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A raised fist. A surge of necromantic power. Before him, the final spire of the final tower takes form, inky smoke coalescing into black iron. Mordekaiser gazes upon his domain with dark pride.

Mitna Rachnun, his Afterworld, is complete.

Once, he stood in this very place, a mortal soul faced with the emptiness of oblivion. Now, a kingdom stretches before him, forged through his works.

He strides down the path toward his fortress, reveling in the satisfaction of his work. Each stone underfoot, his doing. The battlements and ramparts, all shaped from cruel magic and iron will.

Where there was nothing, Mordekaiser forged his own reality—a realm where all souls will soon dwell in eternity, never to fade.

Sahn-Uzal blinked and looked around. Uncertain, his mind blank.

I am dead.

The thought flitted by, a whisper on the wind. As the truth of it sank in, for just a moment, a fleeting sadness flooded his heart. Then laughter welled up, a rumble from his gut that washed over his entire body, overflowed from his chest, and poured out in a rumbling cascade.

Good.

Sahn-Uzal scanned the distance for the grand gateway of souls that would lead to the famed Hall of Bones. Searched for the attendants who would carry him triumphant into the eternal. Savored his growing excitement to meet the great conquerors who came before him.

Yet there was nothing but fog, as far as he could see.

Sahn-Uzal took a step forward—then looked down, surprised. Fine sand—a coarse grit—shifted underfoot. In the distance, discordant voices rustled, too quiet to make out the words.

This makes no sense.

He struck out across the wasteland, determined to find the truth.

Time passed, untold.

Confusion melted into disbelief. Disbelief kindled anger. Anger flared into fury.

Nothing.

There is nothing.

The dessicated sands extended endlessly. The relentless voices whispered on, a maddening itch in the back of his mind. The fog never abated, an eternal haze that hovered, a shroud over all.

Had the priests lied? Or were they false prophets, prattling fools proclaiming hollow superstitions? Or had the ancestors made a grotesque error of judgement, and not welcomed him into the great halls?

These questions gnawed at him, at first. But they did not matter. Sahn-Uzal realized that now. Nothing mattered but the present, pressing truth—there was nothing here. A vast emptiness, devoid of reward. Devoid of promise.

As this truth percolated through him, the shadow of despair stalked Sahn-Uzal, hungry to consume him.

But he was Sahn-Uzal. Conqueror of the wildlands. Master of the tribes. He had built an empire where there was none. In life, he had overcome all odds and conquered despair through will and ambition. Death would be no different.

If death does not hold the kingdoms I was promised… I will forge them myself.

Mordekaiser walks beneath the inner portcullis, fashioned after that of the Immortal Bastion, his mortal seat of power. He walks through the entryway and into the great hall.

Before him, his throne looms.

All around, in constant cacophony, the endless wailing of souls rises and falls, an unholy chorus of anguish. Yet Mordekaiser does not hear them—or rather, hears them as one might hear the clang of metal in a war camp, or the sound of boots on gravel during a forced march—common sounds, unnoteworthy in their banality.

After all, the worthy souls stand at attention along the hall, and none of them dare speak.

All is as it should be.

Mordekaiser steps toward his throne.

The throne looms before him. Its back of sheer iron pillars extends upward and tapers to vicious points. Ochnun script, angular and sharp, runs around the throne’s dais. The everpresent whispering is almost a roar here, incessant and desperate. Mordekaiser rests a hand on the armrest, taking pride in his work. This piece subsumed more souls in its creation than any other single part in his fortress. The wails emanating from it are music to him.

With a thought, Mordekaiser calls Nightfall to his hands. With a swing, he obliterates the throne.

A squall of a hundred souls echoes in the great hall as they are released from the throne, dissipating into oblivion. Mordekaiser watches them vanish with grim satisfaction.

Thrones are for mortals encumbered by flesh and human exhaustion. He… is now far more.

He steps atop the twisted iron and looks back across his great hall. His generals, souls that were worthy to die at his own hand when he last walked the physical realm, stand at attention. None so much as flinch in response. None will move without his direct command.

Now, his kingdom is truly ready.

Mordekaiser strides out of the great hall, toward the heart of his fortress, the centerpiece of his power and his machinations. Toward the relic that ties Mitna Rachnun to the mortal realm. Toward the place that gives the secret heart of the Immortal Bastion its true purpose.

In his first life, he thought himself a great conqueror, befitting the eternal halls of his faith. How small, how petty, how mortal his ambitions were then! But where others accepted death as the end, he used it forge the beginning of his true conquest. And now… he can hear and understand every whisper of this realm with stark clarity. Now, the magic of death itself courses through him. Now, he holds the arcane secrets gathered over a second lifetime, wrested from the hidden and unknown places of the world. Few other beings can claim the mastery of spirit, death, and mortal magics that he holds. He will wield them to shape all realms to his iron will.

The time has come to return to the world of the living. All the souls of Runeterra await.

Mordekaiser raises Nightfall in one hand.

And so, his final reign begins.

Matron of the Black Rose, LeBlanc’s identity is as intangible as the whispers that describe her, as ephemeral as the illusions that give her shape. Perhaps it is unknown even to herself, after so many centuries of mimicry and deception…

Remnants of an order that has existed far longer than Noxus itself, initiates of the Black Rose have schemed from the shadows for centuries, drawing the rich and powerful to their ranks. Though they do not often learn the origins of their matron, many have uncovered legends of a pale sorceress who aided the broken barbarian tribes, in their struggle against the infamous Iron Revenant subjugating lands already ravaged by the darkin. Even today, his name is whispered in fear: Mordekaiser.

Uniquely skilled among the revenant’s inner circle before she betrayed him, the sorceress pledged to neutralize the source of his power, the Immortal Bastion, cutting him off from the well of death that fueled his nightmarish empire. Yet, even as the barbarians built an empire of their own in the bastion’s shadow, they failed to realize that the arcane secrets it held had not completely been locked away. The pale sorceress had always been gifted at illusion, and her greatest trick was to make Noxus forget the dark power roiling in its own heart, before she was burned from the pages of history around the time of the Rune Wars.

The Black Rose exists now to further the clandestine interests of those who can wield such magic—with its rank-and-file composed of mundane nobles, drawn to rumors of miracles, kept in thrall and ruthlessly exploited. Even the most powerful military commander could only ever serve the cult’s true masters, as they fight one another for influence in games of intrigue and conquest, both in the Noxian capital and beyond its borders.

For centuries, LeBlanc has served in secret as an advisor to foreign dignitaries, appearing in many nations at once, her illusions driving order into chaos. Rumors of a new matron rising with each generation only raise further questions—which is the “true” version of herself? When she speaks, is it with her own voice? And what will the price be, for the favor she offers?

Boram Darkwill was but the latest to learn this last answer for himself. Though the Black Rose had aided his bid for the throne, he refused the counsel of their hand-picked advisors, requiring LeBlanc to take drastic measures. Manipulating a young nobleman named Jericho Swain into revealing the cult’s involvement, LeBlanc allowed herself to be executed along with the most prominent conspirators… or at least, so it appeared. In time, she reached out to Darkwill herself, and found an increasingly paranoid ruler, fearful of his own mortality.

After promising him the secrets to extend his life, LeBlanc slowly poisoned Darkwill’s mind, even as she empowered him. Under his rule, the Noxian reverence of strength became something far more sinister, and together they ensured Swain’s legend would end in disgrace on the battlefields of Ionia.

But Swain, emboldened by forbidden lore from within the Immortal Bastion, did something wholly unexpected, managing to drag Darkwill from the throne and seize Noxus for himself. This new Grand General was not interested in his own legacy, but the glory of the empire—and such a man could not so easily be corrupted. After countless centuries, LeBlanc wondered, had she finally found a worthy nemesis?

Her actions have pushed Runeterra to the brink of all-out war many times. In the wake of desperate campaigns across the Freljord, on Targon’s peaks, and deep in Shurima’s deserts, the darkest magic has begun to spread once more, circling closer and closer to Noxus. Whether LeBlanc is still the same pale sorceress who betrayed the Iron Revenant, or merely one of countless hollow reflections, her influence clearly stems from ancient roots.

The Black Rose has yet to truly bloom.

The Lady Elise was born centuries ago to House Kythera, one of the oldest bloodlines of Noxus, and swiftly learned the power of beauty to influence the weak.

When she came of age, she entertained the courtship of Berholdt, heir to House Zaavan. Their union was opposed by many, since it would strengthen Kythera at Zaavan’s expense—but Elise worked hard to beguile her intended husband, and manipulated her detractors to secure a betrothal.

Unbeknown to her, this political marriage had been planned for many years by shadowy forces working behind the scenes throughout the empire, with Berholdt Zaavan a mere pawn in a much larger game. Even so, it was an unexpected twist that Elise should dominate him so completely, and while he remained the face of his house, it was clear who was in charge. As time passed, his resentment grew.

One evening, over a typically frosty dinner, Berholdt revealed he had poisoned her wine, and demanded Elise withdraw from society and allow him to take up the reins of power. Knowing he would have the antidote about his person, Elise played the role of a remorseful wife, weeping and begging her husband’s forgiveness. Just as it seemed he might be convinced, she snatched up a knife and plunged it into his heart.

Even with the antidote, Elise was bedridden for weeks… and it was then that the Pale Woman approached her.

The enigmatic mistress of “the Black Rose” spoke of a secret society where hidden knowledge and sorcery were shared among those who could be trusted, and kept from those who could not. In truth, the Pale Woman did not care who controlled each of the noble houses, as long as they were sworn to her. Since Elise had killed the thrall Berholdt, she would have to prove her own value, or a more suitable replacement would be found.

Seeing a path to greater power, Elise took to the cabal like few before her. She met often with the most prominent members, trading influence and thwarting her rivals in a complex web of tangled schemes. With the wealth of two houses, there were not many who could oppose her, and she became even more adept at persuading others to do her bidding.

Eventually, she learned of an object that held great significance for the Black Rose—the skull of an ancient warlord known as Sahn-Uzal, rumored to have been hidden long ago in the Shadow Isles. Keen to gain the Pale Woman’s favor, Elise found a desperate, debt-ridden captain willing to bear her and a handful of devotees to the cursed city of Helia. They came ashore on a beach of ashen sand, and were tormented by spiteful wraiths as they searched in vain for the lost vault.

But Elise found something she had not anticipated.

A creature of the long-forgotten past had made its home in the lightless depths beneath the city. This bloated, chitinous monster was the spider-god Vilemaw, and it erupted from the darkness to devour the intruders, before sinking its fangs into Elise’s shoulder. She fell, howling and convulsing as the venom wrought terrible changes upon her body. Her spine rippled with undulant motion, and arachnoid legs pushed out from her flesh.

Finally, breathless with the agony of transformation, Elise turned to find her new master looming above her. An unspoken understanding passed between them in that moment, and she scuttled back to the beach, untroubled by the Isles’ spirits as she weaved in and out of the twisted treeline.

Some weeks later, when her ship arrived back at the Noxian capital in the dead of night, Elise had regained her human form… though she was the only living thing left aboard.

Though no evidence was ever found of the warlord’s skull, the Pale Woman saw Elise’s dangerous new gift for what it was—a means to come and go safely between Noxus and the Shadow Isles. An accord was struck, wherein the Black Rose would provide Elise with endless unwitting sacrifices to offer up to the spider-god, and in return she would recover any artifacts of power she could from those benighted, forbidding shores.

Elise once again took up residence in the neglected halls of House Zaavan, carefully cultivating a reputation as a seductive yet unreachable recluse. Few have ever guessed her true nature, yet fanciful rumors abound—wild tales of her ageless beauty, and a terrifying, voracious creature said to lair in the bowels of her dilapidated, dust-wreathed palace.

Though centuries have passed, whenever Elise feels the summons of her god, she returns to the land of the Black Mist with a hapless suitor in tow, or some other easily swayed soul.

And none who accompany her ever return.

Ashe hails from the northern Freljord, where brutal tribal raids and inter-clan warfare are as much a part of the landscape as the scream of the frozen winds, and the unyielding cold of the tundra.

The only child of Grena, the matriarchal chieftain of the tiny Avarosan tribe, Ashe was Iceborn: a member of the warrior caste, gifted with an ancestral connection to the magic of her lands, and the rare ability to wield the power of True Ice. Everyone assumed that Ashe would follow her mother as the tribe's next leader. However, this was never a glory Ashe desired. The grim responsibility of her warlike lineage and extraordinary gifts instead left Ashe feeling isolated, burdened, and alone.

Her only respite was when Sejuani, an Iceborn girl from a sister tribe, would stay with them for the summer hunts around the Ornnkaal Rocks. The girls' friendship defined their childhoods, but was cut short just as they reached their teens. Somehow, Grena had offended Sejuani's grandmother, and the fellowship between their tribes ended suddenly.

Soon after, with her youth fading, Ashe's mother began her lifelong quest for the “Throne of Avarosa”, a supposed hoard of treasures and magical items that she hoped would return her people to greatness.

But Grena’s belief in prophecies and legends led her to take risks, which often left her tribe enfeebled. Finally, during a dangerous and unnecessary raid in another tribe's lands, Grena was killed. Her sudden death left young Ashe on the run, while most of her tribe was wiped out.

Alone, pursued, Ashe followed her mother's last map to a deserted glacier where she found the supposed grave of Avarosa, and her magical bow of True Ice. Ashe used the weapon to avenge her mother's death, then turned west.

Whether it was out of duty or loneliness, Ashe gained a reputation by protecting the many scattered hearthbound tribes she encountered. She spurned the custom of taking thralls, and instead chose to adopt these desperate people as full members of her new tribe, and her fame grew quickly. Soon many began to believe that she did not just carry the weapon of Avarosa—Ashe was the legend herself, reborn and destined to reunite the Freljord.

But tall tales would not feed her followers, and their long march south left the tribe on the verge of starvation. So, Ashe leveraged the myths surrounding her, using them to form alliances with the powerful and land-rich southern tribes, promising to unite them into a nation capable of challenging neighboring kingdoms.

These new alliances brought new dangers, and Ashe quickly found herself at the center of a political feud. A Warmother, as Freljordian tribal leaders are known, was expected to wed, and taking a husband from one of the major tribes would anger the others. Ashe could take several husbands, but this would only bring the conflict to a boil within her own household, and the ensuing bloodshed would shatter the alliances she had fought to build.

Her answer was an impoverished vagabond from a mountain clan that had been nearly wiped out—the warrior Tryndamere. He was neither a spirit-walker nor blessed with any elemental powers, but upon his arrival in Ashe’s new capital, Tryndamere had thrown himself into every dueling ring he could find. He fought with abandon, desperate to prove the destitute survivors of his clan were worthy of adoption by one of the stronger tribes. But even for the Freljord, his brutal fighting style and extraordinary vitality were unsettling, and many suspected he was touched by dark magic. Ignoring this, Ashe offered to adopt his people as her own, if he became her first and only bloodsworn.

Tryndamere accepted reluctantly. Though a political marriage, the attraction they felt for each other was palpable, and slowly a true affection blossomed.

Now, Ashe stands at the head of the largest coalition of Freljordian tribes in many generations. Even so, the unity she would bring rests upon an uneasy peace threatened by internal intrigues, foreign powers, the growing violent horde of the Winter's Claw, and a supposed destiny that Ashe must at least pretend to believe…

For most of the peoples of Runeterra, yordles are not typically something to be feared. Their fabled home of Bandle City is said to be a mysterious, spiritual place, filled with odd trinkets and keepsakes gathered from across the material realm. While these curious creatures often leave to dwell among mortal races for a time, they generally return with fresh tales and new experiences to recount.

Yet, sadly, there are also those yordles who lose their way. Among them is the sorcerer Veigar.

After the Great Darkin War left the world in ruin many centuries ago, the only light that seemed to shine on Valoran came from the skies above. Scattered survivors looked to the heavens, and their renewed study of ancient celestial magic piqued Veigar’s interest. Imagining himself already a master of these mystical arts, the yordle joined an order of mages in the Noxii territories, hoping to learn more of their craft. They did not think to question this eager newcomer, and he taught them to draw hope from the patterns created by the movements of the stars.

But while many toiled to rebuild the world, others sought to conquer it. The brutal warlord Mordekaiser and his armies swept across the lands, crushing and enslaving any who would oppose his rule, and the mages of the order—unskilled in war—were of little value to this tyrant. Looming over them in his accursed battleplate, his keen eye fell upon Veigar, and Mordekaiser recognized the yordle for what he truly was. He snatched him up in one iron gauntlet, and dragged his prize away as the other mages were put to the sword.

Imprisoned in the heart of the warlord’s new, monolithic fortress, Veigar was forced to turn his magic to darker purposes. Knowing that yordles were craftier than any of the mortal races, Mordekaiser bound Veigar to the physical plane, preventing him even from escaping to Bandle City. He was not the only captive in that hellish place, but such isolation was the worst and most cruel form of torture for a yordle. Veigar performed grisly enchantments against his will—some strengthening his master’s dominion, others simply evoking terror for terror’s sake.

Indeed, terror was what seemed to fuel this dreadful empire. Miserable beyond imagining, Veigar became a reluctant witness as Mordekaiser's vile deeds empowered him to near-immortality. Whether it was over the course of decades or centuries, Veigar never knew, but eventually the yordle’s magic and appearance started to twist in response…

Memories of his past faded. Why had he come to Valoran? Where had he come from? Had he known any other life before this? Questions such as these weighed on his fragile mind, like the last flickers of light before an eclipse.

When the revenant warlord’s own followers conspired against him, the nightmare of his reign was ended, but by this point Veigar was nigh unrecognizable. His eyes blazed. Even his voice had become a sneer of malice. Fleeing from his ensorcelled cage, the wretched creature had no interest in the wars of succession that inevitably followed. Deep down, he most likely yearned to regain the sense of safety and freedom that all living things crave.

And yet, he chose not to turn away from evil, but to embrace it. Clad in armor befitting a sinister warlock, he vowed to seize respect in the only way he could remember—through ruthless villainy, inspiring fear in all who encountered him. He would call down the fury of the stars themselves upon his foes, and trap them in the timeless infinities between moments.

And yet… Veigar could not quite find the same success as his former captor.

Certainly, the good people of Valoran did learn to fear him, to some extent. More often than not, they would find their pastures scorched, or the local baron’s mansion razed to its foundations. Sometimes though, inexplicably, bands of brigands would be driven from their woodland hideouts, or the remains of feral murk wolves found scattered through the town square, and it was difficult to tell whether these acts were malicious or actually reasonably helpful. For all his aspirations of evildoing, it seemed Veigar would always come up a tiny bit short.

Still, the nefarious yordle has not abandoned his quest to become the world’s most wicked villain. With his diabolic staff in hand, he seeks nothing less than to bring all before him to their knees, and revels in the timely demise of those who dare to underestimate him.

“I don’t understand,” General Granth mutters, nervously trying to smother the light from his lamp. “There’s nothing here. It’s a dead end.”

He stands at the threshold, framed by the dark stonework against the deeper darkness beyond it. He does not see the open gateway before him, nor the angular Ochnun inscriptions that surround it. He does not see the fragments of bone that litter the flagstones beneath his boots.

I smile, playing my part. “It is the simplest of things,” I tell him, “to hide in plain sight.”

The general turns, confusion and frustration written clearly upon his face. “Don’t play games with me, cousin! Do you have any idea what I’m risking, being down here? Or what would happen if we’re caught? These districts are forbidden, by order of the council—there are Legion patrols everywhere!”

This, at least, is true. Ever since the usurper Swain seized control, he has kept the Immortal Bastion locked down. Officially, it is to protect the Trifarix against reprisals from those noble houses that opposed its creation.

Unofficially, he is daring men like Brannin Granth to expose themselves as his enemies.

“But they would not doubt your loyalty,” I reassure him. “A hero of the Gates of Mourning, no less. You are to be honored by command of the Grand General himself. What can they say to that? If we were spotted, you would not even need to run.”

His expression darkens. “Oh, you don’t run from the Trifarian Legion…”

I do not need to hear this thinly veiled propaganda again. In little more than a year, Swain has built a certain mystique around himself and the Hand of Noxus, and those that serve them both. It is a brilliant scheme, though it fills my heart with hatred to admit it.

Even so, I let Granth have his moment. It is why we are here.

His eyes fall to the ground. “We didn’t win the Gates of Mourning—the Legion did. That’s why Swain won’t attend the triumph. He knows we need not even have been there, damn him. He insults us with this pomp and ceremony, in front of all Noxus!”

I nod, laying a hand on Granth’s shoulder. “And that is why we will make him pay for everything he has done. You are a true Noxian, anyone can see that. I have told the others all about you, and they wish to meet you for themselves. She wishes to meet you.”

“I can’t meet anyone, cousin, if we can’t get inside.” He glances around. “Doesn’t the Black Ro—”

I recoil. “Do not use that name. It makes you sound like… well, as you said. Like you don’t understand.”

Pushing past him, I stride through the yawning mouth of the gate. He almost drops the lantern in surprise, seeing the entrance now, for the first time. Stumbling after me, Granth checks to make sure we are not being followed, then squints into the shadows of the passageway.

“Is it true?” he hisses. “What they say about her, is it true?”

I do not slow my pace. “Come. Find out for yourself.”

The Immortal Bastion is not a monument, as most Noxians believe. Nor is it merely a fortress, in the sense that the old tribes knew it.

The stone around us almost thrums with power, though Granth is mostly oblivious. I have seen it countless times, through the centuries—he knows something is not right, but feels it only as a lethargic drag on his limbs, and a whispering itch in the back of his brain. Few mortals last long when they are this close to the source. To his credit, he still has his wits about him, enough to reach for his dagger when a robed figure emerges from the gloom.

…I pass both of us, coming in the other direction. I look tired.

No matter. This will be concluded soon enough.

Granth eyes me suspiciously until I disappear from sight, then ambles to the side of the person he knows as his cousin.

“Hadrion, who are these people?” Granth asks, as more anonymous figures come and go. “I don’t recognize any of them. Are they the allies you spoke of, among the other houses?”

I sigh. It is disappointing that the finest military minds often cannot see what is right in front of them. “They are sympathetic to our family’s plight,” I reply, keeping the disdain from my voice. “We, all of us, are committed to the downfall of the usurper, and the restoration of the throne. It is better that you do not know their names, or their faces.”

He scoffs. “But how can we work together, if we—”

The words die on his lips as we turn the last corner.

We stand at the edge of the great well of souls, plunging down into the bedrock of Noxus, far deeper than the physical dimensions of the Bastion should even allow. A roiling miasma of cold blues and jealous greens swirls in the distance beneath us, underlighting the three bridges that span the gap.

There, between them, suspended against the madness, is a frightful, hulking silhouette that every Noxian knows only too well. A husk of lifeless armor depicted in every history book, and a thousand defaced statues scattered across the old city.

Granth takes half a step back. “It can't be…” he murmurs. “It… It can't…”

His voice is cracking. His eyes glisten with tears. I lean in over his shoulder, to whisper behind his ear.

“Do you see the truth of it, now? The truth behind the great empire of Noxus? So has it been for centuries, since the days of the first kings—no Grand General, no emperor or tyrant, can stand unless the mistress of the Immortal Bastion allows it. Many are those who would serve, though few prove worthy.”

I gently pluck the lantern from his trembling fingers, and guide him away from the sight that has so transfixed him, toward the veiled alcoves that line the passage on either side.

“Swain must fall. Our cabal is utterly committed to this, above all else, and we will sacrifice whatever we must to achieve it.”

On some level, Granth knows what he will see even before I pull back the shroud.

It is the dessicated body of his cousin, Hadrion. The younger man’s features are frozen in a deathly rictus, yet there is an unmistakable sense of peace about it.

“Your house was singled out most unfairly during the coup, Brannin Granth. Your father and his brothers were stripped of all they possessed, simply for remaining true to Boram Darkwill at the end. Hadrion gave his life gladly in pursuit of revenge. Will you honor that debt, and join us now, too?”

Granth sinks to his knees, looking up at me with fresh eyes. “You. You are her. You are the pale woman.”

He does not even flinch when a second pale woman appears at my side. We speak with the same voice. “I am everywhere. I am everyone. You know only what you need to know, and see what I want you to see.”

Jericho Swain is not the only one who can exaggerate his own legend.

A third pale woman steps out behind Granth, and then a fourth. Even so, he bows his head to me, no doubt convinced he finally understands. He does not need us to point out the empty alcove beside his cousin’s.

“With all my heart,” he swears, “and every drop of my noble blood, I will serve you, my lady. I will not rest until the pretender Swain is dead.”

This naive fool thinks he will be the one to land the killing blow. I will let him think that, for it suits my purpose, which is merely to probe the Grand General’s defenses.

I trace the sigil of the cabal in the air above Granth’s head, marking him as my own. None who can see it will interfere with the plots we shall soon devise. “Rise then, proud son of the Noxii. Your pledge is heard and accepted. Together, we will be victorious, and your name will be celebrated as the savior of an empire.”

When Heimerdinger and his yordle colleagues migrated to Piltover, they embraced science as a way of life, and they immediately made several groundbreaking contributions to the techmaturgical community. What yordles lack in stature, they make up for with industriousness. Corki, the Daring Bombardier, gained his title by test-piloting one of these contributions - the original design for the Reconnaissance Operations Front-Line Copter, an aerial assault vehicle which has become the backbone of the Bandle City Expeditionary Force (BCEF). Together with his squadron - the Screaming Yipsnakes - Corki soars over Valoran, surveying the landscape and conducting aerial acrobatics for the benefit of onlookers below.

Corki is the most renowned of the Screaming Yipsnakes for remaining cool under fire and exhibiting bravery to the point of madness. He served several tours of duty, often volunteering for missions that would take him behind enemy lines, either gathering intelligence or delivering messages through hot zones. He thrived on danger, and enjoyed nothing more than a good dogfight in the morning. More than just an ace pilot, Corki also made several modifications to his copter, outfitting it with an arsenal of weapons which some speculate were more for show than functionality. When open hostilities ceased, Corki was forced into a retirement, which he felt ''cut the engines and clipped the wings.’’ He tried to make do with stunt flying and canyon running, but it was never the same without the refreshing smell of gunpowder streaking through the air around him.

A master of ancient, forbidden sorcery, Vladimir is among the oldest enigmas of Noxus. He was present at the dawn of the empire, and has since woven his influence deep into its foundations… but he remembers little of those days. His mind is mortal, and so most of his unnaturally extended life endures not in his memory, but in his chronicles.

History has lost track of Vladimir on many occasions, though its pages are littered with figures suspected to have been him. Legend once told of a prince in a kingdom threatened by the infamous darkin, as their great war spilled into Valoran. With his father’s crown at stake, and many more heirs ahead of him in the line of succession, the unfortunate youth was traded to the fallen god-warriors as a hostage.

Mortals were little more than cattle under the tyranny of the darkin, their supremacy apparent in the sorceries they had conceived—the arts of crafting flesh and transmuting blood, granting them mastery over life itself.

Believing himself above other mortal vassals, and therefore worthy of such power, Vladimir was the first of his kind permitted to study this terrifying magic. His devotion earned him a place of favor in his patron’s warhost, and the right to practice hemomancy and enforce the darkin’s will on lesser beings. Over time, the god-warrior watched with amusement as Vladimir came to govern his subjects with as little mercy as the darkin themselves.

The fall of these cruel tyrants is, likewise, the stuff of legend. An account of it, written in the dead High Shuriman language, is kept hidden within the Immortal Bastion. It speculates that Vladimir’s master was not imprisoned like so many of his kin, but instead died at the hands of his own warhost. The few surviving mortals fled, taking what knowledge they had of blood magic with them.

Unknown to all but Vladimir himself, it was he who struck the killing blow. Scarred, blinded, driven mad by the radiance of a darkin’s undoing, he absorbed enough power to renew flesh that was never meant to last beyond a mortal lifespan.

And he has done this countless times since, through rituals too vile to speak of.

At the height of Mordekaiser’s dark reign, it was said that a mythic and bloodthirsty fiend haunted the coastal cliffs of eastern Valoran, demanding young lives and savage worship from the local tribes. Few were welcome in his lair, until the day a pale sorceress approached this barbarian god with an offer. The two feasted together as equals, weaving magic so dark that the wine at their table soured, and the roses withered, vibrant red turning to black.

Thus began the pact between Vladimir and LeBlanc, rife with disputes, and games of politics and war. Over the centuries, others joined them—powerful nobles, exalted masters of magic, and beings darker still. This cabal grew into the hidden power that would guide the throne of Noxus for more than a thousand years, orchestrating many of the empire’s most ambitious campaigns.

Uniquely among the leaders of the Black Rose, Vladimir has rarely limited himself to scheming from the shadows. In the past, he deigned to join the Noxian noble courts during the most interesting of times, only to fade into seclusion decades later, his extreme age—and the atrocities his sorcery could wreak—a well-kept secret. Even so, under Vladimir’s tutelage, the art of hemomancy has found a place in the military of Noxus, and among scions of the old aristocracy. Among these diverse practitioners is the Crimson Circle, a youthful cult dedicated as much to Vladimir’s personality as to blood magic itself.

With the death of the previous Grand General and the rise of Jericho Swain, the political landscape of the empire changed dramatically, and Vladimir has been forced to rouse himself once more.

Wearing the guise of a benevolent socialite, he has returned to the public eye as a vocal opponent of the ruling Trifarix council… much to the concern of more cautious members of the Black Rose. Indeed, his reappearance may have come too soon, as time has not yet washed away all the stains of his previous lifetime, and it seems likely that Swain himself has begun to grasp Vladimir’s true nature.

As a new and darker conflict approaches Noxus, Vladimir drinks deeply from the renewed vitality of the empire, reminding himself of his past glories. To him, this life is a mere revelry, a masquerade spanning centuries, and the prologue to greatness—for though the darkin eventually fought amongst themselves and lost their immortal grip on the world, Vladimir knows he is strongest alone.

Jax sat cross-legged at the center of the bridge with his long-hafted polearm resting on his knees. Demacia had not changed much since he had last traveled this way, but that didn’t surprise him. Its people zealously protected their borders, which had turned them into pretty decent fighters. Well, some of them anyway, he thought, wiping a spot of blood from the softly glowing head of the lamppost. He flicked the droplet over the parapet to the river below and reached into his robe to pull out his third hard-boiled egg of the day. Tapping it on the cobbles, he slowly peeled the shell as he heard the warriors at the end of the bridge try to decide which one of them would face him next.

Jax lifted his mask and bit into the egg. He took a deep breath, tasting sun-ripened crops on the wind and freshly turned earth from the expanse of farmland stretching to every horizon. Jax sighed; to see a realm at peace made him homesick for a land that no longer existed. He shook off the chill of memory, knowing thoughts of Icathia would only distract him. His robes were heavy, but the sun’s warmth didn’t reach the mottled and oddly hued skin beneath. No part of his flesh was visible, which was probably just as well. He wasn’t even sure what his skin looked like anymore.

A cold wind scudded over the snowcapped mountains to the north and a distant storm disgorged rain over distant fields and settlements. Where Jax came from, there was little in the way of clouds, and even less rain. Perhaps the storm would come south and make the cobbles of the bridge slippery. That might make this more challenging for him.

It would also make things more difficult for his opponents. And perhaps that was no bad thing. After all, a warrior worthy of fighting at his side in the battles against the monsters from beyond would need to be adaptable. He heard the clatter of armor and the whisper of a blade cutting air.

“Stand and face me,” ordered a powerful voice.

Jax held up a finger while he finished his egg. He licked his lips then settled his mask back over his face before looking up at the warrior standing before him. The man was powerfully built, broad of shoulder and thick of arm. Armored head to foot in gleaming warplate of burnished steel, he carried a double-edged, hand-and-a-half sword.

And looked like he knew how to use it. Jax approved.

“You seem like a man who can hew ironbirch trees all day and still have energy left for a tavern brawl,” said Jax.

“I’ll not waste words on you, monster,” said the warrior, assuming the same fighting stance all the others had. Jax sighed, disappointed the defeat of the fifteen men before this one hadn’t taught them anything.

“Monster?” he said, rising to his feet in one smooth motion. “I could show you monsters, but I fear you wouldn’t live long enough to tell anyone what a real monster looks like.”

He swung his lamppost around to loosen the muscles in his shoulders. Not that he needed to, but he’d been fighting, on and off, for the last four hours and it might make the man facing him feel like he at least had a chance of winning this duel.

“For Demacia!” shouted the swordsman and he attacked with the same tired, predictable strikes all the others had. The man was fast and strong enough to wield his sword in one hand. Jax swayed aside from the first blow, ducked the second and parried the third. He spun inside the swordsman’s guard and hammered his elbow against the side of his helmet. The metal buckled and the man went down on one knee with a grunt of pain. Jax gave him a moment to still the ringing in his head. The man tore off his helm and dropped it to the bridge.

Blood matted the side of his head, but Jax was impressed at how the man controlled his anger. Demacians had always been sticklers for discipline, so he was glad to see that hadn’t changed. The man took a steadying breath and attacked again, a series of blisteringly fast cuts that went high and low, a mixture of sweeping slashes, lighting thrusts and overhead cuts. Jax parried them all, his lamppost in constant motion as it deflected the Demacian’s blade and delivered stinging, bruising ripostes to the man’s arms and legs. He feinted left and hooked his lamppost around the opponent’s legs, putting him flat on his back. He jabbed the butt of his post into the man’s belly, doubling him up and leaving him gasping for air.

“Had enough yet?” asked Jax. “I can swap hands if it makes it easier.”

“A Demacian would rather die than take succor from an enemy,” said the warrior, lurching to his feet. The man’s stoic facade was crumbling in the face of Jax’s mockery, and when he attacked again, it was with a ferocity untempered by discipline and skill. Jax ducked a risky beheading strike and switched to a one-handed grip on his lamppost. He spun his weapon under the man’s sword and rolled his wrist. The Demacian warrior’s sword was wrenched from his grasp and flipped through the air. Jax caught it deftly in his free hand.

“Nice little weapon,” he said, spinning the blade in a dazzling series of master fencer’s strokes. “Lighter than it looks.”

The Demacian drew his dagger and rushed him. Jax shook his head at his foolishness. He threw the sword from the bridge and sidestepped a series of blisteringly fast thrusts. He ducked a sweeping cut and caught a thunderous right cross in his open palm. He nodded toward the river.

“I hope you can swim,” he said, and twisted his wrist, lifting the armored warrior from his feet and flipping him over the bridge’s parapet. The man splashed down into the river and Jax planted his lamppost on the cobbles.

“Who’s next?” he said.

“That would be me,” said a woman dismounting a gray gelding at the end of the bridge. Her horse’s flanks were lathered with sweat, her cloak dusty from a hard ride. She wore a silversteel breastplate, and a long-bladed sword was scabbarded at her hip.

She marched past the men at the end of the bridge and strode toward him, moving with a perfect economy of motion, utterly in balance and supremely confident in her skill. Her features were angular and patrician, framed by dark hair streaked with crimson. Her eyes were cold and unforgiving. They promised only death.

“Who are you?” asked Jax, intrigued.

“My name is Fiora of House Laurent,” she said, drawing her weapon, a dueling saber that gleamed with a perfect edge. “And this is my bridge.”

Jax grinned beneath his mask.

Finally, an opponent worth fighting!

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.