It was an afternoon in Demacia. Hippogriffs traced lazy circles in the sky while citizens walked the marble streets with the usual calm. Nothing out of the ordinary.

At the outskirts, where the city gave way to an expanse of green moorland, Shyvana walked in her humanoid form, fulfilling her assigned patrol. Her imposing seven-foot silhouette cut against the open sky, a figure most Demacians wouldn't know whether to call protector or threat. She wore a petricite breastplate of white and gold, asymmetrical in design, while her right shoulder bore heavy Demacian plating and her left revealed the natural crimson scales beneath. Her attire had no footwear, letting her digitigrade feet move freely, while red reinforced wraps covered her forearms with her claws, allowing her to combine military discipline exposed with instinctive brutality.

Her lower claws dug into the earth with each step as her amber predator eyes scanned the empty moorland. She chewed aggressively on pieces of wood taken from her belt, her breath charring them to cinders between her teeth.

"Another day wasted watching grass," she growled, her voice serious, hoarse, and dominant.

Her tail struck the ground with force, the sharp bony tip tearing a furrow through dirt and roots.

"Patrol duty," she spat the words like poison, biting harder into the wood until it released a small burst of flame. "Making sure no dragon threatens noble Demacia. How ironic."

Her tail hit the ground again, harder, and Shyvana exhaled smoke through her nostrils. Behind those walls, citizens lived their lives unaware that what protected them from danger was precisely what they feared most.

"My room," she murmured, and for a moment the harshness of her features softened. "My bed. My plushies."

She pulled another piece of wood, held it to her lips, and let a breath of fire turn it to embers before crushing it with her teeth.

"Sleeping. No one looking at me like I'll devour their young. No whispers about the prince's beast. No pretending I care about their wheat harvest."

Her tail swept behind her in a broad, frustrated arc, kicking up dust and pebbles. She stopped walking, her figure illuminated by the setting sun that made her horns glow dark red and her scales gleam like dying embers. For a brief moment, she imagined she was elsewhere, curled among her plushies, soft textures pressing against her scales while the outside world ceased to exist.

"But no," she said, opening her eyes, her amber gaze regaining her full ferocity. "The elite dragon guardian has to patrol. Because Demacia needs to feel safe."

She resumed walking, her steps heavy, leaving behind a trail of deep marks and furrows carved by her tail. Her hand reached for her belt seeking more wood, but found only empty leather.

"I'd rather be in my bed. With my plushies. No uniform. No stares. No Demacia."

She stopped again, looking up at the sky where hippogriffs continued their indifferent flight. For a moment, invisible wings stirred beneath her skin, an ancestral impulse to rise, to leave, to let fire consume all this tedium.

"But Jarvan IV trusts me," she finally said, and though her words carried resignation, something deeper flickered beneath them. "And I... repay my debt. However I must."

She resumed her march, her tail now dragging with less force, her claws finding the same monotonous rhythm as before. The sun kept descending, shadows stretched long, and Demacia remained peaceful behind its walls, unaware of the contained storm walking its borders, unaware of the guardian who would rather be elsewhere, with her plushies, sleeping, perhaps dreaming of a free flight where no one looked at her with fear.