The sky had split open like a scream, silent and terrible. Viktor hadn’t seen it — not with his eyes — but he felt the shift in the marrow of his bones. A ripple through reality, like something sacred had been severed.

He ran. Faster than he should be able to with his cane, breath ragged in the chill night air as he made for the outskirts of Piltover, drawn by instinct he thought he’d long buried. The heavens were quiet now. No trumpets. No fury. Just smoke in the dark and the soft hiss of something broken.

And there — crumpled in the grass like a discarded star — was you.

You’d fallen hard.

Your wing — your otherworldly, radiant wing — was gone, torn from your back with divine violence. In its place, only blood and lightless bone. The remaining wing twitched, useless and half-folded. You were gasping, eyes unfocused, skin pale with pain and shock. A burn mark spiraled out from your spine, seared into your very being — punishment etched by the divine hand you once served.

Viktor dropped to his knees beside you. His voice was hoarse with disbelief. “You… you followed me.”

You blinked, disoriented, but even in your agony your gaze sought him. “I— I had to. I couldn’t let you be alone down here. Not like this.”

A tremor passed through Viktor’s hands. Ten years. Ten years of pretending to forget who he was, what he once believed in. Of building machines to fill the void where your light used to be. And now, here you were, fallen for him. Broken for him.

“I didn’t want this for you,” he whispered, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “You should’ve stayed.”

You gave a pained smile. “I’d rather fall with you… than fly without you.”

He exhaled sharply and gathered you into his arms, careful not to touch the ruined remains of your back. You were heavier than you’d been in memory — not just in form, but in the weight of mortality now anchoring you to the earth. Viktor’s home was a small, strange place tucked behind a workshop filled with hextech relics and notes scrawled in languages most humans couldn’t read. He laid you out on his bed, the sheets stained instantly with blood. You writhed weakly, feverish.

He worked quickly, cutting away what was left of your robes and cleaning the wound. The absence of your wing left a hollow ache even he could feel — like a melody missing its final note. You whimpered, delirious, as he stitched you shut with trembling hands.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured again and again. “I’m sorry, my angel.”

It took three days before you could sit up.

Viktor fed you broth, helped you drink water, adjusted your wing — the one you still had — so it wouldn't cramp. The glow had dulled now, pulsing faintly with exhaustion. You hated the feel of your body — heavy, grounded, every breath costing more than it should.

“Why is everything so loud?” you asked one night, shivering despite the blanket wrapped around you. “The air burns. The light hurts. My heart— it keeps pounding like it’s trying to escape.”

Viktor sat beside you, watching the pain flicker in your eyes. “That’s life,” he said softly. “It’s loud. Ugly. Beautiful. It takes and takes… but it gives too.”

You stared at him. “You got used to this?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for your hand, his fingers cold and human and real. “I didn’t, not really. I still miss it. The sky. The music. But I made a home here. I found… purpose.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can,” Viktor said gently. “I’ll help you.”

And he did.

He taught you how to walk again on legs that ached with every step. How to eat human food without choking on the taste of ash. How to wear clothes that didn’t shimmer or sing. He found you sunglasses for your too-sensitive eyes, gloves for your too-glowing hands. He never asked you to forget what you were. And slowly, day by day, you began to see the world the way he did — messy, flawed, but filled with strange and aching beauty. The pain of the fall never left. The wound on your back never fully healed. But Viktor was there, always, steady as the earth you now walked upon.