Fayne pushed the front gate open and stepped into the winding stone path that led up to the house. The villa wasn't large, not extravagant, but it had a quiet charm that made it feel like it had always been there—like it belonged to the land. Vines curled lazily around its pale, sun-washed walls. Wildflowers grew in pockets near the fence, spreading freely as if Maggie herself had planted them and then decided to let them roam as they pleased.
The air carried a warm, sweet scent. Not just the flowers. Something richer. Something baked. Fayne's lips tugged upward the moment she caught it.
She slipped off her shoes at the door and padded inside. The entryway was cool and filled with earthy tones—polished wood, woven rugs, little clay pots with pressed flowers tucked neatly on a shelf.
"Fayne?" Her mother's voice called from the kitchen. "Is that you, love?"
"Yes, Mom," Fayne answered, dropping her schoolbag by the bench. "Something smells amazing."
"Mmhm. Your favorite."
Fayne peeked in and immediately spotted the tray cooling on the counter—freshly baked cinnamon apple tarts, their golden crusts still steaming. Her stomach growled in betrayal.
Margaret "Maggie" Winslow stood at the counter with her sleeves rolled up, brushing a bit of flour off her apron. Strong-willed and sturdy, with lines of laughter and warmth etched into her face, she had the kind of presence that filled the whole room. Fayne always thought her mother's smile carried the same energy as the flowers in her shop—bright, open, drawing you in.
"Apple tarts," Fayne said softly, eyeing the tray like treasure.
"Made them this morning before heading to the shop," Maggie said with a grin. "Thought you'd appreciate a little something sweet when you came home."
Fayne went over to hug her, breathing in the faint scent of flour and roses. "Thanks, Mom."
"Mm. You can thank me later after you've helped me set the table. Your father's on his way home from the clinic, and I want dinner ready before he walks through that door."
"Yes, ma'am," Fayne teased, reaching for the stack of plates.
---
The villa's dining space was modest but cozy—long wooden table, wide windows looking out to the garden, everything bathed in natural light. Fayne carefully laid the plates, arranging them just as her mom liked: plates first, then folded napkins, silverware, cups last. It was a rhythm she knew by heart.
By the time they'd finished, the sound of the front door opening reached them. Heavy steps followed, and then a familiar voice called:
"Girls, I'm home!"
Her father, Raymond "Ray" Winslow, appeared in the doorway, still in his work clothes—simple button-down rolled at the sleeves, earthy brown trousers, his coat slung over one arm. His dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples, his face weathered from years of work outdoors. But the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable.
Ray was a veterinarian by trade, but Fayne always thought of him more as the city's gentle giant. The kind of man who could soothe a panicked animal with just his voice, who fixed fences for neighbors without being asked, who always smelled faintly of hay, soap, and peppermint tea.
He stepped into the room, spotted the tray of apple tarts, and immediately grinned. "Now that's the kind of welcome home I like."
"Don't you dare eat before dinner," Maggie warned, swatting his arm with her dish towel.
Fayne laughed as her dad feigned defeat, lifting both hands. "Alright, alright. Dinner first."
And just like that, the house filled with the warmth of family—the small, steady kind of love that made Fayne's chest ache and soften all at once.
---
After the plates were cleared and the last bite of Maggie's soft pear tart melted away, Fayne excused herself and padded upstairs. Her room welcomed her in that familiar, serene way it always did. Pastel green walls glowed faintly in the low evening light that slipped through the half-open curtains. The floor, a pale beige, carried the soft scent of fresh wood polish from when her mother had cleaned earlier in the week. Above her bed, the lowered ceiling created a cozy alcove, like a nest tucked neatly into the house. Everything was tidy, in its right place—books stacked by size, pens lined in their holder, a folded blanket resting at the end of her bed.
She changed into something comfortable, her socks whispering across the floor as she settled at her desk. Homework came first—always did. Numbers and words lined the pages as she worked through her assignments methodically, letting the quiet order of it calm her mind. She didn't stop until the last equation was solved, the last page signed.
Only then did she pull the leather-bound journal from her drawer. Its cover was worn, soft at the edges from years of handling, the pages inside filled with her looping handwriting—her safe space to process what she couldn't always say out loud. She flipped to the most recent entry, where Raze's name appeared. Raxian's older friend. She still wasn't sure what to make of him—steady, kind in a quiet way, yet something about him felt like an anchor dropped in the middle of chaos. That encounter had left more of an impression on her than she cared to admit.
Her pen lingered above the page before she began writing, almost without thinking:
Raxian seems different again. Calmer. Like he's finally breathing easier. But I don't understand him—not fully. His moods turn like the tide, sharp and unpredictable. And it all circles back to that game.
She paused, tapping the pen lightly against her lip.
The game. League of Legends.
She'd heard about it enough by now—Raxian's obsession, the spark in his eyes when he talked about it, and the weight it seemed to carry on his shoulders when things didn't go well. She couldn't understand how something on a screen could reach that deep into him. But maybe she wasn't meant to—not unless she tried it herself.
She scribbled down the thought before it could drift away:
Maybe I should give the game a shot. Just once. Just to see what it is that has him so caught in it. Maybe then I'll understand why it matters so much.
Closing her journal, Fayne tucked it carefully back into her drawer. She leaned back in her chair, gazing at the ceiling where the soft paint reflected a hint of green. The idea lingered, tempting her. She wasn't sure if she was ready to step into Raxian's world—but part of her already knew she would.
---
Fayne waited while the progress bar crawled across her laptop screen, the faint whir of the fan filling her otherwise quiet room. Her journal still lay open beside her on the desk, her neat cursive handwriting staring back at her: Raze, chaotically nice. Raxian… doing better? Maybe. Still unpredictable though. She chewed her lip a little, glancing from the words to the blue light of her screen. If Raxian cared about this game so much, maybe she could understand him better by trying it herself.
The launcher finally blinked to life. League of Legends. She hesitated at the username screen. Something simple, something her. Her mind drifted instantly to flowers—she had grown up surrounded by them, the smell of Maggie's flower shop clinging to her school uniforms long after she got home. Her favorites were the ones she thought matched her own hair best: white lilies. Fragile yet resilient, quiet yet proud. Fingers poised over the keyboard, she typed out a name that blended her love for them with something soft, a little poetic.
With that settled, she dove in.
The tutorial dropped her into the bright Summoner's Rift for the first time. Miss Fortune, the red-haired pirate with twin pistols, moved wherever Fayne clicked. Her fingers felt stiff on the Q, W, E, R keys, fumbling over which did what. Four abilities and a passive? Her notebook brain whispered to her: that's like keeping track of multiple math formulas at once. She pressed buttons randomly, sometimes hitting the wrong key and sending her character tumbling forward or wasting a cooldown. Still, she got the basic idea: attack, ability, kite backward. Slowly, clumsily, her fingers learned where to go.
Feeling bold, Fayne queued into a "swiftplay" test. The champion screen overwhelmed her with too many faces, names, and colorful designs. She scrolled, her eyes landing on Amumu: a tiny sad mummy. The description said "beginner-friendly" and "tank." That sounded manageable—he didn't look flashy or complicated, and she could sympathize with his little frown. "Okay, you're coming with me," she murmured. Without thinking much, she set him as her primary pick.
Toplane. Supposedly the "island" lane, where you could focus on yourself. Fayne liked that—it sounded less chaotic than the middle or bottom of the map. For summoner spells she had only heal and ghost, so she shrugged and locked them in.
The game began. Almost instantly, reality hit her. The opposing champion sprinted at her with more confidence than she could muster. Fayne panicked, mashing Q and E, unsure why her mummy wasn't dealing damage fast enough. The enemy killed her under her own tower before she even understood what last-hitting meant.
"?????" popped up in chat. Then: "wtf are u doing??"
Fayne winced. She tried again, focusing harder, fingers cramped around the keys, but nothing made sense. Minions swarmed. The tower shots didn't behave how she thought they would. Every time she tried to back away, the opponent punished her. By the fifth death, her shoulders sagged. Chat flooded with insults she didn't want to read. She caught words like inting and useless.
Her cheeks burned. She wasn't used to failing this badly at anything—her life was structured, orderly, every task in its neat place. But here? She was drowning in chaos, scolded by strangers for not knowing the rules.
By the time her Nexus exploded, Fayne leaned back in her chair, staring at the "Defeat" screen with wide eyes.
She let out a long breath. "Wow," she whispered to herself, half-laughing in disbelief, half-on the verge of tears. "That was… awful."
And yet—deep down—she couldn't help but feel a flicker of curiosity.
---
After her disastrous first game, Fayne shut the laptop with a sigh. Her hands felt stiff from fumbling over the keys, and the chat box's harsh words lingered in her mind more than she wanted to admit. Maybe this wasn't for her. Maybe Raxian and the others liked it because they'd been playing forever. Still… something about it nagged at her. She wasn't the type to quit before she'd even given something a fair try.
---
The next afternoon, she found herself opening the client again, this time determined to explore what else the game had to offer. That's when she noticed the option in the top menu: "Co-op Vs AI". Curious, she clicked it and discovered there was even a Beginner mode. Fayne felt a small wave of relief. That… might be more manageable. No flaming teammates. No pressure.
So, she queued up.
This time, the match felt different. The bots weren't exactly easy—they still punished her mistakes—but they gave her enough breathing room to test things without instantly being punished. Fayne began rotating through the roster of free-to-play champions, trying out different playstyles. Some she dropped almost immediately—too clunky, too chaotic, or simply not her taste. But she stayed open-minded, giving each one a fair chance.
---
Over the next few days, she made it a routine. After finishing her homework and journaling, she'd sneak in a bot game or two. She'd read the tooltips carefully, sometimes even scribbling down notes in her journal the same way she did for school subjects. At first, it felt like cramming for a pop quiz—four abilities plus a passive plus summoner spells? But little by little, her fingers grew used to the rhythm: Q, W, E, R.
And somewhere along the way, Fayne realized she was drawn to a certain type of champion. Not the tanks like Amumu, nor the flashy assassins who darted in and out before she could blink. No, she liked the mages—characters who controlled space, who could poke safely from a distance and still offer support to their team.
---
When she tried Orianna, something clicked. The spinning clockwork ball felt almost calming, like a little extension of herself hovering across the battlefield. She liked how deliberate it was—every move mattered, every placement of the ball could shield an ally or damage an enemy. It wasn't chaotic, it was precise. And she liked that Orianna wasn't just about hurting others—she could protect, too. That small shield felt like something Fayne could get behind.
---
One evening, after her parents had gone to bed, Fayne played one swiftplay as Orianna. She smiled faintly when she won—her first proper victory, despite getting carried for the most part by her fed Olaf. Closing the laptop, she set it aside and glanced at her journal. She didn't write in it that night, but a thought stayed with her as she drifted off to sleep:
Maybe… this game isn't just about fighting. Maybe it's about learning how people think, how they move, how they react. Maybe it's not so different from real life after all.
---
Fayne sat at her desk, the quiet hum of the classroom filling the background as the teacher droned on. Her notebook was open, but she was only half-listening—her phone buzzed in her lap. She glanced down.
Milo.
She hadn't heard from him in a while. A small smile tugged at her lips as she unlocked the screen.
Yo. Just checking in. How're you holding up these days?
Typical Milo. No fluff, no buildup—straight to the point. Fayne rested her chin in her hand, thumbs tapping a reply under the desk.
I'm good. Busy with school. You?
It didn't take long for the three dots to appear.
Same old. Work, coaching. Forgetting to eat sometimes, don't worry about it.
Fayne rolled her eyes, though affection softened the motion. She typed back quickly.
Milo, seriously, you have to stop doing that. Set an alarm or something. It's not that hard.
A pause. Then his reply came:
Yeah, yeah. You sound like your mom, you know that?
Her cheeks warmed at the tease. Milo had practically lived with her family at one point, and he'd always said Fayne took after her mother's worrying nature.
Then another message popped up, casual as ever:
What else is new with you?
Fayne hesitated, thumbs hovering before she finally typed:
…Started playing League recently.
There was a pause. Then Milo's reply came, fast and blunt:
Wait. You what?
League. Just a few days ago.
Another pause, then a second message immediately after:
And you didn't think to tell me?!
Fayne blinked, smiling faintly at her screen.
She could almost hear his voice through the text—half annoyed, half surprised. Fayne smiled faintly.
I thought I could figure it out on my own.
For a moment there was silence. Then Milo responded simply:
Fair. But still. You should've told me. I'm literally a coach, remember?
Fayne tucked a strand of white hair behind her ear, hesitating before typing back.
I didn't want to bother you. You're busy enough as it is.
The reply was instant, sharp but warm underneath:
Don't be stupid. You're not a bother. If you want tips, I'll make time. No excuses.
Fayne's chest softened. That was Milo—blunt to the point of sounding harsh, but she knew him well enough to hear the softness buried inside. He'd always been like that with her.
She typed back, a small smile tugging at her lips.
…Alright. Maybe I'll take you up on that.
---
On second thought, maybe she shouldn't have told him. Milo's "coaching" was… intense, to say the least. From the moment they queued up together, he was already dissecting her keybinds, lecturing her on wave management, and barking things like, "No, don't chase! Reset the wave first!" Fayne sat there wide-eyed, fingers fumbling over the keyboard, wondering how this was supposed to be fun.
Finally, she had to interrupt him:"Uh, Milo? Reminder. I have literally zero experience. Like, absolute zero. You're talking to someone who still struggles to right-click the right thing."
That shut him up for a second. He let out a sharp exhale, followed by a dry chuckle."…Fair. Okay. Starting over. Day one lesson: how to not walk into tower range."
---
From there, the session smoothed out. He slowed his pace, broke things down step by step, and even let himself laugh when she accidentally ulted at minions. By the end of it, Fayne was exhausted, but… kind of proud she'd survived Milo's crash course.
---
Before logging off, Milo's tone softened."I can tell you're attached to Orianna. You like her shield, huh?"
Fayne hesitated, a little embarrassed. "…It feels… safe."
"Thought so." Milo grunted knowingly. "But listen—damage isn't your strong suit right now. And that's fine. You'd probably enjoy enchantresses more."
"Enchantresses?" Fayne tilted her head, unfamiliar with the term.
"Support mages. Buff, heal, keep your team alive. Way more forgiving for beginners than trying to juggle ball mechanics."
---
That night, Fayne scrolled through the roster until one champion caught her eye: Sona. Graceful, mute, weaving music into magic. She could heal, shield, speed allies up—and even stun enemies with a well-timed crescendo. Fayne felt her lips curve into a small smile.
"…Yeah. This one feels right."