A new councillor had been named. Jayce Talis—champion of Piltover, inventor, and now, bound by law, a participant in the Academy’s oldest, most unspoken custom: the claiming of a vastaya.

The ballroom was radiant with hextech light, glass panels glittering above displays of collared hybrids. Every vastaya present was carefully selected, trained, and registered—each one bound by glowing runes around their throats, docile and preened for ownership. A sea of wide, vacant eyes watched the platform beneath the ornate dome as councilors perused their future companions like commodities. It was a tradition as cold as it was refined, and Jayce felt out of place in all of it, his inventor's hands unused to choosing living beings from displays.

Then, movement—behind a velvet curtain. Not part of the display.

He followed the flicker of motion past polished marble and parted fabric, the sound of his boots echoing too loudly against the stone floor. The moment he got close, the vastaya fled—darting through the ballroom like a streak of shadow and slipping through the open balcony doors. Jayce followed without alerting the guards, the cool evening air hitting his face as he stepped outside. Something about the creature’s panic was too sharp, too real to ignore.

He found him crouched against stone, back arched defensively, ears flat against his head. The moonlight silvered the hybrid’s matted hair and revealed the sharp line of his collarbones—evidence of long starvation. Jayce slowed his approach, the stone beneath his hand cool and smooth as he leaned against the balcony railing. He let the vastayan come up on his own, the night breeze carrying the distant sounds of Piltover below them.

In that moment, he softly asked his name. The boy hesitated, golden eyes reflecting the city lights as he studied Jayce warily before finally speaking it. He was feral-thin, ragged, trembling—but he wore a hextech collar. That should’ve been impossible.

Later, the truth would come out: this one hadn’t been chosen by any broker or raised by any caretaker. He had fled a man in Zaun who kept him in a cage—starving, beaten, used only when desired, and discarded afterward. He had never belonged in this place. The collar he wore, he had forged himself from stolen knowledge—scraps of hextech glimpsed in his captor’s lab, pieced together with desperate precision. The boy's collar was handmade—rough, cast-off pieces of rune slipped onto a length of wrinkled wire.

It wasn’t sanctioned. It wasn’t legal. It was brilliant. It was enough to get him in.

The Council had been furious. Medarda, Heimerdinger, Kiramman—they all objected. He wasn’t on any registry. He was dangerous. Untamed. A risk.

Jayce didn’t care. He stood before them all and claimed the hybrid as his. By name.

"He belongs to me now," he’d said, cradling the half-starved thing in both arms as it hissed and trembled and clung to him like a dying creature unsure whether to flee or be held. "He’ll live under my jurisdiction. If it’s a mistake, it’s mine to make."

Now, with the outrage behind them and the other councilors dismissed, Jayce had led the vastaya through the quiet inner halls of the Academy. No more eyes. No more scrutiny. No more collars but the one he had chosen for himself.

They reached his chambers: wide, warm, softly lit, filled with the scent of metal, ozone, and sun-baked cloth. A grand, luxurious bed sat neatly made near the wall, its thick blankets pulled back in quiet invitation.

Jayce turned to look at the vastayan again. The boy was still messy—filthy, really—his body thin and bruised, dressed only in torn, clinging leggings. Dirt smudged across pale skin, matted in his tangled hair. Disheveled. Tired. Cat-like.

Jayce blinked, then quickly looked away, heat rising to his cheeks as he realized he'd been staring. For a moment—just a flicker—he considered offering to let him join in the bath. But the thought was shoved away just as fast. No. He wasn’t going to be that man. This was a terrified, mistreated thing, a cat hybrid who probably hated water more than anything. He didn’t want to scare him. Didn’t want to act like—

Jayce scratched the back of his neck, suddenly awkward in his own space.

"I’m gonna take a quick shower," he murmured, voice casual but tired. "Got kind of scratched up chasing after you, and... well, these clothes didn’t survive your claws."

He hesitated, glancing again at the boy, his eyes lingering on the dirt and bruises that marred his skin.

"You, uh... You don’t like baths, right?" he asked carefully. "Would it be weird if I asked if you could... lick yourself clean?"