LoL Universe Indexing and Search

With a kiss to my wife and resting my spear against my shoulder, I joined my fellows as we left the village. The morning was new, dawn stretching through the thick forests of Tokogol as the six of us made our way to the watch point by a worn dirt path. We were travelling light, as our vigil would only last until the next moon before another band of spearmen took our place. Tokogol shared borders with Noxus, and its increasing belligerence of late had stirred the house lords to ensure that all of their spears were honed.

Our journey was short and uneventful, a soldier’s dream. The better part of a half day’s march brought us within sight of the outpost, and we pointed as the signal fire was lit, welcoming us with a column of thin, white smoke. The mood among my comrades was light, the easy talk of bonded brothers and neighbors. Though our duty was to watch the frontier in search of any sign of it, war in Tokogol was a distant thought.

When we arrived, we found the gates to the stockade open and unbarred, yet not broken or forced. An odd feeling crept over us, like a chill dancing up our spines. I could see it in the others, just as surely as I felt it in myself.

We formed a tiny shield wall, two ranks of three men, and entered the stockade expecting to find slaughter—ruin and destruction, with signs of Noxus for all to see.

But we found none of this.

What we discovered was the picture of an outpost no different than any other. The fires had crackled down to embers beneath cooking pots that were still full. Clothes hung drying, and the lanterns were still on their poles from the night before. We looked at each other in alarm, in confusion. It was as if our comrades had simply disappeared.

“What could have happened here?” whispered Bel. Our wall straightened and broke as we searched the outpost for any sign of life.

“Could they have been captured?” asked Ulryk.

I approached a wall of the stockade. A stripe of the timber was burnt blacker than pitch. I reached toward it, and the barest touch of my fingertips sent it crumbling, revealing a crater of smooth wood underneath. The others found similar marks across the camp, though none of us could fathom how they had been made.

A cry sent us all back into a warrior’s crouch. “Come quick!”

It was Afron. We ran to him, finding him standing over a body.

“It’s Halryn,” he said, looking to us. “The tanner’s boy.”

The young man was pale, lying fetal on the ground. We saw no sign of battle on him, no blood or wounds.

I drew my knife. Sinking to my haunches, I brought the blade beneath Halryn’s nose. The day was cold, and shallow puffs of breath clouded the steel in a slow, stilted rhythm.

“He yet lives,” I said, reaching for his shoulder. We leapt away as soon as I’d rolled him onto his back.

Halryn’s eyes were open, yet there was nothing there. From what we could tell, he was conscious, but his right eye simply stared up at the sky, empty of light.

That was not what we had recoiled from.

“By the gods,” Ulryk breathed. Afron spat to avert evil, and we joined him.

Where Halryn’s left eye had been, only a dark pit remained. I had seen enough battle in my time to know the telltales of a spear or blade, but no weapon I knew could have made such a wound. It was too clean, too precise for battle’s disordered frenzy. No pain marked the boy’s face from the horrific injury.

“What could have done this to him?” Bel demanded. “Some beast? A plague?”

We shrank back from the body at the thought. “No,” Caer frowned, his hand straying to the satchel of herbs and poultices at his waist. “No sign of festering. This wasn’t disease.”

“Find the others,” ordered Bel. “Now.”

One by one, we found them. These were men we knew, men of our village who sold fish and hammered steel. All bore the same wound to their left eye, all reduced to the same catatonic state. They appeared almost serene, and all the more horrifying for it.

Afron looked to Bel. “What do we do?”

“We must give warning,” said Ulryk.

“Of what?” asked Caer. “We have no idea what is happening here.”

They argued. Voices clashed and overlapped. Above it all, I noted the smell of smoke in the air.

“Wait.”

The others stopped, looking back at me. I swallowed.

“If they are all in this state,” I pointed back to the signal fire behind us, “then who lit the beac—”

Ulryk was in the air before we knew what was happening. A blinding flash stole my sight, but I glimpsed a huge, darkened shape against it. Oaths, prayers and curses filled the air from my comrades’ lips. They were silenced by a crack like a bullwhip, followed by an overwhelming, fizzing shriek.

When I could see clearly again, I was on the ground.

I looked down to see my legs splayed, broken. Other warriors, my brothers and friends, lay staring up at the sky above.

I heard only one other voice, and turned. I could only watch as Afron, a youth of barely sixteen, struggled beneath the monster. Bathed in harsh violet light, he writhed as one of its appendages sank into his skull through his eye. His screams stopped as he became a mere husk, like all the others.

Then the monster turned its baleful gaze in my direction.

In an instant, it was looming over me. I looked up into that single, swollen eye, and sensed a hunger beyond imagining. A hunger not of flesh, but something far deeper. My soul teetered on the edge of this abyss, its merciless hunger pulling…

No.

I am Hennis Kydarn, a warrior and a spear of Tokogol. I refused to give it the satisfaction of my cries, even as its tentacle knifed down through my eye. There was no pain—

—as I work. The analysis can inflict physical pain, should I desire it, but that is not critical here. I have learned much of pain, and its uses.

This one’s information is precious, as all knowledge is. A settlement, interactions, castes. A particular female of the species, and offspring… This one resists my analysis of those, but it is a simple thing to overcome.

With nothing more to consume, I travel here, to disseminate what I have collected.

The rift beneath me is a conduit for information to be passed into the true realm. The creatures that inhabit this world have designated our domain as the Void. Such curious poetry these entities weave—a curiosity that illustrates how far my task is from completion.

A universe of knowledge surrounds me, of great power and distant lands, and I shall collect it all. I offer this information, now, and all of the rest to come.

Accept.

Consume.

Learn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crestfallen, but determined, Neeko set out alone.

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

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

Born into an empire long since gone to dust and forgotten, Hecarim was a lieutenant of the Iron Order—a brotherhood sworn to defend their king’s lands.

As Hecarim won victory after victory from the back of his mighty warhorse, the commander of the Iron Order saw in him a potential successor… but also a growing darkness. His obsessive hunger for glory was eroding his honor, and over time the knight-commander came to realize this young lieutenant must never lead them.

When he was told this, Hecarim was furious. Even so, he bit back his anger, and continued in his duties.

When they next rode to war, the commander found himself surrounded by enemies, and cut off from his fellow knights. Hecarim, seeing his chance, turned away and left him to die. At battle’s end, the Iron Order, oblivious to what Hecarim had done, knelt on the bloody ground and swore allegiance to him.

Hecarim rode to the capital to take his formal oaths, and met with Kalista, the king’s most trusted general. She recognized his prowess and leadership, and when the queen was wounded by an assassin’s poisoned blade, Kalista was comforted to know the Iron Order would remain with the king while she sought a cure.

Gripped by paranoia, and seeing new threats in every shadow, the king raged at those he believed were trying to separate him from his dying wife, and dispatched Hecarim to quell dissent throughout the kingdom. The Iron Order earned a dreadful reputation as ruthless enforcers of the king’s will. Towns and villages burned. Hundreds were put to the sword.

With grim inevitability, when the queen died, Hecarim chose to sour the king’s grief into hatred, seeking sanction to lead the Iron Order into foreign lands. He would avenge her death, while earning yet more dark renown for himself.

But before they could ride out, Kalista returned. She had found what she sought upon the distant Blessed Isles—and yet it was now too late. The king would not believe this, and had Kalista imprisoned as a traitor. Intrigued by what he had heard, Hecarim visited her cell, and they spoke of the pale mists that protected the islands from all invaders… and also of the inhabitants’ immense wealth, including the legendary Waters of Life.

Knowing only Kalista could lead them there, Hecarim eventually persuaded her to guide the king’s fleet through the veil that concealed the Blessed Isles from mortal sight.

They landed at the city of Helia with the queen’s body in solemn procession. The Iron Order led the way, only to be met by the city’s masters, who now refused to help. Enraged, the king ordered Kalista to kill them, but she refused, and Hecarim smiled as he made the decision that would damn him for eternity. He drove a spear through Kalista’s back, and ordered his knights to ransack the city, looting its vaults of arcane treasures.

Amid the chaos, a lowly custodian agreed to grant the king access to the Waters of Life—but not even this could distract Hecarim from the revelry of bloodshed, and so it was that the Ruination of the Blessed Isles would take him almost completely by surprise.

A blastwave of magical force tore across Helia, shattering every last building and leaving the fragments suspended in searing un-light. In its wake came the Black Mist, a billowing hurricane that dragged every living creature it touched into its shrieking, roiling embrace. Hecarim tried to rally the Iron Order, hoping to make it back to their ships, but the mist claimed them one by one as they fled.

Alone, and defiant to the end, the knight-commander was taken by the shadows. He and his mighty steed were fused into a monstrous, spectral abomination that reflected the darkness in Hecarim’s heart—a brazen creature of fury and spite, at one with the Black Mist and yet utterly enslaved by it.

Bound forevermore to these Shadow Isles, Hecarim has spent centuries in a sinister mockery of his former life, cursed to patrol the nightmarish lands he once intended to conquer. Whenever the Black Mist reaches out beyond their shores, he and the otherworldly host of the Iron Order ride out to slaughter the living, in memory of glories long passed.

Legends of the popular folk hero Kled can be traced back to the founding of Noxus, and perhaps even further still. He is an icon revered by the common soldiery, which is increasingly a cause of concern to their commanders—for there are some among the warhosts who claim to have literally served beside him.

Tall tales such as “The Great Hussar’s Victory”, “The Return of the High General Marshal-Sergeant”, and “The Mountain Admiral” abound, which strongly imply Kled has fought in every campaign ever waged, acquired every military title, and never once backed down from a fight. Though the details are often outlandish and contradictory, the essence of the tale remains: charging into battle on his un-trusty steed, Skaarl, Kled fights to protect what’s his… and takes whatever else he can get.

In truth, the Cantankerous Cavalier hails from another land entirely—Bandle City. As a yordle, he made his home among the proud Noxii tribes in the wake of the Rune Wars, and has never looked back.

The earliest mention of Kled in historical records was at the First Battle of Drugne. In the dusty hills of those badlands, the warhost of General Zaavan was on the run from barbarian foes. Having lost the previous two engagements, morale was low. The supply train had been abandoned in the rout, and they were a week’s march from the nearest outpost. Zaavan, in his spotless armor, seemed more concerned with how this would appear back home than the welfare of his soldiers, and ordered a defensive circle formation to buy himself time to think.

Then, as the morning sun rose, the lone figure of Kled appeared on the hilltop, mounted upon a desert drakalops. This warrior’s weapon was rusted, his armor worn, his clothes tattered—but contempt and anger burned in his one good eye.

He bellowed an ultimatum to the barbarian horde, demanding that they leave his lands or be destroyed. However, he did not wait for any response, spurring his steed and screaming the charge. Desperate, starving, and furious with their general, the Noxian warhost’s anger ignited at the sight of this act of bravado. They rushed after Kled as he tore into the enemy.

What followed was one of the bloodiest melees ever fought on the northern steppes. The initial momentum of the counterattack was crushed beneath a hail of barbarian arrows from higher ground, but Kled fought on even after he was thrown from his saddle and his drakalops fled. He always seemed to be at the heart of the battle, chopping down foes, kicking out teeth, and biting faces. The bodies piled up around him, and his clothes were soaked with blood. He screamed louder challenges and cruder insults. Clearly, this great warrior was willing to die before ever backing down.

Cowardice can be infectious, but so too can courage. Where the Noxians might have given up and fled for their lives, instead they were inspired to make one last stand.

Even Kled’s drakalops returned, and crashed into the barbarians’ rearguard, snarling and clawing as it dived in to free its master. With his mount again beneath him, Kled became a veritable whirlwind of death, and it was the barbarians who broke and ran.

Though too few of the Noxian soldiers survived that day for it to be considered a victory, Drugne was contested long enough that word reached the Immortal Bastion, and reinforcements were sent. The war ground on for at least another decade, until the barbarian leaders sued for peace—their strength was added to Noxus, and Drugne became a foothold for continued campaigns across Dalamor and the north for many centuries to come.

The body of General Zaavan—and his fine armor—was never found.

In time, countless other warhosts of the empire acquired similar stories of Kled. It has long been said that he rides wherever Noxians march, claiming the spoils of war for himself. Indeed, in their wake, good-humored signs can often be found proclaiming each new territory “Property of Kled”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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…

Echoing footfalls. Cold stone floors.

A shout from behind. Someone’s caught sight of me. Doors flash by as I sprint down the wide hall. Stone archway ahead—my way out of the barracks. Suddenly blocked as an entire patrol skids into view. Not good.

I turn and dash back the way I came. More soldiers careen towards me. My fingertips itch, but there are too many. I vault through a door, slam it shut, and drop the wooden bar across it.

An assassin’s blades are but one of her weapons, his voice echoes in my head, cemented there by years of training. Know your mark. Know the killing ground. Anything can be a tool to secure the kill.

I run through the room. Some kind of trophy chamber. Well fortified, with a side door leading to a back corridor. Behind me, armor thuds against oak. Iron hinges and strong construction should buy me more than enough time to—

My thought is broken by the sound of splintering wood, as a massive axe chews its way through the frame. Ahead, the other door swings open, and more soldiers pour in.

Too many, too well prepared. They knew I was coming.

These soldiers wear Noxian colors, but bear the sigil of a house in open rebellion against the Trifarix. So assured of their strength, they spent time painting rather than preparing. How cute.

I draw my blades.

Those ahead slow their advance, fanning out, weapons at the ready. Behind, those storming through the broken door do the same. They circle, taking a trained formation. Six in front. Seven behind. Won’t be easy.

It’s more fun when it’s a challenge.

His voice intrudes again. Think fast. Move faster. Plan before you engage, then attack on pure instinct.

I let a blade fly. It glances off the chandelier hanging above, breaking the chain and sending it crashing down onto the soldiers behind me. Two bodies hit the floor as candles bounce and sputter out, casting wild shadows and drawing eyes betrayed by reflex. I spin into the nearest distracted man, and slide my dagger into his side. He gurgles as his lungs fill with blood.

I unsheathe my blade from his body with a satisfying squelch, and fling it at the second chandelier. It also crashes to the floor, the last sources of light flickering out. At the same time, I sidestep the swing of a charging soldier, letting momentum carry him into the two rushing me from behind.

Cries of alarm and confusion echo off the stonework as they struggle in the darkness, suddenly uncertain which silhouette friend, and which is foe.

I don’t have that problem.

Adapt where others cannot. Lead their intuition astray, and their instinct to betray them.

I dash forward, low to the ground, scooping up my first blade where it fell. It finds a throat, then an eye, then a kidney, before a shout cuts through the screams.

“You fools! She’s right there!”

As the remaining soldiers stumble toward me, I close my eyes, sense my second blade where it lies, draw my focus inward, and leap.

They cry out in confusion as I disappear from their sight. I land low behind them, snatching up the dagger and spinning, cutting through ankle tendons. I am rewarded with screeches of pain and surprise as three more fall. That never gets old.

I invert the grip on my daggers and jump, plunging them down in an overhead strike into the shoulders of the man who yelled, then kick off him into a backflip. He falls to the ground as I hurl both blades into the faces of two others.

The butt of a spear smashes into my head. I recoil, slightly dazed. With a flourish, the soldier that caught me off balance brings the spearhead to bear and jabs for my heart. I leap again, appearing in midair, my hand wrapping around one blade and wrenching it from the face I left it in.

I barely pivot my attack into a parry as an axe swings toward my ribs, the clang of metal ringing in my ears as I stumble back. The titan of a man wielding the weapon hefts it again, and I leap once more to my remaining blade. I pull it back just in time as another soldier swings a morningstar at me, and she smashes through her comrade’s face. The weapon’s points graze my arm, drawing blood.

I roll back and reset in a crouch. Four remain standing, scattered before me. Several more are injured but still alive. All of them squint at me in the darkness. Clearly they now know to track my daggers as well as me.

Never take a fair fight. The cornered assassin is a dead assassin. My eyes flit between the exits.

Then she strides into the room.

Through the side door. Flanked by her two personal guards, each wielding a crossbow. She has a torch in one hand, a sword in the other. An arrogant smirk dances on her lips. Even in the darkness, she oozes confidence and charm. All other eyes immediately fly to her.

My mark.

“Well, this is disappointing,” she drawls. “If all the Trifarix has to throw at me is a disgraced assassin, then they must be desperate.”

Her taunt is undercut by footfalls outside the room. Reinforcements, arriving fast. Clearly she underestimated the numbers needed to trap me.

But that will be of little consolation if I end up dead.

If you’ve been made, vanish. Never take your mark head on. Never kill in the presence of witnesses.

I smile and stare into her eyes. “Goodbye, commander.”

I throw my blade straight up in the air. Crossbow bolts fly toward it, predicting my leap. The four standing soldiers charge.

Time seems to slow as the blade spins.

One rotation. Two.

I fling the remaining dagger past the charging soldiers at my target. One of the guards shifts in front of her, and the dagger sticks fast in his breastplate.

Three, four.

I leap to my dagger—my momentum forces the point through the man’s armor, into flesh. I see the white of his eyes, the mixture of shock, pain, and fear. Behind me, I hear the others shout and pivot. Impressively fast. Still not fast enough.

Five, six.

The commander stumbles back and raises her sword. Reaction dulled by surprise. I pull my dagger free and lunge forward. My free hand finds her hair, my edge her throat.

Seven rotations. Thunk.

Another crossbow bolt flies through where I had stood a moment earlier, but I am gone. It pierces the mark’s chest, as I land back at my falling blade, now plunged into the ground. In one hand, I hold a bloody dagger. In the other… the severed head of my mark, her face frozen in surprise.

Her body collapses. Blood sprays over the stone floor. Her soldiers halt, caught in disbelief and horror.

I throw the head down in front of them.

“Grand General Swain sends his greetings.”

More soldiers arrive at the doorway. I revel in their gasps and angered cries.

Never take your mark head on. Never kill in the presence of witnesses. The voice repeats itself in my head. Somehow, it seems quieter than before. I laugh out loud.

I am no longer your assassin, father. I have outgrown your timid little rules.

I flick blood off my blades and stare down the soldiers before me. Fear is as powerful a weapon as any dagger. Let them see. Let the rumors spread. I am far more than a mere instrument of death.

I am the true will of Noxus.

Before me, a soldier lets out a shout and charges. I can’t help but smirk as I again raise my blades.

Not that I mind the killing.

Far, far from the harsh deserts of the Great Sai, over savanna plains and mountain steppes, lie the great jungles on the border of Ixtal and Shurima. Swathed in mystery, they are home to wild, fantastical beasts, and dense forests blooming with life. But while there is overwhelming beauty to be found there, danger and death lurk nearby in equal measure.

No one knows how Nidalee—in the form of a cub—came to be alone in the heart of the jungle, but it was her cries echoing through the trees that captured the attention of the jungle's fiercest cats: the pakaa.

A mother, roaming with her cubs, approached Nidalee. Perhaps it was her scent, or a mother’s intuition, that led the great cat to accept this strange kit without hesitation, half-leading, half-dragging her back to their den. 

Nidalee was raised in the company of the pakaa, who treated her as one of their own—a creature of the jungle. She grew up playing alongside the other cubs, learning to hunt with tooth and claw and to stalk the jungles for her prey. She grew into her role as a member of the pack and as a capable huntress.

Even so, at times Nidalee began to lose control of her own body. Without warning, her paws would change to strange hairless hands and feet, her sharp fangs to blunted teeth. Occasionally she would stumble from the den, delirious with fever, her body caught in a state of half-transformation as she followed the hazy silhouettes of two strange figures—they whispered after her, their voices jumbled but sweet. They brought Nidalee a sense of comfort and warmth, even though her feline family had taught her to be wary of outsiders.

And with good cause.

It was at the height of the summer rains when she first encountered the Kiilash. These vastayan hunters ranged into the forests every season in search of prestigious kills and trophies to show their prowess. Nidalee's mother tried to chase them away, but fell, wounded by their blades and spears.

But before the Kiilash could finish the aging wildcat, Nidalee lunged from the undergrowth, howling with grief and rage. As she tore into them with razor sharp claws and fangs, they rounded on her with even stronger weapons. 

But something had changed.

She felt the spirit of another heritage, long forgotten, rise up within her. Transforming from pakaa to something resembling a human, she grabbed a hunter's lunging weapons with cat-like reflexes and nimble fingers and turned it upon her enemies. The Kiilash growled and hissed at this sight, and to her surprise Nidalee found she understood some of their speech.

They cursed her, invoking the name of their Vastayashai'rei ancestors as they retreated from the fight, empty-handed.

Hurling the spear aside, Nidalee held her dying mother close. Her siblings approached, wary of her new form but comforted by her familiar scent. With the passing of their mother they came to accept this shapechanger as their new leader—from that day forth, she vowed to defend her adopted home against any who would seek to plunder it.

Over time, she learned to better control her powers, eventually shifting between both forms with ease. She also became more adept with her new form, learning to take advantage of her surroundings while building traps and weapons unknown to the pakaa, crafting healing salves from honeyfruit, and utilizing seeds and flowers to protect and illuminate her territory. And in the back of her mind, she wondered whether she was the only one of the pakaa who could change their shape.

Perhaps it was a yearning to find others of her kind that led her to the chameleon-like wanderer Neeko, and the two became inseparable for a time. Nidalee delighted in mentoring her inquisitive new companion, and they reveled in exploring the jungle's numerous wonders together, before Neeko eventually departed to follow her own destiny beyond Shurima's shores.

Even now, the dense forests remain the last truly untamed wilderness in the known world, and something of an enigma even to Nidalee. Still, in rare, quiet moments, the huntress finds herself dwelling on her own origins—and her encounter with the Kiilash—and whether she will learn the truth behind any of it…

“Seven times,” said Ysard Tomyri, straining to keep her voice level and face neutral.

Captain Oditz did not answer his first officer immediately, his attention consumed by the maps and reports covering his desk, or at least feigning as much. It was Oditz who had summoned her and, like so much else in their short service together, making her stand at attention in his quarters aboard the Kironya was, above all else, a display of power.

“I request audience with high command,” said Ysard, unwilling to play the captain’s game this time.

“I speak for high command here, Commander Tomyri,” said Oditz, not looking up. “A fact you seem either ignorant of, or unwilling to accept.”

“Seven times,” said Ysard again. “I have requested audience, not to plead or beg, but to promise.”

“Promise?” the Captain looked up from the spread of parchments, finally glancing at Ysard.

“Yes,” she answered. “To promise them the glory that I shall win for them, the lands and peoples I will bring, by word or by blood, into the empire. There are expansions being mobilized, envoys being sent out from our borders to secure new lands for Noxus each day. I can win those for them. All that I require is a command.”

“We have spoken of this before,” Oditz muttered. “Seven times now, as you know. It is high command that decides how to interpret the will of the Trifarix—not their subordinates.”

Ysard stiffened. Frustration frayed her patience. “When Captain Hurad fell to the pirates off the coast of Ruug, it was I who led the Kironya’s crew to victory, not you. It was I who led the boarding action to seize the corsairs’ ship, and when the last of them fell it was my name that was cheered. It felt right. After such a victory I expected—”

“What?” asked Oditz. “Your own command? After beating a rabble of underfed Freljordians back into the sea? You think it is you who should be sitting here, rather than myself. And because it isn’t, you superseded my authority to request audience with high command yourself.”

Calmly, Captain Oditz set down his quill and rose from his chair. He towered over Ysard, the light catching the old scars etched upon his features from a lifetime of war. “I would have seen you stripped of rank and thrown into the Reckoner pits for your lack of respect, Commander Tomyri,” he said stiffly. “But it seems that fate has intervened on your behalf.”

He produced a scroll and extended it to her sharply.

The seal around the scroll had been broken, its contents already read by Oditz or his assistants, as was their right.

“Take it. And get out.”

After an instant of surprised hesitation, Ysard reached for the message. She saluted and hurried to her quarters, unfurling it and quickly reading over its contents.

It was as though a galvanizing stream of molten steel had been poured from a crucible into her heart. Ysard felt providence in the wind, for the first time at her back. Finally, her skills would be given their full range.

She had been ordered to the capital. At last, a command was hers.

The harbor was a bustling throng of activity. Merchants, traders and dockworkers crowded alongside fleet crews embarking and disembarking from ships in a constant stream. Rare beasts let out keening wails from within iron cages, destined for the arenas for sport, or the homes of the elite to join their exotic collections. Shipments of foods from all corners of Runeterra were being offloaded from trading vessels and distributed to feed the countless citizens of Ysard’s barren homeland. It was a breathtaking scene, a living estuary where new goods, cultures, and ideas flowed into the empire, expanding it, enriching it, and making it stronger.

All of this, and the sprawling city beyond, sat in the shadow of the Immortal Bastion. Ysard gazed upon the grandeur of the ancient structure from a harbor road, its immeasurably high walls and towers draped with the banners of the empire. There was no better manifestation of Noxus’ power—the very power that surged within her heart.

Ysard spared a few more moments to take in the vibrant scene around her, before her face set in a curt expression and the efficient mind of a commander took hold of her thoughts.

A grand expedition awaited her, and she moved with haste to where her ship was moored.

The Ardentius appeared to Ysard like a vessel washed up from another, earlier time, and it bore the scars to match. Wounds accumulated across decades of service pockmarked and spread across her hull like spiderwebs, from the battered iron speartip of her prow to the creaking timber of her aftcastle. These smaller frigates served as escorts for larger warships like the Kironya. They were designed to be ground to splinters against enemy pickets, and to soak up fire as interdictors, to be expended to their last ounce of usefulness before being scuttled or left to sink. To Ysard’s eyes, either fate seemed likely for the Ardentius.

The crew on its deck was little better. A motley assortment of grubby men and women labored together in a disordered rabble, spending more time exchanging insults and threats than loading provisions or cargo. They numbered no more than sixty, nearly a skeleton crew. Ysard’s lips pulled back from her teeth in disgust.

Ysard forced the sneer from her face. The tools she had been given were lowly, but no matter. It would make the conquests she won with them all the greater.

“You there,” she called out to a taskmaster, causing him to turn from the assembled crew he was ordering around. He turned, straightening the collar of his beaten leather storm coat, and approached with an easy, confident grin that set Ysard’s teeth on edge.

“See that the cargo and crew are readied for departure immediately,” said Ysard tersely. “I intend for my ship to be at sail with no further delays.”

“Your ship?” The man’s voice was a gritty baritone. He frowned for an instant, before realization dawned upon him. “Ah, so you’re the Noxian prodigy I’ve been stuck with. You can get your ship running as you like, and if you’ll quit pestering we’ll be off as soon as I have the rest of my things.”

“You dare,” Ysard reddened at his impudence, her hand closing on the hilt of the ornate sword at her hip. “Give me your name.”

“Ordylon,” the man answered, apparently unconcerned. “Friends call me Niander, though.”

“Niander Ordylon,” Ysard repeated the name. She looked at the heavy crates being loaded onto the Ardentius, marked as carrying harnesses, bola nets and cage housings. “The Beastmaster?”

“Ah, so you have heard of me.”

There were few in the capital who hadn’t. Even though she had spent precious little time at the arenas—there was an empire to fight for, after all—Ysard knew the name Ordylon was synonymous with theatrical displays of deadly creatures battling to the roar of the crowd.

What was he doing here?

Ysard recovered her composure. “I was not informed in my orders that you would be coming aboard.”

“Well, here I am.” He handed Ysard a scroll bearing the sigil of Captain Oditz. Ordylon noticed her scowl and flashed her a toothy, conspiratorial grin. “Looks like we’ll be shipmates.”

Ysard stood at the bow of her frigate, scanning the horizon. Upon setting sail, the ship had filed into the queue of vessels seeking passage through the mouth of the river and out into the ocean. Hours of waiting had led to a brusque and thorough inspection by the soldiers manning the fortified installations that secured entry into Noxus by sea, but after they had checked every inch of the Ardentius and pored over Ysard’s orders no fewer than six separate times, she had been given clearance to depart.

Ysard had seen the ocean many times, but never on a ship under her own command. It was always as shocking to her as it was beautiful, a boundless plane of deep blue, separated from the sky by a delicate blur of heat from the midday sun.

And now, somewhere ahead of them, Ysard’s destiny awaited. A new land to explore, conquer, and usher into the Noxian empire.

She had earned a taste of glory, won by the edge of her sword, but it was hardly a feat that would echo throughout eternity. And try as she might to forget it, Ysard always carried a shard of the reclusive street urchin inside, never fully giving herself to the collective, never truly trusting any but herself.

Until Ysard had that, she would know no rest.

She looked back over her shoulder at the sound of heavy bootsteps on the deck. Seeing the Beastmaster approaching, she made a last quick note in a worn leather journal before closing it and placing it in a pocket of her coat.

“Quite the sight, eh?” said Ordylon, leaning his knuckles against the railing.

Ysard bristled. “Why are you here?”

“I needed a ship.”

“This is my ship,” said Ysard. “And my expedition. Remember that and we’ll have no problems.”

Ordylon shrugged. “Play soldier all you like. All that matters to me is that we get there in one piece, and you keep out of my way while I find what I’m looking for.”

Ysard turned to him. “And that is?”

“A monster, my dear.” He smiled. “A spectacular one. Something that will keep me off my deathbed.”

Three weeks on the open ocean brought them at last to the outermost edge of the Serpentine Delta. Dozens of landmasses dotted the area, from tiny patches of sand and scrub barely fit to stand upon, to islands large enough to house villages. The archipelago stood as the gateway to the southern continent of Shurima, and the unexplored regions in its eastern reaches.

The waterways were filled with small boats and rafts, fishermen and local traders seeking to barter. The arrival of a Noxian vessel, even an escort like the Ardentius, was a rare event and cause of much commotion. Few of the people living on the rivers of the archipelago would pass up a chance to barter like this.

Walking from her cabin onto the main deck, Ysard found the hull of her ship was surrounded by the natives. Men and women stood and clamored from their rocking boats, holding up bundles of fish and a myriad different trinkets to tempt the naval soldiery and crew looking down from the railings. Ordylon was down amongst them, chattering away in their native tongue as his trappers bartered and compared the local knowledge with their maps.

“We don’t have time for this,” said Ysard. For a brief moment she allowed the thought of turning the ship’s guns upon the boats and sampans blocking their way to linger in her mind, but dismissed it quickly. It would have been an unnecessary expenditure of the expedition’s already meager resources, and the locals were of more value to her alive.

“Relax,” Ordylon called up to her, inspecting a piece of intricately carved wood before tossing it back to a disappointed trader. “Waters get dangerous past this point. Don’t be so quick to turn away a friendly face.”

Ysard wouldn’t budge. “We take on provisions, fresh water, and a guide. No one goes ashore.”

Ordylon gave an irritatingly sincere salute before continuing his conversation with the locals. Ysard put the Beastmaster from her mind, seeing to the cadre of Noxian naval soldiers aboard and ensuring that they stayed vigilant at points across the ship. As she finished inspecting the ship’s cannons and their gunners she saw Ordylon hauling a man up from a sampan onto the deck.

“Found us a guide,” said Ordylon, leaning down as the man spoke to him in the local tongue. “He says welcome to the Serpentine, and that he can take us upriver.”

“Good,” Ysard said quickly, eager to be underway.

The guide spoke again to Ordylon. “But he asks, why do we go up the river?” said the master trapper. “Why do you seek to go there?”

“Tell him,” said Ysard, “that once we are done, it will belong to Noxus.”

After restocking their provisions with an odd assortment of local fruits and preserved fish, the expedition sailed on past the floating trading post. The archipelago condensed, the labyrinthine paths between the islands shrinking until the only route available to the Ardentius was a wide, dark river leading deeper into the jungle.

Days passed in an uneventful stretch, as true, untouched wilderness confronted them. Ysard’s heart swelled with pride at the thought that she and her crew were the first Noxians ever to see this untamed wilderness. There was beauty here, vibrant plant life that exploded with lush towering trees swathed in dazzling, multicolored blooms.

There was something else here, too.

As their river guide hesitantly led them ever deeper, pointing out landmarks and keeping the ship clear of reefs and shallows, an itch took hold of Ysard—first imagined, then more real and insistent. A gloom permeated every inch around the river, as if it were all drowned in a shadow that could not be seen, only felt.

Ysard found that her hand would stray to the blade at her hip without thinking. She would draw her hand away before deliberately crossing her arms over her chest and forcing her mind to focus.

But the silent horror remained, saturating everything she could see.

Ysard saw to her command to remain sharp, consulting with the ship’s navigator as he worked to chart the course of the river, followed by an inspection of the ship’s stores. She climbed back up to the main deck, picking a rat-weevil out of her ration of Bloodcliffs hardtack, when she heard shouting.

“What is it?” she demanded as she climbed onto the main deck.

Ordylon listened to the guide. “He says he will go no further.”

Ysard frowned. “Why here?” She looked around, the river and jungle no different than anywhere else in the past days. Yet the riverman was panicking, as though they had broken some invisible boundary they were never meant to cross.

The little man gestured frantically to the crew around him. He pointed to the patches of red, weeping flesh on their bodies. Ysard had noticed the affliction spreading amongst the crew, despite her efforts to divine its source. She even found signs of it on herself.

“It is the jungle,” Ordylon translated as the guide ranted. “He says it is punishing us. It will not let us in.”

Cowardly little thing, thought Ysard.

She looked at Ordylon. “So be it. Get him off my ship now, throw him overboard if you have to. We aren’t turning back now.”

The Ardentius sailed on, now more than a week’s travel into the interior. The past days had seen no wind to fill her sails, not even a slight breeze to carry her forward. On Ysard’s command, teams of the crew had disembarked, wading to their shoulders as they strained to haul the frigate on with ropes and heavy chains. The effort was enormous, and with the treachery of the river’s shifting banks, the crew continued on after finding the current with nine fewer souls than it had started with.

Mist shrouded the river, obscuring it from view. The primordial treeline swelled, branching over the water to link the opposite banks in an ever-deepening canopy that closed in and stole away all but the barest trace of light. Ysard had the distinct sensation that the ship was moving downward, not forward, into the dark heart of this unexplored land.

The jungle was swallowing them.

Rain had come without warning, and carried on for days, somehow piercing the impenetrable canopy of the jungle to soak the Ardentius and her crew to the bone. It was as though this place was actively seeking to unravel them, punishing intruders for daring to cross into its domain. The crew believed as much.

The departure of their river guide hung over the crew with the oppression of a stormcloud. The most superstitious of them muttered, seeing dark omens in every tree and in the shape of each ripple the frigate’s hull cast across the dark water of the river. Even the most cynical of the naval soldiers were on edge, only able to hear such ramblings for so long before they began to see patterns themselves.

Ysard knew in her heart it would not be long before the tension cracked some of them, and examples would have to be made. Sooner than she had thought, and hoped, she was proven right.

“Turn the ship around!” came a panicked cry. “Now!”

“Easy now, Kross,” said Ordylon, straining to keep his voice calm.

“This is a death ship. A cursed ship.” The trapper hurried toward Ordylon, seizing him by the lapels of his storm coat. “You all heard the riverman—nothing ever comes back from this jungle. Nothing!”

Ordylon flicked his gaze over the surrounding crew, heavy beads of condensation dripping from the wide frayed brim of his hat. He saw it in their eyes, Kross’ words reflected in each of them.

“No more of that,” he snapped, shoving Kross back. “We’ll have no talk of curses here. Get yourself together.”

“We have to turn back,” the crazed trapper begged, eyes wild as he repeated the plea again and again. “We have to—”

Kross never finished his sentence. He gasped, hard, as a sword’s tip emerged from between his ribs. Then he toppled to the deck.

Ysard cleaned her blade. Sometimes, being right was a heavy burden to bear.

“I’ve hunted beside that man longer than you’ve been alive,” Ordylon snarled. “What gives you the right—”

“We don’t stop,” said Ysard coldly. “Not for anything, or anyone.”

A grinding crash threw Ysard from her bunk. She scrambled to her feet, buckling on her weapons and sprinting out onto the deck.

The end of the river had come abruptly. The inlet looked as though the tangles of vines and slick trees had engulfed the water, fed by a fan of streams that trickled out of the jungle, or flowed up from beneath the muddy ground.

“The river has choked out,” said Ordylon, gesturing to the wall of trees confronting the ship. “We’ll have to turn around. Find another branch.”

Ysard raised her spyglass, scanning ahead. Hauling the Ardentius around to find another route would take time she didn’t have. Looking at her collected soldiers and senior crew, Ysard doubted the weary and shaken survivors would be capable of moving the ship in such a way.

Ten had died in the past days—another one by execution for refusing to man his post, and six to the strange, infectious disease afflicting them. Three had simply vanished in the night, those taking their shifts finding no trace when dawn arrived.

“We keep a skeleton crew aboard and strike out from here,” said Ysard to the assembled ranks. “We will either find something of worth to claim for the empire, or establish an outpost to launch further expeditions inland. Armsman Starm, distribute blades to the shore party.”

Starm hesitated. “Commander… No crossbows? No powder bombs?”

Ysard drew her sword and addressed the entire party. “Such weapons will be useless in the undergrowth. We do this the old way.” She glanced at Ordylon, who had gathered his hunting party around him. “This is what you came for, is it not, Beastmaster?”

The master trapper was somehow still his confident, boisterous self, even after the ordeal of the river passage. “We’re after a big one, boys,” he said. “Bring everything we need to bag one and keep it, spread the load amongst us all, and be ready to move when the commander’s lads step off. We stick with them.”

His men dispersing, Ysard approached Ordylon. “I’m surprised to see us in accord for once.”

The jungle was brutal. No other word came to Ysard’s mind. For all the river’s trials, it had been paradise compared to this.

They had to fight through it, hacking and cutting into the solid mass of vines and thick vegetation. There was no air to breathe—only a thick, humid fog that stung the throat and eyes. It wasn’t long before exhaustion set in.

Ysard had a dreadful sense of being watched, from both everywhere and nowhere at once, and one by one men began to disappear from the rearguard and flanks. Most vanished in silence, but a few were torn into the undergrowth with a scream, crying out for help.

Within hours, Ysard’s force of thirty naval soldiers and trappers had been whittled down by half.

“Stay together!” she shouted, cuffing the pouring sweat from her eyes. She struggled to focus, her head buzzing and her flesh burning from the red patches that now covered her torso and limbs. She couldn’t stop now. She wouldn’t stop now. They had to keep moving.

A call rang out from the forward scout, and Ysard trudged to the head of the column. There was a small break in the jungle ahead, with a shallow pool of black, turgid water at its center. It was cramped, but still blessedly open compared to their trek thus far.

“Don’t touch that water,” Ysard ordered her soldiers, in spite of her own thirst. “We rest for now. But be ready to move.”

Sitting down, Ysard looked up to see Ordylon, holding out a battered tin flask to her. After a moment, she grudgingly took it as he sank down beside her. Ysard glanced at him, seeing the poise that he had held throughout their voyage beginning to fray.

“Don’t get too sentimental.” said the trapper. “With or without you, I’d be here, in this accursed place. I’ve got no choice.”

Ysard frowned at him. Looking to see that his men were out of earshot, Ordylon leaned in close.

“My business is bankrupt,” he whispered. “What little coin I had was spent bringing me here, one last chance to save my name. Either I bring back a beast that packs the arenas and pays off my debts, or I don’t come back at all.”

Ordylon sighed, taking the flask back and taking a short pull.

“So. What brought you here?”

“Duty,” answered Ysard, looking out into the jungle. “When I return from here, having brought this place into Noxus, they will name it after me. The noble name of Tomyri used to mean something… before Grand General Swain, and his purges. My conquest will echo through history, a legacy for all time.”

“They said you were vain,” Ordylon chuckled. “I suppose they reached their fill of it, arranging this fool’s errand. I see what they meant now,” he said with a curious softness. “And for that, I am sorry.”

“Wait,” Ysard frowned as she sought the meaning in his words, before the sound of splashing water broke her respite. “I said stay away from it!” she snapped.

“That isn’t us,” said Ordylon, gazing into the jungle.

Ysard looked at the pool, seeing the trees above shaking in its reflection. Branches snapped loose to crash down to the ground and into the water.

Then she heard it.

A pounding tread, accompanied by the sound of trees cracking, and a low, wet rumble. A shape began to resolve from the jungle, shoving its way through the dense vegetation to rear an enormous, fanged head.

Ysard froze. She had seen basilisks before—as mounts for riders, or beasts of burden. She had seen adults so large they could smash down the walls of besieged cities.

This one was larger.

The creature glared down at them, and loosed a roar loud enough to throw those standing from their feet.

“Yes!”

The triumphant voice jarred Ysard from her shock. She turned to see the Beastmaster, snapping together a harpoon and bola as he grinned up at the monster.

“Come on now, you beautiful thing!” Ordylon bellowed, madness creeping into his voice as he brandished the tools of his trade. “Let’s see who’s bigger, you or me!”

Ysard felt the ground quake beneath her with every step the monster took, strong enough to nearly throw her from her feet. She heard the basilisk’s primal roar, and the screams of men, knowing that the famed Beastmaster’s was among them.

But she didn’t look back to see what happened to him. She was too busy sprinting in the opposite direction.

Ysard finally skidded to a halt at the edge of a clearing in the jungle, placing a hand against a tree for support as she fought to catch her breath. She could no longer hear the commotion of Ordylon and the basilisk, but she could imagine what had happened in the end. She looked up after several deep lungfuls of air, taking stock of what remained of her command.

There were six of them in total, including herself. Ragged, drained and terrified, only three of them still carrying weapons. Ordylon’s trappers had stayed with their employer until the end. Despair struck Ysard like a physical blow, and she fought to keep from sinking to her knees.

“Look!” one of the soldiers called out, pointing with his sword. Ysard peered into the clearing, and saw it. An arching shape, overgrown by vines, but still utterly alien in this stifling environment.

It was stone. A structure. They hurried toward it, creepers and brambles snapping as they crossed the break in the undergrowth.

The building was simple, an austere construction completely overrun by the jungle. Thick vines wound through the crumbling stone, likely the only things keeping it standing. It seemed unnaturally overgrown, as though this place was actively seeking to subsume it, and grind it to dust.

The survivors split up, searching in and around the squat cube of plant-choked stone. Ysard stopped before it, a feeling she could not define welling up in her throat. She ripped away the clinging tangle of vines covering the surface, seeing the script chiselled into the stone—in a language she had known all her life.

“This…” Her tongue went thick and dry as she struggled to form the words. “It… It’s a Noxtoraa.”

Revelations came at Ysard in a queasy tide. They were not the first of the empire to come here. There had been others, and from her own journey and the state of this outpost, their fate was clear. As was hers.

She had been sent here to die.

Given a command she was desperate to undertake, leading her to the edge of the world and a place that none had ever returned from. Ysard had given every fiber of her being to forging a legacy.

Instead, she now stood on the precipice of striking the Tomyri name from the face of history, in this suffocating wilderness.

There was nothing for them in the abandoned outpost. Ysard lead the other survivors back into the jungle, hacking a new path through the dense undergrowth. To their fevered minds, it seemed like fresh roots and creepers were winding back into place even as they passed.

When they happened upon the Ardentius, it was almost by accident. They practically ran into its prow.

Vegetation had consumed the frigate, even filling over the inlet around it. It almost appeared as though the vessel itself had somehow grown out of the jungle. Ysard saw shapes sticking up from the deck like broken pillars.

Her blood went cold.

The crew. They had been devoured and overgrown just as the ship had been. Each man and woman was on their feet, like statues covered in vines.

“The jungle,” she stammered. “It’s taken it.”

Panic began to take hold of the remaining soldiers. “What do we do?” Armsman Starm shouted. “What do we do?”

“We make for the river,” murmured Ysard. “Find our way to the bank. Follow it back to the delta.”

“There’s no way we can make it out of here on foot. You saw what happened to the others, commander. The jungle—”

“Damn the jungle!’ she snapped. “It is trees and vines, insects and beasts. You are a soldier of Noxus. There is nothing here that can defeat you.”

Ysard wasn’t certain she believed the words herself. Something was different about this place. There existed some dark, impossible presence here, something that even the might of the empire was unable to tame.

But she would not yield to despair.

“If you want to die here, alone and unremembered, then so be it.” She gathered the last of her strength. “I will not accept such a fate. Any with the strength to follow me, come. This place will not be the end of Ysard Tomyri.”

The low grumble from his stomach, and thoughts of his family waiting at home in the village, had lashed the boy’s focus to his line as he squatted on the riverbank.

He was rewarded with a firm tug. The boy gave a whoop of relieved triumph as he hauled the fish from the water, wriggling and glistening in the light.

He didn’t notice the shape floating toward him until it was an oar’s length away.

The boy frowned, the fish in his basket forgotten as the object came closer. He waded out into the soft riverbed, taking hold of it and taking it back with him onto the bank. Driftwood had many uses in the village, and could be traded away… if he could drag it back home.

But it wasn’t driftwood. The boy gasped as he saw a face staring up through layers of creepers and moss.

It was a dead person, though the boy could not tell if it was man or woman. It reminded him of the preserved elders the village exposed each year for the ancestor feasts. It was clad in scraps of dark, battered armour, edged in tarnished red, adorned with a rusted symbol that meant nothing to the boy.

Something was clutched in its gnarled, lifeless hands. With a strain of effort he tugged it free.

It was a small book, tightly wrapped in sodden, worn leather.

As the boy turned the journal over in his hands, the corpse burst open, and a snarl of bright green vines slowly slithered out from it. A glittering cloud of spores rose from the cavity, and the boy flinched away, coughing.

Book in hand, the boy ran, scratching at the insistent itch that had started on the back of his neck, all thoughts of fish forgotten as he fled for home.

Greetings, family! It is I, Milio, with my first official Adventure Report!

I can't believe it's been three whole days since I left home. I made it safely to my first village and I'm ready to sleep in a REAL bed tonight. No more jungle floor! I can smell dinner too, mmm... (But your cooking is way better, Mamá! Yours too, Meli!)

When I got to the village, your letters were waiting for me! I miss you all SO MUCH. How's Cousin Javi? Is Tomasin helping Papá with the farm? How are the animals doing? Cousin Jaime, I can't believe your and Xalvadora's baby is coming soon! How is she doing? Tell me everything! Also, Luca, you're not allowed to get married until I get home, okay? (Say hi to Cedro for me!)

ANYWAY, I bet you're all wondering about my journey. Well, guess what? Your favorite Milio has become super tough and rugged camping under the stars, hehe. The jungle isn't as scary as it looks, especially when I have my fuemigos to keep me warm at night. Plus, now I don't have to share my bedroom anymore!

The fuemigos are doing really well! My furnasita is keeping them nice and cozy, and they've done so much good work, lighting my path and even healing little jungle critters. (I helped too, of course!) Omele Lupé, I've been practicing my axiom every day and I'm getting stronger, just like you told me. The Vidalion won't stand a chance!

This is the farthest I've ever been from home... but every day has been new and exciting! I'm doing REEEEEEALLY well too, by the way. I already made three new friends in the village, and we're eating together tonight!

Speaking of, I gotta go eat. My fuemigos and I are STAAAAARVING. I'm leaving again tomorrow morning, but I'll write you as soon as I reach the next village.

Love you all! My next letter is coming soon!

The Tough and Rugged Milio

Hi, family! It's Milio again, safe in the next village and ready to tell you all about my newest adventures!

Thank you all for your letters. I wish I could write more often... Maybe I could train one of my fuemigos to deliver my letters for me? Can they even travel that far? Let's find out!

I'm back! They can't...

So Cousin Isabella was injured? How's she doing? I bet she'll be back on her feet in no time with one of Cousin Junot's poultices. Auntie Alba, I wish I could hear your new songs! I bet the whole village loved them.

OH, you'll never guess who I met today! Okay, so picture this: I was wandering through the jungle when I saw an injured kitten. It was so cute and soft and fluffy, and it needed my help, so my fuemigos and I jumped into action and healed it! I got so many cuddles, and it was purring SOOOO much. We were napping in a sun spot when Nidalee found us!

You remember the stories about the "Kashdaji Queen," right? About how she's half-woman, half-cat, and half-ghost? How she stalks the jungle at night, waiting to pounce on kids out past their bedtime? Well, her real name is Nidalee, and she's the best EVER. Definitely not a scary ghost who eats kids! Actually, she doesn't even like people that much. But she CAN turn into a cat! Isn't that amazing?

Omele Lupé, I think you’d really like her. She's super strong, just like you!

She didn't really like me at first, but I won her over. So she let me travel with her pack for a little bit, because I helped one of their kittens! (She taught me they're called "pakiti," and the Kashdaji are actually called "pakaa.") It was really fun getting to travel with Nidalee and her pack.

We're kinda like a pack, right? We might not be pakaa, but we have each other. It would be fun if we were traveling together, too. Also, cuddle puddles!

I hope I see Nidalee again. If you ever see her, say hi for me! She might SEEM distant at first, but she's actually super sweet, hehe.

Time for me to go! The village is having a bonfire tonight and I wanna check it out.

Love you all!

Milio, the Honorary Pakaa

Hi, family, it's Milio again! I miss you all a ton... You miss me too, right?

I'm so glad I got your letters. Hearing what you've all been up to makes me REALLY happy, almost like you're traveling with me! And it gives me something to look forward to when I reach each stop on my way to Ixaocan.

I definitely needed them today... When I got to the village last night, there was a lot going on. A bunch of people were hurt pretty bad. Luckily, me and my fuemigos were there to help! But... one person didn't make it.

His family told me there wasn't anything I could have done. That I did SO much and made his last moments warm, but...

I should have been able to save him.

I guess it was pretty amazing helping everyone and showing them just how comfy and cozy fire can be. My fuemigos love being in the spotlight, too! And I helped a lot of people... But, I dunno...

OH, Cousin Jaime, Xalvadora, I read about your baby! I'm so happy for you!!! I wish I could be there to meet her. Tell her all about Uncle Milio, okay? And give her a bajillion kisses and cuddles for me until I get home!

Omele Lupé, I'm sorry. Next time, I'll do better. I promise.

I'm gonna go now! I wanna check on everyone before I leave.

Love you all!

Milio

Co-'om se-henna, family!

"Milio, what does that mean?" Good question! It means "smile forever." I learned it from a new friend, hehe. (I'll tell you more soon!)

It's been FOREVER since my last letter! My fuemigos and I are marching on, meeting so many new people and seeing so many new things.

First, did you know there's a lady made of PLANTS in the jungle? I heard a lot of whispers about her in the last village, but I thought it was just scary stories for babies or something. Boy, was I wrong!

I actually saw her one night! She was covered in petals and vines and leaves and everything! But her little seed friends looked really sharp... Don't worry, Mamá, Papá, I didn't go say hi. But I kinda wish I had...

Also, I saw a mountain? Or at least a giant, moving rock! I noticed it through the trees and I was so confused, because it wasn't on my trusty map, so I went to investigate. And it seemed like a normal rock-mountain until I noticed... it had a FACE! And it was... moving? I reeeeeeally wanted to say hi, but I think it would’ve stepped on me if I’d tried. Next time!

I made a new best friend, too. Her name is Neeko! She's so cute and nice and can shapeshift! She tried to play a prank on me by turning into ME, but my fuemigos knew it was a trick. I'm so proud of them.

So yeah, Neeko smelled Nidalee's pakaa on me and wanted to investigate. (Apparently they're super-duper close!) (Also, Mamá, Papá, I PROMISE I shower every night. Well, most nights...)

I learned a lot from Neeko, like how to say a bunch of new things and how she's trying to form a tribe for anyone who needs a home. I wish I could help her, but I gotta join the Yun Tal, first. Maybe one day?

I've been traveling through Ixtal for so long now. It feels like I never run out of new things to see. Every day is fun and different, even if the jungle floor still isn't all that comfortable, hehe.

Anyway, me and my fuemigos are pooped. It's so late here... What time is it for you? How's my new niece? (I can't believe I'm not the baby of the family anymore!) Tell Tomasin that she better be talking to the animals every night. They sleep better after you read them a bedtime story.

Omele Lupé, I'm almost at Ixaocan! I'm training every day so I can face the Vidalion and make you proud.

Also, I'm doing okay, I promise. I'm big and strong, so you don't need to worry about me.

Love you all!

Your Best Friend, Milio

Greetings from Ixaocan, family!

Can you believe I finally made it? I was starting to think I'd be traveling through the jungle FOREVER. Is it weird I kinda miss it?

There's so much to tell you! But now that I can write to you every day, I'll send even more letters about what I’m up to in the capital. (Still no luck with my fuemigo delivery service... but more about that some other time.)

The capital is HUGE. Omele Lupé, I can't believe you used to live here! I've already gotten lost a couple times... oops. Everything is ginormous, and there are a ton of people. I've seen so many things and learned a bunch of new ways to use the axiomata, too!

At first, I was worried about finding a place to stay, but a super kind family took me in! They're earth elementalists and use the axiomata to make ceramics. Isn't that amazing? They're letting me stay in their spare room for free as long as I help them with chores in their ceramics shop. Good thing I’ve got lots of practice helping people!

Even though Ixaocan is so different from our cozy village, there are some things that remind me of home, too. All the people in my neighborhood are really friendly and welcoming. Almost like a family! And there's a daily market nearby with food that tastes almost like Mamá’s! Almost.

I keep getting this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, though. Kind of like when I was back with the pakiti, and they were all play-hunting and tracking me through the forest, but I feel it... here? I mean, it's probably just me getting used to my new life, right?

Anyway, I'll be facing the Vidalion any day now! Until then, I'm gonna keep training and exploring.

Wish me luck!

Love you all!

Milio, the Vidalion's Next Challenger