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Graves

Raised in the wharf alleys of Bilgewater, Malcolm Graves quickly learned how to fight and how to steal, skills that would serve him very well in all the years ahead. He could always find work hauling contraband up from the smugglers’ skiffs that came into the bay each night—with a tidy side-gig as hired muscle for various other unsavory local characters, as they went about their business in the port.

But the alleys were small-time, and he craved more excitement than they could offer. Still little more than a youth, Graves stole a blunderbuss and smuggled himself aboard a ship headed out of Bilgewater to the Shuriman mainland, where he stole, lied, and gambled his way from place to place along the coast.

Across the table of a high-stakes—and highly illegal—card game in Mudtown, Graves met a man who would change the course of his life, and his career: the trickster now known to many as Twisted Fate.

Each immediately saw in the other the same reckless passion for danger and adventure, and together they formed a most lucrative partnership. Between Graves’ raw brawn and Twisted Fate’s ability to talk his way out of (and occasionally back into) almost any situation, they were an unusually effective team from the outset. Their mutual sense of roguish honor grew into genuine trust, and together they stole from the rich, swindled the foolish, handpicked skilled crews for specific jobs, and sold out their rivals whenever they could.

Though at times Twisted Fate would blow all their shares and leave them with nothing to show for it, Graves knew that the thrill of some new escapade was always just around the corner…

On the southern borderlands of Valoran, they set two renowned noble houses of Noxus at each other’s throats as cover for the rescue of a kidnapped heir. That they pocketed the reward money, only to ransom the vile young man to the highest bidder, should really have come as no surprise to their original employer. In Piltover, they still hold the distinction of being the only thieves ever to crack the supposedly impenetrable Clockwork Vault. Not only did the pair empty the vault of all its treasures, they also tricked the guards into loading the loot onto their hijacked schooner, for a quick getaway through the Sun Gates.

In almost every case, only once they and their accomplices were safely over the horizon were their crimes even discovered—usually along with one of Twisted Fate’s trademark calling cards left where it would be easily found.

But, eventually, their luck ran out.

During a heist that rapidly turned from complex to completely botched, Graves was taken by the local enforcers, while Twisted Fate merely turned tail and abandoned him.

Thrown into the infamous prison known as the Locker, Graves endured years of torture and solitary confinement, during which time he nursed his bitter anger toward his old partner. A lesser man would surely have been broken by all this, but not Malcolm Graves. He was determined to have his revenge.

When he finally clawed his way to freedom, with the prison warden’s brand new shotgun slung over his shoulder, Graves began his long-overdue pursuit of Twisted Fate.

The search led him back home to Bilgewater, where he found that the wily old cardsharp had acquired a few new bounties on his head—and Graves would be only too happy to claim them. However, just as he got Twisted Fate in his sights, they were forced to put aside their differences in order to escape almost certain death in the ongoing conflict between the reaver king Gangplank and his rival ship captains.

Once again, Graves found himself escaping his hometown… only this time, he had his old friend in tow. While both of them might have liked to pick up their partnership where they left off all those years ago, such resentment couldn't simply be forgotten overnight, and it would be a while before Graves could bring himself to trust Twisted Fate again.

Still, he feels Bilgewater calling to him once more. Maybe this time around, the pair of them will find their stride and be able to pull off the ultimate heist…
One Last Shot

Holed up in an empty bar, bleeding from a dozen wounds and surrounded by armed men who wanted him dead, Malcolm Graves had seen better days. He’d seen worse ones, too, so he wasn’t worried yet. Graves leaned over the smashed bar and helped himself to a bottle, sighing as he read the label.
“Demacian wine? That all you got?”
“It’s the most expensive bottle I have...” said the innkeeper, cowering below the bar in a glittering ocean of broken glass.
Graves looked around the bar and grinned.
“I reckon it’s the only bottle you got left.”
The man had panic written all over him. He clearly wasn’t used to being in the middle of a gunfight. This wasn’t Bilgewater, where fatal brawls broke out ten times a day. Piltover was regarded a more civilized city than Graves’s hometown. In some ways, at least.
He yanked the cork free with his teeth and spat it to the floor before taking a swig. He swilled it around his mouth like he’d seen rich folks do before swallowing it.
“Pisswater,” he said, “but beggars can’t be choosers, huh?”
A voice shouted through the broken windows, buoyed with confidence it hadn’t earned and the false bravado of numbers.
“Give it up, Graves. There’s seven of us to one of you. This ain’t going to end well.”
“Damn straight it ain’t,” hollered Graves in return. “If you want to walk away from this, you best go fetch more men!”
He took another swig from the bottle, then put it down on the bar.
“Time to get to work,” he said, lifting his one-of-a-kind shotgun from the bar.
Graves reloaded, pushing fresh shells home. The weapon snapped together with a satisfyingly lethal sound, loud enough to carry to the men outside. Anyone who knew him would know that sound and what it meant.
The outlaw slid off the barstool and made his way to the door, glass crunching beneath his boot heels. He stooped to glance through a cracked window. Four men crouched behind makeshift cover: two on the upper floor of a fancy workshop, another two in shadowed doorways to either side. All held crossbows or muskets at the ready.
“We tracked you halfway across the world, you son of a bitch,” shouted the same voice. “Bounty didn’t say nothin’ about you being alive or dead. Walk out now with that cannon of yours held high and there don’t need to be no more bloodshed.”
“Oh, I’m comin’ out,” shouted Graves. “Don’t you worry none about that.”
He drew a silver serpent from his pocket and flipped it onto the bar, where it spun through a pool of spilled rum before landing heads up. A trembling hand reached up to take it. Graves grinned.
“That’s for the door,” he said.
“What about the door?” asked the innkeeper.
Graves hammered his boot into the inn’s front door, smashing it from its hinges. He dove through the splintered frame, rolling to one knee, gun blasting from the hip.
“Alright, you bastards!” he roared. “Let’s finish this!”
Gwen

Within the long-lost kingdom of Camavor, there once lived a village of people far from the throne. It was here, in the rural colonies, where a humble seamstress made her beloved doll, Gwen.
What Gwen can remember of her past, she remembers with love. The seamstress and the doll spent their days crafting, scissors resting in Gwen’s still hands as her maker stitched nearby with needle and thread. At night, the two could be found crouched under the dinner table, the seamstress challenging Gwen to makeshift duels, the clash of silverware against scissors echoing in their candlelit kitchen.
In time, the games stopped and the light faded. Gwen could not understand why, but whenever she struggled to recall details, she felt a twinge of pain, tied to a man whose name and face escaped her. As her memories washed away with the ocean tide, Gwen lay still for centuries, quiet and forgotten.
Then one night, her eyes opened. Gwen awoke for the very first time on a shadowy beach far from her home. By magic unbeknownst to her, she had been transformed into a living girl who could move her hands and feet—all on her own!
Gwen took to life with joy. She skipped across the sand, amazed by how far her eyes could see, how wondrous every pebble was to her touch, and how incredible the wind felt on her back. Along the coast, scattered debris left abandoned for a millennium caught her attention. Lying beside broken chests were oddly familiar tools.
Scissors. Needles. Thread.
Gwen recognized them immediately. These were her maker’s tools. When her fingers touched them, a burst of mist glinting with light flowed from her hands. To her, it felt safe and warm, like the soothing embrace of a hallowed past.
But Gwen was not the only one drawn to this magic.
Lurking in the isles, a different mist swarmed. Black in color, it coiled and twisted, forming into fearsome wraiths. Something within Gwen’s newfound presence attracted them—something they hungered for with obsession.
As the wraiths came for her, Gwen was undeterred. She thrust her scissors at them. To her delight, more of her mist filled the air, enchanting the size and strength of her tools and turning them from mere steel into spectral magic.
But the wraiths were relentless. They swelled in number, fueled by the ever-growing Black Mist. Gwen began to feel a tragic, strangely familiar pain. Surrounded by wraiths, suppressed memories surfaced. She recalled images of her maker, sick and wounded, lying in anguish. Near her was a man whose face finally returned to Gwen.
Viego.
Remembering his name brought Gwen to her knees. Wistfully, she reflected on the bygone moments spent with her maker—a happier, simpler time—and stole one final glance at her scissors...8<-8<-8<-8<-
It was then Gwen realized something amazing. Her maker, victim to that man’s twisted vanity, was not fully gone. The seamstress’ tools, the very tools that first sewed and stitched Gwen together, were now in her hands. Gwen believed this was no accident. She knew, deep down, her maker was still with her, still fighting.
This was a gift Gwen would not take for granted.
Grasping needles and thread, she spun clouds of Hallowed Mist to push back the swarming wraiths. Her scissors slashed hard and fast, reminiscent of those blissful nights when her maker imagined grand battles beneath their kitchen table. Soon, the wraiths were no more.
Though triumphant, Gwen recognized this was only the beginning. She could sense these wraiths and Viego were linked, both responsible for the spread of immense pain. With no time to lose, she resolved to track the Black Mist and stop it at any cost. Gwen expected this endeavor to be strenuous, yet she reveled in every second of being alive—for who knew how long this blessing would last?
Having been given a unique chance at life, Gwen chooses to be an indomitable, positive force against all odds. She journeys across Runeterra, determined to restore joy to those who are hurt and suffering. To Gwen, each moment is precious, and each step driven with purpose.
The Stranger Who Sews

Michael Luo

Under the setting sun, hidden behind a dense thicket, a young lady stands with large black bows in her silvery blue hair, complimented by golden ornaments and an elegantly tailored dress. Her hands grip a pair of giant spectral scissors. It has been weeks—months, maybe—since she first arrived on the western continent. The land here paints a vast horizon, the biggest she has ever seen, but Gwen has one thing on her mind:
The Black Mist.
She has tracked it here all the way from the Isles, stopping it wherever she could. Not far off in the distance sits a small cobblestone farmhouse. A chimney puffs out smoke. Foggy windows begin to glow with the reflection of candlelight. A wooden door swings open and two boys run out, each holding a doll. They chase one another across the farm, laughing and shouting words of battle. In this moment, they are no longer children and their toys no longer cloth and string. They are kings and their toys are brave warriors, fighting evil to defend their kingdoms.
Gwen sighs. She thinks of her maker’s home, not too different from the one before her now. She remembers how it felt to play without a worry in the world. Back when she was a toy doll herself, back when her maker was happy and safe...
The pain always hits first. Gwen clutches her chest, and then she sees it. From the woods to the east, it comes: thin tendrils of blackened mist, coiling over each other to form almost familiar shapes. Their contorted hands claw for life under the weight of piercing screams. The boys drop their toys and run.
Gwen cannot bear to hear their cries. Not those of the Black Mist—that she has heard many times—but of the children. They are innocent. They deserve joy.
She leaps out of the thicket. Her scissors swing high above her head, white wisps flowing from their closed blades. As her dress twirls, she slashes in a downward arc, ripping a slew of unsuspecting Black Mist wraiths asunder.
“Ha!” Gwen shouts. “Took you quite long enough. Scared of me, are you?”
The wraiths turn their attention to Gwen and screech through jagged maws.
Gwen looks to the stunned children, crouched behind a fallen tree. Her voice softens. “Don’t worry. I won’t let them hurt you.”
The wraiths swarm. Somber cries fill the air. Dark, ruinous clouds materialize out of the once gentle sky, surrounding Gwen. The boys huddle close.
Gwen opens her scissors. For a breath, the wraiths stand still. Gwen seizes her chance and dashes forward. She cuts too fast for the naked eye. Tufts of darkness appear and fade, sheared out of existence by Gwen’s magical blades. One, two, three seconds later, and only a small handful of the Black Mist’s servants remain.
Gwen catches her breath, one hand on her knee, the other holding her scissors nose-down in the dirt. Ripped threads of her dress sway in the wind. Her eyes scan for the collapsed tree. Two pairs of frightened eyes peek out. She turns her attention back to the wraiths. “I won’t let them down,” she says to herself. “I promised I wouldn’t let anyone down.”
She plucks a few needles out of her pocket and throws them upward. With a spin, she smacks a hand down on the ground. The needles, as if on command, fall into place and form a circle around Gwen. She closes her eyes and whispers, “Hallowed be my mist.”
Threads of mist, white with glints of light, flow from each needle. One boy covers his eyes. The other looks on. This mist is different. It feels quiet, warm, safe even? Its threads swirl and blend neatly, the work of a master seamstress. Soon, Gwen is shrouded by a protective fog.
A single wraith, brave or desperate, dives into this mysterious domain. The others corral nearby, eager to follow. Inside, Gwen dances circles around her foe. She dodges every claw, every swipe, chuckling between the clangs of her scissors.
Another wraith enters. Another chuckle echoes.
From the outside, both boys watch in awe. Who is she? What is she?
To them, it appears easy, but Gwen knows these wraiths are relentless. She needs to end this. Gritting her teeth, she swings her scissors, slicing another wraith in two before setting her weapon aside. She draws her last needles and, channeling all the magic she can muster, shoots them forward. They fly from the shroud into the hollow chests of the wraiths.
Gwen does not chuckle. She lets out a triumphant yell as the wraiths burst and vanish, leaving only needles on the dirt.
A cool breeze tickles Gwen’s glistening brow as all the mist fades. She grabs her scissors and needles, and exhales. Her eyes turn back to the fallen tree where the children now sit.
Gwen approaches them. “Are you alright?”
A grass-stained face looks at her and nods. “You’re amazing!” the other boy exclaims. He drops his torn doll to the ground where another already lies. “Not like us,” he mutters under his breath. “We can’t do nothin’.”
Gwen frowns. She senses their pain. They were helpless, and they have every right to be sad and angry, yet she can’t help but see the broken dolls and feel hurt herself.
“Who are—” one boy begins. “Will you stay with us?” the other blurts out.
Gwen wonders for a second before a bedraggled woman, short of breath, rushes out and embraces the children.
“My darlings! I’m so glad you’re safe,” she says, tears flowing down her face.
“Excuse me, miss,” Gwen says politely. “Who are you?”
“Oh, you’ll have to forgive me,” the woman replies. “Where are my manners?” She wipes her eyes, sees Gwen in full for the first time, and hesitates.
“She’s our mom, duh!” a child says. The woman nods and kisses her son.
“Thank you,” the woman says to Gwen, her voice quavering. “I don't know what those things were, or who you are, for that matter... but you saved my boys, and that’s enough for me.” Her hands reach toward Gwen, palms open—a sign of gratitude.
Gwen looks at the mother’s hands, the calluses on her fingers and the nicks in her nails. She sees her apron, its front pocket holding a near-empty spool with thread trailing toward the cobblestone house. Gwen eyes the broken dolls again and smiles knowingly. Watching the mother’s arms wrapped around her children, she hears laughter. Its sweet tones of happiness and relief remind Gwen of something stronger than the children’s pain.
Love.
And not just a pure, innocent kind, but one born out of sacrifice. Gwen steals a glance at the distant horizon, remembering her maker. She lays her scissors down and picks up the children’s dolls, setting them in their mother’s hands.
“Oh, these silly toys I made for them,” the woman says.
“Why, I was once a silly toy, just like these,” Gwen says. “But I was brought to life by magic.”
“Magic! What magic?” a boy asks.
“Well, I’m not entirely sure,” Gwen thinks aloud, “but the person who had that magic was my maker, you see, and the sacrifices she made came from a very special place. A joyful, loving place.”
Gwen turns to the woman. “Your mother might know.”
The woman and her children stare at Gwen, confused.
“I’m sorry,” Gwen says to them, knowing the Black Mist is still out there. “I must get going.” She grabs her scissors with one hand and flicks out two threads with the other. They float in the air, two precious heartstrings, before finding homes in the dolls’ torn fabric, sewing their rips together.
“Wow!” one boy says, lifting his mended toy up high. His brother imitates Gwen’s flicking motion at his own doll, hoping it’ll somehow animate on its own. “I wish I had magic,” he says, eyes wide.
Gwen looks at the mother, whose love is reflected in how tight she holds her children, and sees the brothers’ joy, listening to their renewed laughter as they play with their dolls.
“You do,” Gwen whispers before turning to leave the family behind.
Hecarim

Born into an empire long since gone to dust and forgotten, Hecarim was a lieutenant of the Iron Order—a brotherhood sworn to defend their king’s lands.

As Hecarim won victory after victory from the back of his mighty warhorse, the commander of the Iron Order saw in him a potential successor… but also a growing darkness. His obsessive hunger for glory was eroding his honor, and over time the knight-commander came to realize this young lieutenant must never lead them.

When he was told this, Hecarim was furious. Even so, he bit back his anger, and continued in his duties.

When they next rode to war, the commander found himself surrounded by enemies, and cut off from his fellow knights. Hecarim, seeing his chance, turned away and left him to die. At battle’s end, the Iron Order, oblivious to what Hecarim had done, knelt on the bloody ground and swore allegiance to him.

Hecarim rode to the capital to take his formal oaths, and met with Kalista, the king’s most trusted general. She recognized his prowess and leadership, and when the queen was wounded by an assassin’s poisoned blade, Kalista was comforted to know the Iron Order would remain with the king while she sought a cure.

Gripped by paranoia, and seeing new threats in every shadow, the king raged at those he believed were trying to separate him from his dying wife, and dispatched Hecarim to quell dissent throughout the kingdom. The Iron Order earned a dreadful reputation as ruthless enforcers of the king’s will. Towns and villages burned. Hundreds were put to the sword.

With grim inevitability, when the queen died, Hecarim chose to sour the king’s grief into hatred, seeking sanction to lead the Iron Order into foreign lands. He would avenge her death, while earning yet more dark renown for himself.

But before they could ride out, Kalista returned. She had found what she sought upon the distant Blessed Isles—and yet it was now too late. The king would not believe this, and had Kalista imprisoned as a traitor. Intrigued by what he had heard, Hecarim visited her cell, and they spoke of the pale mists that protected the islands from all invaders… and also of the inhabitants’ immense wealth, including the legendary Waters of Life.

Knowing only Kalista could lead them there, Hecarim eventually persuaded her to guide the king’s fleet through the veil that concealed the Blessed Isles from mortal sight.

They landed at the city of Helia with the queen’s body in solemn procession. The Iron Order led the way, only to be met by the city’s masters, who now refused to help. Enraged, the king ordered Kalista to kill them, but she refused, and Hecarim smiled as he made the decision that would damn him for eternity. He drove a spear through Kalista’s back, and ordered his knights to ransack the city, looting its vaults of arcane treasures.

Amid the chaos, a lowly custodian agreed to grant the king access to the Waters of Life—but not even this could distract Hecarim from the revelry of bloodshed, and so it was that the Ruination of the Blessed Isles would take him almost completely by surprise.

A blastwave of magical force tore across Helia, shattering every last building and leaving the fragments suspended in searing un-light. In its wake came the Black Mist, a billowing hurricane that dragged every living creature it touched into its shrieking, roiling embrace. Hecarim tried to rally the Iron Order, hoping to make it back to their ships, but the mist claimed them one by one as they fled.

Alone, and defiant to the end, the knight-commander was taken by the shadows. He and his mighty steed were fused into a monstrous, spectral abomination that reflected the darkness in Hecarim’s heart—a brazen creature of fury and spite, at one with the Black Mist and yet utterly enslaved by it.

Bound forevermore to these Shadow Isles, Hecarim has spent centuries in a sinister mockery of his former life, cursed to patrol the nightmarish lands he once intended to conquer. Whenever the Black Mist reaches out beyond their shores, he and the otherworldly host of the Iron Order ride out to slaughter the living, in memory of glories long passed.
No One Lives

Icy waves crashed on the bleak shore, red with the blood of the men Hecarim had already butchered. The mortals he had yet to kill were retreating over the beach in terror. Black rain doused them and stormclouds boiled in from the mourning heart of the island. He heard them shouting to one another. The words were a guttural battle-cant he did not recognize, but the meaning was clear; they actually thought they might live to reach their ship. True, they had some skill. They moved as one, wooden shields interlocked. But they were mortal and Hecarim savored the meat-stink of their fear.
He circled them, threading crumbling ruins and unseen in the shadowed mist rising from the ashen sand. The echoing thunder of his hooves struck sparks from black rocks. It gnawed at their courage. He watched the mortals through the slitted visor of his helm. The weak light of their wretched spirits was flickering corposant in their flesh. It repulsed him even as he craved it.
“No-one lives,” he said.
His voice was muffled by the dread iron of his helm, like the corpse-rasp of a hanged man. The sound scraped along their nerves like rusted blades. He drank in their terror and grinned as one man threw down his shield and ran for the ship in desperation.
He bellowed as he galloped from the weed-choked ruins, lowering his hooked glaive and feeling the old thrill of the charge. A memory flickered, riding at the head of a silver host. Winning glory and honor. The memory faded as the man reached the dark surf of cold breakers and looked over his shoulder.
“Please! No!” he cried.
Hecarim split him from collarbone to pelvis in one thunderous blow.
His ebon-bladed glaive pulsed as it bathed in blood. The fragile wisp of the man’s spirit sought to fly free, but the mist’s hunger would not be cheated. Hecarim watched as the soul was twisted into a dark reflection of the man’s life.
Hecarim drew the power of the island to him and the bloody surf churned with motion as a host of dark knights wreathed in shimmering light rose from the water. Sealed within archaic plates of ghostly iron, they drew black swords that glimmered with dark radiance. He should know these men. They had served him once and served him still, but he had no memory of them. He turned back towards the mortals on the beach. He parted the mists, revelling in their terror as they saw him clearly for the first time.
His colossal form was a nightmarish hybrid of man and horse, a chimeric juggernaut of brazen iron. The plates of his body were dark and stamped with etchings whose meanings he only vaguely recalled. Bale-fire smouldered behind his visor, the spirit within cold and dead yet hatefully vital.
Hecarim reared as forking traceries of lightning split the sky. He lowered his glaive and led his knights in the charge, throwing up giant clumps of blood-sodden sand and bone fragments as he went. The mortals screamed and brought up their shields, but the ghost-knights charge was unstoppable. Hecarim struck first as was his right as their master, and the thunderous impact splintered the shieldwall wide open. Men were trampled to bloody gruel beneath his iron-shod bulk. His glaive struck out left and right, killing with every strike. The ghost knights crushed all before them, slaughtering the living in a fury of thrashing hooves, stabbing lances and chopping blades. Bones cracked and blood sprayed as mortal spirits fled broken bodies, already trapped between life and death by the fell magic of the Ruined King.
The spirits of the dead circled Hecarim, beholden to him as their killer and he revelled in the surging joy of battle. He ignored the wailing spirits. He had no interest in enslaving them. Leave such petty cruelties to the Chain Warden.
All Hecarim cared for was killing.
Heimerdinger

A brilliant yet eccentric yordle scientist, Professor Cecil B. Heimerdinger is lauded as one of the most innovative minds and esteemed inventors Piltover has ever seen. Relentless in his work to the point of neurotic obsession, he is fascinated by mysteries that have confounded his contemporaries for decades, and thrives on answering the universe’s most impenetrable questions. Though his theories often appear opaque and esoteric, Heimerdinger believes knowledge should be shared, and is devoted to teaching all who desire it.
From the Journal of Professor Cecil B. Heimerdinger

10.14
09:15
Current meteorological conditions in Bandle City seem optimal. Atmospheric pressure is ideal for today's experiments!
Running a fifth trial for my Tridyminiumobulator this afternoon. Some fine tuning is required; singed my mustache. Need to adjust the energy throughput.
16:00
Tridyminiumobulator is still not maintaining intended proper energy efficiency! Necessary to run more numbers. In the meantime, I have found something else that's very intriguing.
While returning home after today's tests, I passed a gaggle of young yordles throwing a spherical projectile at each other. It's a simple enough concept: throw the object at someone, catch it, throw it at another yordle, repeat. But yordle miscalculations result in several errors! They throw with inconsistent accuracy and force, and the ''ball'' (as they refer to it) is frequently dropped... There are many ways for this process to be improved. According to my calculations, and after collecting data from the participants, if the pitching was consistent in both speed and arc there would be a 44.57% increase to fun! I need to ponder this for the evening.
10.15
05:20
Eureka! I've devised a solution.
I've invented an automated ball pitcher. Current name: H-28G. It employs a consistent speed and trajectory, ensuring that the recipient will always be able to catch the ball. It redirects itself to the nearest yordle (if there is more than one in the vicinity) ensuring everyone has a turn. I'll take it to the young yordles today and demonstrate my invention.
Also: spilled toxic acid on my shoes this morning. Bothersome.
10:30
Tested the automated pitcher today. It did not go as planned. The young ones were excited enough about my invention, but, when the machine was turned on, it was far too powerful! Even at its lowest setting it completely knocked a yordle off his feet. Clearly, I overestimated the velocity behind their throws... I'll return soon to make adjustments.
But my priority, for now, is the Tridyminiumobulator; I must fix its complications before lunch. Once it's in good shape, I'll need to test it somewhere else. Bandle City is proving insufficient for field research.
10.16
15:55
Apparently, there's a giant in town. A highly annoying anomaly. The noise outside is disturbing my research!
Must check fish tank today. They've been strangely quiet...
10.17
10:40
I have heard that many yordles have been injured due to the giant-related disturbance. If this doesn't stop soon, intervention will be necessary! I hope H-28G is still intact. I would lose a lot of time if it has to be rebuilt.
16:30
Everything is quiet again. It seems that the giant came to his senses and ran off. I need to gather H-28G tomorrow, once I've finished with more pressing matters. I've almost perfected the Tridyminiumobulator!
10.18
08:30
Today has been quite eventful already. I was surprised by a knock at my door. It seemed like the entire city was standing in front of my house. Normally, when a crowd has gathered, it's because they have some petty grievance about my work. But this time, they were celebrating!
Astonishingly, it seems one of the young yordles took advantage of the H-28G prototype I had left behind amidst the giant tomfoolery. He proved to be innovative, and repurposed the invention into a makeshift turret. It's powerful enough to scare off a giant - imagine that! What an ingenious little fellow.
I wish I could employ his like-minded encephalon in the near future - I have big plans and his assistance could be valuable - but he'd have to leave Bandle City. The scope of my plans necessitates a more expansive testing ground.
Runeterra should suffice!
Lulu

Lulu was always a caring and deeply empathetic yordle, who lived as much in her whimsical daydreams as in reality. One day, while wandering the material realm, she came upon what appeared to be a bird with a broken wing. She ran to help, at which point the bird turned into a tiny, mischievous fae spirit. Before she could react, the faerie grabbed her walking stick and took off. Giggling, Lulu gave chase.
The spirit led her far into the forest. They went over boulders, under logs, and around ancient, overgrown stone circles. The faerie darted into a cave hidden behind a waterfall, and Lulu went after it. It flittered ahead, always just out of reach.
Down and down and down they went. Lulu tumbled and scrambled around twisted roots and glowing mushrooms, and at some point they crossed over into the spirit realm without her realizing it. Their surroundings became progressively stranger and more disorienting; up became down, forward became backward, big became small.
Finally, after what seemed forever, Lulu caught up with the faerie, whose name, she discovered, was Pix.
With a click of his tiny fingers, Pix turned her humble walking stick into a spiraling staff, and tossed it back to her. It sprouted leaves and flowers, making Lulu gasp in delight. So began their forever-friendship, built of mischief, fun, and love of nature.
Pix had led her to the Glade.
Bandle City, Lulu’s home, was a bizarre and magical place that defied logic, where time was meaningless and the natural laws of the material realm did not wholly apply. And yet the Glade was a place stranger still—it existed long before yordles came into the world, and it was perhaps from the Glade that Bandle City itself sprung. A place of raw primordial magic, it was hidden away so deeply that no yordle had ever found it… until now.
Here, Lulu’s own magic became wildly magnified. Laughing joyfully, she discovered she could reshape her surroundings at will, as well as alter her form to whatever she wanted. Everything and anything from her overactive imagination came to life.
Lulu didn’t know if Pix had brought her here because he saw in her a kindred soul and simply wanted someone to play with, or if the Glade needed her for some other purpose—but she fell in love with it instantly. Her life became one of endless creation and play, and she soon forgot anything else existed.
When finally she remembered, it was like waking from a dream.
She found herself back in the material realm, not knowing if a single day had passed, or a thousand years. To her surprise and joy, she found that some of her newfound power had come with her, allowing her to make small things large, change colors to those more pleasing to her, and cause creatures to fall spontaneously asleep. To Pix’s endless amusement, she turned the mightiest beasts into tiny, bewildered frogs or squirrels with a flick of her staff.
Nevertheless, she began to miss the Glade. She decided to go back, but realized she didn’t remember the way. Pix was no help, claiming to have forgotten as well, though it was possible he just didn’t want to return quite yet.
Unperturbed, Lulu set out anyway. She was certain the route back to the Glade was always shifting, making one way as good as another. She simply picked whatever direction took her fancy at any particular moment, and even threw herself into seemingly terrible danger whenever it looked fun. Her travels took her far and wide, and magic, mayhem, and mishap tended to follow wherever she went.
In Demacia, she freed a group of children from their boring history lessons, and led them off into a nearby meadow. Her game resulted in them being turned into toadstools for a full turn of the moon, while their desperate parents and the local militia searched for them in vain. It wasn’t quite what Lulu had intended, but fun nonetheless. When the children finally returned home and told everyone what had happened, no one believed them.
In the borderlands of the Freljord, Lulu thought it would be hilarious to change the weapons of two rival tribes into flowers just as they clashed, which resulted in absolute chaos and confusion. More recently, she has found herself happily lost in Ionia, playing in the glowing everblooms of Qaelin, and playing pranks on bewildered acolytes of the Order of Shadow, who she thinks are far too serious for their own good.
While Lulu seeks to return to the Glade, and misses it, she is happy, for every day brings more opportunity for adventure and fun.
And besides, she has come to realize that she carries a part of the Glade in her heart, wherever she goes.
Lux

Luxanna—or Lux, as she prefers to be called—grew up in the Demacian city of High Silvermere, along with her older brother Garen. They were born to the prestigious Crownguard family, which had served for generations as protectors of the kings of Demacia. Their grandfather saved the king’s life at the Battle of Storm’s Fang, and their aunt Tianna was named commander of the elite Dauntless Vanguard regiment before Lux was born.
Garen took to his family’s role with fervor, joining the military when he was still little more than a boy. Lux, in his absence, was expected to help run the family’s many estates—a task she resented, even as a young child. She wanted to explore the world, to see what lay beyond the walls and borders of Demacia. She idolized Garen, but railed against his insistence that she put her own ambitions aside.
To the endless frustration of Lux’s tutors, who sought to prepare her for a life of dutiful service to the Crownguard family, she would question their every teaching, examine differing perspectives, and seek out knowledge far beyond what they were prepared for. Even so, few could find it in themselves to stay angry at Lux, with her zest for life and intoxicating optimism.
Little did any of them know a time of change was approaching. Magic had once brought Runeterra to the brink of annihilation, and Demacia had been founded as a place where such powers were forbidden. Many of the kingdom’s folktales told of pure hearts turned dark by the lure of magic. Indeed, Lux and Garen’s uncle had been slain by a rogue mage some years earlier.
And there were fearful whispers, rumors from beyond the great mountains, that magic was rising once more in the world…
Riding home one fateful night, Lux and her horse were attacked by a ravenous sabrewulf pack. In a moment of fear and desperation, the young girl let loose a torrent of magical light from deep within her, routing the beasts but leaving her shivering in fear. Magic, the terror of Demacian myths, was as much a part of Lux as her Crownguard lineage.
Fear and doubt gnawed at her. Would she become evil? Was she an abomination, to be imprisoned or exiled? At the very least, if her powers were discovered, it would see the Crownguard name disgraced forever.
With Garen spending more time away from High Silvermere, Lux found herself alone in the halls of their family home. Still, over time, she became more familiar with her magic, and her sleepless nights—fists clenched, willing her inner light to fade—became fewer and fewer. She began experimenting in secret, playing with sunbeams in the courtyards, bending them into solid form, and even creating tiny, glowing figures in her palm. She resolved to keep it a secret, as much as she could.
When she was sixteen, Lux traveled with her parents Pieter and Augatha to their formal residence in the Great City of Demacia, to witness Garen’s investiture into the honored ranks of the Dauntless Vanguard.
The city dazzled Lux. It was a monument to the noble ideals of the kingdom, with every citizen protected and cared for; and it was there that Lux learned of the Illuminators, a charitable religious order working to help the sick and the poor. Between her family’s courtly engagements, she became close with a knight of the order named Kahina, who also taught Lux more martial skills, sparring and training with her in the gardens of the Crownguard manor.
Spending more time in the capital, Lux has finally begun to learn about the wider world—its diversity, and its history. She now understands that the Demacian way of life is not the only way, and with clear eyes she can see her love for her homeland standing alongside her desire to see it made more just… and perhaps a little more accepting of mages like her.
Last Light

The earthquake had struck Terbisia at dawn, the earth bucking like an unbroken colt and splitting apart in gaping fissures. Lux rode Starfire through the toppled ruin of the defensive barbican, the thirty-foot high walls of sun-bleached stone looking like Noxian siege engines had bombarded them for weeks. She guided her horse carefully between fallen blocks of masonry, heading to where a makeshift infirmary had been set up within a blue and white market pavilion.
The scale of the devastation was unlike anything Lux had seen before. Terbisia’s buildings were crafted from hard mountain granite and Demacian oak, raised high by communal strength. And almost all of them had been completely destroyed. Dust-covered men and women dug through the shattered ruins with picks and shovels, hoping to find survivors, but instead, dragged corpses from the debris. Entire streets had simply vanished into the many smoking chasms now dividing the town’s districts.
Lux dismounted as she reached the pavilion, and pushed inside. She wasn’t a healer, but she could fetch and carry or simply sit with the wounded. She’d thought that seeing the scale of the devastation would prepare her for the suffering within the tent.
She was wrong.
Hundreds of survivors pulled from the wreckage lay on woolen blankets. Lux heard mothers and fathers crying for lost children, wives and husbands clinging to their dead loved ones, and, worst of all, bewildered, glassy-eyed orphans wandering lost and afraid. Lux saw a surgeon she recognized in a blood-stiffened apron washing his hands in a pewter bowl and made her way toward him.
“Surgeon Alzar,” she said. “Tell me how I can help.”
He turned, his eyes haunted and rheumy with tears. It took a moment for recognition to penetrate the fog of his grief.
“Lady Crownguard,” said Alzar, giving a short bow.
“Lux,” she said. “Please, what can I do?”
The physician sighed and said, “Truly you are a blessing, my lady, but I would spare you the horror of what has happened here.”
“Spare me nothing, Alzar,” snapped Lux. “I am Demacian, and Demacians help one another.”
“Of course, forgive me, my lady,” said Alzar, taking a fatigued breath. “Your presence will be a boon to the wounded.”
Alzar led her toward a young man lying stretched out on a low pallet bed near the back of the pavilion. Lux gasped to see the horror of his wounds. His body was broken, all but crushed by rubble, and his eyes were bound in bloody bandages. From his stoic refusal to show pain, she guessed he was a soldier.
“He dug a family from the rubble of their collapsed home,” said Alzar. “He rescued them, but kept looking for survivors. There was a second quake, and another building fell to ruin on top of him. The rubble crushed his lungs, and shards of glass put out his eyes.”
“How long does he have?” asked Lux, careful to keep her voice low.
“Only the gods know, but his time is short,” said Alzar. “If you would stay at his side, it would ease his passing into the arms of the Veiled Lady.”
Lux nodded and sat beside the dying man. She took his hand, feeling her heart break for him. Alzar smiled gratefully and turned back to helping those he could save.
“It’s so dark,” said the man, waking at her touch. “Gods, I can’t see!”
“Steady now, soldier. Tell me your name,” said Lux.
“It’s Dothan,” he said, wheezing with the effort.
“You’re named for the hero of Dawnhold?”
“Aye. You know the story? It’s an old tally against the savages.”
“Trust me, I know it well,” said Lux with a rueful smile. “My brother told it all the time when we were children. He always forced me to play the Freljordian corsairs while he played Dothan, defending the harbor single-handedly against the skinwalkers.”
“I tried to be like him,” said the young man, his breathing labored and his voice growing faint. A rivulet of blood leaked from beneath the bandage like a red tear. “I tried to live up to my namesake.”
Lux held his hand in both of hers.
“You did,” she said. “Alzar told me what happened. You’re a true Demacian hero.”
The lines on Dothan’s face eased a little, his breath rattling in his throat as his strength began to fail.
“Why can’t I see?”
“Your eyes,” said Lux slowly. “I’m so sorry.”
“What... what’s wrong with them?”
“Surgeon Alzar told me you have shards of glass in them.”
The man drew in a sharp breath.
“I’m dying,” he said. “I know that... but I should... have liked to behold the light of... Demacia... one last... time.”
Lux felt the magic stir within her, but whispered the mantra taught to her by the Illuminators to keep it from rising too close to the surface. Over the years, she’d learned to better control her power, but sometimes, when her emotions ran close to the surface, it was hard to keep the energies contained. She looked around and, satisfied no one was watching, placed her fingertips on the bloody bandage covering Dothan’s eyes. Lux eased the numinous radiance of her magic down through the man’s skull to the undamaged parts of his eyes.
“I can’t heal you,” she said, “but I can at least give you that.”
He squeezed her hand, his mouth falling open in wonder as Demacia’s light shone within him.
“It’s so beautiful...” he whispered.
Malphite

For more than two millennia, Shurima dominated the known world—an empire that reigned over countless peoples without challenge, and without threat.
Until the day Icathia fell.
From the moment the Void tore its way into the material realm, the armies of Shurima faced an enemy that could not only lay their grand empire low, but one that seemed to grow stronger the more they fought it. The corruption spread rapidly from Icathia’s ruins, boiling over the land and beneath the oceans, before its hideous tendrils reached the southernmost jungles of Ixtal.
Ne’Zuk of the Ascended Host was an Ixtali elemental mage of colossal power, and almost unrivaled arrogance. He went before the emperor, pledging to create a weapon powerful enough to take the fight to the Void, and eradicate it at the source of its original eruption.
After months of inhuman labor, Ne’Zuk revealed the Monolith—a floating fortress of living stone, maintained by the greatest elemental mages, and its ramparts manned by his fellow Ixtali god-warriors. The size of a city itself, the Monolith glided titanically toward the wastelands of Icathia, the lightning crackling from its magical inhibitors fusing the sands to glass beneath it. Ne’Zuk and his superweapon arrived at their destination, to face once more the howling infinite darkness of the abyssal realm, and the hordes of Voidborn monstrosities it had created.
The battle dragged into weeks. It was violence of a scale and intensity never before witnessed in Runeterra. Sorcery enough to raze entire civilizations, or render whole continents into naught but a memory, was unleashed upon the Void.
The darkness retaliated in kind. Its hideous energies gouged deep wounds into the living stone of the Monolith, whose surfaces became pocked and seared with unnatural malphite—from the Ixtali for “bad stone”—and leaving mineral-like scars. The fortress was pushed to the very limits of its design, struggling to self-repair and reknit its weakened superstructure… but even the incredible magics that held it aloft had a breaking point.
As Ne’Zuk fought to rally his Ascended brethren for one last, desperate charge, the unthinkable happened. Sagging for an instant, the Monolith crashed down to earth, cleaving through the bedrock of Icathia and opening the Void beneath to the skies.
Much of the fortress was lost within that gaping maw, vanishing into the silent nothingness beyond. The rest rained down as great ruins, littering a landscape already blackened by the terrible conflict that had been cut so abruptly short. Only a single Ascended survived—Ne’Zuk hauled himself from the wreckage, choking on the ashes of what was meant to be his grandest triumph, now his greatest folly, and fled for his life.
In defiance of all worldly reason, some disparate fragments of the Monolith endured, still imbued with something like magical life. The far-flung shards struggled to heal, to reform the whole to which they had once belonged. But the Void’s endless hunger leached away at them, rendering them as little more than inert shapes clawing feebly in the dust.
However, against all that had been lost, a single shard remained.
Buried deep beneath the surface, forgotten even by those that dwelt in the abyss, it slowly gathered in strength. It lived, until at last it awakened after uncounted centuries, and realized it was alone.
In all the centuries since that dark day, Malphite, the last shard of the Monolith, has become something of a legend in Runeterra. It has reputedly been sighted everywhere, from Targon to Zaun; heard sometimes as a tectonic roar in the deepest caverns, and sometimes as a quiet voice, humming to itself, that it might still remember the sounds of the world it once knew.
Despite the enormous span of its existence, the overwhelming drive enkindled by Ne’Zuk’s creation of the Monolith has not wavered. Now, Malphite knows it must soon rise to meet the resurgent darkness it once battled, as the Void awakens to threaten all of Runeterra once more.
Roots of a Poisoned Tree

Graham McNeill

Dust hung in veils as Shoorai followed the mechanical-limbed form of Tunnel-Chief Hewlett deeper into the mine shaft. She breathed via a used esophilter, and tried not to imagine how many Zaunite miners had sucked air through it over the years. Sputtering chem-flares strung from timber roof beams dribbled glowing droplets onto their pitted iron helmets as they passed underneath.
“Heed you waz assay on’a square,” grunted Hewlett, looking over his shoulder. “Waz big teem ’staken.”
We heard you were a good assayer, Shoorai translated. But we were sorely mistaken.
Seven years since she’d come to Zaun, but the miner’s strange argot still took her a moment to parse.
“Say ta Ore-seer we no need Piltie assay,” continued Hewlett. “She not savvy wit Zaunrock liken we is. They as done sunk us inna first teem!”
“I assure you, Chief Hewlett, I have delved mines everywhere from Shurima to Zaun,” said Shoorai. “I know this rock as well as you.”
“So you sayin’,” grunted Hewlett, as they entered the gallery chamber at the end of the shaft, “but rock here not be liken you say.”
Dust-smeared miners sat next to chem-drills, pneuma-picks, and crates of hexplosives. Every one of them ought to be attacking the rock in search of the hexite seam she’d promised Baron Grime was here. To see them idle railed against her work ethic.
Hewlett lifted a chem-lamp to illuminate the rock at the end of the chamber. At first, Shoorai wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Zaunite strata was most often crushed sedimentary limestone, interspersed with pockets of metamorphic rock wrought by intense, and not-so-long-ago, heat and pressure.
This was something else entirely…
Shoorai snatched the lamp and walked the length of the gallery. She pulled off her glove and ran her fingertips over the wall. Pitted and warm to the touch, with a curious umber hue—like something she’d expect to find in her native Shurima.
“This makes no sense,” she said. “This wasn’t here yesterday.”
“I try telling ya,” replied Hewlett. “We drill on the yester, jus’ liken you say. Come back on’a first bell and seen this.”
“Whatever this is, the Baron isn’t paying you to sit around doing nothing. Blast through it.”
Hewlett grinned. “So we fix’n to lay out ’splosives, yah?”
“Yes,” agreed Shoorai.
“I WOULDN’T DO THAT IF I WERE YOU.”
The voice boomed from all around them—a shockwave in the air, each word sounding as though it had been formed by grinding tectonic plates.
The miners took to their heels, but Shoorai flattened herself against the side wall of the chamber and pulled her helmet tightly down on her head. The voice sounded like it belonged to something titanic. Cracks spread across the ceiling of the gallery.
She looked up in time to see the pitted rock wall… move.
It shifted, grinding as it reshaped itself. Shoorai watched in amazement as it formed two deep craters that looked like closed eyes, and a projecting crag that could be a nose. Dust poured from a curved and jagged chasm that looked horribly like a vast mouth.
The face filled the wall before her, fully thirty feet across and twice that high.
Azir’s bones! If this is its head, how big is the rest of its body?
The craters of its eyes opened with a grinding sound that reminded her of the time she’d seen that wandering weaver girl perform wonders on the road to Kenethet. Shoorai met the gaze of the colossal face, its eyes a liquid yellow gem-like material.
Quartz, she thought. Not natural to this region.
“THIS ROCK IS INFESTED,” said the voice, and Shoorai pressed her hands against her ears at its deafening volume. “CREATURES MOVE WITHIN IT. BEAUTIFUL IN THEIR OWN WAY, BUT CHAOTIC. YOU SHOULD NOT BREAK THIS ROCK, IT WILL END BADLY FOR YOU.”
The eyes blinked, and pebbles fell from their rocky lids.
“Um, are… are you the mountain spirit or something?” she asked.
The brow of the face creased with a groaning rumble.
“NO. AT LEAST, I DON’T THINK SO. I THINK I WAS PART OF ONE, ONCE. SO MUCH CHAOS IN THIS WORLD, MAKES IT HARD TO REMEMBER EVERYTHING.”
“So what are you?” she asked.
“AH, WHAT INDEED?” it said, and the mine shaft flexed as the face sighed mournfully. “A SHARD OF A GREATER WHOLE. A SERVANT OF ORDER SEEKING PURPOSE. CALL ME… MALPHITE.”
Loose shale cascaded from cracks in the walls of the tunnel, and the timber supports groaned as they were subjected to stresses they were never built to endure. Shoorai didn’t like the look of the split lines on the seam above her head. They were ambitious, eager to race onwards.
“Could you stop moving? I think you’re going to collapse the cave.”
“OH. SORRY.”
“You said the rock was… infested?” asked Shoorai. “With what?”
“THINGS THAT SHOULD NOT BE. CREATURES THAT LIVE ONLY TO CONSUME.”
Shoorai felt her heart race. Growing up in the shadow of lost Icathia, she knew of creatures that matched such a description.
“I know them,” she said. “But they only dwell in the deserts of the southern continent.”
“ONCE, PERHAPS, BUT NOW THEY THREAD THE CRUST OF THE WORLD LIKE THE ROOTS OF A POISONED TREE.”
Shoorai looked uneasily at the ground.
The rock face chuckled, and more shards of stone fell from the roof.
“NOT TO WORRY, I HAVE THEM TRAPPED WITHIN MY BODY. I WILL CRUSH THESE ONES, BUT MORE WILL COME. SO BE WARY OF DELVING TOO DEEP…”
The glow of the creature’s eyes faded as its heavy lids closed and the tunnel began to shake.
“YOU SHOULD GO NOW,” said the rock face.
Hewlett appeared behind Shoorai and took hold of her with his chem-powered arm.
“We gotsta skedaddle, assay,” he said. “We linger, cave be crushin’ us.”
Shoorai nodded, backing away from the gallery. “I’ll tell Baron Grime this seam was played out.”
Hewlett grinned. “Maybe you assay on’a square after all.”
Malzahar

Beneath the glare of the Shuriman sun, there have always been those blessed with the power of foresight. The only son of aging trinket peddlers, Malzahar did not realize his gift until his parents had already succumbed to a wasting sickness, leaving the young, traumatized boy to fend for himself on the city streets of Amakra. He read fortunes in the gutter, for a coin or scraps of bread.

As his auguries proved more and more accurate, his reputation grew. He used his second sight to predict who a curious cameleer might marry, or where throwing daggers would land in games of chance at the bazaar. Soon, he began to receive patrons dressed not in dirtied sandals, but jeweled slippers.

However, for all this, Malzahar could never see his own destiny. His future was hidden.

Increasingly disillusioned with his success, he noted the common disparities of wealth, and witnessed those unhappy with their lives acting out in spiteful violence against one another. It was apparent to him that people were bound up in a never-ending cycle of pain, often of their own making, and no hopeful prophecy seemed able to break it. Malzahar himself soon felt nothing but a sense of emptiness, finally relinquishing his mortal possessions and leaving Amakra for good.

For years, he roamed the land, from the trackless wastes of the lesser sai to the ruins of old Shurima. By distancing himself from others, he was alone with his thoughts at last. He divined not just how callous people could be, but also how corrupt the world might yet become. Feverish visions began to plague his waking hours, along with otherworldly whispers of war and strife, and endless suffering.

He wandered far, until the sands turned to salt. He could not know that he had arrived in Icathia, a lost city ravaged in the wars of a bygone age. There, gazing into the depths of a ragged abyss, Malzahar opened his unsteady mind, desperate for understanding.

And the Void answered.

That would have been the end of any other tale, and yet somehow Malzahar endured. What lay in the darkness below brushed against the soul of the broken seer, only for an instant, and yet its strange and unknowable energies saturated his mind completely.

The lone figure that eventually strode out of Icathia was no longer just a man, but something greater. Malzahar had seen in the abyss an end to all the suffering he had witnessed in his mortal lifetime. He realized the future he had believed hidden from him all this time was in fact a vision of his true calling: to accelerate the world toward inevitable oblivion. He had to return to the people, and spread word of the holy nothingness that would gladly embrace them, the willing and non-believers alike. He would become the herald of the world’s salvation.

Among the nomads of the deep desert, he found his first disciples. Before their astonished eyes, he used his new Void-given powers to rend the very earth itself, summoning chittering, nightmarish creatures to carry away any who dared to deny him. Within a matter of months, strange rumors began to travel with the merchant caravans; rumors of men and women gladly sacrificing themselves to unseen powers, and of powerful quakes opening up the bedrock of Shurima in new fault lines hundreds of miles long.

In the years since, Malzahar’s legend has spread even to the northern ports. As followers of “the Prophet” grow in number, nearby settlers are said to experience malefic visions grasping at their hearts, and fear gives rise to superstition—even the hardy villagers of the far wastes now make offerings of livestock to appease the voidling creatures below.

Little do they know, this only helps Malzahar in shepherding the coming of the end.
Maokai

Maokai is a rageful, towering treant who fights the unnatural horrors of the Shadow Isles. He was twisted into a force of vengeance after a magical cataclysm destroyed his home, surviving undeath only through the waters of life infused within his heartwood. Once a peaceful nature spirit, Maokai now furiously battles to banish the scourge of unlife from the Shadow Isles and restore his home to its former beauty.
Long before living memory, a chain of islands erupted from deep beneath the ocean tides as blank slates of rock and clay. With its creation, the nature spirit Maokai was born. He took the form of a treant, with his tall body covered in bark and long limbs resembling branches. Maokai felt the profound loneliness of the land and its potential for teeming growth. He wandered from island to island in search of signs of life, growing ever more forlorn in his solitude.
On a hilly isle covered in soft, rich soil, Maokai sensed a boundless energy radiating from deep beneath the ground. He plunged his great roots downward until they reached a spring of magical, life-giving water and drank deeply. From this potent liquid, he grew hundreds of saplings and planted them across the islands.
Soon the land was shawled with verdant forests, groves of towering virenpine, and tangled woods, all steeped in wondrous magic. Magnificent skytrees with expansive canopies and thickly winding roots covered the isles with lush green foliage. Nature spirits were drawn to the lavish vegetation, and animals reveled in the fertile greenery.
When humans eventually came to the islands, they too thrived in the land’s abundance and formed an enlightened society of scholars devoted to studying the world’s mysteries. Though Maokai was wary of their presence, he saw how they respected the sanctity of the land. Sensing the deep magic within the woods, the humans built their homes in areas not heavily forested, to avoid disturbing any nature spirits. Maokai occasionally revealed himself directly to those he trusted and blessed them with knowledge of the verdant isles, even its greatest gift – the underground spring that could heal mortal wounds.
Centuries passed, and Maokai lived in idyllic contentment until a fleet of soldiers from across the sea beached upon the shores of the isles. Maokai sensed something was terribly wrong. Their grief-maddened king bore the corpse of his queen and in hopes of reviving her, bathed her decayed flesh in the healing waters. Reanimated as a rotting corpse, the queen begged to return to death. The king sought to reverse what he had done, unwittingly casting a terrible curse upon the land.
From leagues away, Maokai felt the first ripples of the disaster that would soon devastate the isles. He sensed a horrific force gathering beneath the soil, and a bitter chill washed over him.
As the ruination spread, Maokai desperately plunged his roots deep into the ground and drank of the healing waters, saturating every fiber of his being with their magic. Before the cursed water reached him, Maokai withdrew his roots, severing all connection to the pool. He howled in rage as the sacred reservoir he had entrusted to men was fully corrupted – the spiraling coils churning underwater until nothing pure remained.
Moments later, the mists surrounding the islands blackened and spread over the land, trapping all living things in an unnatural state between life and death. Maokai watched in helpless agony as all he knew – plants, nature spirits, animals, and humans alike – twisted into wretched shades. His fury grew; the great beauty he had cultivated from tiny saplings fell to ruin in an instant at the careless hand of man.
The enervating mist coiled around Maokai, and he wept as the bright flowers adorning his shoulders crumbled and fell to dust. His body shuddered and contorted into a mass of gnarled roots and tangled branches as the mist leached life from him. But Maokai’s heartwood was saturated with the precious waters of life, saving him from the terrible fate of undeath.
As grotesque wraiths and horrific abominations flooded the land, Maokai was overcome by a host of lifeless men. He struck the spirits with his branchlike limbs in manic violence, realizing the force of his blows could shatter them to dust. Maokai shuddered with revulsion: he had never killed before. He flew at the breathless shapes in a frenzy, but hundreds more overwhelmed him, and eventually he was forced to retreat.
With his home all but decimated and his companions turned to deathless horrors, Maokai was tempted to try and escape the nightmare of the isles. But from deep within his twisted form, he felt the sacred waters giving him life. He had survived the Ruination by carrying the very heart of the islands within him, and he would not abandon his home now. As the Blessed Isles’ first nature spirit, he would remain and fight for the soul of the land.
Though surrounded by endless hosts of malicious foes and darkening mist, Maokai fights with furious vengeance to conquer the evil that plagues the isles. His only pleasure comes from dealing savage violence to the soulless wraiths who roam his land.
Some days, Maokai subdues the mist and its deathless spirits, breaking their hold on a grove of trees or a small thicket. Though new life has not bloomed in such cursed soil for an age, Maokai strives to carve havens, however temporary, free from regret and decay.
So long as Maokai continues to fight, hope remains, for steeped within his heartwood are the uncorrupted waters of life, the last remaining chance of restoring the isles. If the land returns to its joyous state, Maokai, too, will shed his twisted form. The nature spirit brought life to these isles long ago, and he refuses to rest until the isles bloom once more.
Nightbloom

Rayla Heide

The chill wind whips through cracks in my bark with a hollow whistling sound. I shiver. My limbs have long forgotten the warmth of summer.
The towering shapes around me fracture and fall in the gale. The lives within died long ago; now they are my silent companions. Their brittle trunks remain only as empty husks, rough gray sketches of the lush forest that once bloomed here.
A spirit weaves between the trees in front of me, pale and spectral against the night air. A knot tightens in my bark. Normally I would lash my roots through its heart, but today I hold still, trying not to alert the wraith to my presence. I am tired of resisting. That I exist at all is an act of defiance against the curse plaguing these lands.
Its moonlike eyes are vacant. There is nothing alive and vulnerable to fuel its cold bitterness on this isle of death, nothing to be hunted or consumed. The spirit slips between the trees, leaving me to my solitude.
I look across the forest of shadows and my branches waver. My gaze catches – a tiny flame of red growing amid the endless gray. Nestled in a mound of black dirt, the smallest flower bud pushes up from the ground, its petals so bright they burn my eyes.
It is a nightbloom. Long ago, they carpeted the floor of the Blessed Isles, blossoming on the evening of the summer solstice. By morning the flowers wilted, leaving only blackened petals, not to be seen again until the following year. But for one night, they illuminated the forest with blazing crimson, as if the very ground were aflame.
I look around and, for a fleeting moment, hope that if one flower exists there might be others. But there is only the somber gray of these dead isles.
My boughs creak as I take a shaky step forward. I approach the bloom, transfixed, crushing ashen leaves to dust underfoot. My colossal frame towers over its delicate shape. I lean down until my face is inches above the sweet-scented petals. The potent groundwater within my heartwood stirs, awakening in recognition. Life.
The flower’s neck is tilted as if curious. Deep vermillion veins spread across each petal, and its pale green stem is coated with hundreds of silvery, velvet-soft hairs. I could spend eternity basking in its every facet.
Every moment it grows and shifts in subtle ways; its stem pushing ever higher while its petals slowly unfurl. I am enchanted by each movement, however minute. I watch as the bloom spreads to reveal the filaments extending from within, its heady scent flooding my mind with color. For a moment I forget the cold, the hollow wind, and my own bitterness.
A pale light flickers and I flinch. A glowing shape approaches. My bark tingles. Nothing from these bloodless woods is an ally.
The cursed spirit is returning, attracted to the lure of movement. Life is not so still as death.
I flex my limbs in fury, no longer eluding violence. I welcome it.
For one night, a living thing will exist on these barren isles unmarred by corrupt forces.
The spirit glides toward us. She was once human, but is now translucent and bone-white. Her blank expression grows ravenous as she sees the blood-red blossom.
The specter races toward the flower and tries to inhale its fragile life. Before the bloom withers into a lifeless shade, I fling my limbs forward and lash them about the spirit’s legs. She screeches, recoiling as if burned, and I roar. The groundwater within me is anathema to such unnatural beings.
She twists and breaks free of my grasp. I hoist my roots and smash them to the ground. The impact splits the barren topsoil and sends shockwaves through the earth. The reverberations strike the wraith and she reels in agony. I laugh bitterly. As she stirs, I sling my limbs through her form and she dissolves.
Dusky mist rises from the ground, accompanied by a foul stench. As the wind moans, dozens of spirits materialize before me, their garish faces gaping silently at the scene before them. The nightbloom and I grow before the wall of shadows. I will not let them destroy this one pure thing amongst so much darkness.
I throw all my rage into my blows, driving them back with furious strength. I cannot destroy every spirit on the isles, but I can hold them off for a time. A wraith tries to dart past me. I howl as I lift my roots to pierce its heart, and it dissipates into mist.
My strength is draining with so many spirits nearby, but I refuse to concede.
The flower grows brightly beneath the moonlight, oblivious to this battle for its very existence. A single crimson petal falls from its perfect blossom like a drop of blood. The lifecycle of the bloom is near its end, bringing death, and with it, respite. But I do not crave it. I feel I could cleanse the entire island of its scourge in my fury.
The cursed mist has risen above the treeline and swirls in great clouds. An endless host of spirits pours from the fog, mouths agape with ghoulish hunger. I rise to my greatest height and slam my limbs into the ravenous spirits, shattering one after another into dust. Still, more come.
I howl as I stir the air into a crudely twisting spiral, and nourish the storm with my wrath until it expands in a tempestuous whirlwind. I revel in the chaos as the maelstrom surges in a frenzied circle around me and the flower. It blasts the spirits violently back beyond the trees. From within this nightmare, I have carved a sanctuary where life can grow.
I turn to the flower. We are silent together at the eye of the storm, still amidst the madness. A second fiery petal falls from the nightbloom, then another. My energy drains into the maelstrom, but I do not falter and the tempest rages on. With each passing moment, the blossom droops further until it faces the ground. It is perfect in its slow, natural decay. I cannot look away as it gradually loses its crown of flaming petals and wilts completely.
It is dead.
I lower my branches and the maelstrom quiets. Above me, the sky is slate gray - as bright as it ever gets in this grim place. The gloom of the mist encroaches once more and the spirits return. Their faces are blank, no longer sensing the illicit life of the nightbloom, no longer anticipating the joy of a fresh kill.
They retreat into the hollow woods. I whip my roots through a specter as it passes me, scattering its essence into the fading mist. The others edge farther away from me as they return to their gloom.
Though the land appears unchanged, these isles are not the same gray wasteland they were yesterday. The waters of life stir within me and the soil beneath my roots is fertile again.
Though its petals decay into dust, the luminous nightbloom burns fire-bright in my mind, igniting my fury. Just as these islands were born of burning rock, I will cleanse them of their pestilence in a flaming blaze.
I follow the trailing spirits as they slip between hollow trees.
They will pay for their wickedness.
Master Yi

In Ionia’s central province of Bahrl, a mountain settlement once stood, hidden away in its serene beauty. Here, in the village of Wuju, the boy Yi grew up learning the ways of the sword, chasing a dream that later turned to tragedy.
Like most children, he admired those who wore silk robes and carried blades with poems to their name. His parents being swordsmiths, Yi made a strong impression on the local warriors who frequented their workshop. He spent his mornings in the garden, sparring with his mother, and his nights reciting poetry to his father by candlelight. When it came time for Yi to study under Wuju’s masters, his parents could not have been prouder.
Carrying his talent and discipline over to his training, he surpassed every expectation. Soon, the whole village knew of the “Young Master” Yi.
Still, the humble student wondered about the rest of Ionia. From atop the tallest pagodas, he spotted faraway towns no one else ever mentioned, but when he sought to journey down the mountain with blade in hand, his mentors forbade him. Wuju was founded by those believing their swordsmanship to be too precious to share, too sacred to draw blood—so for centuries, it flourished in isolation, with no outsiders knowing its true nature.
All this changed the day Yi saw vast plumes of smoke rising above the distant towns. Noxian warbands had invaded from the coast, conquering settlement after settlement in waves that washed the provinces red. Choosing the people of Ionia over Wuju’s hallowed tradition, Yi ventured down to help defend the First Lands. To astonished eyes, he swept across the front lines in a blur, routing the enemy with blinding swordplay never before seen by outsiders.
Word of the one-man army spread far and wide, like mist in the mountains. Inspired by his courage, even his fellow disciples joined the fight, and together they journeyed to Navori where the greater war was raging.
The Noxian commanders saw in Wuju a threat that could not be ignored. They scouted the origin of these peerless warriors, and elected to strike at their home without mercy. In a single night, the entire village was destroyed, its people and culture obliterated by chemical fire that no steel could hold back.
After the war finally ended, Yi returned as the only surviving disciple, to find nothing but ruins. The very magic of the land had been defiled, and everyone he had known and loved was no more. Slain in spirit, if not in body, Yi became the attack’s final casualty. With no other practitioners of Wuju left alive, he realized the title of master was his to bear alone.
Grief-stricken, he chose seclusion, training obsessively to bury the guilt of his survival, but the wisdom of bygone masters seemed to fade with the haze of time. He began to doubt if one man could preserve an entire heritage… until he encountered the least expected of individuals.
A curious, monkey-like vastaya challenged him to a duel. Reluctantly, Master Yi entertained the creature’s demands, defeating him with ease. But the vastaya refused to give up, returning day after day with increasingly clever tricks that forced Yi to react and improvise. For the first time in years, Yi felt the spirit of Wuju once more.
The two clashed for weeks, until the bruised stranger finally knelt on the ground and introduced himself as Kong, of the Shimon tribe. He begged to learn from Yi, who saw in this reckless but determined fighter the makings of a new disciple. Through teaching, Yi found his purpose restored. He would pass on the ways of Wuju, and gifted his pupil an enchanted staff and an honorific as a sign of this vow—from that day onward, Kong was known as Wukong.
Together, they now travel the First Lands, as Yi seeks to honor the legacy of his lost home, allowing him to fully embody the “master” in his name.
Homecoming

Michael Luo

Wilted leaves fall from shivering branches, as a gust of wind blows across the mountain slopes. Yi levitates a few inches above the ground, his eyes closed and hands folded, listening to the morning songs of Bahrl jays. The cool breeze touches his bare face, and tickles his brow.
Releasing a quiet sigh, he descends until his boots touch the dirt. He opens his eyes and smiles. Clear skies are a rare, friendly sight.
Yi dusts off his robe, noticing some loose, fallen hairs. Most are black, with a couple white, like wild silk.
How long has it been? he wonders.
Swinging a twill bag over his shoulder, he continues his hike, leaving behind trees that once swayed with life, but now stand still.

Yi glances down the mountain to see how far he has come. The lands below are soft, fragile—treasures to be protected. He looks forward and resumes climbing. On the path ahead, lilies wither, their coral petals turning a sickly brown.
“Didn’t expect to see anyone up here,” a voice calls out.
He pauses to listen, his hand clutching the ringed sword by his waist.
“You also looking for your herd?” The voice grows closer. “Stupid beasts. They always get caught in this area.”
Yi sees an aging farmer approach, and loosens his grip. She wears a simple kirtle, sewn over with assorted scraps of cloth. He bows as she draws near.
“Bah, save your etiquette for the monks,” she says. “You don’t look like you work the land for a living, ‘cause those blades sure aren’t for cutting weeds. What brings you here?”
“Good day for a hike,” Yi replies, his voice feigning innocence.
“So you’re here to train, huh? Noxus coming back so soon?” she asks with a chuckle.
“Where the sun sets once, it will again.”
The farmer snorts, recognizing the old proverb. It is known by most in the southern provinces. “Well, you let me know when they return. That’ll be the day I sail off this island. But until then, why don’t you put those swords of yours to good use and help a frail, old lady?”
She beckons Yi to follow. He obliges.
They stop next to a wooded area. A baby takin whimpers in agony, its hind legs bound by thick, swollen vines that tighten as the creature struggles.
“That there is Lasa,” the farmer explains. “He’s young and dumb, but he’s more use to me in the field than stuck on this cursed mountain.”
“You think it’s cursed?” Yi asks, kneeling by the beast. He runs a palm over its woolly back, feeling its muscles twitch and spasm.
The farmer crosses her arms. “Well, something un-spiritual happened here,” she replies, nodding her head towards the summit. “And without natural magic, the land demands sustenance, even taking life if it has to. Were it my choice, whatever’s up there oughta be burned.”
Yi fixates on the vines. He did not expect to see them this far down the mountain.
“I’ll see what I can do.” He murmurs, drawing two blades from brass sheaths on his boots. As he edges the steel close to the constriction, the vines seem to cower.
The moment lingers. Beads of sweat prickle Yi’s bare face. He closes his eyes.
“Emai,” he whispers, in the tongue of his ancestors. “Fair.”
The takin leaps free, letting out a gleeful, high-pitched bleat. On the ground, the cut vines dangle like loose skin.
The beast springs downhill, reveling in its freedom as the farmer gives chase. She snatches it up in both hands, and hugs the takin close to her chest.
“Thank you!” she exclaims, not realizing Yi has already continued on his way. She calls after him. “Hey! I forgot to ask. What are you training for? The war is over, you know…”
He does not look back.
Not for me.

After another hour, he reaches the barrens. The carcass of a village lies all around him, invaded by the very same vines.
This is Wuju. This was home.
Yi heads for the burial grounds, stepping past toppled beams and stonework, remnants of houses, schools, shrines—the shattered pieces all blend together. The ruins of his parents’ workshop are lost somewhere among the rubble. There is too much to grieve for, and not enough time.
The graves he visits are arranged in perfect symmetry, with gaps between the mounds for someone to pass through. Someone like Yi.
“Wuju honors your memory.”
He places a hand on every hilt of every sword piercing the earth. These are his memorials to warriors, teachers, and students. He does not skip a single one.
“May your name be remembered.”
“Rest. Find peace in the land.”
His voice soon grows tired.
As the sky becomes painted in shades of orange, three graves remain untouched. The closest is marked by a hammer, its head rusted from the mountain air. Yi pulls a peach out of his bag, setting it beside the mound.
“Master Doran, this is from Wukong. He couldn't make the journey with me, but he wanted me to bring you his favorite fruit. He loves his staff, almost as much as he loves making fun of the helmet you gave me.”
He moves toward the final two mounds, guarded by golden sheaths.
“Emai, the weather is forgiving today. Fair… I hope you are enjoying the warmth.”
Yi grasps his two short swords and slides them into the sheaths adorning his parents’ graves. The fit is perfect. He falls to his knees and bows his head.
“May your wisdom continue to guide me.”
Standing, he reaches into his bag to retrieve his helmet. The afternoon sun catches on its seven lenses, each reflection in a different hue. Holding the helmet close to his heart, he imagines the garden of lilies that once existed here.
That was before the screams. Before acid and poison twisted the land’s magic against itself.
He dons the helmet, and a kaleidoscope of his surroundings fills his view. Hands folded together, he closes his eyes and empties his mind. He thinks about nothing. Nothing at all. His feet lift off the earth, but he is unaware.
Opening his eyes, he sees everything. Death and decay, with little hints of life.
He sees spirits that dwell in the realm beyond his own. The vines here trap them as easily as the poor takin, weakening their essence. He knows any spirit strong enough to break free would have abandoned this accursed place. What remains is corrupted… or soon to be.
Pained, mournful cries haunt the air. Yi used to cry out in pain himself, but that was long ago—back when he thought tears might bring back the dead.
He blinks, and the physical world returns. For a moment, he pretends not to bear its weight upon his shoulders. Then, he blinks again.
The spirits continue to cry out. Yi draws his ringed blade.
He dashes in a blur, sweeping across the grounds like a change in season one realizes only after it has passed. In a flash, he is back where he started, perfectly still, his sword resting in its scabbard.
One by one, the vines crumple. Some spill from collapsed rooftops, others shrivel where they lie.
He sits cross-legged to take it all in. Now the spirits sing with joy, and he knows there is no greater sign of gratitude. As they melt away, the land echoes their bliss. Peach blossoms sprout where the overgrowth had held firm. Stalks of limp bamboo straighten, like students ordered to attention.
A fleeting smile softens Yi’s face. He removes his helmet and digs into his bag, shuffling past the other items he brought for the journey. Fruits, nuts… char, flint. Things for himself, and things to cleanse the land for good.
Not now. Not yet.
He retrieves a thin reed pen, and a crinkled scroll. The page is covered in marks.
60
54
41
Yi adds a few strokes by today. Below them are more words.
30 days between clearings.
He knows, soon enough, he will need to grant the farmer her wish, and send his home off in flames.
But not now. Not yet.
Mundos Medikul Jernel

Mundo

Portions of this text have been transcribed for legibility and edited for grammar by John O'Bryan.
Day 283
Deer Dieree: No pashents today. But that’s OKay. Evry bizness has downs. I am fine withh it. In fact it is good becuz it means pepul in Zaun are healfy! No patients is good noos for the peeple, I always say.

Day 301
Still no pashunts. But tooday I wint outsid and yelld at ppl HOO NEED A DOCOTOR? They runned away. They runned fast, so they must not b sick. It is fine. In fact it is good! I will wayt more. Wait untel they r sik. Ooh, ther wuz a gud thing that happen—me found nurs to hire! Her liv in alley behind da hospittl. Mundo xcited to hav help!!

Day 30-Hundred-somethin
Aggh! Stil No Pashunts! Wear r they all? It not possibul they all healfy. Mundo think they avoid goin to doktur! Mabbe me go find them? Mundo to da reskue!

Day 304
I hav a pahent! The firstest in a long time. He is fancee! Waring a suut an glassissss. Came in to say him wants to turn this hospital inntu a kem-fak-tow-ree. I tol him he sound krayzee. Putt him in Mundos old room. Da one wif da pads. Gud place for screemin. He be happee in ther for now.

Day 305
Bad noos. My payshint is detererorayding. Him thinks he wurks fur da chem bearen. Wont eat and wont stop skreemin. Him keep yellin “Yooll be sorry Doktur Mundo!” Mundo tol him me AM sorry becuz he krayze but Mundo will git him bettr. Dis mite take a wile.

Day 306
Tooday i use a wunderfuhl treetmint on da pashent. No wut it is? Elektristee! I putted it in his brane wif wires. He skreemd becuz that is da sownd peepul make when yuu cure them. Gettin bettr sumtimes hurt. Mundo happee to see progresses!

Day 30-Blundred-&
wow da pashint is lowd! Evreeday he skreem LEMEE OWT LEMEE OWT but wut can I do? Put him owt on da street? He Krazee and danjerous! Moar lekristee and mabee surguree? I dunnno. Wish me luk dieree!!

Day %5#
Mundo am runnnn out uf opshuns. Da lektristee dont werk no moar. Payshent still krazee as a chem-bat. Me wint for a walk owtside to kleer me head tooday. Mundo found nurs an askd her opinyun. Me tol her da lectristee dont werk on da pashent anymor. She sed me need too operat. Then her hissd an ran up a fense. Dat is medikul kunsensis then. Tomorrrro i operat! It gunna go good!

Day 2,22,0172
I think da payshint is bettur! I purformd what wee dokturs call a brane labotmee. (Das whare yuu chop up da brane) Payshent is no longr skreemn! Hurray fur sciens! Now kums his recuvry. It will be long an ardyoouss. But he shud pul throo!

DAY 0.19
Payshint did not pul throo. at leest i don fink so. he haz bin vary still fur a week now. If he dont muuve todaae me hav to put him in garbij. Dis onlee part of job Mundo hate!! Why kant we sayv them all? Sciens still hav so far to go! At leest pashent not suffr no moar.

DAY ^*∞∞∞
Me saw nurs agin tooday. Her was eeting out of trash can. Her eet old pashints hand! Mundo tol her dis unprofeshinul! Me say sorry dis not workng out but me rite her good recomindashun lettur. Her hissd and ran up fense agin! Why so hard to find gud help? Me run respektabul practis. Me kare abowt pashints. Is it unreesunabl to xpeckt same frum implowees? Mundo not tink so. Sum day me find nurs hoo kares as much as Mundo. Sum day.
Milio

Milio's story began generations ago with his grandmother, Lupé, and her twin sister, Luné—two elemental masters who wove their respective earth and fire axioms together to overcome the Vidalion’s trials and join the Yun Tal. But after Luné was caught plotting against the Yun Tal, both sisters were convicted of her crime and punished as twins. Lupé was banished to the farthest reaches of Ixtal and Luné all but vanished, taking with her the last of Lupé's trust.

By the time Milio was born, his family had done all they could to make the best of their new lives. He knew only love and laughter, and to him, life in the village was paradise—what more could they ever need?

When Milio was old enough, Lupé tried to teach her grandson the axiomata. Where the rest of her family had failed her, Milio showed promise and took to the elements naturally, but struggled to grasp the rules and rigidity of the discipline. Disappointed, Lupé gave up hope, abandoning Milio's teachings.

Milio, however, continued to learn on his own. Away from the guidance of his grandmother, he abandoned the restrictions she had tried to impose on him. Studying nature itself, he intuited his own set of rules and eventually mastered fire—the one axiom his grandmother wouldn't teach him.

But something bothered Milio about fire. Did it have to be so destructive, especially when he saw the potential for it to do more?

The answer revealed itself one night while Milio was chasing the glow of summer fireflies. They led him to one of the village’s hunters who was injured and unable to move. Milio tried to keep her stable with his fire axiom, but it wasn't enough. Knowing the village healer was too far, he tried desperately to adapt the axiom into a force that could heal.

As he placed his hands on the hunter's stomach to support her wound, he felt a flicker of warmth.. It was so familiar and soothing, like he was touching her soul. Her inner flame. Then Milio began to feel that same flame within himself. He could feel it within the trees, within the leaves—as if each part of the jungle was coming to life like a cozy bonfire.

Focusing all of his energy into that feeling, he used what nature had taught him to manifest that fire. What emerged was a creature—small and timid with wide, friendly eyes. Milio placed it on the hunter's wound and felt the creature—his inner flame—heal her from the inside out.

That night, he’d discovered an entirely new axiom, which he affectionately named “soothing fire.”

Milio ran home to show his family what he'd done. Before their eyes, he manifested another soothing flame that danced happily in the palm of his hand—his "fuemigo"—and his family celebrated.

Grandmother Lupé, however, was unsettled by this achievement.

Seeing Milio’s mastery of the axiomata at such a young age, Lupé knew that her grandson had done what the rest of her family failed to do. With his abilities, he could finally end their exile and restore them to their rightful place among Ixtal's ruling caste. However, she was troubled by his fascination with fire and how his burgeoning skills went against the traditional teachings of the axiomata.

Despite this, Lupé threw everything into her last chance at redemption. Milio became her sole focus as she nurtured and shaped his abilities, preparing him to leave home, travel to Ixaocan, and finally free her from the burden of her sister's failures. Milio felt this weight upon his shoulders, and the thought of leaving home on his own terrified him. But because Milio loved his family more than anything, he would find the courage if it meant ensuring their happiness.

In preparation for the journey, he and his grandmother fashioned a special backpack that Milio called his "furnasita," inside of which he could keep his ever-burning fuemigo. Then, with a heavy heart and a wide smile, Milio—at only twelve years old—left his village behind, outfitted with only his trusty furnasita and some new clothes made by his family.

He traveled the entirety of Ixtal, forging his way through the jungle, camping underneath the stars, and making friends along the way, all while sending frequent letters home that detailed his exciting adventures. After a long journey, Milio finally made it to Ixaocan, where he's since begun his training to challenge the Vidalion.

"The boy with the soothing flames" has caught the eye of more than a few—including Luné, currently imprisoned beneath the city and biding her time. Even Milio notices the whispering that accompanies him around the city, but his focus is on joining the Yun Tal and making his family proud.

All stories

Graves

One Last Shot

Gwen

The Stranger Who Sews

Hecarim

No One Lives

Heimerdinger

From the Journal of Professor Cecil B. Heimerdinger

Lulu

Lux

Last Light

Malphite

Roots of a Poisoned Tree

Malzahar

Maokai

Nightbloom

Master Yi

Homecoming

Mundos Medikul Jernel

Milio