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The day of Jayce Talis’ execution was – and this remained the only thing witnesses and scholars of the event would agree on even centuries afterwards – all things considered a remarkably bright and sunny day. Beautiful even. The sky over Piltover had been painted of the purest azure and the sun shone with a strength rarely equalled since. It was as if the Heavens themselves were blessing for the last time a child of the slumps, one who had known all his life naught but the cruel darkness of the underground, where none ever settled but dust and malice.
An estrade had been erected at the center of the courtyard of the Academy of Piltover as it had been deemed the only space wide enough to receive such a ceremonial ordeal and yet remained unsanctified and apt to be sullied by the blood of the Undercity. By the blood of Zaun. It was a trial like few had ever taken place in the long history of Piltover, in the history past and to come. Raised platforms had been installed at the bottom of the stairs with opulent chairs and desks: these would serve for the judgment and inevitable trial. The Councilors and most notorious figures of the Piltovan elites were afforded those seats, in prime view of the scaffold. All around curious visitors and an angry mob were crowding the square courtyard, not wanting to miss a single moment of the action. In such weather, the sun glistened off of windows, gold decals and wide eyes. Justice, in Piltover, was blinding.
Residents of the city watched as the councilors approached their place in the stands. There were six of them exiting through the doors of the Academy and descending along the grand stairway. Six, for only one could not be present. The Dean of the Academy himself had claimed an impossible inconvenience and was excused. All other councilors of course were accounted for, for no one could dare wish to miss such a day. In no time at all were they joined by the prominent figures who funded all of the Progress of Piltover, the rich merchants and patrons of Sciences and the Arts without whom none could have ever been possible. And at the head of this peculiar procession stood none other than the current Master of the Ferros Clan.
Stevan Ferros was a stern, severe man in his fiftieth year, and wealthy enough that he could change the sea into gold if he so wished. And while he had never personally sought to hold a seat on the Council (though again, neither had any of his ancestors) his involvement in local politics was more facts than myths and rumours, and well-known at this point. It was why he had been chosen as the spokesperson of today.
Ferros looked at one of the Enforcers, the chief of his personal guard. “Have him brought forth,” he announced loudly and clearly.
Instantly quietness seeped through the crowds as all eyes turned towards the same point.
Escorted by what could almost count as a small army was a lone figure, a man shackled and dragged along. The younger enforcers would look after him with wariness and apprehension, skittish like mice. The older enforcers’ eyes held disdain and contempt. He was a single man and yet his presence alone would awaken all manners of emotions and passions.
The man was tall, and with his chin held high in spite of beatings, he appeared grander than life. He was dressed in simple dark green and khaki clothing and his shirt was a simple cut from which strong muscles could be seen straining the fabric beneath. The precinct had handcuffed him this time. If rumours were to be believed, an incident had happened when he first got arrested and they were unwilling to take any risks since. The handcuffs, his clothes – from the bottom of ragged boots to the top of his collar – and even his richly tanned skin and dark hair were matted in blood. Some from the cut on his left temple, some from the lacerations the handcuffs caused to his wrists. The sun danced in his too-clever golden irises with an intelligence that was hard to fully decipher. And even through his dishevelled appearance, through the tired lines of his eyes and the barely hidden narrow line of his mouth under a scuffed beard, the man drew an imposing stance commanding all attention to him. It was impossible to look away from him.
His name was Jayce Talis. And it was a good thing that all eyes were on him, since this entire masquerade had been orchestrated for him.
The large crowd assembled that day parted ways like the sea as the procession made their way forward and before long stopped in front of the scaffold. The culprit was brought to kneel by two well-placed strikes to the shins and went done quickly with a moan of pain he could not quite abort in time, earning him dark glares from his entourage. Stevan Ferros made the short way over and came to stand in front of the kneeling man, casting a long shadow over him under the beating sun.
Ferros spoke without looking at the man, addressing the crowd instead. He was not smiling but a certain pride could be clearly heard in his voice.
“Esteemed citizens of Piltover, fear not; you will all too soon get the justice you had been starved of. For this man is as guilty and malevolent as the lamb is born pure, and we will swiftly, in the name of our pure justice, see that this beast is put to rest.”
Ferros bent his head and looked down at the culprit. He was taken by surprise when he saw the kneeling man staring defiantly at him, not an ounce of fear in his golden eyes. Ferros was quick to put on a mask of pure indifference, not letting his real emotions show through.
“And I believe,” he continued placidly, “that you already know that there is no saving the likes of you.”
Jayce did not answer: he would loathe for his last moments to be turned into cheap entertainment – and he was familiar enough with the practices of Piltover to see the truth of their ‘justice’ for what it really was–. This did not please his judges, who made their discontent known to Ferros with serious eyes filled with scorn. Ferros quickly flicked his head in the directions of his private guard. A kick in the ribs was administrative and Jayce almost fell to the floor in agony, emitting little grunts of pain.
“You will speak when addressed, Undercity filth,” Ferros spat. When Jayce still did not answer, he threatened, “did we make ourselves clear?”
He was all too ready to order his men around once more, but Jayce seemed to have reached a conclusion of his own.
A swift execution at the gallows after a ‘trial’ was, in the grand scheme of things, preferable to being beaten bloody in front of an ogling, guilty crowd. The ending was the same regardless.
“You have made yourselves clear,” he replied slowly in a surprisingly deep voice.
Ferros nodded minutely. It was not quite an approval as it was an acknowledgment of their differing status. The announcer looked at the jury of councilors and, once he had their full attention on him, pursued his speech.
“Jayce Talis of the Undercity, the accusations against you are grave. The crimes you committed are even more dire. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Jayce remained silent, debating his answer.
This farce of the trial had been rigged from the start of course. There was no justice in Piltover when it came to the Undercity – even saying Zaun was a life sentence – no fairness towards those they deemed lesser, no empathy nor pity. His own ‘guilt’ only stemmed from hours of brutal and cruel interrogations at the hands of the very same enforcers who had brought him there. The identity of the guilty party did not matter to the judges: what mattered was that a symbol was brought down, that someone took the blame and served as an example of the utter power the upper side held against the rest. Jayce knew this fully well, from the moments he got arrested, and even long before that. But if the choice was between him and his fellow countrymen, his friends, his family; then it was no choice at all.
He would take the fall.
“I acknowledge my guilt,” Jayce replied brokenly. He tried to strengthen his voice. “These crimes were committed by me.”
Ferros almost smiled. The admission would make his task much easier.
“Very well then. Just so we are all on the same page, I will now read out a list of the full accusations against Jayce Talis.” He opened his white coat and produced a dark grey envelope from the inner pocket, showing it to the assembly. “This has been compiled after months of investigations and hours of interrogations by the talented members of our police force. And while I do not have all of the evidence on me, it points to the very man you see kneeling at my feet.”
The crowd drank in his every word, enthralled under his spell.
“By his own admission, this man is a criminal. The Undercity must be dealt with, swiftly and efficiently. Cut the danger at the root and not let it grow further, or we risk seeing the fruits of this corruption spoiling our beloved Piltover.”
Ferros did not need to look at the list. He had already memorised it by heart ever since it appeared on his desk two weeks ago. He instead chose to look Jayce squarely in the eyes.
“Aggravated assault on our police force. Manslaughter and the sordid murder of at least six of our troops. Terrorism and organised crime, all under his command, as the leader of his little group of vermines. And worst of all, the very corruption of the youth of Piltover, which he attempted to rope into this life of filth.”
The crowd gasped, some voices booing. Some stood back from the estrade, afraid at the mere sight of Jayce.
Ferros sneered down at the kneeling man. “Have you got no shame, Jayce Talis? A man like you surely cannot be left alive.”
Jayce remains calm, his gaze unwavering. Deep down his heart was hammering inside of his chest, seeping its claws into his mind. Sweat was beading on his forehead but he needed to retain a cool appearance. Needed to be strong for Zaun.
“I accept,” he paused and took a longer, more hesitant breath. “I accept whatever sentence the jury will befall on me.”
Ferros shook his head. “We all know what sentence they reserve for the likes of you.” He said in a low voice.
Stevan Ferros turned towards the council, his silver coat cutting along the air like the edge of a blade. “Esteemed members of the jury, judges of this trial. I think we all know what must come of this day. This humble audience asks for your verdict.” He pressed his right hand above his heart and bowed in a shallow manner.
All in attendance watched enraptured as Councillor Kiramman, Head of the Council, rose from her chair. Her purple ceremonial robe singled her out from the rest, as did her prime position at the center of the raised stage, the grand building of the Academy framing her and reinforcing her supreme authority. When she spoke, she did as one; the authorities of her colleagues appointed her and her alone.
“Citizens of Piltover,” she began in a loud and clear voice that resonated throughout the entire crowd, beckoning attention. Her piercing teal eyes overwatched them. “Today’s judgment is not merely about the guilt of a man, but the future of our city as well. With this trial and this verdict we seek to bring peace and security to us all. We shall not have to cower in fear of future attacks on our own citizens, we shall not have to hide in our homes while below the danger grows. We need to take actions into our own hands, once and for all. It is a fight between terror and justice, between savageness and civility, a fight of us versus them. And we can not let them win.”
Her eyes crossed Jayce's only once before quickly darting away, gaze directed above him.
“For his crimes against the good people of Piltover, the Council and its associates have elected in its unanimity to sentence the convict Jayce Talis to the death penalty, effective immediately.”
The crowd instantly broke into surprised shouts and cheers of joy. It was deafening. The enforcers tried to no avail to calm down the crowd but the general elation was too much to contain.
Jayce, on the other hand, could only hear a painful ringing in his ears, could only see the blurry shapes of his bonded hands in front of him.
Death. Effective immediately.
And though he knew deep down that this was always the outcome it still left him stunned to see the result of this justice. It felt all too real now.
Death.
Ferros had an air of relief to him. His shoulders sagged and he did not look as high-strung as before. He patiently waited for the cries to die down before addressing the Council again. The people were, understandable, overcome with emotions at such a practical display.
“I think I can safely say that all of Piltover thanks you, dear jury and judges. Your prioritising of our safety is greatly appreciated and felt.”
His tone became almost conversational. “What a pity, truly, to see a mind so young already become such a threat to society. With a body like you you would've been perfect in the mines, down under the fissures.” He snorted derisively. “But no, you, Jayce Talis, had to go and become the proclaimed leader of a terrorist group, a danger to us with your ‘Firelights.’ The Owl, I think it was that our enforcers called you? It does not matter. I'm mostly surprised at how quick you can be on a hoverboard with your height, but then again, the Undercity can not all go to waste. A surprise to prove that the Undercity was, although long ago, a part of Piltover.”
Jayce remained motionless as people started to act around him. He could feel Enforcers tug on his chains, could hear numerous steps on the wooden floor of the estrade. He felt himself being dragged, as though watching from above, closer to the gallows. He heard distinctly the sound of the executor sharpening his axe as he was called forth, the ringing of metal blades intertwining with sparks. For a brief moment he was reminded of the forges of his childhood and the familiar feelings of a hammer in his hand and flames across his chest – before being brought back to the cold reality as he raised his head and stared with the last ounce of defiance he had in him at the face of Stevan Ferros.
For the first time that day, the older man was actually smiling as his plan came to fruition.
Although few had suspected, even fewer had voiced what was actually the truth: the master of the Ferros clan did have a personal stake in this execution. There was a reason the cunning man had wanted this specific Undercity scum dead. But if all went well in the following minutes, then that truth would die along with the young man.
Jayce was, evidently, perfectly aware of this personal matter. It made this entire farce all the more painful, to be known so well by a man so harsh and frigid. To be aware that it could have been anyone else from the Undercity, but that countless of his comrades had to suffer as the Piltovian would not settle for anyone but Jayce for his perverted machinations.
Ferros took a moment to drink in his victory.
“Any last wish?” He asked Jayce innocently, and it was the most cruel thing he had done in a long time.
The two men knew perfectly what Jayce wanted, the only thing he could ever want, even. And they both knew that Ferros had done everything in his power (and he had entirely too much) to ensure that Jayce would never, ever get it.
It was a question simply asked to bring further down a man already at rock bottom, soon to be familiar with the other side of the veil.
Jayce shook his head and he did not need a mirror to know that his eyes were filled with grief and hatred.
Ferros was just about to ask for the rope to be brought forward, and the execution to finally proceed, when a cry erupted through the crowd.
“Jayce!”
Both men turned at once towards the familiar voice.
A young man was making his way towards them and rather quickly at that in spite of his right-leg prosthesis and cane. In his presence the mob seemed both confused and awed.
This young man was, after all, somewhat of a celebrity in Piltover. After unlucky childhood years down underground, he was discovered by chance by one of his blood family members and thankfully brought to the surface to live a decent life in the correct society. As one of the new heirs of Clan Ferros, a direct nephew of the current Master, he could now finally be afforded an education befitting of his intelligence and station. He was enrolled into the Academy not long after his uncle recognised him as part of his house and it was there that Dean Heimerdinger himself discovered how brilliant his mind truly was. By admission of the yordle, House Ferros was now in possession of the smartest person Piltover had seen in centuries. A fact that pleased Stevan Ferros immensely and since then the master of the clan took care and effort into parading his nephew around and developing his inventions in the name of Piltover's Progress. For his beauty, his wit and his wealth, he had not stopped once being heralded as a great marriage prospect since his coming of age (and even before that), although his timid and reserved manners would fascinate and puzzle more than one expectant suitor. Regardless he spent so much time hauled in his lab dreaming of innovations for the future that any and all of his public appearances were prized greatly. The silver arrow at the bow’s aim of House Ferros, bringing forth a new age of technology.
This young man's name was Viktor Ferros. And with his long brown and light blond hair, and his quivering amber eyes, he looked as beautiful as the moon through the tears falling like shooting stars on his cheeks.
Unconsciously Jayce whispered a small “Viktor” under his breath, inaudible for anyone but him. It was as if this vision alone made up for the suffering of the day.
“Uncle, please,” the young man begged as he came a short distance from them, wobbly on his feet with the effort he put on his legs. “Uncle, I am begging you, you have to stop this. You know that he is innocent, please!”
Ferros’ eyes narrowed as he took in the dishevelled appearance of his nephew with his long hair out of its usual braided bun and a simple long silver cape on. Viktor looked more like a commoner than an eminent member of the Aristocracy.
“I thought that I had told you to stay in your quarters. And I even specifically asked for your cousin to watch over you,” he coldly reprimanded.
Viktor glared openly and it was striking despite the wetness of his eyes. “Nothing can stop me. You've always said it was the great pride of our clan.”
Ferros scoffed. “It does not bid well to act like this against the very master of this clan.” He looked at some of the enforcers posted at the bottom of the estrade and gave them a silent sign.
Viktor tried to get closer but was interrupted by three Enforcers who instantly brought him down. The kneeling posture was painful on his bad leg and he could not prevent his cry of pain.
This made Jayce react immediately. The young man reacted on a whim, fuelled by pure ire as he stood up and started to shake off the hands on him. However a swift backhand by his would-be executor with the mantle of the axe aborted all plans of a double evasion.
“Viktor,” Jayce winced through his teeth, desperate to get closer to him but unable to move as more chains and guards surrounded his bound form.
Viktor was not faring much better even if only two enforcers restrained him – and even then, more as a warning than a menace. The only small kindness from his uncle, he surmised.
More and more murmurs were heard throughout the crowd, and even the Councilors in attendance were starting to look positively queasy. Damage control had to be enacted; and fast.
“Nephew, cease your youthful folly at once,” Ferros chided.
“Our family can not stand for the murder of an innocent!” Viktor spat instead. “It is us, no, you, who has to cease this folly at once! We are supposed to uphold progress, not whatever this masquerade is!”
Ferros stared at his nephew long enough that the young man started to feel uneasy. Viktor broke eye contact and looked at the ground as he could not bear the sight of those grey eyes for longer.
“Viktor, Viktor, Viktor,” Ferros tutted. “You make a particularly pathetic display. Let the sump rat pay for his crimes, will you?”
“He has committed no crimes! It is all a ploy, he is innocent!”
Viktor looked around, trying to gain support in the crowd. A few people were starting to look curiously at him. Inquiring further silently.
It made Stevan seethe.
“You are a well-liked figure of Piltover society. Surely you do want to stain your own reputation by arguing against the very Council, will you not?” Ferros insisted darkly.
But Viktor did not relent.
“I don't care for my name,” he groaned. Shocked exclamations rang throughout the courtyard. “I don't care for my reputation, for my standing, for my House, even. I only care for Justice, as should we all do in the City of Progress. And it is not justice that is enacted here and now, today. You can blind them all, but you can never blind me.”
Such a display from the usually quiet and reserved Viktor came as a surprise to everyone but the people who knew him best. Jayce felt hope grow in his heart, a plan already forming in his mind. A different machination however was taking place in Stevan's.
Ferros smirked bone-chillingly. It stopped Viktor's heart, the young man knowing that his usually frigid uncle rarely expressed himself so openly, even less in public.
“Uncle,” Viktor softly spoke with dread in his heart. “You'll help me put a stop to this, right? You'll show the righteous way of our House?”
But Stevan averted his gaze and ignored his nephew.
“It seems that my nephew, in spite of all the Education I gave him, can not be saved.”
Viktor's eyes widened in horror and Jayce longed to embrace and reassure him.
“You can take a bastard from the Undercity, raise him and bring him all the wealth and status he could ever want, the greatest station on this side of Runeterra,” Ferros drawled. “But you’ll never be able to fully remove the stench of the Undercity from him.”
All of Viktor's protests died on his lips. Silence in the face of his own disownment. It was such a shocking claim that the crowd fell silent, every ear hanging onto Stevan's words.
There was only one way to solve this situation. And though his nephew had once been cherished by him, what was one soul in the long history of Piltover? What was one son to the legacy of their House? If Viktor would publicly deny him, then Stevan could do the same.
One should not aim to bring down the Master of the House. For the House always won, again and again and again.
“But what proof do I have, some of you might ask? Well, my nephew was so kind enough to bless us with his presence and that very evidence.”
Stevan looked at Viktor with disdain. His voice was laced with mockery. “Do not take me for a fool, nephew. Our house colours are silver, white and grey, as they have been for centuries. Such a tacky golden ring on your left finger would always be noticed by me.”
Ferros drank in the gasps at the revelation, the pure look of betrayal on Viktor's face.
He grinned wolfishly. “You have heard right, dear public. Although I selflessly organised the best possible match for my nephew, promised his hand to one of the best parties in this nation, he was in secret consorting with a smith from the Undercity.”
This time the cries were louder, the mob angrier by the second. Viktor hung his head in shame. Tears pooled in his eyes.
“Jayce has made me happier than I have ever remembered feeling,” Viktor brokenly replied as he cradled his ring to his chest. “We were good together, and did good to the Undercity. It is not something dirty or something I ought to be ashamed of.”
Stevan snarled. “You forgot the part where you sponsored the Firelights.” He laughed at his nephew's reaction. “Don't act so surprised. You truly thought that I would never notice where your personal allowance went? For someone supposedly so bright, you are truly naive and blind, nephew.”
Regret was almost starting to seep into his mind but Stevan rejected the notion. “I would have kept it under wraps,” he said slowly. “I would have excused it as a consequence of your troubled birth, had you let me execute him without protest.”
Viktor tried to fight back against his tears but it was a futile endeavour. “I could never do that, and you know it.”
In that moment with his grieving amber eyes and the long hair framing his face, the young man looked so much like his mother that Stevan could do nothing but stare. A vision of the past came to mind, of a similar conversation, what seemed a lifetime ago. Not long after it was the last time he had seen his sister alive. It would take years until he could locate the sight of a young boy, so much like her and so much like him, too, that it was too painful to bear.
It was almost enough to thaw his frozen heart. But the House came first and should always, for as long as the Ferros blood sang in their veins.
“Jayce Talis must die,” Stevan coldly announced.
“Please,” Viktor begged one last time. “Uncle, please, I implore you. Please.”
“To protect the honour of our family, of that of your betrothed,” he calmly continued. “To protect your virtue and eradicate the Undercity filth trying to seep through the cracks and to destroy us from the inside.”
Ferros nodded at his guard. “Bring forth the rope, tie the culprit up and have the axe readied. This pathetic senseless bargain has lasted all too long.”
“No!” Viktor screamed. He tried to resist the two Enforcers holding him down but was too physically weak and emotionally drained.
Ferros watched passively. “Force him to watch,” he ordered. “May this serve as a lesson to all, of what perversion the Undercity can bring to even the greatest of our children.”
Jayce could feel his hands being tied and his head being pushed against the solid oak wood. But he only had eyes for Viktor. His sweet, beautiful Viktor.
Even in grief he remained the most beautiful person Jayce had ever seen.
He was the other half of his soul, the balm to soothe all his wounds. His light in the darkest of nights. He would redo it all a million times over if it meant sharing his short lifespan with such a wonderful creature. They knew each other inside and out, Viktor's soul as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror. And through their eyes only could they communicate.
‘Dry your pretty eyes,’ Jayce mouthed. His own honey eyes though were becoming damp themselves. ‘I am not worthy of your beautiful tears.’
He would kiss them all if he could. Oh, what he would not give to kiss his fiancé one last time.
‘I love you,’ Viktor whispered. He was shaking like a leaf. ‘I am afraid.’ He could not hide the pain on his face, the despair in his eyes. ‘Are you afraid, too?’
The truth was that Jayce was afraid. He was terrified like he had never been before. He thought of his mother, down in their shop in Entresol, who would have to bury her own son in pieces. He thought of the children he was looking after, the kids he had grown to love as if they were his own blood. They were just teenagers who had lost everything, had few things in this wretched world they could have ever called their own, about to now lose a brother too. He thought of Ekko, and how the Firelights would survive with their true leader, if only Ekko would stop feeling misplaced guilt over Jayce taking his blame. He thought of Viktor, the one true love of his life, who would have to face the cruelness of Piltover alone, of their shared lab, their haven, which would never be used again after this day, all of their shared works left unfinished for future generations to continue.
And yet, the more he looked into those beautiful amber eyes, the more his breathing steadied. For if there was an afterlife, then Viktor and him would be reunited. That a love such as theirs never truly ended, and certainly not for death.
‘No,’ Jayce replied. ‘Because you are here.’
Viktor did not look less afraid but a small smile appeared on his lips, before being overtaken by a sob.
‘I don't want this,’ Viktor pleaded. ‘I don't want to ever look away from your eyes.
‘You have to close your eyes,’ Jayce told him. ‘Viktor, promise me.’
‘If I look away from you, I fear that I'll never ever see you again.’
‘You should not have to see me die. I want your last memory of me to be a happy one, so that your grief can one day heal.’ Jayce inhaled sharply as he heard the executor signal that he was ready. ‘Promise me to close your eyes, Viktor. Remember my smile as I lived, and not the coldness that will soon come.’
Viktor did not want to close his eyes. Closing his eyes made it real. But just as he was Jayce's weakness, Jayce was his. They could never refuse each other anything.
He closed his eyes.
Jayce drew in a sharp breath and let his smile fall. Fear overtook his face, terror written plainly. He stared at Viktor intently. He could almost lie to himself at the sight of his lover and pretend that today was just a day like any other. That soon, they would go back to their lab and work together. The air filtration system was not done yet and they were still trying to figure out the secrets of mages’ magic. They had so much left to do together. They were supposed to have the rest of their lives.
Ferros barked at the Executor and gave the order. All eyes turned to watch with morbid curiosity. All but Viktor’s.
Jayce could feel sweat break down his neck. Could feel his heart beat at an erratic rhythm.
There was dead silence in the courtyard. Vikror could hear a needle drop.
With his eyes closed his senses were now in hyperfocus.
He heard the sound of the axe swinging. Hitting its mark in a sickening plunge. The sound of something falling.
Viktor felt something awaken within him. Pure sorrow and heartache. The crowd was becoming agitated, talks and shouts and whispers and murmurs tangling in an indescribable mess.
The young man started to scream. He brought his hands to his ears to block out all the noise. His heart was breaking inside his chest and the feeling was too much for his body to handle.
The crowd became louder. The atmosphere was tangible, thick with the weight of emotions.
The ground shook. The skies darkened and somber clouds concealed the sun from view.
Viktor's eyes opened with an unnatural blue colour. And with the explosion of light, chaos erupted.