LoL Universe Indexing and Search

Dashing through the shadows of eastern Shurima, a righteous avenger stalks those who have harmed others. His punishment is swift, certain, and exacted by a curious weapon that rights the wrongs of his foes.

Raised on the streets of the city of Marwi, Akshan was introduced to injustice at birth. In a place where local warlords took what they wanted, most people survived by keeping their heads down and minding their own affairs. Try as he might, young Akshan could never manage to let bad deeds go unnoticed and was often quick to intervene when he saw someone being mistreated. This approach made the boy many powerful enemies, and on one fateful occasion, left him beaten within an inch of his life.

But luck was on his side. An old woman named Shadya found the boy unconscious in the street outside her dwelling. Though Marwian custom said she should not get involved, she took young Akshan inside and, against all odds, he pulled through.

As Akshan regained his faculties, he realized his savior was no ordinary woman. Shadya was a member of the Sentinels of Light, an ancient order committed to fighting Harrowings and eradicating agents of the Black Mist. She saw Akshan as a troubled youth, stubborn and defiant, but vulnerable. After butting heads with the boy over her numerous sentinel house rules, Shadya quickly discovered there was much to like about him. He had guts and a conscience—a combination seldom found in Marwi. Seeing the immense potential in the young man, Shadya made a deal with him: she would allow him to stay, free from the grasp of his countless enemies, and, in return, he would dedicate himself to the sentinel order.

Shadya and Akshan formed a fast bond as she taught him everything she knew about surviving as a solo sentinel. Akshan the scrappy street urchin grew into Akshan the full-grown bane of scoundrels. But even as Akshan’s skills grew by the day, he could see his mentor growing more distant, and more troubled.

At last, Shadya told her pupil the reason for her concern: A Harrowing was coming, bigger than any the world had ever seen, bearing an army of wraiths and ghouls from the Shadow Isles. Their only hope of stopping the cataclysm rested with the ancient sentinel weapons that lay buried within Shurima's crypts and tombs. If the world was to be saved from ruination, they needed to collect these weapons, and quickly.

To Shadya’s dismay, she found that the ancient weapons had already been plundered by local warlords. She pleaded with them to relinquish the artifacts for the fight against the inevitable Harrowing, but the warlords refused, determined to unlock the weapons’ mysterious power for themselves.

With time running out, Akshan and Shadya were forced to make do with what they had. As they took stock of their arsenal, Akshan discovered a particularly striking gun hidden away in the base’s vault. Alarmed, his mentor snatched it away and forbade Akshan from ever using it. The weapon, known as the Absolver, was imbued with an ancient enchantment that granted it a strange, unspeakable power—it could take the life of a killer and, by doing so, restore their most recent victims to life.

“It must not be wielded by anyone,” said Shadya. “Such matters of life and death are best left in the hands of fate.”

But Akshan still bristled at sentinel rules, and he had even stronger opinions on fate. He had spent his whole life seeing good people horribly mistreated while bad people did as they pleased without consequence. If fate was real, it definitely needed help—help that the Absolver could provide.

As his interest in the weapon deepened, Akshan continued to pry its history from Shadya and came to a shocking discovery: She had used the gun to save Akshan when she found him unconscious in the street all those years ago. With it, she’d slain the criminal who had nearly killed him, and, in doing so, restored young Akshan to life. He wondered: Why did he alone deserve to be revived by the gun? Surely there were others who were more worthy.

While Akshan questioned the antiquated rules of his order, his mentor continued to press the warlords to turn over their stolen weapons. Tensions between the two parties built until one tragic day Akshan returned home to find Shadya murdered in the street, almost exactly where he had fallen all those years ago.

Akshan knew what he had to do. He made some key alterations to the Absolver and set out into the scorching desert with the forbidden weapon, hungry for vengeance. Though he could not determine which of the warlords had killed his mentor, he knew one way to be certain: he would pick them off one by one until Shadya was returned to Runeterra.

Sona’s earliest memories are of the Ionian monastery where she was raised, in the province of Galrin. The monks, along with kindhearted volunteers from the local villages, took in any orphans or foundlings left at the front gates, and made sure that they would want for nothing.

As a young girl, Sona was considered shy and quiet, until it became apparent that she couldn’t speak at all. But she was unusually thoughtful and attentive, and the other children tended to seek her out whenever they needed comfort, their playful smiles quickly restored.

And Sona discovered other ways to express herself.

Unlike her playmates, she had one possession when she was first found—a curiously strung instrument, packed into a plain wooden case. None of the visiting musicians or teachers knew what it was… though that did not stop several of them from attempting to procure it for themselves, one way or another. Instead, Sona taught herself how to play it, and her simple, beautiful melodies moved even the most skeptical listener to tears of joy.

However, dark times were approaching. The foreign empire of Noxus had begun landing troops in the northern provinces, and the monks decided to evacuate their young charges to safety before the invasion reached Galrin. After their caretakers struck a deal with a Demacian trader, Sona and a handful of her friends found themselves bundled onto one of the last ships to escape before the Noxian blockade of Ionia’s western coast. She looked back in anguish, knowing that she would not be able to return for many years, if at all.

After months at sea, they arrived in Demacia—a strange, dour land where magic was widely distrusted. Their monks were called “Illuminators”, and they worshipped no gods or spirits, yet still placed great value on showing kindness to strangers and the needy.

So it was that Sona was taken in by the Buvelle family. Lord Barrett and his wife, Lestara, were prominent supporters of the Illuminator order, and renowned patrons of the arts in the Great City. Sona became like a sister to their daughter, Kahina, and Lestara in particular grew very attached to her. The Demacian language was often difficult to learn, but the Buvelles developed a personalized sign language that enabled Sona to communicate easily with her new family, and their friends.

Yet she yearned to express so much more. To show her appreciation to her adopted countrymen, she decided to use her gift to delight and soothe them, and returned to her music with renewed passion.

Soon, word spread of her virtuoso talents. Her performances captivated audiences, bringing them from sorrow to bliss, from righteous martial pride to almost exquisite peace… and Lestara became intrigued by the mysterious instrument that made this possible.

Delving deep into the libraries of the Illuminators, she came to believe it was one of the fabled etwahls—wondrous artifacts dating back thousands of years before Demacia’s founding, and now exceedingly rare in the world. If that were true, then this was an object of magic, and Sona’s preternatural connection to it was a dangerous gift indeed. Lestara urged her to keep it secret, to avoid bringing unwanted attention from the Demacian mageseekers.

Sona obeyed, though she wondered how something that brought people peace could be seen as a threat.

Some years later, Lord Barrett Buvelle was slain fighting Noxus at the Gates of Mourning. When Kahina took up her father’s blade and military commission, the heartbroken Lestara decided the time had come for Sona to return to Ionia, and the two of them withdrew from all courtly engagements to make the journey together.

In the war’s aftermath, a great “restoration” was underway across the First Lands, but the people were much changed by what they had endured, and Sona realized there was no longer any place for her there. Saying farewell to Ionia once again, she went back to Demacia with Lestara.

Even so, her chosen homeland is not without its own problems. In the wake of King Jarvan III’s assassination, the mageseekers have gained significant power, and many innocent citizens are persecuted for any supposed connection to magic.

As a child of two wildly different cultures, Sona increasingly finds herself at odds with her family’s political allegiances. With etwahl in hand, her melodies now serve not only to provide comfort, but also to defend what she knows is right and just.

War was coming, and Galio could do nothing but watch as the Demacian soldiers prepared for it. He couldn’t say how long it had been since he last tasted magic. He’d been carried from the plinth many times before, only to return without getting a chance at life. But even when his body was still, his mind was always stirring.

And it longed to fight.

Galio could just make out the bristling rows of northern barbarians in the distance. Even with his senses dulled in this dreamlike state, he could tell their ranks were sloppy and undisciplined, pacing to and fro in eager anticipation of their Demacian foes. Galio had overheard talk of these wildmen many times, given their recent conquests. The fearful people of the city whispered that the Freljordians left none alive, and mounted the heads of their foes on enormous tusks from strange beasts...

But the barbarians were of no interest to the colossus. His eyes found a bigger prize – a titanic shape, seeming almost as tall as the hills behind it. It moved ominously, heaving like the waves of a troubled sea, waiting to be unleashed.

What is that? thought Galio, hopefully. I hope it fights.

Beneath him, his Demacian comrades marched in precise synchronization, reciting a cadence, chanting away all thoughts but battle. To each other, they sounded confident in their victory, but to Galio, who had heard this song so many times before, their rhythms were less certain, more hesitant.

They are not excited to battle this great beast. I will do it for them!

Galio was filled with the urge to scoop up every one of these men in his arms and tell them it would be fine, that he would spring forth and chase the entire invading army back to its borders. But he couldn’t. His arms, legs, and claws were as cold and inert as the stone he was hewn from. He needed a catalyst, a powerful magical presence of some kind, to awaken from his living dream.

I hope there’s a mage this time, he thought, gazing toward the horizon. Usually there isn’t. I hate it when there isn’t.

His worry grew as he heard the snorts of exhaustion from the oxen pulling him. They numbered several dozen, and still had to be swapped out with fresh replacements every mile. For a brief moment, Galio thought they might all collapse, leaving him in the outer Demacian brambles while the humans had their fun.

Then, at last, his cart came to a stop at the edge of the battlefield. He knew there would be no parley, no chance that the savage enemy would surrender. Galio could hear the clatter of his tiny human comrades locking shields, forming a solid wall of steel. But he knew that whatever the barbarians’ enormous beast was, it would surely cut right through the fine Demacian armaments.

The two sides flew at one another, colliding in a flash of limbs and blades. Galio heard swords clashing, and axes meeting shields. Men from both armies were falling to their deaths in the mud. Brave voices that Galio knew well cried like children for their mothers.

The soft heart of the stone giant began to quiver. Yet still he could not break his paralysis.

Suddenly a shock of blinding purple seared through the fray, causing scores of Demacians to drop to their knees. Galio felt it then – that familiar sensation in his fingertips, like the noon sun warming cool alabaster. He could almost wiggle them...

The flash came again, sapping the life from more heroic Demacian soldiers. Galio’s senses came to life with startling acuity, revealing the conflict in gruesome detail. The bodies of men in broken armor were strewn about the field in grotesque contortions. Many barbarians lay slain in pools of their own blood.

And in the distance, behind their lines, their cowardly sorcerer was summoning a crackling orb between his hands, readying his next attack.

There he is. He is the reason I wake, Galio realized, first in gratitude, then in rage. I will squash him first!

But his attention was once again drawn to the monstrous shape in the farthest reaches of the battlefield. Finally, it was coming into focus: A towering behemoth of a creature – covered in thick, matted fur. It struggled against the steel chains that restrained it. Its head thrashed about viciously in an attempt to free itself from the giant blinding cowl that covered its eyes.

Galio smiled. Now that is a foe worthy of my fists.

The barbarians pulled off the behemoth’s covering, revealing a snarling, mangled snout beneath a beady pair of jet-black eyes. Free from its blinders, the creature erupted in a fearsome roar, as if declaring itself ready to ravage everything in sight. The monster’s handlers released a mechanism that let loose the chains, and the behemoth threw itself into the opposing infantry, instantly slaying a dozen Demacians with just one swipe of a saber-like claw.

Galio was horrified. These were men he had guarded since they were children. He wanted to weep for them, as he had seen humans do in mourning. But he was not built for that. He focused on his purpose and the thrill of the fight that awaited. This was a huge, terrible beast, and he couldn’t wait to put his hands on it. He could feel the vitality of life returning to him.

Yes! At last!

The sensation shot through his arms, his head, and all the way to his legs. For the first time in a century, he could move. Across the valley a sound echoed, something not heard in living memory.

It was the sound of a stone giant’s laughter.

Galio leapt into the fray, knocking aside the barbarians’ crudely built siege engines. Friend and foe alike stopped to gape at the stone titan who was now smashing his way through the front lines. Like a living monument, he burst from the press of soldiers and threw himself into the path of the rampaging behemoth. “Hello, great beast,” he rumbled. “Shall I smash you?”

The creature threw its mighty head back and howled, as if in acknowledgment of the challenge. Both titans ran toward one another with earth-shaking force. The behemoth slammed into Galio’s mid-section with its shoulder, and let out a groan of intense pain as it crumpled to the ground clutching its collarbone. Galio stood above it, reluctant to smash a prostrate opponent.

“Come now, no need to feel bad,” said Galio, eagerly motioning with his hand. “That was a good try. Now hit me again.”

The monster slowly pulled itself to its feet and regained the angry glint in its eye. It struck Galio with all its might, its claws raking away a piece of his head.

“You broke my crown,” said the colossus, pleasantly surprised, encouraged by the hope of a competitive fight. He struck at the beast with the bottom of his hand, swinging it down like a club with every ounce of his stone frame. The petricite fist collided with the behemoth’s flesh, and the surrounding field rang out with the cracking of gigantic bones.

The monster staggered, screaming and swinging blindly, but connecting with nothing.

Galio grabbed the giant beast around the waist in his monolithic arms and wrenched its torso, trying to break its spine. But the behemoth twisted out of his grip, and began to circle him warily before backing away.

“Wait! Our battle must be resolved!” bellowed the colossus. He started to lumber after the beast, hoping it would reconsider its decision to flee.

But the faint cries of his Demacian brethren carried to him on the wind. Without realizing, Galio had followed the monster for hundreds of feet, straying from the heart of the battle. He wanted to fight the creature, but his human comrades needed him.

As the abomination limped away into the distance, Galio gave it one last wistful gaze. “Farewell, great beast.”

He turned and thundered back to his comrades. More than half of them were lying on the ground in agony, tortured by unseen coils of power. He knew at once it was the same magic that kept him living.

The stone titan saw the terror in the soldiers’ faces, before turning to the malevolent sorcerer once more. Galio knew what he must do, and what the consequences would be.

He leapt high in the air and then came crashing down onto the mage, interrupting his vile incantation, and squashing the barbarian into the loam. The remaining invaders were routed, dropping their arms in terror and fleeing in all directions.

As the sorcerer’s magic faded, Galio felt conflicted. The animating force was draining from his body. He’d saved countless lives, but he was being dragged back to slumber.

He didn’t understand why he had no magic of his own, like all living things must have. Why had he been made this way? Had that even been his creator’s intention? As he felt the cold embrace of his dormancy returning, he took comfort that life itself was magical, and if Galio only experienced it briefly, it was worth it.

Until the final day. Until he would come to break the world’s last mage in his unyielding fists, and the stone sentinel of Demacia would awaken no more.

Over a century past, the brutal warlord Sion rose to prominence, slaughtering all who dared stand in his way. Greatly feared by friend and foe alike, he was the last of a proud warrior culture that had been part of Noxus since its founding. Sion had sworn oaths to his ancestors to never take a backward step in battle, and to die a proud warrior’s death when his time came.

While not noted for his subtlety or strategic acumen, Sion’s methods were ruthlessly effective, and he won many vicious triumphs for Noxus. The empire’s might was at a peak not seen for hundreds of years, and so it took the generals of high command by surprise when a nation from the west first resisted, then began pushing back their steady advance. These Demacians drove the Noxian warbands eastward, harrying them back behind the walls of Hvardis. Sion, who had been campaigning in the Argent Mountains, now turned south, filled with fury.

He arrived at the city to find the Demacians on the horizon. They had no intention of besieging Hvardis—having driven the Noxians from the lands neighboring their own, they were preparing to return home. Sion readied his troops, determined to punish these upstarts for their impudence. The Noxian commander at Hvardis, however, had already suffered several defeats to the enemy, and was content to hide behind the city walls and let them leave unscathed.

It had been Sion and his warriors who had paid the claim to the land now lost in blood; outraged, he hurled the commander from the city walls, and ordered the attack.

Sion tore straight through the Demacian lines, seeking out their leader—King Jarvan the First. But while his own warband charged with him, fearless of death, those who had been cowering in Hvardis were weak. Their spirit broke, and they retreated back to the city, leaving Sion and his trusted few surrounded. One by one, they fell, but Sion ploughed on.

Alone, pierced by a dozen swords and a score of crossbow bolts, he finally reached Jarvan. The fight was brutal, and it was the Demacian who delivered the killing blow. Sion dropped his axe and, with a final burst of strength, tore the king’s crown from his head with one hand, clamping the other around his throat. Jarvan’s guards stabbed Sion again and again, but his grip did not loosen.

Only when the enemy king was slain did Sion allow death to claim him.

His body was recovered—along with the Demacian king’s crown, still in his grip—and borne back to the Immortal Bastion in honor. Noxus mourned Sion’s passing, and his corpse was interred within a towering monument constructed to honor him for all time.

Half a century passed before Sion’s tomb was reopened.

Noxian dominance had waned in the years since Sion’s death, and the ruling Grand General of the empire, Boram Darkwill, was willing to pay almost any price to restore its lost glory. Darkwill’s allies, a mysterious cabal known as the Black Rose, reanimated the long-dead hero using forbidden magics, and presented him to the Grand General.

He could not refuse this gift, and so Sion returned to life, driven by unnatural bloodlust and utterly inured to pain.

He hurled himself like a living battering ram against the enemies of Noxus, destroying all he faced. More so than before his death, the victories Sion brought were costly. He was uncontrollable, killing friend and foe without remorse, and those forced to fight alongside him began to desert. Finally, Darkwill ordered Sion reinterred.

Hundreds of warriors died trying to restrain him before he was finally bound in chains and dragged back to the Immortal Bastion. Without slaughter, the blood magic that sustained him quickly engulfed his mind in an all-consuming rage. His roars finally fell silent as he was sealed in beneath his giant statue.

There he languished for many years, neither alive nor truly dead. When his tomb opened once more, it was to a very different empire. Darkwill was gone, overthrown by the general Jericho Swain—but Sion cared little, roaring and pulling against his bindings in a frenzy that could only be sated in battle.

Chained within an iron cage, he returned to Hvardis, which had broken away from Noxian rule under Darkwill’s reign; Sion was the new Grand General’s punishment for their rebellion.

He butchered the defenders of Hvardis and leveled the city, laughing as he ripped its towers apart with his bare hands. Other regions that had abandoned Noxus soon bent the knee, fearing the undead juggernaut would be unleashed upon them next.

When harsh daylight floods his opening tomb, Sion now welcomes it… for with it comes the chance to shed his chains and sate his hunger for bloodshed, to briefly silence the screaming madness drowning out all thought of rest.

Sion remembers only fragments of his life, and less of the times since, but one truth has remained as stark as on the day of his death—now, as then, the world trembles before him.

“A shadow fades before the light,” the girl repeated to herself.

The words were a mantra, one she often used to put herself at ease when she felt herself losing control. Though she was only thirteen, she had become adept at using tricks like this to ease the symptoms of her affliction. But today she found the words to be little help. Today, the girl needed to be alone.

She fought to hold in the tears, avoiding eye contact with passersby as she walked briskly toward the scrutinizing glare of the sentries at the city gates. If they stopped her, she felt she might break down and spill everything to them. At least then it would all be over, she thought.

But they paid her little mind as she walked through the archway, to the open lands outside the city.

Far off the main highway, the girl found a quiet nook in a wooded hillside. Once she was sure she wouldn’t be seen, she removed a clean handkerchief from her pocket, placed it to her face, and sobbed.

The tears came fast and thick down her cheeks. If anyone had seen the girl like this, they probably would not recognize her. Everybody knew her as the fresh-faced optimist who cheerily bid them Good morning! and Nice to see you! everyday, regardless of circumstance.

The other side of her – this ugly and decidedly un-Demacian one – was a face the girl shared with nobody.

As she stanched the flow of tears with her thin linen cloth, her mind began to settle. She finally dared to recall the events that had led to the tears. She had been in the lecture room with her classmates when her gaze began to wander to an open window. The flock of fuchsia nectarflies outside were far more interesting than the drab lesson in field tactics their instructor was offering. The flies danced, not in unison at all, but in a vivacious chaos that was strangely beautiful. She had taken in their movement, feeling herself warming to the core with an intense happiness.

The warmth was familiar to her. Most of the time it could be tamed, stuffed back inside her like feathers that had leaked from a mattress. But today the warmth was... hot, with a life of its own. She felt it burning, in her teeth, threatening to explode into the world with a fan of iridescent hues as it had only done in privacy before.

For a brief moment, a thin trickle of white light leaked from her fingertips.

No! This is not for anyone to see! she thought, hoping to suppress the glow.

For the first time in her life, it felt too big. The girl had only one chance to save herself. She needed to leave. She stood and gathered her belongings.

“Luxanna,” her instructor had said. “Are you-”

“A shadow fades before the light,” she had muttered, and ran from the room without explanation. “A shadow fades before the light. A shadow fades before the light.”

As she finished drying her eyes in the calm of the woods, her feet carried her farther and farther from the city. She began to assess the cost of the incident. Word would spread quickly across the citadel that a student had stormed out of class without leave. What punishment would she receive for that insubordination?

Whatever was to come, it would be better than the alternative. If she’d stayed, she would have erupted, filling the entire building in the brightest, purest light. Then everyone would know she was afflicted with magic.

That’s when the annullers would come.

Once or twice, the girl had seen the annullers in the streets with their strange instruments, rooting out practitioners of magic. Once these afflicted people were found, they were forcibly relocated to slums outside the kingdom, never to take part in the grand society Lux’s family knew so well.

That was the worst part, knowing her family would be shamed. And her brother... Oh, her brother. She shuddered to think what Garen would say. The girl often dreamed of living in a different part of the world, where people with arcane gifts were revered as heroes, and celebrated by their families. But the girl lived in Demacia, where people knew the destructive potential of magic, and treated it as such.

As she found her situation becoming increasingly hopeless, Lux realized she was standing within view of the Galio monument. The gargantuan statue had been made long ago as a battle standard for the military, accompanying them in their missions abroad. Sculpted from petricite, Galio possessed magic-absorbing properties that had saved many lives from archmage attacks. If one believed the legends, he had even come to life at times, when enough mystical power had seeped into his mortar. At the moment, he stood still as a mountain, straddling the Memorial Road, far from the traffic of the main highway.

Lux cautiously approached the statue. Ever since she was a little girl, she had imagined the old titan keeping vigilant watch over all those who passed beneath him. It seemed to peer into her soul, judging her.

“You have no place here,” it would say accusingly.

Though it only spoke in her imagination, the girl knew it spoke true. She was different. That was undeniable. Her constant smiles and exuberance stood out glaringly among Demacia’s trademark austerity.

Then there was the glow. Ever since she could remember, Lux felt it burning in her heart, longing to burst free. When she was small, the glow was weak, and she could easily conceal it. Now the power had become far too great to stay hidden.

Burdened with guilt, Lux lifted her eyes to the Colossus.

“Well, go on and say it!” she yelled.

It was uncharacteristic of Lux, but the day had not been kind, and it soothed her soul to vent. She expelled sharp breaths of air in relief, then immediately felt embarrassment at the outburst. Did I really just yell at a statue? she marveled, and looked around to make sure nobody had seen. At certain times of the year, this road was flooded with travelers making their pilgrimages to the colossus, paying tribute to the symbol of Demacian resolve. But presently, the Memorial Road was empty.

As Lux was searching for bystanders, she heard a gravelly racket in the air above her. She whipped her head up – it had come from the top of the colossus. It was common for birds to take flight from their nests in the statue’s crown, but this was no bird. It sounded like a heavy clay pot being dragged across cobblestones.

Lux stared for a long while, but nothing stirred about the statue. Perhaps this was her mind again, working through the trauma of the day’s events. Even so, her eyes remained fixed on the colossus, daring whatever had moved to do so again.

And then it did: the eyes of the statue actually shifted. The large stone orbs physically swiveled in their sockets to find Lux in the grass below.

The girl’s face blanched for a moment. She could feel the enormous stone figure studying her. This time, it was definitely not in her imagination. Lux found her legs and ran, away from the statue, as fast and as far as she could.

Later that night, Lux entered the alabaster arch of her family’s city manor. She had walked many miles, all day long, all over the city, in the hope her parents would be asleep when she returned home. But one person was not.

Her mother Augatha sat in on a sofa in the corner of the grand foyer, glowering at the door with burning expectation.

“Do you know what hour it is?” she demanded.

Lux did not respond. She knew it was past midnight, well beyond the hour when her family were typically asleep.

“The school has chosen not to expel you,” said Augatha. “It was not an easy mess to fix.”

Lux wanted to break down crying, but she had done nothing but weep all day, and she simply had no more tears. “They almost saw it,” she said.

“I figured. It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“What should I do?” said Lux, exhausted from worry.

“What we must,” her mother replied. “You’ve lost control of it. Eventually, someone will get hurt.”

Lux had heard of men dying in battle at the hands of sorcerers, bodies melted beyond recognition and souls torn in two. She felt wretched, knowing she harbored any power that might be used for such destruction. She wanted to hate herself, but found herself numbed by the constant torrent of emotions she’d experienced that day.

“I’ve enlisted the help of a professional,” said Augutha.

Lux’s stomach turned. There was only one profession that dealt with her affliction. “An annuller?” she said, light of breath.

“He’s a friend. Someone I should have called on a long time ago,” said Augatha. “You can trust him to be discreet.”

Lux nodded. She knew the shame that was imminent. Even if the man told no one, as her mother assured her, he would still know.

And the cures — she didn’t want to think about those.

“He’s coming for your consultation in the morning,” said Augutha, as she walked up the stairs toward her bedroom. “This will be our secret.”

The words were no comfort. Lux was not even a woman yet, and already her life was over. She wanted nothing more than to retire upstairs to a deep slumber that would bury all her troubles in darkness, but she knew her particular troubles would not disappear with the night. The light would still grow inside her, threatening to erupt again at any moment. The annuller would arrive in the morning to perform some dreadful treatment. Lux had heard rumors, horrible rumors, of petricite ground and swallowed in potions, followed by bouts of excruciating pain. True, the girl wanted to be rid of the affliction, but no part of her wanted to experience that.

Isn’t there another way? she wondered.

Of course!

The idea leapt into her head like lightning. All at once she was filled with dread and hope, unsure if the plan she’d just thought up would work, but knowing it was something she had to try.

Under the deepening night, Lux frantically retraced her steps, back through the alabaster archway, down the boulevard, sneaking her way past the guards at the gates. To the south, she found the Memorial Road, and followed it for miles before coming to Galio’s resting spot. Her heart galloped in her chest.

“Hello?” the girl asked shakily, unsure if she wanted an answer.

Lux approached the plinth where the colossus stood, all alone in the stillness of night. She cautiously placed her hand on the cold petricite foundation. Wonder what it tastes like. I bet it’s really bitter, she reckoned. She supposed she would find out soon enough, unless her plan worked.

“Well, they say you fix magic,” she said. “So fix me. I want to be Demacian.”

She gazed up at the colossus. It was as inert and unwavering as the Demacian way of life. Not even the bats were fluttering about it tonight. What she had heard before — what she thought she saw — was something she had imagined after all, then. She removed her hand from the plinth, pondering where else she could turn.

“Small girl person,” said a booming voice above.

Lux’s head shot upward to see the statue tilting its enormous head down. Her mind raced. He knows. And he’s not going to fix you. He’s going to squash you like a bug.

“Can you... scratch my foot?” asked the colossus.

Galio watched in wonder as the girl ran away from him, her tiny head shrieking words he could not understand. Though he’d observed her for years, he never knew she could move so quickly, and loudly.

Ever since the girl was very small, Galio had seen her as she stopped by on yearly trips with her family. He would study her with fascination, straining to keep sight of her as she skipped in and out of his field of vision. Then, in the middle of play, she would suddenly remember him standing above her, and she would shy away behind her mother’s skirt. When the colossus was dormant, everything seemed to move with a hazy distortion. The world was dull, people were but flickers before his eyes.

But even then, Galio could feel something profoundly special in the girl. It was a glow, but not just a visual luminescence. Time slowed with her, and the haze lifted as something strange stirred within his stone form.

It started small. When the girl was a toddler, Galio could feel her strange warmth tickling his toes. On her second visit, Galio could feel the glow tugging at his entire leg. By the time she was ten, the girl’s warmth was so strong Galio could feel her approaching from a mile away, and would grow giddy with anticipation of her visit.

Now, here she was again, even though it was not her normal visiting day. Her power burned so intensely it had spread like wildfire across his cold innards. She had brought him life!

Now that Galio was awake, he saw her brilliance with stunning clarity. She shone like all the stars in the heavens.

And she was leaving again.

With every step the girl took, Galio felt his life evaporating, returning him to his cold, motionless state. If he went still, he would never know the girl. He had to follow.

His towering legs rumbled from the plinth, easily catching up to the girl with their enormous gait. Her eyes shot wide as she whirled toward the lumbering colossus. A concentrated beam of light fired from the girl’s fingers into Galio’s leg. The strange feeling within him intensified until he thought he might explode, scattering bits of himself all over Demacia.

But Galio did not break. Instead, he grew even warmer, and more alive. He bent down and gently scooped up the girl in his hands. She covered her face, as if to shield herself from some imminent harm.

The colossus began to laugh, like a child playing in a fountain.

“Small golden-head person,” he bellowed. “You are funny. Please, do not leave.”

The girl slowly overcame her trauma, and responded, “I... I can’t. You’re holding me.”

Realizing his offense, Galio carefully placed the girl back on the ground.

“I am sorry. I don’t often meet small girl people. I only wake up to smash things,” he explained. “Do you have things to smash? Large things?”

“No,” said the girl meekly.

“Then let us find something to smash.” He walked a few booming steps, then turned to find the girl was not following. “Are you not coming, girl person?”

“No,” she replied, even more shakily, unsure if the answer would upset the giant. “I’m sort of trying not to be noticed right now.”

“Oh. Forgive me, girl person.”

“Well. I’m going to go now,” said Lux, in what she thought was a final parting word. “It was nice to meet you.”

Galio followed right behind her. “You are walking away from your city,” he observed. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” she responded. “Someplace I belong.”

The colossus tilted his head at her. “You are Demacian. You belong in Demacia.”

For the first time, the girl saw empathy in the giant, and she felt herself opening up.

“You wouldn’t understand. You’re a symbol of this kingdom. I’m just...” She searched for a word that would tell everything without telling too much. “I’m all wrong,” she said, at last.

“Wrong? You can’t be wrong. You give me life,” boomed Galio, lowering his huge boulder of a face to her level.

“That’s the problem,” said the girl. “You’re not supposed to be moving. The only reason you are moving is me.”

Galio reacted in stunned silence for a moment, then erupted with joyful epiphany.

“You’re a mage!” he thundered.

“Shhh! Please be quiet!” begged the girl. “People will hear you.”

“I crush mages!” he proclaimed. He then quickly added: “But not you. I like you. You are the first mage I’ve liked.”

Luxanna’s fear began to fade, giving way to irritation. “Listen. Even though this is all wondrous and miraculous, I’d really prefer you leave me alone. Besides, people are going to notice you’re gone.”

“I do not care,” insisted Galio. “Let them notice!”

“Don’t!” said Lux, recoiling at the thought. “Please, just go back where you belong.”

Galio stopped to reflect, then smiled as though he’d recalled something amusing. “Do that thing to me again. With your wonderful starlight!” he said, far too loudly for Lux’s comfort.

“Shhh! Stop yelling!” she urged. “Are you referring to my affliction?”

“Yes,” said Galio, in a slightly quieter tone.

“I’m sorry. I can’t always do it. And I shouldn’t do it. You have to go,” she insisted.

“I can’t go. If I leave you, I will sleep. And when I wake, you will be gone, small girl thing.”

Lux paused. Though she was mad from exhaustion, she found herself touched by the titan’s words.

“If I can do it again, do you promise to go away?” she asked.

The colossus thought for a moment, then accepted the proposal.

“Okay,” said the girl. “I’ll try.”

She screwed in her hands toward her body and thrust them forward toward Galio. To her disappointment, nothing but a tiny spark of light glinted from her fingers. She tried again, and again, getting less of a result each time.

“I must be tired,” she realized.

“Rest,” suggested Galio. “Then when you are refreshed you can give me your magic.”

“Hmm,” thought Lux, mulling the suggestion. “I can’t get rid of you, and I have no place to go. Suppose I might as well bed down.”

She began feeling around the ground for a comfortable patch of grass. Once she’d found a suitable place, she lay down and wrapped her cloak snugly around herself.

“Well, I’m going to sleep now,” she said with a yawn. “You should too.”

“No. I sleep too much,” replied Galio.

“Can you just... I don’t know, freeze yourself for a while, then?”

“I do not work that way,” said the colossus.

“Then be still and pretend you’re not alive.”

“Yes. I will just stand here and watch you rest, girl person,” said Galio.

“Please don’t,” insisted Lux. “I can’t sleep with you staring at me. Can you... turn around?”

Galio honored the girl’s wish, turning himself away from her, toward the distant lights of the Demacian capital. It was not as interesting as the girl, but it would suffice.

Making do with the modicum of privacy, Lux closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Once she was certain Galio would not turn around, she quietly got up and crept away into the night.

Luxanna walked quickly, knowing her first order of business was getting as far away as possible from the colossus. If she didn’t, her magic would still empower him, and he would surely come looking for her. By morning, every patrol in the kingdom would be searching for the missing Crownguard girl who had vanished in the night. They’d surely notice the walking national monument following her, and they’d know the girl must be the magical source that had awakened it.

Lux’s aching legs quickened to a sprint. She had only a vague idea of her surroundings. It was difficult to find any landmarks at this black hour of night. All she knew for sure was the Cloudwoods were nearby - their thick, towering redbarks forming the skyline to the south. It would be an ideal place to hide from any search parties, and a good foraging ground for breakfast. She could cross the forest in two days time and find shelter in one of the Vaskasian timber villages, where people were unlikely to recognize her. It was not a brilliant plan, by any stretch, but it was the best she had.

Lux could see the beginnings of the forest coming into view, its trees progressing in height like a pyramid, with the largest in the center. As she crossed the threshold of the woods, she paused a moment to grieve what she was abandoning. She would miss her brother Garen, and her beloved steed Starfire, and even her mother, but this was the way it had to be.

A shadow fades before the light, she reassured herself, and then stepped into the blackness of the dense evergreen woods.

After an hour of plowing her way through the barbed, resinous branches of the forest, Lux already found herself doubting her plan. Her stomach was growling, and any confidence she’d had in finding a clear path through the trees had vanished with the brightest moon behind the clouds. All around she could hear the snorts and rustles of nocturnal animals, and that made her nervous.

Just a little light, she thought. Surely just a little won’t hurt, way out here.

She began to conjure a luminescent orb between her hands. For a brief moment, a flicker of light danced on her fingertips, causing an audible ruckus in the creatures around her. But the light snuffed out as quickly as it came, returning all to blackness. Lux looked at the outlines of her hands, inspecting them for flaws. She wondered what could have hampered her from doing what had previously come so easily and unbidden.

It’s the colossus, she realized. It must be.

She suddenly became aware of voices in the woodland murmur. Slow, purposeful footsteps, and whispers. They were-

An arm shot around Lux’s throat and restrained her. She could sense the presence of at least two other men to her sides.

“Where are you headed tonight, miss?” asked one of the men.

Lux stammered, not quite formulating a response. The man restraining her tightened his grip.

“You’re supposed to be in the annulment slums, yeah?” he said.

“No...” Lux gasped, the man’s arm wedged firmly under her chin. “I’m not...”

“We aren’t fools, miss,” said the third man. “Come on, let’s take you back.”

Lux struggled to free her arms as the men tried to bind them with coarse rope. She concentrated, but still could not summon the magic that had apparently once been hers. She freed one hand, struck one of the men squarely in the jaw, and heard the twigs on the ground crunch as he fell. The two other men angrily descended on her.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said one of them with a scowl. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

The men began to tighten her bindings. They were making a point to pull the knots as tightly and painfully as possible, when the ground began to vibrate with dull thunderous beat. The men paused in dread, searching for the source of the noise, as it slowly increased in frequency and volume.

It rumbled like an earthquake, only broken up into steady rhythmic booms... like gigantic footsteps.

And they were getting nearer.

“What is it?” asked one man, too frightened to move.

The ground shook more, and its quaking was joined by the crackling of great trees being broken apart. Whatever it was, it was now in the forest and almost upon them.

“It’s... It’s...”

All looked up to see the monstrous Galio, striding toward them, a path of felled redbarks in his wake. The men ran, getting only a few steps through the trees before a giant petricite hand snatched them up high into the air. Galio glared with one enormous eye at the trembling wads of flesh held tight in his grip.

“Is it time for fighting?” said the colossus with a grin. “I will engage you!”

He opened his clenched fist, and raised the other hand as if to smash the men between his palms.

“No!” said a tiny voice. “Please stop!”

The colossus found Lux on the ground below, beating on his ankles with her bound arms.

“It isn’t right!” she shouted.

Confused, Galio lowered the men to the ground and released them. Lux heard the quick patter of the men’s feet, sprinting away from her with the urgency of hunted elk. As she wriggled out of her bindings, she gazed up at the colossus.

“I turned around and you were gone, girl person,” he said. “Why are you in the trees?”

“I- I don’t know,” Luxanna managed.

Galio reclined on a hillside, gazing at the stars with the tiny yellow-headed girl he had befriended. Neither spoke, save for an occasional sigh - not the stressful gasps that Lux had previously known. These were the sounds of two beings that had found utter contentment in each other’s company.

“I do not usually awaken for this long,” said the colossus.

“Me neither,” said the girl, with an enormous yawn.

“How do people spend time together without battle? Should we have a conversation?”

“No. This is nice,” said the girl. “I feel... calm.”

A frown crossed Galio’s face. There was something different about the girl. Something missing. She no longer shone like the stars.

“Why are you sad? You’ve cured me,” said the girl. “As long as you’re near me, I can return home and be normal.”

Galio did not brighten or look up. The girl continued her thought.

“I mean, maybe I can just come visit you every day to keep my affliction away—”

“No,” said the titan, finally locking eyes with her.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Young girl person, you are special. Since before you can remember, I have felt your gift. For so long, I wanted it near me. But now I see... I smash your gift.”

“But it gives you life.”

Galio pondered her words, but only for a moment. His mind was made up.

“Life to me is very valuable,” he said. “But your gift is everything. Never lose it.”

He got to his feet and gingerly placed the girl on his shoulder. Together, they began to trudge back toward the city to face what awaited.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when Lux returned to her family manor. Outside the city walls, Galio was returning to stillness on his plinth beside the Memorial Road, leaving Lux to face her problems alone.

A shadow fades before the light, she thought, and she opened the latch to her front door.

She entered the house to find her mother sitting in the parlor with a balding middle-aged man, who held a case of exotic medical tinctures in his lap.

“Luxanna, so glad you decided to return home,” said Augatha, through clenched teeth.

Lux looked warily at the man on the couch.

“This is the man I was telling you about,” her mother whispered. “The one who’s going to fix your... problem.”

Lux felt light-headed, as if her spirit was leaving her body to watch what she was about to say.

“You know what, mother?” she said, her voice trembling with words she’d been longing to say. “I don’t think I want to see this man. In fact, I’d like you to send him away.”

The annuller looked offended. He stood and slung his bag over his shoulder.

“No, stay,” begged Augatha. She cornered Lux and began to speak with authority. “You do not know what you are saying. This man has risked everything to help you. It is the only way you’re ever going to be Demacian. Have you forgotten your afflic-”

“I am not afflicted!” Lux cried out. “I am beautiful and valuable, and one day I will prove it to this kingdom! And if anyone has a problem with me, I’ve got a very large friend they can talk to.”

She strode upstairs to her room, leaving her mother alone with the annuller.

As Lux flopped onto her bed, she expelled a deep, easy breath. For the first time in years, her mind was as still as a pond in summer. The light that had once exploded from her unbidden was still there, but she could feel its beginning and its end, and knew that one day she could master it.

As she drifted off to sleep, she realized her mantra had always been wrong. No light could ever kill shadows.

A shadow thrives beside the light, she thought. It had a nice ring to it.

To some, he is the Thunder’s Roar, the Greatstorm, or Valhir. To others, he is Ruin, the Thousand-Pierced Bear, or He Who Stands. But to most of the tribes who still hold to the old ways, he is known as the Volibear.

Destruction, strength, and the storm made manifest, the Volibear represents the unstoppable power and fury of the Freljord itself. It was the Volibear and his demi-god kin who formed the land they called Vorrijaard long before the arrival of the mortal races. The sagas tell how he created the Five Fjords with one mighty swipe of his claws, and how his epic battle with the savage magma-serpent, Rhond, formed countless valleys and ravines. When the Volibear finally felled the beast, its blood became the first river in the Freljord, and its colossal corpse formed the Wyrmback Mountains.

In the days of the first tribes, wild magic ran rampant. The Volibear was venerated and worshipped by all, for they needed his indomitable strength to survive. Great wars were waged, and the Volibear took to the field alongside his followers, clad in rune-inscribed armor made by his brother Ornn, demi-god of the forge. At the time, the brothers’ bond was strong—they often fought at each other’s side, even though Ornn never had quite the same lust for battle. The Volibear reveled in hard-fought victories, and as ever more blood offerings were made to him, his power swelled.

In time, the Volibear and his kin drifted apart, each focusing on their own pursuits. Even so, there was no true division between them… until new ideas began to usurp the old beliefs.

Three sisters rose to power, seeking to control and impose order on the Freljord, and the demi-gods could not agree on how to proceed. A few, like Anivia, seemed inclined to work with the sisters, while the Volibear and the Iron Boar wanted to destroy them. Others would have been content to ignore them completely, since these feeble creatures would eventually die like all before them.

The Volibear looked to the most animalistic and savage of his followers, known as the Ursine. With them, he would defeat the three sisters. In preparation, he sought out Ornn to arm his warriors for battle.

But Ornn refused. He did not approve of the Ursine’s savage ways, and a terrible fight erupted between the two demi-gods. In the aftermath, the Volibear cursed his brother’s name, and cast off his rune-inscribed armor. He would fight from then on with just tooth, and claw, and might, and thunder. Far from being lessened, the Volibear found his full power was now unleashed.

With newfound rage, he confronted one of the mortal sisters who sought to steal the power of the demi-gods for herself. Before her entire army, he struck her down, blinding her—but he was unable to stop what she had already set in motion.

As the centuries rolled by, and despite the Volibear’s resistance, tribes began to venerate and worship the Three Sisters instead.

Many of the more ancient practices were forgotten. He saw tribes cowering behind stone walls rather than face the rawness of nature. He saw fields being tilled, and farmers herding cattle rather than hunting. He bellowed in fury to see great rivers dammed rather than be allowed to roar free. This was not his Freljord. The change had happened slowly—glacially—but the Volibear finally came to realize that the tribes had been cut off from the wild spirit of the land, making them frail, compliant, and soft. These weaklings had no reverence for the old ways, or old gods.

Anger and determination rumbled within him. He vowed to tear down all evidence of civilization and return the Freljord to its ancient state as a true wilderness. The people would become strong once more. He would again be honored and feared by all.

As the call of the Volibear reverberates across the mountains and plains of the north, more and more Freljordians are responding. Slowly, the old ways are being remembered and re-embraced, and his strength grows with each new follower.

A reckoning of blood awaits… and the Volibear is rushing toward it.

The prisoner stands tall, his ankles chained to a wooden post, his wrists bound together with coarse rope. Blood trickles down his cheeks onto his black Noxian tunic, leaving small red puddles by his bare toes. Above him, the sky paints patches of gray against blue, unsure of its true colors.

A fence of tall jagged stakes surrounds the prisoner. Nearby soldiers run from tent to tent. Their hurried steps kick up dust, leaving grime on their boots they will be sure to clean before they face their commanders. The prisoner knows this, having observed their disciplined behavior over the past days. It is unlike any he has ever seen.

Around the camp, bright navy banners ripple in the wind, displaying the image of a sword dividing two spread wings—the sigil of Demacia.

Not long ago these were the black and crimson banners of Noxus. The prisoner remembers his orders: to reclaim Kalstead for the glory of the empire.

He failed.

And he knows the consequences. War does not forgive failure. This is the truth he is prepared to accept. For now, he awaits his fate. The first time he was held prisoner, he lost his home. This time, he will lose even more.

He closes his eyes as more memories flood his mind. There were two men, he recalls. His master he knew—he had turned a lost boy taken from his home into a fighter fit for the Reckoner arenas. The other was a stranger, claiming to represent the empire’s best interests. After they shook hands, he was sent west, under the shadow of the Argent Mountains, to Kalstead.

There were no goodbyes, no well wishes. But, he was not alone. Others like him shared a name, “soldiers-of-misfortune” as they were called back in Noxus. Ragtag groups of fighters sent to deal with tasks unworthy of a veteran warband’s attention. Not many had a say in the matter, their masters too willing to sell their talents to the military for the right price.

“You don’t look like you’re from Noxus,” a voice calls out, breaking the prisoner’s moment of reflection.

He opens his eyes and sees a Demacian man standing outside the enclosure. His garb is a mix of navy and brown fabric covered by chainmail, and a shortsword hangs by his waist. He has the bearing of a leader, the prisoner decides, but a junior one.

“What’s your name?” the soldier calls.

The prisoner thinks. Will his answer decide his fate?

“Xin Zhao,” he replies, his voice rough and dry.

“What?”

“Xin. Zhao.”

“That doesn’t sound like a Noxian name,” the soldier wonders aloud. “Noxian names are tough, like… Boram Darkwill.” He says the two words with a shudder.

Xin Zhao does not reply. He doubts this conversation is worth having before his coming execution.

“Come along, shield-sergeant,” says another Demacian. The young officer’s severe look commands the sergeant’s attention. She wears silver armor with gold trim adorning her shoulder pauldrons. A cape of vivid blue falls down her back.

“Don’t bother conversing with Noxians,” she advises. “They do not share our virtues.”

The sergeant bows his head. “Yes, Sword-Captain Crownguard. But if I might ask…”

The captain nods.

“Why is this one being kept by himself?”

She glances at the prisoner, her blue eyes stern with contempt.

“This one ended more lives than the others.”

Xin Zhao wakes to the sound of horns. He sits in the mud kicking his numb feet at the damp soil. Pressing his back against the post, he snakes himself up to a standing position and sees the sergeant from the day before approach, accompanied by four others dressed in similar attire. They open the gate to the enclosure and the sergeant walks through first, carrying a tray holding a bowl of hot soup.

“Morning. I’m Olber, and this is my watch unit,” the sergeant says. “Here’s your breakfast, Zen Jaw.”

Xin Zhao watches him set the tray on the ground. Who knew someone could mispronounce two syllables so cruelly?

A Demacian guard cuts through the rope binding Xin Zhao’s wrists with practiced motions. The sergeant and the others stand by, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

“Well, go on and eat,” Olber says.

Xin Zhao picks up the bowl. “They sent five of you.”

“We do as the captain orders,” Olber explains. “She’s a Crownguard, after all. They protect the king himself.”

The guards nod along and turn to each other.

“Aye, her father saved the last Jarvan at Storm’s Fang,” one mentions.

“Which Jarvan was that?” another asks.

“Second. We’re on the third one now.”

“That’s King Jarvan the Third,” Olber interjects. “Your king. And mine. You oughta show some respect, given he personally rode out here with us.”

They think highly of their king, Xin Zhao notes. While the soldiers continue to banter, he drinks his soup, one sip at a time, as he listens to their conversation. They speak of how foolish the Noxians were to venture this far west, of how easy it was for them to come to Kalstead’s aid, and of how their triumph was one achieved in the name of justice.

We were sent here to die, Xin Zhao realizes. He grips the empty bowl so tightly it cracks, the wood coming apart in his hands.

The Demacians turn their attention. Olber looks at Xin Zhao. “Hands.”

Xin Zhao offers his palms facing upward.

“You sure took a beating,” Olber remarks, tying new rope around Xin Zhao's wrists. The guards gather around. They see scars everywhere, running like rivers up and down his skin. Xin Zhao follows their gaze. He can no longer tell which scars came from which match. There were so many that he fought, and so few he cared to remember.

“Those aren’t recent wounds,” one of the guards observes.

“You’re right,” Xin Zhao says. His voice, clear and strong, grabs their attention. For a moment, they stand still, looking at him like he is no longer just another prisoner.

“What’d you do back in Noxus?” Olber asks.

“I fought in the arenas,” Xin Zhao answers.

“A Reckoner!” a guard exclaims. “I’ve heard of you savages. They fight to the death in front of thousands!”

“I’ve never heard of no Reckoner named Zen Jaw,” another mutters.

“Maybe he wasn’t a good one? Maybe that’s why he’s here, all beaten and tied up?”

“Hold on,” Olber chimes in. “Don't you Reckoners use different names in the arena?”

Xin Zhao almost smiles. This Demacian is smarter than he lets on. It is known, even outside the empire, that Reckoners often choose inventive titles. Some opt for the extravagant. Others have something to hide. For Xin Zhao, it was to remember the life he had before it was taken away.

“Viscero,” a guard says, holding an unfurled piece of parchment. “That’s what the other Noxians called him.”

Olber snatches the parchment. He examines it. A few long seconds pass before he looks up at Xin Zhao. “You're the Reckoner.”

Silence. Thin streaks of sunlight cut through the gray sky.

“Viscero,” Olber repeats, his voice tinged with awe. “The one who never lost.”

The guards look to each other. Then, together, they stare at Xin Zhao, their eyes now lit with recognition.

“I know you!” says a guard.

“Didn't you beat a minotaur?” says another.

Olber raises a hand to halt the idle chatter. “Why'd you say your name was Zen Jaw?” he asks.

Xin Zhao sighs. “Once I became a Reckoner, there was no more Xin Zhao. There was only Viscero.” He looks down at his bound wrists, at his chained ankles, and then back at the Demacians. “In the time I have left, I’d rather live by my real name.”

“But what’s a famous Reckoner doing fighting Noxus’ border wars?” Olber asks again.

“I was bought out,” Xin Zhao replies, “by the military.” He finds explaining all this rather strange. For so long, he had assumed his final moments would pass by quickly, in the arena, by spear or sword—not with a hot meal and questions about his past.

Is this fate offering its last sympathies?

Olber appears troubled. “You didn't have a choice,” he says.

Xin Zhao shakes his head.

“You have family left in Noxus?”

Xin Zhao thinks for a moment, then shakes his head again. He wonders if he has any family at all, anywhere.

“Well, I guess you're off to a new beginning.” Olber nods at a guard who pulls out a key and starts unchaining Xin Zhao from his pole.

Xin Zhao tilts his head, curious. “What do you mean?”

Olber smiles. “Let’s get you dressed.”

Xin Zhao sits upright in the new tunic given to him. The Demacian fabric feels soft on his skin. He looks about the tent, counting the straw beds and the empty bowls of soup. Remarks of gratitude fill his ears. He recognizes the earthy voices. They come from others who, hours ago, were prisoners like him.

One by one, they rise from their beds and thank the healers who mended their wounds. Armed Demacians enter the tent. Xin Zhao watches the prisoners be escorted out. He knows them well, having marched alongside them to Kalstead. On their journey, they spent much of their time trying to best each other in individual feats of strength, with the victors celebrating their might and the defeated left in shame. Those especially vocal would boast aloud how many Demacian soldiers they planned to kill. That was before they came face to face with a real army.

There was no battle. Maybe the Noxian military would have fared better, with its legions and siege weaponry, but they were not the military. They were conscripts, untrained in the ways of formal combat, facing a unified kingdom. Within hours, Kalstead cheered for its saviors.

We were sent here to die, Xin Zhao reminds himself. And yet, as fate would have it, they still lived. Not by the will of Noxus, but by that of Demacia.

Fate flows like the four winds, his elders had once said, and no man can know its course until he sails it.

An old healer walks by. Her pale robe matches the others working in the tent. “How are you feeling, child?” she asks.

“I'm fine,” Xin Zhao replies. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me. Thank the king. It was by his royal decree that all prisoners be cared for.”

“The third Jarvan?” This king, again. How can one man inspire so much?

“Yes, our great Jarvan the Third,” she corrects him. “He granted you the opportunity to begin anew. To find peace.”

Xin Zhao looks down at the floor with his hands folded. Viscero could always find a place in the arena. And elsewhere, the peoples of Valoran would embrace him for his strength, that much he is certain. As for his birthplace—the First Lands beyond the sea he has not seen for decades—it is as foreign to him now as any distant fantasy.

Where could he find peace? Would he want it?

No, his chance at peace died long ago, when he took his first life and was rewarded with an extension on his own.

Xin Zhao turns to the healer. “I have one question, if I may.”

“What is it, child?”

“This king of yours. Who is he?”

The healer chuckles. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

Xin Zhao walks behind Olber with four guards surrounding him. As they trudge through the camp, he peers into the passing tents, seeing Demacian soldiers pack their belongings and captains plan for their next deployment. Rumors tell that somewhere, not a week’s march away, another battle against Noxus is imminent. Xin Zhao ponders if that is where these people will head, following a trail of turmoil, righting wrongs wherever they go. They seem to serve a higher calling, something stronger than strength, and perhaps more valuable.

He imagines how that might feel, to be so clear in your convictions you would sacrifice your own life for them. There were times in the arena when his life meant nothing. Now, it is worth an audience with a king.

“Looks like you’re the last one,” Olber says, stopping the escort and pointing ahead.

Xin Zhao follows the sergeant's finger and spots a tent larger than all the others. The same bright navy banners grace its roof. Guards in gleaming armor stand in parallel lines outside its entrance. He sees a man, bearing Noxian tattoos on his face and neck, shuffle out carrying a small bag. The man bows his head multiple times before he is led away by one of the guards, and immediately, another Demacian steps in to fill the empty space.

“That's the king's tent,” Olber says. “We are to stay here. You go in, kneel, accept the provisions granted to you by the king, and then we'll collect you.”

The sergeant smiles. “The king said once you're in front of him, you're a free man… but you’ll still need us when you’re out. Captain Crownguard runs this camp, and she’ll not have enemy combatants walk alone. Not ‘til they leave Kalstead for good.”

Xin Zhao gives a knowing nod, and heads toward the tent.

“The king welcomes Viscero!”

The voice that hails him is deep and proper. Xin Zhao walks forth. Once inside, he kneels on his right leg and bows his head low. The floor is covered in cloth embroidered with depictions of winged knights and helmed warriors.

“You may look up,” another voice comes. Xin Zhao lifts his head and identifies its source. It is a man, not much older than himself, sitting on a raised oaken chair. He wears radiant, gold-plated armor embellished with ebony spikes. Atop his head is a crown adorned with jewels. By his right hand lies a great steel lance, its edges sharp like the teeth of some magnificent beast.

This is their king, Xin Zhao realizes. His eyes linger on the man for a second longer, sensing the air of majesty about him, paired with a raw physical presence he had not expected.

To the king's left stands Sword-Captain Crownguard, just as stoic as when Xin Zhao first saw her.

To his right, dressed in a royal tunic is a little boy. He sits on an oaken chair of his own with his small leather boots dangling over the edge. It is impossible not to notice the king’s likeness in him, both having strong noses and square jaws. Two additional guards surround these three, each holding a spear pointing upward.

“Viscero is quite an unusual name,” King Jarvan III says. “What is its origin?”

Xin Zhao peers downward, wondering how he should respond.

“You will speak when the king addresses you,” the sword-captain commands.

“At ease, Tianna,” the king says with a wave of his hand. “He is surely shocked by the events of these past few days. We would be right to offer this man his time, would we not?”

The sword-captain opens her mouth only to close it without a word, choosing instead to give a curt nod.

“It is a reminder of my home,” Xin Zhao answers.

“Oh, is that so?” the king says, intrigued. “I have studied much of Noxus, yet I have never heard of a place called Viscero.”

“It is not so much a place, but a memory… albeit one that changed meaning in Noxus.”

“Ah,” the king says, looking briefly at his son, “memories of one’s childhood are such—”

“But it is not my real name.”

“You dare interrupt the king?” the sword-captain roars. Her hand clutches the hilt of her sword.

Xin Zhao bows his head. Then, he hears laughter, hearty and full. Again, the voice of Jarvan III.

“You are the first one today to have caused Tianna such grievance,” the king says. “It is her inaugural battle leading the Dauntless Vanguard, though it was not much of a battle, I am sure you would agree.”

He pats the shoulder of the young prince, who has stayed quiet, attentively observing his father. “Please,” the king says. “Tell us your story, Viscero, whose real name has not yet been revealed to me.”

Keeping his gaze low, Xin Zhao takes a breath. “My birth name is Xin Zhao, given to me by my parents who I have not seen since I was a boy. They may be alive, or dead—I do not know.”

He swallows hard. “The place I was born is known as Raikkon, a coastal village in the First Lands, which the people here call Ionia. My childhood was spent on a fishing boat named Viscero, helping the elders with whatever they needed. Life was simple, peaceful… until the marauders came in their red and black ships.”

He closes his eyes for a second. No Demacian speaks.

“We didn’t stand a chance. I was taken. After months on the sea, I found myself in Noxus. Everything was… towering, oppressive, harsh. There was none of the natural beauty that filled my home.”

Xin Zhao thinks he hears hushed sounds of agreement. A resonant murmur, a tiny voice whispering.

“As any lost boy would, I did what was needed to survive. Things I’m not proud of that got the attention of those with power. They recognized my strength, and turned me into a fighter. From there, Viscero was reborn—as a Reckoner.”

He sighs as his voice grows soft. “I killed many, many foes. Some whose real names I didn't even know. The more I killed, the louder the crowds cheered, ‘Viscero! Viscero!’ as their gold filled the pockets of my masters. I thought that would be how I lived out my days, fighting in the arena for the thrill of others. That is, until Noxus offered my masters more gold than the arenas could ever bring.”

Xin Zhao’s shoulders slump. “That was all it took for me to end up here. Your soldiers know the rest.”

Jarvan III is quiet. Everyone waits for him to speak.

“You have lived quite the life,” the king finally says. He glimpses at his son before looking back at Xin Zhao. “Thank you for sharing with us your journey. It makes me, and all of Demacia, proud to be able to release you from the bonds of Noxus.”

The king nods toward one of the guards, who brings out a linen pouch and sets it down before Xin Zhao. It jingles with coin.

“This is the blessing of Jarvan the Third,” Captain Crownguard declares. “There is enough gold there to last you one week’s worth of travel. Know that you've erred to invade lands protected by the kingdom of Demacia, but as a show of good faith, our king has granted you a second chance. Use it well.”

Xin Zhao glances at the pouch. He does not budge. Is it that simple? Take this bag and walk out of here—in peace? Just now, he spoke more honestly about himself than he has ever done, to a stranger who could have ended his life with the wave of a hand.

However, that stranger cared to listen. And through that, he became a stranger no more.

There is no peace for me, but maybe there can be a cause?

“Well,” Captain Crownguard says, pointing two fingers toward the exit.

Xin Zhao lowers his head. “I have one request, if I may.”

“Speak,” the king says.

“I wish to join your guard.”

“Absurd!” Captain Crownguard shouts. The guards strike the ends of their spears against the ground in accord.

The king lets out a soft chuckle and turns to his sword-captain. “What an interesting proposition.”

“Surely, you can't—” Captain Crownguard begins, before she is silenced by her king’s hand once more.

“Let the man explain himself,” Jarvan III says with a grin. “I wish to hear his reasoning.”

Xin Zhao raises his head. His eyes meet the king's. “You have shown me mercy and honor,” he begins. “Two things I never knew until now. All my years in Noxus, I spent fighting for a cause not my own, and during that time I knew of only two truths. Victory meant survival and defeat meant death. That was what I learned, seeing other fighters fall in the arena or disappear never to be seen again after too many losses. But you and your people fight for something else. Something more.”

A breeze ruffles the tent. Two small leather boots shuffle. Xin Zhao clears his throat.

“And I'd rather die fighting for honor than live out my days regretting that I never made that choice.”

Jarvan III leans forward. All others know to remain quiet.

“You speak well,” the king replies. “Better than some of my own advisers, truth be told. Still, my wards endure years, decades even, of training. How am I to believe you are capable?”

Xin Zhao stares at the king, at the prince, at Captain Crownguard. A part of him knows what he could say; another knows what he could do. Is it his choice to make?

No.

Fate has made its choice.

He grabs the coin pouch and throws it at the sword-captain, hitting her in the face. While she recovers, he sweep kicks the guard to his left, knocking him to the floor. Xin Zhao snatches the Demacian’s spear, swinging it in a circle to trip the other guard to his right. His body moves on instinct, fluid and swift as his mind pretends he is back in the arena. With one final twirl of the weapon, he jabs it forward at Jarvan III, its blunt end stopping inches short of the king's throat.

The young prince gasps. The king's guard gather themselves. Soldiers rush in as the sword-captain draws her blade.

Xin Zhao falls to his knees. He lays the spear down without a sound and offers his neck. Finely crafted steel weapons touch his skin.

Tension fills the room. All eyes lock onto Xin Zhao, whose own eyes are closed, at peace, ready to accept whatever comes next.

The king straightens his cloak. “Stand down,” he commands. “My father once said Noxus wasted its talent in those arenas. Now I see the truth in his words.”

“My king,” Captain Crownguard begs. “He tried to kill you!”

“No, Tianna,” the king replies. “He showed me how I could be killed. Even in front of my own trusted guards.”

“My deepest apologies,” Xin Zhao says. His voice is calm and measured, a quiet tide not yet ready to flow ashore. “It was the only way I thought to demonstrate myself.”

“And demonstrate you did,” the king says. “To me, and these warriors of Demacia. It appears they could learn a thing or two from you.”

“I will not have the king’s guard be sullied by a prisoner!” Captain Crownguard exclaims.

“When this man entered my sight, he was a prisoner no more.” The king stands from his chair. “Demacia was founded long ago, by good people who sought refuge from the evils of this world. This man's story reminds me of those tales of old, of great Orlon and his followers. The very ones my father once told me.”

His gaze falls on the prince, who looks back, amazed. “My son, my life’s joy,” the king says, “how happy I am that you are here to witness this moment. To see for yourself why we must uphold our virtues, so others may aspire to do the same. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father,” the prince says, his voice small but firm.

The king steps forward. “Xin Zhao, you have touched me with your life and your courage, a rare thing I have not felt in some time.” He bends down to help Xin Zhao to his feet. “Though you may not have been born a Demacian, I shall allow you to travel back with us, to my kingdom, where you will then prove yourself and your loyalty as my personal guard.”

Xin Zhao feels the king's sturdy hands grip his shoulders.

“Do not take this opportunity lightly.”

Xin Zhao looks Jarvan III in the eye. And for the first time, in a long time, he feels joy, washing over his body like the waves that once carried Viscero free.

The night air is chilly this far north of Kalstead. There is still a week or so before he will gaze upon the walls of the Great City of Demacia, Xin Zhao thinks as he walks outside his tent. A familiar face stands by the entrance.

“Still awake?” Olber says.

“I'm going for a walk. Won't be long.”

Strolling through the camp alone, Xin Zhao takes in the spirit of his new allies. They are an orderly lot, quick to aid one another and ensure safety among their ranks. Seeing their disciplined manner brings a smile to his face. He rounds a corner to look up at the crescent moon when he feels a sudden force pulling him down.

His body collides hard against the ground.

After blinking a couple times, he regains his senses and realizes he has been dragged inside a dimly lit tent. The sword-captain glares down at him. Beside her stand fearsome soldiers dressed in heavy warplate.

“You may have won the king's favor, but you are no Demacian in my eyes,” she states.

As Xin Zhao stands on his feet, she unsheathes her sword. Like the pride following their lioness, those around her do the same.

“I will be watching you,” she warns. “Should anything happen to the king while you are sworn in his service—”

With two hands, Xin Zhao clasps the flat sides of her blade. “Take this as my oath to you.”

Tianna Crownguard looks on, stunned, as he pulls the sword’s tip toward his own throat.

“Should anything happen,” Xin Zhao says. “You may kill me.”

“Why send us all the way out here?” said the soldier leaning against the wall of the gatehouse, arms folded across his chest. “There’s blood on the streets of the Great City, and we’re sent to the border?”

His name was Bakker, and Cithria had never warmed to him—he was prone to seeing the bad in every situation, though to be fair, in this case there was truth in his words.

The rest of their comrades stood nearby. None of them looked particularly happy about their predicament.

Cithria remained silent. She was the youngest of the Demacian soldiers, though she was by no means an untested recruit. In the year she’d spent among their ranks she had proven herself a capable soldier, and one of the fastest with a blade, yet there were plenty of times—this among them—when she felt out of her depth and unsure of herself.

She wore full, gleaming plate armor, as did they all. A shield was slung across her back, and she carried her helmet under one arm, leaving her dark hair, tied back in a long braid, hanging free.

The soldiers stood before the immense Graygate, guarding the northeast border of Demacia. The name was anomalous, for the bastion was built of pristine white stone. It was generally understood that the name had come from the gray shale cliffs nearby, though soldiers stationed here, particularly those who hailed from the south or the coast of Demacia, moaned it had more to do with the perpetually overcast, northern skies.

To either side of the gate tower stretched tall, white stone walls. Pennants fluttered in the breeze from the crenulations, and sentries stood vigil in the cold wind, looking eastward.

“We should be deployed with the rest of the battalion, scouring the forests for that traitor and his rabble,” another soldier said.

“Mages,” said Bakker, speaking the word with loathing. “We should be rid of the lot of them.”

Such talk made Cithria uneasy. She herself had never encountered magic, or at least none that she was aware of, but she had been raised to fear and distrust those that were able to wield it. News from the capital made that fear seem justified.

It was only a month since the rogue mage Sylas had escaped imprisonment and ripped the heart of Demacia apart. That insane, horrifically powerful rebel had ignited a wave of unrest across the kingdom, and even now the Great City was locked down, the military controlling the streets to ensure order.

Cithria agreed they would be more useful elsewhere, but the venom in her comrade’s voice disturbed her.

“I say the whole lot of them should—” Bakker started saying, but Cithria cut him short.

“Heads up. The shield-sergeant’s back.”

The short, stocky figure of Shield-Sergeant Gunthar was heading toward them at a brisk pace. A pair of hooded men walked with him, one to either side.

“Who’s that with him?”

“I don’t know,” said Cithria.

The soldiers snapped sharply to attention as their sergeant and his mysterious companions drew near.

“Alright you lot,” Gunthar said. “I know you’re all wondering why in the Protector’s name we’ve been sent all the way out here.”

The sergeant cast his gaze across their ranks.

“A foreign envoy from the Arbormark will soon be arriving here at the border, and we have been tasked with escorting them safely to the capital.”

Escort duty?

Even to Cithria, it seemed a strangely mundane task. Still, neither she nor any of the other soldiers said a word, and all remained staring resolutely forward.

“The envoy’s protection is our highest priority,” continued Gunthar. “Were even so much as a hair on their head to be harmed while under our guard, it would tarnish the honor of Demacia. The Arbormark have long been our allies, and we must not allow anything to damage that relationship. It is expected we fulfill this duty with honor, grace, and good faith.”

Gunthar’s expression hardened. “Even if it goes against our better judgment,” he added.

The soldiers were well-disciplined, and made no overt reaction to those final words, but Cithria felt and mirrored their unease. What was that meant to mean?

Gunthar gestured to his cloaked companions, who stepped forward, lowering their hoods.

Cithria’s eyes widened.

The older of the pair was a stern-looking man of middling years, his short-cropped hair going to gray, and his skin weathered with deep frown-lines and more than a few scars. The other was a younger man, slimmer of build and nervous-looking, with a sweep of dark hair hanging to one side of his face.

Both wore form-fitting golden half-masks, and dull gray discs of engraved stone pinned at their shoulders holding their cloaks in place.

Cithria let out a slow breath that she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Mageseekers.

“This is Cadstone, a senior adept of the mageseeker order, and his associate, Arno,” said Gunthar, by way of introduction. The mageseekers bowed ever-so-slightly. “They will be accompanying us as we escort the envoy to the capital.”

Horns sounded atop the gatehouse.

“Riders approaching, under the banner of the Arbormark!” came a cry from a sentry up above.

Shield-Sergeant Gunthar nodded to the guards, and the great gates were heaved open, hinges groaning under the weight. The ironwork portcullis was raised, chains clanking, and the immense drawbridge beyond was lowered. It slammed down with a boom like thunder. Early morning sunlight streamed in through the open gate.

“With me,” Gunthar ordered, striding forward with the mageseekers at his side. Cithria and the other soldiers fell in behind them, moving with well-drilled precision.

Cithria wasn’t sure exactly what she was expecting from the envoy, but it wasn’t the massive, dark-skinned man who waited for them. He was clad in bearskins, and carried a staff of heavy wood. He smiled broadly as the Demacians marched forth to meet him.

Cithria watched him warily.

He rode the biggest horse Cithria had ever seen, jet-black and with thick feathering covering its iron-shod hooves. Accompanying him were twenty riders, all wearing long scale mail coats, and carrying axes and shields. One of them bore a standard, depicting the crossed axes heraldry of the Arbormark, which was mirrored on the warriors’ shields.

The envoy dismounted, and strode forward to meet Gunthar and his entourage, smiling broadly. He had the heavily muscled build of a soldier, or a smith; definitely not what she was expected of a mage. She had always imagined them as sneaking, cunning types, preferring subterfuge and trickery to physical strength.

Halting before the Demacians, he touched the palm of his left hand to his forehead, then extended it to the sky. Cithria clasped her hand around the hilt of her sword, thinking he was performing some arcane conjuration, before realizing it was likely an Arbormark salute. Feeling her cheeks burn, she cursed herself for a fool.

Shield-Sergeant Gunthar gave the man a salute of his own.

“My name is Arjen, and I bring greetings from the Lord of the Arbormark,” said the envoy, bowing his head.

“Welcome. I am Shield-Sergeant Gunthar, seventh battalion. And this,” he added, “is Cadstone, of the Order of Mageseekers.”

“You have been a guest within the borders of Demacia before, have you not?” said Cadstone, without any pretense of small talk. “You are aware of the Laws of Stone?”

“Yes, I have been here before, good seeker,” said Arjen, “and I am aware of your kingdom’s rules and regulations. I shall honor the Laws of Stone and make no use of my… talents… while within your realm. I give you my word.”

“Good,” said Cadstone. “Mageseeker Arno and I will be with you, from now until the moment you leave Demacia. It is our task to hold you to your word. Know that there will be repercussions if you do not abide by our laws. But if you abstain from using your… talents, as you call them… then all will be well.”

Arjen bowed deeply, still smiling.

“Then let us be on our way,” said Gunthar. “Your personal guard will need to remain beyond the border, of course.”

“Of course, of course,” Arjen said, before turning and waving his attendants away. “Shoo!” he said. “Be off with you!”

Cithria stifled a smile at the man’s bizarre behavior. The stoic riders turned, one of them grabbing the reins of the envoy’s horse, and galloped away without a word.

“Let us be on our way then!” said Arjen, clapping his hands together.

It was three hours’ solid march northwest to Meltridge, a small river town, where they would board a waiting ship and sail the rest of the way to the capital. Cithria was surprised to find that the envoy from the Arbormark did not slow them, easily matching the punishing pace Gunthar set, his heavy staff striking the ground firmly with every step.

The march took them across windswept moors and dales. The gales whipping down from the frozen north chilled Cithria to the bone. The Demacians trudged on, cinching their cloaks around their necks for additional warmth. Wrapped in bearskins, the envoy seemed unaffected by the weather.

For all Cithria’s apprehension, Arjen was an affable and easily likeable man. She forced herself not to be lulled into a false sense of security, however. The ways of the arcane were full of deception and trickery. While the Demacians were tight-lipped and stoic, clearly uneasy around this mage, Arjen himself passed the time telling stories of his homeland. Most of them involved lots of drinking of ale, feats of strength, and farfetched heroics, but he had a gift for storytelling, and it certainly passed the time better than silence.

“…and then the great beast growled. ‘You don’t come here for the hunting, do you?’ it said.”

The big man guffawed with laughter at his own ribald joke, slapping one of his meaty thighs in mirth. Cithria, marching just to the envoy’s side, found herself smiling despite herself, even as she shook her head at the inappropriateness of the story.

“You get it, lass?” said Arjen, addressing Cithria directly. “He says that because he thinks the man—“

“Oh, I get it,” said Cithria hastily holding up her hand to stop Arjen’s explanation.

Snow began to fall around halfway to their destination. At first, the flakes were small and light, but they quickly became heavier, until visibility was reduced dramatically. Soon, the ground and road were completely blanketed. The snowfall dampened all sound. Cithria walked near the envoy, who was guarded in the middle of the column of soldiers. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the two mageseekers had fallen a few steps back, just out of earshot. They had both drawn their hoods over their heads against the cold.

“I’m curious,” Cithria said, in a low voice that she hoped only the envoy hear.

“Curiosity is a powerful thing,” said Arjen. “Sometimes dangerous.”

A nearby soldier gave her a glance, as if willing her to remain silent. Cithria paused, wondering if she should finish her thought, or let it pass. Her curiosity got the better of her.

“You know of the Laws of Stone, and at least something of the… challenges that currently beset Demacia,” she said.

“I do,” said Arjen. All of his levity was gone now, and his expression somber. “It is for this reason that I have come, sent by my lord. It is for this reason envoys are coming from all of your nation’s allies.”

“But knowing all that, why would your lord send you?”

Arjen looked down at her, raising an eyebrow. “I am chief advisor to the hall of the Arbormark, so it is my place to come,” he said. He saw her surprise, and smiled wryly. “Things are different beyond your borders. If you wished to discuss matters of the forge, you would summon a smith, yes? At a time like this, who better, then, to send than a mage?”

Cithria opened her mouth to say something, then closed it.

Let’s just get him to the capital safely, she told herself.

The sooner they completed this mission, the better.

Dusk was approaching as they made their way into the white-walled town of Meltridge. The guards at the gate saluted, and townspeople stood respectfully aside as the band marched down the main thoroughfare.

“We turn northwest at the next junction,” said Cadstone. The snow was easing, and he lowered his hood, pointing. “The docks lie at the foot of that hill.”

“You’ve been here before, then, lord seeker?” said Cithria, after Gunthar ordered the soldiers to follow the mageseeker’s directions. The mageseeker nodded.

“A young girl lived here,” he said. “Powerful mage.”

“You… captured her?” said Cithria, wide-eyed.

“She gave herself in,” chimed in Arno. “She was benign. Registered. Normally, one such as her wouldn’t be taken in, but ever since—”

“Arno!” snapped Cadstone.

The younger mageseeker fell quiet, looking chastened.

“Let us move,” said Cadstone. “It would be best for us not to linger.”

At this time of early evening, the narrow road down to the docks was busy.

Boatmen finishing work for the day were climbing the hill, making their way home or to one of the numerous taverns that lined the way. Children raced to and fro, chasing each other through the snow, a pair of excited hounds keeping pace. Shopkeepers stood in the doorways of their stores, and peddlers on the street shouted the prices of their wares.

The soldiers were not even a third of the way down the hill before Cithria felt the mood of the street change.

At first it was just a few dark looks and a few muttered words by passers-by. Clusters of townsfolk gathered in doors and alleys, talking in low voices and pointing. A fisherman spat on the ground, his eyes burning with anger.

“Move along, citizen,” growled Gunthar. The man did so, somewhat reluctantly.

Cithria was shocked. She did not expect such outright hostility from Demacians, despite all that had been happening in the capital.

“Tighten ranks,” Gunthar said, and the soldiers responded instantly, keeping the mage and the mageseekers protected at the heart of the column.

A rock struck one of the soldiers in the side of their helmet. Another, thrown from a different direction, glanced from Cadstone’s forehead, drawing blood.

Cithria cursed under her breath at the narrowness of the street. There was little room to maneuver, and they were already too far down the hill to turn back. They had to continue on down to the docks.

“Shields up!” barked Gunthar, the shield-sergeant clearly coming to the same conclusion. “Forward, double-time!”

The soldiers instantly picked up their pace, surging forward along the street.

“By order of the crown, clear the way! Move!” Gunthar shouted. Most of the townsfolk did so, scrambling out of the soldiers’ path, but up ahead, Cithria saw something that made her blood run cold.

A pair of wagons were rolled from alleys ahead, blocking their way. Angry townsfolk crowded before them. Cithria glanced left and right. The white stone walls of shop fronts pressed in on either side, like the sides of a chasm. She realized the doors were all closed and barred, the windows shuttered.

“This is a trap!” she hissed.

“Aye,” said Gunthar. He cursed under his breath.

“Halt! About-face!” the shield-sergeant shouted. The soldiers responded instantly, turning in place. All had their shields raised, though none had drawn weapons.

The mageseekers stood close to the envoy, one to either side. The three of them were kept protected at the center of the soldiers’ formation.

“It’s no good!” shouted Cithria. “This way is blocked, too.”

Now facing the way they’d come, they could see the townsfolk had hurriedly rolled out another wagon, blocking their retreat.

“Give him to us, and no one needs get hurt!” shouted a burly man from atop the wagon. He looked like the local blacksmith, wearing a thick leather apron and holding a hammer in hand.

“Clear the street!” Gunthar ordered.

The blacksmith, who appeared to be the spokesperson for the angry crowd, appeared unmoved.

“Not gonna happen, lad,” he said, gently tapping his hammer into his open hand as an unspoken threat.

While some people ran to get clear of the tense standoff, more townsfolk joined those gathered at either end of the street. Many of them carried farming tools, woodcutter’s axes, and other makeshift weapons, but more than a few had swords scabbarded at their waists. While they were clearly outclassed by the soldiers they faced, they would not be intimidated.

“I say again, clear the way,” said Gunthar.

In response, a stone struck Cithria’s shield. The soldier alongside her—Bakker—made to draw his sword, the blade hissing as he began to slide it from its scabbard.

“No blades!” Cithria cried, putting her hand on the hilt of the sword. “These are Demacians, those we are sworn to protect!”

Bakker, older and more senior than Cithria, scowled, and went to brush her aside, but their shield-sergeant stopped him with a sharp order.

“She’s right,” Gunthar growled. “No sword will be drawn unless I order it.”

The crowd became ever-more aggressive, shouting and closing in threateningly.

Among the din, Cithria made out several individual voices.

“You’ll pay, you swine!” shouted one woman.

“Get him, get him!” roared a man well into his twilight years, though he had the bearing of an ex-soldier.

“We should just give him to them,” muttered Bakker.

Cithria glared at him. “Envoy Arjen is under our sworn protection!” she snapped. “Where is your honor?”

“He’s just a mage,” said another soldier, though Cithria couldn’t see who had spoken.

A heavy earthenware jar struck the soldiers’ line, shattering on a shield in an explosion of shards. A heavy chunk of masonry hit another soldier in the pauldron, dropped from above, and driving him to his knees. His comrades helped him quickly back to his feet, and Cithria looked up to see people appearing on the rooftops around them.

She saw a hooded man up there throw something. Instinctively, Cithria lifted her shield high to protect the envoy standing behind her. A rusted horseshoe struck its curved surface before clattering away harmlessly. Had it struck home, it could have been lethal.

The mage nodded his thanks. He wasn’t smiling now.

“We’ll get you out of this unscathed, on my honor,” Cithria said.

The townsfolk had closed in around them, still shouting, though none of them yet seemed willing to get too close. Nevertheless, Cithria knew it was only a matter of moments before someone charged the line, and she feared what would happen once they did.

“We have to get out of here!” she shouted, as more stones, bricks and loose detritus clattered off the soldiers’ armor.

“If we charge through them, there will be citizen casualties,” said Shield-Sergeant Gunthar.

“That might be our only option,” said Cadstone. Reluctantly, Cithria had to agree. Unless…

“That door!” she called out, gesturing toward a locked and barred shopfront nearby.

“Worth a try,” said Gunthar. “Half circle, on me!”

The Demacians smoothly shifted their formation, forming a curving shieldwall with their backs to the shopfront.

“Cithria! Bakker!” ordered Gunthar. “Break down those doors!”

The pair of them stepped out of the ranks. The mageseekers and Arjen stood within the protective cordon of soldiers, and Bakker impatiently pushed by the envoy.

“Out of the way, mage,” he snarled.

Cithria saw Arjen take a breath to remain calm and not respond. She hurried to the doors, stepping around the mage, and nodded to Bakker.

“On three,” he said. “One, two, three!”

Together, they kicked the double-doors, hard.

“Again!”

Three more times they struck, putting their full weight into the kicks, before there was a sharp, splintering crack, and the doors slammed inwards.

“Go!” shouted Gunthar. “Take the envoy and the seekers, and find a way out! We will hold them here!”

Seeing the object of their ire about to escape, the mob of townsfolk surged forward, charging into the shieldwall.

“Come with me!” Cithria ordered, entering the darkened shop, shield raised before her. “There’s got to be a back door.”

The shop, it seemed, belonged to a candle-maker. Hundreds of wax candles lined the shelves, and an array of floral scents assailed Cithria.

“Here!” shouted Bakker, disappearing towards the rear of the shop.

“Stay close,” said Cithria, and the envoy from the Arbormark, flanked by the pair of mageseekers, dropped in behind her as she followed Bakker deeper into the shop.

The door he found led to a storeroom, filled with barrels, stacks of crates, and sacks. It was so dark that Cithria could barely see Bakker’s shape a few feet in front of her.

“If only we had a candle, eh?” remarked Arjen mildly, making Cithria snort, then cover her mouth to stop herself. It was hardly a time for levity.

Then there was a sound of cracking timber, and light suddenly entered the storeroom as Bakker kicked the back door open. The alley beyond was clear.

Bakker ushered Cithria and the others forward.

“Move!” he said. “I’ll take the rearguard!”

Cithria nodded, and plowed forward, leading Arjen and the mageseekers. She’d gone no more than ten paces when someone stepped out of the shadows of a side-alley, blocking her path.

It was an auburn-haired woman, and she cradled a heavy crossbow in her arms. Even as Cithria slid to a standstill, one hand raised in warning to those behind, the woman leveled the weapon in their direction.

Time seemed to slow.

Snow was falling again, the heavy flakes drifting soundlessly down. The clamor of the crowd and the shouts of her fellow soldiers were faint, here in the quiet alley behind the main thoroughfare.

Cithria saw that the woman’s eyes were red, as if she had been crying, and her expression was one of desperation.

What had driven this town to such a state? In Cithria’s experience, the people of her homeland were lawful and stoic. Why was this town so angry?

“Get out of the way,” the woman said to Cithria, eyes pleading. Her voice was cracked and choked with emotion. “Please.”

“This man is an envoy from an allied nation,” Cithria said, in a calm voice, the kind she might use around a skittish horse. “I cannot allow any harm to befall him.”

“What?” said the woman, her brow furrowing.

“Don’t do this,” said Cithria. “This man is under the protection of Demacia.”

The woman laughed then, the sound desperate and almost manic.

“It’s not him I want,” she said. “It’s the seeker. That one.”

Only then did Cithria realize the crossbow was pointed at Cadstone.

“My daughter never did anything wrong!” the woman said, and tears ran down her cheeks. “Kyra chose to step forward, to alert the mageseekers of her power. She didn’t want to get anyone into trouble, didn’t want to bring grief down upon her family, or on this town. Everyone loved her! All this trouble—you caused it all!”

“You took her daughter…” Cithria breathed, looking at Cadstone.

The mageseeker nodded grimly.

“We had to,” he said. “The law was amended. Any citizen with known magical power, benign or otherwise, is now ordered to be brought in for judgment. Every mage in the kingdom.”

“She was just a girl!” shouted the woman, jabbing her crossbow in the mageseeker’s direction. “You locked her away! With all those criminals! Or maybe she has been exiled and is out beyond the borders, alone! You condemned her!”

Cithria sucked in a breath, certain a bolt was going to be loosed… but it wasn’t. Not yet, at least.

“Kyra was no threat to anyone!” the woman cried. “She used to cry herself to sleep, wishing she had been born like everyone else. And you took her. You’re a monster.”

“The law is the law,” said Cadstone.

“Then the law is wrong,” the woman said. “She was my life, and you took her from me. Now I will take yours from you.”

Her finger tightened around the trigger… but she hesitated as Cithria stepped in between her and the mageseeker.

“Move, please,” said the woman, crying. “I don’t want to see anyone harmed but the one responsible for this.”

“I cannot let you do this,” said Cithria. “Put the crossbow down.”

“My life is over,” said the woman. “His should be too.”

“If you do this, there is no coming back,” said Cithria. “What happens when your daughter returns home, but you are not here because of the choice you make today?”

“No one taken by the seekers is ever seen again,” said the woman. “Kyra is never coming home.”

The depth of despair in her voice was heart-wrenching, cutting Cithria to her core.

“You can’t know that,” pleaded Cithria. “You owe it to her to be here if she does. She’ll need you.”

The woman’s face crumpled in grief, her eyes screwing shut, tears running freely. But she didn’t lower the crossbow.

Cithria took a step forward, reaching out to her.

“I’ll help you,” Cithria said. “I promise you, I will do all I can to find out where your daughter is.”

Cithria was certain she was failing to reach the woman. At this range, the sheer power of a heavy crossbow would punch straight through her breastplate.

“Please,” she said. “You need to be strong. For Kyra.”

The woman collapsed to her knees, all the fight going out of her. But as she dropped, finally giving in to grief and exhaustion, her finger tightened on the trigger.

There was a click, followed by a sharp snap, as the crossbow fired.

The bolt sliced through the air and ricocheted off one of the alley’s white stone walls. Cithria spun as the deadly bolt hissed past Cadstone and Arno, missing the nervous young mageseeker by inches, and shot directly at Bakker.

Cithria saw the envoy from the Arbormark make a slight motion with his fingers, a subtle twisting of his hand. The bolt was knocked off course, as if it had struck an invisible, angled wall just in front of Bakker, and it spun harmlessly over his shoulder.

The hair on the back of Cithria’s neck suddenly stood on end at what she had just seen.

Bakker’s eyes were wide in shock. The bolt should have taken him in the neck, and Cithria could see that he knew it. The giant, bearskin-clad envoy gave her the slightest of winks.

The young mageseeker was on the ground, breathing hard. Cadstone was pressed up against one wall of the alleyway. The woman was kneeling on the ground in the snow, her body wracked with sobs.

Cithria rushed to her side, and gently removed the crossbow from her shaking hands. Then she hugged the woman, drawing her close.

“Do not arrest her,” Cithria said, looking up at Cadstone. “It was an accident, nothing more.”

The mageseeker hesitated, looking troubled.

“No harm befell anyone,” continued Cithria. “She has suffered enough. Please.”

Cadstone sighed, and rubbed his eyes.

“This is not a matter for my order,” he said, finally. “Since there was no magic performed here, I leave that decision to you.”

Cithria caught Bakker’s eye… but he said nothing.

The mob of townsfolk hurled themselves against the Demacian shieldwall, kicking and surging. Bottles and rocks clashed upon shields and helmets, but still the soldiers did not draw weapons.

There was a shout as Cithria emerged from the candle shop once more, leading the red-haired woman, an arm around her shoulder, and the townsfolk backed off.

“Rosalyn?” called the burly blacksmith.

“Kyra wouldn’t want this,” the woman called out. “She wouldn’t want anyone hurt on her account.”

Her sudden appearance gave the crowd pause. A few of them fought on, shoving against the shieldwall, but others backed off, suddenly unsure of themselves.

“Clear the street!” roared Gunthar. “Leave now, and there will be no repercussions!”

The townspeople looked to the blacksmith.

“Do what he says,” he said, finally. “It’s over.”

The fury and resentment in the crowd dissipated, like an early morning fog beneath the sun’s rays. Within a few moments, they looked just like regular citizens once more, now that their faces were no longer twisted with anger and rage. Many in the crowd muttered and looked down, ashamed.

At a nod from Gunthar, the soldiers parted to allow the blacksmith through their ranks, who took the woman in his arms.

“The rest of you, go home!” Gunthar ordered the milling crowd. He could have had them all rounded up and clapped in irons, but Cithria was glad he chose leniency.

Cithria looked around. Miraculously, other than a few scrapes and bruises, no one had been seriously harmed, either among the soldiers’ ranks, or the citizenry of Meltridge. The townsfolk drifted away, dragging the wagons with them.

Her shield-sergeant, Gunthar, looked at Cithria in relief.

“I don’t know what you did,” he said, shaking his head, “but whatever it was, you helped avert disaster today, soldier.”

Cithria felt suddenly tired, and didn’t have the energy to respond. She nodded numbly, and sat heavily on a nearby step.

Soldiers were still watching the last lingering townsfolk warily. Bakker stood nearby, his expression clouded. Cithria’s gaze drifted to the pair of mageseekers, their expressions grim, then to the woman, Rosalyn, crying in the blacksmith’s arms.

All these people were Demacians, and all had good intentions at heart, yet recent actions had set them against each other.

A difficult time was coming to Demacia, she thought.

No, she corrected herself.

It was already here.

Sejuani slammed the axe into the tree’s trunk. It had taken her five hits to fell it, and hacking down a dozen trees had winded her. Iceborn were strongest in the cold, and the southern heat was sapping her strength.

Her weary reavers cheered. Though only a hundred strong, their roar echoed off the hills.

The time for stealth had passed. The southerners had gathered an army of many thousands and were less than a half-day behind. On the surrounding hilltops, enemy scouts watched.

The main body of Sejuani’s forces were in the far north occupied by the summer: fatting herds, fishing, and hunting. She had scattered small war parties along the Demacian border to destroy towns, burn crops, and wreck keeps. Hoping, when winter came, her full horde could smash through these weakened lands and raid further south.

Scarmaiden Kjelk approached Sejuani. Like the rest of the raiders, she rode a drüvask, a boar-like creature larger than any ox.

“Warmother, enemies gather on the other side of the river!” Kjelk said, bringing her monstrous mount to a stop.

“Show me,” Sejuani replied, leaping onto her own drüvask, Bristle. He was twice the size of his peers and as wide as a mammoth.

Together they rode down the hillside, passing warriors lashing the logs into rafts. She followed Kjelk along the riverfront until sweat dampened their mounts’ backs.

Downstream of a waterfall, just three hundred paces across the river, Demacian skirmishers were exiting the forest that had hidden them and climbing down the bare rocks. It was an advanced flanking force of a few hundred archers and spearmen. They spotted the two Freljordian women on their drüvasks, but continued on their path.

“Svaag!” Sejuani spat at the flowing water in front of her. In winter, bogs, lakes, and rivers like this one became frozen highways for her fast-moving warbands.

A horn sounded, and Sejuani needed no scout to tell her that the main force of the enemy army had arrived. She turned and could see their armor glimmering on the hilltops behind them. The Demacians’ plan was clear.

If her warband tried to cross the river on rafts, the enemy skirmishers would rain missiles onto them, cutting her numbers in half. Then, using the high ground just beyond the riverbank, the spearmen would be able to hold her survivors long enough for the main force to catch up and overwhelm them.

Bitter and raging, Sejuani kicked Bristle onward and the giant beast ran, crashing through underbrush and shallows back to where the rafts waited.

Most of the warriors had already spotted the enemy forces and were preparing to flee along the river’s edge. A fear had gripped them—not of battle, but of the trap the southlanders had sprung.

“The enemy will send riders to block off any escape along the riverside. We cannot stand against the army coming down from the hills. We must cross. Now,” Sejuani commanded.

Sejuani took a small piece of wood wrapped in leather, no larger than her thumb, and slipped it into her mouth. Then she uncoiled her great flail, Winter’s Wrath. Each link of the weapon’s chain was as large as a man’s hand. At the chain’s end hung a massive shard of True Ice, the largest most had ever seen. Misty vapor rose from its magical cold.

Sejuani clamped her teeth down on the leather-wrapped stick to resist the pain of the weapon’s magic. For wielding True Ice always had a cost. Its cold frosted her arm, sending her into agony. Her eyes watered and tears froze like diamonds on her cheek. Yet all her warriors saw was a grimace of certainty and rage. She swung the weapon around her before crashing it into the water.

A bridge of ice formed, but—as she had expected—it immediately broke apart in the warmer currents. It could not hold her war party.

A few arrows began to fall from the other side of the river, archers testing their range. Few reached land, but she could hear the southerners’ jeers.

Sejuani set Winter’s Wrath back, spat out the stick, and removed her helmet. Then she unwrapped the wolf-gut twine on her wrist. Seeing this simple act, her men roared in approval.

A barking chant began. The warriors, no longer afraid, knew now they were witnessing something special. Sejuani was making the most sacred oath of her people.

She would tie a death knot.

She uncoiled her braids and deftly ran the wolf-gut through her hair. She wondered how many times she had taken a death oath. A dozen? More than any warrior known. Eventually she would fall or fail. Would it be today?

Arrows began to hit the shore around her as she bound the knot. A few of her warriors fired bolts back at the enemy, but the wind was against them.

“I am Sejuani, Warmother of the Winter’s Claw! I am the Winter’s Wrath! I am the Flail of the Northern Winds!” she cried as she tied the last triangular knot into her hair. “Even in death, I will hold the riverbank until you safely cross. This is my oath! I see the Wolf. And my fate… is tied!”

Her warriors cheered, voices growing hoarse as they tried to hold the sound longer. Many had eyes wet with emotion, for Sejuani had sworn to save their lives, even at the cost of her own.

She did not need to give them any further orders. They readied their weapons and climbed onto rafts. They would cross as quickly as they could—and perhaps they might arrive in time to save her.

Sejuani placed the leather-wrapped stick back between her teeth. She ran her fingers through the wiry hair on Bristle’s neck, who needed no oath or words to understand her intent. He grunted and turned to face the water.

Again she grabbed Winter’s Wrath and swung it. Exhausted, in pain, and sweating in the heat, Sejuani brought it down onto the water…

A bridge of ice formed as Bristle charged. The ice cracked and tilted, but her steed somehow ran true.

Arrows fell; not the few exploratory shots from before, but a black rain. Sejuani held her shield high, though a few still stabbed her shoulders and thighs. Dozens pierced Bristle’s hide.

Then, barely halfway across the river, the bridge collapsed, and they were in the water.

Bristle struggled. Desperately, he tried to hold them above the surface. Still the arrows fell. The distant shore was gone. All Sejuani could see was a rain of black bolts and the water red from Bristle’s blood.

The great beast was screaming—with a sound like a thunderstorm and a baby wailing. Bristle sputtered. Without thinking, Sejuani leaned over, protecting his torso with her own. Her shield covered his face to ease the mount’s suffering.

It was then she thought, Perhaps our death comes today.

Suddenly, Bristle found his footing in the shallows. Instead of drowning, the great beast made huge splashing strides onto the riverbank.

Sejuani stood in her saddle and swung her flail in front of her, releasing an explosion of ice. The blast cut apart a dozen unarmored archers. Bristle gored and trampled another two. The others ran from her, back uphill, seeking cover behind the spearmen who formed a shield wall to block her next attack. More missiles would rain down and the spearmen would charge her in mass momentarily, but Sejuani grinned, knowing the archers had lost their opportunity.

She looked back to see her own warriors crossing, unharried by the barrage she had just weathered. Sejuani still did not know if she would survive this day, but she had not failed her oath or her people…

And that is what mattered.

Quinn waited for the Noxians to light a fire in the forest clearing and drink two wineskins. Drunk soldiers were easy to predict. She wanted them drunk enough to be stupid, but not reckless. Mistakes got you killed in the wilderness, and these men had just made two big ones. Lighting a fire told her they were overconfident, the wine that they were sure no one was in pursuit.

Rule One: Always assume someone’s after you.

She eased herself through the mud on her belly, using her elbows to pull herself toward a hollowed out, rotten log at the edge of the clearing. The rain had turned the forest into a quagmire, and she’d spend the next few hours picking bugs and worms from her clothes.

Rule Two: Survival never takes second place to dignity.

Careful not to look directly at the campfire and lose her night sight, she counted five men - one less than she expected. Where was the sixth man? Quinn started to ease herself upright, but froze as the hair stood up on the back of her neck, a warning from above.

A shape moved from behind a tree in the darkness. A warrior. Armored in boiled black leather. Moving with skill. The man paused, scanning the darkness, his hand never leaving the wire-wound hilt of his sword.

Had he seen her? She didn’t think so.

“Hey, Vurdin,” called one of the men seated around the fire. “Better hurry if you want any of this wine. Olmedo’s drinking it all!”

Rule Three: Stay silent.

The man cursed, and Quinn smiled at his obvious frustration.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “I think they heard you back in bloody Noxus.”

“Ach, there’s no one out here, Vurdin. The Demacians are probably too busy buckling on their armor and giving it a polish to bother with coming after us. Come on, take a drink!”

The man sighed and turned back to the fire with a weary shrug. Quinn let out a slow breath. That one had some talent, but he too believed they were alone in the wilderness.

Rule Four: Don’t let stupid people drag you down to their level.

Quinn smiled and glanced up, seeing the smudge of night-blue darkness of her eagle companion against the rainclouds. Valor dipped his wings, and Quinn nodded, their wordless communication refined over many years together. She circled her right fist, then raised three fingers, knowing Valor could see her perfectly and would understand.

Rule Five: When it’s time to act, do it decisively.

Quinn knew they should just take these men out quietly and without fuss, but the affront of Noxians this deep in Demacia was galling. She wanted these men to know exactly who had caught them and that Demacia was not some primitive tribal culture to be crushed by Noxian ambition. The decision made, she pushed herself to her feet and strode into the campsite as if her being there was the most natural thing in the world. She stood at the edge of the firelight, her hood raised and her oiled stormcloak drawn tightly around her.

“Give me what you stole and no one has to die tonight,” said Quinn, nodding toward a leather satchel stitched with the winged sword symbol of Demacia.

The Noxians scrambled upright, blinking as they scanned the edge of the forest. They fumbled to draw their swords and Quinn almost laughed at their surprised ineptitude. The one who’d almost walked right over her hid his shock well, but relaxed as he realized she was alone.

“You’re a long way from home, girl,” he said, raising his sword.

“Not as far as you, Vurdin.”

He frowned, put on the back foot by her using his name. Quinn saw his mind working as he tried to figure out how much more she knew. She kept her cloak pulled tight as the men spread out, surrounding her.

“Give me the satchel,” said Quinn, a note of boredom in her voice.

“Take her!” shouted Vurdin.

It was the last thing he said.

Quinn swept her cloak back over her shoulder and lifted her left arm. A black shafted bolt from her repeater crossbow buried itself in Vurdin’s eye, and he fell without a sound. A second bolt tore into the chest of the man to his left. The remaining four came at her in a rush.

A screeching cry split the night as Valor swept down like a lightning bolt from a clear sky. His wings boomed as he spread them wide and swung around in a scything arc. Hooked claws tore the face from one Noxian, and the eagle’s slashing beak clove the skull of the soldier next to him. The third Noxian managed to raise his weapon, but Valor sank his claws into his shoulders and bore him to the ground. The eagle’s beak slashed down and the man’s struggles ceased instantly.

The last Noxian turned and sprinted for the trees.

Rule Six: If you have to fight, kill quickly.

Quinn knelt and loosed a pair of bolts from her crossbow. They hammered into the Noxian’s back and burst from his chest. He managed to reach the edge of the trees before pitching forward and lying still. Quinn remained motionless, listening to the sounds of the wilderness, making sure there were no other enemies nearby. The only sounds she heard were those she’d expect to hear in a forest at night.

She stood, and Valor flew over to her, the satchel of military dispatches the Noxians had stolen held in his claws. He dropped it and she caught it with her free hand, looping it over her shoulder in one smooth motion. Valor perched on her arm, his body rippling with the thrill of the hunt. His claws and beak were red with blood. The eagle’s head cocked to the side, and his gold-flecked eyes glittered with amusement. She grinned, her bond with the bird so strong she already understood his thoughts.

“I was wondering that too,” said Quinn. “How did these Noxians get this far into Demacia?”

The eagle gave a shrill screech, and she nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” said Quinn. “South it is.”

Rule Seven: Trust you can rely on your partner.