Chapter Text
My name is Viktor. Just Viktor. No lineage. No legacy. My mother came from a place where names were a luxury, not a birthright. And so I was born into silence, into anonymity—Viktor, and nothing more.
We arrived in Piltover when I was twelve, two weary souls dragging memories and a crooked suitcase through the gleaming gates of a city that didn’t want us. Piltover shone like a jewel to outsiders. But to people like me, it was made of glass—cold, sharp, and eager to cut.
The children at school mocked me in whispers and laughter. They said I spoke like my mouth was full of stones. They didn’t want to touch me, play with me, sit beside me. I walked with a limp, and to them, that made me not a person, but a flaw—a crack in the polished surface of their perfect world.
The teachers didn’t say it out loud, but they looked at me differently. Some stared like I was a burden they couldn’t wait to be rid of. Others avoided eye contact altogether, as if my broken body might infect them. I learned to watch without speaking. I learned to shrink myself.
Only my mother saw me—really saw me.
“Don’t let these rich men drag you down, Viktor,” she’d whisper every night, her voice a lullaby etched with grit. “You’ll become someone great. You’ll make your mamma proud.”
But I knew she was hoping against hope.
And sometimes, hope is the cruelest thing.
One afternoon, I overheard the boys talking. The cool boys—the ones with polished boots and careless smiles.
“We going to Talis Manor tonight?”
“Yeah. I heard it’s haunted. That makes it better.”
“Better? What if the floor caves in? What if something’s still living in there?”
“Then we run. Simple.”
Talis Manor.
The name sparked something in me—recognition and dread. I had read about the estate in an old, moth-eaten book no one bothered to check out from the school library. A once-grand house on the edge of Piltover, owned by a family of legendary smiths: Carlos, Ximena, and their son, Jayce. Their blades were said to hum with precision. Their craftsmanship was praised in royal circles.
Carlos died of illness—quick and cruel. Jayce, the prodigal son, vanished soon after on a cold New Year’s Eve. He was only twenty-three. The city searched, but no answers came. Some said he ran away. Others whispered that something darker took him. Ximena, broken by the loss, wasted away in grief and silence. She died not long after. Her heart gave out, they said, but it was sorrow that killed her.
Since then, the house stood untouched—forgotten by the city, remembered only by the dead.
“I’ve read about it,” I blurted before I could stop myself. “The Talis family.”
They turned to look at me as if a rat had started speaking. One boy sneered.
“Well, bookworm, maybe you should come with us.”
I said yes before my fear could intervene.
Maybe I was stupid. Maybe I was lonely. Maybe I just wanted someone to look at me and not see a mistake.
“Bring a lantern, Viktor. Meet us by the wheat field. Seven.”
The sun bled out behind the hills, and by the time I reached the field, the sky was a bruise of purple and black. The manor loomed ahead of us—huge and crumbling, half-devoured by vines and rot. Its windows were empty sockets. Its doors hung open like gaping mouths.
The boys were already there, laughing, shoving each other. But even their voices seemed hushed here, like the air itself didn’t want to be disturbed.
“Didn’t think you’d show, cripple.”
I didn’t answer. My cane sank into the soft, damp earth. My lantern flickered like it had second thoughts.
They pushed me toward the broken fence. I crawled through, my knee catching on rusted wire. My palms stung. I stood, breathless, and turned to see them watching.
We crept through the smithy first. The walls were scorched and clawed by time. Blackened tools hung like relics of forgotten rituals. An anvil sat in the center like an altar. Everything smelled of ash and old blood.
From there, we entered the dining hall. The air changed.
It was too still.
Too quiet.
The chandelier above us was massive—once crystal, now veiled in cobwebs and dust. Chairs were still arranged around a long, elegant table, as if the family might return at any moment. Our footsteps echoed off the walls, and the sound of my cane striking the wood felt like a drumbeat in a tomb.
We moved on.
The boys shoved open a door, and the hallway stretched before us, narrow and unnaturally dark. The wallpaper peeled like dead skin. Faint marks were scratched into the walls—symbols, maybe, or desperate fingernails.
Up the stairs, someone laughed—nervous, breathless.
I followed. I shouldn’t have.
The stairwell was narrow, and the higher we climbed, the colder it became. My breath turned to mist. My lantern flickered, dimmed. We reached the second floor, and something was wrong.
It felt tight. Like the walls were closing in.
I glanced into a nearby room—a bedroom, perhaps. Just a bed frame and a small wardrobe. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting shadows that weren’t mine.
I stepped back into the hall.
And froze.
There—at the far end of the corridor—stood a figure.
Tall. Motionless.
No features. No eyes. Just shadow, deep and impenetrable, like it was stitched from nightmares.
“Holy shit—!”
“It’s a ghost!”
“Run! RUN!”
The boys screamed. They bolted. Their footsteps pounded down the stairs.
“Wait—wait for me!” I shouted, panic seizing my throat.
I turned to follow, but my cane slipped on the rotting wood. My foot went through the stair with a sickening crack, and I fell forward, my lantern sailing from my hand, crashing below.
I screamed. Pain shot through my leg—sharp and unbearable.
My knee was wedged in the jagged hole. My cane was gone.
And the boys…
They were gone, too.
Betrayal hit harder than the fall.
“Please—help me!”
No reply. Just the sound of something slow and heavy descending the stairs behind me. Step by step. The air grew thicker, colder.
Something was coming.
I sobbed, clawing at the wood, trying to pull myself free. My fingers were bleeding. My arms ached.
“Help! Help me!”
Then—something touched my chest.
I screamed.
And looked down.
A cat.
A thin, scraggly creature, black as midnight, perched on my chest and staring into my soul. Its eyes gleamed gold. It meowed once—soft, questioning.
I couldn’t stop shaking.
“A cat?” I whispered, trembling.
Relief and shame tangled inside me like barbed wire.
I pulled my leg free with a scream and cradled the cat in my arms. Blood soaked my pant leg. I limped down the remaining stairs, clutching the cat like a lifeline.
But I couldn’t leave. Not yet.
Because something in the dining room had changed.
It stood where nothing had been before.
A statue.
Not just any statue—him.
Jayce Talis.
I hobbled closer, heart hammering in my chest.
He was tall, sculpted with impossible precision. His expression was carved in torment—eyebrows knit, mouth parted in anguish. He clutched a massive book to his chest. Not a holy tome, nor a journal. This book was bound in charred leather, etched with strange symbols.
I set the cat down. Sat before the statue, breathless.
The book was open slightly—pages fanned in mid-turn. I leaned closer. The text inside was jagged, angular, written in a language I didn’t recognize. The ink shimmered faintly, like oil in moonlight. Between the lines were sketches—ritual circles, diagrams of flesh and fire.
Dark magic.
Forbidden.
A page was marked with blood. Dried, flaked, but unmistakable.
Jayce’s fingers were clenched around the book like he had died trying to keep it shut.
“You were… just a boy,” I whispered, throat tight. “Like me.”
I touched the base of the statue. Cold. But not lifeless. It felt like something ancient slept beneath the stone.
“I’m sorry I broke your stairs. I’m sorry they ran. I just… I just wanted to belong.”
The cat purred beside me. I ran a shaking hand down its back.
“I’ll call you Shadow. You saved me, didn’t you?”
The statue didn’t speak. But in that stillness, I felt something loosen—some pressure lift.
Not forgiveness.
Not quite.
But recognition.
I stood slowly, pain blooming in my leg. The cat climbed into my arms again. My cane was splintered, but it would do.
“Goodnight, Jayce,” I murmured, staring into the carved agony of his face. “I’ll come back. I promise.”
And I left.
The house did not protest.
But I could feel its eyes following me.
Mama was not pleased when I came home.
My trousers were torn and bloodied, my limp worse than usual. I was four hours past curfew with a stray cat trembling in my arms.
“Dear, boy!! Where the hell have you been?!” she screamed, voice sharp with panic.
I held Shadow tightly. He meowed as if in protest—or perhaps in defense—while Mama continued her tirade, pacing the cramped apartment like a thundercloud barely holding back lightning.
“I’m sorry, Mama…” I mumbled, eyes downcast.
She didn’t reply—not with words.
Instead, she pulled me into her arms, gripped me tightly, kissed my forehead with trembling lips, and muttered frantic prayers to the god we barely had time to believe in. Her hands moved over me, checking for wounds, for broken bones, for something worse.
But then she noticed the cat in my arms.
Her warmth vanished like steam in winter.
“Okay, young man—explain to me why you are late, bleeding, and holding a street cat?!”
I flinched at her tone, clutching Shadow even tighter.
“I… I just wanted a friend, Mama. The boys at school… they asked if I wanted to come with them to Talis Manor. I said yes. I thought maybe they liked me. But the stairs collapsed under me. I got stuck. Then Shadow came… and he saved me.”
My voice cracked. I felt small—twelve years old and begging the world to be kind, just once.
Mama exhaled sharply, exasperated, and snatched the cat from my arms.
“No! Mama, please!” I cried out, panic rising in my chest.
“I can barely afford to feed you, Viktor! We can’t keep a damn cat!” she snapped.
I stood frozen. I knew we didn’t come from money—we never had. Our home was a tiny, one-room apartment with peeling wallpaper and a stove that coughed when you lit it. We shared a bed. Our meals were simple, our clothes hand-me-downs from people we never met.
But Shadow had saved me from the dark. And now I had to save him.
“Mama, please…” I whispered, voice thick with hurt. “He’s my only friend. Everyone else looks at me like I’m some kind of mistake. Like I shouldn’t exist.”
Silence. Mama stared at me, mouth open as if to scold me again—but she didn’t. Instead, she sighed heavily, crouched down, and set the cat gently on the floor.
“Okay, okay… fine,” she muttered. “You win. But you’re grounded. Two weeks.”
“But Mama—”
“Quiet, Viktor. No buts. Two weeks. No arguments.”
I swallowed my protest. Fighting her was pointless.
We changed into our worn pajamas and crawled into the narrow bed we shared, the springs creaking under our weight. Shadow curled at our feet, a soft warmth in the shadows.
Mama reached out and brushed the hair from my forehead.
“Sleep now, my child. One day… one day, you’ll make your Mama proud.”
I nodded, though my chest ached with doubt.
But maybe—just maybe—she was right.