Runeterra: Alexander The Eternal

. . .

. . .

980 AN (Age 8)

The training field buzzed with quiet anticipation. Today's session was different—Prince Jarvan was finally training alongside me. Xin Zhao, occupied with matters elsewhere, had left us to our own devices, trusting me to guide the prince in his absence.

Jarvan stood across from me, gripping his wooden staff tightly. His posture was rigid, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had the determination of someone trying to close a gap he knew was vast.

"Ready?" I asked, spinning my own staff with ease.

He nodded, a flicker of nerves betraying his confident stance.

"Come at me, then."

Jarvan lunged, his strikes deliberate but hesitant. I moved fluidly, redirecting each swing with minimal effort, never shifting from my position. His attacks were precise, but lacked the flow needed to make them unpredictable.

"Focus on your balance," I advised, deflecting another strike. "Your feet should guide your movements, not just your arms."

Jarvan adjusted, planting his feet more firmly before launching another flurry of strikes. This time, he was faster, more deliberate. I smiled inwardly—he was learning.

The clash of wood echoed through the training yard as we continued. Sweat began to bead on Jarvan's forehead, his breathing growing heavier. Despite the obvious strain, he didn't relent. His eyes, filled with determination, never left mine.

After several more exchanges, he faltered. I caught his final strike mid-air, holding it firm. The moment hung between us, the air thick with the scent of earth and exertion.

Jarvan stepped back, lowering his staff. He was panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"That… that technique," he gasped, wiping his brow. "It's monstrous, Alex. No matter what I do, you block everything."

I tilted my head thoughtfully, lowering my staff. "Technique is just part of it. Combat isn't about overpowering—it's about understanding. Anticipating. Each movement has intent. When you grasp that, you stop fighting the opponent and start flowing with them."

Jarvan's eyes widened slightly as he absorbed the words. For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind rustling through the trees. Then, he nodded, a spark of something new flickering in his gaze.

"Let's go again," he said, determination hardening his features.

"Whenever you're ready."

.

After a brief pause, as we gathered our things, I glanced at him.

"Your highness," I began, "I've seen the palace from a distance, but never up close. Could we go there?"

'There's something I must acquire.'

He blinked in surprise, then grinned. "You want to visit the palace? Sure, no problem."

"Just stop calling me highness. You know I don't like that."

"Fine, little prince." I twirled my staff as we headed toward the palace gates.

. . .

. . .

The palace of Demacia was grand from the outside, but stepping inside revealed a splendor beyond expectation. The halls stretched wide, their towering ceilings supported by majestic columns adorned with intricate carvings.

Tapestries of deep blue and gold hung from the walls, depicting scenes of heroism and honor—testaments to Demacia's storied history. Soft candlelight from grand chandeliers cast a warm glow, highlighting the polished marble floors and the glimmer of inlaid gemstones.

Jarvan walked ahead, his steps confident, a quiet pride evident in the way he gestured to the artwork and architecture. He spoke with enthusiasm, pointing out details: the lineage of kings etched into the stone, the craftsmanship of the candelabras, the symbolic meaning behind certain tapestries.

I listened, half-focused. The art and architecture were remarkable, but there was something else—a presence that hummed beneath the surface. A pulse, subtle yet persistent. Whispers of a hidden storm.

"It's not bad." I admitted.

Jarvan grinned, clearly pleased by my reaction. "My father always says, 'A kingdom's strength is reflected in its walls.'" His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

We continued.

After some time as we turned a corner, a servant appeared, bowing slightly. "Prince Jarvan, your presence is requested by the king."

Jarvan sighed, offering me an apologetic glance. "Looks like duty calls. Feel free to explore, Alex. I'll be back soon."

I nodded, watching him disappear with the servant down a distance corridor. Alone now, I let my instincts take over. The sensation from earlier was getting stronger, urging me deeper into the palace.

Without hesitation, I followed it, each step carrying me further towards the source.

. . .

After wandering deeper into the palace, I arrived at a hall of monumental silence.

Towering columns of petricite glowing faintly in the dim light. The sheer presence of the space struck me—the air felt dense here, as if the walls themselves held their breath. Each step I took seemed to reverberate with a weight that pressed down on my chest. History. Power.

'This is definitely the place.'

The memory surfaced, clear and sharp.

Sylas.

This was the place where he'd drawn the power of Kayle and Morgana, wrenching their celestial essence from these very pillars. His ability to steal magic wasn't just dangerous—it was invasive, predatory. One look of his eyes, and all your magic secrets spilled forth, unchained.

But he'd also revealed something crucial: this was where true power gathered.

"Not the scraps found on the streets," I muttered, running my fingers over the stone pillars.

The petricite was cold, but beneath it, I could feel the faint hum of stored magic—suppressed, yet immense.

Normally, sensing mana was second nature. But here, it was different. The petricite dampened everything, suppressing with overwhelming force. Yet, beneath that suppression, a power remained—hidden, but unmistakable.

"Found it."

Closing my eyes, I focused.

Fwoosh.

A wave of energy surged through me.

It was immense—raw, untamed. Like standing in the eye of a storm, feeling the force of nature barely contained. The weight of it pressed down, forcing my muscles to tense. Every breath felt heavy.

"All of this," I murmured. "contained," My sensitivity still needed refining, but even now, I could feel the truth: magic didn't vanish in Demacia as everyone here thought—it was stored within the petricite, traveling all the way here.

"Petricite… is really unbalanced," I muttered, a idea forming. "I'll find a way to harness you properly."

But that was for later. My immediate focus shifted to the lingering traces of Kayle and Morgana. Their magic was distinct, yet intertwined—a testament to their opposing natures.

Kayle's power burned like the sun—severe, unyielding. It demanded order, a relentless force of judgment. Morgana was shadowed, layered with defiance and mystery.

'Two sides of the same coin.'

I immersed myself in their energies, feeling the push and pull of their wills.

"This is celestial power," I whispered. The realization sent a chill down my spine. I've felt this before…

Time blurred as I analyzed every thread, every flicker of intent. The deeper I delved, the clearer it became. Finally, I opened my eyes, exhaling slowly.

"Analysis complete."

As I finished parsing their energies, a faint tremor ran through the hall. It wasn't Kayle. Nor Morgana. This was different—subtle, ancient, and yet unmistakable potent.

Telekinesis.

The recognition struck like lightning. Using fragmented parts of the chemist memories, I pieced together: the power to move objects through sheer will.

My heart quickened as I reached out with my senses, tracing the flow of this new energy. It was elusive, like a shadow slipping through my grasp. Yet with every moment, it became clearer—patterns emerging in my mind.

Tap.

Tap.

The sound of footsteps broke my concentration, their deliberate rhythm echoing down the corridor.

Tap.

My chest tightened as the energy flickered, slipping from my grasp. My fists clenched, and I forced myself to focus. 'Not now!'

"Lord Alexander?"

The voice was soft, yet commanding—a presence that cut through the room like a blade.