Runeterra: Alexander The Eternal

. . .

. . .

983 AN (Age 11)

Spring in Demacia painted the city with life. Riding through the bustling streets, I couldn't help but feel as if I were weaving through a living masterpiece. Merchants called out, children ran laughing, and the scent of fresh bread and blooming flowers mingled in the air.

Since acquiring the ocular abilities, the world had changed dramatically. Magic no longer felt distant or elusive; it revealed itself to me in vivid patterns, weaving through every person, every object, even the air itself.

"Where I once stumbled in darkness, I now walk with clarity," I murmured, tugging lightly on the reins to slow my horse.

At eleven years old, I stood taller than most boys my age, my stature further amplified by the noble bearing of the horse beneath me. My reputation, built on a blend of innovation, intelligence, and sheer will, had begun to spread. Some whispered my name with reverence; others dismissed it as youthful ambition. But no one ignored it.

As I passed through the lively streets, a few merchants nodded in recognition, their gazes tinged with respect. Wealth equivalent to a marquis and an uncanny presence tended to leave an impression.

Yet admiration often invited mistakes. A small boy darted into the road, his head turned toward a vendor's stall. My horse stilled at the gentle pull of my reins, its hooves halting just in time.

He froze, his wide eyes locking onto mine. Then, a timid smile broke across his face.

"Apologies, sir knight!" he blurted, his voice cracking slightly with a mix of fear and awe.

Before I could respond, a man, likely his father, rushed forward. His face bore the strain of worry as he pulled the boy back and bowed deeply.

"My deepest apologies, my lord! He didn't mean any disrespect."

I offered a small smile, inclining my head in acknowledgment. "No harm done. He was merely distracted," I said, my voice calm and measured.

Relief washed over the man as he straightened, muttering thanks before scolding his son in hushed tones. As I resumed my ride, their voices trailed behind me.

"Be more careful," he said, shaking his head. "That's no ordinary knight, boy."

"Not quite," came a deeper voice from nearby. I turned my head slightly and saw a familiar merchant—a seller of herbs I had buy once the ingredients for the healing gel in my early days in the capital.

"Despite his look, he's just a boy," the merchant remarked. "But mark my words—remember his name, Alexander. It's one you'll be hearing a lot in the future."

I couldn't help the faint smirk tugging at my lips as I guided my horse onward.

'No disrespect from you now.'

. . .

The Forge

The bustling district was alive with the sounds and smells of industry—steel meeting flame, hammers ringing out against anvils, and the acrid tang of molten metal. The forge itself was an unassuming structure, its simple stone facade hiding the precision and innovation within. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, and a faint orange glow seeped through the edges of the heavy iron doors.

I dismounted and pushed the doors open, stepping into the inferno. Inside, the cacophony of the forge grew sharper. Sparks danced in the air as molten steel met the hammer's will, and the walls reverberated with the sheer force of the work being done.

Sweat-soaked smiths moved between forges and anvils, their faces grim with concentration. Metal weapons and armor in various stages of completion lined the walls, a testament to the forge's output.

As I entered, one of the younger smiths noticed me and paused mid-swing. I didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"I'm here to see Fasthus," I said flatly.

The smith wiped his brow and gestured toward the back, where a stocky figure barked orders at a group of apprentices.

I wove through the forge, the heat intensifying as I approached. There he was—Fasthus, Demacia's finest and most irritable smith. His squat, muscular frame was wrapped in a leather apron, his arms corded with veins from years of relentless work. A heavy gray beard framed his weathered face, and his eyes gleamed like steel, sharp and unforgiving.

As I approached, Fasthus didn't look up. Instead, he released a guttural sound, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh.

"You again," he muttered, striking a glowing piece of metal with measured precision. "What do you want this time, boy?"

"Fasthus," I said evenly, ignoring his tone, "how's my commission?"

At that, he stopped, his hammer pausing mid-air. He turned to me, his gaze hard and appraising.

"You think a masterpiece like that just forges itself, eh?" he growled, tossing the metal aside. "Petricite isn't bread dough. You don't just knead it and toss it in the oven!"

"I understand," I said, my tone calm as I untied a small leather pouch from my belt. "But I need the armor—soon." Tossing the pouch lightly into the air, I caught it again before setting it down on a nearby workbench with a solid thud.

The sound of coins spilling inside drew a faint twitch at the corner of Fasthus' mouth, though he did his best to look unimpressed.

"Bah, you're lucky I've got no patience for delays," he muttered, pocketing the pouch in one swift motion. "Come on, then. Let's see if you're strong enough to wear what I've built."

I followed him deeper into the forge. The air grew hotter, the glow brighter. Finally, we reached a side chamber—a private workspace, where his finest creations came to life. In the center stood it: the armor.

The armor gleamed dully under the forge light, its surface a dark, mottled gray. The plates were thick and seamless, their edges curved for practicality yet imposing in appearance. Fasthus had managed to smooth the petricite into something almost elegant—almost. Despite his craftsmanship, the sheer density of the material made the armor intimidatingly heavy.

"There she is," Fasthus declared, arms crossed. "Your masterpiece. Took me weeks of sleepless nights and more than a few choice words I wouldn't repeat in front of polite company."

I stepped closer, running my hand over the plates. The armor was cold and unyielding, the sheer weight of the petricite giving it an almost gravitational pull. This wasn't just a defensive tool—it was a symbol of raw potential.

"I made it as light as I could," Fasthus continued. "Even with all my tricks, it's still about sixty kilograms. You think you can handle it?"

I smirked, flexing my arm in mock bravado. "You don't see these muscles for nothing. Honestly, I was expecting closer to a hundred."

Fasthus snorted, though a faint grin tugged at his lips. "You cheeky brat. Lucky for you, I don't settle for anything less than perfection."

As I slipped onto my body, its weight settled strong. It wasn't just heavy—I saw it alive, humming with a subtle vibrancy, as the magic was tirelessly stored.

"It's perfect," I said quietly, the faintest edge of admiration in my tone.

"You'd better think so," Fasthus barked, turning back to his anvil. "Now get out of here. I've got work to do."

As I left, the armor resting heavily on my shoulders, I felt its weight as both a burden and a promise.

This wasn't just protection. This was a tool, a weapon, and a statement.

"There's still time before the enlistment." I murmured, adjusting the weight. "Enough for a quick stop at the palace. Let's give it a real charge."

. . .

. . .

POV Shift

The council chamber of Demacia was a testament to its values: order, tradition, and strength. A grand oak table dominated the room, etched with depictions of legendary battles. Light filtered through tall, stained-glass windows, casting multicolored reflections on the polished stone floor. Around the table sat some of Demacia's most influential leaders, their voices weaving a tapestry of deliberation.

Tianna Crownguard delivered her report first, her tone steady and commanding.

"Our borders remain secure," she declared firmly. "We maintain absolute dominance. No enemy will set a single foot on Demacian soil."

Her words carried a sense of finality, and for a moment, the tension in the room eased slightly.

King Jarvan III inclined his head approvingly.

"Excellent. Our vigilance must never falter."

Dominick Durand adjusted his soot-stained glasses, leaning slightly forward.

"Our advancements in engineering are progressing well. With additional resources plus the new designs I've acquired, I believe we could potentially redefine how our forces operate on the battlefield."

Eldred Crownguard, with his ever-skeptical gaze, added curtly,

"Internal security remains stable. No reports of rogue magic, though we must remain watchful."

The discussion continued, each leader presenting their updates with precision. But as the topics shifted, the king's expression grew more contemplative. Finally, he raised a hand, commanding silence.

"There is another matter to discuss," Jarvan began, his voice grave. "A matter of both potential and precedent. As you know, all boys of eleven are required to enlist in our ranks."

A faint murmur passed through the room as he continued.

"Today, I wish to discuss Alexander. I believe it would be a waste of his talents to assign him the rank of squire or recruit. Instead, I propose elevating him directly to a leadership position within our forces."

The room tensed at the weight of the suggestion.

At the name, Durand leaned back slightly, his interest clearly piqued.

"He is no ordinary boy," Durand said, his tone sharper than usual. "His contributions have already improved our supply chains, our tactical planning, and yes, our technological advancements. This is no mere child playing soldier."

Eldred's jaw tightened as he glared across the table.

"And yet, we must remember what happens when prodigies are not carefully managed. Let's not forget the boy who—"

"Was killed because he turned his abilities against his own people," Tianna cut in, her voice as cold as steel.

Eldred's glare was immediate.

"Tianna, you know that's not what happened—"

"Enough." Jarvan III's voice boomed, silencing the exchange.

Marcus Spiritmight tapped a finger on the table, his gaze calculating.

"While I agree his contributions are remarkable, the question is whether our soldiers would respect such a decision. A child leading them? How would they react?"

Barrett Buvelle, ever the diplomat, offered a measured response.

"Perhaps it's less about his age and more about the message this sends. Recognizing talent early could inspire others to strive for greatness. But we must tread carefully to avoid alienating those who value our traditions."

Tianna spoke briefly, her arms crossed as she considered her words.

"Alexander's brilliance is undeniable. But brilliance alone doesn't ensure loyalty or leadership. If he is to rise, it must be with the trust of those under him."

Jarvan's expression remained firm as he rose from his seat and turned toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He stared out over the city, the golden rooftops glinting in the sunlight.

"There is a path forward," he said finally, his voice carrying the weight of command. "But it will require a decision that tests not only Alexander but the very fabric of what Demacia stands for."

He turned back to face his council, his gaze sharp and resolute.

"The question is not whether he is ready for the rank. It is whether he is ready for the test."

The council leaned in, anticipation thick in the air, but the king's expression gave nothing away.

"Prepare the arrangements," he commanded. "It will be decide soon enough."

The room fell into silence, the weight of what lay ahead settling over them all.