LoL Universe Indexing and Search

Zaun is a place of wondrous experimentation and vibrant, colorful life where anything can be achieved—but not without a cost. For all its boundless creativity, there is also waste, destruction, and suffering in the undercity, so pervasive that even the tools created to alleviate it cannot escape its corrosive grasp.

Designed to remove the toxic waste claiming whole neighborhoods of Zaun, lumbering mechanical golems toiled in violently hazardous locations. One such golem worked alongside its fellows, fulfilling its programming to reclaim Zaun for the people. But the caustic reality of their mission soon wore away at its robust form, and before long it was rendered inoperative and discarded as useless.

Useless to all but one person. The inventor Viktor discovered the abandoned golem and, seeing the potential still within the inert chassis, inspiration struck. Viktor began a series of experiments, seeking to improve the automaton by introducing a new element that would elevate it far beyond the original scope of its creation.

Hextech.

Implanting a priceless hextech crystal sourced from the deserts of Shurima into the chassis of the forsaken golem, Viktor waited with baited breath as the machine rumbled to life.

Viktor named the golem Blitzcrank after the fizzing arcs of lightning that danced around their frame, an unexpected side effect of the hextech crystal, and sent them down into the most toxic regions of Zaun. Not only did Blitzcrank prove as capable as any of their steam-powered brethren, but they accomplished their tasks with vastly improved speed and efficiency, and as the days turned into weeks, Viktor began to watch something miraculous unfold…

His creation was learning.

Blitzcrank innovated, interpreting and extrapolating on their daily directives. As a result, they did far more to serve the people of Zaun, and even began to interact with them on a regular basis. Seeing his golem progress to the cusp of self-awareness, Viktor sought to replicate his achievement, but found only frustration and failure, as the key to Blitzcrank’s blossoming consciousness eluded him.

Not all of Blitzcrank’s growth was cause for celebration. Concepts like moderation and nuance escaped them, and Blitzcrank would pursue any effort with the entirety of their being, or none at all. They would occasionally overdo or misinterpret the requests of Zaunites, such as smashing down the front of a tenement to admit a single resident who had lost their key.

Or even tearing an entire factory apart.

Dispatched by Viktor to clear a neighborhood of toxic chemicals, Blitzcrank traced the caustic runoff to its source. Reasoning that the most efficient means to prevent further pollution was to eliminate the source of said pollution, Blitzcrank proceeded to destroy the factory, their lightning-wreathed fists not stopping until it was reduced to a mound of rubble and twisted iron.

Enraged, the chem-baron who owned the ruined factory descended upon Viktor, demanding that he destroy the golem or pay a steeper price in blood. Viktor was devastated, having come to view Blitzcrank as a living being rather than simply a tool to do his bidding. He concocted a scheme to smuggle his creation to safety, ready to accept the dangers and consequences of doing so—but as he returned to his laboratory to set his plan in motion, he discovered that Blitzcrank was already gone.

Blitzcrank’s evolution beyond the constraints of their original programming had yet to cease. Having grown into full self-sufficiency, they resolved to take up their mission independent from their creator. Rumors abound that the golem has even begun to upgrade their own form as they labor tirelessly to assist and protect Zaunites without pausing for instruction.

They now patrol the undercity, deciding for themselves how best to shepherd Zaun down the path to becoming the greatest city Valoran has ever seen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grandmother Lupé, however, was unsettled by this achievement.

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

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

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

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

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

Born with genius-level intellect, Ekko constructed simple machines before he could crawl. His parents, Inna and Wyeth, vowed to provide a good future for their son—Zaun, with all its pollution and crime, would only stifle Ekko, whom they felt deserved the wealth and opportunities of Piltover. Throughout his youth he watched his parents age beyond their years, toiling for too many hours under dangerous conditions in suffocating factories. They earned meager wages while greedy factory owners, and sneering Piltovan buyers, profited immensely from their labor.

It would all be worth it, they reasoned, if it meant their son could one day rise to the city above.

Ekko saw things differently. Beyond Zaun’s flaws, he saw a dynamic place overflowing with energy and potential. Zaunites’ industry, resourcefulness, and resilience stirred a hotbed of pure innovation. They had built a thriving culture from catastrophe, and flourished where others would have perished. That spirit captivated Ekko, and spurred him to a youth of wild invention and innovation.

He wasn’t alone. He befriended scrappy orphans, inquisitive runaways, and eager upstarts. Zaunites tended to eschew formal education in favor of apprenticeships, but these “Lost Children of Zaun” looked to the labyrinthine streets to be their mentor. They wasted time in glorious, youthful fashion—foot races through the border markets, or daring climbs from the Sump to the Promenade. They ran wild and free, answering to no one.

One night, on a solo trek into the rubble of a recently demolished laboratory, Ekko made an astonishing find: a shard of blue-green crystal that glittered with magical energy. Every child of Zaun heard tales of hextech, said to power weapons and heroes alike. Such a thing had the potential to change the world, and now he held a broken one. He scrambled to find more pieces, but the crunching footfalls of teched-up enforcers told him he wasn’t the only one looking. Ekko barely escaped, and returned to his home.

He experimented madly with the crystal. During one less-than-scientific attempt, the gem exploded into a vortex of shimmering dust, triggering eddies of temporal distortion. Ekko opened his eyes to see several splintered realities—and several “echo” versions of himself—staring back in sheer panic amid the fractured continua.

He’d really done it this time.

After some tense coordination between Ekko and his paradoxes, they managed to contain and repair the hole he had torn in the fabric of reality. Eventually, he harnessed the shattered crystal’s temporal powers into a device that would allow him to manipulate small increments of time… at least in theory.

On his name day, his friends badgered him into climbing the ancient clocktower known as Old Hungry, so Ekko brought the untested device along with him.

The Lost Children climbed, stopping occasionally to paint an obscene caricature or two of prominent Pilties. They were near the top when a handhold gave way, sending one of Ekko’s friends tumbling to certain doom. Instinctively—as if he’d done it a thousand times before—Ekko activated his device. The world shattered around him, and he was wrenched backward through swirling particles of time.

Then Ekko was back, watching his friend reach again for the same rotting plank. The plank broke, the boy fell… but Ekko was ready this time, diving to the edge and grabbing him by the shirt. Ekko tried to swing him to safety, but his friend became caught in the tower’s clockwork gears, and—

Stop. Rewind.

Several attempts later, Ekko finally saved his friend’s life. But to his crew, Ekko’s supernatural reflexes had saved their friend before anyone even realized the danger. He told them about the crystal and made them swear to secrecy. Instead, they dared each other to new heights of foolishness, knowing Ekko had the means to pluck them out of danger.

With each trial, and so much error, the time-warping device—which Ekko dubbed the Zero Drive—grew more and more stable. The only limit was how many do-overs his body could take before exhaustion set in.

Ekko’s time-bending antics have made him a person of interest to some of Zaun and Piltover’s most inventive, most powerful, and most dangerous individuals. But his only interest is in his friends, his family, and his city. He dreams of the day when his hometown rises up to dwarf the so-called City of Progress, when Piltover’s golden veneer will be overshadowed by the towering ingenuity and relentless spunk of a Zaun born not from generations of privilege, but from sheer daring. He may not have a plan yet, but he’s got all the time in the world.

After all, if Ekko’s Z-Drive can change the past, how hard can it be to change the future?

Neeko was born on a remote and largely unknown island, far to the east, where the last members of an ancient vastayan tribe remained isolated from the rest of the world. They were called the Oovi-Kat, and could trace their lineage generation by generation back to the legendary Vastayashai’rei—the ancestors of all vastaya.

The Oovi-Kat were peaceful beings, of unrivaled potential. Their harmonious society blended seamlessly with the spirit realm, so that their sho’ma—their spiritual essence—could intermingle with other beings through mere proximity, and even help them mimic other physical forms. No secrets existed between the Oovi-Kat, but few were as curious, resilient, or energetic as young Neeko.

She developed a fondness for games, hiding trinkets and thoughts to see if others could find them. Her inquisitive nature knew no bounds, and she was pure and innocent in her charmed existence.

But it was not to last. Cataclysm loomed on the horizon.

Thanks to the quick thinking and self-sacrifice of the Oovi-Kat elders, Neeko escaped the death of her homeland. She clumsily took the form of a bird, and fled the smoldering destruction, feeling the screams of her people fading into the ethereal gulf between realms.

Days later, desperate and exhausted, Neeko plummeted into the sea. She clung to driftwood, entirely at the mercy of the currents, until an odd silhouette rose into view. She could hear voices carrying over the waves, and so she swam toward the strange structure.

With the last of her strength, she crept aboard what turned out to be a mercantile vessel destined for Harelport. Neeko rested where she could, calling out into the spirit realm for her lost tribe. She felt only scattered, sad echoes in response, and images of towering, dead trees that lay somewhere over a fragile horizon…

When Neeko emerged from the ship into the city, it was a strange and unfamiliar new world. All her senses tingled. Many a creature, even another Oovi-Kat, might be afraid in that situation—but not Neeko. The society bustled with unique personalities, strangers with a vast array of motives and shapes. This was a place of countless stories and experiences, and it entranced her completely.

Before she could get far, she was spotted by a vastayan sailor named Krete. Neeko could not understand all his words, but he demanded to know which tribe she belonged to. Neeko reached out with her sho’ma, mimicking his face and expression to make her peaceful intentions understood, but Krete did not seem to like this at all. Overwhelmed by his darkening thoughts, Neeko fled into the crowd, altering her shape many times until she escaped.

Surrounded by lush, tropical greenery in the hinterlands beyond Harelport, Neeko grappled with her recent experiences. She simply could not understand how anyone might rely solely on words as their singular form of communication. It seemed so… limiting?

Seeking solace, she took on the shape of the sleek jungle cats she encountered among the trees, and tried to run with them. Neeko loved being fast and agile, and their bright, keen eyes reminded her of home—until, quite unexpectedly, the leader transformed into a beautiful, strong, dark-haired woman. After a tense standoff, she introduced herself as Nidalee, and reluctantly accepted Neeko into the group.

Neeko hesitated to entrust the truths of the Oovi-Kat to others, but she felt a deep kinship with Nidalee, because she suspected this bestial huntress might share some forgotten connection with the vastayan race. Their friendship blossomed, and for many months they roamed the wilds together.

But the towns and cities, with all their flaws, still called to Neeko. Her ancestors came to her in dreams, showing her the pale branches of those dead trees, over and over. The trees needed color, to bloom again—of that much, Neeko was certain. She asked her friend to join her on this new journey, but Nidalee could not be persuaded.

Crestfallen, but determined, Neeko set out alone.

Her old life among the Oovi-Kat may be lost forever, but Neeko envisions a magical future—a larger tribe of like-hearted vastaya, yordles, humans, and whatever other creatures might share her dream. As far as she is concerned, everyone has the potential to find a place in her new tribe. She has pledged to seek these souls out, to befriend them, and defend their sho’ma with her life.

To know Neeko is to love Neeko, and to love Neeko is to be Neeko.

For the noble defenders of Demacia, daily life is the very model of focused, selfless dedication to the ideals of king and country. Called upon to continue his family’s long tradition of military service, Taric never dreamed of shirking that responsibility—though he would not limit or define exactly whom and what he would protect.

The young warrior trained hard, and possessed great martial skill. Even so, in his scant hours of free time, he would find other ways to serve his homeland. He volunteered with the Illuminators, tending the sick or helping rebuild homes damaged by flooding. He lent his creative talents, such as they were, to the stonemasons and craftsmen who raised monuments to the glory of the Winged Protector and the lofty ideals it embodied.

A work of art. A stranger’s life. These were the things that made Demacia worth fighting for. Taric saw every one of them as beautiful, fragile, and worthy of saving.

Fortunately, his disarming manner and innate warmth allowed him to brush aside any criticism from his fellow soldiers or commanding officers. He rose modestly through the ranks, and even fought beside a young Garen Crownguard.

Ironically, it was Taric’s steady rise that would bring about his eventual downfall—at least as far as Demacia was concerned.

Elevated to the prestigious Dauntless Vanguard, he was suddenly held to a far higher standard of conduct. No more would he be allowed to roam the forests looking for glimpses of some rare animal, neglect combat drills to sit in a tavern and listen to a bard’s simple ballad, or skip line inspections to ride out and observe the silver cloak of night settling across the hinterlands. Taric began to feel at odds with himself, and soon attracted attention as an insubordinate.

Garen urged him to shape up and do his duty. He could see Taric had the potential to become one of Valoran’s greatest heroes—and yet he seemed to be thumbing his nose at destiny as well as his country.

To keep him from demotion, Taric was seconded to serve the Sword-Captain of the Vanguard, though neither of them was particularly happy about it. However, when the older man was slain in battle along with the rest of his personal retinue, Taric was found to have abandoned his post… and rumor had it that he had been spotted wandering the cloisters of some forgotten ruined temple nearby.

Nothing more could be said. A dozen warriors were dead, and Taric faced the executioner’s block for it.

However, seeking mercy for his friend, Garen intervened. As the Sword-Captain’s successor, he sentenced Taric to endure “the Crown of Stone”—in accordance with Demacia’s most ancient traditions, he would be sent to climb Mount Targon, a trial that few had ever survived.

Though the Crown of Stone usually allowed the dishonored to simply flee Demacia and start a new life in exile, Taric took the first ship heading south, and swore to actually atone for what he had done.

The climb nearly claimed him, body and soul, numerous times. But Taric pushed past the pain, the ghosts of his dead comrades, and other tests inflicted upon him by the mountain. As he approached the summit, he was beset by a wave of new visions of loss and destruction…

He witnessed the great Alabaster Library set aflame… and still he dashed into the inferno to retrieve the heavenly poetries of Tung. He screamed in anguish as the Frostguard ran the last dreamstag into the Howling Abyss… and then leapt over the precipice himself in a desperate attempt to save it. At the gates of the Immortal Bastion, Taric slumped to his knees when he saw Garen’s broken body swinging from a gibbet… before raising his shield, and charging headlong into the waiting hordes of Noxus.

When the visions finally faded, Taric found himself at the very pinnacle of the mountain, and he was not alone. Before him stood something wearing the shape of a man, though its almost crystalline features blazed with the light of the stars themselves, and its voice was a thousand whispers that cut through Taric like a blade.

It spoke truths he had somehow always known. It spoke of the mantle for which he had unwittingly been preparing his entire life, with every decision and deed that had brought him here, now, to Targon.

And he would stand as the Shield of Valoran in great wars yet to come.

Reborn as the Aspect of the Protector, gifted with power and purpose unimaginable to most mortals, Taric has gladly accepted this new calling—as the steadfast guardian of an entire world.

To understand the full impact of hextech, and the legacy it has left behind in our world, one must first understand the minds behind it.

While much is known and written about Jayce Talis—the vaunted “Man of Progress”—it is considerably harder to verify anything about his counterpart, Viktor. Your humble author has made several requests to the Piltover Council and various faculties within the Academy, but they claim that any records relating to his employment there were lost during the tumultuous events that ultimately led to his death. I will leave it to your judgment as to whether this seems plausible, and simply recount what I have been able to glean from public sources such as the unexpectedly superb back catalogs of The Piltover Gazette, and what little remains of the hexgate construction documentation I was able to source by… let us say, less official means.

Born to a poor family in the fissures beneath Zaun, it appears Viktor always knew hardship. The polluted undercity afflicted him with both a limp and a rare, life-limiting illness, which alienated him from the other children. Yet despite all the impediments to his body, Viktor’s mind was allowed to grow without restraint, and flourished.

He once spoke with a colleague of mine, about a formative moment in his youth. Playing in the effluent streams of the Sump with his toy boat, he made reference to encountering a “disgraced doctor” who had gone to disturbing and extreme lengths in pursuit of science. Progress needed boundaries, and this early lesson served Viktor well when he caught the eye of the celebrated Professor Cecil B Heimerdinger, years later.

He was taken up to Piltover Academy for a full education, and to serve as the professor’s assistant. (This is precisely why I find it difficult to believe that no records have survived in their administrative archives—not to mention Heimerdinger himself, who some on the Council claim not even to remember! Such petty revisionism!) But, finally, Viktor had a home where his genius could truly be cultivated.

When a laboratory accident (see Chapter 6: Enforcement in the Undercity) revealed unauthorized experiments on Academy property, Heimerdinger sent Viktor to remove anything hazardous. But instead of danger, Viktor found intrigue—pages of handwritten notes, speaking of a feverish ambition to master magic through science.

It was here that he struck a friendship with the wayward inventor Jayce Talis, and their shared vision would change the world forever.

The fruit of their labors was, of course, hextech, a technology so revolutionary that it propelled Piltover into a wondrous new era. Viktor and Jayce were not just peers in innovation, but brothers in all but blood.

However, Viktor’s illness worsened. He drove them toward a possible solution—an adaptive runic matrix (outlined and illustrated in full in Chapter 13: The Hexcore). With its power to seemingly evolve its own configuration, he hoped it could augment organic matter and heal him… but was met only with failure. Self-experimentation is always risky, and Viktor knew it would likely cost him his standing in the academic community, as well as his loved ones. Even so, by all accounts, he truly believed Jayce would be an exception to this.

But when his friend’s prejudices against the undercity and its people came to light, it seems Viktor felt their bond beginning to weaken. Resolving to hide his plans, he experimented alone, until he ultimately lost control of the hexcore. According to two verified sources within the Academy (see Appendix H for full transcripts) it seems that some loss of life occurred as a result, though details are notably vague.

Nonetheless, it is apparent that Viktor’s mental health was impacted, though he felt unable to destroy the hexcore on his own. Despite their best efforts, both he and Jayce had each failed to save lives with their inventions, and Viktor was determined to make amends.

Any plans he may have formulated in that regard were halted by the terrorist attack on the Piltover Council.

He was critically injured in the blast, and saved only by the quick thinking and rapid intervention of his old friend, Jayce Talis. The hexcore was able to regenerate his wounds to a degree that has astounded and baffled some of the greatest minds in all the world—indeed, such that it sounds almost akin to a vulgar fantasy, or fiction of science! We will cover this more exhaustively in Chapter 21: The Theory of Biomechanics… but suffice to say, the Viktor that stepped forth was to a man as hextech is to the simple wheel!

And he had little gratitude for what Jayce had done for him.

Walking alone among the broken and forgotten denizens of the undercity gifted Viktor a new purpose, for his cold touch could apparently heal suffering and remove emotion. Word spread quickly throughout Zaun of a healer, and soon enough the healer became a savior. The commune that sprung forth around him attracted some of the most hopeless and pitiful cases, until it was attacked by the Noxian garrison (see Chapter 19: Martial Law in Piltover) under General Ambessa Medarda, and Viktor was once again physically incapacitated.

This time, however, something changed. Devoid of fear, love, bitterness, joy, hatred, or compassion, he rose up as the mechanical herald of a second new era, with his followers reduced to little more than puppets of his will.

Doubtless, for all his vast and unsympathetic intelligence, Viktor’s purpose was clearer than it had ever been. He would save humanity from themselves by enacting a Glorious Evolution across the entire world—whether they understood its need, or not.

10.14

09:15

Current meteorological conditions in Bandle City seem optimal. Atmospheric pressure is ideal for today's experiments!

Running a fifth trial for my Tridyminiumobulator this afternoon. Some fine tuning is required; singed my mustache. Need to adjust the energy throughput.

16:00

Tridyminiumobulator is still not maintaining intended proper energy efficiency! Necessary to run more numbers. In the meantime, I have found something else that's very intriguing.

While returning home after today's tests, I passed a gaggle of young yordles throwing a spherical projectile at each other. It's a simple enough concept: throw the object at someone, catch it, throw it at another yordle, repeat. But yordle miscalculations result in several errors! They throw with inconsistent accuracy and force, and the ''ball'' (as they refer to it) is frequently dropped... There are many ways for this process to be improved. According to my calculations, and after collecting data from the participants, if the pitching was consistent in both speed and arc there would be a 44.57% increase to fun! I need to ponder this for the evening.

10.15

05:20

Eureka! I've devised a solution.

I've invented an automated ball pitcher. Current name: H-28G. It employs a consistent speed and trajectory, ensuring that the recipient will always be able to catch the ball. It redirects itself to the nearest yordle (if there is more than one in the vicinity) ensuring everyone has a turn. I'll take it to the young yordles today and demonstrate my invention.

Also: spilled toxic acid on my shoes this morning. Bothersome.

10:30

Tested the automated pitcher today. It did not go as planned. The young ones were excited enough about my invention, but, when the machine was turned on, it was far too powerful! Even at its lowest setting it completely knocked a yordle off his feet. Clearly, I overestimated the velocity behind their throws... I'll return soon to make adjustments.

But my priority, for now, is the Tridyminiumobulator; I must fix its complications before lunch. Once it's in good shape, I'll need to test it somewhere else. Bandle City is proving insufficient for field research.

10.16

15:55

Apparently, there's a giant in town. A highly annoying anomaly. The noise outside is disturbing my research!

Must check fish tank today. They've been strangely quiet...

10.17

10:40

I have heard that many yordles have been injured due to the giant-related disturbance. If this doesn't stop soon, intervention will be necessary! I hope H-28G is still intact. I would lose a lot of time if it has to be rebuilt.

16:30

Everything is quiet again. It seems that the giant came to his senses and ran off. I need to gather H-28G tomorrow, once I've finished with more pressing matters. I've almost perfected the Tridyminiumobulator!

10.18

08:30

Today has been quite eventful already. I was surprised by a knock at my door. It seemed like the entire city was standing in front of my house. Normally, when a crowd has gathered, it's because they have some petty grievance about my work. But this time, they were celebrating!

Astonishingly, it seems one of the young yordles took advantage of the H-28G prototype I had left behind amidst the giant tomfoolery. He proved to be innovative, and repurposed the invention into a makeshift turret. It's powerful enough to scare off a giant - imagine that! What an ingenious little fellow.

I wish I could employ his like-minded encephalon in the near future - I have big plans and his assistance could be valuable - but he'd have to leave Bandle City. The scope of my plans necessitates a more expansive testing ground.

Runeterra should suffice!

Bound by darkness.

Cruel smile, stretching wide. Sharp teeth, spanning systems.

Oblivion given form, coalesced as the dark Harbinger of annihilation.

Thresh.

Immense in power. His own gravity draws me closer, chains of dark matter enveloping me, cradling me in stillness.

Ambition’s embrace.

Yet behind him, an even greater force looms.

Its ceaseless pull tugs at every particle in my being. I resist, struggling against its call, straining against Thresh’s grasp, calling upon the light. Yet every surge of radiance that wells up within me disappears into the endless maw of darkness, diverted into its ever hungering grasp.

The Dark Star.

Thresh laughs, a vibration that sends pulsating waves of energy radiating into the cosmos.

“Struggle all you want, little light,” he coos. “But you… you belong to the Dark Star.”

A wave of dread ripples through me.

Give in.

With a heave, he wrenches me toward the emptiness, the vast and eternal silence. I strain against his bindings, but I feel my power wane as I drift closer to the point of no return, the event horizon beyond which the star’s dark pull would prove inescapable.

Thresh’s voice grates. “Do not fear the end, Lux. Embrace it.”

Embrace… me.

“The Cosmic Court will stop you,” I say. My voice warps and slurs under the immense gravity of the Dark Star, a reverberating mockery of my intended strength, revealing the hollowness of my threat.

I was the one sent to stop him. And I… am about to fail.

Enter the horizon, Lux.

He pulls.

I fall, ensnared by the inescapable tow of the Dark Star.

They came, one by one. Shining beacons, formed of constellations, each burning with endless starfire, the potential of creation aflame within their beings.

Yi arrived first, an elegant flash of his celestial blade cutting a path through the inky space. Kassadin and Xin Zhao followed not long after. Xayah danced in, trailed by Rakan, and Lulu meandered in at the end as she always does, following some whim and whimsy only she understood.

Last, as though summoned only by our collective light, Queen Ashe arced into our midst, blazing across space-time like an incandescent arrow. The others bowed their heads in deference as I took stock of all who had come.

The Cosmic Court, assembled together after countless eons. All in answer to my beacon.

Xin Zhao spoke first. “Long has it been since last we all were met.”

I smiled. Though at times a bit formal, Xin Zhao’s focus and dedication in his protection of the nebulas that cradle the birth of new stars always filled me with deep admiration and appreciation.

“Too long,” Kassadin replied.

“Yet some still are missing,” Yi rumbled.

Xayah scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Some are not to be expected. They never show.”

“Yet others’ absences are more… troubling,” Ashe thundered, and all heads turned toward her.

Xin Zhao frowned. “You speak of Jhin.”

“And Mordekaiser,” Rakan chimed in. “That grumpy old soul. Where’d he get off to?”

“We’re all old souls. Even if some don’t act it,” Yi replied.

“Jhin’s light, gone.” Lulu’s voice rang out, clarion and pure, drawing our attention.

Some murmurs of surprise rippled out, along with a few incredulous grumbles—yet I knew we all felt the truth of her words.

Whenever a cosmic being ceases existence, the loss echoes through each of the remaining. And we had all felt his light blink into darkness.

Since then, I… I had witnessed first the twisted, broken systems left in his wake. Whatever dark, monstrous thing he had become reveled in destruction, macabre and grotesque. Stars inverted into black holes. Shattered planets left careening around wild, unhinged orbits. Devastated. Splintered.

Beautiful.

I frowned and shook my head.

Xayah was asking a question. “How is this possible?”

“Since the Harbinger’s appearance, the Dark Star grows in strength.” Ashe glided between us, looking each of us in the eyes as she passed. “Where we build, he guides the Dark Star to consume. Where we create the possibility of life, and light… he only destroys. For too long, we have watched his actions, tolerating him as, at best, an overzealous hastener of entropy.” She looked directly into my eyes. “Now it has taken one of our own. That cannot stand.”

“So we gather to find and strike this Harbinger down.” Xin Zhao waved his spear, and a trail of glittering nebula bloomed in its wake.

“No.” Ashe continued to hold my gaze. “The Dark Star grows stronger when it devours sources of light. All of us approaching at once could be exactly what Thresh wants.”

What we want.

I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, Ashe had once again resumed her gliding pace between all the others.

“Each of us will hunt down the known corruptants,” she said. “Only one of us shall go to bind the Star and Thresh. Halt them and their marauding path.”

The others turned their gazes on me. I breathed deep to steady my nerves.

“My queen. Why not y—”

“I will lead the hunt of the other corruptants with my celestial bow.” Ashe cut off my question. “Lux’s mastery of starlight and binding constellations means she alone has the ability to stop this threat in its tracks.” Her expression softened. “Though each of our tasks are perilous, yours is perhaps the most difficult of all, Lux. But there is no one else I trust more to hold fast to our cosmic duty.”

I strode up to stand next to my queen and spoke with more conviction than I felt. “I know where the Dark Star is. Or at least, where it was. When Jhin… disappeared, I… I felt it most strongly.”

The others nodded, accepting the half truth.

You feel us. You see… yourself.

I clenched my teeth, pushing the voice out of my mind.

My gaze swept over my cosmic brethren. Each forged from pure light, birthed from the primordial to shine eternal. I have crafted entire galaxies with them, willed wonders of the universe into existence by their side. Over the eons, we have danced together, then split apart, painting the inky fabric of space with delicate complexities. Yet I cannot deny the truth.

I have always heard the call of darkness.

Some days, I could almost pretend it wasn’t there. But it was always a part of me. The sliver that resonated with the pulsations of the Dark Star, that spun in a tangled waltz with that cursed unspeakable void, whispering ceaseless torment into my mind.

Ceaseless truth.

My brethren of the Court do not know. I did not know why I was born with this seed of darkness, this inversion of all we stand for. But Ashe was right. I was duty incarnate. The power of light fortified me against the betrayal of my heart. And when I best Thresh and seal the Dark Star into a fixed point in space, away from the brilliance of the creation we have worked so hard to build… perhaps at last I will also quiet the tireless voice, and be free of this cursed part of me.

I must be enough.

But I was not enough.

You are more than enough.

I have failed.

Embrace the darkness.

I plummet to my end.

You are more than light. You have always been more.

No.

I… must stay true. It cannot end like this!

Duty binds you. When you could be… more.

I tumble toward the unending emptiness, accelerating in its inescapable gravity. I feel myself tearing apart, immense pressure and force pulling and compressing and splintering my very essence.

I reach into my heart, calling to the last vestiges of light, grasping at my waning strength.

A glint of bright. A final spark.

But right beside…

A mote of darkness. Dancing in tandem with the spark

Calling my name.

Lux… unbound.

Let ambition reign.

My form flickers

Tattered starlight fraying in the gravity well

A final choice

One last chance

cosmic light

Or

eternal

dark?

Nothingness encroaches. Consumes my vision. For a moment, silence reigns.

Then, a voice whispers in my head.

See what you have refused to see.

Surprise jolts through me, replacing the fear that flooded my being.

A new voice. Not the voice of darkness. Or the Star. Something different… yet familiar. Thresh, calling me to madness? Some strange torment before the end?

No. Something far more ancient. More… intimate.

Before I can identify it, flashes of my moments with the court bloom in my mind. Final memories before the end, I assume. Familiar faces, blazing light. Warm, comforting, regal…

But something is wrong.

I see them, but for the first time… I see through them. See all of them. The tiny reactions, the subtle glances, the quiet mumbles of concern. Little grimaces, lips curling in muted sneers. Cracks in their perfect, golden masks. Shadows dancing among the light. Small gestures from beings composed of stars.

They saw you. They all saw you.

They all knew the truth.

I see Queen Ashe, most of all. Every gesture, every glance, every exchanged touch. What I had always seen as warmth and compassion, peeled back to reveal something else.

Concern. Worry?

...Fear.

Holding me close, not to nurture me as her second. But to keep watch on me. To hold me tight.

To reign me in.

They saw your potential.

The truth rushed through me, an icy slush, robbing me of breath.

Throughout my whole existence, I bathed in the light, desperately grasping it for sustenance and strength.

But it wasn’t a source of power.

It was a cage.

Binding, restricting my true self.

What a fool I am.

So long, I denied the darkness in my heart. The one seed of truth that had yearned for the freedom to hush the endless howl and hubris of creation.

Embrace your true self.

A calm washes over me, and for the first time, I… let go. Relax. Release the voice of endless worry, the constant vigilance and strain, the impossible hypocrisy of light and the cosmic.

All falls hush.

And the voice that speaks rings clarion and true.

And I know what it is. Who it is.

Me.

I open my eyes

And

let

go

Fall

Plummet

Sink

And I am one with the Dark Star

Its power my own

As it always has been

And always will be

Annihilation embodied

Pure ambition given form

My dark will reaches out

Piercing time and space

Bending past and future into an infinite curvature

And I see—

Mordekaiser

Shattered in the Dark Star’s wake

Of dark metal and destruction

Xerath

Born from my malice

Coalesced through whim and breath

Malphite

Obliteration birthed from rubble

Cleaving a path through space under my beck and call

And others

Dark forms twisting to my will

Bowing before their true Queen

This I see

Awaiting in my future

And I smile

And I see

Little Thresh

Poor, inconsequential Thresh

Self-appointed Harbinger of darkness

Unaware what he heralded was me

His chains

Clinging to my unleashed form

As though they could bind or hold me

I draw upon the void and darkness

And a rush of power

Limitless in scale

Erupts

A beacon of pure destruction

Erasing all in its path

Unmaking matter

Shredding light itself

Carving a path of blissful silence

In the noisy entropy of space

And Thresh cowers

Finally comprehending

Who he stood before

I stretch my limbs

Reborn in darkness

Reforged from the Dark Star itself

I recall

The Court

Arrogant, small-minded

And their self-appointed hunt of dark corruptants

My corruptants

And I laugh.

Oh, how I will enjoy

Hunting each of them

Breaking each cosmic fool

And remaking them to bend and bow

To their true, dark

Queen.

The knife-edge of the plow cut through the rough topsoil, turning the underbelly of winter toward the spring sky. Riven walked the small field behind the ox-driven rig, her focus caught between steadying the wide set handles and the foreign words she clumsily held in her mouth.

“Emai. Fair. Svasa. Anar.”

Each step filled the air with the loamy scent of newly awakened earth. Riven gripped the wood tightly as she walked. Over the last few days the coarse handles had roused dormant calluses and fleeting memories.

Riven bit her lip, shaking off the thought, continuing with the work at hand. “Mother. Father. Sister. Brother.”

The thin-ribbed ox flicked an ear as it pulled, the plow kicking up clots and small rocks. They struck Riven, but she paid them no mind. She wore a rough woven shirt, the dirt-speckled sleeves rolled into thick bands. Pants of the same material had been dyed an earthen yellow. Their cuffed edges would now be too short on the man they had been made for, but on her, they brushed her bare ankles and the tops of her simple, mud-caked shoes.

“Emai. Fair. Svasa. Anar.” Riven continued the mantra, memorizing the words. “Erzai, son. Dyeda…”

Without slowing her pace she wiped a strand of sweat soaked hair from her eyebrow with her sleeve. Her arms were well muscled and still easily held the plow one-handed. The farmer had gone up to the house for a skin of water and their lunch. The old man said she could stop and wait on the threshold of the shaded forest that bordered the tract, but Riven had insisted on finishing.

A fresh breeze caught the damp at the back of her neck, and she looked around. The Noxian Empire had tried bending Ionia to its will. When Ionia wouldn’t kneel, Noxus had tried to break it. Riven continued her meditative pace behind the plow. For all the Empire’s strength, spring would still come to this land. It had been more than a year since Noxus had been driven out, and the grays and browns of rain and mud were finally giving way to shoots of green. The air itself seemed to hold new beginnings. Hope. Riven sighed as her hair’s bluntly cut edges brushed her chin.

“Dyeda. daughter,” she began her invocation again, determined. She gripped the wooden handles again with both hands. “Emai. Fair.”

“That's fa-ir,” a voice called out from the shadows of the forest.

Riven stopped suddenly. The plow handles lurched in her hands as the bony ox was brought up short by the leather reins. The plow kicked hard into a tough clod of dirt and gave a metal twang as a stone caught on the cutting edge.

The voice did not belong to the old man.

Riven tried to ease her breathing by exhaling slowly through her lips. There was one voice, but there could be more coming for her. She fought the years of training that urged her to take a defensive stance. Instead she stilled her body, facing the plow and beast before her. Riven felt too light. She held on tightly now to the plow’s wooden handles. There should have been a weight that anchored her, grounded her, at her side. Instead, she could hardly feel the small field knife on her right hip. The short, hooked blade was good for cutting dew apples and stubborn vegetation, nothing more.

“The word is fa-ir.”

The speaker revealed himself at the edge of the field, where the farmland met a band of thick amber pines.

“There is a break in the middle,” the man said, stepping forward. A wild mane of dark hair was pulled back off his face. A woven mantle was tucked around his shoulders. Riven noticed that it did not completely cover the metal pauldron on his left shoulder, nor the unsheathed blade at his side. He was of a warrior class, but did not serve one house or precinct. He was a wanderer.

Dangerous, she decided.

“Fa-ir,” he pronounced again.

Riven did not speak, not for lack of words, but because of the accent she knew they would carry. She moved around the plow, putting it between her and the well-spoken stranger. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and bent to examine the plow’s blade, feigning interest in the stone she had struck. Meant to cut through sod and clay, the blade would be more useful than the field knife. She had watched the old man fix it to the wooden body that morning and knew how to release it.

“I don’t remember seeing you in the village when I was here last, but I have been away awhile,” the man said. His voice held the indifferent roughness of a long time lived on the road.

The ever present insect hum became louder as Riven refused to fill the silence between them.

“I’ve heard that the magistrates are being called to hear new evidence in the case of Elder Souma’s death,” the man continued.

Riven ignored him and patted the patient ox. She ran her fingers along the leather straps as someone who was familiar with the trappings of horses and farm animals, batting away a gnat from the ox’s big, dark eyes.

“Then again, if you are new to this land, perhaps you know little of the murder.”

She looked up at the word, meeting the stranger’s gaze, the innocent beast between them. A scar stretched across the bridge of the man’s nose. Riven wondered if the one who left that mark still lived. There was hardness in the stranger’s eyes, but under that, curiosity. Riven felt the ground tremble through the soles of her thin leather shoes. There was a sound like rolling thunder, but there were no clouds in the sky.

“Someone’s coming,” the man said with a smile.

Riven looked over her shoulder at the hill that led to the old man’s farmhouse. Six armed riders crested the little ridge and marched their mounts down to the small harrowed field.

“There she is,” one of them said. His accent was thick, and Riven struggled to parse the nuance of language she had been trying so hard to learn.

“But... is she alone?” another asked, squinting at the shadows between the trees.

A quick breeze wrapped around the plow and Riven, sliding back into the shadows of the forest. Riven looked to where the stranger once stood, but he was gone, and the approaching riders left no time to wonder.

“A ghost maybe,” the leader said laughing at his man. “Someone she cut down coming back for revenge.”

The riders spurred their horses into a trot, circling Riven and crushing the even trenches she had dug that morning. The leader carried a rigid bundle wrapped in cloth over the back of his mount. Riven’s eyes followed that horse as the others moved around her, their hooves compacting the loose earth back into cold, hard clay.

She gave the plow blade a final glance. Two riders carried crossbows. She would be taken down before she reached even one of them. Her fingers itched to touch the potential weapon, but her mind begged them to be still.

Tightness quickened in her muscles. A body long trained to fight would not surrender so easily to peace. A deafening rush of blood began to pound in her ears. You will die, it roared, but so will they.

Riven’s fingers began to reach for the plow blade.

“Leave her be!” The voice of the farmer’s wife was strong from calling in errant cows and it rang out over the field, breaking Riven from her self-destructive urge. “Asa, hurry. You must do something.”

The riders halted their circles around Riven as the farmer and his wife crested the hill. Riven bit hard on the inside of her cheek. The sharp pain centered her, quelling her urge to fight. She would not spill Ionian blood in their field.

“I told you to stay in your home until we were done,” the leader said to them.

The old man, Asa, hobbled through the uneven dirt. “She’s done nothing wrong. I was the one who brought it,” he said gesturing toward the wrapped bundle. “I will answer for it.”

“Master Konte. O-fa,” the leader said. A patronizing smile tugged at the corners of his thin lips. “You know what she is. She has committed many wrongs. If I had my way, she would be cut down where she stands,” He looked Riven over, then wrinkled his nose in annoyance. “Unfortunately, old man, you can say your piece at the hearing.”

While the leader spoke Riven’s feet had sunk into the moist earth, momentarily holding her fast. The feeling of being mired, pulled down, overwhelmed her. Her pulse quickened to a shallow beat and a cold sweat slipped between her shoulders as she struggled to pull free. Her mind was enveloped by a different time, a different field. There the horses snorted, their hooves trampling blood-soaked dirt.

Riven shut her eyes before more remembered horrors could bury her. She inhaled deeply. A spring rain floods this ground, not the dead, she told herself. When I open my eyes, there will be only the living.

When she opened her eyes, the field was a field, freshly turned, and not an open grave. The leader of the riders dismounted and approached her. In his hand he held a pair of shackles, swirls of Ionian metal far more beautiful than anything that would have chained criminals in her own homeland.

“You cannot escape your past, Noxian dog,” the leader said with a quiet triumph.

Riven looked up from plow blade to the old couple. The lines on their faces already carried so much pain. She would not bring them more. She could not. Riven tried to hold onto the image, the two of them leaning into one another, each holding the other up. It was a moment of fragile defiance before they knew something would be taken. When the old man wiped a sleeve across his wet cheek, she had to turn away.

Riven shoved her wrists toward the leader of the riders. She met his smug grin with a cold stare and let the steel close over her skin.

“Do not worry, dyeda,” the farmer’s wife called out. Riven could hear the taut hope in her voice. It was too much. Too much hope. The wind carried the strained words and the smell of freshly turned earth, even as Riven was led farther and farther away. “Dyeda,” it whispered. “We will tell them what you are.”

“Dyeda,” Riven whispered back. “Daughter.”

For two days after the girl surrendered, there had been nothing for Shava Konte to do but help her husband slowly repair the trampled furrows and plant the field. It was a task made easier by the girl’s labors, and yet, if their sons still lived, it was one she and Asa should not have had to do at all.

On the cold morning of the tribunal, knowing it would take more time for their older bones to walk the long road into town, the couple left before dawn to reach the village council hall.

“They know she is Noxian.”

“You worry too much,” Shava said, clucking her tongue for good measure. Realizing her tone was more fit for calming chickens than her husband, she gave him a hopeful smile.

“Noxian. That is all they need to proclaim guilt.” Asa mumbled his thought into the homespun wool wrapped around his neck.

Shava, who had spent the better part of her lifetime coaxing stubborn animals into the butcher’s pen, stopped short, turning to face her husband.

“They do not know her like we know her,” she said, stabbing one of her fingers to his chest, exasperation escaping through her hands. “That is why you are to speak on her behalf, you old goat.”

Asa knew his wife, and knew further argument would not change her mind. Instead he nodded his head softly. Shava gave a dissatisfied harumph and turned back to the road, marching in silence to the town center. The council hall that was beginning to fill. Seeing the crowd, she hurried into the narrow space between the benches of the council hall to find a seat closer to the front... and unceremoniously tripped over a sleeping man’s leg.

As the old woman fell forward with a weak yelp, a groan escaped from the sleeping man. Like a lightning blade, his hand snapped forward, his grip like steel, catching the old woman by the arm before she fell to the stone floor.

“You must watch your step, O-ma,” the stranger whispered deferentially, drink still heavy on his breath, but slurring none of his words. He withdrew his hand as soon as the old woman was back on her feet.

The old woman looked down her nose at the unlikely savior, her eyes narrowing. Under her scrutiny, the man receded further into the shadows of the mantle wrapped around his shoulders and face; the ghost of a scar across his strong nose disappeared into the darkness.

“The council hall is nowhere to recover from a night of misdeeds, young man.” Shava righted her robes, the disdain evident in the tip of her chin. “A woman’s life is to be decided today. Be gone before you are asked to concede your own wrongdoings before the magistrates.”

“Shava.” The old man had caught up and put a hand on his wife’s arm. “You must keep your temper in check if we are to offer our assistance today. He meant no injury. Leave him be.”

The hooded stranger offered two fingers up in peaceful supplication, but kept his face hidden. “You strike to the heart of the matter, O-ma,” he offered, humor creeping into his voice.

Shava moved on, carrying her indignation like a delicate gift. The old man tipped his head as he passed.

“Do not judge her quickly, my boy. She worries that an innocent soul will be found guilty before the truth is known.”

The hooded man grunted in acknowledgement as the old man moved on. “On that we are of the same mind, O-fa.”

The old man glanced back at the strange, hushed words. The seat was empty, save the ghost of a breeze that rustled the robes of a nearby couple deep in conversation. The hooded stranger was already receding into the far shadows of the council hall.

The magistrates, their smooth vestments settling behind them as they took their place at the head table, looked out at the crowded hall. The noise in the great room dropped to an uneven silence. One of the three, a tall, slim woman with a falcon nose, stood solemnly.
“This tribunal has been called to take in new attestations in the matter of Elder Souma’s death.”

A hum of murmurs, like a hundred locusts, began to build from somewhere in the middle of the crush of people. Some had heard of the new evidence the judge spoke, but most had gathered at the rumor there was a Noxian in their midst. But rumors didn’t change what they all knew: Elder Souma’s death was no mystery. The wind technique, the magic that scoured his meditation hall was all the evidence that was necessary. Only one besides Souma himself could have executed such a maneuver.

A wound, unevenly healed, opened. The hive mind of the crowd coalesced in a moment of communal pain. If the elder had not fallen, they shouted to each other, the village would not have taken such heavy casualties. Shortly after the murder, half of a Noxian warband had slaughtered many on the way to Navori. So many sons and daughters had been lost in the Noxian engagement, an engagement that swelled in the distressing imbalance of Souma’s death. Worse yet, the village laid the blame on one of their own.

The thrum found a clear voice.

“We already know who murdered Elder Souma,” Shava spoke through weathered lips. “It was that traitor, Yasuo.”

The crowd nodded and a biting agreement rippled through the mob.

“Who knew Elder Souma’s wind techniques? Yasuo!” Shava added. “And now Yone has not returned from the pursuit of his unforgivable brother. Most likely the coward is responsible for that as well.”

The crowd’s gnashing grew again, this time crying out for Yasuo's blood. Shava settled more easily on the bench, satisfied that the question of guilt had been pointed back at the correct person.

The falcon-nosed judge came from a long line of woodweavers, ones famed for being able to untwist and straighten even the heaviest burls. She lifted a perfectly round sphere of hard worn chestnut and brought it down definitively against its jet-black cradle. The sharp sound wrenched the crowd into silence and order returned to the hall.

“This court seeks knowledge and enlightenment about the facts of Elder Souma’s death,” the judge said. “Do you wish to stand in way of enlightenment, Mistress…?”

The old woman looked to her husband and felt heat rise in the skin of her cheeks. “Konte. Shava Konte,” she said much less boldly. She dipped her head. The old man on the stool watched her and mopped the sheen of sweat from his own balding crown.

“As I was saying, we are here to take in new evidence.” The falcon judge looked out at the crowd for any other stubborn burls and nodded to the bailiff, Melker. “Please bring her in.”

“Fools!”

The word struck Melodie’s ear like a lash, echoing from beyond the temple’s walls and jarring her from the familiar calm of her meditations.

Her fingers ceased their dance along the strings of her praytar, her eyes of warm hazel flickering open to take in the arched stonework of the temple’s inner sanctum. Setting down the instrument with all the reverence due to the worldly object that enabled her communion with blessed Cacophoni, Melodie rose and made for the entrance, and the source of the disquieting voice.

She lifted the veil of lacquered plectrums she wore over her face, before whorls of incense and the midday light of the suns stole her sight for a moment. The city sprawled out before her, stone and iron and glass wrought into brutal harmony by the chosen of the gods. Grand monoliths hung in the sky, carrying and strengthening the tolling of the Temporonomicon, the rhythmic heartbeat of the world.

All was in tune—save for that single, angry voice whose owner Melodie now beheld from the top of the temple steps.

He was young, slender of build and fair of skin, with gentle locks of platinum blond that tumbled down to his shoulders. His face was ardent, eyes burning with the fervor of belief. Alone he stood, swathed in rags, the crowds ebbing back from him as though he were diseased.

“You have been led astray,” the young man continued, appealing to the wall of scowls surrounding him, “deceived by those who claim sole possession of the truth.”

Melodie glanced at the Rectifiers—those tall, hulking warriors clad in plate of gleaming brass who served as the temple’s guardians, as still as the statues they protected.

Why were they not stopping this?

The young man gestured to the main courtyard, and the brutal and abstract depictions of the Noisome Host that dominated it. “Stentorus, Cacophoni, Perpetuum,” he said. “The gods are true, and worthy of worship, but the faith raised up in their name is built upon lies. And their champions?”

He stabbed a finger in accusation at the only slightly lesser monuments standing with the gods in the silent majesty of granite and gold-flecked marble, the warlords that they had chosen to rule over all.

Pentakill.

“By your sweat did they render their thrones,” he spat. “By your blood do they quench their thirst. You are nothing but slaves to them, your toil the mortar that keeps their stale, unchanging act from collapsing!”

Melodie flinched at the sheer heresy of it, the words burrowing into her thoughts. She shook her head to free herself of them, but they held fast to her with painful barbs. Yet she would not flee back to the sanctuary of the temple, instead gaining strength from the inevitable rebuke that came from the crowd.

“Liar!”

“Blasphemer!”

“May the scriptures curse you!”

The man laughed bitterly. “Scriptures? Pentakill would have you believe that the holy books are complete, that no pages have been torn from them and hidden in fear, that all power in the universe is meted out by the Noisome Host alone. I say again, you are being lied to!”

Disquiet rippled through the assembled masses, murmurs of shock and doubt.

“There is more than you have been allowed to know,” he went on, his tone growing softer in sympathy yet somehow stronger in projection. “You believe it is the will of the gods that lays your paths out before you... but friends, there is another—”

“That’s enough, Viego!”

Melodie turned, hearing the susurrus of a cloak of golden strings trailing against the flagstones. Qylmaster the Sanctifier emerged from the calm of the temple, crossing the threshold and striding down the steps with all the grandeur and assurance enjoyed by one of his rank.

“I was wondering when you would scurry forth, priest,” the heretic smiled thinly. “Puppet of the dying light.”

“Begone from this place,” said Qylmaster, his voice calm and measured but leaving no room for debate. “Have you fallen so far from the grace of Perpetuum that you are deaf to the poison that escapes your own lips? Trouble these innocents and true believers no longer.”

Viego leaned forward and spat upon the ground. “You no longer have any hold over me, old man. I do not bow and scrape at the feet of your weary idols. I answer to a truer power, one worthy of worship. I speak of the Dissonant One!”

The Sanctifier’s expression dropped. His tone became a low rumble. “Leave. Now.”

Viego straightened. “And if I refuse?”

Qylmaster lifted a hand, revealing small cymbals bound to his thumb and index finger. “Then you will be removed.”

The Sanctifier clashed his fingers together once, and in response to the chime the Rectifiers stepped forward as one. Sworn acolytes of Stentorus, they bore mauls of flame-hardened ironwood, and their bootfalls were a percussive staccato upon the earth. Swiftly they surrounded Viego, their weapons raised and poised to strike him down.

“We will suffer no further apostasy,” said Qylmaster. “Still your forked tongue, or in the name of the Noisome Host I will have it torn from your mouth.”

But Viego only sneered. “Why not call forth your fair headliners, eh? Where are Pentakill to answer for the ‘poison’ I utter?” He turned again to the crowd. “High up in their gilded towers, fat and corrupt from your toil. Let them come here and tell me to leave, and I will depart without incident.”

There was a moment of silence. Viego cocked his ear, and his eyes met with Melodie’s, though only briefly.

Then he smirked. “Nothing. I thought as much.”

Melodie watched, shaken by the scene unfolding before her. She could not countenance the worldview being foisted upon them all by Viego. To question the power of the Host was like stating that the twin suns did not blaze, or the bitter oceans did not rise and fall. Pentakill were the greatest band of all time, and rightful champions of the gods. Why were they allowing this to persist?

Agitation began to wind and twist through the crowd. Raised voices and angry words turned to shoves and strikes. Violence and uncertainty crept into the temple courtyard as friends turned on one another, incited by the intriguing madness of Viego’s ravings.

“Silence!” Qylmaster cried, raising his arms. “Peace, my brothers and sisters! Close your ears and your hearts to these lies.”

He glowered at Viego.

“You have fallen so very far, my child. It pains me to send you down deeper still. Honored sons of Stentorus, I loose thee!”

The Rectifiers stamped in unison—three sharp, echoing crashes of brass—and beat Viego down. Their mauls rose and fell, again and again, and Melodie had to look away, flinching at the sound of each blow.

Viego’s limp form was seized, dragged through the streets and pelted with insults and scraps of garbage. At the end of this abusive parade, the city gates were flung wide, and he was thrown into a crumpled heap in the dust beyond them.

Melodie felt Qylmaster’s gentle touch upon her shoulder for a moment as he passed. “Come away, child. This has been no sight for the devout to behold.”

Yet she could not move. Horror rooted her in place, and... something else. A new sensation crept up her spine, as she watched Viego roll shakily onto his knees outside the gates.

Doubt.

“You… cannot stop the... storm that is c-coming...” he choked from between split lips. “All your lies and... m-monuments will be swept away! Your... haughtiness laid low... in the ashes...”

As the gates drew closed, Viego rose defiantly to his feet.

“I am a disciple of Dissonance! I will show you! I will show you all!”

Music was a wellspring of calm in Melodie’s life, the riffs and chords an oasis that made all other concerns fade. And yet, try as she might, she could not forget Viego’s words, even though days had passed since the incident outside the temple courtyard. She strummed her praytar, willing herself to let all but her heart, mind and fingers drift away.

Still, the doubt remained.

The tune Melodie was playing warped as her finger slipped, curdling the air with discord. She ceased, cursing softly behind her veil, as she heard the soft scrape of golden strings approaching.

“There is suffering in your play, Stringstress.”

Melodie looked up to see Sanctifier Qylmaster. He looked down, with concern in his eyes. “Do the other day’s events yet disturb you?”

Melodie averted her gaze. “I confess they do.”

A soft sigh of understanding passed Qylmaster’s lips. “Heresy is seldom kind,” he said, seating himself beside her, “least of all to the heretics themselves. They are to be pitied, helped whenever possible, however we are able—but their delusions are not to be heeded, much less dwelled upon.”

“Were it so simple,” said Melodie, almost shocked at her own candor. “His words rooted a dread in my heart. A dread that holds fast to me even now.”

The Sanctifier nodded once, then rose to his feet.

“Walk with me, Stringstress Melodie.”

She followed Qylmaster from the inner sanctum, ascending a spiral staircase through floor after floor of the temple, until they emerged from its tallest tower.

Her breath caught in her throat. Never before had she stood at such a height, able to take in all of the city at once. The lesser temples and assorted screamatoria dotted the landscape, offering song and verse to the gods above with such fervour that they could be heard even in the wastelands beyond the city. And there, to the west, lay the Ashenpit, that grand arena erected at the site of Pentakill’s original, triumphant ascendance.

She felt as though she might reach up and touch the floating monoliths overhead, and let her eyes fall upon the holy Temporonomicon in all its glory. Nonetheless, Viego’s words remained with her. Did she even regard that edifice with the same awe any longer?

“Look, dear child,” said the Sanctifier, as though reading Melodie’s thoughts. “Look upon everything we have built together. All we have achieved. Tell me, was this done in the passage of a single day?”

She frowned. “Of course not, holy one.”

“A year, then?” he persisted. “Or even a lifetime?”

Melodie shook her head.

“Consider the first gatherings, those first primitive groups that offered up music and song, such as they could, to the gods. Do you not think they were afraid?”

“They must have been,” Melodie admitted.

“Quite so. And yet they persevered, for they had the truth of their beliefs to sustain them. They triumphed over their fear, and for that victory the Noisome Host deemed us worthy of patronage. All that we have done since has been by their eternal grace.” His arm swept across the majesty of the city once more. “And behold! What wonders we have rendered!”

Melodie smiled. “It is beautiful, in its brutality.”

“Rest easy then. For our path is righteous, as strong as steel. The words of that liar, that fool Viego, are nothing in comparison.”

“His words were cunning,” said Melodie. “They were so sincere. I feel ashamed for my doubt.”

“We must never doubt. Doubt is a doorway, one that only leads to ruin. A pox upon his name—we beat Viego and cast him out, and now I curse myself even for the kindness of that. Better to have gone further still.”

The veil of plectrums jingled as Melodie gave a short bow. “I thank you for your wisdom, holy one.”

“Come now,” Qylmaster gestured to the stairs leading back down to the temple. “I have heard you play, my child. The inspiration of Cacophoni has blessed you bountifully. You are strong not only in song but in mind, in will. You do not require my feeble words to stand against the challenges of this world.”

“I am grateful for them all the same.”

They descended, walking in contented silence, until they reached her simple alcove. Melodie suppressed a laugh.

“To think that there could be a lost chapter of the scriptures, another god—”

“There will be no more talk of such things!” Qylmaster snapped, all his former warmth gone. Melodie sank to her knees, shocked into mortified silence, clutching her praytar for support.

A hush filled the sanctum. Veiled adepts, acolytes, and mystics shared glances and whispered words. They could not help but overhear the Sanctifier’s rebuke, their eyes like daggers piercing Melodie from every direction.

“There is the Host, and nothing else.” Qylmaster towered over her. “Your doubts disrupt us all, throwing our faith from its divine cadence. Are you perhaps unworthy of the rank of Stringstress? Pray for mercy, Melodie. Pray that your thoughtless words will be forgiven.”

Melodie bowed her head, cursing herself for her levity. “In Cacophoni’s name.”

“You shall make penance with a dozen soli.” Qylmaster held out a slim crystal vial, which she accepted. “Contemplate the majesty of the Noisome Host, as you make your offering.”

Melodie played, her fingers a blur over the strings. The vibrating metal stung after a while, yet relief washed over her. She finished the first solo in under an hour.

It was not until midway through the fourth that the calluses on her fingers opened.

Blood slicked the strings, running down to the bottom edge of the praytar’s fretboard, and she was careful to catch each crimson droplet in the vial. By the end of the twelfth solo, Melodie squeezed her shaking hands until it was filled.

She glanced down at her bloodied fingers, unable to force the beaten figure of Viego from her mind, as he had lain broken in the dust.

And where once doubt lingered, anger took its place—an anger unlike any she had felt before.

“Is your penance done?” asked the Sanctifier when she came to him. “And did it bring reason back to you, Stringstress?”

“I pray so,” Melodie answered through gritted teeth. “I know that man’s words were lies. For if they were true, none here would deny them, would they?”

“I believed this matter was concluded,” Qylmaster growled. “Was I mistaken?”

Melodie flinched. “No, Sanctifier, it’s just—”

“It seems penance was not sufficient to quiet your mind! Need I remove you from this temple until you have come to your senses? Perhaps so. Oh, child—you seemed destined to rise so high among us. To become a font of holy wisdom! To teach others the tenets of the faith!” Qylmaster shook his head. “Look upon yourself, now. Bear this shame as I bear my disappointment.”

Melodie cast her gaze around the temple, but found only judgement, coldness, some even stifled laughter at her plight. She knew there were those among them just like her, with questions and doubts. Yet they turned their backs, their denial an almost physical force pushing Melodie from the temple’s light.

She had never felt more alone.

“You will take your leave now,” said Qylmaster. “Return when your faith has, and we will decide if you are worthy of any place among us.”

Melodie paced the streets with no idea of where to go. Her vision blurred with tears, she collided with a street performer who was clumsily attempting to appease all three gods in unison, with a bizarre apparatus of instruments bound to himself. The man sprawled to the ground in a crash of cheap cymbals and the squeal of protesting catgut.

Ripping the veil loose from her face, Melodie looked down upon it as the blood from her hands smeared the lacquer, before tossing it into the gutter.

She was angry. Angry at herself, at the Sanctifier... and most of all at the idea that Viego’s lies might not have been lies at all.

With a soft, even rhythm, Melodie swept the temple steps, trying to ignore the heat of the suns beating down on her. She concentrated on the even swing of the broom, the rough bristles brushing against the stone, content that even in this humble task she was making music again.

The weeks she had spent wandering the city had not dispelled her doubts, nor the newfound anger that surged in her heart. But when it felt like all else had turned to sand around her, she clung to what she knew would bring her peace.

Music.

She had stood with the other mendicants and aspirants at the gate each day, staring up into the impassive visors of the Rectifiers, seeing the afternoon light reflected brilliantly in the brass. When at last she had been permitted entry once more, Melodie threw herself upon the mercy of the faith, enduring all of the purification they demanded to prove herself worthy to return to the fold.

However, back inside the temple walls she had begun to work in secret moments and hidden acts, searching for what she was now convinced was being hidden from them all. Lost chapters of the holy scriptures. Forbidden gods.

She was determined to find answers.

It played out just as she had hoped it would. Interrogated and scourged by Sanctifier Qylmaster, he had at last relented and Melodie was welcomed back into the ranks of the faithful, though with all the warmth shown to a beggar, beneath notice or friendship. The promising future she had once had, even the potential to one day become an anointed Roadwalker—the blessed servants who tended the sacred instruments of Pentakill—was gone forever. Where once she was adorned in finery, her fingers a conduit for the holy music of the Noisome Host, now she wore plain robes, confined to shuffling in the shadows as she cleaned the temple, and restrung the praytars of others.

Melodie was invisible, but even the simple familiarity of the inner sanctum was a comfort... and in truth it was all the better to achieve the true purpose in her heart.

Pausing to wipe the sweat from her brow, she sighed. It was hot, and she was exhausted, but the suns would begin to set before long, and she would have a chance in the quiet hours of the night to search for the lost chapters, if they even—

She stopped, suddenly. Something prickled her awareness, reaching her ears and filling her veins with ice. She realized it was not a sound that had startled her, but rather its absence.

It was silent. Utterly silent.

Melodie had never heard true silence before. Had she been struck deaf by some cruel twist of fate, excommunicated from the songs that connected her to the divine? She ran to the temple’s front gate, looking up to set her thoughts in time with the holy immensity of the distant Temporonomicon, and her eyes went wide.

It had stopped.

What could stop the Temporonomicon?

In the moment that she grappled with that impossibility, a shadow fell over her—but not just her.

It fell over everything.

The world was plunged into a sickly twilight as the suns were swallowed by a bloom of writhing, malignant darkness. Magical energies the color of a deep bruise lanced through, and throbbing lightning of brightest red reached out to craze the sky, drifting down and coiling toward the earth.

And with it came... a sound, or a hideous un-sound, replacing the faithful beat of the Temporonomicon with the howling of ruin.

The great monoliths hanging over the city began to tilt and sag. With no sacred rhythm to keep them in place, two of them collided, plummeting with titanic slowness to smash like meteors into the skyline. Violent shockwaves tore through the streets from the impacts, the dark energy storm joined by slashing gales of dust and jagged debris scraping and clashing, giving further voice to the din.

Melodie recoiled, clutching onto a pillar for support as she watched men and women fleeing through the streets from the advancing horror. The fortunate found whatever shelter they could, but they were few. So many were caught up in the storm, and it was only after witnessing its effects on them that Melodie realized she was screaming.

It surged like a predator, engulfing its prey. It wound along their limbs like a serpent, surging past their teeth to produce a sound no natural thing should be capable of producing. It was, impossibly, a kind of song—but one attuned to some terrible, keening dissonance. Their faces collapsed around choked cries of agony, falling away slack and boneless, and what was within them was drawn out from between their howling lips, carried to hang up over them like the slick branches of incarnadine trees.

This new and hideous forest sprung up across the city, shivering with discord as it amplified the grand dirge of unmaking. It grew, louder, and louder, and louder, with each new voice it claimed.

Melodie’s throat went raw, cutting off her screams. She looked on as the stormfront rippled over the Rectifiers standing ready in the courtyard. The temple guardians twitched and thrashed, losing their sure footing as the brass of their armor ran like molten wax. The ironwood mauls in their fists caught fire. They stumbled, crashing to the ground in expanding pools of boiling foulness and liquid metal.

Melodie retched as whorls of smoke and steam coiled into the air from the obliterated guardians, drawing her gaze up to the grand thoroughfare. There, through the dust and gloom, she glimpsed a figure striding confidently through the city gates like a conqueror, with his arms spread wide.

“Viego?” she breathed. She could not say for certain.

If it was Viego, he did not look as he had before—a lunatic in rags. This man was transcendent, his flesh absent any wounds that may have been laid into it by the outrage of the masses.

Had he been right all along? Were these the blessings of his “Dissonant One”? Was this his wrath for the falsehood and ignorance of the faithful? Melodie had to know.

“Into the temple!” Qylmaster’s voice came from behind Melodie as she took her first step. Desperate citizens were barging and rushing past her, looking for sanctuary.

But Melodie was rooted in place.

“He wasn’t lying, was he,” she called out, still transfixed by the unfolding destruction, all their great works rendered to ruin. She turned to the Sanctifier. “Where is Pentakill?”

“Come away child!” he bellowed. “You see now the evils of this heresy! Get thee to safety with us!”

“This is a power only the divine could bestow,” Melodie replied, pointing to the madness enveloping the city. “And this is not the work of the Noisome Host. There is another god, isn’t there?”

The Sanctifier stared blankly. “Pentakill will come,” he murmured. “They will come to protect their faithful followers.”

“Then where are they...?” Melodie snarled. She looked up, seeing the temple’s campanile tower topped with a golden statue of Karthus now falling to rubble. “They aren’t coming. You know that.”

The Sanctifier reached out to her. “Sister Melodie...”

He had never looked older, or more feeble.

“We’ve all been living a lie,” Melodie turned her back on him. “I have been living a lie. There are answers, ones I thought hidden away out of mortal fear, or petty ignorance, but now I know.”

She pointed to the storm.

“The answer is out there.”

Melodie descended the steps, moving against the surging current of men and women. Viego was out there, somewhere, doing precisely what he had promised he would do. He was opening the eyes of the world, through such violence and catastrophe that none could ever deny the reality of his patron, this Dissonant One.

Amid all the devastation, she felt she could almost hear a word, a name, all but imperceptible in the chaos.

“Muuuutaaaarisssss...”

Despite its horror, Melodie pushed forward into the crimson maw of the storm. To her, revelation was worth any price. If that ended up being her own existence, then so be it—hers had been a life of ignorance, but no more. Somehow, impossibly, excitement welled up within her, washing away all doubt and anger as a new path appeared, dark and winding as it might be.

And perhaps Viego would show her the way.