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Rise with Me

Dana Luery Shaw

Hear! Upon the Great Mountain,

The beloved of the Sun sing to Her,

A song of Love and Devotion,

Of Battle and Glory.

The golden Sun, Her Light ever shining,

Bathes our faces in warmth

And scorches our enemies,

Burning them to holy ash.

Yet even the radiant Sun must rest.

And so we are left without Her,

Cold and naked and alone,

At the mercy of those who stalk in the Dark.

We mourn for Her as She slumbers,

Knowing She never wishes to part from us,

The last wink of twilight,

Her fading farewell kiss.

Yet the night we would miss Her most dearly,

The Darkness long and bitter,

We persuade Her to stay longer

And dance with us to Her own music.

Twilight’s kiss extended,

A roaring flame that thaws through winter’s grasp,

The Sun stays awake all through the night,

Whispering Her sweet secrets until the dawn.

We battle the lull of Darkness for Her,

For the love She bears us,

And we gaze upon Her glory

As we show Her our own.

Hymn of the Dawn
Tablet Sixteen, Lines 33–60

Missive from the High Office of Candescent Priestess Thalaia
40 toward the Nadir
To all those faithful youth who reside within the Temple of Auroral Triumph,
The journey of the Sun takes Her farther away from us each day as winter descends upon the mountain once again. Yet as the days grow ever shorter, we do not respond in fear—instead, we prepare for the Festival of the Nightless Eve, now a mere forty rises hence.
Acolytes may notice that, this Festival, the temple shall be using a different holy lanternglass to light the first Sunspark Torch than we have in ages past. We offer our gratitude to Sunforger Iasur for creating a sacred object that will outshine its predecessor. However, we condemn the actions of the evencursed who broke the temple’s lanternglass last solstice, and encourage any with knowledge of this deed to come forth.
Those of you who are of age to receive your first shield are required to attend the Nightless Eve and show the Sun your worthiness through dance and song. You may attend in a dyad should you wish to witness the glory of the Sunrise with another acolyte.
Only through our devotion may the Darkness be kept at bay.

Letter from Initiate Priestess Elcinae to an acolyte formerly in her care
38 toward the Nadir
Dayblessed Diana,
Your instructor Sunsworn Priestess Nemyah has brought troubling information to my attention, in the hopes that I might exert influence on your future actions.
It would seem as though you are beginning to voice doubt in our teachings. It is good to sharpen your understanding by asking questions, but it is unacceptable to suggest that your instructors are not well versed in the sacred texts. You must show deference to those who have studied longer and harder, who are trying to impart their wisdom and faith unto you... even if you disagree with their conclusions.
I know you understand that your instructors are but mortal, as you are, as I am, and that none of us can fully understand Her glory. But this is not something you should ever express to others at the temple, not unless or until you have made your initiate vows. The Priestesses of Nemyah’s rank will be unwilling to discuss this nuance with acolytes only fourteen years of age, and instead will be inclined to issue punishment. For now, I urge caution and silent contemplation. Do not engage further if you do not believe that you can do so respectfully.
Perhaps this is contributing to the lack of warmth you feel for the other acolytes, and that they feel for you. It is difficult to burden oneself with friendship of another who has earned the wrath of her instructors. I saw this even when you were under my tutelage last year, after your quarrel with Initiate Priestess Nycinde. Here, I urge you to let your inner light shine through as brilliantly as I have seen in our private discussions. The other acolytes will come around.
I will converse with Sunsworn Priestess Nemyah about reinstating your speaking privileges during Oratory class, if you swear to me that you will follow my advice. Otherwise, I will not speak for you.

In the Light,
Initiate Priestess Elcinae

Diary of Diana, ward of the Rakkor
38 toward the Nadir

Apparently, asking Nemyah about why we call night “The Darkness” was a step too far.
But it’s not dark at night. Not completely. There is a gentler light, not hot and burning but cool like a stream in summertime, that shines alongside the stars and illuminates my path when I walk the grounds.
Why, then, do we only speak of the Sun? What is this other ethereal being? Why is the Sun’s Light the only one we are supposed to see?
I would never bring that up in Oratory, though. Not when Nemyah has proclaimed that I am to “hold my tongue for the remainder of my time in her charge” for “being disruptive” and “disrespectful” and... Whatever. Fine. Let the other acolytes spout pretty poems when they try to make a convincing argument, and repeat the same verses over and over and over until I throw up my hands in defeat and beg the instructor to let me tear them and their flimsy conclusions apart.
Today, we were supposed to discuss the upcoming Festival. So Sebina gave a little speech about how excited she is to celebrate her first Nightless Eve with the other shield-aged. That was it. That was the whole argument. The entire point of view was, won’t this be fun? Ugh. This is what Nemyah has to work with, and she chooses to punish me instead.
Leona volunteered to get up and argue against it, but how can you argue against “I feel an emotion”? She could only combat it with having a different emotion, one of exhaustion or trepidation about serving the Sun the right way or something. It wasn’t what I’d call captivating oration, but at least she tried. And she mentioned something about the Darkness being somber—not evil, but somber, which is not actually the same thing at all—and that caught my attention.
So I tried to speak after Leona, and started by asking my question about the Darkness. It was meant to be rhetorical—I didn’t even have the chance to talk about how the Festival’s just a way to reinforce how people already feel about celebrating the Sun, how it is a ritual designed to subjugate us to orthodoxy instead of pursuing our own relationship with Her... but apparently even that is too much for Nemyah. Just because She has blessed us with Light and sight, doesn’t mean the Priesthood wants us to see things for what they really are.
I can’t be the first person to ever ask these questions, can I?
More tomorrow. The stars have come out again, lit by that silvery glow.
-D

Letter from a devoted daughter
37 toward the Nadir
My Dayblessed parents,
I pray that my letter finds you both well, and that young Aidonel and Kespina are healthy and happy. I respect your desire for more correspondence, and so I write to you today with nothing much to say, certainly nothing of great import.
The instructors have begun their lessons on the Nightless Eve. I look forward to the shift in our waking hours as I and the other shield-aged prepare to face the Darkness together. To Mother’s question, I do not yet know whether I will attend in the company of another acolyte, nor whether I wish to do so. I understand that you doubt my honesty in these matters, Mother, but truly none have yet caught my eye. I assure you that you needn’t ask further, and that I will tell you plainly should that answer change.
Oh! I performed admirably upon the Wargames field this past week. Our trainer, Initiate Priestess Nycinde, praised me highly and asked the others to observe my footwork and swordsmanship. She has said that my shield suits me, though I must learn to use it in support of my allies on the field, not simply as a means to protect myself. I take her tutelage seriously and have asked Hyterope and Sebina to continue to train with me after our schooling has finished for the day. I expect to continue to improve.
My academic pursuits are going well, though I feel I am lacking in my oration skills. I have spoken with Sunsworn Priestess Nemyah, and she says that I am well on my way, yet on this I do not agree with her. I do not mean to say that I am disrespecting my instructors! More that I wish to better my skills, and it does not appear that Sunsworn Priestess Nemyah will offer any additional support.
There is a girl in my Oratory class whose arguments are concise and well-constructed, but her views and lines of thought do not always connect to what the instructors have taught. Yet she is always prepared, and other acolytes find their arguments fall to pieces under her scrutiny. Perhaps she is someone I could approach for assistance in this matter. I know you believe me capable of becoming a leader, and I will not fail you in this.

In the Love of Her Light,
Leona

Notes passed between Leona, daughter of Sunforgers, and Diana, ward of the Rakkor
35 toward the Nadir
Dayblessed Diana,
Are you often busy after our Middle Rakkoric instruction? I sense that I am not doing as well in Oratory as I could be, and humbly ask that you help me grow my skills in constructing and delivering convincing arguments.

In the Light,
Leona

Why do you ask for my help? I am no longer invited to speak during class, so why would you want to learn from someone whose arguments our instructors have deemed worthless? Perhaps you should ask Sebina or that other girl you train with. They have shown themselves to be loyal companions who would do anything to help you succeed.
Diana

The content of your arguments notwithstanding, you are more skilled at constructing the logic behind them than anyone else in our year, and likely in our temple. You have heard some of the end-of-year debates and presentations that the older acolytes have made in years past, have you not? I believe you are better suited to train me in this than any of them.
I know your time is limited, so I would not ask that you spend much of it on me. But I would greatly appreciate it if you could look over my notes before our next rhetorical exercise, and help me grasp what it is I am not yet understanding.
And please know that I do not ask this lightly. If there is anything you are struggling with, anything that I can do to assist you where you need it, I pledge myself to it in return.

In the Light,

Leona

Diary of Diana, ward of the Rakkor
35 toward the Nadir
I am shocked that Leona came to me, and I am still not certain that this isn’t some kind of joke... but it isn’t as though I have any of my own Oratory lessons to work on. So I agreed to help her.
Obviously we won’t be meeting in person. I don’t want any of the instructors to look down on Leona for asking the resident heretical loner for help, nor any of our fellow acolytes. I doubt that they would turn on her, not when she is the golden child of our Wargames cohort, but they still might mock her, laugh at her. And I don’t want that to happen to her, not when she was... brave enough, I suppose? Humble enough? To approach me. It is refreshing to have someone admit when they are not the best at everything, and I confess that it is a surprise coming from her. Maybe I’ve just never seen Leona fail at something before.
And I like the idea of having someone to talk to, sometimes. Even if it’s someone who believes with the fullness of her heart in everything we are taught here. If associating with me were to lose her the respect she has earned from so many, then what reason would she have to keep talking with me?
-D

Letter from a temple instructor to old friends
21 toward the Nadir
Most Dayblessed Melia and Iasur,
Thank you again for your generous gift to the temple. Your work, Iasur, as always, is sublime. The Candescent Priestess asked that I extend you both an invitation to join us for our Nightless Eve celebration, twenty-one rises hence, to see your lanternglass at work. I do understand that caring for two young children makes that difficult, but perhaps you could bring them just to see the lighting of the Sunspark Torches.
I have spoken with all of Leona’s instructors this year and I am pleased to report that your daughter has risen to the top of all of her educational pursuits. She has taken to tutoring some of the other acolytes in my Middle Rakkoric class with their vocabulary and verb tenses. Her dedication to the Sun is visible in everything she does, and her commitment to excellence is commendable. I observed her performance in the last Wargames skirmish, and she has quickly become a leader on the battlefield, even among the older acolytes. I know you would be proud.
However, there is something to be said about taking the time to appreciate the life the Sun has blessed us with. After the skirmish, one of Leona’s teammates asked if she had interest in attending the Festival of the Nightless Eve together. Leona denied any such interest in the other girl, and went off to her evening studies. I worry that Leona may be overly focused on achievement, and will miss opportunities to delight in the Sun’s gifts, and truly enjoy the closeness to Her Light that her time at the temple should bring to her. It is my hope that you will speak with her on this matter.

In the Light,
Sunsworn Priest Polymnius

Journal of Leona, daughter of Sunforgers
17 toward the Nadir
How I could ask someone to attend the Festival with me
—A note? Is that too childish? Not straightforward enough? Lots of notes as it is... but I love getting notes from her. She always makes time to answer, always very thoughtful and smart
—Ask her to take a walk with me? When? I have skirmishes every night this week
—Flowers? Don’t know if she likes flowers, or which flowers she likes
—A meal? Never shared a meal together, might be too public. What if the meal is gross? Bad omen?
—Offer to train her with her shield? She doesn’t use her shield much, that could work! Or maybe she doesn’t like using her shield? She doesn’t seem to like skirmishes
—Debate some scripture? Good chance to talk in person, get to see her at her best, be brilliant... try to impress her? Maybe tell her you need help with a big project for Oratory? No, she’s in the same class as you, this is stupid
—Pray together? Good excuse for privacy, but she would never say yes to that
—Ask her if she already has plans? Be casual, doesn’t have to be as more than friends, she probably doesn’t want to go alone. What if she’s already going with someone? Who would she go with
—Tell her I don’t have a companion? This is not a terrible option
—Don’t ask, just see her there and ask her to dance with you? Also not a terrible option
Why is this so hard

Notes sent between Leona, daughter of Sunforgers, and Diana, ward of the Rakkor
14 toward the Nadir
Leona,
Some thoughts on your last argument:
Your thesis was concise and easy to understand, and even Sebina seemed to follow your logic. And I really liked how you threaded in some star-Sun hypotheses, that connected surprisingly well to your argument a few weeks ago on the Sun’s gifts in the sky. I could tell Nemyah was impressed. Well done!
You compared the Sun’s Light and life to the cold Darkness, but you weren’t able to say exactly what about the Darkness is bad. Is it the absence of warmth? If so, is winter bad? Is cold water bad? Is it the absence of life? Mount Targon itself is not alive—is it bad? You need better examples or to change your metaphors.
You spoke of heretics as those who don’t believe in the Sun. What does that even mean? It’s there, in the sky—are you arguing that some people don’t believe it is there at all? I know what you meant, I think, but you should clarify that believing in the Sun and believing in our scripture are not exactly the same. Or you should speak of worshipping the Sun rather than “believing in it.”
Moreover, how do you know enough to assume what the restricted tablets say about our people’s history? The instructors have only offered summaries and hearsay as to what they mean, but unless you have quotations, you’re only working off of theories, not truths. I would hold off on arguing anything about the restricted tablets until you’ve seen them after the initiation rites.
Your point about the Everlasting Day was good, as was your argument in favor of the Shadow Theory, but you didn’t follow them through to a strong conclusion. Celebrating both the Everlasting Day and the Nightless Eve as triumphs of the Sun means what about the creation of shadows? Are they mortal creations, or that of the Sun?
But, yes, you’re definitely improving. Can you feel it when you’re up there on the dais?
Diana

Diana,
Yes!! I can definitely feel it. It is as though the Sun’s righteousness flows through me. I can feel Her warmth grow in my cheeks the longer I speak. I wish our classes were held outdoors, even in the winter chill, so She could hear me.
I very much appreciate your notes. Thank you for taking the time to write them down. And thank you, again, for all of your guidance in this matter—I would not be improving so steadily if it were not for you. But I do have further questions.
Everything in my argument was researched. I have the citations for every piece of the Hymn and the writings of the philosophers and the temple scholars. I don’t believe any of my conclusions were unique—maybe the way I connected some of the different pieces was? But none of the works I cited answered the questions, or attempted to answer the questions, that you ask in your critique. “What is it about the Darkness that is evil?” It’s not about why; it’s never been about why. It just is. Why do you think I need to go deeper than that when it’s widely known already?
Also, I noticed that you haven’t been practicing with your shield very often in the skirmishes. It’s taken me some time, especially since they’re so large and unwieldy, but I’m starting to better understand how to use it in battle. Would you like to practice together? If you have time.

ITL,
Leona

Leona,
If it’s so widely known and so widely agreed upon, don’t you think you should dig deeper? Who agreed upon this? When? Why? Why are there some things we have collectively decided to take for granted as truth?
You asked me to take a look at your argument and help you structure it better. That’s all I’m trying to do here. If the argument can’t be structured well based on canon and orthodox thought, or at least the canon as we know it... then maybe the underlying assumptions are wrong or don’t make sense. Maybe the restricted tablets answer all of these questions, but maybe they don’t. I don’t know, because we’re not allowed to read them! It’s so frustrating!! That’s why I try to base my arguments on what we do have access to, and ask for clarification where the text doesn’t give us any.
But, you did a lot better this time than the last time around. I can’t wait to see your next oration. Let me know if you believe you will want my assistance beforehand, or if you’d rather surprise me with your arguments.
And thank you for the offer, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to successfully wield a shield. It’s too distracting and weighs me down too much to focus on my attack. And besides, as long as I’m on your team, I know at least one person’s defending me.
Diana

Letter from Sunsworn Priestess Nemyah to a shining pupil
12 toward the Nadir
Dayblessed Leona,
I want to commend you on your improvement these past few weeks. Already you were debating well, but clearly you have dedicated yourself even further to this work, and it shines through you.
Apologies for the interruption during your oration today, and know that I and the Candescent Priestess will be dealing with it. Do not concern yourself over it as you continue your path toward excellence, and toward Her Light.

In Her blessed warmth,
Sunsworn Priestess Nemyah

Disciplinary Account
12 toward the Nadir
I, Sunsworn Priestess Nemyah, provide an accounting of the actions of acolyte Diana, ward of the Rakkor, and the penance she faces in response.
Acolyte Diana interrupted a fellow acolyte’s presentation, after having been instructed weeks ago to remain silent during class. When she was told to quiet down and allow the oration to continue, she instead attempted a rebuttal to the other acolyte’s argument. In a blasphemous furor, Diana suggested that the Light does not belong entirely to the realm of the glorious Sun. (May the evencurse be forever kept at bay.) In doing so, she has poisoned the mind of every shield-aged acolyte in the class with dangerous heretical thought.
After I spoke with Candescent Priestess Thalaia, a decision as to Diana’s penance was reached. Diana will spend three days standing in the Light of the Sun, with neither shade nor water until the Sun sleeps for the night, to remind her of the Sun’s merciful judgment.

Diary of Diana, ward of the Rakkor
11 toward the Nadir
The Sun is not a loving, life-giving mother to us all. She is hateful, burning with malice, and She aims to drive us all underground to avoid Her scorching Light!
...I don’t really think that, but it doesn’t feel like She loves me.
I have my third day of punishment tomorrow. I can only hope for clouds. Or rain! Snow? Anything. My skin is red and raw and I just want to sleep.
But it was worth it. That debate with Leona is probably the closest we will ever come to talking in public, and we got to do it on our terms. I didn’t even bring up the light that pierces the Darkness at night—I didn’t have time before Nemyah dragged me off to Thalaia for her retribution. I wonder what they would have done if I had.
I hate everyone here. I don’t want to celebrate anything with any of them. I don’t want their lying smiles and their celebratory glares boring holes through me. Instead of going to the Nightless Eve, I’ll just... climb. Get someplace higher than this. Maybe look at the stars. Watch the nighttime light.
Besides, the only person I would want to go with would never want to be seen with me. Not after this kind of public penance. Probably not before it, either... So I have nothing to lose.
-D
I don’t hate everyone. But not everyone is kind, with a shining smile and a gleaming heart, and not everyone sees me as... worth anything. Their time. Their attention.
But I’m sure she doesn’t see me as worth anything anymore.

Journal of Leona, daughter of Sunforgers
7 toward the Nadir
Why I should just pick someone to go to the Festival with
—Six different people have asked me and I have turned them all down
—I don’t want people to think I am uptight—I am fun (?)
—Sebina and Hyterope believe that I have a secret companion
—My parents might be in attendance and they want me to be more social
—Because it’s only a week away
—But I know who I want to go with. Would it be a good idea, though? Diana just finished her penance and no one is being very kind to her, even though I am the one who let her speak. I wanted to watch her deconstruct my points and ask me questions, and to answer them with my list of citations. The Sun would urge mercy, but I don’t expect her to ever gain favor with the Priesthood again. Would going with her make everyone treat me the same way?
—Does that matter? Is she worth it?
—She doesn’t care what others think about her. Why should I?
—She gets this look when she thinks she’s right, when she’s won her argument, and the Sun’s Light shines through her eyes and her smile and she wears triumph like a crown and it’s just magnificent
Okay, I have made up my mind!

Letter from Candescent Priestess Thalaia to a disciplined acolyte’s parents
5 toward the Nadir
I am writing to inform you that your daughter Leona was involved in a fight with another acolyte. It did not, to the best of my knowledge, get physical—I only arrived at the end of the altercation, and did not hear what it was that they fought over. Both girls were spoken to, but neither took me into her confidence as to what started the fight. There will be a measure of penance meted out to both girls.

With Her Light cast o’er the world,
Candescent Priestess Thalaia

Excerpt from the diary of Diana, ward of the Rakkor
5 toward the Nadir
But the moment I told Leona I would not be attending the Nightless Eve, her eyes dimmed as though I had told her I was embracing the Darkness in my heart. And knowing me, knowing what I have been through, she asks me WHY NOT?
That’s when I realized... Oh. She’s proselytizing.
Apparently, all of this time we’ve spent writing notes to one another has given Leona the idea that I am available to be preached at, converted to full believer, made to see the Light. She asked for my help... because she thought she could help me.
So I got angry. I yelled. I’m not proud of it, but I couldn’t help it. I’m just glad I didn’t cry. I should have known that was all this was. All it ever was.
Luckily, I was not the only one who got in trouble this time. Golden child Leona had to perform penance, too, but they wouldn’t make her stand out in the Sun for days on end. Instead, we’ll have to scrub floors all across the temple, even in the Priesthood’s cenobium.
I wonder if an instructor may have asked her to intervene on the Sun’s behalf.
If that’s all I am to her, a heretic able to be swayed back onto the path? Then she and her lousy arguments can rot and fail Oratory for all I care.
-D

Journal of Leona, daughter of Sunforgers
5 toward the Nadir
Why I should never have asked Diana to go to the Festival with me
—She looked disgusted that I would even ask if she was going
—She started yelling at me, publicly
—We both got in trouble and now I have to miss skirmishes to scrub floors
—She doesn’t care about celebrating the Sun
—She’s practically a heretic
—She probably wouldn’t even dance if she did go
—Now she’ll never write to me again
I should have just said yes to somebody else.

Letter from disappointed parents to their daughter
2 toward the Nadir
Dayblessed Leona,
Your mother and I are displeased to hear of both your penance obligations and your disappointing performance at your last skirmish. We know that you are capable of better, and expect you to rise to the occasion. Leaders in Her Light do not run into impediments that they cannot overcome, nor do they get hindered by such earthly mischief as “a shouting match at school.”
We will be in attendance at the opening ceremony for the Nightless Eve two days hence, and will speak with you about how better to secure your future then.

In the Love of Her Light,
Father

Diary of Diana, ward of the Rakkor
1 toward the Nadir
I am beside myself with rage.
She wasn’t trying to preach to me.
SHE WAS ASKING ME TO GO WITH HER TO THE FESTIVAL.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH
DIANA YOU ARE SUCH A FOOL

Missive from the High Office of Candescent Priestess Thalaia
The Nadir
To our shield-aged and above,
May you have a joyful Festival of the Nightless Eve, and may you forever bask in Her unending love and warmth. Our celebration begins at twilight—be sure to dress appropriately in your formal temple garb.

With Her Light cast o’er the world,
Candescent Priestess Thalaia

Letter from Leona, daughter of Sunforgers, to her parents (unsent)
174 toward the Zenith
My Dayblessed parents,
Glory to you both, in the Light of the Sun, and may the days grow long as we know Her love once more. I know that you expected to see me at the celebration, and I
I wanted to explain why I wasn’t at the start of the
I’m sure you were wondering
I missed the first half of the Festival.

Diary of Diana, ward of the Rakkor
174 toward the Zenith
I cannot believe I am writing these words, now, with my fingers still trembling, and have them be the truth. It is unthinkable. Unfathomable.
And yet it happened.
I watched the others get ready for the Nightless Eve, in their mantles and their veils and their armor. And I... didn’t. I took my warmest robe and slipped out the door to the acolytes’ hearth, past the temple palisade, and out into the wilderness. There is little above the temple that was made by human hands, on the lower peaks of the mountain—it is supposed to be where we go to feel closest to the Sun. So I went up, and looked for a good place to sit and watch the sky.
I witnessed the setting of the Sun, and the sky growing dark, and the Sunspark Torches burning brightly below on the temple grounds. Even from up there, I could feel the horrible heat. My skin remembers the burns from my penance. But looking up at the night sky, at the Darkness, at the stars, at the beautiful glow above... I could forget about that for a little while.
I know it was wrong. I know I shouldn’t have done it. But... that glow, that soft silvery light from above, made me feel at peace for the first time in forever. I don’t even know how long. I didn’t feel worried about the instructors, or the Festival below, or what would happen when they realized I wasn’t present. Even now, just remembering being there and looking up, I feel a calm settle over me. It was everything that everyone says the Sun should be.
So I offered Her a short prayer. None of the elaborate things we do when we prostrate ourselves at noontide, just a few simple words of thanks. I won’t repeat them here—I don’t want to cheapen them.
That’s when I heard Leona calling for me.

Continued—Letter from Leona (unsent)
I realize now that, after paying such penance as she had, Diana would not find the Festival as exciting as I and the other acolytes did. She did not berate me for asking her to accompany me... she berated me for bringing it up at all. It was your letter, actually, that made me push past my own pain and reflect upon that moment more sincerely. Upon reflection, I decided to find her and apologize. I knew where she wouldn’t be, but not where she would go. So I searched for her, first within the temple grounds, then without.
I’d never seen Diana out at night before. She goes a painful pink if she is outside for too long under the Sun’s glory, but here, cloaked in Darkness... she looked like she belonged to the night. But not in a bad way. How could it be, when it is the same color as her hair, her eyes?
She asked me why I was there. Wasn’t I supposed to be down at the Festival with the others? She looked at me with... I’m not sure. Fear, maybe. Apprehension, at the least. Disappointment stole the words from my lips, and I remained silent. I could only gaze at her.
Then, she asked if someone had told me to bring her back to the temple, to the Festival. I shook my head and croaked out an apology. For making her upset, for getting us both into trouble. She stared back at me, then shook her head and apologized to me for the same thing. I wanted to laugh, but things still felt too fragile for that, and I did not want to break this moment. This was, I realized, the first time we had ever spoken with no one else around.
She gestured for me to join her, so I did. We sat together, closer than we’d ever been to one another before. Our arms brushed, and she flinched away like she’d been burnt. “So you’re not going to the Festival at all?” she asked. Maybe not exactly that, but something like that.
I said something like, “I don’t know. It depends.” My heart was beating hard in my throat as she leaned her head against my shoulder, but she didn’t seem to notice. She looked up, then, at the sky, and smiled.
I don’t think I’d ever felt so happy before.
I’m not sending this letter.

Continued—Diary of Diana
We relaxed together under the light of the night for... hours? I lost track of time. I wanted so badly to point to the glow above us, to ask her what she thought, if that made her think about the Sun and Her Light any differently. But instead, we sat beside one another and looked up together.
At some point, there was a cloud that darkened the sky, and I could see the light from the torches reflecting off of it. I still didn’t want to go to the Festival, but I know how important this sort of thing is to Leona. And she’d stayed with me for ages without complaint.
So I asked her if she wanted to dance with me, down at the Festival.
I expected her to say no, but a smile broke across her face, bigger than I’d ever seen her smile before. I want to draw it, but I don’t know if I can capture its brilliance. She grabbed my hand and said—and I will never forget this, as long as I breathe—she said, “Not yet.”
And Leona kissed me.
And I kissed Leona.

Hymn of the Dawn
Tablet Seven, Broken and Lost to the Solari, Lines Unknown

Their dearest wish is to share a sky

Made large enough for both to dance

With hands and hearts entwined.

Instead They must steal glances,

Wait for the other to approach,

Or watch the other depart.

Yet here and there, a kiss,

Love freely given, a gentle embrace,

Moments of ecstasy and joy.

Rise with me, She whispers,

I will calm you with caresses

And let the world wait for the Sun.

Rise with me, She cries,

I will warm you with my passion

And let the world be Moonless tonight.

And from their union, we emerge,

Made of twilight and dawn,

Encircled by their love.
Riven

Built on perpetual conflict, Noxus has never had a shortage of war orphans. Her father lost to an unnamed battle and her mother to the girl’s own stubborn birth, Riven was raised on a farm run by the empire on the rocky hillsides of Trevale.
Physical strength and ferocious will kept the children alive and working on the hard scrap of land, but Riven hungered for more than simply bread on the table. She watched conscriptors from regional warbands visiting the farms, year after year, and in them, she saw a chance at the life she dreamed of. When she finally pledged the empire her strength, she knew Noxus would embrace her as the daughter she longed to be.
Riven proved a natural soldier. Young as she was, her years of hard labor allowed her to quickly master the weight of a longsword taller than herself. Her new family was forged in the heat of battle, and Riven saw her bond to her brothers- and sisters-in-arms as unbreakable.
So exceptional was her dedication to the empire, that Boram Darkwill himself recognized her with a runic blade of dark metal, enchanted by a pale sorceress within his court. The weapon was heavier than a kite shield and nearly as broad—perfectly suited to Riven’s tastes.
Not long after, the warhosts set sail for Ionia as part of the long-planned Noxian invasion.
As this new war dragged on, it became clear that Ionia would not kneel. Riven’s unit was assigned to escort another warband making its way through the embattled province of Navori. The warband’s leader, Emystan, had employed a Zaunite alchymist, eager to test a new kind of weapon. Across countless campaigns, Riven would gladly have given her life for Noxus, but now she saw something awry in these other soldiers—something that made her deeply uncomfortable. The fragile amphorae they carried on their wagons had no purpose on any battlefield she could imagine...
The two warbands met increasingly fierce resistance, as if even the land itself sought to defy them. During a heavy rain storm, with mud pouring down the hillsides, Riven and her warriors were stranded with their deadly cargo—and it was then that the Ionian fighters revealed themselves. Seeing the danger, Riven called to Emystan for support.
The only answer she received was a flaming arrow, fired out from the ridgeline, and Riven understood this was no longer a war to expand the borders of Noxus. It was to be a complete annihilation of the enemy, no matter the cost.
The wagon was hit straight on. Instinctively, Riven drew her sword, but it was too late to protect anyone but herself. Chemical fire burst from the ruptured containers, and screams filled the night—both Ionian and Noxian falling victim to an agonizing, gruesome death. Shielded from the scorching, poisonous mists by the magic of her blade, she bore unwilling witness to scenes of horror and betrayal that would haunt her forever.
For Riven, memories of the hours that followed come only in fragments, and nightmares. She bound her wounds. She mourned the dead. But, most of all, she came to hate the sword that saved her life. The words carved into its surface mocked her, reminding her of all she had lost. She would find a way to break it, severing her last tie to Noxus, before the dawn.
But when the blade was finally shattered, still she found no peace.
Stripped of the faith and conviction that had bolstered her entire life, Riven chose to exile herself, wandering Ionia’s battle-scarred landscape. When she finally returned to the village where she had broken the sword, it was revealed that her self-destructive needs had cost the life of their most revered elder... and yet Ionia embraced her with forgiveness.
Noxus was not nearly so merciful. Although the empire had long since withdrawn from the First Lands, it had not forgotten about Riven, or her runic blade. After fighting fiercely against those sent to bring her to justice, she refused to let any more Ionian blood be shed on her account, and surrendered herself to the charges of desertion leveled against her.
As she returns to Noxus in chains, Riven remains haunted. Though Darkwill is no more, and the empire is rumored to have evolved, she is uncertain what will become of her, or whether she will ever be made whole again.
Seams and Scars

Dana Luery Shaw

“How came you to Ionia, friend?”
Muramaat tried to keep her voice light. She had never felt uncomfortable sharing a campfire with other travelers along the road to the markets before. This, however, marked her first time sitting across the flames from a Noxian, one with an enormous weapon sheathed across her back.
How many Ionian lives has that blade claimed? she wondered.
The white-haired woman glanced at her “father” before swallowing a mouthful of charred peppers and rice, then cast her eyes down at her plate. “I was born in Noxus,” she said, her accent thick but her tonality nearly flawless. “I have not been back since the war, and I do not plan to return.”
The Noxian’s father, Asa Konte, smiled and placed his hand on her shoulder. “This is her home now,” he said with finality.
Muramaat had invited Asa to make camp with her before she had spotted the Noxian asleep in the back of his cart. He had introduced her as his daughter, Riven, in this same tone, with his chin jutting forward in preemptive defense. Muramaat hadn’t pushed back against the strange old man’s declaration then, but that didn’t mean his “daughter” was beyond scrutiny.
“You have not answered my question,” Muramaat pressed, the chimes of her mender’s necklace clinking together as she poured herself a cup of tea. “What brought you to our shores, Riven?”
Riven tightly gripped her plate, tension rippling through her shoulders. “I fought in the war.”
A simple statement, laden with sorrow. Curious, to hear regret from a Noxian.
“Why did you stay?” Muramaat asked. “Why would anyone stay in a place where they and their people have caused so much pain, so much destruction?”
Crack.
The plate had broken in half in Riven’s white-knuckled grip, her charred peppers and rice falling to the ground. With a gasp, she dropped the plate shards before bowing ruefully. “My deepest apologies,” she mumbled as she rose. “I will pay for this plate, and then we will leave you to your evening. I didn’t mean to intrude—”
But Muramaat wasn’t listening. Instead, she cradled the broken plate in her hands and held the shards to her ear, humming softly. Slowly, she adjusted her pitch, calling to the spirit within the clay.
The back of her skull tingled when she hit the right tone, as the spirit reverberated with her hum. Holding the note, Muramaat lifted her necklace and flicked its chimes until she found the one that joined her and the spirit in song.
She stared at the chime in the firelight—each one had been inscribed with a symbol that identified how to mend a resonant spirit. This symbol was for smoke, a single line with a curve that became more pronounced toward the end. Muramaat lifted the shards above the fire to bathe them in the smoke. It took only moments before they knitted back together, with only a few coal-colored seams and ridges to show that the plate had ever been broken.
“I’m a mender,” she said as she held the pottery out to a wide-eyed Riven. “No need to replace anything.”
Riven took the plate and examined it. “How does it work?” she asked, running a finger down a thick black seam.
“Everything has a spirit, and every spirit wants to be whole. I ask them what they need to mend, and give it to them.”
“It leaves scars,” Riven sighed.
“Scars are a sign of healing. That plate will never be seamless again, but it is whole. And it is strong. I’d even say it is more beautiful like this.”
Riven considered the plate in silence.
“I am still here,” she said after a moment, “because I have caused so much pain and so much destruction. I stay to atone.”
Muramaat nodded somberly. Clearly Riven’s scars, though invisible, ran deep. Perhaps this Noxian was different from the others.
But then Muramaat’s eyes fell to the hilt of Riven’s massive weapon. A tool for cutting, not mending.
How different can she really be?

Muramaat woke bleary-eyed to a loud thump against the side of her caravan. Bandits. Riven had insisted on keeping watch through the night, Muramaat remembered as she grabbed her heaviest kettle. But the mender was experienced in dealing with robbers and could always hold her own in a fight.
When she opened her door, however, she saw that Riven would not need her help after all.
One of the intruders lay crumpled at the foot of the caravan. By the fire stood Riven, surrounded by three hulking bandits. She held the enormous hilt, and Muramaat was surprised to see only a broken blade attached to the end. Yet the weapon was still formidable. It seemed to pulse in Riven’s hands as she waited for the others to advance.
Muramaat’s stomach turned to see that blade, not relishing the sight of a Noxian spilling more Ionian blood... but still she watched.
The bandits rushed at Riven, yelling incoherently, but she took a single step forward and repulsed them with a burst of energy from her blade. They dropped their weapons, then scrambled to find them in the dark. Riven could have cut them all down, Muramaat realized, but she didn’t. Instead, she raised her sword, which began to glow an eerie green. The magic from the weapon blasted outward and repelled one of the bandits as soon as it touched him. He fell to the ground in a catatonic daze.
By this point, the others were on their feet, weapons in hand. Riven brought her arm back, and glowing pieces of metal raced toward the Noxian from the cart. The shards formed around the blade, making it look almost whole—though there were still gaps between the pieces. The bandits rushed her again.
Or so they tried. Riven whipped the blade in front of her and blew them back against the caravan with a sudden gust of wind, knocking them all unconscious.
A bloodless victory.
Muramaat stepped gingerly over the defeated bandits. “What will you do with them?” she asked Riven, who had barely broken a sweat.
Riven shrugged, letting the shards of her sword drop to the ground. “I’ll just tie them to a tree until morning.”
Muramaat stared at the remnant of the blade. It didn’t seem as threatening anymore, now that she had seen how Riven wielded it. “Could I see your weapon?”
Riven frowned and took a step back. “Why?”
“You don’t need to hand it to me. Just hold it up.”
Warily, Riven raised the blade. Muramaat closed her eyes and hummed.
“What are you doing?” Riven asked in alarm, just as Muramaat found the right pitch—
—a pair of eyes, searching—
—three hunters, hearts filled with hate, thoughts with revenge—
—burning—
—everything, burning—
Muramaat didn’t realize she had fallen until she felt Riven shake her. “Are you all right?”
“Someone,” Muramaat whispered, her throat dry, “is searching for this blade. For you.”
Riven blanched, but her eyes revealed nothing of her thoughts. “What did you do, Muramaat?” she asked in a low whisper.
“I was wrong to question you. I wanted to offer my apologies by mending your sword.”
“No.” The intensity of the word took Muramaat by surprise. “If you truly want to thank me, you will never fix this blade.” Riven chuckled, a bitter sound. “The one thing I would want you to fix, you can’t. But... thank you. For the offer.”
She sighed, exhausted, and collected up the shards of her sword.
“You should go back to sleep if you want to get to the marketplace early tomorrow.”
Muramaat nodded and slowly made her way to her caravan. When she looked back, Riven was at the fire, sitting and watching the night.
Not for the first time, Muramaat wished she knew how to mend people.
Ruination Prologue

Anthony Reynolds

Helia, the Blessed Isles

Erlok Grael stood separate from his peers, awaiting the Choosing.

They waited within a small open-air amphitheater, the architecture all gleaming white marble and gold-encased capstones. Helia wore its opulence proudly, as if in defiance of the brutalities of life beyond the shores of the Blessed Isles.

The others joked and laughed together, their collective nervousness drawing them closer, yet Grael stood silent and alone, his gaze intense. No one spoke to him or included him in any of the whispered japes. Few even registered his presence; their gazes slipped over and around him as if he didn’t exist. To most of them, he didn’t.

Grael did not care. He had no desire to swap inane small talk with them, and he felt no jealousy at their juvenile comradery. Today would be his moment of triumph. Today he would be embraced into the inner circle, apprenticed within the secretive upper echelons of the Fellowship of Light. He had more than earned his place there. No other student present came close. They might hail from wealth and nobility, while he came from a line of illiterate pig farmers, but none were as gifted or as worthy as he.

The masters arrived, filing down the central stairs one by one, silencing the gaggle of hopefuls. Grael watched them, eyes burning with a hungry light. He licked his lips, savoring

the prestige and glory that were soon to be heaped upon him, anticipating all the secrets that he would soon be privy to.

The masters shuffled into place upon the lower tiers of the amphitheater, their expressions solemn, staring down at the cluster of adepts on the floor below them. Finally, after an overlong pause to build suspense, a pompous, toadlike master, his skin pale and wet-looking—Elder Bartek—cleared his throat and welcomed the graduating students. His verbose speech was heavy with gravitas and self-congratulatory asides, and Grael’s eyes glazed over.

Finally, the time came for the masters to choose which of the graduates would be taken under their wing as apprentices. There were leaders here from all the major disciplines and denominations of the Fellowship. They represented the Arcanic Sciences, the various schools of logic and metaphysics, the Blessed Archives, the Astro-Scryers, Hermetic Oratory, Esoteric Geometry, the Seekers, and other branches of study. All served, in one way or another, the greater purpose of the Fellowship—the gathering, study, cataloging, and securing of the most powerful arcane artifacts in existence.

It was an auspicious gathering of some of the world’s most brilliant minds, yet Erlok Grael focused on only one of their number: Hierarch Malgurza, Master of the Key. Her dark skin was heavily lined, and her once-ebony hair was now mostly gray. Malgurza was a legend among the adepts of Helia. She didn’t appear at every year’s Choosing ceremony, but when she did, it was always to embrace a new apprentice into the inner circle.

The Baton of Choosing was brought forth. It was passed first to Hierarch Malgurza, the most honored master present. She took it in one gnarled hand, causing a ripple of murmurs among the students. Malgurza would indeed choose an apprentice this day, and the ghost of a smile curled Grael’s thin lips. The elderly woman cast her hawkish gaze across the gathered hopefuls, who held their breaths as one.

Whoever was named would be marked for greatness, joining a hallowed, elite cadre, their future assured. Erlok Grael’s fingers twitched in anticipation. This was his moment. He was already half stepping forward when the hierarch finally spoke, her voice husky, like oak-aged spirits.

“Tyrus of Hellesmor.”

Grael blinked. For a second, he thought there must have been some mistake, before the cold reality of his rejection washed over him, like a bucket of frigid water to the face. There was a delighted whoop from the chosen student, along with a burst of whispers and gasps. The newly named apprentice stepped forward amid a flurry of slaps on the back and ran up the steps of the amphitheater to take his place behind Hierarch Malgurza, a broad smile on his smug face.

Grael made no outward reaction, though he had gone dangerously still.

The rest of the ceremony went by in a dull, surreal blur. The Baton of Choosing passed from master to master, each choosing a new apprentice. Name by name, the crowd of hopefuls around Grael dwindled, until he stood alone. The sea of masters and former peers stared down at him, like a jury ready to announce his execution.

His hands did not twitch now. Shame and hatred writhed within him, like a pair of serpents locked in a death struggle. With a click of finality, the Baton of Choosing was sealed back within its ceremonial case and borne away by golden-robed attendants.

“Erlok Grael,” announced Bartek, his eyes smiling. “No master has spoken for you, yet the Fellowship is nothing if not benevolent. A place has been secured for you, one that will, it is hoped, teach you some much-needed humility, and at least a modicum of empathy. In time, perhaps, one of the masters may deign to take you on—”

“Where?” interrupted Grael, eliciting murmurs and tuts, but he did not care.

Bartek looked down his bulbous nose at him. His expression was that of a man who had inadvertently stepped upon something distasteful. “You will serve as a minor assistant to the Wardens of Thresholds,” he declared, malice gleaming in his eyes. There were smirks and stifled laughter among his former peers. The Threshers, as the student body derisively called them, were the lowest of the low, both literally and figuratively, those who guarded and patrolled the lowest depths of the vaults beneath Helia. Their ranks consisted of those who had earned the ire of the masters, whether through gross political misstep or misdemeanor, and any others whom the Fellowship wished out of the way. Down in the darkness, they could be forgotten. They were a joke. An embarrassment.

Bartek’s patronizing voice droned on, but Grael barely heard his words.

In that moment, he swore that this was not the end. He would serve among the wardens and ensure that his worth was noticed, such that none of these pompous, sniveling masters or his snobbish peers could deny him. He would serve a year, maybe two, and then he would take his rightful place within the inner circle.

They would not break him.

And he would remember this insult.

Alovédra, Camavor

It was dark and cool within the hallowed Sanctum of Judgment, and Kalista appreciated the reprieve from the scorching Camavoran summer outside. Standing at attention, bedecked

in form-fitting armor and a high-plumed helm, she waited for judgment to be rendered.

Despite being out of the sun, the slender young heir to the Argent Throne, kneeling at her side, was sweating, and his breath was shallow and quick.

His name was Viego Santiarul Molach vol Kalah Heigaari, and he waited to see if he would be crowned king, or if this day would be his last.

Absolute rulership, or death. There could be no middle ground.

He was Kalista’s uncle, but she was more like an older sister to him. They had been raised together, and he had always looked up to her. He was never meant to be the next king.

That should have been Kalista’s father, the firstborn, but his unexpected death had placed Viego, his younger brother, next in line.

The sound of the massed crowds outside was muted within the cold walls of the sanctum. Hooded priests, their faces obscured by shadow and blank porcelain masks, stood anonymous in the gloom, forming a circle. The incense from their censers was cloying and acrid, their whispering chant monotonous and sibilant.

“Kal?” breathed Viego.

“I am here,” Kalista replied, standing at his side, her voice low.

He glanced up at her. His patrician face was long and handsome, yet in that moment he seemed younger than his twenty-one years. His eyes were panicked, like those of an animal caught between fleeing and fighting. Upon his forehead, three lines had been drawn in blood, coming together to a point just between his eyebrows. The blood trident was traditionally drawn only upon the dead, to help speed them on their way to the Beyond and ensure that the Revered Ancestors recognized them. It spoke of the lethality of what lay ahead.

“Tell me again of my father’s last words,” whispered Viego.

Kalista stiffened. The old king had been the Lion of Camavor, with a fearsome reputation in battle—and on the political stage. But as he lay dying in bed, he hadn’t looked anything

like the robust warrior-king who had so terrorized his enemies. In those final moments, his body was wasted and thin, all his vaunted power and vitality sapped from him. His eyes

had still radiated a small measure of the power he’d had in his prime, but it was like the last glow of a fire’s embers, one final glimmer before the darkness claimed him.

He clutched at her with the last of his strength, with hands that more closely resembled a vulture’s talons than anything belonging to a man. “Promise me,” he croaked, burning with

a desperate fire. “The boy does not have the temperament to rule. I blame myself, but it is you who must bear the weight, granddaughter. Promise me you will guide him. Counsel him.

Control him, if needed. Protect Camavor. That is now your duty.”

“I promise, Grandfather,” Kalista said. “I promise.”

Viego waited expectantly, looking up at her. The faint roar of the crowd outside rose and fell like the crashing of distant waves.

“He said you’d be a great king,” Kalista lied. “That you’d eclipse even his great deeds.”

Viego nodded, trying to take comfort in her words.

“There is nothing wrong with being afraid,” she assured him, her stern demeanor softening. “You’d be a fool if you weren’t.” She gave him a wink. “More of a fool, I mean.”

Viego laughed, though the sound had an edge of hysteria to it and was too loud in the cavernous space. Priests glared, and the heir to the throne gathered himself. He pushed a wayward strand of his wavy hair behind one ear, and was still once more, staring into the darkness.

“You cannot let fear control you,” said Kalista.

“If the blade claims me, it will be you kneeling here next, Kal,” Viego whispered. He reflected on that for a moment. “You would make a far better ruler than I.”

“Do not speak of such things,” hissed Kalista. “You are blessed of the Ancestors, with power flowing through your veins that your father did not have. You are worthy. By nightfall you will be crowned king, and all of this will be just a memory. The blade will not claim you.”

“Yet if—”

“The blade will not claim you.”

Viego gave a slow nod. “The blade will not claim me,” he repeated.

There was a change in the air, and the priests’ incessant chanting quickened. Their censers swayed from side to side. Light speared down into the sanctum through a crystal lens

set in the center of the dome high above, as the sun finally moved into position directly overhead. Motes of dust and ribbons of cloying scented smoke drifted in the beam of light,

revealing... nothing.

Then the Blade of the King appeared.

Its name was Sanctity, and Kalista’s breath caught in her throat as she looked upon it. Hovering suspended in midair, the immense sword existed only in the spiritual Halls of the Ancestors, except when called forth by the rightful ruler of Camavor, or when summoned by the priests for the judgment of a new sovereign.

Every monarch of Camavor wore the Argent Crown, a belligerent tri-spiked circlet perfectly befitting the long line of belligerent rulers, but Sanctity was the true symbol of the throne. The primacy of whoever held Sanctity was undisputed, and to possess the Blade of the King was to be soul-bound to it—although not every heir to the Camavoran throne survived

the ritual of binding.

Kalista knew that was not some vague, mythical threat, either. Down through the line of history, dozens of heirs had perished here in the Sanctum of Judgment. There was a good

reason some called the blade Soulrender, and it was rightly feared by Camavor’s heirs and enemies alike.

The crowd outside had fallen silent. They waited in hushed anticipation, ready to welcome a new monarch or mourn his passing. Either the doors would be thrown open and Viego would stride forth in glory, blade in hand, or the bell atop the sanctum would toll one singular, mournful note, signaling his end.

“Viego,” Kalista said. “It is time.”

The crown prince nodded and pushed himself to his feet. The blade hung before him, waiting for him to take it. And yet, still he hesitated. He stared at it, transfixed, terrified. The priests glared, eyes wide behind their expressionless masks, silently urging him to do what they had instructed.

“Viego...” hissed Kalista.

“You’ll be with me, won’t you?” he whispered urgently. “I don’t think I can do this alone. Rule, I mean.”

“I’ll be with you,” said Kalista. “I’ll stand with you, as I always have. I promise.”

Viego gave her a nod and turned back to Sanctity, hanging motionless in the shaft of light. In seconds, the moment would be lost. The time of judgment was now.

The priests’ chanting reached a fevered pitch. Smoke coiled around the sacred blade, like so many serpents, writhing and twisting. Without further pause, Viego stepped forward

and grasped the sword, closing both hands around its hilt.

His eyes widened, and his pupils contracted sharply.

Then he opened his mouth and began to scream.

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Rumble

Even amongst yordles, Rumble was always the runt of the litter. As such, he was used to being bullied. In order to survive, he had to be scrappier and more resourceful than his peers. He developed a quick temper and a reputation for getting even, no matter who crossed him. This made him something of a loner, but he didn't mind. He liked to tinker, preferring the company of gadgets, and he could usually be found rummaging through the junkyard.
Rumble showed great potential as a mechanic, and his teachers recommended him for enrollment at the Yordle Academy of Science and Progress in Piltover. He may very well have become one of Heimerdinger's esteemed proteges, but Rumble refused to go. He believed that Heimerdinger and his associates were ''sellouts,'' trading superior yordle technology to humans for nothing more than a pat on the head while yordles remained the butt of their jokes.
When a group of human graduates from the Yordle Academy sailed to Bandle City to visit the place where their mentor was born and raised, Rumble couldn't resist the temptation to see them face-to-face (so to speak). He only intended to get a good look at the humans, but four hours and several choice words later, he returned home bruised and bloodied with an earful about how he was an embarrassment to ''enlightened'' yordles like Heimerdinger.
The next morning, Rumble left Bandle City without a word, and wasn't seen again for months. When he returned, he was at the helm of a clanking, mechanized monstrosity. He marched it to the center of town amidst dumbfounded onlookers and there announced that he would show the world what yordle-tech was really capable of achieving.
Shuriman Trash

Amanda Jeffrey

So I was walking through this little plaza off the library district in Nashramae—super dusty, flagstones older than empires, and usually pretty quiet. Having just out-negotiated those dumb human merchants in the Grand Marketplace, I was feeling good. I’d been all “You want how much for that teapot?!” and “There’s no way that’s an authentic Ascended-age mace with that iconography!”
But a whole day around mortals was enough for me. If I had to hear another cheery “Water and shade to you!” greeting, I was gonna get heated.
Anyway, I’d almost gotten my cart full of treasure to my stall, thinking how great it’d be to get back in my junkyard, when whammo! I was flat on my backside.
I jumped back on my feet in a heartbeat, surrounded by mortals again. But these were younger humans, a bunch of ’em, and most of ’em were laughing at the scrawny kid who’d slammed into me and my cart. He was trying to pick himself up off the ground and onto the sorriest excuse for a mech I’d ever seen—a board with wheels—and he wasn’t laughing. Just kept apologizing.
“Sorry, Obujan!”
I said, “Do I look like your grandfather?” This kid didn’t have my winning smile, or my razor-sharp cheekbones, and his ears weren’t even furry, so there was barely any family resemblance.
Anyway, the laughing kids had a ringleader: a nasty-looking boy wearing an oversized Noxian-style tunic and iron-capped boots. He said, “Where d’you think you’re rolling, armadillo-bug?”
My hackles went up until I realized he was talking to the scrawny kid. But still, that’s a pretty mean thing to say!
This ringleader didn’t stop there. He was all, “You’re Shuriman trash, Anaktu. You’re ugly and you can’t even walk.” He pointed at my broken cart. “The empire doesn’t need useless things. We should throw you with the rest of the garbage on this old man’s pile of junk.”
Now I was seeing red. Steam right outta my ears. So I got up in the big bully’s face—well, up in his knees—and I said, “Hey, kid. You better apologize.”
He scoffed with his stupid face, “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, old man. I’m Kesu Rance. Son of Governor Rance! Walk away, or we’ll clear this plaza of all its trash!”
Of course, I walked.
I mentioned my stall, right? Shuttered, overlooked, and full of bric-a-brac that’s way too good to ever sell to humans. It’s a cover—a front—for where the portal back home appears once I set things up juuuuust right.
So I wasn’t walking away from this bully. I was walking to my stall. Not to escape, obviously—I was walking to an especially large, tarpaulin-covered, metallic form…
Meanwhile, Kesu was so busy monologuing to his club-wielding amateur thugs about being the strong future of Shurima that he didn’t even notice me until I was blocking out the sun from the cockpit of the sweetest of bipedal mechs, my beloved Tristy.
“Walker and shade to you, Kesu.”
Oh, his face! Kid looked like I’d harpooned him!
I hadn’t, of course. That comes later.
Now, I’m an unbiased storyteller, so I’ll mention Tristy might have had an ever-so-slight malfunction around this point. Barely worth noting, really, but in the interest of tellin’ you everything, there was… a hiccup. A hesitation. A stoppage.
Tristy and me were the definition of intimidating, but that hitch was making some of those older kids bold, and one of them bashed my mech’s leg with a club! “You’re just a dumb old man with a dirty pile of junk. There’s only one of you against all of us,” she said, swinging her hand to indicate about a dozen armed, angry-looking snots.
And then who should roll up—still piloting the worst mech ever—but the scrawny kid, Anaktu.
While I applied percussive maintenance to Tristy’s precision mechanisms, I noticed he’d grabbed the “one hundred percent authentic” Ascended-age mace from my cart. I’d have to have a chat about personal property with my “grandson” later.
Anyway, Anaktu yelled, “He’s not alone!”
But Kesu just laughed and tried to kick him! The little guy pivoted on his rolling board and swept the mace under Kesu’s other leg, and whack! The bully went down hard.
With a shout, Anaktu took the fight to the rest of ’em. Surprised ’em, too, because within seconds, he’d gotten two big ones backed into a corner. Too bad he didn’t see Kesu coming at him from behind with the torn-off handle of my cart, ready to clonk him.
But Anaktu wasn’t alone either.
Tristy sprang back to life, and bam! I was zooming across the plaza. We skidded to a stop, kicking up dust, and I pulled the trigger.
Zap!
Remember that harpoon I mentioned? Yeah, I electro-harpooned that cart handle mid-swing. I’d like to see a certain other yordle pull off a demonstration of extreme marksmanship like that!
And Kesu? He toppled into the dust. Anaktu heard the commotion and spun around. Gave me a big smile.
“Obujan!”
“Yeah, yeah, get up here,” I said, giving him a hand up to Tristy’s cockpit. “The view’s better.”
He said something like, “You don’t have to tell me twice!” which is a pretty cool thing to say under the circumstances.
And then Tristy went pew pew and zap zap zap, and I let Anaktu activate the flamespitter, but only to scare the bigger kids. Anyway, Tristy and me were awesome and I guess Anaktu wasn’t bad for a mortal, and soon the bullies were running away.
Grinning, I said to Anaktu, “This is gonna be bumpy.” Then everything shook and the air was full of rockets.
The bullies got as far as the archway over the plaza’s exit when boomboomboom the rockets slammed into the ground, flaming and zapping anything nearby, barring their escape.
So there they were, stuck between the Equalizer’s wall of fire and Runeterra’s finest mechanized pilot. I was about to demand that apology, when Anaktu climbed down, rolled up to Kesu, and asked, “Why are you so mean?”
Kesu whined something about his new Noxian dad, how he wanted to impress him. It was pretty boring, really.
The rockets sputtered and died, and the other bully kids fled, leaving Kesu behind. He started to back away, too.
“Hold it!” I yelled, harpoon at the ready. “What about my apology?”
As I pulled back my hood, he finally figured out I wasn’t just some old man, because his eyes were buggin’. He bowed down in the dust, saying, “Master Yordle, I’m sorry I threatened you—”
But I stopped him. “You think I care about threats? Ha! Try again.”
He said, “I’m sorry for fighting—” but I cut him off there, too.
“Nope. I’m ready for round two if you don’t apologize for the right reason.”
“I shouldn’t have been so mean to Anaktu—”
“You disrespected junk!” I shouted. “Junk is not garbage. It’s pure potential! Dumb people don’t see its worth, but with imagination and hard work and love, junk can be turned into the finest mech a yordle could dream of! And other stuff.”
Kesu was obviously awestruck at my logic, because he was speechless. When he found words, he said, “Uh… I’m sorry…?”
“Thank you!”
So I finally got the apology that junk deserved.
Anaktu helped Kesu out of the dirt. They clasped arms and there were tears or something, but I’d had enough of mortals, so Tristy and I turned to head home.
“Obujan, your mace! You must want it back.” Anaktu rolled over to hand it to me.
Wouldn’t you know, a mortal who respects junk.
“Keep it,” I said. I mean, if you can’t spoil your grandkids, what’s the point?
Ryze

Ryze was just a young apprentice when he first learned of the arcane powers that had shaped the world.
His master, a sorcerer named Tyrus of Helia, was a member of an ancient order whose mission had been to gather and protect the most dangerous artifacts in Runeterra. Ryze overheard Tyrus speaking in hushed tones with another mage, discussing something called “World Runes.” When Tyrus noticed his apprentice, he abruptly ended the conversation, tightly clutching the scroll that never left his side.
In spite of the order’s best efforts, knowledge of the Runes began to spread—few could even begin to understand their importance, or the sheer power held within them, and yet all saw them as weapons that could be turned against their rivals. Ryze and Tyrus traveled between the various peoples of Valoran, trying to quell paranoia and encourage restraint. But over time, their missions became increasingly precarious, and Ryze could sense his master’s growing desperation. Finally, in the Noxii territories where Ryze was born, the first cataclysmic blow was struck in what would eventually be known as the Rune Wars.
Two nations were pitted against one another, and tensions were running high. Tyrus pleaded with their leaders in parley at the village of Khom, but he saw this conflict had already escalated beyond his ability to mediate. Fleeing into the hills, he and Ryze bore horrified witness to the destructive power of the World Runes firsthand.
The earth fell away beneath them, the bedrock itself seeming to retch and squeal, while the sky above them recoiled as if mortally wounded. They looked back upon the valley where the rival armies had stood, and beheld insanity—destruction on a scale so massive that it defied all physical sense. The buildings, the people, all were gone, and the ocean, once a day’s journey to the east, now rushed to meet them.
Ryze fell to his knees and stared into the great hole torn in the world. Nothing remained. Not even the village he once called home.
Open warfare soon raged across Runeterra. Ryze felt compelled to join the conflict, to pick a side and lend his magical strength to the cause, but Tyrus stayed his hand. The two of them had to guide others back toward peace, and pray there was anything left of the world by the time it was all over.
Wherever they met those who held the World Runes, Tyrus pleaded for restraint. Many were deeply sobered by the threat of total annihilation—indeed, those who had already suffered most bitterly in the war might have agreed to turn over their Runes to him, and yet none of them wished to be the first to do so.
As time passed and the conflict spread, Ryze noticed his master growing more distant. While Tyrus attended clandestine meetings with great leaders and archmages, he sent his apprentice on errands that seemed of little importance, often for many weeks at a time. Eventually, Ryze decided to confront him and, to his horror, discovered that Tyrus of Helia had secretly come into possession of not one Rune, but two.
Bitter and angry, the older mage insisted that common mortals were like reckless children, toying with powers they did not understand. He would no longer play diplomat to ignorant power-mongers. He had to stop them. Ryze tried to reason with Tyrus, but it was no use—before him stood a flawed man, susceptible to the same temptations as those he decried. The allure of the Runes had left its mark upon him. Where once he desired only peace, now he had the means to bring about the end of all things. Ryze had to act, even if it meant destroying his only true friend and ally in the world.
In an instant, he unleashed all the magic he could muster. A moment later, Tyrus’s corpse lay smoldering on the floor.
Ryze trembled as his mind struggled to process what he had done. If these deadly artifacts could corrupt a mage with the strength and integrity of Tyrus, how was Ryze to handle them? At the same time, he knew he could not entrust them to any other living soul...
Soon, the greatest civilizations all but destroyed one another, ending the war. Ryze now understood the task he had inherited—as long as any World Rune remained unsecured, Runeterra was surely doomed. This knowledge was to become a lonely burden indeed, for ever since that day he has scoured the world in search of the last remaining Runes. He continues to reject the promise of power within each one, choosing instead to bind them in secret locations, far from prying and greedy eyes.
Even with his life abnormally prolonged by the magic he is exposed to, Ryze cannot afford to rest, for rumors of the World Runes have begun to emerge once more, and the peoples of Runeterra seem to have forgotten the price of wielding them.
An Old Friend

Ryze would have been cold if his body wasn’t simmering with nervous energy. With all that weighed on him that day, the harsh Freljordian elements scarcely seemed to have an effect. Neither was he daunted by the distant howl of a hungry ice troll. He had come to do a job. Not one he relished, but one that had to be done, and one he could no longer avoid.
As he approached the gates, he could hear the rustling of fur cloaks over pine timber as the warriors of the tribe rushed to inspect him. In seconds, their spears were poised atop the gate, ready to kill, should he prove unwelcome.
“I’ve come to see Yago,” said Ryze, pulling back the hood of his cloak just enough to reveal his violet skin. “It’s urgent.”
The stoic faces of the warriors atop the fence flashed with surprise at the sight of the Rune Mage. They climbed down and worked in unison to open the heavy hardwood gates, which seemed to croak apprehensively at the sight of the interloper. This was not a place that saw many visitors, and those it did see usually ended up on pikes as a deterrent to others. Ryze, on the other hand, had a reputation that granted him access to even the most hostile regions of Runeterra—
—For a few minutes, anyway, if no problems arise, he thought.
His face betrayed none of those uncertainties as he walked between the columns of fierce, wind-chapped faces that seemed to judge him, looking for any reason to try him. A young boy, no more than five, gaped at Ryze, bravely leaving his grandmother’s side for a closer look.
“Are you a warlock?” asked the boy.
“Something like that,” replied Ryze, barely glancing at the boy as he continued his stride.
He found the path that led toward the rear of the fortification. To his surprise, the village had hardly changed since he had last seen it, many years before. He made his way to an unmistakable structure of domed crystalline ice, its brilliant azure hue standing out among the dull surroundings of wood and earth.
He was always a wise man. Maybe he’ll cooperate, thought Ryze as he entered the temple, steeling himself for whatever lay in wait.
Inside, an old frost mage was pouring wine into a dish on an altar. He turned to see Ryze approaching, and seemed to judge him silently. Ryze felt his heart sink in dread. After a moment, the man smiled, and embraced Ryze like a long-lost brother.
“You look thin,” said the mage. “You should eat something.”
“You shouldn’t,” replied Ryze, nodding to Yago’s slightly sagging paunch.
The two friends laughed long and easily, as if they had never been apart. Ryze slowly felt his guard begin to drop. There were very few people in the world he would call friend, and it did his soul good to talk to one. He and Yago spent the next hour reminiscing, eating, and catching up. Ryze had forgotten how good it felt to converse with another human being. He could easily stay a fortnight with Yago, drinking wine and sharing tales of triumph and loss.
“What brings you so deep into the Freljord?” asked Yago at last.
The question jolted Ryze back to reality. He quickly recalled the words he’d carefully prepared for this point in the conversation. He told a story of his days in Shurima. He’d gone to investigate a tribe of nomads that had swelled in wealth and land, to the size of a small kingdom, almost overnight. On closer inspection, Ryze found a World Rune in their possession. They resisted, and…
Ryze lowered his tone to suit the silence of the room. He explained that sometimes awful things must be done for the world to remain intact. Sometimes those awful things are better than the horrible cataclysm that would otherwise unfold.
“They must be kept safe,” said Ryze, finally coming to his point. “All of them.”
Yago nodded grimly, and the warmth that had been rekindled between the two friends instantly evaporated.
“You would take it from us, knowing it is all that keeps the trolls away?” asked Yago.
“You knew this would come,” said Ryze, offering no solution. “You’ve known for years.”
“Give us more time. In the spring, we will head south. What chance do we have in winter?”
“You’ve said those words before,” Ryze said coldly.
To his surprise, Yago took him by the hands, making a gentle plea.
“There are many children among us. And three of our women are swollen with child. You would doom us all?” asked Yago desperately.
“How many are in this village?” asked Ryze.
“Ninety-two,” replied Yago.
“And how many are in the world?”
Yago fell silent.
“It can wait no longer. Dark forces gather to take it. It leaves with me today,” Ryze demanded.
“You would use it for yourself,” accused Yago, erupting in a jealous rage.
Ryze looked into Yago’s face to see that it had been transfigured into a scowling visage—that of a fiend, no longer recognizable as the man Ryze once had once known. Ryze started to explain that he had learned long ago not to use the Runes, that doing so would always come with too high a price. But he could tell this madman before him was not one to be reasoned with.
Suddenly, Ryze felt a severe pain, and found himself writhing on the floor, saliva dripping from his mouth. He looked up to see Yago in a casting stance, his fingers crackling with power that no mortal being should possess. Coming to his senses, Ryze rooted the frost mage in place with a ring of arcane power, giving himself just enough time to get to his feet.
Ryze and Yago circled each other, clashing with powers the world had not seen in ages. Yago seared Ryze’s flesh with what felt like the power of twenty suns. Ryze countered with a potent series of arcane bursts. After what seemed like hours, the combined power of their attacks breached the walls of the temple, and brought the thick ice dome crumbling down upon them.
Badly wounded, Ryze dug himself out of the rubble and got to his knees. He saw a blurred image of Yago, battered, and fumbling to open a lockbox that he’d dug out of the debris. Ryze could tell by the lust in his eyes what he was reaching for, and what would surely happen once he had it.
With his magic energy drained, Ryze leapt on the back of his old friend and began to garrote him with the belt from his own robe. He felt nothing; the man who he had loved deeply just minutes ago was now merely a task in need of completion. Yago struggled mightily, his legs flailing, searching for a foothold. Then he fell dead.
Ryze pulled a key from Yago’s necklace and unlocked the box. He removed the World Rune, its otherworldly pulse beating with a warm orange glow. Wrapping the Rune in a scrap of his dead comrade’s robe, he gingerly placed it in his satchel and hobbled out of the temple, breathing a mournful sigh at the loss of another friend.
The Rune Mage limped toward the village gate, past the same wind-chapped faces that had watched him arrive. He looked askance at them, expecting an attack, but the villagers made no move to stop him. These were no longer fierce defenders; these were people who looked stunned to be facing their own end. They looked at Ryze with big, helpless eyes.
“What are we to do?” asked the grandmother, with the young boy still clutching her furs.
“I’d leave,” said Ryze.
He knew if they stayed, the trolls would descend on the village come nightfall, leaving none alive. And outside the village, worse dangers lurked.
“Can’t we come with you?” called the young boy.
Ryze paused. Part of him—a vestige of irrational compassion deep within—screamed, Take them. Protect them. Forget about the rest of the world.
But he knew he couldn’t. Ryze trudged into the deep Freljordian snow, choosing not to look back at the faces of those he was leaving. For these were the faces of the dead, and his business was with those who could still be saved.
Samira

In the city of Amakra, on the eastern edge of the Great Sai, Samira and her parents made a living as street performers. They dazzled, beguiled, and awed onlookers, which thrilled Samira, but worried her parents. Despite the fun their daughter had, they wished she could enjoy a more stable life.
But wishes are as fickle as the desert rain.
On the eve of Samira’s fourteenth birthday, armed strangers swarmed Amakra. Hidden among the rafters of her home, Samira watched as the strangers invoked the name of an ancient magus and seized innocent villagers. Many people were slain before her eyes.
Samira did not cry. She did not scream. Instead, she seethed in anger—not at the killers, but at herself for hiding. She had never felt crippled by fear before, even when she attempted the most daring stunts. In that moment, Samira hated herself, and vowed never to feel so scared and helpless again.
Though wounded, Samira and her parents escaped to Bel’zhun, a port city under Noxian rule, with a handful of others. To the Amakrans, Noxus provided a safe haven. To Samira, Noxus opened a door.
While other refugees found comfort in living quietly, Samira was determined to reclaim her courage. She took to the streets alone since her parents, weary and injured, could not. Performing was no longer a job—it was her stage to be fearless. She outdid herself with every stunt, even when no one bothered to look. But it was still not enough to support her family.
That was when Samira stumbled upon a call to join a Noxian warband. Drawn to the excitement and the financial resources it would provide, she enlisted.
Her physical prowess amazed her peers. Deft with a blade and sharp with her aim, Samira reveled in her raw athleticism, excelling in combat… but faltering in discipline. After two years of training, her recklessness frustrated her commanding officers, save for one: Captain Indari. A former saboteur, Indari valued Samira’s fearlessness and offered her a position in her private warband—a specialized unit charged with missions that were deemed too perilous for standard military personnel. Hungry for the dangers it promised, Samira agreed without hesitation.
She fully embraced Noxian culture, finding her own strength and style amid life-and-death shootouts and breathtaking sword fights. In her free time, Samira regaled her family with stories of her tattoos, each representing only her most unforgettable feats. To her, what mattered most was challenging herself to turn danger into thrill, and thriving off the constant risk that made her feel truly alive.
On orders from the capital, Indari’s unit found themselves on the Rokrund Plains, sent to crush a secessionist uprising. As the warband located the enemy stronghold and approached the rebel leader, the fortress exploded. Samira dove headfirst into the chaos as the structure collapsed, permanently injuring her right eye. Feeling neither scared nor helpless, she wasted no time in recovering Indari, who had sustained a more serious injury—the captain could no longer move her legs. Indari, frustrated at her failure as their leader, disbanded the unit upon the return of its survivors.
Discharged, and with no other opportunities rousing her interest, Samira drifted back home to Bel’zhun—but it was no longer a lifestyle she could endure.
Samira returned to the Noxian capital and located Indari. She believed her former captain understood her craving for challenges in ways nobody else could, and wanted to make use of Indari’s connections in the military and noble houses. She proposed they team up again in a new partnership, where Indari could operate behind the scenes to find Samira high-stakes mercenary work.
Reluctantly, Indari agreed, but it left her former protégé alone with no field support…
And Samira couldn’t have been happier. She eagerly undertook missions meant for entire warbands—and thrived.
Her daredevil reputation spread far and wide. From beating a chem-baron in hand-to-hand combat, to being the lone survivor of a Bilgewater raid, Samira completed every job no matter the odds. With Indari’s support, even the Noxian high command accepted her, recognizing there was no one better suited to take on their most perilous missions.
Now, Samira shows no signs of slowing down. She can be found scaling mountain cliffs one day, and arm-wrestling outlaws in crowded taverns the next. But wherever she may be, one thing is certain: Samira never fails to find her next big thrill.
Daredevil Impulse

Michael Luo

The weapons shop looked grimy—just the way Samira liked it. A sign hung askew on the door: Lani & Miel Munitions. Samira heard about this Noxian hole-in-the-wall from Captain Indari, who’d received a tip from one of her old saboteur connections. That and the fact the apprentices here moonlighted as tattoo artists was enough to intrigue Samira. She stepped in, and Indari followed.
The captain didn’t need to tag along, but it wasn’t like Samira could tell her otherwise.
Inside, Samira smelled molten iron and saw tools rarely found in Noxian armories. A chirpy woman with two labret piercings welded Zaunite brass while her partner, a woman built like an ox, cleaned a hexcarbine. Tattooed apprentices helped wherever they could.
“How much coin you wasting today?” Indari asked, adjusting the hand rims of her wooden wheelchair. Her voice carried the strength of many decades in service to the empire. Years ago, her disapproval would’ve stung.
Now, annoying the captain was just a bonus.
“Not nearly as much as I’d like to.” Samira saw two pistols displayed in glass. One had the color of charcoal. The other was a revolver, sleek and silver. Both contained untested Zaunite innovations.
“These as easy on the hands as they are on the eyes?” Samira asked.
“They’re the best we got!” the welder shouted. “Miel and I made ’em with materials imported from back home—my home, that is. Will cost ya a fortune.”
Samira threw a sack of coins on a counter. Behind her, Indari crossed her arms. “That's the whole payout from your last mission!”
Samira smiled. “A woman’s gotta have the right equipment for the job. Besides, the last firearms I had… weren’t that exciting.”
Indari shook her head. “Sam. Even for you, this is reckless.”
Samira beamed. “Just like you taught me.”

The journey into the southern jungles took weeks, and to Samira’s disappointment, not even one person had tried to kill her. Standing near a large stone building, she double-checked the location the captain had marked on her journal—a compound near Qualthala rumored to house a weapon that threatened the empire. Orders were to retrieve the weapon and leave no survivors.
The building, devoid of markings, loomed before her, its wooden doors smashed to pieces.
“Huh,” Samira mused.
She stepped forward, then stopped herself. Lifting up her right boot, she picked off a piece of warped iron stuck to the metal clasp. Strange, she thought, staring at its unnatural shape. Then came rushed footsteps.
Two guards faced her, wielding spears.
“Another intruder!” one shouted. “Don’t let this one get away!”
My kind of welcoming party.
Samira drew her pistols. Sliding to her right, she unloaded a flurry of bullets, executing the guards before they were within spear’s length.
Samira’s brow furrowed. “Not much of a challenge, now, was it?” She pressed on, sprinting loudly past metal debris in the corridors of the compound, figuring this’d be the best way to attract everyone’s attention. Warmasons, alerted to the intrusion, ran toward her.
Round two. Let’s make this fun.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a table shoved against a wall. Samira rushed forward and jumped onto it. Leaping off the tabletop, she spun in a wild circle, mowing down her pursuers in a blaze of gunfire before her feet hit the ground.
Without rest, she hopped over a crushed balcony to land in an open courtyard. Nearby was another building, its doors smashed apart.
Someone must’ve beat me to this weapon, she thought, smirking. Been years since that’s happened.
Samira’s pulse quickened. Hearing the faintest rumble, she spun around, guns pointed forward.
Two massive figures charged into the courtyard. Samira smiled.
Basilisks. Lucky me.
Atop each was an armored soldier wielding a bladed axe. The hair on Samira’s arms rose in excitement.
Looky here—target practice.
“She here for the null kid, too?” one of the soldiers asked.
“Doesn’t matter, kid’s gone. And this one looks nothin’ like the earlier intruder,” said the second soldier, turning to Samira. “What are you?”
Samira raised an eyebrow. “What I am is the last thing you’ll see.”
“Ha! This one’s got a mou—”
A bullet tore into his head.
“What a shame,” Samira said, checking her revolver. “Wasted my last round on him.”
The soldier fell dead to the ground. His basilisk roared, charging headfirst toward Samira, its jaw snapping.
“Come and get it, beast.”
Samira crouched. She felt her heart race, but didn’t move a muscle.
Won’t be as thrilling until…
The basilisk drew close. Samira’s fingers itched.
Just the right moment.
She reared back her arms and chucked her guns at its eyes, dazing the beast for a moment. Turning her back, she leapt into the air, flipping her body in a perfect backward circle before landing on the creature’s saddle. Pulling the reins taut, she jerked her mount to face the remaining soldier.
The soldier growled. “Rell send you to clean up the mess?”
“Nope, never heard of ’em. Noxus sent me,” Samira answered, enjoying her foe’s confusion. “Sometimes, I’m sent to save the strong. Other times,” her eyes locked with the soldier’s, “to cull the weak.”
Enraged, the soldier forced his mount forward.
Samira loosened her grip and whispered, “Go.” Her basilisk lurched forward to meet the other rider. He came at her with his axe held high, aiming for her neck.
Tsk, tsk. Common mistake.
Samira arched her back as her mount met his, dodging his slash and unsheathing her sword in one swift motion. With a crescent swing, she struck her blade at his stomach.
The soldier roared. “That won’t work on this armor!”
“Darling, I don’t work. I slay.”
Samira pumped the slide barrel attached to the dull edge of her blade, and pulled the trigger. Black powder burst out behind her sword, forcing the blade forward to break open the soldier’s armor. With an excited yell, she split his torso apart before leaping off her mount to land on her feet, smoke billowing off her sword.
Both basilisks, now riderless, stood still. Samira cut their saddles off. As the beasts fled to their freedom, she kicked the dead bodies aside, retrieving her empty pistols.
On the other side of the courtyard, a crumbling stairway spiraled downward beyond the building’s smashed doors. Samira followed it to the remains of a stone prison cell, warped pieces of metal scattered everywhere. The front door was destroyed while the back wall was torn asunder, leaving a gaping hole that tunneled out into the jungle.
“What were they keeping in here?”
Samira walked around the space, examining the destruction. Split by jagged shards of metal was a small cot fit for a child. Shrugging, she took a seat, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a flask. With her boots resting on the wreckage, she leaned back and raised the flask high into the air.
“Congratulations, weapon! Whatever—or whoever—you are, you’ve got my attention!”

Weeks later, Samira was back in the weapons shop. A skeptical Indari sat nearby as a burly male apprentice touched up Samira’s tattoos with bronze needles.
“Anything new today?” he asked.
“Nah. Not quite thrilling enough… But something dangerous is on the way, so leave some space.”
Indari rolled her eyes. “So. How were they?”
“Exquisite. I’ll be playing with these for a while.”
“Wow,” Indari said, feigning admiration. “The great Desert Rose… reusing guns.”
“Life’s full of surprises.” Samira placed a handful of coins on the counter before walking out. “Keep the missions coming, captain,” she said with a salute. “You know where to find me.”
Indari wheeled after her. “What do you mean, ‘I know where to find you’? Last time, you were jumping off some remote cliff in Shurima! My scouts nearly died trying to locate you!”
But Samira was already gone.
Frustrated, Indari returned to the shop. “One of these days,” she mumbled under her breath, “she’ll have to fend for herself.”
The tattoo artist, now without the guise of dark sorcery, walked out from the shadows to reveal a woman’s shape, her face pale under the light.
“Captain Indari. You will give her whatever she wants—the empire needs Samira.”
Sejuani

Sejuani was the child of a Freljordian political marriage that ended as coldly as it began. Her mother, the Iceborn warrior Kalkia of the Winter’s Claw, abandoned her new family to pursue the man who had captured her heart years before, and the tribe fell into decline and chaos without a young Warmother to lead it.
Sejuani was instead raised by her grandmother, Hejian. Though Sejuani tried her best to earn Hejian’s love, she was never able to meet her arduous expectations. As the tribe’s troubles grew in the years that followed, Hejian had even less time for the girl.
Wealth, love, safety—these were things Sejuani only experienced secondhand, through visits to the Winter’s Claw’s sister tribe, the Avarosans. During the summers, Grena, the most famous warrior in the region, took Sejuani into her household. After discovering Grena had in fact once bested Kalkia in a duel, the Avarosan Warmother instantly became Sejuani’s idol… and Grena’s daughter Ashe became the only person she ever truly considered a friend.
After Grena questioned the treatment of the young girl by her grandmother, an affronted Hejian cut all ties with the Avarosans. The Winter’s Claw then instigated a series of conflicts with other neighboring tribes, attempting to reclaim the lands and honor they had lost with Kalkia’s flight, but these desperate tactics only led them further into ruin.
Somehow, word of this reached Kalkia.
Hearing of her former tribe’s misfortunes, she returned and took up the mantle of Warmother once more. Even so, quelling these hostilities left the Winter’s Claw with game-poor lands and precious few other resources, forcing them to rely on the grim Frostguard for protection.
Sejuani was galled by this, and resolved to seize leadership from her mother. She swore a sacred oath to lead a perilous raid against a Noxian warship, hoping that fulfilling this oath would be enough to rally the tribe to her, with enough support to wrest power from Kalkia and the Frost Priests.
During the vicious assault, Sejuani freed a juvenile drüvask from the ship’s butchery stores, naming it Bristle for the feel of its hide. Though she could not have guessed it at the time, this creature would grow to become one of the largest drüvasks ever seen, and remained with Sejuani as her loyal steed.
Her raid a success, Sejuani decided it was time to challenge her mother directly for the tribe. By the ancient customs, a duel between a mother and her daughter was unthinkable—but Sejuani would not be deterred.
Outraged, the Frost Priests were forced to intervene, and Kalkia died in the struggle before Sejuani could reach her.
As the new Warmother of the Winter’s Claw, Sejuani began attacking and absorbing nearby tribes, consolidating her power and gathering a veritable horde of followers. Her defiance of the Frostguard also attracted outcast shamans, spirit walkers, Iceborn and Stormborn, and unrepentant worshippers of all the old gods from across the Freljord.
Where once they had been weak, disgraced, and preyed upon by their neighbors, in only a few years the Winter’s Claw had become feared throughout the northlands for their speed, brutality, and absolute devotion to their Warmother.
Now, as the seasons turn, Sejuani marches on the southern tribes, Noxian interlopers, and even the borderlands of Demacia—raiding, pillaging, and conquering any who stand against her. Ultimately, she seeks to cast down and destroy the burgeoning coalition of tribes formed by her childhood friend, Ashe. As far as Sejuani is concerned, the Avarosan Warmother has betrayed not only their friendship but, far worse, she has also betrayed Grena’s legacy.
And so, Sejuani will prove that only she is worthy of ruling the Freljord.
A Death Knot

Odin Austin Shafer

Sejuani slammed the axe into the tree’s trunk. It had taken her five hits to fell it, and hacking down a dozen trees had winded her. Iceborn were strongest in the cold, and the southern heat was sapping her strength.
Her weary reavers cheered. Though only a hundred strong, their roar echoed off the hills.
The time for stealth had passed. The southerners had gathered an army of many thousands and were less than a half-day behind. On the surrounding hilltops, enemy scouts watched.
The main body of Sejuani’s forces were in the far north occupied by the summer: fatting herds, fishing, and hunting. She had scattered small war parties along the Demacian border to destroy towns, burn crops, and wreck keeps. Hoping, when winter came, her full horde could smash through these weakened lands and raid further south.
Scarmaiden Kjelk approached Sejuani. Like the rest of the raiders, she rode a drüvask, a boar-like creature larger than any ox.
“Warmother, enemies gather on the other side of the river!” Kjelk said, bringing her monstrous mount to a stop.
“Show me,” Sejuani replied, leaping onto her own drüvask, Bristle. He was twice the size of his peers and as wide as a mammoth.
Together they rode down the hillside, passing warriors lashing the logs into rafts. She followed Kjelk along the riverfront until sweat dampened their mounts’ backs.
Downstream of a waterfall, just three hundred paces across the river, Demacian skirmishers were exiting the forest that had hidden them and climbing down the bare rocks. It was an advanced flanking force of a few hundred archers and spearmen. They spotted the two Freljordian women on their drüvasks, but continued on their path.
“Svaag!” Sejuani spat at the flowing water in front of her. In winter, bogs, lakes, and rivers like this one became frozen highways for her fast-moving warbands.
A horn sounded, and Sejuani needed no scout to tell her that the main force of the enemy army had arrived. She turned and could see their armor glimmering on the hilltops behind them. The Demacians’ plan was clear.
If her warband tried to cross the river on rafts, the enemy skirmishers would rain missiles onto them, cutting her numbers in half. Then, using the high ground just beyond the riverbank, the spearmen would be able to hold her survivors long enough for the main force to catch up and overwhelm them.
Bitter and raging, Sejuani kicked Bristle onward and the giant beast ran, crashing through underbrush and shallows back to where the rafts waited.
Most of the warriors had already spotted the enemy forces and were preparing to flee along the river’s edge. A fear had gripped them—not of battle, but of the trap the southlanders had sprung.
“The enemy will send riders to block off any escape along the riverside. We cannot stand against the army coming down from the hills. We must cross. Now,” Sejuani commanded.
Sejuani took a small piece of wood wrapped in leather, no larger than her thumb, and slipped it into her mouth. Then she uncoiled her great flail, Winter’s Wrath. Each link of the weapon’s chain was as large as a man’s hand. At the chain’s end hung a massive shard of True Ice, the largest most had ever seen. Misty vapor rose from its magical cold.
Sejuani clamped her teeth down on the leather-wrapped stick to resist the pain of the weapon’s magic. For wielding True Ice always had a cost. Its cold frosted her arm, sending her into agony. Her eyes watered and tears froze like diamonds on her cheek. Yet all her warriors saw was a grimace of certainty and rage. She swung the weapon around her before crashing it into the water.
A bridge of ice formed, but—as she had expected—it immediately broke apart in the warmer currents. It could not hold her war party.
A few arrows began to fall from the other side of the river, archers testing their range. Few reached land, but she could hear the southerners’ jeers.
Sejuani set Winter’s Wrath back, spat out the stick, and removed her helmet. Then she unwrapped the wolf-gut twine on her wrist. Seeing this simple act, her men roared in approval.
A barking chant began. The warriors, no longer afraid, knew now they were witnessing something special. Sejuani was making the most sacred oath of her people.
She would tie a death knot.
She uncoiled her braids and deftly ran the wolf-gut through her hair. She wondered how many times she had taken a death oath. A dozen? More than any warrior known. Eventually she would fall or fail. Would it be today?
Arrows began to hit the shore around her as she bound the knot. A few of her warriors fired bolts back at the enemy, but the wind was against them.
“I am Sejuani, Warmother of the Winter’s Claw! I am the Winter’s Wrath! I am the Flail of the Northern Winds!” she cried as she tied the last triangular knot into her hair. “Even in death, I will hold the riverbank until you safely cross. This is my oath! I see the Wolf. And my fate… is tied!”
Her warriors cheered, voices growing hoarse as they tried to hold the sound longer. Many had eyes wet with emotion, for Sejuani had sworn to save their lives, even at the cost of her own.
She did not need to give them any further orders. They readied their weapons and climbed onto rafts. They would cross as quickly as they could—and perhaps they might arrive in time to save her.
Sejuani placed the leather-wrapped stick back between her teeth. She ran her fingers through the wiry hair on Bristle’s neck, who needed no oath or words to understand her intent. He grunted and turned to face the water.
Again she grabbed Winter’s Wrath and swung it. Exhausted, in pain, and sweating in the heat, Sejuani brought it down onto the water…
A bridge of ice formed as Bristle charged. The ice cracked and tilted, but her steed somehow ran true.
Arrows fell; not the few exploratory shots from before, but a black rain. Sejuani held her shield high, though a few still stabbed her shoulders and thighs. Dozens pierced Bristle’s hide.
Then, barely halfway across the river, the bridge collapsed, and they were in the water.
Bristle struggled. Desperately, he tried to hold them above the surface. Still the arrows fell. The distant shore was gone. All Sejuani could see was a rain of black bolts and the water red from Bristle’s blood.
The great beast was screaming—with a sound like a thunderstorm and a baby wailing. Bristle sputtered. Without thinking, Sejuani leaned over, protecting his torso with her own. Her shield covered his face to ease the mount’s suffering.
It was then she thought, Perhaps our death comes today.
Suddenly, Bristle found his footing in the shallows. Instead of drowning, the great beast made huge splashing strides onto the riverbank.
Sejuani stood in her saddle and swung her flail in front of her, releasing an explosion of ice. The blast cut apart a dozen unarmored archers. Bristle gored and trampled another two. The others ran from her, back uphill, seeking cover behind the spearmen who formed a shield wall to block her next attack. More missiles would rain down and the spearmen would charge her in mass momentarily, but Sejuani grinned, knowing the archers had lost their opportunity.
She looked back to see her own warriors crossing, unharried by the barrage she had just weathered. Sejuani still did not know if she would survive this day, but she had not failed her oath or her people…
And that is what mattered.
Senna

Senna’s journey to become a Sentinel of Light started with darkness. It started with the Black Mist…
Senna first encountered the Mist at an early age, when wreckage from a distant Harrowing washed onto the shores of her home island. The Black Mist within the wreckage awakened upon contact with life. She and her village survived the ensuing storm of souls, thanks to the intervention of a nearby Sentinel… but in the wake of the attack, the Mist was still mysteriously drawn to Senna.
She was cursed, marked by the Mist so its horrors pursued her endlessly, the darkness drawn to her like dying moth to living flame. She could never know when it would strike next—but worse was when it didn’t come, and Senna had to imagine what awaited in every shadow.
The Sentinel who saved Senna, a brusque veteran named Urias, did not understand why the Mist was drawn to a solitary girl—but he knew if she was going to survive, she had to learn to fight back. And so, Senna joined Urias in the Sentinels of Light, a sacred order that could be traced back to the Blessed Isles, where the Black Mist originated. She proved to be a deadly enemy of darkness, mastering the relic-stone pistol Urias gave her, learning to channel her soul into light.
Yet even as Senna grew comfortable working with Urias, relying on him for gruff guidance, she learned to keep others at gun’s length. If she allowed them to get too close, they would only be hurt when the Mist came again. Senna could never stay in one place for long, something she and Urias learned when those who offered them shelter inevitably found themselves under siege. After even Urias was slain, Senna wasn’t sure if she could let anyone get close again.
Reluctantly, Senna sought out Urias’ family in Demacia, to tell them of his fate. There, she met his son, Lucian, who would not relent until Senna allowed him to join Urias’ parting vigil. From the very first moment she found herself flustered, wondering if her walls were enough to keep out someone so stubborn, full of humor and love. It became clear over time that Lucian’s place was with the Sentinels, as Senna’s partner, and Senna as his.
The more they served together, the deeper their bond became, and Senna realized that the value of her walls wasn’t what she kept out, but who she let in. Yet as Lucian’s love for Senna grew, so did his desire to save her from her curse. In time, it became his only focus, the light in his eyes passing into his gun—making Senna wary that Lucian would only see sorrow where there was love.
It was while researching a cure that Senna and Lucian came into conflict with the sadistic wraith Thresh. So close to answering mysteries about the Ruination and Senna’s curse, Lucian refused to turn back…
Thresh’s chains whipped toward Senna as she stood between the wraith and her husband. More painful than the scythe was seeing the look of anguish on Lucian’s face. With her last breath, Senna screamed for Lucian to run.
But as Senna felt the deathblow and knew she had lost, she realized there was a glimmer of hope. Her whole life, the Mist had haunted her—she didn’t need to fear it anymore. She could ride it into the darkness of Thresh’s lantern, and see what was inside.
Her curse had become her only chance for salvation.
While Lucian spent years seeking to grant his beloved peace, Senna explored her spectral prison. She learned that life had been the origin of her curse. Its spark shone brighter within her than in anyone else—she’d been infected with it when she first encountered the wreckage that brought the Harrowing. There, she’d been touched by a powerful, lingering soul, given its unnatural life…
It was life that the Black Mist could never let go.
She could use this force to pull the Mist into herself, empowering her to sever its hold over others in the lantern. Among the souls she freed were Sentinels who possessed lost knowledge of the Ruination’s origins, of her curse… and the love that created it.
When Lucian drove his broken pistol into the lantern, intending to end the torture of the souls within, Senna was waiting. She escaped, shrouded in Mist she’d drawn from other souls. She was dead, but also alive, thanks to her curse, wielding a relic-stone cannon that could channel darkness along with light, forged from the weapons of fallen Sentinels.
No longer running from the Mist, Senna now understands the suffering of the souls within. Though it is painful, she draws their Mist into herself, liberating them, and blasting darkness with darkness. Embracing her death every time she transforms into a wraith, she becomes like those she fought, only to be reborn again thanks to the life infecting her.
Though Senna and Lucian’s love survived even death, now they face the consequences of her rebirth. Senna knows what they have to do next, a secret gleaned within the lantern.
Find the Ruined King, and stop him at any cost…
The Voices of the Dead

David Slagle

There’s a saying on my island. “Only through stealing our breath can the wind speak.” You want me to describe the Black Mist that greeted me when I first arrived in the Ionian village, hood raised, relic cannon on my back?
The Mist steals words too. The screams of those who die within.
Once, they were my screams—but I’m alive now.
I felt the warmth where Lucian’s hand touched my shoulder as we stepped off the boat onto Ionian soil, somehow reaching through my walls the way only he can. The way he’s the only fool stubborn enough to try.
To learn the one thing that gets through my armor, and all the rules beneath, is love.
“You go high, I go low?” I asked, feeling his warmth go cold as he considered. For a moment, he didn’t see me standing before him. He saw the woman he tried to save, who was cursed, always running. He saw the scythe, swinging toward her… He looked straight into her eyes, even as he looked into mine.
“I go low,” he said, leaving other things to silence. And now his hands were on his guns. “Senna…” His voice broke with the weight of the memory.
“It’s okay,” I said softly. I could remember that woman too.
On the horizon, darkness swirled, casting even darker shadows onto a village carved into stone, deluged by heavy rain, and worse. Somewhere in that darkness was light. Another Sentinel who’d called us here.
I’d have to fight my way to it.
The path up the mountain to the village was nearly worn away by centuries of storms, washing away everything but the toughest crags… if that’s the right damn word. I could feel the wind pressing against my hood, the spray of the ocean hard against my skin, as if the world were pushing me back, warning me of the darkness ahead. But none of that compared to what hit me as a howl rose up, roaring through the village…
It was my curse. The Mist knew I was here. It would come for me before anyone else.
“Must be time for my daily ambush,” I muttered, unmoved, and from a horizon black with death, souls poured forth. Drawn to me as I drew breath.
As I drew my weapon.
The relic stones of fallen Sentinels moved as one, each held by too many hands before mine. Men and women, fathers, sisters, all lost to darkness. But when I held my weapon, I held their light, gleaming in the gun’s two barrels.
A tendril of Mist hit me as the wraith within took shape. Staggered by the blow, I stumbled back, catching my footing just before falling toward the rocks below. Thunder pealed as the screams of souls joined the rain and crashing waves that besieged the island. But the flash of light that followed wasn’t lightning.
It was my relic cannon, the shot boiling the wraith into shadow.
It required control. It required focus. I needed to fight the Mist with every fiber of my being. And I could not stop. Not for a moment of my life.
With every shot that burned a wraith away, another was revealed. I was so close to the village now, I could see new wraiths rising, sent spiraling toward me.
Into blessed light.
“Anabal, are you there?” I called out. I’d met him only once, when Urias brought me to a meeting of Sentinels. It was rare for Sentinels to gather, but something had frightened Urias that made him call them all together. He never told me what it was, but I could tell by the way the others looked at me…
It hurt more when they didn’t know. When they tried to get past my armor, only to find the reason it was there.
Still firing, I advanced further into the village. The wraiths moved fast, swooping into buildings nearly as old as the island itself, carved from the same stone. But there was order in the chaos. The wraiths were circling above. They wanted something. Not just life. Not just souls. Not just me…
“Anabal!” I called again, barely hearing myself over the storm.
“Over here! Hurry!” a panicked voice responded. It was the voice of a girl… and then her light joined mine in the darkness.
Anabal’s apprentice, Daowan.
She stood above a crumpled body, two figures in the dark. The light of Anabal’s relic-stone glaive glowed dully on her face, concentration clear on her brow as she defended her fallen mentor.
He had managed to pass the torch, then… his relic stone was not lost.
“We have to get out of here,” the girl said with a shudder. “We have to get the villagers out of here. I can still hear them. It must be them…” She paused and looked down at the shape at her feet, in confused agony. “I can still hear him…”
But even as her knuckles grew white, clenching the haft of her glaive, I put my relic cannon on my back. I reached out gently and took her shoulder.
“We’re going to get through this,” I said. Beyond her, I saw the entrance to the village catacombs. Swarming with wraiths. “All of us,” I added softly.
Whatever the Mist wanted, it was there.
The catacombs had been carved out by countless floods. As we left the village behind, heading underground, still the storm made itself known, water rolling down the walls around us. But if we were going to drown in the depths, it wouldn’t be from rising sea, or falling squall…
It would be in the Black Mist that rolled like a wave to meet us, swallowing our light in a liquid roar.
I could hear the screams of the people from my village, torn away when I was just a girl and first saw death. I could hear the echoes of my own, and see the look on Lucian’s face, when death first saw me. I was hit by the rage and fear of the people still dying above, their cries in a language I couldn’t understand, but speaking of pain I knew all too well.
Wraiths rose up throughout the catacombs, trapped in a rictus of the agony they meant to inflict. But no matter how loud the screams of the living, the sound could never drown out their own. And no matter how brightly my light burned, it could never hurt them worse than when the darkness returned.
And so instead… I embraced them, before death could.
My call was irresistible. I could draw the Mist to myself, away from others. I felt death rush in, push the lie of my body away. As the Mist clung to me, one by one, it let the souls go. All who had been drawn here. All who had died above. For a moment, I thought I saw Anabal…
Only one vague shape lingered, a will still slowly awakening. It hovered for a moment before turning to face me, rage burning where there were no eyes.
“No,” I whispered through the shroud of death that had transformed me into a wraith. “You don’t get to speak. You listen.”
Pushing the Mist into my gun, I fired all the pain and fear I’d gathered back at its source, where it was deserved. As darkness collided with darkness, the light within me glowed. Life wouldn’t let me go. I felt my body return, as the last of the Mist left me. With a gasp, I fell to my knees.
“What did I miss?” a voice asked, emerging from deeper in the tunnels.
“You know. The usual,” I said coolly, though I was still catching my breath.
“Ruined King raiding catacombs to find who knows what?” Lucian asked.
“Pretty much,” I answered. I looked up at Daowan, realization dawning on her face. Her glaive was still pointed at me.
There’s a saying on my island. “Only through stealing our breath can the wind speak.”
In the roaring clamor of the Black Mist, I hear the words of the dead.
And I’m here to give their voices back.
Seraphine

In Piltover, where anyone’s dream can become everyone’s progress, a star is born.
As a child, Seraphine always loved music, especially her father’s lullabies. The songs were beautiful, but sad. He’d brought them up to Piltover as he and Seraphine’s mother—two lifelong Zaunites—sought a better life in the City of Progress.
Leaning out the window of their hexcoustics workshop, where broken sound tech was made to play again, Seraphine sang along with the streets. The shanties of the Sun Gates, the whistling of apprentices, even the melody of conversation—in a bustling city like Piltover, she was never alone.
Over time, Seraphine realized she could sense songs too private, too personal, for any ordinary person to hear. And as she grew, so did the intensity of her gifts. She heard every person’s soul, loving or cruel—turning the streets she’d once loved into an overwhelming cacophony of conflicting desires. How could she make sense of the voices if none of them harmonized? Some days, she hid shivering in a corner, hands over her ears, unable to hear herself above the chaos.
Seraphine’s parents had left everything behind so she could be born in Piltover; they couldn’t bear seeing her struggle. Scraping together their savings to purchase a shard of a rare hextech crystal, they crafted a device that dampened her magical hearing. For the first time in years, there was silence.
Within that quiet, though, Seraphine heard something—someone. The crystal had a consciousness, born of brackern blood. Though hard to hear, and harder to comprehend, the voice was kind. In a hymn of distant deserts and ancient conflicts of ancestors, a thousand years of history sang in unison.
Seraphine, awed, asked for guidance. Overwhelmed by the yearnings around her, she worried she may have no song of her own. What if she was merely the voices of others?
“We are all forged through others’ voices,” the presence sang back.
And slowly, she learned to manage the noise. The voice rarely spoke clearly, but Seraphine felt its influence as it helped her understand how to resonate with a crowd, to sing with them, using her dampener less each day. The first time she performed in front of an audience, testing her skills, she was nervous beyond words. But she kept singing, and the crowds swelled. Soon, the biggest venues in Piltover had Seraphine’s fans spilling into the streets. Still, something was missing—in the crowds, and in herself. She resolved to seek perspective in the city her parents had worked so hard to leave: Zaun.
The first time she rode the clanging lift down, Seraphine felt somehow at home but still a stranger. In Zaun, she heard refrains of resilience and ambition much like above, yet with a thrum of freedom that was all their own. But as she spent more time below, she also sensed pain. Fear of the chem-barons who controlled every opportunity. Hatred of the spoiled, arrogant Pilties above. There was so much discord. She began to perform, and listened to these new crowds, their hearts singing their struggles. The two cities were divided by more than simple misunderstanding. She wanted to mend, to unite. But she kept hearing the same refrain: “It’s not that simple in Zaun.”
Eventually, Piltover started to feel less like home.
Her hextech crystal had sung an elegy of what hatred left unchecked could accomplish. Seraphine couldn’t let that happen to the cities she loved. Persuading her parents to help, she dismantled her dampener, and together, they gave the crystal a new home in its opposite—a platform that would amplify her gifts, not repress them, allowing her to hear others in all their complexity. Seraphine hoped the crystal’s voice would be among them. She rode this platform down as a stage of sorts, stepping out onto the Entresol between Piltover and Zaun. As the crowds gathered and the lights dazzled, she heard citizens from both worlds, mingled together to hear her.
This was a new song. Not just understanding—unity.
It wasn’t perfect. It might never be. But her voice mattered. And so, Seraphine realized, maybe she could help others find their voice, too.
Seraphine has become the premier star in both Piltover and Zaun. Empowered by her gifts and her hextech, she amplifies the voices of all with a fresh force of optimism, because to her, everyone deserves to be heard—especially those who are struggling. They inspire her, and she will do her best to inspire them in return.
Standing Room Only

Daniel Couts

Zaun and Piltover sing to one another. The refrains are full of old wounds, and injustice, and pain. I think it's just me that can hear it, but we all feel it, a hum at the back of everyday life, pushing both Zaunites and Piltovans into strident discord.
I know they can sing together. I've heard it. Scraps of it—once in a while—little chords that make my heart ache with possibility. And once, a beautiful, crushing tidal wave of harmony and hope. It was the same moment I heard my hextech crystal for the first time.
The voice sang a thousand hymns at once. Each of them was a pebble in an avalanche, impossible to understand beyond scattered notes. The voice could hear me—and I wanted so badly to keep listening—but it fell back to a fuzzy hum the instant Zaun and Piltover ended their symphony.
Here in the Entresol, where I hide in the dark behind the stage, that duet should ring clear. The top of Zaun; the bottom of Piltover. The Gray lingers, smearing grime across hammered Piltovan bronze. Zaunite chem-lamps scatter the colors of Piltovan stained glass across Zaunite cobbled streets carefully engineered with Piltovan tools.
And folk from both cities make their way here, bringing that rapturous soul-song only I can hear. Zaunites pour in from below, a thousand different instruments strummed with tuneless enthusiasm. Kids taunt and jeer, while older folks usher them along, searching for a moment’s peace. Piltovans march down in trumpeting waves, inquisitive and bright and proud. They come by descender, or by the stairways and ramps connecting to the overhead Promenade, the Entresol’s posh Piltovan twin. They laugh and joke together, gesturing appreciatively at the quaintness of our makeshift open-air theatre.
It’s exciting, at first. I’m so happy they’re all here. I close my eyes and tune to my crystal, pleading for it to speak again.
But the crystal emits that same warbling, distant hum, a presence there and not there. Even that fades to a murmur as the songs clash, turning duet into duel. Piltovan laughter lapses into sneering discomfort. Zaunite shouts quiet into indignant scowls. And, almost as if they’d planned it, the crowd organizes into two perfect, separate halves.
This is what it means to live in Zaun and in Piltover. The Entresol’s a place to come together, sure, but not to connect. Only because the cities have to touch, somewhere. I watch as one Piltovan trips, nearly crossing that perfect gap between them, only for two of his fellows to catch him and bring him protectively back into the fold.
Ugh! They’re all here for the same reason! Why can’t they put their guards down for, like, one moment and just be with each other?
Why do I always think it’ll change? I’m just one person. Just Seraphine. Who could barely even leave her house for how many years? How am I supposed to make them see that it could be different? Why do I think I can?
Why did I ever think I could?
The lights come on, and the shock makes me realize I’ve been holding my breath. I feel the chill on my forearms, the mic in my shivering grip. I look at the crowd. There are a few appreciative whoops, but mostly they’re focused on keeping separate from the other side. I take a breath.
A pure, familiar note of soul-music rings out to me from the Piltovan audience. I look over and see Schala’s tired smile, beaming up at me from a crowd that melts for a moment into the background as I’m swept up in her song. During visits to my parents’ shop, Schala would tell me about her thesis, reading dramatically from it like an eager parent would a storybook. She’d tell me what had changed since the last time it had been rejected by the college. “Seventh time’s the charm” was what she said the last time we talked. But even back then, I could hear the doubt edging into her optimism. Six rejections, and she was still facing forward. But it was through a cloud of doubt: Should she maybe be doing something else with her life?
Her self-doubt nestles into mine, and the next breath comes a little easier.
Another song joins the melody, this time from the Zaunite crowd. I look over and see Roland, an absolute artist of a silversmith. I’d first been drawn to his little workshop by the sound of music. He’d piled crates and supplies all on one side of the shop to make room for a handful of kids who were using the corner for what looked like band practice. He said that the ruckus made it easier to focus, that he needed the sound more than the space. That he might need to get used to such a small room if his next design didn’t sell.
Roland’s song twists with Schala’s in my head, one drums and brass and gravel, one wind and horns and hushed vocals. They couldn’t sound more different, but something just makes it work somehow. One song full of self-doubt, the other, fear for the future.
But there’s something else. A sturdy, rolling, endless beat that keeps their songs from spinning out into singular, dying notes. It’s the same beat in both songs. Schala loves her work, and Roland his.
Their determination finds mine, snatches it from a fall into darkness.
The next breath is sweet.
I don’t need to solve everything. I’m not here for that. Neither are they, and that’s okay. I listen for the crystal, and its steady rhythm builds and rumbles, indistinct but there. I want to reach out, and I only know one way how.
I close my eyes and let myself be filled with Schala’s song and with Roland’s. I imagine their struggles. Schala, chewing on a pen until her eyes widen in epiphany and she writes the perfect conclusion to her thesis. Roland, one eye closed tight as he gently, gently, shapes the last detailing into an ornate silver frame, then stands back with a grin and a sigh when he knows it’s perfect. Tiny explosions crawl across my shoulders, up my spine, into my head, and music lights my whole body on fire.
I sing.
Maybe our voices are quiet alone. Maybe mine’s quiet alone. But I’m not. We’re not. I don’t hold anything back, because I know they don’t either. The panic, the fear, the self-doubt. I pour it all into the song, heaps of it, so much that I want to cry. Our songs are droplets of rainwater on a windowpane. Schala’s swirls itself into mine, and we become a little stream. We find Roland, happy to be caught up in our motion. Together, we find the crowd, each droplet gathering another and another and another until we’re a flood of song and feeling.
That flood grows louder and louder as the crowd, silent but for the swell of their souls, opens to the music. Once, I would have gotten lost in this storm of sound. But I have Roland, and Schala, and myself, and we feel what they feel. They know what drives us, what drives me. I’m so grateful. I’ll make sure they know that, too. I push that feeling into a single note, and in that moment, I know the music we’re making could pierce the heavens.
The song ends, and my eyes open to the crowd. A single entity greets me, raucous and cheering and surging together toward the stage. Not a cobble in sight. My muses have found one another in the center of the crowd, and I can’t tell anymore which side is which.

The Entresol’s a beautiful place. I’ve got the best seat in the house, a hidden little corner table where a lucky patron can sit in secret silence, sip a hot cup of tea, and watch the world pass by.
My show ended a few bells ago, but the crowd stuck around, talking and laughing together. Local businessfolk took quick advantage, opening up shop and ferrying out tables and chairs. My stage, powered down and pushed off to the side, has become a makeshift playground, where Piltovan and Zaunite kids are challenging one another to various antics. I can feel the charge in the air, excitement and wonder and that airy feeling you get on days you never want to end.
I sit back, put both hands around my steaming mug, close my eyes, and smile. They all make such wondrous music. Piltover and Zaun continue their duet, if only for a little while.
A familiar voice rumbles through me, faint but urgent. My soul soars even as my heart starts to pound. I don’t know what I’ll hear, whether we’ll understand each other this time, how long we have. I only know that it needs to be heard.
Its song lifts in an orchestral swell, and I brace for the avalanche. It has so much to sing, and just me to hear it.
But I won't ever stop trying to listen.
Sett

Though now a powerful player in Ionia’s flourishing criminal underworld, Sett had humble origins. Born from an Ionian vastaya and a Noxian human, the “half-beast” child was an outcast from the start. His birth appalled his mother’s vastayan community, which expelled the family for violating its tribal norms. The humans of Ionia were no more accepting of the taboo union, though Sett’s father’s infamy as a local pitfighter usually kept them from voicing their disapproval.
What little security the family enjoyed vanished the day Sett’s father disappeared. All of a sudden, those who had bitten their tongues at the sight of young Sett felt free to express their contempt. The boy was bewildered, wondering where his father had gone, and why trouble suddenly seemed to be following him.
Sett grew up quickly, becoming calloused in the face of the taunts and threats he endured, and before long, he began using his fists to silence the insults. When news of his fights reached his mother, she made him swear not to go near the Noxian pits where his father had fought.
But the more Sett fought, the more he thought of his father.
Longing to find the man he only vaguely remembered, Sett snuck away to the pit late one night, after his mother had gone to bed. Immediately, he was enthralled by the spectacle. Scores of Noxian soldiers, fresh to the shores of Ionia, roared with bloodlust from the stands around him. Down in the center of the arena, fighters from all backgrounds and martial disciplines clashed in gruesome duels with a variety of weapons—the winners handsomely paid in Noxian coin. When the event was over, Sett inquired about his father, and learned a hard truth: his father had bought out his contract and left to tour more profitable pits abroad. He had deserted his family, to seek fortune on the other side of the world.
Burning with rage, Sett asked the arena’s matchmaker for a fight, hoping that somehow his father would return from his tour—and be the opponent standing across the pit from him. The matchmaker assigned the boy a fight on the next card, figuring he would be easy fodder for one of his star combatants.
Sett would prove him wrong.
From the moment he threw his first punch, “The Beast-Boy Bastard” was a pit-fighting sensation. Though Sett had no formal martial arts training, his primal strength and ferocity more than compensated, and he leveled his more technically sound opponents like a battering ram. Never abandoning hope that he might one day fight his father, he soon became the undisputed “King of the Pit”, with a swollen coffer of prize money—and a trail of broken opponents—to his name.
Night after night, Sett brought money and comforts to his mother, always lying about how he had acquired them. It warmed his calloused heart to see her so proud of his success, no longer forced to toil at menial jobs. Still, Sett couldn’t help but feel he could do better. Being the King of the Pit was good, but being the person who owned the pit… that was where the real money was.
Late one night, after defending his title in front of a record-breaking crowd, Sett presented his new demands to the Noxian matchmaker and his cronies. He suggested they grant him control of the arena and its revenue. When they refused, Sett barred the doors. Minutes later, the doors re-opened, and the Noxians emerged, badly maimed, with a message on their bloodied lips: the half-beast was the new boss.
With the promoters out of the picture, Sett took control of the pit he once fought in. Ionians, who had only recently been conditioned for war, flocked to the arena, paying to satisfy an urge they only now knew they possessed. Sett took full advantage of their newfound bloodlust, accumulating wealth and power beyond his wildest boyhood dreams, as he transformed the pit into the hub of an underground empire of gambling and vice.
The half-beast who reigned supreme in the pit now runs his illicit enterprises with the same iron fist. Any time someone challenges his authority, he personally reminds them where they stand. Every punch Sett throws is a blow to his old life of poverty and ostracism, and he intends to make sure that old life stays down.
Big Head, Bad News

John O'Bryan

“Who’s watchin’ the till?” I ask.
Sherap—the stick of a man taking weapons at the door—looks at me with bug eyes, scared he’s done somethin’ wrong.
“Ryo. Ryo’s on the till tonight,” he says.
“Get two more on it,” I tell him.
It’s a big night—lot of spenders. Last thing I need is some lowlife makin’ off with the profit.
Sherap scurries off. A couple seconds later he comes back with two of my heaviest hitters. After they join Ryo at the coin box, I check back on the action in the arena. The place is packed, crammed to the doors with nobodies, somebodies, and everyone in between—people with nothin’ much in common, except a hankering for blood. And they’re about to get it.
My star combatant, Prahn the Flayer, has just finished his long, sauntering entrance. His chiseled body is painted entirely green, and he wears a small buckler on his left forearm. His infamous whip sword, painted to look like a viper, remains coiled on his belt as he enters the pit to face his opponent. The challenger—some Shuriman guy… is it Faran? Farrel? I’ll learn his name if he wins—stares a hole in him, his hands up by his shoulders, itching to grab the twin daggers sheathed on his back. He’s come halfway around the world for this, and he’ll be damned if some local golden boy is going to show him up.
With a wave of the pit officer’s scarf, our show is on. The fighters circle each other in the center of the floor. Always the entertainer, Flayer draws the whip sword and snaps it all around his body. (He’s one of about eight people in the world who can do this without cutting his own face off, and he loves to show it off.)
Insulted by the taunt, the Shuriman draws his daggers. He sprints across the pit, throwing himself into a whirl of blades, slicing the wind at unnatural angles. Flayer is surprised, but not off guard. He parries a dagger with his buckler, throwing the Shuriman off balance for a split second.
It feels like an eternity. The Shuriman’s body is turned off kilter, hands by his waist, his entire torso a wide-open target.
In a single, fluid movement, the Flayer swings his whip sword clean across the throat of his opponent. The Shuriman drops to the floor in a growing pool of his own blood. The crowd erupts.
“How’s that till?!” I shout to the boys in the back.
“Got it, boss!” replies Sherap, as the eager throngs swarm the vestibule to settle their bets.
Back down on the floor, I see the pit crew loading the Shuriman onto the corpse cart. A few feet away, Flayer celebrates with some of his fans. He’s got a look on his face. I know it well. It’s not relief. Not contentment. He’s getting a big head, and it’s going to be bad news.
About an hour later, the crowd has gone home, and the till has been emptied and counted. Just when I’m saying goodnight to the crew, guess who stops me at the door?
It’s the Flayer. He’s holding a fat bag of coin, but he don’t look happy. Says he’s got a bone to pick. Here we go.
I ask him what’s the problem. He just won big in front of a record-breaking crowd. He says that’s just it: he drew a record-breaking crowd. He should get a cut of the till. My till.
Now, I understand where he’s coming from—same place I was coming from when I took over this whole thing. But just ’cause I understand what a fella wants don’t mean I gotta give it to him. I tell the Flayer no.
Then the guy blows up. He starts telling me how lucky I am to have him in my pit.
“Do you know how many people in the world can do what I do?” he asks. “Nine!”
“Nine. Huh. Guess they must’ve added one,” I say.
He keeps mouthing off, says I’ve gotten fat and don’t remember what it’s like to risk my neck in the pit. By this point, a bunch of my crew is starting to listen in. Seeing how I can’t have people thinking I’m soft, I figure it’s a good time to remind Flayer who’s the boss, and who’s the employee. But he’s not havin’ it.
“You’re just some washed-up ex-champ in a fur coat, tellin’ us real fighters what to do,” he says. “Anybody could do your job.”
That does not sit well with me. I tell Flayer we can go toe-to-toe in the pit, and he’ll find out just how much of a fighter I still am. I guess at this point he feels like he can’t back down, because he accepts my offer.
“If I win, I take your pit. And all that comes with it,” he says.
I nod. He waits, like he’s expecting me to add my own stipulations. As if he’s got anything I’d want.
All I ask is that we do it in front of a crowd.
“Let’s get paid for it.”

Fight night comes, and there’s so many people on hand they’re spilling out the doors of the arena. I’ve got five of my heavies on the till tonight.
I walk out to the pit, drums beating, crowd roaring, and see the Flayer standing across from me—green and hot-headed as ever. My vastayan sense of decency kicks in. I tell him all he’s got to do is tell this arena full of people how wrong he was to disrespect me, and we can call off the fight.
He spits on the ground and angrily cracks his whip sword overhead. He ain’t backin’ down.
By the time the pit official waves his scarf, the Flayer is halfway across the floor. He flings his whip sword at me, and before I can react, the shifty little cuss takes off a piece of my cheek. He snaps it a couple more times, coming dangerously close to my throat. Then, while I’m trying to deal with his weird, floppy blade, he nails me in the face with his buckler. I land flat on my back, seeing double.
He draws his whip sword back. We’re not even a minute into this, and already Flayer is going for the kill.
This ain’t happening.
His blade comes lashing at my neck once more, and this time I grab it. With my bare hand. Flayer’s eyes bulge from his dumb green face.
My blood gets pumping. My hair stands on end. I feel a little growl escape from the corner of my mouth. I barely feel the blade cutting into my palm, or the blood running down my forearm, as I stand and pull the Flayer by his sword, yanking him into my other fist.
I repeat the motion a few more times, my brass knuckle-duster chewin’ his face to pulp.
When I finally stop punching, he coughs out a tooth, and tells me I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.
“What’re you doing? I’m your biggest draw,” he says.
“Flayer, you’re losing to a washed-up ex-champ. Who’s going to pay to see you fight now?”
With his last ounce of energy, he hocks a big mouthful of blood into my face—right there in front of the gods and everybody.
I can’t have an arena full of people thinkin’ I’m not the boss.
So I pick the guy up by the throat, and slam him, hard as I can, smashing his greedy fat head deep into the floor of the pit. He twitches for a second, then stops.
The crowd eats it up.

Late that night, I stop by momma’s house, like usual. She’s in bed already, so I quietly leave a nice sack of coin on the dresser and give her a kiss on the forehead.
She wakes, and smiles at the sight of her boy standing there at her bedside. As I touch her cheek, she notices the bandage on my hand—where I grabbed the Flayer’s blade.
“Oh, Settrigh, what happened?” she says, all concerned.
“Nothin’ big. Just cut myself building,” I say.
“What did you build today, son?” she asks.
“An orphanage. For orphans, ma,” I say, as I give her one last kiss goodnight.
“Such a good boy,” she says.
Her eyes tear up as she drifts off to sleep, like she’s proud knowing her son’s making a respectable living.
The Shackles of Belief

Anthony Reynolds

Thorva, Sister of Frost, hauled on her reins, dragging her hulking drüvask to a halt alongside Scarmother Vrynna of the Winter’s Claw. The shaggy-furred beast snorted in protest, hot breath steaming the air.
“Hush, Ice-Tooth,” Thorva said. The bone charms and totems wrapped around her wrist rattled as she patted her ill-tempered mount.
A bone-chilling wind whipped across the desolate landscape, yet alone among the raiding party, Thorva did not wear heavy furs and leathers. Her arms, tattooed with swirling indigo ink, were bare to the elements, but she gave no indication of discomfort, for the cold had long relinquished its claim on her.
The imposing figure of Scarmother Vrynna sat astride another drüvask boar, a tusked behemoth even larger than the one Thorva rode. It snarled and stamped one massive, cloven hoof, eyeing Thorva balefully. A sharp kick from Vrynna silenced it.
The scarmother was a ruthless veteran, her victories many and bloody, but Thorva refused to be overawed. Her name was not yet known across the Freljord like the scarmother’s, but she was a shamanka, one who dreamed the will of the gods, and even the most powerful matriarchs in the Freljord were wise to respect the old faith.
The rest of the Winter’s Claw raiding party had reined in, awaiting their scarmother and shamanka. They’d been traveling at pace for much of the day, heading east, deep into Avarosan territory. This was their first stoppage in hours, and they took the opportunity to slide from their saddles, stretching their backs and shaking out numb legs.
The wind picked up, whipping Thorva with snow and ice.
“A storm is coming in,” she said.
Vrynna, her face riven with old scars, did not reply, and continued to stare southward. Vrynna’s right eye was clouded and blind, and there was a streak of white in her dark hair—whatever had caused her wounds had certainly left its mark. Among the Winter’s Claw, such scars were a source of pride and reverence—the mark of a survivor.
“You see something?” asked Thorva.
Vrynna nodded, and continued staring into the distance.
Thorva narrowed her gaze, but could see little through the worsening weather.
“I see nothing.”
“You have two good eyes, yet you are more blind than I am, girl,” snapped Vrynna.
Frost formed around Thorva’s knuckles as her hands clenched, and her irises turned ice-blue. Nevertheless, she reined in her anger, forcing herself to take a deep breath.
It was clear Scarmother Vrynna, like most of the Winter’s Claw, had little time for her or her beliefs. It likely didn’t help that Thorva had chosen to join this raiding party uninvited. No doubt she thought the shamanka joining them may distract those more inclined to superstition, undermining their purpose and her authority.
In truth, a vague but compelling instinct had urged Thorva to join the raid, despite the scarmother’s initial protests, and she had long ago learned to trust such impulses as a gift. The gods wanted her here, but for what purpose, she knew not.
“There, a mile to the south,” pointed Vrynna. “Near that rocky outcrop. See?”
Thorva nodded, finally. A lone figure could just be made out, little more than a shadow against the snow. How Vrynna had spotted it in the first place was beyond her. Thorva frowned as she felt an itching sensation prickle the back of her neck. There was something strange about whoever this was…
The wind billowed, and the figure was obscured once more, yet the persistent unease Thorva felt remained.
“An Avarosan scout?”
“No,” said Vrynna, shaking her head. “They are trudging straight through a deepening drift. Not even a child of the Freljord would make a mistake like that.”
“An outsider, then. But this far north?”
Scarmother Vrynna shrugged. “The Avarosans do not follow the old ways. They trade with southerners rather than simply taking from them. Perhaps this is one of those traders that has lost their way.”
Vrynna spat, dismissively, and hauled her drüvask around to continue on. The other warriors followed her cue, turning the heavy, tusked heads of their own mounts back along the ridgeline, to the east. Only Thorva remained, staring intently into the storm.
“They might have seen us. If they carry word of our presence, the Avarosans will be ready for us.”
“That fool won’t be telling anything to anyone, except perhaps whatever gods they worship in the Beyond,” Vrynna declared. “This storm is worsening. They will be dead by nightfall. Come, we have lingered long enough.”
Still, there was something that bothered Thorva, and she remained on the edge of the ridge, looking back toward the lone outsider, though she could see barely more than a dozen paces now, at best. Was this why she had been brought here?
“Girl!” snapped Vrynna. “Are you coming?”
Thorva looked at Vrynna, then back south.
“No.”
With a nudge, Thorva directed her drüvask boar down the side of the ridge, allowing herself a satisfied smile as she heard Vrynna curse behind her.

“We go after her, yes?”
It was Brokvar Ironfist who spoke, the massive Iceborn warrior who had been her champion and sometime lover for almost a decade.
“The gods will bring ruin upon our tribe if anything happens to her,” Brokvar added.
If forced to pick just one person in the Freljord to fight at her side, Vrynna would choose Brokvar. Half a head taller than the next biggest warrior under her command, he was strong enough to lift a drüvask off the ground, and utterly dependable. He lived to fight—and he did it well—and he carried the broadsword Winter’s-Wail.
That blade was legend among the Winter’s Claw, and had been passed down between Iceborn for centuries. A shard of unmelting True Ice was embedded in the hilt of Winter’s-Wail, and crackling hoarfrost coated its edge. Anyone who wasn’t an Iceborn who tried to grasp it—Vrynna included—would suffer great pain, even death.
If he had one flaw, it was his superstition. He saw portents and prophecy in everything from the flight patterns of ravens to the splatter of blood in the snow, and much to her distaste, he practically worshipped the ground where the self-righteous shamanka walked. Worse, it seemed as if his overt reverence had rubbed off on the other warriors under her command. She saw several of them nodding agreement, and muttering under their breath.
Against her better judgment, Vrynna signaled, and the raiding party swung around, to follow the Sister of Frost.

Scarmother Vrynna was right about one thing: whoever the lone outsider was, they had less understanding of the Freljord than a child.
Watching their exhausted progress through the deep snow, Thorva knew they would be dead within the hour if she simply turned and rode away. In truth, it was a minor miracle they had made it this far, for they were plainly ill-prepared for the harshness of the tundra, and lacked even the most basic understanding of navigating it safely.
As she came closer, unaffected by the bitter wind whipping across the desolate landscape, she saw them stumble. Time and again the outsider struggled vainly back to their feet, but it was obvious their strength was all but spent.
The outsider seemed oblivious to Thorva’s approach. She was closing the distance from outside the periphery of their vision—coming at them from the flank, and slightly behind them—but not once did they turn.
Thorva scanned her surroundings. If there were any rimefangs or other beasts stalking this outsider, now would be the time to strike. Seeing nothing, she pushed on.
She was close enough now to make out more of the outlander’s appearance. It was a man, she saw now, garbed in leathers and furs, though he did not wear them in the Freljordian manner. Foolishly, he carried no spear, axe, sword, or bow. Thorva shook her head. In the Winter’s Claw, from the time one could walk, they were never without a blade. She herself had other more arcane weapons at her disposal, yet even she had three blades on her at all times.
Stranger still, the outsider dragged a pair of chains behind him, affixed to giant manacles of curious design clamped around his wrists…

It was far too late now, but Sylas of Dregbourne realized he had grossly underestimated the sheer, overwhelming hostility of the Freljordian landscape. He understood there was great magical power here, in the north—and now he was here, he could practically feel it in his bones—but it seemed now that it had been a mistake to come here.
A dozen hand-picked mages had set out with him into the frozen north, but each had fallen, one after another, claimed by blizzards, hidden ravines, and savage beasts. He thought the main threat would have come from the barbarian Freljordians themselves, but so far he had not seen a single living soul in the weeks of travel.
How anyone could live out here was beyond him.
He thought they had prepared well, layering themselves in furs and wool, and loading up the heavy, furred oxen with food, firewood, weapons, and coin to barter with; coin liberated from the coffers and chests of the tax-collectors and nobility of his homeland of Demacia.
Not even the oxen had survived this far, though, and now Sylas walked alone.
Sheer force of will and the burning desire to see the monarchy and noble houses of Demacia fall drove him on.
Already he had fomented considerable resistance within the boundaries of Demacia itself. He’d lit the fires of rebellion, but had realized he needed more fuel to see it truly burn. In his cell in Demacia he had consumed every book, chronicle, and tome he was able to get a hold of, and in several of them there had been references of the great and terrible sorcery and ancient magic far to the north. That was the power he needed. Even now, facing death, he believed the power he sought was close…
Nevertheless, not even his stubbornness was enough to overcome the relentless cold. His hands and toes were already turning black and had long gone numb, and a heavy lethargy hung upon him like a weight, dragging him down.
He thought he had seen a column of riders upon a distant ridge some time back, but he was not sure if that was real, or some fevered delusion brought on by exhaustion and the freezing temperature.
To stop was to die, though, he knew that well enough. He would find this power in the north, or he would be damned.
And so he slogged on, one foot in front of the other… but he made it only a dozen more steps before he fell face-first into the snow, and lay still.
Thorva shook her head as she saw the outsider fall, and urged Ice-Tooth forward. The man didn’t make any move to get up this time. For all she knew, he was dead, finally claimed by the unrelenting elements that she herself no longer felt.
Once she was close, Thorva slid from the saddle, sinking almost to her knees as she landed. She approached the face-down man warily, crunching through the snow.
Again she looked at his bonds, curiously.
If he was an escaped prisoner, where had he escaped from?
While the Winter’s Claw did not take prisoners, they did on occasion take thralls—though one that could not be tamed or beaten into service was just another mouth to feed. Thorva didn’t think even the Avarosans would chain someone in this manner. Could he have escaped from the southlands, over the distant mountains?
Grasping her staff in both hands, she prodded him. Getting no reaction, Thorva drove the base of her staff into the snow underneath the outsider, and tried to lever him onto his front. It was a difficult task, for the immense manacles the man wore covered most of his forearms and were incredibly heavy. Grunting with the effort, she finally managed to turn him over.
He flopped over lifelessly, and his furred hood fell back. His eyes were closed and sunken, and his lips tinged blue. Frost had formed on his brows, lashes, and his unshaven cheeks, and his dark hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, was similarly icy.
Thorva allowed her gaze to be drawn to the shackles around his wrists. The Sister of Frost had traveled widely, the duties of her faith taking her to many different tribes over the years, yet these restraints, made of some unknown pale stone, were unlike anything she had seen before. There was something deeply unsettling about them. It was vaguely uncomfortable even to look upon the chains, and they had clearly been made in such a manner that they were never intended to be removed. What had this stranger done to warrant having such things around his wrists? It must have been a terrible crime, she decided.
Kneeling in the snow at his side, Thorva tried to fathom why she had been guided here. The gods had clearly brought her here—just as they had directed her in the past—but why? The man was still unconscious, if not yet dead. Had she been brought here to save him? Or was it what he brought with him that was important?
Thorva’s gaze returned to the stranger’s bonds. Making her decision, she reached toward one of them.
Before she had even touched the pale stone, her fingertips began to tingle.
The man’s eyes snapped suddenly open.
Thorva jerked back in shock, but she was too slow. The man tore off one of his gloves and grabbed her by the arm, and even as Thorva tried to summon her gods-given power, she felt it ripped out of her, forcibly drained from the core of her being. Her body was stricken with a sudden, incapacitating coldness—a sensation she had not felt in years—and she fell, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to do anything.
As the cold took her, she dimly registered color returning to the stranger’s face, as if he were suddenly being warmed by a hearth.
A hint of a smile curled his lips.
“Thank you,” he said.
Then he released his grip, and Thorva fell back into the snow with a gasp, empty, and drained.
Vrynna cursed as she saw the shamanka fall, and kicked her drüvask forward.
“With me!” she roared, and the rest of the raiding party lurched into motion. The ground shook beneath their thundering charge, the sound akin to an avalanche.
The outsider was kneeling alongside the Sister of Frost as the Winter’s Claw powered through the snow toward him. Curiously, she saw the man shrug off his fur coat and drape it over the fallen shamanka, the gesture almost tender.
He stood to face the earth-shaking approach of the Winter’s Claw, dragging his chains behind him. Vrynna tightened her grip on her spear.
Seeing the force bearing down on him, the stranger backed away from the fallen shamanka, who lay unmoving and pale upon the snow. He held his hands up to show he bore no weapon, but that didn’t matter to Vrynna. She had killed unarmed enemies in the past.
Without having to give the signal, Vrynna’s warriors fanned out wide to encircle him, cutting off any chance of escape. Wisely, he didn’t try to run. After all, there was nowhere to run to.
He turned on the spot, like the weakest of the herd, isolated by wolves. His gaze darted between the Freljordians arrayed against him. He was wary, yet he showed no sign of fear, which Vrynna could respect, at least.
Having taken off his coat, the outsider’s muscular arms were bare to the elements, but he appeared not to feel the cold at all.
Curious, thought Vrynna.
He was a tall man but he was hunched slightly, the weight of the massive shackles bound to his arms clearly pulling on him.
“See to the Sister,” she ordered, not taking her eyes off the stranger.
The stranger faced her, as one of the raiders slid from his saddle and moved to the shamanka’s side.
“I am Vrynna,” she declared. “Scarmother of the Winter’s Claw. Shieldbreaker. Woebringer. I am the Drüvask’s Howl. Who are you, and why are you here?”
The man cocked his head to one side, responding in a tongue she could not comprehend. Vrynna cursed.
“You don’t understand me, do you?”
Again the man gave her a quizzical look.
“Sylas,” he replied, tapping his chest.
“Sylas?” Vrynna repeated. “That’s your name, Sylas?”
The man simply repeated the word, tapping his chest again, and giving her a rakish smile.
The scarmother muttered under her breath. She glanced over to the shamanka, lying lifeless and pale upon the snow. One of Vrynna’s warriors knelt over Thorva, lowering his head to her chest to see if she was breathing.
“Is she dead?” she called.
“She’s half frozen, but she lives,” came the reply. “At least for now.”
The Freljordian warriors muttered under their breaths. Half frozen? It was known that the Sister of Frost was inured to the cold, claimed to be a gift of the old gods… but now she was freezing, and this stranger to the Freljord, Sylas, stood before them, his skin bare?
Vrynna frowned, considering her options. She didn’t put much faith in anything but steel, fire, and blood, but she knew her warriors—particularly Brokvar—would likely see this as some kind of omen.
“This is a waste of time,” she muttered.
Making her decision, she tightened her grip on her spear,and nudged her mount forward. The man, Sylas, raised a hand and yelled something in his weak, southerner’s tongue, but she ignored him. She would kill this fool, and be on her way.
“Let me do it,” growled Brokvar, riding at the scarmother’s side.
Vrynna’s brow raised.
“He did this to the revered sister,” Brokvar answered her silent question, stabbing a meaty finger toward the fallen shamanka. “It would be my honor to punish him, beneath the eyes of the gods.”
The outsider looked between Vrynna and Brokvar. Did he have any understanding that his fate was about to be determined?
Vrynna shrugged. “He’s yours.”
Brokvar dropped off his mount, rose to his full, towering height. The man, Sylas, was not small, but Brokvar made him look it. The Iceborn unsheathed Winter’s-Wail from the scabbard across his back, and began to walk grimly toward the outsider.

The last time Thorva had truly felt the cold had been when she was a child, not even six winters of age.
She had chased a snow hare out onto a frozen lake, laughing as she went. She had not realized the ice beneath her was so thin until the awful cracking sound, right before it gave way. With a strangled cry, she plunged into the icy, black depths. Such was the shocking suddenness of the bone-chilling cold that all the air was driven from her lungs, and her limbs instantly seized up, stiffening in agonizing cramps.
She’d been dead for long minutes before she was finally hauled out from under the ice and the tribe’s shaman breathed life back into her. She first manifested her gods-given power that night.
“Sometimes, when a person is brought back from the Realm Beyond, they return changed,” the shaman explained, shrugging. “The gods, in their inscrutable wisdom, have blessed you.”
In the days that followed, she had found herself impervious to cold, able to walk through freezing blizzards bare-skinned, with no ill effect.
Now, once again she was that scared little girl she’d been, sinking slowly as the hole in the ice above got further and further away… only this time she was staring up at the sky, unblinking.
Numb and breathless, Thorva lay on the ground, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. The cold infused her. It was her.
Was this the reason she had been brought here? To give her life to the outsider, that he may fulfill whatever it was the gods had decreed?
Nevertheless, an ineffable fear slowed her descent into oblivion.
Even if it were the gods’ will for her to die in the outsider’s place, Thorva knew in her heart that Vrynna would not let him live… and so, she began to fight back toward the surface.

Brokvar Ironfist went straight for the killing blow, charging forward, Winter’s-Wail hissing through the air and trailing icy fog in its wake.
That blow would have split an ice-troll in half had it landed, but the outsider was surprisingly quick given he was weighed down by restraints. He darted back from the lethal strike and whipped his chains around in a whirling arc. They swung passed Brokvar’s face, barely missing the Iceborn warrior as he snarled in fury.
Still, he didn’t reel back, as perhaps the outsider had expected. He was as tough as the mountains and was exceptionally fast for such a big man. He lashed out, striking his opponent across the side of the head with a powerful backhand punch, and Vrynna winced as the smaller man was sent flying.
The outsider struggled to pick himself off the ground as the Iceborn stalked toward him, but finally regained his footing. In truth, Vrynna was impressed that he was able to get up at all. Still, he merely prolonged the inevitable outcome.
His face set in grim resolve, Brokvar closed in for the kill.

Sylas’ gaze narrowed as he focused on the barbarian’s weapon.
The pale ice shard in its hilt was glowing brightly, and crackling hoarfrost covered the blade.
The magic that chunk of ice exuded was unlike anything Sylas had encountered before. It was primal, dangerous, and enfettered. Sylas could feel it on his skin, a frisson of power that was almost intoxicating.
The woman’s power had revived him, driving the cold from his limbs and the blackness from his fingers, but this was a power far older. If he could just get his hands on it…
With a roar, Sylas stepped forward to meet the Freljordian.

The outsider lashed at Brokvar, swinging his chains around in a flurry of arcs. The Iceborn was struck across his head, one chain from each side. The heavy links whipped around, and with a wrench, the Iceborn’s helmet was torn off.
Brokvar shook his long hair loose, spat blood into the snow, and continued his advance.
The chains came around at him again, but the massive warrior was ready this time. He avoided the first of the strikes, before stepping forward and lifting one arm, letting the chain whip around his massive forearm. Then he grabbed the metal links in his vice-like grip, and yanked the smaller man toward him, straight into a swinging elbow.
The blow crumpled the man, and he fell at Brokvar’s feet. The Iceborn towered over him, Winter’s-Wail raised to deliver the killing blow.
“Wait! Do not kill him!” came a shout, and Brokvar paused.
Vrynna whipped her head around, scowling, to see the Sister of Frost, Thorva, rising unsteadily to her feet. She was deathly pale, and her lips blue, but she stomped forward, leaning heavily on her staff of office.
“What madness is this?” Vrynna snarled.
“Not madness,” Thorva said, leaning heavily upon her staff of office. “It is the will of the gods.”

The giant barbarian was momentarily distracted, a look of confusion on his brutish face, and Sylas saw his chance.
Rising to a knee, he lashed out with one of his chains. It whipped around the blade of his opponent, and with a sharp tug, he tore it from the man’s grasp.
It landed in the snow nearby, and Sylas leapt upon it, eagerly.
Grinning, he picked up the broadsword… and agony seared through him.

Vrynna shook her head at the fool. Only an Iceborn could hold a True Ice weapon. For anyone else, it was a death sentence.
The outsider released Winter’s-Wail, roaring as the cold shot up his arm. He dropped to his knees, clutching his arm, even as it began to freeze. The killing power of the True Ice began at his hand, but was steadily working its way down his arm, toward his heart.
“The gods wanted this?” Vrynna scoffed, gesturing at the outsider.
The shamanka scowled, but said nothing.
“But then, the gods are nothing if not fickle and cruel,” added Vrynna, shrugging. “Perhaps they simply wanted him to suffer?”
Brokvar retrieved Winter’s-Wail, hefting it without harm. The outsider stared up at him, anguish and confusion written upon his face as the lethal power of the True Ice consumed him.
“Put him out of his misery,” ordered Vrynna.
Brokvar’s iron gaze shifted to the shamanka, looking for her approval. Anger surged within Vrynna.
“If the gods want him saved, then they can intervene,” she snapped.

Thorva served and venerated the old gods of the Freljord, but she did not claim to know their will. Nor had she often witnessed them intervene directly in mortal matters.
And yet, it seemed impossible that what happened next was purely coincidental.
The outsider was lying on the snowpack, shivering and convulsing. The True Ice had almost claimed him, but he continued to fight it, reaching out one shuddering hand toward the Iceborn warrior.
Thorva knew what the Demacian was capable of, how he had siphoned her power with but one brief touch. She could have warned the Iceborn veteran… but she did not.

Sylas was dying, but even in death his will to keep fighting was strong.
In desperation, he reached out toward the towering barbarian looming above him. He grabbed hold of the warrior’s boot, but the barbarian kicked his clawing hand away.
The bearded giant looked down at him piteously, as one would a wretched dog in the street. It was the same way the nobility looked down on the lesser-born in Demacia, and Sylas’ anger surged.
That anger fueled him, and with a last burst of his dying strength, he sprang off the ground and grasped the Freljordian giant around the throat. Ancient, raw, elemental magic instantly began to infuse him.
Sylas may have been unable to grasp the Freljordian ice-weapon, but he could still draw from its power… using the barbarian’s flesh as its conduit.
It took no more than a moment.
The barbarian staggered back, unsure what had just happened. Sylas smiled, and his eyes began to glow with icy-pale light.
He turned his attention to his frozen arm, holding it before him. With a surge of his newfound power, he made the ice reverse its direction. It crept back down his arm, and then was gone, leaving his flesh unharmed.
Then he turned his attention to the warrior standing aghast before him.
“Now then,” he said. “Where were we?”

Brokvar stepped back away from the outsider, gaping in wonder.
“What is he?” snarled Vrynna. “Iceborn?”
“No,” Thorva interjected, eyes blazing with faith. “He is something else…”
Vrynna had seen enough. In one smooth, well-practiced motion she reversed her grip on her spear, and standing in the saddle, hurled it at the stranger, putting all her might and weight behind it.
It hurtled straight toward him, but the man thrust a hand out, fingers splayed, and the ground before him erupted. Amid a grinding series of cracks, a protective wall of towering ice-spikes surged up from below. Vrynna’s spear slammed deep into the ice, but could not penetrate it. It was left shuddering in place, embedded a solid foot into the barrier, and leaving the outsider completely unharmed.
Vrynna gaped at the magical barrier, even as it collapsed a moment later, falling as quickly as it had appeared.
The outsider stood revealed, laughing and looking in wonder at his hands, now rimmed with frost and radiating pale blue light, like the underside of an iceberg. He looked up at Vrynna, frozen fog emanating from his eyes, and began to gather the primal, frozen power within him once more. A spinning orb of magic, like a self-contained blizzard, began to form between his hands.
The Winter’s Claw fingered their weapons uneasily, unsure of themselves in the face of what was clearly Freljordian magic.
Thorva called out something then, though the words made no sense to Vrynna. She glanced at the shamanka in surprise.
She spoke the outsider’s tongue?
There was much about the Sister of Frost that she did not know, it seemed, and her distrust deepened.

The shamanka and the stranger spoke for a time, while Vrynna watched on, gritting her teeth.
“What does the outsider say?” she snapped, finally losing patience.
“He says we share a common enemy,” Thorva explained. “He says we can help each other.”
Vrynna frowned. “Who? The Avarosans? We raid them, as we always have, but we are not at war.”
“I believe he means his own people. The Demacians, across the mountains.”
“He is a traitor, then?” Vrynna said, “Why would we trust one who would betray his own?”
“The mother of scars would know how you would aid our tribe,” Thorva said, addressing the outsider in his own tongue. “Make your offer, else your soul will journey to the Beyond, here and now.”
Sylas gave his answer, speaking directly to Vrynna. Thorva watched him carefully as he spoke, asking several times for clarifications of words she did not immediately understand.
“He says he knows hidden paths into his homelands, paths known only to him,” said Thorva. “He speaks of the vast riches there, waiting to be claimed. Fields untouched by snow and filled with fat cattle, streets that flow with gold and silver.”
The warriors of the Winter’s Claw smiled and laughed among themselves at her words, and even Vrynna’s eyes lit up. They lived a harsh existence, making the promise of easy pickings a tempting one.
But still some doubt lingered.
“How do we know he would not lead us into a trap?” challenged Vrynna. “We cannot trust him. Better to kill him, here and now, and not be led astray by his golden tongue.”
“He…” Thorva began, picking her lie carefully. “He says he had a vision. A dream that came to him, of three Freljordian sisters. It was they who urged him to come here.”
“The Three!” breathed Brokvar in reverence. “He speaks of Avarosa, Serylda, and Lissandra!”

The other Winter’s Claw warriors murmured in surprise and awe, many of them touching holy totems hanging around their necks.
The Three Sisters were legends, the greatest and most honored warriors of the Freljord. They were the first of the Iceborn, and had lived in the age of heroes, long ago. Across much of the frozen north, they had come to be regarded as chosen ones, and many invoked their wisdom in times of strife, or begged their favor before battle.
Vrynna glared, regarding Thorva sourly. Did the scarmother suspect her lie?
Seeing Brokvar’s rapturous wonder spread through the other gathered warriors, however, she realized it didn’t matter. Thorva had known Vrynna’s Iceborn champion would latch on to those words. That they would inspire his awe and his faith, and that his influence among the other warriors was strong. They would never allow the outsider to be killed out of hand now, no matter what order Vrynna gave.
She allowed herself a slight smile of victory, though she was careful not to let Vrynna see it as she considered the outsider.
It was the gods’ will that this one lived, Thorva felt certain of it. She felt no guilt for lying to ensure that happened.
“He must prove himself before we would even consider trusting him.”
“A wise move, scarmother,” nodded Thorva. “What do you suggest?”
“He will come with us on our raid,” declared Vrynna. “If he fights well, and makes a good account of himself, then perhaps we will hear more of what he proposes. More about these hidden paths into Demacia. But he will be your responsibility. It will be up to you to control him, and if he turns on us, it will be on your head.”
Thorva nodded, and turned to the outsider.
“Fight with us. Prove to the mother of scars your worth,” she said. “Fight strong and you may live to have your alliance.”
Those final words elicited a broad smile from the outsider.
Thorva appraised him, giving him a look from head to toe. He was handsome for a southerner. A little lean for her tastes, but he was clever, and there was power in him.
She leveled a finger at him.
“But never touch me again,” she warned.
The outsider smiled wryly.
“Not without your permission,” he replied, and Thorva turned away so he did not see her smile.
“What does he say?” demanded Vrynna.
“He agrees to your terms, scarmother,” called Thorva.
“Good. Then let us move,” said Vrynna. “We raid.”
Shaco

Most would say that death isn't funny. It isn't, unless you're Shaco - then it's hysterical. He is Valoran's first fully functioning homicidal comic; he jests until someone dies, and then he laughs. The figure that has come to be known as the Demon Jester is an enigma. No one fully agrees from whence he came, and Shaco never offers any details on his own. A popular belief is that Shaco is not of Runeterra - that he is a thing from a dark and twisted world. Still others believe that he is the demonic manifestation of humanity's dark urges and therefore cannot be reasoned with. The most plausible belief is that Shaco is an assassin for hire, left to his own lunatic devices until his services are needed. Shaco certainly has proven himself to be a cunning individual, evading authorities at every turn who might seek him for questioning for some horrendous, law-breaking atrocity. While such scuttlebutt might reassure the native inhabitants of Valoran, it seems unimaginable that such a malevolent figure is allowed to remain at large.
Whatever the truth of his history might be, Shaco is a terrifying, elusive figure most often seen where madness can openly reign.

All stories

Rise with Me

Riven

Seams and Scars

Ruination Prologue

Rumble

Shuriman Trash

Ryze

An Old Friend

Samira

Daredevil Impulse

Sejuani

A Death Knot

Senna

The Voices of the Dead

Seraphine

Standing Room Only

Sett

Big Head, Bad News

The Shackles of Belief

Shaco