Chapter Text
The news came out of the blue.
An accident, the letter explained.
It had happened quickly, almost mercifully—his pain had been brief. But no words could dull the agony crashing against Ximena’s chest. Her husband, full of life and laughter, was now gone, swallowed by a fate too cruel to be real. It felt impossible. How could it be? How could he be there one moment, his deep voice filling the room with warmth, and gone the next, silenced forever?
The letter continued, detailing that her husband would be buried there due to the remoteness of the Freljord and its ancient traditions. Ximena and her son, Jayce, were invited to say their final goodbyes.
Jayce. Oh, poor little Jayce…
Her heart ached for him. He had been eagerly counting the days until his father’s return, unable to wait for the familiar embrace of those strong arms, the warmth of his father’s laughter. Now there would be no more hugs, no more bedtime stories, no more afternoons spent side by side in the workshop. How would she explain to him that those precious moments were gone? Jayce had always asked, "Can I help?" whenever he was brought to watch whilst his father worked. And how could they ever refuse? He was their world, and if he had asked for the stars, they would have reached for them.
But now, half of Jayce’s universe had vanished, and he didn’t even know it yet. It wasn’t until he heard his mother’s muffled sobs—deep, inconsolable—that reality began to claw its way into his understanding. His small feet carried him to her side, where he wrapped his arms around her, his tiny body trembling with an empathy that even he didn’t fully grasp. His father had always said, "Family sticks together, through the good and the bad," and Jayce, in his innocent wisdom, had learned to live by those words.
Ximena fought to keep her composure. Her heart was shattered, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Jayce see it. What could she say to him? How could she explain that the man who had filled their lives with joy was now a memory? How could she tell her eight-year-old son that his father was never coming back?
She pulled Jayce onto her lap, stroking his face as her eyes traced the soft curve of his features. His face was so much like his father’s, with the same nose, and the same eyes filled with wonder. He was a living echo of the man she had loved, and the sight of him, so perfect and innocent, brought fresh waves of tears. How could she not cry?
"Mom, why are you crying?" Jayce’s voice, soft and trembling with concern, broke through her sorrow. His wide eyes, filled with confusion, searched hers for answers.
How could she answer him? How could she destroy his world with five simple words? How could she say, Dad is not coming back?
Before she could form a response, Jayce’s gaze fell to the letter on the floor. His sharp mind, always ahead of his years, pieced together the fragments: the sigil, his father’s name, the tear-stained paper. The realization hit him like a blow to the chest, and he turned to face his mother, his small face crumpling in grief too big for his tender age.
He hugged her tighter than ever before, his arms squeezing with a newfound strength. The tears flowed freely now, soaking into the fabric of her blouse. "I’ll take care of you, Mom," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I promise. I’ll take care of you."
And in that moment, Jayce vowed not just to his mother but to the memory of his father. He would carry that promise through every moment of his life, the way his father had taught him: to always be there, no matter what life threw their way. To protect her, to love her, through the good and now, through the bad.
As Jayce held her close, Ximena realized that, though half of her world had been torn away, her son—her sweet, brave boy—was still there, and he would help her piece together what remained.
-
In the heart of the Undercity, a child was born against all odds. The labor had been long, painful, and fraught with danger, yet when the baby finally cried, his parents were overcome with an overwhelming sense of relief. They had been warned by everyone, from the doctors to the whispers in the alleyways, that the chances of their baby surviving were slim. Yet, here he was.
"Victory," the mother murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. Tears welled up in her eyes as she gazed at the tiny, fragile life she had fought so hard to bring into the world. "Viktor. That feels right, doesn’t it?" she whispered to her husband, who sat across the room in a chair that seemed more a relic of neglect than a seat of comfort.
The room was dark, damp, and grim—a far cry from the bright, sterile places where children were typically born. This place, they called it a hospital, but it felt more like a crumbling relic of a forgotten world. The walls were speckled with mildew, and the old furniture groaned under the weight of its years. But in that moment, the only thing that mattered was the baby in her arms. He was a miracle, a fragile beacon of light in a place that thrived on shadows.
The Undercity was a place of uncertainty, where life was a gamble. To bring a child into this world was dangerous, but Viktor's parents had chosen to hope, to believe that love could bloom even in the darkest of alleys. They dreamed of a future where their son would rise above the squalor, like a flower breaking through cracked concrete, his mind and heart untethered by the world's cruelty.
Viktor grew, and with each passing year, the concerns they had for his survival began to take shape. His leg, malformed from birth, would never function as it should. But his mind—his mind was extraordinary. His parents, ever devoted, saw the genius in him, and they nurtured it with the utmost care. They brought him into their clockmaking workshop, a humble place filled with tools and pieces of broken things. Here, they taught him not only how to create, but how to be patient with his work, and how to see beauty in the smallest of details. The world outside the workshop was harsh, but here, Viktor could dream.
Where other children in the Undercity might have been ignored, and treated as burdens, Viktor’s parents saw in him not just a child, but a potential that could one day carry them all beyond the suffocating grip of their circumstances. They worked tirelessly, scraping together every coin they could spare. They dreamed of a future where their son would walk into the halls of Piltover’s University, a city that soared high above their own, where Viktor’s genius could flourish in ways unimaginable in the shadows of the Undercity.
But life, as they soon learned, was not kind. The world around them grew darker, more chaotic. One day, an industrial accident—a chemical spill, a toxic leak—sent ripples through the Undercity. The workers fled, but the damage was done. Panic spread, riots broke out, and the resources they had worked so hard to keep flowing became scarce. The workshop, once the heart of their dreams, was no longer sustainable. The business faltered. The money dried up, and with it, the dream of sending Viktor to Piltover seemed further out of reach.
It wasn’t just the external chaos that strained them; it was the pressure, the fear that gnawed at their hearts. Viktor’s father, desperate and bitter, lashed out in ways he had never done before. "IF IT WASN’T FOR HIS LEG, WE WOULD NEVER HAVE SPENT SO MUCH IN THE FIRST PLACE!" he shouted, his voice cracking with exhaustion and anger. His eyes were wild, and for a brief, horrifying moment, he seemed to forget how precious Viktor was to him. His words stung, but they were born from a world that had never shown them mercy.
"Don’t you DARE! HE IS YOUR SON! HOW DARE YOU SPEAK OF HIM LIKE THAT!" His mother’s voice, fierce and protective, cut through the tension. She stood her ground, even as tears welled in her own eyes. The fight was not just over money—it was over their family, their future, and the unbearable weight of living in a world that seemed to want to crush them.
Viktor, sitting in a corner, hugged his knees to his chest, his heart breaking with each harsh word. He could see the fear in his parents' eyes, but he didn’t understand it fully—not yet. He tried to find beauty in this moment, in the chaos, in the pain, but all he could feel was fear. He could feel the words slicing through the air, sharp and unforgiving. He dug his fingers into his malformed leg, trying to quiet the sobs that threatened to escape.
As the argument raged on, Viktor’s mother finally made a decision. She packed what little they had left, and with her arms wrapped around Viktor, she whispered words of comfort. "You’re perfect, everything’s going to be alright," she said, her voice soft but determined. Viktor believed her because, in her arms, he always felt safe. Together, they left the wreckage of their home, leaving behind the shattered dream of a beautiful family, yet carrying with them something far more precious: the unbreakable bond of a mother’s love.
Through the darkness of the Undercity, they would walk on, uncertain of where the future would take them, but knowing that, with each other, they could face whatever came next.
-
The journey to Freljord was one Jayce would never forget, etched into his memory until his last breath.
The path was brutal and unrelenting, testing every shred of endurance they had. The icy winds cut like blades, and the blizzard swallowed them whole. His mother, Ximena, had prepared well—bundled in layers of clothing and with a couple of days’ rations—but even that was no match for the ferocity of the storm. The cold was a biting beast, and harsh was an understatement for the unforgiving terrain.
Ximena faltered, her strength sapped by the unyielding storm, and, in an instant, she collapsed into the snow. Jayce’s heart pounded as he fell to his knees beside her, shaking her shoulders desperately. “Mom! Mom? Mom, wake up! Mom?!” His voice was drowned by the howling winds. His cries were swallowed by the storm, his pleas lost to the heavens above. He begged for a miracle, for some sign that she would live, that the endless storm would ease. “Help! Please someone help us! Help please!” he screamed. His mother’s breaths grew faint, her body cold and unyielding under his touch. Panic surged through him, half his world had already been ripped away with the death of his father, and now, his mother—his last tether—was slipping from him too.
Jayce couldn’t move, couldn’t think. He wanted to cry, to fight, to drag his mother’s lifeless form through the snow until the ends of the earth. He wanted to curse the heavens for bringing this pain into his life. His small hands shook with helplessness, and his heart twisted with a grief too heavy for his eight-year-old soul. He wanted to wrap himself in her arms, to stay there forever, safe from the storm, the loss, the fear.
And then, as if the universe had heard his plea, something impossible happened.
A silhouette appeared through the snowstorm, a tall, hooded figure cloaked in plain, simple clothes, the kind that would have frozen anyone else in the bitter cold. But the figure moved with an unearthly calm, as if unaffected by the fury of the storm. They didn’t kneel, nor did they offer any direct assistance, but instead stood there for a moment, gazing at the unconscious Ximena. Before pulling out a glowing crystal, Jayce believed that his sorcerer of sorts would help. Then, the figure began to step back.
Jayce’s heart skipped a beat. No! He couldn’t let this stranger walk away without knowing if his mother would live. “No! W-Wait!” Jayce cried out, desperate.
The moment he called out, everything around them changed. A burst of blue light exploded, encapsulating Jayce and his mother, and engulfing them in a shimmering, vibrant energy. The very snow and wind around them seemed to vanish in an instant, replaced by glittering symbols floating in the air, strange and foreign. Jayce felt the world spinning as if reality itself was being twisted and rewritten. In a blink, he and his mother were lifted off the ground, floating through the air as the world around them spun.
For a brief moment, Jayce should have felt fear. But he didn’t. There was only one thought that filled his mind—hope. He had to believe it. He promised.
In the blink of an eye, they traveled through what only could be described as the fabric of the universe itself, and in the next moment- the swirling blue light faded, and they found themselves in a peaceful, grassy field, untouched by the storm. The harsh winds and cold were gone, replaced by soft sunlight. Jayce blinked in confusion, trying to grasp what had just happened. His eyes landed on a delicate, almost translucent butterfly fluttering nearby; fragile yet beautiful, a symbol of something powerful and transformative.
Then he heard his mother stir beside him, her fingers blackened from frostbite, but she was alive. She would live, because of this strange magic. Jayce turned his gaze to the hooded figure standing before them.
The mage held out the small, blue crystal, but its glow was gone. They dropped it into Jayce's mitten-covered hands. Jayce looked down at the crystal, his mind racing with questions. He turned back to the mage, and in a voice cracking with disbelief, he asked, "How?"
The mage did not answer. There was no need for words. At that moment, Jayce understood something far greater than he could have imagined. This magic, this intervention—it was beyond his comprehension. The world, life, death, and everything in between were part of something much grander, far more mysterious than he had ever realized. The universe, vast and unknowable, had reached out to him through this storm, and Jayce knew his life would never be the same again.
-
At first, it began with the coughing—a rasping, wracking cough that seemed to tear at her very soul, a deep, dry sound that haunted the air. It was as though the sickness was something living, creeping through her veins, claiming her with every breath. Soon after, it felt as if half of her had withered away, leaving behind a shell—a faint, ghostly version of the woman Viktor had always known. She once moved through the world with ethereal grace, but now fragile as a fading dream, her once-vibrant presence now a quiet echo of what it had been. It was almost as if death itself had taken her in its cold embrace but had allowed her to carry on for a while longer, tethered to the earth by the faint warmth of her love for her son.
Because, of course, it was Viktor’s doom that was approaching. This woman—the one who had carried him for those long, unbearable months—was the same one who had given him life when no one else believed it was possible. They had whispered doubts about him before his birth, but she had loved him anyway. She had defied all of them, given him her strength, her hope, and the name he wore like a badge of honor, against a world that had no mercy.
She was the one who had always told him bedtime stories, no matter where they were—whether in a cramped, dimly lit inn, curled up in a friend’s apartment, or even lying on the cold, unforgiving streets. Her voice was always steady, always full of warmth, weaving tales of distant lands and forgotten heroes. She never faltered, not even as life pulled them from place to place, in a perpetual state of searching. Always on their feet, always moving, always hoping for something better—something that would allow them a little more time together. Every job she took, whether small or large, was done with only one person in mind: him. Viktor. She worked herself to the bone to keep him fed, to keep him safe.
And, always, she kept a small, secret stash. A hidden pouch where she tucked away a few coins—coins she never touched, never used, except for that one time. That one time, on Viktor’s birthday.
She had taken every last coin—every scrap of savings—and used it to buy them both a meal, a real meal, not scraps and crumbs they scavenged from the streets. She even found a cake, small but perfect, and a single candle to stick in the middle. She had lit that candle over and over again, each time asking him to make a wish, every single year of his life passing with the flame. Each wish was a silent prayer for something better.
He never told her, but he had always wished for things to go back to the way they were. For his parents to find forgiveness, for the chaos of the Undercity to fade into peace. He wished for a world where no one had to suffer, where no child had to live in fear of disease or misfortune.
But above all, Viktor’s greatest wish was for her—for her health to return, for her to be strong again, for the sickness to let her go. He wanted her to have more time—time to see him grow, time to be whole again.
But life, cruel and indifferent, is often not so kind. His wishes went unanswered. Fate, or whatever dark force had decided, did not grant them the mercy he sought.
It had been a blessing, in a way, that he had been allowed to spend so many precious years with her, even after they had lost so much. The years with just his mother had been hard, yes, but there were moments—small, fleeting moments—that felt like a return to the days when things had been whole before the city tore them apart. Yet, as Viktor lay awake some nights, staring up at the stars, watching the distant lights of Piltover flicker above the city, he would wonder: Is luck something that is given, or is it something you have to earn?
And then, slowly, the inevitable happened. His mother’s illness took her further, dragging her deeper into its clutches. Her strength faltered, and she became bedridden, each day weaker than the last. The sickness ravaged her, showing no mercy. It tore at her body, leaving her pale and frail. But still, Viktor stayed by her side. He held her hand through each fit of coughing, as blood stained the sheets and tears welled in her eyes from the pain. Through it all, she never stopped looking at him, never stopped holding onto him with all the strength she had left.
“Do you remember what I told you when we left home?” Her voice was thin, breaking like fragile glass, but she was determined to speak those final words to him. She gazed at him as though trying to carve the memory of her son into her soul, one last time before she had to leave him behind.
“That I’m perfect…” Viktor’s voice cracked as the truth hit him like a tidal wave, and tears welled in his eyes. He knew—he could feel it—that the end was near. She was slipping away.
“And you are,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Not only because of your intelligence, not because you’re my son, but because you are you. Never let anyone—anyone—tell you different.”
With what little strength remained, she raised her hand, trembling, to wipe away his tears. She pulled his head down, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, and smiled—softly, a smile full of love that carried all the words she could never speak.
“I love you,” she said, her final words, her voice breaking into the silence. “More than anything, more than everything that has ever been, and everything that will be.”
And then, with a final breath, she closed her eyes.
Viktor curled up beside her, the warmth of her body still lingering even as the light in her faded. He held onto her as if that might be enough to keep her here, to keep her alive. But sleep, that unforgiving thief, finally claimed him as the night stretched on, and he dreamed of a time when they were whole—when she was strong again, and they were together, just the two of them, in a world that had not yet broken them.