Search

All stories

Fieram

Rayla Heide

Orianna walked through the fairground, empty and still in the evening gloom. Sir Feisterly’s Fantastical Fair opened its gates to delighted crowds of Zaunites but twice a year, and Orianna did not want to miss her chance to see its wonders. She had waited until everyone had left for the day, and the rowdy laughter and accordion tunes had fallen silent. Only the low hum of nearby pipelines pumping steam through the chem district disturbed the quiet. Detritus lay strewn along the ground; colorful streamers and bright balloons mingling with crumpled wax paper that once held sweet jam pastries.
Orianna’s clockwork ball hovered beside her as she passed a stall overflowing with roses, which according to a sign, smelled like each day of the week. She walked by a wind-up monkey holding a pair of cymbals, and a cart laden with sugared apples. None of these Zaun-born delights piqued her interest; Orianna had eyes only for the glass cabinet tucked into a secluded corner at the far edge of the grounds.
A glimmering wink of metal flashed in the moonlight. It came from the mechanical boy sitting behind the glass. Orianna had seen nothing like him, and drew closer, intrigued. He was clad in a midnight-blue suit and a silk hat. His skin was a shell of pure porcelain that masked the delicate clockwork gears below, and his eyes shone with glints of silver thread. As Orianna approached him, his lips rearranged into a smile.
“Can you keep a secret?” the boy said. His voice reminded Orianna of softly chiming bells.
“Hello,” she said. “Of course.”
“What say we make a trade. My secret, for your name.”
“That seems fair. I am called Orianna.”
“Or-ee-AHN-uh,” he repeated. “Such soft sounds.”
Orianna could have sworn his porcelain cheeks blushed.
“I suppose it’s my turn. My name is Fieram. My secret is that I fear the outside world, though I long to see distant shores and far-off mountains.”
“Is that why you live in a cabinet?” she asked. “Because you are afraid?”
“From here, the world visits me,” said Fieram. “Behind the glass, I am safe. I’m very fragile, you see.” He pointed to a hairline fracture on his forearm. “There it is. I’m getting old.” Fieram’s mouth opened into a lopsided grin.
Orianna giggled and shrugged her shoulders, a gesture she had recently acquired, though she wasn’t quite sure if she had used it correctly.
“Oho! You haven’t seen my tricks yet,” said Fieram. He reached into his sleeve and produced a bouquet of daisies with a flourish.
“Ta-Da!” he exclaimed. “And...”
Fieram removed his hat and dipped his head in a nod. A half-dozen mechanical pigeons fluttered from beneath the brim. He brought his hands together in a clap and the entire cabinet filled with opaque red smoke. By the time it dissipated a few seconds later, the pigeons were gone.
Orianna applauded in delight. The ball whirred, impressed.
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Like magic.”
“And that wasn’t even my best execution. Fumbled my sleeve a bit,” he admitted, folding his hands. “But small miracles are my specialty. Like you finding your way to me, in this great city! You, above all others.”
“You winked at me.” said Orianna. “Why?”
“We are kindred spirits, you and I. But you already knew that,” said Fieram. “It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” He shuffled his feet. Orianna marveled at the subtlety of his movement.
“It is just that I have never seen another like you,” she said.
“I’m one of a kind, aren’t I? Same as you,” said Fieram. He gestured toward her mechanical frame, and winked again.
Orianna smiled. Fieram leaned in against the glass.
“Your smile is—”
“Fabricated?” she said. “Yes. I am still mastering certain expressions.”
“... beautiful,” said Fieram.
“Well now you are going to make me blush.”
Orianna’s ball, hovering at her left shoulder, nudged her gently.
“Not now,” she told the ball. She lifted the mechanical monkey from its stall nearby and turned its key. It scuttled about the floor, eyes lit with a red glow, clashing its cymbals together at every third step before slowing to a halt.
“You are not like him, are you, Fieram? All wound up at the turn of a key?” she said. “You have a mind. You have thoughts.”
“I may be comprised of cogs and wheels, but I have dreams, like anyone.”
“I know you dream of leaving this place. Surely you are lonely behind this glass. Come with me. We could leave now, together,” Orianna said.
“Leave?” Fieram’s expression fell. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“You have no doubt listened to the restless bustle of Zaun, or heard of the grand marvels in Piltover?” Orianna asked.
Fieram cocked his head.
“I like to ride the Rising Howl at dusk to catch the last of the day’s golden rays,” Orianna said. “From the very top you can see the harbor beyond the sea-gates, and the endless glistening ocean. From up there, you can imagine the smell of faraway lands.”
Orianna’s ball whirred as it spun in the air and nudged her again.
“I suppose now is as good a time as any,” she said. “Fieram, would you like to see the world? We could leave together, right now. I can protect you.”
“I can’t think of anything more wonderful,” he said.
Orianna circled the glass cabinet in search of an opening. An iron padlock secured a small door at its base. She raised a fist and brought it down upon the lock, smashing it open.
A watchman approached them.
“Hey! Stop that!”
With a glance from Orianna, the ball shot toward the watchman. It clanged upon impact with his helmet, then hovered in the air as if waiting for a command. Orianna nodded and the ball radiated waves of coruscating power. Caught in the energy flux, the watchman raised his baton and bashed it into the ball, which spun in midair before returning to his target.
A second watchman ran toward Orianna. She tried to pull Fieram through the door but his chair jammed in the opening.
“Fieram! Can you repeat your trick?”
The ball reverberated with energy as it whirled around the first watchman. His metal helmet fizzled with sparks.
“My tricks?” Fieram reached into his sleeve and pulled out the bouquet as Orianna spun away from the watchman.
“No, the other one!”
Fieram replaced his bouquet.
“The very last trick,” she said. “Quickly!”
The mechanical boy drew the bouquet from his sleeve once more.
Orianna spun toward the watchman, her metal dress fanning out in a flurry of sharp blades until the man backed away, baton raised.
“Get away from him, you!” said the watchman. “That’s our property you’re tampering with!”
“From here, the world visits me,” Fieram said.
He tipped his hat and pigeons poured out. The watchman aimed his baton at Orianna’s head, and she ducked just as Fieram clapped. The baton shattered the side of the glass cabinet and crimson smoke poured from the opening, obscuring all movement.
The first watchman had responded to the ball’s galvanic attacks with rageful abandon, throwing all his weight into every punch. The ball was relentless, however, and shot a final blast of energy toward his helmet, and the watchman fell down, unconscious. Whirring in satisfaction, the ball flew to Orianna. It unleashed voltaic waves toward the second watchman, rendering him motionless.
Orianna stepped into the smoke-filled cabinet. She lifted the mechanical boy from his chair but his legs would not flex to stand.
“Fieram! Fieram, we must leave.”
“Leave? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” A pair of metallic pigeons flew through the broken glass, but dropped to the ground a few feet from the door.
“Fieram, stand up so we can go,” Orianna said, her face falling. “Please.”
“Oho! You haven’t seen my tricks yet.” He pulled the bouquet from his sleeve.
Orianna ignored Fieram’s attempt to tip his hat and dragged him, still fixed in a seated posture, from the glass enclosure. Outside, her ball had cornered the second watchman, who had collapsed in a buzzing heap.
“And that wasn’t even my best execution. Fumbled my sleeve a bit,” said Fieram.
“You are not... your voice is... repeating?” Orianna said. His head lolled back awkwardly and she held it upright.
“My secret is that I fear the outside world,” he said.
Orianna noticed the embroidery lining his jacket.

Sir Feisterly’s Fantastical Fair
Friendly Fieram
He was nothing more than a simple automaton, a spectacle for the crowds.
“I was certain you had a mind. Had thoughts. Like me,” she said.
Fieram looked up at her with eyes that glinted with silver. “I’m one of a kind, aren’t I?” He shuffled his feet nervously, though they were in midair. “Same as you.”
The ball returned to Orianna and whirred gently.
“We should go,” she whispered. She set Fieram back upon his chair, which she placed just outside the shattered glass cabinet. “I wish you well.”
“Small miracles are my specialty,” he said. “Like you finding your way to me.”
“Goodbye, Fieram,” said Orianna softly. The two watchmen lay unconscious on the ground. The ball hovered at her side as she walked away.
She did not look back until she was clear of the park’s towering gates. As she turned, she thought she saw a glint of metal winking in the distance.
Ornn

Ornn’s name was once spoken throughout the lands that would one day become known as the Freljord. It was widely held that he was the firstborn of the old demi-gods, who had shaped the land itself, and brought forth the first snows.
More than any other of his kind, Ornn was said to value privacy, solitude, and focus. Beneath a dormant volcano that bore scars from some ancient eruption, he labored day and night, forging whatever his heart desired. The results were priceless tools destined for feats of legend—the lucky few who have stumbled upon these relics note their bewilderingly high quality. Some even claim that Braum’s shield was made by Ornn thousands of years ago, and remains as sturdy as the day it was finished.
No one can be sure, however, for none can find the forge-god to ask him. Almost all the tales of Ornn’s deeds and accomplishments have been excised from history by his enemies, and the slow march of time.
The few that remain are remembered by the handful of tribes who can trace their lineage back to a single culture of blacksmiths, architects, and brewmasters. This long-lost populace was known as the Hearthblood, apprentices who journeyed from all corners of Valoran, and gathered on the slopes of Hearth-Home to follow Ornn’s example.
Despite this imitative form of worship, Ornn never considered himself their patron. He would only give them curt nods or frowns when they offered up their work, and yet the Hearthblood accepted this and were determined to hone their skills. As a result, they came to create the finest tools, design the sturdiest structures, and brew the tastiest ales the world had ever beheld. They believed Ornn secretly approved of their perseverance, and the fact that they were always looking to better themselves in their craft.
But, in one catastrophic night, all the Hearthblood had accomplished was destroyed when Ornn battled with his brother Volibear at the mountain’s peak, for reasons no mortal could comprehend. The resultant cataclysm was a storm of fire and ash and lightning so intensely violent that it was seen ten horizons away.
When the dust settled, Hearth-Home was a smoldering caldera, and the Hearthblood were reduced to scattered bones and cinders.
Though he would never admit it, Ornn was devastated. Through the Hearthblood he had glimpsed the sweeping potential of mortal life, only to see it all lost beneath the indiscriminate wrath of his immortal struggle. Wracked with guilt, he retreated to the isolation of his foundry, and buried himself in his work for an age.
Now, perhaps he senses that the world is on the cusp of a new era. Some of his siblings appear to have taken physical form once more, their cults of followers growing restless and aggressive. The Freljord itself is fractured and leaderless, and ancient horrors are lurking in the shadows, waiting for any opportunity to strike…
In the wars to come, and in their aftermath, Ornn knows that the Freljord—and the rest of Runeterra—will have need of a good blacksmith.
The Voice from the Hearth

Matt Dunn

No one knew who lit the fire, but we saw the plume of smoke from far away.
The Winter’s Claw had driven our tribe north, where the land was so harsh that even our warmother Olgavanna shivered through the first night. Our elnuk herd died on the second. At least we had food for the third.
But even that feast was a memory as we climbed the mountain with no peak. Legless Kriek called it “the Half-Mountain of Old Ornn.” Our shaman had lost his mind, but Olgavanna bade us carry the fool. He had convinced her that our survival lay at the source of that mysterious smoke. The rest of us believed we were marching to our doom.
The slopes of the half-mountain were a tortured landscape of black stone. We found the ruins of a forgotten city shown on no map—now just a maze of charred foundations. Kriek, perched atop Boarin’s shoulders, insisted it was once named Hearth-Home.
Dark clouds to the east flashed lightning and winds carried the stench of wet fur and sweet decay. Our scouts did not return. We all knew what this meant, but none of us wished to utter the word “Ursine” aloud.
We climbed until we stood at the edge of a vast crater. Then, Kriek saw the fire. This was odd, because Legless Kriek was also blind.
In the center of that basin was the source of the smoke venting into the sky. Olgavanna reasoned that at least the steep crater walls offered respite from the howling winds, and so we descended into what would likely be our grave. The smoldering terrain proved difficult to navigate, but any halt would mean to bow our heads and accept slaughter.
Then we saw the furnace. The domed structure was the only one that looked hand-made. It was crafted like the head of a great ram, with tufts of goat-grass in the spaces between the smooth flagstones. In the ram’s mouth was a flame so bright, we could find it with our eyes closed.
We huddled around it for warmth while Olgavanna laid out the plans for our last stand. It was better to die on our feet, than shivering and huddled in the cold. Most of us were farmers, builders, menders, and few were skilled in combat like the other tribes. We cared for our elderly, our sick, and our children. Now we were far from the aid of the Avarosans—but war craves only blood and bones.
We could only ever stand a chance against the Winter’s Claw. If the Ursine struck first, our defense would be terrifyingly short. That hideous legion of half-bear abominations would overwhelm us.

And soon enough, we heard their battle-growls growing louder, along with the clamor of their footsteps. We smelled their stench. Hundreds descended the cliffs, like shadows twisting down the basalt slopes. We fashioned spears from our stretchers, and sharpened our carving knives on the flint. We would minister the Rite of the Lamb to our elderly and wounded, and the rest of us would dance with the Wolf. It would all be over by morning.
No one saw who stoked the fire, but it grew so hot that we needed to back away. Then the furnace spoke, its voice like crackling logs.
“Volibear is near,” it said. “Seek shelter now.”
“There is no shelter to seek,” Olgavanna replied to the fire in the forge. We knew not in whose presence we stood. “Enemies are at our heels. The Ursine are flanking us.”
“The Ursine…” and the forge grew hotter at these words, “…will be stopped. The other problems are your own.” The goat-grass caught fire. The flagstones grew red hot around the edges, then toward their centers. Steam sizzled from the cracks.
Some shed their clothes to seek reprieve as the temperature rose. Others fainted. The next wave of blistering heat dropped us all to our knees, gasping for air. “I never thought I’d see the day!” cried Kriek, weeping tears of joy.
Stone began to drip like candlewax. Masonry flowed down the base of the structure. The domed top of the forge melted inward, pulling the rest of the outer shell into a molten pool.
A flash of orange light blinded us, briefly silhouetting a humanoid figure. Then, a geyser of flame spouted into the air, drops of molten rock hardened on the ground at our feet. Where the massive forge had stood, there was now a hulking beast, its form blurred by waves of heat. There it was, the forgotten legend Kriek always told us about—Old Ornn, as tall as three frost pines. The ancient forge-master cooled rapidly into fur and form, lava dribbling down his chin and hardening into a braided beard. His eyes were glaring embers. In one hand he carried a hammer, in the other he hefted an anvil with equal ease.
We gathered behind our warmother. Olgavanna gripped Fellswaig, her true-ice axe, and approached Ornn. “If the Ursine are your foes, we will fight by your side,” she said. Then, in a gesture unbecoming of an iceborn warmother, she bent the knee and laid her weapon at Ornn’s feet. Fellswaig’s true-ice melted, revealing an ordinary bronze and iron axe beneath.
I had never seen true-ice melt. No one had ever seen true-ice melt. We felt it wise to join Olgavanna in her kneeling.
Ornn grunted. “Stand up. Kneeling is death.” He looked to the gathering thunderstorm swirling overhead. “I will deal with the Ursine. Do not follow me.”
He lumbered toward the advancing horde, who charged forward with vicious speed. We could see his fire reflected in their large eyes. Boarin hoisted the old shaman higher onto his shoulders. “Old Ornn swinging his hammer, he pounds valleys from mountains,” the legless fool half-sung.
We watched in stunned silence as the creature stood alone against the Ursine. With a roar, he brought his hammer down onto the ground, and a fissure cracked toward the advancing army, stopping just short of their vanguard. Spouts of lava and sulfur jetted into the sky, hardened fire rained down on the half-bear warriors.
Whatever Old Ornn was, he fought with the hot blood of the earth.
Behind the Ursine, giant chunks of slag broke through the ground, cutting off their retreat. Ornn charged and smashed them with more swings of his hammer. Still, they attacked with the viciousness of ten berserkers each.
But we knew when Ornn reached their rearguard, for there was a deafening explosion—the slag wall shattered, and Ursine flew through the air in contorted arcs of burning flesh and fur.
The sky darkened with ash. Columns of smoke rose to clash with the menacing thunderclouds, and bolts of lightning lanced through the haze. The world grew eerily still as the Thousand-Pierced Bear itself took to the battlefield. We could see its telltale shape: spears, swords, tusks, all were stuck in its hide. Lightning followed in its wake.
And it laughed.
The answering blare of the horn shook our insides. Lava bled from the black cliffs, rivers of fire flowed down the slopes, rushing toward the valley basin, and formed a surging wave. Bolts of lightning stabbed back at the cliffs, to cauterize the wounds in the rock, and a thick, caustic fog blanketed the entire caldera. We saw only blue-white bolts and hellish crimson explosions filtered by the thick vapor. The heat from below the ground scorched the soles of our boots.
Then we saw that surging wave of flame form into a great stampeding ram. Ornn charged at the molten beast, catching the thing he had named as Volibear between his shoulder and the lava-ram.
The force of the explosion toppled us all. The legless shaman was thrown a hundred paces from Boarin’s shoulders, laughing the whole time.
We waited all night for the great cataclysm to overtake us, but it never came. We only heard the roars of the Thousand-Pierced Bear, and the gruff bellowing of the forge ram.
When the pall lifted in the late morning, we saw that the slopes around us were covered in chunks of hissing scree, and unnatural columns of crusted basalt rose at odd angles from the ground.
As we realized what stood before us, we recoiled in horror and awe. The Ursine were frozen in stone, their faces petrified masks of agony.
We did not see any sign of Ornn, nor Volibear. We had no time to look, either. The hunting horns of the Winter’s Claw announced their approach. We picked up our weapons and dug in our heels. What remained of our clothes were scorched tatters of cloth, but our skin no longer prickled with cold.
Olgavanna’s hair had been singed away, her muscular back branded with heat. Her once true-ice axe was bronze and iron, as naked as we were. She had never looked stronger.
Our blood boiled. Our stomachs growled. We were raw and blistered, bare and exposed. We smeared our chests with ash in the shape of a hammer, and ram horns upon our faces.
We sang and chanted in the memory of last night, with the words of mad old Kriek.
We knew who lit the fire. The Winter’s Claw would know, too.
Out of Time

Michael Yichao

PURSUIT
Twin energy blasts explode above me, sparks cascading down. I sprint further up the road. Behind me, the chrono-enforcer’s footsteps echo off the narrow walls. Fast. Relentless. Hate to admit it, but this guy’s definitely faster than me…
Good thing I have a few tricks up my sleeves.
At a crossway, I feint right, running two steps down the alley before I shift back, blinking the short distance across the road and sprinting the opposite direction. Classic fake out—a maneuver I’ve perfected over many a chase, thankyouverymuch. Having a Pulsefire suit that bends space over short distances comes in pret-ty handy.
Too bad this guy saw it coming. Somehow.
In a blink, he’s in front of me, both guns blasting. Chrono-enhanced movement. Has to be. I throw my arms up—always protect the face—and the first blast glances off my arm cannon, but the second strikes me square in the chest, sending me reeling. I stumble and fall, hard. In my ear, I can hear alarms blare. I fire a wild shot, but he dashes out of the way, easy. Guns trained on me now. Almost tickling my nose, he’s so close. I put my hands up and blow a stray strand of shaggy blond hair out of my eyes (funny how time traveling leaves little time for haircuts), trying to buy time as the suit attempts to bring my weapon systems to bear.
The enforcer glares down through his visor. “You’re not getting away again,” he says. I groan. So he’s encountered future-me already—which explains why he knew my signature move.
Note to self: think of more signature moves.
“Time’s up, Ezreal. You’ve created enough anomalies for a lifetime.”
I scoff. “Are you serious? You’re a time-traveling enforcer of the Remembrancers, and that’s the best pun you got?”
Somehow, his frown gets even frownier.
“You know you’re gonna be apprehending a bunch of time fugitives and criminals, you have your whole career to prepare, and you lead with… ‘time’s up’?”
His frown breaks into a scowl, and he leans in so close, I can feel the heat from the barrel of his guns. “You’re not talking your way out of this one, you snot-nosed punk—”
“Arcane shift recharged.” Finally! Pearl’s voice pings in my ear, and I don’t wait for Mister Bad Puns to finish his thought as I blink behind him.
Or at least, I should’ve blinked behind him.
Everything flashes to white, as always—but the core of my suit sparks and sizzles from the center of my chest, where the enforcer’s lucky shot caught me. With a jolt I land exactly where I started.
Uh oh.
Crack! I hear my nose break before I feel it. My vision starbursts—Not the face! Not cool! I hear the whirring of his weaponry. …Super not cool.
Time for one of those new signature moves.
I overload my cannon and fire off a massive wave of energy. The enforcer dodges out of the way (seriously, how fast is this guy?!), but the wave tears through the road and walls and neon signs and hopefully no innocent passersby, blowing rubble and shrapnel in all directions.
I haven’t been in a jam this bad since I was a dumb kid. But I’ve learned since then when to shoot your way out, and when to just make an exit.
“Get me out of here, Pearl,” I say, scrambling away as fast as I can. “We got juice to jump?” Something wet drips over my lips, and I run a gloved hand across my face. Definitely bleeding. Definitely a broken nose. Lovely.
“Chrono-jump unstable,” Pearl’s eternally calm voice says. “Pulsefire core damaged.”
“It’s not a no, so I’ll take it as a yes!” I slam my hand into my arm cannon and twist. The familiar rumble of the Chrono-jump Drive revs through it. My fingers on reflex start inputting a destination, but I stop myself. No. Can’t keep running back to him to fix all my problems. Also can’t bear the thought of seeing his smug face right now…
A furious yell. I peek over my shoulder. The enforcer climbs out of the rubble and dust, guns blazing, a constant barrage of energy shots arcing my way.
Man, I must have seriously pissed him off when I met him. Will meet him. Will have met him meeting me.
…Time travel’s confusing.
Energy blasts are straightforward, though. I let fate (well, Pearl) decide where I’m headed, firing the portal in front of me. But instead of a clear view of a destination, an opaque blue-white static crackles across the surface.
No time to hesitate. I dive head first into the unknown. Better anywhere else than a smoking pile of Deadzreal.
I feel the core on my chest shudder and lurch as I pass through the threshold. An arc of electricity surges out from it, and I plummet into whatever timestream awaits.
Yeah. This is gonna be a problem.

AEGIS
He hasn’t noticed me. Yet.
Stealth isn’t usually my strong suit. I’m much more of a shoot-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy. But considering the current state of my Pulsefire core… well, unusual times call for unusual tactics.
He’s just… standing there. Shield at his side. Spear stuck in the nearby ground. Staunch. Reflective. Booooring.
After dropping into an incredibly unpleasant dimension (blood-sucking gnats should never be that big), Pearl managed to pull enough power out of my damaged core to latch on to a chrono-signature of a nearby (well, relativity-speaking nearby) Pulsefire signal. Good news for me—bad news for the enforcer I’m about to jump for their Pulsefire core.
Why fix something when you can steal—er, borrow—a new one?
As fate would have it, I knew this enforcer. Pantheon. A real lunk of a man. Grouchy type: chip on his shoulder, probably a real tragic backstory, blah blah blah.
Currently, he’s standing in the rubble of some building I don’t recognize. To be honest, this whole dimension is one I don’t recognize—it looks like a real dump. Crumbling structures. Decimated vegetation. Evidence of mechanical and chemical conflict everywhere. Major bummer.
I shift in, nice and snug right behind him, arm cannon pressed lightly against the back of his head. “Don’t move,” I growl in my most threatening voice.
He freezes. From my vantage point behind him, I can barely see his visor chirp and whir, likely trying to figure out who I am.
“Ezreal,” he rumbles.
“How’s it goin’, Panth?” I say, grinning, before I remember that I’m supposed to be doing the angry growly thing.
“Here I was, spending all this time searching for you, and you just come to me.” His calm words are undercut by the tension in his voice, and the slight twitch in his scalp as he clenches his teeth in anger. Banter aside, he definitely knows I’m one sneeze away from obliterating his very chiseled, very handsome face.
“Listen, Panth, I know we had this whole thing going last time we met,” I say, leaning in. “But, thing is, I really don’t have time for you or for this wasteland today—”
“You are responsible for this wasteland.” The way he says it stops me cold. Flat, undeniable, matter of fact.
“Uhh, I don’t think so.” I know he’s stalling. I know I shouldn’t engage. I literally just did this to the last enforcer I talked to.
I can’t help myself.
“I generally remember my dimension-shattering escapades, thank you very much.”
“Reckless renegades like you are responsible for all of this.” Pantheon’s gaze casts across the devastated landscape before us, and I can’t help but look as well. “Careless jumps instigating paradoxes. Paradoxes tearing anomalies in space-time. Then… the Praetorians come.”
A chill runs down my spine. Praetorians… here…
Pantheon moves to stand, and I raise my arm cannon in warning, the weapon humming into high gear. He doesn’t bat an eye. “This used to be my home. Then they took everything from me.”
Sure, I take risks. Sometimes big ones. I’m never careless. But I can’t say I haven’t caused a paradox or two before…
“Pantheon,” I say, dropping my arm cannon by a fraction.
Big mistake.
Pantheon leaps at me, an energy barrier blossoming from his shield as my shot fires, a fraction of a second too late. He smashes into me, and I feel my nose break a second time, leaving me dazed. His left hand reaches out, calling his spear to him. I barely regain my senses in time to shift out of the way of his piercing jab.
“You will answer for your crimes before the Remembrancers!” he roars.
Welp. This went sideways, fast. Not a fight I want to pick in my current state. Pantheon throws his spear, and I push my suit to the limit, shifting as far away as I can manage up a hillside.
I rev up my arm cannon for a chrono-jump, and my entire suit shudders as Pearl tries to coax power through the damaged core. “Jump stability is severely compromised, safety protocols recommend—”
Pantheon’s spear flies at me, and I barely duck in time. It crashes into the remnants of a large stone statue behind me, shattering it into dust.
“Pearl! Override safeties! Now!” I don’t wait for confirmation before I aim my arm cannon and fire, relief flooding through me as I cross the portal’s threshold—cut short by a shock of pain as the untamed aether between dimensions lashes at me. I fall up, plummeting to an unknown fate…

RIPOSTE
I wake with a gasp.
Everything hurts. Like I’ve been thrown in the wash and tumbled dry.
Someone is cradling my head. A woman’s face hovers into view. Severe and stern, but in the moment, softened with concern.
“Thank goodness,” she says. “We thought we lost you in zat last jump.”
“Where…” I try to sit up, but an arc of electricity from the core on my chest spasms the muscles on my left side and I clench in pain.
“Zis is not good,” the woman says. “We don’t ’ave much time. He was right behind us. And ze Praetorian swarm… ” She shakes her head. “Lucian and Pantheon went on ahead, and Caitlyn is climbing for a good vantage point—”
I push through the pain and scramble to my feet. I know two out of three names she just said, and neither were ones you wanted to hear from the lips of a stranger immediately upon regaining consciousness after tumbling through unknown time and space.
The woman also stands, holding her hands out, trying to calm me.
“When am I?” I ask, clutching my chest. “Who are you?”
As I get a good look at her, my confusion mounts. She is, without a doubt, an enforcer. The chrono-blade at her side. That Pulsefire core on her suit—some sleeker, future model, from the shape of it. The dumb single pauldron on her uniform. So dumb. Very Remembrancers.
Confusion flits across the woman’s face—then her eyes widen in alarm. “You are not our Ezreal,” she says.
“Listen, lady, I’m nobody’s Ezreal but Ezreal’s Ezreal.” I look around me. I’m in a strange hallway of smooth, white, living metal, accented with chrome. Lamps, glowing blue, hang at regular intervals. It almost feels like we’re standing inside a Pulsefire suit.
A shiver of dread ripples down my spine. It couldn’t be. “This… Is this…?”
“Remembrancer’s Citadel. But you are not supposed to be here. I do not know when you’re from, but you must leave, before you arrive. Er, ze other you.” The woman’s eyes narrow. “You better still arrive. If you’re dead, I’m going to kill you.”
I shake my head. “I have no idea what or when this is,” I point my arm cannon at her chest. “…but I’ll be taking your Pulsefire core now,” I say with all the threat I can muster.
Right then, my arm cannon stutters and sparks. “Weapon systems at ten percent power,” Pearl says in my ear, exceptionally loudly.
From the look on the woman’s face, I swear she heard it too.
“Ah. You’re definitely from ze past.” The woman pinches the bridge of her nose, as if staving off a headache. “I forgot ’ow insufferable you were.”
I frown adorably. “I’m not insufferable. I’m charming.”
She stops dead in her tracks. Her eyes narrow, then she marches straight at me. I take a step back, but she’s already closed the distance and is jabbing a finger into my chest.
“So zis is why you told me that story last night.” She narrows her eyes at me. “About ’ow I had already saved your life twice. And ’ow I’d likely do it one more time before zis was all over.”
“Listen, I sincerely do not know what you’re talking—”
She doesn’t wait for my response but grasps me by my chestpiece and reaches a hand down my collar. I yelp—but she’s triggered some mechanism in there, and the core on my chest spins and opens, revealing the machinations within.
Okay. She’s definitely done this before.
Before I can protest, diagnostic nodes and microtools emerge from her gloves as she sets to work.
“Are… are you fixing it?” I ask, incredulous.
“You were such an idiot. Goodness. Zis damage. Did you pick a fight with Lucian? You picked a fight with Lucian. Incredible he did not kill you. Always was a much better shot.” She isn’t even talking to me, but muttering half under her breath as she works. I try to stand still—even I know you don’t jostle when a chrono-bending energy core is open and exposed.
A noise comes from down the hall, and the unmistakable sound of blaster fire follows. I frown, craning my neck to look, but the woman gives a sharp tug on my suit.
“Hold. Still,” she warns.
Blue sparks fly and a tiny smoke trail plumes, then she’s let me go and the core spins and locks back into place. I look down. The glow looks dimmer than usual, but it no longer arcs electricity every few seconds.
“It works…,” I marvel.
“For one more jump before it breaks completely. Maybe,” she says. “Now go!”
She turns to leave, then stops short. A hand dashes into a pocket, and she flips something at me through the air. I catch it.
“When you meet me, I will show you no mercy,” she says. “Make sure to show me zat. Otherwise, I will kill you.”
I gaze down and see a coin bearing an insignia—thin blade etched over a stylized rose. So many questions flash through my mind. But voices—followed by blaster fire—echo from further up the hall.
“That’s twice,” she mutters, largely to herself. “No time to figure out the third. Two will have to be enough.”
“That’s not very reassuring!” I call after her, but she is already running. She ignores me, turns the corner, and is gone.
I tap the core on my chest. One last time jump, huh. There’s no helping it. Only one person left I can think of that might be able to help me. Looks like I’m gonna have to see his smug face after all.
I really didn’t want to have to ask him for a favor. Again. Yet. Whichever.
I sigh. “Pearl,” I say, “boot her up.” I aim my arm cannon and fire, and once again, a portal opens. “Time to pay a visit to Ekko.”

TIMEWINDER
You ever meet someone who was just enough like you that it made you kinda hate them, because maaaybe it made you see clearly all the little things you hated about yourself, just a little?
Well, that’s not at all what’s happening here with Ekko.
It’s the mohawk.
“You said, ‘goodbye forever,’” he says, not looking back at me.
“I know,” I say.
“‘It’s been fun, but now we’ll never see each other again, which is probably for the best, given everything.’” Still not turning around.
I clench my teeth. “Yeah. I remember.”
“It’s been four seconds.” He sets down the weird cube he’s fiddling with and finally turns around, his arms crossing. Man, the trouble we went through to get that thing.
“Not for me. It’s been ages for me.” I can hear how whiny I sound, and I hate it. “I just… I needed to find you in a where and when I knew for sure you’d be.”
“So much for your cool guy exit,” he says, and I want nothing more than to wipe the smirk off his face. “What kind of trouble you find yourself in this time?”
“Oh, nothing major,” I say, walking down the steps and poking at the various panels and gadgets in his little hideout. “I, uh, I may have run into a little trouble with an enforcer…”
“Nothing new so far.”
“And maybe might’ve gotten, uh, roughed up a bit…”
“Don’t touch that.” My fingertips stop, hovering just above a potted plant suspended in an isolated temporal field. I watch as it shrinks from blossom to bud to new sprout, then age back again all within the same timeline, somehow collapsing all eventualities without generating new anomalies. Chronobreak, Ekko called it. I can’t help but shake my head. I didn’t even think Pulsefire tech could do that—and neither, probably, did the enforcers. It’s pure genius.
I hate it.
“My Pulsefire core is toast and I need a new one.” That “truth” thing worked so well with the lady enforcer, I figure I’d try it out on Ekko. “Got one lying around?”
Ekko laughs. I frown. It’s not at me—I’ve been through enough with this joker to know the difference—but it still stings all the same.
“Okay, sure, fine. Can you fix mine then?”
He walks up and leans in, peering at my chestpiece. “Oh man, this wreck? Are you kidding me? What, d’you take a point-blank blaster shot or something?”
“…Maybe.”
He looks at me, mouth agape. “Always protect the core!”
“Always protect the face!” I retort.
“Doesn’t look like you succeeded at that either,” he fires back, all judgement. He pokes my (very broken) nose, and I yelp in pain.
I wince. “Well then can you build me a new one?” Desperation is creeping in… and Ekko’s already shaking his head. “Why not? You built your suit from scratch!”
He shrugs, “Yeah, and part of that ‘scratch’ was the crystal core I snatched from an enforcer. Same as you.”
No way. Even Ekko has his limits.
I… I’m out of options.
I stumble into a chair, numb. “I burned my last jump getting here.” My head falls in my hands. “If you can’t fix this… then… this is it. I… live here now.”
“Like hell you do.” Ekko grabs his mask from the table with the cube. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said. You ain’t stayin’ here in my timestream. I’ll help you.”
I can’t even look at him. “What options do I have left?” I ask.
“Steal a core.”
I click my tongue in frustration. “Tried that. Harder than you’d think.”
I can hear him clattering around. There’s a click as he straps his Chronobreak pack to his back. “We’ll just need to find a real sucker. Some dummy who’s totally unprepared,” he explains.
He walks up to me and shoves my shoulder. I look up. He’s fully geared up and ready to go. To help me. And knowing the escapade he just got back from… he has to still be exhausted. But he gives me that stupid grin I hate and says, “Let’s go, dummy.”
I start to smile—but my face freezes mid thought.
Oh. Oh damn. That’s it! I am a dummy!
“I hate you so much,” I tell him, bull rushing him into a hug.
“Whoa! Hey! Get off me!,” he shouts.
He struggles, but I cling on. “How long have I been here?”
“About a minute. So, way too long,” he fires back.
His hand is in my face, but I grab his wrist. “Rewind me back to just before I showed up.”
He blinks. “Why—”
I grin. “Buy me back my one last chrono-jump. Then I’ll actually be out of your hair forever, goodbye, never see each other again, blah blah blah.” I reach my free hand to pat his mohawk, but he grabs my wrist this time.
“Don’t. Touch. The. Hair,” he says, icy.
I pull my hand back. “Ekko. Please. Last favor. One more rewind. Like last time.”
With a scoff he replies, “Last time was the last time. And you already know—Chronobreak isn’t meant to carry more than one person.”
I take a deep breath. “I know. And… one of these days… I’ll pay you back. For all the last times.”
“You said we’ll never see each other again,” he sighs.
I wink at him. “Give it four seconds.”
Ekko rolls his eyes, reaching behind his back. “You’re exhausting,” he says as he activates his Chronobreak device.
“Thanks, Ekko.” And I add with a smile, “Owe you one.”
“It’s up to four now,” he corrects, pulling me close as he pulls the cord. The world around us slows, stops—then rewinds at accelerating pace.
Man, I love this guy.

FLUX
Rain pours down in cascading sheets. Down the street, the faint glow of lamps struggle to pierce the gloomy dark, diffused in the downpour. I can barely see in front of my (still very much broken) nose. Every particle in my being hurts. A boom of thunder peals out, and my ears ring in the aftermath. I’m a mess. But it doesn’t matter.
I know this moment and this place so well, I can almost walk it with my eyes closed.
Up ahead, a pair of double doors burst open, and a scrappy boy stumbles out of some sort of shop, a large satchel slung across his shoulders, face obscured by the hood of a heavy cloak. He looks behind him, wasting precious seconds, before sprinting around the block.
I take a deep breath. “Pearl, start the timer.” In my upper periphery, the tracker begins ticking.
One one-thousand. Two one-thousand.
A bulky figure races out of the same door after him. A telltale blue glow emanates from their drawn weapon, white armor catching the dim street lamps, even in the rain.
Eleven one-thousand. Twelve one-thousand.
I hurry along, cutting across shortcuts I haven’t taken in a lifetime, yet still as familiar as Pearl’s voice in my ear. I have one narrow window of time to do this. And if I mess it up… I shake my head. I don’t get to mess this up.
Soon, I reach my destination—a looming dark monolith of a building. I find the fire escape, the ladder hanging a good distance above me. I take a running jump and barely reach, my arms screaming in protest as I hoist myself up. Now, just eleven flights of stairs to climb.
I’m going to take a real long nap once I make it out of this one.
Thirty-two one-thousand. Thirty-three one-thousand.
I make it to the roof and duck behind the single door that is the access from inside the building. I crouch low and hurry across, take my position behind where the door would open, and check my timer.
Thirty seconds to spare, give or take.
One chance to get this right.
Forty-five one-thousand. Forty-six one-thousand.
The door bursts open, and the boy from earlier runs through. But the enforcer is right behind. They reach for him and grab him by the arm. A scuffle. A fight. The boy’s satchel is torn from him, thrown backward. In my direction.
I dart forward and grab the satchel, reaching inside for my prize.
The sound of a blaster shot rings out over the rain.
Fifty-five one-thousand. Fifty-six one-thousand.
Two more blasts, in rapid succession. Nothing but the shah shah shah of the rain. Then the dull thud of a body hitting the ground below.
I shouldn’t look back… but I do.
The kid stands, hands shaking, holding a blaster. He slowly walks toward the edge of the building and pushes his hood back to better peer at the body below, revealing shaggy blond hair.
What a sucker. A real dummy.
I duck back behind my hiding spot, jostling with the satchel. The chime of a distant clock tower rings out—twelve chimes of midnight.
I open the satchel and pull out the Pulsefire core attached to crossing bandoliers, and the synchronized arm cannon. They look so small and simple now compared to the suit I had built and modified since then—but they represent the same thing to me now as they did when I first got my hands on them:
Freedom.
I strap the Pulsefire core across my chest. Check Pearl’s countdown. Past-me is about to walk away from the edge. Come looking for the satchel back where it fell. It won’t be there. He would panic—only to find it dangling from the nearby fire escape, where it had improbably slid and landed—or so I’d thought.
I manually punch in a destination on the old-new arm cannon from the satchel, aim, and fire. A crystal-clear portal opens. I smile.
Back in business.
Sure, I’m now doubly traveling on literal borrowed time—stolen from myself. And if I don’t return the core back to the satchel in time, well—I don’t even want to think about the multiverse-ending anomaly it would tear open. I look up and see me start wandering back this way. Only seconds until I’d see the satchel was missing—no time at all.
But when you’re a time traveler, no time… is all the time you need. I hope.
AEGIS
He hasn’t noticed me. Yet.
Stealth isn’t usually my strong suit. I’m much more of a shoot-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy. But considering the current state of my Pulsefire core… well, unusual times call for unusual tactics.
He’s just… standing there. Shield at his side. Spear stuck in the nearby ground. Staunch. Reflective. Booooring.
After dropping into an incredibly unpleasant dimension (blood-sucking gnats should never be that big), Pearl managed to pull enough power out of my damaged core to latch on to a chrono-signature of a nearby (well, relativity-speaking nearby) Pulsefire signal. Good news for me—bad news for the enforcer I’m about to jump for their Pulsefire core.
Why fix something when you can steal—er, borrow—a new one?
As fate would have it, I knew this enforcer. Pantheon. A real lunk of a man. Grouchy type: chip on his shoulder, probably a real tragic backstory, blah blah blah.
Currently, he’s standing in the rubble of some building I don’t recognize. To be honest, this whole dimension is one I don’t recognize—it looks like a real dump. Crumbling structures. Decimated vegetation. Evidence of mechanical and chemical conflict everywhere. Major bummer.
I shift in, nice and snug right behind him, arm cannon pressed lightly against the back of his head. “Don’t move,” I growl in my most threatening voice.
He freezes. From my vantage point behind him, I can barely see his visor chirp and whir, likely trying to figure out who I am.
“Ezreal,” he rumbles.
“How’s it goin’, Panth?” I say, grinning, before I remember that I’m supposed to be doing the angry growly thing.
“Here I was, spending all this time searching for you, and you just come to me.” His calm words are undercut by the tension in his voice, and the slight twitch in his scalp as he clenches his teeth in anger. Banter aside, he definitely knows I’m one sneeze away from obliterating his very chiseled, very handsome face.
“Listen, Panth, I know we had this whole thing going last time we met,” I say, leaning in. “But, thing is, I really don’t have time for you or for this wasteland today—”
“You are responsible for this wasteland.” The way he says it stops me cold. Flat, undeniable, matter of fact.
“Uhh, I don’t think so.” I know he’s stalling. I know I shouldn’t engage. I literally just did this to the last enforcer I talked to.
I can’t help myself.
“I generally remember my dimension-shattering escapades, thank you very much.”
“Reckless renegades like you are responsible for all of this.” Pantheon’s gaze casts across the devastated landscape before us, and I can’t help but look as well. “Careless jumps instigating paradoxes. Paradoxes tearing anomalies in space-time. Then… the Praetorians come.”
A chill runs down my spine. Praetorians… here…
Pantheon moves to stand, and I raise my arm cannon in warning, the weapon humming into high gear. He doesn’t bat an eye. “This used to be my home. Then they took everything from me.”
Sure, I take risks. Sometimes big ones. I’m never careless. But I can’t say I haven’t caused a paradox or two before…
“Pantheon,” I say, dropping my arm cannon by a fraction.
Big mistake.
Pantheon leaps at me, an energy barrier blossoming from his shield as my shot fires, a fraction of a second too late. He smashes into me, and I feel my nose break a second time, leaving me dazed. His left hand reaches out, calling his spear to him. I barely regain my senses in time to shift out of the way of his piercing jab.
“You will answer for your crimes before the Remembrancers!” he roars.
Welp. This went sideways, fast. Not a fight I want to pick in my current state. Pantheon throws his spear, and I push my suit to the limit, shifting as far away as I can manage up a hillside.
I rev up my arm cannon for a chrono-jump, and my entire suit shudders as Pearl tries to coax power through the damaged core. “Jump stability is severely compromised, safety protocols recommend—”
Pantheon’s spear flies at me, and I barely duck in time. It crashes into the remnants of a large stone statue behind me, shattering it into dust.
“Pearl! Override safeties! Now!” I don’t wait for confirmation before I aim my arm cannon and fire, relief flooding through me as I cross the portal’s threshold—cut short by a shock of pain as the untamed aether between dimensions lashes at me. I fall up, plummeting to an unknown fate…
RIPOSTE
I wake with a gasp.
Everything hurts. Like I’ve been thrown in the wash and tumbled dry.
Someone is cradling my head. A woman’s face hovers into view. Severe and stern, but in the moment, softened with concern.
“Thank goodness,” she says. “We thought we lost you in that last jump.”
“Where…” I try to sit up, but an arc of electricity from the core on my chest spasms the muscles on my left side and I clench in pain.
“This is not good,” the woman says. “We don’t have much time. He was right behind us. And the Praetorian swarm… ” She shakes her head. “Lucian and Pantheon went on ahead, and Caitlyn is climbing for a good vantage point—”
I push through the pain and scramble to my feet. I know two out of three names she just said, and neither were ones you wanted to hear from the lips of a stranger immediately upon regaining consciousness after tumbling through unknown time and space.
The woman also stands, holding her hands out, trying to calm me.
“When am I?” I ask, clutching my chest. “Who are you?”
As I get a good look at her, my confusion mounts. She is, without a doubt, an enforcer. The chrono-blade at her side. That Pulsefire core on her suit—some sleeker, future model, from the shape of it. The dumb single pauldron on her uniform. So dumb. Very Remembrancers.
Confusion flits across the woman’s face—then her eyes widen in alarm. “You are not our Ezreal,” she says.
“Listen, lady, I’m nobody’s Ezreal but Ezreal’s Ezreal.” I look around me. I’m in a strange hallway of smooth, white, living metal, accented with chrome. Lamps, glowing blue, hang at regular intervals. It almost feels like we’re standing inside a Pulsefire suit.
A shiver of dread ripples down my spine. It couldn’t be. “This… Is this…?”
“Remembrancer’s Citadel. But you are not supposed to be here. I do not know when you’re from, but you must leave, before you arrive. Er, the other you.” The woman’s eyes narrow. “You better still arrive. If you’re dead, I’m going to kill you.”
I shake my head. “I have no idea what or when this is,” I point my arm cannon at her chest. “…but I’ll be taking your Pulsefire core now,” I say with all the threat I can muster.
Right then, my arm cannon stutters and sparks. “Weapon systems at ten percent power,” Pearl says in my ear, exceptionally loudly.
From the look on the woman’s face, I swear she heard it too.
“Ah. You’re definitely from the past.” The woman pinches the bridge of her nose, as if staving off a headache. “I forgot how insufferable you were.”
I frown adorably. “I’m not insufferable. I’m charming.”
She stops dead in her tracks. Her eyes narrow, then she marches straight at me. I take a step back, but she’s already closed the distance and is jabbing a finger into my chest.
“So this is why you told me that story last night.” She narrows her eyes at me. “About how I had already saved your life twice. And how I’d likely do it one more time before this was all over.”
“Listen, I sincerely do not know what you’re talking—”
She doesn’t wait for my response but grasps me by my chestpiece and reaches a hand down my collar. I yelp—but she’s triggered some mechanism in there, and the core on my chest spins and opens, revealing the machinations within.
Okay. She’s definitely done this before.
Before I can protest, diagnostic nodes and microtools emerge from her gloves as she sets to work.
“Are… are you fixing it?” I ask, incredulous.
“You were such an idiot. Goodness. This damage. Did you pick a fight with Lucian? You picked a fight with Lucian. Incredible he did not kill you. Always was a much better shot.” She isn’t even talking to me, but muttering half under her breath as she works. I try to stand still—even I know you don’t jostle when a chrono-bending energy core is open and exposed.
A noise comes from down the hall, and the unmistakable sound of blaster fire follows. I frown, craning my neck to look, but the woman gives a sharp tug on my suit.
“Hold. Still,” she warns.
Blue sparks fly and a tiny smoke trail plumes, then she’s let me go and the core spins and locks back into place. I look down. The glow looks dimmer than usual, but it no longer arcs electricity every few seconds.
“It works…,” I marvel.
“For one more jump before it breaks completely. Maybe,” she says. “Now go!”
She turns to leave, then stops short. A hand dashes into a pocket, and she flips something at me through the air. I catch it.
“When you meet me, I will show you no mercy,” she says. “Make sure to show me that. Otherwise, I will kill you.”
I gaze down and see a coin bearing an insignia—thin blade etched over a stylized rose. So many questions flash through my mind. But voices—followed by blaster fire—echo from further up the hall.
“That’s twice,” she mutters, largely to herself. “No time to figure out the third. Two will have to be enough.”
“That’s not very reassuring!” I call after her, but she is already running. She ignores me, turns the corner, and is gone.
I tap the core on my chest. One last time jump, huh. There’s no helping it. Only one person left I can think of that might be able to help me. Looks like I’m gonna have to see his smug face after all.
I really didn’t want to have to ask him for a favor. Again. Yet. Whichever.
I sigh. “Pearl,” I say, “boot her up.” I aim my arm cannon and fire, and once again, a portal opens. “Time to pay a visit to Ekko.”

TIMEWINDER
You ever meet someone who was just enough like you that it made you kinda hate them, because maaaybe it made you see clearly all the little things you hated about yourself, just a little?
Well, that’s not at all what’s happening here with Ekko.
It’s the mohawk.
“You said, ‘goodbye forever,’” he says, not looking back at me.
“I know,” I say.
“‘It’s been fun, but now we’ll never see each other again, which is probably for the best, given everything.’” Still not turning around.
I clench my teeth. “Yeah. I remember.”
“It’s been four seconds.” He sets down the weird cube he’s fiddling with and finally turns around, his arms crossing. Man, the trouble we went through to get that thing.
“Not for me. It’s been ages for me.” I can hear how whiny I sound, and I hate it. “I just… I needed to find you in a where and when I knew for sure you’d be.”
“So much for your cool guy exit,” he says, and I want nothing more than to wipe the smirk off his face. “What kind of trouble you find yourself in this time?”
“Oh, nothing major,” I say, walking down the steps and poking at the various panels and gadgets in his little hideout. “I, uh, I may have run into a little trouble with an enforcer…”
“Nothing new so far.”
“And maybe might’ve gotten, uh, roughed up a bit…”
“Don’t touch that.” My fingertips stop, hovering just above a potted plant suspended in an isolated temporal field. I watch as it shrinks from blossom to bud to new sprout, then age back again all within the same timeline, somehow collapsing all eventualities without generating new anomalies. Chronobreak, Ekko called it. I can’t help but shake my head. I didn’t even think Pulsefire tech could do that—and neither, probably, did the enforcers. It’s pure genius.
I hate it.
“My Pulsefire core is toast and I need a new one.” That “truth” thing worked so well with the lady enforcer, I figure I’d try it out on Ekko. “Got one lying around?”
Ekko laughs. I frown. It’s not at me—I’ve been through enough with this joker to know the difference—but it still stings all the same.
“Okay, sure, fine. Can you fix mine then?”
He walks up and leans in, peering at my chestpiece. “Oh man, this wreck? Are you kidding me? What, d’you take a point-blank blaster shot or something?”
“…Maybe.”
He looks at me, mouth agape. “Always protect the core!”
“Always protect the face!” I retort.
“Doesn’t look like you succeeded at that either,” he fires back, all judgement. He pokes my (very broken) nose, and I yelp in pain.
I wince. “Well then can you build me a new one?” Desperation is creeping in… and Ekko’s already shaking his head. “Why not? You built your suit from scratch!”
He shrugs, “Yeah, and part of that ‘scratch’ was the crystal core I snatched from an enforcer. Same as you.”
No way. Even Ekko has his limits.
I… I’m out of options.
I stumble into a chair, numb. “I burned my last jump getting here.” My head falls in my hands. “If you can’t fix this… then… this is it. I… live here now.”
“Like hell you do.” Ekko grabs his mask from the table with the cube. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said. You ain’t stayin’ here in my timestream. I’ll help you.”
I can’t even look at him. “What options do I have left?” I ask.
“Steal a core.”
I click my tongue in frustration. “Tried that. Harder than you’d think.”
I can hear him clattering around. There’s a click as he straps his Chronobreak pack to his back. “We’ll just need to find a real sucker. Some dummy who’s totally unprepared,” he explains.
He walks up to me and shoves my shoulder. I look up. He’s fully geared up and ready to go. To help me. And knowing the escapade he just got back from… he has to still be exhausted. But he gives me that stupid grin I hate and says, “Let’s go, dummy.”
I start to smile—but my face freezes mid thought.
Oh. Oh damn. That’s it! I am a dummy!
“I hate you so much,” I tell him, bull rushing him into a hug.
“Whoa! Hey! Get off me!,” he shouts.
He struggles, but I cling on. “How long have I been here?”
“About a minute. So, way too long,” he fires back.
His hand is in my face, but I grab his wrist. “Rewind me back to just before I showed up.”
He blinks. “Why—”
I grin. “Buy me back my one last chrono-jump. Then I’ll actually be out of your hair forever, goodbye, never see each other again, blah blah blah.” I reach my free hand to pat his mohawk, but he grabs my wrist this time.
“Don’t. Touch. The. Hair,” he says, icy.
I pull my hand back. “Ekko. Please. Last favor. One more rewind. Like last time.”
With a scoff he replies, “Last time was the last time. And you already know—Chronobreak isn’t meant to carry more than one person.”
I take a deep breath. “I know. And… one of these days… I’ll pay you back. For all the last times.”
“You said we’ll never see each other again,” he sighs.
I wink at him. “Give it four seconds.”
Ekko rolls his eyes, reaching behind his back. “You’re exhausting,” he says as he activates his Chronobreak device.
“Thanks, Ekko.” And I add with a smile, “Owe you one.”
“It’s up to four now,” he corrects, pulling me close as he pulls the cord. The world around us slows, stops—then rewinds at accelerating pace.
Man, I love this guy.
Paintings Framed in Half-Light

Isa Mari De Leon

Visions pour in.

No mercy from my mind tonight.

I stand in a glade and imagine it drowning in sights unreal. Grass melts. Rocks swirl into twisted faces. Leaves turn to liquid and drip down branches, bleeding into pools.

The moon is a closed eye.

Brush in hand, my ethereal palette emerges.

Memories resurface.

I repaint, relive...

A man burned before me in his own armory.

Around us sweltered a painted fire with flames the color of daybreak. Its golden core beat with pain—with every wound his weapons had ever inflicted. The blaze climbed the walls, but did not catch, shedding neither ash nor smoke and spreading only as far as I willed it.

Yet it flared more vibrantly, more violently, than any real fire.

The man writhed. His senses scorched deeper than bone. He reached toward a weapon rack lined with serrated carvers—Noxian steel with Kashuri handiwork.

Kashuri, the thought arises. Still far, each step farther from Koyehn.

These blades were used to maim and kill. He caused suffering; he deserved to suffer.

Rendering the flames of a forge, I drew answers out of him. Who he worked with, for how long, why. His fury strained through every gasp. My painting thrashed in his eyes, mirroring every drop of wrath.

To make it stop, he offered everything. Money. Arms. Revenge, by his hand. But the only thing I cared about was this moment between us. Every vision that burdened me became his burden. The fire surged from my imagination into his, lightening the weight of my mind.

I kept my art from destroying him. We both now live with the marks of this, but while he chokes within flashbacks of the inferno, I survive in it.

The tide pulls me away. I repaint, relive...

A woman ferried me across troubled waters.

Around us, a golden-drawn breeze—dappled lights with specks of lantern bugs.

We sat across from each other. Gulfweed clambered from the surf and gripped the oars. Water lilies grew from the wellspring of my mind, an offering; I shaped them. The gulfweed took the painted blossoms instead, prying them apart.

The woman’s hands found rhythm. The course was not always like this, she said. She had been forced to carry marauders, arms runners, assassins, all with dark intent that seeped into the channel, which grew sick with chop and murk.

In her voice, a deep-stained guilt.

I listened. I gathered color from my palette and matched the sweeps of her oars, creating lilies and life anew—carps in the plums and oranges of sunset. I inspired her to recall kind memories from beneath layers of pain. Everything that burdened her became my burden.

The canal turned from lashing the pieces within itself to cradling them. The lines of the woman’s eyes furled with gentle joy. Somewhere in our minds, birds sang.

Our steadied thoughts, steadied hands, brought us to safer shores.

There’s light to what lives in my mind, and I can choose to paint that way. But... light always casts a shadow. I repaint, relive...

An artist stood beside me in a Koyehn studio.

Around us, inky blackness broken by candlelight. Far below an open window, the ocean—a violet gorge with seafoam for teeth, consuming itself over and over. The Temple of Koyehn stood for what would become its last night.

“All things must end,” said Jhin.

He watched a candle burning. I looked to the tide.

“I hope you enjoyed your time here,” I said.

He was still as death. “What does a wave feel for the rock upon which it crashes?”

Everything, I thought. Nature is emotional—capricious and harmonious.

“Nothing,” I said, shrugging. “You feel more for Koyehn than that, surely?”

“This place showed me all I desired to see,” Jhin said, “except one, final piece.”

He turned toward me, and I, him. “Which is?”

“Your... painting, Hwei. The truth of it. I know forced performances, and you’ve always hidden something. I’d like to know what.”

My eyes widened. What color they were then, I couldn’t tell. What Jhin found churning within, I dreaded.

“What do you mean?” I said. “I’m true to myself.”

An eye opens on my canvas, searching for anything from Jhin—some envy, resentment, passion, sorrow... Any feeling to explain him.

When we meet again, I’ll greet him like before. Eat together. Watch as he shifts in a new light. Ask, “Why Koyehn? Why me?” And I’ll paint what I know of him, returning life to his murders, putting colors back on agonized faces—surrounding us with a darkness so bright, it becomes blinding, and so blinding, it becomes freeing.

Art saves me, yet it can shatter me. Sometimes, I think I’m already lost—

“No,” Jhin said. “You are not.”

I remember how he convinced me to reveal my art. But I still paint arms to hold my past self back. Eyes to glower. Mouths to scream. At the same time, the arms push, the eyes behold, the mouths goad.

In past and present, I lift the brush...

I’ve finished tonight’s paintings.

Around me, black and gold—fractures of earth, light emitting from the chasms, songbirds in gilt cages, the infinity of an eye, straining with full veins.

The moon witnesses. Blot everything beneath it—Koyehn, Jhin—and I’m still left with myself.

The vision erupts. In its place, the forest is just the forest, holding itself together.

Tears draw down my face. My palette dissipates.

Awake, I dream of my next piece.
The Slumber Party Summoning

Ariel Lawrence

Okay, I’ll admit slamming the door in their faces was a bit of an overreaction.
“Lulu.” I make the words come out calm and easy, but I can feel my palms go sweaty in the oven mitts I’m still wearing. Can’t forget about dinner. I keep my white-knuckle grip on the front door handle. Lulu stops her absent-minded twirl in the hallway, coming up to stand next to me. I take one more breath in and out before turning towards her. “Do you know why Ahri’s teammates are standing on the porch?”
“Yep,” she says, nodding her head. She draws herself up a little taller, “You said, ‘This is a man-da-tory Star Guardian council meeting.’”
Just my luck. I instinctively release the door handle, as I hear Lulu do an extra bubbly—but very stern—Lux impression enunciating each of those syllables.
I definitely said that.
To Jinx.
Who still isn’t here yet.
Lulu makes for the handle, the smile on her face positively beaming. “They’re Star Guardians, right?”
I nod dumbly.
“Super,” she says as she opens the door wide.
The three of them are still standing on the porch where I left them, although in decidedly different positions. Ez looks like he was mid-sentence trying to calm down a much more annoyed Sarah Fortune.
No, not ‘Sarah’, I remind myself. Sarah’s for friends. I learned that all too well from last summer’s outdoor adventure.
Miss Fortune’s usual smirk is now an angry grimace as she furiously texts something on her phone. Behind her, the quiet girl with mint green hair—Soraka—is carrying a bakery box from Pantheon’s Pastries. They look at me intently, probably wondering if I’m going to slam the door again. I can actually hear crickets in the bushes.
Lulu reaches out into the uncomfortable silence and takes Ezreal and Fortune by the wrists, pulling them inside. Fortune’s so surprised, she goes along with it, nearly dropping her phone. I can feel the pink climb up my cheeks as Ezreal flashes his trademark grin in my direction as he passes by. I wave meekly with one oven mitt.
Soraka leans in close and whispers “Cinnamon rolls” in my ear, like a spy password. She smiles, hands the heavy bakery box to me, and walks quickly to catch up with the others.
“Welcome,” I hear Lulu announce from the living room, “to our Star Guardian sleepover party!”

This is awkward.
I can hear the second hand of the clock in the kitchen tick off another minute that we’ve been uncomfortably quiet. Ezreal is wedged on the small couch between Fortune—still texting on her phone—and Soraka, who’s quietly watching Lulu while nibbling on a cinnamon roll. Janna and Poppy are sitting on the stiff dining chairs Lulu dragged in from the other room. Lulu is bent over the coffee table, folding a piece of paper into some complicated shape. I have no idea what she’s making, but her soft humming is the only other sound besides the clock.
And me, well, I’m pacing a well-worn path in the carpet.
The first to break the silence is Fortune. She stops texting, lets out a disgusted sigh, and finally puts her phone face down on her lap, the small pistol charms on the end jingling loudly. She looks around, taking in everything in the room from the faded pattern on the curtains to the beige-colored couch for the first time. Her disappointment is evident. As she sinks back into the cushion behind her, Ez leans forward.
“You all do this regularly?” he says. “Get together like this?”
Poppy and Janna stare at him. Poppy still doesn’t understand why Ez was chosen as a Guardian. I keep telling her the First Star chooses each of us for a reason. She crosses her arms and watches him, clearly still not convinced.
“Yes, doesn’t your team?” Janna asks. She’s calm, at least on the outside, but there’s a slight breeze circling the room even though the ceiling fan isn’t on. I can tell she’s just as on edge about them being here as I am.
“Ahri…” Ez starts and then looks at Fortune. Fortune rolls her eyes, her perfectly feathered bangs rippling as she shakes her head. “Well,” Ez continues. “Ahri prefers to be out and about where there are people. She’s not much of a homebody herself, and she figures most trouble wouldn’t be either.”
Great. They think we’re homebodies. Could this get any worse?
“Is that why she and Syndra didn’t come? They have something better to do?” Poppy asks, her foot tapping out an impatient rhythm against the foot of her chair. Janna stiffens at the mention of Syndra.
Soraka jumps in and tries to change the subject. “Your friend, the one with the long red pigtails—”
“The loud one,” Fortune interrupts. “The one with a rocket launcher.”
“Yes, the one with the glitter bombs,” Soraka finishes. “Is she coming tonight?”
“Jinx? She’s always fashionably late.” I look at my watch. ”She just loves to make an entrance.” The words are barely out of my mouth when the front door opens and slams loudly. I hear the familiar sound of a tote bag full of Shiro, Kuro, and a handful of fireworks hitting the ground in the hallway.
“Luxy-Poo! Windchimes! Shortstop!” Jinx calls out in a sing-song voice. “I’m home!”
Jinx saunters into the living room just as Lulu triumphantly finishes the last fold in her project. Jinx lowers her sunglasses to the end of her nose. It’s dark outside. It has been dark outside for more than an hour. “Looks like you got the party started without me.” Jinx smiles, obviously enjoying all eyes on her, until her gaze finds Ez stuffed in the middle of the couch.
“Oh, he’s here too,” she says, the enthusiasm sucked out of her like a fast-leaking balloon. She tugs on the bow in Lulu’s hair and focuses on what looks like an oversized paper pincher in the young Guardian’s hands. “Whatcha got there, Loops?”
Lulu takes her hands out of the folds of paper and hugs Jinx around the waist. “I need another number.”
I stop my pacing to take a better look at the star-shaped object Lulu’s made. It’s a paper fortune teller. I haven’t seen one since primary school. The numbers on the flap show how many times the fortune teller should open and close it, with the last number chosen revealing some kind of mysterious destiny. My fortunes always ended in doom. Maybe because I always played with Jinx.
“Four,” I say. Maybe Lulu’s paper project can be over quickly.
“Twelve,” Jinx says.
“Two hundred forty-six,” Fortune says. Her satisfied smirk is back.
“Two hundred and forty-six it is.” Lulu smiles at Fortune and grabs a pen off the coffee table, scribbling the number onto one of the flaps. Lulu sits down at Soraka’s feet, offering up the paper oracle, encouraging her to pick a number to start the game.
“Do you braid each other’s hair too?” Fortune asks watching Lulu and Soraka, her words dripping with sarcasm.
“No—” I begin.
“Sometimes,” Poppy says at the same time, rushing to defend the unaware Lulu. Janna nods enthusiastically.
Ugh. Can neither of them play it cool?
“What I mean is, no, not all the time. We don’t braid each other’s hair all the time,” I stammer. “I mean, we discuss team stuff. Important Star Guardian matters.” I cough. “You know, saving the universe.”
“And braid each other’s hair,” Poppy adds truthfully.
Fortune rolls her eyes and goes back to her phone.
“How about we skip the usual slumber party stuff and talk serious Star Guardian matters?” I offer.
“Bor-ing,” Jinx says. She eyes Lulu as she slowly opens and closes the paper fortune teller for Soraka. “How about we play a faster game with more consequences?” I hear the trigger click of Shiro and Kuro waking up.
Ezreal claps his hands and rubs them together excitedly. “Sounds dangerous, I’m in.”
“Great. Let’s start.” Jinx smiles, but then quickly turns on Ez. “Truth. Or. Dare. Is it true that you have romantic intentions towards our Luxanna?”
“Jinx!” I shout.
Ez opens his mouth like a beached fish, definitely not having prepared for this particular game.
“Truth,” Janna says loudly, diffusing the rising energy in the room as if blowing out a candle. All heads snap towards her.
“Ez has to answer,” Jinx says watching the color rise in Ez’s face.
“First person to volunteer goes first,” Poppy says. “That’s the rule.”
“Fine,” Jinx says, obviously dissatisfied. “Is it true that you are older than Poppy’s hammer?”
I watch Janna’s look from Jinx to Poppy. Jinx is thrilled to see Janna momentarily flustered, while Poppy absently touches the handle of the hammer where she’s set it against her chair. Janna’s gaze settles on Soraka for a moment and then moves on. “False.”
Poppy eyes her hammer with a newfound awe and respect.
“Really?” Jinx raises an eyebrow. “But, it’s true that Short Stack’s hammer has more personality, right?”
“You can’t ask her another question, Jinx.” Poppy points out. “It’s Janna’s turn to ask a question. That’s the rule. Janna, go on, who are you going to pick?”
“Soraka,” Janna says gently. “Truth or Dare?”
Soraka is halfway through a cinnamon roll, staring attentively at Lulu opening and closing the paper fortune teller while counting under her breath. Shisa sits on Soraka’s shoulder monitoring the whole operation with a focused frown, at once completely confused at what Lulu is doing, but intent on making sure it happens with the utmost efficiency. Without missing a number—and to Shisa’s satisfied approval—Lulu nudges her elbow into Soraka’s knee, letting her know she’s been tapped into the group game.
“Yes,” Soraka smiles, a bit absent-minded. “That’s me.”
“Truth or dare?” Poppy repeats, taking her self-appointed position of game referee very seriously.
“Uh, truth,” Soraka says.
Janna thinks for a minute. “What do you remember—”
“Well,” Soraka jumps in, excited to be included in the game. “Ezreal and I went to Pantheon’s earlier. I had a cinnamon roll. He had an iced coffee, no milk because his tummy doesn’t like dairy—”
Poppy clucks her tongue. “Janna, it has to be an ‘Is it true’ question.”
Soraka sits up straight on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her, and waits. Zephyr floats in from the dining room and curls up in Janna’s lap. Janna rests a hand on her companion, a slight breeze rustling its fur.
“Soraka.” Janna’s voice is low and calm, barely above a whisper. “Is it true you can remember a time when the First Light was whole?”
“Oh, yes.” Soraka nods with her whole body. “I mean, true.”
The room goes eerily silent. She looks around. All of us are staring at her. Jinx can’t remember what she had for lunch today. Even Poppy and Lulu can only say what it was like when they were called. I’ve asked Janna about the First Light and especially its guidance, but the memories, even for her, are murky and broken.
“Wait, you all can’t remember?” Soraka’s voice wavers a bit. “But—”
“You have to pick one person to ask a question, Soraka,” Poppy says cutting her off with the rules of the game. “And they have to pick truth, and—”
“We get it, Smalls,” Jinx jumps in, changing the subject before Janna or I can ask more questions about Soraka’s memories. I’ll have to find a quiet moment later to talk to her.
“My turn to pick. Okay, mmm…” Soraka bites her bottom lip and then turns in her seat to face Ezreal. “Ez. I pick Ez!”
“No fair. I wanted to pick Ez,” Jinx pouts.
Poppy shakes her head. “You already went.”
“Ladies, please. There’s enough adventure to go around.” Ez tucks both hands behind his head and settles back on the couch. Fortune pulls out one the small throw pillows from behind her, fluffs it, and slams it back into the sofa and Ezreal, conveniently knocking the literal wind out his gallant sails in the process. I stifle a giggle into one of the oven mitts I’m still wearing.
Ez blushes and tries to recover his normal breathing gracefully.
“Dare,” he chokes on the words. “I choose dare.”
“I… dare… you…” Soraka pauses between each word, watching Poppy to make sure she’s getting it right. Poppy nods. Ez waits expectantly. “I dare you to do that thing you do,” she says finally.
Ez shrugs, totally not following whatever Soraka is talking about.
“You know, that thing you do. With Yuuto,” Soraka continues, clapping excitedly for him. “And the portal thing.”
“Oh, yeah. Cool. I can totally do that.” Ez reaches into his backpack and taps on the bright blue of his Guardian emblem. “Hey, bud—wake up. It’s showtime.”
“Portals? Portals sound dangerous.” Poppy asks as a white-winged familiar pounces into the room. It leaps into the air, wings spread, its bright blue eyes the same color as Ezreal’s.
“Portals are dangerous. Very dangerous. But lucky for you, you’ve got me. And this isn’t quite a portal. Technically it’s a shortcut through another dimension.” Ez flashes a lopsided grin at Poppy and starts looking around the room, eyeing a black ceramic bookend and a small potted plant. “Alright, Soraka, do you think that bookend is good enough for a demonstration of a little arcane magic?”
Soraka shakes her head, wrinkling her nose. Between Yuuto’s chirping loops, I can hear Lulu deep in concentration.
“Two hundred and forty-four. Two hundred and forty-five,” she counts. “Two hundred and forty-six!” she announces triumphantly. “It’s done, Soraka.” Lulu waves the paper oracle around in her hand.
“The fortune maker!” Soraka lets out a giggle. “I almost forgot.”
“Fortune maker it is!” Ez says, “Yuuto, let’s go. Time for a true display of skill.”
Yuuto arcs in the air, turning towards Ez. It looks like Yuuto is going to crash right into Ez, but at the last minute, Ez and Yuuto combine, granting Ez a brilliant set of white feathered wings that fill the room. Less than a second later, Ez disappears through a wavering portal to reappear hovering over Lulu. He plucks the paper fortune maker out of her hands.
“Just going to borrow this for a second,” he says and then a moment later he blinks back to the sofa, leaning comfortably back against the couch cushions with no wings and a happily purring Yuuto. He unfolds the flap and reads the fortune aloud. “‘Opportunity can’t knock if you don’t build a door.’ Huh. I like it, Lulu.”
Poppy groans. “She copied that from our takeout cookies last night.”
“That’s not her fortune,” Lulu says. She gestures to the flap to the right. “It’s the next one.”
Ez unfolds the second flap and reads it to the group. “Only in darkness can the light shine brightly.”
“The First Star told me that,” Lulu says.
“The First Star talks to you?” Fortune cocks her head in disbelief. “Still?”
“Yes,” Lulu’s face is a serene smile. “Ezreal, when you open a portal like that, where did you say you go?”
“Uh-oh,” Ezreal whispers.
“What’s ‘uh-oh’, champ?” Jinx leans over Ez as he struggles to keep a grip on the folded paper.
“We may need to get rid of this.” Ez gives a weak smile. “Like right now.”
Before anyone can make good on that suggestion, the paper oracle rips itself out of Ez’s hands. It tumbles around the room like a possessed autumn leaf. A high-pitched whine begins to grow. It seems like it’s coming from the fortune teller itself.
The paper folds and unfolds a dozen times, finally dumping out a small but squat, black and green, glowing creature. Everyone is on their feet.
“Did you just bring an annoying, interdimensional hitchhiking demon into Lux’s living room using your not-a-portal portal power?” says Jinx, watching the unruly little monster jump from the arm of the sofa to the carpet.
“I might have,” Ez whispers. “Arcane magic doesn’t come with an instruction manual.”
“Cool,” Jinx says.
Ez looks at me, mouthing the word Sorry.
“This has only happened once before,” he says.
Fortune elbows Ez in the side.
“Okay,” Ez corrects himself, “This may have happened more than once. Possibly six or seven times, but it’s totally not a big deal.”
The little creature jumps on the coffee table. All I can see is Poppy’s hammer rear back and take a wide swing. There’s a crack of wood and the coffee table splinters. That is definitely not going back together ever again. The dark shape darts away unscathed.
Janna stands up, her arms lifting in the direction of the creature. A breeze starts to build, shifting the debris of the coffee table and fluttering the pages of one of the books that had been sitting on it just a moment ago.
“I got this, Janna.” Jinx is returning from the hall, Shiro and Kuro nipping at her heels.
“No,” Fortune says. I snap my head around to see one of Fortune’s shiny white pistols leveled at my face.
“Woah, Sarah. Not so fast. That’s a little close quarters, don’t you think?” Ez tries to step closer to her to push her guns off their mark. I feel my stomach drop as adrenaline coats my insides. This was her plan all along. My luck’s run out. She is going to end me.
“Fortune—”
The words barely leave my lips before I hear the pull of a trigger.
“Time to say goodbye,” she says. There’s a sharp pop like a balloon. My hands go up to my nose and eyes, quickly checking them out that they’re all intact and where they belong. A second later, there is no demon, and fine bits of paper start to rain down on everyone as the fortune teller explodes into confetti. It looks like it is snowing in my living room. Lulu is dancing in it, of course.
“Look, now it’s a party,” she exclaims. Shiro and Kuro tumble each other in the remains of the coffee table, while Shisa looks very disturbed at their delight in wanton destruction.
Unfortunately, my relief at being whole is short-lived. An angry, beeping alarm begins to wail as a smoky haze creeps throughout the house, originating from the kitchen.
“Smells like burning,” Jinx says.
Oh, no. Dinner.

The air is thicker in the kitchen. What was dinner for the team is now charred ruins stuck to a metal baking sheet. I cough and wave the oven mitts I’m still wearing, trying to move the smoke haze around. I open the window, letting the cool fall air in. The alarm finally shuts itself off.
My eyes are starting to water. I tell myself it’s from the smoke and the mess in the oven, but I’m pretty sure it’s from the mess of things going on in the living room.
“Everything’s ruined.” My voice is small and pathetic even to my own ears.
Then I hear a shuffle of footsteps on the tile floor. Janna or Ez must have braved the smoke to offer some comfort. I wipe my eyes quickly, surprised as I turn around.
It’s Fortune.
“Well that’s definitely not edible,” she says.
I nod my head in agreement. “Definitely not.”
Fortune’s phone vibrates with a text message. Ahri, I’m sure, telling her what all the cool kids are doing.
“This is probably not the way you wanted to spend your Friday night,” I offer.
I pick at the burned bits of what was dinner on the aluminum foil. “Sorry Lulu dragged you into all this. Dinner’s ruined. The party’s ruined. I totally understand if you want to go. We’ll figure things out by ourselves.”
Ugh. Too many words. Why can I not stop talking around her? I take a deep breath and try to start more clearly.
“Fortune—”
“Sarah,” she interrupts. “You can call me Sarah.”
“I thought Sarah was for friends,” I say.
Fortune’s phone vibrates again. Instead of looking at it, she puts it in her back pocket. “I came in here to apologize. You looked pretty freaked out back there.”
“Have you ever been on the other side of one of your pistols?”
“No, I guess not,” she chuckles. Her voice takes a serious turn. “You need to understand I would never hurt another Guardian. Not ever.”
I nod. There’s something more behind her declaration, a pain she hasn’t quite put away.
“I know Ez kinda made a mess of things, he does that sometimes, but would you mind if we stayed? Soraka would be fine if dinner was nothing but cinnamon rolls, but Ez ordered some pizzas to say sorry for the little portal mishap. But I totally get it if you want us to go—”
I hold up an oven mitt-clad hand. It’s Sarah who seems to have too many words now.
“Wait, you want to stay?”
Sarah opens her mouth, but is interrupted by an ecstatic Lulu skipping into the kitchen, a bouquet of pastel fabric and ribbons spilling out onto the floor around her. She shoves an armful of trimmed white flannel into both Sarah and my hands.
“These are for you,” she chirps before skipping back out of the kitchen.
“Lulu, dear,” I call after her. “What are these?”
Sarah holds hers up by its shoulders, inspecting Lulu’s handiwork.
“You’re right,” she says, smiling. “This is not how I usually spend my Friday nights, but I think this whole pajama party thing might actually be a little fun.”
“Really?”
“Well, yeah.” Her grin takes on a particularly mischievous bend. “And, I’ve always wanted to see what Ezreal looks like with braided hair.”
Pantheon

Atreus was born on the hostile slopes of Targon, and named after a star in the constellation of War, known as the Pantheon.
From an early age, he knew he was destined for battle. Like many in his tribe, he trained to join the Rakkor’s militant order, the Ra’Horak. Never the strongest or the most skilled warrior, Atreus somehow persevered, standing up, bloodied and bruised, after each bout. In time, he developed a fierce rivalry with a fellow recruit, Pylas—but no matter how often Atreus was cast onto the stones, he stood back up. Pylas was impressed by his unrelenting endurance, and through the blood they spilled in the training circle, a true brotherhood was born.
Atreus and Pylas were among the Rakkor who stumbled across a barbarian incursion, surviving the ambush that left the rest of their patrol dead. When the Aspect of the Sun refused to destroy these trespassers, Atreus and Pylas swore to capture the power of the Aspects themselves by climbing to the peak of Mount Targon.
Like so many before them, they underestimated how arduous the ascent would be, with Pylas shivering his last upon finally reaching the summit. Only Atreus remained as the skies opened, making him host to a divine Aspect, with the power to take revenge.
But it was not a man who returned to the Rakkor afterward, spear and shield gleaming with celestial might. It was the Aspect of War itself, the Pantheon. Judging Atreus unworthy, a warrior who had known only defeat, it had taken control of his body to pursue its own ends—a task it considered too great for mortal men.
Cast into the furthest corners of his own mind, Atreus endured only vague visions as the Aspect scoured the world for Darkin, living weapons created in a bygone age.
Eventually, Pantheon was goaded into battle not far from Mount Targon by the Darkin Aatrox, who sought the mountain’s peak. Their fight raged into the skies, and swept through the armies of men beneath… until the impossible occurred. The Darkin’s god-killing blade was driven into Pantheon’s chest, a blow that carved the constellation of War from the heavens.
But as the Aspect faded, Atreus—the man it had considered weak—awoke once more. Impaled upon Aatrox’s blade, and with the power of the Aspect’s weapons dimming, he took a ragged breath, and spit in the Darkin’s face. Aatrox sneered, and left Atreus to die.
Hours later, as the crows descended, Atreus painfully stood back up, stumbling back to the Rakkor in a trail of blood. After a lifetime of defeat, his will to live, and his anger at betrayal, were enough to stave off the death that had claimed War itself.
Atreus recovered on Pylas’ homestead, nursed back to health by his friend’s widow, Iula. There, Atreus realized he’d spent his life looking to the stars, never considering what lay beneath. Unlike gods, mortals fought because they must, knowing that death lay in wait. It was a resilience he saw in all life, the threats unending.
Indeed, barbarian invaders now threatened the Rakkor’s northern settlements, including Iula’s farm. Though it was months before he could lift a spear, Atreus was determined to end this scourge himself, and eventually set out with the Aspect’s dulled weapons in hand.
Yet, when he arrived, he found his sworn enemies already under siege. He knew from their cries, from the overwhelming stench of blood… they faced Aatrox.
It was Aatrox who had driven the barbarians into Targon, Atreus realized. Though he’d considered them his foes, they were much like the Rakkor—mortals who suffered in the conflicts between greater powers. Atreus felt a cold rage at both the Darkin and the Aspects. They were no different. They were the problem.
Atreus put himself between the barbarians and Aatrox. Recognizing the battered shield and spear of the fallen Aspect, the Darkin mocked him—what hope had Atreus now, without the Pantheon’s power? But even though Aatrox’s blows cast him to his knees, Atreus’ own will reignited the Aspect’s spear, upon hearing the cries of the people around him… and with a mighty leap, he struck a blow that severed the Darkin’s sword arm.
Both blade and Darkin fell to the ground. Only Atreus still stood, and watched his namesake star blaze back to life in the heavens.
Though he often yearns to return to Iula’s farm, Atreus vowed that day to stand against Aspects, Ascended, demons, and any who wield power so great, it can only destroy. Forsaking his own name, he has become a new Pantheon—the Aspect’s weapons fueled by the will to fight that can only exist in the face of death.
For with the divine Pantheon gone, War must be reborn in man.
For Those Who Have Fallen

When I land in the ruins of Nerimazeth, it does not feel as if I have leapt, celestial magic burning my path across the sky, but as if I have fallen.
I am, after all, only a man.
Around me on the swirling dunes, a cohort of Ra’Horak fights, Solari warriors far from the temples of Mount Targon. They have marched with fifty spears, three weeks into the desert—a distance I have crossed in moments—to investigate a power that grows, even as their own wanes. Here, the sun they worship is so constant, it is as if the shadows of the past are still burned into the desert, their outline all that remains of an empire long lost. Buildings, now covered in dunes. A sun, once meant to raise men into the heavens, now dulled and fallen to earth.
Shurima was born, and died here. It was in Nerimazeth that the first Ascended were created. Meant to defend Shurima against any threat, those that outlived the empire were driven mad by long centuries of conflict, becoming Darkin and laying waste to the world before being contained.
But, as I well know, some abominations birthed by Shuriman hubris live on…
The sound of metal rings in my ear, as a spear whips past my helm. Then another, and another. The ringing rises up into a full battlecry, as the Ra’Horak unleash their might. Yet, as steel fills the sky, a blast of magic tears through the spears’ path, carving a swath of destruction through the ruins.
Once the dust clears, I see it. The reason I have come. A creature looms, burning and broken like the empire it would rule. It is unlike any Ascended I have ever seen, a shattered god that has claimed this fallen city, and would see it rise again.
But once… it too was a man.
I will remind it what that means—to draw breath in the face of destruction. I will remind them all.
“The god-warrior!” one of the Ra’Horak cries. “We cannot defeat it!”
“Let me show you how a god dies!” I bellow in response, and I charge toward the creature, raising my spear. It is with their power that the spear glows—the power of the gods. The power of the stars. My muscles strain to bear the strange weight of the magic, as the creature unleashes another blast from within its shattered form. My spear is not burned away as the Ra’Horak’s were, but instead burns with its own light. It streaks like a comet at the Ascended, casting it to the earth, and its blast into the heavens.
Before me, only feet from the rent opened by the creature’s blast, a Ra’Horak cradles the body of a fallen warrior. Her own arm has been scorched by magic, where she sought to shield him from the attack.
“You… You are an Aspect,” she says, though in her eyes I can see the desperation. She is pleading, begging me to say yes, so that I can save her. So that I can save her friend. All around, the Ra’Horak lines are broken, along with their will to fight.
I do not answer as the spear is called back to my hand by the magic she so craves, its return an echo of my own thrust. The Ascended has left no blood upon its tip, only sand. It possesses no flesh other than magic and stone.
I want to tell her my name. That I am Atreus, that I too was once a Ra’Horak looking to the skies for the power to save me… But that man is dead. He died on Targon’s peak, along with his brother, Pylas. Slain by the Pantheon, and by his own failures. And no matter how hard I try, I can bring neither Atreus nor Pylas back. Even the god is gone, its constellation torn from the heavens.
Instead, I turn to face the creature once more.
“You must fight,” I tell the Ra’Horak simply. “You all must.” Around us, the ruined city burns, as the Ascended’s magic refuses to fade.
I run over sand fused into glass, each new blast of magic shaking the whole world, until it feels like the earth itself must fall apart. That only the heavens will remain. But I refuse to give up. I see ballistae, abandoned on the ground. The Ra’Horak raise their shields against debris cast from falling buildings, disappearing into dust.
“Fight! You must fight!” I yell louder, my voice carrying more of the gods’ authority than I would like, and then I am upon it, my spear slashing into the Ascended, cutting across the broken stone it boasts instead of a face. This close, its blasts crash into my shield, pushing me backward. I slash again, my spear trailing magic, and again, I raise my shield only just in time to deflect the Ascended’s wrath.
My feet dig into the dirt. I struggle to hold the beast at bay as the magic beats into me with the Ascended’s will, made only stronger by cruelty and rage. I push against it, snarling, and power lances off of the shield wildly in every direction—cutting through the ruins, the sky, and through the Ra’Horak still cowering beneath both. My hands begin to shake, and it is not to the warriors, but to myself, that I growl against lungs gasping for breath.
“Fight…”
The creature’s eyes narrow. It knows. The earth beneath me can no longer hold. My strength can no longer hold. As I fall back to earth, the magic in my spear dies, and the helm clatters from my coughing face.
I spit blood into the dirt, and struggle to raise my head. But all I can see of Nerimazeth is that one Ra’Horak warrior, framed by smoke and chaos—as she looks back at me, into eyes only now revealed… and for the first time, sees something other than an Aspect. The man who cradled Pylas, as snow formed from his dying breath.
I wonder if she recognizes the stars, and my destiny, tattooed upon my chest. The scar that cuts through them. It is no longer pleading that shows in her eyes, as I see the light grow on her face, the creature gathering power for one more blast. Though her arm is ruined, and though her friend lies still, she picks up her shield and begins stumbling toward me, as inevitable and determined as death.
“What… is your name?!” I cough through ragged breaths, and still, the light grows brighter.
“Asose,” she says firmly as she stands beside me, and turns her shield to face the blast.
The ruins fill with impossible brightness that promises to burn everything away, until it does, and only darkness is left. There is no more power, no more Aspect. Where Asose once stood, there is nothing. Only my memory.
But still, I can feel my scar, throbbing with pain. Reminding me I am alive, and of every moment that brought me here. My brother-in-arms, Pylas, telling me to stop getting blood on his victory… The barbarian raid, each of us near death… Collapsing upon Targon’s pinnacle… The Darkin blade, cutting through death to awaken me again… Empyrean wheat, clinging to the mountain… The mud on my hands as I put down the plow, and pick up the spear…
All of that would be nothing without a woman taking up her shield—knowing that she would not survive, but that she would fight. Her power, her sacrifice, so much greater than that of the stars. So much greater than mine, and the weapons of the Aspect that have kept me safe.
It will not be in vain.
As I struggle to my feet, broken, I see the shadow of the Ra’Horak, emerging from cover, eclipsing the Sun Disc cradle behind me at the center of the ruins. I rise with them, not as a god, but as a man. My pantheon, all who have fallen, earning me another moment. All who have lived, and all who have died facing a moment of truth where they must decide why they fight. Who they love. What they truly are.
What are gods before this courage? They are nothing.
“Asose!” I yell into the ruins, though my ribs dig into my lungs.
“Asose!” the Ra’Horak call back. They too stand amidst the rubble, their shadow looming all the larger as the Ascended gathers its magic again.
And though I am broken, and though the god is dead, I feel the power ignite once more in my spear, as the plume on my helm bursts alight. It is calling me to battle, as the Ra’Horak cast their spears once more.
And, for a moment, a star lost with the Constellation of War gleams brighter than the sun.
Her name was Asose.
Perennial

Dana Luery Shaw

Many had feared that the spirit blossoms would never return to Ionia, a sign of the imbalance still permeating the land and its people. Much of a generation had come of age without the spirit blossoms, without the festival.
But Paskoma had learned over a lifetime that, no matter how long the blossoms were away, they always came back.
Now, for the first time since the war began, there were fresh buds upon the spirit trees, delicate and pearlescent and perfuming the air with a biting sweetness. Paskoma remembered the last festival well. It had arrived just a few summers after the birth of her granddaughter. She and her husband Okerei drank the spirit tea together and spoke with their lost loved ones, making sure that they remained well and showing them that they were remembered. It was a way to let go, to find peace, and to move forward after loss. Then their loved ones returned to the spirit realm, content knowing that the family would continue thriving.
This time, though, Okerei would not be by her side. He had died fighting against the Noxians shortly after they first invaded. There was so much to tell him. So much to ask.
But first, she needed to get things ready.
Paskoma’s teahouse did not have a name. Visitors to Weh’le were able to identify it by the distinctive teapot sculpture outside the front door. Back when Paskoma built the teahouse, she’d asked a talented woodweaver to create it out of different trees that bloomed different colors depending on the season. Presently, the teapot was a vibrant fuschia, half covered in blush-pink lanterns.
“Ituren?” Paskoma called into the teahouse. “I need your expertise.” He was tall and able to hang the lanterns on the higher branches.
“I am with you, my love.” A man of few words, Ituren placed the lanterns where Paskoma pointed, smiling down at her all the while. But it was a sad smile. A worried smile.
Ituren had been Paskoma’s love and companion since the last days of the war. But without the spirit blossom festival, they had never been able to commune with the spirit of Paskoma’s husband. Okerei had never been able to give his blessing to them, and so Paskoma did not feel able to marry again. Ituren was patient and understanding, having lost his wife half a lifetime ago, but he worried. Paskoma did her best to reassure him, but truthfully she wasn’t certain what she would do if Okerei did not approve.
After they hung the lanterns, Paskoma and Ituren readied the guest rooms and the common areas: washing the floors with wine, placing two candles in front of all the mirrors, and dividing the rooms for the onfall of paying guests they were expecting for the festival. They had started early in the morning, but the golden light of late afternoon shone on them when they heard a knock at the door. “May past joys bloom, Emai!” came a familiar voice.
Ituren and Paskoma shared a confused look as they both responded with the traditional “And present sorrows wilt.” That voice sounded so similar to that of Turasi, Paskoma’s daughter, but it couldn’t be. Turasi lived in Siatueh, a village on the other side of the bay, nearly a month’s journey across the mountains.
But when the door opened, it was Turasi who stepped in. Her smile was just like her father’s. Paskoma rushed to her daughter and hugged her tightly. “Turasi, I didn’t know you would be coming! What a lovely surprise. Where’s Satokka? Where’s Kumohi?”
“Satokka is just outside with our things. Kumohi… decided to stay in the village.” Paskoma recognized the tightness in Turasi’s voice as she spoke of her husband. “We wanted to surprise you, for the spirit blossom festival. So Satokka can meet her o-fa.”
Ituren looked at Turasi with a question in his eyes. “The buds only came out this past week.”
Turasi frowned, ready to reply, when a lanky young woman with a dour expression kicked open the door and pulled a wooden trunk into the room. Ituren bent down to help, but she waved him away. Turasi gave her daughter an exasperated look. “Satokka, let Ituren help you.”
“I can do it myself.” Without another word, Satokka dropped the trunk in the middle of the floor and went back outside.
Paskoma turned back to Turasi. “You’re here for the festival?”
Hesitation, then a nod. “Yes. We’re here for the festival.”
It didn’t matter that she wasn’t being honest. Paskoma could tell from the circles under her daughter’s eyes that she needed to be allowed her time. She knelt at the stove to light a small fire before looking back up at her daughter with an encouraging smile. “Then we will make sure this festival is one to remember.”
Long ago, the world was perfectly balanced. It was as an enormous tree full of life, with each branch, each leaf, each bloom carefully and thoughtfully positioned so that the sun and rain could nourish them all. The people, the animals, and the spirits were at peace. There was no word for “war” because there had never been battles or bloodshed.
One day, the Gatekeeper and the Collector crossed paths. The Collector saw how many spirits the Gatekeeper had led through the spirit realm to peace and happiness, and he grew jealous of her—
“Wait. The Gatekeeper? You mean the Fox.”
Ituren paused in his retelling of the old tale at Satokka’s interruption. He had enlisted her help in burying all of the blades in the house—the kitchen knives, his saw and sickle, and the rusted sword Paskoma had inherited from her aunt.
“I have heard people say the Gatekeeper is a fox, or a dog, or perhaps a leopard,” Ituren said with a smile. Satokka hadn’t spoken much in the days since she and Turasi had arrived. Ituren had hoped that a task and a story would help loosen her tongue. “Do you picture her as a fox?”
Satokka rolled her eyes. “I’m not a child. You don’t have to speak to me like that.”
They continued digging in silence.
Ituren was patient. He could wait.
“When Fa-ir tells the stories,” Satokka said slowly, “he just calls her the Fox. So… she’s a fox.”
“I like to think of her as an otter,” Ituren said softly. He had always thought of the spirit realm as an endless river full of currents that could pull you off of your path, with a nimble otter showing the newly arrived spirits how to navigate treacherous waters.
Satokka stole a sideways look at him. “You can keep going,” she mumbled. “I still want to know why you bury these.”
Ituren cleared his throat and began to speak again.
The Collector grew envious of all the spirits that the Gatekeeper had helped find peace, and so he devised a plan. He took two of his strongest, loudest bells and melted them down. Then, over twelve nights, he hammered them into two blades. Into the first, he poured some of his Jealousy. Into the second, he poured some of his Obsession. Then, when spring began, he let the spirits of those swords bloom in the physical realm, and the swords grew from the ground like saplings.
Saplings. That was what the two Brothers thought the blades were when they stumbled across them in the forest.
The Brothers were the best of friends, perfectly loyal to one another and understanding of their roles in the world. The Elder would one day inherit their father’s own famed sword and lands, while the Younger would inherit their father’s ship. Both believed they would be great heroes, one at home and one abroad. One spring, they found the two sword-saplings growing in the forest. Neither of the Brothers had ever seen a tree grow so shiny, or so sharp. Together, they chopped them down, each shouldering one to bring back to their home.
Little did they know that this would be the last thing they would ever do together as Brothers while they remained alive. For as they walked home, the strange sap from the swords began to flow onto their necks, filling them with horrible thoughts and feelings… those of the Collector. Though they did not become enemies that day, they would eventually bring those blades together, a clanging of bells that would sound throughout the physical and spirit realms as nothing had before.
Satokka frowned. “That’s not how it happened. The Brothers make the swords themselves. They melt down their father’s sword after he dies, each thought that the other had the better blade. That’s why they went to war. The ‘Collector’ had nothing to do with it.”
Wiping the dirt from his hands, Ituren looked down at the hole he had just created in the guest room floor. The roots of the room grew thick and healthy. With just a little pressure, he was able to carefully slide the first blade beneath those roots. “These are old stories,” he said, “told and retold hundreds and thousands of times over many, many lifetimes. I’m sure we each get part of it right. This is the version I know best.”
Satokka considered for a moment as she idly ran her finger over the rusted sword. “So you bury these blades because of the Brothers?”
“Yes. When brothers cannot take up arms against one another, they do not fight. It ensures a peaceful festival, one where we let go of past strife. And look.” Ituren pointed to the sickle, lodged beneath another root. “If you give them over to roots that are grown in peace, the blades cannot grow as the sword-saplings did, rooted in violence.”
He wondered if she would want to hear the rest of his tale, but decided not to chance losing the silk-thin connection they were developing. Instead, he held out his hand for the sword.
Satokka clutched it to her chest protectively. “No. I’ll bury it. Just show me where.”
That was good enough.
Ituren showed Satokka how best to dig beneath the roots without disturbing them. They moved through the house, burying blades under the roots of each room, and giving the women the opportunity to talk seriously for the first time since they arrived.
After dinner, while Ituren and Satokka went off to bury the blades, Paskoma and Turasi uncorked the good wine. It had a rich cocoa-plum taste that lingered on the tongue and made real conversation with a reluctant speaker just a little bit easier. Three glasses in, Turasi was spinning her wine in the cup, watching the firelight dance in the liquid.
“Turasi?” A pause as Paskoma weighed how to ask. Turasi brought her eyes to meet her mother’s. “Why did Kumohi stay in your village? Why didn’t he join you and Satokka for the festival?”
Turasi didn’t want to talk about this yet, Paskoma knew, but they had been at the teahouse for three days now. She needed to know if this was the sort of trouble that could have followed them to Weh’le, if there was something she or Ituren would have to do to ensure they would be safe. Especially during the festival, with all of these strangers in town.
With a sigh, Turasi began. “There are Noxian ships that sail through the bay, to trade with Siatueh and the other villages along the cliffs. They are very… careful. Trying to make sure we know that they aren’t going to do anything. Hurt anyone.” She held her cup so tightly in her hands that Paskoma feared the glass would shatter. “But some of the other folks in Siatueh swear they have seen those same Noxians aground, surveying the area or sending their birds to do it for them. They don’t think the Noxians will ever let go of their designs on Ionia.”
Paskoma nodded. The invasion began after similar surveys, so she understood why it would make her daughter nervous. “And Kumohi?”
“Kumohi has not seen it with his own eyes, no. But he trusts the word of our friends and neighbors who have.”
“So he wanted to stay to confirm the sightings.”
“Not exactly.” Turasi’s hands shook as she took a long sip of wine. “They want the Noxians gone, Emai. They climb aboard the ships and toss everything that isn’t nailed down. For now, that is all they do, but…” She trailed off.
“A resistance.” Okerei had been a part of such efforts before.
“The Noxians have taken notice. They’re sending more ships. Ships with soldiers. I knew it was time to leave.” Turasi hugged her knees. “Kumohi disagreed.”
Paskoma stood and pressed a gentle kiss to Turasi’s forehead, dropping her hands to cover her daughter’s. “It is lovely having you and Satokka around. You do not have to leave once the festival is over.”
A ragged whisper, wet with tears. “Emai—”
“No.” She squeezed Turasi’s hands. “I don’t want to lose anyone else I love to war. Stay.”
Satokka tried to keep on task as she walked through the marketplace the next day. Ituren was to pick up decorative bells to replace a few broken ones, and Satokka had just picked up the two masks her o-ma had commissioned for her and her mother. The plan had been to run the errand, get back to Ituren, and go home. Well. To the teahouse.
But she was entranced by everything that was on display for the festival. The robes, the cakes, the flowers… She had been very young at the last spirit blossom festival, and she couldn’t remember much.
The cake stand had just caught her attention when she spotted an enormous puppet show just past it. The theatre, a large wooden wall on wheels with a translucent paper center, was set up in the middle of the square. Puppeteers moved intricately cut paper puppets as a fire mage created the light for the shadows. A narrator stood in front, explaining the story to a captivated audience as the puppets enacted it.
“And so the spirit of Despair asked our heroine Tsetsegua, ‘Do you truly believe you can find him?’ Tsetsegua nodded, knowing that to speak her hopes in front of Despair would make them fade into nothing.”
Satokka scowled. She had been lost in the beauty of the performance, but the story pulled her out of it. Tsetsegua wasn’t supposed to speak with Despair when she went to the spirit realm to find her lost love—Despair never spoke to anyone.
“Despair raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps I can help you. What is your name, mortal woman?’ Thinking quickly, Tsetsegua replied, ‘Nargui.’ No one. Now, Despair was bound to help Tsetsegua find the spirit of her lost love. And because Despair did not know her true name, Tsetsegua was safe from her wiles. For now.”
The stories her fa-ir told burned brightly in her mind as she observed this other, wrong version of the Tsetsegua tale. Satokka wished she could have stayed at Siatueh with her father. She would have been able to aid the resistance. She was tall and strong and could help throw Noxian goods into the sea. It was more than they deserved. She didn’t remember the time before the war, but Satokka knew something had been lost that Ionia had not yet reclaimed.
Disappointed, she turned to leave. But a larger crowd had started to form. One she wasn’t prepared for.
There were Noxians in Weh’le.
They were not wearing armor, they did not carry weapons, but there was always something in a Noxian’s expression that could identify them. An innate hostility, perhaps, or a sense that they were better than those around them.
But these Noxians—there were six of them, middle-aged or younger—were carrying themselves differently. They wore apologetic looks, as though they knew this festival was not meant for them. And yet here they were anyway. It made Satokka’s stomach turn.
The Ionians gave them a wide berth through the market. Whispers passed throughout the stalls, but not a soul told them they weren’t welcome. One of the younger Noxian women gave a hesitant grin. She held up a small bag of coins and started to walk to the cake stall.
Satokka looked around, waiting for someone to say something. To do something.
It would have to be her.
Satokka stared down the Noxian woman approaching the cakes until their gazes met. The woman held out her hand, as if to introduce herself.
Never breaking eye contact, Satokka spat at her feet.
A collective gasp shivered through the crowd. Satokka never saw how the Noxians reacted, because at that moment someone grabbed her roughly by the shoulder. She looked up—it was Ituren, bowing and apologizing for her actions as he led her away.
A small glance past Ituren as he rounded the corner showed Satokka that the Noxians were just… standing there. The woman she’d spat at looked lost. Pride rose in Satokka’s chest. Good. The Noxians should feel small.
They circled around the festival perimeter to lessen the chance that they might be followed. But Ituren had picked up new bells, and he jingled with every step. Finally Ituren threw the bells to the ground and led her back to the teahouse.
Before they entered the back door, Ituren spun to face Satokka. She blinked in surprise at his expression—she had never seen him look anything but cheerful or tired. But now, his eyes showed fear. “They came here in peace, to celebrate the festival with us, Satokka.” Ituren’s voice was never this sharp. “You did not have to do that.”
Satokka thought back to her father in Siatueh, to the resistance, to the Noxian soldiers making their way into her town at this very moment.
“Yes, I did.”
Turasi burst into the front room in a near panic and went straight to her mother. Paskoma had just handed a new guest a pot of tea, a clean set of sheets and towels, but she waved the woman on when she saw the terror and anger written on Turasi’s face.
“What is wrong?” Paskoma asked gently. Through gritted teeth, Turasi told the story of what happened to her daughter and Ituren at the marketplace. It had taken a while to get more out of Ituren than a sheepish apology for not bringing back any bells, and getting Satokka to speak about something she’d done wrong was like trying to wring water from a stone.
“I cannot believe she would do something so reckless, so dangerous!” Turasi had been so pleased to bring her family to the safety of Weh’le and her mother’s house. But not only were there Noxians in town, but Satokka had brought their attention to herself. That was the entire reason they had left Siatueh.
“She is nearly grown, Turasi. She is pushing her boundaries to see where they truly lie.”
“And that’s what will get her killed. Those Noxians… they may not have had weapons on them, but you know that every soldier who served in that army is a stone-hearted killer.”
“Excuse me.” Both women turned, startled. It was the new guest, standing in the doorway of her room. She was tall, with dark hair and unusual amber eyes partly obscured by the hood of her cloak. “You’re talking about warriors in Weh’le?”
“Yes, exactly,” Turasi said, disconcerted. She hadn’t noticed that they had walked toward the new guest as they spoke. The air around the woman seemed to shimmer strangely, moving differently around her than the rest of the teahouse. For a moment, Turasi wondered if she might be dreaming. “They’re trained in the ways of war. And they need to leave, but I don’t—”
“Oh, no,” the guest interrupted with a good-natured smile. “You misunderstand me. I am in search of someone who could serve as a protector. A guard. Any strong fighters in town could be persuaded to join me, if you only point me in their direction.”
“No.” Paskoma’s voice was clear and insistent. “I refuse to allow anyone dangerous to stay here during the festival. If you insist upon finding yourself a guard, then I will have to insist you find a different teahouse.” She held her hands out, ready for the guest to return her linens.
Instead the guest laughed airily, charmed by Paskoma. “This is the best teahouse in town, is it not? I am not going to stay somewhere inferior if I can help it. I will respect your wishes and not bring anyone dangerous through those doors.”
With a wink, she disappeared into her room. Paskoma let out a sigh and turned back to her daughter. “She will be fine, Turasi. Satokka is too smart to make herself a target for long.”
Turasi nodded. The words stuck in her throat, but she smiled at her mother. She forgot how soothing it could be to let her mother take care of her, sinking back into the roles they played during Turasi’s childhood.
There were differences, of course. When she was a child, Turasi never saw anything of her parents’ worries or fears. They were strong and ever-present, like the mountains or the sea. It wasn’t until after her father died that Turasi saw her mother lost or uncertain.
And now, with the spirit blossoms set to bloom soon, that uncertainty around Okerei had returned. What would her mother do if she didn’t get the answer she was looking for?
But then, Turasi wasn’t sure Paskoma knew what answer she truly wanted.
Satokka had never seen such a meal before in her entire life. To celebrate the first night of the festival, Paskoma cooked up a feast for the twenty or so people lodging at the teahouse. So Satokka filled her plate and her belly and did what she had come to enjoy most while staying with her grandmother: talking with and listening to the other guests.
Everyone wore their masks or costumes. Turasi instructed Satokka to wear her own mask out at the festival, and to never take it off. The Noxians could be watching, ready to retaliate. But Satokka didn’t mind. She loved her mask. It was intricate, with large ornate horns and eyes that twisted down the face into a wicked grin. This was the face of the Taker, the little girl who was there at the moment of every death.
During dinner, Satokka got into a heated discussion about the Taker with the amber-eyed guest. The woman was dressed like the Fox—or the Gatekeeper, as they called her in Weh’le—with lifelike fuzzy ears atop her head and markings like whiskers drawn across her face.
“But the Taker is the one who is actually there when a person dies,” Satokka insisted. “So it makes more sense for her to guide spirits to the spirit realm.”
“So then why,” the guest asked in an amused drawl, “do we remove the sharpest tooth in a person’s mouth and place it in their palm when they die? It isn’t for the Taker, I know that much.”
Satokka shrugged. “It’s payment, to cross the veil.”
“Who do they pay it to? Who would have use for those teeth? The Khumaia.”
“The what?”
“Your Gatekeeper. She wears each tooth she is given on an endless necklace, to understand the life of the spirit she leads down to the spirit realm. By the time they arrive, she knows whether the spirit will follow her peaceful path or Rakhsasum’s path of torment, even if the spirit does not know yet. She will do everything she can to help those destined for pain, but their fate is unveiled in that tooth.”
“Really?” Satokka had grown used to the differences in the stories between Weh’le and Siatueh over the last couple of weeks. Now, she looked forward to all of the tales she would tell her father when she saw him next.
The woman giggled. “No. I made it up.”
“Oh.”
“From what I can remember, it’s so we can celebrate the age of the person who died. The ground down tooth of a wise elder, the sharp youthfulness of a soldier cut down in her prime.” She paused and smiled at Satokka. “But I like telling stories that haven’t been told.”
When it was time for dessert, Satokka excitedly ate the cakes that Ituren had spent the last two days baking for this night. They were a little burnt on the bottom, but the sweet sticky center was full of flavor.
Ituren passed around the cakes by hand, starting with Satokka and ending on the guest with the excellent costume ears. The guest put her hand on Ituren’s forearm and looked deep into his eyes as she quietly asked him a question.
Satokka watched as Ituren’s eyes lost focus, then he nodded, saying, “Of course. Anyone you would want to house here is welcome, whether they are skilled with a blade or not. We do not discriminate here.”
The guest squeezed his arm in appreciation. “Thank you. You should let your wife know, she might not be as understanding as you are.”
Again he nodded, but Satokka noticed when Ituren turned to go back into the kitchen that his eyes weren’t their usual color. For just a moment, so briefly that it could have been a trick of the light, his normally dark brown eyes were the same shade of amber-gold as the fox-eared woman sitting beside her.
As the last rays of the sun disappeared over the water, the spirit blossoms, now in full bloom, began to glow in the moonlight. The festival-goers let out a cheer—finally, after all this time, the blossoms had truly returned. They lit the lanterns on the march up to the temple in the mountains, a warm and cheerful light to counter the eerie silver of the flowers upon the branches.
Paskoma wished she felt as elated as everyone else. After the feast, she and a masked Satokka had dressed in their finery and gone out in search of Okerei’s blossom, the one that would allow her to connect to his spirit and speak with him. In the past, it had never taken long for Paskoma to find the flower she was looking for. There was always a tether, it was said, between the still-beating heart of those alive and the still heart of their loved ones.
This time, though… there were so many spirits upon the trees.
She had never seen the branches so full, so bountiful. Some whispered that Ionians were not the only ones upon the trees, that the Noxians had poisoned their festival even in death. The cawing of ravens in the distance seemed to confirm their fears. Paskoma didn’t believe that. There was a simpler explanation. There were just so many who needed to come back now, more than ever before. The trees were heavy with the hopes of those trying to connect.
And she had not yet found Okerei.
She feared him lost, or not yet at peace, or simply not desiring to speak with her. Perhaps their link had been severed after so long apart.
Paskoma kept smiling through the tears that threatened to spill and encouraged Satokka to keep looking. She would not let her granddaughter’s first spirit blossom festival be ruined by her own grief. This was supposed to be a celebration, and she knew it was important that Satokka learn to understand the joy to be found in these reunions.
Turasi and Ituren joined them after they finished clearing away the feast. “Have you found Fa-ir yet?” Turasi asked as she slipped on her own mask, a beautifully painted Tsetsegua with tears carved into her cheeks. Paskoma shook her head, her throat too tight to speak. “Then Satokka and I will continue to look. Why don’t you rest for a moment?”
Paskoma allowed Ituren to lead her to a bench, where she sat and observed. She saw families crying over pots of spirit tea, begging their loved ones to stay just a little longer. She saw children playing soldier with sticks for swords, a seriousness to their expression that ought not be there. She saw the worry and the whispers from those around the festival who listened to the ravens and stared at the spirit trees with distrust and contempt.
This was not the spirit blossom festival she remembered. She wondered if it ever would be again.
Her eye was drawn away from the festival by the new and patterned sounds of drums in the distance, the blazing of flames on a nearby mountaintop. Paskoma’s hand went to her chest—she knew this sound. She had heard it after fierce battles, when the Noxians burned their dead on enormous pyres.
“I wish,” she sighed, “we did not have to spend so much time looking to the past.”
“Is that not what the festival is about?”
“No.” She turned to look at the trees, her back to the flames. “It is about letting go of the past, and moving forward into the future. So many people forget that.” Though she could not see it, Paskoma thought she could feel the heat of the fire lapping at her, threatening to engulf her, her family, everything around her, all that was and all that would come. “And this feels different.”
“Different in what way?”
“Does this look like letting go?” Paskoma asked, sorrow in her voice as she gestured around them. “Or does it look like we are holding on to something so tightly that it’s bound to come back?”
A warm hand enveloped her own. She looked up into Ituren’s eyes as he spoke softly to her.
“You are upset that we have not found Okerei’s blossom yet.”
A tear coursed down her cheek. “I… everything is different. The spirit blossoms have returned, but can we return to how we were before? Can anything be made right?”
Ituren squeezed her hand gently. “There is still time. We will find him, my love. Your heart’s tether to him was—is—the strongest I have ever seen. You will speak to him and see that, though some things may change, others never will. He will always love you, as you will always love him. And whatever his answer may be…” He paused as he brought her palm to his lips. “Speaking with him will bring you and your family peace. And that is all I want for you.”
Paskoma’s tight smile softened into something real as she gazed at the man she had loved for so long. She squeezed his hand in return. “Our family, Ituren.”
He closed his eyes before tears could come and placed her hand over his chest. She could feel the beating of his heart beneath her fingertips, strong and steady and alive.
For the first time, she knew what she wanted. Regardless of what Okerei would say.
She was ready to let go of the past, and move forward into her future, with Ituren at her side.
The six Noxians tried to keep their ceremony private, but it demanded attention, an insistence that all honor the fallen of Noxus. They had traveled from a small island in the middle of the bay to celebrate the dead in the Ionian way, but had been turned away from the spirit blossom festival at Weh’le earlier in the week. So they had to keep the traditions of their own people and remember the dead the only way they knew how. Though the Noxians had brought little with them on the journey, the remembrance ceremony was easy to improvise.
Laurna beat the Wolf drum, Giotto and Samtha stoked the fire, Helia and Arnaut built the effigies from fallen pieces of timber and twine. Jacrut tossed Samtha’s uneaten festival cake onto the coals. No one felt right eating it after the marketplace incident and so it became the first offering, lending the air a burnt honey scent. Then, with the dramatic flair that came from a noble upbringing and a priestly training, Jacrut threw the effigies atop the flames.
“We send these souls into the sky,” Jacrut intoned, his voice ringing out in the clear, still night. “So that their ashes may fall over all the world.”
“May their deaths bring Noxus across the seas,” the others murmured.
“May their bodies nourish the soil so that we may grow.”
“May they not have died in vain.”
“And may their souls—”
Jacrut stopped suddenly as a huge burst of wind fed the flames, spiraling them toward the stars. It overwhelmed him for a moment, driving him to silence.
This was the promise of Noxus. A flame that would burn everything in its path, even its own people. He and his comrades had realized this even before the war finished. They were all deserters trying to make a life for themselves tucked away from those they had abandoned and those they had hurt.
No one wanted them.
This was not Noxus. This was not their land, and he was unsure if their gods could hear them here. Was unsure if he wanted them to hear. He knew the prayers, yes, but he wasn’t sure he still believed in them.
The blossoms on the spirit trees glowed, almost pulsing in the light of the fire. Jacrut swallowed hard. No, this was not Noxus. This was something beautiful, dangerous, terrifying. They were what made him nervous. The blossoms, blooming for the first time since the war.
Because if the gods weren’t watching, that meant the only eyes on them were the spirits of Ionians. People he and his comrades had killed, people who had no reason to feel anything toward them other than rage and resentment.
People he hoped they would not have to fight against again. Because they had all seen the ships, the soldiers. They knew what it meant. What they didn’t know, was what it would mean for them. For their lives in Ionia. For their service to Noxus.
“May their souls find rest among our ancestors,” he croaked out, his throat dry, “and lend us their strength for the battles to come.”
He did not want the spirits to hear his prayers.
A Piece of Shadow Cake

Odin Austin Shafer

Xayah jumped upward into the trees’ foliage, dodging the gunfire that exploded from the temple’s walls. The humans called their weapons “Kashuri rifles”. They were deadly, and the town’s guards were obviously trained warriors. But they were too late. Too late to hit her. Too late to stop the tribesmen she commanded, who had already climbed the ancient temple and reached what it guarded: a quinlon.
It was a circle of five massive rocks, orbiting around each other, floating in the sky. A great ward, it contained ancient enchantments, which held back and limited the natural magic of this land.
From the quinlon’s gray stone hung a dozen ropes, attached to spikes that the vastayan tribesmen had cast and hammered into it. The tribesmen were the Kepthalla vastaya. Their bodies were feathered, like Xayah’s own tribe, but their heads were long, and from their crown grew great horns.
Hanging from some of those lines, with ropes tied to their waists, were the bodies of the slain. And on the ground far below were more dead bodies. A dozen comrades who had died trying to reach the stone—killed by the humans’ cruel missiles. But their sacrifice had, at least, secured the line Xayah needed.
She nodded to Rakan, her lover and partner. He stole a kiss from her as he took the bundle she held. Then Rakan bounded into the treetops.
“Whooo!” He screamed in joy as he skipped from tree to tree before jumping into the sky with breathtaking speed.
His final leap traversed the height of the tower, a distance greater than a dozen men standing on each other’s shoulders, and still he was rising higher and higher into the air.
Xayah felt her lungs empty. So many had died for this moment… and in it she feared her lover might join the dead. Everything seemed too bright. Rakan’s cape glittered like the sun through the thin autumn clouds. The guns were tracking him. Aiming. It all came down to this. But the energy of his leaps was slowing…
Above him, on one of the ropes, a Kepthalla tribesman swung down from his hiding place, toward Rakan. But Rakan was slowing. And the guns began firing at him.
It was a ludicrous plan, based on some idiotic circus move she’d seen Rakan perform. Xayah knew she shouldn’t have used it. She was risking the battle, the fate of this tribe, and her lover’s life all on Rakan’s luck and athleticism. He was a warrior and an acrobat certainly. But there were so many guns. If he failed—if he hesitated—if he slowed… if he got hurt…
The tribesman hanging from the stone held out his hands and Rakan grabbed them, propelling himself even further upward.
And then he was on the side of the quinlon. He ran up its near-vertical surface, his cape flowing behind him majestically. And he was laughing. Laughing and mocking the mortals firing at him.
“You beautiful bastard,” Xayah whispered joyfully. She felt her hands unclench at last.
“What, warleader?” said the diminutive Kepthalla messenger-singer beside her.
“Sound the retreat! Get everyone off that rock,” Xayah roared.
The messenger blew the horn he carried. Its strangely deep and melancholy sound echoed through the forest and off the temple’s walls.
The Kepthalla tribesmen began to flee from the quinlon. Rappelling, jumping, falling, before running for the forest. They were easy prey for the human marksmen… but they didn’t take the bait. The mortals knew that Rakan was the only target who mattered now. But now he was alone.
Gunshots exploded around him, peppering the stone of the quinlon with tiny holes. When he reached the top, Rakan set down the package, then glanced around in confusion. He looked down at Xayah and shrugged.
“No, you damn idiot!” Xayah screamed. “The matches! The fire sticks behind your ear!” But her words were lost in the gunfire and distance.
Xayah leapt to the top of the trees, exposing herself to the marksmen, and mimed reaching behind her ear.
The bullets were impacting all around him, sending up tiny shards of shrapnel and dust. But Rakan only covered his eyes from the afternoon glare and looked to Xayah. Seeing her gesture, he seemed to suddenly remember the rest of her plan.
He yanked a match from the feathers behind his ear. Struck it on the rock. Leaned over the bundle with it. Then jumped clear.
He used his cape to direct his fall, gliding and banking, somehow always evading the gunfire directed at him. He was a battle-dancer, and their true skill was feeling what an enemy would do, even before they did.
He crashed through the treetops, lost control briefly, hit a tree limb, then somehow backflipped and landed gracefully beside her.
“I am gorgeosity in motion!” Rakan shouted in triumph. He held the smoking match out to Xayah. “Do we still need this fire stick?”
“Ashai-rei,” Xayah swore while rubbing her forehead. “No, we don’t need the match anymore.”
“Now what?” Rakan asked.
“Watch as one of the humans’ own weapons—a bomb used against our people in Navori—watch as it destroys our prison!” Xayah shouted, not to Rakan, but to the Kepthalla tribesmen gathering around her.
Only silence replied… followed by another round of gunfire raking the woods.
“Rakan, did you remember to light the fuse?” Xayah asked with all the calm she could muster and wondering, not for the first time, why she trusted him with these things.
“Fuse?” Rakan asked.
But before Xayah could scream, an explosion cracked overhead.
The largest rock of the quinlon broke apart. It was larger than any house, and its remains crashed into the other floating stones around it. And then the other, surrounding rocks stilled, no longer rotating.
“I put the fire stick on that little string,” Rakan said as the remaining stones of the quinlon began to quiver. Then, all at once, they plummeted downward. The earth shook as they crashed into the valley and monastery below.
The giant quinlon was gone, and the countless centuries of magic it had held back was suddenly released, like a dam crumbling and releasing a flood.
Around Xayah, the forest shone with light. Will-o’-the-wisps pulsed to life like miniature stars. Oddly-shaped beings of wild magic, glimmering with the light of the spirit realm, faded in and out of existence all around her. It was glorious.
She looked to Rakan, and he smiled back at her. His cape shimmered, crimson and gold. His feathers ruffled and peacocked. As the magic swelled, the faint impression of horns grew out from his sharp cheekbones, but he batted them away in favor of darkening his face to a color matching Xayah’s.
“There’s so much, I can feel it. I can feel it changing us,” Xayah said as she breathed it in. It was as if a great iron bar had been clamped tightly around her chest, throat, and skull for years, and now she was finally free of it. Her feathers rose around her and she realized with only a passing thought she could effortlessly change their color, shape, and size. Though the initial wave of freed magic was ebbing, it took only a flick of her consciousness for her to rise into the air, high above the ground.
“We are born from here. On these edges of this world. Half of spirit, half of form.” The Kepthalla tribesmen gathered beneath Xayah, and her voice boomed as she spoke. “This is what we have fought for. This is the land of your ancestors. As it was. As it is meant to be.”
Xayah slowly floated back down to the ground. The tribesmen around her, with their mouths open in wonder, were also transforming. Invigorated by the magic suddenly available to them, they cheered, laughed, and roared in joy.
Xayah’s Kepthalla messenger-singer—a previously shy runt—grabbed her and spun her around in a hug without warning. “You did it!” he screamed in joy. “You did it!”
“Now, you must defend it,” Xayah laughed as she gently pushed from him, allowing herself to float away.
The messenger, with the slightest twist of the magic available to him, transformed his sounding horn. Now it was longer than a tiger, and a dozen bone pipes grew from the instrument. Into it he blew a song as joyful as it was overwhelming.
Behind Xayah the forest was moving. The trail they had taken here, which turned right then left, now also turned the other left, into the spirit realm. A direction that went through places-past, places beyond the forests—and would transform any who took it.
“An ancient pathway has opened!” Xayah whispered in awe. She had not expected the magic here to be so strong. She turned to where Rakan had been, but found him missing.
She spotted him at the forest edge, his cape glowing like the afternoon sun. He was looking outward.
“Mieli?” she asked as she approached, using the ancient word for lover.
“We destroyed it,” Rakan said solemnly.
“Yes. We are free—that quinlon is no more.”
“No, their town.” He indicated the temple and the human settlement around it.
Vines larger than wagons churned the earth. They ran like massive waves from the forest, smashing a dozen houses into flinders.
The other woodwoven houses in the town were growing uncontrollably, folding in on themselves and crushing all inside, as they transformed into colossal trees.
A mortal woman, clutching a small child, ran from her home to a horse cart. Behind her, a man barely escaped being squashed by a huge vine that fell and crumbled his house.
He was carrying an armful of their possessions. He threw them into the cart, but as the wave of powerful freed magic overtook them, the vehicle burst to life, reforming itself as the plants from which it had been fashioned. Xayah watched as it changed into a giant insect-like creature made of wood and vines. The man slashed at the creature with a walking stick, before fleeing from it with the woman and child.
An old man with a long braid struggled on the undulating earth. He scrambled for a few paces before a pair of glowing forest spirits, shaped like ghostly butterflies, grabbed him. The spirits dragged him into the air. Then, growing tired of his struggles, they dropped him as they rose over a tree. He landed with a thud. His soul shuddered against the confines of his body, seeking to escape its own shell and join the forest.
Other mortals were running past him. Xayah could see their souls buffeting against the confines of their bodies too. An old woman grabbed the old man with the braid, lifting him to his feet, and together, limping, they fled… as the earth and spirits churned around them.
“The humans’ greed brought this to them,” Xayah said finally.
Rakan’s said nothing in reply. Xayah followed his gaze back to the destruction her plan had wrought.
After their victory, Rakan and Xayah had received a call for aid from the Vlotah tribe, and it had taken three moons to travel to their main village.
It wasn’t much to look at. The Vlotah had always been a small tribe, even in ancient times. The town was little more than a couple dozen warping trees that surrounded a crystal pool. As Xayah and Rakan were led into the village by a guard, a few of the trees grew openings and Vlotah tribesmen stepped outside to see who the visitors were.
The Vlotah were lithe and narrow, but with massive shoulders that protruded vertically from their backs like wings of bone. Their iridescent fur glittered in the light, first green, then purple, all over their bodies—save for their faces, which were creamy-white and vaguely feline in aspect.
But tints and vapors of sickly yellow and black seemed to be weeping from the trees, the vastaya, and even steaming from the pool. It was the color of hunger and sickness.
Xayah whispered that she thought the vastaya here looked too weak to fight, or even help her and Rakan fight.
“The magic here is unclean,” Rakan observed. “We should leave quickly. It’s upsetting my coat.” He ruffled his feathers.
“Rakan, a victory here would raise awareness of our cause across Zhyun. We need another success to prove a rebellion is possible.” Xayah looked again at the tribesmen around her, pitying them, and confirming her suspicions that they were too sickly to fight for themselves. “The Vlotah tribe asked for our help. And clearly they need it, my love.”
“Is helping them more important than me looking amazing?!” Rakan said incredulously, then flashed a smile to reveal he was joking.
“Obviously not,” said Xayah, playing along and finding herself cheered by his humor.
“We have to pri-or-i-tize!” Rakan cried, emphasizing every syllable.
“Rakan and Xayah, I presume?” a voice rumbled.
In the center of the village, sitting cross-legged on a boulder shaped like an eight-legged turtle, was an ancient Vlotah. He was white-furred and wearing a crown shaped to look like elk horns.
“I am Leivikah, the Vlotah tribe’s elder,” he said, before coughing.
Xayah and Rakan bowed. A crowd formed around them. Dozens of the Vlotah tribesmen were whispering in their own tongue.
“We have heard of how you saved Consul Akunir and Speaker Coll at Puboe. I am hoping you can help us,” Leivikah said, with a weak voice that barely rose above the crowd’s whispers.
Xayah glanced over to her partner and he took his cue.
“I am Rakan,” he confirmed with that deep voice he used sometimes. It was loud and certain, and somehow it held a smile behind it. Its confidence silenced the crowd. Then, with his shoulders squared and his back arched, Rakan turned so as to make eye contact with everyone around them. “And this is Xayah, the Violet Raven. You have heard of her triumphs, and her call for rebellion.”
And just like that, the crowd and elder were hanging on his words, excited he was here. Xayah shook her head, amazed how Rakan could so often say almost nothing, but with exactly the right feeling. She secretly nudged him in the back, keeping him focused.
“Oh, uh… We have answered your summons and we are happy to visit you as friends, or… as comrades. Tell us how we can help.” Rakan finished by flashing his glowing smile.
“Thank you, Rakan and Xayah, our need is great.” Leivikah rose unsteadily with his staff, then pointed toward the mountains. “North of here is the Kouln temple. It contains a small crystal quinlon. For many generations it has conditioned the magic of this region, and we have lived in peace with the mortals who tended it.”
He coughed and indicated the sickness around him. “But black-and-red-clad warriors calling themselves Yanlei have taken over. Now the magic here has dwindled and darkened. We attempted to retake the temple with the good monks of Kouln, but were driven back. Now we are too weak and too few to fight. It is our hope that, with your help, our allies can reclaim their sacred place.”
Xayah frowned and looked at the poverty around her. She began speaking then stopped herself, before finally saying with irritation, “You want us to help some humans retake a quinlon?”
“We have heard of your great successes,” Leivikah said.
“You heard we destroyed the quinlon in the valley of Houth and freed the Kepthalla tribe,” she said.
“The monks of Kouln are—”
“Human,” Xayah snapped, interrupting the elder. “Why would we—and why should any of you—care about squabbles between the mortal races? You ask us to help those who strangled the magic of these lands? Are you a fool?”
Elder Leivikah snarled and then looked to Rakan. But Xayah’s partner didn’t appear to be paying attention. He was humming and balancing a twig he’d just found on his index finger.
“We will help you. But only by destroying the quinlon—not by surrendering it to some monks,” Xayah said finally.
“That will destroy the valley town!” the elder exclaimed.
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Many people will die!”
“Many humans will die,” Xayah said, correcting him.
“And when the humans try to take back their lands? What will—”
“With magic, you can defend it.”
“This is no way to speak to an elder!” Leivikah roared at Xayah, spittle coming from his mouth. “You do not have rights here, child! You make demands without knowing our tribe’s ways. Your fame as a warrior does not make you an elder!”
As Leivikah ranted, Rakan stepped away from Xayah and darted along the edge of the crowd, like a predator circling its prey. What few warriors this town still contained quickly backed away from the challenge Rakan was implying. Suddenly he leapt up onto the giant stone, landing beside the elder. Rakan stood over him for a moment.
“Do you want me to slap you off that rock?” Rakan asked.
Leivikah saw all of his guards had stepped away from the famous battle-dancer. Then he stammered, “I… I meant no disrespect.”
Rakan continued, “My lady speaks wisdom, fool. And she speaks only the truth. Listen. And watch your tone. Or we’re gonna have a problem.”
Rakan leapt back down from the rock as the elder pleaded. “My tribe only wants to return to the way it has been. The monks of Kouln have never broken their promises to us, and have protected us. We are not war-seekers like you.”
Rakan walked over to Xayah, adjusted his feathers, and then scratched his ear.
“What do you think?” Xayah asked quietly.
“About what?” Rakan replied in a whisper.
“About what he was saying?”
“I wasn’t listening to the words,” Rakan shrugged. He kissed her on the cheek and said, “You were both yelling. You were angry, but he is just scared.”
Xayah smiled, realizing Rakan was right before whispering, “Thank you, mieli.” Then she gave him a quick kiss on the lips.
“I’m sorry, Elder Leivikah,” she said apologetically with a bow. “I also meant no disrespect.”
Then Xayah placed her hand over her heart and said, “You are afraid. There is no shame in that. But as long as you rely on humans to keep their promises, your tribe will never be free. And that is what I truly fear. How many generations has it been since you saw a child in this village? More than most of our people? Look around you. Your numbers were dwindling long before these new warriors appeared. But in the Kepthalla forests they have hope for the future. They hope that children will be born again—because, at last, the magic there is free!”
She looked around the crowd—like Rakan had—making eye contact with as many tribesmen as she could. “Rakan and I have fought these Yanlei before. Many know them as the Order of Shadow, and they are dangerous. Very dangerous. But we are willing to fight for you. We want to help you!”
Then Xayah let her shoulders drop, and shook her head. “Neither honor nor oath-magic binds you to those Kouln monks anymore—so we offer you a chance to take back your lands. You need only the courage to accept our offer and protect what is yours!”
The elder stared at her for a long moment before replying, “You are truly as fierce as your reputation, Xayah of Lhotlan, and we thank you. We will consider your words, and I will have our answer for you in the morning.”
As the elder rose to his feet, Rakan asked Xayah, “Are we staying the night?”
“Looks that way,” she replied.
Rakan pointed randomly at the crowd. “Which one of you wants to make me dinner? And… do you have chocolate?!”
Unsure of the human substance he was seeking, the crowd exchanged confused looks. Rakan turned back to Xayah and with annoyance cried out.
“No chocolate?!”
In the morning, Elder Leivikah made his decision. He swore his people would defend any lands reclaimed by the wild magic released, and he assigned the few warriors he had to Xayah’s command.
After looking at their weakened and sickened condition, and because she knew the Vlotah tribe would need its warriors to defend their lands later, Xayah decided it was best to use them only as a diversion.
So while Xayah and Rakan were attempting to retake the temple alone, the Vlotah warriors would instead attack the Yanlei patrols—and hopefully draw some of their numbers away from the temple.
It took Rakan and Xayah a day to walk from the Vlotah’s forest to the giant village the elder had spoken of.
Looking down on it from the hilltops, Xayah and Rakan saw it was far larger than any they had encountered in years. It was a small city, which dominated the entire valley with hundreds of dwellings.
“Can we go around it?” Rakan asked.
“No. Not unless we climb on the bare cliff walls surrounding the city.”
“Climbing could be fun.”
“We would be exposed the whole time we were on the cliff’s face. If the humans have ballistae, or their Kashuri rifles…”
“I hate tubebows,” Rakan grumbled. Then he gestured to the hills beyond the town. “I can hear the quinlon disturbing the magic. But I can’t see it. A forest is after the town.”
“We can rest there. But we must pass through the town without being spotted by the black-and-red-clad ones. They will know of us from what happened at Puboe and with the Kepthalla. We must try to look like humans.”
“Perhaps some of the Vlotah can circle back to help us get around it,” Rakan suggested.
“They are too scared and too weak, Rakan,” she replied. “And they would only draw attention to us.”
Xayah began pulling items from a bag she had taken from the village. “The Vlotah gave us human-style foot coverings. And we’ll wear big hoods.”
“That cloak is gray,” Rakan said with breathless horror. “That’s not even a color!” He snapped a twig off a tree and threw it with great force into the forest.
Xayah looked down at the garments, and then she too shuddered at the thought of putting these coarse human fabrics over her feathers.
Guards dressed in black and red were closing the gate and waving the last visitors into the city as night fell. Xayah ducked her head down as she and Rakan walked past them.
As she entered through the gate, she stole a glance at the great town’s wall. It was massive, many times the height of the tallest tree in the forest.
“Rakan, could you jump over this wall?” Xayah whispered.
“Why?” he asked.
“If we had to get out of here quickly,” she said.
He looked up at the wall, judging the distance, before saying, “No—too little clean magic here.”
She could feel the ill magic used to construct the wall. It was alien, even for mortal magic. Dark and angry. She had only felt its like once before… at Puboe.
The enormous thorn vines, each wider around than a horse, hadn’t been asked or coaxed into dragging these stones into the wall—they had been goaded and forced. And the magic that held the wall and ramparts above her wailed and growled.
The wall would be a powerful barrier against invaders, but she wondered what would happen when the vines, which had been holding this magic, were suddenly let free.
The gates closed behind them and locked. Xayah and Rakan hid amongst the travelers and peasants who walked down the main road toward the town’s center.
“There is a mage here,” Rakan said.
“I hear their magic,” Xayah replied, “but I can’t see them.”
“Above us.”
On a tower made out of cut and dead trees, a man stood in burgundy robes. From his eyes a strange darkness emanated, and he held an ornate brass bell which misted a dark vapor.
“He is looking for vastaya and yordles,” Rakan said with certainty.
Xayah grabbed Rakan’s arm and pulled him into an alleyway, as the mage screeched a horrific sound. He had seen through their disguises. Horns of alarm blared from the walls answering the mage’s cry.
Footsteps and guards shouted behind them. Xayah and Rakan ran, dodging from alleyway to alleyway, but soon discovered the streets formed a labyrinth.
They could feel the mage scrying to find them. He was swinging the magically touched bell. It chimed softly but let free an invisible lash of magic in their direction. Again and again, it released a sound no mortal would hear—or feel the pain of—but which cracked like a giant’s whip in the ears of the vastaya. One of his strikes crashed down the alleyway, just missing Rakan as he dove against a wall.
The bell’s magic vibrated their feathers and for a moment Xayah thought they had been discovered. But then the mage rang the bell in a slightly different direction, down another alleyway. He was searching blindly, clearly uncertain what and where they were.
Ahead, at an intersection, the Yanlei guards were grabbing townsfolk and dragging them out into the open where the mage could see them.
One of the guards, a leader, was dressed differently than the rest. He wore a dark gray vest of rough cloth, unbuttoned. To the vastaya, he seemed malformed, touched by some sort of corruption. Rakan nodded to the black-within-black tattoos covering both of the man’s arms.
“Shadow magic,” Rakan growled.
Xayah nodded. “They are insane.”
“Let’s see if he can dance,” Rakan said. On instinct Xayah grabbed her lover’s hand and held him back.
Just then, the man’s tattoos came alive. They rose from his body like smoke. Their darkness solidified into barbed talons like a spider’s legs, each holding a cruel hook-sword. Then these shadow forms slashed a villager who had resisted being pulled out into the open. The man hit the ground screaming, a red gash along his back.
Rakan and Xayah swung against the wall under the overhang of the building next to them, then slipped into another alleyway that stank of rot and garbage. Then seeing it free of guards, they ran with everything they had. Bounding off the walls and drawing on some of the reserves of magic they held within themselves for greater speed. But the alleyway curved around. They discovered it led only back to the wide street.
Behind them several of the black-and-red-clad warriors appeared on a balcony and leapt down.
Rakan scanned the street, looking at each of the houses and inhabitants. Then he grabbed Xayah’s hand and dragged her around the corner toward a nearly ruined house with failing timbers.
“What are you doing?” Xayah asked.
“This one is good,” Rakan responded, indicating the house’s recently swept entranceway and clean windows.
“What?!” Xayah responded.
One of the guards down the street spotted the desperation of their pace, and indicated the pair to his commander. The tattooed brute was still standing over the wailing peasant.
“What’s wrong?” a woman’s voice asked.
Xayah turned and saw an elderly woman dressed in yellow. She had long white hair held up in an elaborate braid, and her eyes were narrowed in suspicion.
“Nothing,” Xayah replied. “We were just—”
“The guards are looking for us,” Rakan interjected. “We need help.”
The woman looked to the guards, then back to Xayah and Rakan. Rakan gave her a hopeful smile. “We mean no harm,” he assured her.
“Quickly, come through the side door,” she said, gesturing to the alleyway beside her house. Then she closed and barred the front entrance behind her.
Rakan and Xayah ducked into the alleyway and ran along the side of the house. It was a dead end… and they couldn’t see any doors.
“Damn it, why would you say that to her?” Xayah cursed. She could hear the mage scrying above them—his magic cracking loudly through the spirit realm. They could see the shadows of the guards in the street, heralding their approach.
But then, a wall suddenly moved, as a hidden door into the house slid open. The old woman leaned out and gestured for them to come inside.
Once the pair was inside, the old woman slid the smugglers’ entrance closed, hiding its existence.
The two vastaya looked around and discovered they were in a storage room with a low ceiling and dirt floors. It was dark and illuminated by only a single oil lamp and the glow of a pair of dying ekel-flowers.
Beneath her cloak, Xayah formed two feather blades and readied them.
Perhaps sensing the danger, the woman backed away toward a full-moon spear resting against the wall. It was a fine weapon, well-oiled and touched by ancient magics that purred happily inside of it.
“You are vastaya?” the woman said cautiously.
Before Xayah could stop him, Rakan nodded and said with the deep voice, “I am Rakan, battle-dancer of the Lhotlan tribe.”
To Xayah’s surprise, the woman let out a deep breath, and laughed. “Leivikah told me he was seeking your help, but we have heard no word from the Vlotah tribe since then. I am Abbess Gouthan.”
There was a loud banging on the front door.
“Stay quiet, I’ll get rid of them,” Gouthan said as she hurried to the front room, sliding the hallway’s door closed behind her.
While the abbess checked who was at the front door, six young mortal acolytes appeared from the house’s other rooms. Many wore bandages and appeared injured. They nervously exchanged glances with each other. Xayah could sense them gathering what little magic they could muster.
Xayah slid one of her hands inside the woolen cloak she wore and willed a new feather blade into existence. If the monks attacked, it would be too close for her to throw the daggers, so she altered the blade’s handle, shaping it into a short falchion.
When Abbess Gouthan reappeared, the woman held a finger to her lips to indicate they should stay quiet. Then, almost silently, she sent her more heavily injured monks back into their rooms, while she and her two remaining students readied a cooking fire. They quietly sang and hummed a haunting tune as they began to prepare food.
Rakan put his arm around Xayah’s shoulder and led her to a low table in an adjoining room. The couple sat down together. While the monks cooked, Xayah slowed her breathing before cautiously reabsorbing her blades and their magic back into her feathers.
As she waited, Xayah wrapped both her winged and woolen cloaks around her legs—only a few beeswax candles and the cooking fire illuminated their side room and barely held back the evening chill.
When the candles had burned down to a thumb span, the abbess and her two attendants finished cooking and quietly joined Rakan and Xayah with several plates of food.
“We hid in the hills for a few weeks after they took our temple,” Gouthan whispered. “Then, like you, we snuck into the city.”
She and one of her students passed the meager food they had prepared from the fire pit of their kitchen to the table Rakan and Xayah sat at.
“This old house was my family’s long before I became the abbess of Kouln temple. We managed to avoid detection only because the Navori—”
“Who is the warrior with black tattoos?” Rakan asked.
“The warriors with tattoos are the Order of Shadow. They are a part of the Navori Brotherhood… or they were, when—”
“Their tribe is at war with yours?” Rakan interrupted again.
“Not exactly,” Gouthan replied patiently. “They took our temple but let most of us live, I suppose to keep the local villagers from revolting against them. The peace ensures they can gather the foul shadow magic they are harvesting. But I’ve been sneaking my students back into the city. Readying ourselves.”
Rakan bit into the stone-cooked bread. “You sang ‘Theln and the Falling Leaves’ while cooking this?”
“Yes,” Gouthan replied. “When vastaya cook, the song is important, right?”
“It is important,” Xayah said without emotion. Her plate sat untouched in front of her.
Rakan explained, “For stone flour bread, it is traditional to use a happy song that you can drum with.”
“And you can taste that?”
Rakan shoved another piece of bread into his mouth and nodded.
“My apologies, we have so little to offer you, and even less skill in your customs,” the abbess said before bowing her head. She was clearly ashamed of what her order had been reduced to.
Rakan patted her on the shoulder. “It’s good! It’s not a song used for stone bread, but it goes well with this flour.”
“You are too kind.”
“He is hungry,” Xayah said.
“Now that we have shared food, can we discuss how we will take back our temple?” the abbess asked hopefully.
“Your help will not be needed,” Xayah responded.
“My students can lead you there. I myself can stand against more than a few of the shadow warriors. Also I sent word to the Kinkou Order—surely they will send reinforcements.”
Xayah and Rakan exchanged a glance. Then Xayah asked, “How many of these Yanlei warriors are in the city?”
“Perhaps a hundred.”
“And at the temple?”
“Perhaps fifty.”
“We can handle that number,” Xayah said.
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“They are bad dancers,” Rakan murmured, while grabbing another piece of bread.
“But surely, if we wait for the Kinkou—”
“The Vlotah cannot wait for the Kinkou’s help. That is why we are here.”
“I understand,” the abbess said. “I failed them. Allow me to at least join you against these Yanlei bastards.”
“You should wait here in the city,” Xayah said flatly.
“I can show you where they have set up patrols—”
“You can show us in the morning,” Xayah said. “But if you don’t mind, I would like a moment with my partner.”
“Oh… uh, okay.” The abbess rose with her attendant. Rakan followed them to the door, gave each of them a hug and handed them a couple pieces of bread as they returned to the rooms at the front of the house.
Then Rakan closed the door, and sat back down beside Xayah. She whispered, “We should leave as soon as they fall asleep.”
“We should warn them about what will happen when we destroy the quinlon,” he responded, shoving another piece of bread into his mouth.
“If they knew what we were going to do, they would betray us to these other mortals. Or the Kinkou.”
“Many mortals will die,” Rakan said.
“The Vlotah tribe will die while waiting for help. My love, we are on this path. They settled on vastayan lands. They raised a wall with magic which they barely control and do not understand.”
“If you say so. But I prefer this abbess to Elder Leivikah. At least she’s not scared.”
“You’ve just been seduced by their food.”
Rakan took another mouthful and shrugged. “It was made with care and a song sung truthfully.”
“I don’t trust her. Not with our lives on the line.”
“This is why you said we didn’t need their help?”
“Fifty warriors is a lot,” Xayah admitted. “And that’s before you add shadow magic.”
Rakan shrugged. “You don’t have a plan?”
“Of course I have a plan.”
“Then I trust it,” Rakan said softly.
Xayah shook her head. “We’re going in alone. If my plan goes wrong—”
“You are never wrong about those things.”
Xayah ran her fingers through her feathers and bowed her head, running through every detail she had learned about the terrain—the black-and-red-clad warriors, the town, the mountain temple, and the crystal quinlon—from the Vlotah elder.
Then after a long silence, she asked, “Why did you trust this monk?”
“Because I know about these things,” Rakan replied.
Xayah lay awake for many hours that night, studying the maps the Vlotah had provided her with. She was able to deduce where the warriors had probably set patrols and pickets, and charted a path that would allow them to avoid detection until they were only a few hundred paces from the temple.
They left after the moon rose and were able to sneak out of the house without incident.
The town was still, save for the sound of insects, making it easy to avoid the Yanlei warriors by listening for their footsteps. After Xayah deduced where these warriors were, it was simple for her to find a pathway through the sentries’ patrols.
They left the city and past the last of the farmhouses leading up the mountain as dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky.
The forest on the mountain was the color of ash. Rakan and Xayah could feel the magic they held inside them being tugged away from them.
The quinlon here wasn’t just dampening the power of spirit magic to create change, or limiting its life-giving vitality by holding back the wild magic mortals found too dangerous; this one was actively absorbing magic, leeching it from the landscape and the spirit realm at a rate Xayah had never experienced before. It was as if the normal function of the quinlon had been turned upside down, allowing only the darkest magics to ebb out from the spirit realm.
For most of the day, Rakan and Xayah marched through the woods, concealing themselves in what remained of the bone-colored underbrush of the forest, keeping a few dozen yards from the trail. They stayed motionless as the enemy warriors went past. At first they seemed to be on regular patrols, but soon large groups of warriors were marching downhill with an obvious urgency.
Xayah surmised the Vlotah tribesmen had begun the diversionary raids she had directed. Certainly, she and Rakan could defeat these humans—but Xayah knew it was safer to conserve what scarce magic they had.
Weakened and sick from the lack of magic, the Vlotah who had volunteered to draw these Yanlei away had shown great bravery. Xayah assured herself these new comrades would be safe for at least a while. But if she and Rakan failed to take out the quinlon soon? Xayah could feel her fingernails digging into her palms as she and Rakan lay hidden behind a wagon-sized boulder.
After a while, the patrols of red- and black-clad warriors significantly dwindled in size and frequency, enabling her and Rakan to travel more quickly than they had before.
They reached the temple by late afternoon. The building was ugly, and it hated the world. It was tall and as pale as a corpse. Leafless branches and thorns had grown from its woodwoven walls, forming battlements and defensive spikes.
Rakan whistled, drawing the attention of the first guard he saw. The man turned just in time to take one of Xayah’s feather blades in the chest. Rakan caught him before he fell—showing off.
A distant horn sounded, and Xayah knew they had been spotted. From hiding places scattered around the temple, a dozen more of the black-clad warriors appeared.
Rakan dashed into their midst, kicking, spinning, and throwing them up into the air, while Xayah’s blades took their toll. They were moving fast now. They cut a path to the temple’s entrance.
Xayah used her magic to pull her feather blades back to her, killing the warriors that stood against them, while Rakan took a bow.
She rolled her eyes at his antics and left him to keep these black-clad warriors busy.
She pushed through the vines at the gateway of the temple, then walked into its grand entranceway. With doors broken and strewn on the ground, dark curving passageways lay open on both sides of her. She ignored them, and instead followed the path the sunlight cut toward a vine-covered doorway at the far end of the room.
She paused as she passed a small stack of crystal boxes, hidden against a wall. They were odd things, perfectly square and completely soulless, somehow holding no magic at all. In some great act of sacrilege against the world, it was as if their maker had managed not to let any of his essence—or the essence of their base materials—pass into them. She gave them a wide berth, and crept through a doorway overgrown with black roots.
She found the center of temple bathed in red light. Xayah looked up to see the quinlon glowing above her. Like many quinlons, it was an arrangement of rotating stones, but this one appeared to be made of giant shards of ruby, each larger than a horse. It glowed. She could feel its pull as it took in magic.
And she watched in horror as it pulled tiny forest spirits up into it.
There was a shift in the air, and she knew she wasn’t alone. She ducked just as an armored warrior appeared from the shadows. He vaulted above her, bouncing off the walls and pillars as a battle-dancer might—but he was appearing and disappearing in puffs of smoke.
She had known vastaya, touched by the clouds, with similar techniques. But this man’s magic was strange. Even the shadows inside him were touched by something else, an echo of the magic of the twilight. He was powerful—more powerful than any mage, any mortal she had encountered. Weakened as she and Rakan were, Xayah knew defeating this armored warrior was unlikely.
She threw feather blades, but he simply cut them apart, and with each movement she was getting weaker and he closer. She stared as the warrior parried the next of her attacks and sent one of her feather blades up into the quinlon.
The red stone cracked instantly.
It was then the reason this small quinlon had been set inside the temple became clear. The strange ruby-like mineral it was made from gave it its unusual power… but it was fragile. Especially now that it was overloaded.
She couldn’t defeat this warrior, not under these conditions… but if she kept him distracted, she could still destroy the quinlon.
She willed as many feather blades into existence as she could. The effort of it drained her limbs, making her feel as if she was being held underwater. But she threw blindly, forcing her opponent to dodge, to duck—knowing that every blade that went past him would sink into the quinlon, cracking it, or fly beyond it into the roof of the temple.
But her breathing had become short and desperate, and her foe circled around her like a shark. He had been letting her tire—and now he was ready to finish their duel.
In her exhaustion, Xayah clenched her jaw, preparing herself for what she knew she must do. She would die, and so would this warrior… but the Vlotah would survive.
And then for the briefest of seconds she realized she never again would see Rakan. Feel him against her. Hear his laughter. See his sly smile… And in her distraction the armored warrior struck at her. Barely she turned his blow, but the impact knocked her to the ground. The warrior backflipped away from her, then, without pausing, jumped back toward her with blades ready for his killing blow.
This was her chance. Instead of parrying, she drew back her magic blades and… ripped the quinlon and the roof of the temple apart! As the shadow warrior fell onto her, the quinlon’s giant shards and the stones of the roof began to fall onto them both, as certain as death.
And then, suddenly… Rakan!
His arms were around her, holding her, embracing her. A swirl of golden energy wisped from his cape and surrounded them. She could feel the impact of the shadow warrior’s blades slam against its magic—unable to deliver the killing blow. She felt Rakan’s chest against her cheek. She could feel it rising as he took in a breath.
Bigger pieces of the temple’s roof and the quinlon were falling now—whatever magic Rakan had held on to glowed as a bubble of energy, holding back the stones. But Xayah could feel him weakening under the shield’s weight. He roared, screeching like a tiger in a trap, as the entire building collapsed. His chest shuddered, and he fell to his knees.
And then there was darkness.
When Xayah opened her eyes, Rakan was helping her to her feet in the ruins of the temple. The strange warrior was gone, and his cohorts were running down the trail, fleeing as the first wave of wild magic crashed free into this world.
The forests glowed, flowers bloomed, and the great spirits were awakening. The light from the other world washed around them.
She looked at Rakan, smiled, and wiped a smudge from his cheek.
They embraced and took in the magic— it was different here than in the Kepthalla’s forest. Despite, or perhaps because of, how it had been caged and abused, it was bursting with vitality and joy.
The Vlotah tribe would be free as the Kepthalla tribe were. And there would no longer be a question of whether destroying the quinlons was possible or right. More tribes, even Xayah’s, would see the future she believed was possible for her people.
The ground rumbled—something giant beneath the mountain was awakening, and the two lovers danced across the great cracks forming in the landscape.
Rakan kissed Xayah gently, then said, “The humans cannot live in our lands, but I’m going to see if I can help that abbess escape. If I dive down that pink stone cliff, I might get there in time.”
“Go, save your bread-maker, my love. But I think she will have already fled the town.”
Rakan tilted his head in confusion.
Xayah cupped his face with her hands. “I left her a message, telling her what was about to happen, and that she should flee with as many of her kind as she could.”
“You told her what would happen?” Rakan asked, smiling as he held her hands against his face.
“You trusted her,” Xayah replied. “And I trust you in these things.”
Progress Day

Graham McNeill

Tamara forces herself to rise early - an easy habit to get into when the earth is your bed and fallen leaves the only blanket. Less so when the mattress is stuffed with goose down and the sheets woven from soft cotton. The curtains are pulled back, and warm light pools on the floor of her third floor boarding room. She’d closed the curtains on her first night in Piltover and had slept two hours past dawn, which worried her so much, she has never closed them since.
Swinging herself out of bed, she strides naked to the window and taps the colored glass with a callused fingertip, black with sooty residue from the workshop. The light shimmers on her skin, her frame wolf-lean and wiry-muscled. Despite that, she rubs a hand across her belly as if fearing it has grown soft. Below her, the cobbled street is already busy with stall-holders setting up to catch Progress Day’s early trade. Colorful bunting to celebrate this auspicious day is strung between every building, giving the narrow street a festive atmosphere so unlike the city Tamara calls home. Cog and key banners of gold and crimson silk hang from the distant towers glittering on the upper slopes of the clan districts. It is there the rivers of gold said to flow through Piltover’s streets have their source.
Tamara grins at the thought and turns from the window. Her room is meticulously tidy, a place for everything and everything in its place. Notebooks are stacked at one corner of her workbench, alongside carefully arranged tools, hex-calipers and folded schemata. Yesterday’s lunch of black bread, cheese and dried fruit sits unopened in muslin wrapping next to her tools. A small metalworking forge is ingeniously built into the brick wall, the fumes carried to the roof via a twisting series of iron pipes. At the center of the desk is a wooden box in which sits the device that has taken her many months of effort to construct, working from the plans etched into rolls of wax-paper she keeps hidden beneath her mattress.
She reaches under her bed for the chamber pot and relieves herself before quickly freshening up with the powders and tinctures provided by her host. She dresses in the rugged clothes of an apprenta; simple leggings, an undershirt equipped with numerous pockets and a wrap-around doublet with an ingenious system of hooks and eye fasteners that can be ripped off with one quick pull. She’d been puzzled at the need for this until Gysbert had blushingly told her it was to make it easier to get off in the event of it catching fire in a workshop.
She checks her reflection in a polished glass mirror hanging on a brass hook on the back of her door, brushing her long dark hair back over her ears and securing it with a leather thong and copper hair-clips. Tamara runs her fingers over her high cheekbones then along the line of her chin, and is satisfied by what she sees. Colette keeps telling her she could do more with her looks, but her friend is young and hasn’t yet learned the danger of being memorable.
Tamara places the wooden box in her shoulder bag, together with the muslin wrapped food and a selection of notebooks and pencils. She’s nervous, but that’s understandable. This is a big day for her, and she doesn’t want to fail.
She removes the chair wedging her door shut and turns the locking wheel to release the bars securing it in place. Compared to where she comes from, Piltover is a safe place, its violent crime rate absurdly low. Its inhabitants are untroubled by the everyday violence of most other cities, but they are not so foolish as to believe they can do without locks on their doors.
Especially in the weeks leading up to Progress Day.
Tamara locks her door and pauses on her way down the stairs to empty her chamber pot in the boarding house’s central chute for the disposal of night-soil. She used to wonder where it ended up, before realizing that shit only ever flows downward. Somewhere below in Zaun, there’s a garden that likely blooms like no other. She places the pot in its assigned cubbyhole for cleaning, and makes her way down the winding screw-stair to the communal dining room. A few of her fellow apprenta are either breaking their fast or frantically tinkering with the devices they hope will finally get them noticed by one of the clans. Tamara places a hand over her shoulder bag, feeling a sense of pride at what she has made. She’d followed the plans exactly, even though the finishing touches went against the grain of her stoic professionalism.
She waves in response to a few weary hellos, but doesn’t stop to talk. Few of them will have slept more than an hour or two a night for the last fortnight, and she will be surprised if some of them don’t fall asleep during their auditions today. She’s out the door to the street before anyone can delay her, and the brightness of the sun pulls her up short.
The high buildings of her street are constructed of square-cut limestone and chamfered timber. Embellished with bronze facings, leaded glass and copper eaves, dazzling sunlight glitters from every surface. The streets are busy and loud, filled with moderately well-dressed men and women moving back and forth. Couriers push between apparitors, victuallers and tallymen, who shout after them and wave their fists. A few vagabond tinkers ply their suspect wares on canvas cloths atop barrelheads, ready to run at the first sight of a warden. Sumpsnipes who’ve hitched a lift on the Rising Howl from Zaun lurk at the edges of the street, scanning the passing trade for someone to cutpurse. These are the younger, inexperienced ones, forced away from the easy pickings of the cross-chasm bridges by the older, stronger kids.
Tamara keeps a wary eye on them as she moves down the street, her steps precise and measured. She has little enough worth stealing, but the last thing she needs today is a sumpsnipe picking something he shouldn’t from her. The smell of roasting fish and fresh-baked Shuriman sunbread from an open dining hall makes her mouth water. Instead, she stops a woman pushing a wheeled barrel encircled by hissing pipes and purchases a hot tisane, together with one of the sugared pastries she has come to love a little too much.
“Happy Progress Day, dearheart!” says the woman as Tamara places a silver gear in her hand and tells her to keep the change. “May the cogs turn clockwise for you today, my lovely.”
The woman’s accent sounds oddly lean and leisurely to Tamara, as if she has all the time in the world to voice what she wants to say, yet it is not uncommon this close to the Boundary Markets: a blend of Piltovan affectation and the looser familiarity of Zaun.
“Thank you,” replies Tamara. “May the Gray never rise to your door.”
The woman taps her head and her heart, a sure sign that she is born of parents from above and below. As much as the citizens of Piltover and Zaun like to pretend they are separate entities, both are far more intertwined than they might openly admit. Tamara wolfs down her pastry and follows the road to its end, exactly twenty steps distant, where it meets the larger thoroughfare of Horologica Avenue. She turns right, finishing her tisane and counting her steps as she crosses each intersecting street. The buildings here are grander than the apprenta quarter where she’s billeted, fashioned from polished granite and ironwork columns.
Many boast flickering chemtech lamps that give the morning air a crisp, actinic flavor. It seems pointless to burn them given the early hour, but Tamara has learned a great deal of Piltover society is dominated by perceived wealth and power - one being a factor of the other. It’s everywhere she looks: in the cut of the clothes people wear, the vividness of the colors and the extent of their publicized philanthropy. Tamara sees numerous couples taking their morning constitutional; well-appointed men and women adorned with subtle augments. One woman wears an implanted cheek-plate with a gem-like hextech loupe over one eye. Her arm is linked with a man bearing a metallic gauntlet that flickers with traceries of light. Across the street, another hunched man in overalls wears what appears to be some form of breathing apparatus on his back - tanks filled with bubbling greenish liquid that vent puffs of atomized vapor.
She sees people look on in admiration and wonderment, but her gaze has been trained to notice what others do not.
The two hextech augments are fake.
Tamara has studied Piltover’s emergent technology closely enough to know what is real and what is not. The cheek-plate is molded silver glued to the woman’s face, and her loupe is nothing more than a lapidary’s lens engraved with a maker’s mark she assumes is fictional. Her beau’s hand is an ordinary bronze gauntlet with glass channels filled with bioluminescent algae scraped from one of Zaun’s cultivairs. Only the breathing apparatus is genuine, and the bloodshot redness of the hunched man’s eyes, combined with the tougher, hard-wearing nature of his overalls, tells Tamara he is from a deep level of Zaun.
She travels from Horologica Avenue to Glasswell Street, along the winding Boulevard of a Hundred Taverns and thence into Sidereal Avenue to Incognia Plaza, where Zindelo’s great sphere sits inactive as it has done since the inventor’s mysterious disappearance last year. Crowds gather around the latticework artifact; gaggles of would-be inventors, artists and pallid, hack-coughed Zaunites who have traveled up-city for the day.
Deep in his cups, Gysbert has told her Progress Day is viewed very differently down in his hometown of Zaun, which he insists was the original City of Progress before Piltover came along. Above, Progress Day marks the moment the Sun Gates opened for the first time, allowing trade to pass easily between the east and west of Valoran. It also marks the moment when taxation on that trade turned the trickle of gold entering the city’s coffers into a fast flowing river. Below in Zaun, it is a day to remember those lost in the geological upheaval that created the east-west passage and submerged entire districts underwater.
One day, two very different perceptions.
Tamara passes through the square, avoiding sprinting pneuma-tube runners as they race to bear messages to their destinations. A promenade courtier, Noami Kimba, waves to her and blows her a kiss. They have met three times in the sultry air of evening, and each time Kimba has offered her a chance to spend the night in her arms. Tamara has refused each time, too busy for any diversions, but if she is able to stay longer than today, she may take her up on the next offer. She makes her way to the plaza’s northern archway as a massively bearded man with metaled shoulder guards and an iron skullcap enters. His arms are pneumatic, piston-driven monstrosities, and Tamara recognizes one of the nameless hierophant cultists of the Glorious Evolved. He grunts at her, before entering the square to harangue passers-by with his zealous blend of theology and techno-sorcery. She leaves him to it and turns onto Oblique Lane, heading toward Techmaturgy Bridge, counting her steps as she goes.
The city opens up before her, revealing the great split that divides northern and southern Piltover. The yawning chasm looks as though it ought to be ancient, the result of natural geological forces, but it came into existence within living memory and nothing natural created it. Man’s hubris and desire to master the elements wrought it. Tamara admires the strength of will it must have taken to enact a plan of such audacity that the splitting of the earth and the destruction of half of Zaun was seen as an acceptable price to pay for future prosperity.
The great tower of the College of Techmaturgy rises arrogantly from the wide canyon, anchored to the upper cliffs by swaying suspension bridges and thick iron cables that thrum like musical strings when the winds blow in hard from the ocean. The main bridge is an arched wonder of steel and stone, thronged with people moving between Piltover’s two halves and cursing the vintners and purveyors of sweetmeats whose rival stalls have created a bottleneck at its center. Revelers still drunk from the night before are shepherded onward by wardens in blue jackets, gleaming boots and checkered trousers. In any other city, they would look ridiculous, but here their gaudy appearance actually seems normal. Sumpsnipes with razor-rings dart through the crowds and more than one reveler will be returning home with what remains of their purse slit and emptied.
The north of the city is where the bulk of the clans have their mansions and heavily guarded workshop compounds. Most of the traffic today is heading in that direction. She sees a good many apprenta making their way across the bridge, each bearing their invention with the care of a mother bearing a newborn babe. She seeks out the familiar faces of Gysbert and Colette, but there are simply too many people to pick out her fellow apprenta. Tamara reaches the end of the bridge, and takes a breath. Normally, she is not scared of high places, but the dizzying scale of the height difference between Piltover and Zaun is breathtaking.
Two statues of robed officials flank the road onto the bridge, one representing the spirit of wealth, the other the essence of honesty. Tamara digs out a bronze washer and places the coin in the outstretched palm of the first statue. The weight of it triggers an internal mechanism and the fingers close over the coin. When they open a moment later, it has gone.
“I always go with the other one,” says a man appearing beside her. He is handsome, dark-haired, and smooth-skinned, which means he is rich. His breath reeks of last night’s shimmerwine. “I find it helps to pay for the things I don’t have.”
Tamara ignores him and carries on her way.
He moves after her, made persistent by the dulled senses of a hangover and too much money in his purse.
“Here, now wait a minute, there’s no need to be rude, young lady.”
“I’m not being rude, I have somewhere to be and I don’t want to talk to you,” she says.
He follows her onto the bridge with a laugh that tells her he sees her as a challenge, someone he thinks he can buy with a few gold hex.
“Aha, you’re an apprenta, aren’t you?” he says, finally recognizing her clothes and seeing the bag on her shoulder. “On your way to the auditions, eh? Hoping to catch the eye of an artificer and be snatched up by one of the great houses, are we?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes,” she answers, hoping against hope that he will hear the brusqueness of her tone and leave her alone. Instead, he increases his pace and stands in front of her, blocking her passage across the bridge. He looks her up and down, as though examining a piece of livestock he’s thinking of buying.
“You’re a fine looking specimen, my girl. A bit bony, but nothing a few meals at Lacabro’s wouldn’t sort, eh? What do you say? It’s Progress Day, everyone should have a bit of fun, eh?”
“I’m not interested,” says Tamara, moving to push past him. “Get out of my way and leave me alone.”
“Now listen here, lass, my name is Cella Allabroxus, and I know a few of the bigwigs on the north side,” he says, continuing to block her way. “Spend the morning with me and I’ll put in a good word for you, make sure your audition gets a bit of a boost, if you know what I mean?”
“No, thanks,” says Tamara, and she can see what’s coming next. He reaches for her arm, but she catches his hand before it makes contact, twisting it around and drawing a surprised gasp of pain from him. If she applies even a fraction more pressure, his wrist will snap like kindling. She uses his pain to maneuver him toward the bridge’s parapet. Her fear of heights quite forgotten, she presses Cella Allabroxus back against the waist-high stonework.
“I asked you nicely to leave me alone,” she says, pressing hard on Allabroxus’s wrist and drawing a whimper of pain from him. “Now I’m asking again, albeit not so nicely. Leave me alone or I will push you off this bridge and when they find what’s left of you spread out over the rooftops of Zaun, they’ll think you were just another drunk who couldn’t walk a straight line over the bridge. Are we clear?”
He nods, in too much pain to speak.
“I don’t need your ‘good word’ or any kind of ‘boost’. I’m pretty damn good at what I do, and I’ll stand or fall on my own, thank you very much. Now smile at me, walk away and go home. Sleep off the wine and remember this moment any time you feel like being discourteous to a lady.”
Cella Allabroxus gasps as Tamara releases his wrist. For a moment she sees he is tempted to retort with something offensive, but she cocks an eyebrow and he thinks better of it. Cradling his wrist, he scurries back the way he came and Tamara lets out a weary sigh. She catches the eye of a sumpsnipe gang loitering on the other side of the roadway and nods in the direction of the fleeing Allabroxus. The footpads take her meaning and race after the man.
“What was that all about?” says a young voice behind her.
The tautness drains from Tamara’s body and she lets a looseness return to her limbs. The cold determination Allabroxus saw falls from her face, replaced with an open smile.
“Nothing,” she says, turning to see Gysbert and Colette. “Just a drunk who thought he’d try his luck.”
“You’re late,” says Gysbert, pointing over the parapet at the dulled metal sides of a mechanized clocktower a hundred feet or so below the level of the bridge. “Look.”
“What are you talking about?” answers Tamara. “I don’t think Old Hungry’s told the right time in years.”
“True,” he says, and though he’s trying to look angry, his eyes speak only of infatuation. “But we agreed to meet before Old Hungry’s shadow was past the Techmaturgy tower.”
He points to where the dark outline of the mysterious clocktower has fallen across the lower laboratory levels of the tower, where greenish-gray fumes leak from hornpipe vents. “See?”
Tamara smiles and puts her hand on his shoulder. He glances down at the point of contact and any anger he might actually be feeling vanishes.
Colette rolls her eyes and says, “Come on, let’s get going. Gysbert might be foolish enough to forgive your lateness, but Clan Medarda won’t. They shut the gates at third bell and they rang the second before we reached the bridge.”
The manor house of Clan Medarda is not far from the northern end of the bridge, but the streets are busy and there will be many others seeking entry to display their creations at the auditions.
“You’re right,” says Tamara, hefting her shoulder bag and patting the device within. “Let’s go and show those rich sons of bitches what we can make.”
The gates of Clan Medarda’s mansion house are imposing creations of tempered steel set in a high wall of alabaster white stone. Bronze busts of its illustrious family members sit in numerous alcoves along the length of the wall, including the clan’s current head, Jago Medarda. Scores of eager apprenta are gathered by the opened gates, each bearing a prized invention they hope will see them secure a contract of servitude with this illustrious house. The politeness on display is endearing to Tamara, with each apprenta being careful not to jostle their neighbor’s creation.
Men in the clan’s colors, armed with swords and pikes, guard the entrance, checking the authenticity of each supplicant’s paperwork before allowing them entry. Tamara watches them as they work, admiring their professionalism and thoroughness. A few apprenta are turned away, their papers incorrectly stamped or fraudulent. They don’t protest, but simply walk away with a resigned shrug.
When it’s their turn, Tamara, Colette, and Gysbert are allowed in without a hitch. Colette had taken it upon herself to ensure their papers were in order, and the youngster is a stickler for details. It’s a trait Tamara believes will stand the girl in good stead in the years to come.
Just as they pass through the gates and third bell rings from the Piltover Treasury building, Tamara feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She has learned to trust this instinct over the years and pauses, as if to adjust the straps of her shoulder bag, looking back to the street. Sitting on the rim of a marble fountain is a woman wearing the loosely tied jacket of a Piltover sheriff, a customized cap pulled low over her shadowed features. One leg is cocked at an angle, her elbow resting atop it as her gaze sweeps the throng of apprenta. There’s a long-barreled rifle over her shoulder, one with what looks like a gleaming gemstone enclosed in a lattice of silver wire. Her gaze pauses on Tamara, who turns away before it can linger too long.
Tamara knows that look: it is the look of a hunter.
The gates shut and she catches up to Colette and Gysbert, who stand in a twenty-strong crowd staring in open-mouthed wonder at what seems at first glance to be a simple carriage. But then Tamara notices the underslung hextech pod and the knot of gold and silver cabling linking it to the front and rear axles. A soft light glows within the pod and Tamara tastes copper on her tongue.
“It’s a self-locomotor,” says Gysbert. “One of Uberti’s designs, if I’m not mistaken.”
“It can’t be,” says Tamara. “She works exclusively for Clan Cadwalder.”
“Not for long, I hear,” says Colette.
“What do you mean?” asks Gysbert.
“Scuttlebut around the workbench says one of Medarda’s agents stole a copy of the schematics,” says Colette, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Rumor has it things got pretty bloody. Bodies all cut up, that sort of thing. Folks are saying Clan Torek are looking to lure her away, but Clan Cadwalder won’t admit anything, of course.”
“Well, they wouldn’t, would they?” says Tamara, as the lacquered black doorway to the manor house opens. “A public admission that their head artisan’s designs were stolen would make them look weak.”
A steward bearing a long black staff and liveried in the crimson and gold of Clan Medarda ushers the hopeful apprenta into the manor house. Tamara hears sighs of wonderment as he leads them through its vaulted antechambers, luxurious reception rooms and grand galleries. The clan’s conspicuous wealth is displayed for all to see in gold-framed portraits that fill entire walls, giant sandstone statues of beast-headed warriors conveyed at enormous expense from Shuriman tombs, and crossed weapons that bear the hallmarks of Ionian design. The floors are gleaming marble flagstones, the grand staircase wide and crafted from the whorled boles of Freljordian Ironwood trees.
Tamara sees that everything in this house is artfully crafted to intimidate and remind the visitor just how little their achievements matter in the face of what Clan Medarda has acquired. She looks up in time to see a woman in a floor-length gray dress and crimson-tasseled pelisse glide being escorted across a mezzanine level by another steward. The heels of her boots click with a strange metallic cadence, and she looks down upon the herd of apprenta with the ghost of a smile creasing her lips as she passes from sight.
Eventually the steward halts their march in a moderately sized waiting room with a herringbone-patterned floor and a Revek clock fashioned from ivory and mother-of-pearl that keeps time with metronomic precision. An imposing set of black-lacquered doors with a hatch at eye level leads onward, but the steward raps his staff on the wooden floor and indicates that they should sit on benches set against each wall.
“When your name is called, enter the proving chamber,” he says. “Move to the lectern and state your name. Give a short explanation of what you will be demonstrating, followed by a brief - and I cannot stress that word enough, brief - explanation of its workings. You will be judged by the learned artificers of Clan Medarda, so assume they know more than you. My advice is to keep your answers short, as they bore easily. If you are successful, take the left door onward. If you are unsuccessful, take the right door onward. That is all. And good luck.”
The steward has given this speech many times before, but Tamara hears sincerity in his last words to them. She places a hand on her shoulder bag, knowing that on any other day, the device within would be enough to secure her a place at any one of Piltover’s clan houses. She shares a look with Gysbert and Colette. Both are nervous, and she is surprised to find her own heart racing. She has spent so long preparing for the Progress Day audition that the thought of stumbling at this last hurdle makes her sick to her stomach. It has been a long time since she felt this way, and she smiles, welcoming the sensation. It will keep her sharp and focused. She reaches over to take Gysbert’s hand and gives it a squeeze. Sweat dapples his brow and he smiles weakly in thanks. Colette is staring straight ahead, scanning the faces on the other side of the room, no doubt wondering who might make the cut and who will fall by the wayside.
The hatch in the black door slides back and everyone tenses. A name is called, and a young girl across from them stands. The door opens from the other side and she shuffles nervously through it. A musty smell of aged wood and charged atmosphere gusts from the proving chamber, and Tamara tries to imagine what it will be like.
Another six apprenta pass through the door before one of their names is called. Colette is first, and she stands with determination, lets out a breath, and walks through the door without a backward glance.
“She’ll be great,” says Gysbert under his breath. “I know it.”
“So will you, Gys,” says Tamara, though she suspects his nerves will likely get the better of him. The kid from Zaun is skilled, but more than just his nerves will count against him in the grand halls of a Piltovan clan.
Two more apprenta are called. Looking at the clock, Tamara sees each audition is getting shorter. Are the learned artisans of Clan Medarda already getting bored? Will that count for or against those yet to demonstrate their devices?
Gysbert all but jumps off the bench when his name is called. He almost drops his bag, but catches it at the last minute, his face red with worry and dripping in sweat.
“Take a deep breath,” Tamara advises him. “You know this stuff. Your work is good.”
“But is it good enough?” he asks.
Tamara thinks she knows the answer, but nods and says, “It is.”
He passes through the door and more apprenta are called until only Tamara remains. The room is empty, but she can’t shake the feeling that she is being watched. When her name is finally called, it is a relief, and she takes a moment to compose herself before turning and stepping through the door into the proving room.
The chamber beyond is circular and illuminated by glowing spheres of glass that float above sconces carved in the shape of outstretched hands, as though giving light to the world. It’s all Tamara can do to suppress a sneer at the rampant self-aggrandizement. It is a lecture theater, with tiered benches rising in concentric rings to the back wall. A plain wooden lectern and workbench sit in the center of the room, and two doors lead onward. Left for success, right for failure.
The tiered benches are capable of holding at least a hundred people, but only five sit before her. Two men and three women, all wearing the crimson robes of masters. They are scratching on great ledgers with gold-plated quills that echo noisily in the chamber’s excellent acoustics. Every one of them bears a genuine hextech augment, and she senses their eagerness to be done.
“Name?” says one of the women without looking up.
“Tamara Lautari.”
“What will you be demonstrating?” asks one of the men. His lips do not move, and his voice grates artificially from a mesh-fronted neck brace.
Tamara sets her bag down on the workbench and removes her creation, an arrangement of wirework struts arranged in a cube with an acid-engraved sphere at its center.
“I call it the Hex-Armillary Amplifier.”
“How do you hope it will function?” he asks again, and Tamara tries not to show how much his mechanically-rendered voice disturbs her.
“By harnessing the properties of a crystal and exponentially increasing its output beyond anything that’s been achieved so far.”
She says the words neutrally, but the arrogance of what she says does not go unnoticed. Every one of the masters now fixes their gaze upon her. They are likely used to hearing grand claims from apprenta, but the confidence in her tone clearly piques their interest.
“And how will you do that?” asks a white-haired man with a gem-faceted eye set in a porcelain plate upon his burn-scarred face.
“The geometries of a crystal are vital, as is the axis upon which it spins,” says Tamara, opening a delicate hatch in the sphere to reveal a precisely engineered cradle. Thin chains, like those of an expensive necklace, hang down, ready to secure a power crystal. “My device reads the speed and angle of spin, adjusting it to achieve optimum power delivery.”
“Absurd,” says a woman with an artificial arm and the penetrating gaze of an academic who has heard every wild idea from her students and dismissed them all. “There is no time in the discharge of a crystal’s power to adjust it with any degree of control. Praveen tried the same thing two years ago and almost brought down half the goldsmithing district.”
“Respectfully, ma’am, I disagree.”
“Your disagreement is irrelevant, apprenta. Can you prove it? Can you demonstrate what you claim?”
“I believe so,” replies Tamara.
“Belief is not the basis of science,” says the woman, as if speaking to a confident but ill-informed child. “Empirical evidence is what is demanded.”
“I can do it,” promises Tamara.
The woman looks unconvinced, but nods and says, “Very well, you may begin.”
A hatch slides open in the workbench beside Tamara. A fretwork stand rises from below, holding a small, faceted crystal of sapphire blue that shimmers with its own internal light.
A hextech crystal.
The crystal is no bigger than her thumbnail, but it is the future.
This is what could make the clans of Piltover rulers of the world if they so desired. Or, if not them, whoever can craft it more efficiently and without the years of work to produce a single item. This crystal has only a low level of power left in it, but it is still immeasurably powerful and outrageously valuable.
She hadn’t anticipated it would also be so beautiful.
“Well, go on then,” says the burn-scarred man. “Dazzle us.”
She lifts the crystal from its holder. It’s warm to the touch, vibrating at a level almost too subtle to detect. It is far heavier than she expects. With exquisite care, Tamara places the crystal within her sphere and fastens it with delicate chains. She checks it is secure and seals her device. The mechanism atop the cube is movable and she twists its interlocking parts to arrange the cardinal points of contact into their engaged positions.
Her device starts to hum as the conduits find a source of power in the crystal, and a soft blue glow emanates from within. Tamara grins as her device spools up. The hum builds and the taste of metal in her mouth grows stronger. It is getting louder now, unpleasantly so, pulsing in waves.
The light spheres around the hall pulse in concert with the rise and fall of the bass thrum coming from her device. It is moving across the workbench, the vibrations jittering it left and right, up and down. Crackles of energy flicker around the sphere, flaring from its upper surfaces like lightning running in reverse.
“Turn it off, Mistress Lautari!”
Tamara reaches for her device, but a whip of blue light lashes out, carving an angry red weal over the back of her hand. She flinches and backs away from her rapidly overloading device.
“I can’t,” says Tamara in dismay. “It’s optimizing too fast!”
She always knew this was going to happen, but she’d hoped the changes she made to the design wouldn’t fail quite as catastrophically as this. A bolt of blue fire arcs out of her machine toward one of the light spheres. It explodes in a shower of magnesium-bright sparks.
Another follows, then three more. Soon the only light is the violent blue glow of Tamara’s crackling device. The woman with the hextech arm stands and makes a fist. With a rush of sliding metal, the entire workbench falls into the floor, which promptly seals up after it. The outline of the trapdoor is briefly limned in light and a hard bang of detonation echoes from far below.
“A safety chamber,” says Tamara, relieved her device didn’t explode a few seconds earlier.
“Yes, Mistress Lautari,” says the woman, sitting back down and picking up her golden quill. “Do you think you are the first apprenta to come before us with a potentially lethal invention?”
“I suppose not,” answers Tamara. She is disappointed, but not surprised. This was always the intended outcome, despite the best efforts of professional pride to sabotage her purpose.
The man with the hextech eye writes in his ledger and speaks without looking at her.
“I think you know which door to take.”
Tamara’s exit from Clan Medarda’s mansion is far less grand than her entrance. The rightmost door opens into a bare stone corridor that winds downward through the rock of the cliffs until it reaches a steel door with enough reinforcement to withstand a siege ram. A heavily muscled enforcer type with hexdraulic arms and a helmet she’s not sure is actually a helmet opens the door. She’s barely through it before it’s slammed shut behind her.
It opens onto a side street lower down the city, one that leads back to the cliffs. Not quite Zaun, but not entirely Piltover. The street is paved with mismatched cobbles and foggy with low lying scraps of the Zaun Gray. Gysbert sits opposite on a crumbling brick wall, the smashed remains of his device lying strewn at his feet.
He smiles as he sees her and says, “It didn’t go well?”
“Not exactly.”
“What happened?”
“It exploded.”
His eyes widen in surprise. He laughs, then claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, shouldn’t laugh. Exploded?”
She nods and grins. He laughs again.
“At least all mine did was fall apart,” he says. “Not that it matters. As if Medarda would let a Zaunite into their hallowed ranks!”
She ignores his bitterness and asks, “Have you seen Colette?”
Gysbert’s eyes light up at the prospect of delivering good news.
“I haven’t. I think she made it.”
Tamara lets out a sigh of relief.
“Well, at least one of us got in,” she says. “So… shall we drown our sorrows? It’s Progress Day, after all. I think we’ve earned a few after nearly blowing up the learned masters.”
A figure moves into view, lithe and silhouetted against the light at the end of the street. Others are with her, but they’re clearly deferring to her since she’s the one with the long-barreled rifle pulled tight to her shoulder. The weapon’s muzzle is unwavering, its sights firmly aimed at Tamara’s head. “Sorry, Mistress Lautari,” says the sheriff she’d seen earlier today, “but I don’t think you’ll be getting that drink.”
Gysbert’s protests are brushed aside as the sheriff and her men lead Tamara away. He hasn’t the courage to follow her, and she’s glad of that. She doesn’t want him dragged into this. She’s frogmarched toward the edge of the cliff, and for a wild moment she thinks they’re going to throw her over the edge.
But this is Piltover. They do things by the book here. Back home, she’d already have a knife in her guts or be sailing through the air on a long drop to the spires of the city below. Instead, they turn into a narrow overhanging street that winds along the line of the cliffs toward the great funicular that leads down to the busy wharves on the ocean passage through the city.
“Are you arresting me?” asks Tamara. “What did I do?”
“Really? You’re going to play dumb?” asks the sheriff. “We searched your room and found everything. The hextech journals, the schematics.”
“I’m an apprenta,” says Tamara. “I’m supposed to have schematics.”
They reach an iron-mesh platform attached to a collimated series of rails angled down toward the ocean and docks below. Hundreds of ships throng the wide channel, moored in the shadow of the titanic form of the Sun Gates that allow sea transit from east to west. Some are just passing through, while others berthed offload goods before filling their holds with the bounty Piltover and Zaun have to offer. Tamara sees Freljordian ice-runners, Noxian troop barques, Shuriman grain-galleys and even a few vessels that look suspiciously like they’ve recently sailed from the thieves’ haven of Bilgewater.
Watching over them all are Piltover’s warship squadrons: sleek, ebon-hulled vessels with twin banks of oars and iron-sheathed rams. Rumor has it they’re powered by more than just the strength of their oarsmen and that each is equipped with a battery of powerful hextech weaponry. Tamara doesn’t know if that’s true, but that people believe it is true is all that matters.
She’s jolted from thoughts of warships as three of the sheriff’s men bundle her onto the elevator, holding her tighter and more painfully than they need to.
“Maybe so, but I don’t think many apprenta have such detailed maps of Piltover hidden within their work. I’m Caitlyn, and I’ve walked a beat for more years than I care to count, so I know this city’s streets better than most. And I have to say, you did a damned accurate job. Even Vi could walk blindfold around Piltover with those plans and not get lost.”
“I don’t follow,” says Tamara, as Caitlyn pulls a lever and the angled elevator begins its juddering descent to the city’s lowest levels.
“Yeah, you’re more a trailblazer than a follower, aren’t you?”
“What does that mean?”
The sheriff doesn’t answer, and Tamara shakes her head, her eyes filling with tears.
“Look, I swear I don’t know what this is all about,” she says, her voice cracking and her chest heaving with sobs. “Please, I’m just an apprenta trying to catch a break. Signing a contract with Clan Medarda was my last chance to make something of myself before my father’s money runs out and I have to indenture myself to one of the Zaun Chem-forges. Please, you have to believe me!”
Her pleas fall on deaf ears, and neither the sheriff or her men bother to answer her increasingly histrionic pleas for compassion and understanding as their descent continues. When the elevator lurches to a halt on the dockside, it’s in the shadow of a Shuriman galleon riding high in the water, its holds freshly unloaded. Tamara sees all her worldly possessions stuffed into a metal cart used to haul grain from the holds of such vessels. Her journals and rolled up plans are inside, pages ripped and torn, months of painstaking work discarded like junk. She smells oil and knows what’s coming next. She throws off the grip of the men holding her and falls to her knees before Caitlyn.
“No! Please, don’t,” she weeps. “Please. I’m begging you!”
Caitlyn ignores her and walks over to the cart. She lifts a smoking pipe from a passing stevedore and tips its burning contents into the cart. The oil-soaked paper of Tamara’s books and plans bursts into flames with a whoosh of ignition. The fire consumes them swiftly, burning everything to ash in a matter of minutes. Smoke curls from the remains of Tamara’s work, and she spits at Caitlyn’s feet.
“Damn you,” she snaps. “May the Gray forever be at your door!”
“Nice try,” says Caitlyn, dragging her to her feet. “You’re pretty tricksy with that accent. It’s good, I’ll give you that. Just enough slang, just enough roughness, but I’ve heard every voice in this city, from top to bottom, and yours just doesn’t fit, you know? A little too much of the soot and spite from your homeland to really pull it off.”
“What are you talking about?” protests Tamara. “I was raised in upper Piltover. I’m a Goldview Lass! Born in sight of the Ecliptic Vaults! I swear I’m not lying!”
Caitlyn shakes her head. She’s tired of this game.
“No, your accent’s good, but it can’t quite cover that guttural Noxian superiority,” she says, punctuating her words with a finger jabbing into Tamara’s chest. “And I know what you are. Yeah, I’ve heard the fireside tales of the warmasons, the warriors who sneak into enemy territory and scout it out. You map out the terrain, find the best ways for an army to advance, laying the groundwork for invasion.”
Tamara doesn’t get the chance to deny the accusation as Caitlyn’s men march her up the gangway and onto the galleon. They hand her to two swarthy Shuriman bladesmen, hard-eyed killers who’d sell their own grandmother for half a silver gear.
“You don’t come back to Piltover,” says Caitlyn, resting her rifle in her arms. “If I see you again, I’ll put a bullet in your head. Understand?”
Tamara doesn’t answer. She sees Caitlyn means every word she says.
“Keep her below, then dump her somewhere unpleasant in Bel’zhun,” says Caitlyn to the shipmaster. “Or throw her overboard once you get far enough out, I don’t care.”
The ship is far out to sea by the time they let her up on deck. Too far from land to swim, but Tamara has no plans to get wet. She watches the glittering jewel of Piltover slide away over the horizon, sad to be leaving, but pleased her mission is finally over.
A shame her artfully prepared plans and schematics went up in smoke, but that was always a risk, and she can recreate them from memory. She closes her eyes and runs through the mental exercises that allow her to conjure walking Piltover’s streets at night, counting steps and mentally mapping every junction, street and winding alley.
She ponders which of the breadcrumbs she left in her wake allowed Caitlyn to draw the net around her, but supposes it doesn’t matter now. The sheriff of Piltover is clever, but Tamara has a nagging sensation it wasn’t actually Caitlyn who discovered her. That worries Tamara, as it means there is someone in Piltover she doesn’t know about who has cunning enough to unmask a warmason.
Whoever it was, and no matter how much they might think they know about the secretive Order of Warmasons, there’s one thing they haven’t yet realized.
That warmasons work in pairs and sometimes it pays to burn one to embed another more deeply in foreign lands.
Tamara smiles to herself, already imagining the valuable intelligence Colette will be gathering for Noxus in the heart of Clan Medarda.
She lies back on a bed of empty grain sacks and settles down to sleep.
Poetry with a Blade

Mo Xiong

Yi frowned at Master Doran as the elder scrambled up the path toward him. Like a mud crab during mating season. It was a less than courteous thought, but given the master artisan’s age, it was a compliment of sorts.
He gave a short bow toward the gray-haired weaponsmith, cupping his hands together in greeting. Red faced, Doran replied without slowing, his hand waving in rhythm with his gasps for breath.
“I’m here, I’m here! Sorry for being a little late. These old bones overslept today.”
Yi shot a glance at the midday sun. A little late indeed, if that meant an entire morning.
“From time, all things spring forth,” Yi recited, his brows furrowed. “Morning dew dawns. Evening mists fall. Thus are born the sun, moon, and stars.”
Doran paused, his waterskin halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“The opening verse from ‘The Compilation of Mandates.’ Have you never heard of it, master?” Yi could hardly believe it. It was a famous verse, most often used to chastise the tardy. “That poem is one of Buxii’s classics.”
The elder stroked his beard, face scrunched in confusion. “Who?”
Yi’s eyes narrowed. Master Buxii was the greatest poet in Ionian history. Before Yi had learned the names of all his extended family, his father had taught him to recite Buxii’s “The Glow of Sunset Among the Mountains.”
“Never mind.” Yi cleared his throat. “My master has informed me of the importance of today’s training. I am to follow your instructions.”
Doran chuckled. “He called this training? No wonder you arrived so early.”
He must be joking. Yi had met Doran before, at his parents’ workshop. Fair and Emai respected him greatly—though he was once an outsider to the village, Wuju’s smiths and masters had embraced him, so legendary was his skill with hammer and anvil. Yet the similarities between Yi’s parents and Doran ended with their professions. The elder weaponsmith was unkempt, absentminded, and known to be eccentric. And though Yi’s parents knew and respected the great poets, Doran apparently did not.
Not for the first time, Yi questioned what this strange weaponsmith had to teach him about the sacred art of Wuju.
He forced his lips into a tight smile. “When do we begin, master?”
“Well, to this old man, we have all the time in the world. But to you…”
Doran packed up his waterskin and turned to glance up the road he had just traveled—a narrow and winding shepherd’s path leading to the village of Wuju. As he turned, Yi noticed the load Doran carried on his shoulders: a basket weaved from bamboo, covered with thick takin hide. It was clearly meant for long journeys.
“You’re what, a mere six moons into swordsman training, and facing your first little setback. Why so impatient?” Doran said.
Yi tensed. It was much more than a little setback—it was a problem that could make him unfit to continue training in Wuju style. He clenched and released the sheath of his sword in an attempt to center himself. This trick, taught to him by his fellow disciples, proved fairly ineffective at the moment.
“Master,” he said softly. “I have been studying Wuju swordsmanship for four seasons.”
“Oh! You’re right! You’re fifteen summers now.” Doran pinched Yi’s bicep with an exaggerated look of surprise. “No wonder you’re so strong. You must have been practicing those sword strikes every sunrise, eh?”
Yi had never shirked any assignment his master had given him, whether it was practicing his sword strikes, meditating, or reciting poetry. In fact, he worked harder than his fellow apprentices and most of the older disciples. He could perform every stance and move in Wuju style with incredible precision, enter a meditative state with impeccable speed and form, and recite most of the poems, songs, and scriptures in the Wuju texts. Yet in spite of all his achievements, he had hit an embarrassing plateau in his progress.
Yi couldn’t keep a bitter smile from creeping across his face. “About four thousand times every day.”
Doran whistled. “Four thousand sword strikes a day? Are you training to be a blacksmith?”
The young swordsman crossed his arms. Repetition was the essence of a fundamental doctrine of Wuju: The Trunk Is Sturdier than the Branch. Did Doran not even know that?
Before Yi could respond, Doran removed the bamboo basket from his back and thrust it into his arms. “There you go, then. A fitting load for a strong young man.”
He massaged his shoulder as he strode away from Yi. Momentarily stunned, Yi ran to catch up.
“Master? Where are you headed? This path leads south.”
“Don’t you worry,” Doran said. “I can still tell north from south.”
“But what about the training?”
“You really want to train that much?” Doran sauntered forward, putting both hands behind his back. “Then let us begin.”
Yi paused. South of the Wuju village was nothing but uninhabited woods. Unless Doran’s plan was to go wild boar hunting, there wasn’t much “training” to be done there.
But he had promised his master he would obey the old man, and so he slung the bamboo basket over his shoulders, and followed.

Yi had never set foot on this path before—he had never even heard of its existence.
The path was marked by stepping stones that were deep in the soil, mostly broken by time and neglect. Wild grass grew between them, sometimes as tall as Yi’s shins. At first, he suspected that this route would lead to some abandoned shrine or settlement. In the mountainous island of Bahrl, ancient ruins were said to lie undisturbed in the woods outside villages and towns.
They had trekked southward for some time, and the weaponsmith’s promise of training hadn’t materialized. Irritated, Yi shifted the bamboo basket on his shoulders. “Master, what exactly am I carrying? It’s heavy.”
“Swords,” Doran replied without turning to face him. “All swords.”
Yi raised an eyebrow. Doran crafted swords exclusively for Wuju swordsmen, and he only made a few every season.
“Are these blades all forged by you, Master Doran?”
“Three of them are. As for the rest…” Doran paused, as if trying to find the right words. “Those were entrusted to me by my peers.”
“You mean other weaponsmiths? Why would they give you their swords?”
Yi absentmindedly peered over his shoulder to look at the basket, promptly tripping over an oddly shaped stone. He staggered as he caught his balance.
“Hey! Watch it!” Doran quickly rebalanced the basket on Yi’s shoulders. “One of them is for you, you know. If you bend it, I’m sure you’ll blame me later.”
“For—for me? Is it a sharpened blade?”
“Of course it is. I don’t craft unsharpened swords.”
Only those who truly understood the Wuju philosophy of bloodless combat were given the privilege of wielding sharpened blades, as a testament to the swordsman’s self-control. And one handcrafted by Master Doran… Many senior disciples had endured over ten summers of training before receiving such an honor, yet Yi had only been training for four seasons. The young swordsman was flattered.
However, his excitement was fleeting, and he cast his eyes down. Doran seemed to notice the change in mood. The two walked in silence for a few paces before the weaponsmith gently said, “I heard from your master that you’re having some trouble connecting with the spirit realm.”
Yi didn’t answer right away, so great was his shame. When he finally spoke, he said, “Connecting isn’t the problem. If I couldn’t do that, I wouldn’t have been accepted into the Wuju school.” He scratched the back of his head. “Yet I can’t seem to draw power from it. Sometimes I can draw a little, but I can’t imbue my weapon with it.”
“Could it simply be that it’s not yet your time? Evoking the spirit realm’s energy…” Doran smiled as he stroked his beard. “When it happens might simply come down to the whims of fate.”
Yi wanted to tell Doran he was wrong—the ability to draw power from the spirit realm wasn’t something to be negotiated with fate. And that’s what worried him. Perhaps he was failing because he lacked the innate talent. Perhaps it was his fate that he’d never succeed.
Yet he bit his tongue. He didn’t want to appear impudent, and he still clung to the hope that today’s “training” would help him, however slim the chance.
“Hm. Perhaps you’re right,” Yi finally replied.
The muddy path became more difficult to walk, as roots and brambles crowded over the broken stones. While earlier, Yi could occasionally spot the footprints of other travelers, there was now no sign that any living soul had passed through here before. The only sound was the summer wind whistling through the dense trees.
“Master Doran, have you come this way before?”
“Mhm. I take this path once every four seasons. Your master even accompanied me two or three times.”
Yi was surprised. “Master Hurong? I’ve never heard him say so.”
“I’m sure he will, eventually.” Doran waved him off before picking up his pace. From his swift strides, it was hard to remember he was an elder of almost sixty summers. Not much like a mud crab after all.
He’s brought other swordsmen with him. Does he need a bodyguard? Is this the training—a chance to practice my mercy strokes? Yi welcomed the prospect.
“Have you ever met any threats on this path, master?”
“None at all.” Doran shook his head with a smile. “But keep a good grip on that sword of yours, son. My walking of this path has nothing to do with yours. Even if I had walked this path a thousand times without encountering any danger, it doesn’t mean you definitely won’t.”
As if on cue, a sharp bird-like screech rang out.
Yi halted and grasped the hilt of his unedged sword, lifting it to his chest. He recognized the sound as the cry of a raptor—a dangerous species of wild fowl usually found deep within forests.
The swordsman clenched his teeth, and scanned the tree line.
Rolling his eyes, Doran gestured forward. “Do you see those mountains over there?”
Straight ahead, an unbroken range of peaks stretched across the horizon. They were not particularly high, but they went on as far as the eye could see.
The woods had been silent since the raptor’s call, so Yi lowered his sword. “We’re going mountain climbing?” he asked, trying to hide his annoyance.
“You’re from Bahrl,” Doran replied, patting Yi’s chest with the back of his hand. “Surely you’re not afraid of some hills?”
Yi looked up. A golden, dazzling sun hung upon a cloudless blue canvas. It actually was a good day for a hike, he had to admit.
He squared his shoulders and pressed forward.

After skirting a grove and crossing a stream, they finally closed in on the mountains. They were well outside Wuju territory by now, and beyond the range the elders considered wise to travel. Yet Doran had yet to show any signs of slowing down.
Once they reached the first incline, they ascended a series of stone steps. They might have been well traveled in the past, but now they were broken, covered in weeds and slippery mud. The steps abruptly ended at a steep cliff face that was roughly the height of three men, and before Yi could ask, Doran had already grabbed a handhold on the rock and started to climb. He reached the top with little effort, turning back to look down at Yi with an expression that said, What are you waiting for?
Scaling a rock wall was an easy feat for just about any young person from Wuju, but Yi had never attempted this sort of climb while carrying a heavy load. The task was even more difficult than it looked. After he finally summited the cliff, it was quite some time before he caught his breath.
At last, he stood up straight and dusted off his clothes, only to stop as his eyes locked on a stone tablet before him, a single word etched on it. He could just barely make out the weather-worn Ionian characters.
Mistfall.
“We still have time.” Doran sat down beside the stone tablet and took a sip from his waterskin. “Let’s rest.”
He pulled a rice cake from some mysterious pouch or hidden pocket, and began munching away. After a few bites, Doran looked up as if he had suddenly remembered something. He jabbed the remnant of the rice cake at Yi, who was still studying the stone tablet. Seeing the jagged teeth marks on the offering, Yi shook his head.
“Master, when you said we still have time, you meant for my training, right?”
Doran slapped his knee while chewing on a mouthful of rice cake. “A beard well lathered is half shaved, kid. If you’re really that anxious to start the training, I suggest you rest up here first.”
When Yi saw that Doran had started gnawing on a second rice cake, he suppressed an exasperated sigh. Seeking to hide his impatience, he examined his surroundings.
Apart from the stone tablet, Yi noticed a few ancient ruins hidden under thick clusters of vines and shrubbery. Though only broken columns and walls were left, he could tell that this majestic and bold architecture was entirely different from that of Wuju’s pagodas.
Doran pointed toward the ruins. “This mountain used to house a shrine—for worshiping a god who fell from grace long before any of us were born. Nobody knows the god’s name, and nobody knows where its believers went. These humble stones are all that remain.”
“Flowers wilt as folks grow old. Even morning stars must return to night,” Yi recited. He then pointed at the stone tablet. “Were they the ones who named this place Mistfall?”
“Later generations carved that. As for the name…” Doran motioned toward the other side of the cliff. “Its meaning will be clear if you look over there.”
Yi peered cautiously over the edge of the cliff. Beneath him, white fog blanketed a valley, and farther in the distance, blue sky met the mountains. The view was breathtaking, its grandeur stretching as far as he could see.
The valley itself wasn’t large. It reminded Yi of a lake, only with swirling silvery mist instead of water. A narrow downward path led from the cliff and disappeared into the depths.
“You see that?” Doran asked. “That’s where we’re going.”
“There? Into the valley?”
“That’s right.”
After a long day of trekking through empty wilderness, his training ever more elusive, Yi couldn’t stomach any more nonsense.
“Master, just what kind of training are we doing?” he blurted out.
“All I can say is, the journey will be rough, which is why you should take this respite more seriously.”
Yi swallowed his frustration, as it was clear that Doran was not going to explain further. He found a slab of flat stone opposite the old weaponsmith, and sat down, placing the bamboo basket next to him.
Forget rest. At least this place was perfect for practicing meditation.
Yi closed his eyes and started to breathe deeply and slowly. Perhaps it was due to the unfamiliar environment, but he took a while longer than usual to enter his meditative state. In that space between unconsciousness and waking, a lightness cascaded through his body. And at the tip of this lightness, a bright and unusual object emerged. It was like a spark, illuminating every corner of his mind.
A spirit.
It wasn’t uncommon for Yi to encounter spirits while meditating. They visited him more often than they did most of his fellow disciples. It was probably a good thing, for it meant that he was closer to the spiritual realm, and he ought to be skilled at drawing energy from it.
Ought to be.
Yi focused on the white light, purging his mind of all other thoughts. He soon realized that this was no average spirit. He tried to grasp it, feeling how it pulsed. To his surprise, he merged with the entity, disappearing in the blinding light.

He forced his eyes open, and found himself sitting under a gigantic silverwood tree—the one that stood at the entrance to Wuju. Yet the buildings in the distance looked strange and unfamiliar.
Flustered, Yi stood and walked into the village, where he saw familiar figures—his father, mother, fellow disciples, even his neighbor’s black cat, Little Beauty, and the chief elder’s dog, Goldie. They all seemed to be engrossed in their own world, ignoring Yi. These must be visions, he thought. He calmed himself as he continued down the main road.
Then he saw something that made him freeze in his tracks. “Master Doran?”
The elder weaponsmith spared Yi a glance before turning back to his work. But he was not crafting swords—where a furnace, smithing tools, and an anvil should have been, there was only a flower pot with tender seedlings. With a delirious grin, the artisan slowly raised his arms over his head, and the seedlings in the pot curled and stretched in response. They grew at an unimaginable pace, sprouting leaves until they took the shape of a small juniper tree. Doran examined it closely, looking somewhat unsatisfied. He then raised his arms a few more times. The tree changed its form, swaying merrily in the wind before becoming a weeping willow.
Bewildered, Yi turned his gaze toward the rest of the village, noticing for the first time that each and every house was covered in lush, colorful, and even grotesque vegetation. Many dwellings looked like they had grown out of solid rock, while others twisted into forms that resembled people—not just in shape, but in their movements.
As Yi meandered aimlessly, a clarion sounded from the village center. Nearly every villager stopped what they were doing and strode toward the mountainside on the other end of town.
A waterfall ran down the mountain, obscuring a cave behind it. Doran was the first villager to arrive. He raised his arms, parting the water so he could pass, dry as can be. Other villagers promptly followed suit, entering the cave one by one. But when Yi raised his arms, it had no effect on the cascading water.
It’s just a vision, he reassured himself. It doesn’t matter if I get wet.
He stepped through the waterfall, and found himself in a massive chamber. Thousands upon thousands of candles adorned the space. In the center of the cave were the villagers who entered before him, conversing in a language Yi could not understand. In the opposite corner, he spotted his Wuju master, Hurong, standing with a number of other highly respected elders from the village.
Strange ridges and lines were carved into the stone walls, and the patterns seemed to shift as Master Hurong spoke and gestured. It looked like a living calligraphy painting—no, not a painting. Some sort of map.
The elders concluded their discussion, exchanging glances and nods. Yi’s master then raised his right arm and snapped his fingers. With the ease of a door being thrown open, an entire wall sundered, right up to the ceiling, revealing the sky as streaks of blinding sunlight filled the cavern. Outside was a sheer drop to the distant ground.
With a leap, Master Hurong transformed into a vibrant blue Bahrl jay and took to the air, soaring out of the mountain and into the clouds. Next came the other elders and villagers—after turning into birds, they emptied the broken cave in a chorus of squawks, leaving behind only Yi and Doran.
Knowing he could not communicate with Doran, Yi nodded respectfully and prepared to take his leave. He was shocked when Doran called out to him in a language he could understand, his voice cold and deep.
“You. You walk the path of Wuju?”
Yi froze, staring wordlessly at the weaponsmith.
“I have met you Wuju practitioners before,” Doran said, his face impassive. Yi hadn’t realized how strange his eyes were—crimson irises transfixed him, shining with an eerie light, devoid of any semblance of life. “You take great pains to wring out what little power you can from the spirit realm, only to put it in a weapon—how tawdry. Yet this poor mimicry is still enough to allow you to enter the domain of the strong.”
“Mimicry?” Yi had never heard anyone disparage Wuju style before. “Mimicry of whom?”
Doran ignored the question, instead pointing toward the gradually closing gap in the cave walls. “Go. Follow them.”
Yi looked up at the sky. This is ridiculous. “But I can’t fly.”
“You can.”
Doran’s voice had come from behind him. Yi whirled around to see the weaponsmith standing outside the cave entrance, fingers steepled. “You just don’t know how to do it yet.”
The entrance and the gap in the cave walls slammed shut, sealing Yi inside. His only escape was an opening far above his head. It seemed this crimson-eyed Doran wished to compel Yi to fly out of the mountain like the others.
Yi scoffed, then sat down on the stone floor, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes. Fly out? That wouldn’t be necessary. Visions were just like dreams: no matter how bizarre they got, one only had to wake up for it all to become but a passing fancy.
Yi gasped as he opened his eyes, finding himself back on the stone slab near Mistfall, right opposite where Doran sat. The old weaponsmith didn’t seem to notice Yi’s sudden waking, so engrossed was he with his own thoughts.
Yi pinched his earlobe. He did this whenever he returned from a vision, to make sure he was indeed back in reality. Yet the vision had been so vivid, so real, that even the pinch did not make him feel grounded.
“Master?”
“Hmm?” Doran turned to look at him. “What?”
Yi gazed into Doran’s dark brown eyes. “How long have I been meditating?”
“You pretty much just sat down. Why?”
Yi rubbed his lips. He wouldn’t share an experience he did not fully understand himself.
“It’s no matter. Let’s get going, shall we?”

Just as Doran had warned, the path leading down into the sea of mist was perilous. A treacherous green moss grew on the stone stairs, each step requiring meticulous care. The task was made more difficult by carrying a heavy basket full of swords, but Yi offered no complaint—he wouldn’t give Doran the satisfaction.
It became clear that Doran was not the only one who knew of this secret location. As they approached the mists, Yi saw a relatively new wooden board to the side of the path, a warning of danger scrawled across it. The shoddy handwriting and misspellings hinted that it had been penned by an uneducated hunter.
Yi couldn’t tell if his senses were playing tricks on him, but as he passed the wooden board, it grew cold. It had been a hot summer day, yet frigid winds swirled around him now. On top of that, his vision started to blur as a strange, dense fog wrapped around him and Doran.
He followed closely behind the elder, tightly gripping the hilt of his blade and scanning his surroundings, fearing that something might leap out of the fog.
“This mist isn’t normal,” Yi muttered. “Spirits linger here. We should wait and return after they are gone.”
“The spirits will never leave,” Doran replied, shaking his head. “They have lived in this place longer than people have lived in Ionia. Don’t worry. We won’t be here for long.” He gestured ahead of him. “Come, you have better eyes than I. Help me find a sword.”
Yi frowned. “Find a sword? Here?”
“A Placidium flamberge, to be exact. It should be pretty obvious,” Doran explained. “I left it as a marker the last time I came here.”
Yi looked around blankly. Everything was covered in a thick white blanket of mist. Never mind finding a Placidium flamberge—it was barely possible to spot someone standing just two steps away. With no good place to start, Yi pretended to search the ground on either side.
He had only taken a few more steps when his stomach lurched. He suddenly felt as though his body was becoming lighter and lighter. Even the weight of the bamboo basket had disappeared.
“Master Doran,” Yi said uneasily.
But Doran neither slowed nor turned back, and instead picked up his pace. Alarmed, Yi tried to catch up, but the weaponsmith slipped farther away. It wasn’t long before Doran vanished completely in the white mist. Yi watched as the same mist devoured him—it was so dense that he couldn’t see his own legs. He was weightless and bodiless, floating up through the impossible fog.
No. He wasn’t simply floating. He was soaring, the mists becoming clouds and the chill air turning into wind.
He must be in another vision. This time, however, the spirits hadn’t given any warning before they whisked him away.
Feeling disoriented, he tried to stretch his arms out for balance—but a pair of magnificent jade wings spread out from him instead.
I’ve become a bird!
As he soared through the sky, a long coastline appeared. A salty sea breeze swept over him as cerulean ocean waves crashed against the shore. The land felt like home, and yet at the edge of the beach loomed a dark gray structure, an edifice that had no place in Ionia.
Is that… is that a monument of some kind? If it hadn’t been for the precise construction, it could have been taken for a mountain. As he flew closer, he saw it was three monstrous towers, each one of incredible size, sharing a single base.
This cannot possibly be the craftsmanship of mortals.
Yi had never seen anything like this. The towers were made of thousands of large stones, polished and carved into perfect blocks, each the height of a grown swordsman.
A flock of vibrantly colored birds burst from the clouds and glided toward the fortress. Unsure if it was by his own volition, Yi winged over to join them, flying with great speed.
He followed a bright red bird, dashing between the three towers. The bird left Yi behind as it dived for the base of the structure, tumbling as it landed. As it stood, it took the shape of a man—the crimson-eyed Master Doran. He beckoned as he peered up at Yi, still spiraling overhead.
Yi landed on Doran’s shoulder, then lightly tumbled to the ground. As he regained his feet, he discovered that his human legs had returned, along with the rest of his body.
“It appears you can fly,” Doran said.
Invigorated, Yi said breathlessly, “Master Doran—”
But Doran shook his head. “No. He is but a form I’ve taken.”
He said no more, and Yi blinked. Why would this spirit take the form of Doran, of all people?
He stretched his back, and his gaze fell on the massive towers. “What is this place?”
“You call it Bahrl.” The spirit who looked like Doran pointed at the snakelike coastline, where a squad of warriors armed with pikes and glaives patrolled the beach. Their weapons and armor looked foreign. “They call it the Other Shore. We call it home.”
“Who are they? And who is this we?”
Yi turned to look at the spirit, but he was already gone. Only a few red and white feathers remained.
Absurd.
Yi wanted to leave this vision as he had the last one, but before he could start meditating, a loud, rhythmic noise came from far away—the loudest he had ever heard. It was the clanging of metal and the cries of men. His curiosity piqued, he followed the sound to its source.
As Yi passed by the huge towers, it became even more apparent that their size defied reality. Each tower could house the entire Wuju village and more. But why would anyone build houses so large and ugly? It made no sense.
Lost in his thoughts, Yi almost bumped into a burly passerby. He wore a shining metal helmet, yet his chest was bare, and he wielded a strange-looking halberd.
Just like the villagers in Yi’s previous vision, the people of this vision didn’t pay him much mind. The foreign man paused briefly, then continued on his way. There were a few other warriors patrolling the area, radiating a resolute air of strength. They also let Yi pass.
As Yi approached an earthen rampart, the noise became deafening. He could hear war drums pounding, punctuated by shouting.
Yi swallowed as he climbed up the rampart, and carefully craned his neck so he could see what lay beyond.
Thousands of soldiers packed a large, open square, easily outnumbering the people of Wuju. Their rows were as neat as their war banners, and they were geared with all sorts of different equipment. Some had spiked steel plate armor, some donned thick animal hides, and some wore only thin cloth robes. Though these soldiers were disparate in appearance, they were united in purpose, beating their chests in rhythm with the drums and their war cries.
“Tell me, disciple of Wuju,” a cold voice called from behind him. “What do you see?”
Yi gripped his sheath and spun around, only to see the crimson-eyed spirit standing at the bottom of the rampart. He climbed up level with Yi and placed his hands lightly upon the top of the earthwork.
“Give me your first impressions,” the spirit said.
Yi retorted with questions of his own. “Who are they? Why are you showing me this?”
But the spirit did not yield. “The first word,” he pressed. “The first one that comes to mind.”
“The first word…” Yi gazed at the sea of warriors again. “Strength,” he said finally.
“Strength. Where do you see strength?”
“Where?” Yi scratched his head. “Each warrior possesses the ferocity of the tiger, the strength of the great bears. They wield sharp blades and shining armor. Their call roars across these beaches—”
“So that is what you see. Ah, child. This is why you are here.” The spirit’s expression darkened as he nodded. He pointed behind the young swordsman. “The direction of your gaze is mistaken. The harder you train, the further you will be from your goal.”
Yi turned to look behind him. But before he could see anything, the spirit shoved him, knocking him from the rampart so he tumbled to the ground, which was now impossibly far below. Even knowing he was in a vision, Yi couldn’t help but cry out in shock.
He squeezed his eyes shut as the ground rushed up toward him.
When he reopened them, he was sitting down, thick mist swirling around him, the bamboo basket at his back. He suspected he was back in Mistfall, but he pinched his earlobes—he had to be sure that he had left the vision. Once he was satisfied, he looked to the sky.
“Why can’t he just leave me alone?” Yi groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “And what in the world was he talking about?”
As Yi wiped the sweat off his brow and heaved a few sighs of relief, Doran came hobbling out of the fog, hugging something in his arms. He looked up and down at Yi.
“Hey, kid, what happened? Why are you sitting down?” The weaponsmith held an oddly shaped sword with an undulating, snakelike blade. This was probably the Placidium flamberge he had been looking for.
“Master Doran,” Yi said. “When you came here with my master, did you encounter anything strange?”
“Here in the fog?” Doran squinted his eyes. “What trouble have you gotten into?”
Unsure how to explain, Yi stood up and shook his head, slinging the bamboo basket over his shoulders. “I’m just worried that this place might not be safe. The mist has only grown thicker since we arrived.”
“Oh, no need to worry,” Doran replied as he stuck the flamberge into the ground. “The mist will soon disperse. And we will be safe as long as we leave before it sets in again.”
“The mist will disperse? Why?”
“Every four seasons, there is one sundown when the mists recede. That is today, during this very sundown.”
Just then, Yi noticed that the air was losing its chill. Within moments, the mist thinned out at astonishing speed.
“This is—”
Doran put a finger on his lips, motioning for Yi to stay silent. Just as the sun touched the zenith of a faraway mountain, the entire valley was laid bare. Yi clasped his hands over his mouth and took a huge breath, unable to believe the scene unfolding before him.
“Why does the mist disperse?” Doran rested his hands on the hilt of the flamberge. “Maybe the spirits here are commemorating that one momentous sunset, countless summers ago…”

In all his fifteen summers, the fiercest combat Yi had witnessed was when a hunter fought a wild boar. The former lost a finger while the latter lost its head. As far as Yi knew, Ionia had always been a pure and peaceful land, representing harmony. Yet, what lay before him exuded a foul aura. It was completely at odds with the Ionia that Yi knew.
Countless blades were stuck in the ground. Starting from just ten paces away, the vast ocean of weapons spread to the foot of the distant mountains, washing over the valley. At the center were ten large claymores. Actually, it would be wrong to call them large. They were gargantuan. With the tips of the swords buried underground, Yi couldn’t determine their full scale. The hilts alone were the height of a grown swordsman, and just the visible portions of the blades were the height of seven or eight, like the Great Pagoda of Wuju.
“This was the site of an ancient battle.” Doran patted Yi on the shoulder. “The combatants left their weapons here. The spirits protect each and every one, helping them resist the corrosion of time. As the eons went by, this became a sacred land. Over time, those who vowed never again to participate in the violence and bloodshed of war started coming here to leave their blades as well.”
Yi looked around. “I’ve never heard of a place like this…”
“What I speak of happened a long, long time ago. Some of these weapons might be older than your oldest ancestors. Nowadays, there is hardly anyone left who still remembers this tradition. And of those who do, most choose not to disturb the spirits.”
“Then why do you come here, Master Doran?”
“It used to be rumored that Mistfall’s spirits would bless weapons with power in combat. When I finally found my way here, I discovered the truth was just the opposite. The ancient battle ripped apart the balance in this place. That’s why the spirits in the valley hate violence. While they do bless weapons, their blessings lose their effect the moment the blades are used for bloodshed. Most swordsmiths stopped coming after they realized this. I’m the only one who has been able to win blessings that last. Have you figured out why?”
Yi nodded. “It’s because you only craft swords for Wuju bladesmen, and we abstain from bloodshed and killing.”
“That’s right. That’s exactly why I remained in Wuju. All my life, I’ve wanted to create the best blades in the world—but not for battle. And only you Wuju bladesmen see weapons the same way.” Doran gestured at the bamboo basket on Yi’s back. “Oh, you can put that down now.”
Yi gladly removed the heavy load from his shoulders.
“We’ll plant those here today to be blessed—that includes the blade I made for you. Then I’ll retrieve the swords I left behind last time.”
The two walked deeper into the valley. As they got closer to the center of the battlefield, there were other kinds of weapons in the ground. While some resembled conventional blades, their dimensions were either too large or too small for Yi to wield, and the ones that he could wield had forms he’d never seen before. Yi marveled at who could have used them.
“Look! Here we are. My garden!”
Doran was pointing at a single-edged sword with a magnificent cross guard. The weapon was fit for a human swordsman, and looked much newer than the others—as if it had been forged yesterday.
Upon closer inspection, Yi noticed something even more interesting—a paper amulet was dangling from the hilt on a thin red string. In fact, quite a few swords in the ground had paper amulets as well. Amulets were usually used for prayers and blessings. This was the first time Yi had seen them attached to weapons.
Doran carefully pulled the single-edged sword out of the soil and removed the amulet, delicately placing the paper on the ground. After scrutinizing the blade, he turned to another sword stuck in the ground, and began this process once again, like a farmer harvesting his crops.
Like transplanting rice stalks, Yi mused. He rolled up his sleeves and grasped the hilt of a long sword with an amulet.
“Don’t touch that!” Doran shouted. “That was left behind by another swordsmith. It has been here for some time now. Leave it in the ground.”
Yi released the weapon, but he accidentally unraveled the red string attaching the amulet to the hilt. He picked up the paper, reading the Ionian text written on it—a simple poem.
Deafening thunder in spring;
Torrential rains in summer;
Easterly gales in autumn;
Flying snow in winter.
Yi furrowed his brow. “What is this?”
The older man looked up as he opened the basket. “That’s a poem the swordsmith wrote. What do you think?”
Yi took a closer look—the writer’s skill with calligraphy and poetry was definitely above average. Still, it read more like a toast than a poem. “It’s adequate. But what’s the purpose of writing poems here?”
“We write poems to honor the spirits.” As he knelt down, Doran took a large sip of water, then reached into his satchel and pulled out a calligraphy brush coated in dried ink. He dabbed it on his tongue. “If the spirits in Wuju can understand poetry, why not the spirits here?” Doran motioned to the three blank amulets on the ground before him. “The swordsmiths who asked me to drop off their swords prepared their amulets in advance, so I just have to write the poems for mine.”
“Master Doran, you’re going to write poems? Does this mean you actually study poetry?” Yi walked over as Doran began to write. “So you were just teasing me when you said you had no idea who Buxii was.”
The artisan gave him a sly grin. His calligraphy was unrestrained, with audacious strokes sweeping across the paper. A lengthy verse quickly took form.
“Let’s have a look.” Yi bent down and read aloud. “No wars today, just a sip of wine to wash down duck eggs. Tastes yummy—” He couldn’t contain his outrage. “Doran! Master! What are you writing?”
Doran stroked his beard with pride. “Do you like it?”
“This isn’t even poetry!” Yi gesticulated wildly. “There’s no rhythm, no rhyme, the lines don’t relate, and even the basic format of a poem is nowhere to be found!”
“The most important part of a poem is the feeling, not the form.” Doran grinned as he jabbed a finger at his chest. “It’s the theme of the heart. Rhythm and rhyme are only the flourishes decorating a poem.”
Yi stared blankly at him. “But—what you just wrote. Where are the feelings and themes?”
“This is my experience of war.” Doran gazed at the amulet. “When you’re an old man like me, who has witnessed bloodshed and killing, you’ll understand why a sip of wine alongside a duck egg is worthy of poetry and praise.”
Yi raised an eyebrow, turning to the other weapons with amulets. Did these swordsmiths write questionable poetry as well?
He approached another sword and read its amulet. “Indefatigable horrors and demons, alongside inexhaustible evils and villains…”
This poem was attached to a ceremonial blade, not intended for combat. Based on the verse, Yi suspected it belonged to an adjudicator or roaming swordsman.
Doran, still immersed in his own writing, glanced at the young man. “Oh, that one’s by Laka. She’s famous at the Placidium. Her swords cost a fortune.”
Yi had never been to the Placidium of Navori, though he’d heard merchants call it a sanctuary. Perhaps it was slightly bigger than Wuju?
He moved on to another ceremonial blade, this one used as a cane. A cooling fragrance of insect-repelling mint emanated from its teakwood handle.
Blind faith ruins minds;
Blind loyalty ruins lives.
When the butcher’s knife strikes the ground,
All are wounded, and the self is destroyed.
Yi was only halfway through reading the verse when Doran interrupted. “That would be Morya. He always uses the best materials for the stingiest of clients—priests, monks, and the like. He only gets poorer with every weapon he crafts. He still owes me money!”
Doran gestured with his brush to a spot near Yi. “Oh, right! Take a look at that one! That’s a good one!”
Yi spun around to find the sword Doran had indicated: a greatsword with a serrated edge, with a tiny blue amulet hanging from the hilt.
The text on the amulet was in a foreign language. Yi couldn’t read any of it except for the signature at the end. Lear, scrawled in Ionian.
“Lear is an absolute genius. He lives on the southern isles, and has even been to Zaun,” Doran said.
“Where’s… Zaun?”
“Don’t ask.”
After reading amulet after amulet, Yi let out a relieved sigh. It seemed that Doran was the only person in all of Mistfall who wrote such non-poetic poems.
Yi turned to the older man. “Master Doran, the works of the others at least resemble poetry. You’re the only one who’s careless.”
Doran paused his brush. “Careless?”
“Feelings are important, but a poem is defined by its form.” Yi spoke with utmost seriousness. “If you’re going to write poetry, you should follow tradition. This is but basic courtesy and respect to the spirits.”
“Interesting.” Doran smiled. “Your master once said the same thing to me… and he wasn’t even the Wuju leader back then.”
“That’s because we’re both Wuju swordsmen.” Yi puffed out his chest. “It’s our duty to protect the old ways. As such, it is my duty to tell you that what you’re doing is wrong.” Yi looked around him. “No, your poetry isn’t the real problem. The fact that we’re here—that’s the problem. Master Doran, you are disturbing these spirits for your selfish hope of crafting better swords.”
“Both Wuju swordsmen…” Doran nodded. “How much do you really understand of Wuju?”
Yi’s frustration finally boiled over. He hid his clenched right fist behind his back and spoke with a voice that trembled with suppressed fury.
“I’ve indeed only been training for four seasons, and barely understand the art of Wuju. But what do you know? You may be a respected weaponsmith, but you have never been through a single day of swordsmanship training, have you? Who are you to question my understanding?”
Doran was undaunted. “Heh, interesting. Why do I have to understand swordsmanship? You’re the one who’s supposed to be training today.”
Disbelieving his ears, Yi took half a step forward. “Training? You’ve been making me climb mountains, rest, search for swords. So when exactly is the training going to start?!”
Doran was silent for a while, before finally setting his brush on the ground. “Your master told me that the most vital knowledge cannot be taught with words. It can only be learned through epiphany. It was at this very place, years ago, that he found the answers he had been seeking.”
The young man froze. The weaponsmith was referring to one of the Seven Fundamental Doctrines of Wuju, The Stunted Flower Blooms Best in Rain. He waited for Doran to continue.
“I have no idea how you Wuju bladesmen train. That’s why I asked you how much you have understood thus far.” Doran paused. “Or have you learned nothing at all?”
Embarrassed, Yi looked away. “My apologies, Master Doran. Did Master Hurong tell you how he reached his epiphany?”
“I didn’t ask, but he left behind a poem at the time.” Doran pointed behind Yi, at an enormous greatsword that towered over the battlefield. “It’s on that sword over there.”
Yi hesitantly made his way to the greatsword. Covered with notches and cracks, the giant blade was damaged beyond repair… however, given its incredible size, a sharp edge wasn’t really needed.
Not seeing any poem, Yi took a few steps to the side to get a better view. He then noticed that the blade was gleaming—the sword appeared to be made of some sort of glass. Curious, Yi stretched out his hand, lightly touching the brilliant shimmer of reflected light.
He blinked.

A thunderous rumble shook the valley as the gargantuan sword was drawn out of the ground.
Yi took a step back, dumbfounded. Ten giants, each the size of a small mountain, stood before him. They were clad in golden armor and strange helmets, and where eyes should have been, two blazing orbs flared, flashing with a sinister glow. Their gigantic swords reflected the rays of the setting sun. In their regalia, holding stalwart stances, they looked like gods descended from the heavens.
Farther away, among the foothills, another fifty giants were slowly making their way over. Holding massive weapons, they stopped and stood still as if awaiting an order.
Hearing a commotion behind him, Yi turned around, only to be greeted by a sea of faces.
At first, they looked familiar—they were villagers from Wuju, except they were hazier, less distinct, and they began to melt like a watercolor painting in the rain.
But then their features became clearer, and Yi realized that these were people unlike any he had encountered before—they had feathers all over their backs, or only three fingers, or green skin. They were tall, with fit physiques. Colorful clothes, some with the appearance of lustrous scales, draped across their lithe frames.
He stood transfixed. “What—what are they?” he breathed.
Yi had no idea when the spirit who looked like Doran had appeared beside him, but there he was, responding coldly with his crimson-eyed stare. “You called them—you called us—the Vastayashai’rei.”
Yi had never heard this long and cumbersome name before. He regarded the spirit, whose outfit made him resemble a crane standing on two feet.
The spirit gestured to the Vastayashai’rei. “We were the victors of this battle.”
Yi’s gaze fell on the army of giants. “How could you possibly have won against these monsters?”
The spirit did not answer.
Ten elders—or what Yi assumed were elders, among these strange beings—emerged from the Vastayashai’rei’s ranks. One made her way to the front, resting one palm over the other and raising her arms above her head. She slammed her hands down on the ground, and the whole valley shook as a fissure tore toward the giants. A deep chasm now separated the two armies.
At the same time, the other nine elders invoked their magic. Some began to dance as others sat cross-legged, and howling gales and a foreboding blanket of dark clouds descended on the battlefield. Thunder roared as lightning flashed across the sky. Standing at the edge of the fissure, another elder conjured a mass of vines, enormous tangles bursting from the earth, intertwining to form a wall the height of six swordsmen.
Such power over the elements was unheard of except in myth. Yi knew he was in a vision, but he couldn’t help but feel awed.
“What do you see now?” the spirit asked. “Is this strength?”
Yi nodded. “Yes, this is strength.”
“Yet we’re equipped with neither sturdy armor nor powerful weapons, nor are we shouting with the fervor of a bloodthirsty army. Where do you see strength?”
“You are conjuring winds, and calling storms, and parting the earth itself. If that’s not strength, what is?”
The spirit pointed at the giants. “You asked me how one could win in a battle against these monsters. The question should be, how will these giants contend with the divine powers that created this very land?”
The behemoths were undaunted by the Vastayashai’rei’s mastery of magic. They threw back their heads and howled with glee, the ten lead giants raising their massive swords and charging. With their sheer size, they seemed like a mountain range crashing toward the Vastayashai’rei.
Yet the Vastayashai’rei did not flinch. The elders advanced as the ranks behind them followed. Some of them bent low and sprang forward, transforming into vulkodalks, scaled snappers, and wolves, the beasts dashing past Yi. Others took to the skies, shifting into avian forms as they soared through the air like arrows. In a flash, the Vastayashai’rei became a stampede hunting down their prey.
The giants were surprisingly nimble. They leapt over the fissure, easily clearing the wall of vines behind it, and dived straight into the pack of beasts.
Each swing of their swords was an unstoppable force. The vanguard of avian warriors fell in waves. Undeterred, their brethren beat their wings, casting enchanted blades of wind at their enemies, gouging shallow lines of red in the gaps between their armor. These strikes would normally cleave a person in two, yet they barely slowed the giants.
The Vastayashai’rei’s ground forces were just as fearless. Several scaled snappers charged the giants, using their bulk to knock them down, while vulkodalks tore into their foes with horns and razor-sharp teeth.
Enormous trees ripped from the earth, sharpened like stakes, their branches cracking like whips. Thunder roiled, and massive bolts of lightning struck with divine fury, blasting craters in the ground. Yet even this apocalyptic scene did not deter the giants. As vines snared their feet, and beasts clambered over them, and some were even brought to their knees and slain, they still continued to fight, and howl, and press forward. They seemed emboldened, increasing their momentum, treading on countless corpses as they tore an opening in the ranks of the bestial army.
The smell of blood wafted through the air, its tang seeming real.
In that moment, one giant noticed Yi’s presence. His fiery eyes glaring, the behemoth headed straight for him. Stunned, the young swordsman retreated a step back, assuming a defensive stance.
As the giant bore down on him, the spirit rested his hand on the sheath of Yi’s sword.
“Winds and rain. Thunder and lightning. Avalanches. Even the body itself. All are mere forms. If you can find their essence, all forms are but a stone’s throw away. That also includes imbuing your blade with power.”
As the spirit spoke, the giant’s footsteps slowed, as did the assault of the Vastayashai’rei. Even the lightning became sluggish, as everything around Yi crawled to a standstill.
Realization dawned on him. “You mean—”
“Wuju style.” The spirit nodded. “Wuju style draws power from the spirit realm. That’s also how the Vastayashai’rei changed their shapes, and manipulated the elements. The only difference is in the degree of power used. I have no idea who founded Wuju style, but they must have been a remarkable mage.”
“That’s impossible!” Yi exclaimed. “We’re swordsmen, not mages.”
“Forms! It doesn’t matter if they’re known as mages, priests, or monks. Those are all merely adopted forms,” the spirit said, exasperated. “The heart of Wuju is magic. The heart of the Wuju school is the people who wield this magic. Every martial stance, every poem, every meditation that you have studied, they all exist for the sake of this magic.”
Yi wanted to refute the spirit—precision in form was an essential part of Wuju!—when suddenly he realized this wasn’t a debate. This spirit was obviously guiding him in the art of Wuju. This had to be the training his master had spoken of!
“Then how do I use this magic?” Yi said. “I have no issues with my swordsmanship and meditation, so why am I failing to draw power from the spirit realm?”
“The issue lies precisely in your bladesmanship and meditation.”
The spirit took the hilt of Yi’s sword and drew the unedged blade, shifting through several stances with the grace of a master. Yi assumed he would demonstrate a few moves, but instead the spirit snapped the sword in two, and tossed it to the ground.
“The sword is not the bearer of the magic. You are. By focusing too much on your swordsmanship and meditation, you are directing all your attention to these useless forms. This is exactly why you lack the instinct every Wuju swordsman should have.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Forget the sword. Forget the enemy. Forget all of your master’s teachings,” the spirit said. “Even in the moment of contact with the spirit realm, forget that you are meditating. Stop wondering if your every move is right or wrong.”
Suddenly, the battle roared back into chaos. The giant picked up speed as he resumed striding toward Yi, raising his sword. And he had nothing but a wooden sheath to defend himself.
“It’s your turn now.” The spirit took a step back. “Ask yourself: how will you defeat an enemy whose strength so severely outmatches your own?”
Yi drew the sheath like a sword and readied his stance, taking shallow breaths.
The giant’s steps shook the ground. This is only a vision, Yi reminded himself, yet he could barely stabilize his breathing.
He felt the magic of the spirit realm surging around him, like a mighty river. In the past, when he had tried to draw this power into his sword, it had eluded him.
Yet the sword was just a form. So was the sheath.
So am I.
How will I defeat an enemy whose strength so severely outmatches my own?
By becoming the river.
The monster swung his sword in a mighty blow.
Almost entirely by instinct, Yi raised his sheath to block the attack. As sheath clashed with sword, the force of the impact reverberated through his entire body. Yet he remained standing. Not only had he withstood the blow, but his flimsy wooden sheath had somehow cut a notch in the giant’s massive weapon.
Encouraged, Yi switched his stance and swung the sheath diagonally at the sword, tearing a gash into it. The giant hesitated, then pulled his weapon back to examine it. Upon seeing the damage to the blade, he bellowed in rage and astonishment. The fiery orbs of his eyes dimmed underneath his helm.
Yi also couldn’t believe what was happening. He gently ran his index finger along the side of the sheath. There wasn’t a single crack or splinter—but it sliced open his fingertip, as though possessing a sharp edge.
“Do you feel it?” The spirit stepped forward and grasped Yi’s hand, holding up his bloody finger. “This power at your command?”
He nodded.
“Remember this feeling, and direct it from beneath your feet to your target.” The spirit gestured to the giant. “Attack with your heart and your body, not your blade.”
Though the spirit still spoke in the language of forms, Yi now understood.
The spirit stepped back just as the giant once again attacked. This time, he knelt down, sweeping his sword near the ground like a sickle harvesting crops.
Now Yi was completely focused. He held his breath, got down on one knee, and raised his arms over his head, shielding his upper body with the sheath—he had never understood the purpose of this stance during his training, but a curtain had lifted, giving him clarity.
Just as the giant’s sword was about to make contact, Yi leapt to his feet, his weapon before him. He dashed with the force of a tsunami, throwing himself against the giant’s attack, sheath slicing toward the sword.
By the time Yi closed his stance and stowed his weapon, the severed half of the giant’s blade had plummeted to the earth like a kite with a broken string.
Thrown by his momentum, the giant crashed to the ground. Just as he started to stand, a bolt of lightning struck him in the back, and dozens of Vastayashai’rei swarmed over him. The behemoth’s eyes showed fury… and fear.
Yi stared at his hands, shaking his head in wonder. “I feel like I can cut through a mountain!”
The spirit nodded. “No armor can withstand attacks by master Wuju swordsmen. As long as you draw enough power, you can indeed sunder a mountain, a forest, or even the entire world.”
Yi was so excited that he clenched his fist and almost started to dance. Seeing this, the spirit quickly cleared his throat. “But remember, this is all a vision.”
“Um, yes, of course.” Yi frowned. What an odd thing for a spirit to say.
“There’s a limit to the amount of power humans can draw from the spirit realm. Thus…” A grin appeared on the spirit’s face. “If you really meet an opponent like this, I suggest you run. You’ll probably fail to slice off even a toenail.”
“Definitely.” Yi rubbed the back of his head. “I understand.” After all, Bahrl was a peaceful place. He’d have no need to sunder such foes.
“I’ve seen many Wuju disciples, but you stand out. Don’t waste your life pursuing useless endeavors.” The spirit gently rested his hands on Yi’s shoulders, assessing him. “I’ll teach you something else, if you’d like.”
Yi’s eyes brightened. “Yes!”
“You grew up in Bahrl, so—”

Yi was suddenly back in Mistfall, staring at the giant blade planted in the ground.
He was drenched in water—water from Doran’s waterskin, which he had just thrown at his face.
“I shook you a couple of times to no avail, so I had to resort to this.” Doran smiled as he handed Yi the skin. “Come, have a drink. You’ll feel better.”
Yi looked up at the sky, letting out a huge sigh. “Gods! Master! Couldn’t you have waited just a moment longer?!”
“Oh?” Doran said. “Were you about to slay the giant, or what?”
“I was just about to learn…” Yi froze. “Wait! Master Doran, you—you’ve seen the vision as well, haven’t you? The battle with the giants?”
“I’ve heard your master speak of it. It seems that you Wuju bladesmen are the only ones who encounter such visions in this place.” Doran leaned forward. “You seem excited. I suppose you discovered something?”
Yi lowered his gaze to his sheath, and drew his unedged sword. He stood before the massive blade, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath with the devotion of a priest at prayer. After a few moments, he raised his sword and swung it, magic coursing through the weapon. So great was his strength that he cleaved through the giant’s sword. Only a shard remained in the earth.
Doran drew a sharp breath. “Whoa!”
“How’s that?” An almost smug grin crept across Yi’s face.
“Who have you been talking to?” Doran said, raising an eyebrow.
Yi was about to tell him that it was a spirit in his likeness, but inspiration suddenly struck. “Master Doran! Could I borrow your brush?”
Doran turned to fetch the ink-soaked brush, and handed it over to Yi. “Why? Are you going to write a poem about your feelings like your master did?”
Yi weighed the brush in his hands before returning to the remnant of the giant’s sword in the ground. Before he began, he ran his palm over it, catching sight of what seemed to be traces of ink—the wind and rain would erase all hints of any calligraphy one were to write here. But that didn’t matter. Whatever he wrote wasn’t meant for the eyes of other visitors.
“The poem my master wrote wasn’t about his feelings,” Yi said as he penned his first word. “It was about his gratitude.”
By the time Yi had finished writing, Doran had packed up the swords in the bamboo basket, and was about to lift it onto his shoulders. Yi rushed over to take the burden himself, but Doran stopped him.
“I’ll carry it. After all, your training today is completed.”
Yi nodded. He looked at the blades Doran was leaving behind to be blessed.
“Master, which one is my blade?”
“None of them. The blade I crafted for you will go to a junior disciple instead.”
“What?” Yi couldn’t believe it. “Junior? Which junior?”
Doran snorted, turned, and walked away, leaving Yi behind.
Yi ran after him. “But why, master?”
The old weaponsmith sighed in bemusement, muttering words only he could hear.
“It’s no longer worthy of you, kid.”
Poppy

Runeterra has no shortage of valiant champions, but few are as tenacious as Poppy. Bearing a hammer twice the length of her body, this determined yordle has spent untold years searching for the “Hero of Demacia,” a fabled warrior said to be the rightful wielder of her weapon.

As legend describes it, this hero is the only person who can unlock the full power of the hammer and lead Demacia to true greatness. Though Poppy has searched the furthest corners of the kingdom for this legendary fighter, her quest has proven fruitless. Each time she has attempted to pass the hammer on to a potential hero, the results have been disastrous, often ending in the warrior’s death. Most people would have abandoned the task long ago, but most people do not possess the pluck and resolve of this indomitable heroine.

Poppy was once a very different yordle. For as long as she could remember, she had been in search of a purpose. Feeling alienated by the chaotic whimsy of other yordles, she preferred to soak up stability and structure where she could find it. This drive brought her to the human settlements of western Valoran, where she gazed in wonder at the caravans striping the countryside in an endless file. Many of the people there looked tattered and weary, but they stumbled on in pursuit of some ephemeral better life that might lie just beyond the horizon.

One day, however, a different sort of caravan passed through. Unlike the other travelers, these people seemed to move with purpose. They all awoke at the exact same time each morning, roused by the sound of a watchman’s horn. They took their meals together every day at the same hour, always finishing within a few minutes. They set up their camps and took them down with remarkable efficiency.

While yordles used their innate magic to fashion extraordinary things, these humans achieved equally astounding feats through coordination and discipline. They acted in concert like the cogs of a gear, becoming something much larger and stronger than any single person could ever be. To Poppy, that was more marvelous than all the magic in the world.

As Poppy watched the camp from the safety of her hiding place, her eyes caught the gleam of armor emerging from a tent. It was the group’s commanding officer, wearing a brigandine of gleaming steel plates, each piece overlapping, each an integral part of the whole. The man’s name was Orlon, and his presence seemed to stir the souls of everyone there. If someone became discouraged, he was there to remind them of why they pressed on. If someone collapsed from exhaustion, he inspired them to get up. It reminded Poppy of certain yordle charms, though again, without magic.

Poppy crept in for a closer look. She found herself following this shining commander, as if drawn to him by fate itself. She observed Orlon as he led his soldiers in training exercises. He was not a large fellow, yet he swung his massive battle hammer with surprising alacrity. At night, Poppy listened intently to his hushed discussions with the elders of the camp. She heard them making plans to pull up stakes and head west to build a permanent settlement.

Poppy’s mind was overwhelmed with questions. Where was Orlon going? Where did he come from? How did he assemble this meticulous band of travelers, and was there a place for a yordle in it? At that moment, she made the most important decision in her life: For the first time ever, she would reveal herself to a human, as this was the first time she’d ever felt a connection with one.

The introduction was a jarring one, with Orlon having just as many questions for Poppy as she had for him, but the two soon became inseparable. He became a mentor to her, and she a devotee to his cause. In the training grounds, Poppy was an invaluable sparring partner–the only member of Orlon’s battalion who was unafraid to strike him. She was never obsequious, questioning his decisions with an almost childlike innocence, as though she didn’t know she was supposed to meekly follow orders. She accompanied him to the site of the new settlement–an ambitious new nation called Demacia, where all were welcome, regardless of station or background, so long as they contributed to the good of the whole.

Orlon became a beloved figure throughout the kingdom. Though few had actually seen him wield his hammer, he always bore it on his back, and the weapon quickly became a revered icon for the fledgling nation. People whispered that it had the power to level mountains and tear the earth itself asunder.

Orlon passed the hammer to Poppy on his deathbed, and with it, his hope of an enduring kingdom. It was only then that Orlon told her the story of his weapon’s creation, and how it was never truly intended for his hands. He explained to Poppy that the hammer was meant to go to the Hero of Demacia–the only one who could keep Demacia whole. As her friend drew his last breath, Poppy swore to him that she would find this hero and place the weapon in his hands.

But what Poppy possesses in resolve, she lacks in ego, as it never even occurred to her that she might be the hero Orlon described.
The Slayer

Poppy had nothing against the briar wolf, aside from the fact that it was about to maul her. Its muzzle was stained crimson from a previous kill, and the yordle wouldn’t chance being its next. She was hot on the trail of a renowned monster slayer, and she didn’t intend to die before she found the man and judged his worth.
“You should step back. You won’t survive this,” Poppy told the wolf, holding her hammer aloft as a deterrent.
But the briar wolf was not discouraged. It padded toward her, propelled by some strange desperation that Poppy couldn’t identify. Then she saw the telltale foam at the corners of its mouth. This animal was not driven by hunger or territorial instincts. It was in pain, and it wanted release. The wolf leapt at her, as if it had made up its mind that its next act would be to kill or be killed.
Poppy swung the hammer, using every ounce of her strength to move the weapon’s considerable weight. The blow she delivered collapsed the animal’s skull in an instant, ending its torment. Poppy took no pleasure in the kill, but she supposed it was the best possible outcome, for her and the wolf.
The yordle looked around at the empty meadow, but sensed no trace of the monster slayer she’d come to find. She had roamed the countryside, following rumors of his activities, hoping this mysterious hunter might be the fabled hero she had sought for so many years. But thus far, all she’d found were wolves and wyverns and highwaymen, most of whom she’d been forced to kill in self-defense.
She had spent weeks traveling from hamlet to hamlet in the far-flung corners of Demacia. She walked as fast as her tiny gait would allow, but the monster slayer always seemed to be one step ahead of her, leaving naught but tales of heroic exploits in his wake. For a yordle, time is a curious thing whose passing is seldom felt, but even for Poppy, the search was beginning to grow long.
One day, just when she was beginning to doubt herself and her mission, she spied a notice nailed to a roadside post:
“All are invited to attend the Festival of the Slayer!”
It was a celebration to honor the very monster hunter Poppy had been seeking. If there was any hope of locating this elusive hero, she would certainly find it there. He might even make an appearance, and then she could size him up in person to determine if he was worthy to carry the hammer Orlon had bequeathed her. The prospect put a spring in her step, and she marched with renewed purpose toward the celebration.
Poppy was anxious when she arrived at the village, its banners and streamers gaudily proclaiming the day’s festivities. Ideally, she would have arrived early at such a public event and claimed a spot in the rear of the crowd, so as not to draw attention. But the main market was already packed with spectators, and Poppy found it hard to maneuver through the press of bodies. She squeezed through the legs of the townsfolk, most of whom were too inebriated to notice her.
“I’d buy ’im a pint if ’e were here,” slurred one voice above her. “Saved my goats by killing that monster.”
Poppy’s heart raced, as it always did when she heard tales of the hunter.
What if he turns out to be the one? she thought.
But deep inside, Poppy asked a different question. What would she do once she was rid of the weapon? Would she find an entirely new purpose? A yordle without one was a pathetic sight indeed. She stopped her mind from wandering and brought it back to the task at hand.
The tiny warrior finally managed to weave her way to the back of the market. She found a tall lamppost both easy to climb and behind the eyes of the crowd. She then shimmied up the post, just high enough to see over the throng.
Poppy was just in time. On the far side of the market, a speaker stood with several Demacian officials on a dais, and behind him, something tall was draped in a ceremonial veil.
Even with her keen yordle senses, Poppy could barely hear the man’s words. He was talking about the monster hunter, and how he had saved numerous farms and villages from wyverns, rabid wolves, and bandits. He said that although this revered warrior had chosen to remain anonymous, it shouldn’t stop them from celebrating his deeds. The slayer had been spotted several weeks ago near the town of Uwendale, leaving the first eyewitness accounts of his appearance. With that, the speaker pulled off the veil to reveal a stone statue.
Poppy grew faint with excitement as she saw the hunter’s likeness for the first time. He was the paragon of a Demacian warrior—seven feet tall, armored in heavy plate mail, and rippling with sharply defined muscles. Beneath him lay the corpse of a wolf he had presumably slain.
Just as the image had begun to settle in Poppy’s mind, she heard the sound of a child’s voice a few yards away.
“Look, Da. It’s the slayer! The one from the statue!” declared the wide-eyed girl.
Poppy saw the girl was pointing in her direction. She whirled around to see if the slayer was standing behind her. But no one was there.
“No, lass,” said the girl’s father. “That one’s no monster slayer. Too small by half.”
The girl and her father quickly lost interest and strolled through the village to partake in the various amusements.
As the crowd in front of the statue dispersed, Poppy moved in for a closer inspection. Now she could see the fine details of the hunter’s marble depiction. His hair was long, fair, and bound in two separate side knots. His hands were gnarled from a hundred battles, and in them, he held a massive battle hammer not unlike the one Orlon had given her. If there was a truer hero in the kingdom, Poppy had never seen him.
“He has to be the one,” Poppy said. “Hope I’m not too late.”
She turned and left the festival as fast as her legs could carry her, taking the swiftest route to Uwendale.
Interview: Inside K/DA

PopRox

PopRox: Hello to our international audience! Today we have very special guests for you. I’m here with the four members of K/DA. If you haven’t heard of them, and how have you not heard of them, are you living under a rock?! Go to YouTube right now and search for their hit song “POP/STARS”.
We are so excited to have you today, K/DA.
K/DA: Hi everyone! My name is Kai’Sa and you’re listening to PopRox! The rest of K/DA and I are excited to hang out!
PopRox: I got to say, Kai’Sa, it’s so lovely to hear your accent. Tell us more about your upbringing.
Kai’Sa: Thank you. Well, I grew up all over actually; my parents traveled quite a bit. My accent is pretty international.
PopRox: Any favorite cities?
Kai’Sa: <LAUGHS> Of course! My favorite cities are Cape Town, Seoul, New York, and Hong Kong, where I spent most of my time before K/DA.
Ahri: 그래서 저희 안무에 이국적인 느낌이 있어요. 카이사랑 안무 연습을 하면 연습 같지 않고 너무 즐겁죠.
(She brings international style to our choreography too! It's never a boring dance practice with Kai'Sa.)
PopRox: That’s incredible! And thank you, Eve for translating. How long does it take for you to get ready for a performance?
Ahri: A lot of time! 상상도 못 할 정도로 오래 걸려요. 다들 최선을 다하거든요. 투어 중에는 빨리 일어나서 의상 챙기고 메이크업 받고 준비를 하죠. 투어 중이 아닐 땐 스튜디오에 일찍부터 가 있고요.
(Everyone in the house works so hard. We get up early to get dressed and prepare for a day during tours. If we're not touring, we'll be at the studio early.)
PopRox: Alright, let’s talk about you Ahri. How does it feel to be back in the limelight and with such a hit single?
Evelynn to Ahri: 자꾸 왜 이런 걸 물어볼까? 난 이 질문 별로야.
(I don’t think it’s a great question. They always ask.)
Ahri: 너무 그러지 마, 이블린. 저는… 일단 음악에 집중했어요. 팬분들께서 좋아하고 자랑스러워하실 만한 노래, 대담하고 아름다운 노래를 만들고 싶었거든요. 언제나 다양한 문화에 열린 마음으로 저희를 응원해 주시는 팬 여러분께 감사하다는 말씀 드리고 싶네요. 정말 감사합니다! 꿈이 현실이 된 것 같아요.
(It’s ok, Eve. I focused on my music. I wanted to make bold and beautiful songs that people love and have confidence in. Thank you to our fans around the world for the continued support and acceptance of our cross-cultural artists. Thank you for all your love. Our vision came together.)
Eve: This is important. Ahri did not disappear. She saw real issues with the restrictions of creativity from music labels and found a way to unleash a powerful album with a fearless team.
PopRox: That’s a great point, Evelynn. You have a reputation in the music industry as a difficult artist to work with. Do you feel you’ve found a perfect position on K/DA?
Eve: Oh, I’m familiar with the “bad girl” or “diva” labels. I have nothing but good things to say about previous bands I’ve worked with. We simply had creative differences. Everything we do in K/DA is collaborative. Ahri’s leadership enables each of us to express our talents equally. Yes, this is a perfect fit for me.
PopRox: Can you tell us more about your album, K/DA?
Ahri: 카이사, 네가 대답할래?
(Kai’Sa, can you answer?)
Kai’Sa: There is a place between fantasy and reality where anything can happen. You have the power to be anyone, and do anything. It is your dream. In our in-between world, K/DA feels confident and strong. We can do anything, and so can you.
Akali: So can you!
Ahri: <LAUGHS>
PopRox: Why do you think the song “POP/STARS” is such a hit?
Ahri: 아칼리 덕분이죠. 저희의 비밀 병기라고나 할까요? 목소리가 독보적이잖아요.
(Akali. She's our secret weapon. No one sounds like her.)
Akali: No! No it’s not me I promise. I am trying to break tradition, but it’s easier with K/DA doing it together. It’s all of us. Eve and Ahri work so hard to encourage each of us to unleash our minds. For example, I wrote the rap for “POP/STARS” so many times, and each time Ahri encouraged me to go further. Eve… well Eve is more direct.
Eve: I told her to stop trying to be the most creative rap artist in Asia, and to just be it.
Kai’Sa: I feel like Akali brings this truly unique vibe. We each have our own style and with Ahri’s direction we make music completely different than current pop songs. And our fans love it!
PopRox: Akali, you perform on the street, right?
Eve: You can’t stop her.
Akali: Ha. Yes. Sometimes. I don’t want to be successful because people know who I am. I want them to like my lyrics because they’re good.
Eve: They’re good.
PopRox: That’s pretty rare for a pop star, and we really appreciate it. You’ve been spotted in Hong Kong and Tokyo as well, wherever you girls tour. There’s a viral video of you in Seoul rapping and doing a few flips.
Akali: Ha. Yeah. Just a few flips.
PopRox: What was each of your favorite parts in “POP/STARS?”
Kai’Sa: Oh I adore Akali’s rap. The black light scenes showing how there’s so much more than what meets the eye, that’s the kind of art I like making.
Akali: Kai’Sa spray painted the art herself! She made my mask. My favorite part is Ahri’s elegance. Her parts in “POP/STARS” give us a strong foundation to set up this magical world.
PopRox: You two have so many talents! What about you, Eve?
Eve: Driving down the tunnel at Kai’Sa was a thrill. The thing is we filmed that scene only seven times. I wish I had more time with that sports car. We did put Kai’Sa in front of the speeding car once, but they told us not to do it again. Seeing the final version of it was fabulous.
Kai’Sa: You know I would’ve gotten away in time.
Eve: But the stunt coordinator might not.
PopRox: Ahri?
Ahri: POP/STARS에서 제가 제일 좋아하는 부분은… 마지막 장면에서 같이 안무하는 거요. 촬영 중일 땐 따로 있는 경우가 많다 보니까 함께인 순간이 좀 특별하게 느껴져요. 넷이 같이 춤을 출 때 저희가 제일 빛나는 것 같아요.
(Dancing together in the last scene is my favorite part of “POP/STARS”. We’re not always together when we film. When we are, it’s very special to me. When the four of us dance together, K/DA shines.)
PopRox: So what’s next for K/DA?
Ahri: 팬분들을 위해서 투어도 계속하고 음악도 만들어야죠. 저희 음악의 가치는 자기표현이나 사랑, 아름다움, 우정, 자신감 같은 데 있는 것 같아요. 더 많은 분들께 그런 가치를 전해드리고 싶어요.
(We’ll continue to travel and create music for our fans. I believe our music celebrates self expression, love, beauty, friendship, and confidence. We will take that all over the world.)
Eve: Basically, we’re just getting started.
PopRox: Thank you so much for spending time with us K/DA. Wishing you the best of luck at the League of Legends Worlds Championship performance. And thank you to our listeners from around the world. This is PopRox signing off.
POP/STARS

K/DA

Intro
You know who it is
Coming 'round again
You want a dose of this
Right now
It’s K/DA uh!
Verse 1A
I'm a goddess with a blade
소리쳐봐 내 이름
(sori chyuh bwa nae eereum)
잊지 못하게
(itchi moht ha geh)
Loud loud loud loud
I could take it to the top
절대 멈추지 못해
(juhl dae mum choo ji moht hae)
내가 끝내주는
(nae ga kkeut nae joo neun)
Bad gal gal gal
Verse 1B
And when I start to talk like that (like that)
Oh you won’t know how to react
I’m a picture perfect face
With that wild in my veins
You can hear it in my
Growl, growl, growl, growl
Pre-Chorus
So keep your eyes on me now
무엇을 보든 좋아할 거야
(mu uhtseul bo dun joah hal guh ya)
닿을 수 없는 level
(dahl sooup neun)
나와 대결 원한 널 확신해
(na wa dae gyul won han nuhl hwak shin hae)
We gotta it all in our hands now
So can you handle what we’re all about
We’re so tough
Not scared to show you up
Can you feel the rush now?
Hook
Ain’t nobody bringing us down down down...
They could try but we’re gonna wear the crown
You could go another round round round...
Wish you luck but you’re not bringing us down
Bridge
We go hard
Till we get it get it
We go hard
We so in it in it
We POP/STARS
Only winning winning now
Ain’t nobody bringing us down down down down
Verse 2A
Hey!
You ready for this? Lessgo!

See 언제든지 내 모습 Magic
(see uhn jae deunji nae mo seup magic)
단 한 번에 내가 잡어
(dan han bun eh naega jab uh)
절대 기죽지 않지
(juhl dae gi jook ji ahn chi)
Pow pow 네가 뭘 알아
(pow pow ni ga mwol ahruh)
견딜 수 없어, 원해도.
(gyun dil soo up ssuh won hae do)
원하는 게 얼굴에 보여
(won ha neun gae uhl gool ae boyuh)
I’m trouble and you’re wanting it
I’m so cold
When I move that way
You gonna be so blown
I’m the realest in the game uh!
Verse 2B
Say I’m on fire with a blade
You’re about to hear my name
Ringing in your head like ohhh
Pre-Chorus 2
So keep your eyes on me now
무엇을 보든 좋아할 거야
(mu uhtseul bo dun joah hal guh ya)
We’re so tough
Not scared to show you up
Can you feel the rush now?
Hook
Ain’t nobody bringing us down down down...
They could try but we’re gonna wear the crown
You could go another round round round...
Wish you luck but you’re not bringing us down
We go hard
Till we get it get it
We go hard
We so in it in it
We POP/STARS
Only winning winning now
Ain’t nobody bringing us down down down down
Bridge
Ooh, mm, ...
Oh... 난 멈추지 않아
(nan muhm chu ji anna)
Oh oh we go hard
Oh oh we POP/STARS, stars
Hook
Ain’t nobody bringing us
Ain’t nobody bringing us down down down...
They could try but we’re gonna wear the crown
You could go another round round round...
Wish you luck but you’re not bringing us down
We go hard
Till we get it get it
We go hard
We so in it in it
We POP/STARS
Only winning winning now
Ain’t nobody bringing us down down down down
Proclamation of the Trifarix

Citizens of Noxus, I bring word from the capital!
It is a time for celebration! The Hand of Noxus is returned, and stands with our new Grand General! With the noble houses united behind them, the new age of our glorious empire begins now!
Let it be known that, on this day, from distant Shurima to the shores of Ionia, the countless wars initiated by Boram Darkwill have been ended. No longer will our treasuries be drained in pursuit of victories that none can truthfully promise. No longer will our brave warriors spend their lives needlessly, and without gain.
Noxian gold, and Noxian blood. These are the treasures that Jericho Swain has pledged to return to you, the people.
While on campaign in the northlands, mighty General Darius received orders to stand down. Rather than meekly accept this edict, he marched back to the capital with all his warhosts—for the duty of the Hand of Noxus is first and foremost to the empire itself, and not to whomsoever shall sit upon its throne, with the passing of years. It is right and proper that he would question these orders, and the authority by which they were issued.
Let it be known that General Darius met with General Swain. Let it also be known that Darius was satisfied that the coup against Boram Darkwill was just, and legal, and that Swain’s intentions were for the good of all Noxus.
Long live Grand General Jericho Swain, savior of the empire!
Under the protection of Darius and his warhosts, representatives from all noble houses have met to hear Swain’s plans for the future of Noxus. Those who have sworn themselves and their houses to him in perpetuity have received full pardons for any prior wrongdoing, or opposition they may have offered. These men and women are proud and honorable servants of the Grand General, and are not to be harmed.
In his boundless wisdom and mercy, he has also granted clemency to those who refuse his benevolence. They have a full seven days to conclude their affairs within the empire, surrender their lands and titles, and depart Noxus forevermore. Any who choose to remain in defiance will forfeit their lives, with public Reckonings to recommence in the Noxkraya Arena three days thereafter.
Henceforth, let it be known that each and every Noxian shall be treated equally, and on the merit of their own ability and strength. Furthermore, let it be known that Jericho Swain and the noble houses are committed to ending the decades of incompetence and nepotism that plagued Darkwill’s rule.
But the former Grand General was not an evil man, and Swain would not have him remembered as such. Rather, he was a weak man—manipulated from behind the scenes by others...
Yes, friends. There is a corruption at the heart of our great empire. For centuries this corruption has grown, blooming like a pleasant flower in plain sight, while its roots twist and spread in the darkness beneath.
No more, friends! No more! Jericho Swain will destroy any who seek to exploit Noxus for their own secretive gains! He will tear out this corruption, this blighted and thorned rose, root and stem! Every one of its agents and allies are hereby named enemies of the empire, and all good citizens are obliged to do them harm, if they are able. Together we shall prevail! Let none be above suspicion!
Before Boram Darkwill, these same sinister forces puppeted even the greatest kings and champions of the Noxii, all the way back to the Rune Wars. Indeed, our beloved Grand General has heard the fears of the noble houses—that if any could fall to such corruption, then why not him also? To that end, henceforth he has decreed that Noxus shall not be ruled by any single individual... but three. He draws upon the legacy of the greatest among the old tribes—the vision of the Noxidi, the might of the Noxkri, the guile of the Noxtali—to create a “Trifarix” council, whose members will eschew any throne, and embody those same principles of strength that have ever allowed Noxus to triumph over its foes.
Finally, let it be known that after much consultation with his dear friends among the nobility, the Grand General has reconciled with the leaders of the assassin guilds. Alongside Swain and Darius, they will find a place on the council prepared for them, maintaining a “faceless” representative to protect the empire against even the most insidious threats from within.
Go forth, citizens! Carry these words and proclamations to all! The greatest years of Noxus lie yet before us, and we shall rise as a single people, united in purpose and glory, once more!

ARCHIVIST’S NOTE: In spite of the inspirational and conciliatory promises contained in these official pronouncements, within a single year the Trifarix had completely changed the political landscape of Noxus. Imperial governorships and military commissions were no longer inherited, but bestowed through official channels. All personal wealth was to be declared and verified, and hefty taxes imposed on any gold or silver not held in trust by state banks. Finally, it became illegal for any citizen to be owned as chattel by another, and unauthorized sale or transfer of the same was made punishable by death.
Effectively, Jericho Swain courted the noble houses to gain a foothold within the assassin guilds, then systematically dismantled the power structures that had supported them for almost a thousand years. Though the full repercussions of this remain to be seen, it is likely that many nobles have been driven into alliance with his clandestine enemies, and eventual rebellion.
Of Rats and Cats<br> and Neon Mice

Ariel Lawrence

The doctor stumbles on the slick bridge. His hand reaches out for the worn guardrail as his foot loses connection to the wiring in his ankle. For a moment, he is disoriented. His vision slips from the wet floor plates of the commuter overpass to the unending assembly of metal, glass, and perpetual light that is Upper Central.
He blinks away the brightness and reconnects his augmented foot. Etched in the circuit there is a faded memory from the last user—it was expensive…
Also a size and a half too big, his own mind echoes back sourly. The mod is a belittling, secondhand thank you from a rich upper-sector patient too scared to pay traceable credits to his back alley physician.
The doctor has scrubbed the processor half a dozen times since acquiring it, but there are still old impressions trapped in the silicon, like a fingerprint that can’t quite be rubbed off. He grunts and shakes off the recollection. It is a discomforting reminder of what happens when common anatomy tries to plug into technology above its pay grade.
Water drips through the strands of the doctor’s thinning hair and gets behind his micron-glasses, blurring the lights on the far side of the bridge. Condensing moisture hadn’t been listed in the morning’s announcements. Then again, the doctor hadn’t been prepared for much of what landed in his lap today. He pets the bio-inert plastic sleeve in his breast pocket. Weapons grade. Enough for the retirement he had promised himself twenty revs ago.
The doctor is alone on the thick span of metal and fiber-reinforced plastic that connects the lower sectors to the mechanized lifts of Upper Central. The commuter crowd he had come down with has disappeared quickly into the darkened stalls and shaded side alleys of the transition market. He grunts again and tries to hurry, continuing his hobbled pace across the bridge. He wipes a hand over the wetness now running in rivers down his face. He is old, but even he isn’t old enough to remember real rain—only this sad concentration of a hundred million organic breathing cycles stacked one top of another.
The magnetic thrum of the lift behind him slows as the doors prepare to release a new tide of enhanced humanity into the market mazes. The doctor gives his retirement package one more pat and ventures a quick look back.

The pneumatics hiss open, revealing the elevator’s darkness and a sea of unknown faces. The doctor releases the breath he was holding.

“Transition level. Proceed with caution,” a digitized voice announces.

The crowd engages their light shades and pulls up hoods of synthetic duvetyne to shield them against the drizzle and Upper Central’s oppressive glow. Like well-trained mice, they scurry eagerly onto the bridge.

And that’s when the doctor sees it: a predatory metal shadow that stands a head taller than the surrounding crowd.

His breath fogs his glasses in a growing rhythm of panic.

The shadow steps into the ambient light. Its lean shape is all dark, wiry muscles of carbon fiber braided over heavy servos. His jet-colored chest plating swallows the glare from above. The doctor recognizes the matted fur collar, coiled like a feral cat, around a neck of dark, anodized steel. But it is the contours of the shadow’s featureless mask, defined now only by the drip of falling water and the reflection of the pulsating holo-signs, that rattles the doctor to his inadequate, common bones.

Khada Jhin.

The doctor tries to back away. He slips again on the metal plating. The flesh of one set of knuckles scrapes on the handholds of the bridge as he catches himself. The crowd, focused only on getting out of the wet and the light, pushes the doctor down, indifferent to the fear that is choking him.

The doctor scrambles on his hands and knees. Real and metal feet crush his fingers into the bridge grating. He can’t keep up. The swarm of people giving the doctor cover begins to thin, exposing him to his pursuer. He wipes the moisture from his eyes with shaky hands, his glasses lost in the chaos. Blood mixes with tears. His vision clears for a moment; the sight of a moisture converter promises salvation. The vent is belching murky clouds of stale, humid air from the lower sectors.

He reaches the sanctuary just as the last of the crowd breaks away. He cowers, wheezing through barely parted lips. The labyrinth of the transition markets is just a few meters away. If he can make it there he can disappear, away from the shadow that haunts him.

The moisture converter slows its labored breath. The last commuter vanishes into the transition market, revealing a mirror-glass display in an abandoned stall. In its reflection, the doctor watches the metal shadow raise a long pulse rifle to its shoulder. The faceless mask winks to life in a pixelated slash of angry red.

The doctor tilts his head up to the glow of the upper sectors—anything to escape the focus now taking aim. He squints his eyes and begs, but the neon future is not listening. Especially not to such a small and solitary creature.

Through the rain, the doctor hears the unmistakable metal click of the pulse rifle’s safety. His hand goes to his chest, shielding the one real treasure he carries. Through the plastic sleeve of the package, he can feel his heart racing.
As the unflinching light from above bears down on him, it fills the doctor’s animal brain with one last mortal thought.

There is nothing the future will not take.
“Freeze playback.”

At my last performance hearing, I asked the reviewing officers what it took to make it in Central. One of them said you had to be ready to trade a piece of yourself—that every upgrade would take you higher up PROJECT’s command line, but would cost some more of who you were in the bargain. Rather bluntly I told them I didn’t think anyone in their right mind would pay that kind of price. Not for a little clean silicon, and a fancy logotype.
They all laughed. And then they promoted me.
Now, the image in front of me wavered as a ribbon of static washed through it. The tri-dimensional hologram of the doc’s body was suspended in what would be his last living moment. His face was tipped up to the sky, his features a mix of fear and acceptance. Centimeters from the back of his head was an arc of red from a pulse rifle. Another tick or two forward in time, and the concentrated plasma would melt a hole through the man’s head.
“You stopped before the best part, Vi.”
Mosley, my newly assigned partner, stretched and yawned. What could have been muscle in his early years had lost the fight against gravity and sagged down to his middle. Fighting crime behind a desk had ensured he hadn’t missed any nutritional breaks.
But he sure is hungry. I noted for the third time that Mosley couldn’t keep his eyes off my promotion data cube. My new captain had plunked it down on the desk that morning for me, tossing in her hearty congratulations and my new beady-eyed partner.
I watched as Mosley finally gave in to his greed. He picked up the small cube off the vid desk and tossed it absently between his soft hands.
“You still haven’t installed these new subroutines yet?” His voice was artificially light as he fidgeted.
I cracked my knuckles.
My ATLAS gauntlets were on the desk. They were the bulky, standard issue of enforcers in the lower sectors. Most recruits upgraded double-quick to something that put more distance between them and whoever they’d been told to bring in, but I never minded getting close. Their blunt power fit me like a glove, too, and with no permanent install there was zero chance of someone else’s memories wandering around in the wiring. Still, I had gotten a few looks during my Central training-check, but the signing officer stopped smirking when my right hook caved in the chest of a titanium test dummy.
“You’re wasting your time anyway,” Mosley continued. Unfortunately, he thought me not answering meant that he should keep talking. “A bad doctor met a bad end. End of case. Captain wants to know when we’re going to put that lift back in service. Can’t hold up the commuters much longer.”
I ignored him. In the lower districts, our bad ends didn’t usually involve cranial de-ionization at a hundred meters with an unregistered pulse rifle. This had been a professional hit. I turned my attention to the A.I. in the room.
“Resume review. Step back.”
“Specify time increment,” the artificial voice taunted. Even the vid-scanner didn’t seem to want to get with the program.
I could feel the rough edge of frustration vibrating through me. I had only been clocked on since 0600, and the upper sector regulations were already more annoying than wading through knee-high scrap in the assembly levels.
What I needed was a good chase. Maybe hit a few things along the way. That would have been just fine. I grunted and blew the loose hair out of my face.
First day, Vi. Best behavior. Make friends. Do not punch anything. I repeated my morning’s mantra and took a deep breath.
“Three—no, four ticks,” I told the machine as patiently as I could.

The image wavered again, this time the holographic model clicked back ever so slightly. I tracked the light ballistic as it entered the range of the security feed outside the elevator. Inside the lift was darkness. The security feed there had been tampered with. The spark of light that hung in the air was all I had to go on.

“Based on ballistic entrance, extrapolate height of suspect and weapon type,” I said.
Lights flickered in the dark, humming as the calculation churned. A polygonal outline was traced in thin rays of neon. The killer was on the tall side… but other than that, I didn’t have much to go on from the rendering.

“None of this is real,” I grumbled. In the lower sectors, we didn’t work cases through fancy holo-vids. “How are we supposed to find anything staring at a computer model?”

“Query error. Restate question.” I wondered if the A.I. had been programmed to be patronizing. Or perhaps this one had taken on personality traits of its maker.
Mosley laughed. “That’s how it works up here, detective.” He hit my new title harder, trying to drive home that I was free of the lower sector grind. “An occasional rat slips through the cracks, but as long as the lights stay on above us, it’s all good. And look at it this way, we stay nice and clean.”
The half-hearted consolation had me gritting my teeth. I looked up from the simulation at Mosley. I couldn’t blame him. Most of his attention was still focused on my data cube.
“So are you gonna install this or what?” he asked.

I shut off the holo-vid. I wasn’t going to get any more useful data out of projected light. “I don’t trust upgrades,” I said quietly.
He finally looked at me. “Kid, this isn’t some lower-sector hand-me-down.” He flashed the cube at me. “This is the real deal. It came from upstairs.” The lights of the vid console reflected off it, highlighting the upside-down triangle of PROJECT’s corporate lab. “You know it’s fresh, or at least been properly wiped.”

It was clear Mosley wanted it. I rubbed the back of my neck.

“I just had one, less than a cycle ago,” I lied. “Don’t want to overcharge.” I picked up my old gauntlets off the desk. “Besides, these still work just fine.” I held out a hand for the data cube.
The strain of social politeness glistened over him in a fine sweat. I figured he was fighting the urge not to shove the subroutines in right then. But he just frowned, and handed it over.
“My next upgrade is due in a cycle, if you decide you don’t want it after all…” he offered.

I turned away and started walking toward the exit
“I’ll let you know,” I called over my shoulder. “Partner.”

“Hey, where are you going?” There was a fraction of concern in Mosley’s voice, but not much.
I slipped my gauntlets on and stepped into the lift.

“To get my hands dirty.”
I stared at the inoperative security sensor while the levels counted down on the high-speed elevator. Its micron-glass eye was clouded and dull. Whoever had come for the doctor knew Central would be watching. I rolled my shoulders and stretched my arms out behind me, taking advantage of the empty lift. Normally the large, boxy conveyor would be packed to the brim with Central workers with credit accounts that couldn’t afford the rent upstairs. The elevator was out of service to civilians until Central closed the case on the doctor’s death.
Until I closed the case. To Mosley, an unlicensed doc’s murder wasn’t worth holding up the daily commute and the efficiency of Central’s machine. The lift accelerated and for a moment I felt weightless. I flicked the inertial dampeners off in my gauntlets out of habit, letting their mass ground me. A tick later the elevator came to a full stop and shoved me back into my body.
The door in front of me slid open. A digitized voice called out into the humid air. “Transition level. Proceed with caution.”
I engaged my light shade, stepping cautiously out of the darkness of the lift and into the bridge’s ambient glow. As usual in the lower sectors, it was damp. I could feel the moisture bead on my neck where the tips of my hair touched my skin.
The span of connecting metal was empty and the vendor stalls where the bridge met the market were also vacant. A commuter lift out of commission shut down all the surrounding business. No chance running into any witnesses, even if they would be willing to talk to the police.

I walked out onto the bridge a few paces and turned to face the lift. Set on manual mode, the elevator and its darkness would wait for my command before returning to Central. Given the approximate height calculated, this was where the killer stood when they fired. A step more and they would have been seen by the bridge’s security feed outside the elevator. The moisture converter the doctor had tried to hide behind was nearly a hundred meters away. The killer was definitely not an amateur.
I looked at the deck plates of the bridge. There were a few scrapes in the metal. I crouched down to take a closer look. They were recent. Anything more than a day or two would have more noticeable water oxidation. The elevator and bridge had been closed since the murder. I scanned the depth, a string of numbers appearing in the bottom corner of my light shade. If the marks had been made by the killer, then that individual was significantly heavier than a normal augmented humanoid.
I could almost hear the sector bulletin now. Central reports chop-shop doc vaporized by armed auto-laborer, or something equally convenient.
An irregular air current pushed my wet hair against my face. Out of the corner of my light shade I could see the bridge was still empty. I sniffed. Ozone. The muscles in my shoulders tensed. I flicked the charging coupler in my gloves on and let one knee drop to the deck plating.
“You know, level six continuous stealth in a public commuter space is a violation of Central municipal codes,” I announced to the empty air.

A puddle of water trembled slightly in front of me. The vibration of power built inside my gauntlets. I launched one metal fist in a heavy uppercut, connecting against something solid. The smile barely had time to uncurl on my face before the wrist of my leading glove was caught in an unseen grip.

The momentum was too much. Locked in a tumble with an invisible assailant, I hit the metal grates of the bridge hard, my body paneling barely absorbing the impact.
The air wavered as my new friend uncloaked. On my back, I squinted to get a better look without the halo of light from above. It was a woman in weapons-grade elastomeric body armor. Long photon-bleached hair was gathered up in a tight tail, giving her a severe look. The light in her eyes was cold, and her wrist-mounted crossbolt was pointed directly at my forehead.
“I’m gonna guess that’s not registered,” I groaned as I sat up.

The woman’s lips were held in tense concentration, as if she were calculating the solution to some mathematical equation. Probably finding the quickest one that ends in my death, I figured.

“Badge serial 20121219. Enforcer, lower sector. Promoted to Central at zero-six-hundred today,“ she said evenly. “Congratulations, detective.”
Her voice was a digitized growl, but I thought I heard a note of curiosity now that she had the upper hand—or rather, bolt.
She continued, “You knew I was a danger, and yet you still came at me.”
“Promotion’s been kinda stressful,” I said. “Maybe I just needed to punch something.”

“Your records list you were dispensed a PROJECT promotion cube this morning,” The woman gave my gear a secondary scan. “You haven’t installed the subroutine.”
“Whoa there, getting a little personal, aren’t you—”
“I have a need for it,” she interrupted.

“Are you over-charged?” I rubbed the back of my head with my oversized metal glove, roughing my hair into wet spikes. “I’m a tick away from hauling you off to Central.”

“You can try,” the woman said, her crossbolt still aimed at me.

I let out a bitter laugh. “Fair enough. How about a few pleasantries before we go exchanging gifts.” The sarcasm snapped in my voice processor. “Your name.”
“Classified.” The flatline of her lips broke into a predatory smile. “If I tell you, I would have to kill you.”

I decided she wasn’t the type to joke. I looked more closely at her suit and weapons and changed the subject.
“Doesn’t look like you need an upgrade.” I gestured to her wrist. “That pretty crossbolt alone is higher level than most of the pieces in Central’s standard arsenal.”

“I’m hunting something.”
“That makes two of us,” I said.
“The data cube.”

There wasn’t anything standard issue about her, but she still contained the one constant in Central: in the end, everybody wanted a piece of somebody else.
Before I could respond, a call came over my private comm. Static filled my earpiece.

“Vi? Vi, you there?” It was Mosley. Fear coated his voice like a cold sweat. “I-I think… I might need some backup… uh, partner…”

“Little busy, Mosley.” I read the time off the lower corner of my visor. “Shouldn’t you be clocked off?”
“Look, just come and help me out, okay?”

“I’m sure a local enforcer would be closer,” I said, watching the woman’s face in front of me. “They can handle—”
“I’m sending you my location.”

A pinprick of light showed up six sectors down. “The Heap’s a little out of Central’s jurisdiction, Mosley,” I sighed.
The Heap wasn’t so much a place as a rathole of unsavory outcasts. It was hard to track, as the congregation was seldom in the same spot for more than a cycle, mostly due to the fact it took residence in condemned structures about to be refactored. It was an easy place to pick up unregistered hackers, black market weapons, or “gently used” off-cycle upgrades. We tolerated its existence in the lower sectors because it made it easy to round up suspects when you needed them. But it was also an easy place to get yourself permanently wiped if you weren’t careful.
“I pick up jobs. You know, ‘off the record’ as far as the day job is concerned.” Mosley’s choked half-explanation was spiked with panic. It was hard to imagine his softness as hired muscle. “Listen, I know we just started together, but this guy’s going to kill me. I don’t have anyone else to call.”
Damn. “On my way. Stay—”
The connection clicked off abruptly. I hit the bridge with a gauntleted fist, denting the metal grating, and looked up at the weapons-grade mystery still standing over me. Her crossbolt hadn’t moved a micrometer.
I got up, taking my chances that she probably wouldn’t shoot me.
“I’ve got to go. There’s a lift down to the lower sectors on the other side of the bridge. If I disable the safety and manually ride the speed control, I can probably make it before my partner spills his drink on the wrong person.” I turned to leave. “Consider this a warning,” I added dryly. “Get that weapon of yours licensed, or next time I’ll have to write you an infraction.”
“The Heap will have your man dead before that lift reaches the next level,” the woman called after me. “How about something a little faster?”
An arcing crackle and a waft of ozone turned me around.
A personal combat hyper-cycle decloaked. The humid air was starting to condense into rain again, but the water repelled off the bike’s black aerographite panels. I could feel the pulse from the magnetic drive as she started it up.
I gave a low whistle. “That is definitely not registered.”
“Correct.”
“You don’t look like the kind that gives out free rides.”
“A ride for that promotion cube,” she said evenly, revving the engine. “Think of it as a speed upgrade instead.”
I looked into the woman’s eyes. She could have just shot me and taken what she wanted.
“I don’t trust upgrades,” I said.
I walked over and settled myself behind her on the bike.
“You shouldn’t.” She tipped the cycle’s wheel over the side of the bridge. “By the way, the name is Vayne.”
Six sectors passed in a blur of vertical neon. I tracked Mosley’s position in my light shade to keep from vomiting my last nutri-pack all over the back of Vayne’s pretty ride.
Vayne stashed the cycle on a fire egress overlooking the Heap, the only tell being a faint, acrid tang lingering in the air. I watched the coming and goings of the evening crowds through a pair of ultra-V binoculars.
It was busier than usual. It looked like someone rang the dinner bell for every mangey tomcat in the neighborhood.
“He’s in there.” I turned to Vayne and pulled the data cube from one of the tactical pouches on my hip. “Here. Before I forget my bus fare.”
“An honest cop. Not many of you left in the wild.” Vayne took the cube and sized up the latest incarnation of the Heap. “This rev seems less upstanding than the last one.”
I nodded. “Feels like it was only yesterday I was breaking up fistfights in joints like this.”
“It was.” Vayne’s cold smile was back. She checked the powercell of the larger crossbow she carried. “I take it you don’t want to go in the front door.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I said. “You don’t have to come.”
“You’re not the only who feels like hitting something.”
I shrugged and walked around the back, examining the building’s structure for the non-load bearing walls. The building was condemned and I needed to be careful. It wouldn’t do Mosley much good if I brought the whole thing down on top of him while he was still inside.
I zeroed in on a sweet spot and charged the coupler in my gauntlet, hitting the wall with every kilogram of the day’s frustration.
The old carbon honeycomb crumbled with two solid hits. The hole was big enough to pass through in three. I brushed off the bits building as I stepped through into the darkness.
I had gotten lucky. It was a storeroom stacked floor to ceiling with aftermarket limbs. None of them looked remotely clean. But then again, actually buying personal upgrades fresh off the factory line was something for people in the sectors far, far above us.
I pushed aside some plastic sheeting to reveal a larger room pulsing with dim blue and violet fluorescents. The bass-heavy music vibrated in my chest plating. I gestured to a raised seating area.
“That him?” Vayne had hacked my internal comm and privacy-linked it with hers, so I heard her voice clearly in my mind. It was still low, but lacked the artifacts of her voice processor. She nodded at a bulky shape seated by himself at a low-light table.
“Hacking a Central officer’s private comm is a jailable violation,” I replied. “I’m not going to ask where you learned to do that.”
Vayne smiled. I looked over to see Mosley’s beady eyes reflected in the soft glow in front of him, and nodded.
“Yes, that’s him.”
I let just a little bit of energy cycle through my gauntlets, lighting the broken flooring in pools of orange. The Heap residents in front of me knew those lights and stepped aside with no questions.
I pulled a chair over to Mosley’s table. The table light flickered and I noted that the booth had also recently served as a makeshift medical bay for neural surgery, evidenced by the small bucket of teeth sitting next to Mosley’s drink. Those without Central sanctioned data ports jacked into whatever nerve bundles were available—the ones beneath the molars were especially easy to tap.
Mosley looked up at Vayne. “Y-you didn’t say you were bringing a friend, Vi.”
“An upgrade,” Vayne corrected.
I leaned forward, putting both gloved fists on the table, nearly upsetting the tooth bucket. I flipped my light shade up so I could look Mosley in his real, fragile eyes.
“Thought I might need some backup in a place like this. You don’t come to the Heap unless you’re looking for something. What were you looking for, Mosley?”
The knuckles of my gauntlets itched with unspent energy.
“He didn’t want what I had… and then I told him about your upgrade.” Mosley’s voice wavered and his eyes watered. “Figured if he was interested, I could get you to sell it to me. He said… he said if I could get you down here…”
“Where’s your buyer?” Vayne scanned the crowd of miscreants milling around.
A thin beam of red light flicked on, centered directly on the hollow of Mosley’s chest.
A preternaturally calm voice came over the building’s old crowd comm link. “Right here, my dear.”
I looked over to see Vayne’s face had erupted into a snarl. Every lower sector enforcer knew that voice pattern. “Jhin,” she growled.

“Special Lieutenant Vayne, what a delightful surprise. You’re looking so much better. Sad, what happened to your squad, but you do wear them so well. That crossbolt upgrade is especially nice.”
“Jhin? Your buyer is Khada Jhin, Mosley?” I looked at the simpering fool that was my newly assigned partner. He nodded meekly. Jhin was a notorious augment hacker with a taste for high-clearance upgrades. Word was, he had been a black-market tech that had almost gotten completely wiped in a rough job. Severe personality fragmentation. Last bulletin I downloaded said he’d been taking the shiny bits of other people ever since. Even if he hadn’t started out fragged, there couldn’t be much sanity left after so many pieces of other people had been plugged into him.
And it sounded like he and Vayne knew each other from a previous engagement.
“This day keeps getting better and better,” I said under my breath.
Jhin laughed. The psychopathy under the distortion sent a chill up my spine.

“I will break you piece by piece, you virus.” Vayne said to the disembodied voice. She was wire-taut.
“Maybe later, my dear. This is about what I want.” Jhin’s voice faded to a low, unnerving hum. “The upgrade.”

“It’s not hers to sell.” Vayne withdrew the data cube and held it up.

“Disappointing,” Jhin sighed. “I had so hoped you’d installed it first. Ah, well—I will have to rewrite the third act.”
There was a high-pitched whine as an arc of red plasma seared the air between me and Mosley. Without my light shade up, the high intensity light left me visionless. The background noise of people and tech stopped and was replaced with panic. The smell of fear and seared silicon filled my nose. My eyes teared up and I blinked to clear the neon burn.
Through the after-images, I could see the knuckles of one gauntlet were singed and there was a hole in Mosley that went right on through to the other side. I didn’t need a Central forensics kit to tell me it was the same weapon that melted the doc on the bridge.
“That rat is here,” Vayne said over our comm link, “and I’m going to kill it. He wants this.” She tossed me the promotion cube. “Try not to get shot.”
I caught the upgrade as Vayne vanished into stealth mode. The Heap was nearly empty. Nothing like a pulse of de-ionizing plasma to get people moving. I charged the coupler in my gauntlets and their amber glow lit up the darkness.
Jhin’s mechanized laugh echoed off the walls. There was a hiss of static in the crowd comm.
“Ah, ah, ah, detective. A cat in gloves catches no mice,” he purred.
“Khada Jhin,” I announced, “you are wanted on multiple counts of murder.” I watched the upper areas of an open loft, looking for the tell-tale red light. “And you melted my partner, too.”

“You didn’t like him anyway. What was it you said?” There was a crackle and another hiss as an audio file was searched. “Ah, yes. Here we are...”
The hissing stopped. I heard my own voice in the crowd comm. “I don’t trust upgrades.”
“Nice trick.” I stepped around the discarded piles of old tech, continuing my hunt. “I have what you want.”
“Your new friend didn’t like the gift?” More laughter echoed around me. Movement grazed the corner of a piece of mirror-glass that had cracked into a web of broken reflections. “She doesn’t like upgrades either. Did she tell you about her last partners? About her team?”
I did not reply. I continued to advance toward his last position.
“They all died.” I could hear Jhin’s dark smile. He was delighted, if a man that was mostly machine could still feel anything like that. “Especially Special Lieutenant Shauna Vayne. They rebuilt her of course. She was special.”
“Who?” I asked, hoping if I kept him talking, he would be more prone to mistakes. “Who rebuilt her?”
“PROJECT of course, you silly kitten. They rebuild all of us.” His cackle broke the high frequency and distorted painfully in my ear. “But they may have a much harder time with you when I’m done...”
A cylinder of metal shot out of the darkness. I dove out of the way—It hit a pile of debris, a small explosion ripping through the scrap, before bouncing and exploding against a second pile.
“Did she tell you how they died?” I could hear Jhin’s excited breathing over the comm. I stood up slowly, to find a pinpoint of red light centered on my belly. Fifty meters away, I could read the tall, metal shadow taking aim.
Jhin cackled with laughter again. “It was—”
“A trap,” Vayne’s voice came over our internal link, her outline decloaking right next to him.
I took off at a run, watching as Vayne’s crossbolt lit the dark once, twice, three times, but each time she tumbled away as Jhin returned fire. His weapon was less accurate at point-blank range, but still blew out the nearby walls quite effectively.
Vayne leapt towards him, taking the metal shadow down to the ground. I was almost to them.
“Are you ready, my kittens?” Jhin hissed. “It’s time to see how well you run.”
A digitized voice announced, “Manual override. Demolition sequence engaged. Sector refactoring imminent.” Amber lights and slumbering klaxons awakened under the grime of the condemned building. Ill-fated sectors like this one were regularly sealed and collapsed to provide new foundations for the towering structures above.
I couldn’t hear if there was more to the warning, as a series of small explosions began to rip through the Heap. Metal whined as concrete supports gave way.
Jhin and Vayne broke apart, and she rolled to her feet. I stopped short, completing the standoff. It was the first time I had seen Jhin up close. He reset a servo in his shoulder with an unsettling, mechanical pop. I don’t think there was any flesh left to the man. He had no face, only a spider-like drone seated on a neck of steel.
“Go on, lieutenant. Shoot me.” Jhin opened his arms wide as if he would embrace Vayne. “It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
She unslung the larger crossbow from her back, its metal arms unfolding from the barrel.
“Vayne!” I shouted over the din. “We have to go! Now!”
“This hunt is over,” Vayne growled, taking careful aim. “You are a dead man.”
“If only I were still merely a man,” Jhin said, too calmly.
She fired the bolt. It hit him in the chest, knocking him back off his feet and spearing him into a concrete column. He was pinned. Jhin’s metal skeleton gave a shocked vibration as it de-powered. His spider-like face went dark.
“Vayne!” I looked at her, but she didn’t see me. She didn’t see anyone but Jhin.
A tick later, the glossy black drone that was Jhin’s face lit up with spots of red neon. Servos disengaged and it scuttled down the body, looking to make its escape.
“Smash that thing!” Vayne yelled. She fired small bolts of plasma from her wrist, but the drone dodged them with insect-like reflexes.
It landed on a nearby column. I punched the concrete hard, the web of plastic mesh exploding, and the drone was launched towards the ceiling. Vayne continued shooting at the spidery thing as it skittered into a crack in the corner, and disappeared into the darkness.
Another piece of the ceiling came loose over Vayne’s head. There was no time to ask permission—I tucked my shoulder and ran at her, knocking her through a blacked-out window into a neighboring structure.
We landed hard, a shower of glass raining down. I watched in disbelief as the stacked weight of Central crushed the current Heap into a pile of nothing.
“Hell of a first day,” I murmured. I flexed the fingers of my gauntlets open to make sure they still worked. I was still holding the promotion upgrade. I offered it to Vayne. “I believe this is yours.”
She got to her feet, seething with waves of anger. The light in her eyes focused into points of intense rage. There was an arc and a hiss, and a final waft of ozone filled the air as Vayne vanished into the night.
“You took a piece of my vengeance from me, detective,” her voice echoed in my mind. “An upgrade cannot settle that debt.”
The area around the collapsed structure is quiet . The rough blanket of crushed carbon and bent steel crumbles, giving way to a small, insect-like creature emerging from the chaos. Black spider legs push out from a collapsed burrow. The gloss of its carapace is dusty, but intact. It turns to the cardinal directions, reorienting itself to the world. Spatters of condensation start to fall, washing it clean, but never clean enough.

A tall, metal shadow steps over the rubble and kneels before the insect drone.

The alloy spider crawls up a leg of braided carbon fiber, past a dusty and matted fur collar, and seats itself on the spine of anodized steel. Bathed in the ambient, ever-present glow from the upper sectors, the drone’s circuitry reconnects with its body.

The metal shadow raises its arm, pushes aside the fabric panels of the vest it wears, and digs a finger into its own body plating. The probing exploration extracts a short bolt from the carbon fiber mesh. The pulsing tip is still intact. Strong fingers carefully crush the bolt’s casing, revealing a thin ribbon of circuitry. With a surgeon’s precision, the ribbon is connected to a small port behind the creature’s face. The smooth, black contours of the mask flash to life in a pattern of red light.

A digital humming builds from within the metal shadow, erupting in a clipped harmonic of sadistic laughter. It echoes, bouncing back and forth across the sheer verticality of the sector until it reaches the very top.

“Through my work,” Jhin whispers to the maze of neon above. “You shall transcend.”
Pyke

As a youth, Pyke started out like many in Bilgewater: on the slaughter docks. All day, every day, monstrous creatures of the deep were hauled in for rendering in the butcheries that lined the waterfront. He found employment in a district known as Bloodharbor, as even the tide itself was not strong enough to wash away the red slick that ran constantly down its wooden slips.
He became well acquainted with the trade—both the gruesome work and meager paychecks. Over and over, Pyke watched heavy purses of gold being handed to captains and crews in exchange for the daunting carcasses that he and his fellows would hack into salable chunks. He became hungry for more than a few copper sprats in his pocket, and managed to talk his way onto a ship’s crew. Few individuals dared to hunt in the traditional Serpent Isles manner: launching themselves at their targets to secure tow-hooks with their bare hands, and beginning to butcher the creatures while they yet lived. Fearless and highly skilled in this regard, Pyke soon cut a name for himself as the best harpooner a golden kraken could buy. He knew meat was worth pennies compared to certain organs from the larger, more dangerous beasts… organs that needed to be harvested fresh.

Depending on the difficulty of the hunt, each sea monster commanded its own price, and the most desired by Bilgewater traders was the jaull-fish. From its razor-toothed maw, priceless sacs of sapphilite were coveted across Runeterra for various sorcerous distillations, and a small flask of the glowing blue oil could pay for a ship and its crew ten times over. But it was while hunting with an untested captain that Pyke learned where a life of blood and guts would land him.
Days into their journey, a huge jaull-fish breached, opening its maw wide to reveal rows of sapphilite sacs. Several harpoon lines secured the beast, and though it was far bigger and older than any he had encountered before, Pyke leapt into its mouth without hesitation.
As he set about his work, a deep vibration began to stir in the creature’s cavernous gullet. Roiling bubbles broke the ocean’s surface, and an entire pod of jaulls began to push against the tethered ship’s hull. The captain lost his nerve, and cut Pyke’s lifeline. The last thing the doomed harpooner saw before the beast’s jaws snapped shut was the look of horror on his crewmates’ faces, as they watched him being swallowed alive.

But this was not the end for Pyke.
In the deepest fathoms of the unknowable ocean, crushed by the titanic pressure, and still firmly trapped within the jaull’s mouth, he opened his eyes once more. There were blue lights everywhere, thousands of them, seemingly watching him. Tremulous echoes of something ancient and mysterious filled his brain, crushing his mind, showing him visions of all he had lost whilst others grew fat.
A new hunger overtook Pyke, one for vengeance and retribution. He would fill the depths with the corpses of those who had wronged him.

Back in Bilgewater, no one thought much of the killings at first—for so dangerous a place, the occasional red tide was nothing new. But weeks became months, and a pattern began to emerge. Captains from many ships were found carved up and left out for the dawn. Bar-room patrons whispered it was a supernatural killer, wronged at sea, gutting his way through the crew manifest of some damned ship called the Terror. Once a mark of respect and celebrity, the question “You a captain?” became a cause for alarm.
Soon it was the caulkers, too, and the first mates, merchant officers, bankers… indeed, anyone associated with the bloody business of the slaughter docks. A new name went up on the bounty boards: a thousand krakens for the infamous Bloodharbor Ripper.

Driven by memories twisted by the deep, Pyke has succeeded where many have failed—striking fear into the hearts of unscrupulous businessmen, killers, and seafaring scoundrels alike, even though no one can find any mention of a ship named the Terror ever docking in Bilgewater.
A city that prides itself on hunting monsters now finds a monster hunting them, and Pyke has no intention of stopping.
THEN, TEETH

Matt Dunn

Mazier is sprawled on the rotten planks, waves lapping at stone underneath. Her slowing heartbeat pumps blood into the seawater. She stares, unblinking, at the shanty-dwellings above, and the stars beyond.
Pyke studies her face once more. Mazier’s dead eyes stab at his mind.
A jaulling vessel. Four-master with tattered sails. Waves the size of mountains.
Long hair in high-sea wind. Dozens of faces on deck. Watching. Blue eyes. Mazier’s blue eyes, wide in disbelief.
Then, teeth.
Not Mazier’s pearly whites. Gunky, sword-sized teeth. Criss-crossed the boat. Losing light. Closing. In the jaull’s mouth. Lifeline slack. Cut.
The tongue was too slick. Eyes stung with sweat. Fingers finding no purchase. Get to open water. Swim, swim...
The jaull’s teeth clamped shut. Then pain. Then darkness.
Ship was gone. So were the eyes.
Mazier’s eyes.
An able-bodied sailor. Aye. She was there. She cut my line.
Pyke nudges the body with his boot, gazing downward all the while. He nudges her until she reaches the edge of the dock. One more kick, and Mazier is floating. The sharks are quick to feast. Circling. Snapping. The ocean never wastes time.
Gulls shriek, their warbled cries caught on the wind, as Pyke finds Mazier, abled-bodied sailor, on the list. Red ink strikes her name from the parchment.
The last name on the Terror’s crew manifest.
That’s it. No more names, just a lot of red crosses. Where did I get all that ink...?
A feeling gnaws at Pyke. Restless, unsettled, unsatisfied. The churning lurch of bile in his belly. He can’t be done. There were too many of them there, on the decks. Maybe he got the wrong manifest. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.
They let me die. So many hands. So many times.
Another sound. Not gulls. Not waves. Not teeth closing. Not the voice in the back of his mind screaming out “You’re not done!” over and over and over. Not the music he remembers from the swimming city, all those years ago.
It’s a new sound. A real sound. A here-and-now sound.
Pyke looks with his living eye, and sees wooden stairs sagging under heavy bootfalls. A thickset man, walking down toward the moored, bobbing vessels.
He stops when he sees all the blood. His hand disappears into his jacket, pulling a flintlock, keeping the barrel of the gun close to his chest. Ready to aim and fire. Like a bloody idiot.
Pyke steps into the moonlight. The man looks like he’s seen a ghost. The skin around his mouth clams up tighter than a dock banker’s coin-purse. His eyes go wide and quivery, like jellyfish, like calm water catching a breeze.
“Who’s that?” he yells.
Come find out.
The flintlock is aimed at Pyke’s head. Then comes the flash and the bang. The shot is true, but it splinters wood because Pyke is no longer where he was.
He’s in the mist.
He falls apart, into salt and drops of water—a fine man to a fine mist. He heard they call him a phantasm. They’re half right.
The heavyset man reloads. Sweat beads his wrinkled brow.
In those precious few seconds, Pyke is all around him, in the in between, somewhere behind the air itself, studying him. Those fearful eyes, crap-brown. His beard wild and white. Sagging jowls, crooked nose, cracked lips, the way his earlobes are cauliflowered from countless dirty tavern fights.
Looks like a captain.
The man reeks of sweet, prickly fear. Good old boot-quaking terror.
Smells like a captain.
Pyke needs to be sure. He takes form—he was always a big man, now with the baleful, glowing eye that the sea gifted him, he feels larger still. Tell me your name, he rumbles.
The man didn’t expect anyone to appear behind him. Nobody expects that. Maybe they do in fantasies or nightmares or the stories they tell in bars. But in reality, everyone just craps their pants and falls flat on their face, and this heavyset captain is no rule-breaker on that count. He trips on his own stupid boots, and rolls down the stairs like a sack of tinned victuals.
Pyke takes each step slowly. A Noxian galleon is moored at the dock. Trader ship, or traitor ship? Is there a difference? He guesses not.
You got ‘til I get to the bottom of these steps to tell me what I want to know.
The man wheezes, his wind knocked clear into someone else’s sails. Gasping. A fish on land. Chubby hands reaching out.
I remember you...
Step.
White-knuckle grip on the deck rail...
Step.
The man tries to stand, but his knee bends the wrong way.
Step.
You were watching.
Step. A wharf-rat scurries close. Dinner time soon.
You were smiling.
Sputter. Tears coming now. “P-please… I don’t know what you’re talking about...”
Step.
Name. Now.
“Beke! Beke Nidd!”
Pyke pauses to consult the manifest, one step from the bottom. All the red marks. All the crossed out names.
There. Beke Nidd. Midshipman.
Uncrossed. Clear as day. Must have had the paper folded wrong.
Beke Nidd. Yeah, I remember you. You were there.
“I’ve never seen you before! It’s my first night in Bilge—”
People can’t lie with a hookman’s barber lodged in their cheek. They can’t beg or trade facts they don’t have.
Fine tool, the barber-blade. Made of tempered sharkbone. Keener than steel. Sticks in real good, snagging on bone and flesh. Struggling only hooks it deeper, as Beke is learning. His eyes are really afraid now.
Those eyes stab at Pyke’s mind.
The memory rises like a tide, and he opens up to let the waters come crashing through, drowning out Beke’s gurgled pleas.
A jaulling vessel. Four-master with tattered sails. Waves the size of mountains.
Ragged beard in high-sea wind. Dozens of faces on deck. Watching. Crap-brown eyes. Beke Nidd’s crap-brown eyes, wide in disbelief.
Then, teeth.

All stories

Fieram

Ornn

The Voice from the Hearth

Out of Time

Paintings Framed in Half-Light

The Slumber Party Summoning

Pantheon

For Those Who Have Fallen

Perennial

A Piece of Shadow Cake

Progress Day

Poetry with a Blade

Poppy

The Slayer

Interview: Inside K/DA

POP/STARS

Proclamation of the Trifarix

Of Rats and Cats<br> and Neon Mice

Pyke

THEN, TEETH