Chapter Text
The ship comes in the morning.
Viktor eyes it from the window of his house, already wary of it. It is, in many senses, so much like the ships that have come before it: beaten, old, tattered. A hull that has been pierced, sails that have been torn, railings that have splintered apart. From this distance, it is impossible to tell how many men could be on the ship, what condition they might be in, if they are alive or injured or dead. It would not be the first time a ghost ship had found its way to Viktor’s shores. In many ways, he thinks idly, it would be preferred—easier to cast back out into the sea without consequence.
But, unlike so many of the ships that have come to Viktor’s shores, this one is marked by magic.
It hangs off each broken bow and plank like spiderwebs, powerful enough that Viktor can see it even from his house, sat along the top slopes of the hills of his island.
It’s enough to give Viktor pause. He taps at the windowsill, mulling it over. Out of all the ships that have found their way to his shores, this is the first one to show any signs of magic.
He can’t help but be curious as to which god’s magic it is. Already, he is making plans to investigate the ship after he deals with its occupants and before he sends it back out into the ocean to drift until it sinks into the waves.
But first, he must evaluate the intruders.
Pushing aside his disgust, Viktor closes his eyes and reaches out to the Evolved on the island. The disgust is tempered slightly by the relief of reaching along their connecting threads, like stretching a weary muscle. Still, just enough of the revulsion lingers, enough to remind him that he does not and should not enjoy this.
Through the threads, Viktor feels the long-dormant limbs of the Evolved, their senses and movements stirring back to life at Viktor’s will, their lidless eyes blinking awake. Even though it has been months since they’ve last budged, the Evolveds’ movements are fluid, even as they shrug off the plants that have begun to cover their limbs.
There’s one close to the beach, and Viktor lets it move like liquid through the forest, gliding down the slope and stalking along the edge of the treeline. Watching, but out of sight.
He doesn’t have to wait for long before someone finally makes an appearance.
Another surprise—rather than a crew of fifty, there is only a single man stumbling out of the ship’s broken hull. Tall, broad-shouldered, and muscles easily visible through his torn clothes. It has been a long, long time since Viktor has let someone like this man be a threat, but even while looking through the eyes of an Evolved, he feels his body tense.
It would be so easy for someone such as this to hold Viktor down.
Although, maybe not—the man is stumbling, covered in grime, clearly starving and dehydrated. Viktor allows himself a moment of hopefulness. Perhaps this visitor will collapse on the rocky beach shores and leave himself to his fate, to be picked apart by vultures and whatever lies beneath the ocean waves.
Instead, the man grits his teeth, and clenching his jaw, he drags himself to his feet. Viktor can see as his gaze zeroes in on the trail just beyond the forest boundary, that well-worn path that Viktor has traversed so many times himself. The path that has the railing down the side that is obviously crafted rather than a feat of nature.
Step by torturous step, the man begins to make his way off the rocky shore and into the forest, to the path that will lead him to Viktor’s home.
At this rate, even slowed by whatever befell him during his shipwreck, he will be on Viktor before noon.
It’s fine. Viktor releases his sight from the Evolved, letting himself settle back into his body. He stands with a sigh, wincing on his leg as his joints protest against him. If someone this determined had to come to his island today, at least, Viktor supposes, it is good that it is just one man. One man, in pain and easy enough to subdue. He will make a fine addition to Viktor’s Evolved.
And until this man makes his way up the hillside and to Viktor’s home nestled within it, he can prepare.
It is easy to fall into the ritual of his usual preparations. Take out the plates and silverware, but do not set the table just yet. Have wine at the ready, but not poured. Food on the counter, but not served. Mix the draught—adder venom, crushed crickets, and ground bone, enchanted with a stasis rune—then sprinkle the result over the food and into the wine. Reseal the wine bottle with a bit of magic to make it look like it was never opened. Clean the needle knife, then tuck it back into its small sheath at his belt, hidden by the draped folds of his robes. Stoke the fire, ensuring that the man on the shore will see the warm smoke just within reach, the promise of a haven and help.
The feast is usually set for more than just one man, but it hardly makes a difference. It will all go the same—lowering the guard, the prodding of questions, the confirmation that Viktor is but a cripple alone on an island. Just a nymph and nothing more.
The man’s face will darken, and his eyes will glint with delight. He will go very still, like a cat honing in on a mouse. He will be watching Viktor as he finishes his drink, and Viktor will walk towards him. Perhaps he will think Viktor is willing. Perhaps he will think Viktor is simply naïve. Perhaps and perhaps—it makes no difference, the fate is the same. His body will seize up, he will fall unconscious, Viktor will carve in the runes for augmentation, axiom, and transcendence. Viktor will reach out and place his hand to the man’s head. His skin will shimmer, transform from flesh to the horrific white and gold of petricite, erasing all trace of imperfection, leaving him a docile and empty vessel.
Just like all the others before him.
For a moment, Viktor pictures all the ways that this could go wrong. If the man fights off the draught, if his priority isn’t food or drink but conquest...
Viktor pointedly shoves the memories to the back of his mind and forcefully places a plate of food on the table. The clanging of the metal makes it easy to ignore the way his hands shake.
It’s fine. He has other safeguards that haven’t failed him yet, runes etched deeply into every door and window frame in the house. Runes for ward, overgrowth, and shield, smeared with a paint made from rowan berries and marigold petals that Viktor reapplies once a year every summer solstice. It had been one of his earliest spells upon arriving, back when still feared that the gods, the fickle beings they are, would change their decision and opt for something worse than exile.
The wards are designed to keep out gods and monsters, but they will work perfectly well on a mortal, should the need arise.
This time will be no different.
Before Viktor can second-guess himself any further, there’s a knocking on the door.
Sooner than expected, but no matter. Viktor takes his cane, inspects his skin for any sign of purple flesh, for any of the runes that litter his body peeking out. While he is a weak god, cut off from the world as he is here, he can, at the very least, still muster a thin disguise over his form. His skin is pale, the runes hidden underneath his robes, and his illusion holds.
Straightening himself up as best he can, Viktor makes his way to the door.
It is amusing, when he opens the door, and the man almost topples over then and there.
Viktor watches as the man rights himself as best he can. He lets his revulsion build inside of him, safe behind his mask, as he makes himself smile. “Welcome,” Viktor says.
The man hesitates. This, too, is normal, as his eyes sweep over Viktor, then take in the open room behind him. Fresh-smelling herbs on the ceiling, a warm fire, chairs with cushions, a hearty meal.
“Are you the keeper of the island?” the man asks after a moment.
Viktor shrugs, walking inside. “I am,” he says, even though the truth is more complicated than that. This man does not need to know the details of Viktor’s banishment. “Come. I saw your shipwreck—you must be hungry and tired, no?”
“...Yes,” the man admits, but he doesn’t move.
Viktor tilts his head. “Is something the matter?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light.
The man hesitates. He looks over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be behind him, but there’s no one there. Then, shaking his head, he steps inside.
Viktor smiles.
He evaluates the man as he cautiously enters his home. Up close, he’s far more intimidating than Viktor had gathered from the eyes of the Evolved. He’s easily twice as large as Viktor, his tunic a rich blue and gold despite the grime. He wears the worn leathers of a seasoned soldier, yet he carries no weapon, which brings Viktor no small amount of relief. Most who come through his house don’t even get the chance to draw their weapons—or, if they do, it’s grand posturing to threaten Viktor into housing and feeding them. It’s the role Viktor likes the least, to pretend to be the meek host, timidly and reluctantly handing over his food, quietly waiting for the moment the draught is ingested and the spell takes effect. The weapons are useful, at least, for melting down later.
Fortunately, it does not seem he will have to worry about that for this man.
Unlike most visitors, he does not lunge to sit or shove food in his mouth. He walks in and around the space, taking in the entirety of Viktor’s dining room and kitchen, for as small as it is.
“Please, sit,” Viktor orders.
The man obeys, almost reluctantly.
Viktor tries to push aside the doubt crawling up his throat—where is this man’s desperation? His hunger?
“Do you get many travelers through here?” the man finally asks.
Viktor relaxes. So that’s it—the mortal fear of premonition.
“I do,” Viktor admits readily. “And, as I said, I saw your shipwreck, and I’d already prepared food for myself. Setting an extra plate was no trouble at all.” He uncorks the bottle and pours the wine. As he sets it down in front of the man, he cocks his head. “Do you have companions? I would be more than happy to serve them, as well.”
“...Just me,” the man says.
Viktor raises an eyebrow. “With a ship that size?” he asks as he sets food in front of the man.
The man swallows. Then, haltingly, “There was a war. Then a storm.”
Viktor nods. Mortals often find their death in both those things. He even thinks he can recall Jinx speaking of a war the last she deigned it fit to visit him, loudly complaining that her father Silco, God of Death, had no time for her in between guiding bloodied souls down to the underworld. Truthfully, though, he’d begun to tune her out after it became apparent that she wasn’t going to actually tell him anything of the affairs of the world.
“What sort of war?” Viktor can’t help but ask, leaning forward. It’s been so long since he’s had the opportunity to get details of the outside world from a source that isn’t Jinx and her biased madness.
But, instead of answering, the man’s eyes dance to the side. Suddenly, his breath catches, his gaze zeroing in on the door leading further into Viktor’s house. “Is that a workshop?” he asks. “And a forge?”
Viktor blinks. “Yes,” he says, startled into honesty.
The man is already starting to stand, heading out of the dining room and further into the house before Viktor can stop him.
“Wait,” Viktor tries, standing and limping after the man. “Surely you would like to eat first, or have some wine…”
But the man isn’t listening, running ahead and down the hall towards Viktor’s workshop.
Viktor curses himself as he follows the man in—he should have thought to close the workshop door. But why would he? No one who has passed through has ever commented on it, or even thought to ask Viktor if they could see the rest of the house. Why is this man different?
By the time Viktor catches up to the man, he’s already pouring over Viktor’s notes. From the door, Viktor can just make out which notes they are—the ones for the lift system.
Hot shame rushes to Viktor’s face. Even though his leg protests at the speed, he crosses the room in a few strides and snatches the pages out of the man’s grasp. “Has no one told you to ask before poking through your host’s possessions?” Viktor snaps.
Just like every other visitor, all this man wants is to take. Granted, he is the first to be interested in the workshop rather than treasure or Viktor himself, but it matters little in the end.
A blush spreads across the man’s face. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… It’s been a while since I’ve been able to see a workshop.” He laughs a bit. “Years, actually. Not a lot of use for engineers during a war, as it turns out.”
Viktor rolls his eyes. “I can think of plenty uses,” he says curtly, folding the papers up and placing them out of the man’s reach.
Better weaponry, deadly traps, more efficient ships—numerous opportunities for engineering creative destruction upon enemies.
The man chuckles bitterly. “You and my fiancée both.”
Viktor can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Your fiancée,” he observes.
If anyone before this man had been engaged or married, they had never said. Would it have mattered? Likely not—if the rest of the gods are anything to go by, marriage does not define character.
The man’s eyes flick to the folded papers that Viktor is now shielding with his body. “Are those runes?” he asks eagerly. “The symbols along the chains? Like for witchcraft?”
Viktor stuffs the papers into his pocket. Damn it. This man was never supposed to know Viktor could use witchcraft, let along see any of his designs implementing it.
“Are you using magic for the automation?” the man questions. “Or is there another piece to it?”
Viktor stares. He’s… Curious? He’s not filled with horror at the blasphemy of it all? Terrified of what witchcraft is capable of doing? What the gods do to those who practice it?
What is wrong with him?
Viktor resists scoffing, instead just narrowing his eyes. “I thought you were an engineer,” he challenges.
The man has the audacity to smile. “I mean, if it were me, I’d be using magic to keep it automated.” His eyes flick down. “These parts you have here,” he says, gesturing towards the half-finished chains and pulley pieces along the table, “Are those just to keep it running smoothly, or will they interlock to be part of the larger design function?”
Viktor taps a finger on his cane and glares. Running smoothly, in truth—he hasn’t found a good way to create the larger pieces of the design yet—but he doesn’t dare respond.
Still, interlocking parts is an idea that has merit to it…
“And even with magic making it run,” the man continues as if Viktor had answered, “You’d still need a consistent way to actually… Well, power the thing, right? Unless you’re planning on casting a spell every time you use it?”
Viktor can’t help but be a grudgingly impressed—less than thirty seconds of glancing at the blueprint drafts, and he’s already figured out the heart of the issue. There is no point to a lift system meant for convenience, after all, if Viktor has to gather the materials, carve the runes, and cast the spell every single time he uses it. It’s oddly refreshing, hearing magic talked of as a part of the engineering process, and not as the taboo craft the gods treated it as.
Still, he keeps his expression carefully annoyed. “What is your point?” Viktor snips.
“Could you use the runes to help with the power source?” the man asks.
Viktor eyes him. “In theory,” he says slowly. “But surely you are aware that runes provide focus and nothing more—not without a component acting as a fuel, no? And, as you said, magic itself could hardly be called consistent. Powerful, yes, but not what one would call stable.”
The man is nodding. “Exactly,” he says eagerly. “You’d need a stabilizing factor, or a way to self-sustain it. But if you can make it so the runes and source sustain each other…”
“There could be a feedback system,” Viktor realizes, straightening up. “But there would still need to be a way to limit the power so that it does not spiral out of control.”
The man frowns. “I think I recognized a couple of the runes—the repeated one is amplify, right?” he asks. “It’s possible that it could still work if you take those out. Is there a good replacement?”
“Manaflow, perhaps,” Viktor muses. “But then I would need to replenish the source every few months.”
The man smiles. “Better than every time you use it though,” he points out.
Viktor nods. “It could work—I would need to run tests to see if it works beyond the theory, determine what exactly the components should be and…”
He goes cold as he realizes what is happening.
No.
Viktor stops, shakes his head. He takes a half-step back, desperately trying to reinstate the emotional walls between himself and this man, who is now beaming like the sun. It’s brilliant and bright and, most unnervingly, genuine.
No, not genuine. It’s an act, it has to be.
“What about the other runes?” the man presses. “How do they play in? I thought I saw acceleration in there, too, and—”
“We should revisit this after a meal,” Viktor half-lies, cutting him off before this man can trick him into revealing anything else. The power source idea has merit, admittedly, and he will revisit it—just not with this man.
The man’s smile vanishes. “Come on,” he begs. “It’d take just thirty minutes to set up a test.”
Viktor clenches his jaw. “Do you do this in every stranger’s home?” he counters. “I do not even know your name.”
“It’s Jayce,” the man—Jayce—says, too quick and too eager. “Jayce Talis of Piltover.” And, after a second, “I don’t know your name.”
Viktor doesn’t resist rolling his eyes this time. Admittedly, he walked into that one, and now he will always think of this man—who should have been another nameless Evolved—as Jayce Talis.
“…It’s Viktor,” Viktor says with some reluctance. Then, turning his tone into something more placating, “Look, Talis…”
“Jayce.”
“Jayce,” Viktor corrects, smiling in a way that makes him feel like he is baring his teeth, already thinking of which far corner of the island will be the best place to shove the hideous Jayce Talis Evolved form, “We will both think more clearly after a good meal, no? When was the last time you ate?”
Just then, Jayce’s stomach chooses that moment to let out a growl.
Viktor nods. “See?” He doesn’t wait for a response, limping forward and grabbing Jayce’s arm. “Food first, then science.”
“I’m not that hungry,” Jayce denies, trying to twist his arm free, but there’s trepidation there, Viktor knows—the fear of causing the poor cripple to fall.
Well, he is not one to deny himself an easy advantage.
“Is the prospect of my cooking so horrendous?” Viktor asks, as teasing and casual as he can, even as he keeps his grip tight and uses his cane to maintain his balance as he all but drags Jayce out of the workshop and down the hall.
Jayce startles, a fly caught in the web, and a flush rises to his cheeks. “No,” he rushes to say, “It’s…”
In the few seconds it takes to get through the hall and back to the dining table, Jayce’s eyes have turned to pinpricks of panic, his breathing unsteady and too fast.
Viktor frowns, his gut churning with unease.
Something is wrong.
“It’s what, Talis?” Viktor prompts.
Jayce hesitates, his eyes flicking between Viktor and the table. Then, traitorously, to the door.
Viktor releases his grip, and Jayce only has a moment to let out a sigh of relief before Viktor snatches the front of his tunic and yanks him down to eye level. Sick pleasure blooms in Viktor’s chest as Jayce lets out a yelp, but Viktor can’t fully bask in it, much more focused on the horror of the situation: somehow, Jayce knows.
“Who warned you?” Viktor demands.
Jayce raises his hands up, pleading and beseeching. “No one!” he denies.
“I do not think that is true,” Viktor says steadily, his grasp on Jayce tightening.
Jayce finally, finally shows that strength that Viktor knew he had been hiding, and wrenches himself free from Viktor, stumbling backwards as he clutches the front of his shirt like he’s been burned. He backs up to the counter, eyes wide and shoulders hiked up in fear. “You can’t hurt me,” Jayce warns, but there’s a note of doubt there.
Viktor smiles at that, and finally, his posture relaxes. They are back on track to Viktor holding the cards. There is magic in his veins and rushing to his fingertips, setting his blood ablaze, and he knows his eyes are glowing gold. In this moment, no matter how disgraced and weakened he is, he is still a witch and a god.
And Jayce Talis? He is just a mere mortal.
“You have no idea of what I am capable of,” Viktor says.
Jayce lunges for the door.
Even starving and dehydrated, he’s fast, but Viktor is quicker still. He strikes with his cane as he has so many times before, right to the back of the knees. Jayce cries out in pain, falling, and Viktor is on him in an instant. He reaches for Jayce’s forehead, even as Jayce yells and tries to kick and thrash and knock him off. He can feel the heat of Jayce’s body, the threads of life within him, desperate and writhing and waiting to be seized.
So close, so close—!
Jayce rams a knee into Viktor’s ribs.
Nothing could have prepared Viktor for the strength of Jayce’s blow. The brace wrapped around his chest does nothing to lessen the hit—if anything, it makes it worse, Jayce’s knee aimed right where the brace meets skin, not just bludgeoning but pinching. All the air leaves Viktor’s lungs, and before he can recover, Jayce has grabbed his hair and is yanking him off.
Pain erupts in Viktor’s scalp. He shouts, clawing at Jayce’s skin, but Jayce doesn’t loosen his grip. He throws Viktor to the side, sending him sprawling. Viktor pushes himself off the floor, seething, but pauses—the skin at his arm has torn. For a moment, he can only stare in wonder at the shimmering indigo substance, beading up and beginning to run down his arm.
Blood. His blood.
All at once, memory overtakes him—hands at his throat and across his ribs and holding him down and—
He’s only a nymph, after all.
A scream wrenches itself from Viktor’s throat, and he throws his threads of magic out.
Elsewhere, on the island, every head of the Evolved turns towards Viktor. The closest begin to rapidly skitter towards him.
Viktor does not want them here. He doesn’t want to have to see them, to be reminded of their perfect and hideous forms, but the alternative is so much worse. At the very least, with extra bodies at his whim, Jayce will not be allowed to hurt him.
As fast as he can, Viktor takes his needle knife from its sheath and frantically scratches two runes on to the ground: grasp and overgrowth. He presses his hand to the ground, letting his blood run from his arm and into the divots, and lets his magic wash over them.
A few seconds, just a few extra seconds...
Jayce isn’t near him—not even close, he’s trying to make for the door again—but that doesn’t stop the spell from working. Tendrils of wood erupt from the floor, writhing green and purple, and surge towards him, wrapping around his legs.
Viktor smirks, standing, and—
Jayce yanks his legs free like the wood is made of wet paper.
Viktor’s mind roars in panic—why, how could he prepare for such magic, what does he know—and, before he can second-guess himself, he grabs for his cane and throws it.
It hits Jayce in the back of the neck.
Jayce stumbles and falls forward with a shout, clutching the injured area. He tries to get back to his feet, but he’s disoriented, and he sways and falls to the side, barely catching himself on the counter. Before he has a chance to recover, the door slams open, and Viktor’s Evolved pour into the room.
They are quick, unnaturally so, and swarm around Jayce like insects, their joints clacking together. They force Jayce back to the ground and to his knees with ease, even as he thrashes and screams.
Heart pounding in his ears, Viktor painfully makes his way across the floor, each step deliberate as he fights to keep his balance. He will not fall, not now, not after he has already been brought so low by Jayce. Keeping his gaze on Jayce, he ignores the pain in his leg and back, picking his cane up off the ground and straightening himself up.
Jayce’s teeth are bared, each muscle taut as he strains against the Evolved. He’s still facing the door, away from Viktor, still desperately fighting for a way out, as if making it out of Viktor’s house will keep him safe. As if this entire island isn’t Viktor’s. One of the Evolved grips Jayce’s chin, forcing his head into place. His breath is coming out short and panicked, his expression wild with fear as he looks back and up at Viktor.
“Be still,” Viktor says, voice calm even as his eyes glow with power.
Of course, Jayce continues to thrash and strain against the hold of the Evolved.
Viktor coldly looks down at the scrape and the blood on his arm. No more need for the needle knife with the organic material right there.
He places his finger against the wound, wetting his finger with blood. He writes the runes across Jayce’s forehead: augmentation, axiom, transcendence. Usually, the targets are asleep for this part, but rage keeps Viktor’s hand steady, and the Evolved keep Jayce still.
The runes across Viktor’s own body pulse and thrum like a hive, energy gathering and waiting to be released. If Viktor were to look down, he knows they would be illuminated in prismatic light.
Viktor smiles. “It will be over soon enough,” he promises.
He gently places his hand on Jayce’s forehead.
The rush of strength that floods into Viktor is dizzying and beautiful in its relief. The blood-written runes shine, brilliant as a sun. Viktor’s fingers sink into Jayce’s skull, reaching for those threads of life, ready to tug and rearrange, to make him perfect and no longer a threat. There is light flooding from Jayce’s eyes and mouth, all the air leaving him in a single breath—the last breath he will ever take. Viktor tugs, and—
Nothing.
Viktor blinks. That… That can’t be right.
He reaches again, grasping, but the threads of Jayce’s very being slip through his fingers like they are made of mist.
Viktor’s heart is in his ears. Abruptly, he retracts his hand from Jayce’s head. All the magic leaves Jayce at once and slams back into Viktor. The backlash of the failed spell sends a wave of exhaustion through Viktor’s body, his muscles aching like he has just scaled a mountain, the runes on his skin stinging as if they were freshly carved and not thousands of years old.
Jayce goes limp for a moment, his eyelids fluttering. As his senses return to him, he gasps, the glowing white of his eyes returning to hazel. The blood on his forehead has dried up and begins to flake off. The runes are gone, and in their place are steaming fingerprints, spiraling and ivory. So much like the fingerprints of the Evolved, yet still so different.
Bile rises in Viktor’s throat. The fingerprints—their color, their shine, the faint webbing within them—look exactly like the lesions of the nymphs he’d tried to heal so long ago.
He thought the Evolved forms were bad, but this… This is so much worse.
Jayce, oblivious, lets out a breathy laugh. “It worked,” he whispers.
Viktor bites back a snarl. Even though he wants to do nothing more than—in no particular order—sit down, vomit, and throw Jayce and his new fingerprint scars into the ocean, Viktor stalks around the Evolved still holding Jayce, standing so that he is in front of him and can look at Jayce directly. He leans down, letting his human form slip away.
Jayce’s jaw briefly goes slack, his expression caught between awe and fear. He can’t see the runes scattered across Viktor’s body, but the rest is apparent—the metallic purple skin, the indigo light that thrums in his veins, the pure gold of his eyes. And, of course, the magical power that radiates from him like heat from a fire. Like this, Viktor knows his short hair is floating around him like a halo, adding to the otherworldly effect.
Viktor lets his lip curl, revealing just a hint of sharpened teeth. “What worked?” he asks, soft and dangerous.
Jayce swallows. He’s misstepped, and he knows it. He does not answer.
Viktor considers it. There are very few things that can block a god’s power, and even less that can block witchcraft. That is why they have locked him on this island, after all.
There is no overt magic on Jayce, Viktor would have felt it. Gods, even the lesser ones, like to take credit for their shields. Which just leaves…
“A flower,” Viktor guesses. “White petals, black roots, white sap. You consumed it, no?”
And there it is—Jayce’s eyes narrow, lips pressed tight together.
“Moly,” Viktor says, tapping a finger on his cane. “I’d be interested as to how you acquired such a thing.”
Finally, Jayce smiles. “I picked it up.”
Viktor stares at him flatly. “Mortals cannot acquire moly on their own.”
Jayce’s smile vanishes. “They… Can’t?” he says weakly.
Viktor sighs. Why did he think for even a second that this man might be clever or smart? “Who?” he demands.
Jayce stays silent, but it doesn’t matter—Viktor can guess well enough. No gods save one are mad enough to even come past the border, much less keep a wayward mortal from Viktor’s reach.
Jinx. The Goddess of Madness and Misfortune, meddling in his affairs.
Again.
Viktor sighs again. He is going to have some choice words for her the next time she is struck by the whim to visit. But for now, he is stuck. Moly granting temporary immunity against witchcraft and the acts of gods aside, Viktor is not fool enough to kill a human under Jinx’s explicit protection—especially not when her interference was to protect Jayce specifically from Viktor himself. Like so many gods, she does not take kindly to having her toys smashed to bits.
“I admit, I am surprised you accepted the Lady Jinx’s help,” Viktor says mildly, even though his gaze is sharp. “I was under the impression that mortals tended to avoid her.”
A faint flush rises to Jayce’s cheeks. “Do you think I’m stupid?” he snaps. “Do you think I don’t know what happens to people who offend the gods or refuse their blessings?”
That, Viktor has to admit, is fair—while better to not attract Jinx’s attention at all, if it cannot be avoided, placated is the next safest option.
But still, he smiles. “But you would risk offending me?”
Jayce sets his jaw and looks Viktor in the eye. “Forgive me for not wanting to get turned into a mannequin.”
A mannequin? Viktor’s blood boils at the implication, however true it may be. “Evolved,” he snaps.
“The point still stands,” Jayce says.
“And yet, even with the protection from my magic, you still did not eat or drink,” Viktor observes.
That smile again—this time, a bit sheepish. “Jinx isn’t exactly a goddess known for honesty or reliability.”
Viktor lets out a snort before he can stop himself. But, quickly, he schools his expression back into neutrality. “Then why come up here at all, even after Jinx warned you of my intentions?”
Jayce hesitates. Then, carefully, “Jinx said I’d need your blessing to stay on the island. That even if I managed to make camp and hunt for food, I wouldn’t last a day before you’d kill me.”
Viktor fights the urge to roll his eyes. Of course she would say that. He would love to know her plan, assuming she even has one. While she would be the first to claim her own insanity, she also is far more cunning than most everyone around her is led to believe.
“She was correct,” Viktor lies. Then, disdain dripping from every word, “So, tell me, Jayce Talis of Piltover: why should I not kill you?”
“Your lift system.”
The answer is so immediate and unexpected that Viktor finds himself momentarily stunned. “What?” he manages.
“I can help you make it,” Jayce says.
His arrogance, under any other circumstance, would be very nearly funny. Now, though, it grates against Viktor.
“What makes you think a witch such as myself needs help from a mortal?” Viktor retorts coldly.
If Jayce hears that note of danger there, he shows no sign of it. He just nods best he can towards the Evolved still holding him down. “Besides the stuff with the power source? There’s your materials.” He fidgets. “Can I…?”
“Make your case,” Viktor says flatly, not so much as letting his Evolved twitch.
Jayce sighs. “You’re using the wrong metal alloys,” he explains.
“Steel is the most durable,” Viktor replies.
“Not for something meant for the outdoors,” Jayce shoots back. “It’ll rust to pieces in a year, unless you do maintenance every day.”
Viktor frowns. Admittedly, he does not have the physical capabilities to clean the steel every day, and Jayce probably knows it, too. “And what would you suggest?”
“You need a combination of aluminum and something else,” Jayce says. “Wood, maybe, if you can treat it with the right kind of varnish, but you could also use the steel in more limited quantities if you forge it correctly.”
“And you would be the one who could forge it correctly?” Viktor says, tone dripping in disdain.
But Jayce either doesn’t pick up on it or ignores it, giving a stilted nod while still being held by the Evolved. “As long as you have the ore and materials, I can forge you any pieces you’ll need for it, and then some—I’ll even help you assemble it,” he says. “Look, I… Please. I just need to fix my ship, and then I’ll be gone. I won’t tell anyone about you or your island, I’ll swear it on anything you want, even the Wild Rift.”
It takes everything within Viktor to not instantly recoil.
How does he…? Why…?
“…The Wild Rift?” Viktor repeats. He is proud that his voice doesn’t shake, that his confusion and horror comes off as disbelief.
Jayce once again nods as best he can. “It’d be the ultimate insurance for you, wouldn’t it?” he all but begs. “An oath on the Wild Rift would hold even a god. I break my word, I’m doomed to be consumed by the Wild Rift and join the nymphs of the Waiting Dead, right?”
It’s a dull surprise, that this is how mortals and gods alike have twisted his worst mistake. Which god had the idea to use the Wild Rift for oath-binding? Maybe his old mentor Singed with his sick sense of humor, or perhaps the one of the Fates twisting Viktor’s creation into the cruelest irony, or maybe even mortals with their powers of belief and fear alike.
It hardly matters now.
“Then swear it,” Viktor says softly. “You will help in the creation of my lift, and I will help repair your ship. After both are completed, you will leave, and never tell anyone about me or this place.”
“And you won’t turn me into one of your… Evolved,” Jayce adds, a shudder going through his body.
Viktor narrows his eyes. “So long as you do not attack me in any way, I will neither harm you in turn nor turn you into one of the Evolved,” he says pointedly. “I swear upon the Wild Rift.”
Jayce lets out a sigh of relief. “I also swear on the Wild Rift.”
Viktor doesn’t know if the oaths and magic of the rest of the world can reach them here, in this place so intentionally shielded from all magic that is not contained within the island itself, but there is something sharp in the air between them, smelling like metallic and sweet rot.
Still cautious, Viktor waves his fingers, and the Evolved release Jayce.
Jayce all but collapses on the ground, clutching his chest and heaving for air. He’s shaking, and a slightly hysterical laugh escapes his mouth. He touches his face, tracing along his forehead, where Viktor has left the fingerprint scars. If he cares, though, it doesn’t show, nothing but palpable relief on his face.
Viktor braces himself. If Jayce is to attack, now would be the time. But he doesn’t move from his position on the ground, doesn’t so much as lash out at either Viktor or his Evolved.
Jayce just unsteadily gets to his feet, legs trembling like jelly. “Thank you,” he croaks.
Viktor ignores him, exhaling through his teeth. It’s fine. He might not be able to touch Jayce, but Jayce cannot touch him either. This… Arrangement, is only temporary. Jayce will be gone in a month, maybe less, and Viktor will be left to his solitude.
It’s only for a little while.