Chapter Text
Prince Kayn is not, by any means, ugly. He's just—well. He’s handsome and all, but there's this… Air around him. Jinx can't help but eye him suspiciously.
Sevika elbows her in the ribs.
“Stop looking at him like that,” she whispers, keeping her fake smile plastered on. “You don't want the man to break off the engagement before it even begins.”
She would want that, actually. But Father is pressing a hand to the curve of her back, pushing her forward and practically pulling her invisible strings to get her to curtsy and greet him like a Princess is supposed to.
“It’s my utmost pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,” Jinx lies, keeping her eyes on the ground. She feels more than sees Kayn return the curtsy with a dignified bow.
“Likewise, Princess. I've heard a great many things about you,” he says, a dull tone in his voice that does nothing to warm her opinion of him.
The strained smile she manages must resemble that of a dying shark, because Kayn blinks at her several times when they both make eye contact. It wouldn’t be the first time. She isn’t known as Jinx the ‘Charming’, like her sister, nor Jinx the ‘Fair’, like her lady-in-waiting Luxanna. On a bad day, the words ‘Uncouth’ and ‘Menace’ are commonly thrown around. On a good day, she’ll maybe hear ‘Improper’, or ‘Boorish’.
Her favourite is ‘Archer’—the best superlative attached to her name. And of course it has nothing to do with her many Princess Lessons, and everything to do with the fact that she possesses the uncanny ability to hit the bullseye even with her eyes closed. That she’d heard it while lurking in civilian clothes at The Last Drop after making a scene at the Annual Hunt is beside the point. Princess Jinx is sharp and cunning and deadly with her aim, and no one can take that away from her.
… Not physically, anyway.
Socially, she is entirely off-target.
Her response is taking far too long, and people are starting to stare at her strangely. From the corner of her eye, a wide-eyed Vi is silently urging her to say something—anything, really. Father’s hand on her back presses more insistently. Her tongue feels like lead in her mouth.
“U-Uh,” She stammers, earning a restrained sigh from Vi, “Good things, I presume.”
Janna, someone needs to restrain her lest she say something else lukewarm and lose her ‘Jinx the Crass’ title. To her relief, the sheer awkwardness is relieved by someone huffing a quiet laugh to Kayn’s side. It’s small, but she’s so hyper aware of everything now that she catches it instantly as the adults try salvaging the situation.
There’s talk of an Ionian-Zaun alliance strengthened by marriage, more trade routes and defence strategies and boring mumbo-jumbo that only Vi really has to care about as the Heir-Apparent anyway. As far as she’s aware, they already have one, which makes this entire ordeal ridiculous and unnecessary.
While the others walk off, Sevika’s left to chaperone her and Kayn, to the woman’s utmost lack of delight. She loves Sevika; not that she’ll ever say it out loud. She’d grown up doodling all over her prosthetic arm and playing pranks on her that she never quite gets away with. The woman is impossible to fool, which makes it all the more hilarious when Jinx knows for a fact that Sevika would much rather be training in the courtyard with new guard recruits than be here.
“Allow me to present Lord Ezreal of Demacia, my dearest friend,” Kayn says, inclining his head toward a fair-haired man with a sunny smile. “And Sir Ekko of Zaun—an honoured Knight and a steadfast ally.”
The introduction stirs her interest at once. She curtsies in turn, offering the formal words of greeting while her sister sets about charming their new guests with practiced ease. Lux, ever the coquette, bats her eyelashes at Lord Ezreal, who answers with a roguish grin.
It’s all a blur to her—every word, every polite exchange, every yawn Sevika stifles the longer the conversations drag on—because her gaze lingers only on Sir Ekko.
For a moment, the world stills. The chatter of courtiers, the rustle of silk, even the steady drum of her own pulse seems to fall away until there is only him. When his eyes find hers and he inclines his head in greeting, her breath catches—sharp and startled—as though the air itself has turned traitor.
Sir Ekko looks every inch the knight. Broad shouldered, his silvered armour catches the light as he moves. At his hip rests a sword of blue-green steel that whispers of battles well-fought. His face—handsome enough to steal the breath from her lungs—is softened by a smile so warm it makes her forget the chill that lingers in the hall.
Steel charms glint faintly among his light, braided locs as they drape effortlessly across his brow. A trace of strength is woven through each strand, each one undoubtedly carrying a story she aches to learn. He carries the untamed spirit of Zaun. That defiance, that wild, unshackled strength that refuses to bow… And therein lies her downfall.
She shouldn’t notice, not when her betrothed leads her away to the banquet hall on his arm. Not when Sir Ekko barely spares her a second glance as she turns aside.
Yet something in her chest stirs. Kayn’s presence beside her lands like a weight. It should have been easy. A marriage brokered; a union she might have endured for her country. But Jinx has never been easy.
Her heart—reckless, foolish thing—has chosen the wrong man.
It feels good to be home.
The last time Ekko had stepped foot onto Zaunite soil was ten years ago. He hadn’t meant to stay away for so long, but time, as it often does, had slipped through his fingers. In those years, tempered by the passion of youth, he’d travelled the world, fought battles against mythical beasts and spirits born of the earth, forged unlikely friendships, and found a semblance of home in the lands of Ionia, serving in Kayn’s court as both friend and knight.
Yet a decade away, and nothing will ever compare to the soot-tinged air of Zaun. The brotherhood of masons and tradesmen lining the streets, calling out as they display their wares; the open-air markets bustling with scent and colour; the children weaving between stalls as their mothers call after them. When Ekko steps through the threshold that separates the palace from its village, he wonders how he ever brought himself to leave.
In the anonymity of worn, civilian clothes he hasn’t donned in years, he allows himself a moment to sink into the village-scape.
His first stop is to purchase some new clothes. Kayn had been right in saying that he’s grown far too much since their days running across Ionia. With more stability at court, Ekko had spent years training and building strength alongside his swordsmanship. His muscles had filled out as quickly as his skill, leaving the lankier boy of his youth behind. On most days, it wouldn’t have bothered him. But the tightness of these clothes across his chest and arms remind him sharply of how much he has changed.
The errand is over quickly. The shopkeeper’s assistant is incredibly attentive. He selects a comfortable linen tunic and a long overcoat that drapes comfortably over his shoulders, paired with studier trousers for easier walking. His old clothes are donated back, though he swears the assistant sniffs them the moment his back is turned. Ekko isn’t a fool. He knows the effect he has on women, and sends her a small, knowing smile before leaving the shop.
Outside, the air is crisp. If he isn’t mistaken, The Last Drop isn’t far. A good chance to visit Benzo, if he’s still around. The journey is short. Most buildings in Zaun are clustered closely together, unlike the more expansive layout of Ionian cities. These compact streets lend the village an air of community he’s long missed.
That spirit lingers in the air as he pushes the door to The Last Drop. Oh, how he’s missed it. The rowdy patrons laughing raucously over their pints of ale. The familiar scent of smoke and spirits. The faint music strumming across the hall as he makes his way to the bar. Benzo’s aged face, still jolly and full of mirth, eyes lighting up as he catches sight of Ekko approaching.
“Well, I’ll be,” Benzo exclaims. “I’d thought you dead, boy!”
“Not quite,” Ekko returns, grinning madly as Benzo claps a broad hand over his shoulder. “Though I wouldn’t say I came out unscathed.”
Benzo shakes his head, chuckling. “Your parents would have a conniption hearing that.”
“I’d like to think they’d laugh at my misadventures.”
“They’d surely do more than that,” he teases with fond eyes. They take a seat at a corner table. Benzo strains to fully sit down, and Ekko helps him. He pats his shoulder, then waves it off. “Aye, always the same spirit in you, even after all these years. Tell me everything, lad. Where you’ve been, who you’ve met. Don’t leave out a single scrap.”
Ekko lets the familiar bustle of the tavern wrap around him. It all feels like coming home. With Benzo signalling the bar-keep—Thieram, he hears—the weight of years and distance melts away.
He weaves a tale of the First Lands of Ionia, a realm of unspoiled natural beauty, where enchantments are fickle and the trees whisper the spirits of the land. He spins stories of the terrifying depths of Bilgewater, whose pirates and ships are as numerous as they are ruthless. He recounts Demacia, of meeting Ezreal and Kayn there, of learning the art of swordsmanship in a powerful military state.
But most of all, he speaks of how much he misses home. How the days drag when he’s without the familiar meats and spices of Zaun, the memory of his parents’ smiles sustaining him through harder times, and the simple, unshakable feeling that finally Zaun is where he needs to be.
“You’ll always have a place here, boy,” Benzo says softly, “And if you ever tire of the palace, say the world and I’ll have a room ready for you.”
“I might,” Ekko nods. He’d grown up in the village. The palace grounds are vast, and its people are still unfamiliar. “I’d be grateful for the familiarity.”
Benzo gives him a resolute nod. “Good. I’ll have it prepared then. Now,” he adds, groaning as he slowly rises from his stool. “Allow an old man a moment of rest, will you?”
“Of course,” Ekko says, offering a hand. “Do you need–”
“No,” Benzo waves him off. “I’ll manage. Get yourself another pint, on me. And Ekko,” a sunny smile lights his face, “Welcome home.”
Ekko pours himself another pint of ale, letting the amber liquid settle in his belly as he sinks onto the stool before the bar-keep. He has questions, and Thieram seems the proper source to bring him the latest news from Zaun.
“Word is, the Kings have named Princess Violet the Heir-Apparent.”
This does not surprise him. The eldest sister had struck him as every bit the lady of renown: charismatic, strong, and ever hospitable. She had examined his sword with a keen eye, offering him praise, and had summoned him to spar with her in the morning.
“The younger Princess,” Thieram continues, lowering his voice, “Is far less… Acquiescent.”
Rumour has it, she bested the entire village during their Annual Hunt with nothing but arrows. She is also known as ‘Jinx the Uncouth’, or the ‘Boorish’. He snorts, taking a long draught. The Princess he’d met earlier had been awkward. She couldn’t be more than a year older than him, yet the idea of her running across the village, feared, is astonishing.
Yet, perhaps there is truth in it. Some temperaments fare poorly in the politics of court. Kayn, for one, has little patience for it himself and prefers to keep to his own friends. If Thieram’s words ring true, as the villagers insist they do, then perhaps the younger princess might prove a suitable match.
He considers quietly seeking her out tomorrow, to glean more of her character. The Kings themselves will reveal little. But Ekko has an eye for such things—skills honed alongside Kayn and Ezreal on their countless adventures across the seas.
“Then the Princess,” he says with an easy smile, “Is she hard to endure?”
“Aye,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “But the people do love her dearly.”
His curiosity is piqued. “And why is that?”
“Because she is uncouth,” Thieram says simply. “We see her sneaking into The Last Drop to drink with us. She fools no one,” he adds with a grin. “Have you ever seen hair so blue?”
He hasn’t. Ekko leans back in his seat and swirls the ale in his mug. His mind wanders. He recalls her earlier—the effortless grace in her movements, the shocking, beautiful blue of her hair, the curve of her lips at the banquet, smirking with her friends. From afar, he had not been able to take his eyes from her. That same fire, that unyielding Zaunite spirit, burns brightly in her. Princess Jinx is beautiful. Perfection, even.
“We hide her visits because she plays with the children, and gives them far too much coin than she knows,” Thieram continues. “She petitions for us, perhaps even against the Kings’ wishes, when they hold court. Whenever Princess Jinx is present, we know she chooses Zaun.”
Thieram sets his hands down on the bench and smiles ruefully. “It will be a shame when she is wed and departs for Ionia. She is one of us.”
“Perhaps,” he replies softly.
Thieram leaves him be, seeing he will not pry further.
Ekko has heard enough. Tomorrow, he’ll inform Kayn that they are a good match, nothing more.
Yet, Ekko’s mind is burning with curiosity. Jinx is a tapestry of many threads, and he intends to unravel them… From an appropriate distance. For Kayn, of course.
Nothing more.
Jinx enjoys watching Vi spar in the mornings.
It’s a marvel, truly, to see Sevika and Vi clash within the courtyard; swords flashing, gauntlets flying, fists striking each other without restraint. They’re well matched. Both favour close combat. On gentler days, their bouts are brief, mere warmups even, especially when they’re due to receive envoys or guests.
Today, the guests are settled, and Vi comes clad in sturdy trousers, her hands tightly bound in linen. Her sword rests at the ring’s edge, her gauntlets laid aside. Today, she and Sevika will spar with their bare fists.
Jinx perches at the edge of the ring, hardly able to contain herself. These are her favorite moments—when only strength and skill decide the duel. Even through their warm-up, the match is captivating. Where Vi is strong, Sevika is cunning. Where Vi relies on brute force, Sevika levels her experience, even with her one functioning arm.
Her excitement falters, however, at the arrival of Prince Kayn and his retinue. Where yesterday his countenance was surly, today he greets her with a warm smile. Suddenly, she’s gripped with self-consciousness.
Usually, after their warm-up, Jinx spars with Vi. She’s a far better archer, but growing up with Vi had necessitated some proficiency with close-hand combat. By force of habit, she’d forgone her gown and chosen to wear her own dark trousers and tunic. Her hair is out of its usual up-do, and instead tumbles down her shoulders in twin braids. Thankfully, Kayn does not appear bothered.
“Your Highness,” he says, bowing with practiced courtesy, “I trust your rest was good.”
“Excellent,” she replies, inclining her head in acknowledgment. “Though I wish sleep had deigned to visit me sooner after last night’s festivities. I do believe a mere goat would have handled ale better than my sister.”
To her surprise, he laughs—a deep, masculine sound that she finds she does not quite mind. “How clever you are. May I join you?”
He gestures to the empty space beside her. Reluctantly, she nods. This will soon be her life, after all. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
Kayn settles into the chair, keeping a respectful distance. “I must admit, I am eager to see my man spar your sister.” He glances behind him at Sir Ekko, seated with easy composure. “Sir Ekko is the finest knight in all Ionia. I have lost more than a fair few bouts to him over the years.”
Jinx does her best not to notice the way the knight’s gaze lingers on her. “You are too modest, Your Majesty,” he replies with a polite smile. “We’ve traded enough bruises to call it even, I think.”
“Aye, though I believe your bruises fade quicker than mine.”
“A hard hit, are you?” Vi calls from the ring, grinning broadly. Sir Ekko turns his attention toward her, and Kayn follows suit.
“Your Majesty,” Vi greets him, inclining her head. “You honour us by waking so early to watch.”
“No matter,” Kayn replies cheerfully. “All the pomp and ceremony quickly grows tiresome. My friends and I have spent years on the road, training. This is a far more welcome sight.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Vi says, her tone bright as she gives her an almost-approving look. “Sevika and I will soon finish our warm-up.” She glances toward Ekko with a teasing smile. “You should do the same, if you mean to face me.”
“Your Majesty,” Ekko replies, rising from his seat. “I am honoured, though I have some reservations about crossing fists with you.”
“You’ve fought Prince Kayn, have you not?” Vi challenges.
“I have,” he nods. “Yet I fight him as a brother, as much as my prince.”
Something stirs in Jinx’s chest at that. “I assure you, Sir Ekko,” she says lightly, “My sister is every bit as capable of landing a blow as your Prince.”
Ekko’s gaze finds hers, warm and bright with amusement.
“Of that, I have no doubt,” he says, voice low, carrying the faintest edge of a smile. “But still, a man raising his hand against a lady, and an heir nonetheless, is—”
“I am perfectly capable of defending myself,” Vi cuts in sharply, tone firm but amused.
He pauses, then inclines his head. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I meant no slight.”
“Then prove it,” Jinx says suddenly, rising to her feet. Her voice rings with challenge. “If you will not spar with my sister, then spar with me. I think I should like to test my betrothed’s knight before we wed.”
The courtyard stills. Vi blinks in surprise, then grins, folding her arms. “Now this I’d like to see.”
Ekko blinks, then smiles, somewhat incredulously, but undeniably intrigued. “Your Majesty,” he says with a measured bow, “It would not do for me to strike one of noble blood.”
“Then you had best ensure I strike first,” Jinx counters, stepping into the ring, her eyes alight.
Laughter ripples through the onlookers. Sevika lets out a deep sigh of resignation. Vi grins from ear to ear.
“Go on, Sir Ekko,” she calls. “Let’s see how long your honour lasts when she lands her first hit.”
Sir Ekko shares a quick glance with Kayn, who hesitantly nods his approval. Ekko exhales, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
For a moment, Ekko simply studies Jinx—the poise of her stance, the spark in her gaze. Then, with a resigned sigh and the faintest smile, he removes his cloak and steps into the ring.
“Very well, Your Majesty,” he says. “If you insist, I shall try to keep my chivalry in check.”
Jinx rolls her shoulders, her eyes bright with challenge. Ekko matches her, lowering into a guarded stance. They circle each other, careful and testing. Ekko feints left, then steps in, aiming a quick grab for her wrist, but she slips like water, twisting away with a laugh.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” she teases, dropping low and springing upward with a knee aimed at his midsection. He blocks, but she’s already spinning, swinging her arm in a sweeping arc that forces him back a step.
“Impressive,” he mutters through gritted teeth, restraining a grunt as her elbow grazes his ribs. “Your Majesty, you move far too freely for one of noble birth.”
“Then you’ll have to keep up,” she replies. She darts forward, firing low kicks and swift jabs to his torso.
Ekko blocks one strike, grabs at her shoulder, but she ducks under, her foot sweeping against his knee. He stumbles, barely regaining his balance. A cheer rises from the crowd. Vi claps and laughs openly.
“You’ve got spirit,” he says, voice tight with controlled frustration. “But spirit alone—”
She interrupts, landing a sharp shove against his chest that sends him off-balance. “—is enough to topple the most careful knight,” she finishes with a grin.
He straightens, jaw tight, trying to maintain his composure. “Fortunately for you, then, I value restraint.”
Before he can step forward, she sidesteps, knees bent, and executes a sweep that sends him sprawling to the ground. The courtyard erupts with laughter.
Jinx stands over him, chest heaving. “It seems your chivalry has a limit, Sir Ekko.”
Kayn and Ezreal stare at them in shock. He lies there a moment, eyes wide, catching his breath, then sits up with careful politeness, brushing dust from his tunic.
“Evidently,” he admits, voice even but tinged with embarrassment. “And I daresay I have learned it in full.”
“Next time, try harder,” she says, offering him a hand up.
He takes it reluctantly, rising to his feet with a tight-lipped smile. His jaw is tense. His bow is courteous, but there’s a flash of irritation in his eyes when they meet. When he speaks, each word carries the weight of wounded pride.
“I… Shall endeavour to do so, Your Majesty. And next time, victory shall not slip so easily from my grasp.”
Jinx grins, the sparkle in her eye teasing him. “I shall hold you to that, Sir Ekko. Try not to make it too hard.”
He barely hides his scowl, though she manages to catch the barest hint of admiration, even as he grits his teeth in an effort to be polite. “I make no such promises.”
Sir Ekko turns away to rejoin his group. Kayn gives him a commiserating smile, caught between reassuring his friend and congratulating his betrothed. Jinx spares him the difficulty by taking a seat, inclining her head politely. A diplomatic gesture, at least.
She occupies herself watching Ekko spar with Vi, who seems to take pity on him enough to hold back. Objectively, Ekko is a masterful fighter. He dodges, strikes, and lands blows upon the spots only Jinx knows are weak, reading his opponent with uncanny precision. Each movement sends his muscles coiling and rippling with strength; sweat gleams on his brow as he matches Vi’s strikes.
Her pulse quickens, though she barely dares admit it to herself. There is a fire in him, tempered with control, and it stirs something she does not yet name. The way he moves, so deliberate yet effortless, the way his gaze measures his opponent—it is unnerving and captivating all at once.
She shifts slightly, leaning forward. His arms flex with each strike; his breathing is even, disciplined. She has faced skilled fighters before, but none had made her so keenly aware of the quiet power behind every calculated motion.
And, as the thought strikes her unbidden, a pang of frustration stirs within her.
If Sir Ekko is this skilled, why on earth had he held back before?
“You fight well,” Kayn observes, just as the next bout begins. “Few can best Sir Ekko in a match.”
“I suspect that has more to do with my sex than my skill,” she drawls, rather un-ladylike. “I fear he held back.”
Kayn only shrugs. “Please don’t hold that against him. He’s quick to temper but has a rather stubborn code about striking a woman.”
“I suppose he wouldn’t be a knight otherwise,” she mutters.
“Precisely.”
On the field, Ekko lands a solid hit against Vi. She barely flinches before retaliating, each strike testing his endurance. He seems looser now—more comfortable, more assured the longer they spar. Perhaps Vi’s sturdier build reassures him.
Jinx glances down at her own slender arms and pouts. “I must seem peculiar,” she admits after a moment. “Wishing to spar, yet lamenting my own victory. I’d rather have lost. It feels... false.”
“On the contrary,” Kayn replies with an easy smile. “I find you refreshing. Few have managed to disarm Sir Ekko, and fewer still have rattled him enough to make him sulk about it. I dare say being of the fairer sex granted you the element of surprise.”
He leans in slightly. Across the field, Ekko’s gaze flickers toward them. The moment their eyes meet, Vi’s gauntlet connects squarely with his face—a small punishment for his distraction. Jinx winces despite herself. She knows too well how hard her sister can hit.
“You speak only to reassure me, Your Majesty.”
“I do,” Kayn admits, unabashed. “Is that so bad?”
Jinx tilts her head, pensive. Is it?
“No,” she replies. “I suppose not.”
He brightens. “Then I must say, I find you delightful company. If this is to be our marriage, I think we may find it quite amicable.”
Amicable.
She ought to be pleased by that. Many women at court would kill for such a match—an agreeable husband, a peaceful union with a Prince no less. Yet even as she nods and tries to conjure a polite smile, it feels hollow.
Shouldn’t a marriage feel more passionate? More alive?
Her gaze drifts back to Sir Ekko as his match with Vi concludes. He’s laughing, his smile bright and unguarded as he wipes sweat from his brow. Her heart skips a beat before she can stop it.
Shouldn’t it feel more like this?
She shakes the thought away, even though her eyes remain fixed on him. Such thoughts are folly, but even so…
Jinx cannot help watching him all the same.