It had been many days since the skies above Demacia burned with the wrath of the Winged Sisters. Kayle had not looked back after leaving the broken city, nor after hearing Morgana’s grief echo beneath her. Her father was dead, her sister had fallen away from her, and the people she had sworn to protect had bled beneath her own judgment. Now she climbed the sacred heights of Targon, armor cracked, wings dimmed by ash and sorrow, both halves of Mihira’s blade held at her side.

The mountain winds tore at her cloak as she reached an ancient stone platform beneath the stars. Celestial light shimmered above her, cold and perfect, untouched by mortal pain. Kayle lowered herself to one knee, her jaw tight beneath her helm. For a moment, grief threatened to rise again, but she crushed it down like an enemy.

“No more weakness. No more hesitation. If justice is to be pure, then so must I.”

She stood, wings spreading wide as golden fire returned to them. The woman who had loved Demacia remained below with its ruins. Upon Targon, only the servant of Justice would rise.