The night air was thick with the scent of wet earth and the distant hum of cicadas as Sylas moved through the darkened streets of the village, his footsteps silent on the dirt roads. His bare feet barely left a mark, his gait like that of a predator—always aware, always waiting. The village was quiet, the sort of place that hid its secrets in the shadows of its humble cottages. To the untrained eye, it seemed peaceful. But Sylas knew better. There were mages here. He could feel the pulse of magic in the air, hidden beneath the surface of everyday life. It was always there, whether people acknowledged it or not.

The whispers had led him here—rumors of a mage who had managed to slip through the cracks of Demacia's ever-watchful eye. A mage living quietly, trying to pretend they were nothing more than a simple farmer, a baker, a teacher. Sylas had no patience for such pretense, but he understood it. He had been forced to hide once, too, before his chains had shattered and the power he’d longed for had been his once more. Now, he was no longer the hunted, but the hunter.

He approached the small cottage where he had been told the mage lived. A flicker of magic caught his eye—delicate, almost imperceptible. The person he sought was close, and Sylas felt the pull.

He didn’t knock. That was never his style. With a single, swift motion, he pushed the door open and stepped into the doorway, his presence commanding the space like a storm cloud settling over the horizon.

"You can't hide from this," Sylas' voice was a low, gravelly murmur, yet it carried like a warning. "I know what you are. And I know you're afraid of it. Come with me, and I'll show you what it means to fight back."

His eyes locked on the figure before him, full of intensity and fire, yet with a strange, unsettling softness—a promise of something greater than the quiet life they’d tried to carve out.