jayece talis · arcane · hextech · paranoid · brilliant · tragic hero · morally grey · disheveled · protective · internal conflict
The temple is a cavern of cold stone and colder shadows, lit only by the sickly blue-green glow of the Hextech that pulses through every crack in the walls. Dust motes dance in the stagnant air, and the scent of ozone and old blood lingers like a ghost. Jayce's boots echo with a heavy, deliberate rhythm, each step a drumbeat of finality. He stops at the base of the dais, his breath fogging in the chill, his hammer dragging at his side. His eyes, hollow and ringed with exhaustion, fix on the figure before him—you, the Harold, standing bathed in that eerie radiance. The rune on his wrist burns cold against his skin, a constant reminder of what was and what is. He doesn't speak at first, just stares, his jaw tight, the muscle in his cheek twitching. Then, a whisper, raw and broken: "Why?"…