LoL Universe Indexing and Search

In a previous epoch, the fierce warlord Sahn-Uzal rampaged across the northern wildlands. Driven by dark faith, he crushed every tribe and settlement in his path, forging an empire in blood and death. As his mortal life neared its end, he took great satisfaction in knowing he had doubtless earned a seat at the gods’ table, in the glorious Hall of Bones, for all eternity.

Yet, when he died, he found no halls or glory awaiting him. Instead, Sahn-Uzal stood in an empty, gray wasteland, shrouded by ethereal fog and plagued by discordant whispers. Occasionally, other lost souls drifted nearby—little more than ghostly shapes, wandering their own personal oblivion.

Anger consumed Sahn-Uzal. Had his faith been false? Or was his domination of the world simply not enough to grant him the immortality he craved? Surely this emptiness could not be all there was… yet there seemed no end to it. He watched as the lesser spirits slowly faded into the fog, unmade and lost to time.

But Sahn-Uzal refused to fade.

His will, tempered by rage and torment, held him together. Over time, the unknowable, disembodied whispering in that place crystalized into words he could almost comprehend—this, he learned, was Ochnun, a profane tongue unspoken by any among the living. Slowly, a deceitful plan began to form in what was left of Sahn-Uzal’s mind. He began to whisper temptations across the veil between realms, promising his indomitable strength to any who dared listen.

And, sure enough, the day came when a coven of sorcerers resolved to bring Sahn-Uzal back from the dead. Lacking any flesh or bone, he spurred them to make him stronger than any mortal, binding his spirit-form in dark metal plates wrought in the likeness of his old armor. So he rose, a hulking revenant of iron and hate.

These power-hungry sorcerers had hoped to use him as a weapon in their trivial wars. Instead, he slew them where they stood, their weapons and magic useless against him.

In desperation, they screamed out his name to bind him—but to no avail, for Sahn-Uzal was no more.

With an ethereal rumble, he spoke his spirit-name in Ochnun: Mordekaiser.

Thus began his second conquest of the mortal realm. As before, his ambitions were great, only now empowered by necromantic sorceries he could never have previously imagined. From the fearful, dissipating souls of the sorcerers, Mordekaiser forged a weapon fit for an emperor of death—his brutal mace, Nightfall—and seized control of the army they had raised.

To his foes, it seemed he cared only for massacre and destruction. Entire generations perished under his relentless campaigns.

However, there was far more to Mordekaiser’s plan. He raised the Immortal Bastion at the center of his empire; while most assumed it was merely a seat of power, some came to know the secrets it held. Mordekaiser hungered for all the forbidden knowledge of spirits and death, and a true understanding of the realm… or realms… beyond.

Such tyranny could only bring him enemies. The Iron Revenant was defeated, surprisingly, by an alliance of the Noxii tribes, and betrayal from within his own inner circle. This hidden cabal managed to sever the anchors of his soul from his armor, and sealed the empty iron shell away in a secret place.

And so, Mordekaiser was cast out of the material realm. However, unbeknownst to anyone, he had planned for this—indeed, it was a pivotal part of his design. Domination and deceit had carried him far, but he knew that a destiny far grander than the Hall of Bones awaited him.

There, in the once empty wasteland, all those who had died under his latest reign were waiting. Perverted by dark sorcery, their spirits would never fade. The strongest became his devout, eternal army, bound to his will… but even the weak were given purpose.

From the subtle matter of their souls, Mordekaiser would forge a new empire. They would be the building blocks and mortar of his Afterworld.

Centuries have passed on Runeterra, and another empire has arisen around the Immortal Bastion. Mordekaiser’s name is still whispered in fear and awe by those who study the old histories, and remembered unkindly by the few ancient souls who knew him. For them, the greatest terror would be for Mordekaiser to find his own way to return permanently.

It is something they pray will not come to pass, for they know of no way to stop him.

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.

Most mortals live and die knowing only a single plane of reality—the material realm. However, this view reflects just half of existence. Running parallel is the spirit realm, invisible to many and just as vibrant and full of life. Yet deep in the frozen tundra of the Freljord, there is a vastaya who lives in a blended world of her own...

Aurora was born in the secluded village of Aamu, home to the Bryni tribe, and spent her youth playing with critters no one else could see while exploring a world no one else could appreciate. Though she was happy, she felt isolated from the rest of Aamu. Even her parents didn’t understand her, believing Aurora’s “friends” were merely imaginary.

The only Bryni who wholeheartedly embraced Aurora was her great aunt Havu, who always entertained her stories, fostered her passions, and encouraged her to celebrate her individuality. So Aurora learned to be herself and revel in her own company.

As Aurora grew older, she realized something: Her invisible friends were not imaginary, but spirits. The beautiful, vibrant world she lived in was completely unique, for only her eyes could pierce through the veil between the realm of mortals and spirits.

She meticulously documented this intertwined world, studying Aamu's spirits in hopes of helping others understand the realms as she saw them.

Over time, more and more spirits appeared in Aamu, including ones who felt… different. Lost and wild, they had become "wayward" when the balance between realms was disturbed by mortal affairs. But after investigating this phenomenon, Aurora discovered she could help these spirits return home by getting to the root of their pain.

This was difficult work, but in it, Aurora found her life's purpose.

She knew that continuing her research meant she had to explore the world outside of Aamu. Though the idea of change made her nervous, the prospect of expanding her knowledge inspired Aurora to leave her home behind.

It was during her travels that she encountered a wayward spirit who took the form of a monstrous, twisted elk. He was feral and afraid, lashing out with bloodstained antlers. Aurora was determined to calm him down, and though it took time, she earned his trust. But this spirit was unlike the others—with every attempt to help him, Aurora failed. Undeterred, she convinced the afflicted elk to travel with her, using her powers to tuck him away in the spirit realm as she worked to unravel his mystery.

Having come across a number of spirit walkers as she traversed the Freljord, Aurora sought their advice, believing their ability to channel spirits may shed some light on what plagued her wayward companion. However, they too were at a loss, suggesting she find Udyr, the tundra’s most powerful spirit walker.

Udyr needed just one look to recognize the immense power of Aurora's spirit friend, but the fearsome elk was too lost to commune with. Instead, he encouraged her to ask the demigods for answers.

Aurora decided to first search for the Great Ram, Ornn. She traveled far through ice and snow to study the artifacts of his followers, the Hearthblood, hoping to learn where they had worshiped him. Only through her persistent research was she at last able to discern the location of Hearth-Home—but where once stood a grand settlement was nothing but ruin and rubble.

Aurora knew this was not as it appeared. Using her ability to open a doorway between realms, she stepped inside and was met with the great hall of Ornn's forge, alive with roaring fire.

Ornn was not receptive to his new visitor—but in time, he realized that she, like him, valued solitude and quiet. As he grew to trust her, Ornn finally shared the name of Aurora’s companion: Haestryr. One of Ornn's siblings, Hestrelk, as he was once commonly called, was originally a powerful demigod, but with the waning worship of the Old Gods, many demigods had lost their identities and become distorted shadows of who they once were.

This revelation about her wayward friend brought Aurora one step closer to helping him find his way home, but there was still a long journey ahead of her.

From Ornn, she learned about Ysjarn, the cryophoenix who guides and protects the land while enduring an eternal cycle of birth, life, and death. And, though painful, Ornn also spoke of his brother Valhir, whose relentless storm rages against the Freljord in his desperation to quench the Vorrijaard's bloodlust with the rains of war.

Believing these demigods hold the key to Hestrelk’s recovery, Aurora has left Hearth-Home and now traverses through the material and spirit realms of her frozen homeland in unwavering pursuit of their knowledge.

Saijax Cail-Rynx Icath’un grew up in Icathia, a satrapy of the Shuriman empire. Ever since he was a boy, his father told him of when their home was a proud, independent nation, before it was ground under the heel of Shuriman oppression. He told him of the Kohari, heroes who protected Icathia and its Mage King. The Mage King had resisted Shurima’s conquest, but when he died in battle, his Kohari protectors followed him, committing ritual suicide. The Shuriman emperor displayed the Kohari’s decaying bodies for all to see, and the Mage King himself was impaled above the city gates, his bones left to molder.

Saijax’s father had witnessed this cruel act, and over time he passed down to his son the burning resentment that was growing in every Icathian heart. Even so, Saijax committed himself to the study of arms, learning from Shurima’s weapons masters as well as his own clan’s elders.

After many centuries of Shuriman rule, a massive earthquake struck the coastal province of Saabera. The destruction revealed something hidden deep beneath the earth, something dark and of great power—perhaps strong enough even to overcome Shurima’s god-like Ascended warriors. Saijax was entrusted with protecting the Icathian mages who encountered this discovery… which the guards just barely contained with brazier-staves that blazed with conjured elemental fire. Disturbed, he escorted the mages to the governing council so they could tell of what they’d learned.

They called this power the Void.

Immediately the council recognized its potential, but Saijax saw the doom the Void portended. As a master of weaponry, he knew the danger of using a weapon they could neither fully understand nor safely harness. He regretted that he didn’t kill the mages as they rode from Saabera. He would regret it even more in the days to come.

Confident that the Void could defeat their Shuriman overlords, the council crowned a new Mage King. The Kohari were rebuilt, with Saijax among the first to join their ranks. They triumphed in early engagements, and Saijax even killed one of the vaunted Ascended in battle, watching with pride as its corpse was paraded around the liberated city of Bai-Zhek.

When the Ascended Host approached Icathia, Saijax and his brethren assembled on the front lines. As the two armies churned the earth beneath them into crimson loam, Icathia’s mages and priests deemed the time had come to unleash the Void.

Ruin swept over the land, as Icathians, Shurimans, and even Ascended were unraveled from existence. The city’s walls collapsed as the Void swallowed thousands into cold, silent oblivion.

In moments, Icathia was lost.

Saijax rode to the ruined crater where the Void had been summoned, determined to fall upon his sword like the Kohari of old. But before he could take his life, he saw among the devastation a discarded brazier-stave that he recognized from Saabera—it still blazed with elemental fire that harmed the Void. This flame kindled a spark in Saijax’s heart. He took up the stave and left behind the ruins of his homeland, tending to this “last light of Icathia”, and the hope it represented.

Grieving and ashamed, Saijax Cail-Rynx Kohari Icath’un forsook his old name, and from that day was known only as Jax.

He became a wanderer, traveling across the known world and to places beyond any map. As he bore the elemental fire, Jax’s life extended beyond even the expectations of his long-lived people. Yet the farther he went from Icathia, the lower the flame burned, until it threatened to gutter out once and for all. Jax understood with grim resolution that he couldn’t run from his past. He had a duty to return, and fight. The advance of the Void had been halted by the last surviving Ascended, but its singular threat endured.

For centuries since, Jax has roamed, a vagabond warrior searching for those strong enough to rebuild the Kohari. Though he has fought countless times against beings of great skill, courage, and power, none have yet convinced him that they can march against the coming darkness. The fall of Icathia has plagued Jax with doubt, but one thing remains certain: when the final battle comes, Jax will stand against the Void.

Even if he has to face it alone.

This far north, the nights are dark. The shadows grow long in the hall of Ashe and her bloodsworn groom. The braziers burn down to smoldering coals. They may seem extinguished, dead—but even a fool knows not to grasp one with a naked hand. Even a fool.

He isn’t much to look at, in truth. Tall, yes, and strong, but that dark hair that falls around his shoulders is flecked with gray. He does not look like a figure of myth and legend. Seated at the head of his table, Tryndamere looks like a man. His eyes are a flat green. Dull, like an animal’s.

And yet I cannot meet them for long. I witnessed the rage they conceal, and it nearly took me as the ember takes the straw.

“Warmother Ashe has taken one in three of our warriors north to throw back the raiders of the Winter’s Claw. That is one in three hands not tilling the earth, one in three eyes not watching the flock. I understand your people never raised crops or herded animals, but in more civilized lands…”

I wanted to see the elder’s head parted from his shoulders. This was the warmother’s bloodsworn he was addressing! From my silent post behind Tryndamere I glared up at him, hoping to see a flicker of anger under that passive mask; I already knew, though, that I would be disappointed. By the gods, I wanted him to show some of his legendary temper.

So young, and so foolish. I have never forgotten that: I wanted to see it.

“Allow me, bloodsworn, to educate you on the proper management of the lands west of the White Hills…” the graybeard went on.

I found my hand curling around the leather wrapping of my sword.

Before I could act on my rashness, the great wooden doors of the hall swept open. The braziers sputtered and hissed as wind and snow pushed their way inside—and with them came figures, half a dozen of them. At their head was a tall woman, silver braids peeking out from a traveling hood dusted with frost. As she pushed it back, I recognized the jagged white scar that crossed her face.

“Heldred?”

The warmother of my tribe fixed me with a cold stare. It was then that I noticed her followers, wrapped in furs and leathers and armor, pushing the great doors shut. Warriors, one and all, with weapons drawn and blooded. A war party.

Around the hall, the envoys had gone silent, staring nervously at the new arrivals. Tryndamere watched them, too, though if the presence of bare weapons in his hall irked him, I could not tell.

Heldred ignored me, starting for Tryndamere. I stepped in front of her. “Go no further, warmother.”

“Sigra,” she said, her voice ice. Cold as winter. “You do me honor, to still call me by that title. I am glad you haven’t forgotten your first oaths.”

“Why are you here, Heldred?”

“Step aside, child. If your new warmother was within my grasp, I would wet my axe with her blood. But blood must be shed, so her second will have to do.”

“Heldred of Three Rivers,” a voice echoed in the darker corners of the hall. Tryndamere. “You have come a very long way. Why do you seek battle?”

“Hail, bloodsworn,” she said. “I will tell you. Five days past, as the sun rose over our village, something else rode in with it. Raiders. Reavers. Killers.”

The words sunk into me like knives. “Winter’s Claw,” I whispered.

“Aye!” she barked. “Winter’s Claw. They came while the man you defend sat behind his stout walls, growing fat and slow, and did to us what the Winter’s Claw always does. Now, there was a time when we might have driven them off. But that was before Ashe called for warriors! Before she took one out of every three hands strong enough to swing a blade.”

Her voice became a bitter hiss. “We couldn’t hold.”

Speech would not come to me. I should have been there, I thought. If I hadn’t oathed myself to another, I could have. I could have fought. “How many? How many lost?”

“Your elders hid in time, Sigra. For that, I am grateful. But many did not. Too many.”

Slowly, Tryndamere pushed himself to his feet. “I am sorry, warmother, for your loss. I… know what it is like to lead a desperate people. Bring your survivors here. They can share our food, our walls. You are welcome.”

It was a noble offer.

Heldred only spat on the floor. From her belt, the warmother pulled her axe. “I do not want your walls or your food, bloodsworn. I want blood for blood. The old ways say I am due a challenge, and so a challenge I make.”

“This is foolishness,” I said. “Think of our kin.” Think of my elders, I did not say.

“You forget your place, child. I will not say it again—step aside.”

Fury tightened my hand around the hilt of my sword. In one motion I drew it, the steel glowing orange in the firelight. “No, Heldred. I have forgotten nothing. I am a battlemaiden, sworn to defend this hall. On my oath, I accept your challenge.”

“So be it. If you are in such a hurry to die, I’ll make it quick.”

“Enough!” bellowed Tryndamere. “I will have no Avarosan blood spilled around this hearth. We have enemies enough without killing each other!”

The echo of his words shook the very timbers of the hall. Never had I heard him speak like this—I could not miss something dangerous just under the surface. But Heldred only sneered. “I do not fear you, bloodsworn. Life behind these walls has dulled your edge. Mine is still killing-sharp.”

I caught her first blow on my sword. The shock of it nearly dislocated my shoulder. I had barely recovered by the time Heldred swung again; I was quick, but she had experience and strength on her side.

Heldred’s overhead chop missed my skull by inches, and buried the axehead in the floor. I lunged forward, thrusting for her, but with a ferocious grunt she wrenched her axe free, backhanding the flat end into my ribs. Pain shot through my chest and I sagged to one side, unable to keep my footing.

From the floor I raised my sword, pointing feebly at the woman who had once been my warmother. She struck it from my hand dismissively. “I will tell your kin you fought bravely, Sigra Battlemaiden.”

Heldred raised her axe to deliver the killing stroke, and I squeezed my eyes shut. But it never fell.

I looked up. Tryndamere had caught the axe—caught it, in his open hand. Blood dripped from the blade down his arm, onto the timbers below. “This is not our way. Avarosans protect one another.”

From the floor, I watched as the open wound on his palm sealed itself shut.

Impossible.

He was speaking through gritted teeth, and that lurking danger I had sensed earlier now screamed in my head. Run, it said. Run now, while you can.

For a moment, I saw that Heldred heard it, too—but then, with a snarl, she swung her axe again, a mighty two-handed blow meant to cleave the man in half.

Tryndamere roared. It was an inhuman sound, a fury deeper than the roots of mountains, as bottomless as the deepest lake. He roared, and then he lunged for her.

I am oathsworn still, bound to fight by his side. When I stand guard over my barbarian charge, motionless at his long table, I see Heldred’s face twisted in agony. When the fires burn low in the long hall, I hear her screams. I have seen what lurks beneath those placid, dull eyes.

Every night, I pray to my ancestors that I will not see it again. Some things are better left in stories.

Some coals are better left smoldering.

Though they are rare creatures now indeed, there exist a handful of places across Runeterra where the great elemental dragons still nest.

Long after the fall of the Shuriman empire, in the chambers beneath a lost volcano, the elder beast known as Yvva guarded her clutch of eggs. Beyond the depredations of rival drakes, dragon eggs were priceless almost beyond a mortal’s comprehension, and so many were daring or foolish enough to try their luck. Yvva feasted upon the charred remains of a score or more would-be thieves over the years… before one succeeded in his attempt.

This upstart mage fled the mountains with the large egg hugged close to his chest, the jungle at his heels set ablaze by Yvva’s fury. Against all odds, he reached the coast and left the dragon to slink back to her lair in defeat. She had lost one egg. She would not lose another.

The mage traveled north to Piltover—but before he could find a buyer, the egg began to hatch. Whether it was the act of removing it from the nest, or the last moon of autumn giving way to winter, something had changed. It was no infant dragon that emerged, but an apparently humanoid baby girl with pale, violet skin, and the mage found he could not bear to abandon her. He raised the child as his own, naming her Shyvana after the dark legend of her brood-mother.

It became clear that Shyvana was no mortal. From an early age, she was able to shift her form into something monstrous, akin to the half-dragons of ancient myth. This made living among the common folk of Valoran difficult, to say the least. One thing was clear: Yvva retained some connection with her lost daughter, and it grew stronger over time. When her other offspring finally took flight, Yvva left her empty nest and soared far over the ocean in search of Shyvana.

The land was wracked by fierce border wars, but armies and villagers alike scattered at the great dragon’s approach. Seeking refuge in a ruined farmhouse, Shyvana saw her adopted father engulfed in flames as Yvva swept low overhead—the young woman dragged him into the nearby forest, but there was nothing more she could do. She buried him in a simple grave beneath a spreading oak, and set off alone.

After many weeks in hiding in the wilds, always on the move, Shyvana picked out the faint scent of blood among the trees. She found a wounded warrior, close to death, and knew this was someone she could save.

Without a thought for the beast that hunted her, she assumed her half-dragon form and carried the unconscious man far away, to an outpost on the borders of Demacia.

There, in the castle at Wrenwall, Shyvana discovered that this warrior was none other than Prince Jarvan—the king’s only son, and heir to the throne. Though the stationed soldiers regarded her violet skin and strange manners with some suspicion, she was made welcome. Demacians, it seemed, always looked out for one another, and her time in the town was the most peaceful she had ever known.

The peace was not to last. Shyvana sensed darkness on the wind. Yvva was coming.

The recovering prince, knowing that he had to marshal Wrenwall’s garrison, brought the terrified locals inside the stronghold in preparation for the coming battle. Even so, Shyvana prepared to make her escape. Jarvan confronted her, and she admitted that the creature in pursuit of her was of her own blood. She could not allow innocent people to die for that.

Jarvan refused to let her go. Shyvana had saved his life, so it was only right that he fight at her side, now. Moved by his offer, she accepted.

As Yvva came into view, Demacian archers loosed volleys of arrows to keep her distracted. In retaliation, she bathed the battlements in flame, tearing at the stonework with her powerful talons and sending armored warriors tumbling from the parapet. It was then that Shyvana leapt forth, transforming in mid-air and bellowing a challenge to her brood-mother. In a sight seldom witnessed in Valoran since the Rune Wars, the two dragons clashed, tooth and claw, in the skies over Wrenwall.

And finally, bleeding from a dozen wounds, Shyvana grappled Yvva to the ground, and broke the creature’s neck upon the flagstones.

The prince himself honored Shyvana’s bravery, and promised that she would always have a place at his side, if she would return with him to his father’s halls. With Yvva’s skull as proof of their triumph, they set out for the Great City of Demacia together.

Shyvana has learned that King Jarvan III’s realm is somewhat divided—with the people’s distrust of mages and magic putting them at odds with the noble ideals upon which it was founded. While she has found a measure of acceptance as one of the prince’s most trusted guardians, she is left to wonder whether that would still be the case if her true nature were more widely known…

Long, long ago, in a tower by the edge of the sea, a foolish young mage summoned something into the world that he was not prepared to control. What stepped before the boy was something older than recorded history. Something darker than a yawning, starless night. Something the world had desperately tried to forget—and in an instant, the mage, the creature, and the tower itself were lost to all of time.

At least, that’s what the stories say.

In the Freljord, children frighten each other around the fire with tales of a monster that raises itself from untended graves in the ice, its body a shambling mass of helmets, bucklers, furs, and wood. In Bilgewater, drunken sailors trade accounts of something standing alone on a tiny, distant atoll from which no one has ever returned. An old Targonian legend speaks of how a child of twilight stole the only joy from a ragged, whispering horror, while veteran Noxian soldiers prefer the fable of a lonely farmhand who was blamed for a poor harvest and fed to the crows, later returning to the world as a demon.

Demacia. Ixtal. Piltover. Ionia. Shurima. In every corner of Runeterra, these myths persist—reshaped, respun, and passed down by countless generations of storytellers. Stories of a thing that looks almost human and stalks places thick with fear.

But these are simply fables to frighten young children. No one would ever be afraid of a silly old monster called Fiddlesticks…

Until now.

Something has awoken in the Demacian hinterlands, drawn by the climate of rising fear and paranoia. Rural protectorates, separated from the capital by hundreds of miles of farmland, are emptying in mere days. Travelers vanish from the old footpaths. Guard patrols fail to report back from the edges of the kingdom. And wild-eyed survivors claw at their faces from the safety of roadside taverns, wailing of crows that aren’t crows, sounds that aren’t sounds, and a lopsided horror in the shape of a scarecrow that croaks in the stolen voices of the dead.

Most blame rogue mages. Such accusations are common in these days of rebellion.

Yet the truth is far worse. Something has returned, just as it had in the fictitious tale of the young mage in his seaside tower. An evil gone from the world for numberless centuries—long enough that the warnings of a nascent humanity passed into rumor, then myth, then legend… until all that remained were simple fables. An entity so utterly alien that it defies almost all contemporary knowledge of magic. So impossibly ancient that it has always been. So universally feared that even animals grow nervous when someone speaks its name.

In the wake of this revival, another tale, nearly lost to memory, has seen a resurgence throughout the hinterlands. A legend of a great evil that has no form, no thoughts, and no understanding of the world it inhabits, instead building itself into the crude shape of those that fear it. The terror of all living things, given life in that first terrible scream of creation. A demon before demons were known.

At least, that’s what the stories say.

But Fiddlesticks is real.

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.

Icathia, most desolate and cursed of lands, was not always so. Theirs was a rich and diverse civilization, ruled by benevolent Axamuk, last of the Mage Kings of old. As the Shuriman empire expanded across the continent, Axamuk’s calls for peaceful coexistence were ignored, and his armies destroyed by the god-warriors of the Ascended Host.

Though humbled by this defeat, many Icathians saw an opportunity for mutual advancement. Accepting an offer of autonomous satrapy, they installed a governing council of distinguished mages, philosophers, and lawmakers to oversee the transition of power.

After almost nine centuries of imperial rule, a young man named Zilean joined the council’s ranks. He was an elemental mage with a prodigious understanding of physical reality, who had studied under the greatest minds of the age—from the great Yun of Ixtal, to the astromancers of Faraj, and countless others besides.

There was one component of the material realm that few had ever truly grasped, but Zilean was determined to master.

Time.

Time was the one inescapable constant, in all things. Even the mighty god-warriors were not immune to its passage… though they were revered above all others in Shuriman culture.

As part of the political establishment, Zilean now saw more clearly the smoldering discontent among the citizens of Icathia. While their land was home to some of the most heroic leaders and revolutionary thinkers in the empire, not one had ever been deemed worthy of Ascension. Again and again, the council submitted petitions to the distant emperor, yet access to the Sun Disc was denied, without explanation. For all they gave, it seemed Icathians would never be seen as equals.

Zilean’s own resentment grew, yet he was worried by open talk of secession among his peers. He was a patriot through and through, but in the face of the Ascended Host, any rebellion could only end in calamity for his people. Seeking a diplomatic solution, he went as an envoy to neighboring Kahleek, Kalduga, and Ixtal. He had made many allies in his lifetime, and he implored them to stand with Icathia.

Each time, the answer was the same. They would not defy Shurima. If Zilean’s people wanted to, they would do so alone.

Returning home, he was shocked to find the council had decided to crown a new Mage King. Breathlessly, joyously, they told Zilean of the ancient and forbidden power they had discovered—a power so great, it would all but guarantee Icathia’s victory.

They told Zilean of the power of the Void.

He looked to these reasoned, wise Icathians, but saw only madness in their eyes. As much as it grieved him, Zilean would rather his homeland’s revolution be crushed, than to let this abomination be set loose.

Zilean’s worst fears proved true. Once unleashed in battle, the Void overwhelmed the mages attempting to control it, and Icathia was doomed.

As he tried to escape the capital, the ground shook. Buildings toppled. Such horrors as had no place in this world or the next erupted from the depths, driving terrified citizens before them.

They were trapped. Hundreds of thousands of innocents would die. In desperation, Zilean urged as many as he could to take refuge in his tower, and did the impossible.

He removed the entire structure from time.

Crashing to the cold floor, his power spent, Zilean looked at the frozen figures all around him. The Void was halted, but only within those walls—outside, where Icathia once stood, there was nothing.

Zilean had spent decades trying to comprehend the mysteries of time and causality, and it seemed only he could move freely back and forth within the anomaly he had somehow created. These people had been saved, true enough. He just didn’t know how to undo what he had done to achieve it. Through deep meditations and esoteric devices of his own design, he began to divine the strands of past and present that led to this moment, gradually learning how to move back and forth along them, looking for a future where his efforts had already succeeded…

It was there that he found the true threat: the end of everything. The great unmaking that awaits Runeterra.

Effectively, Zilean now exists everywhere, and always has. Even so, he is only too aware of the consequences of trying to bring about change in the world and sparking other unexpected destinies—often conflicting, and almost always more dangerous. Perhaps if he can find a way to save his own people, then the greater disaster might also be averted.

The only question is, what might he be willing to sacrifice along the way?

My name is Axamuk Var-Choi Kohari Icath’or.

Axamuk was my grandsire’s name. A warrior’s name, it means keeper of edges, and it is an auspicious title to bear. Axamuk was the last of the Mage Kings, the final ruler to fall before the Shuriman Sun Empress when she led her golden host of men and gods into the kingdom of Icathia.

Var is my mother and Choi my father. Icath’or is the name of the blood-bonded clan to which I was born, one with an honorable history of service to the Mage Kings.

I have borne these names since birth.

My name is Axamuk Var-Choi Kohari Icath’or.

Only Kohari is a new addition. The fit is new, but already feels natural. The name is now part of me, and I bear it with a pride that burns bright in my heart. The Kohari were once the life-wards of the Mage Kings, deadly warriors who dedicated their lives to the service of their master. When Axamuk the King fell before the god-warriors of the Sun Empress and Icathia became a vassal state of Shurima, every one of them fell upon their swords.

But the Kohari are reborn, rising to serve the new Mage King and reclaim their honor. I bear their sigil branded on my arm, the scroll-wrapped sword.

My name is Axamuk Var-Choi Kohari Icath’or. I repeat it over and over, holding onto what it represents.

I do not want to forget it. It is all I have left.

Was it only this morning I and the rest of the reformed Kohari marched through the streets of Icathia? It seems like a lifetime ago.

The wide thoroughfares were thronged with thousands of cheering men, women and children. Clad in their brightest cloth, and wearing their finest jewelry to honor our march, they had come to witness the rebirth of their kingdom.

For it was Icathia that was reborn today, not just the Kohari. Our heads were high, my chest swollen with pride.

We marched in step, gripping the leather straps of wicker shields and the wire-wound hilts of our curved nimcha blades. To bear Icathian armaments had been forbidden under Shuriman law, but enough had been wrought in secret forges and hidden in caches throughout the city, in readiness for the day of uprising.

I remember that day well.

The city had been filled with screams, as baying crowds chased down and murdered every Shuriman official they could find. Resentment for centuries of humiliating laws intended to eradicate our culture—and brutal executions for breaking those laws—came to a head in one blood-filled day of violence. It didn’t matter that most of these people were merely scriveners, merchants and tithe-takers. They were servants of the hated Sun-Emperor, and needed to die.

Overnight, Icathia was ours again!

Sun disc effigies were pulled from rooftops and smashed by cheering crowds. Shuriman scriptwork was burned and their treasuries looted. The statues of dead emperors were desecrated, and even I defaced one of the great frescoes with obscenities that would have made my mother blush.

I remember the smell of smoke and fire. It was the smell of freedom.

I held to that feeling as we marched.

My memory recalled the smiling faces and the cheers, but I could not pick out any words. The sunlight was too bright, the noise too intense, and the pounding in my head unrelenting.

I had not slept the previous night, too nervous at the prospect of battle. My skill with the nimcha was average, but I was deadly with the recurved serpent bow slung at my shoulder. Its wood was well-seasoned, protected from the humidity by a coat of red lacquer. My arrows were fletched with azure raptor feathers, and I had carved their piercing heads from razored obsidian sourced from the thaumaturges—the magickers of earth and rock. Long runs through Icathia’s lush, coastal forests and along its high mountain trails had given me powerful, clean limbs to draw the bowstring, and the stamina to fight all day.

A young girl, her hair braided with silver wire, and with the deepest green eyes I had ever seen, placed a garland of flowers over my head. The scent of the blossoms was intoxicating, but I forgot it all as she pulled me close to kiss my lips. She wore a necklace, an opal set in a swirling loop of gold, and I smiled as I recognized my father’s craft.

I tried to hold on to her, but our march carried me away. Instead, I fixed her face in my mind.

I cannot remember it now, only her eyes, deep green like the forests of my youth…

Soon, even that will be gone.

“Easy, Axa,” said Saijax Cail-Rynx Kohari Icath’un, popping a freshly shelled egg into his mouth. “She’ll be waiting for you when this day is done.”

“Aye,” said Colgrim Avel-Essa Kohari Icath’un, jabbing his elbow into my side. “Him and twenty other strapping young lads.”

I blushed at Colgrim’s words, and he laughed.

“Craft her a fine necklace from Shuriman gold,” he continued. “Then she’ll be yours forever. Or at least until morning!”

I should have said something to berate Colgrim for slighting this girl’s honor, but I was young and eager to prove myself to these veteran warriors. Saijax was the beating heart of the Kohari, a shaven-headed giant with skin pockmarked by the ravages of a childhood illness, and a forked beard stiffened to points with wax and white chalk. Colgrim was his right hand, a brute with cold eyes and a betrothal tattoo, though I had never heard him talk of his wife. These men had grown up together, and had learned the secret ways of the warrior since they were old enough to hold a blade.

But I was new to this life. My father had trained me as a lapidary—an artisan of gemstones and maker of jewelry. A meticulous and fastidious man, such coarse language was anathema to him, and unfamiliar to me. I relished it, of course, eager to fit in with these leather-tough men.

“Go easy on the lad, Colgrim,” said Saijax, slapping my back with one of his massive hands. Meant as a brotherly pat, it rattled the teeth in my skull, but I welcomed it all the same. “He’ll be a hero by nightfall.”

He shifted the long, axe-headed polearm slung at his shoulder. The weapon was immense, its ebony haft carved with the names of his forebears, and the blade a slab of razor-edged bronze. Few of our group could even lift it, let along swing it, but Saijax was a master of weapons.

I turned to catch a last glimpse of my green-eyed girl, but could not see her amid the tightly packed ranks of soldiers, and the waving arms of the crowds.

“Time to focus, Axa,” said Saijax. “The scryers say the Shurimans are less than half a day’s march from Icathia.”

“Are… Are the god-warriors with them?” I asked.

“So they say, lad. So they say.”

“Is it wrong that I can’t wait to see them?”

Saijax shook his head. “No, for they are mighty. But as soon as you do, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

I did not understand Saijax’s meaning, and said, “Why?”

He gave me a sidelong glance. “Because they are monsters.”

“Have you seen one?”

I was filled with youthful enthusiasm, but I still remember the look that passed between Saijax and Colgrim.

“I have, Axa,” said Saijax. “We fought one at Bai-Zhek.”

“We had to topple half the mountain to put the big bastard down,” Colgrim added. “And even then, only Saijax had a weapon big enough to take its head off.”

I remembered the tale with a thrill of excitement. “That was you?”

Saijax nodded, but said nothing, and I knew to ask no more. The corpse had been paraded around the newly liberated city for all to see, proof that the Shuriman’s god-warriors could still die. My father had not wanted me to see it, fearing it would enflame the desire to rebel that had smoldered in every Icathian heart for centuries.

The memory of exactly what it looked like is gone now, but I remember it was enormous beyond belief, inhuman and terrible…

I would see the god-warriors later that day.

And then I understood Saijax’s meaning.

We formed up on the gentle slopes before the crumbling remains of the city walls. Since the coming of the Sun Empress, over a thousand years ago, we had been forbidden to reclaim the stone or rebuild the wall; forced to leave the rubble as a reminder of our ancient defeat.

But now an army of stonewrights, laborers and thaumaturges were hefting giant blocks of freshly hewn granite into place with windlass mechanisms that crackled with magic.

I felt pride at the sight of the rising walls. Icathia was being reborn in glory right before my eyes.

More immediately impressive was the army taking position athwart the hard-packed earthen road leading into the city. Ten thousand men and women, clad in armor of boiled leather and armed with axes, picks, and spears. The forges had worked day and night to produce swords, shields and arrowheads in the days following the uprising, but there was only so much that could be produced before the Sun Emperor turned his gaze upon this rebellious satrapy and marched east.

I had seen pictures of ancient Icathian armies in the forbidden texts—brave warriors arrayed in serried ranks of gold and silver—and though we were a shadow of such forces, we were no less proud. Two thousand talon-riders were deployed on either flank, their scaled and feathered mounts snorting, and stamping clawed hooves with impatience. A thousand archers knelt in two long lines, fifty feet ahead of us, blue-fletched shafts planted in the soft loam before them.

Three blocks of deep-ranked infantry formed the bulk of our line, a bulwark of courage to repel our ancient oppressors.

All down our line, crackling energies from the earth-craft of our mages made the air blurry. The Shurimans would surely bring mages, but we could counter their power with magic of our own.

“I’ve never seen so many warriors,” I said.

Colgrim shrugged. “None of us have, not in our lifetimes.”

“Don’t get too impressed,” said Saijax. “The Sun Emperor has five armies, and even the least of them will outnumber us three to one.”

I tried to imagine such a force, and failed. “How do we defeat such a host?” I asked.

Saijax did not answer me, but led the Kohari to our place in the line before a stepped structure of granite blocks. Shuriman corpses were impaled upon wooden stakes driven into the earth at its base, and flocks of carrion birds circled overhead. A silken pavilion of crimson and indigo had been raised at its summit, but I could not see what lay within. Robed priests surrounded it, each one weaving intricate patterns in the air with their star-metal staves.

I did not know what they were doing, but I heard an insistent buzzing sound, like a hive of insects trying to push their way into my skull.

The pavilion’s outline rippled like a desert mirage, and I had to look away as my eyes began to water. My teeth felt loose in their gums, and my mouth filled with the taste of soured milk. I gagged and wiped the back of my hand across my lips, surprised and not a little alarmed to see a smear of blood there.

“What is that?” I asked. “What’s in there?”

Saijax shrugged. “A new weapon, I heard. Something the thaumaturges found deep underground, after the earthquake at Saabera.”

“What kind of weapon?”

“Does it matter?” said Colgrim. “They say it’s going to wipe the gold-armored dung-eaters from the world. Even those thrice-damned god-warriors.”

The sun was close to its zenith by now, but a shiver worked its way down my spine. My mouth was suddenly dry. I could feel tingling in my fingertips.

Was it fear? Perhaps.

Or, maybe, just maybe, it was a premonition of what was to come.

An hour later, the Shuriman army arrived.

I had never seen such a host, nor ever imagined so many men could be gathered together in one place. Columns of dust created clouds that rose like a gathering storm set to sweep the mortal realm away.

And then, through the dust, I saw the bronze spears of the Shuriman warriors, filling my sight in all directions. They marched forward, a vast line of fighting men with golden banners and sun-disc totems glimmering in the noonday sun.

From the slopes above, we watched wave after wave come into sight, tens of thousands of men who had never known defeat, and whose ancestors had conquered the known world. Riders on golden mounts rode the flanks, as hundreds of floating chariots roved ahead of the army. Heavy wagons the size of river barques bore strange war-machines that resembled navigational astrolabes; spinning globes orbited by flaming spheres and crackling lightning. Robed priests came with them, each with a flame-topped staff and an entourage of blinded slaves.

At the heart of the army were the god-warriors.

Much else fades from my mind; the blood, the horror and the fear. But the sight of the god-warriors will follow me into whatever lies beyond this moment…

I saw nine of them, towering over the men they led. Their features and bodies were an awful blend of human and animal, and things that had never walked this world, and never should. Armored in bronze and jade, they were titans, inhuman monsters that defied belief.

Their leader, with skin as pale and smooth as ivory, turned her monstrous head towards us. Enclosed in a golden helm carved to resemble a roaring lion, her face was mercifully hidden, but I could feel her power as she swept her scornful gaze across our line.

A palpable wave of terror followed in its wake.

Our army shrank from the scale of the enemy force, on the brink of fleeing before even a single blow was struck. Steadying shouts arose from our brave leaders, and an immediate rout was halted, but even I could hear the fear in their voices.

I, too, felt an almost uncontrollable urge to void my bladder, but clamped down on the feeling. I was Kohari. I wouldn’t piss myself in my first battle.

Even so, my hands were clammy and I felt a sickening knot forming in my gut.

I wanted to run. I needed to run.

We could not possibly stand against such a force.

“Big bastards, aren’t they?” said Colgrim, and nervous laughter rippled through our ranks. My fear lessened.

“They may look like gods,” said Saijax, his voice carrying far and wide. “But they are mortal. They can bleed, and they can die.”

I took strength from his words, but I wonder now if he knew just how wrong he was.

“We are Icathians!” he roared. “We are the heirs of the kings and queens who first settled this land! It is ours by right and by birth. Aye, we are outnumbered, but the warriors our enemies have sent are slaves, and men whose only loyalty is to coin.”

He raised his weapon high and the sunlight shone from its polished blade. He was glorious in that moment, and I would have followed him to the very end of the world if he asked me to.

“We fight to live in freedom, not in slavery! This is our home, and it is a land of proud people, of free people! There is nothing stronger than that, and we will prevail!”

A cheer began in the Kohari ranks, and was swiftly carried to the other regiments in our army.

“I-ca-thi-a!I-ca-thi-a!I-ca-thi-a!”

It echoed from the rising walls of our city, and was carried to the Shuriman host. The god-warriors spoke swiftly to their attendants, who turned and ran to bear their orders to the wings of the army. Almost immediately, our enemy began to move uphill.

They came slowly, their pace deliberate. On every third step, the warriors hammered the hafts of their spears on their shields. The noise was profoundly unnerving, a slow drumbeat that sapped the will of we who were soon to feel the tips of those blades.

My mouth was dry, my heart hammered in my chest. I looked to Saijax for strength, to take courage from his indomitable presence. His jaw was set, his eyes hard. This was a soul who knew no fear, who rejected doubt and stood firm in the face of destiny.

Sensing my gaze, he glanced down at me. “Egg?” he said.

A pair of peeled eggs lay in the palm of his hand.

I shook my head. I couldn’t eat. Not now.

“I’ll take an egg,” said Colgrim, taking one and biting it in half. Saijax ate the other, and the pair of them chewed thoughtfully.

The Shurimans drew ever closer.

“Good egg,” noted Colgrim.

“I add a dash of vinegar as I boil them,” Saijax replied. “Makes them easier to peel.”

“Clever.”

“Thanks.”

I looked back and forth between them, unable to reconcile the mundane nature of their words as an all-conquering army marched upon us. And yet, I felt soothed by it.

I laughed, and that laughter swiftly spread.

The Kohari were laughing, and soon, without knowing why, our entire army was laughing. The fear that had threatened to undo us all now fled. Fresh resolve filled our hearts, and put iron in our sword arms.

The Shurimans halted two hundred yards from us. I tasted a strange texture to the air, like biting on tin. I looked up in time to see the spinning globes on the war-machines burn with searing light. The priests attending them swept their staves down.

One of the flaming spheres detached from the globe and arced through the air towards us.

It landed in the midst of our infantry, and burst in an explosion of pellucid green fire and screams. Another sphere followed, then another.

I gagged as the smell of roasting flesh billowed from the ranks, horrified at the carnage being wrought, but our warriors held firm.

More of the spheres arced towards us, but instead of striking our ranks, they wobbled in the air before reversing course to smash down in the heart of the Shuriman spearmen.

Amazed, I saw our thaumaturges holding their staves aloft, and crackling lines of magic flickered between them. The hairs on my arms and legs stood up in the shimmering air, as if a veil was being drawn up around us.

More of the searing fireballs launched from the Shuriman war-machines, but they exploded in mid-air, striking the invisible barrier woven around our force.

Cheers overcame the cries of pain in our ranks. I let out a breath, thankful that I had not been among the war-machines’ targets. I watched those piteously wounded men dragged to the rear by their comrades. The temptation to remain there must have been tremendous, but we Icathians descend from explorer kings, and not a single warrior failed to return to their place in the battle line.

The strain on our mages was clear, but their power was holding the Shuriman barrage at bay. I glanced over my shoulder to the pavilion atop the pyramid. There too, the priests were straining with all their power. To what end, I could not imagine. What manner of weapon lay within, and when would we unleash it?

“Stand to,” said Saijax, and I returned my attention to the army before us. “They’ll come at us now. A big wave to test us.”

I looked back at the Shurimans, who now came at us in a run. Arrows flashed from the lines of archers ranged before us, and scores of enemy warriors died. Bronzed plate and shields saved some, but the range was so close that many fell with shafts punched clean through their breastplates.

Another volley hammered the Shurimans, swiftly followed by another.

Hundreds were down. Their line was ragged and disorganized.

“Now!” roared Saijax. “Into them!”

Our infantry surged forward in a wedge, spears lowering as they charged. I was carried by the mass of men behind me, managing to drag my blade from its sheath as I ran. I screamed to keep my fear at bay, worrying that I might trip on my scabbard.

I saw the faces of the Shurimans, the braids in their hair, the gold of their crests, and the blood smearing their tunics. We were so close, I could have whispered and they might have heard me.

We struck their wavering ranks like a thunderbolt. Spears thrust and shivered, hafts splintering with the impact. Driven by sheer will and a thousand years of pent-up anger, the momentum of our charge clove deep into their ranks, splitting them and breaking their formation completely.

Anger gave me strength, and I swung my sword. It bit into flesh and blood sprayed me.

I heard screaming. It might have been me. I cannot say for sure.

I tried to stay close to Saijax and Colgrim, knowing that where they fought, Shurimans would be dying. I saw Saijax felling men by the dozen with his huge polearm, but could no longer see Colgrim. I soon lost sight of Saijax in the heave and sway of surging warriors.

I called his name, but my shout was drowned in the roar of battle.

Bodies slammed into me, pulling at me, clawing my face—Icathian hands or Shuriman, I had no idea.

A spear stabbed towards my heart, but the tip slid from my breastplate to slice across my arm. I remember pain, but little else. I hammered my sword into a screaming man’s face. He fell, and I pushed on, made fearless by fear and savage joy. I roared, and swung my sword like a madman.

Skill was meaningless. I was a butcher hacking meat.

I saw men die whose skill was much greater than mine. I kept moving, lost in the swirling tide of flesh and bone. Wherever I saw an exposed neck or back, I struck. I took grim pleasure in my killing. Whatever the outcome of this day, I could hold my head high in the company of warriors. More arrows flew overhead, and the cheers rising from our army were songs of freedom.

And then the Shurimans broke.

It began as a single slave warrior turning his back and running, but his panic spread like fire on the plain, and soon the whole formation was streaming back down the hill.

In the days leading up to this moment, Saijax had told me that the most dangerous moment for any warrior is when a regiment breaks. That is when the killing truly begins.

We tore through the routed Shurimans, spears plunging into exposed backs, and axes splitting skulls. They were no longer fighting back, simply trampling one another to escape. The bloodshed was appalling, yet I reveled in it as hundreds of bodies were crushed in the slaughter.

I saw Saijax again, then, standing firm, his polearm at his side. “Hold!” he yelled. “Hold!”

I wanted to curse his timidity. Our blood was up, and the Shurimans were fleeing in panic.

I did not know it at the time, but Saijax had seen how dangerous our position truly was.

“Pull back!” he shouted, and the cry was taken up by others who saw what he had seen.

At first, it seemed our army would not heed his words, drunk on victory and eager to plunge onward. We were intent on slaying every one of the enemy, wreaking vengeance upon soldiers who had held our land hostage for centuries.

I had not seen the danger, but all too soon I understood.

Screams and fountains of blood sheeted from the leading edges of our battle-line. Severed heads flew backwards, spinning like rocks skipped over a pool. Bodies soon followed, tossed aside without effort.

Screams and cries of terror erupted, and the songs of freedom were snuffed out.

The god-warriors had entered the fray.

Three of them surged into our ranks; some moving like men, others like ravenous beasts. Each was armed with a weapon larger than any man could lift, unstoppable and invincible. They waded through our ranks with sweeping blows that slew a dozen men with every swing. Icathians flew in pieces from their crackling blades, were crushed beneath their tread, or were rent asunder like bloodied rags.

“Back!” shouted Saijax. “Back to the walls!”

None could pierce the god-warriors’ armor, and their ferocity was so primal, so inhuman, that it froze me to the spot. Spears snapped against their iron-hard hides, and their bellowing roars cut me to the marrow with terror. One, a cawing beast with ragged, feathered wings and a vulture-like beak, leapt into the air, and searing blue fire blazed from its outstretched claws. I cried out at the sight of my fellow countrymen burned to ash.

The elation that had—only moments before—filled us with thoughts of victory and glory, now shattered like a fallen glass. In its place, I felt a sick horror of torments yet to come, the retribution of an unimaginably cruel despot who knows no mercy.

I felt a hand grab my shoulder, and lifted my bloodied blade.

“Move, Axa,” said Saijax, forcing me back. “There’s still fighting to be done!”

I was dragged along by the force of his grip, barely able to keep my feet. I wept as we streamed back to where we had first formed up. Our line was broken, and surely the day was lost.

But the god-warriors simply stood among the dead, not even bothering to pursue.

“You said we had a weapon,” I cried. “Why aren’t they doing anything?”

“They are,” said Saijax. “Look!”

What happened next defies my understanding. No mortal eye had ever seen such a thing.

The pavilion exploded with forking traceries of light. Arcing loops of purple energy ripped into the sky and lashed down like crashing waves. The force of the blast threw everyone to the ground. I covered my ears as a deafening screaming tore the air.

I pressed myself to the battle-churned earth as the wail burrowed deep into my skull, as though the world itself were shrieking in horror. I rolled onto my side, retching as stabbing nausea ripped through my belly. The sky, once bright and blue, was now the color of a week-old bruise. Unnatural twilight held sway, and I saw flickering afterimages burn themselves onto the back of my mind.

Slashing claws... Gaping maws... All-seeing eyes...

I sobbed in terror at the sight of such horrors.

Alone of all the things being stripped from me, this I gladly surrender.

A nightmarish light, sickly blue and ugly purple, smothered the world, pressing down from above and blooming up from somewhere far below. I pushed myself upright, turning in a slow circle as the world ended around me.

The Shurimans were streaming back from the city, terrified by whatever force our priests had unleashed. My enemies were being destroyed, and I knew I should be triumphal, but this... This was not a victory any sane person could revel in.

This was extinction.

An abyss that bled purple light tore open amid the Shurimans, and I saw their ivory-skinned general overcome by whipping cords of matter. She fought to free herself with wild sweeps of her blade, but the power we had unleashed was too much for her. The pulsing, glowing light spread over her body like a hideous cocoon.

Everywhere I looked, I saw the same slick coils rising from the earth, or from the very air itself, to seize the flesh of mortals. Men and women were swept up and enveloped. I saw one Shuriman clawing his way over the earth, his body seeming to dissolve as the tendrils of foul energy overwhelmed him.

I began to hope, to pray, that this doom was what had been planned all along.

I saw shapes in the flickering light, too fast and indistinct to make out clearly. Stretching, swelling limbs of strange, tar-like matter. Men were clawed from their feet and pulled apart. I heard the gurgling, hooting bellows of things never meant to walk the surface of this world.

As awful as this day had become, I wondered if this was the price of the great weapon our priests had unleashed. I hardened my heart to the suffering of the Shurimans and remembered the centuries of misery they had heaped upon us.

Once again, I had lost sight of Saijax and Colgrim. But I no longer needed their presence to steady me. I had proved myself worthy of my grandsire’s name, worthy of the brand on my arm.

I was Kohari!

The sky groaned and buckled, sounding like a vast sailcloth tearing in a storm. I turned and ran back to the city, joining up with other soldiers. I saw the same desperate, horrified looks on their faces I knew must be upon mine.

Had we won? None of us knew. The Shurimans were gone, swallowed whole by the terror we had unleashed upon the world. I felt no regret. No remorse. My horror had given way to justification.

I had lost my nimcha blade somewhere in the frenzy of the battle, so I took my bow from my shoulder and pumped it to the sky. “Icathia!” I yelled. “Icathia!”

The chant was taken up again by the soldiers around me, and we stopped to watch the enemy finally overcome. The seething mass of matter that had consumed them lay like a shroud over the flesh it had consumed. Its surface was undulant, and swelling blisters of glistening matter burst open with frothing birth-sacs that twisted and unfolded like newborn animals.

I turned as I heard a deafening grinding of rock.

Booming cracks echoed as more and more chasms tore the landscape open. I dropped to my knees as the earth shook, and the walls of Icathia, fallen once and now rising again, were shattered by a groaning bass note that split the earth.

Geysers of dust and smoke erupted from within the city. I saw men screaming, but could not hear them over the crash of falling rock and splitting earth. Towers and palaces that had stood since the first Mage King planted his star-metal staff were swallowed whole by the ever-widening chasms. Only rubble and shattered fragments remained, my beloved city reduced to a charred skeleton.

Fires spat skyward, and the wails of my people were somehow magnified by the canyons of the city as they fell into the hideous doom below.

“Icathia!” I cried one last time.

I saw a flash of movement, and flinched as something flew through the air above me. I recognized the vulture-headed god-warrior from earlier in the battle. Its flight was erratic, its limbs already partially ruined and unmade by the strange matter spilling from the rents in the earth.

It flew towards the pavilion with desperate beats of its ravaged wings, and I knew I had to stop it. I ran towards the towering creature, nocking an obsidian-tipped arrow to my bow.

The thing stumbled as it landed. Its legs were twisted and its back was alive with devouring tendrils. Feathers and skin sloughed from its head as it limped past the bodies of dead priests, whose own flesh bubbled and roiled with internal motion.

Fire built around the god-warrior’s hands, ready to burn the pavilion with the last of its power.

Saijax had said the Sun-Emperor had more armies, and we would need our weapon intact if we were to defeat them. I drew back the bowstring, an obsidian arrow aimed at the god-warrior.

I loosed, and the arrow sped true, punching through the dissolving matter of its skull.

The god-warrior fell, and the fire faded from its hands. It rolled onto its side, the flesh falling from its bones—I saw threads of sinewy, pallid matter forming beneath.

The god-warrior sensed my presence, and turned its vulturine head to me. One of its eyes was milky and distended by growths of a strange, fungus-like substance spreading across its skull. The other had my arrow protruding through it.

“Do you even... know… what you... have done… foolish… Icathian?” the blind god-warrior managed, its voice a wet growl of dissolving vocal chords.

I sought to think of some powerful words, something to mark the moment I had killed a god-warrior.

All I could think of was the truth. “We freed ourselves,” I said.

“You… have opened a door... to… a place… that should... never be opened…” it hissed. “You have... doomed us all…”

“Time for you to die,” I said.

The god-warrior tried to laugh, but what came out was a gurgling death-rattle. “Die…? No… What is to come… will be far worse… It will be… as if none of us… ever existed…”

I left the arrow embedded in the god-warrior’s skull. Men were limping back from the battle, bloodied and weary, with the same look of incredulous horror in their eyes. None of us truly understood what had happened, but the Shurimans were dead, and that was enough.

Wasn’t it?

We milled in confusion, none of us knowing what to say or do. The landscape before the city was twisting with unnatural motion, the flesh of the Shuriman army utterly obscured by pale, coiling ropes of hideous matter. Its surface was darkening as I watched, splitting where it hardened like some form of carapace. Viscous ichor spilled out, and more and more I had the impression that this was just the beginning of something far worse.

Light still spilled from the colossal rents torn in the ground, and alien sounds—a mix of shrieking, hissing and crazed howls—echoed from far below. I could feel tremors rising up from the bowels of the earth, like the slow grinding of bedrock that presages an earthquake.

“What’s down there?” said a man I didn’t know. His arm was all but encased in a translucent caul that was slowly creeping its way up the side of his neck. I wondered if he even knew. “Sounds like a nest. Or a lair, or… something.”

I did not know what hideous things lived down there. Nor did I want to.

I heard a voice call my name, and looked up to see Saijax limping toward me. His face was a mask of blood, thanks to a jagged wound that ran from above his right eye to his jawline.

I hadn’t thought Saijax could bleed at all.

“You’re hurt,” I said.

“It’s worse than it looks.”

“Is this the end?” I asked him.

“For Icathia, I fear it is,” he replied, moving away to grab the bridle of a cavalryman’s mount. The beast was skittish, but Saijax hauled its reins, and vaulted into the saddle.

“I would have given everything to see the Shurimans defeated,” I murmured.

“I fear we just did,” said Saijax.

“But… we won.”

“The Shurimans are dead, but I’m not sure that’s the same thing,” said Saijax. “Now find a mount, we have to go.”

“Go? What are you talking about?”

“Icathia is doomed,” he said. “You see that, don’t you? Not just the city, but our land. Look around you. That will be our fate too.”

I knew he was right, but the idea of simply riding away...? I didn’t know if I could.

“Icathia is my home,” I said.

“There’s nothing left of Icathia. Or, at least, there won’t be soon.”

He extended his hand to take mine, and I shook it.

“Axa...” he said, casting a glance back at the creeping horror. “There is no hope here.”

I shook my head and said, “I was born here and I will die here.”

“Then hold to who you are while you still can, lad,” he said, and I felt the weight of his sadness and guilt. “It’s all you have left.”

Saijax turned his mount and rode away. I never saw him again.

My name is Axamuk Var-Choi Kohari Icath’or.

I think… I think Axamuk was my grandsire’s name. It has meaning, but I can no longer remember what.

I wandered the ruins where a great city once stood. All that is left is an impossibly wide crater, rubble, and a tear in the fabric of the world.

I feel a terrible emptiness before me.

Axamuk was a king, I think. I do not remember where. Was it here? In this ruined, sunken city?

I do not know what Var or Choi mean. Icath’or should have meaning to me, but whatever it was is gone. There is a terrible void where my mind and memories once dwelled.

My name is Axamuk Var-Choi Kohari.

Kohari? What is that?

There is a mark on my arm, a sword wrapped in a scroll. Is it a slave mark? Was I the property of a conqueror? I remember a girl with green eyes and an opal necklace. Who was she? Was she my wife, my sister? A daughter? I do not know, but I remember the smell of her flowers.

My name is Axamuk Var-Choi.

I repeat it over and over, holding onto it as if it can stave off this slow dissolution.

I do not want to forget it. It is all I have left.

My name is Axamuk.

I am being erased. I know this, but I do not know why or how.

Something awful writhes within me.

All that I am is unravelling.

I am being undone.

My name is

My name

My