#chosen of the wolf kindred

[aurelion-solar]

Ambessa in the "Blood Sweat & Tears" Music Video

[grrnele]

The sole company for those trapped among embers and charred flesh

[druh19]

໑ — Chosen of the Wolf Icons ~ like and reblog if saved ‹3

[the-storm-chaser]

//....'Put a pin it' - MY ASS

Chosen of the Wolf - Sky

//I will put a pin in this for now. Got too much to sort for the moment

[dcartcorner]

'kindred's drowning'

'this isn't about them'

chosen of the wolf

[theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming]

Nicole Reads A Lot of Fanfiction (and she's gonna share it with you): Week 9

Week [1] [2] [3] [4/5/6] [7] [8]

The fics are kind of everywhere this week.. enjoy!

Sterek: 9 Buddie: 9

What Every Firefighter Needs by sofonisba_found (2013•T•2.8K)

Every firehouse needs a Dalmatian, right? It just so happens that the Dalmatian adored by the men and women at engine 603 isn't quite what he seems.

Mångata by artemis69 | @artemis69 (2018•GA•7.4K)

The place chosen for the speed dating is nice, close enough to the shore that the sun warms the shallow waters and washes everything in blinding white light. Long, thin shadows crawl all over the hills, dancing over pinkish sand and pale rocks, following the swirls of the surface. When he looks around, Stiles can see various spots marked out with colorful stones, all organized in a loose circle and numbered with small shells. In the center of it all is a massive signboard in human plastic, glinting under the sun. It is, objectively, the nicest place Stiles has ever been this miserable in. - Or the Sterek mermen speed dating AU where Stiles is unlucky in love (until he isn't).

hey asshole by everchanginginks | @everchanginginks (2018•M•15.6K)

The Hales moved in next door more than a year ago and while Cora and Stiles became fast friends, Stiles has yet to meet his best friend's big brother, Derek, who’s been attending college in New York. When Derek comes home for the summer he makes less than a stellar impression. And vice versa.

Good Intentions by yodasyoyo | @yodas-yo-yo (2018•T•6.4K)

In which Stiles thought he fake wolf-married Derek twenty-six years previously. Turns out it wasn't as fake as he thought.

You're moving me around you (I said darling hold me) by dearericbittle (dutchmoxie) | @dearericbittle (2019•T•14.5K)

Derek is the only beta in a pack of two, blaming himself for the loss of their entire family. When his sister pays someone to get him used to human contact again, Derek preps himself for a couple unwilling handshakes before he kicks the stranger out of his den. Stiles is… not what Derek expected.

The Cabin by sororexitium (2017•T•12.3K)

Derek sees the fox for the first time one late winter evening, just as the sun is setting over the tree line and the colors of the sky light up in pale purples, brilliant oranges, and burning reds. It stands out vividly against the periwinkle shadowed snow that dusts the porch, the little predator’s red fur illuminated golds and auburns by the sun with a luminous halo around its black tipped ears. Derek watches it through the window for several minutes, the way its plush tail swishes back and forth, sweeping away the snow. Every so often the head will turn and the fading sun will light up the small fox’s eyes, amber glowing with preternatural focus and intelligence, even for a fox.

A Wild Heart's Desire by mikkimouse | @mad-madam-m (2015•T•13.4K)

If there's one thing Stiles Stilinski knows, it's that Deputy Derek Hale absolutely Does Not Like him. The only reason Derek even tolerates him is because their kids are worryingly codependent. So Stiles is understandably confused when a very feral Derek shows up in his backyard after a call gone wrong and proceeds to move in with him.

He Takes His Coffee Black by orphan_account (2012•M•16.8K)

On the cusp of actual, responsible adulthood with no ambitions to his name, Derek Hale (soon to be Derek Hale, Master of Physical Therapy) is faced with the dishearteningly underwhelming notion of his future. For his final winter break, Derek returns home to his family's coffee shop where he spends the dry winter days filling aggravating orders for equally aggravating people and burning his hands with scalding milk. It's the last place on earth he expects to find a kindred spirit, but some twitchy kid named Stiles-- with his simple order of one black coffee and a wry little grin-- turns out to be just that.

Don’t Leave Me Behind When I’m Still Learning How to Run by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) | @isthatbloodonhisshirt (2021•T•16.1K)

He’d just set it back down when the door opened, and a shadow appeared in front of him, taking the seat across from him. Jackson’s name was on his lips as he rose his gaze from his drink, but the word stuck in his throat, because it wasn’t Jackson. “I’m really sorry, can you be my boyfriend?” Derek asked breathlessly, panic on his face and looking seconds away from losing his shit. Stiles didn’t even have the chance to reply, because the second he saw crazy lady walk into the coffee shop, he just immediately leaned over the table and planted a kiss right on Derek’s lips. The other man seemed startled, but he recovered quickly and brought one hand up to press against Stiles’ cheek. He made sure to keep the kiss short, and relatively chaste, because this was all for show and he didn’t want to make Derek more uncomfortable than he already was.

could you be mine? by Tizniz | @tizniz (2025•T•4.2K)

Eddie loves Buck, though. He knows he does. It’s just…he can’t have Buck be his mate. He can’t. OR: An innocent question from Buck sends Eddie spiraling.

H-E-A-T-A/B/O: A Buddie Anthology by Bucksbelly (drarryweasley) | @bucksbelly (2025•E•51.7K)

An anthology of Buddie one-shots based in omegaverse settings. These stories are NOT connected; they each have slightly different lore and can be read in any order!Brought to you by I wanted to write my favorite trope but couldn't decide how to do it so I wrote a bunch of them

It's all in my head, but I want nonfiction (2025•E•10.5K)

Eddie's never quite let himself be at home in his skin. Buck finds this unacceptable and tries to fix it in the only ways he knows how: research and sex.

that 👅🍑 chat by disasterbuck, Veronae | @disasterbuck @veronae-buddie (2025•T•1.5K)

A bored Buck bombards an unexpecting Eddie with a series of images containing funny typos. It leads somewhere neither of them anticipate… Eddie: did you order it Buck: NO Buck: it's a pic I found online Eddie: brings a new meaning to "eating ass" I guess

don't fuck with ghosts by lecornergirl | @clusterbuck (2025•E•1.6K)

“Hold on,” Buck says, holding a hand up. He lays the palm of his other hand flat against the wall, then lets out a— Eddie blinks. It almost sounded like— Buck does it again, his body spasming, and Eddie’s never heard Buck have sex, but it sounds like— He says Buck’s name again, but he doesn’t know where he’s going with it, doesn’t know what on earth he’s supposed to say when Buck is holding the wall and moaning like— Like something Eddie has certainly never imagined before, and absolutely never will in the future. Definitely not with a newly hyperrealistic soundtrack that is burning itself into his memory with every passing moment. Buck tears his hand away from the wall, dazed, a flush climbing up his cheeks.

day five hundred sixty-four (and it feels like you just left my side) by BekkaChaos | @bekkachaos (2025•T•8.3K)

Eddie made the move to El Paso, Buck isn't coping so well so he takes to doing research and texting Eddie random facts and thoughts instead of saying all the things on his mind. Or, 5 times Buck texts Eddie with weird trivia/thoughts and 1 time he send him something genuine (by accident).

moving on from him is impossible by playinginthunderstorms | @playinginthunderstorms (2025•E•3K)

“Sure,” is Eddie’s sarcastic comeback, “What are you going to do, help me get off?” Buck opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. It’s just… Silent. Shit. Shit. He needs to say something, otherwise this’ll get awkward real fast. It’s just that… It’s that he could, is the thing. He’d do that. For Eddie. Really, he wouldn’t mind. At all. [Or, Eddie is stressed and has trouble... unwinding, while in El Paso. Buck helps. Like a good friend would.]

fall right into me by woodchoc_magnum | @woodchoc-magnum (2025•E•26.6K)

In which Buck and Eddie fall into bed together without thinking anything through, and minor shenanigans ensue.

Anosognosia by Daisies_and_Briars | @cal-daisies-and-briars (2025•T•7K)

When ER Nurse Evan Buckley meets Firefighter Paramedic Eddie Diaz, he is instantly smitten. They hit it off quickly, and begin seeing a lot of each other. It takes him a few weeks to realize they're doing more than just hanging out.

I Can’t Describe Who You Are To Me, To Anyone by Reason_to_hope (2025•M•62.7K)

“Are you new?” “Y-yeah.” Evan stuttered before his brain connected with his mouth. “My names Evan…er Evan Buck-Buckley.” The corner of the boys mouth twitched up in an almost smile, “Eddie Diaz.” He told him. “Nice to meet you Evan Buck-Buckley.” “Oh, er, it’s just Evan Buckley. I just—“ “I’m going to call you Buck.” Or Buck and Eddie meet in High School, fall in love and choose each other through everything life can throw at them. My childhood sweethearts fic.

[bruisedswan]

a (𝔴)✶lƒ h͟α͟†͟h͟ ⁿ̛̩̣̜͈̈̇͋ᵒ̛̹̐̀̕ ʎɔɹǝɯ ... 𓇢𓆸 RUNETERRA REALITY

𓇢𓆸 NOW PLAYING :: LA FEMME RESORT - la femme

"... there was a sniffling child standing out among the burly sea of my mother's greatest warriors. to noxus' elite, it was known that, despite the girl's frail frame, she had the strength of a dozen soldiers and the rage of a thousand suns, as though the embodiment of mars. the tears running down the chosen wolf's face was not of despair but of fury..."

— mel medarda to jayce talis, piltover

✶ DISCORDIA'S MORTAL CHILD ... she can only be described as a double-edged dagger. strong, the blade paper thin with an uncanny ability to pierce the heart of the desired target while simultaneously piercing her own — if she had one. an ethereal beauty with the ferocity, intelligence, and rage of an apex predator. the chosen wolf, the youngest of three capable prodigies produced to bring pride to the medarda name. out of all three, she remains the only one tied not by blood but by name. a dagger among spears.

in the ashes of war, ambessa medarda found and saw in an infant strength and survival, and named the child lycia as tribute to the medarda name and the twin figures of death: the kindred, namely the wolf, derived from lykōs. the lamb carried souls to the afterlife, but it is the wolf who sought them out. lycia laid in the presence of death before she could even speak, branded a wolf before she could walk, made a tool of war before her hands could properly hold its hilt. little medarda was a double-edged blade indeed, a wolf indeed. and ambessa wielded the dagger with efficiency, tamed the wolf with precision. until the warlord realised that the blade was emergent, newly formed, and metal still hot to the touch — rebellious. lycia medarda was, in lack of any better terms, a wild card. despite her timidness, her sole existence relied on chaos. it fuelled the bright white inferno that was her soul, made the stale dull air feel like lightning igniting in her lungs. she could not live without the mayhem and rage that clawed in her chest. she was the lightning in the tempest that brought down temples of false gods.

the young medarda is a wolf in sheep's clothing: a captivating blend of ethereal allure and fawn-like delicacy, features soft. a porcelain mask carefully crafted to hide sharp intellect, a sharper tongue, and a pit of fire waiting to burn all that opposed her. honing this angelic innocence like a knife, she is a master in the art of manipulation. she embodies the calm before the storm and the tempest itself. she smells of azaleas, pomegranate, citrus and the overwhelming fear of religion and her makers. even before obtaining the title of balance keeper, she was known as the deadliest of the medarda children.

𓇢𓆸 NOW PLAYING :: INSIDE OUT - martin dupont

"...you do not just tip the scales, you are the scale. you are the opposing forces that givern all things. you are the empty space in between... you, and those who came before and will come after you, are the catalysts leading the arcane to its inevitable equilibrium... you must be the temple and the priestess and the lamb and the knife and the almighty deity that which the creatures of death follow..."

— the forgotten to lycia medarda, between space & time

✶ EQUILIBRIUM CODEX ... "the forgotten are described vaguely in texts throughout history as primordial entities that exist beyond the veil of space, time and mortal comprehension. known by many names — whisperers beyond, the watchers — these beings represent the ultimate balance across all realms. their very existence is tied to the delicate dance of creation and destruction, beginning and end, life and death. these voices do not speak in words but in intentions, threading themselves into the minds of chosen individuals deemed balance keepers...

the forgotten are said to have come into existence at the inception of the cosmos, birthed alongside the arcane forces that govern all creation. neither deities nor mortals, they occupy the liminal spaces between realms, monitoring the equilibrium that sustains existence. their purpose is singular yet monumental: to preserve balance within the interconnected forces that define reality. they do not act directly within the mortal world, for their touch would fracture the fragile threads of existence. instead, they choose intermediaries — balance keepers — empowered to act on their behalf..."

"in the cycles of creation and decay, a figure has always emerged when the balance between order and chaos tilts beyond repair. her existence is not one of choice but of cosmic design— one of many souls bound to the forgotten, those ancient entities who dwell between realms, where time and space converge into infinite possibility. the forgotten themselves are said to have crafted this role, infusing the chosen keeper with fragments of their essence. it is through this connection that the keeper stands as a bridge between worlds, capable of seeing both the infinite chaos that threatens creation and the suffocating order that risks stagnation...

the keeper exists to recalibrate the natural order when it falters. while many see chaos as destruction and order as peace, the keeper understands that true harmony lies in the interplay of the two forces. her purpose is not to eliminate one in favor of the other but to ensure their dance remains. when chaos consumes, she summons control. when stagnation reigns, she breathes life through upheaval. the keeper wields her connection to the forgotten to act where mortal intervention fails—whether through subtle manipulation of events, the quiet guidance of those in power, or direct intervention with her abilities. her powers are a manifestation of this balance. she is not a savior, nor is she a destroyer but the fulcrum — the axis upon which the balance turns..."

now, lycia believed in no religion, not entirely. she couldn't even devote herself to the beings that instilled their divination in her bones, couldn't kneel at their altar nor find the words to whisper false promises of worship and blessings. for there was no real benevolence in beings like the forgotten, no malevolence either. they stayed in their neutrality and watched as their forces balanced the scale of absolute equilibrium. instead, she found herself centered around the raw purity of the kindred. the hunt of ani, the light embrace of ina. they were who she found herself crawling to when the rotting discord in her soul spread like poison in her spirit, a poison not even she could break down. the twin faces of death saw the unbinding of eternal energy in her being like something coming undone.

when the lykōs could feel like her sense of awareness splitting and tearing at invisible seams between the living's mayhem and death's serene quiet, soul torn and dissipating. it was fascinating to them, for no keeper had ever built a nexus of energy within itself only to break it apart and split into different selves (not in this lifetime). kindred never before seen a being choose both sides of the veil, of both lamb and wolf, ina and ani, karma and vengeance. a being so close to true balance that it baffled even them. in the the paradox of space and time, they forgone all previous procedures just for this one living dead girl: they let her choose both sides of existence.

𓇢𓆸 NOW PLAYING :: HARDLY EVER SMILE (without you) - poison girl friend

"...never did i think i'd find my mind whirling with thoughts of them. a hurricane of images underneath my eyelids — snippets of raven and pink and storms of blue and grey and bone and blood and gun powder. i think i'd risk getting washed away in the havoc of my psyche if it meant i could see through the veil of beautiful distortion in its eye..."

— lycia medarda in journal entry xxv, piltover

✶ JOURNAL OF THE FULCRUM: ENTRY XXXIX ... "i've always known myself to be what has been branded on my existence. the chosen wolf, the wolf in silk, the silver serpent etc etc... i am no more than a title, a shell of excellence, rotting flesh inside the perfect skin of fruit. yet, somehow, i have found sanctity in the presence of two other souls — found purity and cleanliness and holiness inside twin flames as if a temple. for the first time since i've entered the threads of existence, i have found peace and my soul is quiet..."

"...the kindred's favourite daughter was known to be a cold-hearted one, soul weighted with the pillars of death, of ani and ina, wolf and lamb. her methods of ensuring balance were so calculated, as sharp as her blade bellona concealed in her bodice, that it was almost as if they were meant to happen. there were rumors through both districts of piltover and zaun that she was a living time paradox, her inner eyes holding the power of prescience as she glided through the here. both districts thought her callous, conniving, dead, and just a body corroding from the inside out. for, if she communed with those passed, surely a piece of her had passed too. except piltover's finest, of course. while every single soul of the districts saw a goddess of war and blood, her beloveds saw a girl: one of smiles and snorted giggles, one in love with poetry and metaphysics, enjoyed cigarettes in the quiet of the birth of the day, who loved azaleas and earl grey tea and the sharp sound of thunder before piercing webs of lightning. while the world saw the lykōs, violet lanes and caitlyn kiramman saw lycia, their lyla..."

𓅔 inspired HEAVILY by: @hrrtshape <33 aka the loml/jk (no im not) 𓅔 dedicated to my shayla aka: @cocozydiaries (for my sanity can we act like this isn't like 200000 years overdue 💀)

[melmedarda]

can you please explain what's going on with the new ambessa video for people who don't play league?

Full disclaimer, I do not play LoL. But, here is my understanding of the Blood Sweat and Tears MV. Ambessa is a young Noxian warrior, pregnant, and on a battlefield. She is the only person alive, there. But not for long. She’s taken an arrow to the stomach. She and her baby are about to die. The wolf that walks the battlefield is Kindred, the part of the death duo that is honored by a violent death. She reaches for the wolf, and then I believe she dies.

From here, I think her soul/consciousness is transported into the celestial realm or into a prophetic dream.  It is said that your entire life flashes before your eyes when death is at your door. Something similar flashed before Ambessa eyes, though not only her past, but her future. She sees herself on a throne, as head of her family. And then everything shifts.

She holds in her arms a lamb before she meets the wolf. It is in Shurima, a place of sand and gold. This lamb seems precious to her, she is trying to protect it.

That lamb is symbolism for Kino, Kino who later dies. And I believe that with Kino's death, the merciful side of Ambessa dies as well. The Lamb died, and Ambessa wears white in mourning or ritual, or perhaps it is a reflection of the merciful side of Kindred.

And then her vision shifts, and she is in a place filled with gold, reminiscent of something Solari. She is bathed in light, fights in light. But she is not strong enough to beat Pantheon; she needs more power. 

After she sacrifices the lamb, only then does all the light in the arena seem to focus on her. And then in the video, we see the iconography of the wolf more often. 

Here, Ambessa chooses the wolf, is chosen by Kindred. Kindred blessed. Only then is she elevated to stand with the greats of Runeterra, decked in gold. She is not Solari, but she is kindred blessed.

And then, after she accepts Kindred’s touch, she seems to ascend. She goes through a violent transformation which allows her to shed her weakness to death.

As if, if Kindred has an aspect within the mortal realm, is it her. She is chosen by Kindred just as Pantheon was chosen by the Aspect of War, and Swain was chosen by Raum.

Back on the battlefield, Ambessa and her daughter have possibly died and been resurrected. All this time, it is quite possible she was in Kindred’s domain. But, in a way that defied the idea of Kindred completely, the wolf grants them a second chance at life. Mel is imbued with power, as we can see in the music video, and Ambessa lives because Kindred chose her, or perhaps because Kindred chose the child within her. Mel is possibly the aspect of kindred, the mortal manifestation of their power.

I say this because look at the gold and light at Ambessa’s mask and throat. It does not settle on her skin, but seems to be absorbed by the child within her. 

After that experience, Ambessa becomes dedicated completely to the wolf. The Medardas, chosen by Kindred, by the wolf, makes their creed to be both Fox and Wolf.

I think everything Ambessa has done until this point and been in pursuit of this prophecy. The Golden mask she wears so vastly different from the masks the Noxian soldiers wear, is a reflection of her vision. Kindred’s vision. Everything she does is based on what Kindred has shown her, because soon she will become the woman who Kindred showed her she would be.

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Ultima Sacrificium - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: The wolf and the lamb, it all comes full circle. Living in a cult was a beautiful lie, woven by those that claimed to love you.

Warnings: Fyodor, no ability au, graphic violence, mental and emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, cult themes and brainwashing, religion, moral ambiguity and ethical dilemmas, death (just lots of it)

A/N: This took two white nights to write I was high for most of it. I took a lot of inspiration from Midsommar and Kindred's lore (league) — thought it fit the relationship dynamic between Fyodor (a wolf in sheep's clothing) and the protagonist (a lamb). Enjoy :)

Word count: 8,800

"Once, long ago, there was a pale man with dark hair who lived in a world much like ours. But the pale man was terribly lonely. Why was he lonely? Well, you see, all things must meet this man one day, and so they feared him. They shunned him. They whispered his name with trembling voices and hid behind locked doors, hoping he might forget them. The pale man was patient, for he knew that time would bring all things to him eventually. Still, he wished for company, for understanding, for love. But how could he ever find such things when everyone turned away from him?" 

"The pale man grew tired of his solitude, so one day, he took up his axe and made a choice. With one swift swing, he split himself in two, right down the middle. From his pale form, two figures emerged. One half became a lamb, soft and gentle, with warm eyes and a voice like a lullaby. The lamb would comfort those who came to the pale man, wrapping them in its embrace, whispering sweet assurances: 'Do not fear, for I will make your passing gentle.' The lamb brought peace and stillness, a quiet that felt like a soft bed on a cold night." 

"The other half became a wolf, fierce and watchful, with sharp teeth and piercing eyes. The wolf would guard those who came to the pale man, protecting them from fear, doubt, and anything that might harm them in their final moments. 'Do not fear,' the wolf growled, 'for I will keep you safe as you walk into the unknown.' The wolf brought strength and courage, a shield to carry into the great beyond. Together, the lamb and the wolf made the pale man less frightening. No longer did the people shun him, for they saw in him not an end, but a promise. A promise that their journey would be gentle and strong, warm and brave, all at once." 

"Now, the pale man is never lonely. All things come to him in time, and when they do, they do not turn away. They open their arms to the lamb and the wolf, knowing that both will guide them to their destiny." 

Children are the fruit of society, and children were taught to see the world through stories like these. Some grew to be rotten, while others became little lambs—gentle, obedient, perfect for the herd. It was what society hoped for, and as a child, you were no different. Your parents told you bedtime tales of faith and sacrifice, and you learned that life in your community was a blessing. You had food and shelter. You were loved. You were taught to be kind and giving. These were virtues, they said, and to give back was the greatest blessing of all.

But as you grew older, the ways of giving back began to unsettle you. Were they truly necessary? Must they be so cruel? So violent? The gods demanded it—or so you were told. Your parents would never lie to you. The Shepherd would never lead you astray. He was chosen by the gods, blessed with their wisdom and charged with guiding you all. Surely, he only wanted what was best for you, for the community.

Yet, the thoughts prevailed, whispering doubts that you dared not voice. It must be your fault, you decided. Everyone else was content, even joyful. If you could not share in their faith, then something was wrong with you. These thoughts were dangerous, blasphemous, and you tried to bury them. But they had already taken root.

Your reflection was broken by the splash of something warm against your skin and applause that rippled through the crowd. Your senses snapped into focus, and you saw where you stood: the red square. Such a lovely place most days of the year, yet on days like today, bearing grim weights of tradition.

Before you lay a woman’s body, her head severed and resting at the base of a stone table. The table was stained with layers of sacrifice: black, brown, and the fresh crimson of her blood. Her hair, once long and red, was cut in two—strands still clinging to her head, framing her lifeless eyes, and another resting softly against her back, swaying in the breeze.

It was Gift Giving Day.

On paper, the celebration was a joyful offering of thanks to the gods for protection, for fertile harvests, for mercy from disasters. In truth, it demanded a human life, and  however you looked at it, you could not find peace in it.

The Shepherd’s voice boomed across the square, smooth and commanding. "My dear children, my fleecelings… another good harvest is upon us! We thank the gods for welcoming Karolina into their kingdom and for keeping us safe…”

You forced yourself to listen, masking your unease with a polite smile. He was a good man, wasn’t he? He stayed among the people, with the guidance of selflessness your mother so often spoke of. He loved your mother when they were all younger, but he took on the mantle of leadership because his people needed him, allowing your mother to be given to another. Yet was that ever truly a thought of your own? Or had it been drummed into you since you had gained a sense to understand it?

When you’re branded as part of the flock from childhood, perhaps it’s easier to believe the brand is part of you as an adult.

"... As for next year's gift," the Shepherd went on to say, "I plead with the ewes and wetherlings to come forth for the choosing!"

You stepped forward alongside others your age, the motion automatic, your breaths shallow. A part of you yearned to be chosen, to end the cycle of watching others die year after year. But fate was neither kind nor cruel—merely indifferent.

"Fyodor! My dear boy, come forth!"

The same fate fell, by a flick of an eye, on a dark haired and paled skinned boy. Fyodor had always seemed distant, as though he existed in a world apart, he rarely spoke, his expression unreadable, his eyes unfocused. His frail body could barely wield an axe, unlike the other boys. Yet now, a faint smile graced his lips as he stepped forward to accept the flower crown from the Shepherd.

You clapped along with the crowd, your forced smile hiding the churn of emotions in your chest. You hadn’t spoken much with Fyodor, but you didn’t want him—or anyone—to meet this fate. Yet the community’s expectations weighed heavy, and you were one person, too insignificant, to defy them.

Bath time—a sacred ritual in your home. It was a communal act where you sat shoulder to shoulder in the steaming water, exchanging quiet words with your neighbors and washing one another. It was meant to cultivate unity and cohesion, a sense of belonging. No one felt shame; the sight of everyone bare before each other was considered a blessing, a return to innocence as God had intended. It symbolized the absolution of the first sin—disobedience—and the renunciation of shame and knowledge of good and evil.

The bathhouse was vast, its walls lined with mosaics of the pale man, the lamb, and the wolf. Light poured through the domed glass ceiling, fracturing into kaleidoscopic patterns on the marble floors and casting the room in a serene glow. It was a cocoon of peace, but you found no solace in it. You sat in the water, apart from the muted hum of conversation around you, their words blurred together, echoing faintly, as your thoughts churned. Someone else would soon be sacrificed. Fyodor. How much weaker would his fasting leave him? How frail would his already frail body turn? The questions weighed heavy on your mind.

You cupped your hands, splashing the salted water onto your face in an effort to shake yourself loose from your thoughts. The warmth of the bath should have soothed you, but instead, it only managed to heighten the restless ache in your chest.

“(Y/N)…” A voice, quiet and almost gentle, pulled you out of your reverie. The gentle ripples in the water announced his approach before his words did. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder to meet sharp, dark eyes—Fyodor’s eyes. There was something magnetic about him, an allure that transcended his frail appearance. Perhaps it was his intellect, the spark of something greater that placed him at the forefront of the Gift Giving list. He could have been a leader, you thought, had he not been chosen to die so young.

“May I help with your back?” he asked, his voice soft but steady.

You nodded, a quiet hum of approval escaping your lips. It wasn’t unheard of for people to help one another wash, but it should have been the other way around. Fyodor, as the sacred fleece, was the one meant to be tended to, venerated. People would clamor for the chance to serve him, yet here he was, offering to serve you. The gesture struck you as strange, even kind. Perhaps you had misjudged him. Maybe he didn’t dislike you, as you’d once thought. Maybe you were simply two people who had never truly known one another.

His hand settled lightly on your shoulder, steadying you as he began brushing your back. His touch was soft, almost hesitant, yet firm enough to create a sharp contrast with the roughness of the bristles. The juxtaposition brought you back to your thoughts, unbidden questions rising to the surface. Why was he doing this? Why you? You were just another lamb in the flock, no more significant than the others waiting their turn for slaughter. Did anyone matter in the grand scheme of things?

“You flinched today,” Fyodor murmured, his voice cutting through the quiet. “During the prayer.”

He was right. When the axe fell, you’d instinctively closed your eyes, to shut yourself from the scene. You hadn’t realized anyone had noticed it. The memory brought a flush of heat to your cheeks, and the oppressive warmth of the bath made it hard to breathe.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, shame creeping into your voice. “It’s just… it felt wrong. Celebrating this.” The words were out before you could stop them. Panic flared—what if he took this to the Shepherd or the Judge?

“Then you’re not as blind as the rest of them,” he said, his tone gentle, almost coaxing. His focus seemed more on his task than on your confession, but his words seemed to be more substantial, as if he held you in place. Your throat tightened, you could not vomit nor gulp down your words. “Do you really believe this is what the gods want?” Fyodor continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. “That spilling blood will make the crops grow, or keep the storms at bay?”

“It’s what we’ve been taught,” you replied, your voice trembling. “It’s what… everyone believes.” You wanted to defend your words, but they rang hollow even to your own ears.

“That may be what they believe,” he murmured, leaning closer, his hair brushed against your shoulder, his breath ghosting against the skin of your neck. “But not you. You see the sickness in this system, don’t you? You’ve felt it all your life but were too afraid to name it. Did you notice the storm last year, after the sacrifice? The gods didn’t seem pleased, did they?” He pulled back slightly, resuming his gentle strokes with the brush. His words were heresy, yet in his tone lay no fidgets, no show of discomfiture; quiet, almost serene.

You stared at the rippling water, your fingers now wrinkled and pruned. “I’ve noticed… things,” you admitted, the words soft, hesitant.

Fyodor hummed low in his throat, the sound more content than accusatory. “Good,” he said simply. His words wrapped around you like the steam rising from the bath, invasive yet oddly comforting. To the others in the room, it was nothing more than a simple act of communal care. But for Fyodor, it was something far more deliberate.

His gaze flickered briefly toward the Shepherd, visible through the mosaic-glass walls, speaking with a small cluster of elders. Fyodor leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your shoulder once more. “He watches you sometimes,” Fyodor murmured, his tone thoughtful, the words slipping into your mind like a dagger “I wonder why. It’s as if he’s searching for something.” You blinked, startled by the observation. Had you noticed? Maybe. There had been moments, fleeting and strange, when his gaze seemed heavier than it should have been. But no—no, it couldn’t mean anything. You didn't reply and tried to dismiss it—tried to bury the unease rising in your chest. His words, like everything else he said, felt both dangerous and true. 

The last sentences words lingered, like a noose in the air, as Fyodor quietly tended to your back.

It is tradition for the sacred fleece to be adored for the year. The chosen family is granted elevated status, moved to a new living space overseen by the Sheppard and Judge. Being selected as an offering is considered the highest honor, and the community celebrates it with fervor, but Fyodor saw it differently. He recognized long ago the sacrifice’s true purpose:  It kept the population docile and loyal because of fear and conditioning.

My taciturn had tipped them off, he thought bitterly. Perhaps if I seemed more brain-washed, then they wouldn’t have chosen me.

The selection, he knew, was rarely random. It was political, targeting those who dared to think too freely or challenge the system in subtle, unsettling ways. He despised their hypocrisy—the cunning way they cloaked control in the guise of divine will, using fear of the gods to tighten their grip over the community. But perhaps it was the only way to keep people from turning away. 

As for you, the thought of the sacrifice made your skin crawl. Your hair stood on end every time it was discussed, and your chest settled in a place of deep discomfort. But you never voiced your doubts. The community seemed so content, so pios. Surely, it was you who was wrong. Surely, you needed to be reformed.

Days turned into weeks as you found yourself looking at Fyodor differently. Something lingered in your mind—an ache, almost a longing. You remembered the way he spoke that day in the bathhouse, his words sounding like echoes that refused to fade. He understood something about you, about the restlessness you couldn’t name. Soon, though, he would be gone, sacrificed in a few months’ time. He was the only one who had ever made you feel less lonely, and now he would be lost, like so many others before him. The loneliness this thought stirred in you was deep and unshakeable.

You couldn’t help but cast lingering glances in his direction, hoping—foolishly, perhaps—that he would catch your eye and say something to you again. But he never did. At the next community feast, the monthly celebration following days of fasting, you stole another sidelong look at him. He was seated with his family at the center table, each of them adorned in flower crowns crafted by you and the others in the village.

Fyodor wore the one you had made, the only one woven with cornflowers. The blue-purple hue complemented his eyes, a detail you had noticed while weaving it. You didn’t realize you were staring until his gaze met yours. His gentle smile, soft and welcoming, sent your heart stuttering. You returned a small, hesitant smile before quickly looking back at your plate.

You didn’t want to think about his death. A year could pass so quickly, slipping through your fingers before you even realized it.

The soft clatter of plates echoed in the grand dining hall was a far cry from the cheerful celebration that had filled it hours ago. The other young women and men hummed and chattered as they worked, their hands moving in a practiced rhythm. You, however, labored in relative silence, a heaven in the monotony of it. Each swipe of the cloth, each stack of plates, served to dull the noise in your head—if only for a moment.

But the reprieve was short-lived.

“You made this one, didn’t you?”

The voice, low and unmistakably familiar, startled you. You whipped around to find Fyodor standing right behind you, holding the wreath of flowers between his slender fingers. The cornflowers stood out against the pale hue of his hands, the same way they had against his dark hair and fair skin earlier.

Your heart quickened. “I—I did,” you stuttered, not quite knowing what to say.

His smile deepened, soft but deliberate. “It’s beautiful. The craftsmanship is… meticulous.” He turned the crown gently in his hands, as if admiring its every petal and weave. “You’ve a gift for creation, I see.”

You felt yet again a suffocating heat rise to your cheeks at his praise, and you quickly looked down at the plates you were drying. “It’s nothing, really. Just something small. Anyone could have done it.”

“But they didn’t,” he countered, his tone smooth and confident. “You did. And it shows.” You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure how to respond. Compliments were not uncommon in the village, but something about the way Fyodor spoke to you felt different—personal, intentional. “May I help?” he asked, gesturing to the plates.

You blinked at him, confused. “You shouldn’t… You’re the sacred fleece. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Proper,” he repeated, his smile faltering for a moment as his eyes darkened. “I tire of what’s ‘proper.’ Surely it wouldn’t offend the gods for me to lend a hand, would it?”

You hesitated, unsure whether to agree. But he didn’t wait for your answer, stepping closer and picking up a damp cloth. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though testing the boundaries of this small rebellion. The two of you worked in silence for a moment, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension. Finally, he broke it.

“Do you ever wonder,” he began, his voice low enough that only you could hear, ��why we fast before we feast? Why we deprive ourselves, only to indulge?”

You glanced at him, taken aback by the question. “It’s… to show devotion. To the gods.”

He hummed thoughtfully, as though weighing his decision by your words. “Devotion,” he repeated. “It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? How easily it can be mistaken for fear.” His words sent a shiver down your spine. You glanced around, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, of how his voice seemed to put you in a trance.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” you said, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you, you knew exactly what he was talking about.

He paused, setting down the cloth and turning to face you fully. “Perhaps you do,” he murmured, his gaze piercing. “Or perhaps you will, in time.” For a moment, neither of you said a word. The sounds of the other people cleaning seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the heavy weight of his words hanging in the air between you, pulling you under and drowning you.

“You have a gift,” he said finally, his voice soft but firm. “Not just for making flower crowns or weaving cloth. You see things others don’t. You feel things we’ve been taught to ignore.” You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, you found yourself looking into his eyes, searching for some hint of what he meant, of what he saw in you. “I only hope,” he continued, his tone barely less wistful, “that when the time does come, you’ll trust what you see—and trust me.”

Before you could respond, one of the older women called you for help with the larger platters, breaking the moment. Fyodor stepped back, the faintest smile playing on his lips as he bowed his head slightly.

“Good night, (Y/N),” he said, his voice carrying a warmth that lingered even after he turned and walked away.

You stood there for a moment, clutching the cloth in your hands, your mind aflame. His words echoed in your ears, stirring a very strange mix of fear and hope. Trust what you see. Trust me.

For the next few nights, sleep eluded you. Fyodor’s words replayed in your mind over and over again, each phrase eating away all other thoughts. His certainty disturbed you—not because you doubted his sincerity, but because it awoke something within you. The realization was almost too heavy to bear: if you wanted change, you would have to reach for it yourself. But how could you, alone?

When the message came—a whispered request to meet him in the forest clearing—a thrill stirred uneasily in your chest. It wasn’t proper to meet him like this, not when he was supposed to be praying and meditating in solitude as part of his sacred duties. But propriety seemed increasingly irrelevant at this point.

The moonlight bathed the clearing, lending a ghostly glow to the figure who awaited you, it seemed almost surreal. Fyodor stood at the center, his white garments clinging to his frail frame, his flesh paler than usual—proof of the toll fasting had taken. You did not know where his kosovorotka ended and where his skin started. He turned as you approached, a weary soft smile oozed onto his lips.

“You came,” he murmured, his voice carrying a quiet warmth that made the hair on your arms quiver.

You stopped a few feet away, uncertain of how close was too close. “You asked,” you replied softly. “I… couldn’t refuse.”

His smile widened slightly, though his amethyst eyes glinted with something deeper, sharper. “You’ve been restless,” he said, more a statement than a question. “Our last conversation... it’s been weighing on you.”

You hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “I’ve been… thinking,” you admitted. “About what you said. About… everything.”

“Good,” he said simply, taking a step closer. “That’s the first step—thinking. But thinking alone won’t change anything.”

Your breath hitched. “And what would? What can I do? I’m just one person.”

“So am I,” he countered, his tone firm yet kind. “But together, we’re more.”

You frowned, searching his face for some hint of what he meant. He met your gaze unflinchingly, his eyes piercing through your uncertainty. “I know the way,” he said, his voice low and steady, each word a promise. “Let me show you. And we can cleanse them together.”

His last word echoed in your mind: together. He wanted you to help him. To stand by his side in this unthinkable mission. He wanted to make the community a better place—to rid it of the Gift Giving Day and its sacrifices. It was what you had secretly longed for, what you had thought impossible. Yet hearing it spoken aloud felt like standing on the edge of a precipice.

“Fyodor…” you murmured, your voice barely audible. His gaze held yours, firm, almost devouring. “How… how do you plan to do this? With only the two of us?”

He smiled weakly, as though he’d expected the question. “Trust is a luxury few can afford,” he said. “Especially in this place, under these circumstances. But you—” he paused, studying your face intently, “—you don’t realize it yet, do you? You’re different from the rest of them. You see the cracks in their perfect little world. That’s why I chose you.”

Your heart was racing from his words. "Why me?" you whispered.

His expression softened, and he reached for your hand. Slowly, deliberately, he turned it over, tracing the lines of your palm with a fingertip. The touch was featherlight, yet it sent an electric jolt through you. “This,” he murmured, his voice low and contemplative, “is the hand of someone who wants to save the people.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. He lifted his own hand, pressing his palm to yours, as though comparing them. “We are the same,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of conviction. “We want to make a change—for the betterment of our community.”

His fingers laced through yours, and he gave your hand a gentle squeeze. The intimacy of the gesture, the way his eyes searched yours for an answer, left you breathless. “You’re right,” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “We are alike.”

His smile returned, softer this time, but no less determined. “Do you trust me?”

You hesitated, the weight of the moment pushing down on you. But as his words, his presence, filled the silence between you, something inside you shifted. “I trust you, Fyodor,” you finally said, your voice steady though a tempest swirled in your chest.

His smile deepened, and he squeezed your hand again, as though sealing an unspoken pact. “Good,” he said, so plainly.

Winter

Every great plan has steps, though Fyodor felt the need to gradually explain everything, taking one baby step at a time—his words, not yours. The first step was simple, really. He wanted to show the people that the doctrines and preaches of the Sheppard and Judge were nothing but empty words. They were fundamental to this community, to the ‘salvation’ of the people, yet they didn’t walk the path they preached, and certainly, they didn’t know every word by heart—again, Fyodor’s words.

A part of you was still unsure, still clinging to the belief that the larger community was right, and maybe, just maybe, you and Fyodor were the just outsiders. Maybe we are wrong. But every time Fyodor spoke, that doubt felt more and more remote, buried under the weight of his unwavering certainty. “Those are the words they use to control us,” he had said, quietly but with sharpness in his voice. “They preach salvation, but they never walk the path they claim to, do they?” There was something unmistakable in the way he said it, a quiet accusation that seemed to grow louder with each passing day.

You didn’t speak at first, but a part of you—one that had always questioned, always wondered—began to listen. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the things you’d been taught, the things you’d always believed, weren’t what they seemed. 

Fyodor’s plan was simple, almost too simple. He would subtly distract the Sheppard during the church service, while you sneaked away before the sermon to rip a few pages from the tome the leader was meant to preach from. Disarm him of his words, Fyodor had said. It wouldn’t hurt anyone—not directly. And if Fyodor was wrong, if the Sheppard did indeed know the words in the book by heart, then perhaps you could walk this path of reform together. You could still fix everything. You could undo what had been broken.

The weight of the plan pressed down on your chest as you quietly took the pages from the tome, the paper crinkling beneath your fingers. You slipped them into the pocket your heart racing. The deed was done, and you weren’t quite sure if it was a victory or a betrayal. You felt that familiar pull of doubt claw at your insides, but Fyodor’s steady presence beside was enough to slightly anchor you to the present. We’re doing the right thing, his eyes seemed to say every time they met yours.

When you sat down beside him on the pew, you didn’t even realize how tightly you were pressed against his side. You were still tense, the guilt from what you’d just done gnawing at you, your chest burned — oh how you wish you could burn everything down and not have to bear the weight of your actions. Fyodor didn’t say a word. He merely let you lean into him, his silence an unsaid reassurance. He knew you were ill at ease, but he didn’t push you, never urged you towards speech. The sermon started, and your mind wandered right back to the missing pages, your stomach tight with the knowledge that the Sheppard would notice soon.

As the Sheppard reached the point where the pages should have been, you saw the flicker of panic in his eyes. He faltered for only a second, but it was enough. His smooth composure cracked down like a Prince Rupert's drop, and he tried to cover it up, but you could see it—could see him struggling to maintain control in front of his congregation. Your stomach dropped, the tension in the room thickening.

Fyodor sat beside you, still and calm. You caught in his eye the faintest glint of satisfaction, something darker behind the quiet pride. The faintest hint of triumph danced in his expression, as if this was only the beginning. “See how fragile the illusion was?” His voice was low, barely a whisper “How quickly it falls when you expose their lies.”

You couldn’t help but glance at him, his words ringing in your head. Was it really an illusion? The Sheppard had looked so untouchable—so sure of himself. You had never dared to question his authority, never thought to doubt the very bedrock of your faith. But now, as Fyodor’s gaze met yours, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—the world had been built on nothing more than lies.

Your heart beat loudly in your chest, the weight of what you’d done sinking in. This wasn’t just a small step anymore. You had helped tear down something sacred, something people had built their lives upon. And yet, Fyodor's presence beside you steadied your resolve, as if his belief in this mission was enough to carry you through the uncertainty.

Spring

Vernal came as a season of ephemeral promise of renewal, the fields suddenly bursting with color and air alive with the pulse of warmth. The community prepared for the flower dance, a sacred tradition meant to honor the gods for favors received during in the harsh winter and reaffirm their devotion. The villager folk adorned themselves with garlands of freshly plucked flowers, their laughter echoing in the air as they wove intricate crowns and looped floral chains around their wrists.

You, too, wore a crown—a delicate circle of violets and daisies that your friends had insisted you wear. It felt heavier than it should, its vibrant beauty clashing with the weight of your thoughts. For tonight, Fyodor had chosen the next step in your shared quest. The supply house, a monument to what the leaders took from and doled back out to the people, was to burn under the cover of darkness. But for now, you stood amidst the celebration, caught between the life you knew and the path you had begun to walk with him.

The dancing of flowers began at twilight, when the village square glowed with the light of torches and the Shepherd and Judge took their seats on an raised wooden platform. They watched the revelry unfold with expressions of practiced benevolence, their presence a subtle reminder of the community's rigid structure. The dancers, linked hand in hand, moved in concentric circles, their feet beating a steady rhythm against the ground. The steps were simple yet hypnotic, a weaving of bodies and flowers that seemed to pull the onlookers into its spell.

You joined the outermost circle, your hand clasped tightly in a neighbor’s, but your eyes strayed to Fyodor. He lingered on the edges of the crowd, a wraith in white. Even if he wanted to join he couldn't, the physical strain the dance had on the body was too much for his condition, leaving him lightheaded and prone to fainting. He watched the leaders with barely concealed contempt. But when his gaze met yours, something softened in his expression. He inclined his head slightly, a wordless reminder of the task ahead.

Your feet flared for one short second, breaking the rhythm of the dance for the briefest moment. The woman beside you glanced at you in concern, but you got your footing back, forcing a smile as your heart pounded in your chest. Fyodor’s eyes stayed on you for a second longer before he slipped away into the shadows.

When the dance ended and the villagers started to scatter, Fyodor found you near the edge of the square. He didn’t speak at first, his presence a quiet anchor amidst the revelry. It wasn’t until the distant sound of the Judge’s laughter reached your ears that he finally said, “Do you see how they watch us? How they bask in their power, even as they pretend to celebrate with us?”

You looked toward the platform where the Shepherd and Judge still sat, their eyes sweeping over the dispersing crowd like hawks watching their prey. The unease you had felt all evening finally bubbled to the top, but you nodded. “Yes,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Fyodor stepped closer, his voice low and deliberate. “They control everything—what we eat, what we believe, even how we dance. Tonight, we take that control away from them. It’s a small step, but it’s necessary.”

His words wrapped around you like a shroud, silencing the part of you that still hesitated. “But the people…” you began, your voice faltering. “The supplies… won’t they suffer?”

Fyodor’s expression softened, and for a moment, you thought you saw genuine compassion in his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted. “But sometimes, suffering is the only way to wake people from their complacency. They need to see that their leaders cannot protect them, that the gods they worship are powerless to stop what’s coming.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against yours in a fleeting touch. “Trust me. It is essential...”

As the echoes of laughter and music faded into the night, you slipped away with Fyodor, hearts pounding in tandem with the thrill of what was to come—and the weight of what it meant. The storage cabin loomed ahead, limned by the moonlight on its wooden frame. It seemed almost alive, a sentinel of the community’s lifeblood, and your hesitation felt like a betrayal of its quiet presence. But you pressed on, following Fyodor’s unwavering lead.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of dried grass and stored grain. You worked in tense silence, stuffing chaff into corners, cramming the cracks of the small room with anything that would catch quickly. Your hands moved on autopilot, though every movement screamed at you to stop. This would hurt people. Families. Yet each time doubt clawed its way to the surface, you’d glance at Fyodor—his calm, his resolve, his quiet conviction—and something in you would steady, if only for a moment.

When the cabin was filled with enough tinder to guarantee its destruction, Fyodor stepped back, surveying the space with a critical eye. His gaze landed on you, and he lingered, a strange warmth flickering in his expression despite the coldness of the act. He struck a match, the hiss of ignition startling in the silent room.

His eyes met yours, the flame dancing shadows over his keen features. “This is necessary,” he murmured, as much to himself as to you.

He held the match a moment too long, its light trembling between his fingers before he let it drop. The fire caught immediately, spreading with an unnatural greed, and you flinched as the heat licked at your skin. Fyodor didn’t flinch. He grabbed your hand and led you out swiftly, his grip firm but not unkind.

You emerged into the cool night, the smell of smoke chasing after you. By the time the fire fully took, you were standing among your families and neighbors, blending into the crowd as if you had nothing to hide. The cabin was an inferno, flames twisting and writhing against the dark sky. The air was filled with the acrid scent of burning supplies and the muted gasps of your fellow villagers.

You watched the fire burn, your heart heavy and your stomach twisting with guilt. What had you done? How many would go hungry now? Would they blame you—if only they knew—or the gods?

The Shepherd and Judge stood before the crowd, their faces masks of authority as they did their best to placate the people. The Shepherd’s voice rang out, promising reassurance, spinning stories of divine testing and unshaken faith. But his words fell flat. You could see it in the eyes of the villagers—fear, not of the leaders, but of their helplessness. If the Shepherd and Judge couldn’t protect them, if the gods they worshipped demanded so much yet gave so little… what was left for them?

Beside you, Fyodor’s expression remained composed, his features illuminated by the flickering glow of the flames. Yet, as the fire crackled and the crowd’s uneasy murmurs grew, he turned slightly toward you, his voice low, intimate. "This... it couldn’t have happened without you.” His gaze met yours, steady and intent, as if he could see the storm of emotions roiling within you. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips—not smug, but almost tender. His hand brushed against yours briefly, the touch grounding in its subtlety.

“You were brave,” he murmured, his voice carrying an almost dangerous sincerity. “More than anyone else here. They’re still trapped, still blind. But...—"

"...—We will show them the light" You softly cut him off. He smiled gently, his hand brushed lightly against yours once more—so fleeting it could almost be imagined—yet it stayed you in ways words couldn't.

The crowd began to murmur, uncertainty rolling through them like a restless tide. The Shepherd barked orders to his Judge, but there was a crack in his commanding tone, a tremor that betrayed his fear. He was losing control, and everyone could feel it.

You looked back at the fire, the embers glowing like distant stars, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to believe that this was more than destruction. Perhaps it was the start of something new.

Summer

You had come so far, yet progress felt agonizingly elusive. Each act you and Fyodor committed against the cult chipped away at the illusion of its sanctity, but the larger structure stood resolute. Fyodor’s sacrifice loomed just two weeks away, a date you couldn’t ignore no matter how hard you tried. Every mention of Gift Giving Day wrapped a tight coil of dread around you.

It couldn’t end this way. Not after everything.

Desperation drove you to find Fyodor one sultry summer night. You found him beneath the canopy of an old willow, his slender form outlined by the moonlight. He turned at your approach, his amethyst gaze softening when it met yours. “We’ve done so much,” you murmured, your voice trembling as your fingers twisted the fabric of your garments. “And it’s still not enough. I... I don’t want to see you go.”

Fyodor studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before stepping closer. His hands, delicate yet firm, reached for your chin, tilting your face toward him. “It will be okay,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something softer, almost tender. “I’ve prepared something for us. One last step to free everyone. I will not abandon you, dearest.” His thumb stroked your cheek, sending a shiver through you. “You have no idea how precious you are—not just to me, but to this cause. I won’t let anyone, or anything, take that from us.”

His words wrapped around you, both a balm and a tether, as he revealed the final phase of his plan: the elimination of the cult’s leaders. For the betterment of the community: They must fall

You choked on your own saliva, pulling away from him, every inch of your body tense. The suggestion felt like a violation of the very ideals you were fighting for. “Are we not doing the same as them?” you argued, your voice cracking under the weight of your conviction. “Taking a life to suit our own needs?”

Fyodor remained composed and patient, though urgency flickered in his tone. “This is not the same,” he said, his voice measured. “They’ve built their power on the lives of others—on fear, manipulation, and blood. This is a small sacrifice to honor those who’ve suffered and to free those who remain shackled.”

His stayed with you, finding cracks in your resolve over the following days. Memories of last season when the shed burnt down, the suffering of the people, their hunger while the Shepherd and Judge indulged in excess, gnawed at you. The weight of time pressed down, and you couldn’t ignore the urgency. With Fyodor’s sacrifice approaching, you found yourself reluctantly agreeing to the plan.

The Shepherd would be the first.

Fyodor, weakened by fasting, lacked the physical strength to carry out the act himself. He guided your trembling hands to the axe’s handle, his voice low and encouraging. “Do it for them. For their salvation. You’ll see—it’s the only way.”

It was a chilly quiet night. 

The Shepherd’s chambers were dark, thick air with the scent of wine and old parchments. Fyodor stood outside, his figure barely visible through the crack in the door as you stepped inside with the axe concealed behind you. The Shepherd sat slumped in a wooden chair, a half-empty goblet of wine swaying in his hand.

“Ah, child,” he slurred, his gaze fighting to focus on you. “What brings you here at this hour? Troubles of the soul?”

You nodded, your throat dry. “I... I needed to confess something. To speak with you alone.”

He waved his hand lazily, gesturing for you to approach. “Then speak, my child. The Shepherd is always here to guide his flock.”

As you inched closer, the axe hidden behind your back, he rambled on, his words becoming less and less coherent. Then, suddenly, his tone changed. “Do you know,” he began, his voice slurred with wine, “that I’m your true father?”

Your heart went cold, and you nearly let the axe fall from your grasp.

He let out a bitter chuckle and reached for another drink. “Left you with that fool, your mother’s husband. Had no time to raise a child when the gods demanded my service. But I suppose it’s all... come full circle.” Shock seized you where you stood, the metal felt impossibly heavy in your hands as his words echoed in your ears. He was your father? The man whose sermons had shaped your entire life? The very leader whose tyranny you sought to destroy?

He rambled on, his words grew softer until he nodded his head forward, asleep in his chair. The room fell silent except for your ragged breaths. When Fyodor entered, sensing your hesitation, his sharp gaze darted between you and the sleeping Shepherd, and you explained the situation in a whisper. And for the first time ever, you saw something like surprise in his expression, but it hardened quickly into resolve.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” Fyodor whispered, his voice sharp, sharper than what you are used to hearing from him. His words pierced through the haze of your confusion, his presence a cold, steady force grounding you in the suffocating weight of the moment. “He may have fathered you, but he abandoned that role long ago. He is as valuable to this world as a walking corpse.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and aching. “But he—he’s my blood. What if he—”

Fyodor stepped closer to you, his hands hovering just above yours as you clutched the axe. “He has taken everything from you, from us, from them,” he murmured, his voice softening just enough to feel personal. “Do you want to go back to being their lamb, waiting to be slaughtered? Is that the life you choose after everything we’ve done?” He gestured to the sleeping man before you, his voice turned urgent, almost desperate. “This is your moment. Take it.”

Your vision blurred with tears, but his words echoed in your mind, warring with the voice that screamed against this violence. The axe trembled in your hands, its weight unbearable. The man before you, your supposed father, lay slumped in his chair, wholly unaware of the maelstrom raging in your heart. You tightened your grip, breathing shallow and rapid. The room seemed to tilt around you, the seconds crawling into eons while the world narrowed to the rise and fall of his chest and the chilling presence of Fyodor at your side. Slowly, you raised the axe, tears streaking your face.

When you brought it down, the impact reverberated through your entire body, a sickening crack filling the room. You gasped, stumbling back as the Shepherd slumped forward, lifeless. The silence that followed was deafening, your breaths ragged and uneven as you stared at your blood-stained hands. The axe slipped from your grasp, clattering to the floor. You turned to Fyodor, your legs trembling beneath you. “I... I...” Words failed you as sobs overtook your body.

Fyodor stepped forward, his arms encircling you in an embrace that was unexpectedly warm and steady. You buried your face against his chest, shaking uncontrollably. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard. His hands rubbed soothing circles against your back. “You’ve done so well. It’s over now. It’s over.”

But it wasn’t over. The next morning, they found the Shepherd’s body. You hadn’t even tried to hide it. You didn’t care. All you could think about was the blood on your hands and the look on his face before you swung the axe. The Shepherd’s death sent shockwaves through the community. Whispers spread like wildfire, murmurs of unease weaving through the congregation. The Judge, desperate to maintain his grip, moved Gift Giving Day closer, hoping to reassert control. But the cracks were already visible. The people’s faith in their leaders, once unshakable, had begun to unravel.

As the day of the ritual arrived, the air was thick with tension. Fyodor knelt in the red square, his frame frail from fasting but his presence unyielding. The Judge stood behind him, addressing the crowd with fervor that bordered on hysteria. His voice thundered over the square, but there was a desperation in his tone, a fragility beneath the surface.

You stood hidden among the throng, the weight of the axe once again heavy in your hands. Every step forward felt like wading through quicksand. Your mind raced, the memory of the Shepherd’s death haunting you with every heartbeat. The crowd swayed, their heads bowed in solemn reverence as the Judge raised his arms, calling for unity and sacrifice.

This was it.

Your breath hitched as you stepped out of the shadows, weaving through the congregation. Nobody noticed you at first, your movements swallowed by the sheer number of bodies. The closer you came, the louder the Judge’s voice grew, his words grating against your ears. Finally, you stood behind him, so close you could hear the strain in his breathing. Your fingers tightened around the axe, your pulse roaring in your ears. The world seemed to hold its breath as you raised the weapon, the weight of the moment bearing down on you.

With a swift motion, you brought the axe down, lodging it into the back of his neck. The sound of steel meeting flesh was sickening, a visceral, wet crunch that silenced the square. Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc as the Judge lurched forward, collapsing onto the stone table. His body twitched once, then stilled, his voice silenced forever. The crowd erupted in chaos, gasps and cries rippling through the congregation. For a moment, you stood frozen, the bloodied axe still clutched in your hands, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might break free through your ribcage.

Then, Fyodor rose.

Despite his weakened frame, he exuded an aura of quiet authority, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade. “The gods have spoken,” he declared, his tone calm yet commanding. “The leaders were corrupt. Their reign is over.” The crowd fell silent, their fear and confusion turning to awe as Fyodor stepped forward. His gaze swept over the congregation, landing briefly on you before returning to the people. He extended a hand, beckoning for you to stand beside him. “We have seen the truth” he continued, his voice rich with conviction. “And together, we shall guide you to the promised salvation.”

The people’s eyes pierced into your very soul, their expressions a mix of hope and uncertainty. Fyodor took your hand in his, the gesture both possessive and protective, grounding you yet again in the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the faint metallic tang of blood, the detritus of the chaos that had led to this moment. The congregation outside still whispered Fyodor’s name with a mix of awe and fear, their voices carried by the wind into the quiet chamber. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a solitary candle, its light casting a long shadow across the newly ordained leaders of the flock.

You sat on the edge of a plain wooden bench, the ceremonial white garment draped over your frame feeling heavier than any armor. Its pristine folds were a cruel irony against the weight of your sins. Fyodor stood before you, his dark attire stark against the pale hues of your robes. The intricate wolf motif embroidered into his cloak seemed to ripple with life in the wavering candlelight, a predator looming over its prey.

He stepped closer, the movement slow and deliberate. His pale hand reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a gentleness that felt both comforting and unnerving. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, softened for a moment as he looked down at you. “You’ve been my strength through this,” he murmured, his voice as smooth as silk yet edged with something darker. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

You leaned into his touch, seeking peace in the familiarity of his presence despite the emotions roiling inside you. His lips brushed your forehead, the gesture lingering—an offering of comfort, yet unmistakably possessive. It was as if he claimed you in that kiss, silently binding you to him in a way that words never could.

As his arms encircled you, a shard of the Pale Man’s tale drifted to the surface of his mind. The wolf protects the lamb not out of kindness, but because he cannot bear to let anyone else devour her. Fyodor’s thoughts mirrored that very sentiment as he held you close, his expression almost content. To him, you were no mere lamb to be devoured by others; you were his lamb, precious and irreplaceable. The world could burn, the gods themselves could fall silent, but he would not let you go.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against his chest. The beat of his heart was steady, grounding, but it did little to soothe the ache within your own. You had survived, yes. Together, you had dismantled the foundations of this twisted faith. Yet, as Fyodor stood poised to guide the cult into a new era, the sin staining your hands felt like it would never wash away.

When the murmurs of the crowd grew louder, Fyodor pulled away, his hand lingering on your shoulder. “It’s time,” he said, his voice commanding yet calm. He turned to his right, with that inky mantle billowing out behind him as he moved to address your people. You followed, your white garments out of place on the dark path before you. The symbolism was unmistakable: the wolf and the lamb, stepping out as one. As Fyodor ascended the steps of the altar, his gaze swept over the gathered flock. “The gods have chosen us,” he declared, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Together, we will lead you to salvation.”

The people bowed their heads, their faith in their new leaders palpable despite the lingering unease in the air. You stood beside him, the vision of purity and sacrifice, your presence cementing the narrative he wove so expertly. As Fyodor raised his hands to the sky, the crowd chanted his and your name. You couldn’t help but glance at him, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Despite everything, a small, bitter smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Finally, the wolf and the lamb had found their place at last. But at what cost?

Credit for difivers: saradika-graphics

[league-of-skins]

Chosen of the Wolf Ambessa (Legendary), Katarina, Kindred, Pantheon, and Swain (+ Prestige)

katarina i love u 🫶🫶

the skins all look really good in game too. i think pantheon’s is the weakest.

i know some people won’t like it but i lowkey fw shirtless swain. i’ve also never noticed how smooth his animations are.

i’m personally against champions getting a release skin that’s higher than the epic tier. obviously kindred deserved it more but i still think they look really good with the new visual effects. ultimately, ambessa just isn’t old enough for a legendary skin to be appealing. especially a lore skin.

still waiting for viktor vgu. and mel champion release?

[gachagon]

There's something worth saying about Ambessa's connection with death in the show, and I feel like because of her lore it was already kind of obvious that she'd have to end this whole show dead. And that's just because unknown to most Arcane watchers, she has this really strong connection with an actual aspect of Death in League lore known as the Kindred.

"Kindred" is a champion in League of legends who represents Death in Runeterra in the same way as a grim reaper who comes to collect souls. They are two spirits, a Wolf that likes to hunt, and a Lamb that wears a mask and wields a bow. Many of the nations in Runeterra believe in Kindred in some way or another, but each nation has their own way of viewing Kindred (because each Nation has their own views on death and what not).

Ambessa repeatedly says "A wolf shows no mercy" and that's mostly because of her warrior spirit, but its also quite literally how Wolf (the second half of Kindred) acts. The Wolf is a merciless beast that only craves violence and a good hunt, while the lamb is an emotionless hunter who can't understand the feelings of the ones she hunts down in the first place.

The splash art above is from the Chosen of the Wolf skin line that Ambessa got when she was first released into the game. In the Chosen of the Wolf lore, Ambessa basically brings about the end of the world and becomes "Chosen" by Kindred to carry on an endless hunt (Basically death for everyone...forever lol) In this lore, Lamb fully embraces the nature of the Hunt regardless of sense or reason. She even wears a "Wolf" mask, to symbolize how they're both "The Wolf" now and there's really no mercy in death anymore (at least in this timeline)

Its also worth pointing out that the Chosen of the Wolf skinline looks awfully a lot like the world Leblanc shows Mel. When Leblanc recruits Mel, she shows her a future that looks almost identical in nature to this future, where there's no mercy for anyone and Ambessa is fighting an endless war forever T_T

Because Ambessa is Noxan, it's obvious that her and a lot of other Noxans view death through the Wolf, as something violent, gorey, and painful. Merciless. However, when Ambessa passed away in Mel's arms she says "You are the wolf" which to me is actually her acknowledging that there is mercy in death, in a wolf specifically because Mel ended up trying to save her from Leblanc even though she was still upset with her.

A wolf may not show mercy, but the lamb does. And I think that Ambessa's death in the show was her finally coming to terms with the fact that she didn't have to continue on with the endless fight for legacy and to achieve greatness, because she had already achieved those things through her daughter. The tragedy is that she couldn't understand or see that until it was too late.

Anyways I just wanted to write this post about Ambessa because she's actually really cool and I haven't been able to stop thinking about her phrase "A wolf has no mercy" and how it was almost a direct reference to Kindred almost. But to show that this was also Ambessa willfully looking past the other half of Death, which is the Lamb who is merciful and wants to understand people even though she can't.

[aurelion-solar]

Chosen of the Wolf Ambessa, Katarina, Pantheon, Kindred, Swain & Prestige Swain

[black-is-beautiful18]

This is such a genuine question: Do Arcane fans have comprehension skills?

I know that sounds rude, but it is the only way I can think to say it. Why would the man and woman standing on either side of Ambessa in her vision in Chosen of the Wolf ever be Caitlyn and Viktor/Jayce??? The book about the Medarda family. The book about Ambessa’s journey to become matriarch of the Medarda family….Like it’s starting to piss me off the way y’all really think she would replace Mel and Kino, Ambessa’s literal children, with Caitlyn or anyone else. Also, again, the lack of comprehension. Caitlyn and Viktor were a means to an end. The end? Weaponize Hextech and take it back to Noxus so that she can protect her family from the Black Rose. I do believe Ambessa cared for Caitlyn but that girl was not replacing Mel in any way, shape, or form. The same Mel that Ambessa wanted to return home with her when all was said and done? Who was the reason she was doing all this for? Are y’all serious? Mind you, that’s not the only part of the book y’all seem to lack comprehension in. Cuz in that same chapter it is explicitly stated that the lamb Ambessa gives up is a representation of her own innocence. It does not symbolize Mel. The vision of the little girl with the lamb was Ambessa. This is all in the text. Why are we making theories about it being Mel when that doesn’t make any sense? The woman was worried about Mel while fighting the champions, going through the visions, and talking to Kindred themself! Come on now! Why would she give her up? I theorize with shows and books all the freaking time. It’s fun! But when y’all are literally ignoring things said in the book, things that are explained outright, it’s annoying.

[chaotick-musings]

So another FASCINATING piece of lore dropped with the new skinline, and that is this small bio for the skinline:

"Chosen of the Wolf skin line bio: When the young warleader Ambessa falls in battle, she is granted a vision of Volrachnun, a hallowed afterlife for worthy followers of the Wolf. All who are welcomed into this haven must join the Eternal Chase, finding bliss in battle and joyfully challenging their fellow chosen warriors in a never-ending hunt."

Which kind of elevates Kindred's power level to 'Godlike' to 'Definitely God' because now they aren't just some really powerful spirits, they are powerful enough to have their own Afterlife. Not just an Afterlife, but possible MULTIPLE afterlives they are in charge of, as it specifically mentions that Volrachnun is an afterlife for people who Wolf deems worthy, meaning that there could be other afterlives where it's the chosen of Lamb, one where it's both their chosen and more.

Two questions. Which are fun to theorize.

Why do Kindred have an afterlife? As I said, this is clearly an upgrade from just psychopomps to proper underworld deities. Maybe since we know when Death spirits aren't 'Worshipped' they get obliterated they created afterlives, where souls of their followers would always believe in them? Or maybe it was just a natural process of being a death entity, and whenever belief in the afterlife dissapears, so will it and the Kindred with it.

And second question...why wasn't Mordekaiser invited to Volrachnun? It's not EXACTLY what he wanted, but it's clear that as a warlord he should be getting an invitation for it, no? Well...I have a theory. See, Mordekaiser was eager to die thinking he'd get his reward, meaning that when he did die, he didn't fight, which might have pissed Wolf off and denied him entry to this afterlife.

Either way, The skin is fantastic and the lore even more so.

[mollysunder]

I keep thinking about the Lamb of the Kindred in Blood Sweat and Tears. Lamb's design is such a departure from the way it's usually depicted. The Lamb has been stripped of it's soft white coat that it still even has in it's splash art for the skin.

The Lamb isn't completely black, there are still subtle tattoos of gold that define "lambs" (like Ambessa's) that wrap around it's body, including its mask.

But that gold gives way to the red that defines the Wolf's power and the transformation of it's chosen.

Is this how the Lamb must exist in the Wolf's domain?

[piltover-sharpshooter]

With the release of 'Chosen of the Wolf Kindred' on PBE, I just have to say that in my personal opinion, Kindred are probably the best champion design in League of Legends? And I don't say that to demean any other champion, there are some amazing heavy hitters like Jhin too, but Kindred positioned as the embodiment of death in Runeterra are surprisingly flexible and they tell us so much about the culture by way of how it depicts them.

The 'Main Kindred' we see are the Freljord depiction of them, more Primal and older than other depictions (as we've been told), and their design matches that age, essentially just two figures, one white with a bit of black, and one black with a bit of white.

Then we got 'Spirit Blossom', and unlike the simpler designs, they are much more ornate and decorated. It also shows just how much the story can change, with them being a Child and her fellow Dog companion, yet remain the same, still two which are one.

And just recently we got 'Chosen of the Wolf', the Noxian interpretation of Kindred, and they are so War-like as a nation, that even the Lamb has Wolfish features, to Noxians there is no peaceful acceptance of death, you must always fight against the dying of the night.

They are just...it's just such a malleable and interesting concept! There's so much to learn and analyze from what the different regions see. I want more! I want to see how Piltover and Zaun see them, how Shurima sees them, how Ixtal sees them, and the rest! Not just read a blurb, I want to see and learn.