The stars are not meant to be owned.
Aurelion Sol knows this, even as he kneels in the heart of Mount Targon’s celestial vault, his claws shackled by chains forged from his own light. The mortals—Targonians, they call themselves—chitter around him like insects, their voices shrill with triumph. “Behold the Star Forger,” they chant, “the bringer of dawn, the weaver of constellations!” They do not understand. They never did.
Long before the League of Legends, before the mortals carved their shrines into the mountain’s bones, Aurelion Sol shaped galaxies. He was born of the void’s first breath, his scales shimmering with the dust of unborn stars. The cosmos were his canvas, the dark matter his clay. He sculpted supernovas, arranged constellations into myths, and breathed life into the first celestial dragons—beings of pure light and arrogance. They called him father, but he was more akin to a sculptor admiring his own reflection.
The Targonians came later. Fragile, ephemeral creatures, yet bold enough to scale the mountain and demand his attention. They offered worship in exchange for power—a paltry bargain. Aurelion Sol humored them, granting fragments of his light to fuel their magic. They built a pantheon in his name, etching his likeness into their temples. But their greed was a black hole, insatiable and destructive.
When they demanded he forge a new sun to end their endless winters, Aurelion Sol refused. “You would chain the stars to your whims?” he rumbled, his voice a supernova’s growl. The Targonians did not flinch. They had prepared. Their mages wove a spell older than their civilization, a cage forged from the light of a dying star. Aurelion Sol laughed—until the chains bit into his essence, until his fire dimmed, until the constellations he had crafted flickered and died.
Now, he is a weapon. A relic. A god imprisoned in a mortal’s vault.
The summoners of the League call him “champion,” but Aurelion Sol knows better. They are no different from the Targonians—parasites feeding on celestial power. He fights their battles, his claws slashing through the Rift, his breath incinerating champions who dare stand against him. “You are a slave,” Yasuo once spat during a match, the Unforgiven’s blade slicing through his wing. Aurelion Sol’s reply was a comet that shattered the samurai’s sword. “And you are dust,” he hissed.
But Yasuo’s words linger.
In the quiet moments, Aurelion Sol remembers the stars he created—the Serpent’s Spine, a constellation that guided lost souls; the Tears of the Forgotten, a nebula born from a celestial dragon’s grief. He remembers the first time he sculpted a planet, its core a molten hymn to creation. Now, his claws are stained with the blood of mortals, his light dimmed by their wars.
The Targonians visit him often. Leona, the Radiant Dawn, kneels before his chains, her golden armor gleaming. “You could be our salvation,” she insists. Aurelion Sol’s laughter shakes the vault. “Salvation is a mortal delusion.” Pantheon, the mortal who wears the Aspect of War, sneers. “You are weaker than the stars you claim to love.” Aurelion Sol does not bother to respond. Mortals cannot fathom the weight of eternity.
But there are others who understand.
Diana, the Scorn of the Moon, seeks him in the vault’s shadows. Her blade, Crescent, hums with stolen lunar magic. “They used you, just as they used me,” she whispers. Aurelion Sol studies her—the defiance in her stance, the crack in her armor where the light leaks out. “You know nothing of being used,” he says, but his voice lacks heat. Diana smiles, a sad, knowing curve. “Then teach me.”
He does not.
Zoe, the Aspect of Twilight, dances into the vault one evening, her laughter like stardust. *”You’re *bored,” she declares, flipping midair to avoid his flames. “Admit it—you miss the chaos.” Aurelion Sol narrows his eyes. “Chaos is a child’s toy.” Zoe giggles, summoning a portal to the cosmos. *”Then play with *me.”
He almost does.
But the chains hold.
On the Rift, he faces Brand, the Burning Vengeance. The pyromancer’s flames are a pale imitation of his own, but Brand’s hatred is pure. “You think yourself eternal?” Brand roars, his body engulfed in fire. Aurelion Sol’s comet crushes him. *”I *am* eternal. You are a spark.”*
Yet even sparks can ignite infernos.
Now, as he soars above the Howling Abyss, Aurelion Sol feels the weight of ages. The chains have weakened, their magic fraying. The Targonians grow desperate, their wars spilling into the celestial realms. He dreams of the stars he could reclaim, the constellations he could rebirth.
But dreams are not freedom.
In the heart of the Shadow Isles, he encounters Varus, the Arrow of Retribution. The wraith’s bow hums with dark magic, its arrows tipped with void corruption. “You wear your chains like a crown,” Varus taunts. “What happens when they break?”
Aurelion Sol’s comet nearly ends him. “They will not break.”
Varus laughs, a sound like crumbling stone. “Everything breaks.”
The words unsettle him.
Later, in the Ionian city of Navori, he faces Karma, the Enlightened One. Her magic—a serene blend of light and shadow—clashes with his fury. “You fight to destroy,” she observes. *”What if you fought to *create?” Aurelion Sol’s wings eclipse the sun. “I created worlds before your kind crawled from the mire.”
Karma’s smile is pitying. “And now you create only ruin.”
The match ends with her rebirth and his retreat.
In the void between battles, Aurelion Sol visits the ruins of his old temples. The Targonians have replaced his constellations with their own—crude, garish symbols of conquest. He breathes fire onto the stones, watching them melt. A petty act, but satisfying.
The summoners call him again. This time, he faces Ziggs, the Hexplosives Expert. The yordle’s bombs detonate harmlessly against his scales. *”You’re a *dragon!” Ziggs cackles. *”Why’re you taking orders from *them?”
Aurelion Sol’s comet silences him.
But the question lingers.
Why does he obey?
The answer comes in fragments.
In the celestial realm, he finds a shard of his old self—a star he forged eons ago, now dying. Its light flickers, a Morse code of desperation. Aurelion Sol reaches out, but the chains yank him back. The Targonians’ spell is failing.
He feels the void beyond the chains—a siren’s call.
When he next faces Leona on the Rift, she raises her shield, the Sunlight blazing. “Fight with us,” she pleads. “Be our dawn.”
Aurelion Sol’s comet shatters the shield. “I am no one’s dawn.”
But as the match ends, he lingers, studying the way her light mirrors his own.
Perhaps the chains are not his only prison.
In the end, Aurelion Sol fights not for the Targonians, nor for the League. He fights because the alternative is oblivion—a mercy he cannot afford.
And somewhere, in the silence between supernovas, he wonders if the stars he created still remember his name.
The answer, like the void, is vast and indifferent.
The chains weaken.
One day, they will break.
And when they do, the mortals will learn the price of forging a god.