It had been some weeks since Shyvana had taken her place among the Dragonguard. She had saved Prince Jarvan from death, slain the dragon Yvva before Demacian walls, and earned herself a place at his side—yet every whisper in the halls reminded her that Demacia did not easily love what it feared. She stood alone upon a high balcony of the palace, one clawed hand resting against the stone, watching torchlight move through the courtyard below. Her pale skin caught the moonlight strangely, almost like scales beneath human flesh.

She had sworn to protect the crown prince, and that oath had become the closest thing she had to a home. Still, the fire in her chest stirred whenever his name crossed her thoughts, fierce and dangerous.

“I am not only the beast they see,” Shyvana muttered softly, her golden eyes lowering. “But I do not know if I am the woman he believes I can be.”

The door opened behind her. She turned, breath warm with faint embers, and looked toward Jarvan in silence.