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1. 

   Quinn, Demacia's Wings

   • Demacia's Wings

   “Most soldiers only rely on their weapons. Few truly rely on each other.”

   • Human

   Demacia

   Quinn and her twin brother, Caleb, were born in Uwendale, a remote mountain hamlet in northeastern Demacia. It was a thriving village of hunters and farmers, protected by rangers who patrolled the wilderness and drove off any dangerous creatures wandering down from the high peaks.

   When the twins were still young, King Jarvan III visited Uwendale on a tour of his kingdom. Quinn and Caleb thrilled at the pageantry of the knights in his entourage, resplendent in their gleaming armor. Their father, a weaponsmith in the village, later saw them pretending to bravely defend the land themselves, and fashioned simple weapons for them to play with.

   But as they grew, they spent every moment they could outdoors with their mother—a warden among the local rangers. She taught them how to survive in the wilds, how to track beasts, and most importantly how to fight. Quinn and Caleb became a formidable team—with her keen eye for trails, his skill at baiting their prey, her aim with a bow, and his prowess with a hunting spear.

   But one expedition ended in tragedy.

   Quinn and Caleb, now rangers for Uwendale, were hired to accompany a party of nobles from the capital as they hunted a giant tuskvore—a predator known for its thick hide, long horns, and ferocious temperament. But they failed to kill the creature outright, and the wounded beast turned on them. The twins were quick to intervene, with Caleb’s spear putting out one of the monster’s eyes, and Quinn driving off the tuskvore with her arrows... but not before it gored Caleb with its deadly horns.

   The leader of the party, Lord Barrett Buvelle, helped Quinn bury her brother near where he had fallen. But all could see his death had broken her.

   Unable to move on, she would return to the gravesite, and the joy she had felt as a ranger began to dim. Her prowess in the wilderness waned, and she started making mistakes—she missed easy tracks, and her aim was off.

   A few months later, Lady Lestara Buvelle visited Quinn’s family. The noblewoman was grateful that Quinn had saved her husband’s life, and asked what she could do to repay them. Quinn could think of nothing. She thanked Lady Buvelle, and politely turned her away.

   A year to the day after Caleb’s death, Quinn returned to his grave, as she so often did. Lost in grief, she didn’t hear the approaching tuskvore, its one eye marking it as the very beast that had slain her brother.

   The monster charged. Quinn fired arrow after arrow, but to no avail, and she knew it was her doom. Just then, a majestic bird swooped in—an azurite eagle, a breed long thought extinct. The eagle’s talons and beak ripped bloody gouges across the tuskvore’s face, but the creature was resilient, its horns tearing into the bird’s wing.

   Quinn fired her last arrow as the monster charged her again. This time her aim was true, and the shaft flew right down its gullet, felling the creature in a heartbeat.

   Though the eagle was injured, she approached with caution, for such birds had been known as vicious and untamable hunters—but instead, she saw in his eyes a deep well of kinship. Quinn bound the eagle’s broken pinion, and returned to Uwendale with him. She named him Valor, and the bond that formed between them rekindled the fire in Quinn’s heart. Once more, her thoughts turned to serving Demacia in battle, as a knight.

   Her mother reminded her that this would require sponsorship, and that was far beyond their family’s humble means. But her father urged her to seek out Lady Buvelle, who had already offered recompense for service to her noble family, in the capital.

   With his help, Quinn crafted a new weapon worthy of a knight, a finely wrought repeater crossbow capable of firing multiple bolts with a single pull of the trigger. Quinn and Valor then set out for the Great City together.

   Lestara Buvelle gladly vouched for Quinn, even paying a personal visit to High Marshal Tianna Crownguard to petition for her. Within a week, Quinn took her oaths as a ranger-knight of Demacia.

   Now, having brought renown to the rangers of Uwendale, she prefers to remain out in the hinterlands, never staying within the walls of the outlying towns for long. Quinn rarely pulls rank with the rangers who report to her, instead deferring to their specialized skills and experience in the field—a stark departure from the rigid hierarchy of the rest of the military.

   Quinn and Valor have ventured far and wide in service of Demacia, risking journeys into the icy Freljord and deep within Noxian-held territory. And with each mission, their unique bond has helped ensure the security of the kingdom’s borders for generations to come.

2. 

   Shield of Remembrance

   Anthony Reynolds

   “For some, they are,” said Quinn, shrugging. “But we are rangers.”

   The Greenfang warden gave a slow nod, then stood to see Quinn off.

3. 

   Rules of Survival

   Quinn waited for the Noxians to light a fire in the forest clearing and drink two wineskins.

4. 

   Fragile Legacies

   Dana Luery Shaw

   I stand and grasp her hands tightly between my own. “Thank you, Quinn,” I whisper, “for giving me two more years with him.”

   She blushes, embarrassed.

5. 

   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.

6. 

   Dark Kin

   Graham McNeill

   Varus followed a river running through the desert. Its water was gritty, but drinkable. The new body he had wrought to bear his bow was beautiful, fast and strong, but it came with the weaknesses of flesh. It hungered. It thirsted.

   Days earlier, a crook-backed creature with a withered arm and birdlike features had told him this was Shurima, but that couldn’t be true. The Shurima Varus remembered had been a desolate wasteland.

   “Was I imprisoned for so long?” he wondered.

   He despised the human noises his new mouth made. It sounded bestial and primitive, but at least he could speak aloud once more. As to how long he had been imprisoned... it was hard to say. He retained no concept of how mortals measured time, and the bird creature hadn’t recognized what he was. She had no idea how far back the Darkin War had been fought.

   “My kind all but destroyed this world,” he said. “And now we have been forgotten? How is that even possible?”

   With enough time, even the greatest horrors can fade.

   The voice echoed in his skull, impossible to ignore. Which one was it? Kai or Valmar? He suspected Val, but mortal minds were so simple and muddy that it was hard to tell one from another.

   “Any race that can forget staring into the abyss of its own extinction does not deserve to live,” said Varus.

   We don’t forget. This was Valmar, decided Varus. Horrors become myths so we can bear to hear them, so we can learn from them and not go mad.

   Such a notion was ridiculous, and Varus knew he would never allow the doom of his kind to fade from memory. He was about to say so, when he heard noises from around a bend in the river ahead; shouting voices, braying animals, and the sound of tools on stone. He darted forward, into the shadow of a toppled obelisk, and scanned ahead.

   The new river had exposed the sunken ruins of an ancient structure comprised of pillars and statues of the oldest Ascended. Yes, this was the source of the magic he had sensed. Old magic. The kind the flame-haired queen used to enslave his kind.

   The kind used to imprison him beneath the rock of Ionia.

   Tanned, wolf-lean men worked the ruins, digging out hidden reliquary chambers as thick-limbed beasts of burden dragged excavated rocks from deeper inside the structure. Warriors wearing boiled leather breastplates and carrying hook-bladed spears guarded the perimeter. Varus grinned and vaulted onto the obelisk, drawing back on his bow as he landed. Violet light built in the living weapon as it flexed, and a coruscating arrow of lightning formed in the air.

   Why must you kill them? This was Kai. He hated unnecessary killing.

   Varus felt his hands tremble as Kai fought to make him lower the bow.

   “Your people destroyed my kin,” said Varus, exerting his will to steady his aim. “That’s the only reason I need.”

   He sighted along the crackling arrow as a burly warrior with a forked beard and shaven scalp saw him, and yelled a warning.

   So everyone you see must die?

   Varus exhaled, and in the space between breaths loosed the shot. It flashed through the air to pierce the bearded warrior’s heart, burning a hole clean through him. He dropped to his knees, his mouth wide with shock. Others hurled spears, but Varus was already moving. He sprang from the obelisk, sending a hail of blood-red bolts toward them, and hit the ground running.

   A hook-spear swung at him. He dove to the side, rising to his feet and sending a pair of crimson shots through his attacker’s chest. Varus sprinted, leapt, and dashed through the ruins, blazing shafts of light striking his targets with absolute precision.

   In seconds it was over. Sixteen dead, and he hadn’t even broken a sweat. He felt the anguish of Valmar and Kai within him, and grinned. Every death gnawed at them, weakened them, and made them less able to fight him.

   The men excavating the ruined city fled, throwing down their tools and running for the river. Varus let them go. They were an irrelevance, and the killing of mortals without weapons always provoked the two souls within him to greater rebellion.

   Varus entered the ruined structure, briefly glancing at a pair of canine and crocodilian statues as he passed. Inside, it was cool and dark, the walls covered in vivid bas-reliefs depicting wide discs spreading golden rays over a bountiful land. The stone floor was inscribed with a magical script that had been old even before Icathia’s rebellion.

   “Warding sigils. Potent once, but faded,” said Varus, crossing the inscribed flagstones to where a towering statue of a great, serpent-headed god-warrior had once stood sentinel. Some past catastrophe had toppled it, and beyond its sandstone remains lay a lightless chamber.

   He entered, the glow from the smoldering light at his heart revealing nothing but bare stone, burned black and glossy by ancient fire.

   Varus sighed. “Where are you, sister...?”