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The Thrill of the Chase

Even three bells after the Sun Gate had closed, Piltover was still full of life - life that was currently getting in her way. Caitlyn sprinted down Mainspring Crescent, weaving a path between midnight revelers strolling down the fashionable promenade of cafes and bistros. The supper clubs were emptying, as were the nearby theaters inside the Drawsmith Arcade, so this street was going to get a whole lot busier. If they didn’t catch up to Devaki soon, they were going to lose him.
“Do you see him?” shouted Mohan from behind.
“If I could see him, I’d already be drawing a bead on him!”
The hextech rifle slung over Caitlyn’s shoulder was loaded and ready to shoot, but she needed a target, and Devaki was more nimble than a spooked doe. He’d robbed three clan workshops (that they knew of) in the last five weeks, and Caitlyn had him pegged for two others. Working a hunch that something big was in the works, she and Mohan had been keeping watch on one of House Morichi’s workshops, and sure enough, Devaki had shown. Though they hadn’t known it until the city lighters had worked their way down the street to ignite the glow-lamps and Caitlyn caught his reflection in the glass of the cafe across the street. Devaki had seen her in the same instant, and took to his heels like a startled wharf-rat.
Caitlyn skidded to a halt at the next junction. The caged flames atop the fluted lampposts bathed the dozens of surprised people staring at her with a warm, amber light. Her pale blue eyes darted from person to person, seeking Devaki’s distinctive silhouette.
A young man crossed the street toward her, his cheeks ruddy with a night’s enjoyment. He waved at her.
“You looking for a man on the run?” he asked. “Fella with a big hat?”
“Yes,” said Caitlyn. “You saw him? Where did he go?”
The young man pointed left and said, “Down that way at a good clip.”
She followed his gaze and saw cheering theater-goers spilling from the Drawsmith Arcade, a vaulted structure of colored glass and ironwork columns. They mingled with stall-holders selling refreshments and promenade-girls looking for a wealthy mark. Mohan finally caught up to her, sweating and breathing hard. He bent at the waist and propped himself up with his palms on his knees. His blue uniform coat was askew and his hat tipped back over his head.
“Figures he’d try to lose himself in the crowd,” he said between gulps of air.
Caitlyn took a moment to study their public-spirited helper. His clothes were finely-tailored and must once have cost him a pretty penny, but the cuffs were frayed and the elbows worn. Her eyes narrowed as she took in last season’s colors and a collar that hadn’t been in style for a year.
Wealthy, but down on his luck.
Mohan turned toward the busy street and said, “Come on, Caitlyn! Let’s go or we’ll lose him.”
Caitlyn dropped to one knee to look at the street from a different perspective. The cobbles were slick from the evening rain and were well trodden. From this angle, she saw the scuffs of heel marks on stone that only a running man would leave. But they weren’t heading left, they were heading right.
“How much did Devaki give you to tell us that?” said Caitlyn to the unfashionably dressed young man. “If it was less than a gold hex, you were swindled.”
The young man put his hands up and said, “It was five, actually,” before turning tail and running toward the crowds with a laugh.
“What the...?” said Mohan, as Caitlyn sprinted in the opposite direction. She’d lost valuable seconds, but knew exactly where Devaki was going now. She soon left Mohan behind, her sometime partner a little too fond of the sugared pastries the District-Inspector’s wife made for her husband’s officers.
Caitlyn ran a winding path through the city, along seldom-traveled alleyways and crooked paths between the gables of tall, brick-fronted warehouses. She cut across busy streets, drawing cries of annoyance from those she barged out of her way. The closer she came to the great canyon bisecting Piltover, the narrower the streets became, but she was betting she knew the shortcuts of Piltover better than Devaki. After a dozen twists and turns, she emerged onto a crooked street of undulating cobbles that followed the jagged line of the cliff. Known locally as Drop Street thanks to the wheezing hexdraulic conveyer at the end that ran late into the night, it was deep in shadow.
The iron-framed cabin hadn’t yet opened, the lozenge-patterned grille still in the closed position. A group of fifteen Zaunites, a great many of whom were intoxicated, gathered around the ticket booth. None of them were the man Caitlyn was looking for. She turned and dropped to a crouch, resting the barrel of her rifle on a packing crate bearing the brand of Clan Medarda. Stolen property, no doubt, but she didn’t have time to check it.
Caitlyn thumbed the rifle’s primer switch to the upright position. A gentle hum built within the breech as she worked the action to ready a shot. She pulled the butt of the rifle hard against her shoulder and slowed her breathing. Her cheek pressed into the walnut stock and she closed one eye as she took aim through the crystalline lenses.
She didn’t have long to wait.
Devaki swung around the corner, his long coat billowing out behind him and his hat a tall silhouette. He appeared to be in no hurry, but then, he believed he had shed his pursuers. He held a heavy brass-cornered case in his metal-clawed hand; a crude thing Vi said he’d had done in one of Zaun’s ask-no-questions augmentation parlors when he was a foolish youth.
Caitlyn focused her aim on the pneumatic monstrosity and squeezed the trigger. A searing flash of orange-red exploded from the weapon’s muzzle and Devaki’s hand vanished in a pinpoint blast. He cried out and fell back, his hat toppling from his head as the case fell to the ground. Devaki looked up, his eyes widening in pain and surprise as he saw Caitlyn. He turned to run, but Caitlyn had been waiting for that. She toggled a thumb-switch on the breech and pulled the trigger again.
This time the beam struck Devaki in the back and exploded in a web of crackling energy. Devaki’s back arched and he fell, twitching, to the ground. Caitlyn powered down her rifle and slung it over her shoulder as she walked toward the fallen Devaki. The effects of the electro-net were dimming, but he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. Caitlyn bent to retrieve the case he’d dropped and shook her head with a tut-tut sound.
“H-h-h...how?” said Devaki, through the spasms wracking his body.
“How did I know where you were headed?” asked Caitlyn.
Devaki nodded, the movement jerky and forced.
“Your previous thefts were meaningless in themselves, but when I looked at them as part of a larger scheme, it seemed like you were gathering components to build a version of Vishlaa’s Hexylene Caliver,” said Caitlyn.
She knelt beside Devaki to place a hand on his rigid body.
“And as we all know, that weapon was outlawed as being too dangerous, wasn’t it? No one in Piltover would dare touch that kind of banned hex, but someone, maybe in Noxus? They’d pay handsomely for that, I imagine. But the only place you could get something like that out of the city is through one of Zaun’s less reputable smugglers. This is the only quick route down into Zaun that’s still running at this time of night. Once I saw you weren’t going to try and hide out in Piltover, all I had to do was get to the conveyor before you and wait. So you and I are going to have a long talk, and you’re going to tell me who you’re working for.”
Devaki didn’t answer, and Caitlyn grinned as she reached over his prone body.
“Nice hat,” she said.
Camille

Clan Ferros understands sacrifice.
Most of the family’s wealth came through harvesting a rare crystal from the brackern, a creature native to Shurima. These hex-crystals—or “first crystals”—contained power normally only wielded by those born with innate magical ability. After Camille’s great-great aunt lost an arm during an early expedition, her sacrifice inspired the Ferros family motto: “For family, will I give.”
The brackern were a limited resource, and Camille's family had to augment the crystals they’d accumulated. Utilizing shadow investments in chemtech and runic alchemy, they developed less powerful, but easier to make, synthetic hex-crystals.
Yet there were consequences—synthetic crystal manufacturing has long been rumored to heavily contribute to the Zaun Gray. Furthermore, it was only through espionage, intimidation, and murder that Clan Ferros held its monopoly on this priceless commodity, and ensured its uninterrupted production in Zaun, maintaining the family’s place in Piltover’s illustrious Bluewind Court.
As the eldest surviving child of Clan Ferros’ masters, Camille received every educational advantage. She had exceptional tutors, learning to speak several foreign languages and play the cellovinna at a concert-master level. Camille also learned to read and write Ancient Shuriman while assisting her father on digs in the Odyn Valley.
Traditionally, one of the younger children would become their family's principal intelligencer, working with the clan master to secure their family’s success by any means necessary. However, Camille's younger brother, Stevan, had a weak constitution, and so Camille took his place. He jealously watched her embrace her additional training, and she became quite adept in combat, reconnaissance, and interrogation.
When Camille was twenty-five, augmented Zaunite thugs attacked her and her father, intent on stealing lucrative trade secrets. Camille’s father succumbed to his wounds, and in anguish, her mother died soon after. Stevan became clan master, and he doubled the clan’s research in human hextech augmentation, eager to prove himself as a strong leader.
After a year of mourning, Stevan oversaw the induction of Hakim Naderi—a promising young crystallographer from the Shuriman coastal city of Bel'zhun—as the family’s lead artificer.
Camille requested hextech augmentation from Hakim to push her beyond her human limitations. Hakim was instantly enamored with her, and they bonded over the preparations and late night stories of Shurima… and eventually, Camille returned Hakim's feelings. Their affair grew reckless, as they knew the surgery would conclude their time together. Hakim would move onto other projects, and Camille would once again be fully committed to the principal intelligencer’s duties. More than that, Hakim worried that in carving away Camille's heart, he might remove her humanity.
Days before Camille's operation, Hakim proposed marriage and begged her to run away with him. For the first time in her life, Camille was torn.
Stevan had no such conflict, as he needed Camille to execute his vision. When he learned of the secret proposal, he devised a plan—the next time Camille and Hakim were together, Stevan set himself up to be attacked. When she saw her brother bruised and bloodied, Camille recognized what could happen when her attention was divided.
Hakim pleaded with Camille, but she wouldn’t listen. For family, she would give. She ended her relationship with Hakim, insisting her surgery go forward.
He was the only one who could safely perform the operation, and so he excised Camille’s heart and replaced it with hextech—then resigned. When she awoke, the lab she and Hakim had shared was abandoned.
Camille focused on her work. She took on further refinements, including bladed legs, grapple-spindled hips, and other, minor hex-augmentations, leading some to wonder how much of the woman was left. And as Clan Ferros amassed more power and wealth, Camille’s missions became darker and more deadly.
Thanks to her hextech heart, she did not age—but the years were not so kind to her brother. Yet even as Stevan's body grew more frail, his iron grip on the clan remained.
Eventually, Camille uncovered the depth of Stevan's betrayal, and realized his machinations were no longer in the family’s best interests. In that moment, she discarded the last sentiment she felt toward her brother.
After installing her favorite grand-niece as clan master, Camille now runs the family's public affairs as well as its more shady operations. As a solver of… difficult problems, she embraces her more-than-human transformation and the cutting judgment it affords her—but a strange, mournful keening in her hextech heart may yet prove a troubling portent.
Regardless, Camille refuses to sit idle, and gains invigoration from well-executed industrial espionage, a fresh-brewed cup of tea, and long walks in the Gray.
Tea with the Gray Lady

The first sound I heard was the scrape of sharp metal against rock. My sight was blurred, my vision still swimming in murky darkness, but something in the back of my mind registered it, that knife-edge slide on wet stone. The rasp was the same as my mason when he marks out which rock to cut away from the cliff. It set my teeth on edge. The fog in my brain receded, but it left me with only one panicked thought as I strained at the ropes binding my hands:
I was a dead man.
In front of me, there was a grunt and a heavy wooden creak. If I squinted, I could make out the bulk of what I guessed was Gordon Ansel sitting across from me. So much for hired muscle. It looked like he was coming around as well.
“Oh good. You're both awake.” A woman's voice, refined, polished. “I was just about to put the tea on.”
I turned toward her. Half of my face felt fat and bruised. The corners of my mouth were stuck together. I tried to move my swollen jaw and a coppery taste pooled on my tongue. I should have been thankful I was still breathing. The air had a lingering chemical smell, like it would singe off your nose hair if you inhaled too deeply.
Just my luck. I was still in Zaun.
“One of you knows who is responsible for the explosion at the docks,” the woman continued. She had her back to us; a flickering bluish light illuminated her slim waist and inhumanly long legs. There was a faint slosh of water as she set a glass kettle above the near-invisible flame of a chem-burner.
“Go pound a sump, lady,” Ansel groaned.
Leave it to Ansel to make a bad situation worse.
“Baron Grime's men always have such a way with words.”
The woman turned to face us: It wasn't a lamp that lit her figure, but something within her that gave off an unsettling light. “You will tell me what I want to know as if your life depends on it.”
“I ain't saying nothing,” Ansel snarled.
Metal scraped the floor as she shifted her weight. She was deciding which of us to carve from the quarry first. The sound made no sense until she began walking toward Ansel, and then I understood. Her velvet shadow separated from the silhouette of the table. Mystifying blue light pulsed from her hips, leading my eye down her lithe form... to twin blades. She was a high-end chimeric, unlike any I'd seen in Piltover or Zaun.
“Do not insult my courtesy, Mr. Ansel. Others have. They are dead now.”
“You think them legs of yours scare me?”
The woman stood in front of my thick-headed acquaintance. I could hear the water in the kettle start to boil. I blinked and there was a flash of silver and blue. The rope that bound Ansel's hands fell to the floor.
A hoarse laugh escaped my bodyguard. “You missed, darling.” Our captor seemed to be waiting patiently. Ansel leaned forward a few inches, an arrogant smirk plastered across his weather-beaten face.
“You can lick my—”
The woman spun around. This time, the razor-sharp blade of her leg sliced cleanly through Ansel's neck.
The severed head rolled to a stop in front of me just as the kettle whistle blew. Ansel always had a big mouth. Now it lolled open, silenced at last.
I kept telling myself Ansel was dead, but his eyes still stared at me in horrified surprise. The fear in my brain climbed down my spine, stopping to throttle my gut until I was convinced whatever was left inside was going to end up on the floor.
“Now, Mr. Turek, we are going to have a cup of tea, and you will tell me what I wish to know,” she said, her words unhurried.
The woman sat down at her table and smiled. A whisper of steam escaped as she poured the boiling water into her porcelain teapot. She looked at me with an imperious pity, like I was a schoolboy too slow at his figures. It was that smile that I couldn't look away from. Deadly. Knowing. It scared the piss out of me.
“Tea?” I nearly choked on the word.
“Oh, my boy,” she said. “There is always time for tea.”
The Weakest Heart

Ariel Lawrence

“You should have killed her.”
My brother settled two cubes of sugar neatly in a slotted spoon suspended on the fine lip of his teacup. His gleeful attention turned to the pouring of the tea. The wrinkles on his face pulled back into a smile and a delighted giggle escaped as he watched the shapes melt and fall into each other. Unable to flee, the last remnants of sweetness collapsed under the dark brew.
“Lady Sofia will not be a problem,” I said.
Stevan batted a hand in the air, annoyed. “Today maybe, but tomorrow? Emotions fester if left unchecked, sister.” He looked up at me, questioning. “Better to snuff the spark before it sets the house on fire, no?”
“I have spoken to the Arvino’s principal intelligencer—”
“You intelligencers and your deals. I still say she betrayed her house and should pay for it with her life—”
“There may come a time for that,” I said, softening my tone. “But I have made the agreement. Adalbert will see she stays out of trouble. She is his responsibility.”
My part in the discussion was over. Stevan leaned back in his chair with a look of begrudging acceptance and picked at the blanket laid over his lap.
“That man could use another pair of eyes installed in his head,” Stevan harrumphed quietly. In Stevan’s view, it was never about the pursuit of a solution, just the end result. For my brother, the fixes I doled out could make many problems in Piltover disappear. Rarely did he consider the choices leading up to those decisions.
I held my cup in one hand and let the other drift absently to my hip, taking comfort in the grapple line spooled there. Stevan was partially right. End results were nice, but I much preferred the chase.
I watched Stevan through the steam of my drink. He pursed his lips as if deciding something. The pressure whitened the skin on his chin and highlighted the age spots that crept up past the silk wrapped around his neck.
“There is something else,” I said.
“Am I that obvious, sister?”
I think he would have blushed if his weak pulse had allowed it. He smiled painfully instead and pulled a folded piece of paper and a beaded chaplet from a drawer in the desk between us. Stevan rolled his wheeled chair back, coughing with the effort. On the chair, he turned small levers, the modest effort driving little cogs that drove bigger cogs, until the clockwork mechanism pushed the wheels toward me, and him with it.
“Lady Arvino’s short-lived engagement was not the only thing uncovered during this mess,” he said. “This was found on one of the Baron’s men during the clean up.”
I set my cup down in its pale saucer and took the scrap of paper and chaplet he offered. I shifted the balance of the blades beneath me, and their sharpened points dug deeper into the rich carpet.
The edges of the note were charred, and a greenish hue wicked through the paper from the ragged singe. The chaplet had been well loved; the facets of the glass prayer stones were burnished and smooth.
“Camille.”
My brother only said my name like that when he was serious. Or when he wanted something. I unfolded the note, a waft of Zaun’s acrid unpleasantness rising with it. I took in the strong lines. The diagramming was neat and orderly, the flowing script precise. My eyes found the artificer’s mark just as Stevan confirmed it.
“If Naderi has returned—”
“Hakim Naderi is gone.” The words fell from my mouth, a reflex.
It had been more than just years since the crystallographer had served as lead artificer for our house, it had been a lifetime.
Stevan contemplated his next move. “Sister, you know what this is.”
“Yes.” I looked down at the paper; the diagram mirrored the mechanical and crystalline construction that pulsed within my chest.
I held my own heart’s design.
“We thought them all destroyed. If this exists, others could as well. I could finally be free of this chair,” he said. “To walk about my house as the master of his clan should.”
“Perhaps it is time to let another take on the responsibility of clan master,” I said.
It had been many years since Stevan had been able to navigate the halls on his own. Something his own children and grandchildren never let him forget. This wasn’t just a piece of paper and a string of prayers. For Stevan, this was a map to immortality.
“This is only one schematic,” I continued. “You believe if we uncover the rest of Naderi’s designs, our artificers will be able to recreate his work. There would still be the question of how to power it—”
“Camille. Please.”
I looked at my brother. Time had not been kind to a body born frail. But his eyes, after all these years, his eyes were still like mine, the Ferros blue. That deep cerulean couldn’t be watered down by age or ailment. His eyes were the same luminous color as the hex-crystals lighting the drawing I held before me. His gaze pleaded with me now.
“You and I, we have led this house to greater success than Mother and Father ever dreamed,” he said. “If your augmentation can be repeated, this success—our success, Camille—it can go on forever. This house will ensure the future of Piltover. Indeed, we will ensure progress for all of Valoran.”
Stevan always had a flair for the dramatic. Coupled with his weaker constitution, it had been difficult for our parents to deny him anything.
“I am not the intelligencer for all of Valoran. I may find nothing.”
Stevan gave a relieved sigh. “But you will look?”
I nodded and gave him back the schematic, but kept the chaplet, tucking the twisted loops into my pocket. I turned to leave the study.
“And Camille? If he’s alive, if you find him—”
“It will be as it was before,” I said, stopping my brother before he could unearth more of the past. “My duty, as always, is to the future of this house.”
The late afternoon crowds near the North Wind Commercia still swarmed in anticipation of the Progress Day revels. The people’s faces were flushed with the effort of making ready for the city’s annual observance of innovation. However, it was not they, but a foreign trader tottering from drink that revealed my second shadow.
“By an Ursine’s frozen teat,” the trader said, frustrated with the press of the crowd. He pushed away those who had stopped to assist him. “I need no help.”
Piltover’s worker bees thrummed around us, all except for one blonde drone at the edge of the square. I kept her in view as I leaned down to the trader in front of me.
“Then get up,” I told him.
The Freljordian looked up at me. His annoyance had him reaching for the carved tusk dagger at his waist. I met his glare and watched it slip down past the hex-crystal in my chest to my bladed legs. The man released his grip on the knife.
“There’s a good boy,” I said. “Now get out of my way.”
He nodded dumbly. The trader backed away, and the mercantile hive mind of Piltover broke and reformed around him as he stumbled his way across the street. Only my shadow escort remained still, watching me from a distant market stall.
I continued through the crowds, the people parting easily before me. When the opportunity presented itself, I ducked into a blind alley and fired my barbed grapple lines into a high wooden cross brace above the corridor. I drew myself up into the darkness above and waited.
A moment later, my escort entered the alleyway. Her clothes were layered and nondescript enough not to draw attention in the promenade levels of Zaun, but the ornamented whip at her side said Piltover, or at least a very generous sponsor. I let her walk a pace forward into a shaft of light that would blind her. Once she was in position, I dropped in behind, the tips of my blades slipping neatly into the cobblestone gristle.
“Did you lose something, girl?” I said, letting a low growl roll over my whisper.
Her hand crept toward the black leather handle of her whip. She was tempted, but good sense seemed to win out.
“It seems I’ve found it.” The girl raised her open hands to her shoulders. “I bring a message.”
I arched an eyebrow.
“From your brother, ma’am,” she said.
Stevan’s drama was going to be the death of someone if he wasn’t careful.
“Give it here.”
The girl kept one hand up and used the other to pull a small note from her tightly cuffed sleeve. The wax seal carried the Ferros sigil and Stevan’s personal mark.
“Move more than an eyelash, and I will slit your throat,” I said.
I opened the note. I could feel my annoyance rise like a fever. Stevan had taken it upon himself to hire me a helper. In case my inquiry stirred up any “lingering sentimentality” that prevented me from seeing to my duty.
I told myself he meant well, but even after all these years, it seems he did not trust me with Hakim. It was cowardice to hide these feelings behind his lap blanket and not tell me this to my face before I left.
“I should kill you for delivering the insult,” I said, weighing her response. “Your name.”
“Aviet.” She kept her hands and voice even. She was young, not even an augmented finger.
“And you took this assignment knowing the possible consequence of my irritation?”
“Yes, milady,” she said. “I hoped if I pleased you, there might be a more… permanent position within your house.”
“I see.”
I turned my back to her and began walking out of the alley, giving her an opportunity to come at me if that was truly her intention. I could hear her exhaled breath and a raspy jangle as she brushed the coiled steel of the whip at her side. Her footsteps followed.
“Do we have a destination, milady?”
“Church,” I said, patting the chaplet in my pocket. “Keep up.”
The First Assemblage of the Glorious Evolved was technically still within Piltover, but only just. Here, past the Boundary Markets, the pernicious odors of the city below outweighed the celebratory smell of roasting meats and sweet cakes. The Zaun Gray rolled in like a low tide. It lapped at one’s legs and condensed along soot-covered merchant awnings into puddles of clouded muck.
I turned to the girl. “You will stay here.”
“I’m to follow you,” Aviet said. “Your brother’s—”
“You will stay here,” I said again, leaving no room for argument. My patience for my brother’s game was thinning. “The Glorious Evolved are fervent believers. They do not take kindly to the unaugmented.”
I looked over my new assistant, daring her to respond. Aviet shifted her weight slightly to her back foot. She still itched for a fight, to prove herself, but was unsure if this was the moment.
I smiled. “There’s time enough for that later, girl.”
The entry of the old building gave way to a dim foyer set back from the main hall by an iron lattice. Through the diamond patterns of welded metal, several clusters of yellow-orange therma lamps illuminated the congregation. The 50 or so people there murmured in rolling unison, giving the impression that a great machine breathed beneath them. Velveteen fabrics in dark colors were draped over the parts of their bodies that were still flesh, while their metal arms and augmented legs were exposed to the warm light. Here, high-end augmentations mixed with those of a more utilitarian function. Piltovan or Zaunite, it didn’t matter to the Glorious Evolved. These designations were secondary to their higher pursuit. In the center of the group, a young woman with mechanical elbows reached out to a man with a sleek metal jaw.
“The body is frail,” she said to the man. “The flesh is weak.”
“The machine drives us forward,” the group responded together. The words echoed in empty air above them. “The future is progress.”
I hadn’t come to bear witness. I kept to the shadows, ignored by the augmented flock, and continued my search.
I heard the soft gurgling of Brother Zavier’s esophilter before I saw the man. His balding head was tucked down to his chest as far as his breathing apparatus would allow. He was kindling a few spark lights on the corners of the side chapel’s altar.
Watching over him was an imposing figure outlined in cold lead and frosted glass. The Gray Lady, holy patron of the Glorious Evolved. The stained-glass window glowed from within, lit eerily by the arc lamps outside.
I approached the shrine. There were jars of organs. Single eyeballs floated like pickled eggs. Bundled offerings were wrapped in linen, some of it fine, some of it oily and ragged. A few flies buzzed among the discarded pieces of the congregation. One of the wrapped bundles moved. A little plague rat poked its nose out shortly after, daring me to take away its prize. The gauze of the newfound treasure caught on the edge, and the rest of the bundle tumbled away, revealing a desiccated finger. The rat scampered down, but Brother Zavier shooed it back into the darkness.
“Camille,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice underneath the wet burble. “Have you come for contemplation?”
“Information, brother.” I pulled the chaplet from my pocket, the glass beads tangling with the wire chain.
Brother Zavier turned to face me. His eyes were also under glass, magnified like those in the jars, although unlike those, his darted with life. I handed him the chaplet.
“Where did you find this?” He shook his head as he inspected it and then clucked his tongue. “Never mind, I should know by now not to ask those questions.”
He went back to attending his votive lights. “Several weeks ago, I met a man carrying this. He came to light a spark and ask her favor for the coming Progress Day.” Brother Zavier nodded toward the figure depicted in the window. The Gray Lady’s cloak was a mosaic of ash-violet glass, oxidized cogs, and blackened pistons. Her epithet was often invoked when an inventor felt at a loss due to inability or failure. Hers was a blessing that often required sacrifice.
“He had the tanned skin of the desert dwellers. Older than the usual foreign apprentas who pursue the auditions,” Brother Zavier continued.
“Do you know which clan he sought?”
“He said he was staying at a pay house near Clan Arvino.” The factory hum of the congregation fell away. “This evening’s testifying is over. My duties call.”
Brother Zavier patted my hand. He gathered his dark robes and made his way back to the main hall, leaving me to my contemplations.
Hakim had returned, but had not sent word. Not that the last conversation we shared had detailed how best to reach one another. I picked up the brittle finger from the floor and placed it back with the other offerings. It annoyed me, the idea of him petitioning like an ordinary apprenta. Hakim was spheres above Clan Arvino’s artificers. Through the cut-glass triangles and diamonds of the side chapel’s window, I could see Aviet standing beneath a streetlamp. She was still following orders… for the moment.
My indulgent silence was broken by a shuffling scrape, small, but much larger than a rat. I felt the hex-crystal in my chest vibrate in anticipation as I turned to face the threat.
“Are you her?” a small voice asked.
From the darkened corner near a metal bench, a little girl stepped forward. She could not have been more than six or seven.
“Are you the Gray Lady?” she asked again. Closer now, my hex-crystal pulse slowed, lighting her face in a soft, blue glow. In one arm, she carried a bundle wrapped in gauze, all too similar to the ones stacked behind me. The opposite sleeve of her dark dress hung empty.
Balanced as I was, I towered over her. I knelt down, bringing my face to her level, and gently touched the metal bench to arc some of the crystalline energy off my fingers. The girl watched the anxious spark reflect in the polished metal of my blades.
“Did you give up your legs for Progress Day?” she asked.
The Glorious Evolved celebrated the old Zaunite tradition of sacrificing something personal for Progress Day in the hopes the next iteration of invention would be better. It was a practice that could be traced back to the old days of the city, when the people of Zaun had to face rebuilding their lives after the devastation of “the incident.” The wealth and growth of Piltover on top of those scarred ruins served as evidence to many that the tradition had merit.
I looked at the little girl. It was not my legs that I had given up on a Progress Day long ago, but something far more dear.
“I chose these,” I said. “Because they better served my purpose.”
The girl nodded. The blue light between us had dimmed, but I could still see the black spider veins on the little fingers that clutched her bundle. It was rare for the blight to affect one so young in this part of the city. The Glorious Evolved often took in the sick, seeing the removal of dying flesh as a key to transforming a person’s life and faith through technology.
“Brother Zavier said it gets easier,” she offered.
“It does,” I told her.
The physicker attending her had been remiss his duty. The girl should have had both arms taken at once. I’m sure the surgeon explained away that lack of courage when holding the knife as a kindness, but waiting would do the girl no favors. If she did not have the other arm cut away soon, those spider veins would creep closer to her chest, eventually blackening her heart. The chances were slim she would live to see the next Progress Day.
The young girl bit her lip, hesitating before the next thought. In that moment, my eye caught movement through one of the larger stained-glass panels. I stood and watched several dark shapes approach. Aviet was no longer alone.
I stepped into the dim corridor to make my way outside.
“Do you miss them?” the little girl called out.
I didn’t turn back. I knew the girl’s hopeful face wavered like the row of spark lights on the altar. I knew because I remembered my own trembling doubt. So many years ago, Hakim had demanded of me a similar question. My heart? Him? Would I miss any of it? I touched my hex-crystal augment, assuring myself it still vibrated evenly. Just to the right of the Ferros sigil’s angular engraving I felt a small, fluid lettering. It was the mark of Hakim Naderi.
“No,” I lied.
Aviet was ready to fight, her blonde hair lit up like a halo under the streetlight. There were five men circling her like dock sharks. Their utilitarian augmentations cut jagged shapes in their silhouettes.
“Give us that pretty thing, and maybe we won’t kill you slow like,” the smallest one slurred loudly, eyeing the whip in Aviet’s hand. All the vexations of the day compounded, from Stevan’s brotherly chiding to my new unnecessary companion to the thought of Hakim having returned. I could feel the pent-up energy crackle down my spine, impatient to find release. A pompous miscreant and his dog-eared crew would do nicely.
“You didn’t say please,” I called out.
The mouthy one with the twitching nose looked up. “Ay, boys,” he said. “No worries now. Looks like there’ll be more than enough to go around.”
“Nice of you to join us, milady,” Aviet said.
“Yes, we was about to indulge in a little Progress Day remuneration,” one of the big ones with a copper augmentation said. His twin-sized partner tugged the brim of a dirty woolen cap over his fluid-filled eyepiece and sneered. “Your Grace.”
My arrival had distracted them, allowing their circle to become lopsided and a small breach to open up.
It was more than enough.
Speed and decisive thinking have always been my most cooperative allies, and I sprinted in toward the break, catching the lanky one across the shoulder with a long sweep. My bladed leg cut through the dirty tweed, a line of darker red blossoming quickly in the cloth, but it was the arcing blue of the subsequent hex-crystal energy that knocked him unconscious.
The chubby one and the one with the Sump accent took to Aviet, while the tall ones approached me. I let a dark smile spread across my face; after so much contemplation, this was exactly what I needed.
My two dance partners were not amused. Both had heavyset shoulders as thick as the double bells that rang out over the Iron Sand Commercia. They still had not decided who would approach first, and their indecision was my opportunity. I would take them both.
I stepped in toward the one with the eyepiece, letting my back leg rake down the coiled tubes of his copper-plated brother. He had misjudged my reach and scrambled to reconnect the sliced hoses to a sputtering chempump. A low swipe rendered his partner’s leg useless from the knee down. I waited a moment for the copper one to come back with his working arm. They always thought they could outmaneuver the second strike.
They were always wrong.
“Now collect your broken bits, and get out of my sight,” I told him. His brother was already limping into the shadows, his worthless leg dragging in the muck.
The metal of Aviet’s whip rang out in the alleyway. There was another wire-taut snap, and sparks rained down on the chubby one as he cowered, his face to the cobbles, tears streaking his grime-covered cheeks. That was only four.
I looked around. The rodent-faced one with the oversized ego was missing. I found him slinking back toward the Assemblage Hall.
The barb of my grapple line sunk deep in the angled stone above the hall’s entrance. I dropped in quickly on my Sump rat, tucking his and my weight together into a tidy roll.
When we came to a stop, I was on top. His fetid breathing was fast and shallow.
“Did you really think you could run?” I asked, low and even.
His head shook out a terrified no, but his greasy hand fingered a stick knife at his belt. He squinted from the blinding radiance of my hex-crystal so near his face. He was desperate to drive the knife into my thigh, anything to get me away from him.
“Go ahead,” I whispered.
His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t let my permission linger long. The tip of his knife pierced the dark leather, but went no further, stopped by the metal of my leg. Surprise registered on his face just as his hand slipped down with the force of the blow, driving the flesh of his closed fist along the edge of his own blade.
He did not swallow his scream like the others, and it rang out on the damp stone of the buildings.
I looked up as it echoed from the Assemblage Hall. The stained-glass window of the Gray Lady towered above us. A small face was pressed to the colored glass, watching.
I leaned in and let the blade at my knee almost kiss the fluttering pulse in the neck of the man beneath me.
“Hunt here again, and I will end you,” I promised.
Realizing he had been granted an extra life, my prey pulled himself away in an awkward crab walk. Once there was enough distance between us, he got up, clutching his dripping red hand, and ran for some dark hole to lick his wounds.
I could hear Aviet winding the metal of her whip.
“I heard you didn’t have a heart under all those mechanics,” she said, her interest sparked. “Perhaps the rumors are mistaken.”
“Mind your manners, girl,” I told her coldly as I walked out of the alley. “Or I’ll mind them for you.”
The Boundary Markets and the Assemblage Hall were always steeped in shadows, overwhelmed by so much progress towering above them. But it had truly become night by the time we reached the pay house nearest Clan Arvino. After some proper encouragement, the innkeeper became quite generous with his detailed ledger, although his handwriting left much to be desired. Naderi was either somewhere in the basement or on the third floor. I left Aviet to the cellars, while a grapple line gave me access to an open window on the third floor.
The small forge at the back of the room had burned down to embers smoldering under a crust of ash. I crouched through the window and stepped inside. The room was dim, with only a single lamp lighting a small desk. But it was the man asleep at the desk that caught my breath, the curls of dark hair and the desert-tanned skin. The vibration of my hex-crystal stuttered. Perhaps he, too, had stalled time for himself.
“Hakim,” I called out softly. The shape at the desk moved, waking slowly from sleep. He stretched with the grace of a cat and turned. The young man wiped the sleep from his eyes in disbelief. He was so much like Hakim it hurt.
But it was not him.
“Mistress Ferros?” He shook himself more awake. “What are you doing here?”
“Have we met?” I asked.
“No, not exactly, milady,” he said, almost embarrassed. “But I have seen your face often.”
He went back to his desk and shuffled some papers, pulling out one that was slightly older and more worn than the others. He handed it to me.
The lines were strong, the inkwork neat and orderly, and the shading precise. It was Hakim’s work, but it was no diagram. Instead, it was a drawing of my face. I couldn’t recall posing for it. He must have sketched it from memory after working in the lab one night. My hair was down. I was smiling. I was a woman in love.
The sting was so sharp, I couldn’t help but take a breath. I didn’t say anything to the young man in front of me now. I couldn’t.
“It could have been drawn yesterday, milady,” he said, filling the silence.
He meant it as a compliment, but it just magnified the acres of time that stretched on in my mind.
“My uncle carried this with him until he passed.”
“Your uncle, he’s dead?”
“Yes, Hakim Naderi. Do you remember him?” he asked.
“Yes.” The word stuck in my mouth and wrapped itself around a selfish question I had carried for far too long. One I was never sure if I wanted the answer to. If the pain of memory was to overwhelm me with a thousand little cuts, better to open them all at once and be done with it. I looked at the young man who looked too much like Hakim. “Tell me, did your uncle ever marry?”
“No, milady,” he said, unsure if he was going to disappoint me. “Uncle Hakim said that to love your work was more than we could ask for in life.”
I had wept all my tears long ago, and so there were none left to come to me now. I picked up the stack of papers and set the drawing of my face on top. The lines of ink wavered in the blue light of the machine that replaced my heart. What I was. What I gave up. All the sharp-toothed sacrifice that made me who I am today. All of it was rendered in painstaking detail. I could hold the past, but never have it again.
“This is all of it? All of the work?” My words came out a dark whisper.
“Yes, milady, but…” His voice trailed off in disbelieving horror as I set the bundle on the banked coals and blew gently. The oiled parchment ignited and quickly burned a red-orange. I watched the past bubble and darken until nothing but cinders and dust was left. It was the young man that pulled me back to the present.
Hakim’s nephew shook his head slowly, his disbelief palpable; I understood how the shock of losing so much so quickly could be overwhelming. He was numb. I escorted him down the stairs to the street below. He adjusted the leather satchel on his shoulder and stared at the cobbles.
He looked back to me; the air of defeat was replaced by one of growing fear. Having been so lost in my own past, I took less notice of the shadows on the street. I barely heard the metallic jangle of wire. The lash of the whip came fast, binding my arms to my side.
“That’s far enough, milady,” Aviet said. Her voice was smug. I watched her look Hakim’s nephew over.
“Is this what my brother paid you for?” I had suspected as much. Aviet had been watching for an opportunity all evening. My distraction at finding Hakim’s nephew seemed as good an opportunity as any.
“Yes,” she said. “All of us.”
Two big men stepped onto the cobbles, their repaired augmentations catching the streetlight. The chubby one and his little rat-faced counterpart followed behind. They were the same men from the alley behind the Assemblage Hall. The chubby one shoved a knife at Hakim’s nephew, while the other smiled his rodent smile and bound and gagged the young apprenta.
The juggernaut with the newly connected chemtubes stepped forward. His fingers twitched, eager to return the violence I had visited on him earlier.
“Mind the crystals, Emef,” Aviet said. The whip tightened, and I felt metal cuffs close around my wrists. She walked around to stand next to Hakim’s nephew. “We’re to collect them and Naderi, or no one gets paid.”
Was all of this for my brother’s jealousy? I knew Stevan felt the tide of years slipping away and saw me standing near immortal in all of it. But he truly had no idea the cost of my duty to the family. Could he not see what it would cost him now?
“And the rest?” the copper man asked, smiling at me as if he were about to tuck into a Progress Day feast.
“All yours,” replied Aviet.
“It was nice of you, Your Grace, to demonstrate your talents earlier,” he said as he pulled his augmented arm back into a fist. He obviously felt no need to hide the telegraph when facing a bound opponent. His grin widened. “It will make this go much quicker.”
The metal knuckles connected with my jaw. He expected me to fight it, but instead, I let the punch take me down to a knee. The inertia forced his heavily augmented arm to come down to the ground with me. I tasted my own blood on my lips, but it was he who was off balance for the moment. The rest of the gang’s prattle went silent.
“You haven’t seen all my tricks,” I said as I stood.
The energy of my hex-crystals coursed through me, the power building up like a wall. The juggernaut’s brother attempted to step in, bringing his own augmented fist down on the glowing buffer. The shield popped and hissed, but held. It was my turn to smile.
Aviet grabbed the trailing handle of the wire whip, hoping to shake me free of the energy field. She yanked hard to pull me off balance. She had no idea how long I’d lived my life on a knife’s edge.
My hands still bound, I leapt forward into a spinning kick, slitting the throat of the second juggernaut and coming down to impale the first. The tail of the whip snaked out of Aviet’s hand. She called to the two who still held Hakim’s nephew.
“Abandon the job, and I’ll kill you both.”
“Do you still think I have a heart now?” I asked her, her two goliaths lying dead at my feet.
Aviet was unsure, but stood her ground.
“I am the sword and shield of Clan Ferros,” I told her, ice enunciating every word. “My brother seeks to kill me to extend his brittle life for a few more selfish moments. His desires have betrayed his duty and our house.”
I felt the crystals pulse faster.
“And you will not live to see the morning,” I said.
I channeled the crystal’s energy for a moment, building its intensity until the shield that had once surrounded me became an electrified prison. There would be no escape.
I leapt into the air, higher than before, and came down hard, shattering the metal that bound my wrists and the cobbles between us. The force of the impact knocked over Aviet, her two remaining thugs, and Naderi’s nephew. The street had ruptured in a crater, and dust hung in the air. The fight Aviet had been looking for since we met, to prove herself to my brother, was not going as planned. The heels of her leather boots scuffed the stone of the street, her body announcing her retreat before even her mind had fully agreed to it. I read her fear as she stood facing me. Whatever my brother had told her of me, she had sorely underestimated. Aviet saw that any trace of the mercy I carried before had been boiled away by the full revelation of my brother’s betrayal.
I stepped forward and let my back leg arc around. I leaned into the blade as it connected. Aviet struggled to keep what was in her belly from spilling out, but it was a futile effort. I made short work of her last two goons, and the alley behind the pay house was quiet again. I picked up Aviet’s blood-soaked whip from the street.
The nephew of Hakim Naderi had backed himself against a wall in his panic. The young man’s breath was coming in panting waves through the dirty cloth that gagged him. I approached him as you would an animal you didn’t wish to startle. I untied the bindings at his wrists. I offered him my hand, and his fingers trembled at my touch. As soon as he was set upon his feet, he let go.
He had seen the violent face of my duty, what I could never bring myself to show Hakim, and I had let it happen. The softhearted woman I once was had truly been burned away, leaving only a cold darkness and gray ash.
“The tests,” he said, his chin quivering with a different kind of terror. The reality of the evening was coming to bear as he realized none of this was a dream. “What am I to show the artificers tomorrow?”
“You studied under your uncle?”
“Yes. He taught me everything, but the designs—”
Hakim’s nephew knew his options, either come to work for me or give up his life’s work. My position as intelligencer would not allow the knowledge he possessed to fall to another house. In his frightened eyes, I saw his innocence of the world sacrificed. I was a murderous savior and a dark protector. In this moment of cruel understanding, I had become his Gray Lady, a steel shadow to be feared and venerated.
“You will build them better tomorrow,” I said.
Unable to process his thoughts into words, he nodded his head and stumbled into the night. I prayed he would rebuild his resolve before the dawn. Otherwise, there would be nowhere to run that I could not catch him.
I stood and looked out over the balcony of my brother’s study. A chilled breeze ruffled the pennants that hung from the eaves of the house. The entire city stretched out before me.
The doors to the study opened, and for a moment, I could hear the preparations for tomorrow’s influx of apprentas. In those voices and quickened steps, I heard the years behind me unfolding, all of them too similar to separate. All of them save two: The one where a handsome man from the Sands danced away with my heart. And the one where I demanded the same man carve it away.
How often had Hakim come here with me between those two slivers of time? The breeze that teased the pennants would catch the curls of his hair as he stood on the balcony. “Such promise,” he would say as his eyes danced over the glittering towers of the city, the glow of Zaun lighting the buildings from below, “such a delicate machine, all these parts working together.”
I told him what my father told me, that this was the promise of progress, the promise of Piltover. It moved our city forward, but, I cautioned, one ill-shaped gear could threaten it all. One cog that rejected its role could destroy the entire machine.
Stevan’s chair creaked along the carpet. My fingers ached for the curls of Hakim’s hair or even the solace of the chaplet’s polished glass in my pocket. Instead, I coiled Aviet’s whip into tighter circles in my hands. Hakim so wanted to draw me out of this darkness, only realizing too late that my work, my duty to my family, was something I could no more cut away than my own shadow.
“Camille?”
I said nothing, unable to tear my eyes from the fragile view and my even more fragile thoughts of the past. The clockwork mechanism ticked, and the wheels of Stevan’s chair brought him up behind me.
“You’ve returned,” he said. “Aviet?”
I tossed Aviet’s whip on the woolen blanket laid over his lap.
“I see.”
“She served her purpose,” I said.
“That being?” For having sat so long in that chair, my brother was an artful dancer. He plucked at the wire of the whip.
“To remind me of mine,” I said.
“Your purpose?” Stevan’s initial nervousness slipped into agitation. He knew he would die tonight. He had been caught, and he couldn’t run, especially from me. His only consolation was to try and wound me just as grievously before his time expired. Bound as he was by his frailty, the only weapons left to him were words.
“Your duty is to me,” he said. “Just as it was to our father.”
Duty. My father. The right words could cut more deeply than a knife.
“You are here to serve me,” he growled.
“No, I swore to serve this house.” The oath I had taken pricked fresh in my mind, the oath of all intelligencers. I repeated it now without effort or remorse. “To this house, I will be true and faithful, putting its needs before my own. To this, I will commit mind, body, and heart.”
They were the same words I told Hakim the night I had ended things between us. I could not be his, for I had promised myself to another.
“That duty of intelligencer was meant to be mine.” Stevan’s voice wrenched me back to the present. He gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles whitened. “You swore an oath to our father, and what did you do? He died because you were not strong enough. And then you nearly deserted this house. For what? Love? Attention? Where was your duty then?”
He spat the words in the space between us. These spider veins, this blight, I had let it fester far too long. What kindness had I shown this house in ignoring his madness?
“I cut out my heart for the family. For you, Stevan,” I said. “I have given all that I am. After all these years, can you say the same?”
Stevan sputtered like a wet spark, desperately trying to flare to life, but knowing there was little left to catch fire.
“Father just gave this to you, but I was the one who spent my entire life proving to him I deserved it,” he said. Disgust weighed on his words. My brother’s anger ran faster, the toxicity poisoning the air like a chem spill. “You may see me as your betrayer, but you are the one responsible, sister. If you could be trusted to make the right decisions, I would not have to step in.”
I had let him become this monster. I tolerated his grim plots and motivations all because I was unwilling to face a future without him, a future where no one remembered the woman I was. If I had been stronger in my resolve, I could have ended this years before. I had chiseled away parts of myself, but in all that time, I never had the courage to cut away the piece I knew would blacken our house.
“That night, I would have run away with Hakim if you had not made the effort to remind me of my duty,” I said.
He had come to me, bloody and broken, forcing me to confront a reality where I had abandoned my charge. Even when I discovered the truth years later, that he had been behind his own attack, I had been relieved. On the brink of a decision clouded by sentiment, my brother had given me the hard push that let me separate honor from emotion. I knew that, without it, I might have given up who I was meant to be. It was his dark encouragement that let me take on fully the mantle I wore now.
I moved toward him and let my fingers rest on his shoulder. I could feel his aged bones beneath the rich silk and parchment skin. The vibrations in my chest built. Stevan looked up at me, the blue of his eyes hardening like chips of broken glass as the energy around my augmentation grew.
“You have always been my responsibility, brother.” The chill in the air entered my words. “Stevan, I will fail you no longer.”
I could feel the charge electrifying the hair at the back of my neck. I let my hand drift from his shoulder to the edge of his face. The boyish lock of hair that fell over his temple had thinned and disappeared years ago. The spark arced through my fingertips and enveloped Stevan.
It didn’t take much to push his heart over the edge, the atrophied muscle that drove my brother to such dark places finally seized in his chest. His eyes closed, and his chin sagged in my hand.
The vibration of the crystals in my chest slowed to an even rhythm. I turned back to face the city. Tonight’s cold would settle in her metal bones, but tomorrow, she would continue to push forward, to pulse with life. To progress.
Such a delicate machine.
Canticle of the Winged Sisters

An epic poem long lost in the Crownguard Family library, High Silvermere

I - Overture

An age of runes, a time of war.

The fury of the mages unleashed.

Cities aflame, continents sundered.

Runeterra undone, its seams unraveling.

Targon’s impossible peak did tremble.

Celestial eyes saw their doom,

and wept for what had become of Mortals.

Every soul cried out for Justice,

every heart a contest of arms.

II - The Coming of the Twins

Born beneath the vault of stars,

one in Light, one in Shadow.

Kayle and Morgana,

Sisters by Fate, joined hand in hand.

To Demacia’s fair lands they came,

A land untouched, a kingdom yet to be.

Though magic raged across the world,

it broke upon her wooded shores.

A Haven amid the Raging Storm.

III - Lessons Unheeded

The world endured, and darkness lifted,

but mortal hearts are slow to mend.

And truths won in blood and grief,

were lost as bitterness and greed returned.

Law and Justice went unheeded.

For it is the doom of mortals to forget,

the wounds of war, the scars of hate.

An abyss of Night yawned anew.

Until the world was bathed in Light.

IV - The Winged Protectors

A Sword of Flame birthed in lightning’s heart,

Fell from the stars, its twin halves alight.

Kayle took up her Blade of Justice

And Righteous Fire burned in her eyes.

Their mother’s sword? Passed on in death?

Morgana’s heart was broken to grasp her blade.

A veil of grief drew about her.

And power wrought their flesh anew,

in ways both wondrous and terrible.

V - Kayle, Bringer of Justice

Wings of gold and wings of jet,

sprang forth and lifted them high.

The Winged Protectors arose,

Defenders of the Realm, beloved Guardians.

Kayle’s golden light saw all.

She knew what lurked in evil hearts,

and purged wicked deeds by fire.

None were spared her wrathful blade.

Judge. Jury. Executioner.

VI - Morgana, Sword of Shadow

As the brightest light casts the deepest shadow,

One defines the other and brings balance.

Morgana too fought for Demacia’s cause,

driving enemies back in terror.

But Morgana saw the bitter harvest to come,

For all seeds sown in darkness reap evil crops.

Mercy. Absolution. Atonement.

By such waters might goodness grow,

And end the cycle of war and death.

VII - The Battle of Zeffira

Toward the city of grand Zeffira,

an army of hate descended.

The Winged Protectors flew to the people’s aid.

Kayle fell upon the screaming host,

her blade of fire wet with blood.

But Morgana saw what Kayle had not.

A secret force within the city!

Zeffira’s people cried out for succor,

and Morgana swooped down in answer.

VIII - What Cannot be Undone

Kayle slew her foes in purest wrath.

Her body torn and bloody, she cried aloud,

“Sister fair, I am sore beset!”

Morgana heeded not her cries,

her powers bent to shield those within.

Zeffira endured, but much was lost,

One sister’s love, one sister’s hope.

Each saw through a glass, darkly;

a failing in the other, a fatal flaw.

IX - The Judgement of Silvermere

Trust, once broken, only slowly heals.

Yet not for Kayle and Morgana.

Warriors flocked to Kayle’s righteous banner.

Justice bled bright over all the land

On Silvermere’s Peak, a sinner knelt,

his neck bared to blood red blade.

He craved absolution, begged forgiveness.

Kayle had none to give, a killing blow she smote.

But the executioner’s edge never struck.

X - The Plea

A black shield of night stayed its edge.

Morgana begged her sister to relent:

“Do we forsake all hope of redemption?

Are all who err damned to die?”

Her pity touched Kayle’s heart with love.

Though her warriors clamored for death,

Her love for Morgana drowned their calls.

Thus Kayle let Mercy stay her hand.

And that would be Love’s undoing.

XI - The Fall

Accord was struck, a penitent’s pact.

Reprieve for souls whose hearts could mend.

Kayle’s disciples, zeal undimmed,

planned Morgana’s death, called her Fallen.

They came with chains and frightful passion,

Morgana answered with chains of her own,

black and deadly, they struck him down.

Kayle felt his death, wailed in despair.

And took to the skies, blade unsheathed.

XII - The Righteous and the Fallen

Kayle and Morgana.

Sisters no longer, enemies eternal.

On wings of gold and jet, they fought.

Their mother’s blades clashed in fury,

clouds aflame with Fire and Ruin.

Demacia’s skies wept crimson rain.

Together they fell, light and dark entwined.

Till Morgana threw her blade aside and cried:

“Let Justice be done, not Vengeance wrought!”

XIII - The Twins Divided

In Morgana’s face, Kayle saw herself reflected;

Celestial glory marred by mortal passion.

She cried with loss and spread her wings,

to Targon’s light and realms beyond.

Morgana knelt in battle’s sorrow,

her wings a curse, a reminder of pain.

No blade could cut, no fire burn.

With chains, she bound black feathers tight.

And vanished through the mists of time.

XIV - Coda

Of Morgana, only myth remains.

Veiled secrets and hidden shadows.

Yet the legacy of Kayle burns bright,

in all our hearts and minds.

The wind whispers of her return.

When Targon’s beacon shines anew,

and night falls on the world,

look to the south on that day.

And pray for all Demacia.
The Shuttered Manse

Graham McNeill

She felt the thief coming closer with every careful step he took.
He was skillful, she’d give him that, but her awareness was heightened to degrees no mortal could conceive. His footfalls over the nearby rooftops, though soft and artfully placed, vibrated the stagnant air within her gloomy abode like the plucked string of a lute in a silent temple.
His approach had wakened her from dreams of the ocean, darkness rising up in a tsunami that roared over the world to leave it forever sunk beneath dead black waters. Part of her relished the extinction this wave would bring, even as she knew she had played some role in its coming.
The dream fell away as her multi-faceted eyes opened and she reached out through her every sense. Perceptions colored by scents and sounds, movement felt in the tremors of the air. Still weary and worn thin from her most recent voyage to the mist-wreathed isles, her irritation grew at the thought of having to deal with yet another intruder.
Her cellar lair was folded with shadow, but the heavy barrels, rotted tapestries, and icy floorboards were as clear to her as if daylight were pouring through the shuttered grates.
A whisper of skittering legs echoed throughout the manse, a rustle of hundreds of glossy bodies scuttling from their domains in anticipation of her desires. The dripping walls and sagging ceiling rippled with undulant motion and the gleam of thousands of unblinking eyes.
“Soon, little ones,” she said, her voice smoky and rich with aristocratic tones. “Let me play with this one awhile.”
She felt their appetite for human flesh, sharp with need.
It mirrored her own.
She eased from her resting place, her dreaming form a shifting blend of human and arachnid, extending her slender limbs and drawing the intruder’s myriad scents to her through the surfaces of her tarsal claws. She ran her tongue across needle-like teeth, learning more of him with every inward breath.
A sand-kissed soul—skin of smoke, and the thinnest trace of ancient kings in his blood.
One of the desert-born…
She felt his approach, fully aware of what had drawn him to her shuttered manse on this bitterly cold night. And who had likely sent him.
Like the others before him, he would find only death.
Like the others, Elise would draw him to her before devouring him alive.

Waning moon in a coal-dark sky. Low clouds and cold winds.
Perfect for an endeavor like this.
A bell tolled over the harbor of the capital, and icy winds carried the sound of bellicose Noxian soldiers from distant camps beyond the city’s Watchbell Gate.
Nyam moved over the rooftops with soft and sure footsteps, his loose-fitting tunic and cloak of gray wool making him all but invisible. He kept low, just below the tiled ridges of the buildings, carefully judging every step over the thin layer of snowfall.
A loose tile, a patch of ice—that was all it would take to end this night in death, his body broken on the cobbled street.
But Nyam had plundered tombs sunk deep in the sands of his homeland, and climbed the cliff-temples on the road to Marrowmark in search of treasure. He had evaded traps set in the ruins of kings and gods, so the swaybacked rooftops of Noxus—uneven, high, and filled with pitted hand- and footholds—offered little in the way of challenge to a thief of his skill.
He’d learned to run the sky-roads as a child, weaving over the high roofs of Bel’zhun to avoid roving gangs of children who beat him for the cleft that split his gums and top lip all the way to his nose. “No-Face Nyam,” they’d called him, his birth deformity giving the Shuriman-born and pallid Noxian runts a unifying target for their anger.
Even after he’d stolen enough to have an embalmer sew his lip closed upon his tenth summer, they still mocked him—but those hard, brutal years had served him well. He’d learned to embrace solitude, to love dizzying heights, and to become one with shadows in a land that knew only the golden light of its ancient sun.
But most of all, he’d learned to fight: first with his fists, and then with the obsidian blade he’d taken from the sarcophagus of a body so large, it must have been one of the legendary Ascended. Sheathed across his shoulder, it had been a knife to the dead god, but was a sword to Nyam.
The place his paymaster had spoken of was just ahead, looming like a grand shadow of its former glory, its windows shuttered, and its gambrel roof rotten where tiles had slipped loose and fallen to the streets below.
That’s my way in.
Nyam reached the icicle-hung gable at the end of a roof, and perched at its edge with perfect balance as he uncoiled a length of rope from his belt. He unfolded the hooks of a grapnel and, with practiced ease, cast it toward a gap between a row of cracked chimneys. The hook landed precisely where he had aimed, and he gave the rope a tug.
Satisfied the hook had bedded into the stonework, he slid from the roof.
The cold air cut into him as he swung over, bracing his legs like a spring to bear the impact. His boots were soft, but he winced as the sound echoed throughout the crumbling building like a hammer upon an anvil. Snow fell from the eaves, and Nyam took a moment, listening for any sign that he had been heard.
Nothing. The ancient house was quiet as a tomb.
Hand over hand, he pulled himself up the rope until he climbed smoothly onto the roof.
Nyam coiled the rope and crouched in the shadow behind a chimney. His breath misted the air, and he tugged a thick mitten of drüvask fur from his left hand, reaching up to place a bare palm on the stone.
This chimney had not known warmth in many passings of the moon.
Only a very few chimneys in this district smoked with a hearth fire. Other parts of the capital glimmered, ruddy with firelight. Cookfires, warrior pyres beyond the walls, and braziers set in shrines to the Wolf.
But not here.
This area of the city felt all but abandoned, the empty windows of its black stone structures seeming like they had never known light. Tattered curtain cloth was frozen stiff by the sighing winds funneled through the narrow streets. Far below, only a few candles guttered in window sconces, and he’d seen just a single lantern, hung outside a forlorn-looking tavern doorway.
Pallid moonlight cast its radiance over empty streets, where the snow lay undisturbed. How such a deserted space could exist in a city where every inch of ground was precious was a mystery to Nyam, but this was where his employer had directed him.
The manse of House Zaavan.

Nyam slid slowly down the rope through a wide hole in the roof.
Flakes of snow swirled around him as he descended, diamond motes glittering in the faint moonlight. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom within the manse, seeing that he hung within what appeared to be a grand receiving room with a wide fireplace of gold-veined marble.
Snow-brushed kindling was set in the hearth, and a bucket of frosty coal lay spilled beside it, like the home’s inhabitants had knocked it over in their hurry to leave, and never come back.
Linen-draped furniture was situated around the room: long couches, wide divans pushed up against the walls, and empty chairs. Judging by the icy stiffness of the fabric, Nyam guessed many years had passed since this room had been shuttered.
The parquet floor was strewn with tiles and broken roof timbers, and he carefully placed his leading foot between the debris, testing for creaks and groans. Slowly he let his weight settle, and released the rope.
Nyam pushed back his hood and ran a hand over his shaven scalp, the skin dark and stubbled, tattooed, and pierced with ivory needles like a thorny crown.
He crouched low and placed his palm on the floor, closing his eyes and letting the bones of the manse speak to him. The ancient timbers groaned in the cold like old men turning in their sleep, the walls silent, the house’s breath hanging heavy within, trapped like the air of a plague cave where the afflicted waited to die.
Every instinct told Nyam this house was abandoned, a cursed palace frozen in time.
And yet…
A faint hiss like a thousand whispered voices speaking in unison, a soft sense of motion all around him. A crawling sensation traveled the length of his spine, and he suppressed a shiver, telling himself it was just the cold fingers of the north wind.
He eased his gaze around the room, not letting his eyes fix on any one point, allowing his peripheral vision to catch any movement. He saw nothing, only the swirl of snowflakes and the tiny fluttering of cloth.
But the sense that something else was in here with him wouldn’t abate.
The elegantly written letter had been precise: enter the Zaavan mansion, find the library, and steal the designated artifact. The instructions described a grand library in the eastern wing of the manse, a room entered via tall doors of ebon black, just off the mezzanine above an octagonal atrium.
Nyam rose and moved to the walls, where the timber floor would be less likely to creak with his weight, and edged along them to a wide door at the far end of the room. It hung ajar, and gusts of soft wind sighed through from beyond.
He slid his thin frame through the door, finding himself within a long dining room.
A narrow table ran its length, still set for a lavish dinner, with painted ceramic plates and gleaming silver cutlery laid out in anticipation of guests who would never arrive.
Platters were piled high with frost-dusted fruit and icy cuts of meat. Nyam’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that it had been many hours since he’d eaten. Would such meat be edible, preserved by the cold?
Nyam wasn’t about to try it and find out.
At the center of the table was a domed silver tray, and a sudden curiosity made him want to see what lay beneath.
Nyam reached over and lifted the lid.
And a swirling mass of creatures erupted from a moldering joint of beef, gloss-black and skittering—spiders fleeing the light in their hundreds. None was larger than his thumbnail, and Nyam flinched in horror as they spilled from the edge of the table in a squirming tide.
The tray lid fell from his fingers to the floor.
In the silence of the house, the clang of metal was deafening.
He winced, and his hand snapped to the sword at his shoulder. Cursing his stupidity, Nyam moved swiftly to a curtained window, finding the shadows and becoming one with the darkness.
Stillness was his ally, and he remained utterly motionless, waiting for any sign his foolish mistake had been heard. He strained to hear something amiss—a sullen watchman, or even perhaps the owner of this house.
If anything, the house felt somehow quieter, as though something else was right next to him, invisibly watching and waiting.
His eyes scanned the walls, from floor to cornices.
Nothing.
The seconds became minutes, and finally, Nyam let out a relieved sigh. The house was empty and abandoned, something once grand now reduced to a ruin.
“Dead as a desert tomb,” he said.

Elise crawled from her cellar lair to the ground floor of the manse, moving swiftly along the walls and fluted columns to the mezzanine, each of her multiple limbs in perfect synchrony. Her chittering spiderling host followed in her wake, eager to race ahead and swarm this intruder, but she held them back for now.
They hissed at her restraint like unruly children, resentful at being denied this feast.
Her arachnoid form was as black as midnight, segmented and deadly, with an abdomen patterned with blood-red streaks. Her bladed and slender legs moved lightly, making no sound at all.
She crawled with lithe grace across the mezzanine’s checkerboard-tiled floor, toward the dining room.
A clash of metal echoed from within as her foreclaw reached for the door. She paused, and her scuttling host did so too, gently swaying on their many legs.
The sound unleashed a rush of bitter memories from her past life…
… of pain, humiliation, and bloody vengeance.
A jealous and petty man had almost ended her life in that room.
She remembered her husband’s treacherous poison coursing through her veins, searing her flesh from the inside out and crippling her with agony.
A surge of hate, the flash of a blade…
Gloating eyes now wide with fear…
A flood of red as she twisted the knife in his heart.
Elise pushed the memory away. Even now, centuries later, the pain of that night still lingered. Despite drinking the antidote to the poison, she had drifted near death for weeks after his betrayal. Yet as agonizing as those weeks had been, they had signaled the coming of her rebirth.
As a mere human, she had been beautiful. Now, she was glorious.
Elise paused, savoring the rising tension in the thief—but beneath that, she tasted long-buried fears and a will to survive past torments, which found their echo within her.
Intrigued, she lowered her claw as she heard the thief step closer.
Elise turned from the dining room and swiftly crossed the mezzanine to a set of tall black doors.

Nyam eased open the dining room door, wincing as it creaked.
But if no one had come running at the sound of him dropping the metal tray lid, they weren’t going to come for this.
The door opened into a high-ceilinged atrium, eight sided and rising to a stained-glass dome high above. The mezzanine floor ran around the edges of the atrium, though its timbers had collapsed in several places, and the curving staircase leading down to the vestibule was in ruins far below. Fragments of colored glass lay shattered in the vestibule, and Nyam peered up into the gloom to see the broken portions of the dome had been sealed with some kind of pale fibrous resin or gum.
Thick cobwebs spanned the upper reaches of the atrium, and Nyam saw wet-looking bundles held fast within them, squirming with a grotesque internal motion.
Egg sacs? Captured birds? Nests?
Whatever they were, it was no concern of his. Before long, he’d be out of this place with his prize and en route to a fat purse, a clean bathhouse, and a warm meal.
Directly across from the dining room were a pair of imposing doors of jet-black wood, polished and gleaming like dark mirrors.
“There is the library,” he whispered. “Just as the letter said.”
Nyam slipped across the mezzanine, carefully testing the integrity of the floor with each step before committing his weight. The wood creaked and groaned, but held.
He reached the doors and tested a handle, grimacing in revulsion as his hand came away sticky with a gummy yellow-white residue.
“Mercy of sand,” he hissed, wiping his palm on his britches.
The door clicked open, and Nyam forgot his disgust as he heard a soft sound, like sand spilling over rocks. He couldn’t place what it might be—vermin in the walls, perhaps?
Rats were a common enough sight in Noxus. You couldn’t have this many people living cheek by jowl without them infesting every building. But this wasn’t rats.
Pushing the door wide, Nyam entered the library.
It had once been a place of wonder.
Its shelves were high, crafted with love and care from pale wood with a fine, contoured grain. Every bookcase had been violently emptied—leather-bound tomes, scrolls, and sheaves of paper cast to the floor in disarray, books likely worth a small fortune lying amid ancient scrolls that had been torn like discarded army scrip tokens. Artifacts of strange and unusual design had been smashed to pieces, and statues of onyx and jade lay broken into shards. A swaying black chandelier hung from a slender cord over the center of the room.
And there, at the far end of the chamber, was a cabinet of dark wood and cold iron, from which a soft illumination pulsed.
“There,” said Nyam, picking a path toward the cabinet through the scattered books.
He wondered why anyone would destroy such a treasure trove of wisdom and imagination. This chaos had the hallmarks of someone wreaking havoc in blind fury. Judging by the dust gathered on the embossed covers and gilded spines, that rage had been spent long ago.
He bent to lift a book from the floor, its pages brittle with age. Portions of its thick leather cover bore the same glistening residue from the door handle. He opened it, and saw the harsh, angular script of the old tongue of Noxus, a language only the highborn patricians ever used. Nyam couldn’t read it, and it hurt his eyes trying to follow the crisp writing in the dim light.
Placing the book back on the floor, Nyam pressed on, hearing the soft sound of sand over stone once again. He paused, trying to pinpoint the noise, but it was all around him.
What is that?
Finally, he reached the cabinet, its black wood oddly glistening with a patina of moisture that seemed to be oozing from within, as though something inside was leaking. Careful not to touch the liquid, he bent to sniff it.
Salt and rotten timbers, mulched seaweed, and… old blood?
“Tainted seawater,” he said, puzzled.
He knelt to examine the cabinet from the ground up, looking for any trap mechanisms, his ungloved hands gliding over the wet wood in search of catches, switches, or latches. His awareness of his surroundings faded, all his attention focused on the cabinet and whatever lethal surprises it might have in store. Its doors appeared to be secured by the simplest of locks.
“Surely something so valuable would be protected by more than a pinlock,” he whispered in disbelief. “It is almost as though you wish it to be stolen.”
Nyam ran his fingertips around the handles, then drew a mirror from his pouches and used it to peer within the mechanism of the pinlock. No spring-loaded needle, no glass pellet of lethal gas, nor any inscribed curses or magical trap runes.
Satisfied the lock was just as it seemed, he reached up and slid out one of the longer ivory needles from a pierced fold of skin on his scalp. He pressed it into the lock and gently eased the iron pins from their holes.
With the last pin secured, Nyam slid the needle back into his scalp and flexed his fingers.
His stomach grumbled with a stabbing hunger.
He was suddenly ravenous, ready to tear raw flesh from the bone and drain entire vats of beer. His appetite from the dining room returned tenfold, and for a fleeting second, he considered going back to take one of the cuts of meat from the table.
He pushed the sensation down, shocked at how visceral it had been.
Nyam opened the cabinet, and his stomach again tightened with powerful hunger pangs.
Sitting within was a crystalline hourglass encased in a delicate framework of brass. It stood two handspans tall, and tumultuous clouds of blue light spiraled inside, moving restlessly back and forth, from top to bottom. Droplets of red water seemed to sweat from the smoky glass, forming a glossy crimson pool that was the source of the moisture seeping from the cabinet.
Nyam hesitated to remove the object, knowing it was touched by the darkest of magics.
He pulled his gloves back on and carefully lifted the hourglass. It felt warm, like a roasted shank of meat fresh from a clay oven, and he closed his eyes as his mind filled with bloody horrors…
A slaughterman’s cleaver splitting bone for the pot…
Butchered corpses hung on hooks to drain them of blood…
A toothed maw, feeding a hunger that could never be sated…
Soul lights ripped from the living and the dead…
EVEN IN DEATH, I HUNGER!
Nyam set the hourglass back down, all but overcome by the gut punch of the gory imagery, and disgusted with himself as his craving surged.
“I do not know what you are, but the sooner I am out of here and rid of you, the better.”
He unfastened the clasps securing his cloak and removed it, before swiftly wrapping the hourglass within.
Nyam closed the cabinet and turned to leave.
And his mouth fell open in shock.
Every surface of the library was swathed in glistening strands of web, stretching in taut lines from the bookshelves to the floor. Partially shuttered windows were rendered opaque and sealed to their frames, with scattered books and scrolls submerged beneath undulant dunes of white silk.
The rustling sound of sand over rocks intensified, and Nyam drew his black-bladed sword as he saw the ceiling squirm with thousands of spiders in crimson and jet.
More of them crawled toward him in a black tide, squeezing fat bodies from cracks in the walls and floor, swarming over one another to reach him.
“Rammus be with me,” hissed Nyam. “Protect this son of Shurima…”
A larger motion drew his gaze upward toward the chandelier.
It unfolded from the central point, and a huge, segmented body uncurled to reveal a monstrous spider with a pulsing black abdomen streaked with vivid crimson. Its eyes settled upon Nyam as it lowered from the ceiling.
Even as it descended on its cord of silk, its outline seemed to fold in on itself, reshaping and swelling into a new form like a larva emerging from its chrysalis. The monster’s rear limbs slid around to its back, and its forelimbs twisted and extended to become long human legs.
Its body stretched to assume the curves of a voluptuous woman clad in red and black, in silk and damask. Her skin lightened from midnight to the violet of an ill-fated sunset, and the crimson slash on the monster’s abdomen became a slicked-back mane of blood-red hair.
But it was her eyes, twin pools of ruby light framed by a chitinous crown, that kept Nyam pinned in place.
Her tapered foot touched the ground, and she stepped toward him like a ribbon dancer coming down after a flawless performance in the air.
“That doesn’t belong to you,” she said.
Nyam tried to speak, but his tongue turned to turgid leather, his fingers tightening on the grip of his sword. Her beauty was otherworldly and intoxicating, repellent and achingly desirable all at once.
He craved the embrace of her slender limbs, even as he knew that touching her hideous body would be the death of him. He took a step toward her, trying to quell the rising terror of his wildly beating heart.
She grinned, exposing needle-like teeth wet with venom.
How would it be to have them fasten on my arm, to feel her venom coursing through my veins?
Nyam shook his head, breaking eye contact, the breath he hadn’t known he was holding rushing to fill his lungs as her blandishments and seductions fell away.
“I think it is not yours, either,” he said, finally finding his voice.
“True, but it cost me a great deal to retrieve, so the point is moot.”
“The man paying me is powerful,” warned Nyam.
“And the person that item is promised to is no less so,” said the woman.
Nyam began circling around her, edging toward the black doors. She stepped closer, the spiders parting before her. The hooked limbs at her back flexed as she rolled her shoulders.
“Do you really expect to walk out of here alive?” she asked.
“You think to stop me?” he said, brandishing the sword that had once belonged to a dead god. “I have split skulls of many who stood between me and escape.”
“No doubt. But your tally of death is insignificant when set next to mine. I am the Lady Elise, and you are just the latest fly to wander into my web.”
Nyam bolted, sprinting toward the library doors.
He felt the spiders’ bodies pop beneath his boots, heard the crunch of their hard shells, and smelled the acrid stink of their ichor. He’d hoped to gain advantage with his sudden speed, but now saw how horribly he’d misjudged this woman.
She somersaulted toward the doors, springing from the wall in a graceful arc. A burst of silk spat toward the cloak-wrapped hourglass in Nyam’s hands.
He twisted away, but the sticky web stuck to the edge of his cloak and pulled…
Nyam cried out in fury as the hourglass was wrenched from his grip. It flew back through the air and slammed hard into the wood of the cabinet, the brass frame buckling with the impact. The artifact landed on the spun softness of the webs covering the floor, and rolled onto its side.
“You fool!” said Elise, as a curling wisp of deep blue smoke drifted from a wide crack in the hourglass. “What have you done?”
More smoke was pouring out—thicker, darker, reeking of old blood and fear. It swirled with red lightning, a storm of cold light and hunger.
A terrible outline began to form, broad and bloated, a vast figure in thick plates of rusted and decaying armor. A horned skull took shape, with a fanged maw that creakingly stretched wide with hideous appetite.
“What is that?” Nyam said, terror striking deep into his bones and rooting him to the spot.
“A soulgorger,” said Elise. “A creature of infinite hunger that will feast on your spirit for an eternity. A thing of the Shadow Isles…”
Nyam made the Sign of the Sun across his heart as a host of smaller forms coalesced around the creature—wretched, half-digested spirits with missing arms, dislocated jaws, gouged-open chests, and scooped-out skulls. Tethers of blood-red light bound them to the giant entity that feasted on them even as it enslaved them.
He felt their pain, their horror at being slowly devoured. But more terrible than that, he felt their awful need to save themselves from torment.
“Mortal meat for a feast,” said the soulgorger, its voice like a blunt saw through bone.

“Thief!” Elise cried, hoping to break the spell of terror that lay upon him. “Thief!”
He didn’t respond, paralyzed at the sight of this unnatural specter, a thing so inimical to life that his mortal mind couldn’t accept its existence.
She felt the brutal rawness of the spirit’s hunger, a voracious, single-minded imperative without the refinement of her own appetites.
It disgusted her.
Elise took hold of the thief’s shoulder, and his head snapped up.
“Ready your sword and fight, or we both die,” she said as the soulgorger took a ponderous step forward, a grotesque grin splitting its butcher’s face. “Now!”
Her tone brooked no disagreement, and the thief unsteadily lifted his blade.
The soulgorger raised a meaty arm, and the enslaved abominations flew at them.
The legs at Elise’s back lashed out like reaping scythes, and the thief slashed with his sword. The spirits recoiled, screeching in pain as the weapons cut through them.
Elise didn’t waste the momentary reprieve.
“Run!” she shouted, turning and bolting for the door. The thief followed, hot on her heels, but the slave spirits of the soulgorger were far swifter than she had expected.
Their claws raked living flesh, and the thief cried out as a spirit sliced his shoulder and hip. Cold blue light poured into him, and he stumbled as more of the spirits closed in, tearing at them with icy talons as they fought, side by side, toward the library doors. Elise gritted her teeth against the freezing numbness spreading from each wound, flowing through her like a soporific poison.
“Up!” shouted Elise, dragging him onward. “Move!”
They tumbled through the doors, and she threw him to the floor before turning back to the library. Thousands more spiders were spilling onto the mezzanine from the levels below, scuttling down the walls, and pushing out between warped floorboards.
Elise slammed the library doors closed and said, “Seal the way, little ones.”
The spiderlings flowed up the wall, furiously spinning webs as they went. Sticky swathes of silk clogged the hair-fine gap between the doors, filled the keyholes, and sealed them shut. Pulsing blue light built around the edges of the frame.
The webs were holding for now, but already they were fraying, the resin-like substance running like melting wax. Faint wisps of ethereal mist seeped through the gaps, along with ghostly hands and suggestions of wailing faces. Elise’s own webbing would make for a much stronger barrier, but spinning it would take time and energy she didn’t have.
She bent down, and a handful of spiders crawled onto her extended palms. As she held them up before her face, she pictured what she needed, and they leapt from her hands, disappearing into cracks in the walls.
“Gratitude,” said the thief, breathless with terror. “You saved me—”
“I didn’t do it for you,” snapped Elise, rising to her full height.
“Then why?”
“Because if a soulgorger feeds, it gets stronger,” she said, striding toward the dining room. “Now get up. The web won’t hold for long.”

Elise threw open the dining room door, moving swiftly past the long table where her husband had betrayed her. She hadn’t set foot in here since that night.
The thief was limping badly now, a pallid, deathly light spreading through his body from where the revenants’ claws had pierced him. He didn’t know it, but he was as good as dead.
Truth be told, he had been doomed the moment he had chosen to rob her.
“I miss the sun,” he said, his eyes already glassing over. “The sand…”
“You’ll never see them again,” said Elise. “Unless that’s what awaits you beyond.”
“Beyond?”
“When you die,” said Elise.
“No, I am just exhausted. Wounded…” he insisted, his voice growing faint. “And cold… I have been hurt worse than this and walked away.”
Elise shook her head, and one of the legs at her shoulders stabbed down into his neck.
A spasm of venom pumped into the thief, and he flinched from the sudden hot rush of it, stumbling back and lifting his sword. The blade wavered in his weakening grip, and Elise felt the heat of the magic wrought in the folds of its ancient metal.
“What did you do?” he demanded.
“I gave you a sliver of venom that will allow you to live just a little longer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The touch of the Shadow Isles is death,” said Elise. “Every second your kind spends in that damned place drains the soul, like blood flowing from a cut that can never heal. That touch is now inside you, leeching your life away with every last breath.”
He steadied himself on the table, and Elise saw snaking lines of black spreading across his face.
“No,” he said. “You were touched by the spirits, too.”
“My body is a thing of magic,” she said, “wrought by the venom of an ancient god.”
“You are immortal?”
Despite everything, Elise laughed with bitter humor.
“No, but it’ll take more than a soulgorger to end me,” she said, before whispering, “I hope…”

Nyam followed Elise into the chamber where he had first entered the shuttered manse. His every step was leaden, every breath a battle. It was all he could do to place one foot in front of the other.
So very cold…
He bumped into a sheet-covered chair, and his misted gaze cleared long enough for him to see the dangling rope he had used to descend from the roof.
Do I have strength enough to climb it?
Elise stood beneath the hole in the ceiling, haloed in a moonbeam and beautiful once more. Her skin shimmered with an internal radiance, lustrous and vibrant, her eyes alight with purpose.
“So… beautiful,” he said, his voice sounding as though it came from so very far away. She turned to face him, and his heart beat a little faster.
“What do they call you?” she asked.
“Nyam,” he said, his mind falling back through his life. “No-Face Nyam…”
Her head cocked to the side. “No-Face? Why do they call you that?”
He pulled his lip back to show her the ruin of his cloven gums and poorly sewn scar. She nodded, and reached out to run her smooth fingertips across his cheek and chin.
“We all have our scars, Nyam,” she said, and he felt a strange, invigorating warmth pass into him. “Now ready that fine sword of yours. You’re going to need it.”
He turned in time to see the doors flung open by the soulgorger’s spectral host. They charged in a howling mass of nightmares, screeching with frantic urgency.
Nyam’s heart flared to life like a hearth fire given fresh fuel, and he roared as he swung his sword. The blade bit deep into the smoky depths of their bodies, and their screams were of pain and sweet release. His own pain was forgotten, the ice in his veins melting before the heat of Elise’s venomous touch. He was, once again, a warrior of the sun, ready to fight and die a hero’s death.
Even as he fought, he watched as Elise leapt and dived among the spirits, her speed and agility incredible. His vision grew dull, bleached of color, but her form seemed to blur between blinks, transforming between sinuous human beauty and the lethal elegance of a deadly spider.
Nyam fought all the harder, hoping she might see how brave he was, and that it might please her.
But the fire in his blood could only last so long, and every clawing blow and deathly touch slowed him. Nyam tried to shout his defiance, but his throat felt as though it were thick with frost. His sword was heavy in his hand, but he would not drop it.
He sank to his knees, feeling colder than he could ever remember.
The mistwraiths encircled him, but they weren’t trying to kill him. He felt icy hands hauling him away. He saw them surround Elise, their ghostly limbs dragging her down with sheer weight of numbers. She hissed and spat at them, but to no avail.
Nyam dug deep, reaching for the fire she had given him, but it was utterly spent.
“Elise…” he whispered.

Hot venom furiously coursed through Elise’s body as the wretched host dragged her and the thief before the soulgorger. Its fire kept the deathly touch of the spirits at bay, but she couldn’t sustain it for long.
Back now in the library, No-Face Nyam knelt before the spirits, alive, but only just, his soul all but drained. Despite that, he gripped his black sword as if he might somehow strike one last blow.
The vast specter towered over Elise, its bestial features twisted in monstrous hunger. It knew she was special, that she was more than just a simple mortal, and it was taking its time, savoring the moment before it drained her of life.
More fool you…
“Bright soul meat,” said the soulgorger. “Rich feast!”
“Too bad you’ll never know,” said Elise.
The soulgorger laughed, a growling, wet sound. “You will be a husk in my wake.”
Elise wagged an admonishing finger. “Have you heard the saying that the man with his head in the clouds never sees the scorpion at his feet? No? Well, I always felt it would be better if you swapped out a scorpion for a spider…”
It stared at her in confusion, then reached down to lift her to its terrible maw.
The clawed hand paused before it could touch her.
The soulgorger turned to see the broken hourglass had been lifted from the floor on a taut length of silk, drawn upward by scores of spiderlings. Sick light still wept from the many cracks in the glass, but with every passing second, it dimmed as hundreds of tiny spiders spun their webs across them like weavers at a loom.
“Thank you, little ones,” said Elise, feeling the soulgorger’s power weaken, its sudden fear driving away all thoughts of feasting.
“Now, Nyam!” she cried. “Strike!”
The thief lifted his head, and with the last of his strength drove his sword into the soulgorger’s belly.
The creature loosed a deafening howl, the sound shaking the walls with its fury. The few panes left in the windows exploded, raining glittering daggers of glass to the floor.
“I won’t go back!” it roared.
“Hush, it’ll be over soon,” said Elise.
The soulgorger reached for her with ghostly talons, but the door of its prison was already slamming shut. Its form stretched, twisting in the air as it was pulled back inside the hourglass, along with its enslaved host. Streamers of cold light spiraled around the specter as the other spirits shrieked in terror, knowing they would bear the full brunt of its imprisoned rage. Books and scrolls spun in a whirlwind as the soulgorger fought the inevitable, but it was no use.
As the last crack in the hourglass was sealed with silken webs, the final bar of its prison was set back in place.
The creature’s roar was abruptly stilled, and an empty silence filled the library. Elise let out a shuddering breath.
Nyam’s sword fell from his hand as he sank to his haunches. His chest heaved in shallow gasps, his eyes wide at their unexpected survival.
Elise stepped over the fallen books to where the hourglass still spun on the web, feeling the terrible hunger within—the horror of the trapped spirits, and the ferocious power pressing at the glass. The pressure on the webs was immense, and her spiderlings’ work wouldn’t hold for much longer.
“I’m going to need a stronger vessel than this,” said Elise.

The caverns beneath the towers were cold, pleasingly hung with cobwebs, their walls glistening with moisture. Elise didn’t like going this far beneath the earth, but darkness was the hallmark of the pale woman she was here to meet, and so had to be endured.
As always, their rendezvous was in secret, their communications made by mystic signs and sigils that led Elise through the labyrinthine pathways.
Given the nature of her business, she wasn’t surprised by the woman’s caution.
The Grand General of Noxus was a vengeful and capricious man, whose schemes within schemes were all but impenetrable. Much better to err on the side of secrecy, and believe he had eyes and ears everywhere.
“You have it?” said a voice from the shadows.
Not one of Elise’s many predatory senses had caught so much as a whisper of the woman’s arrival, but she tried not to show any surprise.
“I do,” she said, holding out a silken bag before her.
Pale hands reached from the darkness to take it, the skin almost transparent, with hair-fine blue veins squirming like worms just below the surface.
“The usual payment will be delivered to your manse,” said the woman, her tones old and refined, an accent from a different age. “They will be young and dashing—foolish and devoted, just as you like them.”
Elise felt the now familiar mix of hungry anticipation and self-loathing, but pushed it aside; introspection was not something she relished.
“Excellent,” she said. “I could use a blush of youth again.”
“You are as lovely now as you ever were,” said the woman, reaching into the silken bag and removing the soulgorger’s glowing prison.
A freshly bleached skull, sealed tight with hardened webs of Elise’s own creation.
Perfect in every way, save for the cleft in the bone of its upper jaw.
Shyvana

Though they are rare creatures now indeed, there exist a handful of places across Runeterra where the great elemental dragons still nest.
Long after the fall of the Shuriman empire, in the chambers beneath a lost volcano, the elder beast known as Yvva guarded her clutch of eggs. Beyond the depredations of rival drakes, dragon eggs were priceless almost beyond a mortal’s comprehension, and so many were daring or foolish enough to try their luck. Yvva feasted upon the charred remains of a score or more would-be thieves over the years… before one succeeded in his attempt.
This upstart mage fled the mountains with the large egg hugged close to his chest, the jungle at his heels set ablaze by Yvva’s fury. Against all odds, he reached the coast and left the dragon to slink back to her lair in defeat. She had lost one egg. She would not lose another.
The mage traveled north to Piltover—but before he could find a buyer, the egg began to hatch. Whether it was the act of removing it from the nest, or the last moon of autumn giving way to winter, something had changed. It was no infant dragon that emerged, but an apparently humanoid baby girl with pale, violet skin, and the mage found he could not bear to abandon her. He raised the child as his own, naming her Shyvana after the dark legend of her brood-mother.
It became clear that Shyvana was no mortal. From an early age, she was able to shift her form into something monstrous, akin to the half-dragons of ancient myth. This made living among the common folk of Valoran difficult, to say the least. One thing was clear: Yvva retained some connection with her lost daughter, and it grew stronger over time. When her other offspring finally took flight, Yvva left her empty nest and soared far over the ocean in search of Shyvana.
The land was wracked by fierce border wars, but armies and villagers alike scattered at the great dragon’s approach. Seeking refuge in a ruined farmhouse, Shyvana saw her adopted father engulfed in flames as Yvva swept low overhead—the young woman dragged him into the nearby forest, but there was nothing more she could do. She buried him in a simple grave beneath a spreading oak, and set off alone.
After many weeks in hiding in the wilds, always on the move, Shyvana picked out the faint scent of blood among the trees. She found a wounded warrior, close to death, and knew this was someone she could save.
Without a thought for the beast that hunted her, she assumed her half-dragon form and carried the unconscious man far away, to an outpost on the borders of Demacia.
There, in the castle at Wrenwall, Shyvana discovered that this warrior was none other than Prince Jarvan—the king’s only son, and heir to the throne. Though the stationed soldiers regarded her violet skin and strange manners with some suspicion, she was made welcome. Demacians, it seemed, always looked out for one another, and her time in the town was the most peaceful she had ever known.
The peace was not to last. Shyvana sensed darkness on the wind. Yvva was coming.
The recovering prince, knowing that he had to marshal Wrenwall’s garrison, brought the terrified locals inside the stronghold in preparation for the coming battle. Even so, Shyvana prepared to make her escape. Jarvan confronted her, and she admitted that the creature in pursuit of her was of her own blood. She could not allow innocent people to die for that.
Jarvan refused to let her go. Shyvana had saved his life, so it was only right that he fight at her side, now. Moved by his offer, she accepted.
As Yvva came into view, Demacian archers loosed volleys of arrows to keep her distracted. In retaliation, she bathed the battlements in flame, tearing at the stonework with her powerful talons and sending armored warriors tumbling from the parapet. It was then that Shyvana leapt forth, transforming in mid-air and bellowing a challenge to her brood-mother. In a sight seldom witnessed in Valoran since the Rune Wars, the two dragons clashed, tooth and claw, in the skies over Wrenwall.
And finally, bleeding from a dozen wounds, Shyvana grappled Yvva to the ground, and broke the creature’s neck upon the flagstones.
The prince himself honored Shyvana’s bravery, and promised that she would always have a place at his side, if she would return with him to his father’s halls. With Yvva’s skull as proof of their triumph, they set out for the Great City of Demacia together.
Shyvana has learned that King Jarvan III’s realm is somewhat divided—with the people’s distrust of mages and magic putting them at odds with the noble ideals upon which it was founded. While she has found a measure of acceptance as one of the prince’s most trusted guardians, she is left to wonder whether that would still be the case if her true nature were more widely known…
The Winged Beast

Rayla Heide

The gated watchtower was empty.
Shyvana knew its stern, gray-bearded guard, Thomme, would have cut off his own hand before abandoning his post. She had scented human blood while patrolling the northern hills of Demacia and followed its trail to this tower.
Inside, the smell was all but overpowering, though no bloodstains were visible. As a soldier of Demacia, Shyvana remained in her humanoid form most of the time in order to conceal her true nature, though her dragonic instincts remained sharply intact. She chewed her tongue to distract herself from her growing hunger at the scent. Shyvana climbed to the top of the tower where she could better survey the surroundings, and fixed her gaze on the thick, tangled trees where leaves rustled near the edge of a clearing.
Shyvana leapt from the window of the watchtower and landed on her feet, five stories below. She detected a hint of blood on the wind, and sprinted west into the forest, dodging branches as she pursued the scent. At the edge of the clearing, a large feline beast with golden fur feasted on Thomme’s mangled body. Atop the creature’s shoulders were black feathered wings, and its forked serpentine tail twitched as if independent of its owner.
The smell of fresh blood was intoxicating, but Shyvana forced herself to focus on the hunt. She had joined Demacia to be part of something greater, not to surrender to her animalistic desires.
She crept toward the beast and felt dragonfyre warming in her hands as she readied to strike. But before she could attack, the creature turned from its kill. Its face was hairless and wrinkled, like an old man. It smiled at Shyvana through bloodied fangs.
“All yours,” it said.
Shyvana had heard stories of the vellox’s ferocity, its appetite for human flesh and its slick agility. But nothing had prepared her for the creature’s eerily human face; its unblinking eyes held her gaze as it slinked into the brush and disappeared. Shyvana’s heart raced as she sprinted to catch and kill the beast. The vellox’s fur mingled with the dappled sunlight, camouflaging its torso as it leapt over fallen bramblewoods and raging rivers. It could not disguise the blood on its breath, however, and Shyvana followed the scent.
A fallen boulder blocked the path ahead. The vellox’s claws scraped the rock as it leapt and disappeared over it. Shyvana dug her heels in at the top of the crag to halt her momentum – the rock marked the edge of a wide crevasse, plummeting in a steep vertical drop.
Across the gap, the forest continued indefinitely, and the vellox was already deep into the thicket. Shyvana sighed; there was only one way to cross the ravine, and she had not wanted to resort to it.
She checked to ensure no one was watching, inhaled as much air as would fill her lungs and felt her breath burn within her chest. Even across the width of the ravine, she could smell Thomme on the vellox’s fangs. She embraced her hunger until it powered the furnace-heat beneath her skin. With an exhalation of streaming flame, Shyvana burst into her enormous draconic form and roared. The ravine shook as it echoed back her mighty call. She spread her thick, velvety wings, and swept across the ravine into the forest ahead.
She no longer had to duck between trees. Instead, she barreled through their branches, tearing down anything in her path. She leaned into her wings and the forest blurred into a whirl of brown and green. Woodbears, silver elk, and other woodland creatures scrambled to evade her path, and Shyvana relished the power she felt at their fear. She breathed a flaming torrent of fire, burning a thick grove to smoldering ash.
She spotted a trace of gold fur ahead and leapt onto the vellox’s back. Its teeth raked her flanks but she barely noticed the pain.
“I know you,” the vellox snarled, fighting to break free. “They call you the Chained One.”
The golden beast leapt, slashing taloned paws and grazing her throat with its teeth. Shyvana sank her claws into its back and savored the sensation of tearing flesh.
“Why do you hunt me?” the vellox asked. “We are not enemies.”
“You killed a soldier of the Demacian army,” Shyvana said. “Thomme.”
The vellox drew blood from her neck, but she exhaled plumes of fire and it spun away to avoid the flames.
“Was he your friend?”
“No.”
“And yet you attempt to avenge his death. I fear the rumors are true. You are merely a tamed pet.”
Shyvana growled.
“At least I am no killer of men,” she said.
“Truly?” the vellox smiled through its stained teeth. “You have no thirst for human blood?”
Shyvana circled the vellox.
“I see the hunger in your eyes,” it said. “The taste for living meat. You need the hunt as much as I. After all, where’s the fun in a meal without a good chase?”
Now Shyvana smiled.
“Which brings us to my intent,” she said.
Shyvana dashed forward. In one quick motion, she pinned the vellox’s body to the mulched forest floor and gorged on its throat. The vellox spit scorching venom and clawed at her chest, scraping scales from her skin. Shyvana’s eyes burned from his poison and her wounds stung, but she held fast.
The vellox’s once-glossy fur was now sticky and matted with blood. Its watery human eyes stared up at Shyvana in horror as its life dripped away.
Though her hunger was unrelenting, Shyvana stopped herself before she devoured his flesh. She exhaled, releasing the dragonfyre from her chest and shuddered as she transformed back into a human. She was disturbed at how much she had enjoyed the kill. Shaking, she lifted the vellox’s body and dragged him back to the crevasse. There he would lie, proof of her inhuman hunger, hidden in the darkness beneath the rock.
Silence for the Damned

Odin Austin Shafer

Across the frozen river, the distant, glowing lights promised warmth and food. Udyr imagined a hearth fire crackling inside one of the city’s homes. Around the fire, bedding furs rested, prickling with warmth.
The loud crack of river ice shook the shaman from his fantasy. Udyr cursed and shivered. The sleet had soaked his furs, and the setting sun already hinted at a dangerous freeze coming. It was going to be difficult to convince Sejuani to change course. He wasn’t looking forward to continuing that conversation, or to rejoining the rest of her army.
In the valley below him, the bulk of Sejuani’s host approached. Through victory, the Winter’s Claw tribe had absorbed dozens of clans and all of the Stone Tooth tribe. Sejuani was a true Warmother now—commanding thousands of blooded warriors, steelclad, mammoth riders, and Iceborn.
Ahead of the main force, the warriors of Sejuani’s vanguard were unpacking yurts to house her bloodsworn and to serve as the command outpost for the army’s scouts. Sejuani’s tent, marked with blue wards and covered in rune-stitched leather, loomed over the center of the encampment.
As Udyr approached, drool slithered down his long jaws, and his teeth gnashed with bottomless hunger. The feeling seemed his own before he spotted a wolfhound trotting past. He snarled at the dog, struggling to regain control of his own jaw and rid himself of the animal’s invading consciousness.
He found Sejuani helping her bloodsworn build a yurt.
Udyr smiled in pride. This was her way. No matter the work, she led from the front. Raising these mammoth-hide tents in the soaked earth was a burdensome task. As Sejuani slammed a tusk-spike into the mud, she stumbled to one knee. Nearby, bloodsworn warriors struggled in the icy rain, with curses echoing hers.
Watching Sejuani pull herself to her feet, Udyr was struck once more by how she’d grown into a heavy-shouldered swagger. He would never be able to think of her as anything but the bone-thin girl he’d met a so many seasons ago; he wasn’t sure he wanted to. She had so desperately needed his guidance then. In perhaps only a few more years, Udyr worried, he would become a useless burden to her.
“The weather ended this discussion, Udyr,” she shouted over the downpour.
“The Vargkin tribe are a few days west of here,” Udyr began. “We could avoid crossing the river, take them by surprise and—” The minds of a dozen passing horses filled Udyr’s head. He felt their frozen muscles tightening as they shivered in the cold. Udyr snapped at the nearest horse, “Shut it! No oats now!”
Taken aback, Sejuani’s bloodsworn exchanged nervous glances. Sejuani gave her men a look of warning. Immediately they returned to work. Even they did not have the right to question her shaman’s strangeness.
Hiding his hands behind his back, Udyr gently took a small spike made of silver from a hidden pouch. He pushed the metal nail against the flesh of his palm. Hardly the relief of meditation, but the metal’s pain cleared his mind, allowing him to focus on speaking like a human.
“The Vargkin are only a six-day march,” Udyr snorted, “no walls around their villages.”
Sejuani let his eyes settle before responding.
“We’re out of time, Udyr.” Sejuani indicated the sagging yurts around her. “We must take that city across the river or freeze!” She gestured to a few of her older warriors nearby, “Most of the long tooths skip meals to feed their young. Yesterday, I helped Orgaii bury her daughter.” Sejuani’s lips, purple from the cold, tightened bitterly. “The child was two summers, but as small and frail as one on its first spring.” She exhaled and looked away before continuing. “I will not be responsible for another child growing too thin to survive the cold.”
“Then attack now.” Udyr said pointing toward the distant city across the river. “Trust in our axes and muscle. Claws and teeth. The old way.”
“The old way is to use the best warriors,” she interrupted. “What clan or tribe do I know stronger than the Ursine? How many of us would die crossing that river without their help? I will not watch my army diminish from hunger, not when I promised my people strength and victory.” She steadied Udyr’s shoulder, “I know you have good reason to fear what they—”
“Ashe’s army is what I fear,” Udyr countered. “New clans bend their knee to your rival’s banner every day. Each moon, the Avarosans absorb whole tribes. You say you want to make the Winter’s Claw stronger? If we work with the Ursine… there will be no thralls. No warriors to be reborn as clan-kith. The Lost Ones won’t stop until they kill every living thing in that town.”
“Our name is Winter’s Claw. They are our kin.” She explained, “I called this war, and we stop when I—”
“The Ursine do not obey!” More than the pain from the silver he held, it was Udyr’s certainty that finally cleared his mind. His voice lowered. “Their bloodlust spreads like a sickness. It will consume us.”
“I have valued your advice my whole life,” Sejuani said, as she considered his words. “But we must overwhelm that city tomorrow,” she concluded.
“You’ve beaten odds worse than this.” Udyr lost his train of thought as the consciousness of boars, horses, wolves, men, and elnük flowed through him. He fought against it, knowing this would be his last chance to change her mind.
“Sejuani,” he said finally, “Kalkia had many failings. She was too prone to compromise, too quick to see defeat. I know how badly your mother failed you. But it was your grandmother who was our tribe’s true coward, afraid of ever looking weak. Afraid of—”
“You will not speak ill of Hejian,” she warned.
“Even Kalkia was smart enough to avoid your grandmother’s mistakes.” As he spoke, Udyr knew he had crossed a line.
“Was it a mistake for Hejian to take me from mother?” Sejuani’s eyes flashed in anger. “Would it be better if I became a southern cow, like my mother? Should I have laid on a throne as she did? My legs open and my belly full of mead? Worthless in a fight, unworthy of ruling.” Sejuani stated coldly. “The only mistake my grandmother made was tolerating my mother’s rule.”
“Hejian raised you for her own ambitions.”
“And I honor her for that.” Any closeness and deference Sejuani had shown Udyr was gone. “I will call the Lost Ones. You may help negotiate with the Ursine, or you may rot in this storm.”
Udyr’s hopes sank. “Then I should leave,” he said admitting his defeat. “The Hounded Lord wouldn’t be happy to see me.” And Udyr had no desire for that unhappy reunion either.
Sejuani’s face transformed, softening before she gave a cunning smile.
“No,” she grinned. “That’s exactly why I need you with me, old friend.”

Above him, the song-tree’s leaves were the color of blood. Watching a scarlet leaf fall, Udyr realized how badly he’d misunderstood the color red. In his homeland, he had only seen its hue splashed against the white snow. In the Freljord, red was the color of violence. In the Freljord, red was the color of death’s approach. But in truth, it was the color of life. As long as they lived, every man and beast carried it with them.
Udyr opened his eyes.
The light of his meditation candle burned a red spot into his vision. Rain hissed against the weakening flame of his campfire. Wind shook the hut’s sagging leather walls, promising to collapse them before the night ended. On the ground around him, a thin stream of freezing water flowed between the hides of his yurt’s floor. He wasn’t sitting with monks on a hilltop in the foreign lands of Ionia; he was on the edge of Sejuani’s camp.
This is my home, he thought with bitter pride.
It’d been weeks since Udyr had meditated successfully, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. As his current surroundings came into focus… the voices returned.
The inescapable cacophony knocked the breath from the shaman. The foreign thoughts of nearby elnük, drüvasks, and horses flooded his consciousness with feelings that weren’t his own—a thunderous soundscape only he and the most powerful spirit walkers could hear, and could never truly quiet. The emotions of men came next. They were beasts as much as any other. A thousand scattered thoughts: anger, fear, bitterness, cold—
Udyr couldn’t hear himself screaming. He simply became aware of the rawness in his throat. The voices wouldn’t go away; they never went away. He ripped through his bag searching for the silver nail. The metal burned in his fingers as Udyr found it. He plunged it into his palm again and again. The shock of the metal compounded the pain a thousand-fold—but to quiet the voices, he would give anything. Anything.

Sejuani wondered how much of the army’s supplies she was risking in an attempt to contact the Ursine. Massive bonfires roared with flames three times the height of a man. Around them stood Sejuani’s army, starving and cold, stared at the fires with exhaustion and uncertainty. Dry wood was a commodity that determined life or death in this weather. And there was no guarantee the Lost Ones would come.
The bonfires’ logs had been arranged to match the interlocking triangles of a death knot’s pattern. Piled on top of each other, the wood formed a series of burning towers. Surrounding the fires, tall, ancient iron-stakes were arranged. Forged with the Ursine’s symbols, around each stake was heaped a pile of weapons and bones, like kindling. All was ready. The warriors preparing to channel the oath needed only the Red Blessing to begin the ritual.
She nodded to the bear spirit’s acolyte to begin. He lifted the massive wooden bowl above Sejuani’s oathsingers and poured. The bear’s blood covered them in sticky strings of gore, clinging to the men’s features and chests. Each man then took the bear-claw totem, dragged it across his chest, and snarled in pain as his skin was ripped open.
The final oathsinger, a girl of only ten summers, shivered as the bear spirit’s acolyte attached the traditional shawl of raven feathers around her neck like a collar. Then she joined the choir of warriors around the main fire. Her eyes rolled back as she released a sustained noise from her throat, like wind crying in a storm. Then the other oathsingers began. Each overlapping, several pitches at once, creating an unnatural, guttural dirge which harmonized with the fire’s roar. The sound dug fear into Sejuani’s stomach like an unquenchable hunger.
“Get Udyr,” she commanded a pair of bloodsworn nearby. Hypnotized by the fire, they nodded dumbly, failing even to look away from the ceremony. “Find our shaman!” she barked.
Her voice cut them from the trance, and her guards trudged into the darkness, outside of the firelight’s reach.
She marched from the fire to Bristle, her mount. Sejuani knew, whatever uncertainty she felt, her people needed to feel she was ready to lead them into battle.
She climbed onto her saddle atop the giant mount’s back, an enormous, boar-like drüvask. Its shoulders were twice as tall as her and heavier than a dozen men. When it snorted uneasily, she didn’t need the great shaman’s training to know what it felt. Ice crackled around its claws as her unease resonated with her soul-bonded steed. She was risking something other than her army’s supplies.
Above Sejuani, the fire’s embers floated toward the sky. Pinpricks of flickering light danced upward and pointed to an approaching storm. Distant lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the wall of ferocious clouds boiling toward her. In the face of this huge maelstrom, she felt as small as a child.
The first lighting bolt smashed into an iron stake with a crack. Sejuani leaned forward in her saddle and ran her fingers through Bristle’s dark, wiry fur. To a horse, or some lesser mount, Sejuani would have lied and uttered soothing words. Instead she whispered, “I don’t like it either. But now everything depends on the great shaman…”

Morning never came.
Churning, black clouds blocked the sun’s return.
Udyr shuddered in the cold. The rains had frozen overnight. The frost on his leggings resisted his every move. His mind twitched and wandered uncontrollably. Too many creatures, too many men, surrounded him, and the clamor of their misery howled in his mind.
Sejuani had arranged her forces in the twin-horn formation at the edge of the woods lining the riverside. The camps and hearthbound warriors stood on the hill behind her frontline troops. Awaiting the arrival of the Ursine tribe, everyone in her host had their weapons drawn and ready. Blooded warriors smashed shields, drums sounded.
This was the way of the Freljord. You proved yourself a friend before either side sheathed arms.
Tiny sparks of static electricity began crackling across the Winter’s Claw’s armor, swords, and axes. Udyr watched as the tribe’s warriors reacted to this alien thing, arcing and jumping across their weapons. He could feel their fear.
At the front of her army, Sejuani threw off her cloak with a flourish. No doubt to remind her tribe that their Warmother was a true Iceborn. Battle was the only warmth she needed; ice magic was in her blood. The army cheered.
Udyr followed her to the edge of the forest. The features of his face stretched, transformed. Fangs formed, became tusks then twisted back into an approximation of his own features. Waves of hair formed and cascaded across his skin, covering him in fur before reversing like waves in an inlet, reacting to some unknown tide. He growled, jabbered, and drooled. Suddenly, Udyr’s eyes widened.
“They’ve come.”
A silence swept over everything.
The first of the Ursine slipped out from between the black forest’s trees without a sound—savages, with their skin stained brown by blood. Their hair matted with filth. Some were naked; others wore bear hides or the rotting remains of clothes.
Next came the beasts, bears mostly, of various sizes and colors. Some breeds Udyr knew, others he’d never seen before. They were spirit walkers trapped in the form of the unrelenting bear. Men who had forgotten they were men.
Then came the monsters.
They were strange amalgamations of bears and other creatures, things of legends, dreams, and folklore. They had all been men once too, but now, so consumed by the true spirit, they had passed beyond what the normal animals looked like. The largest of them, a huge bear-like thing, lumbered out of the forest—where its head should have been, a decayed elk’s skull rested on a mane of black feathers. Eyes glowing with blue fire, it opened its jaws to reveal a child’s face inside its maw. Then the child opened its own mouth too, spewing a foul brown liquid. Other nightmares followed it from the woods, limping, crawling, and shambling forward.
The Ursine assembled in a rough battle line across from Sejuani’s army. They made no gesture to attack, spoke no words. They simply waited.
Udyr’s ragged breaths slowed, his nervous jittering became a hypnotic sway. The pain in his hands dissolved. He recognized a few of the souls across the field from him: pupils, masters, and former oathsingers. Clan shamans he’d known in drink, warriors he’d known in battle. Little of their consciousness remained. Most had forgotten they were men. Some had rended their souls into the raw, singular emotion of the unrelenting bear’s spirit, an unchecked confidence bordering on rage.
A man walked from between the trees, wearing only a great raven-feathered cowl and a bearskin cloak. The Hounded Lord.
“I am Ursine. I come to bring the word of the Volibear,” he announced.
Udyr remembered him from years before. Back then he was Najak, a troubled boy and an untrained spirit walker of great potential. Udyr’s first pupil, now reduced to the voice of the Ursine. Even searching for it, pulling at the magic around him, Udyr could find little sound coming from Najak’s spirit or mind. That boy was gone.
How deeply I failed you, Udyr thought, remembering too late that the Najak could hear his mind as clearly as shouted words.
“Cowardice is your true failure,” the Hounded Lord snarled to answer Udyr’s thought. “You torture yourself by trying to control our gift. Denying its true power.” The wind howled briefly through the ice-covered trees behind him, sounding like ghostly chimes. “Why have you called us, Winter’s Claw?”
“I ask for the strength of the Ursine.” Sejuani intoned. “I ask you fight alongside my host, Hounded Lord.”
The young spirit walker turned his head from Udyr to Sejuani without moving his lifeless eyes. “You ask wrongly. I am only the voice of the Volibear.”
“As his agent, I would take your oath as—”
“I cannot speak for him. I am simply his instrument,” The Hounded Lord interrupted her. He seemed to stare through Sejuani. “Our lord walks with us.”
Udyr felt its power before it appeared. The voices, the spirits in his mind from the men around him, which had endlessly plagued him… began to soften. Even that of Sejuani, standing beside him. The ring of her annoyed impatience faded away. The Volibear had come.
In the forest behind Najak, the great black-leaf trees cracked and shook. Taller than a mammoth, it stepped out of the woods. Walls of muscle, each limb larger than a man, propelled the beast forward. Its broken, ancient armor of dark, metal plates was caked brown by the dried gore of a hundreds of battles. Broken weapons, rusted with age, jutted from its back and shoulders. One half of its face had been stripped of flesh, revealing oily bone, teeth, and horns. From its mouth, an unnatural, black blood dripped. Its four eyes, impossibly ancient, alien, and pitiless, looked over Sejuani and Udyr.
As the bear spirit’s avatar came closer, it was like the quiet at the center of a storm. Udyr’s focus became singular. No sounds were left in his head. No animals. No feelings. Even Udyr’s own thoughts barely whispered. He felt only the Volibear. Its silence felt nothing like a man or animal. The Volibear’s consciousness crushed everything with its purity.

Despite Sejuani’s army outnumbering the Ursine by a hundred to one, her warriors backed away from the Volibear’s approach. Huge war mammoths, veterans of numerous battles against men, trolls, and the skard vastaya, trembled in fear.
Sejuani gasped at the awesome creature before her. She had not considered the possibility that the avatar of the bear spirit would answer her summon personally. Whatever value the Lost Ones offered, their master was worth a thousand times that.
She steeled herself in her saddle and held her ground against the Volibear’s slow advance. Instead of fear, ambition flashed across her face.

Udyr fought against the silence, trying to speak, to remember the stories of his childhood. Some said even the Volibear had been a man once. A great shaman and spirit walker who’d surrendered himself to the bear spirit so completely that it was able to truly manifest through him. But looking at the scale of this monster, he doubted this thing could ever have been a man. When the Volibear stopped in front of Sejuani, lightning crackled across its back.
The Volibear’s question flooded Udyr’s mind. It overwhelmed him. Udyr felt as if the words were bursting from inside his eyes, ripping through his fingertips.
“What battle is worthy of us, warchild?”

The voice reverberated from every Ursine and spirit walker on the field.
Sejuani had watched as the Hounded Lord’s eyes rolled backwards, then darkened to black pools before his head tilted back. Now the slight man spoke with a voice like an avalanche. It was as if a thunderstorm had taken control of his throat and shaped itself into those words. But what turned the Warmother in surprise was hearing Udyr whisper the same question.
Recovering quickly, Sejuani smiled, then answered with a voice both armies could hear. “I will burn the southern farms. I will hunt their children for sport. I will level their stone walls and houses so that none may stand against us again.” She gestured southward. “All that snow touches will be ours. My name will be fear, and our tribe will rule forever.”
For a moment, only the sound of Udyr’s cloak flapping in the wind followed her proclamation. Above her, the black clouds circled like a tempest.
“Ask for our strength,” the voice said.

With every ounce of his will, Udyr reached into his bag. He pulled out his silver nail; the cold heat of the metal numbed his arm. If he could speak before Sejuani made the bargain… if he could make the human words come from his mouth… He had time…
It wasn’t too late.
“I ask for your strength,” Sejuani replied, before her former mentor managed to force himself forward. But shaking and stiff-legged, he then stumbled between her and the great bear spirit.
Udyr dug the silver nail into his hand—he felt nothing as it passed through. No pain, not even the energy of the metal. He opened his mouth to speak but found no words would come. Instead, the Volibear’s consciousness shook him, forcing him to his knees.
“Whom do you offer as sacrifice?” Udyr and the Hounded Lord spoke with the spirit’s voice.
Udyr closed his eyes and pictured the Ionian hill, the red leaves falling around him. That memory of learning meditation, learning to control his powers seemed so hollow now. A faraway land he could never call home and would never see again. Then, Udyr remembered his return to the Freljord, meeting young Sejuani, and the years of watching her grow into a Warmother under his tutelage.
From outside his body, Udyr heard his voice crack in effort. “She makes no pledge to you, bear spirit.” He swallowed as he pushed himself toward the monstrous creature. “We offer only the war and its dead.”
The Volibear roared in anger. The force of its howl pushed Udyr back toward Sejuani as the beast’s spell broke.

Sejuani had hunted ice-wyrms alone. She had tied her hair into a death knot before battle a dozen times in the past and, with those oaths, pledged victory or her own death. She had charged into total darkness and fought trolls blind. But the moment the Volibear’s spell broke, when she looked up at the monstrous thing looming over her, she knew its true horror. Its hair stood. Lighting raged from within its flesh. Its scars glowed. Electricity poured from its mouth, as if it would explode. And Sejuani felt the most intense fear she’d ever known; she had almost pledged herself and her people to the Ursine.
This was the true power of the Volibear.
She looked to her former mentor in awe. Somehow he’d found the strength to stand against this power.
“Do you fear our war, spirit of the great bear!?” Udyr screamed at the monster.
The massive creature roared again, seeming to become less and less like a bear—its flesh seemed to lift away: muscles, fur and flesh floated apart, connected only by the endless lighting crackling inside it. The Volibear moved to attack. Before it could strike, Sejuani rode straight at it, blocking its path to Udyr.
“Will you fight alongside us, bear of storms and wilds?” Udyr shouted. “Or do you fear our war?”
After a long moment, the monster answered.
“We fear nothing.”

Udyr walked through the city’s ruined gates. With what was left of the river city, there would be no warm hearths to rid the cold from the night. The structures around him had been reduced to black skeletons. Only scorched timber and stone chimneys remained above the sharp piles of rubble.
As he headed to the center of the city, Udyr’s footsteps left a pale gray trail in the soot-covered street. Walls of black smoke swept around him, obscuring the streets and razed stone buildings. When an inky cloud swept aside for a moment, it revealed a dozen Winter’s Claw warriors. They’d formed a line around a burning guard tower, surrounding the few survivors and pushing them against the blaze. The remaining town guards desperately, helplessly clawed for an escape but they were met only with axes and death.
Near them, an Ursine butchered the remains of a shopkeeper. It turned its bestial face to look at Udyr. Gore covered its fur as it mindlessly slammed a pair of axes into the man’s long-dead corpse. Without stopping, the Ursine bellowed a roar, and the neighboring warriors closed in on the remaining guards, mercilessly pushing them into the fire.
These were the first survivors Udyr had seen. The Ursine had smashed through the city’s defenses first. Sejuani’s forces followed, but they had matched the Lost Ones’ savagery. Even now, Udyr could feel the cruel, unquestioning certainty of the bear spirit creeping through the thoughts of every creature around him. The power of the Ursine was growing.
Udyr climbed up the rubble of a stairway to a ruined square. Surrounded by tall stone buildings, he found the monster waiting for him. Alone and in the middle of the city, the bear spirit’s avatar impaled corpses on stakes arranged in some unknowable pattern. Black branches and roots grew from the speared bodies around the beast, like worms slowly crawling from the earth. The flesh and fur on the Volibear’s face had healed, its muscles seemed thicker, stronger than before.
The Volibear’s eyes turned to Udyr as the shaman approached. Across its face, a dozen new eyes bloomed, each as dark and cold as a spider’s. Perhaps it smelled the foreign magic on the Winter’s Claw shaman, and now deemed him worthy of examination. Somehow Udyr knew, this time, it spoke to him alone.
“I will be reborn. You cannot stop that, son of man,” the beast said.
Udyr removed his cloak. Then, prepared by his evening meditation, he walked through his forms: the Undying Eagle, the Clever Lynx, the Iron Boar, and a dozen more spirit beasts. He paused when he assumed the aspect of the bear spirit. With perfect control, he matched the shape of the giant beast looming above him. Then, finally, Udyr changed from the bear into its sworn enemy, the spirit of fire, hearth, and forge—the Great Ram.
Udyr wasn’t afraid of the fight he would inevitably have with this creature. He wasn’t afraid of anything. His head was clear. And in this certainty… he knew those were bad signs. The Volibear would consume him as readily as Sejuani. But his resolve did not falter. He had sworn an oath to protect Sejuani, as a father would. No matter the cost.
“You will not take her,” Udyr spat.
Silence was the only answer the beast gave as it turned back to its gruesome task.
Singed

The twisted, unfathomable madman known across Runeterra as Singed began his life as an ordinary man in Piltover. As a child, he displayed a prodigious intellect and a boundless sense of curiosity. The principles and interactions of the natural world fascinated him, eventually leading him to pursue a scholarship at the prestigious University of Piltover.
It did not take long for his brilliance to be recognized.
Singed’s research into the natural sciences was impressive—groundbreaking even—but he found that Piltover’s attention had been stolen away ever since the discovery of hextech, and the opportunities the hybrid of magic and technology presented. Singed found himself on the outside looking in, seeing magic as a crutch leaned upon by those who were either incapable of understanding how the world worked, or simply didn’t care enough to find out. He became a vocal critic of what he saw as a new and ignorant fad within the university.
Singed instead delved into the chemical potential of alchemy, and despite the boon his intellect garnered for the field, his efforts earned him little more than the ridicule of his fellow academics. Before long, his funding had dried up, and he was forced out of the university, and out of Piltover. Singed had no choice but to begin a new life—in Zaun.
In the undercity, life was cheap, and the demand for innovation high. Singed was quickly able to find work in the emergent chemtech industries, lending his skills and relentless drive for a variety of increasingly unscrupulous clients. His experiments, often of questionable ethicality, cast a wide net: augmenting humans, animals, and even fusions of the two, among countless other endeavours. Nonetheless, he pushed his new field forward at an incredibly rapid pace, but often at the expense of his own health. Understanding better than anyone the chemical needs of a living body, he engineered stimulants that could keep him alert and working for weeks at a time, before he would collapse, shivering and feeble, and sleep for days on end.
Singed’s obsessive, tireless efforts as an alchymist meant he found no shortage of patrons and clients, eventually including even the warmasons of Noxus. The gossip was rampant across both Piltover and Zaun that the empire and their Grand General were on the verge of bankruptcy from paying Piltover’s extortionate tithes for military passage to the campaigns in northern Shurima, and soon they might be looking elsewhere for new, less expensive conquests. So long as they paid his fees, Singed didn’t care.
After years of smaller, off-and-on projects, Singed was approached by a Noxian military commander named Emystan, who contracted the alchymist to help her break the bitter stalemate of the war in Ionia. She needed a new kind of weapon from him, the like of which no one had ever seen before… and she could make him a wealthy man indeed.
Putting aside all other concerns, Singed poured all of his intellect, knowledge, and experience into the synthesis of this new weapon. The result of his efforts was an alchemical fire that was unstable, volatile, and utterly horrifying. When it was finally unleashed in Ionia against the enemies of Noxus, it burned hot enough to fracture stone, and tainted the earth around it with dense, metallic poisons so completely that almost nothing would grow there. Even Emystan’s own allies were appalled, though not quite enough to name her and Singed as war criminals.
Now, without any restraint for capital, materials, or even subjects to experiment upon, Singed nonetheless feels the weight of years upon him. His most recent work has taken a decidedly more biological angle, and of a far more dramatic scope. A recent exercise in the melding of animal, man, and machine left his laboratories in ruins, his face held together with filthy bandages, and his subject freely prowling the streets of Zaun, yet Singed remains undeterred.
He has already mastered the destruction of flesh, and thus now has turned to the preservation and transformation of it… and perhaps even the possibility that life need not end with an inescapable death.
Engineering the Nightmare

Procured a cutthroat hiding among the populace and feigning civility. Only a disciplined eye could recognize the beast within, yearning for release. How could I refuse? For what is my work if not an attempt to reveal life’s hidden truths through science? It required two doses to subdue him. Impressively resilient. A necessary quality to survive the grand catalyst of pain and provoke the transmutation. The metamorphosis will reshape the man into a chimeric predator, and all of Zaun will be its hunting grounds.
Prepared subject for implantation. Tested a surgical technique I observed during the Ionian Campaign to reach the scapulae. Required several minutes of drilling through bone to attach the alchemical chamber and pumps that will deliver the transmutative formula. Subject wailed and pleaded. Insisted he was no longer a monster, but a good man. Ignored the distractions and threaded lengths of delicate hoses throughout his extremities, splicing them with his veins and arteries. The subject remained conscious and screaming for six hours. Very encouraging as he endured significantly longer than earlier failures. Finished by integrating the mechanical augmentations with the neurolous fibers of the spine. Minimal stitching required. Subject stable and recovering. I must rest and replenish before tomorrow’s procedure.
Found subject despondent and shrinking at the slightest gesture. He struggled against his bonds as the delivery chamber filled with the transmutative formula and activated. The mechanism primed the alchemicals then initiated the next stage. The effects were instantaneous. The subject convulsed as his blood vessels constricted against those first drops. The plunger pushed the mixture through the obstruction, and the subject thrashed violently, nearly toppling the surgical table.
As hypothesized, pain proved the catalyst of change. It released the flood of chemistry required to transmute the subject’s base anatomy. A snapping of bone and sinew followed, reshaping the skeletal frame. And then a jagged shard ripped through the subject’s wrist. He wrenched against the bindings, pulling until the joint cracked sharply, and his severed hand fell to the floor. There was a piercing wail, and his entire body seized before suffering a full collapse. The transmutation had failed. I stanched the wound and stabilized the body’s vital tasks. Perhaps I’ve overestimated the subject’s tolerance for pain. I will recalibrate and begin anew tomorrow.
Returned to my laboratory and found the severed hand still on the floor. Surprisingly, it showed no signs of decay or rigor. Examined the subject’s mangled stump as he spat a litany of insults and threats. The rise in aggression is a promising aftereffect of the alchemicals. But the most striking change was hidden beneath the blood-soaked bandages. A protolimb. Embryonic and malformed, but beautiful in its predatorial function. Even now, hours after the aborted procedure, flesh continues to grow and outpace the formation of misshapen bone. Perhaps allowing more time for the serum to take effect may prove beneficial.
Images of the protolimb pervaded my sleep. Its beauty and singular purpose arrested in tragic failure. But what if it could be more? Awoke with the spark of inspiration. Metallurgy. It may lack the refinements of true chemistry, but last night, it served my purpose. Worked until first light forging steel, sharpening edges, and hammering a framework. It should provide the necessary structure, a scaffolding of sorts, for the new limb to grow into. Improving upon nature is simple when she’s already offered a design.
The constraints of the procedure forced me to benumb the subject and work swiftly. Discovered signs of new growth on the protolimb. The changes had slowed, but not settled. Grafted the malformed limb’s muscle tissue, blood vessels, and delicate nerve endings to the framework. Finished by integrating the augmentation with the alchemical chamber. Observed a slight twitch in the smallest digit. Moved subject, and reinforced his restraints. What other enhancements could be made? Perhaps I shall have a stroll and take in the Gray. There is much to consider.
Returned from the Boundary Markets and was greeted by an old familiar stench. Tributaries of blighted veins stretched across the subject’s back. The infection originated where bone and metal chamber adjoined. Made adjustment to the formula, and dispensed the new batch. The subject’s stupor broke in a piercing shriek as his skeletal structure fractured and reshaped. A beastial form began to emerge, the chimeric properties finally surfacing, but then, the transmutation slowly ebbed and stilled.
Increased the chamber’s outflow. It trembled violently, delivering twice the dosage for every beat of the heart. The body contorted in response as flesh split like poorly seamed fabric unable to contain the changes occurring underneath. The chamber rumbled as the mixture roiled within the sealed container. Pressure built until it released in a rupture of hoses, seals, and blood vessels. A series of snapping sounds followed, metallic and clanging, and the subject’s restraints gave way.
An instant later, he was tearing into my face, reopening the old wounds and feeding the old rage. We struggled briefly until he finally grew limp and collapsed. A single word escaped his throat. And then all the indicators of life faded, and the body finally settled. No heartbeat detected. Applied several drops of caustic solution to his left arm, and received no response. Subject deceased. Dragged the body outside, and disposed of the remains in the Sump. Once again, scientific progress is stifled by lesser creatures. The only consolation is that even failure adds to the vast reservoir of knowledge.
There was a disturbance last night. Arrived to discover the rear door to my laboratory was torn from its hinges. Its heavy wooden planks cleaved and splintered into kindling. Inside, my equipment and provisions suffered a similar fate. Nothing was spared. And everything bore the same deep, gouging slash of sharpened metal. Hours of examining and comparing the marks confirmed the truth—the subject had returned! I don’t know how, but there are a myriad of questions already forming in my mind. But first, a new laboratory must be secured before locating the beast and starting the next phase. What was the word the subject said before it collapsed? A name perhaps? I’ll start there, and see where the search leads me.
Sion

Over a century past, the brutal warlord Sion rose to prominence, slaughtering all who dared stand in his way. Greatly feared by friend and foe alike, he was the last of a proud warrior culture that had been part of Noxus since its founding. Sion had sworn oaths to his ancestors to never take a backward step in battle, and to die a proud warrior’s death when his time came.
While not noted for his subtlety or strategic acumen, Sion’s methods were ruthlessly effective, and he won many vicious triumphs for Noxus. The empire’s might was at a peak not seen for hundreds of years, and so it took the generals of high command by surprise when a nation from the west first resisted, then began pushing back their steady advance. These Demacians drove the Noxian warbands eastward, harrying them back behind the walls of Hvardis. Sion, who had been campaigning in the Argent Mountains, now turned south, filled with fury.
He arrived at the city to find the Demacians on the horizon. They had no intention of besieging Hvardis—having driven the Noxians from the lands neighboring their own, they were preparing to return home. Sion readied his troops, determined to punish these upstarts for their impudence. The Noxian commander at Hvardis, however, had already suffered several defeats to the enemy, and was content to hide behind the city walls and let them leave unscathed.
It had been Sion and his warriors who had paid the claim to the land now lost in blood; outraged, he hurled the commander from the city walls, and ordered the attack.
Sion tore straight through the Demacian lines, seeking out their leader—King Jarvan the First. But while his own warband charged with him, fearless of death, those who had been cowering in Hvardis were weak. Their spirit broke, and they retreated back to the city, leaving Sion and his trusted few surrounded. One by one, they fell, but Sion ploughed on.
Alone, pierced by a dozen swords and a score of crossbow bolts, he finally reached Jarvan. The fight was brutal, and it was the Demacian who delivered the killing blow. Sion dropped his axe and, with a final burst of strength, tore the king’s crown from his head with one hand, clamping the other around his throat. Jarvan’s guards stabbed Sion again and again, but his grip did not loosen.
Only when the enemy king was slain did Sion allow death to claim him.
His body was recovered—along with the Demacian king’s crown, still in his grip—and borne back to the Immortal Bastion in honor. Noxus mourned Sion’s passing, and his corpse was interred within a towering monument constructed to honor him for all time.
Half a century passed before Sion’s tomb was reopened.
Noxian dominance had waned in the years since Sion’s death, and the ruling Grand General of the empire, Boram Darkwill, was willing to pay almost any price to restore its lost glory. Darkwill’s allies, a mysterious cabal known as the Black Rose, reanimated the long-dead hero using forbidden magics, and presented him to the Grand General.
He could not refuse this gift, and so Sion returned to life, driven by unnatural bloodlust and utterly inured to pain.
He hurled himself like a living battering ram against the enemies of Noxus, destroying all he faced. More so than before his death, the victories Sion brought were costly. He was uncontrollable, killing friend and foe without remorse, and those forced to fight alongside him began to desert. Finally, Darkwill ordered Sion reinterred.
Hundreds of warriors died trying to restrain him before he was finally bound in chains and dragged back to the Immortal Bastion. Without slaughter, the blood magic that sustained him quickly engulfed his mind in an all-consuming rage. His roars finally fell silent as he was sealed in beneath his giant statue.
There he languished for many years, neither alive nor truly dead. When his tomb opened once more, it was to a very different empire. Darkwill was gone, overthrown by the general Jericho Swain—but Sion cared little, roaring and pulling against his bindings in a frenzy that could only be sated in battle.
Chained within an iron cage, he returned to Hvardis, which had broken away from Noxian rule under Darkwill’s reign; Sion was the new Grand General’s punishment for their rebellion.
He butchered the defenders of Hvardis and leveled the city, laughing as he ripped its towers apart with his bare hands. Other regions that had abandoned Noxus soon bent the knee, fearing the undead juggernaut would be unleashed upon them next.
When harsh daylight floods his opening tomb, Sion now welcomes it… for with it comes the chance to shed his chains and sate his hunger for bloodshed, to briefly silence the screaming madness drowning out all thought of rest.
Sion remembers only fragments of his life, and less of the times since, but one truth has remained as stark as on the day of his death—now, as then, the world trembles before him.
In the Mind of Madness

BLOOD.

SMELL IT.

WANT. ACHING. NEED!

CLOSE NOW. THEY COME.

NO CHAINS? FREE! KILL!

IN REACH. YES! DIE! DIE!

Gone. Too quick. No fight. More. I want... more.

A voice? Unfamiliar. I see him. The Grand General. My general.

He leads. I follow. Marching. To where? I should know. I can't remember.

It all bleeds together. Does it matter? Noxus conquers. The rest? Trivial. So long... since I've tasted victory.

The war wagon rocks. Rattles. A cramped cage. Pointless ceremony. The waiting. Maddening. Faster, dogs!

There. Banners. Demacians and their walls. Cowards. Their gates will shatter. Thoughts of the massacre come easily.

Who gave the order to halt? The underlings don't answer. No familiar faces. If I do not remember, neither will history.

The cage is opened. Finally! No more waiting. WE CHARGE!

Slings and arrows? The weapons of children! Their walls will not save them!

I can taste their fear. They shrink at every blow as their barricades splinter. SOON!

Noxian drums. Demacian screams. Glory isn't accolades; glory is hot blood on your hands! This is life!

A thousand shattered corpses lie at my feet, and Demacian homes burn all around me. It's over too quickly! Just one more...

The men stare. There's fear in their eyes. If they're afraid to look upon victory, I should pluck those craven eyes out. There is no fear in the Grand General's eyes, only approval. He is pleased with this conquest.

Walking the field with the Grand General, surveying the carnage, I ache for another foe. He is hobbled, a leg wound from the battle? If it pains him, he does not show it. A true Noxian. I do not like his pet, though; it picks over the dead, having earned nothing. His war hounds were more fitting company.

Demacia will be within our grasp soon. I can feel it. I am ready to march. The Grand General insists that I rest. How can I rest when my enemies still live?

Why do we mill about? The waiting eats at me. I'm left to my own devices. The bird watches. It's unsettling. Were it anyone else's, I would crush it.

Fatigue sets in. I've never felt so... tired.

Boram? Is that you? What are you whispering?

Where am I?

Captured? Kenneled like some dog. How?

There was... the battle, the razing of the fortress, the quiet of the aftermath. Were we ambushed? I can't remember.

I was wounded. I can feel the ragged gash... but no pain. They thought me dead. Now, I am their prize. Fate is laughing. I will not be caged! They will regret sparing me.

Demacian worms! They parrot kind words, but they are ruthless all the same. This place is a dank pit. They bring no food. There is no torture. They do not make a show of me. I am left to rot.

I remember my finest hour. I held a king by his throat and felt the final beat of his heart through my tightening grasp. I don't remember letting go. Is this your vengeance, Jarvan?

I hear the triumphal march. Boots on stone. Faint, through the dungeon walls. The cadence of Noxian drums. I shall be free. Demacian blood will run in the streets!

No one came. I heard no struggle. No retreat. Did I imagine it?

There is no aching in this stump. I barely noticed the iron boot. It's caked in rust.

When did I lose my leg?

I still smell the blood. Battle. It brings comfort.

The hunger gnaws. I have not slept. Time crawls. So tired.

How long?

So dark. This pit. I remember. Grand General. His whispering. What was it?

Not who I think.

Fading. Mustn't forget.

Message. Cut. Remember.

''SION – Beware ravens.''

FREE ME!

BLOOD.
Sisterhood of War Part I: Old Wounds

Ian St. Martin

“Is anything you just heard unclear to you?”
Tifalenji knelt in darkness. She did not raise her head to the voice addressing her, because the voice was part of that darkness. It filled the chamber, swelling warm and sickly sweet, with a scent like rotting flowers. Such a thing was not particularly remarkable to one whose life was sworn to the weft and wane of runes—even a smith as young as Tifalenji did not question what surrounded her, now.
She knew when to accept that something was beyond her understanding.
“All is clear,” she answered.
“Excellent.”
The darkness rasped, as though drawing in breath. “Your mistress spoke highly of you. Resourceful,” it spoke the word in another voice, the voice of Tifalenji’s teacher, “and those who are resourceful can be of great use.”
Tifalenji swallowed. She felt the air displace, the temperature rise as though the chamber were now filled with people. Daring to look out the corner of her eye, she saw the hems of robed figures lining the walls, ringing her and the source of the voice.
“Watch the moon.” Suddenly there was a pulse of light, reflecting cold and silver against the floor. “See its course, how it turns.”
Her mind raced, considering what lay ahead, the moments available to her spilling away one by one, like grains of sand from an hourglass.
“Remember your task above all else.” A hand extended from the dark, cupping Tifalenji’s chin. “What we have entrusted you to find, to return to us, cannot be replaced.” The hand lifted Tifalenji’s head, and she looked up into a perfect reflection of her own face, grinning with another person’s smile.
“You, however, can be.”
Erath was a son of Noxus. From the first generation of his tribe to be born into the empire, his training had begun the day he took his first steps.
Fortitude. Discipline. Resolve.
He was raised among shepherds, tending flocks and beasts of burden, keeping them well until the time for harvest came. He learned to kill, quickly and cleanly, with the small knife he had been taught to never let leave his side. It was a lesson that would do him credit when the day came that Noxus would call upon him to serve.
He had been taught to kill his enemies, his empire’s enemies, but never to hate them. Because an enemy of the empire was never more than a ceremony away from being a wayward brother or sister, brought forth with honor and purpose into the arms of Noxus to stand beside Erath in the line. To make him stronger.
Kill them until they’re family, his father had once told him, when he showed Erath the dull purple trails of his old campaign scars. Erath had never hated his enemies, but here, looking around at the scope of what surrounded him, without even knowing who their enemy was, he pitied them.
The streets quaked with an endless procession, tens of thousands of soldiers passing down the boulevards and avenues of the Immortal Bastion. A dozen tongues overlapped in the primal shouted rhythm of battle chants, marching calls, and war song. The full unbridled might of the Noxian host was on display, with blades and the hands that wielded them from across the breadth of the empire. Tribal war parties sauntered down the roads, clad in skins and ceremonial dress, followed by tightly regimented cohorts of troops encased in blackened iron plate, and a contingent of brightly uniformed naval soldiers from Shurima.
And more after them, and on, and on.
Countless peoples, but a single empire. The spectacle, the sheer demonstration of strength, stilled Erath’s heart to see it.
Erath’s own tribe was in the midst of disembarking from the riverboat that had ferried them from the plains of Dalamor down south to the capital. He and his comrades had marveled over their oars at the sight of the Immortal Bastion, the towering central monolith of ancient stone visible two days out from their arrival. He looked up from watching his chieftain Yhavi squabble with a gaggle of quartermasters to behold it again, now within the boundaries of the city proper. The sun was trapped behind the trio of enormous towers at the center of the Bastion, locked away like a shining jewel.
The thought of their unknown enemy returned to Erath’s mind, and he smiled. What could stand before this?
Donnis, one of the spearmen, nudged Erath from his thoughts, nodding toward their chieftain who was beckoning Erath over. He quickly moved to stand before Yhavi, who had just been handed a ream of vellum inked with their orders.
“We move soon,” Yhavi began, speaking in their tribal tongue as he looked over their mandate.
“Have they said where the fighting will be, yet?” asked Erath, letting his excitement get the better of him.
“No,” Yhavi frowned, squinting at the Noxian script before looking at the boy. “But it won’t matter to you. You won’t be coming with us.”
“I don’t understand,” Erath adopted his chieftain’s frown. “I’m to be your blade squire.” Erath had won the honor in a blood trial before the tribe departed home. It was Erath’s right to bear Yhavi’s wargear on the battle train, to hone and oil his relic blade on the eve of battle, to arm his chieftain and bind his wounds, and should calamity pass, to see to Yhavi’s body if he fell. If not Erath, then who?
“You shall be a blade squire indeed,” said Yhavi. “Just not mine. You have been seconded elsewhere.” He sensed the confusion in Erath, and his tone hardened. “For Noxus.”
Erath straightened, pushing the questions from his thoughts, his features neutral and firm as he thudded a fist against his chest in salute. “For the empire.”
Yhavi returned the salute, and dipped his head in approval. “We all shall answer when called, blades sharp, minds ready.”
With a deep breath, Erath put his disappointment out of his mind. “I am ready.”
Yhavi’s grim facade cracked, and he offered the boy a warm grin. “I know you are, Erath. He would see you this day and feel pride, I know it.” Erath glanced down for a moment, and Yhavi handed him a small scroll, sealed and tightly rolled. “Proceed to the ninth gate of the Bastion, across the canal just ahead of us. The legionaries will stop you. Show them this.”
Even a mention of the Trifarian Legion made Erath stand straighter. He studied the scroll, brightly bleached paper compared to the rough vellum of his brethren’s mandate. He had never seen paper before. It felt delicate in his fingers.
“It seems fate has its own course for you to walk, enhasyi,” Yhavi favored Erath with the tribal expression for a warrior poised to make his mark on the warpath. He laid a scarred paw of a hand on Erath’s shoulder, before sending him on his way. “Walk it well.”
Erath navigated the bustling throng of a city readying itself for war. For a boy raised in a lonely shepherd’s village, the scale of everything was astounding. Towering monuments and buildings of stone, iron, and glass loomed over streets worn smooth by armies marching to the next campaign. Erath moved along the current of humanity, barely able to lift his arms within the crowd. He had never considered there could be so many peoples, so many languages. It was nearly overwhelming, but he kept his mind to his duty.
Few from the tribe were learned in Noxian, but Erath knew a passable amount of Va-Noxian, the unified spoken tongue, and a paltry understanding of the empire’s formal written language. He knew enough to guess at the signs and engravings to guide him along toward the ninth gate, just up ahead, where he was to report to his new commander.
Shouldering the sackcloth pack holding his kit, Erath reached into his jerkin, passing over the bone pendant he wore around his neck. He laid a reassuring hand on the pendant for a moment before touching his orders, inscribed on the tightly rolled sheet of bleached paper. The value of the tiny thing made his mind race as to who his new leader would be, and how important their mission. He was so lost in thought he didn’t notice falling under a pair of towering shadows cast over the courtyard of the gate.
“Khosis g’vyar!”
A sharp crash of iron froze Erath in place. He looked up from the ground, finding himself staring down the gleaming edges of twin halberds, each longer than he was tall and leveled at his heart. Wielding the spears were monsters of blackened iron plate, capes the hue of fresh blood billowing from their shoulders, glowering down at him from the impassive masks of spiked war helms.
Erath’s breath caught in his throat. Trifarian Legionaries. He noticed then that the gates weren’t barred. These two, of the Noxian warrior elite, they were the bars.
The challenge repeated, thundering from one of the legionaries, somehow deepened and projected to an inhuman degree by his mask. The words were unfamiliar, thick with a strange dialect.
Was it Va-Noxian? Erath squinted, remembering what he had learned. The warrior tilted his head, clearing his throat with a sound like rubble dislodging.
“Where go, little blade?” the legionary rumbled again, in more clipped tones.
Erath exhaled like a drowning man finally reaching the water’s surface, able to understand the words. Still his tongue defied him, thick and still behind teeth he desperately fought to keep from chattering. Slowly, he reached into his jerkin, wincing as he saw the legionaries tense, and produced the scroll.
The warriors exchanged a glance, and one of them, the one who had spoken, shouldered his halberd. He advanced on Erath with heavy, pounding bootsteps, stopping just a pace away from the boy. Erath looked up, barely reaching the man’s chest, and held out his orders.
The legionary plucked the scroll from Erath’s grasp, the paper looking ridiculous in his thick, gauntleted fingers. With a quick squeeze he crushed the seal in his fist, and the scroll unspooled in a small shower of broken bits of red wax. After studying it for a moment, the legionary spun on his heel and hammered the butt of his halberd three times against the polished stone floor, the boom of each impact ringing from the dark archway of the gate.
Within seconds, Erath heard the soft, echoing slaps of sandaled feet approaching. A robed figure emerged from the darkness of the gate, her features hidden in the shadow of a red cowl. She stopped before the legionary, completely unfazed by his menacing, armored bulk, and took the scroll from him.
“You will follow me,” she said to Erath without sparing him a glance, turning and setting off across the courtyard. Erath hurried after her, looking back over his shoulder to watch the legionary plod back to his place beside his fellow guard.
Erath followed the robed woman as they crossed over another canal and wound deeper into the bustling city. They kept to side streets, avoiding the larger boulevards packed with troop movements and hemmed by rows of barrack tents arrayed on either side.
Before long, Erath began to pick up strong scents on the air. Straw, cut grass, dung, smells that were familiar to any shepherd or beast herder. He heard the low baying of animals, some he recognized, many he did not.
The narrow alley they were walking ended, opening up into a wide open square filled with people tending animals. Massive pack beasts grazed on confined plots. Men and women checked pens of sheep and counted chickens in their coops. It seemed to Erath as though the area had served some other purpose, maybe as a park or public garden, but now had been requisitioned and was being used as part of the greater mobilization.
The comfort of familiarity washed over Erath, setting his mind at ease as they stopped before a tent at the periphery of the square. The robed woman returned the scroll to Erath and pulled the flap aside, gesturing for him to enter and disappearing as soon as he had.
Inside the tent the air was cold, and thick with the spicy tang of incense that made Erath’s eyes water. He wrinkled his nose as he stood at the entrance, squinting to try to study the interior. The only light came from a kneeling figure at the center of the tent, her arms weaving a strand of glowing green runes around a sword that hung suspended in the air above her.
Erath watched the magic, entranced by the elegant dance of the runes as they burned themselves into the blade of the sword and vanished one by one. He remembered watching the shamans of his tribe as a child, when they turned the air into fire for their rituals. He avoided staring directly at the symbols, as even out of the corner of his eye they made his teeth itch. The woman turned her head slightly as the last rune winked out, catching her blade as it fell and rising to her feet.
“Reporting for duty,” Erath snapped to attention and saluted. He extended the scroll to her. “My orders.”
The woman ignored him, moving as though in a trance to set her blade on an arming rack. She lit a lantern at the center of the tent, bathing them both in soft, amber light. She was tall, her dusky skin speaking of a home far from the chill northern reaches Erath hailed from. He saw the same green light from the runes flicker once in her eyes, as she glanced at him.
“Literate?”
Erath hesitated. Her Va-Noxian had a lilting, mellifluous accent, far different from the curt and guttural voices he had heard so far in the capital. The woman’s eyes narrowed.
“You are literate?” she asked again. She looked either fatigued or bored, and Erath couldn’t tell which.
Erath nodded. “I know some of the written word, mistress.”
“Did you read this?” she asked, holding up the scroll Erath realized was no longer in his hand.
“No, mistress,” Erath shook his head.
“Good,” she said sharply, tucking the roll of paper into her sleeve. “I am Tifalenji, and from this moment, my word is law to you. Read, think, and do what I say, when I say, and much unpleasantness will be avoided between us. Do you understand?”
Erath saluted again. “Yes, mistress.”
“Once we are clear of the capital, there will be no more saluting.” Tifalenji took up a ledger from a table, thumbing through its contents.
“May I ask a question, mistress?”
She looked up. “Do not make a habit of it.”
“How may I serve?” Erath asked. “What are to be my duties?”
Tifalenji snapped the ledger shut. “I needed someone versed in the care and upkeep of beasts, young and of hearty enough stock. You are from the plains of Dalamor, yes?”
“Yes, mistress,” he fought to keep anger from his voice. He had nearly had to kill his cousin to win his blood trial and become his chieftain’s second, and now he was back to tending beasts? “I was a shepherd there.”
She offered him a thin smile, and Erath could swear he could hear something snarling behind him, just within earshot. “The creatures under your care here may be more… exotic.”
The flap of the tent was thrown open in a snap of whipping canvas. Erath turned, his hand immediately on the grip of his knife.
“I wouldn’t,” said Tifalenji, as Erath discovered the source of the snarling.
Four drakehounds lined the entrance to the tent, sleek beasts of taut rippling muscle, bony carapace, and razor-sharp claws. Erath was told stories as a boy of when the tribes of the plains were brought into the Empire, that the chief of chiefs had been honored with a single drakehound pup, a gift worth more than three wagons of silver. He had never seen one up close, let alone a whole pack of them.
A woman in gleaming war-plate stood behind them, glowering from behind an armored mask. Her hair was a stunning, crimson red, bound at the top of her head and flowing like a crest down her back. The hounds parted as she stepped forward into the tent, a pair to either side.
“Arrel,” Tifalenji inclined her head. “You made good time, tracker.”
Erath beheld Arrel, still unable to imagine someone owning four drakehounds. “Are you of the nobility, mistress?”
Arrel flicked her eyes to Erath, as gray and cold as her armor, then back to Tifalenji.
“Our blade squire,” said Tifalenji to Arrel before looking at Erath. “We don’t send the nobility to Tokogol.”
“The western frontier,” said Erath. “How did you find Tokogol, mistress?”
“Cold,” Arrel grumbled. Her voice was low, her accent severe.
“I see,” Erath nodded. “And your journey here?”
“Long,” Arrel glanced back at Tifalenji. “Does it always talk this much?”
Erath started. “Have I displeased you, mistress?”
“Fourth,” Arrel called. One of the drakehounds snapped forward from Arrel’s side, placing itself between her and Erath. Barely restrained violence radiated from the beast’s muscled frame. Thin strands of saliva descended from its bony mask, pebbled with froth from a growling throat.
“If you had displeased me, blade squire,” said Arrel, “this hound would have made it known to you. And I am not your mistress.”
“Forgiveness,” Erath took a slow step back. “How would you have me address you, then?”
“Unless necessary, I would have that you not.” She tensed, as though speaking this much had made her throat sore. She flicked her wrist, signaling an end to the discussion.
“There is a quartermaster outside gathering our supplies,” said Tifalenji, handing Erath a requisitions order. “Go and find him.”
Erath exhaled, walking carefully around Arrel and her hounds to exit the tent. He heard Arrel ask a question as he left, the same one he still asked himself.
“Why am I here, runesmith?”
“Never seen a basilisk before, eh, boy?”
Erath barely heard the quartermaster, his attention consumed by the great, lumbering beast before him. A giant saurian, the basilisk’s green flesh was hard as iron, and bulging with bands of dense muscle from its tree-trunk limbs to its long, thick tail. It looked to Erath as though it could crush a man into a paste without ever realizing it had done so.
“What are you used to tending?” the quartermaster asked.
“Sheep,” Erath answered.
“Ah, don’t you fret,” the quartermaster clapped Erath on the back. “Just think of him like a big sheep, then. He’s still a baby so you’ll be fine with ’im. Time hasn’t made ’im mean, yet.”
“This,” Erath looked at the man, “is a baby?”
The quartermaster chuckled. “We use the bigguns to break down castle walls, son.”
Erath glanced at the requisitions order the runesmith had given him. Mercifully it was written in plain terms, mostly numbers, and the quartermaster had helped with anything he couldn’t understand. The basilisk would be carrying the better part of an entire campsite on its back, but it looked like they were carrying much more equipment than would be needed for three people, even with Arrel’s drakehounds.
“Everything in order?” Tifalenji appeared behind Erath. He noticed she was fully armored now, with her rune-etched sword on her back and a canvas rucksack at her feet.
“We’re getting him squared away,” replied the quartermaster. “Most everything but the waterskins are loaded, we’ll be takin’ care of that next and you’ll be on your way.”
“Good,” said the runesmith, checking the height of the sun. “We’ll link with the caravans leaving out the south entrance. We need to be on the road and clear of the city before sunfall.”
“The road?” Erath asked. Ever since he arrived at the capital, Erath had watched the armies and warbands of Noxus, including his own tribe, march to embark on great troop ships at the docks. “We won’t be traveling with the others across the sea?”
The runesmith shook her head. “No, we aren’t finished on the mainland, yet. There’s still someone we need to find first.”
They left the organized chaos of the capital behind. The towering silhouette of the Immortal Bastion lingered on the horizon as Erath, Arrel, and Tifalenji joined a massive procession of troops moving east across the southern steppe of Noxus. Like a gargantuan snake of red banners and dark iron they marched, traversing flat plains that reminded Erath of his home, back in Dalamor.
“There’s just too many of us,” a grizzled line sergeant had told Erath, waiting in the ration line as they camped one night. “The capital’s docks are huge and they could run them day and night—and they are—and it still wouldn’t be enough for the full mobilization.”
“That’s why we are going east?” Erath asked.
The sergeant grunted, smiling at his beaten tin cup as it was filled with stew and a hunk of hard brown bread. “While the rest of them get to share a damp boat’s innards with some rats for company, we get to stretch our legs a bit before we split off to berths across the coast.”
“And then where?” Erath nodded his thanks to the cook as he received his own portion. “Where are all of us going?”
“Nobody’s told you?” the line sergeant scoffed. “We’re going to Ionia, boy.”
Erath stumbled to a halt, his food nearly falling from numb fingers. He felt for his chest, finding the lump of the pendant he wore. Ionia.
“You’re holding up the line,” the sergeant frowned at him.
“The last time…” Erath said quietly. “The war. The empire, they levied half the men of my tribe to go fight.” He looked up at the sergeant. “None of them came back.”
“Sounds like you’re gonna get a chance to get some blood back.” The sergeant pulled the collar of his tunic down, revealing a wicked red scar that branched like lightning across his entire chest. “Magic. A lot of us got scores to settle over there, kid, and we’ve been patient. Now it’s time to collect.”
Erath offered the sergeant a thin smile he didn’t feel, and wandered back to his billet, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore.
The march continued on, brisk and uneventful. As the days went on, more segments of the battle train branched off, heading to ports they were assigned to deploy from. Erath continued to feel isolated from his companions, the runesmith Tifalenji aloof and Arrel hostile, so he focused instead on what he had been seconded from his tribe to do, and cared for the party’s hulking basilisk.
Despite the creature’s immense size and strength, the quartermaster back in the capital had been right. Erath found him docile and receptive to his care, something he hoped with time would extend to Arrel’s drakehounds, though he didn’t hang too much hope on that. The pack practically orbited the armored Noxian at all times, totally obedient to their alpha.
Erath had taken to calling the basilisk Talz, the name of his old herding dog when he had been a boy. The lumbering saurian responded to his new name as Erath led him to graze and kept him in line with the convoy.
A week into their journey, the runesmith gathered the party, announcing that while the main body was continuing east, they would be taking their own path down a southern branch.
“We make for the Bloodcliffs,” said Tifalenji, as Erath watched the convoy slowly shrink in the distance, still an unbroken column of Noxian warriors marching to the coast.
“What’s there?” he asked.
“Not what,” answered the runesmith, “but who.”
Erath nodded, remembering Tifalenji had mentioned someone else before. He looked back at the extra supplies loaded onto Talz’s back. “Who is it?”
“A haughty k’naad,” scoffed Arrel, pouring water from a flask into her palm to allow her hounds to drink. First’s ears perked up at the word, which Erath didn’t know but could guess as to its meaning. Arrel sneered at Tifalenji. “We are wasting our time, we don’t need her.”
“I’ll be the reckoner of that,” the runesmith replied flatly. She glanced at Erath, and sighed through her teeth. “Her name is Marit, blade squire.”
“Marit’s quite keen on reminding anyone within earshot that she was of the nobility before the revolution,” grumbled Arrel. “They stripped her family of their estate and power, though she hardly seems to realize that from talking to her.”
Arrel scanned the landscape. “She went on and on about these wondrous lands her family held.” She shook her head. “What a shithole.”
“She is an elite soldier,” countered Tifalenji. “Experienced and battle-tested. She will be an asset, and that is the end of this conversation.”
The road to the Bloodcliffs cut through arid plains and low, sunbaked hills. The heat was a new experience for Erath, far from the fog-blanketed chill of Dalamor. He took care to ration what water they had as they traveled beneath the glaring sun in a cloudless, blisteringly blue sky.
Arrel paused, and Erath patted Talz’s flank to bring him to a halt as he watched the tracker. She knelt, pressing a palm to the earth. “Something’s close.”
From atop Talz’s back, the runesmith drew a spyglass from her belt, extending the brass tube and looking through it. “Riders ahead,” she confirmed. “And they aren’t Noxian.”
Erath looked, seeing two tiny figures as they crested the top of a hill. He was just able to make out that they were on horseback. His pulse quickened, and his hand fell to the leather-wound haft of the short falchion at his hip. After so long on the road, day after day of monotony, the prospect of a skirmish was refreshingly welcome.
“Second, Third,” Arrel called, and the two drakehounds leapt forward.
“Wait,” said Tifalenji, now looking behind them. “There’s more.”
Erath turned, seeing more figures appear behind them, and then to either side. He barely heard the sharp note of a horn, as they descended the hills toward them.
“Raiders,” Tifalenji drew the runesword on her back. “Form a circle, now.”
The ground began to shake, soft at first but steadily climbing to thunder as the horsemen charged. Erath turned to Talz, trying to find some means to root him to the ground in case the basilisk panicked, and recoiled as Tifalenji struck him across the head.
“Focus!” she hissed.
Erath forgot Talz, pulling his falchion and gripping it tightly. He distanced himself from Arrel and the runesmith, trying to cover his third of the tiny perimeter they made. The raiders were in full view now, lightly armored with billowing cloaks and teal banners streaming from the tips of barbed lances.
The Noxians braced for the charge. Emerald fire lit the runes along Tifalenji’s blade. Arrel’s hounds howled.
At the last second, the horses peeled to either side, sprinting in a circle around them. The dust kicked up by their iron-shod hooves grew into a thick, whirling curtain, rising to cut them off from the world. Erath could just barely make out the silhouettes whipping around them.
The air whistled and Erath leapt to one side as a lance embedded itself where he’d just been standing. He heard Arrel bark a command and one of her hounds leapt into the dust. Tifalenji began chanting, the words hurting Erath’s ears as worms of green light shivered across her blade.
“Say-RAH-dech!” she roared, slashing with her blade and sending a wave of jade lightning through the wall.
Erath couldn’t tell if she hit anything. If Arrel’s hound was still alive. Everything was chaos. Noise. A keening wail split the air. The cyclone caging them shuddered. Erath heard something rip, and leapt back as a jet of dark blood burst from the wall of dust, coating his face and chest with hot crimson.
He stood there. Help them, you idiot.
The dust began to settle, and Erath summoned his courage. He focused on a shadow directly ahead of him and charged with falchion raised and the death cry of his tribe on his lips. He sprinted through the stinging grit, and as he opened his eyes he found what stood before him was no horse.
Whatever it was, its rider had a glaive at his throat in an instant.
“Now, now,” came a voice, smooth and cultured. “My dear steed feasted well today but she may yet have room for more.”
The speartip lifted Erath’s jaw, and he followed it up to the speaker. She was a tall, thin woman, her face hidden behind a mask of iron and black leather. A Noxian banner hung from her glaive, while a second tattered standard Erath didn’t recognize was gathered around her shoulders like a cloak.
She rode confidently upon a lithe, bipedal creature, all sleek muscle and lashing tail, somewhere between a lizard and a bird. Its vicious visage bared its blood-stained fangs in challenge. The dust had cleared now, revealing the dead raiders around them in various states of dismemberment.
Erath felt the penetrating gaze from behind the mask, studying him. Her eyes narrowed in amusement as she dipped her glaive to a dead raider, cutting his banner free with a flick of her wrist. Only then did he see the others dangling from her mount as Tifalenji and Arrel approached.
“Arrel, you icy k’naad!” the Noxian exclaimed, striding out confidently to meet the party. “Where did they dig you out of? Last I heard you were hunting bounties in that wretched stink-pit Zaun.” She shivered theatrically. “Like missing teeth, that city. Hideous!”
“Marit,” Arrel said flatly. Erath glanced at the tracker. Even for Arrel, the greeting seemed cold, and he saw something different in the steel grey of her eyes.
“And who are your friends here?” Marit regarded Erath and Tifalenji. “I find it hard to believe you would just happen to be passing through.”
“Hail,” said Tifalenji, dipping her head in greeting. “Your instincts are true enough. We come in the empire’s service. Our mandate.”
The runesmith handed Marit a scroll. The masked woman unfurled it, her dark eyes flicking up to regard Tifalenji several times as she read it.
“Under penalty of death,” Marit read dramatically, before handing the scroll back to Tifalenji. “Well this all seems to be in order. When do we leave?”
“Now,” answered Tifalenji.
“Fair enough,” Marit eyed Erath. “manservant, eh?”
He hesitated. “Uh, I’m a blade squi—”
“You may address me as ‘my lady,’ manservant,” Marit gestured to her mount. “And this is my glorious steed, the Lady Henrietta Eliza Vaspaysian IV of Orogonthis.” She looked at Erath, narrowing her eyes. “But you do appear quite stupid, so I suppose just Henrietta will suffice.”
Henrietta swung her long, muscled neck in Erath’s direction, breathing out a chittering hiss through her gleaming fangs.
“What does she eat?” asked Erath.
“People who get on my nerves,” said Marit as she turned away toward her pavilion. “Tend to her ends, little man, and speak when spoken to.”
Erath opened his mouth to reply, but Henrietta hissed again, and he bit down on his anger.
Together they worked quickly, striking Marit’s camp and loading it onto Talz. The basilisk bore the weight easily, as though he didn’t even notice the added burden. Erath was beginning to understand how a fully grown one could level fortifications.
“Is everything ready to move?” asked the runesmith.
Erath nodded, and she signaled for them to move. Marit leapt up into a polished leather saddle on Henrietta’s back, binding the Noxian banner to her glaive and the second standard around her neck like a cloak.
“Come on then, Talz!” Erath called, urging the basilisk from where it drank and munched on the soft grasses of the watering ground.
Marit cocked her head to one side. “Wait, he named our pack animal?”
“He did,” said Arrel.
Marit scoffed. “Well, I suppose we can use the idiot’s tears to season the meat when we have to eat it on the trail.”
“Those riders,” said Tifalenji, nodding in the direction where she had watched them vanish over the horizon.
“Yes?” Marit leaned down from her saddle. “What about them?”
“Aren’t you concerned they’ll simply go back to raiding in your absence?”
Marit waved her hand. “Nonsense. These are my ancestral lands. If they choose to be good stewards of them then fine, and if they don’t, I’ll just kill them all when I return. Worry gives you frown-lines.”
A few days’ ride took them from the Bloodcliffs. The runesmith kept their pace brisk, having the party sleep in shifts along the trail and only stopping when absolutely necessary. Erath saw her each night, either on the road or at camp, sitting apart from the others with her eyes intent upon the moon.
They skirted east across the base of low mountains before arriving at their port of call at the Drakkengate, at the first light of dawn. Erath found the docks there to be just as bustling as any other, mired in the same organized chaos of armed mobilization that seemed to be taking place over the entire eastern coast of Noxus. Thousands of warriors, and the countless armorers, cooks, builders, menders, priests, and forge-smiths that attended to them, filed into the holds of great troop ships, ready to unfurl immense crimson sails and dip their oars for the voyage across the sea.
Erath set about hunting down supplies as soon as they arrived. While the ships were already provisioned for soldiers and more common animals for the crossing, their party had accumulated a variety of exotic creatures he was now responsible for. Luckily for Erath, the mandate the runesmith carried granted them swift passage through the congested queues and overruled any of the more obstinate quartermasters. Before midday, they were ready to board.
“There,” Tifalenji pointed toward the docks. “That is our ship. The Atoniad.”
Erath’s eyes fell upon the vessel. The Atoniad was a troop carrier of unmistakably Noxian design, from its strong lines and dark iron plating to the tightly bound red sails, eager to be unleashed and carry the ship forward onto the waves. The largest boat he had ever embarked upon was the river skiff that had borne his tribe to the Immortal Bastion, and comparing that to the Atoniad was like comparing a toothpick to a battle axe.
Lines of men and women were already boarding, filing up gangplanks, while other wider ramps admitted animals and pallets of tools, stone, and lumber.
“I don’t see many soldiers,” said Erath.
“We’ll be traveling with mostly laborers and stonemasons,” said Tifalenji. “The Atoniad is bound for Fae’lor, not the main islands.”
“Fae’lor?” Erath glanced at the runesmith. “We go to the great fortress, then?”
“What’s left of it,” muttered Arrel.
Word had reached as far as Dalamor of the tragedy at Fae’lor. Erath had gathered with the tribe around a fire as the shamans relayed how a cowardly band of Ionians had assaulted the Noxian fortress there. In their desperation, they had unleashed magic that was beyond their power to control, wrecking horrific damage to the defenses, there.
A fortnight later, the tribe had received the call to carry their spears to the capital.
All of their spears.
“We embark,” said Tifalenji. She pointed to the wider access points. “Take the beasts and get them aboard, blade squire.”
Erath dipped his head, looking over at Arrel. “Shall I take the hounds as well?”
All four drakehounds glared at Erath. They somehow managed to snarl at him in the exact same pitch, at the exact same time. A chorus of angry jaws.
“They will remain with me,” Arrel snapped a finger and the pack fell silent.
Erath gathered up the reins for Talz. Marit handed over the reins to Henrietta, favoring her steed with a final caress down her jawline.
“Make sure the good lady has her own accommodations,” called Marit as Erath led the beasts toward the ship. “If you put anything else in with her, she’ll be alone soon enough.”
The open air was cold, and sharp with salt spray. Twelve other ships sailed beside the Atoniad in the squadron, their red sails full and taut with a generous wind that at least for now handled the duty of the oarsmen below decks. Gossip aboard amongst bored soldiers had spread the rumor that they had passed through pirate routes at some point the previous night, though few of them could imagine any corsair fool enough to try their luck against a dozen Imperial warships packed from bow to stern with war-edgy killers.
Erath turned from looking out across the squadron as Arrel approached, nearly saluting before remembering he had been told not to. Arrel ignored the awkwardness. She glanced down, noting how tightly the boy held on to the railing. “Your first passage?”
The blade squire nodded. “Three days at sea, and still another three, they say, until we get to Fae’lor.” He waved a hand at the endless span of churning grey waves stretching all the way to the horizon, broken only by the salt-shrouded shapes of the other warships. “I never thought there could be this much water.”
Arrel grunted, noncommittal.
“You were in the war before,” Erath said, uneasy with the subject. “Ionia, what is it like?”
Arrel did not answer him at once. The tracker stared out over the ocean, reaching down to scratch the sleek, leathery skin behind Second’s bony crestmask. She breathed slowly. “It is a place of beauty, and of death.”
“All of Ionia is just one giant jungle raptor with its head cut off,” Marit appeared from behind them, strutting forward to lounge against the railing. “We decapitated it last time, and now it’s just thrashing about, making a mess, too stupid to realize it’s already dead.”
“I’ve hunted raptors,” said Arrel. “And even headless they can still gut you.”
“So it is war, then?” asked Erath. “Another war with Ionia?”
Marit shrugged. “Damned if I know, but the Grand General sure shoved a lot of boots across the ocean just to rattle swords. Just hope he has enough backbone to let us finish what we start, this time.”
Arrel walked away, and Erath looked back at the fathomless expanse of gently crashing waves. “What is the name of this ocean?” he asked.
“Who cares what it’s called?” Marit leaned over Erath’s shoulder before she stalked off. “It’s ours.”
Erath had never been so grateful to see dry land.
The fortress of Fae’lor grew in size and definition on the horizon before them. The Atoniad had made speed in her voyage to the island, but Erath had discovered he was far from suited for a life on the seas. The heaving, rolling motion of their warship had stolen many meals from his stomach, offered to the ocean in the queasy tribute of abrupt sickness. Everything was soaked, coated in a crackling crust of salt that burned his skin.
He had kept below decks for the most part, ensuring that the creatures in his care endured the passage with as much comfort as he was able to offer. Talz seemed fine, eating regularly and spending the majority of the time in his pen, sleeping. Lady Henrietta, however, had required more diligent attention. A nimble and energetic beast, Marit’s steed was clearly unhappy with the confines of the ship. Erath took extra care during her feedings, to ensure he did not become the meal himself, and looked forward to getting Henrietta off the Atoniad where she could stretch her legs.
When the call for land had gone out from the scouts at the ship’s bow, Erath hurried above decks to see. The top deck was crowded with Noxians eager for their own view. At first it was little more than a smudge in the distance, faintly more defined than the hazy stripe where the water met the sky, but the closer they came, the more distinct it grew. Erath glimpsed what appeared to be banks of fog surrounding the island, tinted a ruddy brown that upon closer inspection became red.
Fae’lor was surrounded by Noxian ships.
There were concentric circles of vessels ringing the island, defense pickets that were constantly shifting. The Atoniad was halted by the outermost patrols, a pair of frigates that lashed themselves to the larger vessel with boarding hooks as squads of naval soldiers came aboard.
Erath noted their stern countenances as they inspected the troop ship, weapons in hand as they pored over the captain’s mandate and manifest. They scoured every deck, and the blade squire watched as a trio of robed blood mages studied every soldier onboard, softly chanting as they looked every man and woman in the eye.
“What are they looking for, mistress?” he asked Tifalenji.
“Signs of subterfuge,” replied the runesmith. “Deceptions. Wild magic.”
To Erath it all seemed strange. “But we are all Noxian soldiers, on an imperial ship. Does this not seem paranoid?”
“Patience, boy,” said Tifalenji. “When we dock at Fae’lor, you will understand.”
After they had been over every inch of the Atoniad, a contingent of the soldiery remained aboard while the others returned to their frigate, and the ship was cleared to advance to the next ring of the blockade. The inspections and checks repeated with each checkpoint, the guard detail rotating each time the Atoniad was stopped. Erath had been poked, prodded, and scrutinized so many times that when they finally had the harbor in sight, he questioned whether any of his own comrades trusted him, or anyone for that matter.
And then he got a better look at Fae’lor, and understood why.
The fortress had been gutted. He could make out only echoes of the great ramparts that had once stood at its heart, the formerly impregnable fortifications reduced to shattered remnants that rose from the ground like blackened, broken teeth. But the extent of the devastation went far beyond the walls and towers. The very land itself was broken open, torn apart and ripped out, bearing all the hallmarks of some incredible natural disaster.
The Atoniad drew up to her berth, and Noxians leapt to work both aboard and on the dock as soon as she came to a halt. Craftsmen rushed out to their assigned posts, while raw materials and supplies were offloaded and taken ashore. Erath went below decks, trying to put the shock of the island from his mind as he went about getting Talz and Henrietta off the Atoniad.
Standing out against the herds of livestock and more mundane pack animals, Erath led his beasts up a wide ramp leading from the ship’s hold. Waiting as those ahead of him were processed and allowed into Fae’lor, he stood transfixed as he watched crews descend over the wreckage of another warship like a swarm of furious ants.
Great winches and chains hauled the wreck up out of the water, a piece at a time. Teams scrambled down within, pulling out the pale, bloated shapes of the fallen in droves. She was more than twice the tonnage of the Atoniad, and her hull had been broken in two, like a stick over a man’s knee.
What kind of power could have possibly done such a thing?
Erath thought back to when he stood in the shadow of the Immortal Bastion. The certainty he felt there, seeing the empire marching to war, that there was nothing in creation that could possibly stand against them.
For the first time, seeing what had befallen Fae’lor with his own eyes, he felt doubt creep into his heart.
Finally he reached the end of the ramp, stepping from soaked wood onto cracked rock. The air was thick, humid, and dusty. It smelled of spice, things Erath couldn’t place as he realized, at long last, that he was there.
This was Ionia.
Erath lost track of how long he was standing there, or how the leather of Henrietta’s reins was sliding through his fingers. By the time he was aware of it, Marit’s mount was loping into the camp.
“Hey!” The blade squire started to pursue her, before looking back at Talz. “Stay,” he warned, drawing his knife and pinning the basilisk’s reins to the ground with it before sprinting after Henrietta.
“Whoa,” he called to the roving saurian as she stalked between a line of billet tents. She stopped, her long neck swiveling to regard Erath. Henrietta hissed at him through the gleaming metal of her chanfron, what Marit called “her jewelry.” Enclosing her face and skull, it was part protective helm, part weapon, accentuating her already vicious fangs with sharpened iron blades.
“Easy, my lady,” Erath coaxed, arms wide as he slowly closed the distance between them. “Easy, now.”
“Control that thing!” bellowed a voice from a group nearby. Both Henrietta and the blade squire shot them a hostile glare.
“She’s been cooped up on a ship for days,” Erath barked at the soldiers. He took advantage of Henrietta’s diverted attention and grabbed hold of her reins, wrapping the leather around his forearm. “She needs exercise, you want to be it? Then stay out of the way!”
Erath stared down the soldiers and watched them disperse, only registering after a time that the runesmith was calling for him. He went back to gather up Talz’s reins and guided his charges along, tugging the basilisk forward and holding Henrietta back as he headed toward where Tifalenji waited with Arrel and Marit. He saw new tension in the runesmith’s companions as he approached, a tightness in their postures that hadn’t been there before.
“Take your time,” Marit sneered, snatching Henrietta’s reins from Erath. Arrel squatted down, fingers brushing over the rubble strewn over the ground as her drakehounds orbited her.
“This was old magic,” muttered the tracker. “Something long-sleeping, now roused.”
“Where did you learn to sense magic?” Marit arced a skeptical eyebrow.
“Here,” Arrel answered, barely above a whisper.
“Oh joy,” replied Marit. She glanced at Tifalenji expectantly. “Well?”
“The last member of our expedition is here, at Fae’lor,” the runesmith replied. “We simply need to find her.”
“Just look for a dueling pit,” said Arrel. “She won’t be far from the scent of blood.”
Erath nodded, growing accustomed to gleaning what he could from inferences and cryptic words. “Does she have a beast that I am to care for as well?”
“Oh, manservant,” Marit shook her head. “Teneff? She is the beast.”
Arrel was right. While Fae’lor was in the midst of its reconstruction, it still remained a Noxian military camp. They followed the sound of ringing steel, sharper than the rhythm coming from the forges’ hammers, leading them to where the warriors on the island trained.
Past rows of billet tents were dug a series of shallow pits, each of them occupied by a pair of dueling soldiers. With blunted swords, wooden staves, or bare hands they sparred, but one in particular had attracted a crowd. The party had to muscle their way through the watching soldiers to catch a glimpse into the pit.
Two Noxians circled each other in full war-plate. One wielded a training sword and buckler, the other a heavy iron hook mounted on a length of chain. The soldiers watching cheered the pair as they measured distance and exchanged feints.
The swordsman sensed an opening. He lunged forward, flicking his buckler into his opponent’s face while slashing low with his sword. The other fighter leapt back, just shy of the blade, while throwing her hooked chain to ensnare the man’s shield arm. She whipped her arm down, wrenching the swordsman forward into a brutal headbutt. He dropped to the mire like a stone, blood spraying from a ruined nose.
“That’s first blood to me,” she crowed, and the onlookers erupted in cheers.
“That was dirty, Teneff,” the swordsman snarled, pawing blood from his mashed nose with a wicked laugh. “Let’s make it second blood. I’m not done with you yet.”
“First blood was the agreement,” Teneff repeated, with no compromise in her voice. “We need you in the line, Cestus.”
The swordsman barked out a swear and stood, trudging up out of the pit. Teneff wound her chain around her forearm, looking up to find Erath and the party staring down at her. Her eyes widened in confusion. “Marit? Arrel?”
Marit chuckled. “Still cracking skulls, eh, Ten?”
Teneff spat a gobbet of phlegm onto the ground. “Some of us never stopped,” she said with a grin, taking the hand Arrel offered her to pull her up out of the pit.
Erath backed out of her way as she climbed out. Teneff bore the hallmarks of a shield-breaker, a warrior of the line at home when her enemy was within arm’s reach. Scars crisscrossed any flesh not covered in leather and iron armor, tales of blood and honor etched into her over a lifetime of battle. He wondered how many of the scars she bore were earned here in Ionia.
“The last time I saw either of you,” said Teneff, “we were all—”
“Here,” said Marit. Quiet descended between the soldiers for a few moments. There was a bond between them, Erath could see that clearly. But there was a void there as well, something unspoken, or even missing. He had lived around soldiers long enough to know not to prod.
“Well,” said Teneff, breaking the silence. “If you’re all coming from Valoran, then you’ve been eating ship’s slop for days. Our cook’s no artist, but they’re a damn sight better than that. Come.”
The sun had begun to sink into the horizon, painting the sky in dappled bands of gold, orange, and scarlet, drifting down into indigo. They made their way through the mess tent and then found seats around a fire as the air started to chill. The women talked amongst themselves, of what they had done since last they served beside each other, and of the old wounds endured together. Erath remained silent, and listened.
“And you, boy,” said Teneff, her attention shifting to the blade squire. “You blooded? Fought your principal yet?”
Erath straightened. “I served my principal, yes.”
Her aspect became serious, analytical. “Where?”
“It was a border skirmish west of the Dalamor plains,” Erath answered. “A quick action, pretty light.” He looked to each of them, seeing that his answer had not been enough. This was not the ignorant voyeurism of the civilian, eager to satisfy some fanciful idea of what it was like to fight in a war they would never experience. These were veterans, warriors who may find themselves beside him in the line, needing to know what he had seen and how he had carried himself.
“It was a shallow expansion through a fertile valley,” he continued. “They were big boys, farming stock, but they were brought up to till the soil, not turn it red. Once we got within a rapid drumbeat, running charge, we closed, rolled up their right side double fast. Opened them up quite quickly.”
“Any of them left afterward,” asked Arrel, “to till that soil?”
Erath shook his head. “We tried. After their elders came around, we brought in others to help them take up the work. Harvest needed planting, no time to wait.”
Marit tilted her head. “And how many of those big farm boys did you make the soil red with, eh?”
“Leave it alone,” said Tifalenji.
“I was rearguard,” Erath shrugged. “By the time the lines rotated to me, they were already broken. We mostly just finished off those too wounded to save, and dug graves.”
The memory surfaced in Erath’s mind without asking. Trudging through the aftermath of a broken shield wall, feeling someone take hold of his ankle. Looking down, seeing a man who had taken a spear thrust to the belly, croaking at him in words he didn’t know, but a message he understood clear enough.
Putting his speartip to the man’s throat. The man tilting his head back to accept it.
“When was this?” asked Teneff.
“This past spring,” Erath answered.
“An infant!” exclaimed Marit.
“I said leave it alone,” the runesmith growled. “He’s here to tend beasts, nothing more.”
Marit chuckled, her eyes narrowed in amusement. Teneff eyed Tifalenji. “What of you then, rune-shaper? Where have you served?”
“Far from here,” she answered, and the odd light in her eyes convinced Erath that was as much as they would hear of her experiences.
Sleep was a glorious thing to a soldier. Any span of uninterrupted rest was precious, rivaling a full belly or a pair of well-made boots to a fighting man or woman. Erath had tried to adjust to the endless rolling and pitching of the Atoniad, but sleep had only come to him in fits and starts. Back on solid ground, with his cloak laid out on a flat, dry patch near the animal pens and his duties done, the blade squire rested his head against his pack and savored the prospect of sleeping through the next handful of hours before the early morning feedings came.
It felt as though he had no more than blinked before he heard the voice, sharp and cold as the edge of the knife he felt against his neck.
“Do as I say, in silence, or I will cut your throat.”
Erath opened his eyes. Dawn’s light was still hours away, the moon a thin silver sickle overhead as he was jerked to his feet. His knife had been taken. They walked, Erath careful to keep his movements slow and hands in view as he was led to the edge of the camp.
A huddle of figures stood ahead. He heard the low snarling of hounds as they approached, the silhouettes materializing into Arrel and Marit with the kneeling figure of the runesmith between them.
“What are you doing in Ionia, boy?” demanded the voice as Erath was shoved to his knees beside Tifalenji. He was alert enough to recognize the voice behind him as Teneff’s.
“I—”
“He knows nothing,” said Tifalenji calmly. Teneff lifted the knife from Erath’s throat and rounded upon the runesmith.
“And what do we know about you, eh?” Teneff looked to her fellow veterans. “Documents can be forged, mandates concocted.”
“My mandate is quite genuine,” said Tifalenji, her calm eerie to Erath, “as is the power you are flirting with opposing.”
Marit tilted her head. “Does the boy even know who you say you’re hunting? Who you would have us hunt?”
“He knows what has been necessary for him to know, and nothing more.”
“Then perhaps it’s time he knew,” Teneff looked down at Erath. “You seek a ghost. A warrior who died in honor as a hero to Noxus. Our comrade.” She gestured to Arrel and Marit. “Our sister!”
“She lives,” said the runesmith.
“Lies!” Teneff hissed. “Tell me why I should believe a word from your mouth and not kill you right here?”
“Because the powers to which I answer do not make those mistakes. If they say she lives, then she lives. You all served alongside her in service of the empire. Now the empire commands that we find her, and bring her back to them. My authority supersedes that of the garrisons here, they do not know of our task, nor shall they.”
“What proof do you have of any of this?” demanded Marit.
“Her blade,” Tifalenji sighed. The women stiffened.
“What of it?” hissed Teneff.
“Did you know she tried to destroy it?” asked the runesmith. She drew in a deep breath, and her eyes pulsed emerald. “She failed, and the magic that infused it cried out at the desecration. My masters heard it, and they saw who was responsible, as clearly as if they were standing in the room with her. That is how we know.”
“If she yet lives,” said Teneff, “then she is a deserter, the very crime you now ask us all to commit. The punishment for which is death.”
Tifalenji met Teneff’s withering gaze. “Succeed in this task, aid me in hunting her down and return her for judgment in Noxus, and no censure will befall you. Look into yourselves, all that you sacrificed in this place, and tell me that her treason does not wound you. Tell me you would turn your backs on seeing justice done, and the wayward answer for the life she has led these past years.”
A dark silence hung over the gathering. Tension radiated from Teneff, Marit, and Arrel, the threat of violence balanced on a knife’s edge. Erath fought his nerves, the simmering rage of secrets and the idea he may die here, on Fae’lor, with no inkling at all as to why.
“We will go with you.”
All eyes fell on Arrel, her first words since Erath had been brought to them. Marit rounded on the tracker. “You speak for all of us, now?”
“I do,” Arrel said flatly. She cleared her throat, the effort sounding almost pained to Erath. “Because we are soldiers, all of us. And a soldier does their duty. But more than that, she was a sister to us. And sisters deserve answers.”
Marit glared at Arrel, her dark eyes slits of intensity, but she relented. “Answers,” she repeated.
Teneff gritted her teeth, looking to the other veterans who gave her solemn nods. She hauled the runesmith to her feet by her collar, but did not release her. “At the first inkling that what you have told us here are lies, witch, I will take your head.”
“I speak only the truth,” answered Tifalenji. “And more now that we can tarry no longer than we already have. We must cross into the heart of the First Lands, and we must do so now.”
Tifalenji looked to Erath now for the first time. “What I have said to them bears the same truth to you, blade squire. Go with us along this path, attend and serve, and you will be rewarded.”
“I am a loyal warrior of Noxus,” Erath proclaimed. “I do my duty, and need not shadowy promises or the threat of a slit throat to do it. The empire bids I serve you, so I do. I only ask one question.”
Tifalenji regarded Erath soberly. “Ask it.”
“Who is it?” asked Erath. “Who are we hunting?”
The runesmith drew her sword. “She may call herself something different now, some adoptive name for her new life in the First Lands.”
The runes Erath had watched her etch along the blade leapt from the iron into the sky, like a trail leading off into the dark mystic land that loomed ahead of them.
“But in Noxus, her name was Riven.”
Sisterhood of War Part II: The Unquiet Dead

Ian St. Martin

She cannot breathe.
Her eyes are open, but there is nothing but a heavy, suffocating blackness. It crushes down on her. Her breath smothering. She draws in a slow, rasping breath. It fills her nose with the scents of blood and offal, a slaughterhouse stink. There is something else too, something thin, caustic, and sharp, coiling its way toward her lungs.
The weight around her shifts. She hears something heavy tumble away, the muffled sound of lifeless limbs slapping into mud. The darkness wanes in patches, giving texture to her prison. Bloodied rags. Shattered plate. Cold, abused flesh.
Bodies. She is buried under bodies.
The urge to fight, to escape and survive, rises all-consuming. Adrenaline rushes through exhausted veins. She struggles, wrenching from side to side to force a cavity between herself and the mass. She sees a hairline crack, the faintest trickle of light spilling in. Hope feeds her frenzy. She scratches and claws. Eyesight blurring, rasping breath as she tears the gap wider.
Her hand punches free. Cold air floods in, gulping it into her lungs, but that toxic, bitter something comes with it again. She gags as it coats her tongue, spilling down her throat. She pushes out an arm, beginning to haul herself out.
Her head and arm are free. Gasping for breath but her lungs are twin lanterns ablaze. She can see the ground churned to mire, patches of it burning azure and silver, strewn with the dead. A felled tree’s trunk reaches out for its lost branches, the leaves screaming in tongues. The battle is over.
She glimpses shapes wandering through pale, boiling fog. Creatures gather in the aftermath, wicked birds and gaunt dogs. The dead are carrion now. The vanquished, food.
There is a body just ahead of her, the one she had heard fall away from atop the mound. A boy sprawled out on the ground, his armor broken open, the protection it once offered him gone.
A dog feeds. The boy shudders like a marionette from the roving muzzle. She tries to shout, to drive the beast away, but razors line her throat. The fog covers everything in its acrid and corrosive touch. The boy’s head lolls to the side, the eyes meeting hers glazed over and lifeless.
Then he blinks.
Arrel sat up, placing her hands against the ground to stop her head from spinning. The smell of wet earth and grass asserted themselves over the blood and sour air of the dream. Rainwater trickled down through gaps in the tent over her head.
She looked to her side and found Second sitting there, watching Arrel intently with her helm in his jaws. She stared at the drakehound for a moment, blinking away the afterimages of a starving beast’s maw lined with gore. She gestured, and he padded closer, releasing the helmet into her hands as the flap to the tent was pulled open a fraction.
“Mistress,” came a familiar voice from outside. “It’s time.”
Arrel replaced the helm, taking a slow, rasping breath and ignoring the pain it stitched down into her lungs before standing up. The damp fabric of her bedroll squelched beneath her feet as she stooped to leave her tent and stepped out into the rain. First trailed behind the tracker, joining the other three of the pack that waited outside as they followed obediently in her wake.
Erath stepped back from the tent, eyeing Arrel carefully. Hers had not been a silent sleep, and they had been getting worse since they had left Fae’lor.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Strike the tent,” the tracker replied. Arrel looked out across a small clearing in the wooded hills they had chosen to make camp, shrouded in a gentle rain that glittered and shone with every color of the rainbow. Some of the drops struck the ground as rain should, others winked in the air like tiny stars, dissolving in a mote of light with the soft chime of a distant bell.
She hated Ionia, and it pursued Arrel even into her dreams. She could swear, grasping back at the images, that Riven’s body was among the dead. It would have been so much simpler, if that were true.
Arrel looked back over her shoulder at Erath. “Has she kept the scent?”
The blade squire nodded once. “The runesmith’s blade still sings to her.”
“Then I’ll range ahead,” said Arrel, already walking.
“No need,” said Erath. “Teneff and I found a village up nearby, we aim to stop there for supplies.”
Arrel grunted, fists clenching as she came to a halt. “We ought to avoid them. We are not welcome here.”
“Our provisions are growing scarce,” said Erath. “Teneff and I will go alone. She thinks Marit, Henrietta, and your hounds will attract attention we don’t desire. We shall return quickly and then be on our path again.”
After a few moments, Arrel gave a nod.
Erath did not know the name of the village. Like so much of Ionia, he simply assumed it would be something unknowably poetic, like a secret whispered between friends he could neither hear nor understand.
He had thought the rain would make it easier to conceal themselves. The group of them had discarded as much Noxian gear as possible when they left Fae’lor, to avoid notice of both the locals and the empire as they conducted their mission, but they were still strangers in a strange land. As he followed Teneff down the muddy thoroughfare of the village, Erath felt every pair of eyes on him, dissuading him of any pretense of camouflage.
“Stay close to me,” said Teneff, her gruff tones affecting a calm Erath attempted to adopt, though he didn’t feel it. Both of them were armed, but that was not unusual for anyone in Navori. Though Erath was beginning to come to the realization that not every weapon was one that he could see.
“Hold on,” whispered Teneff, and the pair faded back to lean against the wall of a tea house. There was a scuffle developing ahead, a handful of warriors edged in red surrounding an Ionian elder. A small crowd of onlookers was gathering.
“What are they doing here?” said Erath, his eyes locked to the Noxian soldiers.
“We have an outpost not far to the south,” said Teneff quietly. “This might just be a patrol, or a reprisal sweep if we got hit in the night by a Brotherhood raid.”
The pair moved closer, skirting around the periphery of the people who were watching the confrontation. Erath tugged his hood down further over his head, his fingers brushing against the bone pendant around his neck, then down to check the short blade at his belt. They stopped once they came close enough for the shouting to become words.
“I come from festival,” the old man was trying to explain, his lips fighting to pronounce the Va-Noxian. “In Weh’le.”
“Weh’le,” repeated the lead soldier. “That’s pretty far.” He eyed a paper-wrapped bundle the old man held.
“T-tea.” The Ionian clutched the parcel to his chest protectively. “This tea, this blossom tea.”
The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “All the way to Weh’le and back, for tea?”
“I’ve heard of that festival,” remarked another of the Noxians. “It’s their death feast.”
“Celebrating war heroes?” The lead Noxian took a step closer to the man. “Reminisce a little, dig up some old hurts—people can get crazy ideas in their heads doing that.”
“Like setting fire to a stockade last night,” offered another soldier.
“Nothing like that,” said the Ionian. Suddenly the packet he carried glimmered with a faint blue light. The Noxians sprang into combat postures, leveling their blades at the Ionian.
“That is magic,” barked the lead soldier. “That is a weapon!”
“No! This, this,” the old man struggled to find the words. “Ezari! Ezari, my… son. My wife, too old to go. I bring back for her, to see him.”
“More lies,” snarled a Noxian.
“Yeah, yeah, just like before,” another soldier hissed, her eyes glazed over with the scars of a hateful memory. “You all make nice, wait ’til our backs are turned before you whisper some curse and then boom! Boyod bursts into flame, Iddy’s legs gone, my friend Kron’s heart turned to salt in his chest! That’s what you do!”
“This is getting ugly,” murmured Erath. “What should we do?”
“Nothing,” answered Teneff, still brutally calm. “Not our fight.”
“Surrender the weapon,” snarled the lead Noxian, the haft of his axe creaking in his grip.
“Is no weapon,” the elder pleaded. He looked to the crowd, but their eyes were fixed on the blades carried by a dozen Noxian soldiers, and they did nothing to help him.
“You heard him,” barked another soldier. She advanced, snatching at the parcel. The two struggled over it, and Erath heard the sound of paper tearing.
The Ionian cried out, wordless anguish spilling from his lips as the tea scattered across the ground. He tried to save a measure of it, but the rain was already sweeping it from him.
“Ezari…” croaked the old man as he sank to his knees, watching the tea disintegrate into the mud. Every raindrop that struck the powdered leaves elicited a pulse of radiant blue, each successive one growing fainter and fainter until it finally washed away.
“Try something,” said the lead soldier to the crowd as the Noxians joined ranks and began to edge their way back. “Please. I’ll burn all this to ashes.”
“Xiir!” the Ionian shrieked, his face turned up into the rain. “Xiir!”
Erath felt a hand grip his shoulder.
“We are leaving,” said Teneff, not taking her eyes from the soldiers as they marched the opposite way.
“Do you see those Ionians?” said Erath. “Our comrades won’t make it out of this town alive.”
“Not our fight,” Teneff said again. “You can sympathize for them on an empty stomach, blade squire. Now we’ll have to make due on the trail.”
“That word he was screaming,” said Erath, looking back over his shoulder as he followed after Teneff. “What does it mean?”
“Xiir,” Teneff repeated. “It is a curse that they use for those of us that come from ‘the Captive Lands’. It means locust.”
Tifalenji was waiting for them just outside of the village. The runesmith’s sword was drawn, and faint traceries of emerald light ghosted across the surface of the blade.
“What was all that?” she asked.
“Our outpost near here got hit last night,” said Teneff. “Probably the Navori Brotherhood. Looks like the warleader there sent out troops to track down leads, or just cause trouble for the locals.”
The runesmith absorbed her words for a moment. “Were you seen?”
“No,” Teneff replied. “And from reading the town, it didn’t seem wise to linger and seek out barter.”
“There speaks wisdom,” Tifalenji nodded. “Let us be off then.”
Erath accepted the reins for Talz, the group’s hulking basilisk, from the runesmith. Patting the side of the creature, he glimpsed Arrel and her drakehounds. The tracker looked haggard to him, but he had learned better than to pry.
“Where is Marit?” asked Teneff.
“She said that waiting for you all was boring, so she rode ahead,” said Tifalenji.
For a while they walked in silence, trudging through the ankle-deep mud and shimmering rain. Erath thought back to the village and the sequence of events that had unfolded. The anger, hatred, and fear he had seen on the faces of the Noxian soldiers. His hand strayed to the bone pendant around his neck.
“Teneff?”
The veteran looked back at him. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s just, those villagers, all the Ionians. How can we convince them to join the empire like that?”
Teneff’s aspect darkened. She stopped, allowing Erath to catch up to her. “Do not judge your fellow Noxians, boy, until you have endured what they have endured, and seen what they have seen.”
Erath looked at Teneff.
“Each of them came here to bring the promise of the empire to those who they would call brethren,” she continued, “just as we did across Valoran, and in Shurima. This land is… different. It lays a great challenge upon the soul of every soldier in service to Noxus. We all strive to enlighten these people, to draw them to us and enrich us all by doing so, but it is not always a simple thing. Ionia is very much not a simple thing.”
“So much is different here,” Erath agreed. “Do Ionians really turn into flowers when they die?”
Tifalenji grunted. “A spirit blossom. The souls of the dead inhabit them, and when they bloom they call out to the living, if what I have been told is true.”
“That holds with what I know,” said Teneff.
“Is it only Ionians who inhabit the blossoms?” Erath asked Teneff.
“I know not, why?”
Erath reached under his jerkin, and took his pendant off. “During the war, all the fighters in our tribe came here. For years we heard nothing, until one day a woman came with this.” He held out the sliver of bone in his hands, lifting it up to show Teneff. “This is all that she said is left of my father. I wonder, could he be in one of the blossoms? Is his spirit still here, and could I find him?”
“Even if there were,” Tifalenji interjected, “we have no time for such fancies. I need you focused now. Remember why you are here, blade squire. The purpose each of us is bound to carry out. Put all else from your mind.”
Erath lowered his head. Unlike Tifalenji and the huntresses, his own purpose here felt elusive, a hard thing to balance against something as absolute as desertion. He dragged a thumb over the surface of the pendant. “Yes, mistress.”
Teneff looked back over her shoulder. “If your father died here, then he died a hero for Noxus. That is all that matters.”
Erath nodded, slowly slipping the cord and the pendant back around his neck.
Does the rain here ever stop?
Erath hauled one foot out of the mud, fighting to keep the mire from sucking the boot off him and only partially succeeding. Bouncing on one foot, he reached down to tug his boot up, shivering and at complete odds with the world surrounding him.
The shimmering color of the rainfall made everything like a dream in a wavering, queasy way. He heard creatures make calls from the branches of trees the color of summer sunsets, sounds that didn’t seem like they could come from an animal. Maybe it was the trees themselves that were calling, as their leaves waxed and waned from orange to indigo.
It was all so unreal.
The only thing that felt truly real to Erath at that moment was the grumbling of an empty stomach. He wished they had managed to barter with the villagers before the soldiers had rendered their chance impossible. The whole scene had sat wrong with him, scattering his mind with jagged, uncomfortable thoughts. Is that how war was fought here? Was that how his father had fought it?
Erath’s boots struck hard ground, and he breathed out a moment’s relief at the prospect of being free of the mud. He stretched the muscles in his arms as he led Talz forward across the stretch of pale stone ahead of them.
As he walked, Erath took notice of the ground, seeing subtle shapes and lines that were somehow familiar to him. There was something intentional about the rock beneath his feet. An artfulness, even. His eyes grew wide.
They were walking across a pair of cupped hands rendered from stone, half buried in the earth. Much of them was hidden beneath the surface, but the palms alone were wide enough to span a courtyard. Erath wondered about the size of the person they would be connected to, and where they might have come from.
“I would like to know how anyone could make such a thing,” said Erath.
“I’m rather more keen to know who could have destroyed it,” replied Tifalenji, her face stern as her gaze drifted over the scars and fissures where immense fingers had once been. “Or what.”
“Hold,” Arrel warned, a low guttural chorus of snarls issuing from her hounds.
She pointed.
There was something lying in the center of the hands. It was a small shape, mewling softly in the rain. Erath pawed water from his eyes, squinting as he went nearer to it. Every time he blinked it was a different color.
“Careful,” said the runesmith. Her eyes were on their surroundings, wary as she slowly drew her sword in a low rasp of steel.
Curiosity pulled Erath forward. The creature was small, a little less than the length of his falchion’s blade. He glimpsed both feathers and scales, short coiling fronds that grasped feebly at the air and raised nubs that might one day sprout what appeared to be wings. The blade squire knelt, finding himself saying the same phrase he had repeated again and again ever since he had first set foot in Ionia.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” murmured Erath. He reached toward the creature. “Hey, little one. You hungry?”
“No, no, no,” breathed Teneff, her eyes darting to and fro like the runesmith’s. “No, no, no.”
Erath blinked. “But, what if it’s hurt? This is just a baby.”
“Exactly,” Teneff agreed. Erath heard the links of her chain unravel from her arm. “Where do you think the mother is, then?”
Something detached from the trees beside them. The already chilly air grew colder. Erath’s breath caught in his throat as a massive form revealed itself, and the rain began to fall upward.
Like the tiny, helpless thing they had found it was part bird, part beast, and part sea creature. Grown to its full size, though, every facet was heightened to a fully monstrous extent. The baby’s grasping fronds were, on the “mother”, tentacles thick as a man’s arm, the subtle bumps razored talons. Half its form seemed to ripple in and out of solidity, as though it existed only partially in the same reality that Erath did.
A deafening shriek slashed out from the forest of teeth and eyes that could have counted as the thing’s face. Erath cried out in pain, clamping his hands over his ears. The creature beat the rows of multicolored wings upon its back, buffeting Erath away from its progeny.
“Back!” Teneff roared, not to the creature but to Erath. “Keep Talz safe!”
Erath’s falchion was drawn but he did as she said, watching as Teneff spun her chain until it blurred into a blackened spiked arc. Arrel had ghosted behind the thing, her hounds slavering as they waited for her to unleash them. Tifalenji was chanting an uncanny litany that drew blood from her nose as her blade shuddered with emerald light.
The beast screamed again, and was attacked from three sides.
Arrel made a sharp series of hand gestures, and her hounds leapt upon the creature. Fangs and claws tore into its rippling hide. It writhed, twisting and undulating as it fought to shake them loose. The pack was hurled to the ground, but Third came away with a wing in his jaws.
“Fr-ah deh-AHK!” Tifalenji bellowed, her blade trailing a constellation of burning jade as she swung. A pair of tentacles came free in a welter of incandescent blue blood, blurring into smears of dirty light before vanishing with a snap of air pressure. The oozing stumps twitched for a moment before sprouting, each appendage lost replaced by three new ones that formed like the branching limbs of a tree.
Teneff charged. The beast wailed, lashing at her advance and raking the heavy pauldron on her left shoulder with its talons. She dipped her head behind the armor plating as a shower of sparks danced over her. She let loose her chain in a whirl of snapping links and it crashed against its flesh, but was quickly overwhelmed by slithering tentacles. The serpentine appendages pulled, seeking to yank Teneff off her feet, but she dug in her heels and held fast. She spun the short blade in her other hand, driving it into the creature’s flank again and again until the stone became slick with gore.
The beast beat its wings, sending Teneff flying back. Her chain, still embedded in the creature’s side, snapped taut, wrenching her shoulder at an unnatural angle. With a bellow of pain she released her hold on its barbed links, hurtling backward to crash against the stone.
Erath sprang toward Teneff, but was warded off by her outstretched hand. She glared back at him, her face a mask of blood from a gash across her forehead. Tifalenji launched herself at the monster, another incantation flowing from her lips, but she was smashed from the air by a clutch of tentacles.
Every fiber of Erath’s being screamed at him to move, to do something. He shot Talz a glance, and set his jaw. It was time to pull his weight.
Scrambling up the side of the basilisk, Erath took a tight hold of the reins and drove his heels into Talz’s flanks. The beast lumbered forward with a throaty grunt. Erath rode forward, placing himself between the creature and Teneff. A tentacle flicked at his face and he brought up his falchion in a blur of steel, slicing it away.
Blood pounded in Erath’s ears as he deflected another slashing limb, making ready to charge. He pushed forward, slicing into a swarm of tentacles assailing him.
“Stay clear of my manservant, beast!” came a voice from behind the creature.
The sleek, agile silhouette of Lady Henrietta appeared from between the trees. The reptilian steed dashed forward, eager to coat her jewelry in a fresh kill. Seated upon her back, the masked figure of Marit laughed in equal eagerness, the blade of her glaive singing as it cut the air.
With another piercing shriek the creature whirled around to face Marit in a disjointed, boneless spin.
“Yes, that’s the spirit!” She flung out her glaive until she gripped the very end of it. She leaned back, spinning the spear in a wide arc before swinging it in closer. The blade slashed upward alongside the beast, shearing away an entire shoal of tentacles and two wings. The creature recoiled, and Marit hopped up to stand in a crouch on Henrietta’s saddle. Using her weapon for balance, she leapt up into the air before landing on the monster’s back.
Clutching at a tentacle with her free hand, Marit scrambled up atop the beast as it bucked and rolled in a frenzied attempt to dislodge her. With a battle cry she plunged the tip of her glaive down into the base of the monster’s skull, and answered the steaming jets of glowing blood that splashed her with a sharp twist. The creature’s ear-splitting hiss was cut abruptly short as its limbs went slack and it toppled heavily to the ground. The rain fell normally again.
The Noxians collected themselves, joining together in a loose circle around the dead creature. Erath climbed down from Talz’s back, still wary of sheathing his blade as he imagined the beast rising once more.
Marit ripped her glaive loose with a grunt muffled by her leather mask. “I believe I am beginning to grow a touch weary of being your personal savior, runesmith.”
“That creature,” said Tifalenji. “It came from the other realm.”
“Indeed?” Marit raised an eyebrow. “Well, whatever part of it that is in this realm is dead.”
The runesmith looked up at the rider. “When all this is finished, I shall craft you a weapon as savage as your spirit.”
Marit matched her gaze. “I may just hold you to that.”
“Well met, Marit,” Teneff dipped her head.
“Yes,” Erath nodded hastily. “Thank you.”
Arrel said nothing.
“Of course,” Marit’s eyes smiled, and she gave a theatrical bow. “I’ll be damned if I have to endure any more of this adventure without the hired help.” She glanced back at the monster’s corpse. “Do you think this thing is good eating, or bursting with some ghastly poison?”
“You want to try it?” scoffed Arrel. “Be our guest. Only fair as it is your kill, after all.”
“I see,” Marit tilted her head. “What about the little one?”
The Noxians all turned their attention to the smaller creature. Raising its head, the tiny monster trilled. It shivered for a moment before bursting into a cloud of snowflakes, which each then became a sound, and then nothing.
Erath stared at the now empty space, releasing a breath slowly through his nose. “Someone tell me again, why do we want this place?”
“The veil is thin here,” said Tifalenji, cuffing the trickle of blood from her upper lip as she sheathed her sword. “This land teems with the bizarre. Ignore it.”
“This land is nothing but bizarre,” Erath muttered.
Marit stepped gingerly onto the skull of the dead creature, snapping her fingers to draw Henrietta close. Sinking her glaive into the earth, she pushed down on the end of the haft, using it like a vault to swing herself over onto the saddle once more.
“How long have you been up in that saddle, eh?” teased Teneff. “Why don’t you give Lady Henrietta a rest?”
Marit scoffed. “I’m not touching Ionia any more than is absolutely necessary, thank you.”
“Sounds like an awful long time to hold one’s piss,” Teneff grinned.
“Hmm, well I’ve some jars stashed away here somewhere, if you’re in need of a fresh batch?” Marit began to rummage through her saddle pouches. Erath’s shoulders shook as he stifled a laugh.
“Can we not?” asked Tifalenji, looking at both women in exasperation.
Teneff shook her head. “You are no fun, runesmith.”
“No fun at all,” echoed Marit. She looked to Erath, eyes narrowing into slits of cruel slyness.
“Now, manservant, I don’t completely hate you yet, so whilst we are on the subject, a word of warning as you care for Lady Henrietta. Her urine is highly acidic, so no matter how desperate and overcome with thirst you might find yourself on our travels, you must look elsewhere, understand?”
“Why?” Erath chuckled. “Is that what happened to your face?”
Marit visibly tensed. Her eyes flashed wide for an instant, fingers digging into the haft of her glaive. “No,” she said coldly, winding Henrietta’s reins around her free hand and riding off without another word.
The color drained from Erath’s face. “I—”
“Let it be,” Teneff shook her head. “Just bide back a distance from her for a while.”
Erath’s heart sank as he dragged himself back to Talz. After all this time, he had felt the faintest idea of being part of the group, of belonging. Now he felt it spill out between his fingers, like the elder Ionian’s tea.
He had been so close, and he ruined it.
The next week’s trek had been calm, or at least as calm as the wilds of Ionia could be to an outsider. The rains had ceased, and Erath savored marching over dry land for a change. The absence of bone-deep cold and the other miseries brought to a soldier by mud allowed him to truly see the natural splendour of Ionia in all its wondrous, breathtaking glory.
Everything was in subtle motion, from the dancing of the birds to the gentle sway of the multicolored trees. Even the chase between the predator and its prey, glimpsed for only an instant at a time in the spaces between the trees, unfolded in a sort of graceful harmony. It was as though they were all moving in concert to some silent melody that was just beyond Erath’s ability to experience, a wider world he inhabited, but couldn’t see.
They had been proceeding along the course of an immense river ever since they made landfall on Navori, never straying out of sight from its banks for too long. Not only had it served as a source of food and fresh water, but as a guide deeper into the interior, as the huntresses followed the eerie song that radiated from Tifalenji’s blade.
“Night soon,” said Teneff, glancing over at the runesmith.
Tifalenji’s eyes darted up at the swollen silver crescent of the moon, barely visible in the reddening sky. Erath thought he saw a moment of frustration flash across her features, before they become impassive and unreadable once more. “We’ll stop here, then.” She looked at Erath. “Make camp.”
“Second,” murmured Arrel. The hound presented himself. “Find Marit, bring her back.”
Second chuffed and turned, sprinting away into the deepening dusk. Marit had ridden ahead of the group since the incident after killing the creature, the thought sending a twist of regret in Erath’s gut.
“I’ll go get some wood for a fire,” said Erath, drawing a hatchet from where it hung off Talz’s back.
“Take care in how you do,” warned Teneff. “The trees here are alive.”
Erath frowned. “Aren’t all trees alive?”
“She means they’ll-kill-you alive,” said Arrel.
Erath’s frown deepened.
Night had fully descended, wrapping the world in a blanket of twinkling black velvet, by the time Erath had collected enough firewood. After the battle against the creature, he had opted to collect scattered branches from the ground rather than chop a fresh one loose and risk awakening some vicious animus within the tree that would seek one of his limbs to balance the scales.
He returned to the campsite and made a fire. Once he was satisfied the embers were growing into a healthy flame, he slung a cooking pot and weighted net over his shoulder and made for the river. After checking how light their provision sacks had become, he hoped to return to camp with a fish.
The minutes stretched by as he crouched on the river bank, staring into its glassy black surface. His pulse quickened as he saw motion in the water, and he flung out the net, cinching it tight and hauling it back onto land. The net wriggled and leapt with a captive carp.
Breathing out a sigh of relieved triumph, Erath filled the pot with clear river water and dropped the carp inside.
He walked back to camp, his step much lighter than when he had set off as he thanked the fish for its devoted service to the Noxian empire.
“It’s ready,” said Erath as he portioned the soup out in each warrior’s tin cup. He was careful to drag the ladle across the bottom of the pot every time. When he had handed out the last cup he poured what was left for himself, and took a seat near the fire.
For a while no one spoke, each of them content to enjoy the comforts of a hot meal and the crackling warmth of the fire. Erath was no exception, happy to fill his belly and give rest to sore feet and tired muscles.
For that brief span of time, nothing else mattered.
Each of the Noxians did their best to attempt some relaxation. Arrel was surrounded by her hounds, carefully inspecting their claws and teeth. Tifalenji had walked a short distance away, sitting cross legged beneath the light of the moon as she chanted and wrapped her levitating blade in magic. Teneff had taken out a battered pipe, slowly breathing out quivering rings of blue-grey smoke that crackled in the firelight.
“You still use that thing, Ten?” Marit looked down from where she lounged atop Lady Henrietta’s back. “You do know that stuff will kill you.”
Teneff shook her head. “This won’t be what kills me. Besides, I’m not allowing myself to die until this business is done.”
Erath felt everyone’s thoughts coalesce, and cleared his throat. Teneff looked at him.
“This person we’ve been sent to find,” said Erath.
“Riven,” said Arrel softly.
“You all knew her?”
Tifalenji allowed her sword to drop into her hands. “Only by reputation.”
“I shed blood alongside her, when first we came to these shores,” said Teneff, staring into the flames. “Tough little thing, you wouldn’t guess it by looking at her but she could haul a pair of legionaries down to her level, each by an ear. That sword of hers, took incredible strength to even lift it.”
“Let alone the dancing she could do,” added Marit.
Erath noticed the runesmith out of the corner of his eye, regarding Teneff carefully at the mention of the blade. The uncomfortable thought rose in his mind of how little he truly knew about Tifalenji, and how thoroughly his life depended on her now.
“She was quiet at first,” said Marit, “mostly kept to herself.”
“But stand together in the line with someone,” continued Teneff, “forge that bond with iron and blood…”
“You become sisters,” Arrel finished.
Silence descended, the three huntresses lost amidst their thoughts.
“Why did she stay here?” said Marit, a thin edge creeping into the words. “All these years, everything that’s happened. Why did she betray us?”
“We don’t know what happened,” said Teneff.
Marit snorted. “Don’t play the imbecile, Ten. It does not suit you.”
“You think I don’t seek to bring her to account?” Teneff stood and rounded on Marit. “Why else am I here?”
“Years, she’s been here,” Marit replied, unmoving. “Years. Every opportunity to report back, and she didn’t. She is a deserter, and theirs is a weakness we cannot abide. A treachery we cannot forgive. We are here to seek vengeance.”
“Don’t call it vengeance,” said Arrel. “This will be justice.”
“Call it whatever you wish,” Marit replied. “Riven made her choice, and we are the consequence.”
Erath tried to sleep, but despite his exhaustion it eluded him. He had seen the power the huntresses wielded when they worked together. Who was this person who was able to divide them without even being there? Who was Riven, who had left such a mark on each of them?
The questions swirled around his head, though they slowly began to sink down beneath a promise of rest, before it was shattered by a voice.
“Up!”
Erath stirred. It was Teneff, standing watch.
“Get up!” she bellowed again, clanging her short sword against her armor. “The river is flooding!”
The Noxians scrambled to their feet. Erath turned to look at the riverbank, and his blood ran cold.
Something had roiled the current, transforming it from a peaceful flow into a riot of churning rapids. Erath saw human faces take shape in the foaming walls of rushing water, boiling into being and mouthing silent, enraged curses before dissolving back. All the while it rose toward them, devouring the bank inch by inch.
The river wasn’t flooding. It was alive.
“Get to the treeline!” barked Tifalenji.
Teneff was already running. Marit had only to spin into a riding position on Lady Henrietta before they were darting for the trees. Erath’s first thought was Talz.
He hurried to the basilisk, taking hold of whatever he could from the camp as the ground beneath him turned to a marshy quagmire. Water rushed over his boots as he reached the massive reptile. He looked back just in time to see another great swell smash down over Arrel.
And it looked like it had hands.
Prying out the stakes rooting Talz in place, Erath started climbing onto his back before the basilisk charged. Erath clung to the straps and rigging on the beast’s flank for dear life as the water surged after them. He hauled himself up, his legs swinging free, head ducking as equipment, tools and what remained of their food supply tore loose.
They made it to the trees, and Erath climbed as the water battered them. Talz clawed himself up to his hind legs to keep his head above the surface, each fresh surge crashing higher up his back and neck. Erath looked back. Teneff and Marit were clear, but Arrel and her hounds were caught in the swamp their camp had become, slowly being sucked back into the river.
Erath braced as another swell struck him like a hail of stones. The tree next to him sagged, nearly snapping from its trunk. He looked from the tree to back at Arrel, and dropped down into water that reached his waist.
Grabbing the hatchet from Talz, he swung, chopping into the wet bark of the ailing tree. He swore he heard some mournful note rasp from its leaves as it finally broke, smashing down at an angle toward the river. Erath watched a cluster of shapes approach it.
Arrel’s hounds. They were paddling in a circle around her, dragging her up onto the tree. But there were only three of them.
The waters began to recede as the first light of day broke through the foliage in bars of copper and gold. They glittered across the water. A horrific sound, like a dirge being played by a drowning man, filled the air as the tide slid back into the river.
Marit galloped back, and Teneff climbed down, all of them converging on Arrel and the fallen tree. She had followed the bank, scanning the becalmed waters with her pack.
“Second!” she called, pausing. “Second…”
“He was carried beneath the water, Arrel,” said Teneff. She laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
Arrel’s hand shook. She balled them into fists and set her jaw into a hard line.
“We’re wasting time here,” the tracker croaked, shrugging off Teneff’s hand. She stood, sharply gesturing to bring the other hounds from their somber watch on the riverbank. Fourth lingered a second longer than the others, but a glare from Arrel brought him trotting to her.
Erath flinched as the sunlight faded. He held out his hand, feeling heavy drops as they struck his palm. Their short reprieve from the rain was over.
Within minutes the sun was gone, hidden behind heavy black stormclouds. The rain was joined by howling gales, whipping the downpour into twisting sheets of freezing water. The cold sliced through Erath to the bone. He could barely see an arm’s length in front of his face. It even forced Marit to dismount from Lady Henrietta.
Tifalenji held her sword aloft. With a whisper, the blade burst with emerald flame, forcing back the storm’s blinding winds a fraction. Teneff retrieved a length of rope from Talz, looping it around each of their waists to bind them together.
Leaning into the wind and lashing rain, the Noxians wandered forward behind Tifalenji, a tiny capsule of green light in the maelstrom. Time blurred for Erath as he trudged on. He couldn’t tell if it had been minutes or hours before Tifalenji spoke up.
“We have to stop,” she roared over the wind.
“Look!” Marit pointed with her glaive. “There’s light up ahead!”
Erath could make out the faintest cluster of lights, like a constellation in the heavens.
“This is wild country,” warned Teneff. “It could be bandits, or a Brotherhood camp for all we know.”
“Then we kill them all,” hissed Marit. “The rune-witch is right. We have no supplies, and if we do not take shelter, this storm will end us.”
Teneff spat out a mouthful of rainwater, and nodded. Together they fought the storm, putting one foot ahead of the other, until they reached the lights.
The trees overhead formed an overhang, absorbing the worst of the storm. A village materialized before them, small and isolated amidst the woods. It looked like an extension of the forest itself, the tall, thin dwellings appearing woven and sculpted. They could just see them over a wall of intertwined branches barring their way, as though the land itself had formed a stockade. The branches shuddered, peeling apart enough to create a small passage.
A dozen men and women stepped through the opening. They wore hand-spun robes, faces hidden behind hoods raised against the storm. The huntresses noted the axes and swords in their hands, the broad slab-like blades chipped and worn. The battered remnants of armor plating they were clad in.
The huntresses formed a line, with Erath and Talz behind them.
“Those are Noxian weapons,” said Teneff.
“And those are Noxians carrying them,” added Arrel.
As one they sank into battle postures. Arrel’s hounds snarled.
“Lower your weapons,” said the lead villager in perfect Va-Noxian. He pulled back his hood to reveal a scarred face, his dark hair and beard shot through with streaks of silver. “We don’t want a fight.”
“Well, you are deserters,” sneered Marit. She spat upon the ground.
“Remember what’s behind us,” Teneff grumbled under her breath.
“Realize what’s in front of us!” Marit snapped.
“Stop!” Erath pushed his way between the huntresses. There was something about the man, hearing his voice. He stepped forth with trembling hands. He regarded the lead Noxian with wide eyes.
A single tear descended the curve of his cheek.
“Father?”
The man led Erath out of the storm into one of the huts, passing onlookers, Noxian and Ionian alike, their faces expressing a spectrum of shock and anger to fear. Erath followed him, as though in a trance, struggling to believe that this was Jobin, his father.
Alive.
“You look like you’ve missed a meal or two,” said Jobin. The two sat down around a fire pit. Jobin opened a steaming pot, scooping out a measure of rice into a pair of wooden bowls and handing Erath one. “My son, what are you doing here?”
They talked, of Erath’s journey, of home. He omitted much, careful as he spoke with a man he thought was dead.
When they were done, Jobin’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Look at you. You’re a man now. My little enhasyi.” He paused. “How is your mother?”
“Still mourning you,” Erath said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. He removed the bone pendant from his neck. “Who even is this?”
“Me,” Jobin raised a hand, showing where one finger ended in a stump. “A sacrifice we all sent back, that we hoped might bring you peace.”
“Peace,” Erath exhaled the word.
After weeks traversing a realm of wild magic, of illusion and the uncanny, he had to ask the obvious question.
“Are you real?”
Jobin leaned forward. “What?”
“Are you real?” Erath said again. “Or a spell to make it appear my father is not truly dead? If it is deception I would thank you, I truly would, for all that the alternative would mean.”
For a few moments, neither spoke. The silence stretched.
“The world used to be so small,” said Jobin, finally. “You never knew it. We tended our herds, we traded with our neighbors, we raised families. We had simple lives and we were happy. Then the empire came, and our little world became so much bigger, and so much darker.”
He glanced out the door of the hut. “Being here, seeing this place, it brought me back to that.”
“And that was worth treachery?” asked Erath.
“Against what?” Jobin looked back at him. “Against some distant ruler I would never meet, pushing markers across maps? Those markers are people, Erath. Noxian people, Ionian people. We should have never begun this war.”
“But we are stronger together,” Erath insisted. “Noxus didn’t put us in chains, it set us free. No more herds growing thinner every year, no more raids from those same neighbors. And we can do the same here. You’ve been gone a long time, it isn’t the Noxus you remember. We’ve truly become part of something greater.”
“I don’t believe much has changed,” Jobin shook his head. “We came here believing what you believe, that this place needed Noxus. ’Rath, I don’t think they need our help, and they don’t need our rule, but we can coexist. I didn’t have to kill them, to become family. Once I understood that, I knew I couldn’t return.”
Erath processed his father’s words, and hung his head. “Everything you taught me was a lie.”
“I’m sorry, my son.” Jobin laid a hand on Erath’s shoulder. “I was deceived myself by it. But there is always time for something different. Something better. There is a place for you, here.”
“A lie,” Erath repeated. Slowly, he looked up. “So why should I believe you now?”
Jobin visibly sagged. “My son…”
“No,” Erath’s eyes were hard. “You don’t get to do that. You lost a finger, I lost you! And now you sit there and preach, as you hide in the woods? We had an excuse before we joined the empire, of being blind to the wider world. We don’t have that ignorance anymore. Now you are either working to unite the world, to make it better, or you’re running.”
Erath stood.
“I’m not running.”
Erath and Jobin emerged from the hut. The blade squire looked up, seeing the clouds thinning through the canopy of the trees. The rain had slackened as well.
“Think upon what I’ve said, my son,” said Jobin.
“I have,” Erath replied, stepping away to stand beside the huntresses.
Jobin swallowed, and cleared his throat. “We have offered you shelter. Now that the storm is passing, we will offer you a portion of our harvest. We ask in return only that you leave us in peace, and forget you ever found this place.”
Teneff eyed the runesmith. She tilted her head, and the huntresses stepped back to confer amongst themselves.
“The only question worth asking,” said Marit, “is if we kill them all.”
“His father is among them,” Teneff nodded toward Erath.
“His father is a traitor,” Marit replied.
“He isn’t the only one,” said Arrel. “Close to half of this village are Noxian… or were.”
“Scared of getting your hounds dirty?” Marit ran a finger down the edge of her glaive.
“Slaughtering cowards and villagers finds us Riven how?” the tracker retorted.
Erath looked to Tifalenji. The runesmith held the lives of these villagers—the life of his father—in her hands. For the life of him, Erath couldn’t decide what he wanted her to say, and that more than anything turned his heart to a lead weight in his chest. The huntresses studied her too, trying to parse her impassive features for her judgment.
Teneff rested a hand on her chain. “What’s it to be, then?”
“We move on,” Tifalenji stated. “Our task is to find one deserter, and these are not her.” She eyed Marit. “It is not a discussion.”
“As you wish,” she shrugged, walking back to her mount. Tifalenji looked sternly upon Erath.
“Were the circumstances different, I would not condone leaving them here alive.”
“I understand,” Erath replied.
“Now make haste,” ordered Tifalenji. “Time is against us, and you know what lies ahead.”
The huntresses gathered and began the march out of the village. Erath spared a final look back as they passed through the unfolding stockade, then touched Teneff’s arm. “What lies ahead?”
Her face turned grim, and her eyes distant. “The place where all this started.”
They marched in silence, though troubled thoughts made it feel as though Erath were pushing his way through a crowd. He couldn’t reconcile the man who raised him with the one he discovered living in that village. A son is raised in the image of his father, but does he end up the same person?
The bone pendant around his neck grated against his chest.
The landscape changed, growing more arid and dry, as did the dispositions of the huntresses. Postures stiffened, reflexes had them twitching at the slightest sound, and all three had their weapons drawn, clutched in white-knuckle grips. Erath could smell a faintly acrid tang in the air.
The Noxians crested a hill, and witnessed a dusty expanse of dessicated plains ahead. A marker was erected at the border to the plain, little more than a stone totem marked with Ionian script. He could not decipher it, but the meaning behind it was clear to Erath.
It was a warning, to stay away.
They found an old man sitting by the marker. Quietly he hummed to himself, flicking a necklace of chimes he wore looped around his shoulders. His eyes grew wide as the Noxians approached, and using a cane for support, he slowly pushed himself to his feet.
“Travelers,” he raised a hand. “I have no part in any quarrel, and serve no master. I keep vigil here, at the threshold of a terrible place, to ward off those who might seek to cross.”
The huntresses were silent. Erath had never seen such tension radiating from them. Tifalenji stepped forward.
“We wish no harm to you, gatekeeper,” she said. “But do not seek to bar our passage.”
“I beg you,” the Ionian clasped his tiny hands together, “go no further. You cannot imagine the pain that occurred here.”
“We don’t have to,” answered Teneff, as she walked past.
Erath followed, passing the dejected Ionian by. “I will sing for you,” said the gatekeeper. “For your pain.”
The first step onto the dusty plain, and Erath felt like he had been transported somewhere alien, even for Ionia. It was absolutely devoid of life. The ground had a sickly, greenish tint, and the air was sour, stinging his nose and throat. His eyes and lips tingled.
A profound sense of loss emanated from the earth like a haze, stabbing into Erath.
Teneff stopped, slowly taking in the landscape.
“This is where it happened.”
“It was here,” breathed Tifalenji, the runes along her blade pulsing. She blinked. “She was here.”
“We had been fighting for years,” said Teneff. “Everything ground to a stalemate. They said they had a way to break through, brought us some mad Zaunite and his concoction.”
“Chemical fire,” Arrel murmured.
“Something so caustic it would strip the life out of anything it touched,” said Marit. “We were safeguarding the payload, moving it up to the line, when it all went wrong.”
Erath looked from one huntress to the next as their words flowed over each other.
“We were ambushed…”
“…so many of them…”
“Riven called out for support…”
“They couldn’t have known where we were.”
“They fired—”
“—and the jars ignited.”
Marit reached behind her head, undoing the clasps that kept her mask in place. The straps slackened, came loose, and Erath swallowed.
Her entire face and skull was a mass of hairless, glossy red scar tissue. Erath had seen things killed by burns, the way the flesh looked afterward, but this was different. Black veins threaded the tissue like cobwebs. Erath could not fathom what pain she must endure, even now.
Only her eyes remained unscathed. She looked at Erath, holding his gaze in cold silence.
Arrel removed her own helm. Erath glimpsed wounds around her lips and neck. The tracker hacked and spat a gobbet of blood phlegm.
She must have breathed it in, Erath realized.
“It was chaos,” said Teneff. “Comrades, enemies, boiling away, screaming themselves dead. I never saw Riven again. I believed that she died here, like all the rest.” She looked at Erath. “Do you understand? If we can find her, the thought that we can make something good from all this—”
Then she stopped, her eyes on the horizon. Erath looked, seeing a group of figures appear on the hill. They were Ionian, clad in lightweight armor and festooned with blades of all kinds. Their faces were hidden behind masks and hoods the color of dark iron.
“Calm is the ocean before the storm,” shouted one of the Ionians. “Stand to account, xiir! If any are to control this land, it will be us.”
“Navori Brotherhood,” Teneff bared her teeth, speaking the words like a curse.
“Full warparty,” said Marit, her voice calm and level despite an edge for the violence sure to come.
“The village you stole from,” said the Brotherhood warrior, spreading his arms wide. “They were all so eager to speak of you. To help us fulfill our promise.”
Erath’s blood ran cold.
“We should have killed them,” Marit snarled, rage twisting the ruin of her face as she pulled her mask back on. A light rain began to fall from the iron-gray sky.
“This forsaken rain,” hissed Arrel.
The Brotherhood warrior took a step down the hill. “We promised to find you, the xiir, wherever you might be in the First Lands. We promised to hunt you, stalk you, to cleanse our homeland of those who have destroyed the balance between the twin realms.”
The Ionians roared, raising weapons, many of which coursed and shivered with magic.
“We make these promises to all those you have taken before their time, those whose limbs you have taken, whose peaceful dreams you have stolen and replaced with terror and broken memory. These promises we will keep, so long as our hearts beat life within us!”
A dozen warriors descended the hill, coming within a handful of paces of the Noxians with weapons ready.
“Tell me,” said the Ionian. “What will you promise?”
Teneff breathed, slowly shut her eyes and opened them. “I promise… to make this hurt.”
“You promise blood, then,” the warrior smiled beneath his hood. “We accept.”
Teneff roared, hurling her hooked chain. It struck one of the Brotherhood in the temple. The force of the blow smashed him to the ground. Teneff stomped on his chest, tearing the hook free in a spray of blood. More flecked from the hook as she spun it again.
Arrel flung out her hand and her hounds attacked. First tackled one of them, clamping down around the woman’s neck. The drakehound shook savagely, wrenching her body back and forth until she went limp, then moved on to another.
The two groups closed into melee. Tifalenji thrust her sword into an Ionian’s midsection. She spat a curse and the blade ignited, setting the man ablaze with screaming jade flame. Marit strafed through their midst. Her glaive was a blur, never ceasing as it cut, stabbed and slashed in tandem with Lady Henrietta’s snapping jaws.
Erath watched the opening strikes. This place had awakened something in them, unleashed a rage that they had crushed down deep within themselves for years. The runesmith had waded in, knowing the only way to achieve her goal was to eliminate the Ionians in her way. Talz’s reins slipped from his hand, replaced by his falchion.
Teneff locked blades with the Brotherhood leader, their faces inches apart.
“This ground pains you,” he taunted. “The xiir you lost, would you like to see them again?”
As if on command, a young Ionian who had remained halfway down the hill began to sing. It was a lilting, haunting melody, a tune that no living thing should be able to make. It stilled the Noxians for an instant, the absolute wrongness of it.
Erath’s footing slipped as the earth shook. Tiny things appeared up from the ground, like seedlings but pulsing with a sickly, intermittent unlight. Erath realized after a moment that they were fingers.
Soon hands emerged, arms bursting through the soil. Insubstantial silhouettes of ragged men and women clawed their way up from below, dressed in incorporeal rags of Noxian garb, all radiating the same cold spectral darkness.
“The dead here are not at peace,” hissed the Ionian, grappling with Teneff.
“Madness,” Teneff snarled.
The Brotherhood warrior leapt back, drawing a blade. “And you will join them!”
The youth continued to sing, and more pale phantoms clawed their way up from the earth. Erath found himself surrounded, and slashed out in a wide arc. The spirits boiled away at his blade’s touch, only to resolve like a sickened wind. He struck again, carving an opening to see the wider battle.
The Brotherhood numbers were thinning from the fury of the huntresses, but the dead were massing, dredged back into being by that hellish melody. Erath recoiled, sensing that even these Ionian’s kin would condemn the evil they were unleashing. They had but moments until they were overwhelmed, and it had to be stopped.
He made for the hill. A Brotherhood warrior leapt in his path, wielding a pair of long daggers. Shouting an Ionian curse, he lunged at Erath. The blade squire parried the first dagger going low for his gut, but saw the flash of the second seeking his throat. He backpedaled, losing his balance and falling to the ground.
The Ionian dived atop him. His mask slipped free, revealing a young determined face trying to drive one of the daggers into Erath’s chest. His falchion had slipped from his grasp in the fall. He fought the man, gripping his wrists as the dagger’s tip pierced his flesh. With a roar of pain and anger, Erath rolled, reversing the positions as he drew his knife.
Erath dropped his weight down, driving the knife into the Ionian’s gut. Grunting, he twisted it sharply, and felt the strength leave the Ionian’s grip. Tugging the blade free he collected his falchion and stepped over the dying man.
Rain and blood turned the ground to mire. Erath ran, weaving between clashes of blades and the moaning hordes of lost Noxians reaching for him. Their touch numbed his flesh, as though they were filling his veins with ice water. He gasped for breath as his side was raked by translucent claws.
The singer’s eyes were closed, the lids twitching as he wept blood. Trickles of ruby issued from his nose, ears, and lips as he stood transfixed and dirged. He didn’t see Erath coming. The blade squire surged forward, pushing against cold, grasping hands. He was bent double, crying out in agony as one climbed on top of him. He thrust himself upright, throwing the ghoul back. Breathless, his vision narrowing like a collapsing tunnel, he charged forward and with the last of his strength brought his blade down.
The Ionian’s song fell silent as he collapsed, his lifeblood emptying out from where Erath’s blade had split him from collar to sternum. The phantoms shrieked, their forms elongating as they were drawn violently back down into the earth. Within moments, all that remained of them was a pale, sickly fog, and the echoing cries of the unquiet dead.
Erath turned, stumbling like a drunkard as he returned to the fight still raging below. The Navori Brotherhood warparty was down to their final warriors. They had clearly chosen to die rather than flee, save for one. Arrel’s hounds ran him down, and tore him apart. Lady Henrietta feasted, her jewelry stained crimson. Blood sizzled and snapped where it touched the runes of Tifalenji’s blade.
Erath arrived in time to see Teneff with the leader of the warriors. She had encircled his neck with her chain and drove his face into the quagmire, a boot on his back as she watched him suffocate.
All of them bled from a dozen wounds. Teneff looked up at Erath as he approached. She stood up straight sharply, snapping the Ionian’s neck, and stumbled back. She sank to one knee, overcome by the bone-deep exhaustion of prolonged fighting hand to hand.
Erath looked down. The earth fizzed and fumed wherever blood had seeped into it. His skin burned from the dust, already reddened and peeling.
“Insanity,” snapped Marit, flinging blood from her glaive. “Ionians claim to revere the dead, and yet do this?”
“We aren’t their dead,” murmured Arrel. “Even still…”
“Insanity,” Marit repeated.
“We can’t stay here,” panted Tifalenji. “The toxin is still in the ground. And who knows what further ruin their necromancy has wrought.” She stood beside Teneff.
“I had almost hoped to see Riven among them,” she said, looking up at the runesmith. “I had wished that you were wrong.”
The runesmith offered her hand. “I am not.”
After a moment, Teneff took it.
For once the rain was a blessing. Cool and cleansing, it washed the blood and poisoned earth from their bodies as they left the site of the chemical attack behind. They could all see the runesmith’s sword was shining now, humming to her.
“She’s close,” Tifalenji whispered, eyes locked to the runes. “So very close.”
She nodded to Marit and Arrel, and the two began ranging ahead.
Erath felt his chest as they walked. Gingerly avoiding his dagger wound, he pulled his pendant out from under his jerkin, rubbing a thumb slowly over its surface. “He gave us up. My father gave us up.”
“He may have been coerced,” said Teneff. After a while she shook her head. “It doesn’t really matter.”
“I was only a child. They told me that he died, he’s gone, he’s never coming back, I’ll never see him again. Then I do see him, and everything I knew about him was a lie.” He looked at Teneff, taking a shaking breath. “What do I do with that?”
Teneff reflected for a moment. “You can let him go.”
Erath cuffed away a tear. “How does that help, after everything?
“It’s not about helping everything.” She gripped his shoulder. “Just you. So long as Noxus endures, you will always have a family, Erath.”
Erath paused. He let the words and memories of the past days wash over him. Exhaling, he pulled at the pendant until the cord around his neck snapped. He stared down at it, and slowly tilted his palm until the sliver of bone fell to the ground.
Without looking back he jogged off to catch up to the others, as the pendant quickly vanished beneath the earth.
Sisterhood of War Part III: Irreparable

Ian St. Martin

The light is dying.
Above me, the sky fades to black as the sun sinks beneath the horizon, leaving ripples of dappled red trailing above it, the last warm echoes of the day. There is red trailing from me, too, from my armor, my sword. The last warm echoes of the lives I’ve taken today. In the first days I would work in the aftermath to cleanse myself of it, to wash and scour the blood and death away, but was never truly able to. After a time, I stopped trying.
I hear the swish of a crimson cloak as someone drops into the bulwark beside me. From the corner of my eye I see the markings of rank.
“Captain,” I say, beginning to stand.
“Please,” she waves me back. I forget that I lead my warriors now, that she and I are equals, but it feels false. She is nobility, I am an orphan sword.
I know her, the cavalry officer we’ve been escorting into the hills, some attempt to break the stalemate bleeding us white. Proud, skilled, furious. As though the eyes of our empire watch her every move. She considers me for a second. “You look like you need rest.”
I glance up. “They use bombs that mimic the sound of children screaming to rob us of our sleep, or they come by night to slit our throats, with only the stars to bear witness.”
The captain’s eyes trail off, in thought. “I heard an officer from the Ninth cohort, saying that they can kill you through dreams.”
“Dreams?” I ask.
She nods.
I exhale. “What do you do if they kill you in a dream?”
She shrugs, and offers me a tired grin. “Try not to remember it, I suppose.”
I hear no beast nearby, and know this one is never far from hers. “Where is your mount?”
Her face darkens. “That ground we took last week… Their witch…”
I swallow, closing my eyes for a moment to block the memory.
“Before she died,” she continues. “The witch whispered something to my steed, probably meant for me. A wasting disease. This morning he could not stand.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He was suffering, so I eased it.” She looks at me. “Are you suffering?”
I meet her gaze, and she chuckles softly.
“Relax, the empire needs you. I refer to that.”
She inclines her chin toward my sword, its massive blade sunk into the earth beside me, still trailing red.
“That blade is a gift,” she says, her words cautious. “I have seen you wield it with skill, but time can so often make a gift into a burden. You have been so strong through all this. If the burden you bear has become too heavy, I would carry it for you.”
“No.” My hand reflexively goes to it, its terrible weight reassuring. “This thing I carry is mine. I would wish it on no one else. Even as it breaks me.”
In silence she studies me, her eyes cold for a moment, before she smiles. “I meant no shame upon you—as I said, we need you. We have shed blood together here, and that act makes us sisters.”
A child’s scream slices open the early night. It hangs, gouging the air with unnatural length. Sleep seems like a thing from another life, impossible here.
“This truly is a horrible place. Together, we’ll make it better.” She rises, and presses a fist to her chest. “For Darkwill.”
“For Darkwill,” I return the salute. “Thank you, captain.”
She shakes her head. “You can call me Marit.”
Riven blinked sweat from her eyes. The sting brought her out of the memory, and back to the calm of the field. Her senses adjusted to now, the rich smell of earth and crops ready for harvest, the crisp spice on the air as the leaves turned crimson, the heat of the sun on her skin.
She walked between the rows of the crop, sunlight peeking in golden bars through broad leaves and stalks. For a moment Riven was a child again, growing up tending the fields, though the barley she grew in her youth didn’t rise up past her head, or shimmer with the traceries of magic that suffused every part of the First Lands. Every few paces there would be a gap, the light flooding in to highlight a patch that had been harvested in stark relief, the prize portions of the crop that had already been taken to market. She paused each time, standing in the sun, allowing its heat to wash over her, as her insides twisted.
The sun had reached its zenith, the hottest part of the day. Riven drew a forearm across her brow, and tried to clear a parched throat. Her thoughts turned to water.
Emerging from between the stalks, she found Asa, his eyes kind as he waited for her with a skin in his hands. Riven had been distant from her adoptive father since they had returned from the market, wanting to give him his privacy to think, to feel.
To bury his wife.
“Soup will be ready soon,” he said. Then he looked down. “I think I made too much again. I forgot.”
Riven’s eyes darted to the shrine they had built for Shava Konte, the closest thing she had ever had to a mother. “Forgive me, fair.”
“For what?” Asa tilted his head, regarding her.
“I should have gone alone to market,” Riven continued. “You weren’t here when—”
“It is not upon your shoulders that the weight of the world be laid,” Asa shook his head slowly. “Nor the path that the stars turn in the heavens, or the dance that happens across the veil. Their accordances are great, they are beyond our influence.”
“Yet I still feel guilt.”
“Our responsibility rests upon our own actions, the choices made by our hearts.” Asa offered Riven the skin of water. “I know your heart, dyeda. It is pure.”
“Not all of it,” Riven took the skin, but her gaze lingered over the shrine. “I miss her, fair.”
“As do I,” Asa stood at her side. “Yet I do not grieve my beloved Shava, because she is not lost to us. She was at peace when we found her. No pain, and the fortune of passing in her sleep. I treasure her, as someone certain that when the blossoms return next, I will see her again.”
Riven felt a tear slide down her cheek. “Do you think her blossom will be hard to find?”
“My wife?” Asa smiled broadly. “I don’t believe a single blossom can contain her spirit. That woman, she will be an orchard.”
Riven smiled, looking up at Asa but finding the joy had vanished from his face. She turned, following where he stared transfixed upon a small group of figures that had appeared in the distance.
Her blood went cold. Her heart was stilled by an utter certainty within her, an inevitability she could no longer hope to hide from. The smell of a campfire welled in Riven’s nose, the words of the mender they had met upon the road echoing sharply in her mind.
“Fair,” said Riven, her hands clenching into fists. “Hide.”
“Farming,” Marit sighed. “Really.”
Erath followed the huntresses as they looked out across the stretch of land ahead of them. Great columns of natural stone lined the east, like the broken ribs of a long-dead god left exposed. To the west was forest, hued in a thousand shades of crimson, and nestled in between, a humble solitary farmstead.
“Perhaps the war truly did break her,” said Tifalenji. Her blade’s hum had become a full-throated song as they traveled from the bleached site of the chemical attack. Now, here, it was felt rather than heard, a sensation that shivered the bones and caused gums to ache. “She seeks to grow and create, some kind of attempt to assuage her past.”
“She grows crops, nourishing them, and then she harvests them. Cuts them away and sells them,” Marit snorted. “I’m sure a poet could do something with that.”
“Remember,” grumbled Arrel, reaching down to scratch First’s scalp. “We want her alive.”
“Alive,” echoed Marit. “Such a malleable term. How many limbs is ‘alive’?”
“Marit…” warned Teneff.
“She betrayed us.” Marit glared down from atop Lady Henrietta. “Not the army, not even Noxus, us. No mercy for deserters and traitors. Or have you forgotten that?”
Teneff met her gaze. “I haven’t forgotten. But we walk into this clear-headed, and we walk out back to the empire with her in chains. Understand?”
Erath listened, reaching for Talz and patting the basilisk’s flank. He was outside of their conversation but still he felt a part of it, especially Marit’s barb about deserters. Rather than anger at her, though, after all that had happened, he found himself agreeing with her. His father’s betrayal was still lodged tightly in his chest, jagged and insistent.
Teneff lingered back a few steps, allowing Erath to catch up to her.
“I doubt she will come peaceably—there will almost certainly be a confrontation,” said the warrior, hefting the chains wound around her forearm.
“You sound excited at the prospect,” Erath replied.
Teneff gave a wry smile. “Just be prepared. Simply do as you did before, you acquitted yourself well in the last battle.”
“Was I supposed to sulk and be maudlin at the prospect of taking an enemy’s life?” Erath scoffed. “What am I, some Demacian girl?”
As one, the women turned around and stared at him.
“What?” Erath looked at each of them. “I said Demacian.” They turned back around.
Arrel glanced at Tifalenji, scowling at the noise rippling from her sword. “Is that still necessary?”
“No.” The runesmith grinned. She ran a hand over her rune-etched blade, and the sound ceased. “We require the scent no longer. I can feel it myself, for the quarry is now in sight.”
The Noxians advanced upon the farm. Erath heard the huntresses mutter amongst themselves, the subdued talk of tactics on the march to war. Where they would stand, angles and landmarks, who would do what if the need for bloodletting arose, all discussed in a bored, almost horrifically calm manner. All the while their hands tightened over their weapons.
The huntresses spoke as though they were laying siege to a fortress, or meeting an entire army in the field. They were wary of Riven, mindful of the devastation she was capable of, filling Erath’s head with a vision of a ruthless warrior queen wielding an enchanted sword, drenched in the blood of the slain enemies strewn around her.
It was a vision that he found hard to reconcile with the lonely farm they were approaching. There was serenity here, a pocket of calm tucked away from the grandeur and chaos Erath had encountered in Ionia along the way. He considered for a moment if it was the reality that his journey had reached its destination that was really jarring. He thought back to the Immortal Bastion, staring up at its towers what felt like a lifetime ago.
Whoever that Erath had been, the one here now was ready to do his duty to the empire, and bring this traitor to justice.
Talz grumbled, making a deep choking sound. Frowning, Erath peeled back the creature’s gums, searching around and finally drawing his arm out, clutching a spittle-slick chicken bone.
“When did you have chicken?” he murmured.
Talz grunted. Erath stared at the beast for a moment. “Come on,” he said, giving a tug on the basilisk’s reins before flinging the bone away.
A rough dirt road led to the farm. Erath studied the land as they approached, a house in the same woven, organic style inherent to Ionia, a barn big enough for an ox or two, a small plot with rows of grain, some patches of it already cut down and harvested. He made himself think like the huntresses did, like his training had taught him. Where could an ambush lie? Where was the best open ground for a fight, and where could we fall back to if that fight turned bad?
Erath saw no ambush, no band of farmers armed with whatever they had to protect their land. Only a woman, standing alone in muddy clothes at the end of the road.
The huntresses stopped a short distance from her, eyeing her carefully.
“Who is that?” Erath asked.
Teneff took a slow breath. “That is Riven.”
Erath blinked. “That’s her?”
“That is her,” replied Arrel.
He looked closer. “She’s not what I imagined.”
“Appearances aren’t everything, manservant,” said Marit. “You look like an idiot, for example.” She mulled her words for a second. “Perhaps that is a bad example.”
“Where is it?”
All eyes turned to Tifalenji.
“What?” asked Teneff.
“Her blade,” the runesmith said through gritted teeth. “I sense it, not in one place but in many. Something is wrong.”
“Well she isn’t wielding it,” said Marit. “That is surprising. Maybe she’s beaten it into a plowshare.”
Tifalenji glared at Marit. The rider chuckled, though there was no mirth in it.
“I know, I hope not either.”
For a few moments, nobody said anything. Riven stood before the door to her farmhouse, the huntresses arrayed before her. Erath stayed a pace behind with Talz, peering between the women to see what was happening.
The silence stretched, untenable, and finally broke.
“Hello, sister,” called Teneff.
“Teneff.” Riven’s voice was low, almost soft but with an edge of sadness. Erath detected no rage in it, no fear, only pain. Anguish coated the speaking of her former comrade’s name. Riven’s eyes flicked quickly to the other Noxians, taking each of them in before settling on the tracker and her hounds. “Arrel. Pups have grown.”
Arrel inclined her head.
“So she does remember the life she cast aside,” Marit exclaimed, looking to the other huntresses, then back at Riven. “The ones she betrayed.”
Surprise flickered over Riven’s features at hearing the masked woman’s voice. “Marit?”
“Scars and all,” the rider sneered. Lady Henrietta hissed. “Surely you must have known this day would come.”
Riven let out a breath. “It was a matter of time, I suppose.”
Teneff took a step forward. “And now, that time is here. You are alone?”
“Yes,” she answered.
Arrel’s eyes narrowed. “Should we believe you?”
“There was another,” Riven gestured to a death shrine beside the farmhouse door. Erath could see it was newly made. “She passed, now it’s only me.” Her eyes grew hard. “What do you want?”
“You, Riven,” said Marit, leaning down from the saddle. “We have come for you.”
Erath could see Riven visibly tense. The bands of lean muscle in her arms twitched, fingers tightening around the grip of a sword she wasn’t holding. The blade squire’s hand dropped to rest on the pommel of his sheathed falchion.
“Do you plan on giving us any trouble, sister?” Teneff allowed the barbed chain in his hand to slacken, the heavy iron hook striking the ground with a thud. “Remembering who you really are?”
“I’m not that person anymore,” Riven said quietly. “That is all far behind me.”
“Not far enough,” said Arrel.
Silence held for a handful of heartbeats, radiating with tension. Erath looked between the huntresses and Riven, waiting for either of them to make the first move, for the traitor’s blade to magically manifest in her hand and furious combat to begin.
“Well,” said Marit, surprising Erath by swinging her leg over and dismounting from Lady Henrietta, handing him the reins. “Are you going to be a polite host and invite us in? We have so much catching up to do.”
Riven was still for a moment, before she stepped back beside the open door, gesturing inside. “Please.”
The huntresses stepped over the threshold and into the farmhouse, each setting their weapons down beside the door. “Stay,” Arrel bade her hounds, and the trio huffed and whined before sitting on either side of the entrance. Erath made to follow them, only to find Tifalenji’s hand on his arm.
“Not you,” the runesmith murmured, her fingers digging into his flesh. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes darted about. Erath noticed her head tilt slightly, as though she were straining to hear a sound just beyond earshot. “You will come with me.”
Riven watched as the huntresses seated themselves at the table, the three of them together on one side. Waves of emotion rolled out of them, crashing against her in a storm of alarm, dread—and in some small corner of her, relief.
These were the women she served beside, the sisters she made in fire and blood. The essence of them was clear to her, but each had changed, overlaid with scars she never saw inflicted. Riven knew that she had changed as well, the span of the table a rift yawning between them. They were almost like strangers, wearing masks of the comrades she used to know.
Marit was literally wearing a mask. She caught Riven staring at it.
“Oh, this?” The rider reached back, undoing the clasps behind her head. She pulled the mask free, and Riven’s heart sank at the sight.
“What’s the matter, sister?” Marit leaned forward. “Don’t remember what happened? The fire, the screams? You were there, after all.”
Riven’s eyes stung. “What happened to you, Marit?”
“I survived.” Marit’s ruined visage twisted in a cruel lipless grin. “Hmm, perhaps if you had stuck around, you would know.”
Riven looked away. “I thought you all were dead.” The words were genuine, until this day they had been fact to her, now she couldn’t tell if she was uttering them to convince the huntresses, or herself.
“We aren’t,” croaked Arrel, clearing her throat painfully. “How hard did you look?”
“It all happened so quickly,” said Riven, lost in the memory. “Emystan, when she fired on us—”
“Do not speak that name to me,” snarled Teneff. Marit shot the warrior a glance. Teneff rose. “And do not seek to cast blame upon others. You ran.”
“What do you remember,” said Arrel, coughing wetly, “of that day?”
Riven closed her eyes. Broken images flashed across her mind, her ears swelling with fire and screams. Her nose stung from burnt flesh and poison. Agony, pressure, fingers clawing at her boots, begging her to save them. But she couldn’t.
“Little,” Riven finally replied. “Fragments, here and there. I don’t know how I lived, something with my sword.”
“You do look quite unscathed,” said Marit.
“I am not,” Riven said firmly. “I have my scars.”
“We all do,” said Teneff. She locked her withering gaze upon Riven. “Why did you run?”
Erath followed close behind Tifalenji, the runesmith moving as though in a trance. Sweat trickled down Tifalenji’s face as she walked, eyes closed, the tip of her sword flicking and waving in the air as its runes glimmered and pulsed. Erath spared a glance back at the farmhouse, wondering what was happening inside, and nearly collided with Tifalenji as she came to a halt outside the barn.
“In here,” she murmured. “Something.”
Erath’s curiosity peaked. They had succeeded in tracking the traitor down by following the runic magic infused within her sword, so it had to be here somewhere, hidden away. After witnessing what Tifalenji was able to do with her own weapon, the blade squire was eager to see such a powerful relic first hand.
The barn was small, occupied only by a thin-ribbed ox munching contentedly on straw in a stall. Erath thought back to Talz and Lady Henrietta where he had hitched them outside, happy he had not chosen to house them here. Talz was far too big, and likely to bring the structure down, while Lady Henrietta would have taken an interest in the ox… and it was a lot of work to clean all that jewelry.
The tip of Tifalenji’s sword stopped abruptly over a heap of straw. “There,” she breathed, stooping down. “A pox on her life, to keep a blade like hers in a place like this.”
Tifalenji dug, her fingers clawing away at heaps of straw and dried grass. Finally she held her blade over it, whispering a sharp string of syllables that boiled the chaff away, revealing a flat piece of metal, about the size of Erath’s fist. He could make out a portion of a rune, etched into the dark material, cut off by the edge of the fragment where it appeared to have been shattered from the whole.
“No,” Tifalenji’s breath caught in her throat as she touched it. “No, no, no…”
Erath took a step back, feeling the runesmith’s rage rolling off her like a heat haze. “Is that part of the sword? How could something of such power be broken?”
“She did it.” A tear streaked down Tifalenji’s face as her fingers closed over the shard. “She actually did it.”
Erath looked back at the farmhouse, thinking of the deserter inside with the huntresses. What had happened to this woman?
Tifalenji bolted upright and rounded on Erath in a single swift motion, her eyes smoldering. “There are more pieces like this,” she hissed. “I can feel them, and you and I are going to find them. Every single one.”
Riven ladled soup into bowls, placing one in front of each of the huntresses before filling one for herself.
“You certainly made a lot,” Marit remarked, glancing at the large pot simmering over the fire. “You must have quite the appetite, Riv.”
Riven swallowed a spoonful of broth. “I eat some of it fresh. The rest can sit over the fire for a week or so.”
Marit stirred the contents of her bowl. “How quaint.”
“You didn’t answer me,” Teneff pressed, her food untouched. “Tell me why you abandoned everything you had pledged your life to. You owe us that much.”
Riven stopped eating, placing her spoon on the table. “I was an orphan. Father died fighting far from home, I was never told where. Mother died having me. When Noxus called, I leapt at the chance—not for adventure, or a desire to spill blood.” She looked at the huntresses. “For family. For a chance to finally feel like I belonged somewhere. That changed that day in Navori, when the rain caught fire set by those we called ally.”
Riven took a breath, fighting to keep the memory from resurfacing. “We didn’t mean anything to them. We never did.”
“Noxus is not the same empire that you abandoned,” said Teneff. “It has evolved. Changed. Darkwill is dead, the nobility torn down.”
Riven noticed Marit’s eyes narrow, her mask of scar tissue twitch involuntarily.
“The empire is now a place where any with the strength to thrive can do so,” Teneff continued. “Where we all work as one to bring the same freedom and meaning to everywhere the sun touches.”
Riven considered her words. “If this new Noxus is some different place, then why does it still care about me?”
“We care about you,” said Arrel.
“We all thought you were dead,” added Marit. “A fallen hero. And instead we had to learn from others that you not only are alive, but have turned your back on those who would have died for you.”
“I met a mender here,” said Riven. “A healer of broken things, pottery, stone. She would sing to them, play charms, help guide the edges back to one another to become one again. She told me the spirits within all things want to be whole, but I don’t know if I believe that. I believe, sometimes, that which is broken cannot be pieced back together. It can’t go back. It is irreparable, and that is how it should stay. How it must stay.”
As Tifalenji roved around the farm, murmuring to herself as she hunted for more fragments, Erath approached the door to the cellar on her instructions. He stopped beside the death shrine that had been recently built, studying the graceful architecture of the small structure.
For a moment he thought to search it for a fragment, but found himself unwilling to risk desecrating the shrine. Tifalenji had found other shards of the blade, mourning each discovery like the body of a dear friend. If she detected one within the shrine, Erath had no doubt the runesmith would not share his misgivings.
Erath had heard nothing from within the farmhouse. No shouts, no sounds of violence. He was intensely curious to know what was happening inside, where the huntresses would find the answers that had driven them across Ionia to find Riven, but knew well enough he was not welcome there. What occurred within those walls was between the four sisters, and nobody else.
Yet Erath could not help but wonder how long it would stay that way.
Squatting down, he took hold of the cellar door and swung it up and open. Cool, moist air wafted up toward him, revealing a set of rough stone steps leading down into the gloom. Peering into the dark, Erath wished he had his own runeblade, for no other reason than to light the way.
Instead, he relied on more traditional methods, walking over to Talz. After checking both his and Lady Henrietta’s hitchings, making sure both strong creatures would be unable to break loose and cause him even more trouble, Erath used the materials borne on the basilisk’s back to fashion himself a small torch.
Now able to see, he descended the cellar steps. He played the light of his torch in front of him, only able to clearly determine what existed inside its flickering glow. The vague impressions of stacks of sackcloth, shelves lined with sealed jars made of clay and stone, farmer’s tools.
Erath heard a noise—a short, sharp rustle in the dark.
Immediately his knife was in his hand. The cellar was cramped, the quarters too tight for his falchion. He froze, straining his hearing, and slowly moved his torch around him.
The light granted shape and texture wherever Erath brought it. He focused on the location of the sound, his breathing low and even, as steady as his grip on his knife. Then he came to an abrupt halt, as he discovered the light of the torch glittering back in a pair of wide, frightened eyes.
It was no runic blade fragment. It was a man.
“Do you think we will accept that?” Marit had still not touched her food, her mind on anything but her appetite. “After what we endured to find you, the blood we spilled? You think we will just turn around and leave you be, like nothing ever happened?”
“Much has happened,” Riven slowly shook her head. “Too much. Go back and tell them I’m dead. There is truth enough in that, the Riven you knew is dead. I’m someone else, someone broken who this land still holds to account.”
“That is a lie,” rasped Arrel. “We are the ones who hold you to account.”
“It is your life here that is the lie, Riven,” said Teneff. “You cannot run away from this, not anymore. Be the Noxian we once knew, our sister. Return with us to the empire, stand tall and finally face justice. If you truly see yourself as broken, home is where you will find the last piece to make you whole again.”
Marit gave a crooked grin. “They may not even execute you.”
“Much has changed,” Arrel said. “But the soul of Noxus has not. Join us, and put a knee to the ground. Or stand against us, and we’ll put you underneath it.”
Teneff shot her comrades an angry look, before turning back to Riven. “Embrace the new Noxus, devote yourself to the empire and be reaffirmed in its eyes, and they will value your strength. I know it’s still within you, Riven. It is not too late for you.”
Riven looked away. She hesitated, hearing a truth in their words she did not want to acknowledge. What if Noxus was different? After everything that had happened, was there still a life for her there? And now that the empire had found her, would they ever stop?
Riven looked at each of her sisters, adamant in their mission. What would she have to do to stop them? And if they failed in their task, Noxus would just send more. How many innocent lives would be lost before they finally tore her away from this place?
Submission loomed heavy in her heart. Go with them, it said. Let no more Ionian blood be shed because of you. No more people dying before their time for the sake of your soul.
People like Asa. Your fair.
“Riven! Come out, now!”
The four women jolted at the voice from outside the farmhouse. Riven stood, and the huntresses followed suit, their postures growing taut.
“What is this?” she asked.
Teneff glanced at Arrel and Marit, then back at Riven. “Let’s go find out.”
Erath watched Riven appear from inside the farmhouse, flanked by the huntresses. They stepped into the daylight, finding him and Tifalenji standing there, their weapons drawn, with the Ionian man Erath had discovered kneeling between them.
“Dyeda,” gasped Asa.
“Fair!” Riven started toward him, stopping short as Tifalenji rested her rune blade against the man’s throat. “Release him,” she demanded. “He has no part in this!”
“Your deception has made him a part.” Tifalenji’s face was hard, her eyes cold. “Now we can dispense with the tears of reunion and get to the true matter at hand.”
Erath looked to Tifalenji. Riven’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I have someone you want,” said the runesmith, indicating Asa. “And you have something I need.” She showed Riven the broken fragments in her other hand. “Bring it to me.”
Riven hesitated, her eyes flashing between Tifalenji and Asa.
“I grow weary of these games,” snarled Tifalenji, pressing her blade hard enough for Erath to see a trickle of blood from Asa’s throat. “I am not asking, and you know of what I speak. Bring it to me, now… or there will be another death shrine, here.”
The moment stretched as Riven looked to Asa. Erath maintained his calm, carefully studying Riven. He watched her push a breath out between her teeth, and slowly turn back to the farmhouse.
“Ensure she does not flee,” commanded Tifalenji. Arrel gestured to First, and the drakehound loped around behind the farmhouse, while the other two guarded the front corners of the structure.
“What is this, runesmith?” said Teneff. She looked at Erath. “Who is this man?”
“I found him in the—”
“Be silent,” snapped Tifalenji. “This is my business.”
Riven reappeared, stepping out into the field carrying something wrapped in a blanket. All eyes were fixed upon it, especially Tifalenji’s.
“Show me,” the runesmith ordered. “Now.”
Her face tight, Riven slowly unwound the blanket, letting it fall to reveal the hilt and crossguard of an enormous broadsword. A jagged portion of the blade was still attached to it, like a chipped tooth, inscribed with the same runic script Erath had seen on the fragments they had collected.
“Damn you,” Tifalenji breathed, her voice shaking at the sight of it. Her fingers tightened around the blade fragments. “Do you have any idea what you have done?”
“This sword was entrusted to me,” said Riven, her slender fingers slowly closing around its leather-bound grip. “It is my responsibility, and no other’s. Let him go.”
“It should have never gone to you,” hissed Tifalenji. “Too long has that mistake gone uncorrected, but no longer. Surrender it now.”
Holding the sword, even broken, Riven seemed stronger. Erath could see the defiance growing within her.
“You cannot have it,” said Riven. “This weapon will never return to those who forged it. I will not allow that to come to pass.”
“Then he will die,” said Tifalenji simply. “And so will you. Even desecrated as it is, the blade is what is important. You are nothing but a parasite, clutching for its radiance to give meaning to a broken, worthless existence.”
“So, this was never about me.” Riven shot an accusing glare at the huntresses. “Was it?”
Erath stared at Tifalenji. Were they really only here for a blade?
“Your life was forfeit the moment you turned against my masters, and the blade ceased to be wielded to their purpose,” Tifalenji seethed. “You died in that moment of betrayal, Riven. I am merely here to take back what is ours.”
“You mean to kill her?” Teneff stepped forward, the chains of her hook rattling. “This was not what we agreed upon, runesmith.”
Arrel gestured, and her trio of hounds rushed around her, snarling.
“You’ll defy me now?” Tifalenji scoffed. “You have deserted, soldiers. Return to Noxus without my protection and you will be executed—or do as I say, and live. There is no alternative.”
“She’s right.”
Teneff and Arrel turned, watching Marit as she walked to the door of the farmhouse and retrieved her glaive. Riven watched as she passed her by, going to stand at Tifalenji’s side.
“Rune-witch,” said Marit. “You promised me a blade when all this was done. But I am feeling impatient, I think I’ll just have Riven’s instead.”
“Prove your worth, then,” said Tifalenji. “Strike her down and take it from her, and it shall be yours.”
“Marit, listen to me,” Teneff pleaded. “We cannot do this. We all agreed, she must return to Noxus to face justice.”
“I’ll be Noxus’ justice!” Marit snapped, leveling her glaive at Riven. “That sword always should have been mine, you never possessed the strength to do what needed to be done with it. With the blade reforged, and wielded by my hands, I will rise—my name and lineage will not die forgotten in the darkness. All that was stolen from me will be restored, won back by the edge of that blade!”
Erath studied the two women, watching the sunlight play across the gleaming edge of Marit’s glaive.
“Look at you.” Marit spat on the ground before Riven. “A broken sword, for a shell of a woman. Could you have even lifted it now?”
Tifalenji cried out as the shards whipped from her hand, leaving it bloody. The fragments sliced through the air toward Riven, shimmering with emerald light. Weaving above her, the broken segments came together, bound by crackling runic energy into an immense, fractured union.
“Lift it?” Riven spun the massive blade once, kicking up dust and bits of gravel into the air. “Oh, yes, my sister. I can still lift it.”
Marit’s gruesome visage twisted in a smile as she sank into a fighting stance. “My whole life was taken from me, you threw yours away. Come on, then! The blood we spilled to find you… You owe me this, Riv!”
Teneff took a step toward Tifalenji, with Arrel at her side. “Do not interfere,” the runesmith hissed, raising her sword. She shot a glance at Erath, and gestured to the old man. “Hold him.”
Erath laid a hand on the Ionian’s shoulder, his falchion in his other fist. He tried to split his attention between ensuring the man didn’t run, and the alarming division forming between Teneff, Arrel, and Tifalenji.
What if he had to choose a side?
Erath’s mind raced at the prospect. What would he choose? Marit’s vindication against betrayal? Teneff’s steadfast duty to the empire? Or the safety of Tifalenji’s authority, despite her secrets?
Would the ones he rejected try to kill him? Could he kill them?
All this while the conflict was poised to begin in front of him, and Erath was unable to take his eyes off Riven’s incredible blade.
“Marit, sister, do not do this,” Riven said through gritted teeth. “Don’t make me kill you.”
Marit spun her glaive. “Don’t worry, Riven. You won’t.”
The two began to circle. Erath took note of their postures, Marit fluid and aggressive, Riven stoic and reserved. Their weapons occupied the space between them, the edges flicking and making tiny circles but never touching…
…until, finally, Marit struck.
Sensing an opening, the rider leapt forward, her glaive a whirling blur of steel. Riven backpedaled, using the hulking length and width of her sword’s blade to deflect the flurry of blows in showers of sparks and emerald runic energy. Marit sidestepped, throwing out the haft of her glaive against Riven’s sword to knock it aside, and lunged for her throat.
Crying out, Riven swept her blade in an arc, sending a gale of lashing wind at Marit and hurling her away. Marit skidded back, her free hand digging into the earth to slow herself.
“Cute,” she said with a grin. She rose, and began her attack anew.
As they progressed, Erath noticed Riven’s defensive guise begin to slip. Something was awakening within her, the warrior spirit that had made her one of the deadliest soldiers in Noxus. Slash by slash, strike after parry, she ceased to be on the back foot. Erath began to see something overtake her features, replacing calm.
He saw rage.
Riven started attacking. Her runeblade made a sizzling thrum as it chopped and slashed against Marit’s defenses. Marit’s scarred features twisted in concentration as she used every bit of her incredible skill to ward off Riven’s assault—but every counter was swept aside, every attempt to spin inside Riven’s guard rebuffed.
For the first time, Erath considered that Marit could lose. In the shade of a massive tree, its leaves red as blood, Riven was winning.
The two were sheened in sweat. Marit’s movements had lost their grace as exhaustion set in, with an edge of desperation. Where Marit was fading, Riven surged, her eyes smoldering as she delivered increasingly powerful blows. Throwing Marit back against the tree, Riven raised her sword for an overhead strike. Marit brought up the haft of her glaive, and Riven’s blade cleaved it in half.
“You’ll never escape what makes you broken, Riven,” Marit smiled coldly, throwing away the lower half of her weapon. “No matter where you go, it will always be with you.”
Marit lunged with her broken glaive. Roaring, Riven drove her own blade forward. Blood burst around it, snapping and burning to a mist against the runes as she ran Marit through, pinning her to the tree.
In an instant, Riven’s eyes widened. She tore the blade back and Marit slowly slid to the ground, clutching her chest but unable to stem the flow of blood spilling over her fingers.
The rage vanished from Riven’s face as she beheld Marit. Her grip on her sword slackened. “Sister, forgive me.”
Marit stared up at Riven, blood trickling down the corner of her mouth. Her strength fading, Marit used the last of it to seize the collar of Riven’s shirt, hauling her down close to look her in the eye.
“No,” Marit hissed, the contempt in the word costing her what life she had remaining to her as she slumped into the dirt.
Silence descended. The shock radiated through all present, especially Erath. Marit had always seemed invincible to him, surviving the chemical attack that had disfigured her, triumphing in every battle across their journey. He could not fathom that he had just watched her fall.
And for what? he thought. What are we really doing here?
“Regrettable,” said Tifalenji, “but not unexpected.”
Riven recoiled as her blade was torn from her exhausted grasp, whirling her around to see the runesmith now holding it, wielding a runeblade in each hand.
“Through all of this, on the path here, I truly debated whether to let you live after I had taken back what is ours. But after this…” She tightened her grip on Riven’s blade. “…sacrilege, I cannot leave here while your heart still beats.”
“Enough!” cried Teneff, and she and Arrel advanced on Tifalenji. Asa whimpered at the sight, struggling to be free of Erath’s grip.
The runesmith crossed her blades and swung them out, punching the huntresses from their feet in a storm of energy. Arrel’s hounds bayed, charging to their master’s defense. Tifalenji uttered a verse and the three were suspended in mid-air, sealed inside capsules of runic energy. Erath watched the scene play out, his heart climbing into his throat, the grip of his falchion growing slick in his hand.
“You think you can stop this now?” Tifalenji roared. “Nothing will stop it! I will kill every single one of you and sleep peacefully tonight, for I am righteous, and you all are—”
The air was driven from Tifalenji’s lungs as the tip of a blade emerged from her chest. For an instant the runesmith sagged, as though weightless, before she began to fall. The twin runeblades tumbled from lifeless fingers, and the bloodied falchion held her up for a second before it was pulled free, revealing Erath holding it behind her.
The drakehounds dropped to the ground, dazed but unharmed. Arrel and Teneff hauled themselves to their feet, staring at Erath in surprise, as though looking at him for the first time.
“No more betrayal,” whispered Erath. “No more secrets. After everything we’ve been through, everything questioned and twisted, all that is constant is honor. Our duty to Noxus.”
Teneff stepped forward. Riven watched her stoop down, and retrieve both runeblades. Riven’s had fallen apart once more, the pieces scattered over the ground. Arrel collected them, before the two huntresses stood over Riven.
“He’s right,” said Teneff. She eyed Riven not with vengeance or hate, but grim resolve. “Honor is all that we have. I gave my oath to Noxus that you would see justice, sister. I will see that carried out.”
“Just leave us be,” Asa croaked, tears streaming down his face. “You do not have to take her.”
Erath looked to the huntresses, to Riven. Would there be further bloodshed before this was done?
“I will go.”
“Dyeda, no…” Asa pleaded, shocked to hear those words coming from Riven’s mouth.
Riven released a shuddering breath. “No more, fair—no more will suffer here because of me. Our responsibility rests upon our own actions, the choices made by our hearts.” She looked at him. “This is my choice.”
Asa’s mouth opened, then closed. He breathed, shakily, and stood tall. “Wherever you go, whatever you do, you will always be my dyeda. Always.”
“You will always be here, fair.” Riven’s hand fell to her heart. She looked up at Teneff. “Leave him in peace, and I will go with you.”
Teneff was still for a moment, before dipping her head a fraction. “I swear it.” She nodded to Erath, and the blade squire immediately released Asa.
The Ionian stood shakily, a look from Riven leaving him to hang his head as he stumbled toward the farmhouse. Asa slid down against the doorway, racked with sobs as he watched Teneff put Riven in chains.
Erath’s mind suddenly went to the beasts. He whirled around, relieved to see Talz still hitched in place, eating grass without a care in the world.
But Lady Henrietta had slipped her reins.
Panic surged in Erath’s chest, until he saw she hadn’t gone far. He found the reptilian steed in the shade of the tree, trying to awaken Marit with gentle nudges from her snout. Slowly, carefully, he closed the distance to them.
Henrietta hissed at Erath, baring her fangs and putting herself between him and Marit’s body as he reached out.
“I know,” Erath whispered, gently running a hand down Henrietta’s neck. “I know.”
Henrietta hissed again, softer this time. Erath reached for her reins, and the beast did not pull away.
Arrel finally gave voice to the question in all their heads. “How will this end? The runesmith is dead, her mandate does nothing for us now.”
“She died on the route of her expedition.” Teneff stared at Tifalenji’s body. “In service to the empire. In her name we continued on, and succeeded in her task, bringing a fugitive to justice.”
“That is what you will tell them?” asked Arrel.
Teneff was unmoving. “That is the truth.”
“Well, then,” said Arrel. “You and the blade squire seem to have everything in order.”
Erath looked at the tracker, realization dawning. “You aren’t coming with us.”
“This was important.” Arrel shook her head, handing Teneff the shards of Riven’s blade. “But it is done, and I serve Noxus better on my own.”
Teneff slowly extended a hand. “Until we meet again, sister.”
Arrel looked at it for a moment, before grasping it, wrist to wrist. “Until then.” She gestured and her hounds padded to her side, as they began to walk the dirt road away from the farm.
“Just the two of us, then,” said Erath, watching Arrel disappear.
“You aren’t coming either,” said Teneff.
Erath stared at her, at Riven, confused.
“This duty is mine alone now,” she said. “My search is over—but not yours.” She nodded to Lady Henrietta. “Now go. Find your betrayer.”
At first, Erath said nothing. After witnessing Riven’s power he didn’t want to leave Teneff alone with her, but he knew in his heart that it was the right choice. And she was right, there was something left that he had to do here.
Erath straightened, hammering a fist proudly against his chest. “For Noxus.”
Teneff returned the salute. “For Noxus.”
Erath helped Teneff drape Marit’s body in her family’s standard, and load it onto Talz before retrieving his own things. “Grow big and strong, Talz,” he patted Talz’s flank. “Keep Ten out of trouble.”
The basilisk swung his head playfully, nearly knocking Erath off his feet. He smiled, feeling his eyes sting. He turned away, wiping away a tear with his thumb, and turned to Lady Henrietta.
Inching toward her, Erath pictured every person he had witnessed Lady Henrietta kill. Every shriek of reptilian fury, every strangled cry ripped from the throats of her prey. Every time he had cleaned the gore from her jewelry. Softly humming he approached, reached out, and gently ran a hand over her scaly hide. She twitched, but did not recoil from him. Encouraged, he tested her reins, and after a moment Erath climbed into the saddle on Lady Henrietta’s back.
She accepted him.
Riven and Teneff watched Erath ride away down the road. Riven’s manacles clinked, and she realized this was the second time she had been dragged from the farm in chains. She remembered how she had felt then—the fear and the panic, allowing it to wash over her and ebb away. It would not be the same as it was before. This time was different, but so was she.
Teneff turned to Riven. “You are my captive, but you are also my sister. I will treat you with respect due. Are you ready?”
Riven exhaled, sparing one last look at Asa and the home she would never see again, and gave a nod. “Yes.”
“Good.” Teneff helped Riven onto Talz’s back, looking out at the long road ahead of them. “To Noxus.”
Erath rode through the night. After the hardships of the journey to find Riven on foot, the speed of covering ground with Lady Henrietta was exhilarating. Were his purpose different, he would have allowed the joy of riding to overwhelm him. But his heart was heavy, like a stone sitting in his chest, as the distance to his destination whittled away to nothing.
The natural stockade did not open for him. Erath drew his falchion, clashing it against his armor.
“I am Jobin’s son!” Erath bellowed. “Let him show himself, or stand aside so that I might face him.”
After a few moments’ silence, the barrier peeled apart wide enough to admit him. He trotted into the village, feeling the frightened eyes of Ionians and wayward Noxians upon him.
“Jobin!” Erath called. “Father, face me!”
“Peace!” An elder emerged from the crowd. Erath recognized him as the old man who had watched over the site of the chemical attack. “Be at peace, my child. I will take you to him.”
Exhaling, Erath sheathed his falchion, and dismounted Lady Henrietta. The elder led Erath to Jobin’s hut, and the two entered. Ionians gathered a distance from Henrietta, singing calming melodies. Henrietta spat at them.
The hut was dark. The Ionian lit a few candles, granting enough illumination for Erath to see the shape at the center of the room, draped in a shroud.
“Your father,” said the elder.
Erath drew a breath. He knelt, trying to keep his hands from shaking as he drew back the shroud, revealing the pale, cold face of his father. It was scarred, bruised, and discolored.
“Why did you return?” asked the Ionian.
“I came,” Erath’s voice shook, “to hear why he betrayed me and my companions to the Brotherhood.”
“Betray?” Sadness flooded the elder’s features. “My child, he did not.”
Erath’s eyes fell over the wounds, taking in every bruise, tracing every laceration.
“The Brotherhood came not long after you departed,” said the Ionian. “They demanded we reveal your path. He defied them, and for his defiance he endured torture. They took his life.”
Erath barely heard the words. His breath caught in his throat. Emotions collided over him. His journey. Denied from fighting for his tribe, enduring the hardships to find his place in another. Discovering their own broken family. Seeing it torn apart and pieced back together.
He touched his father’s face. A tear fell, striking Jobin’s cheek. The weight in Erath’s chest vanished, the stone melting away beneath warmth.
“You could stay,” the elder ventured. “We would welcome Jobin’s son here. Wait for the blossom festival to come once more.”
“No,” Erath shook his head. “His spirit is at peace with me.”
The Ionian stepped back, dipping his head in understanding.
“Help me wrap him,” said Erath, taking hold of the shawl. “He’s coming with me.”
“Where will you take him?” asked the elder.
Erath looked at the Ionian, and smiled. “Home.”
Sivir

From an early age, Sivir learned firsthand the harsh lessons of Shuriman desert life. With her entire family slain by marauding Kthaons—one of the Great Sai’s most infamous raider tribes—the young girl and other orphans like her could only hope to survive by stealing food from local markets, and delving into half-buried ancient ruins in search of trinkets to sell. They would brave cramped tunnels and forgotten crypts, hunting for anything of value, often scrapping viciously with one another over the best finds.

Sivir would lead others into the depths, but could rarely hold on to what few treasures she managed to unearth. After being robbed by her supposed friend Mhyra, she swore she would never allow herself to be betrayed again, and in time she joined a group of mercenaries led by the renowned Iha Ziharo, serving as their guide and general lackey.

Though her flourishing skill at arms eventually led her to become Ziharo’s personal sergeant, Sivir noted that the domineering leader took the greatest share of gold and glory from every raid… even when it was Sivir’s clever strategies that brought them their wealth. Rallying her fellow sellswords, Sivir decided to strike against Ziharo, and replace her as leader. Unwilling to kill her former mentor, though, Sivir left her alone in the desert with a hollow offer of good luck.

Over the years, Sivir and her new followers earned a fearsome reputation. They accepted any task for good pay, including a commission from a Nashramae patriarch looking for a lost heirloom—a blade known as “the Chalicar”. Accompanied by his personal guards, Sivir searched for many months, until she finally pried a cross-shaped blade from the sarcophagus of some hero of the old Shuriman empire.

This was a treasure indeed, crafted by cunning and magic in a long-forgotten age. Sivir marveled at it—never had a weapon felt so natural in her grip. When the captain of the guard demanded they return it to their master, Sivir threw the blade in a curved arc, decapitating the captain and cutting down the three men behind him in an instant. She fought her way from the tomb, leaving only the dead in her wake.

Sivir’s reputation soon spread beyond the desert. Indeed, when Noxian expeditions began to move inland from the northern coast, she found herself in the employ of Cassiopeia, the youngest daughter of General Du Couteau, to help plunder Shurima’s lost capital. As they traversed twisting catacombs, many of Sivir’s mercenaries fell to ancient traps, but Cassiopeia refused to turn back.

When they finally reached a great tomb door, surrounded by statued guardians and bas-reliefs depicting the mighty god-warriors of old, Sivir felt her blood stir. She was mesmerized by these beast-headed heroes, and their wars against the foul creatures of the underworld.

Taking advantage of Sivir’s inattention, Cassiopeia thrust a dagger into the mercenary’s back.

Sivir collapsed in agony, her blood soaking the sand. Using the Chalicar itself, Cassiopeia unlocked the tomb door, unknowingly triggering the sorcerous curse that had been placed upon it. On the verge of death, Sivir watched as a stone serpent came to life before her eyes, searing Cassiopeia's skin with venom. The last thing the sellsword heard before her senses dimmed were the roars of maddened gods, unleashed from the tomb to walk the earth once more…

But fate, it seemed, was not yet done with Sivir.

Unknown to her, she carried the last trace of an ancient, royal bloodline in her veins. She awoke to find herself tended by none other than Azir—the last ruler of the empire, who had been denied his rite of Ascension and passed into legend. Her spilled blood had reawakened his spirit after almost three thousand years, completing the ritual and imbuing him with all the celestial power of a god-emperor. There, in the Oasis of the Dawn, he used the healing waters of that sacred pool to miraculously undo Sivir’s mortal wound.

She had heard tales of Azir and his prophesied return, and always thought only fools could believe in such fantasy… and yet she could not deny what was unfolding before her very eyes.The earth split, and great plumes of dust whirled into the air as the ancient city of Shurima rose from its grave, crowned by an enormous golden disc that shone with the heavenly rays of the sun. Shaken to her very core, Sivir fled with the Chalicar on her back.

While she would have liked nothing more than to return to her former life, she instead found herself caught up in the struggles of powers greater than most mortals could comprehend. At the city of Vekaura, she crossed paths with another Ascended being—the freed magus Xerath, now seeking to end Azir’s bloodline for good—but with the help of the scholar Nasus and a young stoneweaver named Taliyah, Sivir survived once more.

The time has now come when she must choose a path, either embracing the destiny she has been given, or forging her own amid the shifting sands of Shurima.
Water

Sivir's throat felt like it was coated in a layer of broken glass. The cracked flesh of her lips burned. Her eyes refused to focus. I've given them more than enough time to move on.
She leaned around the edge of the boulder. The caravan was still at the spring and showing no signs of moving on.
Why did they have to be Kthaons? Of the many, many tribes that want her dead, the Kthaons stood out in their persistence.
Sivir scanned the tribesmen again, looking for any sign the caravan might climb out of the old riverbed and continue its journey. She rolled her shoulders trying to judge if her muscles were up to fighting a half-dozen men. She'd have to take them by surprise to stand a chance.
That prissy Noxian got the drop on me...
Sivir shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Now wasn't the time for those thoughts. I'm becoming scattered from the lack of water. Why didn't I bring more water?
The city had been bursting with it. Huge streams poured from statues, all at the command of an Ancient. He healed my wound and saved my life. Then he returned to rebuilding the temples around him, calling out strange words in an old dialect she could barely make sense of. Talking to himself in a dead city filled only with sand. I had to get out before that sorcerer decided to sink it all back beneath the dust – or that I owed him.
Swallowing brought fresh agony to Sivir's throat. She looked at the spring again, a simple puddle of brown water in the center of the caravan.
I've given them a day, she reasoned. I will die, or they will die. For a few drops of water or a few slivers of gold. That is the way of the desert.
Sprinting toward the first guard, she readied her crossblade. Would there be enough time to reach him before he turned back around? She counted the distance. Fourteen strides. Twelve. Ten. He can't make a sound. Two strides. She jumped. Her blade sank completely through his neck, down into his shoulder.
Blood erupted as she crashed down on him. Her momentum drove them behind the line of rocks on which he'd been standing. Sivir grabbed his arms. He struggled against her, refusing to accept he was already dead. The guard's blood drenched Sivir as he took a final gurgling breath. This man didn't need to die.
Sivir thought again of Cassiopeia’s blade. That Noxian bitch sunk a blade in my back. I died. That should mean something.
A distant rumble sounded. Horses? A sandwall collapsing? There wasn't time to wonder what it meant. Sivir crawled across the hard stones. It won't take the rest of the caravan long to notice the guard's absence. The next target was moving high along the ridge line. She needed to hit him before he walked away from the ledge. The shot has to be perfect. She threw the crossblade.
It hit the second guard, cutting him in half. The flying blade arced upward, but as it reached its apex, it slowed before reversing its direction. As it flew back toward her, it clipped the neck of the third man. There wouldn't be time for another throw now – the blade completed its arc, flying down toward the center of the water. She only had to reach it in time. The maneuver was an old standby. She would catch the weapon and kill the three remaining men in a single, spinning summersault.
But as she ran, her feet became heavy, and it seemed impossible to draw enough air into her pained lungs. Thirty strides. She had to make the distance before the second man's body hit the ground. Twenty strides. The muscles in her legs cramped, refusing to obey her commands. Fifteen strides. She found herself sliding, stumbling. No. Not yet.
Then, sooner than she had expected, the second man's body completed its fall and impacted the rocks. The sound was impossible to miss.
One mistake was enough. The Kthaons were a desert people. The remaining guards had weapons drawn before she took another step.
Her crossblade hit the water between the men and her. Five strides in front of them. Ten strides from her.
I could make it. Every reflex in Sivir's body willed her forward. Instead, she slid to a halt, nearly falling forward.
Failing to bring enough water. Waiting too long to attack. Misjudging distances. I don't make these mistakes. Why? Some other part of Sivir's mind answered. She remembered the moment after Cassiopeia’s dagger had pierced her back – she couldn't feel the blade itself. Instead, she felt a sudden, unexpected weight that seemed to steal her breath and crush her lungs.
"I killed three of you before you heard me," Sivir coughed.
"You don't have a weapon," the largest of the Kthaons said.
"Only because I didn't want your blood in the water," she lied.
The three remaining men exchanged glances. They've recognized me.
"A year ago, I killed your chieftain and two dozen of your finest for a bag of thin gold. It was a cheap price for their lives." She met the three men's eyes. They were spreading out from the water, attempting to flank her.
"The gold I earned from killing your chieftain and kinsmen?" she asked. "I gambled it away in a single evening."
"We will avenge them and your insult," the largest man responded.
"I shouldn't have killed them," she said, "not for that gold. Don't make me kill you for a few cups of water."
The Kthaons’ leader nervously adjusted the grip on his weapon.
"I'm telling you I can make it to the blade before you can act," Sivir explained. "And if I run for my blade. You will die." She indicated the foul brown water. "Your lives are worth more than that."
"Then we will die with honor," the largest man decided, though his fellows seemed less certain.
"Did I need that weapon to kill the twenty men you want to avenge?" Sivir warned. "You are too few."
The three men hesitated. They knew Sivir's reputation. The other two pulled the largest man away, before backing to their mounts.
Sivir edged toward the water.
"We will return with our tribesmen for vengeance."
"Lots of people have tried that," she said. "Never worked out for them."
Sivir rolled her swollen tongue against the top of her mouth, desperate for relief. Every part of her wanted to kneel down to the water and drink. I have to wait until they cross the far dune.
As the men climbed into their saddles and rode away, the strange rumbling sounded again. It was loud and growing louder. It’s not horses or shifting sands. Sivir turned to its source and watched as a three foot wall of blue water rushed down the ancient riverbed. The water from the city.
The moment before the water hit Sivir, she felt the rush of cold, damp air in front of the flood. It shocked her like an unexpected kiss.
The first wave nearly took out her knees. The impact stung with cold, but as it enveloped her waist and legs, it became soothingly cool. Sivir laid in the water, letting it wash over her. She could feel the painful grit of the desert washing away as her hair floated weightless and free.
I was dead. I must make that mean something.
Poetry with a Blade

Mo Xiong

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All stories

The Thrill of the Chase

Camille

Tea with the Gray Lady

The Weakest Heart

Canticle of the Winged Sisters

The Shuttered Manse

Shyvana

The Winged Beast

Silence for the Damned

Singed

Engineering the Nightmare

Sion

In the Mind of Madness

Sisterhood of War Part I: Old Wounds

Sisterhood of War Part II: The Unquiet Dead

Sisterhood of War Part III: Irreparable

Sivir

Water

Poetry with a Blade

Poppy