, and in it a bell that rang every noon. The thundering sound woke Syndra; having never heard a village bell before, she jumped from her bed in panic, thinking something terrible had happened. She pushed all the blankets aside and dashed towards the stairs. A note was glued to the topmost post; Syndra stared at it for a second and then ran down the stairs, where she was greeted by a familiar face. Not the one she expected, but still familiar.
"My lady," the was-to-be bride stuttered and bowed to the dirty sorceress. Syndra gave the maid a puzzled look.
"What's going on? Has something happened? And what are you doing here?"
"My name is Adaline," the girl said quickly and Syndra could tell that she was nervous; perhaps even scared. "You saved me, so now I owe you."
"I see," Syndra mumbled, unsure what to do with the woman, "I heard loud noises outside. What happened?"
"I heard nothing," the maid was confused, "or do you mean the bell?"
"Bell?"
"At the chapel?" Adaline's made a few uncertain gestures. "It rings every noon. The first mayor of Berwick had it put there."
"Oh."
Syndra didn't know what more to say, and so an awkward moment of silence ensued.
"I am to help you get dressed," the maid finally broke it, "there's breakfast waiting for you."
"I don't need help." Syndra felt uncomfortable thinking of this girl - or anybody else - watching her change clothes. "Where is Veigar?"
"In the courtyard." Adaline gave the witch a desperate, pleading look. "Please, don't send me away. The warlock said that if you're unhappy with me he will deal with me like he dealt with that terrible man, Ronzel."
"Hm, alright," Syndra pushed a loose strand of white hair behind her ear, "but I don't want you to look at me when I'm not wearing anything."
Adaline nodded, clearly enthused to do anything as long as she did not have to face Veigar again. "Let's get you in a bath then, and I'll fetch you some clothes in the meatime!"
Anxious but unwilling to just send the girl to her death, Syndra let Adaline push her through the little rooms of the middle tower floor. She understood the purpose of none save for the last one, a little bathing room not too different from the one Syndra's parents had in their house before they were forced to move out. Of couse, this one was much nicer and cleaner, not having suffered a bunch of unruly children.
"There is no water," Syndra noted when Adaline stepped towards the edge of the gilded tub, "we'll... We'll have to go to the river, I guess."
"Oh, no," Adaline smiled and turned one of the strange cogs that were stuck on the tub. Around its entire perimeter, water started pouring down from the gilded frame. Syndra flinched at the strange magics.
"Every house has these thanks to our friends in Piltover," the maid explained, "have you never heard of Piltover?"
"Maybe once," Syndra grumbled.
"It's a city of engineers that come up with new, magical gadgets every day," Adaline raved with glowing eyes, "they gave us lamps that only need to be refilled with oil once every half a year, and crossbows that shoot three bolts at once, and magical locks, and..."
She went on and on, and Syndra found it hard to focus on her words. Instead she stepped towards the miraculous and tested the water with her fingers. It was hot, and after Adaline poured a bottle of strange liquid into it, also full of popping bubbles.
"I'll leave you to it," said the maid when the bathtub was full and turned the odd cog again, "I'll see if I can find anything that fits you in the tower."
Syndra watched the maid leave and as soon as the door closed after her, the witch felt as if a weight fell off her shoulders. She didn't hate the girl, but she didn't want her to dance around her either.
Though having a servant was nice.
As she shed her dirty rags and stepped into the bubbling water, Syndra remembered how her older brother would often force her to do things for him; bring him and his stupid friends drinks, carry his things around, lend him her favourite and only doll so he could destroy it. Of all the people in the world, Syndra hated her brother most, and that she'd spent centuries in her miserable prison meant she would never get her revenge against him...
Slowly sinking beneath the surface, the memories of her older brother only added to the feeling that something wasn't quite right. Her chin didn't even touch the surface yet when she felt a familiar dread creep up on her. It all felt like when she was being imprisoned, though the water was frigid and smelled of iron back then. She couldn't bear looking into the tub anymore, so she quickly scrubbed her hair and crawled out. She felt chilly and couldn't find anything to dry herself with - her rags were too dirty to serve that purpose - so she sat on the ground and simply waited. She'd been cold for so long she could stand a few more minutes of it.
When Adaline came back, Syndra was almost entirely dry - save for her silver mane. The maid was polite enough to knock and hand the witch a towel and a set of clothes without looking. The pants were too big and the shirt too long, but Syndra didn't complain. She was happy to have something.
"I couldn't find anything smaller," Adaline shouted through the door while Syndra tried fastening the trousers around her waist. The belt that came with them was too long, and she had to tie it rather than buckle it.
"It's fine."
"I can sew a little, so I can adjust it all to your size overnight."
As soon as Syndra opened the door, the maid handed her a pair of shoes - her own. Syndra threw a questioning stare at her now bare feet.
"Take them," Adaline urged her, "it's fine."
"You'll have nothing then, though."
"I'll survive with cold feet. I might not if I let you out without shoes and the master sees it."
Taking the pair of boots and sliding them on, Syndra thought about how ruthless Veigar was for such a small creature. It was a little terrifying, and a little heartwarming; he was making absolutely sure that his new apprentice got what she needed. She was never treated like this, like something precious; while she wasn't beaten and yelled at in the temple, the monk who oversaw her 'training' cared little for her. He mostly left her alone, promising punishment if she left the temple grounds. It was a solitary life, and only marginally better than the one she had with her family.
"You must be hungry," Adaline forced a smile after Syndra tied her shoes and stood up, "do you like fish? We are a fishing village, so we have a lot of those."
As they walked back through the mysterious rooms and down the tower stairs, Syndra tried to recall the taste of food. She didn't feel hungry or thirsty; Veigar didn't stop to eat or drink on their way to Ronzel's tower and Syndra didn't feel the need. She thought she had perhaps lost some of her senses while she slumbered in her prison, though this belief dissipated as soon as they stepped out in the courtyard. Her nose was hit by the smell of something delicious; fried trout and freshly baked bread.
"Good afternoon," Veigar greeted her as soon as she and Adaline stepped out of the tower. Syndra almost didn't recognize him without his oversized hat; with only his eyes glowing from beneath it, she could imagine a human face hiding down there, but now she could clearly see that wasn't the case. His head was covered by the same black fur as the rest of his body, with a pair of long ears twitching in the mild breeze. He would've looked like a cross between a little man and a particularly disheveled housecat were it not for his grouchy expression. And the bathrobe. Syndra wasn't sure where he got a bathrobe his size, but elected not to question it.
"Huh," said the witch, still staring at him. He beckoned her closer, to sit at a table he had brought outside. The festive lights and the long dining bench were gone now, leaving the courtyard looking somewhat empty.
"Everything alright?" Veigar asked when Syndra sat down across from him and shifted her stare towards the prepared food. The sorceress nodded.
"Well, eat," he encouraged her and turned to the maid, frantically begging for attention by waving her hand.
"Can I go now?" she tweeted, "my mother is ill... I will return in the evening, I promise!"
The yordle waved his hand dismissively, no longer having a need of her, and Adaline bowed.
"T-thanks, master," she stuttered and hurried across the courtyard. Syndra lost interest in the maid as soon as she began stuffing herself with the late breakfast. It was delicious.
"While you enjoy your meal, let's talk magic," Veigar said and leaned against the table. Syndra tilted her head to see out how he managed that feat from a human-sized chair, only to find out that he was sat atop three pillows. It made her smile.
"From what I understand, you were born as a mage, correct?" he continued, and Syndra nodded.
"Yef," she said with her mouth half full, "but I want to know abouf the demon thing firft. You knew I waf coming?"
"Yes and no," he explained and tented his clawed fingers, "I read some astrological charts that predicted something like this happening around this time, and then I heard that some dig in Ionia went badly because the Noxians unearthed something powerful."
"Hm." She swallowed. "You thought it was a demon?"
"No, not really. Astrocharts only ever deal with arcane matters. Not that an idiot like Ronzel would know that."
"So you were searching for me," Syndra frowned, "why? Power?"
"Knowledge," he pressed his hands together, "but I suppose it's the same thing. I never intended to take your power for myself, if that's what you're asking."
"But you could."
"I doubt it," he mused, "absorbing power isn't that easy or straightforward. It would be like trying to drink a barrel of milk in one go. I'd probably get very sick and then die."
He snorted, but she wasn't amused. "But with some preparation..."
"Not even with preparation," Veigar interrupted her, "since you're so curious, I could certainly drain your power into magical trinkets and then use them, but alas, I have not done that."
Syndra shivered. "You still could."
"If that was my intention, I certainly would not waste time cooking for you, little one."
Syndra gasped, which was obviously not the best course of action; she almost choked on a piece of bread.
"I thought it was Adaline," she wheezed when she finally managed to grasp her breath. He perked his fuzzy brows.
"I don't trust those peasants at all. They hate magefolk almost as much as the Iceborn, and I would not have you poisoned on the first day here."
"Uh, thank you." She mustered another smile. "What are the Iceborn?"
Veigar motioned towards the mountains at his back, and then beyond. "Do you know anything about the Freljord?"
"Not much."
"Well, there's two kinds of people who live there," he explained and pushed himself away from the table, "normal humans like yourself, and then the Iceborn. I can't say I'm well-versed in the topic as I've had enough sense to not wander into the Freljord, but I know that the Iceborn lead the raids and that they are immune to the cold."
"So they're mages?" Syndra asked and stuffed another large portion of salmon into her mouth. When Veigar lifted a stack of books from the ground and slid them on the table, a wave of dread washed over her shoulders.
"Excellent question," he said with a toothy smile, "and I challenge you to find the answer in these. Since the fair lady needed her long beauty sleep, she should now catch up on what happened during that time."
She wanted to ask exactly how long she had slept, but she couldn't make herself speak. Her eyes remained glued on the books while her long-time companion Shame was making herself heard in her head.
"Something wrong?" Veigar asked, "do you not like books?"
"I like practical things more," Syndra muttered. He looked into her face for a while longer, then took a step back and joined his hands behind his back.
"Practical it is," he affirmed and stepped towards the tower, where his staff rested against a wall. He picked it up and turned back to Syndra, who was once again mesmerized by his long, fluffy ears.
"We'll try some finesse training," the dark wizard began drawing circles into the air, materializing them as shimmering, floating rings, "but first, let me ask some questions. When was the first time your magic manifested?"
"I don't know," Syndra let her tense shoulders fall back and stood up. The talk of books took away her appetite. "I don't remember. I feel like it was always there."
"Well, when was the first time it got out of control?"
That she remembered well. She was forced to relive it a thousand times over, after all.
"We were in a forest," she mumbled quietly as Veigar set his magical rings in a line, "me and my brother. He was throwing dirt at me, and I got angry. The tree I was standing under got all dark."
"I see." Veigar scratched his fuzzy chin. "Did you ever work with any items? Spheres, staves, wands?"
"No."
He finished his work and then waddled back to her, patting her shoulder with the end of his stave. "You're very, very talented. Most mages learn to work without a focus at some point, but it comes naturally to you."
She wanted to feel proud at those words, but she couldn't. Would he say the same if he knew how many simple things she was awful at?
"Now, call your spheres," he instructed her, "and try to send them through the rings as if you were attacking an enemy. The leftmost one is closest to us, so start with that one."
Feeling miserable once again, Syndra's spheres came easily to her. She didn't expect much when she tried to shoot one at the first ring; it passed through, just barely missing the shimmering outline. Veigar nodded and pointed to the second circle, which Syndra missed entirely.
"You know how to send them at your enemies," the wizard noted the obvious, "but not how to control their speed, force or direction."
"Hm."
They stood there side by side, both silent and watching the glowing hoops. Syndra clawed into her arm, trying to push back her feelings of failure and inadequacy, hoping he would not ask her to try again. And he didn't. After a minute of not saying anything, the wizard motioned for her to wait and disappeared in the tower. Syndra huffed, feeling at least a little relieved.
When her mentor returned, he was wearing his usual garb: a set of dark clothes, his cloak and gauntlets and of course his oversized hat. A much larger coat hung on the top of his staff, and he had to expend much effort in order to not drag its hem on the ground.
Syndra staggered when he threw the heavy jacket at her.
"I'm not cold," she said, staring at the gilded buttons.
"You will be in the evening," Veigar replied and waved for her to follow. She walked with him out of the courtyard gate, baffled.
"Where are we going?"
"Back to the fields," the dark mage pointed over yonder, "more space. I've got a better idea than floating rings."
Syndra pulled her head between her shoulders, not keen to suck at another practice. She would've brooded over the thought the entire way if it wasn't for the citizens of Berwick, bowing to the passing duo at every step. They watched the sorceress and her little companion with a mixture of uncertainty and fear, and were quick to hurry on about their ways once they've greeted their new masters. Syndra did not like the thought of being hated, though she gave up on the opposite long ago; being feared was better than nothing, and it gave her a bit of comfort.
"Why do Demacians hate mages?" she asked when they reached the wharf at the lowermost level of the town. It was the liveliest place in the entire Berwick, with the market situated right there at the harbor. A small boat was just docking in, and Syndra was reminded of her journey from Ionia to Valoran. She didn't remember much of it; after killing the soldiers that opened her prison, she just wanted to run, far away from that hellish place.
"People fear what they cannot control," Veigar grinned under his hat, "and fear breeds contempt, little one. You should know this better than anybody."
"My brother threw stones at me. I don't think he was afraid."
"He had to put you down before you realized your power. What chance would he stand against you now?" Veigar stated plainly and set off towards the end of the smallest pier, where a young man guarded his raft. Syndra was surprised to not see the same elder that brought them to Berwick, but then she realized that he was probably with his daughter, whom they so valiantly rescued. He seemed so worried. Syndra wondered if her mother and father ever cared for what happened after they gave her to the monk.
"To the other side, master wizard?" the boy asked, his face notably more cheerful than those of the people in Berwick. He winked at the witch, and Syndra shivered. She didn't like it.
"Where else?" Veigar asked as he stepped down into the dinghy. Syndra reluctantly followed.
"A smile would suit you better than that frown of yours," the ferryman chirped as soon as she sat down. It earned him a swiftly delivered staff smack from Veigar.
"Shut up and paddle," the dark wizard squeaked, "or you'll be meeting some fish soon."
Grumbling an apology, the boy was clever enough to obey. Syndra didn't hear anything from him for the rest of their journey, not even a farewell after he offloaded them on the other side. He just began paddling back, muttering something to himself.
"Youth these days," Veigar complained, adjusting his hat. Syndra tilted her head and waved at the old man on the other side of the little dock. So he wasn't with Adaline after all.
"Demacia is so obnoxiously bright when it comes to vegetation and the general environment," Veigar kept fussing as they once again stepped into the open fields and meadows, "so much garish greenery! As much as I despise Noxus, at least they do not insist on planting tulips everywhere."
Syndra's hand idly stroked the tall grass they walked through, and she mused asking about this Noxus kingdom or empire or whatitwas. She didn't want to seem stupid in front of others, and least of all Veigar.
Before she decided, the dark wizard stopped her and walked a few steps away to put some distance between them. She wasn't sure what that was about, and when he told her to hit him with her magic, she blinked.
"Send your spheres at me," he encouraged her again, "I'll survive, don't worry."
"But I only know how to kill people with them," Syndra pleaded with him, "I don't want to kill you."
"You may be talented, but I've spent a few hundred years studying texts older than your grandparents," he postured with a smug smile, "don't overestimate yourself, hm?"
Syndra huffed and looked at her little orbs, quietly floating behind her head. She chucked one of them at Veigar; she didn't know how to control them, but she tried her hardest to make this one a little slower.
Veigar batted it away with his magic staff and yawned. It rolled through the field, wilting what it passed through.
"I thought we were practicing magic here, not throwing wet sponges," he egged her on whilst she drew her lost sphere back to her. She frowned and readied herself to try again; another sphere rolled down her shoulder and arm and whizzed at Veigar, only to bounce off a shimmering barrier he had just conjured up.
"Bo-o-oring," he hollered at her, walking left and right to further mock her efforts. Easily riled, Syndra tossed her coat aside and launched all of her dark spheres at the wizard. He had to slide his right foot back and stab his staff into the ground to not lose balance, but his shield didn't break under the force.
"Not so bad," he said and lifted one of his plated hands, "and now something from me."
He flung a small bolt of dark energy at her, and it splattered on her face like a mound of dirt. Before she could protest, he cast another, and another, until she angrily swiped her fan of spheres in front of her to prevent getting hit again.
"Why would you do that?!"
"To teach you something new," he leaned on his staff, and she realized she'd never used her powers to defend herself.
"Hm," Syndra huffed, "I wish I had that idea sooner."
"You had it now, that's what matters. Come, let's tangle a bit," he wiggled his iron fingers at her to ask for another salve, "let's see what else comes of it."
Syndra didn't want to mope about how she could have used this technique to defend herself from her brother, and so she was glad to lose herself in another fight. Her family, her cell, her misery didn't matter in those bursts and explosions of dark sorcery; it was another world, a world of only her and Veigar, who needed to expend larger and larger amounts of effort to keep her magic at bay.
And Syndra loved it.
Finally she did not feel controlled or limited, but encouraged to push the boundaries of her power. She didn't care for the field around her wilting with each misfired bolt and every radiant explosion; her eyes were only set on her mentor and his face under the blue wizard hat, on the exhaustion that crept into his features as she granted him no reprieve from her assaults. To see her unbridled power wear out the only sorcerer she knew somehow validated her existence, made her mean something; it confirmed that she wasn't powerless, that she no longer was the sad little girl teased by her siblings. And when her teacher hit back and forced her to step back, it didn't feel like punishment she was helpless against, it felt like a dare for her to strike back.
It was liberating. And it was there in that dying field that Syndra felt truly free for the first time in her life.
When they sat among the withered flowers a few hours later, Syndra felt as if the sky had been lifted off her shoulders. She knew she would feel the pain and the weight of her past again in the morning, but she didn't now and that was what mattered.
"You know, you slept through a lot of terrible things," Veigar said, watching a roach jump between his fingers. Syndra's eyes were set on the valley before them. A shining procession was marching towards the eastern horizon, armored men and women going to war to defend the borders against Noxus.
"But you didn't," the witch said, "how old are you, Veigar?"
He chuckled. "Probably older than anybody you ever knew. I don't remember exactly."
She looked at him just as he chucked the unfortunate roach into his mouth and crunched it. He seemed content, lying on the ground and leaning on his elbow, but there was an age of suffering in his eyes.
"Have you ever been to war?" she asked when she looked back at the marching soldiers. She wondered just how many wars she had missed in that prison.
"Many," he hummed, "and never of my own will. Not that it matters. The empires I helped build have ceased to exist long ago."
He watched the marching legion with her, and she could tell it brought him unpleasant memories. He bared his fangs, and his ticking right eye gave away his anger. Syndra wanted to do something to relieve the tension, but she wasn't sure what or how.
"So I wanted to ask," she finally spoke, "and this might be rude, but could I, like... Touch your ears?"
Her question immediately pulled out of his broody state. He gave her a puzzled look. "What?"
"They are so long and plushy." Syndra could feel her face turning into a ripe tomato. "Or seem so... I guess I'm just curious."
"Well, I suppose," Veigar huffed a chuckle, took off his large hat and undid the band tying the tips of his ears together. Syndra took a deep breath and slowly extended a hand towards the dark wizard. Veigar twitched, uncertain of her intentions; he remained on the edge after she gently poked his long, fox-like ears. They were velvety to the touch, and Syndra pursed her lips in a suppressed smile.
"That's awesome," she said when she dared to stroke them. Veigar frowned.
"I'm no house animal to be petted!"
She gasped a quiet apology and withdrew her hand, but he was quick to catch it and put it back where it was. Syndra tilted her head.
"Though I suppose once in a time won't hurt," Veigar crossed his arms and nodded at her. The sorceress giggled, happy to fill his need for pets; his fur was pleasant to the touch, and she was glad she could give at least something back in exchange for what he'd done for her. It didn't take long until she had him curled up next to her, purring after each stroke and scratch. It was oddly adorable, this mighty dark wizard at the mercy of her comforting hands.
"I know what it's like to be imprisoned," Veigar said quietly when the Demacian soldiers were no more than little dots in the distance, "I wish I could've slept through it, Syndra. I wish I could've—"
He cut his sentence there, and the witch didn't pressure him to continue. It was obvious from his wavering voice how much power it cost him to say even that much. And while Syndra didn't know the horrors he had to face, the masters he was forced to serve and the wars he must've witnessed, she knew one thing: that were it possible, she would've taken his suffering onto herself.
When Syndra woke from her prison with her body unscathed and void of any physical pain, she thought herself eternally immune to little things like fatigue from too much sleep or back aches. That morning reminded her it wasn't the case; after having slept on the couch in a twisted position the entire night, she felt like a broken marionette now. She growled and rolled off the cushioned sofa, yawning and stretching her sore back. Passing out in the living room now certainly didn't seem like the best of ideas, but she was so unkeen on leaving Veigar alone the previous night. The field venture left him tired and in a sour mood, and he did seem to appreciate her company.
After opening one of the large windows to let in some fresh air, Syndra returned to duck before the couch and the sorcerer still snoozing on it. With his fur sticking out in all directions, he looked even more disheveled than usual. Syndra stifled a chuckle.
"Wuh," Veigar growled, slowly turning his head and squinting into the sunlit room, "what's the time?"
"Half past seven."
He growled, obviously unhappy with the answer, and turned on his side to doze off again. Syndra stood up and turned to the small kitchen to scour for a snack, but then she heard a gentle tapping on the door leading to the tower stairway.
She wasn't surprised to find Andaline behind it, though she was surprised to see her sniffling. At least she had another pair of shoes now.
"Lady, can you help?" the maid whispered, "I think my ma is dying."
Still drowsy, Syndra rubbed her face and stepped into the narrow corridor, quietly closing the door behind her. "What's the matter?"
"I think she is cursed. You can do magic, can you not?"
"I'm not sure—"
"You're the only witch with a heart," Adaline urged her, "at least try. Please."
Syndra looked over her shoulder, then back at Adaline. She waved at her to lead on, and the maid was quick to drag her down the stairs and out into the cold morning. Syndra wished she'd taken the coat Veigar gave her with her.
"Who cursed her?" the witch asked as they scurried through the cloudy streets of Berwick. The town was shrouded in a thick veil of mist rising from the lake, and the city was quiet save for the wharf. It was where Adaline and her family lived, and Syndra was grateful the tower was so far from it. The place smelled of fish and rust, and it was already noisy in these early hours of the day.
"Ronzel," Adaline mumbled, "she fell ill, and then he promised that if I married him, he would cure her."
Having never encountered a curse before, Syndra wasn't sure how and if she could even help. Veigar was certain to know more, but she doubted that he would be willing to help. He didn't show anything but disdain and contempt for the villagers, and Syndra could imagine him refuse to even step inside the desolate house that was Adaline's home.
As soon as she was let in, Syndra noticed just how similar it was to the shack where she spent most of her childhood. The flaked walls and old wooden furtniture brought back unpleasant memories, as did the smell the cottage was filled with. Aside from the nauseating aroma of the docks, the house reeked of sweat and spit, like any small abode inhabited by somebody sick for too long. And Adaline's mother certainly was sick; the old matron lie in a creaking bed, hidden under quilted layers. She was coughing and wheezing, her skin pale as snow.
"Ma, I bring help," Adaline cried and hurried to her mother's bed. The old woman slowly turned her head; it took her a while to notice Syndra standing nearby.
"Who is this?" she rasped. Syndra covered her mouth and nose to give herself a little reprieve from the stench and stepped closer.
"She's a witch," Adaline quickly explained, "but she is good, ma! She's not like the others."
"Stupid girl," the crone panted and coughed, "they're all the same."
Ignoring her mother's words, Adaline gave Syndra a pleading look. The sorceress didn't know what to do; she knew no tricks that would let her sense witchcraft or dispel curses. Nothing seemed magical about the ill old woman.
"Are you sure she's not just sick?" Syndra asked. Adaline shook her head.
"I don't know, but I think there is dark magic at play. Ronzel thought our family dangerous, so he cursed pa and did this to ma."
Syndra squinted. Was the curse why the ferryman couldn't return home? And why would Ronzel find a common family of poor peasant dangerous? Adaline's father was a frail old man, her mother withered and the maid herself didn't seem the brightest or the strongest. Was Ronzel mad? Was Veigar mad? And was that her fate as well?
"I'm sorry, Adaline," she said after a while of musing her options, "I... Can't really do anything."
"But you can do magic!" lamented Adaline, "just try something!"
"That's not how it works. I..." Syndra bit her cheek. "I could ask Veigar for help."
"But he won't," Adaline spat, bitter, "he's as bad as Ronzel."
"That's not true." Syndra frowned. "You just don't understand."
"He killed Rona's husband in such a terrible way that Fredic now won't say more than two words!" Adaline shouted; Syndra realized she must've been talking about the poor gate guards. "He would've killed me too if Ronzel hadn't pushed me away, and he would murder you if you weren't a witch."
Syndra was silent. She couldn't disprove any of it.
"He ain't even human," the maid muttered, "he's one of them cursed spirits. There's a reason the king doesn't let them just wander about..."
Syndra bit her cheek, then turned on her heel and simply... Left. Adaline's words made her anxious, and she had to remind herself that she didn't want to be good, she wanted revenge against the world for what it had done to her. It was true that Veigar would probably treat her worse than trash were she not a mage, but what did it matter? She was one, and nobody was ever taking that from her.
The streets were already filling when she began her journey back up to the tower, and the glares of the townspeople made her uncomfortable. She folded her arms and pulled her head between her shoulders, wishing she wasn't alone. They didn't bow to her now that she didn't have Veigar by her side; they pointed at her white hair and Ionian face and whispered to each other. She felt like a freak, and every stare made her walk a little faster. She was running by the time she reached the tower, and slamming the door shut behind her felt like shaking a set of heavy chains.
Veigar was still sleeping when she found him in the tower lounge, though he didn't seem as peaceful anymore. He rolled onto his back and was frantically mumbling something about an immortal fortress. When Adaline leaned down to him and gently tapped his shoulder, he twitched and almost fell off the sofa.
"Syndra," he huffed and glanced around the room, still panicked. It took him a moment to realize that whatever he had just seen was just a dream.
"Did I wake you at the wrong time?"
"Quite the opposite," he growled, sat up and rubbed his fuzzy face. The fur under his eyes was slightly darker than the rest, lending him a perpetually tired look. It was particularly striking now. "Blasted nightmares! I may as well stop sleeping altogether."
She knelt on the wooden floor, resting her chin on the couch. She didn't let her eyes off him.
"Why do I have the feeling you want something?" Veigar asked and pushed himself off the sofa. He landed with a quiet thud, seemingly suffering no ails like Syndra, and started looking for something. The witch watched him saunter about, suppressing the need to squeeze him and bury her face in his black fur.
"I want you to teach me some healing spells," she said when he grabbed his staff and returned to her. She remained on the ground, and now that he was standing next to her, she actually had to look a little up. It was a little odd and a little endearing.
"Are you injured?"
"No, but Adaline's mother is sick and she was begging me for help."
Veigar sighed. "You realize they wouldn't do the same for you?"
"How do you know that?"
"Because I've been there." He looked out of the window, somewhere beyond the horizon. "But it's a mistake I keep making, so I suppose I can't chide you for it. I don't know any healing spells, but I'm sure you can find some potion recipes up in Ronzel's study."
"I can't use those," she finally said when he left her to sift through the pile of letters on the low table before them.
"Hm?"
"I can't really... Read." She bit her lip so hard it bled at the confession, and every second of Veigar staring at her afterwards only made it worse.
"I see," he said and returned to digging through the documents, "well, I've no time to teach you anything now, but I'll take some book with me to High Silvermere. We'll see if there's any time to learn on the way there."
"We're leaving?" Syndra asked, immensely relieved that he did not mock or question her. "When?"
"After you're done with your errand," he murmured, "have you any knowledge of herbalism?"
"I know some plants that grow in Ionia..."
"Do you know what a crimson dazzler looks like?"
She quickly nodded. She knew something!
"Boil a cup of milk if there's any, then throw in twelve dazzler leaves," Veigar said idly, finally fishing out the letter he was looking for from the pile, "and any root that is vaguely purple. You'll find everything in the alchemium upstairs."
"Thank you," she chittered, jumped to her feet and dashed towards the stairs. There she turned around and ran back, only to duck next to Veigar, pull the confused mage closer and press a brief kiss onto his fuzzy cheek.
"Wh—" was all he mustered as he watched her run off again, his ears sticking up so sharply it was as if they were covered in glue. Unfortunately, Synda didn't stop and look; that feat cost her so much power she didn't want to spend any more time thinking about it.