LoL Universe Indexing and Search

Noxian by birth, Shieda Kayn and others like him were conscripted as child soldiers, a cruel practice employed by only the most devious commanders in Boram Darkwill’s empire. Following the disastrous battle at the Placidium of Navori, the invasion was deliberately reformulated into a protracted war of attrition. Ionian compassion was a weakness to be exploited—their warriors would hesitate before striking down a supposed innocent. Thus, barely able to lift the blade he had been given, Kayn’s first day in battle was also expected to be his last.

Striking against the province of Bahrl, Noxian forces landed at the mouth of the Epool River. Kayn and the others were a reluctant vanguard, facing disorganized bands of locals defending their home from these returning invaders. While his young comrades were cut down or fled the battlefield, Kayn showed no fear. He dropped his heavy sword and snatched up a fallen sickle, turning to face the shocked Ionians just as the Noxian regulars swept in from the flank.

The carnage was staggering. Farmers, hunters—even a handful of vastaya—all were butchered without ceremony.

Two days later, after word had spread throughout the southern provinces, the Order of Shadow came upon the grisly scene. Their leader, Zed, knew this area had no tactical significance. This massacre was intended as a message. Noxus would show no mercy.

A flickering glint of steel caught his eye. A child of no more than ten lay in the mud, leveling his broken sickle at the master assassin, bloody knuckles straining white. The boy’s eyes harbored a pain that belied his age, yet still burned with all the fury of a hardened warrior. This tenacity was not something that could be taught. Zed saw in this child, this abandoned Noxian survivor, a weapon that could be turned against those who had sent him here to die. The assassin held out his hand and welcomed Kayn into the Order of Shadow.

Acolytes traditionally spent years training with a single weapon of their choosing, but Kayn mastered them all—to him, they were mere tools, and he was the weapon. Armor he viewed as a cumbersome burden, instead cloaking himself in shadows and slaying his enemies with quickness and stealth. These swift executions instilled fear in the hearts of those fortunate enough to be spared.

And as Kayn’s legend grew, so did his arrogance. He truly believed that one day his power would eclipse even that of Zed himself.

This hubris led Kayn to embrace his final test: to seek out a darkin weapon recently unearthed in Noxus, and prevent it from ever being used against the weary defenders of Ionia. He accepted without hesitation, never questioning why he had been chosen for this task. Indeed, where any other acolyte would have destroyed the living scythe known as Rhaast, Kayn took it for himself.

The corruption took hold the moment his fingers closed around the weapon, locking them both in a fateful struggle. Rhaast has long awaited the perfect host in order to rejoin its darkin brethren and lay waste to the world, but Kayn will not be easily dominated. He returns to Ionia in triumph, convinced that Zed will name him the new leader of the Order of Shadow.

“I believed in you, Blade Dancer!” the man choked, his lips frothing red. “You showed us the path…”

Irelia held her stance. She looked down at him, this devotee of the Brotherhood, on his knees in the mud. He had been pierced over and over by her blades.

“We could have been strong... United as one people...”

“That is not the Spirit’s way,” she replied. “If that’s what you think, then you are wrong.”

He had come to this village, waiting for the perfect moment before making his move. But he was clumsy and awkward. She had danced around him easily.

He had been determined to kill her. The worst thing was, he wasn’t the first. Irelia’s blades now hovered at her shoulders, following the graceful, circling movements of her hands. One simple gesture, and it could all be over.

He spat blood on the ground, his eyes burning with hatred. “If you will not lead Navori, the Brotherhood will.”

He tried weakly to raise his dagger against her. This man would never be taken alive.

“I believed in you,” he said again. “We all did.”

She sighed. “I never asked you to. I’m sorry.”

Her limbs flowing lithely around her body, Irelia whirled to the side, sending the blades out in a deadly arc. They sliced cleanly through his flesh, as much an act of mercy as self-defense.

A simple turn, just one elegant step, brought the blades back to her, their edges slick with blood. The man’s lifeless body toppled forward.

“May the Spirit bring you to peace,” said Irelia.

She closed her eyes.

“Father,” she whispered. “I have bloodied our family’s honor once more. Forgive me.”

Irelia spread the blades out before her—like Ionia itself, they were the fractured pieces of something that had once been far greater, now turned to violent ends. She poured water into a small wooden bowl, and dipped in a rag. The simple act of cleaning the shards had become a ritual, one that she felt compelled to undertake after every battle she fought.

The water slowly turned red as she worked. But beneath the fresh blood, the metal carried much darker, older stains that she could never seem to remove completely.

This was the blood of her people. The blood of Navori itself.

Lost in thought, she began to slide the blades around, slowly reforming them into her family crest. Its three symbols lay cracked before her, representing the Xan name, her home province, and the rest of the First Lands, all in harmony. Her ancestors had always lived by the teachings of Karma. They inflicted no harm on anyone, regardless of circumstance.

And now, here was their seal and crest turned into weapons, and takers of countless lives at that.

She could feel the eyes of her brothers upon her. Even in their eternal rest, at one with the Spirit of Ionia, she feared earning their disappointment, their resentment. She pictured her dear old O-ma too, broken and sobbing, devastated by each kill...

Many times, that thought had made Irelia weep more than any other.

The blades would never be clean. She knew that—but she would still do right by those she had harmed.

She passed many of her followers on her way to the burial grounds. Though they looked to Irelia for leadership, now more than ever, she recognized so few of them. With each winter the faces became less familiar, as the last of the old resistance were replaced by new and more zealous fighters. They came from faraway provinces, and towns she had never heard of.

Even so, she halted often to return their half-hearted salutes and bows, and would accept none of their help in dragging the shrouded body of her dead attacker along the road.

Finding an open patch beneath the blossom-heavy branches of a tree, Irelia set him down carefully, and turned to join in the grief of the widows and widowers, the orphaned sons and daughters.

“I know it is never easy,” she said, placing a consoling hand on the shoulder of one man, who knelt before a pair of fresh graves, “but each life, and each death, are part of—”

He batted away her hand, glaring at her until she retreated.

“It was necessary,” she murmured to herself as she prepared to start digging, though she remained unconvinced by her own words. “It is all necessary. The Brotherhood would grip this land in an iron fist. No better than Noxus…”

Her eyes fell upon an old woman, sat on a simple wooden stool at the foot of the tree, singing a soft lament. Streams of tears had dried on her face. She was dressed plainly, with one hand resting on a grave marker next to her. It was adorned with food offerings for the deceased.

To Irelia’s surprise, the woman halted her song.

“Bringing us some company, are you, daughter of Xan?” she called out. “Ain’t much room left round here. But any friend of yours is a friend of ours.”

“I did not know this man, but thank you. He deserved better than he was given in life.” Irelia took an uncertain step closer. “You were singing one of the old songs.”

“Helps keep my mind off bad things,” said the old woman, tamping down a patch of dirt on the grave. “This is my nephew.”

“I… I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sure you did all you could. Besides, this is all part of the Spirit’s way, you know?”

Her kindly demeanor had put Irelia entirely at ease. “Sometimes I don’t know,” she confided.

The old woman perked up, expecting more. Irelia continued, finally giving voice to the doubts that had plagued her for a long time.

“Sometimes… Sometimes I wonder if I killed our peace.”

“Killed our peace?”

“When Noxus invaded. Perhaps we lost something when we fought back, something we can never restore.”

The woman stood, trying in vain to open a large nut. “Child, I remember peace well,” she said, thrusting one gnarled, knobby finger at Irelia. “Those were good days! Nobody misses peace more than me.”

She pulled a knife from her belt, and began to pry open the nutshell.

“But the world’s a different place now. What worked then don’t work today. No point dwelling on it.”

At last, the shell cracked, and she placed the broken kernel into a bowl on the grave.

“See, there? Used to be able to open these with my hands alone, now I need a knife. The young me would’ve fretted about it, damaging the nut like that. But that me don’t matter, because she don’t have to live in the here and now.” The old woman nodded kindly, then went back to her singing.

For the first time in a long while, Irelia smiled. Within her satchel, wrapped in protective cloth, were the shard-blades of her shattered family crest. She knew it would never be clean, never be whole again.

But they were always ready, and that would have to be enough.

As a child, Yasuo often believed what the others in his village said of him: on the best days, his very existence was an error in judgement; on the worst, he was a mistake that could never be undone.

Like most pain, there was some truth to it. His mother was a widow already raising a young son, when the man who would be Yasuo’s father blew into her life like an autumn wind. And, just like that lonely season, he was gone again before the blanket of Ionian winter settled over the small family.

Even though Yasuo’s older half-brother, Yone, was everything Yasuo was not—respectful, cautious, conscientious—the two were inseparable. When other children teased Yasuo, Yone was there to defend him. But what Yasuo lacked in patience, he made up for in determination. When Yone began his apprenticeship at the village’s renowned sword school, a young Yasuo followed, waiting outside in monsoon rain, until the teachers relented and opened the gates.

Much to the annoyance of his new peers, Yasuo showed natural talent, and became the only student to catch the attention of Elder Souma, last master of the legendary wind technique. The old man saw Yasuo’s potential, but the impulsive pupil refused his tutelage, remaining unbridled like a whirlwind. Yone pleaded with his brother to set aside his arrogance, gifting him a maple seed, the school’s highest lesson in humility. The next morning, Yasuo accepted the position as Souma’s apprentice, and personal bodyguard.

When word of the Noxian invasion reached the school, some were inspired by the great stand that had been taken at the Placidium of Navori, and soon the village was bled of the able bodied. Yasuo longed to add his sword to the cause, but even as his classmates and brother left to fight, he was ordered to remain and protect the elders.

The invasion became a war. Finally, one rain-slicked night, the drums of a Noxian march could be heard in the next valley over. Yasuo abandoned his post, foolishly believing he could turn the tide.

But he found no battle—only a raw grave for hundreds of Noxian and Ionian corpses. Something terrible and unnatural had happened here, something that no single blade could have stopped. The land itself seemed tainted by it.

Sobered, Yasuo returned to the school the next day, only to be surrounded by the remaining students, their swords drawn. Elder Souma was dead, and Yasuo found himself accused not only of dereliction, but of murder. He realized the true killer would go unpunished if he did not act quickly, so he fought his way free, though he knew this would all but confirm his apparent guilt.

Now a fugitive in war-torn Ionia, Yasuo sought any clue that might lead him to the murderer. All the while, he was hunted by his former allies, continually forced to fight or die. This was a price he was willing to pay, until he was tracked down by the one he dreaded most—his own brother, Yone.

Bound by honor, they circled each other. When their swords finally met, Yasuo’s wind magic overcame Yone’s dual blades, and with a single flash of steel, the outcast cut his brother down.

He begged forgiveness, but Yone’s dying words were of the wind techniques responsible for Elder Souma’s death, and that his brother was the only one who could have known them. Then he fell silent, passing on before he could grant any absolution.

Without master or brother, Yasuo roamed the mountains distraught, drinking away the pain of war and loss, a sword without a sheath. There in the snow, he met Taliyah, a young Shuriman stone mage who had fled the Noxian military. In her, Yasuo saw an unlikely student, and in himself, an even more unlikely teacher. He trained her in the ways of elemental magic, wind shaping stone, embracing at last the teachings of Elder Souma.

Their world changed with rumors of a risen Shuriman god-emperor. Yasuo and Taliyah parted ways, though he gifted her the treasured maple seed, its lesson now learned. As she returned to her native desert sands, Yasuo set out for his own village, determined to put right his mistakes and find his old master’s true killer.

Within the stone walls of the council hall, Elder Souma’s death was revealed to have been an accident, one brought about by the Noxian exile known as Riven—and one for which she felt deep remorse. Even so, Yasuo still could not absolve himself of the choice he had made to abandon his master or, worse yet, how that choice had ultimately led to Yone’s death.

Yasuo eventually journeyed to the spirit blossom festival in Weh’le, though he held little hope that its healing rituals would ease his heart. It was there he encountered a demonic creature that sought to devour him, an azakana that fed on his pain and regret.

Yet a masked intruder intervened, striking down the creature with righteous fury, and Yasuo realized he knew this man—it was Yone.

Fully expecting his brother to take vengeance, Yasuo was surprised when Yone let him go with little more than a bitter blessing.

With nothing left for him in the First Lands, Yasuo has embarked on a new adventure, though he knows not where it will lead, his sense of guilt the only thing weighing down the free wind.

Glowing flitterwings danced through the twilight, leaving trails of luminescence in their wake, but she swatted them out of her face, oblivious to their fleeting grace. Eyes downcast, she kicked a rock, sending it skidding over the roots twisting across her path, blind to the glorious sunset glimpsed through the canopy. The delicate violet petals of a blooming night-sable unfurled to release its glowing pollen into the warm evening, but she reached out and twisted the flower off its stem as she passed.

Her face burned with shame and anger. The scolding from her mother still lingered, and the laughter of her brother and the others seemed to follow her.

She paused, looking back at the broken petals on the path, and frowned. There was something strangely familiar about all of this… almost like she’d lived it before. She shook her head and continued on, deeper into the forest.

Finally, she stood before the sacred ghost-willow. Its limbs moved languidly, as if underwater, accompanied by the faint, musical whisper of bone chimes.

While the anger still coursed through her, hot and fierce, she closed her eyes and forced her fists to unclench. She breathed in, slowly, just as the old master had taught her, trying to push back her rage.

Something hit her, hard, in the back of the head, and she fell to her knees. She touched a hand where she’d been struck, and her fingers came away bloody. Then she heard the laughter, and her fury surged to the fore.

She stood and turned towards her brother and the others, her eyes dark and glaring. Her breathing was heavy and short, and her hands clenched into fists at her side once more, all the effort to calm herself a moment before lost in a flash of anger. As it built within her, compounding and growing like a malignant sickness, the air around her seemed to shimmer, and the ghost-willow began to fade and wither behind her. It wept red sap, its leaves curling and blackening.

Since time immemorial the magic of this land had nourished the ghost-willow, just as it in turn nourished the land and its people, but now it was dying, its supple limbs turning bone-dry and brittle, its roots curling in pain. Its chimes tolled a mournful death-rattle, but the girl didn’t hear it, lost in the moment of her seething fury.

As the ancient, primordial tree perished, the little girl began to lift off the ground, rising into the air. Three light-swallowing spheres of absolute darkness began to orbit around the child.

Her tormentors were not laughing now...

Kalan stood upon the battlements of Fae’lor, looking across the narrow sea towards the mainland of the First Lands—what humans now called Ionia.

It was a dark, moonless night, but he saw as clearly as if it were daylight, the pupils of his feline eyes fully dilated. Occasionally, they caught the gleam of torch-light and reflected it back brightly; the mirrored eyes of a night predator.

Kalan was vastaya, of the ancient bloodline. His fur was russet-red and hung down his back in long, intricate, knotted braids that now had more than a few streaks of grey in them. His proud face was akin to that of a great hunting cat, and criss-crossed with scars from a lifetime of battle. The left side of that face was furless, and angry red welts bore evidence of the horrible burns he’d suffered as a young warrior. Curling horns sprouted from his temples, each engraved with spiralling runic patterns, and his three tails swished behind him, each covered in segmented plate. The armor he wore was Noxian dark iron, and he wore the trappings of his adopted empire with a scowl.

Some called him a traitor, both to Ionia and his vastayan heritage, but he didn’t care. What they thought didn’t matter.

The fortress of Fae’lor was built upon the westernmost island of Ionia. Highly defensible, this place had remained for centuries, standing against countless foes, before being finally overrun after a long siege during the Noxian invasion.

That was before Kalan had joined Noxus, before the fateful Battle of the Placidium when he’d pledged himself to Swain. Before he’d requested this post as governor of Fae’lor as reward for his service.

The Noxians laughed at him behind his back, he knew. He could have had a far more prestigious posting—but he had chosen Fae’lor, at the forgotten edge of the empire.

They didn’t understand, and that mattered nothing to him. He needed to be here.

Noxus had not won the war, of course… but nor had Ionia. Nevertheless, many seasons after the end of the campaign, Fae’lor remained under the invaders’ control.

Thirty-three warships were currently docked here, as well as perhaps half that number of trader vessels and merchant ships. Over a thousand warriors of Noxus—a mix of veteran warbands hailing from the far corners of the empire—were stationed here under his leadership.

A guard patrol stomped along the battlements. They saluted, fists crashing against breastplates, and he gave a nod in return. He didn’t fail to miss the dark looks they gave him as they marched by. They hated him almost as much as his own people did, but they feared and respected him, and that was enough.

He turned to look back across the sea once more, brooding on the past. Why was he here? It was a question he saw in the eyes of his subordinates every day, and one that crept up on him the darkest of nights, those nights when the forest, and the hunt, called to him. The answer was simple, however.

He remained here to keep watch over her.

A pair of dark-clad figures—one female, one male—emerged from the sea, unseen, and as silent as death. Swiftly, moving like spiders, they scaled the near-vertical hull of the warship Crimson Huntress, and slunk over its gunwale. Their blades glinted, and the ship’s night wardens were silently dispatched, one after another, without any alarm being sounded.

Within moments, all five Noxians were dead, their lifeblood leaking out onto the deck.

“Neatly done, little brother,” said one of the pair, now crouched in the shadow of the upper deck. Of her face, only her eyes and the swirling indigo tattoos that surrounded them were visible.

“I had a passably decent teacher,” replied the other. He too was fully clad in black and crouched in shadow, though in place of his sister’s swirling tattoos, his skin was a solid block of etched flesh.

“Passably decent, Okin?” she replied, one eyebrow rising.

“No need to feed your ego, Sirik,” her brother replied.

“Enough fooling around,” said Sirik. She opened a black leather pouch at her hip and delicately removed an object, tightly bound in waxed leather. She unwrapped it, gingerly, revealing a fist-sized, black crystal.

“Is it dry?” whispered Okin.

In answer, Sirik gently shook the crystal. A hint of an orange glow lit it from within for a brief moment, like a fanned ember.

“It would seem so. I’ll find a suitable place for it,” she said, nodding to the nearby door leading below deck. “You signal the others.”

Okin nodded. Sirik ghosted below deck, and her brother moved silently back to the gunwale. He leaned over the edge and beckoned. Seven other black-clad figures rose from the dark water below, climbing soundlessly up onto the deck of the ship, hugging the shadows.

They were the dispossessed—the last remaining warriors who had served here at the fortress of Fae’lor, before the Noxians had wrested it from them. The shame of that defeat still burned in their hearts, as did the desire to see every Noxian pushed from their ancestral homelands.

Once all were on deck, they waited a moment for Sirik, who emerged after a few minutes.

“It is done,” she said.

The nine dispossessed Ionians flowed over the ship’s side, following the leading pair. They moved as fluidly as water, and ran lightly along the stone dock towards the fortress of Fae’lor.

From shadow to shadow they darted, like specters, until they reached the first wall. Hugging the darkness, they remained utterly motionless as a patrol marched by, the Noxian warriors speaking in their guttural language and laughing, utterly oblivious to the nigh-invisible Ionians crouched mere feet away.

As soon as the patrol turned a corner, the infiltrators snapped into motion once more, climbing the sheer surface of the wall, moving swiftly, hand-over-hand. They made it look easy, like climbing a ladder, though in truth there were virtually no handholds.

Sirik reached the crenellations first. She peered over, then ducked swiftly back and went perfectly still, clinging one-handed to the battlements. The others below her froze, then hurriedly climbed to join her as she made a series of swift hand-movements. She made a fist, before climbing atop the wall, joined by her brother, Okin. None of the Noxians saw the pair of Ionians ghosting along behind them, hopping lightly across the top of the battlements in their wake.

Then Sirik and Okin leapt among the enemy, and the four guards were killed before a single one drew a blade.

The last of them clutched his throat, blood welling beneath his hand, and teetered on the edge of the wall. Sirik grabbed him, like a lover enfolding her paramour in her arms, and lowered him gently to the ground; if he’d fallen, the sound would undoubtedly have raised the alarm.

Two other guards nearby were swiftly dispatched, silently and without mercy, as the other Ionians came over the wall. Then, as one, the nine moved on, darting across an open courtyard and scaling a second, inner wall.

Each of them knew their target, and each knew the precise layout of the fortress, for it had been their own people who had constructed it. The Noxians were merely its current occupants.

They scrambled up the inner wall, and flowed over the parapet, their timing almost preternatural as they avoided two pairs of sentries atop the wall. They ducked into the shadow of the jutting stone bluff Fae’lor abutted, and became as one with the darkness.

That was when a shout sounded, echoing up from the docks.

Okin cursed under his breath. “They know we’re here,” he hissed.

“I had hoped to be further in before they discovered the first body,” said Sirik, “but this changes nothing. We continue as planned.”

The first shout was echoed by others, and a bell began to toll, sounding out across the fortress.

“Time for our distraction,” said Sirik. She closed her eyes and silenced her inner thoughts. In her mind’s eye, she saw the black crystal she’d secreted below the deck of the Noxian warship, and she reached out to it, fanning it to life.

She was no conjurer or soul-mage, but like many of her people, she could feel and subtly manipulate the magic of the land in minor, fairly insignificant ways. Hers was just a small, common gift, akin to that of the farmers of her village who spun a little magic into their crops. To outsiders this was shocking, but among her people, such simple gifts were not at all unusual, nor regarded as anything to be held in awe. It was like being able to whistle, or curl your tongue—some people could do it, others couldn’t.

Sirik deepened her breathing, and intensified her silent entreaties, encouraging the fyrestone to do what was it its nature to do.

Her gift might have been minor, but the effect of it as she nudged the crystal to life was not. That had more to do with the volatile nature of the fyrestone crystal than any innate power of her own, of course, but nevertheless, the result was impressive.

In the harbor below, the Noxian warship Crimson Huntress exploded, lighting up the night in a billowing fireball. Soldiers who were responding to Fae’lor’s warning bells stopped in their tracks, turning towards sudden inferno.

Sirik opened her eyes. “Let’s go,” she said.

Kalan stalked onto the stone dock, flanked by guards, his three tails swishing dangerously.

“The work of Ionian saboteurs, I would guess, my lord,” said a nervous-looking officer, trotting to keep up with Kalan’s long strides. “A black powder detonation, most likely.”

Kalan halted and frowned deeply as he surveyed the mayhem on the docks.

The Crimson Huntress was no more, reduced to the waterline. What timbers remained still burned. Three other nearby vessels were ablaze, and while crews worked to put out the flames, Kalan could see at a glance that at least one of them was a lost cause, and he snarled in frustration, exposing his teeth.

“We’ve secured the docks, and a thorough search of all other ships is currently underway,” said the nervous officer. “If there are more explosives, they will be found.”

Kalan ignored him, eyes narrowed. He dropped to one knee and scratched at the ground, then lifted his hand to his nose, sniffing.

“If they are still here, lord, we’ll find them,” said the officer, clearly uncomfortable with his superior’s silence. “I’d guess they are long gone, though.”

Kalan stood, and looked back along the dock, away from the sea, towards the towering walls.

“A cowardly act,” the officer remarked. “They know they can’t take us in a siege, so they try to hurt us in other ways. But we will not be deterred! We are Noxus! We—”

“Be silent,” growled Kalan. He was looking at the officer for the first time now, his yellow eyes unblinking. The man paled under his gaze, and seemed to shrink a little, like a toad retreating into its hole. “It was fyrestone, not blackpowder. And they are still here. This was not an act of cowards.”

The officer gaped silently, like a landed fish. “No?” he managed, finally, his voice little more than a squeak.

“No.” Kalan swung away from him, and strode back towards the fortress of Fae’lor. “This is a distraction.”

Kalan seethed. He would deal with that fool later. Right now, he had something far more important to focus on.

“They are going for the Dreaming Pool,” he snarled.

Sirik kept her hand clamped across the Noxian’s mouth until his struggles ceased, then dropped his lifeless body to the ground. She wiped her bloody dagger clean on his tunic and glanced around to see her brother and the others deal with the remaining Noxians within the lower level of the tower.

They were close, now. A rocky bluff reached up to the night sky in the courtyard beyond their position, and Sirik’s eyes were drawn to its peak. A jutting structure, blotting out the stars, marked their target.

Tolling bells were sounding the alarm, echoing all across Fae’lor.

Sirik led the way out into the courtyard, breaking from the tower and sprinting towards the stone steps carved into the bluff. She didn’t care who saw them now. The time for subterfuge was passed. Now speed was the best ally.

Shouts erupted from above, and arrows chased the Ionians as they darted across the open space. None hit home, skidding off the cobbled stone at their feet. A handful of guards emerged from a nearby gate, rushing to intercept them. Sirik and her companions didn’t even slow as they drew weapons; curved swords, sickles, poisoned darts and bladed fans. In a heartbeat they were among the Noxians, sliding under and somersaulting over heavy blows, dancing through them, blades wreaking a bloody toll.

The first of the Ionians fell, then, hacked down by a heavy halberd blow to the neck. Sirik pushed her instant pang of grief within, and pushed on, breaking through the enemy with her brother at her side, leaving a handful of them bleeding in their wake.

They reached the carved, uneven steps—far older than the fortress itself—and began sprinting up, toward the peak, taking the stairs three at a time. Votive lanterns carved into the rock on either side of the stairs remained dark.

Before Noxus had taken this holy place, those would never have remained unlit, day or night.

Another Ionian fell, two arrows thudding into his chest. Without a sound, he toppled from the path, falling to the courtyard below. On and on, the remaining Ionians ran, climbing the spiralling path encircling the stone bluff towards its peak. More arrows clattered against the rock wall beside them, but thankfully no more of her companions were struck.

They rounded the curve at speed. A flash of metal in the night was all the warning Sirik had, and she threw herself instinctively into a roll. A heavy spear, thrown with great force, sliced scant inches over her to strike one of her companions behind. It took him in the chest and lifted him off his feet, hurling him off the bluff.

Two guards stood before the entrance to the shrine at the top of the bluff. Both were immense slabs of muscle and heavy black armor, with huge shields and heavy, jagged cleavers clutched in their brutish fists.

The six remaining Ionians attacked as one, sprinting, leaping and somersaulting towards the towering Noxians, blades glinting.

Moving at speed, Sirik ran up onto the side of the bluff, taking two steps across its vertical surface before leaping off, her short blades seeking the neck of the first guard, even as her brother attacked low. Okin rolled under a heavy swinging blow and came up behind the Noxian, slashing a backhanded blow across his foe’s leg, making him stumble. Sirik speared through the air, leading with her blades, carving a pair of deep furrows through the solid meat of the Noxian’s neck.

Still, he did not fall, and as Sirik landed lightly in a low crouch, one hand touching the ground for balance, the injured warrior roared and smashed one of the dispossessed Ionians to the ground with the flat of his tower shield. Before Sirik could intervene, the brute slammed the ridge of that shield down onto her fallen comrade’s neck, killing him instantly.

The other Noxian was proving equally difficult to put down, bellowing like a wounded bull and flailing about wildly, even as she bled from wounds that would have killed most, lesser individuals.

Okin hacked into the Noxian’s ribs, just to the side of her heavy breastplate, and danced aside as his enemy turned on him. Sirik darted in then, landing another strike, and as her enemy swung in her direction, another of her companions did likewise, hitting the Noxian from behind. They fought like a pack mercilessly taking down large prey, and at last the other Noxian dropped to her knees, lifeblood leaking out onto the stones. She stayed upright for a moment more, spitting curses, then fell facedown and was still.

Her companion roared in grief and anger, and hacked one of the dispossessed down with a brutal sweep of his cleaver. Then he ran to his fallen comrade, dropping to his knees and cradling her in his huge arms. All the fight had gone out of him, and he let out a terrible, anguished wail to the night sky.

Okin and the others encircled him to land the killing blow, but Sirik shook her head. “Leave him be,” she said. “Come. Let’s finish this.”

The Noxian didn’t understand her words, but recognized their intent. He looked up with grief-filled eyes, and regained his feet, picking up his blade. Then, with a cry, he launched himself at Sirik. He was cut down before he went more than a few steps—as he’d likely expected—and he dropped beside the other Noxian. With his last breath, he reached out to her, then went limp.

His death saddened Sirik, for all that he was an enemy. Were they kin, these two? Lovers? Friends? With a deep breath, she pushed those feelings aside, so as to focus on the task at hand.

With a silent nod, she led the four remaining dispossessed Ionians into the shrine known to her people as the Dael’eh Ahira—the Dreaming Pool.

Fae’lor was not originally intended as a fortress. Far from it, it was once a center of tranquility and guidance, where gifted young Ionians came, from far and wide, to learn how better to harness their own innate gifts. All that had ended years before Sirik had been born, and the island that had once been teeming with life, study and peace, became little more than a barren prison. Barely any vegetation grew on the island around the fortress now—only dry, brittle thorn-bushes and ghost-gray lichen was able to thrive. Birds and other wildlife, so abundant on the nearby islands, also shunned it now, except for the dark, hateful crows and ravens that had come with the Noxians.

For all of Sirik’s time here, before the invasion, she and other guards had stood sentinel, watching over the Dael’eh Ahira. It was their duty to ensure that the one held within it was never released.

Sirik led the way down into the darkness within the rock, holding aloft a glass sphere filled with glowing flitterwings to light the way. She shivered, skin prickling, as the temperature dropped the deeper they went.

The stone steps were slick with moisture, but she picked her way down swiftly, for it would not be long before the Noxians arrived in overwhelming force. None of them had expected to make it back from this mission; all that mattered was completing the task they’d come to achieve, and ending the threat imprisoned down here within the Dreaming Pool once and for all.

They reached the deepest point of the Dael’eh Ahira, finally, sliding down the uneven rocks the final ten feet, and landed with a splash in the shallow waters below.

Once, this shrine had been beautiful, but disaster had brought the cavern down in years past.

Here was imprisoned the one they had guarded for so many years.

The one Sirik now came to kill.

Kalan leapt toward the top of the the stone bluff in powerful bounds, clearing ten steps with each one, quickly outpacing his soldiers. He arrived at the peak alone, and growled in frustration as he saw the corpses there: two Noxian, two Ionian.

Without waiting for his warriors, he plunged into the Dael’eh Ahira. Into the darkness he descended, his feline eyes instantly adjusting. He could taste the scent of the humans on the air, leading him on.

Padding silently into the gloom, Kalan began the hunt.

The darkening forest was full of beauty, but the girl saw none of it as she stomped along the winding path.

Glowing flitterwings danced through the twilight, leaving trails of luminescence in their wake, but she swatted them out of her face, oblivious to their fleeting grace. Eyes downcast, she kicked a rock, sending it skidding over the roots twisting across her path, blind to the glorious sunset glimpsed through the canopy. The delicate violet petals of a blooming night-sable unfurled to release its glowing pollen into the warm evening, but she reached out and twisted the flower off its stem as she passed.

Her face burned with shame and anger. The scolding from her mother still lingered, and the laughter of her brother and the others seemed to follow her.

She paused, looking back at the broken petals on the path, and frowned. There was something strangely familiar about all of this… almost like she’d—

Dark shapes appeared in her peripheral vision, and she looked around, trying to see them clearly. There were four of them, but she could only just make them out if she didn’t look directly at them.

Her brow furrowed in confusion. This wasn’t how it was meant to be.

Something was very wrong.

Sirik and her three companions stood in a circle, looking down into a deeper section of the water. A woman lay there, beneath the surface, her pure white hair, long and flowing, drifting around her languidly.

Syndra. That was her name; a byword for destruction, for giving in to your darkest fears and anger. A name still cursed throughout the provinces.

Sirik pulled off the dark hood hiding her face and tossed it aside. The delicate, indigo tattoos surrounding her eyes seemed to writhe in the shifting light emitted by the flitterwings in the glass sphere she held aloft. The others removed their head-coverings as well. All of them bore similar tattoos upon their faces, tattoos that marked them as guardians of Fae’lor. All of them looked down at Syndra, their expressions hard.

The roots of an ancient tree—the only thing holding the immense stones from crashing down upon this already half-collapsed cavern—curled around her limbs. They might have been cradling her, like a protective mother, or holding her down, trapping her, depending on your point of view. She could easily have been mistaken for being dead but for the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed the water.

Syndra didn’t look at all dangerous, but Sirik knew well how deceiving such an impression was. This one had been responsible for the destruction of the once-peaceful temple at the heart of Fae’lor. She had only been contained when the spirit of the land itself had drawn her down here, pulling her in and ensnaring her within this strange, suspended existence.

Sirik had once voiced aloud her confusion as to why they let Syndra live. Why not just end her life, and end the threat of her waking from her slumber? Her old master had smiled, and asked her why, if the land wanted her dead, did it sustain her? Sirik had no answer to that, not then and certainly not now. Her old master talked of balance, but he was dead, killed by a Noxian blade, along with almost all of those who had served here as this slumbering woman’s jailors, yet the one they had guarded still lived. Where was the balance in that?

As long as she lived, Syndra was a threat, yet that threat was contained while she and the others had stood watch over the Dael’eh Ahira. Now that it was within Noxian control, however… The fools would likely release her, either accidentally or in some ill-advised attempt to utilize her destructive power.

No, that danger was too great to risk. Syndra must die. Tonight.

Sirik tossed her flitterwing-filled glow-globe to her brother and stepped into the deeper pool, blade drawn.

“Wait,” said Okin.

“We have no time, brother,” said Sirik. “The Noxians will be upon us momentarily. We must end this now.”

“But she may be our best weapon against them.”

Sirik froze, then turned slowly towards her brother, her expression one of disbelief.

“She is Ionian, after all,” continued Okin. “She could be a great ally. With her, we could push Noxus from Ionia, once and for all!”

“And what then, brother? You think she could be controlled?”

“We wouldn’t need to control her.” Okin stepped forward, his voice full of passion. “We could strike against Noxus, in its heartland! We could—”

“You are a fool, brother,” Sirik interrupted him, her voice thick with derision. She turned away, and began to wade towards the motionless figure of Syndra.

“I can’t let you do that, sister. We can’t let you.”

It was only then Sirik realized her brother and her other two companions had fanned out around her, weapons drawn. “You can’t let me?” she said.

“Don’t make us do this, sister.”

Her gaze flicked between them, judging their distance from her, and whether she would be able to kill Syndra before they reached her. It would be close.

“I’m not making you do anything,” she said. “We came here to end a threat to Ionia—not unleash it.”

“This could be our chance to—”

“No,” said Sirik. “Don’t you see? This sort of division within Ionia is killing us, and it’s playing into the Noxians’ hands. We are all divided, arguing and working against each other, when we need to pull together.”

“So work with us,” begged Okin.

Sirik pointed at the motionless figure of Syndra. “She is a greater threat to this land than Noxus. It’s a foolish act of desperation to think otherwise.”

“Just stop being so stubborn, for once in your life!”

“You’re not going to convince me, brother,” she said. “So what now. You’re going to kill me?”

“Please, don’t let it come to that,” said Okin.

The four of them stood frozen for a second, none quite ready to escalate the situation just yet.

Then a shadow detached itself from the surrounding darkness, and sprang at them with lethal intent.

Sirik gave a shout of warning and lurched forward. The move surprised Okin and their other two companions, who raised weapons, thinking she was attacking. One flung a pair of throwing blades with a sweep of his arm, the move instinctual and reactionary.

Sirik swayed aside from the first dagger, but the second struck home, imbedding itself deep in the meat of her shoulder, making her hiss in pain as she stumbled backwards, falling awkwardly in the water.

Too late, Sirik’s attacker realized the real threat was behind him. The Ionian was lifted from his feet, a blade bursting from his chest, having been driven completely through him. Then he was hurled aside, and the shadowy attacker moved on, abandoning his sword and turning on Okin.

It was a vastaya, garbed in Noxian armor, and he roared, lips curling back to reveal his predator’s teeth. The sound reverberated painfully within the cavern.

Sirik recognized him, of course, as she struggled to regain her feet. This was Kalan, reviled traitor of the Placidium, who had turned away from his people and Ionia to join the enemy. He’d been given Fae’lor as his prize, a bone thrown to a loyal and subservient pet. She and her brother had lost more than a few friends at his hands.

“Noxian lickspittle!” said Okin, crouched low, blade at the ready. “You betrayed our people! You betrayed Ionia!”

Kalan gave a bitter laugh as he padded in towards Okin. He flexed his hands, and long talons emerged from his fingertips, as well as along the ridge of his forearms.

“There is no Ionia,” snarled the vastayan warrior. “There never was. A thousand mortal cultures are scattered across the First Lands, each with their own beliefs, customs, history and feuds. Your people have never been unified, never stood as one.”

“Then perhaps it is time that changed,” said Okin. “Though you have chosen the losing side.”

“Losing? The war is far from over, child,” said Kalan.

With a grimace, Sirik tore the throwing dagger from her shoulder, her blood leaking out into the water like a crimson ribbon wafting in a breeze. She tossed it deftly into the air, spinning it end over end, and caught it by its blade. With a swift flick of her wrist, she hurled it at the betrayer closing in on Okin.

It took him in the side of the neck, sinking deep, though Sirik cursed herself, for her aim was slightly off. It was not a killing blow. Nevertheless, Okin and their last companion took advantage of the moment, leaping in to strike.

Okin dashed forward, lunging, but his strike was turned aside by the flat of Kalan’s hand, who then knocked him away with a sharp kick. Their last companion came in fast from the flank, bladed fans slicing through the air, but the vastaya, even injured, was too fast, and too powerful.

He swayed aside, first one way, then the next, as the fan-blades sliced at him. Then, he lunged forward and grabbed his foe by the tunic with both hands, and slammed her head-first into a wall. An awful crack sounded as her neck broke.

Kalan’s yellow cat eyes turned back to Okin.

Sirik was too far away to help, she knew that instantly. Instead, she turned and began to slog back towards Syndra. She would do what she came to do. She had not expected to escape this venture with her life anyway, but she was determined their deaths would not be in vain.

She heard her brother shout in defiance, and the vastaya roar, but she dared not look back. She plunged deeper into the water, and reached down, fingers closing around Syndra’s throat. Her skin was warm to the touch. In her other hand, Sirik’s blade drew back for the killing blow.

This wasn’t how it was meant to be.

Something was very wrong.

The girl could still hear the sounds of the night forest around her. She could still see the ferns and twisted roots, and the last colors of the sunset beyond the thick canopy overhead.

But at the same time, she could hear shouts and roars, though they were muffled, as if she was hearing them from a distance… or from underwater?

For a moment, she felt her throat filled with liquid, and a sudden panic rose within her. She was drowning! But no, that was impossible. She was here, a child in the twilight forest outside her village. She was nowhere near water.

A shadowy form appeared before her, like a night-terror given insubstantial form. She felt a sudden constriction around her throat, and she struggled for breath.

Her eyes flickered. She glimpsed a young woman, her face covered in twisting tattoos. The vision was strange, and vague, however, as if she were looking at this person through water. A hand gripped her throat, choking her, and a blade was raised, ready to plunge down into—

No.

She was back in the forest. She was having some kind of awful waking dream. She’d just run here, shame and anger coloring her cheeks. She was going to the ghost-willow, to calm the rage surging within her.

No, she’d already done that. She’d done that over and over, hundreds and thousands of times. Reliving that moment, again and again.

What if this was the dream, and the other vision was real?

The darkness of Syndra’s hatred and anger surged within her.

And she woke from her endless dream.

Sirik saw Syndra’s eyes snap open.

With a desperate cry, she stabbed down with her blade, but struck nothing, for she was hauled into the air by some sudden, unseen force. She struggled against it, flailing wildly, but might as well have been trying to fight the rising tide. She was as helpless as a kitten in the mouth of its mother.

Syndra slipped free of the twisting roots that had ensnared her limbs for so many years, and emerged, gasping. Water streamed off her as she rose into the air, hovering several feet above the surface of the pool, shimmering and pulsing beneath her. Dark power radiated from one hand as she kept Sirik held aloft, floating helplessly, and her eyes burned with cold fire.

As Sirik watched, both horrified and fascinated, a helm—or perhaps a crown—grew into existence upon Syndra’s head. It coiled around her brow, like darkness given life, to form a pair of tall, curving horns. A bead of pure shadow formed at its center, becoming as hard as a gemstone, and burning with the same power that bled from her in waves.

Sirik twisted in the air as her brother Okin broke from Kalan’s grasp. As he did so, he saw Syndra, his expression one of awe. For his part, the vastaya looked almost as stunned, feline lips curled back in a hiss, his eyes wide.

With a horrible, sucking sound, three orbs of utter darkness materialised in the air around Syndra, and began to slowly orbit her. They seemed to swallow the scant light in the cavern, and pull at Sirik’s soul, a vile sensation of loathing and despair clutching at her.

“How long?” Syndra demanded, her voice cracked and unsteady from lack of use. “How long have I been imprisoned here?”

“Years,” spat Sirik. “Decades. We should have killed you long ago.”

She felt Syndra’s hatred surge as a painful stab within her, and she gasped. Then Syndra snarled in fury, and with a gesture sent Sirik hurtling across the cavern.

She smashed against a wall some twenty feet distant, and fell heavily, splashing painfully to the floor. Then Syndra’s dark gaze turned upon Okin and the Noxian creature.

Sirik grimaced in pain. Her left leg and more than one rib were broken, she judged, wincing as she struggled to push herself upright. She cried out as she saw her brother Okin stumble forward into the water, holding his hands up in entreaty.

“No, brother…” she managed, weakly.

“I am not your enemy!” Okin called out. “We are both children of Ionia! Join us!”

Syndra looked down upon him, her gaze radiating power.

“The Noxians attacked our lands, and slaughtered our people!” he continued. “We pushed them back, but they still have a foothold in our ancestral lands. They are not done with us yet! Ionia is divided, and vulnerable! You must help! Help us fight against this new tyranny!”

“I do not know who these Noxians are that you speak of,” Syndra replied. “But if they killed my people, then perhaps I owe them thanks. The only tyranny I experienced was at the hands of those I once called kin.”

Okin’s face was mask of horror, perhaps finally realizing his own foolishness, and he slumped to his knees, defeated.

With a sickening tearing sound, Syndra conjured another dark sphere—all of her bitterness, resentment and anger made manifest. It hovered above her hand, slowly spinning.

“And if you are Ionian, then you are my enemy,” she mused.

Sirik screamed, but there was nothing she could do. With a flick of her wrist, Syndra sent the orb hurtling toward, then through, her brother. He gasped, all the color draining from his flesh, and sank beneath the waters.

Kalan attacked then, leaping from the shadows, claws extended, but another gesture from Syndra sent the three spheres surrounding her hurtling from their orbits towards him, throwing him backward.

“You…” said Syndra, tilting her head to the side, as if trying to place him. “I recognize your soul. You shadowed my dreams.” Her expression darkened even more. “You were my jailor. You… You kept me here.”

From her position, Sirik saw the vastaya push himself to one knee.

“You are an abomination,” he hissed.

Syndra’s hand stabbed out, and the snarling creature was lifted into the air.

The waters of the Dreaming Pool were churning, and Sirik stared in wonder as the roots that had held Syndra began reaching out to reclaim her.

“Kill me, then!” Kalan snarled. “But do so in the knowledge that you will never find peace. Wherever you are, you will be hated and hunted. You will never live free.”

“Kill you?” said Syndra, her lip curling in rage. “No. That would be too clean an end for you.”

With a sweep of her arm, Syndra sent Kalan hurling down into the waters, into the grasp of the writhing roots. They clamped around his limbs reflexively, holding him under. He screamed, air bubbles billowing around him… and then went still.

Sirik stared defiantly at Syndra, knowing that she likely had only moments to live, but to her surprise, the powerful sorceress paid her no mind. Instead, Syndra turned her attention skyward. Both hands were wreathed in dark energy, and with a shout she lifted them high. The stone cracked, and a tumble of dust and rocks fell into the pool, sending crazy ripples spreading out in all directions.

With a violent cutting motion of her arms and a deafening boom, Syndra ripped apart the rock overhead. Huge chunks of stone fell around her, crashing down with titanic force, and Sirik pushed herself backwards desperately, each movement sending searing pain flaring up her leg and side.

Stars blinked in the sky far above, and Syndra began to rise, floating up towards freedom. She glanced back down, once, toward the motionless, submerged figure of Kalan, ensnared by roots.

“Your turn to dream, jailor,” she whispered, and with a sweep of her arms, she entombed him completely beneath the fallen rocks.

Wincing with every movement, Sirik crawled further away, certain she would be crushed at any moment…

The island rumbled, as if wracked by an earthquake. It went on for what seemed like an eternity.

And, when it finally ceased, an unnerving silence fell across Fae’lor.

Sirik crawled from the gloom, breathing in fresh air, and stared about her, eyes wide in shock. Easily half of the fortress was gone.

Her gaze drifted up. At first, she saw nothing but darkness where there should have been stars. With a sharp intake of air, she realized she was looking at the silhouette of the greatest towers and ramparts hanging against the night sky. It hadn’t collapsed into the sea—it had been ripped from the island, and lifted toward the heavens.

She stared, her mouth gaping. She had known Syndra was powerful, but this? This was power she could never have imagined.

As Sirik watched, frozen by the sight, she saw one of the Noxian warships moored in the harbor below lifted from the sea. Men tumbled from its deck like so many ants, falling to their deaths on the rocks below, as the ship was lifted ever higher. Then it fell, smashing back down upon two other vessels, crushing them to splinters. The destruction was catastrophic.

The ruined castle in the sky began to drift northwards. Alone at the sundered peak of the Dael’eh Ahira, Sirik watched it go, until the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon.

The import of the night weighed upon her heavily. Her brother, and the last of the guardians of Fae’lor were dead. All but her.

And while the destruction wrought against the Noxians this night would have been cause for great rejoicing at any other time, her heart was heavy.

Syndra was back in the world.

They had failed.

Kalan knelt, motionless and silent, as he waited for the seer to speak. She was a curious creature, violet-skinned, and with a pearlescent single horn growing from her forehead. Some may have mistaken her for one of his bloodline, the children of the Vastayashai’rei, but any of the kin would know otherwise.

The seer was of a people older even than his ancestors.

When she opened her eyes—those strange, kind, golden-flecked eyes that saw far more than they should—he saw they were tinged with sadness, and his heart sank.

“You are faced with an impossible choice,” she said, her voice as quiet as the rustle of autumn leaves.

“Then tell me what I must do,” said Kalan.

“That is not for me to say. Two paths lie before you, but you can only take one. I warn you, though—both lead to tragedy and sadness.”

Kalan didn’t blink. “Tell me.”

“The first path. You fight the invaders. At the Placidium of Navori, a great battle will be fought. While it will be bloody, you will be victorious. You will be proclaimed a hero. You and your heartlight live in peace for many years. You are happy. And yet, you are destined to outlive both your cubs, who will be taken before their time.”

Kalan took a deep breath. “And the other?” he said.

“You fight alongside the enemy. You never see your heartlight again, nor your children. They call you traitor, and curse your name. Your path is one of darkness, and bitterness, and revilement. You will be hated by your kin, and despised by your invader allies. After they are defeated at the Placidium, you must stand vigil on the isle of Fae’lor, guarding over the place of dreaming. And there you will stay.”

“And my little ones?”

“They live. They prosper. If not in this land, then another. But you will never look upon their faces again, and if you ever deviate from this dark path, they will be lost.”

Kalan nodded, and pushed himself to his feet. Sadness threatened to drag him down, but he suppressed it, pushing it deep inside himself.

As he looked around, taking in the details of the seer’s shrine, he felt that there was something strangely familiar about it… a vague sense that he’d been here before, that he’d felt this awful sense of grief and loss more than once.

He shook his head. To be trapped in this accursed moment forever? Now, that would be a fate far worse than death.

“I am sorry, my child,” said the seer. “It is a terrible choice you must make.”

“No,” said Kalan. “The choice is a simple one.”

Born into a patrician family, one of many to exist since the first walls were raised around Noxus, Jericho Swain seemed destined for a life of privilege. The noble houses had played a key role in Boram Darkwill’s rise to power, stoking rhetoric that their proud heritage was the nation’s greatest strength.

However, many hungered for greater influence, plotting against Darkwill in a secret cabal united by nothing more than the symbol of a black rose. Uncovering their intrigue, Swain personally executed the most prominent conspirators. Among them were his own parents, whose whispers of a “pale woman” had first alerted him of the danger to Noxus, which he valued more than house or kin.

They sought a power, a shapeless voice cackling in the darkness of the Immortal Bastion. Something like a raven’s caw…

For exposing the cabal, Swain was granted a commission in the Noxian army, far from anything he had ever known. There, he learned firsthand that the empire was not strong because of Noxians, as he had believed, but because of the way it could unite all men in spite of their origins. On the front lines, a foreign slave could be the equal of a highborn noble.

But still, Swain found only darkness in the wake of each battle. Clouds of carrion crows…

After securing the western borders, Swain’s own reputation was secured in Shurima, where his forces raised countless noxtoraa above the desert sands. Yet, in time, it became clear that greed was the sole purpose driving the empire forward. Fighting wars on too many fronts, lusting over magical relics, the aging Boram Darkwill was clearly growing unhinged.

When Noxus invaded Ionia, Darkwill began to move even more brazenly, retasking entire warbands to scour the land for anything rumored to extend a mortal lifespan. With Swain’s forces depleted, it became nearly impossible to engage the enemy. Finally, at the Battle of the Placidium, after luring the local militia into what should have been a trap, Swain’s warhost was overrun. His veterans were routed, and Swain was gravely wounded, his knee shattered, Ionian blades cleaving through his left arm.

As he lay on the verge of death, a raven approached to feed, and Swain felt an old, familiar darkness press upon him again. But he would not let it take him. He could not. Staring into the the bird’s eye, he saw reflections of the evil strangling the heart of Noxus. A black rose. The pale woman... and her puppet emperor. Swain realized that he had not defeated the hidden cabal, and they had betrayed him to what should have been his death, after seducing Darkwill, the man they failed to overthrow.

All this was glimpsed, not in the mind of a raven, but something more. The power his parents had been seeking, the demonic eyes blazing in the dark…

Cast out of the military for his “failure,” considered nothing more than a cripple, Swain set about uncovering what truly lay within the Immortal Bastion—an ancient entity, preying upon the dying and consuming their secrets, as it had attempted to consume his own. Swain stared into that darkness, seeing what even it could not: a way to wield it.

Though his meticulous preparations took many years, Swain and his remaining allies seized control of Noxus in a single night. Physically restored by the demon, he crushed Darkwill in full view of his followers, leaving the throne shattered and empty.

Swain’s vision for the future of Noxus is one of strength through unity. He has pulled back the warhosts from Darkwill’s unwinnable campaigns and, with the establishment of the Trifarix, ensured that no individual can rule unopposed. He embraces any who will pledge themselves to the empire—even the Black Rose, though he knows, in secret, they still plot against him.

Gathering knowledge as the demon did before him, Swain has foreseen far greater dangers lurking just beyond. However, many Noxians secretly wonder if the darkness they face will pale in comparison to the dark things Swain has done…

The sacrifices are only beginning, for the good of Noxus.

Yi frowned at Master Doran as the elder scrambled up the path toward him. Like a mud crab during mating season. It was a less than courteous thought, but given the master artisan’s age, it was a compliment of sorts.

He gave a short bow toward the gray-haired weaponsmith, cupping his hands together in greeting. Red faced, Doran replied without slowing, his hand waving in rhythm with his gasps for breath.

“I’m here, I’m here! Sorry for being a little late. These old bones overslept today.”

Yi shot a glance at the midday sun. A little late indeed, if that meant an entire morning.

“From time, all things spring forth,” Yi recited, his brows furrowed. “Morning dew dawns. Evening mists fall. Thus are born the sun, moon, and stars.”

Doran paused, his waterskin halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“The opening verse from ‘The Compilation of Mandates.’ Have you never heard of it, master?” Yi could hardly believe it. It was a famous verse, most often used to chastise the tardy. “That poem is one of Buxii’s classics.”

The elder stroked his beard, face scrunched in confusion. “Who?”

Yi’s eyes narrowed. Master Buxii was the greatest poet in Ionian history. Before Yi had learned the names of all his extended family, his father had taught him to recite Buxii’s “The Glow of Sunset Among the Mountains.”

“Never mind.” Yi cleared his throat. “My master has informed me of the importance of today’s training. I am to follow your instructions.”

Doran chuckled. “He called this training? No wonder you arrived so early.”

He must be joking. Yi had met Doran before, at his parents’ workshop. Fair and Emai respected him greatly—though he was once an outsider to the village, Wuju’s smiths and masters had embraced him, so legendary was his skill with hammer and anvil. Yet the similarities between Yi’s parents and Doran ended with their professions. The elder weaponsmith was unkempt, absentminded, and known to be eccentric. And though Yi’s parents knew and respected the great poets, Doran apparently did not.

Not for the first time, Yi questioned what this strange weaponsmith had to teach him about the sacred art of Wuju.

He forced his lips into a tight smile. “When do we begin, master?”

“Well, to this old man, we have all the time in the world. But to you…”

Doran packed up his waterskin and turned to glance up the road he had just traveled—a narrow and winding shepherd’s path leading to the village of Wuju. As he turned, Yi noticed the load Doran carried on his shoulders: a basket weaved from bamboo, covered with thick takin hide. It was clearly meant for long journeys.

“You’re what, a mere six moons into swordsman training, and facing your first little setback. Why so impatient?” Doran said.

Yi tensed. It was much more than a little setback—it was a problem that could make him unfit to continue training in Wuju style. He clenched and released the sheath of his sword in an attempt to center himself. This trick, taught to him by his fellow disciples, proved fairly ineffective at the moment.

“Master,” he said softly. “I have been studying Wuju swordsmanship for four seasons.”

“Oh! You’re right! You’re fifteen summers now.” Doran pinched Yi’s bicep with an exaggerated look of surprise. “No wonder you’re so strong. You must have been practicing those sword strikes every sunrise, eh?”

Yi had never shirked any assignment his master had given him, whether it was practicing his sword strikes, meditating, or reciting poetry. In fact, he worked harder than his fellow apprentices and most of the older disciples. He could perform every stance and move in Wuju style with incredible precision, enter a meditative state with impeccable speed and form, and recite most of the poems, songs, and scriptures in the Wuju texts. Yet in spite of all his achievements, he had hit an embarrassing plateau in his progress.

Yi couldn’t keep a bitter smile from creeping across his face. “About four thousand times every day.”

Doran whistled. “Four thousand sword strikes a day? Are you training to be a blacksmith?”

The young swordsman crossed his arms. Repetition was the essence of a fundamental doctrine of Wuju: The Trunk Is Sturdier than the Branch. Did Doran not even know that?

Before Yi could respond, Doran removed the bamboo basket from his back and thrust it into his arms. “There you go, then. A fitting load for a strong young man.”

He massaged his shoulder as he strode away from Yi. Momentarily stunned, Yi ran to catch up.

“Master? Where are you headed? This path leads south.”

“Don’t you worry,” Doran said. “I can still tell north from south.”

“But what about the training?”

“You really want to train that much?” Doran sauntered forward, putting both hands behind his back. “Then let us begin.”

Yi paused. South of the Wuju village was nothing but uninhabited woods. Unless Doran’s plan was to go wild boar hunting, there wasn’t much “training” to be done there.

But he had promised his master he would obey the old man, and so he slung the bamboo basket over his shoulders, and followed.

Yi had never set foot on this path before—he had never even heard of its existence.

The path was marked by stepping stones that were deep in the soil, mostly broken by time and neglect. Wild grass grew between them, sometimes as tall as Yi’s shins. At first, he suspected that this route would lead to some abandoned shrine or settlement. In the mountainous island of Bahrl, ancient ruins were said to lie undisturbed in the woods outside villages and towns.

They had trekked southward for some time, and the weaponsmith’s promise of training hadn’t materialized. Irritated, Yi shifted the bamboo basket on his shoulders. “Master, what exactly am I carrying? It’s heavy.”

“Swords,” Doran replied without turning to face him. “All swords.”

Yi raised an eyebrow. Doran crafted swords exclusively for Wuju swordsmen, and he only made a few every season.

“Are these blades all forged by you, Master Doran?”

“Three of them are. As for the rest…” Doran paused, as if trying to find the right words. “Those were entrusted to me by my peers.”

“You mean other weaponsmiths? Why would they give you their swords?”

Yi absentmindedly peered over his shoulder to look at the basket, promptly tripping over an oddly shaped stone. He staggered as he caught his balance.

“Hey! Watch it!” Doran quickly rebalanced the basket on Yi’s shoulders. “One of them is for you, you know. If you bend it, I’m sure you’ll blame me later.”

“For—for me? Is it a sharpened blade?”

“Of course it is. I don’t craft unsharpened swords.”

Only those who truly understood the Wuju philosophy of bloodless combat were given the privilege of wielding sharpened blades, as a testament to the swordsman’s self-control. And one handcrafted by Master Doran… Many senior disciples had endured over ten summers of training before receiving such an honor, yet Yi had only been training for four seasons. The young swordsman was flattered.

However, his excitement was fleeting, and he cast his eyes down. Doran seemed to notice the change in mood. The two walked in silence for a few paces before the weaponsmith gently said, “I heard from your master that you’re having some trouble connecting with the spirit realm.”

Yi didn’t answer right away, so great was his shame. When he finally spoke, he said, “Connecting isn’t the problem. If I couldn’t do that, I wouldn’t have been accepted into the Wuju school.” He scratched the back of his head. “Yet I can’t seem to draw power from it. Sometimes I can draw a little, but I can’t imbue my weapon with it.”

“Could it simply be that it’s not yet your time? Evoking the spirit realm’s energy…” Doran smiled as he stroked his beard. “When it happens might simply come down to the whims of fate.”

Yi wanted to tell Doran he was wrong—the ability to draw power from the spirit realm wasn’t something to be negotiated with fate. And that’s what worried him. Perhaps he was failing because he lacked the innate talent. Perhaps it was his fate that he’d never succeed.

Yet he bit his tongue. He didn’t want to appear impudent, and he still clung to the hope that today’s “training” would help him, however slim the chance.

“Hm. Perhaps you’re right,” Yi finally replied.

The muddy path became more difficult to walk, as roots and brambles crowded over the broken stones. While earlier, Yi could occasionally spot the footprints of other travelers, there was now no sign that any living soul had passed through here before. The only sound was the summer wind whistling through the dense trees.

“Master Doran, have you come this way before?”

“Mhm. I take this path once every four seasons. Your master even accompanied me two or three times.”

Yi was surprised. “Master Hurong? I’ve never heard him say so.”

“I’m sure he will, eventually.” Doran waved him off before picking up his pace. From his swift strides, it was hard to remember he was an elder of almost sixty summers. Not much like a mud crab after all.

He’s brought other swordsmen with him. Does he need a bodyguard? Is this the training—a chance to practice my mercy strokes? Yi welcomed the prospect.

“Have you ever met any threats on this path, master?”

“None at all.” Doran shook his head with a smile. “But keep a good grip on that sword of yours, son. My walking of this path has nothing to do with yours. Even if I had walked this path a thousand times without encountering any danger, it doesn’t mean you definitely won’t.”

As if on cue, a sharp bird-like screech rang out.

Yi halted and grasped the hilt of his unedged sword, lifting it to his chest. He recognized the sound as the cry of a raptor—a dangerous species of wild fowl usually found deep within forests.

The swordsman clenched his teeth, and scanned the tree line.

Rolling his eyes, Doran gestured forward. “Do you see those mountains over there?”

Straight ahead, an unbroken range of peaks stretched across the horizon. They were not particularly high, but they went on as far as the eye could see.

The woods had been silent since the raptor’s call, so Yi lowered his sword. “We’re going mountain climbing?” he asked, trying to hide his annoyance.

“You’re from Bahrl,” Doran replied, patting Yi’s chest with the back of his hand. “Surely you’re not afraid of some hills?”

Yi looked up. A golden, dazzling sun hung upon a cloudless blue canvas. It actually was a good day for a hike, he had to admit.

He squared his shoulders and pressed forward.

After skirting a grove and crossing a stream, they finally closed in on the mountains. They were well outside Wuju territory by now, and beyond the range the elders considered wise to travel. Yet Doran had yet to show any signs of slowing down.

Once they reached the first incline, they ascended a series of stone steps. They might have been well traveled in the past, but now they were broken, covered in weeds and slippery mud. The steps abruptly ended at a steep cliff face that was roughly the height of three men, and before Yi could ask, Doran had already grabbed a handhold on the rock and started to climb. He reached the top with little effort, turning back to look down at Yi with an expression that said, What are you waiting for?

Scaling a rock wall was an easy feat for just about any young person from Wuju, but Yi had never attempted this sort of climb while carrying a heavy load. The task was even more difficult than it looked. After he finally summited the cliff, it was quite some time before he caught his breath.

At last, he stood up straight and dusted off his clothes, only to stop as his eyes locked on a stone tablet before him, a single word etched on it. He could just barely make out the weather-worn Ionian characters.

Mistfall.

“We still have time.” Doran sat down beside the stone tablet and took a sip from his waterskin. “Let’s rest.”

He pulled a rice cake from some mysterious pouch or hidden pocket, and began munching away. After a few bites, Doran looked up as if he had suddenly remembered something. He jabbed the remnant of the rice cake at Yi, who was still studying the stone tablet. Seeing the jagged teeth marks on the offering, Yi shook his head.

“Master, when you said we still have time, you meant for my training, right?”

Doran slapped his knee while chewing on a mouthful of rice cake. “A beard well lathered is half shaved, kid. If you’re really that anxious to start the training, I suggest you rest up here first.”

When Yi saw that Doran had started gnawing on a second rice cake, he suppressed an exasperated sigh. Seeking to hide his impatience, he examined his surroundings.

Apart from the stone tablet, Yi noticed a few ancient ruins hidden under thick clusters of vines and shrubbery. Though only broken columns and walls were left, he could tell that this majestic and bold architecture was entirely different from that of Wuju’s pagodas.

Doran pointed toward the ruins. “This mountain used to house a shrine—for worshiping a god who fell from grace long before any of us were born. Nobody knows the god’s name, and nobody knows where its believers went. These humble stones are all that remain.”

“Flowers wilt as folks grow old. Even morning stars must return to night,” Yi recited. He then pointed at the stone tablet. “Were they the ones who named this place Mistfall?”

“Later generations carved that. As for the name…” Doran motioned toward the other side of the cliff. “Its meaning will be clear if you look over there.”

Yi peered cautiously over the edge of the cliff. Beneath him, white fog blanketed a valley, and farther in the distance, blue sky met the mountains. The view was breathtaking, its grandeur stretching as far as he could see.

The valley itself wasn’t large. It reminded Yi of a lake, only with swirling silvery mist instead of water. A narrow downward path led from the cliff and disappeared into the depths.

“You see that?” Doran asked. “That’s where we’re going.”

“There? Into the valley?”

“That’s right.”

After a long day of trekking through empty wilderness, his training ever more elusive, Yi couldn’t stomach any more nonsense.

“Master, just what kind of training are we doing?” he blurted out.

“All I can say is, the journey will be rough, which is why you should take this respite more seriously.”

Yi swallowed his frustration, as it was clear that Doran was not going to explain further. He found a slab of flat stone opposite the old weaponsmith, and sat down, placing the bamboo basket next to him.

Forget rest. At least this place was perfect for practicing meditation.

Yi closed his eyes and started to breathe deeply and slowly. Perhaps it was due to the unfamiliar environment, but he took a while longer than usual to enter his meditative state. In that space between unconsciousness and waking, a lightness cascaded through his body. And at the tip of this lightness, a bright and unusual object emerged. It was like a spark, illuminating every corner of his mind.

A spirit.

It wasn’t uncommon for Yi to encounter spirits while meditating. They visited him more often than they did most of his fellow disciples. It was probably a good thing, for it meant that he was closer to the spiritual realm, and he ought to be skilled at drawing energy from it.

Ought to be.

Yi focused on the white light, purging his mind of all other thoughts. He soon realized that this was no average spirit. He tried to grasp it, feeling how it pulsed. To his surprise, he merged with the entity, disappearing in the blinding light.

He forced his eyes open, and found himself sitting under a gigantic silverwood tree—the one that stood at the entrance to Wuju. Yet the buildings in the distance looked strange and unfamiliar.

Flustered, Yi stood and walked into the village, where he saw familiar figures—his father, mother, fellow disciples, even his neighbor’s black cat, Little Beauty, and the chief elder’s dog, Goldie. They all seemed to be engrossed in their own world, ignoring Yi. These must be visions, he thought. He calmed himself as he continued down the main road.

Then he saw something that made him freeze in his tracks. “Master Doran?”

The elder weaponsmith spared Yi a glance before turning back to his work. But he was not crafting swords—where a furnace, smithing tools, and an anvil should have been, there was only a flower pot with tender seedlings. With a delirious grin, the artisan slowly raised his arms over his head, and the seedlings in the pot curled and stretched in response. They grew at an unimaginable pace, sprouting leaves until they took the shape of a small juniper tree. Doran examined it closely, looking somewhat unsatisfied. He then raised his arms a few more times. The tree changed its form, swaying merrily in the wind before becoming a weeping willow.

Bewildered, Yi turned his gaze toward the rest of the village, noticing for the first time that each and every house was covered in lush, colorful, and even grotesque vegetation. Many dwellings looked like they had grown out of solid rock, while others twisted into forms that resembled people—not just in shape, but in their movements.

As Yi meandered aimlessly, a clarion sounded from the village center. Nearly every villager stopped what they were doing and strode toward the mountainside on the other end of town.

A waterfall ran down the mountain, obscuring a cave behind it. Doran was the first villager to arrive. He raised his arms, parting the water so he could pass, dry as can be. Other villagers promptly followed suit, entering the cave one by one. But when Yi raised his arms, it had no effect on the cascading water.

It’s just a vision, he reassured himself. It doesn’t matter if I get wet.

He stepped through the waterfall, and found himself in a massive chamber. Thousands upon thousands of candles adorned the space. In the center of the cave were the villagers who entered before him, conversing in a language Yi could not understand. In the opposite corner, he spotted his Wuju master, Hurong, standing with a number of other highly respected elders from the village.

Strange ridges and lines were carved into the stone walls, and the patterns seemed to shift as Master Hurong spoke and gestured. It looked like a living calligraphy painting—no, not a painting. Some sort of map.

The elders concluded their discussion, exchanging glances and nods. Yi’s master then raised his right arm and snapped his fingers. With the ease of a door being thrown open, an entire wall sundered, right up to the ceiling, revealing the sky as streaks of blinding sunlight filled the cavern. Outside was a sheer drop to the distant ground.

With a leap, Master Hurong transformed into a vibrant blue Bahrl jay and took to the air, soaring out of the mountain and into the clouds. Next came the other elders and villagers—after turning into birds, they emptied the broken cave in a chorus of squawks, leaving behind only Yi and Doran.

Knowing he could not communicate with Doran, Yi nodded respectfully and prepared to take his leave. He was shocked when Doran called out to him in a language he could understand, his voice cold and deep.

“You. You walk the path of Wuju?”

Yi froze, staring wordlessly at the weaponsmith.

“I have met you Wuju practitioners before,” Doran said, his face impassive. Yi hadn’t realized how strange his eyes were—crimson irises transfixed him, shining with an eerie light, devoid of any semblance of life. “You take great pains to wring out what little power you can from the spirit realm, only to put it in a weapon—how tawdry. Yet this poor mimicry is still enough to allow you to enter the domain of the strong.”

“Mimicry?” Yi had never heard anyone disparage Wuju style before. “Mimicry of whom?”

Doran ignored the question, instead pointing toward the gradually closing gap in the cave walls. “Go. Follow them.”

Yi looked up at the sky. This is ridiculous. “But I can’t fly.”

“You can.”

Doran’s voice had come from behind him. Yi whirled around to see the weaponsmith standing outside the cave entrance, fingers steepled. “You just don’t know how to do it yet.”

The entrance and the gap in the cave walls slammed shut, sealing Yi inside. His only escape was an opening far above his head. It seemed this crimson-eyed Doran wished to compel Yi to fly out of the mountain like the others.

Yi scoffed, then sat down on the stone floor, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes. Fly out? That wouldn’t be necessary. Visions were just like dreams: no matter how bizarre they got, one only had to wake up for it all to become but a passing fancy.

Yi gasped as he opened his eyes, finding himself back on the stone slab near Mistfall, right opposite where Doran sat. The old weaponsmith didn’t seem to notice Yi’s sudden waking, so engrossed was he with his own thoughts.

Yi pinched his earlobe. He did this whenever he returned from a vision, to make sure he was indeed back in reality. Yet the vision had been so vivid, so real, that even the pinch did not make him feel grounded.

“Master?”

“Hmm?” Doran turned to look at him. “What?”

Yi gazed into Doran’s dark brown eyes. “How long have I been meditating?”

“You pretty much just sat down. Why?”

Yi rubbed his lips. He wouldn’t share an experience he did not fully understand himself.

“It’s no matter. Let’s get going, shall we?”

Just as Doran had warned, the path leading down into the sea of mist was perilous. A treacherous green moss grew on the stone stairs, each step requiring meticulous care. The task was made more difficult by carrying a heavy basket full of swords, but Yi offered no complaint—he wouldn’t give Doran the satisfaction.

It became clear that Doran was not the only one who knew of this secret location. As they approached the mists, Yi saw a relatively new wooden board to the side of the path, a warning of danger scrawled across it. The shoddy handwriting and misspellings hinted that it had been penned by an uneducated hunter.

Yi couldn’t tell if his senses were playing tricks on him, but as he passed the wooden board, it grew cold. It had been a hot summer day, yet frigid winds swirled around him now. On top of that, his vision started to blur as a strange, dense fog wrapped around him and Doran.

He followed closely behind the elder, tightly gripping the hilt of his blade and scanning his surroundings, fearing that something might leap out of the fog.

“This mist isn’t normal,” Yi muttered. “Spirits linger here. We should wait and return after they are gone.”

“The spirits will never leave,” Doran replied, shaking his head. “They have lived in this place longer than people have lived in Ionia. Don’t worry. We won’t be here for long.” He gestured ahead of him. “Come, you have better eyes than I. Help me find a sword.”

Yi frowned. “Find a sword? Here?”

“A Placidium flamberge, to be exact. It should be pretty obvious,” Doran explained. “I left it as a marker the last time I came here.”

Yi looked around blankly. Everything was covered in a thick white blanket of mist. Never mind finding a Placidium flamberge—it was barely possible to spot someone standing just two steps away. With no good place to start, Yi pretended to search the ground on either side.

He had only taken a few more steps when his stomach lurched. He suddenly felt as though his body was becoming lighter and lighter. Even the weight of the bamboo basket had disappeared.

“Master Doran,” Yi said uneasily.

But Doran neither slowed nor turned back, and instead picked up his pace. Alarmed, Yi tried to catch up, but the weaponsmith slipped farther away. It wasn’t long before Doran vanished completely in the white mist. Yi watched as the same mist devoured him—it was so dense that he couldn’t see his own legs. He was weightless and bodiless, floating up through the impossible fog.

No. He wasn’t simply floating. He was soaring, the mists becoming clouds and the chill air turning into wind.

He must be in another vision. This time, however, the spirits hadn’t given any warning before they whisked him away.

Feeling disoriented, he tried to stretch his arms out for balance—but a pair of magnificent jade wings spread out from him instead.

I’ve become a bird!

As he soared through the sky, a long coastline appeared. A salty sea breeze swept over him as cerulean ocean waves crashed against the shore. The land felt like home, and yet at the edge of the beach loomed a dark gray structure, an edifice that had no place in Ionia.

Is that… is that a monument of some kind? If it hadn’t been for the precise construction, it could have been taken for a mountain. As he flew closer, he saw it was three monstrous towers, each one of incredible size, sharing a single base.

This cannot possibly be the craftsmanship of mortals.

Yi had never seen anything like this. The towers were made of thousands of large stones, polished and carved into perfect blocks, each the height of a grown swordsman.

A flock of vibrantly colored birds burst from the clouds and glided toward the fortress. Unsure if it was by his own volition, Yi winged over to join them, flying with great speed.

He followed a bright red bird, dashing between the three towers. The bird left Yi behind as it dived for the base of the structure, tumbling as it landed. As it stood, it took the shape of a man—the crimson-eyed Master Doran. He beckoned as he peered up at Yi, still spiraling overhead.

Yi landed on Doran’s shoulder, then lightly tumbled to the ground. As he regained his feet, he discovered that his human legs had returned, along with the rest of his body.

“It appears you can fly,” Doran said.

Invigorated, Yi said breathlessly, “Master Doran—”

But Doran shook his head. “No. He is but a form I’ve taken.”

He said no more, and Yi blinked. Why would this spirit take the form of Doran, of all people?

He stretched his back, and his gaze fell on the massive towers. “What is this place?”

“You call it Bahrl.” The spirit who looked like Doran pointed at the snakelike coastline, where a squad of warriors armed with pikes and glaives patrolled the beach. Their weapons and armor looked foreign. “They call it the Other Shore. We call it home.”

“Who are they? And who is this we?”

Yi turned to look at the spirit, but he was already gone. Only a few red and white feathers remained.

Absurd.

Yi wanted to leave this vision as he had the last one, but before he could start meditating, a loud, rhythmic noise came from far away—the loudest he had ever heard. It was the clanging of metal and the cries of men. His curiosity piqued, he followed the sound to its source.

As Yi passed by the huge towers, it became even more apparent that their size defied reality. Each tower could house the entire Wuju village and more. But why would anyone build houses so large and ugly? It made no sense.

Lost in his thoughts, Yi almost bumped into a burly passerby. He wore a shining metal helmet, yet his chest was bare, and he wielded a strange-looking halberd.

Just like the villagers in Yi’s previous vision, the people of this vision didn’t pay him much mind. The foreign man paused briefly, then continued on his way. There were a few other warriors patrolling the area, radiating a resolute air of strength. They also let Yi pass.

As Yi approached an earthen rampart, the noise became deafening. He could hear war drums pounding, punctuated by shouting.

Yi swallowed as he climbed up the rampart, and carefully craned his neck so he could see what lay beyond.

Thousands of soldiers packed a large, open square, easily outnumbering the people of Wuju. Their rows were as neat as their war banners, and they were geared with all sorts of different equipment. Some had spiked steel plate armor, some donned thick animal hides, and some wore only thin cloth robes. Though these soldiers were disparate in appearance, they were united in purpose, beating their chests in rhythm with the drums and their war cries.

“Tell me, disciple of Wuju,” a cold voice called from behind him. “What do you see?”

Yi gripped his sheath and spun around, only to see the crimson-eyed spirit standing at the bottom of the rampart. He climbed up level with Yi and placed his hands lightly upon the top of the earthwork.

“Give me your first impressions,” the spirit said.

Yi retorted with questions of his own. “Who are they? Why are you showing me this?”

But the spirit did not yield. “The first word,” he pressed. “The first one that comes to mind.”

“The first word…” Yi gazed at the sea of warriors again. “Strength,” he said finally.

“Strength. Where do you see strength?”

“Where?” Yi scratched his head. “Each warrior possesses the ferocity of the tiger, the strength of the great bears. They wield sharp blades and shining armor. Their call roars across these beaches—”

“So that is what you see. Ah, child. This is why you are here.” The spirit’s expression darkened as he nodded. He pointed behind the young swordsman. “The direction of your gaze is mistaken. The harder you train, the further you will be from your goal.”

Yi turned to look behind him. But before he could see anything, the spirit shoved him, knocking him from the rampart so he tumbled to the ground, which was now impossibly far below. Even knowing he was in a vision, Yi couldn’t help but cry out in shock.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the ground rushed up toward him.

When he reopened them, he was sitting down, thick mist swirling around him, the bamboo basket at his back. He suspected he was back in Mistfall, but he pinched his earlobes—he had to be sure that he had left the vision. Once he was satisfied, he looked to the sky.

“Why can’t he just leave me alone?” Yi groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “And what in the world was he talking about?”

As Yi wiped the sweat off his brow and heaved a few sighs of relief, Doran came hobbling out of the fog, hugging something in his arms. He looked up and down at Yi.

“Hey, kid, what happened? Why are you sitting down?” The weaponsmith held an oddly shaped sword with an undulating, snakelike blade. This was probably the Placidium flamberge he had been looking for.

“Master Doran,” Yi said. “When you came here with my master, did you encounter anything strange?”

“Here in the fog?” Doran squinted his eyes. “What trouble have you gotten into?”

Unsure how to explain, Yi stood up and shook his head, slinging the bamboo basket over his shoulders. “I’m just worried that this place might not be safe. The mist has only grown thicker since we arrived.”

“Oh, no need to worry,” Doran replied as he stuck the flamberge into the ground. “The mist will soon disperse. And we will be safe as long as we leave before it sets in again.”

“The mist will disperse? Why?”

“Every four seasons, there is one sundown when the mists recede. That is today, during this very sundown.”

Just then, Yi noticed that the air was losing its chill. Within moments, the mist thinned out at astonishing speed.

“This is—”

Doran put a finger on his lips, motioning for Yi to stay silent. Just as the sun touched the zenith of a faraway mountain, the entire valley was laid bare. Yi clasped his hands over his mouth and took a huge breath, unable to believe the scene unfolding before him.

“Why does the mist disperse?” Doran rested his hands on the hilt of the flamberge. “Maybe the spirits here are commemorating that one momentous sunset, countless summers ago…”

In all his fifteen summers, the fiercest combat Yi had witnessed was when a hunter fought a wild boar. The former lost a finger while the latter lost its head. As far as Yi knew, Ionia had always been a pure and peaceful land, representing harmony. Yet, what lay before him exuded a foul aura. It was completely at odds with the Ionia that Yi knew.

Countless blades were stuck in the ground. Starting from just ten paces away, the vast ocean of weapons spread to the foot of the distant mountains, washing over the valley. At the center were ten large claymores. Actually, it would be wrong to call them large. They were gargantuan. With the tips of the swords buried underground, Yi couldn’t determine their full scale. The hilts alone were the height of a grown swordsman, and just the visible portions of the blades were the height of seven or eight, like the Great Pagoda of Wuju.

“This was the site of an ancient battle.” Doran patted Yi on the shoulder. “The combatants left their weapons here. The spirits protect each and every one, helping them resist the corrosion of time. As the eons went by, this became a sacred land. Over time, those who vowed never again to participate in the violence and bloodshed of war started coming here to leave their blades as well.”

Yi looked around. “I’ve never heard of a place like this…”

“What I speak of happened a long, long time ago. Some of these weapons might be older than your oldest ancestors. Nowadays, there is hardly anyone left who still remembers this tradition. And of those who do, most choose not to disturb the spirits.”

“Then why do you come here, Master Doran?”

“It used to be rumored that Mistfall’s spirits would bless weapons with power in combat. When I finally found my way here, I discovered the truth was just the opposite. The ancient battle ripped apart the balance in this place. That’s why the spirits in the valley hate violence. While they do bless weapons, their blessings lose their effect the moment the blades are used for bloodshed. Most swordsmiths stopped coming after they realized this. I’m the only one who has been able to win blessings that last. Have you figured out why?”

Yi nodded. “It’s because you only craft swords for Wuju bladesmen, and we abstain from bloodshed and killing.”

“That’s right. That’s exactly why I remained in Wuju. All my life, I’ve wanted to create the best blades in the world—but not for battle. And only you Wuju bladesmen see weapons the same way.” Doran gestured at the bamboo basket on Yi’s back. “Oh, you can put that down now.”

Yi gladly removed the heavy load from his shoulders.

“We’ll plant those here today to be blessed—that includes the blade I made for you. Then I’ll retrieve the swords I left behind last time.”

The two walked deeper into the valley. As they got closer to the center of the battlefield, there were other kinds of weapons in the ground. While some resembled conventional blades, their dimensions were either too large or too small for Yi to wield, and the ones that he could wield had forms he’d never seen before. Yi marveled at who could have used them.

“Look! Here we are. My garden!”

Doran was pointing at a single-edged sword with a magnificent cross guard. The weapon was fit for a human swordsman, and looked much newer than the others—as if it had been forged yesterday.

Upon closer inspection, Yi noticed something even more interesting—a paper amulet was dangling from the hilt on a thin red string. In fact, quite a few swords in the ground had paper amulets as well. Amulets were usually used for prayers and blessings. This was the first time Yi had seen them attached to weapons.

Doran carefully pulled the single-edged sword out of the soil and removed the amulet, delicately placing the paper on the ground. After scrutinizing the blade, he turned to another sword stuck in the ground, and began this process once again, like a farmer harvesting his crops.

Like transplanting rice stalks, Yi mused. He rolled up his sleeves and grasped the hilt of a long sword with an amulet.

“Don’t touch that!” Doran shouted. “That was left behind by another swordsmith. It has been here for some time now. Leave it in the ground.”

Yi released the weapon, but he accidentally unraveled the red string attaching the amulet to the hilt. He picked up the paper, reading the Ionian text written on it—a simple poem.

Deafening thunder in spring;

Torrential rains in summer;

Easterly gales in autumn;

Flying snow in winter.

Yi furrowed his brow. “What is this?”

The older man looked up as he opened the basket. “That’s a poem the swordsmith wrote. What do you think?”

Yi took a closer look—the writer’s skill with calligraphy and poetry was definitely above average. Still, it read more like a toast than a poem. “It’s adequate. But what’s the purpose of writing poems here?”

“We write poems to honor the spirits.” As he knelt down, Doran took a large sip of water, then reached into his satchel and pulled out a calligraphy brush coated in dried ink. He dabbed it on his tongue. “If the spirits in Wuju can understand poetry, why not the spirits here?” Doran motioned to the three blank amulets on the ground before him. “The swordsmiths who asked me to drop off their swords prepared their amulets in advance, so I just have to write the poems for mine.”

“Master Doran, you’re going to write poems? Does this mean you actually study poetry?” Yi walked over as Doran began to write. “So you were just teasing me when you said you had no idea who Buxii was.”

The artisan gave him a sly grin. His calligraphy was unrestrained, with audacious strokes sweeping across the paper. A lengthy verse quickly took form.

“Let’s have a look.” Yi bent down and read aloud. “No wars today, just a sip of wine to wash down duck eggs. Tastes yummy—” He couldn’t contain his outrage. “Doran! Master! What are you writing?”

Doran stroked his beard with pride. “Do you like it?”

“This isn’t even poetry!” Yi gesticulated wildly. “There’s no rhythm, no rhyme, the lines don’t relate, and even the basic format of a poem is nowhere to be found!”

“The most important part of a poem is the feeling, not the form.” Doran grinned as he jabbed a finger at his chest. “It’s the theme of the heart. Rhythm and rhyme are only the flourishes decorating a poem.”

Yi stared blankly at him. “But—what you just wrote. Where are the feelings and themes?”

“This is my experience of war.” Doran gazed at the amulet. “When you’re an old man like me, who has witnessed bloodshed and killing, you’ll understand why a sip of wine alongside a duck egg is worthy of poetry and praise.”

Yi raised an eyebrow, turning to the other weapons with amulets. Did these swordsmiths write questionable poetry as well?

He approached another sword and read its amulet. “Indefatigable horrors and demons, alongside inexhaustible evils and villains…”

This poem was attached to a ceremonial blade, not intended for combat. Based on the verse, Yi suspected it belonged to an adjudicator or roaming swordsman.

Doran, still immersed in his own writing, glanced at the young man. “Oh, that one’s by Laka. She’s famous at the Placidium. Her swords cost a fortune.”

Yi had never been to the Placidium of Navori, though he’d heard merchants call it a sanctuary. Perhaps it was slightly bigger than Wuju?

He moved on to another ceremonial blade, this one used as a cane. A cooling fragrance of insect-repelling mint emanated from its teakwood handle.

Blind faith ruins minds;

Blind loyalty ruins lives.

When the butcher’s knife strikes the ground,

All are wounded, and the self is destroyed.

Yi was only halfway through reading the verse when Doran interrupted. “That would be Morya. He always uses the best materials for the stingiest of clients—priests, monks, and the like. He only gets poorer with every weapon he crafts. He still owes me money!”

Doran gestured with his brush to a spot near Yi. “Oh, right! Take a look at that one! That’s a good one!”

Yi spun around to find the sword Doran had indicated: a greatsword with a serrated edge, with a tiny blue amulet hanging from the hilt.

The text on the amulet was in a foreign language. Yi couldn’t read any of it except for the signature at the end. Lear, scrawled in Ionian.

“Lear is an absolute genius. He lives on the southern isles, and has even been to Zaun,” Doran said.

“Where’s… Zaun?”

“Don’t ask.”

After reading amulet after amulet, Yi let out a relieved sigh. It seemed that Doran was the only person in all of Mistfall who wrote such non-poetic poems.

Yi turned to the older man. “Master Doran, the works of the others at least resemble poetry. You’re the only one who’s careless.”

Doran paused his brush. “Careless?”

“Feelings are important, but a poem is defined by its form.” Yi spoke with utmost seriousness. “If you’re going to write poetry, you should follow tradition. This is but basic courtesy and respect to the spirits.”

“Interesting.” Doran smiled. “Your master once said the same thing to me… and he wasn’t even the Wuju leader back then.”

“That’s because we’re both Wuju swordsmen.” Yi puffed out his chest. “It’s our duty to protect the old ways. As such, it is my duty to tell you that what you’re doing is wrong.” Yi looked around him. “No, your poetry isn’t the real problem. The fact that we’re here—that’s the problem. Master Doran, you are disturbing these spirits for your selfish hope of crafting better swords.”

“Both Wuju swordsmen…” Doran nodded. “How much do you really understand of Wuju?”

Yi’s frustration finally boiled over. He hid his clenched right fist behind his back and spoke with a voice that trembled with suppressed fury.

“I’ve indeed only been training for four seasons, and barely understand the art of Wuju. But what do you know? You may be a respected weaponsmith, but you have never been through a single day of swordsmanship training, have you? Who are you to question my understanding?”

Doran was undaunted. “Heh, interesting. Why do I have to understand swordsmanship? You’re the one who’s supposed to be training today.”

Disbelieving his ears, Yi took half a step forward. “Training? You’ve been making me climb mountains, rest, search for swords. So when exactly is the training going to start?!”

Doran was silent for a while, before finally setting his brush on the ground. “Your master told me that the most vital knowledge cannot be taught with words. It can only be learned through epiphany. It was at this very place, years ago, that he found the answers he had been seeking.”

The young man froze. The weaponsmith was referring to one of the Seven Fundamental Doctrines of Wuju, The Stunted Flower Blooms Best in Rain. He waited for Doran to continue.

“I have no idea how you Wuju bladesmen train. That’s why I asked you how much you have understood thus far.” Doran paused. “Or have you learned nothing at all?”

Embarrassed, Yi looked away. “My apologies, Master Doran. Did Master Hurong tell you how he reached his epiphany?”

“I didn’t ask, but he left behind a poem at the time.” Doran pointed behind Yi, at an enormous greatsword that towered over the battlefield. “It’s on that sword over there.”

Yi hesitantly made his way to the greatsword. Covered with notches and cracks, the giant blade was damaged beyond repair… however, given its incredible size, a sharp edge wasn’t really needed.

Not seeing any poem, Yi took a few steps to the side to get a better view. He then noticed that the blade was gleaming—the sword appeared to be made of some sort of glass. Curious, Yi stretched out his hand, lightly touching the brilliant shimmer of reflected light.

He blinked.

A thunderous rumble shook the valley as the gargantuan sword was drawn out of the ground.

Yi took a step back, dumbfounded. Ten giants, each the size of a small mountain, stood before him. They were clad in golden armor and strange helmets, and where eyes should have been, two blazing orbs flared, flashing with a sinister glow. Their gigantic swords reflected the rays of the setting sun. In their regalia, holding stalwart stances, they looked like gods descended from the heavens.

Farther away, among the foothills, another fifty giants were slowly making their way over. Holding massive weapons, they stopped and stood still as if awaiting an order.

Hearing a commotion behind him, Yi turned around, only to be greeted by a sea of faces.

At first, they looked familiar—they were villagers from Wuju, except they were hazier, less distinct, and they began to melt like a watercolor painting in the rain.

But then their features became clearer, and Yi realized that these were people unlike any he had encountered before—they had feathers all over their backs, or only three fingers, or green skin. They were tall, with fit physiques. Colorful clothes, some with the appearance of lustrous scales, draped across their lithe frames.

He stood transfixed. “What—what are they?” he breathed.

Yi had no idea when the spirit who looked like Doran had appeared beside him, but there he was, responding coldly with his crimson-eyed stare. “You called them—you called us—the Vastayashai’rei.”

Yi had never heard this long and cumbersome name before. He regarded the spirit, whose outfit made him resemble a crane standing on two feet.

The spirit gestured to the Vastayashai’rei. “We were the victors of this battle.”

Yi’s gaze fell on the army of giants. “How could you possibly have won against these monsters?”

The spirit did not answer.

Ten elders—or what Yi assumed were elders, among these strange beings—emerged from the Vastayashai’rei’s ranks. One made her way to the front, resting one palm over the other and raising her arms above her head. She slammed her hands down on the ground, and the whole valley shook as a fissure tore toward the giants. A deep chasm now separated the two armies.

At the same time, the other nine elders invoked their magic. Some began to dance as others sat cross-legged, and howling gales and a foreboding blanket of dark clouds descended on the battlefield. Thunder roared as lightning flashed across the sky. Standing at the edge of the fissure, another elder conjured a mass of vines, enormous tangles bursting from the earth, intertwining to form a wall the height of six swordsmen.

Such power over the elements was unheard of except in myth. Yi knew he was in a vision, but he couldn’t help but feel awed.

“What do you see now?” the spirit asked. “Is this strength?”

Yi nodded. “Yes, this is strength.”

“Yet we’re equipped with neither sturdy armor nor powerful weapons, nor are we shouting with the fervor of a bloodthirsty army. Where do you see strength?”

“You are conjuring winds, and calling storms, and parting the earth itself. If that’s not strength, what is?”

The spirit pointed at the giants. “You asked me how one could win in a battle against these monsters. The question should be, how will these giants contend with the divine powers that created this very land?”

The behemoths were undaunted by the Vastayashai’rei’s mastery of magic. They threw back their heads and howled with glee, the ten lead giants raising their massive swords and charging. With their sheer size, they seemed like a mountain range crashing toward the Vastayashai’rei.

Yet the Vastayashai’rei did not flinch. The elders advanced as the ranks behind them followed. Some of them bent low and sprang forward, transforming into vulkodalks, scaled snappers, and wolves, the beasts dashing past Yi. Others took to the skies, shifting into avian forms as they soared through the air like arrows. In a flash, the Vastayashai’rei became a stampede hunting down their prey.

The giants were surprisingly nimble. They leapt over the fissure, easily clearing the wall of vines behind it, and dived straight into the pack of beasts.

Each swing of their swords was an unstoppable force. The vanguard of avian warriors fell in waves. Undeterred, their brethren beat their wings, casting enchanted blades of wind at their enemies, gouging shallow lines of red in the gaps between their armor. These strikes would normally cleave a person in two, yet they barely slowed the giants.

The Vastayashai’rei’s ground forces were just as fearless. Several scaled snappers charged the giants, using their bulk to knock them down, while vulkodalks tore into their foes with horns and razor-sharp teeth.

Enormous trees ripped from the earth, sharpened like stakes, their branches cracking like whips. Thunder roiled, and massive bolts of lightning struck with divine fury, blasting craters in the ground. Yet even this apocalyptic scene did not deter the giants. As vines snared their feet, and beasts clambered over them, and some were even brought to their knees and slain, they still continued to fight, and howl, and press forward. They seemed emboldened, increasing their momentum, treading on countless corpses as they tore an opening in the ranks of the bestial army.

The smell of blood wafted through the air, its tang seeming real.

In that moment, one giant noticed Yi’s presence. His fiery eyes glaring, the behemoth headed straight for him. Stunned, the young swordsman retreated a step back, assuming a defensive stance.

As the giant bore down on him, the spirit rested his hand on the sheath of Yi’s sword.

“Winds and rain. Thunder and lightning. Avalanches. Even the body itself. All are mere forms. If you can find their essence, all forms are but a stone’s throw away. That also includes imbuing your blade with power.”

As the spirit spoke, the giant’s footsteps slowed, as did the assault of the Vastayashai’rei. Even the lightning became sluggish, as everything around Yi crawled to a standstill.

Realization dawned on him. “You mean—”

“Wuju style.” The spirit nodded. “Wuju style draws power from the spirit realm. That’s also how the Vastayashai’rei changed their shapes, and manipulated the elements. The only difference is in the degree of power used. I have no idea who founded Wuju style, but they must have been a remarkable mage.”

“That’s impossible!” Yi exclaimed. “We’re swordsmen, not mages.”

“Forms! It doesn’t matter if they’re known as mages, priests, or monks. Those are all merely adopted forms,” the spirit said, exasperated. “The heart of Wuju is magic. The heart of the Wuju school is the people who wield this magic. Every martial stance, every poem, every meditation that you have studied, they all exist for the sake of this magic.”

Yi wanted to refute the spirit—precision in form was an essential part of Wuju!—when suddenly he realized this wasn’t a debate. This spirit was obviously guiding him in the art of Wuju. This had to be the training his master had spoken of!

“Then how do I use this magic?” Yi said. “I have no issues with my swordsmanship and meditation, so why am I failing to draw power from the spirit realm?”

“The issue lies precisely in your bladesmanship and meditation.”

The spirit took the hilt of Yi’s sword and drew the unedged blade, shifting through several stances with the grace of a master. Yi assumed he would demonstrate a few moves, but instead the spirit snapped the sword in two, and tossed it to the ground.

“The sword is not the bearer of the magic. You are. By focusing too much on your swordsmanship and meditation, you are directing all your attention to these useless forms. This is exactly why you lack the instinct every Wuju swordsman should have.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Forget the sword. Forget the enemy. Forget all of your master’s teachings,” the spirit said. “Even in the moment of contact with the spirit realm, forget that you are meditating. Stop wondering if your every move is right or wrong.”

Suddenly, the battle roared back into chaos. The giant picked up speed as he resumed striding toward Yi, raising his sword. And he had nothing but a wooden sheath to defend himself.

“It’s your turn now.” The spirit took a step back. “Ask yourself: how will you defeat an enemy whose strength so severely outmatches your own?”

Yi drew the sheath like a sword and readied his stance, taking shallow breaths.

The giant’s steps shook the ground. This is only a vision, Yi reminded himself, yet he could barely stabilize his breathing.

He felt the magic of the spirit realm surging around him, like a mighty river. In the past, when he had tried to draw this power into his sword, it had eluded him.

Yet the sword was just a form. So was the sheath.

So am I.

How will I defeat an enemy whose strength so severely outmatches my own?

By becoming the river.

The monster swung his sword in a mighty blow.

Almost entirely by instinct, Yi raised his sheath to block the attack. As sheath clashed with sword, the force of the impact reverberated through his entire body. Yet he remained standing. Not only had he withstood the blow, but his flimsy wooden sheath had somehow cut a notch in the giant’s massive weapon.

Encouraged, Yi switched his stance and swung the sheath diagonally at the sword, tearing a gash into it. The giant hesitated, then pulled his weapon back to examine it. Upon seeing the damage to the blade, he bellowed in rage and astonishment. The fiery orbs of his eyes dimmed underneath his helm.

Yi also couldn’t believe what was happening. He gently ran his index finger along the side of the sheath. There wasn’t a single crack or splinter—but it sliced open his fingertip, as though possessing a sharp edge.

“Do you feel it?” The spirit stepped forward and grasped Yi’s hand, holding up his bloody finger. “This power at your command?”

He nodded.

“Remember this feeling, and direct it from beneath your feet to your target.” The spirit gestured to the giant. “Attack with your heart and your body, not your blade.”

Though the spirit still spoke in the language of forms, Yi now understood.

The spirit stepped back just as the giant once again attacked. This time, he knelt down, sweeping his sword near the ground like a sickle harvesting crops.

Now Yi was completely focused. He held his breath, got down on one knee, and raised his arms over his head, shielding his upper body with the sheath—he had never understood the purpose of this stance during his training, but a curtain had lifted, giving him clarity.

Just as the giant’s sword was about to make contact, Yi leapt to his feet, his weapon before him. He dashed with the force of a tsunami, throwing himself against the giant’s attack, sheath slicing toward the sword.

By the time Yi closed his stance and stowed his weapon, the severed half of the giant’s blade had plummeted to the earth like a kite with a broken string.

Thrown by his momentum, the giant crashed to the ground. Just as he started to stand, a bolt of lightning struck him in the back, and dozens of Vastayashai’rei swarmed over him. The behemoth’s eyes showed fury… and fear.

Yi stared at his hands, shaking his head in wonder. “I feel like I can cut through a mountain!”

The spirit nodded. “No armor can withstand attacks by master Wuju swordsmen. As long as you draw enough power, you can indeed sunder a mountain, a forest, or even the entire world.”

Yi was so excited that he clenched his fist and almost started to dance. Seeing this, the spirit quickly cleared his throat. “But remember, this is all a vision.”

“Um, yes, of course.” Yi frowned. What an odd thing for a spirit to say.

“There’s a limit to the amount of power humans can draw from the spirit realm. Thus…” A grin appeared on the spirit’s face. “If you really meet an opponent like this, I suggest you run. You’ll probably fail to slice off even a toenail.”

“Definitely.” Yi rubbed the back of his head. “I understand.” After all, Bahrl was a peaceful place. He’d have no need to sunder such foes.

“I’ve seen many Wuju disciples, but you stand out. Don’t waste your life pursuing useless endeavors.” The spirit gently rested his hands on Yi’s shoulders, assessing him. “I’ll teach you something else, if you’d like.”

Yi’s eyes brightened. “Yes!”

“You grew up in Bahrl, so—”

Yi was suddenly back in Mistfall, staring at the giant blade planted in the ground.

He was drenched in water—water from Doran’s waterskin, which he had just thrown at his face.

“I shook you a couple of times to no avail, so I had to resort to this.” Doran smiled as he handed Yi the skin. “Come, have a drink. You’ll feel better.”

Yi looked up at the sky, letting out a huge sigh. “Gods! Master! Couldn’t you have waited just a moment longer?!”

“Oh?” Doran said. “Were you about to slay the giant, or what?”

“I was just about to learn…” Yi froze. “Wait! Master Doran, you—you’ve seen the vision as well, haven’t you? The battle with the giants?”

“I’ve heard your master speak of it. It seems that you Wuju bladesmen are the only ones who encounter such visions in this place.” Doran leaned forward. “You seem excited. I suppose you discovered something?”

Yi lowered his gaze to his sheath, and drew his unedged sword. He stood before the massive blade, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath with the devotion of a priest at prayer. After a few moments, he raised his sword and swung it, magic coursing through the weapon. So great was his strength that he cleaved through the giant’s sword. Only a shard remained in the earth.

Doran drew a sharp breath. “Whoa!”

“How’s that?” An almost smug grin crept across Yi’s face.

“Who have you been talking to?” Doran said, raising an eyebrow.

Yi was about to tell him that it was a spirit in his likeness, but inspiration suddenly struck. “Master Doran! Could I borrow your brush?”

Doran turned to fetch the ink-soaked brush, and handed it over to Yi. “Why? Are you going to write a poem about your feelings like your master did?”

Yi weighed the brush in his hands before returning to the remnant of the giant’s sword in the ground. Before he began, he ran his palm over it, catching sight of what seemed to be traces of ink—the wind and rain would erase all hints of any calligraphy one were to write here. But that didn’t matter. Whatever he wrote wasn’t meant for the eyes of other visitors.

“The poem my master wrote wasn’t about his feelings,” Yi said as he penned his first word. “It was about his gratitude.”

By the time Yi had finished writing, Doran had packed up the swords in the bamboo basket, and was about to lift it onto his shoulders. Yi rushed over to take the burden himself, but Doran stopped him.

“I’ll carry it. After all, your training today is completed.”

Yi nodded. He looked at the blades Doran was leaving behind to be blessed.

“Master, which one is my blade?”

“None of them. The blade I crafted for you will go to a junior disciple instead.”

“What?” Yi couldn’t believe it. “Junior? Which junior?”

Doran snorted, turned, and walked away, leaving Yi behind.

Yi ran after him. “But why, master?”

The old weaponsmith sighed in bemusement, muttering words only he could hear.

“It’s no longer worthy of you, kid.”

The air of southern Shon-Xan was rife with raw magic. Mystic power flowed over the land, surging through iridescent trees, which spread skyward their leaves of magenta and indigo, azure and amber, opening up like fans in the palms of dancers.

Hidden now in the colorful canopy was a barely perceptible patch of pale skin, blending in with the trees’ interwoven branches.

“It’ll be here anytime,” whispered Faey, a girl of twelve summers. She then gave a high tweeting sound like a sparrow. The birdsong was immediately picked up by the others, echoing back through the foliage, a sound perfectly imitated by human vocal cords not yet come of age.

Faey knew everyone was in position. The adults hadn’t approved this hunt, but it was important. If the neophytes could get the silver boar, not only would they stop going hungry for days, but the Kinkou acolytes would have to give them real missions.

No more picking plums or carrying water, Faey thought. The order needs our strength, too, because the neophytes are the future.

And the past was dark. Foreign invaders had been rampaging in Ionia for many seasons, and that was only the beginning of the Kinkou’s problems. A few moons ago, Great Master Kusho had been killed, brutally murdered by Zed, a former member of the order. Then Zed’s minions had driven the Kinkou from their main base, the Temple of Thanjuul. Of those who had survived Zed’s attack, many lost faith in the order and left the Kinkou.

The adults needed hope. Faey would make them see it.

She snapped out of her reverie. There was a rustling in the woods. Leaves started falling, and within heartbeats, a large boar burst out from between tree trunks, squealing, its eyes wide. Its fur was rippling with a shimmering glow, a sign that it had just emerged from the spirit realm.

Confident that the plan would work—as long as everyone followed her instructions—Faey readied her bow and arrow, watching the boar come into range.

A neophyte dropped down from a treetop, dangling from a vine wrapped around one foot. She blocked the boar’s path by waving a large wooden spear and casting a modest magical wind. Startled, the boar ran the other direction—but its path was cut off by a boy who swung down on another vine, summoning a small cloud of smoke and ash that blinded the animal. His spear scratched the boar’s hide and made it roar.

One by one, the neophytes descended from the canopy. Their agility, their precision, their focused intent to hunt all hinted at true warrior spirit. Yet the oldest of them was no more than thirteen summers.

We are the neophytes of the Kinkou, Faey thought with pride.

The vine-swinging children sealed off the boar’s escape route, leaving just one opening that ran through the narrowest part of the small gorge, straight toward Faey’s position. She was in charge of the kill.

Good job, everyone. And now it’s my turn. Faey swallowed hard. Hanging upside down, she drew her bow and set the arrow in line.

Focus. The arrow seeks not to slash nor scratch, but to kill in a single attempt. She aligned the gleaming arrowhead with the running boar’s eye. The vine that wrapped around her waist—as if sensing Faey’s intent—shifted gently so her aim stayed true.

Faey emptied her mind, letting instinct take control. When she knew she had the boar, she would let go of—

“Yeeeh!” A small shadow sprang from the side of the gorge, shrieking as it landed on the boar’s back. The panicked animal swung around and charged in the opposite direction.

The rider was a little girl, one hand gripping the boar’s silvery fur and the other swinging a rope over her head, round and round.

Dumbstruck, Faey watched the boar go berserk with the girl bouncing on its back.

“No! Akali!” Faey shouted as her plan fell apart.

Unable to shake the girl off, the boar started smashing its side against tree trunks as it ran. Somehow, Akali avoided the impacts and clung stubbornly to the mad animal, her laughter audible over its angry squeals. She tried to catch the silver boar’s snout with her rope noose, without success.

A few neophytes bravely attempted to block the charging animal, but it knocked them away. The beast went through a side opening of the gorge, out onto flatter ground shadowed by trees.

Finally, the boar kicked up its hind legs in one ferocious leap, and Akali was bucked off. She tumbled onto the forest floor, raising a trail of flying leaves, and ended up lying flat, face down, limbs splayed open.

Faey rushed over to her. “Are you out of your mind?!”

Akali sat up and brushed some leaves off her clothes. She was nine, three summers younger than Faey. “I only wanted to help,” Akali said.

“I told you not to follow us!” Faey yelled. “We had it! We had it!”

Akali shrugged, grimacing as her shoulders cracked. Apologetically, she said, “I’ll give my dinner plum to you.”

After Zed’s attack, the remaining Kinkou retreated to a long-abandoned temple east of Thanjuul, high up in the mountains where glacial water ran. It was beside a lagoon of turquoise water, peppered with purple lantern florae. Although they were near the village of Xuanain, their haven was difficult to access, with its great elevation and surrounding hills.

In their war-torn land, they had to fight off hostile factions, foreign and Ionian, who viewed the mayhem as an opportunity to prey on those they saw as weak. The Kinkou had made sure no pursuers would stumble upon this location before they set up a solid base. The temple was in poor condition, and it was too small to fit them all, so the acolytes had built additional dwellings: huts constructed from fallen wood instead of magically woven from living trees—the usual Ionian way—in case they had to move again.

With the lagoon’s green water lapping against their sandals, the neophytes now stood in a rigid line before Mayym Jhomen Tethi, the Kinkou’s Fist of Shadow.

Faey was nearest to Mayym, eyes downcast. Akali, a head shorter, stood beside her.

“That was foolish,” Mayym said sternly. “You went outside the perimeter, risking the safety of this haven. There could be wandering warbands out there that might follow you back. You know your instructions.”

One of the older boys, Yajiro, said, “But we weren’t out long, and we stayed hidden.”

“We had the perfect plan,” Hisso chimed in, “but it was ruined by Akali! If she hadn’t—”

“No,” Faey said, cutting the girl off. She made herself look Mayym in the eye. “It was… my fault. I told everyone to come along as soon as I realized a silver boar lived in those woods.”

Akali turned to Faey, brown eyes glistening behind a mess of unkempt hair.

Akali had always looked up to her, and sometimes Faey felt the urge to protect the little girl. But there was another reason she had chosen to take the blame: Mayym was her mentor, and it was simply not Faey’s place to question her. It was unusual for a Kinkou leader to take an uninitiated neophyte under their wing. And for that, Faey was grateful.

“It’s the last day of the Spirit Blossom festival,” Faey muttered. “I just thought if we could get a boar, everyone could eat some meat.”

Mayym studied her for a long moment. Then her gaze swept across the other children, whose skinny frames must have looked fragile under tattered hemp clothes. A trace of emotion crossed her brow, but she quickly lifted her chin and said, “As punishment, none of you will receive a meal tonight. Dismissed.”

The neophytes slouched away, a couple of them holding back tears. Faey bit her lip and was about to go when Mayym stopped her.

“Faey, walk with me.”

Under the falling twilight, Mayym paced along the edge of the lagoon with graceful steps, away from the cluster of shabby houses. Faey was about to follow when she saw that Akali had not moved. The little girl was looking at them.

Somehow, in the presence of Faey, Akali’s mother always treated her own daughter like thin air.

Faey felt slightly guilty, but she turned away and ran up to Mayym.

As the two of them walked in silence, Faey gazed at the lantern florae drifting in the lagoon. The purple flowers had five petals that formed a mouth, allowing them to breathe vapors of various shades into the air. Their large leaves let them float on the surface of the water, and their roots were webbed so they could move around the lagoon, gathering together and then dispersing. Some claimed the lantern florae were plants. Others said they were animals. Faey thought they were both.

“I understand what you meant to do,” Mayym said in a tone she used only when alone with Faey—heavy with patience, weighed down by expectation. “But there is nothing to prove.”

“We were hungry to prove ourselves… and also, just hungry.” Faey tried to sound respectful. “The others acted with discipline, the way we’ve been trained. We worked well as a team.” Except Akali, Faey thought. But she’s the youngest.

“That’s not what I mean,” said Mayym. “The silver boar is not an animal whose meat we should consume. If you’d killed it, you would have brought more harm than good.”

“But I thought we were allowed to hunt it,” Faey said.

“Not anymore.” Mayym led Faey to the far side of the lagoon, where the water was shallow, giving way to pearly pebbles. Dressed in a flowing, silky gown, Mayym moved with elegance. She had layers of bandages wrapped around her arms and thighs, with several kunai hanging from her waist.

In Faey’s eyes, Mayym was a true role model. Graceful yet lethal. Shen, Master Kusho’s son, was now the order’s leader, but he was no match.

“A silver boar has ties with the spirit realm,” Mayym continued. “That means its existence is born out of a connection between the two worlds. It’s a magical creature.”

“A lot of Ionia’s creatures are,” said Faey.

“Yes, but the cycle of predator and prey has been broken. We are descending into chaos.”

“Because of Noxus.” She said the name of the foreign invaders like a curse.

“This war is ravaging Ionia. Armies are hunting animals near extinction, trees in mystical forests are being felled, and the spirit realm is reeling,” Mayym said as they stepped onto a rocky slope. “Magical energies turn vile, and the First Lands are changing shades. Everyone is trying to find their place in a world spiraling out of control, and they do this by killing. Most times blindly so. The violence of the war is already causing unintended damage, resulting in a major disturbance of the balance between the material realm and the spirit realm.”

Faey was shocked. If I had killed the boar, I would’ve hurt the balance—and that’s what the Kinkou are supposed to protect! “Master Mayym, how do we restore the balance with the spirit realm? Can we go back to the way it was before, if all the Noxian invaders are dead?”

“It’s no longer as simple as that.”

They passed into a drifting fog, the work of the lantern florae. The air felt moist and cool. The stone slate under their feet was slippery and slightly curved, as if they were walking between a pair of enormous lips. Faey could make out a protruding rock to the side that resembled a nose and, beyond that, cracked folds that could be half-closed eyelids, where small waterfalls trickled through the fissures. We’re walking on a face, Faey thought. It looked like the remains of a giant statue from an ancient era lost to time, though no one could be sure, as water had eroded all its angles and red moss blanketed its sunlit sides.

The sky was turning dark. They came upon an incline and started uphill. “Magic and life are parts of the same current that connects the two realms,” Mayym said.

Faey recited the Kinkou teaching: “The material realm and the spirit realm are two sides of the same leaf, grown on the same branch, sharing the same roots.”

“Yes. One does not flourish without the other, and when one darkens, the other dims,” Mayym said. “When lives perish in unnatural ways, such as in war, some spirits fade into oblivion. But others linger, with noxious intent. The more this happens, the more polluted the spirit realm becomes. And in turn, this causes a backlash that affects all life in the material realm. A vicious circle.”

The mention of spiritual contamination reminded Faey of something strange. “Master Mayym, when we first saw the silver boar, right when it left the spirit realm, it appeared agitated.”

Mayym stopped in her tracks, then turned to look at her.

“Like it was running away from something,” Faey added.

“And this took place near the perimeter?”

“Yes, just on the other side of the western hills.”

Mayym remained thoughtful for a while, then resumed walking. “It could be that the foul current of the war has enveloped Ionia as a whole, reaching us here, even though the battles are taking place elsewhere.”

“We can help,” Faey pleaded. “Initiate us. Grant us real missions.”

“In time,” Mayym replied gently. “Faey, the other neophytes follow you. Even those older than you. They see you as a good role model.”

Faey’s heart leapt at Mayym’s praise.

“You yourself will have no problem getting initiated as an acolyte, but not everyone has your gift,” Mayym said quietly. “Your presence with the other neophytes serves as a good influence on them. So for now, stay that way.”

Faey’s mood sank, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek. It must be Akali. She’s the one holding me back.

They passed through loose thickets, stepping onto higher ground. “Patience is a virtue, but also a skill that requires honing as much as an arrowhead, especially for one who bests all the rest,” Mayym told her. “You neophytes are the future of the Kinkou. We need to make sure all of you are ready before any of you can be initiated.”

Faey disagreed, but said nothing.

They left the cover of the trees, cresting the last hill untouched by snow. Around the moon, a bright ring of sapphirine silver graced the night sky. Faey gazed at it, knowing she was witnessing the near-convergence of the physical moon and its reflection in the spirit realm. She wondered what it looked like to Mayym.

On this final night of the Spirit Blossom festival in Xuanain, Mayym and other senior Kinkou would see something vastly different on the black canvas of the sky: the circle of pale illumination partially covered by a darker shade, like someone had thrown a thick veil over it, as the mystic moon in the spirit realm swam before the silvery moon in the material realm.

Faey longed for the day when she could experience such a spectacle—it seemed so far away. But she knew it was more than just a beautiful display. It also signified when the triumvirate of the Kinkou would meet and decide what came next for the order.

“Faey, keep growing your skill,” Mayym said, moonlight lining the edge of her silhouette in frosty silver, “and you are bound to succeed me as the Fist of Shadow.”

When that day comes, Faey thought uneasily, will there still be a Kinkou Order?

The art of calligraphy required patience and diligence, stillness of the body and keen focus of the mind—everything that Akali hated.

Sitting in the old temple, she was writing characters on a piece of paper with a broad brush, the inkstick and inkstone by her elbow. The roof was made of hoary branches, and some of them had draped down like the beard of an old man. Light-blooms, tiny luminous plants that the acolytes had grown, hung in strings along the temple walls, lending light to Akali’s nightly lesson. The acolyte instructor sat idly to the side with a scroll on his lap, stifling a yawn.

This is as easy as eating rice pudding, Akali thought. Mother’ll be happy if I do well.

Yet, the more she stared at a character that ended with a curved stroke, the more she thought it looked like a mustache. Mesmerized, Akali couldn’t help but add a few streaks with the tapered tip of her brush. The character turned into a smirking, mustached face.

Akali puffed out a laugh, then quickly covered her mouth with her hands, smudging her cheek. The instructor scowled and was about to stand up, when a voice called from the door.

“Hello, little one.” A small figure waved a clawed hand at her.

“Kennen, you’re back!” Akali bounded to her feet. She dropped the brush, smearing wet, black ink on the paper, and ran out.

The instructor barked at her to return, but stopped short when he saw that the person at the door was indeed Kennen, the Kinkou’s Heart of the Tempest.

Kennen flipped away so Akali could try to catch him, even though it was impossible. They ran between the huts, through the edge of the woods and back, splashing water by the lagoon’s shore. Akali ended up wheezing next to the yordle on a fallen tree trunk.

“I heard that you thwarted the neophytes’ effort to get the silver boar,” Kennen said teasingly, straddling the trunk.

“I didn’t mean to. Faey should have asked me to come along. I can help!”

“Don’t feel bad about it. Children are like that. They probably thought you were too young.” Kennen’s voice was that of a human child, yet his tone was laced with wisdom.

“But I’m taller than you!”

“That you are.” Kennen reached up and tousled her hair.

“Where’s Shen?” Akali asked, absently touching the small kunai she wore as a pendant.

“He’s meditating.”

“Is he still sad? I miss him…” Akali had always admired Shen.

Kennen smiled wistfully. “The betrayal by his best friend and… the loss of his father… weigh heavy on him.”

Akali was reminded of her own father’s death in Zed’s attack. She missed him, too.

Kennen changed the subject. “How have you been doing? Has Mayym been teaching you how to wield the kunai?”

Akali shook her head, now covering the kunai pendant with her hand. “Mother never thinks I’m good enough,” she mumbled. “She only wants to spend time with Faey.”

“Well, I guess Mayym can only teach one protégé at a time.”

“Why can’t I be her protégé?” A sore feeling gripped Akali’s heart.

Kennen gazed at her for a moment, then slid closer to her on the tree trunk. “Before Mayym became the Fist of Shadow, she went on many missions with Faey’s mother. They worked closely as a team.”

“I know that.”

“It’s not that Mayym tries to ignore you. When you were a baby, she made a promise to take care of Faey.”

Akali had no memory of Faey’s parents. They were both senior acolytes who died long ago. Now she thought about what that meant as Kennen waited patiently beside her.

If losing her father had made her sad, Faey must have endured double the pain, for many more seasons. Akali’s anger subsided, and she felt an emotion that she could not comprehend. Her chest tightened.

Everyone had lost so much. This haven by the lagoon temple was all they had.

The yordle hopped in front of Akali, startling her. “Hey, it’ll be all right.” Kennen cupped her face in his hands. “You grow fast, and you can run faster than all the other neophytes. Your mother will see it one day.”

He rubbed his nose against hers, making Akali giggle. Then Kennen somersaulted nimbly away.

“There’s a meeting I need to go to now,” he said. “Go back and finish your calligraphy lesson, okay?”

Low clouds were rolling just beyond the mountain’s summit, where basalt peaks held a glacier in their embrace. A colossal impact crater had sunk the glacier’s surface, and Faey imagined that a giant’s fist had punched it.

There, she watched as Mayym and Kennen stood face to face, at a rift that severed the crater in two.

“Given the Ionian victory at the Placidium of Navori,” Mayym argued, “a tipping point in the war against Noxus could be in sight.” Her arms were folded in front of her chest, her phantom scythe lashed to her back. “There are many whose actions are disrupting the sacred balance, Noxians and Ionians. The Kinkou should be there to prune them out, while Ionia has the upper hand.” As the Fist of Shadow, Mayym represented Pruning the Tree—the elimination of imbalance between the material realm and the spirit realm.

“We’re just regaining our footing, and you want us to dive into battle now?” said the diminutive yordle.

“Fighting to uphold our duty as keepers of balance is the way we get back on our feet,” Mayym said. “The moment is at hand.”

Kennen looked incredulously at her. He was the Heart of the Tempest, and his duty was Coursing the Sun—whatever judgment was reached here, he would have to convey it to all Kinkou members across Ionia.

Faey stood a distance away from them, respectfully observing and trying not to fidget on the chilly mountaintop. As part of her training, Mayym brought her to important meetings. Faey’s lips were trembling, and she imagined them turning purple. She couldn’t understand how everyone else could be ignoring the piercing cold.

She also could not understand the difference in Mayym’s demeanor. When it came to her protégé, Mayym often urged restraint, but when it came to her equals, Mayym constantly seemed to push for action.

“We want to sit this one out,” Kennen said. “The situation is complicated: there are Noxian soldiers under threat, Ionian defenders who were bitter enemies just yesterday, vastaya of uncertain allegiance, and spies everywhere. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“You went to the Placidium? Undetected?”

“What, you thought I lost my touch?” He smiled, and lightning crackled around his eyes and claws. Then his tone turned grim. “On my way back, I picked up accounts that members of a Navori Brotherhood faction are headed this way, and not with peaceful intent. They’ve marked themselves with tiger tattoos.”

Mayym frowned. “What are they doing?”

“Going from village to village, snatching the young and able,” replied Kennen. “Using violence against anyone who dares object.”

“So they can replenish their forces against the Noxian invaders…”

“Exactly. The darkness of the war has spread over Ionia in unprecedented ways,” Kennen said. “Before we know it, it’ll be at our door. We must pick our battles carefully.”

Mayym shook her head. “The Noxian invasion of Ionia is the root cause of the imbalance. The mounting deaths. The reason why the spirit realm is disturbed. If we are to uphold our role as guardians of the Kinkou’s mission, we must go to Navori.”

“We should not act rashly.”

“Says one who just sneaked in and out of the enemy line.”

“I did that so none of you have to!” Kennen snapped.

There was a moment when the air seemed to freeze between them, and Faey held her breath, unblinking.

The moment passed, and Mayym looked to the side. “Perhaps the Eye of Twilight has something to say?”

And there, just a few strides upslope, perched atop a stone pillar, was a silent figure. He wore a jacket cut short at the sleeves, tucked into a pair of weather-beaten trousers. Fastened upon his torso and limbs were leather plates, metal bands, and silken wraps. He had two swords crossed on his back, one of steel, the other arcane. He was not wearing his usual mask, but his features were nonetheless hidden in the shadow of his hood, shielded from the moonlight.

Shen, Faey thought gloomily. Our leader who is always indecisive.

“It’s true that the balance is being harmed by the violence of the war, which is inflamed by Ionians as well,” said Shen, his voice hoarse, “not the least of whom are Zed and his order.”

“Precisely. We must act against them,” Mayym urged.

“And yet…” Shen’s hooded head rose slightly. “As my every instinct tells me to pour all our strength against Zed’s, I begin to fear that I can’t be impartial. I fear that…” He hesitated for a moment. “Those rallying around Zed are serving the balance in their own way, fighting against invaders who are devastating Ionia. We must give this question more consideration.”

Kennen shrugged. “As I said, complicated times.”

“I need to distance myself from my emotions, so I may decide free of prejudice,” Shen concluded.

Faey saw Mayym let out a misty, pale breath as she sighed.

“Our order needs an Eye of Twilight who leads,” Mayym said ruefully.

If Shen took offense, he showed no sign. After all, he had been the Kinkou’s leader for only a short time, while Mayym had been part of the triumvirate for countless seasons.

If Master Kusho were alive, he would be so ashamed of us. Faey looked up, trying to distract herself from the cold. Aside from a few wisps of cloud, the sky sparkled with stars.

A realization came to Faey: Shen’s duty as the Eye of Twilight… Watching the Stars meant neutral observation, to become thoroughly informed before passing judgment.

All Kinkou acolytes had to study three disciplines before they chose one as their path. Watching the Stars, Coursing the Sun, and Pruning the Tree—the disciplines had overlapping areas, and one’s existence would hold no meaning without its relation to the other two. It was clear to Faey that when debating the Kinkou’s future, each member of the triumvirate had followed their respective role: Kennen mindful of conveying wrong judgments, Mayym urging action to address the imbalance, and Shen…

The easiest job to do, isn’t it? To just observe everything and do nothing. Watching the Stars.

Indeed, some time had passed, and Shen never spoke another word. He just sat there, head down, as if his mind were not even present.

From the way they addressed the matters at hand today, Faey felt this Meeting of the Triad had turned out meaningless.

After Shen left, the rest of them began walking downhill.

“I sympathize with Shen. He and I both lost someone we held dear during Zed’s attack,” Mayym said. “But a time like this calls for stronger leadership… Perhaps we should not expect him to be as great as his father.” She spoke evenly, but Faey could hear frustration simmering under the words. “One should not rely on kinship when it comes to succession.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Kennen replied lightly. Because he was so fast, he had to hike in circles so he could walk alongside Mayym. “Sometimes potential does pass down through blood. Look at yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Mayym asked, frowning.

Kennen glanced at Faey, who was trailing behind them, and shrugged. “Nothing.”

When Faey came back to the lagoon, the whole haven was asleep save for the acolytes standing watch.

She gingerly approached the hut she shared with a few other neophytes. There she saw Akali sitting alone on the stone slabs in front of the dwelling. The little girl was wearing her night garment. She loved calling it a shiipo, which was a florid cloak worn by children during festivals. In truth, it was just a rough-spun robe made of beige-colored yarn, given to her by her father, Tahno, another victim of Zed’s rebellion.

“What are you doing here?” Faey called out in a low voice.

Akali sat upright, happy to see Faey’s return. The little girl produced a piece of dried fruit from inside her pocket. “I want to give you this.”

“A plum?” Faey took it with wonder. “How? I thought we didn’t get dinner tonight.”

“It’s from a few days ago.”

Faey’s eyes widened. “You’ve been storing food?”

Akali shrugged, looking guilty, but made no reply. Her shoulders were shaking.

She is afraid, Faey realized, looking down at the dried fruit. Why?

“I want to keep some food,” Akali said. “Maybe we’ll need it someday. You know… if… if bad people come again.”

She’s afraid that enemies might show up any moment, and we’ll be on the run without food…

“I don’t want anything to tear our family apart,” Akali said. “I don’t want us to lose anyone anymore.”

Tears suddenly welled up in Faey’s eyes, but she held them firmly in check. She lost her parents to the order’s missions long ago, and vowed never to cry again after countless nights of sobbing. But she felt for Akali. In a way, they were truly like siblings, for Akali’s mother spent much more time with Faey than with her own daughter.

Faey bit off half the plum and handed the rest back. “You eat this.”

An anger unfamiliar to Faey was boiling inside her. She could not comprehend why everything had happened. If the Kinkou Order played such an important role to Ionia—as the teachings said—why did they have to suffer like this?

“You should go to sleep.” She ruffled Akali’s hair, and gave her a long hug, never letting a tear escape from the corner of her eye.

As the days passed, Faey earnestly practiced her archery. She was frustrated—about Shen, about Mayym’s refusal to make her an acolyte, about how powerless she was to help, about everything.

Working with her bow was the only thing that made sense. When she wasn’t being trained in stealth, studying, or doing chores, Faey was spending almost all her time in the small archery range built by the acolytes.

Mayym had gone on one of her missions. Kennen presided over the defense and maintenance of the lagoon haven, but Faey often caught him playing with Akali, racing and jumping and throwing blunt shuriken with the giggling little girl.

One day, Hisso came to Faey during her meditative archery exercise. “We’re going to play Ghost in the Woods at the southern valley. Come join us,” she said.

“The southern valley?” Faey took her eyes off the practice target, lowering her bow. “Mayym wouldn’t like that.”

The valley was wide and full of plant life, marked by loose boulders and abandoned stone walls. It was dangerous terrain, and the villagers of Xuanain had warned the Kinkou that there had been a few major landslides over the decades.

“Well, that’s why we do it when Mayym isn’t around,” Hisso told her. “You know it’s the most exciting place for the game. C’mon, the others are all there.”

Faey was hesitant, but she said, “Fine. I need to finish another set. I’ll find you there later.”

When the neophyte left, Faey drew a deep breath and stabilized her torso. She repositioned her feet and held her asymmetrical bow a few handspans from the bottom to ensure the most force.

For a Kinkou warrior-to-be, the mastery of a type of weaponry required two tracks of experience, the meditative and the combat-practical—the neio and the neiyar. Trained to become an archer, Faey had been practicing neio and neiyar with her bow since she was five summers old.

Of course, given that she had never faced a real enemy keen on taking her life, the neiyar centered around animal hunting and dueling against her trainers. Most times, she was instructed to stay in the archery range practicing her meditative neio, which she had resented because boredom always crept in after just a few shots.

But not these days. She needed to practice neio to feel calm.

“When you hold a lethal weapon in your hands, the first thing it sharpens is your mind,” Mayym had taught her. “Quiet your thoughts, and focus on your every move.”

Yet as Faey raised both arms above her head in a refined manner, confusion raged like a maelstrom.

Why couldn’t we beat Zed? She pushed out her bow arm.

Why does it have to be Shen who leads us? She contracted her back muscles, drawing open the bow with the string.

What truly happened in the temple that day when Master Kusho died? The adults never spoke of it. Do they even know? She paused at full draw, a moment of utmost concentration when an archer should sense the true spirit of the martial art. But all she could feel now was sizzling fury.

The pause lasted no more than half a breath before she released the string. The arrow hit the edge of the target with a weak thump.

Faey sighed, shoulders drooping.

We are the guardians of two realms, yet we do nothing when the realms need us. We just watch the stars.

She closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind by running two fingers along the bow, and then the arrow.

“When you hold these weapons,” Mayym had said, “you are entrusted with a tradition passed down through generations of archer-warriors, in an unbroken line of sacred practice.”

Faey inhaled slowly, forcing herself to think on her bow’s design. It was asymmetrical because, long ago, Kinkou archers had learned that a longer top section made the bow more durable, while a shorter bottom allowed for stealthier movement in regions with dense wild growth. Faey was among the most recent generation to benefit from this wisdom.

Generations of archer-warriors. An unbroken line of sacred practice.

Humbled, Faey opened her eyes and walked toward the target. She paused just three and a half paces away from it, so close that a miss wouldn’t be possible. That way, she could direct all her attention to her movement, ensuring refinement and elegance.

Combat is communication, a voice rang in her mind. It is always about the dialogue.

It was the voice of Master Kusho, from a time when he spoke warmly to Faey and the other children. A time that seemed… so long ago.

The art of practical combat would prepare a warrior against external enemies, with spilled blood calligraphing the dialogue of conflict. Yet, only by contemplative performance would a warrior train her mind against the enemy within.

A dialogue with a hundred you.

Faey raised her arms and calmly let them fall, drawing open the bow again. She paused as a timeless vortex claimed her consciousness.

When thoughts hushed, the dialogue of the soul began.

The next time she blinked, the arrow had lodged in the dead center of the target.

She took another arrow from her quiver, and then another, each shot more graceful than the last, her form a distilled purity.

As she did so, new thoughts drifted through her mind.

Maybe the adults don’t know everything.

Maybe they are as confused as I am.

Maybe it doesn’t matter who is leading us, as long as we stick together as a family.

Maybe… there isn’t anything I can do to help restore the balance right now. Faey let go of her last arrow. And maybe that’s okay…

She maintained her posture a while longer. The churning emotions had dissipated, bringing to light a mind as tranquil as the early morning lagoon. This was a sense of peace she had rarely felt.

The sun was at its zenith when she started toward the southern valley. Some of the acolytes were conducting their own meditative martial practice by the edge of the forest as Faey passed by, and suddenly she understood what they were doing a little more.

Then she followed the meandering pathway to the neophytes’ playground. It was not a short hike. Faey had decided that she did not feel like participating in the game today, yet she needed to tell the others so they wouldn’t wait for her until dusk.

Strangely, when Faey arrived at the fringe of the valley, the neophytes were not there.

She strained her ears, but she heard no clamor, nor any rustling among the bushes. The only sounds were the buzzing of cicadas and the occasional breeze.

Something’s not right.

Faey unslung her bow and took out an arrow as she ventured down the valley. Possibly uninhabited by humans for centuries, this side of the mountain had been taken over by wild growth of vegetation. Bits of broken stone walls could be glimpsed where vines and leaves had not yet claimed them.

As she continued her search, some of the greenery parted for her, giving way to her nervous steps.

A whistle startled her—then she saw that it came from behind one of the stony ruins. A neophyte poked his head out, beckoning to her and signaling for silence.

Faey crouched low and swiftly moved over, surprised to see that a bunch of the neophytes were huddled here, all looking grim. She found Akali, too, standing under a large broad-leaved tree, uncharacteristically silent.

One of the older boys gravely pointed a finger downhill.

Then Faey saw it, too. Still a good distance away, a group of at least twenty warriors had come into the valley. They had tiger tattoos on their chests and arms, and Faey immediately understood what that meant.

It was the Navori Brotherhood.

“What do we do now?”

The neophytes had gathered around Faey. “We need to warn the adults,” said Xenn, a younger boy.

Omi suggested fighting the intruders, but he was rebuffed by doubtful stares from the others. Except for Faey, they hadn’t brought their weapons, and when you had ten neophytes against twenty mean-looking thugs, the odds were obvious.

Alerting the acolytes seemed like their only option, but Faey hesitated.

“What are we waiting for?” Xenn asked. “Let’s head back now.”

“Wait…” Faey said. “We can’t do that.” Everyone’s gaze fell on her, wondering what she meant. Faey stared at the warriors, who were advancing slowly. If the acolytes show up, people will die. That will damage the balance even more.

Not to mention, the thought of losing even one more of her Kinkou family was unbearable.

Faey scanned the area and made up her mind. “We need to stop them, here and now.”

“What? How?” asked Akali, brown eyes wide.

“By making them decide not to go any farther,” Faey said. “I know why they’re here: to capture people and force them to fight against the foreign invaders. So, if they realize there’s no one to be found, they will leave.”

“How do we do that? Walk down and tell them?” Yajiro said.

“No, of course not.” Faey frowned. “Remember the hunting game we played to ambush the silver boar?” Everyone nodded. “We do it again. Except this time, we never show ourselves. We make the sound of grey owls.”

“Bad omen,” Omi said.

“Yes,” Faey said. “These are Ionians—they’ll know the sound means this region is cursed with foul magic, and no village could possibly thrive here.”

“But they are Ionian,” a girl named Isa said dubiously. “They might be able to see through it.”

“Well, I guess we’ll find out.” Faey looked at them one by one. “If someone gets caught, don’t point to the lagoon. Just say you’re lost. They will leave us alone, because they’re not looking for children.” This was half a lie.

They all nodded nervously.

“All right, let’s spread out. Take the vines and hide up in the trees.”

Akali was about to move, when Faey touched her shoulder.

“Akali, stay on the ground. I have a very important job for you. I know you can do it better than anyone.” The little girl paused, looking surprised. Faey continued, “But first, I need you to promise me that you won’t run around and upset our plan this time.”

Akali nodded eagerly. “I promise.”

“If our plan fails—if you see the Brotherhood still coming in strong after we make the owl calls, like they don’t even care, you run as fast as you can and tell the adults.” Faey held her bow tighter. And if that happens, I will cover you. “Now, hide somewhere at the far end and watch what’s happening. Save your strength in case you need it.”

“Okay.” Akali was trembling, but her eyes also glistened with excitement.

Faey saw that everyone else had loosely formed a wide bowl flanking the path that the intruders would pass through. Then she was on the move herself.

On the eastern side of the valley, a hillock of large boulders would provide an unobstructed view of the area. That would be her vantage point.

If anything went wrong, she would be the one making the kill.

One by one, the Kinkou neophytes tied long, sturdy vines around themselves. The vines responded by lifting them up to the knots on the tree trunks, making their climb swift and secure.

Faey circled to the shadowed side of the hillock, where the larger boulders would block her from the intruders’ sight. She ascended the incline, anxiously yet briskly, until she finally reached the highest point—a sizable slab perfect for monitoring the valley.

She looked for Akali, but could not find her.

Good, she thought. Lying prone on the slab, she directed her attention to the intruders. They were almost where she wanted them, making so much noise cutting up brambles, briars, long grasses, and whatever else got in their way that Faey was certain no one would notice if she kicked a rock downslope. The war must have changed them. Like the foreign invaders, they hold no respect for nature. They’ve forgotten what it means to be Ionian.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Omi was still on the ground.

What is he doing? She stared at him and made a gesture for him to hasten.

He was panicking, struggling to tie a limp vine around his waist as the first of the warriors trudged up a fallen trunk just ten paces away. Oddly, none of the vines on that particular tree were helpful, so Omi decided to climb barehanded.

Faey was appalled, but she remembered her contingency plan. She quickly nocked an arrow on her bow.

The intruders kept slashing violently at bushes and shrubs with their polearms, making a path for themselves. The rest of the valley remained ominously quiet, so their curses flowed straight to Faey’s ears, loud and clear.

Finally, Omi got up the tree and disappeared. Faey let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. She then inhaled deeply.

With a single, powerful exhale, Faey released a high-pitched screech that pierced the pristine air.

A few of the warriors stopped in their tracks.

Faey screeched again, and the valley came alive with echoes from every direction.

Now all of the intruders stopped, tensely surveying their surroundings. They started arguing.

“This is a haunted place. I hear grey owls.”

“I told you there’s nothing to be found here!”

The menacing-looking ones at the front walked forward, undeterred. Yet, part of the gang still hesitated. The Kinkou neophytes tried to help them make up their minds with another round of omen-filled screeches.

Even the trees let out audible sighs, waving their leaves and contorted branches, working with the neophytes in a cacophony of dread. Some of the warriors started backing off.

It’s working! Faey almost couldn’t believe it.

The gang’s leader ordered a retreat. “This place is foul. Let’s get out of here.” But as they departed, a few of them angrily swung their crescent blades and severed some branches that were eerily approaching.

A long, crooked bough snapped down and hit one of the thugs in the face. They all turned their backs and ran.

Faey held her position on the rock, not letting joy overtake her senses. The other neophytes were also quiet, likely waiting until it was safe to emerge.

When enough time had passed, Faey sprang upright. “We did it!”

Her call met no reply. There was silence for a long moment, punctuated by snapping sounds.

“Hello?” The valley looked a shade darker, even though the sun was still at its apex.

Something dropped down from the canopy and jerked to a stop in midair. It was Isa—her eyes wide with terror, her arms cinched at the waist by twisting vines. The end of one was gagging her.

Several more children fell through the leaves and were suspended the same way. Two neophytes plunged directly to the ground, their impact cushioned by bushes. They were also bound by vines, struggling to free themselves without avail.

Before Faey could comprehend what was happening, the valley came alive—large tree trunks twisted fiercely, entwining into a gargantuan entity. Shrubs and bushes uprooted themselves and crawled onto it like patched skin, taking with them packed soil and rubble that created muscles. Dark vines slithered up to form latticework over the creature, like nets of pulsing veins.

The monstrous thing had four arms, and the center of its “chest” was a broken tree trunk, hollow and rotten, like an empty eye socket or a gaping mouth. At least three children were half buried in its grotesque torso, held in place by bizarrely twitching branches.

A corrupted spirit. Faey froze on the stone slab.

The Kinkou had heard that such things were happening in other parts of Ionia, a side effect of the brutal war against Noxus. No one ever thought it would happen here.

The Navori Brotherhood must have contaminated the balance, and dark forces in the spirit realm were seeping through the divide, tainting the southern valley.

Faey opened her waist pouch, which held magical dust for repelling evil spirits. This would be the first time she had used it in practical combat. And her friends’ lives were at stake. She calmed her mind and applied the dust to her arrowheads.

Neio had fortified her with mental strength, and now she had to trust that her muscle memory would awaken from the neiyar training she had painstakingly endured.

Omi had escaped the vines and was stumbling across the shaky ground. As he ran, one of the monster’s arms extended toward him, tentacles of flora opening up like a writhing web. Faey loosed an arrow, and it struck that arm a moment before it could catch him. Golden rays blazed from the wound, and the monster reared. The limb disintegrated into dead leaves and twigs and dust.

“Go! Get the acolytes!” Faey shouted at Omi. He fled the valley without looking back.

Faey could hear her heartbeat pulsing against her ears. She knew that no matter how fast Omi ran, the quickest possible arrival for any acolyte would be a quarter of an hour. She had in her quiver only thirteen arrows.

How do I hold this thing off?

The monster’s broken limb had re-formed, its body growing larger by the moment as waves of vegetation rushed onto it, drawn by an unseen force.

Faey shot another arrow and, before it landed, drew and released again. The two arrows sank into the monster, and a blinding golden light spilled from its torso, which snapped open as layers of rotten, tissue-like branches parted. The ensnared children dropped to the ground, free from their prison.

The neophytes tried to help each other escape, tearing at vines and brambles sticky with dark resin. With a shocking rumble, the monster’s innards exploded, spraying countless fast-growing limbs in all directions like a fountain of animated timber.

Most of the neophytes dodged the wooden claws, yet two of them—Isa and Taij—were caught, wailing as they were dragged toward the monster’s mended maw.

Faey’s next few shots could provide cover fire for the five unfettered neophytes to flee, or she could try to save Isa and Taij.

What do I do? A moment of hesitation, and Xenn was snared. The rest scattered, howling in panic.

“Leave! Run back to the haven, everyone!” Faey saved Xenn with an arrow shot. Then she began firing at the flora tentacles that were coming for the runaway neophytes. She knew she would lose Isa and Taij, who were almost swallowed by the monster’s jagged, hollowed-out mouth. She ground her teeth and looked away.

Then she saw Akali.

Amid the madness of running children, flying timber, falling leaves, and blooming plants of evil shades, the little girl was running toward the monster.

Faey watched in disbelief, suddenly unsure where to aim.

“Haaheeyy!” Akali’s voice echoed in the valley. She dashed under a whip made of animated vines, then vaulted over sweeping tree trunks.

Something dawned on Faey—dangerous moments had passed, and Akali had not been caught. Somehow, she was evading all attempts at capture, ducking and rolling away from deformed claws. The evil spirit had turned its attention to Akali, forgetting that Isa and Taij were dangling right by its mouth.

“Akali, you fool! Flee!” Faey screamed. Yet, even as she condemned Akali’s folly, Faey had moved away from the stone slab, nocking another arrow on her bow.

She knew what she must do.

Akali was terrified. Huge, arched boughs fell from the sky and landed all around her. Yet she kept running.

She had made a promise not to intrude on Faey’s attempt at scaring away the big bad warriors. She did not foil that plan. But Faey never said anything about a gigantic, ugly tree spirit going mad. Now Akali followed her instinct—to get the other kids out.

She found Hisso entangled by a net of brambles. As she tried to pull her out, the sky dimmed, and Akali gasped. A colossal palm made of wriggling branches was coming down, threatening to crush them. But then an arrow pierced the hand, setting it ablaze in golden sparks.

Amid a falling blanket of wilted leaves, Akali dragged Hisso to safety. She saw that Faey was hopping down the rocky slope far way, another arrow at the ready. Then Akali glimpsed an older neophyte, Yajiro, sitting amid a pile of broken logs, crying his heart out.

Akali ran to him—eluding the monster’s angry jabs—and kicked him in the butt. “You! Get out of here!” She shoved him forward.

She knew something had changed. The monster was redirecting all its writhing limbs to get her. So as long as she kept running, the other children would be safe.

As Akali sprang and dove and ducked and rolled, she grew confident that she had gotten the hang of this game. Part of her—the part that wasn’t terrified—wanted to giggle. The monster was slow. If Kennen were here, he could be eating a bowl of noodles while dodging the attacks.

More of Faey’s arrows arced overhead, striking the monster and momentarily disintegrating its limbs. Isa and Taij dropped to the ground: two vine-wrapped, sobbing bundles.

Akali headed toward them, excited that she and Faey were working together so well. She could do this all day.

Now Faey will include me on all the missions. Mother will be pleased!

Then the valley began to tremble more ferociously than before. Large, malicious roots churned the earth, whipping up like nasty serpents, releasing foul vapors that made Akali’s nose wrinkle. A wall of dizzying, thrashing wood encircled her, sealing her way out.

Uh-oh.

Faey hopped down from boulder to boulder, adjusting her line of sight so she could maintain a clear view of Akali. As the evil spirit chased the little girl, Faey’s arrows cleared any incoming danger for her.

Their fortuitous partnership had opened a window of opportunity for the other neophytes, and those who could raced out of the valley.

But any moment, things could go wrong. Faey had only three arrows left.

“Akali, you must leave now!” Faey shouted as loud as she could.

The rocks under Faey’s feet shuddered as if the earth was contracting in a spasm. A few heartbeats later, she saw Akali encased in a dome of vicious roots.

The stony slope broke apart around Faey, and the large slab at the top came crashing down. Faey jumped between boulders to avoid it. As she did so, she let fly an arrow that tore a hole into the side of Akali’s prison, then another one to block the giant fist that was coming for the escaping girl.

But before Faey could draw her last arrow or make another move, the whole slope washed over her in an avalanche.

An ear-splitting boom. The crash of rockfall. She screamed as rubble struck her like fists, followed by a devastating pain that seared through her core.

When the rockslide subsided, Faey was left shivering amid blood-stained boulders, the dense taste of iron in her mouth. The burning sensation intensified. She could barely open her eyes, but what she glimpsed made no sense.

Her bow had snapped. And where her right leg used to be, dark crimson pulp remained, leaving smears of wetness on rocks and grass.

She buried her face in the ground, and then consciousness dimmed.

Akali dragged Isa and Taij by their feet over the undulating valley floor—there had been no time to untie them. The monster had grown more heinous, but Akali was not about to give in.

“I don’t want to lose anybody ever again, you hear me?” she shouted, as much to Isa and Taij as to herself. “I want us all to stay together, forever!”

The corrupted forest spirit—a massive, misshapen heap of horrendous things—chased after her, tearing the valley apart.

“Faey!” Akali saw the unconscious girl lying amid scattered boulders just ahead. Oh no, now I need to drag three people out. She set her teeth and plowed through the churning ground, arriving at her friend.

“Faey, get up! We need—”

Words caught in her throat as her eyes fell on Faey’s lower body. Akali dropped the two neophytes, who were yelling wildly at something.

“Faey…” Akali froze, all thoughts blank.

Then she turned around to see what Isa and Taij were screaming about. It was the angry tree spirit, towering over them all.

No weapons at hand. Three friends helpless. Akali looked at the monster with an empty gaze, her hand clasping the small kunai pendant.

A gnarled limb swung toward her. Before she could make a move, a barrage of kunai rained down on the giant’s fist. Lights flared. Timbers flew. Akali never thought the monster could howl, but it did now, furious roars from its hollow core.

A shadow landed on its ruptured arm.

Mother! Akali’s eyes went wide.

Mayym sprinted along the shattering bridge of splinters. The corrupted spirit tried to smash her with two other arms, but she flipped through the air in a graceful, lethal arc, simultaneously flinging more kunai with a back-flick of her hands. The giant’s limbs exploded under the enchanted darts, splashing the air with soulless remnants as Mayym landed nimbly on top of the spirit’s crown.

All around Akali, the air crackled with thunder. Arcs of purple lightning appeared, constricting in waves of reversing ripples, centering on the monster. In the blink of an eye, the giant was severed at the waist.

The evil spirit re-formed its body, but Kennen was there, assaulting it with a rush of lightning bolts. Above him, Mayym raised high her phantom scythe and—with one clean swing—clove open the monster from top to bowel.

The southern valley quieted.

Akali was awestruck. Just like that, the monster was gone, leaving behind only piles of decayed, oozing plants. Yet some of the nearby twigs began to wriggle weakly…

“It is not over yet.”

Akali glanced over her shoulder and saw the speaker. The masked figure calmly walked forward, drawing from his back a blade that glowed with a mesmerizing aura of arcane energy. Mayym and Kennen parted to allow him to pass.

“Shen!” Akali rejoiced at seeing him.

Before Zed’s attack, Shen would read stories to her about the Ionian heroes of old. Yet in Akali’s eyes, Shen was the real hero, and she dreamed of helping him when she grew up, like how her mother had assisted Master Kusho.

The new leader of the Kinkou Order ascended the remains of the monster, just a mound now. A shimmering fissure appeared at the top, contorting reality for a heartbeat before Shen disappeared into it.

“Where did he go?” Akali asked.

“To the spirit realm.” Kennen landed beside her with a backflip. “That twisted thing could keep reconstructing its material body as long as the corrupted spirit resides in the other realm. Shen is going to take care of the source.”

As Mayym walked toward the neophytes, Akali’s heart sank again as she remembered what had happened to Faey.

Expressionless, Mayym knelt beside the unconscious girl.

It hurts… so much…

Faey woke up to find herself on a pallet inside a hut. Akali was sleeping beside her, curled into a ball. It was day, the time uncertain, and murmurs of conversation could be heard outside.

Faey tried to sit up, and then she saw that her right leg was bandaged, missing below the knee. For long moments, she thought she was in a bad dream. She sensed that a devastating anguish inside her was trying to claw its way out, caged only by her disbelief.

A quiet sob escaped her throat.

“Master Mayym, we know what we saw!” A child’s voice flowed into the hut, faint and distant, sounding like Taij. “She pulled us to safety. All by herself.”

Faey looked out the window. She saw Mayym standing in front of the old temple and listening to the other neophytes, her arms folded.

“And she was fast,” Isa told Mayym. “The spirit couldn’t even catch her!”

Faey struggled to change her sitting position. A pain shot through her thigh and she nearly collapsed.

“Faey.” Akali sat up, rubbing her eyes.

Faey paused, then whispered, “Why did you have to go into the fray?” She clutched the edge of her blanket, head down, voice low, madly trying to breathe slowly so no more sobs would escape. “Why didn’t you leave when I told you to?”

“Faey…” Akali tried to give her a pat on the arm.

“Do not touch me!” Faey shouted. “This is all your fault!”

Akali backed away, eyes wide.

“Leave me alone,” Faey hissed. All the venom inside her was now flowing freely. Then she saw Akali’s face—the girl was genuinely confused and hurt.

Faey hesitated, but before she could say another word, the little girl had headed toward the hut’s entrance, where Mayym now stood, watching them.

With Akali gone, Mayym stepped in and knelt beside the pallet, somber emotion glossing over her eyes. “Shen found us as soon as he sensed a disturbance in the spirit realm. We rushed to the southern valley, but we were too late… I can’t imagine what would have transpired if he had not raised the alarm.”

It hurts so much… Faey tried to straighten her back in a show of respect, but her courage was failing her.

“The other neophytes told me what happened,” Mayym said in a calmer voice, lifting her chin. “You turned away the Brotherhood bandits. You helped avoid a major conflict.”

Tears were welling in Faey’s eyes. She maintained her posture, as an apprentice should in front of her master.

“You are courageous,” said Mayym, “and you’ve grasped the way of the Kinkou.”

What does it matter now? Faey’s lips were trembling. She knew everything was over. Mayym had made her assessment—that this protégé had been ruined. All the training, wasted. All her aspirations destroyed. She would never rise to become an acolyte, or be anything to the order but a burden.

“I am sorry. I am so sorry. I have…” Mayym stammered. “I have been a bad influence on you. About Shen. About everything.”

Faey could not understand why she would say this. She was the best mentor anyone could ask for. “Master Mayym, I have failed you.”

“No,” Mayym said, voice broken. “No, you did not.” She held Faey’s shoulders and looked into her eyes with fierce intensity. “There must be a way to make you walk again. If we must search every corner of Ionia and beyond to find it, that’s what we will do. Under Shen’s leadership, Kennen and I—and the rest of the Kinkou—will find a way. I will continue to train you, and make sure you become an archer never before seen in the history of both realms.”

Tears blurred Faey’s vision, and she momentarily forgot her pain.

Mayym carefully cradled Faey in her arms, an embrace the girl had not felt for a long time.

That was when Faey’s sobs turned to crying, uninhibited and free.

Akali stood by the doorway, peering into the shadowy interior of the hut, and the master and protégé locked in their embrace.

She could not remember the last time her mother had given her a hug like that. She turned and walked into the woods, the kunai pendant clutched in her hand, tears soaking her cheeks.

An enigma to the spirit realm, as well as the mortal world, Shen belongs to neither. Although born to one of the most revered families of northern Navori, it was his father’s role as the Eye of Twilight that set his destiny in the Kinkou Order.

As the son of Great Master Kusho, he was immersed in the order’s culture, and its core tenets were as familiar to him as the Ionian sunset. He knew the necessity of Pruning the Tree, the determination of Coursing the Sun, but above all, he learned the wisdom of Watching the Stars. He meditated and studied throughout his childhood, and was considered exemplary by all his teachers.

His closest friend, the only one who could match him in practice bouts, was the young acolyte Zed. They grew up as brothers, often confiding in each other their personal hopes and dreams. Shen could turn to Zed for a fresh perspective on any matter, and the two became known as the Kinkou’s most promising students.

As their skills developed, Kusho brought them on dangerous missions, including a hunt for the Golden Demon plaguing the province of Zhyun. Their search took years, but Shen stayed committed even after uncovering countless gruesome murders. When they at last captured the “demon”, it was revealed to be Khada Jhin, a mere stagehand from a traveling theater. Instead of execution, Great Master Kusho ordered the criminal imprisoned.

Though he and Zed both thought the killer deserved heavier punishment, Shen accepted his father’s decision. He strived to emulate the Eye of Twilight’s dispassion, and so found himself failing to console a bitter and resentful Zed.

Even when Noxian invaders threatened the peace of the First Lands, Shen reluctantly supported Kusho’s inaction. But when Zed abandoned the Kinkou to join the fight, Shen stayed within the temple walls.

Many of the provinces were soon occupied by the enemy. Despite this, Shen focused on maintaining Ionia’s spiritual harmony. So it was, when he was far from home, he felt a jolting imbalance within the Kinkou Order—rushing back, he came upon the survivors of a bloody coup. From them, he learned Zed had raised acolytes of his own, and seized the temple.

Worst of all, Shen’s father had been slain by the man he once saw as kin.

Repressing his anguish, he led the remnants of the Kinkou to safety in the mountains. Shen took up his father’s spirit blade, as well as the title of Eye of Twilight. His role was not to seek vengeance, but to rebuild the order. Following the core tenets, he began to recruit and train others, hoping to restore its strength.

One acolyte in particular showed boundless potential. Shen taught the girl, Akali Jhomen Tethi, to master the arts of stealth and subterfuge. Her mother, Mayym, had stood alongside Kusho as the Fist of Shadow, and it seemed as though her daughter could follow the same path. Even so, Shen found himself forced to urge restraint whenever Akali would seek to strike back at their mortal foes.

When Noxus finally withdrew, many Ionians celebrated the victorious resistance. Others, like Shen, endured the consequences of war—he persisted in his duty, while in private he wrestled with his hatred for Zed, and doubt in his own ability to lead. The years of conflict had taken a heavy toll on the First Lands, and Shen was uncertain whether the rebuilt Kinkou would ever be able to redress the balance.

Indeed, even as Akali became the new Fist of Shadow, he felt her beginning to drift away. In time, she openly denounced his teachings, and left the order.

Shen meditated, watching the stars, and understood that Akali would need to find her own way… and so would the Kinkou.

Sometimes, between unseen struggles in the spirit realm, Shen still contemplates the value of his beliefs. He has never let his emotions stop him from preserving tradition, but the question remains: how long can one man walk two worlds, before the acts of one destroy the other?

Built on perpetual conflict, Noxus has never had a shortage of war orphans. Her father lost to an unnamed battle and her mother to the girl’s own stubborn birth, Riven was raised on a farm run by the empire on the rocky hillsides of Trevale.

Physical strength and ferocious will kept the children alive and working on the hard scrap of land, but Riven hungered for more than simply bread on the table. She watched conscriptors from regional warbands visiting the farms, year after year, and in them, she saw a chance at the life she dreamed of. When she finally pledged the empire her strength, she knew Noxus would embrace her as the daughter she longed to be.

Riven proved a natural soldier. Young as she was, her years of hard labor allowed her to quickly master the weight of a longsword taller than herself. Her new family was forged in the heat of battle, and Riven saw her bond to her brothers- and sisters-in-arms as unbreakable.

So exceptional was her dedication to the empire, that Boram Darkwill himself recognized her with a runic blade of dark metal, enchanted by a pale sorceress within his court. The weapon was heavier than a kite shield and nearly as broad—perfectly suited to Riven’s tastes.

Not long after, the warhosts set sail for Ionia as part of the long-planned Noxian invasion.

As this new war dragged on, it became clear that Ionia would not kneel. Riven’s unit was assigned to escort another warband making its way through the embattled province of Navori. The warband’s leader, Emystan, had employed a Zaunite alchymist, eager to test a new kind of weapon. Across countless campaigns, Riven would gladly have given her life for Noxus, but now she saw something awry in these other soldiers—something that made her deeply uncomfortable. The fragile amphorae they carried on their wagons had no purpose on any battlefield she could imagine...

The two warbands met increasingly fierce resistance, as if even the land itself sought to defy them. During a heavy rain storm, with mud pouring down the hillsides, Riven and her warriors were stranded with their deadly cargo—and it was then that the Ionian fighters revealed themselves. Seeing the danger, Riven called to Emystan for support.

The only answer she received was a flaming arrow, fired out from the ridgeline, and Riven understood this was no longer a war to expand the borders of Noxus. It was to be a complete annihilation of the enemy, no matter the cost.

The wagon was hit straight on. Instinctively, Riven drew her sword, but it was too late to protect anyone but herself. Chemical fire burst from the ruptured containers, and screams filled the night—both Ionian and Noxian falling victim to an agonizing, gruesome death. Shielded from the scorching, poisonous mists by the magic of her blade, she bore unwilling witness to scenes of horror and betrayal that would haunt her forever.

For Riven, memories of the hours that followed come only in fragments, and nightmares. She bound her wounds. She mourned the dead. But, most of all, she came to hate the sword that saved her life. The words carved into its surface mocked her, reminding her of all she had lost. She would find a way to break it, severing her last tie to Noxus, before the dawn.

But when the blade was finally shattered, still she found no peace.

Stripped of the faith and conviction that had bolstered her entire life, Riven chose to exile herself, wandering Ionia’s battle-scarred landscape. When she finally returned to the village where she had broken the sword, it was revealed that her self-destructive needs had cost the life of their most revered elder... and yet Ionia embraced her with forgiveness.

Noxus was not nearly so merciful. Although the empire had long since withdrawn from the First Lands, it had not forgotten about Riven, or her runic blade. After fighting fiercely against those sent to bring her to justice, she refused to let any more Ionian blood be shed on her account, and surrendered herself to the charges of desertion leveled against her.

As she returns to Noxus in chains, Riven remains haunted. Though Darkwill is no more, and the empire is rumored to have evolved, she is uncertain what will become of her, or whether she will ever be made whole again.

Karma is the living embodiment of an ancient Ionian soul, who serves as a spiritual beacon to each generation of her people. Her most recent incarnation came in the form of a 12-year-old girl named Darha. Raised in the northern highlands of Shon-Xan, she was headstrong and independent, always dreaming of a life beyond her provincial village.

But Darha began to suffer strange, fitful visions. The images were curious—they felt like memories, yet the girl was certain they had not happened to her. At first, the problem was easy enough to conceal, but the visions grew in intensity until Darha was convinced she was descending into madness.

Just when it seemed she would be confined to the healing huts forever, a group of monks visited her village. They had come from a place known as the Lasting Altar, where the divine leader Karma had passed away some months earlier. The monks were in search of the old man’s next incarnation, believing him to be among the villagers. They applied a series of tests to everyone they met, but eventually prepared to leave empty handed.

As they passed the healing huts, Darha threw herself out of her cot and ran to stop them. She wept, telling them of her visions, and that she had known the monks’ voices from the babble in her head.

They recognized the signs immediately. This was their Karma. The visions were past lives rushing to fill a new vessel.

In that moment, Darha’s life changed forever. She bid farewell to all she’d ever known, and journeyed to the Lasting Altar to learn from the monks. Over the years, they taught her to connect with her ancient soul, and to commune with thousands of previous incarnations, each espousing the wisdom of ages past. Karma had always advocated peace and harmony, teaching that any act of evil would bring about its own repercussions, and so required no response.

But Darha questioned these principles, even as she became Karma. Some of her followers were confused. How could she be invested with the Spirit of Ionia, the First Lands’ most sacred manifestation, and yet disagree with their most self-evident philosophies?

Indeed, these beliefs were truly tested when Noxus invaded Ionia. Many thousands were killed as the enemy warbands advanced inland, and Karma was forced to face the harsh realities of war. She could feel the immense destructive potential that swelled in her soul, and wondered what the point of this power could be, if it was not to be used.

The voices of the past urged her to remain at the Lasting Altar, to comfort her people and allow this conflict to pass. And yet, a far deeper truth compelled her to act...

Karma agonized over this, until she could stand it no longer. She confronted a Noxian commander on the deck of his own war frigate, and unleashed her divine fury. This was no single, measured attack—she obliterated the entire vessel and its crew in a heartbeat.

Though many Ionians rejoiced at this apparent victory, the monks believed she had made a huge mistake. She had upset the spiritual harmony of their homeland, disgracing all who had borne the name of Karma before her, and tarnished her own undying soul along with those of her followers. Even if it meant a life of solitary meditation and penance, they implored her to do no further injury.

Karma silenced them with a raised hand. Though she could still hear the voices in her head, it was the Spirit of Ionia in her heart that guided her… and the First Lands were stirring to defend themselves. She did not know if she had been chosen for her courage and strength of will, but Karma knew that sometimes harmony came only at a great cost. Their world was changing, and true wisdom lay not in resisting that fact, but accepting it.

Though the war with Noxus is now long over, there are still many in Ionia who have become only too glad to meet violence with violence, even against their own neighbors. Karma has pledged to guide as many of them as she can to a more enlightened path—to peace when possible, to action when necessary.