Winged Protector
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"Seven hundred years?" Garen's expression hardened.
"Demacia will stand for more than a thousand."
Tiana gave him a wry smile. That was what she admired most about Garen—and what exasperated her just as often.
His sense of justice was unwavering, but he lacked the subtlety and flexibility of a more adaptable mind.
"Demacia will endure, yes. But letting that prophecy spread unchecked could be dangerous. If word gets out that the Lightshield line has ties to mages—especially with the King's ambiguous stance—can you imagine the fallout?"
"Is this a Noxian plot?" Garen's brow furrowed deeply.
He could already see the unrest such rumors might ignite.
The people would question the legitimacy of the Lightshield family, and in the worst case, there might even be calls to depose King Jarvan III.
Unlike Noxus, where power was claimed by force, Demacia's monarchy depended on the will of the people.
The Lightshields had ruled for three generations, not through blood alone, but because each heir had earned overwhelming public and noble support, though, of course, much of that had been carefully orchestrated behind the scenes.
"Maybe this is a trap," Tiana said.
"Or maybe the prophecy was meant for us all along. Either way, we must prepare."
"What do you need me to do?"
Garen loathed this kind of ambiguity. He preferred orders—something clear to act upon.
"Recall the Dauntless Vanguard in secret. Begin readying our forces," Tiana said, her voice firm.
"But..." Garen hesitated.
"What about the front?"
He had just spoken with Prince Jarvan IV. They had agreed to escalate the offensive.
By now, he was supposed to be leading the charge.
But based on intelligence from their Noxian contacts, neither Darius nor the Trifarix were expected to arrive at the front for several more days.
He had returned to Demacia when the information was confirmed, but now doubt crept in. Could this all be a Noxian ruse?
Noxus was dealing with internal instability—they needed time to recover.
Misinformation could stall Demacia's campaign while sowing distrust among its leadership.
To Garen, the most logical course was to keep pressing. Reclaiming the territory lost to Noxus was a tangible, righteous goal.
"Don't worry about the front. Noxus won't strike Demacian soil," Tiana said with a faint smile.
"Besides, do you remember the second half of the prophecy?"
"Even gods uses magic. Be careful…"
The words left his mouth, and Garen went still. He looked at his aunt, then toward the window, as a chilling thought surfaced.
In the center of the Crownguard family manor stood a statue—a winged figure radiating divine authority.
"The Winged Protector…"
If the gods drew their power from magic, what did that mean for Demacia—a kingdom that condemned magic but worshipped a being empowered by it?
The contradiction struck like a blade to the chest.
Publicly rejecting magic, while secretly relying on it for divine protection?
His heart pounded as the implications sank in.
If the truth ever surfaced, it could shake the very foundations of Demacia.
"Don't overthink it," Tiana said calmly.
"She is our protector. She always has been. She always will be."
But when the topic turned to magic, her eyes flickered with something unspoken. She said nothing more, choosing to bury whatever secret weighed on her.
"I understand," Garen said, his voice resolute.
"I'll return to the front and bring back the Vanguard. We'll be ready."
His mind, however, remained restless. As he bowed his head in thought, he missed the flicker of conflict on his aunt's face.
The prophecy gnawed at him. If word spread that the Winged Protector's power was tied to magic, Demacia's people would begin to question their god.
Tiana's reassurances had done little to ease his doubts. His thoughts raced ahead, already calculating contingencies.
Perhaps, he realized grimly, Demacia would one day have to confront its own god—and decide whether it could survive without him.
The Winged Protector, guardian of Demacia for generations, was more than a symbol.
He was born from the Crownguard bloodline, shaped by their struggles, privy to their secrets.
He understood the heart of Demacia better than any mortal.
The Winged Protector wasn't just a belief. She was a god.
If the people began to doubt her, the upheaval would eclipse anything the Lightshield family had ever faced.
And Garen saw now—that was the real reason his aunt had sent him back to the army.
"Don't let your emotions cloud your judgment," Tiana said, shaking her head.
"She will prove, without question, that her power is not tainted by magic."
"Prove…"
The word echoed in Garen's mind. He knew his aunt's faith in the Winged Protector was absolute.
Her conviction sparked a thought—a way to prove it to themselves and the entire kingdom.
"The battlefield," he murmured.
"She'll appear on the battlefield and reclaim the land for Demacia. That will silence every rumor. She'll remain our protector."
A heavy burden was lifted from his shoulders. If the Winged Protector truly intervened, countless lives could be saved.
"Exactly," Tiana said, her voice firm.
"She will descend onto the field and strike down the Hand of Noxus himself."
To her, Noxus was nothing in the face of divine power.
"This isn't just a crisis," said Eldred, his deep voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
"It's a turning point—for the kingdom and us. The Crownguards must evolve."
Eldred rarely spoke, but when he did, his words always carried weight.
As one of the elder members of the Crownguard line, he often voiced what Tiana could not.
"This is bigger than me," Garen replied, steady and unwavering.
"As long as the Crownguard name stands for justice, that's what matters."
Tiana and Eldred exchanged a silent glance—a shared frustration they no longer bothered to hide.
The Crownguard line now rested on Garen and Luxanna alone.
Garen had proven himself in battle, a stalwart symbol of Demacian strength.
But Lux… Tiana didn't want her niece burdened with the family's legacy, not after what she had discovered.
Luxanna was gifted—too gifted. But Garen, in Tiana's mind, was the one meant to carry their legacy.
"Very well," she said with a soft sigh and a wave of her hand.
"There's no rush. Rest a day before returning to the front. We have time."
"Time is already against us," Garen replied curtly.
"And don't tell Luxanna I'm back."
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left.
His heavy steps echoed through the stone halls as he marched out, purpose burning behind his every stride.
He had to return to the front. The Dauntless Vanguard—Demacia's finest—were under his command.
Without them, Prince Jarvan IV was exposed. There was no room for hesitation.
Garen didn't place his faith in divine intervention. He trusted his blade, his comrades, and his kingdom. That was enough.
Demacia was his to protect.
And he would not fail.
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Far from the Crownguard estate, atop a quiet hill overlooking the Demacian countryside, a masked woman knelt in silence before a gravestone. A single white lily rested at its base.
The inscription read: Here lies Killan, beloved father.
"Father," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"I still don't understand what true justice means. But I know… her justice is wrong."
Her gaze sharpened, eyes darkening as they turned toward the horizon.
"The Winged Protector," she said coldly, almost scoffing.
"How laughable. What good are wings if you can't even stand on your own two feet?"
She paused, her voice softening, as if speaking to herself.
"Maybe the prophecy is right. Maybe the gods are the disaster. Maybe justice… was never justice. And gods… never gods."
Black feathers drifted slowly to the ground.
From beneath her cloak, two massive, chained wings unfurled—dark, restrained, their power sealed by heavy bindings.
She lingered for one last glance at the tombstone, then turned, bare feet touching the cold earth, and walked away, toward the distant Demacian border.