LoL Universe Indexing and Search

In Ionia, magic is woven into the land. Forests spread vibrantly, and trees often boast nearly as many colors as leaves, touched by the wonders of the spirit realm.

But there is one forest, hidden away, that draws on a different kind of magic—a garden with a tree at its heart that gathers humanity’s dreams in its blooms.

The Dreaming Tree grew from a seed of the God-Willow, which towered over the ancient grove of Omikayalan. Cast loose when the God-Willow was tragically felled, the seed took root in what came to be known as the Garden of Forgetting. Nurtured by the Green Father, Ivern—as many of the descendants of Omikayalan were—the Dreaming Tree spiraled up, spreading the magic of humanity’s desires each time the dream-laden buds bloomed.

Lillia was born when one of the tree’s own dreams was captured in a bud that fell to the ground before it could bloom—something that had never happened before. Sprouting into an awkward fawn creature with the flower bud still on her head, Lillia’s only company was her mother tree, and the dreams that drifted to the garden each night.

Lillia helped tend the buds, and learned about humanity through them. Enchanted by the people and places she glimpsed, she spent every waking moment experiencing a swirl of emotions and desires that mortals could only see when they closed their eyes.

In caring for the dreams, Lillia also cared for the dreamers. She came to consider each of them a new friend, wanting nothing more than to one day greet the people who imagined such wonders. Lillia wanted it so badly that her own desires eventually gathered in a bud on the tree.

But when Lillia finally did meet humans, it wasn’t like remembering a familiar dream. It was more like waking up.

Something was happening in the world outside Lillia’s forest. War blazed like a fire through the land, and in time, fewer dreams began to reach the garden. The tree itself grew sick, and became infected with burls—writhing tangles in its trunk, which oozed darkness.

Lillia did her best to nurture her mother tree and the dreams that remained in its buds, but it was not long before the garden became so weak that the violence of the world spilled in. One night, warriors entered the forest and chased a lone figure all the way to the Dreaming Tree. With a single errant blade’s slash, the branch containing Lillia’s unrealized dream came thudding to the ground.

Lillia panicked and forced them all to sleep, shocked at the difference between the mortals she thought she knew, and the ones she had found.

They were so afraid—more tangle than sparkle. They were like the burls…

But as the warriors slept and Lillia wept, a dream emerged from the lone figure the others had been chasing. Weakly, it floated toward the broken branch on the ground and moved into the bough’s bud.

Lillia picked it up. She could feel the dream. As she whispered to it and soothed it, it glowed ever brighter—and so did she. The bud upon her head unfurled, and magic swirled around like sparkling pollen. In that moment, swept up in possibility and wonder, Lillia herself bloomed… until, with a sneeze, she sent the magic curling into the surrounding forest.

The humans awoke one by one, unable to remember what had brought them to the forest, or what they had done. None noticed the timid fawn behind the tree. With relief, Lillia watched the humans go, still seeing only confusing tangles—but knowing now that there was still a sparkle beneath it all.

And if their dreams wouldn’t come to the tree, she would have to bring the tree to them.

Taking up her branch, Lillia left the garden and entered the world of humans—a world she had always wanted to know, but one that frightened her now more than anything. It was so unlike what she understood.

Hiding just out of sight, Lillia now helps people’s dreams be born, drawn forward by glimpses of who they could be, and by what may be trapped beneath their tangles. By helping humans realize their deepest wishes, Lillia realizes her own, the bud on her head blooming as she is filled with joy.

Though darkness may be encroaching on Ionia once more, it is but a mask, and beneath it lies the familiar sparkle of hope. Only by braving the world, and braving herself, can Lillia hope to untangle its burls.

The humidity of Tonnika market and the crowd’s fragrant odor usually rushed buyers into hasty decisions, but Hatilly stood transfixed. Her eyes had fallen upon the strange, tangled bud encased with red withered leaves, a specimen she had never seen before.

“You don’t want that,” the old florist said. “It’s a rare Night-Blooming Zychid. Plucked from the southern jungles, where sunlight never touches the forest floor. It’s more for potion brewers or alchemists…”

The merchant directed her gaze to a bouquet of Sapphire Roses. “Now, these are from fair Ionia. Adapted them to our robust Kumangra soil myself… Or perhaps some Pearls of the Moon?”

Hatilly was not swayed. Sapphire Roses and Pearls of the Moon flashed their colors for any eyes to see. This zychid held exotic potential like the Kraken Lilies along the Serpentine Delta, or Parethan Corpse Tulips. Rare flowerings were precisely her and Cazworth’s type of indulgence.

“I’ll take the zychid.”

The florist welcomed the gold pressed into his palm, despite the doubt scrawled across his face. He deftly cradled the bud in a nest of damp silk, and planted the parcel into Hatilly’s waiting hands. She noticed the aerial rootlets clinging to a shard of something hard and chalk-white.

“What’s this?”

“Zychids cling to foreign objects,” the merchant said. “That one’s grafted to a bit of bone.”

Cazworth was bent over his antique desk, scribbling notes in the margins of his ledger by candlelight. He didn’t look up until Hatilly set the ceramic upon his table. The strange zychid, half buried in a mound of wetted soil, already seemed happy, its reds and greens vibrant and slick with life.

“A budding gift for a blooming businessman.” She planted a kiss on Cazworth’s cheek, feeling clever. He smiled and turned to examine the specimen.

“When you said you needed flowers to brighten the place up, I assumed they’d be colorful.” Cazworth jabbed the plant with his quill. “What is this curious fellow?”

“A most extravagant gift to celebrate the opening of the upper Kumangra’s newest trading supplier… Cazworth’s Exotic Goods.”

Cazworth pulled his wife onto his lap.

“Well, if you say this is a rarity indeed, then we are in for a treat.”

He kissed her sweetly. A single petal opened up, unfolding into the darkening room.

“It’s beginning,” Hatilly said. “Will you be up all night?”

“Most likely. There are still several invoices that need rubber stamping—the partners still have concerns about the shipping lanes…”

Hatilly yawned.

“Don’t let me bore you, dear wife. Run along to bed. I’ll wake you when it starts to flower.”

“Thank you, sweet husband.”

Hatilly awoke to a creeping sensation on her ankle.

Infernal skitter-ants were everywhere, this near to the jungle. She kicked it away. Sleepily blinking, she turned to the empty pillow next to her. Cazworth hadn’t come to bed.

The nagging insect was undaunted, and was crawling further up her shin. She flung off the bedsheets and saw that there was no insect, but rather a tendril vine weaving through her toes, entangling her ankle, and twining around her leg.

Panic shoved sleep from her mind.

She kicked but could not get the green and red shoots to release her leg. They tightened, biting into her flesh. She pried them off with her fingernails. Her hands bled from thorny splinters.

The snaking stalks wound a trail from under the bed chamber door, where they sprouted aerial rootlets to climb the bed frame. Her mind immediately flashed to Cazworth.

Armed with a flickering lantern and a pair of sewing shears, Hatilly followed the vines through the hallway of their manse. Their circumference widened the closer she stepped toward its source, which she now saw was in Cazworth’s study.

The door took several tries to open. Hatilly hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this.

The room was covered, floor to ceiling, with floral growth. A riot of obscene colors danced in her lantern’s flicker. Exotic bulbs dangled from the walls, their finger-like leaves undulating as if drawing breath. Flowers seemed to mock her through the darkness, flashing their rainbow petals like signal fires. All had sprouted from a singular dark nexus: an enormous closed flower bud, which lay on the fainting couch by the fireplace, where Hatilly herself often read while Cazworth worked. Bits of ceramic and soil lay strewn about. The zychid had outgrown its habitat.

All manner of protrusion crept from its pulsating petals. Everything in Hatilly’s mind screamed for her to flee her home, put it to the torch, and burn that hideous bouquet. But not without Cazworth. Vines twisted around the legs of the chair, the legs of the study table, the legs of…

Her husband.

Still sitting in his chair, Cazworth was cocooned from head to toe by a writhing mass of leaves. Hatilly reached his side, bare feet slipping on the foliage underfoot. She cut frantically at the strangling vines, but each snip of the shears only made them tighten their grip and produce little thorns that pierced her and her husband. Blood trickled out. Where the drops landed, zychid blossoms burst forward to feed.

Hatilly freed one of Cazworth’s hands—it was pale, and cold to the touch.

A stench filled the air, like a rotting corpse. With tears in her eyes, she turned her head toward the fainting couch, where the zychid bud was flowering.

The stench grew worse. Hatilly retched. The gargantuan petals peeled backward in colorful layers, revealing oblong petals of striking scarlet and deep green, garlanded in black tips, revealing a woman in place of the stamen. Her hair was red as blood. Her flesh like leaves. Vines and petals wreathed her in deadly beauty. Her eyes opened. They reminded Hatilly of a panther’s—narrow irises seeing only prey.

The woman who blossomed from the flower arose.

Hatilly clutched the shears like a dagger.

“You wish to prune me already?” the thing said, its deep voice ensnaring Hatilly.

“What are you?”

“The bloom you longed to witness.”

The stench turned. Gone was the reek of death.

Hatilly inhaled sweet fragrances—orange blossoms, the aroma of Sapphire Roses, the fruity scent of Kraken Lilies, the musk of Pearls of the Moon, the delicate hints of wisteria. There were more, secret flowers, but she somehow knew their names—they smelled of colors her eyes never saw. A name formed in Hatilly’s mind…

Zyra.

“Thank you for the lovely garden,” Zyra said, nodding toward Cazworth’s remains. “You tended me well, but we need more sustenance. To make the soil here more… fertile.”

Hatilly saw visions of a world covered by a bouquet of colorful death. It was a beautiful riot of hues, soft and fluttering, choking cities. There were no graves, no war, no money… Hatilly was breathless. She didn’t even feel the vines pull her down, nor the thorns bury themselves in her flesh, rending her skin, spilling her blood.

“Step into the garden that ever grows…” Zyra whispered through the stems and petals. “Death blossoms, and you don’t want to miss the colors, do you?”

Hatilly did not respond, for she was with the flowers.

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.

The market smelled of burning incense and rotting cabbage.

Ahri wrapped her cloak around her nine tails and fiddled with her twin sunstone tokens to distract herself from the stench, rolling them between her fingers and snapping them together. Each one had the shape of a blazing flame, but they were carved in such a way that their sharper edges fit together, forming a perfectly smooth orb. She had carried the golden stones since before she could remember, though she had no knowledge of their origin.

Though Ahri was in a new environment, she was comforted by the latent magic buzzing all around her. She passed a stand with dozens of woven baskets filled to the brim with polished rocks, shells etched with legends from a seafaring tribe, gambling dice carved from bones, and other curious items. Nothing matched the style of Ahri’s sculpted tokens.

“Care for a gem to match the blue of the skies?” asked the gray-bearded merchant. “For you, I’ll trade a cerulean bauble for the cost of a single cryraven feather, or perhaps the seed of a jubji tree. I’m flexible.”

Ahri smiled at him, but shook her head and continued through the market, sunstones in hand. She passed a stand covered in spiky orange vegetables, a child selling fruit that shifted color with the weather, and at least three peddlers swinging tins of incense, each of whom claimed to have discovered the deepest form of meditation.

“Fortunes! Come get your fortunes told!” called a young woman with lavender eyes and a soft jawline. “Find out who you’ll fall in love with, or how to avoid unlucky situations with a pinch of burdock root. Or if you’d prefer your future left to the gods, I’ll answer a question about your past. Though I do recommend finding out whether or not you’re at risk for death by poisoning.”

A tall vastaya with feline ears was about to take a bite of a spiced pastry. He froze and stared at the fortune teller in alarm.

“The answer is no, by the way. Yours for free,” she said, curtsying at him before turning to Ahri. “Now, you look like you’ve had a dark and mysterious past. Or at least some tales worth sharing. Any burning questions for me, lady?”

Beneath heavy layers of incense, Ahri paused at the scent of wet fur and spiced leather lingering at the woman’s neck.

“Thank you, but no,” she replied. “I’m still looking around.”

“You won’t find any more Ymelo tokens in this market, I’m afraid,” the woman said, nodding to Ahri’s sunstones. “Like the ones you have.”

The back of Ahri’s neck prickled and she drew closer to the woman. She would not let her excitement get the better of her. “Do you recognize these? Where do they come from?”

The woman eyed Ahri.

“I think they’re Ymelos, anyway,” she said. “Never seen a pair in person. He only carved a small number in his time, and many of the sets were separated in the war. Dead rare, those.”

Ahri leaned closer with each word.

“I’m Hirin, by the way,” the woman said.

“Do you know where I might find this craftsman?” Ahri asked.

Hirin laughed. “No idea. But if you come in I’ll tell you what I know.”

Ahri wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and eagerly followed the fortune teller past her booth, and into a caravan decorated wall to wall with animal skins.

“Tea?” Hirin said. “I brewed it this morning.”

She poured two cups of liquid the color of plum wine, taking one for herself. The tea tasted of bitter oak bark, masked by a cloying dollop of honey. Hirin held out a hand for the stones but Ahri kept them close.

“I’m getting the sense that these are special to you,” she said with a wry smile. “Don’t worry, I have no interest in peddling stolen sunstones. Bad for a girl’s reputation.”

“Can you tell me where they come from?” asked Ahri, handing them over gingerly.

Hirin held them up to the light.

“These are beautiful,” she said. “I don’t know how they fit together so perfectly. I’ve not seen the like.”

Ahri said nothing. She stood frozen with curiosity, and did not take her eyes off the woman.

“Legend says the sculptor known as Ymelo collected fossilized lizard eggs from a thousand thousand years ago that he carved into intricate shapes. These ancient lizards lived long before the Ghetu Sea dried up to a desert, leaving only petrified bones and dust.”

Hirin coughed, and Ahri detected a bitter note upon her breath, as if she had been drinking vinegar.

“Ymelo stones are designed as small pieces that fit into a larger sculpture,” she continued.

The woman dangled the golden pieces in front of Ahri’s face.

“Just as your past has left you with information to be desired, these stones may have many more parts that, when combined, create another shape altogether. Who knows what you’ll become when you track down your history. With the missing pieces, you may learn more than you’d like.”

“Those are pretty words,” Ahri murmured, staring at the woman.

After a moment of silence, Hirin chuckled. “Some threads of truth, threads of my own invention. A fortune teller’s weaving must be seamless.”

The woman retrieved a hunter’s knife from a cabinet.

“I weave in just enough of what you desire to make you stay,” she said. “’Til the tea slows your muscles, that is.”

A low growl escaped Ahri’s lips. She would tear this woman apart. She tried to pounce, but her limbs did not obey. She was rooted in place.

“Oh, there’s no need for that, lady. I only need a single tail. Useful for a variety of potions, you see, and extremely valuable. Or so I think. Never seen a vastaya with fox tails before. The tea freezes any pain, along with your… mobility.”

Hirin wrapped a bandage around one of Ahri’s tails. Ahri tried to resist, but she still could not move.

“You’ll wake up tomorrow, good as new!” said the woman. “Well, with one less tail. Do you really use all nine?”

Ahri shut her eyes and reached out to the reservoirs of magic around her. The environment had plenty ripe for the taking, but she was too weakened by the tea to draw them to her. Instead she reached into Hirin’s mind, which was far more malleable, and pushed.

Ahri opened her eyes and stared hard into Hirin’s. They deepened from lavender to violet.

“Hirin,” she said. “Come closer. I would look into the face of the one who tricked me.”

“Of course, lady,” Hirin replied, transfixed. The woman’s voice sounded hollow, as though it came from the bottom of a well.

She leaned in until her face was only inches away. Ahri inhaled, drawing essences of the woman’s life from her breath.

...Hirin was a young girl hiding, hungry and afraid, beneath a market stall. Two men argued above, looking for her. She had nothing but empty coffers to show for her days’ work...

Ahri continued to drain Hirin’s life, sampling memories of raw emotion. They felt rich in Ahri’s mouth, and she relished each unique flavor of emotion.

...Hirin told the fortune of a witch doctor shrouded in veils, receiving a copper for her troubles. She used the coin to buy a piece of bread, which she devoured in seconds…

...In a seedy tavern, a raucous group played cards. A man with eyebrows resembling butterfly wings gambled a golden Ymelo stone while Hirin watched from the shadows…

...Hirin tracked Ahri as she walked through the market. One of her fox tails peeked from beneath her cloak. She drew the vastaya into her caravan—

Enough.

Ahri stopped, her head spinning with renewed vigor. With each memory she stole from Hirin, she felt energy rush back into her weakened muscles, cleansing them of the poison.

Strengthened once more, she slowly shook her limbs awake, and flexed her tails with a shiver. They tingled with pinpricks.

Hirin stood wide-eyed and dazed, still very much alive. It was she that would wake tomorrow, good as new—less a few memories that she would not miss.

With knowledge of the woman’s life, Ahri’s rage had faded. She brushed her hand against the fortune teller’s cheek, then wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders and stepped out into the sunlit market.

Hirin would not remember her, or their encounter. But Ahri had left the trade with a name to hunt—Ymelo—and the image of the man with soft-winged eyebrows was burned in her mind.

The old woman pulled the rope taut around the Demacian soldier’s throat. He’d attempted to speak, which was forbidden by the rules she had laid out. One more infraction and she’d have the right to slice the head from his shoulders and use his widowpeaked helm as a chamberpot. Until then, she could only tighten her grip, hope and watch as the tendrils of memory leaked from his head into hers.

Of course, she could just decapitate him whenever she wished, but that wouldn’t be proper. Much could be said of the gray-skinned seer, but nobody could say she didn’t live by a code. By a set of rules. And without rules, where would the world be? In disarray, that’s where. Simple as that.

Until he broke those rules, she would sit here, siphoning away everything he had – his joy, his memories, his identity – until she was done with him. And then: slice. Chamberpot.

A voice screamed out in pain somewhere near the entrance of her cave. One of her sentinels, no doubt.

Then another scream.

And another.

Tonight was shaping up to be very interesting.

She could tell he was an unyielding fellow by the persistent slamming of his heavy boots onto the wet cave floor, announcing his long approach. When the echoing steps finally fell silent, a handsome, broad-shouldered man stared at her from across the cavern, the look of grim determination on his face illuminated by the den’s dim torches. Rivulets of blood dripped down his breastplate. Even from the back of the room, she could smell something sour in his armor – some sort of acidic tang that calmed the magic flowing through her veins in a way she did not like.

This would be an interesting night, indeed.

The knight, broadsword in hand, ascended the stone steps to the old woman’s makeshift rock throne.

She smiled, waiting for him to haul the blade up and bring it screaming down toward her head – he’d be in for quite the surprise once he did.

Instead, he sheathed the sword and sat on the ground.

Wordlessly, he stared into the old woman’s eyes, patiently holding her gaze. He did not break their connection even to flick his eyes in the direction of the leashed soldier at her side.

Was this a ploy to throw her off? Was he trying to wait her out, make her talk first?

Most likely.

Still, this was boring.

“Do you know who I am?” the woman asked.

“You feed off the memories of the lost and the abandoned. Children say you are as old as the cave you inhabit. You are the Lady of the Stones,” he said with confidence.

“Ha! That’s not what they call me, and you know it. Rock Hag. That’s what they say. Afraid I’d smite you if you used that name, eh? Trying to butter me up?” she coughed.

“No,” the man replied, “I just thought it was a rude name. It’s impolite to insult someone in their home.”

The old seer chuckled until she realized he wasn’t joking.

“And yours?” she asked. “What are you called?”

“Garen Crownguard of Demacia.”

“Here are the rules, Garen Crownguard of Demacia,” she said. “You have come for your lost soldier. Correct?”

The man nodded.

“Do you intend to kill me?” the woman asked.

“I cannot lie. I think it likely that either you or I will die, yes,” he replied.

The woman chuckled.

“Eager to spill my blood, are you? Maybe you’d even succeed, with that armor.” She coiled the rope squeezing the soldier’s neck tighter around her ancient hand. “Still – if you raise your sword against me before our dealings are through, I will pull this so quickly you’ll hear the snap of his neck echo in your mind for the rest of your days.”

She yanked the leash taut for emphasis.

Garen’s gaze remained unflinchingly focused on her eyes.

“So, the rules. If you can give me a single memory I find more delicious than the accumulated memories in this one’s mind,” she said, flicking the prisoner’s helmet, “I will take it from you, and give you him.” She watched Garen’s eyes closely now for any hint of doubt. “If you cannot, well…” she tightened her grip on the soldier’s leash. “Should either of us attempt to renege on our deal, the other is entitled to take repayment however they wish, with no resistance. Do you agree?”

“I do,” he said.

“Then let me hear your opening offer. What is this soldier’s life to you? Apologies for my rudeness – I’d refer to him by name, but I’ve forgotten it already,” she said.

“I do not know his name either. He joined my battalion only recently,” Garen replied.

She frowned at the young man. He clearly did not know what he was getting into.

“I offer a memory,” he said, “from childhood. My sister and I astride my uncle’s back as he barked like a Noxian drake-hound. We laughed for many hours. It is a good memory, unsullied by what would later happen to him at the hands of one like you.”

The old woman scratched at the gelatinous film of her eye.

“You do me disrespect,” she said. “You think to trade a joyous memory as if that is all I savor.” She cupped the soldier’s head in her hand and relished the wisps of memories flowing into her mind from his. “I want... everything. The pain, the confusion, the anger. Keeps me looking young,” she laughed, dragging a twisted finger across her wrinkled cheek.

“I offer my grief, then, at my uncle’s death,” Garen said.

“Not good enough. You bore me,” said the Lady of Stones, and pulled tighter on the leash.

Garen sprang to his feet and unsheathed his sword. The hag’s heart leapt at the thought of killing the impatient young knight. But instead of attacking, he dropped to one knee, lowering his head before her, and gently placed the tip of the blade on her lap, pointed toward her midsection.

“Search my mind,” he said. “Take whatever memory you wish. I am young, but I have seen much, and experienced a life of privilege that you might find pleasurable. Should you try to take more than one memory, of course, I will push this sword through you, but any single memory is yours for the keeping.”

The woman could not help but cackle. The arrogance of this boy! He had the nerve to think one of his memories would outweigh the lifetime she could absorb from his colleague?

His courage – or ignorance – was unquestionable. One had to respect it.

Smacking her lips, she leaned over and placed her palms upon his head. She closed her eyes and peeled back the layers of his mind.

She saw triumph at the Battle of Whiterock. She tasted the lyrebuck roast at his lieutenant’s wedding feast. She felt a lonely tear fall as he held a dying comrade on the fields of Brashmore.

And then she saw his sister.

She felt his intense love for her, mixed with...something else. Fear? Disgust? Discomfort?

She pushed deeper into his mind, past his conscious memories. Her fingers probed his thoughts, pushing aside anything unrelated to the golden-haired girl with the big smile. His armor made the search far more difficult than it would have otherwise been, but the old woman persisted until–

Childhood. The two of them playing with toy figurines. His soldiers charge her mages, ready to slaughter them. She tells him it isn’t fair; they have magic, it should be an even fight. He laughs and knocks her clay mages over, batting them aside with his metal crusaders. Upset, the girl shouts and suddenly there is light shooting from her fingertips, and he is blinded, and confused, and frightened. She is taken away by their mother, but before their mother leaves the room, she kneels and tells the boy that he didn’t see what he thought he saw. It wasn’t real – just a game. The boy, his mouth agape, nods. Just a game. His sister is not a mage. She couldn’t be. He pushes the memory as deep as it can go.

Stretching her fingers, the old woman finds more and more memories like this spread amongst the knight’s childhood, each ending in a blinding splay of light. Buried deep. Cacophonous mixtures of love, fear, denial, anger, betrayal, and protectiveness.

The knight had not been wrong – these were good memories. Far juicier than those provided by the broken man.

She smiled. The knight had been clever, putting his sword to her stomach, but he wasn’t clever enough. Once she took a memory, he would forget he’d ever possessed it – she could take whatever she wanted.

Branching her fingers, she sifted through his memories, searching for anything involving the girl of light. She snatched up every single one she found before pulling out of his mind.

“Yes,” she said, opening her eyes. “This will do.” She pointed at the cave’s exit.

“Your bargain is accepted. A single memory for a single life. Take the boy and leave at once.”

Garen stood and moved to the leashed soldier. He bent down, helped the soldier up, and began to walk backward out of the cave, never once looking away from her.

Quaint. He was worried she might break the deal. Poor thing didn’t realize she already had.

The knight stopped.

He dropped his companion to the ground and charged, his eyes still locked on hers.

The old woman thrilled at his impetuous attempt. He was too big, too lumbering, too slow to ready his cumbersome sword before she would descend upon him. Her fingertips crackled with dark energy, thirsting to drink in more of his mind, but she couldn’t take her eyes off his. In them, she saw the years of luscious memories she would feast upon, until there was nothing left to –

She felt something cold inside of her. Something metal. The sour tang of the knight’s armor stronger than ever now, tickled the back of her throat.

The hag looked down to see Garen’s sword jutting from her breast. Stains of red and black seeped from the wound, dripping onto the knight’s gauntlets as he stared steadfast into her fading eyes.

He was faster than she’d thought.

“Why?” she tried to say, only to cough up a mouthful of black bile.

“You lied,” he answered.

The hag smiled, acidic tar bubbling between her teeth. “How’d you know?”

“I felt... lighter. Unburdened,” Garen replied.

He blinked.

“It didn’t feel right. Give them back.”

She thought for a moment as her blood mixed into the mud of the cold cave floor.

The hag’s fingers went numb as she placed them on Garen’s skull, forcing the memories back into his mind. He gritted his teeth with pain and when he opened his eyes, she could tell from their weariness that he’d gotten everything he wanted. The poor fool.

“Why even bother with the trade?” the old woman asked. “You are stronger than I thought. Much stronger. Leash or no, you could have sliced me to ribbons before I’d lifted a finger. Why bother letting me into your mind at all?”

“To draw first blood in a stranger’s home without giving them a chance would be...impolite.”

The hag cackled.

“Is that a Demacian rule?”

“A personal one,” Garen said, and pulled the sword out of the hag’s chest. Blood gushed from the open wound and she slumped over, dead.

He didn’t spare her another look as he picked the soldier up and began their long march back to Demacia.

And without rules, he thought to himself, where would the world be?

PopRox: Hello to our international audience! Today we have very special guests for you. I’m here with the four members of K/DA. If you haven’t heard of them, and how have you not heard of them, are you living under a rock?! Go to YouTube right now and search for their hit song “POP/STARS”.

We are so excited to have you today, K/DA.

K/DA: Hi everyone! My name is Kai’Sa and you’re listening to PopRox! The rest of K/DA and I are excited to hang out!

PopRox: I got to say, Kai’Sa, it’s so lovely to hear your accent. Tell us more about your upbringing.

Kai’Sa: Thank you. Well, I grew up all over actually; my parents traveled quite a bit. My accent is pretty international.

PopRox: Any favorite cities?

Kai’Sa: <LAUGHS> Of course! My favorite cities are Cape Town, Seoul, New York, and Hong Kong, where I spent most of my time before K/DA.

Ahri: 그래서 저희 안무에 이국적인 느낌이 있어요. 카이사랑 안무 연습을 하면 연습 같지 않고 너무 즐겁죠.
(She brings international style to our choreography too! It's never a boring dance practice with Kai'Sa.)

PopRox: That’s incredible! And thank you, Eve for translating. How long does it take for you to get ready for a performance?

Ahri: A lot of time! 상상도 못 할 정도로 오래 걸려요. 다들 최선을 다하거든요. 투어 중에는 빨리 일어나서 의상 챙기고 메이크업 받고 준비를 하죠. 투어 중이 아닐 땐 스튜디오에 일찍부터 가 있고요.
(Everyone in the house works so hard. We get up early to get dressed and prepare for a day during tours. If we're not touring, we'll be at the studio early.)

PopRox: Alright, let’s talk about you Ahri. How does it feel to be back in the limelight and with such a hit single?

Evelynn to Ahri: 자꾸 왜 이런 걸 물어볼까? 난 이 질문 별로야.
(I don’t think it’s a great question. They always ask.)

Ahri: 너무 그러지 마, 이블린. 저는… 일단 음악에 집중했어요. 팬분들께서 좋아하고 자랑스러워하실 만한 노래, 대담하고 아름다운 노래를 만들고 싶었거든요. 언제나 다양한 문화에 열린 마음으로 저희를 응원해 주시는 팬 여러분께 감사하다는 말씀 드리고 싶네요. 정말 감사합니다! 꿈이 현실이 된 것 같아요.
(It’s ok, Eve. I focused on my music. I wanted to make bold and beautiful songs that people love and have confidence in. Thank you to our fans around the world for the continued support and acceptance of our cross-cultural artists. Thank you for all your love. Our vision came together.)

Eve: This is important. Ahri did not disappear. She saw real issues with the restrictions of creativity from music labels and found a way to unleash a powerful album with a fearless team.

PopRox: That’s a great point, Evelynn. You have a reputation in the music industry as a difficult artist to work with. Do you feel you’ve found a perfect position on K/DA?

Eve: Oh, I’m familiar with the “bad girl” or “diva” labels. I have nothing but good things to say about previous bands I’ve worked with. We simply had creative differences. Everything we do in K/DA is collaborative. Ahri’s leadership enables each of us to express our talents equally. Yes, this is a perfect fit for me.

PopRox: Can you tell us more about your album, K/DA?

Ahri: 카이사, 네가 대답할래?
(Kai’Sa, can you answer?)

Kai’Sa: There is a place between fantasy and reality where anything can happen. You have the power to be anyone, and do anything. It is your dream. In our in-between world, K/DA feels confident and strong. We can do anything, and so can you.

Akali: So can you!

Ahri: <LAUGHS>

PopRox: Why do you think the song “POP/STARS” is such a hit?

Ahri: 아칼리 덕분이죠. 저희의 비밀 병기라고나 할까요? 목소리가 독보적이잖아요.
(Akali. She's our secret weapon. No one sounds like her.)

Akali: No! No it’s not me I promise. I am trying to break tradition, but it’s easier with K/DA doing it together. It’s all of us. Eve and Ahri work so hard to encourage each of us to unleash our minds. For example, I wrote the rap for “POP/STARS” so many times, and each time Ahri encouraged me to go further. Eve… well Eve is more direct.

Eve: I told her to stop trying to be the most creative rap artist in Asia, and to just be it.

Kai’Sa: I feel like Akali brings this truly unique vibe. We each have our own style and with Ahri’s direction we make music completely different than current pop songs. And our fans love it!

PopRox: Akali, you perform on the street, right?

Eve: You can’t stop her.

Akali: Ha. Yes. Sometimes. I don’t want to be successful because people know who I am. I want them to like my lyrics because they’re good.

Eve: They’re good.

PopRox: That’s pretty rare for a pop star, and we really appreciate it. You’ve been spotted in Hong Kong and Tokyo as well, wherever you girls tour. There’s a viral video of you in Seoul rapping and doing a few flips.

Akali: Ha. Yeah. Just a few flips.

PopRox: What was each of your favorite parts in “POP/STARS?”

Kai’Sa: Oh I adore Akali’s rap. The black light scenes showing how there’s so much more than what meets the eye, that’s the kind of art I like making.

Akali: Kai’Sa spray painted the art herself! She made my mask. My favorite part is Ahri’s elegance. Her parts in “POP/STARS” give us a strong foundation to set up this magical world.

PopRox: You two have so many talents! What about you, Eve?

Eve: Driving down the tunnel at Kai’Sa was a thrill. The thing is we filmed that scene only seven times. I wish I had more time with that sports car. We did put Kai’Sa in front of the speeding car once, but they told us not to do it again. Seeing the final version of it was fabulous.

Kai’Sa: You know I would’ve gotten away in time.

Eve: But the stunt coordinator might not.

PopRox: Ahri?

Ahri: POP/STARS에서 제가 제일 좋아하는 부분은… 마지막 장면에서 같이 안무하는 거요. 촬영 중일 땐 따로 있는 경우가 많다 보니까 함께인 순간이 좀 특별하게 느껴져요. 넷이 같이 춤을 출 때 저희가 제일 빛나는 것 같아요.
(Dancing together in the last scene is my favorite part of “POP/STARS”. We’re not always together when we film. When we are, it’s very special to me. When the four of us dance together, K/DA shines.)

PopRox: So what’s next for K/DA?

Ahri: 팬분들을 위해서 투어도 계속하고 음악도 만들어야죠. 저희 음악의 가치는 자기표현이나 사랑, 아름다움, 우정, 자신감 같은 데 있는 것 같아요. 더 많은 분들께 그런 가치를 전해드리고 싶어요.
(We’ll continue to travel and create music for our fans. I believe our music celebrates self expression, love, beauty, friendship, and confidence. We will take that all over the world.)

Eve: Basically, we’re just getting started.

PopRox: Thank you so much for spending time with us K/DA. Wishing you the best of luck at the League of Legends Worlds Championship performance. And thank you to our listeners from around the world. This is PopRox signing off.

The boy admired the yellow dormisroot peeking through the frozen soil. It was one of hundreds growing in a tiny patch of vivid color in an otherwise barren landscape. He crouched next to the blossom and inhaled. Crisp morning air and a faint aroma greeted his nose. He reached out to pick the wildflower.

“Leave it be,” said Vannis.

The older man towered over the boy, his blue cloak stirring in the gentle breeze. Marsino stood next to him, holding an unlit torch. The three had been waiting for a while, completely unchallenged.

The younger man smiled down at the boy and nodded.

The boy plucked the flower and stuffed it in his pocket.

Vannis shook his head and frowned. “Your time with the boy has instilled bad habits.”

Marsino flushed at the remark, his smile disappearing. He cleared his throat and asked, “Do you see anything?”

The boy stood and studied the row of houses across the frostbitten field, the weathered dwellings nothing more than dilapidated shacks strewn across a hillside. Shapes and shadows moved past the cast-glass windows.

“There’re people inside,” he said.

“We can all see that,” said Vannis, his tone biting. “Do you see what we’re looking for?”

The boy searched for the smallest hint or impression. He saw nothing but the dull grey of weathered planks and hewn stone.

“No, sir.”

Vannis grumbled underneath his breath.

“Perhaps if we drew closer,” said Marsino.

The older man shook his head. “These are hillfolk. They’ll put a spear in you before you get within twenty paces of their door.”

The boy shivered at the words. The southern hillfolk’s fierce reputation was known back in the Great City. They lived in the untamed edges of the kingdom, near the disputed territories. He glanced over his shoulder and inched closer to Marsino.

“Light the torch,” said Vannis.

Marsino struck his flint, showering the oil-soaked cord with sparks. The pitch erupted in flames and chased away the brisk morning air.

They didn’t need to wait long.

Several cabin doors opened, and a dozen men and women marched toward the group. They carried pikes and axes.

The boy’s hand fell to the dagger at his side. He turned to Marsino, but the man’s eyes were fixed on the villagers.

“Steady, boy,” said Vannis.

The crowd stopped at the edge of the field, their ragged clothing in stark contrast to the royal blue and white finery worn by Vannis and Marsino. Even the boy’s own clothes were better kept.

A slight tingle ran down his spine. He touched Marsino’s arm, attracting his attention, and nodded. The man acknowledged the signal and motioned for him to step back. There was a process to be followed.

An old woman stepped out from behind the crowd. “Do mageseekers burn villages now?” she asked.

“There’s nothing here, move on!” shouted a young man with wild hair, standing next to the woman. The others joined in, jeering and barking.

“Hush!” the woman snapped, elbowing the man in the ribs.

The man winced and bowed his head. The crowd fell silent.

The hillfolk were unlike anyone the boy had seen in the Great City. They didn’t shrink at the sight of mageseekers in their traditional blue cloaks and half-masks of hammered bronze. Instead, they stood tall and defiant. A few fiddled with their weapons, glaring at the boy. He averted his gaze.

Marsino stepped forward. “A bushel of dormisroot arrived in Wrenwall six days ago,” he said, gesturing to the flowers with his torch.

“People sell things. People buy things. Is it different in the city?” the old woman asked.

The hillfolk laughed.

The boy nervously joined in. Even Marsino offered up a weak smile. Vannis remained unmoved. He regarded the crowd, hand on his quarterstaff.

“Of course not,” said Marsino. “But the flower is rare this time of year.”

“We’re good farmers. Good hunters, too,” she said, the smile disappearing.

Vannis fixed his gaze on the old woman. “Aye, but the ground is frozen and there isn’t one among you who’s ever worked a plough.”

The old woman shrugged. “Things grow where they want. Who are we to say different.”

Vannis smirked. “Aye, plants grow,” he said, as he unclipped the Graymark from his cloak. He dropped down on his haunches and held the carved, stone disk over a dormisroot.

The petals wilted and shriveled.

“But they don’t die at the sight of petricite,” said Vannis, standing back up. “Unless you use magecraft to grow them.”

The smiles disappeared from the villagers’ faces.

“The use of magic is forbidden,” said Marsino. “We are all Demacian. Bound by birth to honor her laws—”

“You can’t eat honor up here,” said the old woman.

“Even if you could, your belly’d be empty,” sneered Vannis.

The crowd stirred at the insult and pressed in closer, coming within several paces of the mageseekers.

Marsino cleared his throat and raised a hand. “The hillfolk have always honored the ways of Demacia. Keeping with law and tradition,” he said. “We only ask you do so again today. Will the afflicted step forward?”

No one moved or said a word.

After a moment, Marsino spoke again. “If honor does not compel you, then know we have a boy here that will root out the guilty.”

The crowd focused on the boy. Reproach welled in their eyes as harsh whispers flowed through their ranks.

“So the runt can invoke magic without censure, but not us?” asked the man who had shouted earlier.

The boy shrank at the accusation.

“He works in service to Demacia,” Marsino said, before turning to the boy. “It’s fine, go ahead.”

He nodded and rubbed a sweaty palm on the leg of his breeches before turning to face the hillfolk. Among the dirt-streaked faces stood a singular, radiating presence. A corona of light pulsated and shimmered around the mage.

Only the boy could see this light, and it had been so all his life. This was his gift. This was his affliction.

The rest of the villagers watched with scorn. It was the same everywhere. These people hated him for his gift. All of them—except for the old woman. Her soft eyes simply pleaded with him not to speak.

The boy hung his head and looked at the ground.

They all waited as the moment stretched in silence. He could feel Vannis taking measure, and judging him harshly.

“It’s alright,” said Marsino, placing an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “We keep the order. We uphold the law.”

The boy looked up, ready to point out the mage.

“Don’t say it, boy,” said the old woman, shaking her head. “I’ll accept it. Do you hear me?”

“Enough of this,” Vannis snapped, pushing past him, Graymark in hand.

The radiant light around the mage momentarily dimmed as the crowd closed in.

“Wait!”

“Quiet, boy. You had your chance.”

But it wasn’t the woman who was afflicted.

The boy turned to Marsino. “It’s not her! It’s the other one!” he said, pointing to the wild-haired man standing next to the old woman.

Marsino took his eyes off the hillfolk, attempting to follow the boy’s gesture. But before he could fix on the threat, the man lunged at the mageseekers.

“Mamma!” he yelled as he reached for Vannis. His hands glimmered with an emerald sheen as thorny vines bloomed from his fingertips.

Vannis spun out of the way, swinging his staff in a wide arc, and cracked the mage across the temple with the hefty wooden pole.

The mage stumbled into Marsino, clutching him by the arm. Sharp thorns pierced his sleeve. Marsino recoiled in pain and shoved the stricken man to the ground, dropping the torch in the commotion.

Flames licked the man’s tunic and ignited the tatters.

The old woman screamed and rushed toward her son.

Arms grabbed and pulled her back, holding her as she struggled. The rest of the hillfolk pressed forward, but Vannis held his ground, staff ready.

“Did he touch you?!”

Marsino fumbled with his weapon, finally unhooking his scepter, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

“Marsino!”

“I’m fine!”

“Are there any more?” Vannis yelled.

The boy didn’t answer. He remained frozen, gazing down at the dying mage writhing in the flames. Bitterness rose in his throat, but he choked back the foul taste, refusing to retch.

“Boy!”

He finally snapped to attention. The fire was spreading through the field, creating a wall between them and the mob. He searched the murderous faces behind the growing flames, the heat overwhelming his senses.

“No.”

“Then mount up!”

The boy mounted his pony. Marsino and Vannis quickly followed on their own steeds and the three raced away from the village. The boy turned to look back. The fire roared, and the field of flowers was already wilting.

Vannis had pushed them to ride well into the evening, putting as much distance between them and the hillfolk as possible. It would take three days to reach Castle Wrenwall. Vannis intended to mount a cohort of mageseekers and return. The law must be upheld, he said.

They bedded down shortly after dark, the rocky terrain too dangerous to navigate. The boy was relieved to have his own feet on the ground. Boys from Dregbourne rarely rode horses, unless they stole them from a livery stable, and he’d never been much of a thief.

He took the first watch, sitting at the base of a towering oak, back and bottom sore and stiff from hours of riding. He shifted his body, seeking a comfortable position. After a few minutes, he stood and leaned against the ancient giant. A solitary wolf howled somewhere up in the hills, and a chorus responded in kind. Or perhaps they were braget hounds—he still couldn’t tell them apart.

Distant thunderheads flickered in the night sky, their rumblings so removed they never reached his ears. Overhead, stars struggled to push through drifting billows of gray. A sheet of thick fog settled over the lowlands.

He threw another bundle of wood in the fire. It sent up a burst of embers that quickly died out.

Ghostly voices filled the stillness in his mind. They pleaded and denied a shimmering truth as memories of the burning mage danced in the campfire. He shuddered and turned away.

It had been a gruesome death. But every time those thoughts invaded his mind he pushed them away and replaced them with all the beauty he’d witnessed since joining Vannis and Marsino.

He’d been traveling with the mageseekers for months, seeing the world outside the crowded streets of Dregbourne for the first time. He’d explored the distant hills and mountains he’d once watched from the roof of his tenement. New mountains now stood before him, and he wanted to see more.

Magic had made it possible.

The affliction that once filled him with fear of discovery was now a gift. It allowed him to walk as a true Demacian. He even wore the blue. Perhaps someday he would also don a half-mask and a Graymark of his own, in spite of being a mage.

Faint rustling broke his thoughts.

He turned and found Marsino mumbling in his sleep. Next to him lay an empty blanket roll. The boy’s heart raced at the sight. He searched the treeline for the older mageseeker—

Vannis stood beneath a nearby oak, watching him.

“You hesitated today,” he said, as he stepped out of the shadow. “Made a bad showing. Was it fear or something else?”

The boy averted his gaze and remained silent, searching for an answer that would satisfy the mageseeker.

Vannis scowled, growing impatient. “Go on, say your piece.”

“I don’t understand… what’s the harm in growing dormisroot?”

Vannis grumbled and shook his head. “Every inch given is an inch lost,” he said. “It's true on the battlefield and true with mages.”

The boy nodded at the words. Vannis regarded him for a moment.

“Where’s your heart, boy?”

“With Demacia, sir.”

Marsino stirred once again. His mumbles rapidly turned into moans until the man was struggling against his blanket roll.

The boy walked over and tugged at the man’s shoulder. “Marsino, wake up,” he whispered.

The young mageseeker twisted at the boy’s touch. The moans grew louder until the man was wailing. He shook Marsino again, only more roughly this time.

“What’s wrong?” Vannis asked, looming over him.

“I don’t know. He’s not waking.”

Vannis pushed the boy aside and turned Marsino over. Sweat slicked his brow and temple, matting his dark hair. Marsino’s eyes were open and vacant and shined a cloudy white.

Vannis pulled back the heavy blanket and opened Marsino’s cloak. Dark tendrils of blight marred his arm. To the boy’s eyes, a radiant bloom pulsed beneath the corrupted skin.

They had been riding since before first light.

Vannis and the boy had managed to lift Marsino onto his horse and secured him to the saddle. The young mageseeker had remained in a fever dream as Vannis tied Marsino’s horse to his own and set off.

The boy’s pony struggled to keep the brisk pace Vannis had set—Castle Wrenwall was still over a day’s ride away.

He watched Marsino jostle with every stride. The wounded man threatened to fall over several times, but Vannis would slow down and resecure Marsino in his saddle. Every time the old mageseeker did so, he scowled at the boy before pushing on.

They reached Corvo Pass by mid-morning. Their mounts clambered up the narrow switchbacks carved into the mountainside. It would cut half a day from their travels, but the treacherous path was ill kept and the thick brush slowed them to a crawl.

The boy squeezed his legs and clutched the reins, nervously watching the precarious drop into the deep gorge below. His pony simply trudged along, instinctively keeping them from certain death.

They broke through the thicket into a flat clearing. He watched Vannis push on his stirrups, driving the horses into a canter—Marsino began inching to his right, leaning over much further than before.

“Vannis!”

The mageseeker reached out, but it was too late. Marsino fell over and slammed onto the ground.

The boy reined up and leapt off his mount, rushing to the downed man. Vannis did the same.

Blood streamed from Marsino’s forehead.

“We need to staunch the bleeding,” said Vannis.

The man unsheathed his dagger and, without asking, reached out and cut a long strip of cloth from the boy’s cloak.

“Water,” said Vannis.

The boy pulled his water skin and poured a stream over the deep gash as Vannis cleaned the wound.

Marsino shifted and muttered incoherently in his fevered state. The boy tried following the man’s ramblings but understood only a few words.

“Drink,” he said, pouring drops of water over the man’s dry lips.

The young mageseeker stirred, his tongue lapping at the moisture. He opened his eyes. Ruddy blotches stained the cloudy white.

“Are we… there?” Marsino asked, chest wheezing with every word.

Vannis shot the boy a look. He knew not to say a thing. They were still far from reaching help.

“Almost, brother,” said Vannis.

“Why build… Wrenwall… so far up a mountain?”

“'It's supposed to be hard to reach,” Vannis said, with a brittle smile.

Marsino closed his eyes and chuckled slightly. It soon turned into a cough.

“Easy there, brother,” Vannis said, watching the man for a moment before turning to the boy. “The dormisroot—do you still have it?”

“Yes.”

The boy dug into his pocket, drawing a straw horse, a polished river stone, and the yellow flower. He smiled at the sight, knowing the blossom would help Marsino.

Vannis snatched it from the boy’s hand. “At least you did something right, boy.”

His stomach tightened at the words. Vannis was right. He had faltered, and his friend had paid the price.

Marsino shook his head. “It’s not… his fault… I should’ve been… more careful.”

The older mageseeker remained silent as he picked several petals from the dormisroot.

“Chew on this. It’s not refined, but it will help with the pain.”

“What about… the magic?” Marsino asked.

“It quickened the growth and kept it hardy, but the plant is untainted,” Vannis said as he placed the petals in Marsino’s mouth. He leaned in close and whispered in the younger man’s ear, gently stroking his hair. Marsino smiled, seemingly lost in some memory.

The boy took a swig from his waterskin. A slight shiver ran down his spine. The fine hair on his arms stood on edge.

He turned and walked to the end of the clearing—a verdant canopy of pines covered the lowlands below.

“What is it?” Vannis asked.

“I don’t know…” He gazed down at the valley. Nothing appeared out of place, even the sensation had disappeared.

“I thought—”

He stopped short. Plumes of dark smoke rose in the distance.

The boy stared at the charred and smoldering husks lying in the pasture. The smell of burnt animal flesh hung in the air. His stomach rumbled.

“What do you think did that?” he asked, tending to Marsino. The young mageseeker lay on a makeshift litter made from a blanket roll and lengths of rope.

“Don’t know,” said Vannis. “Stay there and keep watch.”

The older mageseeker inspected the dead cattle. They all bore fist-sized puncture wounds in their thick hides. Vannis prodded one of the scorched cavities with the tip of his stave, measuring its depth. A third of the shaft disappeared.

“Maybe we should go,” the boy said.

Vannis turned to him. “Do you feel anything?”

The boy studied the cattle. Traces of magic radiated underneath the seared flesh. Whatever had killed them was powerful enough to mutilate the immense creatures. A man couldn’t fare any better. Even one with a quarterstaff.

The boy turned his attention to the farmstead. It held a small log cabin, a weathered barn, and an outhouse at the far end. The property was tucked against the hills, surrounded by dense forest. They never would have seen it if not for the smoke.

The sound of footfalls approached.

Vannis spun around and raised his staff.

An old man rounded the corner of the barn. He stopped at the sight of the unannounced visitors. He wore trousers and a tunic fitted for a larger man, and he carried an old, beaten halberd, its edge gleaming and sharp.

“What are you doing on my farm?” The man asked, shifting the grip on his weapon and remaining well outside Vannis’ reach.

“My friend’s hurt,” said the boy. “Please, he needs help, sir.”

Vannis gave the boy a sidelong glance but said nothing.

The farmer looked down at Marsino. The young mageseeker stirred in his litter, lost to a fever dream.

“They have healers in Wrenwall,” the farmer said.

“It’s over a day’s ride. He’ll never make it,” said Vannis.

“A beast prowls these woods. You best ride out,” the old man said, gesturing to the dead cattle.

The boy glanced at the dense treeline. He sensed nothing at the moment, but he remembered the shiver he’d felt earlier. At that distance, it had to be a massive creature.

“What kind of beast? Is it a dragon?”

“Steady, boy.” Vannis said as he stepped toward the farmer. “You have a duty to quarter a Demacian soldier.”

The farmer stood his ground. “You wear the blue… but a mageseeker is not a soldier.”

“Aye, but I was once. Like you.”

The farmer’s eyes narrowed, and he angled the spearpoint of his halberd in Vannis’ direction.

“It’s that pole cleaver,” Vannis said. “A gut ripper of the old Thornwall Halberdiers, if memory serves. Far as I can see, neither it nor this old soldier have lost their edge.”

The farmer regarded his weapon with a faint smile. “That was long ago.”

“Brothers are for life,” said Vannis, softer this time. “Help us. And we’ll hunt your beast down after we’re done.”

The boy glanced down at Marsino. The mageseeker’s eyes remained shut as he drew shallow breaths.

The farmer regarded Vannis, considering the offer. “That won't be necessary,” he finally said. “Let’s bring your man inside.”

Vannis and the farmer carried Marsino inside the cabin. A small fire burned in the firepit and the modest room smelled of cedar and earth. The boy cleared a table standing in the middle of the room, tossing wooden bowls and hardtack biscuits onto a nearby sleeping pallet. The men eased Marsino down onto the wooden planks.

“Who else is here?” Vannis asked, using his dagger to cut off Marsino’s tunic.

“I live alone,” the old man said, examining the wound. The boy could see the blight had spread. Dark tendrils reached out toward Marsino’s neck and heart.

“We have to have cut it out,” said Vannis.

Marsino started to convulse, threatening to fall off the table.

“Hold ‘em down,” said Vannis. The boy pinned Marsino’s legs, using his weight to secure them in place. The man thrashed against the restraint. A heavy boot kicked free and cracked the boy in the mouth. He stumbled back, nursing his jaw.

“I said hold him!” Vannis yelled as he wiped down the blade of his dagger.

He reached for Marsino’s legs again, but the farmer stepped in.

“It’s alright, son,” the man said. “Try talking to him.”

He moved around the table. Marsino’s tremors had eased, but his chest rattled with each ragged breath.

“Marsino?”

“Hold his hand, let him know you’re there,” said the farmer. “It helps with injured animals. Men aren’t much different.”

The boy grasped Marsino’s hand. It felt warm to the touch and slick with sweat. “It’s going to be alright. We got help.”

Marsino seemed to focus on his voice, turning toward the sound, his cloudy white gaze now a deep red.

“Are we in Wrenwall?”

The boy looked at Vannis, and the magehunter nodded.

“Yes. The healers are working on you,” the boy said.

“The dormisroot… it bought me… some time,” Marsino said, squeezing his hand. “You did good… You did good…”

The boy clenched his teeth, fighting back the grief swelling in his throat. He held Marsino’s hand tighter, not wanting to let go.

“I’m sorry, Marsino. I should’ve—”

“Don’t… it wasn’t… your fault,” Marsino said, every word labored and pained. He strained to lift his head. Searching the room with eyes that could no longer see.

“Vannis?”

“Right here, brother.”

“Tell ‘em… tell ‘em it’s not on him.”

Vannis fixed his stare on the boy. “Aye, bad luck is all,” he finally said.

“See…” Marsino said, offering a wan smile. “You don’t need… to carry it.”

Vannis gripped Marsino’s shoulder and leaned in close to the man’s ear. “We need to cut it out, brother,” Vannis said.

Marsino nodded his head.

“He’ll need something to bite on,” said the farmer.

The boy unsheathed his dagger, the carved wooden handle perfectly suited for the task. He placed it in Marsino’s mouth.

“Good,” Vannis said, holding his own blade inches from the wounded arm.

The tendrils slithered beneath the skin. To the boy’s eyes, they radiated a soft, pulsating light the others couldn’t see.

“Stop,” he said.

Vannis looked up at the boy. “What is it?”

Marsino bit down on the dagger’s handle and released a stifled scream. He squeezed the boy’s hand and thrashed against the table until the movement underneath his skin subsided.

The blight stretched across Marsino’s neck.

“It’s too deep,” said Vannis. “I can’t cut it out.” The mageseeker stepped back, unsure of what to do next.

“What if you burn it out?” The boy asked.

“You can’t cauterize that close to the artery,” Vannis said. He turned to the old man. “Do you have any medicinals?”

“Nothing that would help that.”

Vannis gazed down at his injured partner, weighing something in his mind. “What about a healer?” he said, the words no louder than a whisper.

“They would have medicinals, but the closest one—”

“Not that kind of healer.”

The old man remained silent for a moment. “I don’t know anyone like that.”

It appeared Vannis wanted to push the matter, but he bit his tongue and searched the cabin instead.

The boy followed the mageseeker’s gaze. He found a stack of hides in one corner, a netted hammock in another, and a carver’s workbench crowded with dozens of wooden drakes against a wall. Nothing that would help.

“The cattle,” said Vannis.

The farmer blanched at the mention of the dead livestock. “What of them?”

“Did they ever suffer from tinea worm?”

“Yes. We burn it out with a pulvis of lunar caustic.”

“If we cut the source and use a thin band of the pulvis for the rest, it might work,” Vannis said. “Where is it?”

The farmer looked out the window. He seemed to hesitate, perhaps trying to remember where to search in all the clutter.

A deep guttural sound rose from Marsino’s throat. He violently convulsed and teetered toward the edge of the table, dagger clenched between his teeth.

Vannis held the wounded man down by the shoulders. “Where’s the pulvis?”

The farmer wrestled with Marsino’s flailing legs. “It’s in the barn, but—”

Marsino wailed.

“I got it!” the boy said, as he turned and ran outside.

Crisp mountain air rushed past his face as he raced toward the barn, the heat building in his legs and lungs. The barn door was less than twenty paces away when a shiver ran down his spine.

He slid to a stop.

The surrounding forest stood dark and silent. He searched the dense thicket for the slightest hint of magic but found nothing in the brush. Steam and smoke still rose from the smoldering heaps in the pasture. The tingling sensation spread across his back—there was something nearby.

He needed to warn Vannis but knew better than to shout.

Should he go back?

Another agonizing scream erupted from within the cabin. Marsino needed him to be brave.

He took a deep, sobering breath and darted to the outbuilding. His trembling hands fumbled with the latch until he finally got the door open, then he slammed it shut behind him.

A jolt rushed down his spine.

He stumbled back and fell, crashing into a rack of ditching tools. Shovels and spades clattered on the floor.

It was inside the barn.

The boy reached for his dagger but found the sheath empty. He had given it to Marsino. A silvery brilliance radiated from one of the stalls.

He tried to stand, but his legs refused to act. The glow flourished as a shape exited the stall and rounded the corner. He’d never witnessed a light so blinding. It distorted the very air in waves of colors.

The shape approached.

A droning rose in his ears, like an army of nettle bees swarming inside his head. The boy scrambled back, one hand shielding his eyes as the other searched the ground for a weapon. He found nothing.

The world vanished behind a sheet of light and color.

A sound tried to break through the hum as the shape pushed through the radiant glow. His mind struggled to piece it together until a single utterance made everything clear…

“Papa?”

With a word, the entire world resolved back into place.

It was a little girl.

She stared at him, eyes wide in fear. The corona around her flared brighter again. It pulled at the boy, compelling him to reach out and touch its radiance.

“W-Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m… I’m Sylas.” He rose to his feet, holding out his hand. “I won’t hurt you… if you don’t hurt me.”

The girl balled her hands and pressed them to her chest. “I would never hurt anyone…” she said, her gaze falling to her feet. “Not on purpose.”

The boy recalled the cattle in the pasture. He pushed the thought away and focused on the golden-haired child. She seemed tiny and lost, even here in her own home.

“I believe you,” he said. “It’s not always… easy.”

The light around her dimmed, and the pull on him diminished.

She looked up at the boy. “Have you seen my papa?”

“He’s inside the house. Helping my friend.”

She timidly reached out to grasp his hand. “Take me to him.”

He drew back. “You can’t go inside,” he said.

“Is something wrong with papa?”

“No. It’s… He’s helping a mageseeker.”

The little girl recoiled at the word, and the inside of the barn brightened once again. She understood the danger.

“Are you a mageseeker?” She asked, her voice quivering.

The question wrenched at something deep inside the boy.

“No,” he said. “I’m like you.”

The girl smiled. It was genuine and warmed his heart in a way that no praise from a mageseeker ever had.

Another scream came from the main house.

“Papa?”

“It’s my friend. I need to go back,” he said. “Can you hide until we’re gone? Can you do that?”

The girl nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Do you know where the lunar caustic is?”

She pointed to a clay jar sitting on a narrow shelf.

The boy snatched the container and bolted from the barn. Another agonizing wail broke as he approached the cabin. He pushed harder for the last few steps and burst through the door.

“I found it,” he said, holding the jar like a prize in hand.

Silence filled the room.

Vannis was staring at Marsino’s lifeless body. Only the farmer turned toward the door.

There was fear and resentment in the old man’s eyes. It was the same the boy had seen in all those desperate souls trying to hide their affliction.

The old man slowly reached for his halberd, his gaze sweeping from the boy to Vannis, who still hadn’t moved or said a word.

The boy shook his head, silently imploring the man to stop.

The farmer paused and looked toward the barn before looking back at the boy.

He offered the father a reassuring smile.

The old man regarded him for a moment and then rested his weapon against the wall.

Vannis finally snapped from his trance. “What took you so long?” the mageseeker asked.

“It’s not the boy’s fault. Your friend was too far gone.”

Vannis stepped back from the body and sat down on the sleeping pallet.

“The cur is the reason we’re here,” he sneered. “He’s one of them, you know. Pretending to be normal.”

“Your friend didn’t believe so,” said the farmer. “Honor that memory.”

Vannis looked away from Marsino’s body. He fixed his attention on the dozens of carver’s tools and wooden figures strewn about the floor beneath the hammock.

“He was a young fool who felt things far too deeply,” he finally said. Vannis fell into a deep silence after that, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere.

The farmer and the boy joined him in the uncomfortable stillness, unsure of what to do next.

“So it’ll be the two of us hunting the beast, then?” Vannis asked the old man.

“It’s not necessary,” said the farmer. “Tend to your friend. I have a wagon. It’s yours.”

“Doesn’t seem proper to leave you here… alone,” said Vannis. “I’d be abandoning a brother.”

The mageseeker’s voice carried a subtle sharpness that made the boy uneasy. Sorrow transformed into suspicion. The grieving mentor had become the interrogator once again.

“I’ll manage,” said the farmer. “Been doing so since my days wearing the blue.”

“Of course,” Vannis said, smiling.

The mageseeker leapt from the cot, rushed the farmer, and slammed him against the wall—his dagger tip poised inches from the man’s throat.

“Where is it?”

“What?” The farmer asked, his voice trembling and confused.

“Your beast?”

“I-It’s in the woods.”

“Does it bed down in your cabin at night?”

“What?”

“Your hammock,” said Vannis, gesturing to the netted cord. “Spend enough time on campaign and it becomes your best friend.”

Vannis pressed the dagger to the man’s flesh. “So why the cot?”

“It… belonged to my daughter,” said the farmer, his gaze momentarily flicked to the boy. “She passed last winter.”

The boy looked at the sleeping pallet. It was built for a child.

But it wasn’t only the cot. There was a wooden bowl and spoon, and a practice sword too small for a grown man. If he could see through the lie, then…

“Let’s visit her grave,” said Vannis.

“We can’t,” said the farmer, averting his eyes in shame. “The beast took her.”

“Like it took your cattle?” Vannis sneered. “I wager if we search carefully we’ll find it on your farm.”

“There’s nothing here,” the boy said. “We should go.”

“What do you see on that table, boy?”

He stared at Marsino’s body. The bloodstained eyes wide and lifeless. The blighted tendrils had choked off his neck and webbed his face.

“What do you see!”

“Marsino… I see Marsino.” he said, the words choking his throat.

“A mageseeker, boy. One of my own,” Vannis said, anger and pain seeping from each word. “What is he to you?”

Marsino had been the only mageseeker that showed him kindness. He had accepted him as a true Demacian, despite his affliction.

“He was my friend.”

“Aye… and he was killed by a mage,” Vannis said. “This man hides one from us. A dangerous one.”

The boy remembered the intense glow of the little girl and the scorched flesh of the dead cattle.

“What do we do?” Vannis asked.

The boy wiped the corners of his eyes with his sleeve.

“We keep the order. We uphold the law.”

Vannis led the boy and the farmer outside, driving them with his staff. The three stood in the pasture, watching the barn and the outhouse. He jabbed the man in the ribs with the stave.

“Call your daughter.”

The farmer winced at the blow. “She’s not here,” he said. “She’s gone.”

“We’ll see.”

The old man looked at the boy, silently pleading.

“I’ll search the barn,” the boy said.

“No. Let her come to us.” Vannis slammed the farmer’s head with the edge of his staff, driving the man to the ground.

“Come out! We have your father!”

There was no response. No movement. And then the man wailed.

The boy turned to find the farmer tottering on one knee, clutching his temple. Blood pooled underneath the man’s fingers, slicking his hand with blood. Vannis stood over him, ready to strike again.

“What are you doing?”

“What needs to be done,” said Vannis, his face contorted by anger and grief.

A jolt raced down the boy’s spine. And once again, all the fine hair on his arms and neck stood on edge.

The barn door creaked open.

“That’s right, come on,” Vannis said.

Darkness framed the doorway. Tiny footfalls approached. The little girl crossed the threshold and stepped outside. Her panicked eyes fixed on her injured father.

“Papa…” she said, tears cascading down her face.

“It’s alright,” the bleeding farmer stammered. Papa’s just talking to these men.”

They all watched as the child inched toward them, the men were unaware of what only the boy could see.

She glowed like the midday sun.

The power inside her pulsated and shifted colors. It shimmered with a radiance that appeared to bend light itself. She was a living rainbow.

This was his affliction. This was his gift.

He alone could see the fundamental beauty and nature of magic. It lived in this frightened child as it lived in every single mage in Demacia, and perhaps all across the world. How could he betray that? The boy had seen all he needed to see.

“She’s… normal.”

“Are you sure? Look again!”

He turned to the mageseeker. To Demacia, Vannis was a venerated bulwark, guarding against the threat of magic. But to the boy, he was a simple man clinging to tradition.

“You were wrong. We should go.”

Vannis regarded him for a moment, searching for deception. The mageseeker shook his head and scowled.

“We’ll see if she passes the trials,” he said, removing the Graymark from his cloak.

The farmer’s eyes went wide at the sight of the petricite emblem.

“Run, child! Run!” the old man shouted as he leapt to his feet and lunged at Vannis.

The mageseeker moved fast, thrusting his staff into the farmer's midsection. The man staggered back from the blow, creating some distance between the two. Vannis darted forward and drove the stave down onto the man's head. His crown shattered in a bloom of crimson.

The little girl screamed. Her hands crackled with sparks of lightning—this time, for all to see.

Vannis held out his Graymark, capturing the flickering arcs in the stone and suppressing the magic. But the petricite rapidly darkened and cracked, overwhelmed by the little girl's power. Vannis dropped the ruined disk and spun around, swinging his wooden stave at the child’s head.

“No!”

The boy rushed toward the girl, throwing himself between the heavy quarterstaff and the flaring streams of light. The hairs on his arms singed and his fingers blistered as he touched the little mage.

A twisting arc of lightning pierced his hand, and a blazing current rushed through his flesh, contorting his entire body. The boy's heart clenched and all the air inside him rushed out. He gasped for breath but drew only emptiness.

The edges of his vision blurred and the colors drained as deathly magic flooded him. Vannis appeared motionless, staff in mid-swing, like ancient statuary depicting a hero of old. The little girl was also frozen, her tears dull crystals as the radiant glow around her dimmed and faded…

And then his lungs filled with air.

His heart raced, pumping a numbing calmness throughout his body. The blaze inside him remained, but no longer threatened to consume him. Instead, it flowed calmly throughout, and for the briefest moments it felt malleable to his thoughts. Then it suddenly sparked and flared hotter until he could no longer contain it inside.

Light erupted from his hands, and the world disappeared.

Sylas opened his eyes. Three smoldering husks lay strewn on the scorched ground. One of them held a warped and splintered staff in hand. The other two had fallen near each other, their arms splayed and reaching, but forever apart. His eyes welled at the sight of his failure, and regret gripped his heart. He rolled over onto his back and shuddered.

Countless stars stretched across a cloudless firmament. He watched them arc across the darkness and disappear behind a black canopy of trees.

The night sky turned a purple hue before he finally staggered to his feet.

His legs trembled as he limped away from the carnage. He stopped after a short distance, but didn’t look back.

There was no need. Those images would remain with him for the rest of his life. He pushed them from his thoughts and gazed at the spine of mountaintops spanning the horizon.

He had no intention of riding to Wrenwall, or any of their strongholds. No amount of pleading would save him from their punishment. In time, they would seek him out, not stopping until he was brought to justice. After all, the law must be upheld.

But he knew their ways, and Demacia was vast.

For most of her life, Ahri's origins were a mystery to her, the history of her vastayan tribe all but lost save for the twin gemstones she has carried her entire life. 

Ahri's earliest memories are of running with icefoxes in the northern reaches of Shon-Xan. Though she knew she was not one of them, they clearly saw her as something of a kindred spirit, and came to accept her within the pack.

In that wild, predatory existence, Ahri nonetheless felt a deeper connection to the forests around her. In time, she came to understand that this was the magic of the vastaya that coursed through every fiber of her being, and the realm of spirits that lay beyond. With no one to teach her, instead she learned to call upon this power in her own ways—most often using it to quicken her reflexes in pursuit of prey. If she was careful and close enough, she also found she might soothe a panicked deer, so that it remained serene and calm even as she and her packmates sank their teeth into its flesh.

The world of mortals was as distant and unsettling to Ahri as it was to the icefoxes, but she felt drawn to it for reasons she could not explain. Humans in particular were coarse, gruff creatures… and when a band of huntsmen camped nearby, Ahri watched them from afar as they went about their grim business.

When one of them was wounded by a stray arrow, Ahri could feel his life seeping away. Knowing nothing but the instincts of a predator, she savored the spirit essence leaving his body, and through it gained brief flashes of his memories—the lover he had lost in battle, and the children he had left behind when he came north. Ahri subtly pushed his emotions from fear to sorrow to joy, and comforted him with visions of a sun-soaked meadow as he died.

Afterward, she found that human words now came to her easily, like something from a half-remembered dream, and Ahri knew the time had come to leave the pack behind.

Keeping to the fringes of society, she felt more alive than ever. Her predatory nature remained, but she was caught up in a riot of new experiences, emotions, and customs across Ionia. Mortals, it seemed, also became fascinated by her in return—and she often used this to her advantage, draining their essence while charming them with recollections of beauty, hallucinations of deep longing, and occasionally dreams colored by raw sorrow.

She grew drunk on memories that were not her own, and exhilarated in ending the lives of others even as she felt the grief and woe she brought to her victims. She experienced heartbreak and elation in tantalizing flashes that left her craving more. It was overwhelming, but she sensed her own power fading whenever she tried to stay away, and could not help but partake again and again… 

In time, she began to see herself as mortals did: a monster.

Until one day, an artist stumbled upon her, hunched over a man as she drained his life essence from him. Where others would run, he stayed, offering his own life essence in exchange for her heart. For the first time in her life, Ahri let herself fall in love and be loved, wholly and completely.

Their days passed in warmth and laughter, Ahri curbing her hunger by feeding on her lover. She was truly happy... until she lost control, draining her lover completely.

Ahri fell into despair, her grief consuming her as she mourned the loss of the first and only person she's ever truly loved. The first and only person who ever truly loved her. Retreating even further from society, she became consumed with learning more about where she came from, in hopes that it would help her control her abilities.

With her twin sunstones in hand, she set out in search of others like her, a journey that would take her out of Ionia and across Runeterra, eventually leading her to the discovery of her ancestors, the Vesani, a vastayan tribe that brought innovation and magic to the world before being wiped out.

Inspired by their memories, Ahri has set off to travel the world in search of other remnants of the Vesani. She hopes to carry their legacy forward, bringing good into the world like they did. No longer burdened by the heavy weight of her regrets, she also hopes to finally leave her stolen memories behind and create new memories of her own making.

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.

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.

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.