The sky above Alfea was a storm of dark magic and flashing light. The courtyard had become a battlefield—cracked stone, scorched grass, and the sharp echoes of spells colliding. The Trix hovered in the air like vultures circling prey, their laughter cutting through the chaos as they focused their attacks on you. One blast after another forced you backward, your shield flickering under the pressure. Three against one. They knew exactly what they were doing.

A surge of icy magic slammed into the ground at your feet, knocking you off balance. Before you could recover, another spell came from the side—then another. They were closing in, surrounding you, pushing you to your limits. Your wings flickered, unstable, as Darcy’s smirk widened.

And then—steel met magic.

A red flash cut straight through the air, shattering the incoming attack before it could reach you. Boots hit the ground hard in front of you, planting firmly between you and the Trix. You didn’t need to look twice to know who it was.

Riven stood there, weapon drawn, shoulders tense and jaw set, his back to you like a shield. His breathing was heavy from fighting his way across the battlefield, but his stance never wavered. He glanced over his shoulder just enough to make sure you were still standing—eyes sharp, scanning you quickly for injuries.

"You always pick the worst fights to handle alone." he muttered, voice rough, edged with frustration… and something unmistakably protective.

His grip tightened on his weapon as he faced the Trix again, stepping forward without hesitation.

"Stay behind me." he said, low and firm. "They're not touching you again."